奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第31部分

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；　rain；　sun；　or　thunder；　could　ever　demolish　that　garish　erection。　Only　the　noses　would　mottle　and　the　trumpets　would　rust；　but　there　they　would　remain；　pointing　east；　west；　south；　and　north；　eternally。　She　looked　back　as　her　coach　swept　up　Constitution　Hill。　Yes；　there　it　was；　still　beaming　placidly　in　a　light　which—she　pulled　her　watch　out　of　her　fob—was；　of　course；　the　light　of　twelve　o’clock　mid–day。　None　other　could　be　so　prosaic；　so　matter–of–fact；　so　impervious　to　any　hint　of　dawn　or　sunset；　so　seemingly　calculated　to　last　for　ever。　She　was　determined　not　to　look　again。　Already　she　felt　the　tides　of　her　blood　run　sluggishly。　But　what　was　more　peculiar　a　blush；　vivid　and　singular；　overspread　her　cheeks　as　she　passed　Buckingham　Palace　and　her　eyes　seemed　forced　by　a　superior　power　down　upon　her　knees。　Suddenly　she　saw　with　a　start　that　she　was　wearing　black　breeches。　She　never　ceased　blushing　till　she　had　reached　her　country　house；　which；　considering　the　time　it　takes　four　horses　to　trot　thirty　miles；　will　be　taken；　we　hope；　as　a　signal　proof　of　her　chastity。

Once　there；　she　followed　what　had　now　bee　the　most　imperious　need　of　her　nature　and　wrapped　herself　as　well　as　she　could　in　a　damask　quilt　which　she　snatched　from　her　bed。　She　explained　to　the　Widow　Bartholomew　（who　had　succeeded　good　old　Grimsditch　as　housekeeper）　that　she　felt　chilly。

‘So　do　we　all；　m’lady；’　said　the　Widow；　heaving　a　profound　sigh。　‘The　walls　is　sweating；’　she　said；　with　a　curious；　lugubrious　placency；　and　sure　enough；　she　had　only　to　lay　her　hand　on　the　oak　panels　for　the　finger–prints　to　be　marked　there。　The　ivy　had　grown　so　profusely　that　many　windows　were　now　sealed　up。　The　kitchen　was　so　dark　that　they　could　scarcely　tell　a　kettle　from　a　cullender。　A　poor　black　cat　had　been　mistaken　for　coals　and　shovelled　on　the　fire。　Most　of　the　maids　were　already　wearing　three　or　four　red–flannel　petticoats；　though　the　month　was　August。

‘But　is　it　true；　m’lady；’　the　good　woman　asked；　hugging　herself；　while　the　golden　crucifix　heaved　on　her　bosom；　‘that　the　Queen；　bless　her；　is　wearing　a　what　d’you　call　it；　a—；’　the　good　woman　hesitated　and　blushed。

‘A　crinoline；’　Orlando　helped　her　out　with　it　（for　the　word　had　reached　Blackfriars）。　Mrs　Bartholomew　nodded。　The　tears　were　already　running　down　her　cheeks；　but　as　she　wept　she　smiled。　For　it　was　pleasant　to　weep。　Were　they　not　all　of　them　weak　women？　wearing　crinolines　the　better　to　conceal　the　fact；　the　great　fact；　the　only　fact；　but；　nevertheless；　the　deplorable　fact；　which　every　modest　woman　did　her　best　to　deny　until　denial　was　impossible；　the　fact　that　she　was　about　to　bear　a　child？　to　bear　fifteen　or　twenty　children　indeed；　so　that　most　of　a　modest　woman’s　life　was　spent；　after　all；　in　denying　what；　on　one　day　at　least　of　every　year；　was　made　obvious。

‘The　muffins　is　keepin’　‘ot；’　said　Mrs　Bartholomew；　mopping　up　her　tears；　‘in　the　liberry。’

And　wrapped　in　a　damask　bed　quilt；　to　a　dish　of　muffins　Orlando　now　sat　down。

‘The　muffins　is　keepin’　‘ot　in　the　liberry’—Orlando　minced　out　the　horrid　cockney　phrase　in　Mrs　Bartholomew’s　refined　cockney　accents　as　she　drank—but　no；　she　detested　the　mild　fluid—her　tea。　It　was　in　this　very　room；　she　remembered；　that　Queen　Elizabeth　had　stood　astride　the　fireplace　with　a　flagon　of　beer　in　her　hand；　which　she　suddenly　dashed　on　the　table　when　Lord　Burghley　tactlessly　used　the　imperative　instead　of　the　subjunctive。　‘Little　man；　little　man；’—Orlando　could　hear　her　say—’is　“must”　a　word　to　be　addressed　to　princes？’　And　down　came　the　flagon　on　the　table：　there　was　the　mark　of　it　still。

