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第37部分（第1页）

ng　as　they　did　equally　and　some　of　them；　perhaps；　as　proudly；　even　from　such　depths　of　the　past　as　she　did；　chose　to　let　down　the　impervious　screen　of　the　present　so　that　today　they　appeared　shop　assistants　in　Marshall　&　Snelgrove’s　merely。　Orlando　stood　there　hesitating。　Through　the　great　glass　doors　she　could　see　the　traffic　in　Oxford　Street。　Omnibus　seemed　to　pile　itself　upon　omnibus　and　then　to　jerk　itself　apart。　So　the　ice　blocks　had　pitched　and　tossed　that　day　on　the　Thames。　An　old　nobleman—in　furred　slippers　had　sat　astride　one　of　them。　There　he　went—she　could　see　him　now—calling　down　maledictions　upon　the　Irish　rebels。　He　had　sunk　there；　where　her　car　stood。

‘Time　has　passed　over　me；’　she　thought；　trying　to　collect　herself；　‘this　is　the　one　of　middle　age。　How　strange　it　is！　Nothing　is　any　longer　one　thing。　I　take　up　a　handbag　and　I　think　of　an　old　bumboat　woman　frozen　in　the　ice。　Someone　lights　a　pink　candle　and　I　see　a　girl　in　Russian　trousers。　When　I　step　out　of　doors—as　I　do　now；’　here　she　stepped　on　to　the　pavement　of　Oxford　Street；　‘what　is　it　that　I　taste？　Little　herbs。　I　hear　goat　bells。　I　see　mountains。　Turkey？　India？　Persia？’　Her　eyes　filled　with　tears。

That　Orlando　had　gone　a　little　too　far　from　the　present　moment　will；　perhaps；　strike　the　reader　who　sees　her　now　preparing　to　get　into　her　motor–car　with　her　eyes　full　of　tears　and　visions　of　Persian　mountains。　And　indeed；　it　cannot　be　denied　that　the　most　successful　practitioners　of　the　art　of　life；　often　unknown　people　by　the　way；　somehow　contrive　to　synchronize　the　sixty　or　seventy　different　times　which　beat　simultaneously　in　every　normal　human　system　so　that　when　eleven　strikes；　all　the　rest　chime　in　unison；　and　the　present　is　neither　a　violent　disruption　nor　pletely　forgotten　in　the　past。　Of　them　we　can　justly　say　that　they　live　precisely　the　sixty–eight　or　seventy–two　years　allotted　them　on　the　tombstone。　Of　the　rest　some　we　know　to　be　dead　though　they　walk　among　us；　some　are　not　yet　born　though　they　go　through　the　forms　of　life；　others　are　hundreds　of　years　old　though　they　call　themselves　thirty–six。　The　true　length　of　a　person’s　life；　whatever　the　“Dictionary　of　National　Biography”　may　say；　is　always　a　matter　of　dispute。　For　it　is　a　difficult　business—this　time–keeping；　nothing　more　quickly　disorders　it　than　contact　with　any　of　the　arts；　and　it　may　have　been　her　love　of　poetry　that　was　to　blame　for　making　Orlando　lose　her　shopping　list　and　start　home　without　the　sardines；　the　bath　salts；　or　the　boots。　Now　as　she　stood　with　her　hand　on　the　door　of　her　motor–car；　the　present　again　struck　her　on　the　head。　Eleven　times　she　was　violently　assaulted。

‘Confound　it　all！’　she　cried；　for　it　is　a　great　shock　to　the　nervous　system；　hearing　a　clock　strike—so　much　so　that　for　some　time　now　there　is　nothing　to　be　said　of　her　save　that　she　frowned　slightly；　changed　her　gears　admirably；　and　cried　out；　as　before；　‘Look　where　you’re　going！’　‘Don’t　you　know　your　own　mind？’　‘Why　didn’t　you　say　so　then？’　while　the　motor–car　shot；　swung；　squeezed；　and　slid；　for　she　was　an　expert　driver；　down　Regent　Street；　down　Haymarket；　down　Northumberland　Avenue；　over　Westminster　Bridge；　to　the　left；　straight　on；　to　the　right；　straight　on　again。。。

