奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第19部分

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ver　done　before。　The　malady　is　too　well　known；　and　has　been；　alas；　too　often　described　to　need　describing　afresh；　save　very　briefly。　There　were　mountains；　there　were　valleys；　there　were　streams。　She　climbed　the　mountains；　roamed　the　valleys；　sat　on　the　banks　of　the　streams。　She　likened　the　hills　to　ramparts；　to　the　breasts　of　doves；　and　the　flanks　of　kine。　She　pared　the　flowers　to　enamel　and　the　turf　to　Turkey　rugs　worn　thin。　Trees　were　withered　hags；　and　sheep　were　grey　boulders。　Everything；　in　fact；　was　something　else。　She　found　the　tarn　on　the　mountain–top　and　almost　threw　herself　in　to　seek　the　wisdom　she　thought　lay　hid　there；　and　when；　from　the　mountain–top；　she　beheld　far　off；　across　the　Sea　of　Marmara；　the　plains　of　Greece；　and　made　out　（her　eyes　were　admirable）　the　Acropolis　with　a　white　streak　or　two；　which　must；　she　thought；　be　the　Parthenon；　her　soul　expanded　with　her　eyeballs；　and　she　prayed　that　she　might　share　the　majesty　of　the　hills；　know　the　serenity　of　the　plains；　etc。　etc。；　as　all　such　believers　do。　Then；　looking　down；　the　red　hyacinth；　the　purple　iris　wrought　her　to　cry　out　in　ecstasy　at　the　goodness；　the　beauty　of　nature；　raising　her　eyes　again；　she　beheld　the　eagle　soaring；　and　imagined　its　raptures　and　made　them　her　own。　Returning　home；　she　saluted　each　star；　each　peak；　and　each　watch–fire　as　if　they　signalled　to　her　alone；　and　at　last；　when　she　flung　herself　upon　her　mat　in　the　gipsies’　tent；　she　could　not　help　bursting　out　again；　How　good　to　eat！　How　good　to　eat！　（For　it　is　a　curious　fact　that　though　human　beings　have　such　imperfect　means　of　munication；　that　they　can　only　say　‘good　to　eat’　when　they　mean　‘beautiful’　and　the　other　way　about；　they　will　yet　endure　ridicule　and　misunderstanding　rather　than　keep　any　experience　to　themselves。）　All　the　young　gipsies　laughed。　But　Rustum　el　Sadi；　the　old　man　who　had　brought　Orlando　out　of　Constantinople　on　his　donkey；　sat　silent。　He　had　a　nose　like　a　scimitar；　his　cheeks　were　furrowed　as　if　from　the　age–long　descent　of　iron　hail；　he　was　brown　and　keen–eyed；　and　as　he　sat　tugging　at　his　hookah　he　observed　Orlando　narrowly。　He　had　the　deepest　suspicion　that　her　God　was　Nature。　One　day　he　found　her　in　tears。　Interpreting　this　to　mean　that　her　God　had　punished　her；　he　told　her　that　he　was　not　surprised。　He　showed　her　the　fingers　of　his　left　hand；　withered　by　the　frost；　he　showed　her　his　right　foot；　crushed　where　a　rock　had　fallen。　This；　he　said；　was　what　her　God　did　to　men。　When　she　said；　‘But　so　beautiful’；　using　the　English　word；　he　shook　his　head；　and　when　she　repeated　it　he　was　angry。　He　saw　that　she　did　not　believe　what　he　believed；　and　that　was　enough；　wise　and　ancient　as　he　was；　to　enrage　him。

This　difference　of　opinion　disturbed　Orlando；　who　had　been　perfectly　happy　until　now。　She　began　to　think；　was　Nature　beautiful　or　cruel；　and　then　she　asked　herself　what　this　beauty　was；　whether　it　was　in　things　themselves；　or　only　in　herself；　so　she　went　on　to　the　nature　of　reality；　which　led　her　to　truth；　which　in　its　turn　led　to　Love；　Friendship；　Poetry　（as　in　the　days　on　the　high　mound　at　home）；　which　meditations；　since　she　could　impart　no　word　of　them；　made　her　long；　as　she　had　never　longed　before；　for　pen　and　ink。

