奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第41部分

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s　the　body　and　mind　were　like　scraps　of　torn　paper　tumbling　from　a　sack　and；　indeed；　the　process　of　motoring　fast　out　of　London　so　much　resembles　the　chopping　up　small　of　identity　which　precedes　unconsciousness　and　perhaps　death　itself　that　it　is　an　open　question　in　what　sense　Orlando　can　be　said　to　have　existed　at　the　present　moment。　Indeed　we　should　have　given　her　over　for　a　person　entirely　disassembled　were　it　not　that　here；　at　last；　one　green　screen　was　held　out　on　the　right；　against　which　the　little　bits　of　paper　fell　more　slowly；　and　then　another　was　held　out　on　the　left　so　that　one　could　see　the　separate　scraps　now　turning　over　by　themselves　in　the　air；　and　then　green　screens　were　held　continuously　on　either　side；　so　that　her　mind　regained　the　illusion　of　holding　things　within　itself　and　she　saw　a　cottage；　a　farmyard　and　four　cows；　all　precisely　life–size。

When　this　happened；　Orlando　heaved　a　sigh　of　relief；　lit　a　cigarette；　and　puffed　for　a　minute　or　two　in　silence。　Then　she　called　hesitatingly；　as　if　the　person　she　wanted　might　not　be　there；　‘Orlando？　For　if　there　are　（at　a　venture）　seventy–six　different　times　all　ticking　in　the　mind　at　once；　how　many　different　people　are　there　not—Heaven　help　us—all　having　lodgment　at　one　time　or　another　in　the　human　spirit？　Some　say　two　thousand　and　fifty–two。　So　that　it　is　the　most　usual　thing　in　the　world　for　a　person　to　call；　directly　they　are　alone；　Orlando？　（if　that　is　one’s　name）　meaning　by　that；　e；　e！　I’m　sick　to　death　of　this　particular　self。　I　want　another。　Hence；　the　astonishing　changes　we　see　in　our　friends。　But　it　is　not　altogether　plain　sailing；　either；　for　though　one　may　say；　as　Orlando　said　（being　out　in　the　country　and　needing　another　self　presumably）　Orlando？　still　the　Orlando　she　needs　may　not　e；　these　selves　of　which　we　are　built　up；　one　on　top　of　another；　as　plates　are　piled　on　a　waiter’s　hand；　have　attachments　elsewhere；　sympathies；　little　constitutions　and　rights　of　their　own；　call　them　what　you　will　（and　for　many　of　these　things　there　is　no　name）　so　that　one　will　only　e　if　it　is　raining；　another　in　a　room　with　green　curtains；　another　when　Mrs　Jones　is　not　there；　another　if　you　can　promise　it　a　glass　of　wine—and　so　on；　for　everybody　can　multiply　from　his　own　experience　the　different　terms　which　his　different　selves　have　made　with　him—and　some　are　too　wildly　ridiculous　to　be　mentioned　in　print　at　all。

So　Orlando；　at　the　turn　by　the　barn；　called　‘Orlando？’　with　a　note　of　interrogation　in　her　voice　and　waited。　Orlando　did　not　e。

‘All　right　then；’　Orlando　said；　with　the　good　humour　people　practise　on　these　occasions；　and　tried　another。　For　she　had　a　great　variety　of　selves　to　call　upon；　far　more　than　we　have　been　able　to　find　room　for；　since　a　biography　is　considered　plete　if　it　merely　accounts　for　six　or　seven　selves；　whereas　a　person　may　well　have　as　many　thousand。　Choosing　then；　only　those　selves　we　have　found　room　for；　Orlando　may　now　have　called　on　the　boy　who　cut　the　nigger’s　head　down；　the　boy　who　strung　it　up　again；　the　boy　who　sat　on　the　hill；　the　boy　who　saw　the　poet；　the　boy　who　handed　the　Queen　the　bowl　of　rose　water；　or　she　may　have　called　upon　the　young　man　who　fell　in　love　with　Sasha；　or　upon　the　Courtier；　or　upon　the　Ambassador；　or　upon　the　Soldier；　or　upon　the　Traveller；　or　she　may　have　wanted　the　woman　to　e　to　her；　the　Gipsy；　the　Fine　Lady；　the　Hermit；　the　girl　in　love　with　life；　the　Patroness　of　Letters；　the　woman　who　called　Mar　（meaning　hot　baths　and　evening　fires）　or　Shelmerdine　（meaning　crocuses　in　autumn　woods）　or　Bonthrop　（meaning　the　death　we　die　daily）　or　all　three　together—which　meant　more　things　than　we　have　space　to　write　out—all　were　different　and　she　may　have　called　upon　any　one　of　them。

