the spirit of place and other essays-第7章

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is　prim；　and　never　lifts　a　heel　against　its　dull　conditions；　for　it

has　forgotten　liberty。　　It　is　more　active　now　than　it　lately　was

certainly　the　foot　of　woman　is　more　active；　but　whether　on　the　pedal

or　in　the　stirrup；　or　clad　for　a　walk；　or　armed　for　a　game；　or

decked　for　the　waltz；　it　is　in　bonds。　　It　is；　at　any　rate；

inarticulate。



It　has　no　longer　a　distinct　and　divided　life；　or　none　that　is

visible　and　sensible。　　Whereas　the　whole　living　body　has　naturally

such　infinite　distinctness　that　the　sense　of　touch　differs；　as　it

were；　with　every　nerve；　and　the　fingers　are　so　separate　that　it　was

believed　of　them　of　old　that　each　one　had　its　angel；　yet　the　modern

foot　is；　as　much　as　possible；　deprived　of　all　that　delicate

distinction：　　undone；　unspecialized；　sent　back　to　lower　forms　of

indiscriminate　life。　　It　is　as　though　a　landscape　with　separate

sweetness　in　every　tree　should　be　rudely　painted　with　the　blank

blank；　not　simplegeneralities　of　a　vulgar　hand。　　Or　as　though　one

should　take　the　pleasures　of　a　day　of　happiness　in　a　wholesale

fashion；　not　〃turning　the　hours　to　moments；〃　which　joy　can　do　to　the

full　as　perfectly　as　pain。



The　foot；　with　its　articulations；　is　suppressed；　and　its　language

confused。　　When　Lovelace　likens　the　hand　of　Amarantha　to　a　violin；

and　her　glove　to　the　case；　he　has　at　any　rate　a　glove　to　deal　with；

not　a　boot。　　Yet　Amarantha's　foot　is　as　lovely　as　her　hand。　　It；

too；　has　a　〃tender　inward〃；　no　wayfaring　would　ever　make　it　look

anything　but　delicate；　its　arch　seems　too　slight　to　carry　her

through　a　night　of　dances；　it　does；　in　fact；　but　balance　her。　　It　is

fit　to　cling　to　the　ground；　but　rather　for　springing　than　for　rest。



And；　doubtless；　for　man；　woman；　and　child　the　tender；　irregular；

sensitive；　living　foot；　which　does　not　even　stand　with　all　its

little　surface　on　the　ground；　and　which　makes　no　base　to　satisfy　an

architectural　eye；　is；　as　it　were；　the　unexpected　thing。　　It　is　a

part　of　vital　design　and　has　a　history；　and　man　does　not　go　erect

but　at　a　price　of　weariness　and　pain。　　How　weak　it　is　may　be　seen

from　a　footprint：　　for　nothing　makes　a　more　helpless　and

unsymmetrical　sign　than　does　a　naked　foot。



Tender；　too；　is　the　silence　of　human　feet。　　You　have　but　to　pass　a

season　amongst　the　barefooted　to　find　that　man；　who；　shod；　makes　so

much　ado；　is　naturally　as　silent　as　snow。　　Woman；　who　not　only　makes

her　armed　heel　heard；　but　also　goes　rustling　like　a　shower；　is

naturally　silent　as　snow。　　The　vintager　is　not　heard　among　the

vines；　nor　the　harvester　on　his　threshing…floor　of　stone。　　There　is

a　kind　of　simple　stealth　in　their　coming　and　going；　and　they　show

sudden　smiles　and　dark　eyes　in　and　out　of　the　rows　of　harvest　when

you　thought　yourself　alone。　　The　lack　of　noise　in　their　movement

sets　free　the　sound　of　their　voices；　and　their　laughter　floats。



But　we　shall　not　praise　the　〃simple；　sweet〃　and　〃earth…confiding

feet〃　enough　without　thanks　for　the　rule　of　verse　and　for　the　time

of　song。　　If　Poetry　was　first　divided　by　the　march；　and　next　varied

by　the　dance；　then　to　the　rule　of　the　foot　are　to　be　ascribed　the

thought；　the　instruction；　and　the　dream　that　could　not　speak　by

prose。　　Out　of　that　little　physical　law；　then；　grew　a　spiritual　law

which　is　one　of　the　greatest　things　we　know；　and　from　the　test　of

the　foot　came　the　ultimate　test　of　the　thinker：　　〃Is　it　accepted　of

Song？〃



The　monastery；　in　like　manner；　holds　its　sons　to　little　trivial

rules　of　time　and　exactitude；　not　to　be　broken；　laws　that　are　made

secure　against　the　restlessness　of　the　heart　fretting　for

insignificant　libertiestrivial　laws　to　restrain　from　a　trivial

freedom。　　And　within　the　gate　of　these　laws　which　seem　so　small；

lies　the　world　of　mystic　virtue。　　They　enclose；　they　imply；　they

lock；　they　answer　for　it。　　Lesser　virtues　may　flower　in　daily

liberty　and　may　flourish　in　prose；　but　infinite　virtues　and

