魔天记小说网

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第25部分（第1页）

to　a　rut　in　Park　Lane）　‘without　genius　we　should　be　upset　and　undone。　Most　august；　most　lucid　of　beams；’—thus　she　was　apostrophizing　the　hump　on　the　cushion　when　they　drove　beneath　one　of　the　street　lamps　in　Berkeley　Square　and　she　realized　her　mistake。　Mr　Pope　had　a　forehead　no　bigger　than　another　man’s。　‘Wretched　man；’　she　thought；　‘how　you　have　deceived　me！　I　took　that　hump　for　your　forehead。　When　one　sees　you　plain；　how　ignoble；　how　despicable　you　are！　Deformed　and　weakly；　there　is　nothing　to　venerate　in　you；　much　to　pity；　most　to　despise。’

Again　they　were　in　darkness　and　her　anger　became　modified　directly　she　could　see　nothing　but　the　poet’s　knees。

‘But　it　is　I　that　am　a　wretch；’　she　reflected；　once　they　were　in　plete　obscurity　again；　‘for　base　as　you　may　be；　am　I　not　still　baser？　It　is　you　who　nourish　and　protect　me；　you　who　scare　the　wild　beast；　frighten　the　savage；　make　me　clothes　of　the　silkworm’s　wool；　and　carpets　of　the　sheep’s。　If　I　want　to　worship；　have　you　not　provided　me　with　an　image　of　yourself　and　set　it　in　the　sky？　Are　not　evidences　of　your　care　everywhere？　How　humble；　how　grateful；　how　docile；　should　I　not　be；　therefore？　Let　it　be　all　my　joy　to　serve；　honour；　and　obey　you。’

Here　they　reached　the　big　lamp–post　at　the　corner　of　what　is　now　Piccadilly　Circus。　The　light　blazed　in　her　eyes；　and　she　saw；　besides　some　degraded　creatures　of　her　own　sex；　two　wretched　pigmies　on　a　stark　desert　land。　Both　were　naked；　solitary；　and　defenceless。　The　one　was　powerless　to　help　the　other。　Each　had　enough　to　do　to　look　after　itself。　Looking　Mr　Pope　full　in　the　face；　‘It　is　equally　vain’；　she　thought；　‘for　you　to　think　you　can　protect　me；　or　for　me　to　think　I　can　worship　you。　The　light　of　truth　beats　upon　us　without　shadow；　and　the　light　of　truth　is　damnably　unbeing　to　us　both。’

All　this　time；　of　course；　they　went　on　talking　agreeably；　as　people　of　birth　and　education　use；　about　the　Queen’s　temper　and　the　Prime　Minister’s　gout；　while　the　coach　went　from　light　to　darkness　down　the　Haymarket；　along　the　Strand；　up　Fleet　Street；　and　reached；　at　length；　her　house　in　Blackfriars。　For　some　time　the　dark　spaces　between　the　lamps　had　been　being　brighter　and　the　lamps　themselves　less　bright—that　is　to　say；　the　sun　was　rising；　and　it　was　in　the　equable　but　confused　light　of　a　summer’s　morning　in　which　everything　is　seen　but　nothing　is　seen　distinctly　that　they　alighted；　Mr　Pope　handing　Orlando　from　her　carriage　and　Orlando　curtseying　Mr　Pope　to　precede　her　into　her　mansion　with　the　most　scrupulous　attention　to　the　rites　of　the　Graces。

From　the　foregoing　passage；　however；　it　must　not　be　supposed　that　genius　（but　the　disease　is　now　stamped　out　in　the　British　Isles；　the　late　Lord　Tennyson；　it　is　said；　being　the　last　person　to　suffer　from　it）　is　constantly　alight；　for　then　we　should　see　everything　plain　and　perhaps　should　be　scorched　to　death　in　the　process。　Rather　it　resembles　the　lighthouse　in　its　working；　which　sends　one　ray　and　then　no　more　for　a　time；　save　that　genius　is　much　more　capricious　in　its　manifestations　and　may　flash　six　or　seven　beams　in　quick　succession　（as　Mr　Pope　did　that　night）　and　then　lapse　into　darkness　for　a　year　or　for　ever。　To　steer　by　its　beams　is　therefore　impossible；　and　when　the　dark　spell　is　on　them　men　of　genius　are；　it　is　said；　much　like　other　people。

