Chapter 7 Chapter Six

Orlando went back into the house.The room was silent, dead silent.Her inkwell, her pen, and her poems were still on the table.She was composing a verse in praise of immortality, and was about to write "As usual, nothing has changed," when Basket and Mrs. Bartolomo came in with tea and interrupted her.But, just three and a half seconds later, everything changed—she broke her ankle, fell in love, and married Shermodine. The wedding ring on her finger is proof of that.Although she had put the ring on herself before she met Shermodine, it proved to be of no use at all.Now, with a sort of superstitious awe, she turned the ring around on her finger, lest it should slip off.

"A wedding ring has to be worn on the ring finger of the left hand to be functional," she said.It's like schoolchildren reciting texts one by one. When she said this, her voice was very loud, as if she deliberately raised her voice, hoping that someone who could give her advice would overhear her words.When she is finally able to think calmly now, what is on her mind is the impact of what she has done on the zeitgeist of today.She was anxious to know whether the age would sanction her engagement and marriage to Sher Modine.Her own feelings are naturally more.Since meeting Shermodine that night in the wild grass, her fingers had never pricked again, or rather, the pricking was nothing at all.But she couldn't deny that she was still full of doubts.Yes, she was married; but if a woman's husband spends years sailing the waters off Cape Horn, does that count as marriage?If this woman likes him, is it considered a marriage?If the woman is in love with someone else, does that count as marriage?After all, if what this woman desires most is still writing poetry, is that considered marriage?She was puzzled.

She still wanted to verify it.She glanced at the ring, then at the inkwell.Does she have the courage?No, she didn't have the courage.But she has to verify.No, she can't do it.So what should she do?She would have swooned if she could, but she had never been so lucid in her life. "To hell with it all!" she exclaimed, relapsed, "then keep writing!" She stuck the pen firmly into the inkwell, and to her surprise, the ink didn't splash out.She lifted the pen, and the nib was soaked with ink, but not dripping.She swiped and began to write.Although Wensi was a little slow, she came out bit by bit.what!Do these words make sense?She wondered.Suddenly I felt flustered in my heart, lest the pen in my hand would go its own way again and play some prank.She read what she had written:

As she wrote, she felt a certain power (remember we are dealing with one of the most inexplicable phenomena of the human mind) peering behind her at the end of her pen, and when she wrote "The Egyptian Lady," that power Made her stop writing.The power, which seemed to have a governess' ruler, reviewed the passage from beginning to end, and said, "Green grass" is a good use of the word. "Dangling Fritillary Crown" - beautifully written. "Snake-like flower"—the imagery of a woman is too raw, but Wordsworth must have appreciated it; but the word "lady"?Is it necessary to use the word "girl"?You say your husband is in Cape Horn?Oh, so there's nothing wrong with using the word.

The spirit of the times is thus reflected in this divine power and continues to be passed on. Now, Orlando has respected the spirit of her era from the bottom of her heart (because the scene just now happened in the bottom of her heart).To give a specific example to illustrate, it is like-a traveler, because he knows that there is a large bundle of cigars hidden in the corner of his suitcase, is very grateful to the customs officials who are lenient and hastily let him go.For Orlando was in great fear that if the Zeitgeist examined the contents of her mind, it might find something gravely forbidden hidden therein, and punish her severely for it.She is nothing more than relying on some small tricks, such as wearing a wedding ring, meeting a man in the wild grass, loving nature, not being cynical, not cynical, and not being a psychologist, so as to show obedience to the spirit of the times, she was able to survive. If you escape the inspection by chance, otherwise those contraband will be exposed in an instant.She breathed a sigh of relief, yes, of course she could, because the deal between the writer and the zeitgeist is a wonderful one, and the fate of the writer's work depends on the agreement reached between the writer and the zeitgeist.The deal Orlando had made put herself in a very happy position, where she had neither to fight against nor to submit to it.She is part of this era while maintaining her own independence.So, she can write now.She has written and continues to write and write.

Fast forward to November.Then comes December, then January, February, March, April. After April comes May, followed by June, July and August.Then September, October, and lo and behold, we're back in November, and that's how it goes for a whole year. Writing a biography in this way is not to say that it is not beneficial, but it is empty and boring. After a long time, the reader may complain that he can recite the calendar himself, so no matter how reasonable the price Hogarth Press has set for the book, he will Will not pay to buy.But what can the biographer do if the subject, like our Orlando, puts the biographer in some awkward position?Life is the only subject of novelists and biographers, and every sensible person will agree on this.These authorities will also assert that sitting quietly in a chair and meditating is not life.Thought and life have nothing to do with each other.Well, because what Orlando is doing at the moment is sitting quietly in a chair and meditating-so before she finishes her meditation, all we can do is memorize the calendar, count the beads, rub our noses, gather the fire, and look out the window , there is nothing to do.Orlando sat so still that the room was so still that one could hear the drop of a pin.If only a pin had fallen on the ground!That, too, is a kind of life.Or if a butterfly fluttered in through the window and landed on her chair, we could write about it.Or if she gets up and slaps a wasp to death, then we'll have something to write about, because a wasp bleeds, and where there's blood, there's life, even if it's just the blood of a wasp.Although killing a wasp is trivial compared with killing people, it can also become the subject of novelists and biographers, and it is better than sitting in a chair all day cranky, a cigarette, a stack of paper, a pen and an ink every day. The bottle is much stronger.We may complain about the biographer (we have lost patience), but it would be nice if the biographer forgives the biographer a little!The biographer has exhausted all his efforts to write about the heroine. When he sees the heroine slipping away from his hand, indulging in contemplation and fantasy, when he sees her sighing, her face sometimes flushed, sometimes pale, and her eyes sometimes bright like torches, Sometimes it is as dim and dim as the morning light. What is more disturbing than this?What could be more unspeakable than when we see this silent performance of emotional turmoil unfolding before our eyes, knowing that it all started with little things?

But Orlando was a woman, as the legal papers signed by Lord Palmerston had just confirmed.When we describe a woman's life, it is generally believed that we can omit her actions and talk only of love.A poet once said that love is the whole way of life of a woman.We have only to look at Orlando at his desk, and we have to admit that there is no woman in the world who is more suitable for this sentence of the poet.True, because she is a woman and in her prime, she will soon stop writing and thinking like this and think of men, if only of the gamekeeper (as long as women think of men, No one would object to a woman thinking).She would write a little note to the gamekeeper (nobody objected to a woman writing as long as a woman wrote a little note) and ask him to meet at dusk on Sunday.At dusk on Sunday, the gamekeeper will be whistling under the window—and of course all this is called life, the only life that can be the stuff of fiction.So, will Orlando really do these things?Alas—to our great sigh—Orlando did none of these things, none of them.So, is it because of this that Orlando is the kind of evil monster who doesn't understand love?She is kind to animals, loyal to her friends, obsessed with poetry, and generous to poets in need.But love, as defined by male novelists (who, after all, has more authority to define love than them?), has nothing to do with kindness, loyalty, generosity, or poetry.Love is taking off your petticoat and—we all know what love is.Did Orlando do those so-called love things?The facts force us to say, no, she didn't do it.Well, if our hero neither loves nor kills, but just meditates and fantasies blindly, it is tantamount to a zombie, so we had better ignore her for the time being.

