the biographer is now faced with a difficulty which it is better perhaps to confess than to gloss over. up to this point in telling the story of orlando’s life, documents, both private and historical, have made it possible to fulfil the first duty of a biographer, which is to plod, without looking to right or left, in the indelible footprints of truth; unenticed by flowers; regardless of shade; on and on methodically till we fall plump into the grave and write finis on the tombstone above our heads. but now we come to an episode which lies right across our path, so that there is no ignoring it. yet it is dark, mysterious, and undocumented; so that there is no explaining it. volumes might be written in interpretation of it; whole religious systems founded upon the signification of it. our simple duty is to state the facts as far as they are known, and so let the reader make of them what he may.

in the summer of that disastrous winter which saw the frost, the flood, the deaths of many thousands, and the complete downfall of orlando’s hopes — for he was exiled from court; in deep disgrace with the most powerful nobles of his time; the irish house of desmond was justly enraged; the king had already trouble enough with the irish not to relish this further addition — in that summer orlando retired to his great house in the country and there lived in complete solitude. one june morning — it was saturday the 18th — he failed to rise at his usual hour, and when his groom went to call him he was found fast asleep. nor could he be awakened. he lay as if in a trance, without perceptible breathing; and though dogs were set to bark under his window; cymbals, drums, bones beaten perpetually in his room; a gorse bush put under his pillow; and mustard plasters applied to his feet, still he did not wake, take food, or show any sign of life for seven whole days. on the seventh day he woke at his usual time (a quarter before eight, precisely) and turned the whole posse of caterwauling wives and village soothsayers out of his room, which was natural enough; but what was strange was that he showed no consciousness of any such trance, but dressed himself and sent for his horse as if he had woken from a single night’s slumber. yet some change, it was suspected, must have taken place in the chambers of his brain, for though he was perfectly rational and seemed graver and more sedate in his ways than before, he appeared to have an imperfect recollection of his past life. he would listen when people spoke of the great frost or the skating or the carnival, but he never gave any sign, except by passing his hand across his brow as if to wipe away some cloud, of having witnessed them himself. when the events of the past six months were discussed, he seemed not so much distressed as puzzled, as if he were troubled by confused memories of some time long gone or were trying to recall stories told him by another. it was observed that if russia was mentioned or princesses or ships, he would fall into a gloom of an uneasy kind and get up and look out of the window or call one of the dogs to him, or take a knife and carve a piece of cedar wood. but the doctors were hardly wiser then than they are now, and after prescribing rest and exercise, starvation and nourishment, society and solitude, that he should lie in bed all day and ride forty miles between lunch and dinner, together with the usual sedatives and irritants, diversified, as the fancy took them, with possets of newt’s slobber on rising, and draughts of peacock’s gall on going to bed, they left him to himself, and gave it as their opinion that he had been asleep for a week.

but if sleep it was, of what nature, we can scarcely refrain from asking, are such sleeps as these? are they remedial measures — trances in which the most galling memories, events that seem likely to cripple life for ever, are brushed with a dark wing which rubs their harshness off and gilds them, even the ugliest and basest, with a lustre, an incandescence? has the finger of death to be laid on the tumult of life from time to time lest it rend us asunder? are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living? and then what strange powers are these that penetrate our most secret ways and change our most treasured possessions without our willing it? had orlando, worn out by the extremity of his suffering, died for a week, and then come to life again? and if so, of what nature is death and of what nature life? having waited well over half an hour for an answer to these questions, and none coming, let us get on with the story.

now orlando gave himself up to a life of extreme solitude. his disgrace at court and the violence of his grief were partly the reason of it, but as he made no effort to defend himself and seldom invited anyone to visit him (though he had many friends who would willingly have done so) it appeared as if to be alone in the great house of his fathers suited his temper. solitude was his choice. how he spent his time, nobody quite knew. the servants, of whom he kept a full retinue, though much of their business was to dust empty rooms and to smooth the coverlets of beds that were never slept in, watched, in the dark of the evening, as they sat over their cakes and ale, a light passing along the galleries, through the banqueting-halls, up the staircase, into the bedrooms, and knew that their master was perambulating the house alone. none dared follow him, for the house was haunted by a great variety of ghosts, and the extent of it made it easy to lose one’s way and either fall down some hidden staircase or open a door which, should the wind blow it to, would shut upon one for ever — accidents of no uncommon occurrence, as the frequent discovery of the skeletons of men and animals in attitudes of great agony made evident. then the light would be lost altogether, and mrs grimsditch, the housekeeper, would say to mr dupper, the chaplain, how she hoped his lordship had not met with some bad accident. mr dupper would opine that his lordship was on his knees, no doubt, among the tombs of his ancestors in the chapel, which was in the billiard table court, half a mile away on the south side. for he had sins on his conscience, mr dupper was afraid; upon which mrs grimsditch would retort, rather sharply, that so had most of us; and mrs stewkley and mrs field and old nurse carpenter would all raise their voices in his lordship’s praise; and the grooms and the stewards would swear that it was a thousand pities to see so fine a nobleman moping about the house when he might be hunting the fox or chasing the deer; and even the little laundry maids and scullery maids, the judys and the faiths, who were handing round the tankards and cakes, would pipe up their testimony to his lordship’s gallantry; for never was there a kinder gentleman, or one more free with those little pieces of silver which serve to buy a knot of ribbon or put a posy in one’s hair; until even the blackamoor whom they called grace robinson by way of making a christian woman of her, understood what they were at, and agreed that his lordship was a handsome, pleasant, darling gentleman in the only way she could, that is to say by showing all her teeth at once in a broad grin. in short, all his serving men and women held him in high respect, and cursed the foreign princess (but they called her by a coarser name than that) who had brought him to this pass.

but though it was probably cowardice, or love of hot ale, that led mr dupper to imagine his lordship safe among the tombs so that he need not go in search of him, it may well have been that mr dupper was right. orlando now took a strange delight in thoughts of death and decay, and, after pacing the long galleries and ballrooms with a taper in his hand, looking at picture after picture as if he sought the likeness of somebody whom he could not find, would mount into the family pew and sit for hours watching the banners stir and the moonlight waver with a bat or death’s head moth to keep him company. even this was not enough for him, but he must descend into the crypt where his ancestors lay, coffin piled upon coffin, for ten generations together. the place was so seldom visited that the rats made free with the lead work, and now a thigh bone would catch at his cloak as he passed, or he would crack the skull of some old sir malise as it rolled beneath his foot. it was a ghastly sepulchre; dug deep beneath the foundations of the house as if the first lord of the family, who had come from france with the conqueror, had wished to testify how all pomp is built upon corruption; how the skeleton lies beneath the flesh: how we that dance and sing above must lie below; how the crimson velvet turns to dust; how the ring (here orlando, stooping his lantern, would pick up a gold circle lacking a stone, that had rolled into a corner) loses its ruby and the eye which was so lustrous shines no more. ‘nothing remains of all these princes’, orlando would say, indulging in some pardonable exaggeration of their rank, ‘except one digit,’ and he would take a skeleton hand in his and bend the joints this way and that. ‘whose hand was it?’ he went on to ask. ‘the right or the left? the hand of man or woman, of age or youth? had it urged the war horse, or plied the needle? had it plucked the rose, or grasped cold steel? had it —’ but here either his invention failed him or, what is more likely, provided him with so many instances of what a hand can do that he shrank, as his wont was, from the cardinal labour of composition, which is excision, and he put it with the other bones, thinking how there was a writer called thomas browne, a doctor of norwich, whose writing upon such subjects took his fancy amazingly.

so, taking his lantern and seeing that the bones were in order, for though romantic, he was singularly methodical and detested nothing so much as a ball of string on the floor, let alone the skull of an ancestor, he returned to that curious, moody pacing down the galleries, looking for something among the pictures, which was interrupted at length by a veritable spasm of sobbing, at the sight of a dutch snow scene by an unknown artist. then it seemed to him that life was not worth living any more. forgetting the bones of his ancestors and how life is founded on a grave, he stood there shaken with sobs, all for the desire of a woman in russian trousers, with slanting eyes, a pouting mouth and pearls about her neck. she had gone. she had left him. he was never to see her again. and so he sobbed. and so he found his way back to his own rooms; and mrs grimsditch, seeing the light in the window, put the tankard from her lips and said praise be to god, his lordship was safe in his room again; for she had been thinking all this while that he was foully murdered.

orlando now drew his chair up to the table; opened the works of sir thomas browne and proceeded to investigate the delicate articulation of one of the doctor’s longest and most marvellously contorted cogitations.

for though these are not matters on which a biographer can profitably enlarge it is plain enough to those who have done a reader’s part in making up from bare hints dropped here and there the whole boundary and circumference of a living person; can hear in what we only whisper a living voice; can see, often when we say nothing about it, exactly what he looked like; know without a word to guide them precisely what he thought — and it is for readers such as these that we write — it is plain then to such a reader that orlando was strangely compounded of many humours — of melancholy, of indolence, of passion, of love of solitude, to say nothing of all those contortions and subtleties of temper which were indicated on the first page, when he slashed at a dead nigger’s head; cut it down; hung it chivalrously out of his reach again and then betook himself to the windowseat with a book. the taste for books was an early one. as a child he was sometimes found at midnight by a page still reading. they took his taper away, and he bred glow-worms to serve his purpose. they took the glow-worms away, and he almost burnt the house down with a tinder. to put it in a nutshell, leaving the novelist to smooth out the crumpled silk and all its implications, he was a nobleman afflicted with a love of literature. many people of his time, still more of his rank, escaped the infection and were thus free to run or ride or make love at their own sweet will. but some were early infected by a germ said to be bred of the pollen of the asphodel and to be blown out of greece and italy, which was of so deadly a nature that it would shake the hand as it was raised to strike, and cloud the eye as it sought its prey, and make the tongue stammer as it declared its love. it was the fatal nature of this disease to substitute a phantom for reality, so that orlando, to whom fortune had given every gift — plate, linen, houses, men-servants, carpets, beds in profusion — had only to open a book for the whole vast accumulation to turn to mist. the nine acres of stone which were his house vanished; one hundred and fifty indoor servants disappeared; his eighty riding horses became invisible; it would take too long to count the carpets, sofas, trappings, china, plate, cruets, chafing dishes and other movables often of beaten gold, which evaporated like so much sea mist under the miasma. so it was, and orlando would sit by himself, reading, a naked man.

the disease gained rapidly upon him now in his solitude. he would read often six hours into the night; and when they came to him for orders about the slaughtering of cattle or the harvesting of wheat, he would push away his folio and look as if he did not understand what was said to him. this was bad enough and wrung the hearts of hall, the falconer, of giles, the groom, of mrs grimsditch, the housekeeper, of mr dupper, the chaplain. a fine gentleman like that, they said, had no need of books. let him leave books, they said, to the palsied or the dying. but worse was to come. for once the disease of reading has laid upon the system it weakens it so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which dwells in the inkpot and festers in the quill. the wretch takes to writing. and while this is bad enough in a poor man, whose only property is a chair and a table set beneath a leaky roof — for he has not much to lose, after all — the plight of a rich man, who has houses and cattle, maidservants, asses and linen, and yet writes books, is pitiable in the extreme. the flavour of it all goes out of him; he is riddled by hot irons; gnawed by vermin. he would give every penny he has (such is the malignity of the germ) to write one little book and become famous; yet all the gold in peru will not buy him the treasure of a well-turned line. so he falls into consumption and sickness, blows his brains out, turns his face to the wall. it matters not in what attitude they find him. he has passed through the gates of death and known the flames of hell.

happily, orlando was of a strong constitution and the disease (for reasons presently to be given) never broke him down as it has broken many of his peers. but he was deeply smitten with it, as the sequel shows. for when he had read for an hour or so in sir thomas browne, and the bark of the stag and the call of the night watchman showed that it was the dead of night and all safe asleep, he crossed the room, took a silver key from his pocket and unlocked the doors of a great inlaid cabinet which stood in the corner. within were some fifty drawers of cedar wood and upon each was a paper neatly written in orlando’s hand. he paused, as if hesitating which to open. one was inscribed ‘the death of ajax’, another ‘the birth of pyramus’, another ‘iphigenia in aulis’, another ‘the death of hippolytus’, another ‘meleager’, another ‘the return of odysseus’,— in fact there was scarcely a single drawer that lacked the name of some mythological personage at a crisis of his career. in each drawer lay a document of considerable size all written over in orlando’s hand. the truth was that orlando had been afflicted thus for many years. never had any boy begged apples as orlando begged paper; nor sweetmeats as he begged ink. stealing away from talk and games, he had hidden himself behind curtains, in priest’s holes, or in the cupboard behind his mother’s bedroom which had a great hole in the floor and smelt horribly of starling’s dung, with an inkhorn in one hand, a pen in another, and on his knee a roll of paper. thus had been written, before he was turned twenty-five, some forty-seven plays, histories, romances, poems; some in prose, some in verse; some in french, some in italian; all romantic, and all long. one he had had printed by john ball of the feathers and coronet opposite st paul’s cross, cheapside; but though the sight of it gave him extreme delight, he had never dared show it even to his mother, since to write, much more to publish, was, he knew, for a nobleman an inexpiable disgrace.

now, however, that it was the dead of night and he was alone, he chose from this repository one thick document called ‘xenophila a tragedy’ or some such title, and one thin one, called simply ‘the oak tree’ (this was the only monosyllabic title among the lot), and then he approached the inkhorn, fingered the quill, and made other such passes as those addicted to this vice begin their rites with. but he paused.

