奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第6章

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oot　and　cry；　‘Take　me　away。　I　detest　your　English　mob；’　by　which　she　meant　the　English　Court　itself。　She　could　stand　it　no　longer。　It　was　full　of　prying　old　women；　she　said；　who　stared　in　one’s　face；　and　of　bumptious　young　men　who　trod　on　one’s　toes。　They　smelt　bad。　Their　dogs　ran　between　her　legs。　It　was　like　being　in　a　cage。　In　Russia　they　had　rivers　ten　miles　broad　on　which　one　could　gallop　six　horses　abreast　all　day　long　without　meeting　a　soul。　Besides；　she　wanted　to　see　the　Tower；　the　Beefeaters；　the　Heads　on　Temple　Bar；　and　the　jewellers’　shops　in　the　city。　Thus；　it　came　about　that　Orlando　took　her　into　the　city；　showed　her　the　Beefeaters　and　the　rebels’　heads；　and　bought　her　whatever　took　her　fancy　in　the　Royal　Exchange。　But　this　was　not　enough。　Each　increasingly　desired　the　other’s　pany　in　privacy　all　day　long　where　there　were　none　to　marvel　or　to　stare。　Instead　of　taking　the　road　to　London；　therefore；　they　turned　the　other　way　about　and　were　soon　beyond　the　crowd　among　the　frozen　reaches　of　the　Thames　where；　save　for　sea　birds　and　some　old　country　woman　hacking　at　the　ice　in　a　vain　attempt　to　draw　a　pailful　of　water　or　gathering　what　sticks　or　dead　leaves　she　could　find　for　firing；　not　a　living　soul　ever　came　their　way。　The　poor　kept　closely　to　their　cottages；　and　the　better　sort；　who　could　afford　it；　crowded　for　warmth　and　merriment　to　the　city。

Hence；　Orlando　and　Sasha；　as　he　called　her　for　short；　and　because　it　was　the　name　of　a　white　Russian　fox　he　had　had　as　a　boy—a　creature　soft　as　snow；　but　with　teeth　of　steel；　which　bit　him　so　savagely　that　his　father　had　it　killed—hence；　they　had　the　river　to　themselves。　Hot　with　skating　and　with　love　they　would　throw　themselves　down　in　some　solitary　reach；　where　the　yellow　osiers　fringed　the　bank；　and　wrapped　in　a　great　fur　cloak　Orlando　would　take　her　in　his　arms；　and　know；　for　the　first　time；　he　murmured；　the　delights　of　love。　Then；　when　the　ecstasy　was　over　and　they　lay　lulled　in　a　swoon　on　the　ice；　he　would　tell　her　of　his　other　loves；　and　how；　pared　with　her；　they　had　been　of　wood；　of　sackcloth；　and　of　cinders。　And　laughing　at　his　vehemence；　she　would　turn　once　more　in　his　arms　and　give　him　for　love’s　sake；　one　more　embrace。　And　then　they　would　marvel　that　the　ice　did　not　melt　with　their　heat；　and　pity　the　poor　old　woman　who　had　no　such　natural　means　of　thawing　it；　but　must　hack　at　it　with　a　chopper　of　cold　steel。　And　then；　wrapped　in　their　sables；　they　would　talk　of　everything　under　the　sun；　of　sights　and　travels；　of　Moor　and　Pagan；　of　this　man’s　beard　and　that　woman’s　skin；　of　a　rat　that　fed　from　her　hand　at　table；　of　the　arras　that　moved　always　in　the　hall　at　home；　of　a　face；　of　a　feather。　Nothing　was　too　small　for　such　converse；　nothing　was　too　great。

