the spirit of place and other essays-第3节

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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　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；　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。　　She　gains　the　most　slovenly　of　indulgences

and　the　grossest　compassion；　on　the　vulgar　grounds　that　her　crime

was　easy。



Lawless　and　vain　art　of　a　certain　kind　is　apt　to　claim　to…day；　by

the　way；　some　such　fondling　as　a　heroine　of　the　dock　receives　from

common　opinion。　　The　vain　artist　had　all　the　opportunities　of　the

situation。　　He　was　master　of　his　own　purpose；　such　as　it　was；　it　was

his　secret；　and　the　public　was　not　privy　to　his　artistic　conscience。

He　does　violence　to　the　obligations　of　which　he　is　aware；　and　which

the　world　does　not　know　very　explicitly。　　Nothing　is　easier。　　Or　he

is　lawless　in　a　more　literal　sense；　but　only　hopes　the　world　will

believe　that　he　has　a　whole　code　of　his　own　making。　　It　would；

nevertheless；　be　less　unworthy　to　break　obvious　rules　obviously　in

the　obvious　face　of　the　public；　and　to　abide　the　common　rebuke。



It　has　just　been　said　that　a　park　is　by　no　means　necessary　for　the

preparation　of　a　country　solitude。　　Indeed；　to　make　those　far　and

wide　and　long　approaches　and　avenues　to　peace　seems　to　be　a　denial

of　the　accessibility　of　what　should　be　so　simple。　　A　step；　a　pace　or

so　aside；　is　enough　to　lead　thither。



A　park　insists　too　much；　and；　besides；　does　not　insist　very

sincerely。　　In　order　to　fulfil　the　apparent　professions　and　to　keep

the　published　promise　of　a　park；　the　owner　thereof　should　be　a　lover

of　long　seclusion　or　of　a　very　life　of　loneliness。　　He　should　have

gained　the　state　of　solitariness　which　is　a　condition　of　life　quite

unlike　any　other。　　The　traveller　who　may　have　gone　astray　in

countries　where　an　almost　life…long　solitude　is　possible　knows　how

invincibly　apart　are　the　lonely　figures　he　has　seen　in　desert　places

there。　　Their　loneliness　is　broken　by　his　passage；　it　is　true；　but

hardly　so　to　them。　　They　look　at　him；　but　they　are　not　aware　that　he

looks　at　them。　　Nay；　they　look　at　him　as　though　they　were　invisible。

Their　un…self…consciousness　is　absolute；　it　is　in　the　wild　degree。

They　are　solitaries；　body　and　soul；　even　when　they　are　curious；　and

turn　to　watch　the　passer…by；　they　are　essentially　alone。　　Now；　no

one　ever　found　that　attitude　in　a　squire's　figure；　or　that　look　in

any　country　gentleman's　eyes。　　The　squire　is　not　a　life…long

solitary。　　He　never　bore　himself　as　though　he　were　invisible。　　He

never　had　the　impersonal　ways　of　a　herdsman　in　the　remoter

Apennines；　with　a　blind；　blank　hut　in　the　rocks　for　his　dwelling。

Millet　would　not　even　have　taken　him　as　a　model　for　a　solitary　in

the　briefer　and　milder　sylvan　solitudes　of　France。　　And　yet　nothing

but　a　life…long；　habitual；　and　wild　solitariness　would　be　quite

proportionate　to　a　park　of　any　magnitude。



If　there　is　a　look　of　human　eyes　that　tells　of　perpetual　loneliness；

so　there　is　also　the　familiar　look　that　is　the　sign　of　perpetual

crowds。　　It　is　the　London　expression；　and；　in　its　way；　the　Paris

expression。　　It　is　the　quickly　caught；　though　not　interested；　look；

the　dull　but　ready　glance　of　those　who　do　not　know　of　their

forfeited　place　apart；　who　have　neither　the　open　secret　nor　the

close；　no　reserve；　no　need　of　refuge；　no　flight　nor　impulse　of

flight；　no　moods　but　what　they　may　brave　out　in　the　street；　no　hope

of　news　from　solitary　counsels。







THE　LADY　OF　THE　LYRICS







She　is　eclipsed；　or　gone；　or　in　hiding。　　But　the　sixteenth　century

took　her　for　granted　as　the　object　of　song；　she　was　a　class；　a

state；　a　sex。　　It　was　scarcely　necessary　to　waste　the　lyrist's　time…

…time　that　went　so　gaily　to　metre　as　not　to　brook　delaysin　making

her　out　too　clearly。　　She　had　no　more　of　what　later　times　call

individuality　than　has　the　rose；　her　rival；　her　foil　when　she　was

kinder；　her　superior　when　she　was　cruel；　her　ever　fresh　and　ever

conventional　paragon。　　She　needed　not　to　be　devised　or　divined；　she

was　ready。　　A　merry　heart　goes　all　the　day；　the　lyrist's　never　grew

weary。　　Honest　men　never　grow　tired　of　bread　or　of　any　other　daily

things　whereof　the　sweetness　is　in　their　own　simplicity。



The　lady　of　the　lyrics　was　not　loved　in　mortal　earnest；　and　her

punishment　now　and　then　for　her　ingratitude　was　to　be　told　that　she

was　loved　in　jest。　　She　did　not　love；　her　fancy　was　fickle；　she　was

not　moved　by　long　service；　which；　by　the　way；　was　evidently　to　be

taken　for　granted　precisely　like　the　whole　long　past　of　a　dream。

She　had　not　a　good　temper。　　When　the　poet　groans　it　seems　that　she

has　laughed　at　him；　when　he　flouts　her；　we　may　understand　that　she

has　chidden　her　lyrist　in　no　temperate　terms。　　In　doing　this　she　has

sinned　not　so　much　against　him　as　against　Love。　　With　that　she　is

perpetually　reproved。　　The　lyrist　complains　to　Love；　pities　Love　for

her　scorning；　and　threatens　to　go　away　with　Love；　who　is　on　his

side。　　The　sweetest　verse　is　tuned　to　love　when　the　loved　one　proves

worthy。



There　is　no　record　of　success　for　this　policy。　　She　goes　on　dancing

or　scolding；　as　the　case　may　be；　and　the　lyrist