VirginiaWoolf

Orlando

TOV.SACKVILLE–WEST.

TableofContents

PREFACE

CHAPTER1.

CHAPTER2.

CHAPTER3.

CHAPTER4.

CHAPTER5.

CHAPTER6.

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VirginiaWoolf

Orlando

PREFACE

Many friends have helped me in writing this book. Some are dead and soillustriousthatIscarcelydarenamethem,yetnoonecanreadorwritewithoutbeingperpetually in thedebtofDefoe,SirThomasBrowne,Sterne,SirWalterScott,LordMacaulay,EmilyBronte,DeQuincey, andWalterPater,—tonamethefirstthatcometomind.Othersarealive,andthoughperhapsasillustriousintheirownway,arelessformidableforthatveryreason.IamspeciallyindebtedtoMrC.P. Sanger, withoutwhose knowledge of the law of real property thisbook could never have been written. Mr Sydney–Turner’s wide and peculiarerudition has saved me, I hope, some lamentable blunders. I have had theadvantage—howgreat Ialonecanestimate—ofMrArthurWaley’sknowledgeofChinese.MadameLopokova(MrsJ.M.Keynes)hasbeenathandtocorrectmyRussian.TotheunrivalledsympathyandimaginationofMrRogerFryIowewhatever understanding of the art of painting I may possess. I have, I hope,profitedinanotherdepartmentbythesingularlypenetrating,ifsevere,criticismofmynephewMrJulianBell.MissM.K.Snowdon’sindefatigableresearchesinthearchivesofHarrogateandCheltenhamwerenonethelessarduousforbeingvain.Otherfriendshavehelpedmeinwaystoovarioustospecify.Imustcontentmyself with naming Mr Angus Davidson; Mrs Cartwright; Miss Janet Case;LordBerners (whoseknowledgeofElizabethanmusichasproved invaluable);MrFrancisBirrell;mybrother,DrAdrianStephen;MrF.L.Lucas;MrandMrsDesmond Maccarthy; that most inspiriting of critics, my brother–in–law, MrClive Bell; Mr G.H. Rylands; Lady Colefax; Miss Nellie Boxall; Mr J.M.Keynes;MrHughWalpole;MissVioletDickinson; theHon.EdwardSackvilleWest;MrandMrsSt.JohnHutchinson;MrDuncanGrant;MrandMrsStephenTomlin;MrandLadyOttolineMorrell;mymother–in–law,MrsSydneyWoolf;MrOsbertSitwell;MadameJacquesRaverat;ColonelCoryBell;MissValerieTaylor;MrJ.T.Sheppard;MrandMrsT.S.Eliot;MissEthelSands;MissNanHudson;mynephewMrQuentinBell(anoldandvaluedcollaboratorinfiction);Mr Raymond Mortimer; Lady Gerald Wellesley; Mr Lytton Strachey; theViscountess Cecil; Miss Hope Mirrlees; Mr E.M. Forster; the Hon. HaroldNicolson; andmy sister,VanessaBell—but the list threatens togrow too longandisalreadyfar toodistinguished.Forwhileitrousesinmememoriesof thepleasantest kind it will inevitably wake expectations in the reader which thebook itself can only disappoint. Therefore I will conclude by thanking the

officialsoftheBritishMuseumandRecordOfficefortheirwontedcourtesy;mynieceMissAngelicaBell,foraservicewhichnonebutshecouldhaverendered;and my husband for the patience with which he has invariably helped myresearchesandfortheprofoundhistoricalknowledgetowhichthesepagesowewhateverdegreeofaccuracy theymayattain.Finally, Iwould thank,hadInotlost his name and address, a gentleman in America, who has generously andgratuitously corrected the punctuation, the botany, the entomology, thegeography,andthechronologyofpreviousworksofmineandwill,Ihope,notsparehisservicesonthepresentoccasion.

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VirginiaWoolf

Orlando

CHAPTER1.

He—fortherecouldbenodoubtofhissex, thoughthefashionofthetimedidsomethingtodisguiseit—wasintheactofslicingattheheadofaMoorwhichswungfromtherafters.Itwasthecolourofanoldfootball,andmoreorlesstheshapeofone,saveforthesunkencheeksandastrandortwoofcoarse,dryhair,like the hair on a cocoanut. Orlando’s father, or perhaps his grandfather, hadstruckitfromtheshouldersofavastPaganwhohadstartedupunderthemoonin the barbarian fields ofAfrica; andnow it swung, gently, perpetually, in thebreezewhichneverceasedblowingthroughtheatticroomsofthegigantichouseofthelordwhohadslainhim.

Orlando’s fathershad ridden in fieldsof asphodel, and stony fields, and fieldswateredbystrangerivers,andtheyhadstruckmanyheadsofmanycoloursoffmanyshoulders,andbroughtthembacktohangfromtherafters.SotoowouldOrlando,hevowed.Butsincehewassixteenonly,and tooyoung to ridewiththeminAfricaorFrance,hewouldstealawayfromhismotherandthepeacocksinthegardenandgotohisatticroomandtherelungeandplungeandslicetheairwithhisblade.Sometimeshecut thecord so that the skullbumpedon thefloorandhehadtostringitupagain,fasteningitwithsomechivalryalmostoutof reach so that his enemy grinned at him through shrunk, black lipstriumphantly.Theskullswungtoandfro,forthehouse,atthetopofwhichhelived,was sovast that there seemed trapped in it thewind itself, blowing thisway,blowingthatway,winterandsummer.Thegreenarraswiththehuntersonitmovedperpetually.Hisfathershadbeennoblesincetheyhadbeenatall.Theycame out of the northernmistswearing coronets on their heads.Were not thebarsofdarkness in the room,and theyellowpoolswhichchequered the floor,madeby thesunfalling through thestainedglassofavastcoatofarms in thewindow? Orlando stood now in the midst of the yellow body of an heraldicleopard.Whenheputhishandonthewindow–silltopushthewindowopen,itwasinstantlycolouredred,blue,andyellowlikeabutterfly’swing.Thus,thosewho likesymbols,andhavea turn for thedecipheringof them,mightobservethat though the shapely legs, the handsome body, and the well–set shoulderswereallofthemdecoratedwithvarioustintsofheraldiclight,Orlando’sface,ashethrewthewindowopen,waslitsolelybythesunitself.Amorecandid,sullenface itwouldbe impossible to find.Happy themotherwhobears,happierstill

thebiographerwhorecordsthelifeofsuchaone!Neverneedshevexherself,nor he invoke the help of novelist or poet. From deed to deed, from glory toglory,fromofficetoofficehemustgo,hisscribefollowingafter,tilltheyreachwhateverseatitmaybethatistheheightoftheirdesire.Orlando,tolookat,wascutoutpreciselyforsomesuchcareer.Theredofthecheekswascoveredwithpeachdown;thedownonthelipswasonlyalittlethickerthanthedownonthecheeks.Thelipsthemselveswereshortandslightlydrawnbackoverteethofanexquisiteandalmondwhiteness.Nothingdisturbedthearrowynoseinitsshort,tenseflight;thehairwasdark,theearssmall,andfittedcloselytothehead.But,alas, that these catalogues of youthful beauty cannot end without mentioningforehead and eyes. Alas, that people are seldom born devoid of all three; fordirectlyweglanceatOrlando standingby thewindow,wemust admit thathehadeyeslikedrenchedviolets,solargethatthewaterseemedtohavebrimmedin them and widened them; and a brow like the swelling of a marble domepressedbetweenthetwoblankmedallionswhichwerehistemples.Directlyweglanceateyesandforehead,thusdowerhapsodize.Directlyweglanceateyesandforehead,wehavetoadmitathousanddisagreeableswhichitistheaimofeverygoodbiographertoignore.Sightsdisturbedhim,likethatofhismother,averybeautifulladyingreenwalkingouttofeedthepeacockswithTwitchett,hermaid,behindher;sightsexaltedhim—thebirdsandthetrees;andmadehiminlovewithdeath—the evening sky, thehoming rooks; and so,mountingup thespiralstairwayintohisbrain—whichwasaroomyone—allthesesights,andthegardensoundstoo,thehammerbeating,thewoodchopping,beganthatriotandconfusion of the passions and emotionswhich every good biographer detests,But tocontinue—Orlandoslowlydrew inhishead, satdownat the table,and,withthehalf–consciousairofonedoingwhattheydoeverydayoftheirlivesatthishour,tookoutawritingbooklabelled‘Aethelbert:ATragedyinFiveActs,’anddippedanoldstainedgoosequillintheink.

Soonhehadcoveredtenpagesandmorewithpoetry.Hewasfluent,evidently,buthewasabstract.Vice,Crime,Miserywerethepersonagesofhisdrama;therewereKingsandQueensofimpossibleterritories;horridplotsconfoundedthem;noble sentiments suffused them; there was never a word said as he himselfwould have said it, but all was turned with a fluency and sweetness which,consideringhisage—hewasnotyet seventeen—and that thesixteenthcenturyhad still some years of its course to run, were remarkable enough. At last,however,hecametoahalt.Hewasdescribing,asallyoungpoetsareforever

describing,nature,andinordertomatchtheshadeofgreenpreciselyhelooked(and here he showed more audacity than most) at the thing itself, whichhappenedtobealaurelbushgrowingbeneaththewindow.Afterthat,ofcourse,hecouldwritenomore.Greeninnatureisonething,greeninliteratureanother.Natureandlettersseemtohaveanaturalantipathy;bringthemtogetherandtheyteareachothertopieces.TheshadeofgreenOrlandonowsawspoilthisrhymeandsplithismetre.Moreover,naturehastricksofherown.Oncelookoutofawindowatbeesamongflowers,atayawningdog,atthesunsetting,oncethink‘howmanymoresunsshallIseeset’,etc.etc.(thethoughtistoowellknowntobeworthwritingout)andonedropsthepen,takesone’scloak,stridesoutoftheroom,andcatchesone’sfootonapaintedchestasonedoesso.ForOrlandowasatrifleclumsy.

He was careful to avoid meeting anyone. There was Stubbs, the gardener,comingalongthepath.Hehidbehindatreetillhehadpassed.Helethimselfoutat a little gate in the garden wall. He skirted all stables, kennels, breweries,carpenters’ shops, washhouses, places where they make tallow candles, killoxen,forgehorse–shoes,stitch jerkins—for thehousewasa townringingwithmen at work at their various crafts—and gained the ferny path leading uphillthroughtheparkunseen.Thereisperhapsakinshipamongqualities;onedrawsanother alongwith it; and thebiographer shouldhere call attention to the factthatthisclumsinessisoftenmatedwithaloveofsolitude.Havingstumbledoverachest,Orlandonaturallylovedsolitaryplaces,vastviews,andtofeelhimselfforeverandeverandeveralone.

So,afteralongsilence,‘Iamalone’,hebreathedatlast,openinghislipsforthefirst time in this record.Hehadwalkedvery quickly uphill through ferns andhawthornbushes, startlingdeerandwildbirds, toaplacecrownedbya singleoaktree.Itwasveryhigh,sohighindeedthatnineteenEnglishcountiescouldbeseenbeneath;andoncleardaysthirtyorperhapsforty,iftheweatherwasveryfine.SometimesonecouldseetheEnglishChannel,wavereiteratinguponwave.Rivers couldbe seen andpleasureboats glidingon them; andgalleons settingouttosea;andarmadaswithpuffsofsmokefromwhichcamethedullthudofcannonfiring;andfortsonthecoast;andcastlesamongthemeadows;andhereawatch tower; and there a fortress; and again some vast mansion like that ofOrlando’sfather,massedlikeatowninthevalleycircledbywalls.Totheeasttherewere thespiresofLondonandthesmokeof thecity;andperhapsonthe

veryskyline,whenthewindwasintherightquarter,thecraggytopandserratededgesofSnowdonherselfshowedmountainousamongtheclouds.ForamomentOrlando stoodcounting,gazing, recognizing.Thatwashis father’shouse; thathisuncle’s.Hisauntownedthosethreegreatturretsamongthetreesthere.Theheathwas theirsand the forest; thepheasantand thedeer, the fox, thebadger,andthebutterfly.

Hesighedprofoundly,andflunghimself—therewasapassioninhismovementswhich deserves theword—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; forsuchhetookthehardrootoftheoaktreetobe;or,forimagefollowedimage,itwasthebackofagreathorsethathewasriding,orthedeckofatumblingship—itwasanythingindeed,solongasitwashard,forhefelttheneedofsomethingwhichhecouldattachhisfloatingheartto;theheartthattuggedathisside;theheartthatseemedfilledwithspicedandamorousgaleseveryeveningaboutthistimewhenhewalkedout.Totheoaktreehetieditandashelaythere,graduallytheflutterinandabouthimstilleditself;thelittleleaveshung,thedeerstopped;thepalesummercloudsstayed;hislimbsgrewheavyontheground;andhelaysostillthatbydegreesthedeersteppednearerandtherookswheeledroundhimandtheswallowsdippedandcircledand thedragonfliesshotpast,as ifall thefertilityandamorousactivityofasummer’seveningwerewovenweb–likeabouthisbody.

Afteranhouror so—thesunwas rapidlysinking, thewhitecloudshad turnedred, the hills were violet, the woods purple, the valleys black—a trumpetsounded. Orlando leapt to his feet. The shrill sound came from the valley. Itcamefromadarkspotdownthere;aspotcompactandmappedout;amaze;atown,yetgirtaboutwithwalls;itcamefromtheheartofhisowngreathouseinthe valley, which, dark before, even as he looked and the single trumpetduplicatedandreduplicateditselfwithothershrillersounds,lostitsdarknessandbecame pierced with lights. Some were small hurrying lights, as if servantsdashed along corridors to answer summonses; others were high and lustrouslights,as if theyburnt inemptybanqueting–hallsmadereadytoreceiveguestswhohadnotcome;andothersdippedandwavedandsankandrose,asifheldinthe hands of troops of serving men, bending, kneeling, rising, receiving,guarding,andescortingwithalldignityindoorsagreatPrincessalightingfromher chariot.Coaches turned andwheeled in the courtyard.Horses tossed their

plumes.TheQueenhadcome.

Orlandolookednomore.Hedasheddownhill.Helethimselfinatawicketgate.Hetoreupthewindingstaircase.Hereachedhisroom.Hetossedhisstockingstoonesideoftheroom,hisjerkintotheother.Hedippedhishead.Hescouredhishands.Heparedhisfingernails.Withnomorethansix inchesof looking–glassandapairofoldcandlestohelphim,hehadthrustoncrimsonbreeches,lacecollar,waistcoatoftaffeta,andshoeswithrosettesonthemasbigasdoubledahlias in less than ten minutes by the stable clock. He was ready. He wasflushed.Hewasexcited,Buthewasterriblylate.

Byshortcutsknowntohim,hemadehiswaynowthroughthevastcongeriesofroomsandstaircasestothebanqueting–hall,fiveacresdistantontheothersideofthehouse.Buthalf–waythere,inthebackquarterswheretheservantslived,he stopped. The door of Mrs Stewkley’s sitting–room stood open—she wasgone,doubtless,withallherkeystowaituponhermistress.Butthere,sittingattheservant’sdinnertablewithatankardbesidehimandpaperinfrontofhim,sataratherfat,shabbyman,whoseruffwasathoughtdirty,andwhoseclotheswereofhoddenbrown.Heheldapeninhishand,buthewasnotwriting.Heseemedin the act of rolling some thought up and down, to and fro in hismind till itgathered shape ormomentum to his liking.His eyes, globed and clouded likesomegreenstoneofcurioustexture,werefixed.HedidnotseeOrlando.Forallhishurry,Orlandostoppeddead.Wasthisapoet?Washewritingpoetry?‘Tellme’,hewantedtosay,‘everythinginthewholeworld’—forhehadthewildest,mostabsurd,extravagantideasaboutpoetsandpoetry—buthowspeaktoamanwho does not see you?who sees ogres, satyrs, perhaps the depths of the seainstead?SoOrlando stoodgazingwhile theman turnedhispen inhis fingers,thiswayandthatway;andgazedandmused;andthen,veryquickly,wrotehalf–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 hiskneesand,hanginghishead inconfusion, toofferabowlof rosewater to thegreatQueenherself.

Suchwashisshynessthathesawnomoreofherthanherringedhandsinwater;but it was enough. It was a memorable hand; a thin hand with long fingersalways curling as if round orb or sceptre; a nervous, crabbed, sickly hand; acommandinghand too;ahand thathadonly to raise itself forahead to fall;ahand,heguessed,attached toanoldbody that smelt likeacupboard inwhich

furs are kept in camphor; which body was yet caparisoned in all sorts ofbrocades and gems; and held itself very upright though perhaps in pain fromsciatica;andneverflinchedthoughstrungtogetherbyathousandfears;andtheQueen’seyeswerelightyellow.Allthishefeltasthegreatringsflashedinthewater and then something pressed his hair—which, perhaps, accounts for hisseeingnothingmorelikelytobeofusetoahistorian.Andintruth,hismindwassuchawelterofopposites—ofthenightandtheblazingcandles,oftheshabbypoetandthegreatQueen,ofsilentfieldsandtheclatterofservingmen—thathecouldseenothing;oronlyahand.

Bythesameshowing,theQueenherselfcanhaveseenonlyahead.Butifitispossiblefromahandtodeduceabody,informedwithalltheattributesofagreatQueen, her crabbedness, courage, frailty, and terror, surely a head can be asfertile, looked down upon from a chair of state by a lady whose eyes werealways, if thewaxworks at theAbbey are to be trusted,wideopen.The long,curledhair,thedarkheadbentsoreverently,soinnocentlybeforeher,impliedapairof thefinest legs thatayoungnoblemanhaseverstooduprightupon;andviolet eyes; and a heart of gold; and loyalty and manly charm—all qualitieswhich the old woman loved the more the more they failed her. For she wasgrowing old and worn and bent before her time. The sound of cannon wasalways in her ears. She saw always the glistening poison drop and the longstiletto.Asshesatattableshelistened;sheheardthegunsintheChannel;shedreaded—was thatacurse,was thatawhisper? Innocence,simplicity,wereallthemoredear toherfor thedarkbackgroundsheset themagainst.Anditwasthat same night, so tradition has it, whenOrlandowas sound asleep, that shemadeoverformally,puttingherhandandsealfinallytotheparchment,thegiftofthegreatmonastichousethathadbeentheArchbishop’sandthentheKing’stoOrlando’sfather.

Orlando slept all night in ignorance. He had been kissed by a queen withoutknowingit.Andperhaps,forwomen’sheartsareintricate,itwashisignoranceand the start he gavewhen her lips touched him that kept thememory of heryoungcousin (for theyhadblood incommon)green inhermind.Atany rate,twoyearsofthisquietcountrylifehadnotpassed,andOrlandohadwrittennomoreperhapsthantwentytragediesandadozenhistoriesandascoreofsonnetswhenamessagecamethathewastoattendtheQueenatWhitehall.

‘Here’, she said, watching him advance down the long gallery towards her,

‘comesmy innocent!’ (Therewas a serenity about him alwayswhich had thelookofinnocencewhen,technically,thewordwasnolongerapplicable.)

‘Come!’shesaid.Shewassittingboltuprightbesidethefire.Andsheheldhimafoot’s pace from her and looked him up and down. Was she matching herspeculationstheothernightwiththetruthnowvisible?Didshefindherguessesjustified? Eyes,mouth, nose, breast, hips, hands—she ran them over; her lipstwitchedvisiblyasshelooked;butwhenshesawhislegsshelaughedoutloud.Hewas the very image of a noble gentleman. But inwardly? She flashed heryellowhawk’seyesuponhimas if shewouldpiercehis soul.Theyoungmanwithstoodhergazeblushingonlyadamaskroseasbecamehim.Strength,grace,romance,folly,poetry,youth—shereadhimlikeapage.Instantlyshepluckedaring from her finger (the joint was swollen rather) and as she fitted it to his,namedhimherTreasurerandSteward;nexthungabouthimchainsofoffice;andbiddinghimbendhisknee,tiedrounditattheslenderestpartthejewelledorderof theGarter.Nothing after thatwas denied him.When she drove in state herode at her carriage door. She sent him to Scotland on a sad embassy to theunhappyQueen.HewasabouttosailforthePolishwarswhensherecalledhim.For how could she bear to think of that tender flesh torn and that curly headrolledinthedust?Shekepthimwithher.AttheheightofhertriumphwhenthegunswereboomingattheTowerandtheairwasthickenoughwithgunpowdertomakeonesneezeandthehuzzasofthepeoplerangbeneaththewindows,shepulledhimdownamongthecushionswhereherwomenhadlaidher(shewassowornandold)andmadehimburyhisfaceinthatastonishingcomposition—shehad not changed her dress for a month—which smelt for all the world, hethought,recallinghisboyishmemory,likesomeoldcabinetathomewherehismother’sfurswerestored.Herose,halfsuffocatedfromtheembrace.‘This’,shebreathed, ‘is my victory!’—even as a rocket roared up and dyed her cheeksscarlet.

Fortheoldwomanlovedhim.AndtheQueen,whoknewamanwhenshesawone,thoughnot,itissaid,intheusualway,plottedforhimasplendidambitiouscareer.Landsweregivenhim,housesassignedhim.Hewastobethesonofherold age; the limb of her infirmity; the oak tree on which she leant herdegradation. She croaked out these promises and strange domineeringtendernesses (they were at Richmond now) sitting bolt upright in her stiffbrocadesbythefirewhich,howeverhightheypiledit,neverkeptherwarm.

Meanwhile, the longwintermonthsdrewon.Every tree in theParkwas linedwithfrost.Theriverransluggishly.OnedaywhenthesnowwasonthegroundandthedarkpanelledroomswerefullofshadowsandthestagswerebarkinginthePark,shesawinthemirror,whichshekeptforfearofspiesalwaysbyher,through the door,which she kept for fear ofmurderers always open, a boy—could itbeOrlando?—kissingagirl—whoin theDevil’snamewas thebrazenhussy?Snatchingathergolden–hiltedswordshestruckviolentlyat themirror.The glass crashed; people came running; she was lifted and set in her chairagain;butshewasstrickenafterthatandgroanedmuch,asherdaysworetoanend,ofman’streachery.

ItwasOrlando’sfaultperhaps;yet,afterall,arewetoblameOrlando?Theagewas the Elizabethan; their morals were not ours; nor their poets; nor theirclimate;northeirvegetableseven.Everythingwasdifferent.Theweatheritself,theheatandcoldofsummerandwinter,was,wemaybelieve,ofanothertemperaltogether.Thebrilliant amorousdaywasdividedas sheerly from thenightaslandfromwater.Sunsetswereredderandmoreintense;dawnswerewhiterandmoreauroral.Ofourcrepuscularhalf–lights and lingering twilights theyknewnothing. The rain fell vehemently, or not at all. The sun blazed or there wasdarkness.Translatingthistothespiritualregionsastheirwontis,thepoetssangbeautifullyhow roses fade andpetals fall.Themoment is brief they sang; themoment is over; one long night is then to be slept by all. As for using theartifices of the greenhouse or conservatory to prolong or preserve these freshpinksandroses,thatwasnottheirway.Thewitheredintricaciesandambiguitiesofourmoregradualanddoubtfulagewereunknowntothem.Violencewasall.The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved andwent.Andwhatthepoetssaidinrhyme,theyoungtranslatedintopractice.Girlswereroses,and theirseasonswereshortas theflowers’.Pluckedtheymustbebefore nightfall; for the day was brief and the day was all. Thus, if Orlandofollowedthe leadingof theclimate,of thepoets,of theageitself,andpluckedhisflowerinthewindow–seatevenwiththesnowonthegroundandtheQueenvigilant in thecorridorwecan scarcelybringourselves toblamehim.Hewasyoung; hewas boyish; he did but as nature bade him do.As for the girl, weknownomorethanQueenElizabethherselfdidwhathernamewas.ItmayhavebeenDoris,Chloris,Delia, orDiana, for hemade rhymes to them all in turn;equally, shemayhavebeenacourt lady,or someservingmaid.ForOrlando’stastewasbroad;hewasnoloverofgardenflowersonly;thewildandtheweeds

evenhadalwaysafascinationforhim.

Here,indeed,welaybarerudely,asabiographermay,acurioustraitinhim,tobeaccountedfor,perhaps,bythefactthatacertaingrandmotherofhishadwornasmockandcarriedmilkpails.SomegrainsoftheKentishorSussexearthweremixedwiththethin,finefluidwhichcametohimfromNormandy.Heheldthatthemixtureofbrownearthandbluebloodwasagoodone.Certainitisthathehadalwaysalikingforlowcompany,especiallyforthatofletteredpeoplewhosewitssooftenkeepthemunder,asiftherewerethesympathyofbloodbetweenthem.At this season of his life,when his head brimmedwith rhymes and heneverwenttobedwithoutstrikingoffsomeconceit,thecheekofaninnkeeper’sdaughter seemed fresher and thewit of a gamekeeper’s niece seemed quickerthanthoseoftheladiesatCourt.Hence,hebegangoingfrequentlytoWappingOldStairsandthebeergardensatnight,wrappedinagreycloaktohidethestarathisneckandthegarterathisknee.There,withamugbeforehim,amongthesandedalleysandbowlinggreensandallthesimplearchitectureofsuchplaces,helistenedtosailors’storiesofhardshipandhorrorandcrueltyontheSpanishmain;howsomehadlosttheirtoes,otherstheirnoses—forthespokenstorywasneversoroundedorsofinelycolouredasthewritten.Especiallyhelovedtohearthemvolley forth their songsof ‘theAzores,while theparrakeets,which theyhadbroughtfromthoseparts,peckedattheringsintheirears,tappedwiththeirhardacquisitivebeaksattherubiesontheirfingers,andsworeasvilelyastheirmasters.Thewomenwerescarcelylessboldintheirspeechandlessfreeintheirmannerthanthebirds.Theyperchedonhisknee,flungtheirarmsroundhisneckand,guessingthatsomethingoutofthecommonlayhidbeneathhisdufflecloak,werequiteaseagertocomeatthetruthofthematterasOrlandohimself.

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 shipbound for the Indies; nowand again another blackened and raggedwithhairymen on board crept painfully to anchor. No onemissed a boy or girl if theydalliedalittleonthewateraftersunset;orraisedaneyebrowifgossiphadseenthemsleepingsoundlyamongthetreasuresackssafeineachother’sarms.SuchindeedwastheadventurethatbefelOrlando,Sukey,andtheEarlofCumberland.Thedaywashot;theirloveshadbeenactive;theyhadfallenasleepamongtherubies. Late that night the Earl, whose fortunes were much bound up in theSpanishventures,cametocheckthebootyalonewithalantern.Heflashedthe

lightonabarrel.Hestartedbackwithanoath.Twinedaboutthecasktwospiritslay sleeping. Superstitious by nature, and his conscience laden with many acrime,theEarltookthecouple—theywerewrappedinaredcloak,andSukey’sbosom was almost as white as the eternal snows of Orlando’s poetry—for aphantomsprungfromthegravesofdrownedsailorstoupbraidhim.Hecrossedhimself. He vowed repentance. The row of alms houses still standing in theSheenRoadisthevisiblefruitofthatmoment’spanic.TwelvepooroldwomenoftheparishtodaydrinkteaandtonightblesshisLordshipforaroofabovetheirheads;sothatillicitloveinatreasureship—butweomitthemoral.

Soon, however,Orlando grew tired, not only of the discomfort of thisway oflife,andofthecrabbedstreetsoftheneighbourhood,butoftheprimitivemannerofthepeople.Forithastoberememberedthatcrimeandpovertyhadnoneoftheattraction for theElizabethans that theyhave forus.Theyhadnoneofourmodernshameofbooklearning;noneofourbeliefthattobebornthesonofabutcherisablessingandtobeunabletoreadavirtue;nofancythatwhatwecall‘life’ and ‘reality’ are somehow connected with ignorance and brutality; nor,indeed,anyequivalent for these twowordsatall. Itwasnot to seek ‘life’ thatOrlandowentamongthem;notinquestof‘reality’thatheleftthem.ButwhenhehadheardascoreoftimeshowJakeshadlosthisnoseandSukeyherhonour—and they told the stories admirably, itmust be admitted—he began to be alittle weary of the repetition, for a nose can only be cut off in one way andmaidenhoodlost inanother—orsoitseemedtohim—whereas theartsandthescienceshadadiversityabout themwhichstirredhiscuriosityprofoundly.So,alwayskeepingtheminhappymemory,heleftofffrequentingthebeergardensandtheskittlealleys,hunghisgreycloakinhiswardrobe,lethisstarshineathisneckandhisgartertwinkleathisknee,andappearedoncemoreattheCourtofKingJames.Hewasyoung,hewasrich,hewashandsome.Noonecouldhavebeenreceivedwithgreateracclamationthanhewas.

Itiscertainindeedthatmanyladieswerereadytoshowhimtheirfavours.Thenames of three at least were freely coupled with his in marriage—Clorinda,Favilla,Euphrosyne—sohecalledtheminhissonnets.

To take them inorder;Clorindawasa sweet–manneredgentle ladyenough;—indeedOrlandowasgreatlytakenwithherforsixmonthsandahalf;butshehadwhiteeyelashesandcouldnotbearthesightofblood.Aharebroughtuproastedather father’s table turnedher faint.Shewasmuchunder the influenceof the

Prieststoo,andstintedherunderlineninordertogivetothepoor.Shetookitonher to reformOrlando of his sins, which sickened him, so that he drew backfrom themarriage,anddidnotmuch regret itwhenshediedsoonafterof thesmall–pox.

Favilla,whocomesnext,wasofadifferentsortaltogether.ShewasthedaughterofapoorSomersetshiregentleman;who,bysheerassiduityand theuseofhereyeshadworkedherwayupat court,whereheraddress inhorsemanship,herfineinstep,andhergraceindancingwontheadmirationofall.Once,however,shewassoill–advisedastowhipaspanielthathadtornoneofhersilkstockings(and itmustbesaid in justice thatFavillahad fewstockingsand those for themost part of drugget) within an inch of its life beneath Orlando’s window.Orlando,whowasapassionateloverofanimals,nownoticedthatherteethwerecrooked, and the two front turned inward, which, he said, is a sure sign of aperverseandcrueldispositioninwomen,andsobroketheengagementthatverynightforever.

The third,Euphrosyne,wasby far themost seriousofhis flames.ShewasbybirthoneoftheIrishDesmondsandhadthereforeafamilytreeofherownasoldand deeply rooted as Orlando’s itself. She was fair, florid, and a triflephlegmatic.Shespoke Italianwell,hadaperfect setof teeth in theupper jaw,though thoseon the lowerwere slightlydiscoloured.Shewasneverwithout awhippetorspanielatherknee;fedthemwithwhitebreadfromherownplate;sangsweetly to thevirginals;andwasneverdressedbeforemid–dayowing totheextremecareshetookofherperson.Inshort,shewouldhavemadeaperfectwife for such a nobleman as Orlando, and matters had gone so far that thelawyers on both sides were busy with covenants, jointures, settlements,messuages,tenements,andwhateverisneededbeforeonegreatfortunecanmatewith another when, with the suddenness and severity that then marked theEnglishclimate,cametheGreatFrost.

TheGreatFrostwas,historianstellus,themostseverethathasevervisitedtheseislands.Birdsfrozeinmid–airandfelllikestonestotheground.AtNorwichayoungcountrywomanstartedtocrosstheroadinherusualrobusthealthandwasseenbytheonlookerstoturnvisiblytopowderandbeblowninapuffofdustovertheroofsastheicyblaststruckheratthestreetcorner.Themortalityamongsheepandcattlewasenormous.Corpsesfrozeandcouldnotbedrawnfromthesheets. Itwasnouncommonsight tocomeuponawholeherdofswinefrozen

immovableupontheroad.Thefieldswerefullofshepherds,ploughmen,teamsofhorses,andlittlebird–scaringboysallstruckstarkintheactofthemoment,onewithhishandtohisnose,anotherwiththebottletohislips,athirdwithastoneraisedtothrowattheravenswhosat,asifstuffed,uponthehedgewithinayard of him. The severity of the frost was so extraordinary that a kind ofpetrifaction sometimes ensued; and it was commonly supposed that the greatincreaseofrocksinsomepartsofDerbyshirewasduetonoeruption,fortherewasnone,buttothesolidificationofunfortunatewayfarerswhohadbeenturnedliterally to stone where they stood. The Church could give little help in thematter, and though some landowners had these relics blessed, the most partpreferredtousethemeitheraslandmarks,scratching–postsforsheep,or,whentheformofthestoneallowed,drinkingtroughsforcattle,whichpurposestheyserve,admirablyforthemostpart,tothisday.

Butwhilethecountrypeoplesufferedtheextremityofwant,andthetradeofthecountrywasatastandstill,Londonenjoyedacarnivalof theutmostbrilliancy.TheCourtwasatGreenwich,andthenewKingseizedtheopportunitythathiscoronationgavehimtocurryfavourwiththecitizens.Hedirectedthattheriver,whichwasfrozentoadepthoftwentyfeetandmoreforsixorsevenmilesoneitherside,shouldbeswept,decoratedandgivenallthesemblanceofaparkorpleasure ground, with arbours, mazes, alleys, drinking booths, etc. at hisexpense.Forhimselfandthecourtiers,hereservedacertainspaceimmediatelyoppositethePalacegates;which,railedofffromthepubliconlybyasilkenrope,became at once the centre of the most brilliant society in England. Greatstatesmen,intheirbeardsandruffs,despatchedaffairsofstateunderthecrimsonawningoftheRoyalPagoda.SoldiersplannedtheconquestoftheMoorandthedownfall of the Turk in striped arbours surmounted by plumes of ostrichfeathers. Admirals strode up and down the narrow pathways, glass in hand,sweeping the horizon and telling stories of the north–west passage and theSpanishArmada.Lovers dallied upon divans spreadwith sables. Frozen rosesfellinshowerswhentheQueenandherladieswalkedabroad.Colouredballoonshoveredmotionless in the air.Here and thereburnt vast bonfiresof cedar andoakwood,lavishlysalted,sothattheflameswereofgreen,orange,andpurplefire.Buthowever fiercely theyburnt, theheatwasnot enough tomelt the icewhich,thoughofsingulartransparency,wasyetofthehardnessofsteel.Soclearindeedwasitthattherecouldbeseen,congealedatadepthofseveralfeet,hereaporpoise,thereaflounder.Shoalsofeelslaymotionlessinatrance,butwhether

theirstatewasoneofdeathormerelyofsuspendedanimationwhichthewarmthwouldrevivepuzzledthephilosophers.NearLondonBridge,wheretheriverhadfrozen toadepthof some twenty fathoms,awreckedwherryboatwasplainlyvisible, lyingon thebedof the riverwhere ithadsunk lastautumn,overladenwithapples.Theoldbumboatwoman,whowascarryingherfruittomarketonthe Surrey side, sat there in her plaids and farthingales with her lap full ofapples, for all the world as if she were about to serve a customer, though acertain blueness about the lips hinted the truth. ‘Twas a sight King Jamesspecially liked to lookupon, andhewouldbring a troupeof courtiers togazewithhim.Inshort,nothingcouldexceedthebrilliancyandgaietyofthescenebyday. But it was at night that the carnival was at its merriest. For the frostcontinued unbroken; the nights were of perfect stillness; the moon and starsblazed with the hard fixity of diamonds, and to the fine music of flute andtrumpetthecourtiersdanced.

Orlando,itistrue,wasnoneofthosewhotreadlightlythecorantoeandlavolta;hewasclumsyandalittleabsentminded.Hemuchpreferredtheplaindancesofhisowncountry,whichhedancedasachildtothesefantasticforeignmeasures.He had indeed just brought his feet together about six in the evening of theseventh of January at the finish of some such quadrille or minuet when hebeheld, coming from the pavilion of theMuscovite Embassy, a figure,which,whether boy’s or woman’s, for the loose tunic and trousers of the Russianfashion served to disguise the sex, filled him with the highest curiosity. Theperson, whatever the name or sex, was about middle height, very slenderlyfashioned, and dressed entirely in oyster–coloured velvet, trimmedwith someunfamiliar greenish–coloured fur. But these details were obscured by theextraordinary seductiveness which issued from the whole person. Images,metaphorsofthemostextremeandextravaganttwinedandtwistedinhismind.Hecalledheramelon,apineapple,anolive tree,anemerald,andafox in thesnowall in thespaceof threeseconds;hedidnotknowwhetherhehadheardher,tastedher,seenher,orallthreetogether.(Forthoughwemustpausenotamomentinthenarrativewemayherehastilynotethatallhisimagesatthistimewere simple in the extreme to match his senses and were mostly taken fromthingshehadlikedthetasteofasaboy.Butifhissensesweresimpletheywereat the same timeextremely strong.Topause thereforeand seek the reasonsofthingsisoutof thequestion.)...Amelon,anemerald,afoxinthesnow—soheraved,sohestared.Whentheboy,foralas,aboyitmustbe—nowomancould

skate with such speed and vigour—swept almost on tiptoe past him, Orlandowasreadytotearhishairwithvexationthatthepersonwasofhisownsex,andthus all embraceswere out of the question. But the skater came closer. Legs,hands,carriage,wereaboy’s,butnoboyeverhadamouthlikethat;noboyhadthosebreasts;noboyhadeyeswhichlookedasiftheyhadbeenfishedfromthebottom of the sea. Finally, coming to a stop and sweeping a curtseywith theutmostgracetotheKing,whowasshufflingpastonthearmofsomeLord–in–waiting, the unknown skater came to a standstill. Shewas not a handsbreadthoff.Shewasawoman.Orlandostared;trembled;turnedhot;turnedcold;longedtohurlhimselfthroughthesummerair;tocrushacornsbeneathhisfeet;totosshisarmwiththebeechtreesandtheoaks.Asitwas,hedrewhislipsupoverhissmallwhiteteeth;openedthemperhapshalfaninchasiftobite;shutthemasifhehadbitten.TheLadyEuphrosynehunguponhisarm.

Thestranger’sname,hefound,wasthePrincessMaroushaStanilovskaDagmarNatasha Iliana Romanovitch, and she had come in the train of theMuscoviteAmbassador, who was her uncle perhaps, or perhaps her father, to attend thecoronation.Very littlewasknownof theMuscovites. In theirgreatbeardsandfurredhatstheysatalmostsilent;drinkingsomeblackliquidwhichtheyspatoutnowandthenupontheice.NonespokeEnglish,andFrenchwithwhichsomeatleastwerefamiliarwasthenlittlespokenattheEnglishCourt.

Itwas through this accident thatOrlandoand thePrincessbecameacquainted.They were seated opposite each other at the great table spread under a hugeawningfortheentertainmentofthenotables.ThePrincesswasplacedbetweentwoyoungLords,oneLordFrancisVereandtheothertheyoungEarlofMoray.Itwas laughable tosee thepredicamentshesoonhadthemin,for thoughbothwere fine lads in their way, the babe unborn had as much knowledge of theFrenchtongueastheyhad.WhenatthebeginningofdinnerthePrincessturnedtotheEarlandsaid,withagracewhichravishedhisheart,‘Jecroisavoirfaitlaconnaissance d’un gentilhomme qui vous etait apparente en Pologne l’etedernier,’ or ‘La beaute des dames de la cour d’Angleterre me met dans leravissement.Onne peut voir une dameplus gracieuse que votre reine, ni unecoiffure plus belle que la sienne,’ both Lord Francis and the Earl showed thehighest embarrassment. The one helped her largely to horse–radish sauce, theother whistled to his dog and made him beg for a marrow bone. At this thePrincess could no longer contain her laughter, andOrlando, catching her eyes

across theboars’headsandstuffedpeacocks, laughedtoo.Helaughed,but thelaughonhis lips froze inwonder.Whomhadhe loved,whathadhe loved,heaskedhimselfinatumultofemotion,untilnow?Anoldwoman,heanswered,all skin and bone. Red–cheeked trulls toomany tomention. A puling nun.Ahard–bittencruel–mouthedadventuress.Anoddingmassoflaceandceremony.Lovehadmeanttohimnothingbutsawdustandcinders.Thejoyshehadhadofit tastedinsipidintheextreme.Hemarvelledhowhecouldhavegonethroughwithitwithoutyawning.Forashelookedthethicknessofhisbloodmelted;theice turned to wine in his veins; he heard the waters flowing and the birdssinging; spring broke over the hard wintry landscape; his manhood woke; hegraspedaswordinhishand;hechargedamoredaringfoethanPoleorMoor;hedived in deep water; he saw the flower of danger growing in a crevice; hestretched his hand—in fact he was rattling off one of his most impassionedsonnetswhenthePrincessaddressedhim,‘Wouldyouhavethegoodnesstopassthesalt?’

Heblusheddeeply.

‘Withallthepleasureintheworld,Madame,’hereplied,speakingFrenchwithaperfect accent. For, heaven be praised, he spoke the tongue as his own; hismother’smaidhadtaughthim.Yetperhapsitwouldhavebeenbetterforhimhadheneverlearntthattongue;neveransweredthatvoice;neverfollowedthelightofthoseeyes...

The Princess continued. Who were those bumpkins, she asked him, who satbeside her with the manners of stablemen?What was the nauseatingmixturetheyhadpouredonherplate?DidthedogseatatthesametablewiththemeninEngland?Wasthatfigureoffunat theendofthetablewithherhairriggeduplikeaMaypole(commeunegrandeperchemalfagotee)reallytheQueen?AnddidtheKingalwaysslobberlikethat?AndwhichofthosepopinjayswasGeorgeVilliers?ThoughthesequestionsratherdiscomposedOrlandoatfirst,theywereputwithsucharchnessanddrollerythathecouldnothelpbutlaugh;andhesawfrom the blank faces of the company that nobody understood a word, heansweredherasfreelyassheaskedhim,speaking,asshedid,inperfectFrench.

ThusbegananintimacybetweenthetwowhichsoonbecamethescandaloftheCourt.

SoonitwasobservedOrlandopaidtheMuscovitefarmoreattentionthanmerecivility demanded. He was seldom far from her side, and their conversation,thoughunintelligibletotherest,wascarriedonwithsuchanimation,provokedsuchblushesandlaughter,thatthedullestcouldguessthesubject.Moreover,thechange in Orlando himself was extraordinary. Nobody had ever seen him soanimated.Inonenighthehadthrownoffhisboyishclumsiness;hewaschangedfromasulkystripling,whocouldnotenteraladies’roomwithoutsweepinghalftheornamentsfromthetable, toanobleman,fullofgraceandmanlycourtesy.ToseehimhandtheMuscovite(asshewascalled)tohersledge,orofferherhishand for the dance, or catch the spotted kerchief which she had let drop, ordischargeanyotherofthosemanifolddutieswhichthesupremeladyexactsandtheloverhastenstoanticipatewasasighttokindlethedulleyesofage,andtomakethequickpulseofyouthbeatfaster.Yetoveritallhungacloud.Theoldmen shrugged their shoulders. The young tittered between their fingers. Allknew that a Orlando was betrothed to another. The Lady Margaret O’BrienO’DareO’ReillyTyrconnel(forthatwasthepropernameofEuphrosyneoftheSonnets)woreOrlando’ssplendidsapphireonthesecondfingerofherlefthand.Itwasshewhohadthesupremerighttohisattentions.Yetshemightdropallthehandkerchiefsinherwardrobe(ofwhichshehadmanyscores)upontheiceandOrlandoneverstoopedtopickthemup.Shemightwaittwentyminutesforhimtohandhertohersledge,andintheendhavetobecontentwiththeservicesofherBlackamoor.Whensheskated,whichshedidratherclumsily,noonewasatherelbowtoencourageher,and,ifshefell,whichshedidratherheavily,nooneraisedhertoherfeetanddustedthesnowfromherpetticoats.Althoughshewasnaturallyphlegmatic,slowtotakeoffence,andmorereluctantthanmostpeopletobelieve that amere foreigner couldoust her fromOrlando’s affections, stilleventheLadyMargaretherselfwasbroughtatlasttosuspectthatsomethingwasbrewingagainstherpeaceofmind.

Indeed,asthedayspassed,Orlandotooklessandlesscaretohidehisfeelings.Makingsomeexcuseorother,hewouldleavethecompanyassoonastheyhaddined, or steal away from the skaters, whowere forming sets for a quadrille.Nextmoment itwould be seen that theMuscovitewasmissing too.Butwhatmost outraged theCourt, and stung it in its tenderest part,which is its vanity,wasthatthecouplewasoftenseentoslipunderthesilkenrope,whichrailedofftheRoyalenclosurefromthepublicpartoftheriverandtodisappearamongthecrowdofcommonpeople.ForsuddenlythePrincesswouldstampherfootand

cry,‘Takemeaway.IdetestyourEnglishmob,’bywhichshemeanttheEnglishCourtitself.Shecouldstanditnolonger.Itwasfullofpryingoldwomen,shesaid,whostaredinone’sface,andofbumptiousyoungmenwhotrodonone’stoes. They smelt bad.Their dogs ran between her legs. Itwas like being in acage. InRussia theyhad rivers tenmilesbroadonwhichonecouldgallopsixhorsesabreastallday longwithoutmeetingasoul.Besides, shewanted toseetheTower,theBeefeaters,theHeadsonTempleBar,andthejewellers’shopsinthecity.Thus,itcameaboutthatOrlandotookherintothecity,showedhertheBeefeatersandtherebels’heads,andboughtherwhatevertookherfancyintheRoyalExchange.Butthiswasnotenough.Eachincreasinglydesiredtheother’scompany inprivacy all day longwhere therewerenone tomarvel or to stare.InsteadoftakingtheroadtoLondon,therefore,theyturnedtheotherwayaboutand were soon beyond the crowd among the frozen reaches of the Thameswhere,saveforseabirdsandsomeoldcountrywomanhackingat the ice inavainattempt todrawapailfulofwaterorgatheringwhatsticksordead leavesshecould find for firing,nota livingsoulevercame theirway.Thepoorkeptclosely to their cottages, and the better sort,who could afford it, crowded forwarmthandmerrimenttothecity.

Hence,Orlando and Sasha, as he called her for short, and because it was thenameofawhiteRussianfoxhehadhadasaboy—acreaturesoftassnow,butwithteethofsteel,whichbithimsosavagelythathisfatherhaditkilled—hence,they had the river to themselves. Hot with skating and with love they wouldthrowthemselvesdowninsomesolitaryreach,wheretheyellowosiersfringedthebank,andwrappedinagreatfurcloakOrlandowouldtakeherinhisarms,andknow,forthefirsttime,hemurmured,thedelightsoflove.Then,whentheecstasywasoverandtheylaylulledinaswoonontheice,hewouldtellherofhis other loves, and how, compared with her, they had been of wood, ofsackcloth,andofcinders.Andlaughingathisvehemence,shewouldturnoncemoreinhisarmsandgivehimforlove’ssake,onemoreembrace.Andthentheywouldmarvel that the ice did notmelt with their heat, and pity the poor oldwomanwhohadnosuchnaturalmeansofthawingit,butmusthackatitwithachopper of cold steel. And then, wrapped in their sables, they would talk ofeverythingunderthesun;ofsightsandtravels;ofMoorandPagan;ofthisman’sbeardandthatwoman’sskin;ofaratthatfedfromherhandattable;ofthearrasthatmovedalwaysinthehallathome;ofaface;ofafeather.Nothingwastoosmallforsuchconverse,nothingwastoogreat.

Then suddenly, Orlandowould fall into one of hismoods ofmelancholy; thesightoftheoldwomanhobblingovertheicemightbethecauseofit,ornothing;and would fling himself face downwards on the ice and look into the frozenwaters and think of death. For the philosopher is rightwho says that nothingthicker thanaknife’sbladeseparateshappiness frommelancholy;andhegoeson to opine that one is twin fellow to the other; and draws from this theconclusionthatallextremesoffeelingarealliedtomadness;andsobidsustakerefugeinthetrueChurch(inhisviewtheAnabaptist),whichistheonlyharbour,port,anchorage,etc.,hesaid,forthosetossedonthissea.

‘All ends in death,’ Orlandowould say, sitting upright, his face cloudedwithgloom. (For thatwas thewayhismindworkednow, inviolent see–saws fromlifetodeath,stoppingatnothinginbetween,sothatthebiographermustnotstopeither, but must fly as fast as he can and so keep pace with the unthinkingpassionate foolish actions and sudden extravagant words in which, it isimpossibletodeny,Orlandoatthistimeofhislifeindulged.)

‘Allendsindeath,’Orlandowouldsay,sittinguprightontheice.ButSashawhoafterallhadnoEnglishbloodinherbutwasfromRussiawherethesunsetsarelonger,thedawnslesssudden,andsentencesoftenleftunfinishedfromdoubtastohowbest toend them—Sasha staredathim,perhaps sneeredathim, forhemusthave seemeda child toher, and saidnothing.But at length the icegrewcold beneath them, which she disliked, so pulling him to his feet again, shetalkedsoenchantingly,sowittily,sowisely(butunfortunatelyalwaysinFrench,whichnotoriouslylosesitsflavourintranslation)thatheforgotthefrozenwatersornightcomingortheoldwomanorwhateveritwas,andwouldtrytotellher—plungingandsplashingamongathousandimageswhichhadgoneasstaleasthewomenwhoinspiredthem—whatshewaslike.Snow,cream,marble,cherries,alabaster,goldenwire?Noneofthese.Shewaslikeafox,oranolivetree;likethewaves of the sea when you look down upon them from a height; like anemerald;likethesunonagreenhillwhichisyetclouded—likenothinghehadseenorknowninEngland.Ransackthelanguageashemight,wordsfailedhim.Hewanted another landscape, and another tongue. Englishwas too frank, toocandid, toohoneyedaspeechforSasha.For inallshesaid,howeveropensheseemed and voluptuous, there was something hidden; in all she did, howeverdaring,therewassomethingconcealed.Sothegreenflameseemshiddenintheemerald,or thesunprisoned inahill.Theclearnesswasonlyoutward;within

wasawanderingflame.Itcame;itwent;shenevershonewiththesteadybeamofanEnglishwoman—here,however, rememberingtheLadyMargaretandherpetticoats,Orlandoranwildinhistransportsandsweptherovertheice,faster,faster,vowingthathewouldchasetheflame,diveforthegem,andsoonandsoon,thewordscomingonthepantsofhisbreathwiththepassionofapoetwhosepoetryishalfpressedoutofhimbypain.

ButSashawassilent.WhenOrlandohaddonetellingherthatshewasafox,anolivetree,oragreenhill–top,andhadgivenherthewholehistoryofhisfamily;howtheirhousewasoneofthemostancientinBritain;howtheyhadcomefromRomewiththeCaesarsandhadtherighttowalkdowntheCorso(whichisthechief street inRome)under a tasselledpalanquin,whichhe said is aprivilegereservedonly for those of imperial blood (for therewas an orgulous credulityabouthimwhichwaspleasantenough),hewouldpauseandaskher,Wherewasherownhouse?Whatwasherfather?Hadshebrothers?Whywassheherealonewith her uncle? Then, somehow, though she answered readily enough, anawkwardnesswouldcomebetweenthem.Hesuspectedatfirstthatherrankwasnotashighasshewouldlike;orthatshewasashamedofthesavagewaysofherpeople,forhehadheardthatthewomeninMuscovywearbeardsandthemenare covered with fur from the waist down; that both sexes are smeared withtallowtokeepthecoldout,tearmeatwiththeirfingersandliveinhutswhereanEnglishnoblewouldscrupletokeephiscattle;sothatheforeboretopressher.Butonreflection,heconcludedthathersilencecouldnotbeforthatreason;sheherselfwasentirelyfreefromhaironthechin;shedressedinvelvetandpearls,andhermannerswerecertainlynotthoseofawomanbredinacattle–shed.

What,then,didshehidefromhim?Thedoubtunderlyingthetremendousforceofhisfeelingswaslikeaquicksandbeneathamonumentwhichshiftssuddenlyandmakesthewholepileshake.Theagonywouldseizehimsuddenly.Thenhewouldblazeoutinsuchwraththatshedidnotknowhowtoquiethim.Perhapsshedidnotwant toquiethim;perhapshisragespleasedherandsheprovokedthempurposely—suchisthecuriousobliquityoftheMuscovitishtemperament.

Tocontinuethestory—skatingfartherthantheirwontthatdaytheyreachedthatpart of the riverwhere the ships had anchored and been frozen inmidstream.Amongthemwastheshipof theMuscoviteEmbassyflyingitsdouble–headedblack eagle from themainmast,whichwas hungwithmany–coloured iciclesseveral yards in length. Sasha had left some of her clothing on board, and

supposingtheship tobeemptytheyclimbedondeckandwent insearchof it.Remembering certain passages in his own past, Orlando would not havemarvelled had some good citizens sought this refuge before them; and so itturnedout.Theyhadnotventured farwhena fineyoungmanstartedup fromsomebusinessofhisownbehinda coilof ropeand saying, apparently, forhespokeRussian,thathewasoneofthecrewandwouldhelpthePrincesstofindwhatshewanted, lita lumpofcandleanddisappearedwithher into the lowerpartsoftheship.

