奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第18部分

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s；　she　curtseyed　profoundly　and　left。

But　what；　the　reader　may　ask　with　some　exasperation；　happened　in　between。　In　three　hours；　such　a　pany　must　have　said　the　wittiest；　the　profoundest；　the　most　interesting　things　in　the　world。　So　it　would　seem　indeed。　But　the　fact　appears　to　be　that　they　said　nothing。　It　is　a　curious　characteristic　which　they　share　with　all　the　most　brilliant　societies　that　the　world　has　seen。　Old　Madame　du　Deffand　and　her　friends　talked　for　fifty　years　without　stopping。　And　of　it　all；　what　remains？　Perhaps　three　witty　sayings。　So　that　we　are　at　liberty　to　suppose　either　that　nothing　was　said；　or　that　nothing　witty　was　said；　or　that　the　fraction　of　three　witty　sayings　lasted　eighteen　thousand　two　hundred　and　fifty　nights；　which　does　not　leave　a　liberal　allowance　of　wit　for　any　one　of　them。

The　truth　would　seem　to　be—if　we　dare　use　such　a　word　in　such　a　connection—that　all　these　groups　of　people　lie　under　an　enchantment。　The　hostess　is　our　modern　Sibyl。　She　is　a　witch　who　lays　her　guests　under　a　spell。　In　this　house　they　think　themselves　happy；　in　that　witty；　in　a　third　profound。　It　is　all　an　illusion　（which　is　nothing　against　it；　for　illusions　are　the　most　valuable　and　necessary　of　all　things；　and　she　who　can　create　one　is　among　the　world’s　greatest　benefactors）；　but　as　it　is　notorious　that　illusions　are　shattered　by　conflict　with　reality；　so　no　real　happiness；　no　real　wit；　no　real　profundity　are　tolerated　where　the　illusion　prevails。　This　serves　to　explain　why　Madame　du　Deffand　said　no　more　than　three　witty　things　in　the　course　of　fifty　years。　Had　she　said　more；　her　circle　would　have　been　destroyed。　The　witticism；　as　it　left　her　lips；　bowled　over　the　current　conversation　as　a　cannon　ball　lays　low　the　violets　and　the　daisies。　When　she　made　her　famous　‘mot　de　Saint　Denis’　the　very　grass　was　singed。　Disillusionment　and　desolation　followed。　Not　a　word　was　uttered。　‘Spare　us　another　such；　for　Heaven’s　sake；　Madame！’　her　friends　cried　with　one　accord。　And　she　obeyed。　For　almost　seventeen　years　she　said　nothing　memorable　and　all　went　well。　The　beautiful　counterpane　of　illusion　lay　unbroken　on　her　circle　as　it　lay　unbroken　on　the　circle　of　Lady　R。　The　guests　thought　that　they　were　happy；　thought　that　they　were　witty；　thought　that　they　were　profound；　and；　as　they　thought　this；　other　people　thought　it　still　more　strongly；　and　so　it　got　about　that　nothing　was　more　delightful　than　one　of　Lady　R。’s　assemblies；　everyone　envied　those　who　were　admitted；　those　who　were　admitted　envied　themselves　because　other　people　envied　them；　and　so　there　seemed　no　end　to　it—except　that　which　we　have　now　to　relate。

