the colour of life-第2章

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they　…　all　the　dying；　all　the　dead；　of　the　populous　woods？　　Where　do

they　hide　their　little　last　hours；　where　are　they　buried？　　Where　is

the　violence　concealed？　　Under　what　gay　custom　and　decent　habit？

You　may　see；　it　is　true；　an　earth…worm　in　a　robin's　beak；　and　may

hear　a　thrush　breaking　a　snail's　shell；　but　these　little　things　are；

as　it　were；　passed　by　with　a　kind　of　twinkle　for　apology；　as　by　a

well…bred　man　who　does　openly　some　little　solecism　which　is　too

slight　for　direct　mention；　and　which　a　meaner　man　might　hide　or

avoid。　　Unless　you　are　very　modern　indeed；　you　twinkle　back　at　the

bird。



But　otherwise　there　is　nothing　visible　of　the　havoc　and　the　prey　and

plunder。　　It　is　certain　that　much　of　the　visible　life　passes

violently　into　other　forms；　flashes　without　pause　into　another

flame；　but　not　all。　　Amid　all　the　killing　there　must　be　much　dying。

There　are；　for　instance；　few　birds　of　prey　left　in　our　more

accessible　counties　now；　and　many　thousands　of　birds　must　die

uncaught　by　a　hawk　and　unpierced。　　But　if　their　killing　is　done　so

modestly；　so　then　is　their　dying　also。　　Short　lives　have　all　these

wild　things；　but　there　are　innumerable　flocks　of　them　always　alive；

they　must　die；　then；　in　innumerable　flocks。　　And　yet　they　keep　the

millions　of　the　dead　out　of　sight。



Now　and　then；　indeed；　they　may　be　betrayed。　　It　happened　in　a　cold

winter。　　The　late　frosts　were　so　sudden；　and　the　famine　was　so

complete；　that　the　birds　were　taken　unawares。　　The　sky　and　the　earth

conspired　that　February　to　make　known　all　the　secrets；　everything

was　published。　　Death　was　manifest。　　Editors；　when　a　great　man　dies；

are　not　more　resolute　than　was　the　frost　of　‘95。



The　birds　were　obliged　to　die　in　public。　　They　were　surprised　and

forced　to　do　thus。　　They　became　like　Shelley　in　the　monument　which

the　art　and　imagination　of　England　combined　to　raise　to　his　memory

at　Oxford。



Frost　was　surely　at　work　in　both　cases；　and　in　both　it　wrought

wrong。　　There　is　a　similarity　of　unreason　in　betraying　the　death　of

a　bird　and　in　exhibiting　the　death　of　Shelley。　　The　death　of　a

soldier　…　passe　encore。　　But　the　death　of　Shelley　was　not　his　goal。

And　the　death　of　the　birds　is　so　little　characteristic　of　them　that；

as　has　just　been　said；　no　one　in　the　world　is　aware　of　their　dying；

except　only　in　the　case　of　birds　in　cages；　who；　again；　are　compelled

to　die　with　observation。　　The　woodland　is　guarded　and　kept　by　a

rule。　　There　is　no　display　of　the　battlefield　in　the　fields。　　There

is　no　tale　of　the　game…bag；　no　boast。　　The　hunting　goes　on；　but　with

strange　decorum。　　You　may　pass　a　fine　season　under　the　trees；　and

see　nothing　dead　except　here　and　there　where　a　boy　has　been　by；　or　a

man　with　a　trap；　or　a　man　with　a　gun。　　There　is　nothing　like　a

butcher's　shop　in　the　woods。



But　the　biographers　have　always　had　other　ways　than　those　of　the

wild　world。　　They　will　not　have　a　man　to　die　out　of　sight。　　I　have

turned　over　scores　of　〃Lives；〃　not　to　read　them；　but　to　see　whether

now　and　again　there　might　be　a　〃Life〃　which　was　not　more

emphatically　a　death。　　But　there　never　is　a　modern　biography　that

has　taken　the　hint　of　Nature。　　One　and　all；　these　books　have　the

disproportionate　illness；　the　death　out　of　all　scale。



Even　more　wanton　than　the　disclosure　of　a　death　is　that　of　a　mortal

illness。　　If　the　man　had　recovered；　his　illness　would　have　been

rightly　his　own　secret。　　But　because　he　did　not　recover；　it　is

assumed　to　be　news　for　the　first　comer。　　Which　of　us　would　suffer

the　details　of　any　physical　suffering；　over　and　done　in　our　own

lives；　to　be　displayed　and　described？　　This　is　not　a　confidence　we

have　a　mind　to　make；　and　no　one　is　authorised　to　ask　for　attention

or　pity　on　our　behalf。　　The　story　of　pain　ought　not　to　be　told　of

us；　seeing　that　by　us　it　would　assuredly　not　be　told。



There　is　only　one　other　thing　that　concerns　a　man　still　more

