三界文学阁

手机浏览器扫描二维码访问

第39部分（第1页）

p　coughing　in　the　park；　a　swift　screaming　past　the　window。　Her　own　body　quivered　and　tingled　as　if　suddenly　stood　naked　in　a　hard　frost。　Yet；　she　kept；　as　she　had　not　done　when　the　clock　struck　ten　in　London；　plete　posure　（for　she　was　now　one　and　entire；　and　presented；　it　may　be；　a　larger　surface　to　the　shock　of　time）。　She　rose；　but　without　precipitation；　called　her　dogs；　and　went　firmly　but　with　great　alertness　of　movement　down　the　staircase　and　out　into　the　garden。　Here　the　shadows　of　the　plants　were　miraculously　distinct。　She　noticed　the　separate　grains　of　earth　in　the　flower　beds　as　if　she　had　a　microscope　stuck　to　her　eye。　She　saw　the　intricacy　of　the　twigs　of　every　tree。　Each　blade　of　grass　was　distinct　and　the　marking　of　veins　and　petals。　She　saw　Stubbs；　the　gardener；　ing　along　the　path；　and　every　button　on　his　gaiters　was　visible；　she　saw　Betty　and　Prince；　the　cart　horses；　and　never　had　she　marked　so　clearly　the　white　star　on　Betty’s　forehead；　and　the　three　long　hairs　that　fell　down　below　the　rest　on　Prince’s　tail。　Out　in　the　quadrangle　the　old　grey　walls　of　the　house　looked　like　a　scraped　new　photograph；　she　heard　the　loud　speaker　condensing　on　the　terrace　a　dance　tune　that　people　were　listening　to　in　the　red　velvet　opera　house　at　Vienna。　Braced　and　strung　up　by　the　present　moment　she　was　also　strangely　afraid；　as　if　whenever　the　gulf　of　time　gaped　and　let　a　second　through　some　unknown　danger　might　e　with　it。　The　tension　was　too　relentless　and　too　rigorous　to　be　endured　long　without　disfort。　She　walked　more　briskly　than　she　liked；　as　if　her　legs　were　moved　for　her；　through　the　garden　and　out　into　the　park。　Here　she　forced　herself；　by　a　great　effort；　to　stop　by　the　carpenter’s　shop；　and　to　stand　stock–still　watching　Joe　Stubbs　fashion　a　cart　wheel。　She　was　standing　with　her　eye　fixed　on　his　hand　when　the　quarter　struck。　It　hurtled　through　her　like　a　meteor；　so　hot　that　no　fingers　can　hold　it。　She　saw　with　disgusting　vividness　that　the　thumb　on　Joe’s　right　hand　was　without　a　finger　nail　and　there　was　a　raised　saucer　of　pink　flesh　where　the　nail　should　have　been。　The　sight　was　so　repulsive　that　she　felt　faint　for　a　moment；　but　in　that　moment’s　darkness；　when　her　eyelids　flickered；　she　was　relieved　of　the　pressure　of　the　present。　There　was　something　strange　in　the　shadow　that　the　flicker　of　her　eyes　cast；　something　which　（as　anyone　can　test　for　himself　by　looking　now　at　the　sky）　is　always　absent　from　the　present—whence　its　terror；　its　nondescript　character—something　one　trembles　to　pin　through　the　body　with　a　name　and　call　beauty；　for　it　has　no　body；　is　as　a　shadow　without　substance　or　quality　of　its　own；　yet　has　the　power　to　change　whatever　it　adds　itself　to。　This　shadow　now；　while　she　flickered　her　eye　in　her　faintness　in　the　carpenter’s　shop；　stole　out；　and　attaching　itself　to　the　innumerable　sights　she　had　been　receiving；　posed　them　into　something　tolerable；　prehensible。　Her　mind　began　to　toss　like　the　sea。　Yes；　she　thought；　heaving　a　deep　sigh　of　relief；　as　she　turned　from　the　carpenter’s　shop　to　climb　the　hill；　I　can　begin　to　live　again。　I　am　by　the　Serpentine；　she　thought；　the　little　boat　is　climbing　through　the　white　arch　of　a　thousand　deaths。　I　am　about　to　understand。。。

