the colour of life-第2部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！



wrong。　　There　is　a　similarity　of　unreason　in　betraying　the　death　of

a　bird　and　in　exhibiting　the　death　of　Shelley。　　The　death　of　a

soldier　…　passe　encore。　　But　the　death　of　Shelley　was　not　his　goal。

And　the　death　of　the　birds　is　so　little　characteristic　of　them　that；

as　has　just　been　said；　no　one　in　the　world　is　aware　of　their　dying；

except　only　in　the　case　of　birds　in　cages；　who；　again；　are　compelled

to　die　with　observation。　　The　woodland　is　guarded　and　kept　by　a

rule。　　There　is　no　display　of　the　battlefield　in　the　fields。　　There

is　no　tale　of　the　game…bag；　no　boast。　　The　hunting　goes　on；　but　with

strange　decorum。　　You　may　pass　a　fine　season　under　the　trees；　and

see　nothing　dead　except　here　and　there　where　a　boy　has　been　by；　or　a

man　with　a　trap；　or　a　man　with　a　gun。　　There　is　nothing　like　a

butcher's　shop　in　the　woods。



But　the　biographers　have　always　had　other　ways　than　those　of　the

wild　world。　　They　will　not　have　a　man　to　die　out　of　sight。　　I　have

turned　over　scores　of　〃Lives；〃　not　to　read　them；　but　to　see　whether

now　and　again　there　might　be　a　〃Life〃　which　was　not　more

emphatically　a　death。　　But　there　never　is　a　modern　biography　that

has　taken　the　hint　of　Nature。　　One　and　all；　these　books　have　the

disproportionate　illness；　the　death　out　of　all　scale。



Even　more　wanton　than　the　disclosure　of　a　death　is　that　of　a　mortal

illness。　　If　the　man　had　recovered；　his　illness　would　have　been

rightly　his　own　secret。　　But　because　he　did　not　recover；　it　is

assumed　to　be　news　for　the　first　comer。　　Which　of　us　would　suffer

the　details　of　any　physical　suffering；　over　and　done　in　our　own

lives；　to　be　displayed　and　described？　　This　is　not　a　confidence　we

have　a　mind　to　make；　and　no　one　is　authorised　to　ask　for　attention

or　pity　on　our　behalf。　　The　story　of　pain　ought　not　to　be　told　of

us；　seeing　that　by　us　it　would　assuredly　not　be　told。



There　is　only　one　other　thing　that　concerns　a　man　still　more

exclusively；　and　that　is　his　own　mental　illness；　or　the　dreams　and

illusions　of　a　long　delirium。　　When　he　is　in　common　language　not

himself；　amends　should　be　made　for　so　bitter　a　paradox；　he　should　be

allowed　such　solitude　as　is　possible　to　the　alienated　spirit；　he

should　be　left　to　the　〃not　himself；〃　and　spared　the　intrusion

against　which　he　can　so　ill　guard　that　he　could　hardly　have　even

resented　it。



The　double　helplessness　of　delusion　and　death　should　keep　the　door

of　Rossetti's　house；　for　example；　and　refuse　him　to　the　reader。　　His

mortal　illness　had　nothing　to　do　with　his　poetry。　　Some　rather

affected　objection　is　taken　every　now　and　then　to　the　publication　of

some　facts　（others　being　already　well　known）　in　the　life　of　Shelley。

Nevertheless；　these　are　all；　properly　speaking；　biography。　　What　is

not　biography　is　the　detail　of　the　accident　of　the　manner　of　his

death；　the　detail　of　his　cremation。　　Or　if　it　was　to　be　told　…　told

briefly　…　it　was　certainly　not　for　marble。　　Shelley's　death　had　no

significance；　except　inasmuch　as　he　died　young。　　It　was　a　detachable

and　disconnected　incident。　　Ah；　that　was　a　frost　of　fancy　and　of　the

heart　that　used　it　so；　dealing　with　an　insignificant　fact；　and

conferring　a　futile　immortality。　　Those　are　ill…named　biographers

