字体设置:

It is, indeed, highly unfortunate, and much to be regretted that at this stage of Orlando’s career, when he played a most important part in the public life of his country, we have least information to go upon. We know that he discharged his duties to admiration — witness his Bath and his Dukedom. We know that he had a finger in some of the most delicate negotiations between King Charles and the Turks — to that, treaties in the vault of the Record Office bear testimony. But the revolution which broke out during his period of office, and the fire which followed, have so damaged or destroyed all those papers from which any trustworthy record could be drawn, that what we can give is lamentably incomplete. Often the paper was scorched a deep brown in the middle of the most important sentence. Just when we thought to elucidate a secret that has puzzled historians for a hundred years, there was a hole in the manuscript big enough to put your finger through. We have done our best to piece out a meagre summary from the charred fragments that remain; but often it has been necessary to speculate, to surmise, and even to use the imagination.

Orlando’s day was passed, it would seem, somewhat in this fashion. About seven, he would rise, wrap himself in a long Turkish cloak, light a cheroot, and lean his elbows on the parapet. Thus he would stand, gazing at the city beneath him, apparently entranced. At this hour the mist would lie so thick that the domes of Santa Sofia and the rest would seem to be afloat; gradually the mist would uncover them; the bubbles would be seen to be firmly fixed; there would be the river; there the Galata Bridge; there the green-turbaned pilgrims without eyes or noses, begging alms; there the pariah dogs picking up offal; there the shawled women; there the innumerable donkeys; there men on horses carrying long poles. Soon, the whole town would be astir with the cracking of whips, the beating of gongs, cryings to prayer, lashing of mules, and rattle of brass-bound wheels, while sour odours, made from bread fermenting and incense, and spice, rose even to the heights of Pera itself and seemed the very breath of the strident multi-coloured and barbaric population.

Nothing, he reflected, gazing at the view which was now sparkling in the sun, could well be less like the counties of Surrey and Kent or the towns of London and Tunbridge Wells. To the right and left rose in bald and stony prominence the inhospitable Asian mountains, to which the arid castle of a robber chief or two might hang; but parsonage there was none, nor manor house, nor cottage, nor oak, elm, violet, ivy, or wild eglantine. There were no hedges for ferns to grow on, and no fields for sheep to graze. The houses were white as egg-shells and as bald. That he, who was English root and fibre, should yet exult to the depths of his heart in this wild panorama, and gaze and gaze at those passes and far heights planning journeys there alone on foot where only the goat and shepherd had gone before; should feel a passion of affection for the bright, unseasonable flowers, love the unkempt pariah dogs beyond even his elk hounds at home, and snuff the acrid, sharp smell of the streets eagerly into his nostrils, surprised him. He wondered if, in the season of the Crusades, one of his ancestors had taken up with a Circassian peasant woman; thought it possible; fancied a certain darkness in his complexion; and, going indoors again, withdrew to his bath.

An hour later, properly scented, curled, and anointed, he would receive visits from secretaries and other high officials carrying, one after another, red boxes which yielded only to his own golden key. Within were papers of the highest importance, of which only fragments, here a flourish, there a seal firmly attached to a piece of burnt silk, now remain. Of their contents then, we cannot speak, but can only testify that Orlando was kept busy, what with his wax and seals, his various coloured ribbons which had to be diversely attached, his engrossing of titles and making of flourishes round capital letters, till luncheon came — a splendid meal of perhaps thirty courses.

After luncheon, lackeys announced that his coach and six was at the door, and he went, preceded by purple Janissaries running on foot and waving great ostrich feather fans above their heads, to call upon the other ambassadors and dignitaries of state. The ceremony was always the same. On reaching the courtyard, the Janissaries struck with their fans upon the main portal, which immediately flew open revealing a large chamber, splendidly furnished. Here were seated two figures, generally of the opposite sexes. Profound bows and curtseys were exchanged. In the first room, it was permissible only to mention the weather. Having said that it was fine or wet, hot or cold, the Ambassador then passed on to the next chamber, where again, two figures rose to greet him. Here it was only permissible to compare Constantinople as a place of residence with London; and the Ambassador naturally said that he preferred Constantinople, and his hosts naturally said, though they had not seen it, that they preferred London. In the next chamber, King Charles’s and the Sultan’s healths had to be discussed at some length. In the next were discussed the Ambassador’s health and that of his host’s wife, but more briefly. In the next the Ambassador complimented his host upon his furniture, and the host complimented the Ambassador upon his dress. In the next, sweet meats were offered, the host deploring their badness, the Ambassador extolling their goodness. The ceremony ended at length with the smoking of a hookah and the drinking of a glass of coffee; but though the motions of smoking and drinking were gone through punctiliously there was neither tobacco in the pipe nor coffee in the glass, as, had either smoke or drink been real, the human frame would have sunk beneath the surfeit. For, no sooner had the Ambassador despatched one such visit, than another had to be undertaken. The same ceremonies were gone through in precisely the same order six or seven times over at the houses of the other great officials, so that it was often late at night before the Ambassador reached home. Though Orlando performed these tasks to admiration and never denied that they are, perhaps, the most important part of a diplomatist’s duties, he was undoubtedly fatigued by them, and often depressed to such a pitch of gloom that he preferred to take his dinner alone with his dogs. To them, indeed, he might be heard talking in his own tongue. And sometimes, it is said, he would pass out of his own gates late at night so disguised that the sentries did not know him. Then he would mingle with the crowd on the Galata Bridge; or stroll through the bazaars; or throw aside his shoes and join the worshippers in the Mosques. Once, when it was given out that he was ill of a fever, shepherds, bringing their goats to market, reported that they had met an English Lord on the mountain top and heard him praying to his God. This was thought to be Orlando himself, and his prayer was, no doubt, a poem said aloud, for it was known that he still carried about with him, in the bosom of his cloak, a much scored manuscript; and servants, listening at the door, heard the Ambassador chanting something in an odd, sing-song voice when he was alone.

It is with fragments such as these that we must do our best to make up a picture of Orlando’s life and character at this time. There exist, even to this day, rumours, legends, anecdotes of a floating and unauthenticated kind about Orlando’s life in Constantinople —(we have quoted but a few of them) which go to prove that he possessed, now that he was in the prime of life, the power to stir the fancy and rivet the eye which will keep a memory green long after all that more durable qualities can do to preserve it is forgotten. The power is a mysterious one compounded of beauty, birth, and some rarer gift, which we may call glamour and have done with it. ‘A million candles’, as Sasha had said, burnt in him without his being at the trouble of lighting a single one. He moved like a stag, without any need to think about his legs. He spoke in his ordinary voice and echo beat a silver gong. Hence rumours gathered round him. He became the adored of many women and some men. It was not necessary that they should speak to him or even that they should see him; they conjured up before them especially when the scenery was romantic, or the sun was setting, the figure of a noble gentleman in silk stockings. Upon the poor and uneducated, he had the same power as upon the rich. Shepherds, gipsies, donkey drivers, still sing songs about the English Lord ‘who dropped his emeralds in the well’, which undoubtedly refer to Orlando, who once, it seems, tore his jewels from him in a moment of rage or intoxication and flung them in a fountain; whence they were fished by a page boy. But this romantic power, it is well known, is often associated with a nature of extreme reserve. Orlando seems to have made no friends. As far as is known, he formed no attachments. A certain great lady came all the way from England in order to be near him, and pestered him with her attentions, but he continued to discharge his duties so indefatigably that he had not been Ambassador at the Horn for more than two years and a half before King Charles signified his intention of raising him to the highest rank in the peerage. The envious said that this was Nell Gwyn’s tribute to the memory of a leg. But, as she had seen him once only, and was then busily engaged in pelting her royal master with nutshells, it is likely that it was his merits that won him his Dukedom, not his calves.

