the colour of life-第7部分

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wind；　more　than　the　dumb　trees。　　For　the　multitudes　of　sedges；

rushes；　canes；　and　reeds　were　the　appropriate　lyre　of　the　cold。　　On

them　the　nimble　winds　played　their　dry　music。　　They　were　part　of　the

winter。　　It　looked　through　them　and　spoke　through　them。　　They　were

spears　and　javelins　in　array　to　the　sound　of　the　drums　of　the　north。



The　winter　takes　fuller　possession　of　these　things　than　of　those

that　stand　solid。　　The　sedges　whistle　his　tune。　　They　let　the　colour

of　his　light　look　through　…　low…flying　arrows　and　bright　bayonets　of

winter　day。



The　multitudes　of　all　reeds　and　rushes　grow　out　of　bounds。　　They

belong　to　the　margins　of　lands；　the　space　between　the　farms　and　the

river；　beyond　the　pastures；　and　where　the　marsh　in　flower　becomes

perilous　footing　for　the　cattle。　　They　are　the　fringe　of　the　low

lands；　the　sign　of　streams。　　They　grow　tall　between　you　and　the　near

horizon　of　flat　lands。　　They　etch　their　sharp　lines　upon　the　sky；

and　near　them　grow　flowers　of　stature；　including　the　lofty　yellow

lily。



Our　green　country　is　the　better　for　the　grey；　soft；　cloudy　darkness

of　the　sedge；　and　our　full　landscape　is　the　better　for　the

distinction　of　its　points；　its　needles；　and　its　resolute　right

lines。



Ours　is　a　summer　full　of　voices；　and　therefore　it　does　not　so　need

the　sound　of　rushes；　but　they　are　most　sensitive　to　the　stealthy

breezes；　and　betray　the　passing　of　a　wind　that　even　the　tree…tops

knew　not　of。　　Sometimes　it　is　a　breeze　unfelt；　but　the　stiff　sedges

whisper　it　along　a　mile　of　marsh。　　To　the　strong　wind　they　bend；

showing　the　silver　of　their　sombre　little　tassels　as　fish　show　the

silver　of　their　sides　turning　in　the　pathless　sea。　　They　are

unanimous。　　A　field　of　tall　flowers　tosses　many　ways　in　one　warm

gale；　like　the　many　lovers　of　a　poet　who　have　a　thousand　reasons　for

their　love；　but　the　rushes；　more　strongly　tethered；　are　swept　into　a

single　attitude；　again　and　again；　at　every　renewal　of　the　storm。



Between　the　pasture　and　the　wave；　the　many　miles　of　rushes　and　reeds

in　England　seem　to　escape　that　insistent　ownership　which　has　so

changed　（except　for　a　few　forests　and　downs）　the　aspect　of　England；

and　has　in　fact　made　the　landscape。　　Cultivation　makes　the　landscape

elsewhere；　rather　than　ownership；　for　the　boundaries　in　the　south

are　not　conspicuous；　but　here　it　is　ownership。　　But　the　rushes　are　a

gipsy　people；　amongst　us；　yet　out　of　reach。　　The　landowner；　if　he　is

rather　a　gross　man；　believes　these　races　of　reeds　are　his。　　But　if

he　is　a　man　of　sensibility；　depend　upon　it　he　has　his　interior

doubts。　　His　property；　he　says；　goes　right　down　to　the　centre　of　the

earth；　in　the　shape　of　a　wedge；　how　high　up　it　goes　into　the　air　it

would　be　difficult　to　say；　and　obviously　the　shape　of　the　wedge　must

be　continued　in　the　direction　of　increase。　　We　may　therefore

proclaim　his　right　to　the　clouds　and　their　cargo。　　It　is　true　that

as　his　ground　game　is　apt　to　go　upon　his　neighbour's　land　to　be

shot；　so　the　clouds　may　now　and　then　spend　his　showers　elsewhere。

But　the　great　thing　is　the　view。　　A　well…appointed　country…house

sees　nothing　out　of　the　windows　that　is　not　its　own。　　But　he　who

tells　you　so；　and　proves　it　to　you　by　his　own　view；　is　certainly

disturbed　by　an　unspoken　doubt；　if　his　otherwise　contented　eyes

should　happen　to　be　caught　by　a　region　of　rushes。　　The　water　is　his

…　he　had　the　pond　made；　or　the　river；　for　a　space；　and　the　fish；　for

