At this point, the biographer has encountered a problem, and it is better to admit it than to conceal it.So far, the materials on which Orlando's life is based, whether private documents or historical records, can meet the biographer's basic needs, so that the biographer can follow the indelible footsteps of the facts, and move forward without distraction. Tempted by wild flowers, but also ignoring the shade along the way; step by step, methodically moving forward, until suddenly falling into the grave, writing the words "The End of the Play" on the tombstone above our heads.However, right now, we have encountered an unavoidable hurdle, an unavoidable plot.But it is vague and mysterious, and lacks written records, so it is unclear.It may take several volumes of manuscripts to explain clearly, and the profound meaning in it is enough to become the cornerstone of the entire religious system.And our task is very simple, just state the known facts, and then let the reader make full use of it.
That winter was a disaster. Orlando witnessed the freezing cold, the flood, and the death of thousands of lives. He also experienced complete disillusionment-excommunication from the court because he severely humiliated the most eminent nobleman of the time.The Desmond family in Ireland had every reason to be furious because of Orlando's repentance; and the king had enough disputes with Ireland, and he didn't want to cause more trouble.During the summer of that year, Orlando retired to his country estate, where he lived a life of solitude. One early morning in June, to be precise on June 18th, Saturday, when he got up at the usual time, he didn't get up.When his manservant went to call him, he found him in a deep sleep and could not wake him up.He lay there, seemingly in a state of trance, barely aware of breathing.People let dogs bark under his window; people kept beating drums, cymbals and bone tools in his room; put a bunch of gorse under his pillow; put mustard ointment on the soles of his feet; He was still lethargic.For seven days, he did not drink a drop of water and showed no vital signs.On the morning of the seventh day, he woke up at exactly the time he used to get up (a quarter past seven, to be exact).He drove out the rowdy women and the country fortune-teller from the house.That's pretty normal.But the strange thing was that he seemed completely unaware of his lethargy, and when he was fully dressed, he ordered his horse to be brought, as if he had just woken up from an ordinary night's sleep.However, it is suspected that something has changed in his brain, because although his thoughts are clear and his demeanor is more calm and steady than before, his memory of what he has experienced in the past is blurred.He listened when people talked about the freeze and the skating and the carnival, never giving any indication that he had been there himself, just raising his hand and stroking his eyebrows as if to brush away a cloud.When people talked about what happened six months ago, he didn't seem distressed. Instead, he looked confused, as if troubled by not being able to remember things from long ago, or trying to recall a story he had heard from someone else.He has been observed to appear apprehensive and fidgety at the mention of Russia, princesses, or ships, to get up, to gaze out of the window, or to call one of his little dogs to him, or to take out a knife and carve Scored.However, doctors were no wiser then than they are now, and they prescribed rest, exercise, starvation, nutritional supplements, social activities, and solitary confinement, keeping him in bed all day or between lunch and dinner. They rode forty miles between them, took the usual sedatives and stimulants, drank the saliva of the salamander when they got up, took the bile of the peacock before going to bed, and used all kinds of remedies they could think of.After the course of treatment, they ignored him, and the diagnosis was that he slept continuously for a week.
However, if it is sleep, then we cannot help asking, what kind of sleep is this?Is it a way to heal?In slumber, those tortured memories, the lifelong depressing past, are wiped away by a black wing, which will wipe away the bitterness and gild even the ugliest and most despicable Things are also decorated brilliantly.Or is it that the fingertips of death touch the cares of life from time to time, lest they tear us to pieces?Maybe we are born to have a taste of death, bit by bit, day after day, in order to survive?What kind of magical power can penetrate into the depths of people's hearts without being restricted by personal will, and change people's most precious things?Had Orlando died of grief, only to be resurrected a week later?If so, what is the nature of death?What is the essence of life?To answer these questions, even if you wait half an hour, there will be no answer.Let's continue our story.
Now, Orlando lived a life of complete isolation.The humiliation at court, and his grief, were only part of the reason for his seclusion.His lack of apology, and the fact that he rarely invited friends to visit (though many of his friends were happy to do so), showed that living alone on his father's estate seemed to suit his temperament.Solitude is his choice.How he passed the time, no one knows.He employed a large army of servants, but most of their work consisted of sweeping empty rooms and smoothing sheets where no one had ever slept.In the evening, when they sat down to eat cake and drink beer, they saw a ball of light wandering along the corridor, passing through the banquet hall, wandering up the stairs, and into the bedroom.They knew that their lord was wandering alone in the estate.No one dared to follow behind him, because there were various ghosts haunting the manor, and it was easy to get lost in the deep house.Either fall down some hidden staircase, or suddenly a door opens and a gust of wind blows, closing the door forever.This sort of thing happened from time to time, as evidenced by the frequent discovery of grim-looking dead human or animal skeletons.After a while, the bright light disappeared.Mrs. Grimstitch, the housekeeper of the estate, said to the Reverend Mr. Dupper that she hoped nothing happened to your lordship.Mr. Dupper thought that his lordship must be in the chapel, which was located half a mile away on the billiard field.Mr. Dupper said that his lordship was probably kneeling before the tomb of his ancestors to confess, because he felt deeply guilty.To this, Mrs. Grimstitch retorted vehemently, "Aren't we all sinners?" and Mrs. Stukeley, Mrs. Field, and old nurse Carpenter all raised their voices and praised Sir.The valets and squires also swore that it was a pity to see such an eminent nobleman loitering about the estate, when he should have been hunting, chasing and killing the fox, and the elk.Even Judy, the little washerwoman, and Faith, who washed vegetables and dishes in the kitchen, poured wine and distributed cakes for everyone, while plausibly saying that His Excellency was very courteous and courteous to them.No one was more generous to others than His Excellency, and no one was more generous than he, who used to give them some silver coins to buy bows, or put a flower in their hair.In the end, the dark-skinned Moor also understood what everyone meant, and in her only way of expression, she grinned and grinned, showing that she also agrees with His Excellency that he is handsome, lovely, and kind-hearted. gentleman.The Moor's name was Grace Robinson, which they had named her to make her a Christian.In short, Orlando's servants, both male and female, respected him very much, and they all cursed the foreign princess (who they called her much worse than that) who brought his bad luck.
