奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第42章

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ich　she　wore。　She　had　carried　off　a　sheaf　of　papers　and　critical　journals　from　the　book　shop；　and　at　length；　flinging　herself　on　her　elbow　beneath　a　tree；　she　spread　these　pages　round　her　and　did　her　best　to　fathom　the　noble　art　of　prose　position　as　these　masters　practised　it。　For　still　the　old　credulity　was　alive　in　her；　even　the　blurred　type　of　a　weekly　newspaper　had　some　sanctity　in　her　eyes。　So　she　read；　lying　on　her　elbow；　an　article　by　Sir　Nicholas　on　the　collected　works　of　a　man　she　had　once　known—John　Donne。　But　she　had　pitched　herself；　without　knowing　it；　not　far　from　the　Serpentine。　The　barking　of　a　thousand　dogs　sounded　in　her　ears。　Carriage　wheels　rushed　ceaselessly　in　a　circle。　Leaves　sighed　overhead。　Now　and　again　a　braided　skirt　and　a　pair　of　tight　scarlet　trousers　crossed　the　grass　within　a　few　steps　of　her。　Once　a　gigantic　rubber　ball　bounced　on　the　newspaper。　Violets；　oranges；　reds；　and　blues　broke　through　the　interstices　of　the　leaves　and　sparkled　in　the　emerald　on　her　finger。　She　read　a　sentence　and　looked　up　at　the　sky；　she　looked　up　at　the　sky　and　looked　down　at　the　newspaper。　Life？　Literature？　One　to　be　made　into　the　other？　But　how　monstrously　difficult！　For—here　came　by　a　pair　of　tight　scarlet　trousers—how　would　Addison　have　put　that？　Here　came　two　dogs　dancing　on　their　hind　legs。　How　would　Lamb　have　described　that？　For　reading　Sir　Nicholas　and　his　friends　（as　she　did　in　the　intervals　of　looking　about　her）；　she　somehow　got　the　impression—here　she　rose　and　walked—they　made　one　feel—it　was　an　extremely　unfortable　feeling—one　must　never；　never　say　what　one　thought。　（She　stood　on　the　banks　of　the　Serpentine。　It　was　a　bronze　colour；　spider–thin　boats　were　skimming　from　side　to　side。）　They　made　one　feel；　she　continued；　that　one　must　always；　always　write　like　somebody　else。　（The　tears　formed　themselves　in　her　eyes。）　For　really；　she　thought；　pushing　a　little　boat　off　with　her　toe；　I　don’t　think　I　could　（here　the　whole　of　Sir　Nicholas’　article　came　before　her　as　articles　do；　ten　minutes　after　they　are　read；　with　the　look　of　his　room；　his　head；　his　cat；　his　writing–table；　and　the　time　of　the　day　thrown　in）；　I　don’t　think　I　could；　she　continued；　considering　the　article　from　this　point　of　view；　sit　in　a　study；　no；　it’s　not　a　study；　it’s　a　mouldy　kind　of　drawing–room；　all　day　long；　and　talk　to　pretty　young　men；　and　tell　them　little　anecdotes；　which　they　mustn’t　repeat；　about　what　Tupper　said　about　Smiles；　and　then；　she　continued；　weeping　bitterly；　they’re　all　so　manly；　and　then；　I　do　detest　Duchesses；　and　I　don’t　like　cake；　and　though　I’m　spiteful　enough；　I　could　never　learn　to　be　as　spiteful　as　all　that；　so　how　can　I　be　a　critic　and　write　the　best　English　prose　of　my　time？　Damn　it　all！　she　exclaimed；　launching　a　penny　steamer　so　vigorously　that　the　poor　little　boat　almost　sank　in　the　bronze–coloured　waves。

