Chapter 6 chapter Five

The great cloud that appeared on the first day of the nineteenth century covered not only London, but the whole of the British Isles, and lingered for a long time, having an extraordinary effect on the people who lived under its shadow.But it can also be said that this dark cloud did not stay for long, because the wind kept blowing it away.There seemed to be a change in the climate of England, and the rains were more frequent, and came in sudden, irregular showers, one of which ceased to be followed by another.Of course, the sun does come out occasionally, but the sun is always blocked by clouds and mist, and the air is also filled with moisture.So, the sun is no longer bright, and dull purples, oranges and reds have replaced the bright colors of the eighteenth century.Under this gloomy blue-purple sky, the vegetables are no longer green, and the white snow looks gray.And to make matters worse, damp began to invade every house.Dampness is the most insidious and vicious enemy, for the sun can be shut out by shutters, and the cold can be driven out by a roaring fire, but the dampness creeps in when we are soundly asleep; everywhere.Firewood swells when it gets wet, hair grows on kettles when it gets wet, iron gets rusted when it gets wet, and stones get corroded when it gets wet.This process is slow and imperceptible, until one day, when we pull out a drawer or lift a coal bucket, these things fall apart in our hands, and we don't think that maybe the damp is to blame.

As a result, the order of life in England has changed imperceptibly, and no one knows when the change began.The impact of this change can be seen everywhere.Once upon a time, well-built country gentry would sit happily over ale and beef in elegant dining rooms, perhaps designed in a classical style by the Adam Brothers.But now, the robust country gentleman can feel the cold when he eats.He put on a blanket, grew his hair and beard, and tied his trouser legs tightly around the instep.But soon the chill in the squire's legs spread to his house.He covered the furniture, covered the walls and tables, everything was completely covered.Then, the diet also changed radically.Muffins and shortbread were invented, coffee replaced the after-dinner wine, and the appearance of coffee led to the living room for drinking coffee, the coffee shop led to the glass cabinet, the glass cabinet led to artificial flowers, artificial flowers And from the mantelpiece, which led to the piano, which led to the parlor ballad, which (we skipped a few stages in its development) led to countless puppies, rugs, and china ornaments.Home, the most important home, has also changed beyond recognition.

Outside, ivy thrives and thrives, another consequence of the humidity.The once exposed stone blocks of the stone house are now densely covered with moss.No matter how well-proportioned the garden was originally designed, every garden is now overgrown with bushes and weeds, with deep twists and turns.The light that penetrates into the children's bedroom is naturally green, but it is hard to tell what kind of green it is.In the living room where adult men and women are active, the light must pass through the maroon plush curtains to shine in.However, change doesn't just stop at the surface of things.Moisture invaded people's hearts.The men felt a chill in their hearts.The damp also invaded their brains.They desperately tried to curl up their emotions in a warm corner, using all kinds of tricks.Love, life and death are wrapped in all kinds of gorgeous words.The distance between the sexes is getting bigger and bigger, and they are unwilling to even have a frank conversation. They deliberately avoid each other and cover themselves in front of each other.The fecundity of human beings is also as vigorous as the ivy and evergreens growing wildly outside the house.Most women's lives consist of one child after another.Married at nineteen and by thirty had fifteen or eighteen children, because twins were everywhere.Thus, the British Empire came into being.And the continuous damp, while invading the wood, also invaded the inkwell-sentences became longer and longer, adjectives flooded, lyric poems became epic, and small things that were originally enough to be expressed in a column are now An encyclopedia that can be written in ten or twenty volumes.Eusebius Chubb may be our witness to the minds of sensitive natures affected by all this, but powerless to prevent it.Near the end of his memoirs, there is such a description.One morning, after thirty-five empty pages, he screwed on the cap of the ink bottle and went for a walk in the garden.Soon he found himself surrounded by bushes.The dense leaves rustled above his head and shone with splendor.He felt "as if thousands of molds had been crushed under his feet."A bonfire was burning at the end of the garden, and the damp logs were smoking thickly.It would be futile, he thought, to consume all the fires in the world to consume this tangled and dense vegetation.As he looked, weed vines were growing wildly, and cucumbers "snaked across the grass to his feet."Huge cauliflowers climbed up and down the terrace, and in his vague imagination, the cauliflowers were as tall as the elms.The hens kept laying eggs, but never a colored egg.Now he moaned and thought of his fertile self and his poor wife Jane, who was now in the house going through the throes of her fifteenth labor.He asked himself, who else has the right to blame those hens?He looked up at the sky. Isn't the reproductive system of animals and plants just what God, or the sky called the gate of heaven, promised or encouraged?Looking at the vast sky, winter and summer, year after year, year after year, the clouds are flying and rolling, and the big clouds are a bit like whales, he thought, but more like elephants.But this metaphor is not accurate, because there is a clearer metaphor lingering in his mind, that is, the sky is like a huge feather bed, stretching over the British Isles.The garden for the breeding of the plants, the bedroom for the breeding of the human beings, and the henhouse for the breeding of the birds are but mediocre versions of the feathered bed.He went into the house, wrote the above passage, and leaned his head on the gas stove.He was dead when he was found later.