Right now, the only material we can write about is the scene outside the window.There, there are a few sparrows, starlings, many pigeons, and one or two crows, all busy in their own ways, some are looking for earthworms, some are looking for snails, some are flapping their wings and flying up the branches, Some are running on the grass.At this time, a manservant wearing a green tweed apron walked through the garden, probably to have a private tryst with a maid in the back kitchen, but we couldn't see any evidence in the garden, so we can only press it without mentioning it. , I can only hope that they will have a happy ending.Floating clouds passed by, sometimes a thin cloud, sometimes a thick cumulus cloud, reflecting the green of the grass sometimes brightly, sometimes dark.The sundial records the passage of time in its own mysterious way.People who are bored can't help but ask a question or two about this kind of life that repeats itself day after day.Life is singing, or rather, life is humming like a kettle on a stove, but life, life, what are you?Are you colorful or dull?Are you the manservant's green apron, or the shadow of the starling as it flits across the lawn?

On this summer morning, when people are admiring the colorful flowers and bees, we might as well go out and have a look.The starling perched on the edge of the dustpan, yelling, and pecked out the hair that people combed out from the grass sticks.We might as well ask mynah how it sees life (it is easier to communicate than a lark), so we leaned against the gate of the farmhouse and asked, what is life.Starling seemed to understand our words, and shouted loudly, life!Life!Life!It seems to understand very well that we are the kind of people who like to ask questions, and when we have a question in the room, we run around outside to find the answer, just like a writer who runs out to pick a few daisies when his ideas are exhausted.Now they come to me, said the starling, and ask me what life is; life!Life!Life!

Then we wearily climbed the high ridges, which were a melancholy, dull purple, through paths in the weeds.We threw ourselves on the ground and lay there dreaming; we saw a praying mantis busily carrying a straw back to its nest.Life is work (if we may use the sacred and dear word of work to describe its carrying to and fro), so says the mantis, or, this is only our interpretation, according to the dust-choked larynx Interpretation made by sound.Both the ants and the bees agreed with the mantis.But if we lie here a little longer, we can ask the moth again when the moth comes in the evening.Moths fly silently among the pale heather-fruits, and murmur wildly in our ears, like the murmur of telegraph wires in a blizzard, hee hee heh heh, life is laughter!said Moth.

We have asked people, and we have asked birds and insects, and as for the fish, it is said that they live alone in the green cave, listen to the cave for many years, but never tell us what they heard, so maybe they I know what life is—we have asked all the questions we should, but instead of becoming wiser, we have become older and more indifferent (didn't we pray for a book that everyone could read?) Admit that it brilliantly sums up what life is all about?) Let's go back to readers who are desperate to hear what life is all about, and we can only tell them bluntly, well, we don't know. At that moment, as if to save the fate of our book from premature death, Orlando pushed back her chair, stretched her arms, put down her pen, went to the window, and announced loudly, "It's done!" She was almost dizzy by the sights that greeted her eyes.The birds in the garden, the world as usual.Throughout the time she's been writing, the world doesn't stand still. "Even if I die, the world will remain the same!" she cried. She imagined that she was slowly rotting and dying, and this feeling was so strong that maybe she really was very weak.For a long time, she stood there blankly looking at the beautiful but indifferent scenery outside the window.Finally, she woke up, although she was still a little strange.The manuscript that was lying quietly in her arms began to squirm and jump as if it had life.What's even more strange is that Orlando seemed to have a connection with the manuscript. She listened carefully and could understand what it was saying.It longed for someone to read it, someone had to read it, or it would die in her arms.For the first time in her life she felt a strong aversion to nature.The hounds surrounded her, and the roses bloomed around her, but neither the hounds nor the roses could be read, which was a sad oversight of heaven, which she had never been aware of before.Only humans have the gift of reading, so humans are indispensable.She rang the bell, and ordered the carriage to be ready, and