the colour of life(生命之色)-第12章
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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
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THE COLOUR OF LIFE
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！
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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
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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 a
