Orlando Chapter 2 by Virginia Woolf Lyrics

CHAPTER 2.

The biographer is now faced with a difficulty which it is better perhaps to confess than to gloss over. Up to this point in telling the story of Orlando's life, documents, both private and historical, have made it possible to fulfil the first duty of a biographer, which is to plod, without looking to right or left, in the indelible footprints of truth; unenticed by flowers; regardless of shade; on and on methodically till we fall plump into the grave and write finis on the tombstone above our heads. But now we come to an episode which lies right across our path, so that there is no ignoring it. Yet it is dark, mysterious, and undocumented; so that there is no explaining it. Volumes might be written in interpretation of it; whole religious systems founded upon the signification of it. Our simple duty is to state the facts as far as they are known, and so let the reader make of them what he may.

In the summer of that disastrous winter which saw the frost, the flood, the deaths of many thousands, and the complete downfall of Orlando's hopes--for he was exiled from Court; in deep disgrace with the most powerful nobles of his time; the Irish house of Desmond was justly enraged; the King had already trouble enough with the Irish not to relish this further addition--in that summer Orlando retired to his great house in the country and there lived in complete solitude. One June morning--it was Saturday the 18th--he failed to rise at his usual hour, and when his
groom went to call him he was found fast asleep. Nor could he be
awakened. He lay as if in a trance, without perceptible breathing; and though dogs were set to bark under his window; cymbals, drums, bones beaten perpetually in his room; a gorse bush put under his pillow; and mustard plasters applied to his feet, still he did not wake, take food, or show any sign of life for seven whole days. On the seventh day he woke at his usual time (a quarter before eight, precisely) and turned the whole posse of caterwauling wives and village soothsayers out of his room, which was natural enough; but what was strange was that he showed
no consciousness of any such trance, but dressed himself and sent for his horse as if he had woken from a single night's slumber. Yet some change, it was suspected, must have taken place in the chambers of his brain, for though he was perfectly rational and seemed graver and more sedate in his ways than before, he appeared to have an imperfect recollection of his past life. He would listen when people spoke of the great frost or the skating or the carnival, but he never gave any sign, except by passing
his hand across his brow as if to wipe away some cloud, of having
witnessed them himself. When the events of the past six months were discussed, he seemed not so much distressed as puzzled, as if he were troubled by confused memories of some time long gone or were trying to recall stories told him by another. It was observed that if Russia was mentioned or Princesses or ships, he would fall into a gloom of an uneasy kind and get up and look out of the window or call one of the dogs to him, or take a knife and carve a piece of cedar wood. But the doctors were hardly wiser then than they are now, and after prescribing rest and exercise, starvation and nourishment, society and solitude, that he should lie in bed all day and ride forty miles between lunch and dinner,
together with the usual sedatives and irritants, diversified, as the
fancy took them, with possets of newt's slobber on rising, and draughts of peacock's gall on going to bed, they left him to himself, and gave it as their opinion that he had been asleep for a week.

But if sleep it was, of what nature, we can scarcely refrain from asking, are such sleeps as these? Are they remedial measures--trances in which the most galling memories, events that seem likely to cripple life for ever, are brushed with a dark wing which rubs their harshness off and gilds them, even the ugliest and basest, with a lustre, an incandescence? Has the finger of death to be laid on the tumult of life from time to time lest it rend us asunder? Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living? And then what strange powers are these that penetrate our most secret ways and change our most treasured possessions without our willing it? Had Orlando, worn out by the extremity of his suffering, died for a week, and then come to life again? And if so, of what nature is death and of what nature life? Having waited well over half an hour for an answer to these questions, and none coming, let us get on with the story.

Now Orlando gave himself up to a life of extreme solitude. His disgrace at Court and the violence of his grief were partly the reason of it, but as he made no effort to defend himself and seldom invited anyone to visit him (though he had many friends who would willingly have done so) it appeared as if to be alone in the great house of his fathers suited his temper. Solitude was his choice. How he spent his time, nobody quite knew. The servants, of whom he kept a full retinue, though much of their business was to dust empty rooms and to smooth the coverlets of beds that
were never slept in, watched, in the dark of the evening, as they sat over their cakes and ale, a light passing along the galleries, through the banqueting-halls, up the staircase, into the bedrooms, and knew that their master was perambulating the house alone. None dared follow him, for the house was haunted by a great variety of ghosts, and the extent of it made it easy to lose one'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 no uncommon occurrence, as the frequent discovery of the skeletons of men and animals in attitudes of great agony made evident. Then the light would be lost altogether, and Mrs Grimsditch, the housekeeper, would say to Mr Dupper, the chaplain, how she hoped his Lordship had not met with some bad accident. Mr Dupper would opine that his Lordship was on his knees, no doubt, among the tombs of his ancestors in the Chapel, which was in the Billiard Table Court, half a mile away on the south side. For he had sins on his conscience, Mr Dupper was afraid; upon which Mrs Grimsditch would retort, rather sharply, that so had most of us; and Mrs Stewkley and Mrs Field and old Nurse Carpenter would all raise their voices in his Lordship's praise; and the grooms and the stewards would swear that it was a thousand pities to see so fine a nobleman moping about the house when he might be hunting the fox or chasing the deer; and even the little laundry maids and scullery maids, the Judys and the Faiths, who were handing round the tankards and cakes, would pipe up their testimony to his Lordship's gallantry; for never was there a kinder gentleman, or one more free with those little pieces of silver which serve to buy a knot of ribbon or put a posy in one's hair; until even the Blackamoor whom they called Grace Robinson by way of making a Christian woman of her, understood what they were at, and agreed that his Lordship was a handsome, pleasant, darling gentleman in the only way she could, that is to say by showing all her teeth at once in a broad grin. In short, all his serving men and women held him in high respect, and cursed the foreign Princess (but they called her by a coarser name than that) who had brought him to this pass.

But though it was probably cowardice, or love of hot ale, that led Mr Dupper to imagine his Lordship safe among the tombs so that he need not go in search of him, it may well have been that Mr Dupper was right. Orlando now took a strange delight in thoughts of death and decay, and, after pacing the long galleries and ballrooms with a taper in his hand, looking at picture after picture as if he sought the likeness of somebody whom he could not find, would mount into the family pew and sit for hours watching the banners stir and the moonlight waver with a bat or death's head moth to keep him company. Even this was not enough for him, but he must descend into the crypt where his ancestors lay, coffin piled upon coffin, for ten generations together. The place was so seldom visited that the rats made free with the lead work, and now a thigh bone would catch at his cloak as he passed, or he would crack the skull of some old Sir Malise as it rolled beneath his foot. It was a ghastly sepulchre; dug deep beneath the foundations of the house as if the first Lord of the family, who had come from France with the Conqueror, had wished to testify how all pomp is built upon corruption; how the skeleton lies beneath the flesh: how we that dance and sing above must lie below; how the crimson velvet turns to dust; how the ring (here Orlando, stooping his lantern, would pick up a gold circle lacking a stone, that had rolled into a corner) loses its ruby and the eye which was so lustrous shines no more. 'Nothing remains of all these Princes', Orlando would say, indulging in some pardonable exaggeration of their rank, 'except one digit,' and he would take a skeleton hand in his and bend the joints this way and that. 'Whose hand was it?' he went on to ask. 'The right or the left? The hand of man or woman, of age or youth? Had it urged the war horse, or plied the needle? Had it plucked the rose, or grasped cold steel? Had it--' but here either his invention failed him or, what is more likely, provided him with so many instances of what a hand can do that he shrank, as his wont was, from the cardinal labour of composition, which is excision, and he put it with the other bones, thinking how there was a writer called Thomas Browne, a Doctor of Norwich, whose writing upon such subjects took his fancy amazingly.