she was to go at once to London. "Just in time for the eleven forty-five train, ma'am," said Baskett.Orlando did not realize that the steam engine had been invented.In this way, she is immersed in the pain of someone who may not be herself, but whose life is entirely given by her pen.This is the first time she has seen a train.She sat down in the carriage, wrapped her knees in a blanket, and ignored (what historians call) "the great invention that has changed the face of Europe in the past twenty years" (in fact, similar inventions have happened repeatedly. , completely beyond the historians' predictions), she only noticed that the train was dirty and rumbled horribly, and that the windows would not open.She fell into deep thought, and in less than an hour, the spinning wheels took her to London, where she stood blankly on the Charing Cross platform, not knowing where to go. In the old house at Blackfriar she had spent much of the happy hour of the eighteenth century.Today, the old home has been sold, partly to the Salvation Army and partly to an umbrella factory.She bought another house in Mayfair, which was clean, convenient and in the heart of the fashion world.But can Mayfair make her poetry work what she wants?She thought of the sparkling eyes of the ladies and the shapely legs of the noble gentlemen who, thank God, were not yet interested in reading.If interested, it's a shame.She thought of Mrs. R's mansion, and the conversation there must still be the same as before, she was convinced of it.The general's gout had probably moved from his left leg to his right.The person who spent ten days with Mr. L may not be T this time, but R.Then Mr. Pope might come in.Ah, no, Mr Pope is dead.So who are the geniuses today?she thought curiously.But this kind of question was not something the coachman could answer, so she continued on her way in the carriage.She was attracted by the sound of bells, the sound of bells worn on the heads of countless horses.Lines of small boxes of various shapes on wheels appeared on the street.She walked to the Strand Street, which was even more noisy and noisy.Large and small carriages are bustling with people, including thoroughbred horses and tired old horses. Some carriages only have an old woman sitting alone, and some carriages are so crowded that even the roof of the carriage is full. People, men with silk hats and beards.Her eyes have long been accustomed to looking at ordinary paper, and these various means of transportation, large and small, are simply shocking in her eyes.Her ears were used to the rustling of pens on paper, and the din of the street sounded harsh and unbearable to her.The streets are overcrowded, with a constant flow of people, shoulder to shoulder, walking back and forth flexibly among the heavy traffic, and the crowd is constantly swarming east and west.Standing on the side of the road was a man hawking loudly, holding trays of various baubles in his hands.The flower seller sat on the corner and yelled loudly, surrounded by baskets full of spring flowers.Newsboys shuttled among the carriages and horses with stacks of newspapers, shouting loudly: Something big has happened!Something big happened!At first, Orlando thought she had caught up with some important moment for the country, but whether it was joy or sorrow, she couldn't figure it out.She is eager to find answers in the expressions on people's faces.But the more you look at it, the more confused you become.After a while a man in grief came by, talking to himself, as if he knew something sad had happened.But behind him came a burly man with a beaming face, jostling forward, as if celebrating a world festival.In the end, she came to the conclusion that there was no reason for all this, that it was nothing more than secular men and women busy with their own livelihoods.So, what should she do? So she walked forward aimlessly, walking through street after street. In the glass windows on both sides of the street, there were handbags, mirrors, dressing gowns, flowers, fishing rods, and dining baskets; There are circles of colorful, thick and thin sash, surrounded by balloons.Sometimes, she walked along a boulevard with mansions lying quietly on both sides of the road. She counted them seriously, one, two, three, until she counted two hundred, three hundred.These mansions look exactly the same, with two pillars in front of the door, six steps, two curtains hung symmetrically, and the whole family's lunch is placed on the dining table.In one window a parrot is looking out, and in the other window a footman is looking out.It was so boring that she was dizzy watching it.At this time, she came to an open square. In the center of the square were several gleaming black statues, all of which were robust men on galloping war