the colour of life-第6章

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and　has　no　fine　perception　of　that　affinity　with　the　peasant　which

remains　with　the　great　ladies　of　the　old　civilisation　of　Italy；　and

has　so　long　disappeared　from　those　of　the　younger　civilisations　of

France　and　England　…　a　paradox。　　The　peasant's　gravity；　directness；

and　carelessness　…　a　kind　of　uncouthness　which　is　neither　graceless

nor；　in　any　intolerable　English　sense；　vulgar　…　are　to　be　found　in

the　unceremonious　moments　of　every　cisalpine　woman；　however　elect

her　birth　and　select　her　conditions。　　In　Italy　the　lady　is　not　a

creature　described　by　negatives；　as　an　author　who　is　always　right

has　defined　the　lady　to　be　in　England。　　Even　in　France　she　is　not

that；　and　between　the　Frenchwoman　and　the　Italian　there　are　the

Alps。　　In　a　word；　the　educated　Italian　mondaine　is；　in　the　sense

（also　untranslatable）　of　singular；　insular；　and　absolutely　British

usage；　a　Native。　　None　the　less　would　she　be　surprised　to　find

herself　accused　of　a　lack　of　dignity。



As　to　intelligence　…　a　little　intelligence　is　sufficiently　dramatic；

if　it　is　single。　　A　child　doing　one　thing　at　a　time　and　doing　it

completely；　produces　to　the　eye　a　better　impression　of　mental　life

than　one　receives　from　…　well；　from　a　lecturer。







DONKEY　RACES







English　acting　had　for　some　time　past　still　been　making　a　feint　of

running　the　race　that　wins。　　The　retort；　the　interruption；　the　call；

the　reply；　the　surprise；　had　yet　kept　a　spoilt　tradition　of

suddenness　and　life。　　You　had；　indeed；　to　wait　for　an　interruption

in　dialogue　…　it　is　true　you　had　to　wait　for　it；　so　had　the

interrupted　speaker　on　the　stage。　　But　when　the　interruption　came；

it　had　still　a　false　air　of　vivacity；　and　the　waiting　of　the

interrupted　one　was　so　ill　done；　with　so　roving　an　eye　and　such　an

arrest　and　failure　of　convention；　such　a　confession　of　a　blank；　as

to　prove　that　there　remained　a　kind　of　reluctant　and　inexpert　sense

of　movement。　　It　still　seemed　as　though　the　actor　and　the　actress

acknowledged　some　forward　tendency。



Not　so　now。　　The　serious　stage　is　openly　the　scene　of　the　race　that

loses。　　The　donkey　race　is　candidly　the　model　of　the　talk　in　every

tragedy　that　has　a　chance　of　popular　success。　　Who　shall　be　last？

The　hands　of　the　public　are　for　him；　or　for　her。　　A　certain　actress

who　has　〃come　to　the　front　of　her　profession〃　holds；　for　a　time；　the

record　of　delay。　　〃Come　to　the　front；〃　do　they　say？　　Surely　the

front　of　her　profession　must　have　moved　in　retreat；　to　gain　upon　her

tardiness。　　It　must　have　become　the　back　of　her　profession　before

ever　it　came　up　with　her。



It　should　rejoice　those　who　enter　for　this　kind　of　racing　that　the

record　need　never　finally　be　beaten。　　The　possibilities　of　success

are　incalculable。　　The　play　has　perforce　to　be　finished　in　a　night；

it　is　true；　but　the　minor　characters；　the　subordinate　actors；　can　be

made　to　bear　the　burden　of　that　necessity。　　The　principals；　or　those

who　have　come　〃to　the　front　of　their　profession；〃　have　an　almost

unlimited　opportunity　and　liberty　of　lagging。



Besides；　the　competitor　in　a　donkey　race　is　not；　let　it　be　borne　in

mind；　limited　to　the　practice　of　his　own　tediousness。　　Part　of　his

victory　is　to　be　ascribed　to　his　influence　upon　others。　　It　may　be

that　a　determined　actor　…　a　man　of　more　than　common　strength　of　will

…　may　so　cause　his　colleague　to　get　on　（let　us　say　〃get　on；〃　for

everything　in　this　world　is　relative）；　may　so；　then；　compel　the

other　actor；　with　whom　he　is　in　conversation；　to　get　on；　as　to

secure　his　own　final　triumph　by　indirect　means　as　well　as　by　direct。