For　about　the　third　time　Orlando　went　there　a　certain　incident　occurred。　She　was　still　under　the　illusion　that　she　was　listening　to　the　most　brilliant　epigrams　in　the　world；　though；　as　a　matter　of　fact；　old　General　C。　was　only　saying；　at　some　length；　how　the　gout　had　left　his　left　leg　and　gone　to　his　right；　while　Mr　L。　interrupted　when　any　proper　name　was　mentioned；　‘R。？　Oh！　I　know　Billy　R。　as　well　as　I　know　myself。　S。？　My　dearest　friend。　T。？　Stayed　with　him　a　fortnight　in　Yorkshire’—which；　such　is　the　force　of　illusion；　sounded　like　the　wittiest　repartee；　the　most　searching　ment　upon　human　life；　and　kept　the　pany　in　a　roar；　when　the　door　opened　and　a　little　gentleman　entered　whose　name　Orlando　did　not　catch。　Soon　a　curiously　disagreeable　sensation　came　over　her。　To　judge　from　their　faces；　the　rest　began　to　feel　it　as　well。　One　gentleman　said　there　was　a　draught。　The　Marchioness　of　C。　feared　a　cat　must　be　under　the　sofa。　It　was　as　if　their　eyes　were　being　slowly　opened　after　a　pleasant　dream　and　nothing　met　them　but　a　cheap　wash–stand　and　a　dirty　counterpane。　It　was　as　if　the　fumes　of　some　delicious　wine　were　slowly　leaving　them。　Still　the　General　talked　and　still　Mr　L。　remembered。　But　it　became　more　and　more　apparent　how　red　the　General’s　neck　was；　how　bald　Mr　L。’s　head　was。　As　for　what　they　said—nothing　more　tedious　and　trivial　could　be　imagined。　Everybody　fidgeted　and　those　who　had　fans　yawned　behind　them。　At　last　Lady　R。　rapped　with　hers　upon　the　arm　of　her　great　chair。　Both　gentlemen　stopped　talking。

Then　the　little　gentleman　said；　He　said　next；　He　said　finally　（These　sayings　are　too　well　known　to　require　repetition；　and　besides；　they　are　all　to　be　found　in　his　published　works。）；

Here；　it　cannot　be　denied；　was　true　wit；　true　wisdom；　true　profundity。　The　pany　was　thrown　into　plete　dismay。　One　such　saying　was　bad　enough；　but　three；　one　after　another；　on　the　same　evening！　No　society　could　survive　it。

‘Mr　Pope；’　said　old　Lady　R。　in　a　voice　trembling　with　sarcastic　fury；　‘you　are　pleased　to　be　witty。’　Mr　Pope　flushed　red。　Nobody　spoke　a　word。　They　sat　in　dead　silence　some　twenty　minutes。　Then；　one　by　one；　they　rose　and　slunk　from　the　room。　That　they　would　ever　e　back　after　such　an　experience　was　doubtful。　Link–boys　could　be　heard　calling　their　coaches　all　down　South　Audley　Street。　Doors　were　slammed　and　carriages　drove　off。　Orlando　found　herself　near　Mr　Pope　on　the　staircase。　His　lean　and　misshapen　frame　was　shaken　by　a　variety　of　emotions。　Darts　of　malice；　rage；　triumph；　wit；　and　terror　（he　was　shaking　like　a　leaf）　shot　from　his　eyes。　He　looked　like　some　squat　reptile　set　with　a　burning　topaz　in　its　forehead。　At　the　same　time；　the　strangest　tempest　of　emotion　seized　now　upon　the　luckless　Orlando。　A　disillusionment　so　plete　as　that　inflicted　not　an　hour　ago　leaves　the　mind　rocking　from　side　to　side。　Everything　appears　ten　times　more　bare　and　stark　than　before。　It　is　a　moment　fraught　with　the　highest　danger　for　the　human　spirit。　Women　turn　nuns　and　men　priests　in　such　moments。　In　such　moments；　rich　men　sign　away　their　wealth；　and　happy　men　cut　their　throats　with　carving　knives。　Orlando　would　have　done　all　willingly；　but　there　was　a　rasher　thing　still　for　her　to　do；　and　this　she　did。　She　invited　Mr　Pope　to　e　home　with　her。

