奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第39章

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ame　and　went　with　the　most　exquisite　iteration　of　modesty　and　shame　imaginable。　One　might　see　the　spirit　of　the　age　blowing；　now　hot；　now　cold；　upon　her　cheeks。　And　if　the　spirit　of　the　age　blew　a　little　unequally；　the　crinoline　being　blushed　for　before　the　husband；　her　ambiguous　position　must　excuse　her　（even　her　sex　was　still　in　dispute）　and　the　irregular　life　she　had　lived　before。

At　length　the　colour　on　her　cheeks　resumed　its　stability　and　it　seemed　as　if　the　spirit　of　the　age—if　such　indeed　it　were—lay　dormant　for　a　time。　Then　Orlando　felt　in　the　bosom　of　her　shirt　as　if　for　some　locket　or　relic　of　lost　affection；　and　drew　out　no　such　thing；　but　a　roll　of　paper；　sea–stained；　blood–stained；　travel–stained—the　manuscript　of　her　poem；　‘The　Oak　Tree’。　She　had　carried　this　about　with　her　for　so　many　years　now；　and　in　such　hazardous　circumstances；　that　many　of　the　pages　were　stained；　some　were　torn；　while　the　straits　she　had　been　in　for　writing　paper　when　with　the　gipsies；　had　forced　her　to　overscore　the　margins　and　cross　the　lines　till　the　manuscript　looked　like　a　piece　of　darning　most　conscientiously　carried　out。　She　turned　back　to　the　first　page　and　read　the　date；　1586；　written　in　her　own　boyish　hand。　She　had　been　working　at　it　for　close　three　hundred　years　now。　It　was　time　to　make　an　end。　Meanwhile　she　began　turning　and　dipping　and　reading　and　skipping　and　thinking　as　she　read；　how　very　little　she　had　changed　all　these　years。　She　had　been　a　gloomy　boy；　in　love　with　death；　as　boys　are；　and　then　she　had　been　amorous　and　florid；　and　then　she　had　been　sprightly　and　satirical；　and　sometimes　she　had　tried　prose　and　sometimes　she　had　tried　drama。　Yet　through　all　these　changes　she　had　remained；　she　reflected；　fundamentally　the　same。　She　had　the　same　brooding　meditative　temper；　the　same　love　of　animals　and　nature；　the　same　passion　for　the　country　and　the　seasons。

‘After　all；’　she　thought；　getting　up　and　going　to　the　window；　‘nothing　has　changed。　The　house；　the　garden　are　precisely　as　they　were。　Not　a　chair　has　been　moved；　not　a　trinket　sold。　There　are　the　same　walks；　the　same　lawns；　the　same　trees；　and　the　same　pool；　which；　I　dare　say；　has　the　same　carp　in　it。　True；　Queen　Victoria　is　on　the　throne　and　not　Queen　Elizabeth；　but　what　difference。。。’

No　sooner　had　the　thought　taken　shape；　than；　as　if　to　rebuke　it；　the　door　was　flung　wide　and　in　marched　Basket；　the　butler；　followed　by　Bartholomew；　the　housekeeper；　to　clear　away　tea。　Orlando；　who　had　just　dipped　her　pen　in　the　ink；　and　was　about　to　indite　some　reflection　upon　the　eternity　of　all　things；　was　much　annoyed　to　be　impeded　by　a　blot；　which　spread　and　meandered　round　her　pen。　It　was　some　infirmity　of　the　quill；　she　supposed；　it　was　split　or　dirty。　She　dipped　it　again。　The　blot　increased。　She　tried　to　go　on　with　what　she　was　saying；　no　words　came。　Next　she　began　to　decorate　the　blot　with　wings　and　whiskers；　till　it　became　a　round–headed　monster；　something　between　a　bat　and　a　wombat。　But　as　for　writing　poetry　with　Basket　and　Bartholomew　in　the　room；　it　was　impossible。　No　sooner　had　she　said　‘Impossible’　than；　to　her　astonishment　and　alarm；　the　pen　began　to　curve　and　caracole　with　the　smoothest　possible　fluency。　Her　page　was　written　in　the　neatest　sloping　Italian　hand　with　the　most　insipid　verse　she　had　ever　read　in　her　life：

I　am　myself　but　a　vile　link
Amid　life’s　weary　chain；
But　I　have　spoken　hallow’d　words；
Oh；　do　not　say　in　vain！

Will　the　young　maiden；　when　her　tears；
Alone　in　moonlight　shine；
Tears　for　the　absent　and　the　loved；
Murmur—

she　wrote　without　a　stop　as　Bartholomew　and　Basket　grunted　and　groaned　about　the　room；　mending　the　fire；　picking　up　the　muffins。

Again　she　dipped　her　pen　and　off　it　went：—

She　was　so　changed；　the　soft　carnation　cloud
Once　mantling　o’er　her　cheek　like　that　which　eve
Hangs　o’er　the　sky；　glowing　with　roseate　hue；
Had　faded　into　paleness；　broken　by
Bright　burning　blushes；　torches　of　the　tomb；

but　here；　by　an　abrupt　movement　she　spilt　the　ink　ever　the　page　and　blotted　it　from　human　sight　she　hoped　for　ever。　She　was　all　of　a　quiver；　all　of　a　stew。　Nothing　more　repulsive　could　be　imagined　than　to　feel　the　ink　flowing　thus　in　cascades　of　involuntary　inspiration。　What　had　happened　to　her？　Was　it　the　damp；　was　it　Bartholomew；　was　it　Basket；　what　was　it？　she　demanded。　But　the　room　was　empty。　No　one　answered　her；　unless　the　dripping　of　the　rain　in　the　ivy　could　be　taken　for　an　answer。

