奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第24部分

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k。　But　what　can　the　biographer　do　when　his　subject　has　put　him　in　the　predicament　into　which　Orlando　has　now　put　us？　Life；　it　has　been　agreed　by　everyone　whose　opinion　is　worth　consulting；　is　the　only　fit　subject　for　novelist　or　biographer；　life；　the　same　authorities　have　decided；　has　nothing　whatever　to　do　with　sitting　still　in　a　chair　and　thinking。　Thought　and　life　are　as　the　poles　asunder。　Therefore—since　sitting　in　a　chair　and　thinking　is　precisely　what　Orlando　is　doing　now—there　is　nothing　for　it　but　to　recite　the　calendar；　tell　one’s　beads；　blow　one’s　nose；　stir　the　fire；　look　out　of　the　window；　until　she　has　done。　Orlando　sat　so　still　that　you　could　have　heard　a　pin　drop。　Would；　indeed；　that　a　pin　had　dropped！　That　would　have　been　life　of　a　kind。　Or　if　a　butterfly　had　fluttered　through　the　window　and　settled　on　her　chair；　one　could　write　about　that。　Or　suppose　she　had　got　up　and　killed　a　wasp。　Then；　at　once；　we　could　out　with　our　pens　and　write。　For　there　would　be　blood　shed；　if　only　the　blood　of　a　wasp。　Where　there　is　blood　there　is　life。　And　if　killing　a　wasp　is　the　merest　trifle　pared　with　killing　a　man；　still　it　is　a　fitter　subject　for　novelist　or　biographer　than　this　mere　wool–gathering；　this　thinking；　this　sitting　in　a　chair　day　in；　day　out；　with　a　cigarette　and　a　sheet　of　paper　and　a　pen　and　an　ink　pot。　If　only　subjects；　we　might　plain　（for　our　patience　is　wearing　thin）；　had　more　consideration　for　their　biographers！　What　is　more　irritating　than　to　see　one’s　subject；　on　whom　one　has　lavished　so　much　time　and　trouble；　slipping　out　of　one’s　grasp　altogether　and　indulging—witness　her　sighs　and　gasps；　her　flushing；　her　palings；　her　eyes　now　bright　as　lamps；　now　haggard　as　dawns—what　is　more　humiliating　than　to　see　all　this　dumb　show　of　emotion　and　excitement　gone　through　before　our　eyes　when　we　know　that　what　causes　it—thought　and　imagination—are　of　no　importance　whatsoever？

But　Orlando　was　a　woman—Lord　Palmerston　had　just　proved　it。　And　when　we　are　writing　the　life　of　a　woman；　we　may；　it　is　agreed；　waive　our　demand　for　action；　and　substitute　love　instead。　Love；　the　poet　has　said；　is　woman’s　whole　existence。　And　if　we　look　for　a　moment　at　Orlando　writing　at　her　table；　we　must　admit　that　never　was　there　a　woman　more　fitted　for　that　calling。　Surely；　since　she　is　a　woman；　and　a　beautiful　woman；　and　a　woman　in　the　prime　of　life；　she　will　soon　give　over　this　pretence　of　writing　and　thinking　and　begin　at　least　to　think　of　a　gamekeeper　（and　as　long　as　she　thinks　of　a　man；　nobody　objects　to　a　woman　thinking）。　And　then　she　will　write　him　a　little　note　（and　as　long　as　she　writes　little　notes　nobody　objects　to　a　woman　writing　either）　and　make　an　assignation　for　Sunday　dusk　and　Sunday　dusk　will　e；　and　the　gamekeeper　will　whistle　under　the　window—all　of　which　is；　of　course；　the　very　stuff　of　life　and　the　only　possible　subject　for　fiction。　Surely　Orlando　must　have　done　one　of　these　things？　Alas；—a　thousand　times；　alas；　Orlando　did　none　of　them。　Must　it　then　be　admitted　that　Orlando　was　one　of　those　monsters　of　iniquity　who　do　not　love？　She　was　kind　to　dogs；　faithful　to　friends；　generosity　itself　to　a　dozen　starving　poets；　had　a　passion　for　poetry。　But　love—as　the　male　novelists　define　it—and　who；　after　all；　speak　with　greater　authority？—has　nothing　whatever　to　do　with　kindness；　fidelity；　generosity；　or　poetry。　Love　is　slipping　off　one’s　petticoat　and—But　we　all　know　what　love　is。　Did　Orlando　do　that？　Truth　pels　us　to　say　no；　she　did　not。　If　then；　the　subject　of　one’s　biography　will　neither　love　nor　kill；　but　will　only　think　and　imagine；　we　may　conclude　that　he　or　she　is　no　better　than　a　corpse　and　so　leave　her。