Timewent by, andOrlando,wrapped in his own dreams, thought only of thepleasuresoflife;ofhisjewel;ofherrarity;ofmeansformakingherirrevocablyandindissolublyhisown.Obstaclestherewereandhardshipstoovercome.ShewasdeterminedtoliveinRussia,wheretherewerefrozenriversandwildhorsesand men, she said, who gashed each other’s throats open. It is true that alandscapeofpineandsnow,habitsoflustandslaughter,didnotenticehim.Norwas he anxious to cease his pleasant countryways of sport and tree–planting;relinquish his office; ruin his career; shoot the reindeer instead of the rabbit;drinkvodkainsteadofcanary,andslipaknifeuphissleeve—forwhatpurpose,heknewnot.Still,allthisandmorethanallthishewoulddoforhersake.AsforhismarriagetotheLadyMargaret,fixedthoughitwasforthisdaysennight,thethingwas so palpably absurd that he scarcely gave it a thought.Her kinsmenwould abuse him for deserting a great lady; his friendswould deride him forruiningthefinestcareerintheworldforaCossackwomanandawasteofsnow—itweighednotastrawinthebalancecomparedwithSashaherself.Onthefirstdarknighttheywouldfly.TheywouldtakeshiptoRussia.Sohepondered;soheplottedashewalkedupanddownthedeck.

Hewasrecalled,turningwestward,bythesightofthesun,slunglikeanorangeonthecrossofStPaul’s.Itwasblood–redandsinkingrapidly.Itmustbealmostevening.Sashahadbeengone thishour andmore.Seized instantlywith thosedark forebodingswhich shadowedevenhismost confident thoughtsofher,heplunged the way he had seen them go into the hold of the ship; and, afterstumblingamongchestsandbarrelsinthedarkness,wasmadeawarebyafaintglimmerinacornerthattheywereseatedthere.Foronesecond,hehadavisionofthem;sawSashaseatedonthesailor’sknee;sawherbendtowardshim;sawthem embrace before the lightwas blotted out in a red cloud by his rage.Heblazed into such a howl of anguish that the whole ship echoed. Sasha threw

herselfbetweenthem,orthesailorwouldhavebeenstifledbeforehecoulddrawhiscutlass.ThenadeadlysicknesscameoverOrlando,andtheyhadtolayhimonthefloorandgivehimbrandytodrinkbeforeherevived.Andthen,whenhehad recovered andwas sat upon a heap of sacking on deck, Sasha hung overhim,passingbeforehisdizziedeyes softly, sinuously, like the fox thathadbithim,nowcajoling,nowdenouncing,sothathecametodoubtwhathehadseen.Hadnotthecandleguttered;hadnot theshadowsmoved?Theboxwasheavy,shesaid;themanwashelpinghertomoveit.Orlandobelievedheronemoment—forwhocanbesurethathisragehasnotpaintedwhathemostdreadstofind?—the nextwas themore violentwith anger at her deceit. Then Sasha herselfturnedwhite;stampedherfootondeck;saidshewouldgothatnight,andcalleduponherGodstodestroyher, ifshe,aRomanovitch,hadlaininthearmsofacommonseaman.Indeed,lookingatthemtogether(whichhecouldhardlybringhimself to do) Orlando was outraged by the foulness of his imagination thatcouldhavepaintedsofrailacreatureinthepawofthathairyseabrute.Themanwashuge; stoodsix feet four inhis stockings,worecommonwire rings inhisears;andlookedlikeadrayhorseuponwhichsomewrenorrobinhasperchedinitsflight.Soheyielded;believedher;andaskedherpardon.Yetwhentheyweregoingdowntheship’sside, lovinglyagain,Sashapausedwithherhandon theladder,andcalledbacktothistawnywide–cheekedmonsteravolleyofRussiangreetings,jests,orendearments,notawordofwhichOrlandocouldunderstand.But there was something in her tone (it might be the fault of the Russianconsonants) that remindedOrlandoofascenesomenightssince,whenhehadcomeuponherinsecretgnawingacandle–endinacorner,whichshehadpickedfromthefloor.True,itwaspink;itwasgilt;anditwasfromtheKing’stable;butitwastallow,andshegnawedit.Wastherenot,hethought,handingherontotheice,somethingrankinher,somethingcoarseflavoured,somethingpeasantborn?Andhefanciedheratfortygrownunwieldythoughshewasnowslimasareed,and lethargic though she was now blithe as a lark. But again as they skatedtowardsLondon such suspicionsmelted in his breast, and he felt as if he hadbeen hooked by a great fish through the nose and rushed through the watersunwillingly,yetwithhisownconsent.

Itwasaneveningofastonishingbeauty.Asthesunsank,allthedomes,spires,turrets,andpinnaclesofLondonrose in inkyblacknessagainst the furious redsunsetclouds.HerewasthefrettedcrossatCharing;therethedomeofStPaul’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 atTemple Bar. Now the Abbeywindowswere lit up and burnt like a heavenly,many–coloured shield (inOrlando’s fancy);nowall thewest seemedagoldenwindowwith troopsofangels(inOrlando’sfancyagain)passingupanddownthe heavenly stairs perpetually. All the time they seemed to be skating infathomlessdepthsofair,sobluetheicehadbecome;andsoglassysmoothwasitthattheyspedquickerandquickertothecitywiththewhitegullscirclingaboutthem,andcuttingintheairwiththeirwingstheverysamesweepsthattheycutontheicewiththeirskates.

Sasha,asif toreassurehim,wastendererthanusualandevenmoredelightful.Seldomwouldshetalkaboutherpastlife,butnowshetoldhimhow,inwinterinRussia,shewouldlistentothewolveshowlingacrossthesteppes,andthrice,toshowhim,shebarkedlikeawolf.Uponwhichhetoldherofthestagsinthesnowathome,andhowtheywouldstrayintothegreathallforwarmthandbefedbyanoldmanwithporridgefromabucket.Andthenshepraisedhim;forhisloveofbeasts;forhisgallantry;forhislegs.Ravishedwithherpraisesandshamed to think how he hadmaligned her by fancying her on the knees of acommonsailorandgrownfatandlethargicatforty,hetoldherthathecouldfindnowordstopraiseher;yetinstantlybethoughthimhowshewaslikethespringandgreengrassand rushingwaters,andseizinghermore tightly thanever,heswung herwith himhalf across the river so that the gulls and the cormorantsswungtoo.Andhaltingatlength,outofbreath,shesaid,pantingslightly,thathewas like amillion–candledChristmas tree (such as they have inRussia) hungwith yellow globes; incandescent; enough to light a whole street by; (so onemighttranslateit)forwhatwithhisglowingcheeks,hisdarkcurls,hisblackandcrimsoncloak,he lookedas ifhewereburningwithhisown radiance, fromalamplitwithin.

Allthecolour,savetheredofOrlando’scheeks,soonfaded.Nightcameon.Asthe orange light of sunset vanished it was succeeded by an astonishingwhiteglarefromthetorches,bonfires,flamingcressets,andotherdevicesbywhichtheriverwas lit up and the strangest transformation took place.Various churchesandnoblemen’spalaces,whosefrontswereofwhitestoneshowedinstreaksandpatchesasiffloatingontheair.OfStPaul’s,inparticular,nothingwasleftbutagilt cross. The Abbey appeared like the grey skeleton of a leaf. Everythingsuffered emaciation and transformation.As they approached the carnival, they

heard a deep note like that struck on a tuning–forkwhich boomed louder andlouderuntil itbecameanuproar.Everynowandthenagreatshoutfollowedarocketintotheair.Graduallytheycoulddiscernlittlefiguresbreakingofffromthevastcrowdandspinninghitherandthitherlikegnatsonthesurfaceofariver.Aboveandaroundthisbrilliantcirclelikeabowlofdarknesspressedthedeepblackof awinter’snight.And then into thisdarkness therebegan to risewithpauses,whichkepttheexpectationalertandthemouthopen,floweringrockets;crescents;serpents;acrown.Atonemomentthewoodsanddistanthillsshowedgreenasonasummer’sday;thenextallwaswinterandblacknessagain.

By this timeOrlando and the Princesswere close to theRoyal enclosure andfound their way barred by a great crowd of the common people, who werepressingasneartothesilkenropeastheydared.Lothtoendtheirprivacyandencounter the sharpeyes thatwereon thewatch for them, thecouple lingeredthere,shoulderedbyapprentices;tailors;fishwives;horsedealers,conycatchers;starving scholars;maid–servants in theirwhimples; orangegirls; ostlers; sobercitizens;bawdytapsters;andacrowdoflittleragamuffinssuchasalwayshaunttheoutskirtsofacrowd,screamingandscramblingamongpeople’sfeet—alltheriff–raffoftheLondonstreetsindeedwasthere,jestingandjostling,herecastingdice, telling fortunes, shoving, tickling, pinching; here uproarious, there glum;someofthemwithmouthsgapingayardwide;othersaslittlereverentasdawson a house–top; all as variously rigged out as their purse or stations allowed;hereinfurandbroadcloth;thereintatterswiththeirfeetkeptfromtheiceonlybyadishcloutboundabout them.Themainpressofpeople, itappeared,stoodoppositeaboothorstagesomethinglikeourPunchandJudyshowuponwhichsome kind of theatrical performance was going forward. A black man waswavinghisarmsandvociferating.Therewasawomaninwhitelaiduponabed.Rough though thestagingwas, theactors runningupanddownapairofstepsand sometimes tripping, and the crowd stamping their feet and whistling, orwhentheywerebored,tossingapieceoforangepeelontotheicewhichadogwould scramble for, still the astonishing, sinuousmelody of thewords stirredOrlando likemusic.Spokenwithextremespeedandadaringagilityof tonguewhichremindedhimof thesailorssinging in thebeergardensatWapping, thewordsevenwithoutmeaningwereaswinetohim.Butnowandagainasinglephrasewouldcometohimovertheicewhichwasasiftornfromthedepthsofhisheart.ThefrenzyoftheMoorseemedtohimhisownfrenzy,andwhentheMoor suffocated the woman in her bed it was Sasha he killed with his own

hands.

At last theplaywas ended.All hadgrowndark.The tears streameddownhisface.Lookingup into the sky therewasnothingbutblackness there too.Ruinand death, he thought, cover all. The life of man ends in the grave. Wormsdevourus.

MethinksitshouldbenowahugeeclipseOfsunandmoon,andthattheaffrightedglobeShouldyawn—

Even as he said this a star of some pallor rose in hismemory.The nightwasdark;itwaspitchdark;butitwassuchanightasthisthattheyhadwaitedfor;itwas on such a night as this that they had planned to fly. He rememberedeverything.The time had come.With a burst of passion he snatchedSasha tohim,andhissedinherear‘Jourdemavie!’Itwastheirsignal.Atmidnighttheywouldmeetatan innnearBlackfriars.Horseswaited there.Everythingwas inreadinessfortheirflight.Sotheyparted,shetohertent,hetohis.Itstillwantedanhourofthetime.

Long before midnight Orlando was in waiting. The night was of so inky ablacknessthatamanwasonyoubeforehecouldbeseen,whichwasalltothegood, but itwas also of themost solemn stillness so that a horse’s hoof, or achild’scry,couldbeheardatadistanceofhalfamile.ManyatimedidOrlando,pacing the little courtyard, hold his heart at the sound of some nag’s steadyfootfallonthecobbles,orattherustleofawoman’sdress.Butthetravellerwasonly some merchant, making home belated; or some woman of the quarterwhoseerrandwasnothingsoinnocent.Theypassed,andthestreetwasquieterthan before. Then those lights which burnt downstairs in the small, huddledquarterswherethepoorof thecity livedmovedupto thesleeping–rooms,andthen,onebyone,wereextinguished.Thestreet lanterns in thesepurlieuswerefewatmost; and thenegligenceof thenightwatchmanoften suffered them toexpire long before dawn. The darkness then became even deeper than before.Orlandolookedtothewicksofhislantern,sawtothesaddlegirths;primedhispistols;examinedhisholsters;anddidallthesethingsadozentimesatleasttillhe could find nothingmore needing his attention. Though it still lacked sometwentyminutestomidnight,hecouldnotbringhimselftogoindoorstotheinnparlour,wherethehostesswasstillservingsackandthecheapersortofcanary

winetoafewseafaringmen,whowouldsittheretrollingtheirditties,andtellingtheirstoriesofDrake,Hawkins,andGrenville,tilltheytoppledoffthebenchesandrolledasleeponthesandedfloor.Thedarknesswasmorecompassionatetohisswollenandviolentheart.Helistenedtoeveryfootfall;speculatedoneverysound. Each drunken shout and eachwail from some poor wretch laid in thestraworinotherdistresscuthishearttothequick,asifitbodedillomentohisventure. Yet, he had no fear for Sasha. Her courage made nothing of theadventure.Shewouldcomealone,inhercloakandtrousers,bootedlikeaman.Lightasherfootfallwas,itwouldhardlybeheard,eveninthissilence.

Sohewaitedinthedarkness.Suddenlyhewasstruckinthefacebyablow,soft,yetheavy,onthesideofhischeek.Sostrungwithexpectationwashe, thathestartedandputhishandtohissword.Theblowwasrepeatedadozentimesonforeheadandcheek.Thedryfrosthadlastedsolongthatittookhimaminutetorealizethatthesewereraindropsfalling;theblowsweretheblowsoftherain.Atfirst, they fell slowly,deliberately,onebyone.But soon the sixdropsbecamesixty;thensixhundred;thenranthemselvestogetherinasteadyspoutofwater.It was as if the hard and consolidated sky poured itself forth in one profusefountain.InthespaceoffiveminutesOrlandowassoakedtotheskin.

Hastilyputtingthehorsesundercover,hesoughtshelterbeneaththelintelofthedoorwhencehecouldstillobservethecourtyard.Theairwasthickernowthanever,andsuchasteaminganddroningrosefromthedownpourthatnofootfallofmanorbeastcouldbeheardaboveit.Theroads,pittedastheywerewithgreatholes, would be under water and perhaps impassable. But of what effect thiswouldhaveupontheirflighthescarcelythought.Allhissenseswerebentupongazing along the cobbled pathway—gleaming in the light of the lantern—forSasha’s coming. Sometimes, in the darkness, he seemed to see her wrappedaboutwithrainstrokes.Butthephantomvanished.Suddenly,withanawfulandominous voice, a voice full of horror and alarm which raised every hair ofanguish in Orlando’s soul, St Paul’s struck the first stroke of midnight. Fourtimesmoreitstruckremorselessly.Withthesuperstitionofalover,Orlandohadmadeoutthatitwasonthesixthstrokethatshewouldcome.Butthesixthstrokeechoedaway,andtheseventhcameandtheeighth,andtohisapprehensivemindtheyseemednotesfirstheraldingandthenproclaimingdeathanddisaster.Whenthe twelfth struck he knew that his doom was sealed. It was useless for therational part of him to reason; shemight be late; shemight be prevented; she

mighthavemissedherway.ThepassionateandfeelingheartofOrlandoknewthe truth. Other clocks struck, jangling one after another. The whole worldseemedtoringwiththenewsofherdeceitandhisderision.Theoldsuspicionssubterraneouslyatwork inhimrushedforthfromconcealmentopenly.Hewasbittenbyaswarmofsnakes,eachmorepoisonousthanthelast.Hestoodinthedoorway in the tremendous rain without moving. As the minutes passed, hesagged a little at the knees.The downpour rushed on. In the thick of it, greatguns seemed to boom.Hugenoises as of the tearing and rendingof oak treescouldbeheard.Therewerealsowildcriesandterribleinhumangroanings.ButOrlando stood there immovable till Paul’s clock struck two, and then, cryingaloudwithanawfulirony,andallhisteethshowing,‘Jourdemavie!’hedashedthelanterntotheground,mountedhishorseandgallopedheknewnotwhere.

Someblindinstinct,forhewaspastreasoning,musthavedrivenhimtotaketheriverbankinthedirectionofthesea.Forwhenthedawnbroke,whichitdidwithunusualsuddenness, theskyturningapaleyellowandtherainalmostceasing,hefoundhimselfonthebanksoftheThamesoffWapping.Nowasightofthemostextraordinarynaturemethiseyes.Where,forthreemonthsandmore,therehadbeen solid ice of such thickness that it seemedpermanent as stone, and awhole gay city had been stood on its pavement, was now a race of turbulentyellow waters. The river had gained its freedom in the night. It was as if asulphur spring (towhichviewmanyphilosophers inclined)had risen from thevolcanicregionsbeneathandbursttheiceasunderwithsuchvehemencethatitsweptthehugeandmassyfragmentsfuriouslyapart.Themerelookofthewaterwasenoughtoturnonegiddy.Allwasriotandconfusion.Theriverwasstrewnwithicebergs.Someofthesewereasbroadasabowlinggreenandashighasahouse; others no bigger than aman’s hat, butmost fantastically twisted.Nowwouldcomedownawholeconvoyoficeblockssinkingeverythingthatstoodintheir way.Now, eddying and swirling like a tortured serpent, the riverwouldseemtobehurtlingitselfbetweenthefragmentsandtossingthemfrombanktobank, so that they could be heard smashing against the piers and pillars. Butwhat was the most awful and inspiring of terror was the sight of the humancreatureswhohadbeen trapped in thenight andnowpaced their twistingandprecarious islands in theutmostagonyof spirit.Whether they jumped into thefloodorstayedontheicetheirdoomwascertain.Sometimesquiteaclusterofthese poor creatures would come down together, some on their knees, otherssuckling 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 solitarywretchwouldstridehisnarrowtenementalone.Astheysweptouttosea,somecould be heard crying vainly for help, making wild promises to amend theirways,confessingtheirsinsandvowingaltarsandwealthifGodwouldheartheirprayers. Others were so dazed with terror that they sat immovable and silentlookingsteadfastlybeforethem.Onecrewofyoungwatermenorpost–boys,tojudge by their liveries, roared and shouted the lewdest tavern songs, as if inbravado,andweredashedagainstatreeandsunkwithblasphemiesontheirlips.Anoldnobleman—forsuchhisfurredgownandgoldenchainproclaimedhim—wentdownnotfarfromwhereOrlandostood,callingvengeanceupontheIrishrebels,who,hecriedwithhislastbreath,hadplottedthisdevilry.Manyperishedclaspingsomesilverpotorothertreasuretotheirbreasts;andatleastascoreofpoorwretchesweredrownedbytheirowncupidity,hurlingthemselvesfromthebankintothefloodratherthanletagoldgobletescapethem,orseebeforetheireyes the disappearance of some furred gown. For furniture, valuables,possessionsofallsortswerecarriedawayontheicebergs.Amongotherstrangesightswas to be seen a cat suckling its young; a table laid sumptuously for asupper of twenty; a couple in bed; together with an extraordinary number ofcookingutensils.

Dazed and astounded,Orlando could do nothing for some time butwatch theappallingraceofwatersasithurleditselfpasthim.Atlast,seemingtorecollecthimself,heclappedspurstohishorseandgallopedhardalongtheriverbankinthe direction of the sea. Rounding a bend of the river, he came opposite thatreach where, not two days ago, the ships of the Ambassadors had seemedimmovablyfrozen.Hastily,hemadecountofthemall;theFrench;theSpanish;theAustrian;theTurk.Allstillfloated,thoughtheFrenchhadbrokenloosefromhermoorings,andtheTurkishvesselhadtakenagreatrentinhersideandwasfast fillingwithwater.But theRussian shipwas nowhere to be seen. For onemoment Orlando thought it must have foundered; but, raising himself in hisstirrups and shading his eyes, which had the sight of a hawk’s, he could justmakeouttheshapeofashiponthehorizon.Theblackeagleswereflyingfromthemasthead.TheshipoftheMuscoviteEmbassywasstandingouttosea.

Flinginghimselffromhishorse,hemade,inhisrage,asifhewouldbreasttheflood. Standing knee–deep in water he hurled at the faithless woman all theinsultsthathaveeverbeenthelotofhersex.Faithless,mutable,fickle,hecalled

her; devil, adulteress, deceiver; and the swirling waters took his words, andtossedathisfeetabrokenpotandalittlestraw.

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VirginiaWoolf

Orlando

CHAPTER2.

The biographer is now faced with a difficulty which it is better perhaps toconfessthantoglossover.UptothispointintellingthestoryofOrlando’slife,documents, bothprivate andhistorical, havemade it possible to fulfil the firstduty of a biographer,which is to plod,without looking to right or left, in theindeliblefootprintsoftruth;unenticedbyflowers;regardlessofshade;onandonmethodically tillwefallplumpintothegraveandwritefinisonthe tombstoneabove our heads.But nowwe come to an episodewhich lies right across ourpath, so that there is no ignoring it. Yet it is dark, mysterious, andundocumented; so that there is no explaining it. Volumesmight bewritten ininterpretationofit;wholereligioussystemsfoundeduponthesignificationofit.Our simple duty is to state the facts as far as they are known, and so let thereadermakeofthemwhathemay.

Inthesummerofthatdisastrouswinterwhichsawthefrost,theflood,thedeathsofmanythousands,andthecompletedownfallofOrlando’shopes—forhewasexiledfromCourt; indeepdisgracewiththemostpowerfulnoblesofhistime;the Irish house ofDesmondwas justly enraged; theKing had already troubleenoughwiththeIrishnottorelishthisfurtheraddition—inthatsummerOrlandoretiredtohisgreathouseinthecountryandtherelivedincompletesolitude.OneJunemorning—itwasSaturdaythe18th—hefailedtoriseathisusualhour,andwhen his groomwent to call him hewas found fast asleep. Nor could he beawakened.He lay as if in a trance,without perceptible breathing; and thoughdogs were set to bark under his window; cymbals, drums, bones beatenperpetuallyinhisroom;agorsebushputunderhispillow;andmustardplastersappliedtohisfeet,stillhedidnotwake,takefood,orshowanysignoflifeforseven whole days. On the seventh day he woke at his usual time (a quarterbefore eight, precisely) and turned thewholeposseof caterwaulingwives andvillage soothsayers out of his room,whichwas natural enough; butwhatwasstrangewas that he showed no consciousness of any such trance, but dressedhimselfandsentforhishorseasifhehadwokenfromasinglenight’sslumber.Yetsomechange,itwassuspected,musthavetakenplaceinthechambersofhisbrain,forthoughhewasperfectlyrationalandseemedgraverandmoresedateinhiswaysthanbefore,heappearedtohaveanimperfectrecollectionofhispastlife.Hewouldlistenwhenpeoplespokeofthegreatfrostortheskatingorthe

carnival,buthenevergaveanysign,exceptbypassinghishandacrosshisbrowas if towipe away some cloud, of havingwitnessed them himself.When theeventsofthepastsixmonthswerediscussed,heseemednotsomuchdistressedaspuzzled,asifheweretroubledbyconfusedmemoriesofsometimelonggoneorweretryingtorecallstoriestoldhimbyanother.ItwasobservedthatifRussiawasmentionedorPrincessesorships,hewouldfall intoagloomofanuneasykindandgetupandlookoutof thewindoworcalloneof thedogs tohim,ortakeaknifeandcarveapieceofcedarwood.Butthedoctorswerehardlywiserthen than they are now, and after prescribing rest and exercise, starvation andnourishment,societyandsolitude,thatheshouldlieinbedalldayandridefortymilesbetweenlunchanddinner, togetherwiththeusualsedativesandirritants,diversified,asthefancytookthem,withpossetsofnewt’sslobberonrising,anddraughtsofpeacock’sgallongoingtobed,theylefthimtohimself,andgaveitastheiropinionthathehadbeenasleepforaweek.

Butifsleepitwas,ofwhatnature,wecanscarcelyrefrainfromasking,aresuchsleepsasthese?Aretheyremedialmeasures—trancesinwhichthemostgallingmemories,eventsthatseemlikelytocripplelifeforever,arebrushedwithadarkwingwhichrubstheirharshnessoffandgildsthem,eventheugliestandbasest,withalustre,anincandescence?Hasthefingerofdeathtobelaidonthetumultoflifefromtimetotimelestitrendusasunder?Arewesomadethatwehavetotakedeathinsmalldosesdailyorwecouldnotgoonwiththebusinessofliving?Andthenwhatstrangepowersarethesethatpenetrateourmostsecretwaysandchange our most treasured possessions without our willing it? Had Orlando,wornoutbytheextremityofhissuffering,diedforaweek,andthencometolifeagain?Andifso,ofwhatnatureisdeathandofwhatnaturelife?Havingwaitedwelloverhalfanhourforananswertothesequestions,andnonecoming,letusgetonwiththestory.

NowOrlandogavehimselfuptoalifeofextremesolitude.HisdisgraceatCourtandtheviolenceofhisgriefwerepartlythereasonofit,butashemadenoefforttodefendhimselfandseldominvitedanyonetovisithim(thoughhehadmanyfriendswhowouldwillinglyhavedoneso) it appearedas if tobealone in thegreat house of his fathers suited his temper. Solitudewas his choice.How hespenthistime,nobodyquiteknew.Theservants,ofwhomhekeptafullretinue,though much of their business was to dust empty rooms and to smooth thecoverletsofbedsthatwereneversleptin,watched,inthedarkoftheevening,as

theysatovertheircakesandale,alightpassingalongthegalleries,throughthebanqueting–halls,upthestaircase,intothebedrooms,andknewthattheirmasterwasperambulatingthehousealone.Nonedaredfollowhim,for thehousewashaunted by a great variety of ghosts, and the extent of itmade it easy to loseone’s way and either fall down some hidden staircase or open a door which,should the wind blow it to, would shut upon one for ever—accidents of nouncommon occurrence, as the frequent discovery of the skeletons ofmen andanimals inattitudesofgreatagonymadeevident.Then the lightwouldbe lostaltogether,andMrsGrimsditch, thehousekeeper,wouldsay toMrDupper, thechaplain,howshehopedhisLordshiphadnotmetwithsomebadaccident.MrDupperwouldopine thathisLordshipwasonhisknees,nodoubt, among thetombsofhisancestorsintheChapel,whichwasintheBilliardTableCourt,halfamileawayonthesouthside.Forhehadsinsonhisconscience,MrDupperwasafraid;uponwhichMrsGrimsditchwouldretort,rathersharply,thatsohadmostofus;andMrsStewkleyandMrsFieldandoldNurseCarpenterwouldallraisetheir voices in his Lordship’s praise; and the grooms and the stewardswouldswearthatitwasathousandpitiestoseesofineanoblemanmopingaboutthehousewhenhemightbehuntingthefoxorchasingthedeer;andeventhelittlelaundrymaidsandscullerymaids, theJudysandtheFaiths,whowerehandinground the tankardsandcakes,wouldpipeup their testimony tohisLordship’sgallantry; forneverwas thereakindergentleman,oronemorefreewith thoselittlepiecesofsilverwhichservetobuyaknotofribbonorputaposyinone’shair; until even theBlackamoorwhom they calledGraceRobinsonbywayofmakingaChristianwomanofher,understoodwhattheywereat,andagreedthathisLordshipwasahandsome,pleasant,darlinggentlemanin theonlywayshecould,thatistosaybyshowingallherteethatonceinabroadgrin.Inshort,allhis servingmen andwomen held him in high respect, and cursed the foreignPrincess(buttheycalledherbyacoarsernamethanthat)whohadbroughthimtothispass.

Butthoughitwasprobablycowardice,orloveofhotale,thatledMrDuppertoimaginehisLordshipsafeamongthetombssothatheneednotgoinsearchofhim, it may well have been that Mr Dupper was right. Orlando now took astrange delight in thoughts of death and decay, and, after pacing the longgalleriesandballroomswithataperinhishand,lookingatpictureafterpictureasifhesoughtthelikenessofsomebodywhomhecouldnotfind,wouldmountintothefamilypewandsitforhourswatchingthebannersstirandthemoonlight

waverwithabatordeath’sheadmothtokeephimcompany.Eventhiswasnotenough for him, but he must descend into the crypt where his ancestors lay,coffinpileduponcoffin,fortengenerationstogether.Theplacewassoseldomvisitedthattheratsmadefreewiththeleadwork,andnowathighbonewouldcatch at his cloak as he passed, or he would crack the skull of some old SirMaliseasitrolledbeneathhisfoot.Itwasaghastlysepulchre;dugdeepbeneaththe foundations of the house as if the firstLord of the family,who had comefrom Francewith the Conqueror, hadwished to testify how all pomp is builtuponcorruption;howtheskeletonliesbeneaththeflesh:howwethatdanceandsingabovemust liebelow;howthecrimsonvelvet turns todust;howthering(hereOrlando,stoopinghislantern,wouldpickupagoldcirclelackingastone,thathad rolled intoacorner) loses its rubyand theeyewhichwas so lustrousshines no more. ‘Nothing remains of all these Princes’, Orlando would say,indulginginsomepardonableexaggerationoftheirrank,‘exceptonedigit,’andhe would take a skeleton hand in his and bend the joints this way and that.‘Whosehandwasit?’hewentontoask.‘Therightortheleft?Thehandofmanorwoman,ofageoryouth?Haditurgedthewarhorse,orpliedtheneedle?Haditpluckedtherose,orgraspedcoldsteel?Hadit—’buthereeitherhisinventionfailedhimor,whatismorelikely,providedhimwithsomanyinstancesofwhata hand can do that he shrank, as his wont was, from the cardinal labour ofcomposition,whichisexcision,andheputitwiththeotherbones,thinkinghowtherewasawritercalledThomasBrowne,aDoctorofNorwich,whosewritinguponsuchsubjectstookhisfancyamazingly.

So, taking his lantern and seeing that the bones were in order, for thoughromantic,hewassingularlymethodicalanddetestednothingsomuchasaballofstringonthefloor,letalonetheskullofanancestor,hereturnedtothatcurious,moody pacing down the galleries, looking for something among the pictures,whichwasinterruptedatlengthbyaveritablespasmofsobbing,atthesightofaDutchsnowscenebyanunknownartist.Thenitseemedtohimthatlifewasnotworth living any more. Forgetting the bones of his ancestors and how life isfounded on a grave, he stood there shaken with sobs, all for the desire of awomaninRussiantrousers,withslantingeyes,apoutingmouthandpearlsaboutherneck.Shehadgone.Shehadlefthim.Hewasnevertoseeheragain.Andsohe sobbed. And so he found his way back to his own rooms; and MrsGrimsditch,seeingthelightinthewindow,putthetankardfromherlipsandsaidPraise be toGod, his Lordshipwas safe in his room again; for she had been

thinkingallthiswhilethathewasfoullymurdered.

Orlando nowdrewhis chair up to the table; opened theworks of SirThomasBrowne and proceeded to investigate the delicate articulation of one of thedoctor’slongestandmostmarvellouslycontortedcogitations.

Forthoughthesearenotmattersonwhichabiographercanprofitablyenlargeitisplainenoughtothosewhohavedoneareader’spartinmakingupfrombarehintsdroppedhereandtherethewholeboundaryandcircumferenceofalivingperson;canhearinwhatweonlywhisperalivingvoice;cansee,oftenwhenwesaynothingaboutit,exactlywhathelookedlike;knowwithoutawordtoguidethempreciselywhathethought—anditisforreaderssuchasthesethatwewrite—it is plain then to such a reader thatOrlandowas strangely compounded ofmanyhumours—ofmelancholy,ofindolence,ofpassion,ofloveofsolitude,tosay nothing of all those contortions and subtleties of temper which wereindicatedonthefirstpage,whenheslashedatadeadnigger’shead;cutitdown;hung it chivalrously out of his reach again and then betook himself to thewindowseatwithabook.Thetasteforbookswasanearlyone.Asachildhewassometimesfoundatmidnightbyapagestillreading.Theytookhistaperaway,andhebredglow–wormstoservehispurpose.Theytooktheglow–wormsaway,andhealmostburntthehousedownwithatinder.Toputitinanutshell,leavingthenovelist to smoothout the crumpled silk andall its implications,hewasanoblemanafflictedwithaloveofliterature.Manypeopleofhistime,stillmoreofhisrank,escapedtheinfectionandwerethusfreetorunorrideormakeloveattheirownsweetwill.ButsomewereearlyinfectedbyagermsaidtobebredofthepollenoftheasphodelandtobeblownoutofGreeceandItaly,whichwasofsodeadlyanaturethatitwouldshakethehandasitwasraisedtostrike,andcloudtheeyeasitsoughtitsprey,andmakethetonguestammerasitdeclareditslove.Itwasthefatalnatureofthisdiseasetosubstituteaphantomforreality,sothatOrlando,towhomfortunehadgiveneverygift—plate,linen,houses,men–servants,carpets,bedsinprofusion—hadonlytoopenabookforthewholevastaccumulation to turn to mist. The nine acres of stone which were his housevanished; onehundred and fifty indoor servants disappeared; his eighty ridinghorses became invisible; it would take too long to count the carpets, sofas,trappings,china,plate,cruets,chafingdishesandothermovablesoftenofbeatengold,whichevaporatedlikesomuchseamistunderthemiasma.Soitwas,andOrlandowouldsitbyhimself,reading,anakedman.

Thediseasegainedrapidlyuponhimnowinhissolitude.Hewouldreadoftensix hours into the night; and when they came to him for orders about theslaughteringofcattleortheharvestingofwheat,hewouldpushawayhisfolioandlookasifhedidnotunderstandwhatwassaidtohim.Thiswasbadenoughand wrung the hearts of Hall, the falconer, of Giles, the groom, of MrsGrimsditch,thehousekeeper,ofMrDupper,thechaplain.Afinegentlemanlikethat, they said, had no need of books. Let him leave books, they said, to thepalsiedorthedying.Butworsewastocome.Foroncethediseaseofreadinghaslaid upon the system it weakens it so that it falls an easy prey to that otherscourgewhichdwellsintheinkpotandfestersinthequill.Thewretchtakestowriting.Andwhilethisisbadenoughinapoorman,whoseonlypropertyisachairandatablesetbeneathaleakyroof—forhehasnotmuchtolose,afterall—theplightofarichman,whohashousesandcattle,maidservants,assesandlinen,andyetwritesbooks,ispitiableintheextreme.Theflavourofitallgoesoutofhim;heisriddledbyhotirons;gnawedbyvermin.Hewouldgiveeverypenny he has (such is themalignity of the germ) towrite one little book andbecomefamous;yetallthegoldinPeruwillnotbuyhimthetreasureofawell–turned line. So he falls into consumption and sickness, blows his brains out,turnshisface to thewall. Itmattersnot inwhatattitudetheyfindhim.HehaspassedthroughthegatesofDeathandknowntheflamesofHell.

Happily, Orlando was of a strong constitution and the disease (for reasonspresentlytobegiven)neverbrokehimdownasithasbrokenmanyofhispeers.Buthewasdeeplysmittenwithit,asthesequelshows.ForwhenhehadreadforanhourorsoinSirThomasBrowne,andthebarkofthestagandthecallofthenight watchman showed that it was the dead of night and all safe asleep, hecrossedtheroom,tookasilverkeyfromhispocketandunlockedthedoorsofagreatinlaidcabinetwhichstoodinthecorner.Withinweresomefiftydrawersofcedarwood and upon eachwas a paper neatlywritten inOrlando’s hand.Hepaused,asifhesitatingwhichtoopen.Onewasinscribed‘TheDeathofAjax’,another ‘The Birth of Pyramus’, another ‘Iphigenia in Aulis’, another ‘TheDeathofHippolytus’,another‘Meleager’,another‘TheReturnofOdysseus’,—in fact there was scarcely a single drawer that lacked the name of somemythologicalpersonageatacrisisofhiscareer.Ineachdrawerlayadocumentof considerable size all written over in Orlando’s hand. The truth was thatOrlando had been afflicted thus for many years. Never had any boy beggedapples as Orlando begged paper; nor sweetmeats as he begged ink. Stealing

away from talk and games, he had hidden himself behind curtains, in priest’sholes,orinthecupboardbehindhismother’sbedroomwhichhadagreatholeinthe floorandsmelthorriblyof starling’sdung,withan inkhorn inonehand,apeninanother,andonhiskneearollofpaper.Thushadbeenwritten,beforehewas turned twenty–five, some forty–seven plays, histories, romances, poems;someinprose,someinverse;someinFrench,someinItalian;allromantic,andall long. One he had had printed by John Ball of the Feathers and CoronetoppositeStPaul’sCross,Cheapside;butthoughthesightofitgavehimextremedelight, he had never dared show it even to hismother, since to write, muchmoretopublish,was,heknew,foranoblemananinexpiabledisgrace.

Now,however,thatitwasthedeadofnightandhewasalone,hechosefromthisrepositoryonethickdocumentcalled‘XenophilaaTragedy’orsomesuchtitle,andonethinone,calledsimply‘TheOakTree’(thiswastheonlymonosyllabictitleamongthelot),andthenheapproachedtheinkhorn,fingeredthequill,andmadeothersuchpassesasthoseaddictedtothisvicebegintheirriteswith.Buthepaused.

Asthispausewasofextremesignificanceinhishistory,moreso, indeed, thanmany actswhich bringmen to their knees andmake rivers runwith blood, itbehovesustoaskwhyhepaused;andtoreply,afterduereflection,that itwasforsomesuchreasonasthis.Nature,whohasplayedsomanyqueertricksuponus,makingussounequallyofclayanddiamonds,ofrainbowandgranite,andstuffed them into a case, often of the most incongruous, for the poet has abutcher’s face and the butcher a poet’s; nature, who delights in muddle andmystery,sothatevennow(thefirstofNovember1927)weknownotwhywegoupstairs,orwhywecomedownagain,ourmostdailymovements are like thepassage of a ship on an unknown sea, and the sailors at the mast–head ask,pointingtheirglassestothehorizon;Istherelandoristherenone?towhich,ifweareprophets,wemakeanswer‘Yes’;ifwearetruthfulwesay‘No’;nature,who has so much to answer for besides the perhaps unwieldy length of thissentence, has further complicated her task and added to our confusion byprovidingnotonlyaperfectrag–bagofoddsandendswithinus—apieceofapoliceman’strouserslyingcheekbyjowlwithQueenAlexandra’sweddingveil—buthascontrivedthat thewholeassortmentshallbelightlystitchedtogetherby a single thread. Memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that.Memoryrunsherneedleinandout,upanddown,hitherandthither.Weknow

notwhatcomesnext,orwhatfollowsafter.Thus,themostordinarymovementin theworld, such as sitting down at a table and pulling the inkstand towardsone,mayagitateathousandodd,disconnectedfragments,nowbright,nowdim,hangingandbobbinganddippingandflaunting,liketheunderlinenofafamilyoffourteenonalineinagaleofwind.Insteadofbeingasingle,downright,bluffpieceofworkofwhichnomanneedfeelashamed,ourcommonestdeedsaresetabout with a fluttering and flickering of wings, a rising and falling of lights.ThusitwasthatOrlando,dippinghispenintheink,sawthemockingfaceofthelost Princess and asked himself a million questions instantly which were asarrows dipped in gall. Where was she; and why had she left him? Was theAmbassadorheruncleorherlover?Hadtheyplotted?Wassheforced?Wasshemarried?Wasshedead?—allofwhichsodrovetheirvenomintohimthat,asiftoventhisagonysomewhere,heplungedhisquillsodeepintotheinkhornthatthe ink spirted over the table, which act, explain it how one may (and noexplanation perhaps is possible—Memory is inexplicable), at once substitutedforthefaceofthePrincessafaceofaverydifferentsort.Butwhosewasit,heaskedhimself?Andhehad towait,perhapshalf aminute, lookingat thenewpicturewhichlayontopoftheold,asonelanternslideishalfseenthroughthenext,beforehecouldsaytohimself,‘Thisisthefaceofthatratherfat,shabbymanwhosatinTwitchett’sroomeversomanyyearsagowhenoldQueenBesscame here to dine; and I saw him,’Orlando continued, catching at another ofthose little coloured rags, ‘sitting at the table, as I peeped in on my waydownstairs, andhehad themostamazingeyes,’ saidOrlando, ‘that everwere,but who the devil was he?’ Orlando asked, for here Memory added to theforehead and eyes, first, a coarse, grease–stained ruffle, then abrowndoublet,and finally a pair of thick boots such as citizens wear in Cheapside. ‘Not aNobleman;notoneofus,’saidOrlando(whichhewouldnothavesaidaloud,forhewasthemostcourteousofgentlemen;butitshowswhataneffectnoblebirthhas upon themind and incidentally how difficult it is for a nobleman to be awriter), ‘a poet, I dare say.’ By all the laws, Memory, having disturbed himsufficiently, should now have blotted thewhole thing out completely, or havefetchedupsomethingsoidioticandoutofkeeping—likeadogchasingacatoranoldwomanblowinghernoseintoaredcottonhandkerchief—that,indespairofkeepingpacewithhervagaries,Orlandoshouldhavestruckhispeninearnestagainsthispaper.(Forwecan,ifwehavetheresolution,turnthehussy,Memory,andallher ragtagandbobtailoutof thehouse.)ButOrlandopaused.Memorystillheldbeforehim the imageofa shabbymanwithbig,brighteyes.Stillhe

looked, still he paused. It is these pauses that are our undoing. It is then thatsedition enters the fortress and our troops rise in insurrection.Once before hehadpaused,andlovewithitshorridrout,itsshawms,itscymbals,anditsheadswithgorylockstornfromtheshouldershadburstin.Fromlovehehadsufferedthe tortures of the damned. Now, again, he paused, and into the breach thusmade,leaptAmbition,theharridan,andPoetry,thewitch,andDesireofFame,the strumpet; all joined hands and made of his heart their dancing ground.Standinguprightinthesolitudeofhisroom,hevowedthathewouldbethefirstpoetofhisraceandbringimmortallustreuponhisname.Hesaid(recitingthenames and exploits of his ancestors) that Sir Boris had fought and killed thePaynim;SirGawain, theTurk;SirMiles, thePole;SirAndrew, theFrank;SirRichard,theAustrian;SirJordan,theFrenchman;andSirHerbert,theSpaniard.But of all that killing and campaigning, that drinking and love–making, thatspendingandhuntingand ridingandeating,what remained?Askull; a finger.Whereas, he said, turning to the pageofSirThomasBrowne,which layopenuponthetable—andagainhepaused.Likeanincantationrisingfromallpartsofthe room, from thenightwindand themoonlight, rolled thedivinemelodyofthosewordswhich,lesttheyshouldoutstarethispage,wewillleavewheretheylieentombed,notdead,embalmedrather,sofreshistheircolour,sosoundtheirbreathing—and Orlando, comparing that achievement with those of hisancestors,criedoutthattheyandtheirdeedsweredustandashes,butthismanandhiswordswereimmortal.

He soonperceived, however, that thebattleswhichSirMiles and the rest hadwagedagainstarmedknightstowinakingdom,werenothalfsoarduousasthiswhich he now undertook to win immortality against the English language.Anyonemoderatelyfamiliarwiththerigoursofcompositionwillnotneedtobetold the story indetail; howhewrote and it seemedgood; readand it seemedvile; corrected and toreup; cutout; put in;was in ecstasy; indespair; hadhisgoodnights and badmornings; snatched at ideas and lost them; sawhis bookplain before him and it vanished; acted his people’s parts as he ate;mouthedthemashewalked;nowcried;now laughed;vacillatedbetween this style andthat;nowpreferredtheheroicandpompous;nexttheplainandsimple;nowthevales of Tempe; then the fields of Kent or Cornwall; and could not decidewhetherhewasthedivinestgeniusorthegreatestfoolintheworld.

It was to settle this last question that he decided after many months of such

feverish labour, tobreak thesolitudeofyearsandcommunicatewith theouterworld.HehadafriendinLondon,oneGilesIsham,ofNorfolk,who,thoughofgentlebirth,wasacquaintedwithwritersandcoulddoubtlessputhimin touchwithsomememberofthatblessed,indeedsacred,fraternity.For,toOrlandointhestatehewasnowin,therewasagloryaboutamanwhohadwrittenabookand had it printed, which outshone all the glories of blood and state. To hisimagination it seemed as if even the bodies of those instinctwith such divinethoughts must be transfigured. They must have aureoles for hair, incense forbreath, and rosesmust grow between their lips—whichwas certainly not trueeitherofhimselforMrDupper.Hecouldthinkofnogreaterhappinessthantobeallowed tositbehindacurtainandhear themtalk.Even the imaginationofthat bold andvarious discoursemade thememoryofwhat he andhis courtierfriends used to talk about—a dog, a horse, awoman, a game of cards—seembrutish in the extreme.He bethought himwith pride that he had always beencalledascholar,andsneeredatforhisloveofsolitudeandbooks.Hehadneverbeen apt at pretty phrases.Hewould stand stock still, blush, and stride like agrenadier ina ladies’drawing–room.Hehad twice fallen, in sheerabstraction,from his horse. He had broken Lady Winchilsea’s fan once while making arhyme.Eagerlyrecallingtheseandotherinstancesofhisunfitnessforthelifeofsociety,anineffablehope,thatalltheturbulenceofhisyouth,hisclumsiness,hisblushes, his long walks, and his love of the country proved that he himselfbelongedtothesacredraceratherthantothenoble—wasbybirthawriter,ratherthananaristocrat—possessedhim.Forthefirsttimesincethenightofthegreatfloodhewashappy.

HenowcommissionedMrIshamofNorfolktodelivertoMrNicholasGreeneofClifford’s Inn a documentwhich set forthOrlando’s admiration for hisworks(forNickGreenewasaveryfamouswriteratthattime)andhisdesiretomakehis acquaintance;which he scarcely dared ask; for he had nothing to offer inreturn;but ifMrNicholasGreenewouldcondescend tovisithim,acoachandfourwouldbeatthecornerofFetterLaneatwhateverhourMrGreenechosetoappoint,andbringhimsafely toOrlando’shouse.Onemay fillup thephraseswhich then followed; and figureOrlando’s delightwhen, in no long time,MrGreenesignifiedhisacceptanceoftheNobleLord’sinvitation;tookhisplaceinthe coach and was set down in the hall to the south of the main buildingpunctuallyatseveno’clockonMonday,Aprilthetwenty–first.

Many Kings, Queens, and Ambassadors had been received there; Judges hadstoodthereintheirermine.Theloveliestladiesofthelandhadcomethere;andthe sternest warriors. Banners hung there which had been at Flodden and atAgincourt.Thereweredisplayedthepaintedcoatsofarmswiththeir lionsandtheirleopardsandtheircoronets.Therewerethelongtableswherethegoldandsilver platewas stood; and there the vast fireplaces ofwrought Italianmarblewherenightlyawholeoaktree,withitsmillionleavesanditsnestsofrookandwren, was burnt to ashes. Nicholas Greene, the poet stood there now, plainlydressedinhisslouchedhatandblackdoublet,carryinginonehandasmallbag.

That Orlando as he hastened to greet him was slightly disappointed wasinevitable.The poetwas not abovemiddle height;was of amean figure;wasleanandstoopedsomewhat,and,stumblingoverthemastiffonentering,thedogbithim.Moreover,Orlandoforallhisknowledgeofmankindwaspuzzledwheretoplacehim.Therewassomethingabouthimwhichbelongedneithertoservant,squire,ornoble.Theheadwithitsroundedforeheadandbeakednosewasfine,but the chin receded. The eyes were brilliant, but the lips hung loose andslobbered. It was the expression of the face—as a whole, however, that wasdisquieting.Therewasnoneofthatstatelycomposurewhichmakesthefacesofthenobilitysopleasingtolookat;norhaditanythingofthedignifiedservilityofa well–trained domestic’s face; it was a face seamed, puckered, and drawntogether.Poetthoughhewas,itseemedasifheweremoreusedtoscoldthantoflatter;toquarrelthantocoo;toscramblethantoride;tostrugglethantorest;tohatethantolove.This,too,wasshownbythequicknessofhismovements;andbysomething fieryandsuspicious inhisglance.Orlandowassomewhat takenaback.Buttheywenttodinner.

Here,Orlando,whousuallytooksuchthingsforgranted,was,forthefirsttime,unaccountablyashamedofthenumberofhisservantsandofthesplendourofhistable.Strangerstill,hebethoughthimwithpride—forthethoughtwasgenerallydistasteful—of thatgreatgrandmotherMollwhohadmilkedthecows.Hewasabout somehow to allude to this humblewomanandhermilk–pails,when thepoetforestalledhimbysayingthatitwasodd,seeinghowcommonthenameofGreenewas, that thefamilyhadcomeoverwiththeConquerorandwasof thehighestnobilityinFrance.Unfortunately,theyhadcomedownintheworldanddone little more than leave their name to the royal borough of Greenwich.Furthertalkofthesamesort,aboutlostcastles,coatsofarms,cousinswhowere

baronets in thenorth, intermarriagewithnoble families in thewest,howsomeGreens spelt the namewith an e at the end, and otherswithout, lasted till thevenison was on the table. Then Orlando contrived to say something ofGrandmotherMollandhercows,andhadeasedhisheartalittleofitsburdenbythetimethewildfowlwerebeforethem.ButitwasnotuntiltheMalmseywaspassing freely that Orlando daredmention what he could not help thinking amore importantmatter than the Greens or the cows; that is to say the sacredsubjectofpoetry.Atthefirstmentionoftheword,thepoet’seyesflashedfire;hedroppedthefinegentlemanairshehadworn;thumpedhisglassonthetable,andlaunched into one of the longest,most intricate,most passionate, and bittereststoriesthatOrlandohadeverheard,savefromthelipsofajiltedwoman,aboutaplayofhis;anotherpoet;andacritic.Ofthenatureofpoetryitself,Orlandoonlygatheredthatitwashardertosellthanprose,andthoughthelineswereshortertooklongerinthewriting.Sothetalkwentonwithramificationsinterminable,untilOrlandoventuredtohintthathehadhimselfbeensorashastowrite—buthere the poet leapt fromhis chair.Amouse had squeaked in thewainscot, hesaid.Thetruthwas,heexplained,thathisnerveswereinastatewhereamouse’ssqueakupset themfora fortnight.Doubtless thehousewasfullofvermin,butOrlandohadnot heard them.Thepoet thengaveOrlando the full storyof hishealthforthepasttenyearsorso.Ithadbeensobadthatonecouldonlymarvelthathestilllived.Hehadhadthepalsy,thegout,theague,thedropsy,andthethree sorts of fever in succession; added towhich he had an enlargedheart, agreat spleen, and a diseased liver. But, above all, he had, he told Orlando,sensationsinhisspinewhichdefieddescription.Therewasoneknobaboutthethirdfromthetopwhichburnt likefire;anotheraboutsecondfromthebottomwhichwascoldas ice.Sometimeshewokewith abrain like lead; atothers itwasasifathousandwaxtaperswerealightandpeoplewerethrowingfireworksinsidehim.Hecouldfeelaroseleafthroughhismattress,hesaid;andknewhiswayalmostaboutLondonbythefeelofthecobbles.Altogetherhewasapieceofmachinerysofinelymadeandcuriouslyputtogether(hereheraisedhishandas if unconsciously, and indeed it was of the finest shape imaginable) that itconfoundedhimtothinkthathehadonlysoldfivehundredcopiesofhispoem,but thatof coursewas largelydue to theconspiracyagainsthim.Allhecouldsay,heconcluded,banginghisfistuponthetable,wasthattheartofpoetrywasdeadinEngland.

HowthatcouldbewithShakespeare,Marlowe,BenJonson,Browne,Donne,all

now writing or just having written, Orlando, reeling off the names of hisfavouriteheroes,couldnotthink.

Greenelaughedsardonically.Shakespeare,headmitted,hadwrittensomescenesthatwerewellenough;buthehadtakenthemchieflyfromMarlowe.Marlowewasalikelyboy,butwhatcouldyousayofaladwhodiedbeforehewasthirty?AsforBrowne,hewasforwritingpoetryinprose,andpeoplesoongottiredofsuch conceits as that. Donnewas amountebankwhowrapped up his lack ofmeaning inhardwords.Thegullswere taken in;but thestylewouldbeoutoffashiontwelvemonthshence.AsforBenJonson—BenJonsonwasafriendofhisandheneverspokeillofhisfriends.

No,heconcluded, thegreatageof literature ispast; thegreatageof literaturewastheGreek;theElizabethanagewasinferiorineveryrespecttotheGreek.Insuchagesmencherishedadivineambitionwhichhemight callLaGloire (hepronounceditGlawr,sothatOrlandodidnotatfirstcatchhismeaning).Nowallyoungwriterswere in thepayof thebooksellersandpouredoutany trash thatwouldsell.ShakespearewasthechiefoffenderinthiswayandShakespearewasalready paying the penalty. Their own age, he said, was marked by preciousconceits and wild experiments—neither of which the Greeks would havetolerated for a moment. Much though it hurt him to say it—for he lovedliteratureashe lovedhis life—hecouldseenogoodin thepresentandhadnohopeforthefuture.Herehepouredhimselfoutanotherglassofwine.

