奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第37部分

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　convinced　he　was　the　same　man。　‘Ah！’　he　said；　heaving　a　little　sigh；　which　was　yet　fortable　enough；　‘ah！　my　dear　lady；　the　great　days　of　literature　are　over。　Marlowe；　Shakespeare；　Ben　Jonson—those　were　the　giants。　Dryden；　Pope；　Addison—those　were　the　heroes。　All；　all　are　dead　now。　And　whom　have　they　left　us？　Tennyson；　Browning；　Carlyle！’—he　threw　an　immense　amount　of　scorn　into　his　voice。　‘The　truth　of　it　is；’　he　said；　pouring　himself　a　glass　of　wine；　‘that　all　our　young　writers　are　in　the　pay　of　the　booksellers。　They　turn　out　any　trash　that　serves　to　pay　their　tailor’s　bills。　It　is　an　age’；　he　said；　helping　himself　to　hors–d’oeuvres；　‘marked　by　precious　conceits　and　wild　experiments—none　of　which　the　Elizabethans　would　have　tolerated　for　an　instant。’

‘No；　my　dear　lady；’　he　continued；　passing　with　approval　the　turbot　au　gratin；　which　the　waiter　exhibited　for　his　sanction；　‘the　great　days　are　over。　We　live　in　degenerate　times。　We　must　cherish　the　past；　honour　those　writers—there　are　still　a　few　left　of　‘em—who　take　antiquity　for　their　model　and　write；　not　for　pay　but—’　Here　Orlando　almost　shouted　‘Glawr！’　Indeed　she　could　have　sworn　that　she　had　heard　him　say　the　very　same　things　three　hundred　years　ago。　The　names　were　different；　of　course；　but　the　spirit　was　the　same。　Nick　Greene　had　not　changed；　for　all　his　knighthood。　And　yet；　some　change　there　was。　For　while　he　ran　on　about　taking　Addison　as　one’s　model　（it　had　been　Cicero　once；　she　thought）　and　lying　in　bed　of　a　morning　（which　she　was　proud　to　think　her　pension　paid　quarterly　enabled　him　to　do）　rolling　the　best　works　of　the　best　authors　round　and　round　on　one’s　tongue　for　an　hour；　at　least；　before　setting　pen　to　paper；　so　that　the　vulgarity　of　the　present　time　and　the　deplorable　condition　of　our　native　tongue　（he　had　lived　long　in　America；　she　believed）　might　be　purified—while　he　ran　on　in　much　the　same　way　that　Greene　had　run　on　three　hundred　years　ago；　she　had　time　to　ask　herself；　how　was　it　then　that　he　had　changed？　He　had　grown　plump；　but　he　was　a　man　verging　on　seventy。　He　had　grown　sleek：　literature　had　been　a　prosperous　pursuit　evidently；　but　somehow　the　old　restless；　uneasy　vivacity　had　gone。　His　stories；　brilliant　as　they　were；　were　no　longer　quite　so　free　and　easy。　He　mentioned；　it　is　true；　‘my　dear　friend　Pope’　or　‘my　illustrious　friend　Addison’　every　other　second；　but　he　had　an　air　of　respectability　about　him　which　was　depressing；　and　he　preferred；　it　seemed；　to　enlighten　her　about　the　doings　and　sayings　of　her　own　blood　relations　rather　than　tell　her；　as　he　used　to　do；　scandal　about　the　poets。

Orlando　was　unaccountably　disappointed。　She　had　thought　of　literature　all　these　years　（her　seclusion；　her　rank；　her　sex　must　be　her　excuse）　as　something　wild　as　the　wind；　hot　as　fire；　swift　as　lightning；　something　errant；　incalculable；　abrupt；　and　behold；　literature　was　an　elderly　gentleman　in　a　grey　suit　talking　about　duchesses。　The　violence　of　her　disillusionment　was　such　that　some　hook　or　button　fastening　the　upper　part　of　her　dress　burst　open；　and　out　upon　the　table　fell　‘The　Oak　Tree’；　a　poem。