who　seem　to　think　that　a　betrayal　of　the　ways　of　death　is　a　part　of

their　ordinary　duty；　and　that　if　material　enough　for　a　last　chapter

does　not　lie　to　their　hand　they　are　to　search　it　out。　　They；　of　all

survivors；　are　called　upon；　in　honour　and　reason；　to　look　upon　a

death　with　more　composure。　　To　those　who　loved　the　dead　closely；

this　is；　for　a　time；　impossible。　　To　them　death　becomes；　for　a　year；

disproportionate。　　Their　dreams　are　fixed　upon　it　night　by　night。

They　have；　in　those　dreams；　to　find　the　dead　in　some　labyrinth；　they

have　to　mourn　his　dying　and　to　welcome　his　recovery　in　such　a

mingling　of　distress　and　of　always　incredulous　happiness　as　is　not

known　even　to　dreams　save　in　that　first　year　of　separation。　　But

they　are　not　biographers。



If　death　is　the　privacy　of　the　woods；　it　is　the　more　conspicuously

secret　because　it　is　their　only　privacy。　　You　may　watch　or　may

surprise　everything　else。　　The　nest　is　retired；　not　hidden。　　The

chase　goes　on　everywhere。　　It　is　wonderful　how　the　perpetual　chase

seems　to　cause　no　perpetual　fear。　　The　songs　are　all　audible。　　Life

is　undefended；　careless；　nimble　and　noisy。



It　is　a　happy　thing　that　minor　artists　have　ceased；　or　almost

ceased；　to　paint　dead　birds。　　Time　was　when　they　did　it　continually

in　that　British　School　of　water…colour　art；　stippled；　of　which

surrounding　nations；　it　was　agreed；　were　envious。　　They　must　have

killed　their　bird　to　paint　him；　for　he　is　not　to　be　caught　dead。　　A

bird　is　more　easily　caught　alive　than　dead。



A　poet；　on　the　contrary；　is　easily　…　too　easily　…　caught　dead。

Minor　artists　now　seldom　stipple　the　bird　on　its　back；　but　a　good

sculptor　and　a　University　together　modelled　their　Shelley　on　his

back；　unessentially　drowned；　and　everybody　may　read　about　the　sick

mind　of　Dante　Rossetti。







CLOUD







During　a　part　of　the　year　London　does　not　see　the　clouds。　　Not　to

see　the　clear　sky　might　seem　her　chief　loss；　but　that　is　shared　by

the　rest　of　England；　and　is；　besides；　but　a　slight　privation。　　Not

to　see　the　clear　sky　is；　elsewhere；　to　see　the　cloud。　　But　not　so　in

London。　　You　may　go　for　a　week　or　two　at　a　time；　even　though　you

hold　your　head　up　as　you　walk；　and　even　though　you　have　windows　that

really　open；　and　yet　you　shall　see　no　cloud；　or　but　a　single　edge；

the　fragment　of　a　form。



Guillotine　windows　never　wholly　open；　but　are　filled　with　a　doubled

glass　towards　the　sky　when　you　open　them　towards　the　street。　　They

are；　therefore；　a　sure　sign　that　for　all　the　years　when　no　other

windows　were　used　in　London；　nobody　there　cared　much　for　the　sky；　or

even　knew　so　much　as　whether　there　were　a　sky。



But　the　privation　of　cloud　is　indeed　a　graver　loss　than　the　world

knows。　　Terrestrial　scenery　is　much；　but　it　is　not　all。　　Men　go　in

search　of　it；　but　the　celestial　scenery　journeys　to　them。　　It　goes

its　way　round　the　world。　　It　has　no　nation；　it　costs　no　weariness；

it　knows　no　bonds。　　The　terrestrial　scenery　…　the　tourist's　…　is　a

prisoner　compared　with　this。　　The　tourist's　scenery　moves　indeed；

but　only　like　Wordsworth's　maiden；　with　earth's　diurnal　course；　it

is　made　as　fast　as　its　own　graves。　　And　for　its　changes　it　depends

upon　the　mobility　of　the　skies。　　The　mere　green　flushing　of　its　own

sap　makes　only　the　least　of　its　varieties；　for　the　greater　it　must

wait　upon　the　visits　of　the　light。　　Spring　and　autumn　are

