the colour of life-第1章

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The　Colour　of　Life



by　Alice　Meynell











Contents：



The　Colour　of　Life

A　Point　Of　Biography

Cloud

Winds　of　the　World

The　Honours　of　Mortality

At　Monastery　Gates

Rushes　and　Reeds

Eleonora　Duse

Donkey　Races

Grass

A　Woman　in　Grey

Symmetry　and　Incident

The　Illusion　of　Historic　Time

Eyes







THE　COLOUR　OF　LIFE







Red　has　been　praised　for　its　nobility　as　the　colour　of　life。　　But

the　true　colour　of　life　is　not　red。　　Red　is　the　colour　of　violence；

or　of　life　broken　open；　edited；　and　published。　　Or　if　red　is　indeed

the　colour　of　life；　it　is　so　only　on　condition　that　it　is　not　seen。

Once　fully　visible；　red　is　the　colour　of　life　violated；　and　in　the

act　of　betrayal　and　of　waste。　　Red　is　the　secret　of　life；　and　not

the　manifestation　thereof。　　It　is　one　of　the　things　the　value　of

which　is　secrecy；　one　of　the　talents　that　are　to　be　hidden　in　a

napkin。　　The　true　colour　of　life　is　the　colour　of　the　body；　the

colour　of　the　covered　red；　the　implicit　and　not　explicit　red　of　the

living　heart　and　the　pulses。　　It　is　the　modest　colour　of　the

unpublished　blood。



So　bright；　so　light；　so　soft；　so　mingled；　the　gentle　colour　of　life

is　outdone　by　all　the　colours　of　the　world。　　Its　very　beauty　is　that

it　is　white；　but　less　white　than　milk；　brown；　but　less　brown　than

earth；　red；　but　less　red　than　sunset　or　dawn。　　It　is　lucid；　but　less

lucid　than　the　colour　of　lilies。　　It　has　the　hint　of　gold　that　is　in

all　fine　colour；　but　in　our　latitudes　the　hint　is　almost　elusive。

Under　Sicilian　skies；　indeed；　it　is　deeper　than　old　ivory；　but　under

the　misty　blue　of　the　English　zenith；　and　the　warm　grey　of　the

London　horizon；　it　is　as　delicately　flushed　as　the　paler　wild　roses；

out　to　their　utmost；　flat　as　stars；　in　the　hedges　of　the　end　of

June。



For　months　together　London　does　not　see　the　colour　of　life　in　any

mass。　　The　human　face　does　not　give　much　of　it；　what　with　features；

and　beards；　and　the　shadow　of　the　top…hat　and　chapeau　melon　of　man；

and　of　the　veils　of　woman。　　Besides；　the　colour　of　the　face　is

subject　to　a　thousand　injuries　and　accidents。　　The　popular　face　of

the　Londoner　has　soon　lost　its　gold；　its　white；　and　the　delicacy　of

its　red　and　brown。　　We　miss　little　beauty　by　the　fact　that　it　is

never　seen　freely　in　great　numbers　out…of…doors。　　You　get　it　in　some

quantity　when　all　the　heads　of　a　great　indoor　meeting　are　turned　at

once　upon　a　speaker；　but　it　is　only　in　the　open　air；　needless　to

say；　that　the　colour　of　life　is　in　perfection；　in　the　open　air；

〃clothed　with　the　sun；〃　whether　the　sunshine　be　golden　and　direct；

or　dazzlingly　diffused　in　grey。



The　little　figure　of　the　London　boy　it　is　that　has　restored　to　the

landscape　the　human　colour　of　life。　　He　is　allowed　to　come　out　of

all　his　ignominies；　and　to　take　the　late　colour　of　the　midsummer

north…west　evening；　on　the　borders　of　the　Serpentine。　　At　the　stroke

of　eight　he　sheds　the　slough　of　nameless　colours　…　all　allied　to　the

hues　of　dust；　soot；　and　fog；　which　are　the　colours　the　world　has

chosen　for　its　boys　…　and　he　makes；　in　his　hundreds；　a　bright　and

delicate　flush　between　the　grey…blue　water　and　the　grey…blue　sky。

Clothed　now　with　the　sun；　he　is　crowned　by…and…by　with　twelve　stars