Perhaps；　but　what　appeared　certain　（for　we　are　now　in　the　region　of　‘perhaps’　and　‘appears’）　was　that　the　one　she　needed　most　kept　aloof；　for　she　was；　to　hear　her　talk；　changing　her　selves　as　quickly　as　she　drove—there　was　a　new　one　at　every　corner—as　happens　when；　for　some　unaccountable　reason；　the　conscious　self；　which　is　the　uppermost；　and　has　the　power　to　desire；　wishes　to　be　nothing　but　one　self。　This　is　what　some　people　call　the　true　self；　and　it　is；　they　say；　pact　of　all　the　selves　we　have　it　in　us　to　be；　manded　and　locked　up　by　the　Captain　self；　the　Key　self；　which　amalgamates　and　controls　them　all。　Orlando　was　certainly　seeking　this　self　as　the　reader　can　judge　from　overhearing　her　talk　as　she　drove　（and　if　it　is　rambling　talk；　disconnected；　trivial；　dull；　and　sometimes　unintelligible；　it　is　the　reader’s　fault　for　listening　to　a　lady　talking　to　herself；　we　only　copy　her　words　as　she　spoke　them；　adding　in　brackets　which　self　in　our　opinion　is　speaking；　but　in　this　we　may　well　be　wrong）。

‘What　then？　Who　then？’　she　said。　‘Thirty–six；　in　a　motor–car；　a　woman。　Yes；　but　a　million　other　things　as　well。　A　snob　am　I？　The　garter　in　the　hall？　The　leopards？　My　ancestors？　Proud　of　them？　Yes！　Greedy；　luxurious；　vicious？　Am　I？　（here　a　new　self　came　in）。　Don’t　care　a　damn　if　I　am。　Truthful？　I　think　so。　Generous？　Oh；　but　that　don’t　count　（here　a　new　self　came　in）。　Lying　in　bed　of　a　morning　listening　to　the　pigeons　on　fine　linen；　silver　dishes；　wine；　maids；　footmen。　Spoilt？　Perhaps。　Too　many　things　for　nothing。　Hence　my　books　（here　she　mentioned　fifty　classical　titles；　which　represented；　so　we　think；　the　early　romantic　works　that　she　tore　up）。　Facile；　glib；　romantic。　But　（here　another　self　came　in）　a　duffer；　a　fumbler。　More　clumsy　I　couldn’t　be。　And—and—（here　she　hesitated　for　a　word　and　if　we　suggest　‘Love’　we　may　be　wrong；　but　certainly　she　laughed　and　blushed　and　then　cried　out—）　A　toad　set　in　emeralds！　Harry　the　Archduke！　Blue–bottles　on　the　ceiling！　（here　another　self　came　in）。　But　Nell；　Kit；　Sasha？　（she　was　sunk　in　gloom：　tears　actually　shaped　themselves　and　she　had　long　given　over　crying）。　Trees；　she　said。　（Here　another　self　came　in。）　I　love　trees　（she　was　passing　a　clump）　growing　there　a　thousand　years。　And　barns　（she　passed　a　tumbledown　barn　at　the　edge　of　the　road）。　And　sheep　dogs　（here　one　came　trotting　across　the　road。　She　carefully　avoided　it）。　And　the　night。　But　people　（here　another　self　came　in）。　People？　（She　repeated　it　as　a　question。）　I　don’t　know。　Chattering；　spiteful；　always　telling　lies。　（Here　she　turned　into　the　High　Street　of　her　native　town；　which　was　crowded；　for　it　was　market　day；　with　farmers；　and　shepherds；　and　old　women　with　hens　in　baskets。）　I　like　peasants。　I　understand　crops。　But　（here　another　self　came　skipping　over　the　top　of　her　mind　like　the　beam　from　a　lighthouse）。　Fame！　（She　laughed。）　Fame！　Seven　editions。　A　prize。　Photographs　in　the　evening　papers　（here　she　alluded　to　the　‘Oak　Tree’　and　‘The　Burdett　Coutts’　Memorial　Prize　which　she　had　won；　and　we　must　snatch　space　to　remark　how　disposing　it　is　for　her　biographer　that　this　culmination　to　which　the　whole　book　moved；　this　peroration　with　which　the　book　was　to　end；　should　be　dashed　from　us　on　a　laugh　casually　like　this；　but　the　truth　is　that　when　we　write　of　a　woman；　everything　is　out　of　place—culminations　and　perorations；　the　accent　never　falls　where　it　does　with　a　man）。　Fame！　she　repeated。　A　poet—a　charlatan；　both　every　morning　as　regularly　as　the　post　es　in。　To　dine；　to　meet；　to　meet；　to　dine；　fame—fame！　（She　had　here　to　slow　down　to　pass　through　the　crowd　of　market　people。　But　no　one　noticed　her。　A　porpoise　in　a　fishmonger’s　shop　attracted　far　more　attention　than　a　lady　who　had　won　a　prize　and　might；　had　she　chosen；　have　worn　three　coros　one　on　top　of　another　on　her　brow。）　Driving　very　slowly　she　now　hummed　as　if　it　were　part　of　an　old　song；　‘With　my　guineas　I’ll　buy　flowering　trees；　flowering　trees；　flowering　trees　and　walk　among　my　flowering　trees　and　tell　my　sons　what　fame　is’。　So　she　hummed；　and　now　all　her　words　began　to　sag　here　and　there　like　a　barbaric　necklace　of　heavy　beads。　‘And　walk　among　my　flowering　trees；’　she　sang；　accenting　the　words　strongly；　‘and　see　the　moon　rise　slow；　the　waggons　go。。。’　Here　she　stopped　short　and　looked　ahead　of　her　intently　at　the　bon　of　the　car　in　profound　meditation。

