魔天记小说网

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第27部分（第1页）

eets　in　search　of　adventure。

Returning　from　some　of　these　junketings—of　which　there　were　many　stories　told　at　the　time；　as；　that　she　fought　a　duel；　served　on　one　of　the　King’s　ships　as　a　captain；　was　seen　to　dance　naked　on　a　balcony；　and　fled　with　a　certain　lady　to　the　Low　Countries　where　the　lady’s　husband　followed　them—but　of　the　truth　or　otherwise　of　these　stories；　we　express　no　opinion—returning　from　whatever　her　occupation　may　have　been；　she　made　a　point　sometimes　of　passing　beneath　the　windows　of　a　coffee　house；　where　she　could　see　the　wits　without　being　seen；　and　thus　could　fancy　from　their　gestures　what　wise；　witty；　or　spiteful　things　they　were　saying　without　hearing　a　word　of　them；　which　was　perhaps　an　advantage；　and　once　she　stood　half　an　hour　watching　three　shadows　on　the　blind　drinking　tea　together　in　a　house　in　Bolt　Court。

Never　was　any　play　so　absorbing。　She　wanted　to　cry　out；　Bravo！　Bravo！　For；　to　be　sure；　what　a　fine　drama　it　was—what　a　page　torn　from　the　thickest　volume　of　human　life！　There　was　the　little　shadow　with　the　pouting　lips；　fidgeting　this　way　and　that　on　his　chair；　uneasy；　petulant；　officious；　there　was　the　bent　female　shadow；　crooking　a　finger　in　the　cup　to　feel　how　deep　the　tea　was；　for　she　was　blind；　and　there　was　the　Roman–looking　rolling　shadow　in　the　big　armchair—he　who　twisted　his　fingers　so　oddly　and　jerked　his　head　from　side　to　side　and　swallowed　down　the　tea　in　such　vast　gulps。　Dr　Johnson；　Mr　Boswell；　and　Mrs　Williams；—those　were　the　shadows’　names。　So　absorbed　was　she　in　the　sight；　that　she　forgot　to　think　how　other　ages　would　have　envied　her；　though　it　seems　probable　that　on　this　occasion　they　would。　She　was　content　to　gaze　and　gaze。　At　length　Mr　Boswell　rose。　He　saluted　the　old　woman　with　tart　asperity。　But　with　what　humility　did　he　not　abase　himself　before　the　great　Roman　shadow；　who　now　rose　to　its　full　height　and　rocking　somewhat　as　he　stood　there　rolled　out　the　most　magnificent　phrases　that　ever　left　human　lips；　so　Orlando　thought　them；　though　she　never　heard　a　word　that　any　of　the　three　shadows　said　as　they　sat　there　drinking　tea。