Orlandowasshockedby thesedoctrines;yetcouldnothelpobserving that thecritic himself seemed by no means downcast. On the contrary, the more hedenouncedhisowntime,themorecomplacenthebecame.Hecouldremember,hesaid,anightattheCockTaverninFleetStreetwhenKitMarlowewasthereandsomeothers.Kitwasinhighfeather,ratherdrunk,whichheeasilybecame,andinamoodtosaysillythings.Hecouldseehimnow,brandishinghisglassatthe company and hiccoughing out, ‘Stap my vitals, Bill’ (this was toShakespeare), ‘there’s a great wave coming and you’re on the top of it,’ bywhichhemeant,Greeneexplained, that theywere tremblingon thevergeofagreat age inEnglish literature, and thatShakespearewas tobeapoetof someimportance. Happily for himself, he was killed two nights later in a drunkenbrawl, and sodidnot live to seehow this prediction turnedout. ‘Poor foolishfellow,’saidGreene,‘togoandsayathinglikethat.Agreatage,forsooth—theElizabethanagreatage!’

‘So,mydearLord,’hecontinued,settlinghimselfcomfortablyinhischairandrubbing the wine–glass between his fingers, ‘we must make the best of it,cherish the past and honour thosewriters—there are still a few of ‘em—whotake antiquity for theirmodel andwrite, not for pay but forGlawr.’ (Orlandocould havewished him a better accent.) ‘Glawr’, saidGreene, ‘is the spur ofnobleminds.Had Iapensionof threehundredpoundsayearpaidquarterly, IwouldliveforGlawralone.IwouldlieinbedeverymorningreadingCicero.Iwouldimitatehisstylesothatyoucouldn’ttellthedifferencebetweenus.That’swhatIcallfinewriting,’saidGreene;‘that’swhatIcallGlawr.Butit’snecessarytohaveapensiontodoit.’

Bythis timeOrlandohadabandonedallhopeofdiscussinghisownworkwiththe poet; but this mattered the less as the talk now got upon the lives andcharacters of Shakespeare,Ben Jonson, and the rest, all ofwhomGreene hadknown intimately and about whom he had a thousand anecdotes of the mostamusingkindtotell.Orlandohadneverlaughedsomuchinhislife.These,then,were his gods! Half were drunken and all were amorous. Most of themquarrelledwiththeirwives;notoneofthemwasabovealieoranintrigueofthemostpaltrykind.Theirpoetrywasscribbleddownonthebacksofwashingbillsheldtotheheadsofprinter’sdevilsatthestreetdoor.ThusHamletwenttopress;thusLear; thusOthello.Nowonder, asGreene said, that theseplays show thefaults they do.The rest of the timewas spent in carousings and junketings intavernsand inbeergardens,When thingswere said thatpassedbelief forwit,and thingsweredone thatmade theutmost frolicof thecourtiersseempale incomparison.AllthisGreenetoldwithaspiritthatrousedOrlandotothehighestpitchofdelight.Hehadapowerofmimicry thatbrought thedead to life,andcould say the finest thingsof booksprovided theywerewritten threehundredyearsago.

So timepassed, andOrlando felt for hisguest a strangemixtureof liking andcontempt,ofadmirationandpity,aswellassomethingtooindefinitetobecalledbyanyonename,buthadsomethingoffearinitandsomethingoffascination.Hetalkedincessantlyabouthimself,yetwassuchgoodcompanythatonecouldlisten to the story of his ague for ever.Thenhewas sowitty; then hewas soirreverent;thenhemadesofreewiththenamesofGodandWoman;thenhewasSofullofqueercraftsandhadsuchstrangeloreinhishead;couldmakesaladinthree hundred differentways; knew all that could be known of themixing of

wines;playedhalf–a–dozenmusical instruments, andwas the firstperson,andperhaps the last, to toast cheese in the great Italian fireplace. That he did notknowageraniumfromacarnation, anoak fromabirch tree, amastiff fromagreyhound,ategfromaewe,wheatfrombarley,ploughlandfromfallow;wasignorant of the rotation of the crops; thought oranges grew underground andturnipsontrees;preferredanytownscapetoanylandscape;—allthisandmuchmoreamazedOrlando,whohadnevermetanybodyofhiskindbefore.Eventhemaids, who despised him, tittered at his jokes, and the men–servants, wholoathedhim,hungabouttohearhisstories.Indeed,thehousehadneverbeensolivelyasnowthathewasthere—allofwhichgaveOrlandoagreatdealtothinkabout,andcausedhimtocomparethiswayoflifewiththeold.HerecalledthesortoftalkhehadbeenusedtoabouttheKingofSpain’sapoplexyorthematingof a bitch; he bethought him how the day passed between the stables and thedressingcloset;herememberedhowtheLordssnoredovertheirwineandhatedanybodywhowokethemup.Hebethoughthimhowactiveandvalianttheywereinbody;howslothfulandtimidinmind.Worriedbythesethoughts,andunabletostrikeaproperbalance,hecametotheconclusionthathehadadmittedtohishouseaplagueyspiritofunrestthatwouldneversufferhimtosleepsoundagain.

At the samemoment,NickGreene came to precisely the opposite conclusion.Lyinginbedofamorningonthesoftestpillowsbetweenthesmoothestsheetsand lookingoutofhisorielwindowupon turfwhich for centurieshadknownneither dandelion nor dock weed, he thought that unless he could somehowmake his escape, he should be smothered alive. Getting up and hearing thepigeons coo, dressing andhearing the fountains fall, he thought that unlesshecouldhearthedraysroaruponthecobblesofFleetStreet,hewouldneverwriteanotherline.Ifthisgoesonmuchlonger,hethought,hearingthefootmanmendthefireandspreadthetablewithsilverdishesnextdoor,Ishallfallasleepand(herehegaveaprodigiousyawn)sleepingdie.

Sohe soughtOrlando inhis room,andexplained thathehadnotbeenable tosleepawinkallnightbecauseofthesilence.(Indeed,thehousewassurroundedbyapark fifteenmiles in circumferenceandawall ten feethigh.)Silence,hesaid,wasofallthingsthemostoppressivetohisnerves.Hewouldendhisvisit,byOrlando’sleave,thatverymorning.Orlandofeltsomereliefatthis,yetalsoagreat reluctance to let him go. The house, he thought, would seem very dullwithouthim.Onparting(forhehadneveryetlikedtomentionthesubject),he

hadthetemeritytopresshisplayupontheDeathofHerculesuponthepoetandask his opinion of it. The poet took it; muttered something about Glawr andCicero, which Orlando cut short by promising to pay the pension quarterly;whereuponGreene,withmanyprotestationsofaffection,jumpedintothecoachandwasgone.

Thegreathallhadneverseemedsolarge,sosplendid,orsoemptyasthechariotrolledaway.OrlandoknewthathewouldneverhavethehearttomaketoastedcheeseintheItalianfireplaceagain.HewouldneverhavethewittocrackjokesaboutItalianpictures;neverhavetheskilltomixpunchasitshouldbemixed;athousandgoodquipsandcrankswouldbelosttohim.Yetwhatarelieftobeoutofthesoundofthatquerulousvoice,whataluxurytobealoneoncemore,sohecould not help reflecting, as he unloosed the mastiff which had been tied upthesesixweeksbecauseitneversawthepoetwithoutbitinghim.

NickGreenewassetdownatthecornerofFetterLanethatsameafternoon,andfoundthingsgoingonmuchashehadleftthem.MrsGreene,thatistosay,wasgivingbirth toababy inone room;TomFletcherwasdrinkinggin inanother.Bookswere tumbledallabout the floor;dinner—suchas itwas—wassetonadressing–tablewherethechildrenhadbeenmakingmudpies.But this,Greenefelt,wastheatmosphereforwriting,herehecouldwrite,andwritehedid.Thesubjectwasmadeforhim.AnobleLordathome.AvisittoaNoblemaninthecountry—hisnewpoemwastohavesomesuchtitleasthat.Seizingthepenwithwhich his little boywas tickling the cat’s ears, and dipping it in the egg–cupwhichservedforinkpot,Greenedashedoffaveryspiritedsatirethereandthen.Itwassodonetoaturnthatnoonecoulddoubtthat theyoungLordwhowasroastedwasOrlando;hismostprivatesayingsanddoings,hisenthusiasmsandfolies,downtotheverycolourofhishairandtheforeignwayhehadofrollinghisr’s,weretheretothelife.Andiftherehadbeenanydoubtaboutit,Greeneclinched thematter by introducing,with scarcely any disguise, passages fromthataristocratictragedy,theDeathofHercules,whichhefoundasheexpected,wordyandbombasticintheextreme.

Thepamphlet,whichranatonceintoseveraleditions,andpaidtheexpensesofMrsGreene’s tenth lying–in,was soon sent by friendswho take care of suchmatters to Orlando himself. When he had read it, which he did with deadlycomposurefromstarttofinish,herangforthefootman;deliveredthedocumenttohimattheendofapairoftongs;badehimdropitinthefilthiestheartofthe

foulestmiddenontheestate.Then,whenthemanwasturningtogohestoppedhim, ‘Take the swiftest horse in the stable,’ he said, ‘ride for dear life toHarwich.ThereembarkuponashipwhichyouwillfindboundforNorway.BuyformefromtheKing’sownkennels thefinestelk–houndsof theRoyalstrain,maleand female.Bring thembackwithoutdelay.For’,hemurmured, scarcelyabovehisbreathasheturnedtohisbooks,‘Ihavedonewithmen.’

The footman,whowasperfectly trained inhisduties,bowedanddisappeared.Hefulfilledhistasksoefficientlythathewasbackthatdaythreeweeks,leadinginhishandaleashofthefinestelk–hounds,oneofwhom,afemale,gavebirththatverynightunder thedinner–table toa litterofeightfinepuppies.Orlandohadthembroughttohisbedchamber.

‘For’,hesaid,‘Ihavedonewithmen.’

Nevertheless,hepaidthepensionquarterly.

Thus,attheageofthirty,orthereabouts,thisyoungNoblemanhadnotonlyhadeveryexperiencethatlifehastooffer,buthadseentheworthlessnessofthemall.Love and ambition, women and poets were all equally vain. Literature was afarce.Thenightafter readingGreene’sVisit toaNobleman in theCountry,heburnt in a great conflagration fifty–seven poetical works, only retaining ‘TheOak Tree’, which was his boyish dream and very short. Two things aloneremainedtohiminwhichhenowputanytrust:dogsandnature;anelk–houndandarosebush.Theworld,inallitsvariety,lifeinallitscomplexity,hadshrunktothat.Dogsandabushwerethewholeofit.Sofeelingquitofavastmountainof illusion, and very naked in consequence, he called his hounds to him andstrodethroughthePark.

Solonghadhebeensecluded,writingandreading,thathehadhalfforgottentheamenities of nature, which in June can be great. When he reached that highmoundwhenceonfinedayshalfofEnglandwithasliceofWalesandScotlandthrownincanbeseen,heflunghimselfunderhisfavouriteoaktreeandfeltthatifheneedneverspeaktoanothermanorwomansolongashelived;ifhisdogsdidnotdevelopthefacultyofspeech;ifhenevermetapoetoraPrincessagain,hemightmakeoutwhatyearsremainedtohimintolerablecontent.

Herehecamethen,dayafterday,weekafterweek,monthaftermonth,yearafter

year.Hesawthebeechtreesturngoldenandtheyoungfernsunfurl;hesawthemoonsickleandthencircular;hesaw—butprobablythereadercanimaginethepassagewhichshouldfollowandhoweverytreeandplantintheneighbourhoodisdescribedfirstgreen, thengolden;howmoonsriseandsunsset;howspringfollowswinterandautumnsummer;hownightsucceedsdayanddaynight;howthereisfirstastormandthenfineweather;howthingsremainmuchastheyarefortwoorthreehundredyearsorso,exceptforalittledustandafewcobwebswhichoneoldwomancan sweepup inhalf anhour; a conclusionwhich, onecannot help feeling, might have been reached more quickly by the simplestatement that ‘Time passed’ (here the exact amount could be indicated inbrackets)andnothingwhateverhappened.

ButTime,unfortunately,thoughitmakesanimalsandvegetablesbloomandfadewithamazingpunctuality,hasnosuchsimpleeffectuponthemindofman.Themindofman,moreover,workswithequalstrangenessuponthebodyoftime.Anhour,onceitlodgesinthequeerelementofthehumanspirit,maybestretchedtofifty or a hundred times its clock length; on the other hand, an hour may beaccurately represented on the timepiece of the mind by one second. Thisextraordinarydiscrepancybetweentimeontheclockandtimeinthemindislessknown than it should be and deserves fuller investigation.But the biographer,whose interestsare,aswehavesaid,highlyrestricted,mustconfinehimself toonesimplestatement:whenamanhasreachedtheageofthirty,asOrlandonowhad,timewhenheisthinkingbecomesinordinatelylong;timewhenheisdoingbecomesinordinatelyshort.ThusOrlandogavehisordersanddidthebusinessofhisvastestatesinaflash;butdirectlyhewasaloneonthemoundundertheoak tree, the seconds began to round and fill until it seemed as if theywouldnever fall. They filled themselves, moreover, with the strangest variety ofobjects. For not only did he find himself confronted by problemswhich havepuzzledthewisestofmen,suchasWhatislove?Whatfriendship?Whattruth?butdirectlyhecametothinkaboutthem,hiswholepast,whichseemedtohimofextremelengthandvariety,rushedintothefallingsecond,swelleditadozentimesitsnaturalsize,coloureditathousandtints,andfilleditwithalltheoddsandendsintheuniverse.

Insuchthinking(orbywhatevernameitshouldbecalled)hespentmonthsandyearsofhislife.Itwouldbenoexaggerationtosaythathewouldgooutafterbreakfastamanofthirtyandcomehometodinneramanoffifty–fiveatleast.

Someweeks added a century tohis age, othersnomore than three seconds atmost.Altogether,thetaskofestimatingthelengthofhumanlife(oftheanimals’wepresumenot to speak) isbeyondourcapacity, fordirectlywesay that it isages long,we are reminded that it is briefer than the fall of a rose leaf to theground.Ofthetwoforceswhichalternately,andwhatismoreconfusingstill,atthesamemoment,dominateourunfortunatenumbskulls—brevityanddiuturnity—Orlandowassometimesundertheinfluenceoftheelephant–footeddeity,thenofthegnat–wingedfly.Lifeseemedtohimofprodigiouslength.Yetevenso,itwent likeaflash.Butevenwhenitstretchedlongestandthemomentsswelledbiggestandheseemedtowanderaloneindesertsofvasteternity,therewasnotime for the smoothingout anddecipheringof those scoredparchmentswhichthirtyyearsamongmenandwomenhadrolledtightinhisheartandbrain.LongbeforehehaddonethinkingaboutLove(theoaktreehadputforthitsleavesandshakenthemtothegroundadozentimesintheprocess)Ambitionwouldjostleitoffthefield,tobereplacedbyFriendshiporLiterature.Andasthefirstquestionhad not been settled—What is Love?—back it would come at the leastprovocationornone,andhustleBooksorMetaphorsofWhatonelivesforintothemargin, there towait till theysawtheirchance torush into thefieldagain.Whatmadetheprocessstilllongerwasthatitwasprofuselyillustrated,notonlywithpictures,asthatofoldQueenElizabeth,laidonhertapestrycouchinrose–colouredbrocadewithanivorysnuff–boxinherhandandagold–hiltedswordbyherside,butwithscents—shewasstronglyperfumed—andwithsounds;thestagswerebarkinginRichmondParkthatwinter’sday.Andso,thethoughtoflovewouldbeall amberedoverwith snowandwinter;with log firesburning;withRussianwomen,goldswords,andthebarkofstags;witholdKingJames’slobberingandfireworksandsacksoftreasureintheholdsofElizabethansailingships.Everysinglething,oncehetriedtodislodgeitfromitsplaceinhismind,hefoundthuscumberedwithothermatterlikethelumpofglasswhich,afterayearat thebottomofthesea,isgrownaboutwithbonesanddragon–flies,andcoinsandthetressesofdrownedwomen.

‘Another metaphor by Jupiter!’ he would exclaim as he said this (which willshowthedisorderlyandcircuitousway inwhichhismindworkedandexplainwhytheoaktreefloweredandfadedsooftenbeforehecametoanyconclusionaboutLove).‘Andwhat’sthepointofit?’hewouldaskhimself.‘Whynotsaysimplyinsomanywords—’andthenhewouldtrytothinkforhalfanhour,—orwasittwoyearsandahalf?—howtosaysimplyinsomanywordswhatloveis.

‘Afigurelikethatismanifestlyuntruthful,’heargued,‘fornodragon–fly,unlessunderveryexceptionalcircumstances,couldliveatthebottomofthesea.AndifliteratureisnottheBrideandBedfellowofTruth,whatisshe?Confounditall,’hecried, ‘whysayBedfellowwhenone’salreadysaidBride?Whynot simplysaywhatonemeansandleaveit?’

Sothenhetriedsayingthegrassisgreenandtheskyisblueandsotopropitiatetheausterespiritofpoetrywhomstill, thoughatagreatdistance,hecouldnothelpreverencing.‘Theskyisblue,’hesaid,‘thegrassisgreen.’Lookingup,hesawthat,on thecontrary, thesky is like theveilswhicha thousandMadonnashaveletfallfromtheirhair;andthegrassfleetsanddarkenslikeaflightofgirlsfleeingtheembracesofhairysatyrsfromenchantedwoods.‘Uponmyword,’hesaid (for he had fallen into the bad habit of speaking aloud), ‘I don’t see thatone’smoretruethananother.Bothareutterlyfalse.’Andhedespairedofbeingabletosolvetheproblemofwhatpoetryisandwhattruthisandfellintoadeepdejection.

AndherewemayprofitbyapauseinhissoliloquytoreflecthowodditwastoseeOrlandostretched thereonhiselbowonaJunedayand to reflect that thisfinefellowwithallhis facultiesabouthimandahealthybody,witnesscheeksandlimbs—amanwhoneverthoughttwiceaboutheadingachargeorfightingaduel—should be so subject to the lethargy of thought, and rendered sosusceptible by it, that when it came to a question of poetry, or his owncompetenceinit,hewasasshyasalittlegirlbehindhermother’scottagedoor.Inourbelief,Greene’sridiculeofhistragedyhurthimasmuchasthePrincess’ridiculeofhislove.Buttoreturn:—

Orlandowentonthinking.Hekeptlookingatthegrassandattheskyandtryingtobethinkhimwhatatruepoet,whohashisversespublishedinLondon,wouldsayaboutthem.Memorymeanwhile(whosehabitshavealreadybeendescribed)kept steady before his eyes the face of Nicholas Greene, as if that sardonicloose–lipped man, treacherous as he had proved himself, were the Muse inperson, and it was to him that Orlando must do homage. So Orlando, thatsummermorning,offeredhimavarietyofphrases, someplain,others figured,andNickGreenekept shakinghisheadand sneeringandmuttering somethingaboutGlawrandCiceroandthedeathofpoetryinourtime.Atlength,startingtohis feet (it was now winter and very cold) Orlando swore one of the mostremarkableoathsofhislifetime,foritboundhimtoaservitudethanwhichnone

isstricter.‘I’llbeblasted’,hesaid,‘ifIeverwriteanotherword,ortrytowriteanotherword,topleaseNickGreeneortheMuse.Bad,good,orindifferent,I’llwrite,fromthisdayforward,topleasemyself’;andherehemadeasifheweretearing a whole budget of papers across and tossing them in the face of thatsneering loose–lippedman.Uponwhich, as a cur ducks if you stoop to shy astone at him, Memory ducked her effigy of Nick Greene out of sight; andsubstitutedforit—nothingwhatever.

ButOrlando,all the same,wenton thinking.Hehad indeedmuch to thinkof.Forwhenhetoretheparchmentacross,hetore,inonerending,thescrolloping,emblazonedscrollwhichhehadmadeout inhisownfavour in thesolitudeofhisroomappointinghimself,astheKingappointsAmbassadors,thefirstpoetofhisrace,thefirstwriterofhisage,conferringeternalimmortalityuponhissouland granting his body a grave among laurels and the intangible banners of apeople’s reverenceperpetually.Eloquentas thisallwas,henow tore itupandthrew it in thedustbin. ‘Fame’,he said. ‘is like’ (and since therewasnoNickGreenetostophim,hewentontorevelinimagesofwhichwewillchooseonlyoneortwoofthequietest)‘abraidedcoatwhichhampersthelimbs;ajacketofsilverwhichcurbstheheart;apaintedshieldwhichcoversascarecrow,’etc.etc.Thepith of his phraseswas thatwhile fame impedes and constricts, obscuritywrapsaboutamanlikeamist;obscurityisdark,ample,andfree;obscurityletsthemindtakeitswayunimpeded.Overtheobscuremanispouredthemercifulsuffusionofdarkness.Noneknowswherehegoesorcomes.Hemayseek thetruthandspeakit;healoneisfree;healoneistruthful;healoneisatpeace.Andsohesank intoaquietmood,under theoak tree, thehardnessofwhoseroots,exposedabovetheground,seemedtohimrathercomfortablethanotherwise.

Sunkforalongtimeinprofoundthoughtsastothevalueofobscurity,andthedelightofhavingnoname,butbeinglikeawavewhichreturnstothedeepbodyofthesea;thinkinghowobscurityridsthemindoftheirkofenvyandspite;howitsetsrunningintheveinsthefreewatersofgenerosityandmagnanimity;andallows giving and taking without thanks offered or praise given; which musthave been the way of all great poets, he supposed (though his knowledge ofGreekwasnotenoughtobearhimout),for,hethought,Shakespearemusthavewrittenlikethat,andthechurchbuildersbuiltlikethat,anonymously,needingnothankingornaming,butonlytheirworkinthedaytimeandalittlealeperhapsatnight—’What an admirable life this is,’ he thought, stretching his limbs out

undertheoaktree.‘Andwhynotenjoyitthisverymoment?’Thethoughtstruckhim like a bullet.Ambition dropped like a plummet.Rid of the heart–burn ofrejectedlove,andofvanityrebuked,andalltheotherstingsandprickswhichthenettle–bed of life had burnt upon himwhen ambitious of fame, but could nolonger inflict upon one careless of glory, he opened his eyes,which had beenwideopenallthetime,buthadseenonlythoughts,andsaw,lyinginthehollowbeneathhim,hishouse.

Thereitlayintheearlysunshineofspring.Itlookedatownratherthanahouse,but a town built, not hither and thither, as this man wished or that, butcircumspectly, by a single architect with one idea in his head. Courts andbuildings,grey, red,plumcolour, layorderlyandsymmetrical; thecourtsweresomeof themoblongandsomesquare; in thiswasafountain; in thatastatue;thebuildingsweresomeofthemlow,somepointed;herewasachapel,thereabelfry;spacesofthegreenestgrasslayinbetweenandclumpsofcedartreesandbedsofbrightflowers;allwereclasped—yetsowellsetoutwasitthatitseemedthateveryparthadroomtospreaditselffittingly—bytherollofamassivewall;while smoke from innumerable chimneys curled perpetually into the air. Thisvast,yetorderedbuilding,whichcouldhouseathousandmenandperhapstwothousand horses, was built, Orlando thought, by workmen whose names areunknown. Here have lived, for more centuries than I can count, the obscuregenerationsofmyownobscurefamily.NotoneoftheseRichards,Johns,Annes,Elizabethshasleftatokenofhimselfbehindhim,yetall,workingtogetherwiththeirspadesand theirneedles, their love–makingand theirchild–bearing,haveleftthis.

Neverhadthehouselookedmorenobleandhumane.

Why,then,hadhewishedtoraisehimselfabovethem?Foritseemedvainandarrogant in the extreme to try to better that anonymouswork of creation; thelaboursofthosevanishedhands.Betterwasittogounknownandleavebehindyou an arch, a potting shed, a wall where peaches ripen, than to burn like ameteorandleavenodust.Forafterall,hesaid,kindlingashelookedatthegreathouseon thegreenswardbelow, theunknown lordsand ladieswho lived therenever forgot tosetasidesomethingfor thosewhocomeafter; for theroof thatwillleak;forthetreethatwillfall.Therewasalwaysawarmcornerfortheoldshepherdin thekitchen;alwaysfoodfor thehungry;alwaystheirgobletswerepolished,thoughtheylaysick,andtheirwindowswerelitthoughtheylaydying.

Lords though theywere, theywerecontent togodown intoobscuritywith themolecatcherandthestone–mason.Obscurenoblemen,forgottenbuilders—thusheapostrophizedthemwithawarmththatentirelygainsaidsuchcriticsascalledhimcold,indifferent,slothful(thetruthbeingthataqualityoftenliesjustontheothersideofthewallfromwhereweseekit)—thusheapostrophizedhishouseand race in terms of the most moving eloquence; but when it came to theperoration—and what is eloquence that lacks a peroration?—he fumbled. Hewouldhavelikedtohaveendedwithaflourishtotheeffectthathewouldfollowin their footsteps and add another stone to their building. Since, however, thebuilding already covered nine acres, to add even a single stone seemedsuperfluous.Could onemention furniture in a peroration?Could one speakofchairs and tables and mats to lie beside people’s beds? For whatever theperorationwanted,thatwaswhatthehousestoodinneedof.Leavinghisspeechunfinishedforthemoment,hestrodedownhillagainresolvedhenceforwardtodevote himself to the furnishing of the mansion. The news—that she was toattendhiminstantly—broughttearstotheeyesofgoodoldMrsGrimsditch,nowgrownsomewhatold.Togethertheyperambulatedthehouse.

ThetowelhorseintheKing’sbedroom(’andthatwasKingJamie,myLord,’shesaid,hintingthatitwasmanyadaysinceaKinghadsleptundertheirroof;buttheodiousParliamentdayswereoverand therewasnowaCrown inEnglandagain)lackedaleg;therewerenostandstotheewersinthelittleclosetleadingintothewaitingroomoftheDuchess’spage;MrGreenehadmadeastainonthecarpetwithhisnastypipesmoking,whichsheandJudy,foralltheirscrubbing,hadneverbeenabletowashout.Indeed,whenOrlandocametoreckonupthematteroffurnishingwithrosewoodchairsandcedar–woodcabinets,withsilverbasins, china bowls, and Persian carpets, every one of the three hundred andsixty–fivebedroomswhichthehousecontained,hesawthatitwouldbenolightone;andifsomethousandsofpoundsofhisestateremainedover,thesewoulddo littlemore than hang a fewgallerieswith tapestry, set the dining hallwithfine, carved chairs and providemirrors of solid silver and chairs of the samemetal (forwhich he had an inordinate passion) for the furnishing of the royalbedchambers.

Henowsettoworkinearnest,aswecanprovebeyondadoubtifwelookathisledgers.Letusglanceatan inventoryofwhatheboughtat this time,with theexpensestottedupinthemargin—buttheseweomit.

‘To fiftypairsofSpanishblankets,dittocurtainsofcrimsonandwhite taffeta;thevalencetothemofwhitesatinembroideredwithcrimsonandwhitesilk...

‘To seventy yellow satin chairs and sixty stools, suitable with their buckramcoverstothemall...

‘Tosixtysevenwalnuttreetables...

‘ToseventeendozenboxescontainingeachdozenfivedozenofVeniceglasses...

‘Toonehundredandtwomats,eachthirtyyardslong...

‘To ninety seven cushions of crimson damask laidwith silver parchment laceandfootstoolsofclothoftissueandchairssuitable...

‘Tofiftybranchesforadozenlightsapiece...’

Already—itisaneffectlistshaveuponus—wearebeginningtoyawn.Butifwestop, it is only that the catalogue is tedious, not that it is finished. There areninety–nine pages more of it and the total sum disbursed ran into manythousands—that is tosaymillionsofourmoney.Andifhisdaywasspent likethis,atnightagain,LordOrlandomightbefoundreckoningoutwhat itwouldcost to level amillionmolehills, if themenwere paid tenpence an hour; andagain, how many hundredweight of nails at fivepence halfpenny a gill wereneeded to repair the fence round the park, which was fifteen miles incircumference.Andsoonandsoon.

The tale, we say, is tedious, for one cupboard is much like another, and onemolehillnotmuchdifferentfromamillion.Somepleasantjourneysitcosthim;and some fine adventures.As, for instance,whenhe set awhole city of blindwomennearBrugestostitchhangingsforasilvercanopiedbed;andthestoryofhisadventurewithaMoorinVeniceofwhomhebought(butonlyatthesword’spoint)hislacqueredcabinet,might,inotherhands,proveworththetelling.Nordid thework lackvariety; forherewouldcome,drawnby teamsfromSussex,greattrees,tobesawnacrossandlaidalongthegalleryforflooring;andthenachestfromPersia,stuffedwithwoolandsawdust.fromwhich,atlast,hewouldtakeasingleplate,oronetopazring.

Atlength,however,therewasnoroominthegalleriesforanothertable;noroom

onthetablesforanothercabinet;noroominthecabinetforanotherrose–bowl;no room in the bowl for another handful of potpourri; therewas no room foranythinganywhere;inshortthehousewasfurnished.Inthegardensnowdrops,crocuses,hyacinths,magnolias,roses,lilies,asters,thedahliainallitsvarieties,peartreesandappletreesandcherrytreesandmulberrytrees,withanenormousquantityofrareandfloweringshrubs,oftreesevergreenandperennial,grewsothickoneachother’srootsthattherewasnoplotofearthwithoutitsbloom,andno stretch of swardwithout its shade. In addition, he had importedwild fowlwith gay plumage; and two Malay bears, the surliness of whose mannersconcealed,hewascertain,trustyhearts.

Allnowwasready;andwhenitwaseveningandtheinnumerablesilversconceswere lit and the light airswhich for evermovedabout thegalleries stirred theblueandgreenarras,sothatitlookedasifthehuntsmenwereridingandDaphneflying;when thesilvershoneand lacquerglowedandwoodkindled;when thecarved chairs held their arms out and dolphins swam upon the walls withmermaids on their backs; when all this and much more than all this wascomplete and to his liking, Orlando walked through the house with his elkhoundsfollowingandfeltcontent.Hehadmatternow,hethought,tofillouthisperoration.Perhapsitwouldbewelltobeginthespeechalloveragain.Yet,asheparadedthegallerieshefeltthatstillsomethingwaslacking.Chairsandtables,howeverrichlygiltandcarved,sofas,restingonlions’pawswithswans’neckscurvingunderthem,bedsevenofthesoftestswansdownarenotbythemselvesenough.Peoplesitting in them,people lying in themimprove themamazingly.AccordinglyOrlandonowbeganaseriesofverysplendidentertainmentstothenobility and gentry of the neighbourhood. The three hundred and sixty–fivebedroomswerefullforamonthatatime.Guestsjostledeachotheronthefifty–twostaircases.Threehundredservantsbustledaboutthepantries.Banquetstookplacealmostnightly.Thus,inaveryfewyears,Orlandohadwornthenapoffhisvelvet,andspentthehalfofhisfortune;buthehadearnedthegoodopinionofhisneighbours.heldascoreofofficesinthecounty,andwasannuallypresentedwithperhapsadozenvolumesdedicatedtohisLordshipinratherfulsometermsbygratefulpoets.For thoughhewascarefulnot toconsortwithwritersat thattime and kept himself always aloof from ladies of foreign blood, still, hewasexcessivelygenerousbothtowomenandtopoets,andbothadoredhim.

Butwhenthefeastingwasatitsheightandhisguestswereattheirrevels,hewas

apttotakehimselfofftohisprivateroomalone.Therewhenthedoorwasshut,andhewascertainofprivacy,hewouldhaveoutanoldwritingbook,stitchedtogether with silk stolen from his mother’s workbox, and labelled in a roundschoolboyhand, ‘TheOakTree,APoem’. In thishewouldwrite tillmidnightchimedandlongafter.Butashescratchedoutasmanylinesashewrotein,thesumofthemwasoften,attheendoftheyear,ratherlessthanatthebeginning,and it looked as if in the process of writing the poem would be completelyunwritten.Foritisforthehistorianofletterstoremarkthathehadchangedhisstyleamazingly.His floriditywaschastened;hisabundancecurbed; theageofprosewascongealingthosewarmfountains.Theverylandscapeoutsidewaslessstuck about with garlands and the briars themselves were less thorned andintricate. Perhaps the senses were a little duller and honey and cream lessseductivetothepalate.Alsothatthestreetswerebetterdrainedandthehousesbetterlithaditseffectuponthestyle,itcannotbedoubted.

Onedayhewasaddingalineortwowithenormouslabourto‘TheOakTree,APoem’,when a shadowcrossed the tail of his eye. Itwasno shadow,he soonsaw, but the figure of a very tall lady in riding hood andmantle crossing thequadrangleonwhichhis roomlookedout.As thiswas themostprivateof thecourts,andtheladywasastrangertohim,Orlandomarvelledhowshehadgotthere.Threedays later thesameapparitionappearedagain;andonWednesdaynoonappearedoncemore.Thistime,Orlandowasdeterminedtofollowher,norapparentlywassheafraidtobefound,forsheslackenedherstepsashecameupandlookedhimfullintheface.AnyotherwomanthuscaughtinaLord’sprivategroundswouldhavebeenafraid; anyotherwomanwith that face,head–dress,andaspectwouldhavethrownhermantillaacrosshershoulders tohideit.Forthis ladyresemblednothingsomuchasahare;aharestartled,butobdurate;aharewhosetimidityisovercomebyanimmenseandfoolishaudacity;aharethatsitsuprightandglowersat itspursuerwithgreat,bulgingeyes;withearserectbut quivering, with nose pointed, but twitching. This hare,moreover, was sixfeethighandworeahead–dressintothebargainofsomeantiquatedkindwhichmadeherlookstilltaller.Thusconfronted,shestaredatOrlandowithastareinwhichtimidityandaudacityweremoststrangelycombined.

First,sheaskedhim,withaproper,butsomewhatclumsycurtsey,toforgiveherher intrusion. Then, rising to her full height again, which must have beensomething over six feet two, she went on to say—but with such a cackle of

nervouslaughter,somuchtee–heeingandhaw–hawingthatOrlandothoughtshemusthaveescapedfromalunaticasylum—thatshewastheArchduchessHarrietGriselda of Finster–Aarhorn and Scand–op–Boom in the Roumanian territory.Shedesiredaboveall thingstomakehisacquaintance,shesaid.Shehadtakenlodgingoverabaker’s shopat theParkGates.Shehad seenhispictureand itwastheimageofasisterofherswhowas—heresheguffawed—longsincedead.ShewasvisitingtheEnglishcourt.TheQueenwasherCousin.TheKingwasavery good fellowbut seldomwent to bed sober.Here she tee–heed and haw–hawedagain.Inshort, therewasnothingforitbuttoaskherinandgiveheraglassofwine.

Indoors,hermannersregainedthehauteurnaturaltoaRoumanianArchduchess;and had she not shown a knowledge ofwines rare in a lady, andmade someobservationsuponfirearmsandthecustomsofsportsmeninhercountry,whichwere sensible enough, the talkwouldhave lacked spontaneity. Jumping toherfeetatlast,sheannouncedthatshewouldcallthefollowingday,sweptanotherprodigiouscurtseyanddeparted.Thefollowingday,Orlandorodeout.Thenext,heturnedhisback;onthethirdhedrewhiscurtain.Onthefourthitrained,andashecouldnotkeepaladyinthewet,norwasaltogetheraversetocompany,heinvitedherinandaskedheropinionwhetherasuitofarmour,whichbelongedtoanancestorofhis,wastheworkofJacobiorofTopp.HeinclinedtoTopp.Sheheldanotheropinion—itmattersverylittlewhich.Butitisofsomeimportancetothecourseofourstorythat,inillustratingherargument,whichhadtodowiththeworkingofthetiepieces,theArchduchessHarriettookthegoldenshincaseandfittedittoOrlando’sleg.

ThathehadapairoftheshapliestlegsthatanyNoblemanhaseverstooduprightuponhasalreadybeensaid.

Perhaps something in the way she fastened the ankle buckle; or her stoopingposture;orOrlando’slongseclusion;orthenaturalsympathywhichisbetweenthesexes;or theBurgundy;or thefire—anyof thesecausesmayhavebeen toblame;forcertainlyblamethereisononesideoranother,whenaNoblemanofOrlando’sbreeding,entertainingaladyinhishouse,andshehiselderbymanyyears,witha faceayard longandstaringeyes,dressedsomewhat ridiculouslytoo, inamantleandridingcloakthoughtheseasonwaswarm—blamethereiswhen such a Nobleman is so suddenly and violently overcome by passion ofsomesortthathehastoleavetheroom.

Butwhatsortofpassion,itmaywellbeasked,couldthisbe?AndtheanswerisdoublefacedasLoveherself.ForLove—butleavingLoveoutoftheargumentforamoment,theactualeventwasthis:

When theArchduchessHarrietGriselda stooped to fasten the buckle,Orlandoheard, suddenly and unaccountably, far off the beating of Love’s wings. Thedistantstirof thatsoftplumagerousedinhimathousandmemoriesofrushingwaters,of loveliness in the snowand faithlessness in the flood; and the soundcamenearer;andheblushedandtrembled;andhewasmovedashehadthoughtnevertobemovedagain;andhewasreadytoraisehishandsandletthebirdofbeautyalightuponhisshoulders,when—horror!—acreakingsoundlikethatthecrowsmake tumblingover the treesbegan to reverberate; the air seemeddarkwith coarse black wings; voices croaked; bits of straw, twigs, and feathersdropped;andtherepitcheddownuponhisshoulderstheheaviestandfoulestofthe birds; which is the vulture. Thus he rushed from the room and sent thefootmantoseetheArchduchessHarriettohercarriage.

For Love, to which we may now return, has two faces; one white, the otherblack;twobodies;onesmooth,theotherhairy.Ithastwohands,twofeet, twonails, two, indeed, of everymember and eachone is the exact oppositeof theother.Yet,sostrictlyaretheyjoinedtogetherthatyoucannotseparatethem.Inthis case, Orlando’s love began her flight towards him with her white faceturned,andhersmoothandlovelybodyoutwards.Nearerandnearershecamewafting before her airs of pure delight. All of a sudden (at the sight of theArchduchess presumably) she wheeled about, turned the other way round;showedherselfblack,hairy,brutish;and itwasLust thevulture,notLove, theBird of Paradise, that flopped, foully and disgustingly, upon his shoulders.Henceheran;hencehefetchedthefootman.

Buttheharpyisnotsoeasilybanishedasallthat.NotonlydidtheArchduchesscontinuetolodgeattheBaker’s,butOrlandowashauntedeverydayandnightbyphantomsof thefoulestkind.Vainly, it seemed,hadhefurnishedhishousewith silver and hung the walls with arras, when at any moment a dung–bedraggled fowl could settle upon his writing table. There she was, floppingaboutamongthechairs;hesawherwaddlingungracefullyacross thegalleries.Now,sheperched,topheavyuponafirescreen.Whenhechasedherout,backshecameandpeckedattheglasstillshebrokeit.

Thusrealizingthathishomewasuninhabitable,andthatstepsmustbetakentoendthematterinstantly,hedidwhatanyotheryoungmanwouldhavedoneinhisplace,andaskedKingCharlestosendhimasAmbassadorExtraordinarytoConstantinople.TheKingwaswalkinginWhitehall.NellGwynwasonhisarm.Shewaspeltinghimwithhazelnuts.‘Twasathousandpities,thatamorousladysighed,thatsuchapairoflegsshouldleavethecountry.

Howbeit,theFateswerehard;shecoulddonomorethantossonekissoverhershoulderbeforeOrlandosailed.

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VirginiaWoolf

Orlando

CHAPTER3.

It is, indeed,highlyunfortunate, andmuch tobe regretted that at this stageofOrlando’scareer,whenheplayedamostimportantpartinthepubliclifeofhiscountry,wehaveleastinformationtogoupon.Weknowthathedischargedhisdutiestoadmiration—witnesshisBathandhisDukedom.Weknowthathehadafinger insomeof themostdelicatenegotiationsbetweenKingCharlesand theTurks—tothat,treatiesinthevaultoftheRecordOfficebeartestimony.Buttherevolution which broke out during his period of office, and the fire whichfollowed, have so damaged or destroyed all those papers from which anytrustworthy record could be drawn, that what we can give is lamentablyincomplete. Often the paperwas scorched a deep brown in themiddle of themost important sentence. Just when we thought to elucidate a secret that haspuzzledhistorians for ahundredyears, therewas ahole in themanuscriptbigenoughtoputyourfingerthrough.Wehavedoneourbesttopieceoutameagresummaryfromthecharredfragmentsthatremain;butoftenithasbeennecessarytospeculate,tosurmise,andeventousetheimagination.

Orlando’s day was passed, it would seem, somewhat in this fashion. Aboutseven,hewouldrise,wraphimselfinalongTurkishcloak,lightacheroot,andleanhiselbowsontheparapet.Thushewouldstand,gazingatthecitybeneathhim, apparently entranced. At this hour the mist would lie so thick that thedomesofSantaSofiaand the restwouldseem tobeafloat;gradually themistwoulduncoverthem;thebubbleswouldbeseentobefirmlyfixed;therewouldbetheriver;theretheGalataBridge;therethegreen–turbanedpilgrimswithouteyes or noses, begging alms; there the pariah dogs picking up offal; there theshawledwomen; there the innumerabledonkeys; theremenonhorsescarryinglongpoles.Soon,thewholetownwouldbeastirwiththecrackingofwhips,thebeatingofgongs,cryingstoprayer,lashingofmules,andrattleofbrass–boundwheels,whilesourodours,madefrombreadfermentingandincense,andspice,roseeventotheheightsofPeraitselfandseemedtheverybreathofthestridentmulti–colouredandbarbaricpopulation.

Nothing,he reflected,gazingat theviewwhichwasnowsparkling in thesun,couldwellbelesslikethecountiesofSurreyandKentorthetownsofLondonandTunbridgeWells.TotherightandleftroseinbaldandstonyprominencetheinhospitableAsianmountains,towhichthearidcastleofarobberchiefortwo

might hang; but parsonage therewas none, normanor house, nor cottage, noroak,elm,violet,ivy,orwildeglantine.Therewerenohedgesforfernstogrowon,andnofieldsforsheeptograze.Thehouseswerewhiteasegg–shellsandasbald.Thathe,whowasEnglishrootandfibre,shouldyetexulttothedepthsofhisheartinthiswildpanorama,andgazeandgazeatthosepassesandfarheightsplanning journeys there alone on foot where only the goat and shepherd hadgone before; should feel a passion of affection for the bright, unseasonableflowers,lovetheunkemptpariahdogsbeyondevenhiselkhoundsathome,andsnufftheacrid,sharpsmellofthestreetseagerlyintohisnostrils,surprisedhim.Hewonderedif,intheseasonoftheCrusades,oneofhisancestorshadtakenupwithaCircassianpeasantwoman;thoughtitpossible;fanciedacertaindarknessinhiscomplexion;and,goingindoorsagain,withdrewtohisbath.

An hour later, properly scented, curled, and anointed, hewould receive visitsfrom secretaries andother highofficials carrying, one after another, redboxeswhich yielded only to his own golden key.Withinwere papers of the highestimportance,ofwhichonlyfragments,hereaflourish,thereasealfirmlyattachedtoapieceofburntsilk,nowremain.Oftheircontentsthen,wecannotspeak,butcan only testify thatOrlandowas kept busy,whatwith hiswax and seals, hisvariouscolouredribbonswhichhad tobediverselyattached,hisengrossingoftitles and making of flourishes round capital letters, till luncheon came—asplendidmealofperhapsthirtycourses.

Afterluncheon,lackeysannouncedthathiscoachandsixwasatthedoor,andhewent,precededbypurple Janissaries runningon foot andwavinggreatostrichfeatherfansabovetheirheads,tocallupontheotherambassadorsanddignitariesof state. The ceremony was always the same. On reaching the courtyard, theJanissariesstruckwiththeirfansuponthemainportal,whichimmediatelyflewopen revealing a large chamber, splendidly furnished. Here were seated twofigures, generally of the opposite sexes. Profound bows and curtseys wereexchanged. In the first room, it was permissible only tomention theweather.Havingsaidthatitwasfineorwet,hotorcold,theAmbassadorthenpassedontothenextchamber,whereagain,twofiguresrosetogreethim.HereitwasonlypermissibletocompareConstantinopleasaplaceofresidencewithLondon;andtheAmbassador naturally said that he preferredConstantinople, and his hostsnaturally said, though they had not seen it, that they preferredLondon. In thenext chamber, King Charles’s and the Sultan’s healths had to be discussed at

somelength.InthenextwerediscussedtheAmbassador’shealthandthatofhishost’swife,butmorebriefly.InthenexttheAmbassadorcomplimentedhishostuponhisfurniture,andthehostcomplimentedtheAmbassadoruponhisdress.Inthe next, sweet meats were offered, the host deploring their badness, theAmbassador extolling their goodness. The ceremony ended at lengthwith thesmoking of a hookah and the drinking of a glass of coffee; but though themotions of smoking and drinking were gone through punctiliously there wasneithertobaccointhepipenorcoffeeintheglass,as,hadeithersmokeordrinkbeenreal,thehumanframewouldhavesunkbeneaththesurfeit.For,nosoonerhad the Ambassador despatched one such visit, than another had to beundertaken.Thesameceremoniesweregonethroughinpreciselythesameordersixorseventimesoverat thehousesof theothergreatofficials,so that itwasoften late at night before the Ambassador reached home. Though Orlandoperformedthesetaskstoadmirationandneverdeniedthattheyare,perhaps,themost important part of a diplomatist’s duties, hewas undoubtedly fatigued bythem,andoftendepressedtosuchapitchofgloomthathepreferredtotakehisdinner alonewith his dogs.To them, indeed, hemight be heard talking in hisowntongue.Andsometimes,itissaid,hewouldpassoutofhisowngateslateatnight so disguised that the sentries did not know him. Then hewouldminglewith the crowd on the Galata Bridge; or stroll through the bazaars; or throwaside his shoes and join the worshippers in theMosques. Once, when it wasgivenout that hewas ill of a fever, shepherds, bringing their goats tomarket,reportedthattheyhadmetanEnglishLordonthemountaintopandheardhimprayingtohisGod.ThiswasthoughttobeOrlandohimself,andhisprayerwas,nodoubt, apoemsaidaloud, for itwasknown thathe still carriedaboutwithhim, in the bosom of his cloak, a much scored manuscript; and servants,listeningatthedoor,heardtheAmbassadorchantingsomethinginanodd,sing–songvoicewhenhewasalone.

Itiswithfragmentssuchasthesethatwemustdoourbesttomakeupapictureof Orlando’s life and character at this time. There exist, even to this day,rumours, legends, anecdotes of a floating and unauthenticated kind aboutOrlando’slifeinConstantinople—(wehavequotedbutafewofthem)whichgotoprovethathepossessed,nowthathewasintheprimeoflife,thepowertostirthefancyandrivet theeyewhichwillkeepamemorygreenlongafterall thatmore durable qualities can do to preserve it is forgotten. The power is amysteriousonecompoundedofbeauty,birth,andsomerarergift,whichwemay

callglamourandhavedonewithit.‘Amillioncandles’,asSashahadsaid,burntinhimwithouthisbeingatthetroubleoflightingasingleone.Hemovedlikeastag,without anyneed to thinkabouthis legs.He spoke inhisordinaryvoiceandechobeatasilvergong.Hencerumoursgatheredroundhim.Hebecametheadored ofmanywomen and somemen. Itwas not necessary that they shouldspeak to him or even that they should see him; they conjured up before themespeciallywhenthescenerywasromantic,orthesunwassetting,thefigureofanoble gentleman in silk stockings.Upon the poor and uneducated, he had thesamepowerasupontherich.Shepherds,gipsies,donkeydrivers,stillsingsongsabout the English Lord ‘who dropped his emeralds in the well’, whichundoubtedlyrefertoOrlando,whoonce,itseems,torehisjewelsfromhiminamomentofrageorintoxicationandflungtheminafountain;whencetheywerefished by a page boy. But this romantic power, it is well known, is oftenassociatedwith a nature of extreme reserve. Orlando seems to havemade nofriends.Asfarasisknown,heformednoattachments.Acertaingreatladycameall theway fromEngland in order to be near him, and pestered himwith herattentions,buthecontinuedtodischargehisdutiessoindefatigablythathehadnotbeenAmbassadorattheHornformorethantwoyearsandahalfbeforeKingCharlessignifiedhisintentionofraisinghimtothehighestrankinthepeerage.TheenvioussaidthatthiswasNellGwyn’stributetothememoryofaleg.But,asshehadseenhimonceonly,andwasthenbusilyengagedinpeltingherroyalmaster with nutshells, it is likely that it was his merits that won him hisDukedom,nothiscalves.

Herewemustpause,forwehavereachedamomentofgreatsignificanceinhiscareer.For theconferringof theDukedomwas theoccasionofaveryfamous,and indeed,muchdisputed incident,whichwemustnowdescribe,pickingourwayamongburntpapersandlittlebitsoftapeasbestwemay.ItwasattheendofthegreatfastofRamadanthattheOrderoftheBathandthepatentofnobilityarrivedinafrigatecommandedbySirAdrianScrope;andOrlandomadethistheoccasion for an entertainment more splendid than any that has been knownbeforeorsinceinConstantinople.Thenightwasfine;thecrowdimmense,andthewindowsof theEmbassybrilliantly illuminated.Again,detailsare lacking,for the fire had its way with all such records, and has left only tantalizingfragments which leave the most important points obscure. From the diary ofJohn Fenner Brigge, however, an English naval officer, who was among theguests,wegatherthatpeopleofallnationalities‘werepackedlikeherringsina

barrel’ in the courtyard. The crowd pressed so unpleasantly close that Briggesoon climbed into a Judas tree, the better to observe the proceedings. Therumour had got about among the natives (and here is additional proof ofOrlando’smysteriouspowerovertheimagination)thatsomekindofmiraclewastobeperformed. ‘Thus,’writesBrigge(buthismanuscript is fullofburnsandholes,somesentencesbeingquiteillegible),‘whentherocketsbegantosoarintothe air, therewas considerable uneasiness amongus lest the native populationshouldbeseized...fraughtwithunpleasantconsequencestoall...Englishladiesinthecompany,Iownthatmyhandwenttomycutlass.Happily,’hecontinuesinhis somewhat long–winded style, ‘these fears seemed, for the moment,groundless and, observing the demeanour of the natives...I came to theconclusion that this demonstration of our skill in the art of pyrotechny wasvaluable, if only because it impressed upon them...the superiority of theBritish...Indeed,thesightwasoneofindescribablemagnificence.Ifoundmyselfalternatelypraising theLord thathehadpermitted...andwishing thatmypoor,dear mother...By the Ambassador’s orders, the long windows, which are soimposing a feature of Eastern architecture, for though ignorant in manyways...werethrownwide;andwithin,wecouldseeatableauvivantortheatricaldisplayinwhichEnglishladiesandgentlemen...representedamasquetheworkofone...Thewordswereinaudible,butthesightofsomanyofourcountrymenand women, dressed with the highest elegance and distinction...moved me toemotionsofwhichIamcertainlynotashamed,thoughunable...IwasintentuponobservingtheastonishingconductofLady—whichwasofanaturetofastentheeyesofalluponher,andtobringdiscredituponhersexandcountry,when’—unfortunately a branch of the Judas tree broke, Lieutenant Brigge fell to theground,andtherestof theentryrecordsonlyhisgratitudetoProvidence(whoplaysaverylargepartinthediary)andtheexactnatureofhisinjuries.

Happily,MissPenelopeHartopp,daughteroftheGeneralofthatname,sawthescene from inside and carries on the tale in a letter,much defaced too,whichultimately reached a female friend at TunbridgeWells.Miss Penelopewas noless lavishinherenthusiasmthanthegallantofficer.‘Ravishing,’sheexclaimsten times on one page, ‘wondrous...utterly beyond description...goldplate...candelabras...negroes in plush breeches... pyramids of ice...fountains ofnegus...jelliesmade to representHisMajesty’s ships...swansmade to representwater lilies...birds in golden cages...gentlemen in slashed crimsonvelvet...Ladies’ headdresses AT LEAST six foot high...musical boxes....Mr

Peregrinesaid I lookedQUITE lovelywhich Ionly repeat toyou,mydearest,because I know...Oh! how I longed for you all!...surpassing anythingwe haveseen at the Pantiles...oceans to drink...some gentlemen overcome...Lady Bettyravishing....Poor Lady Bonhammade the unfortunate mistake of sitting downwithout a chair beneath her...Gentlemen all very gallant...wished a thousandtimesforyouanddearestBetsy...Butthesightofallothers,thecynosureofalleyes...as all admitted, for none could be so vile as to deny it, was theAmbassador himself. Such a leg! Such a countenance!! Such princelymanners!!! To see him come into the room! To see him go out again! Andsomething INTERESTING in the expression, which makes one feel, onescarcelyknowswhy,thathehasSUFFERED!Theysayaladywasthecauseofit.Theheartlessmonster!!!HowcanoneofourREPUTEDTENDERSEXhavehadtheeffrontery!!!Heisunmarried,andhalftheladiesintheplacearewildforlove of him...A thousand, thousand kisses to Tom, Gerry, Peter, and dearestMew’[presumablyhercat].

