the colour of life- 第7部分

have　slept　between　its　encounters。　　You　did　sleep。　　These　men　were

strong　men；　and　knew　what　they　wanted。　　It　is　tremendous　to　watch

the　struggle　of　such　resolves。　　They　had　their　purpose　in　their

grasp；　their　teeth　were　set；　their　will　was　iron。　　They　were　foot　to

foot。



And　next　morning　you　saw　by　the　papers　that　the　secondary；　but　still

renowned；　actor；　had　succeeded　in　sharing　the　principal　honours　of

the　piece。　　So　uncommonly　well　had　he　done；　even　for　him。　　Then　you

understood　that；　though　you　had　not　known　it；　the　tragedian　must

have　been　beaten　in　that　dialogue。　　He　had　suffered　himself　in　an

instant　of　weakness；　to　be　stimulated；　he　had　for　a　moment　…　only　a

moment　…　got　on。



That　night　was　influential。　　We　may　see　its　results　everywhere；　and

especially　in　Shakespeare。　　Our　tragic　stage　was　always　…　well；

different；　let　us　say　…　different　from　the　tragic　stage　of　Italy　and

France。　　It　is　now　quite　unlike；　and　frankly　so。　　The　spoilt

tradition　of　vitality　has　been　explicitly　abandoned。　　The

interrupted　one　waits；　no　longer　with　a　roving　eye；　but　with

something　almost　of　dignity；　as　though　he　were　fulfilling　ritual。



Benvolio　and　Mercutio　outlag　one　another　in　hunting　after　the

leaping　Romeo。　　They　call　without　the　slightest　impetus。　　One　can

imagine　how　the　true　Mercutio　called　…　certainly　not　by　rote。　　There

must　have　been　pauses　indeed；　brief　and　short…breath'd　pauses　of

listening　for　an　answer；　between　every　nickname。　　But　the　nicknames

were　quick　work。　　At　the　Lyceum　they　were　quite　an　effort　of　memory：

〃Romeo！　　Humours！　　Madman！　　Passion！　　Lover！〃



The　actress　of　Juliet；　speaking　the　words　of　haste；　makes　her

audience　wait　to　hear　them。　　Nothing　more　incongruous　than　Juliet's

harry　of　phrase　and　the　actress's　leisure　of　phrasing。　　None　act；

none　speak；　as　though　there　were　such　a　thing　as　impulse　in　a　play。

To　drop　behind　is　the　only　idea　of　arriving。　　The　nurse　ceases　to　be

absurd；　for　there　is　no　one　readier　with　a　reply　than　she。　　Or；

rather；　her　delays　are　so　altered　by　exaggeration　as　to　lose　touch

with　Nature。　　If　it　is　ill　enough　to　hear　haste　drawled　out；　it　is

ill；　too；　to　hear　slowness　out…tarried。　　The　true　nurse　of

Shakespeare　lags　with　her　news　because　her　ignorant　wits　are　easily

astray；　as　lightly　caught　as　though　they　were　light；　which　they　are

not；　but　the　nurse　of　the　stage　is　never　simply　astray：　she　knows

beforehand　how　long　she　means　to　be；　and　never；　never　forgets　what

kind　of　race　is　the　race　she　is　riding。　　The　Juliet　of　the　stage

seems　to　consider　that　there　is　plenty　of　time　for　her　to　discover

which　is　slain　…　Tybalt　or　her　husband；　she　is　sure　to　know　some

time；　it　can　wait。



A　London　success；　when　you　know　where　it　lies；　is　not　difficult　to

achieve。　　Of　all　things　that　can　be　gained　by　men　or　women　about

their　business；　there　is　one　thing　that　can　be　gained　without　fear

of　failure。　　This　is　time。　　To　gain　time　requires　so　little　wit

that；　except　for　competition；　every　one　could　be　first　at　the　game。

In　fact；　time　gains　itself。　　The　actor　is　really　not　called　upon　to

do　anything。　　There　is　nothing；　accordingly；　for　which　our　actors

and　actresses　do　not　rely　upon　time。　　For　humour　even；　when　the

humour　occurs　in　tragedy；　they　appeal　to　time。　　They　give　blanks　to

