三界文学阁

手机浏览器扫描二维码访问

第35部分（第1页）

As　it　was　the　thought　of　him　would　e　upon　her　in　a　flash。　She　found　it　absolutely　necessary　to　speak　to　him　instantly。　She　did　not　care　in　the　least　what　nonsense　it　might　make；　or　what　dislocation　it　might　inflict　on　the　narrative。　Nick　Greene’s　article　had　plunged　her　in　the　depths　of　despair；　the　toy　boat　had　raised　her　to　the　heights　of　joy。　So　she　repeated：　‘Ecstasy；　ecstasy’；　as　she　stood　waiting　to　cross。

But　the　traffic　was　heavy　that　spring　afternoon；　and　kept　her　standing　there；　repeating；　ecstasy；　ecstasy；　or　a　toy　boat　on　the　Serpentine；　while　the　wealth　and　power　of　England　sat；　as　if　sculptured；　in　hat　and　cloak；　in　four–in–hand；　victoria　and　barouche　landau。　It　was　as　if　a　golden　river　had　coagulated　and　massed　itself　in　golden　blocks　across　Park　Lane。　The　ladies　held　card–cases　between　their　fingers；　the　gentlemen　balanced　gold–mounted　canes　between　their　knees。　She　stood　there　gazing；　admiring；　awe–struck。　One　thought　only　disturbed　her；　a　thought　familiar　to　all　who　behold　great　elephants；　or　whales　of　an　incredible　magnitude；　and　that　is：　how　do　these　leviathans　to　whom　obviously　stress；　change；　and　activity　are　repugnant；　propagate　their　kind？　Perhaps；　Orlando　thought；　looking　at　the　stately；　still　faces；　their　time　of　propagation　is　over；　this　is　the　fruit；　this　is　the　consummation。　What　she　now　beheld　was　the　triumph　of　an　age。　Portly　and　splendid　there　they　sat。　But　now；　the　policeman　let　fall　his　hand；　the　stream　became　liquid；　the　massive　conglomeration　of　splendid　objects　moved；　dispersed；　and　disappeared　into　Piccadilly。

So　she　crossed　Park　Lane　and　went　to　her　house　in　Curzon　Street；　where；　when　the　meadow–sweet　blew　there；　she　could　remember　curlew　calling　and　one　very　old　man　with　a　gun。

She　could　remember；　she　thought；　stepping　across　the　threshold　of　her　house；　how　Lord　Chesterfield　had　said—but　her　memory　was　checked。　Her　discreet　eighteenth–century　hall；　where　she　could　see　Lord　Chesterfield　putting　his　hat　down　here　and　his　coat　down　there　with　an　elegance　of　deportment　which　it　was　a　pleasure　to　watch；　was　now　pletely　littered　with　parcels。　While　she　had　been　sitting　in　Hyde　Park　the　bookseller　had　delivered　her　order；　and　the　house　was　crammed—there　were　parcels　slipping　down　the　staircase—with　the　whole　of　Victorian　literature　done　up　in　grey　paper　and　neatly　tied　with　string。　She　carried　as　many　of　these　packets　as　she　could　to　her　room；　ordered　footmen　to　bring　the　others；　and；　rapidly　cutting　innumerable　strings；　was　soon　surrounded　by　innumerable　volumes。

Accustomed　to　the　little　literatures　of　the　sixteenth；　seventeenth；　and　eighteenth　centuries；　Orlando　was　appalled　by　the　consequences　of　her　order。　For；　of　course；　to　the　Victorians　themselves　Victorian　literature　meant　not　merely　four　great　names　separate　and　distinct　but　four　great　names　sunk　and　embedded　in　a　mass　of　Alexander　Smiths；　Dixons；　Blacks；　Milmans；　Buckles；　Taines；　Paynes；　Tuppers；　Jamesons—all　vocal；　clamorous；　prominent；　and　requiring　as　much　attention　as　anybody　else。　Orlando’s　reverence　for　print　had　a　tough　job　set　before　it　but　drawing　her　chair　to　the　window　to　get　the　benefit　of　what　light　might　filter　between　the　high　houses　of　Mayfair；　she　tried　to　e　to　a　conclusion。