This change spread to every corner of England, but Orlando was in her house in Blackfriar, deluding herself into thinking that everything was the same, that she could say whatever she wanted, and put on trousers and skirts if she wanted to. Just wear a skirt.But as time goes by, even she has to admit that times have really changed.One afternoon in the early nineteenth century she was driving through St James's Park in her old-fashioned paneled carriage.A rare ray of sunlight struggled to penetrate the clouds and shine on the earth. The moment it passed through the clouds, it dyed the clouds colorfully.It was such a spectacle that she had to open the window to admire it, since the clear blue skies of the eighteenth century had ceased to exist.The dun and fiery clouds reminded her poignantly of dying dolphins in the Ionian Sea, suggesting that she had been ravaged by the damp without knowing it.However, to her great surprise, in the ray of sunlight hitting the ground, a pyramid, a sacrifice, or a pile of spoils (the atmosphere seemed to be a feast).A whole lot of clutter piled haphazardly on the spot where the statue of Queen Victoria now stands!On a huge corroded cross adorned with gold foliage hung widows' mourning dresses and brides' wedding dresses; crystal palaces, baby cradles, military helmets, mourning wreaths, trousers, beards, wedding cakes, cannons, Christmas trees , telescopes, extinct monsters, globes, maps, elephants and mathematical instruments, all intertwined and stacked together, like a huge shield, supported by two people on the left and right, on the right is a woman in a flowing white dress, on the left A burly man in a tuxedo and fat-leg trousers.Orlando's interest was greatly spoiled by the juxtaposition of incongruous things, the combination of well-dressed and bare-breasted backs, of bright colors and plaids.Never in her life had she seen anything so ugly, so repulsive, and so tall and mighty.Perhaps it was the sunlight that conjured it all through the moisture-soaked air, it must have been.With a breeze, it will disappear without a trace.But as she drove by, it seemed to her that it was destined to last forever.She retreated into the corner of the carriage, she thought that nothing in the world could destroy this gaudy giant, no matter it was the wind and rain, the lightning and thunder, or the sun, it would never be able to destroy it.Only its nose will be spotted and its horn will be a little rusty, but it will stand forever, pointing in all directions.When the carriage drove up Constitution Hill, she looked back, yes, it was there, shining calmly in the sun, she took out her pocket watch, and it was twelve o'clock at noon.Nothing could be more insipid and indifferent than this gigantic being, indifferent to the spectacle of dawn and dusk, bent on eternity.She resolved not to look at it again.She felt that the flow of her blood had become sluggish and listless.But what is even more strange is that when she passed Buckingham Palace, when her eyes fell on her knees driven by a supernatural force, her face flushed, it was a rare bright red.She suddenly found herself wearing black trousers, and she couldn't help but turn pale with fright.In this way, she returned to her manor blushing.The four horses ran thirty miles, and Orlando's face remained red during such a long time, which proved how pure she was.

Once back at the Manor, she snatched a brocade quilt from the bed and wrapped herself up, which was what she most wanted to do.She explained to Widow Bartolomo that she felt very cold.Widow Bartolomo was the new housekeeper, succeeding good old Mrs. Grimstitch. "We're all cold, ma'am," said the widow, with a heavy sigh, "and the walls are sweating," and her tone of reassurance was both curious and depressing.Indeed, no sooner had she put her hand on the oak panel than there was the watermark of her finger.The ivy has grown wildly outside the windows, and many of the windows cannot be opened now.The kitchen was so dark that it was almost impossible to tell which was the kettle and which was the pan.A poor black cat was once mistook for coal and shoveled into a burning fire.Although it was August, most of the maids were wearing three or four layers of red flannel petticoats.

"Ma'am," said the kind woman, with her arms folded, the golden cross rising and falling on her chest, "what do you call that thing that the queen wears... God bless the queen...?" The kind woman With a red face, he asked hesitantly. "Pinniels," Orlando said for her (she had heard the word when she lived in Blackbray).Mrs. Bartolomo nodded.Tears were already streaming down her cheeks, but she was smiling while wiping them.Because crying is joy.Aren't they all fragile women?Wouldn't a certain fact be better concealed by wearing a pannier?Some important and sad fact that only needs to be concealed, some fact that every decent woman denies so hard that she can't deny it, and that is the fact that a woman is pregnant and about to give birth.In fact, women have fifteen to twenty children in their lifetime, so they spend most of their lives hiding the fact of pregnancy until the truth comes out.And this happens at least once a year.

"The muffin is still warm," said Mrs. Bartolomo, wiping her tears, "and it's in Sue's (study) room." So Orlando sat wrapped in a brocade quilt, with a plate of muffins before him. "The muffin is still warm, and it's in Sue's room," Orlando imitated the disgusting East End accent, although Mrs. Bartolomo had already paid attention to embellishing her accent.Orlando took a sip of her tea, oh no, she hated such bland drinks.She remembered that, in this very room, Queen Elizabeth stood cross-legged by the fireplace, holding a jug of beer, and when Lord Bergley accidentally used the imperative sentence instead of the subjunctive sentence, the Queen suddenly snapped. Throwing the jug on the table, "Little guy, little guy," Orlando seemed to hear her say, "Can you use the word 'must' for a king?" The table still has the mark of the jug.

Orlando sprang to her feet at the thought of the Great Queen, but the covers caught her, and she fell back into her armchair with a curse.Tomorrow, she thought, she would have to buy twenty yards or more of black wool and make a skirt.Then, she had to buy a pannier (her face flushed), then a bassinet (her face flushed again), then another pannier, another bassinet, and so on... Her face The blush on his face appeared and faded from time to time, and the subtle changes of dignity and shyness in his heart can be imagined.One can feel the wind of the times blowing on her face, sometimes hot and sometimes cold.Even if the wind of the times blows a little abnormally, even if she blushes for a pannier before she is married, we can forgive her.Because of her gender ambiguity (her gender is still debated to this day), and because she's been living an extraordinary life.