Here we must pause, for we have reached a moment of great significance in his career. For the conferring of the Dukedom was the occasion of a very famous, and indeed, much disputed incident, which we must now describe, picking our way among burnt papers and little bits of tape as best we may. It was at the end of the great fast of Ramadan that the Order of the Bath and the patent of nobility arrived in a frigate commanded by Sir Adrian Scrope; and Orlando made this the occasion for an entertainment more splendid than any that has been known before or since in Constantinople. The night was fine; the crowd immense, and the windows of the Embassy brilliantly illuminated. Again, details are lacking, for the fire had its way with all such records, and has left only tantalizing fragments which leave the most important points obscure. From the diary of John Fenner Brigge, however, an English naval officer, who was among the guests, we gather that people of all nationalities ‘were packed like herrings in a barrel’ in the courtyard. The crowd pressed so unpleasantly close that Brigge soon climbed into a Judas tree, the better to observe the proceedings. The rumour had got about among the natives (and here is additional proof of Orlando’s mysterious power over the imagination) that some kind of miracle was to be performed. ‘Thus,’ writes Brigge (but his manuscript is full of burns and holes, some sentences being quite illegible), ‘when the rockets began to soar into the air, there was considerable uneasiness among us lest the native population should be seized...fraught with unpleasant consequences to all...English ladies in the company, I own that my hand went to my cutlass. Happily,’ he continues in his somewhat long-winded style, ‘these fears seemed, for the moment, groundless and, observing the demeanour of the natives...I came to the conclusion that this demonstration of our skill in the art of pyrotechny was valuable, if only because it impressed upon them...the superiority of the British...Indeed, the sight was one of indescribable magnificence. I found myself alternately praising the Lord that he had permitted...and wishing that my poor, dear mother...By the Ambassador’s orders, the long windows, which are so imposing a feature of Eastern architecture, for though ignorant in many ways...were thrown wide; and within, we could see a tableau vivant or theatrical display in which English ladies and gentlemen...represented a masque the work of one...The words were inaudible, but the sight of so many of our countrymen and women, dressed with the highest elegance and distinction...moved me to emotions of which I am certainly not ashamed, though unable...I was intent upon observing the astonishing conduct of Lady — which was of a nature to fasten the eyes of all upon her, and to bring discredit upon her sex and country, when’— unfortunately a branch of the Judas tree broke, Lieutenant Brigge fell to the ground, and the rest of the entry records only his gratitude to Providence (who plays a very large part in the diary) and the exact nature of his injuries.

Happily, Miss Penelope Hartopp, daughter of the General of that name, saw the scene from inside and carries on the tale in a letter, much defaced too, which ultimately reached a female friend at Tunbridge Wells. Miss Penelope was no less lavish in her enthusiasm than the gallant officer. ‘Ravishing,’ she exclaims ten times on one page, ‘wondrous...utterly beyond description...gold plate...candelabras...negroes in plush breeches... pyramids of ice...fountains of negus...jellies made to represent His Majesty’s ships...swans made to represent water lilies...birds in golden cages...gentlemen in slashed crimson velvet...Ladies’ headdresses AT LEAST six foot high...musical boxes....Mr Peregrine said I looked QUITE lovely which I only repeat to you, my dearest, because I know...Oh! how I longed for you all!...surpassing anything we have seen at the Pantiles...oceans to drink...some gentlemen overcome...Lady Betty ravishing....Poor Lady Bonham made the unfortunate mistake of sitting down without a chair beneath her...Gentlemen all very gallant...wished a thousand times for you and dearest Betsy...But the sight of all others, the cynosure of all eyes...as all admitted, for none could be so vile as to deny it, was the Ambassador himself. Such a leg! Such a countenance!! Such princely manners!!! To see him come into the room! To see him go out again! And something INTERESTING in the expression, which makes one feel, one scarcely knows why, that he has SUFFERED! They say a lady was the cause of it. The heartless monster!!! How can one of our REPUTED TENDER SEX have had the effrontery!!! He is unmarried, and half the ladies in the place are wild for love of him...A thousand, thousand kisses to Tom, Gerry, Peter, and dearest Mew’ (presumably her cat).

From the Gazette of the time, we gather that ‘as the clock struck twelve, the Ambassador appeared on the centre Balcony which was hung with priceless rugs. Six Turks of the Imperial Body Guard, each over six foot in height, held torches to his right and left. Rockets rose into the air at his appearance, and a great shout went up from the people, which the Ambassador acknowledged, bowing deeply, and speaking a few words of thanks in the Turkish language, which it was one of his accomplishments to speak with fluency. Next, Sir Adrian Scrope, in the full dress of a British Admiral, advanced; the Ambassador knelt on one knee; the Admiral placed the Collar of the Most Noble Order of the Bath round his neck, then pinned the Star to his breast; after which another gentleman of the diplomatic corps advancing in a stately manner placed on his shoulders the ducal robes, and handed him on a crimson cushion, the ducal coronet.’

At length, with a gesture of extraordinary majesty and grace, first bowing profoundly, then raising himself proudly erect, Orlando took the golden circlet of strawberry leaves and placed it, with a gesture which none that saw it ever forgot, upon his brows. It was at this point that the first disturbance began. Either the people had expected a miracle — some say a shower of gold was prophesied to fall from the skies — which did not happen, or this was the signal chosen for the attack to begin; nobody seems to know; but as the coronet settled on Orlando’s brows a great uproar rose. Bells began ringing; the harsh cries of the prophets were heard above the shouts of the people; many Turks fell flat to the ground and touched the earth with their foreheads. A door burst open. The natives pressed into the banqueting rooms. Women shrieked. A certain lady, who was said to be dying for love of Orlando, seized a candelabra and dashed it to the ground. What might not have happened, had it not been for the presence of Sir Adrian Scrope and a squad of British bluejackets, nobody can say. But the Admiral ordered the bugles to be sounded; a hundred bluejackets stood instantly at attention; the disorder was quelled, and quiet, at least for the time being, fell upon the scene.

