奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第8部分

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　not　heard　them。　The　poet　then　gave　Orlando　the　full　story　of　his　health　for　the　past　ten　years　or　so。　It　had　been　so　bad　that　one　could　only　marvel　that　he　still　lived。　He　had　had　the　palsy；　the　gout；　the　ague；　the　dropsy；　and　the　three　sorts　of　fever　in　succession；　added　to　which　he　had　an　enlarged　heart；　a　great　spleen；　and　a　diseased　liver。　But；　above　all；　he　had；　he　told　Orlando；　sensations　in　his　spine　which　defied　description。　There　was　one　knob　about　the　third　from　the　top　which　burnt　like　fire；　another　about　second　from　the　bottom　which　was　cold　as　ice。　Sometimes　he　woke　with　a　brain　like　lead；　at　others　it　was　as　if　a　thousand　wax　tapers　were　alight　and　people　were　throwing　fireworks　inside　him。　He　could　feel　a　rose　leaf　through　his　mattress；　he　said；　and　knew　his　way　almost　about　London　by　the　feel　of　the　cobbles。　Altogether　he　was　a　piece　of　machinery　so　finely　made　and　curiously　put　together　（here　he　raised　his　hand　as　if　unconsciously；　and　indeed　it　was　of　the　finest　shape　imaginable）　that　it　confounded　him　to　think　that　he　had　only　sold　five　hundred　copies　of　his　poem；　but　that　of　course　was　largely　due　to　the　conspiracy　against　him。　All　he　could　say；　he　concluded；　banging　his　fist　upon　the　table；　was　that　the　art　of　poetry　was　dead　in　England。

How　that　could　be　with　Shakespeare；　Marlowe；　Ben　Jonson；　Browne；　Donne；　all　now　writing　or　just　having　written；　Orlando；　reeling　off　the　names　of　his　favourite　heroes；　could　not　think。

Greene　laughed　sardonically。　Shakespeare；　he　admitted；　had　written　some　scenes　that　were　well　enough；　but　he　had　taken　them　chiefly　from　Marlowe。　Marlowe　was　a　likely　boy；　but　what　could　you　say　of　a　lad　who　died　before　he　was　thirty？　As　for　Browne；　he　was　for　writing　poetry　in　prose；　and　people　soon　got　tired　of　such　conceits　as　that。　Donne　was　a　mountebank　who　wrapped　up　his　lack　of　meaning　in　hard　words。　The　gulls　were　taken　in；　but　the　style　would　be　out　of　fashion　twelve　months　hence。　As　for　Ben　Jonson—Ben　Jonson　was　a　friend　of　his　and　he　never　spoke　ill　of　his　friends。

No；　he　concluded；　the　great　age　of　literature　is　past；　the　great　age　of　literature　was　the　Greek；　the　Elizabethan　age　was　inferior　in　every　respect　to　the　Greek。　In　such　ages　men　cherished　a　divine　ambition　which　he　might　call　La　Gloire　（he　pronounced　it　Glawr；　so　that　Orlando　did　not　at　first　catch　his　meaning）。　Now　all　young　writers　were　in　the　pay　of　the　booksellers　and　poured　out　any　trash　that　would　sell。　Shakespeare　was　the　chief　offender　in　this　way　and　Shakespeare　was　already　paying　the　penalty。　Their　own　age；　he　said；　was　marked　by　precious　conceits　and　wild　experiments—neither　of　which　the　Greeks　would　have　tolerated　for　a　moment。　Much　though　it　hurt　him　to　say　it—for　he　loved　literature　as　he　loved　his　life—he　could　see　no　good　in　the　present　and　had　no　hope　for　the　future。　Here　he　poured　himself　out　another　glass　of　wine。

