In front of my window, on the other side of the river, a group of gypsies settled there and set up bamboo shelves covered with bamboo mats and pieces of cloth. There are only three such structures, which are too short to stand in. They live in the wild and only climb into this shelter at night and sleep together.
This is the gypsy way of life: there is no home anywhere, and there is no landlord who collects rent; Wandering around with children and pigs and one or two dogs; The police always follow them with vigilant eyes.
I often pay attention to what the families in our neighborhood are doing. They were born dark but beautiful and strong, like farmers in the northwest. Their women are very rich; That kind of casual action and natural independent style looks like a dark English woman to me.
The man just put the rice cooker on the fire and is now cutting the bamboo basket. The woman first took a photo in front of her with a mirror, and then carefully wiped her face with a wet towel over and over again. She adjusted the folds of her coat, went to the man and sat down, giving him a hand from time to time.
They are really children of the land. They were born somewhere on land, grew on the roadside everywhere, and died everywhere. Day and night in the vast sky, cheerful air and bare land, they live a unique life; They work, fall in love, have children and do housework-everything is done on the land.
They are never idle, they are always doing something. A woman, after doing her own thing, plops down behind another woman, unties her bun and combs it for her; Talking about the family affairs of these three bamboo sheds. I'm not sure from a distance, but I guess so boldly.
This morning, a big riot invaded this quiet gypsy house. At about 8: 30 or 9: 00, in order to bask in the sun and watch the wind, they are spreading tattered beds and various blankets on the top of bamboo mats. Sows and piglets lie in piles in the wetland, looking like a pile of dirt. They were chased by the family's two dogs, bit them and sent them out to find breakfast. After a cold leaf, the pigs enjoying the sunshine were frightened and noisy, and they cried bored.
I was writing a letter and looked out absently from time to time. That's when the noise started.
I stood up and went to the window and found a large crowd around the gypsy's residence. A very arrogant figure, waving a stick and cursing the worst words. The gypsy head panicked and tried to explain something. I guess something suspicious happened in the local area, which made the police come here for questioning.
The woman was still sitting until then, busy scraping the split bamboo pole. The calm eyes, as if she is the only one around, there is no sound. However, he suddenly jumped up, rushed to the police officer, vigorously waved his arm in front of him and cursed him with a harsh voice. In an instant, one-third of the excitement of the police officer disappeared, and he didn't have a chance to make a slight protest once or twice. So he left in frustration, as if he were a completely different person.
After he retreated to a safe distance, he turned and shouted, "What I want to say is that you must all leave here!" " "
I thought my neighbor across the street would immediately roll up their tents and leave with their luggage, pigs and children. But so far nothing has happened. They are still chopping bamboo, cooking or dressing casually.
Hilda,1892 65438+1October 9.
These days, the weather always swings between winter and spring. In the morning, perhaps, under the sweeping of the north wind, mountains and seas will tremble; At night, I will tremble with the south wind from the moonlight.
There is no doubt that spring has come. After a long interruption, the call of spring rang again from the Woods on the other side, and people's hearts were awakened; After nightfall, you can hear the songs in the village; It means that they no longer close the doors and windows in a hurry and cover the bed tightly to sleep.
Tonight, when the moon is full, her round face is staring at me from the open window on my left, as if to see if there is any criticism in my letter. -She might wonder that we care more about her black marks than her light.
A bird is crying on the river bank. The river seems to have stopped flowing. There is not a boat on the river. The trees standing on the shore cast still shadows in the water. The mist in the sky makes the moon look like a tired eye, barely open.
From now on, the night will get darker and darker; And when I come back from the office tomorrow, this moon, my guest's good companion, will be farther away from me. She doubted whether she was clever last night, and completely confided in me, so she gradually covered it up.
In a strange and lonely place, nature has really become kind. I was really worried for days. The thought of the passing of the full moon makes me feel lonelier every day. I feel farther away from home. When I return to the river, beauty and tranquility will no longer wait for me there. I must go back in the dark.
Anyway, I want to record that tonight is the full moon-the first full moon this spring. In the years to come, I may recall this night, the birds "singing" on the river bank, the flashing lights on the boat on the other side, the sparkling river, the vague shadows cast by the edge of the Woods by the river, and the white sky coldly shining on my head.