‘A　manuscript！’　said　Sir　Nicholas；　putting　on　his　gold　pince–nez。　‘How　interesting；　how　excessively　interesting！　Permit　me　to　look　at　it。’　And　once　more；　after　an　interval　of　some　three　hundred　years；　Nicholas　Greene　took　Orlando’s　poem　and；　laying　it　down　among　the　coffee　cups　and　the　liqueur　glasses；　began　to　read　it。　But　now　his　verdict　was　very　different　from　what　it　had　been　then。　It　reminded　him；　he　said　as　he　turned　over　the　pages；　of　Addison’s　“Cato”。　It　pared　favourably　with　Thomson’s　“Seasons”。　There　was　no　trace　in　it；　he　was　thankful　to　say；　of　the　modern　spirit。　It　was　posed　with　a　regard　to　truth；　to　nature；　to　the　dictates　of　the　human　heart；　which　was　rare　indeed；　in　these　days　of　unscrupulous　eccentricity。　It　must；　of　course；　be　published　instantly。

Really　Orlando　did　not　know　what　he　meant。　She　had　always　carried　her　manuscripts　about　with　her　in　the　bosom　of　her　dress。　The　idea　tickled　Sir　Nicholas　considerably。

‘But　what　about　royalties？’　he　asked。

Orlando’s　mind　flew　to　Buckingham　Palace　and　some　dusky　potentates　who　happened　to　be　staying　there。

Sir　Nicholas　was　highly　diverted。　He　explained　that　he　was　alluding　to　the　fact　that　Messrs　—　（here　he　mentioned　a　well–known　firm　of　publishers）　would　be　delighted；　if　he　wrote　them　a　line；　to　put　the　book　on　their　list。　He　could　probably　arrange　for　a　royalty　of　ten　per　cent　on　all　copies　up　to　two　thousand；　after　that　it　would　be　fifteen。　As　for　the　reviewers；　he　would　himself　write　a　line　to　Mr　—；　who　was　the　most　influential；　then　a　pliment—say　a　little　puff　of　her　own　poems—addressed　to　the　wife　of　the　editor　of　the　—　never　did　any　harm。　He　would　call　—。　So　he　ran　on。　Orlando　understood　nothing　of　all　this；　and　from　old　experience　did　not　altogether　trust　his　good　nature；　but　there　was　nothing　for　it　but　to　submit　to　what　was　evidently　his　wish　and　the　fervent　desire　of　the　poem　itself。　So　Sir　Nicholas　made　the　blood–stained　packet　into　a　neat　parcel；　flattened　it　into　his　breast　pocket；　lest　it　should　disturb　the　set　of　his　coat；　and　with　many　pliments　on　both　sides；　they　parted。

Orlando　walked　up　the　street。　Now　that　the　poem　was　gone；—and　she　felt　a　bare　place　in　her　breast　where　she　had　been　used　to　carry　it—she　had　nothing　to　do　but　reflect　upon　whatever　she　liked—the　extraordinary　chances　it　might　be　of　the　human　lot。　Here　she　was　in　St　James’s　Street；　a　married　woman；　with　a　ring　on　her　finger；　where　there　had　been　a　coffee　house　once　there　was　now　a　restaurant；　it　was　about　half　past　three　in　the　afternoon；　the　sun　was　shining；　there　were　three　pigeons；　a　mongrel　terrier　dog；　two　hansom　cabs　and　a　barouche　landau。　What　then；　was　Life？　The　thought　popped　into　her　head　violently；　irrelevantly　（unless　old　Greene　were　somehow　the　cause　of　it）。　And　it　may　be　taken　as　a　ment；　adverse　or　favourable；　as　the　reader　chooses　to　consider　it　upon　her　relations　with　her　husband　（who　was　at　the　Horn）；　that　whenever　anything　popped　violently　into　her　head；　she　went　straight　to　the　nearest　telegraph　office　and　wired　to　him。　There　was　one；　as　it　happened；　close　at　hand。　‘My　God　Shel’；　she　wired；　‘life　literature　Greene　toady—’　here　she　dropped　into　a　cypher　language　which　they　had　invented　between　them　so　that　a　whole　spiritual　state　of　the　utmost　plexity　might　be　conveyed　in　a　word　or　two　without　the　telegraph　clerk　being　any　wiser；　and　added　the　words　‘Rattigan　Glumphoboo’；　which　summed　it　up　precisely。　For　not　only　had　the　events　of　the　morning　made　a　deep　impression　on　her；　but　it　cannot　have　escaped　the　reader’s　attention　that　Orlando　was　growing　up—which　is　not　necessarily　growing　better—and　‘Rattigan　Glumphoboo’　described　a　very　plicated　spiritual　state—which　if　the　reader　puts　all　his　intelligence　at　our　service　he　may　discover　for　himself。

