the colour of life(生命之色)-第4章
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winds that take possession of the light； the shadow； the sun； moon； and
stars； and constrain them all alike to feel the sea。 Not a field； not a
hillside； on a sea…wind day； but shines with some soft sea…lights。 The
moon's little boat tosses on a sea…wind night。
The south…west wind takes the high Italian coasts。 He gathers the ilex
woods together and throngs them close； as a sheep…dog gathers the sheep。
They crowd for shelter； and a great wall； leaning inland also； with its
strong base to the sea； receives them。 It is blank and sunny； and the trees
within are sunny and dark； serried； and their tops swept and flattened by
months of sea…storms。 On the farther side there are gardens … gardens
that have in their midst those quietest things in all the world and most
windless； box…hedges and ponds。 The gardens take shelter behind the
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scared and hurried ilex woods； and the sea…wind spares them and breaks
upon the mountain。 But the garden also is his； and his wild warm days
have filled it with orange…trees and roses； and have given all the abundant
charm to its gay neglect； to its grass…grown terraces； and to all its lapsed；
forsaken； and forgotten dainties。
Nothing of the nature in this seaward Italy would be so beautiful
without the touch of man and of the sea gales。
When the south…west wind brings his rain he brings it with the
majestic onset announced by his breath。 And when the light follows； it
comes from his own doorway in the verge。 His are the opened evenings
after a day shut down with cloud。 He fills the air with innumerable
particles of moisture that scatter and bestow the sun。 There are no other
days like his； of so universal a harmony； so generous。
The north wind has his own landscape； too； but the east wind never。
The aspect which he gives to the day is not all his own。 The sunshine is
sweet in spite of him。 The clouds go under his whip； but they have
kinder greys than should be the colours of his cold。 Not on an east…wind
day are these races in heaven； for the clouds are all far off。 His rain is
angry； and it flies against the sunset。 The world is not one in his reign；
but rather there is a perpetual revolt or difference。 The lights and
shadows are not all his。 The waxing and waning hours are disaffected。
He has not a great style； and does not convince the day。
All the four winds are brave； and not the less brave because； on their
way through town； they are betrayed for a moment into taking part in any
paltriness that may be there。 On their way from the Steppes to the
Atlantic they play havoc with the nerves of very insignificant people。 A
part； as it were； of every gale that starts in the far north…east finds its goal
in the breath of a reluctant citizen。
You will meet a wind of the world nimble and eager in a sorry street。
But these are only accidents of the way … the winds go free again。 Those
that do not go free； but close their course； are those that are breathed by
the nostrils of living creatures。 A great flock of those wild birds come to
a final pause in London； and fan the fires of life with those wings in the
act of folding。 In the blood and breath of a child close the influences of
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continent and sea。
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THE HONOURS OF
MORTALITY
The brilliant talent which has quite lately and quite suddenly arisen； to
devote itself to the use of the day or of the week； in illustrated papers … the
enormous production of art in black and white … is assuredly a confession
that the Honours of Mortality are worth working for。 Fifty years ago；
men worked for the honours of immortality； these were the commonplace
of their ambition； they declined to attend to the beauty of things of use that
were destined to be broken and worn out； and they looked forward to
surviving themselves by painting bad pictures； so that what to do with
their bad pictures in addition to our own has become the problem of the
nation and of the householder alike。 To…day men have began to learn that
their sons will be grateful to them for few bequests。 Art consents at last
to work upon the tissue and the china that are doomed to the natural and
necessary end … destruction； and art shows a most dignified alacrity to do
her best； daily； for the 〃process；〃 and for oblivion。
Doubtless this abandonment of hopes so large at once and so cheap
costs the artist something； nay； it implies an acceptance of the inevitable
that is not less than heroic。 And the reward has been in the singular and
