奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第47部分

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ike　a　shell　that　has　lain　at　the　bottom　of　the　sea　for　centuries　and　has　been　crusted　over　and　painted　a　million　tints　by　the　water；　it　was　rose　and　yellow；　green　and　sand–coloured。　It　was　frail　as　a　shell；　as　iridescent　and　as　empty。　No　Ambassador　would　ever　sleep　there　again。　Ah；　but　she　knew　where　the　heart　of　the　house　still　beat。　Gently　opening　a　door；　she　stood　on　the　threshold　so　that　（as　she　fancied）　the　room　could　not　see　her　and　watched　the　tapestry　rising　and　falling　on　the　eternal　faint　breeze　which　never　failed　to　move　it。　Still　the　hunter　rode；　still　Daphne　flew。　The　heart　still　beat；　she　thought；　however　faintly；　however　far　withdrawn；　the　frail　indomitable　heart　of　the　immense　building。

Now；　calling　her　troop　of　dogs　to　her　she　passed　down　the　gallery　whose　floor　was　laid　with　whole　oak　trees　sawn　across。　Rows　of　chairs　with　all　their　velvets　faded　stood　ranged　against　the　wall　holding　their　arms　out　for　Elizabeth；　for　James；　for　Shakespeare　it　might　be；　for　Cecil；　who　never　came。　The　sight　made　her　gloomy。　She　unhooked　the　rope　that　fenced　them　off。　She　sat　on　the　Queen’s　chair；　she　opened　a　manuscript　book　lying　on　Lady　Betty’s　table；　she　stirred　her　fingers　in　the　aged　rose　leaves；　she　brushed　her　short　hair　with　King　James’　silver　brushes：　she　bounced　up　and　down　upon　his　bed　（but　no　King　would　ever　sleep　there　again；　for　all　Louise’s　new　sheets）　and　pressed　her　cheek　against　the　worn　silver　counterpane　that　lay　upon　it。　But　everywhere　were　little　lavender　bags　to　keep　the　moth　out　and　printed　notices；　‘Please　do　not　touch’；　which；　though　she　had　put　them　there　herself；　seemed　to　rebuke　her。　The　house　was　no　longer　hers　entirely；　she　sighed。　It　belonged　to　time　now；　to　history；　was　past　the　touch　and　control　of　the　living。　Never　would　beer　be　spilt　here　any　more；　she　thought　（she　was　in　the　bedroom　that　had　been　old　Nick　Greene’s）；　or　holes　burnt　in　the　carpet。　Never　two　hundred　servants　e　running　and　brawling　down　the　corridors　with　warming　pans　and　great　branches　for　the　great　fireplaces。　Never　would　ale　be　brewed　and　candles　made　and　saddles　fashioned　and　stone　shaped　in　the　workshops　outside　the　house。　Hammers　and　mallets　were　silent　now。　Chairs　and　beds　were　empty；　tankards　of　silver　and　gold　were　locked　in　glass　cases。　The　great　wings　of　silence　beat　up　and　down　the　empty　house。

So　she　sat　at　the　end　of　the　gallery　with　her　dogs　couched　round　her；　in　Queen　Elizabeth’s　hard　armchair。　The　gallery　stretched　far　away　to　a　point　where　the　light　almost　failed。　It　was　as　a　tunnel　bored　deep　into　the　past。　As　her　eyes　peered　down　it；　she　could　see　people　laughing　and　talking；　the　great　men　she　had　known；　Dryden；　Swift；　and　Pope；　and　statesmen　in　colloquy；　and　lovers　dallying　in　the　window–seats；　and　people　eating　and　drinking　at　the　long　tables；　and　the　wood　smoke　curling　round　their　heads　and　making　them　sneeze　and　cough。　Still　further　down；　she　saw　sets　of　splendid　dancers　formed　for　the　quadrille。　A　fluty；　frail；　but　nevertheless　stately　music　began　to　play。　An　organ　boomed。　A　coffin　was　borne　into　the　chapel。　A　marriage　procession　came　out　of　it。　Armed　men　with　helmets　left　for　the　wars。　They　brought　banners　back　from　Flodden　and　Poitiers　and　stuck　them　on　the　wall。　The　long　gallery　filled　itself　thus；　and　still　peering　further；　she　thought　she　could　make　out　at　the　very　end；　beyond　the　Elizabethans　and　the　Tudors；　some　one　older；　further；　darker；　a　cowled　figure；　monastic；　severe；　a　monk；　who　went　with　his　hands　clasped；　and　a　book　in　them；　murmuring—

