he — for there could be no doubt of his sex, though the fashion of the time did something to disguise it — was in the act of slicing at the head of a moor which swung from the rafters. it was the colour of an old football, and more or less the shape of one, save for the sunken cheeks and a strand or two of coarse, dry hair, like the hair on a cocoanut. orlando’s father, or perhaps his grandfather, had struck it from the shoulders of a vast pagan who had started up under the moon in the barbarian fields of africa; and now it swung, gently, perpetually, in the breeze which never ceased blowing through the attic rooms of the gigantic house of the lord who had slain him.

orlando’s fathers had ridden in fields of asphodel, and stony fields, and fields watered by strange rivers, and they had struck many heads of many colours off many shoulders, and brought them back to hang from the rafters. so too would orlando, he vowed. but since he was sixteen only, and too young to ride with them in africa or france, he would steal away from his mother and the peacocks in the garden and go to his attic room and there lunge and plunge and slice the air with his blade. sometimes he cut the cord so that the skull bumped on the floor and he had to string it up again, fastening it with some chivalry almost out of reach so that his enemy grinned at him through shrunk, black lips triumphantly. the skull swung to and fro, for the house, at the top of which he lived, was so vast that there seemed trapped in it the wind itself, blowing this way, blowing that way, winter and summer. the green arras with the hunters on it moved perpetually. his fathers had been noble since they had been at all. they came out of the northern mists wearing coronets on their heads. were not the bars of darkness in the room, and the yellow pools which chequered the floor, made by the sun falling through the stained glass of a vast coat of arms in the window? orlando stood now in the midst of the yellow body of an heraldic leopard. when he put his hand on the window-sill to push the window open, it was instantly coloured red, blue, and yellow like a butterfly’s wing. thus, those who like symbols, and have a turn for the deciphering of them, might observe that though the shapely legs, the handsome body, and the well-set shoulders were all of them decorated with various tints of heraldic light, orlando’s face, as he threw the window open, was lit solely by the sun itself. a more candid, sullen face it would be impossible to find. happy the mother who bears, happier still the biographer who records the life of such a one! never need she vex herself, nor he invoke the help of novelist or poet. from deed to deed, from glory to glory, from office to office he must go, his scribe following after, till they reach whatever seat it may be that is the height of their desire. orlando, to look at, was cut out precisely for some such career. the red of the cheeks was covered with peach down; the down on the lips was only a little thicker than the down on the cheeks. the lips themselves were short and slightly drawn back over teeth of an exquisite and almond whiteness. nothing disturbed the arrowy nose in its short, tense flight; the hair was dark, the ears small, and fitted closely to the head. but, alas, that these catalogues of youthful beauty cannot end without mentioning forehead and eyes. alas, that people are seldom born devoid of all three; for directly we glance at orlando standing by the window, we must admit that he had eyes like drenched violets, so large that the water seemed to have brimmed in them and widened them; and a brow like the swelling of a marble dome pressed between the two blank medallions which were his temples. directly we glance at eyes and forehead, thus do we rhapsodize. directly we glance at eyes and forehead, we have to admit a thousand disagreeables which it is the aim of every good biographer to ignore. sights disturbed him, like that of his mother, a very beautiful lady in green walking out to feed the peacocks with twitchett, her maid, behind her; sights exalted him — the birds and the trees; and made him in love with death — the evening sky, the homing rooks; and so, mounting up the spiral stairway into his brain — which was a roomy one — all these sights, and the garden sounds too, the hammer beating, the wood chopping, began that riot and confusion of the passions and emotions which every good biographer detests, but to continue — orlando slowly drew in his head, sat down at the table, and, with the half-conscious air of one doing what they do every day of their lives at this hour, took out a writing book labelled ‘aethelbert: a tragedy in five acts,’ and dipped an old stained goose quill in the ink.

soon he had covered ten pages and more with poetry. he was fluent, evidently, but he was abstract. vice, crime, misery were the personages of his drama; there were kings and queens of impossible territories; horrid plots confounded them; noble sentiments suffused them; there was never a word said as he himself would have said it, but all was turned with a fluency and sweetness which, considering his age — he was not yet seventeen — and that the sixteenth century had still some years of its course to run, were remarkable enough. at last, however, he came to a halt. he was describing, as all young poets are for ever describing, nature, and in order to match the shade of green precisely he looked (and here he showed more audacity than most) at the thing itself, which happened to be a laurel bush growing beneath the window. after that, of course, he could write no more. green in nature is one thing, green in literature another. nature and letters seem to have a natural antipathy; bring them together and they tear each other to pieces. the shade of green orlando now saw spoilt his rhyme and split his metre. moreover, nature has tricks of her own. once look out of a window at bees among flowers, at a yawning dog, at the sun setting, once think ‘how many more suns shall i see set’, etc. etc. (the thought is too well known to be worth writing out) and one drops the pen, takes one’s cloak, strides out of the room, and catches one’s foot on a painted chest as one does so. for orlando was a trifle clumsy.

he was careful to avoid meeting anyone. there was stubbs, the gardener, coming along the path. he hid behind a tree till he had passed. he let himself out at a little gate in the garden wall. he skirted all stables, kennels, breweries, carpenters’ shops, washhouses, places where they make tallow candles, kill oxen, forge horse-shoes, stitch jerkins — for the house was a town ringing with men at work at their various crafts — and gained the ferny path leading uphill through the park unseen. there is perhaps a kinship among qualities; one draws another along with it; and the biographer should here call attention to the fact that this clumsiness is often mated with a love of solitude. having stumbled over a chest, orlando naturally loved solitary places, vast views, and to feel himself for ever and ever and ever alone.

so, after a long silence, ‘i am alone’, he breathed at last, opening his lips for the first time in this record. he had walked very quickly uphill through ferns and hawthorn bushes, startling deer and wild birds, to a place crowned by a single oak tree. it was very high, so high indeed that nineteen english counties could be seen beneath; and on clear days thirty or perhaps forty, if the weather was very fine. sometimes one could see the english channel, wave reiterating upon wave. rivers could be seen and pleasure boats gliding on them; and galleons setting out to sea; and armadas with puffs of smoke from which came the dull thud of cannon firing; and forts on the coast; and castles among the meadows; and here a watch tower; and there a fortress; and again some vast mansion like that of orlando’s father, massed like a town in the valley circled by walls. to the east there were the spires of london and the smoke of the city; and perhaps on the very sky line, when the wind was in the right quarter, the craggy top and serrated edges of snowdon herself showed mountainous among the clouds. for a moment orlando stood counting, gazing, recognizing. that was his father’s house; that his uncle’s. his aunt owned those three great turrets among the trees there. the heath was theirs and the forest; the pheasant and the deer, the fox, the badger, and the butterfly.

he sighed profoundly, and flung himself — there was a passion in his movements which deserves the word — on the earth at the foot of the oak tree. he loved, beneath all this summer transiency, to feel the earth’s spine beneath him; for such he took the hard root of the oak tree to be; or, for image followed image, it was the back of a great horse that he was riding, or the deck of a tumbling ship — it was anything indeed, so long as it was hard, for he felt the need of something which he could attach his floating heart to; the heart that tugged at his side; the heart that seemed filled with spiced and amorous gales every evening about this time when he walked out. to the oak tree he tied it and as he lay there, gradually the flutter in and about him stilled itself; the little leaves hung, the deer stopped; the pale summer clouds stayed; his limbs grew heavy on the ground; and he lay so still that by degrees the deer stepped nearer and the rooks wheeled round him and the swallows dipped and circled and the dragonflies shot past, as if all the fertility and amorous activity of a summer’s evening were woven web-like about his body.

after an hour or so — the sun was rapidly sinking, the white clouds had turned red, the hills were violet, the woods purple, the valleys black — a trumpet sounded. orlando leapt to his feet. the shrill sound came from the valley. it came from a dark spot down there; a spot compact and mapped out; a maze; a town, yet girt about with walls; it came from the heart of his own great house in the valley, which, dark before, even as he looked and the single trumpet duplicated and reduplicated itself with other shriller sounds, lost its darkness and became pierced with lights. some were small hurrying lights, as if servants dashed along corridors to answer summonses; others were high and lustrous lights, as if they burnt in empty banqueting-halls made ready to receive guests who had not come; and others dipped and waved and sank and rose, as if held in the hands of troops of serving men, bending, kneeling, rising, receiving, guarding, and escorting with all dignity indoors a great princess alighting from her chariot. coaches turned and wheeled in the courtyard. horses tossed their plumes. the queen had come.

orlando looked no more. he dashed downhill. he let himself in at a wicket gate. he tore up the winding staircase. he reached his room. he tossed his stockings to one side of the room, his jerkin to the other. he dipped his head. he scoured his hands. he pared his finger nails. with no more than six inches of looking-glass and a pair of old candles to help him, he had thrust on crimson breeches, lace collar, waistcoat of taffeta, and shoes with rosettes on them as big as double dahlias in less than ten minutes by the stable clock. he was ready. he was flushed. he was excited, but he was terribly late.

by short cuts known to him, he made his way now through the vast congeries of rooms and staircases to the banqueting-hall, five acres distant on the other side of the house. but half-way there, in the back quarters where the servants lived, he stopped. the door of mrs stewkley’s sitting-room stood open — she was gone, doubtless, with all her keys to wait upon her mistress. but there, sitting at the servant’s dinner table with a tankard beside him and paper in front of him, sat a rather fat, shabby man, whose ruff was a thought dirty, and whose clothes were of hodden brown. he held a pen in his hand, but he was not writing. he seemed in the act of rolling some thought up and down, to and fro in his mind till it gathered shape or momentum to his liking. his eyes, globed and clouded like some green stone of curious texture, were fixed. he did not see orlando. for all his hurry, orlando stopped dead. was this a poet? was he writing poetry? ‘tell me’, he wanted to say, ‘everything in the whole world’— for he had the wildest, most absurd, extravagant ideas about poets and poetry — but how speak to a man who does not see you? who sees ogres, satyrs, perhaps the depths of the sea instead? so orlando stood gazing while the man turned his pen in his fingers, this way and that way; and gazed and mused; and then, very quickly, wrote half-a-dozen lines and looked up. whereupon orlando, overcome with shyness, darted off and reached the banqueting-hall only just in time to sink upon his knees and, hanging his head in confusion, to offer a bowl of rose water to the great queen herself.

such was his shyness that he saw no more of her than her ringed hands in water; but it was enough. it was a memorable hand; a thin hand with long fingers always curling as if round orb or sceptre; a nervous, crabbed, sickly hand; a commanding hand too; a hand that had only to raise itself for a head to fall; a hand, he guessed, attached to an old body that smelt like a cupboard in which furs are kept in camphor; which body was yet caparisoned in all sorts of brocades and gems; and held itself very upright though perhaps in pain from sciatica; and never flinched though strung together by a thousand fears; and the queen’s eyes were light yellow. all this he felt as the great rings flashed in the water and then something pressed his hair — which, perhaps, accounts for his seeing nothing more likely to be of use to a historian. and in truth, his mind was such a welter of opposites — of the night and the blazing candles, of the shabby poet and the great queen, of silent fields and the clatter of serving men — that he could see nothing; or only a hand.

by the same showing, the queen herself can have seen only a head. but if it is possible from a hand to deduce a body, informed with all the attributes of a great queen, her crabbedness, courage, frailty, and terror, surely a head can be as fertile, looked down upon from a chair of state by a lady whose eyes were always, if the waxworks at the abbey are to be trusted, wide open. the long, curled hair, the dark head bent so reverently, so innocently before her, implied a pair of the finest legs that a young nobleman has ever stood upright upon; and violet eyes; and a heart of gold; and loyalty and manly charm — all qualities which the old woman loved the more the more they failed her. for she was growing old and worn and bent before her time. the sound of cannon was always in her ears. she saw always the glistening poison drop and the long stiletto. as she sat at table she listened; she heard the guns in the channel; she dreaded — was that a curse, was that a whisper? innocence, simplicity, were all the more dear to her for the dark background she set them against. and it was that same night, so tradition has it, when orlando was sound asleep, that she made over formally, putting her hand and seal finally to the parchment, the gift of the great monastic house that had been the archbishop’s and then the king’s to orlando’s father.

orlando slept all night in ignorance. he had been kissed by a queen without knowing it. and perhaps, for women’s hearts are intricate, it was his ignorance and the start he gave when her lips touched him that kept the memory of her young cousin (for they had blood in common) green in her mind. at any rate, two years of this quiet country life had not passed, and orlando had written no more perhaps than twenty tragedies and a dozen histories and a score of sonnets when a message came that he was to attend the queen at whitehall.

‘here’, she said, watching him advance down the long gallery towards her, ‘comes my innocent!’ (there was a serenity about him always which had the look of innocence when, technically, the word was no longer applicable.)

‘come!’ she said. she was sitting bolt upright beside the fire. and she held him a foot’s pace from her and looked him up and down. was she matching her speculations the other night with the truth now visible? did she find her guesses justified? eyes, mouth, nose, breast, hips, hands — she ran them over; her lips twitched visibly as she looked; but when she saw his legs she laughed out loud. he was the very image of a noble gentleman. but inwardly? she flashed her yellow hawk’s eyes upon him as if she would pierce his soul. the young man withstood her gaze blushing only a damask rose as became him. strength, grace, romance, folly, poetry, youth — she read him like a page. instantly she plucked a ring from her finger (the joint was swollen rather) and as she fitted it to his, named him her treasurer and steward; next hung about him chains of office; and bidding him bend his knee, tied round it at the slenderest part the jewelled order of the garter. nothing after that was denied him. when she drove in state he rode at her carriage door. she sent him to scotland on a sad embassy to the unhappy queen. he was about to sail for the polish wars when she recalled him. for how could she bear to think of that tender flesh torn and that curly head rolled in the dust? she kept him with her. at the height of her triumph when the guns were booming at the tower and the air was thick enough with gunpowder to make one sneeze and the huzzas of the people rang beneath the windows, she pulled him down among the cushions where her women had laid her (she was so worn and old) and made him bury his face in that astonishing composition — she had not changed her dress for a month — which smelt for all the world, he thought, recalling his boyish memory, like some old cabinet at home where his mother’s furs were stored. he rose, half suffocated from the embrace. ‘this’, she breathed, ‘is my victory!’— even as a rocket roared up and dyed her cheeks scarlet.

for the old woman loved him. and the queen, who knew a man when she saw one, though not, it is said, in the usual way, plotted for him a splendid ambitious career. lands were given him, houses assigned him. he was to be the son of her old age; the limb of her infirmity; the oak tree on which she leant her degradation. she croaked out these promises and strange domineering tendernesses (they were at richmond now) sitting bolt upright in her stiff brocades by the fire which, however high they piled it, never kept her warm.

meanwhile, the long winter months drew on. every tree in the park was lined with frost. the river ran sluggishly. one day when the snow was on the ground and the dark panelled rooms were full of shadows and the stags were barking in the park, she saw in the mirror, which she kept for fear of spies always by her, through the door, which she kept for fear of murderers always open, a boy — could it be orlando?— kissing a girl — who in the devil’s name was the brazen hussy? snatching at her golden-hilted sword she struck violently at the mirror. the glass crashed; people came running; she was lifted and set in her chair again; but she was stricken after that and groaned much, as her days wore to an end, of man’s treachery.

