the rhythm of life and other essays(生命的旋律)-第5章
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seen her and his ears have heard； but it would never have entered into his
heart to conceive her。 His is not the fancy that could have achieved these
woods； this little flush of summer from the innumerable flowering of
grasses； the cyclic recreation of seasons。 And yet he knows that he is
imposed upon all he sees。 His stature gives laws。 His labour only is
needfulnot a greater strength。 And the sun and the showers are made
sufficient for him。 His furniture must surely be adjudged to pay him but
a coarse flattery in comparison with the subjection； yet the aloofness； of all
this wild world。 This is no flattery。 The grass is lumpy； as Mr。 Oscar
Wilde remarks with truth： Nature is not man's lacquey； and has no
preoccupation about his more commonplace comforts。 These he gives
himself indoors； and who prizes； with any self…respect； the things carefully
provided by self…love？ But when that farouche Nature； who has never
spoken to him； and to whom he has never had the opportunity of hinting
his wishes or his tasteswhen she reveals the suggestions of his form and
the desire of his eyes； and amongst her numberless purposes lets him
surprise in her the purpose to accord with him； and lets him suspect further
harmonies which he has not yet learnt to understand… …then man becomes
conscious of having received a token from her lowliness； and a favour
from her loveliness； compared with which the care wherewith his tailor
himself has fitted him might leave his gratitude cool。
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BY THE RAILWAY SIDE
My train drew near to the Via Reggio platform on a day between two
of the harvests of a hot September； the sea was burning blue； and there
were a sombreness and a gravity in the very excesses of the sun as his fires
brooded deeply over the serried； hardy； shabby； seaside ilex…woods。 I had
come out of Tuscany and was on my way to the Genovesato： the steep
country with its profiles； bay by bay； of successive mountains grey with
olive…trees； between the flashes of the Mediterranean and the sky； the
country through the which there sounds the twanging Genoese language； a
thin Italian mingled with a little Arabic； more Portuguese； and much
French。 I was regretful at leaving the elastic Tuscan speech； canorous in
its vowels set in emphatic L'S and M'S and the vigorous soft spring of the
double consonants。 But as the train arrived its noises were drowned by a
voice declaiming in the tongue I was not to hear again for months good
Italian。 The voice was so loud that one looked for the audience： Whose
ears was it seeking to reach by the violence done to every syllable； and
whose feelings would it touch by its insincerity？ The tones were
insincere； but there was passion behind them； and most often passion acts
its own true character poorly； and consciously enough to make good
judges think it a mere counterfeit。 Hamlet； being a little mad； feigned
madness。 It is when I am angry that I pretend to be angry； so as to
present the truth in an obvious and intelligible form。 Thus even before
the words were distinguishable it was manifest that they were spoken by a
man in serious trouble who had false ideas as to what is convincing in
elocution。
When the voice became audibly articulate； it proved to be shouting
blasphemies from the broad chest of a middle…aged manan Italian of the
type that grows stout and wears whiskers。 The man was in
BOURGEOIS dress； and he stood with his hat off in front of the small
station building； shaking his thick fist at the sky。 No one was on the
platform with him except the railway officials； who seemed in doubt as to
their duties in the matter； and two women。 Of one of these there was
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nothing to remark except her distress。 She wept as she stood at the door
of the waiting…room。 Like the second woman； she wore the dress of the
shopkeeping class throughout Europe； with the local black lace veil in
place of a bonnet over her hair。 It is of the second womanO unfortunate
creature！that this record is madea record without sequel； without
consequence； but there is nothing to be done in her regard except so to
remember her。 And thus much I think I owe after having looked； from
the midst of the negative happiness that is given to so many for a space of
years； at some minutes of her despair。 She was hanging on the man's arm
in her entreaties that he would stop the drama he was enacting。 She had
wept so hard that her face was disfigured。 Across her nose was the dark
purple that comes with overpowering fear。 Haydon saw it on the face of
a woman whose child had just been run over in a London street。 I
remembered the note in his journal as the woman at Via Reggio； in her
intolerable hour； turned her head my way； her sobs lifting it。 She was
afraid that the man would throw himself under the train。 She was afraid
that he would be damned for his blasphemies； and as to this her fear was
mortal fear。 It was horrible； too； that she was humpbacked and a dwarf。
Not until the train drew away from the station did we lose the clamour。
No one had tried to silence the man or to soothe the woman's horror。 But
has any one who saw it forgotten her face？ To me for the rest of the day
it was a sensible rather than a merely mental image。 Constantly a red
blur rose before my eyes for a background； and against it appeared the
dwarf's head； lifted with sobs； under the provincial black lace veil。 And
at night what emphasis it gained on the boundaries of sleep！ Close to my
hotel there was a roofless theatre crammed with people； where they were
giving Offenbach。 The operas of Offenbach still exist in Italy； and the
little town was placarded with announcements of La Bella Elena。 The
peculiar vulgar rhythm of the music jigged audibly through half the hot
night； and the clapping of the town's…folk filled all its pauses。 But the
persistent noise did but accompany； for me； the persistent vision of those
three figures at the Via Reggio station in the profound sunshine of the day。
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POCKET VOCABULARIES
A serviceable substitute for style in literature has been found in such a
collection of language ready for use as may be likened to a portable
vocabulary。 It is suited to the manners of a day that has produced salad…
dressing in bottles； and many other devices for the saving of processes。
Fill me such a wallet full of 'graphic' things； of 'quaint' things and 'weird；'
of 'crisp' or 'sturdy' Anglo…Saxon； of the material for 'word…painting' （is not
that the way of it？）； and it will serve the turn。 Especially did the Teutonic
fury fill full these common little hoards of language。 It seemed；
doubtless； to the professor of the New Literature that if anything could
convince him of his own success it must be the energy of his Teutonisms
and his avoidance of languid Latin derivatives； fit only for the pedants of
the eighteenth century。 Literature doubtless is made of words。 What
then is needful； he seems to ask； besides a knack of beautiful words？
Unluckily for him； he has achieved； not style； but slang。 Unluckily for
him； words are not style； phrases are not style。 'The man is style。' O
good French language； cunning and good； that lets me read the sentence in
obverse or converse as I will！ And I read it as declaring that the whole
man； the very whole of him； is his style。 The literature of a man of letters
worthy the name is rooted in all his qualities； with little fibres running
invisibly into the smallest qualities he has。 He who is not a man of letters；
simply is not one； it is not too audacious a paradox to affirm that doing
will not avail him who fails in being。 'Lay your deadly doing down；'
sang once some old hymn known to Calvinists。 Certain poets； a certain
time ago； ransacked the language for words full of life and beauty； made a
vocabulary of them； and out of wantonness wrote them to death。 To
change somewhat the simile； they scented out a wordan earlyish word；
by preferenceran it to earth； unearthed it； dug it out； and killed it。 And
then their followers bagged it。 The very word that lives； 'new every
morning；' miraculously new； in the literature of a man of letters； they
killed and put into their bag。 And； in like manner； the emotion that
should have caused the word is dead for those； and for those only； who
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abuse its expression。 For the maker of a portable vocabulary is not
content to turn his words up there： he turns up his feelings also；
alphabetically or otherwise。 Wonderful how much sensibility is at hand in
such round words as the New Literature loves。 Do you want a generous
