奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第17部分

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　they　mould　our　hearts；　our　brains；　our　tongues　to　their　liking。　So；　having　now　worn　skirts　for　a　considerable　time；　a　certain　change　was　visible　in　Orlando；　which　is　to　be　found　if　the　reader　will　look　at　@　above；　even　in　her　face。　If　we　pare　the　picture　of　Orlando　as　a　man　with　that　of　Orlando　as　a　woman　we　shall　see　that　though　both　are　undoubtedly　one　and　the　same　person；　there　are　certain　changes。　The　man　has　his　hand　free　to　seize　his　sword；　the　woman　must　use　hers　to　keep　the　satins　from　slipping　from　her　shoulders。　The　man　looks　the　world　full　in　the　face；　as　if　it　were　made　for　his　uses　and　fashioned　to　his　liking。　The　woman　takes　a　sidelong　glance　at　it；　full　of　subtlety；　even　of　suspicion。　Had　they　both　worn　the　same　clothes；　it　is　possible　that　their　outlook　might　have　been　the　same。

That　is　the　view　of　some　philosophers　and　wise　ones；　but　on　the　whole；　we　incline　to　another。　The　difference　between　the　sexes　is；　happily；　one　of　great　profundity。　Clothes　are　but　a　symbol　of　something　hid　deep　beneath。　It　was　a　change　in　Orlando　herself　that　dictated　her　choice　of　a　woman’s　dress　and　of　a　woman’s　sex。　And　perhaps　in　this　she　was　only　expressing　rather　more　openly　than　usual—openness　indeed　was　the　soul　of　her　nature—something　that　happens　to　most　people　without　being　thus　plainly　expressed。　For　here　again；　we　e　to　a　dilemma。　Different　though　the　sexes　are；　they　intermix。　In　every　human　being　a　vacillation　from　one　sex　to　the　other　takes　place；　and　often　it　is　only　the　clothes　that　keep　the　male　or　female　likeness；　while　underneath　the　sex　is　the　very　opposite　of　what　it　is　above。　Of　the　plications　and　confusions　which　thus　result　everyone　has　had　experience；　but　here　we　leave　the　general　question　and　note　only　the　odd　effect　it　had　in　the　particular　case　of　Orlando　herself。

For　it　was　this　mixture　in　her　of　man　and　woman；　one　being　uppermost　and　then　the　other；　that　often　gave　her　conduct　an　unexpected　turn。　The　curious　of　her　own　sex　would　argue；　for　example；　if　Orlando　was　a　woman；　how　did　she　never　take　more　than　ten　minutes　to　dress？　And　were　not　her　clothes　chosen　rather　at　random；　and　sometimes　worn　rather　shabby？　And　then　they　would　say；　still；　she　has　none　of　the　formality　of　a　man；　or　a　man’s　love　of　power。　She　is　excessively　tender–hearted。　She　could　not　endure　to　see　a　donkey　beaten　or　a　kitten　drowned。　Yet　again；　they　noted；　she　detested　household　matters；　was　up　at　dawn　and　out　among　the　fields　in　summer　before　the　sun　had　risen。　No　farmer　knew　more　about　the　crops　than　she　did。　She　could　drink　with　the　best　and　liked　games　of　hazard。　She　rode　well　and　drove　six　horses　at　a　gallop　over　London　Bridge。　Yet　again；　though　bold　and　active　as　a　man；　it　was　remarked　that　the　sight　of　another　in　danger　brought　on　the　most　womanly　palpitations。　She　would　burst　into　tears　on　slight　provocation。　She　was　unversed　in　geography；　found　mathematics　intolerable；　and　held　some　caprices　which　are　more　mon　among　women　than　men；　as　for　instance　that　to　travel　south　is　to　travel　downhill。　Whether；　then；　Orlando　was　most　man　or　woman；　it　is　difficult　to　say　and　cannot　now　be　decided。　For　her　coach　was　now　rattling　on　the　cobbles。　She　had　reached　her　home　in　the　city。　The　steps　were　being　let　down；　the　iron　gates　were　being　opened。　She　was　entering　her　father’s　house　at　Blackfriars；　which　though　fashion　was　fast　deserting　that　end　of　the　town；　was　still　a　pleasant；　roomy　mansion；　with　gardens　running　down　to　the　river；　and　a　pleasant　grove　of　nut　trees　to　walk　in。