To　be　plain；　for　the　sake　of　those　unfamiliar　with　the　sports　of　the

village；　the　rider　in　a　donkey　race　may；　and　does；　cudgel　the　mounts

of　his　rivals。



Consider；　therefore；　how　encouraging　the　prospect　really　is。　　The

individual　actor　may　fail　…　in　fact；　he　must。　　Where　two　people　ride

together　on　horseback；　the　married　have　ever　been　warned；　one　must

ride　behind。　　And　when　two　people　are　speaking　slowly　one　must　needs

be　the　slowest。　　Comparative　success　implies　the　comparative

failure。　　But　where　this　actor　or　that　actress　fails；　the　great

cause　of　slowness　profits；　obviously。　　The　record　is　advanced。

Pshaw！　the　word　〃advanced〃　comes　unadvised　to　the　pen。　　It　is

difficult　to　remember　in　what　a　fatuous　theatrical　Royal　Presence

one　is　doing　this　criticism；　and　how　one's　words　should　go

backwards；　without　exception；　in　homage　to　this　symbol　of　a　throne。



It　is　not　long　since　there　took　place　upon　the　principal　stage　in

London　the　most　important　event　in　donkey…racing　ever　known　until

that　first　night。　　A　tragedian　and　a　secondary　actor　of　renown　had　a

duet　together。　　It　was　in　〃The　Dead　Heart。〃　　No　one　who　heard　it　can

possibly　have　yet　forgotten　it。　　The　two　men　used　echoes　of　one

another's　voice；　then　outpaused　each　other。　　It　was　a　contest　so

determined；　so　unrelaxed；　so　deadly；　so　inveterate　that　you　might

have　slept　between　its　encounters。　　You　did　sleep。　　These　men　were

strong　men；　and　knew　what　they　wanted。　　It　is　tremendous　to　watch

the　struggle　of　such　resolves。　　They　had　their　purpose　in　their

grasp；　their　teeth　were　set；　their　will　was　iron。　　They　were　foot　to

foot。



And　next　morning　you　saw　by　the　papers　that　the　secondary；　but　still

renowned；　actor；　had　succeeded　in　sharing　the　principal　honours　of

the　piece。　　So　uncommonly　well　had　he　done；　even　for　him。　　Then　you

understood　that；　though　you　had　not　known　it；　the　tragedian　must

have　been　beaten　in　that　dialogue。　　He　had　suffered　himself　in　an

instant　of　weakness；　to　be　stimulated；　he　had　for　a　moment　…　only　a

moment　…　got　on。



That　night　was　influential。　　We　may　see　its　results　everywhere；　and

especially　in　Shakespeare。　　Our　tragic　stage　was　always　…　well；

different；　let　us　say　…　different　from　the　tragic　stage　of　Italy　and

France。　　It　is　now　quite　unlike；　and　frankly　so。　　The　spoilt

tradition　of　vitality　has　been　explicitly　abandoned。　　The

interrupted　one　waits；　no　longer　with　a　roving　eye；　but　with

something　almost　of　dignity；　as　though　he　were　fulfilling　ritual。



Benvolio　and　Mercutio　outlag　one　another　in　hunting　after　the

leaping　Romeo。　　They　call　without　the　slightest　impetus。　　One　can

imagine　how　the　true　Mercutio　called　…　certainly　not　by　rote。　　There

must　have　been　pauses　indeed；　brief　and　short…breath'd　pauses　of

listening　for　an　answer；　between　every　nickname。　　But　the　nicknames

were　quick　work。　　At　the　Lyceum　they　were　quite　an　effort　of　memory：

〃Romeo！　　Humours！　　Madman！　　Passion！　　Lover！〃



The　actress　of　Juliet；　speaking　the　words　of　haste；　makes　her

audience　wait　to　hear　them。　　Nothing　more　incongruous　than　Juliet's

harry　of　phrase　and　the　actress's　leisure　of　phrasing。　　None　act；

none　speak；　as　though　there　were　such　a　thing　as　impulse　in　a　play。

To　drop　behind　is　the　only　idea　of　arriving。　　The　nurse　ceases　to　be

absurd；　for　there　is　no　one　readier　with　a　reply　than　she。　　Or；

rather；　her　delays　are　so　altered　by　exaggeration　as　to　lose　touch

with　Nature。　　If　it　is　ill　enough　to　hear　haste　drawled　out；　it　is

ill；　too；　to　hear　slowness　out…tarried。　　The　true　nurse　of

Shakespeare　lags　with　her　news　because　her　ignorant　wits　are　easily

