the spirit of place and other essays-第3部分

快捷操作: 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! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！



solitude　to　the　perpetual　society　of　the　school；　the　cloister；　or

the　hospital　ward。　　They　walk　without　secrecy；　candid；　simple；

visible；　without　moods；　unchangeable；　in　a　constant　communication

and　practice　of　action　and　speech。　　Theirs　assuredly　is　no　barren　or

futile　loss；　and　they　have　a　conviction；　and　they　bestow　the

conviction；　of　solitude　deferred。



Who　has　painted　solitude　so　that　the　solitary　seemed　to　stand　alone

and　inaccessible？　　There　is　the　loneliness　of　the　shepherdess　in

many　a　drawing　of　J。F。　Millet。　　The　little　figure　is　away；　aloof。

The　girl　stands　so　when　the　painter　is　gone。　　She　waits　so　on　the

sun　for　the　closing　of　the　hours　of　pasture。　　Millet　has　her　as　she

looks；　out　of　sight。



Now；　although　solitude　is　a　prepared；　secured；　defended；　elaborate

possession　of　the　rich；　they　too　deny　themselves　the　natural

solitude　of　a　woman　with　a　child。　　A　newly…born　child　is　so　nursed

and　talked　about；　handled　and　jolted　and　carried　about　by　aliens；

and　there　is　so　much　importunate　service　going　forward；　that　a　woman

is　hardly　alone　long　enough　to　become　aware；　in　recollection；　how

her　own　blood　moves　separately；　beside　her；　with　another　rhythm　and

different　pulses。　　All　is　commonplace　until　the　doors　are　closed

upon　the　two。　　This　unique　intimacy　is　a　profound　retreat；　an

absolute　seclusion。　　It　is　more　than　single　solitude；　it　is　a

redoubled　isolation　more　remote　than　mountains；　safer　than　valleys；

deeper　than　forests；　and　further　than　mid…sea。



That　solitude　partakenthe　only　partaken　solitude　in　the　worldis

the　Point　of　Honour　of　ethics。　　Treachery　to　that　obligation　and　a

betrayal　of　that　confidence　might　well　be　held　to　be　the　least

pardonable　of　all　crimes。　　There　is　no　innocent　sleep　so　innocent　as

sleep　shared　between　a　woman　and　a　child；　the　little　breath　hurrying

beside　the　longer；　as　a　child's　foot　runs。　　But　the　favourite　crime

of　the　sentimentalist　is　that　of　a　woman　against　her　child。　　Her

power；　her　intimacy；　her　opportunity；　that　should　be　her　accusers；

are　held　to　excuse　her。　　She　gains　the　most　slovenly　of　indulgences

and　the　grossest　compassion；　on　the　vulgar　grounds　that　her　crime

was　easy。



Lawless　and　vain　art　of　a　certain　kind　is　apt　to　claim　to…day；　by

the　way；　some　such　fondling　as　a　heroine　of　the　dock　receives　from

common　opinion。　　The　vain　artist　had　all　the　opportunities　of　the

situation。　　He　was　master　of　his　own　purpose；　such　as　it　was；　it　was

his　secret；　and　the　public　was　not　privy　to　his　artistic　conscience。

He　does　violence　to　the　obligations　of　which　he　is　aware；　and　which

the　world　does　not　know　very　explicitly。　　Nothing　is　easier。　　Or　he

is　lawless　in　a　more　literal　sense；　but　only　hopes　the　world　will

believe　that　he　has　a　whole　code　of　his　own　making。　　It　would；

nevertheless；　be　less　unworthy　to　break　obvious　rules　obviously　in

the　obvious　face　of　the　public；　and　to　abide　the　common　rebuke。



It　has　just　been　said　that　a　park　is　by　no　means　necessary　for　the

preparation　of　a　country　solitude。　　Indeed；　to　make　those　far　and

wide　and　long　approaches　and　avenues　to　peace　seems　to　be　a　denial

of　the　accessibility　of　what　should　be　so　simple。　　A　step；　a　pace　or

