the spirit of place and other essays(地方的精神等)-第4章
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people may in a boarding…house； by paradoxical choice； familiar with one
another and not intimate。 They live under careless observation and
subject to a vagabond curiosity。 Theirs is the involuntary and perhaps the
unconscious loss which is futile and barren。
One knows the men； and the many women； who have sacrificed all
their solitude to the perpetual society of the school； the cloister； or the
hospital ward。 They walk without secrecy； candid； simple； visible；
without moods； unchangeable； in a constant communication and practice
of action and speech。 Theirs assuredly is no barren or futile loss； and
they have a conviction； and they bestow the conviction； of solitude
deferred。
Who has painted solitude so that the solitary seemed to stand alone
and inaccessible？ There is the loneliness of the shepherdess in many a
drawing of J。F。 Millet。 The little figure is away； aloof。 The girl stands so
when the painter is gone。 She waits so on the sun for the closing of the
hours of pasture。 Millet has her as she looks； out of sight。
Now； although solitude is a prepared； secured； defended； elaborate
possession of the rich； they too deny themselves the natural solitude of a
woman with a child。 A newly…born child is so nursed and talked about；
handled and jolted and carried about by aliens； and there is so much
importunate service going forward； that a woman is hardly alone long
enough to become aware； in recollection； how her own blood moves
separately； beside her； with another rhythm and different pulses。 All is
commonplace until the doors are closed upon the two。 This unique
intimacy is a profound retreat； an absolute seclusion。 It is more than
single solitude； it is a redoubled isolation more remote than mountains；
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safer than valleys； deeper than forests； and further than mid…sea。
That solitude partakenthe only partaken solitude in the worldis the
Point of Honour of ethics。 Treachery to that obligation and a betrayal of
that confidence might well be held to be the least pardonable of all crimes。
There is no innocent sleep so innocent as sleep shared between a woman
and a child； the little breath hurrying beside the longer； as a child's foot
runs。 But the favourite crime of the sentimentalist is that of a woman
against her child。 Her power； her intimacy； her opportunity； that should
be her accusers； are held to excuse her。 She gains the most slovenly of
indulgences and the grossest compassion； on the vulgar grounds that her
crime was easy。
Lawless and vain art of a certain kind is apt to claim to…day； by the
way； some such fondling as a heroine of the dock receives from common
opinion。 The vain artist had all the opportunities of the situation。 He
was master of his own purpose； such as it was； it was his secret； and the
public was not privy to his artistic conscience。 He does violence to the
obligations of which he is aware； and which the world does not know very
explicitly。 Nothing is easier。 Or he is lawless in a more literal sense；
but only hopes the world will believe that he has a whole code of his own
making。 It would； nevertheless； be less unworthy to break obvious rules
obviously in the obvious face of the public； and to abide the common
rebuke。
It has just been said that a park is by no means necessary for the
preparation of a country solitude。 Indeed； to make those far and wide
and long approaches and avenues to peace seems to be a denial of the
accessibility of what should be so simple。 A step； a pace or so aside； is
enough to lead thither。
A park insists too much； and； besides； does not insist very sincerely。
In order to fulfil the apparent professions and to keep the published
promise of a park； the owner thereof should be a lover of long seclusion or
of a very life of loneliness。 He should have gained the state of
solitariness which is a condition of life quite unlike any other。 The
traveller who may have gone astray in countries where an almost life…long
solitude is possible knows how invincibly apart are the lonely figures he
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has seen in desert places there。 Their loneliness is broken by his passage；
it is true； but hardly so to them。 They look at him； but they are not aware
that he looks at them。 Nay； they look at him as though they were
invisible。 Their un…self…consciousness is absolute； it is in the wild degree。
They are solitaries； body and soul； even when they are curious； and turn to
watch the passer…by； they are essentially alone。 Now； no one ever found
that attitude in a squire's figure； or that look in any country gentleman's
eyes。 The squire is not a life…long solitary。 He never bore himself as
though he were invisible。 He never had the impersonal ways of a
herdsman in the remoter Apennines； with a blind； blank hut in the rocks
for his dwelling。 Millet would not even have taken him as a model for a
solitary in the briefer and milder sylvan solitudes of France。 And yet
nothing but a life…long； habitual； and wild solitariness would be quite
proportionate to a park of any magnitude。
If there is a look of human eyes that tells of perpetual loneliness； so
there is also the familiar look that is the sign of perpetual crowds。 It is
the London expression； and； in its way； the Paris expression。 It is the
quickly caught； though not interested； look； the dull but ready glance of
those who do not know of their forfeited place apart； who have neither the
open secret nor the close； no reserve； no need of refuge； no flight nor
impulse of flight； no moods but what they may brave out in the street； no
hope of news from solitary counsels。
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THE LADY OF THE LYRICS
She is eclipsed； or gone； or in hiding。 But the sixteenth century took
her for granted as the object of song； she was a class； a state； a sex。 It
was scarcely necessary to waste the lyrist's time… …time that went so gaily
to metre as not to brook delaysin making her out too clearly。 She had
no more of what later times call individuality than has the rose； her rival；
her foil when she was kinder； her superior when she was cruel； her ever
fresh and ever conventional paragon。 She needed not to be devised or
divined； she was ready。 A merry heart goes all the day； the lyrist's never
grew weary。 Honest men never grow tired of bread or of any other daily
things whereof the sweetness
