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Ancient custom is formed in a single spacious year。 A child is beset
with long traditions。 And his infancy is so old； so old； that the mere
adding of years in the life to follow will not seem to throw it further back …
it is already so far。 That is； it looks as remote to the memory of a man of
thirty as to that of a man of seventy。 What are a mere forty years of
added later life in the contemplation of such a distance？ Pshaw！
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THE COLOUR OF LIFE
EYES
There is nothing described with so little attention； with such
slovenliness； or so without verification … albeit with so much confidence
and word…painting … as the eyes of the men and women whose faces have
been made memorable by their works。 The describer generally takes the
first colour that seems to him probable。 The grey eyes of Coleridge are
recorded in a proverbial line； and Procter repeats the word； in describing
from the life。 Then Carlyle； who shows more signs of actual attention；
and who caught a trick of Coleridge's pronunciation instantly； proving that
with his hearing at least he was not slovenly； says that Coleridge's eyes
were brown … 〃strange； brown； timid； yet earnest…looking eyes。〃 A
Coleridge with brown eyes is one man； and a Coleridge with grey eyes
another … and； as it were； more responsible。 As to Rossetti's eyes； the
various inattention of his friends has assigned to them； in all the ready…
made phrases； nearly all the colours。
So with Charlotte Bronte。 Matthew Arnold seems to have thought
the most probable thing to be said of her eyes was that they were grey and
expressive。 Thus； after seeing them； does he describe them in one of his
letters。 Whereas Mrs Gaskell； who shows signs of attention； says that
Charlotte's eyes were a reddish hazel； made up of 〃a great variety of tints；〃
to be discovered by close looking。 Almost all eves that are not brown are；
in fact； of some such mixed colour； generally spotted in； and the effect is
vivacious。 All the more if the speckled iris has a dark ring to enclose it。
Nevertheless； the eye of mixed colour has always a definite character；
and the mingling that looks green is quite unlike the mingling that looks
grey； and among the greys there is endless difference。 Brown eyes alone
are apart； unlike all others； but having no variety except in the degrees of
their darkness。
The colour of eyes seems to be significant of temperament； but as
regards beauty there is little or nothing to choose among colours。 It is not
the eye； but the eyelid； that is important； beautiful； eloquent； full of secrets。
The eye has nothing but its colour； and all colours are fine within fine
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THE COLOUR OF LIFE
eyelids。 The eyelid has all the form； all the drawing； all the breadth and
length； the square of great eyes irregularly wide； the long corners of
narrow eyes； the pathetic outward droop； the delicate contrary suggestion
of an upward turn at the outer corner； which Sir Joshua loved。
It is the blood that is eloquent； and there is no sign of blood in the eye；
but in the eyelid the blood hides itself and shows its signs。 All along its
edges are the little muscles； living； that speak not only the obvious and
emphatic things； but what reluctances； what perceptions； what ambiguities；
what half… apprehensions； what doubts； what interceptions！ The eyelids
confess； and reject； and refuse to reject。 They have expressed all things
ever since man was man。
And they express so much by seeming to hide or to reveal that which
indeed expresses nothing。 For there is no message from the eye。 It has
direction； it moves； in the service of the sense of sight； it receives the
messages of the world。 But expression is outward； and the eye has it not。
There are no windows of the soul； there are only curtains； and these show
all things by seeming to hide a little more； a little less。 They hide nothing
but their own secrets。
But； some may say； the eyes have emotion inasmuch as they betray it
by the waxing and contracting of the pupils。 It is； however； the rarest
thing； this opening and narrowing under any influences except those of
darkness and light。 It does take place exceptionally； but I am doubtful
whether those who talk of it have ever really been attentive enough to
perceive it。 A nervous woman； brown…eyed and young； who stood to tell
the news of her own betrothal； and kept her manners exceedingly
composed as she spoke； had this waxing and closing of the pupils； it went
on all the time like a slow； slow pulse。 But such a thing is not to be seen
once a year。
Moreover； it is … though so significant … hardly to be called expression。
It is not articulate。 It implies emotion； but does not define； or describe； or
divide it。 It is touching； insomuch as we have knowledge of the
perturbed tide of the spirit that must cause it； but it is not otherwise
eloquent。 It does not tell us the quality of the thought； it does not inform
and surprise as with intricacies。 It speaks no more explicit or delicate
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THE COLOUR OF LIFE
things than does the pulse in its quickening。 It speaks with less division
of meanings than does the taking of the breath； which has impulses and
degrees。
No； the eyes do their work； but do it blankly； without communication。
Openings into the being they may be； but the closed cheek is more
communicative。 From them the blood of Perdita never did look out。 It
ebbed and flowed in her face； her dance； her talk。 It was hiding in her
paleness； and cloistered in her reserve； but visible in prison。 It leapt and
looked； at a word。 It was conscious in the fingers that reached out
flowers。