Orlando. A Biography / Орландо. Вирджиния ВулфЧитать онлайн книгу.
Margaret, it was absurd. Nothing mattered now compared with Sasha herself. On the first dark night they would flee. They would take ship to Russia. So he thought, walking up and down the deck.
It was almost evening; the sun was setting; and Sasha had been gone for an hour or more. Suddenly, overcome with a bad feeling, Orlando rushed the way he had seen them go into the lower part of the ship; and, after walking among chests and barrels in the darkness, he finally saw a light in the corner. They were seated there. For one second, he saw Sasha sitting on the sailor's knee; saw her lean towards him; saw them embrace. Then the light was clouded by his rage. He howled, and Sasha jumped up and stood between him and the sailor. Then a deadly sickness came over Orlando and they had to lay him on the floor and give him brandy to drink.
When he had returned to his senses[21] and was sitting on the deck, he saw Sasha standing over him, taking care of him, so that now he began to doubt what he had seen. Maybe it had just been the shadow moving in the candle light? The box was heavy, she said; the sailor was helping her to lift it. Orlando believed her one moment, but the next he was filled with anger at her again. Then Sasha herself turned white; she stamped her feet; she said let her Gods kill her if she, a Romanovitch, had lain in the arms of a sailor. Indeed, looking at them together, Orlando could not understand how his imagination had painted such a picture. She was so slim and delicate, and the man looked so wild and brutal. So he agreed; he believed her; and asked her to forgive him. Yet when they were getting down the ship's side, Sasha stopped, turned back to the sailor and said some Russian greetings, not a word of which Orlando could understand. But there was something in her tone that reminded Orlando of an incident that had happened some nights ago. He had found her in a corner with a candle-end which she had picked from the floor. She was biting it in secret. It was pink; it was covered with gold; it was from the King's table; but it was made of fat, and she ate it. Was there not, he thought, something peasant about her? But again, as they skated towards London, all his suspicions melted.
It was a beautiful evening. As the sun set, all the domes, spires, and turrets of London rose in blackness against the red sunset clouds. The ice had become so blue and so smooth that they seemed to be skating faster and faster to the city all the time. Sasha was nicer to him than usual and even more delightful. She seldom talked about her past life, but now she told him how, in winter in Russia, she would listen to the wolves howling. Then he told her of the horses in the snow at home, and how they would walk into the great hall for warmth and be fed by an old man with porridge from a bucket. And then she praised him; for his love of animals; for his legs. He told her that he could find no words to praise her; yet he immediately thought how she was like the spring and green grass and blue waters. Later, as they stopped, panting, she said, that he was like a Christmas tree, decorated with a million candles and yellow globes; lighting a whole street with his glowing cheeks, his dark curls, his black and crimson cloak – he looked as if he was lit with a million candles that were burning within.
All the colors soon faded. Night came. When the orange light of sunset was gone, the torches and bonfires lit up the river. Then the strangest transformation happened: all the churches and palaces seemed to be floating on the air. As Orlando and Sasha skated closer to the carnival, they heard people shout as a rocket flew into the air. Above and around this brilliant circle was the deep black of a winter's night. And then, into this darkness, there began to rise many flowering rockets; snakes; a crown. At one moment, the woods and the hills showed green as on a summer's day; the next moment, all was winter and blackness again.
There was a great crowd on the river: tailors; fishwives; horse sellers; scholars; maids; servants; drunkards; sober citizens. Indeed, all the common people of the London streets were there, stamping their feet, whistling. Most stood opposite a stage upon which some kind of show was going on. A black man was waving his arms. A woman in white lay on a bed. And when the Moor strangled the woman in her bed, Orlando suddenly felt as if it was Sasha whom he killed with his own hands.
At last the play ended, and all had grown dark. The tears were streaming down Orlando's face. Looking up into the sky, he saw that there was nothing but blackness there. Ruin and death, he thought, cover all. Our life ends in the grave, and worms eat us.
Even as he thought this, some hope rose in his memory. The night was dark, so dark; but it was such a night as this that they had been waiting for; it was on such a night as this that they had planned to flee. He remembered everything. The time had come. He embraced Sasha and whispered in her ear, 'Jour de ma vie![22]' It was their signal. At midnight they would meet at an inn near Blackfriars[23]. Horses waited there. Everything was ready. So they parted – she went to her tent, he to his.
Long before midnight Orlando was in the little courtyard of the inn, waiting. The night was of an extraordinary blackness and stillness. Many times Orlando's heart jumped at the sound of some footsteps on the cobbled street, or at the rustle of a woman's dress. But they passed, and the street was quieter than before. The lights in the houses went out, and the street lanterns were few there. The darkness then became even deeper than before. Orlando checked the saddles a dozen times at least till he could be sure that everything was ready. Though it was still some twenty minutes to midnight, he could not make himself go indoors. He listened to every footstep, every sound, as if it could be an omen to his venture. Yet, he had no fear for Sasha. She would love this adventure. She would come alone, in her cloak and trousers, dressed like a man. Her light footsteps would hardly be heard, even in this silence.
So he waited in the darkness. Suddenly, something hit him in the face, softly, yet heavily. He started and put his hand to his sword. The blow was repeated a dozen times on his forehead and cheeks. It took him a minute to realize that these blows were raindrops falling. At first, they fell slowly, one by one. But soon the rain began to pour. In five minutes Orlando was soaked to the skin[24].
He quickly put the horses under cover and stood in the doorway from where he could still see the courtyard. The air was now thicker than ever, and the rain was so heavy that no footsteps could be heard above it. The roads would be under water now, but he did not think about it. He was looking at the cobbled pathway, waiting for Sasha to come. Sometimes, in the darkness, he seemed to see her, but then the image disappeared.
Suddenly, with an awful ominous voice, which raised fears in Orlando's soul, St. Paul's[25] struck the first stroke of midnight. Orlando had decided that she would come on the sixth stroke. But the sixth stroke passed; then the seventh came, and the eighth; and they seemed to promise death and disaster. When the twelfth struck, he knew that he was doomed. He could not reason; she might be late; she might be stopped; she might be lost. The passionate heart of Orlando knew the truth. Other clocks struck, one after another. The whole world seemed to ring with the news of her deceit.
Orlando felt as if he was bitten by a thousand poisonous snakes. He stood in the doorway in the rain without moving. As the minutes passed, he dropped to his knees. He could hear great guns booming, loud noises of falling oak trees, and terrible wild cries. But Orlando stood there till Paul's clock struck two, and then, crying aloud, 'Jour de ma vie!' he jumped on his horse and galloped he knew not where.
By some instinct, he rode along the river bank in the direction of the sea. It was almost morning; the sky was turning a pale yellow, and the rain nearly stopped. He found himself on the banks of the Thames at Wapping and saw the most extraordinary sight. Where there had been thick ice for three months and more, now was a stream of yellow waters. The river broke free in the night. There were icebergs everywhere. Some of them were as broad as a field and as high as a house; others were no bigger than a man's hat. The river was flowing and twisting like a snake, tossing the icebergs from bank to bank, smashing them against the piers, destroying everything that stood in their way.
But the most awful sight was the terror of the people trapped in the night on the moving islands of ice. Whether they jumped into the water, or stayed on the ice, their doom was certain. Some of these poor creatures were standing on their knees, praying. One old man was reading aloud from a holy book. As they were carried out to sea, some could be heard crying for help, confessing their sins and making promises if God would
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