奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第10部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


ne　more　free　with　those　little　pieces　of　silver　which　serve　to　buy　a　knot　of　ribbon　or　put　a　posy　in　one’s　hair；　until　even　the　Blackamoor　whom　they　called　Grace　Robinson　by　way　of　making　a　Christian　woman　of　her；　understood　what　they　were　at；　and　agreed　that　his　Lordship　was　a　handsome；　pleasant；　darling　gentleman　in　the　only　way　she　could；　that　is　to　say　by　showing　all　her　teeth　at　once　in　a　broad　grin。　In　short；　all　his　serving　men　and　women　held　him　in　high　respect；　and　cursed　the　foreign　Princess　（but　they　called　her　by　a　coarser　name　than　that）　who　had　brought　him　to　this　pass。

But　though　it　was　probably　cowardice；　or　love　of　hot　ale；　that　led　Mr　Dupper　to　imagine　his　Lordship　safe　among　the　tombs　so　that　he　need　not　go　in　search　of　him；　it　may　well　have　been　that　Mr　Dupper　was　right。　Orlando　now　took　a　strange　delight　in　thoughts　of　death　and　decay；　and；　after　pacing　the　long　galleries　and　ballrooms　with　a　taper　in　his　hand；　looking　at　picture　after　picture　as　if　he　sought　the　likeness　of　somebody　whom　he　could　not　find；　would　mount　into　the　family　pew　and　sit　for　hours　watching　the　banners　stir　and　the　moonlight　waver　with　a　bat　or　death’s　head　moth　to　keep　him　pany。　Even　this　was　not　enough　for　him；　but　he　must　descend　into　the　crypt　where　his　ancestors　lay；　coffin　piled　upon　coffin；　for　ten　generations　together。　The　place　was　so　seldom　visited　that　the　rats　made　free　with　the　lead　work；　and　now　a　thigh　bone　would　catch　at　his　cloak　as　he　passed；　or　he　would　crack　the　skull　of　some　old　Sir　Malise　as　it　rolled　beneath　his　foot。　It　was　a　ghastly　sepulchre；　dug　deep　beneath　the　foundations　of　the　house　as　if　the　first　Lord　of　the　family；　who　had　e　from　France　with　the　Conqueror；　had　wished　to　testify　how　all　pomp　is　built　upon　corruption；　how　the　skeleton　lies　beneath　the　flesh：　how　we　that　dance　and　sing　above　must　lie　below；　how　the　crimson　velvet　turns　to　dust；　how　the　ring　（here　Orlando；　stooping　his　lantern；　would　pick　up　a　gold　circle　lacking　a　stone；　that　had　rolled　into　a　corner）　loses　its　ruby　and　the　eye　which　was　so　lustrous　shines　no　more。　‘Nothing　remains　of　all　these　Princes’；　Orlando　would　say；　indulging　in　some　pardonable　exaggeration　of　their　rank；　‘except　one　digit；’　and　he　would　take　a　skeleton　hand　in　his　and　bend　the　joints　this　way　and　that。　‘Whose　hand　was　it？’　he　went　on　to　ask。　‘The　right　or　the　left？　The　hand　of　man　or　woman；　of　age　or　youth？　Had　it　urged　the　war　horse；　or　plied　the　needle？　Had　it　plucked　the　rose；　or　grasped　cold　steel？　Had　it—’　but　here　either　his　invention　failed　him　or；　what　is　more　likely；　provided　him　with　so　many　instances　of　what　a　hand　can　do　that　he　shrank；　as　his　wont　was；　from　the　cardinal　labour　of　position；　which　is　excision；　and　he　put　it　with　the　other　bones；　thinking　how　there　was　a　writer　called　Thomas　Browne；　a　Doctor　of　Norwich；　whose　writing　upon　such　subjects　took　his　fancy　amazingly。