Now；　the　truth　is　that　when　one　has　been　in　a　state　of　mind　（as　nurses　call　it）—and　the　tears　still　stood　in　Orlando’s　eyes—the　thing　one　is　looking　at　bees；　not　itself；　but　another　thing；　which　is　bigger　and　much　more　important　and　yet　remains　the　same　thing。　If　one　looks　at　the　Serpentine　in　this　state　of　mind；　the　waves　soon　bee　just　as　big　as　the　waves　on　the　Atlantic；　the　toy　boats　bee　indistinguishable　from　ocean　liners。　So　Orlando　mistook　the　toy　boat　for　her　husband’s　brig；　and　the　wave　she　had　made　with　her　toe　for　a　mountain　of　water　off　Cape　Horn；　and　as　she　watched　the　toy　boat　climb　the　ripple；　she　thought　she　saw　Bonthrop’s　ship　climb　up　and　up　a　glassy　wall；　up　and　up　it　went；　and　a　white　crest　with　a　thousand　deaths　in　it　arched　over　it；　and　through　the　thousand　deaths　it　went　and　disappeared—’It’s　sunk！’　she　cried　out　in　an　agony—and　then；　behold；　there　it　was　again　sailing　along　safe　and　sound　among　the　ducks　on　the　other　side　of　the　Atlantic。

‘Ecstasy！’　she　cried。　‘Ecstasy！　Where’s　the　post　office？’　she　wondered。　‘For　I　must　wire　at　once　to　Shel　and　tell　him。。。’　And　repeating　‘A　toy　boat　on　the　Serpentine’；　and　‘Ecstasy’；　alternately；　for　the　thoughts　were　interchangeable　and　meant　exactly　the　same　thing；　she　hurried　towards　Park　Lane。

‘A　toy　boat；　a　toy　boat；　a　toy　boat；’　she　repeated；　thus　enforcing　upon　herself　the　fact　that　it　is　not　articles　by　Nick　Greene　on　John　Donne　nor　eight–hour　bills　nor　covenants　nor　factory　acts　that　matter；　it’s　something　useless；　sudden；　violent；　something　that　costs　a　life；　red；　blue；　purple；　a　spirit；　a　splash；　like　those　hyacinths　（she　was　passing　a　fine　bed　of　them）；　free　from　taint；　dependence；　soilure　of　humanity　or　care　for　one’s　kind；　something　rash；　ridiculous；　like　my　hyacinth；　husband　I　mean；　Bonthrop：　that’s　what　it　is—a　toy　boat　on　the　Serpentine；　ecstasy—it’s　ecstasy　that　matters。　Thus　she　spoke　aloud；　waiting　for　the　carriages　to　pass　at　Stanhope　Gate；　for　the　consequence　of　not　living　with　one’s　husband；　except　when　the　wind　is　sunk；　is　that　one　talks　nonsense　aloud　in　Park　Lane。　It　would　no　doubt　have　been　different　had　she　lived　all　the　year　round　with　him　as　Queen　Victoria　remended。　As　it　was　the　thought　of　him　would　e　upon　her　in　a　flash。　She　found　it　absolutely　necessary　to　speak　to　him　instantly。　She　did　not　care　in　the　least　what　nonsense　it　might　make；　or　what　dislocation　it　might　inflict　on　the　narrative。　Nick　Greene’s　article　had　plunged　her　in　the　depths　of　despair；　the　toy　boat　had　raised　her　to　the　heights　of　joy。　So　she　repeated：　‘Ecstasy；　ecstasy’；　as　she　stood　waiting　to　cross。