The　only　resource　now　left　us　is　to　look　out　of　the　window。　There　were　sparrows；　there　were　starlings；　there　were　a　number　of　doves；　and　one　or　two　rooks；　all　occupied　after　their　fashion。　One　finds　a　worm；　another　a　snail。　One　flutters　to　a　branch；　another　takes　a　little　run　on　the　turf。　Then　a　servant　crosses　the　courtyard；　wearing　a　green　baize　apron。　Presumably　he　is　engaged　on　some　intrigue　with　one　of　the　maids　in　the　pantry；　but　as　no　visible　proof　is　offered　us；　in　the　courtyard；　we　can　but　hope　for　the　best　and　leave　it。　Clouds　pass；　thin　or　thick；　with　some　disturbance　of　the　colour　of　the　grass　beneath。　The　sun–dial　registers　the　hour　in　its　usual　cryptic　way。　One’s　mind　begins　tossing　up　a　question　or　two；　idly；　vainly；　about　this　same　life。　Life；　it　sings；　or　croons　rather；　like　a　kettle　on　a　hob。　Life；　life；　what　art　thou？　Light　or　darkness；　the　baize　apron　of　the　under–footman　or　the　shadow　of　the　starling　on　the　grass？

Let　us　go；　then；　exploring；　this　summer　morning；　when　all　are　adoring　the　plum　blossom　and　the　bee。　And　humming　and　hawing；　let　us　ask　of　the　starling　（who　is　a　more　sociable　bird　than　the　lark）　what　he　may　think　on　the　brink　of　the　dustbin；　whence　he　picks　among　the　sticks　bings　of　scullion’s　hair。　What’s　life；　we　ask；　leaning　on　the　farmyard　gate；　Life；　Life；　Life！　cries　the　bird；　as　if　he　had　heard；　and　knew　precisely；　what　we　meant　by　this　bothering　prying　habit　of　ours　of　asking　questions　indoors　and　out　and　peeping　and　picking　at　daisies　as　the　way　is　of　writers　when　they　don’t　know　what　to　say　next。　Then　they　e　here；　says　the　bird；　and　ask　me　what　life　is；　Life；　Life；　Life！

We　trudge　on　then　by　the　moor　path；　to　the　high　brow　of　the　wine–blue　purple–dark　hill；　and　fling　ourselves　down　there；　and　dream　there　and　see　there　a　grasshopper；　carting　back　to　his　home　in　the　hollow；　a　straw。　And　he　says　（if　sawings　like　his　can　be　given　a　name　so　sacred　and　tender）　Life’s　labour；　or　so　we　interpret　the　whirr　of　his　dust–choked　gullet。　And　the　ant　agrees　and　the　bees；　but　if　we　lie　here　long　enough　to　ask　the　moths；　when　they　e　at　evening；　stealing　among　the　paler　heather　bells；　they　will　breathe　in　our　ears　such　wild　nonsense　as　one　hears　from　telegraph　wires　in　snow　storms；　tee　hee；　haw　haw。　Laughter；　Laughter！　the　moths　say。