Finally, her complexion returned to normal, and the wind of the times—if there was such a wind of the times—was subsided for the time being.At this time, Orlando reached out and fumbled in the shirt, as if looking for a token of a lost emotion.But what she took out was a roll of paper, on which there were water stains soaked in sea water, as well as blood stains and dust from the journey.It was her poem "The Great Oak Tree".For so many years, she has carried it with her, traveled around, and gone through hardships and dangers. Most of the papers of her poems are stained and incomplete.When living with the gypsies, she suffered from no writing paper, and had to fill the margins and the blank spaces between lines until the manuscript looked like a piece of patchwork, covered with dense stitches. patch.She turned to the first page, which was dated, 1586, in the childish handwriting of her youth.She has been writing this poem for nearly three hundred years.It's time to wrap things up.She flipped through the manuscript of the poem, skimming through the whole poem, thinking as she read it, over the years, she has actually changed very little.She had been a morose teenager, curious about death like all adolescents.Later, she became a passionate young master, and later, she became witty and sharp.She tried prose and also drama.But no matter how it changes, she believes that she is still the same.She is still often brooding, loves animals and nature as always, and the rural scenery and the beauty of the four seasons still make her passionate.

"After all," she stood up and went to the window, "nothing has changed. The house is the same house, and the garden is the same garden. Not a single chair has been moved, not a single trinket has been sold." The paths, the lawns, the trees, the ponds, are the same, and I dare say the carp in the ponds are the same. Yes, Queen Victoria sits on the throne now, not Queen Elizabeth, But what's the difference..." As soon as this idea came up, the door of the room was thrown open, as if to express dissatisfaction with her idea.The butler Basket came in, followed by Mrs. Bartolomo, the housekeeper, who had come to clear the tea-things.Orlando had just dipped his pen into the ink, and was about to write down his thoughts about the eternity of everything, but when he put the pen down, the drop of ink slowly melted around the paper, turning into an ink blob.She was very annoyed, and thought there must be something wrong with the quill, cracked, or clogged with dirt.So, she dipped the ink again, but when she put the pen on the paper, the ink blob melted even bigger.She tried to write down what she had just thought, but her mind was blank.Then she started drawing and drawing on the blob, adding wings and whiskers, until it was a round-headed monster, part bat, part wombat.As for poetry, it was impossible with Basket and Mrs. Bartolomo hanging around the house.However, just as soon as the word "impossible" was out of her mouth, she was astonished that the pen began to walk in a curve, spin and jump, and wrote incomparably smoothly.On the paper in front of her, in neat Italian italics, was written the most banal line of poetry she had ever read:

She wrote and wrote, all while Mrs. Bartolomo and Baskett walked up and down the room, muttering, adding wood to the fireplace, and carrying away the muffins. She dipped in the ink and continued to write vigorously—— At this point, she splashed the ink on the paper, and the scattered ink concealed the words, and she hoped that these words would never be shown in front of others.She was trembling and distracted, and she felt the ink bubbling under the catharsis of runaway inspiration, and nothing could be more offensive.What happened to her?what is the reason?Was it the damp, or Mrs. Bartolomo and Basket?She wants to know the answer.But the room was empty, and there was no one to answer her, only the ticking of raindrops on the ivy. At this moment, she was standing in front of the window, an unusual tingling and trembling spread all over her body, she felt so strange, as if her body was like thousands of metal