So far, we are on the firm, if rather narrow, ground of ascertained truth. But nobody has ever known exactly what took place later that night. The testimony of the sentries and others seems, however, to prove that the Embassy was empty of company, and shut up for the night in the usual way by two A.M. The Ambassador was seen to go to his room, still wearing the insignia of his rank, and shut the door. Some say he locked it, which was against his custom. Others maintain that they heard music of a rustic kind, such as shepherds play, later that night in the courtyard under the Ambassador’s window. A washer-woman, who was kept awake by toothache, said that she saw a man’s figure, wrapped in a cloak or dressing gown, come out upon the balcony. Then, she said, a woman, much muffled, but apparently of the peasant class, was drawn up by means of a rope which the man let down to her on to the balcony. There, the washer-woman said, they embraced passionately ‘like lovers’, and went into the room together, drawing the curtains so that no more could be seen.

Next morning, the Duke, as we must now call him, was found by his secretaries sunk in profound slumber amid bed clothes that were much tumbled. The room was in some disorder, his coronet having rolled on the floor, and his cloak and garter being flung all of a heap on a chair. The table was littered with papers. No suspicion was felt at first, as the fatigues of the night had been great. But when afternoon came and he still slept, a doctor was summoned. He applied remedies which had been used on the previous occasion, plasters, nettles, emetics, etc., but without success. Orlando slept on. His secretaries then thought it their duty to examine the papers on the table. Many were scribbled over with poetry, in which frequent mention was made of an oak tree. There were also various state papers and others of a private nature concerning the management of his estates in England. But at length they came upon a document of far greater significance. It was nothing less, indeed, than a deed of marriage, drawn up, signed, and witnessed between his Lordship, Orlando, Knight of the Garter, etc., etc., etc., and Rosina Pepita, a dancer, father unknown, but reputed a gipsy, mother also unknown but reputed a seller of old iron in the market-place over against the Galata Bridge. The secretaries looked at each other in dismay. And still Orlando slept. Morning and evening they watched him, but, save that his breathing was regular and his cheeks still flushed their habitual deep rose, he gave no sign of life. Whatever science or ingenuity could do to waken him they did. But still he slept.

On the seventh day of his trance (Thursday, May the 10th) the first shot was fired of that terrible and bloody insurrection of which Lieutenant Brigge had detected the first symptoms. The Turks rose against the Sultan, set fire to the town, and put every foreigner they could find, either to the sword or to the bastinado. A few English managed to escape; but, as might have been expected, the gentlemen of the British Embassy preferred to die in defence of their red boxes, or, in extreme cases, to swallow bunches of keys rather than let them fall into the hands of the Infidel. The rioters broke into Orlando’s room, but seeing him stretched to all appearances dead they left him untouched, and only robbed him of his coronet and the robes of the Garter.

And now again obscurity descends, and would indeed that it were deeper! Would, we almost have it in our hearts to exclaim, that it were so deep that we could see nothing whatever through its opacity! Would that we might here take the pen and write Finis to our work! Would that we might spare the reader what is to come and say to him in so many words, Orlando died and was buried. But here, alas, Truth, Candour, and Honesty, the austere Gods who keep watch and ward by the inkpot of the biographer, cry No! Putting their silver trumpets to their lips they demand in one blast, Truth! And again they cry Truth! and sounding yet a third time in concert they peal forth, The Truth and nothing but the Truth!

At which — Heaven be praised! for it affords us a breathing space — the doors gently open, as if a breath of the gentlest and holiest zephyr had wafted them apart, and three figures enter. First, comes our Lady of Purity; whose brows are bound with fillets of the whitest lamb’s wool; whose hair is as an avalanche of the driven snow; and in whose hand reposes the white quill of a virgin goose. Following her, but with a statelier step, comes our Lady of Chastity; on whose brow is set like a turret of burning but unwasting fire a diadem of icicles; her eyes are pure stars, and her fingers, if they touch you, freeze you to the bone. Close behind her, sheltering indeed in the shadow of her more stately sisters, comes our Lady of Modesty, frailest and fairest of the three; whose face is only shown as the young moon shows when it is thin and sickle shaped and half hidden among clouds. Each advances towards the centre of the room where Orlando still lies sleeping; and with gestures at once appealing and commanding, OUR LADY OF PURITY speaks first:

‘I am the guardian of the sleeping fawn; the snow is dear to me; and the moon rising; and the silver sea. With my robes I cover the speckled hen’s eggs and the brindled sea shell; I cover vice and poverty. On all things frail or dark or doubtful, my veil descends. Wherefore, speak not, reveal not. Spare, O spare!’

Here the trumpets peal forth.

‘Purity Avaunt! Begone Purity!’

Then OUR LADY OF CHASTITY speaks:

‘I am she whose touch freezes and whose glance turns to stone. I have stayed the star in its dancing, and the wave as it falls. The highest Alps are my dwelling place; and when I walk, the lightnings flash in my hair; where my eyes fall, they kill. Rather than let Orlando wake, I will freeze him to the bone. Spare, O spare!’

Here the trumpets peal forth.

‘Chastity Avaunt! Begone Chastity!’

Then OUR LADY OF MODESTY speaks, so low that one can hardly hear:

‘I am she that men call Modesty. Virgin I am and ever shall be. Not for me the fruitful fields and the fertile vineyard. Increase is odious to me; and when the apples burgeon or the flocks breed, I run, I run; I let my mantle fall. My hair covers my eyes. I do not see. Spare, O spare!’

Again the trumpets peal forth:

‘Modesty Avaunt! Begone Modesty!’

With gestures of grief and lamentation the three sisters now join hands and dance slowly, tossing their veils and singing as they go:

‘Truth come not out from your horrid den. Hide deeper, fearful Truth. For you flaunt in the brutal gaze of the sun things that were better unknown and undone; you unveil the shameful; the dark you make clear, Hide! Hide! Hide!’

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

‘The Truth and nothing but the Truth.’

At this the Sisters try to cast their veils over the mouths of the trumpets so as to muffle them, but in vain, for now all the trumpets blare forth together,

‘Horrid Sisters, go!’

The sisters become distracted and wail in unison, still circling and flinging their veils up and down.

‘It has not always been so! But men want us no longer; the women detest us. We go; we go. I (PURITY SAYS THIS) to the hen roost. I (CHASTITY SAYS THIS) to the still unravished heights of Surrey. I (MODESTY SAYS THIS) to any cosy nook where there are ivy and curtains in plenty.’

‘For there, not here (all speak together joining hands and making gestures of farewell and despair towards the bed where Orlando lies sleeping) dwell still in nest and boudoir, office and lawcourt those who love us; those who honour us, virgins and city men; lawyers and doctors; those who prohibit; those who deny; those who reverence without knowing why; those who praise without understanding; the still very numerous (Heaven be praised) tribe of the respectable; who prefer to see not; desire to know not; love the darkness; those still worship us, and with reason; for we have given them Wealth, Prosperity, Comfort, Ease. To them we go, you we leave. Come, Sisters, come! This is no place for us here.’