For　if　it　is　rash　to　walk　into　a　lion’s　den　unarmed；　rash　to　navigate　the　Atlantic　in　a　rowing　boat；　rash　to　stand　on　one　foot　on　the　top　of　St　Paul’s；　it　is　still　more　rash　to　go　home　alone　with　a　poet。　A　poet　is　Atlantic　and　lion　in　one。　While　one　drowns　us　the　other　gnaws　us。　If　we　survive　the　teeth；　we　succumb　to　the　waves。　A　man　who　can　destroy　illusions　is　both　beast　and　flood。　Illusions　are　to　the　soul　what　atmosphere　is　to　the　earth。　Roll　up　that　tender　air　and　the　plant　dies；　the　colour　fades。　The　earth　we　walk　on　is　a　parched　cinder。　It　is　marl　we　tread　and　fiery　cobbles　scorch　our　feet。　By　the　truth　we　are　undone。　Life　is　a　dream。　‘Tis　waking　that　kills　us。　He　who　robs　us　of　our　dreams　robs　us　of　our　life—（and　so　on　for　six　pages　if　you　will；　but　the　style　is　tedious　and　may　well　be　dropped）。

On　this　showing；　however；　Orlando　should　have　been　a　heap　of　cinders　by　the　time　the　chariot　drew　up　at　her　house　in　Blackfriars。　That　she　was　still　flesh　and　blood；　though　certainly　exhausted；　is　entirely　due　to　a　fact　to　which　we　drew　attention　earlier　in　the　narrative。　The　less　we　see　the　more　we　believe。　Now　the　streets　that　lie　between　Mayfair　and　Blackfriars　were　at　that　time　very　imperfectly　lit。　True；　the　lighting　was　a　great　improvement　upon　that　of　the　Elizabethan　age。　Then　the　benighted　traveller　had　to　trust　to　the　stars　or　the　red　flame　of　some　night　watchman　to　save　him　from　the　gravel　pits　at　Park　Lane　or　the　oak　woods　where　swine　rootled　in　the　Tottenham　Court　Road。　But　even　so　it　wanted　much　of　our　modern　efficiency。　Lamp–posts　lit　with　oil–lamps　occurred　every　two　hundred　yards　or　so；　but　between　lay　a　considerable　stretch　of　pitch　darkness。　Thus　for　ten　minutes　Orlando　and　Mr　Pope　would　be　in　blackness；　and　then　for　about　half　a　minute　again　in　the　light。　A　very　strange　state　of　mind　was　thus　bred　in　Orlando。　As　the　light　faded；　she　began　to　feel　steal　over　her　the　most　delicious　balm。　‘This　is　indeed　a　very　great　honour　for　a　young　woman　to　be　driving　with　Mr　Pope；’　she　began　to　think；　looking　at　the　outline　of　his　nose。　‘I　am　the　most　blessed　of　my　sex。　Half　an　inch　from　me—indeed；　I　feel　the　knot　of　his　knee　ribbons　pressing　against　my　thigh—is　the　greatest　wit　in　Her　Majesty’s　dominions。　Future　ages　will　think　of　us　with　curiosity　and　envy　me　with　fury。’　Here　came　the　lamp–post　again。　‘What　a　foolish　wretch　I　am！’　she　thought。　‘There　is　no　such　thing　as　fame　and　glory。　Ages　to　e　will　never　cast　a　thought　on　me　or　on　Mr　Pope　either。　What’s　an　“age”；　indeed？　What　are　“we”？’　and　their　progress　through　Berkeley　Square　seemed　the　groping　of　two　blind　ants；　momentarily　thrown　together　without　interest　or　concern　in　mon；　across　a　blackened　desert。　She　shivered。　But　here　again　was　darkness。　Her　illusion　revived。　‘How　noble　his　brow　is；’　she　thought　（mistaking　a　hump　on　a　cushion　for　Mr　Pope’s　forehead　in　the　darkness）。　‘What　a　weight　of　genius　lives　in　it！　What　wit；　wisdom；　and　truth—what　a　wealth　of　all　those　jewels；　indeed；　for　which　people　are　ready　to　barter　their　lives！　Yours　is　the　only　light　that　burns　for　ever。　But　for　you　the　human　pilgrimage　would　be　performed　in　utter　darkness’；　（here　the　coach　gave　a　great　lurch　as　it　fell　into　a　rut　in　Park　Lane）　‘without　genius　we　should　be　upset　and　undone。　Most　august；　most　lucid　of　beams；’—thus　she　was　apostrophizing　the　hump　on　the　cushion　when　they　drove　beneath　one　of　the　street　lamps　in　Berkeley　Square　and　she　realized　her　mistake。　Mr　Pope　had　a　forehead　no　bigger　than　another　man’s。　‘Wretched　man；’　she　thought；　‘how　you　have　deceived　me！　I　took　that　hump　for　your　forehead。　When　one　sees　you　plain；　how　ignoble；　how　despicable　you　are！　Deformed　and　weakly；　there　is　nothing　to　venerate　in　you；　much　to　pity；　most　to　despise。’