So, taking his lantern and seeing that the bones were in order, for
though romantic, he was singularly methodical and detested nothing so
much as a ball of string on the floor, let alone the skull of an
ancestor, he returned to that curious, moody pacing down the galleries,
looking for something among the pictures, which was interrupted at length
by a veritable spasm of sobbing, at the sight of a Dutch snow scene by an
unknown artist. Then it seemed to him that life was not worth living any
more. Forgetting the bones of his ancestors and how life is founded on a
grave, he stood there shaken with sobs, all for the desire of a woman in
Russian trousers, with slanting eyes, a pouting mouth and pearls about
her neck. She had gone. She had left him. He was never to see her again.
And so he sobbed. And so he found his way back to his own rooms; and Mrs
Grimsditch, seeing the light in the window, put the tankard from her lips
and said Praise be to God, his Lordship was safe in his room again; for
she had been thinking all this while that he was foully murdered.
Orlando now drew his chair up to the table; opened the works of Sir
Thomas Browne and proceeded to investigate the delicate articulation of
one of the doctor's longest and most marvellously contorted cogitations.

For though these are not matters on which a biographer can profitably
enlarge it is plain enough to those who have done a reader's part in
making up from bare hints dropped here and there the whole boundary and
circumference of a living person; can hear in what we only whisper a
living voice; can see, often when we say nothing about it, exactly what
he looked like; know without a word to guide them precisely what he
thought--and it is for readers such as these that we write--it is plain
then to such a reader that Orlando was strangely compounded of many
humours--of melancholy, of indolence, of passion, of love of solitude, to
say nothing of all those contortions and subtleties of temper which were
indicated on the first page, when he slashed at a dead nigger's head; cut
it down; hung it chivalrously out of his reach again and then betook
himself to the windowseat with a book. The taste for books was an early
one. As a child he was sometimes found at midnight by a page still
reading. They took his taper away, and he bred glow-worms to serve his
purpose. They took the glow-worms away, and he almost burnt the house
down with a tinder. To put it in a nutshell, leaving the novelist to
smooth out the crumpled silk and all its implications, he was a nobleman
afflicted with a love of literature. Many people of his time, still more
of his rank, escaped the infection and were thus free to run or ride or
make love at their own sweet will. But some were early infected by a germ
said to be bred of the pollen of the asphodel and to be blown out of
Greece and Italy, which was of so deadly a nature that it would shake the
hand as it was raised to strike, and cloud the eye as it sought its prey,
and make the tongue stammer as it declared its love. It was the fatal
nature of this disease to substitute a phantom for reality, so that
Orlando, to whom fortune had given every gift--plate, linen, houses,
men-servants, carpets, beds in profusion--had only to open a book for the
whole vast accumulation to turn to mist. The nine acres of stone which
were his house vanished; one hundred and fifty indoor servants
disappeared; his eighty riding horses became invisible; it would take too
long to count the carpets, sofas, trappings, china, plate, cruets,
chafing dishes and other movables often of beaten gold, which evaporated
like so much sea mist under the miasma. So it was, and Orlando would sit
by himself, reading, a naked man.
The disease gained rapidly upon him now in his solitude. He would read
often six hours into the night; and when they came to him for orders
about the slaughtering of cattle or the harvesting of wheat, he would
push away his folio and look as if he did not understand what was said to
him. This was bad enough and wrung the hearts of Hall, the falconer, of
Giles, the groom, of Mrs Grimsditch, the housekeeper, of Mr Dupper, the
chaplain. A fine gentleman like that, they said, had no need of books.
Let him leave books, they said, to the palsied or the dying. But worse
was to come. For once the disease of reading has laid upon the system it
weakens it so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which
dwells in the inkpot and festers in the quill. The wretch takes to
writing. And while this is bad enough in a poor man, whose only property
is a chair and a table set beneath a leaky roof--for he has not much to
lose, after all--the plight of a rich man, who has houses and cattle,
maidservants, asses and linen, and yet writes books, is pitiable in the
extreme. The flavour of it all goes out of him; he is riddled by hot
irons; gnawed by vermin. He would give every penny he has (such is the
malignity of the germ) to write one little book and become famous; yet
all the gold in Peru will not buy him the treasure of a well-turned line.
So he falls into consumption and sickness, blows his brains out, turns
his face to the wall. It matters not in what attitude they find him. He
has passed through the gates of Death and known the flames of Hell.

Happily, Orlando was of a strong constitution and the disease (for
reasons presently to be given) never broke him down as it has broken many
of his peers. But he was deeply smitten with it, as the sequel shows. For
when he had read for an hour or so in Sir Thomas Browne, and the bark of
the stag and the call of the night watchman showed that it was the dead
of night and all safe asleep, he crossed the room, took a silver key from
his pocket and unlocked the doors of a great inlaid cabinet which stood
in the corner. Within were some fifty drawers of cedar wood and upon each
was a paper neatly written in Orlando's hand. He paused, as if hesitating
which to open. One was inscribed 'The Death of Ajax', another 'The Birth
of Pyramus', another 'Iphigenia in Aulis', another 'The Death of
Hippolytus', another 'Meleager', another 'The Return of Odysseus',--in
fact there was scarcely a single drawer that lacked the name of some
mythological personage at a crisis of his career. In each drawer lay a
document of considerable size all written over in Orlando's hand. The
truth was that Orlando had been afflicted thus for many years. Never had
any boy begged apples as Orlando begged paper; nor sweetmeats as he
begged ink. Stealing away from talk and games, he had hidden himself
behind curtains, in priest's holes, or in the cupboard behind his
mother's bedroom which had a great hole in the floor and smelt horribly
of starling's dung, with an inkhorn in one hand, a pen in another, and on
his knee a roll of paper. Thus had been written, before he was turned
twenty-five, some forty-seven plays, histories, romances, poems; some in
prose, some in verse; some in French, some in Italian; all romantic, and
all long. One he had had printed by John Ball of the Feathers and Coronet
opposite St Paul's Cross, Cheapside; but though the sight of it gave him
extreme delight, he had never dared show it even to his mother, since to
write, much more to publish, was, he knew, for a nobleman an inexpiable
disgrace.
Now, however, that it was the dead of night and he was alone, he chose
from this repository one thick document called 'Xenophila a Tragedy' or
some such title, and one thin one, called simply 'The Oak Tree' (this was
the only monosyllabic title among the lot), and then he approached the
inkhorn, fingered the quill, and made other such passes as those addicted
to this vice begin their rites with. But he paused.