strings, blown by the breeze or fingertips, Scales played on the strings.She felt a tingling in her toes for a while, and then the tingling spread to the marrow of her bones.The pain around her femur was even more weird.Her hair also seemed to stand on end, and her arms buzzed and boomed like the telegraph wire invented twenty years later.But all the pain and trembling finally concentrated on her two hands.Then it gathers on one hand, one finger, and finally, around the middle finger of the left hand, it shrinks into a circle, trembling slightly.She lifted up that finger and examined it carefully, but there was no abnormality, only the huge emerald ring that Queen Elizabeth gave her was alone on her finger.Isn't that enough?she asked herself.The ring was very shiny and worth at least ten thousand pounds.But that trembling trembling seemed to tell her in a strange way that it wasn't enough, it wasn't enough.Then, in a tortured tone, he asked, what else do you lack?What else did you miss?Poor Orlando was so ashamed of his left middle finger, but he didn't know why.At this moment, Mrs. Bartolomo came in and asked her what she was wearing for dinner. Orlando glanced sensitively at Mrs. Bartolomo's left hand, a detail she had never noticed before.It turned out that Mrs. Bartolomo's ring finger was wearing a thick, icteric ring, while her own ring finger was empty. "Let me see your ring, Mrs. Bartolomo," said Orlando, reaching out his hand to take it off to look at it. Madame Bartolomo was taken aback, as if she had been attacked by a rascal in the chest, and took two steps back in fright, clenching her fists and waving them solemnly. "That's not okay," she said solemnly.A mistress can look at it if she likes, but not even the Archbishop, the Pope, or the reigning Queen Victoria can compel her to take off her wedding ring.Twenty-five years, six months and three weeks had passed since her Thomas had put the ring on her finger.She wore it to bed, to work, to bathe, to pray.She was also going to wear it when she was buried.She stammered because of emotion, but Orlando understood that what she wanted to say was that with the brilliance of this wedding ring, she would belong to the angels, and once the ring left her, even For just a second, it will go dim. "God have mercy on us," said Orlando.Standing in front of the window, she watched the pigeons frolicking outside the window, "What kind of world do we live in! What kind of world is it!" She was dazzled by the complexity of this world.In her eyes at this moment, the whole world is wearing a golden ring.She goes to restaurants and there are wedding rings everywhere; she goes to church and wedding rings are everywhere.She went out in the car, and saw that everyone was wearing faintly glowing rings, some of which were gold, copper, slender, thick, or plain in style, or smooth in lines.The rings in the jewelry store are even more dazzling. Those rings are not the flashy glass and diamonds in Orlando's collection, but just a simple ring without any gemstones embedded in it.Meanwhile, she notices a new fad starting to hit the town.Orlando had taught many such couples with his whip before, laughing and walking away, that one would often find boys and girls flirting and flirting under the medlar hedge.Today, everything has changed.Pairs of men and women, arms crossed, shoulders crossed, fingers intertwined, embracing each other like glue, walking swaggeringly down the street.Often it was the horse's nose that bumped into them, and they refused to separate, but moved a little to the side of the road hugging each other.Orlando can only guess that it may be that humans have made new discoveries.They stick together one by one like glue, who is the matchmaker?When did you do the media?She had no way of guessing.It doesn't seem like nature did it.She observed the doves, the hares, and the hounds, and saw that nature had not changed in them, at least, from the days of Queen Elizabeth to the present day.These animals are not stuck together and cannot be separated.So, Queen Victoria?Or Lord Melbourne?Are they the initiators of the major breakthrough in