the spirit of place and other essays-第9章

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peace　between　opposed　heights　and　battlements　of　heaven。







THE　LETTERS　OF　MARCELINE　VALMORE







〃Prends　garde　e　moi；　ma　fille；　et　couvre　moi　bien！〃　　Marceline

Desbordes…Valmore；　writing　from　France　to　her　daughter　Ondine；　who

was　delicate　and　chilly　in　London　in　1841；　has　the　same　solicitous；

journeying　fancy　as　was　expressed　by　two　other　women；　both　also

Frenchwomen；　and　both　articulate　in　tenderness。　　Eugenie　de　Guerin；

that　queen　of　sisters；　had　preceded　her　with　her　own　complaint；　〃I

have　a　pain　in　my　brother's　side〃；　and　in　another　age　Mme。　de

Sevigne　had　suffered；　in　the　course　of　long　posts　and　through

infrequent　lettersa　protraction　of　conjectured　painwithin　the

frame　of　her　absent　daughter。　　She　phrased　her　plight　in　much　the

same　words；　confessing　the　uncancelled　union　with　her　child　that　had

effaced　for　her　the　boundaries　of　her　personal　life。



Is　not　what　we　call　a　lifethe　personal　lifea　separation　from　the

universal　life；　a　seclusion；　a　division；　a　cleft；　a　wound？　　For

these　women；　such　a　severance　was　in　part　healed；　made　whole；　closed

up；　and　cured。　　Life　was　restored　between　two　at　a　time　of　human…

kind。　　Did　these　three　women　guess　that　their　sufferings　of　sympathy

with　their　children　were　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　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　seemso　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　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。







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　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。



Corot　also　took　the　brilliant　opportunity　of　the　hours　of　sleep。　　In

some　landscapes　of　his　early　manner　he　has　the　very　light　of　dreams；

and　it　was　surely　because　he　went　abroad　at　the　time　when　sleep　and

dreams　claimed　his　eyes　that　he　was　able　to　see　so　spiritual　an

illumination。　　Summer　is　precious　for　a　painter；　chiefly　because　in

summer　so　many　of　the　hours　of　sleep　are　also　hours　of　light。　　He

carries　the　mood　of　man's　night　out　into　the　sunshineCorot　did　so…

…and　lives　the　life　of　night；　in　all　its　genius；　in　the　presence　of

a　risen　sun。　　In　the　only　time　when　the　heart　can　dream　of　light；　in

the　night　of　visions；　with　the　rhythmic　power　of　night　at　its　dark

noon　in　his　mind；　his　eyes　see　the　soaring　of　the　actual　sun。



He　himself　has　not　yet　pass