exclusively；　and　that　is　his　own　mental　illness；　or　the　dreams　and

illusions　of　a　long　delirium。　　When　he　is　in　common　language　not

himself；　amends　should　be　made　for　so　bitter　a　paradox；　he　should　be

allowed　such　solitude　as　is　possible　to　the　alienated　spirit；　he

should　be　left　to　the　〃not　himself；〃　and　spared　the　intrusion

against　which　he　can　so　ill　guard　that　he　could　hardly　have　even

resented　it。



The　double　helplessness　of　delusion　and　death　should　keep　the　door

of　Rossetti's　house；　for　example；　and　refuse　him　to　the　reader。　　His

mortal　illness　had　nothing　to　do　with　his　poetry。　　Some　rather

affected　objection　is　taken　every　now　and　then　to　the　publication　of

some　facts　（others　being　already　well　known）　in　the　life　of　Shelley。

Nevertheless；　these　are　all；　properly　speaking；　biography。　　What　is

not　biography　is　the　detail　of　the　accident　of　the　manner　of　his

death；　the　detail　of　his　cremation。　　Or　if　it　was　to　be　told　…　told

briefly　…　it　was　certainly　not　for　marble。　　Shelley's　death　had　no

significance；　except　inasmuch　as　he　died　young。　　It　was　a　detachable

and　disconnected　incident。　　Ah；　that　was　a　frost　of　fancy　and　of　the

heart　that　used　it　so；　dealing　with　an　insignificant　fact；　and

conferring　a　futile　immortality。　　Those　are　ill…named　biographers

who　seem　to　think　that　a　betrayal　of　the　ways　of　death　is　a　part　of

their　ordinary　duty；　and　that　if　material　enough　for　a　last　chapter

does　not　lie　to　their　hand　they　are　to　search　it　out。　　They；　of　all

survivors；　are　called　upon；　in　honour　and　reason；　to　look　upon　a

death　with　more　composure。　　To　those　who　loved　the　dead　closely；

this　is；　for　a　time；　impossible。　　To　them　death　becomes；　for　a　year；

disproportionate。　　Their　dreams　are　fixed　upon　it　night　by　night。

They　have；　in　those　dreams；　to　find　the　dead　in　some　labyrinth；　they

have　to　mourn　his　dying　and　to　welcome　his　recovery　in　such　a

mingling　of　distress　and　of　always　incredulous　happiness　as　is　not

known　even　to　dreams　save　in　that　first　year　of　separation。　　But

they　are　not　biographers。



If　death　is　the　privacy　of　the　woods；　it　is　the　more　conspicuously

secret　because　it　is　their　only　privacy。　　You　may　watch　or　may

surprise　everything　else。　　The　nest　is　retired；　not　hidden。　　The

chase　goes　on　everywhere。　　It　is　wonderful　how　the　perpetual　chase

seems　to　cause　no　perpetual　fear。　　The　songs　are　all　audible。　　Life

is　undefended；　careless；　nimble　and　noisy。



It　is　a　happy　thing　that　minor　artists　have　ceased；　or　almost

ceased；　to　paint　dead　birds。　　Time　was　when　they　did　it　continually

in　that　British　School　of　water…colour　art；　stippled；　of　which

surrounding　nations；　it　was　agreed；　were　envious。　　They　must　have

killed　their　bird　to　paint　him；　for　he　is　not　to　be　caught　dead。　　A

bird　is　more　easily　caught　alive　than　dead。



A　poet；　on　the　contrary；　is　easily　…　too　easily　…　caught　dead。

Minor　artists　now　seldom　stipple　the　bird　on　its　back；　but　a　good

sculptor　and　a　University　together　modelled　their　Shelley　on　his

back；　unessentially　drowned；　and　everybody　may　read　about　the　sick

mind　of　Dante　Rossetti。







CLOUD







During　a　part　of　the　year　London　does　not　see　the　clouds。　　Not　to

see　the　clear　sky　might　seem　her　chief　loss；　but　that　is　shared　by

the　rest　of　England；　and　is；　besides；　but　a　slight　privation。　　Not

to　see　the　clear　sky　is；　elsewhere；　to　see　the　cloud。　　But　not　so　in

London。　　You　may　go　for　a　week　or　two　at　a　time；　even　though　you

hold　your　head　up　as　you　walk；　and　even　though　you　have　windows　that

really　open；　and　yet　you　shall　see　no　cloud；　or　but　a　single　edge；

the　fragment　of　a　form。



Guillotine　windows　never　wholly　open；　but　are　filled　with　a　doubled

glass　towards　the　sky　when　you　open　them　towards　the　street。　　They

are；　therefore；　a　sure　sign　that　for　all　the　years　when　no　other

windows　were　used　in　London；　nobody　there　cared　much　for　the　sky；　or

even　knew　so　much　as　whether　there　were　a　sky。



But　the　privation　of　cloud　is　indeed　a　graver　loss　than　the　world

knows。　　Terrestrial　scener