第 12 节
作者:绝对零度      更新:2023-08-28 11:37      字数:9319
  spent   violence   of   this   phrase;   with   which   every   serious   Frenchman   will
  reply to opponents; especially in public matters。 But not even the comic
  dramatist is aware of the last state of refuse commonplace that a word of
  this kind represents。         Refuse rhetoric; by the way; rather than Emerson's
  〃fossil poetry;〃 would seem to be the right name for human language as
  some of the processes of the several recent centuries have left it。
  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
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  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?
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  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
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  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