with some of the guineas left from the sale of the tenth pearl on her string, orlando bought herself a complete outfit of such clothes as women then wore, and it was in the dress of a young englishwoman of rank that she now sat on the deck of the “enamoured lady”. it is a strange fact, but a true one, that up to this moment she had scarcely given her sex a thought. perhaps the turkish trousers which she had hitherto worn had done something to distract her thoughts; and the gipsy women, except in one or two important particulars, differ very little from the gipsy men. at any rate, it was not until she felt the coil of skirts about her legs and the captain offered, with the greatest politeness, to have an awning spread for her on deck, that she realized with a start the penalties and the privileges of her position. but that start was not of the kind that might have been expected.

it was not caused, that is to say, simply and solely by the thought of her chastity and how she could preserve it. in normal circumstances a lovely young woman alone would have thought of nothing else; the whole edifice of female government is based on that foundation stone; chastity is their jewel, their centrepiece, which they run mad to protect, and die when ravished of. but if one has been a man for thirty years or so, and an ambassador into the bargain, if one has held a queen in one’s arms and one or two other ladies, if report be true, of less exalted rank, if one has married a rosina pepita, and so on, one does not perhaps give such a very great start about that. orlando’s start was of a very complicated kind, and not to be summed up in a trice. nobody, indeed, ever accused her of being one of those quick wits who run to the end of things in a minute. it took her the entire length of the voyage to moralize out the meaning of her start, and so, at her own pace, we will follow her.

‘lord,’ she thought, when she had recovered from her start, stretching herself out at length under her awning, ‘this is a pleasant, lazy way of life, to be sure. but,’ she thought, giving her legs a kick, ‘these skirts are plaguey things to have about one’s heels. yet the stuff (flowered paduasoy) is the loveliest in the world. never have i seen my own skin (here she laid her hand on her knee) look to such advantage as now. could i, however, leap overboard and swim in clothes like these? no! therefore, i should have to trust to the protection of a blue-jacket. do i object to that? now do i?’ she wondered, here encountering the first knot in the smooth skein of her argument.

dinner came before she had untied it, and then it was the captain himself — captain nicholas benedict bartolus, a sea-captain of distinguished aspect, who did it for her as he helped her to a slice of corned beef.

‘a little of the fat, ma’m?’ he asked. ‘let me cut you just the tiniest little slice the size of your fingernail.’ at those words a delicious tremor ran through her frame. birds sang; the torrents rushed. it recalled the feeling of indescribable pleasure with which she had first seen sasha, hundreds of years ago. then she had pursued, now she fled. which is the greater ecstasy? the man’s or the woman’s? and are they not perhaps the same? no, she thought, this is the most delicious (thanking the captain but refusing), to refuse, and see him frown. well, she would, if he wished it, have the very thinnest, smallest shiver in the world. this was the most delicious of all, to yield and see him smile. ‘for nothing,’ she thought, regaining her couch on deck, and continuing the argument, ‘is more heavenly than to resist and to yield; to yield and to resist. surely it throws the spirit into such a rapture as nothing else can. so that i’m not sure’, she continued, ‘that i won’t throw myself overboard, for the mere pleasure of being rescued by a blue-jacket after all.’

(it must be remembered that she was like a child entering into possession of a pleasaunce or toy cupboard; her arguments would not commend themselves to mature women, who have had the run of it all their lives.)

‘but what used we young fellows in the cockpit of the “marie rose” to say about a woman who threw herself overboard for the pleasure of being rescued by a blue-jacket?’ she said. ‘we had a word for them. ah! i have it...’ (but we must omit that word; it was disrespectful in the extreme and passing strange on a lady’s lips.) ‘lord! lord! she cried again at the conclusion of her thoughts, ‘must i then begin to respect the opinion of the other sex, however monstrous i think it? if i wear skirts, if i can’t swim, if i have to be rescued by a blue-jacket, by god!’ she cried, ‘i must!’ upon which a gloom fell over her. candid by nature, and averse to all kinds of equivocation, to tell lies bored her. it seemed to her a roundabout way of going to work. yet, she reflected, the flowered paduasoy — the pleasure of being rescued by a blue-jacket — if these were only to be obtained by roundabout ways, roundabout one must go, she supposed. she remembered how, as a young man, she had insisted that women must be obedient, chaste, scented, and exquisitely apparelled. ‘now i shall have to pay in my own person for those desires,’ she reflected; ‘for women are not (judging by my own short experience of the sex) obedient, chaste, scented, and exquisitely apparelled by nature. they can only attain these graces, without which they may enjoy none of the delights of life, by the most tedious discipline. there’s the hairdressing,’ she thought, ‘that alone will take an hour of my morning, there’s looking in the looking-glass, another hour; there’s staying and lacing; there’s washing and powdering; there’s changing from silk to lace and from lace to paduasoy; there’s being chaste year in year out...’ here she tossed her foot impatiently, and showed an inch or two of calf. a sailor on the mast, who happened to look down at the moment, started so violently that he missed his footing and only saved himself by the skin of his teeth. ‘if the sight of my ankles means death to an honest fellow who, no doubt, has a wife and family to support, i must, in all humanity, keep them covered,’ orlando thought. yet her legs were among her chiefest beauties. and she fell to thinking what an odd pass we have come to when all a woman’s beauty has to be kept covered lest a sailor may fall from a mast-head. ‘a pox on them!’ she said, realizing for the first time what, in other circumstances, she would have been taught as a child, that is to say, the sacred responsibilities of womanhood.

@’and that’s the last oath i shall ever be able to swear,’ she thought; ‘once i set foot on english soil. and i shall never be able to crack a man over the head, or tell him he lies in his teeth, or draw my sword and run him through the body, or sit among my peers, or wear a coronet, or walk in procession, or sentence a man to death, or lead an army, or prance down whitehall on a charger, or wear seventy-two different medals on my breast. all i can do, once i set foot on english soil, is to pour out tea and ask my lords how they like it. d’you take sugar? d’you take cream?’ and mincing out the words, she was horrified to perceive how low an opinion she was forming of the other sex, the manly, to which it had once been her pride to belong —’to fall from a mast-head’, she thought, ‘because you see a woman’s ankles; to dress up like a guy fawkes and parade the streets, so that women may praise you; to deny a woman teaching lest she may laugh at you; to be the slave of the frailest chit in petticoats. and yet to go about as if you were the lords of creation.— heavens!’ she thought, ‘what fools they make of us — what fools we are!’ and here it would seem from some ambiguity in her terms that she was censuring both sexes equally, as if she belonged to neither; and indeed, for the time being, she seemed to vacillate; she was man; she was woman; she knew the secrets, shared the weaknesses of each. it was a most bewildering and whirligig state of mind to be in. the comforts of ignorance seemed utterly denied her. she was a feather blown on the gale. thus it is no great wonder, as she pitted one sex against the other, and found each alternately full of the most deplorable infirmities, and was not sure to which she belonged — it was no great wonder that she was about to cry out that she would return to turkey and become a gipsy again when the anchor fell with a great splash into the sea; the sails came tumbling on deck, and she perceived (so sunk had she been in thought that she had seen nothing for several days) that the ship was anchored off the coast of italy. the captain at once sent to ask the honour of her company ashore with him in the longboat.

when she returned the next morning, she stretched herself on her couch under the awning and arranged her draperies with the greatest decorum about her ankles.

‘ignorant and poor as we are compared with the other sex,’ she thought, continuing the sentence which she had left unfinished the other day, ‘armoured with every weapon as they are, while they debar us even from a knowledge of the alphabet’ (and from these opening words it is plain that something had happened during the night to give her a push towards the female sex, for she was speaking more as a woman speaks than as a man, yet with a sort of content after all), ‘still — they fall from the mast-head.’ here she gave a great yawn and fell asleep. when she woke, the ship was sailing before a fair breeze so near the shore that towns on the cliffs’ edge seemed only kept from slipping into the water by the interposition of some great rock or the twisted roots of some ancient olive tree. the scent of oranges wafted from a million trees, heavy with the fruit, reached her on deck. a score of blue dolphins, twisting their tails, leapt high now and again into the air. stretching her arms out (arms, she had learnt already, have no such fatal effects as legs), she thanked heaven that she was not prancing down whitehall on a warhorse, nor even sentencing a man to death. ‘better is it’, she thought, ‘to be clothed with poverty and ignorance, which are the dark garments of the female sex; better to leave the rule and discipline of the world to others; better be quit of martial ambition, the love of power, and all the other manly desires if so one can more fully enjoy the most exalted raptures known to the humane spirit, which are’, she said aloud, as her habit was when deeply moved, ‘contemplation, solitude, love.’

‘praise god that i’m a woman!’ she cried, and was about to run into extreme folly — than which none is more distressing in woman or man either — of being proud of her sex, when she paused over the singular word, which, for all we can do to put it in its place, has crept in at the end of the last sentence: love. ‘love,’ said orlando. instantly — such is its impetuosity — love took a human shape — such is its pride. for where other thoughts are content to remain abstract, nothing will satisfy this one but to put on flesh and blood, mantilla and petticoats, hose and jerkin. and as all orlando’s loves had been women, now, through the culpable laggardry of the human frame to adapt itself to convention, though she herself was a woman, it was still a woman she loved; and if the consciousness of being of the same sex had any effect at all, it was to quicken and deepen those feelings which she had had as a man. for now a thousand hints and mysteries became plain to her that were then dark. now, the obscurity, which divides the sexes and lets linger innumerable impurities in its gloom, was removed, and if there is anything in what the poet says about truth and beauty, this affection gained in beauty what it lost in falsity. at last, she cried, she knew sasha as she was, and in the ardour of this discovery, and in the pursuit of all those treasures which were now revealed, she was so rapt and enchanted that it was as if a cannon ball had exploded at her ear when a man’s voice said, ‘permit me, madam,’ a man’s hand raised her to her feet; and the fingers of a man with a three-masted sailing ship tattooed on the middle finger pointed to the horizon.

‘the cliffs of england, ma’am,’ said the captain, and he raised the hand which had pointed at the sky to the salute. orlando now gave a second start, even more violent than the first.

‘christ jesus!’ she cried.

happily, the sight of her native land after long absence excused both start and exclamation, or she would have been hard put to it to explain to captain bartolus the raging and conflicting emotions which now boiled within her. how tell him that she, who now trembled on his arm, had been a duke and an ambassador? how explain to him that she, who had been lapped like a lily in folds of paduasoy, had hacked heads off, and lain with loose women among treasure sacks in the holds of pirate ships on summer nights when the tulips were abloom and the bees buzzing off wapping old stairs? not even to herself could she explain the giant start she gave, as the resolute right hand of the sea-captain indicated the cliffs of the british islands.

‘to refuse and to yield,’ she murmured, ‘how delightful; to pursue and conquer, how august; to perceive and to reason, how sublime.’ not one of these words so coupled together seemed to her wrong; nevertheless, as the chalky cliffs loomed nearer, she felt culpable; dishonoured; unchaste, which, for one who had never given the matter a thought, was strange. closer and closer they drew, till the samphire gatherers, hanging half-way down the cliff, were plain to the naked eye. and watching them, she felt, scampering up and down within her, like some derisive ghost who in another instant will pick up her skirts and flaunt out of sight, sasha the lost, sasha the memory, whose reality she had proved just now so surprisingly — sasha, she felt, mopping and mowing and making all sorts of disrespectful gestures towards the cliffs and the samphire gatherers; and when the sailors began chanting, ‘so good-bye and adieu to you, ladies of spain’, the words echoed in orlando’s sad heart, and she felt that however much landing there meant comfort, meant opulence, meant consequence and state (for she would doubtless pick up some noble prince and reign, his consort, over half yorkshire), still, if it meant conventionality, meant slavery, meant deceit, meant denying her love, fettering her limbs, pursing her lips, and restraining her tongue, then she would turn about with the ship and set sail once more for the gipsies.

among the hurry of these thoughts, however, there now rose, like a dome of smooth, white marble, something which, whether fact or fancy, was so impressive to her fevered imagination that she settled upon it as one has seen a swarm of vibrant dragonflies alight, with apparent satisfaction, upon the glass bell which shelters some tender vegetable. the form of it, by the hazard of fancy, recalled that earliest, most persistent memory — the man with the big forehead in twitchett’s sitting-room, the man who sat writing, or rather looking, but certainly not at her, for he never seemed to see her poised there in all her finery, lovely boy though she must have been, she could not deny it — and whenever she thought of him, the thought spread round it, like the risen moon on turbulent waters, a sheet of silver calm. now her hand went to her bosom (the other was still in the captain’s keeping), where the pages of her poem were hidden safe. it might have been a talisman that she kept there. the distraction of sex, which hers was, and what it meant, subsided; she thought now only of the glory of poetry, and the great lines of marlowe, shakespeare, ben jonson, milton began booming and reverberating, as if a golden clapper beat against a golden bell in the cathedral tower which was her mind. the truth was that the image of the marble dome which her eyes had first discovered so faintly that it suggested a poet’s forehead and thus started a flock of irrelevant ideas, was no figment, but a reality; and as the ship advanced down the thames before a favouring gale, the image with all its associations gave place to the truth, and revealed itself as nothing more and nothing less than the dome of a vast cathedral rising among a fretwork of white spires.

‘st paul’s,’ said captain bartolus, who stood by her side. ‘the tower of london,’ he continued. ‘greenwich hospital, erected in memory of queen mary by her husband, his late majesty, william the third. westminster abbey. the houses of parliament.’ as he spoke, each of these famous buildings rose to view. it was a fine september morning. a myriad of little water-craft plied from bank to bank. rarely has a gayer, or more interesting, spectacle presented itself to the gaze of a returned traveller. orlando hung over the prow, absorbed in wonder. her eyes had been used too long to savages and nature not to be entranced by these urban glories. that, then, was the dome of st paul’s which mr wren had built during her absence. near by, a shock of golden hair burst from a pillar — captain bartolus was at her side to inform her that that was the monument; there had been a plague and a fire during her absence, he said. do what she could to restrain them, the tears came to her eyes, until, remembering that it is becoming in a woman to weep, she let them flow. here, she thought, had been the great carnival. here, where the waves slapped briskly, had stood the royal pavilion. here she had first met sasha. about here (she looked down into the sparkling waters) one had been used to see the frozen bumboat woman with her apples on her lap. all that splendour and corruption was gone. gone, too, was the dark night, the monstrous downpour, the violent surges of the flood. here, where yellow icebergs had raced circling with a crew of terror-stricken wretches on top, a covey of swans floated, orgulous, undulant, superb. london itself had completely changed since she had last seen it. then, she remembered, it had been a huddle of little black, beetle-browed houses. the heads of rebels had grinned on pikes at temple bar. the cobbled pavements had reeked of garbage and ordure. now, as the ship sailed past wapping, she caught glimpses of broad and orderly thoroughfares. stately coaches drawn by teams of well-fed horses stood at the doors of houses whose bow windows, whose plate glass, whose polished knockers, testified to the wealth and modest dignity of the dwellers within. ladies in flowered silk (she put the captain’s glass to her eye) walked on raised footpaths. citizens in broidered coats took snuff at street corners under lamp-posts. she caught sight of a variety of painted signs swinging in the breeze and could form a rapid notion from what was painted on them of the tobacco, of the stuff, of the silk, of the gold, of the silver ware, of the gloves, of the perfumes, and of a thousand other articles which were sold within. nor could she do more as the ship sailed to its anchorage by london bridge than glance at coffee-house windows where, on balconies, since the weather was fine, a great number of decent citizens sat at ease, with china dishes in front of them, clay pipes by their sides, while one among them read from a news sheet, and was frequently interrupted by the laughter or the comments of the others. were these taverns, were these wits, were these poets? she asked of captain bartolus, who obligingly informed her that even now — if she turned her head a little to the left and looked along the line of his first finger — so — they were passing the cocoa tree, where,— yes, there he was — one might see mr addison taking his coffee; the other two gentlemen —’there, ma’am, a little to the right of the lamp-post, one of ‘em humped, t’other much the same as you or me’— were mr dryden and mr pope.’ ‘sad dogs,’ said the captain, by which he meant that they were papists, ‘but men of parts, none the less,’ he added, hurrying aft to superintend the arrangements for landing. (the captain must have been mistaken, as a reference to any textbook of literature will show; but the mistake was a kindly one, and so we let it stand.)

‘addison, dryden, pope,’ orlando repeated as if the words were an incantation. for one moment she saw the high mountains above broussa, the next, she had set her foot upon her native shore.

but now orlando was to learn how little the most tempestuous flutter of excitement avails against the iron countenance of the law; how harder than the stones of london bridge it is, and than the lips of a cannon more severe. no sooner had she returned to her home in blackfriars than she was made aware by a succession of bow street runners and other grave emissaries from the law courts that she was a party to three major suits which had been preferred against her during her absence, as well as innumerable minor litigations, some arising out of, others depending on them. the chief charges against her were (1) that she was dead, and therefore could not hold any property whatsoever; (2) that she was a woman, which amounts to much the same thing; (3) that she was an english duke who had married one rosina pepita, a dancer; and had had by her three sons, which sons now declaring that their father was deceased, claimed that all his property descended to them. such grave charges as these would, of course, take time and money to dispose of. all her estates were put in chancery and her titles pronounced in abeyance while the suits were under litigation. thus it was in a highly ambiguous condition, uncertain whether she was alive or dead, man or woman, duke or nonentity, that she posted down to her country seat, where, pending the legal judgment, she had the law’s permission to reside in a state of incognito or incognita, as the case might turn out to be.

it was a fine evening in december when she arrived and the snow was falling and the violet shadows were slanting much as she had seen them from the hill-top at broussa. the great house lay more like a town than a house, brown and blue, rose and purple in the snow, with all its chimneys smoking busily as if inspired with a life of their own. she could not restrain a cry as she saw it there tranquil and massive, couched upon the meadows. as the yellow coach entered the park and came bowling along the drive between the trees, the red deer raised their heads as if expectantly, and it was observed that instead of showing the timidity natural to their kind, they followed the coach and stood about the courtyard when it drew up. some tossed their antlers, others pawed the ground as the step was let down and orlando alighted. one, it is said, actually knelt in the snow before her. she had not time to reach her hand towards the knocker before both wings of the great door were flung open, and there, with lights and torches held above their heads, were mrs grimsditch, mr dupper, and a whole retinue of servants come to greet her. but the orderly procession was interrupted first by the impetuosity of canute, the elk-hound, who threw himself with such ardour upon his mistress that he almost knocked her to the ground; next, by the agitation of mrs grimsditch, who, making as if to curtsey, was overcome with emotion and could do no more than gasp milord! milady! milady! milord! until orlando comforted her with a hearty kiss upon both her cheeks. after that, mr dupper began to read from a parchment, but the dogs barking, the huntsmen winding their horns, and the stags, who had come into the courtyard in the confusion, baying the moon, not much progress was made, and the company dispersed within after crowding about their mistress, and testifying in every way to their great joy at her return.

no one showed an instant’s suspicion that orlando was not the orlando they had known. if any doubt there was in the human mind the action of the deer and the dogs would have been enough to dispel it, for the dumb creatures, as is well known, are far better judges both of identity and character than we are. moreover, said mrs grimsditch, over her dish of china tea, to mr dupper that night, if her lord was a lady now, she had never seen a lovelier one, nor was there a penny piece to choose between them; one was as well-favoured as the other; they were as like as two peaches on one branch; which, said mrs grimsditch, becoming confidential, she had always had her suspicions (here she nodded her head very mysteriously), which it was no surprise to her (here she nodded her head very knowingly), and for her part, a very great comfort; for what with the towels wanting mending and the curtains in the chaplain’s parlour being moth-eaten round the fringes, it was time they had a mistress among them.