manifest increase of vitality in this work which is done for so short a life。
Fittingly indeed does life reward the acceptance of death； inasmuch as to
die is to have been alive。 There is a real circulation of blood…quick use；
brief beauty； abolition； recreation。 The honour of the day is for ever the
honour of that day。 It goes into the treasury of things that are honestly
and … completely ended and done with。 And when can so happy a thing
be said of a lifeless oil…painting？ Who of the wise would hesitate？ To be
honourable for one day … one named and dated day； separate from all other
days of the ages … or to be for an unlimited time tedious？
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AT MONASTERY GATES
No woman has ever crossed the inner threshold； or shall ever cross it；
unless a queen； English or foreign； should claim her privilege。 Therefore；
if a woman records here the slighter things visible of the monastic life； it is
only because she was not admitted to see more than beautiful courtesy and
friendliness were able to show her in guest…house and garden。
The Monastery is of fresh…looking Gothic； by Pugin … the first of the
dynasty： it is reached by the white roads of a limestone country； and
backed by a young plantation； and it gathers its group of buildings in a
cleft high up among the hills of Wales。 The brown habit is this； and these
are the sandals； that come and go by hills of finer； sharper； and loftier line；
edging the dusk and dawn of an Umbrian sky。 Just such a Via Crucis
climbs the height above Orta； and from the foot of its final crucifix you
can see the sunrise touch the top of Monte Rosa； while the encircled lake
below is cool with the last of the night。 The same order of friars keep
that sub… Alpine Monte Sacro； and the same have set the Kreuzberg
beyond Bonn with the same steep path by the same fourteen chapels；
facing the Seven Mountains and the Rhine。
Here； in North Wales； remote as the country is； with the wheat green
over the blunt hill…tops； and the sky vibrating with larks； a long wing of
smoke lies round the horizon。 The country； rather thinly and languidly
cultivated above； has a valuable sub…soil； and is burrowed with mines； the
breath of pit and factory； out of sight； thickens the lower sky； and lies
heavily over the sands of Dee。 It leaves the upper blue clear and the head
of Orion； but dims the flicker of Sirius and shortens the steady ray of the
evening star。 The people scattered about are not mining people； but half…
hearted agriculturists； and very poor。 Their cottages are rather cabins； not
a tiled roof is in the country； but the slates have taken some beauty with
time； having dips and dimples； and grass upon their edges。 The walls are
all thickly whitewashed； which is a pleasure to see。 How willingly would
one swish the harmless whitewash over more than half the colour … over
all the chocolate and all the blue … with which the buildings of the world
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are stained！ You could not wish for a better； simpler； or fresher harmony
than whitewash makes with the slight sunshine and the bright grey of an
English sky。
The grey…stone； grey…roofed monastery looks young in one sense … it is
modern； and the friars look young in another … they are like their brothers
of an earlier time。 No one； except the journalists of yesterday； would
spend upon them those tedious words； 〃quaint；〃 or 〃old world。〃 No such
weary adjectives are spoken here； unless it be by the excursionists。
With large aprons tied over their brown habits； the Lay Brothers work
upon their land； planting parsnips in rows； or tending a prosperous bee…
farm。 A young friar； who sang the High Mass yesterday； is gaily hanging
the washed linen in the sun。 A printing press； and a machine which slices
turnips； are at work in an outhouse； and the yard thereby is guarded by a St
Bernard； whose single evil deed was that under one of the obscure
impulses of a dog's heart …atoned for by long and self…conscious remorse …
he bit the poet； and tried； says one of the friars； to make doggerel of him。
The poet； too； lives at the monastery gates； and on monastery ground； in a
seclusion which the tidings of the sequence of his editions hardly reaches。
There is no disturbing renown to be got among the cabins of the Flintshire
hills。 Homeward； over the verge； from other valleys； his light figure flits
at nightfall； like a moth。
To the coming and going of the friars； too； the village people have
become well used； and the infrequent excursionists； for lack of intelligence
and of any knowledge that would refer to history； look at them without
obtr