horses.There are also towering columns and fountains on the square, and pigeons flap their wings and fly around.She walked and walked along the street between the houses until she was very hungry.She felt something trembling in her chest, as if accusing her, how could she forget it.It was her manuscript, The Great Oak. She blamed herself deeply for her negligence, and stood there in a daze, motionless.Not a single carriage passed by, and the broad, handsome avenue seemed strangely empty, except for an elderly gentleman approaching.She vaguely felt that his gait was quite familiar.As he drew closer, she was sure she had seen him before.But where have you seen it?This man in front of me, well-dressed, bloated, full of richness, with a cane in his hand, a flower pinned in the buttonhole of his chest, a chubby red face, and a mustache, could he be, my God, right? It's him!Her old friend, her old friend from long ago, Nick Green! He saw her at the same time.He remembered her and recognized her. "Lady Orlando!" he cried, waving his hat at her so that it almost fell to the ground. "Sir Nicholas!" exclaimed Orlando.Intuitively, Orlando judged from his manner that this poor Elizabethan literati, who had ridiculed her and many others, who was now prosperous, must have been knighted, and no doubt received many other awards. He bowed to her again, acknowledging that she was perfectly right.He is now a jazz, a master of literature, a professor, and he has written a lot.In a word, he was the most influential critic of the Victorian era. Reuniting with the man who had caused her so much pain all those years ago was a heart-wrenching and emotional experience for Orlando.Is this the annoying guy?The guy who fidgets, burns a hole in her rug, grills cheese in an Italian fireplace, and spends all night telling anecdotes about Marlowe et al?At the moment, he is wearing a crisp gray tuxedo with a pink flower in the buttonhole and gray suede gloves.She was still surprised, and he bowed deeply to her again, asking if she would honor having lunch with him?The bowing may have been exaggerated, but his imitation of the gentleman was still decent.As she wondered, she followed him to a gorgeous restaurant with red plush carpets, white tablecloths and silver condiment bottles, quite different from the taverns and coffee houses of yore, when such Sandy floors, long benches, bowls of punch and chocolates, newspapers and spittoons.He laid the gloves squarely on the table beside him, and she could hardly believe that he was the same Green.He used to have inch-long nails, but now they are neatly manicured.He used to be unshaven on his chin, but now he is clean-shaven.In the past, his clothes were disheveled, and his sleeves were often soaked in broth, but now he wore gold cufflinks.It wasn't until he ordered Malmsey with great care that she was sure that this was Green, because she remembered that he liked to drink this wine. "Ah," he said, with a slight sigh, still in an awkward tone, "ah, my dear lady, the great age of literature is past. Marlowe, Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, they are great men. Dryden, Pope, Addison, well-known writers too, are no longer alive. Who are their heirs? Tennyson, Browning, Carlyle,"—he said with the most contemptuous tone "Actually," he said, pouring himself a glass of wine, "all the young writers these days are writing for a bookseller's fee. They're making money writing crap and paying for their custom clothes." The bill," he said, filling himself with some tapas. "Ingenious metaphors and crazy experiments are the hallmarks of this era. And all of this is intolerable in the Elizabethan era." "The old days are gone, my dear lady," he went on, nodding his approval when the waiter brought over the crispy flounder. We must cherish what has passed away, and admire the current writers who follow the ancients as models and write not for money, and there are very few such writers today." Hearing this, Orlando almost blurted out "Rong Yue".Yes, she swore she heard him say exactly the same thing three hundred years ago.Of course, the names of the authors mentioned are different, but the meaning remains the same.Nick Green, knighted, is still the same man he once was.Of course, there are still some changes.He told her at length how he imitated Addison (he used to say he was imitating Cicero, she thought), reciting famous works over and over again in bed in the morning for at least an hour (she was not without pride I think, she pays him an annuity every quarter, so he has the conditions to do so), and then writes, and the words written at this time can be free from the vulgarity of the day and purify our miserable mother tongue (she guessed that he lived in the United States. a long time).When he babbled these