魔天记小说网

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第33部分（第1页）

tood　looking　at　the　fair；　indifferent　spectacle　with　staring　eyes。　At　length　she　was　revived　in　a　singular　way。　The　manuscript　which　reposed　above　her　heart　began　shuffling　and　beating　as　if　it　were　a　living　thing；　and；　what　was　still　odder；　and　showed　how　fine　a　sympathy　was　between　them；　Orlando；　by　inclining　her　head；　could　make　out　what　it　was　that　it　was　saying。　It　wanted　to　be　read。　It　must　be　read。　It　would　die　in　her　bosom　if　it　were　not　read。　For　the　first　time　in　her　life　she　turned　with　violence　against　nature。　Elk–hounds　and　rose　bushes　were　about　her　in　profusion。　But　elk–hounds　and　rose　bushes　can　none　of　them　read。　It　is　a　lamentable　oversight　on　the　part　of　Providence　which　had　never　struck　her　before。　Human　beings　alone　are　thus　gifted。　Human　beings　had　bee　necessary。　She　rang　the　bell。　She　ordered　the　carriage　to　take　her　to　London　at　once。

‘There’s　just　time　to　catch　the　eleven　forty　five；　M’Lady；’　said　Basket。　Orlando　had　not　yet　realized　the　invention　of　the　steam　engine；　but　such　was　her　absorption　in　the　sufferings　of　a　being；　who；　though　not　herself；　yet　entirely　depended　on　her；　that　she　saw　a　railway　train　for　the　first　time；　took　her　seat　in　a　railway　carriage；　and　had　the　rug　arranged　about　her　knees　without　giving　a　thought　to　‘that　stupendous　invention；　which　had　（the　historians　say）　pletely　changed　the　face　of　Europe　in　the　past　twenty　years’　（as；　indeed；　happens　much　more　frequently　than　historians　suppose）。　She　noticed　only　that　it　was　extremely　smutty；　rattled　horribly；　and　the　windows　stuck。　Lost　in　thought；　she　was　whirled　up　to　London　in　something　less　than　an　hour　and　stood　on　the　platform　at　Charing　Cross；　not　knowing　where　to　go。

The　old　house　at　Blackfriars；　where　she　had　spent　so　many　pleasant　days　in　the　eighteenth　century；　was　now　sold；　part　to　the　Salvation　Army；　part　to　an　umbrella　factory。　She　had　bought　another　in　Mayfair　which　was　sanitary；　convenient；　and　in　the　heart　of　the　fashionable　world；　but　was　it　in　Mayfair　that　her　poem　would　be　relieved　of　its　desire？　Pray　God；　she　thought；　remembering　the　brightness　of　their　ladyships’　eyes　and　the　symmetry　of　their　lordship’s　legs；　they　haven’t　taken　to　reading　there。　For　that　would　be　a　thousand　pities。　Then　there　was　Lady　R。’s。　The　same　sort　of　talk　would　be　going　on　there　still；　she　had　no　doubt。　The　gout　might　have　shifted　from　the　General’s　left　leg　to　his　right；　perhaps。　Mr　L。　might　have　stayed　ten　days　with　R。　instead　of　T。　Then　Mr　Pope　would　e　in。　Oh！　but　Mr　Pope　was　dead。　Who　were　the　wits　now；　she　wondered—but　that　was　not　a　question　one　could　put　to　a　porter；　and　so　she　moved　on。　Her　ears　were　now　distracted　by　the　jingling　of　innumerable　bells　on　the　heads　of　innumerable　horses。　Fleets　of　the　strangest　little　boxes　on　wheels　were　drawn　up　by　the　pavement。　She　walked　out　into　the　Strand。　There　the　uproar　was　even　worse。　Vehicles　of　all　sizes；　drawn　by　blood　horses　and　by　dray　horses；　conveying　one　solitary　dowager　or　crowded　to　the　top　by　whiskered　men　in　silk　hats；　were　inextricably　mixed。　Carriages；　carts；　and　omnibuses　seemed　to　her　eyes；　so　long　used　to　the　look　of　a　plain　sheet　of　foolscap；　alarmingly　at　loggerheads；　and　to　her　ears；　attuned　to　a　pen　scratching；　the　uproar　of　the　street　sounded　violently　and　hideously　cacophonous。　Every　inch　of　the　pavement　was　crowded。　Streams　of　people；　threading　in　and　out　between　their　own　bodies　and　the　lurching　and　lumbering　traffic　with　incredible　agility；　poured　incessantly　east　and　west。　Along　the　edge　of　the　pavement　stood　men；　holding　out　trays　of　toys；　and　bawled。　At　corners；　women　sat　beside　great　baskets　of　spring　flowers　and　bawled。　Boys　running　in　and　out　of　the　horses’　noses；　holding　printed　sheets　to　their　bodies；　bawled　too；　Disaster！　Disaster！　At　first　Orlando　supposed　that　she　had　arrived　at　some　moment　of　national　crisis；　but　whether　it　was　happy　or　tragic；　she　could　not　tell。　She　looked　anxiously　at　people’s　faces。　But　that　confused　her　still　more。　Here　would　e　by　a　man　sunk　in　despair；　muttering　to　himself　as　if　he　knew　some　terrible　sorrow。　Past　him　would　nudge　a　fat；　jolly–faced　fellow；　shouldering　his　way　along　as　if　it　were　a　festival　for　all　the　world。　Indeed；　she　came　to　the　conclusion　that　there　was　neither　rhyme　nor　reason　in　any　of　it。　Each　man　and　each　woman　was　bent　on　his　own　affairs。　And　where　was　she　to　go？