as this pause was of extreme significance in his history, more so, indeed, than many acts which bring men to their knees and make rivers run with blood, it behoves us to ask why he paused; and to reply, after due reflection, that it was for some such reason as this. nature, who has played so many queer tricks upon us, making us so unequally of clay and diamonds, of rainbow and granite, and stuffed them into a case, often of the most incongruous, for the poet has a butcher’s face and the butcher a poet’s; nature, who delights in muddle and mystery, so that even now (the first of november 1927) we know not why we go upstairs, or why we come down again, our most daily movements are like the passage of a ship on an unknown sea, and the sailors at the mast-head ask, pointing their glasses to the horizon; is there land or is there none? to which, if we are prophets, we make answer ‘yes’; if we are truthful we say ‘no’; nature, who has so much to answer for besides the perhaps unwieldy length of this sentence, has further complicated her task and added to our confusion by providing not only a perfect rag-bag of odds and ends within us — a piece of a policeman’s trousers lying cheek by jowl with queen alexandra’s wedding veil — but has contrived that the whole assortment shall be lightly stitched together by a single thread. memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that. memory runs her needle in and out, up and down, hither and thither. we know not what comes next, or what follows after. thus, the most ordinary movement in the world, such as sitting down at a table and pulling the inkstand towards one, may agitate a thousand odd, disconnected fragments, now bright, now dim, hanging and bobbing and dipping and flaunting, like the underlinen of a family of fourteen on a line in a gale of wind. instead of being a single, downright, bluff piece of work of which no man need feel ashamed, our commonest deeds are set about with a fluttering and flickering of wings, a rising and falling of lights. thus it was that orlando, dipping his pen in the ink, saw the mocking face of the lost princess and asked himself a million questions instantly which were as arrows dipped in gall. where was she; and why had she left him? was the ambassador her uncle or her lover? had they plotted? was she forced? was she married? was she dead?— all of which so drove their venom into him that, as if to vent his agony somewhere, he plunged his quill so deep into the inkhorn that the ink spirted over the table, which act, explain it how one may (and no explanation perhaps is possible — memory is inexplicable), at once substituted for the face of the princess a face of a very different sort. but whose was it, he asked himself? and he had to wait, perhaps half a minute, looking at the new picture which lay on top of the old, as one lantern slide is half seen through the next, before he could say to himself, ‘this is the face of that rather fat, shabby man who sat in twitchett’s room ever so many years ago when old queen bess came here to dine; and i saw him,’ orlando continued, catching at another of those little coloured rags, ‘sitting at the table, as i peeped in on my way downstairs, and he had the most amazing eyes,’ said orlando, ‘that ever were, but who the devil was he?’ orlando asked, for here memory added to the forehead and eyes, first, a coarse, grease-stained ruffle, then a brown doublet, and finally a pair of thick boots such as citizens wear in cheapside. ‘not a nobleman; not one of us,’ said orlando (which he would not have said aloud, for he was the most courteous of gentlemen; but it shows what an effect noble birth has upon the mind and incidentally how difficult it is for a nobleman to be a writer), ‘a poet, i dare say.’ by all the laws, memory, having disturbed him sufficiently, should now have blotted the whole thing out completely, or have fetched up something so idiotic and out of keeping — like a dog chasing a cat or an old woman blowing her nose into a red cotton handkerchief — that, in despair of keeping pace with her vagaries, orlando should have struck his pen in earnest against his paper. (for we can, if we have the resolution, turn the hussy, memory, and all her ragtag and bobtail out of the house.) but orlando paused. memory still held before him the image of a shabby man with big, bright eyes. still he looked, still he paused. it is these pauses that are our undoing. it is then that sedition enters the fortress and our troops rise in insurrection. once before he had paused, and love with its horrid rout, its shawms, its cymbals, and its heads with gory locks torn from the shoulders had burst in. from love he had suffered the tortures of the damned. now, again, he paused, and into the breach thus made, leapt ambition, the harridan, and poetry, the witch, and desire of fame, the strumpet; all joined hands and made of his heart their dancing ground. standing upright in the solitude of his room, he vowed that he would be the first poet of his race and bring immortal lustre upon his name. he said (reciting the names and exploits of his ancestors) that sir boris had fought and killed the paynim; sir gawain, the turk; sir miles, the pole; sir andrew, the frank; sir richard, the austrian; sir jordan, the frenchman; and sir herbert, the spaniard. but of all that killing and campaigning, that drinking and love-making, that spending and hunting and riding and eating, what remained? a skull; a finger. whereas, he said, turning to the page of sir thomas browne, which lay open upon the table — and again he paused. like an incantation rising from all parts of the room, from the night wind and the moonlight, rolled the divine melody of those words which, lest they should outstare this page, we will leave where they lie entombed, not dead, embalmed rather, so fresh is their colour, so sound their breathing — and orlando, comparing that achievement with those of his ancestors, cried out that they and their deeds were dust and ashes, but this man and his words were immortal.

he soon perceived, however, that the battles which sir miles and the rest had waged against armed knights to win a kingdom, were not half so arduous as this which he now undertook to win immortality against the english language. anyone moderately familiar with the rigours of composition will not need to be told the story in detail; how he wrote and it seemed good; read and it seemed vile; corrected and tore up; cut out; put in; was in ecstasy; in despair; had his good nights and bad mornings; snatched at ideas and lost them; saw his book plain before him and it vanished; acted his people’s parts as he ate; mouthed them as he walked; now cried; now laughed; vacillated between this style and that; now preferred the heroic and pompous; next the plain and simple; now the vales of tempe; then the fields of kent or cornwall; and could not decide whether he was the divinest genius or the greatest fool in the world.

it was to settle this last question that he decided after many months of such feverish labour, to break the solitude of years and communicate with the outer world. he had a friend in london, one giles isham, of norfolk, who, though of gentle birth, was acquainted with writers and could doubtless put him in touch with some member of that blessed, indeed sacred, fraternity. for, to orlando in the state he was now in, there was a glory about a man who had written a book and had it printed, which outshone all the glories of blood and state. to his imagination it seemed as if even the bodies of those instinct with such divine thoughts must be transfigured. they must have aureoles for hair, incense for breath, and roses must grow between their lips — which was certainly not true either of himself or mr dupper. he could think of no greater happiness than to be allowed to sit behind a curtain and hear them talk. even the imagination of that bold and various discourse made the memory of what he and his courtier friends used to talk about — a dog, a horse, a woman, a game of cards — seem brutish in the extreme. he bethought him with pride that he had always been called a scholar, and sneered at for his love of solitude and books. he had never been apt at pretty phrases. he would stand stock still, blush, and stride like a grenadier in a ladies’ drawing-room. he had twice fallen, in sheer abstraction, from his horse. he had broken lady winchilsea’s fan once while making a rhyme. eagerly recalling these and other instances of his unfitness for the life of society, an ineffable hope, that all the turbulence of his youth, his clumsiness, his blushes, his long walks, and his love of the country proved that he himself belonged to the sacred race rather than to the noble — was by birth a writer, rather than an aristocrat — possessed him. for the first time since the night of the great flood he was happy.

he now commissioned mr isham of norfolk to deliver to mr nicholas greene of clifford’s inn a document which set forth orlando’s admiration for his works (for nick greene was a very famous writer at that time) and his desire to make his acquaintance; which he scarcely dared ask; for he had nothing to offer in return; but if mr nicholas greene would condescend to visit him, a coach and four would be at the corner of fetter lane at whatever hour mr greene chose to appoint, and bring him safely to orlando’s house. one may fill up the phrases which then followed; and figure orlando’s delight when, in no long time, mr greene signified his acceptance of the noble lord’s invitation; took his place in the coach and was set down in the hall to the south of the main building punctually at seven o’clock on monday, april the twenty-first.

many kings, queens, and ambassadors had been received there; judges had stood there in their ermine. the loveliest ladies of the land had come there; and the sternest warriors. banners hung there which had been at flodden and at agincourt. there were displayed the painted coats of arms with their lions and their leopards and their coronets. there were the long tables where the gold and silver plate was stood; and there the vast fireplaces of wrought italian marble where nightly a whole oak tree, with its million leaves and its nests of rook and wren, was burnt to ashes. nicholas greene, the poet stood there now, plainly dressed in his slouched hat and black doublet, carrying in one hand a small bag.

that orlando as he hastened to greet him was slightly disappointed was inevitable. the poet was not above middle height; was of a mean figure; was lean and stooped somewhat, and, stumbling over the mastiff on entering, the dog bit him. moreover, orlando for all his knowledge of mankind was puzzled where to place him. there was something about him which belonged neither to servant, squire, or noble. the head with its rounded forehead and beaked nose was fine, but the chin receded. the eyes were brilliant, but the lips hung loose and slobbered. it was the expression of the face — as a whole, however, that was disquieting. there was none of that stately composure which makes the faces of the nobility so pleasing to look at; nor had it anything of the dignified servility of a well-trained domestic’s face; it was a face seamed, puckered, and drawn together. poet though he was, it seemed as if he were more used to scold than to flatter; to quarrel than to coo; to scramble than to ride; to struggle than to rest; to hate than to love. this, too, was shown by the quickness of his movements; and by something fiery and suspicious in his glance. orlando was somewhat taken aback. but they went to dinner.

here, orlando, who usually took such things for granted, was, for the first time, unaccountably ashamed of the number of his servants and of the splendour of his table. stranger still, he bethought him with pride — for the thought was generally distasteful — of that great grandmother moll who had milked the cows. he was about somehow to allude to this humble woman and her milk-pails, when the poet forestalled him by saying that it was odd, seeing how common the name of greene was, that the family had come over with the conqueror and was of the highest nobility in france. unfortunately, they had come down in the world and done little more than leave their name to the royal borough of greenwich. further talk of the same sort, about lost castles, coats of arms, cousins who were baronets in the north, intermarriage with noble families in the west, how some greens spelt the name with an e at the end, and others without, lasted till the venison was on the table. then orlando contrived to say something of grandmother moll and her cows, and had eased his heart a little of its burden by the time the wild fowl were before them. but it was not until the malmsey was passing freely that orlando dared mention what he could not help thinking a more important matter than the greens or the cows; that is to say the sacred subject of poetry. at the first mention of the word, the poet’s eyes flashed fire; he dropped the fine gentleman airs he had worn; thumped his glass on the table, and launched into one of the longest, most intricate, most passionate, and bitterest stories that orlando had ever heard, save from the lips of a jilted woman, about a play of his; another poet; and a critic. of the nature of poetry itself, orlando only gathered that it was harder to sell than prose, and though the lines were shorter took longer in the writing. so the talk went on with ramifications interminable, until orlando ventured to hint that he had himself been so rash as to write — but here the poet leapt from his chair. a mouse had squeaked in the wainscot, he said. the truth was, he explained, that his nerves were in a state where a mouse’s squeak upset them for a fortnight. doubtless the house was full of vermin, but orlando had not heard them. the poet then gave orlando the full story of his health for the past ten years or so. it had been so bad that one could only marvel that he still lived. he had had the palsy, the gout, the ague, the dropsy, and the three sorts of fever in succession; added to which he had an enlarged heart, a great spleen, and a diseased liver. but, above all, he had, he told orlando, sensations in his spine which defied description. there was one knob about the third from the top which burnt like fire; another about second from the bottom which was cold as ice. sometimes he woke with a brain like lead; at others it was as if a thousand wax tapers were alight and people were throwing fireworks inside him. he could feel a rose leaf through his mattress, he said; and knew his way almost about london by the feel of the cobbles. altogether he was a piece of machinery so finely made and curiously put together (here he raised his hand as if unconsciously, and indeed it was of the finest shape imaginable) that it confounded him to think that he had only sold five hundred copies of his poem, but that of course was largely due to the conspiracy against him. all he could say, he concluded, banging his fist upon the table, was that the art of poetry was dead in england.

how that could be with shakespeare, marlowe, ben jonson, browne, donne, all now writing or just having written, orlando, reeling off the names of his favourite heroes, could not think.

greene laughed sardonically. shakespeare, he admitted, had written some scenes that were well enough; but he had taken them chiefly from marlowe. marlowe was a likely boy, but what could you say of a lad who died before he was thirty? as for browne, he was for writing poetry in prose, and people soon got tired of such conceits as that. donne was a mountebank who wrapped up his lack of meaning in hard words. the gulls were taken in; but the style would be out of fashion twelve months hence. as for ben jonson — ben jonson was a friend of his and he never spoke ill of his friends.

no, he concluded, the great age of literature is past; the great age of literature was the greek; the elizabethan age was inferior in every respect to the greek. in such ages men cherished a divine ambition which he might call la gloire (he pronounced it glawr, so that orlando did not at first catch his meaning). now all young writers were in the pay of the booksellers and poured out any trash that would sell. shakespeare was the chief offender in this way and shakespeare was already paying the penalty. their own age, he said, was marked by precious conceits and wild experiments — neither of which the greeks would have tolerated for a moment. much though it hurt him to say it — for he loved literature as he loved his life — he could see no good in the present and had no hope for the future. here he poured himself out another glass of wine.

orlando was shocked by these doctrines; yet could not help observing that the critic himself seemed by no means downcast. on the contrary, the more he denounced his own time, the more complacent he became. he could remember, he said, a night at the cock tavern in fleet street when kit marlowe was there and some others. kit was in high feather, rather drunk, which he easily became, and in a mood to say silly things. he could see him now, brandishing his glass at the company and hiccoughing out, ‘stap my vitals, bill’ (this was to shakespeare), ‘there’s a great wave coming and you’re on the top of it,’ by which he meant, greene explained, that they were trembling on the verge of a great age in english literature, and that shakespeare was to be a poet of some importance. happily for himself, he was killed two nights later in a drunken brawl, and so did not live to see how this prediction turned out. ‘poor foolish fellow,’ said greene, ‘to go and say a thing like that. a great age, forsooth — the elizabethan a great age!’

