the spirit of place and other essays-第10节

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The　French　comedy；　then；　is　fairly　stuffed　with　thin…S　for　an

Englishman。　　They　are　not　all；　it　is　true；　so　finely　comic　as　〃Il

s'est　trompe　de　defunte。〃　　In　the　report　of　that　dull；　incomparable

sentence　there　is　enough　humour；　and　subtle　enough；　for　both　the

maker　and　the　reader；　for　the　author　who　perceives　the　comedy　as

well　as　custom　will　permit；　and　for　the　reader　who　takes　it　with　the

freshness　of　a　stranger。　　But　if　not　so　keen　as　this；　the　current

word　of　French　comedy　is　of　the　same　quality　of　language。　　When　of

the　fourteen　couples　to　be　married　by　the　mayor；　for　instance；　the

deaf　clerk　has　shuffled　two；　a　looker…on　pronounces：　　〃Il　s'est

empetre　dans　les　futurs。〃　　But　for　a　reader　who　has　a　full　sense　of

the　several　languages　that　exist　in　English　at　the　service　of　the

several　ways　of　human　life；　there　is；　from　the　mere　terminology　of

official　France；　high　or　lowdaily　Francea　gratuitous　and

uncovenanted　smile　to　be　had。　　With　this　the　wit　of　the　report　of

French　literature　has　not　little　to　do。　　Nor　is　it　in　itself；

perhaps；　reasonably　comic；　but　the　slightest　irony　of　circumstance

makes　it　so。　　A　very　little　of　the　mockery　of　conditions　brings　out

all　the　latent　absurdity　of　the　〃sixieme　et　septieme　arron…

dissements；〃　in　the　twinkling　of　an　eye。　　So　is　it　with　the　mere

〃domicile；〃　with　the　aid　of　but　a　little　of　the　burlesque　of　life；

the　suit　at　law　to　〃reintegrer　le　domicile　conjugal〃　becomes　as

grotesque　as　a　phrase　can　make　it。　　Even　〃e　domicile〃　merelythe

word　of　every　shopmanis；　in　the　unconscious　mouths　of　the

speakers；　always　awaiting　the　lightest　touch　of　farce；　if　only　an

Englishman　hears　it；　so　is　the　advice　of　the　police　that　you　shall

〃circuler〃　in　the　street；　so　is　the　request；　posted　up；　that　you

shall　not；　in　the　churches。



So　are　the　serious　and　ordinary　phrases；　〃maison　nuptiale；〃　〃maison

mortuaire；〃　and　the　still　more　serious　〃repos　dominical；〃　〃oraison

dominicale。〃　　There　is　no　majesty　in　such　words。　　The　unsuspicious

gravity　with　which　they　are　spoken　broadcast　is　not　to　be　wondered

at；　the　language　offering　no　relief　of　contrast；　and　what　is　much　to

the　credit　of　the　comic　sensibility　of　literature　is　the　fact　that；

through　this　general　unconsciousness；　the　ridicule　of　a　thousand

authors　of　comedy　perceives　the　fun；　and　singles　out　the　familiar

thing；　and　compels　that　most　elaborate　dulness　to　amuse　us。　　US；

above　all；　by　virtue　of　the　custom　of　counter…change　here　set　forth。



Who　shall　say　whether；　by　operation　of　the　same　exchange；　the

English　poets　that　so　persist　in　France　may　not　reveal　something

within　the　English　languageone　would　be　somewhat　loth　to　think　so…

…reserved　to　the　French　reader　peculiarly？　　Byron　to　the　multitude；

Edgar　Poe　to　the　select？　　Then　would　some　of　the　mysteries　of　French

reading　of　English　be　explained　otherwise　than　by　the　plainer

explanation　that　has　hitherto　satisfied　our　haughty　curiosity。　　The

taste　for　rhetoric　seemed　to　account　for　Byron；　and　the　desire　of

the　rhetorician　to　claim　a　taste　for　poetry　seemed　to　account　for

Poe。　　But；　after　all；　PATATRAS！　　Who　can　say？







RAIN







Not　excepting　the　falling　starsfor　they　are　far　less　suddenthere

is　nothing　in　nature　that　so　outstrips　our　unready　eyes　as　the

familiar　rain。　　The　rods　that　thinly　stripe　our　landscape；　long

shafts　from　the　clouds；　if　we　had　but　agility　to　make　the　arrowy

downward　journey　with　them　by　the　glancing　of　our　eyes；　would　be

infinitely　separate；　units；　an　innumerable　flight　of　single　things；

and　the　simple　movement　of　intricate　points。



The　long　stroke　of　the　raindrop；　which　is　the　drop　and　its　path　at

once；　being　our　impression　of　a　shower；　shows　us　how　certainly　our

impression　is　the　effect　of　the　lagging；　and　not　of　the　haste；　of

our　senses。　　What　we　are　apt　to　call　our　quick　impression　is　rather

our　sensibly　tardy；　unprepared；　surprised；　outrun；　lightly

bewildered　sense　of　things　that　flash　and　fall；　wink；　and　are

overpast　and　renewed；　while　the　gentle　eyes　of　man　hesitate　and

mingle　the　beginning　with　the　close。　　These　inexpert　eyes；

delicately　baffled；　detain　for　an　instant　the　image　that　puzzles

them；　and　so　dally　with　the　bright　progress　of　a　meteor；　and　part

slowly　from　the　slender　course　of　the　already　fallen　raindrop；　whose

moments　are　not　theirs。　　There　seems　to　be　such　a　difference　of

instants　as　invests　all　swift　movement　with　mystery　in　man's　eyes；