From theGazette of the time,we gather that ‘as the clock struck twelve, theAmbassador appeared on the centre Balcony which was hung with pricelessrugs.SixTurksof theImperialBodyGuard,eachoversix foot inheight,heldtorches tohis right and left.Rockets rose into theair athis appearance, andagreat shout went up from the people, which the Ambassador acknowledged,bowing deeply, and speaking a fewwords of thanks in the Turkish language,whichitwasoneofhisaccomplishmentstospeakwithfluency.Next,SirAdrianScrope, in thefulldressofaBritishAdmiral,advanced; theAmbassadorkneltononeknee;theAdmiralplacedtheCollaroftheMostNobleOrderoftheBathroundhisneck,thenpinnedtheStartohisbreast;afterwhichanothergentlemanof thediplomatic corps advancing in a statelymannerplacedonhis shoulderstheducalrobes,andhandedhimonacrimsoncushion,theducalcoronet.’

At length, with a gesture of extraordinary majesty and grace, first bowingprofoundly,thenraisinghimselfproudlyerect,Orlandotookthegoldencircletofstrawberry leaves and placed it, with a gesture which none that saw it everforgot,uponhisbrows.Itwasatthispointthatthefirstdisturbancebegan.Eitherthepeoplehadexpectedamiracle—somesayashowerofgoldwasprophesiedtofallfromtheskies—whichdidnothappen,orthiswasthesignalchosenforthe attack to begin; nobody seems to know; but as the coronet settled onOrlando’sbrowsagreatuproarrose.Bellsbeganringing;theharshcriesofthe

prophetswereheardabovetheshoutsofthepeople;manyTurksfellflattotheground and touched the earth with their foreheads. A door burst open. Thenativespressedintothebanquetingrooms.Womenshrieked.Acertainlady,whowassaidtobedyingforloveofOrlando,seizedacandelabraanddashedittotheground.Whatmightnothavehappened,haditnotbeenforthepresenceofSirAdrian Scrope and a squad of British bluejackets, nobody can say. But theAdmiralorderedthebuglestobesounded;ahundredbluejacketsstoodinstantlyatattention;thedisorderwasquelled,andquiet,atleastforthetimebeing,felluponthescene.

So far, we are on the firm, if rather narrow, ground of ascertained truth. Butnobodyhaseverknownexactlywhattookplacelaterthatnight.Thetestimonyofthesentriesandothersseems,however,toprovethattheEmbassywasemptyof company, and shut up for the night in the usual way by two A.M. TheAmbassadorwasseen togo tohis room,stillwearing the insigniaofhis rank,andshutthedoor.Somesayhelockedit,whichwasagainsthiscustom.Othersmaintainthattheyheardmusicofarustickind,suchasshepherdsplay,laterthatnightinthecourtyardundertheAmbassador’swindow.Awasher–woman,whowas kept awake by toothache, said that she saw aman’s figure,wrapped in acloakordressinggown,comeoutupon thebalcony.Then,shesaid,awoman,muchmuffled,butapparentlyofthepeasantclass,wasdrawnupbymeansofaropewhichthemanletdowntoherontothebalcony.There,thewasher–womansaid,theyembracedpassionately‘likelovers’,andwentintotheroomtogether,drawingthecurtainssothatnomorecouldbeseen.

Nextmorning,theDuke,aswemustnowcallhim,wasfoundbyhissecretariessunkinprofoundslumberamidbedclothesthatweremuchtumbled.Theroomwasinsomedisorder,hiscoronethavingrolledonthefloor,andhiscloakandgarterbeingflungallofaheaponachair.Thetablewaslitteredwithpapers.Nosuspicionwasfeltatfirst,asthefatiguesofthenighthadbeengreat.Butwhenafternooncameandhestillslept,adoctorwassummoned.Heappliedremedieswhichhadbeenusedonthepreviousoccasion,plasters,nettles,emetics,etc.,butwithout success.Orlando slepton.His secretaries then thought it their duty toexaminethepapersonthetable.Manywerescribbledoverwithpoetry,inwhichfrequentmentionwasmadeofanoaktree.Therewerealsovariousstatepapersand others of a private nature concerning the management of his estates inEngland.Butatlengththeycameuponadocumentoffargreatersignificance.It

was nothing less, indeed, than a deed of marriage, drawn up, signed, andwitnessedbetweenhisLordship,Orlando,Knightof theGarter, etc., etc., etc.,andRosinaPepita, adancer, fatherunknown,but reputedagipsy,mother alsounknownbut reputed a seller of old iron in themarket–place over against theGalataBridge.Thesecretarieslookedateachotherindismay.AndstillOrlandoslept.Morningandeveningtheywatchedhim,but,savethathisbreathingwasregularandhischeeksstillflushedtheirhabitualdeeprose,hegavenosignoflife.Whateverscienceoringenuitycoulddotowakenhimtheydid.Butstillheslept.

On the seventh day of his trance (Thursday,May the 10th) the first shotwasfired of that terrible and bloody insurrection of which Lieutenant Brigge haddetected the first symptoms. TheTurks rose against the Sultan, set fire to thetown, and put every foreigner they could find, either to the sword or to thebastinado.AfewEnglishmanagedtoescape;but,asmighthavebeenexpected,the gentlemen of theBritish Embassy preferred to die in defence of their redboxes,or,inextremecases,toswallowbunchesofkeysratherthanletthemfallintothehandsoftheInfidel.TheriotersbrokeintoOrlando’sroom,butseeinghimstretchedtoallappearancesdeadtheylefthimuntouched,andonlyrobbedhimofhiscoronetandtherobesoftheGarter.

And now again obscurity descends, and would indeed that it were deeper!Would,wealmosthaveitinourheartstoexclaim,thatitweresodeepthatwecouldseenothingwhateverthroughitsopacity!WouldthatwemightheretakethepenandwriteFinistoourwork!Wouldthatwemightsparethereaderwhatistocomeandsaytohiminsomanywords,Orlandodiedandwasburied.Buthere,alas,Truth,Candour,andHonesty, theaustereGodswhokeepwatchandward by the inkpot of the biographer, cryNo! Putting their silver trumpets totheir lips they demand in one blast, Truth! And again they cry Truth! andsoundingyetathirdtimeinconcerttheypealforth,TheTruthandnothingbuttheTruth!

At which—Heaven be praised! for it affords us a breathing space—the doorsgently open, as if a breathof thegentlest andholiest zephyr hadwafted themapart,andthreefiguresenter.First,comesourLadyofPurity;whosebrowsareboundwithfilletsofthewhitestlamb’swool;whosehairisasanavalancheofthedriven snow;and inwhosehand reposes thewhitequillof avirgingoose.Followingher,butwithastatelierstep,comesourLadyofChastity;onwhose

brow is set likea turretofburningbutunwasting fire adiademof icicles;hereyesarepure stars, andher fingers, if they touchyou, freezeyou to thebone.Close behind her, sheltering indeed in the shadow of hermore stately sisters,comesourLadyofModesty,frailestandfairestofthethree;whosefaceisonlyshown as the young moon shows when it is thin and sickle shaped and halfhidden among clouds. Each advances towards the centre of the room whereOrlandostillliessleeping;andwithgesturesatonceappealingandcommanding,OURLADYOFPURITYspeaksfirst:

‘Iamtheguardianofthesleepingfawn;thesnowisdeartome;andthemoonrising;andthesilversea.WithmyrobesIcoverthespeckledhen’seggsandthebrindled sea shell; I cover vice and poverty. On all things frail or dark ordoubtful,myveildescends.Wherefore,speaknot,revealnot.Spare,Ospare!’

Herethetrumpetspealforth.

‘PurityAvaunt!BegonePurity!’

ThenOURLADYOFCHASTITYspeaks:

‘Iamshewhosetouchfreezesandwhoseglanceturnstostone.Ihavestayedthestar in itsdancing, and thewaveas it falls.ThehighestAlpsaremydwellingplace;andwhenIwalk,thelightningsflashinmyhair;wheremyeyesfall,theykill.RatherthanletOrlandowake,Iwillfreezehimtothebone.Spare,Ospare!’

Herethetrumpetspealforth.

‘ChastityAvaunt!BegoneChastity!’

ThenOURLADYOFMODESTYspeaks,solowthatonecanhardlyhear:

‘IamshethatmencallModesty.VirginIamandevershallbe.Notformethefruitful fields and the fertile vineyard. Increase is odious tome; andwhen theapples burgeonor the flocksbreed, I run, I run; I letmymantle fall.Myhaircoversmyeyes.Idonotsee.Spare,Ospare!’

Againthetrumpetspealforth:

‘ModestyAvaunt!BegoneModesty!’

Withgesturesofgriefandlamentationthethreesistersnowjoinhandsanddanceslowly,tossingtheirveilsandsingingastheygo:

‘Truthcomenotoutfromyourhorridden.Hidedeeper, fearfulTruth.Foryouflauntinthebrutalgazeofthesunthingsthatwerebetterunknownandundone;youunveiltheshameful;thedarkyoumakeclear,Hide!Hide!Hide!’

Here they make as if to cover Orlando with their draperies. The trumpets,meanwhile,stillblareforth,

‘TheTruthandnothingbuttheTruth.’

AtthistheSisterstrytocasttheirveilsoverthemouthsofthetrumpetssoastomufflethem,butinvain,fornowallthetrumpetsblareforthtogether,

‘HorridSisters,go!’

Thesistersbecomedistractedandwailinunison,stillcirclingandflingingtheirveilsupanddown.

‘Ithasnotalwaysbeenso!Butmenwantusnolonger;thewomendetestus.Wego; we go. I (PURITY SAYS THIS) to the hen roost. I (CHASTITY SAYSTHIS) to thestillunravishedheightsofSurrey. I (MODESTYSAYSTHIS) toanycosynookwherethereareivyandcurtainsinplenty.’

‘For there, not here (all speak together joining hands andmaking gestures offarewellanddespairtowardsthebedwhereOrlandoliessleeping)dwellstillinnestandboudoir,officeandlawcourtthosewholoveus;thosewhohonourus,virginsandcitymen;lawyersanddoctors;thosewhoprohibit;thosewhodeny;those who reverence without knowing why; those who praise withoutunderstanding; the still very numerous (Heaven be praised) tribe of therespectable;whoprefertoseenot;desiretoknownot;lovethedarkness;thosestillworship us, andwith reason; forwe have given themWealth, Prosperity,Comfort,Ease.Tothemwego,youweleave.Come,Sisters,come!Thisisnoplaceforushere.’

They retire in haste,waving their draperies over their heads, as if to shut outsomethingthattheydarenotlookuponandclosethedoorbehindthem.

Weare,therefore,nowleftentirelyaloneintheroomwiththesleepingOrlandoand the trumpeters. The trumpeters, ranging themselves side by side in order,blowoneterrificblast:—

‘THETRUTH!

atwhichOrlandowoke.

He stretchedhimself.He rose.He stoodupright in completenakednessbeforeus,andwhilethetrumpetspealedTruth!Truth!Truth!wehavenochoiceleftbutconfess—hewasawoman.

ThesoundofthetrumpetsdiedawayandOrlandostoodstarknaked.Nohumanbeing, since the world began, has ever looked more ravishing. His formcombinedinonethestrengthofamanandawoman’sgrace.Ashestoodthere,thesilvertrumpetsprolongedtheirnote,asifreluctanttoleavethelovelysightwhichtheirblasthadcalledforth;andChastity,Purity,andModesty,inspired,nodoubt,byCuriosity,peepedinatthedoorandthrewagarmentlikeatowelatthenaked formwhich, unfortunately, fell short by several inches.Orlando lookedhimself up and down in a long looking–glass, without showing any signs ofdiscomposure,andwent,presumably,tohisbath.

Wemaytakeadvantageofthispauseinthenarrativetomakecertainstatements.Orlando had become a woman—there is no denying it. But in every otherrespect,Orlandoremainedpreciselyashehadbeen.Thechangeofsex,thoughitaltered their future, did nothing whatever to alter their identity. Their facesremained, as their portraits prove, practically the same. His memory—but infuturewemust,forconvention’ssake,say‘her’for‘his,’and‘she’for‘he’—hermemory then, went back through all the events of her past life withoutencounteringanyobstacle.Someslighthazinesstheremayhavebeen,asifafewdarkdropshadfallenintotheclearpoolofmemory;certainthingshadbecomealittledimmed;but thatwasall.Thechangeseemedtohavebeenaccomplishedpainlessly and completely and in such a way that Orlando herself showed nosurprise at it.Many people, taking this into account, and holding that such achange of sex is against nature, have been at great pains to prove (1) that

Orlandohadalwaysbeenawoman, (2) thatOrlando isat thismomentaman.Letbiologistsandpsychologistsdetermine.Itisenoughforustostatethesimplefact;Orlandowasamantilltheageofthirty;whenhebecameawomanandhasremainedsoeversince.

But let other pens treat of sex and sexuality;we quit such odious subjects assoonaswecan.Orlandohadnowwashed,anddressedherselfinthoseTurkishcoatsandtrouserswhichcanbewornindifferentlybyeithersex;andwasforcedtoconsiderherposition.Thatitwasprecariousandembarrassingintheextrememust be the first thought of every reader who has followed her story withsympathy.Young,noble,beautiful, shehadwoken to findherself inapositionthanwhichwecanconceivenonemoredelicate for ayoung ladyof rank.Weshould not have blamed her had she rung the bell, screamed, or fainted. ButOrlandoshowednosuchsignsofperturbation.Allheractionsweredeliberateinthe extreme, and might indeed have been thought to show tokens ofpremeditation.First,shecarefullyexaminedthepapersonthetable;tooksuchasseemedtobewritteninpoetry,andsecretedtheminherbosom;nextshecalledher Seleuchi hound, which had never left her bed all these days, though halffamishedwithhunger, fedandcombedhim; thenstuckapairofpistols inherbelt;finallywoundaboutherpersonseveralstringsofemeraldsandpearlsofthefinestorientwhichhadformedpartofherAmbassadorialwardrobe.Thisdone,sheleantoutofthewindow,gaveonelowwhistle,anddescendedtheshatteredand bloodstained staircase, now strewnwith the litter ofwaste–paper baskets,treaties,despatches,seals,sealingwax,etc.,andsoenteredthecourtyard.There,intheshadowofagiantfigtree,waitedanoldgipsyonadonkey.Heledanotherbythebridle.Orlandoswungher legoverit;andthus,attendedbyaleandog,ridingadonkey,incompanyofagipsy,theAmbassadorofGreatBritainattheCourtoftheSultanleftConstantinople.

They rode for several days and nights and met with a variety of adventures,someatthehandsofmen,someatthehandsofnature,inallofwhichOrlandoacquitted herself with courage. Within a week they reached the high groundoutsideBroussa,whichwasthenthechiefcampinggroundofthegipsytribetowhichOrlandohadalliedherself.Oftenshehadlookedatthosemountainsfromher balcony at theEmbassy; oftenhad longed to be there; and to findoneselfwhereonehaslongedtobealways,toareflectivemind,givesfoodforthought.Forsometime,however,shewastoowellpleasedwiththechangetospoilitby

thinking.Thepleasureofhavingnodocumentstosealorsign,noflourishestomake,nocallstopay,wasenough.Thegipsiesfollowedthegrass;whenitwasgrazeddown,ontheymovedagain.Shewashedinstreamsifshewashedatall;no boxes, red, blue, or green, were presented to her; therewas not a key, letaloneagoldenkey,inthewholecamp;asfor‘visiting’,thewordwasunknown.Shemilked thegoats;shecollectedbrushwood;shestoleahen’seggnowandthen, but always put a coin or a pearl in place of it; she herded cattle; shestrippedvines;shetrodthegrape;shefilledthegoat–skinanddrankfromit;andwhen she remembered how, at about this time of day, she should have beenmaking themotionsofdrinkingand smokingover anemptycoffee–cupandapipe which lacked tobacco, she laughed aloud, cut herself another hunch ofbread,andbeggedforapufffromoldRustum’spipe,filledthoughitwaswithcowdung.

The gipsies, with whom it is obvious that she must have been in secretcommunicationbefore the revolution, seem tohave lookeduponherasoneofthemselves(whichisalwaysthehighestcomplimentapeoplecanpay),andherdarkhairanddarkcomplexionboreoutthebeliefthatshewas,bybirth,oneofthemandhadbeensnatchedbyanEnglishDukefromanuttreewhenshewasababyandtakentothatbarbarouslandwherepeopleliveinhousesbecausetheyare too feeble and diseased to stand the open air.Thus, though inmanywaysinferiortothem,theywerewillingtohelphertobecomemorelikethem;taughther their arts of cheese–making and basket–weaving, their science of stealingandbird–snaring,andwereevenprepared toconsider lettinghermarryamongthem.

But Orlando had contracted in England some of the customs or diseases(whatever you choose to consider them)which cannot, it seems, be expelled.Oneevening,whentheywereallsittingroundthecampfireandthesunsetwasblazingovertheThessalianhills,Orlandoexclaimed:

‘Howgoodtoeat!’

(Thegipsieshavenowordfor‘beautiful’.Thisisthenearest.)

Alltheyoungmenandwomenburstoutlaughinguproariously.Theskygoodtoeat, indeed! The elders, however, who had seenmore of foreigners than theyhad, became suspicious. They noticed that Orlando often sat for whole hours

doingnothingwhatever,exceptlookhereandthenthere;theywouldcomeuponheronsomehill–topstaringstraightinfrontofher,nomatterwhetherthegoatsweregrazingorstraying.Theybegantosuspectthatshehadotherbeliefsthantheirown,andtheoldermenandwomenthoughtitprobablethatshehadfallenintotheclutchesofthevilestandcruellestamongalltheGods,whichisNature.Norweretheyfarwrong.TheEnglishdisease,aloveofNature,wasinborninher, and here, where Nature was so much larger and more powerful than inEngland,shefellintoitshandsasshehadneverdonebefore.Themaladyistoowellknown, andhasbeen, alas, toooftendescribed toneeddescribingafresh,saveverybriefly.Thereweremountains;therewerevalleys;therewerestreams.Sheclimbedthemountains;roamedthevalleys;satonthebanksofthestreams.Shelikenedthehillstoramparts,tothebreastsofdoves,andtheflanksofkine.ShecomparedtheflowerstoenamelandtheturftoTurkeyrugswornthin.Treeswere withered hags, and sheep were grey boulders. Everything, in fact, wassomethingelse.Shefoundthetarnonthemountain–topandalmostthrewherselfintoseekthewisdomshethoughtlayhidthere;andwhen,fromthemountain–top, she beheld far off, across the Sea ofMarmara, the plains ofGreece, andmadeout (her eyeswere admirable) theAcropoliswith awhite streakor two,whichmust,shethought,betheParthenon,hersoulexpandedwithhereyeballs,andsheprayedthatshemightsharethemajestyofthehills,knowtheserenityofthe plains, etc. etc., as all such believers do. Then, looking down, the redhyacinth, thepurple iriswroughther tocryout inecstasyat thegoodness, thebeauty of nature; raising her eyes again, she beheld the eagle soaring, andimagineditsrapturesandmadethemherown.Returninghome,shesalutedeachstar,eachpeak,andeachwatch–fireasiftheysignalledtoheralone;andatlast,when she flung herself upon her mat in the gipsies’ tent, she could not helpburstingoutagain,Howgoodtoeat!Howgoodtoeat!(Foritisacuriousfactthat though human beings have such imperfectmeans of communication, thattheycanonly say ‘good to eat’when theymean ‘beautiful’ and theotherwayabout, theywillyetendureridiculeandmisunderstandingrather thankeepanyexperience to themselves.)All theyounggipsies laughed.ButRustumelSadi,theoldmanwhohadbroughtOrlandooutofConstantinopleonhisdonkey,satsilent.Hehad a nose like a scimitar; his cheekswere furrowed as if from theage–long descent of iron hail; he was brown and keen–eyed, and as he sattugging at his hookah he observed Orlando narrowly. He had the deepestsuspicionthatherGodwasNature.Onedayhefoundherintears.InterpretingthistomeanthatherGodhadpunishedher,hetoldherthathewasnotsurprised.

Heshowedherthefingersofhislefthand,witheredbythefrost;heshowedherhisrightfoot,crushedwherearockhadfallen.This,hesaid,waswhatherGoddidtomen.Whenshesaid,‘Butsobeautiful’,usingtheEnglishword,heshookhishead;andwhensherepeatedithewasangry.Hesawthatshedidnotbelievewhathebelieved, and thatwasenough,wiseandancient ashewas, toenragehim.

This difference of opinion disturbed Orlando, who had been perfectly happyuntilnow.Shebegantothink,wasNaturebeautifulorcruel;andthensheaskedherself what this beautywas;whether it was in things themselves, or only inherself;soshewentontothenatureofreality,whichledhertotruth,whichinitsturnledtoLove,Friendship,Poetry(asinthedaysonthehighmoundathome);whichmeditations,sinceshecouldimpartnowordof them,madeher long,asshehadneverlongedbefore,forpenandink.

‘Oh!ifonlyIcouldwrite!’shecried(forshehadtheoddconceitofthosewhowritethatwordswrittenareshared).Shehadnoink;andbutlittlepaper.Butshemadeinkfromberriesandwine;andfindingafewmarginsandblankspacesinthemanuscriptof ‘TheOakTree’,managedbywritingakindofshorthand, todescribe thescenery ina long,blankversionpoem,and tocarryonadialoguewith herself about this Beauty and Truth concisely enough. This kept herextremelyhappyforhoursonend.Butthegipsiesbecamesuspicious.First,theynoticedthatshewaslessadeptthanbeforeatmilkingandcheese–making;next,sheoftenhesitatedbeforereplying;andonceagipsyboywhohadbeenasleep,wokeinaterrorfeelinghereyesuponhim.Sometimesthisconstraintwouldbefelt by thewhole tribe, numbering somedozensof grownmenandwomen. Itsprang from the sense they had (and their senses are very sharp andmuch inadvanceoftheirvocabulary)thatwhatevertheyweredoingcrumbledlikeashesintheirhands.Anoldwomanmakingabasket,aboyskinningasheep,wouldbesingingorcrooningcontentedlyat theirwork,whenOrlandowouldcome intothecamp,flingherselfdownbythefireandgazeintotheflames.Sheneednotevenlookat them,andyet theyfelt,here issomeonewhodoubts; (wemakearough–and–readytranslationfromthegipsylanguage)hereissomeonewhodoesnot do the thing for the sake of doing; nor looks for looking’s sake; here issomeone who believes neither in sheep–skin nor basket; but sees (here theylooked apprehensively about the tent) something else. Then a vague butmostunpleasantfeelingwouldbegintoworkintheboyandintheoldwoman.They

broketheirwithys;theycuttheirfingers.Agreatragefilledthem.TheywishedOrlandowouldleavethetentandnevercomenearthemagain.Yetshewasofacheerfulandwillingdisposition,theyowned;andoneofherpearlswasenoughtobuythefinestherdofgoatsinBroussa.

Slowly, she began to feel that therewas some difference between her and thegipsies which made her hesitate sometimes to marry and settle down amongthemforever.Atfirstshetriedtoaccountforitbysayingthatshecameofanancient and civilized race,whereas these gipsieswere an ignorant people, notmuch better than savages. One night when they were questioning her aboutEnglandshecouldnothelpwithsomepridedescribingthehousewhereshewasborn,howithad365bedroomsandhadbeeninthepossessionofherfamilyforfourorfivehundredyears.Herancestorswereearls,orevendukes,sheadded.At thisshenoticedagain that thegipsieswereuneasy;butnotangryasbeforewhen she had praised the beauty of nature. Now they were courteous, butconcerned as people of fine breeding are when a stranger has been made torevealhis lowbirthorpoverty.Rustumfollowedheroutof the tentaloneandsaid that she need not mind if her father were a Duke, and possessed all thebedroomsandfurniture thatshedescribed.Theywouldnoneof themthinktheworseofherforthat.Thenshewasseizedwithashamethatshehadneverfeltbefore.ItwasclearthatRustumandtheothergipsiesthoughtadescentoffourorfivehundredyearsonlythemeanestpossible.Theirownfamilieswentbackatleast two or three thousand years. To the gipsywhose ancestors had built thePyramids centuries before Christ was born, the genealogy of Howards andPlantagenetswasnobetterandnoworsethanthatoftheSmithsandtheJoneses:bothwerenegligible.Moreover,where theshepherdboyhada lineageofsuchantiquity, therewas nothing speciallymemorable or desirable in ancient birth;vagabondsandbeggarsallsharedit.Andthen,thoughhewastoocourteoustospeakopenly,itwasclearthatthegipsythoughtthattherewasnomorevulgarambitionthantopossessbedroomsbythehundred(theywereontopofahillastheyspoke;itwasnight;themountainsrosearoundthem)whenthewholeearthis ours.Looked at from the gipsypoint of view, aDuke,Orlandounderstood,wasnothingbutaprofiteerorrobberwhosnatchedlandandmoneyfrompeoplewho rated these things of littleworth, and could think of nothing better to dothantobuildthreehundredandsixty–fivebedroomswhenonewasenough,andnone was even better than one. She could not deny that her ancestors hadaccumulated field after field; house after house; honour after honour; yet had

noneofthembeensaintsorheroes,orgreatbenefactorsofthehumanrace.Norcouldshecountertheargument(Rustumwastoomuchofagentlemantopressit,butsheunderstood)thatanymanwhodidnowwhatherancestorshaddonethreeor fourhundredyearsagowouldbedenounced—andbyherownfamilymostloudly—foravulgarupstart,anadventurer,anouveauriche.

She sought to answer such arguments by the familiar if oblique method offindingthegipsylifeitselfrudeandbarbarous;andso,inashorttime,muchbadbloodwasbredbetweenthem.Indeed,suchdifferencesofopinionareenoughtocausebloodshedandrevolution.Townshavebeensackedforless,andamillionmartyrs have suffered at the stake rather than yield an inch upon any of thepointsheredebated.Nopassionisstrongerinthebreastofmanthanthedesiretomakeothersbelieveashebelieves.Nothingsocutsattherootofhishappinessandfillshimwithrageasthesensethatanotherrateslowwhatheprizeshigh.Whigs and Tories, Liberal party and Labour party—for what do they battleexcept theirownprestige? It isnot loveof truthbutdesire toprevail that setsquarter against quarter and makes parish desire the downfall of parish. Eachseekspeaceofmindandsubserviency rather than the triumphof truthand theexaltation of virtue—but these moralities belong, and should be left to thehistorian,sincetheyareasdullasditchwater.

‘Four hundred and seventy–six bedrooms mean nothing to them,’ sighedOrlando.

‘Sheprefersasunsettoaflockofgoats,’saidthegipsies.

Whatwastobedone,Orlandocouldnotthink.Toleavethegipsiesandbecomeonce more an Ambassador seemed to her intolerable. But it was equallyimpossible to remain for ever where there was neither ink nor writing paper,neitherreverencefortheTalbotsnorrespectforamultiplicityofbedrooms.Soshewasthinking,onefinemorningontheslopesofMountAthos,whenmindingher goats.And thenNature, inwhom she trusted, either played her a trick orworkedamiracle—again,opinionsdiffer toomuch for it tobepossible to saywhich.Orlandowasgazingratherdisconsolatelyatthesteephill–sideinfrontofher.Itwasnowmidsummer,andifwemustcomparethelandscapetoanything,itwouldhavebeentoadrybone;toasheep’sskeleton;toagiganticskullpickedwhitebyathousandvultures.Theheatwasintense,andthelittlefigtreeunderwhich Orlando lay only served to print patterns of fig–leaves upon her light

burnous.

Suddenlyashadow,thoughtherewasnothingtocastashadow,appearedonthebald mountain–side opposite. It deepened quickly and soon a green hollowshowed where there had been barren rock before. As she looked, the hollowdeepenedandwidened, andagreatpark–like spaceopened in the flankof thehill.Within,shecouldseeanundulatingandgrassylawn;shecouldseeoaktreesdottedhereand there;shecouldsee the thrusheshoppingamongthebranches.Shecouldseethedeersteppingdelicatelyfromshadetoshade,andcouldevenhear thehumof insectsand thegentle sighsandshiversofa summer’sday inEngland.Aftershehadgazedentrancedforsometime,snowbeganfalling;soonthe whole landscape was covered and marked with violet shades instead ofyellowsunlight.Nowshe sawheavycarts comingalong the roads, ladenwithtreetrunks,whichtheyweretaking,sheknew,tobesawnforfirewood;andthenappearedtheroofsandbelfriesandtowersandcourtyardsofherownhome.Thesnowwasfallingsteadily,andshecouldnowheartheslitherandflopwhichitmadeasitsliddowntheroofandfelltotheground.Thesmokewentupfromathousand chimneys. All was so clear and minute that she could see a Dawpecking forworms in the snow.Then, gradually, the violet shadowsdeepenedand closed over the carts and the lawns and the great house itself. All wasswallowedup.Nowtherewasnothingleftof thegrassyhollow,andinsteadofthegreenlawnswasonlytheblazinghill–sidewhichathousandvulturesseemedtohavepickedbare.Atthis,sheburstintoapassionoftears,andstridingbacktothegipsies’camp,toldthemthatshemustsailforEnglandtheverynextday.

Itwas happy for her that she did so.Already the youngmen had plotted herdeath.Honour,theysaid,demandedit,forshedidnotthinkastheydid.Yettheywould have been sorry to cut her throat; and welcomed the news of herdeparture.AnEnglishmerchantship,asluckwouldhaveit,wasalreadyundersail in the harbour about to return to England; and Orlando, by breaking offanother pearl from her necklace, not only paid her passage but had somebanknotes leftover inherwallet.Theseshewouldhavelikedtopresent to thegipsies.Buttheydespisedwealthsheknew;andshehadtocontentherselfwithembraces,whichonherpartweresincere.

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VirginiaWoolf

Orlando

CHAPTER4.

With some of the guineas left from the sale of the tenth pearl on her string,Orlandoboughtherselfacompleteoutfitofsuchclothesaswomen thenwore,anditwasinthedressofayoungEnglishwomanofrankthatshenowsatonthedeckofthe“EnamouredLady”.Itisastrangefact,butatrueone,thatuptothismomentshehadscarcelygivenhersexathought.PerhapstheTurkishtrouserswhich shehadhithertowornhaddone something todistracther thoughts; andthe gipsywomen, except in one or two important particulars, differ very littlefromthegipsymen.Atanyrate,itwasnotuntilshefeltthecoilofskirtsaboutherlegsandtheCaptainoffered,withthegreatestpoliteness,tohaveanawningspread for her on deck, that she realized with a start the penalties and theprivilegesofherposition.Butthatstartwasnotofthekindthatmighthavebeenexpected.

Itwasnotcaused,thatistosay,simplyandsolelybythethoughtofherchastityandhowshecouldpreserveit.Innormalcircumstancesalovelyyoungwomanalone would have thought of nothing else; the whole edifice of femalegovernment is based on that foundation stone; chastity is their jewel, theircentrepiece,whichtheyrunmadtoprotect,anddiewhenravishedof.Butifonehasbeenamanforthirtyyearsorso,andanAmbassadorintothebargain,ifonehasheldaQueeninone’sarmsandoneortwootherladies,ifreportbetrue,oflessexalted rank, ifonehasmarriedaRosinaPepita, and soon,onedoesnotperhaps give such a very great start about that. Orlando’s start was of a verycomplicated kind, and not to be summed up in a trice. Nobody, indeed, everaccusedherofbeingoneofthosequickwitswhoruntotheendofthingsinaminute.Ittookhertheentirelengthofthevoyagetomoralizeoutthemeaningofherstart,andso,atherownpace,wewillfollowher.

‘Lord,’shethought,whenshehadrecoveredfromherstart,stretchingherselfoutatlengthunderherawning,‘thisisapleasant,lazywayoflife,tobesure.But,’shethought,givingherlegsakick,‘theseskirtsareplagueythingstohaveaboutone’sheels.Yetthestuff(floweredpaduasoy)istheloveliestintheworld.Neverhave I seen my own skin (here she laid her hand on her knee) look to suchadvantage as now.Could I, however, leap overboard and swim in clothes likethese?No!Therefore, I shouldhave to trust to theprotectionofablue–jacket.DoIobjecttothat?NowdoI?’shewondered,hereencounteringthefirstknotin

thesmoothskeinofherargument.

Dinner came before she had untied it, and then it was the Captain himself—CaptainNicholasBenedictBartolus,asea–captainofdistinguishedaspect,whodiditforherashehelpedhertoasliceofcornedbeef.

‘Alittleofthefat,Ma’m?’heasked.‘Letmecutyoujustthetiniestlittleslicethe sizeofyour fingernail.’At thosewordsadelicious tremor ran throughherframe. Birds sang; the torrents rushed. It recalled the feeling of indescribablepleasurewithwhichshehadfirstseenSasha,hundredsofyearsago.Thenshehad pursued, now she fled. Which is the greater ecstasy? The man’s or thewoman’s?Andaretheynotperhapsthesame?No,shethought,thisisthemostdelicious(thankingtheCaptainbutrefusing),torefuse,andseehimfrown.Well,shewould,ifhewishedit,havetheverythinnest,smallestshiverintheworld.Thiswasthemostdeliciousofall,toyieldandseehimsmile.‘Fornothing,’shethought, regaining her couch on deck, and continuing the argument, ‘is moreheavenly than to resistand toyield; toyieldand to resist.Surely it throws thespirit into such a rapture as nothing else can. So that I’m not sure’, shecontinued,‘thatIwon’tthrowmyselfoverboard,forthemerepleasureofbeingrescuedbyablue–jacketafterall.’

(Itmustbe remembered thatshewas likeachildentering intopossessionofapleasaunceor toycupboard;herargumentswouldnotcommend themselves tomaturewomen,whohavehadtherunofitalltheirlives.)

‘But what used we young fellows in the cockpit of the “Marie Rose” to sayaboutawomanwhothrewherselfoverboardforthepleasureofbeingrescuedbyablue–jacket?’shesaid.‘Wehadawordforthem.Ah!Ihaveit...’(Butwemustomit that word; it was disrespectful in the extreme and passing strange on alady’slips.)‘Lord!Lord!shecriedagainattheconclusionofherthoughts,‘mustIthenbegintorespecttheopinionoftheothersex,howevermonstrousIthinkit?IfIwearskirts,ifIcan’tswim,ifIhavetoberescuedbyablue–jacket,byGod!’shecried,‘Imust!’Uponwhichagloomfelloverher.Candidbynature,andaversetoallkindsofequivocation,totellliesboredher.Itseemedtoheraroundaboutwayofgoing towork.Yet,shereflected, thefloweredpaduasoy—the pleasure of being rescued by a blue–jacket—if these were only to beobtained by roundabout ways, roundabout one must go, she supposed. Sheremembered how, as a young man, she had insisted that women must be

obedient,chaste,scented,andexquisitelyapparelled.‘NowIshallhavetopayinmyownpersonforthosedesires,’shereflected;‘forwomenarenot(judgingbymyownshortexperienceof thesex)obedient,chaste, scented,andexquisitelyapparelledbynature.Theycanonlyattainthesegraces,withoutwhichtheymayenjoy none of the delights of life, by themost tedious discipline. There’s thehairdressing,’shethought,‘thatalonewill takeanhourofmymorning, there’slooking in the looking–glass, another hour; there’s staying and lacing; there’swashing and powdering; there’s changing from silk to lace and from lace topaduasoy; there’s being chaste year in year out...’ Here she tossed her footimpatiently, and showed an inch or two of calf. A sailor on the mast, whohappened to lookdown at themoment, started so violently that hemissedhisfootingandonlysavedhimselfbytheskinofhisteeth.‘Ifthesightofmyanklesmeansdeathtoanhonestfellowwho,nodoubt,hasawifeandfamilytosupport,Imust,inallhumanity,keepthemcovered,’Orlandothought.Yetherlegswereamongherchiefestbeauties.Andshefelltothinkingwhatanoddpasswehavecometowhenallawoman’sbeautyhastobekeptcoveredlestasailormayfallfromamast–head.‘Apoxonthem!’shesaid,realizingforthefirsttimewhat,inother circumstances, shewouldhavebeen taught as a child, that is to say, thesacredresponsibilitiesofwomanhood.

@’Andthat’sthelastoathIshalleverbeabletoswear,’shethought;‘onceIsetfootonEnglishsoil.AndIshallneverbeabletocrackamanoverthehead,ortellhimheliesinhisteeth,ordrawmyswordandrunhimthroughthebody,orsitamongmypeers,orwearacoronet,orwalkinprocession,orsentenceamanto death, or lead an army, or prance down Whitehall on a charger, or wearseventy–two different medals on my breast. All I can do, once I set foot onEnglish soil, is to pour out tea and askmy lords how they like it.D’you takesugar? D’you take cream?’ And mincing out the words, she was horrified toperceive how low an opinion shewas forming of the other sex, themanly, towhich it had once been her pride to belong—’To fall from amast–head’, shethought,‘becauseyouseeawoman’sankles;todressuplikeaGuyFawkesandparadethestreets,sothatwomenmaypraiseyou;todenyawomanteachinglestshemaylaughatyou;tobetheslaveofthefrailestchitinpetticoats.andyettogo about as if youwere theLords of creation.—Heavens!’ she thought, ‘whatfoolstheymakeofus—whatfoolsweare!’Andhereitwouldseemfromsomeambiguity in her terms that she was censuring both sexes equally, as if shebelongedtoneither;andindeed,forthetimebeing,sheseemedtovacillate;she

wasman;shewaswoman;sheknewthesecrets,sharedtheweaknessesofeach.Itwasamostbewilderingandwhirligigstateofmindtobein.Thecomfortsofignoranceseemedutterlydeniedher.Shewasafeatherblownonthegale.Thusit is no greatwonder, as she pitted one sex against the other, and found eachalternatelyfullofthemostdeplorableinfirmities,andwasnotsuretowhichshebelonged—itwasnogreatwonderthatshewasabouttocryoutthatshewouldreturn to Turkey and become a gipsy againwhen the anchor fellwith a greatsplashintothesea;thesailscametumblingondeck,andsheperceived(sosunkhadshebeeninthoughtthatshehadseennothingforseveraldays)thattheshipwasanchoredoffthecoastofItaly.TheCaptainatoncesenttoaskthehonourofhercompanyashorewithhiminthelongboat.

Whenshe returned thenextmorning,shestretchedherselfonhercouchunderthe awning and arranged her draperies with the greatest decorum about herankles.

‘Ignorant and poor as we are compared with the other sex,’ she thought,continuingthesentencewhichshehadleftunfinishedtheotherday,‘armouredwitheveryweaponas theyare,while theydebarusevenfromaknowledgeofthe alphabet’ (and from these opening words it is plain that something hadhappenedduringthenighttogiveherapushtowardsthefemalesex,forshewasspeakingmoreasawomanspeaksthanasaman,yetwithasortofcontentafterall), ‘still—theyfall fromthemast–head.’Hereshegaveagreatyawnandfellasleep.When shewoke, the shipwas sailing before a fair breeze so near theshore that towns on the cliffs’ edge seemed only kept from slipping into thewaterbytheinterpositionofsomegreatrockorthetwistedrootsofsomeancientolivetree.Thescentoforangeswaftedfromamilliontrees,heavywiththefruit,reachedherondeck.Ascoreofbluedolphins,twistingtheirtails,leapthighnowandagainintotheair.Stretchingherarmsout(arms,shehadlearntalready,haveno such fatal effects as legs), she thanked Heaven that she was not prancingdownWhitehallonawarhorse,norevensentencingamantodeath.‘Betterisit’,she thought, ‘to be clothed with poverty and ignorance, which are the darkgarmentsofthefemalesex;bettertoleavetheruleanddisciplineoftheworldtoothers; better be quit ofmartial ambition, the love of power, and all the othermanlydesiresifsoonecanmorefullyenjoythemostexaltedrapturesknowntothe humane spirit, which are’, she said aloud, as her habit was when deeplymoved,‘contemplation,solitude,love.’

‘PraiseGod that I’m awoman!’ she cried, andwas about to run into extremefolly—thanwhichnone ismoredistressing inwomanormaneither—ofbeingproudofhersex,whenshepausedoverthesingularword,which,forallwecandotoputitinitsplace,hascreptinattheendofthelastsentence:Love.‘Love,’said Orlando. Instantly—such is its impetuosity—love took a human shape—suchisitspride.Forwhereotherthoughtsarecontenttoremainabstract,nothingwillsatisfythisonebuttoputonfleshandblood,mantillaandpetticoats,hoseand jerkin. And as all Orlando’s loves had been women, now, through theculpablelaggardryofthehumanframetoadaptitselftoconvention,thoughsheherselfwasawoman,itwasstillawomansheloved;andiftheconsciousnessofbeingofthesamesexhadanyeffectatall,itwastoquickenanddeepenthosefeelingswhichshehadhadasaman.Fornowa thousandhintsandmysteriesbecameplaintoherthatwerethendark.Now,theobscurity,whichdividesthesexesand lets linger innumerable impurities in itsgloom,wasremoved,and ifthere is anything in what the poet says about truth and beauty, this affectiongainedinbeautywhatitlostinfalsity.Atlast,shecried,sheknewSashaasshewas,andintheardourofthisdiscovery,andinthepursuitofallthosetreasureswhich were now revealed, she was so rapt and enchanted that it was as if acannon ball had exploded at her ear when a man’s voice said, ‘Permit me,Madam,’ aman’s hand raisedher to her feet; and the fingers of amanwith athree–mastedsailingshiptattooedonthemiddlefingerpointedtothehorizon.

‘ThecliffsofEngland,Ma’am,’saidtheCaptain,andheraisedthehandwhichhadpointedattheskytothesalute.Orlandonowgaveasecondstart,evenmoreviolentthanthefirst.

‘ChristJesus!’shecried.

Happily, the sightofhernative landafter longabsenceexcusedboth start andexclamation,orshewouldhavebeenhardputtoittoexplaintoCaptainBartolustheragingandconflictingemotionswhichnowboiledwithinher.Howtellhimthatshe,whonowtrembledonhisarm,hadbeenaDukeandanAmbassador?How explain to him that she, who had been lapped like a lily in folds ofpaduasoy, had hacked heads off, and lain with loose women among treasuresacksintheholdsofpirateshipsonsummernightswhenthetulipswereabloomand the bees buzzing offWapping Old Stairs? Not even to herself could sheexplain the giant start she gave, as the resolute right hand of the sea–captainindicatedthecliffsoftheBritishIslands.

‘Torefuseandtoyield,’shemurmured,‘howdelightful;topursueandconquer,howaugust;toperceiveandtoreason,howsublime.’Notoneofthesewordssocoupledtogetherseemedtoherwrong;nevertheless,asthechalkycliffsloomednearer,shefeltculpable;dishonoured;unchaste,which, foronewhohadnevergiven thematter a thought, was strange. Closer and closer they drew, till thesamphire gatherers, hanging half–way down the cliff,were plain to the nakedeye.Andwatchingthem,shefelt,scamperingupanddownwithinher,likesomederisive ghostwho in another instantwill pick up her skirts and flaunt out ofsight,Sashathelost,Sashathememory,whoserealityshehadprovedjustnowsosurprisingly—Sasha, she felt,moppingandmowingandmakingall sortsofdisrespectful gestures towards the cliffs and the samphire gatherers; andwhenthesailorsbeganchanting,‘Sogood–byeandadieutoyou,LadiesofSpain’,thewords echoed inOrlando’s sad heart, and she felt that howevermuch landingthere meant comfort, meant opulence, meant consequence and state (for shewould doubtless pick up some noble Prince and reign, his consort, over halfYorkshire),still,ifitmeantconventionality,meantslavery,meantdeceit,meantdenying her love, fettering her limbs, pursing her lips, and restraining hertongue, thenshewould turnaboutwith theshipandsetsailoncemorefor thegipsies.

Among the hurry of these thoughts, however, there now rose, like a dome ofsmooth, white marble, something which, whether fact or fancy, was soimpressivetoherfeveredimaginationthatshesettleduponitasonehasseenaswarm of vibrant dragonflies alight,with apparent satisfaction, upon the glassbellwhichshelterssometendervegetable.Theformofit,bythehazardoffancy,recalledthatearliest,mostpersistentmemory—themanwiththebigforeheadinTwitchett’s sitting–room, the man who sat writing, or rather looking, butcertainlynotather,forheneverseemedtoseeherpoisedthereinallherfinery,lovelyboythoughshemusthavebeen,shecouldnotdenyit—andwhenevershethought of him, the thought spread round it, like the risenmoon on turbulentwaters,asheetofsilvercalm.Nowherhandwenttoherbosom(theotherwasstillintheCaptain’skeeping),wherethepagesofherpoemwerehiddensafe.Itmight have been a talisman that she kept there. The distraction of sex,whichhers was, andwhat it meant, subsided; she thought now only of the glory ofpoetry,andthegreatlinesofMarlowe,Shakespeare,BenJonson,Miltonbeganboomingandreverberating,asifagoldenclapperbeatagainstagoldenbell in

the cathedral towerwhichwas hermind. The truthwas that the image of themarbledomewhichhereyeshad firstdiscoveredso faintly that it suggestedapoet’sforeheadandthusstartedaflockofirrelevantideas,wasnofigment,butareality;andastheshipadvanceddowntheThamesbeforeafavouringgale,theimage with all its associations gave place to the truth, and revealed itself asnothingmoreandnothinglessthanthedomeofavastcathedralrisingamongafretworkofwhitespires.

‘St Paul’s,’ said Captain Bartolus, who stood by her side. ‘The Tower ofLondon,’hecontinued.‘GreenwichHospital,erectedinmemoryofQueenMaryby her husband, his latemajesty,William the Third.WestminsterAbbey. TheHousesofParliament.’Ashespoke,eachofthesefamousbuildingsrosetoview.ItwasafineSeptembermorning.Amyriadoflittlewater–craftpliedfrombanktobank.Rarelyhasagayer,ormoreinteresting,spectaclepresenteditselftothegazeof a returned traveller.Orlandohungover theprow,absorbed inwonder.Hereyeshadbeenused too long tosavagesandnaturenot tobeentrancedbytheseurbanglories.That, then,wasthedomeofStPaul’swhichMrWrenhadbuiltduringherabsence.Nearby,ashockofgoldenhairburst fromapillar—CaptainBartoluswasathersidetoinformherthatthatwastheMonument;therehadbeenaplagueandafireduringherabsence,hesaid.Dowhatshecouldtorestrainthem,thetearscametohereyes,until,rememberingthatitisbecominginawoman toweep, she let themflow.Here, she thought,hadbeen thegreatcarnival.Here,where thewavesslappedbriskly,hadstood theRoyalPavilion.Here shehad firstmetSasha.Abouthere (she lookeddown into the sparklingwaters)onehadbeenusedtoseethefrozenbumboatwomanwithherapplesonher lap.All that splendour and corruptionwas gone.Gone, too,was the darknight, the monstrous downpour, the violent surges of the flood. Here, whereyellow icebergs had raced circlingwith a crew of terror–strickenwretches ontop, a covey of swans floated, orgulous, undulant, superb. London itself hadcompletely changed since she had last seen it. Then, she remembered, it hadbeen a huddle of little black, beetle–browed houses. The heads of rebels hadgrinnedonpikesatTempleBar.Thecobbledpavementshadreekedofgarbageandordure.Now,astheshipsailedpastWapping,shecaughtglimpsesofbroadandorderly thoroughfares.Stately coachesdrawnby teamsofwell–fedhorsesstood at the doors of houses whose bow windows, whose plate glass, whosepolished knockers, testified to the wealth and modest dignity of the dwellerswithin.Ladiesinfloweredsilk(sheputtheCaptain’sglasstohereye)walkedon

raised footpaths.Citizens in broidered coats took snuff at street corners underlamp–posts.Shecaughtsightofavarietyofpaintedsignsswinginginthebreezeandcouldformarapidnotionfromwhatwaspaintedonthemofthetobacco,ofthe stuff, of the silk, of the gold, of the silver ware, of the gloves, of theperfumes,andofathousandotherarticleswhichweresoldwithin.Norcouldshedomore as the ship sailed to its anchorage by LondonBridge than glance atcoffee–housewindowswhere,onbalconies,sincetheweatherwasfine,agreatnumberofdecent citizens sat at ease,with chinadishes in front of them, claypipes by their sides,while one among them read from a news sheet, andwasfrequentlyinterruptedbythelaughterorthecommentsoftheothers.Werethesetaverns,werethesewits,werethesepoets?sheaskedofCaptainBartolus,whoobliginglyinformedherthatevennow—ifsheturnedherheadalittletotheleftandlookedalongthelineofhisfirstfinger—so—theywerepassingtheCocoaTree,where,—yes,therehewas—onemightseeMrAddisontakinghiscoffee;theother twogentlemen—’there,Ma’am,a little to therightof the lamp–post,oneof‘emhumped,t’othermuchthesameasyouorme’—wereMrDrydenandMr Pope.’ ‘Sad dogs,’ said the Captain, by which he meant that they werePapists,‘butmenofparts,nonetheless,’headded,hurryingafttosuperintendthe arrangements for landing. (The Captain must have been mistaken, as areference toany textbookof literaturewillshow;but themistakewasakindlyone,andsoweletitstand.)

‘Addison,Dryden,Pope,’Orlandorepeatedasifthewordswereanincantation.ForonemomentshesawthehighmountainsaboveBroussa, thenext,shehadsetherfootuponhernativeshore.

But now Orlando was to learn how little the most tempestuous flutter ofexcitementavailsagainst theironcountenanceof thelaw;howharder thanthestones ofLondonBridge it is, and than the lips of a cannonmore severe.NosoonerhadshereturnedtoherhomeinBlackfriarsthanshewasmadeawarebya succession of Bow Street runners and other grave emissaries from the LawCourtsthatshewasapartytothreemajorsuitswhichhadbeenpreferredagainstherduringher absence, aswell as innumerableminor litigations, somearisingoutof,othersdependingonthem.Thechiefchargesagainstherwere(1)thatshe

wasdead,andthereforecouldnotholdanypropertywhatsoever;(2)thatshewasawoman,whichamounts tomuchthesamething;(3) thatshewasanEnglishDukewhohadmarriedoneRosinaPepita, adancer; andhadhadbyher threesons,whichsonsnowdeclaringthat theirfatherwasdeceased,claimedthatallhispropertydescendedto them.Suchgravechargesas thesewould,ofcourse,taketimeandmoneytodisposeof.AllherestateswereputinChanceryandhertitlespronouncedinabeyancewhilethesuitswereunderlitigation.Thusitwasinahighlyambiguouscondition,uncertainwhethershewasaliveordead,manorwoman,Dukeornonentity,thatsheposteddowntohercountryseat,where,pendingthelegaljudgment,shehadtheLaw’spermissiontoresideinastateofincognitoorincognita,asthecasemightturnouttobe.

Itwasa fineevening inDecemberwhenshearrivedand thesnowwas fallingandthevioletshadowswereslantingmuchasshehadseenthemfromthehill–topatBroussa.Thegreathouselaymorelikea townthanahouse,brownandblue, rose and purple in the snow,with all its chimneys smoking busily as ifinspiredwithalifeoftheirown.Shecouldnotrestrainacryasshesawittheretranquilandmassive,coucheduponthemeadows.Astheyellowcoachenteredtheparkandcamebowlingalongthedrivebetweenthetrees,thereddeerraisedtheir heads as if expectantly, and it was observed that instead of showing thetimidity natural to their kind, they followed the coach and stood about thecourtyardwhenitdrewup.Sometossedtheirantlers,otherspawedthegroundasthestepwasletdownandOrlandoalighted.One,itissaid,actuallykneltinthe snowbefore her. She had not time to reach her hand towards the knockerbeforebothwingsofthegreatdoorwereflungopen,andthere,withlightsandtorchesheldabovetheirheads,wereMrsGrimsditch,MrDupper,andawholeretinueofservantscometogreether.ButtheorderlyprocessionwasinterruptedfirstbytheimpetuosityofCanute,theelk–hound,whothrewhimselfwithsuchardouruponhismistressthathealmostknockedhertotheground;next,bytheagitationofMrsGrimsditch,who,makingas if tocurtsey,wasovercomewithemotionandcoulddonomorethangaspMilord!Milady!Milady!Milord!untilOrlandocomfortedherwithaheartykissuponbothhercheeks.After that,MrDupper began to read from a parchment, but the dogs barking, the huntsmenwinding their horns, and the stags, who had come into the courtyard in theconfusion, baying the moon, not much progress was made, and the companydispersedwithinaftercrowdingabouttheirMistress,andtestifyingineverywaytotheirgreatjoyatherreturn.