it was orlando’s fault perhaps; yet, after all, are we to blame orlando? the age was the elizabethan; their morals were not ours; nor their poets; nor their climate; nor their vegetables even. everything was different. the weather itself, the heat and cold of summer and winter, was, we may believe, of another temper altogether. the brilliant amorous day was divided as sheerly from the night as land from water. sunsets were redder and more intense; dawns were whiter and more auroral. of our crepuscular half-lights and lingering twilights they knew nothing. the rain fell vehemently, or not at all. the sun blazed or there was darkness. translating this to the spiritual regions as their wont is, the poets sang beautifully how roses fade and petals fall. the moment is brief they sang; the moment is over; one long night is then to be slept by all. as for using the artifices of the greenhouse or conservatory to prolong or preserve these fresh pinks and roses, that was not their way. the withered intricacies and ambiguities of our more gradual and doubtful age were unknown to them. violence was all. the flower bloomed and faded. the sun rose and sank. the lover loved and went. and what the poets said in rhyme, the young translated into practice. girls were roses, and their seasons were short as the flowers’. plucked they must be before nightfall; for the day was brief and the day was all. thus, if orlando followed the leading of the climate, of the poets, of the age itself, and plucked his flower in the window-seat even with the snow on the ground and the queen vigilant in the corridor we can scarcely bring ourselves to blame him. he was young; he was boyish; he did but as nature bade him do. as for the girl, we know no more than queen elizabeth herself did what her name was. it may have been doris, chloris, delia, or diana, for he made rhymes to them all in turn; equally, she may have been a court lady, or some serving maid. for orlando’s taste was broad; he was no lover of garden flowers only; the wild and the weeds even had always a fascination for him.

here, indeed, we lay bare rudely, as a biographer may, a curious trait in him, to be accounted for, perhaps, by the fact that a certain grandmother of his had worn a smock and carried milkpails. some grains of the kentish or sussex earth were mixed with the thin, fine fluid which came to him from normandy. he held that the mixture of brown earth and blue blood was a good one. certain it is that he had always a liking for low company, especially for that of lettered people whose wits so often keep them under, as if there were the sympathy of blood between them. at this season of his life, when his head brimmed with rhymes and he never went to bed without striking off some conceit, the cheek of an innkeeper’s daughter seemed fresher and the wit of a gamekeeper’s niece seemed quicker than those of the ladies at court. hence, he began going frequently to wapping old stairs and the beer gardens at night, wrapped in a grey cloak to hide the star at his neck and the garter at his knee. there, with a mug before him, among the sanded alleys and bowling greens and all the simple architecture of such places, he listened to sailors’ stories of hardship and horror and cruelty on the spanish main; how some had lost their toes, others their noses — for the spoken story was never so rounded or so finely coloured as the written. especially he loved to hear them volley forth their songs of ‘the azores, while the parrakeets, which they had brought from those parts, pecked at the rings in their ears, tapped with their hard acquisitive beaks at the rubies on their fingers, and swore as vilely as their masters. the women were scarcely less bold in their speech and less free in their manner than the birds. they perched on his knee, flung their arms round his neck and, guessing that something out of the common lay hid beneath his duffle cloak, were quite as eager to come at the truth of the matter as orlando himself.

nor was opportunity lacking. the river was astir early and late with barges, wherries, and craft of all description. every day sailed to sea some fine ship bound for the indies; now and again another blackened and ragged with hairy men on board crept painfully to anchor. no one missed a boy or girl if they dallied a little on the water after sunset; or raised an eyebrow if gossip had seen them sleeping soundly among the treasure sacks safe in each other’s arms. such indeed was the adventure that befel orlando, sukey, and the earl of cumberland. the day was hot; their loves had been active; they had fallen asleep among the rubies. late that night the earl, whose fortunes were much bound up in the spanish ventures, came to check the booty alone with a lantern. he flashed the light on a barrel. he started back with an oath. twined about the cask two spirits lay sleeping. superstitious by nature, and his conscience laden with many a crime, the earl took the couple — they were wrapped in a red cloak, and sukey’s bosom was almost as white as the eternal snows of orlando’s poetry — for a phantom sprung from the graves of drowned sailors to upbraid him. he crossed himself. he vowed repentance. the row of alms houses still standing in the sheen road is the visible fruit of that moment’s panic. twelve poor old women of the parish today drink tea and tonight bless his lordship for a roof above their heads; so that illicit love in a treasure ship — but we omit the moral.

soon, however, orlando grew tired, not only of the discomfort of this way of life, and of the crabbed streets of the neighbourhood, but of the primitive manner of the people. for it has to be remembered that crime and poverty had none of the attraction for the elizabethans that they have for us. they had none of our modern shame of book learning; none of our belief that to be born the son of a butcher is a blessing and to be unable to read a virtue; no fancy that what we call ‘life’ and ‘reality’ are somehow connected with ignorance and brutality; nor, indeed, any equivalent for these two words at all. it was not to seek ‘life’ that orlando went among them; not in quest of ‘reality’ that he left them. but when he had heard a score of times how jakes had lost his nose and sukey her honour — and they told the stories admirably, it must be admitted — he began to be a little weary of the repetition, for a nose can only be cut off in one way and maidenhood lost in another — or so it seemed to him — whereas the arts and the sciences had a diversity about them which stirred his curiosity profoundly. so, always keeping them in happy memory, he left off frequenting the beer gardens and the skittle alleys, hung his grey cloak in his wardrobe, let his star shine at his neck and his garter twinkle at his knee, and appeared once more at the court of king james. he was young, he was rich, he was handsome. no one could have been received with greater acclamation than he was.

it is certain indeed that many ladies were ready to show him their favours. the names of three at least were freely coupled with his in marriage — clorinda, favilla, euphrosyne — so he called them in his sonnets.

to take them in order; clorinda was a sweet-mannered gentle lady enough;— indeed orlando was greatly taken with her for six months and a half; but she had white eyelashes and could not bear the sight of blood. a hare brought up roasted at her father’s table turned her faint. she was much under the influence of the priests too, and stinted her underlinen in order to give to the poor. she took it on her to reform orlando of his sins, which sickened him, so that he drew back from the marriage, and did not much regret it when she died soon after of the small-pox.

favilla, who comes next, was of a different sort altogether. she was the daughter of a poor somersetshire gentleman; who, by sheer assiduity and the use of her eyes had worked her way up at court, where her address in horsemanship, her fine instep, and her grace in dancing won the admiration of all. once, however, she was so ill-advised as to whip a spaniel that had torn one of her silk stockings (and it must be said in justice that favilla had few stockings and those for the most part of drugget) within an inch of its life beneath orlando’s window. orlando, who was a passionate lover of animals, now noticed that her teeth were crooked, and the two front turned inward, which, he said, is a sure sign of a perverse and cruel disposition in women, and so broke the engagement that very night for ever.

the third, euphrosyne, was by far the most serious of his flames. she was by birth one of the irish desmonds and had therefore a family tree of her own as old and deeply rooted as orlando’s itself. she was fair, florid, and a trifle phlegmatic. she spoke italian well, had a perfect set of teeth in the upper jaw, though those on the lower were slightly discoloured. she was never without a whippet or spaniel at her knee; fed them with white bread from her own plate; sang sweetly to the virginals; and was never dressed before mid-day owing to the extreme care she took of her person. in short, she would have made a perfect wife for such a nobleman as orlando, and matters had gone so far that the lawyers on both sides were busy with covenants, jointures, settlements, messuages, tenements, and whatever is needed before one great fortune can mate with another when, with the suddenness and severity that then marked the english climate, came the great frost.

the great frost was, historians tell us, the most severe that has ever visited these islands. birds froze in mid-air and fell like stones to the ground. at norwich a young countrywoman started to cross the road in her usual robust health and was seen by the onlookers to turn visibly to powder and be blown in a puff of dust over the roofs as the icy blast struck her at the street corner. the mortality among sheep and cattle was enormous. corpses froze and could not be drawn from the sheets. it was no uncommon sight to come upon a whole herd of swine frozen immovable upon the road. the fields were full of shepherds, ploughmen, teams of horses, and little bird-scaring boys all struck stark in the act of the moment, one with his hand to his nose, another with the bottle to his lips, a third with a stone raised to throw at the ravens who sat, as if stuffed, upon the hedge within a yard of him. the severity of the frost was so extraordinary that a kind of petrifaction sometimes ensued; and it was commonly supposed that the great increase of rocks in some parts of derbyshire was due to no eruption, for there was none, but to the solidification of unfortunate wayfarers who had been turned literally to stone where they stood. the church could give little help in the matter, and though some landowners had these relics blessed, the most part preferred to use them either as landmarks, scratching-posts for sheep, or, when the form of the stone allowed, drinking troughs for cattle, which purposes they serve, admirably for the most part, to this day.

but while the country people suffered the extremity of want, and the trade of the country was at a standstill, london enjoyed a carnival of the utmost brilliancy. the court was at greenwich, and the new king seized the opportunity that his coronation gave him to curry favour with the citizens. he directed that the river, which was frozen to a depth of twenty feet and more for six or seven miles on either side, should be swept, decorated and given all the semblance of a park or pleasure ground, with arbours, mazes, alleys, drinking booths, etc. at his expense. for himself and the courtiers, he reserved a certain space immediately opposite the palace gates; which, railed off from the public only by a silken rope, became at once the centre of the most brilliant society in england. great statesmen, in their beards and ruffs, despatched affairs of state under the crimson awning of the royal pagoda. soldiers planned the conquest of the moor and the downfall of the turk in striped arbours surmounted by plumes of ostrich feathers. admirals strode up and down the narrow pathways, glass in hand, sweeping the horizon and telling stories of the north-west passage and the spanish armada. lovers dallied upon divans spread with sables. frozen roses fell in showers when the queen and her ladies walked abroad. coloured balloons hovered motionless in the air. here and there burnt vast bonfires of cedar and oak wood, lavishly salted, so that the flames were of green, orange, and purple fire. but however fiercely they burnt, the heat was not enough to melt the ice which, though of singular transparency, was yet of the hardness of steel. so clear indeed was it that there could be seen, congealed at a depth of several feet, here a porpoise, there a flounder. shoals of eels lay motionless in a trance, but whether their state was one of death or merely of suspended animation which the warmth would revive puzzled the philosophers. near london bridge, where the river had frozen to a depth of some twenty fathoms, a wrecked wherry boat was plainly visible, lying on the bed of the river where it had sunk last autumn, overladen with apples. the old bumboat woman, who was carrying her fruit to market on the surrey side, sat there in her plaids and farthingales with her lap full of apples, for all the world as if she were about to serve a customer, though a certain blueness about the lips hinted the truth. ‘twas a sight king james specially liked to look upon, and he would bring a troupe of courtiers to gaze with him. in short, nothing could exceed the brilliancy and gaiety of the scene by day. but it was at night that the carnival was at its merriest. for the frost continued unbroken; the nights were of perfect stillness; the moon and stars blazed with the hard fixity of diamonds, and to the fine music of flute and trumpet the courtiers danced.

orlando, it is true, was none of those who tread lightly the corantoe and lavolta; he was clumsy and a little absentminded. he much preferred the plain dances of his own country, which he danced as a child to these fantastic foreign measures. he had indeed just brought his feet together about six in the evening of the seventh of january at the finish of some such quadrille or minuet when he beheld, coming from the pavilion of the muscovite embassy, a figure, which, whether boy’s or woman’s, for the loose tunic and trousers of the russian fashion served to disguise the sex, filled him with the highest curiosity. the person, whatever the name or sex, was about middle height, very slenderly fashioned, and dressed entirely in oyster-coloured velvet, trimmed with some unfamiliar greenish-coloured fur. but these details were obscured by the extraordinary seductiveness which issued from the whole person. images, metaphors of the most extreme and extravagant twined and twisted in his mind. he called her a melon, a pineapple, an olive tree, an emerald, and a fox in the snow all in the space of three seconds; he did not know whether he had heard her, tasted her, seen her, or all three together. (for though we must pause not a moment in the narrative we may here hastily note that all his images at this time were simple in the extreme to match his senses and were mostly taken from things he had liked the taste of as a boy. but if his senses were simple they were at the same time extremely strong. to pause therefore and seek the reasons of things is out of the question.)...a melon, an emerald, a fox in the snow — so he raved, so he stared. when the boy, for alas, a boy it must be — no woman could skate with such speed and vigour — swept almost on tiptoe past him, orlando was ready to tear his hair with vexation that the person was of his own sex, and thus all embraces were out of the question. but the skater came closer. legs, hands, carriage, were a boy’s, but no boy ever had a mouth like that; no boy had those breasts; no boy had eyes which looked as if they had been fished from the bottom of the sea. finally, coming to a stop and sweeping a curtsey with the utmost grace to the king, who was shuffling past on the arm of some lord-in-waiting, the unknown skater came to a standstill. she was not a handsbreadth off. she was a woman. orlando stared; trembled; turned hot; turned cold; longed to hurl himself through the summer air; to crush acorns beneath his feet; to toss his arm with the beech trees and the oaks. as it was, he drew his lips up over his small white teeth; opened them perhaps half an inch as if to bite; shut them as if he had bitten. the lady euphrosyne hung upon his arm.

the stranger’s name, he found, was the princess marousha stanilovska dagmar natasha iliana romanovitch, and she had come in the train of the muscovite ambassador, who was her uncle perhaps, or perhaps her father, to attend the coronation. very little was known of the muscovites. in their great beards and furred hats they sat almost silent; drinking some black liquid which they spat out now and then upon the ice. none spoke english, and french with which some at least were familiar was then little spoken at the english court.

it was through this accident that orlando and the princess became acquainted. they were seated opposite each other at the great table spread under a huge awning for the entertainment of the notables. the princess was placed between two young lords, one lord francis vere and the other the young earl of moray. it was laughable to see the predicament she soon had them in, for though both were fine lads in their way, the babe unborn had as much knowledge of the french tongue as they had. when at the beginning of dinner the princess turned to the earl and said, with a grace which ravished his heart, ‘je crois avoir fait la connaissance d’un gentilhomme qui vous etait apparente en pologne l’ete dernier,’ or ‘la beaute des dames de la cour d’angleterre me met dans le ravissement. on ne peut voir une dame plus gracieuse que votre reine, ni une coiffure plus belle que la sienne,’ both lord francis and the earl showed the highest embarrassment. the one helped her largely to horse-radish sauce, the other whistled to his dog and made him beg for a marrow bone. at this the princess could no longer contain her laughter, and orlando, catching her eyes across the boars’ heads and stuffed peacocks, laughed too. he laughed, but the laugh on his lips froze in wonder. whom had he loved, what had he loved, he asked himself in a tumult of emotion, until now? an old woman, he answered, all skin and bone. red-cheeked trulls too many to mention. a puling nun. a hard-bitten cruel-mouthed adventuress. a nodding mass of lace and ceremony. love had meant to him nothing but sawdust and cinders. the joys he had had of it tasted insipid in the extreme. he marvelled how he could have gone through with it without yawning. for as he looked the thickness of his blood melted; the ice turned to wine in his veins; he heard the waters flowing and the birds singing; spring broke over the hard wintry landscape; his manhood woke; he grasped a sword in his hand; he charged a more daring foe than pole or moor; he dived in deep water; he saw the flower of danger growing in a crevice; he stretched his hand — in fact he was rattling off one of his most impassioned sonnets when the princess addressed him, ‘would you have the goodness to pass the salt?’

he blushed deeply.