words, she felt no different from him three hundred years ago.So where has he changed?She had plenty of time to ask herself.He's getting fatter, but he's nearly seventy years old.He was well dressed, and literature evidently brought fortune; but somehow the restless energy of his past was gone.His stories are still funny, but without the casualness and lightheartedness of the past.Despite his frequent references to "my dear friend Pope," or "my famous friend Addison," there was an aloof air about him that dismayed her, and he now He is more willing to tell her about the aristocratic class to which she belongs, rather than talking about the scandals and scandals of the poets as before. Orlando felt an indescribable disappointment.For so many years (through solitude, changes in social status, and gender transitions), literature has seemed to her as wild as the wind, as hot as fire, as swift as lightning;But lo and behold, literature is now an old man in a gray gown, full of duchesses.In a moment of overwhelming disillusionment, a buckle or a button on the breast of Orlando's blouse popped, and something rolled from her arms onto the table. It was her poem "The Great Oak Tree." "A manuscript!" said Sir Nicholas, putting on his gold-rimmed pince-nez. "It's really interesting, very interesting! Please allow me to read it." After three hundred years, Nicholas Green took Orlando's poems again, opened the manuscript on the table full of coffee cups and wine glasses, and started to read.But this time the evaluation was quite different from the previous one.As he flipped through the pages, he said that the poem reminded him of Addison's "Kato," and that it was comparable to Thomson's "The Seasons."He said with great satisfaction that there is no trace of modern spirit in the poem, and it is full of care for truth, nature and human soul, which is really commendable in this absurd age without ethics.The manuscript should of course be published immediately. To be honest, Orlando didn't understand what he was talking about.All along, this poem draft has always been carried in her bosom.This amused Sir Nicholas very much. "What are your thoughts on royalties?" he asked. Orlando's thoughts went to Buckingham Palace, thinking of the douchebags who had the misfortune to live there. Sir Nicholas was in high spirits.What he meant, he explained, was that if he wrote a note to one of the publishers (he mentioned a very famous one), they would be more than happy to have the book on their list.He might be able to negotiate with them a royalty of ten per cent for less than two thousand copies and fifteen per cent for more than two thousand.As for book reviews, he will personally write a note to Mr. So-and-so, the most influential critic.And then he flattered the editor's wife--a few compliments on the editor's wife's poetry--it never hurt.He's going to pay a visit... he said eloquently.Orlando could not understand a word, and from what she knew of him, she did not believe that he had any good intentions.But she has no choice but to submit to his arrangement, which is obviously what he wants and what the manuscript is eagerly looking forward to.So Sir Nicholas arranged the blood-stained manuscript into a neat pile, and put it neatly in his breast pocket, lest his gown should be out of shape.The two exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then left. Orlando walked down the street.She was used to carrying the manuscript of the poem in her chest, and at this moment she felt that her chest was empty.The manuscript is gone, and she has nothing to do but think wildly—this may be a rare opportunity to think about the fate of human beings.Here she is, a married woman, wearing her wedding ring, walking down St. James's Street.There used to be a cafe here, but now it's a restaurant; it's 3:30 in the afternoon and the sun is shining.There were three pigeons, a terrier mongrel, two hansoms, and a hansom in the street.So, what is life really?The question popped into her mind for no apparent reason (perhaps from old Green).Whenever an idea popped into her head, she would run to the nearby telegraph office and send a telegram to her husband (at Cape Horn).Whether readers praise or criticize this, they may wish to use this as the basis for judging the relationship between their husband and wife.At this moment, there happened to be a telegraph office near her. "My God Shel," she wrote in her telegram, "living literature Green today..." Her telegram was written in a code word invented by the two of them, so that the complex emotions could be expressed in a word or two. , And no matter how clever the telegraph operator can't figure it out.At the end of the telegram, she summed it up precisely with "Ratigan Grumferb".Not only was Orlando deeply touched