It　was　happy　for　Orlando；　though　at　first　disappointing；　that　this　should　be　so；　for　she　now　began　to　live　much　in　the　pany　of　men　of　genius。　Nor　were　they　so　different　from　the　rest　of　us　as　one　might　have　supposed。　Addison；　Pope；　Swift；　proved；　she　found；　to　be　fond　of　tea。　They　liked　arbours。　They　collected　little　bits　of　coloured　glass。　They　adored　grottos。　Rank　was　not　distasteful　to　them。　Praise　was　delightful。　They　wore　plum–coloured　suits　one　day　and　grey　another。　Mr　Swift　had　a　fine　malacca　cane。　Mr　Addison　scented　his　handkerchiefs。　Mr　Pope　suffered　with　his　head。　A　piece　of　gossip　did　not　e　amiss。　Nor　were　they　without　their　jealousies。　（We　are　jotting　down　a　few　reflections　that　came　to　Orlando　higgledy–piggledy。）　At　first；　she　was　annoyed　with　herself　for　noticing　such　trifles；　and　kept　a　book　in　which　to　write　down　their　memorable　sayings；　but　the　page　remained　empty。　All　the　same；　her　spirits　revived；　and　she　took　to　tearing　up　her　cards　of　invitation　to　great　parties；　kept　her　evenings　free；　began　to　look　forward　to　Mr　Pope’s　visit；　to　Mr　Addison’s；　to　Mr　Swift’s—and　so　on　and　so　on。　If　the　reader　will　here　refer　to　the　“Rape　of　the　Lock”；　to　the　“Spectator”；　to　“Gulliver’s　Travels”；　he　will　understand　precisely　what　these　mysterious　words　may　mean。　Indeed；　biographers　and　critics　might　save　themselves　all　their　labours　if　readers　would　only　take　this　advice。　For　when　we　read：

Whether　the　Nymph　shall　break　Diana’s　Law；

Or　some　frail　China　Jar　receive　a　Flaw；

Or　stain　her　Honour；　or　her　new　Brocade；

Forget　her　Pray’rs　or　miss　a　Masquerade；

Or　lose　her　Heart；　or　Necklace；　at　a　Ball。

—we　know　as　if　we　heard　him　how　Mr　Pope’s　tongue　flickered　like　a　lizard’s；　how　his　eyes　flashed；　how　his　hand　trembled；　how　he　loved；　how　he　lied；　how　he　suffered。　In　short；　every　secret　of　a　writer’s　soul；　every　experience　of　his　life；　every　quality　of　his　mind　is　written　large　in　his　works；　yet　we　require　critics　to　explain　the　one　and　biographers　to　expound　the　other。　That　time　hangs　heavy　on　people’s　hands　is　the　only　explanation　of　the　monstrous　growth。

So；　now　that　we　have　read　a　page　or　two　of　the　“Rape　of　the　Lock”；　we　know　exactly　why　Orlando　was　so　much　amused　and　so　much　frightened　and　so　very　bright–cheeked　and　bright–eyed　that　afternoon。

Mrs　Nelly　then　knocked　at　the　door　to　say　that　Mr　Addison　waited　on　her　Ladyship。　At　this；　Mr　Pope　got　up　with　a　wry　smile；　made　his　congee；　and　limped　off。　In　came　Mr　Addison。　Let　us；　as　he　takes　his　seat；　read　the　following　passage　from　the　“Spectator”：

‘I　consider　woman　as　a　beautiful；　romantic　animal；　that　may　be　adorned　with　furs　and　feathers；　pearls　and　diamonds；　ores　and　silks。　The　lynx　shall　cast　its　skin　at　her　feet　to　make　her　a　tippet；　the　peacock；　parrot　and　swan　shall　pay　contributions　to　her　muff；　the　sea　shall　be　searched　for　shells；　and　the　rocks　for　gems；　and　every　part　of　nature　furnish　out　its　share　towards　the　embellishment　of　a　creature　that　is　the　most　consummate　work　of　it。　All　this；　I　shall　indulge　them　in；　but　as　for　the　petticoat　I　have　been　speaking　of；　I　neither　can；　nor　will　allow　it。’

We　hold　that　gentleman；　cocked　hat　and　all；　in　the　hollow；　of　our　hands。　Look　once　more　into　the　crystal。　Is　he　not　clear　to　the　very　wrinkle　in　his　stocking？　Does　not　every　ripple　and　curve　of　his　wit　lie　exposed　before　us；　and　his　benignity　and　his　timidity　and　his　urbanity　and　the　fact　that　he　would　marry　a　Countess　and　die　very　respectably　in　the　end？　All　is　clear。　And　when　Mr　Addison　has　said　his　say；　there　is　a　terrific　rap　at　the　door；　and　Mr　Swift；　who　had　these　arbitrary　ways　with　him；　walks　in　unannounced。　One　moment；　where　is　“Gulliver’s　Travels”？　Here　it　is！　Let　us　read　a　passage　from　the　voyage　to　the　Houyhnhnms：

‘I　enjoyed　perfect　Health　of　Body　and　Tranquillity　of　Mind；　I　did　not　find　the　Treachery　or　Inconstancy　of　a　Friend；　nor　the　Injuries　of　a　secret　or　open　Enemy。　I　had　no　occasion　of　bribing；　flattering　or　pimping；　to　procure　the　Favour　of　any　great　Man　or　of　his　Minion。　I　wanted　no　Fence　against　Fraud　or　Oppression；　Here　was　neither　Physician　to　destroy　my　Body；　nor　Lawyer　to　ruin　my　Fortune；　No　Informer　to　watch　my　Words；　and　Actions；　or　forge　Accusations　against　me　for　Hire：　Here　were　no　Gibers；　Censurers；　Backbiters；　Pickpockets；　Highwaymen；　Housebreakers；　Attorneys；　Bawds；　Buffoons；　Gamesters；　Politicians；　Wits；　spleick　tedious　Talkers。。。’