‘with all the pleasure in the world, madame,’ he replied, speaking french with a perfect accent. for, heaven be praised, he spoke the tongue as his own; his mother’s maid had taught him. yet perhaps it would have been better for him had he never learnt that tongue; never answered that voice; never followed the light of those eyes...

the princess continued. who were those bumpkins, she asked him, who sat beside her with the manners of stablemen? what was the nauseating mixture they had poured on her plate? did the dogs eat at the same table with the men in england? was that figure of fun at the end of the table with her hair rigged up like a maypole (comme une grande perche mal fagotee) really the queen? and did the king always slobber like that? and which of those popinjays was george villiers? though these questions rather discomposed orlando at first, they were put with such archness and drollery that he could not help but laugh; and he saw from the blank faces of the company that nobody understood a word, he answered her as freely as she asked him, speaking, as she did, in perfect french.

thus began an intimacy between the two which soon became the scandal of the court.

soon it was observed orlando paid the muscovite far more attention than mere civility demanded. he was seldom far from her side, and their conversation, though unintelligible to the rest, was carried on with such animation, provoked such blushes and laughter, that the dullest could guess the subject. moreover, the change in orlando himself was extraordinary. nobody had ever seen him so animated. in one night he had thrown off his boyish clumsiness; he was changed from a sulky stripling, who could not enter a ladies’ room without sweeping half the ornaments from the table, to a nobleman, full of grace and manly courtesy. to see him hand the muscovite (as she was called) to her sledge, or offer her his hand for the dance, or catch the spotted kerchief which she had let drop, or discharge any other of those manifold duties which the supreme lady exacts and the lover hastens to anticipate was a sight to kindle the dull eyes of age, and to make the quick pulse of youth beat faster. yet over it all hung a cloud. the old men shrugged their shoulders. the young tittered between their fingers. all knew that a orlando was betrothed to another. the lady margaret o’brien o’dare o’reilly tyrconnel (for that was the proper name of euphrosyne of the sonnets) wore orlando’s splendid sapphire on the second finger of her left hand. it was she who had the supreme right to his attentions. yet she might drop all the handkerchiefs in her wardrobe (of which she had many scores) upon the ice and orlando never stooped to pick them up. she might wait twenty minutes for him to hand her to her sledge, and in the end have to be content with the services of her blackamoor. when she skated, which she did rather clumsily, no one was at her elbow to encourage her, and, if she fell, which she did rather heavily, no one raised her to her feet and dusted the snow from her petticoats. although she was naturally phlegmatic, slow to take offence, and more reluctant than most people to believe that a mere foreigner could oust her from orlando’s affections, still even the lady margaret herself was brought at last to suspect that something was brewing against her peace of mind.

indeed, as the days passed, orlando took less and less care to hide his feelings. making some excuse or other, he would leave the company as soon as they had dined, or steal away from the skaters, who were forming sets for a quadrille. next moment it would be seen that the muscovite was missing too. but what most outraged the court, and stung it in its tenderest part, which is its vanity, was that the couple was often seen to slip under the silken rope, which railed off the royal enclosure from the public part of the river and to disappear among the crowd of common people. for suddenly the princess would stamp her foot and cry, ‘take me away. i detest your english mob,’ by which she meant the english court itself. she could stand it no longer. it was full of prying old women, she said, who stared in one’s face, and of bumptious young men who trod on one’s toes. they smelt bad. their dogs ran between her legs. it was like being in a cage. in russia they had rivers ten miles broad on which one could gallop six horses abreast all day long without meeting a soul. besides, she wanted to see the tower, the beefeaters, the heads on temple bar, and the jewellers’ shops in the city. thus, it came about that orlando took her into the city, showed her the beefeaters and the rebels’ heads, and bought her whatever took her fancy in the royal exchange. but this was not enough. each increasingly desired the other’s company in privacy all day long where there were none to marvel or to stare. instead of taking the road to london, therefore, they turned the other way about and were soon beyond the crowd among the frozen reaches of the thames where, save for sea birds and some old country woman hacking at the ice in a vain attempt to draw a pailful of water or gathering what sticks or dead leaves she could find for firing, not a living soul ever came their way. the poor kept closely to their cottages, and the better sort, who could afford it, crowded for warmth and merriment to the city.

hence, orlando and sasha, as he called her for short, and because it was the name of a white russian fox he had had as a boy — a creature soft as snow, but with teeth of steel, which bit him so savagely that his father had it killed — hence, they had the river to themselves. hot with skating and with love they would throw themselves down in some solitary reach, where the yellow osiers fringed the bank, and wrapped in a great fur cloak orlando would take her in his arms, and know, for the first time, he murmured, the delights of love. then, when the ecstasy was over and they lay lulled in a swoon on the ice, he would tell her of his other loves, and how, compared with her, they had been of wood, of sackcloth, and of cinders. and laughing at his vehemence, she would turn once more in his arms and give him for love’s sake, one more embrace. and then they would marvel that the ice did not melt with their heat, and pity the poor old woman who had no such natural means of thawing it, but must hack at it with a chopper of cold steel. and then, wrapped in their sables, they would talk of everything under the sun; of sights and travels; of moor and pagan; of this man’s beard and that woman’s skin; of a rat that fed from her hand at table; of the arras that moved always in the hall at home; of a face; of a feather. nothing was too small for such converse, nothing was too great.

then suddenly, orlando would fall into one of his moods of melancholy; the sight of the old woman hobbling over the ice might be the cause of it, or nothing; and would fling himself face downwards on the ice and look into the frozen waters and think of death. for the philosopher is right who says that nothing thicker than a knife’s blade separates happiness from melancholy; and he goes on to opine that one is twin fellow to the other; and draws from this the conclusion that all extremes of feeling are allied to madness; and so bids us take refuge in the true church (in his view the anabaptist), which is the only harbour, port, anchorage, etc., he said, for those tossed on this sea.

‘all ends in death,’ orlando would say, sitting upright, his face clouded with gloom. (for that was the way his mind worked now, in violent see-saws from life to death, stopping at nothing in between, so that the biographer must not stop either, but must fly as fast as he can and so keep pace with the unthinking passionate foolish actions and sudden extravagant words in which, it is impossible to deny, orlando at this time of his life indulged.)

‘all ends in death,’ orlando would say, sitting upright on the ice. but sasha who after all had no english blood in her but was from russia where the sunsets are longer, the dawns less sudden, and sentences often left unfinished from doubt as to how best to end them — sasha stared at him, perhaps sneered at him, for he must have seemed a child to her, and said nothing. but at length the ice grew cold beneath them, which she disliked, so pulling him to his feet again, she talked so enchantingly, so wittily, so wisely (but unfortunately always in french, which notoriously loses its flavour in translation) that he forgot the frozen waters or night coming or the old woman or whatever it was, and would try to tell her — plunging and splashing among a thousand images which had gone as stale as the women who inspired them — what she was like. snow, cream, marble, cherries, alabaster, golden wire? none of these. she was like a fox, or an olive tree; like the waves of the sea when you look down upon them from a height; like an emerald; like the sun on a green hill which is yet clouded — like nothing he had seen or known in england. ransack the language as he might, words failed him. he wanted another landscape, and another tongue. english was too frank, too candid, too honeyed a speech for sasha. for in all she said, however open she seemed and voluptuous, there was something hidden; in all she did, however daring, there was something concealed. so the green flame seems hidden in the emerald, or the sun prisoned in a hill. the clearness was only outward; within was a wandering flame. it came; it went; she never shone with the steady beam of an englishwoman — here, however, remembering the lady margaret and her petticoats, orlando ran wild in his transports and swept her over the ice, faster, faster, vowing that he would chase the flame, dive for the gem, and so on and so on, the words coming on the pants of his breath with the passion of a poet whose poetry is half pressed out of him by pain.

but sasha was silent. when orlando had done telling her that she was a fox, an olive tree, or a green hill-top, and had given her the whole history of his family; how their house was one of the most ancient in britain; how they had come from rome with the caesars and had the right to walk down the corso (which is the chief street in rome) under a tasselled palanquin, which he said is a privilege reserved only for those of imperial blood (for there was an orgulous credulity about him which was pleasant enough), he would pause and ask her, where was her own house? what was her father? had she brothers? why was she here alone with her uncle? then, somehow, though she answered readily enough, an awkwardness would come between them. he suspected at first that her rank was not as high as she would like; or that she was ashamed of the savage ways of her people, for he had heard that the women in muscovy wear beards and the men are covered with fur from the waist down; that both sexes are smeared with tallow to keep the cold out, tear meat with their fingers and live in huts where an english noble would scruple to keep his cattle; so that he forebore to press her. but on reflection, he concluded that her silence could not be for that reason; she herself was entirely free from hair on the chin; she dressed in velvet and pearls, and her manners were certainly not those of a woman bred in a cattle-shed.

what, then, did she hide from him? the doubt underlying the tremendous force of his feelings was like a quicksand beneath a monument which shifts suddenly and makes the whole pile shake. the agony would seize him suddenly. then he would blaze out in such wrath that she did not know how to quiet him. perhaps she did not want to quiet him; perhaps his rages pleased her and she provoked them purposely — such is the curious obliquity of the muscovitish temperament.

to continue the story — skating farther than their wont that day they reached that part of the river where the ships had anchored and been frozen in midstream. among them was the ship of the muscovite embassy flying its double-headed black eagle from the main mast, which was hung with many-coloured icicles several yards in length. sasha had left some of her clothing on board, and supposing the ship to be empty they climbed on deck and went in search of it. remembering certain passages in his own past, orlando would not have marvelled had some good citizens sought this refuge before them; and so it turned out. they had not ventured far when a fine young man started up from some business of his own behind a coil of rope and saying, apparently, for he spoke russian, that he was one of the crew and would help the princess to find what she wanted, lit a lump of candle and disappeared with her into the lower parts of the ship.

time went by, and orlando, wrapped in his own dreams, thought only of the pleasures of life; of his jewel; of her rarity; of means for making her irrevocably and indissolubly his own. obstacles there were and hardships to overcome. she was determined to live in russia, where there were frozen rivers and wild horses and men, she said, who gashed each other’s throats open. it is true that a landscape of pine and snow, habits of lust and slaughter, did not entice him. nor was he anxious to cease his pleasant country ways of sport and tree-planting; relinquish his office; ruin his career; shoot the reindeer instead of the rabbit; drink vodka instead of canary, and slip a knife up his sleeve — for what purpose, he knew not. still, all this and more than all this he would do for her sake. as for his marriage to the lady margaret, fixed though it was for this day sennight, the thing was so palpably absurd that he scarcely gave it a thought. her kinsmen would abuse him for deserting a great lady; his friends would deride him for ruining the finest career in the world for a cossack woman and a waste of snow — it weighed not a straw in the balance compared with sasha herself. on the first dark night they would fly. they would take ship to russia. so he pondered; so he plotted as he walked up and down the deck.

he was recalled, turning westward, by the sight of the sun, slung like an orange on the cross of st paul’s. it was blood-red and sinking rapidly. it must be almost evening. sasha had been gone this hour and more. seized instantly with those dark forebodings which shadowed even his most confident thoughts of her, he plunged the way he had seen them go into the hold of the ship; and, after stumbling among chests and barrels in the darkness, was made aware by a faint glimmer in a corner that they were seated there. for one second, he had a vision of them; saw sasha seated on the sailor’s knee; saw her bend towards him; saw them embrace before the light was blotted out in a red cloud by his rage. he blazed into such a howl of anguish that the whole ship echoed. sasha threw herself between them, or the sailor would have been stifled before he could draw his cutlass. then a deadly sickness came over orlando, and they had to lay him on the floor and give him brandy to drink before he revived. and then, when he had recovered and was sat upon a heap of sacking on deck, sasha hung over him, passing before his dizzied eyes softly, sinuously, like the fox that had bit him, now cajoling, now denouncing, so that he came to doubt what he had seen. had not the candle guttered; had not the shadows moved? the box was heavy, she said; the man was helping her to move it. orlando believed her one moment — for who can be sure that his rage has not painted what he most dreads to find?— the next was the more violent with anger at her deceit. then sasha herself turned white; stamped her foot on deck; said she would go that night, and called upon her gods to destroy her, if she, a romanovitch, had lain in the arms of a common seaman. indeed, looking at them together (which he could hardly bring himself to do) orlando was outraged by the foulness of his imagination that could have painted so frail a creature in the paw of that hairy sea brute. the man was huge; stood six feet four in his stockings, wore common wire rings in his ears; and looked like a dray horse upon which some wren or robin has perched in its flight. so he yielded; believed her; and asked her pardon. yet when they were going down the ship’s side, lovingly again, sasha paused with her hand on the ladder, and called back to this tawny wide-cheeked monster a volley of russian greetings, jests, or endearments, not a word of which orlando could understand. but there was something in her tone (it might be the fault of the russian consonants) that reminded orlando of a scene some nights since, when he had come upon her in secret gnawing a candle-end in a corner, which she had picked from the floor. true, it was pink; it was gilt; and it was from the king’s table; but it was tallow, and she gnawed it. was there not, he thought, handing her on to the ice, something rank in her, something coarse flavoured, something peasant born? and he fancied her at forty grown unwieldy though she was now slim as a reed, and lethargic though she was now blithe as a lark. but again as they skated towards london such suspicions melted in his breast, and he felt as if he had been hooked by a great fish through the nose and rushed through the waters unwillingly, yet with his own consent.

it was an evening of astonishing beauty. as the sun sank, all the domes, spires, turrets, and pinnacles of london rose in inky blackness against the furious red sunset clouds. here was the fretted cross at charing; there the dome of st paul’s; there the massy square of the tower buildings; there like a grove of trees stripped of all leaves save a knob at the end were the heads on the pikes at temple bar. now the abbey windows were lit up and burnt like a heavenly, many-coloured shield (in orlando’s fancy); now all the west seemed a golden window with troops of angels (in orlando’s fancy again) passing up and down the heavenly stairs perpetually. all the time they seemed to be skating in fathomless depths of air, so blue the ice had become; and so glassy smooth was it that they sped quicker and quicker to the city with the white gulls circling about them, and cutting in the air with their wings the very same sweeps that they cut on the ice with their skates.

sasha, as if to reassure him, was tenderer than usual and even more delightful. seldom would she talk about her past life, but now she told him how, in winter in russia, she would listen to the wolves howling across the steppes, and thrice, to show him, she barked like a wolf. upon which he told her of the stags in the snow at home, and how they would stray into the great hall for warmth and be fed by an old man with porridge from a bucket. and then she praised him; for his love of beasts; for his gallantry; for his legs. ravished with her praises and shamed to think how he had maligned her by fancying her on the knees of a common sailor and grown fat and lethargic at forty, he told her that he could find no words to praise her; yet instantly bethought him how she was like the spring and green grass and rushing waters, and seizing her more tightly than ever, he swung her with him half across the river so that the gulls and the cormorants swung too. and halting at length, out of breath, she said, panting slightly, that he was like a million-candled christmas tree (such as they have in russia) hung with yellow globes; incandescent; enough to light a whole street by; (so one might translate it) for what with his glowing cheeks, his dark curls, his black and crimson cloak, he looked as if he were burning with his own radiance, from a lamp lit within.

all the colour, save the red of orlando’s cheeks, soon faded. night came on. as the orange light of sunset vanished it was succeeded by an astonishing white glare from the torches, bonfires, flaming cressets, and other devices by which the river was lit up and the strangest transformation took place. various churches and noblemen’s palaces, whose fronts were of white stone showed in streaks and patches as if floating on the air. of st paul’s, in particular, nothing was left but a gilt cross. the abbey appeared like the grey skeleton of a leaf. everything suffered emaciation and transformation. as they approached the carnival, they heard a deep note like that struck on a tuning-fork which boomed louder and louder until it became an uproar. every now and then a great shout followed a rocket into the air. gradually they could discern little figures breaking off from the vast crowd and spinning hither and thither like gnats on the surface of a river. above and around this brilliant circle like a bowl of darkness pressed the deep black of a winter’s night. and then into this darkness there began to rise with pauses, which kept the expectation alert and the mouth open, flowering rockets; crescents; serpents; a crown. at one moment the woods and distant hills showed green as on a summer’s day; the next all was winter and blackness again.

