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第36部分（第1页）

horses　began　to　glide　about　of　its　own　accord。　A　carriage　without　any　horses　indeed！　She　was　called　away　just　as　she　said　that；　but　came　back　again　after　a　time　and　had　another　look　out　of　the　window。　It　was　odd　sort　of　weather　nowadays。　The　sky　itself；　she　could　not　help　thinking；　had　changed。　It　was　no　longer　so　thick；　so　watery；　so　prismatic　now　that　King　Edward—see；　there　he　was；　stepping　out　of　his　neat　brougham　to　go　and　visit　a　certain　lady　opposite—had　succeeded　Queen　Victoria。　The　clouds　had　shrunk　to　a　thin　gauze；　the　sky　seemed　made　of　metal；　which　in　hot　weather　tarnished　verdigris；　copper　colour　or　orange　as　metal　does　in　a　fog。　It　was　a　little　alarming—this　shrinkage。　Everything　seemed　to　have　shrunk。　Driving　past　Buckingham　Palace　last　night；　there　was　not　a　trace　of　that　vast　erection　which　she　had　thought　everlasting；　top　hats；　widows’　weeds；　trumpets；　telescopes；　wreaths；　all　had　vanished　and　left　not　a　stain；　not　a　puddle　even；　on　the　pavement。　But　it　was　now—after　another　interval　she　had　e　back　again　to　her　favourite　station　in　the　window—now；　in　the　evening；　that　the　change　was　most　remarkable。　Look　at　the　lights　in　the　houses！　At　a　touch；　a　whole　room　was　lit；　hundreds　of　rooms　were　lit；　and　one　was　precisely　the　same　as　the　other。　One　could　see　everything　in　the　little　square–shaped　boxes；　there　was　no　privacy；　none　of　those　lingering　shadows　and　odd　corners　that　there　used　to　be；　none　of　those　women　in　aprons　carrying　wobbly　lamps　which　they　put　down　carefully　on　this　table　and　on　that。　At　a　touch；　the　whole　room　was　bright。　And　the　sky　was　bright　all　night　long；　and　the　pavements　were　bright；　everything　was　bright。　She　came　back　again　at　mid–day。　How　narrow　women　have　grown　lately！　They　looked　like　stalks　of　corn；　straight；　shining；　identical。　And　men’s　faces　were　as　bare　as　the　palm　of　one’s　hand。　The　dryness　of　the　atmosphere　brought　out　the　colour　in　everything　and　seemed　to　stiffen　the　muscles　of　the　cheeks。　It　was　harder　to　cry　now。　Water　was　hot　in　two　seconds。　Ivy　had　perished　or　been　scraped　off　houses。　Vegetables　were　less　fertile；　families　were　much　smaller。　Curtains　and　covers　had　been　frizzled　up　and　the　walls　were　bare　so　that　new　brilliantly　coloured　pictures　of　real　things　like　streets；　umbrellas；　apples；　were　hung　in　frames；　or　painted　upon　the　wood。　There　was　something　definite　and　distinct　about　the　age；　which　reminded　her　of　the　eighteenth　century；　except　that　there　was　a　distraction；　a　desperation—as　she　was　thinking　this；　the　immensely　long　tunnel　in　which　she　seemed　to　have　been　travelling　for　hundreds　of　years　widened；　the　light　poured　in；　her　thoughts　became　mysteriously　tightened　and　strung　up　as　if　a　piano　tuner　had　put　his　key　in　her　back　and　stretched　the　nerves　very　taut；　at　the　same　time　her　hearing　quickened；　she　could　hear　every　whisper　and　crackle　in　the　room　so　that　the　clock　ticking　on　the　mantelpiece　beat　like　a　hammer。　And　so　for　some　seconds　the　light　went　on　being　brighter　and　brighter；　and　she　saw　everything　more　and　more　clearly　and　the　clock　ticked　louder　and　louder　until　there　was　a　terrific　explosion　right　in　her　ear。　Orlando　leapt　as　if　she　had　been　violently　struck　on　the　head。　Ten　times　she　was　struck。　In　fact　it　was　ten　o’clock　in　the　morning。　It　was　the　eleventh　of　October。　It　was　1928。　It　was　the　present　moment。