‘and some little masters and mistresses to come after her,’ mr dupper added, being privileged by virtue of his holy office to speak his mind on such delicate matters as these.

so, while the old servants gossiped in the servants’ hall, orlando took a silver candle in her hand and roamed once more through the halls, the galleries, the courts, the bedrooms; saw loom down at her again the dark visage of this lord keeper, that lord chamberlain, among her ancestors; sat now in this chair of state, now reclined on that canopy of delight; observed the arras, how it swayed; watched the huntsmen riding and daphne flying; bathed her hand, as she had loved to do as a child, in the yellow pool of light which the moonlight made falling through the heraldic leopard in the window; slid along the polished planks of the gallery, the other side of which was rough timber; touched this silk, that satin; fancied the carved dolphins swam; brushed her hair with king james’ silver brush; buried her face in the potpourri, which was made as the conqueror had taught them many hundred years ago and from the same roses; looked at the garden and imagined the sleeping crocuses, the dormant dahlias; saw the frail nymphs gleaming white in the snow and the great yew hedges, thick as a house, black behind them; saw the orangeries and the giant medlars;— all this she saw, and each sight and sound, rudely as we write it down, filled her heart with such a lust and balm of joy, that at length, tired out, she entered the chapel and sank into the old red arm-chair in which her ancestors used to hear service. there she lit a cheroot (’twas a habit she had brought back from the east) and opened the prayer book.

it was a little book bound in velvet, stitched with gold, which had been held by mary queen of scots on the scaffold, and the eye of faith could detect a brownish stain, said to be made of a drop of the royal blood. but what pious thoughts it roused in orlando, what evil passions it soothed asleep, who dare say, seeing that of all communions this with the deity is the most inscrutable? novelist, poet, historian all falter with their hand on that door; nor does the believer himself enlighten us, for is he more ready to die than other people, or more eager to share his goods? does he not keep as many maids and carriage horses as the rest? and yet with it all, holds a faith he says which should make goods a vanity and death desirable. in the queen’s prayerbook, along with the blood-stain, was also a lock of hair and a crumb of pastry; orlando now added to these keepsakes a flake of tobacco, and so, reading and smoking, was moved by the humane jumble of them all — the hair, the pastry, the blood-stain, the tobacco — to such a mood of contemplation as gave her a reverent air suitable in the circumstances, though she had, it is said, no traffic with the usual god. nothing, however, can be more arrogant, though nothing is commoner than to assume that of gods there is only one, and of religions none but the speaker’s. orlando, it seemed, had a faith of her own. with all the religious ardour in the world, she now reflected upon her sins and the imperfections that had crept into her spiritual state. the letter s, she reflected, is the serpent in the poet’s eden. do what she would there were still too many of these sinful reptiles in the first stanzas of ‘the oak tree’. but ‘s’ was nothing, in her opinion, compared with the termination ‘ing’. the present participle is the devil himself, she thought, now that we are in the place for believing in devils. to evade such temptations is the first duty of the poet, she concluded, for as the ear is the antechamber to the soul, poetry can adulterate and destroy more surely than lust or gunpowder. the poet’s, then, is the highest office of all, she continued. his words reach where others fall short. a silly song of shakespeare’s has done more for the poor and the wicked than all the preachers and philanthropists in the world. no time, no devotion, can be too great, therefore, which makes the vehicle of our message less distorting. we must shape our words till they are the thinnest integument for our thoughts. thoughts are divine, etc. thus it is obvious that she was back in the confines of her own religion which time had only strengthened in her absence, and was rapidly acquiring the intolerance of belief.

‘i am growing up,’ she thought, taking her taper at last. ‘i am losing some illusions,’ she said, shutting queen mary’s book, ‘perhaps to acquire others,’ and she descended among the tombs where the bones of her ancestors lay.

but even the bones of her ancestors, sir miles, sir gervase, and the rest, had lost something of their sanctity since rustum el sadi had waved his hand that night in the asian mountains. somehow the fact that only three or four hundred years ago these skeletons had been men with their way to make in the world like any modern upstart, and that they had made it by acquiring houses and offices, garters and ribbands, as any other upstart does, while poets, perhaps, and men of great mind and breeding had preferred the quietude of the country, for which choice they paid the penalty by extreme poverty, and now hawked broadsheets in the strand, or herded sheep in the fields, filled her with remorse. she thought of the egyptian pyramids and what bones lie beneath them as she stood in the crypt; and the vast, empty hills which lie above the sea of marmara seemed, for the moment, a finer dwelling-place than this many-roomed mansion in which no bed lacked its quilt and no silver dish its silver cover.

‘i am growing up,’ she thought, taking her taper. ‘i am losing my illusions, perhaps to acquire new ones,’ and she paced down the long gallery to her bedroom. it was a disagreeable process, and a troublesome. but it was interesting, amazingly, she thought, stretching her legs out to her log fire (for no sailor was present), and she reviewed, as if it were an avenue of great edifices, the progress of her own self along her own past.

how she had loved sound when she was a boy, and thought the volley of tumultuous syllables from the lips the finest of all poetry. then — it was the effect of sasha and her disillusionment perhaps — into this high frenzy was let fall some black drop, which turned her rhapsody into sluggishness. slowly there had opened within her something intricate and many-chambered, which one must take a torch to explore, in prose not verse; and she remembered how passionately she had studied that doctor at norwich, browne, whose book was at her hand there. she had formed here in solitude after her affair with greene, or tried to form, for heaven knows these growths are agelong in coming, a spirit capable of resistance. ‘i will write,’ she had said, ‘what i enjoy writing’; and so had scratched out twenty-six volumes. yet still, for all her travels and adventures and profound thinkings and turnings this way and that, she was only in process of fabrication. what the future might bring, heaven only knew. change was incessant, and change perhaps would never cease. high battlements of thought, habits that had seemed durable as stone, went down like shadows at the touch of another mind and left a naked sky and fresh stars twinkling in it. here she went to the window, and in spite of the cold could not help unlatching it. she leant out into the damp night air. she heard a fox bark in the woods, and the clutter of a pheasant trailing through the branches. she heard the snow slither and flop from the roof to the ground. ‘by my life,’ she exclaimed, ‘this is a thousand times better than turkey. rustum,’ she cried, as if she were arguing with the gipsy (and in this new power of bearing an argument in mind and continuing it with someone who was not there to contradict she showed again the development of her soul), ‘you were wrong. this is better than turkey. hair, pastry, tobacco — of what odds and ends are we compounded,’ she said (thinking of queen mary’s prayer-book). ‘what a phantasmagoria the mind is and meeting-place of dissemblables! at one moment we deplore our birth and state and aspire to an ascetic exaltation; the next we are overcome by the smell of some old garden path and weep to hear the thrushes sing.’ and so bewildered as usual by the multitude of things which call for explanation and imprint their message without leaving any hint as to their meaning, she threw her cheroot out of the window and went to bed.

next morning, in pursuance of these thoughts, she had out her pen and paper. and started afresh upon ‘the oak tree’, for to have ink and paper in plenty when one has made do with berries and margins is a delight not to be conceived. thus she was now striking out a phrase in the depths of despair, now in the heights of ecstasy writing one in, when a shadow darkened the page. she hastily hid her manuscript.

as her window gave on to the most central of the courts, as she had given orders that she would see no one, as she knew no one and was herself legally unknown, she was first surprised at the shadow, then indignant at it, then (when she looked up and saw what caused it) overcome with merriment. for it was a familiar shadow, a grotesque shadow, the shadow of no less a personage than the archduchess harriet griselda of finster-aarhorn and scand-op-boom in the roumanian territory. she was loping across the court in her old black riding-habit and mantle as before. not a hair of her head was changed. this then was the woman who had chased her from england! this was the eyrie of that obscene vulture — this the fatal fowl herself! at the thought that she had fled all the way to turkey to avoid her seductions (now become excessively flat), orlando laughed aloud. there was something inexpressibly comic in the sight. she resembled, as orlando had thought before, nothing so much as a monstrous hare. she had the staring eyes, the lank cheeks, the high headdress of that animal. she stopped now, much as a hare sits erect in the corn when thinking itself unobserved, and stared at orlando, who stared back at her from the window. after they had stared like this for a certain time, there was nothing for it but to ask her in, and soon the two ladies were exchanging compliments while the archduchess struck the snow from her mantle.

‘a plague on women,’ said orlando to herself, going to the cupboard to fetch a glass of wine, ‘they never leave one a moment’s peace. a more ferreting, inquisiting, busybodying set of people don’t exist. it was to escape this maypole that i left england, and now’— here she turned to present the archduchess with the salver, and behold — in her place stood a tall gentleman in black. a heap of clothes lay in the fender. she was alone with a man.

recalled thus suddenly to a consciousness of her sex, which she had completely forgotten, and of his, which was now remote enough to be equally upsetting, orlando felt seized with faintness.

‘la!’ she cried, putting her hand to her side, ‘how you frighten me!’

‘gentle creature,’ cried the archduchess, falling on one knee and at the same time pressing a cordial to orlando’s lips, ‘forgive me for the deceit i have practised on you!’

orlando sipped the wine and the archduke knelt and kissed her hand.

in short, they acted the parts of man and woman for ten minutes with great vigour and then fell into natural discourse. the archduchess (but she must in future be known as the archduke) told his story — that he was a man and always had been one; that he had seen a portrait of orlando and fallen hopelessly in love with him; that to compass his ends, he had dressed as a woman and lodged at the baker’s shop; that he was desolated when he fled to turkey; that he had heard of her change and hastened to offer his services (here he teed and heed intolerably). for to him, said the archduke harry, she was and would ever be the pink, the pearl, the perfection of her sex. the three p’s would have been more persuasive if they had not been interspersed with tee-hees and haw-haws of the strangest kind. ‘if this is love,’ said orlando to herself, looking at the archduke on the other side of the fender, and now from the woman’s point of view, ‘there is something highly ridiculous about it.’

falling on his knees, the archduke harry made the most passionate declaration of his suit. he told her that he had something like twenty million ducats in a strong box at his castle. he had more acres than any nobleman in england. the shooting was excellent: he could promise her a mixed bag of ptarmigan and grouse such as no english moor, or scotch either, could rival. true, the pheasants had suffered from the gape in his absence, and the does had slipped their young, but that could be put right, and would be with her help when they lived in roumania together.

as he spoke, enormous tears formed in his rather prominent eyes and ran down the sandy tracts of his long and lanky cheeks.

that men cry as frequently and as unreasonably as women, orlando knew from her own experience as a man; but she was beginning to be aware that women should be shocked when men display emotion in their presence, and so, shocked she was.

the archduke apologized. he commanded himself sufficiently to say that he would leave her now, but would return on the following day for his answer.

that was a tuesday. he came on wednesday; he came on thursday; he came on friday; and he came on saturday. it is true that each visit began, continued, or concluded with a declaration of love, but in between there was much room for silence. they sat on either side of the fireplace and sometimes the archduke knocked over the fire-irons and orlando picked them up again. then the archduke would bethink him how he had shot an elk in sweden, and orlando would ask, was it a very big elk, and the archduke would say that it was not as big as the reindeer which he shot in norway; and orlando would ask, had he ever shot a tiger, and the archduke would say he had shot an albatross, and orlando would say (half hiding her yawn) was an albatross as big as an elephant, and the archduke would say — something very sensible, no doubt, but orlando heard it not, for she was looking at her writing-table, out of the window, at the door. upon which the archduke would say, ‘i adore you’, at the very same moment that orlando said ‘look, it’s beginning to rain’, at which they were both much embarrassed, and blushed scarlet, and could neither of them think what to say next. indeed, orlando was at her wit’s end what to talk about and had she not bethought her of a game called fly loo, at which great sums of money can be lost with very little expense of spirit, she would have had to marry him, she supposed; for how else to get rid of him she knew not. by this device, however, and it was a simple one, needing only three lumps of sugar and a sufficiency of flies, the embarrassment of conversation was overcome and the necessity of marriage avoided. for now, the archduke would bet her five hundred pounds to a tester that a fly would settle on this lump and not on that. thus, they would have occupation for a whole morning watching the flies (who were naturally sluggish at this season and often spent an hour or so circling round the ceiling) until at length some fine bluebottle made his choice and the match was won. many hundreds of pounds changed hands between them at this game, which the archduke, who was a born gambler, swore was every bit as good as horse racing, and vowed he could play at for ever. but orlando soon began to weary.

what’s the good of being a fine young woman in the prime of life’, she asked, ‘if i have to pass all my mornings watching blue-bottles with an archduke?’

she began to detest the sight of sugar; flies made her dizzy. some way out of the difficulty there must be, she supposed, but she was still awkward in the arts of her sex, and as she could no longer knock a man over the head or run him through the body with a rapier, she could think of no better method than this. she caught a blue-bottle, gently pressed the life out of it (it was half dead already; or her kindness for the dumb creatures would not have permitted it) and secured it by a drop of gum arabic to a lump of sugar. while the archduke was gazing at the ceiling, she deftly substituted this lump for the one she had laid her money on, and crying ‘loo loo!’ declared that she had won her bet. her reckoning was that the archduke, with all his knowledge of sport and horseracing, would detect the fraud and, as to cheat at loo is the most heinous of crimes, and men have been banished from the society of mankind to that of apes in the tropics for ever because of it, she calculated that he would be manly enough to refuse to have anything further to do with her. but she misjudged the simplicity of the amiable nobleman. he was no nice judge of flies. a dead fly looked to him much the same as a living one. she played the trick twenty times on him and he paid her over 17,250 pounds (which is about 40,885 pounds 6 shillings and 8 pence of our own money) before orlando cheated so grossly that even he could be deceived no longer. when he realized the truth at last, a painful scene ensued. the archduke rose to his full height. he coloured scarlet. tears rolled down his cheeks one by one. that she had won a fortune from him was nothing — she was welcome to it; that she had deceived him was something — it hurt him to think her capable of it; but that she had cheated at loo was everything. to love a woman who cheated at play was, he said, impossible. here he broke down completely. happily, he said, recovering slightly, there were no witnesses. she was, after all, only a woman, he said. in short, he was preparing in the chivalry of his heart to forgive her and had bent to ask her pardon for the violence of his language, when she cut the matter short, as he stooped his proud head, by dropping a small toad between his skin and his shirt.

in justice to her, it must be said that she would infinitely have preferred a rapier. toads are clammy things to conceal about one’s person a whole morning. but if rapiers are forbidden; one must have recourse to toads. moreover toads and laughter between them sometimes do what cold steel cannot. she laughed. the archduke blushed. she laughed. the archduke cursed. she laughed. the archduke slammed the door.

‘heaven be praised!’ cried orlando still laughing. she heard the sound of chariot wheels driven at a furious pace down the courtyard. she heard them rattle along the road. fainter and fainter the sound became. now it faded away altogether.

‘i am alone,’ said orlando, aloud since there was no one to hear.

that silence is more profound after noise still wants the confirmation of science. but that loneliness is more apparent directly after one has been made love to, many women would take their oath. as the sound of the archduke’s chariot wheels died away, orlando felt drawing further from her and further from her an archduke (she did not mind that), a fortune (she did not mind that), a title (she did not mind that), the safety and circumstance of married life (she did not mind that), but life she heard going from her, and a lover. ‘life and a lover,’ she murmured; and going to her writing-table she dipped her pen in the ink and wrote:

‘life and a lover’— a line which did not scan and made no sense with what went before — something about the proper way of dipping sheep to avoid the scab. reading it over she blushed and repeated,

‘life and a lover.’ then laying her pen aside she went into her bedroom, stood in front of her mirror, and arranged her pearls about her neck. then since pearls do not show to advantage against a morning gown of sprigged cotton, she changed to a dove grey taffeta; thence to one of peach bloom; thence to a wine-coloured brocade. perhaps a dash of powder was needed, and if her hair were disposed — so — about her brow, it might become her. then she slipped her feet into pointed slippers, and drew an emerald ring upon her finger. ‘now,’ she said when all was ready and lit the silver sconces on either side of the mirror. what woman would not have kindled to see what orlando saw then burning in the snow — for all about the looking-glass were snowy lawns, and she was like a fire, a burning bush, and the candle flames about her head were silver leaves; or again, the glass was green water, and she a mermaid, slung with pearls, a siren in a cave, singing so that oarsmen leant from their boats and fell down, down to embrace her; so dark, so bright, so hard, so soft, was she, so astonishingly seductive that it was a thousand pities that there was no one there to put it in plain english, and say outright, ‘damn it, madam, you are loveliness incarnate,’ which was the truth. even orlando (who had no conceit of her person) knew it, for she smiled the involuntary smile which women smile when their own beauty, which seems not their own, forms like a drop falling or a fountain rising and confronts them all of a sudden in the glass — this smile she smiled and then she listened for a moment and heard only the leaves blowing and the sparrows twittering, and then she sighed, ‘life, a lover,’ and then she turned on her heel with extraordinary rapidity; whipped her pearls from her neck, stripped the satins from her back, stood erect in the neat black silk knickerbockers of an ordinary nobleman, and rang the bell. when the servant came, she told him to order a coach and six to be in readiness instantly. she was summoned by urgent affairs to london. within an hour of the archduke’s departure, off she drove.

and as she drove, we may seize the opportunity, since the landscape was of a simple english kind which needs no description, to draw the reader’s attention more particularly than we could at the moment to one or two remarks which have slipped in here and there in the course of the narrative. for example, it may have been observed that orlando hid her manuscripts when interrupted. next, that she looked long and intently in the glass; and now, as she drove to london, one might notice her starting and suppressing a cry when the horses galloped faster than she liked. her modesty as to her writing, her vanity as to her person, her fears for her safety all seems to hint that what was said a short time ago about there being no change in orlando the man and orlando the woman, was ceasing to be altogether true. she was becoming a little more modest, as women are, of her brains, and a little more vain, as women are, of her person. certain susceptibilities were asserting themselves, and others were diminishing. the change of clothes had, some philosophers will say, much to do with it. vain trifles as they seem, clothes have, they say, more important offices than merely to keep us warm. they change our view of the world and the world’s view of us. for example, when captain bartolus saw orlando’s skirt, he had an awning stretched for her immediately, pressed her to take another slice of beef, and invited her to go ashore with him in the long-boat. these compliments would certainly not have been paid her had her skirts, instead of flowing, been cut tight to her legs in the fashion of breeches. and when we are paid compliments, it behoves us to make some return. orlando curtseyed; she complied; she flattered the good man’s humours as she would not have done had his neat breeches been a woman’s skirts, and his braided coat a woman’s satin bodice. thus, there is much to support the view that it is clothes that wear us and not we them; we may make them take the mould of arm or breast, but they mould our hearts, our brains, our tongues to their liking. so, having now worn skirts for a considerable time, a certain change was visible in orlando, which is to be found if the reader will look at @ above, even in her face. if we compare the picture of orlando as a man with that of orlando as a woman we shall see that though both are undoubtedly one and the same person, there are certain changes. the man has his hand free to seize his sword, the woman must use hers to keep the satins from slipping from her shoulders. the man looks the world full in the face, as if it were made for his uses and fashioned to his liking. the woman takes a sidelong glance at it, full of subtlety, even of suspicion. had they both worn the same clothes, it is possible that their outlook might have been the same.

that is the view of some philosophers and wise ones, but on the whole, we incline to another. the difference between the sexes is, happily, one of great profundity. clothes are but a symbol of something hid deep beneath. it was a change in orlando herself that dictated her choice of a woman’s dress and of a woman’s sex. and perhaps in this she was only expressing rather more openly than usual — openness indeed was the soul of her nature — something that happens to most people without being thus plainly expressed. for here again, we come to a dilemma. different though the sexes are, they intermix. in every human being a vacillation from one sex to the other takes place, and often it is only the clothes that keep the male or female likeness, while underneath the sex is the very opposite of what it is above. of the complications and confusions which thus result everyone has had experience; but here we leave the general question and note only the odd effect it had in the particular case of orlando herself.

for it was this mixture in her of man and woman, one being uppermost and then the other, that often gave her conduct an unexpected turn. the curious of her own sex would argue, for example, if orlando was a woman, how did she never take more than ten minutes to dress? and were not her clothes chosen rather at random, and sometimes worn rather shabby? and then they would say, still, she has none of the formality of a man, or a man’s love of power. she is excessively tender-hearted. she could not endure to see a donkey beaten or a kitten drowned. yet again, they noted, she detested household matters, was up at dawn and out among the fields in summer before the sun had risen. no farmer knew more about the crops than she did. she could drink with the best and liked games of hazard. she rode well and drove six horses at a gallop over london bridge. yet again, though bold and active as a man, it was remarked that the sight of another in danger brought on the most womanly palpitations. she would burst into tears on slight provocation. she was unversed in geography, found mathematics intolerable, and held some caprices which are more common among women than men, as for instance that to travel south is to travel downhill. whether, then, orlando was most man or woman, it is difficult to say and cannot now be decided. for her coach was now rattling on the cobbles. she had reached her home in the city. the steps were being let down; the iron gates were being opened. she was entering her father’s house at blackfriars, which though fashion was fast deserting that end of the town, was still a pleasant, roomy mansion, with gardens running down to the river, and a pleasant grove of nut trees to walk in.

