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tranquillity of mind； before which everything mean and trivial
and temporary caught fire and burnt away in smoke。 Her body was
never without suffering； or her heart without conflict； but
neither the body's weakness nor the heart's violence could
disturb that fixed contemplation； as of Buddha on his
lotus…throne。
And along with this wisdom； as of age or of the age of a race；
there was what I can hardly call less than an agony of sensation。
Pain or pleasure transported her； and the whole of pain or
pleasure might be held in a flower's cup or the imagined frown of
a friend。 It was never found in those things which to others
seemed things of importance。 At the age of twelve she passed the
Matriculation of the Madras University； and awoke to find herself
famous throughout India。 〃Honestly；〃 she said to me； 〃I was not
pleased； such things did not appeal to me。〃 But here； in a
letter from Hyderabad； bidding one 〃share a March morning〃 with
her； there is； at the mere contact of the sun； this outburst：
〃Come and share my exquisite March morning with me： this
sumptuous blaze of gold and sapphire sky； these scarlet lilies
that adorn the sunshine； the voluptuous scents of neem and
champak and serisha that beat upon the languid air with their
implacable sweetness； the thousand little gold and blue and
silver breasted birds bursting with the shrill ecstasy of life in
nesting time。 All is hot and fierce and passionate； ardent and
unashamed in its exulting and importunate desire for life and
love。 And； do you know that the scarlet lilies are woven petal by
petal from my heart's blood； these little quivering birds are my
soul made incarnate music； these heavy perfumes are my emotions
dissolved into aerial essence； this flaming blue and gold sky is
the 'very me；' that part of me that incessantly and in… solently；
yes； and a little deliberately； triumphs over that other parta
thing of nerves and tissues that suffers and cries out； and that
must die to…morrow perhaps； or twenty years hence。〃
Then there was her humour； which was part of her strange wisdom；
and was always awake and on the watch。 In all her letters；
written in exquisite English prose； but with an ardent imagery
and a vehement sincerity of emotion which make them； like the
poems； indeed almost more directly； un…English； Oriental； there
was always this intellectual； critical sense of humour； which
could laugh at one's own enthusiasm as frankly as that enthusiasm
had been set down。 And partly the humour； like the delicate
reserve of her manner； was a mask or a shelter。 〃I have taught
myself；〃 she writes to me from India； 〃to be commonplace and like
everybody else superficially。 Every one thinks I am so nice and
cheerful； so 'brave；' all the banal things that are so
comfortable to be。 My mother knows me only as 'such a tranquil
child； but so strong…willed。' A tranquil child！〃 And she writes
again； with deeper significance： 〃I too have learnt the subtle
philosophy of living from moment to moment。 Yes； it is a subtle
philosophy； though it appears merely an epicurean doctrine：
'Eat； drink； and be merry； for to…morrow we die。' I have gone
through so many yesterdays when I strove with Death that I have
realised to its full the wisdom of that sentence； and it is to me
not merely a figure of speech； but a literal fact。 Any to…morrow
I might die。 It is scarcely two months since I came back from
the grave： is it worth while to be anything but radiantly glad？
Of all things that life or perhaps my temperament has given me I
prize the gift of laughter as beyond price。〃
Her desire； always； was to be 〃a wild free thing of the air like
the birds； with a song in my heart。〃 A spirit of too much fire
in too frail a body； it was rarely that her desire was fully
granted。 But in Italy she found what she could not find in
England； and from Italy her letters are radiant。 〃This Italy is
made of gold；〃 she writes from Florence； 〃the gold of dawn and
daylight； the gold of the stars； and； now dancing in weird
enchanting rhythms through this magic month of May； the gold of
fireflies in the perfumed darkness'aerial gold。' I long to
catch the subtle music of their fairy dances and make a poem with
a rhythm like the quick irregular wild flash of their sudden
movements。 Would it not be wonderful？ One black night I stood