‘He　sat　at　Twitchett’s　table；’　she　mused；　‘with　a　dirty　ruff　on。。。Was　it　old　Mr　Baker　e　to　measure　the　timber？　Or　was　it　Sh–p—re？　（for　when　we　speak　names　we　deeply　reverence　to　ourselves　we　never　speak　them　whole。）　She　gazed　for　ten　minutes　ahead　of　her；　letting　the　car　e　almost　to　a　standstill。

‘Haunted！’　she　cried；　suddenly　pressing　the　accelerator。　‘Haunted！　ever　since　I　was　a　child。　There　flies　the　wild　goose。　It　flies　past　the　window　out　to　sea。　Up　I　jumped　（she　gripped　the　steering–wheel　tighter）　and　stretched　after　it。　But　the　goose　flies　too　fast。　I’ve　seen　it；　here—there—there—England；　Persia；　Italy。　Always　it　flies　fast　out　to　sea　and　always　I　fling　after　it　words　like　s　（here　she　flung　her　hand　out）　which　shrivel　as　I’ve　seen　s　shrivel　drawn　on　deck　with　only　sea–weed　in　them；　and　sometimes　there’s　an　inch　of　silver—six　words—in　the　bottom　of　the　。　But　never　the　great　fish　who　lives　in　the　coral　groves。’　Here　she　bent　her　head；　pondering　deeply。

And　it　was　at　this　moment；　when　she　had　ceased　to　call　‘Orlando’　and　was　deep　in　thoughts　of　something　else；　that　the　Orlando　whom　she　had　called　came　of　its　own　accord；　as　was　proved　by　the　change　that　now　came　over　her　（she　had　passed　through　the　lodge　gates　and　was　entering　the　park）。

The　whole　of　her　darkened　and　settled；　as　when　some　foil　whose　addition　makes　the　round　and　solidity　of　a　surface　is　added　to　it；　and　the　shallow　bees　deep　and　the　near　distant；　and　all　is　contained　as　water　is　contained　by　the　sides　of　a　well。　So　she　was　now　darkened；　stilled；　and　bee；　with　the　addition　of　this　Orlando；　what　is　called；　rightly　or　wrongly；　a　single　self；　a　real　self。　And　she　fell　silent。　For　it　is　probable　that　when　people　talk　aloud；　the　selves　（of　which　there　may　be　more　than　two　thousand）　are　conscious　of　disseverment；　and　are　trying　to　municate；　but　when　munication　is　established　they　fall　silent。

Masterfully；　swiftly；　she　drove　up　the　curving　drive　between　the　elms　and　oaks　through　the　falling　turf　of　the　park　whose　fall　was　so　gentle　that　had　it　been　water　it　would　have　spread　the　beach　with　a　smooth　green　tide。　Planted