So；　taking　his　lantern　and　seeing　that　the　bones　were　in　order；　for　though　romantic；　he　was　singularly　methodical　and　detested　nothing　so　much　as　a　ball　of　string　on　the　floor；　let　alone　the　skull　of　an　ancestor；　he　returned　to　that　curious；　moody　pacing　down　the　galleries；　looking　for　something　among　the　pictures；　which　was　interrupted　at　length　by　a　veritable　spasm　of　sobbing；　at　the　sight　of　a　Dutch　snow　scene　by　an　unknown　artist。　Then　it　seemed　to　him　that　life　was　not　worth　living　any　more。　Forgetting　the　bones　of　his　ancestors　and　how　life　is　founded　on　a　grave；　he　stood　there　shaken　with　sobs；　all　for　the　desire　of　a　woman　in　Russian　trousers；　with　slanting　eyes；　a　pouting　mouth　and　pearls　about　her　neck。　She　had　gone。　She　had　left　him。　He　was　never　to　see　her　again。　And　so　he　sobbed。　And　so　he　found　his　way　back　to　his　own　rooms；　and　Mrs　Grimsditch；　seeing　the　light　in　the　window；　put　the　tankard　from　her　lips　and　said　Praise　be　to　God；　his　Lordship　was　safe　in　his　room　again；　for　she　had　been　thinking　all　this　while　that　he　was　foully　murdered。

Orlando　now　drew　his　chair　up　to　the　table；　opened　the　works　of　Sir　Thomas　Browne　and　proceeded　to　investigate　the　delicate　articulation　of　one　of　the　doctor’s　longest　and　most　marvellously　contorted　cogitations。

For　though　these　are　not　matters　on　which　a　biographer　can　profitably　enlarge　it　is　plain　enough　to　those　who　have　done　a　reader’s　part　in　making　up　from　bare　hints　dropped　here　and　there　the　whole　boundary　and　circumference　of　a　living　person；　can　hear　in　what　we　only　whisper　a　living　voice；　can　see；　often　when　we　say　nothing　about　it；　exactly　what　he　looked　like；　know　without　a　word　to　guide　them　precisely　what　he　thought—and　it　is　for　readers　such　as　these　that　we　write—it　is　plain　then　to　such　a　reader　that　Orlando　was　strangely　pounded　of　many　humours—of　melancholy；　of　indolence；　of　passion；　of　love　of　solitude；　to　say　nothing　of　all　those　contortions　and　subtleties　of　temper　which　were　indicated　on　the　first　page；　when　he　slashed　at　a　dead　nigger’s　head；　cut　it　down；　hung　it　chivalrously　out　of　his　reach　again　and　then　betook　himself　to　the　windowseat　with　a　book。　The　taste　for　books　was　an　early　one。　As　a　child　he　was　sometimes　found　at　midnight　by　a　page　still　reading。　They　took　his　taper　away；　and　he　bred　glow–worms　to　serve　his　purpose。　They　took　the　glow–worms　away；　and　he　almost　burnt　the　house　down　with　a　tinder。　To　put　it　in　a　nutshell；　leaving　the　novelist　to　smooth　out　the　crumpled　silk　and　all　its　implications；　he　was　a　nobleman　afflicted　with　a　love　of　literature。　Many　people　of　his　time；　still　more　of　his　rank；　escaped　the　infection　and　were　thus　free　to　run　or　ride　or　make　love　at　their　own　sweet　will。　But　some　were　early　infected　by　a　germ　said　to　be　bred　of　the　pollen　of　the　asphodel　and　to　be　blown　out　of　Greece　and　Italy；　which　was　of　so　deadly　a　nature　that　it　would　shake　the　hand　as　it　was　raised　to　strike；　and　cloud　the　eye　as　it　sought　its　prey；　and　make　the　tongue　stammer　as　it　declared　its　love。　It　was　the　fatal　nature　of　this　disease　to　substitute　a　phantom　for　reality；　so　that　Orlando；　to　whom　fortune　had　given　every　gift—plate；　linen；　houses；　men–servants；　carpets；　beds　in　profusion—had　only　to　open　a　book　for　the　whole　vast　accumulation　to　turn　to　mist。　The　nine　acres　of　stone　which　were　his　house　vanished；　one　hundred　and　fifty　indoor　servants　disappeared；　his　eighty　riding　horses　became　invisible；　it　would　take　too　long　to　count　the　carpets；　sofas；　trappings；　china；　plate；　cruets；　chafing　dishes　and　other　movables　often　of　beaten　gold；　which　evaporated　like　so　much　sea　mist　under　the　miasma。　So　it　was；　and　Orlando　would　sit　by　himself；　reading；　a　naked　man。