here she took up her lodging and began instantly to look about her for what she had come in search of — that is to say, life and a lover. about the first there might be some doubt; the second she found without the least difficulty two days after her arrival. it was a tuesday that she came to town. on thursday she went for a walk in the mall, as was then the habit of persons of quality. she had not made more than a turn or two of the avenue before she was observed by a little knot of vulgar people who go there to spy upon their betters. as she came past them, a common woman carrying a child at her breast stepped forward, peered familiarly into orlando’s face, and cried out, ‘lawk upon us, if it ain’t the lady orlando!’ her companions came crowding round, and orlando found herself in a moment the centre of a mob of staring citizens and tradesmen’s wives, all eager to gaze upon the heroine of the celebrated lawsuit. such was the interest that the case excited in the minds of the common people. she might, indeed, have found herself gravely discommoded by the pressure of the crowd — she had forgotten that ladies are not supposed to walk in public places alone — had not a tall gentleman at once stepped forward and offered her the protection of his arm. it was the archduke. she was overcome with distress and yet with some amusement at the sight. not only had this magnanimous nobleman forgiven her, but in order to show that he took her levity with the toad in good part, he had procured a jewel made in the shape of that reptile which he pressed upon her with a repetition of his suit as he handed her to her coach.

what with the crowd, what with the duke, what with the jewel, she drove home in the vilest temper imaginable. was it impossible then to go for a walk without being half-suffocated, presented with a toad set in emeralds, and asked in marriage by an archduke? she took a kinder view of the case next day when she found on her breakfast table half a dozen billets from some of the greatest ladies in the land — lady suffolk, lady salisbury, lady chesterfield, lady tavistock, and others who reminded her in the politest manner of old alliances between their families and her own, and desired the honour of her acquaintance. next day, which was a saturday, many of these great ladies waited on her in person. on tuesday, about noon, their footmen brought cards of invitation to various routs, dinners, and assemblies in the near future; so that orlando was launched without delay, and with some splash and foam at that, upon the waters of london society.

to give a truthful account of london society at that or indeed at any other time, is beyond the powers of the biographer or the historian. only those who have little need of the truth, and no respect for it — the poets and the novelists — can be trusted to do it, for this is one of the cases where the truth does not exist. nothing exists. the whole thing is a miasma — a mirage. to make our meaning plain — orlando could come home from one of these routs at three or four in the morning with cheeks like a christmas tree and eyes like stars. she would untie a lace, pace the room a score of times, untie another lace, stop, and pace the room again. often the sun would be blazing over southwark chimneys before she could persuade herself to get into bed, and there she would lie, pitching and tossing, laughing and sighing for an hour or longer before she slept at last. and what was all this stir about? society. and what had society said or done to throw a reasonable lady into such an excitement? in plain language, nothing. rack her memory as she would, next day orlando could never remember a single word to magnify into the name something. lord o. had been gallant. lord a. polite. the marquis of c. charming. mr m. amusing. but when she tried to recollect in what their gallantry, politeness, charm, or wit had consisted, she was bound to suppose her memory at fault, for she could not name a thing. it was the same always. nothing remained over the next day, yet the excitement of the moment was intense. thus we are forced to conclude that society is one of those brews such as skilled housekeepers serve hot about christmas time, whose flavour depends upon the proper mixing and stirring of a dozen different ingredients. take one out, and it is in itself insipid. take away lord o., lord a., lord c., or mr m. and separately each is nothing. stir them all together and they combine to give off the most intoxicating of flavours, the most seductive of scents. yet this intoxication, this seductiveness, entirely evade our analysis. at one and the same time, therefore, society is everything and society is nothing. society is the most powerful concoction in the world and society has no existence whatsoever. such monsters the poets and the novelists alone can deal with; with such something-nothings their works are stuffed out to prodigious size; and to them with the best will in the world we are content to leave it.

following the example of our predecessors, therefore, we will only say that society in the reign of queen anne was of unparalleled brilliance. to have the entry there was the aim of every well-bred person. the graces were supreme. fathers instructed their sons, mothers their daughters. no education was complete for either sex which did not include the science of deportment, the art of bowing and curtseying, the management of the sword and the fan, the care of the teeth, the conduct of the leg, the flexibility of the knee, the proper methods of entering and leaving the room, with a thousand etceteras, such as will immediately suggest themselves to anybody who has himself been in society. since orlando had won the praise of queen elizabeth for the way she handed a bowl of rose water as a boy, it must be supposed that she was sufficiently expert to pass muster. yet it is true that there was an absentmindedness about her which sometimes made her clumsy; she was apt to think of poetry when she should have been thinking of taffeta; her walk was a little too much of a stride for a woman, perhaps, and her gestures, being abrupt, might endanger a cup of tea on occasion.

whether this slight disability was enough to counterbalance the splendour of her bearing, or whether she inherited a drop too much of that black humour which ran in the veins of all her race, certain it is that she had not been in the world more than a score of times before she might have been heard to ask herself, had there been anybody but her spaniel pippin to hear her, ‘what the devil is the matter with me?’ the occasion was tuesday, the 16th of june 1712; she had just returned from a great ball at arlington house; the dawn was in the sky, and she was pulling off her stockings. ‘i don’t care if i never meet another soul as long as i live,’ cried orlando, bursting into tears. lovers she had in plenty, but life, which is, after all, of some importance in its way, escaped her. ‘is this’, she asked — but there was none to answer, ‘is this’, she finished her sentence all the same, ‘what people call life?’ the spaniel raised her forepaw in token of sympathy. the spaniel licked orlando with her tongue. orlando stroked the spaniel with her hand. orlando kissed the spaniel with her lips. in short, there was the truest sympathy between them that can be between a dog and its mistress, and yet it cannot be denied that the dumbness of animals is a great impediment to the refinements of intercourse. they wag their tails; they bow the front part of the body and elevate the hind; they roll, they jump, they paw, they whine, they bark, they slobber, they have all sorts of ceremonies and artifices of their own, but the whole thing is of no avail, since speak they cannot. such was her quarrel, she thought, setting the dog gently on to the floor, with the great people at arlington house. they, too, wag their tails, bow, roll, jump, paw, and slobber, but talk they cannot. ‘all these months that i’ve been out in the world’, said orlando, pitching one stocking across the room, ‘i’ve heard nothing but what pippin might have said. i’m cold. i’m happy. i’m hungry. i’ve caught a mouse. i’ve buried a bone. please kiss my nose.’ and it was not enough.

how, in so short a time, she had passed from intoxication to disgust we will only seek to explain by supposing that this mysterious composition which we call society, is nothing absolutely good or bad in itself, but has a spirit in it, volatile but potent, which either makes you drunk when you think it, as orlando thought it, delightful, or gives you a headache when you think it, as orlando thought it, repulsive. that the faculty of speech has much to do with it either way, we take leave to doubt. often a dumb hour is the most ravishing of all; brilliant wit can be tedious beyond description. but to the poets we leave it, and so on with our story.

orlando threw the second stocking after the first and went to bed dismally enough, determined that she would forswear society for ever. but again as it turned out, she was too hasty in coming to her conclusions. for the very next morning she woke to find, among the usual cards of invitation upon her table, one from a certain great lady, the countess of r. having determined overnight that she would never go into society again, we can only explain orlando’s behaviour — she sent a messenger hot-foot to r— house to say that she would attend her ladyship with all the pleasure in the world — by the fact that she was still suffering from the effect of three honeyed words dropped into her ear on the deck of the “enamoured lady” by captain nicholas benedict bartolus as they sailed down the thames. addison, dryden, pope, he had said, pointing to the cocoa tree, and addison, dryden, pope had chimed in her head like an incantation ever since. who can credit such folly? but so it was. all her experience with nick greene had taught her nothing. such names still exercised over her the most powerful fascination. something, perhaps, we must believe in, and as orlando, we have said, had no belief in the usual divinities she bestowed her credulity upon great men — yet with a distinction. admirals, soldiers, statesmen, moved her not at all. but the very thought of a great writer stirred her to such a pitch of belief that she almost believed him to be invisible. her instinct was a sound one. one can only believe entirely, perhaps, in what one cannot see. the little glimpse she had of these great men from the deck of the ship was of the nature of a vision. that the cup was china, or the gazette paper, she doubted. when lord o. said one day that he had dined with dryden the night before, she flatly disbelieved him. now, the lady r.’s reception room had the reputation of being the antechamber to the presence room of genius; it was the place where men and women met to swing censers and chant hymns to the bust of genius in a niche in the wall. sometimes the god himself vouchsafed his presence for a moment. intellect alone admitted the suppliant, and nothing (so the report ran) was said inside that was not witty.

it was thus with great trepidation that orlando entered the room. she found a company already assembled in a semicircle round the fire. lady r., an oldish lady, of dark complexion, with a black lace mantilla on her head, was seated in a great arm-chair in the centre. thus being somewhat deaf, she could control the conversation on both sides of her. on both sides of her sat men and women of the highest distinction. every man, it was said, had been a prime minister and every woman, it was whispered, had been the mistress of a king. certain it is that all were brilliant, and all were famous. orlando took her seat with a deep reverence in silence...after three hours, she curtseyed profoundly and left.

but what, the reader may ask with some exasperation, happened in between. in three hours, such a company must have said the wittiest, the profoundest, the most interesting things in the world. so it would seem indeed. but the fact appears to be that they said nothing. it is a curious characteristic which they share with all the most brilliant societies that the world has seen. old madame du deffand and her friends talked for fifty years without stopping. and of it all, what remains? perhaps three witty sayings. so that we are at liberty to suppose either that nothing was said, or that nothing witty was said, or that the fraction of three witty sayings lasted eighteen thousand two hundred and fifty nights, which does not leave a liberal allowance of wit for any one of them.

the truth would seem to be — if we dare use such a word in such a connection — that all these groups of people lie under an enchantment. the hostess is our modern sibyl. she is a witch who lays her guests under a spell. in this house they think themselves happy; in that witty; in a third profound. it is all an illusion (which is nothing against it, for illusions are the most valuable and necessary of all things, and she who can create one is among the world’s greatest benefactors), but as it is notorious that illusions are shattered by conflict with reality, so no real happiness, no real wit, no real profundity are tolerated where the illusion prevails. this serves to explain why madame du deffand said no more than three witty things in the course of fifty years. had she said more, her circle would have been destroyed. the witticism, as it left her lips, bowled over the current conversation as a cannon ball lays low the violets and the daisies. when she made her famous ‘mot de saint denis’ the very grass was singed. disillusionment and desolation followed. not a word was uttered. ‘spare us another such, for heaven’s sake, madame!’ her friends cried with one accord. and she obeyed. for almost seventeen years she said nothing memorable and all went well. the beautiful counterpane of illusion lay unbroken on her circle as it lay unbroken on the circle of lady r. the guests thought that they were happy, thought that they were witty, thought that they were profound, and, as they thought this, other people thought it still more strongly; and so it got about that nothing was more delightful than one of lady r.’s assemblies; everyone envied those who were admitted; those who were admitted envied themselves because other people envied them; and so there seemed no end to it — except that which we have now to relate.

for about the third time orlando went there a certain incident occurred. she was still under the illusion that she was listening to the most brilliant epigrams in the world, though, as a matter of fact, old general c. was only saying, at some length, how the gout had left his left leg and gone to his right, while mr l. interrupted when any proper name was mentioned, ‘r.? oh! i know billy r. as well as i know myself. s.? my dearest friend. t.? stayed with him a fortnight in yorkshire’— which, such is the force of illusion, sounded like the wittiest repartee, the most searching comment upon human life, and kept the company in a roar; when the door opened and a little gentleman entered whose name orlando did not catch. soon a curiously disagreeable sensation came over her. to judge from their faces, the rest began to feel it as well. one gentleman said there was a draught. the marchioness of c. feared a cat must be under the sofa. it was as if their eyes were being slowly opened after a pleasant dream and nothing met them but a cheap wash-stand and a dirty counterpane. it was as if the fumes of some delicious wine were slowly leaving them. still the general talked and still mr l. remembered. but it became more and more apparent how red the general’s neck was, how bald mr l.’s head was. as for what they said — nothing more tedious and trivial could be imagined. everybody fidgeted and those who had fans yawned behind them. at last lady r. rapped with hers upon the arm of her great chair. both gentlemen stopped talking.

then the little gentleman said, he said next, he said finally (these sayings are too well known to require repetition, and besides, they are all to be found in his published works.),

here, it cannot be denied, was true wit, true wisdom, true profundity. the company was thrown into complete dismay. one such saying was bad enough; but three, one after another, on the same evening! no society could survive it.

‘mr pope,’ said old lady r. in a voice trembling with sarcastic fury, ‘you are pleased to be witty.’ mr pope flushed red. nobody spoke a word. they sat in dead silence some twenty minutes. then, one by one, they rose and slunk from the room. that they would ever come back after such an experience was doubtful. link-boys could be heard calling their coaches all down south audley street. doors were slammed and carriages drove off. orlando found herself near mr pope on the staircase. his lean and misshapen frame was shaken by a variety of emotions. darts of malice, rage, triumph, wit, and terror (he was shaking like a leaf) shot from his eyes. he looked like some squat reptile set with a burning topaz in its forehead. at the same time, the strangest tempest of emotion seized now upon the luckless orlando. a disillusionment so complete as that inflicted not an hour ago leaves the mind rocking from side to side. everything appears ten times more bare and stark than before. it is a moment fraught with the highest danger for the human spirit. women turn nuns and men priests in such moments. in such moments, rich men sign away their wealth; and happy men cut their throats with carving knives. orlando would have done all willingly, but there was a rasher thing still for her to do, and this she did. she invited mr pope to come home with her.

for if it is rash to walk into a lion’s den unarmed, rash to navigate the atlantic in a rowing boat, rash to stand on one foot on the top of st paul’s, it is still more rash to go home alone with a poet. a poet is atlantic and lion in one. while one drowns us the other gnaws us. if we survive the teeth, we succumb to the waves. a man who can destroy illusions is both beast and flood. illusions are to the soul what atmosphere is to the earth. roll up that tender air and the plant dies, the colour fades. the earth we walk on is a parched cinder. it is marl we tread and fiery cobbles scorch our feet. by the truth we are undone. life is a dream. ‘tis waking that kills us. he who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life —(and so on for six pages if you will, but the style is tedious and may well be dropped).

on this showing, however, orlando should have been a heap of cinders by the time the chariot drew up at her house in blackfriars. that she was still flesh and blood, though certainly exhausted, is entirely due to a fact to which we drew attention earlier in the narrative. the less we see the more we believe. now the streets that lie between mayfair and blackfriars were at that time very imperfectly lit. true, the lighting was a great improvement upon that of the elizabethan age. then the benighted traveller had to trust to the stars or the red flame of some night watchman to save him from the gravel pits at park lane or the oak woods where swine rootled in the tottenham court road. but even so it wanted much of our modern efficiency. lamp-posts lit with oil-lamps occurred every two hundred yards or so, but between lay a considerable stretch of pitch darkness. thus for ten minutes orlando and mr pope would be in blackness; and then for about half a minute again in the light. a very strange state of mind was thus bred in orlando. as the light faded, she began to feel steal over her the most delicious balm. ‘this is indeed a very great honour for a young woman to be driving with mr pope,’ she began to think, looking at the outline of his nose. ‘i am the most blessed of my sex. half an inch from me — indeed, i feel the knot of his knee ribbons pressing against my thigh — is the greatest wit in her majesty’s dominions. future ages will think of us with curiosity and envy me with fury.’ here came the lamp-post again. ‘what a foolish wretch i am!’ she thought. ‘there is no such thing as fame and glory. ages to come will never cast a thought on me or on mr pope either. what’s an “age”, indeed? what are “we”?’ and their progress through berkeley square seemed the groping of two blind ants, momentarily thrown together without interest or concern in common, across a blackened desert. she shivered. but here again was darkness. her illusion revived. ‘how noble his brow is,’ she thought (mistaking a hump on a cushion for mr pope’s forehead in the darkness). ‘what a weight of genius lives in it! what wit, wisdom, and truth — what a wealth of all those jewels, indeed, for which people are ready to barter their lives! yours is the only light that burns for ever. but for you the human pilgrimage would be performed in utter darkness’; (here the coach gave a great lurch as it fell into a rut in park lane) ‘without genius we should be upset and undone. most august, most lucid of beams,’— thus she was apostrophizing the hump on the cushion when they drove beneath one of the street lamps in berkeley square and she realized her mistake. mr pope had a forehead no bigger than another man’s. ‘wretched man,’ she thought, ‘how you have deceived me! i took that hump for your forehead. when one sees you plain, how ignoble, how despicable you are! deformed and weakly, there is nothing to venerate in you, much to pity, most to despise.’

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

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

here they reached the big lamp-post at the corner of what is now piccadilly circus. the light blazed in her eyes, and she saw, besides some degraded creatures of her own sex, two wretched pigmies on a stark desert land. both were naked, solitary, and defenceless. the one was powerless to help the other. each had enough to do to look after itself. looking mr pope full in the face, ‘it is equally vain’, she thought; ‘for you to think you can protect me, or for me to think i can worship you. the light of truth beats upon us without shadow, and the light of truth is damnably unbecoming to us both.’

all this time, of course, they went on talking agreeably, as people of birth and education use, about the queen’s temper and the prime minister’s gout, while the coach went from light to darkness down the haymarket, along the strand, up fleet street, and reached, at length, her house in blackfriars. for some time the dark spaces between the lamps had been becoming brighter and the lamps themselves less bright — that is to say, the sun was rising, and it was in the equable but confused light of a summer’s morning in which everything is seen but nothing is seen distinctly that they alighted, mr pope handing orlando from her carriage and orlando curtseying mr pope to precede her into her mansion with the most scrupulous attention to the rites of the graces.

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

it was happy for orlando, though at first disappointing, that this should be so, for she now began to live much in the company of men of genius. nor were they so different from the rest of us as one might have supposed. addison, pope, swift, proved, she found, to be fond of tea. they liked arbours. they collected little bits of coloured glass. they adored grottos. rank was not distasteful to them. praise was delightful. they wore plum-coloured suits one day and grey another. mr swift had a fine malacca cane. mr addison scented his handkerchiefs. mr pope suffered with his head. a piece of gossip did not come amiss. nor were they without their jealousies. (we are jotting down a few reflections that came to orlando higgledy-piggledy.) at first, she was annoyed with herself for noticing such trifles, and kept a book in which to write down their memorable sayings, but the page remained empty. all the same, her spirits revived, and she took to tearing up her cards of invitation to great parties; kept her evenings free; began to look forward to mr pope’s visit, to mr addison’s, to mr swift’s — and so on and so on. if the reader will here refer to the “rape of the lock”, to the “spectator”, to “gulliver’s travels”, he will understand precisely what these mysterious words may mean. indeed, biographers and critics might save themselves all their labours if readers would only take this advice. for when we read:

whether the nymph shall break diana’s law,

or some frail china jar receive a flaw,

or stain her honour, or her new brocade,

forget her pray’rs or miss a masquerade,

or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball.

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

so, now that we have read a page or two of the “rape of the lock”, we know exactly why orlando was so much amused and so much frightened and so very bright-cheeked and bright-eyed that afternoon.

mrs nelly then knocked at the door to say that mr addison waited on her ladyship. at this, mr pope got up with a wry smile, made his congee, and limped off. in came mr addison. let us, as he takes his seat, read the following passage from the “spectator”:

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

we hold that gentleman, cocked hat and all, in the hollow, of our hands. look once more into the crystal. is he not clear to the very wrinkle in his stocking? does not every ripple and curve of his wit lie exposed before us, and his benignity and his timidity and his urbanity and the fact that he would marry a countess and die very respectably in the end? all is clear. and when mr addison has said his say, there is a terrific rap at the door, and mr swift, who had these arbitrary ways with him, walks in unannounced. one moment, where is “gulliver’s travels”? here it is! let us read a passage from the voyage to the houyhnhnms:

‘i enjoyed perfect health of body and tranquillity of mind; i did not find the treachery or inconstancy of a friend, nor the injuries of a secret or open enemy. i had no occasion of bribing, flattering or pimping, to procure the favour of any great man or of his minion. i wanted no fence against fraud or oppression; here was neither physician to destroy my body, nor lawyer to ruin my fortune; no informer to watch my words, and actions, or forge accusations against me for hire: here were no gibers, censurers, backbiters, pickpockets, highwaymen, housebreakers, attorneys, bawds, buffoons, gamesters, politicians, wits, splenetick tedious talkers...’

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

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

thus time ran on, and orlando could often be heard saying to herself with an emphasis which might, perhaps, make the hearer a little suspicious, ‘upon my soul, what a life this is!’ (for she was still in search of that commodity.) but circumstances soon forced her to consider the matter more narrowly.

one day she was pouring out tea for mr pope while, as anyone can tell from the verses quoted above, he sat very bright-eyed, observant, and all crumpled up in a chair by her side.

