奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第15部分

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stricken　wretches　on　top；　a　covey　of　swans　floated；　orgulous；　undulant；　superb。　London　itself　had　pletely　changed　since　she　had　last　seen　it。　Then；　she　remembered；　it　had　been　a　huddle　of　little　black；　beetle–browed　houses。　The　heads　of　rebels　had　grinned　on　pikes　at　Temple　Bar。　The　cobbled　pavements　had　reeked　of　garbage　and　ordure。　Now；　as　the　ship　sailed　past　Wapping；　she　caught　glimpses　of　broad　and　orderly　thoroughfares。　Stately　coaches　drawn　by　teams　of　well–fed　horses　stood　at　the　doors　of　houses　whose　bow　windows；　whose　plate　glass；　whose　polished　knockers；　testified　to　the　wealth　and　modest　dignity　of　the　dwellers　within。　Ladies　in　flowered　silk　（she　put　the　Captain’s　glass　to　her　eye）　walked　on　raised　footpaths。　Citizens　in　broidered　coats　took　snuff　at　street　corners　under　lamp–posts。　She　caught　sight　of　a　variety　of　painted　signs　swinging　in　the　breeze　and　could　form　a　rapid　notion　from　what　was　painted　on　them　of　the　tobacco；　of　the　stuff；　of　the　silk；　of　the　gold；　of　the　silver　ware；　of　the　gloves；　of　the　perfumes；　and　of　a　thousand　other　articles　which　were　sold　within。　Nor　could　she　do　more　as　the　ship　sailed　to　its　anchorage　by　London　Bridge　than　glance　at　coffee–house　windows　where；　on　balconies；　since　the　weather　was　fine；　a　great　number　of　decent　citizens　sat　at　ease；　with　china　dishes　in　front　of　them；　clay　pipes　by　their　sides；　while　one　among　them　read　from　a　news　sheet；　and　was　frequently　interrupted　by　the　laughter　or　the　ments　of　the　others。　Were　these　taverns；　were　these　wits；　were　these　poets？　she　asked　of　Captain　Bartolus；　who　obligingly　informed　her　that　even　now—if　she　turned　her　head　a　little　to　the　left　and　looked　along　the　line　of　his　first　finger—so—they　were　passing　the　Cocoa　Tree；　where；—yes；　there　he　was—one　might　see　Mr　Addison　taking　his　coffee；　the　other　two　gentlemen—’there；　Ma’am；　a　little　to　the　right　of　the　lamp–post；　one　of　‘em　humped；　t’other　much　the　same　as　you　or　me’—were　Mr　Dryden　and　Mr　Pope。’　‘Sad　dogs；’　said　the　Captain；　by　which　he　meant　that　they　were　Papists；　‘but　men　of　parts；　none　the　less；’　he　added；　hurrying　aft　to　superintend　the　arrangements　for　landing。　（The　Captain　must　have　been　mistaken；　as　a　reference　to　any　textbook　of　literature　will　show；　but　the　mistake　was　a　kindly　one；　and　so　we　let　it　stand。）

‘Addison；　Dryden；　Pope；’　Orlando　repeated　as　if　the　words　were　an　incantation。　For　one　moment　she　saw　the　high　mountains　above　Broussa；　the　next；　she　had　set　her　foot　upon　her　native　shore。






