奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第39部分

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ayed　by　Italian　organ–grinders　in　back　streets。　Let　us　accept　the　intervention；　humble　though　it　is；　as　if　it　were　the　music　of　the　spheres；　and　allow　it；　with　all　its　gasps　and　groans；　to　fill　this　page　with　sound　until　the　moment　es　when　it　is　impossible　to　deny　its　ing；　which　the　footman　has　seen　ing　and　the　maid–servant；　and　the　reader　will　have　to　see　too；　for　Orlando　herself　is　clearly　unable　to　ignore　it　any　longer—let　the　barrel–organ　sound　and　transport　us　on　thought；　which　is　no　more　than　a　little　boat；　when　music　sounds；　tossing　on　the　waves；　on　thought；　which　is；　of　all　carriers；　the　most　clumsy；　the　most　erratic；　over　the　roof　tops　and　the　back　gardens　where　washing　is　hanging　to—what　is　this　place？　Do　you　recognize　the　Green　and　in　the　middle　the　steeple；　and　the　gate　with　a　lion　couchant　on　either　side？　Oh　yes；　it　is　Kew！　Well；　Kew　will　do。　So　here　we　are　at　Kew；　and　I　will　show　you　to–day　（the　second　of　March）　under　the　plum　tree；　a　grape　hyacinth；　and　a　crocus；　and　a　bud；　too；　on　the　almond　tree；　so　that　to　walk　there　is　to　be　thinking　of　bulbs；　hairy　and　red；　thrust　into　the　earth　in　October；　flowering　now；　and　to　be　dreaming　of　more　than　can　rightly　be　said；　and　to　be　taking　from　its　case　a　cigarette　or　cigar　even；　and　to　be　flinging　a　cloak　under　（as　the　rhyme　requires）　an　oak；　and　there　to　sit；　waiting　the　kingfisher；　which；　it　is　said；　was　seen　once　to　cross　in　the　evening　from　bank　to　bank。

Wait！　Wait！　The　kingfisher　es；　the　kingfisher　es　not。

Behold；　meanwhile；　the　factory　chimneys　and　their　smoke；　behold　the　city　clerks　flashing　by　in　their　outrigger。　Behold　the　old　lady　taking　her　dog　for　a　walk　and　the　servant　girl　wearing　her　new　hat　for　the　first　time　not　at　the　right　angle。　Behold　them　all。　Though　Heaven　has　mercifully　decreed　that　the　secrets　of　all　hearts　are　hidden　so　that　we　are　lured　on　for　ever　to　suspect　something；　perhaps；　that　does　not　exist；　still　through　our　cigarette　smoke；　we　see　blaze　up　and　salute　the　splendid　fulfilment　of　natural　desires　for　a　hat；　for　a　boat；　for　a　rat　in　a　ditch；　as　once　one　saw　blazing—such　silly　hops　and　skips　the　mind　takes　when　it　slops　like　this　all　over　the　saucer　and　the　barrel–organ　plays—saw　blazing　a　fire　in　a　field　against　minarets　near　Constantinople。

Hail！　natural　desire！　Hail！　happiness！　divine　happiness！　and　pleasure　of　all　sorts；　flowers　and　wine；　though　one　fades　and　the　other　intoxicates；　and　half–crown　tickets　out　of　London　on　Sundays；　and　singing　in　a　dark　chapel　hymns　about　death；　and　anything；　anything　that　interrupts　and　confounds　the　tapping　of　typewriters　and　filing　of　letters　and　forging　of　links　and　chains；　binding　the　Empire　together。　Hail　even　the　crude；　red　bows　on　shop　girls’　lips　（as　if　Cupid；　very　clumsily；　dipped　his　thumb　in　red　ink　and　scrawled　a　token　in　passing）。　Hail；　happiness！　kingfisher　flashing　from　bank　to　bank；　and　all　fulfilment　of　natural　desire；　whether　it　is　what　the　male　novelist　says　it　is；　or　prayer；　or　denial；　hail！　in　whatever　form　it　es；　and　may　there　be　more　forms；　and　stranger。　For　dark　flows　the　stream—would　it　were　true；　as　the　rhyme　hints　‘like　a　dream’—but　duller　and　worser　than　that　is　our　usual　lot；　without　dreams；　but　alive；　smug；　fluent；　habitual；　under　trees　whose　shade　of　an　olive　green　drowns　the　blue　of　the　wing　of　the　vanishing　bird　when　he　darts　of　a　sudden　from　bank　to　bank。

