奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第8部分

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for　three　months　and　more；　there　had　been　solid　ice　of　such　thickness　that　it　seemed　permanent　as　stone；　and　a　whole　gay　city　had　been　stood　on　its　pavement；　was　now　a　race　of　turbulent　yellow　waters。　The　river　had　gained　its　freedom　in　the　night。　It　was　as　if　a　sulphur　spring　（to　which　view　many　philosophers　inclined）　had　risen　from　the　volcanic　regions　beneath　and　burst　the　ice　asunder　with　such　vehemence　that　it　swept　the　huge　and　massy　fragments　furiously　apart。　The　mere　look　of　the　water　was　enough　to　turn　one　giddy。　All　was　riot　and　confusion。　The　river　was　strewn　with　icebergs。　Some　of　these　were　as　broad　as　a　bowling　green　and　as　high　as　a　house；　others　no　bigger　than　a　man’s　hat；　but　most　fantastically　twisted。　Now　would　e　down　a　whole　convoy　of　ice　blocks　sinking　everything　that　stood　in　their　way。　Now；　eddying　and　swirling　like　a　tortured　serpent；　the　river　would　seem　to　be　hurtling　itself　between　the　fragments　and　tossing　them　from　bank　to　bank；　so　that　they　could　be　heard　smashing　against　the　piers　and　pillars。　But　what　was　the　most　awful　and　inspiring　of　terror　was　the　sight　of　the　human　creatures　who　had　been　trapped　in　the　night　and　now　paced　their　twisting　and　precarious　islands　in　the　utmost　agony　of　spirit。　Whether　they　jumped　into　the　flood　or　stayed　on　the　ice　their　doom　was　certain。　Sometimes　quite　a　cluster　of　these　poor　creatures　would　e　down　together；　some　on　their　knees；　others　suckling　their　babies。　One　old　man　seemed　to　be　reading　aloud　from　a　holy　book。　At　other　times；　and　his　fate　perhaps　was　the　most　dreadful；　a　solitary　wretch　would　stride　his　narrow　tenement　alone。　As　they　swept　out　to　sea；　some　could　be　heard　crying　vainly　for　help；　making　wild　promises　to　amend　their　ways；　confessing　their　sins　and　vowing　altars　and　wealth　if　God　would　hear　their　prayers。　Others　were　so　dazed　with　terror　that　they　sat　immovable　and　silent　looking　steadfastly　before　them。　One　crew　of　young　watermen　or　post–boys；　to　judge　by　their　liveries；　roared　and　shouted　the　lewdest　tavern　songs；　as　if　in　bravado；　and　were　dashed　against　a　tree　and　sunk　with　blasphemies　on　their　lips。　An　old　nobleman—for　such　his　furred　gown　and　golden　chain　proclaimed　him—went　down　not　far　from　where　Orlando　stood；　calling　vengeance　upon　the　Irish　rebels；　who；　he　cried　with　his　last　breath；　had　plotted　this　devilry。　Many　perished　clasping　some　silver　pot　or　other　treasure　to　their　breasts；　and　at　least　a　score　of　poor　wretches　were　drowned　by　their　own　cupidity；　hurling　themselves　from　the　bank　into　the　flood　rather　than　let　a　gold　goblet　escape　them；　or　see　before　their　eyes　the　disappearance　of　some　furred　gown。　For　furniture；　valuables；　possessions　of　all　sorts　were　carried　away　on　the　icebergs。　Among　other　strange　sights　was　to　be　seen　a　cat　suckling　its　young；　a　table　laid　sumptuously　for　a　supper　of　twenty；　a　couple　in　bed；　together　with　an　extraordinary　number　of　cooking　utensils。

