ng as they did equally and some of them； perhaps； as proudly； even from such depths of the past as she did； chose to let down the impervious screen of the present so that today they appeared shop assistants in Marshall & Snelgrove’s merely。 Orlando stood there hesitating。 Through the great glass doors she could see the traffic in Oxford Street。 Omnibus seemed to pile itself upon omnibus and then to jerk itself apart。 So the ice blocks had pitched and tossed that day on the Thames。 An old nobleman—in furred slippers had sat astride one of them。 There he went—she could see him now—calling down maledictions upon the Irish rebels。 He had sunk there； where her car stood。
‘Time has passed over me；’ she thought； trying to collect herself； ‘this is the one of middle age。 How strange it is！ Nothing is any longer one thing。 I take up a handbag and I think of an old bumboat woman frozen in the ice。 Someone lights a pink candle and I see a girl in Russian trousers。 When I step out of doors—as I do now；’ here she stepped on to the pavement of Oxford Street； ‘what is it that I taste？ Little herbs。 I hear goat bells。 I see mountains。 Turkey？ India？ Persia？’ Her eyes filled with tears。
That Orlando had gone a little too far from the present moment will； perhaps； strike the reader who sees her now preparing to get into her motor–car with her eyes full of tears and visions of Persian mountains。 And indeed； it cannot be denied that the most successful practitioners of the art of life； often unknown people by the way； somehow contrive to synchronize the sixty or seventy different times which beat simultaneously in every normal human system so that when eleven strikes； all the rest chime in unison； and the present is neither a violent disruption nor pletely forgotten in the past。 Of them we can justly say that they live precisely the sixty–eight or seventy–two years allotted them on the tombstone。 Of the rest some we know to be dead though they walk among us； some are not yet born though they go through the forms of life； others are hundreds of years old though they call themselves thirty–six。 The true length of a person’s life； whatever the “Dictionary of National Biography” may say； is always a matter of dispute。 For it is a difficult business—this time–keeping； nothing more quickly disorders it than contact with any of the arts； and it may have been her love of poetry that was to blame for making Orlando lose her shopping list and start home without the sardines； the bath salts； or the boots。 Now as she stood with her hand on the door of her motor–car； the present again struck her on the head。 Eleven times she was violently assaulted。
‘Confound it all！’ she cried； for it is a great shock to the nervous system； hearing a clock strike—so much so that for some time now there is nothing to be said of her save that she frowned slightly； changed her gears admirably； and cried out； as before； ‘Look where you’re going！’ ‘Don’t you know your own mind？’ ‘Why didn’t you say so then？’ while the motor–car shot； swung； squeezed； and slid； for she was an expert driver； down Regent Street； down Haymarket； down Northumberland Avenue； over Westminster Bridge； to the left； straight on； to the right； straight on again。。。
The Old Kent Road was very crowded on Thursday； the eleventh of October 1928。 People spilt off the pavement。 There were women with shopping bags。 Children ran out。 There were sales at drapers’ shops。 Streets widened and narrowed。 Long vistas steadily shrunk together。 Here was a market。 Here a funeral。 Here a procession with banners upon which was written ‘Ra—Un’； but what else？ Meat was very red。 Butchers stood at the door。 Women almost had their heels sliced off。 Amor Vin— that was over a porch。 A woman looked out of a bedroom window； profoundly contemplative； and very still。 Applejohn and Applebed； Undert—。 Nothing could be seen whole or read from start to finish。 What was seen begun—like two friends starting to meet each other across the street—was never seen ended。 After twenty minutes the body and mind were like scraps of torn paper tumbling from a sack and； indeed； the process of motoring fast out of London so much resembles the chopping up small of identity which precedes unconsciousness and perhaps death itself that it is an open question in what sense Orlando can be said to have existed at the present moment。 Indeed we should have given her over for a person entirely disassembled were it not that here； at last； one green screen was held out on the right； against which the little bits of paper fell more slowly； and then another was held out on the left so that one could see the separate scraps now turning over by themselves in the air； and then green screens were held continuously on either side； so that her mind regained the illusion of holding things within itself and she saw a cottage； a farmyard and four cows； all precisely life–size。