As this pause was of extreme significance in his history, more so,
indeed, than many acts which bring men to their knees and make rivers run
with blood, it behoves us to ask why he paused; and to reply, after due
reflection, that it was for some such reason as this. Nature, who has
played so many queer tricks upon us, making us so unequally of clay and
diamonds, of rainbow and granite, and stuffed them into a case, often of
the most incongruous, for the poet has a butcher's face and the butcher a
poet's; nature, who delights in muddle and mystery, so that even now (the
first of November 1927) we know not why we go upstairs, or why we come
down again, our most daily movements are like the passage of a ship on an
unknown sea, and the sailors at the mast-head ask, pointing their glasses
to the horizon; Is there land or is there none? to which, if we are
prophets, we make answer 'Yes'; if we are truthful we say 'No'; nature,
who has so much to answer for besides the perhaps unwieldy length of this
sentence, has further complicated her task and added to our confusion by
providing not only a perfect rag-bag of odds and ends within us--a piece
of a policeman's trousers lying cheek by jowl with Queen Alexandra's
wedding veil--but has contrived that the whole assortment shall be
lightly stitched together by a single thread. Memory is the seamstress,
and a capricious one at that. Memory runs her needle in and out, up and
down, hither and thither. We know not what comes next, or what follows
after. Thus, the most ordinary movement in the world, such as sitting
down at a table and pulling the inkstand towards one, may agitate a
thousand odd, disconnected fragments, now bright, now dim, hanging and
bobbing and dipping and flaunting, like the underlinen of a family of
fourteen on a line in a gale of wind. Instead of being a single,
downright, bluff piece of work of which no man need feel ashamed, our
commonest deeds are set about with a fluttering and flickering of wings,
a rising and falling of lights. Thus it was that Orlando, dipping his pen
in the ink, saw the mocking face of the lost Princess and asked himself a
million questions instantly which were as arrows dipped in gall. Where
was she; and why had she left him? Was the Ambassador her uncle or her
lover? Had they plotted? Was she forced? Was she married? Was she
dead?--all of which so drove their venom into him that, as if to vent his
agony somewhere, he plunged his quill so deep into the inkhorn that the
ink spirted over the table, which act, explain it how one may (and no
explanation perhaps is possible--Memory is inexplicable), at once
substituted for the face of the Princess a face of a very different sort.
But whose was it, he asked himself? And he had to wait, perhaps half a
minute, looking at the new picture which lay on top of the old, as one
lantern slide is half seen through the next, before he could say to
himself, 'This is the face of that rather fat, shabby man who sat in
Twitchett's room ever so many years ago when old Queen Bess came here to
dine; and I saw him,' Orlando continued, catching at another of those
little coloured rags, 'sitting at the table, as I peeped in on my way
downstairs, and he had the most amazing eyes,' said Orlando, 'that ever
were, but who the devil was he?' Orlando asked, for here Memory added to
the forehead and eyes, first, a coarse, grease-stained ruffle, then a
brown doublet, and finally a pair of thick boots such as citizens wear in
Cheapside. 'Not a Nobleman; not one of us,' said Orlando (which he would
not have said aloud, for he was the most courteous of gentlemen; but it
shows what an effect noble birth has upon the mind and incidentally how
difficult it is for a nobleman to be a writer), 'a poet, I dare say.' By
all the laws, Memory, having disturbed him sufficiently, should now have
blotted the whole thing out completely, or have fetched up something so
idiotic and out of keeping--like a dog chasing a cat or an old woman
blowing her nose into a red cotton handkerchief--that, in despair of
keeping pace with her vagaries, Orlando should have struck his pen in
earnest against his paper. (For we can, if we have the resolution, turn
the hussy, Memory, and all her ragtag and bobtail out of the house.) But
Orlando paused. Memory still held before him the image of a shabby man
with big, bright eyes. Still he looked, still he paused. It is these
pauses that are our undoing. It is then that sedition enters the fortress
and our troops rise in insurrection. Once before he had paused, and love
with its horrid rout, its shawms, its cymbals, and its heads with gory
locks torn from the shoulders had burst in. From love he had suffered the
tortures of the damned. Now, again, he paused, and into the breach thus
made, leapt Ambition, the harridan, and Poetry, the witch, and Desire of
Fame, the strumpet; all joined hands and made of his heart their dancing
ground. Standing upright in the solitude of his room, he vowed that he
would be the first poet of his race and bring immortal lustre upon his
name. He said (reciting the names and exploits of his ancestors) that Sir
Boris had fought and killed the Paynim; Sir Gawain, the Turk; Sir Miles,
the Pole; Sir Andrew, the Frank; Sir Richard, the Austrian; Sir Jordan,
the Frenchman; and Sir Herbert, the Spaniard. But of all that killing and
campaigning, that drinking and love-making, that spending and hunting and
riding and eating, what remained? A skull; a finger. Whereas, he said,
turning to the page of Sir Thomas Browne, which lay open upon the
table--and again he paused. Like an incantation rising from all parts of
the room, from the night wind and the moonlight, rolled the divine melody
of those words which, lest they should outstare this page, we will leave
where they lie entombed, not dead, embalmed rather, so fresh is their
colour, so sound their breathing--and Orlando, comparing that achievement
with those of his ancestors, cried out that they and their deeds were
dust and ashes, but this man and his words were immortal.

He soon perceived, however, that the battles which Sir Miles and the rest
had waged against armed knights to win a kingdom, were not half so
arduous as this which he now undertook to win immortality against the
English language. Anyone moderately familiar with the rigours of
composition will not need to be told the story in detail; how he wrote
and it seemed good; read and it seemed vile; corrected and tore up; cut
out; put in; was in ecstasy; in despair; had his good nights and bad
mornings; snatched at ideas and lost them; saw his book plain before him
and it vanished; acted his people's parts as he ate; mouthed them as he
walked; now cried; now laughed; vacillated between this style and that;
now preferred the heroic and pompous; next the plain and simple; now the
vales of Tempe; then the fields of Kent or Cornwall; and could not decide
whether he was the divinest genius or the greatest fool in the world.