a　time。　　But　the　bulrushes；　the　reeds！　　One　wonders　whether　a　very

thorough　landowner；　but　a　sensitive　one；　ever　resolved　that　he　would

endure　this　sort　of　thing　no　longer；　and　went　out　armed　and　had　a

long　acre　of　sedges　scythed　to　death。



They　are　probably　outlaws。　　They　are　dwellers　upon　thresholds　and

upon　margins；　as　the　gipsies　make　a　home　upon　the　green　edges　of　a

road。　　No　wild　flowers；　however　wild；　are　rebels。　　The　copses　and

their　primroses　are　good　subjects；　the　oaks　are　loyal。　　Now　and

then；　though；　one　has　a　kind　of　suspicion　of　some　of　the　other　kinds

of　trees　…　the　Corot　trees。　　Standing　at　a　distance　from　the　more

ornamental　trees；　from　those　of　fuller　foliage；　and　from　all　the

indeciduous　shrubs　and　the　conifers　（manifest　property；　every　one）；

two　or　three　translucent　aspens；　with　which　the　very　sun　and　the

breath　of　earth　are　entangled；　have　sometimes　seemed　to　wear　a

certain　look　…　an　extra…territorial　look；　let　us　call　it。　　They　are

suspect。　　One　is　inclined　to　shake　a　doubtful　head　at　them。



And　the　landowner　feels　it。　　He　knows　quite　well；　though　he　may　not

say　so；　that　the　Corot　trees；　though　they　do　not　dwell　upon　margins；

are　in　spirit　almost　as　extraterritorial　as　the　rushes。　　In　proof　of

this　he　very　often　cuts　them　down；　out　of　the　view；　once　for　all。

The　view　is　better；　as　a　view；　without　them。　　Though　their　roots　are

in　his　ground　right　enough；　there　is　a　something　about　their　heads　…

。　　But　the　reason　he　gives　for　wishing　them　away　is　merely　that　they

are　〃thin。〃　　A　man　does　not　always　say　everything。







ELEONORA　DUSE







The　Italian　woman　is　very　near　to　Nature；　so　is　true　drama。



Acting　is　not　to　be　judged　like　some　other　of　the　arts；　and　praised

for　a　〃noble　convention。〃　　Painting；　indeed；　is　not　praised　amiss

with　that　word；　painting　is　obviously　an　art　that　exists　by　its

convention　…　the　convention　is　the　art。　　But　far　otherwise　is　it

with　the　art　of　acting；　where　there　is　no　representative　material；

where；　that　is；　the　man　is　his　own　material；　and　there　is　nothing

between。　　With　the　actor　the　style　is　the　man；　in　another；　a　more

immediate；　and　a　more　obvious　sense　than　was　ever　intended　by　that

saying。　　Therefore　we　may　allow　the　critic　…　and　not　accuse　him　of

reaction　…　to　speak　of　the　division　between　art　and　Nature　in　the

painting　of　a　landscape；　but　we　cannot　let　him　say　the　same　things

of　acting。　　Acting　has　a　technique；　but　no　convention。



Once　for　all；　then；　to　say　that　acting　reaches　the　point　of　Nature；

and　touches　it　quick；　is　to　say　all。　　In　other　arts　imitation　is

more　or　less　fatuous；　illusion　more　or　less　vulgar。　　But　acting　is；

at　its　less　good；　imitation；　at　its　best；　illusion；　at　its　worst；

and　when　it　ceases　to　be　an　art；　convention。



But　the　idea　that　acting　is　conventional　has　inevitably　come　about

in　England。　　For　it　is；　in　fact；　obliged；　with　us；　to　defeat　and

destroy　itself　by　taking　a　very　full；　entire；　tedious；　and　impotent

convention；　a　complete　body　of　convention；　a　convention　of

demonstrativeness　…　of　voice　and　manners　intended　to　be　expressive；

and；　in　particular；　a　whole　weak　and　unimpulsive　convention　of

gesture。　　The　English　manners　of　real　life　are　so　negative　and　still

as　to　present　no　visible　or　audible　drama；　and　drama　is　for　hearing

and　for　vision。　　Therefore　our　acting　（granting　that　we　have　any

acting；　which　is　granting　much）　has　to　create　its　little　different

and　complementary　world；　and　to　make　the　division　of　〃art〃　from

Nature　…　the　divis