human marriage?But, she thought, Queen Victoria liked dogs, and Lord Melbourne, she had heard, was infatuated with women.The way men's and women's bodies stick together like glue strikes her as strange—and repulsive to her.There was something about it that contradicted her idea of ​​weathering and cleanliness.As she thought, the finger tingled and trembled, making it almost impossible for her to organize her thoughts.The chaotic thoughts are like a maid's dream, which makes people paralyzed and confused.Orlando blushed for this.No big deal, just to buy one of those ugly rings to put on your finger like everyone else does.She actually went and bought one, and slipped it over her finger in shame, in the shade of the curtain.But it was of no avail, instead of eliminating the stinging pain, it became more raging and rampant.That night, she stayed up all night, and the next morning, when she picked up the pen and wanted to write something, her mind was blank, and the ink dripped on the paper, turning into pools of wet ink stains.Or, what is more frightening than this is that the nib of the pen meanders and moves forward slowly, and what is written is the emotion of youthful death and corruption.It's worse than a blank mind, because writing seems to be done not with our fingers but with our whole being, as Orlando is.The nerves that control the pen involve every fiber of our body, scratching the heart, scratching the liver, tearing the heart and lungs.Although the problem was in her left hand, she felt the pain spread all over her body.In the end, she had no choice but to compromise completely, follow the trend of the times, and find a husband. It was clearly against her nature to do so.When the sound of the Grand Duke's carriage faded away, she cried "Life! Lover!" instead of "Life! Husband!" Junction, as we described in the previous chapter.However, the spirit of the times is invincible. Those who go against will perish, and those who follow will prosper.Orlando clings so stubbornly to the Elizabethan, Restoration, and eighteenth-century zeitgeist that it doesn't even realize that times have changed.And the spirit of the nineteenth century was completely contrary to her nature. Therefore, she was defeated and defeated. She realized that she, who had always been a maverick, was defeated by the nineteenth century. hands.Maybe people's nature belongs to different eras, some people are born at the right time, and some people are not born at the right time.At this time, Orlando was already a mature woman in her thirties. Her personality had already been established, and it was really unbearable for her to force her to do things that were against her nature. So she stood sadly at the window of the living room (Mrs. Bartolomo used the word living room for the study).She has followed the trend of the times, dragging heavy panniers.Never before had she worn such heavy, dragging clothes, so obstructive.She could no longer stride through the garden with her hounds, nor run lightly up the hill to fall at the foot of the great oak.Her skirt trailed on wet leaves and straw.A gust of wind can blow away the feathered hat.Thin-soled shoes get soaked and muddy after a few steps.Her muscles lost their elasticity, she became a little nervous, she always felt that there were thieves hiding behind the wainscoting, and, for the first time in her life, she was actually afraid of running into ghosts on the corridor.All of these forced her to succumb to the new discovery of this era step by step, that is, both men and women are destined to spend this life with the opposite sex, to be with each other, and to grow old together.She felt that interdependence was, after all, a consolation.Sitting or lying next to each other, even sleeping forever, is also very comfortable.For all her pride in the past, she now obeys the spirit of the times.Moreover, when she was depressed and had a strange temper, the original pervasive and domineering sting turned into a melodious melody, as if an angel were plucking the strings of a harp with snow-white fingers, and her whole body and mind were immersed in the angel's