The　disease　gained　rapidly　upon　him　now　in　his　solitude。　He　would　read　often　six　hours　into　the　night；　and　when　they　came　to　him　for　orders　about　the　slaughtering　of　cattle　or　the　harvesting　of　wheat；　he　would　push　away　his　folio　and　look　as　if　he　did　not　understand　what　was　said　to　him。　This　was　bad　enough　and　wrung　the　hearts　of　Hall；　the　falconer；　of　Giles；　the　groom；　of　Mrs　Grimsditch；　the　housekeeper；　of　Mr　Dupper；　the　chaplain。　A　fine　gentleman　like　that；　they　said；　had　no　need　of　books。　Let　him　leave　books；　they　said；　to　the　palsied　or　the　dying。　But　worse　was　to　e。　For　once　the　disease　of　reading　has　laid　upon　the　system　it　weakens　it　so　that　it　falls　an　easy　prey　to　that　other　scourge　which　dwells　in　the　inkpot　and　festers　in　the　quill。　The　wretch　takes　to　writing。　And　while　this　is　bad　enough　in　a　poor　man；　whose　only　property　is　a　chair　and　a　table　set　beneath　a　leaky　roof—for　he　has　not　much　to　lose；　after　all—the　plight　of　a　rich　man；　who　has　houses　and　cattle；　maidservants；　asses　and　linen；　and　yet　writes　books；　is　pitiable　in　the　extreme。　The　flavour　of　it　all　goes　out　of　him；　he　is　riddled　by　hot　irons；　gnawed　by　vermin。　He　would　give　every　penny　he　has　（such　is　the　malignity　of　the　germ）　to　write　one　little　book　and　bee　famous；　yet　all　the　gold　in　Peru　will　not　buy　him　the　treasure　of　a　well–turned　line。　So　he　falls　into　consumption　and　sickness；　blows　his　brains　out；　turns　his　face　to　the　wall。　It　matters　not　in　what　attitude　they　find　him。　He　has　passed　through　the　gates　of　Death　and　known　the　flames　of　Hell。

Happily；　Orlando　was　of　a　strong　constitution　and　the　disease　（for　reasons　presently　to　be　given）　never　broke　him　down　as　it　has　broken　many　of　his　peers。　But　he　was　deeply　smitten　with　it；　as　the　sequel　shows。　For　when　he　had　read　for　an　hour　or　so　in　Sir　Thomas　Browne；　and　the　bark　of　the　stag　and　the　call　of　the　night　watchman　showed　that　it　was　the　dead　of　night　and　all　safe　asleep；　he　crossed　the　room；　took　a　silver　key　from　his　pocket　and　unlocked　the　doors　of　a　great　inlaid　cabi　which　stood　in　the　corner。　Within　were　some　fifty　drawers　of　cedar　wood　and　upon　each　was　a　paper　neatly　written　in　Orlando’s　hand。　He　paused；　as　if　hesitating　which　to　open。　One　was　inscribed　‘The　Death　of　Ajax’；　another　‘The　Birth　of　Pyramus’；　another　‘Iphigenia　in　Aulis’；　another　‘The　Death　of　Hippolytus’；　another　‘Meleager’；　another　‘The　Return　of　Odysseus’；—in　fact　there　was　scarcely　a　single　drawer　that　lacked　the　name　of　some　mythological　personage　at　a　crisis　of　his　career。　In　each　drawer　lay　a　document　of　considerable　size　all　written　over　in　Orlando’s　hand。　The　truth　wa