At　length　she　came　home　one　night　after　one　of　these　saunterings　and　mounted　to　her　bedroom。　She　took　off　her　laced　coat　and　stood　there　in　shirt　and　breeches　looking　out　of　the　window。　There　was　something　stirring　in　the　air　which　forbade　her　to　go　to　bed。　A　white　haze　lay　over　the　town；　for　it　was　a　frosty　night　in　midwinter　and　a　magnificent　vista　lay　all　round　her。　She　could　see　St　Paul’s；　the　Tower；　Westminster　Abbey；　with　all　the　spires　and　domes　of　the　city　churches；　the　smooth　bulk　of　its　banks；　the　opulent　and　ample　curves　of　its　halls　and　meeting–places。　On　the　north　rose　the　smooth；　shorn　heights　of　Hampstead；　and　in　the　west　the　streets　and　squares　of　Mayfair　shone　out　in　one　clear　radiance。　Upon　this　serene　and　orderly　prospect　the　stars　looked　down；　glittering；　positive；　hard；　from　a　cloudless　sky。　In　the　extreme　clearness　of　the　atmosphere　the　line　of　every　roof；　the　cowl　of　every　chimney；　was　perceptible；　even　the　cobbles　in　the　streets　showed　distinct　one　from　another；　and　Orlando　could　not　help　paring　this　orderly　scene　with　the　irregular　and　huddled　purlieus　which　had　been　the　city　of　London　in　the　reign　of　Queen　Elizabeth。　Then；　she　remembered；　the　city；　if　such　one　could　call　it；　lay　crowded；　a　mere　huddle　and　conglomeration　of　houses；　under　her　windows　at　Blackfriars。　The　stars　reflected　themselves　in　deep　pits　of　stagnant　water　which　lay　in　the　middle　of　the　streets。　A　black　shadow　at　the　corner　where　the　wine　shop　used　to　stand　was；　as　likely　as　not；　the　corpse　of　a　murdered　man。　She　could　remember　the　cries　of　many　a　one　wounded　in　such　night　brawlings；　when　she　was　a　little　boy；　held　to　the　diamond–paned　window　in　her　nurse’s　arms。　Troops　of　ruffians；　men　and　women；　unspeakably　interlaced；　lurched　down　the　streets；　trolling　out　wild　songs　with　jewels　flashing　in　their　ears；　and　knives　gleaming　in　their　fists。　On　such　a　night　as　this　the　impermeable　tangle　of　the　forests　on　Highgate　and　Hampstead　would　be　outlined；　writhing　in　contorted　intricacy　against　the　sky。　Here　and　there；　on　one　of　the　hills　which　rose　above　London；　was　a　stark　gallows　tree；　with　a　corpse　nailed　to　rot　or　parch　on　its　cross；　for　danger　and　insecurity；　lust　and　violence；　poetry　and　filth　swarmed　over　the　tortuous　Elizabethan　highways　and　buzzed　and　stank—Orlando　could　remember　even　now　the　smell　of　them　on　a　hot　night—in　the　little　rooms　and　narrow　pathways　of　the　city。　Now—she　leant　out　of　her　window—all　was　light；　order；　and　serenity。　There　was　the　faint　rattle　of　a　coach　on　the　cobbles。　She　heard　the　far–away　cry　of　the　night　watchman—’Just　twelve　o’clock　on　a　frosty　morning’。　No　sooner　had　the　words　left　his　lips　than　the　first　stroke　of　midnight　sounded。　Orlando　then　for　the　first　time　noticed　a　small　cloud　gathered　behind　the　dome　of　St　Paul’s。　As　the　strokes　sounded；　the　cloud　increased；　and　she　saw　it　darken　and　spread　with　extraordinary　speed。　At　the　same　time　a　light　breeze　rose　and　by　the　time　the　sixth　stroke　of　midnight　had　struck　the　whole　of　the　eastern　sky　was　covered　with　an　irregular　moving　darkness；　though　the　sky　to　the　west　and　north　stayed　clear　as　ever。　Then　the　cloud　spread　north。　Height　upon　height　above　the　city　was　engulfed　by　it。　Only　Mayfair；　with　all　its　lights　shining。　burnt　more　brilliantly　than　ever　by　contrast。　With　the　eighth　stroke；　some　hurrying　tatters　of　cloud　sprawled　over　Piccadilly。　They　seemed　to　mass　themselves　and　to　advance　with　extraordinary　rapidity　towards　the　west　end。　As　the　ninth；　tenth；　and　eleventh　strokes　struck；　a　huge　blackness　sprawled　over　the　whole　of　London。　With　the　twelfth　stroke　of　midnight；　the　darkness　was　plete。　A　turbulent　welter　of　cloud　covered　the　city。　All　was　darkness；　all　was　doubt；　all　was　confusion。　The　Eighteenth　century　was　over；　the　Nieenth　century　had　begun。

CHAPTER　5。

The　great　cloud　which　hung；　not　only　over　London；　but　over　the　whole　of　the　British　Isles　on　the　first　day　of　the　nieenth　century　stayed；　or　rather；　did　not　stay；　for　it　was　buffeted　about　constantly　by　blustering　gales；　long　enough　to　have　extraordinary　consequences　upon　those　who　lived　beneath　its　shadow。　A　change　seemed　to　have　e　over　the　climate　of　England。　Rain　fell　frequently；　but　only　in　fitful　gusts；　which　were　no　sooner　over　than　they　began　again。　The　sun　shone；　of　course；　but　it　was　so　girt　about　with　clouds　and　the　air　was　so　saturated　with　water；　that　its　beams　were　discoloured　and　purples；　oranges；　and　reds　of　a　dull　sort　took　the　place　of　the　more　positive　landscapes　of　the　eighteenth　century。　Under　this　bruised　and　sullen　canopy　the　green　of　the　cabbages　was　less　intense；　and　the　white　of　the　snow　was　muddied。　But　what　was　worse；　damp　now　began　to　make　its　way　into　every　house—damp；　which　is　the　most　insidious　of　all　enemies；　for　while　the　sun　can　be　shut　out　by　blinds；　and　the　frost　roasted　by　a　hot　fire；　damp　steals　in　while　we　sleep；　damp　is　silent；　imperceptible；　ubiquitous。　Damp　swells　the　wood；　furs　the　kettle；　rusts　the　iron；　rots　the　stone。　So　gradual　is　the　process；　that　it　is　not　until　we　pick　up　some　chest　of　drawers；　or　coal　scuttle；　and　the　whole　thing　drops　to　pieces　in　our　hands；　that　we　suspect　even　that　the　disease　is　at　work。

