奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第14章

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what　he　could　not　help　thinking　a　more　important　matter　than　the　Greens　or　the　cows；　that　is　to　say　the　sacred　subject　of　poetry。　At　the　first　mention　of　the　word；　the　poet’s　eyes　flashed　fire；　he　dropped　the　fine　gentleman　airs　he　had　worn；　thumped　his　glass　on　the　table；　and　launched　into　one　of　the　longest；　most　intricate；　most　passionate；　and　bitterest　stories　that　Orlando　had　ever　heard；　save　from　the　lips　of　a　jilted　woman；　about　a　play　of　his；　another　poet；　and　a　critic。　Of　the　nature　of　poetry　itself；　Orlando　only　gathered　that　it　was　harder　to　sell　than　prose；　and　though　the　lines　were　shorter　took　longer　in　the　writing。　So　the　talk　went　on　with　ramifications　interminable；　until　Orlando　ventured　to　hint　that　he　had　himself　been　so　rash　as　to　write—but　here　the　poet　leapt　from　his　chair。　A　mouse　had　squeaked　in　the　wainscot；　he　said。　The　truth　was；　he　explained；　that　his　nerves　were　in　a　state　where　a　mouse’s　squeak　upset　them　for　a　fortnight。　Doubtless　the　house　was　full　of　vermin；　but　Orlando　had　not　heard　them。　The　poet　then　gave　Orlando　the　full　story　of　his　health　for　the　past　ten　years　or　so。　It　had　been　so　bad　that　one　could　only　marvel　that　he　still　lived。　He　had　had　the　palsy；　the　gout；　the　ague；　the　dropsy；　and　the　three　sorts　of　fever　in　succession；　added　to　which　he　had　an　enlarged　heart；　a　great　spleen；　and　a　diseased　liver。　But；　above　all；　he　had；　he　told　Orlando；　sensations　in　his　spine　which　defied　description。　There　was　one　knob　about　the　third　from　the　top　which　burnt　like　fire；　another　about　second　from　the　bottom　which　was　cold　as　ice。　Sometimes　he　woke　with　a　brain　like　lead；　at　others　it　was　as　if　a　thousand　wax　tapers　were　alight　and　people　were　throwing　fireworks　inside　him。　He　could　feel　a　rose　leaf　through　his　mattress；　he　said；　and　knew　his　way　almost　about　London　by　the　feel　of　the　cobbles。　Altogether　he　was　a　piece　of　machinery　so　finely　made　and　curiously　put　together　（here　he　raised　his　hand　as　if　unconsciously；　and　indeed　it　was　of　the　finest　shape　imaginable）　that　it　confounded　him　to　think　that　he　had　only　sold　five　hundred　copies　of　his　poem；　but　that　of　course　was　largely　due　to　the　conspiracy　against　him。　All　he　could　say；　he　concluded；　banging　his　fist　upon　the　table；　was　that　the　art　of　poetry　was　dead　in　England。

How　that　could　be　with　Shakespeare；　Marlowe；　Ben　Jonson；　Browne；　Donne；　all　now　writing　or　just　having　written；　Orlando；　reeling　off　the　names　of　his　favourite　heroes；　could　not　think。

Greene　laughed　sardonically。　Shakespeare；　he　admitted；　had　written　some　scenes　that　were　well　enough；　but　he　had　taken　them　chiefly　from　Marlowe。　Marlowe　was　a　likely　boy；　but　what　could　you　say　of　a　lad　who　died　before　he　was　thirty？　As　for　Browne；　he　was　for　writing　poetry　in　prose；　and　people　soon　got　tired　of　such　conceits　as　that。　Donne　was　a　mountebank　who　wrapped　up　his　lack　of　meaning　in　hard　words。　The　gulls　were　taken　in；　but　the　style　would　be　out　of　fashion　twelve　months　hence。　As　for　Ben　Jonson—Ben　Jonson　was　a　friend　of　his　and　he　never　spoke　ill　of　his　friends。

No；　he　concluded；　the　great　age　of　literature　is　past；　the　great　age　of　literature　was　the　Greek；　the　Elizabethan　age　was　inferior　in　every　respect　to　the　Greek。　In　such　ages　men　cherished　a　divine　ambition　which　he　might　call　La　Gloire　（he　pronounced　it　Glawr；　so　that　Orlando　did　not　at　first　catch　his　meaning）。　Now　all　young　writers　were　in　the　pay　of　the　booksellers　and　poured　out　any　trash　that　would　sell。　Shakespeare　was　the　chief　offender　in　this　way　and　Shakespeare　was　already　paying　the　penalty。　Their　own　age；　he　said；　was　marked　by　precious　conceits　and　wild　experiments—neither　of　which　the　Greeks　would　have　tolerated　for　a　moment。　Much　though　it　hurt　him　to　say　it—for　he　loved　literature　as　he　loved　his　life—he　could　see　no　good　in　the　present　and　had　no　hope　for　the　future。　Here　he　poured　himself　out　another　glass　of　wine。

