the spirit of place and other essays(地方的精神等)-第11章
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indeed the signs of a new and universal healththe prophecy of human
unity？
The sign might have been a more manifest and a happier prophecy had
this union of tenderness taken the gay occasion as often as the sad。 Except
at times； in the single case of Mme。 de Sevigne； all three far more
sensitive than the rest of the worldwere yet not sensitive enough to feel
equally the less sharp communication of joy。 They claimed； owned； and
felt sensibly the pangs and not the pleasures of the absent。 Or if not only
the pangs； at least they were apprehensive chiefly in that sense which
human anxiety and foreboding have lent to the word； they were
apprehensive of what they feared。 〃Are you warm？〃 writes Marceline
Valmore to her child。 〃You have so little to wearare you really warm？
Oh； take care of mecover me well。〃 Elsewhere she says； 〃You are an
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insolent child to think of work。 Nurse your health； and mine。 Let us
live like fools〃； whereby she meant that she should work with her own
fervent brain for both； and take the while her rest in Ondine。 If this
living and unshortened love was sad； it must be owned that so； too； was
the story。 Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin were both to die soon； and
Marceline was to lose this daughter and another。
But set free from the condition and occasion of pain and sorrow； this
life without boundaries which mothers have undergone seems to suggest
and to portend what the progressive charity of generations may beand is；
in fact； though the continuity does not always appearin the course of the
world。 If a love and life without boundaries go down from a mother into
her child； and from that child into her children again； then incalculable；
intricate； universal； and eternal are the unions that seemand only seem
so to transcend the usual experience。 The love of such a mother passes
unchanged out of her own sight。 It drops down ages； but why should it
alter？ What in her daughter should she make so much her own as that
daughter's love for her daughter in turn？ There are no lapses。
Marceline Valmore； married to an actor who seems to have 〃created
the classic genre〃 in vain； found the sons and daughters of other women in
want。 Some of her rich friends； she avers； seem to think that the sadness
of her poems is a habita matter of metre and rhyme； or； at most； that it is
〃temperament。〃 But others take up the cause of those whose woes； as
she says； turned her long hair white too soon。 Sainte…Beuve gave her his
time and influence； succoured twenty political offenders at her instance；
and gave perpetually to her poor。 〃He never has any socks；〃 said his
mother； 〃he gives them all away； like Beranger。〃 〃He gives them with a
different accent；〃 added the literary Marceline。
Even when the stroller's life took her to towns she did not hate； but
lovedher own Douai； where the names of the streets made her heart leap；
and where her statue stands； and Bordeaux； which was； in her eyes； 〃rosy
with the reflected colour of its animating wine〃 she was taken away from
the country of her verse。 The field and the village had been dear to her；
and her poems no longer trail and droop； but take wing； when they come
among winds； birds； bells； and waves。 They fly with the whole volley of
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a summer morning。 She loved the sun and her liberty； and the liberty of
others。 It was apparently a horror of prisons that chiefly inspired her
public efforts after certain riots at Lyons had been reduced to peace。 The
dead were free； but for the prisoners she worked； wrote； and petitioned。
She looked at the sentinels at the gates of the Lyons gaols with such eyes
as might have provoked a shot； she thinks。
During her lifetime she very modestly took correction from her
contemporaries； for her study had hardly been enough for the whole art of
French verse。 But Sainte…Beuve； Baudelaire； and Verlaine have praised
her as one of the poets of France。 The later critics from Verlaine
onwardswill hold that she needs no pardon for certain slight irregularities
in the grouping of masculine and feminine rhymes； for upon this liberty
they themselves have largely improved。 The old rules in their
completeness seemed too much like a prison to her。 She was set about
with importunate conditionsa caesura； a rhyme； narrow lodgings in
strange towns； bankruptcies； salaries astrayand she took only a little
gentle liberty。
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THE HOURS OF SLEEP
There are hours claimed by Sleep； but refused to him。 None the less
are they his by some state within the mind； which answers rhythmically
and punctually to that claim。 Awake and at work； without drowsiness；
without languor； and without gloom； the night mind of man is yet not his
day mind； he has night…powers of feeling which are at their highest in
dreams； but are night's as well as sleep's。 The powers of the mind in
dreams； which are inexplicable； are not altogether baffled because the
mind is awake； it is the hour of their return as it is the hour of a tide's； and
they do return。
In sleep they have their free way。 Night then has nothing to hamper
her influence； and she draws the emotion； the senses； and the nerves of the
sleeper。 She urges him upon those extremities of anger and love；
contempt and terror to which not only can no event of the real day
persuade him； but for which； awake； he has perhaps not even the capacity。
This increase of capacity； which is the dream's； is punctual to the night；
even though sleep and the dream be kept at arm's length。
The child； not asleep； but passing through the hours of sleep and their
dominions； knows that the mood of night will have its hour； he puts off his
troubled heart； and will answer it another time； in the other state； by day。
〃I shall be able to bear this when I am grown up〃 is not oftener in a young
child's mind than 〃I shall endure to think of it in the day…time。〃 By this
he confesses the double habit and double experience； not to be
interchanged； and communicating together only by memory and hope。
Perhaps it will be found that to work all by day or all by night is to
miss something of the powers of a complex mind。 One might imagine
the rhythmic experience of a poet； subject； like a child； to the time； and
tempering the extremities of either state by messages of remembrance and
expectancy。
Never to have had a brilliant dream； and never to have had any
delirium； would be to live too much in the day； and hardly less would be
the loss of him who had not exercised his waking thought under the
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influence of the hours claimed by dreams。 And as to choosing between
day and night； or guessing whether the state of day or dark is the truer and
the more natural； he would be rash who should make too sure。
In order to live the life of night； a watcher must not wake too much。
That is； he should not alter so greatly the character of night as to lose the
solitude； the visible darkness； or the quietude。 The hours of sleep are too
much altered when they are filled by lights and crowds； and Nature is
cheated so； and evaded； and her rhythm broken； as when the larks caged in
populous streets make ineffectual springs and sing daybreak songs when
the London gas is lighted。 Nature is easily deceived； and the muse； like
the lark； may be set all astray as to the hour。 You may spend the peculiar
hours of sleep amid so much noise and among so many people that you
shall not be aware of them； you may thus merely force and prolong the
day。 But to do so is not to live well both lives； it is not to yield to the
daily and nightly rise and fall and to be cradled in the swing of change。
There surely never was a poet but was now and then rocked in such a
cradle of alternate hours。 〃It cannot be；〃 says Herbert； 〃that I am he on
whom Thy tempests fell all night。〃
It is in the hours of sleep that the mind； by some divine paradox； has
the extremest sense of light。 Almost the most shining lines in English
poetrylines that cast sunrise shadowsare those of Blake； written
confessedly from the side of night； the side of sorrow and dreams； and
those dreams the dreams of little chimney…sweepers； all is as dark as he
can make it with the 〃bags of soot〃； but the boy's dream of the green plain
and the river is too bright for day。 So； indeed； is another brightness of
Blake's； which is also； in his poem； a child's dream； and was certainly
conceived by him in the hours of sleep； in which he woke to write the
Songs of Innocence：…
O what land is the land of dreams？ What are its mountains； and what
are its streams？ O father； I saw my mother there； Among the lilies by
waters fair。 Among the lambs clothed in white； She walk'd with her
Thomas in sweet delight。
To none but the hours claimed and inspired by sleep； held awake by
sufferance of sleep； belongs such a vision。