Hail；　happiness；　then；　and　after　happiness；　hail　not　those　dreams　which　bloat　the　sharp　image　as　spotted　mirrors　do　the　face　in　a　country–inn　parlour；　dreams　which　splinter　the　whole　and　tear　us　asunder　and　wound　us　and　split　us　apart　in　the　night　when　we　would　sleep；　but　sleep；　sleep；　so　deep　that　all　shapes　are　ground　to　dust　of　infinite　softness；　water　of　dimness　inscrutable；　and　there；　folded；　shrouded；　like　a　mummy；　like　a　moth；　prone　let　us　lie　on　the　sand　at　the　bottom　of　sleep。

But　wait！　but　wait！　we　are　not　going；　this　time；　visiting　the　blind　land。　Blue；　like　a　match　struck　right　in　the　ball　of　the　innermost　eye；　he　flies；　burns；　bursts　the　seal　of　sleep；　the　kingfisher；　so　that　now　floods　back　refluent　like　a　tide；　the　red；　thick　stream　of　life　again；　bubbling；　dripping；　and　we　rise；　and　our　eyes　（for　how　handy　a　rhyme　is　to　pass　us　safe　over　the　awkward　transition　from　death　to　life）　fall　on—（here　the　barrel–organ　stops　playing　abruptly）。

‘It’s　a　very　fine　boy；　M’Lady；’　said　Mrs　Banting；　the　midwife；　putting　her　first–born　child　into　Orlando’s　arms。　In　other　words　Orlando　was　safely　delivered　of　a　son　on　Thursday；　March　the　20th；　at　three　o’clock　in　the　morning。

Once　more　Orlando　stood　at　the　window；　but　let　the　reader　take　courage；　nothing　of　the　same　sort　is　going　to　happen　to–day；　which　is　not；　by　any　means；　the　same　day。　No—for　if　we　look　out　of　the　window；　as　Orlando　was　doing　at　the　moment；　we　shall　see　that　Park　Lane　itself　has　considerably　changed。　Indeed　one　might　stand　there　ten　minutes　or　more；　as　Orlando　stood　now；　without　seeing　a　single　barouche　landau。　‘Look　at　that！’　she　exclaimed；　some　days　later　when　an　absurd　truncated　carriage　without　any　horses　began　to　glide　about　of　its　own　accord。　A　carriage　without　any　horses　indeed！　She　was　called　away　just　as　she　said　that；　but　came　back　again　after　a　time　and　had　another　look　out　of　the　window。　It　was　odd　sort　of　weather　nowadays。　The　sky　itself；　she　could　not　help　thinking；　had　changed。　It　was　no　longer　so　thick；　so　watery；　so　prismatic　now　that　King　Edward—see；　there　he　was；　stepping　out　of　his　neat　brougham　to　go　and　visit　a　certain　lady　opposite—had　succeeded　Queen　Victoria。　The　clouds　had　shrunk　to　a　thin　gauze；　the　sky　seemed　made　of　metal；　which　in　hot　weather　tarnished　verdigris；　copper　colour　or　orange　as　metal　does　in　a　fog。　It　was　a　little　alarming—this　shrinkage。　Everything　seemed　to　have　shrunk。　Driving　past　Buckingham　Palace　last　night；　there　was　not　a　trace　of　that　vast　erection　which　she　had　thought　everlasting；　top　hats；　widows’　weeds；　trumpets；　telescopes；　wreaths；　all　had　vanished　and　left　not　a　stain；　not　a　puddle　even；　on　the　pavement。　But　it　was　now—after　another　interval　she　had　e　back　again　to　her　favourite　station　in　the　window—now；　in　the　evening；　that　the　change　was　most　remarkable。　Look　at　the　lights　in　the　houses！　At　a　touch；　a　whole　room　was　lit；　hundreds　of　rooms　were　lit；　and　one　was　precisely　the　same　as　the　other。　One　could　see　everything　in　the　little　square–shaped　boxes；　there　was　no　privacy；　none　of　those　lingering　shadows　and　odd　corners　that　there　used　to　be；　none　of　those　women　in　aprons　carrying　wobbly　lamps　which　they　put　down　carefully　on　this　table　and　on　that。　At　a　touch；　the　whole　room　was　bright。　And　the　sky　was　bright　all　night　long；　and　the　pavements　were　bright；　everything　was　bright。　She　came　back　again　at　mid–day。　How　narrow　women　have　grown　lately！　They　looked　like　stalks　of　corn；　straight；　shining；　identical。　And　men’s　faces　were　as　bare　as　the　palm　of　one’s　hand。　The　dryness　of　the　atmosphere　brought　out　the　colour　in　everything　and　seemed　to　stiffen　the　muscles　of　the　cheeks。　It　was　harder　to　cry　now。　Water　was　hot　in　two　seconds。　Ivy　had　perished　or　been　scraped　off　houses。　Vegetables　were　less　fertile；　families　were　much　smaller。　Curtains　and　covers　had　been　frizzled　up　and　the　walls　were　bare　so　that　new　brilliantly　coloured　pictures　of　real　things　like　streets；　umbrellas；　apples；　were　hung　in　frames；　or　painted　upon　the　wood。　There　was　something　definite　and　distinct　about　the　age；　which　reminded　her　of　the　eighteenth　century；　except　that　there　was　a　distraction；　a　desperation—as　she　was　thinking　this；　the　immensely　long　tunnel　in　which　she　seemed　to　have　been　travelling　for　hundreds　of　years　widened；　the　light　poured　in；　her　thoughts　became　mysteriously　tightened　and　strung　up　as　if　a　piano　tuner　had　put　his　key　in　her　back　and　stretched　the　nerves　very　taut；　at　the　same　time　her　hearing　quickened；　she　could　hear　every　whisper　and　crackle　in　the　room　so　that　the　clock　ticking　on　the　mantelpiece　beat　like　a　hammer。　And　so　for　some　seconds　the　light　went　on　being　brighter　and　brighter；　and　she　saw　everything　more　and　more　clearly　and　the　clock　ticked　louder　and　louder　until　there　was　a　terrific　explosion　right　in　her　ear。　Orlando　leapt　as　if　she　had　been　violently　struck　on　the　head。　Ten　times　she　was　struck。　In　fact　it　was　ten　o’clock　in　the　morning。　It　was　the　eleventh　of　October。　It　was　1928。　It　was　the　present　moment。