And　now　it　was　clear　that　there　are　only　two　ways　of　ing　to　a　conclusion　upon　Victorian　literature—one　is　to　write　it　out　in　sixty　volumes　octavo；　the　other　is　to　squeeze　it　into　six　lines　of　the　length　of　this　one。　Of　the　two　courses；　economy；　since　time　runs　short；　leads　us　to　choose　the　second；　and　so　we　proceed。　Orlando　then　came　to　the　conclusion　（opening　half–a–dozen　books）　that　it　was　very　odd　that　there　was　not　a　single　dedication　to　a　nobleman　among　them；　next　（turning　over　a　vast　pile　of　memoirs）　that　several　of　these　writers　had　family　trees　half　as　high　as　her　own；　next；　that　it　would　be　impolitic　in　the　extreme　to　wrap　a　ten–pound　note　round　the　sugar　tongs　when　Miss　Christina　Rossetti　came　to　tea；　next　（here　were　half–a–dozen　invitations　to　celebrate　centenaries　by　dining）　that　literature　since　it　ate　all　these　dinners　must　be　growing　very　corpulent；　next　（she　was　invited　to　a　score　of　lectures　on　the　Influence　of　this　upon　that；　the　Classical　revival；　the　Romantic　survival；　and　other　titles　of　the　same　engaging　kind）　that　literature　since　it　listened　to　all　these　lectures　must　be　growing　very　dry；　next　（here　she　attended　a　reception　given　by　a　peeress）　that　literature　since　it　wore　all　those　fur　tippets　must　be　growing　very　respectable；　next　（here　she　visited　Carlyle’s　sound–proof　room　at　Chelsea）　that　genius　since　it　needed　all　this　coddling　must　be　growing　very　delicate；　and　so　at　last　she　reached　her　final　conclusion；　which　was　of　the　highest　importance　but　which；　as　we　have　already　much　overpassed　our　limit　of　six　lines；　we　must　omit。

Orlando；　having　e　to　this　conclusion；　stood　looking　out　of　the　window　for　a　considerable　space　of　time。　For；　when　anybody　es　to　a　conclusion　it　is　as　if　they　had　tossed　the　ball　over　the　　and　must　wait　for　the　unseen　antagonist　to　return　it　to　them。　What　would　be　sent　her　next　from　the　colourless　sky　above　Chesterfield　House；　she　wondered？　And　with　her　hands　clasped；　she　stood　for　a　considerable　space　of　time　wondering。　Suddenly　she　started—and　here　we　could　only　wish　that；　as　on　a　former　occasion；　Purity；　Chastity；　and　Modesty　would　push　the　door　ajar　and　provide；　at　least；　a　breathing　space　in　which　we　could　think　how　to　wrap　up　what　now　has　to　be　told　delicately；　as　a　biographer　should。　But　no！　Having　thrown　their　white　garment　at　the　naked　Orlando　and　seen　it　fall　short　by　several　inches；　these　ladies　had　given　up　all　intercourse　with　her　these　many　years；　and　were　now　otherwise　engaged。　Is　nothing　then；　going　to　happen　this　pale　March　morning　to　mitigate；　to　veil；　to　cover；　to　conceal；　to　shroud　this　undeniable　event　whatever　it　may　be？　For　after　giving　that　sudden；　violent　start；　Orlando—but　Heaven　be　praised；　at　this　very　moment　there　struck　up　outside　one　of　these　frail；　reedy；　fluty；　jerky；　old–fashioned　barrel–organs　which　are　still　sometimes　played　by　Italian　organ–grinders　in　back　streets。　Let　us　accept　the　intervention；　humble　though　it　is；　as　if　it　were　the　music　of　the　spheres；　and　allow　it；　with　all　its　gasps　and　groans；　to　fill　this　page　with　sound　until　the　moment　es　when　it　is　impossible　to　deny　its　ing；　which　the　footman　has　seen　ing　and　the　maid–servant；　and　the　reader　will　have　to　see　too；　for　Orlando　herself　is　clearly　unable　to　ignore　it　any　longer—let　the　barrel–organ　sound　and　transport　us　on　thought；　which　is　no　more　than　a　little　boat；　when　music　sounds；　tossing　on　the　waves；　on　thought；　which　is；　of　all　carriers；　the　most　clumsy；　the　most　erratic；　over　the　roof　tops　and　the　back　gardens　where　washing　is　hanging　to—what　is　this　place？　Do　you　recognize　the　Green　and　in　the　middle　the　steeple；　and　the　gate　with　a　lion　couchant　on　either　side？　Oh　yes；　it　is　Kew！　Well；　Kew　will　do。　So　here　we　are　at　Kew；　and　I　will　show　you　to–day　（the　second　of　March）　under　the　plum　tree；　a　grape　hyacinth；　and　a　crocus；　and　a　bud；　too；　on　the　almond　tree；　so　that　to　walk　there　is　to　be　thinking　of　bulbs；　hairy　and　red；　thrust　into　the　earth　in　October；　flowering　now；　and　to　be　dreaming　of　more　than　can　rightly　be　said；　and　to　be　taking　from　its　case　a　cigarette　or　cigar　even；　and　to　be　flinging　a　cloak　under　（as　the　rhyme　requires）　an　oak；　and　there　to　sit；　waiting　the　kingfisher；　which；　it　is　said；　was　seen　once　to　cross　in　the　evening　from　bank　to　bank。