in a garden with fireflies in my hair like darting restless stars
caught in a mesh of darkness。 It gave me a strange sensation； as
if I were not human at all； but an elfin spirit。 I wonder why
these little things move me so deeply？ It is because I have a
most 'unbalanced intellect；' I suppose。〃 Then； looking out on
Florence； she cries； 〃God！ how beautiful it is； and how glad I am
that I am alive to…day！〃 And she tells me that she is drinking
in the beauty like wine； 〃wine； golden and scented； and shining；
fit for the gods； and the gods have drunk it； the dead gods of
Etruria； two thousand years ago。 Did I say dead？ No； for the
gods are immortal； and one might still find them loitering in
some solitary dell on the grey hillsides of Fiesole。 Have I seen
them？ Yes； looking with dreaming eyes； I have found them sitting
under the olives； in their grave； strong； antique
beautyEtruscan gods！〃
In Italy she watches the faces of the monks； and at one moment
longs to attain to their peace by renunciation； longs for
Nirvana； 〃then； when one comes out again into the hot sunshine
that warms one's blood； and sees the eager hurrying faces of men
and women in the street； dramatic faces over which the disturbing
experiences of life have passed and left their symbols； one's
heart thrills up into one's throat。 No； no； no； a thousand times
no！ how can one deliberately renounce this coloured； unquiet；
fiery human life of the earth？〃 And； all the time； her subtle
criticism is alert； and this woman of the East marvels at the
women of the West； 〃the beautiful worldly women of the West；〃
whom she sees walking in the Cascine； 〃taking the air so
consciously attractive in their brilliant toilettes； in the
brilliant coquetry of their manner！〃 She finds them 〃a little
incomprehensible；〃 〃profound artists in all the subtle
intricacies of fascination；〃 and asks if these 〃incalculable
frivolities and vanities and coquetries and caprices〃 are； to us；
an essential part of their charm？ And she watches them with
amusement as they flutter about her； petting her as if she were a
nice child； a child or a toy； not dreaming that she is saying to
herself sorrowfully： 〃How utterly empty their lives must be of
all spiritual beauty IF they are nothing more than they appear to
be。〃
She sat in our midst； and judged us； and few knew what was
passing behind that face 〃like an awakening soul；〃 to use one of
her own epithets。 Her eyes were like deep pools； and you seemed
to fall through them into depths below depths。
ARTHUR SYMONS。
FOLK SONGS
PALANQUIN BEARERS
Lightly； O lightly we bear her along；
She sways like a flower in the wind of our song；
She skims like a bird on the foam of a stream；
She floats like a laugh from the lips of a dream。
Gaily； O gaily we glide and we sing；
We bear her along like a pearl on a string。
Softly； O softly we bear her along；
She hangs like a star in the dew of our song；
She springs like a beam on the brow of the tide；
She falls like a tear from the eyes of a bride。
Lightly； O lightly we glide and we sing；
We bear her along like a pearl on a string。
WANDERING SINGERS
（Written to one of their Tunes）
Where the voice of the wind calls our wandering feet；
Through echoing forest and echoing street；
With lutes in our hands ever…singing we roam；
All men are our kindred； the world is our home。
Our lays are of cities whose lustre is shed；
The laughter and beauty of women long dead；
The sword of old battles； the crown of old kings；
And happy and simple and sorrowful things。
What hope shall we gather； what dreams shall we sow？
Where the wind calls our wandering footsteps we go。
No love bids us tarry； no joy bids us wait：
The voice of the wind is the voice of our fate。
INDIAN WEAVERS
Weavers； weaving at break of day；
Why do you weave a garment so gay？ 。 。 。
Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild；
We weave the robes of a new…born child。
Weavers； weaving at fall of night；
Why do you weave a garment so bright？ 。 。 。
Like the plumes of a peacock； purple and green；
We weave the marriage…veils of a queen。
Weavers； weaving solemn and still；
What do you weave in the moonlight chill？ 。 。 。
White as a feather and white as a cloud；
We weave a dead man's funeral shroud。
COROMANDEL FISHERS
Rise； brothers； rise； the wakening skies pray
to the morning light；
The wind lies asleep in the arms of the dawn
like a child that has cried all n