by the events of the morning, but even the reader will not fail to notice that Orlando has matured—not necessarily better—and that "Ratigan Grumferb" describes the It's her messy mental state.Readers only need to gather all their own wisdom based on the information we provide to know the meaning of this. After the telegram was sent, it took several hours to get a reply.She glanced at the passing clouds and thought that Cape Horn might be blowing, and that her husband might be on top of the mast, or maybe he wasn't, trying to cut the ropes and tear the broken wings away. Liang was thrown into the sea, maybe, he was sitting alone on the life raft at the moment, with only one biscuit left in his hand.So she left the telegraph office.To pass the time, she went into a shop next to the telegraph office.Such stores abound in our day without further ado.But in the eyes of Orlando, it is very novel.This is a bookstore.Orlando had known only manuscripts in his lifetime.She had Spencer's manuscript, the rough brown paper with the author's dense, illegible handwriting.She had also seen manuscripts of Shakespeare and Milton.She also had many manuscripts, large and small, often containing sonnets in her praise, and sometimes locks of her hair.But the small books in front of her surprised her. They had beautiful and neat covers, but they were not durable to read, because these books were printed on thin paper and bound with thin cardboard.A complete set of Shakespeare's works can be bought for half a crown and packed in a pocket.But to be honest, I'm afraid it's hard to read because the print is so small.But anyway, it's breathtaking.Book after book—by authors she knew or had heard of—filled the shelves, stretching from one wall to the other.There were also a few "books" randomly thrown on the table and chairs. She flipped through a page or two, most of which were comments on other people's works by Sir Nicholas and other critics.She naively thought that since their writing had been printed and bound, they must all be great writers too.So she made a jaw-dropping decision to buy all the famous books in the store and ask the store owner to send them to her home.She finished speaking and walked out of the shop. She came to Hyde Park.This old park was all too familiar to her (she remembered Lord Morhen's sword piercing the Duke of Hamilton just under the tree that had been split in two).Her lips moved, and she repeated the contents of the telegram in her mouth: Today's life literature Greenlattigan Grumferb.It caused several park managers to look at her suspiciously. It wasn't until they saw the pearl necklace on her neck that they realized that she was not talking nonsense because she was insane.It's all her mouth's fault.At this moment, she is lying under the tree, spreading out the newspapers and review periodicals she brought from the bookstore, leaning on her elbows, concentrating on comprehending the superb prose art of these masters.As she was as credulous as ever, even the vague weekly paper was sacrosanct in her eyes.She lay on her elbows and began to read a review of Sir Nicholas's collection of poetry by John Donne, whom she knew.Serpent Lake was not far from where she lay, but she didn't realize it.The barking of dogs and the endless sound of carriage wheels could be heard in her ears.The leaves sighed softly above her head.A few paces away from her, fringed skirts and scarlet leggings now and then cross the grass.Once, a huge rubber ball bounced onto her newspaper.The light from the cracks in the leaves, purple, yellow, red and blue, made the emeralds on her fingers glisten.She read a sentence, looked up at the sky, looked down at the sky, and read another sentence.Life?literature?Life embodied in literature?Easier said than done!Here comes the scarlet leggings, how would Addison describe it?How would Lamb describe the two dogs walking upside down over there?读了尼古拉斯和他那些朋友的文章（在读的过程中，她不时观赏着四周景色），不知怎么在她心里留下了一种印象，这些文章让人觉得，最好永远永远不要吐露心声，而这种感觉令人十分不爽。她站起身来，信步而去。 （她驻足于蟒湖岸边，浓绿的湖水泛着青铜色，蜘蛛般纤小的船儿在两岸间穿梭。）她还在想，他们的文章让人觉得，写作时永远永远不能写自己（泪水盈满了她的眼眶）。但我觉得我真的做不到，她边想边用脚尖把一叶小舟推离了岸边（十分钟前刚刚读了尼古拉斯爵士的文章，而此刻他的文章连同他的房间、他的脑袋、他的猫、他的书桌以及与他共处的那些时光，全都浮现在她眼前），如果散文就是这样写出来的，我觉得我做不到，她想，我觉得我不可能坐在书房里，不，不是书房，是抑郁的起居室里，整天与英俊的小伙子们聊天，告诉他们一些奇闻轶事，比如塔珀如何对斯迈尔评头论足，并让他们不要外传。她伤心地抹去了自己的眼泪，继续想道，这些都是男人的行事方式，而我，讨厌公爵夫人，不喜欢蛋糕。虽然我也并非完人，但我永远都不会学得像他们那般恶毒，所以，我怎么可能成为批评家，怎么可能写出这个时代最美的英语散文呢？To hell!她大声喊道，一边狠劲发动了一艘廉价的小汽船，由于用力过猛，那可怜的小船差点沉没在铜绿色的波涛中。 事实上，当人处于某种精神状态时（护士们喜欢用这词儿），眼里看到的东西不再是其本身，而成了别的东西，且变得更醒目，更重要。奥兰多此刻正处于这种精神状态，她泪眼蒙蒙地望着蟒湖，在这种心态下看蟒湖，那微波涟漪就好比大西洋的惊涛骇浪；小小的游船则宛如远洋巨轮。因此，奥兰多误把那小小的游船认作她丈夫的双桅船了，误把她用脚尖踢出的水波认作了合恩角的滔天巨浪；当她目睹那小游船被波浪推向高处，便恍惚看到邦斯洛普的船攀上了透明玻璃墙一般高高的浪尖，它越攀越高，直到一排裹挟着成千上万死神的白色巨浪袭来，把船卷入了浪底。船在成千上万的死神中穿行，消失了——“它沉没了！”奥兰多迸发出撕心裂肺的呼喊——可是，瞧啊，它又在大西洋彼岸出现了，在一群鸭子的簇拥下，安然无恙地航行着。 “太令人陶醉了！”她高呼，“太令人陶醉了！