‘lord,’ she thought, as she raised the sugar tongs, ‘how women in ages to come will envy me! and yet —’ she paused; for mr pope needed her attention. and yet — let us finish her thought for her — when anybody says ‘how future ages will envy me’, it is safe to say that they are extremely uneasy at the present moment. was this life quite so exciting, quite so flattering, quite so glorious as it sounds when the memoir writer has done his work upon it? for one thing, orlando had a positive hatred of tea; for another, the intellect, divine as it is, and all-worshipful, has a habit of lodging in the most seedy of carcases, and often, alas, acts the cannibal among the other faculties so that often, where the mind is biggest, the heart, the senses, magnanimity, charity, tolerance, kindliness, and the rest of them scarcely have room to breathe. then the high opinion poets have of themselves; then the low one they have of others; then the enmities, injuries, envies, and repartees in which they are constantly engaged; then the volubility with which they impart them; then the rapacity with which they demand sympathy for them; all this, one may whisper, lest the wits may overhear us, makes pouring out tea a more precarious and, indeed, arduous occupation than is generally allowed. added to which (we whisper again lest the women may overhear us), there is a little secret which men share among them; lord chesterfield whispered it to his son with strict injunctions to secrecy, ‘women are but children of a larger growth...a man of sense only trifles with them, plays with them, humours and flatters them’, which, since children always hear what they are not meant to, and sometimes, even, grow up, may have somehow leaked out, so that the whole ceremony of pouring out tea is a curious one. a woman knows very well that, though a wit sends her his poems, praises her judgment, solicits her criticism, and drinks her tea, this by no means signifies that he respects her opinions, admires her understanding, or will refuse, though the rapier is denied him, to run her through the body with his pen. all this, we say, whisper it as low as we can, may have leaked out by now; so that even with the cream jug suspended and the sugar tongs distended the ladies may fidget a little, look out of the window a little, yawn a little, and so let the sugar fall with a great plop — as orlando did now — into mr pope’s tea. never was any mortal so ready to suspect an insult or so quick to avenge one as mr pope. he turned to orlando and presented her instantly with the rough draught of a certain famous line in the ‘characters of women’. much polish was afterwards bestowed on it, but even in the original it was striking enough. orlando received it with a curtsey. mr pope left her with a bow. orlando, to cool her cheeks, for really she felt as if the little man had struck her, strolled in the nut grove at the bottom of the garden. soon the cool breezes did their work. to her amazement she found that she was hugely relieved to find herself alone. she watched the merry boatloads rowing up the river. no doubt the sight put her in mind of one or two incidents in her past life. she sat herself down in profound meditation beneath a fine willow tree. there she sat till the stars were in the sky. then she rose, turned, and went into the house, where she sought her bedroom and locked the door. now she opened a cupboard in which hung still many of the clothes she had worn as a young man of fashion, and from among them she chose a black velvet suit richly trimmed with venetian lace. it was a little out of fashion, indeed, but it fitted her to perfection and dressed in it she looked the very figure of a noble lord. she took a turn or two before the mirror to make sure that her petticoats had not lost her the freedom of her legs, and then let herself secretly out of doors.

it was a fine night early in april. a myriad stars mingling with the light of a sickle moon, which again was enforced by the street lamps, made a light infinitely becoming to the human countenance and to the architecture of mr wren. everything appeared in its tenderest form, yet, just as it seemed on the point of dissolution, some drop of silver sharpened it to animation. thus it was that talk should be, thought orlando (indulging in foolish reverie); that society should be, that friendship should be, that love should be. for, heaven knows why, just as we have lost faith in human intercourse some random collocation of barns and trees or a haystack and a waggon presents us with so perfect a symbol of what is unattainable that we begin the search again.

she entered leicester square as she made these observations. the buildings had an airy yet formal symmetry not theirs by day. the canopy of the sky seemed most dexterously washed in to fill up the outline of roof and chimney. a young woman who sat dejectedly with one arm drooping by her side, the other reposing in her lap, on a seat beneath a plane tree in the middle of the square seemed the very figure of grace, simplicity, and desolation. orlando swept her hat off to her in the manner of a gallant paying his addresses to a lady of fashion in a public place. the young woman raised her head. it was of the most exquisite shapeliness. the young woman raised her eyes. orlando saw them to be of a lustre such as is sometimes seen on teapots but rarely in a human face. through this silver glaze the young woman looked up at him (for a man he was to her) appealing, hoping, trembling, fearing. she rose; she accepted his arm. for — need we stress the point?— she was of the tribe which nightly burnishes their wares, and sets them in order on the common counter to wait the highest bidder. she led orlando to the room in gerrard street which was her lodging. to feel her hanging lightly yet like a suppliant on her arm, roused in orlando all the feelings which become a man. she looked, she felt, she talked like one. yet, having been so lately a woman herself, she suspected that the girl’s timidity and her hesitating answers and the very fumbling with the key in the latch and the fold of her cloak and the droop of her wrist were all put on to gratify her masculinity. upstairs they went, and the pains which the poor creature had been at to decorate her room and hide the fact that she had no other deceived orlando not a moment. the deception roused her scorn; the truth roused her pity. one thing showing through the other bred the oddest assortment of feeling, so that she did not know whether to laugh or to cry. meanwhile nell, as the girl called herself, unbuttoned her gloves; carefully concealed the left-hand thumb, which wanted mending; then drew behind a screen, where, perhaps, she rouged her cheeks, arranged her clothes, fixed a new kerchief round her neck — all the time prattling as women do, to amuse her lover, though orlando could have sworn, from the tone of her voice, that her thoughts were elsewhere. when all was ready, out she came, prepared — but here orlando could stand it no longer. in the strangest torment of anger, merriment, and pity she flung off all disguise and admitted herself a woman.

at this, nell burst into such a roar of laughter as might have been heard across the way.

‘well, my dear,’ she said, when she had somewhat recovered, ‘i’m by no means sorry to hear it. for the plain dunstable of the matter is’ (and it was remarkable how soon, on discovering that they were of the same sex, her manner changed and she dropped her plaintive, appealing ways), ‘the plain dunstable of the matter is, that i’m not in the mood for the society of the other sex to-night. indeed, i’m in the devil of a fix.’ whereupon, drawing up the fire and stirring a bowl of punch, she told orlando the whole story of her life. since it is orlando’s life that engages us at present, we need not relate the adventures of the other lady, but it is certain that orlando had never known the hours speed faster or more merrily, though mistress nell had not a particle of wit about her, and when the name of mr pope came up in talk asked innocently if he were connected with the perruque maker of that name in jermyn street. yet, to orlando, such is the charm of ease and the seduction of beauty, this poor girl’s talk, larded though it was with the commonest expressions of the street corners, tasted like wine after the fine phrases she had been used to, and she was forced to the conclusion that there was something in the sneer of mr pope, in the condescension of mr addison, and in the secret of lord chesterfield which took away her relish for the society of wits, deeply though she must continue to respect their works.

these poor creatures, she ascertained, for nell brought prue, and prue kitty, and kitty rose, had a society of their own of which they now elected her a member. each would tell the story of the adventures which had landed her in her present way of life. several were the natural daughters of earls and one was a good deal nearer than she should have been to the king’s person. none was too wretched or too poor but to have some ring or handkerchief in her pocket which stood her in lieu of pedigree. so they would draw round the punch-bowl which orlando made it her business to furnish generously, and many were the fine tales they told and many the amusing observations they made, for it cannot be denied that when women get together — but hist — they are always careful to see that the doors are shut and that not a word of it gets into print. all they desire is — but hist again — is that not a man’s step on the stair? all they desire, we were about to say when the gentleman took the very words out of our mouths. women have no desires, says this gentleman, coming into nell’s parlour; only affectations. without desires (she has served him and he is gone) their conversation cannot be of the slightest interest to anyone. ‘it is well known’, says mr s. w., ‘that when they lack the stimulus of the other sex, women can find nothing to say to each other. when they are alone, they do not talk, they scratch.’ and since they cannot talk together and scratching cannot continue without interruption and it is well known (mr t. r. has proved it) ‘that women are incapable of any feeling of affection for their own sex and hold each other in the greatest aversion’, what can we suppose that women do when they seek out each other’s society?

as that is not a question that can engage the attention of a sensible man, let us, who enjoy the immunity of all biographers and historians from any sex whatever, pass it over, and merely state that orlando professed great enjoyment in the society of her own sex, and leave it to the gentlemen to prove, as they are very fond of doing, that this is impossible.

but to give an exact and particular account of orlando’s life at this time becomes more and more out of the question. as we peer and grope in the ill-lit, ill-paved, ill-ventilated courtyards that lay about gerrard street and drury lane at that time, we seem now to catch sight of her and then again to lose it. the task is made still more difficult by the fact that she found it convenient at this time to change frequently from one set of clothes to another. thus she often occurs in contemporary memoirs as ‘lord’ so-and-so, who was in fact her cousin; her bounty is ascribed to him, and it is he who is said to have written the poems that were really hers. she had, it seems, no difficulty in sustaining the different parts, for her sex changed far more frequently than those who have worn only one set of clothing can conceive; nor can there be any doubt that she reaped a twofold harvest by this device; the pleasures of life were increased and its experiences multiplied. for the probity of breeches she exchanged the seductiveness of petticoats and enjoyed the love of both sexes equally.

so then one may sketch her spending her morning in a china robe of ambiguous gender among her books; then receiving a client or two (for she had many scores of suppliants) in the same garment; then she would take a turn in the garden and clip the nut trees — for which knee-breeches were convenient; then she would change into a flowered taffeta which best suited a drive to richmond and a proposal of marriage from some great nobleman; and so back again to town, where she would don a snuff-coloured gown like a lawyer’s and visit the courts to hear how her cases were doing,— for her fortune was wasting hourly and the suits seemed no nearer consummation than they had been a hundred years ago; and so, finally, when night came, she would more often than not become a nobleman complete from head to toe and walk the streets in search of adventure.

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

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

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

奥兰多从变卖项链第十颗珍珠的所得中，拿出一些，给自己添置了一整套眼下流行的女装。现在，她坐在“痴情女郎”号的甲板上，俨然一副英国淑女模样。此前，她很少留意自己的性别，这听上去离奇，却是事实。或许，这与她始终穿土耳其裤子有关，那裤子转移了她的注意力。吉普赛女子，除一两个重要的特例外，与吉普赛男子别无二致。无论无何，直到感觉出裹在腿上的裙子，以及船长极为殷勤地提出要为她在甲板上支一副凉棚，奥兰多才大吃一惊，意识到自己所处地位的得失。而这一惊绝对出乎她的意料。

原因并非仅仅在于想到贞洁和如何保持贞洁。正常情况下，年轻美貌的女子孑然一身时，除此不会想到其他。因为女性道德行为的大厦，就建筑在这一基石之上。贞洁是女性的财富、女性最引人注目的品行，女性会狂热地捍卫自身的贞洁不遭劫掠，甚至情愿舍身一死。但若某人身为男子三十年，还荣升为大使，搂抱过女王，而且若那些不那么高尚的传闻属实，还搂抱过其他一两位贵妇，若他娶过一位罗莎娜·皮佩塔等等，他或许就不会如此大惊小怪。奥兰多吃惊的原因很复杂，很难立即概括出来。本来也一向无人说她脑筋机敏，事事都能立即抓住要害。整个形成中，她一直在从道德角度思考自己为什么会吃惊，而我们也将按她的节奏来跟随她的思路。

“上帝啊，”她想，平躺在凉篷下，已恢复常态，“这当然不失为一种快活、懒散的生活方式，”她想，踢了踢腿。“可是，裙子拖到脚后跟，也够讨厌的。不过这料子(碎花棱纹丝)着实漂亮。我还从未看到过自己的肌肤(她把手放在膝盖上)像现在这样美丽。不过，我能穿着这样的衣裳跳下水去游泳吗?当然不行!因此，我不得不信任水手的保护。对此我会不会反对呢?会不会?”她疑惑起来，在一连串顺畅无阻的论据中第一次遇到障碍。

她还来不及解开这个结，晚餐已摆到面前，随后是船长本人——尼古拉斯·本笃·巴托罗斯船长，一位仪表堂堂的海船船长——为她搛了一片咸牛肉，同时解开了这个结。

“来一点肥的怎么样，小姐?”他问。“我只给你切手指甲大的一丁点儿。”听到这话，她感到一股甜蜜的震颤流过全身。鸟在鸣啭，激流在奔腾。这让她忆起，许久许久以前她第一次见到萨莎时，那种无以形容的愉悦。那时，她在追求；如今，她在躲避。两种做法，哪个更让人心醉神迷?男人的还是女人的?它们会不会是一码事?不，她想(谢了船长，但表示拒绝)，最美妙的是拒绝，是看他眉头微蹙。好吧，如果他希望如此，她就吃一小片，世界上最薄、最小的一小片。在所有感觉中，最美妙的还是让步并看到他的微笑。“因为，”她想，重又坐到甲板上，继续思辩，“世上的事，最有意思的就是先拒绝再让步，拒绝和让步。精神因此达到其他一切无法企及的快感。”她继续想，“因此，我可不敢肯定，我就不会跳下海去，仅仅为了获得让水手搭救的那种快乐。”

(读者莫忘记，此时她就像一个刚刚拥有游乐园或玩具柜的孩子。她的论点不会为成熟女人所接受，因为这类事，她们一辈子碰得多了。)

“不过，为得到水手搭救的快乐而跳海，对那种女人，过去我们‘玛丽·罗斯’号士官室的年轻人，会怎么评价?”她说。“我们有个词儿称呼她们来着。啊!我想起来了……”(但此处我们略去了这个词儿，因为它极为不雅，出自女人之口尤其不可思议。)“上帝!上帝!”她再次把自己思考得出的结论喊出声来，“莫非我得开始尊重另一性别的意见，不论我觉得这个意见有多么荒谬?我如果想穿裙子，我如果不会游泳，我如果非得让一个水手搭救我，上帝啊!”她喊道，“我就必得如此!”想到这里，她开始闷闷不乐。她天性直爽，厌恶各种形式的闪烁其词，说谎让她觉得无聊。在她看来，这无异于兜圈子。不过，她思考道，碎花棱纹丝和让一位水手搭救的快乐，倘若这些只能通过兜圈子的方式获得，她猜想，人就只得兜圈子。她记起自己当年身为青年男子时，坚持认为女性必须顺从、贞洁，浑身散发香气、衣着优雅。“现在，我自己不得不为这些欲望付出代价了，”她想。“因为女人并非(凭我亲身作女人的短暂经历)天生顺从、贞洁，浑身散发香气、衣着优雅。她们只能通过最单调乏味的磨练，才能获得这些魅力，而没有这些魅力，她们就无法享受生活的乐趣。仅梳头一项，”她想，“早上就要用去我一小时。照镜子，又要一小时，还要系紧身胸衣的搭带，洗浴敷粉，还要频频更衣，从丝绸到蕾丝到棱纹丝，还要经年累月保持贞洁……”她不耐烦地猛抬了几下脚，露出几分脚踝。此刻恰巧有一个水手从桅杆上向下张望，看到此一情景，大惊失色，一脚踩空，险些丧了性命。“倘若看到我的脚踝，就意味着一个老实人丧命，而那人无疑是拖家带口的，那我倒真得慈悲为怀，把它们遮掩起来，”奥兰多想。但她的双腿美轮美奂，她不禁思忖，要是惧怕水手从桅杆上跌下来，就必须掩饰一个女人的美，可真够荒唐的。“见他们的鬼去吧!”她说，第一次意识到，处于另一情形下，她儿时将受到何种教育，那一定是做女人的神圣职责。

“一旦踏上英格兰的土地，”她想，“我就再不能这样诅咒了。我再不能猛击某人的头顶，再不能戳穿他的诡计，再不能拔剑刺穿他的身体，再不能坐在贵族中间，再不能头戴小王冠，再不能走在队列中，再不能判处某人死刑，再不能统领军队，再不能雄赳赳气昂昂地骑马走过白厅，也再不能胸前佩戴七十二只不同的勋章。一旦踏上英格兰的土地，我惟一能做的就是给老爷端茶倒水，察言观色。要放糖吗?要放奶油吗?”她装腔作势地说出这些话，而后恐怖地觉察到，自己现在是多么看不起另一性别，即所谓的男子气概，而她过去曾对身为男子非常自豪。“只因看到女子的脚踝，”她想，“就从桅杆上跌下来；穿着如盖伊·福克斯(盖伊·福克斯，一个英国天主教徒，为1605年阴谋炸死詹姆斯一世的英国火药阴谋案的同谋。英国民间每年11月15日焚毁他的模拟像，喻穿着怪诞、荒唐)，招摇过市，只为得到女人的赞扬；拒绝让女人受教育，惟恐她会嘲笑你；明明拜倒在穿衬裙的黄毛丫头脚下，却俨然装出创世主的模样，老天爷啊!”她想，“他们可真能哄骗我们啊，我们又有多傻!”此处她的措辞有些含糊，好像同时在指摘男女两性，仿佛她本人既不属于男性，也不属于女性。而且的确她此刻似乎也在犹豫不决，说不清自己到底是男是女，因为她洞悉个中奥秘，兼有两性的弱点。她的头脑处于最困惑、最混乱的奇异状态。她似乎完全失去了无知带来的无忧无虑，成了狂风中飘摇的一根羽毛，她招惹两性对立，轮番发现两性都有可悲的缺陷，因此不能确定自己此身谁属，也就不足为奇。她差点儿喊出声，说自己想返回土耳其，再作吉卜赛人，也就不足为奇。不过此时，船锚落人海中，溅起巨大的浪花，船帆降了下来，她方才意识到(她一直陷入沉思，好几天对一切视而不见)，船在意大利海岸抛锚了。船长立即派人来问，能否有幸陪她乘大艇上岸。

翌晨，她回到船上，重新躺到凉篷下的一把躺椅上，端庄地整理好衣裙，遮好脚踝。

“尽管与另一性别相比，我们无知、贫穷，”她想，接着前一天未结束的思路，“尽管他们全副武装，尽管他们连字母也不让我们识，”(就这些开场白来看，前夜显然发生了什么事，把她推向女性一边，她现在的口气俨然更像女子，而且还流露出某种满足)“他们还是得从桅杆上跌下来。”这时，她打了一个大哈欠，睡着了。待她醒来，船已离岸很近，正乘着徐徐清风向前行驶。峭壁上的城镇，若无巨大的岩石和盘根错节的橄榄古树遮拦，仿佛就要坠入水中。大片的橘林，枝头挂满累累硕果，散发出阵阵橘香，一直飘至甲板。十几条翘尾的蓝色海豚，不时高高跃出水面。奥兰多伸出双臂(她已得知，臂没有腿那样致命的影响)，感谢上苍，没有让她正雄赳赳气昂昂地骑马走过白厅，甚至没有让她去判处某人死刑。“贫穷也罢，无知也罢，它们本来就是女人遮身蔽体的外衣，这世界不妨留给别人去治理；军事野心、迷恋权力，以及男人其他的一切欲望，都可以抛到脑后，只要能够更充分地享受人类精神所知晓的最崇高的愉悦，”她大声说，她深受感动时总是这样，“那就是冥思、隐居、爱情。”

“赞美上帝，让我成为女人!”她喊道，几近陷入为自己的性别感到自豪的愚蠢境地。无论男女，最令人头疼的莫过于此了。突然有一个词让她顿了一下，尽管我们尽量让它安分守己，这个词仍偷偷出现在最后一个句子的末尾：爱情。“爱情，”奥兰多说。爱情当即(它就是这样急不可耐)现出人的形状(它就是如此骄傲)。因为其他想法可以满足于始终抽象，但这个想法，除非有血有肉，有提花纱巾和衬裙，有长统袜和紧身皮衣，否则就无法得到满足。况且在此之前，奥兰多爱过的都是女人。现在虽然她也是女人了，但人的精神状态适应常规总有一种滞后，所以她爱的依然是女人。倘若意识到她与她们性别相同会起什么作用，那就是更加深刻地体会到她身为男人时的那些感觉。因为过去她觉得莫名其妙的千百种暗示和奥秘，现在都变得了了分明。过去的朦胧感，现在均已消失。那些朦胧感分隔开两性，使无数暖昧的想法久久隐藏在阴暗之处。如果说可以从诗人对真与美的描写中有所收获，那就是这种爱在美之中获得了因虚假而丧失的一切。最后，她喊道，她明白萨莎是怎么回事了。她欣喜若狂，沉迷于这一发现的热情之中，追逐着露出真相的所有宝藏，以致一个男子的声音响起，竟仿佛一颗炮弹在她耳旁炸响。那男子说：“小姐，请吧，”一只男子的手扶她站起来，那男子的手指指向地平线，中指上文了一条三桅帆船。