It was to settle this last question that he decided after many months of
such feverish labour, to break the solitude of years and communicate with
the outer world. He had a friend in London, one Giles Isham, of Norfolk,
who, though of gentle birth, was acquainted with writers and could
doubtless put him in touch with some member of that blessed, indeed
sacred, fraternity. For, to Orlando in the state he was now in, there was
a glory about a man who had written a book and had it printed, which
outshone all the glories of blood and state. To his imagination it seemed
as if even the bodies of those instinct with such divine thoughts must be
transfigured. They must have aureoles for hair, incense for breath, and
roses must grow between their lips--which was certainly not true either
of himself or Mr Dupper. He could think of no greater happiness than to
be allowed to sit behind a curtain and hear them talk. Even the
imagination of that bold and various discourse made the memory of what he
and his courtier friends used to talk about--a dog, a horse, a woman, a
game of cards--seem brutish in the extreme. He bethought him with pride
that he had always been called a scholar, and sneered at for his love of
solitude and books. He had never been apt at pretty phrases. He would
stand stock still, blush, and stride like a grenadier in a ladies'
drawing-room. He had twice fallen, in sheer abstraction, from his horse.
He had broken Lady Winchilsea's fan once while making a rhyme. Eagerly
recalling these and other instances of his unfitness for the life of
society, an ineffable hope, that all the turbulence of his youth, his
clumsiness, his blushes, his long walks, and his love of the country
proved that he himself belonged to the sacred race rather than to the
noble--was by birth a writer, rather than an aristocrat--possessed him.
For the first time since the night of the great flood he was happy.

He now commissioned Mr Isham of Norfolk to deliver to Mr Nicholas Greene
of Clifford's Inn a document which set forth Orlando's admiration for his
works (for Nick Greene was a very famous writer at that time) and his
desire to make his acquaintance; which he scarcely dared ask; for he had
nothing to offer in return; but if Mr Nicholas Greene would condescend to
visit him, a coach and four would be at the corner of Fetter Lane at
whatever hour Mr Greene chose to appoint, and bring him safely to
Orlando's house. One may fill up the phrases which then followed; and
figure Orlando's delight when, in no long time, Mr Greene signified his
acceptance of the Noble Lord's invitation; took his place in the coach
and was set down in the hall to the south of the main building punctually
at seven o'clock on Monday, April the twenty-first.

Many Kings, Queens, and Ambassadors had been received there; Judges had
stood there in their ermine. The loveliest ladies of the land had come
there; and the sternest warriors. Banners hung there which had been at
Flodden and at Agincourt. There were displayed the painted coats of arms
with their lions and their leopards and their coronets. There were the
long tables where the gold and silver plate was stood; and there the vast
fireplaces of wrought Italian marble where nightly a whole oak tree, with
its million leaves and its nests of rook and wren, was burnt to ashes.
Nicholas Greene, the poet stood there now, plainly dressed in his
slouched hat and black doublet, carrying in one hand a small bag.

That Orlando as he hastened to greet him was slightly disappointed was
inevitable. The poet was not above middle height; was of a mean figure;
was lean and stooped somewhat, and, stumbling over the mastiff on
entering, the dog bit him. Moreover, Orlando for all his knowledge of
mankind was puzzled where to place him. There was something about him
which belonged neither to servant, squire, or noble. The head with its
rounded forehead and beaked nose was fine, but the chin receded. The eyes
were brilliant, but the lips hung loose and slobbered. It was the
expression of the face--as a whole, however, that was disquieting. There
was none of that stately composure which makes the faces of the nobility
so pleasing to look at; nor had it anything of the dignified servility of
a well-trained domestic's face; it was a face seamed, puckered, and drawn
together. Poet though he was, it seemed as if he were more used to scold
than to flatter; to quarrel than to coo; to scramble than to ride; to
struggle than to rest; to hate than to love. This, too, was shown by the
quickness of his movements; and by something fiery and suspicious in his
glance. Orlando was somewhat taken aback. But they went to dinner.

Here, Orlando, who usually took such things for granted, was, for the
first time, unaccountably ashamed of the number of his servants and of
the splendour of his table. Stranger still, he bethought him with
pride--for the thought was generally distasteful--of that great
grandmother Moll who had milked the cows. He was about somehow to allude
to this humble woman and her milk-pails, when the poet forestalled him by
saying that it was odd, seeing how common the name of Greene was, that
the family had come over with the Conqueror and was of the highest
nobility in France. Unfortunately, they had come down in the world and
done little more than leave their name to the royal borough of Greenwich.
Further talk of the same sort, about lost castles, coats of arms, cousins
who were baronets in the north, intermarriage with noble families in the
west, how some Greens spelt the name with an e at the end, and others
without, lasted till the venison was on the table. Then Orlando contrived
to say something of Grandmother Moll and her cows, and had eased his
heart a little of its burden by the time the wild fowl were before them.
But it was not until the Malmsey was passing freely that Orlando dared
mention what he could not help thinking a more important matter than the
Greens or the cows; that is to say the sacred subject of poetry. At the
first mention of the word, the poet's eyes flashed fire; he dropped the
fine gentleman airs he had worn; thumped his glass on the table, and
launched into one of the longest, most intricate, most passionate, and
bitterest stories that Orlando had ever heard, save from the lips of a
jilted woman, about a play of his; another poet; and a critic. Of the
nature of poetry itself, Orlando only gathered that it was harder to sell
than prose, and though the lines were shorter took longer in the writing.
So the talk went on with ramifications interminable, until Orlando
ventured to hint that he had himself been so rash as to write--but here
the poet leapt from his chair. A mouse had squeaked in the wainscot, he
said. The truth was, he explained, that his nerves were in a state where
a mouse's squeak upset them for a fortnight. Doubtless the house was full
of vermin, but Orlando had not heard them. The poet then gave Orlando the
full story of his health for the past ten years or so. It had been so bad
that one could only marvel that he still lived. He had had the palsy, the
gout, the ague, the dropsy, and the three sorts of fever in succession;
added to which he had an enlarged heart, a great spleen, and a diseased
liver. But, above all, he had, he told Orlando, sensations in his spine
which defied description. There was one knob about the third from the top
which burnt like fire; another about second from the bottom which was
cold as ice. Sometimes he woke with a brain like lead; at others it was
as if a thousand wax tapers were alight and people were throwing
fireworks inside him. He could feel a rose leaf through his mattress, he
said; and knew his way almost about London by the feel of the cobbles.
Altogether he was a piece of machinery so finely made and curiously put
together (here he raised his hand as if unconsciously, and indeed it was
of the finest shape imaginable) that it confounded him to think that he
had only sold five hundred copies of his poem, but that of course was
largely due to the conspiracy against him. All he could say, he
concluded, banging his fist upon the table, was that the art of poetry
was dead in England.

How that could be with Shakespeare, Marlowe, Ben Jonson, Browne, Donne,
all now writing or just having written, Orlando, reeling off the names of
his favourite heroes, could not think.

