the rhythm of life-第5部分

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her　entreaties　that　he　would　stop　the　drama　he　was　enacting。　　She

had　wept　so　hard　that　her　face　was　disfigured。　　Across　her　nose　was

the　dark　purple　that　comes　with　overpowering　fear。　　Haydon　saw　it　on

the　face　of　a　woman　whose　child　had　just　been　run　over　in　a　London

street。　　I　remembered　the　note　in　his　journal　as　the　woman　at　Via

Reggio；　in　her　intolerable　hour；　turned　her　head　my　way；　her　sobs

lifting　it。　　She　was　afraid　that　the　man　would　throw　himself　under

the　train。　　She　was　afraid　that　he　would　be　damned　for　his

blasphemies；　and　as　to　this　her　fear　was　mortal　fear。　　It　was

horrible；　too；　that　she　was　humpbacked　and　a　dwarf。



Not　until　the　train　drew　away　from　the　station　did　we　lose　the

clamour。　　No　one　had　tried　to　silence　the　man　or　to　soothe　the

woman's　horror。　　But　has　any　one　who　saw　it　forgotten　her　face？　　To

me　for　the　rest　of　the　day　it　was　a　sensible　rather　than　a　merely

mental　image。　　Constantly　a　red　blur　rose　before　my　eyes　for　a

background；　and　against　it　appeared　the　dwarf's　head；　lifted　with

sobs；　under　the　provincial　black　lace　veil。　　And　at　night　what

emphasis　it　gained　on　the　boundaries　of　sleep！　　Close　to　my　hotel

there　was　a　roofless　theatre　crammed　with　people；　where　they　were

giving　Offenbach。　　The　operas　of　Offenbach　still　exist　in　Italy；　and

the　little　town　was　placarded　with　announcements　of　La　Bella　Elena。

The　peculiar　vulgar　rhythm　of　the　music　jigged　audibly　through　half

the　hot　night；　and　the　clapping　of　the　town's…folk　filled　all　its

pauses。　　But　the　persistent　noise　did　but　accompany；　for　me；　the

persistent　vision　of　those　three　figures　at　the　Via　Reggio　station

in　the　profound　sunshine　of　the　day。







POCKET　VOCABULARIES







A　serviceable　substitute　for　style　in　literature　has　been　found　in

such　a　collection　of　language　ready　for　use　as　may　be　likened　to　a

portable　vocabulary。　　It　is　suited　to　the　manners　of　a　day　that　has

produced　salad…dressing　in　bottles；　and　many　other　devices　for　the

saving　of　processes。　　Fill　me　such　a　wallet　full　of　'graphic'

things；　of　'quaint'　things　and　'weird；'　of　'crisp'　or　'sturdy'

