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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。
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THE COLOUR OF LIFE
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 their killing is
done so modestly； so then is their dying also。 Short lives have all these
wild things； but there are innumerable flocks of them always alive； they
must die； then； in innumerable flocks。 And yet they keep the millions of
the dead out of sight。
Now and then； indeed； they may be betrayed。 It happened in a cold
winter。 The late frosts were so sudden； and the famine was so complete；
that the birds were taken unawares。 The sky and the earth conspired that
February to make known all the secrets； everything was published。
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THE COLOUR OF LIFE
Death was manifest。 Editors； when a great man dies； are not more
resolute than was the frost of ‘95。
The birds were obliged to die in public。 They were surprised and
forced to do thus。 They became like Shelley in the monument which the
art and imagination of England combined to raise to his memory at
Oxford。
Frost was surely at work in both cases； and in both it wrought wrong。
There is a similarity of unreason in betraying the death of a bird and in
exhibiting the death of Shelley。 The death of a soldier … passe encore。
But the death of Shelley was not his goal。 And the death of the birds is so
little characteristic of them that； as has just been said； no one in the world
is aware of their dying； except only in the case of birds in cages； who；
again； are compelled to die with observation。 The woodland is guarded
and kept by a rule。 There is no display of the battlefield in the fields。
There is no tale of the game…bag； no boast。 The hunting goes on； but
with strange decorum。 You may pass a fine season under the trees； and
see nothing dead except here and there where a boy has been by； or a man
with a trap； or a man with a gun。 There is nothing like a butcher's shop in
the woods。
But the biographers have always had other ways than those of the wild
world。 They will not have a man to die out of sight。 I have turned over
scores of 〃Lives；〃 not to read them； but to see whether now and again
there might be a 〃Life〃 which was not more emphatically a death。 But
there never is a modern biography that has taken the hint of Nature。 One
and all； these books have the disproportionate illness； the death out of all
scale。
Even more wanton than the disclosure of a death is that of a mortal
illness。 If the man had recovered； his illness would have been rightly his
own secret。 But because he did not recover； it is assumed to be news for
the first comer。 Which of us would suffer the details of any physical
suffering； over and done in our own lives； to be displayed and described？
This is not a confidence we have a mind to make； and no one is authorised
to ask for attention or pity on our behalf。 The story of pain ought not to
be told of us； seeing that by us it would assuredly not be told。
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THE COLOUR OF LIFE
There is only one other thing that concerns a man still