astray；　as　lightly　caught　as　though　they　were　light；　which　they　are

not；　but　the　nurse　of　the　stage　is　never　simply　astray：　she　knows

beforehand　how　long　she　means　to　be；　and　never；　never　forgets　what

kind　of　race　is　the　race　she　is　riding。　　The　Juliet　of　the　stage

seems　to　consider　that　there　is　plenty　of　time　for　her　to　discover

which　is　slain　…　Tybalt　or　her　husband；　she　is　sure　to　know　some

time；　it　can　wait。



A　London　success；　when　you　know　where　it　lies；　is　not　difficult　to

achieve。　　Of　all　things　that　can　be　gained　by　men　or　women　about

their　business；　there　is　one　thing　that　can　be　gained　without　fear

of　failure。　　This　is　time。　　To　gain　time　requires　so　little　wit

that；　except　for　competition；　every　one　could　be　first　at　the　game。

In　fact；　time　gains　itself。　　The　actor　is　really　not　called　upon　to

do　anything。　　There　is　nothing；　accordingly；　for　which　our　actors

and　actresses　do　not　rely　upon　time。　　For　humour　even；　when　the

humour　occurs　in　tragedy；　they　appeal　to　time。　　They　give　blanks　to

their　audiences　to　be　filled　up。



It　might　be　possible　to　have　tragedies　written　from　beginning　to　end

for　the　service　of　the　present　kind　of　〃art。〃　　But　the　tragedies　we

have　are　not　so　written。　　And　being　what　they　are；　it　is　not

vivacity　that　they　lose　by　this　length　of　pause；　this　length　of

phrasing；　this　illimitable　tiresomeness；　it　is　life　itself。　　For　the

life　of　a　scene　conceived　directly　is　its　directness；　the　life　of　a

scene　created　simply　is　its　simplicity。　　And　simplicity；　directness；

impetus；　emotion；　nature　fall　out　of　the　trailing；　loose；　long

dialogue；　like　fish　from　the　loose　meshes　of　a　net　…　they　fall　out；

they　drift　off；　they　are　lost。



The　universal　slowness；　moreover；　is　not　good　for　metre。　　Even　when

an　actress　speaks　her　lines　as　lines；　and　does　not　drop　into　prose

by　slipping　here　and　there　a　syllable；　she　spoils　the　tempo　by

inordinate　length　of　pronunciation。　　Verse　cannot　keep　upon　the　wing

without　a　certain　measure　in　the　movement　of　the　pinion。　　Verse　is　a

flight。







GRASS







Now　and　then；　at　regular　intervals　of　the　summer；　the　Suburb　springs

for　a　time　from　its　mediocrity；　but　an　inattentive　eye　might　not　see

why；　or　might　not　seize　the　cause　of　the　bloom　and　of　the　new　look

of　humility　and　dignity　that　makes　the　Road；　the　Rise；　and　the

Villas　seem　suddenly　gentle；　gay　and　rather　shy。



It　is　no　change　in　the　gardens。　　These　are；　as　usual；　full；

abundant；　fragrant；　and　quite　uninteresting；　keeping　the　traditional

secret　by　which　the　suburban　rose；　magnolia；　clematis；　and　all　other

flowers　grow　dull　…　not　in　colour；　but　in　spirit　…　between　the

yellow　brick　house…front　and　the　iron　railings。　　Nor　is　there

anything　altered　for　the　better　in　the　houses　themselves。



Nevertheless；　the　little；　common；　prosperous　road；　has　bloomed；　you

cannot　tell　how。　　It　is　unexpectedly　liberal；　fresh；　and　innocent。

The　soft　garden…winds　that　rustle　its　shrubs　are；　for　the　moment；

genuine。



Another　day　and　all　is　undone。　　The　Rise　is　its　daily　self　again　…　a

road　of　flowers　and　foliage　that　is　less　pleasant　than　a　fairly

well…built　street。　　And　if　you　happen　to　find　the　men　at　work　on　the

re…transformation；　you　become　aware　of　the　accident　that　made　all

this　difference。　　It　lay　in　the　little　border　of　wayside　grass　which

a　row　of　public　servants　…　men　with　spades　and　a　cart　…　are　in　the

act　of　tidying　up。　　Their　way　of　tidying　it　up　is　to　lay　its　little

corpse　all　along　the　suburban　roadside；　and　then　to　carry　it　away　to

some　parochial　dust…heap。



But　for　the　vigilance　of　Vestries；　grass　would　reconcile　everything。

When　the　first　heat　of　the　summer　was　over；　a　few　nights