the colour of life(生命之色)-第2节
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But no one has paused in the course of these phrases to take notice of
the curious and conspicuous fact of the suppression of death and of the
dead throughout this landscape of manifest life。 Where are they … all the
dying； all the dead； of the populous woods？ Where do they hide their
little last hours； where are they buried？ Where is the violence concealed？
Under what gay custom and decent habit？ You may see； it is true； an earth…
worm in a robin's beak； and may hear a thrush breaking a snail's shell； but
these little things are； as it were； passed by with a kind of twinkle for
apology； as by a well…bred man who does openly some little solecism
which is too slight for direct mention； and which a meaner man might hide
or avoid。 Unless you are very modern indeed； you twinkle back at the
bird。
But otherwise there is nothing visible of the havoc and the prey and
plunder。 It is certain that much of the visible life passes violently into
other forms； flashes without pause into another flame； but not all。 Amid
all the killing there must be much dying。 There are； for instance； few birds
of prey left in our more accessible counties now； and many thousands of
birds must die uncaught by a hawk and unpierced。 But if their killing is
done so modestly； so then is their dying also。 Short lives have all these
wild things； but there are innumerable flocks of them always alive； they
must die； then； in innumerable flocks。 And yet they keep the millions of
the dead out of sight。
Now and then； indeed； they may be betrayed。 It happened in a cold
winter。 The late frosts were so sudden； and the famine was so complete；
that the birds were taken unawares。 The sky and the earth conspired that
February to make known all the secrets； everything was published。
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Death was manifest。 Editors； when a great man dies； are not more
resolute than was the frost of ‘95。
The birds were obliged to die in public。 They were surprised and
forced to do thus。 They became like Shelley in the monument which the
art and imagination of England combined to raise to his memory at
Oxford。
Frost was surely at work in both cases； and in both it wrought wrong。
There is a similarity of unreason in betraying the death of a bird and in
exhibiting the death of Shelley。 The death of a soldier … passe encore。
But the death of Shelley was not his goal。 And the death of the birds is so
little characteristic of them that； as has just been said； no one in the world
is aware of their dying； except only in the case of birds in cages； who；
again； are compelled to die with observation。 The woodland is guarded
and kept by a rule。 There is no display of the battlefield in the fields。
There is no tale of the game…bag； no boast。 The hunting goes on； but
with strange decorum。 You may pass a fine season under the trees； and
see nothing dead except here and there where a boy has been by； or a man
with a trap； or a man with a gun。 There is nothing like a butcher's shop in
the woods。
But the biographers have always had other ways than those of the wild
world。 They will not have a man to die out of sight。 I have turned over
scores of 〃Lives；〃 not to read them； but to see whether now and again
there might be a 〃Life〃 which was not more emphatically a death。 But
there never is a modern biography that has taken the hint of Nature。 One
and all； these books have the disproportionate illness； the death out of all
scale。
Even more wanton than the disclosure of a death is that of a mortal
illness。 If the man had recovered； his illness would have been rightly his
own secret。 But because he did not recover； it is assumed to be news for
the first comer。 Which of us would suffer the details of any physical
suffering； over and done in our own lives； to be displayed and described？
This is not a confidence we have a mind to make； and no one is authorised
to ask for attention or pity on our behalf。 The story of pain ought not to
be told of us； seeing that by us it would assuredly not be told。
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There is only one other thing that concerns a man still more
exclusively； and that is his own mental illness； or the dreams and illusions
of a long delirium。 When he is in common language not himself； amends
should be made for so bitter a paradox； he should be allowed such solitude
as is possible to the alienated spirit； he should be left to the 〃not himself；〃
and spared the intrusion against which he can so ill guard that he could
hardly have even resented it。
The double helplessness of delusion and death should keep the door of
Rossetti's house； for example； and refuse him to the reader。 His mortal
illness had nothing to do with his poetry。 Some rather affected objection
is taken every now and then to the publication of some facts （others being
already well known） in the life of Shelley。 Nevertheless； these are all；
properly speaking； biography。 What is not biography is the detail of the
accident of the manner of his death； the detail of his cremation。 Or if it
was to be told … told briefly … it was certainly not for marble。 Shelley's
death had no significance； except inasmuch as he died young。 It was a
detachable and disconnected incident。 Ah； that was a frost of fancy and
of the heart that used it so； dealing with an insignificant fact； and
conferring a futile immortality。 Those are ill…named biographers who
seem to think that a betrayal of the ways of death is a part of their ordinary
duty； and that if material enough for a last chapter does not lie to their
hand they are to search it out。 They； of all survivors； are called upon； in
honour and reason； to look upon a death with more composure。 To those
who loved the dead closely； this is； for a time； impossible。 To them death
becomes； for a year； disproportionate。 Their dreams are fixed upon it
night by night。 They have； in those dreams； to find the dead in some
labyrinth； they have to mourn his dying and to welcome his recovery in
such a mingling of distress and of always incredulous happiness as is not
known even to dreams save in that first year of separation。 But they are
not biographers。
If death is the privacy of the woods； it is the more conspicuously secret
because it is their only privacy。 You may watch or may surprise
everything else。 The nest is retired； not hidden。 The chase goes on
everywhere。 It is wonderful how the perpetual chase seems to cause no
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perpetual fear。 The songs are all audible。 Life is undefended； careless；
nimble and noisy。
It is a happy thing that minor artists have ceased； or almost ceased； to
paint dead birds。 Time was when they did it continually in that British
School of water…colour art； stippled； of which surrounding nations； it was
agreed； were envious。 They must have killed their bird to paint him； for
he is not to be caught dead。 A bird is more easily caught alive than dead。
A poet； on the contrary； is easily … too easily … caught dead。 Minor
artists now seldom stipple the bird on its back； but a good sculptor and a
University together modelled their Shelley on his back； unessentially
drowned； and everybody may read about the sick mind of Dante Rossetti。
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CLOUD
During a part of the year