But　now　Orlando　was　to　learn　how　little　the　most　tempestuous　flutter　of　excitement　avails　against　the　iron　countenance　of　the　law；　how　harder　than　the　stones　of　London　Bridge　it　is；　and　than　the　lips　of　a　cannon　more　severe。　No　sooner　had　she　returned　to　her　home　in　Blackfriars　than　she　was　made　aware　by　a　succession　of　Bow　Street　runners　and　other　grave　emissaries　from　the　Law　Courts　that　she　was　a　party　to　three　major　suits　which　had　been　preferred　against　her　during　her　absence；　as　well　as　innumerable　minor　litigations；　some　arising　out　of；　others　depending　on　them。　The　chief　charges　against　her　were　（1）　that　she　was　dead；　and　therefore　could　not　hold　any　property　whatsoever；　（2）　that　she　was　a　woman；　which　amounts　to　much　the　same　thing；　（3）　that　she　was　an　English　Duke　who　had　married　one　Rosina　Pepita；　a　dancer；　and　had　had　by　her　three　sons；　which　sons　now　declaring　that　their　father　was　deceased；　claimed　that　all　his　property　descended　to　them。　Such　grave　charges　as　these　would；　of　course；　take　time　and　money　to　dispose　of。　All　her　estates　were　put　in　Chancery　and　her　titles　pronounced　in　abeyance　while　the　suits　were　under　litigation。　Thus　it　was　in　a　highly　ambiguous　condition；　uncertain　whether　she　was　alive　or　dead；　man　or　woman；　Duke　or　nonentity；　that　she　posted　down　to　her　country　seat；　where；　pending　the　legal　judgment；　she　had　the　Law’s　permission　to　reside　in　a　state　of　incognito　or　incognita；　as　the　case　might　turn　out　to　be。

It　was　a　fine　evening　in　December　when　she　arrived　and　the　snow　was　falling　and　the　violet　shadows　were　slanting　much　as　she　had　seen　them　from　the　hill–top　at　Broussa。　The　great　house　lay　more　like　a　town　than　a　house；　brown　and　blue；　rose　and　purple　in　the　snow；　with　all　its　chimneys　smoking　busily　as　if　inspired　with　a　life　of　their　own。　She　could　not　restrain　a　cry　as　she　saw　it　there　tranquil　and　massive；　couched　upon　the　meadows。　As　the　yellow　coach　entered　the　park　and　came　bowling　along　the　drive　between　the　trees；　the　red　deer　raised　their　heads　as　if　expectantly；　and　it　was　observed　that　instead　of　showing　the　timidity　natural　to　their　kind；　they　followed　the　coach　and　stood　about　the　courtyard　when　it　drew　up。　Some　tossed　their　antlers；　others　pawed　the　ground　as　the　step　was　let　down　and　Orlando　alighted。　One；　it　is　said；　actually　knelt　in　the　snow　before　her。　She　had　not　time　to　reach　her　hand　towards　the　knocker　before　both　wings　of　the　great　door　were　flung　open；　and　there；　with　lights　and　torches　held　above　their　heads；　were　Mrs　Grimsditch；　Mr　Dupper；　and　a　whole　retinue　of　servants　e　to　greet　her。　But　the　orderly　procession　was　interrupted　first　by　the　impetuosity　of　Canute；　the　elk–hound；　who　threw　himself　with　such　ardour　upon　his　mistress　that　he　almost　knocked　her　to　the　ground；　next；　by　the　agitation　of　Mrs　Grimsditch；　who；　making　as　if　to　curtsey；　was　overe　with　emotion　and　could　do　no　more　than　gasp　Milord！　Milady！　Milady！　Milord！　until　Orlando　forted　her　with　a　hearty　kiss　upon　both　her　cheeks。　After　that；　Mr　Dupper　began　to　read　from　a　parchment；　but　the　dogs　barking；　the　huntsmen　winding　their　horns；　and　the　stags；　who　had　e　into　the　courtyard　in　the　confusion；　baying　the　moon；　not　much　progress　was　made；　and　the　pany　dispersed　within　after　crowding　about　their　Mistress；　and　testifying　in　every　way　to　their　great　joy　at　her　return。

