The Colour of Life

by Alice Meynell
Contents:

The Colour of Life
A Point Of Biography

Cloud
Winds of the World

The Honours of Mortality
At Monastery Gates

Rushes and Reeds
Eleonora Duse

Donkey Races
Grass

A Woman in Grey
Symmetry and Incident

The Illusion of Historic Time
Eyes

THE COLOUR OF LIFE
Red has been praised for its nobility as the colour of life. But

the true colour of life is not red. Red is the colour of violence,
or of life broken open, edited, and published. Or if red is indeed

the colour of life, it is so only on condition that it is not seen.
Once fully visible, red is the colour of life violated, and in the

act of betrayal and of waste. Red is the secret of life, and not
the manifestation" target="_blank" title="n.表明；现象">manifestation thereof. It is one of the things the value of

which is secrecy, one of the talents that are to be hidden in a
napkin. The true colour of life is the colour of the body, the

colour of the covered red, the implicit and not explicit red of the
living heart and the pulses. It is the modest colour of the

unpublished blood.
So bright, so light, so soft, so mingled, the gentle colour of life

is outdone by all the colours of the world. Its very beauty is that
it is white, but less white than milk; brown, but less brown than

earth; red, but less red than sunset or dawn. It is lucid, but less
lucid than the colour of lilies. It has the hint of gold that is in

all fine colour; but in our latitudes the hint is almost elusive.
Under Sicilian skies, indeed, it is deeper than old ivory; but under

the misty blue of the English zenith, and the warm grey of the
London horizon, it is as delicately" target="_blank" title="ad.精美地；微妙地">delicately flushed as the paler wild roses,

out to their utmost, flat as stars, in the hedges of the end of
June.

For months together London does not see the colour of life in any
mass. The human face does not give much of it, what with features,

and beards, and the shadow of the top-hat and chapeau melon of man,
and of the veils of woman. Besides, the colour of the face is

subject to a thousand injuries and accidents. The popular face of
the Londoner has soon lost its gold, its white, and the delicacy of

its red and brown. We miss little beauty by the fact that it is
never seen freely in great numbers out-of-doors. You get it in some

quantity when all the heads of a great indoor meeting are turned at
once upon a speaker; but it is only in the open air, needless to

say, that the colour of life is in perfection, in the open air,
"clothed with the sun," whether the sunshine be golden and direct,

or dazzlingly diffused in grey.
The little figure of the London boy it is that has restored to the

landscape the human colour of life. He is allowed to come out of
all his ignominies, and to take the late colour of the midsummer

north-west evening, on the borders of the Serpentine. At the stroke
of eight he sheds the slough of nameless colours - all allied to the

hues of dust, soot, and fog, which are the colours the world has
chosen for its boys - and he makes, in his hundreds, a bright and

delicate flush between the grey-blue water and the grey-blue sky.
Clothed now with the sun, he is crowned by-and-by with twelve stars

as he goes to bathe, and the reflection of an early moon is under
his feet.

So little stands between a gamin and all the dignities of Nature.
They are so quickly restored. There seems to be nothing to do, but

only a little thing to undo. It is like the art of Eleonora Duse.
The last and most finished action of her intellect, passion, and

knowledge is, as it were, the flicking away of some insignificant
thing mistaken for art by other actors, some little obstacle to the

way and liberty of Nature.
All the squalor is gone in a moment, kicked off with the second

boot, and the child goes shouting to complete the landscape with the
lacking colour of life. You are inclined to wonder that, even

undressed, he still shouts with a Cockney accent. You half expect
pure vowels and elastic syllables from his restoration, his spring,

his slenderness, his brightness, and his glow. Old ivory and wild
rose in the deepening midsummer sun, he gives his colours to his

world again.
It is easy to replace man, and it will take no great time, where

Nature has lapsed, to replace Nature. It is always to do, by the
happily easy way of doing nothing. The grass is always ready to

grow in the streets - and no streets could ask for a more charming
finish than your green grass. The gasometer even must fall to

pieces unless it is renewed; but the grass renews itself. There is
nothing so remediable as the work of modern man - "a thought which

is also," as Mr Pecksniff said, "very soothing." And by remediable
I mean, of course, destructible. As the bathing child shuffles off

his garments - they are few, and one brace suffices him - so the
land might always, in reasonable time, shuffle off its yellow brick

and purple slate, and all the things that collect about railway
stations. A single night almost clears the air of London.

But if the colour of life looks so well in the rather sham scenery
of Hyde Park, it looks brilliant and grave indeed on a real sea-

coast. To have once seen it there should be enough to make a
colourist. O memorable little picture! The sun was gaining colour

as it neared setting, and it set not over the sea, but over the
land. The sea had the dark and rather stern, but not cold, blue of

that aspect - the dark and not the opal tints. The sky was also
deep. Everything was very definite, without mystery, and

exceedingly simple. The most luminous thing was the shining white
of an edge of foam, which did not cease to be white because it was a

little golden and a little rosy in the sunshine. It was still the
whitest thing imaginable. And the next most luminous thing was the

little child, also invested with the sun and the colour of life.
In the case of women, it is of the living and unpublished blood that

the violent world has professed to be delicate and ashamed. See the
curious history of the political rights of woman under the

Revolution. On the scaffold she enjoyed an ungrudged share in the
fortunes of party. Political life might be denied her, but that

seems a trifle when you consider how generously she was permitted
political death. She was to spin and cook for her citizen in the

obscurity of her living hours; but to the hour of her death was
granted a part in the largest interests, social, national,

international. The blood wherewith she should, according to
Robespierre, have blushed to be seen or heard in the tribune, was

exposed in the public sight unsheltered by her veins.
Against this there was no modesty. Of all privacies, the last and

the innermost - the privacy of death - was never allowed to put
obstacles in the way of public action for a public cause. Women

might be, and were, duly suppressed when, by the mouth of Olympe de
Gouges, they claimed a "right to concur in the choice of

representatives for the formation of the laws"; but in her person,
too, they were liberally allowed to bear political responsibility to

the Republic. Olympe de Gouges was guillotined. Robespierre thus
made her public and complete amends.

A POINT OF BIOGRAPHY
There is hardly a writer now - of the third class probably not one -

who has not something sharp and sad to say about the cruelty of
Nature; not one who is able to attempt May in the woods without a

modern reference to the manifold death and destruction with which
the air, the branches, the mosses are said to be full.