“英格兰的峭壁，小姐，”船长说，他抬起刚才指向地平线的手，行了一个礼。奥兰多又一次大吃一惊，吃惊的程度还要甚于前一次。

“耶稣基督啊!”她喊道。

幸亏看到久别的故乡能作为吃惊和脱口惊叫的借口，否则她很难向巴托罗斯船长解释此时她心中沸腾的愤怒和矛盾的感情。她如何告诉他，别看她此刻依偎在他的臂膀上，浑身颤抖，她却曾是位公爵和大使?她如何向他解释，别看她如今裹在棱纹丝皱褶中，如一枝百合，她却曾让人头落地，而且在郁金香盛开、蜜蜂嗡嗡飞离外坪老台阶的夏夜，与些荡妇酣睡在海盗船上的珍宝中间?她甚至无法向自己解释，当船长的右手坚定地指向英伦三岛的峭壁时，她为何会怦怦心跳。

“拒绝和让步，多么令人愉悦；”她喃喃道，“追求和征服，多么令人生畏；思考和推理，多么崇高。”在她看来，这些词如此组合，并没有什么不妥。然而，白色的峭壁越离越近，她开始感到内疚和耻辱，觉得自己很下流，而对一个从未想过这一问题的人来说，这些本来是很陌生的。他们离岸愈来愈近，直至肉眼能够看到悬在峭壁半空采海蓬子的人。奥兰多看着他们，感到犹如幽灵附体，萨莎在她的身体里上蹿下跳，不一会儿就要撩起她的裙子，炫耀着不见了。这是她失去的萨莎，她记忆中的萨莎，她刚才还在意想不到之间证实其真实性的萨莎。她觉得，萨莎扮着鬼脸，冲峭壁和采海蓬子的人打出各种不体面的手势。水手们开始哼唱“再会，再会，西班牙女人，”歌词在奥兰多忧郁的心头回旋，她觉得，无论上岸意味着何等舒适、富裕、出人头地和地位显赫(因为她无疑可以嫁个王公贵族，作为他的配偶，统治大半个约克郡)，但如果这意味着循规蹈矩、奴役、欺骗，意味着拒绝她的爱情、束缚她的手脚、闭紧她的嘴巴，限制她的言语，她宁肯调转船头，再次扬帆驶向吉卜赛人。

然而，在这些走马灯似来去匆匆的想法当中，突然有什么东西冉冉升起，如同一座平滑、洁白的穹顶。无论是虚是实，这穹顶都使她激情荡漾的心受到很大震动，她停留在这个意象上，犹如看到一大群颤动的蜻蜓，心满意足地落在一个玻璃罩上，玻璃罩里是鲜嫩的菜蔬。在想象的一瞬间，玻璃罩的形状，勾起了她挥之不去的久远记忆。在特薇琪的起居室里，那个天庭饱满的男子，坐在那里写作，或者说只是向前看去，他当然不是看她，因为他似乎根本就没有看见衣着华丽的她，尽管她无法否认，自己当时是个翩翩美少年。每次想起他，这想法就会在记忆周围，铺开一层银色的静谧气氛，宛如汹涌的水面上升起一轮明月。她把手伸向怀里(另一只手仍搭在船长臂上)，她本来可以在那里放一块护身符的，但现在，那里安安稳稳地藏着她的诗稿。性别及其含义给她带来的烦恼逐渐消失了。她现在想到的惟有诗歌的辉煌。马洛、莎士比亚、本·琼生、弥尔顿(1608—1674，英国诗人、文豪，对18世纪英国诗歌具有深刻影响。)等人的不朽诗句，

开始在她眼前闪现，在她耳边回响，仿佛一只金钟锤敲击大教堂塔尖上的金钟，而这金钟就是她的意识。事实上，她眼前隐约出现了一个大理石穹顶的意象，她因此联想到一位诗人的前额，引发了一连串无关的遐想，而这个意象并非臆造，而是现实。船在泰晤士河上御风而行，这个意象变得赫然在目，它恰恰就是大教堂的穹顶，巍然耸立在众多精雕细刻的白色塔尖中。

“圣保罗大教堂，”站在她身旁的巴托罗斯船长说。“伦敦塔，”他接着说。“格林尼治医院，已故的威廉三世陛下为纪念他的妻子玛丽王后而建。西敏寺，议会。”随着他的话音，这些闻名遐迩的建筑物一一映人眼帘。这是九月的一个上午，天气晴好。熙熙攘攘的小船不停地穿梭往返于两岸之间。在返乡游子的眼中，再没有比这更欢乐、更有趣的景象了。奥兰多倚身船首，沉醉在眼前的奇观之中。岁月蹉跎，她的双目已习惯了野蛮人和大自然，现在，城市的壮观景象不能不令她陶醉。接下来是圣保罗大教堂的穹顶，这教堂是她离开时雷恩先生((1632—1723)，英国建筑师、天文学家、数学家，伦敦大火后设计了圣保罗大教堂等 50多所伦敦的建筑物。)的杰作。近处，一根柱子上飘起一绺金发，她身旁的巴托罗斯船长告诉她，那是纪念碑；他说，在她离开期间，曾发生了瘟疫和一场大火。她禁不住热泪盈眶，她记起女人流泪并无不妥，才任由泪水流淌下来。她想，此处，曾是狂欢节旧址。此处，在波涛拍岸的地方，当年矗立着皇家凉亭。此处，她第一次邂逅萨莎。约摸是在此处(她俯视波光粼粼的水面)，人们可以看到那个冻僵的女贩，膝上放着苹果。当时的种种辉煌、种种腐朽，都已一去不返。黑夜、惊心动魄的滂沱大雨、脱缰野马般的洪水，亦已一去不返。当年，黄色的冰山旋转奔腾，挟裹走惊惶万状的人们，如今这地方只有几只高雅的天鹅漂浮水面，怡然自得。自最后一别，伦敦发生了天翻地覆的变化。她记得，当年的伦敦满是黑乎乎、了无生气的小房子。礼拜堂栅栏的铁尖顶上，挂着反叛者面目狰狞的头颅。鹅卵石的人行道，散发出垃圾和粪便的臭味儿。现在，船驶过外坪，她瞥到宽阔整洁的通衢干道。高头大马拉着富丽堂皇的马车，停在一排排房屋前。弧形的圆肚窗、格子玻璃窗、闪亮的门环，都显露出主人的富有和尊贵。女士们身着花绸衣(她把船长的望远镜举到眼前)，在加高的人行道上漫步。男士们身穿绣花外套，在街隅的路灯下吸鼻烟。她瞥到彩色的店招随风晃动，上面画着烟草、各色衣料、牛奶、金银器、手套、香水或其他千百种商品，让人一看就立即明白那是家什么商店。船向伦敦桥旁的锚地驶去，她刚好能够瞥到咖啡馆的窗户。由于天气晴朗，咖啡馆的阳台上闲坐了许多有身份的市民，身前的桌上摆着瓷碟，身边放着黏土烟斗，其中一人正在朗读报纸，不时被其他人的哄笑和评论打断。这里可都是小酒馆?这些人可都是才子或诗人?她问巴托罗斯船长。他热心地告诉她，他们现在正经过可可树村，如果她稍稍向左侧一下头，顺着他的食指所指的方向看去，也许可以看到艾迪生先生(艾迪生(1672—1719)，英国散文作家、剧作家、诗人、期刊文学创始人之一，与人合办(看客)杂志。)正在喝咖啡。瞧，他在那里。另外两位绅士，“那边儿，小姐，电线杆右边一点儿，一个驼背，另一个跟你我差不多，”是德莱顿先生(德莱顿(1631一1700)，英国桂冠诗人，剧作家、批评家。)和蒲伯先生。(蒲伯(1688—1744)，英国诗人，长于讽刺，善用英雄偶体，主要作品有《劫发记》等。)

(随便查阅哪本文学教科书都能知道，船长必定是弄错了；但这错误无伤大雅，我们姑且不去纠正它。——作者注)“不可救药的家伙，”船长说，意指他们是天主教徒，“不过照样儿是能人，”他补充道。然后匆匆走向船尾，安排靠岸的事情。

“艾迪生，德莱顿，蒲伯，”奥兰多重复道，仿佛这是些咒语。刚才她还看到布罗沙耸立的高山，只一眨眼的功夫，就踏上了故乡的河岸。

但是此时，奥兰多将要领略到，面对铁面无私的法律，激情的作用是多么微不足道；法律之坚，胜过伦敦桥的岩石，法律之严，胜过大炮的炮口。她刚回到布莱克弗里亚斯的家，就不断有博街的跑腿儿和法庭派出的严肃差官，前来通知她，她已成为三大官司以及由此产生、或取决于此的无数小官司的当事方。那三大官司均是在她缺席的情况下提起诉讼的。对她的主要指控是 (1)她已死，因此不应拥有任何财产；(2)她是女人，这基本上与(1)是一回事；(3)她曾是英国公爵，娶了舞女罗莎娜·皮佩塔，育有三子，这三子现在宣称其父已去世，他的所有财产应归其所有。如此重大的指控，当然需要时间和金钱来应付。官司期间，她的所有财产由大法官监管，头衔归属待定。因此，现在不能确定她是死是活，是男是女，是公爵还是寻常百姓。就是在这种极端暖昧的情况下，她回到自己的乡间居所。法律允许她在司法判决之前，隐名埋姓居住于此，但是作为男人还是作为女人，还要视诉讼的最后结果而定。

那是十二月一个美丽的傍晚，她到家时，天空中正纷纷扬扬飘着雪花，那横斜的淡紫色阴影，恰似她在布罗沙山顶所见。大宅在雪中闪烁着褐、蓝、玫瑰、紫各色斑斓，屋顶上的烟囱忙碌地冒着白烟，仿佛焕发出自身的生气。与其说它是栋宅子，毋宁说它是座城镇。奥兰多看到它蛰伏在草坪中，宁静、浩大，禁不住冲口喊了起来。黄色的马车驶进庭园，车轮从两侧树木成行的小道上滚滚轧过，几只赤鹿昂起头，好似在期待什么。它们没有露出天生的腼腆，而是跟随马车之后，马车停下后，它们站在了院子四周。踏板放下来，奥兰多踏着它们下了车，赤鹿又是摇头晃脑，又是用蹄子蹬地。据说，还有一只，真地跪在了她面前的雪地上。她的手刚要触到门环，两扇大门豁然敞开，格里姆斯迪奇太太、杜普尔先生和由仆人组成的全体随从，高擎烛灯和火炬，列队迎接她。但挪威猎犬卡努特的狂热首先扰乱了这井然有序的队列，它热情地扑向女主人，险些把她掀翻在地。格里姆斯迪奇太太激动得说不出话来，只能喘着粗气连声说老爷!夫人!夫人!老爷!奥兰多亲切地吻了她的两颊，以示安慰。在此之后，杜普尔先生开始朗读一张羊皮卷子，但他没能有多少进展，狗就吠叫起来，猎人们吹响号角，成年牡鹿也趁着混乱跑进院子，冲着月亮乱叫一气。大家簇拥着女主人，千方百计表明，她回来带给了他们无比的欢乐，这之后，他们在屋内散开。

没有人现出瞬间的疑惑，怀疑奥兰多不是他们所熟悉的奥兰多。即使人们头脑中有疑问，鹿和狗的举动已足以驱散这些怀疑，因为众所周知，这些不会说话的生灵判断身份和特征的能力，远远超过我们。此外，那晚，格里姆斯迪奇太太一边喝中国茶，一边对杜普尔先生说，老爷现在若是变成了夫人，那可就是她见过的最可爱的夫人。根本不必在两者之间进行选择，他们就像一根树枝上结的两个桃子，哪一个都不错。格里姆斯迪奇太太然后用一种神秘的口吻说，过去她早有怀疑(此处她非常神秘地点点头)，她对此并不感到惊奇(此处她非常会意地点点头)，而且就她而言，这不啻是个很大的安慰；因为毛巾需要缝补，小教堂会客室窗帘的镶边流苏已被虫蛀，他们现在正是需要女主人的时候。

“再有一些小男主人和小女主人，”杜普尔先生补充说，凭他所担任的圣职，他有权对这类微妙的事情发表自己的看法。

老仆们在下屋里闲言碎语之时，奥兰多再次秉烛信步走过那许许多多的大厅、走廊、方庭、卧室；再次在冥冥之中，看到她的祖先，某位科波尔爵士、某位张伯伦爵士面色阴沉地俯视着她。她时而坐在贵宾椅上，时而斜倚欢乐榻，观察壁毯不断地晃动，看策马飞奔的猎手和惊惶逃逸的达弗涅。月光透过窗上盾徽的豹身，洒下一片黄光，她像儿时喜欢做的那样，把手臂沐浴在这一片黄光之中。她沿走廊那些打磨光滑的木地板滑行向前，这些木地板的反面，是粗糙的木材。她摸摸这块丝绸、那块绉纱，想象木雕上的海豚在水中遨游。她拿起詹姆斯王的银发刷，刷刷头发，把脸埋在百花香中，这些干花的制法，依然恪守几百年前征服者威廉的教诲，而且使用同样的玫瑰。她眺望花园，遐想酣睡的番红花、休眠的大丽菊，看到仙女们袅娜的白色身影在雪地和大片的紫杉丛中闪现，那些紫杉丛在漆黑夜幕的衬托下，浓密如房屋。她看到柑橘园和参天的欧楂树。她从这一切以及我们粗粗记下的每一景象、每一声响中得到慰藉，心中充满渴望和欢乐。最后，她终于疲惫不堪地走进小教堂，趺坐在古旧的红色扶手椅上，她的祖先曾坐在这把椅子上听礼拜式的乐曲。她点燃一支方头雪茄 (这是她在东方养成的习惯)，打开了那本祈祷书。

这是一本金线装订的小书，丝绒封面，当年苏格兰的玛丽女王在断头台上，手握的就是这本书。信徒的眼睛可以察觉出，书上有一块褐斑，据说这是一滴带有皇家血统的血迹。然而，看到在所有的交流中，与神的这种交流是最不可思议的，谁敢说它在奥兰多心中引起多少纯洁的遐想，又抚平多少邪恶的激情?小说家、诗人、史学家把手放在这扇门上，却都犹豫了。甚至信徒本人，也没有能给我们以启示，难道他比别人更乐于献身、更渴望与他人分享财产?难道他不是与别人一样，拥有众多的婢女和车马?而且在拥有这一切的同时，又有一个信仰，他说因为这信仰，财产化为虚幻，死亡成为渴求。在女王的祈祷书中，除了血迹，还有一绺头发和一小点儿面饼渣，现在，奥兰多又给这些纪念品添加了一小片烟叶，于是，奥兰多一边读祈祷书，一边吸雪茄，深受头发、面饼、血迹、烟叶所有这些尘世混合物的感动，陷入沉思，因而显露出一种与周围环境相符的虔敬神色，虽然据说，她并未与我们通常所说的上帝交流。讲到众神，只有一个上帝；讲到宗教，只有说话者信仰的宗教。虽然这种假定再普通不过，但它同样也再傲慢不过。看来奥兰多有自己的信仰。她正以世上最炽热的宗教情怀，思考自己的罪孽和偷偷潜入她精神状态的不完美之处。她反思到，字母s是诗人笔下伊甸园中的撤旦。她竭尽全力，但在《大橡树》的第一节中，仍有太多这些罪恶的爬行动物。不过在她看来，相比用“ing”结尾，“s”不算什么。现在分词是魔鬼本身，她想(既然我们现在处于相信魔鬼的境地)。她的结论是，逃避这种诱惑，是诗人的首要责任，因为既然耳朵是灵魂的前厅，诗歌肯定就能比欲望或弹药更多地掺假，并摧毁更多的东西。那么，诗人的职责就是最高的职责，她接着往下想。诗人的言语传得比别人更远。莎士比亚一首无聊的歌，对穷人和坏蛋所起的作用，超过天下所有的传道士和慈善家。因此，为了让传播启示的通道少一些扭曲，花多少时间和精力都不为过。我们必须塑造自己的辞藻，直到它们能够最清晰地表达我们的思想。思想是神圣的。因此，很显然，她又回到自己宗教的地盘，她不在英国的这段时间，她的宗教只是更加坚固，而且迅速获得了信仰的那种不宽容。

“我长大了，”她想，终于拿起细蜡烛。“我正在失去某些幻想，”她说，合上玛丽女王的书。“也可能又生出其他的幻想，”她从埋葬先祖尸骨的墓地间走下来。

然而，甚至先祖麦尔斯爵士、杰维斯爵士、还有其他人的遗骨，也多少失去了它们的神圣意义，这从那天晚上在亚洲的莽莽高原上开始，当时拉斯多姆·埃尔·萨迪大手一挥，对这一切根本不屑一顾。不过三、四百年前，这些骷髅的主人，如同现代的所有新贵，正在这个世界上奔走钻营。如同所有的暴发户，他们建大宅，谋高官，终于显赫一时。而或许诗人，乃至有思想、有教养的人，则更喜欢乡村的静谧。为此选择，他们付出了代价，沦为赤贫，如今或者在斯特兰德大街兜售大幅双面印刷品，或者在乡下牧羊。这些想法让她心中充满自责。她站在教堂的地窖里，想到埃及金字塔和那下面埋葬的尸骨。有一会儿，与这个拥有众多房间的府邸相比，马尔马拉海边那些连绵起伏、人烟稀少的山脉，似乎是更好的栖居之地，尽管这里每张床上都有锦被，每个银盘都有银盖。

“我长大了，”她想，拿起细蜡烛。“我正在失去某些幻想，也可能又生出其他的幻想，”她说，漫步走过长长的走廊，来到她的卧室。她想，这是一个不愉快的过程，一个麻烦多多的过程。但令人惊奇的是，这也是一个有趣的过程，她一边想，一边把腿伸向炉火(因为此时没有水手在场)，她循着往昔的时光，回顾自己的进步，仿佛它是一条两侧楼宇林立的林荫道。

少年时代，她多么喜欢声音，在她看来，发自口中的一连串喧闹音节，是最美妙的诗歌。后来，或许是萨莎和她引起的幻灭起了作用，在阴郁情绪的笼罩下，她由狂热变得怠惰。慢慢地，某些复杂、千头万绪的东西，在她内心展开，只有打着火炬，才能在散文而不是韵文中寻觅到这些东西。她记得自己曾经狂热地研究那位诺维奇的布朗医生，他的书就在她手边。与格林的事情了结后，她孤独地在这里形成或试图形成一种抵御的精神，因为上帝知道这些成长需要漫长的过程。“我将写作，”她曾经说，“写我所喜欢写的。”于是她潦草地写出二十六大卷。然而，她出门旅行和历险，她不断深刻思考和转变，尽管如此，她依然处于成长过程中。未来可能带来什么，只有上帝知道。变化不断，而且变化永不会止息。思想在激烈斗争，本来好似岩石般牢固持久的习惯，在另一些思想的触动下，如阴影般坠落，露出无遮无拦的天空和光闪闪、亮晶晶的星星。此时，她走到窗前，窗外寒气逼人，她仍忍不住推开窗，探出身去，感受寒夜潮湿的空气。她听到树林里有一只狐狸在叫，一只野鸡扑簌扑簌在树枝中穿行。她听到雪在移动，从房顶滑落到地上。“就我的生活而言，”她高声宣布，“这里胜过土耳其一千倍。拉斯多姆，你错了。”她喊道，仿佛在与那吉卜赛人辩论(她想出一个论点，不断与本不存在因而无法与她抗辩的人去论争，靠了这一新生的力量，她再次显示了自己灵魂的成长)，“这里胜过土耳其。头发、面饼、烟叶，我们就是这些零零碎碎的东西的混杂物，”她说(想到玛丽女王的祈祷书)。“人的头脑真是一个幻影，一个矛盾的汇合体。我们一会儿哀叹自己的出身和现状，渴望苦行的高尚，一会儿又为一条古老花园小路的气息所征服，为听到歌鸫的啁啾而流泪。”一如既往，事物的无奇不有令她困惑，这些事物需要得到解释，却只留下讯息，没有任何关于含义的暗示。她把方头雪茄扔出窗外，上床去睡了。

第二天一早，她拿出纸笔，循着这些思路，重又开始写作《大橡树》。对一个曾用浆果和页边勉为其难地应付写作的人，纸笔充足带来了难以想象的喜悦。于是，她时而因删去一词而陷入绝望的深渊，时而又因添加一个词而攀上喜悦的巅峰，正在这时，一道阴影落在纸上，她赶紧把手稿藏了起来。

她的窗户面向方庭中央；她吩咐过，不见任何人；她谁也不认识，而且从法律上讲，也没有人认识她，所以刚才看到人影，她始则惊讶，继而气恼，然后(她抬起头来，看到其原因)又喜出望外。因为这个熟悉、怪诞的身影非同小可，她正是罗马尼亚芬斯特—阿尔霍恩和斯坎多普—伯姆女大公海丽特·格里塞尔达。她正大步跑过方庭，依然身着一袭黑色女式骑装和披风，连头发都没有一丝一毫的改变。那么，这就是那个从英国一直追逐她的女人!这就是那个猛禽，那个代表淫欲的秃鹫 ——那个给人带来灾难的猫头鹰!想到自己为了躲避她的勾引(现在变得极其无味)，一路逃到土耳其，奥兰多不禁大笑起来。那情景有一种无法表达的滑稽味道。奥兰多以前就觉得，她酷似一只畸形的跳兔，眼睛直勾勾的，两颊瘦长，发式也像那种动物。她现在停下脚步，活像一只跳兔蹲在玉米地里，以为无人看到它。她盯着奥兰多，奥兰多也从窗里盯着她。两人对视了一段时间，奥兰多别无办法，只好请她进来。很快，两位女士就开始相互赞美，女大公一边掸掉披风上的雪。

“愿上天降祸于女人，”奥兰多自言自语，去拿柜子里的葡萄酒杯。“她们从不肯给人片刻安宁。世上再没有人比她们更爱多管闲事，更爱搬弄是非。就是为了逃避这个瘦高个儿，我才离开英格兰，现在……”说到这儿，她回身将托盘递给女大公，却看到站在那里的，是一位身着黑衣的高个儿绅士。一堆衣服搭在火炉的围栏上。她现在是独自与一个男人在一起。

奥兰多突然意识到自己的性别，她刚才已把这一点忘得干干净净。她也意识到他的性别，而男性现在遥远得同样令人不安。奥兰多突然觉得头晕目眩。

“啊呀!”她喊道，手捂住肋骨，“你简直吓死我了!”