Having　asked　then　of　man　and　of　bird　and　the　insects；　for　fish；　men　tell　us；　who　have　lived　in　green　caves；　solitary　for　years　to　hear　them　speak；　never；　never　say；　and　so　perhaps　know　what　life　is—having　asked　them　all　and　grown　no　wiser；　but　only　older　and　colder　（for　did　we　not　pray　once　in　a　way　to　wrap　up　in　a　book　something　so　hard；　so　rare；　one　could　swear　it　was　life’s　meaning？）　back　we　must　go　and　say　straight　out　to　the　reader　who　waits　a–tiptoe　to　hear　what　life　is—alas；　we　don’t　know。

At　this　moment；　but　only　just　in　time　to　save　the　book　from　extinction；　Orlando　pushed　away　her　chair；　stretched　her　arms；　dropped　her　pen；　came　to　the　window；　and　exclaimed；　‘Done！’

She　was　almost　felled　to　the　ground　by　the　extraordinary　sight　which　now　met　her　eyes。　There　was　the　garden　and　some　birds。　The　world　was　going　on　as　usual。　All　the　time　she　was　writing　the　world　had　continued。

‘And　if　I　were　dead；　it　would　be　just　the　same！’　she　exclaimed。

Such　was　the　intensity　of　her　feelings　that　she　could　even　imagine　that　she　had　suffered　dissolution；　and　perhaps　some　faintness　actually　attacked　her。　For　a　moment　she　stood　looking　at　the　fair；　indifferent　spectacle　with　staring　eyes。　At　length　she　was　revived　in　a　singular　way。　The　manuscript　which　reposed　above　her　heart　began　shuffling　and　beating　as　if　it　were　a　living　thing；　and；　what　was　still　odder；　and　showed　how　fine　a　sympathy　was　between　them；　Orlando；　by　inclining　her　head；　could　make　out　what　it　was　that　it　was　saying。　It　wanted　to　be　read。　It　must　be　read。　It　would　die　in　her　bosom　if　it　were　not　read。　For　the　first　time　in　her　life　she　turned　with　violence　against　nature。　Elk–hounds　and　rose　bushes　were　about　her　in　profusion。　But　elk–hounds　and　rose　bushes　can　none　of　them　read。　It　is　a　lamentable　oversight　on　the　part　of　Providence　which　had　never　struck　her　before。　Human　beings　alone　are　thus　gifted。　Human　beings　had　bee　necessary。　She　rang　the　bell。　She　ordered　the　carriage　to　take　her　to　London　at　once。

‘There’s　just　time　to　catch　the　eleven　forty　five；　M’Lady；’　said　Basket。　Orlando　had　not　yet　realized　the　invention　of　the　steam　engine；　but　such　was　her　absorption　in　the　sufferings　of　a　being；　who；　though　not　herself；　yet　entirely　depended　on　her；　that　she　saw　a　railway　train　for　the　first　time；　took　her　seat　in　a　railway　carriage；　and　had　the　rug　arranged　about　her　knees　without　giving　a　thought　to　‘that　stupendous　invention；　which　had　（the　historians　say）　pletely　changed　the　face　of　Europe　in　the　past　twenty　years’　（as；　indeed；　happens　much　more　frequently　than　historians　suppose）。　She　noticed　only　that　it　was　extremely　smutty；　rattled　horribly；　and　the　windows　stuck。　Lost　in　thought；　she　was　whirled　up　to　London　in　something　less　than　an　hour　and　stood　on　the　platform　at　Charing　Cross；　not　knowing　where　to　go。