She　walked　on　without　thinking；　up　one　street　and　down　another；　by　vast　windows　piled　with　handbags；　and　mirrors；　and　dressing　gowns；　and　flowers；　and　fishing　rods；　and　luncheon　baskets；　while　stuff　of　every　hue　and　pattern；　thickness　or　thinness；　was　looped　and　festooned　and　ballooned　across　and　across。　Sometimes　she　passed　down　avenues　of　sedate　mansions；　soberly　numbered　‘one’；　‘two’；　‘three’；　and　so　on　right　up　to　two　or　three　hundred；　each　the　copy　of　the　other；　with　two　pillars　and　six　steps　and　a　pair　of　curtains　neatly　drawn　and　family　luncheons　laid　on　tables；　and　a　parrot　looking　out　of　one　window　and　a　man　servant　out　of　another；　until　her　mind　was　dizzied　with　the　monotony。　Then　she　came　to　great　open　squares　with　black　shiny；　tightly　buttoned　statues　of　fat　men　in　the　middle；　and　war　horses　prancing；　and　columns　rising　and　fountains　falling　and　pigeons　fluttering。　So　she　walked　and　walked　along　pavements　between　houses　until　she　felt　very　hungry；　and　something　fluttering　above　her　heart　rebuked　her　with　having　forgotten　all　about　it。　It　was　her　manuscript。　‘The　Oak　Tree’。

She　was　confounded　at　her　own　neglect。　She　stopped　dead　where　she　stood。　No　coach　was　in　sight。　The　street；　which　was　wide　and　handsome；　was　singularly　empty。　Only　one　elderly　gentleman　was　approaching。　There　was　something　vaguely　familiar　to　her　in　his　walk。　As　he　came　nearer；　she　felt　certain　that　she　had　met　him　at　some　time　or　other。　But　where？　Could　it　be　that　this　gentleman；　so　neat；　so　portly；　so　prosperous；　with　a　cane　in　his　hand　and　a　flower　in　his　button–hole；　with　a　pink；　plump　face；　and　bed　white　moustaches；　could　it　be；　Yes；　by　jove；　it　was！—her　old；　her　very　old　friend；　Nick　Greene！

At　the　same　time　he　looked　at　her；　remembered　her；　recognized　her。　‘The　Lady　Orlando！’　he　cried；　sweeping　his　silk　hat　almost　in　the　dust。

‘Sir　Nicholas！’　she　exclaimed。　For　she　was　made　aware　intuitively　by　something　in　his　bearing　that　the　scurrilous　penny–a–liner；　who　had　lampooned　her　and　many　another　in　the　time　of　Queen　Elizabeth；　was　now　risen　in　the　world　and　bee　certainly　a　Knight　and　doubtless　a　dozen　other　fine　things　into　the　bargain。

With　another　bow；　he　acknowledged　that　her　conclusion　was　correct；　he　was　a　Knight；　he　was　a　Litt。D。；　he　was　a　Professor。　He　was　the　author　of　a　score　of　volumes。　He　was；　in　short；　the　most　influential　critic　of　the　Victorian　age。

