奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第30部分

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　be　outlined；　writhing　in　contorted　intricacy　against　the　sky。　Here　and　there；　on　one　of　the　hills　which　rose　above　London；　was　a　stark　gallows　tree；　with　a　corpse　nailed　to　rot　or　parch　on　its　cross；　for　danger　and　insecurity；　lust　and　violence；　poetry　and　filth　swarmed　over　the　tortuous　Elizabethan　highways　and　buzzed　and　stank—Orlando　could　remember　even　now　the　smell　of　them　on　a　hot　night—in　the　little　rooms　and　narrow　pathways　of　the　city。　Now—she　leant　out　of　her　window—all　was　light；　order；　and　serenity。　There　was　the　faint　rattle　of　a　coach　on　the　cobbles。　She　heard　the　far–away　cry　of　the　night　watchman—’Just　twelve　o’clock　on　a　frosty　morning’。　No　sooner　had　the　words　left　his　lips　than　the　first　stroke　of　midnight　sounded。　Orlando　then　for　the　first　time　noticed　a　small　cloud　gathered　behind　the　dome　of　St　Paul’s。　As　the　strokes　sounded；　the　cloud　increased；　and　she　saw　it　darken　and　spread　with　extraordinary　speed。　At　the　same　time　a　light　breeze　rose　and　by　the　time　the　sixth　stroke　of　midnight　had　struck　the　whole　of　the　eastern　sky　was　covered　with　an　irregular　moving　darkness；　though　the　sky　to　the　west　and　north　stayed　clear　as　ever。　Then　the　cloud　spread　north。　Height　upon　height　above　the　city　was　engulfed　by　it。　Only　Mayfair；　with　all　its　lights　shining。　burnt　more　brilliantly　than　ever　by　contrast。　With　the　eighth　stroke；　some　hurrying　tatters　of　cloud　sprawled　over　Piccadilly。　They　seemed　to　mass　themselves　and　to　advance　with　extraordinary　rapidity　towards　the　west　end。　As　the　ninth；　tenth；　and　eleventh　strokes　struck；　a　huge　blackness　sprawled　over　the　whole　of　London。　With　the　twelfth　stroke　of　midnight；　the　darkness　was　plete。　A　turbulent　welter　of　cloud　covered　the　city。　All　was　darkness；　all　was　doubt；　all　was　confusion。　The　Eighteenth　century　was　over；　the　Nieenth　century　had　begun。







CHAPTER　5。
The　great　cloud　which　hung；　not　only　over　London；　but　over　the　whole　of　the　British　Isles　on　the　first　day　of　the　nieenth　century　stayed；　or　rather；　did　not　stay；　for　it　was　buffeted　about　constantly　by　blustering　gales；　long　enough　to　have　extraordinary　consequences　upon　those　who　lived　beneath　its　shadow。　A　change　seemed　to　have　e　over　the　climate　of　England。　Rain　fell　frequently；　but　only　in　fitful　gusts；　which　were　no　sooner　over　than　they　began　again。　The　sun　shone；　of　course；　but　it　was　so　girt　about　with　clouds　and　the　air　was　so　saturated　with　water；　that　its　beams　were　discoloured　and　purples；　oranges；　and　reds　of　a　dull　sort　took　the　place　of　the　more　positive　landscapes　of　the　eighteenth　century。　Under　this　bruised　and　sullen　canopy　the　green　of　the　cabbages　was　less　intense；　and　the　white　of　the　snow　was　muddied。　But　what　was　worse；　damp　now　began　to　make　its　way　into　every　house—damp；　which　is　the　most　insidious　of　all　enemies；　for　while　the　sun　can　be　shut　out　by　blinds；　and　the　frost　roasted　by　a　hot　fire；　damp　steals　in　while　we　sleep；　damp　is　silent；　imperceptible；　ubiquitous。　Damp　swells　the　wood；　furs　the　kettle；　rusts　the　iron；　rots　the　stone。　So　gradual　is　the　process；　that　it　is　not　until　we　pick　up　some　chest　of　drawers；　or　coal　scuttle；　and　the　whole　thing　drops　to　pieces　in　our　hands；　that　we　suspect　even　that　the　disease　is　at　work。