Perhaps Mr Dupper was a little timid, or lusting after a mug of hot ale, and he supposed that his lordship was safe in the cemetery, and he did not need to search for it.But Mr Dupper may be right.Orlando was now thinking of death and decay, and it brought him a strange joy.Holding a stump of candle in his hand, he walked slowly along the promenade and the ballroom, carefully looking at one portrait after another along the way, as if he was looking for someone, but he couldn't find it.He entered the church, took the pews reserved for their family, and sat like that for hours, watching the streamers flutter, the moon shadows, and he was accompanied only by a bat, or perhaps a flying bird. Moth's Grim Reaper.Still feeling unfulfilled, he decided to go down to the crypt under the church.There are coffins lined up there, and ten generations of his ancestors have been buried here.This place is rarely visited by rats.When Orlando was walking in the tomb, if a femur hadn't caught his cloak, he would have almost crushed the skull of an old Sir Maris who had rolled to his feet.This is a spooky tomb.Digging three feet under the church, it was built.The ancestor of William the Conqueror who came here from France, the first lord of the family, seems to want to use this tomb to prove that all pomp is built on decay, and beneath the living flesh lies the remains of the dead ;the people who sing and dance will return to the loess; the colorful flowers will turn into dust; the rubies on the rings will be lost (Orlando leaned over to light the ground with a candle, picked up a ring, and the gems on it had rolled into the corner) , the once shining eyes will fade away. "The princes and grandchildren can't leave anything behind," Orlando slightly exaggerated the status of the ancestors to a tolerable extent, "only one finger is left." He picked up the skeleton of a hand and fiddled with the knuckles." Whose hand is this?" He asked, "Is it the right hand or the left hand? A man's hand or a woman's hand? An old man's hand or a young man's hand? Has this hand ridden horses in battle, or threaded needles? Has it picked roses, or is it tight? Holding a cold steel knife? It used to be—" Orlando stopped thinking about it, perhaps because he couldn't make up more scenarios, but more likely because there were so many things this hand could do. Same, don't want to bother to generalize.He put the hand bones together with the others, thinking of a writer named Thomas Browne, a doctor in Norwich, whose descriptions of bones Orlando had read avidly.
Then, holding a candle, he placed the skeletons in place one by one.Romantic as he is, he's surprisingly methodical, and he can't tolerate a ball of thread dropping on the floor, let alone an ancestor's skull.He went back to the corridor again, walking slowly with a gloomy expression, looking for something in those portraits, until he saw a snow scene in Holland painted by an unknown artist, and suddenly let out a heart-piercing cry Lung sobbing.At this moment, he felt that the continuation of life was meaningless.He stood there weeping and trembling, forgetting about the bones of his ancestors, forgetting that life was built on the grave, and his mind was full of the man in Russian trousers, with slanted eyes, pouting mouth, and pearl necklace around his neck. woman.She was gone, away from him, and he would never see her again.Sobbing all the way back to his room.Mrs. Grimstitch, seeing the light in his room, put down the glass that was brought to her mouth, and praised God aloud, and his lordship was at last safe in his room again.Because she always thought that the master was brutally killed.
Orlando now drew his chair up to the table, opened Sir Thomas Browne, and perused the doctor's longest and best whimsy.
Although it is inconvenient for biographers to expand on such matters in detail, readers can clearly outline the entire life and living environment of a living person only with the scattered clues.Realistic voices could be heard in our whispers; oftentimes they had a vivid picture of Orlando without us saying anything.Without the guidance of a few words, they can accurately grasp his thoughts.It is for such readers that we write.To such a reader, Orlando's eccentricity, mixed and complex, is evident—his melancholy, indolent, passionate, withdrawn, and those eccentricities we mentioned on the opening page.He was hacking at the nigger's skull with his sword, and cut the string hanging from it, and when it fell to the ground, he re-suspended it chivalrously out of his reach, and sat by the window, intent on reading Books come.Reading has been his hobby since childhood.When he was a child, someone discovered that he still couldn't bear to release the scroll until late at night.People took his candle away, and he raised a group of fireflies to light up.People took away the fireflies again, and he lit tinder lights, and almost burned the whole house down.Let the novelist develop the intricate details and deep meanings. We have only one sentence, that is, Orlando is an aristocrat with a literary disease.People of his day, especially his class, were largely spared the disease, and were therefore free to run, ride horses, and make love.But there are also people who have contracted the disease since childhood. It is said that the source of the disease comes from lily pollen in Greece and Italy.This disease is extremely harmful. People infected with this disease will tremble when raising their hands and punching, their eyes will blur when they are chasing prey, and their tongues will be tongue-tied when they are courting.The fatal nature of the disease is the mistaking of phantoms for reality.Therefore, although fate has given Orlando so many gifts-abundant food and clothing, a large house, a large number of servants, carpets on the walls, bed and bed curtains, everything, but he only needs to open a book, and all of them will disappear.The nine-acre stone mansion was gone, one hundred and fifty servants were gone, his eighty horses were gone, and there was no time to count the hanging rugs, the sofa bed, the china, the cutlery, the bottles. , stove, hot pot, and other small, platinum gadgets, all evaporated and evaporated like fog on the sea.So Orlando sat there, scroll in hand, all alone, with nothing.
When he was alone, the symptoms would worsen rapidly.He often reads continuously for six hours until late at night.When servants would come to ask him whether to slaughter or reap the cattle, he would put the book aside and stare at them blankly, as if unable to understand what they were saying.This sucks.Hall the Falconer, Giles the valet, Mrs Grimstitch the housekeeper, and Mr Dupper, the Reverend, were deeply distressed by this.Such a noble gentleman, they say, does not need to read, they say, leave books for those who are paralyzed or dying.But something worse happened.Because once the disease of reading takes the upper hand in the human body, people will become extremely fragile, easily tormented by another kind of pain, the kind of pain hidden in the ink bottle, hiding in the festering part of the quill pen.The unfortunate man began to write.It is bad enough for the poor to write, but after all, the poor have little wealth to lose, only a broken table and an old chair under a leaky roof.And it is a very sad thing that a pampered rich man, who has mansions, cattle, maids, asses, and linen, should write books.However, the life of the rich is dull to Orlando. He feels like being scorched, bitten by insects, and fidgeting.In order to write a book and become famous in one fell swoop, he would rather lose his family (this is the danger of this disease).However, even if all the gold mines of Peru were poured out, it would be difficult to buy a line of precious and beautiful poetry.So, he searched his brains, racked his brains, and sat facing the wall.No matter what posture he presents in front of people, it doesn't matter anymore.He has passed through the gates of death and seen the flames of hellfire.
Happily, Orlando was in good health, and the illness mentioned above, which had decimated many of his kind, had never decimated him.But what happened later showed that he was obsessed with the disease.Once he was reading Thomas Browne's book, and when he had been reading for an hour or so, he heard the cry of stags and the watchman's watchman's waking up, and the night was dead silent.He crossed the room, took a silver key from his pocket, and opened the door of a large closet recessed in the corner.Inside were some fifty cedar drawers, each bearing a label in Orlando's neat handwriting.He hesitated for a moment, as if hesitating which drawer to open.One label reads "The Death of Ajax", another "The Birth of Pyramus", and the others "Iphigenia of Aulis", "Hyphigenia". The Death of Polytus", "Mellieg", and "The Return of Odysseus".In fact, almost every mythical figure on the label of the drawer is closely related to Orlando's life adversity.In each drawer lies a thick stack of manuscripts, all written by Orlando.The truth is, Orlando has been obsessed with writing for years.Never had a child begged for apples, or begged for sweets, more eagerly than Orlando begged for paper and ink.He would sneak away while everyone was chatting or playing games, hiding behind curtains, or hiding in the vicar's repair room, or in the large wardrobe behind his mother's bedroom, where there was a big hole in the floor that smelled of oatmeal. The stench of bird droppings.He holds an inkwell in one hand, a pen in the other, and a stack of papers on his lap.Those manuscripts were all written in this way before he was twenty-five years old.There are about forty-seven plays, historical stories, love stories and poems.In prose and in poetry, in French and in Italian.All are romantic and legendary masterpieces.John Paul's plumeria, opposite St. Paul's, had printed one of these manuscripts, and he was ecstatic just to look at it.He never dared to show this book to his mother, because he knew that as a nobleman, writing a book was an unforgivable shame, let alone publishing it.
