the colour of life-第10章

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for　instance；　had　been　children；　it　would　have　been　well　enough　for

the　child　to　measure　their　remoteness　and　their　acts　with　his　own

magnificent　measure。　　But　they　were　only　men　and　demi…gods。　　Thus

they　belong　to　him　as　he　is　now　…　a　man；　and　not　to　him　as　he　was

once　…　a　child。　　It　was　quite　wrong　to　lay　the　child's　enormous　ten

years'　rule　along　the　path　from　our　time　to　theirs；　that　path　must

be　skipped　by　the　nimble　yard　in　the　man's　present　possession。

Decidedly　the　Argonauts　are　no　subject　for　the　boy。



What；　then？　　Is　the　record　of　the　race　nothing　but　a　bundle　of　such

little　times？　　Nay；　it　seems　that　childhood；　which　created　the

illusion　of　ages；　does　actually　prove　it　true。　　Childhood　is　itself

Antiquity　…　to　every　man　his　only　Antiquity。　　The　recollection　of

childhood　cannot　make　Abraham　old　again　in　the　mind　of　a　man　of

thirty…five；　but　the　beginning　of　every　life　is　older　than　Abraham。

THERE　is　the　abyss　of　time。　　Let　a　man　turn　to　his　own　childhood　…

no　further　…　if　he　would　renew　his　sense　of　remoteness；　and　of　the

mystery　of　change。



For　in　childhood　change　does　not　go　at　that　mere　hasty　amble；　it

rushes；　but　it　has　enormous　space　for　its　flight。　　The　child　has　an

apprehension　not　only　of　things　far　off；　but　of　things　far　apart；　an

illusive　apprehension　when　he　is　learning　〃ancient〃　history　…　a　real

apprehension　when　he　is　conning　his　own　immeasurable　infancy。　　If

there　is　no　historical　Antiquity　worth　speaking　of；　this　is　the

renewed　and　unnumbered　Antiquity　for　all　mankind。



And　it　is　of　this　…　merely　of　this　…　that　〃ancient〃　history　seems　to

partake。　　Rome　was　founded　when　we　began　Roman　history；　and　that　is

why　it　seems　long　ago。　　Suppose　the　man　of　thirty…five　heard；　at

that　present　age；　for　the　first　time　of　Romulus。　　Why；　Romulus　would

be　nowhere。　　But　he　built　his　wall；　as　a　matter　of　fact；　when　every

one　was　seven　years　old。　　It　is　by　good　fortune　that　〃ancient〃

history　is　taught　in　the　only　ancient　days。　　So；　for　a　time；　the

world　is　magical。



Modern　history　does　well　enough　for　learning　later。　　But　by　learning

something　of　antiquity　in　the　first　ten　years；　the　child　enlarges

the　sense　of　time　for　all　mankind。　　For　even　after　the　great

illusion　is　over　and　history　is　re…measured；　and　all　fancy　and

flight　caught　back　and　chastised；　the　enlarged　sense　remains

enlarged。　　The　man　remains　capable　of　great　spaces　of　time。　　He　will

not　find　them　in　Egypt；　it　is　true；　but　he　finds　them　within；　he

contains　them；　he　is　aware　of　them。　　History　has　fallen　together；

but　childhood　surrounds　and　encompasses　history；　stretches　beyond

and　passes　on　the　road　to　eternity。



He　has　not　passed　in　vain　through　the　long　ten　years；　the　ten　years

that　are　the　treasury　of　preceptions　…　the　first。　　The　great

disillusion　shall　never　shorten　those　years；　nor　set　nearer　together

the　days　that　made　them。　　〃Far　apart；〃　I　have　said；　and　that　〃far

apart〃　is　wonderful。　　The　past　of　childhood　is　not　single；　is　not

motionless；　nor　fixed　in　one　point；　it　has　summits　a　world　away　one

from　the　other。　　Year　from　year　differs　as　the　antiquity　of　Mexico

from　the　antiquity　of　Chaldea。　　And　the　man　of　thirty…five　knows　for

ever　afterwards　what　is　flight；　even　though　he　finds　no　great

historic　distances　to　prove　his　wings　by。



There　is　a　long　and　mysterious　moment　in　long　and　mysterious

childhood；　which　is　the　extremest　distance　known　to　any　human　fancy。

Many　other　moments；　many　other　hours；　are　long　in　the　first　ten

years。　　Hours　of　weariness　are　long　…　not　with　a　mysterious　length；

