奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第1部分

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PREFACE
Many　friends　have　helped　me　in　writing　this　book。　Some　are　dead　and　so　illustrious　that　I　scarcely　dare　name　them；　yet　no　one　can　read　or　write　without　being　perpetually　in　the　debt　of　Defoe；　Sir　Thomas　Browne；　Sterne；　Sir　Walter　Scott；　Lord　Macaulay；　Emily　Bronte；　De　Quincey；　and　Walter　Pater；—to　name　the　first　that　e　to　mind。　Others　are　alive；　and　though　perhaps　as　illustrious　in　their　own　way；　are　less　formidable　for　that　very　reason。　I　am　specially　indebted　to　Mr　C。P。　Sanger；　without　whose　knowledge　of　the　law　of　real　property　this　book　could　never　have　been　written。　Mr　Sydney–Turner’s　wide　and　peculiar　erudition　has　saved　me；　I　hope；　some　lamentable　blunders。　I　have　had　the　advantage—how　great　I　alone　can　estimate—of　Mr　Arthur　Waley’s　knowledge　of　Chinese。　Madame　Lopokova　（Mrs　J。M。　Keynes）　has　been　at　hand　to　correct　my　Russian。　To　the　unrivalled　sympathy　and　imagination　of　Mr　Roger　Fry　I　owe　whatever　understanding　of　the　art　of　painting　I　may　possess。　I　have；　I　hope；　profited　in　another　department　by　the　singularly　perating；　if　severe；　criticism　of　my　nephew　Mr　Julian　Bell。　Miss　M。K。　Snowdon’s　indefatigable　researches　in　the　archives　of　Harrogate　and　Cheltenham　were　none　the　less　arduous　for　being　vain。　Other　friends　have　helped　me　in　ways　too　various　to　specify。　I　must　content　myself　with　naming　Mr　Angus　Davidson；　Mrs　Cartwright；　Miss　Ja　Case；　Lord　Berners　（whose　knowledge　of　Elizabethan　music　has　proved　invaluable）；　Mr　Francis　Birrell；　my　brother；　Dr　Adrian　Stephen；　Mr　F。L。　Lucas；　Mr　and　Mrs　Desmond　Maccarthy；　that　most　inspiriting　of　critics；　my　brother–in–law；　Mr　Clive　Bell；　Mr　G。H。　Rylands；　Lady　Colefax；　Miss　Nellie　Boxall；　Mr　J。M。　Keynes；　Mr　Hugh　Walpole；　Miss　Violet　Dickinson；　the　Hon。　Edward　Sackville　West；　Mr　and　Mrs　St。　John　Hutchinson；　Mr　Duncan　Grant；　Mr　and　Mrs　Stephen　Tomlin；　Mr　and　Lady　Ottoline　Morrell；　my　mother–in–law；　Mrs　Sydney　Woolf；　Mr　Osbert　Sitwell；　Madame　Jacques　Raverat；　Colonel　Cory　Bell；　Miss　Valerie　Taylor；　Mr　J。T。　Sheppard；　Mr　and　Mrs　T。S。　Eliot；　Miss　Ethel　Sands；　Miss　Nan　Hudson；　my　nephew　Mr　Quentin　Bell　（an　old　and　valued　collaborator　in　fiction）；　Mr　Raymond　Mortimer；　Lady　Gerald　Wellesley；　Mr　Lytton　Strachey；　the　Viscountess　Cecil；　Miss　Hope　Mirrlees；　Mr　E。M。　Forster；　the　Hon。　Harold　Nicolson；　and　my　sister；　Vanessa　Bell—but　the　list　threatens　to　grow　too　long　and　is　already　far　too　distinguished。　For　while　it　rouses　in　me　memories　of　the　pleasantest　kind　it　will　inevitably　wake　expectations　in　the　reader　which　the　book　itself　can　only　disappoint。　Therefore　I　will　conclude　by　thanking　the　officials　of　the　British　Museum　and　Record　Office　for　their　wonted　courtesy；　my　niece　Miss　Angelica　Bell；　for　a　service　which　none　but　she　could　have　rendered；　and　my　husband　for　the　patience　with　which　he　has　invariably　helped　my　researches　and　for　the　profound　historical　knowledge　to　which　these　pages　owe　whatever　degree　of　accuracy　they　may　attain。　Finally；　I　would　thank；　had　I　not　lost　his　name　and　address；　a　gentleman　in　America；　who　has　generously　and　gratuitously　corrected　the　punctuation；　the　botany；　the　entomology；　the　geography；　and　the　chronology　of　previous　works　of　mine　and　will；　I　hope；　not　spare　his　services　on　the　present　occasion。







