green mansions- 第1部分

Green　Mansions　A　Romance　of　the　Tropical　Forest

by　W。　H。　Hudson




FOREWORD　　　　　　

I　take　up　pen　for　this　foreword　with　the　fear　of　one　who　knows　that　he　cannot　do　justice　to　his　subject；　and　the　trembling　of　one　who　would　not；　for　a　good　deal；　set　down　words　unpleasing　to　the　eye　of　him　who　wrote　Green　Mansions；　The　Purple　Land；　and　all　those　other　books　which　have　meant　so　much　to　me。　　For　of　all　living　authorsnow　that　Tolstoi　has　gone　I　could　least　dispense　with　W。　H。　Hudson。　　Why　do　I　love　his　writing　so？　　I　think　because　he　is；　of　living　writers　that　I　read；　the　rarest　spirit；　and　has　the　clearest　gift　of　conveying　to　me　the　nature　of　that　spirit。　Writers　are　to　their　readers　little　new　worlds　to　be　explored；　and　each　traveller　in　the　realms　of　literature　must　needs　have　a　favourite　hunting…ground；　which；　in　his　good　willor　perhaps　merely　in　his　egoismhe　would　wish　others　to　share　with　him。

The　great　and　abiding　misfortunes　of　most　of　us　writers　are　twofold：　We　are；　as　worlds；　rather　common　tramping…ground　for　our　readers；　rather　tame　territory；　and　as　guides　and　dragomans　thereto　we　are　too　superficial；　lacking　clear　intimacy　of　expression；　in　factlike　guide　or　dragomanwe　cannot　let　folk　into　the　real　secrets；　or　show　them　the　spirit；　of　the　land。

Now；　Hudson；　whether　in　a　pure　romance　like　this　Green　Mansions；　or　in　that　romantic　piece　of　realism　The　Purple　Land；　or　in　books　like　Idle　Days　in　Patagonia；　Afoot　in　England；　The　Land's　End；　Adventures　among　Birds；　A　Shepherd's　Life；　and　all　his　other　nomadic　records　of　communings　with　men；　birds；　beasts；　and　Nature；　has　a　supreme　gift　of　disclosing　not　only　the　thing　he　sees　but　the　spirit　of　his　vision。　　Without　apparent　effort　he　takes　you　with　him　into　a　rare；　free；　natural　world；　and　always　you　are　refreshed；　stimulated；　enlarged；　by　going　there。