Again　they　were　in　darkness　and　her　anger　became　modified　directly　she　could　see　nothing　but　the　poet’s　knees。

‘But　it　is　I　that　am　a　wretch；’　she　reflected；　once　they　were　in　plete　obscurity　again；　‘for　base　as　you　may　be；　am　I　not　still　baser？　It　is　you　who　nourish　and　protect　me；　you　who　scare　the　wild　beast；　frighten　the　savage；　make　me　clothes　of　the　silkworm’s　wool；　and　carpets　of　the　sheep’s。　If　I　want　to　worship；　have　you　not　provided　me　with　an　image　of　yourself　and　set　it　in　the　sky？　Are　not　evidences　of　your　care　everywhere？　How　humble；　how　grateful；　how　docile；　should　I　not　be；　therefore？　Let　it　be　all　my　joy　to　serve；　honour；　and　obey　you。’

Here　they　reached　the　big　lamp–post　at　the　corner　of　what　is　now　Piccadilly　Circus。　The　light　blazed　in　her　eyes；　and　she　saw；　besides　some　degraded　creatures　of　her　own　sex；　two　wretched　pigmies　on　a　stark　desert　land。　Both　were　naked；　solitary；　and　defenceless。　The　one　was　powerless　to　help　the　other。　Each　had　enough　to　do　to　look　after　itself。　Looking　Mr　Pope　full　in　the　face；　‘It　is　equally　vain’；　she　thought；　‘for　you　to　think　you　can　protect　me；　or　for　me　to　think　I　can　worship　you。　The　light　of　truth　beats　upon　us　without　shadow；　and　the　light　of　truth　is　damnably　unbeing　to　us　both。’

All　this　time；　of　course；　they　went　on　talking　agreeably；　as　people　of　birth　and　education　use；　about　the　Queen’s　temper　and　the　Prime　Minister’s　gout；　while　the　coach　went　from　light　to　darkness　down　the　Haymarket；　along　the　Strand；　up　Fleet　Street；　and　reached；　at　length；　her　house　in　Blackfriars。　For　some　time　the　dark　spaces　between　the　lamps　had　been　being　brighter　and　the　lamps　themselves　less　bright—that　is　to　say；　the　sun　was　rising；　and　it　was　in　the　equable　but　confused　light　of　a　summer’s　morning　in　which　everything　is　seen　but　nothing　is　seen　distinctly　that　they　alighted；　Mr　Pope　handing　Orlando　from　her　carriage　and　Orlando　curtseying　Mr　Pope　to　precede　her　into　her　mansion　with　the　most　scrupulous　attention　to　the　rites　of　the　Graces。

From　the　foregoing　passage；　however；　it　must　not　be　supposed　that　genius　（but　the　disease　is　now　stamped　out　in　the　British　Isles；　the　late　Lord　Tennyson；　it　is　said；　being　the　last　person　to　suffer　from　it）　is　constantly　alight；　for　then　we　should　see　everything　plain　and　perhaps　should　be　scorched　to　death　in　the　process。　Rather　it　resembles　the　lighthouse　in　its　working；　which　sends　one　ray　and　then　no　more　for　a　time；　save　that　genius　is　much　more　capricious　in　its　manifestations　and　may　flash　six　or　seven　beams　in　quick　succession　（as　Mr　Pope　did　that　night）　and　then　lapse　into　darkness　for　a　year　or　for　ever。　To　steer　by　its　beams　is　therefore　impossible；　and　when　the　dark　spell　is　on　them　men　of　genius　are；　it　is　said；　much　like　other　people。