as　he　goes　to　bathe；　and　the　reflection　of　an　early　moon　is　under

his　feet。



So　little　stands　between　a　gamin　and　all　the　dignities　of　Nature。

They　are　so　quickly　restored。　　There　seems　to　be　nothing　to　do；　but

only　a　little　thing　to　undo。　　It　is　like　the　art　of　Eleonora　Duse。

The　last　and　most　finished　action　of　her　intellect；　passion；　and

knowledge　is；　as　it　were；　the　flicking　away　of　some　insignificant

thing　mistaken　for　art　by　other　actors；　some　little　obstacle　to　the

way　and　liberty　of　Nature。



All　the　squalor　is　gone　in　a　moment；　kicked　off　with　the　second

boot；　and　the　child　goes　shouting　to　complete　the　landscape　with　the

lacking　colour　of　life。　　You　are　inclined　to　wonder　that；　even

undressed；　he　still　shouts　with　a　Cockney　accent。　　You　half　expect

pure　vowels　and　elastic　syllables　from　his　restoration；　his　spring；

his　slenderness；　his　brightness；　and　his　glow。　　Old　ivory　and　wild

rose　in　the　deepening　midsummer　sun；　he　gives　his　colours　to　his

world　again。



It　is　easy　to　replace　man；　and　it　will　take　no　great　time；　where

Nature　has　lapsed；　to　replace　Nature。　　It　is　always　to　do；　by　the

happily　easy　way　of　doing　nothing。　　The　grass　is　always　ready　to

grow　in　the　streets　…　and　no　streets　could　ask　for　a　more　charming

finish　than　your　green　grass。　　The　gasometer　even　must　fall　to

pieces　unless　it　is　renewed；　but　the　grass　renews　itself。　　There　is

nothing　so　remediable　as　the　work　of　modern　man　…　〃a　thought　which

is　also；〃　as　Mr　Pecksniff　said；　〃very　soothing。〃　　And　by　remediable

I　mean；　of　course；　destructible。　　As　the　bathing　child　shuffles　off

his　garments　…　they　are　few；　and　one　brace　suffices　him　…　so　the

land　might　always；　in　reasonable　time；　shuffle　off　its　yellow　brick

and　purple　slate；　and　all　the　things　that　collect　about　railway

stations。　　A　single　night　almost　clears　the　air　of　London。



But　if　the　colour　of　life　looks　so　well　in　the　rather　sham　scenery

of　Hyde　Park；　it　looks　brilliant　and　grave　indeed　on　a　real　sea…

coast。　　To　have　once　seen　it　there　should　be　enough　to　make　a

colourist。　　O　memorable　little　picture！　　The　sun　was　gaining　colour

as　it　neared　setting；　and　it　set　not　over　the　sea；　but　over　the

land。　　The　sea　had　the　dark　and　rather　stern；　but　not　cold；　blue　of

that　aspect　…　the　dark　and　not　the　opal　tints。　　The　sky　was　also

deep。　　Everything　was　very　definite；　without　mystery；　and

exceedingly　simple。　　The　most　luminous　thing　was　the　shining　white

of　an　edge　of　foam；　which　did　not　cease　to　be　white　because　it　was　a

little　golden　and　a　little　rosy　in　the　sunshine。　　It　was　still　the

whitest　thing　imaginable。　　And　the　next　most　luminous　thing　was　the

little　child；　also　invested　with　the　sun　and　the　colour　of　life。



In　the　case　of　women；　it　is　of　the　living　and　unpublished　blood　that

the　violent　world　has　professed　to　be　delicate　and　ashamed。　　See　the

curious　history　of　the　political　rights　of　woman　under　the

Revolution。　　On　the　scaffold　she　enjoyed　an　ungrudged　share　in　the

fortunes　of　party。　　Political　life　might　be　denied　her；　but　that

seems　a　trifle　when　you　consider　how　generously　she　was　permitted

political　death。　　She　was　to　spin　and　cook　for　her　citizen　in　the

obscurity　of　her　living　hours；　but　to　the　hour　of　her　death　was

granted　a　part　in　the　largest　interests；　social；　national；