Dazed　and　astounded；　Orlando　could　do　nothing　for　some　time　but　watch　the　appalling　race　of　waters　as　it　hurled　itself　past　him。　At　last；　seeming　to　recollect　himself；　he　clapped　spurs　to　his　horse　and　galloped　hard　along　the　river　bank　in　the　direction　of　the　sea。　Rounding　a　bend　of　the　river；　he　came　opposite　that　reach　where；　not　two　days　ago；　the　ships　of　the　Ambassadors　had　seemed　immovably　frozen。　Hastily；　he　made　count　of　them　all；　the　French；　the　Spanish；　the　Austrian；　the　Turk。　All　still　floated；　though　the　French　had　broken　loose　from　her　moorings；　and　the　Turkish　vessel　had　taken　a　great　rent　in　her　side　and　was　fast　filling　with　water。　But　the　Russian　ship　was　nowhere　to　be　seen。　For　one　moment　Orlando　thought　it　must　have　foundered；　but；　raising　himself　in　his　stirrups　and　shading　his　eyes；　which　had　the　sight　of　a　hawk’s；　he　could　just　make　out　the　shape　of　a　ship　on　the　horizon。　The　black　eagles　were　flying　from　the　mast　head。　The　ship　of　the　Muscovite　Embassy　was　standing　out　to　sea。

Flinging　himself　from　his　horse；　he　made；　in　his　rage；　as　if　he　would　breast　the　flood。　Standing　knee–deep　in　water　he　hurled　at　the　faithless　woman　all　the　insults　that　have　ever　been　the　lot　of　her　sex。　Faithless；　mutable；　fickle；　he　called　her；　devil；　adulteress；　deceiver；　and　the　swirling　waters　took　his　words；　and　tossed　at　his　feet　a　broken　pot　and　a　little　straw。







CHAPTER　2。
The　biographer　is　now　faced　with　a　difficulty　which　it　is　better　perhaps　to　confess　than　to　gloss　over。　Up　to　this　point　in　telling　the　story　of　Orlando’s　life；　documents；　both　private　and　historical；　have　made　it　possible　to　fulfil　the　first　duty　of　a　biographer；　which　is　to　plod；　without　looking　to　right　or　left；　in　the　indelible　footprints　of　truth；　unenticed　by　flowers；　regardless　of　shade；　on　and　on　methodically　till　we　fall　plump　into　the　grave　and　write　finis　on　the　tombstone　above　our　heads。　But　now　we　e　to　an　episode　which　lies　right　across　our　path；　so　that　there　is　no　ignoring　it。　Yet　it　is　dark；　mysterious；　and　undocumented；　so　that　there　is　no　explaining　it。　Volumes　might　be　written　in　interpretation　of　it；　whole　religious　systems　founded　upon　the　signification　of　it。　Our　simple　duty　is　to　state　the　facts　as　far　as　they　are　known；　and　so　let　the　reader　make　of　them　what　he　may。

In　the　summer　of　that　disastrous　winter　which　saw　the　frost；　the　flood；　the　deaths　of　many　thousands；　and　the　plete　downfall　of　Orlando’s　hopes—for　he　was　exiled　from　Court；　in　deep　disgrace　with　the　most　powerful　nobles　of　his　time；　the　Irish　house　of　Desmond　was　justly　enraged；　the　King　had　already　trouble　enough　with　the　Irish　not　to　relish　this　further　addition—in　that　summer　Orlando　retired　to　his　great　house　in　the　country　and　there　lived　in　plete　solitude。　One　June　morning—it　was　Saturday　the　18th—he　failed　to　rise　at　his　usual　hour；　and　when　his　groom　went　to　call　him　he　was　found　fast　asleep。　Nor　could　he　be　awakened。　He　lay　as　if　in　a　trance；　without　perceptible　breathing；　and　though　dogs　were　set　to　bark　under　his　window；　cymbals；　drums；　bones　beaten　perpetually　in　his　room；　a　gorse　bush　put　under　his　pillow；　and　mustard　plasters　applied　to　his　feet；　still　he　did　not　wake；　take　food；　or　show　any　sign　of　life　for　seven　whole　days。　On　the　seventh　day　he　woke　at　his　usual　time　（a　quarter　before　eight；　precisely）　and　turned　the　whole　posse　of　caterwauling　wives　and　village　soothsayers　out　of　his　room；　which　was　natural　enough；　but　what　was　strange　was　that　he　showed　no　consciousness　of　any　such　trance；　but　dressed　himself　and　sent　for　his　horse　as　if　he　had　woken　from　a　single　night’s　slumber。　Yet　some　change；　it　was　suspected；　must　have　taken　place　in　the　chambers　of　his　brain；　for　though　he　was　perfectly　rational　and　seemed　graver　and　more　sedate　in　his　ways　than　before；　he　appeared　to　have　an　imperfect　recollection　of　his　past　life。　He　would　listen　when　people　spoke　of　the　great　frost　or　the　skating　or　the　carnival；　but　he　never　gave　any　sign；　except　by　passing　his　hand　across　his　brow　as　if　to　wipe　away　some　cloud；　of　having　witnessed　them　himself。　When　the　events　of　the　past　six　months　were　discussed；　he　seemed　not　so　much　distressed　as　puzzled；　as　if　he　were　troubled　by　confused　memories　of　some　time　long　gone　or　were　trying　to　recall　stories　told　him　by　another。　It　was　observed　that　if　Russia　was　mentioned　or　Princesses　or　ships；　he　would　fall　into　a　gloom　of　an　uneasy　kind　and　get　up　and　look　out　of　the　window　or　call　one　of　the　dogs　to　him；　or　take　a　knife　and　carve　a　piece　of　cedar　wood。　But　the　doctors　were　hardly　wiser　then　than　they　are　now；　and　after　prescribing　rest　and　exercise；　starvation　and　nourishment；　society　and　solitude；　that　he　should　lie　in　bed　all　day　and　ride　forty　miles　between　lunch　and　dinner；　together　with　the　usual　sedatives　and　irritants；　diversified；　as　the　fancy　took　them；　with　possets　of　newt’s　slobber　on　rising；　and　draughts　of　peacock’s　gall　on　going　to　bed；　they　left　him　to　himself；　and　gave　it　as　their　opinion　that　he　had　been　asleep　for　a　week。