sympathy. of pure and beautiful beauty. But who is she to rely on?She asked about the rustling autumn wind.It's October now and it's still wet and rainy.The man she was relying on was not the Grand Duke, for he was married to a distinguished lady, and had been hunting hares in Romania for years; nor Mr. M, who had converted to Catholicism; It's not Lord O, who has long been a delicious meal for fishes; for various reasons, her former friends are gone now.As for the girls in Drury Lane named Neil and Katie, although she liked them very much, it was difficult to be relied on. "Who can I rely on?" she asked.She looked up at the sky, and the sky was full of chaotic clouds.She knelt on the window sill with her fingers interlocked, like a delicate and charming weak woman.When she does all this, she is involuntary, as if her pen writes in its own way.So it wasn't Orlando that was asking the question just now, but the spirit of the age.However, no matter who asked the question, there was no answer.In the violet clouds of autumn, the crows sometimes swooped down, sometimes soared, fluttering and turning.The rain finally stopped, and a rainbow appeared in the sky, which attracted Orlando deeply.Before dinner began, she put on her feathered hat and her delicate lace-up shoes, and went for a walk outside. "Everyone is in a couple, but I am alone," she murmured to herself as she walked through the garden sadly.At night, the crows of the sky, and even the hounds Canute and Pippin, seem to have a companion, if only a dewy couple. "And I, as their mistress, am alone, alone, alone." Orlando thought so, walking by the side of the hall, and the stained glass windows passed by her eyes. She had never had this kind of thought before, but now, it crushed her, and she couldn't escape it.Instead of slamming the door open as before, she tapped on it with her gloved hand and waited for the gatekeeper to open it for her.One has to rely on something, she thought, even if it is a gatekeeper.She was a little tempted to stay with the gatekeeper and cook steaks with him over the red coals.But she didn't have the courage to say it.So, I had to go back to the garden for a walk alone.She was a little evasive at first, afraid of being seen by poachers, or gamekeepers, or slave boys, who would make a fuss if they saw a lady like her wandering about by herself. At every step she took a nervous look around, lest there be a man hiding behind the gorse bushes, or that a buffalo would charge her head down and pick her up with its horns and toss her into the air.But in reality only the crows hover proudly in the sky.A livid feather fell from them and floated into the heather.She likes the feathers of wild birds and has collected various feathers of birds since she was a child.At this moment, she picked up the feather and stuck it on the brim of her hat.The breeze was blowing on her, which lifted her spirits a little, and her spirits were also high.The crows were circling and flying above her head, and feathers fell one after another, shining brilliantly in the lavender and slightly drunken air.Dragging her long cloak, she followed the group of crows through a field of grass and up a hillside.She hadn't walked such a long walk in years.She picked up six feathers from the grass. She held the feathers between her fingers and stuck them to her lips, feeling the smoothness of the feathers.At this time, she saw sparkling waves on the side of the hillside. It was a silver pool, very similar to the mysterious lake into which Sir Badwell threw King Arthur's sword.A solitary feather trembled slightly and fell in the middle of the lake.Orlando felt a strange joy in her body, and in a whimsy, it seemed that she had followed the crows all the way to the end of the world, and fell down on the wet grass, where, when the crows hovered above her head issued a burst With a hoarse laugh, she drank the wine of forgetfulness.She quickened her pace and started to run.The thick roots of the heather tripped her, and she fell to the ground.Her ankle was broken and she couldn't stand up.But she lay there contented, the smell of myrtle and the