No　one　need　wonder　that　Orlando　started；　pressed　her　hand　to　her　heart；　and　turned　pale。　For　what　more　terrifying　revelation　can　there　be　than　that　it　is　the　present　moment？　That　we　survive　the　shock　at　all　is　only　possible　because　the　past　shelters　us　on　one　side　and　the　future　on　another。　But　we　have　no　time　now　for　reflections；　Orlando　was　terribly　late　already。　She　ran　downstairs；　she　jumped　into　her　motorcar；　she　pressed　the　self–starter　and　was　off。　Vast　blue　blocks　of　building　rose　into　the　air；　the　red　cowls　of　chimneys　were　spotted　irregularly　across　the　sky；　the　road　shone　like　silver–headed　nails；　omnibuses　bore　down　upon　her　with　sculptured　white–faced　drivers；　she　noticed　sponges；　bird–cages；　boxes　of　green　American　cloth。　But　she　did　not　allow　these　sights　to　sink　into　her　mind　even　the　fraction　of　an　inch　as　she　crossed　the　narrow　plank　of　the　present；　lest　she　should　fall　into　the　raging　torrent　beneath。　‘Why　don’t　you　look　where　you’re　going　to？。。。Put　your　hand　out；　can’t　you？’—that　was　all　she　said　sharply；　as　if　the　words　were　jerked　out　of　her。　For　the　streets　were　immensely　crowded；　people　crossed　without　looking　where　they　were　going。　People　buzzed　and　hummed　round　the　plate–glass　windows　within　which　one　could　see　a　glow　of　red；　a　blaze　of　yellow；　as　if　they　were　bees；　Orlando　thought—but　her　thought　that　they　were　bees　was　violently　snipped　off　and　she　saw；　regaining　perspective　with　one　flick　of　her　eye；　that　they　were　bodies。　‘Why　don’t　you　look　where　you’re　going？’　she　snapped　out。

At　last；　however；　she　drew　up　at　Marshall　&　Snelgrove’s　and　went　into　the　shop。　Shade　and　scent　enveloped　her。　The　present　fell　from　her　like　drops　of　scalding　water。　Light　swayed　up　and　down　like　thin　stuffs　puffed　out　by　a　summer　breeze。　She　took　a　list　from　her　bag　and　began　reading　in　a　curious　st