He　is　of　course　a　distinguished　naturalist；　probably　the　most　acute；　broad…minded；　and　understanding　observer　of　Nature　living。　And　this；　in　an　age　of　specialism；　which　loves　to　put　men　into　pigeonholes　and　label　them；　has　been　a　misfortune　to　the　reading　public；　who　seeing　the　label　Naturalist；　pass　on；　and　take　down　the　nearest　novel。　　Hudson　has　indeed　the　gifts　and　knowledge　of　a　Naturalist；　but　that　is　a　mere　fraction　of　his　value　and　interest。　　A　really　great　writer　such　as　this　is　no　more　to　be　circumscribed　by　a　single　word　than　America　by　the　part　of　it　called　New　York。　　The　expert　knowledge　which　Hudson　has　of　Nature　gives　to　all　his　work　backbone　and　surety　of　fibre；　and　to　his　sense　of　beauty　an　intimate　actuality。　　But　his　real　eminence　and　extraordinary　attraction　lie　in　his　spirit　and　philosophy。　　We　feel　from　his　writings　that　he　is　nearer　to　Nature　than　other　men；　and　yet　more　truly　civilized。　　The　competitive；　towny　culture；　the　queer　up…to…date　commercial　knowingness　with　which　we　are　so　busy　coating　ourselves　simply　will　not　stick　to　him。　　A　passage　in　his　Hampshire　Days　describes　him　better　than　I　can：　〃The　blue　sky；　the　brown　soil　beneath；　the　grass；　the　trees；　the　animals；　the　wind；　and　rain；　and　stars　are　never　strange　to　me；　for　I　am　in　and　of　and　am　one　with　them；　and　my　flesh　and　the　soil　are　one；　and　the　heat　in　my　blood　and　in　the　sunshine　are　one；　and　the　winds　and　the　tempests　and　my　passions　are　one。　　I　feel　the　'strangeness'　only　with　regard　to　my　fellow　men；　especially　in　towns；　where　they　exist　in　conditions　unnatural　to　me；　but　congenial　to　them。。。。　　In　such　moments　we　sometimes　feel　a　kinship　with；　and　are　strangely　drawn　to；　the　dead；　who　were　not　as　these；　the　long；　long　dead；　the　men　who　knew　not　life　in　towns；　and　felt　no　strangeness　in　sun　and　wind　and　rain。〃　　This　unspoiled　unity　with　Nature　pervades　all　his　writings；　they　are　remote　from　the　fret　and　dust　and　pettiness　of　town　life；　they　are　large；　direct；　free。　　It　is　not　quite　simplicity；　for　the　mind　of　this　writer　is　subtle　and　fastidious；　sensitive　to　each　motion　of　natural　and　human　life；　but　his　sensitiveness　is　somehow　different　from；　almost　inimical　to；　that　of　us　others；　who　sit　indoors　and　dip　our　pens　in　shades　of　feeling。　　Hudson's　fancy　is　akin　to　the　flight　of　the　birds　that　are　his　special　lovesit　never　seems　to　have　entered　a　house；　but　since　birth　to　have　been　roaming　the　air；　in　rain　and　sun；　or　visiting　the　trees　and　the　grass。　　I　not　only　disbelieve　utterly；　but　intensely　dislike；　the　doctrine　of　metempsychosis；　which；　if　I　understand　it　aright；　seems　the　negation　of　the　creative　impulse；　an　apotheosis　of　stalenessnothing　quite　new　in　the　world；　never　anything　quite　newnot　even　the　soul　of　a　baby；　and　so　I　am　not　prepared　to　entertain　the　whim　that　a　bird　was　one　of　his　remote　incarnations；　still；　in　sweep　of　wing；　quickness　of　eye；　and　natural　sweet　strength　of　song　he　is　not　unlike　a　super…birdwhich　is　a　horrid　image。　　And　that　reminds　me：　This；　after　all；　is　a　foreword　to　Greer：　Mansions　the　romance　of　the　bird…girl　Rimaa　story　actual　yet　fantastic；　which　immortalizes；　I　think；　as　passionate　a　love　of　all　beautiful　things　as　ever　was　in　the　heart　of　man。　　Somewhere　Hudson　says：　〃The　sense　of　the　beautiful　is　God's　best　gift　to　the　human　soul。〃　　So　it　is：　and　to　pass　that　gift　on　to　others；　in　such　measure　as　herein　is　expressed；　must　surely　have　been　happiness　to　him　who　wrote　Green　Mansions。　　In　form　and　spirit　the　book　is　unique；　a　simple　romantic　narrative　transmuted　by　sheer　glow　of　beauty　into　a　prose　poem。　　Without　ever　departing　from　its　quality　of　a　tale；　it　symbolizes…the　yearning　of　the　human　soul　for　the　attainment　of　perfect　love　and　beauty　in　this　lifethat　impossible　perfection　which　we　must　all　learn　to　see　fall　from　its　high　tree　and　be　consumed　in　the　flames；　as　was　Rima　the　bird…girl；　but　whose　fine　white　ashes　we　gather　that　they　may　be　mingled　at　last　with　our　own；　when　we　too　have　been　refined　by　the　fire　of　death's　resignation。　　The　book　is　soaked　through　and　through　with　a　strange　beauty。　　I　will　not　go　on　singing　its　praises；　or　trying　to　make　it　understood；　because　I　have　other　words　to　say　of　its　author。

Do　we　realize　how　far　our　town　life　and　culture　have　got　away　from　things　that　really　matter；　how　instead　of　making　civilization　our　handmaid　to　freedom　we　have　set　her　heel　on　our　necks；　and　under　it　bite　dust　all　the　time？　　Hudson；　whether　he　knows　it　or　not；　is　now　the　chief　standard…bearer　of　another　faith。　　Thus　he　spake　in　The　Purple　Land：　〃Ah；　yes；　we　are　all　vainly　seeking　after　happiness　in　the　wrong　way。　　It　was　with　us　once　and　ours；　but　we　despised　it；　for　it　was　only　the　old　common　happiness　which　Nature　gives　to　all　her　children；　and　we　went　away　from　it　in　search　of　another　grander　kind　of　happiness　which　some　dreamerBacon　or　anotherassured　us　we　should　find。　　We　had　only　to　conquer　Nature；　find　out　her　secrets；　make　her　our　obedient　slave；　then　the　Earth　would　be　Eden；　and　every　man　Adam　and　every　woman　Eve。　　We　are　still　marching　bravely　on；　conquering　Nature；　but　how　weary　and　sad　we　are　getting！　　The　old　joy　in　life　and　gaiety　of　heart　have　vanished；　though　we　do　sometimes　pause　for　a　few　moments　in　our　long　forced　march　to　watch　the　labours　of　some　pale　mechanician；　seeking　after　perpetual　motion；　and　indulge　in　a　little；　dry；　cackling　laugh　at　his　expense。〃　　And　again：　〃For　here　the　religion　that　languishes　in　crowded　cities　or　　steals　shamefaced　to　hide　itself　in　dim　churches　flourishes　greatly；　filling　the　soul　with　a　solemn　joy。　　Face　to　face　with　Nature　on　the　vast　hills　at　eventide；　who　does　not　feel　himself　near　to　the　Unseen？