their　audiences　to　be　filled　up。



It　might　be　possible　to　have　tragedies　written　from　beginning　to　end

for　the　service　of　the　present　kind　of　〃art。〃　　But　the　tragedies　we

have　are　not　so　written。　　And　being　what　they　are；　it　is　not

vivacity　that　they　lose　by　this　length　of　pause；　this　length　of

phrasing；　this　illimitable　tiresomeness；　it　is　life　itself。　　For　the

life　of　a　scene　conceived　directly　is　its　directness；　the　life　of　a

scene　created　simply　is　its　simplicity。　　And　simplicity；　directness；

impetus；　emotion；　nature　fall　out　of　the　trailing；　loose；　long

dialogue；　like　fish　from　the　loose　meshes　of　a　net　…　they　fall　out；

they　drift　off；　they　are　lost。



The　universal　slowness；　moreover；　is　not　good　for　metre。　　Even　when

an　actress　speaks　her　lines　as　lines；　and　does　not　drop　into　prose

by　slipping　here　and　there　a　syllable；　she　spoils　the　tempo　by

inordinate　length　of　pronunciation。　　Verse　cannot　keep　upon　the　wing

without　a　certain　measure　in　the　movement　of　the　pinion。　　Verse　is　a

flight。







GRASS







Now　and　then；　at　regular　intervals　of　the　summer；　the　Suburb　springs

for　a　time　from　its　mediocrity；　but　an　inattentive　eye　might　not　see

why；　or　might　not　seize　the　cause　of　the　bloom　and　of　the　new　look

of　humility　and　dignity　that　makes　the　Road；　the　Rise；　and　the

Villas　seem　suddenly　gentle；　gay　and　rather　shy。



It　is　no　change　in　the　gardens。　　These　are；　as　usual；　full；

abundant；　fragrant；　and　quite　uninteresting；　keeping　the　traditional

secret　by　which　the　suburban　rose；　magnolia；　clematis；　and　all　other

flowers　grow　dull　…　not　in　colour；　but　in　spirit　…　between　the

yellow　brick　house…front　and　the　iron　railings。　　Nor　is　there

anything　altered　for　the　better　in　the　houses　themselves。



Nevertheless；　the　little；　common；　prosperous　road；　has　bloomed；　you

cannot　tell　how。　　It　is　unexpectedly　liberal；　fresh；　and　innocent。

The　soft　garden…winds　that　rustle　its　shrubs　are；　for　the　moment；

genuine。



Another　day　and　all　is　undone。　　The　Rise　is　its　daily　self　again　…　a

road　of　flowers　and　foliage　that　is　less　pleasant　than　a　fairly

well…built　street。　　And　if　you　happen　to　find　the　men　at　work　on　the

re…transformation；　you　become　aware　of　the　accident　that　made　all

this　difference。　　It　lay　in　the　little　border　of　wayside　grass　which

a　row　of　public　servants　…　men　with　spades　and　a　cart　…　are　in　the

act　of　tidying　up。　　Their　way　of　tidying　it　up　is　to　lay　its　little

corpse　all　along　the　suburban　roadside；　and　then　to　carry　it　away　to

some　parochial　dust…heap。



But　for　the　vigilance　of　Vestries；　grass　would　reconcile　everything。

When　the　first　heat　of　the　summer　was　over；　a　few　nights　of　rain

altered　all　the　colour　of　the　world。　　It　had　been　the　brown　and

russet　of　drought　…　very　beautiful　in　landscape；　but　lifeless；　it

became　a　translucent；　profound；　and　eager　green。　　The　citizen　does

not　spend　attention　on　it。



Why；　then；　is　his　vestry　so　alert；　so　apprehensive；　so　swift；　in

perception　so　instant；　in　execution　so　prompt；　so　silent　in　action；

so　punctual　in　destruction？　　The　vestry　keeps；　as　it　were；　a　tryst

with　the　grass。　　The　〃sunny　spots　of　greenery〃　are　given　just　time

enough　to　grow　and　be　conspicuous；　and　the　barrow　is　there；　true　to

time；　and　the　spade。　　（To　call　that　spade　a　spade　hardly　seems