Nooneshowedaninstant’ssuspicionthatOrlandowasnottheOrlandotheyhadknown.Ifanydoubttherewasinthehumanmindtheactionofthedeerandthedogswould have been enough to dispel it, for the dumb creatures, as is wellknown, are far better judges both of identity and character than we are.Moreover, saidMrsGrimsditch,overherdishof china tea, toMrDupper thatnight, ifherLordwasaLadynow,shehadneverseena lovelierone,norwasthereapennypiece tochoosebetween them;onewasaswell–favouredas theother; they were as like as two peaches on one branch; which, said MrsGrimsditch,becomingconfidential,shehadalwayshadhersuspicions(hereshenoddedherheadverymysteriously),which itwasnosurprise toher (here shenodded her head very knowingly), and for her part, a very great comfort; forwhatwiththetowelswantingmendingandthecurtainsinthechaplain’sparlourbeing moth–eaten round the fringes, it was time they had a Mistress amongthem.

‘And some littlemasters andmistresses to come after her,’MrDupper added,beingprivilegedbyvirtueofhisholyofficetospeakhismindonsuchdelicatemattersasthese.

So,while theold servantsgossiped in the servants’hall,Orlando tooka silvercandle in her hand and roamedoncemore through the halls, the galleries, thecourts,thebedrooms;sawloomdownatheragainthedarkvisageofthisLordKeeper, that LordChamberlain, among her ancestors; sat now in this chair ofstate,nowreclinedonthatcanopyofdelight;observedthearras,howitswayed;watched the huntsmen riding andDaphne flying; bathed her hand, as she hadloved to do as a child, in the yellow pool of lightwhich themoonlightmadefalling through the heraldic Leopard in the window; slid along the polishedplanksofthegallery,theothersideofwhichwasroughtimber;touchedthissilk,thatsatin;fanciedthecarveddolphinsswam;brushedherhairwithKingJames’silverbrush;buriedherfaceinthepotpourri,whichwasmadeastheConquerorhadtaughtthemmanyhundredyearsagoandfromthesameroses;lookedatthegarden and imagined the sleeping crocuses, the dormant dahlias; saw the frailnymphsgleamingwhiteinthesnowandthegreatyewhedges,thickasahouse,blackbehindthem;sawtheorangeriesandthegiantmedlars;—allthisshesaw,andeachsightandsound,rudelyaswewriteitdown,filledherheartwithsuchalustandbalmof joy, thatat length, tiredout, sheentered theChapelandsankintotheoldredarm–chairinwhichherancestorsusedtohearservice.Thereshe

litacheroot(’twasahabitshehadbroughtbackfromtheEast)andopenedthePrayerBook.

Itwasalittlebookboundinvelvet,stitchedwithgold,whichhadbeenheldbyMary Queen of Scots on the scaffold, and the eye of faith could detect abrownish stain, said tobemadeof adropof theRoyalblood.ButwhatpiousthoughtsitrousedinOrlando,whatevilpassionsitsoothedasleep,whodaresay,seeing that of all communions this with the deity is the most inscrutable?Novelist, poet, historian all falter with their hand on that door; nor does thebelieverhimselfenlightenus, for ishemorereadytodie thanotherpeople,ormoreeager to sharehisgoods?Doeshenotkeepasmanymaidsandcarriagehorsesastherest?andyetwithitall,holdsafaithhesayswhichshouldmakegoodsavanityanddeathdesirable. In theQueen’sprayerbook,alongwith theblood–stain,wasalsoalockofhairandacrumbofpastry;Orlandonowaddedtothesekeepsakesaflakeoftobacco,andso,readingandsmoking,wasmovedby the humane jumble of them all—the hair, the pastry, the blood–stain, thetobacco—tosuchamoodofcontemplationasgaveherareverentairsuitableinthe circumstances, though she had, it is said, no traffic with the usual God.Nothing,however, canbemorearrogant, thoughnothing is commoner than toassumethatofGodsthereisonlyone,andofreligionsnonebut thespeaker’s.Orlando,itseemed,hadafaithofherown.Withall thereligiousardourintheworld,shenowreflecteduponhersinsandtheimperfectionsthathadcreptintoherspiritualstate.The letterS,shereflected, is theserpent in thepoet’sEden.Dowhatshewouldtherewerestilltoomanyofthesesinfulreptilesinthefirststanzasof‘TheOakTree’.But‘S’wasnothing,inheropinion,comparedwiththe termination ‘ing’. The present participle is theDevil himself, she thought,nowthatweareintheplaceforbelievinginDevils.Toevadesuchtemptationsisthefirstdutyofthepoet,sheconcluded,forastheearistheantechambertothesoul,poetrycanadulterateanddestroymoresurelythanlustorgunpowder.The poet’s, then, is the highest office of all, she continued. His words reachwhereothersfallshort.AsillysongofShakespeare’shasdonemoreforthepoorandthewickedthanallthepreachersandphilanthropistsintheworld.Notime,nodevotion,canbetoogreat,therefore,whichmakesthevehicleofourmessagelessdistorting.Wemustshapeourwordstilltheyarethethinnestintegumentforour thoughts.Thoughtsaredivine,etc.Thus it isobvious thatshewasback inthe confines of her own religion which time had only strengthened in herabsence,andwasrapidlyacquiringtheintoleranceofbelief.

‘I am growing up,’ she thought, taking her taper at last. ‘I am losing someillusions,’shesaid,shuttingQueenMary’sbook,‘perhapstoacquireothers,’andshedescendedamongthetombswherethebonesofherancestorslay.

Buteventhebonesofherancestors,SirMiles,SirGervase,andtherest,hadlostsomethingoftheirsanctitysinceRustumelSadihadwavedhishandthatnightintheAsianmountains.Somehowthefactthatonlythreeorfourhundredyearsagotheseskeletonshadbeenmenwiththeirwaytomakeintheworldlikeanymodern upstart, and that they had made it by acquiring houses and offices,gartersandribbands,asanyotherupstartdoes,whilepoets,perhaps,andmenofgreatmind and breeding had preferred the quietude of the country, forwhichchoicetheypaidthepenaltybyextremepoverty,andnowhawkedbroadsheetsintheStrand,orherdedsheepinthefields,filledherwithremorse.Shethoughtofthe Egyptian pyramids and what bones lie beneath them as she stood in thecrypt;andthevast,emptyhillswhichlieabovetheSeaofMarmaraseemed,forthemoment,afinerdwelling–placethanthismany–roomedmansioninwhichnobedlackeditsquiltandnosilverdishitssilvercover.

‘I am growing up,’ she thought, taking her taper. ‘I am losing my illusions,perhaps to acquire new ones,’ and she paced down the long gallery to herbedroom. It was a disagreeable process, and a troublesome. But it wasinteresting,amazingly,shethought,stretchingherlegsouttoherlogfire(fornosailorwaspresent),andshereviewed,asifitwereanavenueofgreatedifices,theprogressofherownselfalongherownpast.

How she had loved sound when she was a boy, and thought the volley oftumultuous syllables from the lips the finest of all poetry. Then—it was theeffect of Sasha and her disillusionment perhaps—into this high frenzywas letfallsomeblackdrop,whichturnedherrhapsodyintosluggishness.Slowlytherehad opened within her something intricate and many–chambered, which onemust take a torch to explore, in prose not verse; and she remembered howpassionatelyshehadstudiedthatdoctoratNorwich,Browne,whosebookwasatherhandthere.ShehadformedhereinsolitudeafterheraffairwithGreene,ortried to form, forHeavenknows thesegrowthsareagelong incoming,a spiritcapableofresistance.‘Iwillwrite,’shehadsaid,‘whatIenjoywriting’;andsohadscratchedouttwenty–sixvolumes.Yetstill,forallhertravelsandadventuresandprofoundthinkingsandturningsthiswayandthat,shewasonlyinprocessof fabrication.What the future might bring, Heaven only knew. Change was

incessant,andchangeperhapswouldnevercease.Highbattlementsofthought,habitsthathadseemeddurableasstone,wentdownlikeshadowsatthetouchofanothermindandleftanakedskyandfreshstarstwinklinginit.Hereshewenttothewindow,andinspiteofthecoldcouldnothelpunlatchingit.Sheleantoutintothedampnightair.Sheheardafoxbarkinthewoods,andtheclutterofapheasanttrailingthroughthebranches.Sheheardthesnowslitherandflopfromthe roof to the ground. ‘Bymy life,’ she exclaimed, ‘this is a thousand timesbetterthanTurkey.Rustum,’shecried,asifshewerearguingwiththegipsy(andin this new power of bearing an argument in mind and continuing it withsomeonewhowasnottheretocontradictsheshowedagainthedevelopmentofhersoul),‘youwerewrong.ThisisbetterthanTurkey.Hair,pastry,tobacco—ofwhatodds and ends arewecompounded,’ she said (thinkingofQueenMary’sprayer–book). ‘What a phantasmagoria the mind is and meeting–place ofdissemblables!Atonemomentwedeploreourbirthandstateandaspire toanascetic exaltation; the nextwe are overcomeby the smell of someold gardenpath andweep to hear the thrushes sing.’ And so bewildered as usual by themultitudeofthingswhichcallforexplanationandimprinttheirmessagewithoutleavinganyhintas to theirmeaning,she threwhercherootoutof thewindowandwenttobed.

Nextmorning, inpursuanceof these thoughts, shehadout her pen andpaper.andstartedafreshupon‘TheOakTree’,fortohaveinkandpaperinplentywhenonehasmadedowithberriesandmarginsisadelightnottobeconceived.Thusshewasnowstrikingoutaphraseinthedepthsofdespair,nowintheheightsofecstasywritingone in,when a shadowdarkened thepage.Shehastilyhidhermanuscript.

Asherwindowgaveontothemostcentralofthecourts,asshehadgivenordersthatshewouldseenoone,assheknewnooneandwasherselflegallyunknown,shewasfirstsurprisedattheshadow,thenindignantatit,then(whenshelookedup and saw what caused it) overcome with merriment. For it was a familiarshadow, a grotesque shadow, the shadow of no less a personage than theArchduchess Harriet Griselda of Finster–Aarhorn and Scand–op–Boom in theRoumanian territory. Shewas loping across the court in her old black riding–habitandmantleasbefore.Notahairofherheadwaschanged.Thisthenwasthe woman who had chased her from England! This was the eyrie of thatobscenevulture—thisthefatalfowlherself!Atthethoughtthatshehadfledall

the way to Turkey to avoid her seductions (now become excessively flat),Orlando laughedaloud.Therewassomething inexpressiblycomic in thesight.Sheresembled,asOrlandohadthoughtbefore,nothingsomuchasamonstroushare. She had the staring eyes, the lank cheeks, the high headdress of thatanimal.She stoppednow,muchas ahare sits erect in the cornwhen thinkingitself unobserved, and stared at Orlando, who stared back at her from thewindow.Aftertheyhadstaredlikethisforacertaintime,therewasnothingforitbut toaskher in,andsoonthetwoladieswereexchangingcomplimentswhiletheArchduchessstruckthesnowfromhermantle.

‘Aplagueonwomen,’saidOrlandotoherself,goingtothecupboardtofetchaglass of wine, ‘they never leave one a moment’s peace. A more ferreting,inquisiting,busybodyingsetofpeopledon’texist.ItwastoescapethisMaypolethatIleftEngland,andnow’—heresheturnedtopresenttheArchduchesswiththesalver,andbehold—inherplacestoodatallgentlemaninblack.Aheapofclotheslayinthefender.Shewasalonewithaman.

Recalledthussuddenlytoaconsciousnessofhersex,whichshehadcompletelyforgotten, and of his, whichwas now remote enough to be equally upsetting,Orlandofeltseizedwithfaintness.

‘La!’shecried,puttingherhandtoherside,‘howyoufrightenme!’

‘Gentle creature,’ cried theArchduchess, falling on one knee and at the sametime pressing a cordial to Orlando’s lips, ‘forgive me for the deceit I havepractisedonyou!’

OrlandosippedthewineandtheArchdukekneltandkissedherhand.

In short, they acted the parts of man and woman for ten minutes with greatvigour and then fell into natural discourse. TheArchduchess (but shemust infuturebeknownastheArchduke)toldhisstory—thathewasamanandalwayshadbeenone;thathehadseenaportraitofOrlandoandfallenhopelesslyinlovewithhim;thattocompasshisends,hehaddressedasawomanandlodgedattheBaker’sshop;thathewasdesolatedwhenhefledtoTurkey;thathehadheardofherchangeandhastenedtoofferhisservices(hereheteedandheedintolerably).For tohim,said theArchdukeHarry,shewasandwouldeverbe thePink, thePearl,thePerfectionofhersex.Thethreep’swouldhavebeenmorepersuasive

if theyhadnotbeen interspersedwith tee–heesandhaw–hawsof thestrangestkind. ‘If this is love,’ saidOrlando to herself, looking at theArchdukeon theother side of the fender, and now from the woman’s point of view, ‘there issomethinghighlyridiculousaboutit.’

Fallingonhisknees,theArchdukeHarrymadethemostpassionatedeclarationof his suit.He told her that he had something like twentymillion ducats in astrongboxathiscastle.HehadmoreacresthananynoblemaninEngland.Theshooting was excellent: he could promise her a mixed bag of ptarmigan andgrouse such as no English moor, or Scotch either, could rival. True, thepheasantshadsuffered from thegape inhisabsence,and thedoeshadslippedtheiryoung,butthatcouldbeputright,andwouldbewithherhelpwhentheylivedinRoumaniatogether.

Ashespoke,enormoustearsformedinhisratherprominenteyesandrandownthesandytractsofhislongandlankycheeks.

Thatmencryasfrequentlyandasunreasonablyaswomen,Orlandoknewfromherownexperienceas aman;but shewasbeginning tobe aware thatwomenshouldbeshockedwhenmendisplayemotionintheirpresence,andso,shockedshewas.

The Archduke apologized. He commanded himself sufficiently to say that hewouldleavehernow,butwouldreturnonthefollowingdayforhisanswer.

ThatwasaTuesday.HecameonWednesday;hecameonThursday;hecameonFriday;andhecameonSaturday.It is true thateachvisitbegan,continued,orconcludedwithadeclarationof love,but inbetweentherewasmuchroomforsilence. They sat on either side of the fireplace and sometimes the Archdukeknocked over the fire–irons and Orlando picked them up again. Then theArchdukewouldbethinkhimhowhehadshotanelk inSweden,andOrlandowouldask,wasitaverybigelk,andtheArchdukewouldsaythatitwasnotasbig as the reindeerwhich he shot inNorway; andOrlandowould ask, had heever shot a tiger, and the Archduke would say he had shot an albatross, andOrlandowouldsay(halfhidingheryawn)wasanalbatrossasbigasanelephant,and theArchdukewouldsay—somethingverysensible,nodoubt,butOrlandohearditnot,forshewaslookingatherwriting–table,outofthewindow,atthedoor. Upon which the Archduke would say, ‘I adore you’, at the very same

momentthatOrlandosaid‘Look,it’sbeginningtorain’,atwhichtheywerebothmuchembarrassed,andblushedscarlet,andcouldneitherofthemthinkwhattosaynext.Indeed,Orlandowasatherwit’sendwhattotalkaboutandhadshenotbethoughtherofagamecalledFlyLoo,atwhichgreatsumsofmoneycanbelost with very little expense of spirit, she would have had to marry him, shesupposed;forhowelsetogetridofhimsheknewnot.Bythisdevice,however,anditwasasimpleone,needingonlythreelumpsofsugarandasufficiencyofflies, the embarrassment of conversation was overcome and the necessity ofmarriageavoided.Fornow,theArchdukewouldbetherfivehundredpoundstoa tester thata flywouldsettleon this lumpandnoton that.Thus, theywouldhave occupation for a whole morning watching the flies (who were naturallysluggishatthisseasonandoftenspentanhourorsocirclingroundtheceiling)until at length some fine bluebottlemade his choice and thematchwaswon.Manyhundredsofpoundschangedhandsbetweenthematthisgame,whichtheArchduke, who was a born gambler, swore was every bit as good as horseracing,andvowedhecouldplayatforever.ButOrlandosoonbegantoweary.

What’sthegoodofbeingafineyoungwomanintheprimeoflife’,sheasked,‘ifIhavetopassallmymorningswatchingblue–bottleswithanArchduke?’

Shebegantodetestthesightofsugar;fliesmadeherdizzy.Somewayoutofthedifficultytheremustbe,shesupposed,butshewasstillawkwardintheartsofher sex, and as she could no longer knock a man over the head or run himthroughthebodywitharapier,shecouldthinkofnobettermethodthanthis.Shecaughtablue–bottle,gentlypressedthelifeoutofit(itwashalfdeadalready;orherkindnessforthedumbcreatureswouldnothavepermittedit)andsecureditbyadropofgumarabictoalumpofsugar.WhiletheArchdukewasgazingattheceiling,shedeftlysubstitutedthislumpfortheoneshehadlaidhermoneyon,andcrying‘LooLoo!’declaredthatshehadwonherbet.HerreckoningwasthattheArchduke,withallhisknowledgeofsportandhorseracing,woulddetectthe fraudand,as tocheatatLoo is themostheinousofcrimes,andmenhavebeenbanishedfromthesocietyofmankindtothatofapesinthetropicsforeverbecauseof it, shecalculated thathewouldbemanlyenough to refuse tohaveanythingfurthertodowithher.Butshemisjudgedthesimplicityoftheamiablenobleman.Hewas no nice judge of flies.Adead fly looked to himmuch thesameasalivingone.Sheplayedthetricktwentytimesonhimandhepaidherover17,250pounds (which is about40,885pounds6 shillingsand8penceof

our own money) before Orlando cheated so grossly that even he could bedeceivedno longer.Whenhe realized the truthat last, apainful sceneensued.TheArchdukerosetohisfullheight.Hecolouredscarlet.Tearsrolleddownhischeeksonebyone.Thatshehadwonafortunefromhimwasnothing—shewaswelcome to it; that shehaddeceivedhimwassomething—ithurthim to thinkher capable of it; but that she had cheated at Loo was everything. To love awoman who cheated at play was, he said, impossible. Here he broke downcompletely.Happily,he said, recovering slightly, therewerenowitnesses.Shewas,afterall,onlyawoman,hesaid.Inshort,hewaspreparinginthechivalryofhishearttoforgiveherandhadbenttoaskherpardonfortheviolenceofhislanguage, when she cut the matter short, as he stooped his proud head, bydroppingasmalltoadbetweenhisskinandhisshirt.

Injusticetoher,itmustbesaidthatshewouldinfinitelyhavepreferredarapier.Toadsareclammythingstoconcealaboutone’spersonawholemorning.Butifrapiers are forbidden; one must have recourse to toads. Moreover toads andlaughterbetweenthemsometimesdowhatcoldsteelcannot.Shelaughed.TheArchduke blushed. She laughed. The Archduke cursed. She laughed. TheArchdukeslammedthedoor.

‘Heavenbepraised!’criedOrlandostilllaughing.Sheheardthesoundofchariotwheelsdrivenatafuriouspacedownthecourtyard.Sheheardthemrattlealongtheroad.Fainterandfainterthesoundbecame.Nowitfadedawayaltogether.

‘Iamalone,’saidOrlando,aloudsincetherewasnoonetohear.

Thatsilenceismoreprofoundafternoisestillwantstheconfirmationofscience.But that loneliness ismore apparent directly after one has beenmade love to,many women would take their oath. As the sound of the Archduke’s chariotwheelsdiedaway,OrlandofeltdrawingfurtherfromherandfurtherfromheranArchduke(shedidnotmindthat),afortune(shedidnotmindthat),atitle(shedidnotmindthat),thesafetyandcircumstanceofmarriedlife(shedidnotmindthat), but life she heard going from her, and a lover. ‘Life and a lover,’ shemurmured; and going to her writing–table she dipped her pen in the ink andwrote:

‘Lifeandalover’—alinewhichdidnotscanandmadenosensewithwhatwentbefore—something about the proper way of dipping sheep to avoid the scab.

Readingitoversheblushedandrepeated,

‘Lifeandalover.’Thenlayingherpenasideshewentintoherbedroom,stoodinfrontofhermirror,andarrangedherpearlsaboutherneck.Thensincepearlsdonotshowtoadvantageagainstamorninggownofspriggedcotton,shechangedtoadovegreytaffeta;thencetooneofpeachbloom;thencetoawine–colouredbrocade.Perhapsadashofpowderwasneeded,andifherhairweredisposed—so—aboutherbrow,itmightbecomeher.Thensheslippedherfeetintopointedslippers,anddrewanemeraldringuponherfinger.‘Now,’shesaidwhenallwasreadyandlitthesilversconcesoneithersideofthemirror.Whatwomanwouldnot have kindled to see what Orlando saw then burning in the snow—for allabout the looking–glasswere snowy lawns, and shewas like a fire, a burningbush,andthecandleflamesaboutherheadweresilverleaves;oragain,theglasswasgreenwater,andsheamermaid,slungwithpearls,asireninacave,singingsothatoarsmenleantfromtheirboatsandfelldown,downtoembraceher;sodark,sobright,sohard,sosoft,wasshe,soastonishinglyseductivethatitwasathousand pities that therewas no one there to put it in plainEnglish, and sayoutright, ‘Damn it,Madam,youare loveliness incarnate,’whichwas the truth.EvenOrlando (whohadno conceit of her person) knew it, for she smiled theinvoluntarysmilewhichwomensmilewhentheirownbeauty,whichseemsnottheirown,formslikeadropfallingorafountainrisingandconfrontsthemallofasuddenintheglass—thissmileshesmiledandthenshelistenedforamomentand heard only the leaves blowing and the sparrows twittering, and then shesighed, ‘Life, a lover,’ and then she turned on her heel with extraordinaryrapidity;whippedher pearls fromher neck, stripped the satins fromher back,stooderect in theneatblacksilkknickerbockersofanordinarynobleman,andrangthebell.Whentheservantcame,shetoldhimtoorderacoachandsixtobeinreadinessinstantly.ShewassummonedbyurgentaffairstoLondon.WithinanhouroftheArchduke’sdeparture,offshedrove.

Andas shedrove,wemayseize theopportunity, since the landscapewasofasimpleEnglishkindwhichneedsnodescription, todrawthereader’sattentionmore particularly thanwe could at themoment to one or two remarkswhichhaveslippedinhereandthereinthecourseofthenarrative.Forexample,itmayhave been observed thatOrlando hid hermanuscriptswhen interrupted.Next,thatshelookedlongandintentlyintheglass;andnow,asshedrovetoLondon,onemight notice her starting and suppressing a crywhen the horses galloped

fasterthansheliked.Hermodestyastoherwriting,hervanityastoherperson,her fears for her safety all seems to hint thatwhatwas said a short time agoabout therebeingnochange inOrlandothemanandOrlandothewoman,wasceasingtobealtogethertrue.Shewasbecomingalittlemoremodest,aswomenare,ofherbrains,anda littlemorevain,aswomenare,ofherperson.Certainsusceptibilities were asserting themselves, and others were diminishing. Thechange of clothes had, some philosophers will say, much to do with it. Vaintriflesastheyseem,clotheshave,theysay,moreimportantofficesthanmerelytokeepuswarm.Theychangeourviewoftheworldandtheworld’sviewofus.For example, when Captain Bartolus saw Orlando’s skirt, he had an awningstretched for her immediately, pressed her to take another slice of beef, andinvitedher togoashorewithhim in the long–boat.Thesecomplimentswouldcertainlynothavebeenpaidherhadherskirts,insteadofflowing,beencuttightto her legs in the fashion of breeches.Andwhenwe are paid compliments, itbehovesustomakesomereturn.Orlandocurtseyed;shecomplied;sheflatteredthegoodman’shumoursasshewouldnothavedonehadhisneatbreechesbeenawoman’s skirts, and his braided coat awoman’s satin bodice.Thus, there ismuchtosupporttheviewthatitisclothesthatwearusandnotwethem;wemaymake them take the mould of arm or breast, but they mould our hearts, ourbrains,ourtonguestotheirliking.So,havingnowwornskirtsforaconsiderabletime,acertainchangewasvisibleinOrlando,whichistobefoundifthereaderwilllookat@above,eveninherface.IfwecomparethepictureofOrlandoasaman with that of Orlando as a woman we shall see that though both areundoubtedlyoneand the sameperson, there are certain changes.Themanhashis hand free to seize his sword, thewomanmust use hers to keep the satinsfromslippingfromhershoulders.Themanlookstheworldfullintheface,asifit were made for his uses and fashioned to his liking. The woman takes asidelongglanceatit,fullofsubtlety,evenofsuspicion.Hadtheybothwornthesameclothes,itispossiblethattheiroutlookmighthavebeenthesame.

That is the view of some philosophers and wise ones, but on the whole, weincline to another. The difference between the sexes is, happily, one of greatprofundity.Clothes are but a symbol of something hid deep beneath. Itwas achangeinOrlandoherselfthatdictatedherchoiceofawoman’sdressandofawoman’ssex.Andperhaps in thisshewasonlyexpressingrathermoreopenlythan usual—openness indeed was the soul of her nature—something thathappenstomostpeoplewithoutbeingthusplainlyexpressed.Forhereagain,we

come to a dilemma. Different though the sexes are, they intermix. In everyhumanbeingavacillationfromonesextotheothertakesplace,andoftenitisonlytheclothesthatkeepthemaleorfemalelikeness,whileunderneaththesexis the very opposite ofwhat it is above.Of the complications and confusionswhich thus result everyone has had experience; but herewe leave the generalquestion and note only the odd effect it had in the particular case ofOrlandoherself.

Foritwasthismixtureinherofmanandwoman,onebeinguppermostandthenthe other, that often gave her conduct an unexpected turn. The curious of herownsexwouldargue,forexample,ifOrlandowasawoman,howdidshenevertakemorethantenminutestodress?Andwerenotherclotheschosenratheratrandom,andsometimeswornrathershabby?Andthentheywouldsay,still,shehasnoneoftheformalityofaman,oraman’sloveofpower.Sheisexcessivelytender–hearted. She could not endure to see a donkey beaten or a kittendrowned.Yetagain,theynoted,shedetestedhouseholdmatters,wasupatdawnandoutamongthefieldsinsummerbeforethesunhadrisen.Nofarmerknewmoreaboutthecropsthanshedid.Shecoulddrinkwiththebestandlikedgamesofhazard.SherodewellanddrovesixhorsesatagallopoverLondonBridge.Yet again, thoughbold and active as aman, itwas remarked that the sight ofanother indangerbroughton themostwomanlypalpitations.Shewouldburstinto tears on slight provocation. She was unversed in geography, foundmathematics intolerable, and held some caprices which are more commonamongwomenthanmen,asforinstancethattotravelsouthistotraveldownhill.Whether,then,Orlandowasmostmanorwoman,itisdifficulttosayandcannotnowbedecided.Forhercoachwasnowrattlingonthecobbles.Shehadreachedherhomeinthecity.Thestepswerebeingletdown;theirongateswerebeingopened.Shewasenteringherfather’shouseatBlackfriars,whichthoughfashionwasfastdesertingthatendofthetown,wasstillapleasant,roomymansion,withgardensrunningdowntotheriver,andapleasantgroveofnuttreestowalkin.

Hereshetookupherlodgingandbeganinstantlytolookaboutherforwhatshehadcomeinsearchof—thatistosay,lifeandalover.Aboutthefirsttheremightbesomedoubt;thesecondshefoundwithouttheleastdifficultytwodaysafterherarrival.ItwasaTuesdaythatshecametotown.OnThursdayshewentforawalkintheMall,aswasthenthehabitofpersonsofquality.Shehadnotmademorethanaturnortwooftheavenuebeforeshewasobservedbyalittleknotof

vulgarpeoplewhogotheretospyupontheirbetters.Asshecamepastthem,acommonwomancarryingachildatherbreaststeppedforward,peeredfamiliarlyintoOrlando’sface,andcriedout,‘Lawkuponus,ifitain’ttheLadyOrlando!’Hercompanionscamecrowdinground,andOrlandofoundherselfinamomentthecentreofamobofstaringcitizensandtradesmen’swives,alleagertogazeupon theheroineof the celebrated lawsuit.Suchwas the interest that the caseexcited in the minds of the common people. She might, indeed, have foundherselfgravelydiscommodedby thepressureof thecrowd—shehad forgottenthat ladies are not supposed to walk in public places alone—had not a tallgentlemanatoncesteppedforwardandofferedhertheprotectionofhisarm.Itwas the Archduke. She was overcome with distress and yet with someamusementatthesight.Notonlyhadthismagnanimousnoblemanforgivenher,but inorder toshowthathe tookher levitywith the toad ingoodpart,hehadprocured a jewelmade in the shape of that reptilewhich he pressed upon herwitharepetitionofhissuitashehandedhertohercoach.

Whatwiththecrowd,whatwiththeDuke,whatwiththejewel,shedrovehomeinthevilesttemperimaginable.Wasitimpossiblethentogoforawalkwithoutbeing half–suffocated, presented with a toad set in emeralds, and asked inmarriagebyanArchduke?Shetookakinderviewofthecasenextdaywhenshefoundonherbreakfasttablehalfadozenbilletsfromsomeofthegreatestladiesin the land—LadySuffolk,LadySalisbury,LadyChesterfield,LadyTavistock,and others who reminded her in the politest manner of old alliances betweentheir families and her own, and desired the honour of her acquaintance. Nextday,whichwasaSaturday,manyofthesegreatladieswaitedonherinperson.On Tuesday, about noon, their footmen brought cards of invitation to variousrouts,dinners,andassembliesinthenearfuture;sothatOrlandowaslaunchedwithoutdelay,andwithsomesplashandfoamatthat,uponthewatersofLondonsociety.

TogiveatruthfulaccountofLondonsocietyatthatorindeedatanyothertime,is beyond thepowersof thebiographeror thehistorian.Only thosewhohavelittleneedofthetruth,andnorespectforit—thepoetsandthenovelists—canbetrusted to do it, for this is one of the cases where the truth does not exist.Nothingexists.Thewholethingisamiasma—amirage.Tomakeourmeaningplain—OrlandocouldcomehomefromoneoftheseroutsatthreeorfourinthemorningwithcheekslikeaChristmastreeandeyeslikestars.Shewoulduntiea

lace,pacetheroomascoreoftimes,untieanotherlace,stop,andpacetheroomagain. Often the sun would be blazing over Southwark chimneys before shecould persuade herself to get into bed, and there she would lie, pitching andtossing,laughingandsighingforanhourorlongerbeforeshesleptatlast.Andwhatwasallthisstirabout?Society.Andwhathadsocietysaidordonetothrowareasonableladyintosuchanexcitement?Inplainlanguage,nothing.Rackhermemoryasshewould,nextdayOrlandocouldneverrememberasinglewordtomagnifyintothenamesomething.LordO.hadbeengallant.LordA.polite.TheMarquisofC.charming.MrM.amusing.Butwhenshetriedtorecollectinwhattheirgallantry,politeness,charm,orwithadconsisted,shewasboundtosupposehermemory at fault, for she could not name a thing. Itwas the same always.Nothing remained over the next day, yet the excitement of the moment wasintense.ThusweareforcedtoconcludethatsocietyisoneofthosebrewssuchasskilledhousekeepersservehotaboutChristmastime,whoseflavourdependsupon thepropermixingandstirringofadozendifferent ingredients.Takeoneout,andit is in itself insipid.TakeawayLordO.,LordA.,LordC.,orMrM.andseparatelyeachisnothing.Stirthemall togetherandtheycombinetogiveoff the most intoxicating of flavours, the most seductive of scents. Yet thisintoxication,thisseductiveness,entirelyevadeouranalysis.Atoneandthesametime,therefore,societyiseverythingandsocietyisnothing.Societyisthemostpowerfulconcoctionintheworldandsocietyhasnoexistencewhatsoever.Suchmonstersthepoetsandthenovelistsalonecandealwith;withsuchsomething–nothingstheirworksarestuffedouttoprodigioussize;andtothemwiththebestwillintheworldwearecontenttoleaveit.

Following the example of our predecessors, therefore, we will only say thatsociety in thereignofQueenAnnewasofunparalleledbrilliance.Tohave theentry therewas the aimof everywell–bredperson.Thegraceswere supreme.Fathers instructed their sons, mothers their daughters. No education wascompleteforeithersexwhichdidnotincludethescienceofdeportment,theartofbowingandcurtseying,themanagementoftheswordandthefan,thecareoftheteeth,theconductoftheleg,theflexibilityoftheknee,thepropermethodsofentering and leaving the room, with a thousand etceteras, such as willimmediately suggest themselves to anybodywho has himself been in society.SinceOrlandohadwonthepraiseofQueenElizabethforthewayshehandedabowlofrosewaterasaboy,itmustbesupposedthatshewassufficientlyexperttopassmuster.Yetitistruethattherewasanabsentmindednessaboutherwhich

sometimesmade her clumsy; shewas apt to think of poetrywhen she shouldhavebeen thinkingof taffeta; herwalkwas a little toomuchof a stride for awoman,perhaps,andhergestures,beingabrupt,mightendangeracupofteaonoccasion.

Whetherthisslightdisabilitywasenoughtocounterbalancethesplendourofherbearing,orwhethersheinheritedadroptoomuchof thatblackhumourwhichran in theveinsofallher race,certain it is thatshehadnotbeen in theworldmorethanascoreoftimesbeforeshemighthavebeenheardtoaskherself,hadthere been anybody but her spaniel Pippin to hear her, ‘What the devil is thematterwithme?’TheoccasionwasTuesday,the16thofJune1712;shehadjustreturnedfromagreatballatArlingtonHouse;thedawnwasinthesky,andshewaspullingoffherstockings.‘Idon’tcareifInevermeetanothersoulaslongasI live,’ cried Orlando, bursting into tears. Lovers she had in plenty, but life,which is, after all, of some importance in its way, escaped her. ‘Is this’, sheasked—buttherewasnonetoanswer,‘isthis’,shefinishedhersentenceallthesame, ‘what people call life?’ The spaniel raised her forepaw in token ofsympathy. The spaniel licked Orlando with her tongue. Orlando stroked thespanielwithherhand.Orlandokissed the spanielwithher lips. In short, therewas the truest sympathy between them that can be between a dog and itsmistress, and yet it cannot be denied that the dumbness of animals is a greatimpedimenttotherefinementsofintercourse.Theywagtheirtails;theybowthefrontpartofthebodyandelevatethehind;theyroll,theyjump,theypaw,theywhine,theybark,theyslobber,theyhaveallsortsofceremoniesandartificesoftheirown,butthewholethingisofnoavail,sincespeaktheycannot.Suchwasher quarrel, she thought, setting the dog gently on to the floor,with the greatpeopleatArlingtonHouse.They,too,wagtheirtails,bow,roll,jump,paw,andslobber,buttalktheycannot.‘AllthesemonthsthatI’vebeenoutintheworld’,said Orlando, pitching one stocking across the room, ‘I’ve heard nothing butwhat Pippinmight have said. I’m cold. I’m happy. I’m hungry. I’ve caught amouse.I’veburiedabone.Pleasekissmynose.’Anditwasnotenough.

How,insoshortatime,shehadpassedfromintoxicationtodisgustwewillonlyseek to explain by supposing that this mysterious composition which we callsociety,isnothingabsolutelygoodorbadinitself,buthasaspiritinit,volatilebutpotent,whicheithermakesyoudrunkwhenyouthinkit,asOrlandothoughtit,delightful,orgivesyouaheadachewhenyouthinkit,asOrlandothoughtit,

repulsive.Thatthefacultyofspeechhasmuchtodowithiteitherway,wetakeleavetodoubt.Oftenadumbhouristhemostravishingofall;brilliantwitcanbetediousbeyonddescription.Buttothepoetsweleaveit,andsoonwithourstory.

Orlando threw the second stocking after the first and went to bed dismallyenough, determined that she would forswear society for ever. But again as itturnedout, shewas toohasty in coming toher conclusions.For theverynextmorningshewoke to find,among theusualcardsof invitationuponher table,onefromacertaingreatLady,theCountessofR.Havingdeterminedovernightthat she would never go into society again, we can only explain Orlando’sbehaviour—shesentamessengerhot–foottoR—HousetosaythatshewouldattendherLadyshipwithallthepleasureintheworld—bythefactthatshewasstillsufferingfromtheeffectofthreehoneyedwordsdroppedintoherearonthedeckof the“EnamouredLady”byCaptainNicholasBenedictBartolusas theysailed down theThames.Addison,Dryden, Pope, he had said, pointing to theCocoa Tree, and Addison, Dryden, Pope had chimed in her head like anincantation ever since. Who can credit such folly? but so it was. All herexperiencewithNickGreenehadtaughthernothing.Suchnamesstillexercisedoverherthemostpowerfulfascination.Something,perhaps,wemustbelievein,andasOrlando,wehavesaid,hadnobeliefintheusualdivinitiesshebestowedher credulity upon great men—yet with a distinction. Admirals, soldiers,statesmen,movedhernotatall.Buttheverythoughtofagreatwriterstirredhertosuchapitchofbeliefthatshealmostbelievedhimtobeinvisible.Herinstinctwasasoundone.Onecanonlybelieveentirely,perhaps,inwhatonecannotsee.Thelittleglimpseshehadofthesegreatmenfromthedeckoftheshipwasofthenatureofavision.Thatthecupwaschina,orthegazettepaper,shedoubted.WhenLordO.saidonedaythathehaddinedwithDrydenthenightbefore,sheflatlydisbelievedhim.Now,theLadyR.’sreceptionroomhadthereputationofbeing theantechamber to thepresence roomofgenius; itwas theplacewheremenandwomenmettoswingcensersandchanthymnstothebustofgeniusinaniche in the wall. Sometimes the God himself vouchsafed his presence for amoment. Intellectaloneadmitted the suppliant, andnothing (so the report ran)wassaidinsidethatwasnotwitty.

Itwas thuswith great trepidation thatOrlando entered the room.She found acompany already assembled in a semicircle round the fire.LadyR., an oldish

lady,ofdarkcomplexion,withablacklacemantillaonherhead,wasseatedinagreatarm–chairinthecentre.Thusbeingsomewhatdeaf,shecouldcontroltheconversationonbothsidesofher.Onbothsidesofhersatmenandwomenofthehighestdistinction.Everyman, itwassaid,hadbeenaPrimeMinisterandeverywoman,itwaswhispered,hadbeenthemistressofaking.Certainitisthatall were brilliant, and all were famous. Orlando took her seat with a deepreverenceinsilence...Afterthreehours,shecurtseyedprofoundlyandleft.

Butwhat,thereadermayaskwithsomeexasperation,happenedinbetween.Inthree hours, such a companymust have said thewittiest, the profoundest, themost interesting things in the world. So it would seem indeed. But the factappears to be that they said nothing. It is a curious characteristic which theysharewithall themostbrilliantsocietiesthat theworldhasseen.OldMadameduDeffandandherfriendstalkedforfiftyyearswithoutstopping.Andofitall,whatremains?Perhapsthreewittysayings.Sothatweareatlibertytosupposeeitherthatnothingwassaid,orthatnothingwittywassaid,orthatthefractionofthreewittysayingslastedeighteenthousandtwohundredandfiftynights,whichdoesnotleavealiberalallowanceofwitforanyoneofthem.

Thetruthwouldseemtobe—ifwedareusesuchawordinsuchaconnection—that all these groups of people lie under an enchantment. The hostess is ourmodernSibyl. She is awitchwho lays her guests under a spell. In this housethey think themselves happy; in that witty; in a third profound. It is all anillusion (which is nothing against it, for illusions are the most valuable andnecessaryofallthings,andshewhocancreateoneisamongtheworld’sgreatestbenefactors), but as it is notorious that illusions are shattered by conflictwithreality,sonorealhappiness,norealwit,norealprofundityaretoleratedwherethe illusion prevails. This serves to explainwhyMadame duDeffand said nomorethanthreewittythingsinthecourseoffiftyyears.Hadshesaidmore,hercirclewouldhavebeendestroyed.Thewitticism,asitleftherlips,bowledoverthe current conversation as a cannon ball lays low the violets and the daisies.When she made her famous ‘mot de Saint Denis’ the very grass was singed.Disillusionment and desolation followed. Not a word was uttered. ‘Spare usanother such, forHeaven’s sake,Madame!’ her friends criedwith one accord.Andsheobeyed.Foralmostseventeenyearsshesaidnothingmemorableandallwentwell.ThebeautifulcounterpaneofillusionlayunbrokenonhercircleasitlayunbrokenonthecircleofLadyR.Thegueststhoughtthattheywerehappy,

thought that they were witty, thought that they were profound, and, as theythoughtthis,otherpeoplethoughtitstillmorestrongly;andsoitgotaboutthatnothingwasmoredelightfulthanoneofLadyR.’sassemblies;everyoneenviedthosewhowereadmitted; thosewhowereadmittedenviedthemselvesbecauseotherpeopleenviedthem;andsothereseemednoendtoit—exceptthatwhichwehavenowtorelate.

ForaboutthethirdtimeOrlandowentthereacertainincidentoccurred.Shewasstillundertheillusionthatshewaslisteningtothemostbrilliantepigramsintheworld, though, as a matter of fact, old General C. was only saying, at somelength, how the gout had left his left leg and gone to his right, whileMr L.interruptedwhenanypropernamewasmentioned,‘R.?Oh!IknowBillyR.aswellasIknowmyself.S.?Mydearestfriend.T.?StayedwithhimafortnightinYorkshire’—which, such is the force of illusion, sounded like the wittiestrepartee,themostsearchingcommentuponhumanlife,andkeptthecompanyina roar; when the door opened and a little gentleman entered whose nameOrlandodidnot catch.Soonacuriouslydisagreeable sensationcameoverher.Tojudgefromtheirfaces,therestbegantofeelitaswell.Onegentlemansaidtherewasadraught.TheMarchionessofC.fearedacatmustbeunderthesofa.It was as if their eyes were being slowly opened after a pleasant dream andnothingmetthembutacheapwash–standandadirtycounterpane.Itwasasifthe fumesof somedeliciouswinewere slowly leaving them.Still theGeneraltalkedandstillMrL.remembered.ButitbecamemoreandmoreapparenthowredtheGeneral’sneckwas,howbaldMrL.’sheadwas.Asforwhattheysaid—nothing more tedious and trivial could be imagined. Everybody fidgeted andthosewhohadfansyawnedbehindthem.AtlastLadyR.rappedwithhersuponthearmofhergreatchair.Bothgentlemenstoppedtalking.

Thenthelittlegentlemansaid,Hesaidnext,Hesaidfinally(Thesesayingsaretoowellknowntorequirerepetition,andbesides,theyarealltobefoundinhispublishedworks.),

Here, it cannot be denied, was true wit, true wisdom, true profundity. Thecompanywas thrownintocompletedismay.Onesuchsayingwasbadenough;butthree,oneafteranother,onthesameevening!Nosocietycouldsurviveit.

‘MrPope,’ saidoldLadyR. in avoice tremblingwith sarcastic fury, ‘youarepleased to bewitty.’MrPope flushed red.Nobody spoke aword.They sat in

deadsilencesometwentyminutes.Then,onebyone,theyroseandslunkfromthe room. That they would ever come back after such an experience wasdoubtful.Link–boyscouldbeheardcallingtheircoachesalldownSouthAudleyStreet.Doorswereslammedandcarriagesdroveoff.OrlandofoundherselfnearMrPopeonthestaircase.Hisleanandmisshapenframewasshakenbyavarietyofemotions.Dartsofmalice,rage,triumph,wit,andterror(hewasshakinglikealeaf)shotfromhiseyes.Helookedlikesomesquatreptilesetwithaburningtopazinitsforehead.Atthesametime,thestrangesttempestofemotionseizednowuponthelucklessOrlando.Adisillusionmentsocompleteas that inflictednotanhouragoleaves themindrockingfromsidetoside.Everythingappearsten times more bare and stark than before. It is a moment fraught with thehighestdangerfor thehumanspirit.Womenturnnunsandmenpriests insuchmoments.Insuchmoments,richmensignawaytheirwealth;andhappymencuttheir throats with carving knives. Orlando would have done all willingly, buttherewasarasherthingstillforhertodo,andthisshedid.SheinvitedMrPopetocomehomewithher.

Forifitisrashtowalkintoalion’sdenunarmed,rashtonavigatetheAtlanticinarowingboat,rashtostandononefootonthetopofStPaul’s,it isstillmorerashtogohomealonewithapoet.ApoetisAtlanticandlioninone.Whileonedrownsustheothergnawsus.Ifwesurvivetheteeth,wesuccumbtothewaves.Amanwhocandestroyillusionsisbothbeastandflood.Illusionsaretothesoulwhat atmosphere is to theearth.Rollup that tender air and theplantdies, thecolourfades.Theearthwewalkonisaparchedcinder.Itismarlwetreadandfierycobblesscorchourfeet.Bythetruthweareundone.Lifeisadream.‘Tiswakingthatkillsus.Hewhorobsusofourdreamsrobsusofourlife—(andsoonforsixpagesifyouwill,butthestyleistediousandmaywellbedropped).

On thisshowing,however,Orlandoshouldhavebeenaheapofcindersby thetimethechariotdrewupatherhouseinBlackfriars.Thatshewasstillfleshandblood, though certainly exhausted, is entirely due to a fact towhichwe drewattentionearlierinthenarrative.Thelessweseethemorewebelieve.Nowthestreets that lie between Mayfair and Blackfriars were at that time veryimperfectly lit. True, the lighting was a great improvement upon that of theElizabethanage.ThenthebenightedtravellerhadtotrusttothestarsortheredflameofsomenightwatchmantosavehimfromthegravelpitsatParkLaneortheoakwoodswhereswinerootledintheTottenhamCourtRoad.Butevensoit

wantedmuchofourmodernefficiency.Lamp–postslitwithoil–lampsoccurredevery twohundredyardsorso,butbetweenlayaconsiderablestretchofpitchdarkness.ThusfortenminutesOrlandoandMrPopewouldbeinblackness;andthenforabouthalfaminuteagaininthelight.AverystrangestateofmindwasthusbredinOrlando.Asthelightfaded,shebegantofeelstealoverherthemostdelicious balm. ‘This is indeed a very great honour for a youngwoman to bedrivingwithMrPope,’shebegantothink,lookingattheoutlineofhisnose.‘Iamthemostblessedofmysex.Halfaninchfromme—indeed,Ifeeltheknotofhiskneeribbonspressingagainstmythigh—isthegreatestwitinHerMajesty’sdominions.Futureageswill thinkofuswithcuriosityandenvymewithfury.’Here came the lamp–post again. ‘What a foolish wretch I am!’ she thought.‘There is no such thing as fame and glory. Ages to come will never cast athoughtonmeoronMrPopeeither.What’san“age”,indeed?Whatare“we”?’and their progress through Berkeley Square seemed the groping of two blindants, momentarily thrown together without interest or concern in common,across a blackened desert. She shivered. But here again was darkness. Herillusionrevived. ‘Hownoblehisbrowis,’she thought(mistakingahumponacushionforMrPope’sforeheadinthedarkness).‘Whataweightofgeniuslivesinit!Whatwit,wisdom,andtruth—whatawealthofallthosejewels,indeed,forwhichpeoplearereadytobartertheirlives!Yoursistheonlylightthatburnsforever.Butforyouthehumanpilgrimagewouldbeperformedinutterdarkness’;(here the coach gave a great lurch as it fell into a rut in Park Lane) ‘withoutgeniuswe shouldbeupset andundone.Most august,most lucidof beams,’—thusshewasapostrophizingthehumponthecushionwhentheydrovebeneathone of the street lamps in Berkeley Square and she realized her mistake.MrPopehadaforeheadnobiggerthananotherman’s.‘Wretchedman,’shethought,‘howyouhavedeceivedme!Itookthathumpforyourforehead.Whenoneseesyouplain,howignoble,howdespicableyouare!Deformedandweakly,thereisnothingtovenerateinyou,muchtopity,mosttodespise.’

Againtheywereindarknessandherangerbecamemodifieddirectlyshecouldseenothingbutthepoet’sknees.

‘ButitisIthatamawretch,’shereflected,oncetheywereincompleteobscurityagain,‘forbaseasyoumaybe,amInotstillbaser?It isyouwhonourishandprotectme,youwhoscarethewildbeast,frightenthesavage,makemeclothesof the silkworm’swool, andcarpetsof the sheep’s. If Iwant toworship,have

younot providedmewith an imageofyourself and set it in the sky?Arenotevidences of your care everywhere? How humble, how grateful, how docile,shouldInotbe,therefore?Letitbeallmyjoytoserve,honour,andobeyyou.’

Here they reached the big lamp–post at the corner of what is now PiccadillyCircus. The light blazed in her eyes, and she saw, besides some degradedcreaturesofherownsex,twowretchedpigmiesonastarkdesertland.Bothwerenaked,solitary,anddefenceless.Theonewaspowerlesstohelptheother.Eachhad enough to do to look after itself. LookingMrPope full in the face, ‘It isequallyvain’, she thought; ‘for you to thinkyou canprotectme, or forme tothinkIcanworshipyou.The lightof truthbeatsuponuswithoutshadow,andthelightoftruthisdamnablyunbecomingtousboth.’

All this time,ofcourse, theywenton talkingagreeably,aspeopleofbirthandeducationuse, about theQueen’s temper and thePrimeMinister’s gout,whilethecoachwentfromlighttodarknessdowntheHaymarket,alongtheStrand,upFleetStreet,andreached,atlength,herhouseinBlackfriars.Forsometimethedark spaces between the lamps had been becoming brighter and the lampsthemselves less bright—that is to say, the sun was rising, and it was in theequablebutconfusedlightofasummer’smorninginwhicheverythingisseenbutnothingisseendistinctlythattheyalighted,MrPopehandingOrlandofromher carriage andOrlando curtseyingMrPope to precedeher intohermansionwiththemostscrupulousattentiontotheritesoftheGraces.

Fromtheforegoingpassage,however, itmustnotbesupposedthatgenius(butthediseaseisnowstampedoutintheBritishIsles,thelateLordTennyson,itissaid, being the last person to suffer from it) is constantly alight, for then weshould see everything plain and perhaps should be scorched to death in theprocess.Ratheritresemblesthelighthouseinitsworking,whichsendsonerayand then nomore for a time; save that genius ismuchmore capricious in itsmanifestations and may flash six or seven beams in quick succession (asMrPopedidthatnight)andthenlapseintodarknessforayearorforever.Tosteerbyitsbeamsisthereforeimpossible,andwhenthedarkspellisonthemmenofgeniusare,itissaid,muchlikeotherpeople.

ItwashappyforOrlando,thoughatfirstdisappointing,thatthisshouldbeso,forshenowbegantolivemuchinthecompanyofmenofgenius.Norweretheysodifferentfromtherestofusasonemighthavesupposed.Addison,Pope,Swift,

proved,shefound,tobefondoftea.Theylikedarbours.Theycollectedlittlebitsofcolouredglass.Theyadoredgrottos.Rankwasnotdistastefultothem.Praisewas delightful. Theywore plum–coloured suits one day and grey another.MrSwifthadafinemalaccacane.MrAddisonscentedhishandkerchiefs.MrPopesufferedwith his head.A piece of gossip did not come amiss.Norwere theywithout their jealousies. (We are jotting down a few reflections that came toOrlandohiggledy–piggledy.)Atfirst,shewasannoyedwithherselffornoticingsuch trifles,andkeptabook inwhich towritedown theirmemorablesayings,butthepageremainedempty.Allthesame,herspiritsrevived,andshetooktotearinguphercardsofinvitationtogreatparties;kepthereveningsfree;begantolookforwardtoMrPope’svisit, toMrAddison’s,toMrSwift’s—andsoonand so on. If the reader will here refer to the “Rape of the Lock”, to the“Spectator”, to “Gulliver’s Travels”, he will understand precisely what thesemysterious words may mean. Indeed, biographers and critics might savethemselvesalltheirlaboursifreaderswouldonlytakethisadvice.Forwhenweread:

WhethertheNymphshallbreakDiana’sLaw,OrsomefrailChinaJarreceiveaFlaw,OrstainherHonour,orhernewBrocade,ForgetherPray’rsormissaMasquerade,OrloseherHeart,orNecklace,ataBall.