A　violent　tumult　of　emotion　besieged　her　at　meeting　the　man　who　had　caused　her；　years　ago；　so　much　pain。　Could　this　be　the　plaguy；　restless　fellow　who　had　burnt　holes　in　her　carpets；　and　toasted　cheese　in　the　Italian　fireplace　and　told　such　merry　stories　of　Marlowe　and　the　rest　that　they　had　seen　the　sun　rise　nine　nights　out　of　ten？　He　was　now　sprucely　dressed　in　a　grey　morning　suit；　had　a　pink　flower　in　his　button–hole；　and　grey　suede　gloves　to　match。　But　even　as　she　marvelled；　he　made　another　bow；　and　asked　her　whether　she　would　honour　him　by　lunching　with　him？　The　bow　was　a　thought　overdone　perhaps；　but　the　imitation　of　fine　breeding　was　creditable。　She　followed　him；　wondering；　into　a　superb　restaurant；　all　red　plush；　white　table–cloths；　and　silver　cruets；　as　unlike　as　could　be　the　old　tavern　or　coffee　house　with　its　sanded　floor；　its　wooden　benches；　its　bowls　of　punch　and　chocolate；　and　its　broadsheets　and　spittoons。　He　laid　his　gloves　neatly　on　the　table　beside　him。　Still　she　could　hardly　believe　that　he　was　the　same　man。　His　nails　were　clean；　where　they　used　to　be　an　inch　long。　His　chin　was　shaved；　where　a　black　beard　used　to　sprout。　He　wore　gold　sleeve–links；　where　his　ragged　linen　used　to　dip　in　the　broth。　It　was　not；　indeed；　until　he　had　ordered　the　wine；　which　he　did　with　a　care　that　reminded　her　of　his　taste　in　Malmsey　long　ago；　that　she　was　convinced　he　was　the　same　man。　‘Ah！’　he　said；　heaving　a　little　sigh；　which　was　yet　fortable　enough；　‘ah！　my　dear　lady；　the　great　days　of　literature　are　over。　Marlowe；　Shakespeare；　Ben　Jonson—those　were　the　giants。　Dryden；　Pope；　Addison—those　were　the　heroes。　All；　all　are　dead　now。　And　whom　have　they　left　us？　Tennyson；　Browning；　Carlyle！’—he　threw　an　immense　amount　of　scorn　into　his　voice。　‘The　truth　of　it　is；’　he　said；　pouring　himself　a　glass　of　wine；　‘that　all　our　young　writers　are　in　the　pay　of　the　booksellers。　They　turn　out　any　trash　that　serves　to　pay　their　tailor’s　bills。　It　is　an　age’；　he　said；　helping　himself　to　hors–d’oeuvres；　‘marked　by　precious　conceits　and　wild　experiments—none　of　which　the　Elizabethans　would　have　tolerated　for　an　instant。’

‘No；　my　dear　lady；’　he　continued；　passing　with　approval　the　turbot　au　gratin；　which　the　waiter　exhibited　for　his　sanction；　‘the　great　days　are　over。　We　live　in　degenerate　times。　We　must　cherish　the　past；　honour　those　writers—there　are　still　a　few　left　of　‘em—who　take　antiquity　for　their　model　and　write；　not　for　pay　but—’　Here　Orlando　almost　shouted　‘Glawr！’　Indeed　she　could　have　sworn　that　she　had　heard　him　say　the　very　same　things　three　hundred　years　ago。　The　names　were　different；　of　course；　but　the　spirit　was　the　same。　Nick　Greene　had　not　changed；　for　all　his　knighthood。　And　yet；　some　change　there　was。　For　while　he　ran　on　about　taking　Addison　as　one’s　model　（it　had　been　Cicero　once；　she　thought）　and　lying　in　bed　of　a　morning　（which　she　was　proud　to　think　her　pension　paid　quarterly　enabled　him　to　do）　rolling　the　best　works　of　the　best　authors　round　and　round　on　one’s　tongue　for　an　hour；　at　least；　before　setting　pen　to　paper；　so　that　the　vulgarity　of　the　present　time　and　the　deplorable　condition　of　our　native　tongue　（he　had　lived　long　in　America；　she　believed）　might　be　purified—while　he　ran　on　in　much　the　same　way　that　Greene　had　run　on　three　hundred　years　ago；　she　had　time　to　ask　herself；　how　was　it　then　that　he　had　changed？　He　had　grown　plump；　but　he　was　a　man　verging　on　seventy。　He　had　grown　sleek：　literature　had　been　a　prosperous　pursuit　evidently；　but　somehow　the　old　restless；　uneasy　vivacity　had　gone。　His　stories；　brilliant　as　they　were；　were　no　longer　quite　so　free　and　easy。　He　mentioned；　it　is　true；　‘my　dear　friend　Pope’　or　‘my　illustrious　friend　Addison’　every　other　second；　but　he　had　an　air　of　respectability　about　him　which　was　depressing；　and　he　preferred；　it　seemed；　to　enlighten　her　about　the　doings　and　sayings　of　her　own　blood　relations　rather　than　tell　her；　as　he　used　to　do；　scandal　about　the　poets。

Orlando　was　unaccountably　disappointed。　She　had　thought　of　literature　all　these　years　（her　seclusion；　her　rank；　her　sex　must　be　her　excuse）　as　something　wild　as　the　wind；　hot　as　fire；　swift　as　lightning；　something　errant；　incalculable；　abrupt；　and　behold；　literature　was　an　elderly　gentleman　in　a　grey　suit　talking　about　duchesses。　The　violence　of　her　disillusionment　was　such　that　some　hook　or　button　fastening　the　upper　part　of　her　dress　burst　open；　and　out　upon　the　table　fell　‘The　Oak　Tree’；　a　poem。

‘A　manuscript！

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