第 3 节
作者:扑火      更新:2021-02-19 21:35      字数:9319
  how they are little pilgrims and visitants among the things that look like
  their   kin。   For   every   winter   shows   them   free   from   the   east   wind;   more
  perfectly than their elders; they enclose the climate of life。 And; moreover;
  with them the climate of life is the climate of the spring of life; the climate
  of a human March that is sure to make a constant progress; and of a human
  April that never hesitates。         The child 〃breathes April and May〃an inner
  April and his own May。
  The winter child looks so much the more beautiful for the season as
  his most brilliant uncles and aunts look less well。             He is tender and gay in
  the east wind。       Now more than ever must the lover beware of making a
  comparison between the beauty of the admired woman and the beauty of a
  child。    He   is   indeed   too   wary   ever   to   make   it。  So   is   the   poet。  As
  comparisons        are  necessary     to  him;   he   will  pay    a  frankly    impossible
  homage; and compare a woman's face to something too fine; to something
  it never   could emulate。        The   Elizabethan lyrist   is   safe among lilies   and
  cherries;   roses;   pearls;   and   snow。   He   undertakes   the   beautiful   office   of
  flattery;   and   flatters   with   courage。   There   is   no   hidden   reproach   in   the
  praise。    Pearls and snow suffer; in a sham fight; a mimic defeat that does
  them no harm; and no harm comes to the lady's beauty from a competition
  so impossible。       She never wore a lily or a coral in the colours of her face;
  and   their   beauty   is   not   hers。 But   here   is   the   secret: she   is   compared
  with a flower because she could not endure to be compared with a child。
  That would touch her too nearly。            There would be the human texture and
  the life like hers; but immeasurably more lovely。 No colour; no surface; no
  eyes of   woman   have   ever been   comparable   with   the   colour;   the   surface;
  and the eyes of childhood。           And no poet has ever run the risk of such a
  defeat。     Why; it is defeat enough for a woman to have her face; however
  well…favoured; close to a child's; even if there is no one by who should be
  rash enough to approach them still nearer by a comparison。
  This;   needless   to   say;   is   true   of   no   other   kind   of   beauty   than   that
  beauty of light; colour; and surface to which the Elizabethans referred; and
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  which suggested their flatteries in disfavour of the lily。                There are; indeed;
  other adult beauties; but those are such as make no allusions to the garden。
  What   is   here   affirmed   is   that   the   beautiful   woman   who   is   widely   and
  wisely likened to the flowers; which are inaccessibly more beautiful; must
  not; for her own sake; be likened to the always accessible child。
  Besides   light   and   colour;   children   have   a   beauty   of   finish   which   is
  much beyond that of more finished years。                   This gratuitous addition; this
  completeness;   is   one   of   their   unexpected   advantages。            Their   beauty   of
  finish   is   the   peculiarity   of   their   first   childhood;   and   loses;   as   years   are
  added; that little extra character and that surprise of perfection。                   A bloom
  disappears;      for   instance。    In    some    little  children    the   whole    face;   and
  especially   all     the  space    between     the   growth     of  the   eyebrows      and   the
  growth   of   the   hair;   is   covered   with   hardly   perceptible   down   as   soft   as
  bloom。      Look then at the eyebrows themselves。                 Their line is as definite
  as in later life; but there is in the child the flush given by the exceeding
  fineness   of   the   delicate   hairs。    Moreover;   what   becomes;   afterwards;   of
  the length and the curl of the eyelash?               What is there in growing up that
  is destructive of a finish so charming as this?
  Queen Elizabeth forbade any light to visit her face 〃from the right or
  from  the   left〃   when   her   portrait   was   a…painting。       She   was   an   observant
  woman; and liked to be lighted from the front。                  It is a light from the right
  or   from  the   left   that   marks   an   elderly  face   with   minute   shadows。       And
  you   must   place  a  child in such   a light;  in order  to   see  the  finishing   and
  parting caress that infancy has given to his face。                 The down will then be
  found even on the thinnest and clearest skin of the middle red of his cheek。
  His hair; too; is imponderably fine; and his nails are not much harder than
  petals。
  To return to the child in January。            It is his month for the laying up of
  dreams。      No one can tell whether it is so with all children; or even with a
  majority;   but   with   some   children;   of   passionate   fancy;   there   occurs   now
  and then a children's dance; or a party of any kind; which has a charm and
  glory     mingled     with   uncertain     dreams。     Never    forgotten;     and   yet   never
  certainly   remembered   as   a   fact   of   this   life;   is   such   an   evening。   When
  many and many a later pleasure; about the reality of which there never was
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  any kind of doubt; has been long forgotten; that eveningas to which all is
  doubtis impossible to  forget。          In a few  years it has become so   remote
  that   the   history   of   Greece   derives   antiquity  from   it。  In   later   years   it   is
  still doubtful; still a legend。
  The     child   never    asked    how    much     was    fact。   It   was    always    so
  immeasurably         long   ago    that   the  sweet    party    happenedif      indeed    it
  happened。       It had so long taken its place in that past wherein lurks all the
  antiquity   of   the   world。     No   one   would   know;   no   one   could   tell     him;
  precisely what occurred。           And who can know whetherif it be indeed a
  dreamhe has dreamt   it often;  or has   dreamt once that he   had dreamt   it
  often?      That   dubious   night   is   entangled   in   repeated   visions   during   the
  lonely life a child lives in sleep; it is intricate with illusions。             It becomes
  the most mysterious and the least worldly of all memories; a spiritual past。
  The word pleasure   is too   trivial for such a   remembrance。                A  midwinter
  long gone by contained the suggestion of such dreams; and the midwinter
  of this year must doubtless be preparing for the heart of many an ardent
  young child a like   legend and a   like antiquity。            For the old   it is a   mere
  present。
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  THAT PRETTY PERSON
  During the many years in which 〃evolution〃 was the favourite word;
  one     significant    lessonso     it  seemswas      learnt;   which    has    outlived
  controversy;      and   has   remained     longer    than   the  questions     at  issuean
  interesting and unnoticed thing cast up by the storm of thoughts。 This is a
  disposition; a general consent; to find the use and the value of process; and
  even   to   understand   a   kind   of   repose   in   the   very   wayfaring   of   progress。
  With this is a resignation to change; and something more than resignation…
  …a delight in those qualities that could not be but for their transitoriness。
  What; then; is this but the admiration; at last confessed by the world;
  for childhood?        Time was when childhood was but borne with; and that
  for   the   sake   of   its   mere   promise   of   manhood。     We   do   not   now   hold;
  perhaps; that promise so high。           Even; nevertheless; if we held it high; we
  should     acknowledge   the   approach   to       be   a   state   adorned   with   its  own
  conditions。
  But   it   was   not   so   once。 As   the   primitive   lullaby   is   nothing   but   a
  patient   prophecy   (the   mother's);      so   was   education;   some     two    hundred
  years   ago;   nothing   but   an   impatient   prophecy   (the   father's)   of   the   full
  stature of body and mind。          The Indian woman sings of the future hunting。
  If her song is not restless; it is because she has a sense of the results of
  time;   and   has   submitted   her   heart   to   experience。   Childhood   is   a   time   of
  danger; 〃Would it were done。〃            But; meanwhile; the right thing is to put it
  to sleep   and   guard