the man against the sky-第4章

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Or　what　he　needs。　　I　tell　him　he　needs　Greek；

I'll　talk　of　rules　and　Aristotle　with　him；

And　if　his　tongue's　at　home　he'll　say　to　that；

〃I　have　your　word　that　Aristotle　knows；

And　you　mine　that　I　don't　know　Aristotle。〃

He's　all　at　odds　with　all　the　unities；

And　what's　yet　worse；　it　doesn't　seem　to　matter；

He　treads　along　through　Time's　old　wilderness

As　if　the　tramp　of　all　the　centuries

Had　left　no　roads　　and　there　are　none；　for　him；

He　doesn't　see　them；　even　with　those　eyes；　

And　that's　a　pity；　or　I　say　it　is。

Accordingly　we　have　him　as　we　have　him　

Going　his　way；　the　way　that　he　goes　best；

A　pleasant　animal　with　no　great　noise

Or　nonsense　anywhere　to　set　him　off　

Save　only　divers　and　inclement　devils

Have　made　of　late　his　heart　their　dwelling　place。

A　flame　half　ready　to　fly　out　sometimes

At　some　annoyance　may　be　fanned　up　in　him；


But　soon　it　falls；　and　when　it　falls　goes　out；

He　knows　how　little　room　there　is　in　there

For　crude　and　futile　animosities；

And　how　much　for　the　joy　of　being　whole；

And　how　much　for　long　sorrow　and　old　pain。

On　our　side　there　are　some　who　may　be　given

To　grow　old　wondering　what　he　thinks　of　us

And　some　above　us；　who　are；　in　his　eyes；

Above　himself；　　and　that's　quite　right　and　English。

Yet　here　we　smile；　or　disappoint　the　gods

Who　made　it　so：　　the　gods　have　always　eyes

To　see　men　scratch；　and　they　see　one　down　here

Who　itches；　manor…bitten　to　the　bone；

Albeit　he　knows　himself　　yes；　yes；　he　knows　

The　lord　of　more　than　England　and　of　more

Than　all　the　seas　of　England　in　all　time

Shall　ever　wash。　　D'ye　wonder　that　I　laugh？

He　sees　me；　and　he　doesn't　seem　to　care；

And　why　the　devil　should　he？　　I　can't　tell　you。



I'll　meet　him　out　alone　of　a　bright　Sunday；

Trim；　rather　spruce；　and　quite　the　gentleman。

〃What　ho；　my　lord！〃　say　I。　　He　doesn't　hear　me；

Wherefore　I　have　to　pause　and　look　at　him。

He's　not　enormous；　but　one　looks　at　him。

A　little　on　the　round　if　you　insist；

For　now；　God　save　the　mark；　he's　growing　old；

He's　five　and　forty；　and　to　hear　him　talk

These　days　you'd　call　him　eighty；　then　you'd　add

More　years　to　that。　　He's　old　enough　to　be

The　father　of　a　world；　and　so　he　is。

〃Ben；　you're　a　scholar；　what's　the　time　of　day？〃

Says　he；　and　there　shines　out　of　him　again

An　aged　light　that　has　no　age　or　station　

The　mystery　that's　his　　a　mischievous

Half…mad　serenity　that　laughs　at　fame

For　being　won　so　easy；　and　at　friends

Who　laugh　at　him　for　what　he　wants　the　most；

And　for　his　dukedom　down　in　Warwickshire；　

By　which　you　see　we're　all　a　little　jealous。　。　。　。

Poor　Greene！　　I　fear　the　color　of　his　name

Was　even　as　that　of　his　ascending　soul；

And　he　was　one　where　there　are　many　others；　

Some　scrivening　to　the　end　against　their　fate；

Their　puppets　all　in　ink　and　all　to　die　there；

And　some　with　hands　that　once　would　shade　an　eye

That　scanned　Euripides　and　Aeschylus

Will　reach　by　this　time　for　a　pot…house　mop

To　slush　their　first　and　last　of　royalties。

Poor　devils！　and　they　all　play　to　his　hand；

For　so　it　was　in　Athens　and　old　Rome。

But　that's　not　here　or　there；　I've　wandered　off。

Greene　does　it；　or　I'm　careful。　　Where's　that　boy？



Yes；　he'll　go　back　to　Stratford。　　And　we'll　miss　him？

Dear　sir；　there'll　be　no　London　here　without　him。

We'll　all　be　riding；　one　of　these　fine　days；

Down　there　to　see　him　　and　his　wife　won't　like　us；

And　then　we'll　think　of　what　he　never　said

Of　women　　which；　if　taken　all　in　all

With　what　he　did　say；　would　buy　many　horses。

Though　nowadays　he's　not　so　much　for　women：

〃So　few　of　them；〃　he　says；　〃are　worth　the　guessing。〃

But　there's　a　work　at　work　when　he　says　that；

And　while　he　says　it　one　feels　in　the　air

A　deal　of　circumambient　hocus…pocus。

They've　had　him　dancing　till　his　toes　were　tender；

And　he　can　feel　'em　now；　come　chilly　rains。

There's　no　long　cry　for　going　into　it；

However；　and　we　don't　know　much　about　it。