‘so, my dear lord,’ he continued, settling himself comfortably in his chair and rubbing the wine-glass between his fingers, ‘we must make the best of it, cherish the past and honour those writers — there are still a few of ‘em — who take antiquity for their model and write, not for pay but for glawr.’ (orlando could have wished him a better accent.) ‘glawr’, said greene, ‘is the spur of noble minds. had i a pension of three hundred pounds a year paid quarterly, i would live for glawr alone. i would lie in bed every morning reading cicero. i would imitate his style so that you couldn’t tell the difference between us. that’s what i call fine writing,’ said greene; ‘that’s what i call glawr. but it’s necessary to have a pension to do it.’

by this time orlando had abandoned all hope of discussing his own work with the poet; but this mattered the less as the talk now got upon the lives and characters of shakespeare, ben jonson, and the rest, all of whom greene had known intimately and about whom he had a thousand anecdotes of the most amusing kind to tell. orlando had never laughed so much in his life. these, then, were his gods! half were drunken and all were amorous. most of them quarrelled with their wives; not one of them was above a lie or an intrigue of the most paltry kind. their poetry was scribbled down on the backs of washing bills held to the heads of printer’s devils at the street door. thus hamlet went to press; thus lear; thus othello. no wonder, as greene said, that these plays show the faults they do. the rest of the time was spent in carousings and junketings in taverns and in beer gardens, when things were said that passed belief for wit, and things were done that made the utmost frolic of the courtiers seem pale in comparison. all this greene told with a spirit that roused orlando to the highest pitch of delight. he had a power of mimicry that brought the dead to life, and could say the finest things of books provided they were written three hundred years ago.

so time passed, and orlando felt for his guest a strange mixture of liking and contempt, of admiration and pity, as well as something too indefinite to be called by any one name, but had something of fear in it and something of fascination. he talked incessantly about himself, yet was such good company that one could listen to the story of his ague for ever. then he was so witty; then he was so irreverent; then he made so free with the names of god and woman; then he was so full of queer crafts and had such strange lore in his head; could make salad in three hundred different ways; knew all that could be known of the mixing of wines; played half-a-dozen musical instruments, and was the first person, and perhaps the last, to toast cheese in the great italian fireplace. that he did not know a geranium from a carnation, an oak from a birch tree, a mastiff from a greyhound, a teg from a ewe, wheat from barley, plough land from fallow; was ignorant of the rotation of the crops; thought oranges grew underground and turnips on trees; preferred any townscape to any landscape;— all this and much more amazed orlando, who had never met anybody of his kind before. even the maids, who despised him, tittered at his jokes, and the men-servants, who loathed him, hung about to hear his stories. indeed, the house had never been so lively as now that he was there — all of which gave orlando a great deal to think about, and caused him to compare this way of life with the old. he recalled the sort of talk he had been used to about the king of spain’s apoplexy or the mating of a bitch; he bethought him how the day passed between the stables and the dressing closet; he remembered how the lords snored over their wine and hated anybody who woke them up. he bethought him how active and valiant they were in body; how slothful and timid in mind. worried by these thoughts, and unable to strike a proper balance, he came to the conclusion that he had admitted to his house a plaguey spirit of unrest that would never suffer him to sleep sound again.

at the same moment, nick greene came to precisely the opposite conclusion. lying in bed of a morning on the softest pillows between the smoothest sheets and looking out of his oriel window upon turf which for centuries had known neither dandelion nor dock weed, he thought that unless he could somehow make his escape, he should be smothered alive. getting up and hearing the pigeons coo, dressing and hearing the fountains fall, he thought that unless he could hear the drays roar upon the cobbles of fleet street, he would never write another line. if this goes on much longer, he thought, hearing the footman mend the fire and spread the table with silver dishes next door, i shall fall asleep and (here he gave a prodigious yawn) sleeping die.

so he sought orlando in his room, and explained that he had not been able to sleep a wink all night because of the silence. (indeed, the house was surrounded by a park fifteen miles in circumference and a wall ten feet high.) silence, he said, was of all things the most oppressive to his nerves. he would end his visit, by orlando’s leave, that very morning. orlando felt some relief at this, yet also a great reluctance to let him go. the house, he thought, would seem very dull without him. on parting (for he had never yet liked to mention the subject), he had the temerity to press his play upon the death of hercules upon the poet and ask his opinion of it. the poet took it; muttered something about glawr and cicero, which orlando cut short by promising to pay the pension quarterly; whereupon greene, with many protestations of affection, jumped into the coach and was gone.

the great hall had never seemed so large, so splendid, or so empty as the chariot rolled away. orlando knew that he would never have the heart to make toasted cheese in the italian fireplace again. he would never have the wit to crack jokes about italian pictures; never have the skill to mix punch as it should be mixed; a thousand good quips and cranks would be lost to him. yet what a relief to be out of the sound of that querulous voice, what a luxury to be alone once more, so he could not help reflecting, as he unloosed the mastiff which had been tied up these six weeks because it never saw the poet without biting him.

nick greene was set down at the corner of fetter lane that same afternoon, and found things going on much as he had left them. mrs greene, that is to say, was giving birth to a baby in one room; tom fletcher was drinking gin in another. books were tumbled all about the floor; dinner — such as it was — was set on a dressing-table where the children had been making mud pies. but this, greene felt, was the atmosphere for writing, here he could write, and write he did. the subject was made for him. a noble lord at home. a visit to a nobleman in the country — his new poem was to have some such title as that. seizing the pen with which his little boy was tickling the cat’s ears, and dipping it in the egg-cup which served for inkpot, greene dashed off a very spirited satire there and then. it was so done to a turn that no one could doubt that the young lord who was roasted was orlando; his most private sayings and doings, his enthusiasms and folies, down to the very colour of his hair and the foreign way he had of rolling his r’s, were there to the life. and if there had been any doubt about it, greene clinched the matter by introducing, with scarcely any disguise, passages from that aristocratic tragedy, the death of hercules, which he found as he expected, wordy and bombastic in the extreme.

the pamphlet, which ran at once into several editions, and paid the expenses of mrs greene’s tenth lying-in, was soon sent by friends who take care of such matters to orlando himself. when he had read it, which he did with deadly composure from start to finish, he rang for the footman; delivered the document to him at the end of a pair of tongs; bade him drop it in the filthiest heart of the foulest midden on the estate. then, when the man was turning to go he stopped him, ‘take the swiftest horse in the stable,’ he said, ‘ride for dear life to harwich. there embark upon a ship which you will find bound for norway. buy for me from the king’s own kennels the finest elk-hounds of the royal strain, male and female. bring them back without delay. for’, he murmured, scarcely above his breath as he turned to his books, ‘i have done with men.’

the footman, who was perfectly trained in his duties, bowed and disappeared. he fulfilled his task so efficiently that he was back that day three weeks, leading in his hand a leash of the finest elk-hounds, one of whom, a female, gave birth that very night under the dinner-table to a litter of eight fine puppies. orlando had them brought to his bedchamber.

‘for’, he said, ‘i have done with men.’

nevertheless, he paid the pension quarterly.

thus, at the age of thirty, or thereabouts, this young nobleman had not only had every experience that life has to offer, but had seen the worthlessness of them all. love and ambition, women and poets were all equally vain. literature was a farce. the night after reading greene’s visit to a nobleman in the country, he burnt in a great conflagration fifty-seven poetical works, only retaining ‘the oak tree’, which was his boyish dream and very short. two things alone remained to him in which he now put any trust: dogs and nature; an elk-hound and a rose bush. the world, in all its variety, life in all its complexity, had shrunk to that. dogs and a bush were the whole of it. so feeling quit of a vast mountain of illusion, and very naked in consequence, he called his hounds to him and strode through the park.

so long had he been secluded, writing and reading, that he had half forgotten the amenities of nature, which in june can be great. when he reached that high mound whence on fine days half of england with a slice of wales and scotland thrown in can be seen, he flung himself under his favourite oak tree and felt that if he need never speak to another man or woman so long as he lived; if his dogs did not develop the faculty of speech; if he never met a poet or a princess again, he might make out what years remained to him in tolerable content.

here he came then, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year. he saw the beech trees turn golden and the young ferns unfurl; he saw the moon sickle and then circular; he saw — but probably the reader can imagine the passage which should follow and how every tree and plant in the neighbourhood is described first green, then golden; how moons rise and suns set; how spring follows winter and autumn summer; how night succeeds day and day night; how there is first a storm and then fine weather; how things remain much as they are for two or three hundred years or so, except for a little dust and a few cobwebs which one old woman can sweep up in half an hour; a conclusion which, one cannot help feeling, might have been reached more quickly by the simple statement that ‘time passed’ (here the exact amount could be indicated in brackets) and nothing whatever happened.

but time, unfortunately, though it makes animals and vegetables bloom and fade with amazing punctuality, has no such simple effect upon the mind of man. the mind of man, moreover, works with equal strangeness upon the body of time. an hour, once it lodges in the queer element of the human spirit, may be stretched to fifty or a hundred times its clock length; on the other hand, an hour may be accurately represented on the timepiece of the mind by one second. this extraordinary discrepancy between time on the clock and time in the mind is less known than it should be and deserves fuller investigation. but the biographer, whose interests are, as we have said, highly restricted, must confine himself to one simple statement: when a man has reached the age of thirty, as orlando now had, time when he is thinking becomes inordinately long; time when he is doing becomes inordinately short. thus orlando gave his orders and did the business of his vast estates in a flash; but directly he was alone on the mound under the oak tree, the seconds began to round and fill until it seemed as if they would never fall. they filled themselves, moreover, with the strangest variety of objects. for 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 come 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 come 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 competence 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 comes. 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 comfortable 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 nettle-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 come after; for the roof that will leak; for the tree that will fall. there was always a warm corner for the old shepherd in the kitchen; always food for the hungry; always their goblets were polished, though they lay sick, and their windows were lit though they lay dying. lords though they were, they were content to go down into obscurity with the molecatcher and the stone-mason. obscure noblemen, forgotten builders — thus he apostrophized them with a warmth that entirely gainsaid such critics as called him cold, indifferent, slothful (the truth being that a quality often lies just on the other side of the wall from where we seek it)— thus he apostrophized his house and race in terms of the most moving eloquence; but when it came to the peroration — and what is eloquence that lacks a peroration?— he fumbled. he would have liked to have ended with a flourish to the effect that he would follow in their footsteps and add another stone to their building. since, however, the building already covered nine acres, to add even a single stone seemed superfluous. could one mention furniture in a peroration? could one speak of chairs and tables and mats to lie beside people’s beds? for whatever the peroration wanted, that was what the house stood in need of. leaving his speech unfinished for the moment, he strode down hill again resolved henceforward to devote himself to the furnishing of the mansion. the news — that she was to attend him instantly — brought tears to the eyes of good old mrs grimsditch, now grown somewhat old. together they perambulated the house.

the towel horse in the king’s bedroom (’and that was king jamie, my lord,’ she said, hinting that it was many a day since a king had slept under their roof; but the odious parliament days were over and there was now a crown in england again) lacked a leg; there were no stands to the ewers in the little closet leading into the waiting room of the duchess’s page; mr greene had made a stain on the carpet with his nasty pipe smoking, which she and judy, for all their scrubbing, had never been able to wash out. indeed, when orlando came to reckon up the matter of furnishing with rosewood chairs and cedar-wood cabinets, with silver basins, china bowls, and persian carpets, every one of the three hundred and sixty-five bedrooms which the house contained, he saw that it would be no light one; and if some thousands of pounds of his estate remained over, these would do little more than hang a few galleries with tapestry, set the dining hall with fine, carved chairs and provide mirrors of solid silver and chairs of the same metal (for which he had an inordinate passion) for the furnishing of the royal bedchambers.

he now set to work in earnest, as we can prove beyond a doubt if we look at his ledgers. let us glance at an inventory of what he bought at this time, with the expenses totted up in the margin — but these we omit.

‘to fifty pairs of spanish blankets, ditto curtains of crimson and white taffeta; the valence to them of white satin embroidered with crimson and white silk...

‘to seventy yellow satin chairs and sixty stools, suitable with their buckram covers to them all...

‘to sixty seven walnut tree tables...

‘to seventeen dozen boxes containing each dozen five dozen of venice glasses...

‘to one hundred and two mats, each thirty yards long...

‘to ninety seven cushions of crimson damask laid with silver parchment lace and footstools of cloth of tissue and chairs suitable...

‘to fifty branches for a dozen lights apiece...’

already — it is an effect lists have upon us — we are beginning to yawn. but if we stop, it is only that the catalogue is tedious, not that it is finished. there are ninety-nine pages more of it and the total sum disbursed ran into many thousands — that is to say millions of our money. and if his day was spent like this, at night again, lord orlando might be found reckoning out what it would cost to level a million molehills, if the men were paid tenpence an hour; and again, how many hundredweight of nails at fivepence halfpenny a gill were needed to repair the fence round the park, which was fifteen miles in circumference. and so on and so on.

the tale, we say, is tedious, for one cupboard is much like another, and one molehill not much different from a million. some pleasant journeys it cost him; and some fine adventures. as, for instance, when he set a whole city of blind women near bruges to stitch hangings for a silver canopied bed; and the story of his adventure with a moor in venice of whom he bought (but only at the sword’s point) his lacquered cabinet, might, in other hands, prove worth the telling. nor did the work lack variety; for here would come, drawn by teams from sussex, great trees, to be sawn across and laid along the gallery for flooring; and then a chest from persia, stuffed with wool and sawdust. from which, at last, he would take a single plate, or one topaz ring.

at length, however, there was no room in the galleries for another table; no room on the tables for another cabinet; no room in the cabinet for another rose-bowl; no room in the bowl for another handful of potpourri; there was no room for anything anywhere; in short the house was furnished. in the garden snowdrops, crocuses, hyacinths, magnolias, roses, lilies, asters, the dahlia in all its varieties, pear trees and apple trees and cherry trees and mulberry trees, with an enormous quantity of rare and flowering shrubs, of trees evergreen and perennial, grew so thick on each other’s roots that there was no plot of earth without its bloom, and no stretch of sward without its shade. in addition, he had imported wild fowl with gay plumage; and two malay bears, the surliness of whose manners concealed, he was certain, trusty hearts.

all now was ready; and when it was evening and the innumerable silver sconces were lit and the light airs which for ever moved about the galleries stirred the blue and green arras, so that it looked as if the huntsmen were riding and daphne flying; when the silver shone and lacquer glowed and wood kindled; when the carved chairs held their arms out and dolphins swam upon the walls with mermaids on their backs; when all this and much more than all this was complete and to his liking, orlando walked through the house with his elk hounds following and felt content. he had matter now, he thought, to fill out his peroration. perhaps it would be well to begin the speech all over again. yet, as he paraded the galleries he felt that still something was lacking. chairs and tables, however richly gilt and carved, sofas, resting on lions’ paws with swans’ necks curving under them, beds even of the softest swansdown are not by themselves enough. people sitting in them, people lying in them improve them amazingly. accordingly orlando now began a series of very splendid entertainments to the nobility and gentry of the neighbourhood. the three hundred and sixty-five bedrooms were full for a month at a time. guests jostled each other on the fifty-two staircases. three hundred servants bustled about the pantries. banquets took place almost nightly. thus, in a very few years, orlando had worn the nap off his velvet, and spent the half of his fortune; but he had earned the good opinion of his neighbours. held a score of offices in the county, and was annually presented with perhaps a dozen volumes dedicated to his lordship in rather fulsome terms by grateful poets. for though he was careful not to consort with writers at that time and kept himself always aloof from ladies of foreign blood, still, he was excessively generous both to women and to poets, and both adored him.

but when the feasting was at its height and his guests were at their revels, he was apt to take himself off to his private room alone. there when the door was shut, and he was certain of privacy, he would have out an old writing book, stitched together with silk stolen from his mother’s workbox, and labelled in a round schoolboy hand, ‘the oak tree, a poem’. in this he would write till midnight chimed and long after. but as he scratched out as many lines as he wrote in, the sum of them was often, at the end of the year, rather less than at the beginning, and it looked as if in the process of writing the poem would be completely unwritten. for it is for the historian of letters to remark that he had changed his style amazingly. his floridity was chastened; his abundance curbed; the age of prose was congealing those warm fountains. the very landscape outside was less stuck about with garlands and the briars themselves were less thorned and intricate. perhaps the senses were a little duller and honey and cream less seductive to the palate. also that the streets were better drained and the houses better lit had its effect upon the style, it cannot be doubted.

