奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙- 第39部分

‘Hang　it　all！’　she　cried；　with　a　touch　of　her　old　spirit。　‘Here　goes！’

And　she　plunged　her　pen　neck　deep　in　the　ink。　To　her　enormous　surprise；　there　was　no　explosion。　She　drew　the　nib　out。　It　was　wet；　but　not　dripping。　She　wrote。　The　words　were　a　little　long　in　ing；　but　e　they　did。　Ah！　but　did　they　make　sense？　she　wondered；　a　panic　ing　over　her　lest　the　pen　might　have　been　at　some　of　its　involuntary　pranks　again。　She　read；

And　then　I　came　to　a　field　where　the　springing　grass
Was　dulled　by　the　hanging　cups　of　fritillaries；
Sullen　and　foreign–looking；　the　snaky　flower；
Scarfed　in　dull　purple；　like　Egyptian　girls：—

As　she　wrote　she　felt　some　power　（remember　we　are　dealing　with　the　most　obscure　manifestations　of　the　human　spirit）　reading　over　her　shoulder；　and　when　she　had　written　‘Egyptian　girls’；　the　power　told　her　to　stop。　Grass；　the　power　seemed　to　say；　going　back　with　a　ruler　such　as　governesses　use　to　the　beginning；　is　all　right；　the　hanging　cups　of　fritillaries—admirable；　the　snaky　flower—a　thought；　strong　from　a　lady’s　pen；　perhaps；　but　Wordsworth　no　doubt；　sanctions　it；　but—girls？　Are　girls　necessary？　You　have　a　husband　at　the　Cape；　you　say？　Ah；　well；　that’ll　do。

And　so　the　spirit　passed　on。

Orlando　now　performed　in　spirit　（for　all　this　took　place　in　spirit）　a　deep　obeisance　to　the　spirit　of　her　age；　such　as—to　pare　great　things　with　small—a　traveller；　conscious　that　he　has　a　bundle　of　cigars　in　the　corner　of　his　suit　case；　makes　to　the　customs　officer　who　has　obligingly　made　a　scribble　of　white　chalk　on　the　lid。　For　she　was　extremely　doubtful　whether；　if　the　spirit　had　examined　the　contents　of　her　mind　carefully；　it　would　not　have　found　something　highly　contraband　for　which　she　would　have　had　to　pay　the　full　fine。　She　had　only　escaped　by　the　skin　of　her　teeth。　She　had　just　managed；　by　some　dexterous　deference　to　the　spirit　of　the　age；　by　putting　on　a　ring　and　finding　a　man　on　a　moor；　by　loving　nature　and　being　no　satirist；　cynic；　or　psychologist—any　one　of　which　goods　would　have　been　discovered　at　once—to　pass　its　examination　successfully。　And　she　heaved　a　deep　sigh　of　relief；　as；　indeed；　well　she　might；　for　the　transaction　between　a　writer　and　the　spirit　of　the　age　is　one　of　infinite　delicacy；　and　upon　a　nice　arrangement　between　the　two　the　whole　fortune　of　his　works　depends。　Orlando　had　so　ordered　it　that　she　was　in　an　extremely　happy　position；　she　need　neither　fight　her　age；　nor　submit　to　it；　she　was　of　it；　yet　remained　herself。　Now；　therefore；　she　could　write；　and　write　she　did。　She　wrote。　She　wrote。　She　wrote。

It　was　now　November。　After　November；　es　December。　Then　January；　February；　March；　and　April。　After　April　es　May。　June；　July；　August　follow。　Next　is　September。　Then　October；　and　so；　behold；　here　we　are　back　at　November　again；　with　a　whole　year　acplished。