Greene laughed sardonically. Shakespeare, he admitted, had written some
scenes that were well enough; but he had taken them chiefly from Marlowe.
Marlowe was a likely boy, but what could you say of a lad who died before
he was thirty? As for Browne, he was for writing poetry in prose, and
people soon got tired of such conceits as that. Donne was a mountebank
who wrapped up his lack of meaning in hard words. The gulls were taken
in; but the style would be out of fashion twelve months hence. As for Ben
Jonson--Ben Jonson was a friend of his and he never spoke ill of his
friends.

No, he concluded, the great age of literature is past; the great age of
literature was the Greek; the Elizabethan age was inferior in every
respect to the Greek. In such ages men cherished a divine ambition which
he might call La Gloire (he pronounced it Glawr, so that Orlando did not
at first catch his meaning). Now all young writers were in the pay of the
booksellers and poured out any trash that would sell. Shakespeare was the
chief offender in this way and Shakespeare was already paying the
penalty. Their own age, he said, was marked by precious conceits and wild
experiments--neither of which the Greeks would have tolerated for a
moment. Much though it hurt him to say it--for he loved literature as he
loved his life--he could see no good in the present and had no hope for
the future. Here he poured himself out another glass of wine.

Orlando was shocked by these doctrines; yet could not help observing that
the critic himself seemed by no means downcast. On the contrary, the more
he denounced his own time, the more complacent he became. He could
remember, he said, a night at the Cock Tavern in Fleet Street when Kit
Marlowe was there and some others. Kit was in high feather, rather drunk,
which he easily became, and in a mood to say silly things. He could see
him now, brandishing his glass at the company and hiccoughing out, 'Stap
my vitals, Bill' (this was to Shakespeare), 'there's a great wave coming
and you're on the top of it,' by which he meant, Greene explained, that
they were trembling on the verge of a great age in English literature,
and that Shakespeare was to be a poet of some importance. Happily for
himself, he was killed two nights later in a drunken brawl, and so did
not live to see how this prediction turned out. 'Poor foolish fellow,'
said Greene, 'to go and say a thing like that. A great age, forsooth--the
Elizabethan a great age!'

'So, my dear Lord,' he continued, settling himself comfortably in his
chair and rubbing the wine-glass between his fingers, 'we must make the
best of it, cherish the past and honour those writers--there are still a
few of 'em--who take antiquity for their model and write, not for pay but
for Glawr.' (Orlando could have wished him a better accent.) 'Glawr',
said Greene, 'is the spur of noble minds. Had I a pension of three
hundred pounds a year paid quarterly, I would live for Glawr alone. I
would lie in bed every morning reading Cicero. I would imitate his style
so that you couldn't tell the difference between us. That's what I call
fine writing,' said Greene; 'that's what I call Glawr. But it's necessary
to have a pension to do it.'

By this time Orlando had abandoned all hope of discussing his own work
with the poet; but this mattered the less as the talk now got upon the
lives and characters of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and the rest, all of
whom Greene had known intimately and about whom he had a thousand
anecdotes of the most amusing kind to tell. Orlando had never laughed so
much in his life. These, then, were his gods! Half were drunken and all
were amorous. Most of them quarrelled with their wives; not one of them
was above a lie or an intrigue of the most paltry kind. Their poetry was
scribbled down on the backs of washing bills held to the heads of
printer's devils at the street door. Thus Hamlet went to press; thus
Lear; thus Othello. No wonder, as Greene said, that these plays show the
faults they do. The rest of the time was spent in carousings and
junketings in taverns and in beer gardens, When things were said that
passed belief for wit, and things were done that made the utmost frolic
of the courtiers seem pale in comparison. All this Greene told with a
spirit that roused Orlando to the highest pitch of delight. He had a
power of mimicry that brought the dead to life, and could say the finest
things of books provided they were written three hundred years ago.

So time passed, and Orlando felt for his guest a strange mixture of
liking and contempt, of admiration and pity, as well as something too
indefinite to be called by any one name, but had something of fear in it
and something of fascination. He talked incessantly about himself, yet
was such good company that one could listen to the story of his ague for
ever. Then he was so witty; then he was so irreverent; then he made so
free with the names of God and Woman; then he was So full of queer crafts
and had such strange lore in his head; could make salad in three hundred
different ways; knew all that could be known of the mixing of wines;
played half-a-dozen musical instruments, and was the first person, and
perhaps the last, to toast cheese in the great Italian fireplace. That he
did not know a geranium from a carnation, an oak from a birch tree, a
mastiff from a greyhound, a teg from a ewe, wheat from barley, plough
land from fallow; was ignorant of the rotation of the crops; thought
oranges grew underground and turnips on trees; preferred any townscape to
any landscape;--all this and much more amazed Orlando, who had never met
anybody of his kind before. Even the maids, who despised him, tittered at
his jokes, and the men-servants, who loathed him, hung about to hear his
stories. Indeed, the house had never been so lively as now that he was
there--all of which gave Orlando a great deal to think about, and caused
him to compare this way of life with the old. He recalled the sort of
talk he had been used to about the King of Spain's apoplexy or the mating
of a bitch; he bethought him how the day passed between the stables and
the dressing closet; he remembered how the Lords snored over their wine
and hated anybody who woke them up. He bethought him how active and
valiant they were in body; how slothful and timid in mind. Worried by
these thoughts, and unable to strike a proper balance, he came to the
conclusion that he had admitted to his house a plaguey spirit of unrest
that would never suffer him to sleep sound again.

At the same moment, Nick Greene came to precisely the opposite
conclusion. Lying in bed of a morning on the softest pillows between the
smoothest sheets and looking out of his oriel window upon turf which for
centuries had known neither dandelion nor dock weed, he thought that
unless he could somehow make his escape, he should be smothered alive.
Getting up and hearing the pigeons coo, dressing and hearing the
fountains fall, he thought that unless he could hear the drays roar upon
the cobbles of Fleet Street, he would never write another line. If this
goes on much longer, he thought, hearing the footman mend the fire and
spread the table with silver dishes next door, I shall fall asleep and
(here he gave a prodigious yawn) sleeping die.

So he sought Orlando in his room, and explained that he had not been able
to sleep a wink all night because of the silence. (Indeed, the house was
surrounded by a park fifteen miles in circumference and a wall ten feet
high.) Silence, he said, was of all things the most oppressive to his
nerves. He would end his visit, by Orlando's leave, that very morning.
Orlando felt some relief at this, yet also a great reluctance to let him
go. The house, he thought, would seem very dull without him. On parting
(for he had never yet liked to mention the subject), he had the temerity
to press his play upon the Death of Hercules upon the poet and ask his
opinion of it. The poet took it; muttered something about Glawr and
Cicero, which Orlando cut short by promising to pay the pension
quarterly; whereupon Greene, with many protestations of affection, jumped
into the coach and was gone.