one day he was adding a line or two with enormous labour to ‘the oak tree, a poem’, when a shadow crossed the tail of his eye. it was no shadow, he soon saw, but the figure of a very tall lady in riding hood and mantle crossing the quadrangle on which his room looked out. as this was the most private of the courts, and the lady was a stranger to him, orlando marvelled how she had got there. three days later the same apparition appeared again; and on wednesday noon appeared once more. this time, orlando was determined to follow her, nor apparently was she afraid to be found, for she slackened her steps as he came up and looked him full in the face. any other woman thus caught in a lord’s private grounds would have been afraid; any other woman with that face, head-dress, and aspect would have thrown her mantilla across her shoulders to hide it. for this lady resembled nothing so much as a hare; a hare startled, but obdurate; a hare whose timidity is overcome by an immense and foolish audacity; a hare that sits upright and glowers at its pursuer with great, bulging eyes; with ears erect but quivering, with nose pointed, but twitching. this hare, moreover, was six feet high and wore a head-dress into the bargain of some antiquated kind which made her look still taller. thus confronted, she stared at orlando with a stare in which timidity and audacity were most strangely combined.

first, she asked him, with a proper, but somewhat clumsy curtsey, to forgive her her intrusion. then, rising to her full height again, which must have been something over six feet two, she went on to say — but with such a cackle of nervous laughter, so much tee-heeing and haw-hawing that orlando thought she must have escaped from a lunatic asylum — that she was the archduchess harriet griselda of finster-aarhorn and scand-op-boom in the roumanian territory. she desired above all things to make his acquaintance, she said. she had taken lodging over a baker’s shop at the park gates. she had seen his picture and it was the image of a sister of hers who was — here she guffawed — long since dead. she was visiting the english court. the queen was her cousin. the king was a very good fellow but seldom went to bed sober. here she tee-heed and haw-hawed again. in short, there was nothing for it but to ask her in and give her a glass of wine.

indoors, her manners regained the hauteur natural to a roumanian archduchess; and had she not shown a knowledge of wines rare in a lady, and made some observations upon firearms and the customs of sportsmen in her country, which were sensible enough, the talk would have lacked spontaneity. jumping to her feet at last, she announced that she would call the following day, swept another prodigious curtsey and departed. the following day, orlando rode out. the next, he turned his back; on the third he drew his curtain. on the fourth it rained, and as he could not keep a lady in the wet, nor was altogether averse to company, he invited her in and asked her opinion whether a suit of armour, which belonged to an ancestor of his, was the work of jacobi or of topp. he inclined to topp. she held another opinion — it matters very little which. but it is of some importance to the course of our story that, in illustrating her argument, which had to do with the working of the tie pieces, the archduchess harriet took the golden shin case and fitted it to orlando’s leg.

that he had a pair of the shapliest legs that any nobleman has ever stood upright upon has already been said.

perhaps something in the way she fastened the ankle buckle; or her stooping posture; or orlando’s long seclusion; or the natural sympathy which is between the sexes; or the burgundy; or the fire — any of these causes may have been to blame; for certainly blame there is on one side or another, when a nobleman of orlando’s breeding, entertaining a lady in his house, and she his elder by many years, with a face a yard long and staring eyes, dressed somewhat ridiculously too, in a mantle and riding cloak though the season was warm — blame there is when such a nobleman is so suddenly and violently overcome by passion of some sort that he has to leave the room.

but what sort of passion, it may well be asked, could this be? and the answer is double faced as love herself. for love — but leaving love out of the argument for a moment, the actual event was this:

when the archduchess harriet griselda stooped to fasten the buckle, orlando heard, suddenly and unaccountably, far off the beating of love’s wings. the distant stir of that soft plumage roused in him a thousand memories of rushing waters, of loveliness in the snow and faithlessness in the flood; and the sound came nearer; and he blushed and trembled; and he was moved as he had thought never to be moved again; and he was ready to raise his hands and let the bird of beauty alight upon his shoulders, when — horror!— a creaking sound like that the crows make tumbling over the trees began to reverberate; the air seemed dark with coarse black wings; voices croaked; bits of straw, twigs, and feathers dropped; and there pitched down upon his shoulders the heaviest and foulest of the birds; which is the vulture. thus he rushed from the room and sent the footman to see the archduchess harriet to her carriage.

for love, to which we may now return, has two faces; one white, the other black; two bodies; one smooth, the other hairy. it has two hands, two feet, two nails, two, indeed, of every member and each one is the exact opposite of the other. yet, so strictly are they joined together that you cannot separate them. in this case, orlando’s love began her flight towards him with her white face turned, and her smooth and lovely body outwards. nearer and nearer she came wafting before her airs of pure delight. all of a sudden (at the sight of the archduchess presumably) she wheeled about, turned the other way round; showed herself black, hairy, brutish; and it was lust the vulture, not love, the bird of paradise, that flopped, foully and disgustingly, upon his shoulders. hence he ran; hence he fetched the footman.

but the harpy is not so easily banished as all that. not only did the archduchess continue to lodge at the baker’s, but orlando was haunted every day and night by phantoms of the foulest kind. vainly, it seemed, had he furnished his house with silver and hung the walls with arras, when at any moment a dung-bedraggled fowl could settle upon his writing table. there she was, flopping about among the chairs; he saw her waddling ungracefully across the galleries. now, she perched, top heavy upon a fire screen. when he chased her out, back she came and pecked at the glass till she broke it.

thus realizing that his home was uninhabitable, and that steps must be taken to end the matter instantly, he did what any other young man would have done in his place, and asked king charles to send him as ambassador extraordinary to constantinople. the king was walking in whitehall. nell gwyn was on his arm. she was pelting him with hazel nuts. ‘twas a thousand pities, that amorous lady sighed, that such a pair of legs should leave the country.

howbeit, the fates were hard; she could do no more than toss one kiss over her shoulder before orlando sailed.

此刻，传记作者遇到了难题，对此，与其掩饰，不如老老实实地承认。此前，讲述奥兰多的生平，无论是依靠私人文件，还是依靠历史文件，传记作者都有可能履行其首要职责，沿着无法抹去的事实真相的足迹，一路直行，不环顾左右，不贪恋花草，不理睬路边的阴凉，只管踏踏实实走下去，直至蓦地跌人坟墓，然后在头顶的墓碑上镌刻“剧终”二字。但是现在，我们遇到了一段插曲，横亘在路上，无法回避。然而，这是一段阴暗、神秘的插曲，没有文件记载，因此无法解释。要解释这件事，可以写上几大卷；整个宗教系统就建筑在其意义的基础之上。我们的任务很简单，就是叙述已知的事实，然后让读者自己去推断。

那是个灾难频仍的冬季，霜冻过去，洪水又来，成千上万的人命丧黄泉，奥兰多的希望也彻底断送。他遭到宫廷的驱逐，失宠于当时的权贵。爱尔兰的戴斯蒙德家族自然更是怒不可遏；而国王呢，他与爱尔兰人的麻烦已经够多了，可不欣赏这火上加霜。那个冬季过后，夏天来临时，奥兰多回到乡间自己的庄园，在那里过着离群索居的生活。六月的一个早晨，确切地说，是十八日星期六早晨，到了起床的时辰，他的房间里却没有动静。男仆去唤，发现他睡得很沉，无论如何唤不醒。他躺在床上，没有明显的呼吸，仆人们把狗放在他窗下吠叫，在他屋里不断敲鼓击钹，又把荆豆枝放在他的枕头下，把芥末膏药贴到他的脚底板，他仍然整整七天七夜没有醒过来，不吃东西，也没有任何活着的迹象。第七天早晨，到了平素起床的时候(七点三刻)，他却自己醒来，把一大群尖叫的妇人和占卜的村民赶出了房间。这倒是很自然的事情，但奇怪的是，他好像浑然不知自己昏睡了好几天，而是穿好衣服，令人把马牵来，仿佛自己只是小睡了一夜。但人们怀疑，他的大脑必定发生了某种变化，因为他虽然表现得非常理智，举止也比以往严肃、安详，对往事的记忆却仿佛残缺不全。人们谈到大霜冻、滑冰和狂欢时，他只是听着，从未表现出亲历这些事件的任何迹象，除了用手抹一下眉毛，仿佛要抹去天上的乌云。如果讨论六个月前发生的事件，他似乎并不似人们料想的那样悲伤，却好像是为记不清很久以前发生的事情而苦恼，或正在努力回忆别人讲过的故事。据人们观察，若提到俄罗斯、公主或船，他会很不自在地陷入忧郁之中，或者站起来望向窗外，或者唤来一只狗，或者拿刀在雪松木上刻点什么。不过，那时的医生并不比现在高明多少，他们开出的药方无非是休息或锻炼、饥饿疗法或加强营养、社交活动或闭门独处、整日卧床或午餐与晚餐之间骑马跑上四十英里，加上通常服用的镇定剂和兴奋剂，五花八门，全看他们的想像力了，例如起床后服大量水螈涎水，或睡前服一剂孔雀胆汁。经过种种尝试之后，他们不再理会他，结论是他不过睡了一星期而已。

然而，倘若这是睡眠，我们不禁要问，这样的睡眠倒是什么性质的呢?它们会不会是一种疗法?在昏睡中，一只黑色的巨大翅膀，把最痛苦的记忆，即可能让人的生活一蹶不振的记忆，一笔勾销，抹去它们的苦涩，为它们涂上光亮的色彩，甚至对最丑陋、最卑贱的记忆也是如此。会不会是死的愤怒必得时不时地遮蔽生的喧嚣，免得它把我们撕成碎片?会不会我们天生必得每天一小口一小口地品尝死亡的滋味，否则就无法继续存活?那么，在我们并不情愿的情况下，那些渗透我们最隐秘的生活方式，改变我们最宝贵的自制力的神奇力量究竟是什么呢?奥兰多是否因痛不欲生而死去一星期，然后死而复生?倘若如此，死的本质是什么?生的本质又是什么?对此类问题的答案，我们等了大半个钟头，既然毫无结果，我们还是继续讲故事吧。

眼下，奥兰多完全沉湎于一种离群索居的生活。他在宫中遭受了奇耻大辱，他悲痛欲绝，这些都是原因，但他没为自己辩解半句，也从不邀请别人前来造访(虽然他有许多朋友乐意这样做)，似乎闭门独守父亲留下的大宅正对他的脾气。孤独是他的选择。无人知道他是如何打发时间的。他养了一大群仆人，他们的主要任务，就是打扫空荡荡的房间，掸平从未有人睡过的床罩。漆黑的夜晚，他们围坐在一起吃蛋糕喝麦芽酒。这时，他们看到一星灯光沿走廊移动，穿过宴会厅，上了楼梯，一直进到卧房，他们知道这是主人独自在宅子里游荡。无人敢跟随他，因为这宅子里有形形色色的鬼魂出没，而且宅子很大，一不小心就会迷路，或者从暗处某个隐秘的楼梯上跌下去，或者刚打开一扇门，恰好一阵风刮来，门就会在你身后永远关上。这样的事故并不罕见，因为经常发现死人和动物的遗骸，姿势都很痛苦，就证明这一点了。一会儿功夫，灯光完全消失了，管家格里姆斯迪奇太太会对牧师杜普尔先生说，她希望爵爷没遇上什么倒霉事。牧师会说，爵爷肯定是在小教堂里，跪在祖先的墓穴中间。小教堂位于南边的弹子盘庭园，有半里路远。杜普尔先生说，爵爷他是因为罪孽而感到愧疚，格里姆斯迪奇太太听了立即反唇相讥道，我们谁又不是呢。此时斯图克雷太太、菲尔德太太和老保姆卡彭特都会亮开嗓门，齐声赞美她们的爵爷。男仆们发誓，看到如此高贵的一位爵爷无精打采在宅子里闲逛，真让人糟心遗憾，他本该去打猎的。甚至小小年纪的洗衣女工和正为大家递酒杯和糕饼的厨房女工，朱迪啦，菲丝啦，也要极力证明爵爷的豪爽，因为再找不到比他更善良的绅士了，他从不吝惜，经常赏些小钱给她们，可以买蝴蝶结或花朵插在头上。他们说个没完，直到那个被他们称为格雷丝·罗宾逊的黑摩尔人也明白了他们的意思。他们给她取这个名字，是为了让她皈依基督教。她也赞成爵爷是位英俊、快活、勇敢的绅士，但她无法表达自己的意思，只有咧开大嘴，露出满脸的笑意。一句话，奥兰多的所有男女仆人都对他交口称誉，诅咒那个让他倒了大霉的外国公主(不过，他们对她的称呼可要比这粗野得多)。

杜普尔先生想象爵爷在墓穴间游荡很安全，不用他去寻，或许不过因为他胆小，或许是他想留下来喝热麦芽酒，但他多半并没有错。奥兰多眼下正沉浸在一种奇特的喜悦之中，他正在思考死亡和腐朽。他手秉蜡烛，缓缓走过长长的走廊和舞厅，细细观看墙上的每一幅画作，仿佛在寻觅某个失去了踪影的人的肖像。随后，他来到教堂里家庭专用的包厢，一连几小时坐在那里，看彩幛飘动，月光摇曳，四周只有蝙蝠或骷髅天蛾与他为伴。他甚至觉得这还不够，他必须下到地窖去，那里排列着一排排的棺椁，他的祖先葬在那里，有整整十代人。这地方很少有人光临，老鼠于是大行其道，奥兰多经过时，一根大腿骨挂住了他的披风，否则他真有可能会踩碎滚到他脚下的某位马利斯老爵士的头盖骨。这是一块令人毛骨悚然的墓地，挖得很深，在宅子的地基之下，好像这个家族的第一位勋爵，即那个与征服者(征服者，即征服者威廉，指1066—1070年征服英国的诺曼底公爵，史称威廉一世)一同来自法兰西的人，一心证明浮华建筑在腐朽之上，肉体依附在骨架之上；我们这些在上面载歌载舞的人，最终也会躺到下面来；大红丝绒化为尘土；戒指(奥兰多弯腰用灯一照，就可捡起一只金指圈，上面的钻石已经滚到角落里)上的红宝石已经遗失，曾经明亮的眼睛也光彩不再。“这些王公们的一切都已烟消云散，”奥兰多会说，有点儿夸张了他们的地位，这也可以原谅，“除一根手指外。”他拿起一只手的骸骨，来回扳动着它的关节。这是谁的手呢?他接着问。是右手还是左手?男人的手还是女人的手?老人的手还是青年的手?它曾用来驱策战马，还是用来穿针引线?采摘玫瑰，还是擎握冰冷的生铁?它——?但是此处，或者是他虚构不出来了，或者更可能是，它给他提供的例子太多，一只手可以做的事情实在太多，他像以往一样退缩了，不想去费尽心思删除多余的东西。他把那手骨和其他骸骨放在一起，并想起有一位名叫托马斯·布朗(托马斯·布朗，英国医生、作家、爵士，把科学和宗教融为一体，名著有(一个医生的宗教信仰)等。)的作家，此人是诺维奇的一位医生，他论述这些主题的著作曾使奥兰多非常着迷。