but　with　a　mere　length　of　protraction；　so　that　the　things　called

minutes　and　half…hours　by　the　elderly　may　be　something　else　to　their

apparent　contemporaries；　the　children。　　The　ancient　moment　is　not

merely　one　of　these　…　it　is　a　space　not　of　long；　but　of

immeasurable；　time。　　It　is　the　moment　of　going　to　sleep。　　The　man

knows　that　borderland；　and　has　a　contempt　for　it：　he　has　long　ceased

to　find　antiquity　there。　　It　has　become　a　common　enough　margin　of

dreams　to　him；　and　he　does　not　attend　to　its　phantasies。　　He　knows

that　he　has　a　frolic　spirit　in　his　head　which　has　its　way　at　those

hours；　but　he　is　not　interested　in　it。　　It　is　the　inexperienced

child　who　passes　with　simplicity　through　the　marginal　country；　and

the　thing　he　meets　there　is　principally　the　yet　further　conception

of　illimitable　time。



His　nurse's　lullaby　is　translated　into　the　mysteries　of　time。　　She

sings　absolutely　immemorial　words。　　It　matters　little　what　they　may

mean　to　waking　ears；　to　the　ears　of　a　child　going　to　sleep　they　tell

of　the　beginning　of　the　world。　　He　has　fallen　asleep　to　the　sound　of

them　all　his　life；　and　〃all　his　life〃　means　more　than　older　speech

can　well　express。



Ancient　custom　is　formed　in　a　single　spacious　year。　　A　child　is

beset　with　long　traditions。　　And　his　infancy　is　so　old；　so　old；　that

the　mere　adding　of　years　in　the　life　to　follow　will　not　seem　to

throw　it　further　back　…　it　is　already　so　far。　　That　is；　it　looks　as

remote　to　the　memory　of　a　man　of　thirty　as　to　that　of　a　man　of

seventy。　　What　are　a　mere　forty　years　of　added　later　life　in　the

contemplation　of　such　a　distance？　　Pshaw！







EYES







There　is　nothing　described　with　so　little　attention；　with　such

slovenliness；　or　so　without　verification　…　albeit　with　so　much

confidence　and　word…painting　…　as　the　eyes　of　the　men　and　women

whose　faces　have　been　made　memorable　by　their　works。　　The　describer

generally　takes　the　first　colour　that　seems　to　him　probable。　　The

grey　eyes　of　Coleridge　are　recorded　in　a　proverbial　line；　and

Procter　repeats　the　word；　in　describing　from　the　life。　　Then

Carlyle；　who　shows　more　signs　of　actual　attention；　and　who　caught　a

trick　of　Coleridge's　pronunciation　instantly；　proving　that　with　his

hearing　at　least　he　was　not　slovenly；　says　that　Coleridge's　eyes

were　brown　…　〃strange；　brown；　timid；　yet　earnest…looking　eyes。〃　　A

Coleridge　with　brown　eyes　is　one　man；　and　a　Coleridge　with　grey　eyes

another　…　and；　as　it　were；　more　responsible。　　As　to　Rossetti's　eyes；

the　various　inattention　of　his　friends　has　assigned　to　them；　in　all

the　ready…made　phrases；　nearly　all　the　colours。



So　with　Charlotte　Bronte。　　Matthew　Arnold　seems　to　have　thought　the

most　probable　thing　to　be　said　of　her　eyes　was　that　they　were　grey

and　expressive。　　Thus；　after　seeing　them；　does　he　describe　them　in

one　of　his　letters。　　Whereas　Mrs　Gaskell；　who　shows　signs　of

attention；　says　that　Charlotte's　eyes　were　a　reddish　hazel；　made　up

of　〃a　great　variety　of　tints；〃　to　be　discovered　by　close　looking。

Almost　all　eves　that　are　not　brown　are；　in　fact；　of　some　such　mixed

colour；　generally　spotted　in；　and　the　effect　is　vivacious。　　All　the

more　if　the　speckled　iris　has　a　dark　ring　to　enclose　it。



Nevertheless；　the　eye　of　mixed　colour　has　always　a　definite

character；　and　the　mingling　that　looks　green　is　quite　unlike　the

mingling　that　looks　grey；　and　among　the　greys　there　is　endless

difference。　　Brown　eyes　alone　are　apart；　unlike　all　others；　but

having　no　variety　except　in　the　degrees　of　their　darkness。



The　colour　of　eyes　seems　to　be　significant　of　temperament；　but　as

regards　beauty　there　is　little　or　nothing　to　choose　among　colours。