This　method　of　writing　biography；　though　it　has　its　merits；　is　a　little　bare；　perhaps；　and　the　reader；　if　we　go　on　with　it；　may　plain　that　he　could　recite　the　calendar　for　himself　and　so　save　his　pocket　whatever　sum　the　Hogarth　Press　may　think　proper　to　charge　for　this　book。　But　what　can　the　biographer　do　when　his　subject　has　put　him　in　the　predicament　into　which　Orlando　has　now　put　us？　Life；　it　has　been　agreed　by　everyone　whose　opinion　is　worth　consulting；　is　the　only　fit　subject　for　novelist　or　biographer；　life；　the　same　authorities　have　decided；　has　nothing　whatever　to　do　with　sitting　still　in　a　chair　and　thinking。　Thought　and　life　are　as　the　poles　asunder。　Therefore—since　sitting　in　a　chair　and　thinking　is　precisely　what　Orlando　is　doing　now—there　is　nothing　for　it　but　to　recite　the　calendar；　tell　one’s　beads；　blow　one’s　nose；　stir　the　fire；　look　out　of　the　window；　until　she　has　done。　Orlando　sat　so　still　that　you　could　have　heard　a　pin　drop。　Would；　indeed；　that　a　pin　had　dropped！　That　would　have　been　life　of　a　kind。　Or　if　a　butterfly　had　fluttered　through　the　window　and　settled　on　her　chair；　one　could　write　about　that。　Or　suppose　she　had　got　up　and　killed　a　wasp。　Then；　at　once；　we　could　out　with　our　pens　and　write。　For　there　would　be　blood　shed；　if　only　the　blood　of　a　wasp。　Where　there　is　blood　there　is　life。　And　if　killing　a　wasp　is　the　merest　trifle　pared　with　killing　a　man；　still　it　is　a　fitter　subject　for　novelist　or　biographer　than　this　mere　wool–gathering；　this　thinking；　this　sitting　in　a　chair　day　in；　day　out；　with　a　cigarette　and　a　sheet　of　paper　and　a　pen　and　an　ink　pot。　If　only　subjects；　we　might　plain　（for　our　patience　is　wearing　thin）；　had　more　consideration　for　their　biographers！　What　is　more　irritating　than　to　see　one’s　subject；　on　whom　one　has　lavished　so　much　time　and　trouble；　slipping　out　of　one’s　grasp　altogether　and　indulging—witness　her　sighs　and　gasps；　her　flushing；　her　palings；　her　eyes　now　bright　as　lamps；　now　haggard　as　dawns—what　is　more　humiliating　than　to　see　all　this　dumb　show　of　emotion　and　excitement　gone　through　before　our　eyes　when　we　know　that　what　causes　it—thought　and　imagination—are　of　no　importance　whatsoever？

But　Orlando　was　a　woman—Lord　Palmerston　had　just　proved　it。　And　when　we　are　writing　the　life　of　a　woman；　we　may；　it　is　agreed；　waive　our　demand　for　action；　and　substitute　love　instead。　Love；　the　poet　has　said；　is　woman’s　whole　existence。　And　if　we　look　for　a　moment　at　Orlando　writing　at　her　table；　we　must　admit　that　never　was　there　a　woman　more　fitted　for　that　calling。　Surely；　since　she　is　a　woman；　and　a　beautiful　woman；　and　a　woman　in　the　prime　of　life；　she　will　soon　give　over　this　pretence　of　writing　and　thinking　and　begin　at　least　to　think　of　a　gamekeeper　（and　as　long　as　she　thinks　of　a　man；　nobody　objects　to　a　woman　thinking）。　And　then　she　will　write　him　a　little　note　（and　as　long　as　she　writes　little　notes　nobody　objects　to　a　woman　writing　either）　and　make　an　assignation　for　Sunday　dusk　and　Sunday　dusk　will　e；　and　the　gamekeeper　will　whistle　under　the　window—all　of　which　is；　of　course；　the　very　stuff　of　life　and　the　only　possible　subject　for　fiction。　Surely　Orlando　must　have　done　one　of　these　things？　Alas；—a　thousand　times；　alas；　Orlando　did　none　of　them。　Must　it　then　be　admitted　that　Orlando　was　one　of　those　monsters　of　iniquity　who　do　not　love？　She　was　kind　to　dogs；　faithful　to　friends；　generosity　itself　to　a　dozen　starving　poets；　had　a　passion　for　poetry。　But　love—as　the　male　novelists　define　it—and　who；　after　all；　speak　with　greater　authority？—has　nothing　whatever　to　do　with　kindness；　fidelity；　generosity；　or　poetry。　Love　is　slipping　off　one’s　petticoat　and—But　we　all　know　what　love　is。　Did　Orlando　do　that？　Truth　pels　us　to　say　no；　she　did　not。　If　then；　the　subject　of　one’s　biography　will　neither　love　nor　kill；　but　will　only　think　and　imagine；　we　may　conclude　that　he　or　she　is　no　better　than　a　corpse　and　so　leave　her。

