奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第28部分

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？　Oh；　but　that　don’t　count　（here　a　new　self　came　in）。　Lying　in　bed　of　a　morning　listening　to　the　pigeons　on　fine　linen；　silver　dishes；　wine；　maids；　footmen。　Spoilt？　Perhaps。　Too　many　things　for　nothing。　Hence　my　books　（here　she　mentioned　fifty　classical　titles；　which　represented；　so　we　think；　the　early　romantic　works　that　she　tore　up）。　Facile；　glib；　romantic。　But　（here　another　self　came　in）　a　duffer；　a　fumbler。　More　clumsy　I　couldn’t　be。　And—and—（here　she　hesitated　for　a　word　and　if　we　suggest　‘Love’　we　may　be　wrong；　but　certainly　she　laughed　and　blushed　and　then　cried　out—）　A　toad　set　in　emeralds！　Harry　the　Archduke！　Blue–bottles　on　the　ceiling！　（here　another　self　came　in）。　But　Nell；　Kit；　Sasha？　（she　was　sunk　in　gloom：　tears　actually　shaped　themselves　and　she　had　long　given　over　crying）。　Trees；　she　said。　（Here　another　self　came　in。）　I　love　trees　（she　was　passing　a　clump）　growing　there　a　thousand　years。　And　barns　（she　passed　a　tumbledown　barn　at　the　edge　of　the　road）。　And　sheep　dogs　（here　one　came　trotting　across　the　road。　She　carefully　avoided　it）。　And　the　night。　But　people　（here　another　self　came　in）。　People？　（She　repeated　it　as　a　question。）　I　don’t　know。　Chattering；　spiteful；　always　telling　lies。　（Here　she　turned　into　the　High　Street　of　her　native　town；　which　was　crowded；　for　it　was　market　day；　with　farmers；　and　shepherds；　and　old　women　with　hens　in　baskets。）　I　like　peasants。　I　understand　crops。　But　（here　another　self　came　skipping　over　the　top　of　her　mind　like　the　beam　from　a　lighthouse）。　Fame！　（She　laughed。）　Fame！　Seven　editions。　A　prize。　Photographs　in　the　evening　papers　（here　she　alluded　to　the　‘Oak　Tree’　and　‘The　Burdett　Coutts’　Memorial　Prize　which　she　had　won；　and　we　must　snatch　space　to　remark　how　disposing　it　is　for　her　biographer　that　this　culmination　to　which　the　whole　book　moved；　this　peroration　with　which　the　book　was　to　end；　should　be　dashed　from　us　on　a　laugh　casually　like　this；　but　the　truth　is　that　when　we　write　of　a　woman；　everything　is　out　of　place—culminations　and　perorations；　the　accent　never　falls　where　it　does　with　a　man）。　Fame！　she　repeated。　A　poet—a　charlatan；　both　every　morning　as　regularly　as　the　post　es　in。　To　dine；　to　meet；　to　meet；　to　dine；　fame—fame！　（She　had　here　to　slow　down　to　pass　through　the　crowd　of　market　people。　But　no　one　noticed　her。　A　porpoise　in　a　fishmonger’s　shop　attracted　far　more　attention　than　a　lady　who　had　won　a　prize　and　might；　had　she　chosen；　have　worn　three　coros　one　on　top　of　another　on　her　brow。）　Driving　very　slowly　she　now　hummed　as　if　it　were　part　of　an　old　song；　‘With　my　guineas　I’ll　buy　flowering　trees；　flowering　trees；　flowering　trees　and　walk　among　my　flowering　trees　and　tell　my　sons　what　fame　is’。　So　she　hummed；　and　now　all　her　words　began　to　sag　here　and　there　like　a　barbaric　necklace　of　heavy　beads。　‘And　walk　among　my　flowering　trees；’　she　sang；　accenting　the　words　strongly；　‘and　see　the　moon　rise　slow；　the　waggons　go。。。’　Here　she　stopped　short　and　looked　ahead　of　her　intently　at　the　bon　of　the　car　in　profound　meditation。