But　the　traffic　was　heavy　that　spring　afternoon；　and　kept　her　standing　there；　repeating；　ecstasy；　ecstasy；　or　a　toy　boat　on　the　Serpentine；　while　the　wealth　and　power　of　England　sat；　as　if　sculptured；　in　hat　and　cloak；　in　four–in–hand；　victoria　and　barouche　landau。　It　was　as　if　a　golden　river　had　coagulated　and　massed　itself　in　golden　blocks　across　Park　Lane。　The　ladies　held　card–cases　between　their　fingers；　the　gentlemen　balanced　gold–mounted　canes　between　their　knees。　She　stood　there　gazing；　admiring；　awe–struck。　One　thought　only　disturbed　her；　a　thought　familiar　to　all　who　behold　great　elephants；　or　whales　of　an　incredible　magnitude；　and　that　is：　how　do　these　leviathans　to　whom　obviously　stress；　change；　and　activity　are　repugnant；　propagate　their　kind？　Perhaps；　Orlando　thought；　looking　at　the　stately；　still　faces；　their　time　of　propagation　is　over；　this　is　the　fruit；　this　is　the　consummation。　What　she　now　beheld　was　the　triumph　of　an　age。　Portly　and　splendid　there　they　sat。　But　now；　the　policeman　let　fall　his　hand；　the　stream　became　liquid；　the　massive　conglomeration　of　splendid　objects　moved；　dispersed；　and　disappeared　into　Piccadilly。

So　she　crossed　Park　Lane　and　went　to　her　house　in　Curzon　Street；　where；　when　the　meadow–sweet　blew　there；　she　could　remember　curlew　calling　and　one　very　old　man　with　a　gun。

She　could　remember；　she　thought；　stepping　across　the　threshold　of　her　house；　how　Lord　Chesterfield　had　said—but　her　memory　was　checked。　Her　discreet　eighteenth–century　hall；　where　she　could　see　Lord　Chesterfield　putting　his　hat　down　here　and　his　coat　down　there　with　an　elegance　of　deportment　which　it　was　a　pleasure　to　watch；　was　now　pletely　littered　with　parcels。　While　she　had　been　sitting　in　Hyde　Park　the　bookseller　had　delivered　her　order；　and　the　house　was　crammed—there　were　parcels　slipping　down　the　staircase—with　the　whole　of　Victorian　literature　done　up　in　grey　paper　and　neatly　tied　with　string。　She　carried　as　many　of　these　packets　as　she　could　to　her　room；　ordered　footmen　to　bring　the　others；　and；　rapidly　cutting　innumerable　strings；　was　soon　surrounded　by　innumerable　volumes。

Accustomed　to　the　little　literatures　of　the　sixteenth；　seventeenth；　and　eighteenth　centuries；　Orlando　was　appalled　by　the　consequences　of　her　order。　For；　of　course；　to　the　Victorians　themselves　Victorian　literature　meant　not　merely　four　great　names　separate　and　distinct　but　four　great　names　sunk　and　embedded　in　a　mass　of　Alexander　Smiths；　Dixons；　Blacks；　Milmans；　Buckles；　Taines；　Paynes；　Tuppers；　Jamesons—all　vocal；　clamorous；　prominent；　and　requiring　as　much　attention　as　anybody　else。　Orlando’s　reverence　for　print　had　a　tough　job　set　before　it　but　drawing　her　chair　to　the　window　to　get　the　benefit　of　what　light　might　filter　between　the　high　houses　of　Mayfair；　she　tried　to　e　to　a　conclusion。

And　now　it　was　clear　that　there　are　only　two　ways　of　ing　to　a　conclusion　upon　Victorian　literature—one　is　to　write　it　out　in　sixty　volumes　octavo；　the　other　is　to　squeeze　it　into　six　lines　of　the　length　of　this　one。　Of　the　two　courses；　economy；　since　time　runs　short；　leads　us　to　choose　the　second；　and　so　we　proceed。　Orlando　then　came　to　the　conclusion　（opening　half–a–dozen　books）　that　it　was　very　odd　that　there　was　not　a　single　dedication　to　a　nobleman　among　them；　next　（turning　over　a　vast　pile　of　memoirs）　that　several　of　these　writers　had　family　trees　half　as　high　as　her　own；　next；　that　it　would　be　impolitic　in　the　extreme　to　wrap　a　ten–pound　note　round　the　sugar　tongs　when　Miss　Christina　Rossetti　came　to　tea；　next　（here　were　half–a–dozen　invitations　to　celebrate　centenaries　by　dining）　that　literature　since　it　ate　all　these　dinners　must　be　growing　very　corpulent；　next　（she　was　invited　to　a　score　of　lec