Wait！　Wait！　The　kingfisher　es；　the　kingfisher　es　not。

Behold；　meanwhile；　the　factory　chimneys　and　their　smoke；　behold　the　city　clerks　flashing　by　in　their　outrigger。　Behold　the　old　lady　taking　her　dog　for　a　walk　and　the　servant　girl　wearing　her　new　hat　for　the　first　time　not　at　the　right　angle。　Behold　them　all。　Though　Heaven　has　mercifully　decreed　that　the　secrets　of　all　hearts　are　hidden　so　that　we　are　lured　on　for　ever　to　suspect　something；　perhaps；　that　does　not　exist；　still　through　our　cigarette　smoke；　we　see　blaze　up　and　salute　the　splendid　fulfilment　of　natural　desires　for　a　hat；　for　a　boat；　for　a　rat　in　a　ditch；　as　once　one　saw　blazing—such　silly　hops　and　skips　the　mind　takes　when　it　slops　like　this　all　over　the　saucer　and　the　barrel–organ　plays—saw　blazing　a　fire　in　a　field　against　minarets　near　Constantinople。

Hail！　natural　desire！　Hail！　happiness！　divine　happiness！　and　pleasure　of　all　sorts；　flowers　and　wine；　though　one　fades　and　the　other　intoxicates；　and　half–crown　tickets　out　of　London　on　Sundays；　and　singing　in　a　dark　chapel　hymns　about　death；　and　anything；　anything　that　interrupts　and　confounds　the　tapping　of　typewriters　and　filing　of　letters　and　forging　of　links　and　chains；　binding　the　Empire　together。　Hail　even　the　crude；　red　bows　on　shop　girls’　lips　（as　if　Cupid；　very　clumsily；　dipped　his　thumb　in　red　ink　and　scrawled　a　token　in　passing）。　Hail；　happiness！　kingfisher　flashing　from　bank　to　bank；　and　all　fulfilment　of　natural　desire；　whether　it　is　what　the　male　novelist　says　it　is；　or　prayer；　or　denial；　hail！　in　whatever　form　it　es；　and　may　there　be　more　forms；　and　stranger。　For　dark　flows　the　stream—would　it　were　true；　as　the　rhyme　hints　‘like　a　dream’—but　duller　and　worser　than　that　is　our　usual　lot；　without　dreams；　but　alive；　smug；　fluent；　habitual；　under　trees　whose　shade　of　an　olive　green　drowns　the　blue　of　the　wing　of　the　vanishing　bird　when　he　darts　of　a　sudden　from　bank　to　bank。

Hail；　happiness；　then；　and　after　happiness；　hail　not　those　dreams　which　bloat　the　sharp　image　as　spotted　mirrors　do　the　face　in　a　country–inn　parlour；　dreams　which　splinter　the　whole　and　tear　us　asunder　and　wound　us　and　split　us　apart　in　the　night　when　we　would　sleep；　but　sleep；　sleep；　so　deep　that　all　shapes　are　ground　to　dust　of　infinite　softness；　water　of　dimness　inscrutable；　and　there；　folded；　shrouded；　like　a　mummy；　like　a　moth；　prone　let　us　lie　on　the　sand　at　the　bottom　of　sleep。

But　wait！　but　wait！　we　are　not　going；　this　time；　visiting　the　blind　land。　Blue；　like　a　match　struck　right　in　the　ball　of　the　innermost　eye；　he　flies；　burns；　bursts　the　seal　of　sleep；　the　kingfisher；　so　that　now　floods　back　refluent　like　a　tide；　the　red；　thick　stream　of　life　again；　bubbling；　dripping；　and　we　rise；　and　our　eyes　（for　how　handy　a　rhyme　is　to　pass　us　safe　over　the　awkward　transition　from　death　to　life）　fall　on—（here　the　barrel–organ　stops　playing　abruptly）。

‘It’s　a　very　fine　boy；　M’Lady；’　said　Mrs　Banting；　the　midwife；　putting　her　first–born　child　into　Orlando’s　arms。　In　other　words　Orlando　was　safely　delivered　of　a　son　on　Thursday；　March　the　20th；　at　three　o’clock　in　the　morning。

Once　more　Orlando　stood　at　the　window；　but　let　the　reader　take　courage；　nothing　of　the　same　sort　is　going　to　happen　to–day；　which　is　not；　by　any　means；　the　same　day。　No—for　if　we　look　out　of　the　window；　as　Orlando　was　doing　at　the　moment；　we　shall　see　that　Park　Lane　itself　has　considerably　changed。　Indeed　one　might　stand　there　ten　minutes　or　more；　as　Orlando　stood　now；　without　seeing　a　single　barouche　landau。　‘Look　at　that！’　she　exclaimed；　some　days　later　when　an　absurd　truncated　carriage　without　any　horses　began　to　glide　about　of　its　own　accord。　A　carriage　without　any　horses　indeed！　She　was　called

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