Popo,1892 may 12.
I always walk alone on the balcony on the roof at night. Yesterday afternoon, I felt it was my duty to introduce the local scenery to the guests, so I went out for a walk with them and took Aguri as a guide.
On the edge of the horizon, the forest in the distance is green, thin light blue clouds rise slowly, and the cage is covered on the forest, which looks particularly beautiful. I want to paint it poetic. I said it's like blue makeup liquid applied to the edge of eyelashes, which makes beautiful blue eyes more beautiful. Among my companions, one didn't hear, one didn't understand, and the third replied with coping words: "Yes, it's beautiful." I feel that I can't drum up poetry anymore.
After walking a mile, we arrived at a dam. There is a row of palm trees by the water, and there are natural springs under the trees. When we stopped to watch the spring, we found that Yun Lan, the line we saw on the northern horizon, had swelled and turned black, and ran towards us, while lightning flashed.
We came to the same conclusion that we can appreciate the beauty of nature better under the eaves. But just as we were about to go home, the storm roared and strode to catch up with us in the empty wilderness. I didn't expect that when I was admiring the blue water on the beautiful lady nature's eyelashes, she would chase us like an angry housewife and give us such a big mouth!
The sand is so confusing that I can't see anything beyond a few steps. The wind and rain are getting heavier and heavier. The gravel in the sand hit us like guns, the strong wind strangled us, and the raindrops that began to fall beat us and drove us away.
Run! Run! But the ground here is uneven, and the current leaves a deep scar on it, so it is difficult to walk there at ordinary times, especially in the wind and rain. I was stuck in a thorn bush, and when I stood up and broke free, I was almost thrown to the ground by the strong wind.
When we were almost home, a group of servants ran towards us like a storm, shouting and gesturing. Some hold our arms, some lament our plight, some eagerly guide us, and some crawl on our backs, as if afraid that the strong wind will blow us away together. We tried our best to get rid of their attention. Finally, I entered the house, my clothes were soaked, my body was dirty, my hair was messy and I was panting.
I learned my lesson; I won't write such a lie in novels or stories again. I am a master with the image of a lover in my heart and can walk in the wind and rain without anxiety. No one can remember any face in his mind, no matter how beautiful it is. In such a storm, it is enough that he can't stop the sand in his eyes! ……
Vishnu poets vividly sang how Rada went to see Krishna on a stormy night. I wonder if they ever stopped to think about what she would look like when she walked up to him. It's easy to imagine how messy her hair is and what her makeup will look like. She must have looked terrible when she ran to the gazebo covered in mud!
But when we read Vishnu's poem, we never think about it. In the picture in our mind, we can only see a beautiful woman, attracted by her peerless and handsome lover, who, like a dream, desperately crossed the bottom of a drunken tree full of flowers and came to the Mimuna River on a dark stormy night in the rainy season. She tied her ankle bracelet for fear that it would rattle; She put on a dark blue cloak for fear of being seen; But she didn't bring an umbrella in case it rained; And I didn't bring a light, for fear that she would fall!
What is useful is really pitiful-although it is so important in real life, it is so neglected in poetry! But poetry can't get rid of our connection with it anyway, and it will always accompany us; Even so, we have heard that when civilization progresses, poetry will be destroyed, but its characteristics will be constantly raised one by one in order to improve shoes and umbrellas.
Popo,1892 may 16.
There is no clock at the top of the church tower, and there are no residents nearby. As soon as the birds stopped singing, night fell. Here, there is not much difference between the first night and the late night. In Calcutta, sleepless nights are like a dark and slow-moving river; When you lie on your back in bed, you can count the sounds it makes. But here, the night is like a huge calm lake, sleeping peacefully and without any movement. When I tossed and turned last night, I felt surrounded by thick water.
This morning, I got up a little more than usual. I went downstairs to my room, leaned on the mat and sat with my knees in my arms. In this way, I put a slate on my chest and began to write poetry with the morning breeze and bird songs. I walked smoothly-smiling on my lips, my eyes half closed, my head shaking with the rhythm, and the humming thing gradually took shape-the postman came.