电报局在哪里？”她思忖着，“我必须马上给谢尔发一封电报，告诉他……”她一边匆匆赶往公园街，一边嘴里颠来倒去地念叨着“蟒湖上的小游船”和“太令人陶醉了”，因为这两句话可以互换，它们表达的是相同的意思。 “一只小游船，一只小游船，一只小游船，”她反复念叨着，迫使自己认清一个事实，那就是尼克·格林对约翰·多恩的评论文章不重要，八小时法案或协议或工厂法也不重要，重要的，反而是那些没什么实用价值的、随兴所至的、狂飙激澜的东西，令人为之献出生命的东西；它是红色的，紫色的，蓝色的；它爆发而出，喷射飞溅；就像红色的风信子（她正走过一片开满红色风信子的花圃）；它脱离了人性的败坏、依附和劣迹斑斑，不在意人们的出身门第；它就像我的风信子，我的意思是，它就像我的丈夫邦斯洛普，率性随意，又有点荒诞不羁——“陶醉”才是重要的，这就是“蟒湖上的小游船”和“太令人陶醉了”的含义。于是，当她站在斯坦霍普门，等着穿过车水马龙的路口转到公园街时，就这样大声地胡言乱语着。因为丈夫长期不在她身边，只在无风的季节才回来，所以她才会这样大声地自言自语。如果她按照维多利亚女王所倡导的，长年与丈夫厮守在一起，情形无疑会大不相同。因为她有时会突然想起他，觉得有话必须马上对他说。她一点也不在意自己说的话多么荒诞无稽，或多么杂乱无章。尼克·格林的文章把她推到了绝望的深渊，而小游船又把她带到了喜悦的巅峰，所以她站在路口，口里反反复复地念叨着“陶醉，陶醉”。 那是春天里的一个午后，交通拥挤不堪，所以她只能久久地站在路口等待，嘴里颠来倒去地说着，陶醉，陶醉，或蟒湖上的小游船。而此刻，从她身边经过的一辆辆四驾马车、维多利亚式折篷马车或四轮大马车中，端坐着头戴礼帽、身披大氅的英伦权贵们，一个个如塑像一般。停驶的马车仿佛一条流淌着黄金的河流被阻滞了，在公园街凝固成了一个一个金块。女士们的纤纤细指夹着名片盒，绅士们把镀金手杖靠在膝间。她目不转睛地望着这一切，目光中有赞赏，也有敬畏。只是心里冒出一个念头，令她有些不安。凡是见过大象或鲸鱼等庞然大物的，都会萌生这种念头，那就是，这些庞然大物是如何繁殖的？它们显然不喜欢有压力，也不喜欢变化和行动。望着那一张张道貌岸然、毫无生气的脸，奥兰多心想，也许他们的繁殖时代已经过去，他们就是繁殖的果实，也是繁殖的终结。她眼前所见，正是一个时代的丰硕成果。他们一个个耀武扬威地端坐着。但这时，警察的手挥向了下方，车队缓缓流动起来；这些富丽堂皇、形形色色的庞然大物向四面八方缓缓移动着，消失在皮卡迪利广场。 她穿过公园街，向柯曾街她的住宅走去。在她的记忆中，当绣线菊绽放的时候，那里有杓鹬的啼鸣声，还有一位带枪的老人。 她迈进门槛的时候想，她还记得切斯特菲尔德勋爵曾说过什么，但她的记忆被卡住了。在她那朴素无华的十八世纪风格的客厅里，她仿佛能看到切斯特菲尔德勋爵把帽子放在这边，大衣放在那边，他举止优雅，令人看了赏心悦目。可如今，客厅里凌乱地堆满了包裹。就在她坐在海德公园的那会儿，书店老板已经把她订购的书送来了。于是，维多利亚时代的文学书籍，用灰色的纸包裹着、用细绳扎得整整齐齐，把整个房子塞得满满的，不时还有包裹从楼梯上滑下来。她竭尽全力抱起几个包裹，把它们搬进了自己的卧房，又吩咐男仆把其他包裹都搬进来，然后飞快地剪短了包裹上那数不清的细绳。一转眼，她就陷入了书山书海的重围之中。 十六、十七、十八世纪只有屈指可数的文学作品，而她对此也已习以为常，此刻，她被自己订购来的这么多书吓坏了。因为，对于维多利亚时代的人来说，维多利亚时代的文学当然不会仅有四位杰出作家的名字，而是四位作家的名字淹没在，或是被填塞在其他众多作家的名列中，他们是亚历山大·史密斯、迪克森、布莱克斯、弥尔曼、巴克尔、泰恩、佩恩、塔珀、詹姆森……他们个个能言善辩、聒噪张扬、惹人注目，像寻常人一样渴望得到别人的关注。奥兰多对印刷品的崇敬遇到了挑战。她把椅子拖到窗前，因为靠近窗户的地方，也许有阳光透过梅菲尔区高楼大厦的缝隙照射进来，她试图借着这缕亮光，给维多利亚文学下一个结论。 现在已经很清楚，要对维多利亚时代文学作一个总结，只有两种办法。一种是把它写在八开的纸上，写成洋洋六十卷，另一种是压缩到六行文字来表达。在这两种办法中，为节省时间起见，我们选择第二种，因为我们的时间有限。我们接下来就采取这种办法。关于维多利亚时代的文学，奥兰多（在翻阅了好几本书以后）得出的结论是，这些书没有一本是题献给某位贵族的，这很奇怪。其次，（在翻阅了一大摞回忆录后），有几位作家的家谱竟然有她家谱的一半那么厚；再者，克里斯蒂娜·罗塞蒂小姐喝茶时，竟然用一张十英镑的纸币裹着方糖夹，这是非常不得体的；还有（在翻看了好几张百年周庆的晚宴请帖后），既然文学已经饱享了如此之多的丰盛大餐，那必定已变得大腹便便了。还有（她被邀请参加很多讲座，讲座题目有某某对某某的影响，古典主义的复兴，浪漫主义的幸存，以及其他颇为诱人的题目），既然文学已经听了如此多的讲座，那必定已变得枯燥乏味；还有（她出席了一位贵族夫人的招待会后），既然文学披上了一层层的裘皮披肩，那必定变得无比尊贵。还有（她拜访了卡莱尔在切尔西的隔音室后），既然文学天赋需要如此精心呵护，那它必定已变得娇贵纤弱；最后，她终于得出了结论。这个结论至关重要，但因为我们写下的文字已远远超过六行，所以只能略过不谈了。 得出结论后，奥兰多伫立在窗前，久久凝视着窗外。因为任何人一旦得出某个结论，就好比把球抛过了球网，必须等待那个无形的对手再把球抛回来。她想知道，切斯特菲尔德公馆上空那片苍白晦暗的天穹，会把什么抛给她呢？她十指相扣，久久地站在那里沉思。突然，她吃了一惊——此刻，我们惟愿纯洁、贞操和谦恭三位小姐像上次一样，把门推开一条缝，这样至少能给我们提供一个喘息的机会，让我们想一想，作为传记作者，该如何巧妙地掩饰这一段不得不写的史实。可是，这三位小姐没出现！当年，她们把洁白的衣裙抛给赤身裸体的奥兰多，结果眼巴巴地看着那裙子落在了离她几英寸远的地方；如今过去了这么多年，她们早已放弃了与她的交往，现在正忙着别的事呢。那么，在这个灰蒙蒙的3月早晨，就不会发生什么事，去缓和、掩盖、隐藏、遮蔽那件不可否认的事吗？无论那是什么事？奥兰多突然受到惊吓以后——感谢上苍，就在此刻，窗外传来了老式手摇风琴声，如今，依然不时有意大利琴师在后街小巷里摇这种风琴。琴声轻轻的，风笛般悠扬，长笛般清亮，时断时续。我们不妨就让这琴声打断我们的叙述吧，就当它是天籁之音，尽管它很微弱，嘎吱嘎吱，上气不接下气。让我们就用这琴声来填满这一页，直到那不可否认的时刻到来。男仆和女佣都预见到了即将来临的事，读者也同样有预感。就连奥兰多本人也无法对此再置之不理了。就让手风琴声载着我们的思绪飘荡吧，在音乐声中，我们的思绪犹如一叶扁舟随着波浪颠簸起伏，这最简陋、最飘忽不定的载体，把我们的思绪带到了屋顶上，带到了洗晒衣服的后花园——这是哪儿？你还认得那片绿地吗？还认得位于正中的尖顶和两侧各蹲一只狮子的大门吗？啊，对了，这是邱园！好吧，就邱园吧。所以，我们此刻到了邱园里，今天是3月2日，我领你们看一看这邱园。在那棵李树下，盛开着风信子和番红花，还有杏树上含苞欲放的花蕾。走到那棵李树下，我们就会联想到球茎，毛茸茸的、红色的球茎，10月的时候插入大地，眼下已开花结果。我们会浮想联翩，想起更多难以启齿的事。我们会从烟盒里取出一支香烟或一支雪茄，把斗篷抛在大橡树下（为了押韵起见，此处用“橡树”oak对应前面的斗篷cloak），坐下来等待那只翠鸟，据说有人曾在傍晚时分看到它在泰晤士河两岸穿梭飞翔。 wait!wait!翠鸟来了；翠鸟没来。 此刻，瞧，工厂的烟囱浓烟滚滚；瞧，市府职员们乘着小船在河面上匆匆而过；瞧，牵着狗的老妇在散步，头一次戴上新帽子的年轻女仆，把帽子戴歪了。瞧他们这些人。上苍仁慈地赦免人类，允许他们把秘密隐藏在心中，但我们却被这些秘密所诱惑，锲而不舍地探寻着，猜测着那些也许是无中生有的事；透过雪茄烟的袅袅烟雾，我们依然能看到人类自然欲望的燃烧，以及欲望得到满足时的欢欣，那种欲望，是对一顶帽子、一条小船以及地沟里一只老鼠燃起的欲望；就像当年人们目睹的，在君士坦丁堡附近的清真寺尖塔前面的田野上熊熊燃烧的烈焰——我们的思绪泼洒在浅草洼里，栖息在手风琴声中，就这样漫无目的地跳跃着。 欢呼吧！人类的自然欲望！欢呼吧！happiness!至高无上的幸福！还有种种欢愉，比如鲜花和美酒，虽然鲜花会凋谢，美酒会醉人；比如星期日花半克朗买张车票逃离伦敦，在昏暗的小教堂里哼唱关于死亡的圣歌。只要能把巩固帝国的那些事暂时搁下，比如书写和阅读、文件书信的往来，以及铁路网的建设，随便什么事都值得欢呼，甚至女店员那涂得粗粗弯弯的口红（仿佛朱庇特用蘸了红墨水的大拇指笨拙地在她唇上划了一道标记），也值得欢呼。无论男性小说家怎么看待幸福，无论他们是祝福，还是否认，欢呼吧，幸福！欢呼翠鸟在泰晤士河两岸穿梭飞翔，欢呼一切自然欲望得到满足。cheer!无论幸福是什么形式，惟愿幸福千姿百态，奇妙无穷。因为黯然阴郁的溪流在流淌——不知是否像韵文里唱的只是“一场梦”——但我们日常的生活比这更糟、更令人窒息——没有梦幻，只是活着，自鸣得意，口若悬河，麻木不仁，生活在大树的浓荫覆盖下，当翠鸟在河岸间匆匆掠过，转瞬消失的时候，那团橄榄绿色的阴影遮蔽了它翅羽上那一道蓝色。 那么，欢呼幸福吧，但幸福之后，继之而来的梦境，却不值得欢呼了。在梦境中，清晰的影像变得虚浮膨胀，就像乡村小客栈店堂里污迹斑斑的镜子，把脸照得变了形。当我们在睡梦中时，梦境击碎了一切，将我们撕成碎片，害得我们伤痕累累；但是，睡吧，睡吧，当我们深深陷入沉睡中，一切有形的东西都将被碾成柔软无比的粉尘，变成神秘莫测的污水，而我们，仿佛缠着裹尸布的木乃伊，或一只蛾子，蜷缩着，俯卧在睡眠底层的沙地上。 可是，且慢！wait!我们这一次并不打算去那些晦暗不明的地方。一道蓝光，在眼底的最隐秘处闪过，他腾空飞起，好似划亮了一根火柴，火光闪闪，惊扰了沉睡的梦境；是那只翠鸟；红红的、稠稠的生命之流再次奔涌而来，仿佛回流的潮汐重又升起。一个泡又一个泡，一滴又一滴；我们站起身来，我们的目光（一段韵文可以巧妙地带我们度过这从死到生的尴尬时刻）落在——（此刻，手风琴声嘎然而止）。 “是个漂亮的男孩，夫人，”助产婆班廷太太说着，把奥兰多的头生子送到了她的怀抱里。换一种说法，在3月20日，星期四的凌晨三点钟，奥兰多平安产下一子。 奥兰多再次站在了窗前，读者大可鼓足勇气读下去，同样的事今天肯定不会再发生了。而无论如何，此刻已不是那一天了。Absolutely not.我们如果随着奥兰多的目光一起望向窗外，就会发现公园街已完全不是昔日的模样。的确，在窗口站上十分钟，或更长时间，也看不到一辆四轮大马车经过。就像奥兰多此刻一样。数日后，当窗外出现了一辆滑稽可笑、截头去脑的箱体车，没有马拉着，自己骨碌碌往前跑时，奥兰多大声喊起来：“瞧那东西！”真真切切一辆没有马拉的车！喊完这声之后，她被人有事叫走了。过了一会儿，她又回到窗前往外看。如今的气候变得很反常，而且她不得不认为，就连天空本身也与从前不一样了。不再浓雾弥漫，阴霾多雨，也不再折射出五光十色的光彩。如今，爱德华国王继承了维多利亚女王的王位，瞧，他就在那里，从他那辆灵巧的布鲁厄姆车上走下来，到街对面去拜访某位女士。缩水后的云雾成了薄薄的轻纱，天空仿佛是金属构成的，到了炎热的天气，呈现出黯然无光的铜绿色、紫铜色、或橙黄色，就是金属在雾中显出的那种颜色。这种缩水十分惊人。仿佛一切都被缩水了。