the spirit of place and other essays(地方的精神等)-第3节
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fever；〃 because she is not well； 〃but why should D escape it； pray？〃 And
Mrs。 Dingley is rebuked for her tale of a journey from Dublin to Wexford。
〃I doubt； Madam Dingley； you are apt to lie in your travels； though not so
bad as Stella； she tells thumpers。〃 Stella is often reproved for her
spelling； and Mrs。 Dingley writes much the better hand。 But she is a
puzzle…headed woman； like another。 〃What do you mean by my fourth
letter； Madam Dinglibus？ Does not Stella say you had my fifth； goody
Blunder？〃 〃Now； Mistress Dingley； are you not an impudent slut to
except a letter next packet？ Unreasonable baggage！ No； little Dingley；
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I am always in bed by twelve； and I take great care of myself。〃 〃You are
a pretending slut； indeed； with your ‘fourth' and ‘fifth' in the margin； and
your ‘journal' and everything。 O Lord； never saw the like； we shall never
have done。〃 〃I never saw such a letter； so saucy； so journalish； so
everything。〃 Swift is insistently grateful for their inquiries for his health。
He pauses seriously to thank them in the midst of his prattle。 Both
women MDare rallied on their politics： 〃I have a fancy that Ppt is a
Tory； I fancy she looks like one； and D a sort of trimmer。〃
But it is for Dingley separately that Swift endured a wild bird in his
lodgings。 His man Patrick had got one to take over to her in Ireland。
〃He keeps it in a closet； where it makes a terrible litter； but I say nothing； I
am as tame as a clout。〃
Forgotten Dingley； happy in this； has not had to endure the ignominy；
in a hundred essays； to be retrospectively offered to Swift as an unclaimed
wife； so far so good。 But two hundred years is long for her to have gone
stripped of so radiant a glory as is hers by right。 〃Better； thanks to MD's
prayers；〃 wrote the immortal man who loved her； in a private fragment of
a journal； never meant for Dingley's eyes； nor for Ppt's； nor for any human
eyes； and the rogue Stella has for two centuries stolen all the credit of
those prayers； and all the thanks of that pious benediction。
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SOLITUDE
The wild man is alone at will； and so is the man for whom civilization
has been kind。 But there are the multitudes to whom civilization has
given little but its reaction； its rebound； its chips； its refuse； its shavings；
sawdust and waste； its failures； to them solitude is a right foregone or a
luxury unattained； a right foregone； we may name it； in the case of the
nearly savage； and a luxury unattained in the case of the nearly refined。
These has the movement of the world thronged together into some blind
by…way。
Their share in the enormous solitude which is the common； unbounded；
and virtually illimitable possession of all mankind has lapsed； unclaimed。
They do not know it is theirs。 Of many of their kingdoms they are
ignorant； but of this most ignorant。 They have not guessed that they own
for every man a space inviolate； a place of unhidden liberty and of no
obscure enfranchisement。 They do not claim even the solitude of closed
corners； the narrow privacy of the lock and key； nor could they command
so much。 For the solitude that has a sky and a horizon they know not
how to wish。
It lies in a perpetual distance。 England has leagues thereof；
landscapes； verge beyond verge； a thousand thousand places in the woods；
and on uplifted hills。 Or rather； solitudes are not to be measured by miles；
they are to be numbered by days。 They are freshly and freely the
dominion of every man for the day of his possession。 There is loneliness
for innumerable solitaries。 As many days as there are in all the ages； so
many solitudes are there for men。 This is the open house of the earth； no
one is refused。 Nor is the space shortened or the silence marred because；
one by one； men in multitudes have been alone there before。 Solitude is
separate experience。 Nay； solitudes are not to be numbered by days； but
by men themselves。 Every man of the living and every man of the dead
might have had his 〃privacy of light。〃
It needs no park。 It is to be found in the merest working country； and
a thicket may be as secret as a forest。 It is not so difficult to get for a
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time out of sight and earshot。 Even if your solitude be enclosed； it is still
an open solitude； so there be 〃no cloister for the eyes；〃 and a space of far
country or a cloud in the sky be privy to your hiding…place。 But the best
solitude does not hide at all。
This the people who have drifted together into the streets live whole
lives and never know。 Do they suffer from their deprivation of even the
solitude of the hiding…place？ There are many who never have a whole
hour alone。 They live in reluctant or indifferent companionship； as
people may in a boarding…house； by paradoxical choice； familiar with one
another and not intimate。 They live under careless observation and
subject to a vagabond curiosity。 Theirs is the involuntary and perhaps the
unconscious loss which is futile and barren。
One knows the men； and the many women； who have sacrificed all
their solitude to the perpetual society of the school； the cloister； or the
hospital ward。 They walk without secrecy； candid； simple； visible；
without moods； unchangeable； in a constant communication and practice
of action and speech。 Theirs assuredly is no barren or futile loss； and
they have a conviction； and they bestow the conviction； of solitude
deferred。
Who has painted solitude so that the solitary seemed to stand alone
and inaccessible？ There is the loneliness of the shepherdess in many a
drawing of J。F。 Millet。 The little figure is away； aloof。 The girl stands so
when the painter is gone。 She waits so on the sun for the closing of the
hours of pasture。 Millet has her as she looks； out of sight。
Now； although solitude is a prepared； secured； defended； elaborate
possession of the rich； they too deny themselves the natural solitude of a
woman with a child。 A newly…born child is so nursed and talked about；
handled and jolted and carried about by aliens； and there is so much
importunate service going forward； that a woman is hardly alone long
enough to become aware； in recollection； how her own blood moves
separately； beside her； with another rhythm and different pulses。 All is
commonplace until the doors are closed upon the two。 This unique
intimacy is a profound retreat； an absolute seclusion。 It is more than
single solitude； it is a redoubled isolation more remote than mountains；
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safer than valleys； deeper than forests； and further than mid…sea。
That solitude partakenthe only partaken solitude in the worldis the
Point of Honour of ethics。 Treachery to that obligation and a betrayal of
that confidence might well be held to be the least pardonable of all crimes。
There is no innocent sleep so innocent as sleep shared between a woman
and a child； the little breath hurrying beside the longer； as a child's foot
runs。 But the favourite crime of the sentimentalist is that of a woman
against her child。 Her power； her intimacy； her opportunity； that should
be her accusers； are held to excuse her。
