the colour of life-第3章

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threat　of　the　cloud　like　a　man's　hand。　　There　never　was　a　great

painter　who　had　not　exquisite　horizons；　and　if　Corot　and　Crome　were

right；　the　Londoner　loses　a　great　thing。



He　loses　the　coming　of　the　cloud；　and　when　it　is　high　in　air　he

loses　its　shape。　　A　cloud…lover　is　not　content　to　see　a　snowy　and

rosy　head　piling　into　the　top　of　the　heavens；　he　wants　to　see　the

base　and　the　altitude。　　The　perspective　of　a　cloud　is　a　great　part

of　its　design　…　whether　it　lies　so　that　you　can　look　along　the

immense　horizontal　distances　of　its　floor；　or　whether　it　rears　so

upright　a　pillar　that　you　look　up　its　mountain　steeps　in　the　sky　as

you　look　at　the　rising　heights　of　a　mountain　that　stands；　with　you；

on　the　earth。



The　cloud　has　a　name　suggesting　darkness；　nevertheless；　it　is　not

merely　the　guardian　of　the　sun's　rays　and　their　director。　　It　is　the

sun's　treasurer；　it　holds　the　light　that　the　world　has　lost。　　We

talk　of　sunshine　and　moonshine；　but　not　of　cloud…shine；　which　is　yet

one　of　the　illuminations　of　our　skies。　　A　shining　cloud　is　one　of

the　most　majestic　of　all　secondary　lights。　　If　the　reflecting　moon

is　the　bride；　this　is　the　friend　of　the　bridegroom。



Needless　to　say；　the　cloud　of　a　thunderous　summer　is　the　most

beautiful　of　all。　　It　has　spaces　of　a　grey　for　which　there　is　no

name；　and　no　other　cloud　looks　over　at　a　vanishing　sun　from　such

heights　of　blue　air。　　The　shower…cloud；　too；　with　its　thin　edges；

comes　across　the　sky　with　so　influential　a　flight　that　no　ship　going

out　to　sea　can　be　better　worth　watching。　　The　dullest　thing　perhaps

in　the　London　streets　is　that　people　take　their　rain　there　without

knowing　anything　of　the　cloud　that　drops　it。　　It　is　merely　rain；　and

means　wetness。　　The　shower…cloud　there　has　limits　of　time；　but　no

limits　of　form；　and　no　history　whatever。　　It　has　not　come　from　the

clear　edge　of　the　plain　to　the　south；　and　will　not　shoulder　anon　the

hill　to　the　north。　　The　rain；　for　this　city；　hardly　comes　or　goes；

it　does　but　begin　and　stop。　　No　one　looks　after　it　on　the　path　of

its　retreat。







WINDS　OF　THE　WORLD







Every　wind　is；　or　ought　to　be；　a　poet；　but　one　is　classic　and

converts　everything　in　his　day　co…unity；　another　is　a　modern　man；

whose　words　clothe　his　thoughts；　as　the　modern　critics　used　to　say

prettily　in　the　early　sixties；　and　therefore　are　separable。　　This

wind；　again；　has　a　style；　and　that　wind　a　mere　manner。　　Nay；　there

are　breezes　from　the　east…south…east；　for　example；　that　have　hardly

even　a　manner。　　You　can　hardly　name　them　unless　you　look　at　the

weather　vane。　　So　they　do　not　convince　you　by　voice　or　colour　of

breath；　you　place　their　origin　and　assign　them　a　history　according

as　the　hesitating　arrow　points　on　the　top　of　yonder　ill…designed

London　spire。



The　most　certain　and　most　conquering　of　all　is　the　south…west　wind。

You　do　not　look　to　the　weather…vane　to　decide　what　shall　be　the

style　of　your　greeting　to　his　morning。　　There　is　no　arbitrary　rule

of　courtesy　between　you　and　him；　and　you　need　no　arrow　to　point　to

his　distinctions；　and　to　indicate　to　you　the　right　manner　of

treating　such　a　visitant。



He　prepares　the　dawn。　　While　it　is　still　dark　the　air　is　warned　of

his　presence；　and　before　the　window　was　opened　he　was　already　in　the

room。　　His　sun　…　for　the　sun　is　his　…　rises　in　a　south…west　mood；

with　a　bloom　on　the　blue；　the　grey；　or　the　gold。　　When　the　south…

west　is　cold；　the　cold　is　his　own　cold　…　round；　blunt；　full；　and

gradual　in　its　very　strength。　　It　is　a　fresh　cold；　that　comes　with

an　approach；　and　does　not　challenge　you　in　the　manner　of　an

unauthorised　stranger；　but　instantly　gets　your　leave；　and　even　a

welcome　to　your　house　of　life。　　He　follows　your　breath　in　at　your

throat；　and　your　eyes　are　open　to　let　him　in；　even　when　he　is　cold。

Your　blood　cools；　but　does　not　hide　from　him。



He　has　a　splendid　way　with　his　sky。　　In　his　flight；　which　is　that；

not　of　a　bird；　but　of　a　flock　of　birds；　he　flies　high　and　low　at

once：　high　with　his　higher　clouds；　that　keep　long　in　the　sight　of

man；　seeming　to　move　slowly；　and　low　with　the　coloured　clouds　that

breast　the　hills　and　are　near　to　the　tree…tops。　　These　the　south…

west　wind　tosses　up　from　his　soft　horizon；　round　and　successive。

They　are　tinted　somewhat　like　ripe　clover…fields；　or　like　hay…fields

just　before　the　cutting；　when　all　the　grass　is　in　flower；　and　they

are；　oftener　than　all　other　clouds；　in　shadow。　　These　low…lying

flocks　are　swift　and　brief；　the　wind　casts　them　before　him；　from　the

western　verge　to　the　eastern。



Corot　has　painted　so　many　south…west　winds　that　one　might　question

whether　he　ever　painted；　in　his　later　manner　at　least；　any　others。

His　skies　are　thus　in　the　act　of　flight；　with　lower　clouds

outrunning　the　higher；　the　farther　vapours　moving　like　a　fleet　out

at　sea；　and　the　nearer　like　dolphins。　　In　his　〃Classical　Landscape：

Italy；〃　the　master　has　indeed　for　once　a　sky　that　seems　at　anchor；

or　at　least　that　moves　with　〃no　pace　perceived。〃　　The　vibrating

wings　are　folded；　and　Corot's　wind；　that　flew　through　so　many

springs；　summers；　and　Septembers　for　him　（he　was　seldom　a　painter　of

very　late　autumn）；　that　was　mingled　with　so　many　aspen…leaves；　that

strewed　his　forests　with　wood　for　the　gatherer；　and　blew　the　broken

lights　into　the　glades；　is　charmed　into　stillness；　and　the　sky　into

another　kind　of　immortality。　　Nor　are　the　trees　in　this　antique

landscape　the　trees　so　long　intimate　with　Corot's　south…west　wind；

so　often　entangled　with　his　uncertain　twilights。　　They　are　as　quiet

as　the　cloud；　and　such　as　the　long　and　wild　breezes　of　Romance　have

never　shaken　or　enlaced。



Upon　all　our　islands　this　south…west　wind　is　the　sea　wind。　　But

elsewhere　there　are　sea　winds　that　are　not　from　the　south…west。

They；　too；　none　the　less；　are　conquerors。　　They；　too；　are　always

strong；　compelling　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　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　continent　and

sea。







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