But now that the night was getting darker, and he was alone, he picked out a thick one from the preserved manuscripts, which seemed to be titled "Infatuation with Foreigners, A Tragedy", and another thin one, titled It's called The Great Oak (it's the only monosyllabic title in those manuscripts).Afterwards he sat by the inkwell, fingering the quill, and doing other little tricks which are common bad habits before writing begins in earnest.But he hesitated and did not write.
This hesitation was crucial to his life.In fact, it is more important than conquerors ordering people to bow down and make rivers of blood flow.His hesitation leads us to ask why he hesitated.After some thought, the answer was that he hesitated probably for the following reasons.Nature has played too many pranks on human beings. When it created human beings, it was extremely unfair. Some of them were made of clay, some of them were made of diamonds, some of them were made of rainbows, and some of them were made of granite.Then put people into a body, and most of them are crowned and worn, the poet has the face of a butcher, but the butcher has the face of a poet; nature likes to mess things up and make things weird and unpredictable.So until today (November 1, 1927), we still don't know why we go upstairs and why we go downstairs, our daily activities are like a ship sailing in unknown seas.The sailor climbed to the top of the mast, held a telescope, looked far into the horizon, and asked: Is there any land over there?To this, if we are prophets, we shall answer him "yes", and if we are honest, we shall answer him "no".And nature's answer is probably much more complicated than this clumsy answer.It stuffed our minds with a mass of odds and ends like a bag of rags—a pair of police trousers mixed incongruously with Queen Alexandra's wedding dress, leaving us all the more bewildered, However, a thin thread is designed, which can easily sew the messy pieces into one.Memory is the seamstress, a capricious seamstress.Memorize the flying needle and thread, connect left and right.We don't know what's coming next, and what's next.Thus, the most ordinary actions in the world, such as sitting down at a table, and drawing an inkwell to hand, have the potential to inspire a thousand fragmented fantasies, now bright, now dim, flying up and down, swaying, It was as if the underwear of a family of fourteen was blowing in the wind.Simple, direct, frank behavior is clear, but the behavior we most take for granted is not.We usually rise and fall with flickering wings.So Orlando, dipping his pen into the ink, saw the sneering face of the missing princess, and felt at once a thousand questions to ask himself, like swords falling in agony.where is she?Why did she abandon him?Was the ambassador of the Principality of Moscow her uncle or her lover?Was it all planned by them?Was she compelled?Is she married yet?is she still aliveThese questions soaked into his body and mind like venom.As if to vent his anger, he plunged the quill pen hard into the inkwell, splashing ink all over the table.Explain what you will about his action (perhaps you can't explain it at all, because memory cannot explain it), the princess's face disappeared from his eyes at this moment, and a completely different face appeared in its place.But whose face is this?he asked himself.He had to hesitate for about half a minute, looking carefully at the new image overlaid on top of the old one, like one slide half hidden through another.Then he said to himself, "This is the fat, poorly dressed man who used to sit in Twitchette's drawing room many years ago when the old Queen Elizabeth came. I saw him." Orlando Then, as if catching a colorful rag in a heap of rags, "I was coming down the steps, and he sat at the table, with marvelous eyes," said Orlando, "and even he, Who is he?" Orlando asked, and at this moment, not only the forehead and eyes of the man appeared in his memory, but also many things were added, first the rough and greasy neckline and cuffs, and then a brown suit A tunic, and finally a pair of heavy boots, the kind that people in Cheapside Street wear. "He's not an aristocrat, not one of our kind," said Orlando (he wouldn't say it aloud, for he was the most suave gentleman; but it shows how deeply the sense of aristocratic blood runs, and also how aristocratic practice How difficult it is to write). "He's a poet, I'm sure." Usually, after the memory has had its way, it should have wiped everything out by now, and replaced it with some boring, irrelevant trifle, like a dog chasing a dog. A cat, or an old woman blowing her nose in a red cotton handkerchief.That way, Orlando would be scribbling passionately on paper, hopeless of keeping up with the ever-changing pace of memory. (If we're determined, we can get the frivolous "Memory" and her nonsense out of the house.) But Orlando hasn't written yet.The memory still dangled in front of his eyes the image of the poorly dressed man with the burning eyes.He was still staring at the image, still hesitating.It is his hesitation that derails our narrative.It was as if the fort had been captured by rebels, and his own army rebelled.He had stopped writing once before, when love, with its earth-shattering clamor, broke off recklessly with pipes, cymbals, and the bloody shackles of a head freshly severed from its shoulders. his writing.Love made him suffer in every possible way.At this moment, he stopped writing again, and the vixen representing ambition, the witch representing poetry, and the whore representing fame all took advantage of the situation.They joined hands and made his heart their dance floor.Standing alone in the room, with his head held high, he vowed to be the first poet of his kind and to make his name immortal.He counted the names and deeds of his ancestors, and said, Sir Boris slew the heathen; Sir Gawain slew the Turk; Sir Miles slew the Pole; slay the Austrians; Sir Jordan slays the French; Sir Herbert slays the Spaniards.But after all the killing and fighting, all the drinking and drinking, all the love, all the extravagance, galloping and hunting, after drinking and eating, what is left?a skeleton; a finger.As he spoke, he looked back at the open book of Thomas Brown on the table.He still hasn't written.The sacred melody of those words in the book, as if a spell floated from every corner of the room, from the evening wind and moonlight.Let these words be buried deep in the grave, lest we steal the limelight from our pens.These words are not dead, they are preserved by antiseptic spices, the color is still bright, and the breath is clear and audible - Orlando compares the achievements of these words with the achievements of his ancestors, and he can't help but sigh, the fame of the ancestors is as light as dust, And this writer and his words will last forever.
However, he soon realized that the wars that Sir Miles and his predecessors fought against armed knights to win a kingdom were not half as difficult as the writing he was doing now.He is at war with the English language, and the winner will be immortality.As long as you know a thing or two about the hardships of creation, you will understand the intricate details; when you write it, you feel wonderful; after reading it, you feel empty and boring; Collapse and despair; day and night sadness; inspiration gained and then lost; it is clear that one's own work is at your fingertips, but it disappears in an instant.Be there when you eat; meditate when you take a walk; laugh and cry; vacillate between styles; prefer the grandeur to the plain and simple; one moment Temperdale, the next Kent or Cornwall field; not sure whether he is the holiest genius in the world, or the dumbest fool.
It was this last question that prompted him to decide to change his years of solitary life and start communicating with the outside world after months of frantic writing.He had a friend in London, a Norfolk man named Giles Isham.Although he is of noble origin, he has close contacts with writers.He could no doubt connect Orlando with some of this group of blessed, holy writers.Because, as far as Orlando's current situation is concerned, he believes that anyone who can write a book and print it is extremely glorious, and it surpasses all the glory brought by blood and identity.In his imagination, it seems that those geniuses with wonderful ideas must have beautiful appearances.Halos on their heads, perfumes on their mouths, roses on their lips--neither he nor Mr. Dupper certainly did.It would have been a great happiness to Orlando, too, if he could hide behind the curtain and listen to their conversation.Even imagining their wide-ranging conversations made him feel how vulgar the topics he used to chat with his court friends were--sensuality and poker.He remembered with pride that people often called him a scholar and ridiculed him for being lonely and fond of books.He's never been good at smooth talk.In a woman's living room, he would just stand there, flushed, and walk stiffly like a soldier.He fell off his horse twice because of distraction.Once, he broke Mrs. Winchelsea's fan while reciting poems.He was impatient to recall the past, and an inexpressible hope filled him with his socially incompatible eccentricities, his youthful turmoil, his clumsiness, his shyness, his long walks, and His love of country life, all of which proved himself to be one of the holy writers, not one of the nobility--he was born a writer, not an aristocrat.For the first time since that flooded night, he felt happy.