‘He　sat　at　Twitchett’s　table；’　she　mused；　‘with　a　dirty　ruff　on。。。Was　it　old　Mr　Baker　e　to　measure　the　timber？　Or　was　it　Sh–p—re？　（for　when　we　speak　names　we　deeply　reverence　to　ourselves　we　never　speak　them　whole。）　She　gazed　for　ten　minutes　ahead　of　her；　letting　the　car　e　almost　to　a　standstill。

‘Haunted！’　she　cried；　suddenly　pressing　the　accelerator。　‘Haunted！　ever　since　I　was　a　child。　There　flies　the　wild　goose。　It　flies　past　the　window　out　to　sea。　Up　I　jumped　（she　gripped　the　steering–wheel　tighter）　and　stretched　after　it。　But　the　goose　flies　too　fast。　I’ve　seen　it；　here—there—there—England；　Persia；　Italy。　Always　it　flies　fast　out　to　sea　and　always　I　fling　after　it　words　like　s　（here　she　flung　her　hand　out）　which　shrivel　as　I’ve　seen　s　shrivel　drawn　on　deck　with　only　sea–weed　in　them；　and　sometimes　there’s　an　inch　of　silver—six　words—in　the　bottom　of　the　。　But　never　the　great　fish　who　lives　in　the　coral　groves。’　Here　she　bent　her　head；　pondering　deeply。

And　it　was　at　this　moment；　when　she　had　ceased　to　call　‘Orlando’　and　was　deep　in　thoughts　of　something　else；　that　the　Orlando　whom　she　had　called　came　of　its　own　accord；　as　was　proved　by　the　change　that　now　came　over　her　（she　had　passed　through　the　lodge　gates　and　was　entering　the　park）。

The　whole　of　her　darkened　and　settled；　as　when　some　foil　whose　addition　makes　the　round　and　solidity　of　a　surface　is　added　to　it；　and　the　shallow　bees　deep　and　the　near　distant；　and　all　is　contained　as　water　is　contained　by　the　sides　of　a　well。　So　she　was　now　darkened；　stilled；　and　bee；　with　the　addition　of　this　Orlando；　what　is　called；　rightly　or　wrongly；　a　single　self；　a　real　self。　And　she　fell　silent。　For　it　is　probable　that　when　people　talk　aloud；　the　selves　（of　which　there　may　be　more　than　two　thousand）　are　conscious　of　disseverment；　and　are　trying　to　municate；　but　when　munication　is　established　they　fall　silent。

