the colour of life-第3部分

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There　are　mountains　indeed；　precipices　and　deeps；　to　which　those　of

the　earth　are　pigmy。　　Yet　the　sky…heights；　being　so　far　off；　are　not

overpowering　by　disproportion；　like　some　futile　building　fatuously

made　too　big　for　the　human　measure。　　The　cloud　in　its　majestic　place

composes　with　a　little　Perugino　tree。　　For　you　stand　or　stray　in　the

futile　building；　while　the　cloud　is　no　mansion　for　man；　and　out　of

reach　of　his　limitations。



The　cloud；　moreover；　controls　the　sun；　not　merely　by　keeping　the

custody　of　his　rays；　but　by　becoming　the　counsellor　of　his　temper。

The　cloud　veils　an　angry　sun；　or；　more　terribly；　lets　fly　an　angry

ray；　suddenly　bright　upon　tree　and　tower；　with　iron…grey　storm　for　a

background。　　Or　when　anger　had　but　threatened；　the　cloud　reveals

him；　gentle　beyond　hope。　　It　makes　peace；　constantly；　just　before

sunset。



It　is　in　the　confidence　of　the　winds；　and　wears　their　colours。

There　is　a　heavenly　game；　on　south…west　wind　days；　when　the　clouds

are　bowled　by　a　breeze　from　behind　the　evening。　　They　are　round　and

brilliant；　and　come　leaping　up　from　the　horizon　for　hours。　　This　is

a　frolic　and　haphazard　sky。



All　unlike　this　is　the　sky　that　has　a　centre；　and　stands　composed

about　it。　　As　the　clouds　marshalled　the　earthly　mountains；　so　the

clouds　in　turn　are　now　ranged。　　The　tops　of　all　the　celestial　Andes

aloft　are　swept　at　once　by　a　single　ray；　warmed　with　a　single

colour。　　Promontory　after　league…long　promontory　of　a　stiller

Mediterranean　in　the　sky　is　called　out　of　mist　and　grey　by　the　same

finger。　　The　cloudland　is　very　great；　but　a　sunbeam　makes　all　its

nations　and　continents　sudden　with　light。



All　this　is　for　the　untravelled。　　All　the　winds　bring　him　this

scenery。　　It　is　only　in　London；　for　part　of　the　autumn　and　part　of

the　winter；　that　the　unnatural　smoke…fog　comes　between。　　And　for

many　and　many　a　day　no　London　eye　can　see　the　horizon；　or　the　first

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

sunse