He sent a letter from Mr. Isham of Norfolk to Mr. Nicholas Green who lived in the Clifford Inn, expressing his admiration for Mr. Green's works and looking forward to getting acquainted with Mr. Green (because Nick Green was a famous writer at the time).He hardly dared to make such a request, because he had nothing in return.But if Mr. Nicholas Green would condescend to call, a four-horse carriage would be waiting at the corner of Fett Lane at the time Mr. Green should choose, to take him safely to the Orlando mansion.People are free to add to the content of the rest of this letter.People can also imagine how excited Orlando was when Mr. Green quickly accepted the invitation of the noble lord and arrived in the hall on the south side of the main building on time at seven o'clock on Monday, April 21, in a carriage. joyously.
Kings, queens and envoys have been received in this hall; lords in ermine coats, the most charming women in the land, and the bravest soldiers.The banners that once flown on the fields of Florton and Agincourt now hang in the halls.Colorful coats of arms with lions, leopards and crowns are displayed in the hall.There was a long dining table set with silver and gold, and a great fireplace of Italian marble, capable of burning an entire oak tree to ashes in one night, with its thick foliage, wrens' and crows' nests.And the poet, Nicholas Green, stands here at this moment, in ordinary attire, with a soft-brimmed hat and tunic, and a small bag in his hand.
This made Orlando, who came to meet him in a hurry, a little disappointed.The poet was no more than middle height, of plain features, thin and a little stooped.When he entered the door, he was tripped by a mastiff, and the dog bit him.Orlando wondered as to what of the various classes of men he knew to regard the poet, for there was something queer about him which distinguished him neither from a servant nor from a squire or aristocrat.He has a full face and a hooked nose, which is not bad, but the cheeks are sunken.His eyes were bright, but his lips were drooping and drooling.However, the expression on his entire face is the most disturbing.There is neither the calmness and composure that make people feel happy to see on the face of a nobleman; nor the respectable obedience on the face of a well-trained domestic servant.It was a patchwork face.Though a poet, he seems to be better at scolding than praising; louder than soft-spoken; better stumbling than galloping; better at fighting than at leisure; better at hating not love.His flustered movements and the irritability and suspicion in his eyes revealed these characteristics of him.Orlando was a little overwhelmed, but invited him to dinner anyway.