Thus；　stealthily　and　imperceptibly；　none　marking　the　exact　day　or　hour　of　the　change；　the　constitution　of　England　was　altered　and　nobody　knew　it。　Everywhere　the　effects　were　felt。　The　hardy　country　gentleman；　who　had　sat　down　gladly　to　a　meal　of　ale　and　beef　in　a　room　designed；　perhaps　by　the　brothers　Adam；　with　classic　dignity；　now　felt　chilly。　Rugs　appeared；　beards　were　grown；　trousers　were　fastened　tight　under　the　instep。　The　chill　which　he　felt　in　his　legs　the　country　gentleman　soon　transferred　to　his　house；　furniture　was　muffled；　walls　and　tables　were　covered；　nothing　was　left　bare。　Then　a　change　of　diet　became　essential。　The　muffin　was　invented　and　the　crumpet。　Coffee　supplanted　the　after–dinner　port；　and；　as　coffee　led　to　a　drawing–room　in　which　to　drink　it；　and　a　drawing–room　to　glass　cases；　and　glass　cases　to　artificial　flowers；　and　artificial　flowers　to　mantelpieces；　and　mantelpieces　to　pianofortes；　and　pianofortes　to　drawing–room　ballads；　and　drawing–room　ballads　（skipping　a　stage　or　two）　to　innumerable　little　dogs；　mats；　and　china　ornaments；　the　home—which　had　bee　extremely　important—was　pletely　altered。

Outside　the　house—it　was　another　effect　of　the　damp—ivy　grew　in　unparalleled　profusion。　Houses　that　had　been　of　bare　stone　were　smothered　in　greenery。　No　garden；　however　formal　its　original　design；　lacked　a　shrubbery；　a　wilderness；　a　maze。　What　light　perated　to　the　bedrooms　where　children　were　born　was　naturally　of　an　obfusc　green；　and　what　light　perated　to　the　drawing–rooms　where　grown　men　and　women　lived　came　through　curtains　of　brown　and　purple　plush。　But　the　change　did　not　stop　at　outward　things。　The　damp　struck　within。　Men　felt　the　chill　in　their　hearts；　the　damp　in　their　minds。　In　a　desperate　effort　to　snuggle　their　feelings　into　some　sort　of　warmth　one　subterfuge　was　tried　after　another。　Love；　birth；　and　death　were　all　swaddled　in　a　variety　of　fine　phrases。　The　sexes　drew　further　and　further　apart。　No　open　conversation　was　tolerated。　Evasions　and　concealments　were　sedulously　practised　on　both　sides。　And　just　as　the　ivy　and　the　evergreen　rioted　in　the　damp　earth　outside；　so　did　the　same　fertility　show　itself　within。　The　life　of　the　average　woman　was　a　succession　of　childbirths。　She　married　at　nieen　and　had　fifteen　or　eighteen　children　by　the　time　she　was　thirty；　for　twins　abounded。　Thus　the　British　Empire　came　into　existence；　and　thus—for　there　is　no　stopping　damp；　it　gets　into　the　inkpot　as　it　gets　into　the　woodwork—sentences　swelled；　adjectives　multiplied；　lyrics　became　epics；　and　little　trifles　that　had　been　essays　a　column　long　were　now　encyclopaedias　in　ten　or　twenty　volumes。　But　Eusebius　Chubb　shall　be　our　witness　to　the　effect　this　all　had　upon　the　mind　of　a　sensitive　man　who　could　do　nothing　to　stop　it。　There　is　a　passage　towards　the　end　of　his　memoirs　where　he　describes　how；　after　writing　thirty–five　folio　pages　one　morning　‘all　about　nothing’　he　screwed　the　lid　of　his　inkpot　and　went　for　a　turn　in　his　garden。　Soon　he　found　himself　involved　in　the　shrubbery。　Innumerable　leaves　creaked　and　glistened　above　his　head。　He　seemed　to　himself　‘to　crush　the　mould　of　a　million　more　under　his　feet’。　Thick　smoke　exuded　from　a　damp　bonfire　at　the　end　of　the　garden。　He　reflected　that　no　fire　on　earth　could　ever　hope　to　consume　that　vast　vegetable　encumbrance。　Wherever　he　looked；　vegetation　was　rampant。　Cucumbers　‘came　scrolloping　across　the　grass　to　his　feet’。　Giant　cauliflowers　towered　deck　above　deck　till　they　rivalled；　to　his　disordered　imagination；　the　elm　trees　themselves。　Hens　laid　incessantly　eggs　of　no　special　tint。　Then；　remembering　with　a　sigh　his　own　fecundity　and　his　poor　wife　Jane；　now　in　the　throes　of　her　fifteenth　confinement　indoors；　how；　he　asked　himself；　could　he　blame　the　fowls？　He　looked　upwards　into　the　sky。　Did　not　heaven　itself；　or　that　great　frontispiece　of　heaven；　which　is　the　sky；　indicate　the　assent；　indeed；　the　instigation　of　the　heavenly　hierarchy？　For　there；　winter　or　summer；　year　in　year　out；　the　clouds　turned　and　tumbled；　like　whales；　he　pondered；　or　elephants　rather；　but　no；　there　was　no　escaping　the　simile　which　was　pressed　upon　him　from　a　thousand　airy　acres；　the　whole　sky　itself　as　it　spread　wide　above　the　British　Isles　was　nothing　but　a　vast　feather　bed；　and　the　undistinguished　fecundity　of　the　garden；　the　bedroom　and　the　henroost　was　copied　there。　He　went　indoors；　wrote　the　passage　quoted　above；　laid　his　head　in　a　gas　oven；　and　when　they　found　him　later　he　was　past　revival。