sweet meadows wafting through her nostrils, and the hoarse laughter of the crows echoing in her ears, "I have found my life mate," she murmured, "this is it." A wild meadow. I am nature's bride," she said softly.Nestled ecstatically in the cold embrace of the grass, curled up in her cloak, she lay in a hollow by the pond. "Here shall I sleep (a feather fell on her brow), I have found my green laurel wreath, greener than the bay, and my brow shall be cool and smooth forever, covered with the feathers of wild fowl--owls and The feathers of a nightingale. I will be immersed in grotesque dreams. I will not wear a wedding ring on my finger, but will only be entangled with grass roots." She said, taking off the ring on her finger. "Ah," she let out a long breath, resting her head comfortably on the wet grass. "For many years, I have been looking for happiness, but I can't find it. Fame, it has become a passing cloud, love, I don't know where it is, life-forget it, it's better to die." She then thought, "I know So many men and women, and never really know anyone. So, I'd better face the sky and die here - as those gypsies said all those years ago. It was in Turkey." She looked straight Towards the sky, the clouds rolled and rolled into wonderful golden foam, and then she saw a path along which a caravan of camels was passing through the Gobi wasteland covered in red dust.After the camel caravan passed, there were only majestic mountains, with many strange peaks and ravines on the cliffs.In the hallucination, she seemed to hear the bells on the goat's neck from the mountain path, and saw irises and gentian all over the bosom of the mountain.At this time, the sky changed.Her eyes moved slowly down until the rainy gray earth came into view.She saw the great hills of the South Hills of England, stretching along the coast; the sea dividing the land, and the ships passing and going on the sea.In her hallucination, she heard the sound of rumbling guns coming from the distant sea. At first she thought "it was the Spanish Armada", but then she thought, "No, it should be Nelson." Then she remembered that those naval battles had long since ended, those contacts The ships were nothing more than merchant ships.And the little white sails on the meandering river are yachts.She also saw flocks of sheep and cattle dotted in the dark field, and she saw lights lit up in the farmhouses, and the lights moving back and forth among the flocks and flocks were shepherds and cowherds. lamp.Then, the lights went out, and the stars came on, twinkling and twinkling across the night sky.她脸上盖着湿漉漉的羽毛，耳朵贴着大地，正欲昏昏睡去，却听到从大地的深处传来锤子敲打铁砧的声音，抑或是心跳声？嗒嗒嗒，锤子一下一下地敲着，抑或是大地的心脏在咚咚跳动，听到后来，她听出那是奔跑的马蹄声，一，二，三，四，她默数着，她听到那马绊了一下，然后，越跑越近了，她能够听到树枝被折断的声音，还有马蹄陷进泥沼的声音。当马几乎踩到她身上的时候，她坐了起来。在黎明斑驳昏黄的天光映衬下，她看到一个高大魁梧的男人身影骑在马上，凤头麦鸡围着他上下飞舞。那男子吃惊地勒住了马。 “夫人，您受伤了！”他一声惊呼，跳下马来。 “我已经死了，先生！”她答道。 几分钟后，他们订了婚。 翌日清晨，当他们共进早餐时，他告诉她，他叫马尔默杜克·邦斯洛普·谢尔莫丁，是一位骑士。 “我知道！”她说，因为他身上有某种浪漫、侠义、热情、忧郁且又坚毅的气质，正配拥有一个如此古怪，仿佛长着黑羽毛一般的名字——这名字令她脑海里浮现出乌鸦翅膀上那铁青色的光芒，它们嘶哑的笑声，以及羽毛从它们身上飘落到银色湖水中时，那蛇一般扭曲旋转的样子。还有其他种种，我们马上就会描述到。 “我叫奥兰多，”她说。He had already guessed.他解释说，因为人们但凡看到一艘船披着阳光、扬着风帆、气宇轩昂地从南太平洋驶来，横跨地中海，立刻就会说，“那是奥兰多。” 事实上，虽然他们认识不久，但在一些重要事情上，他们彼此只需最多两秒钟，便能猜透对方，恋人们之间通常正是如此。现在只剩下一些琐碎细节需要相互了解了，比如叫什么名字，住在哪里，是乞丐还是腰缠万贯。他告诉她，他在赫布里底群岛有一座城堡，但如今已破败不堪，餐厅成了塘鹅饱食大餐的地方。他曾当过兵，当过水手，还曾到东方探险。眼下他正在赶往法尔茅斯的途中，那里有一艘双桅船在等着他。但现在风停了，只有刮西南风的时候，他才能出海。奥兰多听罢，马上转头看窗外的风向标，幸好，指示风向的金豹尾巴稳稳地指向正东。“啊！谢尔，别离开我！”她喊道，“我那么一往情深地爱着你，”她说。但她的话刚一出口，便有一丝可怕的怀疑同时产生在他们两人心里。 “你是女人，谢尔！”她喊道。 “你是男人，奥兰多！”他喊道。 接着就是辩解和表白，那情景亘古未有。待风平浪静后，他们再次坐下来，她问他，刚才说的西南风究竟是怎么回事？他究竟要去哪里？ “去合恩角，”他简要地答道，脸红了（男人也像女人一样会脸红，只不过原因大相径庭）。凭她不断的追问，凭她自己的直觉，她终于搞明白，原来他毕生都在从事一件危险但却了不起的探险——顶风绕着合恩角航行。桅杆被折断，船帆被撕成碎片（在她的逼问下，他才承认了这些）。有时，船沉没了，他成了唯一的幸存者，坐在木筏上漂浮，手里只剩一块饼干。 “如今男人只能做做这种事了，”他有点不好意思地说，自己舀了一大勺草莓酱放在嘴里。她的眼前浮现出这样的情景，桅杆断了，天旋地转，这个男孩（他比她年轻）一边吸吮着薄荷（他最喜欢薄荷了），一边大声吼叫着，命令砍下桅杆，扔到海里去。这情景令奥兰多的双眼盈满了泪水，她觉得这泪水，比她从前流过的所有眼泪都要甘醇。“我是女人，”她想，“我终于成了一个真正的女人了。”她衷心感谢邦斯洛普带给她如此珍贵、如此突如其来的喜悦。倘若不是因为她的左腿瘸了，她就坐到他的膝上去了。 “谢尔，亲爱的，”她开口说道，“告诉我……”他们就这样聊了两个多小时，聊的可能是合恩角，也可能不是。记下他们的谈话并没什么意义，因为他们之间相知甚深，可谓无话不谈，也无话可谈；他们可能说一些无聊的琐事，比如如何做煎蛋饼，在伦敦的哪家店能够买到最好的靴子，这些事本身固然有其内在的迷人之处，可一旦离开了说话的场景，便黯然失色。根据精明的经济学原理，现代社会可以摒弃语言了；既然一切表达都不尽如人意，那么，最寻常的表达就足够了。