They retire in haste, waving their draperies over their heads, as if to shut out something that they dare not look upon and close the door behind them.

We are, therefore, now left entirely alone in the room with the sleeping Orlando and the trumpeters. The trumpeters, ranging themselves side by side in order, blow one terrific blast:—

‘THE TRUTH!

at which Orlando woke.

He stretched himself. He rose. He stood upright in complete nakedness before us, and while the trumpets pealed Truth! Truth! Truth! we have no choice left but confess — he was a woman.

The sound of the trumpets died away and Orlando stood stark naked. No human being, since the world began, has ever looked more ravishing. His form combined in one the strength of a man and a woman’s grace. As he stood there, the silver trumpets prolonged their note, as if reluctant to leave the lovely sight which their blast had called forth; and Chastity, Purity, and Modesty, inspired, no doubt, by Curiosity, peeped in at the door and threw a garment like a towel at the naked form which, unfortunately, fell short by several inches. Orlando looked himself up and down in a long looking-glass, without showing any signs of discomposure, and went, presumably, to his bath.

We may take advantage of this pause in the narrative to make certain statements. Orlando had become a woman — there is no denying it. But in every other respect, Orlando remained precisely as he had been. The change of sex, though it altered their future, did nothing whatever to alter their identity. Their faces remained, as their portraits prove, practically the same. His memory — but in future we must, for convention’s sake, say ‘her’ for ‘his,’ and ‘she’ for ‘he’— her memory then, went back through all the events of her past life without encountering any obstacle. Some slight haziness there may have been, as if a few dark drops had fallen into the clear pool of memory; certain things had become a little dimmed; but that was all. The change seemed to have been accomplished painlessly and completely and in such a way that Orlando herself showed no surprise at it. Many people, taking this into account, and holding that such a change of sex is against nature, have been at great pains to prove (1) that Orlando had always been a woman, (2) that Orlando is at this moment a man. Let biologists and psychologists determine. It is enough for us to state the simple fact; Orlando was a man till the age of thirty; when he became a woman and has remained so ever since.

But let other pens treat of sex and sexuality; we quit such odious subjects as soon as we can. Orlando had now washed, and dressed herself in those Turkish coats and trousers which can be worn indifferently by either sex; and was forced to consider her position. That it was precarious and embarrassing in the extreme must be the first thought of every reader who has followed her story with sympathy. Young, noble, beautiful, she had woken to find herself in a position than which we can conceive none more delicate for a young lady of rank. We should not have blamed her had she rung the bell, screamed, or fainted. But Orlando showed no such signs of perturbation. All her actions were deliberate in the extreme, and might indeed have been thought to show tokens of premeditation. First, she carefully examined the papers on the table; took such as seemed to be written in poetry, and secreted them in her bosom; next she called her Seleuchi hound, which had never left her bed all these days, though half famished with hunger, fed and combed him; then stuck a pair of pistols in her belt; finally wound about her person several strings of emeralds and pearls of the finest orient which had formed part of her Ambassadorial wardrobe. This done, she leant out of the window, gave one low whistle, and descended the shattered and bloodstained staircase, now strewn with the litter of waste-paper baskets, treaties, despatches, seals, sealing wax, etc., and so entered the courtyard. There, in the shadow of a giant fig tree, waited an old gipsy on a donkey. He led another by the bridle. Orlando swung her leg over it; and thus, attended by a lean dog, riding a donkey, in company of a gipsy, the Ambassador of Great Britain at the Court of the Sultan left Constantinople.

They rode for several days and nights and met with a variety of adventures, some at the hands of men, some at the hands of nature, in all of which Orlando acquitted herself with courage. Within a week they reached the high ground outside Broussa, which was then the chief camping ground of the gipsy tribe to which Orlando had allied herself. Often she had looked at those mountains from her balcony at the Embassy; often had longed to be there; and to find oneself where one has longed to be always, to a reflective mind, gives food for thought. For some time, however, she was too well pleased with the change to spoil it by thinking. The pleasure of having no documents to seal or sign, no flourishes to make, no calls to pay, was enough. The gipsies followed the grass; when it was grazed down, on they moved again. She washed in streams if she washed at all; no boxes, red, blue, or green, were presented to her; there was not a key, let alone a golden key, in the whole camp; as for ‘visiting’, the word was unknown. She milked the goats; she collected brushwood; she stole a hen’s egg now and then, but always put a coin or a pearl in place of it; she herded cattle; she stripped vines; she trod the grape; she filled the goat-skin and drank from it; and when she remembered how, at about this time of day, she should have been making the motions of drinking and smoking over an empty coffee-cup and a pipe which lacked tobacco, she laughed aloud, cut herself another hunch of bread, and begged for a puff from old Rustum’s pipe, filled though it was with cow dung.

The gipsies, with whom it is obvious that she must have been in secret communication before the revolution, seem to have looked upon her as one of themselves (which is always the highest compliment a people can pay), and her dark hair and dark complexion bore out the belief that she was, by birth, one of them and had been snatched by an English Duke from a nut tree when she was a baby and taken to that barbarous land where people live in houses because they are too feeble and diseased to stand the open air. Thus, though in many ways inferior to them, they were willing to help her to become more like them; taught her their arts of cheese-making and basket-weaving, their science of stealing and bird-snaring, and were even prepared to consider letting her marry among them.

But Orlando had contracted in England some of the customs or diseases (whatever you choose to consider them) which cannot, it seems, be expelled. One evening, when they were all sitting round the camp fire and the sunset was blazing over the Thessalian hills, Orlando exclaimed:

‘How good to eat!’

(The gipsies have no word for ‘beautiful’. This is the nearest.)