Masterfully；　swiftly；　she　drove　up　the　curving　drive　between　the　elms　and　oaks　through　the　falling　turf　of　the　park　whose　fall　was　so　gentle　that　had　it　been　water　it　would　have　spread　the　beach　with　a　smooth　green　tide。　Planted　here　and　in　solemn　groups　were　beech　trees　and　oak　trees。　The　deer　stepped　among　them；　one　white　as　snow；　another　with　its　head　on　one　side；　for　some　wire　ting　had　caught　in　its　horns。　All　this；　the　trees；　deer；　and　turf；　she　observed　with　the　greatest　satisfaction　as　if　her　mind　had　bee　a　fluid　that　flowed　round　things　and　enclosed　them　pletely。　Next　minute　she　drew　up　in　the　courtyard　where；　for　so　many　hundred　years　she　had　e；　on　horseback　or　in　coach　and　six；　with　men　riding　before　or　ing　after；　where　plumes　had　tossed；　torches　flashed；　and　the　same　flowering　trees　that　let　their　leaves　drop　now　had　shaken　their　blossoms。　Now　she　was　alone。　The　autumn　leaves　were　falling。　The　porter　opened　the　great　gates。　‘Morning；　James；’　she　said；　‘there’re　some　things　in　the　car。　Will　you　bring　‘em　in？’　words　of　no　beauty；　interest；　or　significance　themselves；　it　will　be　conceded；　but　now　so　plumped　out　with　meaning　that　they　fell　like　ripe　nuts　from　a　tree；　and　proved　that　when　the　shrivelled　skin　of　the　ordinary　is　stuffed　out　with　meaning　it　satisfies　the　senses　amazingly。　This　was　true　indeed　of　every　movement　and　action　now；　usual　though　they　were；　so　that　to　see　Orlando　change　her　skirt　for　a　pair　of　whipcord　breeches　and　leather　jacket；　which　she　did　in　less　than　three　minutes；　was　to　be　ravished　with　the　beauty　of　movement　as　if　Madame　Lopokova　were　using　her　highest　art。　Then　she　strode　into　the　dining–room　where　her　old　friends　Dryden；　Pope；　Swift；　Addison　regarded　her　demurely　at　first　as　who　should　say　Here’s　the　prize　winner！　but　when　they　reflected　that　two　hundred　guineas　was　in　question；　they　nodded　their　heads　approvingly。　Two　hundred　guineas；　they　seemed　to　say；　two　hundred　guineas　are　not　to　be　sniffed　at。　She　cut　herself　a　slice　of　bread　and　ham；　clapped　the　two　together　and　began　to　eat；　striding　up　and　down　the　room；　thus　shedding　her　pany　habits　in　a　second；　without　thinking。　After　five　or　six　such　turns；　she　tossed　off　a　glass　of　red　Spanish　wine；　and；　filling　another　which　she　carried　in　her　hand；　strode　down　the　long　corridor　and　through　a　dozen　drawing–rooms　and　so　began　a　perambulation　of　the　house；　attended　by　such　elk–hounds　and　spaniels　as　chose　to　follow　her。

This；　too；　was　all　in　the　day’s　routine。　As　soon　would　she　e　home　and　leave　her　own　grandmother　without　a　kiss　as　e　back　and　leave　the　house　unvisited。　She　fancied　that　the　rooms　brightened　as　she　came　in；　stirred；　opened　their　eyes　as　if　they　had　been　dozing　in　her　absence。　She　fancied；　too；　that；　hundreds　and　thousands　of　times　as　she　had　seen　them；　they　never　looked　the　same　twice；　as　if　so　long　a　life　as　theirs　had　stored　in　them　a　myriad　moods　which　changed　with　winter　and　summer；　bright　weather　and　dark；　and　her　own　fortunes　and　the　people’s　characters　who　visited　them。　Polite；　they　always　were　to　strangers；　but　a　little　weary：　with　her；　they　were　entirely　open　and　at　their　ease。　Why　not　indeed？　They　had　known　each　other　for　close　on　four　centuries　now。　They　had　nothing　to　conceal。　She　knew　their　sorrows　and　joys。　She　knew　what　age　each　part　of　them　was　and　its　little　secrets—a　hidden　drawer；　a　concealed　cupboard；　or　some　deficiency　perhaps；　such　as　a　part　made　up；　or　added　later。　They；　too；　knew　her　in　all　her　moods　and　changes。　She　had　hidden　nothing　from　them；　had　e　to　them　as　boy　and　woman；　crying　and　dancing；　brooding　and　gay。　In　this　window–seat；　she　had　written　her　first　verses；　in　that　chapel；　she　had　been　married。　And　she　would　be　buried　here；　she　reflected；　kneeling　on　the　window–sill　in　the　long　gallery　and　sipping　her　Spanish　wine。　Though　she　could　hardly　fancy　it；　the　body　of　the　heraldic　leopard　would　be　making　yellow　pools　on　the　floor　the　day　they　lowered　her　to　lie　among　her　ancestors。　She；　who　believed　in　no　immortality；　could　not　help　feeling　that　her　soul　would　e　and　go　forever　with　the　reds　on　the　panels　and　the　greens　on　the　sofa。　For　the　room—she　had　strolled　into　the　Ambassador’s　bedroom—shone　like　a　shell　that　has　lain　at　the　bottom　of　the　sea　for　centuries　and　has　been　crusted　over　and　painted　a　million　tints　by　the　water；　it　was　rose　and　yellow；　green　and　sand–coloured。　It　was　frail　as　a　shell；　as　iridescent　and　as　empty。　No　Ambassador　would　ever　sleep　there　again。　Ah；　but　she　knew　where　the　heart　of　the　house　still　beat。　Gently　opening　a　door；　she　stood　on　the　threshold　so　that　（as　she　fancied）　the　room　could　not　see　her　and　watched　the　tapestry　rising　and　falling　on　the　eternal　faint　breeze　which　never　failed　to　move　it。　Still　the　hunter　rode；　still　Daphne　flew。　The　heart　still　beat；　she　thought；　however　faintly；　however　far　withdrawn；　the　frail　indomitable　heart　of　the　immense　building。