No　one　showed　an　instant’s　suspicion　that　Orlando　was　not　the　Orlando　they　had　known。　If　any　doubt　there　was　in　the　human　mind　the　action　of　the　deer　and　the　dogs　would　have　been　enough　to　dispel　it；　for　the　dumb　creatures；　as　is　well　known；　are　far　better　judges　both　of　identity　and　character　than　we　are。　Moreover；　said　Mrs　Grimsditch；　over　her　dish　of　china　tea；　to　Mr　Dupper　that　night；　if　her　Lord　was　a　Lady　now；　she　had　never　seen　a　lovelier　one；　nor　was　there　a　penny　piece　to　choose　between　them；　one　was　as　well–favoured　as　the　other；　they　were　as　like　as　two　peaches　on　one　branch；　which；　said　Mrs　Grimsditch；　being　confidential；　she　had　always　had　her　suspicions　（here　she　nodded　her　head　very　mysteriously）；　which　it　was　no　surprise　to　her　（here　she　nodded　her　head　very　knowingly）；　and　for　her　part；　a　very　great　fort；　for　what　with　the　towels　wanting　mending　and　the　curtains　in　the　chaplain’s　parlour　being　moth–eaten　round　the　fringes；　it　was　time　they　had　a　Mistress　among　them。

‘And　some　little　masters　and　mistresses　to　e　after　her；’　Mr　Dupper　added；　being　privileged　by　virtue　of　his　holy　office　to　speak　his　mind　on　such　delicate　matters　as　these。

So；　while　the　old　servants　gossiped　in　the　servants’　hall；　Orlando　took　a　silver　candle　in　her　hand　and　roamed　once　more　through　the　halls；　the　galleries；　the　courts；　the　bedrooms；　saw　loom　down　at　her　again　the　dark　visage　of　this　Lord　Keeper；　that　Lord　Chamberlain；　among　her　ancestors；　sat　now　in　this　chair　of　state；　now　reclined　on　that　canopy　of　delight；　observed　the　arras；　how　it　swayed；　watched　the　huntsmen　riding　and　Daphne　flying；　bathed　her　hand；　as　she　had　loved　to　do　as　a　child；　in　the　yellow　pool　of　light　which　the　moonlight　made　falling　through　the　heraldic　Leopard　in　the　window；　slid　along　the　polished　planks　of　the　gallery；　the　other　side　of　which　was　rough　timber；　touched　this　silk；　that　satin；　fancied　the　carved　dolphins　swam；　brushed　her　hair　with　King　James’　silver　brush；　buried　her　face　in　the　potpourri；　which　was　made　as　the　Conqueror　had　taught　them　many　hundred　years　ago　and　from　the　same　roses；　looked　at　the　garden　and　imagined　the　sleeping　crocuses；　the　dormant　dahlias；　saw　the　frail　nymphs　gleaming　white　in　the　snow　and　the　great　yew　hedges；　thick　as　a　house；　black　behind　them；　saw　the　orangeries　and　the　giant　medlars；—all　this　she　saw；　and　each　sight　and　sound；　rudely　as　we　write　it　down；　filled　her　heart　with　such　a　lust　and　balm　of　joy；　that　at　length；　tired　out；　she　entered　the　Chapel　and　sank　into　the　old　red　arm–chair　in　which　her　ancestors　used　to　hear　service。　There　she　lit　a　cheroot　（’twas　a　habit　she　had　brought　back　from　the　East）　and　opened　the　Prayer　Book。