by this time orlando and the princess were close to the royal enclosure and found their way barred by a great crowd of the common people, who were pressing as near to the silken rope as they dared. loth to end their privacy and encounter the sharp eyes that were on the watch for them, the couple lingered there, shouldered by apprentices; tailors; fishwives; horse dealers, cony catchers; starving scholars; maid-servants in their whimples; orange girls; ostlers; sober citizens; bawdy tapsters; and a crowd of little ragamuffins such as always haunt the outskirts of a crowd, screaming and scrambling among people’s feet — all the riff-raff of the london streets indeed was there, jesting and jostling, here casting dice, telling fortunes, shoving, tickling, pinching; here uproarious, there glum; some of them with mouths gaping a yard wide; others as little reverent as daws on a house-top; all as variously rigged out as their purse or stations allowed; here in fur and broadcloth; there in tatters with their feet kept from the ice only by a dishclout bound about them. the main press of people, it appeared, stood opposite a booth or stage something like our punch and judy show upon which some kind of theatrical performance was going forward. a black man was waving his arms and vociferating. there was a woman in white laid upon a bed. rough though the staging was, the actors running up and down a pair of steps and sometimes tripping, and the crowd stamping their feet and whistling, or when they were bored, tossing a piece of orange peel on to the ice which a dog would scramble for, still the astonishing, sinuous melody of the words stirred orlando like music. spoken with extreme speed and a daring agility of tongue which reminded him of the sailors singing in the beer gardens at wapping, the words even without meaning were as wine to him. but now and again a single phrase would come to him over the ice which was as if torn from the depths of his heart. the frenzy of the moor seemed to him his own frenzy, and when the moor suffocated the woman in her bed it was sasha he killed with his own hands.

at last the play was ended. all had grown dark. the tears streamed down his face. looking up into the sky there was nothing but blackness there too. ruin and death, he thought, cover all. the life of man ends in the grave. worms devour us.

methinks it should be now a huge eclipse

of sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe

should yawn —

even as he said this a star of some pallor rose in his memory. the night was dark; it was pitch dark; but it was such a night as this that they had waited for; it was on such a night as this that they had planned to fly. he remembered everything. the time had come. with a burst of passion he snatched sasha to him, and hissed in her ear ‘jour de ma vie!’ it was their signal. at midnight they would meet at an inn near blackfriars. horses waited there. everything was in readiness for their flight. so they parted, she to her tent, he to his. it still wanted an hour of the time.

long before midnight orlando was in waiting. the night was of so inky a blackness that a man was on you before he could be seen, which was all to the good, but it was also of the most solemn stillness so that a horse’s hoof, or a child’s cry, could be heard at a distance of half a mile. many a time did orlando, pacing the little courtyard, hold his heart at the sound of some nag’s steady footfall on the cobbles, or at the rustle of a woman’s dress. but the traveller was only some merchant, making home belated; or some woman of the quarter whose errand was nothing so innocent. they passed, and the street was quieter than before. then those lights which burnt downstairs in the small, huddled quarters where the poor of the city lived moved up to the sleeping-rooms, and then, one by one, were extinguished. the street lanterns in these purlieus were few at most; and the negligence of the night watchman often suffered them to expire long before dawn. the darkness then became even deeper than before. orlando looked to the wicks of his lantern, saw to the saddle girths; primed his pistols; examined his holsters; and did all these things a dozen times at least till he could find nothing more needing his attention. though it still lacked some twenty minutes to midnight, he could not bring himself to go indoors to the inn parlour, where the hostess was still serving sack and the cheaper sort of canary wine to a few seafaring men, who would sit there trolling their ditties, and telling their stories of drake, hawkins, and grenville, till they toppled off the benches and rolled asleep on the sanded floor. the darkness was more compassionate to his swollen and violent heart. he listened to every footfall; speculated on every sound. each drunken shout and each wail from some poor wretch laid in the straw or in other distress cut his heart to the quick, as if it boded ill omen to his venture. yet, he had no fear for sasha. her courage made nothing of the adventure. she would come alone, in her cloak and trousers, booted like a man. light as her footfall was, it would hardly be heard, even in this silence.

so he waited in the darkness. suddenly he was struck in the face by a blow, soft, yet heavy, on the side of his cheek. so strung with expectation was he, that he started and put his hand to his sword. the blow was repeated a dozen times on forehead and cheek. the dry frost had lasted so long that it took him a minute to realize that these were raindrops falling; the blows were the blows of the rain. at first, they fell slowly, deliberately, one by one. but soon the six drops became sixty; then six hundred; then ran themselves together in a steady spout of water. it was as if the hard and consolidated sky poured itself forth in one profuse fountain. in the space of five minutes orlando was soaked to the skin.

hastily putting the horses under cover, he sought shelter beneath the lintel of the door whence he could still observe the courtyard. the air was thicker now than ever, and such a steaming and droning rose from the downpour that no footfall of man or beast could be heard above it. the roads, pitted as they were with great holes, would be under water and perhaps impassable. but of what effect this would have upon their flight he scarcely thought. all his senses were bent upon gazing along the cobbled pathway — gleaming in the light of the lantern — for sasha’s coming. sometimes, in the darkness, he seemed to see her wrapped about with rain strokes. but the phantom vanished. suddenly, with an awful and ominous voice, a voice full of horror and alarm which raised every hair of anguish in orlando’s soul, st paul’s struck the first stroke of midnight. four times more it struck remorselessly. with the superstition of a lover, orlando had made out that it was on the sixth stroke that she would come. but the sixth stroke echoed away, and the seventh came and the eighth, and to his apprehensive mind they seemed notes first heralding and then proclaiming death and disaster. when the twelfth struck he knew that his doom was sealed. it was useless for the rational part of him to reason; she might be late; she might be prevented; she might have missed her way. the passionate and feeling heart of orlando knew the truth. other clocks struck, jangling one after another. the whole world seemed to ring with the news of her deceit and his derision. the old suspicions subterraneously at work in him rushed forth from concealment openly. he was bitten by a swarm of snakes, each more poisonous than the last. he stood in the doorway in the tremendous rain without moving. as the minutes passed, he sagged a little at the knees. the downpour rushed on. in the thick of it, great guns seemed to boom. huge noises as of the tearing and rending of oak trees could be heard. there were also wild cries and terrible inhuman groanings. but orlando stood there immovable till paul’s clock struck two, and then, crying aloud with an awful irony, and all his teeth showing, ‘jour de ma vie!’ he dashed the lantern to the ground, mounted his horse and galloped he knew not where.

some blind instinct, for he was past reasoning, must have driven him to take the river bank in the direction of the sea. for when the dawn broke, which it did with unusual suddenness, the sky turning a pale yellow and the rain almost ceasing, he found himself on the banks of the thames off wapping. now a sight of the most extraordinary nature met his eyes. where, for three months and more, there had been solid ice of such thickness that it seemed permanent as stone, and a whole gay city had been stood on its pavement, was now a race of turbulent yellow waters. the river had gained its freedom in the night. it was as if a sulphur spring (to which view many philosophers inclined) had risen from the volcanic regions beneath and burst the ice asunder with such vehemence that it swept the huge and massy fragments furiously apart. the mere look of the water was enough to turn one giddy. all was riot and confusion. the river was strewn with icebergs. some of these were as broad as a bowling green and as high as a house; others no bigger than a man’s hat, but most fantastically twisted. now would come down a whole convoy of ice blocks sinking everything that stood in their way. now, eddying and swirling like a tortured serpent, the river would seem to be hurtling itself between the fragments and tossing them from bank to bank, so that they could be heard smashing against the piers and pillars. but what was the most awful and inspiring of terror was the sight of the human creatures who had been trapped in the night and now paced their twisting and precarious islands in the utmost agony of spirit. whether they jumped into the flood or stayed on the ice their doom was certain. sometimes quite a cluster of these poor creatures would come down together, some on their knees, others suckling their babies. one old man seemed to be reading aloud from a holy book. at other times, and his fate perhaps was the most dreadful, a solitary wretch would stride his narrow tenement alone. as they swept out to sea, some could be heard crying vainly for help, making wild promises to amend their ways, confessing their sins and vowing altars and wealth if god would hear their prayers. others were so dazed with terror that they sat immovable and silent looking steadfastly before them. one crew of young watermen or post-boys, to judge by their liveries, roared and shouted the lewdest tavern songs, as if in bravado, and were dashed against a tree and sunk with blasphemies on their lips. an old nobleman — for such his furred gown and golden chain proclaimed him — went down not far from where orlando stood, calling vengeance upon the irish rebels, who, he cried with his last breath, had plotted this devilry. many perished clasping some silver pot or other treasure to their breasts; and at least a score of poor wretches were drowned by their own cupidity, hurling themselves from the bank into the flood rather than let a gold goblet escape them, or see before their eyes the disappearance of some furred gown. for furniture, valuables, possessions of all sorts were carried away on the icebergs. among other strange sights was to be seen a cat suckling its young; a table laid sumptuously for a supper of twenty; a couple in bed; together with an extraordinary number of cooking utensils.

dazed and astounded, orlando could do nothing for some time but watch the appalling race of waters as it hurled itself past him. at last, seeming to recollect himself, he clapped spurs to his horse and galloped hard along the river bank in the direction of the sea. rounding a bend of the river, he came opposite that reach where, not two days ago, the ships of the ambassadors had seemed immovably frozen. hastily, he made count of them all; the french; the spanish; the austrian; the turk. all still floated, though the french had broken loose from her moorings, and the turkish vessel had taken a great rent in her side and was fast filling with water. but the russian ship was nowhere to be seen. for one moment orlando thought it must have foundered; but, raising himself in his stirrups and shading his eyes, which had the sight of a hawk’s, he could just make out the shape of a ship on the horizon. the black eagles were flying from the mast head. the ship of the muscovite embassy was standing out to sea.

flinging himself from his horse, he made, in his rage, as if he would breast the flood. standing knee-deep in water he hurled at the faithless woman all the insults that have ever been the lot of her sex. faithless, mutable, fickle, he called her; devil, adulteress, deceiver; and the swirling waters took his words, and tossed at his feet a broken pot and a little straw.

他，这自然就表明了他的性别，虽说其时的风气对此有所掩饰，正朝梁上悬下的一颗摩尔人(摩尔人，非洲西北部阿拉伯人与柏柏尔人的混血后代，公元8世纪成为伊斯兰教徒，进入并统治西班牙。)的头颅劈刺过去。这骷髅，除了深陷的面颊和一两缕椰棕般干硬的头发，颜色很像只旧足球，形状也有几分相似。它是奥兰多的父亲，或许是他的祖父，从一个魁梧的异教徒肩上砍下来的。当年在非洲的蛮荒之地，月光下他们不期而遇。现在，这骷髅正在微风中不住地轻摆，因为这所府邸属于那位夺命勋爵，在阁楼上的这些房间中，微风回环往复，从不停息。

奥兰多的祖先曾在原野上驰骋，那是些开满常春花的原野，荒石遍布，流淌着神奇的河流。他们的刀锋所向，有无数头颅从无数肤色不同的肩膀上滚落下来，他们把这些头颅带回家，挂在梁上。奥兰多发誓，他也要这样做。但此时他只有十六岁，小小年纪，无法与父辈并肩驰骋在非洲或法国。他所能做的，惟有悄悄离开园中的母亲和孔雀，来到阁楼上他的房间，前腾后跃，操练剑术，剑刃划破虚空。有时，绳套被他斩断，骷髅落在地板上，砰砰作响。他只得心怀一种骑士精神，把它重新系好，悬到自己够不着的地方。于是，他的敌人咧着干瘪的黑嘴唇，冲他得意地狞笑。骷髅前后摆动着，因为这幢宅邸巨大无比，在奥兰多所住的顶楼，风好像被禁锢在其中，吹过来，吹过去，无论冬夏。绿色的壁毯和画面上的猎手也在时时晃动。自这些壁毯织就以来，他的祖先就是贵族。他们来自北方的茫茫雾霭，头戴王侯的冠冕。房间中央斑驳的阴影，和反射在地板上的块块黄色，岂不恰恰来自阳光映照下彩色玻璃窗上那个巨大的盾徽?奥兰多恰好站在盾徽的黄色豹身中央。他伸手推开窗户，把手臂放在窗台上，手臂立即变成红、蓝、黄三色，仿佛蝴蝶的翅膀。那些喜欢符号、天生善于破解符号的人，可以观察到，虽然奥兰多线条优美的双腿、健美的躯干和端庄的肩膀都沐浴在盾徽的各色光亮中，但在窗子敞开的一刹那，他的面庞是沐浴在阳光中的惟一部位。这是一张纯洁无邪、郁郁寡欢的面庞。生育他的母亲有福了，因为永远不必生出烦恼；而为他的一生做传的人更应欣喜，因为不必求助小说家或诗人的手段。他将不断建功立业，不断博取荣耀，不断扶摇直上，也有人等着为他树碑立传，直到这一切达至欲望的顶峰。奥兰多的容貌，恰恰就是为这样的一生所预备。一层细细的绒毛覆盖在红润的脸蛋儿上，唇上的绒毛不过稍稍硬一点儿。秀气的双唇有点儿翘，遮住杏仁白色精巧的牙齿。鼻梁不大却箭一般笔挺，深色的头发，小巧的耳朵与头部正好相称。但天啊，描述青春之美，岂能不提额头和眼睛。奥兰多站在窗前，我们恰好可以直接看到他。必须承认，他的眼睛仿佛湿漉漉的紫罗兰，大得好像有一泓碧水充盈其间。太阳穴像两个光润的圆奖章，夹在它们之间的额头似大理石穹顶般浑圆。直视这额头和双目，我们不禁浮想联翩。直视这额头和双目，我们又不得不承认，有那么多怪僻是每一优秀的传记作者所避之不及的。

有些景象令他不悦，譬如看到母亲，一位身着绿衣的美丽贵妇，走到室外去喂孔雀，身后跟着侍女特薇琪；有些景象令他欣喜，譬如鸟儿和树林；还有些景象令他迷恋死亡，譬如夜空和归巢的秃鼻鸦；凡此种种，都像旋转楼梯一样进入他的脑海，那里面有无穷无尽的空间。所有这些景象，还有花园里的各类响动，如击捶声和劈柴声，都开启了激情与心绪的放纵和混乱，这一点，每一传记作者都会有所察觉。但是接下去，奥兰多慢慢定下神来，坐在桌旁，心不在焉地拿出笔记本和旧鹅毛笔，蘸了墨水写起来，人们日复一日在同一时间做同一件事时都会是这副样子。笔记本上标了“埃瑟尔伯特：五幕悲剧”。

仅一会儿功夫，他已写满十几页诗行。很流畅，这一点显而易见，但也很抽象。邪恶、犯罪、苦难是他剧中的角色；乌有之邦的君主王后，饱受可怕阴谋的折磨而不知所措；他们心中充满高尚的情感；没有一个字是奥兰多自己会说出来的，但一切又都那么滔滔不绝，那么伤感；考虑到他不足十七岁的小小年纪，况且距十六世纪结束也还有些年头，这实在算是很惊人的成就。不过，他终于收住笔。犹如世上所有青年诗人都会做的那样，他也在描写自然，而且为了与绿阴相吻合，他正在注视(此时他表现得比多数人大胆)自然本身，而它恰好是窗下的一丛月桂。当然，这之后，他就无法再写下去。因为自然中的绿与文学中的绿完全是两码事。自然与文字，天生就不相容；凑在一起，它们会把对方撕成碎片。奥兰多眼中的绿阴破坏了他心中的节奏和韵律，何况大自然还有自己的把戏。一旦望见窗外夕阳斜照，蜜蜂在花丛中飞舞，狗在打哈欠，一旦想到“我还能看到多少次日落”(这种想法太稀松平常，因此不值一写)，他不禁抛开纸笔，拿了披风，大步走出房间，脚却绊到大漆柜子上。这倒是常事，奥兰多在琐事上总是有些笨手笨脚。