于是，他拿起蜡烛，小心翼翼地把那些骨头摆放整齐，因为尽管生性浪漫，他的井井有条却是罕见的，一团线掉在地上都令他无法容忍，遑论先祖的头骨。他重又陷入那奇怪、阴沉的情绪，接着在走廊里踱步，在画像中找寻着什么。这情景终于被一阵真切的呜咽所打断，他看到了一幅无名画家的荷兰雪景画。这时，他觉得生活不再值得继续。他忘掉了先祖的遗骨，忘掉了生命如何建筑在死亡之上，他站在那里，不住地哽咽，全身颤抖，皆因为渴望一个女人，一个穿俄罗斯裤子、眉梢上斜、噘嘴、颈戴珍珠项链的女人。她走了。她弃他而去。他再也见不到她了。他就这样呜咽着，摸索回自己的房间。格里姆斯迪奇太太看到房里的烛光，从嘴边挪开大酒杯，说赞美上帝，爵爷他又安全回屋了；因为这半天，她一直觉得他给人邪恶地谋杀了。

奥兰多把椅子拉到桌旁；打开托马斯·布朗爵士的著作，开始探索这位医生最长亦是最精妙的一段奇谈怪论。

虽然这些事情并不值得传记作者去发挥，但是对读者而育已经足矣，他们根据零星的暗示，猜想出一个活生生人物的整个身世和现状。他们能够从我们的窃窃私语中听到活的声音，往往我们还未张口，他们已经猜出他的模样。无须任何引导，他们就能确切知道他的想法。我们的写作正是为了这样的读者。那么对这样的一个读者来说，很明显，奥兰多的性格是由多种气质混合而成，这很奇特。他忧郁、懒散、冲动、喜欢独处，更不用说本章开篇时提到的所有那些怪异和细微之处了。当时，他冲那黑鬼的骷髅头砍去，斩断了绳子，又很有骑士精神地把它吊到自己够不着的地方，随后坐到窗台上读书。奥兰多幼年时就对书感兴趣。孩提时代，男侍有时发现他半夜仍在读书。他们拿走蜡烛，他就养萤火虫来照明。他们拿走萤火虫，他就用火绒，几乎把房子烧掉。简而言之，他是一位患上文学病的贵族。其他的说起来就很复杂，还是留给小说家去发挥吧。在他那个时代，许多人，尤其是他那个阶层的人，都避开了这种传染病，因此，他们可以随心所欲地去奔跑、骑马或做爱。但有些人很小即染上一种细菌，据说这种细菌来自希腊和意大利，它们由常春花的花粉培育而成，有致命的效果。感染了这种细菌的人，出击时手会颤抖，寻找猎物时眼会昏花，求爱时言语会变得结结巴巴。这种疾病的致命之处，在于它让人以幻象代替现实。因此奥兰多，虽然命运赐给了他一切，衣食住行样样不缺，还有仆人在旁伺候，却只要打开一本书，就把他所拥有的巨大财富忘得干干净净。他的占地九英亩的石砌大宅消失了；他的一百五十名家仆消失了；他的八十匹坐骑不见了；计算地毯、沙发、服饰、瓷器、盘子、调味瓶、火锅和其他动产(多是金箔)太费时间，反正它们也像弥漫的海雾一样蒸发了。就这样，奥兰多独自坐在那里读书，一个人，再无其他。

现在，这病在孤寂的奥兰多身上迅速蔓延。他常常连续读书六小时，直到深夜。仆人们来请示是否宰牛或割麦，他推开手边的对开本，好像不懂他们在说些什么。这太糟糕了，驯鹰师豪尔、男仆吉尔斯、管家格里姆斯迪奇太太和牧师杜普尔先生都为此大为伤心。他们说，这么好的绅士根本不需要书，还是把书留给那些瘫痪和垂死的家伙吧。但还有比这更糟糕的。因为阅读的毛病一旦形成，人体的机能也随之削弱，很容易成为笔墨中所潜藏的另一灾祸的牺牲品：那可怜的人开始写作。穷人沾上这事，已经麻烦多多，但他毕竟没有很多东西可以失去，或许漏雨的屋顶下一桌一椅就是他的全部财产。但对富人而言，写书是一件极端悲惨的事情。他有房屋、有牛群、有女仆、有财产、有各式亚麻制品，但这一切对他来讲味同嚼蜡，惟有写书的念头，折磨得他坐立不安，仿佛被滚烫的熨斗烫，被臭虫咬。他愿交出自己的每一个铜板(这正是那细菌的危险之处)，只为写成一本小书并因此成名。然而，即便是秘鲁的所有金矿，也尤法为他买来一行优美动听的诗句。他为此心力交瘁，绞尽脑汁，回壁枯坐。他在人们眼中的姿势并不重要。他已经穿越死亡之门，品尝过地狱之火的滋味。

所幸奥兰多体格强健，(因上文指出的原因而罹患的)疾病打垮过他的许多同龄人，却从未打垮过他。但他中毒至深，以后的故事会表明这一点。有天晚上，他在读托马斯·布朗爵土的书，读了差不多一小时，外面传来牡鹿的叫声和守夜人的喊声，表明万籁俱寂的深夜已经来临。他走到房间对面的墙角，从口袋里拿出一把银钥匙，打开嵌在墙里的一个大柜子。柜里大概有五十个雪松木抽屉，每个抽屉上面都贴了一张标签，上面是奥兰多工整的笔迹。他犹豫了一下，好像是拿不定主意，究竟打开哪个抽屉。一张标签上写着“埃阿斯之死”，另一张写着“皮拉姆斯的诞生”，其他分别写着“奥利斯的伊菲格涅亚”、“希波吕托斯之死”、“默勒阿格洛斯”、“奥德修斯之归来”等等(埃阿斯、皮拉姆斯、伊菲格涅亚、希波吕托斯、默勒阿格洛斯、奥德修斯均为希腊神话中神的名字。)。事实上，这些标题几乎个个涉及身处逆境的神话人物。每个抽屉里都放着厚厚的一叠手稿，都是奥兰多亲手所写。事实上，奥兰多罹患此病已有多年。奥兰多儿时对纸张的贪求，比男孩讨吃苹果都要强烈；对墨水的贪求，也要赛过他们讨吃甜食。他常常在谈话和游戏进行中间溜走，藏在窗帘背后，或躲在牧师的小房间里，或藏到母亲卧房后面的柜子里，那里的地板有个大洞，散发出紫椋鸟粪的可怕味道。他会一手端着牛角制的墨水瓶，一手拿笔，膝上放一卷纸。就这样，未满二十五岁，他已经用散文体或韵文体、法文或意大利文完成了四十七部剧本、历史故事、爱情故事和诗歌，而且全是大部头的浪漫传奇。有一部书稿他让奇普塞德圣保罗教堂十字架对面的约翰·保尔的羽饰和头饰店印了出来。每次看到它，他都会欣喜若狂，但他从不敢拿给母亲看，因为他知道，对贵族来说，写作已是莫大的耻辱，遑论出版。

然而，时至深夜，万籁俱寂，他又是独自一人，便从这一宝库里，挑出厚厚的一本，标题无非是《克赛诺菲拉，一部悲剧》什么的，又挑出薄薄的一本，标题很简单，就叫《大橡树》(在那一大堆手稿中，这是惟一单音节的标题)。他坐到墨水瓶旁边，用手指捋了捋鹅毛笔，又做了其他几个手势。有此恶习的人开始仪式时惯于如此。但他忽然停了下来。

这一停顿对他的一生意义重大，实际上，竟要胜过许多导致众人屈膝、血流成河的征服行为。我们因此有必要提问，他为何停下来?经过充分的思考，原因大致如下。大自然在我们身上耍了无数古怪的花招，它很不公平地用不同的材料造就我们，或者陶土或者钻石，或者虹或者花岗岩。它把我们塞进一副躯壳，往往又生搬硬套，诗人长了一张屠夫的脸，而屠夫却长了一张诗人的脸；大自然喜欢把事情搞得乱七八糟、神神秘秘，所以至今(一九二七年十一月一日)，我们仍然搞不清自己为何上楼，又为何下楼，我们日常的作为，如同一条船在神秘的海域航行，桅杆上的水手用望远镜了望天边的地平线，问道：那边可有陆地?对此，我们若是先知，就回答“有”；我们若诚实，就回答“没有”；因为或许除了这一笨拙、冗长的句子外，大自然还有许多事情等着处理，它已使自己的任务更加复杂，它不仅往我们头脑里塞进了一大堆琐事，琐碎得好似五颜六色的碎花布，例如一条警察的裤子与亚历山德拉王后的结婚面纱并排摆在一起，让我们莫名其妙，而且设想出用一根细线，把一切都轻巧地连缀起来。记忆就是这位女裁缝，而且是位变幻无常的女裁缝。记忆的针线上下翻飞，里外穿行，我们不知下一个出现的，或再下一个出现的会是什么。因此，世上最普通不过的动作，譬如坐在桌旁，把墨水瓶拉向自己，就可能搅出千百种古怪和支离破碎的联想，时明时暗，仿佛大风天，一个十四口之家的内衣，晾在一根绳子上，它们上下摆动、飞荡、飘扬。我们的日常作为往往并不是单一的、直截了当的，有时令人感到羞愧，而且有各种反反复复。奥兰多就是这样，他用笔蘸了墨水，眼前却现出弃他而去的公主那张讥讽的脸，他立即有无数问题要问自己，这些问题都像狂风中坠落的前。她在哪里?她为何抛弃了他?那大使究竟是她的叔叔还是情人?他们是串通好了，还是她迫不得已?她是否已经嫁人?她是否已经不在人世?凡此种种，有如毒液浸透了他的全身。好像为了发泄痛苦，他将鹅毛笔狠狠地杵进墨水瓶，墨水溅了一桌子，人们无论怎么解释(或许不可能有什么解释，因为记忆是不可解释的)这一行为，公主的脸立即被一张完全不同的脸取代了。但这是谁呢，他问自己?他必须等等看，研究一下这叠加在旧影像上的新影像，就像幻灯片，前一张模模糊糊地透了出来。可能过了半分钟，他才能自言自语道：“是那个邋遢的胖子，许多年前老贝斯女王(即伊丽莎白女王。)光临时，他坐在特薇琪屋里；我当时看见了他。”奥兰多接着说，又抓住一块色彩鲜艳的花布头。“我下楼时见他坐在桌旁，一双眼睛奇特无比，”奥兰多说。“但他究竟是谁呢?”奥兰多问。此时，在额头和眼睛之外，记忆先加上了一圈粗糙、油腻的皱领，然后是一件棕色紧身上衣，最后是一双笨重的靴子，奇普塞德的居民穿的都是那种靴子。“他不是贵族，不属于我们这类人，”奥兰多说(他不会大声把这话说出口，因为他是文雅绅士；但这表明贵族血统对精神的影响，顺便说说，也表明贵族要成为作家有多困难)。“一位诗人，我敢说。”按惯例，记忆在足足把人打扰了一番之后，现在本该把这件事整个抹去，或者再往下回想起某件极其愚蠢和不协调的事，例如狗追猫，或老太婆拿一块红棉布手帕擤鼻涕等等，然后奥兰多就会因无法跟上记忆的变化多端而绝望，开始认真在纸上写作。(因为只要我们有决心，就能把记忆那个轻佻女子和她的那些乌七八糟的东西扔出去。)但奥兰多停了下来。记忆仍在他眼前展现那个邋遢男人的形象，还有他那双明亮的大眼睛。他仍在看，仍然停在那里。正是这些停顿带来了我们的毁灭，叛乱分子攻进要塞，我们的军队也造反了。在此之前他停过一次，那次是爱情冲了进来，带着它可怕的喧哗、它的肖姆管、它的铙钹、还有血淋淋的头颅，刚从肩膀上扯下来，还带着一绺绺头发。因为爱，他曾饱受折磨。而现在，他又停了下来。名叫抱负的泼妇、名叫诗歌的女巫和名叫名望的淫妇看到有机可乘，立即携手跳了进来，奥兰多的心成了她们的舞场。他笔挺地站在空无一人的房间中，发誓要成为宗族中第一个诗人，给他的姓氏带来永恒的荣耀。他说(引证先祖的名字和功勋)，他们个个征战沙场，杀人如麻；包利斯爵士血战穆斯林；加韦因爵士血战士耳其人；麦尔斯爵士血战波兰人；安德鲁爵士血战法兰克人；理查德爵士血战奥地利人；乔丹爵士血战法兰西人；赫伯特爵士血战西班牙人。但那一切杀戮征伐、荒淫无度和骑马狩猎，留下了什么呢?一个头盖骨、一根手指头。然而，他说，又停了下来，转向桌上摊开的托马斯·布朗爵士的书。那些话语的神圣旋律此起彼伏，仿佛是晚风中和月光下，从房间的各个角落飘出来的咒语。为了不被它们吓得连这一页也不敢再写下去，我们还是让它们躺在坟墓中不要出来，它们没有死，只是涂了防腐的香料，它们的肤色是那般鲜艳，它们的呼吸是那般平稳，奥兰多把这一成就与他的祖先的成就相比较，不禁惊呼他们连同他们的所作所为，轻薄如粪土，而这个人和他的话语永垂不朽。

但他很快就发现，当年麦尔斯勋爵和其他人为赢得一个王国与武装的骑士搏斗，他现在为赢得不朽与英国语言搏斗，相比之下，那种艰苦的程度不及他的一半。对创作的甘苦稍有了解的人，无须多说就知道个中细节：写得时候颇为得意，读一遍后又觉失望；改了又改，撕掉重来；删改、添加；喜出望外；灰心丧气；朝思暮想；灵感突发又稍纵即逝；明明看到自己的著作摆在面前，而它忽然烟消云散；一边吃饭，一边扮演自己作品中的角色；一边走路，一边默念；时哭时笑；在两种风格之间摇摆不定；忽而喜欢夸张雕琢，忽而喜欢平实简朴；忽而是藤比河(藤比河的溪谷，位于希腊奥林匹斯山附近，常因风景优美而在古典诗歌中受到赞誉。)的溪谷，忽而是肯特郡或康威尔郡的田园；拿不准自己究竟是天下最大的天才，还是最大的傻瓜。