Like　thunder；　the　stable　clock　struck　four。　Never　did　any　earthquake　so　demolish　a　whole　town。　The　gallery　and　all　its　occupants　fell　to　powder。　Her　own　face；　that　had　been　dark　and　sombre　as　she　gazed；　was　lit　as　by　an　explosion　of　gunpowder。　In　this　same　light　everything　near　her　showed　with　extreme　distinctness。　She　saw　two　flies　circling　round　and　noticed　the　blue　sheen　on　their　bodies；　she　saw　a　knot　in　the　wood　where　her　foot　was；　and　her　dog’s　ear　twitching。　At　the　same　time；　she　heard　a　bough　creaking　in　the　garden；　a　sheep　coughing　in　the　park；　a　swift　screaming　past　the　window。　Her　own　body　quivered　and　tingled　as　if　suddenly　stood　naked　in　a　hard　frost。　Yet；　she　kept；　as　she　had　not　done　when　the　clock　struck　ten　in　London；　plete　posure　（for　she　was　now　one　and　entire；　and　presented；　it　may　be；　a　larger　surface　to　the　shock　of　time）。　She　rose；　but　without　precipitation；　called　her　dogs；　and　went　firmly　but　with　great　alertness　of　movement　down　the　staircase　and　out　into　the　garden。　Here　the　shadows　of　the　plants　were　miraculously　distinct。　She　noticed　the　separate　grains　of　earth　in　the　flower　beds　as　if　she　had　a　microscope　stuck　to　her　eye。　She　saw　the　intricacy　of　the　twigs　of　every　tree。　Each　blade　of　grass　was　distinct　and　the　marking　of　veins　and　petals。　She　saw　Stubbs；　the　gardener；　ing　along　the　path；　and　every　button　on　his　gaiters　was　visible；　she　saw　Betty　and　Prince；　the　cart　horses；　and　never　had　she　marked　so　clearly　the　white　star　on　Betty’s　forehead；　and　the　three　long　hairs　that　fell　down　below　the　rest　on　Prince’s　tail。　Out　in　the　quadrangle　the　old　grey　walls　of　the　house　looked　like　a　scraped　new　photograph；　she　heard　the　loud　speaker　condensing　on　the　terrace　a　dance　tune　that　people　were　listening　to　in　the　red　velvet　opera　house　at　Vienna。　Braced　and　strung　up　by　the　present　moment　she　was　also　strangely　afraid；　as　if　whenever　the　gulf　of　time　gaped　and　let　a　second　through　some　unknown　danger　might　e　with　it。　The　tension　was　too　relentless　and　too　rigorous　to　be　endured　long　without　disfort。　She　walked　more　briskly　than　she　liked；　as　if　her　legs　were　moved　for　her；　through　the　garden　and　out　into　the　park。　Here　she　forced　herself；　by　a　great　effort；　to　stop　by　the　carpenter’s　shop；　and　to　stand　stock–still　watching　Joe　Stubbs　fashion　a　cart　wheel。　She　was　standing　with　her　eye　fixed　on　his　hand　when　the　quarter　struck。　It　hurtled　through　her　like　a　meteor；　so　hot　that　no　fingers　can　hold　it。　She　saw　with　disgusting　vividness　that　the　thumb　on　Joe’s　right　hand　was　without　a　finger　nail　and　there　was　a　raised　saucer　of　pink　flesh　where　the　nail　should　have　been。　The　sight　was　so　repulsive　that　she　felt　faint　for　a　moment；　but　in　that　moment’s　darkness；　when　her　eyelids　flickered；　she　was　relieved　of　the　pressure　of　the　present。　There　was　something　strange　in　the　shadow　that　the　flicker　of　her　eyes　cast；　something　which　（as　anyone　can　test　for　himself　by　looking　now　at　the　sky）　is　always　absent　from　the　present—whence　its　terror；　its　nondescript　character—something　one　trembles　to　pin　through　the　body　with　a　name　and　call　beauty；　for　it　has　no　body；　is　as　a　shadow　without　substance　or　quality　of　its　own；　yet　has　the　power　to　change　whatever　it　adds　itself　to。　This　shadow　now；　while　she　flickered　her　eye　in　her　faintness　in　the　carpenter’s　shop；　stole　out；　and　attaching　itself　to　the　innumerable　sights　she　had　been　receiving；　posed　them　into　something　tolerable；　prehensible。　Her　mind　began　to　toss　like　the　sea。　Yes；　she　thought；　heaving　a　deep　sigh　of　relief；　as　she　turned　from　the　carpenter’s　shop　to　climb　the　hill；　I　can　begin　to　live　again。　I　am　by　the　Serpentine；　she　thought；　the　little　boat　is　climbing　through　the　white　arch　of　a　thousand　deaths。　I　am　about　to　understand。。。