他小心翼翼，想避开所有人。那边路上来了花匠斯塔布斯，他赶紧躲到树后。等他过去后，奥兰多从花园边墙的一个小门溜出去，绕过马厩、养狗场、酿造场、木工房、洗衣房，以及人们做蜡烛、杀牛、钉马掌、缝制紧身无袖皮衣的地方。因为这大宅子本身就是个城镇，处处都有形形色色的手艺人在忙碌自己的活计。他踏上一条上山的路，路边长满羊齿草。这路要穿过一个很隐蔽的大庭园。或许，人的各种禀性密切相连，此处传记作者应注意到，上面提到的笨手笨脚常常与孤僻寡合相连。既然绊到柜子上是常事，奥兰多当然喜爱无人的地方和开阔的景观，而且希望永远、永远、永远只是孑然一身。

沉默良久，他终于吁了一口气说：“总算只剩我一人了。”在这个记录中，他是第一次开口说话。

他快步向山上走去，穿过羊齿草和荆棘丛，惊动了鹿和鸟儿，来到山顶，上面只有一棵浓阴如盖的大橡树。这里地势高耸，英格兰十九郡尽收眼底；无云的日子能看到三十郡，天朗气清之时更可看到四十郡。远处的英吉利海峡碧波涟涟，近处的河面上游船浮泛。西班牙大帆船出海了，舰队喷出团团白烟，还传来沉闷的炮声；海岸边的要塞和茵茵绿草之中的古堡现出身影；这里一处了望塔，那里一处堡垒，还有一些大宅，譬如奥兰多父亲的这一所，大得像峡谷中一座墙垣环绕的城镇。东西现出伦敦城的尖塔和笼罩城市的烟雾；在天边，没准风向对头的时候，斯诺登峰陡峭的峰巅和锯齿般的山脊，会从云中显露她的峥嵘。半晌，奥兰多站在那里点数，凝视，辨认。一边的宅邸属于他父亲，另一边的属于他叔父。他的姑母拥有树丛中那三座高耸的角楼。荒野和森林属于他们，还有野鸡和鹿、狐狸、獾和蝴蝶。

他深深吁了口气，扑向大橡树脚下的土地。他的动作洋溢着一股激情，所以值得用“扑向”这个词。面对夏天转瞬即逝的种种景象，他渴望感受身下大地的脊梁；他觉得橡树坚实的根须就是这脊梁，或者说一个又一个的意象就是这脊梁，譬如胯下骏马的脊背、大海中颠簸的舰船的甲板。其实，是什么并无所谓，只要它坚实可靠，因为他觉得自己这颗浮动的心，需要有什么东西可以依附。这是颗不安分的心，一到傍晚这个时辰，一到室外，它就会波澜起伏，鼓荡着激情和爱欲。他躺倒在地，把心系在大橡树上，渐渐地，内心和周围的骚动都静止了。树叶儿悄没声地挂在空中，麋鹿驻足伫立，夏日天空中的薄云纹丝不动。他的四肢变得沉重起来，摊在那里，无声无息。麋鹿渐渐走近，秃鼻乌鸦在他四周盘旋，燕子俯冲下来，兜着圈子，蜻蜓滑翔而过。夏日傍晚这一切充满生机和柔情的活动，宛如在他的身体四周织成了一张大网。

约摸一小时过去，夕阳西沉，白云化为漫天的红霞，把山峦映成淡紫色，树林成了深紫色，山谷则成了黛色。突然，远处响起号角声，奥兰多翻身跃起。那嘹亮的号角声来自山谷，来自山谷深处一个紧凑和突起的小黑点，来自那所属于他的大宅的心脏。那是一座迷宫、一座墙垣环绕的城镇。来自峡谷深处的号角声一遍遍响起，与别的更尖利的声音交叠在一起。刚才那里还是茫茫一片黑暗，不过瞬间功夫，已是灯火通明，有些灯光很微弱，急促地移动，好似仆人们听从指挥，在走廊里飞奔；另一些很明亮，好像空荡的宴会大厅，已灯火通明，准备好接待即将来临的贵宾；还有的灯光上下左右晃动，好像握在一大群仆人手里，他们必恭必敬地躬身、屈膝、起身、迎驾，引领和护送一位刚卜马车的贵妇进门。马车调转头，驶进庭院，马儿甩着毛茸茸的大尾巴。女王驾到了。

奥兰多不再眺望，匆匆冲下山，跑进边门，三步并两步攀上旋转楼梯，来到自己的房间。他脱下长袜，甩向房间的一侧，又脱下紧身无袖皮衣，甩向另一侧。他梳理好头发，擦干净手，修剪好指甲，借助一个约摸六英寸大的镜子和一对用了很久的蜡烛，不到十分钟，就已穿戴齐整：猩红色外套、布里奇马裤、蕾丝领圈、塔夫绸坎肩，鞋子上的玫瑰花结大似重瓣大丽花。一切就绪，他脸泛红光，非常兴奋，但他已经到得太迟了。

他抄近道穿过一长溜儿房间和楼梯，向宴会厅跑去。这宅子方圆五英亩，宴会厅在宅子的另一端。跑到一半，在穿过仆人住的下处时，他停住了脚步。斯图克雷太太的起居室门开着，毫无疑问，她人不在屋里，肯定是拿了钥匙伺候女主人去了。但是在她的饭桌旁，坐了一个体态臃肿的男子，身边放一只大啤酒杯，面前摆了一张纸。他衣衫不整，棕色粗呢外套，轮形皱领有点儿脏。此人手拿一支笔，却并没有写什么，似乎正在脑子里翻来覆去地掂量某个想法，直到积聚起令他满意的形态和力量。他的眼珠圆圆的，迷迷蒙蒙，如纹理奇异的软玉，一动不动地盯住一个地方。他并没看见奥兰多。尽管步履匆匆，奥兰多还是蓦地站住了。难道这是个诗人? 他是不是正在作诗?“告诉我，”他想说，“这世上的一切，”因为他对诗人和诗，抱有极其疯狂、荒唐的过分想法。但一个人对你视而不见，只看到食人妖魔、森林之神，或许还有海底深处，你又能对他说什么呢?奥兰多呆呆地站在那里，看那人把笔夹在手指间转来转去，凝视，思考，然后急急写了几行字。那人抬起头来，奥兰多突然觉得很不好意思，赶忙拔腿就跑。他赶到宴会厅，刚好来得及惶恐地垂下头，屈膝向高贵的女王陛下呈上一只盛满玫瑰水的钵。

他太腼腆了，以致除了女王伸入水中的那只戴着戒指的手，其他什么都没有看到，但这就足矣。那是一只让人难忘的手，瘦骨嶙嶙，细长的手指佝曲着，好似王位上的宝球，又似象征王权的节杖。它是那么神经质、乖戾和病态，又是那么威严，稍稍一抬就会有人头落地。他猜，它附着的衰老躯壳，就像一只衣柜，为了保存皮衣而加了樟脑。这躯壳为华丽的锦缎和宝石所装饰，虽然笔挺，却饱受坐骨神经痛的折磨，虽然从不退缩，却因无数恐惧而不安。女王的眼球是淡黄色的。这一切都是那几个硕大的戒指在水中闪烁时奥兰多感受到的。然后，有什么东西压在他的头发上，这或许说明他没有看到可能对历史学家有用的东西。事实上，此时他的头脑一片混乱，充满截然相反的意象：黑夜和燃烧的蜡烛，蹩脚的诗人和高贵的女王，沉寂的原野和熙熙攘攘的仆人。因此，他什么也没有看到，或者说只看到一只手。

同样，女王也只能看到奥兰多的头顶。不过，如果根据一只手就能演绎出一个身体，了解一位伟大女王的所有禀性，她的乖戾、无畏、脆弱和惊惧，如果这是可能的话，那么一位贵妇坐在富丽堂皇的大椅子上俯视人的头顶，肯定也能产生如此丰富的联想。况且如果威斯敏斯特里的蜡像可信，这位贵妇的两眼永远炯炯有神。在她面前，垂着一颗有长长的深色鬈发的头颅，它是如此恭敬，如此天真无邪，暗示了这位贵族少年有两条笔直秀美的长腿、一双紫罗兰色的眼睛，一颗金子般的心，他还有忠诚和迷人的男子气概。所有这些，都是这位老妇人所无法拥有、因而也就愈发钟爱的气质。因为她老了，厌倦了，顺从命运了。她耳中时时有炮声回响。她总看到闪光的毒药和长长的匕首。她坐在桌旁，就听到英吉利海峡炮声隆隆，她害怕，那是诅咒吗?还是窃窃私语?在这副阴暗背景的衬托下，天真、简单在她看来格外亲切。据说，同一天夜里，奥兰多熟睡之际，她在羊皮纸文件上最后按了手印，加盖了玉玺，作为礼物，向奥兰多的父亲正式转让了那座曾经属于大主教、后来成为皇家资产的大寺院。

奥兰多这夜睡得很熟，对此一无所知。女王吻了他，他却浑然不觉。女人的心是复杂的，或许正是因为他的单纯、她的嘴唇触到他时他吓了一跳，让她对这位年轻的表亲(他们血缘相通)记忆犹新。无论如何，奥兰多又过了不到两年平静的乡间生活，这期间他可能写了二十来部悲剧，还有十余个历史故事和一些十四行诗，然后敕令降临，命他去白厅作女王的侍卫。

“我的傻孩子来了!”(他周身散发出一种宁静的气氛，显得非常天真无邪，其实，这词已不再适合他)她说，看他出现在长长的走廊上，向她走来。

“过来!过来!”她正笔直地坐在炉火旁。她让他站在一英尺开外的地方，上下打量起来。她是否正在用不久前那个夜晚自己的期望来衡量眼前的现实呢?她是否发现自己的猜测很有道理?眼睛、嘴、鼻子、胸脯、胯部、手，一一打量过来，她的嘴角明显地抽动了几下。最后，她的目光落到他的腿上，她不禁开怀大笑起来。他的模样完全符合一个高贵绅士的形象。但是内心又如何呢?她那双鹰一般的黄眼珠闪闪发光地盯在他身上，仿佛要穿透他的灵魂。在她的凝视下，年轻人的脸红了，红得像一朵大马士革蔷薇。力量、优雅、浪漫、荒唐、诗人气质、青春，他的一切她了然于胸。她当下就从自己(关节肿大的)手指上褪下一只戒指，戴在他的指上，封他为皇家司库和总管。然后她在他身上挂了一堆项链，表明他荣膺的公职，并让他屈膝，在他腿上最苗条的部位系上镶嵌了珠宝的嘉德勋章(嘉德勋章，嘉德勋位为英国最高勋位。)。这之后，自然事事顺遂。她威风凛凛外出寻访，他骑马侍护左右。她派他出使苏格兰，觐见郁郁寡欢的苏格兰女王。他正准备乘船去波兰打仗，她将他召回。她怎能忍心想到他那柔嫩的身躯被撕碎，鬈发飘逸的头颅滚落尘埃?她把他留在身边。在她权倾一世之时，伦敦塔礼炮轰鸣、火药味铺天盖地，呛得人直打喷嚏，窗下人们的欢呼声惊天动地。宫女们为她铺了垫子(因为她确实垂垂老矣)，她拉他伏在上面，脸埋在令人惊异的一大堆衣料之中。她已有一月未换衣服，他觉得，那气味足够全世界享用的，让他忆起儿时家里的旧箱子，里面存了母亲的毛皮衣服。他抬起身来，差点儿被那拥抱所窒息。她气喘吁吁地说：“我赢了!”一枚火箭飞上天空，把她的双颊染得绯红。

是啊，他颇得这老妇人的宠幸。女王为他设计了雄心勃勃的锦绣前程。是不是男子汉，她一目了然，虽然据说并非以通常的方式。她赐他土地，赐他宅邸。他将是她老年时的儿子、体衰时的拐杖、生命危浅时可依靠的大橡树。她嗓音低哑地说出这些允诺，她的温柔古怪又专横(他们此时在里奇蒙德(里奇蒙德，伊丽莎白女王的行宫。))，她身着僵挺的锦缎，笔直地坐在炉边，不论火烧得多旺，她从没有觉得暖和过。

与此同时，漫长的冬季仍在延续。庭园里，棵棵树上雪挂满枝，河水也淌得很缓慢。一天，积雪覆盖大地，镶着木板的房间里光线黝暗，阴影重重，庭园里传来牡鹿的叫声。因为害怕奸细，她四周总有镜子；因为害怕杀手暗算，她命令无论何时都要敞开大门。这时，她从镜子中看到，门外有个小伙子(会不会是奥兰多?)在吻一个姑娘(那恬不知耻的荡妇究竟是谁?)她抽出金柄宝剑，朝镜子猛击过去。镜面四碎，人们纷纷跑来，把她抬回到椅子上。自此之后，她受到巨大打击，不停地抱怨男人的背信弃义，直到生命走向终结。

或许，这是奥兰多的过错。但我们应该责怪奥兰多吗?那是伊丽莎白时代，人们的道德观念与我们大不相同。他们的诗人、他们的气候，甚至他们的菜蔬都与我们不同。一切都与我们不同。甚至可以认为，连天气本身，即夏之炎热和冬之寒冷，都完全是另一番景象。光明灿烂、爱意盎然的白昼与黑夜的区别，有如陆地与水一般分明。落日更红更亮；晨曦更淡更浅。他们从未经历过我们这种半明半暗、朦朦胧胧、挥之不去的拂晓和黄昏。雨要么不下，要么下个不停。天空要么漆黑一片，要么骄阳当头。诗人们惯于将此转移到精神领域，他们讴歌玫瑰的凋零，讴歌这短促的瞬间；瞬间逝去，等待人们的将是漫漫长夜。至于用温室和暖房这类人工方法，来延长或保持玫瑰鲜艳的粉红和玫瑰色，却不是他们的方式。我们现在这个时代不但变化多端，而且难以预测，这一切的错综复杂和模糊不清，都是他们闻所未闻的。在他们那个时代，激烈就是一切。花开花谢，日出日落。爱人来而复去。诗人们诗中所言，年轻人都拿来付诸实践。少女恰似玫瑰花，她们的美貌短暂如花季，必须在黑夜降临之前采撷，否则白昼一去不返，黑夜漫漫无际。因此，奥兰多不过是循着气候、诗人和年龄的引导，去采撷窗台上属于他的鲜花，即便屋外白雪皑皑，屋内女王虎视眈眈，我们也不忍心去责怪他了。他年轻、稚嫩，他所做的一切不过是率性而为。至于那少女的姓名，我们知道得并不比伊丽莎白女王更清楚。她可能叫多丽丝、克罗丽丝、达丽亚或戴安娜，因为他轮流为她们赋诗。同样，她也可能是宫中的一位女官，也可能是某个婢女。因为奥兰多兴趣广泛，不仅喜爱花圃里的花、野地里的花、甚至野草也让他心仪。