Anglo…Saxon；　of　the　material　for　'word…painting'　（is　not　that　the

way　of　it？）；　and　it　will　serve　the　turn。　　Especially　did　the

Teutonic　fury　fill　full　these　common　little　hoards　of　language。　　It

seemed；　doubtless；　to　the　professor　of　the　New　Literature　that　if

anything　could　convince　him　of　his　own　success　it　must　be　the　energy

of　his　Teutonisms　and　his　avoidance　of　languid　Latin　derivatives；

fit　only　for　the　pedants　of　the　eighteenth　century。　　Literature

doubtless　is　made　of　words。　　What　then　is　needful；　he　seems　to　ask；

besides　a　knack　of　beautiful　words？　　Unluckily　for　him；　he　has

achieved；　not　style；　but　slang。　　Unluckily　for　him；　words　are　not

style；　phrases　are　not　style。　　'The　man　is　style。'　　O　good　French

language；　cunning　and　good；　that　lets　me　read　the　sentence　in

obverse　or　converse　as　I　will！　　And　I　read　it　as　declaring　that　the

whole　man；　the　very　whole　of　him；　is　his　style。　　The　literature　of　a

man　of　letters　worthy　the　name　is　rooted　in　all　his　qualities；　with

little　fibres　running　invisibly　into　the　smallest　qualities　he　has。

He　who　is　not　a　man　of　letters；　simply　is　not　one；　it　is　not　too

audacious　a　paradox　to　affirm　that　doing　will　not　avail　him　who

fails　in　being。　　'Lay　your　deadly　doing　down；'　sang　once　some　old

hymn　known　to　Calvinists。　　Certain　poets；　a　certain　time　ago；

ransacked　the　language　for　words　full　of　life　and　beauty；　made　a

vocabulary　of　them；　and　out　of　wantonness　wrote　them　to　death。　　To

change　somewhat　the　simile；　they　scented　out　a　wordan　earlyish

word；　by　preferenceran　it　to　earth；　unearthed　it；　dug　it　out；　and

killed　it。　　And　then　their　followers　bagged　it。　　The　very　word　that

lives；　'new　every　morning；'　miraculously　new；　in　the　literature　of　a

man　of　letters；　they　killed　and　put　into　their　bag。　　And；　in　like

manner；　the　emotion　that　should　have　caused　the　word　is　dead　for

those；　and　for　those　only；　who　abuse　its　expression。　　For　the　maker

of　a　portable　vocabulary　is　not　content　to　turn　his　words　up　there：

he　turns　up　his　feelings　also；　alphabetically　or　otherwise。

Wonderful　how　much　sensibility　is　at　hand　in　such　round　words　as　the

New　Literature　loves。　　Do　you　want　a　generous　emotion？　　Pull　forth

the　little　language。　　Find　out　moonshine；　find　out　moonshine！



Take；　as　an　instance；　Mr。　Swinburne's　'hell。'　　There　is；　I　fear；　no

doubt　whatever　that　Mr。　Swinburne　has　put　his　'hell'　into　a

vocabulary；　with　the　inevitable　consequences　to　the　word。　　And　when

the　minor　men　of　his　school　have　occasion　for　a　'hell'　（which　may

very　well　happen　to　any　young　man　practising　authorship）；　I　must　not

be　accused　of　phantasy　if　I　say　that　they　put　their　hands　into　Mr。

Swinburne's　vocabulary　and　pick　it。　　These　vocabularies　are　made　out

of　vigorous　and　blunt　language。　　'What　hempen　homespuns　have　we

swaggering　here？'　　Alas；　they　are　homespuns　from　the　factory；

machine…made　in　uncostly　quantities。　　Obviously；　power　needs　to　make

use　of　no　such　storage。　　The　property　of　power　is　to　use　phrases；

whether　strange　or　familiar；　as　though　it　created　them。　　But　even

more　than　lack　of　power　is　lack　of　humour　the　cause　of　all　the

rankness　and　the　staleness；　of　all　the　Anglo…Saxon　of　commerce；　of

all　the　weary　'quaintness'that　quaintness　of　which　one　is　moved　to

exclaim　with　Cassio：　　'Hither　comes　the　bauble！'　　Lack　of　a　sense　of

humour　betrays　a　man　into　that　perpetual　too…much　whereby　he　tries

to　make　amends　for　a　currency　debased。　　No　more　than　any　other　can　a

witty　writer　dispense　with　a　sense　of　humour。　　In　his　moments　of

sentiment　the　lack　is　distressing；　in　his　moments　of　wit　it　is　at

least　perceptible。　　A　sense　of　humour　cannot　be　always　present；　it

may　be　urged。　　Why；　no；　it　is　the　lack　of　it　that　isimportunate。

Other　absences；　such　as　the　absence　of　passion；　the　absence　of

delicacy；　are；　if　grievous　negatives；　still　mere　negatives。　　These

qualities　may　or　may　not　be　there　at　call；　ready　for　a　summons；　we