Those　were　her　words；　spoken　quite　distinctly；　but　we　cannot　conceal　the　fact　that　she　was　now　a　very　indifferent　witness　to　the　truth　of　what　was　before　her　and　might　easily　have　mistaken　a　sheep　for　a　cow；　or　an　old　man　called　Smith　for　one　who　was　called　Jones　and　was　no　relation　of　his　whatever。　For　the　shadow　of　faintness　which　the　thumb　without　a　nail　had　cast　had　deepened　now；　at　the　back　of　her　brain　（which　is　the　part　furthest　from　sight）；　into　a　pool　where　things　dwell　in　darkness　so　deep　that　what　they　are　we　scarcely　know。　She　now　looked　down　into　this　pool　or　sea　in　which　everything　is　reflected—and；　indeed；　some　say　that　all　our　most　violent　passions；　and　art　and　religion；　are　the　reflections　which　we　see　in　the　dark　hollow　at　the　back　of　the　head　when　the　visible　world　is　obscured　for　the　time。　She　looked　there　now；　long；　deeply；　profoundly；　and　immediately　the　ferny　path　up　the　hill　along　which　she　was　walking　became　not　entirely　a　path；　but　partly　the　Serpentine；　the　hawthorn　bushes　were　partly　ladies　and　gentlemen　sitting　with　card–cases　and　gold–mounted　canes；　the　sheep　were　partly　tall　Mayfair　houses；　everything　was　partly　something　else；　as　if　her　mind　had　bee　a　forest　with　glades　branching　here　and　there；　things　came　nearer；　and　further；　and　mingled　and　separated　and　made　the　strangest　alliances　and　binations　in　an　incessant　chequer　of　light　and　shade。　Except　when　Canute；　the　elk–hound；　chased　a　rabbit　and　so　reminded　her　that　it　must　be　about　half　past　four—it　was　indeed　twenty–three　minutes　to　six—she　forgot　the　time。

The　ferny　path　led；　with　many　turns　and　windings；　higher　and　higher　to　the　oak　tree；　which　stood　on　the　top。　The　tree　had　grown　bigger；　sturdier；　and　more　knotted　since　she　had　known　it；　somewhere　about　the　year　1588；　but　it　was　still　in　the　prime　of　life。　The　little　sharply　frilled　leaves　were　still　fluttering　thickly　on　its　branches。　Flinging　herself　on　the　ground；　she　felt　the　bones　of　the　tree　running　out　like　ribs　from　a　spine　this　way　and　that　beneath　her。　She　liked　to　think　that　she　was　riding　the　back　of　the　world。　She　liked　to　attach　herself　to　something　hard。　As　she　flung　herself　down　a　little　square　book　bound　in　red　cloth　fell　from　the　breast　of　her　leather　jacket—her　poem　‘The　Oak　Tree’。　‘I　should　have　brought　a　trowel；’　she　reflected。　The　earth　was　so　shallow　over　the　roots　that　it　seemed　doubtful　if　she　could　do　as　she　meant　and　bury　the　book　here。　Besides；　the　dogs　would　dig　it　up。　No　luck　ever　attends　these　symbolical　celebrations；　she　thought。　Perhaps　it　would　be　as　well　then　to　do　without　them。　She　had　a　little　speech　on　the　tip　of　her　tongue　which　she　meant　to　speak　over　the　book　as　she　buried　it。　（It　was　a　copy　of　the　first　edition；　signed　by　author　and　artist。）　‘I　bury　this　as　a　tribute；’　she　was　going　to　have　said；　‘a　return　to　the　land　of　what　the　land　has　given　me；’　but　Lord！　once　one　began　mouthing　words　aloud；　how　silly　they　sounded！　She　was　reminded　of　old　Greene　getting　upon　a　platform　the　other　day　paring　her　with　Milton　（save　for　his　blindness）　and　handing　her　a　cheque　for　two　hundred　guineas。　She　had　thought　then；　of　the　oak　tree　here　on　its　hill；　and　what　has　that　got　to　do　with　this；　she　had　wondered？　What　has　praise　and　fame　to　do　with　poetry？　What　has　seven　editions　（the　book　had　already　gone　into　no　less）　got　to　do　with　the　value　of　it？　Was　not　writing　poetry　a　secret　transaction；　a　voice　answering　a　voice？　So　that　all　this　chatter　and　praise　and　blame　and　meeting　people　who　admired　one　and　meeting　people　who　did　not　admire　one　was　as　ill　suited　as　could　be　to　the　thing　itself—a　voice　answering　a　voice。　What　could　have　been　more　secret；　she　thought；　more　slow；　and　like　the　intercourse　of　lovers；　than　the　stammering　answer　she　had　made　all　these　years　to　the　old　crooning　song　of　the　woods；　and　the　farms　and　the　brown　horses　standing　at　the　gate；　neck　to　neck；　and　the　smithy　and　the　kitchen　and　the　fields；　so　laboriously　bearing　wheat；　turnips；　grass；　and　the　garden　blowing　irises　and　fritillaries？