All the young men and women burst out laughing uproariously. The sky good to eat, indeed! The elders, however, who had seen more of foreigners than they had, became suspicious. They noticed that Orlando often sat for whole hours doing nothing whatever, except look here and then there; they would come upon her on some hill-top staring straight in front of her, no matter whether the goats were grazing or straying. They began to suspect that she had other beliefs than their own, and the older men and women thought it probable that she had fallen into the clutches of the vilest and cruellest among all the Gods, which is Nature. Nor were they far wrong. The English disease, a love of Nature, was inborn in her, and here, where Nature was so much larger and more powerful than in England, she fell into its hands as she had never done before. The malady is too well known, and has been, alas, too often described to need describing afresh, save very briefly. There were mountains; there were valleys; there were streams. She climbed the mountains; roamed the valleys; sat on the banks of the streams. She likened the hills to ramparts, to the breasts of doves, and the flanks of kine. She compared the flowers to enamel and the turf to Turkey rugs worn thin. Trees were withered hags, and sheep were grey boulders. Everything, in fact, was something else. She found the tarn on the mountain-top and almost threw herself in to seek the wisdom she thought lay hid there; and when, from the mountain-top, she beheld far off, across the Sea of Marmara, the plains of Greece, and made out (her eyes were admirable) the Acropolis with a white streak or two, which must, she thought, be the Parthenon, her soul expanded with her eyeballs, and she prayed that she might share the majesty of the hills, know the serenity of the plains, etc. etc., as all such believers do. Then, looking down, the red hyacinth, the purple iris wrought her to cry out in ecstasy at the goodness, the beauty of nature; raising her eyes again, she beheld the eagle soaring, and imagined its raptures and made them her own. Returning home, she saluted each star, each peak, and each watch-fire as if they signalled to her alone; and at last, when she flung herself upon her mat in the gipsies’ tent, she could not help bursting out again, How good to eat! How good to eat! (For it is a curious fact that though human beings have such imperfect means of communication, that they can only say ‘good to eat’ when they mean ‘beautiful’ and the other way about, they will yet endure ridicule and misunderstanding rather than keep any experience to themselves.) All the young gipsies laughed. But Rustum el Sadi, the old man who had brought Orlando out of Constantinople on his donkey, sat silent. He had a nose like a scimitar; his cheeks were furrowed as if from the age-long descent of iron hail; he was brown and keen-eyed, and as he sat tugging at his hookah he observed Orlando narrowly. He had the deepest suspicion that her God was Nature. One day he found her in tears. Interpreting this to mean that her God had punished her, he told her that he was not surprised. He showed her the fingers of his left hand, withered by the frost; he showed her his right foot, crushed where a rock had fallen. This, he said, was what her God did to men. When she said, ‘But so beautiful’, using the English word, he shook his head; and when she repeated it he was angry. He saw that she did not believe what he believed, and that was enough, wise and ancient as he was, to enrage him.

This difference of opinion disturbed Orlando, who had been perfectly happy until now. She began to think, was Nature beautiful or cruel; and then she asked herself what this beauty was; whether it was in things themselves, or only in herself; so she went on to the nature of reality, which led her to truth, which in its turn led to Love, Friendship, Poetry (as in the days on the high mound at home); which meditations, since she could impart no word of them, made her long, as she had never longed before, for pen and ink.

‘Oh! if only I could write!’ she cried (for she had the odd conceit of those who write that words written are shared). She had no ink; and but little paper. But she made ink from berries and wine; and finding a few margins and blank spaces in the manuscript of ‘The Oak Tree’, managed by writing a kind of shorthand, to describe the scenery in a long, blank version poem, and to carry on a dialogue with herself about this Beauty and Truth concisely enough. This kept her extremely happy for hours on end. But the gipsies became suspicious. First, they noticed that she was less adept than before at milking and cheese-making; next, she often hesitated before replying; and once a gipsy boy who had been asleep, woke in a terror feeling her eyes upon him. Sometimes this constraint would be felt by the whole tribe, numbering some dozens of grown men and women. It sprang from the sense they had (and their senses are very sharp and much in advance of their vocabulary) that whatever they were doing crumbled like ashes in their hands. An old woman making a basket, a boy skinning a sheep, would be singing or crooning contentedly at their work, when Orlando would come into the camp, fling herself down by the fire and gaze into the flames. She need not even look at them, and yet they felt, here is someone who doubts; (we make a rough-and-ready translation from the gipsy language) here is someone who does not do the thing for the sake of doing; nor looks for looking’s sake; here is someone who believes neither in sheep-skin nor basket; but sees (here they looked apprehensively about the tent) something else. Then a vague but most unpleasant feeling would begin to work in the boy and in the old woman. They broke their withys; they cut their fingers. A great rage filled them. They wished Orlando would leave the tent and never come near them again. Yet she was of a cheerful and willing disposition, they owned; and one of her pearls was enough to buy the finest herd of goats in Broussa.

Slowly, she began to feel that there was some difference between her and the gipsies which made her hesitate sometimes to marry and settle down among them for ever. At first she tried to account for it by saying that she came of an ancient and civilized race, whereas these gipsies were an ignorant people, not much better than savages. One night when they were questioning her about England she could not help with some pride describing the house where she was born, how it had 365 bedrooms and had been in the possession of her family for four or five hundred years. Her ancestors were earls, or even dukes, she added. At this she noticed again that the gipsies were uneasy; but not angry as before when she had praised the beauty of nature. Now they were courteous, but concerned as people of fine breeding are when a stranger has been made to reveal his low birth or poverty. Rustum followed her out of the tent alone and said that she need not mind if her father were a Duke, and possessed all the bedrooms and furniture that she described. They would none of them think the worse of her for that. Then she was seized with a shame that she had never felt before. It was clear that Rustum and the other gipsies thought a descent of four or five hundred years only the meanest possible. Their own families went back at least two or three thousand years. To the gipsy whose ancestors had built the Pyramids centuries before Christ was born, the genealogy of Howards and Plantagenets was no better and no worse than that of the Smiths and the Joneses: both were negligible. Moreover, where the shepherd boy had a lineage of such antiquity, there was nothing specially memorable or desirable in ancient birth; vagabonds and beggars all shared it. And then, though he was too courteous to speak openly, it was clear that the gipsy thought that there was no more vulgar ambition than to possess bedrooms by the hundred (they were on top of a hill as they spoke; it was night; the mountains rose around them) when the whole earth is ours. Looked at from the gipsy point of view, a Duke, Orlando understood, was nothing but a profiteer or robber who snatched land and money from people who rated these things of little worth, and could think of nothing better to do than to build three hundred and sixty-five bedrooms when one was enough, and none was even better than one. She could not deny that her ancestors had accumulated field after field; house after house; honour after honour; yet had none of them been saints or heroes, or great benefactors of the human race. Nor could she counter the argument (Rustum was too much of a gentleman to press it, but she understood) that any man who did now what her ancestors had done three or four hundred years ago would be denounced — and by her own family most loudly — for a vulgar upstart, an adventurer, a nouveau riche.

She sought to answer such arguments by the familiar if oblique method of finding the gipsy life itself rude and barbarous; and so, in a short time, much bad blood was bred between them. Indeed, such differences of opinion are enough to cause bloodshed and revolution. Towns have been sacked for less, and a million martyrs have suffered at the stake rather than yield an inch upon any of the points here debated. No passion is stronger in the breast of man than the desire to make others believe as he believes. Nothing so cuts at the root of his happiness and fills him with rage as the sense that another rates low what he prizes high. Whigs and Tories, Liberal party and Labour party — for what do they battle except their own prestige? It is not love of truth but desire to prevail that sets quarter against quarter and makes parish desire the downfall of parish. Each seeks peace of mind and subserviency rather than the triumph of truth and the exaltation of virtue — but these moralities belong, and should be left to the historian, since they are as dull as ditch water.

‘Four hundred and seventy-six bedrooms mean nothing to them,’ sighed Orlando.

‘She prefers a sunset to a flock of goats,’ said the gipsies.