are　not　obliged　to　know；　we　are　not　momentarily　aware；　unless　they

ought　to　be　in　action；　whether　their　action　is　possible。　　But　want

of　power　and　want　of　a　sense　of　the　ridiculous：　　these　are　lacks

wherefrom　there　is　no　escaping；　deficiencies　that　are　all…

influential；　defects　that　assert　themselves；　vacancies　that　proclaim

themselves；　absences　from　the　presence　whereof　there　is　no　flying；

what　other　paradoxes　can　I　adventure？　　Without　powerno　style。

Without　a　possible　humour；no　style。　　The　weakling　has　no

confidence　in　himself　to　keep　him　from　grasping　at　words　that　he

fancies　hold　within　them　the　true　passions　of　the　race；　ready　for

the　uses　of　his　egoism。　　And　with　a　sense　of　humour　a　man　will　not

steal　from　a　shelf　the　precious　treasure　of　the　language　and　put　it

in　his　pocket。







PATHOS







A　fugitive　writer　wrote　but　lately　on　the　fugitive　page　of　a　minor

magazine：　　'For　our　part；　the　drunken　tinker　＇Christopher　Sly＇　is

the　most　real　personage　of　the　piece；　and　not　without　some　hints　of

the　pathos　that　is　worked　out　more　fully；　though　by　different　ways；

in　Bottom　and　Malvolio。'　　Has　it　indeed　come　to　this？　　Have　the

Zeitgeist　and　the　Weltschmerz　and　the　other　things　compared　to　which

'le　spleen'　was　gay；　done　so　much　for　us？　　Is　there　to　be　no

laughter　left　in　literature　free　from　the　preoccupation　of　a　sham

real…life？　　So　it　would　seem。　　Even　what　the　great　master　has　not

shown　us　in　his　work；　that　your　critic　convinced　of　pathos　is

resolved　to　see　in　it。　　By　the　penetration　of　his　intrusive　sympathy

he　will　come　at　it。　　It　is　of　little　use　now　to　explain　Snug　the

joiner　to　the　audience：　　why；　it　is　precisely　Snug　who　stirs　their

emotions　so　painfully。　　Not　the　lion；　they　can　see　through　that：

but　the　Snug　within；　the　human　Snug。　　And　Master　Shallow　has　the

Weltschmerz　in　that　latent　form　which　is　the　more　appealing；　and

discouraging　questions　arise　as　to　the　end　of　old　Double；　and　Argan

in　his　nightcap　is　the　tragic　figure　of　Monomania；　and　human　nature

shudders　at　the　petrifaction　of　the　intellect　of　Mr。　F。's　aunt。　　Et

patati；　et　patata。



It　may　be　only　too　true　that　the　actual　world　is　'with　pathos

delicately　edged。'　　For　Malvolio　living　we　should　have　had　living

sympathies：　　so　much　aspiration；　so　ill…educated　a　love　of

refinement；　so　unarmed　a　credulity；　noblest　of　weaknesses；　betrayed

for　the　laughter　of　a　chambermaid。　　By　an　actual　Bottom　the　Weaver

our　pity　might　be　reached　for　the　sake　of　his　single　self…reliance；

his　fancy　and　resource　condemned　to　burlesque　and　ignominy　by　the

niggard　doom　of　circumstance。　　But　is　not　life　one　thing　and　is　not

art　another？　　Is　it　not　the　privilege　of　literature　to　make

selection　and　to　treat　things　singly；　without　the　after…thoughts　of

life；　without　the　troublous　completeness　of　the　many…sided　world？

Is　not　Shakespeare；　for　this　reason；　our　refuge？　　Fortunately　unreal

is　his　world　when　he　will　have　it　so；　and　there　we　may　laugh　with

open　heart　at　a　grotesque　man：　　without　misgiving；　without　remorse；

without　reluctance。　　If　great　creating　Nature　has　not　assumed　for

herself　she　has　assuredly　secured　to　the　great　creating　poet　the

right　of　partiality；　of　limitation；　of　setting　aside　and　leaving

out；　of　taking　one　impression　and　one　emotion　as　sufficient　for　the

day。　　Art　and　Nature　are　separate；　complementary；　in　relation；　not

in　confusion；　with　one　another。　　And　all　this　officious　cleverness

in　seeing　round　the　corner；　as　it　were；　of　a　thing　presented　by

literary　art　in　the　flat（the　borrowing　of　similes　from　other　arts

is　of　evil　tendency；　but　let　this　pass；　as　it　is　apt）is　but

another　sign　of　the　general　lack　of　a　sense　of　the　separation

between　Nature　and　the　sentient　mirror　in　the　mind。　　In　some　of　his

persons；　indeed；　Shakespeare　is　as　Nature　herself；　all…inclusive；

but　in　othersand　chiefly　in　comedyhe　is　partial；　he　is

impressi