39小说

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第12部分（第1页）

not　only　did　he　find　himself　confronted　by　problems　which　have　puzzled　the　wisest　of　men；　such　as　What　is　love？　What　friendship？　What　truth？　but　directly　he　came　to　think　about　them；　his　whole　past；　which　seemed　to　him　of　extreme　length　and　variety；　rushed　into　the　falling　second；　swelled　it　a　dozen　times　its　natural　size；　coloured　it　a　thousand　tints；　and　filled　it　with　all　the　odds　and　ends　in　the　universe。

In　such　thinking　（or　by　whatever　name　it　should　be　called）　he　spent　months　and　years　of　his　life。　It　would　be　no　exaggeration　to　say　that　he　would　go　out　after　breakfast　a　man　of　thirty　and　e　home　to　dinner　a　man　of　fifty–five　at　least。　Some　weeks　added　a　century　to　his　age；　others　no　more　than　three　seconds　at　most。　Altogether；　the　task　of　estimating　the　length　of　human　life　（of　the　animals’　we　presume　not　to　speak）　is　beyond　our　capacity；　for　directly　we　say　that　it　is　ages　long；　we　are　reminded　that　it　is　briefer　than　the　fall　of　a　rose　leaf　to　the　ground。　Of　the　two　forces　which　alternately；　and　what　is　more　confusing　still；　at　the　same　moment；　dominate　our　unfortunate　numbskulls—brevity　and　diuturnity—Orlando　was　sometimes　under　the　influence　of　the　elephant–footed　deity；　then　of　the　gnat–winged　fly。　Life　seemed　to　him　of　prodigious　length。　Yet　even　so；　it　went　like　a　flash。　But　even　when　it　stretched　longest　and　the　moments　swelled　biggest　and　he　seemed　to　wander　alone　in　deserts　of　vast　eternity；　there　was　no　time　for　the　smoothing　out　and　deciphering　of　those　scored　parchments　which　thirty　years　among　men　and　women　had　rolled　tight　in　his　heart　and　brain。　Long　before　he　had　done　thinking　about　Love　（the　oak　tree　had　put　forth　its　leaves　and　shaken　them　to　the　ground　a　dozen　times　in　the　process）　Ambition　would　jostle　it　off　the　field；　to　be　replaced　by　Friendship　or　Literature。　And　as　the　first　question　had　not　been　settled—What　is　Love？—back　it　would　e　at　the　least　provocation　or　none；　and　hustle　Books　or　Metaphors　of　What　one　lives　for　into　the　margin；　there　to　wait　till　they　saw　their　chance　to　rush　into　the　field　again。　What　made　the　process　still　longer　was　that　it　was　profusely　illustrated；　not　only　with　pictures；　as　that　of　old　Queen　Elizabeth；　laid　on　her　tapestry　couch　in　rose–coloured　brocade　with　an　ivory　snuff–box　in　her　hand　and　a　gold–hilted　sword　by　her　side；　but　with　scents—she　was　strongly　perfumed—and　with　sounds；　the　stags　were　barking　in　Richmond　Park　that　winter’s　day。　And　so；　the　thought　of　love　would　be　all　ambered　over　with　snow　and　winter；　with　log　fires　burning；　with　Russian　women；　gold　swords；　and　the　bark　of　stags；　with　old　King　James’　slobbering　and　fireworks　and　sacks　of　treasure　in　the　holds　of　Elizabethan　sailing　ships。　Every　single　thing；　once　he　tried　to　dislodge　it　from　its　place　in　his　mind；　he　found　thus　cumbered　with　other　matter　like　the　lump　of　glass　which；　after　a　year　at　the　bottom　of　the　sea；　is　grown　about　with　bones　and　dragon–flies；　and　coins　and　the　tresses　of　drowned　women。

‘Another　metaphor　by　Jupiter！’　he　would　exclaim　as　he　said　this　（which　will　show　the　disorderly　and　circuitous　way　in　which　his　mind　worked　and　explain　why　the　oak　tree　flowered　and　faded　so　often　before　he　came　to　any　conclusion　about　Love）。　‘And　what’s　the　point　of　it？’　he　would　ask　himself。　‘Why　not　say　simply　in　so　many　words—’　and　then　he　would　try　to　think　for　half　an　hour；—or　was　it　two　years　and　a　half？—how　to　say　simply　in　so　many　words　what　love　is。　‘A　figure　like　that　is　manifestly　untruthful；’　he　argued；　‘for　no　dragon–fly；　unless　under　very　exceptional　circumstances；　could　live　at　the　bottom　of　the　sea。　And　if　literature　is　not　the　Bride　and　Bedfellow　of　Truth；　what　is　she？　Confound　it　all；’　he　cried；　‘why　say　Bedfellow　when　one’s　already　said　Bride？　Why　not　simply　say　what　one　means　and　leave　it？’