What was to be done, Orlando could not think. To leave the gipsies and become once more an Ambassador seemed to her intolerable. But it was equally impossible to remain for ever where there was neither ink nor writing paper, neither reverence for the Talbots nor respect for a multiplicity of bedrooms. So she was thinking, one fine morning on the slopes of Mount Athos, when minding her goats. And then Nature, in whom she trusted, either played her a trick or worked a miracle — again, opinions differ too much for it to be possible to say which. Orlando was gazing rather disconsolately at the steep hill-side in front of her. It was now midsummer, and if we must compare the landscape to anything, it would have been to a dry bone; to a sheep’s skeleton; to a gigantic skull picked white by a thousand vultures. The heat was intense, and the little fig tree under which Orlando lay only served to print patterns of fig-leaves upon her light burnous.

Suddenly a shadow, though there was nothing to cast a shadow, appeared on the bald mountain-side opposite. It deepened quickly and soon a green hollow showed where there had been barren rock before. As she looked, the hollow deepened and widened, and a great park-like space opened in the flank of the hill. Within, she could see an undulating and grassy lawn; she could see oak trees dotted here and there; she could see the thrushes hopping among the branches. She could see the deer stepping delicately from shade to shade, and could even hear the hum of insects and the gentle sighs and shivers of a summer’s day in England. After she had gazed entranced for some time, snow began falling; soon the whole landscape was covered and marked with violet shades instead of yellow sunlight. Now she saw heavy carts coming along the roads, laden with tree trunks, which they were taking, she knew, to be sawn for firewood; and then appeared the roofs and belfries and towers and courtyards of her own home. The snow was falling steadily, and she could now hear the slither and flop which it made as it slid down the roof and fell to the ground. The smoke went up from a thousand chimneys. All was so clear and minute that she could see a Daw pecking for worms in the snow. Then, gradually, the violet shadows deepened and closed over the carts and the lawns and the great house itself. All was swallowed up. Now there was nothing left of the grassy hollow, and instead of the green lawns was only the blazing hill-side which a thousand vultures seemed to have picked bare. At this, she burst into a passion of tears, and striding back to the gipsies’ camp, told them that she must sail for England the very next day.

It was happy for her that she did so. Already the young men had plotted her death. Honour, they said, demanded it, for she did not think as they did. Yet they would have been sorry to cut her throat; and welcomed the news of her departure. An English merchant ship, as luck would have it, was already under sail in the harbour about to return to England; and Orlando, by breaking off another pearl from her necklace, not only paid her passage but had some banknotes left over in her wallet. These she would have liked to present to the gipsies. But they despised wealth she knew; and she had to content herself with embraces, which on her part were sincere.

在奥兰多的职业生涯中,这一阶段是他在官场上最为活跃的阶段,但我们对此掌握的资料最少,这当然很不幸,令人十分遗憾。我们知道,他出色地履行了职责,受封巴思勋章和公爵爵位可以证明这一点。我们知道,他参与了查理王与土耳其人之间某些最机密的谈判,对此,档案馆档案柜中的条约可以为证。但是,在他的任内,爆发了革命,紧接着又发生一场大火,损毁了载有可信记录的所有文件。因此,我们的叙述很不完整,这不免可惜。往往,一句最要紧的话,中间却烧得焦黑。有时,我们以为,这下可以破解百年来让历史学家困惑不清的秘密,结果手稿上却突然出现一个指头大的窟窿。我们费了九牛二虎之力,试图根据虽已烧得支离破碎却存留至今的文件,一点点拼凑出一个梗概,却常常还得去推想、猜测,甚至要凭空虚构。

奥兰多的日子似乎是这样度过的。他大约七点起床,披一件土耳其长袍,点一支方头雪茄,然后支着双肘,靠在露台的矮墙上。他站在那里,凝视身下的城市,显然非常入迷。这个时辰,四周总是浓雾弥漫,圣索菲亚大教堂的穹顶和其他一切仿佛都悬浮在空中。慢慢地,浓雾散去,可以看到那些气泡似的圆顶显露出来,稳稳地固定着,然后河流露了出来,还有盖勒塔大桥。可以看到缠绿色包头、遮住鼻眼的香客沿街乞讨,无主的野狗刨食垃圾,包头巾的女人,无数的驴子,男人手持长竿骑在马上。瞬间,整个城市洋溢着清脆的鞭声、锣声、声嘶力竭的祷告声、抽打骡子声、包铜车轮的嘎吱声。空气中弥漫着发面饼、焚香和调味香料混合而成的酸味儿,一直飘到皮拉山的高峰,似乎它就是这个吵吵嚷嚷、多姿多彩的野蛮民族的气息。

他凝视着此刻在阳光下闪闪发光的景色想道,它们与苏瑞郡和肯特郡的乡间风光,或是与伦敦和坦布里奇韦尔斯的城市风光,真可谓天壤之别。左右两侧高耸着光秃秃的亚洲山脉,岩石突兀、荒凉贫瘠。峭壁上或曾有过一两个强盗头子的城堡,现在已经了无生气。那里没有牧师寓所,没有采邑庄园,没有农舍,没有橡树、榆树、紫罗兰、常春藤,也没有野蔷薇。那里没有树篱可供蕨类生长,亦没有田野可以放牧牛羊。白色的房屋,像蛋壳一样秃裸。他很惊奇自己这个地道的英国人,何以从内心深处迷恋这一荒凉的全景,久久凝视山口的隘道和遥远的高原,盘算只身徒步前往那些昔日只有山羊和牧人出没的地方;何以喜欢那些鲜艳的奇花异草;怜爱那些毛发蓬乱的野狗,甚至冷落了家中的挪威猎犬;何以急不可耐地用力吸嗅街上刺鼻的酸味。他怀疑这是不是因为十字军东征时,他的一位祖先曾与某个切尔卡西亚农妇相好,想想觉得可能,又猜想自己肤色有点儿黑当是这个原因,然后回到屋里,开始沐浴。

一小时后,他已准备停当,薰了香,卷好头发,涂了油膏,开始接待大臣和其他高级官员的来访。这些人鱼贯而人,人人携带只有他的金钥匙才能开启的红盒子。盒内装有利害攸关的重要文件,至今仅剩一些碎片,时而有些花饰,时而有些盖在烧焦丝绸上的印章痕迹。因此,它们的内容,我们不得而知,只能证明奥兰多当初公务繁忙,忙着盖印和决定以不同方式系各种颜色的蝴蝶结,用大字体清晰端正地书写各种官衔,描画大写字母周围的花饰,直到午宴开始,这或许是一顿有三十道菜的午餐。