‘Oh！　if　only　I　could　write！’　she　cried　（for　she　had　the　odd　conceit　of　those　who　write　that　words　written　are　shared）。　She　had　no　ink；　and　but　little　paper。　But　she　made　ink　from　berries　and　wine；　and　finding　a　few　margins　and　blank　spaces　in　the　manuscript　of　‘The　Oak　Tree’；　managed　by　writing　a　kind　of　shorthand；　to　describe　the　scenery　in　a　long；　blank　version　poem；　and　to　carry　on　a　dialogue　with　herself　about　this　Beauty　and　Truth　concisely　enough。　This　kept　her　extremely　happy　for　hours　on　end。　But　the　gipsies　became　suspicious。　First；　they　noticed　that　she　was　less　adept　than　before　at　milking　and　cheese–making；　next；　she　often　hesitated　before　replying；　and　once　a　gipsy　boy　who　had　been　asleep；　woke　in　a　terror　feeling　her　eyes　upon　him。　Sometimes　this　constraint　would　be　felt　by　the　whole　tribe；　numbering　some　dozens　of　grown　men　and　women。　It　sprang　from　the　sense　they　had　（and　their　senses　are　very　sharp　and　much　in　advance　of　their　vocabulary）　that　whatever　they　were　doing　crumbled　like　ashes　in　their　hands。　An　old　woman　making　a　basket；　a　boy　skinning　a　sheep；　would　be　singing　or　crooning　contentedly　at　their　work；　when　Orlando　would　e　into　the　camp；　fling　herself　down　by　the　fire　and　gaze　into　the　flames。　She　need　not　even　look　at　them；　and　yet　they　felt；　here　is　someone　who　doubts；　（we　make　a　rough–and–ready　translation　from　the　gipsy　language）　here　is　someone　who　does　not　do　the　thing　for　the　sake　of　doing；　nor　looks　for　looking’s　sake；　here　is　someone　who　believes　neither　in　sheep–skin　nor　basket；　but　sees　（here　they　looked　apprehensively　about　the　tent）　something　else。　Then　a　vague　but　most　unpleasant　feeling　would　begin　to　work　in　the　boy　and　in　the　old　woman。　They　broke　their　withys；　they　cut　their　fingers。　A　great　rage　filled　them。　They　wished　Orlando　would　leave　the　tent　and　never　e　near　them　again。　Yet　she　was　of　a　cheerful　and　willing　disposition；　they　owned；　and　one　of　her　pearls　was　enough　to　buy　the　finest　herd　of　goats　in　Broussa。

Slowly；　she　began　to　feel　that　there　was　some　difference　between　her　and　the　gipsies　which　made　her　hesitate　sometimes　to　marry　and　settle　down　among　them　for　ever。　At　first　she　tried　to　account　for　it　by　saying　that　she　came　of　an　ancient　and　civilized　race；　whereas　these　gipsies　were　an　ignorant　people；　not　much　better　than　savages。　One　night　when　they　were　questioning　her　about　England　she　could　not　help　with　some　pride　describing　the　house　where　she　was　born；　how　it　had　365　bedrooms　and　had　been　in　the　possession　of　her　family　for　four　or　five　hundred　years。　Her　ancestors　were　earls；　or　even　dukes；　she　added。　At　this　she　noticed　again　that　the　gipsies　were　uneasy；　but　not　angry　as　before　when　she　had　praised　the　beauty　of　nature。　Now　they　were　courteous；　but　concerned　as　people　of　fine　breeding　are　when　a　stranger　has　been　made　to　reveal　his　low　birth　or　poverty。　Rustum　followed　her　out　of　the　tent　alone　and　said　that　she　need　not　mind　if　her　father　were　a　Duke；　and　possessed　all　the　bedrooms　and　furniture　that　she　described。　They　would　none　of　them　think　the　worse　of　her　for　that。　Then　she　was　seized　with　a　shame　that　she　had　never　felt　before。　It　was　clear　that　Rustum　and　the　other　gipsies　thought　a　descent　of　four　or　five　hundred　years　only　the　meanest　possible。　Their　own　families　went　back　at　least　two　or　three　thousand　years。　To　the　gipsy　whose　ancestors　had　built　the　Pyramids　centuries　before　Christ　was　born；　the　genealogy　of　Howards　and　Plantages　was　no　better　and　no　worse　than　that　of　the　Smiths　and　the　Joneses：　both　were　negligible。　Moreover；　where　the　shepherd　boy　had　a　lineage　of　such　antiquity；　there　was　nothing　specially　memorable　or　desirable　in　ancient　birth；　vagabonds　and　beggars　all　shared　it。　And　then；　though　he　was　too　courteous　to　speak　openly；　it　was　clear　that　the　gipsy　thought　that　there　was　no　more　vulgar　ambition　than　to　possess　bedrooms　by　the　hundred　（they　were　on　top　of　a　hill　as　they　spoke；　it　was　night；　the　mountains　rose　around　them）　when　the　whole　earth　is　ours。　Looked　at　from　the　gipsy　point　of　view；　a　Duke；　Orlando　understood；　was　nothing　but　a　profiteer　or　robber　who　snatched　land　and　money　from　people　who　rated　these　things　of　little　worth；　and　could　think　of　nothing　better　to　do　than　to　build　three　hundred　and　sixty–five　bedrooms　when　one　was　enough；　and　none　was　even　better　than　one。　She　could　not　deny　that　her　ancestors　had　accumulated　field　after　field；　house　after　house；　honour　after　honour；　yet　had　none　of　them　been　saints　or　heroes；　or　great　benefactors　of　the　human　race。　Nor　could　she　counter　the　argument　（Rustum　was　too　much　of　a　gentleman　to　press　it；　but　she　understood）　that　any　man　who　did　now　what　her　ancestors　had　done　three　or　four　hundred　years　ago　would　be　denounced—and　by　her　own　family　most　loudly—for　a　vulgar　upstart；　an　adventurer；　a　nouveau　riche。