The　Old　Kent　Road　was　very　crowded　on　Thursday；　the　eleventh　of　October　1928。　People　spilt　off　the　pavement。　There　were　women　with　shopping　bags。　Children　ran　out。　There　were　sales　at　drapers’　shops。　Streets　widened　and　narrowed。　Long　vistas　steadily　shrunk　together。　Here　was　a　market。　Here　a　funeral。　Here　a　procession　with　banners　upon　which　was　written　‘Ra—Un’；　but　what　else？　Meat　was　very　red。　Butchers　stood　at　the　door。　Women　almost　had　their　heels　sliced　off。　Amor　Vin—　that　was　over　a　porch。　A　woman　looked　out　of　a　bedroom　window；　profoundly　contemplative；　and　very　still。　Applejohn　and　Applebed；　Undert—。　Nothing　could　be　seen　whole　or　read　from　start　to　finish。　What　was　seen　begun—like　two　friends　starting　to　meet　each　other　across　the　street—was　never　seen　ended。　After　twenty　minutes　the　body　and　mind　were　like　scraps　of　torn　paper　tumbling　from　a　sack　and；　indeed；　the　process　of　motoring　fast　out　of　London　so　much　resembles　the　chopping　up　small　of　identity　which　precedes　unconsciousness　and　perhaps　death　itself　that　it　is　an　open　question　in　what　sense　Orlando　can　be　said　to　have　existed　at　the　present　moment。　Indeed　we　should　have　given　her　over　for　a　person　entirely　disassembled　were　it　not　that　here；　at　last；　one　green　screen　was　held　out　on　the　right；　against　which　the　little　bits　of　paper　fell　more　slowly；　and　then　another　was　held　out　on　the　left　so　that　one　could　see　the　separate　scraps　now　turning　over　by　themselves　in　the　air；　and　then　green　screens　were　held　continuously　on　either　side；　so　that　her　mind　regained　the　illusion　of　holding　things　within　itself　and　she　saw　a　cottage；　a　farmyard　and　four　cows；　all　precisely　life–size。

When　this　happened；　Orlando　heaved　a　sigh　of　relief；　lit　a　cigarette；　and　puffed　for　a　minute　or　two　in　silence。　Then　she　called　hesitatingly；　as　if　the　person　she　wanted　might　not　be　there；　‘Orlando？　For　if　there　are　（at　a　venture）　seventy–six　different　times　all　ticking　in　the　mind　at　once；　how　many　different　people　are　there　not—Heaven　help　us—all　having　lodgment　at　one　time　or　another　in　the　human　spirit？　Some　say　two　thousand　and　fifty–two。　So　that　it　is　the　most　usual　thing　in　the　world　for　a　person　to　call；　directly　they　are　alone；　Orlando？　（if　that　is　one’s　name）　meaning　by　that；　e；　e！　I’m　sick　to　death　of　this　particular　self。　I　want　another。　Hence；　the　astonishing　changes　we　see　in　our　friends。　But　it　is　not　altogether　plain　sailing；　either；　for　though　one　may　say；　as　Orlando　said　（being　out　in　the　country　and　needing　another　self　presumably）　Orlando？　still　the　Orlando　she　needs　may　not　e；　these　selves　of　which　we　are　built　up；　one　on　top　of　another；　as　plates　are　piled　on　a　waiter’s　hand；　have　attachments　elsewhere；　sympathies；　little　constitutions　and　rights　of　their　own；　call　them　what　you　will　（and　for　many　of　these　things　there　is　no　name）　so　that　one　will　only　e　if　it　is　raining；　another　in　a　room　with　green　curtains；　another　when　Mrs　Jones　is　not　there；　another　if　you　can　promise　it　a　glass　of　wine—and　so　on；　for　everybody　can　multiply　from　his　own　experience　the　different　terms　which　his　different　selves　have　made　with　him—and　some　are　too　wildly　ridiculous　to　be　mentioned　in　print　at　all。

So　Orlando；　at　the　turn　by　the　barn；　called　‘Orlando？’　with　a　note　of　interrogation　in　her　voice　and　waited。　Orlando　did　not　e。

‘All　right　then；’　Orlando　said；　with　the　good　humour　people　practise　on　these　occasions；　and　tried　another。　For　she　had　a　great　variety　of　selves　to　call　upon；　far　more　than　we　have　been　able　to　find　room　for；　since　a　biography　is　considered　plete　if　it　merely　accounts　for　six　or　seven　selves；　whereas　a　person　may　well　have　as　many　thousand。　Choosing　then；　only　those　selves　we　have　found　room　for；　Orlando　may　now　have　called　on　the　boy　who　cut　the　nigger’s　head　down；　the　boy　who　strung　it　up　again；　the　boy　who　sat　on　the　hill；　the　boy　who　saw　the　poet；　the　boy　who　handed　the　Queen　the　bowl　of　rose　water；　or　she　may　have　called　upon　the　young　man　who　fell　in　love　with　Sasha；　or　upon　the　Courtier；　or　upon　the　Ambassador；　or　upon　the　Soldier；　or　upon　the　Traveller；　or　she　may　have　wanted　the　woman　to　e　to　her；　the　Gipsy；　the　Fine　Lady；　the　Hermit；　the　girl　in　love　with　life；　the　Patroness　of　Letters；　the　woman　who　called　Mar　（meaning　hot　baths　and　evening　fires）　or　Shelmerdine　（meaning　crocuses　in　autumn　woods）　or　Bonthrop　（meaning　the　death　we　die　daily）　or　all　three　together—which　meant　more　things　than　we　have　space　to　write　out—all　were　different　and　she　may　have　called　upon　any　one　of　them。