Orlando had always been used to numerous servants and tables full of delicacies, but at this moment, for the first time, he felt inexplicably ashamed.Stranger still, he felt a sense of pride when he remembered that one of his great-grandmothers, Moll, had been a milkman.In the past, whenever I thought about this matter, I often felt a lot of unhappiness.He was about to mention this lowly woman and her milk pail in a gentle way, but the poet preemptively said that the surname Green seems commonplace, but it is unbelievable that the Green family was once a famous family in France. William the Conqueror came to England with him.Unfortunately, the family fell into decline and had no choice but to leave the surname to the royal jurisdiction of Greenwich.Following this topic, the rest of the conversation was nothing more than lost castles and coats of arms. A distant relative was a baronet in the north who was married to a nobleman in the west. No one was added, so they kept talking until the game was served on the table.Then, Orlando mentioned his great-grandmother More and her cows a little unnaturally, so that he felt a little relieved when he faced the table full of rich game.It was not until he began to drink the strong white wine that Orlando had the courage to say that he had always thought that there was one thing more important than the Green family name and the cow, and that was the sacred subject of poetry.At the mention of the word poetry, the poet's eyes sparkle.Instead of pretending to be a gentleman, he slammed his glass down on the table and started telling a story.It was the longest, most complicated, touching, and poignant story Orlando had ever heard, save for the wives' babble, and it was a play written by Greene, about another poet, and a critic.All that Orlando could cobble together about poetry itself was that it was harder to find buyers than prose, and that it was shorter but more time-consuming to write.Their conversation went on in ramblings, until Orlando gently hinted that he had been writing without knowing what to do.And at this moment the poet suddenly jumped up from his chair and said that there was a rat squeaking in the wainscoting.The poet explained that his nerves were fragile and that the noise of the rat would disturb him for a fortnight.这深宅大院里无疑有各种虫害出没，但奥兰多对此从来都置若罔闻。诗人随后对奥兰多完整地讲述了自己近十年来的健康状况。他的身体实在糟透了，能活到今日已是奇迹。他曾因中风而瘫痪，患过痛风、疟疾、水肿，还连续得过三种热病；此外，他的心室扩大，脾脏肥肿，还患有肝炎。而最厉害的，他告诉奥兰多，是他的脊椎，那种感觉难以名状。从上往下数第三截脊椎处长了一个小疙瘩，感觉火烧火燎；从下往上数第二截脊椎处也长了一个小疙瘩，那感觉又宛如寒冰刺骨。有时一觉醒来，脑袋沉重如铅；有时又仿佛有千万只小蜡烛点亮，还有人在他的身体里面燃放烟花。他说，他能感觉得到厚厚的床垫下有一片玫瑰花瓣；他仅凭脚下的鹅卵石就能识别整个伦敦的大街小巷。总之，他是一件精妙的机器，被以一种奇特的方式组装起来（此刻他似乎是下意识地抬起了手，而这只手的形状的确是想象中最精美的），令他困惑不解的是，为什么他的诗只卖出去五百册，当然，主要是因为有人暗中与他作对。他一拳砸在桌上，说出了他的结论，那就是英国的诗歌艺术已经死亡。
how is this possible?我们拥有莎士比亚、马洛、本·琼生、布朗、多恩，奥兰多历数他所崇拜的这些作家的名字，他们有的正活跃于当时的文坛，有的则辞世不久。格林的说法让他难以置信。
格林冷笑起来。他承认莎士比亚的一些剧目写得不错，但大多是抄袭马洛的作品。而马洛呢，差不多是个孩子，对于一个三十岁不到就辞世的年轻人，你还能说什么呢？至于布朗，他以散文的笔法写诗，但对于这种别出心裁的东西，人们很快就厌倦了。多恩则是个江湖骗子，他以晦涩艰深的文字来掩盖内涵的贫乏。虽能蒙骗一时，但那种晦涩的文风持续不了一年。至于本·琼生嘛，是他的朋友，他从不诟病朋友。
他断言，文学的伟大时代已然逝去。文学的伟大时代是古希腊时期。伊丽莎白女王时代的文学在各方面都逊色于古希腊。在那个时代，人们珍视神圣的目标，他称之为“荣跃”（他说“荣耀”的时候口齿不清，所以奥兰多起初并没听懂他的意思）。如今的年轻作家们都受雇于书商，只要能卖钱，什么样的垃圾都往外抛。莎士比亚就是始作俑者。莎士比亚已经受到惩罚了。他说，如今这个时代的特征，就是高超的骗术和疯狂的实验——而这些都是古希腊时代丝毫不能容忍的。他说这些话的时候很痛心——因为他热爱文学就像热爱自己的生命——他对当下实在不敢恭维，对未来也感到希望渺茫。说到这儿，他又给自己斟了一杯酒。
奥兰多被他的一番高谈阔论怔住了；可是，他观察到这位批评家本人似乎并无半点沮丧。恰恰相反，他越是谴责自己所处的时代，就越是自鸣得意。他说，记得有一天晚上，基特·马洛和其他几位作家都在舰队街的柯克小酒馆。基特那天兴致很高，喝得醉醺醺的，他很容易被灌醉。他有意想借酒劲胡说八道。格林说当时的情景他记忆犹新，基特对众人挥舞着酒杯，一边打着饱嗝，一边说：“扼住我的命脉，比尔，惊涛骇浪涌过来了，而你正站在风口浪尖上。”格林解释说，马洛这句话的意思是，他们正处在英国文学伟大时代的转折期，而莎士比亚将成为这一时期的重要诗人。两天后，马洛在一次酗酒斗殴中丧命，没能活着见证自己的预言，这对他本人来说倒是件幸事。“说出这样的预言，真是可怜又愚蠢的家伙，”格林感叹道，“伟大的时代，的确，伊丽莎白时代是个伟大的时代！”