Here　she　took　up　her　lodging　and　began　instantly　to　look　about　her　for　what　she　had　e　in　search　of—that　is　to　say；　life　and　a　lover。　About　the　first　there　might　be　some　doubt；　the　second　she　found　without　the　least　difficulty　two　days　after　her　arrival。　It　was　a　Tuesday　that　she　came　to　town。　On　Thursday　she　went　for　a　walk　in　the　Mall；　as　was　then　the　habit　of　persons　of　quality。　She　had　not　made　more　than　a　turn　or　two　of　the　avenue　before　she　was　observed　by　a　little　knot　of　vulgar　people　who　go　there　to　spy　upon　their　betters。　As　she　came　past　them；　a　mon　woman　carrying　a　child　at　her　breast　stepped　forward；　peered　familiarly　into　Orlando’s　face；　and　cried　out；　‘Lawk　upon　us；　if　it　ain’t　the　Lady　Orlando！’　Her　panions　came　crowding　round；　and　Orlando　found　herself　in　a　moment　the　centre　of　a　mob　of　staring　citizens　and　tradesmen’s　wives；　all　eager　to　gaze　upon　the　heroine　of　the　celebrated　lawsuit。　Such　was　the　interest　that　the　case　excited　in　the　minds　of　the　mon　people。　She　might；　indeed；　have　found　herself　gravely　dismoded　by　the　pressure　of　the　crowd—she　had　forgotten　that　ladies　are　not　supposed　to　walk　in　public　places　alone—had　not　a　tall　gentleman　at　once　stepped　forward　and　offered　her　the　protection　of　his　arm。　It　was　the　Archduke。　She　was　overe　with　distress　and　yet　with　some　amusement　at　the　sight。　Not　only　had　this　magnanimous　nobleman　forgiven　her；　but　in　order　to　show　that　he　took　her　levity　with　the　toad　in　good　part；　he　had　procured　a　jewel　made　in　the　shape　of　that　reptile　which　he　pressed　upon　her　with　a　repetition　of　his　suit　as　he　handed　her　to　her　coach。

What　with　the　crowd；　what　with　the　Duke；　what　with　the　jewel；　she　drove　home　in　the　vilest　temper　imaginable。　Was　it　impossible　then　to　go　for　a　walk　without　being　half–suffocated；　presented　with　a　toad　set　in　emeralds；　and　asked　in　marriage　by　an　Archduke？　She　took　a　kinder　view　of　the　case　next　day　when　she　found　on　her　breakfast　table　half　a　dozen　billets　from　some　of　the　greatest　ladies　in　the　land—Lady　Suffolk；　Lady　Salisbury；　Lady　Chesterfield；　Lady　Tavistock；　and　others　who　reminded　her　in　the　politest　manner　of　old　alliances　between　their　families　and　her　own；　and　desired　the　honour　of　her　acquaintance。　Next　day；　which　was　a　Saturday；　many　of　these　great　ladies　waited　on　her　in　person。　On　Tuesday；　about　noon；　their　footmen　brought　cards　of　invitation　to　various　routs；　dinners；　and　assemblies　in　the　near　future；　so　that　Orlando　was　launched　without　delay；　and　with　some　splash　and　foam　at　that；　upon　the　waters　of　London　society。