CHAPTER　1。
He—for　there　could　be　no　doubt　of　his　sex；　though　the　fashion　of　the　time　did　something　to　disguise　it—was　in　the　act　of　slicing　at　the　head　of　a　Moor　which　swung　from　the　rafters。　It　was　the　colour　of　an　old　football；　and　more　or　less　the　shape　of　one；　save　for　the　sunken　cheeks　and　a　strand　or　two　of　coarse；　dry　hair；　like　the　hair　on　a　cocoanut。　Orlando’s　father；　or　perhaps　his　grandfather；　had　struck　it　from　the　shoulders　of　a　vast　Pagan　who　had　started　up　under　the　moon　in　the　barbarian　fields　of　Africa；　and　now　it　swung；　gently；　perpetually；　in　the　breeze　which　never　ceased　blowing　through　the　attic　rooms　of　the　gigantic　house　of　the　lord　who　had　slain　him。

Orlando’s　fathers　had　ridden　in　fields　of　asphodel；　and　stony　fields；　and　fields　watered　by　strange　rivers；　and　they　had　struck　many　heads　of　many　colours　off　many　shoulders；　and　brought　them　back　to　hang　from　the　rafters。　So　too　would　Orlando；　he　vowed。　But　since　he　was　sixteen　only；　and　too　young　to　ride　with　them　in　Africa　or　France；　he　would　steal　away　from　his　mother　and　the　peacocks　in　the　garden　and　go　to　his　attic　room　and　there　lunge　and　plunge　and　slice　the　air　with　his　blade。　Sometimes　he　cut　the　cord　so　that　the　skull　bumped　on　the　floor　and　he　had　to　string　it　up　again；　fastening　it　with　some　chivalry　almost　out　of　reach　so　that　his　enemy　grinned　at　him　through　shrunk；　black　lips　triumphantly。　The　skull　swung　to　and　fro；　for　the　house；　at　the　top　of　which　he　lived；　was　so　vast　that　there　seemed　trapped　in　it　the　wind　itself；　blowing　this　way；　blowing　that　way；　winter　and　summer。　The　green　arras　with　the　hunters　on　it　moved　perpetually。　His　fathers　had　been　noble　since　they　had　been　at　all。　They　came　out　of　the　northern　mists　wearing　coros　on　their　heads。　Were　not　the　bars　of　darkness　in　the　room；　and　the　yellow　pools　which　chequered　the　floor；　made　by　the　sun　falling　through　the　stained　glass　of　a　vast　coat　of　arms　in　the　window？　Orlando　stood　now　in　the　midst　of　the　yellow　body　of　an　heraldic　leopard。　When　he　put　his　hand　on　the　window–sill　to　push　the　window　open；　it　was　instantly　coloured　red；　blue；　and　yellow　like　a　butterfly’s　wing。　Thus；　those　who　like　symbols；　and　have　a　turn　for　the　deciphering　of　them；　might　observe　that　though　the　shapely　legs；　the　handsome　body；　and　the　well–set　shoulders　were　all　of　them　decorated　with　various　tints　of　heraldic　light；　Orlando’s　face；　as　he　threw　the　window　open；　was　lit　solely　by　the　sun　itself。　A　more　candid；　sullen　face　it　would　be　impossible　to　find。　Happy　the　mother　who　bears；　happier　still　the　biographer　who　records　the　life　of　such　a　one！　Never　need　she　vex　herself；　nor　he　invoke　the　help　of　novelist　or　poet。　From　deed　to　deed；　from　glory　to　glory；　from　office　to　office　he　must　go；　his　scribe　following　after；　till　they　reach　whatever　seat　it　may　be　that　is　the　height　of　their　desire。　Orlando；　to　look　at；　was　cut　out　precisely　for　some　such　career。　The　red　of　the　cheeks　was　covered　with　peach　down；　the　down　on　the　lips　was　only　a　little　thicker　than　the　down　on　the　cheeks。　The　lips　themselves　were　short　and　slightly　drawn　back　over　teeth　of　an　exquisite　and　almond　whiteness。　