经过数月的狂热劳作后，为了解决这最后一个问题，奥兰多决定打破多年离群索居的生活，恢复与外界的来往。他在伦敦有个朋友，名叫贾尔斯·艾沙姆，是诺福克郡人，虽然出身高贵，却结识了不少作家。毫无疑问，他有办法让奥兰多接触到那个令人尊敬的神圣行业中的某些成员。因为，此时此刻，着了迷的奥兰多觉得，凡写书还能把它印出来的人，都是天之骄子，那书的荣耀超出了家族和地位带来的一切荣耀。在他的想象中，有此天资、思想非凡的人，外表也必定完美无缺。他们头上有光环萦绕，呼吸散发清香，口舌间绽放玫瑰，而他自己或杜普尔先生当然就不是这样。他觉得哪怕能坐在窗帘后面听他们谈话，也是莫大的幸福。想象那些自在无碍、洋洋洒洒的交谈，甚至使他感到，过去他和宫中的朋友们有多么愚蠢，无非是声色犬马、赌牌斗气一类。他自豪地提醒自己，过去他总被人称作学者，因为喜爱独处和读书而受人讥讽。他一向不喜欢恭维，常常呆立在一旁，面孔绯红，步态笨拙得像一个掷弹手踏进了贵妇人的客厅。他有两次因为心不在焉而从马上跌了下来。还有一次，他在做一首压韵诗，不小心碰坏了温奇尔西夫人的扇子。他怀了一个无以言喻的希望，急切地回忆自己与社交生活格格不入的例子，希望年轻时代的所有骚动，他的笨拙、腼腆、长时间散步、热爱乡间生活，都证明他属于那神圣的一族。他天生是个作家，而不是贵族。自那个大洪水之夜以来，他头一次感到非常快乐。

奥兰多委托诺福克的艾沙姆先生，向住在克利福德大院的尼古拉斯·格林先生传递一份文件，表述了奥兰多对其作品的仰慕之情(因为尼克·格林是当时远近遐迩的一位作家)，以及与他相识的愿望；因为无以回报，这一点他几乎不敢奢求；但尼古拉斯·格林先生若肯屈尊来访，一辆四轮马车将于格林先生自定的时间，在费特巷的拐角处恭候他，并将他安全送至奥兰多的宅邸。后面说些什么，随便人们自己去补充好了。人们还可以想象，格林先生不久就接受了这位尊贵勋爵的邀请，乘车于四月二十一日星期一七点，准时抵达主楼南面的大厅，而奥兰多此时别提有多高兴了。

奥兰多的大宅接待过众多的国王、王后和大使。在职法官、全国最可爱的贵妇和最骁勇的武士，都曾光临此地。这里悬挂的旗帜曾在弗劳顿和阿金库尔(英格兰人 1513年在弗劳顿战役中打败苏格兰人，1415年在阿金库尔战役中打败法兰西人。)上空飘扬。这里陈列了彩色盾徽，上面绘有雄狮、猎豹和小王冠。这里的长桌上摆满金制和银制的盘子，这里的壁炉用意大利大理石砌成，一夜可烧掉整整一棵大橡树，还有树上无数的叶子和鸟巢。而此时站在这里的诗人尼古拉斯·格林，手拎小包，软沿儿帽和黑色紧身上衣看上去毫不起眼。

急急赶出来迎接的奥兰多不免有点儿失望。诗人至多只能算中等身材，体态平庸，瘦削而有些驼背。他进门被獒犬绊了一下，那狗上去就咬了他一口。此外，奥兰多尽管阅人无数，却有点儿闹不清他应该算作哪类人。他身上有些东西，看上去既非奴仆、亦非乡绅或贵族。饱满的前庭和鹰钩鼻子还算差强人意，但脸颊凹陷下去。眼睛明亮，但嘴角耷拉，有点儿流口水。不过，令人别扭的是他整张脸的表情，既无贵族那种悦人的庄重和沉静，也无训练有素的家仆常有的那种体面的驯服。这是一张东拼西凑、生拉硬扯到一起的脸。虽为诗人，他却似乎更善于诟骂而非赞美，更善于吵闹而非倾谈，更善于争抢而非听任自然，更善于抗争而非息事宁人，更善于恨而非爱。而且他的动作急躁，眼神中流露出暴躁和猜疑。奥兰多有点左右为难，但还是请他一起用餐。

对众多家仆和餐桌上的美味佳肴，过去奥兰多习以为常，此时却第一次莫名其妙地感到羞愧。更奇怪的是，他反而自豪地提醒自己，他祖上曾有人挤过牛奶，因为一般说来，这想法并没有令人愉快之处。他刚要提及那一卑贱的女人和她的牛奶桶，诗人却抢先一步，说别看格林这个姓氏毫不起眼，他们却与征服者一起渡海而来，而且曾是法国的名门望族，尽管这听起来有点儿奇怪。不幸的是，如今他们的社会地位一落千丈，惟一的作为，就是把姓氏留给了皇家格林尼治区。此类谈话继续下去，全是讲些失去的城堡、盾徽、表亲在北部是准男爵、与西部贵族联姻、拼写姓氏时格林家族的有些成员在词尾加e，有些不加等等，一直持续到鹿肉端上餐桌。此后，奥兰多想方设法谈了几句女祖先和她的奶牛，直到野味摆在面前，他才觉得轻松一些。直等到酒过三巡，奥兰多才敢提及，自己禁不住想到一件比格林的姓氏或奶牛更重要的事情，即诗歌这一神圣主题。他没想到诗歌一词刚出口，诗人眼里登时进出火花，一改刻意摆出的雅士风致，砰地一声放下酒杯，开始讲起故事来。除了从弃妇口中，这是奥兰多迄今为止听到过的最冗长、最繁复、最动情、也是最尖刻的故事。它们有关格林的一个剧本、另一位诗人和一位评论家。至于诗歌本身，奥兰多只能感觉到，诗歌比散文更难卖出去，此外就是诗行虽短，写起来却更费时间。谈话就这样枝蔓交错地进行着，直到奥兰多冒险暗示他本人不揣浅陋，一直在写作，但这时诗人忽然从椅子上跳起来。护墙板里有一只耗子在叫，他说。他接着解释，事实上，他的精神状态不好，听见一只耗子吱吱叫，就会心烦意乱两星期。毫无疑问，这宅子里处处都有害虫，但奥兰多从没听见过它们的叫声。随后，诗人向奥兰多详细讲述了过去十年来他的健康状况。他的健康糟透了，活在世亡实属奇迹。他患过瘫痪、痛风、疟疾、水肿，还连续罹患三种热病；此外，他的心脏肿大、脾脏肥大、肝脏也有病。他告诉奥兰多，尤其是他的脊椎，有一种无法描述的感觉。上数第三节有个包火烧火燎，下数第二节也有个包冰凉冰凉。有时，他一觉醒来，脑袋里好像灌了铅，有时又像点燃了一千支小蜡烛，体内充满烟火。他说，他能透过床垫感觉到下面有一片玫瑰叶子，而他在伦敦认路几乎全凭脚下的石子。总体上说，他是一架精妙的机器，无比奇特地组合在一起(此时他仿佛无意识地举起手来，而这只手的形状确实美妙无比)，因此他无论如何弄不明白，他的诗为什么只卖出五百册。当然，这主要是因为有人阴谋反对他。最后，他一拳头砸在桌上，断言道，他惟一能说的是，诗歌的艺术在英格兰已经死灭。

这怎么可能呢?莎士比亚、马洛(英国戏剧家、诗人，发展无韵诗体，革新中世纪戏剧，为莎士比亚等人开辟了道路)、本·琼生(（1572－1637），英国戏剧家、诗人、评论家。)、布朗、多恩(（1572－1631），英国诗人，玄学派诗歌代表人物。)，所有这些人当前都在写作或刚刚停笔，奥兰多一口气报出他最景仰的这些英雄的名字，想象不出格林的说法怎么可能。

格林放声大笑，声音中充满讥讽的味道。他承认，莎土比亚是写过一些还算不错的剧目；但他主要是抄袭马洛。马洛是个可爱的家伙，但对一个活了不到三十岁的小伙子，你能说些什么呢?至于布朗，他赞成以散文入诗，而人们很快就会厌烦这类别出心裁的玩艺儿。多恩是个江湖骗子，用艰涩的词句来掩盖意义的贫乏。人们会上当受骗，但那种风格一年以后就会过时。至于本·琼生嘛，本·琼生是他的朋友，他从来不说朋友的坏话。

他断言，文学的伟大时代已经过去；文学的伟大时代是古希腊时期；伊丽莎白时代无论从哪方面说，都不如古希腊时期。那时，人们珍惜他称为荣耀(他的发音是 “荣悦”，因此奥兰多最初并没弄明白他说的是什么)的神圣理想。如今，所有的年轻作家都受雇于书商，大量生产能卖钱的垃圾。莎士比亚就是这类生产的罪魁祸首，而且莎士比亚已经在付罚金了。他说，当代的特征是十足的造作和疯狂的猎奇，而古希腊人片刻都不能容忍这两条中的任何一条。虽然这么说他也很伤心，因为他热爱文学，宛如热爱自己的生命，但他看不出当代有什么好，对未来也不抱希望。说到这里，他又给自己倒了一杯葡萄酒。

奥兰多听了这些理论，非常震惊，但他不禁注意到，批评者本人似乎并不沮丧。相反，愈是诋毁自己的时代，他就愈是沾沾自喜。他说，记得有一天夜里，在舰队街的考克客栈，科特·马洛和其他一些人都在场。科特那天情绪高涨，喝得醉醺醺的(他是沾酒即醉)，非要说些蠢话。他现在仿佛看见他，一边对众人挥舞杯子，一边打着嗝说：“天哪!比尔(这是针对莎士比亚)，大浪涌来，你就站在浪尖上。”格林解释说，他这是指，他们正处于英国文学伟大时代的边缘，而莎士比亚将成为一个略有影响的诗人。幸而两天后他在一次酒后斗殴中丧命，不致活着看到这一预言的结果。“可怜的傻瓜，”格林说，“说这种话!伟大的时代，确实，伊丽莎白时代是个伟大的时代!”

“因此，我亲爱的爵爷，”他接着说，一边用手指摩挲玻璃酒杯，并让自己在椅子上坐得更舒服些，“我们必须充分利用这一点，珍惜往昔，尊重那些作家，即那些效法古代、为荣悦而不为报酬写作的作家，他们现在已经所剩无几。”(奥兰多可能曾希望他的发音会更标准一些)“荣悦，”格林说，“可以鞭策高尚的头脑。我要是拿到三百英镑的年金，而且按季度支付，我就将只为荣悦而生。我会每天早上躺在床上读西塞罗((公元前106一前43)，古罗马政治家、演说家和哲学家。)。我会效仿他的风格，让你们看不出我与他们有什么不同。这就是我所说的优雅文体，”格林说，“这就是我所谓的荣悦。不过，必须要有年金，才能这样做。”

到此时，奥兰多已彻底放弃与诗人讨论自己作品的希望，因为谈话转到莎士比亚、本·琼生和其他人的生活和品德问题，这话题相比之下也就无所谓了。格林与他们大家均有私交，他有一千条他们的逸闻趣事可以公布于世。奥兰多一生从来没有如此开心地笑过，而以往这些人在他心目中都是神圣不可侵犯的。他们中间半数人酗酒，个个拈花惹草，大多与妻子打得不可开交，无一不撒谎骗人或搞阴谋诡计。他们的诗全都是垫着街门口印刷所学徒的脑门，潦草地写在洗衣账单的背面。《哈姆莱特》就是这样付梓的，《李尔王》也同样；还有《奥瑟罗》。格林说，难怪那些剧本漏洞百出呢。其他时间，他们在小客栈和露天啤酒馆里寻欢作乐，讲起话来，只管俏皮，不问信仰，做出事来，连廷臣们的胡作非为也相形见绌。格林津津有味地讲述这一切，奥兰多听得欣喜若狂。格林的模仿有起死回生的效果，他对书的赞美可达到极致，只要这些书是三百年前写的。

时间就这样过去了，奥兰多对他的客人有一种奇怪的感觉：喜爱和蔑视，钦佩和怜悯交织在一起，还有一种说不清道不明的感觉，但同时，这其中又有某种可怕而诱人的东西。他不停地谈论自己，却不失为谈话的好伙伴，听他讲自己患疟疾的故事，你永远不会腻烦。他是那样风趣，那样傲慢无礼，那样滥用上帝和妇女的名义。他精通五花八门的古怪手艺，脑袋里塞满各种奇谈怪论。他能做三百种不同的沙拉；他知道天下所有的调酒办法；他能演奏好几种乐器；他是在意大利大壁炉上烤奶酪的第一人，可能也是最后一个。但他分不清石竹与康乃馨，橡树与桦树，獒与驯犬、二岁羊与牡羊，小麦与大麦，耕地与休耕地。他不知道庄稼需要轮耕，以为橘子长在地下，蔓菁长在树上。他喜欢一切城市景观，厌恶一切田园风光。这一切乃至更多更多的事情，都使奥兰多惊诧不已，因为他过去从未遇到过这样的一个人。女仆们即便看不起格林，也给他的笑话儿逗得嘁嘁窃笑；男仆们虽然讨厌他，仍聚在周围听他讲故事。的确，他给这深宅大院带来了前所未有的生机，所有这一切都令奥兰多深思，他不禁把这种生活方式与过去相比较。他回想起过去习以为常的那些话题，不是西班牙国王中风，就是母狗交配；他回想起往日多是在马厩与衣柜之间度过的时光；他还记得爵爷们趴在酒杯旁呼呼大睡，谁唤醒他们，就要倒霉。他想起他们如何四肢发达、头脑简单。这些想法让他不安，同时他又无法平衡自己的心情，于是开始得出结论：他把一个讨厌的精灵引入家中，从此不得安宁。

而此时此刻，尼克·格林恰恰得出截然相反的结论。一天早上，他躺在床上，头枕松软无比的枕头，身盖平滑无比的被单，他向窗外望去，视线落到那片三百年来没长过蒲公英或野草的草坪上。他想，除非能够逃出去，否则他会活活闷死在这地方。起床，听到鸽子的咕咕叫声，穿衣，听到喷泉的潺潺流水声。他觉得，除非听到马车轰隆隆轧在舰队街的石子路上，否则他就再写不出一行字。他想，长此下去，听男仆在隔壁房间添火，在桌上摆放银餐具，我会睡着，甚至(此刻他打了一个大大的哈欠)睡死的。

于是他来到奥兰多的房间，解释说，因为四周太静，他整夜无法入睡。(的确，宅子四周有一片方圆十五英里的庭园，还有一道十英尺高的围墙。)他说，天下万物，寂静最令他的神经难以忍受。他请奥兰多原谅，因为他当天早上就得结束这次造访。对此，奥兰多觉得如释重负，但又不很情愿放他走。他觉得，没有他，这房子里显得很沉闷。分别之时(因为他从不喜欢提到这个话题)，他冒昧地把自己描写赫克利斯之死的剧本塞给诗人，征求他的意见。诗人接了过去，嘟囔了几句荣悦和西塞罗，奥兰多打断他，允诺按季度付他年金；格林大大表白了一番自己的仰慕之情，然后跳上马车走了。