Orlando　was　shocked　by　these　doctrines；　yet　could　not　help　observing　that　the　critic　himself　seemed　by　no　means　downcast。　On　the　contrary；　the　more　he　denounced　his　own　time；　the　more　placent　he　became。　He　could　remember；　he　said；　a　night　at　the　Cock　Tavern　in　Fleet　Street　when　Kit　Marlowe　was　there　and　some　others。　Kit　was　in　high　feather；　rather　drunk；　which　he　easily　became；　and　in　a　mood　to　say　silly　things。　He　could　see　him　now；　brandishing　his　glass　at　the　pany　and　hiccoughing　out；　‘Stap　my　vitals；　Bill’　（this　was　to　Shakespeare）；　‘there’s　a　great　wave　ing　and　you’re　on　the　top　of　it；’　by　which　he　meant；　Greene　explained；　that　they　were　trembling　on　the　verge　of　a　great　age　in　English　literature；　and　that　Shakespeare　was　to　be　a　poet　of　some　importance。　Happily　for　himself；　he　was　killed　two　nights　later　in　a　drunken　brawl；　and　so　did　not　live　to　see　how　this　prediction　turned　out。　‘Poor　foolish　fellow；’　said　Greene；　‘to　go　and　say　a　thing　like　that。　A　great　age；　forsooth—the　Elizabethan　a　great　age！’

‘So；　my　dear　Lord；’　he　continued；　settling　himself　fortably　in　his　chair　and　rubbing　the　wine–glass　between　his　fingers；　‘we　must　make　the　best　of　it；　cherish　the　past　and　honour　those　writers—there　are　still　a　few　of　‘em—who　take　antiquity　for　their　model　and　write；　not　for　pay　but　for　Glawr。’　（Orlando　could　have　wished　him　a　better　accent。）　‘Glawr’；　said　Greene；　‘is　the　spur　of　noble　minds。　Had　I　a　pension　of　three　hundred　pounds　a　year　paid　quarterly；　I　would　live　for　Glawr　alone。　I　would　lie　in　bed　every　morning　reading　Cicero。　I　would　imitate　his　style　so　that　you　couldn’t　tell　the　difference　between　us。　That’s　what　I　call　fine　writing；’　said　Greene；　‘that’s　what　I　call　Glawr。　But　it’s　necessary　to　have　a　pension　to　do　it。’

By　this　time　Orlando　had　abandoned　all　hope　of　discussing　his　own　work　with　the　poet；　but　this　mattered　the　less　as　the　talk　now　got　upon　the　lives　and　characters　of　Shakespeare；　Ben　Jonson；　and　the　rest；　all　of　whom　Greene　had　known　intimately　and　about　whom　he　had　a　thousand　anecdotes　of　the　most　amusing　kind　to　tell。　Orlando　had　never　laughed　so　much　in　his　life。　These；　then；　were　his　gods！　Half　were　drunken　and　all　were　amorous。　Most　of　them　quarrelled　with　their　wives；　not　one　of　them　was　above　a　lie　or　an　intrigue　of　the　most　paltry　kind。　Their　poetry　was　scribbled　down　on　the　backs　of　washing　bills　held　to　the　heads　of　printer’s　devils　at　the　street　door。　Thus　Hamlet　went　to　press；　thus　Lear；　thus　Othello。　No　wonder；　as　Greene　said；　that　these　plays　show　the　faults　they　do。　The　rest　of　the　time　was　spent　in　carousings　and　junketings　in　taverns　and　in　beer　gardens；　When　things　were　said　that　passed　belief　for　wit；　and　things　were　done　that　made　the　utmost　frolic　of　the　courtiers　seem　pale　in　parison。　All　this　Greene　told　with　a　spirit　that　roused　Orlando　to　the　highest　pitch　of　delight。　He　had　a　power　of　mimicry　that　brought　the　dead　to　life；　and　could　say　the　finest　things　of　books　provided　they　were　written　three　hundred　years　ago。