Then　suddenly；　Orlando　would　fall　into　one　of　his　moods　of　melancholy；　the　sight　of　the　old　woman　hobbling　over　the　ice　might　be　the　cause　of　it；　or　nothing；　and　would　fling　himself　face　downwards　on　the　ice　and　look　into　the　frozen　waters　and　think　of　death。　For　the　philosopher　is　right　who　says　that　nothing　thicker　than　a　knife’s　blade　separates　happiness　from　melancholy；　and　he　goes　on　to　opine　that　one　is　twin　fellow　to　the　other；　and　draws　from　this　the　conclusion　that　all　extremes　of　feeling　are　allied　to　madness；　and　so　bids　us　take　refuge　in　the　true　Church　（in　his　view　the　Anabaptist）；　which　is　the　only　harbour；　port；　anchorage；　etc。；　he　said；　for　those　tossed　on　this　sea。

‘All　ends　in　death；’　Orlando　would　say；　sitting　upright；　his　face　clouded　with　gloom。　（For　that　was　the　way　his　mind　worked　now；　in　violent　see–saws　from　life　to　death；　stopping　at　nothing　in　between；　so　that　the　biographer　must　not　stop　either；　but　must　fly　as　fast　as　he　can　and　so　keep　pace　with　the　unthinking　passionate　foolish　actions　and　sudden　extravagant　words　in　which；　it　is　impossible　to　deny；　Orlando　at　this　time　of　his　life　indulged。）

‘All　ends　in　death；’　Orlando　would　say；　sitting　upright　on　the　ice。　But　Sasha　who　after　all　had　no　English　blood　in　her　but　was　from　Russia　where　the　sunsets　are　longer；　the　dawns　less　sudden；　and　sentences　often　left　unfinished　from　doubt　as　to　how　best　to　end　them—Sasha　stared　at　him；　perhaps　sneered　at　him；　for　he　must　have　seemed　a　child　to　her；　and　said　nothing。　But　at　length　the　ice　grew　cold　beneath　them；　which　she　disliked；　so　pulling　him　to　his　feet　again；　she　talked　so　enchantingly；　so　wittily；　so　wisely　（but　unfortunately　always　in　French；　which　notoriously　loses　its　flavour　in　translation）　that　he　forgot　the　frozen　waters　or　night　ing　or　the　old　woman　or　whatever　it　was；　and　would　try　to　tell　her—plunging　and　splashing　among　a　thousand　images　which　had　gone　as　stale　as　the　women　who　inspired　them—what　she　was　like。　Snow；　cream；　marble；　cherries；　alabaster；　golden　wire？　None　of　these。　She　was　like　a　fox；　or　an　olive　tree；　like　the　waves　of　the　sea　when　you　look　down　upon　them　from　a　height；　like　an　emerald；　like　the　sun　on　a　green　hill　which　is　yet　clouded—like　nothing　he　had　seen　or　known　in　England。　Ransack　the　language　as　he　might；　words　failed　him。　He　wanted　another　landscape；　and　another　tongue。　English　was　too　frank；　too　candid；　too　honeyed　a　speech　for　Sasha。　For　in　all　she　said；　however　open　she　seemed　and　voluptuous；　there　was　something　hidden；　in　all　she　did；　however　daring；　there　was　something　concealed。　So　the　green　flame　seems　hidden　in　the　emerald；　or　the　sun　prisoned　in　a　hill。　The　clearness　was　only　outward；　within　was　a　wandering　flame。　It　came；　it　went；　she　never　shone　with　the　steady　beam　of　an　Englishwoman—here；　however；　remembering　the　Lady　Margaret　and　her　petticoats；　Orlando　ran　wild　in　his　transports　and　swept　her　over　the　ice；　faster；　faster；　vowing　that　he　would　chase　the　flame；　dive　for　the　gem；　and　so　on　and　so　on；　the　words　ing　on　the　pants　of　his　breath　with　the　passion　of　a　poet　whose　poetry　is　half　pressed　out　of　him　by　pain。