Nothing　disturbed　the　arrowy　nose　in　its　short；　tense　flight；　the　hair　was　dark；　the　ears　small；　and　fitted　closely　to　the　head。　But；　alas；　that　these　catalogues　of　youthful　beauty　cannot　end　without　mentioning　forehead　and　eyes。　Alas；　that　people　are　seldom　born　devoid　of　all　three；　for　directly　we　glance　at　Orlando　standing　by　the　window；　we　must　admit　that　he　had　eyes　like　drenched　violets；　so　large　that　the　water　seemed　to　have　brimmed　in　them　and　widened　them；　and　a　brow　like　the　swelling　of　a　marble　dome　pressed　between　the　two　blank　medallions　which　were　his　temples。　Directly　we　glance　at　eyes　and　forehead；　thus　do　we　rhapsodize。　Directly　we　glance　at　eyes　and　forehead；　we　have　to　admit　a　thousand　disagreeables　which　it　is　the　aim　of　every　good　biographer　to　ignore。　Sights　disturbed　him；　like　that　of　his　mother；　a　very　beautiful　lady　in　green　walking　out　to　feed　the　peacocks　with　Twitchett；　her　maid；　behind　her；　sights　exalted　him—the　birds　and　the　trees；　and　made　him　in　love　with　death—the　evening　sky；　the　homing　rooks；　and　so；　mounting　up　the　spiral　stairway　into　his　brain—which　was　a　roomy　one—all　these　sights；　and　the　garden　sounds　too；　the　hammer　beating；　the　wood　chopping；　began　that　riot　and　confusion　of　the　passions　and　emotions　which　every　good　biographer　detests；　But　to　continue—Orlando　slowly　drew　in　his　head；　sat　down　at　the　table；　and；　with　the　half–conscious　air　of　one　doing　what　they　do　every　day　of　their　lives　at　this　hour；　took　out　a　writing　book　labelled　‘Aethelbert：　A　Tragedy　in　Five　Acts；’　and　dipped　an　old　stained　goose　quill　in　the　ink。

Soon　he　had　covered　ten　pages　and　more　with　poetry。　He　was　fluent；　evidently；　but　he　was　abstract。　Vice；　Crime；　Misery　were　the　personages　of　his　drama；　there　were　Kings　and　Queens　of　impossible　territories；　horrid　plots　confounded　them；　noble　sentiments　suffused　them；　there　was　never　a　word　said　as　he　himself　would　have　said　it；　but　all　was　turned　with　a　fluency　and　sweetness　which；　considering　his　age—he　was　not　yet　seventeen—and　that　the　sixteenth　century　had　still　some　years　of　its　course　to　run；　were　remarkable　enough。　At　last；　however；　he　came　to　a　halt。　He　was　describing；　as　all　young　poets　are　for　ever　describing；　nature；　and　in　order　to　match　the　shade　of　green　precisely　he　looked　（and　here　he　showed　more　audacity　than　most）　at　the　thing　itself；　which　happened　to　be　a　laurel　bush　growing　beneath　the　window。　After　that；　of　course；　he　could　write　no　more。　Green　in　nature　is　one　thing；　green　in　literature　another。　Nature　and　letters　seem　to　have　a　natural　antipathy；　bring　them　together　and　they　tear　each　other　to　pieces。　The　shade　of　green　Orlando　now　saw　spoilt　his　rhyme　and　split　his　metre。　Moreover；　nature　has　tricks　of　her　own。　Once　look　out　of　a　window　at　bees　among　flowers；　at　a　yawning　dog；　at　the　sun　setting；　once　think　‘how　many　more　suns　shall　I　see　set’；　etc。　etc。　（the　thought　is　too　well　known　to　be　worth　writing　out）　and　one　drops　the　pen；　takes　one’s　cloak；　strides　out　of　the　room；　and　catches　one’s　foot　on　a　painted　chest　as　one　does　so。　For　Orlando　was　a　trifle　clumsy。