But　when　Orlando　leapt　to　her　feet；　as　the　mere　thought　of　that　great　Queen　manded；　the　bed　quilt　tripped　her　up；　and　she　fell　back　in　her　arm–chair　with　a　curse。　Tomorrow　she　would　have　to　buy　twenty　yards　or　more　of　black　bombazine；　she　supposed；　to　make　a　skirt。　And　then　（here　she　blushed）；　she　would　have　to　buy　a　crinoline；　and　then　（here　she　blushed）　a　bassite；　and　then　another　crinoline；　and　so　on。。。The　blushes　came　and　went　with　the　most　exquisite　iteration　of　modesty　and　shame　imaginable。　One　might　see　the　spirit　of　the　age　blowing；　now　hot；　now　cold；　upon　her　cheeks。　And　if　the　spirit　of　the　age　blew　a　little　unequally；　the　crinoline　being　blushed　for　before　the　husband；　her　ambiguous　position　must　excuse　her　（even　her　sex　was　still　in　dispute）　and　the　irregular　life　she　had　lived　before。

At　length　the　colour　on　her　cheeks　resumed　its　stability　and　it　seemed　as　if　the　spirit　of　the　age—if　such　indeed　it　were—lay　dormant　for　a　time。　Then　Orlando　felt　in　the　bosom　of　her　shirt　as　if　for　some　locket　or　relic　of　lost　affection；　and　drew　out　no　such　thing；　but　a　roll　of　paper；　sea–stained；　blood–stained；　travel–stained—the　manuscript　of　her　poem；　‘The　Oak　Tree’。　She　had　carried　this　about　with　her　for　so　many　years　now；　and　in　such　hazardous　circumstances；　that　many　of　the　pages　were　stained；　some　were　torn；　while　the　straits　she　had　been　in　for　writing　paper　when　with　the　gipsies；　had　forced　her　to　overscore　the　margins　and　cross　the　lines　till　the　manuscript　looked　like　a　piece　of　darning　most　conscientiously　carried　out。　She　turned　back　to　the　first　page　and　read　the　date；　1586；　written　in　her　own　boyish　hand。　She　had　been　working　at　it　for　close　three　hundred　years　now。　It　was　time　to　make　an　end。　Meanwhile　she　began　turning　and　dipping　and　reading　and　skipping　and　thinking　as　she　read；　how　very　little　she　had　changed　all　these　years。　She　had　been　a　gloomy　boy；　in　love　with　death；　as　boys　are；　and　then　she　had　been　amorous　and　florid；　and　then　she　had　been　sprightly　and　satirical；　and　sometimes　she　had　tried　prose　and　sometimes　she　had　tried　drama。　Yet　through　all　these　changes　she　had　remained；　she　reflected；　fundamentally　the　same。　She　had　the　same　brooding　meditative　temper；　the　same　love　of　animals　and　nature；　the　same　passion　for　the　country　and　the　seasons。

‘After　all；’　she　thought；　getting　up　and　going　to　the　window；　‘nothing　has　changed。　The　house；　the　garden　are　precisely　as　they　were。　Not　a　chair　has　been　moved；　not　a　trinket　sold。　There　are　the　same　walks；　the　same　lawns；　the　same　trees；　and　the　same　pool；　which；　I　dare　say；　has　the　same　carp　in　it。　True；　Queen　Victoria　is　on　the　throne　and　not　Queen　Elizabeth；　but　what　difference。。。’

