奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第29部分

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e　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；　happened　in　between。　In　three　hours；　such　a　pany　must　have　said　the　wittiest；　the　profoundest；　the　most　interesting　things　in　the　world。　So　it　would　seem　indeed。　But　the　fact　appears　to　be　that　they　said　nothing。　It　is　a　curious　characteristic　which　they　share　with　all　the　most　brilliant　societies　that　the　world　has　seen。　Old　Madame　du　Deffand　and　her　friends　talked　for　fifty　years　without　stopping。　And　of　it　all；　what　remains？　Perhaps　three　witty　sayings。　So　that　we　are　at　liberty　to　suppose　either　that　nothing　was　said；　or　that　nothing　witty　was　said；　or　that　the　fraction　of　three　witty　sayings　lasted　eighteen　thousand　two　hundred　and　fifty　nights；　which　does　not　leave　a　liberal　allowance　of　wit　for　any　one　of　them。

The　truth　would　seem　to　be—if　we　dare　use　such　a　word　in　such　a　connection—that　all　these　groups　of　people　lie　under　an　enchantment。　The　hostess　is　our　modern　Sibyl。　She　is　a　witch　who　lays　her　guests　under　a　spell。　In　this　house　they　think　themselves　happy；　in　that　witty；　in　a　third　profound。　It　is　all　an　illusion　（which　is　nothing　against　it；　for　illusions　are　the　most　valuable　and　necessary　of　all　things；　and　she　who　can　create　one　is　among　the　world’s　greatest　benefactors）；　but　as　it　is　notorious　that　illusions　are　shattered　by　conflict　with　reality；　so　no　real　happiness；　no　real　wit；　no　real　profundity　are　tolerated　where　the　illusion　prevails。　This　serves　to　explain　why　Madame　du　Deffand　said　no　more　than　three　witty　things　in　the　course　of　fifty　years。　Had　she　said　more；　her　circle　would　have　been　destroyed。　The　witticism；　as　it　left　her　lips；　bowled　over　the　current　conversation　as　a　cannon　ball　lays　low　the　violets　and　the　daisies。　When　she　made　her　famous　‘mot　de　Saint　Denis’　the　very　grass　was　singed。　Disillusionment　and　desolation　followed。　Not　a　word　was　uttered。　‘Spare　us　another　such；　for　Heaven’s　sake；　Madame！’　her　friends　cried　with　one　accord。　And　she　obeyed。　For　almost　seventeen　years　she　said　nothing　memorable　and　all　went　well。　The　beautiful　counterpane　of　illusion　lay　unbroken　on　her　circle　as　it　lay　unbroken　on　the　circle　of　Lady　R。　The　guests　thought　that　they　were　happy；　thought　that　they　were　witty；　thought　that　they　were　profound；　and；　as　they　thought　this；　other　people　thought　it　still　more　strongly；　and　so　it　got　about　that　nothing　was　more　delightful　than　one　of　Lady　R。’s　assemblies；　everyone　envied　those　who　were　admitted；　those　who　were　admitted　envied　themselves　because　other　people　envied　them；　and　so　there　seemed　no　end　to　it—except　that　which　we　have　now　to　relate。