So　time　passed；　and　Orlando　felt　for　his　guest　a　strange　mixture　of　liking　and　contempt；　of　admiration　and　pity；　as　well　as　something　too　indefinite　to　be　called　by　any　one　name；　but　had　something　of　fear　in　it　and　something　of　fascination。　He　talked　incessantly　about　himself；　yet　was　such　good　pany　that　one　could　listen　to　the　story　of　his　ague　for　ever。　Then　he　was　so　witty；　then　he　was　so　irreverent；　then　he　made　so　free　with　the　names　of　God　and　Woman；　then　he　was　So　full　of　queer　crafts　and　had　such　strange　lore　in　his　head；　could　make　salad　in　three　hundred　different　ways；　knew　all　that　could　be　known　of　the　mixing　of　wines；　played　half–a–dozen　musical　instruments；　and　was　the　first　person；　and　perhaps　the　last；　to　toast　cheese　in　the　great　Italian　fireplace。　That　he　did　not　know　a　geranium　from　a　carnation；　an　oak　from　a　birch　tree；　a　mastiff　from　a　greyhound；　a　teg　from　a　ewe；　wheat　from　barley；　plough　land　from　fallow；　was　ignorant　of　the　rotation　of　the　crops；　thought　oranges　grew　underground　and　turnips　on　trees；　preferred　any　townscape　to　any　landscape；—all　this　and　much　more　amazed　Orlando；　who　had　never　met　anybody　of　his　kind　before。　Even　the　maids；　who　despised　him；　tittered　at　his　jokes；　and　the　men–servants；　who　loathed　him；　hung　about　to　hear　his　stories。　Indeed；　the　house　had　never　been　so　lively　as　now　that　he　was　there—all　of　which　gave　Orlando　a　great　deal　to　think　about；　and　caused　him　to　pare　this　way　of　life　with　the　old。　He　recalled　the　sort　of　talk　he　had　been　used　to　about　the　King　of　Spain’s　apoplexy　or　the　mating　of　a　bitch；　he　bethought　him　how　the　day　passed　between　the　stables　and　the　dressing　closet；　he　remembered　how　the　Lords　snored　over　their　wine　and　hated　anybody　who　woke　them　up。　He　bethought　him　how　active　and　valiant　they　were　in　body；　how　slothful　and　timid　in　mind。　Worried　by　these　thoughts；　and　unable　to　strike　a　proper　balance；　he　came　to　the　conclusion　that　he　had　admitted　to　his　house　a　plaguey　spirit　of　unrest　that　would　never　suffer　him　to　sleep　sound　again。

At　the　same　moment；　Nick　Greene　came　to　precisely　the　opposite　conclusion。　Lying　in　bed　of　a　morning　on　the　softest　pillows　between　the　smoothest　sheets　and　looking　out　of　his　oriel　window　upon　turf　which　for　centuries　had　known　neither　dandelion　nor　dock　weed；　he　thought　that　unless　he　could　somehow　make　his　escape；　he　should　be　smothered　alive。　Getting　up　and　hearing　the　pigeons　coo；　dressing　and　hearing　the　fountains　fall；　he　thought　that　unless　he　could　hear　the　drays　roar　upon　the　cobbles　of　Fleet　Street；　he　would　never　write　another　line。　If　this　goes　on　much　longer；　he　thought；　hearing　the　footman　mend　the　fire　and　spread　the　table　with　silver　dishes　next　door；　I　shall　fall　asleep　and　（here　he　gave　a　prodigious　yawn）　sleeping　die。

So　he　sought　Orlando　in　his　room；　and　explained　that　he　had　not　been　able　to　sleep　a　wink　all　night　because　of　the　silence。　（Indeed；　the　house　was　surrounded　by　a　park　fifteen　miles　in　circumference　and　a　wall　ten　feet　high。）　Silence；　he　said；　was　of　all　things　the　most　oppressive　to　his　nerves。　He　would　end　his　visit；　by　Orlando’s　leave；　that　very　morning。　Orlando　felt　some　relief　at　this；　yet　also　a　great　reluctance　to　let　him　go。　The　house；　he　thought；　would　seem　very　dull　without　him。　On　parting　（for　he　had　never　yet　liked　to　mention　the　subject）；　he　had　the　temerity　to　press　his　play　upon　the　Death　of　Hercules　upon　the　poet　and　ask　his　opinion　of　it。　The　poet　took　it；　muttered　something　about　Glawr　and　Cicero；　which　Orlando　cut　short　by　promising　to　pay　the　pension　quarterly；　whereupon　Greene；　with　many　protestations　of　affection；　jumped　into　the　coach　and　was　gone。