The great hall had never seemed so large, so splendid, or so empty as the
chariot rolled away. Orlando knew that he would never have the heart to
make toasted cheese in the Italian fireplace again. He would never have
the wit to crack jokes about Italian pictures; never have the skill to
mix punch as it should be mixed; a thousand good quips and cranks would
be lost to him. Yet what a relief to be out of the sound of that
querulous voice, what a luxury to be alone once more, so he could not
help reflecting, as he unloosed the mastiff which had been tied up these
six weeks because it never saw the poet without biting him.

Nick Greene was set down at the corner of Fetter Lane that same
afternoon, and found things going on much as he had left them. Mrs
Greene, that is to say, was giving birth to a baby in one room; Tom
Fletcher was drinking gin in another. Books were tumbled all about the
floor; dinner--such as it was--was set on a dressing-table where the
children had been making mud pies. But this, Greene felt, was the
atmosphere for writing, here he could write, and write he did. The
subject was made for him. A noble Lord at home. A visit to a Nobleman in
the country--his new poem was to have some such title as that. Seizing
the pen with which his little boy was tickling the cat's ears, and
dipping it in the egg-cup which served for inkpot, Greene dashed off a
very spirited satire there and then. It was so done to a turn that no one
could doubt that the young Lord who was roasted was Orlando; his most
private sayings and doings, his enthusiasms and folies, down to the very
colour of his hair and the foreign way he had of rolling his r's, were
there to the life. And if there had been any doubt about it, Greene
clinched the matter by introducing, with scarcely any disguise, passages
from that aristocratic tragedy, the Death of Hercules, which he found as
he expected, wordy and bombastic in the extreme.

The pamphlet, which ran at once into several editions, and paid the
expenses of Mrs Greene's tenth lying-in, was soon sent by friends who
take care of such matters to Orlando himself. When he had read it, which
he did with deadly composure from start to finish, he rang for the
footman; delivered the document to him at the end of a pair of tongs;
bade him drop it in the filthiest heart of the foulest midden on the
estate. Then, when the man was turning to go he stopped him, 'Take the
swiftest horse in the stable,' he said, 'ride for dear life to Harwich.
There embark upon a ship which you will find bound for Norway. Buy for me
from the King's own kennels the finest elk-hounds of the Royal strain,
male and female. Bring them back without delay. For', he murmured,
scarcely above his breath as he turned to his books, 'I have done with
men.'

The footman, who was perfectly trained in his duties, bowed and
disappeared. He fulfilled his task so efficiently that he was back that
day three weeks, leading in his hand a leash of the finest elk-hounds,
one of whom, a female, gave birth that very night under the dinner-table
to a litter of eight fine puppies. Orlando had them brought to his
bedchamber.

'For', he said, 'I have done with men.'

Nevertheless, he paid the pension quarterly.

Thus, at the age of thirty, or thereabouts, this young Nobleman had not
only had every experience that life has to offer, but had seen the
worthlessness of them all. Love and ambition, women and poets were all
equally vain. Literature was a farce. The night after reading Greene's
Visit to a Nobleman in the Country, he burnt in a great conflagration
fifty-seven poetical works, only retaining 'The Oak Tree', which was his
boyish dream and very short. Two things alone remained to him in which he
now put any trust: dogs and nature; an elk-hound and a rose bush. The
world, in all its variety, life in all its complexity, had shrunk to
that. Dogs and a bush were the whole of it. So feeling quit of a vast
mountain of illusion, and very naked in consequence, he called his hounds
to him and strode through the Park.

So long had he been secluded, writing and reading, that he had half
forgotten the amenities of nature, which in June can be great. When he
reached that high mound whence on fine days half of England with a slice
of Wales and Scotland thrown in can be seen, he flung himself under his
favourite oak tree and felt that if he need never speak to another man or
woman so long as he lived; if his dogs did not develop the faculty of
speech; if he never met a poet or a Princess again, he might make out
what years remained to him in tolerable content.

Here he came then, day after day, week after week, month after month,
year after year. He saw the beech trees turn golden and the young ferns
unfurl; he saw the moon sickle and then circular; he saw--but probably
the reader can imagine the passage which should follow and how every tree
and plant in the neighbourhood is described first green, then golden; how
moons rise and suns set; how spring follows winter and autumn summer; how
night succeeds day and day night; how there is first a storm and then
fine weather; how things remain much as they are for two or three hundred
years or so, except for a little dust and a few cobwebs which one old
woman can sweep up in half an hour; a conclusion which, one cannot help
feeling, might have been reached more quickly by the simple statement
that 'Time passed' (here the exact amount could be indicated in brackets)
and nothing whatever happened.

But Time, unfortunately, though it makes animals and vegetables bloom and
fade with amazing punctuality, has no such simple effect upon the mind of
man. The mind of man, moreover, works with equal strangeness upon the
body of time. An hour, once it lodges in the queer element of the human
spirit, may be stretched to fifty or a hundred times its clock length; on
the other hand, an hour may be accurately represented on the timepiece of
the mind by one second. This extraordinary discrepancy between time on
the clock and time in the mind is less known than it should be and
deserves fuller investigation. But the biographer, whose interests are,
as we have said, highly restricted, must confine himself to one simple
statement: when a man has reached the age of thirty, as Orlando now had,
time when he is thinking becomes inordinately long; time when he is doing
becomes inordinately short. Thus Orlando gave his orders and did the
business of his vast estates in a flash; but directly he was alone on the
mound under the oak tree, the seconds began to round and fill until it
seemed as if they would never fall. They filled themselves, moreover,
with the strangest variety of objects. For not only did he find himself
confronted by problems which have puzzled the wisest of men, such as What
is love? What friendship? What truth? but directly he came to think about
them, his whole past, which seemed to him of extreme length and variety,
rushed into the falling second, swelled it a dozen times its natural
size, coloured it a thousand tints, and filled it with all the odds and
ends in the universe.