“可爱的人儿，”女大公高声说，一条腿跪下来，同时把一种烈性甜酒贴在奥兰多的唇上。“原谅我曾经欺骗你。”

奥兰多啜着那美酒，大公跪在她面前，吻她的手。

简言之，有那么十分钟的时间，他们两人热烈地扮演了男人和女人的角色，然后才进入自然的交谈。女大公(以后得称他为大公了)讲述了自己的故事：他是男人，而且从来就是男人；当年他看到奥兰多的一幅画像，无可救药地坠入爱河；为达目的，他男扮女装，寄宿面包房；奥兰多逃到土耳其，他因此而痛不欲生；现在耳闻她的变化，他匆匆赶来为她效劳(此处他的窃笑令人无法容忍)。哈里大公说，这是因为，在他眼里，奥兰多一直是而且永远是女性的典范、佼佼者，完美无缺。若不是其间夹杂诡异的窃笑和呵呵大笑，这三个形容词会很有说服力。“倘若这就是爱情，”奥兰多此时站在女人的角度，看着火炉围栏另一侧的大公，心说，“此事可未免太荒唐了。”

哈里大公双膝下屈，热烈地宣布向她求婚。他对她说，他拥有差不多两千万达克特（达克特，旧时在欧洲许多国家通用的金币或银币名。天回来听她的答复。），存在他城堡里的一个保险箱中。他名下的土地超过英国任何一个贵族。那里是狩猎的好地方，他保证她能猎到一口袋雷鸟和松鸡，英格兰或苏格兰的大沼根本就比不上。不错，他不在时，野鸡患了口疫，雌鹿早产，但这些都可恢复正常，而且是在她的佐助之下，只要她肯与他一起住在罗马尼亚。

说着说着，眼泪溢满了他那暴突的眼睛，顺着粗糙、瘦长的两颊淌下来。

曾经身为男人的奥兰多根据亲身经历，明白男人经常像女人一样毫无来由地啼哭；但她开始意识到，男人当着女人的面流露感情，女人应该感到震惊，而她也确实感到震惊。

大公向她道歉。他很快控制住自己，说他现在要走了，第二这是星期二。他星期三来，星期四来，星期五来，星期六又来。事实上，每次拜访都以求爱开始，以求爱继续，以求爱告终，其间则是长时间的沉默。他们分坐壁炉两侧，有时，大公踢翻了火铲火钳，奥兰多把它们拾起来。然后，大公记起，他曾在瑞典射中过一只赤鹿，奥兰多问这赤鹿是不是很大，大公说没有他在挪威射中的驯鹿大；奥兰多问他是否射中过老虎，大公说他射中过一只信天翁，奥兰多又问(半掩饰她的哈欠)信天翁是不是有大象那样大，大公说些非常理智的话，这一点毫无疑问，但奥兰多没有听见，因为她正在看自己的书桌、窗外或门。大公说：“我崇拜你，”而就在同时，奥兰多却说：“看哪，下雨了，”对此，两人都觉得很尴尬，脸涨得通红，不知道往下再说什么。的确，奥兰多已想不出还有什么可说。若不是记起一个名叫“苍蝇卢牌”（卢牌戏，古代一种有赌金、罚金的纸牌游戏。）的游戏，而这游戏又是无须费神就可以输掉大笔钱，她寻思自己怕非得嫁给他不可了；因为她不知还有别的什么办法可以甩掉他。这游戏很简单，仅需三块方糖和足够多的苍蝇。用这个办法，可以克服交谈中的尴尬，避免谈论婚嫁。眼下，大公将出五百英镑，赌一只苍蝇会落在一块而非另一块方糖上。于是，整个上午，他们都有了一个观看苍蝇的消遣(在这个季节，苍蝇当然是懒洋洋的，往往一小时只围着天花板飞来飞去)，直到某只美丽的青蝇终于作出选择，游戏于是分出输赢。在这一游戏中，成百上千的英镑在他们之间转手，天生就是赌徒的大公发誓，这游戏毫不逊于赛马，他可以永远玩下去。而奥兰多很快就厌烦了。

“若是每天都得拿出整整一上午，与一位大公一起看青蝇，”她自问，“那么女人年轻貌美又有什么用呢?”

她开始讨厌看到方糖，苍蝇也让她头晕。她觉得，总应有个办法摆脱困境，但耍弄女性的各种计谋，她依然做不到得心应手。既然不再能给男人当头一击，或用长剑刺透他的身体，她就想不出比下述更好的办法了。她抓了一只青蝇，轻轻把它碾死(它已经半死，否则她那么怜惜不会说话的生灵，绝不会允许这样的事情发生)，再用一滴阿拉伯树胶，把它牢牢粘在一块方糖上。在大公死盯着天花板时，她巧妙地把这块方糖与她押下赌注的那块方糖掉了包，然后大喊：“罚钱、罚钱!”宣布她赢了赌注。她猜大公精通体育与赛马，必定会察觉她的作弊。既然在卢牌戏中作弊是最卑鄙的罪行，男人因此会被永远逐出人类，只能在热带与类人猿为伍，她算计他会有足够的大丈夫气，拒绝再与她有任何往来。但她错误地估计了那可爱贵族的单纯。他对苍蝇的判断力极差。在他眼里，死苍蝇与活苍蝇是一回事。她对他耍了二十次同样的把戏，他付给她一万七千二百五十英镑(合我们现在的四万零八百八十五英镑六先令八便士)，直到奥兰多的作弊明显到连他也无法视而不见。他终于意识到真相，接踵而来的是一幅痛苦不堪的场面。大公腾地站直身子，脸涨得通红。泪珠一颗颗从他的面颊上滚下来。她从他身上赢走大笔钱并无所谓，他很乐意她这样做；她欺骗他，这有点儿问题，想到她能这样做，他觉得受了伤害；但最不可原谅的，是在卢牌戏中作弊。他说，爱一个在游戏中作弊的女人是不可能的。说到这里，他彻底崩溃了。略微恢复后，他说，幸好没有旁人在场。她毕竟只是个女子，他说。简言之，他正准备发扬骑士风度，宽、恕她，已经躬身请她原谅他的语言粗暴，当他低下他那高傲的头颅时，她把一只小小的癞蛤蟆塞到他的皮肤和衬衫之间，于是这件事戛然而止。

公正地说，她宁可用长剑。癞蛤蟆冷冰冰、湿腻腻的，藏在人身上整整一上午挺难受。不过既然不能用长剑，就只好诉诸癞蛤蟆了。而且有时，癞蛤蟆和大笑制造的效果，恰恰是冰冷的铁剑所不能。她大笑。大公开始脸红。她大笑。大公开始诅咒。她大笑。大公砰地一声摔上了门。

“赞美上苍!”奥兰多喊道，笑个不止。她听到四驾马车的车轮疯狂驶过庭院。她听到它们沿路发出的格格声，这声音渐渐远去，最后彻底消失。

“就剩我一人了，”奥兰多说，既然没有别人，她的声音就很大。

喧嚣之后的静寂愈显深沉，这一点仍然有待科学来证实。但刚经过求爱，孤独会显得更明显，许多女人都可以发誓证明这一点。随着大公四驾马车的车轮声渐渐消失，奥兰多觉得，离她一点一点远去的，是一位大公(对此她并不介意)，一份家产(对此她也不介意)，一个头衔(对此她同样不介意)，婚姻生活的安全感和氛围(对此她仍不介意)，但她听到生活，还有恋人，正在从她身边远去。“生活和恋人，”她喃喃自语道；走到书桌旁，用笔蘸了墨水，写道：

“生活和恋人”——不合韵律的一行诗，与先前所写的也不合拍——那是用正确的方法给羊洗药浴，免得羊得疥癣。读了一遍，她的脸红了，又重复道。

“生活和恋人。”她把笔放到一边，走进卧室，站到镜子前，整整脖颈上的珍珠项链。她觉得，与枝状花纹的棉布晨袍相配，珍珠显不出华丽，于是换上鸽子灰塔夫绸，又换成有桃花图案的塔夫绸，又换成酒红色锦缎。没准儿需要敷一点脂粉，头发盘绕额头，或许会显得更漂亮。之后，她把脚伸进尖头的浅口便鞋，又戴上一只翠玉戒指。“这下好了，”一切收拾停当后她说，并点燃镜子两旁银制壁式烛台上的蜡烛。看到奥兰多当时看到的雪中之火，哪个女人会不激动呢?因为镜子四周都是白雪覆盖的草地，她好似一团火，一丛燃烧的灌木，而她头颅两旁蜡烛燃烧的火苗是银的树叶。或者说，镜子是绿水，她是颈挂珍珠的美人鱼，是洞穴中的塞壬（塞壬，希腊神话中半人半鸟的女海妖，以美妙歌声诱惑过往水手，使驶近的船只触礁沉没。），用歌声诱惑水手探身船外，落入水中，拥抱她。她是如此幽暗，又如此光明，如此坚硬，又如此柔媚，只可惜当时无人用简单的英语直截了当地说，“真该死，夫人，你是美的化身。”确实如此，甚至奥兰多(她对自己的身体并不自负)也明白这一点，因为她不由自主露出的笑容，正是女人的美貌似乎不属于她们自己，而宛如水滴洒落或喷泉升起，突然在镜中出现时，她们露出的笑容。奥兰多露出的即是这种笑容，然后她竖起耳朵，听了一会儿，只听到风中树叶的簌簌声和歌雀的啁啾声，她叹了口气说：“生活，恋人，”旋即转身，扯下颈上的珍珠项链，脱去缎子衣裙，换上普通贵族男子灵便利落的黑绸灯笼裤，站得笔挺，摇铃唤来仆人，命令立即备好六驾马车，她有急事要去伦敦。于是，大公离去还不到一小时，她就乘车离去。

沿途照旧是朴素的英格兰风光，无须再加描述，但我们可以借此机会，在奥兰多驾车时，使读者特别注意叙述过程中不经意插入的一两处议论。譬如，读者可能已经注意到，在受到打扰时，奥兰多把手稿藏了起来。然后，她久久注视镜子里自己的身影；而现在，她驾车去伦敦，人们又可以注意到，马跑得飞快时，她吓了一跳，极力抑制，才没有叫出声来。她写作时的谨慎、她对自己身体的虚荣、她对自己安全的担心，所有这一切似乎都暗示了一条，即我们不久前所说的，奥兰多作为女子与男子没什么两样，已经不再完全正确。她正在变得如女人那样，对自己的头脑多少有些疑惑，对自己的身体多少有些虚荣。某些感情正在发挥威力，有些则在渐渐消失。一些哲学家会说，换装与此有很大干系。他们说，看似无关紧要，其实衣服的功能绝不仅仅是御寒。衣服能改变我们对世界的看法，也改变世界对我们的看法。举例来说，巴托罗斯船长看到奥兰多的裙子，旋即令人为她支起一架天篷，并竭力劝她再吃一片牛肉，乃至邀她与自己一起乘大艇上岸。倘若她的裙子不是飘垂的，而是紧紧包在腿上，剪裁得像紧腿裤那样，她就不会得到这些恭维。而且我们在得到别人的恭维时，有责任加以回报。奥兰多行了屈膝礼；她遵从礼节，恭维那位可敬的先生非常幽默；如果他的紧腿裤是女人的裙子，他的镶边外衣是女人的缎子上衣，奥兰多就绝不会这样做。因此，有很多事实可以支持这个观点，即不是我们穿衣服，而是衣服穿我们；我们可以把它们缝制成手臂或胸脯的形状，而它们则根据自己的喜好塑造我们的心、我们的脑、我们的语言。因此，既然奥兰多穿裙子已有相当长一段时间，在她身上可以看到某些变化。读者读一读第八十八页，即可发现这些变化，甚至她脸部的变化。对男性奥兰多的画像与女性奥兰多的画像加以比较，我们会看到，他们无疑是同一个人，但依然有某些变化。男子的手可以自由自在地握剑，而女子的手必须扶住缎子衣衫，免得它从肩膀滑下来。男子可以直面世界，仿佛世界为他所用，由他随意塑造。女子则小心翼翼，甚至疑虑重重地斜视这个世界。男女若是穿同样的衣服，对世界或许就有同样的看法了。

这是某些哲学家和智者的观点，但总体说来，我们倾向于另一种观点。幸好男女之间的差异深不可测，服装不过是象征了某种深藏不露的东西而已。是奥兰多本身的改变，指令她选择女性的服装和女性的性表现。或许，如此这般，她只是表现了发生在多数人身上、却没有表现得如此明了的某些东西，她只是比通常更开放而已，而开放本是她的天性。此处，我们再次陷人两难的境地。因为性别虽有不同，男女两性却是混杂的，每个人身上，都发生从一性向另一性摇摆的情况，往往只是服装显示了男性或女性的外表，而内里的性别则恰恰与外表相反。对由此产生的复杂和混乱，人人都有亲身体验；但此处，我们姑且撇开一般，仅仅注意它在奥兰多这个特例中产生的奇特作用。

正因为她身上的这种男女两性的混合，一时为男，一时为女，她的行为举止才往往发生意想不到的转变。例如，女性中的好奇者会争辩说，奥兰多若为女性，她更衣的时间为何从不超过十分钟?难道她的衣衫不是选择得很随意，有时实在很寒伧吗?然后，她们又会说，可她又丝毫没有男性的那种拘泥和对权力的热衷。她的心肠太软，看不得驴子挨打或猫溺水而死。但同时，她们又注意到，她厌恶家务事，夏天日头未出，就起床出门到田里去。她对庄稼的了解不下于农民。她的酒量不逊于任何人，还喜欢危险的游戏。她的马术精湛，能驾驭六驾马车疾驰过伦敦桥。不过，尽管像男子那般勇敢、活跃，据说看到别人遇到危险仍能让她心悸，这一点最为女子气。稍遇挑衅，她就会眼泪汪汪。她不熟悉地理，受不了数学，也有那些莫名其妙的怪念头，譬如向南即是下山，这种情况女子比男子更普遍。那么，奥兰多究竟是更像男子，还是更像女子，这一点很难说清，时至现在，仍然无法确定。她的马车此时正在鹅卵石子路上飞奔，她来到了自己在城里的家。下车的脚踏板放下来，铁门打开，她走进父亲在布莱克弗里亚斯的房子。虽然城市的这一端此时已开始为时尚所遗弃，但这宅子仍不失一处舒适、宽敞的所在，花园直通河边，长满坚果树的小树林，赏心悦目，是散步的好去处。

她开始在这里暂住，并立即着手四下寻觅她心中的目标，即生活和恋人。前者能不能找到，尚存疑问；而后者，她在抵达两天之后，就毫不费力地如愿以偿。她来城里是星期二，星期四她到圣詹姆斯公园的林荫道散步。当时，非得身为上等人，才有散步的习惯。她刚在那条路上转了一两个弯，就被一小群平民瞥到。这些人到这里来的目的，无非是为了窥视上等人。奥兰多从他们身旁经过，一个怀抱吃奶婴儿的粗俗女人凑上来，放肆地盯着她的脸，大喊道：“我的天啊，这不是奥兰多小姐吗?”其他人一拥而上，奥兰多发现自己瞬间被一伙人团团围住。这些公民和商人的老婆个个死盯着她，都急于想看看这场热闹的官司的女主角是个什么模样，由此可见这场官司给老百姓找了多少乐子。的确，此时若无一位高个儿绅士趋身上前相助，她会发现自己面对人群的挤压，全无招架之力。她已经忘记了，贵妇人绝不应独自在公共场所散步。那位绅士正是大公。对这一场面她不禁觉得苦不堪言，但又觉得有些好笑。这位宽宏大量的贵族不仅原谅了她，而且为了表明对她的癞蛤蟆恶作剧并不见怪，他去买了一件首饰，做成那个爬行动物的模样。在扶她上车时，他一面硬把这件首饰塞给她，一面再次向她求婚。

围观的人群、公爵、首饰，由于发生了这一切，她驱车回家时，情绪之恶劣，自然可想而知。难道去散散步，也非得给人挤得透不过气来，还得接受一只翠玉癞蛤蟆，忍受一位大公的求婚?翌日，她对这件事的看法略有好转，因为她发现早餐桌上有几封短笺，来自英国一些最尊贵的贵妇——萨福克夫人、索尔兹伯里夫人、切斯特菲尔德夫人、塔韦斯脱克夫人等等。她们均彬彬有礼地提醒她，她们的家族与她的家族之间累世通好，她们渴望有幸与她相识。第二天是个星期六，这些贵妇中有许多亲自呵来拜访。星期二，大约中午时分，她们的侍者送来请柬，邀请她在近期参加各类交际盛会、晚宴和聚会；于是奥兰多转眼间给人丢进伦敦社交界的汪洋大海，溅起了朵朵水花儿和泡沫。

真实描述当时的伦敦社交界，实际上真实描述任何时候的伦敦社交界，都超出本传记作者或本历史学家的能力。做这件事，惟有信任那些不需要真实，或不尊重真实的人，即诗人和小说家，因为这是一个不存在真实的领域。一切都不存在。整个社交界都是云遮雾罩，都是海市蜃楼。说得明白些，就是奥兰多凌晨三四点钟从这样的一个社交盛会回到家中，满面放光，宛如一棵圣诞树，眼睛亮闪闪，宛如两颗星星。她解开一根缎带，在屋里踱几圈，再解开一根缎带，又在屋里踱几圈。往往是到日头明晃晃地照到绍斯沃尔克的烟囱上，她才能说服自己上床睡觉。她会躺在床上，翻来覆去，又是大笑，又是叹气，折腾一两个小时才能入睡。这番辗转反侧为的什么?社交界。那么社交界究竟说了什么或做了什么，让一位理性的贵妇如此兴奋?说白了，什么也没有。第二天，奥兰多搜肠刮肚，竟记不起一个字来说清楚什么事情。o勋爵很勇武。a勋爵彬彬有礼。c侯爵很迷人。m先生很风趣。但若要回忆他们究竟怎样勇武、彬彬有礼、迷人和风趣，她只能自叹记忆力出了毛病，因为她竟然一件事也说不出。而且同样的情况反复出现。尽管当时兴奋异常，到第二天，一切都不复存在。由此我们只能得出结论，社交界就是圣诞节时技巧高超的管家端上的滚烫的酿造饮料，它的味道取决于十几种不同原料的适当混合和搅拌。单拿出任何一种，都淡而无味。挑出o勋爵、a勋爵、c侯爵或m先生，单独看，每个人都微不足道。搅在一起，他们就散发出令人陶醉的味道和馥郁的香气。然而对这种令人陶醉、这种诱惑力，我们却分析不出它的所以然。因此，社交界既是一切，又什么也不是。社交界是世上威力最大的调制品，又根本就不存在。只有诗人和小说家能够应付这些怪物，他们的著作因充满这些似有还无的东西而卷帙浩繁；我们很乐意本着世上最善良的愿望，把这些留给他们去应付。