It　was　a　little　book　bound　in　velvet；　stitched　with　gold；　which　had　been　held　by　Mary　Queen　of　Scots　on　the　scaffold；　and　the　eye　of　faith　could　detect　a　brownish　stain；　said　to　be　made　of　a　drop　of　the　Royal　blood。　But　what　pious　thoughts　it　roused　in　Orlando；　what　evil　passions　it　soothed　asleep；　who　dare　say；　seeing　that　of　all　munions　this　with　the　deity　is　the　most　inscrutable？　Novelist；　poet；　historian　all　falter　with　their　hand　on　that　door；　nor　does　the　believer　himself　enlighten　us；　for　is　he　more　ready　to　die　than　other　people；　or　more　eager　to　share　his　goods？　Does　he　not　keep　as　many　maids　and　carriage　horses　as　the　rest？　and　yet　with　it　all；　holds　a　faith　he　says　which　should　make　goods　a　vanity　and　death　desirable。　In　the　Queen’s　prayerbook；　along　with　the　blood–stain；　was　also　a　lock　of　hair　and　a　crumb　of　pastry；　Orlando　now　added　to　these　keepsakes　a　flake　of　tobacco；　and　so；　reading　and　smoking；　was　moved　by　the　humane　jumble　of　them　all—the　hair；　the　pastry；　the　blood–stain；　the　tobacco—to　such　a　mood　of　contemplation　as　gave　her　a　reverent　air　suitable　in　the　circumstances；　though　she　had；　it　is　said；　no　traffic　with　the　usual　God。　Nothing；　however；　can　be　more　arrogant；　though　nothing　is　moner　than　to　assume　that　of　Gods　there　is　only　one；　and　of　religions　none　but　the　speaker’s。　Orlando；　it　seemed；　had　a　faith　of　her　own。　With　all　the　religious　ardour　in　the　world；　she　now　reflected　upon　her　sins　and　the　imperfections　that　had　crept　into　her　spiritual　state。　The　letter　S；　she　reflected；　is　the　serpent　in　the　poet’s　Eden。　Do　what　she　would　there　were　still　too　many　of　these　sinful　reptiles　in　the　first　stanzas　of　‘The　Oak　Tree’。　But　‘S’　was　nothing；　in　her　opinion；　pared　with　the　termination　‘ing’。　The　present　participle　is　the　Devil　himself；　she　thought；　now　that　we　are　in　the　place　for　believing　in　Devils。　To　evade　such　temptations　is　the　first　duty　of　the　poet；　she　concluded；　for　as　the　ear　is　the　antechamber　to　the　soul；　poetry　can　adulterate　and　destroy　more　surely　than　lust　or　gunpowder。　The　poet’s；　then；　is　the　highest　office　of　all；　she　continued。　His　words　reach　where　others　fall　short。　A　silly　song　of　Shakespeare’s　has　done　more　for　the　poor　and　the　wicked　than　all　the　preachers　and　philanthropists　in　the　world。　No　time；　no　devotion；　can　be　too　great；　therefore；　which　makes　the　vehicle　of　our　message　less　distorting。　We　must　shape　our　words　till　they　are　the　thinnest　integument　for　our　thoughts。　Thoughts　are　divine；　etc。　Thus　it　is　obvious　that　she　was　back　in　the　confines　of　her　own　religion　which　time　had　only　strengthened　in　her　absence；　and　was　rapidly　acquiring　the　intolerance　of　belief。

‘I　am　growing　up；’　she　thought；　taking　her　taper　at　last。　‘I　am　losing　some　illusions；’　she　said；　shutting　Queen　Mary’s　book；　‘perhaps　to　acquire　others；’　and　she　descended　among　the　tombs　where　the　bones　of　her　ancestors　lay。

But　even　the　bones　of　her　ancestors；　Sir　Miles；　Sir　Gervase；　and　the　rest；　had　lost　something　of　their　sanctity　since　Rustum　el　Sadi　had　waved　his　hand　that　night　in　the　Asian　mountains。　Somehow　the　fact　that　only　three　or　four　hundred　years　ago　these　skeletons　had　been　men　with　their　way　to　make　in　the　world　like　any　modern　upstart；　and　that　they　had　made　it　by　acquiring　houses　and　offices；　garters　and　ribbands；　as　any　other　upstart　does；　while　poets；　perhaps；　and　men　of　great　mind　and　breeding　had　preferred　the　quietude　of　the　country；　for　which　choice　they　paid　the　penalty　by　extreme　poverty；　and　now　hawked　broadsheets　in　the　Strand；　or　herded　sheep　in　the　fields；　filled　her　with　remorse。　She　thought　of　the　Egyptian　pyramids　and　what　bones　lie　beneath　them　as　she　stood　in　the　crypt；　and　the　vast；　empty　hills　which　lie　above　the　Sea　of　Marmara　seemed；　for　the　moment；　a　finer　dwelling–place　than　this　many–roomed　mansion　in　which　no　bed　lacked　its　quilt　and　no　silver　dish　its　silver　cover。