〃Out　of　his　heart　God　shall　not　pass

His　image　stamped　is　on　every　grass。〃

All　Hudson's　books　breathe　this　spirit　of　revolt　against　our　new　enslavement　by　towns　and　machinery；　and　are　true　oases　in　an　age　so　dreadfully　resigned　to　the　〃pale　mechanician。〃

But　Hudson　is　not；　as　Tolstoi　was；　a　conscious　prophet；　his　spirit　is　freer；　more　willful；　whimsicalalmost　perverseand　far　more　steeped　in　love　of　beauty。　　If　you　called　him　a　prophet　he　would　stamp　his　foot　at　youas　he　will　at　me　if　he　reads　these　words；　but　his　voice　is　prophetic；　for　all　that；　crying　in　a　wilderness；　out　of　which；　at　the　call；　will　spring　up　roses　here　and　there；　and　the　sweet…smelling　grass。　　I　would　that　every　man；　woman；　and　child　in　England　were　made　to　read　him；　and　I　would　that　you　in　America　would　take　him　to　heart。　　He　is　a　tonic；　a　deep　refreshing　drink；　with　a　strange　and　wonderful　flavour；　he　is　a　mine　of　new　interests；　and　ways　of　thought　instinctively　right。　　As　a　simple　narrator　he　is　well…nigh　unsurpassed；　as　a　stylist　he　has　few；　if　any；　living　equals。　　And　in　all　his　work　there　is　an　indefinable　freedom　from　any　thought　of　after…　benefit…　…even　from　the　desire　that　we　should　read　him。　　He　puts　down　what　he　sees　and　feels；　out　of　sheer　love　of　the　thing　seen；　and　the　emotion　felt；　the　smell　of　the　lamp　has　not　touched　a　single　page　that　he　ever　wrote。　　That　alone　is　a　marvel　to　us　who　know　that　to　write　well；　even　to　write　clearly；　is　a　wound　business；　long　to　learn；　hard　to　learn；　and　no　gift　of　the　angels。　　Style　should　not　obtrude　between　a　writer　and　his　reader；　it　should　be　servant；　not　master。　　To　use　words　so　true　and　simple　that　they　oppose　no　obstacle　to　the　flow　of　thought　and　feeling　from　mind　to　mind；　and　yet　by　juxtaposition　of　word…sounds　set　up　in　the　recipient　continuing　emotion　or　gratificationthis　is　the　essence　of　style；　and　Hudson's　writing　has　pre…eminently　this　double　quality。　　From　almost　any　page　of　his　books　an　example　might　be　taken。　　Here　is　one　no　better　than　a　thousand　others；　a　description　of　two　little　girls　on　a　beach：　〃They　were　dressed　in　black　frocks　and　scarlet　blouses；　which　set　off　their　beautiful　small　dark　faces；　their　eyes　sparkled　like　black　diamonds；　and　their　loose　hair　was　a　wonder　to　see；　a　black　mist　or　cloud　about　their　heads　and　necks　composed　of　threads　fine　as　gossamer；　blacker　than　jet　and　shining　like　spun　glasshair　that　looked　as　if　no　comb　or　brush　could　ever　tame　its　beautiful　wildness。　　And　in　spirit　they　were　what　they　seemed：　such　a　wild；　joyous；　frolicsome　spirit；　with　such　grace　and　fleetness；　one　does　not　look　for　in　human　beings；　but　only　in　birds　or　in　some　small　bird…like　volatile　mammala　squirrel　or　a　spider…monkey　of　the　tropical　forest；　or　the　chinchilla　of　the　d