因此，我们遵循前辈的榜样，只说安妮女王治下的社交界光彩夺目，无与伦比。能进入社交界，是每个有教养的人的生活目标。风度翩翩高于一切。父亲如此教子，母亲如此教女。举手投足的技巧、鞠躬和行屈膝礼的艺术、使用剑与扇子的本瓴、牙齿的护理、腿的动作、膝部的灵活性、进出房间如何举止得当，以及身处社交界的任何人立即就会联想到的其他种种礼数，离了这些，对男女两性的教育就谈不上完整。既然少年奥兰多呈上一碗玫瑰水的姿态曾赢得伊丽莎白女王的欢心，我们就必须假定，她在这方面是个无懈可击的高手。不过，她确实经常心不在焉，因此有时显得笨手笨脚。在应该想到塔夫绸时，她常常想起诗歌。她常常昂首阔步，不太像个女子。她常常动作唐突，偶尔可能碰翻一杯茶。

不管这一瑕疵能否抵消她光彩照人的风度，也不管她是否过多继承了家族所有成员血管中流淌的黑色体液，可以肯定的是，她参加社交活动不过十来次，在没有旁人在场时，她的爱犬皮平就听到她自问：“我究竟怎么了?”此时是一七一二年六月十六日星期二；她刚从阿灵顿公馆的一个盛大舞会归来。天空已露出蒙蒙曙光，她脱掉长袜，大声说：“即使一辈子再不见人，我也不在乎，”眼泪夺眶而出。情人她有一大摞，而生活呢?从某一角度看，生活毕竟很重要，而生活却从她身边溜走了。“难道这就是，”她问，却没有人回答她。“难道这就是人们所谓的生活?”她依然提完了自己的问题。她的长毛爱犬抬起前爪，用舌头舔她，对她表示同情。奥兰多用手抚摸它，用嘴唇吻它。简言之，他们之间拥有狗与女主人所能拥有的最真挚的同情，但不能否认，动物不会说话，交流想深入下去，就碰上了天大的障碍。它们摇头摆尾，前伏后躬，打滚儿，蹦高，用爪子刨地，发出哀鸣，吠叫，淌口水，它们有各式各样自己的把戏和花招，但一切都没有用，因为它们不会说话。她对阿灵顿公馆的那些大人物就是这种看法，她一边想，一边把爱犬轻轻放在地上。他们同样摇头摆尾，打滚儿，蹦高，用前爪扒地，淌口水，但他们不会谈话。 “我离家进人社交界好几个月了，”奥兰多说，把长袜甩到房间另一侧，“如果皮平会说话，我所听到的东西不会比它说的多。全是些我很冷，我很快活，我饿了，我抓了一只耗子，我埋了一根骨头，请吻我的鼻子之类。”而这是不够的。

在如此之短的时间里，她已经经历了从陶醉到厌恶。何以如此，我们将试图通过以下假定来解释：我们称为社交界的这个神秘组合体，本身并无绝对的好坏可言，但它内含一种酒精，挥发得虽然快捷，能量却极大。当你如奥兰多那样认为它纯美时，它让你陶醉，而当你如奥兰多那样认为它可憎时，它就让你头疼。我们冒昧地怀疑说话的官能与这两方面没有什么关系。往往，沉默一小时是最迷人的时刻；妙语连珠的人可以令人生厌到无以复加的地步。不过，我们还是继续来讲故事，把这一点留给诗人去评说吧。

奥兰多甩掉第一只袜子，又甩掉第二只，之后非常绝望地上床睡觉，发誓永远弃绝社交界。但结果再次证明，她太急于作出结论。因为第二天早上醒来，她发现，桌上的请柬中，有一封来自某位高不可攀的贵妇：r公爵夫人。前夜还决心再不踏进社交界一步的奥兰多，当天就急急派人去r公馆送信，说她能出席宴会荣幸之至。我们的解释只能是，在“痴情女郎”号甲板上，有三个甜蜜的名字落人她耳中，即“痴情女郎”号沿泰晤士河行驶时，尼古拉斯·本笃·巴托罗斯船长所说的那三个名字，她至今仍受到它们的影响。艾迪生、德莱顿、蒲伯，当时他手指向可可树村说道。从此之后，艾迪生、德莱顿、蒲伯像咒语般在她脑袋中鸣响。这样的傻念头谁能相信?但事实如此。她并没有从与尼克·格林打交道中汲取任何教训。这些名字依然对她是巨大的诱惑。或许，我们必须有某种信仰，但我们已经说过，奥兰多不信通常意义上的神，因此她容易轻信伟人。但这也有区别。她对元帅、军人和社会活动家不以为然，但只要一想到大作家，她就会陷入盲目崇拜的状态，以致她几乎认为他是看不见的。她的直觉不无道理。或许，人只能完全相信自己看不到的东西。她从甲板上模模糊糊瞥见那些伟人的身影，就具有幻想的性质。如果说茶杯即瓷器，报纸即纸，她会怀疑这样的说法。一天，o勋爵说，头一晚他曾与德莱顿共进晚餐，她根本就不相信他的话。而r夫人的客厅自来给人称为等待天才垂注的候见厅。男男女女聚集于此，向壁龛中的天才顶礼膜拜。有时，连上帝本人都会君临此地片刻。惟有聪明人才能进人，(据说)那里面说的话无一不是妙趣横生。

因此，奥兰多走进那房间时的心情可以说是诚惶诚恐。她发现一些人围着壁炉形成一个半圆。r夫人已上了年纪，肤色微黑，头包一袭黑色花边纱巾，坐在中央的一把大扶手椅上。如此一来，她虽然有点耳聋，依然能够控制两侧的谈话。坐在她左右的，都是些声名显赫之人。据说，男子都曾做过首相；人们私下里还说，女子也都曾是哪一位国王的情妇。可以肯定的是，人人都出类拔萃，人人都大名鼎鼎。奥兰多心怀敬畏，找了个位子默默地坐下来……三小时后，她深深地行了一个屈膝礼，离开了r夫人家。

读者可能会有些恼怒地问，那么这中间发生了什么呢?三小时里，这些人一定说了些世上最机智、最深沉、最有趣的话。似乎确实如此。但事实又好像是，他们什么也没说。这是他们与世上所有光彩夺目的社交界所共有的一个奇怪特征。老杜狄范夫人（杜狄范夫人(1697—1780)，法国贵妇，著名沙龙女主人，以与伏尔泰等文豪的通信著称。）与她的朋友无止无休地谈了五十年，其中又有什么流传至今呢?或许说了三句机智的话。所以我们完全可以假定，或者什么也没有说，或者没说什么机智的话，或者那三句机智的话维持了一万八千两百五十天，摊到他们每人身上，也就没多少机智可言了。

那么实情似乎是——如果根据上下文，我们敢用实情这个字眼——所有人都着了魔。女主人是现代的西比尔（西比尔，古代女预言家、女巫）。她是个女巫，用咒语迷住了客人。在这幢房子里，他们自认为很快活；在那幢房子里，他们自认为很机智；在另一幢房子里，他们自认为很深沉。一概是幻觉(这并无不妥之处，因为幻觉在天下万物中最珍贵、最不可缺少，能产生幻觉的人，可跻身世上最伟大的施惠者之列)，但是由于众所周知，幻觉与现实冲突会破碎，因此在幻觉盛行的地方，容不得真正的快活、真正的机智、真正的深沉。这解释了为何漫漫五十年，杜狄范夫人只说了三句机智的话。说得太多，她的圈子就会毁灭。俏皮话一出口，就会断送正在进行的谈话，好似炮弹摧平紫罗兰和雏菊。她说出那句闻名遐迩的“圣但尼之妙语”，当时四周的草地都燎焦了。接踵而来的是失望和忧伤。人们默默无语。 “看在老天爷的面上，夫人，饶了我们，以后莫说这种话!”她的朋友异口同声地恳求。她顺从了他们。几乎十七年，她没说过一句值得记忆的话，结果事事顺遂。在她的圈子里，幻觉的美丽床罩丝毫没有遭到破坏，就像它在r夫人的圈子里一样。宾客们自认为很快活、很机智、很深沉，而且，由于他们如此认为，旁人就更强烈地如此认为，于是哄传最令人愉快的地方莫过于r夫人府邸的聚会；人人艳羡那些有幸厕身其间的人；那些人则因为别人的艳羡而自我艳羡；于是一切就这样循环往复——除了我们现在要讲述的这件事。

事情大约发生在奥兰多第三次去那里。她当时仍处于幻觉之中，自以为听到的都是盖世无双的警句，而实际上，c老将军不过是哕哕嗦嗦地讲述了他的痛风如何从左腿移到右腿，而l先生在别人提到任何高贵的姓名时，都会插嘴说：“r? 噢!我跟比利·r熟得不得了。s?他是我最亲爱的朋友。t?我俩一起在约克郡呆了两星期。”由于幻觉的魔力，这些话听起来仿佛是妙趣横生的应答，是洞察人生的评论，引得在场的人哄堂大笑。此时，门开了，一位小个子绅士走了进来，他的名字奥兰多没有听清。但很快，她就感到一种奇特的不自在。从别人的面部表情判断，他们也有同样的感觉。一位先生说有穿堂风。c侯爵夫人担心沙发下有只猫。仿佛做了一场愉快的好梦之后，他们的眼睛慢慢睁开，看到只有廉价的脸盆架和肮脏的床罩。仿佛醇酒的香气正在飘然散去。那位将军仍在说话，l先生也仍在回忆。但将军的红脖子和l先生的秃头变得愈来愈明显。至于他们说了些什么，无非是些最单调乏味、最微不足道的聒噪。人人变得坐立不安，有扇子的人，都躲在扇子背后打哈欠。最后，r夫人用自己的扇子敲了敲大椅子的扶手。两位绅土都住了嘴。

然后，那位小个子绅士开始说话。

他最后说，（这些言论太著名了，我们无须在此重复。此外，这些言论在他出版的作品中均可找到。——作者注）不能否认，它们是真正的机智，真正的智慧，真正的深沉。在场的人大惊失色。这样的话一句已经够糟了，但是三句，一句接一句，全在同一天晚上!没有一个社交圈子能挺过这一关。

“蒲伯先生，”r夫人大怒，用讥讽的口吻颤抖着说， “你很得意自己的俏皮了。”蒲伯先生弄了个大红脸。大家都没有说话，在死一般的寂静中枯坐了约摸二十分钟，然后一个一个站起来，悄悄从屋里退了出去。有了此一经历，很难说他们是否还会再来此地。整条南奥德利街都可以听见执火把的小厮招呼马车的喊声，门砰砰地关上，马车驶远了。在楼梯上，奥兰多发现自己与蒲伯先生离得很近。他那瘦削、畸形的身体因种种感情而瑟瑟发抖，眼睛射出恶毒、狂怒、得意、机智和恐惧(他浑身像一片树叶在战栗)的光。他看上去活像一只蜷伏的甲壳虫，脑门上有块燃烧的黄宝石。与此同时，一股奇特无比的情绪攫住了倒霉的奥兰多。不到一小时前，她承受了彻底的失望，头脑因此失去平衡。一切似乎都变得苍白和光秃，超出以往十倍。这对人的精神而言，是一个非常危险的时刻。在这种时刻，女人会去做修女，男人会去做僧侣。在这种时刻，富人散尽财富，幸福者自割喉管。奥兰多本会乐于做所有这一切，但她还有一件更鲁莽的事情要去做，而她确实做了。她邀请蒲伯先生同她一起回家。

因为，倘若赤手空拳深入狮窟属鲁莽之举，乘划艇航行大西洋属鲁莽之举，单腿立于圣保罗大教堂之顶亦属鲁莽之举，那么独自与一位诗人回家，则是鲁莽中之鲁莽了。诗人将大西洋与狮子集为一身。一个溺死我们，一个咬死我们。我们即使能逃脱狮口，也要葬身汪洋大海。一个能够摧毁幻觉的人，无异于洪水猛兽。幻觉之于灵魂，如同空气之于大地。没有那稀薄的空气，植物就会死去，色彩就会褪尽，我们行之于上的地球就是一堆烧焦的炭渣，我们踩踏的是灰泥，炙热的鹅卵石灼烤我们的双脚。了解真情，我们就完蛋了。生活就是一场梦。梦醒之后，我们就会死去。夺走我们的梦想，等于夺走我们的生命(乐意的话，如此这般可以写上六大页，但这种风格单调乏味，我们最好还是放弃这个打算)。

照此来说，在马车驶近布莱克弗里亚斯她家时，奥兰多应该已变成了一堆炭渣。但她尽管疲惫不堪，却依然有血有肉，这一点全要归功于我们在上文的叙述中提请注意的事实，即眼见得越少，相信得越多。从梅费尔（梅费尔，伦敦西部一高级住宅区）到布莱克弗里亚斯，那时的街道照明情况很糟糕。诚然，与伊丽莎白时代相比，照明情况已大有改善。在伊丽莎白时代，夜行人只能凭借天上的星星或守夜人的火把，才不致跌进公园街的砾石坑，或误人图腾海姆庭园路猪觅食的橡树丛。即便如此，那时仍大大缺少我们现代的便捷。煤油灯柱大致每隔二百码才有一个，两个灯柱之间黑漆漆一片。因此，奥兰多和蒲伯先生是十分钟身处黑暗，半分钟身处光明。奥兰多的意识于是处于一种非常奇特的状态。光线黝暗时，她开始觉得有一股芳香的气味悄然覆盖全身。“一个年轻女子，与蒲伯先生同车而行，确是莫大的荣幸，”她开始想，看着他鼻子的轮廓。“我是女性中顶有福气的人了。女王陛下国度中最大的才子离我只有半英寸远——我能感到他膝上的勋带结顶着我的大腿。后世想到我们，会充满好奇心，他们会嫉妒死我的。”接下来车到了有灯柱的地方，“我真是个傻瓜!”她想。“声名、荣耀不过是些莫须有的玩艺儿。未来的时代根本不会想起我，或者蒲伯先生。的确，什么是‘时代’?又什么是‘我们’呢?”他们在一片黑暗中穿过伯克莱广场，仿佛两只瞎眼的蚂蚁，没有共同的利益或共同关心的事情，被暂时抛到一起，摸索着爬过漆黑的荒地。她打了个寒噤。不过此时黑暗又降临了。她的幻觉开始复苏。“多么高贵的额头啊，”她想(黑暗中误把椅垫上的小圆丘当成蒲伯先生的前额)。“里面蕴藏了多少才华!机智、智慧和真理——多么巨大的宝藏，人们宁愿用生命来换取!你的光是惟一永不熄灭之光。没有你，人类将只能在无边的黑暗中摸索前行，”(这时马车掉进公园街的一条沟中，车身倾斜过来)“没有天才，我们难免魂不附体。威严无比、清晰无比的光束 ——”她正对坐垫上的小圆丘发出呼语，他们的车驶到了伯克莱广场一盏街灯之下，奥兰多才意识到自己错了。蒲伯先生的额头并不比旁人大。“你这个坏蛋，”她想，“可把我骗苦了!我把坐垫上的圆丘当作你的额头。等到完全看清楚，你是多么低贱，又多么可鄙啊!畸形、羸弱，你身上没有什么值得人尊敬的地方，只让人可怜，更让人鄙弃。”他们又陷入了黑暗，她的愤怒有所缓和，因为除了诗人的膝盖，什么也看不见。

“我自己才是坏蛋，”一进入彻底的昏暗之中，她就反思道，“你卑劣，我岂不更卑劣?是你养育和保护了我，你吓跑了野兽，让野蛮人害怕，给我丝绸衣裳、羊毛地毯。如果我想敬神，难道不是你提供了自己的形象，让它在空中显现?难道不是处处都可以看到你的关爱?难道我不应该谦恭、感激、驯服?让侍奉、尊重和服从你成为我最大的快乐吧。”

这时，他们到达了现在的皮卡迪利广场拐角处的那根大灯柱下。她的眼睛闪闪发光，她看到，除了几个下等女人，有两个可怜的小矮人，站在一块荒岛上。两人赤身露体，孤零零的，自顾不暇，完全没有能力相互帮助。奥兰多直视蒲伯先生的面孔，自忖道，“你以为你能保护我，我以为我能崇拜你，其实都是痴想。真理之光照在我们身上，而对我们两人，那该死的真相确实让人尴尬。”

当然，在这全过程中，他们一直在惬意地谈论女王的脾性和首相的痛风，如同出身高贵和有教养者的所作所为，而马车由黑暗到光明，向南沿干草市场、斯特兰德街行驶，又向北折到舰队街，最后终于到达布莱克弗里亚斯她的家。有那么一段时间，灯柱之间的暗处，光线不那么昏暗，而街灯本身，又不那么明亮，这说明太阳正在升起。于是在夏日清晨似明又暗的天光中，在一切都能看见，又一切朦朦胧胧的情况下，他们从车上下来，蒲伯先生扶奥兰多下车，奥兰多礼貌地请蒲伯先生先她进入公馆，最认真地履行了美惠三女神的礼节。

然而，我们万万不能依据上文这段话，遂假设天才(不过现在，此种疾病在英伦三岛已经灭绝，据说，已故的丁尼生爵士是罹此疾病的最后一人)会不断地燃烧，否则，我们就会把一切看得一清二楚，或许在这一过程中，我们还会被烧成灰烬。相反，天才类似正在工作的灯塔，每次只射出一束光，然后休息片刻；当然，天才的表现要变幻无常得多，天才的光芒可能连续闪烁六七次(如那晚的蒲伯先生)，然后陷入黑暗，持续一年或永久。因此，没有可能在这样的光束指引下航行，据说，在黑暗时期，天才基本上无异于常人。

奥兰多最初有些失望，后来却对这种情形感到挺快活，因为她的生活常有天才陪伴。他们也不似人们可能想象得那样不同寻常。她发现，艾迪生、蒲伯、斯威夫特（斯威夫特(1667—1745)，英国作家、讽刺文学大师，主要作品有《格列佛游记》）喜欢喝茶。他们喜欢凉棚架。他们采集绿色之外其他颜色的蒲草。他们崇拜岩洞。他们对等级并无反感。赞美则是多多益善。他们今天穿李子色西服，明天穿灰色西服。斯威夫特先生有一根精美的马六甲手杖。艾迪生先生的手帕上喷了香水。蒲伯先生为自己的脑袋伤神。他们不放过每一条流言蜚语，也免不了心生妒忌。(我们只草草写下奥兰多一些杂乱无章的想法。)最初，奥兰多对自己时不时注意此类区区小事很恼火，于是专门预备了一个本子，想记下他们所说的值得记忆的隽语箴言，但那个本子上始终空空如也。然而，她的兴致恢复了。她开始撕掉盛大晚会的请帖，空出晚上的时间，盼望蒲伯先生、艾迪生先生和斯威夫特先生的来访。读者此处若参看《劫发记》、《看客》、《格列佛游记》，就会确切懂得这些神秘字眼的含义。的确，读者若是接受这一忠告，传记作者和批评家就可以省很多事。因为当我们读到：

是那美女背弃了戴安娜之法，抑或碰裂了薄胎瓷罐，玷污了她的名誉，抑或她身穿的锦缎，她忘记了祈祷词，还是错过了化装舞会，抑或在舞会上失落了一颗心，还是一串项链。

我们仿佛听到蒲伯先生的声音，我们知道他的舌头像蜥蜴的舌头一样嵫嵫作响，他的眼睛烁烁发光，他的手在颤抖，他的爱，他的谎言，乃至他的痛苦。简言之，作家灵魂的每一秘密，作家生活的每一经历，作家思想的每一特征，都栩栩如生地表现在他的著作中，而我们却需要评论家来说明，传记作家来阐述。时间多得让人百无聊赖是畸形生长的惟一解释。

因此，既然读了一两页《夺发记》，我们就已完全领悟那天下午，奥兰多为何会觉得如此趣味盎然，又如此恐惧，如此满面放光，又如此目光炯炯。

这时，纳丽太太敲门，通报说艾迪生先生求见。蒲伯先生听了，苦笑一下，站起身来，鞠躬告退，一瘸一拐走了出去。艾迪生先生走了进来。在他就座时，我们从《看客》中摘出以下一段话：

在我眼中，女人是美丽、浪漫的动物，应该饰以裘皮和羽毛、珍珠和钻石、矿石和丝绸。猞猁应把毛皮抛在她脚下，为她充作披肩。孔雀、鹦鹉和天鹅应为她的手笼效力。应遍搜大海中的贝壳，岩石中的宝石；大自然的每一部分都应有所贡献，装饰其最完美无缺的造物。我赞成女人沉溺于这一切之中，但是，说到我一直在谈论的衬裙，我既不能、也不会容忍它的存在。

这位先生、他的无沿三角帽，还有其他一切，都握在我们的手心之中了。再看那块水晶。难道不是清澈到连袜子上的每一条皱褶都看得一清二楚吗?他的机智的每一涟漪、每一曲线都暴露无遗，还有他的温厚、他的胆怯、他的温文尔雅，以及他将娶一位公爵小姐为妻，最终死得非常体面。一切都是清清楚楚。而且当艾迪生先生说完他要说的话后，一阵可怕的叩门声响起，斯威夫特先生未经通报径直走进来，他总是这样随心所欲。等一等，《格列佛游记》在哪里?在这儿!让我们来读读游历慧驷国的一段：

我拥有康健的身体和平静的头脑；没有朋友背叛或不忠，也没有秘密或公开的敌人来伤害我。我无须行贿、谄媚或告密，也不必讨好大人物及其属下。我不需要抵挡欺诈或压迫；既没有医生毁伤我的身体，也没有律师害我倾家荡产。没有告密者监视我的言行或罗织罪名陷害我，没有人讥讽、指摘、背后使坏、偷盗、打劫、入户行窃，也没有代理人、老鸨、小丑、赌棍、政客、才子、坏脾气又单调乏味的谈客……

嘿，且慢，别再喋喋不休地说你那些大词儿，免得我们大家活受罪，还有你自己!再没有什么比这个言辞激烈的男人更让人看得明白。他那么粗鲁，又那么清白；那么残暴，又那么善良；鄙视天下，又那么温柔对一个姑娘讲话，他将死在疯人院，对此我们还会有所怀疑吗?

