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奥兰多orlando (英文版)作者:弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙-第章

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she cried; she knew Sasha as she was; and in the ardour of this discovery; and in the pursuit of all those treasures which were now revealed; she was so rapt and enchanted that it was as if a cannon ball had exploded at her ear when a man’s voice said; ‘Permit me; Madam;’ a man’s hand raised her to her feet; and the fingers of a man with a three–masted sailing ship tattooed on the middle finger pointed to the horizon。

‘The cliffs of England; Ma’am;’ said the Captain; and he raised the hand which had pointed at the sky to the salute。 Orlando now gave a second start; even more violent than the first。

‘Christ Jesus!’ she cried。

Happily; the sight of her native land after long absence excused both start and exclamation; or she would have been hard put to it to explain to Captain Bartolus the raging and conflicting emotions which now boiled within her。 How tell him that she; who now trembled on his arm; had been a Duke and an Ambassador? How explain to him that she; who had been lapped like a lily in folds of paduasoy; had hacked heads off; and lain with loose women among treasure sacks in the holds of pirate ships on summer nights when the tulips were abloom and the bees buzzing off Wapping Old Stairs? Not even to herself could she explain the giant start she gave; as the resolute right hand of the sea–captain indicated the cliffs of the British Islands。

‘To refuse and to yield;’ she murmured; ‘how delightful; to pursue and conquer; how august; to perceive and to reason; how sublime。’ Not one of these words so coupled together seemed to her wrong; nevertheless; as the chalky cliffs loomed nearer; she felt culpable; dishonoured; unchaste; which; for one who had never given the matter a thought; was strange。 Closer and closer they drew; till the samphire gatherers; hanging half–way down the cliff; were plain to the naked eye。 And watching them; she felt; scampering up and down within her; like some derisive ghost who in another instant will pick up her skirts and flaunt out of sight; Sasha the lost; Sasha the memory; whose reality she had proved just now so surprisingly—Sasha; she felt; mopping and mowing and making all sorts of disrespectful gestures towards the cliffs and the samphire gatherers; and when the sailors began chanting; ‘So good–bye and adieu to you; Ladies of Spain’; the words echoed in Orlando’s sad heart; and she felt that however much landing there meant fort; meant opulence; meant consequence and state (for she would doubtless pick up some noble Prince and reign; his consort; over half Yorkshire); still; if it meant conventionality; meant slavery; meant deceit; meant denying her love; fettering her limbs; pursing her lips; and restraining her tongue; then she would turn about with the ship and set sail once more for the gipsies。

Among the hurry of these thoughts; however; there now rose; like a dome of smooth; white marble; something which; whether fact or fancy; was so impressive to her fevered imagination that she settled upon it as one has seen a swarm of vibrant dragonflies alight; with apparent satisfaction; upon the glass bell which shelters some tender vegetable。 The form of it; by the hazard of fancy; recalled that earliest; most persistent memory—the man with the big forehead in Twitchett’s sitting–room; the man who sat writing; or rather looking; but certainly not at her; for he never seemed to see her poised there in all her finery; lovely boy though she must have been; she could not deny it—and whenever she thought of him; the thought spread round it; like the risen moon on turbulent waters; a sheet of silver calm。 Now her hand went to her bosom (the other was still in the Captain’s keeping); where the pages of her poem were hidden safe。 It might have been a talisman that she kept there。 The distraction of sex; which hers was; and what it meant; subsided; she thought now only of the glory of poetry; and the great lines of Marlowe; Shakespeare; Ben Jonson; Milton began booming and reverberating; as if a golden clapper beat against a golden bell in the cathedral tower which was her mind。 The truth was that the image of the marble dome which her eyes had first discovered so faintly that it suggested a poet’s forehead and thus started a flock of irrelevant ideas; was no figment; but a reality; and as the ship advanced down the Thames before a favouring gale; the image with all its associations gave place to the truth; and revealed itself as nothing more and nothing less than the dome of a vast cathedral rising among a fretwork of white spires。

‘St Paul’s;’ said Captain Bartolus; who stood by her side。 ‘The Tower of London;’ he continued。 ‘Greenwich Hospital; erected in memory of Queen Mary by her husband; his late majesty; William the Third。 Westminster Abbey。 The Houses of Parliament。’ As he spoke; each of these famous buildings rose to view。 It was a fine September morning。 A myriad of little water–craft plied from bank to bank。 Rarely has a gayer; or more interesting; spectacle presented itself to the gaze of a returned traveller。 Orlando hung over the prow; absorbed in wonder。 Her eyes had been used too long to savages and nature not to be entranced by these urban glories。 That; then; was the dome of St Paul’s which Mr Wren had built during her absence。 Near by; a shock of golden hair burst from a pillar—Captain Bartolus was at her side to inform her that that was the Monument; there had been a plague and a fire during her absence; he said。 Do what she could to restrain them; the tears came to her eyes; until; remembering that it is being in a woman to weep; she let them flow。 Here; she thought; had been the great carnival。 Here; where the waves slapped briskly; had stood the Royal Pavilion。 Here she had first met Sasha。 About here (she looked down into the sparkling waters) one had been used to see the frozen bumboat woman with her apples on her lap。 All that splendour and corruption was gone。 Gone; too; was the dark night; the monstrous downpour; the violent surges of the flood。 Here; where yellow icebergs had raced circling with a crew of terror–stricken wretches on top; a covey of swans floated; orgulous; undulant; superb。 London itself had pl
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