No　one　need　wonder　that　Orlando　started；　pressed　her　hand　to　her　heart；　and　turned　pale。　For　what　more　terrifying　revelation　can　there　be　than　that　it　is　the　present　moment？　That　we　survive　the　shock　at　all　is　only　possible　because　the　past　shelters　us　on　one　side　and　the　future　on　another。　But　we　have　no　time　now　for　reflections；　Orlando　was　terribly　late　already。　She　ran　downstairs；　she　jumped　into　her　motorcar；　she　pressed　the　self–starter　and　was　off。　Vast　blue　blocks　of　building　rose　into　the　air；　the　red　cowls　of　chimneys　were　spotted　irregularly　across　the　sky；　the　road　shone　like　silver–headed　nails；　omnibuses　bore　down　upon　her　with　sculptured　white–faced　drivers；　she　noticed　sponges；　bird–cages；　boxes　of　green　American　cloth。　But　she　did　not　allow　these　sights　to　sink　into　her　mind　even　the　fraction　of　an　inch　as　she　crossed　the　narrow　plank　of　the　present；　lest　she　should　fall　into　the　raging　torrent　beneath。　‘Why　don’t　you　look　where　you’re　going　to？。。。Put　your　hand　out；　can’t　you？’—that　was　all　she　said　sharply；　as　if　the　words　were　jerked　out　of　her。　For　the　streets　were　immensely　crowded；　people　crossed　without　looking　where　they　were　going。　People　buzzed　and　hummed　round　the　plate–glass　windows　within　which　one　could　see　a　glow　of　red；　a　blaze　of　yellow；　as　if　they　were　bees；　Orlando　thought—but　her　thought　that　they　were　bees　was　violently　snipped　off　and　she　saw；　regaining　perspective　with　one　flick　of　her　eye；　that　they　were　bodies。　‘Why　don’t　you　look　where　you’re　going？’　she　snapped　out。

At　last；　however；　she　drew　up　at　Marshall　&　Snelgrove’s　and　went　into　the　shop。　Shade　and　scent　enveloped　her。　The　present　fell　from　her　like　drops　of　scalding　water。　Light　swayed　up　and　down　like　thin　stuffs　puffed　out　by　a　summer　breeze。　She　took　a　list　from　her　bag　and　began　reading　in　a　curious　stiff　voice　at　first；　as　if　she　were　holding　the　words—boy’s　boots；　bath　salts；　sardines—under　a　tap　of　many–coloured　water。　She　watched　them　change　as　the　light　fell　on　them。　Bath　and　boots　became　blunt；　obtuse；　sardines　serrated　itself　like　a　saw。　So　she　stood　in　the　ground–floor　department　of　Messrs　Marshall　&　Snelgrove；　looked　this　way　and　that；　snuffed　this　smell　and　that　and　thus　wasted　some　seconds。　Then　she　got　into　the　lift；　for　the　good　reason　that　the　door　stood　open；　and　was　shot　smoothly　upwards。　The　very　fabric　of　life　now；　she　thought　as　she　rose；　is　magic。　In　the　eighteenth　century　we　knew　how　everything　was　done；　but　here　I　rise　through　the　air；　I　listen　to　voices　in　America；　I　see　men　flying—but　how　its　done　I　can’t　even　begin　to　wonder。　So　my　belief　in　magic　returns。　Now　the　lift　gave　a　little　jerk　as　it　stopped　at　the　first　floor；　and　she　had　a　vision　of　innumerable　coloured　stuffs　flaunting　in　a　breeze　from　which　came　distinct；　strange　smells；　and　each　time　the　lift　stopped　and　flung　its　doors　open；　there　was　another　slice　of　the　world　displayed　with　all　the　smells　of　that　world　clinging　to　it。　She　was　reminded　of　the　river　off　Wapping　in　the　time　of　Elizabeth；　where　the　treasure　ships　and　the　merchant　ships　used　to　anchor。　How　richly　and　curiously　they　had　smelt！　How　well　she　remembered　the　feel　of　rough　rubies　running　through　her　fingers　when　she　dabbled　them　in　a　treasure　sack！　And　then　lying　with　Sukey—or　whatever　her　name　was—and　having　Cumberland’s　lantern　flashed　on　them！　The　Cumberlands　had　a　house　in　Portland　Place　now　and　she　had　lunched　with　them　the　other　day　and　ventured　a　little　joke　with　the　old　man　about　almshouses　in　the　Sheen　Road。　He　had　winked。　But　here　as　the　lift　could　go　no　higher；　she　must　get　out—Heaven　knows　into　what　‘department’　as　they　called　it。　She　stood　still　to　consult　her　shopping　list；　but　was　blessed　if　she　could　see；　as　the　list　bade　her；　bath　salts；　or　boy’s　boots　anywhere　about。　And　indeed；　she　was　about　to　descend　again；　without　buying　anything；　but　was　saved　from　that　outrage　by　saying　aloud　automatically　the　last　item　on　her　list；　which　happened　to　be　‘sheets　for　a　double　bed’。