greatness　are　compelled　to　the　measure　of　poetry；　and　obey　the

constraint　of　an　hourly　convent　bell。　　It　is　no　wonder　that　every

poet　worthy　the　name　has　had　a　passion　for　metre；　for　the　very

verse。　　To　him　the　difficult　fetter　is　the　condition　of　an　interior

range　immeasurable。







HAVE　PATIENCE；　LITTLE　SAINT







Some　considerable　time　must　have　gone　by　since　any　kind　of　courtesy

ceased；　in　England；　to　be　held　necessary　in　the　course　of

communication　with　a　beggar。　　Feeling　may　be　humane；　and　the

interior　act　most　gentle；　there　may　be　a　tacit　apology；　and　a

profound　misgiving　unexpressed；　a　reluctance　not　only　to　refuse　but

to　be　arbiter；　a　dislike　of　the　office；　a　regret；　whether　for　the

unequal　distribution　of　social　luck　or　for　a　purse　left　at　home；

equally　sincere；　howbeit　custom　exacts　no　word　or　sign；　nothing

whatever　of　intercourse。　　If　a　dog　or　a　cat　accosts　you；　or　a　calf

in　a　field　comes　close　to　you　with　a　candid　infant　face　and

breathing　nostrils　of　investigation；　or　if　any　kind　of　animal　comes

to　you　on　some　obscure　impulse　of　friendly　approach；　you　acknowledge

it。　　But　the　beggar　to　whom　you　give　nothing　expects　no　answer　to　a

question；　no　recognition　of　his　presence；　not　so　much　as　the　turn　of

your　eyelid　in　his　direction；　and　never　a　word　to　excuse　you。



Nor　does　this　blank　behaviour　seem　savage　to　those　who　are　used　to

nothing　else。　　Yet　it　is　somewhat　more　inhuman　to　refuse　an　answer

to　the　beggar's　remark　than　to　leave　a　shop　without　〃Good　morning。〃

When　complaint　is　made　of　the　modern　social　mannerthat　it　has　no

merit　but　what　is　negative；　and　that　it　is　apt　even　to　abstain　from

courtesy　with　more　lack　of　grace　than　the　abstinence　absolutely

requiresthe　habit　of　manner　towards　beggars　is　probably　not　so

much　as　thought　of。　　To　the　simply　human　eye；　however；　the　prevalent

manner　towards　beggars　is　a　striking　thing；　it　is　significant　of　so

much。



Obviously　it　is　not　easy　to　reply　to　begging　except　by　the

intelligible　act　of　giving。　　We　have　not　the　ingenuous　simplicity

that　marks　the　caste　answering　more　or　less　to　that　of　Vere　de　Vere；

in　Italy；　for　example。　　An　elderly　Italian　lady　on　her　slow　way　from

her　own　ancient　ancestral　palazzo　to　the　village；　and　accustomed　to

meet；　empty…handed；　a　certain　number　of　beggars；　answers　them　by　a

retort　which　would　be；　literally　translated；　〃Excuse　me；　dear；　I；

too；　am　a　poor　devil；〃　and　the　last　word　she　naturally　puts　into　the

feminine。



Moreover；　the　sentence　is　spoken　in　all　the　familiarity　of　the　local

dialecta　dialect　that　puts　any　two　people　at　once　upon　equal　terms

as　nothing　else　can　do　it。　　Would　it　were　possible　to　present　the

phrase　to　English　readers　in　all　its　own　helpless　good…humour。　　The

excellent　woman　who　uses　it　is　practising　no　eccentricity　thereby；

and　raises　no　smile。　　It　is　only　in　another　climate；　and　amid　other

manners；　that　one　cannot　recall　it　without　a　smile。　　To　a　mind

having　a　lively　sense　of　contrast　it　is　not　a　little　pleasant　to

imagine　an　elderly　lady　of　corresponding　station　in　England　replying

so　to　importunities　for　alms；　albeit　we　have　nothing　answering　to

the　good　fellowship　of　a　broad　patois　used　currently　by　rich　and

poor；　and　yet　slightly　grotesque　in　the　case　of　all　speakersa

dialect　in　which；　for　example；　no　sermon　is　ever　preached；　and　in

which　no　book　is　ever　printed；　except　for　fun；　a　dialect　〃familiar；

but　by　no　means　vulgar。〃　　Besides；　even　if　our　Englishwoman　could　by

any　possibility　bring　herself　to　say　to　a　mendicant；　〃Excuse　me；

dear；　I；　too；　am　a　poor　devil；〃　she　would　still　not　have　the

opportunity　of　putting　the　last　word　punctually　into　the　feminine；

which　does　so　complete　the　character　of　the　sentence。



The　phrase　at　the　head　of　this　paper　is　the　far　more　graceful　phrase

of　excuse　customary　in　the　courteous　manners　of　Portugal。　　And

everywhere　in　the　South；　where　an　almost　well…dressed　old　woman；　who

suddenly　begins　to　beg　from　you　when　you　least　expected　it；　calls

you　〃my　daughter；〃　you　can　hardly