She　sought　to　answer　such　arguments　by　the　familiar　if　oblique　method　of　finding　the　gipsy　life　itself　rude　and　barbarous；　and　so；　in　a　short　time；　much　bad　blood　was　bred　between　them。　Indeed；　such　differences　of　opinion　are　enough　to　cause　bloodshed　and　revolution。　Towns　have　been　sacked　for　less；　and　a　million　martyrs　have　suffered　at　the　stake　rather　than　yield　an　inch　upon　any　of　the　points　here　debated。　No　passion　is　stronger　in　the　breast　of　man　than　the　desire　to　make　others　believe　as　he　believes。　Nothing　so　cuts　at　the　root　of　his　happiness　and　fills　him　with　rage　as　the　sense　that　another　rates　low　what　he　prizes　high。　Whigs　and　Tories；　Liberal　party　and　Labour　party—for　what　do　they　battle　except　their　own　prestige？　It　is　not　love　of　truth　but　desire　to　prevail　that　sets　quarter　against　quarter　and　makes　parish　desire　the　downfall　of　parish。　Each　seeks　peace　of　mind　and　subserviency　rather　than　the　triumph　of　truth　and　the　exaltation　of　virtue—but　these　moralities　belong；　and　should　be　left　to　the　historian；　since　they　are　as　dull　as　ditch　water。

‘Four　hundred　and　seventy–six　bedrooms　mean　nothing　to　them；’　sighed　Orlando。

‘She　prefers　a　sunset　to　a　flock　of　goats；’　said　the　gipsies。

What　was　to　be　done；　Orlando　could　not　think。　To　leave　the　gipsies　and　bee　once　more　an　Ambassador　seemed　to　her　intolerable。　But　it　was　equally　impossible　to　remain　for　ever　where　there　was　neither　ink　nor　writing　paper；　neither　reverence　for　the　Talbots　nor　respect　for　a　multiplicity　of　bedrooms。　So　she　was　thinking；　one　fine　morning　on　the　slopes　of　Mount　Athos；　when　minding　her　goats。　And　then　Nature；　in　whom　she　trusted；　either　played　her　a　trick　or　worked　a　miracle—again；　opinions　differ　too　much　for　it　to　be　possible　to　say　which。　Orlando　was　gazing　rather　disconsolately　at　the　steep　hill–side　in　front　of　her。　It　was　now　midsummer；　and　if　we　must　pare　the　landscape　to　anything；　it　would　have　been　to　a　dry　bone；　to　a　sheep’s　skeleton；　to　a　gigantic　skull　picked　white　by　a　thousand　vultures。　The　heat　was　intense；　and　the　little　fig　tree　under　which　Orlando　lay　only　served　to　print　patterns　of　fig–leaves　upon　her　light　burnous。

Suddenly　a　shadow；　though　ther