So　she　let　her　book　lie　unburied　and　dishevelled　on　the　ground；　and　watched　the　vast　view；　varied　like　an　ocean　floor　this　evening　with　the　sun　lightening　it　and　the　shadows　darkening　it。　There　was　a　village　with　a　church　tower　among　elm　trees；　a　grey　domed　manor　house　in　a　park；　a　spark　of　light　burning　on　some　glass–house；　a　farmyard　with　yellow　corn　stacks。　The　fields　were　marked　with　black　tree　clumps；　and　beyond　the　fields　stretched　long　woodlands；　and　there　was　the　gleam　of　a　river；　and　then　hills　again。　In　the　far　distance　Snowdon’s　crags　broke　white　among　the　clouds；　she　saw　the　far　Scottish　hills　and　the　wild　tides　that　swirl　about　the　Hebrides。　She　listened　for　the　sound　of　gun–firing　out　at　sea。　No—only　the　wind　blew。　There　was　no　war　to–day。　Drake　had　gone；　Nelson　had　gone。　‘And　there’；　she　thought；　letting　her　eyes；　which　had　been　looking　at　these　far　distances；　drop　once　more　to　the　land　beneath　her；　‘was　my　land　once：　that　Castle　between　the　downs　was　mine；　and　all　that　moor　running　almost　to　the　sea　was　mine。’　Here　the　landscape　（it　must　have　been　some　trick　of　the　fading　light）　shook　itself；　heaped　itself；　let　all　this　encumbrance　of　houses；　castles；　and　woods　slide　off　its　tent–shaped　sides。　The　bare　mountains　of　Turkey　were　before　her。　It　was　blazing　noon。　She　looked　straight　at　the　baked　hill–side。　Goats　cropped　the　sandy　tufts　at　her　feet。　An　eagle　soared　above。　The　raucous　voice　of　old　Rustum；　the　gipsy；　croaked　in　her　ears；　‘What　is　your　antiquity　and　your　race；　and　your　possessions　pared　with　this？　What　do　you　need　with　four　hundred　bedrooms　and　silver　lids　on　all　your　dishes；　and　housemaids　dusting？’

At　this　moment　some　church　clock　chimed　in　the　valley。　The　tent–like　landscape　collapsed　and　fell。　The　present　showered　down　upon　her　head　once　more；　but　now　that　the　light　was　fading；　gentlier　than　before；　calling　into　view　nothing　detailed；　nothing　small；　but　only　misty　fields；　cottages　with　lamps　in　them；　the　slumbering　bulk　of　a　wood；　and　a　fan–shaped　light　pushing　the　darkness　before　it　along　some　lane。　Whether　it　had　struck　nine；　ten；　or　eleven；　she　could　not　say。　Night　had　e—night　that　she　loved　of　all　times；　night　in　which　the　reflections　in　the　dark　pool　of　the　mind　shine　more　clearly　than　by　day。　It　was　not　necessary　to　faint　now　in　order　to　look　deep　into　the　darkness　where　things　shape　themselves　and　to　see　in　the　pool　of　the　mind　now　Shakespeare；　now　a　girl　in　Russian　trousers；　now　a　toy　boat　on　the　Serpentine；　and　then　the　Atlantic　itself；　where　it　storms　in　great　waves　past　Cape　Horn。　She　looked　into　the　darkness。　There　was　her　husband’s　brig；　rising　to　the　top　of　the　wave！　Up；　it　went；　and　up　and　up。　The　white　arch　of　a　thousand　deaths　rose　before　it。　Oh　rash；　oh　ridiculous　man；　always　sailing；　so　uselessly；　round　Cape　Horn　in　the　teeth　of　a　gale！　But　the　brig　was　through　the　arch　and　out　on　the　other　side；　it　was　safe　at　last！

‘Ecstasy！’　she　cried；　‘ecstasy！’　And　then　the　wind　sank；　the　waters　grew　calm；　and　she　saw　the　waves　rippling　peacefully　in　the　moonlight。

‘Marmaduke　Bonthrop　Shelmerdine！’　she　cried；　standing　by　the　oak　tree。

The　beautiful；　glittering　name　fell　out　of　the　sky　like　a　steel–blue　feather。　She　watched　it　fall；　turning　and　twisting　like　a　slow–falling　arrow　that　cleaves　the　deep　air　beautifully。　He　was　ing；　as　he　always　came；　in　moments　of　dead　calm；　when　the　wave　rippled　and　the　spotted　leaves　fell　slowly　over　her　foot　in　the　autumn　woods；　when　the　leopard　was　still；　the　moon　was　on　the　waters；　and　nothing　moved　in　between　sky　and　sea。　Then　he　came。

All　was　still　now。　It　was　near　midnight。　The　moon　rose　slowly　over　the　weald。　Its　light　raised　a　phantom　castle　upon　earth。　There　stood　the　great　house　with　all　its　windows　robed　in　silver。　Of　wall　or　substance　there　was　none。　All　was　phantom。　All　was　still。　All　was　lit　as　for　the　ing　of　a　dead　Queen。　Gazing　below　her；　Orlando　saw　dark　plumes　tossing　in　the　courtyard；　and　torches　flickering　and　shadows　kneeling。　A　Queen　once

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