But　stop；　stop　your　iron　pelt　of　words；　lest　you　flay　us　all　alive；　and　yourself　too！　Nothing　can　be　plainer　than　that　violent　man。　He　is　so　coarse　and　yet　so　clean；　so　brutal；　yet　so　kind；　scorns　the　whole　world；　yet　talks　baby　language　to　a　girl；　and　will　die；　can　we　doubt　it？　in　a　madhouse。

So　Orlando　poured　out　tea　for　them　all；　and　sometimes；　when　the　weather　was　fine；　she　carried　them　down　to　the　country　with　her；　and　feasted　them　royally　in　the　Round　Parlour；　which　she　had　hung　with　their　pictures　all　in　a　circle；　so　that　Mr　Pope　could　not　say　that　Mr　Addison　came　before　him；　or　the　other　way　about。　They　were　very　witty；　too　（but　their　wit　is　all　in　their　books）　and　taught　her　the　most　important　part　of　style；　which　is　the　natural　run　of　the　voice　in　speaking—a　quality　which　none　that　has　not　heard　it　can　imitate；　not　Greene　even；　with　all　his　skill；　for　it　is　born　of　the　air；　and　breaks　like　a　wave　on　the　furniture；　and　rolls　and　fades　away；　and　is　never　to　be　recaptured；　least　of　all　by　those　who　prick　up　their　ears；　half　a　century　later；　and　try。　They　taught　her　this；　merely　by　the　cadence　of　their　voices　in　speech；　so　that　her　style　changed　somewhat；　and　she　wrote　some　very　pleasant；　witty　verses　and　characters　in　prose。　And　so　she　lavished　her　wine　on　them　and　put　bank–notes；　which　they　took　very　kindly；　beneath　their　plates　at　dinner；　and　accepted　their　dedications；　and　thought　herself　highly　honoured　by　the　exchange。

Thus　time　ran　on；　and　Orlando　could　often　be　heard　saying　to　herself　with　an　emphasis　which　might；　perhaps；　make　the　hearer　a　little　suspicious；　‘Upon　my　soul；　what　a　life　this　is！’　（For　she　was　still　in　search　of　that　modity。）　But　circumstances　soon　forced　her　to　consider　the　matter　more　narrowly。

One　day　she　was　pouring　out　tea　for　Mr　Pope　while；　as　anyone　can　tell　from　the　verses　quoted　above；　he　sat　very　bright–eyed；　observant；　and　all　crumpled　up　in　a　chair　by　her　side。

‘Lord；’　she　thought；　as　she　raised　the　sugar　tongs；　‘how　women　in　ages　to　e　will　envy　me！　And　yet—’　she　paused；　for　Mr　Pope　needed　her　attention。　And　yet—let　us　finish　her　thought　for　her—when　anybody　says　‘How　future　ages　will　envy　me’；　it　is　safe　to　say　that　they　are　extremely　uneasy　at　the　present　moment。　Was　this　life　quite　so　exciting；　quite　so　flattering；　quite　so　glorious　as　it　sounds　when　the　memoir　writer　has　done　his　work　upon　it？　For　one　thing；　Orlando　had　a　positive　hatred　of　tea；　for　another；　the　intellect；　divine　as　it　is；　and　all–worshipful；　has　a　habit　of　lodging　in　the　most　seedy　of　carcases；　and　often；　alas；　acts　the　cannibal　among　the　other　faculties　so　that　often；　where　the　Mind　is　biggest；　the　Heart；　the　Senses；　Magnanimity；　Charity；　Tolerance；　Kindliness；　and　the　rest　of　them　scarcely　have　room　to　breathe。　Then　the　high　opinion　poets　have　of　themselves；　then　the　low　one　they　have　of　others；　then　the　enmities；　injuries；　envies；　and　repartees　in　which　they　are　constantly　engaged；　then　the　volubility　with　which　they　impart　them；　then　the　rapacity　with　which　they　demand　sympathy　for　them；　all　this；　one　may　whisper；　lest　the　wits　may　overhear　us；　makes　pouring　out　tea　a　more　precarious　and；　indeed；　arduous　occupation　than　is　generally　allowed。　Added　to　which　（we　whisper　again　lest　the　women　may　overhear　us）；　there　is　a　little　secret　which　men　share　among　them；　Lord　Chesterfield　whispered　it　to　his　son　with　strict　injunctions　to　secrecy；　‘Women　are　but　children　of　a　larger　growth。。。A　man　of　sense　only　trifles　with　them；　plays　wi

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