“所以，我亲爱的爵爷，”他悠闲地坐在椅子上，手指把玩着酒杯，继续说道，“对我们来说最好就是，珍惜逝去的，敬仰当下那些以古人为楷模、为'荣跃'而不是为金钱而写作的作家，如今这样的作家寥寥无几了。”（奥兰多希望他把荣耀那个词说得准确一些）。“荣跃，”格林说，“可以激励高尚的头脑。如果我有三百英镑的年薪，每季度发放一次，我将毕生只为荣跃而活。我会每天早上躺在床上读西塞罗的著作。我将模仿他的风格，直至难分伯仲。这就是我所说的纯写作，”格林说，“这就是我所谓的荣跃。但要做到这一切，必须要有年金。”
此时此刻，奥兰多已不再指望与这位诗人探讨自己的作品了；因为他们眼下所谈论的是莎士比亚、本·琼生等作家的生平和品行，奥兰多的作品怎能与他们相提并论。格林与他们大多私交甚密，关于这些作家，他有大把的奇闻异事可以说。奥兰多一生中从来没有如此开怀大笑过。这些作家，曾经是他心目中的神，但他们中有一半人酗酒成性，且个个生性风流；他们大多与太太整日吵架，无一不是满口谎言、勾心斗角的卑鄙小人。他们的诗都是潦草地写在洗衣账单的背面，然后将这些草草写就的诗从街面的小门递给印刷店老板。《哈姆雷特》就是这样印出来的，《李尔王》也是，还有《奥赛罗》。正如格林所说，这些剧本错误百出也就不足为怪了。余下的时间，这些作家们在小酒馆或露天啤酒馆豪饮畅欢，言谈间极尽风趣而回避信仰，举止间放浪形骸，就连宫廷生活与他们相比也相形见拙。格林讲得津津乐道，奥兰多听得兴致勃勃。格林的叙述惟妙惟肖，栩栩如生，哪怕是三百年前的书，他也能说出里面最精彩的片断。
时间在谈笑风生间悄然流走。奥兰多对这位客人产生了一种奇特的感觉，既喜爱又藐视、既钦佩又怜悯，还夹杂着一些难以名状的东西，有一点惧怕，还有一点着迷。虽然他一味滔滔不绝地谈论自己，不过有这样一位聊天的好伙伴，就是听他讲疟疾的故事也永远不会厌烦。他是那么机智诙谐，那么玩世不恭，谈论上帝和女人时又是那么地无拘无束。他精通各种手艺，满脑子都是新奇花招。他会做三百种不同的色拉，他知道所有的调酒方法；他会演奏好几种乐器，而且，他恐怕是第一位，也是最后一位在意大利壁炉里烤奶酪的人。可是，他分不清天竺葵与康乃馨，橡树与桦树，分不清獒犬与灰狗，小羊与母羊，也分不清小麦与大麦，耕地与休耕地。他对春耕秋收一无所知；他以为柑橘长在地里，而萝卜长在树上。他更喜欢城镇风情而不是田园风光。凡此种种，都令奥兰多惊诧不已，因为他以前从未遇见过这种类型的人。女仆们虽然瞧不起他，但也被他的笑话逗得窃笑不已，男仆们虽然不喜欢他，但也围着他津津有味地听故事。的确，他的到来使整座庄园充满了前所未有的活力——这一切令奥兰多陷入了深思，促使他将眼下的生活与过去相比较。他回想起以往的谈资无非是西班牙国王中风，或是母狗交配；他还记得时光如何在马厩和衣柜之间慢慢流逝；记得那些达官贵人如何酩酊大醉，鼾声如雷，最讨厌有人搅了他们的美梦。他想起他们如何体魄健硕，却精神萎靡。这些想法令奥兰多心烦意乱，难以平静。于是他得出了一个结论： 他把一个烦恼精灵招进了家门，从此他将永无宁日。
而与此同时，尼克·格林却得出了完全相反的结论。一个清晨，他躺在床上，枕着松软无比的枕头，盖着柔滑无比的被单，透过那扇凸窗，他瞧见了那块三百年来寸草不生的地皮，他想，除非他溜之大吉，否则会被活活闷死在这里。他起床更衣，耳边传来鸽子的咕咕声和喷泉的流水声。他想，除非他听到舰队街上马车碾过鹅卵石子的辘辘声，否则他再也写不出一行诗句。他想，如果只听到隔壁房间传来男仆给壁炉添柴、在餐桌上摆放银质餐具的声音，那么长此以往，我将长眠不醒（此刻，他打了一个巨大的哈欠）。
于是，他到奥兰多的房间里去见他，解释说，他一夜未合眼，因为四周太安静了（的确，整座大宅被方圆十五英里的花园包围着，花园四周是十英尺高的围墙）。而他的神经最难以忍受的，就是寂静。所以他想当天早上就结束这次造访，请奥兰多谅解。奥兰多有点如释重负的感觉，但也有点恋恋不舍。他想，如果没有他，整个庄园便死气沉沉的。临告别时，奥兰多鼓足勇气把自己写的关于赫克利斯之死的剧本交给诗人。诗人收下了。又嘀咕了几句荣跃和西塞罗什么的，奥兰多打断了他，承诺按季度给他发放年金；于是，格林郑重其事地表达了对奥兰多的好感，然后跳上马车，扬长而去。
马车渐行渐远，大厅从未显得如此宽敞，如此富丽堂皇，也如此空空荡荡。奥兰多明白，他不会再有那份闲情雅致在意大利壁炉上烤奶酪了。他也不会再有那种机智诙谐去嘲笑意大利绘画，不会再有那种精湛手艺调出地道的宾治酒。他再也听不到那些连珠妙语和奇思异想了。然而，耳边不再有牢骚鼓噪，是何等地轻松啊，重又复归清静独处，又是何等地享受啊。他一边思忖着，一边解开了拴着大獒犬的绳索，它已经被拴了六个星期了，因为它一见到那诗人，就要扑上去咬他。
当天下午，尼克·格林在费特巷的拐角处下了马车，他发现生活一切如故。也就是说，格林太太正在一间屋子里生孩子，汤姆·弗莱彻在另一间屋子里喝杜松子酒。书本扔得满地皆是，晚餐——姑且算是晚餐吧——摆在一张梳妆台上，平时孩子们捏泥巴玩也用这张台子。然而，格林觉得这种氛围正适合写作。一到这里，他就能写作了，于是就写了起来。主题是现成的： 幽居的勋爵。他这篇新作的标题大致就是，乡间贵族访问记。他从儿子手上夺过笔来，那孩子正用笔掏小猫的耳朵玩。他把笔伸进一个蛋壳儿里蘸了蘸，那蛋壳儿是用来当作墨水瓶的。格林当场就挥笔写出了一首激情洋溢的讽刺诗。他把握得恰到火候，让人一看便知那位被讽刺的贵族无疑就是奥兰多；从那位贵族最隐秘的言行，他的狂热和傻气，到他头发的颜色，他发“r”这个音时异样的卷舌方式，全写得惟妙惟肖。格林毫不掩饰地引用了那位贵族写的悲剧《赫克利斯之死》中的几个片段，指出这些段落如他所料，写得极尽繁冗，华丽空洞。所以倘若仍有人不信这位贵族就是奥兰多，那看了格林引用的这些片段，也会笃信不疑了。
格林的这本诗册很快便印行了好几个版本，所得报酬解决了格林太太生第十个孩子的花销。不久，便有知情的友人将这本诗册送到了奥兰多本人的手上。奥兰多不动声色地从头读到尾，读完后，他摇铃唤来了男仆，用钳子把诗册夹起来，命男仆把它扔到庄园里最肮脏污秽、恶臭熏天的粪堆里去。男仆转身正欲离开，他又叫住他，“去马厩牵一匹最快的马，”他吩咐道，“骑上它拼命跑，赶到哈维奇，从那里登上开往挪威的船，到挪威国王的养狗场给我买最上等的皇家纯种猎犬，公犬母犬都要。然后立即打道回府，不得耽搁。因为，”他一边拿起书来读，一边用比呼吸还轻的声音嗫嚅道，“我不想再与人交往了。”
那男仆办事老练，恪尽职守。他俯首领命后，就跑得没影了。他不辱使命，三个星期后，就牵着几条上等挪威猎犬回来了。其中一只母犬当晚就在餐桌下产下了八只小狗。奥兰多让人把这窝小狗抱到自己的卧房。
“因为，”他说，“我不想再与人交往了。”
尽管如此，他仍然按季度付给格林年金。
就这样，这位三十岁上下的年轻贵族不仅饱经世事，而且万念俱灰。爱情与事业，女人和诗人，一切皆为虚空。而文学不过是一场闹剧。就在读了格林那篇《乡间贵族访问记》的当晚，他将自己的五十七部诗作全部投入了熊熊烈火，唯独留下了《大橡树》，那是他童年的梦想，篇幅很短。如今他能信任的只有两样东西： 狗和大自然；一条挪威猎犬和一丛玫瑰。这两样东西浓缩了世界的千姿百态，生活的千丝万缕。猎犬和玫瑰包含了一切。拨开迷雾见月明，他豁然开朗，把猎犬带在身边，去花园里信步游逛了。