In such thinking (or by whatever name it should be called) he spent
months and years of his life. It would be no exaggeration to say that he
would go out after breakfast a man of thirty and come home to dinner a
man of fifty-five at least. Some weeks added a century to his age, others
no more than three seconds at most. Altogether, the task of estimating
the length of human life (of the animals' we presume not to speak) is
beyond our capacity, for directly we say that it is ages long, we are
reminded that it is briefer than the fall of a rose leaf to the ground.
Of the two forces which alternately, and what is more confusing still, at
the same moment, dominate our unfortunate numbskulls--brevity and
diuturnity--Orlando was sometimes under the influence of the
elephant-footed deity, then of the gnat-winged fly. Life seemed to him of
prodigious length. Yet even so, it went like a flash. But even when it
stretched longest and the moments swelled biggest and he seemed to wander
alone in deserts of vast eternity, there was no time for the smoothing
out and deciphering of those scored parchments which thirty years among
men and women had rolled tight in his heart and brain. Long before he had
done thinking about Love (the oak tree had put forth its leaves and
shaken them to the ground a dozen times in the process) Ambition would
jostle it off the field, to be replaced by Friendship or Literature. And
as the first question had not been settled--What is Love?--back it would
come at the least provocation or none, and hustle Books or Metaphors of
What one lives for into the margin, there to wait till they saw their
chance to rush into the field again. What made the process still longer
was that it was profusely illustrated, not only with pictures, as that of
old Queen Elizabeth, laid on her tapestry couch in rose-coloured brocade
with an ivory snuff-box in her hand and a gold-hilted sword by her side,
but with scents--she was strongly perfumed--and with sounds; the stags
were barking in Richmond Park that winter's day. And so, the thought of
love would be all ambered over with snow and winter; with log fires
burning; with Russian women, gold swords, and the bark of stags; with old
King James' slobbering and fireworks and sacks of treasure in the holds
of Elizabethan sailing ships. Every single thing, once he tried to
dislodge it from its place in his mind, he found thus cumbered with other
matter like the lump of glass which, after a year at the bottom of the
sea, is grown about with bones and dragon-flies, and coins and the
tresses of drowned women.

'Another metaphor by Jupiter!' he would exclaim as he said this (which
will show the disorderly and circuitous way in which his mind worked and
explain why the oak tree flowered and faded so often before he came to
any conclusion about Love). 'And what's the point of it?' he would ask
himself. 'Why not say simply in so many words--' and then he would try to
think for half an hour,--or was it two years and a half?--how to say
simply in so many words what love is. 'A figure like that is manifestly
untruthful,' he argued, 'for no dragon-fly, unless under very exceptional
circumstances, could live at the bottom of the sea. And if literature is
not the Bride and Bedfellow of Truth, what is she? Confound it all,' he
cried, 'why say Bedfellow when one's already said Bride? Why not simply
say what one means and leave it?'

So then he tried saying the grass is green and the sky is blue and so to
propitiate the austere spirit of poetry whom still, though at a great
distance, he could not help reverencing. 'The sky is blue,' he said, 'the
grass is green.' Looking up, he saw that, on the contrary, the sky is
like the veils which a thousand Madonnas have let fall from their hair;
and the grass fleets and darkens like a flight of girls fleeing the
embraces of hairy satyrs from enchanted woods. 'Upon my word,' he said
(for he had fallen into the bad habit of speaking aloud), 'I don't see
that one's more true than another. Both are utterly false.' And he
despaired of being able to solve the problem of what poetry is and what
truth is and fell into a deep dejection.

And here we may profit by a pause in his soliloquy to reflect how odd it
was to see Orlando stretched there on his elbow on a June day and to
reflect that this fine fellow with all his faculties about him and a
healthy body, witness cheeks and limbs--a man who never thought twice
about heading a charge or fighting a duel--should be so subject to the
lethargy of thought, and rendered so susceptible by it, that when it came
to a question of poetry, or his own competence in it, he was as shy as a
little girl behind her mother's cottage door. In our belief, Greene's
ridicule of his tragedy hurt him as much as the Princess' ridicule of his
love. But to return:--

Orlando went on thinking. He kept looking at the grass and at the sky and
trying to bethink him what a true poet, who has his verses published in
London, would say about them. Memory meanwhile (whose habits have already
been described) kept steady before his eyes the face of Nicholas Greene,
as if that sardonic loose-lipped man, treacherous as he had proved
himself, were the Muse in person, and it was to him that Orlando must do
homage. So Orlando, that summer morning, offered him a variety of
phrases, some plain, others figured, and Nick Greene kept shaking his
head and sneering and muttering something about Glawr and Cicero and the
death of poetry in our time. At length, starting to his feet (it was now
winter and very cold) Orlando swore one of the most remarkable oaths of
his lifetime, for it bound him to a servitude than which none is
stricter. 'I'll be blasted', he said, 'if I ever write another word, or
try to write another word, to please Nick Greene or the Muse. Bad, good,
or indifferent, I'll write, from this day forward, to please myself'; and
here he made as if he were tearing a whole budget of papers across and
tossing them in the face of that sneering loose-lipped man. Upon which,
as a cur ducks if you stoop to shy a stone at him, Memory ducked her
effigy of Nick Greene out of sight; and substituted for it--nothing
whatever.

But Orlando, all the same, went on thinking. He had indeed much to think
of. For when he tore the parchment across, he tore, in one rending, the
scrolloping, emblazoned scroll which he had made out in his own favour in
the solitude of his room appointing himself, as the King appoints
Ambassadors, the first poet of his race, the first writer of his age,
conferring eternal immortality upon his soul and granting his body a
grave among laurels and the intangible banners of a people's reverence
perpetually. Eloquent as this all was, he now tore it up and threw it in
the dustbin. 'Fame', he said. 'is like' (and since there was no Nick
Greene to stop him, he went on to revel in images of which we will choose
only one or two of the quietest) 'a braided coat which hampers the limbs;
a jacket of silver which curbs the heart; a painted shield which covers a
scarecrow,' etc. etc. The pith of his phrases was that while fame impedes
and constricts, obscurity wraps about a man like a mist; obscurity is
dark, ample, and free; obscurity lets the mind take its way unimpeded.
Over the obscure man is poured the merciful suffusion of darkness. None
knows where he goes or comes. He may seek the truth and speak it; he
alone is free; he alone is truthful; he alone is at peace. And so he sank
into a quiet mood, under the oak tree, the hardness of whose roots,
exposed above the ground, seemed to him rather comfortable than
otherwise.

Sunk for a long time in profound thoughts as to the value of obscurity,
and the delight of having no name, but being like a wave which returns to
the deep body of the sea; thinking how obscurity rids the mind of the irk
of envy and spite; how it sets running in the veins the free waters of
generosity and magnanimity; and allows giving and taking without thanks
offered or praise given; which must have been the way of all great poets,
he supposed (though his knowledge of Greek was not enough to bear him
out), for, he thought, Shakespeare must have written like that, and the
church builders built like that, anonymously, needing no thanking or
naming, but only their work in the daytime and a little ale perhaps at
night--'What an admirable life this is,' he thought, stretching his limbs
out under the oak tree. 'And why not enjoy it this very moment?' The
thought struck him like a bullet. Ambition dropped like a plummet. Rid of
the heart-burn of rejected love, and of vanity rebuked, and all the other
stings and pricks which the nettle-bed of life had burnt upon him when
ambitious of fame, but could no longer inflict upon one careless of
glory, he opened his eyes, which had been wide open all the time, but had
seen only thoughts, and saw, lying in the hollow beneath him, his house.

