奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第43部分

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nce　it　ate　all　these　dinners　must　be　growing　very　corpulent；　next　（she　was　invited　to　a　score　of　lectures　on　the　Influence　of　this　upon　that；　the　Classical　revival；　the　Romantic　survival；　and　other　titles　of　the　same　engaging　kind）　that　literature　since　it　listened　to　all　these　lectures　must　be　growing　very　dry；　next　（here　she　attended　a　reception　given　by　a　peeress）　that　literature　since　it　wore　all　those　fur　tippets　must　be　growing　very　respectable；　next　（here　she　visited　Carlyle’s　sound–proof　room　at　Chelsea）　that　genius　since　it　needed　all　this　coddling　must　be　growing　very　delicate；　and　so　at　last　she　reached　her　final　conclusion；　which　was　of　the　highest　importance　but　which；　as　we　have　already　much　overpassed　our　limit　of　six　lines；　we　must　omit。

Orlando；　having　e　to　this　conclusion；　stood　looking　out　of　the　window　for　a　considerable　space　of　time。　For；　when　anybody　es　to　a　conclusion　it　is　as　if　they　had　tossed　the　ball　over　the　　and　must　wait　for　the　unseen　antagonist　to　return　it　to　them。　What　would　be　sent　her　next　from　the　colourless　sky　above　Chesterfield　House；　she　wondered？　And　with　her　hands　clasped；　she　stood　for　a　considerable　space　of　time　wondering。　Suddenly　she　started—and　here　we　could　only　wish　that；　as　on　a　former　occasion；　Purity；　Chastity；　and　Modesty　would　push　the　door　ajar　and　provide；　at　least；　a　breathing　space　in　which　we　could　think　how　to　wrap　up　what　now　has　to　be　told　delicately；　as　a　biographer　should。　But　no！　Having　thrown　their　white　garment　at　the　naked　Orlando　and　seen　it　fall　short　by　several　inches；　these　ladies　had　given　up　all　intercourse　with　her　these　many　years；　and　were　now　otherwise　engaged。　Is　nothing　then；　going　to　happen　this　pale　March　morning　to　mitigate；　to　veil；　to　cover；　to　conceal；　to　shroud　this　undeniable　event　whatever　it　may　be？　For　after　giving　that　sudden；　violent　start；　Orlando—but　Heaven　be　praised；　at　this　very　moment　there　struck　up　outside　one　of　these　frail；　reedy；　fluty；　jerky；　old–fashioned　barrel–organs　which　are　still　sometimes　played　by　Italian　organ–grinders　in　back　streets。　Let　us　accept　the　intervention；　humble　though　it　is；　as　if　it　were　the　music　of　the　spheres；　and　allow　it；　with　all　its　gasps　and　groans；　to　fill　this　page　with　sound　until　the　moment　es　when　it　is　impossible　to　deny　its　ing；　which　the　footman　has　seen　ing　and　the　maid–servant；　and　the　reader　will　have　to　see　too；　for　Orlando　herself　is　clearly　unable　to　ignore　it　any　longer—let　the　barrel–organ　sound　and　transport　us　on　thought；　which　is　no　more　than　a　little　boat；　when　music　sounds；　tossing　on　the　waves；　on　thought；　which　is；　of　all　carriers；　the　most　clumsy；　the　most　erratic；　over　the　roof　tops　and　the　back　gardens　where　washing　is　hanging　to—what　is　this　place？　Do　you　recognize　the　Green　and　in　the　middle　the　steeple；　and　the　gate　with　a　lion　couchant　on　either　side？　Oh　yes；　it　is　Kew！　Well；　Kew　will　do。　So　here　we　are　at　Kew；　and　I　will　show　you　to–day　（the　second　of　March）　under　the　plum　tree；　a　grape　hyacinth；　and　a　crocus；　and　a　bud；　too；　on　the　almond　tree；　so　that　to　walk　there　is　to　be　thinking　of　bulbs；　hairy　and　red；　thrust　into　the　earth　in　October；　flowering　now；　and　to　be　dreaming　of　more　than　can　rightly　be　said；　and　to　be　taking　from　its　case　a　cigarette　or　cigar　even；　and　to　be　flinging　a　cloak　under　（as　the　rhyme　requires）　an　oak；　and　there　to　sit；　waiting　the　kingfisher；　which；　it　is　said；　was　seen　once　to　cross　in　the　evening　from　bank　to　bank。