I received a letter, the latest issue of Practice magazine, a monist, and several proofs. I read this letter, browsed the uncut pages of Practice magazine, and then went back to take a nap, humming and writing my poem. I didn't do anything. I continued to write poetry.
I don't know why writing a few pages of prose brings me more happiness than writing a poem. A person's emotions can be perfectly used in poetry, as if they can be picked up with fingers. But prose is like a bag full of loose things, heavy and stupid, so you can't mention it casually.
If I can write a poem a day, my life will be spent in joy; Although I have been writing poetry for several years, it has not been tamed by me, nor is it the kind of flying horse that can be put on the halter at any time! The happiness of art lies in the freedom to fly in the sky of Wan Li when you fantasize about it. At that time, even if I returned to the world prison, that kind of echo and joy would still haunt my ears and heart.
Short poems keep coming uninvited, which prevents me from writing plays. If it weren't for this reason, I could have written two or three plays about some thoughts that hit my heart. I'm afraid we'll have to wait until winter. All my plays except Cidra were written in winter. In that season, the meaning of lyric is easy to get cold, so people have time to write plays.
On the way to Gronda, June 2 1, 892.
Endless scrolls: sand banks, fields, crops and villages, clouds floating in the air, and open colors when they meet day and night-all slip into their eyes from both sides. The boat passed gently and the fisherman was fishing; The river makes a gentle caress all day; The vast water surface is still in the silence of the night, like a child being coaxed to sleep, and all the stars in the boundless sky are surrounded by him. At this time, I sit up in the awake night, and there are sleeping banks on both sides, except for one or two barking dogs occasionally in the forest next to the village, and the debris eroded by the sharp waves of the Batma River up to the peak.
The scenery is not always particularly charming-a sandy beach without grass trees; An empty boat is tied to the shore; Green water flows dimly like the sky; But I can't tell you how they touched me. I guess my childhood desires and pursuits were guarded by slaves-in a lonely cell, I read "Arabian Nights" and participated in the adventures of Siman Simba in many different places-my mind was not dead, but when I saw any empty boat tied to the shore, my old desires and pursuits were awakened again.
If I hadn't heard fairy tales in my childhood and read "One Thousand and One Nights" and "Robinson Crusoe", I know that the scenery on the far bank and the vast fields on the other side will never make me so excited-in fact, the whole world will have different charms for me.
In people's minds, what a maze fantasy and facts are intertwined! How different stories, events and pictures-tiny and huge-are intertwined!
Hilda,120 August 892
Whenever I see a beautiful landscape painting, I often think, "If only I could live in it!" It is this desire that has been satisfied here. Here, a person is alive in a cold and vivid picture without reality. When I was a child, the illustrations of the forest and the sea in Paul and Virginia or Robinson Crusoe would make me float out of the daily world; The sunshine here reminds me of the feeling of staring at these photos.
I really can't explain, or clearly explain, what kind of desire I have been aroused in my heart. It seems that the pulse of water flows through the trunk line connecting me with the world. I feel as if the vague and distant memory of my integration with everything on earth has returned to my heart; When the grass grows on me, when Qiu Guang shines on me, and under the gentle sunshine contact, the warm breath of youth will rise from every pore of my spacious, soft and turquoise body. A fresh life, a gentle joy, will be hidden semi-consciously, but it will pour out silently from all my vastness, when it stretches silently with its country, mountains and seas under the bright blue sky.
I feel like the carnival feeling of our ancient land being kissed by the sun in our daily life; My own consciousness seems to flow through every blade of grass, and every sucked root rises from the trunk with sap, and unfolds with shaking corn and rustling palm leaves in the field in the trembling of joy.
I think I must show my blood relationship with the earth and my love for her relatives, but I am afraid that people will not understand me.
Hilda,1892 65438+February 9.
After my painful illness, I still feel weak and am recuperating. In this case, natural breastfeeding is really sweet. I feel like everything else, lazily shining my joy in the sun. I'm just writing absently.
The world is always new to me; Just like an old friend who has loved in this life and previous lives, our friendship is profound and long-lasting.
I can well understand how the earth woke up from the sea bath in the primitive youth many centuries ago and paid tribute to the sun in prayer. I must be a tree in the forest, spreading my thick leaves from her newly formed soil with all the fresh business that I was initially impulsive.
