the colour of life(生命之色)-第9节
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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；
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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。
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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。
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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
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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 s