There it lay in the early sunshine of spring. It looked a town rather
than a house, but a town built, not hither and thither, as this man
wished or that, but circumspectly, by a single architect with one idea in
his head. Courts and buildings, grey, red, plum colour, lay orderly and
symmetrical; the courts were some of them oblong and some square; in this
was a fountain; in that a statue; the buildings were some of them low,
some pointed; here was a chapel, there a belfry; spaces of the greenest
grass lay in between and clumps of cedar trees and beds of bright
flowers; all were clasped--yet so well set out was it that it seemed that
every part had room to spread itself fittingly--by the roll of a massive
wall; while smoke from innumerable chimneys curled perpetually into the
air. This vast, yet ordered building, which could house a thousand men
and perhaps two thousand horses, was built, Orlando thought, by workmen
whose names are unknown. Here have lived, for more centuries than I can
count, the obscure generations of my own obscure family. Not one of these
Richards, Johns, Annes, Elizabeths has left a token of himself behind
him, yet all, working together with their spades and their needles, their
love-making and their child-bearing, have left this.

Never had the house looked more noble and humane.

Why, then, had he wished to raise himself above them? For it seemed vain
and arrogant in the extreme to try to better that anonymous work of
creation; the labours of those vanished hands. Better was it to go
unknown and leave behind you an arch, a potting shed, a wall where
peaches ripen, than to burn like a meteor and leave no dust. For after
all, he said, kindling as he looked at the great house on the greensward
below, the unknown lords and ladies who lived there never forgot to set
aside something for those who come after; for the roof that will leak;
for the tree that will fall. There was always a warm corner for the old
shepherd in the kitchen; always food for the hungry; always their goblets
were polished, though they lay sick, and their windows were lit though
they lay dying. Lords though they were, they were content to go down into
obscurity with the molecatcher and the stone-mason. Obscure noblemen,
forgotten builders--thus he apostrophized them with a warmth that
entirely gainsaid such critics as called him cold, indifferent, slothful
(the truth being that a quality often lies just on the other side of the
wall from where we seek it)--thus he apostrophized his house and race in
terms of the most moving eloquence; but when it came to the
peroration--and what is eloquence that lacks a peroration?--he fumbled.
He would have liked to have ended with a flourish to the effect that he
would follow in their footsteps and add another stone to their building.
Since, however, the building already covered nine acres, to add even a
single stone seemed superfluous. Could one mention furniture in a
peroration? Could one speak of chairs and tables and mats to lie beside
people's beds? For whatever the peroration wanted, that was what the
house stood in need of. Leaving his speech unfinished for the moment, he
strode down hill again resolved henceforward to devote himself to the
furnishing of the mansion. The news--that she was to attend him
instantly--brought tears to the eyes of good old Mrs Grimsditch, now
grown somewhat old. Together they perambulated the house.

The towel horse in the King's bedroom ('and that was King Jamie, my
Lord,' she said, hinting that it was many a day since a King had slept
under their roof; but the odious Parliament days were over and there was
now a Crown in England again) lacked a leg; there were no stands to the
ewers in the little closet leading into the waiting room of the Duchess's
page; Mr Greene had made a stain on the carpet with his nasty pipe
smoking, which she and Judy, for all their scrubbing, had never been able
to wash out. Indeed, when Orlando came to reckon up the matter of
furnishing with rosewood chairs and cedar-wood cabinets, with silver
basins, china bowls, and Persian carpets, every one of the three hundred
and sixty-five bedrooms which the house contained, he saw that it would
be no light one; and if some thousands of pounds of his estate remained
over, these would do little more than hang a few galleries with tapestry,
set the dining hall with fine, carved chairs and provide mirrors of solid
silver and chairs of the same metal (for which he had an inordinate
passion) for the furnishing of the royal bedchambers.

He now set to work in earnest, as we can prove beyond a doubt if we look
at his ledgers. Let us glance at an inventory of what he bought at this
time, with the expenses totted up in the margin--but these we omit.

'To fifty pairs of Spanish blankets, ditto curtains of crimson and white
taffeta; the valence to them of white satin embroidered with crimson and
white silk...

'To seventy yellow satin chairs and sixty stools, suitable with their
buckram covers to them all...

'To sixty seven walnut tree tables...

'To seventeen dozen boxes containing each dozen five dozen of Venice
glasses...

'To one hundred and two mats, each thirty yards long...

'To ninety seven cushions of crimson damask laid with silver parchment
lace and footstools of cloth of tissue and chairs suitable...

'To fifty branches for a dozen lights apiece...'

Already--it is an effect lists have upon us--we are beginning to yawn.
But if we stop, it is only that the catalogue is tedious, not that it is
finished. There are ninety-nine pages more of it and the total sum
disbursed ran into many thousands--that is to say millions of our money.
And if his day was spent like this, at night again, Lord Orlando might be
found reckoning out what it would cost to level a million molehills, if
the men were paid tenpence an hour; and again, how many hundredweight of
nails at fivepence halfpenny a gill were needed to repair the fence round
the park, which was fifteen miles in circumference. And so on and so on.

The tale, we say, is tedious, for one cupboard is much like another, and
one molehill not much different from a million. Some pleasant journeys it
cost him; and some fine adventures. As, for instance, when he set a whole
city of blind women near Bruges to stitch hangings for a silver canopied
bed; and the story of his adventure with a Moor in Venice of whom he
bought (but only at the sword's point) his lacquered cabinet, might, in
other hands, prove worth the telling. Nor did the work lack variety; for
here would come, drawn by teams from Sussex, great trees, to be sawn
across and laid along the gallery for flooring; and then a chest from
Persia, stuffed with wool and sawdust. from which, at last, he would take
a single plate, or one topaz ring.

At length, however, there was no room in the galleries for another table;
no room on the tables for another cabinet; no room in the cabinet for
another rose-bowl; no room in the bowl for another handful of potpourri;
there was no room for anything anywhere; in short the house was
furnished. In the garden snowdrops, crocuses, hyacinths, magnolias,
roses, lilies, asters, the dahlia in all its varieties, pear trees and
apple trees and cherry trees and mulberry trees, with an enormous
quantity of rare and flowering shrubs, of trees evergreen and perennial,
grew so thick on each other's roots that there was no plot of earth
without its bloom, and no stretch of sward without its shade. In
addition, he had imported wild fowl with gay plumage; and two Malay
bears, the surliness of whose manners concealed, he was certain, trusty
hearts.

All now was ready; and when it was evening and the innumerable silver
sconces were lit and the light airs which for ever moved about the
galleries stirred the blue and green arras, so that it looked as if the
huntsmen were riding and Daphne flying; when the silver shone and lacquer
glowed and wood kindled; when the carved chairs held their arms out and
dolphins swam upon the walls with mermaids on their backs; when all this
and much more than all this was complete and to his liking, Orlando
walked through the house with his elk hounds following and felt content.
He had matter now, he thought, to fill out his peroration. Perhaps it
would be well to begin the speech all over again. Yet, as he paraded the
galleries he felt that still something was lacking. Chairs and tables,