‘I　am　growing　up；’　she　thought；　taking　her　taper。　‘I　am　losing　my　illusions；　perhaps　to　acquire　new　ones；’　and　she　paced　down　the　long　gallery　to　her　bedroom。　It　was　a　disagreeable　process；　and　a　troublesome。　But　it　was　interesting；　amazingly；　she　thought；　stretching　her　legs　out　to　her　log　fire　（for　no　sailor　was　present）；　and　she　reviewed；　as　if　it　were　an　avenue　of　great　edifices；　the　progress　of　her　own　self　along　her　own　past。

How　she　had　loved　sound　when　she　was　a　boy；　and　thought　the　volley　of　tumultuous　syllables　from　the　lips　the　finest　of　all　poetry。　Then—it　was　the　effect　of　Sasha　and　her　disillusionment　perhaps—into　this　high　frenzy　was　let　fall　some　black　drop；　which　turned　her　rhapsody　into　sluggishness。　Slowly　there　had　opened　within　her　something　intricate　and　many–chambered；　which　one　must　take　a　torch　to　explore；　in　prose　not　verse；　and　she　remembered　how　passionately　she　had　studied　that　doctor　at　Norwich；　Browne；　whose　book　was　at　her　hand　there。　She　had　formed　here　in　solitude　after　her　affair　with　Greene；　or　tried　to　form；　for　Heaven　knows　these　growths　are　agelong　in　ing；　a　spirit　capable　of　resistance。　‘I　will　write；’　she　had　said；　‘what　I　enjoy　writing’；　and　so　had　scratched　out　twenty–six　volumes。　Yet　still；　for　all　her　travels　and　adventures　and　profound　thinkings　and　turnings　this　way　and　that；　she　was　only　in　process　of　fabrication。　What　the　future　might　bring；　Heaven　only　knew。　Change　was　incessant；　and　change　perhaps　would　never　cease。　High　battlements　of　thought；　habits　that　had　seemed　durable　as　stone；　went　down　like　shadows　at　the　touch　of　another　mind　and　left　a　naked　sky　and　fresh　stars　twinkling　in　it。　Here　she　went　to　the　window；　and　in　spite　of　the　cold　could　not　help　unlatching　it。　She　leant　out　into　the　damp　night　air。　She　heard　a　fox　bark　in　the　woods；　and　the　clutter　of　a　pheasant　trailing　through　the　branches。　She　heard　the　snow　slither　and　flop　from　the　roof　to　the　ground。　‘By　my　life；’　she　exclaimed；　‘this　is　a　thousand　times　better　than　Turkey。　Rustum；’　she　cried；　as　if　she　were　arguing　with　the　gipsy　（and　in　this　new　power　of　bearing　an　argument　in　mind　and　continuing　it　with　someone　who　was　not　there　to　contradict　she　showed　again　the　development　of　her　soul）；　‘you　were　wrong。　This　is　better　than　Turkey。　Hair；　pastry；　tobacco—of　what　odds　and　ends　are　we　pounded；’　she　said　（thinking　of　Queen　Mary’s　prayer–book）。　‘What　a　phantasmagoria　the　mind　is　and　meeting–place　of　dissemblables！　At　one　moment　we　deplore　our　birth　and　state　and　aspire　to　an　ascetic　exaltation；　the　next　we　are　overe　by　the　smell　of　some　old　garden　path　and　weep　to　hear　the　thrushes　sing。’　And　so　bewildered　as　usual　by　the　multitude　of　things　which　call　for　explanation　and　imprint　their　message　without　leaving　any　hint　as　to　their　meaning；　she　threw　her　cheroot　out　of　the　window　and　went　to　bed。

Next　morning；