Those　were　her　words；　spoken　quite　distinctly；　but　we　cannot　conceal　the　fact　that　she　was　now　a　very　indifferent　witness　to　the　truth　of　what　was　before　her　and　might　easily　have　mistaken　a　sheep　for　a　cow；　or　an　old　man　called　Smith　for　one　who　was　called　Jones　and　was　no　relation　of　his　whatever。　For　the　shadow　of　faintness　which　the　thumb　without　a　nail　had　cast　had　deepened　now；　at　the　back　of　her　brain　（which　is　the　part　furthest　from　sight）；　into　a　pool　where　things　dwell　in　darkness　so　deep　that　what　they　are　we　scarcely　know。　She　now　looked　down　into　this　pool　or　sea　in　which　everything　is　reflected—and；　indeed；　some　say　that　all　our　most　violent　passions；　and　art　and　religion；　are　the　reflections　which　we　see　in　the　dark　hollow　at　the　back　of　the　head　when　the　visible　world　is　obscured　for　the　time。　She　looked　there　now；　long；　deeply；　profoundly；　and　immediately　the　ferny　path　up　the　hill　along　which　she　was　walking　became　not　entirely　a　path；　but　partly　the　Serpentine；　the　hawthorn　bushes　were　partly　ladies　and　gentlemen　sitting　with　card–cases　and　gold–mounted　canes；　the　sheep　were　partly　tall　Mayfair　houses；　everything　was　partly　something　else；　as　if　her　mind　had　bee　a　forest　with　glades　branching　here　and　there；　things　came　nearer；　and　further；　and　mingled　and　separated　and　made　the　strangest　alliances　and　binations　in　an　incessant　chequer　of　light　and　shade。　Except　when　Canute；　the　elk–hound；　chased　a　rabbit　and　so　reminded　her　that　it　must　be　about　half　past　four—it　was　indeed　twenty–three　minutes　to　six—she　forgot　the　time。

The　ferny　path　led；　with　many　turns　and　windings；　higher　and　higher　to　the　oak　tree；　which　stood　on　the　top。　The　tree　had　grown　bigger；　sturdier；　and　more　knotted　since　she　had　known　it；　somewhere　about　the　year　1588；　but　it　was　still　in　the　prime　of　life。　The　little　sharply　frilled　leaves　were　still　fluttering　thickly　on　its　branches。　Flinging　herself　on　the　ground；　she　felt　the　bon