But　Sasha　was　silent。　When　Orlando　had　done　telling　her　that　she　was　a　fox；　an　olive　tree；　or　a　green　hill–top；　and　had　given　her　the　whole　history　of　his　family；　how　their　house　was　one　of　the　most　ancient　in　Britain；　how　they　had　e　from　Rome　with　the　Caesars　and　had　the　right　to　walk　down　the　Corso　（which　is　the　chief　street　in　Rome）　under　a　tasselled　palanquin；　which　he　said　is　a　privilege　reserved　only　for　those　of　imperial　blood　（for　there　was　an　orgulous　credulity　about　him　which　was　pleasant　enough）；　he　would　pause　and　ask　her；　Where　was　her　own　house？　What　was　her　father？　Had　she　brothers？　Why　was　she　here　alone　with　her　uncle？　Then；　somehow；　though　she　answered　readily　enough；　an　awkwardness　would　e　between　them。　He　suspected　at　first　that　her　rank　was　not　as　high　as　she　would　like；　or　that　she　was　ashamed　of　the　savage　ways　of　her　people；　for　he　had　heard　that　the　women　in　Muscovy　wear　beards　and　the　men　are　covered　with　fur　from　the　waist　down；　that　both　sexes　are　smeared　with　tallow　to　keep　the　cold　out；　tear　meat　with　their　fingers　and　live　in　huts　where　an　English　noble　would　scruple　to　keep　his　cattle；　so　that　he　forebore　to　press　her。　But　on　reflection；　he　concluded　that　her　silence　could　not　be　for　that　reason；　she　herself　was　entirely　free　from　hair　on　the　chin；　she　dressed　in　velvet　and　pearls；　and　her　manners　were　certainly　not　those　of　a　woman　bred　in　a　cattle–shed。

What；　then；　did　she　hide　from　him？　The　doubt　underlying　the　tremendous　force　of　his　feelings　was　like　a　quicksand　beneath　a　monument　which　shifts　suddenly　and　makes　the　whole　pile　shake。　The　agony　would　seize　him　suddenly。　Then　he　would　blaze　out　in　such　wrath　that　she　did　not　know　how　to　quiet　him。　Perhaps　she　did　not　want　to　quiet　him；　perhaps　his　rages　pleased　her　and　she　provoked　them　purposely—such　is　the　curious　obliquity　of　the　Muscovitish　temperament。

To　continue　the　story—skating　farther　than　their　wont　that　day　they　reached　that　part　of　the　river　where　the　ships　had　anchored　and　been　frozen　in　midstream。　Among　them　was　the　ship　of　the　Muscovite　Embassy　flying　its　double–headed　black　eagle　from　the　main　mast；　which　was　hung　with　many–coloured　icicles　several　yards　in　length。　Sasha　had　left　some　of　her　clothing　on　board；　and　supposing　the　ship　to　be　empty　they　climbed　on　deck　and　went　in　search　of　it。　Remembering　certain　passages　in　his　own　past；　Orlando　would　not　have　marvelled　had　some　good　citizens　sought　this　refuge　before　them；　and　so　it　turned　out。　They　had　not　ventured　far　when　a　fine　young　man　started　up　from　some　business　of　his　own　behind　a　coil　of　rope　and　saying；　apparently；　for　he　spoke　Russian；　that　he　was　one　of　the　crew　and　would　help　the　Princess　to　find　what　she　wanted；　lit　a　lump　of　candle　and　disappeared　with　her　into　the　lower　parts　of　the　ship。

Time　went　by；　and　Orlando；　wrapped　in　his　own　dreams；　thought　only　of　the　pleasures　of　life；　of　his　jewel；　of　her　rarity；　of　means　for　making　her　irrevocably　and　indissolubly　his　own。　Obstacles　there　were　and　hardships　to　overe。　She　was　determined　to　live　in　Russia；　where　there　were　frozen　rivers　and　wild　horses　and　men；　she　said；　who　gashed　each　other’s　throats　open。　It　is　true　that　a　landscape　of　pine　and　snow；　habits　of　lust　and　slaughter；　did　not　entice　him。　Nor　was　he　anxious　to　cease　his　pleasant　country　ways　of　sport　and　tree–planting；