No　sooner　had　the　thought　taken　shape；　than；　as　if　to　rebuke　it；　the　door　was　flung　wide　and　in　marched　Basket；　the　butler；　followed　by　Bartholomew；　the　housekeeper；　to　clear　away　tea。　Orlando；　who　had　just　dipped　her　pen　in　the　ink；　and　was　about　to　indite　some　reflection　upon　the　eternity　of　all　things；　was　much　annoyed　to　be　impeded　by　a　blot；　which　spread　and　meandered　round　her　pen。　It　was　some　infirmity　of　the　quill；　she　supposed；　it　was　split　or　dirty。　She　dipped　it　again。　The　blot　increased。　She　tried　to　go　on　with　what　she　was　saying；　no　words　came。　Next　she　began　to　decorate　the　blot　with　wings　and　whiskers；　till　it　became　a　round–headed　monster；　something　between　a　bat　and　a　wombat。　But　as　for　writing　poetry　with　Basket　and　Bartholomew　in　the　room；　it　was　impossible。　No　sooner　had　she　said　‘Impossible’　than；　to　her　astonishment　and　alarm；　the　pen　began　to　curve　and　caracole　with　the　smoothest　possible　fluency。　Her　page　was　written　in　the　neatest　sloping　Italian　hand　with　the　most　insipid　verse　she　had　ever　read　in　her　life：

I　am　myself　but　a　vile　link
Amid　life’s　weary　chain；
But　I　have　spoken　hallow’d　words；
Oh；　do　not　say　in　vain！

Will　the　young　maiden；　when　her　tears；
Alone　in　moonlight　shine；
Tears　for　the　absent　and　the　loved；
Murmur—

she　wrote　without　a　stop　as　Bartholomew　and　Basket　grunted　and　groaned　about　the　room；　mending　the　fire；　picking　up　the　muffins。

Again　she　dipped　her　pen　and　off　it　went：—

She　was　so　changed；　the　soft　carnation　cloud
Once　mantling　o’er　her　cheek　like　that　which　eve
Hangs　o’er　the　sky；　glowing　with　roseate　hue；
Had　faded　into　paleness；　broken　by
Bright　burning　blushes；　torches　of　the　tomb；

but　here；　by　an　abrupt　movement　she　spilt　the　ink　ever　the　page　and　blotted　it　from　human　sight　she　hoped　for　ever。　She　was　all　of　a　quiver；　all　of　a　stew。　Nothing　more　repulsive　could　be　imagined　than　to　feel　the　ink　flowing　thus　in　cascades　of　involuntary　inspiration。　What　had　happened　to　her？　Was　it　the　damp；　was　it　Bartholomew；　was　it　Basket；　what　was　it？　she　demanded。　But　the　room　was　empty。　No　one　answered　her；　unless　the　dripping　of　the　rain　in　the　ivy　could　be　taken　for　an　answer。

Meanwhile；　she　became　conscious；　as　she　stood　at　the　window；　of　an　extraordinary　tingling　and　vibration　all　over　her；　as　if　she　were　made　of　a　thousand　wires　upon　which　some　breeze　or　errant　fingers　were　playing　scales。　Now　her　toes　tingled；　now　her　marrow。　She　had　the　queerest　sensations　about　the　thigh　bones。　Her　hairs　seemed　to　erect　themselves。　Her　arms　sang　and　twanged　as　the　telegraph　wires　would　be　singing　and　twanging　in　twenty　years　or　so。　But　all　this　agitation　seemed　at　length　to　concentrate　in　her　hands；　and　then　in　one　hand；　and　then　in　one　finger　of　that　hand；　and　then　finally　to　contract　itself　so　that　it　made　a　ring　of　quivering　sensibility　about　the　second　finger　of　the　left　hand。　And　when　she　raised　it　to　see　what　caused　this　agitation；　she　saw　nothing—nothing　but　the　vast　solitary　emerald　which　Queen　Elizabeth　had　given　her。　And　was　that　not　enough？　she　asked。　It　was　of　the　finest　water。　It　was　worth　ten　thousand　pounds　at　least。　The　vibration　seemed；　in　the　oddest　way　（but　remember　we　are　dealing　with　some　of　the　darkest　manifestations　of　the　human　soul）　to　say　No；　that　is　not　enough；　and；　further；　to　assume　a　note　of　interrogation；　as　though　it　were　asking；　what　did　it　mean；　this　hiatus；　this　strange　oversight？　till　poor　Orlando　felt　positively　ashamed　of　the　second　finger　of　her　left　hand　without　in　the　least　knowing　why。　At　this　moment；　Bartholomew　came　in　to　ask　which　dress　she　should　lay　out　for　dinner；　and　Orlando；　whose　senses　were　much　quickened；　instantly　glanced　at　Bartholomew’s　left　hand；　and　instantly　perceived　what　she　had　never　noticed　before—a　thick　ring　of　rather　jaundiced　yellow　circling　the　third　finger　where　her　own　was　bare。

‘Let　me　look　at　your　ring；　Bartholomew；’　she