他之前一直在写作和读书中度日，与世隔绝的时间太久了，差一点忘记了大自然的情趣，忘记了6月的大自然，应是极其曼妙动人的。他登上了那个高高的山丘，在晴空万里的日子里，从那里可以俯瞰半个英伦，以及与其接壤的威尔士和苏格兰的一部分。他扑倒在自己最喜爱的那棵大橡树下，觉得一生中倘若不必再与任何一个男人或女人说话；倘若狗不会进化出语言的能力；倘若他不会再遇见什么诗人或公主，那么他余下的岁月将心满意足。
此后，他经常来这里，日复一日，周复一周，月复一月，年复一年。看山毛榉树变成金黄一片，看羊齿草的嫩芽伸展蔓延；看月圆月缺，（下面这段文字读者也能想象出）看四周草木如何由青翠变为金黄；看月亮如何升起太阳如何西沉；看冬去春来，夏至秋分；看黑夜白昼，循环往复。看雨霁天晴，云开日出；看二三百年岁月流淌，万物依旧昔日容颜，惟余一抹尘土，几张蛛网，老妇只需半小时便可清扫干净。人们不禁用一句话来简单概括： 光阴荏苒，一切如故。
但不幸的是，时光虽然能使动植物的生长和衰亡准确得不可思议，但对人类心灵的影响就不那么简单了。而且，人类的心灵对时光的影响也同样奇妙。一小时的时间，一旦以人的心灵来衡量，就可能被拉长至时钟长度的五十倍或一百倍。在另一种情况下，人的心灵又可能把一小时精确地表达为一秒钟。人们极少察觉钟表时间与心灵时间之间的差异，这种差异值得探究。但正如我们所说，传记作者的兴趣是极为有限的，他必须限定自己用一个句子表述清楚，那就是： 当一个人到了三十岁，比如奥兰多，他在思考的时候，时间就显得特别长，他在做事的时候，时间就显得特别短。所以，当他发号施令处理自己庄园的事情时，不过是一眨眼的工夫；而当他独自一人在山丘上的橡树下时，每一秒便如同一滴膨胀起来的小水珠，充盈着仿佛永远都不会滴落下来。每一秒都被一大堆奇奇怪怪的问题充盈得满满的，他发现自己不仅要面对那些连聪慧绝顶的人都难以回答的问题，譬如何为爱情？何为友谊？何为真理？而且只要他一思考这些问题，逝去的岁月似乎就变得漫长而纷繁，充斥进盈盈欲滴的每一秒水珠，使这一滴小水珠膨胀得超过正常时间的数倍，五彩斑斓，宇宙间的千头万绪尽在其中。
就这样思考着（或随便称作什么），奥兰多度过了一年又一年。倘若说他早饭后出门时还是三十岁，那等他回家吃晚饭时，至少也有五十五岁了。这说法一点都不夸张。对他来说，有些时候是度日如年，另一些时候则是光阴似箭。总之，想要估算人类生命的长度，我们是无能为力的（动物的生命长短就更不敢推测了）。因为只要我们一说人生漫长，就会有人提醒我们人生苦短，比玫瑰花凋零还要短促。短暂与漫长，这两种力量主宰着我们不幸愚钝的头脑，它们能在同一时刻轮番主宰，这一点至今令人困惑不解。而主宰奥兰多的神明，时而壮如象腿，时而薄如蝉翼；生命于他，既绵长无涯，又转瞬即逝。然而，即便时间拉伸到最长，膨胀到极致，仿佛踽踽独行于漫无边际的沙漠中，也无暇抚平三十年来身边的男男女女们在他心头刻下的创伤，那些伤痛仿佛紧紧卷起的羊皮纸，他没有足够的时间去将它展开，而羊皮纸上留下的深深印记，他也无暇破解。他还没来得及搞清楚什么是爱情（他思考这个问题时，大橡树从发芽到叶落，循环往复了十二次），抱负就取代爱情占据了他的头脑，而友谊或文学又旋即取代了抱负。而那第一个问题，何为爱情，因为百思不得其解，便常常无缘无故地冒出来，将正在阅读的书，或脑海中的意象，或对生命意义的思考，统统挤到一边，不得不伺机再重新占据他的脑海。思考爱情之所以耗时漫长，是因为这一过程伴随着很多活生生的场景，不仅有画面： 老态龙钟的伊丽莎白女王，身穿玫瑰色绫罗绸缎，斜倚在绣帷长榻上，手上拿着象牙制成的鼻烟壶，身旁有一把金柄宝剑。而且还有气味： 她身上喷了浓浓的香水；还有声响： 那个冬日，里奇蒙德的庄园里传来了牡鹿的叫声。于是，冰雪和严冬、壁炉里燃烧的火焰、俄罗斯女人、金柄宝剑、牡鹿的叫声、老詹姆斯国王嘴边的垂涎、绽放的焰火以及伊丽莎白时代满船满舱的珍宝，这一切把关于爱情的思考晕染成了一片琥珀色。他发现，一旦他想把一件事从脑海中挪开，任何一件事，它都会随即与其他事情绞缠在一起，仿佛一块玻璃，沉淀在海底一年以后，上面满是骨头、蜻蜓、硬币和溺水女人的长发。
“上天又赐予我一个意象！”他大声惊呼（可见他的思维杂乱无章、反复无常，从而也可理解为什么大橡树数度花开花落，他仍对爱情百思不解）。“但这些意象又有何意义呢？”他自问道。“为什么不能简单地用寥寥数语来表述呢？”于是，为了用片言只语来表达何为爱情，他会苦苦思索半个小时——抑或是两年半？“那个海底玻璃的意象显然不够真实，”他争辩道，“因为除非极为特殊的情况，蜻蜓不会生存在海底。而文学倘若不是真理的新娘和同床共眠者，她又是什么呢？真混账！”他大声叫道，“既已说了新娘，为何还要说同床共眠者？为何不明白表示一种含义便罢了？”
于是，为了使诗风质朴无华，他尝试着说，小草青青，天空蓝蓝。虽然诗歌于他遥不可及，但他仍心存敬意。“天空蓝蓝，”他说，“小草青青。”然而放眼望去，眼前的景象却恰恰相反，天空宛若千百位圣母的长发上垂下的轻纱；小草黑压压连成一片，好似一群奔跑的少女，要逃离魔法森林中长毛怪的怀抱。“说真的，”他说道（他已经养成了大声说话的坏习惯），“我看不出有什么事比另一件事更真实，全都是十足的假象。”他觉得要解决何为诗歌何为真理的问题，已然无望，于是，陷入了深深的沮丧之中。
趁他自言自语的时候，我们不妨暂停叙述，来思考一下眼前的情景有多么令人不可思议。在6月里的一天，看到奥兰多头枕胳膊，平躺在那里，我们会想到如此才华横溢、面色红润、四肢强健的好男儿，如此毫不犹豫奔赴战场、英勇杀敌的勇士，竟会被思考降服得如此没精打采，多愁善感。一旦涉及诗歌，涉及自己的诗才，他竟会腼腆得像个躲在娘家柴门背后的小女孩。我们相信，格林对奥兰多作品的奚落，并不亚于俄罗斯公主对他爱情的嘲弄。让我们回过头来继续我们的故事……
奥兰多仍在思考。他久久地凝望着草地和天空，试图想象这草地和天空在那位真正的诗人，那位在伦敦出版诗作的诗人笔下，该如何呈现。此时此刻，记忆使尼古拉斯·格林那张脸不停地在奥兰多眼前晃悠（记忆的这种惯常手法我们前面已经描述过），似乎这位尖酸刻薄、口若悬河，且背信弃义的家伙，就是缪斯本人，奥兰多必须对他顶礼膜拜。于是在那个夏日的清晨，奥兰多将纷繁各异的诗句呈现给他，有些质朴无华，有些精雕细琢，但格林一味地摇头，冷嘲热讽，咕咕哝哝地说着荣跃、西塞罗和我们这个时代诗歌的死亡。许久，奥兰多终于站起身来（眼下已是寒冷的冬季），他发了一个誓，这是他一生中最惊天动地的誓言，因为这个誓言注定了他将忍受严酷的惩罚。“如果我为了取悦格林或缪斯而再写一个字，或试图再写一个字，我将遭天打雷劈，”他发誓说，“从今往后，无论写得好赖，写得如何平淡无奇，我都只为愉悦自己而写作。”他仿佛将厚厚的一摞纸撕扯得粉碎，朝那个尖酸刻薄、口若悬河的家伙脸上狠狠地砸过去。听到这一番话，记忆缩头缩脑地躲了起来，好像有人朝她扔了一块石头。她将格林的肖像藏了起来，取而代之的是——空空如也。
