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　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  unpublished　blood。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　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。
  But　no　one　has　paused　in　the　course　of　these　phrases　to　take　notice
  of　the　curious　and　conspicuous　fact　of　the　suppression　of　death　and
  of　the　dead　throughout　this　landscape　of　manifest　life。　　Where　are
  they　…　all　the　dying；　all　the　dead；　of　the　populous　woods？　　Where　do
  they　hide　their　little　last　hours；　where　are　they　buried？　　Where　is
  the　violence　concealed？　　Under　what　gay　custom　and　decent　habit？
  You　may　see；　it　is　true；　an　earth…worm　in　a　robin's　beak；　and　may
  hear　a　thrush　breaking　a　snail's　shell；　but　these　little　things　are；
  as　it　were；　passed　by　with　a　kind　of　twinkle　for　apology；　as　by　a
  well…bred　man　who　does　openly　some　little　solecism　which　is　too
  slight　for　direct　mention；　and　which　a　meaner　man　might　hide　or
  avoid。　　Unless　you　are　very　modern　indeed；　you　twinkle　back　at　the
  bird。
  But　otherwise　there　is　nothing　visible　of　the　havoc　and　the　prey　and
  plunder。　　It　is　certain　that　much　of　the　visible　life　passes
  violently　into　other　forms；　flashes　without　pause　into　another
  flame；　but　not　all。　　Amid　all　the　killing　there　must　be　much　dying。
  There　are；　for　instance；　few　birds　of　prey　left　in　our　more
  accessible　counties　now；　and　many　thousands　of　birds　must　die
  uncaught　by　a　hawk　and　unpierced。　　But　if