It　is　not　the　eye；　but　the　eyelid；　that　is　important；　beautiful；

eloquent；　full　of　secrets。　　The　eye　has　nothing　but　its　colour；　and

all　colours　are　fine　within　fine　eyelids。　　The　eyelid　has　all　the

form；　all　the　drawing；　all　the　breadth　and　length；　the　square　of

great　eyes　irregularly　wide；　the　long　corners　of　narrow　eyes；　the

pathetic　outward　droop；　the　delicate　contrary　suggestion　of　an

upward　turn　at　the　outer　corner；　which　Sir　Joshua　loved。



It　is　the　blood　that　is　eloquent；　and　there　is　no　sign　of　blood　in

the　eye；　but　in　the　eyelid　the　blood　hides　itself　and　shows　its

signs。　　All　along　its　edges　are　the　little　muscles；　living；　that

speak　not　only　the　obvious　and　emphatic　things；　but　what

reluctances；　what　perceptions；　what　ambiguities；　what　half…

apprehensions；　what　doubts；　what　interceptions！　　The　eyelids

confess；　and　reject；　and　refuse　to　reject。　　They　have　expressed　all

things　ever　since　man　was　man。



And　they　express　so　much　by　seeming　to　hide　or　to　reveal　that　which

indeed　expresses　nothing。　　For　there　is　no　message　from　the　eye。　　It

has　direction；　it　moves；　in　the　service　of　the　sense　of　sight；　it

receives　the　messages　of　the　world。　　But　expression　is　outward；　and

the　eye　has　it　not。　　There　are　no　windows　of　the　soul；　there　are

only　curtains；　and　these　show　all　things　by　seeming　to　hide　a　little

more；　a　little　less。　　They　hide　nothing　but　their　own　secrets。



But；　some　may　say；　the　eyes　have　emotion　inasmuch　as　they　betray　it

by　the　waxing　and　contracting　of　the　pupils。　　It　is；　however；　the

rarest　thing；　this　opening　and　narrowing　under　any　influences　except

those　of　darkness　and　light。　　It　does　take　place　exceptionally；　but

I　am　doubtful　whether　those　who　talk　of　it　have　ever　really　been

attentive　enough　to　perceive　it。　　A　nervous　woman；　brown…eyed　and

young；　who　stood　to　tell　the　news　of　her　own　betrothal；　and　kept　her

manners　exceedingly　composed　as　she　spoke；　had　this　waxing　and

closing　of　the　pupils；　it　went　on　all　the　time　like　a　slow；　slow

pulse。　　But　such　a　thing　is　not　to　be　seen　once　a　year。



Moreover；　it　is　…　though　so　significant　…　hardly　to　be　called

expression。　　It　is　not　articulate。　　It　implies　emotion；　but　does　not

define；　or　describe；　or　divide　it。　　It　is　touching；　insomuch　as　we

have　knowledge　of　the　perturbed　tide　of　the　spirit　that　must　cause

it；　but　it　is　not　otherwise　eloquent。　　It　does　not　tell　us　the

quality　of　the　thought；　it　does　not　inform　and　surprise　as　with

intricacies。　　It　speaks　no　more　explicit　or　delicate　things　than

does　the　pulse　in　its　quickening。　　It　speaks　with　less　division　of

meanings　than　does　the　taking　of　the　breath；　which　has　impulses　and

degrees。



No；　the　eyes　do　their　work；　but　do　it　blankly；　without

communication。　　Openings　into　the　being　they　may　be；　but　the　closed

cheek　is　more　communicative。　　From　them　the　blood　of　Perdita　never

did　look　out。　　It　ebbed　and　flowed　in　her　face；　her　dance；　her　talk。

It　was　hiding　in　her　paleness；　and　cloistered　in　her　reserve；　but

visible　in　prison。　　It　leapt　and　looked；　at　a　word。　　It　was

conscious　in　the　fingers　that　reached　out　flowers。　　It　ran　with　her。

It　was　silenced　when　she　hushed　her　answers　to　the　king。　　Everywhere

it　was　close　behind　the　doors　…　everywhere　but　in　her　eyes。



How　near　at　hand　was　it；　then；　in　the　living　eyelids　that　expressed

her　in　their　minute　and　instant　and　candid　manner！　　All　her

withdrawals；　every　hesitation；　fluttered　there。　　A　flock　of　meanings

and　intelligences　alighted　on　those　mobile　edges。



Think；　then；　of　all　the　famous　eyes　in　the　world；　that　said　so　much；

and　said　it　in　no　other　way　but　only　by　the　little　exquisite　muscles

of