‘Sheets　for　a　double　bed；’　she　said　to　a　man　at　a　counter　and；　by　a　dispensation　of　Providence；　it　was　sheets　that　the　man　at　that　particular　counter　happened　to　sell。　For　Grimsditch；　no；　Grimsditch　was　dead；　Bartholomew；　no；　Bartholomew　was　dead；　Louise　then—Louise　had　e　to　her　in　a　great　taking　the　other　day；　for　she　had　found　a　hole　in　the　bottom　of　the　sheet　in　the　royal　bed。　Many　kings　and　queens　had　slept　there—Elizabeth；　James；　Charles；　George；　Victoria；　Edward；　no　wonder　the　sheet　had　a　hole　in　it。　But　Louise　was　positive　she　knew　who　had　done　it。　It　was　the　Prince　Consort。

‘Sale　bosch！’　she　said　（for　there　had　been　another　war；　this　time　against　the　Germans）。

‘Sheets　for　a　double　bed；’　Orlando　repeated　dreamily；　for　a　double　bed　with　a　silver　counterpane　in　a　room　fitted　in　a　taste　which　she　now　thought　perhaps　a　little　vulgar—all　in　silver；　but　she　had　furnished　it　when　she　had　a　passion　for　that　metal。　While　the　man　went　to　get　sheets　for　a　double　bed；　she　took　out　a　little　looking–glass　and　a　powder　puff。　Women　were　not　nearly　as　roundabout　in　their　ways；　she　thought；　powdering　herself　with　the　greatest　unconcern；　as　they　had　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　never　touched　her　cheeks。　Honestly；　though　she　was　now　thirty–six；　she　scarcely　looked　a　day　older。　She　looked　just　as　pouting；　as　sulky；　as　handsome；　as　rosy　（like　a　million–candled　Christmas　tree；　Sasha　had　said）　as　she　had　done　that　day　on　the　ice；　when　the　Thames　was　frozen　and　they　had　gone　skating—

‘The　best　Irish　linen；　Ma’am；’　said　the　shopman；　spreading　the　sheets　on　the　counter；—and　they　had　met　an　old　woman　picking　up　sticks。　Here；　as　she　was　fingering　the　linen　abstractedly；　one　of　the　swing–doors　between　the　departments　opened　and　let　through；　perhaps　from　the　fancy–goods　department；　a　whiff　of　scent；　waxen；　tinted　as　if　from　pink　candles；　and　the　scent　curved　like　a　shell　round　a　figure—was　it　a　boy’s　or　was　it　a　girl’s—young；　slender；　seductive—a　girl；　by　God！　furred；　pearled；　in　Russian　trousers；　but　faithless；　faithless！

‘Faithless！’　cried　Orlando　（the　man　had　gone）　and　all　the　shop　seemed　to　pitch　and　toss　with　yellow　water　and　far　off　she　saw　the　masts　of　the　Russian　ship　standing　out　to　sea；　and　then；　miraculously　（perhaps　the　door　opened　again）　the　conch　which　the　scent　had　made　became　a　platform；　a　dais；　off　which　stepped　a　fat；　furred　woman；　marvellously　well　preserved；　seductive；　diademed；　a　Grand　Duke’s　mistress；　she　who；　leaning　over　the　banks　of　the　Volga；　eating　sandwiches；　had　watched　men　drown；　and　began　walking　down　the　shop　towards　her。

‘Oh　Sasha！’　Orlando　cried。　Really；　she　was　shocked　that　she　should　have　e　to　this；　she　had　grown　so　fat；　so　lethargic；　and　she　bowed　her　head　over　the　linen　so　that　this　apparition　of　a　grey　woman　in　fur；　and　a　girl　in　Russian　trousers；　with　all　these　smells　of　wax　candles；　white　flowers；　and　old　ships　that　it　brought　with　it　might　pass　behind　her　back　unseen。

‘Any　napkins；　towels；　dusters　today；　Ma’am？’　the　shopman　persisted。　And　it　is　enormously　to　the　credit　of　the　shopping　list；　which　Orlando　now　consulted；　that　she　was　able　to　reply　with　every　appearance　of　posure；　that　there　was　only　one　thing　in　the　world　she　wanted　and　that　was　bath　salts；　which　was　in　another　department。

But　descending　in　the　lift　again—so　insidious　is　the　repetition　of　any　scene—she　was　again　sunk　far　beneath　the　present　moment；　and　thought　when　the　lift　bumped　on　the　ground；　that　she　heard　a　pot　broken　against　a　river　bank。　As　for　finding　the　right　department；　whatever　it　might　be；　she　stood　engrossed　among　the　handbags；　deaf　to　the　suggestions　of　all　the　polite；　black；　bed；　sprightly　shop　assistants；　who　descending　as　they　did　equally　and　some　of　them；　perhaps；　as　proudly；　even　from　such　depths　of　the　past　as　s

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