The　only　resource　now　left　us　is　to　look　out　of　the　window。　There　were　sparrows；　there　were　starlings；　there　were　a　number　of　doves；　and　one　or　two　rooks；　all　occupied　after　their　fashion。　One　finds　a　worm；　another　a　snail。　One　flutters　to　a　branch；　another　takes　a　little　run　on　the　turf。　Then　a　servant　crosses　the　courtyard；　wearing　a　green　baize　apron。　Presumably　he　is　engaged　on　some　intrigue　with　one　of　the　maids　in　the　pantry；　but　as　no　visible　proof　is　offered　us；　in　the　courtyard；　we　can　but　hope　for　the　best　and　leave　it。　Clouds　pass；　thin　or　thick；　with　some　disturbance　of　the　colour　of　the　grass　beneath。　The　sun–dial　registers　the　hour　in　its　usual　cryptic　way。　One’s　mind　begins　tossing　up　a　question　or　two；　idly；　vainly；　about　this　same　life。　Life；　it　sings；　or　croons　rather；　like　a　kettle　on　a　hob。　Life；　life；　what　art　thou？　Light　or　darkness；　the　baize　apron　of　the　under–footman　or　the　shadow　of　the　starling　on　the　grass？

Let　us　go；　then；　exploring；　this　summer　morning；　when　all　are　adoring　the　plum　blossom　and　the　bee。　And　humming　and　hawing；　let　us　ask　of　the　starling　（who　is　a　more　sociable　bird　than　the　lark）　what　he　may　think　on　the　brink　of　the　dustbin；　whence　he　picks　among　the　sticks　bings　of　scullion’s　hair。　What’s　life；　we　ask；　leaning　on　the　farmyard　gate；　Life；　Life；　Life！　cries　the　bird；　as　if　he　had　heard；　and　knew　precisely；　what　we　meant　by　this　bothering　prying　habit　of　ours　of　asking　questions　indoors　and　out　and　peeping　and　picking　at　daisies　as　the　way　is　of　writers　when　they　don’t　know　what　to　say　next。　Then　they　e　here；　says　the　bird；　and　ask　me　what　life　is；　Life；　Life；　Life！

We　trudge　on　then　by　the　moor　path；　to　the　high　brow　of　the　wine–blue　purple–dark　hill；　and　fling　ourselves　down　there；　and　dream　there　and　see　there　a　grasshopper；　carting　back　to　his　home　in　the　hollow；　a　straw。　And　he　says　（if　sawings　like　his　can　be　given　a　name　so　sacred　and　tender）　Life’s　labour；　or　so　we　interpret　the　whirr　of　his　dust–choked　gullet。　And　the　ant　agrees　and　the　bees；　but　if　we　lie　here　long　enough　to　ask　the　moths；　when　they　e　at　evening；　stealing　among　the　paler　heather　bells；　they　will　breathe　in　our　ears　such　wild　nonsense　as　one　hears　from　telegraph　wires　in　snow　storms；　tee　hee；　haw　haw。　Laughter；　Laughter！　the　moths　say。

Having　asked　then　of　man　and　of　bird　and　the　insects；　for　fish；　men　tell　us；　who　have　lived　in　green　caves；　solitary　for　years　to　hear　them　speak；　never；　never　say