Now；　calling　her　troop　of　dogs　to　her　she　passed　down　the　gallery　whose　floor　was　laid　with　whole　oak　trees　sawn　across。　Rows　of　chairs　with　all　their　velvets　faded　stood　ranged　against　the　wall　holding　their　arms　out　for　Elizabeth；　for　James；　for　Shakespeare　it　might　be；　for　Cecil；　who　never　came。　The　sight　made　her　gloomy。　She　unhooked　the　rope　that　fenced　them　off。　She　sat　on　the　Queen’s　chair；　she　opened　a　manuscript　book　lying　on　Lady　Betty’s　table；　she　stirred　her　fingers　in　the　aged　rose　leaves；　she　brushed　her　short　hair　with　King　James’　silver　brushes：　she　bounced　up　and　down　upon　his　bed　（but　no　King　would　ever　sleep　there　again；　for　all　Louise’s　new　sheets）　and　pressed　her　cheek　against　the　worn　silver　counterpane　that　lay　upon　it。　But　everywhere　were　little　lavender　bags　to　keep　the　moth　out　and　printed　notices；　‘Please　do　not　touch’；　which；　though　she　had　put　them　there　herself；　seemed　to　rebuke　her。　The　house　was　no　longer　hers　entirely；　she　sighed。　It　belonged　to　time　now；　to　history；　was　past　the　touch　and　control　of　the　living。　Never　would　beer　be　spilt　here　any　more；　she　thought　（she　was　in　the　bedroom　that　had　been　old　Nick　Greene’s）；　or　holes　burnt　in　the　carpet。　Never　two　hundred　servants　e　running　and　brawling　down　the　corridors　with　warming　pans　and　great　branches　for　the　great　fireplaces。　Never　would　ale　be　brewed　and　candles　made　and　saddles　fashioned　and　stone　shaped　in　the　workshops　outside　the　house。　Hammers　and　mallets　were　silent　now。　Chairs　and　beds　were　empty；　tankards　of　silver　and　gold　were　locked　in　glass　cases。　The　great　wings　of　silence　beat　up　and　down　the　empty　house。

So　she　sat　at　the　end　of　the　gallery　with　her　dogs　couched　round　her；　in　Queen　Elizabeth’s　hard　armchair。　The　gallery　stretched　far　away　to　a　point　where　the　light　almost　failed。　It　was　as　a　tunnel　bored　deep　into　the　past。　As　her　eyes　peered　down　it；　she　could　see　people　laughing　and　talking；　the　great　men　she　had　known；　Dryden；　Swift；　and　Pope；　and　statesmen　in　colloquy；　and　lovers　dallying　in　the　window–seats；　and　people　eating　and　drinking　at　the　long　tables；　and　the　wood　smoke　curling　round　their　heads　and　making　them　sneeze　and　cough。　Still　further　down；　she　saw　sets　of　splendid　dancers　formed　for　the　quadrille。　A　fluty；　frail；　but　nevertheless　stately　music　began　to　play。　An　organ　boomed。　A　coffin　was　borne　into　the　chapel。　A　marriage　procession　came　out　of　it。　Armed　men　with　helmets　left　for　the　wars。　They　brought　banners　back　from　Flodden　and　Poitiers　and　stuck　them　on　the　wall。　The　long　gallery　filled　itself　thus；　and　still　peering　further；　she　thought　she　could　make　out　at　the　very　end；　beyond　the　Elizabethans　and　the　Tudors；　some　one　older；　further；　darker；　a　cowled　figure；　monastic；　severe；　a　monk；　who　went　with　his　hands　clasped；　and　a　book　in　them；　murmuring—