The　great　hall　had　never　seemed　so　large；　so　splendid；　or　so　empty　as　the　chariot　rolled　away。　Orlando　knew　that　he　would　never　have　the　heart　to　make　toasted　cheese　in　the　Italian　fireplace　again。　He　would　never　have　the　wit　to　crack　jokes　about　Italian　pictures；　never　have　the　skill　to　mix　punch　as　it　should　be　mixed；　a　thousand　good　quips　and　cranks　would　be　lost　to　him。　Yet　what　a　relief　to　be　out　of　the　sound　of　that　querulous　voice；　what　a　luxury　to　be　alone　once　more；　so　he　could　not　help　reflecting；　as　he　unloosed　the　mastiff　which　had　been　tied　up　these　six　weeks　because　it　never　saw　the　poet　without　biting　him。

Nick　Greene　was　set　down　at　the　corner　of　Fetter　Lane　that　same　afternoon；　and　found　things　going　on　much　as　he　had　left　them。　Mrs　Greene；　that　is　to　say；　was　giving　birth　to　a　baby　in　one　room；　Tom　Fletcher　was　drinking　gin　in　another。　Books　were　tumbled　all　about　the　floor；　dinner—such　as　it　was—was　set　on　a　dressing–table　where　the　children　had　been　making　mud　pies。　But　this；　Greene　felt；　was　the　atmosphere　for　writing；　here　he　could　write；　and　write　he　did。　The　subject　was　made　for　him。　A　noble　Lord　at　home。　A　visit　to　a　Nobleman　in　the　country—his　new　poem　was　to　have　some　such　title　as　that。　Seizing　the　pen　with　which　his　little　boy　was　tickling　the　cat’s　ears；　and　dipping　it　in　the　egg–cup　which　served　for　inkpot；　Greene　dashed　off　a　very　spirited　satire　there　and　then。　It　was　so　done　to　a　turn　that　no　one　could　doubt　that　the　young　Lord　who　was　roasted　was　Orlando；　his　most　private　sayings　and　doings；　his　enthusiasms　and　folies；　down　to　the　very　colour　of　his　hair　and　the　foreign　way　he　had　of　rolling　his　r’s；　were　there　to　the　life。　And　if　there　had　been　any　doubt　about　it；　Greene　clinched　the　matter　by　introducing；　with　scarcely　any　disguise；　passages　from　that　aristocratic　tragedy；　the　Death　of　Hercules；　which　he　found　as　he　expected；　wordy　and　bombastic　in　the　extreme。

The　pamphlet；　which　ran　at　once　into　several　editions；　and　paid　the　expenses　of　Mrs　Greene’s　tenth　lying–in；　was　soon　sent　by　friends　who　take　care　of　such　matters　to　Orlando　himself。　When　he　had　read　it；　which　he　did　with　deadly　posure　from　start　to　finish；　he　rang　for　the　footman；　delivered　the　document　to　him　at　the　end　of　a　pair　of　tongs；　bade　him　drop　it　in　the　filthiest　heart　of　the　foulest　midden　on　the　estate。　Then；　when　the　man　was　turning　to　go　he　stopped　him；　‘Take　the　swiftest　horse　in　the　stable；’　he　said；　‘ride　for　dear　life　to　Harwich。　There　embark　upon　a　ship　which　you　will　find　bound　for　Norway。　Buy　for　me　from　the　King’s　own　kennels　the　finest　elk–hounds　of　the　Royal　strain；　male　and　female。　Bring　them　back　without　delay。　For’；　he　murmured；　scarcely　above　his　breath　as　he　turned　to　his　books；　‘I　have　done　with　men。’