但奥兰多仍在思考，一如既往。他的确有很多事需要想明白。因为当他一把撕碎了羊皮纸文稿时，也将那个纹着徽章的卷轴撕碎了。那是他在自己的房里独自一人时，为了自寻开心而签发给自己的任命书，好比国王任命大臣一样，他任命自己为家族第一诗人，时代第一作家，赐灵魂永恒，肉身与桂冠诗人同葬，永世为人所敬仰。这一切虽然打动人心，但却被他撕成碎片，扔进了垃圾箱。“名望，”他说，“好比一件缀满穗带的外套，碍手碍脚；好比一件银制的上衣，勒得人胸闷憋气；好比彩绘的盾牌，只能保护稻草人。”等等，等等（既然格林不再成为他的羁绊，他便陶醉于狂热的想象，我们只选取其中一两个最为冷静的意象）。他想表达的主要意思是，名望是一种羁绊和限制，而默默无闻则能使人得到掩护，如迷雾一般深不可测。默默无闻，就是讳莫高深、宽厚博大、自由自在。默默无闻，使人的大脑得以无拘无束地畅想。默默无闻的人，周身有幸弥漫着神秘的气息。无人知晓他从哪里来，要到哪里去。他可以坦言真理。惟有他才是自由的；惟有他才是诚实的；惟有他才得享安宁。在大橡树下，他沉浸在一种宁静安详的心境中。大橡树那裸露在地面的粗壮根茎，在他眼里比其他任何东西都令人陶醉。
他久久地沉浸在深思之中，思考默默无闻所具有的意义，它带来的喜悦，恰如海浪回归大海的深处。默默无闻，使人心可以摆脱嫉妒和怨恨的烦扰；使人的血脉中奔涌着宽容与仁厚；使人们不必为施予而赞美，为索取而感恩。他设想所有伟大的诗人都必定如此行事（尽管他对希腊人的有限了解不足以佐证他的设想），他认为，莎士比亚写作的时候，工匠建造教堂的时候，都是隐姓埋名，无需感激，也不在意名望，只是白天劳作，晚上可能喝一点麦芽酒而已。“那是多么美妙的人生啊，”他一边想，一边在大橡树下舒展开四肢。“何不现在就享受如此人生呢？”这想法像子弹一样击中了他。雄心壮志像一颗铅球沉甸甸地坠落下来。他摆脱了情场失意和虚荣受挫带给他的撕心裂肺的伤痛，还有他追名逐利时生活施加给他的煎熬和磨难。它们不再能加害于他了，因为他已淡泊功名。他睁大眼睛，虽然他一直这样双目大睁，但刚才他眼里只有思想，而此刻，他看见了脚下山谷中静卧着的房子，他的庄园。
它静静地卧在春日的朝晖中。看上去不像住宅，更像一个小镇。而且这个小镇不是随意偶成的，而是一位胸有成竹的建筑师精心设计的。庭园和楼房，灰、红、紫三色相间，错落有致，匀称工整。庭园方圆相济，一处园子有喷泉，另一处园子有雕塑；楼房层层叠叠，尖顶耸立。这儿一座小教堂，那儿一座钟楼。其间相隔着成片的绿草地，还有一丛丛杉树和一片片五彩缤纷的花圃。这一切虽然都被一圈高耸的围墙环抱着，但却各得其所且伸展自如。炊烟正从无数个烟囱袅袅升上天空。奥兰多想，这庞大而齐整、可以容纳上千人和两千匹马的建筑，它的建设者却是默默无闻的。在数不清的岁月里，这里居住着我名不见经传的家族，和一代又一代默默无闻的祖先。那些名叫理查德、约翰、安妮和伊丽莎白的先辈们，全都雁过无痕，惟有这座庄园，是他们齐心协力一锹一镐、一针一线、繁衍了一代又一代，才留传至今。
这庄园从未显得如此高贵而又温情脉脉。
那么，他何必要把自己凌驾于他们之上呢？想要超越那些无名创造者的作品，超越那些无形双手所付出的劳动，是极端虚荣和傲慢无礼的。与其当一颗流星，燃尽璀璨，却留不下一丝灰烬，不如默默一生，在身后留下一座拱门，一方苗圃，一堵缀满果实的墙。因为在这座庄园居住过的高贵男女，虽然不为人知，却从未忘记留些东西给子孙后代。厨房里总有一个温暖的角落留给老牧人；总有食物为饥肠辘辘的人预备着；他们即便卧病在床，也把高脚酒杯擦得铮亮；他们即便奄奄一息，也把灯火点得一片通明。他们虽然贵为爵爷，却甘于寂寞，愿与捕鼠人和石匠一样默默无闻。默默无闻的贵族们，被人遗忘的建筑工匠们，他满怀热情地呼唤他们，彻底颠覆了人们以往批评他的冷漠、无情和懒散（我们寻求的真相往往与我们仅一墙之隔）。他用最动人的口才来发表关于他的庄园和家族的演讲，然而，没有结语的演讲如何堪称演讲？到了演讲的结语部分，他一时踌躇语塞。他想用华丽的辞藻来结尾，表明他将追随先人的脚步，为他们留下的这座庄园添砖加瓦。然而，整座庄园已经占地九英亩，再添一块石头都嫌多余。难道以谈论家具来结尾？以谈论桌椅和床边的地垫来结尾？无论结束语提到什么，都应该是庄园里缺少的东西。此刻，他把演讲结束语的事暂且搁在一边，大步流星往山下走去，决意从今往后要尽心尽力装饰他的庄园。当善良的老格里姆斯蒂奇太太接到吩咐，说奥兰多要她立即前去侍候左右时，不禁热泪盈眶。她现在真的有点老了。她陪着奥兰多一起巡视了整座庄园。
国王卧室的毛巾架缺了一条腿（格里姆斯蒂奇太太说，“这是杰米住过的，”暗示国王下榻此处已是很久以前的事了；但臭名昭著的议会时代已经结束，如今英国又恢复了王朝）；公爵夫人起居室的盥洗室里，水盆下面缺个底座；格林先生那讨厌的烟斗弄脏了地毯，她和朱迪擦了半天也没擦掉。事实上，当奥兰多开始考虑添置一些紫檀木椅子、雪松木衣柜、银盆瓷碗和波斯地毯时，才明白这一切谈何容易，因为整座宅子拥有的卧房共三百六十五间。即便他手头还余下几千英镑的家产，也仅够在长廊里挂一些壁毯绣帷，在宴会厅里添几把精美的木雕椅子，在王室寝殿里配上结实的银镜，椅子也要配银制的（他特别喜爱这种金属）。
看一眼他开列的明细单子，就明白他此刻已满怀热情地行动起来了。让我们来看一看他此番购置物品的清单吧，清单页边处的开销总计我们就略去不提了：
“五十套西班牙毛毯，相同数量的红白相间塔夫绸窗帘，配上白色缎纹的短幔，上面缀有红白相间的丝绣……”
“七十把黄色缎面椅子和六十把厚布面的高脚凳……”
“六十七张胡桃木桌子……”
“十七打匣子，每打匣子里装五打威尼斯玻璃杯……”
“一百零二块席垫，每块三十码长……”
“九十七个深红色锦缎靠垫，上面镶有银色羊皮纸花边，再配上薄布面的脚凳和椅子……”
“五十盏枝形烛台，每盏可点燃十二支烛灯……”
我们已经开始哈欠连天了，都怪这繁琐的清单。但我们就此打住的原因，并不是因为清单到此为止了，而是因为它太冗长乏味了。它共有九十九页长，总计开销达数千英镑——相当于我们现在的数百万英镑。如果奥兰多爵爷日思夜想的都是花钱装饰整修，那么他也许还会计算一下，如果每个人工每小时工钱是十便士，那铲平一百万座小山丘需要花费多少；如果要整修方圆十五英里的花园篱笆，需买多少英担的5 1/2便士尺寸的钉子，等等，等等。
我们会觉得这种计算太枯燥乏味了。因为衣柜与衣柜大抵相同，一座山丘和一百万座山丘也区别不大。但这一过程给奥兰多带来了欢愉，也带给他颇为有趣的冒险经历。譬如，他为了给一张罩有银制华盖的大床缝制帷幔，动用了布鲁日全城的盲女绣工。此外，他的威尼斯历险或许也值得一说，当时他在刀尖的威逼下，从一个摩尔人那里买了一个漆柜。整修工程也是花样百出。一会儿从苏塞克斯拖来几棵大树，被锯成木板铺在了长廊里，一会儿又从波斯运来一只塞满羊毛和锯末的大箱子，结果箱子里只装了一只盘子和一枚黄宝石戒指。
可是到了最后，长廊里再也没有地方多放一张桌子了，桌上也没有地方再多放一个小柜子，柜子里也没有地方再多放一只玫瑰花瓶，花瓶里也没有地方再多放一把百花香。不能再添置任何东西了。一句话，整座庄园一应俱全。花园里繁花似锦，有雪莲、番红花、风信子、玉兰花、玫瑰花、百合花、紫菀，以及品种齐全的大丽菊，有梨树、苹果树、樱桃树和桑树，还有大量珍稀的开花灌木和四季长绿的常青树，它们枝繁叶茂，盘根错节，地上无处不覆盖着茂密花草，无处不在绿树浓荫的掩映之下。此外，他还从国外买来了羽毛华丽的野鸟和两只马来熊，它们虽然举止粗鲁，但他相信它们体内必然隐藏着一颗诚实可靠的心。
Everything is ready.黄昏时分，当无数个银烛台点亮
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