so　aside；　is　enough　to　lead　thither。



A　park　insists　too　much；　and；　besides；　does　not　insist　very

sincerely。　　In　order　to　fulfil　the　apparent　professions　and　to　keep

the　published　promise　of　a　park；　the　owner　thereof　should　be　a　lover

of　long　seclusion　or　of　a　very　life　of　loneliness。　　He　should　have

gained　the　state　of　solitariness　which　is　a　condition　of　life　quite

unlike　any　other。　　The　traveller　who　may　have　gone　astray　in

countries　where　an　almost　life…long　solitude　is　possible　knows　how

invincibly　apart　are　the　lonely　figures　he　has　seen　in　desert　places

there。　　Their　loneliness　is　broken　by　his　passage；　it　is　true；　but

hardly　so　to　them。　　They　look　at　him；　but　they　are　not　aware　that　he

looks　at　them。　　Nay；　they　look　at　him　as　though　they　were　invisible。

Their　un…self…consciousness　is　absolute；　it　is　in　the　wild　degree。

They　are　solitaries；　body　and　soul；　even　when　they　are　curious；　and

turn　to　watch　the　passer…by；　they　are　essentially　alone。　　Now；　no

one　ever　found　that　attitude　in　a　squire's　figure；　or　that　look　in

any　country　gentleman's　eyes。　　The　squire　is　not　a　life…long

solitary。　　He　never　bore　himself　as　though　he　were　invisible。　　He

never　had　the　impersonal　ways　of　a　herdsman　in　the　remoter

Apennines；　with　a　blind；　blank　hut　in　the　rocks　for　his　dwelling。

Millet　would　not　even　have　taken　him　as　a　model　for　a　solitary　in

the　briefer　and　milder　sylvan　solitudes　of　France。　　And　yet　nothing

but　a　life…long；　habitual；　and　wild　solitariness　would　be　quite

proportionate　to　a　park　of　any　magnitude。



If　there　is　a　look　of　human　eyes　that　tells　of　perpetual　loneliness；

so　there　is　also　the　familiar　look　that　is　the　sign　of　perpetual

crowds。　　It　is　the　London　expression；　and；　in　its　way；　the　Paris

expression。　　It　is　the　quickly　caught；　though　not　interested；　look；

the　dull　but　ready　glance　of　those　who　do　not　know　of　their

forfeited　place　apart；　who　have　neither　the　open　secret　nor　the

close；　no　reserve；　no　need　of　refuge；　no　flight　nor　impulse　of

flight；　no　moods　but　what　they　may　brave　out　in　the　street；　no　hope

of　news　from　solitary　counsels。







THE　LADY　OF　THE　LYRICS







She　is　eclipsed；　or　gone；　or　in　hiding。　　But　the　sixteenth　century

took　her　for　granted　as　the　object　of　song；　she　was　a　class；　a

state；　a　sex。　　It　was　scarcely　necessary　to　waste　the　lyrist's　time…

…time　that　went　so　gaily　to　metre　as　not　to　brook　delaysin　making

her　out　too　clearly。　　She　had　no　more　of　what　later　times　call

individuality　than　has　the　rose；　her　rival；　her　foil　when　she　was

kinder；　her　superior　when　she　was　cruel；　her　ever　fresh　and　ever

conventional　paragon。　　She　needed　not　to　be　devised　or　divined；　she

was　ready。　　A　merry　heart　goes　all　the　day；　the　lyrist's　never　grew

weary。　　Honest　men　never　grow　tired　of　bread　or　of　any　other　daily

things　whereof　the　sweetness　is　in　their　own　simplicity。



The　lady　of　the　lyrics　was　not　loved　in　mortal　earnest；　and　her

punishment　now　and　then　for　her　ingratitude　was　to　be　told　that　she

was　loved　in　jest。　　She　did　not　love；　her　fancy　was　fickle；　she　was

not　moved　by　long　service；　which；　by　the　way；　was　evidently　to　be

taken　for　granted　precisely　like　the　whole　long　past　of　a　dream。

She　had　not　a　good　temper。　　When　the　poet　groans　it　seems　that　she

has　laughed　at　him；　when　he　flouts　her；　we　may　understand　that　she