此处，我们像传记作家常做的那样，鲁莽地披露了他的一个怪癖，或许，这应归咎于他的某位女性祖先曾穿过粗布衣、提过牛奶桶。肯特郡或苏塞克斯郡的砂石，融人他血管中流淌的来自诺曼底的高贵血统。他喜欢这种棕色泥土与蓝色高贵血统的混合。当然，这就是他为何热衷混迹于下等人中间，尤其是那些聪明反被聪明误的潦倒文人。他与他们好似血缘相通，惺惺相惜。在他生命的这个阶段，奥兰多满脑子充斥着诗歌，入睡前总是浮想联翩。这时，比起宫廷贵妇、客栈老板的女儿面颊似乎就更鲜嫩，猎场看守人的侄女脑子也许更聪明。因此，他开始在夜间频繁出入外坪老台阶(外坪老台阶，位于伦敦东区，伦敦塔附近，台阶直伸至泰晤士河畔的码头。)和露天啤酒馆，裹一件灰色披风，遮掩颈上和膝上的勋章。可想而知，这些地方的建筑很简陋。在沙地和草地的地滚球场之间，他面前摆一只大啤酒杯，听水手讲故事，讲他们如何在西班牙海上经受艰辛、恐惧和残忍，有人丢了脚趾，有人掉了鼻子。口述的故事从不像写成文字的故事，它们不加雕琢粉饰。他尤其爱听他们齐唱亚速尔群岛的民歌，这时，他们从那些地方带回的鹦鹉会来啄他们的耳环，用坚硬的喙叩击他们手指上的红宝石，还会像主人一样说脏话。女人们的言谈举止往往像这些鸟一样大胆、随意。她们坐在他腿上，搂住他的脖子，猜他的厚呢披风下藏着什么不寻常的东西，像奥兰多一样，急着搞清事情的真相。

他们的机会真不少。河里从早到晚漂着各式驳船、舢板和大小船只。每天都有驶往印度群岛的大船出海，不时亦有一两条破旧的小船偷偷驶进港口抛锚，甲板上立几个来历不明的野人。姑娘小伙儿日落后在水上调情是常事，看见他们搂抱着酣睡在装珍宝的麻袋之间，听到这样的传言也没人会大惊小怪。奥兰多、苏姬和坎伯兰伯爵三人就有这样一出经历。那天天气酷热，奥兰多和苏姬的恋情也正如火如荼，后来他俩在红宝石当中进入梦乡。入夜，伯爵只身一人，挑灯出来查看他的战利品，他的财富多与西班牙探险有关。灯光照在一只桶上，伯爵吓得大叫一声，连退几步。酒桶边睡着两个人，紧紧抱在一起，裹在一件红披风里，苏姬的酥胸如奥兰多诗中咏叹的永不融化的白雪。伯爵天生迷信、又因作恶太多而良心自责，竟以为这一对是溺死水手的鬼魂，从墓中跳出来谴责他。伯爵吓得连连在身上划十字，发誓一定要洗心革面、痛改前非。希思路上现在还有一排贫民屋，即是这一刻惊恐失措的结果。教区十二个家境贫寒的老妇今日仍在一起喝茶，整晚求老天保佑伯爵，感激伯爵让她们不致露宿街头。因此，那私情本身就是只宝船，但我们此刻略过道德问题不谈。

不过，奥兰多很快厌倦了这种生活方式，不仅厌烦它很不舒适，周围的街道弯弯曲曲，而且厌烦人们的举止粗野，与原始人没什么两样。我们务必记住，在伊丽莎白时代，人们可不像我们这样，觉得犯罪和贫穷非常有趣。他们不像我们现代人，羞于埋头书本，也不像我们，以生为屠夫之子为荣，不识字反而成了美德。对我们所谓的“生活”与“现实”多少总是与无知和残忍相关联，他们想都没想过，也根本没有相当于这两个词的同义语。奥兰多结交他们，不是为了寻求“生活”，离开他们，也不是为了寻求“现实”。他多次听他们讲杰克如何掉了鼻子，苏姬如何失去贞操。必须承认，他们把这些故事讲得活灵活现，但他开始对这种重复感到厌倦，因为切掉鼻子的方式只能有一种，少女失去贞洁也是如此，至少在他看来是这样。而千姿百态的艺术和科学却深深刺激着他的好奇心。于是，在怀恋他们的同时，他不再经常光顾啤酒馆和撞柱游戏球道，他将灰披风挂进衣柜，又露出颈上亮晶晶的星和膝上闪闪的嘉德勋章，再次出现在詹姆斯国王的宫廷里。他年轻、富有、英俊，他所得到的喝彩声，无人可比。

确实，有许多淑女为他倾倒。至少有三人的名字可在婚姻中与他的名字连为一体，她们是克罗琳达、斐薇拉和欧佛洛绪涅，他在他的十四行诗里如此称呼她们。

下面我们来依次介绍。克罗琳达小姐仪态秀美，有六个半月的时间，奥兰多确实与她来往频繁，但她的睫毛是白色的，她又见不得血。父亲餐桌上端来的烤野兔，竟让她昏了过去。她还颇受教士的影响，节省下自己的内衣，送给穷人。她以改造奥兰多、洗清他的罪孽为己任。这让他很厌烦，索性退掉婚约，而巳对她不久患天花而亡倒也不太悲伤。

下一位斐薇拉，完全属于另一类型。她是苏默塞特郡一位穷乡绅之女，全凭钻营和察言观色，在宫中步步高升。她总是一身骑手装束，秀美的足弓和优雅的舞步，在宫中赢得一片称许。但有一次，就在奥兰多的窗下，一只小狗扯了她的丝袜(公正而言，斐薇拉的袜子不多，而且大多是羊毛袜)，她情急之下欠考虑，竟用鞭子抽它，差一点要了它的命。酷爱动物的奥兰多这下注意到，她的牙齿参差不齐，两颗门牙内凹，他说，在女子身上，这肯定是刚愎自用和性情残忍的征兆，当晚就终止了婚约。

第三位欧佛洛绪涅，恐怕是至此让他真正动情的一位。如同奥兰多，她也出身名门，是爱尔兰戴斯蒙德家族的千金。她美丽、健康，从不大惊小怪。她讲一口流利的意大利语，虽然下牙有点变色，但上牙完美，无可挑剔。她的膝边总有一条小狗相伴，她用自己盘中的白面包喂它。在维金纳琴的伴奏下，她的歌喉美妙之极。她很注意保养，总要睡到正午时分，才肯起床梳洗打扮。总而言之，对奥兰多这样的贵族，她堪称一位完美妻子，而且此事已进展到双方律师忙着商量婚约、寡妇授予产、财产赠与、住宅及其宅基、财产保有权，以及两大财富结合之前所需的一切事项；但凛冽的大霜冻突然降临，而凛冽和突如其来那时就是英国气候的特征。

历史学家告诉我们，大霜冻是英伦诸岛经历过的最严重的霜冻。飞鸟在半空中冻住，像石头一样坠到地上。在诺里奇，一位身强力壮的年轻农妇过路，旁人看到凛冽的寒风在街角处袭击了她，瞬间她就化为齑粉，像一阵尘灰般被吹上房顶。这期间，无数牛羊死去。人的尸体冻得硬邦邦的，无法与床单分离。常常会看到整整一群猪冻僵在路上，动也不能动。田野中遍布活活冻死的牧羊人、农夫、马群和赶鸟的小男孩。有的人手放在鼻子上，有的人瓶子举到唇边，还有的人举着石头，正要掷向一码远外树篱上的乌鸦，而那乌鸦也像是一只标本。这次霜冻异常严酷，接着发生了石化现象。不少人推测，德比郡的一些地区之所以岩石剧增，不是由于岩浆喷发，因为并没有发生过这种喷发，而是由于一些倒霉的行路人凝固了，实际上他们就在原地变成了石头。教会对此帮不上多少忙，虽然有些土地拥有者把这些遗体尊为圣物，但多数地区宁可用它们作地标、羊搔痒的柱子，如果形状适合，还拿来做牛的饮水槽。时至今日，它们大多仍被派作这种用场。

然而，就在乡民生活极端匮乏，乡村贸易停滞不前之时，伦敦却沉浸在一片骄奢淫逸的狂欢气氛中。新王把宫廷设在格林尼治，并乘加冕之机笼络民心。他下令将封冻二十多英尺厚的河床及两岸六七英里宽的地带清扫出来，装饰成公园或游乐园，修建凉亭、曲径、球道、酒肆等等，一切开支由他负担。他令人划出正对宫门的一块地，用丝绳拉上，与百姓隔开，供他与廷臣专用。此地立即成为英国上流社会的中心。面蓄胡须、颈套轮形皱领的大政治家们在皇家宝塔绛红色的遮棚下处理国事。军人们在顶铺鸵鸟毛的藤条凉亭里策划如何征服摩尔人和攻陷土耳其。元帅们手擎玻璃杯，在狭窄的小路上踱来踱去，挥手指向地平线，讲述西北通道(西北通道，伊丽莎白时代的探险家沿美洲北部海岸行驶，希望找到一条通往远东的海路。)和西班牙无敌舰队(西班牙无敌舰队，16世纪西班牙舰队，1588年被西班牙国王菲利普二世派遣去攻打英国，战败。)的故事。情侣们在铺着紫貂的长沙发上调情。王后率领女官们来到室外，冻玫瑰雨纷纷扬扬洒落下来。彩色气球悬在空中纹丝不动。四处燃起一堆堆巨大的松木和橡木篝火，里面撒了大把的盐，火苗因此闪烁着绿色、橘黄色和紫色的火焰。但不管篝火烧得多旺，也融化不了钢一般坚硬的透明冰层。这冰层清澈见底，几英尺下的深处，时而可见一条鲆鱼或一只鼠海豚。一群群鳗鱼纹丝不动，仿佛处于昏睡状态，它们是真死，还是因为窒息而假死，回暖后尚可复生，这是让哲学家疑惑的问题。伦敦桥附近的河面，冰结了近二十英寻厚，河底的一条沉船清晰可见。前一年秋天，这条运苹果的船因超载而沉没于此。有个老妇，身穿彩格呢上衣和环裙，肩负水果，要乘小贩船去对岸萨里的市场。现在她坐在那里，膝上都是苹果，看似正准备向哪位顾客兜售，但她那青紫的嘴唇透露出真情。这是詹姆斯王格外喜爱的一幅图景，他会带领廷臣，在那里极目眺望。简而言之，青天白日下，顶数这景象辉煌、艳丽。但狂欢节最热烈的时刻当在夜里。霜冻仍在持续，万籁俱寂，月亮和满天星斗闪烁着宝石般幽冷的光。廷臣们伴着长笛和小号的优雅音乐，翩翩起舞。

不错，奥兰多不属于那种舞步轻盈、擅长跳库朗特舞和伏尔特舞的人，他有点笨拙，还有点心不在焉。与那些复杂花哨的外国舞相比，他宁可跳自己从小熟悉的简单的民族舞。一月九日傍晚六点，他刚跳过几曲四步舞或小步舞，便瞥见一个身影，从莫斯科大公国使馆凉亭那边飘了过来。他的好奇心大发，因为那人身着宽松的俄罗斯式束腰衣裤，让人辨不出男女。这位不知姓名，不辨性别的人，中等身材，苗条纤细，一身牡蛎色的天鹅绒，用罕见的绿色皮毛镶边。然而在那全身散发出的特殊魅力映照下，所有这些细节都淡化了。奥兰多脑中迅速涌出各种最极端和最奢侈的意象和比喻。他称她为西瓜、菠萝、橄榄树、翡翠和雪中之狐，一切都是在三秒钟之内；他不知道自己是听到、嗅到、看到她，还是三者兼而有之。(虽然我们的叙述一刻不能停，但此处我们可以飞快指出，此时他脑中所有的意象都极其简单，符合他的感觉，而且大多来自幼年他所喜爱嗅闻的东西。不过，若说他的感觉非常简单，这些感觉同时也非常强烈，让人难以停下来寻找其中的原因。)……西瓜、翡翠、雪中之狐，他如此狂热地赞美着，目不转睛地凝视着。那男孩，天哪，一定是个男孩，女子绝不可能如此敏捷、矫健。那男孩几乎是踮着脚尖从他身边掠过，奥兰多懊恼万分，几乎要揪自己的头发，因为如果此人与他同性，那么一切拥抱就成了泡影。但那人又滑近了，双腿、双手和姿态都像男孩，但没有一个男孩会有那样的双唇；没有一个男孩会有那样的胸脯；没有一个男孩会有那样晶莹剔透的碧眼。最后，不知名的滑冰者停下来，向从旁经过的国王行礼，姿态雍容华贵。此刻，国王正由某位等待加官晋爵的廷臣陪跳曳步舞。她站在那里，距奥兰多只有咫尺之遥。是女子。奥兰多痴痴地望着，浑身颤抖，忽冷忽热；他渴望扑向夏空，渴望踩碎脚下的橡树果，渴望用双臂搂抱杉树和橡树。实际上，他时而抿住嘴唇，时而半张半闭，好像要用秀气、雪白的牙齿咬住嘴唇。而此时，欧佛洛绪涅小姐正依偎着他的臂膀。

他发现，那陌生女子名叫玛露莎·斯坦尼罗夫斯卡·达姬玛尔·娜达莎·伊丽亚娜·罗曼诺维奇公主，是随从莫斯科公国大使前来参加典礼的，大使是她的叔父，或是她的父亲。关于莫斯科大公国，人们知道得不多。这些人都蓄长须，戴皮帽，沉默寡言。他们喝某种黑色的液汁，但不时把它们啐吐到冰上。他们都不说英文，但有些人会说法文，而在英国宫廷中，能说法文的人又寥寥无几。

下面这件事促成了奥兰多与公主的相识。为款待王公贵族，在巨大的遮棚下摆开了一溜长桌。公主被安排坐在两位青年贵族之间，一位是弗朗西斯·弗瑞勋爵，一位是年轻的摩里伯爵。奥兰多与她隔桌相对。看到她很快让他们陷于难堪，是件很好笑的事，因为他们虽然都是不错的小伙子，但他们的法语与未出世的婴儿相差无几。晚宴一开始，公主便转身对伯爵说(她那妩媚的模样让他销魂)：“我想，去年夏天，我在波兰遇到一位来自你们家族的绅士”或“英格兰宫廷贵妇的美丽把我迷住了。我从未见到过像你们王后这样典雅的夫人，还有她那精致无比的发式。”弗朗西斯勋爵和伯爵两人立即面露尴尬之色。于是一人给她盛辣根沙司，一人吹口哨，唤狗过来讨吃髓骨。公主看了，不禁大笑。坐在对面的奥兰多，视线越过桌面上的野猪头和填馅儿孔雀，与她的视线相交，也大笑起来。但他的笑容突然僵住了，因为他感到了某种疑惑。他激动地自问：迄今为止，我究竟爱过些什么人呢?答案是，一位骨瘦如柴的老妇，不计其数的红脸蛋儿妓女，一位成天哀诉的修女，一位刚愎自用、言语刻薄的女冒险家，一位毫无主见、沉浸于花边与礼仪的女人。爱情于他，恍若锯末和炭渣。他的全部体验乏味之极。他惊诧自己如何能够历经一切而不觉厌倦。因为当他注视公主时，他体内的血融化了，血管中的冰化为美酒。他听到水在流淌，鸟在鸣啭，春天降临，荡涤了冬天枯寒的景象；他的男性气概随之苏醒；他跃马冲向凶悍甚于波兰人和摩尔人的敌人；他潜入水底；他看到裂隙中长出危险之花；他伸手……事实上，当公主对他说“劳驾，请把盐递过来”时，他正匆匆作成一首激情洋溢的十四行诗。

他的脸涨得通红。

“不胜荣幸，小姐，”他回答道，说得一口标准的法语。感谢上帝，这种语言他运用自如，好似母语；他的老师是他母亲的女仆。但是对他来说，也许，从不会说这种语言，从未回答过这个声音提出的问题，从未追寻过这双眼睛射出的光芒……也许结局会更好。