So　then　he　tried　saying　the　grass　is　green　and　the　sky　is　blue　and　so　to　propitiate　the　austere　spirit　of　poetry　whom　still；　though　at　a　great　distance；　he　could　not　help　reverencing。　‘The　sky　is　blue；’　he　said；　‘the　grass　is　green。’　Looking　up；　he　saw　that；　on　the　contrary；　the　sky　is　like　the　veils　which　a　thousand　Madonnas　have　let　fall　from　their　hair；　and　the　grass　fleets　and　darkens　like　a　flight　of　girls　fleeing　the　embraces　of　hairy　satyrs　from　enchanted　woods。　‘Upon　my　word；’　he　said　（for　he　had　fallen　into　the　bad　habit　of　speaking　aloud）；　‘I　don’t　see　that　one’s　more　true　than　another。　Both　are　utterly　false。’　And　he　despaired　of　being　able　to　solve　the　problem　of　what　poetry　is　and　what　truth　is　and　fell　into　a　deep　dejection。

And　here　we　may　profit　by　a　pause　in　his　soliloquy　to　reflect　how　odd　it　was　to　see　Orlando　stretched　there　on　his　elbow　on　a　June　day　and　to　reflect　that　this　fine　fellow　with　all　his　faculties　about　him　and　a　healthy　body；　witness　cheeks　and　limbs—a　man　who　never　thought　twice　about　heading　a　charge　or　fighting　a　duel—should　be　so　subject　to　the　lethargy　of　thought；　and　rendered　so　susceptible　by　it；　that　when　it　came　to　a　question　of　poetry；　or　his　own　petence　in　it；　he　was　as　shy　as　a　little　girl　behind　her　mother’s　cottage　door。　In　our　belief；　Greene’s　ridicule　of　his　tragedy　hurt　him　as　much　as　the　Princess’　ridicule　of　his　love。　But　to　return：—

Orlando　went　on　thinking。　He　kept　looking　at　the　grass　and　at　the　sky　and　trying　to　bethink　him　what　a　true　poet；　who　has　his　verses　published　in　London；　would　say　about　them。　Memory　meanwhile　（whose　habits　have　already　been　described）　kept　steady　before　his　eyes　the　face　of　Nicholas　Greene；　as　if　that　sardonic　loose–lipped　man；　treacherous　as　he　had　proved　himself；　were　the　Muse　in　person；　and　it　was　to　him　that　Orlando　must　do　homage。　So　Orlando；　that　summer　morning；　offered　him　a　variety　of　phrases；　some　plain；　others　figured；　and　Nick　Greene　kept　shaking　his　head　and　sneering　and　muttering　something　about　Glawr　and　Cicero　and　the　death　of　poetry　in　our　time。　At　length；　starting　to　his　feet　（it　was　now　winter　and　very　cold）　Orlando　swore　one　of　the　most　remarkable　oaths　of　his　lifetime；　for　it　bound　him　to　a　servitude　than　which　none　is　stricter。　‘I’ll　be　blasted’；　he　said；　‘if　I　ever　write　another　word；　or　try　to　write　another　word；　to　please　Nick　Greene　or　the　Muse。　Bad；　good；　or　indifferent；　I’ll　write；　from　this　day　forward；　to　please　myself’；　and　here　he　made　as　if　he　were　tearing　a　whole　budget　of　papers　across　and　tossing　them　in　the　face　of　that　sneering　loose–lipped　man。　Upon　which；　as　a　cur　ducks　if　you　stoop　to　shy　a　stone　at　him；　Memory　ducked　her　effigy　of　Nick　Greene　out　of　sight；　and　substituted　for　it—nothing　whatever。

But　Orlando；　all　the　same；　went　on　thinking。　He　had　indeed　much　to　think　of。　For　when　he　tore　the　parchment　across；　he　tore；　in　one　rending；　the　scrolloping；　emblazoned　scroll　which　he　had　made　out　in　his　own　favour　in　the　solitude　of　his　room　appointing　himself；　as　the　King　appoints　Ambassadors；　the　first　poet　of　his　race；　the　first　writer　of　his　age；　conferring　eternal　immortality　upon　his　soul　and　granting　his　body　a　grave　among　laurels　and　the　intangible　banners　of　a　people’s　reverence　perpetually。　Eloquent　as　this　all　was；　he　now　tore　it　up　and　threw　it　in　the　dustbin。　‘Fame’；　he　said。　‘is　like’　（and　since　there　was　no　Nick　Greene　to　stop　him；　he　went　on　to　revel　in　images　of　which　we　will　choose　only　one　or　two　of　the　quietest）　‘a　braided　coat　which　hampers　the　limbs；　a　jacket　of　silver　which　curbs　the　heart；　a　painted　shield　which　covers　a　scarecrow；’　etc。　etc。　The　pith　of　his　phrases　was　that　while　fame　impedes　and　constricts；　obscurity　wraps　about　a　man　like　a　mist；　obscurity　is　dark；　ample；　and　free；　obscurity　lets　the　mind　take　its　way　unimpeded。　Over　the　obscure　man　is　poured　the　merciful　suffusion　of　darkness。　None　knows　where　he　goes　or　es。　He　may　seek　the　truth　and　speak　it；　he　alone　is　free；　he　alone　is　truthful；　he　alone　is　at　peace。　And　so　he　sank　into　a　quiet　mood；　under　the　oak　tree；　the　hardness　of　whose　roots；　exposed　above　the　ground；　seemed　to　him　rather　fortable　than　otherwise。