—weknowasifweheardhimhowMrPope’stongueflickeredlikealizard’s,howhiseyesflashed,howhishandtrembled,howheloved,howhelied,howhesuffered. In short, every secret of awriter’s soul, every experience of his life;everyqualityofhismindiswrittenlargeinhisworks;yetwerequirecriticstoexplaintheoneandbiographerstoexpoundtheother.Thattimehangsheavyonpeople’shandsistheonlyexplanationofthemonstrousgrowth.

So,nowthatwehavereadapageortwoofthe“RapeoftheLock”,weknowexactlywhyOrlandowassomuchamusedandsomuchfrightenedandsoverybright–cheekedandbright–eyedthatafternoon.

Mrs Nelly then knocked at the door to say that Mr Addison waited on herLadyship. At this, Mr Pope got up with a wry smile, made his congee, andlimpedoff.IncameMrAddison.Letus,ashetakeshisseat,readthefollowingpassagefromthe“Spectator”:

‘I considerwoman as a beautiful, romantic animal, thatmay be adornedwithfursandfeathers,pearlsanddiamonds,oresandsilks.Thelynxshallcastitsskinat her feet to make her a tippet, the peacock, parrot and swan shall paycontributionstohermuff;theseashallbesearchedforshells,andtherocksforgems,andeverypartofnaturefurnishoutitssharetowardstheembellishmentofacreaturethatisthemostconsummateworkofit.Allthis,Ishallindulgethemin,butasforthepetticoatIhavebeenspeakingof,Ineithercan,norwillallowit.’

Wehold thatgentleman,cockedhatandall, in thehollow,ofourhands.Lookoncemore into thecrystal. Ishenotclear to theverywrinkle inhis stocking?Does not every ripple and curve of his wit lie exposed before us, and hisbenignityandhis timidityandhisurbanityand the fact thathewouldmarryaCountess and die very respectably in the end? All is clear. And when MrAddisonhassaidhissay, there isa terrific rapat thedoor,andMrSwift,whohadthesearbitrarywayswithhim,walksinunannounced.Onemoment,whereis“Gulliver’sTravels”?Hereitis!LetusreadapassagefromthevoyagetotheHouyhnhnms:

‘IenjoyedperfectHealthofBodyandTranquillityofMind; Ididnot find theTreacheryorInconstancyofaFriend,northeInjuriesofasecretoropenEnemy.Ihadnooccasionofbribing,flatteringorpimping,toprocuretheFavourofanygreatMan or of hisMinion. Iwanted no Fence against Fraud orOppression;HerewasneitherPhysiciantodestroymyBody,norLawyertoruinmyFortune;NoInformertowatchmyWords,andActions,orforgeAccusationsagainstmefor Hire: Here were no Gibers, Censurers, Backbiters, Pickpockets,Highwaymen, Housebreakers, Attorneys, Bawds, Buffoons, Gamesters,Politicians,Wits,spleneticktediousTalkers...’

Butstop,stopyourironpeltofwords,lestyouflayusallalive,andyourselftoo!Nothingcanbeplainerthanthatviolentman.Heissocoarseandyetsoclean;sobrutal,yetsokind;scornsthewholeworld,yettalksbabylanguagetoagirl,andwilldie,canwedoubtit?inamadhouse.

SoOrlandopouredoutteaforthemall;andsometimes,whentheweatherwasfine,shecarriedthemdowntothecountrywithher,andfeastedthemroyallyintheRoundParlour,whichshehadhungwiththeirpicturesallinacircle,sothatMr Pope could not say that Mr Addison came before him, or the other way

about.Theywereverywitty, too(buttheirwit isall intheirbooks)andtaughther themost important part of style, which is the natural run of the voice inspeaking—a qualitywhich none that has not heard it can imitate, not Greeneeven,withallhis skill; for it isbornof theair, andbreaks likeawaveon thefurniture,androllsandfadesaway,andisnevertoberecaptured,leastofallbythosewhoprickuptheirears,halfacenturylater,andtry.Theytaughtherthis,merely by the cadence of their voices in speech; so that her style changedsomewhat, and she wrote some very pleasant, witty verses and characters inprose.And so she lavishedherwine on themandput bank–notes,which theytookverykindly,beneath theirplatesatdinner,andaccepted theirdedications,andthoughtherselfhighlyhonouredbytheexchange.

Thus time ranon, andOrlandocouldoftenbeheard saying toherselfwith anemphasiswhichmight,perhaps,make thehearera little suspicious, ‘Uponmysoul,what a life this is!’ (For shewas still in search of that commodity.)Butcircumstancessoonforcedhertoconsiderthemattermorenarrowly.

OnedayshewaspouringoutteaforMrPopewhile,asanyonecantellfromtheversesquotedabove,hesatverybright–eyed,observant,andallcrumpledupinachairbyherside.

‘Lord,’shethought,assheraisedthesugartongs,‘howwomeninagestocomewillenvyme!Andyet—’shepaused;forMrPopeneededherattention.Andyet—letus finishher thought forher—whenanybodysays‘Howfutureageswillenvyme’,itissafetosaythattheyareextremelyuneasyatthepresentmoment.Wasthislifequitesoexciting,quitesoflattering,quitesogloriousasitsoundswhenthememoirwriterhasdonehisworkuponit?Foronething,Orlandohadapositive hatred of tea; for another, the intellect, divine as it is, and all–worshipful,hasahabitoflodginginthemostseedyofcarcases,andoften,alas,acts the cannibal among the other faculties so that often, where the Mind isbiggest,theHeart,theSenses,Magnanimity,Charity,Tolerance,Kindliness,andtherestofthemscarcelyhaveroomtobreathe.Thenthehighopinionpoetshaveofthemselves;thenthelowonetheyhaveofothers;thentheenmities,injuries,envies,and repartees inwhich theyareconstantlyengaged; then thevolubilitywith which they impart them; then the rapacity with which they demandsympathy for them; all this, onemaywhisper, lest thewitsmay overhear us,makespouringoutteaamoreprecariousand,indeed,arduousoccupationthanisgenerally allowed. Added to which (we whisper again lest the women may

overhear us), there is a little secret which men share among them; LordChesterfieldwhispered it tohis sonwith strict injunctions to secrecy, ‘Womenarebutchildrenofalargergrowth...Amanofsenseonlytrifleswiththem,playswiththem,humoursandflattersthem’,which,sincechildrenalwayshearwhattheyarenotmeantto,andsometimes,even,growup,mayhavesomehowleakedout,so that thewholeceremonyofpouringout tea isacuriousone.Awomanknowsverywell that, thoughawitsendsherhispoems,praisesher judgment,solicits her criticism, and drinks her tea, this by no means signifies that herespects her opinions, admires her understanding, or will refuse, though therapierisdeniedhim,torunherthroughthebodywithhispen.Allthis,wesay,whisperitaslowaswecan,mayhaveleakedoutbynow;sothatevenwiththecreamjugsuspendedandthesugartongsdistendedtheladiesmayfidgetalittle,lookoutofthewindowalittle,yawnalittle,andsoletthesugarfallwithagreatplop—asOrlandodidnow—intoMrPope’stea.NeverwasanymortalsoreadytosuspectaninsultorsoquicktoavengeoneasMrPope.HeturnedtoOrlandoandpresentedherinstantlywiththeroughdraughtofacertainfamouslineinthe‘CharactersofWomen’.Muchpolishwasafterwardsbestowedonit,butevenintheoriginalitwasstrikingenough.Orlandoreceiveditwithacurtsey.MrPopeleftherwithabow.Orlando,tocoolhercheeks,forreallyshefeltasifthelittlemanhadstruckher,strolledinthenutgroveatthebottomofthegarden.Soonthecoolbreezesdidtheirwork.Toheramazementshefoundthatshewashugelyrelieved to findherself alone.Shewatched themerryboatloads rowingup theriver.Nodoubtthesightputherinmindofoneortwoincidentsinherpastlife.Shesatherselfdown inprofoundmeditationbeneatha finewillow tree.Thereshe sat till the starswere in the sky.Then she rose, turned, andwent into thehouse,whereshesoughtherbedroomand locked thedoor.Nowsheopenedacupboardinwhichhungstillmanyoftheclothesshehadwornasayoungmanoffashion,andfromamongthemshechoseablackvelvetsuit richly trimmedwith Venetian lace. It was a little out of fashion, indeed, but it fitted her toperfectionanddressedinitshelookedtheveryfigureofanobleLord.Shetookaturnortwobeforethemirrortomakesurethatherpetticoatshadnotlostherthefreedomofherlegs,andthenletherselfsecretlyoutofdoors.

Itwas a fine night early inApril.Amyriad starsminglingwith the light of asickle moon, which again was enforced by the street lamps, made a lightinfinitely becoming to the human countenance and to the architecture of MrWren.Everything appeared in its tenderest form, yet, just as it seemedon the

pointofdissolution,somedropofsilversharpenedittoanimation.Thusitwasthat talkshouldbe, thoughtOrlando(indulging in foolishreverie); thatsocietyshould be, that friendship should be, that love should be. For, Heaven knowswhy,justaswehavelostfaithinhumanintercoursesomerandomcollocationofbarnsandtreesorahaystackandawaggonpresentsuswithsoperfectasymbolofwhatisunattainablethatwebeginthesearchagain.

SheenteredLeicesterSquareasshemadetheseobservations.Thebuildingshadanairyyet formal symmetrynot theirsbyday.Thecanopyof the sky seemedmostdexterouslywashedintofilluptheoutlineofroofandchimney.Ayoungwomanwhosatdejectedlywithonearmdroopingbyherside,theotherreposinginherlap,onaseatbeneathaplanetreeinthemiddleofthesquareseemedtheveryfigureofgrace,simplicity,anddesolation.Orlandosweptherhatofftoherinthemannerofagallantpayinghisaddressestoaladyoffashioninapublicplace. The young woman raised her head. It was of the most exquisiteshapeliness. The youngwoman raised her eyes.Orlando saw them to be of alustresuchasissometimesseenonteapotsbutrarelyinahumanface.Throughthissilverglaze theyoungwomanlookedupathim(foramanhewas toher)appealing,hoping,trembling,fearing.Sherose;sheacceptedhisarm.For—needwestress thepoint?—shewasof thetribewhichnightlyburnishestheirwares,andsetstheminorderonthecommoncountertowaitthehighestbidder.SheledOrlando to the room in Gerrard Street which was her lodging. To feel herhanginglightlyyetlikeasuppliantonherarm,rousedinOrlandoallthefeelingswhichbecomeaman.Shelooked,shefelt,shetalkedlikeone.Yet,havingbeensolatelyawomanherself,shesuspectedthatthegirl’stimidityandherhesitatinganswersandtheveryfumblingwiththekeyinthelatchandthefoldofhercloakand thedroopof herwristwere all put on to gratify hermasculinity.Upstairstheywent, and the painswhich the poor creature had been at to decorate herroomandhide the fact that shehadnootherdeceivedOrlandonot amoment.The deception roused her scorn; the truth roused her pity.One thing showingthroughtheotherbredtheoddestassortmentoffeeling,sothatshedidnotknowwhethertolaughortocry.MeanwhileNell,asthegirlcalledherself,unbuttonedher gloves; carefully concealed the left–hand thumb, which wanted mending;thendrewbehindascreen,where,perhaps,sherougedhercheeks,arrangedherclothes, fixedanewkerchief roundherneck—all the timeprattlingaswomendo,toamuseherlover,thoughOrlandocouldhavesworn,fromthetoneofhervoice, that her thoughts were elsewhere. When all was ready, out she came,

prepared—buthereOrlandocouldstanditnolonger.Inthestrangesttormentofanger, merriment, and pity she flung off all disguise and admitted herself awoman.

Atthis,Nellburstintosucharoaroflaughterasmighthavebeenheardacrosstheway.

‘Well,mydear,’shesaid,whenshehadsomewhatrecovered,‘I’mbynomeanssorrytohearit.FortheplainDunstableofthematteris’(anditwasremarkablehowsoon,ondiscovering that theywereof thesamesex,hermannerchangedand she dropped her plaintive, appealing ways), ‘the plain Dunstable of thematter is, that I’m not in the mood for the society of the other sex to–night.Indeed,I’minthedevilofafix.’Whereupon,drawingupthefireandstirringabowlofpunch,shetoldOrlandothewholestoryofherlife.SinceitisOrlando’slife that engages us at present,we need not relate the adventures of the otherlady, but it is certain thatOrlando had never known the hours speed faster ormoremerrily,thoughMistressNellhadnotaparticleofwitabouther,andwhenthenameofMrPopecameupintalkaskedinnocentlyifhewereconnectedwiththeperruquemakerof thatnameinJermynStreet.Yet, toOrlando,suchis thecharmofeaseandtheseductionofbeauty,thispoorgirl’stalk,lardedthoughitwaswiththecommonestexpressionsofthestreetcorners,tastedlikewineafterthefinephrasesshehadbeenusedto,andshewasforcedtotheconclusionthatthere was something in the sneer of Mr Pope, in the condescension of MrAddison,andinthesecretofLordChesterfieldwhichtookawayherrelishforthesocietyofwits,deeplythoughshemustcontinuetorespecttheirworks.

Thesepoorcreatures,sheascertained,forNellbroughtPrue,andPrueKitty,andKittyRose,hadasocietyoftheirownofwhichtheynowelectedheramember.Eachwouldtellthestoryoftheadventureswhichhadlandedherinherpresentwayoflife.SeveralwerethenaturaldaughtersofearlsandonewasagooddealnearerthansheshouldhavebeentotheKing’sperson.Nonewastoowretchedortoopoorbuttohavesomeringorhandkerchiefinherpocketwhichstoodherin lieuofpedigree.So theywoulddrawround thepunch–bowlwhichOrlandomade it her business to furnish generously, andmanywere the fine tales theytoldandmanytheamusingobservationstheymade,foritcannotbedeniedthatwhen women get together—but hist—they are always careful to see that thedoorsareshutand thatnotawordof itgets intoprint.All theydesire is—buthistagain—isthatnotaman’ssteponthestair?Alltheydesire,wewereabout

tosaywhenthegentlemantooktheverywordsoutofourmouths.Womenhaveno desires, says this gentleman, coming into Nell’s parlour; only affectations.Withoutdesires(shehasservedhimandheisgone)theirconversationcannotbeoftheslightestinteresttoanyone.‘Itiswellknown’,saysMrS.W.,‘thatwhentheylackthestimulusof theothersex,womencanfindnothingtosaytoeachother.Whentheyarealone,theydonottalk,theyscratch.’Andsincetheycannottalk togetherandscratchingcannotcontinuewithout interruptionand it iswellknown (Mr T. R. has proved it) ‘that women are incapable of any feeling ofaffection for theirownsexandholdeachother in thegreatest aversion’,whatcanwesupposethatwomendowhentheyseekouteachother’ssociety?

Asthatisnotaquestionthatcanengagetheattentionofasensibleman,letus,who enjoy the immunity of all biographers and historians from any sexwhatever,passitover,andmerelystatethatOrlandoprofessedgreatenjoymentinthesocietyofherownsex,andleaveittothegentlementoprove,astheyareveryfondofdoing,thatthisisimpossible.

ButtogiveanexactandparticularaccountofOrlando’slifeatthistimebecomesmoreandmoreoutofthequestion.Aswepeerandgropeintheill–lit,ill–paved,ill–ventilated courtyards that lay about Gerrard Street and Drury Lane at thattime,we seemnow tocatch sightofher and thenagain to lose it.The task ismadestillmoredifficultbythefactthatshefounditconvenientatthistimetochange frequently fromonesetofclothes toanother.Thussheoftenoccurs incontemporarymemoirs as ‘Lord’ So–and–so, whowas in fact her cousin; herbountyisascribedtohim,anditishewhoissaidtohavewrittenthepoemsthatwerereallyhers.Shehad,itseems,nodifficultyinsustainingthedifferentparts,forhersexchangedfarmorefrequentlythanthosewhohavewornonlyonesetofclothingcanconceive;norcantherebeanydoubtthatshereapedatwofoldharvestby thisdevice; thepleasuresof lifewere increasedand its experiencesmultiplied. For the probity of breeches she exchanged the seductiveness ofpetticoatsandenjoyedtheloveofbothsexesequally.

SothenonemaysketchherspendinghermorninginaChinarobeofambiguousgenderamongherbooks;thenreceivingaclientortwo(forshehadmanyscoresofsuppliants)inthesamegarment;thenshewouldtakeaturninthegardenandclip the nut trees—forwhich knee–breecheswere convenient; then shewouldchange into a flowered taffeta which best suited a drive to Richmond and aproposal ofmarriage from some great nobleman; and so back again to town,

whereshewoulddonasnuff–colouredgownlikealawyer’sandvisitthecourtstohearhowhercasesweredoing,—forherfortunewaswastinghourlyandthesuitsseemednonearerconsummationthantheyhadbeenahundredyearsago;and so, finally, when night came, she would more often than not become anoblemancompletefromheadtotoeandwalkthestreetsinsearchofadventure.

Returningfromsomeofthesejunketings—ofwhichthereweremanystoriestoldat the time, as, that she fought a duel, served on one of theKing’s ships as acaptain,wasseentodancenakedonabalcony,andfledwithacertainladytotheLow Countries where the lady’s husband followed them—but of the truth orotherwiseofthesestories,weexpressnoopinion—returningfromwhateverheroccupationmayhavebeen,shemadeapointsometimesofpassingbeneaththewindowsofacoffeehouse,whereshecouldseethewitswithoutbeingseen,andthus could fancy from their gestures what wise, witty, or spiteful things theyweresayingwithouthearingawordofthem;whichwasperhapsanadvantage;andonceshestoodhalfanhourwatching threeshadowson theblinddrinkingteatogetherinahouseinBoltCourt.

Neverwasanyplaysoabsorbing.Shewantedtocryout,Bravo!Bravo!For,tobesure,whatafinedramaitwas—whatapagetornfromthethickestvolumeofhumanlife!Therewasthelittleshadowwiththepoutinglips,fidgetingthiswayand that on his chair, uneasy, petulant, officious; there was the bent femaleshadow,crookingafingerinthecuptofeelhowdeeptheteawas,forshewasblind;andtherewastheRoman–lookingrollingshadowinthebigarmchair—hewho twisted his fingers so oddly and jerked his head from side to side andswalloweddownthe tea insuchvastgulps.DrJohnson,MrBoswell,andMrsWilliams,—thosewere the shadows’names.So absorbedwas she in the sight,thatsheforgottothinkhowotherageswouldhaveenviedher,thoughitseemsprobablethatonthisoccasiontheywould.Shewascontenttogazeandgaze.AtlengthMrBoswellrose.Hesalutedtheoldwomanwith tartasperity.Butwithwhat humility did he not abase himself before the great Roman shadow,whonowrosetoitsfullheightandrockingsomewhatashestoodthererolledoutthemostmagnificent phrases that ever left human lips; soOrlando thought them,though she never heard aword that any of the three shadows said as they sattheredrinkingtea.

Atlengthshecamehomeonenightafteroneofthesesaunteringsandmountedtoherbedroom.Shetookoffherlacedcoatandstoodthereinshirtandbreeches

looking out of the window. There was something stirring in the air whichforbadehertogotobed.Awhitehazelayoverthetown,foritwasafrostynightinmidwinterandamagnificentvistalayallroundher.ShecouldseeStPaul’s,the Tower, Westminster Abbey, with all the spires and domes of the citychurches,thesmoothbulkofitsbanks,theopulentandamplecurvesofitshallsandmeeting–places.Onthenorthrosethesmooth,shornheightsofHampstead,and in the west the streets and squares of Mayfair shone out in one clearradiance.Uponthissereneandorderlyprospectthestarslookeddown,glittering,positive,hard,fromacloudlesssky.Intheextremeclearnessoftheatmospherethe line of every roof, the cowl of every chimney, was perceptible; even thecobblesinthestreetsshoweddistinctonefromanother,andOrlandocouldnothelpcomparingthisorderlyscenewiththeirregularandhuddledpurlieuswhichhad been the city of London in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Then, sheremembered,thecity,ifsuchonecouldcallit,laycrowded,amerehuddleandconglomerationofhouses,underherwindowsatBlackfriars.Thestarsreflectedthemselvesindeeppitsofstagnantwaterwhichlayinthemiddleofthestreets.Ablackshadowatthecornerwherethewineshopusedtostandwas,aslikelyasnot,thecorpseofamurderedman.Shecouldrememberthecriesofmanyaonewounded in such night brawlings, when she was a little boy, held to thediamond–paned window in her nurse’s arms. Troops of ruffians, men andwomen,unspeakablyinterlaced,lurcheddownthestreets,trollingoutwildsongswithjewelsflashingintheirears,andknivesgleamingintheirfists.OnsuchanightasthistheimpermeabletangleoftheforestsonHighgateandHampsteadwould be outlined, writhing in contorted intricacy against the sky. Here andthere, on one of the hillswhich rose aboveLondon,was a stark gallows tree,withacorpsenailedtorotorparchonitscross;fordangerandinsecurity, lustandviolence,poetryandfilthswarmedoverthetortuousElizabethanhighwaysandbuzzedandstank—Orlandocouldrememberevennowthesmellofthemonahotnight—inthelittleroomsandnarrowpathwaysofthecity.Now—sheleantoutofherwindow—allwaslight,order,andserenity.Therewasthefaintrattleof a coachon the cobbles.Sheheard the far–awaycryof thenightwatchman—’Just twelveo’clockona frostymorning’.Nosoonerhad thewords lefthislips than the first stroke ofmidnight sounded.Orlando then for the first timenoticed a small cloud gathered behind the dome of St Paul’s. As the strokessounded, the cloud increased, and she saw it darken and spread withextraordinary speed.At the same time a light breeze rose andby the time thesixth stroke ofmidnight had struck thewhole of the eastern skywas covered

withanirregularmovingdarkness,thoughtheskytothewestandnorthstayedclear as ever. Then the cloud spread north.Height upon height above the citywas engulfed by it. Only Mayfair, with all its lights shining. burnt morebrilliantlythaneverbycontrast.Withtheeighthstroke,somehurryingtattersofcloudsprawledoverPiccadilly.Theyseemedtomassthemselvesandtoadvancewith extraordinary rapidity towards the west end. As the ninth, tenth, andeleventh strokes struck, ahugeblackness sprawledover thewholeofLondon.With the twelfth stroke of midnight, the darkness was complete. A turbulentwelter of cloud covered the city. All was darkness; all was doubt; all wasconfusion.TheEighteenthcenturywasover;theNineteenthcenturyhadbegun.

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VirginiaWoolf

Orlando

CHAPTER5.

Thegreatcloudwhichhung,notonlyoverLondon,butover thewholeof theBritishIslesonthefirstdayofthenineteenthcenturystayed,orrather,didnotstay, for it was buffeted about constantly by blustering gales, long enough tohave extraordinary consequences upon thosewho lived beneath its shadow.AchangeseemedtohavecomeovertheclimateofEngland.Rainfellfrequently,butonlyinfitfulgusts,whichwerenosooneroverthantheybeganagain.Thesun shone, of course, but it was so girt aboutwith clouds and the airwas sosaturatedwithwater,thatitsbeamswerediscolouredandpurples,oranges,andreds of a dull sort took the place of the more positive landscapes of theeighteenth century. Under this bruised and sullen canopy the green of thecabbageswas less intense, and thewhite of the snowwasmuddied.Butwhatwasworse,dampnowbegantomakeitswayintoeveryhouse—damp,whichisthemost insidiousofall enemies, forwhile the suncanbe shutoutbyblinds,andthefrostroastedbyahotfire,dampstealsinwhilewesleep;dampissilent,imperceptible,ubiquitous.Dampswellsthewood,fursthekettle,ruststheiron,rotsthestone.Sogradualistheprocess,thatitisnotuntilwepickupsomechestofdrawers,orcoalscuttle,andthewholethingdropstopiecesinourhands,thatwesuspecteventhatthediseaseisatwork.

Thus, stealthily and imperceptibly, nonemarking the exact day or hour of thechange,theconstitutionofEnglandwasalteredandnobodyknewit.Everywheretheeffectswerefelt.Thehardycountrygentleman,whohadsatdowngladlytoamealof ale andbeef in a roomdesigned,perhapsby thebrothersAdam,withclassicdignity,nowfeltchilly.Rugsappeared;beardsweregrown;trouserswerefastened tight under the instep.The chillwhich he felt in his legs the countrygentlemansoontransferredtohishouse;furniturewasmuffled;wallsandtableswere covered; nothingwas left bare. Then a change of diet became essential.Themuffinwas invented and the crumpet.Coffee supplanted the after–dinnerport,and,ascoffeeledtoadrawing–roominwhichtodrinkit,andadrawing–roomtoglasscases,andglasscasestoartificialflowers,andartificialflowerstomantelpieces,andmantelpiecestopianofortes,andpianofortestodrawing–roomballads, and drawing–room ballads (skipping a stage or two) to innumerablelittledogs,mats,andchinaornaments,thehome—whichhadbecomeextremelyimportant—wascompletelyaltered.

Outsidethehouse—itwasanothereffectofthedamp—ivygrewinunparalleledprofusion.Houses thathadbeenofbarestoneweresmothered ingreenery.Nogarden,however formal itsoriginaldesign, lackedashrubbery,awilderness,amaze. What light penetrated to the bedrooms where children were born wasnaturally of an obfusc green, andwhat light penetrated to the drawing–roomswheregrownmenandwomenlivedcamethroughcurtainsofbrownandpurpleplush.But thechangedidnot stopatoutward things.Thedampstruckwithin.Menfeltthechillintheirhearts;thedampintheirminds.Inadesperateefforttosnuggle their feelings into some sort ofwarmthone subterfugewas tried afteranother.Love, birth, anddeathwere all swaddled in a variety of fine phrases.The sexesdrew further and further apart.Noopenconversationwas tolerated.Evasionsandconcealmentsweresedulouslypractisedonbothsides.Andjustasthe ivy and the evergreen rioted in the damp earth outside, so did the samefertilityshowitselfwithin.Thelifeof theaveragewomanwasasuccessionofchildbirths.Shemarriedatnineteenandhadfifteenoreighteenchildrenbythetime she was thirty; for twins abounded. Thus the British Empire came intoexistence;andthus—forthereisnostoppingdamp;itgetsintotheinkpotasitgetsintothewoodwork—sentencesswelled,adjectivesmultiplied,lyricsbecameepics, and little trifles that had been essays a column long were nowencyclopaedias in ten or twenty volumes. But Eusebius Chubb shall be ourwitnesstotheeffectthisallhaduponthemindofasensitivemanwhocoulddonothingtostopit.Thereisapassagetowardstheendofhismemoirswherehedescribes how, after writing thirty–five folio pages one morning ‘all aboutnothing’hescrewedthelidofhisinkpotandwentforaturninhisgarden.Soonhe found himself involved in the shrubbery. Innumerable leaves creaked andglistenedabovehishead.Heseemedtohimself‘tocrushthemouldofamillionmoreunderhisfeet’.Thicksmokeexudedfromadampbonfireattheendofthegarden.Hereflectedthatnofireonearthcouldeverhopetoconsumethatvastvegetable encumbrance. Wherever he looked, vegetation was rampant.Cucumbers ‘came scrolloping across the grass to his feet’. Giant cauliflowerstowereddeckabovedecktilltheyrivalled,tohisdisorderedimagination,theelmtrees themselves. Hens laid incessantly eggs of no special tint. Then,rememberingwithasighhisownfecundityandhispoorwifeJane,nowinthethroes of her fifteenth confinement indoors, how, he asked himself, could heblamethefowls?Helookedupwardsintothesky.Didnotheavenitself,orthatgreat frontispiece of heaven,which is the sky, indicate the assent, indeed, theinstigationoftheheavenlyhierarchy?Forthere,winterorsummer,yearinyear

out, the clouds turned and tumbled, like whales, he pondered, or elephantsrather; but no, therewas no escaping the similewhichwas pressed upon himfrom a thousand airy acres; the whole sky itself as it spread wide above theBritish Isles was nothing but a vast feather bed; and the undistinguishedfecundity of the garden, the bedroom and the henroost was copied there. Hewentindoors,wrotethepassagequotedabove,laidhisheadinagasoven,andwhentheyfoundhimlaterhewaspastrevival.

WhilethiswentonineverypartofEngland,itwasallverywellforOrlandotomew herself in her house at Blackfriars and pretend that the climate was thesame;thatonecouldstillsaywhatonelikedandwearknee–breechesorskirtsasthe fancy tookone.Evenshe,at length,was forced toacknowledge that timeswere changed.One afternoon in the early part of the century shewas drivingthroughStJames’sParkinheroldpanelledcoachwhenoneofthosesunbeams,which occasionally, though not often, managed to come to earth, struggledthrough,marblingthecloudswithstrangeprismaticcoloursasitpassed.Suchasightwassufficientlystrangeaftertheclearanduniformskiesoftheeighteenthcentury to cause her to pull the window down and look at it. The puce andflamingocloudsmadeher thinkwithapleasurableanguish,whichproves thatshewasinsensiblyafflictedwiththedampalready,ofdolphinsdyinginIonianseas.Butwhatwashersurprisewhen,asitstrucktheearth,thesunbeamseemedtocallforth,ortolightup,apyramid,hecatomb,ortrophy(forithadsomethingofabanquet–tableair)—aconglomerationatanyrateofthemostheterogeneousand ill–assorted objects, piled higgledy–piggledy in a vast mound where thestatueofQueenVictorianowstands!Drapedabout avast crossof fretted andfloriated gold were widow’s weeds and bridal veils; hooked on to otherexcrescences were crystal palaces, bassinettes, military helmets, memorialwreaths,trousers,whiskers,weddingcakes,cannon,Christmastrees,telescopes,extinct monsters, globes, maps, elephants, and mathematical instruments—thewholesupportedlikeagiganticcoatofarmsontherightsidebyafemalefigureclothedinflowingwhite;ontheleftbyaportlygentlemanwearingafrock–coatandsponge–bag trousers.The incongruityof theobjects, theassociationof thefully clothed and thepartlydraped, thegarishnessof thedifferent colours andtheirplaid–likejuxtapositionsafflictedOrlandowiththemostprofounddismay.Shehadnever,inallherlife,seenanythingatoncesoindecent,sohideous,andsomonumental. It might, and indeed it must be, the effect of the sun on thewater–loggedair;itwouldvanishwiththefirstbreezethatblew;butforallthat,

it looked,asshedrovepast,as if itweredestined toendureforever.Nothing,shefelt,sinkingbackintothecornerofhercoach,nowind,rain,sun,orthunder,couldeverdemolish thatgarisherection.Only thenoseswouldmottleand thetrumpetswouldrust;buttheretheywouldremain,pointingeast,west,south,andnorth,eternally.ShelookedbackashercoachsweptupConstitutionHill.Yes,thereitwas,stillbeamingplacidlyinalightwhich—shepulledherwatchoutofherfob—was,ofcourse,thelightoftwelveo’clockmid–day.Noneothercouldbesoprosaic,somatter–of–fact,soimpervioustoanyhintofdawnorsunset,soseemingly calculated to last for ever. She was determined not to look again.Already she felt the tides of her blood run sluggishly. But what was morepeculiar a blush, vivid and singular, overspread her cheeks as she passedBuckinghamPalaceandhereyesseemedforcedbyasuperiorpowerdownuponherknees.Suddenlyshesawwithastart thatshewaswearingblackbreeches.She never ceased blushing till she had reached her country house, which,considering the time it takes fourhorses to trot thirtymiles,will be taken,wehope,asasignalproofofherchastity.

Oncethere,shefollowedwhathadnowbecomethemostimperiousneedofhernature andwrapped herself aswell as she could in a damask quiltwhich shesnatched from her bed. She explained to theWidow Bartholomew (who hadsucceededgoodoldGrimsditchashousekeeper)thatshefeltchilly.

‘Sodoweall,m’lady,’saidtheWidow,heavingaprofoundsigh.‘Thewallsissweating,’ she said,with a curious, lugubrious complacency, and sure enough,shehadonlytolayherhandontheoakpanelsforthefinger–printstobemarkedthere.Theivyhadgrownsoprofuselythatmanywindowswerenowsealedup.Thekitchenwassodarkthattheycouldscarcelytellakettlefromacullender.Apoorblackcathadbeenmistakenforcoalsandshovelledonthefire.Mostofthemaids were already wearing three or four red–flannel petticoats, though themonthwasAugust.

‘Butisittrue,m’lady,’thegoodwomanasked,huggingherself,whilethegoldencrucifix heaved on her bosom, ‘that the Queen, bless her, is wearing a whatd’youcallit,a—,’thegoodwomanhesitatedandblushed.

‘A crinoline,’ Orlando helped her out with it (for the word had reachedBlackfriars).MrsBartholomew nodded. The tearswere already running downhercheeks,butassheweptshesmiled.Foritwaspleasanttoweep.Werethey

notallof themweakwomen?wearingcrinolinesthebetter toconceal thefact;thegreatfact; theonlyfact;but,nevertheless, thedeplorablefact;whicheverymodestwomandidherbesttodenyuntildenialwasimpossible;thefactthatshewasabouttobearachild?tobearfifteenortwentychildrenindeed,sothatmostof amodestwoman’s lifewas spent, after all, in denyingwhat, ononeday atleastofeveryyear,wasmadeobvious.

‘Themuffins iskeepin’ ‘ot,’ saidMrsBartholomew,moppingupher tears, ‘intheliberry.’

Andwrappedinadamaskbedquilt,toadishofmuffinsOrlandonowsatdown.

‘The muffins is keepin’ ‘ot in the liberry’—Orlando minced out the horridcockneyphrase inMrsBartholomew’srefinedcockneyaccentsasshedrank—but no, she detested the mild fluid—her tea. It was in this very room, sheremembered,thatQueenElizabethhadstoodastridethefireplacewithaflagonofbeerinherhand,whichshesuddenlydashedonthetablewhenLordBurghleytactlessly used the imperative instead of the subjunctive. ‘Little man, littleman,’—Orlando could hear her say—’is “must” a word to be addressed toprinces?’Anddowncametheflagononthetable:therewasthemarkofitstill.

But when Orlando leapt to her feet, as themere thought of that great Queencommanded,thebedquilttrippedherup,andshefellbackinherarm–chairwitha curse. Tomorrow she would have to buy twenty yards or more of blackbombazine, she supposed, to make a skirt. And then (here she blushed), shewouldhavetobuyacrinoline,andthen(heresheblushed)abassinette,andthenanothercrinoline,andsoon...Theblushescameandwentwiththemostexquisiteiterationofmodestyandshameimaginable.Onemightseethespiritoftheageblowing,nowhot,nowcold,uponhercheeks.Andifthespiritoftheageblewalittle unequally, the crinoline being blushed for before the husband, herambiguouspositionmustexcuseher(evenhersexwasstill indispute)andtheirregularlifeshehadlivedbefore.

Atlengththecolouronhercheeksresumeditsstabilityanditseemedasifthespiritoftheage—ifsuchindeeditwere—laydormantforatime.ThenOrlandofeltinthebosomofhershirtasifforsomelocketorrelicoflostaffection,anddrewoutnosuch thing,buta rollofpaper,sea–stained,blood–stained, travel–stained—themanuscriptofherpoem,‘TheOakTree’.Shehadcarriedthisabout

withherforsomanyyearsnow,andinsuchhazardouscircumstances,thatmanyofthepageswerestained,someweretorn,whilethestraitsshehadbeeninforwritingpaperwhenwiththegipsies,hadforcedhertooverscorethemarginsandcross the lines till the manuscript looked like a piece of darning mostconscientiouslycarriedout.Sheturnedbacktothefirstpageandreadthedate,1586,writteninherownboyishhand.Shehadbeenworkingatitforclosethreehundredyearsnow.Itwas time tomakeanend.Meanwhileshebegan turninganddippingandreadingandskippingandthinkingassheread,howverylittleshehadchangedalltheseyears.Shehadbeenagloomyboy,inlovewithdeath,asboysare;and thenshehadbeenamorousandflorid;and thenshehadbeensprightlyandsatirical;andsometimesshehadtriedproseandsometimesshehadtried drama. Yet through all these changes she had remained, she reflected,fundamentallythesame.Shehadthesamebroodingmeditativetemper,thesameloveofanimalsandnature,thesamepassionforthecountryandtheseasons.

‘After all,’ she thought, getting up and going to the window, ‘nothing haschanged.Thehouse,thegardenarepreciselyastheywere.Notachairhasbeenmoved,notatrinketsold.Therearethesamewalks, thesamelawns,thesametrees,andthesamepool,which,Idaresay,hasthesamecarpinit.True,QueenVictoriaisonthethroneandnotQueenElizabeth,butwhatdifference...’

No sooner had the thought taken shape, than, as if to rebuke it, the doorwasflung wide and in marched Basket, the butler, followed by Bartholomew, thehousekeeper,toclearawaytea.Orlando,whohadjustdippedherpenintheink,andwasabouttoinditesomereflectionupontheeternityofallthings,wasmuchannoyedtobeimpededbyablot,whichspreadandmeanderedroundherpen.Itwassomeinfirmityofthequill,shesupposed;itwassplitordirty.Shedippeditagain.Theblotincreased.Shetriedtogoonwithwhatshewassaying;nowordscame. Next she began to decorate the blot with wings and whiskers, till itbecamearound–headedmonster,somethingbetweenabatandawombat.ButasforwritingpoetrywithBasketandBartholomewintheroom,itwasimpossible.Nosoonerhadshesaid‘Impossible’than,toherastonishmentandalarm,thepenbegantocurveandcaracolewiththesmoothestpossiblefluency.Herpagewaswritten in the neatest sloping Italian handwith themost insipid verse she hadeverreadinherlife:

IammyselfbutavilelinkAmidlife’swearychain,

ButIhavespokenhallow’dwords,Oh,donotsayinvain!

Willtheyoungmaiden,whenhertears,Aloneinmoonlightshine,Tearsfortheabsentandtheloved,Murmur—

shewrotewithoutastopasBartholomewandBasketgruntedandgroanedabouttheroom,mendingthefire,pickingupthemuffins.

Againshedippedherpenandoffitwent:—

Shewassochanged,thesoftcarnationcloudOncemantlingo’erhercheeklikethatwhicheveHangso’erthesky,glowingwithroseatehue,Hadfadedintopaleness,brokenbyBrightburningblushes,torchesofthetomb,

buthere,byanabruptmovement shespilt the inkever thepageandblotted itfrom human sight she hoped for ever. She was all of a quiver, all of a stew.Nothingmorerepulsivecouldbe imagined than to feel the inkflowing thus incascadesofinvoluntaryinspiration.Whathadhappenedtoher?Wasitthedamp,was itBartholomew,was itBasket,whatwas it? shedemanded.But the roomwasempty.Nooneansweredher,unlessthedrippingoftherainintheivycouldbetakenforananswer.

Meanwhile, she became conscious, as she stood at the window, of anextraordinary tingling and vibration all over her, as if she were made of athousandwiresuponwhich somebreezeor errant fingerswereplaying scales.Nowhertoestingled;nowhermarrow.Shehadthequeerestsensationsaboutthethighbones.Herhairsseemedtoerectthemselves.Herarmssangandtwangedasthetelegraphwireswouldbesingingandtwangingintwentyyearsorso.Butall thisagitationseemedat length toconcentrate inherhands;and then inonehand,and then inone fingerof thathand,and then finally tocontract itself sothat itmade a ring of quivering sensibility about the second finger of the lefthand.Andwhensheraisedittoseewhatcausedthisagitation,shesawnothing—nothingbut the vast solitary emeraldwhichQueenElizabeth hadgivenher.

Andwasthatnotenough?sheasked.Itwasofthefinestwater.Itwasworthtenthousand pounds at least. The vibration seemed, in the oddest way (butrememberwearedealingwithsomeofthedarkestmanifestationsofthehumansoul) to say No, that is not enough; and, further, to assume a note ofinterrogation,asthoughitwereasking,whatdiditmean,thishiatus,thisstrangeoversight?tillpoorOrlandofeltpositivelyashamedofthesecondfingerofherlefthandwithoutintheleastknowingwhy.Atthismoment,Bartholomewcameintoaskwhichdresssheshouldlayoutfordinner,andOrlando,whosesenseswere much quickened, instantly glanced at Bartholomew’s left hand, andinstantly perceivedwhat she had never noticed before—a thick ring of ratherjaundicedyellowcirclingthethirdfingerwhereherownwasbare.

‘Letmelookatyourring,Bartholomew,’shesaid,stretchingherhandtotakeit.

At this,Bartholomewmadeas ifshehadbeenstruck in thebreastbya rogue.Shestartedbackapaceor two,clenchedherhandand flung itaway fromherwith a gesture that was noble in the extreme. ‘No,’ she said, with resolutedignity,herLadyshipmightlookifshepleased,butasfortakingoffherweddingring,not theArchbishopnor thePopenorQueenVictoriaonher thronecouldforcehertodothat.HerThomashadputitonherfingertwenty–fiveyears,sixmonths,threeweeksago;shehadsleptinit;workedinit;washedinit;prayedinit;andproposedtobeburiedinit.Infact,Orlandounderstoodhertosay,buthervoicewasmuchbrokenwithemotion;thatitwasbythegleamonherweddingringthatshewouldbeassignedherstationamongtheangelsanditslustrewouldbetarnishedforeverifsheletitoutofherkeepingforasecond.

‘Heaven help us,’ said Orlando, standing at the window and watching thepigeonsattheirpranks,‘whataworldwelivein!Whataworldtobesure!’Itscomplexitiesamazedher.Itnowseemedtoherthatthewholeworldwasringedwithgold.Shewentintodinner.Weddingringsabounded.Shewenttochurch.Weddingringswereeverywhere.Shedroveout.Gold,orpinchbeck,thin,thick,plain, smooth, they glowed dully on every hand. Rings filled the jewellers’shops,nottheflashingpastesanddiamondsofOrlando’srecollection,butsimplebandswithoutastoneinthem.Atthesametime,shebegantonoticeanewhabitamongthetownpeople.Intheolddays,onewouldmeetaboytriflingwithagirlunderahawthornhedgefrequentlyenough.Orlandohadflickedmanyacouplewiththetipofherwhipandlaughedandpassedon.Now,allthatwaschanged.Couples trudged and plodded in the middle of the road indissolubly linked

together.Thewoman’srighthandwasinvariablypassedthroughtheman’sleftandherfingerswerefirmlygrippedbyhis.Oftenitwasnottillthehorses’noseswereonthemthat theybudged,andthen, thoughtheymoveditwasall inonepiece,heavily,tothesideoftheroad.Orlandocouldonlysupposethatsomenewdiscoveryhadbeenmadeabouttherace;thattheyweresomehowstucktogether,coupleaftercouple,butwhohadmadeitandwhen,shecouldnotguess.Itdidnot seem to be Nature. She looked at the doves and the rabbits and the elk–hounds and she could not see that Nature had changed her ways or mendedthem, since the time of Elizabeth at least. There was no indissoluble allianceamong thebrutes that shecouldsee.Could itbeQueenVictoria then,orLordMelbourne?Was it fromthemthat thegreatdiscoveryofmarriageproceeded?YettheQueen,shepondered,wassaidtobefondofdogs,andLordMelbourne,shehadheard,wassaidtobefondofwomen.Itwasstrange—itwasdistasteful;indeed, there was something in this indissolubility of bodies which wasrepugnant to her sense of decency and sanitation. Her ruminations, however,were accompaniedby sucha tingling and twangingof the afflicted finger thatshe could scarcely keep her ideas in order. Theywere languishing and oglinglikeahousemaid’sfancies.Theymadeherblush.Therewasnothingforitbuttobuyoneof thoseuglybandsandwear it liketherest.Thisshedid,slippingit,overcomewithshame,uponher finger in theshadowofacurtain;butwithoutavail.Thetinglingpersistedmoreviolently,moreindignantlythanever.Shedidnot sleep awink that night.Nextmorningwhen she tookup thepen towrite,eithershecould thinkofnothing,and thepenmadeone large lachrymoseblotafteranother,or itambledoff,morealarminglystill, intomellifluousfluenciesaboutearlydeathandcorruption,whichwereworsethannothinkingatall.Foritwouldseem—hercaseproved it—thatwewrite,notwith the fingers,butwiththe whole person. The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about everyfibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver. Though the seat of hertroubleseemedtobethelefthand,shecouldfeelherselfpoisonedthroughandthrough, andwas forced at length to consider themost desperate of remedies,whichwastoyieldcompletelyandsubmissivelytothespiritoftheage,andtakeahusband.

Thatthiswasmuchagainsthernaturaltemperamenthasbeensufficientlymadeplain.WhenthesoundoftheArchduke’schariotwheelsdiedaway,thecrythatrosetoherlipswas‘Life!ALover!’not‘Life!AHusband!’anditwasinpursuitofthisaimthatshehadgonetotownandrunabouttheworldashasbeenshown

in thepreviouschapter.Such is the indomitablenatureof thespiritof theage,however,thatitbattersdownanyonewhotriestomakestandagainstitfarmoreeffectually than those who bend its own way. Orlando had inclined herselfnaturally to theElizabethan spirit, to theRestoration spirit, to the spirit of theeighteenthcentury,andhad inconsequencescarcelybeenawareof thechangefrom one age to the other. But the spirit of the nineteenth century wasantipathetictoherintheextreme,andthusittookherandbrokeher,andshewasawareofherdefeatatitshandsasshehadneverbeenbefore.Foritisprobablethat thehumanspirithas itsplace in timeassigned to it;somearebornof thisage,someofthat;andnowthatOrlandowasgrownawoman,ayearortwopastthirtyindeed,thelinesofhercharacterwerefixed,andtobendthemthewrongwaywasintolerable.

So she stood mournfully at the drawing–room window (Bartholomew had sochristened the library)draggeddownby theweightof thecrinolinewhich shehadsubmissivelyadopted.Itwasheavierandmoredrabthananydressshehadyetworn.Nonehadeversoimpededhermovements.Nolongercouldshestridethrough the gardenwith her dogs, or run lightly to the highmound and flingherself beneath the oak tree. Her skirts collected damp leaves and straw. Theplumedhattossedonthebreeze.Thethinshoeswerequicklysoakedandmud–caked.Hermuscleshadlosttheirpliancy.Shebecamenervouslestthereshouldberobbersbehindthewainscotandafraid,forthefirsttimeinherlife,ofghostsinthecorridors.Allthesethingsinclinedher,stepbystep,tosubmittothenewdiscovery, whether Queen Victoria’s or another’s, that each man and eachwoman has another allotted to it for life, whom it supports, by whom it issupported,tilldeaththemdopart.Itwouldbeacomfort,shefelt,tolean;tositdown;yes, toliedown;never,never,nevertogetupagain.Thusdidthespiritworkuponher,forallherpastpride,andasshecameslopingdownthescaleofemotion to this lowly and unaccustomed lodging–place, those twangings andtinglings which had been so captious and so interrogativemodulated into thesweetestmelodies, till it seemed as if angelswere plucking harp–stringswithwhitefingersandherwholebeingwaspervadedbyaseraphicharmony.

But whom could she lean upon? She asked that question of the wild autumnwinds. For it was nowOctober, and wet as usual. Not the Archduke; he hadmarriedaverygreat ladyandhadhuntedhares inRoumania thesemanyyearsnow; norMrM.; hewas become aCatholic; nor theMarquis ofC.; hemade

sacksinBotanyBay;northeLordO.;hehadlongbeenfoodforfishes.Onewayor another, all her old cronies were gone now, and the Nells and the Kits ofDruryLane,muchthoughshefavouredthem,scarcelydidtoleanupon.

‘Whom’, she asked, casting her eyes upon the revolving clouds, clasping herhandsasshekneltonthewindow–sill,andlookingtheveryimageofappealingwomanhoodasshedidso,‘canIleanupon?’Herwordsformedthemselves,herhandsclasped themselves, involuntarily, just asherpenhadwrittenof itsownaccord.ItwasnotOrlandowhospoke,butthespiritoftheage.Butwhicheveritwas,nobodyansweredit.Therooksweretumblingpell–mellamongthevioletcloudsofautumn.Therainhadstoppedat lastandtherewasaniridescenceintheskywhichtemptedhertoputonherplumedhatandherlittlestringedshoesandstrolloutbeforedinner.

‘Everyone is mated except myself,’ she mused, as she trailed disconsolatelyacrossthecourtyard.Thereweretherooks;CanuteandPippineven—transitoryas their alliances were, still each this evening seemed to have a partner.‘Whereas,I,whoammistressofitall,’Orlandothought,glancingasshepassedat the innumerable emblazonedwindows of the hall, ‘am single, ammateless,amalone.’

Such thoughts had never entered her head before. Now they bore her downunescapably.Insteadof thrustingthegateopen,shetappedwithaglovedhandfortheportertounfastenitforher.Onemustleanonsomeone,shethought,ifitisonlyonaporter;andhalfwishedtostaybehindandhelphimtogrillhischoponabucketoffierycoals,butwastootimidtoaskit.Soshestrayedoutintothepark alone, faltering at first and apprehensive lest theremight be poachers orgamekeepersorevenerrand–boystomarvelthatagreatladyshouldwalkalone.

At every step she glanced nervously lest some male form should be hidingbehindafurzebushorsomesavagecowbeloweringitshorns to tossher.Buttherewereonlytherooksflauntinginthesky.Asteel–blueplumefromoneofthem fell among the heather. She lovedwild birds’ feathers. She had used tocollectthemasaboy.Shepickeditupandstuckitinherhat.Theairblewuponher spirit somewhat and revived it. As the rookswentwhirling andwheelingaboveherheadandfeatherafter feather fellgleaming through thepurplishair,shefollowedthem,herlongcloakfloatingbehindher,overthemoor,upthehill.Shehadnotwalkedsofarforyears.Sixfeathershadshepickedfromthegrass

and drawn between her fingers and pressed to her lips to feel their smooth,glinting plumage, when she saw, gleaming on the hill–side, a silver pool,mysterious as the lake into which Sir Bedivere flung the sword of Arthur. Asingle feather quivered in the air and fell into the middle of it. Then, somestrangeecstasycameoverher.Somewildnotionshehadoffollowingthebirdstotherimoftheworldandflingingherselfonthespongyturfandtheredrinkingforgetfulness,whiletherooks’hoarselaughtersoundedoverher.Shequickenedherpace;sheran;she tripped; the toughheatherrootsflungher to theground.Heranklewasbroken.Shecouldnotrise.Butthereshelaycontent.Thescentofthe bogmyrtle and themeadow–sweetwas in her nostrils. The rooks’ hoarselaughterwasinherears.‘Ihavefoundmymate,’shemurmured.‘Itisthemoor.I am nature’s bride,’ she whispered, giving herself in rapture to the coldembracesofthegrassasshelayfoldedinhercloakinthehollowbythepool.‘HerewillIlie.(Afeatherfelluponherbrow.)Ihavefoundagreenerlaurelthanthebay.My foreheadwill be cool always.These arewildbirds’ feathers—theowl’s, the nightjar’s. I shall dream wild dreams. My hands shall wear noweddingring,’shecontinued,slippingitfromherfinger.‘Therootsshalltwineaboutthem.Ah!’shesighed,pressingherheadluxuriouslyonitsspongypillow,‘Ihavesoughthappinessthroughmanyagesandnotfoundit;fameandmissedit;loveandnotknownit;life—andbehold,deathisbetter.Ihaveknownmanymenandmanywomen,’shecontinued;‘nonehaveIunderstood.ItisbetterthatIshouldlieatpeaceherewithonlytheskyaboveme—asthegipsytoldmeyearsago.ThatwasinTurkey.’Andshelookedstraightupintothemarvellousgoldenfoam intowhich the clouds had churned themselves, and saw nextmoment atrack in it, and camels passing in single file through the rocky desert amongclouds of red dust; and then, when the camels had passed, there were onlymountains, very high and full of clefts and with pinnacles of rock, and shefanciedsheheardgoatbellsringingintheirpasses,andintheirfoldswerefieldsof irises and gentian. So the sky changed and her eyes slowly loweredthemselvesdownanddowntilltheycametotherain–darkenedearthandsawthegreathumpoftheSouthDowns,flowinginonewavealongthecoast;andwherethelandparted,therewasthesea,theseawithshipspassing;andshefanciedsheheard a gun far out at sea, and thought at first, ‘That’s theArmada,’ and thenthought‘No,it’sNelson’,andthenrememberedhowthosewarswereoverandthe ships were busy merchant ships; and the sails on the winding river werethoseofpleasureboats.Shesaw, too,cattlesprinkledonthedarkfields,sheepandcows,andshesawthelightscominghereandthereinfarm–housewindows,

and lanternsmovingamong thecattleas theshepherdwenthis roundsand thecowman;andthenthelightswentoutandthestarsroseandtangledthemselvesabout thesky. Indeed,shewas fallingasleepwith thewet feathersonher faceandherearpressedtothegroundwhensheheard,deepwithin,somehammeronananvil,orwas itaheartbeating?Tick–tock, tick–tock,so ithammered,so itbeat,theanvil,ortheheartinthemiddleoftheearth;until,asshelistened,shethought it changed to the trot of a horse’s hoofs; one, two, three, four, shecounted;thensheheardastumble;then,asitcamenearerandnearer,shecouldhearthecrackofatwigandthesuckofthewetboginitshoofs.Thehorsewasalmostonher.Shesatupright.Toweringdarkagainsttheyellow–slashedskyofdawn, with the plovers rising and falling about him, she saw a man onhorseback.Hestarted.Thehorsestopped.

