按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
girl behind her mother’s cottage door。 In our belief； Greene’s ridicule of his tragedy hurt him as much as the Princess’ ridicule of his love。 But to return：—
Orlando went on thinking。 He kept looking at the grass and at the sky and trying to bethink him what a true poet； who has his verses published in London； would say about them。 Memory meanwhile （whose habits have already been described） kept steady before his eyes the face of Nicholas Greene； as if that sardonic loose–lipped man； treacherous as he had proved himself； were the Muse in person； and it was to him that Orlando must do homage。 So Orlando； that summer morning； offered him a variety of phrases； some plain； others figured； and Nick Greene kept shaking his head and sneering and muttering something about Glawr and Cicero and the death of poetry in our time。 At length； starting to his feet （it was now winter and very cold） Orlando swore one of the most remarkable oaths of his lifetime； for it bound him to a servitude than which none is stricter。 ‘I’ll be blasted’； he said； ‘if I ever write another word； or try to write another word； to please Nick Greene or the Muse。 Bad； good； or indifferent； I’ll write； from this day forward； to please myself’； and here he made as if he were tearing a whole budget of papers across and tossing them in the face of that sneering loose–lipped man。 Upon which； as a cur ducks if you stoop to shy a stone at him； Memory ducked her effigy of Nick Greene out of sight； and substituted for it—nothing whatever。
But Orlando； all the same； went on thinking。 He had indeed much to think of。 For when he tore the parchment across； he tore； in one rending； the scrolloping； emblazoned scroll which he had made out in his own favour in the solitude of his room appointing himself； as the King appoints Ambassadors； the first poet of his race； the first writer of his age； conferring eternal immortality upon his soul and granting his body a grave among laurels and the intangible banners of a people’s reverence perpetually。 Eloquent as this all was； he now tore it up and threw it in the dustbin。 ‘Fame’； he said。 ‘is like’ （and since there was no Nick Greene to stop him； he went on to revel in images of which we will choose only one or two of the quietest） ‘a braided coat which hampers the limbs； a jacket of silver which curbs the heart； a painted shield which covers a scarecrow；’ etc。 etc。 The pith of his phrases was that while fame impedes and constricts； obscurity wraps about a man like a mist； obscurity is dark； ample； and free； obscurity lets the mind take its way unimpeded。 Over the obscure man is poured the merciful suffusion of darkness。 None knows where he goes or es。 He may seek the truth and speak it； he alone is free； he alone is truthful； he alone is at peace。 And so he sank into a quiet mood； under the oak tree； the hardness of whose roots； exposed above the ground； seemed to him rather fortable than otherwise。
Sunk for a long time in profound thoughts as to the value of obscurity； and the delight of having no name； but being like a wave which returns to the deep body of the sea； thinking how obscurity rids the mind of the irk of envy and spite； how it sets running in the veins the free waters of generosity and magnanimity； and allows giving and taking without thanks offered or praise given； which must have been the way of all great poets； he supposed （though his knowledge of Greek was not enough to bear him out）； for； he thought； Shakespeare must have written like that； and the church builders built like that； anonymously； needing no thanking or naming； but only their work in the daytime and a little ale perhaps at night—’What an admirable life this is；’ he thought； stretching his limbs out under the oak tree。 ‘And why not enjoy it this very moment？’ The thought struck him like a bullet。 Ambition dropped like a plummet。 Rid of the heart–burn of rejected love； and of vanity rebuked； and all the other stings and pricks which the tle–bed of life had burnt upon him when ambitious of fame； but could no longer inflict upon one careless of glory； he opened his eyes； which had been wide open all the time； but had seen only thoughts； and saw； lying in the hollow beneath him； his house。
There it lay in the early sunshine of spring。 It looked a town rather than a house； but a town built； not hither and thither； as this man wished or that； but circumspectly； by a single architect with one idea in his head。 Courts and buildings； grey； red； plum colour； lay orderly and symmetrical； the courts were some of them oblong and some square； in this was a fountain； in that a statue； the buildings were some of them low； some pointed； here was a chapel； there a belfry； spaces of the greenest grass lay in between and clumps of cedar trees and beds of bright flowers； all were clasped—yet so well set out was it that it seemed that every part had room to spread itself fittingly—by the roll of a massive wall； while smoke from innumerable chimneys curled perpetually into the air。 This vast； yet ordered building； which could house a thousand men and perhaps two thousand horses； was built； Orlando thought； by workmen whose names are unknown。 Here have lived； for more centuries than I can count； the obscure generations of my own obscure family。 Not one of these Richards； Johns； Annes； Elizabeths has left a token of himself behind him； yet all； working together with their spades and their needles； their love–making and their child–bearing； have left this。
Never had the house looked more noble and humane。
Why； then； had he wished to raise himself above them？ For it seemed vain and arrogant in the extreme to try to better that anonymous work of creation； the labours of those vanished hands。 Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch； a potting shed； a wall where peaches ripen； than to burn like a meteor and leave no dust。 For after all； he said； kindling as he looked at the great house on the greensward below； the unknown lords and ladies who lived there never forgot to set aside something for those who e after； for the roof that will leak； for the tree that will fall。 There was always a warm corner for the old shepher