inconsiderable　events　in　a　landscape　compared　with　the　shadows　of　a

cloud。



The　cloud　controls　the　light；　and　the　mountains　on　earth　appear　or

fade　according　to　its　passage；　they　wear　so　simply；　from　head　to

foot；　the　luminous　grey　or　the　emphatic　purple；　as　the　cloud

permits；　that　their　own　local　colour　and　their　own　local　season　are

lost　and　cease；　effaced　before　the　all…important　mood　of　the　cloud。



The　sea　has　no　mood　except　that　of　the　sky　and　of　its　winds。　　It　is

the　cloud　that；　holding　the　sun's　rays　in　a　sheaf　as　a　giant　holds　a

handful　of　spears；　strikes　the　horizon；　touches　the　extreme　edge

with　a　delicate　revelation　of　light；　or　suddenly　puts　it　out　and

makes　the　foreground　shine。



Every　one　knows　the　manifest　work　of　the　cloud　when　it　descends　and

partakes　in　the　landscape　obviously；　lies　half…way　across　the

mountain　slope；　stoops　to　rain　heavily　upon　the　lake；　and　blots　out

part　of　the　view　by　the　rough　method　of　standing　in　front　of　it。

But　its　greatest　things　are　done　from　its　own　place；　aloft。　　Thence

does　it　distribute　the　sun。



Thence　does　it　lock　away　between　the　hills　and　valleys　more

mysteries　than　a　poet　conceals；　but；　like　him；　not　by　interception。

Thence　it　writes　out　and　cancels　all　the　tracery　of　Monte　Rosa；　or

lets　the　pencils　of　the　sun　renew　them。　　Thence；　hiding　nothing；　and

yet　making　dark；　it　sheds　deep　colour　upon　the　forest　land　of

Sussex；　so　that；　seen　from　the　hills；　all　the　country　is　divided

between　grave　blue　and　graver　sunlight。



And　all　this　is　but　its　influence；　its　secondary　work　upon　the

world。　　Its　own　beauty　is　unaltered　when　it　has　no　earthly　beauty　to

improve。　　It　is　always　great：　above　the　street；　above　the　suburbs；

above　the　gas…works　and　the　stucco；　above　the　faces　of　painted　white

houses　…　the　painted　surfaces　that　have　been　devised　as　the　only

things　able　to　vulgarise　light；　as　they　catch　it　and　reflect　it

grotesquely　from　their　importunate　gloss。　　This　is　to　be　well　seen

on　a　sunny　evening　in　Regent　Street。



Even　here　the　cloud　is　not　so　victorious　as　when　it　towers　above

some　little　landscape　of　rather　paltry　interest　…　a　conventional

river　heavy　with　water；　gardens　with　their　little　evergreens；　walks；

and　shrubberies；　and　thick　trees　impervious　to　the　light；　touched；

as　the　novelists　always　have　it；　with　〃autumn　tints。〃　　High　over

these　rises；　in　the　enormous　scale　of　the　scenery　of　clouds；　what　no

man　expected　…　an　heroic　sky。　　Few　of　the　things　that　were　ever　done

upon　earth　are　great　enough　to　be　done　under　such　a　heaven。　　It　was

surely　designed　for　other　days。　　It　is　for　an　epic　world。　　Your　eyes

sweep　a　thousand　miles　of　cloud。　　What　are　the　distances　of　earth　to

these；　and　what　are　the　distances　of　the　clear　and　cloudless　sky？

The　very　horizons　of　the　landscape　are　near；　for　the　round　world

dips　so　soon；　and　the　distances　of　the　mere　clear　sky　are　unmeasured

…　you　rest　upon　nothing　until　you　come　to　a　star；　and　the　star

itself　is　immeasurable。



But　in　the　sky　of　〃sunny　Alps〃　of　clouds　the　sight　goes　farther；

with　conscious　flight；　than　it　could　ever　have　journeyed　otherwise。

Man　would　not　have　known　distance　veritably　without　the　clouds。

There　are　mountains　indeed；　precipices　and　deeps；　to　which　those　of

the　earth　are　pigmy。　　Yet　the　sky…heights；