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Colour of Life

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<h2>EYES</h2> 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 Brontë.  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 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 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.  It ran with her.  It was silenced when she hushed her answers to the king.  Everywhere it was close behind the doors—everywhere but in her eyes. How near at hand was it, then, in the living eyelids that expressed her in their minute and instant and candid manner!  All her withdrawals, every hesitation, fluttered there.  A flock of meanings and intelligences alighted on those mobile edges. Think, then, of all the famous eyes in the world, that said so much, and said it in no other way but only by the little exquisite muscles of their lids.  How were these ever strong enough to bear the burden of those eyes of Heathcliff’s in “Wuthering Heights”?  “The clouded windows of Hell flashed a moment towards me; the fiend which usually looked out, however, was so dimmed and drowned—”  That mourning fiend, who had wept all night, had no expression, no proof or sign of himself, except in the edges of the eyelids of the man. And the eyes of Garrick?  Eyelids, again.  And the eyes of Charles Dickens, that were said to contain the life of fifty men?  On the mechanism of the eyelids hung that fifty-fold vitality.  “Bacon had a delicate, lively, hazel eye,” says Aubrey in his “Lives of Eminent Persons.”  But nothing of this belongs to the eye except the colour.  Mere brightness the eyeball has or has not, but so have many glass beads: the liveliness is the eyelid’s.  “Dr Harvey told me it was like the eie of a viper.”  So intent and narrowed must have been the attitude of Bacon’s eyelids. “I never saw such another eye in a human, head,” says Scott in describing Burns, “though I have seen the most distinguished men in my time.  It was large, and of a dark cast, and glowed (I say literally glowed) when he spoke with feeling or interest.  The eye alone, I think, indicated the poetical character and temperament.”  No eye literally glows; but some eyes are polished a little more, and reflect.  And this is the utmost that can possibly have been true as to the eyes of Burns.  But set within the meanings of impetuous eyelids the lucidity of the dark eyes seemed broken, moved, directed into fiery shafts. See, too, the reproach of little, sharp, grey eyes addressed to Hazlitt.  There are neither large nor small eyes, say physiologists, or the difference is so small as to be negligeable.  But in the eyelids the difference is great between large and small, and also between the varieties of largeness.  Some have large openings, and some are in themselves broad and long, serenely covering eyes called small.  Some have far more drawing than others, and interesting foreshortenings and sweeping curves. Where else is spirit so evident?  And where else is it so spoilt?  There is no vulgarity like the vulgarity of vulgar eyelids.  They have a slang all their own, of an intolerable kind.  And eyelids have looked all the cruel looks that have ever made wounds in innocent souls meeting them surprised. But all love and all genius have winged their flight from those slight and unmeasurable movements, have flickered on the margins of lovely eyelids quick with thought.  Life, spirit, sweetness are there in a small place; using the finest and the slenderest machinery; expressing meanings a whole world apart, by a difference of material action so fine that the sight which appreciates it cannot detect it; expressing intricacies of intellect; so incarnate in slender and sensitive flesh that nowhere else in the body of man is flesh so spiritual. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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