has　chidden　her　lyrist　in　no　temperate　terms。　　In　doing　this　she　has

sinned　not　so　much　against　him　as　against　Love。　　With　that　she　is

perpetually　reproved。　　The　lyrist　complains　to　Love；　pities　Love　for

her　scorning；　and　threatens　to　go　away　with　Love；　who　is　on　his

side。　　The　sweetest　verse　is　tuned　to　love　when　the　loved　one　proves

worthy。



There　is　no　record　of　success　for　this　policy。　　She　goes　on　dancing

or　scolding；　as　the　case　may　be；　and　the　lyrist　goes　on　boasting　of

his　constancy；　or　suddenly　renounces　it　for　a　day。　　The　situation

has　variants；　but　no　surprise　or　ending。　　The　lover's　convention　is

explicit　enough；　but　it　might　puzzle　a　reader　to　account　for　the

lady's。　　Pride　in　her　beauty；　at　any　rate；　is　herspride　so　great

that　she　cannot　bring　herself　to　perceive　the　shortness　of　her　day。

She　is　so　unobservant　as　to　need　to　be　told　that　life　is　brief；　and

youth　briefer　than　life；　that　the　rose　fades；　and　so　forth。



Now　we　need　not　assume　that　the　lady　of　the　lyrics　ever　lived。　　But

taking　her　as　the　perfectly　unanimous　conception　of　the　lyrists；　how

is　it　she　did　not　discover　these　things　unaided？　　Why　does　the　lover

invariably　imagine　her　with　a　mind　intensely　irritable　under　his　own

praise　and　poetry？　　Obviously　we　cannot　have　her　explanation　of　any

of　these　matters。　　Why　do　the　poets　so　much　lament　the　absence　of

truth　in　one　whose　truth　would　be　of　little　moment？　　And　why　was　the

convention　so　pleasant；　among　all　others；　as　to　occupy　a　whole　age

nay；　two　great　agesof　literature？



Music　seems　to　be　principally　answerable。　　For　the　lyrics　of　the

lady　are　〃words　for　music〃　by　a　great　majority。　　There　is　hardly　a

single　poem　in　the　Elizabethan　Song…books；　properly　so　named；　that

has　what　would　in　our　day　be　called　a　tone　of　sentiment。　　Music　had

not　then　the　tone　herself；　she　was　ingenious；　and　so　must　the　words

be。　　She　had　the　air　of　epigram；　and　an　accurately　definite　limit。

So；　too；　the　lady　of　the　lyrics；　who　might　be　called　the　lady　of　the

stanzas；　so　strictly　does　she　go　by　measure。　　When　she　is

quarrelsome；　it　is　but　fuguishness；　when　she　dances；　she　does　it　by

a　canon。　　She　could　not　but　be　perverse；　merrily　sung　to　such　grave

notes。



So　fixed　was　the　law　of　this　perversity　that　none　in　the　song…books

is　allowed　to　be　kind　enough　for　a　〃melody；〃　except　one　lady　only。

She　may　thus　derogate；　for　the　exceedingly　Elizabethan　reason　that

she　is　〃brown。〃　　She　is　brown　and　kind；　and　a　〃sad　flower；〃　but　the

song　made　for　her　would　have　been　too　insipid；　apparently；　without

an　antithesis。　　The　fair　one　is　warned　that　her　disdain　makes　her

even　less　lovely　than　the　brown。



Fair　as　a　lily；　hard　to　please；　easily　angry；　ungrateful　for

innumerable　verses；　uncertain　with　the　regularity　of　the　madrigal；

and　inconstant　with　the　punctuality　of　a　stanza；　she　has　gone　with

the　arts　of　that　day；　and　neither　verse　nor　music　will　ever　make

such　another　lady。　　She　refused　to　observe　the　transiency　of　roses；

she　never　really　intendedmuch　as　she　was　urgedto　be　a

shepherdess；　she　was　never　persuaded　to　mitigate　her　dress。　　In

return；　the　world　has　let　her　disappear。　　She　scorned　the　poets

until　they　turned　upon　her　in　the　epigram　of　many　a　final　couplet；

and　of　these　the　last　has　been　long　written。　　Her　〃No〃　was　set　to

counterpoint　in　the　part…song；　and　she　frightened　Love　out　of　her

sight　in