Meanwhile；　she　became　conscious；　as　she　stood　at　the　window；　of　an　extraordinary　tingling　and　vibration　all　over　her；　as　if　she　were　made　of　a　thousand　wires　upon　which　some　breeze　or　errant　fingers　were　playing　scales。　Now　her　toes　tingled；　now　her　marrow。　She　had　the　queerest　sensations　about　the　thigh　bones。　Her　hairs　seemed　to　erect　themselves。　Her　arms　sang　and　twanged　as　the　telegraph　wires　would　be　singing　and　twanging　in　twenty　years　or　so。　But　all　this　agitation　seemed　at　length　to　concentrate　in　her　hands；　and　then　in　one　hand；　and　then　in　one　finger　of　that　hand；　and　then　finally　to　contract　itself　so　that　it　made　a　ring　of　quivering　sensibility　about　the　second　finger　of　the　left　hand。　And　when　she　raised　it　to　see　what　caused　this　agitation；　she　saw　nothing—nothing　but　the　vast　solitary　emerald　which　Queen　Elizabeth　had　given　her。　And　was　that　not　enough？　she　asked。　It　was　of　the　finest　water。　It　was　worth　ten　thousand　pounds　at　least。　The　vibration　seemed；　in　the　oddest　way　（but　remember　we　are　dealing　with　some　of　the　darkest　manifestations　of　the　human　soul）　to　say　No；　that　is　not　enough；　and；　further；　to　assume　a　note　of　interrogation；　as　though　it　were　asking；　what　did　it　mean；　this　hiatus；　this　strange　oversight？　till　poor　Orlando　felt　positively　ashamed　of　the　second　finger　of　her　left　hand　without　in　the　least　knowing　why。　At　this　moment；　Bartholomew　came　in　to　ask　which　dress　she　should　lay　out　for　dinner；　and　Orlando；　whose　senses　were　much　quickened；　instantly　glanced　at　Bartholomew’s　left　hand；　and　instantly　perceived　what　she　had　never　noticed　before—a　thick　ring　of　rather　jaundiced　yellow　circling　the　third　finger　where　her　own　was　bare。

‘Let　me　look　at　your　ring；　Bartholomew；’　she　said；　stretching　her　hand　to　take　it。

At　this；　Bartholomew　made　as　if　she　had　been　struck　in　the　breast　by　a　rogue。　She　started　back　a　pace　or　two；　clenched　her　hand　and　flung　it　away　from　her　with　a　gesture　that　was　noble　in　the　extreme。　‘No；’　she　said；　with　resolute　dignity；　her　Ladyship　might　look　if　she　pleased；　but　as　for　taking　off　her　wedding　ring；　not　the　Archbishop　nor　the　Pope　nor　Queen　Victoria　on　her　throne　could　force　her　to　do　that。　Her　Thomas　had　put　it　on　her　finger　twenty–five　years；　six　months；　three　weeks　ago；　she　had　slept　in　it；　worked　in　it；　washed　in　it；　prayed　in　it；　and　proposed　to　be　buried　in　it。　In　fact；　Orlando　understood　her　to　say；　but　her　voice　was　much　broken　with　emotion；　that　it　was　by　the　gleam　on　her　wedding　ring　that　she　would　be　assigned　her　station　among　the　angels　and　its　lustre　would　be　tarnished　for　ever　if　she　let　it　out　of　her　keeping　for　a　second。

‘Heaven　help　us；’　said　Orlando；　standing　at　the　window　and　watching　the　pigeons　at　their　pranks；　‘what　a　world　we　live　in！　What　a　world　to　be　sure！’　Its　plexities　amazed　her。　It　now　seemed　to　her　that　the　whole　world　was　ringed　with　gold。　She　went　in　to　dinner。　Wedding　rings　abounded。　She　went　to　church。　Wedding　rings　were　everywhere。　She　drove　out。　Gold；　or　pinchbeck；　thin；　thick；　plain；　smooth；　they　glowed　dully　on　every　hand。　Rings　filled　the　jewellers’　shops；　not　the　flashing　pastes　and　diamonds　of　Orlando’s　recollection；　but　simple　bands　without　a　stone　in　them。　At　the　same　time；　she　began　to　notice　a　new　habit　among　the　town　people。　In　the　old　days；　one　would　meet　a　boy　trifling　with　a　girl　under　a　hawthorn　hedge　frequently　enough。　Orlando　had　flicked　many　a　couple　with　the　tip　of　her　whip　and　laughed　and　passed　on。　Now；　all　that　was　changed。　Couples　trudged　and　plodded　in　the　middle　of　the　road　indissolubly　linked　together。　The　woman’s　right　hand　was　invariably　passed　through　the　man’s　left　and　her　fingers　were　firmly　gripped　by　his。　Often　it　was　not　till　the　horses’　noses　were　on　them　that　they　budg