the children-第11章
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feelings where all are more or less fair； what must be the
miscarriage of justice in countries where a BLOND angel makes his
infrequent visit within the family circle？
In England he is the rule； and supreme as a matter of course。 He is
〃English；〃 and best； as is the early asparagus and the young potato；
according to the happy conviction of the shops。 To say 〃child〃 in
England is to say 〃fair…haired child；〃 even as in Tuscany to say
〃young man〃 is to say 〃tenor。〃 〃I have a little party to…night；
eight or ten tenors； from neighbouring palazzi； to meet my English
friends。〃
But France is a greater enthusiast than our now country。 The
fairness and the golden hair are here so much a matter of orthodoxy；
that they are not always mentioned； they are frequently taken for
granted。 Not so in France； the French go out of their way to make
the exceptional fairness of their children the rule of their
literature。 No French child dare show his face in a bookprose or
poetrywithout blue eyes and fair hair。 It is a thing about which
the French child of real life can hardly escape a certain
sensitiveness。 What； he may ask； is the use of being a dark…haired
child of fact； when all the emotion； all the innocence； all the
romance； are absorbed by the flaxen…haired child of fiction？ How
deplorable that our mothers； the French infants may say； should have
their unattained ideals in the nurseries of the imagination； how
dismal that they should be perpetually disillusioned in the
nurseries of fact！ Is there then no sentiment for us？ they may ask。
Will not convention； which has been forced to restore the advantage
to truth on so many other points； be compelled to yield on this
point also； and reconcile our aunts to the family colouring？
All the schools of literature are in a tale。 The classic masters；
needless to say； do not stoop to the colouring of boys and girls；
but as soon as the Romantiques arise； the cradle is there； and no
soft hair ever in it that is not of some tone of gold； no eyes that
are not blue； and no cheek that is not white and pink as milk and
roses。 Victor Hugo； who discovered the child of modern poetry；
never omits the touch of description； the word BLOND is as
inevitable as any epithet marshalled to attend its noun in a last…
century poet's dictionary。 One would not have it away； one can hear
the caress with which the master pronounces it； 〃making his mouth；〃
as Swift did for his 〃little language。〃 Nor does the customary
adjective fail in later literature。 It was dear to the Realist； and
it is dear to the Symbolist。 The only difference is that in the
French of the Symbolist it precedes the noun。
And yet it is time that the sweetness of the dark child should have
its day。 He is really no less childlike than the other。 There is a
pretty antithesis between the strong effect of his colouring and the
softness of his years and of his months。 The blond human being
man； woman or childhas the beauty of harmony； the hair plays off
from the tones of the flesh； only a few degrees brighter or a few
degrees darker。 Contrast of colour there is； in the blue of the
eyes； and in the red of cheek and lip； but there is no contrast of
tone。 The whole effect is that of much various colour and of equal
tone。 In the dark face there is hardly any colour and an almost
complete opposition of tone。 The complete opposition； of course；
would be black and white； and a beautiful dark child comes near to
this； but for the lovely modifications； the warmth of his white； and
of his black alike； so that the one tone； as well as the other； is
softened towards brown。 It is the beauty of contrast； with a
suggestion of harmonyas it were a beginning of harmonywhich is
infinitely lovely。
Nor is the dark child lacking in variety。 His radiant eyes range
from a brown so bright that it looks golden in the light； to a brown
so dark that it barely defines the pupil。 So is his hair various；
answering the sun with unsuspected touches； not of gold but of
bronze。 And his cheek is not invariably pale。 A dusky rose
sometimes lurks there with such an effect of vitality as you will
hardly get from the shallower pink of the flaxened haired。 And the
suggestion is that of late summer； the colour of wheat almost ready
for the harvest； and darker； redder flowerspoppies and others
than come in Spring。
The dark eyes； besides； are generally brighterthey shelter a more
liquid light than the blue or grey。 Southern eyes have generally
most beautiful whites。 And as to the charm of the childish figure；
there is usually an infantine slenderness in the little Southener
that is at least as young and sweet as the round form of the blond
child。 And yet the painters of Italy would have none of it。 They
rejected the dusky brilliant pale little Italians all about them；
they would have none but flaxen…haired children； and they would have
nothing that was slim； nothing that was thin； nothing that was
shadowy。 They rejoiced in much fair flesh； and in all possible
freshness。 So it was in fair Flanders as well as in dark Italy。
But so it was not in Spain。 The Pyrenees seemed to interrupt the
tradition。 And as Murillo saw the charm of dark heads； and the
innocence of dark eyes； so did one English painter。 Reynolds
painted young dark hair as tenderly as the youngest gold。
REAL CHILDHOOD
The world is old because its history is made up of successive
childhoods and of their impressions。 Your hours when you were six
were the enormous hours of the mind that has little experience and
constant and quick forgetfulness。 Therefore when your mother's
visitor held you so long at his knee； while he talked to her the
excited gibberish of the grown…up； he little thought what he forced
upon you； what the things he called minutes really were； measured by
a mind unused； what passive and then what desperate weariness he
held you to by his slightly gesticulating hands that pressed some
absent…minded caress； rated by you at its right value； in the pauses
of his anecdotes。 You； meanwhile； were infinitely tired of watching
the play of his conversing moustache。
Indeed； the contrast of the length of contemporary time （this
pleonasm is inevitable） is no small mystery； and the world has never
had the wit fully to confess it。
You remembered poignantly the special and singular duration of some
such space as your elders； perhaps； called half…an…hourso
poignantly that you spoke of it to your sister； not exactly with
emotion； but still as a dreadful fact of life。 You had better
instinct than to complain of it to the talkative； easy…living；
occupied people； who had the management of the world in their hands…
…your seniors。 You remembered the duration of some such separate
half…hour so well that you have in fact remembered it until now； and
so now； of course； will never forget it。
As to the length of Beethoven； experienced by you on duty in the
drawing room； it would be curious to know whether it was really
something greater than Beethoven had any idea of。 You sat and
listened； and tried to fix a passage in your mind as a kind of half…
way mark； with the deliberate provident intention of helping
yourself through the time during a future hearing； for you knew too
well that you would have to bear it all again。 You could not do the
same with sermons； because； though even more fatiguing； they were
more or less different each time。
While your elders passed over some particularly tedious piece of
roadand a very tedious piece of road existed within short distance
of every house you lived in or stayed inin their usual state of
partial absence of mind； you； on the contrary； perceived every inch
of it。 As to the length of a bad night； or of a mere time of
wakefulness at night； adult words do not measure it； they hardly
measure the time of merely waiting for sleep in childhood。
Moreover； you were tired of other things； apart from the duration of
timethe names of streets； the names of tradesmen； especially the
fournisseurs of the household； who lived in them。
You were bored by people。 It did not occur to you to be tired of
those of your own immediate family； for