He　was　careful　to　avoid　meeting　anyone。　There　was　Stubbs；　the　gardener；　ing　along　the　path。　He　hid　behind　a　tree　till　he　had　passed。　He　let　himself　out　at　a　little　gate　in　the　garden　wall。　He　skirted　all　stables；　kennels；　breweries；　carpenters’　shops；　washhouses；　places　where　they　make　tallow　candles；　kill　oxen；　forge　horse–shoes；　stitch　jerkins—for　the　house　was　a　town　ringing　with　men　at　work　at　their　various　crafts—and　gained　the　ferny　path　leading　uphill　through　the　park　unseen。　There　is　perhaps　a　kinship　among　qualities；　one　draws　another　along　with　it；　and　the　biographer　should　here　call　attention　to　the　fact　that　this　clumsiness　is　often　mated　with　a　love　of　solitude。　Having　stumbled　over　a　chest；　Orlando　naturally　loved　solitary　places；　vast　views；　and　to　feel　himself　for　ever　and　ever　and　ever　alone。

So；　after　a　long　silence；　‘I　am　alone’；　he　breathed　at　last；　opening　his　lips　for　the　first　time　in　this　record。　He　had　walked　very　quickly　uphill　through　ferns　and　hawthorn　bushes；　startling　deer　and　wild　birds；　to　a　place　crowned　by　a　single　oak　tree。　It　was　very　high；　so　high　indeed　that　nieen　English　counties　could　be　seen　beneath；　and　on　clear　days　thirty　or　perhaps　forty；　if　the　weather　was　very　fine。　Sometimes　one　could　see　the　English　Channel；　wave　reiterating　upon　wave。　Rivers　could　be　seen　and　pleasure　boats　gliding　on　them；　and　galleons　setting　out　to　sea；　and　armadas　with　puffs　of　smoke　from　which　came　the　dull　thud　of　cannon　firing；　and　forts　on　the　coast；　and　castles　among　the　meadows；　and　here　a　watch　tower；　and　there　a　fortress；　and　again　some　vast　mansion　like　that　of　Orlando’s　father；　massed　like　a　town　in　the　valley　circled　by　walls。　To　the　east　there　were　the　spires　of　London　and　the　smoke　of　the　city；　and　perhaps　on　the　very　sky　line；　when　the　wind　was　in　the　right　quarter；　the　craggy　top　and　serrated　edges　of　Snowdon　herself　showed　mountainous　among　the　clouds。　For　a　moment　Orlando　stood　counting；　gazing；　recognizing。　That　was　his　father’s　house；　that　his　uncle’s。　His　aunt　owned　those　three　great　turrets　among　the　trees　there。　The　heath　was　theirs　and　the　forest；　the　pheasant　and　the　deer；　the　fox；　the　badger；　and　the　butterfly。