But　if　sleep　it　was；　of　what　nature；　we　can　scarcely　refrain　from　asking；　are　such　sleeps　as　these？　Are　they　remedial　measures—trances　in　which　the　most　galling　memories；　events　that　seem　likely　to　cripple　life　for　ever；　are　brushed　with　a　dark　wing　which　rubs　their　harshness　off　and　gilds　them；　even　the　ugliest　and　basest；　with　a　lustre；　an　incandescence？　Has　the　finger　of　death　to　be　laid　on　the　tumult　of　life　from　time　to　time　lest　it　rend　us　asunder？　Are　we　so　made　that　we　have　to　take　death　in　small　doses　daily　or　we　could　not　go　on　with　the　business　of　living？　And　then　what　strange　powers　are　these　that　perate　our　most　secret　ways　and　change　our　most　treasured　possessions　without　our　willing　it？　Had　Orlando；　worn　out　by　the　extremity　of　his　suffering；　died　for　a　week；　and　then　e　to　life　again？　And　if　so；　of　what　nature　is　death　and　of　what　nature　life？　Having　waited　well　over　half　an　hour　for　an　answer　to　these　questions；　and　none　ing；　let　us　get　on　with　the　story。

Now　Orlando　gave　himself　up　to　a　life　of　extreme　solitude。　His　disgrace　at　Court　and　the　violence　of　his　grief　were　partly　the　reason　of　it；　but　as　he　made　no　effort　to　defend　himself　and　seldom　invited　anyone　to　visit　him　（though　he　had　many　friends　who　would　willingly　have　done　so）　it　appeared　as　if　to　be　alone　in　the　great　house　of　his　fathers　suited　his　temper。　Solitude　was　his　choice。　How　he　spent　his　time；　nobody　quite　knew。　The　servants；　of　whom　he　kept　a　full　retinue；　though　much　of　their　business　was　to　dust　empty　rooms　and　to　smooth　the　coverlets　of　beds　that　were　never　slept　in；　watched；　in　the　dark　of　the　evening；　as　they　sat　over　their　cakes　and　ale；　a　light　passing　along　the　galleries；　through　the　banqueting–halls；　up　the　staircase；　into　the　bedrooms；　and　knew　that　their　master　was　perambulating　the　house　alone。　None　dared　follow　him；　for　the　house　was　haunted　by　a　great　variety　of　ghosts；　and　the　extent　of　it　made　it　easy　to　lose　one’s　way　and　either　fall　down　some　hidden　staircase　or　open　a　door　which；　should　the　wind　blow　it　to；　would　shut　upon　one　for　ever—accidents　of　no　unmon　occurrence；　as　the　frequent　discovery　of　the　skeletons　of　men　and　animals　in　attitudes　of　great　agony　made　evident。　Then　the　light　would　be　lost　altogether；　and　Mrs　Grimsditch；　the　housekeeper；　would　say　to　Mr　Dupper；