奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第38章

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ing　thirty–five　folio　pages　one　morning　‘all　about　nothing’　he　screwed　the　lid　of　his　inkpot　and　went　for　a　turn　in　his　garden。　Soon　he　found　himself　involved　in　the　shrubbery。　Innumerable　leaves　creaked　and　glistened　above　his　head。　He　seemed　to　himself　‘to　crush　the　mould　of　a　million　more　under　his　feet’。　Thick　smoke　exuded　from　a　damp　bonfire　at　the　end　of　the　garden。　He　reflected　that　no　fire　on　earth　could　ever　hope　to　consume　that　vast　vegetable　encumbrance。　Wherever　he　looked；　vegetation　was　rampant。　Cucumbers　‘came　scrolloping　across　the　grass　to　his　feet’。　Giant　cauliflowers　towered　deck　above　deck　till　they　rivalled；　to　his　disordered　imagination；　the　elm　trees　themselves。　Hens　laid　incessantly　eggs　of　no　special　tint。　Then；　remembering　with　a　sigh　his　own　fecundity　and　his　poor　wife　Jane；　now　in　the　throes　of　her　fifteenth　confinement　indoors；　how；　he　asked　himself；　could　he　blame　the　fowls？　He　looked　upwards　into　the　sky。　Did　not　heaven　itself；　or　that　great　frontispiece　of　heaven；　which　is　the　sky；　indicate　the　assent；　indeed；　the　instigation　of　the　heavenly　hierarchy？　For　there；　winter　or　summer；　year　in　year　out；　the　clouds　turned　and　tumbled；　like　whales；　he　pondered；　or　elephants　rather；　but　no；　there　was　no　escaping　the　simile　which　was　pressed　upon　him　from　a　thousand　airy　acres；　the　whole　sky　itself　as　it　spread　wide　above　the　British　Isles　was　nothing　but　a　vast　feather　bed；　and　the　undistinguished　fecundity　of　the　garden；　the　bedroom　and　the　henroost　was　copied　there。　He　went　indoors；　wrote　the　passage　quoted　above；　laid　his　head　in　a　gas　oven；　and　when　they　found　him　later　he　was　past　revival。

While　this　went　on　in　every　part　of　England；　it　was　all　very　well　for　Orlando　to　mew　herself　in　her　house　at　Blackfriars　and　pretend　that　the　climate　was　the　same；　that　one　could　still　say　what　one　liked　and　wear　knee–breeches　or　skirts　as　the　fancy　took　one。　Even　she；　at　length；　was　forced　to　acknowledge　that　times　were　changed。　One　afternoon　in　the　early　part　of　the　century　she　was　driving　through　St　James’s　Park　in　her　old　panelled　coach　when　one　of　those　sunbeams；　which　occasionally；　though　not　often；　managed　to　e　to　earth；　struggled　through；　marbling　the　clouds　with　strange　prismatic　colours　as　it　passed。　Such　a　sight　was　sufficiently　strange　after　the　clear　and　uniform　skies　of　the　eighteenth　century　to　cause　her　to　pull　the　window　down　and　look　at　it。　The　puce　and　flamingo　clouds　made　her　think　with　a　pleasurable　anguish；　which　proves　that　she　was　insensibly　afflicted　with　the　damp　already；　of　dolphins　dying　in　Ionian　seas。　But　what　was　her　surprise　when；　as　it　struck　the　earth；　the　sunbeam　seemed　to　call　forth；　or　to　light　up；　a　pyramid；　hecatomb；　or　trophy　（for　it　had　something　of　a　banquet–table　air）—a　conglomeration　at　any　rate　of　the　most　heterogeneous　and　ill–assorted　objects；　piled　higgledy–piggledy　in　a　vast　mound　where　the　statue　of　Queen　Victoria　now　stands！　Draped　about　a　vast　cross　of　fretted　and　floriated　gold　were　widow’s　weeds　and　bridal　veils；　hooked　on　to　other　excrescences　were　crystal　palaces；　bassites；　military　helmets；　memorial　wreaths；　trousers；　whiskers；　wedding　cakes；　cannon；　Christmas　trees；　telescopes；　extinct　monsters；　globes；　maps；　elephants；　and　mathematical　instruments—the　whole　supported　like　a　gigantic　coat　of　arms　on　the　right　side　by　a　female　figure　clothed　in　flowing　white；　on　the　left　by　a　portly　gentleman　wearing　a　frock–coat　and　sponge–bag　trousers。　The　incongruity　of　the　objects；　the　association　of　the　fully　clothed　and　the　partly　draped；　the　garishness　of　the　different　colours　and　their　plaid–like　juxtapositions　afflicted　Orlando　with　the　most　profound　dismay。　She　had　never；　in　all　her　life；　seen　anything　at　once　so　indecent；　so　hideous；　and　so　monumental。　It　might；　and　indeed　it　must　be；　the　effect　of　the　sun　on　the　water–logged　air；　it　would　vanish　with　the　first　breeze　that　blew；　but　for　all　that；　it　looked；　as　she　drove　past；　as　if　it　were　destined　to　endure　for　ever。　Nothing；　she　felt；　sinking　back　into　the　corner　of　her　coach；　no　wind；　rain；　sun；　or　thunder；　could　ever　demolish　that　garish　erection。　Only　the　noses　would　mottle　and　the　trumpets　would　rust；　but　there　they　would　remain；　pointing　east；　west；　south；　and　north；　eternally。　She　looked　back　as　her　coach　swept　up　Constitution　Hill。　Yes；　there　it　was；　still　beaming　placidly　in　a　light　which—she　pulled　her　watch　out　of　her　fob—was；　of　course；　the　light　of　twelve　o’clock　mid–day。　None　other　could　be　so　prosaic；　so　matter–of–fact；　so　impervious　to　any　hint　of　dawn　or　sunset；　so　seemingly　calculated　to　last　for　ever。　She　was　determined　not　to　look　again。　Already　she　felt　the　tides　of　her　blood　run　sluggishly。　But　what　was　more　peculiar　a　blush；　vivid　and　singular；　overspread　her　cheeks　as　she　passed　Buckingham　Palace　and　her　eyes　seemed　forced　by　a　superior　power　down　upon　her　knees。　Suddenly　she　saw　with　a　start　that　she　was　wearing　black　breeches。　She　never　ceased　blushing　till　she　had　reached　her　country　house；　which；　considering　the　time　it　takes　four　horses　to　trot　thirty　miles；　will　be　taken；　we　hope；　as　a　signal　proof　of　her　chastity。