He　sighed　profoundly；　and　flung　himself—there　was　a　passion　in　his　movements　which　deserves　the　word—on　the　earth　at　the　foot　of　the　oak　tree。　He　loved；　beneath　all　this　summer　transiency；　to　feel　the　earth’s　spine　beneath　him；　for　such　he　took　the　hard　root　of　the　oak　tree　to　be；　or；　for　image　followed　image；　it　was　the　back　of　a　great　horse　that　he　was　riding；　or　the　deck　of　a　tumbling　ship—it　was　anything　indeed；　so　long　as　it　was　hard；　for　he　felt　the　need　of　something　which　he　could　attach　his　floating　heart　to；　the　heart　that　tugged　at　his　side；　the　heart　that　seemed　filled　with　spiced　and　amorous　gales　every　evening　about　this　time　when　he　walked　out。　To　the　oak　tree　he　tied　it　and　as　he　lay　there；　gradually　the　flutter　in　and　about　him　stilled　itself；　the　little　leaves　hung；　the　deer　stopped；　the　pale　summer　clouds　stayed；　his　limbs　grew　heavy　on　the　ground；　and　he　lay　so　still　that　by　degrees　the　deer　stepped　nearer　and　the　rooks　wheeled　round　him　and　the　swallows　dipped　and　circled　and　the　dragonflies　shot　past；　as　if　all　the　fertility　and　amorous　activity　of　a　summer’s　evening　were　woven　web–like　about　his　body。

After　an　hour　or　so—the　sun　was　rapidly　sinking；　the　white　clouds　had　turned　red；　the　hills　were　violet；　the　woods　purple；　the　valleys　black—a　trumpet　sounded。　Orlando　leapt　to　his　feet。　The　shrill　sound　came　from　the　valley。　It　came　from　a　dark　spot　down　there；　a　spot　pact　and　mapped　out；　a　maze；　a　town；　yet　girt　about　with　walls；　it　came　from　the　heart　of　his　own　great　house　in　the　valley；　which；　dark　before；　even　as　he　looked　and　the　single　trumpet　duplicated　and　reduplicated　itself　with　other　shriller　sounds；　lost　its　darkness　and　became　pierced　with　lights。　Some　were　small　hurrying　lights；　as　if　servants　dashed　along　corridors　to　answer　summonses；　others　were　high　and　lustrous　lights；　as　if　they　burnt　in　empty　banqueting–halls　made　ready　to　receive　guests　who　had　not　e；　and　others　dipped　and　waved　and　sank　and　rose；　as　if　held　in　the　hands　of　troops　of　serving　men；　bending；　kneeling；　rising；　receiving；　guarding；　and　escorting　with　all　dignity　indoors　a　great　Princess　alighting　from　her　chariot。　Coaches　turned　and　wheeled　in　the　courtyard。　Horses　tossed　their　plumes。　The　Queen　had　e。

Orlando　looked　no　more。　He　dashed　downhill。　He　let　himself　in　at　a　wicket　gate。　He　tore　up　the　winding　staircase。　He　reached　his　room。　He　tossed　his　stockings　to　one　side　of　the　room；　his　jerkin　to　the　other。　He　dipped　his　head。　He　scoured　his　hands。　He　pared　his　finger　nails。　With　no　more　than　six　inches　of　looking–glass　and　a　pair　of　old　candles　to　help　him；　he　had　thrust　on　crimson　breeches；　lace　collar；　waistcoat　of　taffeta；　and　shoes　with　rosettes　on　them　as　big　as　double　dahlias　in　less　than　ten　minutes　by　the　stable　clock。　He　was　ready。　He　was　flushed。　He　was　excited；　But　he　was　terribly　late。

By　short　cuts　known　to　him；　he　made　his　way　now　through　the　vast　congeries　of　rooms　and　staircases　to　the　banqueting–hall；　five　acres　distant　on　the　other　side　of　the　house。　But　half–way　there；　in　the　back　quarters　where　the　servants　lived；　he　stopped。　The　door　of　Mrs　Stewkley’s　sitting–room　stood　open—she　was　gone；　doubtless；　with　all　her　keys　to　wait　upon　her　mistress。　But　there；　sitting　at　the　servant’s　dinner　table　with　a　tankard　beside　him　and　paper　in　front　of　him；　sat　a　rather　fat；　shabby　man；　whose　ruff　was　a　thought　dirty；　and　whose　clothes　were　of　hodden　brown。　He　held　a　pen　in　his　hand；　but　he　was　not　writing。　He　seemed　in　the　act　of　rolling　some　thought　up　and　down；　to　and　fro　in　his　mind　till　it　gathered　shape　or　momentum　to　his　liking。　His　eyes；　globed　and　clouded　like　s