餐毕,男仆通报他的六轮马车已在门外等候,他便出发拜访其他大使和政要显贵。土耳其禁卫军土兵身着紫衣,手擎高过头顶的巨大鸵毛扇,一路小跑,在车前开路。拜访的仪式千篇一律。抵达庭院之后,禁卫军士兵上前用扇子拍打大门,大门立即敞开,现出装饰得富丽堂皇的接待大厅,厅内端坐两人,一般是男女各一。宾主相对鞠躬、行屈膝礼。在第一间大厅,只允许谈论天气。寒暄完毕天气的阴晴冷暖,大使来到另一大厅,厅里又有两人起身相迎。此处只准把君土坦丁堡作为居住地与伦敦比较;大使自然说喜,欢君士坦丁堡,主人自然说,尽管未到过伦敦,伦敦却更让人喜欢。进入下一大厅,须得谈论一阵查理王和苏丹的健康。下一大厅;谈论大使的健康和主人妻子的健康,但简短一些。下一大厅,大使恭维主人的家具,主人恭维大使的衣饰。下一大厅,仆人奉上果脯,主人谦称入不得口,大使则称赞其滋味纯正。整个仪式最终以吸水烟袋和饮咖啡结束;不过,虽然吸烟和饮咖啡的招式一丝不苟,实际上烟斗里没有烟叶,杯子里也没有咖啡,因为如果都是真的,人的身体会因吸饮过度而垮掉。因为,此一轮拜访结束后,大使紧接着要去履行下一轮拜访。在其他政要的府邸,要以完全同样的顺序,重复六七遍同样的仪式,回到家里往往已是夜深。奥兰多出色地履行了这些职责,从不否认它们或许就是外交官职责最重要的一部分,但他无疑因此疲惫不堪,时常情绪消沉抑郁,晚餐时宁可独自一人,仅仅与狗为伴。不错,人们可以听到他用自己的语言和它们说话。据说,他有时会在夜阑人静之时走出家门,化装得连哨兵都认不出。他会混迹于盖勒塔桥上的人群,或在集市上溜达,或脱掉鞋子,加入清真寺朝拜者的行列。一次,在宣布他身体欠佳后,到市场卖山羊的牧人传说,他们曾在山顶遇到一位英国贵族,听到他向自己的上帝祷告。人们认为这必是奥兰多,所谓祷告无疑是高声吟诵一首诗,因为据说他仍随身携带一本标有很多记号的手抄本,藏在披风下的怀中;仆人们在门外,常听到大使独自一人时,怪声怪调地咏唱着什么。

就是凭借这类支离破碎的片断,我们力图拼凑出一幅奥兰多在这一时期生活和性格的图画。直至今日,对奥兰多在君士坦丁堡的生活,仍然存在一些无根据的流言蜚语、传说和轶闻(前面不过引了其中少数几条)。它们有助于证明,时值盛年的奥兰多有一种引人注目的力量,人们常常记住了他的引人注目,却忘记了产生这种引人注目的更持久的气质。这是一种神秘的力量,集俊美、血统和某种罕见的天赋于一身,我们可简单地称其为魅力。一如萨莎所说,“千万支蜡烛”在他身上燃烧,而他不必费力去点燃一支。他走起路来像只牡鹿,丝毫不必顾及腿的形状。他说话不用提高嗓门,四周就会响起银锣般的回声。于是他周围出现各种传闻。他成了无数女人和某些男人仰慕的对象。他们未必与他交谈过,甚至未必亲眼见过他,只是自己想象出一个衣冠楚楚的贵族身影,常常以浪漫的景色或日落为背景。他对穷人和不识字者,有对富人同样的魔力。牧人、吉卜赛人、赶驴人至今仍在吟唱“掷翡翠人井”的英国贵族。这无疑是指奥兰多。好像有一次,他在盛怒或狂喜之下,从身上扯下珠宝,掷入喷泉。后来,这些珠宝被侍者打捞上来。但众所周知,这种浪漫的力量往往与极端内向的气质相联系。奥兰多似乎没有什么朋友,而且就人们所知,也没有对谁产生爱慕之情。某位贵妇为接近他,不远万里从英国跑来,对他纠缠不休,但他继续孜孜不倦地履行大使的职责,以致在金角湾(金角湾,博斯普鲁斯海峡南口西岸土耳其欧洲部分的细长海湾。此处泛指土耳其。)任大使不到两年半,查理王就表明有意提升他至同侪中的最高官职。妒忌他的人说,这是奈儿·格温忆起了他的美腿,赞美有加的结果。然而,她只见过他一面,当时还忙着为她的皇主敲榛子壳。因此,替他赢得公爵爵位的,很可能是他的业绩,而不是他的腿肚子。

此处我们必须打住,因为到了奥兰多生涯的一个重要时刻。由于奥兰多获得公爵爵位,是个闻名遐迩又争议颇多的事件,现在为描述这一事件,我们不得不尽量在烧焦的纸片和布条中间摸索寻觅。巴思勋章和公爵爵位的特许状,是在斋月的大斋结束后,随亚德里安·斯克罗普爵士指挥的快船一起到达的。奥兰多为这一时刻举办了君士坦丁堡有史以来最辉煌的盛会。那晚天朗气清,人声鼎沸,大使馆内灯火通明。此处同样缺少细节,因为大火烧毁了所有的记录,最重要的关节全都模糊不清,只留下一些令人浮想联翩的断片。不过,根据当时作为宾客在场的英国海军军官约翰·芬纳·布里格的日记,我们猜想,各国人土挤在院子里,摩肩擦背,像 “桶里的鲱鱼”。布里格被挤得很不舒服,不一会儿就爬到一棵南欧紫荆树上,从那里,倒是便于更好地观察事情的全过程。当地人纷纷传言(又一次证明奥兰多激发人们想像力的神奇力量),即将出现奇迹。“因此,”布里格写道(但他的手稿遍布焦痕和窟窿,一些句子根本无法识别),“当火箭开始飞上天空,我们都感到惶恐不安,惟恐当地人会……控制……充满大家都不愉快的结果……英国的太太小姐在场,我的手握住了短弯刀。幸而,”他继续唠唠叨叨地写道,“那些恐惧当时似乎并无根据。观察当地人的举动……我断定,展现我们在烟火制造方面的技术,这一点很重要,即使只是向他们表明……英国人的优越性……的确,那景象之壮观无法描述。我发现自己一会儿赞美上帝,他允许……一会儿祝福我可怜和亲爱的母亲……遵照大使的指示,长窗全部敞开,这些长窗体现了东方建筑气势恢弘的特征,虽然他们在许多方面很愚昧……;我们看到窗里是一幅活生生的图画,或者说是舞台造型,英国的绅士淑女们……在表演假面剧……听不见他们在说什么,但看到如此之多的同胞,雍容华贵……我感动得热血沸腾,对此我并没有觉得不好意思,尽管无法……我正专心致志地观察某夫人的奇怪举动——这种举动的性质就是给她所属的女性和国家带来耻辱,让人人的眼睛盯住她,当时——”不幸的是,紫荆树的一根树杈突然折断,布里格中尉坠落在地,日记的其他部分只剩下他感谢上帝 (上帝在这日记中举足轻重),还有伤势的轻重问题了。