Wait！　Wait！　The　kingfisher　es；　the　kingfisher　es　not。

Behold；　meanwhile；　the　factory　chimneys　and　their　smoke；　behold　the　city　clerks　flashing　by　in　their　outrigger。　Behold　the　old　lady　taking　her　dog　for　a　walk　and　the　servant　girl　wearing　her　new　hat　for　the　first　time　not　at　the　right　angle。　Behold　them　all。　Though　Heaven　has　mercifully　decreed　that　the　secrets　of　all　hearts　are　hidden　so　that　we　are　lured　on　for　ever　to　suspect　something；　perhaps；　that　does　not　exist；　still　through　our　cigarette　smoke；　we　see　blaze　up　and　salute　the　splendid　fulfilment　of　natural　desires　for　a　hat；　for　a　boat；　for　a　rat　in　a　ditch；　as　once　one　saw　blazing—such　silly　hops　and　skips　the　mind　takes　when　it　slops　like　this　all　over　the　saucer　and　the　barrel–organ　plays—saw　blazing　a　fire　in　a　field　against　minarets　near　Constantinople。

Hail！　natural　desire！　Hail！　happiness！　divine　happiness！　and　pleasure　of　all　sorts；　flowers　and　wine；　though　one　fades　and　the　other　intoxicates；　and　half–crown　tickets　out　of　London　on　Sundays；　and　singing　in　a　dark　chapel　hymns　about　death；　and　anything；　anything　that　interrupts　and　confounds　the　tapping　of　typewriters　and　filing　of　letters　and　forging　of　links　and　chains；　binding　the　Empire　together。　Hail　even　the　crude；　red　bows　on　shop　girls’　lips　（as　if　Cupid；　very　clumsily；　dipped　his　thumb　in　red　ink　and　scrawled　a　token　in　passing）。　Hail；　happiness！　kingfisher　flashing　from　bank　to　bank；　and　all　fulfilment　of　natural　desire；　whether　it　is　what　the　male　novelist　says　it　is；　or　prayer；　or　denial；　hail！　in　whatever　form　it　es；　and　may　there　be　more　forms；　and　stranger。　For　dark　flows　the　stream—would　it　were　true；　as　the　rhyme　hints　‘like　a　dream’—but　duller　and　worser　than　that　is　our　usual　lot；　without　dreams；　but　alive；　smug；　fluent；　habitual；　under　trees　whose　shade　of　an　olive　green　drowns　the　blue　of　the　wing　of　the　vanishing　bird　when　he　darts　of　a　sudden　from　bank　to　bank。

Hail；　happiness；　then；　and　after　happiness；　hail　not　those　dreams　which　bloat　the　sharp　image　as　spotted　mirrors　do　the　face　in　a　country–inn　parlour；　dreams　which　splinter　the　whole　and　tear　us　asunder　and　wound　us　and　split　us　apart　in　the　night　when　we　would　sleep；　but　sleep；　sleep；　so　deep　that　all　shapes　are　ground　to　dust　of　infinite　softness；　water　of　dimness　inscrutable；　and　there；　folded；　shrouded；　like　a　mummy；　like　a　moth；　prone　let　us　lie　on　the　sand　at　the　bottom　of　sleep。

But　wait！　but　wait！　we　are　not　going；　this　time；　visiting　the　blind　land。　Blue；　like　a　match　struck　right　in　the　ball　of　the　innermost　eye；　he　flies；　burns；　bursts　the　seal　of　sleep；　the　kingfisher；　so　that　now　floods　back　refluent　like　a　tide；　the　red；　thick　stream　of　life　again；　bubbling；　dripping；　and　we　rise；　and　our　eyes　（for　how　handy　a　rhyme　is　to　pass　us　safe　over　the　awkward　transition　from　death　to　life）　fall　on—（here　the　barrel–organ　stops　playing　abruptly）。