international。　　The　blood　wherewith　she　should；　according　to

Robespierre；　have　blushed　to　be　seen　or　heard　in　the　tribune；　was

exposed　in　the　public　sight　unsheltered　by　her　veins。



Against　this　there　was　no　modesty。　　Of　all　privacies；　the　last　and

the　innermost　…　the　privacy　of　death　…　was　never　allowed　to　put

obstacles　in　the　way　of　public　action　for　a　public　cause。　　Women

might　be；　and　were；　duly　suppressed　when；　by　the　mouth　of　Olympe　de

Gouges；　they　claimed　a　〃right　to　concur　in　the　choice　of

representatives　for　the　formation　of　the　laws〃；　but　in　her　person；

too；　they　were　liberally　allowed　to　bear　political　responsibility　to

the　Republic。　　Olympe　de　Gouges　was　guillotined。　　Robespierre　thus

made　her　public　and　complete　amends。







A　POINT　OF　BIOGRAPHY







There　is　hardly　a　writer　now　…　of　the　third　class　probably　not　one　…

who　has　not　something　sharp　and　sad　to　say　about　the　cruelty　of

Nature；　not　one　who　is　able　to　attempt　May　in　the　woods　without　a

modern　reference　to　the　manifold　death　and　destruction　with　which

the　air；　the　branches；　the　mosses　are　said　to　be　full。



But　no　one　has　paused　in　the　course　of　these　phrases　to　take　notice

of　the　curious　and　conspicuous　fact　of　the　suppression　of　death　and

of　the　dead　throughout　this　landscape　of　manifest　life。　　Where　are

they　…　all　the　dying；　all　the　dead；　of　the　populous　woods？　　Where　do

they　hide　their　little　last　hours；　where　are　they　buried？　　Where　is

the　violence　concealed？　　Under　what　gay　custom　and　decent　habit？

You　may　see；　it　is　true；　an　earth…worm　in　a　robin's　beak；　and　may

hear　a　thrush　breaking　a　snail's　shell；　but　these　little　things　are；

as　it　were；　passed　by　with　a　kind　of　twinkle　for　apology；　as　by　a

well…bred　man　who　does　openly　some　little　solecism　which　is　too

slight　for　direct　mention；　and　which　a　meaner　man　might　hide　or

avoid。　　Unless　you　are　very　modern　indeed；　you　twinkle　back　at　the

bird。



But　otherwise　there　is　nothing　visible　of　the　havoc　and　the　prey　and

plunder。　　It　is　certain　that　much　of　the　visible　life　passes

violently　into　other　forms；　flashes　without　pause　into　another

flame；　but　not　all。　　Amid　all　the　killing　there　must　be　much　dying。

There　are；　for　instance；　few　birds　of　prey　left　in　our　more

accessible　counties　now；　and　many　thousands　of　birds　must　die

uncaught　by　a　hawk　and　unpierced。　　But　if　their　killing　is　done　so

modestly；　so　then　is　their　dying　also。　　Short　lives　have　all　these

wild　things；　but　there　are　innumerable　flocks　of　them　always　alive；

they　must　die；　then；　in　innumerable　flocks。　　And　yet　they　keep　the

millions　of　the　dead　out　of　sight。



Now　and　then；　indeed；　they　may　be　betrayed。　　It　happened　in　a　cold

winter。　　The　late　frosts　were　so　sudden；　and　the　famine　was　so

complete；　that　the　birds　were　taken　unawares。　　The　sky　and　the　earth

conspired　that　February　to　make　known　all　the　secrets；　everything

was　published。　　Death　was　manifest。　　Editors；　when　a　great　man　dies；

are　not　more　resolute　than　was　the　frost　of　‘95。



The　birds　were　obliged　to　die　in　public。　　They　were　surprised　and

forced　to　do　thus。　　They　became　like　Shelley　in　the　monument　which

the　art　and　imagination　of　England　combined　to　raise　to　his　memory

at　Oxford。



Frost　was　surely　at　work　in　both　cases；　and　in　both　it　wrought

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