enough。）



For　the　gracious　grass　of　the　summer　has　not　been　content　within

enclosures。　　It　has　…　or　would　have　…　cheered　up　and　sweetened

everything。　　Over　asphalte　it　could　not　prevail；　and　it　has　prettily

yielded　to　asphalte；　taking　leave　to　live　and　let　live。　　It　has

taken　the　little　strip　of　ground　next　to　the　asphalte；　between　this

and　the　kerb；　and　again　the　refuse　of　ground　between　the　kerb　and

the　roadway。　　The　man　of　business　walking　to　the　station　with　a　bag

could　have　his　asphalte　all　unbroken；　and　the　butcher's　boy　in　his

cart　was　not　annoyed。　　The　grass　seemed　to　respect　everybody's

views；　and　to　take　only　what　nobody　wanted。　　But　these　gay　and　lowly

ways　will　not　escape　a　vestry。



There　is　no　wall　so　impregnable　or　so　vulgar；　but　a　summer's　grass

will　attempt　it。　　It　will　try　to　persuade　the　yellow　brick；　to　win

the　purple　slate；　to　reconcile　stucco。　　Outside　the　authority　of　the

suburbs　it　has　put　a　luminous　touch　everywhere。　　The　thatch　of

cottages　has　given　it　an　opportunity。　　It　has　perched　and　alighted

in　showers　and　flocks。　　It　has　crept　and　crawled；　and　stolen　its

hour。　　It　has　made　haste　between　the　ruts　of　cart　wheels；　so　they

were　not　too　frequent。　　It　has　been　stealthy　in　a　good　cause；　and

bold　out　of　reach。　　It　has　been　the　most　defiant　runaway；　and　the

meekest　lingerer。　　It　has　been　universal；　ready　and　potential　in

every　place；　so　that　the　happy　country　…　village　and　field　alike　…

has　been　all　grass；　with　mere　exceptions。



And　all　this　the　grass　does　in　spite　of　the　ill…treatment　it　suffers

at　the　hands；　and　mowing…machines；　and　vestries　of　man。　　His　ideal

of　grass　is　growth　that　shall　never　be　allowed　to　come　to　its　flower

and　completion。　　He　proves　this　in　his　lawns。　　Not　only　does　he　cut

the　coming　grass…flower　off　by　the　stalk；　but　he　does　not　allow　the

mere　leaf　…　the　blade　…　to　perfect　itself。　　He　will　not　have　it　a

〃blade〃　at　all；　he　cuts　its　top　away　as　never　sword　or　sabre　was

shaped。　　All　the　beauty　of　a　blade　of　grass　is　that　the　organic

shape　has　the　intention　of　ending　in　a　point。　　Surely　no　one　at　all

aware　of　the　beauty　of　lines　ought　to　be　ignorant　of　the

significance　and　grace　of　manifest　intention；　which　rules　a　living

line　from　its　beginning；　even　though　the　intention　be　towards　a

point　while　the　first　spring　of　the　line　is　towards　an　opening

curve。　　But　man　does　not　care　for　intention；　he　mows　it。　　Nor　does

he　care　for　attitude；　he　rolls　it。　　In　a　word；　he　proves　to　the

grass；　as　plainly　as　deeds　can　do　so；　that　it　is　not　to　his　mind。

The　rolling；　especially；　seems　to　be　a　violent　way　of　showing　that

the　universal　grass　interrupted　by　the　life　of　the　Englishman　is　not

as　he　would　have　it。　　Besides；　when　he　wishes　to　deride　a　city；　he

calls　it　grass…grown。



But　his　suburbs　shall　not；　if　he　can　help　it；　be　grass…grown。　　They

shall　not　be　like　a　mere　Pisa。　　Highgate　shall　not　so；　nor　Peckham。







A　WOMAN　IN　GREY







The　mothers　of　Professors　were　indulged　in　the　practice　of　jumping

at　conclusions；　and　were　praised　for　their　impatience　of　the　slow

process　of　reason。



Professors　have　written　of　the　mental　habits　of　women　as　though　they

accumulated　generation　by　generation　upon　women；　and　passed　over

their　sons。　　Professors　take　it　for　granted；　obviously　by　som