the spirit of place and other essays(地方的精神等)-第3章
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so much。 For the solitude that has a sky and a horizon they know not
how to wish。
It lies in a perpetual distance。 England has leagues thereof；
landscapes； verge beyond verge； a thousand thousand places in the woods；
and on uplifted hills。 Or rather； solitudes are not to be measured by miles；
they are to be numbered by days。 They are freshly and freely the
dominion of every man for the day of his possession。 There is loneliness
for innumerable solitaries。 As many days as there are in all the ages； so
many solitudes are there for men。 This is the open house of the earth； no
one is refused。 Nor is the space shortened or the silence marred because；
one by one； men in multitudes have been alone there before。 Solitude is
separate experience。 Nay； solitudes are not to be numbered by days； but
by men themselves。 Every man of the living and every man of the dead
might have had his 〃privacy of light。〃
It needs no park。 It is to be found in the merest working country； and
a thicket may be as secret as a forest。 It is not so difficult to get for a
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time out of sight and earshot。 Even if your solitude be enclosed； it is still
an open solitude； so there be 〃no cloister for the eyes；〃 and a space of far
country or a cloud in the sky be privy to your hiding…place。 But the best
solitude does not hide at all。
This the people who have drifted together into the streets live whole
lives and never know。 Do they suffer from their deprivation of even the
solitude of the hiding…place？ There are many who never have a whole
hour alone。 They live in reluctant or indifferent companionship； as
people may in a boarding…house； by paradoxical choice； familiar with one
another and not intimate。 They live under careless observation and
subject to a vagabond curiosity。 Theirs is the involuntary and perhaps the
unconscious loss which is futile and barren。
One knows the men； and the many women； who have sacrificed all
their 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；
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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
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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。
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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 worth