While　this　went　on　in　every　part　of　England；　it　was　all　very　well　for　Orlando　to　mew　herself　in　her　house　at　Blackfriars　and　pretend　that　the　climate　was　the　same；　that　one　could　still　say　what　one　liked　and　wear　knee–breeches　or　skirts　as　the　fancy　took　one。　Even　she；　at　length；　was　forced　to　acknowledge　that　times　were　changed。　One　afternoon　in　the　early　part　of　the　century　she　was　driving　through　St　James’s　Park　in　her　old　panelled　coach　when　one　of　those　sunbeams；　which　occasionally；　though　not　often；　managed　to　e　to　earth；　struggled　through；　marbling　the　clouds　with　strange　prismatic　colours　as　it　passed。　Such　a　sight　was　sufficiently　strange　after　the　clear　and　uniform　skies　of　the　eighteenth　century　to　cause　her　to　pull　the　window　down　and　look　at　it。　The　puce　and　flamingo　clouds　made　her　think　with　a　pleasurable　anguish；　which　proves　that　she　was　insensibly　afflicted　with　the　damp　already；　of　dolphins　dying　in　Ionian　seas。　But　what　was　her　surprise　when；　as　it　struck　the　earth；　the　sunbeam　seemed　to　call　forth；　or　to　light　up；　a　pyramid；　hecatomb；　or　trophy　（for　it　had　something　of　a　banquet–table　air）—a　conglomeration　at　any　rate　of　the　most　heterogeneous　and　ill–assorted　objects；　piled　higgledy–piggledy　in　a　vast　mound　where　the　statue　of　Queen　Victoria　now　stands！　Draped　about　a　vast　cross　of　fretted　and　floriated　gold　were　widow’s　weeds　and　bridal　veils；　hooked　on　to　other　excrescences　were　crystal　palaces；　bassites；　military　helmets；　memorial　wreaths；　trousers；　whiskers；　wedding　cakes；　cannon；　Christmas　trees；　telescopes；　extinct　monsters；　globes；　maps；　elephants；　and　mathematical　instruments—the　whole　supported　like　a　gigantic　coat　of　arms　on　the　right　side　by　a　female　figure　clothed　in　flowing　white；　on　the　left　by　a　portly　gentleman　wearing　a　frock–coat　and　sponge–bag　trousers。　The　incongruity　of　the　objects；　the　association　of　the　fully　clothed　and　the　partly　draped；　the　garishness　of　the　different　colours　and　their　plaid–like　juxtapositions　afflicted　Orlando　with　the　most　profound　dismay。　She　had　never；　in　all　her　life；　seen　anything　at　once　so　indecent；　so　hideous；　and　so　monumental。　It　might；　and　indeed　it　must　be；　the　effect　of　the　sun　on　the　water–logged　air；　it　would　vanish　with　the　first　breeze　that　blew；　but　for　all　that；　it　looked；　as　she　drove　past；　as　if　it　were　destined　to　endure　for　ever。　Nothing；　she　felt；　sinking　back　into　the　corner　of　her　coach；　no　wind；　rain；　sun；　or　thunder；　could　ever　demolish　that　garish　erection。　Only　the　noses　would　mottle　and　t