There　could　be　no　answer　to　her　telegram　for　some　hours；　indeed；　it　was　probable；　she　thought；　glancing　at　the　sky；　where　the　upper　clouds　raced　swiftly　past；　that　there　was　a　gale　at　Cape　Horn；　so　that　her　husband　would　be　at　the　mast–head；　as　likely　as　not；　or　cutting　away　some　tattered　spar；　or　even　alone　in　a　boat　with　a　biscuit。　And　so；　leaving　the　post　office；　she　turned　to　beguile　herself　into　the　next　shop；　which　was　a　shop　so　mon　in　our　day　that　it　needs　no　description；　yet；　to　her　eyes；　strange　in　the　extreme；　a　shop　where　they　sold　books。　All　her　life　long　Orlando　had　known　manuscripts；　she　had　held　in　her　hands　the　rough　brown　sheets　on　which　Spenser　had　written　in　his　little　crabbed　hand；　she　had　seen　Shakespeare’s　script　and　Milton’s。　She　owned；　indeed；　a　fair　number　of　quartos　and　folios；　often　with　a　son　in　her　praise　in　them　and　sometimes　a　lock　of　hair。　But　these　innumerable　little　volumes；　bright；　identical；　ephemeral；　for　they　seemed　bound　in　cardboard　and　printed　on　tissue　paper；　surprised　her　infinitely。　The　whole　works　of　Shakespeare　cost　half　a　crown；　and　could　be　put　in　your　pocket。　One　could　hardly　read　them；　indeed；　the　print　was　so　small；　but　it　was　a　marvel；　none　the　less。　‘Works’—the　works　of　every　writer　she　had　known　or　heard　of　and　many　more　stretched　from　end　to　end　of　the　long　shelves。　On　tables　and　chairs；　more　‘works’　were　piled　and　tumbled；　and　these　she　saw；　turning　a　page　or　two；　were　often　works　about　other　works　by　Sir　Nicholas　and　a　score　of　others　whom；　in　her　ignorance；　she　supposed；　since　they　were　bound　and　printed；　to　be　very　great　writers　too。　So　she　gave　an　astounding　order　to　the　bookseller　to　send　her　everything　of　any　importance　in　the　shop　and　left。

She　turned　into　Hyde　Park；　which　she　had　known　of　old　（beneath　that　cleft　tree；　she　remembered；　the　Duke　of　Hamilton　fell　run　through　the　body　by　Lord　Mohun）；　and　her　lips；　which　are　often　to　blame　in　the　matter；　began　framing　the　words　of　her　telegram　into　a　senseless　singsong；　life　literature　Greene　toady　Rattigan　Glumphoboo；　so　that　several　park　keepers　looked　at　her　with　suspicion　and　were　only　brought　to　a　favourable　opinion　of　her　sanity　by　noticing　the　pearl　necklace　which　she　wore。　She　had　carried　off　a　sheaf　of　papers　and　critical　journals　from　the　book　shop；　and　at　length；　flinging　herself　on　her　elbow　beneath　a　tree；　she　spread　these　pages　round　her　and　did　her　best　to　fathom　the　noble　art　of　prose　position　as　these　masters　practised　it。　For　still　the　old　credulity　was　alive　in　her；　even　the　blurred　type　of　a　weekly　newspaper　had　some　sanctity　in　her　eyes。　So　she　read；　lying　on　her　elbow；　an　article　by　Sir　Nicholas　on　the　collected　works　of　a　man　she　had　once　known—John　Donne。　But　she　had　pitched　herself；　without　knowing　it；　not　far　from　the　Serpentine。　The　barking　of　a　thousand　dogs　sounded　in　her　ears。　Carriage　wheels　rushed　ceaselessly　in　a　circle。　Leaves　sighed　overhead。　Now　and　again　a　braided　skirt　and　a　pair　of　tight　scarlet　trousers　crossed　the　grass　within　a　few　steps　of　her。　Once　a　gigantic　rubber　ball　bounced　on　the　newspaper。　Violets；　oranges；　reds；　and　blues　broke　through　the　interstices　of　the　leaves　and　sparkled　in　the　emerald　on　her　finger。　She　read　a　sentence　and　looked　up　at　the　sky；　she　looked　up　at　the　sky　and　looked　down　at　the　newspaper。　Life？　L