Perhaps；　but　what　appeared　certain　（for　we　are　now　in　the　region　of　‘perhaps’　and　‘appears’）　was　that　the　one　she　needed　most　kept　aloof；　for　she　was；　to　hear　her　talk；　changing　her　selves　as　quickly　as　she　drove—there　was　a　new　one　at　every　corner—as　happens　when；　for　some　unaccountable　reason；　the　conscious　self；　which　is　the　uppermost；　and　has　the　power　to　desire；　wishes　to　be　nothing　but　one　self。　This　is　what　some　people　call　the　true　self；　and　it　is；　they　say；　pact　of　all　the　selves　we　have　it　in　us　to　be；　manded　and　locked　up　by　the　Captain　self；　the　Key　self；　which　amalgamates　and　controls　them　all。　Orlando　was　certainly　seeking　this　self　as　the　reader　can　judge　from　overhearing　her　talk　as　she　drove　（and　if　it　is　rambling　talk；　disconnected；　trivial；　dull；　and　sometimes　unintelligible；　it　is　the　reader’s　fault　for　listening　to　a　lady　talking　to　herself；　we　only　copy　her　words　as　she　spoke　them；　adding　in　brackets　which　self　in　our　opinion　is　speaking；　but　in　this　we　may　well　be　wrong）。

‘What　then？　Who　then？’　she　said。　‘Thirty–six；　in　a　motor–car；　a　woman。　Yes；　but　a　million　other　things　as　well。　A　snob　am　I？　The　garter　in　the　hall？　The　leopards？　My　ancestors？　Proud　of　them？　Yes！　Greedy；　luxurious；　vicious？　Am　I？　（here　a　new　self　came　in）。　Don’t　care　a　damn　if　I　am。　Truthful？　I　think　so。　Generous？　Oh；　but　that　don’t　count　（here　a　new　self　came　in）。　Lying　in　bed　of　a　morning　listening　to　the　pigeons　on　fine　linen；　silver　dishes；　wine；　maids；　footmen。　Spoilt？　Perhaps。　Too　many　things　for　nothing。　Hence　my　books　（here　she　mentioned　fifty　classical　titles；　which　represented；　so　we　think；　the　early　romantic　works　that　she　tore　up）。　Facile；　glib；　romantic。　But　（here　another　self　came　in）　a　duffer；　a　fumbler。　More　clumsy　I　couldn’t　be。　And—and—（here　she　hesitated　for　a　word　and　if　we　suggest　‘Love’　we　may　be　wrong；　but　certainly　she　laughed　and　blushed　and　then　cried　out—）　A　toad　set　in　emeralds！　Harry　the　Archduke！　Blue–bottles　on　the　ceiling！　（here　another　self　came　in）。　But　Nell；　Kit；　Sasha？　（she　was　sunk　in　gloom：　tears　actually　shaped　themselves　and　she　had　long　given　over　crying）。　Trees；　she　said。　（Here　another　self　came　in。）　I　love　trees　（she　was　passing　a　clump）　growing　there　a　thousand　years。　And　barns　（she　passed　a　tumbledown　barn　at　the　edge　of　the　road）。　And　sheep　dogs　（here　one　came　trotting　across　the　road。　She　carefully　avoided　it）。　And　the　night。　But　people　（here　another　self　came　in）。　People？　（She　repeated　it　as　a　question。）　I　don’t　know。　Chattering；　spiteful；　always　telling　lies。　（Here　she　turned　into　the　High　Street　of　her　native　town；　which　was　crowded；　for　it　was　market　day；　with　farmers；　and　shepherds；　and　old　women　with　hens　in　baskets。）　I　like　peasants。　I　understand　crops。　But　（here　another　self　came　skipping　over　the　top　of　her　mind　like　the　beam　from　a　lighthouse）。　Fame！　（She　laughed。）　Fame！　Seven　editions。　A　prize。　Photographs　in　the　evening　papers　（here　she　alluded　to　the　‘Oak　Tree’　and　‘The　Burdett　Coutts’　Memorial　Prize　which　she　had　won；　and　we　must　snatch　space　to　remark　how　disposing　it　is　for　her　biographer　that　this　culmination　to　which　the　whole　book　moved；　this　peroration　with　which　the　book　was　to　end；　should　be　dashed　from　us　on　a　laugh　casually　like　this；　but　the　truth　is　that　when　we　write　of　a　woman；　everything　is　out　of　place—culminations　and　perorations；　the　accent　never　falls　where　it　does　with　a　man）。　Fame！　she　repeated。　A　poet—a　charlatan；　both　eve

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