于是奥兰多为他们所有人斟茶；有时天好，就带他们去乡下，在圆形客厅设宴款待他们，这里，她把他们的肖像绕室悬挂一周，于是蒲伯先生再无法说她偏向艾迪生先生，或出现相反的情况。他们也都非常机智(不过这些机智都表现在他们的书中)，教会她最重要的风格是讲话语调的自然，这是一种不曾亲耳听到，就无从模仿的特质，即便是格林，凭他的才艺，对此也无可奈何；因为它凭空而生，如清风拂过，来也无影，去也无踪，半个世纪以后，那些竖起耳朵，努力想捕获它的人，只怕更难如愿。他们只是通过自己讲话的节奏，教会她这一点。于是她的风格发生了变化，写出了一些引人入胜、机智的韵体诗，散文诗中对人物的描写也很不错。于是，她慷慨地拿出大量葡萄酒款待他们，用餐时把支票压在他们的盘子底下，他们也欣然纳入囊中。奥兰多则接受他们书上的献辞，认为这种交换令她荣幸之至。

岁月荏苒，人们常常可以听到奥兰多自言自语，但她强调的或许会让听者猜疑起来，“平心而论，这是什么生活阴!”(因为她还在寻觅生活那个玩艺儿。)不过，事态的发展很快就逼迫她更仔细地审视这个问题。

一天，她正在给蒲伯先生斟茶，他目光如炬，观察力很敏锐，这一点从上文所引的韵体诗中，人人都能看出来。他蜷成一团，缩在她身旁的椅子上。

“主啊，”她一边夹方糖，一边想，“后世的女人们会多么嫉妒我啊!不过——”她停住了，因为蒲伯先生需要她的注意。但是，让我们来替她把这话说完。听到有谁说“后世会多么嫉妒我”，我们完全可以断言，此人眼下活得并不痛快。这种生活真的像回忆录作者写得那么激动人心、那么诱人、那么值得称道吗?首先，奥兰多确实不喜欢喝茶；再者，才智尽管很神圣、很值得崇拜，却有栖身于最肮脏躯壳之内的习惯，而且往往嗜食其他官能，因此头脑太大，心胸、感觉就给挤得透不过气来，宽宏、慈悲、包容、体贴等等也就无从谈起。于是诗人自视甚高，于是他们鄙视别人，于是产生种种不和、伤害、嫉妒；于是他们巧舌如簧，口若悬河，强求别人的同情。所有这些，弄得倒水斟茶成为更危险、更艰苦的行当，超出一般能忍耐的范围，而我们只能悄悄说出，免得那些才子无意中听到。再者(我们再次压低声音，免得女人无意中听到)，男人之间有个小小的秘密，切斯菲尔德爵士（切斯菲尔德爵士(1694--1773)，英国外交家、作家，以所著 (致儿家书)等闻名。）曾私下将其传授给儿子，并告诫他切不可泄漏天机。“女人不过是群大孩子……聪明男人只是陪她们玩玩儿，奉承她们，哄她们开心”，既然小孩子总是听到他们不该听到的东西，有时，他们长大后，甚至还会泄漏出去，于是，斟茶倒水的整个仪式就成了一个打探机密的过程。女人很清楚，才子虽然送诗来请她过目，称赞她的判断力，征求她的意见，喝她的茶，但这绝不表示他尊重她的意见，欣赏她的理解，也绝不表示虽不能用剑，他就会拒绝用笔刺穿她的身体。凡此种种，尽管我们悄声说出，只怕现在已经泄漏出去；因此女士们即使拿着奶油罐和糖夹子，也可能有点心不在焉，不时望望窗外，打几个哈欠，于是糖块噗通一声——奥兰多此时即是如此——掉进蒲伯先生的茶杯里。而要数多疑，一点小事就视为污辱，立即还以颜色，蒲伯先生当属天下第一。他兜头给了奥兰多几句，即是《女人的品德》中最有名、最厉害的那几行。他后来虽又做了多处润色，但最初的版本就够厉害。奥兰多屈膝行礼，拜领了。蒲伯先生鞠了一躬，扬长而去。奥兰多觉得自己真的给那小个子劈了一掌，为了让滚烫的双颊清凉下来，她漫步来到花园深处的坚果树丛中。徐徐凉风很快起了作用。她惊讶地发现，独自一人时，她反而觉得如释重负。她看到河面上一船船欢乐的游人向上游划去，这情景无疑令她忆起一两件往事。她坐在细柳之下，陷入沉思，直至满天星斗闪烁，才起身回屋，走进自己的卧室，锁上门，打开柜子，柜里依然挂了许多她还是翩翩少年时穿过的衣服。她从中挑出一套镶威尼斯花边的黑色天鹅绒衣裤。这衣服多少有些过时，但她穿上很合体，看上去俨然一副贵族公子哥的模样。她站在镜前左顾右盼，发现自己虽然穿衬裙多年，腿脚依然活动自如，这才放了心，偷偷溜出房门。

这是四月初一个晴朗的夜晚。满天星斗与一弯新月交相辉映，再加上街灯的光亮，刚好烘托出人的面容和雷恩先生的建筑物。一切都呈现出最柔和的形状，仿佛立即就会融化，而一点点银光刚好勾勒出它们的线条，恢复了它们的生气。谈话就应如此，奥兰多想(沉浸在那愚蠢的幻想中)；社交界就应如此，友谊就应如此，爱情就应如此。因为只有上苍明白，就在我们对人类的交流失去信心之时，谷仓与大树，谷垛与马车的某些随意搭配，会给我们一个如此完美的象征，象征那些可望而不可及的东西，于是我们又开始了追求。

她这样想着，已经来到雷塞斯特广场。四周的建筑物呈现出白日难得看到的虚幻感和匀整的对称感。天幕似乎经过一双巧手的漂洗，映上了屋顶与烟囱的轮廓。广场中央有一棵悬铃木，树下的椅子上，坐了一个垂头丧气的年轻女郎，她一条胳膊垂在身边，另一条胳膊放在膝上，看起来仿佛是典雅、纯朴与忧伤的化身。奥兰多脱帽向她致意，很像一位风流男子在公共场合向上流社会的贵妇献殷勤。那年轻女郎抬起头来，头部的线条近乎完美。她抬起眼镜，奥兰多看到，那眼睛散发出的光泽，绝少可能在人面上看到，只偶尔在茶具上出现。那女子抬起头，透过这银色的光泽，看着他（因为对她来说，他是个男人），目光中杂了恳求、企盼、战栗和惊恐。她站起来，接受他伸过来的臂膀。因为——我们有必要强调这一点吗？——她属于那一类人，夜晚抛光自己的器皿，整整齐齐摆放在公共柜台上，等待出价最高的人。她领奥兰多来到杰拉尔德她的住处。奥兰多感到她轻轻地、但有点乞求意味地依偎在她身边，这在奥兰多心里唤起了男人的所有感情。这时奥兰多的模样、感觉和谈吐都像男人了。但因为片刻之前还是女人，她怀疑那姑娘的羞怯、回答问题时的吞吞吐吐、在门口和斗篷的皱褶里摸索钥匙、手腕的无力，都是为了感谢她的男子气而装出来的。她们上了楼，那可怜的人儿煞费苦心装饰房间，想掩饰她没有其他房间这一点，但她一刻也骗不了奥兰多。欺骗引起她的鄙视，真相又唤起她的怜悯。这两点的相互反衬，在奥兰多心中产生了非常奇特的情感，她不知自己是想笑还是想哭。同时奈尔（那姑娘如此称呼自己）解开手套的扣子，细心藏起左手拇指破了的小洞；然后躲到屏风后面，可能在往脸蛋上扑粉，整理衣服，并在脖颈上系一条新围巾，同时一直在闲扯，就像女人为了讨好情人所做的那样。但奥兰多发誓，从那姑娘的声调中，可以听出，她此时心不在焉。一切就绪后，她走了出来，准备好了，但奥兰多再也忍不住了。她愤怒。快乐和怜悯，在一番怪异的煎熬之后，她解除了一切伪装，承认自己是女人。

奈尔听了，笑得死去活来，声音之大，马路对面都能听到。

“好啊，亲爱的，”她在多少恢复常态后说，“我倒一点儿也不遗憾。说***老实话，”(惊人的是，在发现她们性别相同后，她的举止立即变化，再没了那些感伤、恳求的作态)“说***老实话，我今晚还真没有兴致与男人周旋。我正在倒霉。”然后，她靠近炉火，又调了一碗潘趣酒，给奥兰多讲起她的生平。既然我们眼下讲的是奥兰多，就无须拉扯进另一位女士的风尘故事。但可以肯定的是，奥兰多从未觉得时间过得如此之快，也从未如此快活过，虽然奈尔小姐没有一点才气，谈话中提到蒲伯先生的名字，她还会傻里傻气地问，杰明街角那个做假发的人也叫这个名字，两人莫不是亲戚。但是，在奥兰多眼里，正是此处，她显示了诱人的自在和美。这姑娘的谈吐，虽然粗俗，但比起她习惯了的文雅辞令，却像美酒一样醉人。她不得不得出这样的结论：蒲伯先生的讥讽嘲骂、艾迪生先生的居高临下、切斯菲尔德爵士的世事洞明，里面都有某些东西让她对文人圈子倒了胃口，尽管她必须继续尊重他们的作品。

她终于弄清楚，这些可怜的人儿——因为奈尔带来了普鲁，普鲁带来了基蒂，基蒂又带来了路丝——有一个自己的团体，她们现在也把她引为同调。在这里，每个人都会讲述自己的经历，讲述自己如何落到今天这步田地。其中有几人是伯爵的私生女，另一人与国王肌肤相亲，大大超出了应当的地步。每个人都没有惨到或者说穷到某种程度，因为她们口袋里或有一枚戒指，或有一块手帕，用不着翻家谱，也能证明自己的身世。奥兰多包揽了慷慨提供潘趣酒这一差事，于是她们围聚在潘趣酒碗四周，讲故事，发议论，精彩纷呈，因为不能否认，女人凑到一块儿——嘘——她们总是小心翼翼，保证房门紧闭，不会有一句话给人刊布出来。她们的全部欲望就是——还得嘘——楼梯上是不是有男人的脚步声?她们的所有欲望，我们刚要说，那位先生就抢过了我们的话头。女人没有欲望，这位先生说，走进奈尔的客厅；只有矫揉造作。没有欲望(她已替他效过劳，他走了)，她们的交谈不会引起任何人的丝毫兴趣。“众所周知，”s．w．先生说，“在缺乏另一性别的刺激时，女人之间无话可说。女人呆在一起时不交谈，而是掐架。”而且，既然她们在一起无法交谈，而掐架又不可能不间断地持续下去，众所周知(t．r．先生已经证明了这一点)，“女人没有能力对同性怀有爱的情感，她们彼此憎恨，” 女人在相互交往时，我们还能假定她们做些什么呢?

由于这不是一个能吸引聪明男子注意的话题，而我们这些人，又享有传记作家和历史学家的豁免权，可以不必理睬性别问题，那就让我们越过这个话题，仅仅说奥兰多从与同性交往中获得了巨大的愉悦，然后让男士来证明这是不可能的，而他们本来就乐此不疲。

不过，要确切、具体地叙述奥兰多这段时期的生活，却变得愈来愈困难了。我们费力地凝视和摸索当年杰拉尔德街与德鲁瑞巷之间那些灯光昏暗、道路不平、通风很差的院子，一时看到她的身影，一时又失去她的身影。这个任务变得更加艰巨，是因为那时她发现，不断更换服装实在是很方便。因此，她经常被当作“某爵士”出现在某现代回忆录中，而那位爵士其实是她的表亲。她的慷慨大度常被归之于他的名下，她的诗歌也常被说成出自他的手笔。维持不同的角色对她来说似乎轻而易举，因为她的性别变化之频繁，是那些只穿一类服装的人所无法想象的。毫无疑问，她用这种办法获得了双重收获。生活的乐趣增加了，生活的阅历扩大了。她用衬裙的性感来换马裤的诚实，轮番享受两性的爱。

所以，人们可以这样描述她的生活：上午，穿一件分不清男女的中国袍子，在书中倘佯；其后，身着同样的服装接见一两位求告者(因为前来请托的人实在很多)；此后，到花园里给坚果树剪枝，这时穿齐膝的短裤很方便；然后换一件塔夫绸花衣，这最适合乘车去里奇蒙德，听取某位尊贵的贵族的求婚；然后回到城里，穿一件律师的黄褐色袍子，到法院去听她的案子有何进展，因为她的财富正在一小时一小时地流逝，而那诉讼案与一百年前相比，似乎并未更接近尾声；最后，夜幕降临，她多半会从头到脚变成一个彻头彻尾的贵族，到街上去冒险。

关于这些经历，当时传闻很多，譬如她与人决斗、在皇家船队的一条船上当船长、被人看到裸体在露台上跳舞、与某位女士私奔到低地国家，那位女士的丈夫尾随而至。至于这些传闻的真假虚实，我们不作评论。奥兰多做罢无论哪桩营生后，总要专门跑到一家咖啡馆窗外，观看那些才子，却不让他们看到。尽管一个字也听不见，她可以根据他们的手势，想象出他们正在发表些什么机智或恶毒的高见。这可能倒是件好事；有一次，她站在那里半小时，看伯尔特方庭一栋房子的百叶窗帘上，映出三个人影，坐在一起喝茶。

世间再没有比这更精彩的戏剧了。她禁不住想大声喝彩。因为，它的确引人人胜!是从人生这本厚书上撕下来的精彩一页。那个小个子身影，噘着两片嘴唇，坐在椅子上也不安分，来回挪动，他任性无礼，又过分殷勤。那个驼背女人的身影，手指蜷曲着伸进杯里，探一探茶有多深，因为她是盲人。大扶手椅上坐着的人影来回晃动，他长得酷似罗马人，手指勾曲的姿态很奇怪，头不时从一侧转向另一侧，大口吞着茶。这些身影是约翰逊博士（约翰逊博士(1709—1784)，英国作家、评论家、辞典编撰者。）、鲍斯韦尔（鲍斯韦尔(1740—1795)，苏格兰作家，以为约翰逊博士写的(约翰逊传)闻名于世。）和威廉夫人。奥兰多全神贯注地凝视着这一场景，已顾不上想象后世人们会怎样嫉妒她，当然，这回他们却免不了会嫉妒她。她凝视着，凝视着，心满意足。终于，鲍斯韦尔先生站起身来，他用尖酸刻薄的语言对待那老妇人。但他在那罗马雕像般的伟人面前，却表现得再谦恭不过了!那伟人站直身子，多少有些摇摇晃晃，嘴里滔滔不绝，怕没有人还能像他这般高谈阔论。这就是奥兰多当时的感觉，虽然她听不见那三个人影坐在那里喝茶时说的话。

终于有一天夜里，她闲逛了一通后，回到家里，上楼来到自己的卧室，脱掉镶花边的外衣，只穿衬衫和裤子，站在那里，向窗外望去。空气中飘逸着某种激动人心的东西，让她无法上床入睡。这是仲冬一个严寒的夜晚，城市上空弥漫着白色的雾气，四周展现出一片美不胜收的景象。她可以看到圣保罗大教堂、伦敦塔、西敏寺，还有城里所有教堂的尖顶和圆顶，银行平滑的巨大身躯，大厅和会议厅丰腴的曲线。北边是平缓、绿草如茵的海姆斯塔德高地，西边灯火辉煌处，是梅费尔的街巷和广场。天空晴朗无云，璀璨的群星充满希望、目不转睛地向下张望着这一派宁静和井然有序的景象。在这一片澄澈透明之中，每一屋顶的线条，每一烟囱的通风帽，都清晰可见；甚至路上铺砌的一粒粒鹅卵石子都能分辨清楚。奥兰多禁不住要把这一派井然有序的景象与伊丽莎白王朝那混乱、拥挤的伦敦城相比较。她记得，倘若当时的伦敦能够称为城市的话，这城市拥挤不堪。在布莱克弗里亚斯她的房子窗下，不过是一堆小房子挤在一起。街道中央的深坑中，死水映出天上的星星。街角处的酒铺边，一条黑影可能是具尸体，有人被谋杀了。她还记得，在这样的深夜，街上传来斗殴受伤者的哀叫，当时她还是个小男孩，被保姆抱到窗前，窗格上镶着钻石。成群结队的男女流氓，搂搂抱抱，踉跄在街上，兴高采烈地唱着下流小调，耳朵上的饰物闪闪烁烁，手里的刀子放着寒光。在这样的一个深夜，海格特和海姆斯塔德高地上那些紧紧纠结在一起、密不透风的森林就会现出轮廓，在天幕的衬托下，蠕动着，挣扎着。这些山丘地势高出伦敦，山上不时会竖起光秃秃的绞刑台，绞刑台的十字架上钉着腐烂或干枯的尸体。这是因为，危险和惊恐、淫荡和暴力、诗歌和脏话充斥伊丽莎白时代饱经磨难的大道，它们也在城里狭小局促的房间里和狭窄的街道上发出低沉嘈杂的声音，散发出熏天的臭气。奥兰多甚至记得夏夜里它们散发出的气味。现在，她把身子探出窗外，四周只有光明、秩序和宁静。石子路上一辆马车驶过，传来车轮发出的轻微咯吱声。她听到远处守夜人在喊 “十二点，有雾啊!”话刚出口，午夜的第一声钟声就敲响了。这时，奥兰多才第一次注意到，圣保罗大教堂的穹顶后聚积了一小朵云彩。随着钟声一声声响起，她看到云越聚越多，颜色越变越暗，并以超乎寻常的速度扩散开来。与此同时，轻风骤起，到第六下钟声敲响时，东方整个天空已被一片反常而流走的黑暗所遮蔽。这乌云又向北扩展，吞没了城市一个个的高地。惟有灯火璀璨的梅费尔，反显得更加光芒四射。到第八下钟声敲响，几缕流云匆匆遮住了皮卡迪利广场。它们似乎不断膨胀，并以迅疾无比的速度扑向西方的天边。第九、十、十一下钟声敲响，苍茫的黑暗笼罩了整个伦敦。到午夜的第十二下钟声敲响，黑暗已变得茫茫无边。汹涌的黑云上下翻卷，遮蔽了整个城市。惟有黑暗；惟有疑惑；惟有混乱。十八世纪结束，十九世纪开始。