‘It’s　a　very　fine　boy；　M’Lady；’　said　Mrs　Banting；　the　midwife；　putting　her　first–born　child　into　Orlando’s　arms。　In　other　words　Orlando　was　safely　delivered　of　a　son　on　Thursday；　March　the　20th；　at　three　o’clock　in　the　morning。

Once　more　Orlando　stood　at　the　window；　but　let　the　reader　take　courage；　nothing　of　the　same　sort　is　going　to　happen　to–day；　which　is　not；　by　any　means；　the　same　day。　No—for　if　we　look　out　of　the　window；　as　Orlando　was　doing　at　the　moment；　we　shall　see　that　Park　Lane　itself　has　considerably　changed。　Indeed　one　might　stand　there　ten　minutes　or　more；　as　Orlando　stood　now；　without　seeing　a　single　barouche　landau。　‘Look　at　that！’　she　exclaimed；　some　days　later　when　an　absurd　truncated　carriage　without　any　horses　began　to　glide　about　of　its　own　accord。　A　carriage　without　any　horses　indeed！　She　was　called　away　just　as　she　said　that；　but　came　back　again　after　a　time　and　had　another　look　out　of　the　window。　It　was　odd　sort　of　weather　nowadays。　The　sky　itself；　she　could　not　help　thinking；　had　changed。　It　was　no　longer　so　thick；　so　watery；　so　prismatic　now　that　King　Edward—see；　there　he　was；　stepping　out　of　his　neat　brougham　to　go　and　visit　a　certain　lady　opposite—had　succeeded　Queen　Victoria。　The　clouds　had　shrunk　to　a　thin　gauze；　the　sky　seemed　made　of　metal；　which　in　hot　weather　tarnished　verdigris；　copper　colour　or　orange　as　metal　does　in　a　fog。　It　was　a　little　alarming—this　shrinkage。　Everything　seemed　to　have　shrunk。　Driving　past　Buckingham　Palace　last　night；　there　was　not　a　trace　of　that　vast　erection　which　she　had　thought　everlasting；　top　hats；　widows’　weeds；　trumpets；　telescopes；　wreaths；　all　had　vanished　and　left　not　a　stain；　not　a　puddle　even；　on　the　pavement。　But　it　was　now—after　another　interval　she　had　e　back　again　to　her　favourite　station　in　the　window—now；　in　the　evening；　that　the　change　was　most　remarkable。　Look　at　the　lights　in　the　houses！　At　a　touch；　a　whole　room　was　lit；　hundreds　of　rooms　were　lit；　and　one　was　precisely　the　same　as　the　other。　One　could　see　everything　in　the　little　square–shaped　boxes；　there　was　no　privacy；　none　of　those　lingering　shadows　and　odd　corners　that　there　used　to　be；　none　of　those　women　in　aprons　carrying　wobbly　lamps　which　they　put　down　carefully　on　this　table　and　on　that。　At　a　touch；　the　whole　room　was　bright。　And　the　sky　was　bright　all　night　long；　and　the　pavements　were　bright；　everything　was　bright。　She　came　back　again　at　mid–day。　How　narrow　women　have　grown　lately！　They　looked　like　stalks　of　corn；　straight；　shining；　identical。　And　men’s　faces　were　as　bare　as　the　palm　of　one’s　hand。　The　dryness　of　the　atmosphere　brought　out　the　colour　in　everything　and　seemed　to　stiffen　the　muscles　of　the　cheeks。　It　was　harder　to　cry　now。　Water　was　hot　in　two　seconds。　Ivy　had　perished　or　been　scraped　off　houses。　Vegetables　were　less　fertile；　families　were　much　smaller。　Curtai