幸而佩内洛普·哈托普小姐,同名将军的女儿,在室内目睹了当时的场景,她在一封信中继续讲述了这一故事。这封信也是面目全非,但它最终辗转到她的一位女友之手,这位女友住在坦布里奇韦尔斯。比起上面那位勇武的军官,佩内洛普小姐同样也毫不吝惜自己的热情。“令人陶醉,”她在一页纸上第十次这样宣称,“奇妙无比……根本无法描绘……纯金盘子……枝形烛台……穿长毛绒马裤的黑人……冰堆得像金字塔……尼格斯酒的喷泉……果冻做成国王陛下舰队的模样……天鹅烤成睡莲的形状……鸟关在金鸟笼中……绅士们身着猩红开衩丝绒礼服……淑女们的头饰至少有六英尺高……八音盒。……佩里格林先生说我看上去可爱极了,这话我只向你一人重复,因为,我亲爱的,我知道……啊!我太思念你们大家了!……胜过我们在潘泰勒斯看到的一切……酒应有尽有……有些绅士拜倒在……白蒂夫人很迷人……可怜的博纳姆夫人犯了个不幸的错误,没有椅子,空坐下去……男士们都很勇武……一千遍希望你和亲爱的贝特西……但所有其他人的视线,众所瞩目……是大使本人,众人都承认,因为无人能邪恶到否认这一点。如此俊美的双腿!如此迷人的面容!如此高贵的举止!仅仅看他走进房间!冉看他走出去!他的表情中有某种有趣的东西,不知为何让人觉得他在遭受痛苦的煎熬!他们说,是因为一个女人。那没有心肝的魔鬼!!!在我们这些生性温柔的女性中,竟然会有如此无耻之人!!!他还未娶妻,到场的女士中有一半人苦苦渴求得到他的爱……一千个吻,给汤姆、加里、彼得和最亲爱的喵喵(显然是她的猫)。”

我们从当时的《时事报》上收集到,“十二点的钟声敲响时,大使出现在悬挂名贵壁毯的中央阳台,左右两侧各站六位手擎火炬、身高六英尺多的土耳其皇家卫队队员。他的身影一出现,烟花立即飞向高空,人群中欢呼声鹊起,大使深深鞠了一躬,然后用土耳其语讲了几句致谢的话。他的才艺之一是讲一口流利的土耳其语。之后,亚德里安·斯克罗普爵士,身着全套英国海军元帅服,走上前来。大使单腿屈膝,元帅把至高无上的巴思勋章套在他的脖颈上,又把星章别在他的胸脯上。之后,外交使团的另一位先生走上前去,郑重其事地将公爵的锦袍披在他的肩上,并呈递上一个大红垫衬,上面是公爵的小冠冕。”

奥兰多深深地垂下头,然后自豪、笔挺地站起身来,拿了草莓叶金圈,套在自己的额上。他的姿态格外尊贵高雅,令人过目难忘。而就在此刻,开始了最初的骚动。或者是人们期待的奇迹没有发生,因为有人说,先知预言金雨即将从天而降,或者是奥兰多的这个动作被当作开始攻击的信号;似乎无人知道到底是怎么回事;反正在奥兰多把小冠冕套到额上的一刹那,人群中响起了巨大的喧嚣。钟声骤起,鼎沸的人声之上可以听到先知沙哑的嘶叫声;许多土耳其人匍匐在地,不断磕头。突然,一扇门大开,当地人一拥而上,挤进宴会厅。女人们发出尖叫。某位女士,据说极其渴望得到奥兰多的爱,抓起一盏枝形烛台,摔在地上。若没有亚德里安·斯克罗普爵士和一队英国水兵在场,谁也说不清会发生什么事。但元帅命令吹号,一百名水兵当即立正站好,混乱平息了,现场一片肃静,至少当时是如此。

到此为止,我们还有确凿的根据说明事实真相,即使这根据还有些褊狭。但那天夜里后来发生了什么事,迄今无人确切知晓。不过,哨兵和其他人的证词似乎都证明,人群散去后,到夜里两点,使馆像往常一样关闭了大门。有人看到,大使依然佩戴着勋章,走进自己的房间,关上房门。有人说他锁上了房门,但这有悖他的习惯。有人坚称,那个深夜,听到院子里奥兰多的窗下,响起一阵乡间风味的音乐,好像牧人的音乐。有个洗衣妇,因牙疼一直无法入睡,说看到一个男人的身影,裹着披风或睡袍,走出来站在阳台上。然后,据她说,一个女人,裹得严严实实,但显然是个农妇,那男人放下绳子,把她拉上了阳台。据洗衣妇说,在阳台上,他们“恋人”般紧紧拥抱,然后一起走进房间,拉上窗帘,最后就什么也看不见了。,好像牧人的音乐。有个洗衣妇,因牙疼一直无法入睡,说看到一个男人的身影,裹着披风或睡袍,走出来站在阳台上。然后,据她说,一个女人,裹得严严实实,但显然是个农妇,那男人放下绳子,把她拉上了阳台。据洗衣妇说,在阳台上,他们“恋人”般紧紧拥抱,然后一起走进房间,拉上窗帘,最后就什么也看不见了。

翌日早晨,秘书们发现公爵——我们现在必须这样称呼他——生气全无地沉睡着,身上的睡衣皱皱巴巴。房间里一片狼藉,小冠冕滚落到地板上,披风和袜带儿在椅子上堆成一团,桌上散落着纸片。开始并没有人疑心,以为他前一夜确实太累了。但到了下午,他依然没有醒来。他们召来医生,使用了以前出现这类情况惯用的办法,膏药、荨麻、催吐剂等等,都不见效验。奥兰多继续昏睡。他的秘书们这时才想到应该检查桌上的纸片。他们看到,许多纸片上潦草地涂写着诗句,大多提到一棵大橡树。还有各种国书和私人性质的文件,涉及他在英格兰的庄园的管理。不过最后,他们看到了一份至关重要的文件。它实际上相当于一份结婚契约,一份由荣膺嘉德骑士等称号的奥兰多爵爷与罗莎娜·皮佩塔起草、签署并经人作证的结婚契约。这罗莎娜·皮佩塔是个舞女,身世不明,据说她父亲是吉卜赛人,母亲则为盖勒塔桥下市场卖废铁的小贩。秘书们面面相觑,惊愕万分。奥兰多依然在沉睡。他们日夜守着他,但除了呼吸正常,两颊依旧红润外,他浑身没有一丝生气。为唤醒他,他们真可谓用尽了一切科学的办法和手段,但他依然在沉睡。

到他昏睡的第七天(五月十日,星期四),布里格中尉察觉出征兆的那场恐怖、血腥的暴动打响了第一枪。土耳其人揭竿而起,要推翻苏丹的统治。他们放火焚城,凡落入他们之手的外国人,或死在剑下,或遭受笞刑。有几个英国人逃脱了,但正如人们所料,英国使馆的先生们誓死护卫红盒子,万不得已,他们宁可吞下钥匙串,也不让它们落人异教徒之手。暴民冲进了奥兰多的房间,但看到他直挺挺地躺在那里,一副死人