The　Fitton　thing　was　worst　of　all；　I　fancy；

And　you　in　Stratford；　like　most　here　in　London；

Have　more　now　in　the　‘Sonnets'　than　you　paid　for；

He's　put　her　there　with　all　her　poison　on；

To　make　a　singing　fiction　of　a　shadow

That's　in　his　life　a　fact；　and　always　will　be。

But　she's　no　care　of　ours；　though　Time；　I　fear；

Will　have　a　more　reverberant　ado

About　her　than　about　another　one

Who　seems　to　have　decoyed　him；　married　him；

And　sent　him　scuttling　on　his　way　to　London；　

With　much　already　learned；　and　more　to　learn；

And　more　to　follow。　　Lord！　how　I　see　him　now；

Pretending；　maybe　trying；　to　be　like　us。

Whatever　he　may　have　meant；　we　never　had　him；

He　failed　us；　or　escaped；　or　what　you　will；　

And　there　was　that　about　him　（God　knows　what；　

We'd　flayed　another　had　he　tried　it　on　us）

That　made　as　many　of　us　as　had　wits

More　fond　of　all　his　easy　distances

Than　one　another's　noise　and　clap…your…shoulder。

But　think　you　not；　my　friend；　he'd　never　talk！

Talk？　　He　was　eldritch　at　it；　and　we　listened　

Thereby　acquiring　much　we　knew　before

About　ourselves；　and　hitherto　had　held

Irrelevant；　or　not　prime　to　the　purpose。

And　there　were　some；　of　course；　and　there　be　now；

Disordered　and　reduced　amazedly

To　resignation　by　the　mystic　seal

Of　young　finality　the　gods　had　laid

On　everything　that　made　him　a　young　demon；

And　one　or　two　shot　looks　at　him　already

As　he　had　been　their　executioner；

And　once　or　twice　he　was；　not　knowing　it；　

Or　knowing；　being　sorry　for　poor　clay

And　saying　nothing。　。　。　。　　Yet；　for　all　his　engines；

You'll　meet　a　thousand　of　an　afternoon

Who　strut　and　sun　themselves　and　see　around　'em

A　world　made　out　of　more　that　has　a　reason

Than　his；　I　swear；　that　he　sees　here　to…day；

Though　he　may　scarcely　give　a　Fool　an　exit

But　we　mark　how　he　sees　in　everything

A　law　that；　given　we　flout　it　once　too　often；

Brings　fire　and　iron　down　on　our　naked　heads。

To　me　it　looks　as　if　the　power　that　made　him；

For　fear　of　giving　all　things　to　one　creature；

Left　out　the　first；　　faith；　innocence；　illusion；

Whatever　'tis　that　keeps　us　out　o'　Bedlam；　

And　thereby；　for　his　too　consuming　vision；

Empowered　him　out　of　nature；　though　to　see　him；

You'd　never　guess　what's　going　on　inside　him。

He'll　break　out　some　day　like　a　keg　of　ale

With　too　much　independent　frenzy　in　it；

And　all　for　cellaring　what　he　knows　won't　keep；

And　what　he'd　best　forget　　but　that　he　can't。

You'll　have　it；　and　have　more　than　I'm　foretelling；

And　there'll　be　such　a　roaring　at　the　Globe

As　never　stunned　the　bleeding　gladiators。

He'll　have　to　change　the　color　of　its　hair

A　bit；　for　now　he　calls　it　Cleopatra。

Black　hair　would　never　do　for　Cleopatra。



But　you　and　I　are　not　yet　two　old　women；

And　you're　a　man　of　office。　　What　he　does

Is　more　to　you　than　how　it　is　he　does　it；　

And　that's　what　the　Lord　God　has　never　told　him。

They　work　together；　and　the　Devil　helps　'em；

They　do　it　of　a　morning；　or　if　not；

They　do　it　of　a　night；　in　which　event

He's　peevish　of　a　morning。　　He　seems　old；

He's　not　the　proper　stomach　or　the　sleep　

And　they're　two　sovran　agents　to　conserve　him

Against　the　fiery　art　that　has　no　mercy

But　what's　in　that　prodigious　grand　new　House。

I　gather　something　happening　in　his　boyhood

Fulfilled　him　with　a　boy's　determination

To　make　all　Stratford　'ware　of　him。　　Well；　well；

I　hope　at　last　he'll　have　his　joy　of　it；

And　all　his　pigs　and　sheep　and　bellowing　beeves；

And　frogs　and　owls　and　unicorns；　moreover；

Be　less　than　hell　to　his　attendant　ears。

Oh；　past　a　doubt　we'll　all　go　down　to　see　him。



He　may　be　wise。　　With　London　two　days　off；

Down　there　some　wind　of　heaven　may　yet　revive　him；

But　there's　no　quickening　breath　from　anywhere

Shall　make　of　him　again　the　poised　young　faun

From　Warwickshire；　who'd　made；　it　seems；　already

A　legend　of　himself　before　I　came

To　blink　before　the　last　of　his　first　lightning。

Whatever　there　be；　they'll　be　no　more　of　that；

The　coming　on　of　his　old　monster　Time

Has　mad