It　was　happy　for　Orlando；　though　at　first　disappointing；　that　this　should　be　so；　for　she　now　began　to　live　much　in　the　pany　of　men　of　genius。　Nor　were　they　so　different　from　the　rest　of　us　as　one　might　have　supposed。　Addison；　Pope；　Swift；　proved；　she　found；　to　be　fond　of　tea。　They　liked　arbours。　They　collected　little　bits　of　coloured　glass。　They　adored　grottos。　Rank　was　not　distasteful　to　them。　Praise　was　delightful。　They　wore　plum–coloured　suits　one　day　and　grey　another。　Mr　Swift　had　a　fine　malacca　cane。　Mr　Addison　scented　his　handkerchiefs。　Mr　Pope　suffered　with　his　head。　A　piece　of　gossip　did　not　e　amiss。　Nor　were　they　without　their　jealousies。　（We　are　jotting　down　a　few　reflections　that　came　to　Orlando　higgledy–piggledy。）　At　first；　she　was　annoyed　with　herself　for　noticing　such　trifles；　and　kept　a　book　in　which　to　write　down　their　memorable　sayings；　but　the　page　remained　empty。　All　the　same；　her　spirits　revived；　and　she　took　to　tearing　up　her　cards　of　invitation　to　great　parties；　kept　her　evenings　free；　began　to　look　forward　to　Mr　Pope’s　visit；　to　Mr　Addison’s；　to　Mr　Swift’s—and　so　on　and　so　on。　If　the　reader　will　here　refer　to　the　“Rape　of　the　Lock”；　to　the　“Spectator”；　to　“Gulliver’s　Travels”；　he　will　understand　precisely　what　these　mysterious　words　may　mean。　Indeed；　biographers　and　critics　might　save　themselves　all　their　labours　if　readers　would　only　take　this　advice。　For　when　we　read：

Whether　the　Nymph　shall　break　Diana’s　Law；
Or　some　frail　China　Jar　receive　a　Flaw；
Or　stain　her　Honour；　or　her　new　Brocade；
Forget　her　Pray’rs　or　miss　a　Masquerade；
Or　lose　her　Heart；　or　Necklace；　at　a　Ball。

—we　know　as　if　we　heard　him　how　Mr　Pope’s　tongue　flickered　like　a　lizard’s；　how　his　eyes　flashed；　how　his　hand　trembled；　how　he　loved；　how　he　lied；　how　he　suffered。　In　short；　every　secret　of　a　writer’s　soul；　every　experience　of　his　life；　every　quality　of　his　mind　is　written　large　in　his　works；　yet　we　require　critics　to　explain　the　one　and　biographers　to　expound　the　other。　That　time　hangs　heavy　on　people’s　hands　is　the　only　explanation　of　the　monstrous　growth。

So；　now　that　we　have　read　a　page　or　two　of　the　“Rape　of　the　Lock”；　we　know　exactly　why　Orlando　was　so　much　amused　and　so　much　frightened　and　so　very　bright–cheeked　and　bright–eyed　that　afternoon。

Mrs　Nelly　then　knocked　at　the　door　to　say　that　Mr　Addison　waited　on　her　Ladyship。　At　this；　Mr　Pope　got　up　with　a　wry　smile；　made　his　congee；　and　limped　off。　In　came　Mr　Addison。　Let　us；　as　he　takes　his　seat；　read　the　following　passage　from　the　“Spectator”：

‘I　consider　woman　as　a　beautiful；　romantic　animal；　that　may　be　adorned　with　furs　and　feathers；　pearls　and　diamonds；　ores　and　silks。　The　lynx　shall　cast　its　skin　at　her　feet　to　make　her　a　tippet；　the　peacock；　parrot　and　swan　shall　pay　contributions　to　her　muff；　the　sea　shall　be　search