Sunk　for　a　long　time　in　profound　thoughts　as　to　the　value　of　obscurity；　and　the　delight　of　having　no　name；　but　being　like　a　wave　which　returns　to　the　deep　body　of　the　sea；　thinking　how　obscurity　rids　the　mind　of　the　irk　of　envy　and　spite；　how　it　sets　running　in　the　veins　the　free　waters　of　generosity　and　magnanimity；　and　allows　giving　and　taking　without　thanks　offered　or　praise　given；　which　must　have　been　the　way　of　all　great　poets；　he　supposed　（though　his　knowledge　of　Greek　was　not　enough　to　bear　him　out）；　for；　he　thought；　Shakespeare　must　have　written　like　that；　and　the　church　builders　built　like　that；　anonymously；　needing　no　thanking　or　naming；　but　only　their　work　in　the　daytime　and　a　little　ale　perhaps　at　night—’What　an　admirable　life　this　is；’　he　thought；　stretching　his　limbs　out　under　the　oak　tree。　‘And　why　not　enjoy　it　this　very　moment？’　The　thought　struck　him　like　a　bullet。　Ambition　dropped　like　a　plummet。　Rid　of　the　heart–burn　of　rejected　love；　and　of　vanity　rebuked；　and　all　the　other　stings　and　pricks　which　the　tle–bed　of　life　had　burnt　upon　him　when　ambitious　of　fame；　but　could　no　longer　inflict　upon　one　careless　of　glory；　he　opened　his　eyes；　which　had　been　wide　open　all　the　time；　but　had　seen　only　thoughts；　and　saw；　lying　in　the　hollow　beneath　him；　his　house。

There　it　lay　in　the　early　sunshine　of　spring。　It　looked　a　town　rather　than　a　house；　but　a　town　built；　not　hither　and　thither；　as　this　man　wished　or　that；　but　circumspectly；　by　a　single　architect　with　one　idea　in　his　head。　Courts　and　buildings；　grey；　red；　plum　colour；　lay　orderly　and　symmetrical；　the　courts　were　some　of　them　oblong　and　some　square；　in　this　was　a　fountain；　in　that　a　statue；　the　buildings　were　some　of　them　low；　some　pointed；　here　was　a　chapel；　there　a　belfry；　spaces　of　the　greenest　grass　lay　in　between　and　clumps　of　cedar　trees　and　beds　of　bright　flowers；　all　were　clasped—yet　so　well　set　out　was　it　that　it　seemed　that　every　part　had　room　to　spread　itself　fittingly—by　the　roll　of　a　massive　wall；　while　smoke　from　innumerable　chimneys　curled　perpetually　into　the　air。　This　vast；　yet　ordered　building；　which　could　house　a　thousand　men　and　perhaps　two　thousand　horses；　was　built；　Orlando　thought；　by　workmen　whose　names　are　unknown。　Here　have　lived；　for　more　centuries　than　I　can　count；　the　obscure　generations　of　my　own　obscure　family。　Not　one　of　these　Richards；　Johns；　Annes；　Elizabeths　has　left　a　token　of　himself　behind　him；　yet　all；　working　together　with　their　spades　and　their　needles；　their　love–making　and　their　child–bearing；　have　left　this。

Never　had　the　house　looked　more　noble　and　humane。

Why；　then；　had　he　wished　to　raise　himself　above　them？　For　it　seemed　vain　and　arrogant　in　the　extreme　to　try　to　better　that　anonymous　work　of　creation；　the　labours　of　those　vanished　hands。　Better　was　it　to　go　unknown　and　leave　behind　you　an　arch；　a　potting　shed；　a　wall　where　peaches　ripen；　than　to　burn　like　a　meteor　and　leave　no　dust。　For　after　all；　he　said；　kindling　as　he　looked　at　the　great　house　on　the　greensward　below；　the　unknown　lords　and　ladies　who　lived　there　never　forgot　to　set　aside　something　for　those　who　e　after；　for　the　roof　that　will　leak；　for　the　tree　that　will　fall。　There　was　always　a　warm　corner　for　the　old　shepher

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