To　give　a　truthful　account　of　London　society　at　that　or　indeed　at　any　other　time；　is　beyond　the　powers　of　the　biographer　or　the　historian。　Only　those　who　have　little　need　of　the　truth；　and　no　respect　for　it—the　poets　and　the　novelists—can　be　trusted　to　do　it；　for　this　is　one　of　the　cases　where　the　truth　does　not　exist。　Nothing　exists。　The　whole　thing　is　a　miasma—a　mirage。　To　make　our　meaning　plain—Orlando　could　e　home　from　one　of　these　routs　at　three　or　four　in　the　morning　with　cheeks　like　a　Christmas　tree　and　eyes　like　stars。　She　would　untie　a　lace；　pace　the　room　a　score　of　times；　untie　another　lace；　stop；　and　pace　the　room　again。　Often　the　sun　would　be　blazing　over　Southwark　chimneys　before　she　could　persuade　herself　to　get　into　bed；　and　there　she　would　lie；　pitching　and　tossing；　laughing　and　sighing　for　an　hour　or　longer　before　she　slept　at　last。　And　what　was　all　this　stir　about？　Society。　And　what　had　society　said　or　done　to　throw　a　reasonable　lady　into　such　an　excitement？　In　plain　language；　nothing。　Rack　her　memory　as　she　would；　next　day　Orlando　could　never　remember　a　single　word　to　magnify　into　the　name　something。　Lord　O。　had　been　gallant。　Lord　A。　polite。　The　Marquis　of　C。　charming。　Mr　M。　amusing。　But　when　she　tried　to　recollect　in　what　their　gallantry；　politeness；　charm；　or　wit　had　consisted；　she　was　bound　to　suppose　her　memory　at　fault；　for　she　could　not　name　a　thing。　It　was　the　same　always。　Nothing　remained　over　the　next　day；　yet　the　excitement　of　the　moment　was　intense。　Thus　we　are　forced　to　conclude　that　society　is　one　of　those　brews　such　as　skilled　housekeepers　serve　hot　about　Christmas　time；　whose　flavour　depends　upon　the　proper　mixing　and　stirring　of　a　dozen　different　ingredients。　Take　one　out；　and　it　is　in　itself　insipid。　Take　away　Lord　O。；　Lord　A。；　Lord　C。；　or　Mr　M。　and　separately　each　is　nothing。　Stir　them　all　together　and　they　bine　to　give　off　the　most　intoxicating　of　flavours；　the　most　seductive　of　scents。　Yet　this　intoxication；　this　seductiveness；　entirely　evade　our　analysis。　At　one　and　the　same　time；　therefore；　society　is　everything　and　society　is　nothing。　Society　is　the　most　powerful　concoction　in　the　world　and　society　has　no　existence　whatsoever。　Such　monsters　the　poets　and　the　novelists　alone　can　deal　with；　with　such　something–nothings　their　works　are　stuffed　out　to　prodigious　size；　and　to　them　with　the　best　will　in　the　world　we　are　content　to　leave　it。

Following　the　example　of　our　predecessors；　therefore；　we　will　only　say　that　society　in　the　reign　of　Queen　Anne　was　of　unparalleled　brilliance。　To　have　the　entry　there　was　the　aim　of　every　well–bred　person。　The　graces　were　supreme。　Fathers　instructed　their　sons；　mothers　their　daughters。　No　education　was　plete　for　either　sex　which　did　not　include　the　science　of　deportment；　the　art　of　bowing　and　curtseying；　the　management　of　the　sword　and　the　fan；　the　care　of　the　teeth；　the　conduct　of　the　leg；　the　flexibility　of　the　knee；　the　proper　methods　of　entering　and　leaving　the　room；　with　a　thousand　etceteras；　such　as　will　immediately　suggest　themselves　to　anybody　who　has　himself　been　in　society。　Since　Orlando　had　won　the　praise　of　Queen　Elizabeth　for　the　way　she　handed　a　bowl　of　rose　water　as　a　boy；　it　must　be　supposed　that　she　was　sufficiently　expert　to　pass　muster。　Yet　it　is　true　that　there　was　an　absentmindedness　about　her　which　sometimes　made　her　clumsy；　she　was　apt　to　think　of　poetry　when　she　should　have　been　thinking　of　taffeta；　her　walk　was　a　little　too　much　of　a　stride　for　a　woman；　perhaps；　and　her　gestures；　being　abrupt；　might　endanger　a　cup　of　tea　on　occasion。