and　causes　the　past；　a　moment　old；　to　be　written；　vanishing；　upon

the　skies。



The　visible　world　is　etched　and　engraved　with　the　signs　and　records

of　our　halting　apprehension；　and　the　pause　between　the　distant

woodman's　stroke　with　the　axe　and　its　sound　upon　our　ears　is

repeated　in　the　impressions　of　our　clinging　sight。　　The　round　wheel

dazzles　it；　and　the　stroke　of　the　bird's　wing　shakes　it　off　like　a

captivity　evaded。　　Everywhere　the　natural　haste　is　impatient　of

these　timid　senses；　and　their　perception；　outrun　by　the　shower；

shaken　by　the　light；　denied　by　the　shadow；　eluded　by　the　distance；

makes　the　lingering　picture　that　is　all　our　art。　　One　of　the　most

constant　causes　of　all　the　mystery　and　beauty　of　that　art　is　surely

not　that　we　see　by　flashes；　but　that　nature　flashes　on　our

meditative　eyes。　　There　is　no　need　for　the　impressionist　to　make

haste；　nor　would　haste　avail　him；　for　mobile　nature　doubles　upon

him；　and　plays　with　his　delays　the　exquisite　game　of　visibility。



Momently　visible　in　a　shower；　invisible　within　the　earth；　the

ministration　of　water　is　so　manifest　in　the　coming　rain…cloud　that

the　husbandman　is　allowed　to　see　the　rain　of　his　own　land；　yet

unclaimed　in　the　arms　of　the　rainy　wind。　　It　is　an　eager　lien　that

he　binds　the　shower　withal；　and　the　grasp　of　his　anxiety　is　on　the

coming　cloud。　　His　sense　of　property　takes　aim　and　reckons　distance

and　speed；　and　even　as　he　shoots　a　little　ahead　of　the　equally

uncertain　ground…game；　he　knows　approximately　how　to　hit　the　cloud

of　his　possession。　　So　much　is　the　rain　bound　to　the　earth　that；

unable　to　compel　it；　man　has　yet　found　a　way；　by　lying　in　wait；　to

put　his　price　upon　it。　　The　exhaustible　cloud　〃outweeps　its　rain；〃

and　only　the　inexhaustible　sun　seems　to　repeat　and　to　enforce　his

cumulative　fires　upon　every　span　of　ground；　innumerable。　　The　rain

is　wasted　upon　the　sea；　but　only　by　a　fantasy　can　the　sun's　waste　be

made　a　reproach　to　the　ocean；　the　desert；　or　the　sealed…up　street。

Rossetti's　〃vain　virtues〃　are　the　virtues　of　the　rain；　falling

unfruitfully。



Baby　of　the　cloud；　rain　is　carried　long　enough　within　that　troubled

breast　to　make　all　the　multitude　of　days　unlike　each　other。　　Rain；

as　the　end　of　the　cloud；　divides　light　and　withholds　it；　in　its

flight　warning　away　the　sun；　and　in　its　final　fall　dismissing

shadow。　　It　is　a　threat　and　a　reconciliation；　it　removes　mountains

compared　with　which　the　Alps　are　hillocks；　and　makes　a　childlike

peace　between　opposed　heights　and　battlements　of　heaven。







THE　LETTERS　OF　MARCELINE　VALMORE







〃Prends　garde　e　moi；　ma　fille；　et　couvre　moi　bien！〃　　Marceline

Desbordes…Valmore；　writing　from　France　to　her　daughter　Ondine；　who

was　delicate　and　chilly　in　London　in　1841；　has　the　same　solicitous；

journeying　fancy　as　was　expressed　by　two　other　women；　both　also

Frenchwomen；　and　both　articulate　in　tenderness。　　Eugenie　de　Guerin；

that　queen　of　sisters；　had　preceded　her　with　her　own　complaint；　〃I

have　a　pain　in　my　brother's　side〃；　and　in　another　age　Mme。　de

Sevigne　had　suffered；　in　the　course　of　long　posts　and　through

infrequent　lettersa　protraction　of　conjectured　painwithin　the

frame　of　her　absent　daughter。　　She　phrased　her　plight　in　much　the

same　words；　confessing　the　uncancelled　union　with　her　child　that　had

effaced　for　her　the　boundaries　of　her　personal　life。



Is　not　what　we　call　a　lifethe　personal　lifea　separation　from　the

universal　life；　a　seclusion；　a　division；　a　cleft；　a　wound？　　For

these　women；　such　a　severance　was　in　part　healed；　made　whole；　closed

up；　and　cured。　　Life　was　restored　between　two　at　a　time　of　human…

kind。　　Did　these　three　women　guess　that　their　sufferings　of　sympathy

with　their　children　were　indeed　the　signs　of　a　new　and　universal

healththe　prophecy　of　human　unity？



The　sign　might　have　been　a　more　manifest　and　a　happier　prophecy　had

this　union　of　tenderness　taken　the　gay　occasion　as　often　as　the　sad。

Except　at　times；　in　the　single　case　of　Mme。　de　Sevigne；　all　three

far　more　sensitive　than　the　rest　of　the　worldwere　yet　not

sensitive　enough　to　feel　equally　the　less　sharp　communication　of

joy。　　They　claimed；　owned；　and　felt　sensibly　the　pangs　and　not　the

pleasures　of　the　absent。　　Or　if　not　only　the　pangs；　at　least　they

were　apprehensive　chiefly　in　that　sense　which　human　anxiety　and

foreboding　have　lent　to　the　word；　they　were　apprehensive　of　what

they　feared。　　〃Are　you　warm？〃　writes　Marceline　Valmore　to　her　child。

〃You　have　so　little　to　wearare　you　r