For　about　the　third　time　Orlando　went　there　a　certain　incident　occurred。　She　was　still　under　the　illusion　that　she　was　listening　to　the　most　brilliant　epigrams　in　the　world；　though；　as　a　matter　of　fact；　old　General　C。　was　only　saying；　at　some　length；　how　the　gout　had　left　his　left　leg　and　gone　to　his　right；　while　Mr　L。　interrupted　when　any　proper　name　was　mentioned；　‘R。？　Oh！　I　know　Billy　R。　as　well　as　I　know　myself。　S。？　My　dearest　friend。　T。？　Stayed　with　him　a　fortnight　in　Yorkshire’—which；　such　is　the　force　of　illusion；　sounded　like　the　wittiest　repartee；　the　most　searching　ment　upon　human　life；　and　kept　the　pany　in　a　roar；　when　the　door　opened　and　a　little　gentleman　entered　whose　name　Orlando　did　not　catch。　Soon　a　curiously　disagreeable　sensation　came　over　her。　To　judge　from　their　faces；　the　rest　began　to　feel　it　as　well。　One　gentleman　said　there　was　a　draught。　The　Marchioness　of　C。　feared　a　cat　must　be　under　the　sofa。　It　was　as　if　their　eyes　were　being　slowly　opened　after　a　pleasant　dream　and　nothing　met　them　but　a　cheap　wash–stand　and　a　dirty　counterpane。　It　was　as　if　the　fumes　of　some　delicious　wine　were　slowly　leaving　them。　Still　the　General　talked　and　still　Mr　L。　remembered。　But　it　became　more　and　more　apparent　how　red　the　General’s　neck　was；　how　bald　Mr　L。’s　head　was。　As　for　what　they　said—nothing　more　tedious　and　trivial　could　be　imagined。　Everybody　fidgeted　and　those　who　had　fans　yawned　behind　them。　At　last　Lady　R。　rapped　with　hers　upon　the　arm　of　her　great　chair。　Both　gentlemen　stopped　talking。

Then　the　little　gentleman　said；　He　said　next；　He　said　finally　（These　sayings　are　too　well　known　to　require　repetition；　and　besides；　they　are　all　to　be　found　in　his　published　works。）；

Here；　it　cannot　be　denied；　was　true　wit；　true　wisdom；　true　profundity。　The　pany　was　thrown　into　plete　dismay。　One　such　saying　was　bad　enough；　but　three；　one　after　another；　on　the　same　evening！　No　society　could　survive　it。

‘Mr　Pope；’　said　old　Lady　R。　in　a　voice　trembling　with　sarcastic　fury；　‘you　are　pleased　to　be　witty。’　Mr　Pope　flushed　red。　Nobody　spoke　a　word。　They　sat　in　dead　silence　some　twenty　minutes。　Then；　one　by　one；　they　rose　and　slunk　from　the　room。　That　they　would　ever　e　back　after　such　an　experience　was　doubtful。　Link–boys　could　be　heard　calling　their　coaches　all　down　South　Audley　Street。　Doors　were　slammed　and　carriages　drove　off。　Orlando　found　herself　near　Mr　Pope　on　the　staircase。　His　lean　and　misshapen　frame　was　shaken　by　a　variety　of　emotions。　Darts　of　malice；　rage；　triumph；　wit；　and　terror　（he　was　shaking　like　a　leaf）　shot　from　his　eyes。　He　looked　like　some　squat　reptile　set　with　a　burning　topaz　in　its　forehead。　At　the　same　time；　the　strangest　tempest　of　emotion　seized　now　upon　the　luckless　Orlando。　A　disillusionment　so　plete　as　that　inflicted　not　an　hour　ago　leaves　the　mind　rocking　from　side　to　side。　Everything　appears　ten　times　more　bare　and　stark　than　before。　It　is　a　moment　fraught　with　the　highest　danger　for　the　human　spirit。　Women　turn　nuns　and　men　priests　in　such　moments。　In　such　moments；　rich　men　sign　away　their　wealth；　and　happy　men　cut　their　throats　with　carving　knives。　Orlando　would　have　done　all　willingly；　but　there　was　a　rasher　thing　still　for　her　to　do；　and　this　she　did。　She　invited　Mr　Pope　to　e　home　with　her。

For　if　it　is　rash　to　walk　into　a　lion’s　den　unarmed；　rash　to　navigate　the　Atlantic　in　a　rowing　boat；　rash　to　stand　on　one　foot　on　the　top　of　St　Paul’s；　it　is　still　more　rash　to　go　home　alone　with　a　poet。　A　poet　is　Atlantic　and　lion　in　one。　While　one　drowns　us　the　oth