Whether　this　slight　disability　was　enough　to　counterbalance　the　splendour　of　her　bearing；　or　whether　she　inherited　a　drop　too　much　of　that　black　humour　which　ran　in　the　veins　of　all　her　race；　certain　it　is　that　she　had　not　been　in　the　world　more　than　a　score　of　times　before　she　might　have　been　heard　to　ask　herself；　had　there　been　anybody　but　her　spaniel　Pippin　to　hear　her；　‘What　the　devil　is　the　matter　with　me？’　The　occasion　was　Tuesday；　the　16th　of　June　1712；　she　had　just　returned　from　a　great　ball　at　Arlington　House；　the　dawn　was　in　the　sky；　and　she　was　pulling　off　her　stockings。　‘I　don’t　care　if　I　never　meet　another　soul　as　long　as　I　live；’　cried　Orlando；　bursting　into　tears。　Lovers　she　had　in　plenty；　but　life；　which　is；　after　all；　of　some　importance　in　its　way；　escaped　her。　‘Is　this’；　she　asked—but　there　was　none　to　answer；　‘is　this’；　she　finished　her　sentence　all　the　same；　‘what　people　call　life？’　The　spaniel　raised　her　forepaw　in　token　of　sympathy。　The　spaniel　licked　Orlando　with　her　tongue。　Orlando　stroked　the　spaniel　with　her　hand。　Orlando　kissed　the　spaniel　with　her　lips。　In　short；　there　was　the　truest　sympathy　between　them　that　can　be　between　a　dog　and　its　mistress；　and　yet　it　cannot　be　denied　that　the　dumbness　of　animals　is　a　great　impediment　to　the　refinements　of　intercourse。　They　wag　their　tails；　they　bow　the　front　part　of　the　body　and　elevate　the　hind；　they　roll；　they　jump；　they　paw；　they　whine；　they　bark；　they　slobber；　they　have　all　sorts　of　ceremonies　and　artifices　of　their　own；　but　the　whole　thing　is　of　no　avail；　since　speak　they　cannot。　Such　was　her　quarrel；　she　thought；　setting　the　dog　gently　on　to　the　floor；　with　the　great　people　at　Arlington　House。　They；　too；　wag　their　tails；　bow；　roll；　jump；　paw；　and　slobber；　but　talk　they　cannot。　‘All　these　months　that　I’ve　been　out　in　the　world’；　said　Orlando；　pitching　one　stocking　across　the　room；　‘I’ve　heard　nothing　but　what　Pippin　might　have　said。　I’m　cold。　I’m　happy。　I’m　hungry。　I’ve　caught　a　mouse。　I’ve　buried　a　bone。　Please　kiss　my　nose。’　And　it　was　not　enough。

How；　in　so　short　a　time；　she　had　passed　from　intoxication　to　disgust　we　will　only　seek　to　explain　by　supposing　that　this　mysterious　position　which　we　call　society；　is　nothing　absolutely　good　or　bad　in　itself；　but　has　a　spirit　in　it；　volatile　but　potent；　which　either　makes　you　drunk　when　you　think　it；　as　Orlando　thought　it；　delightful；　or　gives　you　a　headache　when　you　think　it；　as　Orlando　thought　it；　repulsive。　That　the　faculty　of　speech　has　much　to　do　with　it　either　way；　we　take　leave　to　doubt。　Often　a　dumb　hour　is　the　most　ravishing　of　all；　brilliant　wit　can　be　tedious　beyond　description。　But　to　the　poets　we　leave　it；　and　so　on　with　our　story。