The sea is shaking, surging and drowning, like a doting mother, constantly caressing her first-born baby; And I suck the sun wholeheartedly, shivering under the blue sky with the inexplicable carnival of newborn babies, hugging my mother earth with all my roots and sucking quickly. In blind joy, my leaves are angry and my flowers are in full bloom; When clouds gather, their cool shadows will comfort me with moist and soft caresses.
Since then, century after century, I have been born again in this land indefinitely. So when we are alone now, all kinds of old memories slowly come back to my heart.
Today, my mother earth is covered with golden sunshine, sitting on the cornfield by the river. I roll games on my feet, knees and arms. As the mother of countless children, she just absently dealt with their constant crying with great patience and corresponding indifference. She sat there, staring at the afternoon horizon with dreamy eyes, while I was talking to her.
Kadak,1March 893
If we begin to attach too much importance to the applause of the British, we will have to throw away many of our good things and accept many of their bad things.
We will gradually be ashamed to wear socks to go out, and we will not be ashamed to see their prom dresses. We will throw away our ancient etiquette and have a rough competition with them without care. We stopped wearing jackets because it needed improvement, but they put hats on our heads without thinking, even though there was no uglier headdress.
In short, consciously or unconsciously, we will decide our lives according to whether they applaud or not.
So I said bluntly, "crock!" For God's sake, stay away from that copper pot! Whether it comes at you angrily or just gives you face and pats you on the back, you're finished. It's broken anyway. So please remember the old Aesop's famous saying-I beg you, stay away. "
Let those copper pots decorate rich families; In a poor family, you have a lot of work to do. If you let him cut you off, you have no position in both houses, and you can only disappear; Fortunately, you may be in the cultural relics cabinet-as an antique, you can occupy a corner. It would be the most glorious to let the humblest woman in the countryside fetch water.
Hilda,1May 8, 893
Poetry is my old flame-I think Rorty was only her age when I got engaged. A long time ago, by our pool, resting under the old banyan tree, the strange area in the inner garden, the basement of the room, the whole outside world, the children's songs and stories that the maids paid attention to, built a beautiful fairyland in my heart. It is difficult to explain the vague and mysterious things that happened during that period, but one thing is clear, that is, the ceremony of "exchanging garlands" with "poetic imagination" has been officially held.
But I must admit that my fiancee is not a lucky girl-whatever she brings is by no means lucky. I can't say that she has never given me happiness, but there is no peace with her. The person she loves may get complete joy, but under her cruel embrace, his hard work will be ground dry. The unfortunate thing she chose will never become a serious, calm and comfortable layman on the basis of society.
Whether intentionally or unintentionally, I may have done many dishonest things, but in my poems, I have never said a lie-it is a refuge. There, the deepest truth in my life was sheltered.
Hilda, 1893 May 10
Bloated black clouds floated in and absorbed the golden sunshine in the landscape before my eyes like blotting paper. Rain must come soon, because the breeze feels wet and full of tears.
Over there, on Mount Simla, which pierces the sky, you will find it difficult to correctly understand how important it is for clouds to come here, or how many people are eager to look up at the sky and cheer for their arrival.
I deeply sympathize with these farmers-our tenants-the tall, incompetent and naive children of God. They must have food in their mouths, or they will be finished. When Mother Earth's milk dried up, they didn't know what to do, they just cried. But once their hunger is satisfied, they will forget all the disasters in the past.
I wonder if the socialist ideal of rational distribution of wealth can be realized. If not, the distribution of God is really cruel, and people are really unfortunate things. Because if the world must have trouble, forget it; But at least leave a few small pores and catch a glimpse of the poor flash, which may inspire a noble part of mankind to keep hoping and fighting for the relief of pain.
They said an extremely cold thing, and those people asserted that it was only a utopian dream to distribute all the products of the world and let everyone have a bite to eat and a dress to wear. All social problems are cold! Fate can only give mankind such a narrow and pitiful quilt. Pull to this part of the world, and the rest will have no cover. When poverty is lifted, we lose our wealth. With wealth, we lose countless kindness, beauty and strength.
But the sun came out again, although clouds were still accumulating in the west.