‘Madam,’themancried,leapingtotheground,‘you’rehurt!’

‘I’mdead,sir!’shereplied.

Afewminuteslater,theybecameengaged.

The morning after, as they sat at breakfast, he told her his name. It wasMarmadukeBonthropShelmerdine,Esquire.

‘I knew it!’ she said, for there was something romantic and chivalrous,passionate, melancholy, yet determined about him which went with the wild,dark–plumed name—a namewhich had, in hermind, the steel–blue gleam ofrooks’wings,thehoarselaughteroftheircaws,thesnake–liketwistingdescentof their feathers in a silver pool, and a thousand other things which will bedescribedpresently.

‘MineisOrlando,’shesaid.Hehadguessedit.ForifyouseeashipinfullsailcomingwiththesunonitproudlysweepingacrosstheMediterraneanfromtheSouthSeas,onesaysatonce,‘Orlando’,heexplained.

Infact,thoughtheiracquaintancehadbeensoshort,theyhadguessed,asalwayshappensbetweenlovers,everythingofanyimportanceabouteachother in twoseconds at the utmost, and it now remained only to fill in such unimportantdetails as what they were called; where they lived; and whether they werebeggars or people of substance. He had a castle in the Hebrides, but it was

ruined,hetoldher.Gannetsfeastedinthebanquetinghall.Hehadbeenasoldierandasailor,andhadexploredtheEast.HewasonhiswaynowtojoinhisbrigatFalmouth,butthewindhadfallenanditwasonlywhenthegaleblewfromtheSouth–west that he could put out to sea. Orlando looked hastily from thebreakfast–roomwindowat thegilt leopardon theweathervane.Mercifully itstailpointeddueeastandwassteadyasarock.‘Oh!Shel,don’t leaveme!’shecried.‘I’mpassionatelyinlovewithyou,’shesaid.Nosoonerhadthewordslefthermouththananawfulsuspicionrushedintoboththeirmindssimultaneously.

‘You’reawoman,Shel!’shecried.

‘You’reaman,Orlando!’hecried.

Never was there such a scene of protestation and demonstration as then tookplacesincetheworldbegan.Whenitwasoverandtheywereseatedagainsheaskedhim,whatwasthistalkofaSouth–westgale?Wherewasheboundfor?

‘FortheHorn,’hesaidbriefly,andblushed.(Foramanhadtoblushasawomanhad,onlyatratherdifferentthings.)Itwasonlybydintofgreatpressureonhersideandtheuseofmuchintuitionthatshegatheredthathislifewasspentinthemost desperate and splendid of adventures—which is to voyage round CapeHornintheteethofagale.Mastshadbeensnappedoff;sailstorntoribbons(shehadtodragtheadmissionfromhim).Sometimestheshiphadsunk,andhehadbeenlefttheonlysurvivoronaraftwithabiscuit.

‘It’saboutallafellowcandonowadays,’hesaidsheepishly,andhelpedhimselftogreatspoonfulsofstrawberryjam.Thevisionwhichshehadthereuponofthisboy (forhewas littlemore) suckingpeppermints, forwhichhehadapassion,whilethemastssnappedandthestarsreeledandheroaredbrieforderstocutthisadrift,toheavethatoverboard,broughtthetearstohereyes,tears,shenoted,ofa finer flavour thananyshehadcriedbefore: ‘Iamawoman,’she thought, ‘areal woman, at last.’ She thanked Bonthrop from the bottom of her heart forhavinggivenherthisrareandunexpecteddelight.Hadshenotbeenlameintheleftfoot,shewouldhavesatuponhisknee.

‘Shel,mydarling,’shebeganagain,‘tellme...’andsotheytalkedtwohoursormore,perhapsaboutCapeHorn,perhapsnot,andreallyitwouldprofitlittletowritedownwhattheysaid,fortheykneweachothersowellthattheycouldsay

anything,which is tantamount to saying nothing, or saying such stupid, prosythingsashow tocookanomelette,orwhere tobuy thebestboots inLondon,things which have no lustre taken from their setting, yet are positively ofamazingbeautywithinit.Forithascomeabout,bythewiseeconomyofnature,that our modern spirit can almost dispense with language; the commonestexpressionsdo,sincenoexpressionsdo;hencethemostordinaryconversationisoften the most poetic, and the most poetic is precisely that which cannot bewritten down. Forwhich reasonswe leave a great blank here,whichmust betakentoindicatethatthespaceisfilledtorepletion.

Aftersomedaysmoreofthiskindoftalk,

‘Orlando,mydearest,’Shelwasbeginning,whentherewasascufflingoutside,andBasket the butler enteredwith the information that therewas a couple ofPeelersdownstairswithawarrantfromtheQueen.

‘Show‘emup,’saidShelmerdinebriefly,asifonhisownquarter–deck,takingup,byinstinct,astandwithhishandsbehindhiminfrontofthefireplace.Twoofficers in bottlegreen uniformswith truncheons at their hips then entered theroom and stood at attention. Formalities being over, they gave intoOrlando’sownhands,astheircommissionwas,alegaldocumentofsomeveryimpressivesort; judging by the blobs of sealing wax, the ribbons, the oaths, and thesignatures,whichwereallofthehighestimportance.

Orlandoranhereyesthroughitandthen,usingthefirstfingerofherrighthandaspointer,readoutthefollowingfactsasbeingmostgermanetothematter.

‘The lawsuits are settled,’ she read out...’some in my favour, as forexample...others not. Turkish marriage annulled (I was ambassador inConstantinople, Shel,’ she explained) ‘Children pronounced illegitimate, (theysaidIhadthreesonsbyPepita,aSpanishdancer).Sotheydon’tinherit,whichisall to the good...Sex?Ah! what about sex?My sex’, she read out with somesolemnity,‘ispronouncedindisputably,andbeyondtheshadowofadoubt(whatI was telling you a moment ago, Shel?), female. The estates which are nowdesequestrated inperpetuitydescendandare tailedandentailedupon theheirsmaleofmybody,orindefaultofmarriage’—buthereshegrewimpatientwiththislegalverbiage,andsaid,‘buttherewon’tbeanydefaultofmarriage,norofheirseither,sotherestcanbetakenasread.’Whereuponsheappendedherown

signature beneath Lord Palmerston’s and entered from that moment into theundisturbedpossessionofhertitles,herhouse,andherestate—whichwasnowsomuchshrunk, for thecostof the lawsuitshadbeenprodigious, that, thoughshewasinfinitelynobleagain,shewasalsoexcessivelypoor.

Whentheresultofthelawsuitwasmadeknown(andrumourflewmuchquickerthan the telegraph which has supplanted it), the whole town was filled withrejoicings.

[Horseswereput intocarriagesforthesolepurposeofbeingtakenout.Emptybarouchesandlandauswere trundledupanddowntheHighStreet incessantly.AddresseswerereadfromtheBull.RepliesweremadefromtheStag.Thetownwas illuminated.Goldcasketswere securely sealed inglass cases.Coinswerewellanddulylaidunderstones.Hospitalswerefounded.RatandSparrowclubswere inaugurated. Turkish women by the dozen were burnt in effigy in themarket–place, togetherwithscoresofpeasantboyswith the label ‘IamabasePretender’,lollingfromtheirmouths.TheQueen’scream–colouredponiesweresoonseentrottinguptheavenuewithacommandtoOrlandotodineandsleepatthe Castle, that very same night. Her table, as on a previous occasion, wassnowed under with invitations from the Countess if R., Lady Q., LadyPalmerston, theMarchionessofP.,MrsW.E.Gladstoneandothers,beseechingthe pleasure of her company, reminding her of ancient alliances between theirfamilyandherown,etc.]—allofwhichisproperlyenclosedinsquarebrackets,asabove,forthegoodreasonthataparenthesisitwaswithoutanyimportanceinOrlando’slife.Sheskippedit,togetonwiththetext.Forwhenthebonfireswereblazinginthemarketplace,shewasinthedarkwoodswithShelmerdinealone.Sofinewastheweatherthatthetreesstretchedtheirbranchesmotionlessabovethem, and if a leaf fell, it fell, spotted red and gold, so slowly that one couldwatch it for half an hour fluttering and falling till it came to rest at last, onOrlando’sfoot.

‘Tell me,Mar,’ she would say (and here it must be explained, that when shecalledhimbythefirstsyllableofhisfirstname,shewasinadreamy,amorous,acquiescentmood,domestic,languidalittle,asifspicedlogswereburning,anditwasevening,yetnottimetodress,andathoughtwetperhapsoutside,enoughtomaketheleavesglisten,butanightingalemightbesingingevensoamongtheazaleas,twoorthreedogsbarkingatdistantfarms,acockcrowing—allofwhichthereadershouldimagineinhervoice)—’Tellme,Mar,’shewouldsay,‘about

CapeHorn.’ThenShelmerdinewouldmakealittlemodelonthegroundoftheCapewithtwigsanddeadleavesandanemptysnailshellortwo.

‘Here’s the north,’ hewould say. ‘There’s the south.Thewind’s coming fromhereabouts.Nowthebrigissailingduewest;we’vejustloweredthetop–boommizzen:andsoyousee—here,wherethisbitofgrassis,sheentersthecurrentwhich you’ll find marked—where’s my map and compasses, Bo’sun? Ah!thanks, that’ll do, where the snail shell is. The current catches her on thestarboard side, so we must rig the jib–boom or we shall be carried to thelarboard,whichiswherethatbeechleaf is,—foryoumustunderstandmydear—’andsohewouldgoon,andshewouldlistentoeveryword;interpretingthemrightly, so as to see, that is to say, without his having to tell her, thephosphorescenceonthewaves;theiciclesclankingintheshrouds;howhewenttothetopofthemastinagale;therereflectedonthedestinyofman;camedownagain;hadawhiskyandsoda;wentonshore;was trappedbyablackwoman;repented;reasoneditout;readPascal;determinedtowritephilosophy;boughtamonkey;debatedthetrueendoflife;decidedinfavourofCapeHorn,andsoon.Allthisandathousandotherthingssheunderstoodhimtosay,andsowhenshereplied, Yes, negresses are seductive, aren’t they? he having told her that thesupplyofbiscuitsnowgaveout,hewassurprisedanddelightedtofindhowwellshehadtakenhismeaning.

‘Are you positive you aren’t aman?’ hewould ask anxiously, and shewouldecho,

‘Canitbepossibleyou’renotawoman?’andthentheymustputittotheproofwithout more ado. For each was so surprised at the quickness of the other’ssympathy,anditwastoeachsucharevelationthatawomancouldbeastolerantandfree–spokenasaman,andamanasstrangeandsubtleasawoman,thattheyhadtoputthemattertotheproofatonce.

Andsotheywouldgoontalkingorrather,understanding,whichhasbecomethemain art of speech in an age when words are growing daily so scanty incomparison with ideas that ‘the biscuits ran out’ has to stand for kissing anegressinthedarkwhenonehasjustreadBishopBerkeley’sphilosophyforthetenthtime.(Andfromthisitfollowsthatonlythemostprofoundmastersofstylecan tell the truth, andwhen onemeets a simple one–syllablewriter, onemayconclude,withoutanydoubtatall,thatthepoormanislying.)

So theywould talk; and then,when her feetwere fairly coveredwith spottedautumnleaves,Orlandowouldriseandstrollawayintotheheartofthewoodsinsolitude,leavingBonthropsittingthereamongthesnailshells,makingmodelsofCapeHorn.‘Bonthrop,’shewouldsay,‘I’moff,’andwhenshecalledhimbyhissecondname,‘Bonthrop’,itshouldsignifytothereaderthatshewasinasolitarymood,feltthembothasspecksonadesert,wasdesirousonlyofmeetingdeathbyherself,forpeoplediedaily,dieatdinnertables,orlikethis,outofdoorsintheautumnwoods;andwiththebonfiresblazingandLadyPalmerstonorLadyDerbyaskingherouteverynighttodinner,thedesirefordeathwouldovercomeher,andsosaying‘Bonthrop’,shesaidineffect,‘I’mdead’,andpushedherwayasaspiritmightthroughthespectre–palebeechtrees,andsooaredherselfdeepinto solitude as if the little flicker of noise andmovementwere over and shewerefreenowtotakeherway—allofwhichthereadershouldhearinhervoicewhenshesaid‘Bonthrop,’andshouldalsoadd,thebettertoilluminetheword,thatforhimtoothesamewordsignified,mystically,separationandisolationandthedisembodiedpacingthedeckofhisbriginunfathomableseas.

Aftersomehoursofdeath,suddenlyajayshrieked‘Shelmerdine’,andstooping,shepickeduponeof thoseautumncrocuseswhichtosomepeoplesignifythatveryword,andputitwiththejay’sfeatherthatcametumblingbluethroughthebeechwoods, in her breast.Then she called ‘Shelmerdine’ and thewordwentshootingthiswayandthatwaythroughthewoodsandstruckhimwherehesat,makingmodelsoutofsnailshellsinthegrass.Hesawher,andheardhercomingtohimwith thecrocusand the jay’s feather inherbreast,andcried‘Orlando’,whichmeant(anditmustberememberedthatwhenbrightcolourslikeblueandyellowmixthemselvesinoureyes,someofitrubsoffonourthoughts)firstthebowingandswayingofbrackenas ifsomethingwerebreaking through;whichprovedtobeashipinfullsail,heavingandtossingalittledreamily,ratherasifshehadawholeyearof summerdays tomakehervoyage in; and so the shipbearsdown,heavingthisway,heavingthatway,nobly,indolently,andridesoverthe crest of thiswave and sinks into the hollowof that one, and so, suddenlystandsoveryou(whoareinalittlecockleshellofaboat,lookingupather)withall her sails quivering, and then, behold, they drop all of a heap on deck—asOrlandodroppednowintothegrassbesidehim.

Eightorninedayshadbeenspentthus,butonthetenth,whichwasthe26thofOctober,Orlandowas lying in thebracken,whileShelmerdine recitedShelley

(whose entire works he had by heart), when a leaf which had started to fallslowlyenoughfromatreetopwhippedbrisklyacrossOrlando’sfoot.Asecondleaf followed and then a third. Orlando shivered and turned pale. It was thewind.Shelmerdine—but itwouldbemorepropernow tocallhimBonthrop—leapttohisfeet.

‘Thewind!’hecried.

Together they ran through thewoods, thewindplastering themwith leaves astheyran,tothegreatcourtandthroughitandthelittlecourts,frightenedservantsleaving their brooms and their saucepans to follow after till they reached theChapel,andthereascatteringoflightswaslitasfastascouldbe,oneknockingover this bench, another snuffing out that taper.Bellswere rung. Peopleweresummoned.AtlengththerewasMrDuppercatchingattheendsofhiswhitetieand askingwherewas the prayer book.And they thrustQueenMary’s prayerbook in his hands and he searched, hastily fluttering the pages, and said,‘MarmadukeBonthropShelmerdine,andLadyOrlando,kneeldown’;andtheykneltdown,andnowtheywerebrightandnowtheyweredarkasthelightandshadowcameflyinghelter–skelterthroughthepaintedwindows;andamongthebanging of innumerable doors and a sound like brass pots beating, the organsounded,itsgrowlcomingloudandfaintalternately,andMrDupper,whowasgrownaveryoldman,triednowtoraisehisvoiceabovetheuproarandcouldnotbeheardand thenallwasquiet foramoment,andoneword—itmightbe‘thejawsofdeath’—rangoutclear,whilealltheestateservantskeptpressinginwithrakesandwhipsstillintheirhandstolisten,andsomesangloudandothersprayed,andnowabirdwasdashedagainstthepane,andnowtherewasaclapofthunder,sothatnooneheardthewordObeyspokenorsaw,exceptasagoldenflash, theringpassfromhandtohand.Allwasmovementandconfusion.Andup they rose with the organ booming and the lightning playing and the rainpouring, and theLadyOrlando,with her ring on her finger,went out into thecourtinherthindressandheldtheswingingstirrup,forthehorsewasbittedandbridledandthefoamwasstillonhisflank,forherhusbandtomount,whichhedidwith one bound, and the horse leapt forward andOrlando, standing there,criedoutMarmadukeBonthropShelmerdine!andheansweredherOrlando!andthewordswentdashingandcirclinglikewildhawkstogetheramongthebelfriesandhigherandhigher,furtherandfurther,fasterandfastertheycircled,tilltheycrashedandfellinashoweroffragmentstotheground;andshewentin.

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VirginiaWoolf

Orlando

CHAPTER6.

Orlandowentindoors.Itwascompletelystill.Itwasverysilent.Therewastheinkpot:therewasthepen;therewasthemanuscriptofherpoem,brokenoffinthemiddleofatributetoeternity.Shehadbeenabouttosay,whenBasketandBartholomewinterruptedwiththeteathings,nothingchanges.Andthen,inthespaceofthreesecondsandahalf,everythinghadchanged—shehadbrokenherankle,falleninlove,marriedShelmerdine.

Therewastheweddingringonherfingertoproveit.Itwastruethatshehadputit there herself before she met Shelmerdine, but that had proved worse thanuseless.Shenowturnedtheringroundandround,withsuperstitiousreverence,takingcarelestitshouldslippastthejointofherfinger.

‘Theweddingringhas tobeputon the thirdfingerof the lefthand’,shesaid,likeachildcautiouslyrepeatingitslesson,‘forittobeofanyuseatall.’

Shespokethus,aloudandrathermorepompouslythanwasherwont,asifshewished someonewhose good opinion she desired to overhear her. Indeed, shehadinmind,nowthatshewasatlastabletocollectherthoughts,theeffectthather behaviour would have had upon the spirit of the age. She was extremelyanxioustobeinformedwhetherthestepsshehadtakeninthematterofgettingengaged to Shelmerdine and marrying him met with its approval. She wascertainly feelingmore herself. Her finger had not tingled once, or nothing tocount, since that night on themoor.Yet, she could not deny that she had herdoubts. Shewasmarried, true; but if one’s husbandwas always sailing roundCapeHorn,wasitmarriage?Ifonelikedhim,wasitmarriage?Ifonelikedotherpeople,wasitmarriage?Andfinally,ifonestillwished,morethananythinginthewholeworld,towritepoetry,wasitmarriage?Shehadherdoubts.

Butshewouldputittothetest.Shelookedatthering.Shelookedattheinkpot.Didshedare?No,shedidnot.Butshemust.No,shecouldnot.Whatshouldshedothen?Faint,ifpossible.Butshehadneverfeltbetterinherlife.

‘Hangitall!’shecried,withatouchofheroldspirit.‘Heregoes!’

Andsheplungedherpenneckdeepintheink.Toherenormoussurprise,there

wasnoexplosion.Shedrewthenibout.Itwaswet,butnotdripping.Shewrote.Thewordswere a little long in coming, but come they did.Ah! but did theymake sense? shewondered, a panic coming over her lest the penmight havebeenatsomeofitsinvoluntarypranksagain.Sheread,

AndthenIcametoafieldwherethespringinggrassWasdulledbythehangingcupsoffritillaries,Sullenandforeign–looking,thesnakyflower,Scarfedindullpurple,likeEgyptiangirls:—

As she wrote she felt some power (remember we are dealing with the mostobscuremanifestationsofthehumanspirit)readingoverhershoulder,andwhenshe hadwritten ‘Egyptian girls’, the power told her to stop.Grass, the powerseemedtosay,goingbackwitharulersuchasgovernessesusetothebeginning,is all right; the hanging cups of fritillaries—admirable; the snaky flower—athought,strongfromalady’spen,perhaps,butWordsworthnodoubt,sanctionsit;but—girls?Aregirlsnecessary?Youhaveahusbandat theCape,you say?Ah,well,that’lldo.

Andsothespiritpassedon.

Orlando now performed in spirit (for all this took place in spirit) a deepobeisancetothespiritofherage,suchas—tocomparegreatthingswithsmall—atraveller,consciousthathehasabundleofcigarsinthecornerofhissuitcase,makestothecustomsofficerwhohasobliginglymadeascribbleofwhitechalkon the lid.For shewasextremelydoubtfulwhether, if thespirithadexaminedthe contents of hermind carefully, itwould not have found something highlycontraband for which she would have had to pay the full fine. She had onlyescaped by the skin of her teeth. She had just managed, by some dexterousdeference to thespiritof theage,byputtingona ringandfindingamanonamoor,bylovingnatureandbeingnosatirist,cynic,orpsychologist—anyoneofwhich goods would have been discovered at once—to pass its examinationsuccessfully.Andsheheavedadeepsighofrelief,as,indeed,wellshemight,forthe transaction between a writer and the spirit of the age is one of infinitedelicacy,anduponanicearrangementbetweenthetwothewholefortuneofhisworksdepends.Orlandohad soordered it that shewas inanextremelyhappyposition; she need neither fight her age, nor submit to it; she was of it, yetremainedherself.Now,therefore,shecouldwrite,andwriteshedid.Shewrote.

Shewrote.Shewrote.

It was now November. After November, comes December. Then January,February,March,andApril.AfterAprilcomesMay.June,July,Augustfollow.NextisSeptember.ThenOctober,andso,behold,herewearebackatNovemberagain,withawholeyearaccomplished.

This method of writing biography, though it has its merits, is a little bare,perhaps,andthereader, ifwegoonwithit,maycomplainthathecouldrecitethecalendarforhimselfandsosavehispocketwhateversumtheHogarthPressmaythinkpropertochargeforthisbook.ButwhatcanthebiographerdowhenhissubjecthasputhiminthepredicamentintowhichOrlandohasnowputus?Life, ithasbeenagreedbyeveryonewhoseopinion isworthconsulting, is theonly fit subject for novelist or biographer; life, the same authorities havedecided, has nothingwhatever to dowith sitting still in a chair and thinking.Thoughtandlifeareasthepolesasunder.Therefore—sincesittinginachairandthinking ispreciselywhatOrlandoisdoingnow—there isnothingfor itbut torecitethecalendar,tellone’sbeads,blowone’snose,stirthefire,lookoutofthewindow,untilshehasdone.Orlandosatsostillthatyoucouldhaveheardapindrop.Would, indeed, that a pin had dropped! Thatwould have been life of akind.Orifabutterflyhadflutteredthroughthewindowandsettledonherchair,onecouldwriteaboutthat.Orsupposeshehadgotupandkilledawasp.Then,atonce,wecouldoutwithourpensandwrite.Fortherewouldbebloodshed,ifonlythebloodofawasp.Wherethereisbloodthereislife.Andifkillingawaspis themerest trifle comparedwith killing aman, still it is a fitter subject fornovelistorbiographer than thismerewool–gathering; this thinking; thissittinginachairdayin,dayout,withacigaretteandasheetofpaperandapenandaninkpot.Ifonlysubjects,wemightcomplain(forourpatienceiswearingthin),hadmoreconsiderationfortheirbiographers!Whatismoreirritatingthantoseeone’ssubject,onwhomonehaslavishedsomuchtimeandtrouble,slippingoutof one’s grasp altogether and indulging—witness her sighs and gasps, herflushing, her palings, her eyes nowbright as lamps, nowhaggard as dawns—what is more humiliating than to see all this dumb show of emotion andexcitementgone throughbeforeoureyeswhenweknowthatwhatcauses it—thoughtandimagination—areofnoimportancewhatsoever?

ButOrlandowasawoman—LordPalmerstonhadjustprovedit.Andwhenwearewriting the life of a woman, wemay, it is agreed, waive our demand for

action, and substitute love instead.Love, the poet has said, iswoman’swholeexistence.AndifwelookforamomentatOrlandowritingathertable,wemustadmitthatneverwasthereawomanmorefittedforthatcalling.Surely,sincesheisawoman,andabeautifulwoman,andawomanintheprimeoflife,shewillsoongiveoverthispretenceofwritingandthinkingandbeginatleasttothinkofagamekeeper(andaslongasshethinksofaman,nobodyobjectstoawomanthinking).And then shewillwrite hima little note (and as long as shewriteslittlenotesnobodyobjectstoawomanwritingeither)andmakeanassignationforSundayduskandSundayduskwillcome;andthegamekeeperwillwhistleunderthewindow—allofwhichis,ofcourse,theverystuffoflifeandtheonlypossiblesubjectforfiction.SurelyOrlandomusthavedoneoneofthesethings?Alas,—a thousand times, alas, Orlando did none of them. Must it then beadmitted thatOrlandowasoneof thosemonstersof iniquitywhodonot love?Shewas kind to dogs, faithful to friends, generosity itself to a dozen starvingpoets,hadapassionforpoetry.But love—asthemalenovelistsdefineit—andwho,afterall, speakwithgreaterauthority?—hasnothingwhatever todowithkindness,fidelity,generosity,orpoetry.Loveisslippingoffone’spetticoatand—Butweallknowwhatloveis.DidOrlandodothat?Truthcompelsustosayno,shedidnot.Ifthen,thesubjectofone’sbiographywillneitherlovenorkill,butwillonlythinkandimagine,wemayconcludethatheorsheisnobetterthanacorpseandsoleaveher.

The only resource now left us is to look out of the window. There weresparrows; therewere starlings; therewere a number of doves, andoneor tworooks,alloccupiedafter their fashion.Onefindsaworm,anotherasnail.Oneflutterstoabranch,anothertakesalittlerunontheturf.Thenaservantcrossesthecourtyard,wearingagreenbaizeapron.Presumablyheisengagedonsomeintriguewithoneofthemaidsinthepantry,butasnovisibleproofisofferedus,inthecourtyard,wecanbuthopeforthebestandleaveit.Cloudspass,thinorthick,with some disturbance of the colour of the grass beneath. The sun–dialregisters the hour in its usual cryptic way. One’s mind begins tossing up aquestionortwo,idly,vainly,aboutthissamelife.Life,itsings,orcroonsrather,likeakettleonahob.Life,life,whatartthou?Lightordarkness,thebaizeapronoftheunder–footmanortheshadowofthestarlingonthegrass?

Letusgo,then,exploring,thissummermorning,whenallareadoringtheplumblossomandthebee.Andhummingandhawing,letusaskofthestarling(who

is amore sociable bird than the lark) what hemay think on the brink of thedustbin,whencehepicksamongthestickscombingsofscullion’shair.What’slife,weask,leaningonthefarmyardgate;Life,Life,Life!criesthebird,asifhehadheard,andknewprecisely,whatwemeantbythisbotheringpryinghabitofoursofaskingquestions indoorsandoutandpeepingandpickingatdaisiesasthewayisofwriterswhentheydon’tknowwhat tosaynext.Thentheycomehere,saysthebird,andaskmewhatlifeis;Life,Life,Life!

Wetrudgeonthenbythemoorpath,tothehighbrowofthewine–bluepurple–dark hill, and fling ourselves down there, and dream there and see there agrasshopper, carting back to his home in the hollow, a straw.And he says (ifsawingslikehiscanbegivenanamesosacredandtender)Life’slabour,orsoweinterpretthewhirrofhisdust–chokedgullet.Andtheantagreesandthebees,but ifwe lie here long enough to ask themoths,when they come at evening,stealingamong thepalerheatherbells, theywill breathe inour ears suchwildnonsenseasonehearsfromtelegraphwires insnowstorms; teehee,hawhaw.Laughter,Laughter!themothssay.

Havingaskedthenofmanandofbirdandtheinsects,forfish,mentellus,whohavelivedingreencaves,solitaryforyearstohearthemspeak,never,neversay,andsoperhapsknowwhat life is—havingasked themallandgrownnowiser,butonlyolder andcolder (fordidwenotprayonce in away towrapup in abooksomethingsohard,sorare,onecouldswear itwas life’smeaning?)backwemustgoandsaystraightouttothereaderwhowaitsa–tiptoetohearwhatlifeis—alas,wedon’tknow.

Atthismoment,butonlyjustintimetosavethebookfromextinction,Orlandopushed away her chair, stretched her arms, dropped her pen, came to thewindow,andexclaimed,‘Done!’

Shewasalmostfelledto thegroundbytheextraordinarysightwhichnowmether eyes. There was the garden and some birds. The world was going on asusual.Allthetimeshewaswritingtheworldhadcontinued.

‘AndifIweredead,itwouldbejustthesame!’sheexclaimed.

Suchwastheintensityofherfeelingsthatshecouldevenimaginethatshehadsuffered dissolution, and perhaps some faintness actually attacked her. For a

momentshestoodlookingatthefair,indifferentspectaclewithstaringeyes.Atlengthshewasrevivedinasingularway.Themanuscriptwhichreposedaboveherheartbeganshufflingandbeatingasifitwerealivingthing,and,whatwasstill odder, and showed how fine a sympathywas between them,Orlando, byincliningherhead,couldmakeoutwhatitwasthatitwassaying.Itwantedtoberead.Itmustberead.Itwoulddieinherbosomifitwerenotread.Forthefirsttime in her life she turnedwith violence against nature. Elk–hounds and rosebusheswereaboutherinprofusion.Butelk–houndsandrosebushescannoneofthem read. It is a lamentable oversight on the part of Providence which hadneverstruckherbefore.Humanbeingsalonearethusgifted.Humanbeingshadbecome necessary. She rang the bell. She ordered the carriage to take her toLondonatonce.

‘There’sjusttimetocatchtheelevenfortyfive,M’Lady,’saidBasket.Orlandohad not yet realized the invention of the steam engine, but such was herabsorption in the sufferings of a being, who, though not herself, yet entirelydependedonher,thatshesawarailwaytrainforthefirsttime,tookherseatinarailway carriage, and had the rug arranged about her knees without giving athoughtto‘thatstupendousinvention,whichhad(thehistorianssay)completelychangedthefaceofEuropeinthepasttwentyyears’(as,indeed,happensmuchmorefrequentlythanhistorianssuppose).Shenoticedonlythatitwasextremelysmutty;rattledhorribly;andthewindowsstuck.Lostinthought,shewaswhirledup to London in something less than an hour and stood on the platform atCharingCross,notknowingwheretogo.

TheoldhouseatBlackfriars,whereshehadspentsomanypleasantdaysintheeighteenthcentury,wasnowsold,parttotheSalvationArmy,parttoanumbrellafactory.ShehadboughtanotherinMayfairwhichwassanitary,convenient,andintheheartofthefashionableworld,butwasitinMayfairthatherpoemwouldberelievedofitsdesire?PrayGod,shethought,rememberingthebrightnessoftheir ladyships’ eyes and the symmetry of their lordship’s legs, they haven’ttakentoreadingthere.Forthatwouldbeathousandpities.ThentherewasLadyR.’s.Thesamesortoftalkwouldbegoingontherestill,shehadnodoubt.ThegoutmighthaveshiftedfromtheGeneral’sleft legtohisright,perhaps.MrL.mighthavestayedtendayswithR.insteadofT.ThenMrPopewouldcomein.Oh! butMrPopewas dead.Whowere thewits now, shewondered—but thatwasnotaquestiononecouldputtoaporter,andsoshemovedon.Herearswere

nowdistractedbythejinglingofinnumerablebellsontheheadsofinnumerablehorses. Fleets of the strangest little boxes on wheels were drawn up by thepavement. Shewalked out into the Strand. There the uproarwas evenworse.Vehiclesofallsizes,drawnbybloodhorsesandbydrayhorses,conveyingonesolitary dowager or crowded to the top by whiskered men in silk hats, wereinextricablymixed.Carriages,carts,andomnibusesseemedtohereyes,solongusedtothelookofaplainsheetoffoolscap,alarminglyat loggerheads;andtoherears,attunedtoapenscratching, theuproarof thestreetsoundedviolentlyandhideouslycacophonous.Everyinchofthepavementwascrowded.Streamsofpeople, threading inandoutbetweentheirownbodiesand the lurchingandlumberingtrafficwithincredibleagility,pouredincessantlyeastandwest.Alongtheedgeofthepavementstoodmen,holdingouttraysoftoys,andbawled.Atcorners, women sat beside great baskets of spring flowers and bawled. Boysrunning inandoutof thehorses’noses,holdingprinted sheets to theirbodies,bawledtoo,Disaster!Disaster!AtfirstOrlandosupposedthatshehadarrivedatsomemomentofnationalcrisis;butwhether itwashappyor tragic, shecouldnottell.Shelookedanxiouslyatpeople’sfaces.Butthatconfusedherstillmore.Herewouldcomebyamansunkindespair,mutteringtohimselfasifheknewsome terrible sorrow. Past him would nudge a fat, jolly–faced fellow,shoulderinghiswayalongas if itwereafestivalforall theworld.Indeed,shecametotheconclusionthattherewasneitherrhymenorreasoninanyofit.Eachmanandeachwomanwasbentonhisownaffairs.Andwherewasshetogo?

She walked on without thinking, up one street and down another, by vastwindows piled with handbags, andmirrors, and dressing gowns, and flowers,and fishing rods, and luncheon baskets; while stuff of every hue and pattern,thickness or thinness, was looped and festooned and ballooned across andacross. Sometimes she passed down avenues of sedate mansions, soberlynumbered‘one’,‘two’,‘three’,andsoonrightuptotwoorthreehundred,eachthecopyoftheother,withtwopillarsandsixstepsandapairofcurtainsneatlydrawn and family luncheons laid on tables, and a parrot looking out of onewindowandamanservantoutofanother,untilhermindwasdizziedwith themonotony. Then she came to great open squares with black shiny, tightlybuttonedstatuesoffatmeninthemiddle,andwarhorsesprancing,andcolumnsrising and fountains falling and pigeons fluttering. So shewalked andwalkedalong pavements between houses until she felt very hungry, and somethingflutteringaboveherheartrebukedherwithhavingforgottenallaboutit.Itwas

hermanuscript.‘TheOakTree’.

Shewasconfoundedatherownneglect.Shestoppeddeadwhereshestood.Nocoachwas in sight.The street,whichwaswideandhandsome,was singularlyempty. Only one elderly gentleman was approaching. There was somethingvaguelyfamiliartoherinhiswalk.Ashecamenearer,shefeltcertainthatshehadmethimatsometimeorother.Butwhere?Coulditbethatthisgentleman,so neat, so portly, so prosperous,with a cane in his hand and a flower in hisbutton–hole,withapink,plumpface,andcombedwhitemoustaches,coulditbe,Yes,byjove,itwas!—herold,herveryoldfriend,NickGreene!

Atthesametimehelookedather;rememberedher;recognizedher.‘TheLadyOrlando!’hecried,sweepinghissilkhatalmostinthedust.

‘SirNicholas!’sheexclaimed.Forshewasmadeawareintuitivelybysomethingin his bearing that the scurrilous penny–a–liner, who had lampooned her andmanyanother in the timeofQueenElizabeth,wasnowrisen in theworldandbecome certainly a Knight and doubtless a dozen other fine things into thebargain.

Withanotherbow,heacknowledged thatherconclusionwascorrect;hewasaKnight; hewas aLitt.D.; hewas aProfessor.Hewas the authorof a scoreofvolumes.Hewas,inshort,themostinfluentialcriticoftheVictorianage.

Aviolent tumultof emotionbesiegedher atmeeting themanwhohadcausedher,yearsago,somuchpain.Couldthisbetheplaguy,restlessfellowwhohadburnt holes in her carpets, and toasted cheese in the Italian fireplace and toldsuchmerrystoriesofMarloweandtherestthattheyhadseenthesunriseninenightsoutof ten?Hewasnowsprucelydressed inagreymorning suit,hadapinkflowerinhisbutton–hole,andgreysuedeglovestomatch.Butevenasshemarvelled,hemadeanotherbow,andaskedherwhethershewouldhonourhimby lunching with him? The bow was a thought overdone perhaps, but theimitationof finebreedingwascreditable.Shefollowedhim,wondering, intoasuperbrestaurant,allredplush,whitetable–cloths,andsilvercruets,asunlikeascould be the old tavern or coffee house with its sanded floor, its woodenbenches,itsbowlsofpunchandchocolate,anditsbroadsheetsandspittoons.Helaidhisglovesneatlyonthetablebesidehim.Stillshecouldhardlybelievethathewasthesameman.Hisnailswereclean;wheretheyusedtobeaninchlong.

Hischinwasshaved;whereablackbeardusedtosprout.Heworegoldsleeve–links;wherehisraggedlinenusedtodipinthebroth.Itwasnot,indeed,untilhehadorderedthewine,whichhedidwithacarethatremindedherofhistasteinMalmseylongago,thatshewasconvincedhewasthesameman.‘Ah!’hesaid,heavingalittlesigh,whichwasyetcomfortableenough,‘ah!mydearlady,thegreat days of literature are over. Marlowe, Shakespeare, Ben Jonson—thosewerethegiants.Dryden,Pope,Addison—thoseweretheheroes.All,allaredeadnow.Andwhomhavetheyleftus?Tennyson,Browning,Carlyle!’—hethrewanimmense amount of scorn into his voice. ‘The truth of it is,’ he said, pouringhimself a glass of wine, ‘that all our young writers are in the pay of thebooksellers.Theyturnoutanytrashthatservestopaytheirtailor’sbills.Itisanage’,hesaid,helpinghimself tohors–d’oeuvres, ‘markedbypreciousconceitsandwildexperiments—noneofwhichtheElizabethanswouldhavetoleratedforaninstant.’

‘No,my dear lady,’ he continued, passing with approval the turbot au gratin,whichthewaiterexhibitedforhissanction,‘thegreatdaysareover.Weliveindegeneratetimes.Wemustcherishthepast;honourthosewriters—therearestillafewleftof‘em—whotakeantiquityfortheirmodelandwrite,notforpaybut—’HereOrlandoalmostshouted‘Glawr!’Indeedshecouldhaveswornthatshehad heard him say the very same things three hundred years ago. The nameswere different, of course, but the spirit was the same. Nick Greene had notchanged,forallhisknighthood.Andyet,somechangetherewas.Forwhileheran on about taking Addison as one’s model (it had been Cicero once, shethought) and lying in bed of a morning (which she was proud to think herpension paid quarterly enabled him to do) rolling the best works of the bestauthorsroundandroundonone’stongueforanhour,atleast,beforesettingpentopaper,sothatthevulgarityofthepresenttimeandthedeplorableconditionofournativetongue(hehadlivedlonginAmerica,shebelieved)mightbepurified—whileheranoninmuchthesamewaythatGreenehadrunonthreehundredyearsago,shehadtimetoaskherself,howwasitthenthathehadchanged?Hehadgrownplump;buthewasamanvergingonseventy.Hehadgrownsleek:literaturehadbeenaprosperouspursuitevidently;butsomehowtheoldrestless,uneasy vivacity had gone. His stories, brilliant as they were, were no longerquite so free andeasy.Hementioned, it is true, ‘mydear friendPope’or ‘myillustriousfriendAddison’everyothersecond,buthehadanairofrespectabilityabouthimwhichwasdepressing,andhepreferred, it seemed, toenlightenher

aboutthedoingsandsayingsofherownbloodrelationsratherthantellher,asheusedtodo,scandalaboutthepoets.

Orlandowasunaccountablydisappointed.Shehadthoughtofliteraturealltheseyears(herseclusion,herrank,hersexmustbeherexcuse)assomethingwildasthewind,hotas fire, swiftas lightning;somethingerrant, incalculable,abrupt,and behold, literature was an elderly gentleman in a grey suit talking aboutduchesses. The violence of her disillusionment was such that some hook orbutton fastening theupperpartofherdressburstopen,andoutupon the tablefell‘TheOakTree’,apoem.

‘A manuscript!’ said Sir Nicholas, putting on his gold pince–nez. ‘Howinteresting,howexcessivelyinteresting!Permitmetolookatit.’Andoncemore,afteran intervalof some threehundredyears,NicholasGreene tookOrlando’spoemand,layingitdownamongthecoffeecupsandtheliqueurglasses,begantoreadit.Butnowhisverdictwasverydifferentfromwhatithadbeenthen.Itreminded him, he said as he turned over the pages, of Addison’s “Cato”. Itcompared favourablywithThomson’s “Seasons”.Therewas no trace in it, hewasthankfultosay,ofthemodernspirit.Itwascomposedwitharegardtotruth,tonature,tothedictatesofthehumanheart,whichwasrareindeed,inthesedaysofunscrupulouseccentricity.Itmust,ofcourse,bepublishedinstantly.

Really Orlando did not know what he meant. She had always carried hermanuscripts about with her in the bosom of her dress. The idea tickled SirNicholasconsiderably.

‘Butwhataboutroyalties?’heasked.

Orlando’s mind flew to Buckingham Palace and some dusky potentates whohappenedtobestayingthere.

SirNicholaswashighlydiverted.HeexplainedthathewasalludingtothefactthatMessrs—(herehementionedawell–knownfirmofpublishers)wouldbedelighted, if he wrote them a line, to put the book on their list. He couldprobablyarrangeforaroyaltyoftenpercentonallcopiesuptotwothousand;afterthatitwouldbefifteen.Asforthereviewers,hewouldhimselfwritealinetoMr—,whowasthemostinfluential;thenacompliment—sayalittlepuffofher own poems—addressed to the wife of the editor of the— never did any

harm.Hewouldcall—.Sohe ranon.Orlandounderstoodnothingofall this,andfromoldexperiencedidnotaltogethertrusthisgoodnature,but therewasnothingforitbuttosubmittowhatwasevidentlyhiswishandtheferventdesireof the poem itself. SoSirNicholasmade the blood–stainedpacket into a neatparcel;flatteneditintohisbreastpocket,lestitshoulddisturbthesetofhiscoat;andwithmanycomplimentsonbothsides,theyparted.

Orlandowalkedupthestreet.Nowthatthepoemwasgone,—andshefeltabareplaceinherbreastwhereshehadbeenusedtocarryit—shehadnothingtodobutreflectuponwhateversheliked—theextraordinarychancesitmightbeofthehumanlot.HereshewasinStJames’sStreet;amarriedwoman;witharingonherfinger;wheretherehadbeenacoffeehouseoncetherewasnowarestaurant;itwas about half past three in the afternoon; the sunwas shining; therewerethreepigeons;amongrel terrierdog; twohansomcabsandabarouche landau.What then,wasLife?The thoughtpopped intoherheadviolently, irrelevantly(unless oldGreenewere somehow the cause of it).And itmay be taken as acomment, adverseor favourable, as the reader chooses to consider it uponherrelations with her husband (who was at the Horn), that whenever anythingpoppedviolentlyintoherhead,shewentstraighttothenearesttelegraphofficeandwiredtohim.Therewasone,asithappened,closeathand.‘MyGodShel’,she wired; ‘life literature Greene toady—’ here she dropped into a cypherlanguagewhichtheyhadinventedbetweenthemsothatawholespiritualstateoftheutmostcomplexitymightbeconveyedinawordortwowithoutthetelegraphclerk being any wiser, and added the words ‘Rattigan Glumphoboo’, whichsummeditupprecisely.Fornotonlyhadtheeventsofthemorningmadeadeepimpressiononher,butitcannothaveescapedthereader’sattentionthatOrlandowas growing up—which is not necessarily growing better—and ‘RattiganGlumphoboo’describedaverycomplicatedspiritualstate—which if thereaderputsallhisintelligenceatourservicehemaydiscoverforhimself.

There could be no answer to her telegram for some hours; indeed, it wasprobable,shethought,glancingatthesky,wheretheuppercloudsracedswiftlypast, that therewas a gale atCapeHorn, so that her husbandwouldbe at themast–head,aslikelyasnot,orcuttingawaysometatteredspar,orevenaloneina boat with a biscuit. And so, leaving the post office, she turned to beguileherselfintothenextshop,whichwasashopsocommoninourdaythatitneedsnodescription,yet, tohereyes,strangeintheextreme;ashopwheretheysold

books.All her life longOrlando had knownmanuscripts; she had held in herhandstheroughbrownsheetsonwhichSpenserhadwritteninhislittlecrabbedhand;shehadseenShakespeare’sscriptandMilton’s.Sheowned,indeed,afairnumber of quartos and folios, often with a sonnet in her praise in them andsometimesalockofhair.Buttheseinnumerablelittlevolumes,bright,identical,ephemeral, for they seemed bound in cardboard and printed on tissue paper,surprisedherinfinitely.ThewholeworksofShakespearecosthalfacrown,andcouldbeputinyourpocket.Onecouldhardlyreadthem,indeed,theprintwassosmall,butitwasamarvel,nonetheless.‘Works’—theworksofeverywritershehadknownorheardofandmanymorestretchedfromendtoendofthelongshelves.Ontablesandchairs,more‘works’werepiledand tumbled,and theseshe saw, turning a page or two, were often works about other works by SirNicholasandascoreofotherswhom,inherignorance,shesupposed,sincetheywereboundandprinted,tobeverygreatwriterstoo.Soshegaveanastoundingordertothebooksellertosendhereverythingofanyimportanceintheshopandleft.

SheturnedintoHydePark,whichshehadknownofold(beneaththatclefttree,she remembered, the Duke of Hamilton fell run through the body by LordMohun),andherlips,whichareoftentoblameinthematter,beganframingthewords of her telegram into a senseless singsong; life literature Greene toadyRattiganGlumphoboo;sothatseveralparkkeeperslookedatherwithsuspicionandwereonlybroughttoafavourableopinionofhersanitybynoticingthepearlnecklace which she wore. She had carried off a sheaf of papers and criticaljournalsfromthebookshop,andatlength,flingingherselfonherelbowbeneathatree,shespreadthesepagesroundheranddidherbesttofathomthenobleartofprosecompositionasthesemasterspractisedit.Forstilltheoldcredulitywasaliveinher;eventheblurredtypeofaweeklynewspaperhadsomesanctityinher eyes. So she read, lying on her elbow, an article by Sir Nicholas on thecollected works of a man she had once known—John Donne. But she hadpitchedherself,withoutknowingit,notfarfromtheSerpentine.Thebarkingofathousand dogs sounded in her ears. Carriage wheels rushed ceaselessly in acircle.Leavessighedoverhead.Nowandagainabraidedskirtandapairoftightscarlet trousers crossed the grass within a few steps of her. Once a giganticrubberball bouncedon thenewspaper.Violets, oranges, reds, andbluesbrokethrough the intersticesof the leavesandsparkled in theemeraldonher finger.She read a sentence and looked up at the sky; she looked up at the sky and

lookeddownatthenewspaper.Life?Literature?Onetobemadeintotheother?Buthowmonstrouslydifficult!For—herecamebyapairoftightscarlettrousers—howwouldAddisonhaveputthat?Herecametwodogsdancingontheirhindlegs.HowwouldLambhavedescribed that?For readingSirNicholas andhisfriends(asshedid in the intervalsof lookingabouther),shesomehowgot theimpression—here she rose and walked—they made one feel—it was anextremelyuncomfortablefeeling—onemustnever,neversaywhatonethought.(Shestoodon thebanksof theSerpentine. Itwasabronzecolour; spider–thinboatswereskimmingfromsidetoside.)Theymadeonefeel,shecontinued,thatone must always, always write like somebody else. (The tears formedthemselvesinhereyes.)Forreally,shethought,pushingalittleboatoffwithhertoe,Idon’tthinkIcould(herethewholeofSirNicholas’articlecamebeforeheras articles do, tenminutes after they are read, with the look of his room, hishead,hiscat,hiswriting–table,andthetimeofthedaythrownin),Idon’tthinkIcould, she continued, considering the article from this point of view, sit in astudy,no,it’snotastudy,it’samouldykindofdrawing–room,alldaylong,andtalk to pretty young men, and tell them little anecdotes, which they mustn’trepeat,aboutwhatTuppersaidaboutSmiles;andthen,shecontinued,weepingbitterly, they’reall somanly;and then, IdodetestDuchesses;andIdon’t likecake;andthoughI’mspitefulenough,Icouldneverlearntobeasspitefulasallthat,sohowcanIbeacriticandwritethebestEnglishproseofmytime?Damnitall!sheexclaimed,launchingapennysteamersovigorouslythatthepoorlittleboatalmostsankinthebronze–colouredwaves.

Now,thetruthisthatwhenonehasbeeninastateofmind(asnursescallit)—andthetearsstillstoodinOrlando’seyes—thethingoneislookingatbecomes,not itself,butanother thing,whichisbiggerandmuchmoreimportantandyetremainsthesamething.IfonelooksattheSerpentineinthisstateofmind,thewaves soon become just as big as the waves on the Atlantic; the toy boatsbecomeindistinguishablefromoceanliners.SoOrlandomistookthetoyboatforherhusband’sbrig;andthewaveshehadmadewithher toeforamountainofwater off Cape Horn; and as she watched the toy boat climb the ripple, shethought she sawBonthrop’s ship climb up and up a glassywall; up and up itwent,andawhitecrestwithathousanddeathsinitarchedoverit;andthroughthe thousand deaths it went and disappeared—’It’s sunk!’ she cried out in anagony—andthen,behold,thereitwasagainsailingalongsafeandsoundamongtheducksontheothersideoftheAtlantic.

‘Ecstasy!’ she cried. ‘Ecstasy!Where’s the post office?’ shewondered. ‘For Imust wire at once to Shel and tell him...’ And repeating ‘A toy boat on theSerpentine’,and‘Ecstasy’,alternately,forthethoughtswereinterchangeableandmeantexactlythesamething,shehurriedtowardsParkLane.

‘Atoyboat,atoyboat,atoyboat,’sherepeated,thusenforcinguponherselfthefactthatitisnotarticlesbyNickGreeneonJohnDonnenoreight–hourbillsnorcovenants nor factory acts thatmatter; it’s something useless, sudden, violent;something that costs a life; red, blue, purple; a spirit; a splash; like thosehyacinths (she was passing a fine bed of them); free from taint, dependence,soilureofhumanityorcare forone’skind;somethingrash, ridiculous, likemyhyacinth, husband I mean, Bonthrop: that’s what it is—a toy boat on theSerpentine,ecstasy—it’secstasythatmatters.Thusshespokealoud,waitingforthe carriages topass atStanhopeGate, for the consequenceof not livingwithone’shusband,exceptwhenthewindissunk,isthatonetalksnonsensealoudinParkLane.ItwouldnodoubthavebeendifferenthadshelivedalltheyearroundwithhimasQueenVictoriarecommended.Asitwasthethoughtofhimwouldcome upon her in a flash. She found it absolutely necessary to speak to himinstantly. She did not care in the leastwhat nonsense itmightmake, orwhatdislocation itmight inflict on the narrative.NickGreene’s article hadplungedherinthedepthsofdespair;thetoyboathadraisedhertotheheightsofjoy.Sosherepeated:‘Ecstasy,ecstasy’,asshestoodwaitingtocross.

But the traffic was heavy that spring afternoon, and kept her standing there,repeating,ecstasy,ecstasy,oratoyboatontheSerpentine,whilethewealthandpowerofEnglandsat,asifsculptured,inhatandcloak,infour–in–hand,victoriaandbarouchelandau.Itwasasifagoldenriverhadcoagulatedandmasseditselfin golden blocks across Park Lane. The ladies held card–cases between theirfingers; thegentlemenbalancedgold–mountedcanesbetween theirknees.Shestood there gazing, admiring, awe–struck. One thought only disturbed her, athought familiar to allwho behold great elephants, orwhales of an incrediblemagnitude, and that is: how do these leviathans to whom obviously stress,change, and activity are repugnant, propagate their kind? Perhaps, Orlandothought,lookingatthestately,stillfaces,theirtimeofpropagationisover;thisisthefruit;thisistheconsummation.Whatshenowbeheldwasthetriumphofanage.Portlyandsplendidtheretheysat.Butnow,thepolicemanletfallhishand;the stream became liquid; the massive conglomeration of splendid objects

moved,dispersed,anddisappearedintoPiccadilly.

SoshecrossedParkLaneandwenttoherhouseinCurzonStreet,where,whenthemeadow–sweetblewthere,shecouldremembercurlewcallingandoneveryoldmanwithagun.

She could remember, she thought, stepping across the threshold of her house,how Lord Chesterfield had said—but her memory was checked. Her discreeteighteenth–centuryhall,where she could seeLordChesterfield puttinghis hatdownhereandhiscoatdowntherewithaneleganceofdeportmentwhichitwasa pleasure towatch,was now completely litteredwith parcels.While she hadbeensittinginHydeParkthebooksellerhaddeliveredherorder,andthehousewascrammed—therewereparcelsslippingdownthestaircase—withthewholeof Victorian literature done up in grey paper and neatly tied with string. Shecarriedasmanyof thesepacketsasshecouldtoherroom,orderedfootmentobringtheothers,and,rapidlycuttinginnumerablestrings,wassoonsurroundedbyinnumerablevolumes.