Orlando　threw　the　second　stocking　after　the　first　and　went　to　bed　dismally　enough；　determined　that　she　would　forswear　society　for　ever。　But　again　as　it　turned　out；　she　was　too　hasty　in　ing　to　her　conclusions。　For　the　very　next　morning　she　woke　to　find；　among　the　usual　cards　of　invitation　upon　her　table；　one　from　a　certain　great　Lady；　the　Countess　of　R。　Having　determined　overnight　that　she　would　never　go　into　society　again；　we　can　only　explain　Orlando’s　behaviour—she　sent　a　messenger　hot–foot　to　R—　House　to　say　that　she　would　attend　her　Ladyship　with　all　the　pleasure　in　the　world—by　the　fact　that　she　was　still　suffering　from　the　effect　of　three　honeyed　words　dropped　into　her　ear　on　the　deck　of　the　“Enamoured　Lady”　by　Captain　Nicholas　Benedict　Bartolus　as　they　sailed　down　the　Thames。　Addison；　Dryden；　Pope；　he　had　said；　pointing　to　the　Cocoa　Tree；　and　Addison；　Dryden；　Pope　had　chimed　in　her　head　like　an　incantation　ever　since。　Who　can　credit　such　folly？　but　so　it　was。　All　her　experience　with　Nick　Greene　had　taught　her　nothing。　Such　names　still　exercised　over　her　the　most　powerful　fascination。　Something；　perhaps；　we　must　believe　in；　and　as　Orlando；　we　have　said；　had　no　belief　in　the　usual　divinities　she　bestowed　her　credulity　upon　great　men—yet　with　a　distinction。　Admirals；　soldiers；　statesmen；　moved　her　not　at　all。　But　the　very　thought　of　a　great　writer　stirred　her　to　such　a　pitch　of　belief　that　she　almost　believed　him　to　be　invisible。　Her　instinct　was　a　sound　one。　One　can　only　believe　entirely；　perhaps；　in　what　one　cannot　see。　The　little　glimpse　she　had　of　these　great　men　from　the　deck　of　the　ship　was　of　the　nature　of　a　vision。　That　the　cup　was　china；　or　the　gazette　paper；　she　doubted。　When　Lord　O。　said　one　day　that　he　had　dined　with　Dryden　the　night　before；　she　flatly　disbelieved　him。　Now；　the　Lady　R。’s　reception　room　had　the　reputation　of　being　the　antechamber　to　the　presence　room　of　genius；　it　was　the　place　where　men　and　women　met　to　swing　censers　and　chant　hymns　to　the　bust　of　genius　in　a　niche　in　the　wall。　Sometimes　the　God　himself　vouchsafed　his　presence　for　a　moment。　Intellect　alone　admitted　the　suppliant；　and　nothing　（so　the　report　ran）　was　said　inside　that　was　not　witty。

It　was　thus　with　great　trepidation　that　Orlando　entered　the　room。　She　found　a　pany　already　assembled　in　a　semicircle　round　the　fire。　Lady　R。；　an　oldish　lady；　of　dark　plexion；　with　a　black　lace　mantilla　on　her　head；　was　seated　in　a　great　arm–chair　in　the　centre。　Thus　being　somewhat　deaf；　she　could　control　the　conversation　on　both　sides　of　her。　On　both　sides　of　her　sat　men　and　women　of　the　highest　distinction。　Every　man；　it　was　said；　had　been　a　Prime　Minister　and　every　woman；　it　was　whispered；　had　been　the　mistress　of　a　king。　Certain　it　is　that　all　were　brilliant；　and　all　were　famous。　Orlando　took　her　seat　with　a　deep　reverence　in　silence。。。After　three　hours；　she　curtseyed　profoundly　and　left。

But　what；　the　reader　may　ask　with　some　exasperation；　happen