(Bing Xin translation)
Precautions:
The author's son is only five years old.
Exchange of wreaths: engagement ceremony.
Make an appreciative comment
Bangladesh is Tagore's hometown. Tagore was a province of India when he was alive. Tagore wrote a collection of poems in Bengali, for which he won the Nobel Prize in Literature.
Tagore was born in a noble family, and his father devoted himself to mountains and rivers in his later years. He was entrusted with the task of managing the ancestral property. At that time, Tagore was very famous in the literary world and lived in Britain. 1890, he returned to Bangladesh, where rivers crisscross, to handle manor affairs. During this period, he wrote some letters about his country and sent them to his niece David. The clever girl kept all his letters, a total of 145. On the occasion of Tagore's 50th birthday, she sent these exquisite short messages back to Tagore as a birthday present. Tagore tidied them up a little and published a collection under the name of Broken Leaves. Later, 78 of them were selected, translated into English and published in Britain, and renamed as Scenery of Bangladesh. The translation was written by his nephew, and the writing was poetic.
In the selection of this book, Tagore described gypsy women, full moon, storm and rural scenery respectively, and wrote some scattered thoughts and trivial things, which ran through the clues of time and place. There may be some inevitable close connection between them, but we only feel an emotional connection, just like a bright morning. Although there is mist, there is still a dreamy sense of reality when the sun penetrates the forest and strolls through it. That feeling is wonderful, but I always feel its existence, which makes you unclear and makes you happy and disappointed. Is this beauty or what we call artistic conception?
Sometimes we are really good at reading words and the meanings behind them. We can often see a lot from the article, and often enjoy ourselves in this interpretation and get spiritual satisfaction. It seems that this is the fun of reading. But there is an article that makes you feel easier as you read it. Just like this song "Scenery of Bangladesh", when we first read it, we saw hard-working and provocative gypsy women, full of hopeful spring scenery, all kinds of keen and profound philosophies, and flowing water. You don't have to regard it as a masterpiece or understand its grandeur. Each paragraph will give you a sense of freshness, a complete story and a kind of amorous feelings. ..
Everything is like a gorgeous picture, and the picture gradually fades out. We saw a wise man, dressed in an Indian robe, sitting at the window of the study, writing a letter to his lovely little niece in the light yellow sun. His slightly black face was radiant with a smile, and his kind eyes also showed crow's feet that middle-aged people would have. He laughed while writing, and sometimes laughed out loud and shook his head proudly. He must have thought of the way his lovely little niece reads letters, right? His eyes are full of love. He is not a writer Tagore, but a kind uncle who inadvertently wrote an immortal chapter that can be passed down from generation to generation. Of course, this is just imagination, and we can't infer the author's mentality in those days, but we would rather or prefer to imagine it this way. What the screenwriter gave us is not necessarily what he meant to give, or what he wanted to give, but his heart is undoubtedly full of * * * and love, and he is writing his true feelings on paper. Of course, he will give us a lot, which needs our own experience: what we need most is to feel a kind heart that loves life and loved ones, which is often enough. Along it, we can go far and human beings can go far.
Say something unimportant. 1947, six years after Tagore's death, partition of india and Bengal were included in the territory of East Pakistan. 197 1 year, Tagore's hometown established a brand-new country-Bangladesh. Political change will never stop, but it will not change the landscape of Bangladesh in Tagore's works. Until the year when I was lucky enough to set foot on this land, I could still find Tagore's leisurely and elegant footprints here. Following his footprints, I also saw a local girl with dark skin and walking barefoot by the Shazhapu River. Some people say that gypsies still live in this area, and they have been integrated into the local area for generations. The air here is fresh and there is almost no pollution in the city. At night, you can also see the scenery of "the sky is grey and the milky way hangs down". The starry sky in the city has long since disappeared, and the street lamps are lifeless and follow the rules. Coincidentally, there are still vivid nights here. "When civilization progresses, poetry will be destroyed, but its features will be constantly raised one by one in order to improve shoes and umbrellas." But it doesn't matter, even after many years, I think we will still have it. Because we have memories, the feelings that are unclear and unclear will never disappear. It will raise an island in our hearts, looming in the blue wind and waves forever.
(Wang Yuanyuan)