公主接着问他，这些蠢家伙是些什么人?那个坐在她身旁、举止像马夫的人是谁?他们倒在她盘子里的是什么?那堆乱七八糟的东西让人恶心。难道英国人与狗同桌用餐?那个坐在长桌另一端、头发梳得像五朔节花柱(五朔节花柱，英国民间庆祝五朔节时常绕此柱舞蹈、游戏。)的滑稽人物，难道真的就是王后?国王平素吃东西也这样口水四溅吗?那群花花公子，哪位是乔治·维利耶(乔治·维利耶，詹姆斯王的宠臣，后封为白金汉公爵。)?这些问题最初令奥兰多不安，但它们提的是那样俏皮和离奇，奥兰多不禁开怀大笑起来。周围的人一脸茫然，奥兰多看出他们没一人听懂一个字，回答她的提问，也开始变得无拘无束起来，而且像她一样，说地道的法语。

就这样，他们两人开始了一种亲昵的关系，而它很快又演化成宫中的丑闻。

没过多久，人们就注意到，奥兰多对这位莫斯科女子的关照，远远超出了礼节的需要。他从不离她左右，别人虽然听不懂他们的谈话，却能看出，他们总是谈得很热闹，而且经常脸红，笑出声来，所以哪怕最迟钝的人，也能猜到他们的话题。况且，奥兰多本身的变化令人惊奇。从未有人见过他如此活泼，一晚的功夫，就摆脱了孩子气的笨手笨脚。过去这小伙子整天郁郁寡欢，一进女人屋，总要把桌上一半的饰物碰翻在地。现在他变了，变成了一个风度翩翩、殷勤有礼的绅士。看他搀那个莫斯科娘们儿(人们就这么称呼她)上雪橇，看他伸出手来请她跳舞，接住她故意掉下的花点手帕，或履行这位高高在上的女人吩咐而其情人等不及的无数义务中的任何一项，那些情景让老年人昏花的老眼发亮，年轻人的心跳加速。但这一切之上，笼罩着一层阴云。老年人不以为然，年轻人窃窃私语，大家都知道奥兰多另有婚约。玛格丽特·奥布莱安·奥代尔·奥瑞利·泰尔科奈尔勋爵小姐(这正是十四行诗中欧佛洛绪涅的真实姓名)，她的左手食指上戴着奥兰多送的闪闪发光的红宝石戒指呢。按理说，她最有权得到他的关照。但她即便将自己衣柜(她的衣柜很多)中所有的手帕一条条掉到冰上，奥兰多也不会弯腰去拾。要等他来扶她上雪橇，二十分钟不算多，最后还只能屈尊让黑人仆从伺候。她滑冰时——她的姿态很笨拙——无人在旁喝彩。她摔倒后——她常常摔得很重——也没人会扶她起来，掸去她衬裙上的雪。她虽然生性冷静，难得较真儿，更不愿像多数人那样，以为一个外国女人就能夺走奥兰多对她的爱，但最终，连玛格丽特勋爵小姐本人亦开始怀疑，有什么让她失去平静心境的事件正在酝酿之中。

的确，随着时间一天天过去，奥兰多越来越不屑于掩饰自己的感情。他会找个藉口，离开刚刚还在一起吃饭的伙伴，或从准备跳四步舞的滑冰者身边溜走。此后片刻功夫，人们就会发现，那莫斯科娘们儿也不见了踪影。而最让宫廷恼怒，同时刺痛其最敏感处，即其虚荣心的，是常有人看到，这一对男女溜出河上用丝绳拦出的皇家圈地，混迹于普通百姓之中。因为公主会忽然跺着脚大喊“带我走。我讨厌你们那些英国痞子。”她此处是指英国宫廷。她说自己已忍无可忍，英国宫廷中处处是热衷窥探他人隐私的老太婆、死盯着人看个不停，还有处处自以为是的男人，只会踩人的脚。他们发出难闻的味道。他们的狗在她的腿中间跑来跑去。活在这里像活在笼子中，不像俄罗斯，他们的河床有十里宽，任六匹马并驾奔驰一天，不见人的踪影。再者，她也想看看伦敦塔、皇家禁卫军仪仗队、教堂栅栏门上的首级，还有城中的珠宝店。于是奥兰多带她到城里看了禁卫军仪仗队和叛匪的首级，在皇家交易所买下她中意的所有珠宝。但仅仅如此还不够，两人都愈来愈渴望整天私下里厮守在一起，躲过众人的大惊小怪或窥视。所以他们没有回伦敦，而是调转头，很快远离了冰封的泰晤士河面上的人群。一路上，他们没有遇到一个人影儿，除了海鸟。只有一个乡村老妇枉然地在冰上凿洞，想汲出一桶水，或划拉到干树枝树叶用来烧火。这时辰，穷人不会远离自家的茅屋，富裕一点的人，只要负担得起，都挤到城里取暖享乐去了。

于是，这河便归了奥兰多和萨莎独享。萨莎是他送给她的爱称，他儿时有一只俄罗斯白狐，就叫这名字，它浑身雪一般柔软，却有一口利齿，奥兰多曾被它狠狠咬了一口，这之后父亲便令人杀掉了它。现在，他们两人因滑冰和爱情而热血沸腾，裹着皮大氅扑到岸边荒芜的黄柳丛中。奥兰多把她搂在怀里，喃喃地说，这是他第一次尝到爱的喜悦。两情缠绵后，他们心醉神迷地躺在冰上，他将自己的风流韵事讲给她听。与她相比，那些人不过是木头、抹布和炭渣。她嘲笑他言辞激烈，再次在他的怀中蠕动，而且为了爱，再次拥抱他。之后，他们惊奇身下的冰竟没有因他们的热情而融化，怜悯那贫苦的老妇人没有这副融雪化冰的好身手，只得用冰冷的镐头刨冰。然后，他们裹在紫貂皮袍中，无所不谈：世象和旅行；摩尔人和异教徒；男人的胡须，女人的肌肤；老鼠跳到桌上，从她手里吃食，他家大厅中的挂毯总在晃动；一张面孔，一根羽毛。在这样的对话中，根本不存在话题太大或太琐碎的问题。

后来，奥兰多忽然陷入阴郁之中，这在他倒是常事，也许是因为看到冰上蹒跚而行的老妇，也许并无来由。他把脸贴到冰上，注视着封冻的河水，不由想到死亡。有位哲学家说得不错，快乐与忧郁只有一步之遥。那位哲学家还认为，二者是孪生兄弟，因此推论，一切情感的极致，都与疯狂相连，他于是恳求我们去真正的教会 (他指的是再洗礼振教会)寻求慰藉，他说，对坠人情海之人，那里是惟一的港口、码头和抛锚地。

“死是万物之归宿，”奥兰多阴云满面地坐直身子。(此时他的大脑就是这样活动的，从生到死，大起大落，之间没有任何停顿，因此作传者也不可停顿，而需飞跃得与奥兰多一样快，跟上他在人生这一时刻显然已沉湎其中的充满激情的轻率举动和突如其来的越轨言辞。)

“死是万物之归宿，”奥兰多直起身子，坐在冰上。但是萨莎的血管中，流淌的可不是英国血统。

在她的家乡俄罗斯，日落时分长些，黎明来得缓些，人们说话常常吞吞吐吐，疑惑怎样结尾最好。萨莎盯着他，一言未发，她或许是在笑他，因为在她眼里，他一定像个孩子。但是，他们身下的冰终于变冷了，她开始觉得不舒服，拉他站了起来。她一张口，就那么迷人，妙语连珠，透着聪颖(遗憾的是，她只说法文，众所周知，这些话一译成英文，立即韵味全无)，奥兰多当即忘掉冻冰的河水，忘记夜晚即将来临，也忘记了那老妇人或随便什么。他在成千上万个意象中上下寻觅，想找出一些恰如其分的比喻，但这些意象都如同那些曾经给过他灵感的女人，一点儿没有新意。白雪、奶油、大理石、樱桃、雪花石膏、金丝线?都不是。她似狐狸，似橄榄树，似从高处俯瞰大海的波涛，似翡翠，似未被云彩遮蔽、照耀葱翠山岚的丽日，总之，她不同于他在英格兰的一切所见所知。他搜肠刮肚，寻觅不到适当的辞藻。他渴望另有一番风景，另有一种语言。因为用来描绘萨莎，英语太直白，太甜蜜。她的一切言谈，无论听起来多么坦率、放浪，总有闪烁其词之处；她的一切举止，无论多么大胆，看起来总有点儿躲躲闪闪。因此，那绿色的火焰似乎隐藏在翡翠之中，丽日总被山岚遮蔽。只有外表清晰可见，内里却是一团变幻无常、来去不定的火，从没有英国女子放射出的那种平稳的光束。然而此时，奥兰多想起玛格丽特勋爵小姐和她的衬裙，就又控制不住自己的狂喜，猛力在冰上推着萨莎，愈推愈快，气喘吁吁地发誓要追逐火焰，要潜入水底取宝，等等，等等，五花八门的辞藻从他口中喷薄而出，好像一个积郁了满腔痛苦的诗人突然激情爆发。

萨莎却沉默不语。奥兰多告诉她，她是狐狸、橄榄树、翠绿的山岚；他向她讲述自己的全部家史；他家的宅邸是不列颠最古老的宅子；他的家族来自凯撒统治的罗马，那时他们可以乘坐镶流苏的轿子行在罗马的主要街道上，他说唯独皇家血统的人才能享有这一特权(他身上流露出的那种高傲的轻信倒挺讨人喜欢)。说着说着，他会停下来问她，她家在何处?父亲是何人?可有兄弟?为何独自与叔叔在一起?她三言两语回答了他的问题，但这之后，两人都觉得很尴尬。最初，他怀疑这是因为她的地位其实并非那样高贵，像她的外表显现得那样；或者她为自己同胞的粗野感到羞愧，因为他听说，在莫斯科大公国，女人蓄胡须，男人以毛皮遮羞。人人为御寒用动物油脂涂身，用手撕肉，住的草棚在英国贵族看来连牲口棚都不如。他便克制自己，不去逼她回答。但是回过头来想，他断定，她的沉默并非为此原因；因为她的下颏很光洁，她身着丝绒，颈戴珍珠，仪态万方，哪会出身牛棚那种地方?

如此说来，她又有什么需要相瞒?他的激情之下，潜藏了一股疑惑，宛如一座纪念碑下的流沙，突然移动，整个建筑就会摇摇欲坠。他会突然觉得心如刀绞，火冒三丈，让她不知如何安慰他是好。或许她并不想平抚他的痛苦，或许她恰恰喜欢看他发火，因此故意招惹他。或许这是莫斯科大公国人脾性奇怪的一面，一种精神变态。

现在我们继续来讲故事。那天，他们滑得比平时要远，到了船只抛锚的地方，这些船现在都结结实实地冻在河中央。泊船中有一条属于莫斯科大公国，主桅杆上飘扬着那面双头鹰旗帜，桅杆上悬了几码长的五彩冰溜。萨莎说她有些衣服留在了船上。他们猜想船上没人，便爬上甲板，去找衣服。奥兰多还记得以往生活的一些片断，因此倘若有些品行端正的公民在他们之前躲到了那里，他并不会感到惊奇。结果情况正是如此。他们还没走出几步，就有一个漂亮小伙子忽然冒了出来，不知他刚才在那一大卷绳子后面干什么勾当。猜得出他说——因为他说的是俄文——他是个船员，可以帮公主找到她要的东西。他点上一截蜡烛，和她一起消失在船舱里。

时间一点点过去，奥兰多沉浸在自己的梦中，只琢磨生活的欢乐、他的宝贝儿、她的不可多得、如何永远永远拥有她，不让她消失。他知道这中间障碍重重，必须克服许多困难。她是决心不离开俄罗斯的，那里有封冻的河流，野性十足的骏马和据她说相互残杀的男人。的确，他并不喜欢松树和雪原构成的景色，还有放浪和屠杀的习惯，也不想放弃自己快乐的乡间生活方式，譬如运动和植树，不想放弃自己的公职，毁掉自己的生涯。他不想放弃野兔而改射驯鹿，放弃加那利白葡萄酒而改喝伏特加。他也不想莫名其妙往袖子里藏把刀。然而，为了她，他愿意做这一切，甚至做得比这更多。至于他与玛格丽特勋爵小姐的婚礼，本定在一周后的这一天举行，而它显然荒唐到家了，他连想也不去想它。她的族人会来兴师问罪，他的朋友会嘲笑他为了一个哥萨克娘们儿、为了雪域荒原毁掉自己的锦绣前程，然而与萨莎相比，这一切都轻如鸿毛。他们将在第一个月黑风高之夜逃走。他们将乘船去俄罗斯。他这样思忖着，一边谋划，一边在甲板上走来走去。

他转过身，面向西方，夕阳像只柑橘，斜照在圣保罗大教堂(圣保罗大教堂，这是一个有意的时代误植。旧圣保罗教堂只有一方塔，1666年伦敦大火期间被烧毁。)的十字架上，这情景让他一下子清醒过来。它的颜色血红，正在迅速下沉。一定是到了黄昏时分。萨莎已走了一个多钟头。他突然又被那些不祥的预感攫住，他对她的那些信任蒙上了阴影。他钻进船舱，循着他看见他们走的路，在箱子和大桶中间摸索着，跌跌撞撞地向前走去。透过远处角落里一星昏暗的灯光，他看见他们坐在那里。有那么一秒钟的功夫，他看见了他们。他看见萨莎坐在那水手腿上，向他俯下身去，看见他们搂抱在一起。这之后，由于愤怒，他眼前的灯光化作一团红云。一声痛苦的嚎叫冲口而出，在整条船中回荡。若不是萨莎挺身挡在两人中间，那水手来不及抽刀，便要被奥兰多掐死。后来，奥兰多感到阵阵致命的恶心，他们只得把他放倒在地板上，给他灌了几口白兰地。他慢慢缓了过来，坐在甲板的一堆麻袋上，萨莎依偎在他身边，轻轻抚着他那昏花的眼睛，仿佛一只狐狸咬了他，又来甜言蜜语地哄骗他，谴责他，让他怀疑自己亲眼所见。难道烛光不是摇曳不定吗?难道影子没有晃动吗?那箱子很沉，她说，那人是在帮她搬箱子。奥兰多一会儿相信她，谁能肯定不是他的怒火幻化出他最怕发生的景象?一会儿又对她的谎言感到更加怒不可遏。萨莎开始变得面色苍白。她在甲板上跺着脚说，如果她一个罗曼诺夫家族的女人，竟躺在一个水手的怀抱中，她当晚就祈求她的保护神来摧毁她。的确，把这两人摆在一起(对此他几乎无法想象)，奥兰多为自己内心的龌龊而恼火，竟然想象那么一个长毛畜生将如此娇弱的尤物玩弄于股掌之中。那人膀大腰圆，光着脚也有六英尺高，耳朵上戴着毫不起眼的铁环，看起来像匹负重的辕马，鹪鹩和歌鸫飞累了会落在他的背上栖息。奥兰多屈服了，相信了她的话，求她原谅。但就在他们言归于好，走下船舷时，萨莎停下脚步，把手放在舷梯上，回头冲那个褐色面孔的魔鬼喊出一连串话，不知是打情卖俏，还是嘘寒问暖，她说的是俄文，奥兰多一个字也听不懂。但她的语调中有某种东西(这可能是俄文辅音的毛病)，让他想起几天前的一个情景：他碰上她在角落里偷偷啃食地板上捡起的蜡烛头。不错，蜡烛是粉红色的，镀了金，又是从国王的桌上掉在地上的，但它仍是动物脂油，而她竟然啃食它。奥兰多扶她下船走到冰上，不禁怀疑她身上是否有些粗鲁、鄙俗的农夫习气?他想象她四十岁时会变得何等颟顸丑陋，何等无精打采，虽然此刻她纤细如芦苇，轻盈若云雀。然而，他们向伦敦滑去时，他心中的这些疑团再次冰释，他感到自己仿佛被一条大鱼钩住了鼻子，不情愿但又低心下首地在水中飞驰。