Thus；　stealthily　and　imperceptibly；　none　marking　the　exact　day　or　hour　of　the　change；　the　constitution　of　England　was　altered　and　nobody　knew　it。　Everywhere　the　effects　were　felt。　The　hardy　country　gentleman；　who　had　sat　down　gladly　to　a　meal　of　ale　and　beef　in　a　room　designed；　perhaps　by　the　brothers　Adam；　with　classic　dignity；　now　felt　chilly。　Rugs　appeared；　beards　were　grown；　trousers　were　fastened　tight　under　the　instep。　The　chill　which　he　felt　in　his　legs　the　country　gentleman　soon　transferred　to　his　house；　furniture　was　muffled；　walls　and　tables　were　covered；　nothing　was　left　bare。　Then　a　change　of　diet　became　essential。　The　muffin　was　invented　and　the　crumpet。　Coffee　supplanted　the　after–dinner　port；　and；　as　coffee　led　to　a　drawing–room　in　which　to　drink　it；　and　a　drawing–room　to　glass　cases；　and　glass　cases　to　artificial　flowers；　and　artificial　flowers　to　mantelpieces；　and　mantelpieces　to　pianofortes；　and　pianofortes　to　drawing–room　ballads；　and　drawing–room　ballads　（skipping　a　stage　or　two）　to　innumerable　little　dogs；　mats；　and　china　ornaments；　the　home—which　had　bee　extremely　important—was　pletely　altered。

Outside　the　house—it　was　another　effect　of　the　damp—ivy　grew　in　unparalleled　profusion。　Houses　that　had　been　of　bare　stone　were　smothered　in　greenery。　No　garden；　however　formal　its　original　design；　lacked　a　shrubbery；　a　wilderness；　a　maze。　What　light　perated　to　the　bedrooms　where　children　were　born　was　naturally　of　an　obfusc　green；　and　what　light　perated　to　the　drawing–rooms　where　grown　men　and　women　lived　came　through　curtains　of　brown　and　purple　plush。　But　the　change　did　not　stop　at　outward　things。　The　damp　struck　within。　Men　felt　the　chill　in　their　hearts；　the　damp　in　their　minds。　In　a　desperate　effort　to　snuggle　their　feelings　into　some　sort　of　warmth　one　subterfuge　was　tried　after　another。　Love；　birth；　and　death　were　all　swaddled　in　a　variety　of　fine　phrases。　The　sexes　drew　further　and　further　apart。　No　open　conversation　was　tolerated。　Evasions　and　concealments　were　sedulously　practised　on　both　sides。　And　just　as　the　ivy　and　the　evergreen　rioted　in　the　damp　earth　outside；　so　did　the　same　fertility　show　itself　within。　The　life　of　the　average　woman　was　a　succession　of　childbirths。　She　married　at　nieen　and　had　fifteen　or　eighteen　children　by　the　time　she　was　thirty；　for　twins　abounded。　Thus　the　British　Empire　came　into　existence；　and　thus—for　there　is　no　stopping　damp；　it　gets　into　the　inkpot　as　it　gets　into　the　woodwork—sentences　swelled；　adjectives　multiplied；　lyrics　became　epics；　and　little　trifles　that　had　been　essays　a　column　long　were　now　encyclopaedias　in　ten　or　twenty　volumes。　But　Eusebius　Chubb　shall　be　our　witness　to　the　effect　this　all　had　upon　the　mind　of　a　sensitive　man　who　could　do　nothing　to　stop　it。　There　is　a　passage　towards　the　end　of　his　memoirs　where　he　describes　how；　after　writing　thirty–five　folio　pages　one　morning　‘all　about　nothing’　he　screwed　the　lid　of　his　inkpot　and　went　for　a　turn　in　his　garden。　Soon　he　found　himself　involved　in　the　shrubbery。　Innumerable　leaves　creaked　and　glistened　above　his　head。　He　seemed　to　himself　‘to　crush　the　mould　of　a　million　more　under　his　feet’。　Thick　smoke　exuded　from　a　damp　bonfire　at　the　end　of　the　garden。　He　reflected　that　no　fire　on　earth　could　ever　hope　to　consume　that　vast　vegetable　encumbrance。　Wherever　he　looked；　vegetation　was　rampant。　Cucumbers　‘came　scrolloping　across　the　grass　to　his　feet’。　Giant　cauliflowers　towered　deck　above　deck　till　they　rivalled；　to　his　disordered　imagination；　the　elm　trees　themselves。　Hens　laid　incessantly　eggs　of　no　special　tint。　Then；　remembering　with　a　sigh　his　own　fecundity　and　his　poor　wife　Jane；　now　in　the　throes　of　her　fifteenth　confinement　indoors；　how；　he　asked　himself；　could　he　blame　the　fowls？　He　looked　upwards　into　the　sky。　Did　not　heaven　itself；　or　that　great　frontispiece　of　heaven；　which　is　the　sky；　indicate　the　assent；　indeed；　the　instigation　of　the　heavenly　hierarchy？　For　there；　winter

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