Once　there；　she　followed　what　had　now　bee　the　most　imperious　need　of　her　nature　and　wrapped　herself　as　well　as　she　could　in　a　damask　quilt　which　she　snatched　from　her　bed。　She　explained　to　the　Widow　Bartholomew　（who　had　succeeded　good　old　Grimsditch　as　housekeeper）　that　she　felt　chilly。

‘So　do　we　all；　m’lady；’　said　the　Widow；　heaving　a　profound　sigh。　‘The　walls　is　sweating；’　she　said；　with　a　curious；　lugubrious　placency；　and　sure　enough；　she　had　only　to　lay　her　hand　on　the　oak　panels　for　the　finger–prints　to　be　marked　there。　The　ivy　had　grown　so　profusely　that　many　windows　were　now　sealed　up。　The　kitchen　was　so　dark　that　they　could　scarcely　tell　a　kettle　from　a　cullender。　A　poor　black　cat　had　been　mistaken　for　coals　and　shovelled　on　the　fire。　Most　of　the　maids　were　already　wearing　three　or　four　red–flannel　petticoats；　though　the　month　was　August。

‘But　is　it　true；　m’lady；’　the　good　woman　asked；　hugging　herself；　while　the　golden　crucifix　heaved　on　her　bosom；　‘that　the　Queen；　bless　her；　is　wearing　a　what　d’you　call　it；　a—；’　the　good　woman　hesitated　and　blushed。

‘A　crinoline；’　Orlando　helped　her　out　with　it　（for　the　word　had　reached　Blackfriars）。　Mrs　Bartholomew　nodded。　The　tears　were　already　running　down　her　cheeks；　but　as　she　wept　she　smiled。　For　it　was　pleasant　to　weep。　Were　they　not　all　of　them　weak　women？　wearing　crinolines　the　better　to　conceal　the　fact；　the　great　fact；　the　only　fact；　but；　nevertheless；　the　deplorable　fact；　which　every　modest　woman　did　her　best　to　deny　until　denial　was　impossible；　the　fact　that　she　was　about　to　bear　a　child？　to　bear　fifteen　or　twenty　children　indeed；　so　that　most　of　a　modest　woman’s　life　was　spent；　after　all；　in　denying　what；　on　one　day　at　least　of　every　year；　was　made　obvious。

‘The　muffins　is　keepin’　‘ot；’　said　Mrs　Bartholomew；　mopping　up　her　tears；　‘in　the　liberry。’

And　wrapped　in　a　damask　bed　quilt；　to　a　dish　of　muffins　Orlando　now　sat　down。

‘The　muffins　is　keepin’　‘ot　in　the　liberry’—Orlando　minced　out　the　horrid　cockney　phrase　in　Mrs　Bartholomew’s　refined　cockney　accents　as　she　drank—but　no；　she　detested　the　mild　fluid—her　tea。　It　was　in　this　very　room；　she　remembered；　that　Queen　Elizabeth　had　stood　astride　the　fireplace　with　a　flagon　of　beer　in　her　hand；　which　she　suddenly　dashed　on　the　table　when　Lord　Burghley　tactlessly　used　the　imperative　instead　of　the　subjunctive。　‘Little　man；　little　man；’—Orlando　could　hear　her　say—’is　“must”　a　word　to　be　addressed　to　princes？’　And　down　came　the　flagon　on　the　table：　there　was　the　mark　of　it　still。

But　when　Orlando　leapt　to　her　feet；　as　the　mere　thought　of　that　great　Queen　manded；　the　bed　quilt　tripped　her　up；　and　she　fell　back　in　her　arm–chair　with　a　curse。　Tomorrow　she　would　have　to　buy　twenty　yards　or　more　of　black　bombazine；　she　supposed；　to　make　a　skirt。　And　then　（here　she　blushed）；　she　would　have　to　buy　a　crinoline；　and　then　（here　she　blushed）　a　bassite；　and　then　another　crinoline；　and　so　on。。。The　blushes　came　and　went　with　the　most　exquisite　iteration　of　modesty　and　shame　imaginable。　One　might　see　the　sp