那个黄昏出奇的美丽。夕阳西下，暗蓝的暮色中，火红的晚霞衬托出伦敦大大小小的穹顶、尖顶、角楼和小尖塔。这边是万字浮雕装饰的查林十字架；那边是圣保罗教堂的拱顶；再过去是雄伟、方正的伦敦塔建筑群；教堂栅栏门尖上的人头，像树丛被剥尽树叶，只留下梢顶的树瘤。威斯敏斯特(威斯敏斯特，伦敦著名教堂，是英王加冕和名人下葬之地。)的窗格里透出燃烧的灯光，如天堂里色彩斑斓的盾牌(这是奥兰多的想象)；西方天边仿佛是一扇金色的窗子，在通往天堂的梯子上，成群结队的天使(又是奥兰多的想象)正川流不息地攀上攀下。他们两人似乎一直滑行在飘渺的虚空中，冰层透蓝透蓝的，玻璃般平滑，他们向城里滑去，愈来愈快，白色的海鸥在他们头顶盘旋，双翼有节奏地在空中划动，好似他们破冰而行的冰刀。

仿佛为了安抚奥兰多，萨莎比平时愈发温柔可爱。她原本从不谈及往事，现在却向他讲述，俄罗斯的冬天，她会听到狼嗥叫着穿越草原。她三次学狼嗥给他听。他也讲给她听，在乡村，雪地中的牡鹿为了避寒，跑进屋里，有个老人从桶中盛出粥来喂它们。她赞美他，赞美他爱生灵，赞美他的侠义，赞美他的双腿。奥兰多陶醉在她的赞美之中，羞愧自己竟会如此龌龊，认为她坐在水手腿上，四十岁时变得肥胖臃肿，无精打采。他对她说，他不知用何种言语来赞美她，但看到她，他会立即想到春天、绿草和喷涌的泉水。他更紧地抓住她，带着她不停地旋转，直到河中央，连鸥鸟和鸬鹚也与他们一同旋转起来。等到他们终于气喘吁吁地停下来，她微吁着说，他像一棵燃着千百万支蜡烛的圣诞树(就像他们俄罗斯的圣诞树)，树上悬挂着黄色的小球，闪闪发光，足以照亮整条街。(人们可以这样翻译)，在熠熠生辉的双颊、深色的鬈发、红黑两色的披风衬托下，他看起来好像正在光芒四射地燃烧着，那光芒来自他心中的一盏灯。

片刻时光，除了奥兰多面颊上的红晕，一切色彩都褪去了。夜已来临。落日橘红色的余辉消失了，取代它的，是奇特、耀眼的白光，它们来自燃烧的火炬、篝火、号灯或河上其他照明工具。一切都发生了奇特无比的变化。大大小小的教堂和王公贵族的府邸，它们正面的白色岩石，都仅露出条条块块，仿佛悬浮在空中。尤其是圣保罗教堂，只剩下了一个镀金的十字架。威斯敏斯特灰色的轮廓宛如一片树叶。一切都变得形销骨立。他们接近游乐场，听见好像有音叉奏响了低音，这声响愈来愈大，最后变成喧嚣一片。不时有欢呼声伴随火箭窜上夜空。渐渐地，他们分辨出游离在巨大人群之外的一些细小的人影，旋转着，像河面上飞舞的蠓虫。在这明亮的光圈之上和它的周遭，是漆黑的冬夜，宛如一只硕大的碗倒扣下来。然而，漫漫黑夜中，时断时续地腾起缤纷的烟火，给人以期待和惊喜：新月、蟒蛇、王冠，形态各异。忽而，树林和远处的山岚露出夏日的葱茏，忽而，四处又是一片严冬的黑暗。

此时，奥兰多和公主已接近皇家禁地，却发现有一大群平民挡住了他们的去路。这些人已涌到丝绳近旁，不敢再向前了。奥兰多和公主讨厌丝绳另一边那些监视他们的刺人目光，不想结束他们的秘密，便混在摩肩接踵的人群之中。学徒、裁缝、渔妇、马贩子、骗子、饥肠辘辘的学生、头裹方巾的女仆、卖柑橘的姑娘、马夫、严肃的公民、猥亵的酒吧招待，还有一大群衣衫褴褛的小孩子，哪里有人群，哪里就少不了他们，尖叫着在人们脚下爬来爬去。实际上，伦敦街头的乌合之众悉数聚集于此，他们说说笑笑，打打闹闹，推推搡搡，掷色子、算命，做什么的都有。有的地方熙熙攘攘，有的地方又很沉闷。有人打哈欠，嘴张得一码大，有人像房顶上的寒鸦般寒伧，他们装束打扮各不相同，完全看他们的钱包大小和身份高低了。有人穿裘皮和绒面呢，有人则破衣烂衫，脚上裹了洗碗布，才没有直接踩在冰上。人们蜂拥而至的地方，似乎是一个我们现在演《潘奇打朱迪》(潘奇打朱迪，传统儿童木偶戏，其中潘奇先殴打、然后杀死妻子朱迪，暗指奥兰多看到的是莎士比亚的戏剧《奥瑟罗》。)的箱子或者说是戏台，台上似乎正在上演某出戏。一个黑人挥着手臂高声喊叫，一个白衣女人躺在床上。舞台搭得简陋，演员们在几节台阶上跑上跑下，有时跌跌绊绊，观众们又是跺脚，又是吹口哨，厌烦时还会把橘子皮扔到冰上，让狗去追，但那些奇妙、婉转、抑扬顿挫的台词仍像音乐一样在奥兰多心中唤起了什么。伶牙俐齿连珠炮般吐出的那些台词，让他想起在外坪露天酒馆唱歌的水手。这些台词即使毫无意义，对他来说，也像烈酒一样。时不时，一句台词会越过冰面击中他，让他觉得撕心裂肺。那摩尔人的狂怒似乎就是他的狂怒。那摩尔人把女人扼死在床上，仿佛是他用自己的双手杀死萨莎。

戏终于演完。一切复归黑暗。泪水顺着他的面颊淌下来。仰望天空，那里也惟有黑暗。毁灭与死亡笼罩了一切，他想。人生的归宿是坟墓，我们终将被蠕虫所吞噬。

我想现在的日月应该晦暗不明，

受惊的地球……也要吓得目瞪口呆。( (奥瑟罗)第5幕)

甚至在他这样说时，一颗苍白的星在他的记忆中升起。夜很黑，漆黑一片，但他们等待的就是这样的一个的黑夜，他们正是计划在这样的一个黑夜私奔。他记起了一切。时机已到。他突然冲动地一把搂过萨莎，在她耳边喃喃低语道：“生命之日!”这是他们的暗号。子夜时分，他们将在布莱克弗里亚斯附近的一家客栈汇合。那里有备好的马在等待他们。为他们的私奔，一切都已安排就绪。于是两人分手，返回各自的帐篷。还有一小时的时间。

距子夜还有好久，奥兰多便已等在那里。夜色漆黑，伸手不见五指。这对他们很有利，但在这万籁俱寂之中，马蹄声或婴儿的啼哭声，半英里远处就能听到。确有许多次，在小院子中踱步的奥兰多听到石子路上平稳的马蹄声，或女人裙裾的簌簌声，心都提了起来。但那夜行者只是某个迟归的商人；或是当地某个不那么清白的女人。过后，街上愈发静谧。又过了一会儿，在狭小拥挤的城市贫民区，楼下的灯光开始移到楼上的卧室，然后一盏盏熄灭。在这些边缘地带，街灯本来就寥寥无几，加上巡夜人玩忽职守，常常远在黎明到来之前，街灯就没了光亮。四周更黑了。奥兰多不时查看一下提灯的灯芯儿，紧紧马匹的肚带；给手枪装满火药，再看看枪套是否合适。这些事他至少已做了十几遍，再没有什么还需要他操心的了。虽然距午夜还有二十来分钟，他却无法说服自己进屋去。客栈的厅堂里，老板娘还在给几个水手斟萨克葡萄酒和廉价的加纳利葡萄酒。水手们坐在那里，高声唱着小调儿，讲述德雷克、霍金斯和格伦维尔 (德雷克、霍金斯和格伦维尔，均为16世纪英国海军战功卓著的著名将领)的故事，直到掀翻板凳，滚到沙地上呼呼大睡。还是黑夜更怜悯奥兰多那颗膨胀和剧烈跳动的心。他留神每一声脚步，揣摩每一分动静。每一声醉醺醺的喊叫、每一声因分娩阵痛或其他病痛而发出的尖叫，都让奥兰多揪心，恐怕给他的历险带来厄运。但他并不担心萨莎。她很勇敢，这样的历险不算什么。她会独自前来，披风、裤子、马靴，一身男子装束。她的脚步轻盈，即便万籁俱寂，也难以听见。

就这样，他在黑暗中等待着。忽然，他的脸上挨了一击，软软的，但很沉重，打在一边的面颊上。他的神经因期盼正绷得紧紧的，禁不住心中一惊，手按到剑上。这击打又在前额和面颊上重复了十几下。干冷的霜冻持续的时间太长了，过了一会儿，他才意识到是天上落下的雨点，下雨了。最初，雨点落得很慢，不慌不忙、一滴一滴的。但很快，六滴就变成了六十滴；然后是六白滴，再后就汇集成瓢泼大雨。仿佛凝为一体的整个天空像个丰沛的喷泉，一泻而下。只有五分钟，奥兰多就被淋成了落汤鸡。

他赶紧给马找了个避雨处，自己躲到门檐下，因为在那里，他仍能看到院子里的动静。此时空气愈发窒闷，大雨发出巨大的吱吱声和嗡嗡声，已不可能听到任何人声或马蹄声。本已坑坑洼洼的道路，漫溢雨水，或许根本就无法通行了。然而，这会对他们的私奔有什么影响，他几乎想也不想。他的所有感官都凝神于那长长的、此时在路灯下闪着光的石子路，等待萨莎的到来。有时，在黑暗中，他似乎看到她，夹裹在雨中。但幻影消失了。一个可怕和邪恶的声音，一个充满恐怖与惊惧、令奥兰多毛骨悚然、惊魂不定的声音响了起来，那是圣保罗教堂午夜第一声报时的钟声。它又无情地敲响四下。奥兰多心怀恋人的迷信，断定她会在钟声敲响第六下时到来。但第六下钟声的回音已经远去，然后是第七下、第八下。他那颗疑惧重重的心感到，它们似乎先是预示，然后宣告了死亡和灾难的到来。第十二下钟声敲响了，奥兰多明白，他的劫数已定。靠理性去推测她可能迟到、受阻、迷路都没有用途。奥兰多那颗多情善感的心明白事情的真相。别处报时的钟声也接二连三响起，仿佛全世界都在宣告她是个骗子，都在嘲弄他。原本潜藏在他心底的疑惑，如洪水决口般奔涌而出。无数条毒蛇在吞噬着他，一条比一条恶毒。大雨滂沱，他一动不动站在门洞里。时间一分一秒地过去，他的腿开始瘫软。大雨不停地下，风雨声最激烈时，仿佛大炮轰鸣。橡树挣扎和撕裂的巨大响声传来，还有野兽的咆哮和非人的可怕呻吟。而奥兰多呆呆站在那里，直到圣保罗教堂的钟声敲响两下，他才咬牙切齿地狂吼“生命之日!”声调中充满讥讽。他把提灯摔在地上，飞身上马，毫无目的地疾驰而去。

必定有某种盲目的直觉——因为他已失去理智——驱使他沿了河岸，驶向大海。破晓时分，他发现自己来到外坪边的泰晤十河畔。这天的拂晓来得格外突然，天空现出淡淡的黄色，雨已经停了。在他的眼前，展现出一片奇观。三个多月来，此处只有厚如岩石的坚冰，整个城市的骄奢淫逸全部建筑在这坚冰之上。此刻，这里却成了一片汪洋，到处奔流着浑浊的黄水。泰晤士河在一夜之间获得了自由。仿佛一股硫磺泉(许多哲学家喜爱这类景观)从地下火山区喷薄而出，撼天动地，顷刻将坚冰撕成碎片。仅仅看一眼这河水，就足以令人头晕目眩。到处是一片嘈杂混乱，河里布满冰山，有的宽似草地滚木球场，高似高宅大屋，有的小到像人的帽子，但扭曲成乱糟糟的一团。不时有整列冰块顺流而下，碾过挡住它去路的一切。有时，河水奔腾翻卷，如一条饱受折磨的大蟒，在碎冰之间腾跳咆哮，把它们从一岸抛向另一岸，可以听到碎冰撞击码头和柱子的巨大声响。但最可怕、最恐怖的景象，是看到前一晚就给困在那里的人们，他们惊恐万状、焦虑不堪，在岌岌可危的栖身小岛上踱来踱去。无论是跳人洪流，还是呆在冰上，他们的毁灭已经注定。有时，一大群这样的可怜人被挟裹着一起顺流而下，有人跪在冰上，有人还在哺乳婴儿。一位老翁似乎正高举《圣经》大声诵读。还有时，会看到一个不幸的家伙只身在自己狭窄的领地上走来走去，他的命运或许是最可怕的。在滚滚洪流冲向大海之际，可以听到有人枉然地狂呼救命，疯狂许诺要改邪归正，重新做人，发誓倘若上帝听到他们的祈祷，他们一定为他建造祭坛，捐输财富。其他人已吓得呆若木鸡，不知所措地盯着前方。一群年轻的水手或邮差(根据他们所穿的制服判断)，好像为了壮胆儿，高声唱着淫秽小调儿。水冲得他们撞到一棵树上，沉没时嘴里还在骂骂咧咧。一个老贵族——他身上的裘皮袍子和金链子宣告了他的身份——在离奥兰多不远的地方沉下水去，他用尽最后一口气高喊要向爱尔兰叛匪复仇，是他们策划了这场罪恶。许多人在陷于灭顶之灾之前，怀里还紧紧抱着银壶或别的宝物；至少有些倒霉的家伙是因为贪心而淹死的，他们宁可从岸上扑到水中，也不愿放弃一个小金球，或者眼看一件皮袍从他们面前消失。因为洪流卷走了家具、贵重物品和各式各样的财富。还可以看到其他各种各样的怪异景象，一只猫在吞噬幼仔；一张布好丰盛晚宴餐桌，足够二十人享用；一对夫妻睡在床上；还有无数炊具。

奥兰多感到天旋地转，目瞪口呆，好一阵，他什么也不能惟有眼看狂暴的激流从身旁奔腾而过。最后，他似乎终于想起什么，沿着河岸，向大海的方向策马狂奔。拐过河流蜿蜒处来到两天前大使们的舰船还被封冻得结结实实的地方，急切清点数着所有的船只，法兰西的、西班牙的、奥地利的、土耳其所有的船都漂在水上，虽然法兰西的船已漂离泊位，土耳其自舷裂了个大缝，水正在迅速倒灌进去。惟有俄罗斯的那条舟见了踪影。有那么一刻功夫，奥兰多觉得它一定是沉没了；他踏在马镫上，站高了一些，用手遮住光线，凭着鹰一般的目力刚可以分辨出，远方地平线上，有一条船的轮廓，桅杆顶部飘着黑鹰的旗帜。莫斯科大使馆的那条船正停在出海口处。

奥兰多猛地跳下马，仿佛在震怒之中要与洪流决一死战。

他站在没膝的水中，使出了女性注定摆脱不掉的所有最恶毒字眼，痛骂那个无情无义的女人。他骂她无情无义、反复无常、水性杨花；骂她是魔鬼、荡妇、贱人。湍急的河水打着漩涡，卷走了他所说的一切，而抛到他脚边的，只有一只破罐和一根细细的水草。