马车滚滚而去，大厅显得前所未有的庞大、堂皇，或者说空旷。奥兰多明白，他再不会有那份心情，在意大利壁炉上烤奶酪。他再不会有那份机智，去嘲弄意大利绘画；再不会有那份技巧，把潘趣酒调得像模像样；也再不会那样妙语连珠了。然而，不再听到那个牢骚满腹的声音，是多么大的解脱啊!又能一人独处简直是奢侈!他一边想，一边放开拴了六个星期的獒犬，因为它只要见到诗人，就要扑上去咬他。

当天下午，尼克·格林在费特尔巷的拐角处下了车，他发现几乎一切如故，也就是说，格林太太正在一间房间里生孩子，汤姆·弗莱彻在另一间房间里喝杜松子酒。房间里扔得遍地是书，晚餐很简陋，摆在靠墙带抽屉的桌上，孩子们一直在那桌上捏泥饼。但格林觉得这里的写作气氛浓厚；在这里，他可以写作，而且也就写了起来。他有了一个现成的主题：好客的贵族。乡间贵族造访记，他的新作将用这样一个标题。他的小儿子正拿着他的笔在捅猫耳朵，格林上去一把夺过来，插进充作墨水瓶的蛋杯里，当场完成一首活泼的讽刺诗。他写得让人一看就明白，他所讽刺的青年贵族是奥兰多：从他私下的言行、热衷的事情、说的傻话，直到头发的颜色，发r这个音时的外国腔调，无不描绘得栩栩如生。倘若还有人怀疑，看了格林几乎毫不掩饰地引用那贵族气派的悲剧《赫克利斯之死》之中的几段，也就没什么可说的了。格林还说，如他所料，这几段哕哕嗦嗦、夸夸其谈到了极点。

格林的这本小册子立即印行了好几版，格林太太第十次分娩的开销因此有了着落。很快有留意此类事宜的友人将这小册子送到奥兰多本人手中。奥兰多读时，从始至终不动声色，最后摇铃唤进男仆，用钳子夹起小册子，命他扔到园里臭气熏天的大粪堆上去。男仆转身要走，他又叫住他，吩咐说：“去马厩牵一匹快马，星夜赶赴哈维奇，登上去挪威的船，到挪威国王的养狗场给我买最上等的纯种皇家猎犬，公的母的都要。立即带回来，不准耽搁。因为，”他嗫嚅道，转向自己的书，“我再不想和人打交道。”

训练有素的仆人俯首鞠躬，消失在屋外。他的任务完成得很不错，三周后的这天，他牵着三条上等的挪威猎犬返回，其中一只母犬，当晚就在饭桌下产下一窝八只可爱的小狗。奥兰多命令把它们抱到自己的卧室。

“因为，”他说，“我再不想与人打交道。”

然而，他依然按季度付给格林年金。

就这样，这位年仅三十岁的青年贵族不仅饱经沧桑，而且看破了红尘。爱情与抱负，女人与诗歌，都是同等的虚浮。文学不过是闹剧而已。读过格林的《乡间贵族造访记》，当天夜里，他将自己的五十七部诗作全部付之一炬，只留下《大橡树》，那是他童年的梦想，而且篇幅很短。现在世上他仍然信任的只有两样东西，那便是狗和自然；挪威猎犬和玫瑰丛。五彩缤纷的世界，多姿多彩的生活，到也不过如此简单。狗和花丛包含了一切。摆脱掉一切虚幻后，他一身轻松地唤了狗群去庭园散步。

他与世隔绝的时间太久了，只是写作和读书，几乎忘记了自然的可爱动人，那动人之处在六月可以是无与伦比的。他攀到山峦高处，在那里，天朗气清之时，可以看见大半个英格兰和一小块与之相连的威尔士和苏格兰。他扑到自己热爱的大橡树下，感到如果再不必与任何人对话，他的狗不会进化出言语的器官，他再不会邂逅一位诗人或公主，那么余下的岁月尚可忍受。

在这之后，日复一日、周复一周、月复一月、年复一年，他经常光顾此地，看桦树化为金色、蕨菜萌发嫩芽；看月圆月缺；看(或许读者能想象出下面的句子)四周草木由绿变黄，又回黄转绿；看日升月落，雨过天晴，四季循环往复。天下之事，二三百年一成不变，惟有些许尘灰、几只蛛网，一位老妇人半小时就可以抹净。如此一来，人们不禁觉得，只须使用“岁月荏苒”(此处可在括号内标上确切时间)、万事依旧这类简单用语，一切就尽在其中了。

然而，不幸的是，时光尽管精确无比地创造了动植物的兴衰，对人的心智却没有同样简单的功效。此外，人的心智对时光的作用也同样奇特。一旦嵌入人的精神的奇异成分，一小时就可能拉长，甚至可能超出其时钟长度的五十或一百倍。另一方面，在人的心智的计时中，一小时又可能由一秒钟来精确表示。对钟表表示的时光与心智的时光之间这一奇特的差距，人们知之甚少，因此很值得进一步充分探讨。但如我们所说，传记作者的兴趣很有限，他必须局限于简单的陈述：一个人年至三十，即像奥兰多现在这样，思考时时间就会大大拉长，行动时时间就会大大缩短。因此，奥兰多发号施令和管理自己庞大庄园的时间也就是那么一刹那，但他独自一人来到山上，来到大橡树下，时光立刻开始膨胀变大，仿佛永远不会滴落。此外，它们充满了各种奇特的问题。因为他发现自己面对很多连智者亦百思不得其解的问题，譬如何为爱情?何为友谊?何为真理?不仅如此，但凡他开始思考这些问题，往日的时光，在他看来，其漫长也极其纷繁的往昔，立即就会挤进水珠般正在滴落的时光，体积膨胀数倍，颜色五彩缤纷，充满宇宙中的一切零星琐碎。

他就是在这类思考(或者有其他适当称呼)中度过时光的。

说他早饭后外出时三十岁，返回家吃晚饭时至少已是五十岁，倒也并不夸张。有的星期，他的年龄增加了一百岁，有的星期，他的年龄又至多只增加了三秒钟。总之，估计人的寿命长短(有关动物的寿命，我们不便冒昧评论)，这差事超出我们的能力，因为我们刚说寿命很长，就有人提醒我们，它比玫瑰叶落地还要短暂。有两种力量，即短促与漫长，它们交替而且同时主宰着我们不幸的傻瓜，而后这一点更让人困惑。在这两种力量中，奥兰多有时受到象腿女神的影响，有时受到有翼昆虫的影响。他觉得生命惊人的漫长，同时又是那样倏忽即逝。然而，即使在生命延伸至最长、时光膨胀到最大、他仿佛独自漫步于永恒的沙漠时，也没有时间来舒解人生三十年郁积在他心头的乱麻。他还远远没有把爱情思考清楚(这期间大橡树已十二次新芽萌出，又十二次枯叶飘落)，抱负就已把爱情挤出场地，而抱负又被友谊或文学所取代。第一个问题是何为爱情。因为并未得出答案，稍加触动、甚至毫无来由地它就浮现出来，把书籍或意象或生命的意义挤到一边，等待时机重新人场。这一过程延续了很久，原因在于，伴随这一切的，有形态：老态龙钟的伊丽莎白女王，侧卧在绒绣沙发上，身着玫瑰色锦缎长袍，手握象牙鼻烟盒，身边放一把金柄宝剑；有味道：她身上喷了大量的香水，散发着香气；有声音：那个冬日，牡鹿在里奇蒙德的庭园里叫个不停。于是，关于爱情的思考就因为雪和冬日的朦胧、燃烧的炉火、俄罗斯女人、金柄宝剑、牡鹿的鸣叫、老詹姆斯王的流涎、焰火、伊丽莎白时代大帆船上一袋袋的珍宝，呈现出琥珀色。他发现，任何一件事，只要他想在脑子里把它剥离开，它便会与其他事情纠缠在一起，仿佛掷到海底的一块玻璃，一年以后，周遭缠满了骨头、蜻蜓、硬币和溺水女人的长发。

“天啊，又一个意象!”他这样说时会惊呼(藉此可以看出他头脑思维的混乱和反复无常，并解释了为何大橡树花开花落多少次，他对爱情仍然得不出一个结论)。“这又有何意义?”他自问道。“为何不用几个简单的词来表明呢?”这之后，他会用半小时——抑或是两年半?——来思考如何用几个简单的词表明何为爱情。“那种形象显然不真实，”他争辩说，“因为除非极例外的情况，蜻蜓没法活在海底。倘若文学不是真理的新娘和伴侣，她又是什么呢?该死，”他叫起来，“已经说了新娘，干吗还要说伴侣?为何不直截了当表明自己的意思了事?”

于是为了取悦诗歌朴实无华的精神，他试图只说草绿天蓝。虽然现在，他与诗歌的距离很远很远，但他仍然对诗歌保持敬畏。“天蓝，草绿，”他说，一边抬起头来，他所看到的景象却恰恰相反，天好似一千位圣母头发上坠下的面纱；草色幽暗，迅速摆动，宛如一队少女在躲避着魔的森林中跑出的长毛鬼的拥抱。“说实话，”他说(因为他已经养成了大声说话的坏习惯)，“相比之下，我看不出哪个更真实，都是彻头彻尾的虚假。”他不禁心灰葸冷起来，觉得根本解决不了何为诗歌和何为真理的问题。

此处，我们最好在他的独白中间停下来，思考一下眼前的景象有多么古怪。我们看到六月的一个早晨，奥兰多头枕着胳膊，躺在那里，我们看到这么一个才华横溢、体格强壮(只要看看他的脸蛋儿和四肢就可以明白)的好人，这么一个冲锋也不怕、决斗也不怕的人，会如此受制于思想的呆滞，如此敏感，一旦涉及诗歌及他本人在这方面的能力问题，他就会腼腆得像个躲在农舍门背后的小姑娘。我们相信，格林对他的伤害不下于公主，前者戏弄他的作品，后者戏弄他的爱情。不过，现在我们回到……

奥兰多在继续思考。他不时俯看草地，仰望天空，试图想象一位真正的诗人，一位在伦敦出版过韵体诗的诗人，会怎样描写它们。与此同时，记忆(它的习惯我们已经描述过了)不断在他的眼前展现尼古拉斯·格林的面孔，仿佛那个热衷冷嘲热讽、喜欢信口开河、已证明自己忘恩负义的家伙，就是缪斯本人，奥兰多必须为他奉献赞美之辞。于是在那个夏日的早晨，奥兰多向他献出各种诗句，有些朴实无华，有些花团锦簇，而尼克·格林始终在摇头，耻笑他，或喋喋不休说些荣悦、西塞罗和我们时代的诗歌已经完结什么的。最后，奥兰多站起来(这时已是严冬)，发了他一生中最惊人的毒誓。因为发了这个誓让他注定得去服严酷的劳役。“我若再写一个字，或试图再写一个字去取悦尼克·格林或缪斯，天打五雷轰。从今日起，是好是歹，我只为自己的快乐而写作。”此刻，他的样子好似在撕碎整整一叠纸，然后掷向那个热衷冷嘲热讽、喜欢信口开河的家伙。听到这话，记忆仿佛一个胆小鬼，你向他投掷石块，他忽地弯下腰去，藏起了尼克·格林的肖像，取而代之的是——什么也没有。

而奥兰多依然在思考。他的确有很多事情可以思考。因为在撕毁羊皮纸文稿的同时，他也撕碎了那涡旋花体字和纹章装饰的名册，那是他为了开心，独自躲在房间里写出的，一如国王任命大使，他自命为家族第一位诗人，当代的第一位作家，赐予他的灵魂永恒不灭，赐予他的肉体葬在桂冠和人们永世景仰的这些无形旗帜之中。所有这一切尽管很雄辩，他已把它们撕碎，扔进垃圾箱。“名望，”他说，“犹如(既然现在已无尼克·格林来阻挡，他就转而陶醉于各种形象之中，我们仅选其中最沉静的一两个)一件碍手碍脚的镶穗外衣，一件让人憋气的银盔甲，一个遮了稻草人的彩色盾牌”等等。他这些话的要义是，名望只能起到阻碍和限制的作用。无名无闻则像雾一样，把人夹裹于其中；无名无闻是昏暗、宽大和自由的；由于无名无闻，大脑可不受阻碍地自由驰骋。无名者的四周幸运地弥漫着昏暗，无人知道他从哪里来、到哪里去。他可以寻找到真理并把它说出来；惟独他是自由、诚实的；惟独他获得了安宁。他在大橡树下进人心平气和的境界，大橡树坚硬的根须露出地面，让他感到一种内心的安宁。

他长时间陷入沉思，思考寂寂无名的意义、思索它带来的快乐，正如海浪回归大海深处。思考寂寂无名如何可使厌倦的心摆脱妒忌和怨恨，血脉中自由流淌慷慨和宽宏大量，给予与索取无须感激或赞美。他假定(尽管他对希腊文的了解不足以证明他的假定是正确的)所有伟大的诗人必定如此，因为他觉得，莎士比亚必定那样写作，教堂的建造者必定是那样建造，隐名埋姓，不指望感激和名望，他们需要的只是白天工作，晚上来一点儿麦芽酒。“多么美好的生活啊，”他想，在大橡树下舒展了一下四肢。“为何不现在就享受一下这样的生活?”这想法如子弹一般射中了他。野心像铅块骤然坠地。他摆脱了失恋和虚荣心受挫引起的怨恨，摆脱了所有其他痛苦。在他渴望名声时，这些生活的烦恼纠缠着他。而现在他不把荣誉放在心上，它们也就再不能使他痛苦。他睁开眼睛，其实他的眼睛始终睁得大大的，但那时他只能看到思想，现在他看见了峡谷中那座属于他的大宅。

它沐浴在春天的朝晖之中，与其说它是个宅子，不如说是个城镇。但这个城镇并非是人们随心所欲拼凑而成，而是经过一位建筑师的缜密思考，遵循一个整体的设计。庭院和房屋是灰、红和青紫三色，布局对称有序；庭院或方或长，院中有喷泉，喷泉内有雕塑；房屋高低错落，鳞次栉比，小教堂和钟楼点缀其中；大片的绿草夹杂着簇簇雪松和花圃；所有这一切都被一道高墙蜿蜓环抱，但它们的布局精致，以至每一部分看似都有适当扩展的余地。无数烟囱烟尘袅袅，缭绕空中。这井然有序的庞大建筑群可容纳一千人和两千匹马，奥兰多想，不知多少无名的工人建造了它。多少世纪以来，这里居住着我的默默无闻的家族，多少代无声无息。这些理查德、约翰、安妮和伊丽莎白们，没有一人在身后留下自己的象征，而这些人用镐头、用针线，共同劳作、繁衍生息，最后留下了这个大宅邸。