When this happened； Orlando heaved a sigh of relief； lit a cigarette； and puffed for a minute or two in silence。 Then she called hesitatingly； as if the person she wanted might not be there； ‘Orlando？ For if there are （at a venture） seventy–six different times all ticking in the mind at once； how many different people are there not—Heaven help us—all having lodgment at one time or another in the human spirit？ Some say two thousand and fifty–two。 So that it is the most usual thing in the world for a person to call； directly they are alone； Orlando？ （if that is one’s name） meaning by that； e； e！ I’m sick to death of this particular self。 I want another。 Hence； the astonishing changes we see in our friends。 But it is not altogether plain sailing； either； for though one may say； as Orlando said （being out in the country and needing another self presumably） Orlando？ still the Orlando she needs may not e； these selves of which we are built up； one on top of another； as plates are piled on a waiter’s hand； have attachments elsewhere； sympathies； little constitutions and rights of their own； call them what you will （and for many of these things there is no name） so that one will only e if it is raining； another in a room with green curtains； another when Mrs Jones is not there； another if you can promise it a glass of wine—and so on； for everybody can multiply from his own experience the different terms which his different selves have made with him—and some are too wildly ridiculous to be mentioned in print at all。
So Orlando； at the turn by the barn； called ‘Orlando？’ with a note of interrogation in her voice and waited。 Orlando did not e。
‘All right then；’ Orlando said； with the good humour people practise on these occasions； and tried another。 For she had a great variety of selves to call upon； far more than we have been able to find room for； since a biography is considered plete if it merely accounts for six or seven selves； whereas a person may well have as many thousand。 Choosing then； only those selves we have found room for； Orlando may now have called on the boy who cut the nigger’s head down； the boy who strung it up again； the boy who sat on the hill； the boy who saw the poet； the boy who handed the Queen the bowl of rose water； or she may have called upon the young man who fell in love with Sasha； or upon the Courtier； or upon the Ambassador； or upon the Soldier； or upon the Traveller； or she may have wanted the woman to e to her； the Gipsy； the Fine Lady； the Hermit； the girl in love with life； the Patroness of Letters； the woman who called Mar （meaning hot baths and evening fires） or Shelmerdine （meaning crocuses in autumn woods） or Bonthrop （meaning the death we die daily） or all three together—which meant more things than we have space to write out—all were different and she may have called upon any one of them。
Perhaps； but what appeared certain （for we are now in the region of ‘perhaps’ and ‘appears’） was that the one she needed most kept aloof； for she was； to hear her talk； changing her selves as quickly as she drove—there was a new one at every corner—as happens when； for some unaccountable reason； the conscious self； which is the uppermost； and has the power to desire； wishes to be nothing but one self。 This is what some people call the true self； and it is； they say； pact of all the selves we have it in us to be； manded and locked up by the Captain self； the Key self； which amalgamates and controls them all。 Orlando was certainly seeking this self as the reader can judge from overhearing her talk as she drove （and if it is rambling talk； disconnected； trivial； dull； and sometimes unintelligible； it is the reader’s fault for listening to a lady talking to herself； we only copy her words as she spoke them； adding in brackets which self in our opinion is speaking； but in this we may well be wrong）。
‘What then？ Who then？’ she said。 ‘Thirty–six； in a motor–car； a woman。 Yes； but a million other things as well。 A snob am I？ The garter in the hall？ The leopards？ My ancestors？ Proud of them？ Yes！ Greedy； luxurious； vicious？ Am I？ （here a new self came in）。 Don’t care a damn if I am。 Truthful？ I think so。 Generous？ Oh； but that don’t count （here a new self came in）。 Lying in bed of a morning listening to the pi