奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第46章

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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　paint