Orlando　was　shocked　by　these　doctrines；　yet　could　not　help　observing　that　the　critic　himself　seemed　by　no　means　downcast。　On　the　contrary；　the　more　he　denounced　his　own　time；　the　more　placent　he　became。　He　could　remember；　he　said；　a　night　at　the　Cock　Tavern　in　Fleet　Street　when　Kit　Marlowe　was　there　and　some　others。　Kit　was　in　high　feather；　rather　drunk；　which　he　easily　became；　and　in　a　mood　to　say　silly　things。　He　could　see　him　now；　brandishing　his　glass　at　the　pany　and　hiccoughing　out；　‘Stap　my　vitals；　Bill’　（this　was　to　Shakespeare）；　‘there’s　a　great　wave　ing　and　you’re　on　the　top　of　it；’　by　which　he　meant；　Greene　explained；　that　they　were　trembling　on　the　verge　of　a　great　age　in　English　literature；　and　that　Shakespeare　was　to　be　a　poet　of　some　importance。　Happily　for　himself；　he　was　killed　two　nights　later　in　a　drunken　brawl；　and　so　did　not　live　to　see　how　this　prediction　turned　out。　‘Poor　foolish　fellow；’　said　Greene；　‘to　go　and　say　a　thing　like　that。　A　great　age；　forsooth—the　Elizabethan　a　great　age！’

‘So；　my　dear　Lord；’　he　continued；　settling　himself　fortably　in　his　chair　and　rubbing　the　wine–glass　between　his　fingers；　‘we　must　make　the　best　of　it；　cherish　the　past　and　honour　those　writers—there　are　still　a　few　of　‘em—who　take　antiquity　for　their　model　and　write；　not　for　pay　but　for　Glawr。’　（Orlando　could　have　wished　him　a　better　accent。）　‘Glawr’；　said　Greene；　‘is　the　spur　of　noble　minds。　Had　I　a　pension　of　three　hundred　pounds　a　year　paid　quarterly；　I　would　live　for　Glawr　alone。　I　would　lie　in　bed　every　morning　reading　Cicero。　I　would　imitate　his　style　so　that　you　couldn’t　tell　the　difference　between　us。　That’s　what　I　call　fine　writing；’　said　Greene；　‘that’s　what　I　call　Glawr。　But　it’s　necessary　to　have　a　pension　to　do　it。’

By　this　time　Orlando　had　abandoned　all　hope　of　discussing　his　own　work　with　the　poet；　but　this　mattered　the　less　as　the　talk　now　got　upon　the　lives　and　characters　of　Shakespeare；　Ben　Jonson；　and　the　rest；　all　of　whom　Greene　had　known　intimately　and　about　whom　he　had　a　thousand　anecdotes　of　the　most　amusing　kind　to　tell。　Orlando　had　never　laughed　so　much　in　his　life。　These；　then；　were　his　gods！　Half　were　drunken　and　all　were　amorous。　Most　of　them　quarrelled　with　their　wives；　not　one　of　them　was　above　a　lie　or　an　intrigue　of　the　most　paltry　kind。　Their　poetry　was　scribbled　down　on　the　backs　of　washing　bills　held　to　the　heads　of　printer’s　devils　at　the　street　door。　Thus　Hamlet　went　to　press；　thus　Lear；　thus　Othello。　No　wonder；　as　Greene　said；　that　these　plays　show　the　faults　they　do。　The　rest　of　the　time　was　spent　in　carousings　and　junketings　in　taverns　and　in　beer　gardens；　When　things　were　said　that　passed　belief　for　wit；　and　things　were　done　that　made　the　utmost　frolic　of　the　courtiers　seem　pale　in　parison。　All　this　Greene　told　with　a　spirit　that　roused　Orlando　to　the　highest　pitch　of　delight。　He　had　a　power　of　mimicry　that　brought　the　dead　to　life；　and　could　say　the　finest　things　of　books　provided　they　were　written　three　hundred　years　ago。

So　time　passed；　and　Orlando　felt　for　his　guest　a　strange　mixture　of　liking　and　contempt；　of　admiration　and　pity；　as　well　as　something　too　indefinite　to　be　called　by　any　one　name；　but　had　something　of　fear　in　it　and　something　of　fascination。　He　talked　incessantly　about　himself；　yet　was　such　good　pany　that　one　could　listen　to　the　story　of　his　ague　for　ever。　Then　he　was　so　witty；　then　he　was　so　irreverent；　then　he　made　so　free　with　the　names　of　God　and　Woman；　then　he　was　So　full　of　queer　crafts　and　had　such　strange　lore　in　his　head；　could　make　salad　in　three　hundred　different　ways；　knew　all　that　could　be　known　of　the　mixing　of　wines；　played　half–a–dozen　musical　instruments；　and　was　the　first　person；　and　perhaps　the　last；　to　toast　cheese　in　the　great　Italian　fireplace。　That　he　did　not　know　a　geranium　from　a　carnation；　an　oak　from　a　birch　tree；　a　mastiff　from　a　greyhound；　a　teg　from　a　ewe；　wheat　from　barley；　plough　land　from　fallow；　was　ignorant　of　the　rotation　of　the　crops；　thought　oranges　grew　underground　and　turnips　on　trees；　preferred　any　townscape　to　any　landscape；—all　this　and　much　more　amazed　Orlando；　who　had　never　met　anybody　of　his　kind　before。　Even　the　maids；　who　despised　him；　tittered　at　his　jokes；　and　the　men–servants；　who　loathed　him；　hung　about　to　hear　his　stories