Accustomedtothelittleliteraturesofthesixteenth,seventeenth,andeighteenthcenturies,Orlandowasappalledbytheconsequencesofherorder.For,ofcourse,to the Victorians themselves Victorian literature meant not merely four greatnamesseparateanddistinctbutfourgreatnamessunkandembeddedinamassof Alexander Smiths, Dixons, Blacks, Milmans, Buckles, Taines, Paynes,Tuppers, Jamesons—all vocal, clamorous, prominent, and requiring as muchattention as anybody else. Orlando’s reverence for print had a tough job setbefore it but drawingher chair to thewindow to get the benefit ofwhat lightmight filter between the high houses of Mayfair, she tried to come to aconclusion.

Andnow itwas clear that there areonly twowaysof coming to a conclusionupon Victorian literature—one is to write it out in sixty volumes octavo, theotheristosqueezeitintosixlinesofthelengthofthisone.Ofthetwocourses,economy, since time runs short, leads us to choose the second; and so weproceed. Orlando then came to the conclusion (opening half–a–dozen books)thatitwasveryoddthattherewasnotasinglededicationtoanoblemanamongthem;next(turningoveravastpileofmemoirs)thatseveralofthesewritershadfamily trees half as high as her own; next, that it would be impolitic in theextreme towrap a ten–poundnote round the sugar tongswhenMissChristina

Rossetti came to tea; next (here were half–a–dozen invitations to celebratecentenaries by dining) that literature since it ate all these dinners must begrowing very corpulent; next (she was invited to a score of lectures on theInfluence of this upon that; the Classical revival; the Romantic survival, andothertitlesofthesameengagingkind)thatliteraturesinceitlistenedtoalltheselecturesmustbegrowingverydry;next(heresheattendedareceptiongivenbyapeeress)thatliteraturesinceitworeallthosefurtippetsmustbegrowingveryrespectable;next(hereshevisitedCarlyle’ssound–proofroomatChelsea) thatgeniussinceitneededallthiscoddlingmustbegrowingverydelicate;andsoatlast she reachedher finalconclusion,whichwasof thehighest importancebutwhich,aswehavealreadymuchoverpassedourlimitofsixlines,wemustomit.

Orlando,havingcometothisconclusion,stoodlookingoutofthewindowforaconsiderablespaceoftime.For,whenanybodycomestoaconclusionitisasiftheyhadtossedtheballoverthenetandmustwaitfortheunseenantagonisttoreturn it to them.Whatwould be sent her next from the colourless sky aboveChesterfieldHouse,shewondered?Andwithherhandsclasped,shestoodforaconsiderablespaceoftimewondering.Suddenlyshestarted—andherewecouldonlywish that, as on a former occasion, Purity, Chastity, andModestywouldpush the door ajar and provide, at least, a breathing space inwhichwe couldthinkhowtowrapupwhatnowhastobetolddelicately,asabiographershould.Butno!HavingthrowntheirwhitegarmentatthenakedOrlandoandseenitfallshortbyseveralinches,theseladieshadgivenupallintercoursewithherthesemanyyears;andwerenowotherwiseengaged.Isnothingthen,goingtohappenthispaleMarchmorningtomitigate,toveil,tocover,toconceal,toshroudthisundeniableeventwhateveritmaybe?Foraftergivingthatsudden,violentstart,Orlando—butHeaven be praised, at this verymoment there struck up outsideoneofthesefrail,reedy,fluty,jerky,old–fashionedbarrel–organswhicharestillsometimes played by Italian organ–grinders in back streets. Let us accept theintervention, humble though it is, as if it were the music of the spheres, andallow it, with all its gasps and groans, to fill this page with sound until themomentcomeswhenitisimpossibletodenyitscoming;whichthefootmanhasseen coming and the maid–servant; and the reader will have to see too; forOrlando herself is clearly unable to ignore it any longer—let the barrel–organsound and transport us on thought,which is nomore than a little boat,whenmusic sounds, tossing on thewaves; on thought, which is, of all carriers, themost clumsy, themost erratic, over the roof tops and the back gardenswhere

washingishangingto—whatis thisplace?DoyourecognizetheGreenandinthemiddlethesteeple,andthegatewithalioncouchantoneitherside?Ohyes,itisKew!Well,Kewwilldo.SohereweareatKew,andIwillshowyouto–day(thesecondofMarch)undertheplumtree,agrapehyacinth,andacrocus,andabud, too, on the almond tree; so that towalk there is to be thinking of bulbs,hairy and red, thrust into the earth in October; flowering now; and to bedreaming of more than can rightly be said, and to be taking from its case acigaretteorcigareven,andtobeflingingacloakunder(astherhymerequires)anoak,andtheretosit,waitingthekingfisher,which,itissaid,wasseenoncetocrossintheeveningfrombanktobank.

Wait!Wait!Thekingfishercomes;thekingfishercomesnot.

Behold,meanwhile,thefactorychimneysandtheirsmoke;beholdthecityclerksflashingbyintheiroutrigger.Beholdtheoldladytakingherdogforawalkandthe servant girl wearing her new hat for the first time not at the right angle.Behold themall.ThoughHeavenhasmercifullydecreed that thesecretsofallheartsarehiddensothatweareluredonforevertosuspectsomething,perhaps,thatdoesnotexist;stillthroughourcigarettesmoke,weseeblazeupandsalutethesplendidfulfilmentofnaturaldesiresforahat,foraboat,foraratinaditch;asonceonesawblazing—suchsillyhopsandskipsthemindtakeswhenitslopslikethisalloverthesaucerandthebarrel–organplays—sawblazingafireinafieldagainstminaretsnearConstantinople.

Hail!naturaldesire!Hail!happiness!divinehappiness!andpleasureofallsorts,flowers andwine, though one fades and the other intoxicates; and half–crowntickets out of London on Sundays, and singing in a dark chapel hymns aboutdeath, and anything, anything that interrupts and confounds the tapping oftypewriters and filing of letters and forging of links and chains, binding theEmpiretogether.Haileventhecrude,redbowsonshopgirls’lips(asifCupid,very clumsily, dipped his thumb in red ink and scrawled a token in passing).Hail, happiness! kingfisher flashing from bank to bank, and all fulfilment ofnaturaldesire,whetheritiswhatthemalenovelistsaysitis;orprayer;ordenial;hail!inwhateverformitcomes,andmaytherebemoreforms,andstranger.Fordarkflowsthestream—woulditweretrue,astherhymehints‘likeadream’—butdullerandworserthanthatisourusuallot;withoutdreams,butalive,smug,fluent,habitual,undertreeswhoseshadeofanolivegreendrownstheblueofthewingofthevanishingbirdwhenhedartsofasuddenfrombanktobank.

Hail,happiness,then,andafterhappiness,hailnotthosedreamswhichbloatthesharp image as spotted mirrors do the face in a country–inn parlour; dreamswhichsplinterthewholeandtearusasunderandwoundusandsplitusapartinthe night when we would sleep; but sleep, sleep, so deep that all shapes areground to dust of infinite softness, water of dimness inscrutable, and there,folded,shrouded,likeamummy,likeamoth,proneletuslieonthesandatthebottomofsleep.

Butwait!butwait!wearenotgoing,thistime,visitingtheblindland.Blue,likeamatchstruckright in theballof theinnermosteye,heflies,burns,bursts thesealofsleep;thekingfisher;sothatnowfloodsbackrefluentlikeatide,thered,thickstreamoflifeagain;bubbling,dripping;andwerise,andoureyes(forhowhandyarhymeistopassussafeovertheawkwardtransitionfromdeathtolife)fallon—(herethebarrel–organstopsplayingabruptly).

‘It’saveryfineboy,M’Lady,’saidMrsBanting,themidwife,puttingherfirst–bornchildintoOrlando’sarms.InotherwordsOrlandowassafelydeliveredofasononThursday,Marchthe20th,atthreeo’clockinthemorning.

OncemoreOrlandostoodatthewindow,butletthereadertakecourage;nothingofthesamesortisgoingtohappento–day,whichisnot,byanymeans,thesameday.No—forifwelookoutofthewindow,asOrlandowasdoingatthemoment,weshall see thatParkLane itselfhasconsiderablychanged. Indeedonemightstandtheretenminutesormore,asOrlandostoodnow,withoutseeingasinglebarouchelandau.‘Lookatthat!’sheexclaimed,somedayslaterwhenanabsurdtruncatedcarriagewithoutanyhorsesbegantoglideaboutofitsownaccord.Acarriagewithoutanyhorses indeed!Shewascalledaway just as she said that,butcamebackagainafteratimeandhadanotherlookoutofthewindow.Itwasoddsortofweathernowadays.Theskyitself,shecouldnothelpthinking,hadchanged. It was no longer so thick, so watery, so prismatic now that KingEdward—see,therehewas,steppingoutofhisneatbroughamtogoandvisitacertainladyopposite—hadsucceededQueenVictoria.Thecloudshadshrunktoa thin gauze; the sky seemedmade of metal, which in hot weather tarnishedverdigris,coppercolourororangeasmetaldoesinafog.Itwasalittlealarming—thisshrinkage.Everythingseemedtohaveshrunk.DrivingpastBuckinghamPalace last night, there was not a trace of that vast erection which she hadthoughteverlasting; tophats,widows’weeds, trumpets, telescopes,wreaths,all

hadvanishedandleftnotastain,notapuddleeven,onthepavement.Butitwasnow—afteranotherintervalshehadcomebackagaintoherfavouritestationinthewindow—now,intheevening,thatthechangewasmostremarkable.Lookatthe lights in thehouses!Ata touch,awhole roomwas lit;hundredsof roomswerelit;andonewaspreciselythesameastheother.Onecouldseeeverythinginthelittlesquare–shapedboxes;therewasnoprivacy;noneofthoselingeringshadowsandoddcornersthatthereusedtobe;noneofthosewomeninapronscarryingwobblylampswhichtheyputdowncarefullyonthistableandonthat.Ata touch, thewholeroomwasbright.Andtheskywasbrightallnight long;andthepavementswerebright;everythingwasbright.Shecamebackagainatmid–day. How narrow women have grown lately! They looked like stalks ofcorn, straight, shining, identical.Andmen’s faceswereasbareas thepalmofone’shand.Thedrynessoftheatmospherebroughtoutthecolourineverythingandseemedtostiffenthemusclesofthecheeks.Itwashardertocrynow.Waterwashotintwoseconds.Ivyhadperishedorbeenscrapedoffhouses.Vegetableswere less fertile; families were much smaller. Curtains and covers had beenfrizzledupand thewallswerebareso thatnewbrilliantlycolouredpicturesofrealthingslikestreets,umbrellas,apples,werehunginframes,orpainteduponthe wood. There was something definite and distinct about the age, whichreminded her of the eighteenth century, except that there was a distraction, adesperation—asshewasthinkingthis, theimmenselylongtunnelinwhichsheseemedtohavebeentravellingforhundredsofyearswidened;thelightpouredin;herthoughtsbecamemysteriouslytightenedandstrungupasifapianotunerhadputhiskeyinherbackandstretchedthenervesverytaut;atthesametimeherhearingquickened;shecouldheareverywhisperandcrackleintheroomsothat theclocktickingonthemantelpiecebeat likeahammer.Andsoforsomeseconds the light went on becoming brighter and brighter, and she saweverythingmoreandmoreclearlyand theclock ticked louderand louderuntiltherewasa terrificexplosionright inherear.Orlandoleaptas ifshehadbeenviolentlystruckonthehead.Tentimesshewasstruck.Infactitwasteno’clockinthemorning.Itwas theeleventhofOctober. Itwas1928.Itwas thepresentmoment.

No one needwonder that Orlando started, pressed her hand to her heart, andturnedpale.Forwhatmore terrifyingrevelationcan therebe than that it is thepresentmoment?Thatwesurvive theshockatall isonlypossiblebecause thepastsheltersusononesideandthefutureonanother.Butwehavenotimenow

forreflections;Orlandowasterriblylatealready.Sherandownstairs,shejumpedintohermotorcar,shepressed theself–starterandwasoff.Vastblueblocksofbuilding rose into the air; the red cowls of chimneyswere spotted irregularlyacross the sky; the road shone like silver–headed nails; omnibuses bore downuponherwithsculpturedwhite–faceddrivers;shenoticedsponges,bird–cages,boxesofgreenAmericancloth.Butshedidnotallow thesesights tosink intohermind even the fraction of an inch as she crossed the narrow plank of thepresent,lestsheshouldfallintotheragingtorrentbeneath.‘Whydon’tyoulookwhereyou’regoing to?...Putyourhandout,can’tyou?’—thatwasall shesaidsharply,as if thewordswerejerkedoutofher.Forthestreetswereimmenselycrowded;peoplecrossedwithoutlookingwheretheyweregoing.Peoplebuzzedandhummedroundtheplate–glasswindowswithinwhichonecouldseeaglowofred,ablazeofyellow,asiftheywerebees,Orlandothought—butherthoughtthattheywerebeeswasviolentlysnippedoffandshesaw,regainingperspectivewith one flick of her eye, that theywere bodies. ‘Why don’t you lookwhereyou’regoing?’shesnappedout.

Atlast,however,shedrewupatMarshall&Snelgrove’sandwentintotheshop.Shadeandscentenvelopedher.Thepresentfellfromherlikedropsofscaldingwater.Lightswayedupanddownlikethinstuffspuffedoutbyasummerbreeze.Shetookalistfromherbagandbeganreadinginacuriousstiffvoiceatfirst,asifshewereholdingthewords—boy’sboots,bathsalts,sardines—underatapofmany–colouredwater.Shewatchedthemchangeasthelightfellonthem.Bathandbootsbecameblunt,obtuse;sardinesserrateditselflikeasaw.Soshestoodin the ground–floor department ofMessrsMarshall & Snelgrove; looked thiswayand that; snuffed thissmelland thatand thuswastedsomeseconds.Thenshegotintothelift,forthegoodreasonthatthedoorstoodopen;andwasshotsmoothlyupwards.Theveryfabricoflifenow,shethoughtassherose,ismagic.In the eighteenth century we knew how everything was done; but here I risethroughtheair;IlistentovoicesinAmerica;Iseemenflying—buthowitsdoneIcan’tevenbegintowonder.Somybeliefinmagicreturns.Nowtheliftgavealittle jerk as it stopped at the first floor; and she had a vision of innumerablecolouredstuffs flaunting inabreeze fromwhichcamedistinct, strangesmells;andeachtimetheliftstoppedandflungitsdoorsopen,therewasanothersliceofthe world displayed with all the smells of that world clinging to it. She wasremindedof theriveroffWapping in the timeofElizabeth,where the treasureshipsandthemerchantshipsusedtoanchor.Howrichlyandcuriouslytheyhad

smelt!Howwellsheremembered thefeelofroughrubiesrunning throughherfingerswhenshedabbledtheminatreasuresack!AndthenlyingwithSukey—orwhateverhernamewas—andhavingCumberland’slanternflashedonthem!TheCumberlandshadahouseinPortlandPlacenowandshehadlunchedwiththemtheotherdayandventuredalittlejokewiththeoldmanaboutalmshousesintheSheenRoad.Hehadwinked.Buthereastheliftcouldgonohigher,shemustgetout—Heavenknowsintowhat‘department’astheycalledit.Shestoodstilltoconsulthershoppinglist,butwasblessedifshecouldsee,asthelistbadeher, bath salts, or boy’s boots anywhere about.And indeed, shewas about todescend again, without buying anything, but was saved from that outrage bysayingaloudautomaticallythelastitemonherlist;whichhappenedtobe‘sheetsforadoublebed’.

‘Sheetsforadoublebed,’shesaidtoamanatacounterand,byadispensationofProvidence,itwassheetsthatthemanatthatparticularcounterhappenedtosell.ForGrimsditch,no,Grimsditchwasdead;Bartholomew,no,Bartholomewwasdead;Louisethen—Louisehadcometoherinagreattakingtheotherday,forshehadfoundaholeinthebottomofthesheetintheroyalbed.Manykingsandqueens had slept there—Elizabeth; James; Charles;George;Victoria; Edward;nowonderthesheethadaholeinit.ButLouisewaspositivesheknewwhohaddoneit.ItwasthePrinceConsort.

‘Sale bosch!’ she said (for there had been another war; this time against theGermans).

‘Sheets for a doublebed,’Orlando repeateddreamily, for a doublebedwith asilvercounterpaneinaroomfittedinatastewhichshenowthoughtperhapsalittlevulgar—all insilver;butshehadfurnished itwhenshehadapassionforthatmetal.While themanwent toget sheets for adoublebed, she tookout alittlelooking–glassandapowderpuff.Womenwerenotnearlyasroundaboutintheirways,shethought,powderingherselfwiththegreatestunconcern,astheyhad been when she herself first turned woman and lay on the deck of the“Enamoured Lady”. She gave her nose the right tint deliberately. She nevertouched her cheeks. Honestly, though she was now thirty–six, she scarcelylookedadayolder.She looked justaspouting,assulky,ashandsome,as rosy(likeamillion–candledChristmastree,Sashahadsaid)asshehaddonethatdayontheice,whentheThameswasfrozenandtheyhadgoneskating—

‘The best Irish linen,Ma’am,’ said the shopman, spreading the sheets on thecounter,—and theyhadmetanoldwomanpickingupsticks.Here,asshewasfingeringthelinenabstractedly,oneoftheswing–doorsbetweenthedepartmentsopened and let through, perhaps from the fancy–goods department, awhiff ofscent,waxen, tinted as if frompink candles, and the scent curved like a shellroundafigure—wasitaboy’sorwasitagirl’s—young,slender,seductive—agirl,byGod!furred,pearled,inRussiantrousers;butfaithless,faithless!

‘Faithless!’criedOrlando(themanhadgone)andall theshopseemedtopitchand tosswith yellowwater and far off she saw themasts of theRussian shipstandingouttosea,andthen,miraculously(perhapsthedooropenedagain)theconchwhichthescenthadmadebecameaplatform,adais,offwhichsteppedafat, furredwoman,marvellouslywell preserved, seductive, diademed, aGrandDuke’s mistress; she who, leaning over the banks of the Volga, eatingsandwiches,hadwatchedmendrown;andbeganwalkingdowntheshoptowardsher.

‘OhSasha!’Orlandocried.Really,shewasshockedthatsheshouldhavecometothis;shehadgrownsofat;solethargic;andshebowedherheadoverthelinensothatthisapparitionofagreywomaninfur,andagirlinRussiantrousers,withallthesesmellsofwaxcandles,whiteflowers,andoldshipsthatitbroughtwithitmightpassbehindherbackunseen.

‘Anynapkins, towels,dusters today,Ma’am?’ theshopmanpersisted.Andit isenormouslytothecreditoftheshoppinglist,whichOrlandonowconsulted,thatshewasabletoreplywitheveryappearanceofcomposure,thattherewasonlyonethingintheworldshewantedandthatwasbathsalts;whichwasinanotherdepartment.

Butdescendingintheliftagain—soinsidiousistherepetitionofanyscene—shewas again sunk far beneath the present moment; and thought when the liftbumpedontheground,thatsheheardapotbrokenagainstariverbank.Asforfindingtherightdepartment,whatever itmightbe,shestoodengrossedamongthehandbags,deaftothesuggestionsofallthepolite,black,combed,sprightlyshopassistants,whodescendingastheydidequallyandsomeofthem,perhaps,asproudly,evenfromsuchdepthsofthepastasshedid,chosetoletdowntheimperviousscreenof thepresentsothat todaytheyappearedshopassistants inMarshall & Snelgrove’s merely. Orlando stood there hesitating. Through the

greatglassdoorsshecouldseethetrafficinOxfordStreet.Omnibusseemedtopile itself upon omnibus and then to jerk itself apart. So the ice blocks hadpitchedandtossedthatdayontheThames.Anoldnobleman—infurredslippershad sat astride one of them.There hewent—she could see him now—callingdownmaledictionsupontheIrishrebels.Hehadsunkthere,wherehercarstood.

‘Time has passed over me,’ she thought, trying to collect herself; ‘this is theoncomeofmiddleage.Howstrangeitis!Nothingisanylongeronething.ItakeupahandbagandIthinkofanoldbumboatwomanfrozenintheice.SomeonelightsapinkcandleandIseeagirlinRussiantrousers.WhenIstepoutofdoors—asIdonow,’hereshesteppedontothepavementofOxfordStreet,‘whatisitthat I taste? Little herbs. I hear goat bells. I see mountains. Turkey? India?Persia?’Hereyesfilledwithtears.

ThatOrlandohadgone a little too far from thepresentmomentwill, perhaps,strikethereaderwhoseeshernowpreparingtogetintohermotor–carwithhereyes full of tears and visions of Persianmountains. And indeed, it cannot bedenied that themost successful practitioners of the art of life, often unknownpeople by the way, somehow contrive to synchronize the sixty or seventydifferenttimeswhichbeatsimultaneouslyineverynormalhumansystemsothatwhen eleven strikes, all the rest chime in unison, and the present is neither aviolent disruption nor completely forgotten in the past.Of themwe can justlysaythattheylivepreciselythesixty–eightorseventy–twoyearsallottedthemonthe tombstone.Of therestsomeweknowtobedead thoughtheywalkamongus; somearenotyetborn though theygo through the formsof life;othersarehundredsofyearsoldthoughtheycallthemselvesthirty–six.Thetruelengthofaperson’s life, whatever the “Dictionary of National Biography” may say, isalways a matter of dispute. For it is a difficult business—this time–keeping;nothingmorequicklydisorders it thancontactwithanyof thearts;and itmayhave been her love of poetry that was to blame formakingOrlando lose hershopping list and start homewithout the sardines, the bath salts, or the boots.Nowasshestoodwithherhandonthedoorofhermotor–car,thepresentagainstruckheronthehead.Eleventimesshewasviolentlyassaulted.

‘Confounditall!’shecried,foritisagreatshocktothenervoussystem,hearingaclockstrike—somuchsothatforsometimenowthereisnothingtobesaidofhersavethatshefrownedslightly,changedhergearsadmirably,andcriedout,asbefore, ‘Lookwhere you’re going!’ ‘Don’t you know your ownmind?’ ‘Why

didn’tyousaysothen?’whilethemotor–carshot,swung,squeezed,andslid,forshe was an expert driver, down Regent Street, down Haymarket, downNorthumberlandAvenue,overWestminsterBridge,totheleft,straighton,totheright,straightonagain...

The Old Kent Road was very crowded on Thursday, the eleventh of October1928. People spilt off the pavement. There were womenwith shopping bags.Children ran out. There were sales at drapers’ shops. Streets widened andnarrowed. Long vistas steadily shrunk together. Here was a market. Here afuneral.Hereaprocessionwithbannersuponwhichwaswritten‘Ra—Un’,butwhat else?Meatwasvery red.Butchers stoodat thedoor.Womenalmosthadtheirheelsslicedoff.AmorVin—thatwasoveraporch.Awomanlookedoutofa bedroom window, profoundly contemplative, and very still. Applejohn andApplebed,Undert—.Nothingcouldbeseenwholeorreadfromstart tofinish.Whatwas seenbegun—like two friends starting tomeet eachother across thestreet—was never seen ended. After twentyminutes the body andmindwerelike scraps of torn paper tumbling from a sack and, indeed, the process ofmotoring fast out of London so much resembles the chopping up small ofidentitywhich precedes unconsciousness and perhaps death itself that it is anopenquestioninwhatsenseOrlandocanbesaidtohaveexistedat thepresentmoment. Indeed we should have given her over for a person entirelydisassembledwereitnotthathere,atlast,onegreenscreenwasheldoutontheright, againstwhich the little bits of paper fellmore slowly; and then anotherwasheldouton the left so thatonecould see the separate scrapsnow turningoverbythemselvesintheair;andthengreenscreenswereheldcontinuouslyoneitherside,sothathermindregainedtheillusionofholdingthingswithinitselfandshesawacottage,afarmyardandfourcows,allpreciselylife–size.

Whenthishappened,Orlandoheavedasighofrelief,litacigarette,andpuffedforaminuteortwoinsilence.Thenshecalledhesitatingly,asifthepersonshewantedmightnotbethere,‘Orlando?Forifthereare(ataventure)seventy–sixdifferent times all ticking in themind at once, howmanydifferent people aretherenot—Heavenhelpus—allhaving lodgmentatone timeoranother in thehumanspirit?Somesaytwothousandandfifty–two.Sothatitisthemostusualthingintheworldforapersontocall,directlytheyarealone,Orlando?(ifthatisone’sname)meaningbythat,Come,come!I’msicktodeathof thisparticularself.Iwantanother.Hence,theastonishingchangesweseeinourfriends.Butit

isnot altogetherplain sailing, either, for thoughonemay say, asOrlando said(beingoutinthecountryandneedinganotherselfpresumably)Orlando?stilltheOrlandosheneedsmaynotcome;theseselvesofwhichwearebuiltup,oneontop of another, as plates are piled on a waiter’s hand, have attachmentselsewhere,sympathies,littleconstitutionsandrightsoftheirown,callthemwhatyouwill (andformanyof these things there isnoname)so thatonewillonlycomeif it is raining,another ina roomwithgreencurtains,anotherwhenMrsJonesisnotthere,anotherifyoucanpromiseitaglassofwine—andsoon;foreverybodycanmultiplyfromhisownexperience thedifferent termswhichhisdifferentselveshavemadewithhim—andsomearetoowildlyridiculoustobementionedinprintatall.

So Orlando, at the turn by the barn, called ‘Orlando?’ with a note ofinterrogationinhervoiceandwaited.Orlandodidnotcome.

‘All right then,’Orlando said,with the good humour people practise on theseoccasions;andtriedanother.Forshehadagreatvarietyofselvestocallupon,far more than we have been able to find room for, since a biography isconsidered complete if it merely accounts for six or seven selves, whereas apersonmaywellhaveasmany thousand.Choosing then,only thoseselveswehave found room for, Orlandomay now have called on the boy who cut thenigger’sheaddown;theboywhostrungitupagain;theboywhosatonthehill;the boy who saw the poet; the boy who handed the Queen the bowl of rosewater;orshemayhavecalledupontheyoungmanwhofellinlovewithSasha;orupontheCourtier;orupontheAmbassador;orupontheSoldier;orupontheTraveller; or shemay havewanted thewoman to come to her; theGipsy; theFineLady; theHermit; the girl in lovewith life; the Patroness ofLetters; thewomanwhocalledMar (meaninghotbathsandevening fires)orShelmerdine(meaning crocuses in autumnwoods) or Bonthrop (meaning the deathwe diedaily) or all three together—whichmeantmore things thanwe have space towriteout—allweredifferentandshemayhavecalleduponanyoneofthem.

Perhaps;butwhatappearedcertain (forwearenow in the regionof ‘perhaps’and‘appears’)wasthattheonesheneededmostkeptaloof,forshewas,tohearher talk,changingherselvesasquicklyasshedrove—therewasanewoneateverycorner—ashappenswhen,forsomeunaccountablereason, theconsciousself,whichistheuppermost,andhasthepowertodesire,wishestobenothingbut one self. This is what some people call the true self, and it is, they say,

compactofall theselveswehaveit inustobe;commandedandlockedupbytheCaptainself,theKeyself,whichamalgamatesandcontrolsthemall.Orlandowascertainlyseekingthisselfasthereadercanjudgefromoverhearinghertalkasshedrove(andifitisramblingtalk,disconnected,trivial,dull,andsometimesunintelligible,itisthereader’sfaultforlisteningtoaladytalkingtoherself;weonly copy herwords as she spoke them, adding in bracketswhich self in ouropinionisspeaking,butinthiswemaywellbewrong).

‘Whatthen?Whothen?’shesaid.‘Thirty–six;inamotor–car;awoman.Yes,butamillionotherthingsaswell.AsnobamI?Thegarterinthehall?Theleopards?Myancestors?Proudof them?Yes!Greedy, luxurious,vicious?AmI?(hereanewselfcame in).Don’tcareadamn if Iam.Truthful? I thinkso.Generous?Oh,but thatdon’tcount (hereanewselfcame in).Lying inbedofamorninglistening to the pigeons on fine linen; silver dishes; wine; maids; footmen.Spoilt? Perhaps. Too many things for nothing. Hence my books (here shementioned fifty classical titles; which represented, so we think, the earlyromanticworks that she toreup).Facile,glib, romantic.But (hereanother selfcamein)aduffer,afumbler.MoreclumsyIcouldn’tbe.And—and—(hereshehesitated forawordand ifwesuggest ‘Love’wemaybewrong,butcertainlyshelaughedandblushedandthencriedout—)Atoadsetinemeralds!HarrytheArchduke! Blue–bottles on the ceiling! (here another self came in). But Nell,Kit,Sasha? (shewas sunk ingloom: tears actually shaped themselvesand shehadlonggivenovercrying).Trees,shesaid.(Hereanotherselfcamein.)Ilovetrees(shewaspassingaclump)growingthereathousandyears.Andbarns(shepasseda tumbledownbarnat theedgeof the road).Andsheepdogs (hereonecame trotting across the road. She carefully avoided it). And the night. Butpeople (here another self came in). People? (She repeated it as a question.) Idon’t know.Chattering, spiteful, always telling lies. (Here she turned into theHighStreetofhernativetown,whichwascrowded,foritwasmarketday,withfarmers,andshepherds,andoldwomenwithhensinbaskets.)Ilikepeasants.Iunderstandcrops.But(hereanotherselfcameskippingoverthetopofhermindlikethebeamfromalighthouse).Fame!(Shelaughed.)Fame!Seveneditions.Aprize.Photographsintheeveningpapers(hereshealludedtothe‘OakTree’and‘TheBurdettCoutts’MemorialPrizewhich shehadwon; andwemust snatchspacetoremarkhowdiscomposingitisforherbiographerthatthisculminationtowhichthewholebookmoved,thisperorationwithwhichthebookwastoend,shouldbedashedfromusonalaughcasuallylikethis;butthetruthisthatwhen

wewriteofawoman,everythingisoutofplace—culminationsandperorations;theaccentneverfallswhereitdoeswithaman).Fame!sherepeated.Apoet—acharlatan; both every morning as regularly as the post comes in. To dine, tomeet;tomeet,todine;fame—fame!(Shehadheretoslowdowntopassthroughthe crowd of market people. But no one noticed her. A porpoise in afishmonger’sshopattractedfarmoreattentionthanaladywhohadwonaprizeandmight,hadshechosen,havewornthreecoronetsoneontopofanotheronher brow.)Driving very slowly she now hummed as if itwere part of an oldsong,‘WithmyguineasI’llbuyfloweringtrees,floweringtrees,floweringtreesand walk among my flowering trees and tell my sons what fame is’. So shehummed, and now all her words began to sag here and there like a barbaricnecklace of heavy beads. ‘And walk among my flowering trees,’ she sang,accenting thewords strongly, ‘and see themoon rise slow, thewaggons go...’Hereshestoppedshortandlookedaheadofherintentlyatthebonnetofthecarinprofoundmeditation.

‘He sat at Twitchett’s table,’ shemused, ‘with a dirty ruff on...Was it oldMrBaker come tomeasure the timber?Orwas it Sh–p—re? (forwhenwe speaknameswedeeplyreverencetoourselvesweneverspeakthemwhole.)Shegazedfortenminutesaheadofher,lettingthecarcomealmosttoastandstill.

‘Haunted!’ she cried, suddenlypressing the accelerator. ‘Haunted! ever since Iwasachild.Therefliesthewildgoose.Itfliespastthewindowouttosea.UpIjumped (she gripped the steering–wheel tighter) and stretched after it.But thegoose flies too fast. I’ve seen it, here—there—there—England, Persia, Italy.AlwaysitfliesfastouttoseaandalwaysIflingafteritwordslikenets(heresheflungherhandout)whichshrivelasI’veseennetsshriveldrawnondeckwithonlysea–weedinthem;andsometimesthere’saninchofsilver—sixwords—inthebottomof the net.But never the great fishwho lives in the coral groves.’Hereshebentherhead,ponderingdeeply.

Anditwasatthismoment,whenshehadceasedtocall‘Orlando’andwasdeepinthoughtsofsomethingelse,thattheOrlandowhomshehadcalledcameofitsown accord; as was proved by the change that now came over her (she hadpassedthroughthelodgegatesandwasenteringthepark).

Thewholeofherdarkenedandsettled,aswhensomefoilwhoseadditionmakestheroundandsolidityofasurfaceisaddedtoit,andtheshallowbecomesdeep

andtheneardistant;andalliscontainedaswateriscontainedbythesidesofawell. So shewasnowdarkened, stilled, andbecome,with the additionof thisOrlando,whatiscalled,rightlyorwrongly,asingleself,arealself.Andshefellsilent.Foritisprobablethatwhenpeopletalkaloud,theselves(ofwhichtheremaybemorethantwothousand)areconsciousofdisseverment,andaretryingtocommunicate,butwhencommunicationisestablishedtheyfallsilent.

Masterfully,swiftly,shedroveupthecurvingdrivebetweentheelmsandoaksthrough the falling turf of the parkwhose fall was so gentle that had it beenwateritwouldhavespreadthebeachwithasmoothgreentide.Plantedhereandinsolemngroupswerebeechtreesandoaktrees.Thedeersteppedamongthem,onewhiteassnow,anotherwithitsheadononeside,forsomewirenettinghadcaught in its horns. All this, the trees, deer, and turf, she observed with thegreatestsatisfactionasifhermindhadbecomeafluidthatflowedroundthingsandenclosedthemcompletely.Nextminuteshedrewupinthecourtyardwhere,forsomanyhundredyearsshehadcome,onhorsebackorincoachandsix,withmen riding before or coming after;where plumes had tossed, torches flashed,and the same flowering trees that let their leaves drop now had shaken theirblossoms. Now she was alone. The autumn leaves were falling. The porteropenedthegreatgates.‘Morning,James,’shesaid,‘there’resomethingsinthecar. Will you bring ‘em in?’ words of no beauty, interest, or significancethemselves,itwillbeconceded,butnowsoplumpedoutwithmeaningthattheyfell like ripenuts froma tree, andproved thatwhen the shrivelled skinof theordinaryisstuffedoutwithmeaningitsatisfiesthesensesamazingly.Thiswastrueindeedofeverymovementandactionnow,usualthoughtheywere;sothatto see Orlando change her skirt for a pair of whipcord breeches and leatherjacket, which she did in less than threeminutes, was to be ravishedwith thebeautyofmovementas ifMadameLopokovawereusingherhighestart.Thenshe strode into the dining–room where her old friends Dryden, Pope, Swift,Addison regarded her demurely at first as who should say Here’s the prizewinner!butwhentheyreflectedthattwohundredguineaswasinquestion,theynoddedtheirheadsapprovingly.Twohundredguineas,theyseemedtosay;twohundredguineasarenottobesniffedat.Shecutherselfasliceofbreadandham,clappedthetwotogetherandbegantoeat,stridingupanddowntheroom,thusshedding her company habits in a second, without thinking. After five or sixsuchturns,shetossedoffaglassofredSpanishwine,and,fillinganotherwhichshe carried in her hand, strode down the long corridor and through a dozen

drawing–rooms and so began a perambulation of the house, attended by suchelk–houndsandspanielsaschosetofollowher.

This,too,wasallintheday’sroutine.Assoonwouldshecomehomeandleaveherowngrandmotherwithoutakissascomebackandleavethehouseunvisited.Shefanciedthattheroomsbrightenedasshecamein;stirred,openedtheireyesasif theyhadbeendozinginherabsence.Shefancied,too,that,hundredsandthousandsoftimesasshehadseenthem,theyneverlookedthesametwice,asifsolongalifeastheirshadstoredinthemamyriadmoodswhichchangedwithwinter and summer, bright weather and dark, and her own fortunes and thepeople’scharacterswhovisitedthem.Polite,theyalwaysweretostrangers,butalittleweary:withher,theywereentirelyopenandattheirease.Whynotindeed?Theyhadknowneachotherforcloseonfourcenturiesnow.Theyhadnothingtoconceal.Sheknewtheirsorrowsandjoys.Sheknewwhatageeachpartofthemwas and its little secrets—a hidden drawer, a concealed cupboard, or somedeficiencyperhaps,suchasapartmadeup,oraddedlater.They,too,knewherinallhermoodsandchanges.Shehadhiddennothingfromthem;hadcometothemasboyandwoman,cryinganddancing,broodingandgay.Inthiswindow–seat,shehadwrittenherfirstverses;inthatchapel,shehadbeenmarried.Andshewouldbeburiedhere,shereflected,kneelingonthewindow–sillinthelonggallery and sipping her Spanish wine. Though she could hardly fancy it, thebodyoftheheraldicleopardwouldbemakingyellowpoolsonthefloorthedaythey lowered her to lie among her ancestors. She, who believed in noimmortality,couldnothelpfeelingthathersoulwouldcomeandgoforeverwiththeredsonthepanelsandthegreensonthesofa.Fortheroom—shehadstrolledintotheAmbassador’sbedroom—shonelikeashellthathaslainatthebottomoftheseaforcenturiesandhasbeencrustedoverandpaintedamilliontintsbythewater;itwasroseandyellow,greenandsand–coloured.Itwasfrailasashell,asiridescentandasempty.NoAmbassadorwouldeversleepthereagain.Ah,butshe knewwhere the heart of the house still beat. Gently opening a door, shestoodon the threshold so that (as she fancied) the roomcouldnot seeherandwatched the tapestry risingand fallingon theeternal faintbreezewhichneverfailedtomoveit.Stillthehunterrode;stillDaphneflew.Theheartstillbeat,shethought,howeverfaintly,howeverfarwithdrawn;thefrail indomitableheartoftheimmensebuilding.

Now,callinghertroopofdogstohershepasseddownthegallerywhosefloor

waslaidwithwholeoaktreessawnacross.Rowsofchairswithalltheirvelvetsfaded stood ranged against the wall holding their arms out for Elizabeth, forJames,forShakespeareitmightbe,forCecil,whonevercame.Thesightmadehergloomy.Sheunhookedtheropethatfencedthemoff.ShesatontheQueen’schair;sheopenedamanuscriptbooklyingonLadyBetty’stable;shestirredherfingers in the aged rose leaves; she brushed her short hair with King James’silverbrushes:shebouncedupanddownuponhisbed(butnoKingwouldeversleepthereagain,forallLouise’snewsheets)andpressedhercheekagainsttheworn silver counterpane that lay upon it. But everywherewere little lavenderbags to keep themoth out and printed notices, ‘Please do not touch’, which,thoughshehadputthemthereherself,seemedtorebukeher.Thehousewasnolongerhersentirely,shesighed.Itbelongedtotimenow;tohistory;waspastthetouch and control of the living.Neverwouldbeerbe spilt here anymore, shethought (she was in the bedroom that had been old Nick Greene’s), or holesburnt in the carpet. Never two hundred servants come running and brawlingdown the corridors with warming pans and great branches for the greatfireplaces.Neverwouldalebebrewedandcandlesmadeandsaddlesfashionedand stone shaped in the workshops outside the house. Hammers and malletsweresilentnow.Chairsandbedswereempty;tankardsofsilverandgoldwerelocked inglasscases.Thegreatwingsof silencebeatupanddown theemptyhouse.

Soshesatattheendofthegallerywithherdogscouchedroundher,inQueenElizabeth’shardarmchair.Thegallery stretched far away to apointwhere thelight almost failed. It was as a tunnel bored deep into the past. As her eyespeereddownit,shecouldseepeoplelaughingandtalking;thegreatmenshehadknown;Dryden,Swift,andPope;andstatesmenincolloquy;andloversdallyinginthewindow–seats;andpeopleeatinganddrinkingatthelongtables;andthewoodsmokecurlingroundtheirheadsandmakingthemsneezeandcough.Stillfurtherdown,shesawsetsofsplendiddancersformedforthequadrille.Afluty,frail,butnevertheless statelymusicbegan toplay.Anorganboomed.Acoffinwas borne into the chapel.Amarriage procession came out of it.Armedmenwith helmets left for the wars. They brought banners back from Flodden andPoitiersandstuckthemonthewall.Thelonggalleryfilleditselfthus,andstillpeering further, she thought she could make out at the very end, beyond theElizabethans and theTudors, someone older, further, darker, a cowled figure,monastic,severe,amonk,whowentwithhishandsclasped,andabookinthem,

murmuring—

Likethunder,thestableclockstruckfour.Neverdidanyearthquakesodemolishawhole town.Thegallery and all its occupants fell topowder.Herown face,that had been dark and sombre as she gazed, was lit as by an explosion ofgunpowder. In this same light everything near her showed with extremedistinctness.Shesawtwofliescirclingroundandnoticedthebluesheenontheirbodies; she saw a knot in the wood where her foot was, and her dog’s eartwitching.Atthesametime,sheheardaboughcreakinginthegarden,asheepcoughing in the park, a swift screaming past the window. Her own bodyquiveredandtingledasifsuddenlystoodnakedinahardfrost.Yet,shekept,asshehadnotdonewhentheclockstruckteninLondon,completecomposure(forshewas nowone and entire, and presented, itmay be, a larger surface to theshock of time). She rose, butwithout precipitation, called her dogs, andwentfirmlybutwithgreatalertnessofmovementdownthestaircaseandoutintothegarden.Heretheshadowsoftheplantsweremiraculouslydistinct.Shenoticedtheseparategrainsofearthintheflowerbedsasifshehadamicroscopestucktohereye.Shesawtheintricacyofthetwigsofeverytree.Eachbladeofgrasswasdistinct and the marking of veins and petals. She saw Stubbs, the gardener,coming along the path, and every button on his gaiters was visible; she sawBettyandPrince,thecarthorses,andneverhadshemarkedsoclearlythewhitestaronBetty’sforehead,andthethreelonghairsthatfelldownbelowtherestonPrince’stail.Outinthequadrangletheoldgreywallsofthehouselookedlikeascrapednewphotograph;sheheardtheloudspeakercondensingontheterraceadancetunethatpeoplewerelisteningtointheredvelvetoperahouseatVienna.Bracedandstrungupbythepresentmomentshewasalsostrangelyafraid,asifwheneverthegulfoftimegapedandletasecondthroughsomeunknowndangermight come with it. The tension was too relentless and too rigorous to beenduredlongwithoutdiscomfort.Shewalkedmorebrisklythansheliked,asifherlegsweremovedforher,throughthegardenandoutintothepark.Heresheforced herself, by a great effort, to stop by the carpenter’s shop, and to standstock–stillwatchingJoeStubbsfashionacartwheel.Shewasstandingwithhereye fixed on his hand when the quarter struck. It hurtled through her like ameteor,sohotthatnofingerscanholdit.ShesawwithdisgustingvividnessthatthethumbonJoe’srighthandwaswithoutafingernailandtherewasaraisedsaucerofpinkfleshwherethenailshouldhavebeen.Thesightwassorepulsivethatshefeltfaintforamoment,butinthatmoment’sdarkness,whenhereyelids

flickered,shewasrelievedofthepressureofthepresent.Therewassomethingstrange in the shadow that the flicker of her eyes cast, something which (asanyonecantestforhimselfbylookingnowatthesky)isalwaysabsentfromthepresent—whenceitsterror,itsnondescriptcharacter—somethingonetremblestopin through the bodywith a name and call beauty, for it has no body, is as ashadowwithout substance or quality of its own, yet has the power to changewhatever itadds itself to.Thisshadownow,whilesheflickeredhereye inherfaintness in the carpenter’s shop, stole out, and attaching itself to theinnumerable sights she had been receiving, composed them into somethingtolerable,comprehensible.Hermindbegantotosslikethesea.Yes,shethought,heavingadeepsighof relief,asshe turnedfromthecarpenter’sshop toclimbthehill,Icanbegintoliveagain.IambytheSerpentine,shethought,thelittleboat is climbing through the white arch of a thousand deaths. I am about tounderstand...

Thosewereherwords, spokenquite distinctly, butwe cannot conceal the factthatshewasnowaveryindifferentwitnesstothetruthofwhatwasbeforeherandmighteasilyhavemistakenasheepforacow,oranoldmancalledSmithforonewhowascalledJonesandwasnorelationofhiswhatever.Fortheshadowoffaintnesswhichthethumbwithoutanailhadcasthaddeepenednow,atthebackof her brain (which is the part furthest from sight), into a pool where thingsdwellindarknesssodeepthatwhattheyarewescarcelyknow.Shenowlookeddownintothispoolorseainwhicheverythingisreflected—and,indeed,somesay that all ourmost violent passions, and art and religion, are the reflectionswhichweseeinthedarkhollowatthebackoftheheadwhenthevisibleworldis obscured for the time. She looked there now, long, deeply, profoundly, andimmediatelythefernypathupthehillalongwhichshewaswalkingbecamenotentirelyapath,butpartlytheSerpentine;thehawthornbusheswerepartlyladiesandgentlemensittingwithcard–casesandgold–mountedcanes;thesheepwerepartlytallMayfairhouses;everythingwaspartlysomethingelse,asifhermindhadbecomeaforestwithgladesbranchinghereand there; thingscamenearer,and further, and mingled and separated and made the strangest alliances andcombinations inan incessantchequerof lightandshade.ExceptwhenCanute,the elk–hound, chased a rabbit and so remindedher that itmust be abouthalfpastfour—itwasindeedtwenty–threeminutestosix—sheforgotthetime.

Thefernypathled,withmanyturnsandwindings,higherandhighertotheoak

tree, which stood on the top. The tree had grown bigger, sturdier, and moreknottedsinceshehadknownit,somewhereabouttheyear1588,butitwasstillintheprimeoflife.Thelittlesharplyfrilledleaveswerestillflutteringthicklyonits branches. Flinging herself on the ground, she felt the bones of the treerunning out like ribs from a spine thisway and that beneath her. She liked tothink that shewas riding the back of theworld. She liked to attach herself tosomething hard. As she flung herself down a little square book bound in redcloth fell from the breast of her leather jacket—her poem ‘TheOak Tree’. ‘Ishouldhavebroughtatrowel,’shereflected.Theearthwassoshallowovertheroots that it seemed doubtful if she could do as shemeant and bury the bookhere.Besides, thedogswoulddig itup.Noluckeverattends thesesymbolicalcelebrations,shethought.Perhapsitwouldbeaswellthentodowithoutthem.Shehadalittlespeechonthetipofhertonguewhichshemeanttospeakoverthebookassheburiedit.(Itwasacopyofthefirstedition,signedbyauthorandartist.)‘Iburythisasatribute,’shewasgoingtohavesaid,‘areturntothelandof what the land has given me,’ but Lord! once one began mouthing wordsaloud,howsillytheysounded!ShewasremindedofoldGreenegettinguponaplatform theotherdaycomparingherwithMilton (save forhisblindness)andhandingherachequefortwohundredguineas.Shehadthoughtthen,oftheoaktreehereon itshill, andwhathas thatgot todowith this, shehadwondered?Whathaspraiseandfametodowithpoetry?Whathasseveneditions(thebookhadalreadygone intono less)got todowith thevalueof it?Wasnotwritingpoetryasecrettransaction,avoiceansweringavoice?Sothatallthischatterandpraiseandblameandmeetingpeoplewhoadmiredoneandmeetingpeoplewhodid not admire one was as ill suited as could be to the thing itself—a voiceansweringavoice.Whatcouldhavebeenmoresecret,shethought,moreslow,andliketheintercourseoflovers,thanthestammeringanswershehadmadealltheseyearstotheoldcrooningsongofthewoods,andthefarmsandthebrownhorsesstandingatthegate,necktoneck,andthesmithyandthekitchenandthefields,solaboriouslybearingwheat,turnips,grass,andthegardenblowingirisesandfritillaries?

Sosheletherbooklieunburiedanddishevelledontheground,andwatchedthevastview,variedlikeanoceanfloorthiseveningwiththesunlighteningitandtheshadowsdarkening it.Therewasavillagewithachurch toweramongelmtrees; a grey domedmanor house in a park; a spark of light burning on someglass–house;afarmyardwithyellowcornstacks.Thefieldsweremarkedwith

black tree clumps, and beyond the fields stretched longwoodlands, and therewas the gleam of a river, and then hills again. In the far distance Snowdon’scragsbrokewhiteamongtheclouds;shesawthefarScottishhillsandthewildtidesthatswirlabouttheHebrides.Shelistenedforthesoundofgun–firingoutat sea. No—only the wind blew. There was no war to–day. Drake had gone;Nelson had gone. ‘And there’, she thought, letting her eyes, which had beenlookingatthesefardistances,droponcemoretothelandbeneathher,‘wasmylandonce: thatCastlebetweenthedownswasmine;andall thatmoorrunningalmosttotheseawasmine.’Herethelandscape(itmusthavebeensometrickofthe fading light) shook itself,heaped itself, letall thisencumbranceofhouses,castles,andwoodsslideoffitstent–shapedsides.ThebaremountainsofTurkeywerebeforeher.Itwasblazingnoon.Shelookedstraightatthebakedhill–side.Goatscropped thesandy tuftsather feet.Aneaglesoaredabove.The raucousvoiceofoldRustum,thegipsy,croakedinherears,‘Whatisyourantiquityandyour race, and your possessions comparedwith this?What do you needwithfour hundred bedrooms and silver lids on all your dishes, and housemaidsdusting?’

Atthismomentsomechurchclockchimedinthevalley.Thetent–likelandscapecollapsed and fell.The present showered downuponher head oncemore, butnow that the light was fading, gentlier than before, calling into view nothingdetailed,nothingsmall,butonlymistyfields,cottageswith lamps in them, theslumberingbulkofawood,andafan–shapedlightpushingthedarknessbeforeitalongsomelane.Whetherithadstrucknine,ten,oreleven,shecouldnotsay.Nighthadcome—nightthatshelovedofalltimes,nightinwhichthereflectionsinthedarkpoolofthemindshinemoreclearlythanbyday.Itwasnotnecessaryto faint now in order to look deep into the darkness where things shapethemselvesand tosee in thepoolof themindnowShakespeare,nowagirl inRussiantrousers,nowatoyboatontheSerpentine,andthentheAtlanticitself,where it storms ingreatwavespastCapeHorn.She looked into thedarkness.Therewasherhusband’sbrig,risingtothetopofthewave!Up,itwent,andupand up. The white arch of a thousand deaths rose before it. Oh rash, ohridiculousman,alwayssailing,souselessly,roundCapeHornin theteethofagale!Butthebrigwasthroughthearchandoutontheotherside;itwassafeatlast!

‘Ecstasy!’ shecried, ‘ecstasy!’And then thewindsank, thewatersgrewcalm;

andshesawthewavesripplingpeacefullyinthemoonlight.

‘MarmadukeBonthropShelmerdine!’shecried,standingbytheoaktree.

Thebeautiful, glitteringname fell outof the sky like a steel–blue feather.Shewatched it fall, turning and twisting like a slow–falling arrow that cleaves thedeep air beautifully.Hewas coming, as he always came, inmoments of deadcalm;whenthewaverippledandthespottedleavesfellslowlyoverherfootintheautumnwoods;whentheleopardwasstill;themoonwasonthewaters,andnothingmovedinbetweenskyandsea.Thenhecame.

Allwasstillnow.Itwasnearmidnight.Themoonroseslowlyovertheweald.Itslightraisedaphantomcastleuponearth.Therestoodthegreathousewithallits windows robed in silver. Of wall or substance there was none. All wasphantom.Allwasstill.Allwas litas for thecomingofadeadQueen.Gazingbelow her, Orlando saw dark plumes tossing in the courtyard, and torchesflickeringandshadowskneeling.AQueenoncemoresteppedfromherchariot.

‘Thehouseisatyourservice,Ma’am,’shecried,curtseyingdeeply.‘Nothinghasbeenchanged.ThedeadLord,myfather,shallleadyouin.’

As she spoke, the first stroke of midnight sounded. The cold breeze of thepresentbrushedherfacewithitslittlebreathoffear.Shelookedanxiouslyintothesky.Itwasdarkwithcloudsnow.Thewindroaredinherears.Butintheroarofthewindsheheardtheroarofanaeroplanecomingnearerandnearer.

‘Here!Shel,here!’shecried,baringherbreasttothemoon(whichnowshowedbright)sothatherpearlsglowed—liketheeggsofsomevastmoon–spider.Theaeroplanerushedoutofthecloudsandstoodoverherhead.Ithoveredaboveher.Herpearlsburntlikeaphosphorescentflareinthedarkness.

And as Shelmerdine, now grown a fine sea captain, hale, fresh–coloured, andalert,leapttotheground,theresprangupoverhisheadasinglewildbird.

‘Itisthegoose!’Orlandocried.‘Thewildgoose...’

And the twelfth stroke of midnight sounded; the twelfth stroke of midnight,Thursday,theeleventhofOctober,NineteenhundredandTwentyEight.

THEEND

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TableofContents

TableofContentsPREFACECHAPTER1.CHAPTER2.CHAPTER3.CHAPTER4.CHAPTER5.CHAPTER6.