The　old　house　at　Blackfriars；　where　she　had　spent　so　many　pleasant　days　in　the　eighteenth　century；　was　now　sold；　part　to　the　Salvation　Army；　part　to　an　umbrella　factory。　She　had　bought　another　in　Mayfair　which　was　sanitary；　convenient；　and　in　the　heart　of　the　fashionable　world；　but　was　it　in　Mayfair　that　her　poem　would　be　relieved　of　its　desire？　Pray　God；　she　thought；　remembering　the　brightness　of　their　ladyships’　eyes　and　the　symmetry　of　their　lordship’s　legs；　they　haven’t　taken　to　reading　there。　For　that　would　be　a　thousand　pities。　Then　there　was　Lady　R。’s。　The　same　sort　of　talk　would　be　going　on　there　still；　she　had　no　doubt。　The　gout　might　have　shifted　from　the　General’s　left　leg　to　his　right；　perhaps。　Mr　L。　might　have　stayed　ten　days　with　R。　instead　of　T。　Then　Mr　Pope　would　e　in。　Oh！　but　Mr　Pope　was　dead。　Who　were　the　wits　now；　she　wondered—but　that　was　not　a　question　one　could　put　to　a　porter；　and　so　she　moved　on。　Her　ears　were　now　distracted　by　the　jingling　of　innumerable　bells　on　the　heads　of　innumerable　horses。　Fleets　of　the　strangest　little　boxes　on　wheels　were　drawn　up　by　the　pavement。　She　walked　out　into　the　Strand。　There　the　uproar　was　even　worse。　Vehicles　of　all　sizes；　drawn　by　blood　horses　and　by　dray　horses；　conveying　one　solitary　dowager　or　crowded　to　the　top　by　whiskered　men　in　silk　hats；　were　inextricably　mixed。　Carriages；　carts；　and　omnibuses　seemed　to　her　eyes；　so　long　used　to　the　look　of　a　plain　sheet　of　foolscap；　alarmingly　at　loggerheads；　and　to　her　ears；　attuned　to　a　pen　scratching；　the　uproar　of　the　street　sounded　violently　and　hideously　cacophonous。　Every　inch　of　the　pavement　was　crowded。　Streams　of　people；　threading　in　and　out　between　their　own　bodies　and　the　lurching　and　lumbering　traffic　with　incredible　agility；　poured　incessantly　east　and　west。　Along　the　edge　of　the　pavement　stood　men；　holding　out　trays　of　toys；　and　bawled。　At　corners；　women　sat　beside　great　baskets　of　spring　flowers　and　bawled。　Boys　running　in　and　out　of　the　horses’　noses；　holding　printed　sheets　to　their　bodies；　bawled　too；　Disaster！　Disaster！　At　first　Orlando　supposed　that　she　had　arrived　at　some　moment　of　national　crisis；　but　whether　it　was　happy　or　tragic；　she　could　not　tell。　She　looked　anxiously　at　people’s　faces。　But　that　confused　her　still　more。　Here　would　e　by　a　man　sunk　in　despair；　muttering　to　himself　as　if　he　knew　some　terrible　sorrow。　Past　him　would　nudge　a　fat；　jolly–faced　fellow；　shouldering　his　way　along　as　if　it　were　a　festival　for　all　the　world。　Indeed；　she　came　to　the　conclusion　that　there　was　neither　rhyme　nor　reason　in　any　of　it。　Each　man　and　each　woman　was　bent　on　his　own　affairs。　And　where　was　she　to　go？

She　walked　on　without　thinking；　up　one　street　and　down　another；　by　vast　windows　piled　with　handbags；　and　mirrors；　and　dressing　gowns；　and　flowers；　and　fishing　rods；　and　luncheon　baskets；　while　stuff　of　every　hue　and　pattern；　thickness　or　thinness；　was　looped　and　festooned　and　ballooned　across　and　across。　Sometimes　she　passed　down　avenues　of　sedate　mansions；　soberly　numbered　‘one’；　‘two’；　‘three’；　and　so　on　right　up　to　two　or　three　hundred；　each　the　copy　of　the　other；　with　two　pillars　and　six　steps　and　a　pair　of　curtains　neatly　drawn　and　family　luncheons　laid　on　tables；　and　a　parrot　looking　out　of　one　window　and　a　man　servant　out　of　another；　until　her　mind　was　dizzied　with　the　monotony。　Then　she　came　to　great　open　squares　with　black　shiny；　tightly　buttoned　statues　of　fat　men　in　the　middle；　and　war　horses　prancing；　and　columns　rising　and　fountains　falling　and　pigeons　fluttering。　So　she　walked　and　walked　along　pavements　between　houses　until　she　felt　very　hungry；　and　something　fluttering　above　her　heart　rebuked　her　with　having　forgotten　all　about　it。　It　was　her　manuscript。　‘The　Oak　Tree’。