所以，最普通的对话往往是最有诗意的，而最有诗意的对话，恰恰是难以诉诸文字的。出于这种原因，我们在此处留下一大片空白，但此处无言却胜过千言万语。 他们之间的这种谈话又持续了好几天。 “奥兰多，亲爱的，”谢尔刚要说下去，外面传来一阵嘈杂声，男总管巴斯克特进来通报说，楼下来了两位警官，是来送女王签署的文件。 “带他们进来，”谢尔莫丁果断地说，仿佛是在自己的甲板上，他站起身来，站在壁炉前面，下意识地把手背到身后。两位身穿墨绿色制服、别着警棍的警官走了进来，笔挺地站着。相互行过礼后，他们遵命把一份法律文件交到了奥兰多的手里。从文件上的封蜡和缎带，以及接受文件时的宣誓和签名来判断，这是一份至关重要的文件。 奥兰多把文件从头到尾看了一遍，然后用右手食指指着文件中的关键性文字，边念边说： “判决结果出来了，”她大声念着文件中的相关文字……“有些判决对我有利，比如……，还有些对我不利。我在土耳其的婚姻被宣告无效（谢尔，那时我是驻君士坦丁堡的大使，她解释道）。子女属于非婚私生（他们说我与一个叫佩皮塔的西班牙舞女生了三个孩子），因此没有继承权，这太好了……性别？哦！关于性别是怎么判的？”她神情庄重地大声念道，“我的性别，被无可争辩、毫无疑问地宣判为（刚才我怎么对你说来着，谢尔？），女性。被扣押的财产全部归于我的名下，由我的男性后嗣世代相传，或者，在未婚的情况下……”念到这里，她开始对法律文件这种啰啰嗦嗦的表述很不耐烦，说道，“我不会有未婚的情况，也不会没有子嗣，所以后面就不用念了。”于是，她在帕麦斯顿勋爵的签名下方签上了自己的名字。从此以后，她再也不必为身份、庄园和财产而烦恼了。但这场官司耗资巨大，她的财产已经大大缩水了。所以虽然她重又尊贵无比，但也不过是位没落贵族。 人们得知了判决结果后（当时以传闻方式传播消息的速度，要比现在的电报快得多），整个城镇都沉浸在一片沸腾之中。 ［人们把马套上四轮马车，把空空的马车赶到大街上，满街都是大大小小的马车川流不息，不为别的，只为了表达不平静的心情。有人在公牛酒吧演讲，有人在牡鹿酒吧辩论。全城上下灯火通明。金匣子被锁进了玻璃橱里，钱币被藏在了石头底下。医院被创办起来了，还创办了老鼠和麻雀俱乐部。集市上烧毁了不少土耳其女人的肖像，还有不少形象粗鄙的小伙子肖像，他们嘴上都贴着字条，上面写着“我是卑鄙的冒牌货”。不久，人们就看见女王的乳白色小马一路小跑而来，带来了女王的指令，邀请奥兰多当天晚上去女王的城堡共进晚餐，并于晚上留宿城堡。奥兰多的桌上又像从前那样，请帖如雪片般飞来，有R伯爵夫人的，Q夫人的，帕麦斯顿夫人的，P侯爵夫人的，W·E·格莱斯顿太太的，还有其他人的请帖，她们恳请她光临，并提醒她，她们家族与她的家族世代交好，她们与她本人也颇有交情］——以上这些内容放在括号里表述比较合适，因为这些在奥兰多的人生中是一段无足轻重的插曲。她并不理会这些，只是继续自己的生活。当烧毁肖像的火焰在集市上熊熊燃烧时，她正与谢尔莫丁一起在幽暗的树林里享受两人世界。气候十分宜人，树枝在他们的头顶上方静静地伸展开来，偶尔有一片树叶飘零，那红艳金黄的树叶在空中悠悠荡荡，飘飘忽忽，差不多半小时以后，才终于落在了奥兰多的脚背上。 “马尔，”她说（这里必须作一解释，每当她用他名字的第一个音节来称呼他时，她正处于一种梦幻迷离、含情脉脉、百般温顺的状态，乖巧听话，有点儿懒洋洋的，就像焚烧的香木。此时正是傍晚时分，还没到更衣的时候，感觉外面湿漉漉的，所以树叶上有亮晶晶的水珠，好像有一只夜莺在杜鹃花丛中啼鸣，远处的农庄传来几声狗吠，几声鸡叫——从这些情境中，读者可以想象奥兰多当时说话的语调）——“马尔，给我讲讲合恩角吧，”她说。于是，谢尔莫丁就会用树枝，枯树叶，以及一两个空蜗牛壳，在地上搭出一个合恩角的模型。 “这是北，”他说，“那是南。风就从这附近刮来。双桅船向正西方航行；我们刚刚把后桅的帆放下来，你看，就是这儿，就是这有草的地方，船遇到了洋流，就在……水手长，我的地图和指南针呢？——啊！谢谢！你看，就是在蜗牛壳这儿遇到了洋流。洋流在船的右舷，我们必须给桅杆装上索具，不然船就会向左舷倾斜，就是山毛榉树叶这儿——你得明白，亲爱的——”他会喋喋不休地说下去，而她也会全神贯注地倾听每一个字，并心领神会。其实，即便他不说，她也能想见： 波光粼粼的海面，冰凌打在横桅索上发出叮当的声音，他顶着狂风爬上了桅杆顶端，在那里，他想明白了人的宿命；他从桅杆上爬下来，喝了一杯威士忌加苏打水；上岸后，他被一个黑人女子纠缠，后来他悔悟了，设法脱了身；他读帕斯卡尔；决定写一部哲学著作；他买了一只猴子；他与别人辩论什么才是生命的归宿；他决定参加合恩角的探险；等等，等等。凡是他所说的，她都明白。所以，当他说到历险经历中饼干吃完了那一段时，她的回应是，“是啊，黑人女子很会勾引人，对吗？”他惊喜地发现，她对他话里面的含义竟能如此心领神会。 “你肯定自己不是男人吗？”他会焦虑不安地问。而她则反唇相讥。 “你怎么可能不是女人？”于是，他们迫不及待地要加以验证。因为两人之间这么快就心心相印，实在令人惊奇，而且，女人竟会像男人一般宽容、坦率，而男人竟也会像女人那样古怪、敏感，对此，两人都觉得有必要立即验证一下。 于是，他们会继续交谈，抑或说，是相互理解对方。在语言日益不堪思想之重负的时代，理解是谈话的主要艺术，不然怎么能明白，“饼干吃完了”的意思，就是“刚读完十遍贝克莱主教的哲理，就躲在暗处与黑人女子接吻”。（由此可见，只有最渊博的文体大师才能把真理讲清楚，如果遇到一位文笔简练的作家，人们会马上毫不怀疑地认为，这没水平的家伙在撒谎。） 于是，他们就这样交谈着，直到奥兰多的脚背上盖满了斑驳的树叶。她站起身来，独自往树林的深处走去，把邦斯洛普留在一堆蜗牛壳中，摆弄合恩角的模型。“邦斯洛普，我走了，”她说。当她用“邦斯洛普”称呼他时，就是在告诉读者，她此刻陷入了孤单寂寞的心境，觉得他们两人不过是沙漠中的两粒尘埃。她一心盼望着独自去面对死亡，因为死亡每天都在发生，人们可能死在餐桌上，或死在秋天的树林里，比如此刻。纵使篝火熊熊燃烧，纵使帕麦斯顿夫人和德尔比夫人每晚都邀请她赴宴，但对死亡的渴求依然压倒了她，所以当她说“邦斯洛普”的时候，其实是在说“我死了”。她幽灵一般地穿行在惨白瘆人的山毛榉树林里，在幽僻的树林深处游弋，仿佛万籁俱寂，万物凝滞，而她此刻可以毫无牵挂地上路了——读者可以从她说“邦斯洛普”时的声调中，听出这一切。为了说得更明白些，我们还须补充一点，那就是当奥兰多说“邦斯洛普”时，在邦斯洛普的耳中，它同样也有着神秘的象征意义，它意味着分离和孤独，意味着在幽深莫测的大海上，他幽灵般地漫步于双桅船的甲板上。 在死亡的幻觉中沉浸了数小时后，有一只松鸦突然尖叫了一声“谢尔莫丁”。她弯腰拾起一朵秋日番红花，对有些人来说，这朵番红花就是“谢尔莫丁”这个词的象征。一片蓝色的松鸦羽毛旋转着穿过树林，飘落下来。她把番红花和这片羽毛一起插在胸前。然后，她高喊“谢尔莫丁”，这个词在树林里穿梭回荡，传到了他的耳中。而此刻，他正坐在草丛中，用蜗牛壳搭模型。他看见了她，也听到她正向他走来，胸前插着番红花和松鸦的羽毛。他高喊“奥兰多”，而这个词所包含的意思是（切记，当明艳的蓝色和黄色在我们眼里交相辉映时，我们头脑中的意象似乎也变得明艳了），先看到凤尾草摇摆晃动，有什么东西正穿行于其中；继而发现原来是一艘张满风帆的大船，悠悠忽忽地上下颠簸，摇摇晃晃，仿佛已经航行了整整一个夏天；大船颠簸起伏着，时而冲上浪尖，时而跌入浪谷，正端庄而又有点慵懒地驶过来，一转眼就巍然屹立在你的面前（而你则在贝壳似的小船里，仰视着她），她的船帆抖动着落了下来，瞧，在甲板上堆成了一摊，就像奥兰多此刻扑倒在他身边的草地上。 就这样过去了八九天，到了第十天，即10月26日，奥兰多正躺在凤尾草丛中，听谢尔莫丁背诵雪莱的诗（雪莱的所有作品他都烂熟于心）。一片树叶从树梢慢悠悠地飘落下来，又匆匆地从奥兰多的脚面上掠过。接着，第二片树叶飘零了，然后又是第三片。奥兰多打了个寒噤，脸色苍白。got windy.谢尔莫丁身子一跃，站了起来。在这种时候，也许称呼他邦斯洛普更合适。 “起风了，”他喊道。 他们一起在树林里奔跑起来，狂风尾随着他们，在他们的后背上贴满了树叶。他们跑着穿过了大大小小的庭园，不明就里的仆人们扔下手里的扫帚和锅子，跟着他们一起跑，一直跑到了小教堂里。很快，小教堂里燃起了星星点点的烛光，有人碰翻了椅子，有人弄灭了烛芯。随着钟声响起，人们纷纷聚拢过来。杜普尔先生终于到了，他一边拽着自己的白领结，一边问，祈祷书在哪里。人们把玛丽女王的祈祷书塞给他。他匆匆翻着书页，嘴里说道，“马尔默杜克·邦斯洛普·谢尔莫丁，还有奥兰多夫人，请跪下。”他们跪了下来，阳光透过彩色玻璃窗，摇曳不定地照射进来，照得他们身上时明时暗。伴随着砰砰的关门声和听起来像是敲铜锅的声音，风琴奏响了，琴声时而低沉，时而高昂。杜普尔先生如今已老态龙钟，他提高嗓门，想压过众人的嘈杂声，但没人听得见他在说什么。接着，出现了片刻安静。一个词清晰地回荡着——肯定是“至死不渝”那个词。庄园里的仆人们都挤进教堂里来听，他们手里还拿着耙子和赶牲口的鞭子，有人在唱圣歌，有人在祷告，还有一只鸟撞在了窗框上。一声惊雷响起，谁也没听见“我愿意”这个词，谁也没看见新郎新娘交换戒指，只看见一道金光闪过。一切都游移不定，混沌不清。在风琴的低鸣声中，在电闪雷鸣和瓢泼大雨中，他们两人站起身来。奥兰多夫人，手指上戴着戒指，穿着薄纱长裙，走出教堂，来到了庭园中。她抓住晃动的马镫，而马已经戴好嚼子配好鞍，嘴巴两侧吐着白沫，只等着她的丈夫翻身上马。而他真的一跃跨上马背，策马奔腾而去。奥兰多站在那里，高声呼喊，“马尔默杜克·邦斯洛普·谢尔莫丁！”而他答道，“奥兰多！”这几个词好似几只疯狂的鹰隼，在钟楼间猛冲猛撞，盘旋翱翔，越飞越高，越飞越远，越飞越快，直至撞到钟楼上，粉身碎骨，把一堆碎片纷纷扬扬洒落到地面。奥兰多回到了屋里。