The　footman；　who　was　perfectly　trained　in　his　duties；　bowed　and　disappeared。　He　fulfilled　his　task　so　efficiently　that　he　was　back　that　day　three　weeks；　leading　in　his　hand　a　leash　of　the　finest　elk–hounds；　one　of　whom；　a　female；　gave　birth　that　very　night　under　the　dinner–table　to　a　litter　of　eight　fine　puppies。　Orlando　had　them　brought　to　his　bedchamber。

‘For’；　he　said；　‘I　have　done　with　men。’

Nevertheless；　he　paid　the　pension　quarterly。

Thus；　at　the　age　of　thirty；　or　thereabouts；　this　young　Nobleman　had　not　only　had　every　experience　that　life　has　to　offer；　but　had　seen　the　worthlessness　of　them　all。　Love　and　ambition；　women　and　poets　were　all　equally　vain。　Literature　was　a　farce。　The　night　after　reading　Greene’s　Visit　to　a　Nobleman　in　the　Country；　he　burnt　in　a　great　conflagration　fifty–seven　poetical　works；　only　retaining　‘The　Oak　Tree’；　which　was　his　boyish　dream　and　very　short。　Two　things　alone　remained　to　him　in　which　he　now　put　any　trust：　dogs　and　nature；　an　elk–hound　and　a　rose　bush。　The　world；　in　all　its　variety；　life　in　all　its　plexity；　had　shrunk　to　that。　Dogs　and　a　bush　were　the　whole　of　it。　So　feeling　quit　of　a　vast　mountain　of　illusion；　and　very　naked　in　consequence；　he　called　his　hounds　to　him　and　strode　through　the　Park。

So　long　had　he　been　secluded；　writing　and　reading；　that　he　had　half　forgotten　the　amenities　of　nature；　which　in　June　can　be　great。　When　he　reached　that　high　mound　whence　on　fine　days　half　of　England　with　a　slice　of　Wales　and　Scotland　thrown　in　can　be　seen；　he　flung　himself　under　his　favourite　oak　tree　and　felt　that　if　he　need　never　speak　to　another　man　or　woman　so　long　as　he　lived；　if　his　dogs　did　not　develop　the　faculty　of　speech；　if　he　never　met　a　poet　or　a　Princess　again；　he　might　make　out　what　years　remained　to　him　in　tolerable　content。

Here　he　came　then；　day　after　day；　week　after　week；　month　after　month；　year　after　year。　He　saw　the　beech　trees　turn　golden　and　the　young　ferns　unfurl；　he　saw　the　moon　sickle　and　then　circular；　he　saw—but　probably　the　reader　can　imagine　the　passage　which　should　follow　and　how　every　tree　and　plant　in　the　neighbourhood　is　described　first　green；　then　golden；　how　moons　rise　and　suns　set；　how　spring　follows　winter　and　autumn　summer；　how　night　succeeds　day　and　day　night；　how　there　is　first　a　storm　and　then　fine　weather；　how　things　remain　much　as　they　are　for　two　or　three　hundred　years　or　so；　except　for　a　little　dust　and　a　few　cobwebs　which　one　old　woman　can　sweep　up　in　half　an　hour；　a　conclusion　which；　one　cannot　help　feeling；　might　have　been　reached　more　quickly　by　the　simple　statement　that　‘Time　passed’　（here　the　exact　amount　could　be　indicated　in　brackets）　and　nothing　whatever　happened。

But　Time；　unfortunately；　though　it　makes　animals　and　vegetables　bloom　and　fade　with　amazing　punctuality；　has　no　such　simple　effect　upon　the　mind　of　man。　The　mind　of　man；　moreover；　works　with　equal　strangeness　upon　the　body　of　time。　An　hour；　once　it　lodges　in　the