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the colour of life-第7部分
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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
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