它从未显得如此高贵，如此富有人情味。

那他有什么理由希望超越他们呢?试图超越这一出自无名之手的杰作，超越那些已消失的双手的劳动成果，看上去不免极端虚荣和傲慢。生而默默无闻，但身后遗下一个拱顶，一个盆栽棚，一道硕果累累的墙垣，终归胜于一颗流星，瞬间辉煌之后，不留一丝灰烬。奥兰多遥望山下绿丛中的大宅，不禁心潮澎湃，他说，居住大宅中的老爷太太虽然默默无闻，毕竟从未忘记留下一些东西给后人，给会漏雨的屋顶，给会倒下的大树。厨房中总有温暖的角落留给衰老的牧人，总有食物留给饥民。他们即便病倒，高脚酒杯总是擦得雪亮；弥留之际，屋里也总有灯火点燃。他们身为贵族，却心甘情愿与捕鼠者和石匠一样默默无闻。默默无闻的贵族，被遗忘的建设者，他热情地呼唤他们，他的热情反驳了那些批评他冷漠、无情、怠惰的人(事实上，我们追求的品德与我们往往只有一墙之隔)。他用动人心弦的演讲来呼唤他的宅子和家族，最后轮到演讲的结束语，因为缺了结束语怎能成其为演讲?这时，他开始有些支吾。他想在结束语中用些华丽辞藻，譬如他将追随前人的足迹，为他们的建筑再添砖石之类。然而，这建筑群已经占地九英亩，似乎连再添一砖一石都很多余。那怎么办?难道在结束语中大谈家具?大谈桌椅和床边的小地毯?反正结束语里无论缺少什么，都是宅子所需要的。此刻，他暂时放弃了结束语，漫步下山，决心从此之后全力以赴装饰这大宅。善良的老格里姆斯迪奇太太，听到要她立即前来陪他的消息，老泪纵横，因为她现在已经很老了。她随他一起在房子里巡视了一遍。

国王卧房(“是吉姆王(即詹姆斯王)，老爷，”她说，暗示国王来他们这里下榻，已是很久远以前的事，但邪恶的议会时代已经结束，英国又恢复了王室)的毛巾架缺了一条腿；公爵夫人侍从官接待室外面的小房间里没有放水罐的台子；格林先生用讨厌的烟斗抽烟，弄脏了地毯，她和朱迪无论如何擦洗不净那块污迹。奥兰多开始算计用红木椅、雪松木柜、银盆、瓷碗和波斯地毯装饰宅子里的三百六十五间卧室，才明白这绝非轻而易举之事。他的家产即使还余下几千英镑，也仅够几条走廊悬挂壁毯，宴会厅摆设几把精致的雕花椅子，皇家寝室添置纯银镜子和同样金属的椅子(他格外喜爱银这种金属)。

他开始着手认真置办这一切，只须看看他的名细账，这一点就确定无疑了。现在我们来看一眼他这次的采购清单，页边留日处列出了开销的小计，但我们把它省略了。

一百条西班牙毛毯，相同数量的红白两色塔夫绸窗帷，配红白两色丝线绣花白缎子短幔…… 七十把黄缎面座椅和六十张硬麻布面矮凳…… 六十七张核桃木圆桌…… 十七打匣子，每打内装五打威尼斯玻璃杯…… 一百零二块小地毯，每块三十码长…… 九十七块镶银色羊皮纸花边的猩红花缎靠垫，薄绸面脚凳和相配的椅子…… 五十盏枝型吊灯，每盏十二个灯头……

我们已经开始打哈欠了，这都是那清单在作怪。不过我们不再继续，倒不是那目录到此为止，而是因为它实在枯燥。其后还有九十九页，总开销高达数千英镑，相当于我们现在的数百万。奥兰多爵爷的日子如果都是这样度过，人们可能会发现他在时时计算，人工每小时十便士，铲子一百万座鼹鼠丘需要多少钱；五个半便士买半品脱钉子，修理方圆十五英里庭园四周的篱笆需要多少重量的钉子等等。

我们说了，这类算计颇为枯燥，因为柜子与柜子之间基本上没什么两样，一百万个鼹鼠洞也没都大区别。他为此兴致勃勃地奔波，也有一些很有意思的冒险经历。譬如有一次，他为了给一张有银制华盖的大床定制帐帘，把布鲁日(比利时西北部城市，当时欧洲的商业和纺织中心)全城的织绣女工忙得团团转。另外，或许他在威尼斯遭遇摩尔人的冒险故事，也很值得一讲，此人卖给他(不过是在刀尖威逼之下)一个漆柜。谈到工程，也不乏繁多的花样：一次，大队人马从苏克塞斯拖来几棵大树，锯了铺走廊的地板；还有一次，从波斯运来一只塞满羊毛和锯末的柜子，而最终，从中只掏出了一只盘子或一只黄晶戒指。

最后终于走廊里再没有地方可以多放一张桌子，桌上再没有地方可以多放一只瓷器，橱里再没有地方可以多放一个玫瑰花钵，花钵里再没有地方可以多放一点儿百花香，处处都是满满当当。简言之，这大宅子里已经是应有尽有，一应俱全。花园里，雪莲、番红花、洋水仙、木兰、玫瑰、丁香、紫菀、晶种齐全的大丽菊、梨树、苹果树、樱桃树和桑树，以及各种珍稀开花灌木和多年生常青树，盘根错节，枝繁叶茂，浓荫如盖。更有甚者，他还从国外购进羽毛斑斓的野猫头鹰和两只马来熊，他相信，在它们的鲁莽举止背后，是一颗值得信任的心。

一切准备就绪，黄昏降临，无数盏银制壁式烛台点亮了，走廊中永不停息的轻风拂动着蓝绿相间的壁毯，仿佛马背上的猎手真的在奔驰，达弗涅真的在逃逸。银器闪闪发光，漆器熠熠生辉，木器光彩夺目，雕花的椅子伸出臂膀，墙上的海豚背负美人鱼破浪前行。这一切，乃至远远超出这一切的一切都已完工，奥兰多如愿以偿。他心满意足地巡视了全宅，身后跟着几条挪威猎犬。他想，现在他有题材了，可以完成演讲的结束语了。或许，还是重新开始更好。可是，他一边巡视，一边仍然觉得少点什么。桌椅金镂银雕，沙发镌了狮爪形装饰，下装天鹅曲颈般的沙发腿，床上铺了柔软无比的天鹅绒垫，但仅仅这些并不算完整。只有人坐和人躺，才能给它们以生气。于是，奥兰多开始设宴款待四方贵族乡绅。有时大宅里可以整整一个月宾客如云，三百六十五间房间挤得满满当当，五十二条楼梯上客人摩肩接踵。备膳室里三百仆人忙得不可开交，应付几乎每晚必开的宴会。结果短短几年光景，天鹅绒便磨光了绒毛，奥兰多的财产也散去多半，但他赢得了四乡邻里的一片赞誉。他在县里担任了数个公职，每年都有感激涕零的诗人送来十几大卷诗作，献给勋爵老爷，极尽谄媚之能事。尽管现在他有意不与作家打交道，而且处处避开外国血统的女子，他对女人和诗人仍太过慷慨，这两种人对他自是无限倾慕。

然而，每当宴会达到高潮、宾客们欣喜若狂之时，奥兰多便会抽身而去，独自回屋，紧闭房门。在确信没人会来打扰后，他拿出一个旧笔记本，上面用男孩稚嫩的字体写着“大橡树——诗一首”。这本子是当年他偷了母亲的丝线缝在一起的。他会在这本子上一直写到午夜报时的钟声敲响，乃至更晚。不过，他写进去多少行，又会划掉多少行，到年底，它们的总行数甚至往往少于当初，仿佛在写的过程中这诗歌反而消失不见了。因为，若要文学史家来评论的话，他的文风发生了惊人的变化。他的绚丽和丰饶受到了抑制，散文的时代正在使这些温暖的源泉凝结。外部的景观本身也少了很多斑斓，蔷薇丛不再那么多刺和盘根错节。或许，感觉本身就多了些许迟钝，味觉已不再受到蜂蜜和奶油的诱惑。同时，街道的下水系统更通畅，室内的采光更明快，毫无疑问，这对他的文风都有影响。

一日，他正勉力给《大橡树——诗一首》添加一两行字句，忽然眼角的余光瞥到一道阴影。他很快就看到，那不是阴影，而是一个身材高大的女子的身影，她头戴骑手风帽，身披骑手斗篷，正掠过他房间外面的庭院。在所有庭院中，这个庭院最为隐秘，而且奥兰多并不认识这位女士，因此非常惊奇她如何到了这里。三天后，同一幽灵又出现了，接着星期三中午再度现身。这回，奥兰多决意跟踪她，而她显然并不怕给人发现，因为等他走近，她反而放慢脚步，突然转身，和他撞了个满怀。别的女人若在贵族的私宅中被抓住，定会吓得魂飞胆破。别的女人若有那样一张脸、那样的发式和外观，也定会用花边披纱头巾来遮掩。因为这位女子的模样活像一只跳兔，一只受了惊吓而又很执拗的跳兔，一只愚蠢、厚颜无耻因而不知胆怯的跳兔；一只坐得笔挺、凸出两只大眼睛、怒视追赶者的跳兔。它两只耳朵竖起，簌簌直抖，鼻子尖尖，不断翕动。不过，这只跳兔足有六英尺高，还梳了一种古典发式，显得愈发高了。她直勾勾地盯着奥兰多，目光中交杂着强烈的羞怯和厚颜无耻。

首先，她恰如其分但多少有些笨拙地向奥兰多行了个屈膝礼，请他原谅她擅自闯入。然后，她直起身体，她的身高一定超过了六英尺二英寸。她接着说，她是罗马尼亚的芬斯特—阿尔霍恩和斯坎多普—伯姆女大公海丽特·格里塞尔达。她不时发出几声神经质的笑声，话也说得吞吞吐吐，不断发出嘿嘿和呃呃声，奥兰多不禁觉得，她一定是从疯人院里逃出来的。她说，她的最大愿望，就是与他相识。她寄宿在帕克盖茨一家面包房的楼上。她看过他的画像，觉得他很像自己一个早已过世的姐妹，说到此处她嘎嘎笑了几声。她目前正在拜访英国宫廷。王后是她的表姐妹。国王是个不错的家伙，但上床时从来都是醉醺醺的。说到这里，她又开始嘿嘿呃呃起来。总之，奥兰多无计可施，只有请她进屋喝上一杯。

进到屋里，她的举止恢复了一位罗马尼亚女大公本应有的神气活现。若不是她表现出一般女子少有的对酒的了解，并对火器和本国的运动家晶头论足，而且说得很有道理，他们之间怕是无话可说。最后，她跳起来，宣布第二天还要来访，然后深深行了个屈膝礼，走掉了。第二天，奥兰多骑马跑了出来。第三天，他背转身子不理睬她。再下一天，他把窗帘拉了下来。到第五天，天下起雨来，他实在不忍心看一位女士在屋外淋雨，也并不完全反对有人陪伴，于是请她进来，拿出一副祖上披过的盔甲，问她觉得是雅可比还是特欧普打制的。他倾向特欧普，她持另一观点，其实是谁并不重要。但它对我们的故事发展有某些重要性，因为女大公海丽特为了说明她的论点，而这又与如何摆开钮结有关，所以她拿起纯金的胫罩，套在奥兰多的腿上。

我们已经说过，奥兰多有两条曲线优美的长腿，这样的腿是别的贵族所没有的。

或许是她扣脚踝搭扣的方式，或许是她弯腰的姿态，或许是奥兰多长期以来的与世隔绝，或许是两性之间天生的相互感应，或许是勃艮第葡萄酒起了作用，或许是炉火，其中任何一个都可能成为原因。因为像奥兰多这样一位有教养的贵族，在家里款待一位女土，她比他年长很多，脸有一码长，眼神呆滞，穿着打扮也有点可笑，不顾天气已暖，还穿斗篷戴风帽，而奥兰多仍突然被一种强烈的激情所征服，不得不离开房间，那么这里一定是有原因的。

但我们实不妨问道，这倒是哪种激情?答案是双重的，有如爱情本身。因为爱情——不过我们暂时不把爱情扯进来，真实情况是这样的：

当女大公海丽特·格里塞尔达弯腰系搭扣时，奥兰多忽然莫名其妙地听到爱情在远处扇动翅膀。那柔软的羽毛在遥远的地方轻轻摇动，唤醒他心中无数的记忆：奔腾的河水、皎洁的白雪和负心的洪水；那声音愈来愈近，他的脸涨得通红，浑身战栗；他被感动了，而他本以为自己再不会受感动；他准备抬起手，让那美之鸟降落到他的肩膀；忽然，恐怖!，开始回荡起一阵嘎吱嘎吱的声音，好似乌鸦从树上落下，天空一片昏暗，到处是丑陋的黑翅膀，嘶哑的声音、稻草棍、木屑和羽毛纷纷飘下，落到他肩膀上的，是世界上最笨重最肮脏的鸟——兀鹫。他冲出房间，命仆人送女大公海丽特上车。

现在我们可以回到爱情这个话题。爱情有两张脸，一白一黑；爱情有两个身体，一个光洁，一个粗糙。爱情还有两只手、两只脚、两条尾巴。的确，一切都有两个，完全相反的两个。然而，它们紧紧相连，无法分开。在奥兰多的情况下，爱情开始向他飞来，白脸对着他，露出光洁、可爱的身体。爱情离他愈来愈近，随风飘送来纯美的香气。突然(也许是看到了女大公)，爱情倏地转身，露出自己漆黑、多毛、野蛮的一面。不是爱情这天堂之鸟，而是淫欲这兀鹫，沉重地、令人恶心地落在奥兰多肩上。他因此而逃走，因此唤来仆人。

但驱逐那大雕并非轻而易举。女大公不仅继续寄宿面包房楼上，奥兰多也日夜被那讨厌的幽灵所纠缠。似乎他家里装饰了银器、墙上悬挂了壁毯都是徒劳的，因为随时都可能有一只湿乎乎、沾满粪水的猫头鹰落到他的写字台上。她就在那里，在椅子中间笨拙地飞来飞去；他看到她摇摇摆摆、呆头呆脑地穿越走廊。这会儿，她暂栖在炉栏边。他逐她出去，她又回来，用喙敲击玻璃窗，直到把玻璃啄碎。

奥兰多终于意识到，他的家已成了不可栖居之地，必须采取对策，立即了结此事。他请求查理王委任他为驻君士坦丁堡特命全权大使。换了别的年轻人，处在他的地位，也会这样做。当时国王正在白厅散步，奈儿·格温(查理二世的情妇。)依偎在他身旁，给他敲榛子仁儿。那多情的贵妇叹息道，太可惜了，如此的两条美腿，却要远走他乡。

尽管如此，命运无情，她惟一能做的，是在奥兰多乘船启程之前，回头送他一个飞吻。