前一天晚上，当她的车驶过白金汉宫，从前那个庞然大物已消失得无影无踪，高高的礼帽、寡妇的丧服、望远镜、花冠，全都不见了踪影，街上连个小水坑都没留，而她还曾经以为这一切是永恒的。此刻——又过去了一段时间，她重又站在窗前她最喜爱站的位置——此刻，当夜幕降临时，变化更是惊人。瞧房子里的灯！只需用手轻轻一触，便满屋灯火通明，而且成千上万间屋里的灯全都亮了；每个房间都是如此。人们可以透过一个方方的小盒子，看到一切；不再有隐私，不再有从前那种暧昧的阴影和隐秘的角落，也不再有穿着围裙的女人捧着摇曳的烛火小心翼翼地放到一张桌子上，再放到另一张桌子上。只需轻轻一触，满屋灯火通明。即便夜晚，天空也彻夜光明。大街小巷都亮堂堂的，一切都亮堂堂的。她在中午时分又站到了窗前，如今的女人多么瘦长啊！她们看起来仿佛玉米秆子一般，笔直地杵着，衣着光鲜，彼此十分相像。而男人的面颊则像手掌一样光洁。万事万物都在干燥的空气中显露了自己的色彩，肌肉似乎也在干燥的空气中变得僵硬了。想要哭泣，如今就更难了。水只需两秒钟就变热了。常春藤要么枯死了，要么就被从外墙上清除了。植物不再茂盛，家庭也越变越小。原先遮盖墙壁和家具的窗帘和布罩都被卷了起来，裸露出来的墙壁上，新挂上了色彩鲜艳的实物画，画上有街道，雨伞和苹果，有的画镶在镜框里，有的直接画在木板上。这个时代有某种鲜明的特征，令她想起了十八世纪。这想法虽然令她心烦意乱，不顾一切，但就在她想的时候，仿佛自己在一条漫长的隧道里穿行了几百年，此刻豁然开朗；一束亮光倾泻进来；她脑子里的弦莫名其妙地绷紧了，仿佛钢琴调音师把调音销插进了她的脊背，旋紧了她的神经；与此同时，她的听力也变得敏锐了，能够听到房间里的每一声细微的沙沙声，以至座钟的嘀嗒声在她听来宛如敲打重锤的声音。几秒钟之内，那束光越来越亮，眼前的一切也变得越来越清晰，座钟的嘀嗒声也越来越响，直至耳边传来一声可怕的爆炸声。奥兰多吃惊地跳了起来，好像她的头挨了重重的一击。她被重重地击打了十次。事实上，此时已经是1928年，10月11日，上午10点钟。已经到了我们现在这个时代。 奥兰多吓了一跳，手捂胸口，脸色惨白，不过没有人会对此感到奇怪，因为还有什么比现代的面貌更可怕的呢？我们之所以能处变不惊，完全是因为我们的身前身后有过去和未来为我们庇荫。不过，我们现在可没有时间来思考这一问题，因为奥兰多已经迟了。她跑下楼去，跳上她的汽车，启动了发动机，疾驰而去。一幢幢泛着蓝光的巨型建筑物高耸入云；烟囱上的红色通风帽散乱地点缀着天空；路面像铺着银色钉子一般闪闪发光；脸色苍白得像雕像一般的司机，驾驶着公共汽车冲她迎面驶来；她特别留心到海绵、鸟笼和一箱箱绿色的油布。然而，她此刻正行走在现代这座独木桥上，她绝不允许眼前这一番景象渗透到她脑海中一丝一毫，不然她就会坠入桥下湍急的洪流中。“你们走路怎么不看方向？……把你的手伸出来，行吗？”——她正颜厉声地说道，那些话仿佛不假思索就脱口而出。此刻大街上拥挤不堪，人们不顾东南西北地到处乱穿。平板玻璃橱里五光十色，七彩缤纷，人们围着橱窗嗡嗡嗡地说个不停，奥兰多觉得这些人就是蜜蜂。奥兰多想——但她的思绪被猛地剪断了，因为她眨了眨眼睛，看清了他们原来是一群人。“你们走路怎么不看方向？”她厉声喊道。 终于，她把车停在了马歇尔斯内尔格罗夫百货商店门口，走进店去。她一下子就被笼罩在憧憧光影和各种气味之中。现代犹如滚烫的水珠洒落在她的身上。光影摇曳，仿佛轻缕薄纱在夏日的微风中飘荡。她从手袋里掏出一张购物清单大声念了起来——男童靴子、浴盐、沙丁鱼——她的声音古怪而又拘谨，好像她手上捧着的这些字的上方，有一个水龙头正往下喷洒着五颜六色的水花。她目睹着这些字在光影的照射下扭曲变形。浴盐和童靴两个词变得钝头钝脑，沙丁鱼变成了锯齿形，像一把锯子。她站在马歇尔斯内尔格罗夫百货商店一楼的男装部，东张西望，嗅着扑鼻而来的各种气味，耽误了几秒钟。然后，她看见电梯的门一直开着，就上了电梯。电梯平稳而快速地把她带上楼去。在电梯上，她想，当今这种生活的基本结构就是魔法。十八世纪时，每件事的来龙去脉我们都很清楚，但如今，我凭空就能升到高处，我能听到从美国传来的声音，我能看到人们在空中飞翔——但究竟是怎么回事，我完全摸不到头脑。所以，我重又相信魔法了。这时，电梯轻轻一震停在了二楼。五彩缤纷的商品琳琅满目，在她眼前争奇斗彩，远处飘来一阵阵怪异的气味；电梯每停一次，随着电梯门的打开，便有另一番世界在她眼前展开，这个世界的特有气味也扑面而来。她想起了伊丽莎白时代瓦坪边上的泰晤士河畔，那里停泊着装满珠宝和其他货物的商船。船上的气味多么香浓、多么奇妙！她还记得自己把手指探进装满珍宝的麻袋，感受那些未经打磨的红宝石从指缝间穿过的感觉。然后，她与苏姬——管她叫什么名字呢——躺在一起，坎伯兰提着灯照到了他们身上！如今，坎伯兰家族在波特兰大街上有一幢房子，她前些日子还在那里与他们共进午餐，并且斗胆提到了希恩路上的救济院，和那老头子开了个小小的玩笑。他当时冲她眨了眨眼。正在想着，电梯已经到了最顶层，她不得不走下电梯——走进了百货商店的某一个商品部，天知道这是哪个“部”。她停下脚步，翻看她的购物清单，可是，要找到单子上列出的浴盐和童靴，谈何容易。她打算空着手下楼去了，但就在这时，她嘴里不知不觉地大声念出了购物单上的最后一行字：“双人床单，”而事实上，正是“双人床单”才使她免于冲动之下空手而归。 “双人床单，”她对站在柜台里的一位男士说，谢天谢地，这位男士恰巧正是卖床单的。前些天，格里姆斯蒂奇太太对她说，不对，格里姆斯蒂奇太太已经不在人世了，那么是巴托洛莫太太，也不对，巴托洛莫太太也已去世，那么应该是路易丝，路易丝前些天心急火燎地跑来对她说，她发现君王卧榻的床单底部有一个洞。这张卧榻上睡过很多君王，有伊丽莎白女王、詹姆斯国王、查理国王、乔治国王、维多利亚女王和爱德华国王，床单上有个洞也不足为怪。可路易丝十分有把握地说，她知道是谁干的，是亲王。 “可恶的德国佬！”路易丝说（因为之前刚刚结束了一场与德国人的战争）。 “双人床单，”奥兰多梦呓般地念叨着，因为她此刻心里正思忖着，一张铺着银色床罩的双人床，似乎显得房间的格调有点庸俗——房间里一片银色，但她当年装饰这间卧房的时候，正对金属色格外着迷。那男店员去拿双人床单了，她掏出一面小镜子和一块粉扑，一边漫不经心地往脸上略施薄粉，一边想，如今的女人，与她初变女人、躺在“倾心夫人”号甲板上的那个年代的女人相比，已不再有那份委婉含蓄了。她细心地在鼻子上略施粉黛。她从来不在面颊上扑粉，因为说实话，她虽然已经三十六岁，但岁月在她脸上并未留下痕迹，她依然像从前那样嘴唇微翘、神情忧郁、美丽漂亮、肤色红润（如萨莎所说，像一棵闪烁着千万点烛光的圣诞树），她还是当年和萨莎一起在冰封的泰晤士河面上滑冰时的昔日容颜。 “夫人，这是最上乘的爱尔兰亚麻，”那店员一边说，一边把床单在柜台上摊开，——他们遇见一位拣枯树枝的老妇。此刻，就在奥兰多心不在焉地用手指摸着亚麻床单时，通往另一个商品部的弹簧门猛地打开了，这扇门的另一边也许是出售各种花哨饰物的商品部。从打开的门里飘来一阵柔和的香气，好像是那种粉红色蜡烛的味道，那香气袅袅婷婷，像贝壳一般将一个人团团裹住——那人年轻、苗条、迷人，是小伙子还是姑娘？——啊天哪！是个姑娘！身披裘皮，戴着珍珠项链，穿着俄罗斯长裤；但她背信弃义，背信弃义！ “背信弃义！”奥兰多高声喊道（那男店员已经走开了），整个店堂里仿佛翻卷奔腾着浑黄的洪水，远远地，她看到一艘俄罗斯舰船上的桅杆屹立在出海口。而那阵香气幻化成的贝壳，竟神奇地变成了一个平台，或一个讲台（可能那扇弹簧门又开了一次），从台子上走下来一位体态丰腴、身披裘皮的女人，这位保养得非常好、性感迷人、头戴小王冠的女人，是一位大公的情妇。就是她，倚在伏尔加河畔，吃着三明治，眼睁睁地看着他人溺水身亡；而此刻，她正穿过店堂，朝奥兰多走来。 “啊，萨莎！”奥兰多惊呼起来。的确，她十分震惊，没想到萨莎会变成如今这副模样，体态如此丰腴，神情如此慵懒。她于是低下头来看床单，好让眼前的幻景，那身披裘皮的半老徐娘，那身穿俄罗斯长裤的姑娘，以及所伴随的蜡烛、白花和老船的气味，统统消失在她的身后。 “夫人，您今天要买些餐巾、毛巾和尘拂吗？”那店员追问道。幸亏奥兰多有那张购物清单，她此刻取出单子看过以后，才镇定自若回答道，她只剩一件东西要买，就是浴盐；在别的商品部。 她又乘着电梯往楼下去——任何景象的重复出现都会对人产生潜移默化的影响——她再一次沉浸在一个远离现时的时刻；当电梯嘭地一声停在一楼时，她感觉自己仿佛听到一只瓦罐摔碎在河岸上。她站在琳琅满目的手提包当中，凝神思考着，哪里还顾得上去寻找出售浴盐的商品部，管它在什么商品部呢。店员们给她建议，她也充耳不闻。那些店员们一个个彬彬有礼，皮肤黝黑，头发梳得溜光，精神抖擞。他们也是某些古老家族的后裔，兴许他们中的某些人也像她一样颇为自己绵延久远的家世而自豪，但他们选择降下现时这道不透光的屏风挡住过去，于是今天我们看到的他们，只是马歇尔斯内尔格罗夫百货商店的店员而已。奥兰多站在那里踌躇不前。透过巨大的玻璃门，她看到牛津街上车水马龙。公共汽车似乎挤成一堆，转眼又各奔东西。就像当年泰晤士河发洪水时，那排山倒海般翻滚的巨大冰块。有一位穿着毛皮拖鞋的老贵族骑在一块冰上随波漂流，他沉没的地方，就在她此刻停车的地方，他沉没时嘴里还在不停地咒骂着爱尔兰叛党。那一幕此刻清晰地浮现在奥兰多眼前。 “时光飞逝，离我远去，”她一边想，一边竭力使自己心平气和，“这就是人到中年。多么奇怪啊！所有事物都不再单纯。我拎起手袋，脑子里却出现了那位冻死在冰面下的贩苹果老妇。有人点燃了一支粉色蜡烛，我却看到了一位穿着俄罗斯长裤的姑娘。当我走出门外——就像我现在这样，”她来到了牛津街上，“我闻到了什么气味？牧场的草香。我还听到了羊儿头上的铃铛声，看到了群山峻岭。这是土耳其？还是印度？抑或是波斯？”泪水涌了上来，盈满了她的眼眶。 她此刻满眼含着泪水、满目波斯高原幻景，准备钻进她的小汽车，读者看到这番情景时，不免会觉得她的思绪游离于现时太远了。的确，对于那些熟谙生活技巧，通常又是默默无闻的人来说，不可否认的是，他们能设法把自己人生的六十或七十年时间调整得同每个正常人的时间节奏一致，因此，当钟敲响十一点的时候，他们的时间也都同步鸣响，这样，他们既不会在现时中轰然崩溃，也不会完全迷失在追忆往昔时光中。这些人的寿命，我们只能按照墓碑上所说的精确数字，活了六十八年，或七十二年。而其他人，有些人虽然活在我们中间，但我们知道他们已经死了。有些人虽然已经拥有了生命的形式，但其实他们还并未出生。还有些人，虽然已经活了几百年，却自称只有三十六岁。无论《英国名人传记辞典》上的人物生卒年份写的是什么，一个人寿命的真正长短，永远都存在争议。因为计时是一件颇为困难的事，再娴熟的计时手法，也会在瞬间被扰乱。奥兰多丢了购物清单，没有买沙丁鱼、浴盐和童靴，就径直准备回家去了，这也许都是她酷爱诗歌的过错。此刻，她站在那里，手搭在她的车门上，现时又一次击打了她，她的头部被现时狠狠地击打了十一下。 “真该死！”她咒骂道。因为这钟声在她听来振聋发聩——她眉头微蹙，娴熟地换挡，小汽车蹿了出去，在车流中拐来拐去地穿行，她的车技非常高超。她一边开车一边像从前那样大声喊叫着，“看清楚你们要往哪里去！”“你没有脑子吗？”“你为什么不明说？”她从摄政街开到秣市街，又开到诺森伯兰大道，上了威斯敏斯特桥，然后左拐，直行，右拐，再直行……除此之外，关于此刻的奥兰多，我们没什么可写的。 1928年10月11日星期四，老肯特街上人满为患，行人已经溢出人行道外。有拎着手提袋的女人，有东跑西窜的孩子，还有正在大减价的