Like　thunder；　the　stable　clock　struck　four。　Never　did　any　earthquake　so　demolish　a　whole　town。　The　gallery　and　all　its　occupants　fell　to　powder。　Her　own　face；　that　had　been　dark　and　sombre　as　she　gazed；　was　lit　as　by　an　explosion　of　gunpowder。　In　this　same　light　everything　near　her　showed　with　extreme　distinctness。　She　saw　two　flies　circling　round　and　noticed　the　blue　sheen　on　their　bodies；　she　saw　a　knot　in　the　wood　where　her　foot　was；　and　her　dog’s　ear　twitching。　At　the　same　time；　she　heard　a　bough　creaking　in　the　garden；　a　sheep　coughing　in　the　park；　a　swift　screaming　past　the　window。　Her　own　body　quivered　and　tingled　as　if　suddenly　stood　naked　in　a　hard　frost。　Yet；　she　kept；　as　she　had　not　done　when　the　clock　struck　ten　in　London；　plete　posure　（for　she　was　now　one　and　entire；　and　presented；　it　may　be；　a　larger　surface　to　the　shock　of　time）。　She　rose；　but　without　precipitation；　called　her　dogs；　and　went　firmly　but　with　great　alertness　of　movement　down　the　staircase　and　out　into　the　garden。　Here　the　shadows　of　the　plants　were　miraculously　distinct。　She　noticed　the　separate　grains　of　earth　in　the　flower　beds　as　if　she　had　a　microscope　stuck　to　her　eye。　She　saw　the　intricacy　of　the　twigs　of　every　tree。　Each　blade　of　grass　was　distinct　and　the　marking　of　veins　and　petals。　She　saw　Stubbs；　the　gardener；　ing　along　the　path；　and　every　button　on　his　gaiters　was　visible；　she　saw　Betty　and　Prince；　the　cart　horses；　and　never　had　she　marked　so　clearly　the　white　star　on　Betty’s　forehead；　and　the　three　long　hairs　that　fell　down　below　the　rest　on　Prince’s　tail。　Out　in　the　quadrangle　the　old　grey　walls　of　the　house　looked　like　a　scraped　new　photograph；　she　heard　the　loud　speaker　condensing　on　the　terrace　a　dance　tune　that　people　were　listening　to　in　the　red　velvet　opera　house　at　Vienna。　Braced　and　strung　up　by　the　present　moment　she　was　also　strangely　afraid；　as　if　whenever　the　gulf　of　time　gaped　and　let　a　second　through　some　unknown　danger　might　e　with　it。　The　tension　was　too　relentless　and　too　rigorous　to　be　endured　long　without　disfort。　She　walked　more　briskly　than　she　liked；　as　if　her　legs　were　moved　for　her；　through　the　garden　and　out　into　the　park。　Here　she　forced　herself；　by　a　great　effort；　to　stop　by　the　carpenter’s　shop；　and　to　stand　stock–still　watching　Joe　Stubbs　fashion　a　cart　wheel。　She　was　standing　with　her　eye　fixed　on　his　hand　when　the　quarter　struck。　It　hurtled　through　her　like　a　meteor；　so　hot　that　no　fingers　can　hold　it。　She　saw　with　disgusting　vividness　that　the　thumb　on　Joe’s　right　hand　was　without　a　finger　nail　and　there　was　a　raised　saucer　of　pink　flesh　where　the　nail　should　have　been。　The　sight　was　so　repulsive　that　she　f