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There is only one other thing that concerns a man still more
exclusively； and that is his own mental illness； or the dreams and illusions
of a long delirium。 When he is in common language not himself； amends
should be made for so bitter a paradox； he should be allowed such solitude
as is possible to the alienated spirit； he should be left to the 〃not himself；〃
and spared the intrusion against which he can so ill guard that he could
hardly have even resented it。
The double helplessness of delusion and death should keep the door of
Rossetti's house； for example； and refuse him to the reader。 His mortal
illness had nothing to do with his poetry。 Some rather affected objection
is taken every now and then to the publication of some facts （others being
already well known） in the life of Shelley。 Nevertheless； these are all；
properly speaking； biography。 What is not biography is the detail of the
accident of the manner of his death； the detail of his cremation。 Or if it
was to be told … told briefly … it was certainly not for marble。 Shelley's
death had no significance； except inasmuch as he died young。 It was a
detachable and disconnected incident。 Ah； that was a frost of fancy and
of the heart that used it so； dealing with an insignificant fact； and
conferring a futile immortality。 Those are ill…named biographers who
seem to think that a betrayal of the ways of death is a part of their ordinary
duty； and that if material enough for a last chapter does not lie to their
hand they are to search it out。 They； of all survivors； are called upon； in
honour and reason； to look upon a death with more composure。 To those
who loved the dead closely； this is； for a time； impossible。 To them death
becomes； for a year； disproportionate。 Their dreams are fixed upon it
night by night。 They have； in those dreams； to find the dead in some
labyrinth； they have to mourn his dying and to welcome his recovery in
such a mingling of distress and of always incredulous happiness as is not
known even to dreams save in that first year of separation。 But they are
not biographers。
If death is the privacy of the woods； it is the more conspicuously secret
because it is their only privacy。 You may watch or may surprise
everything else。 The nest is retired； not hidden。 The chase goes on
everywhere。 It is wonderful how the perpetual chase seems to cause no
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THE COLOUR OF LIFE
perpetual fear。 The songs are all audible。 Life is undefended； careless；
nimble and noisy。
It is a happy thing that minor artists have ceased； or almost ceased； to
paint dead birds。 Time was when they did it continually in that British
School of water…colour art； stippled； of which surrounding nations； it was
agreed； were envious。 They must have killed their bird to paint him； for
he is not to be caught dead。 A bird is more easily caught alive than dead。
A poet； on the contrary； is easily … too easily … caught dead。 Minor
artists now seldom stipple the bird on its back； but a good sculptor and a
University together modelled their Shelley on his back； unessentially
drowned； and everybody may read about the sick mind of Dante Rossetti。
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THE COLOUR OF LIFE
CLOUD
During a part of the year London does not see the clouds。 Not to see
the clear sky might seem her chief loss； but that is shared by the rest of
England； and is； besides； but a slight privation。 Not to see the clear sky is；
elsewhere； to see the cloud。 But not so in London。 You may go for a
week or two at a time； even though you hold your head up as you walk；
and even though you have windows that really open； and yet you shall see
no cloud； or but a single edge； the fragment of a form。
Guillotine windows never wholly open； but are filled with a doubled
glass towards the sky when you open them towards the street。 They are；
therefore； a sure sign that for all the years when no other windows were
used in London； nobody there cared much for the sky； or even knew so
much as whether there were a sky。
But the privation of cloud is indeed a graver loss than the world knows。
Terrestrial scenery is much； but it is not all。 Men go in search of it； but
the celestial scenery journeys to them。 It goes its way round the world。
It has no nation； it costs no weariness； it knows no bonds。 The terrestrial
scenery … the tourist's … is a prisoner compared with this。 The tourist's
scenery moves indeed； but only like Wordsworth's maiden； with earth's
diurnal course； it is made as fast as its own graves。 And for its changes it
depends upon the mobility of the skies。 The mere green flushing of its
own sap makes only the least of its varieties； for the greater it must wait
upon the visits of the light。 Spring and autumn are inconsiderable events
in a landscape compared with the shadows of a cloud。
The cloud controls the light； and the mountains on earth appear or fade
according to its passage； they wear so simply； from head to foot； the
luminous grey or the emphatic purple； as the cloud permits； that their own
local colour and their own local season are lost and cease； effaced before
the all…important mood of the cloud。
The sea has no mood except that of the sky and of its winds。 It is the
cloud that； holding the sun's rays in a sheaf as a giant holds a handful of
spears； strikes the horizon； touches the extreme edge with a delicate
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THE COLOUR OF LIFE
revelation of light； or suddenly puts it out and makes the foreground shine。
Every one knows the manifest work of the cloud when it descends and
partakes in the landscape obviously； lies half…way across the mountain
slope； stoops to rain heavily upon the lake； and blots out part of the view
by the rough method of standing in front of it。 But its greatest things are
done from its own place； aloft。 Thence does it distribute the sun。