She　was　confounded　at　her　own　neglect。　She　stopped　dead　where　she　stood。　No　coach　was　in　sight。　The　street；　which　was　wide　and　handsome；　was　singularly　empty。　Only　one　elderly　gentleman　was　approaching。　There　was　something　vaguely　familiar　to　her　in　his　walk。　As　he　came　nearer；　she　felt　certain　that　she　had　met　him　at　some　time　or　other。　But　where？　Could　it　be　that　this　gentleman；　so　neat；　so　portly；　so　prosperous；　with　a　cane　in　his　hand　and　a　flower　in　his　button–hole；　with　a　pink；　plump　face；　and　bed　white　moustaches；　could　it　be；　Yes；　by　jove；　it　was！—her　old；　her　very　old　friend；　Nick　Greene！

At　the　same　time　he　looked　at　her；　remembered　her；　recognized　her。　‘The　Lady　Orlando！’　he　cried；　sweeping　his　silk　hat　almost　in　the　dust。

‘Sir　Nicholas！’　she　exclaimed。　For　she　was　made　aware　intuitively　by　something　in　his　bearing　that　the　scurrilous　penny–a–liner；　who　had　lampooned　her　and　many　another　in　the　time　of　Queen　Elizabeth；　was　now　risen　in　the　world　and　bee　certainly　a　Knight　and　doubtless　a　dozen　other　fine　things　into　the　bargain。

With　another　bow；　he　acknowledged　that　her　conclusion　was　correct；　he　was　a　Knight；　he　was　a　Litt。D。；　he　was　a　Professor。　He　was　the　author　of　a　score　of　volumes。　He　was；　in　short；　the　most　influential　critic　of　the　Victorian　age。

A　violent　tumult　of　emotion　besieged　her　at　meeting　the　man　who　had　caused　her；　years　ago；　so　much　pain。　Could　this　be　the　plaguy；　restless　fellow　who　had　burnt　holes　in　her　carpets；　and　toasted　cheese　in　the　Italian　fireplace　and　told　such　merry　stories　of　Marlowe　and　the　rest　that　they　had　seen　the　sun　rise　nine　nights　out　of　ten？　He　was　now　sprucely　dressed　in　a　grey　morning　suit；　had　a　pink　flower　in　his　button–hole；　and　grey　suede　gloves　to　match。　But　even　as　she　marvelled；　he　made　another　bow；　and　asked　her　whether　she　would　honour　him　by　lunching　with　him？　The　bow　was　a　thought　overdone　perhaps；　but　the　imitation　of　fine　breeding　was　creditable。　She　followed　him；　wondering；　into　a　superb　restaurant；　all　red　plush；　white　table–cloths；　and　silver　cruets；　as　unlike　as　could　be　the　old　tavern　or　coffee　house　with　its　sanded　floor；　its　wooden　benches；　its　bowls　of　punch　and　chocolate；　and　its　broadsheets　and　spittoons。　He　laid　his　gloves　neatly　on　the　table　beside　him。　Still　she　could　hardly　believe　that　he　was　the　same　man。　His　nails　were　clean；　where　they　used　to　be　an　inch　long。　His　chin　was　shaved；　where　a　black　beard　used　to　sprout。　He　wore　gold　sleeve–links；　where　his　ragged　linen　used　to　dip　in　the　broth。　It　was　not；　indeed；　until　he　had　ordered　the　wine；　which　he　did　with　a　care　that　reminded　her　of　his　taste　in　Malmsey　long　ago；　that　she　was　convinced　he　was　the　same　man。　‘Ah！’　he　said；　heaving　a　little　sigh；　which　was　yet　fortable　enoug