Chapter 18 Chapter Seventeen

I wasted my life, what gain?thought Mrs Ramsay.She took her seat at the head of the table and watched the soup dishes form white circles on the table. "William, sit next to me," she said. "Lily," she said listlessly, "sit there." They had the joys of love—Paul Raleigh and Mintay Doyle—and she had only this—an infinite table, There are also plates and cutlery.At the other end of the table, her husband sat down in a heap, frowning.why are you mad?she does not know.She doesn't care.She couldn't understand how she could develop feelings for this man or fall in love with him.She feels: everything has become the past, everything has become a thing of the past, and she has transcended it all.When she served the soup, there seemed to be a hot eddy there--it was there--you could be involved or not, but she was outside the vortex of life.It's all over, she thought.By this time they were entering the dining room one by one: Charles Tansley—"Sit here, please," she said—August Carmichael—and they all took their seats.At the same time, she passively waited for someone to answer her questions and what would happen.But that's not the same thing, she thought as she handed out the trays of soup, and what they said was not the same thing.

She raised her eyebrows seeing the disconnect between the two—that was what she thought; She was outside of that vortex; or, like a curtain that had come off and faded, she had at last seen the truth as it was.The room (she looked around) was very simple and unaesthetic.She refrained from looking at Mr. Tansley.They all sat in their respective places, not talking to each other.The whole effort of talking to each other, of exchanging ideas, of creating atmosphere, rests on her.Once again she felt (just as a fact and without malice) that men were incompetent and in need of help.Because, if she doesn't speak, no one will break the deadlock.So, like a stopped clock, she picked herself up a little, and the familiar pulse began to beat again, like a clock ticking again—one, two, three, one two three.And so on and so forth.She kept repeating, listening attentively, guarding and promoting the weak pulse, like a person guarding a weak flame with a newspaper in his hand.Then she stopped, and stooping silently over William Banks, she said to herself--what a poor fellow!He has no wife, no children, and except this evening, he always eats alone in the dormitory.In sympathy for him, life now had power enough to affect her again, and she began to create vivacity, like an exhausted sailor who sees the wind fill his sails again; yet he has He almost didn't want to set sail again, he was thinking: if the ship sank, he would follow the whirlpool and go round and round into the water, and finally find a resting place on the bottom of the sea.

"Did you see your letter? I told them to leave it for you in the hall," said Mrs. Ramsay to William Bankes. Lily Briscoe watched her burst into that strange vacuum, and it was impossible to follow her into this desolate realm, but her audacity chilled onlookers who would at least try to follow with their eyes Watching her was like watching a disappearing sailing ship until the sails sank below the horizon. How old and tired she looked, Lily thought, and how distant she looked.Then she smiled at William Bankes, as if the sunken ship had turned over and the sun was shining on its sails again, and Lily was relieved, and she wondered with interest: Why did she pity him?Because, when she told him the letter was in the hall, she gave the impression that she pitied him.She seemed to say: Poor William Banks, as if her fatigue were partly the result of pity for others, and the vitality in her, her determination to live again, was aroused by her pity.And that was untrue, Lily thought, a miscalculation of Mrs Ramsay's, which seemed to be born of instinct, of some need of her own, and not of any other's.In fact, he is not pitiful at all.He has his job.Her picture popped into her mind immediately, and she thought, yes, I'm going to move that tree a little farther, right in the middle, and then I won't leave that nasty blank space again.That's what I should do.This is the problem that has always puzzled me.She took the salt shaker and put it on a floral pattern on the tablecloth, to remind herself to move the tree.

"Oddly enough, though you rarely get valuable mail, you always look forward to some letters," Mr. Banks said. What nonsense they are talking about, Charles Tansley thought.He put the spoon squarely in the center of his soup plate, which he had cleared long ago, Lily thought (he was sitting across from her, with his back to the window, in the center of the frame), as if he Determined to find out what he ate at each meal.Everything about him had that dry, rigid taste that wasn't pleasant at all.However, it's still true: as long as you look at people carefully, it's almost inevitable that you'll like them.She liked his eyes; they were deep blue, set deep into his cheeks, and forbidding.

"Do you write often, Mr Tansley?" asked Mrs Ramsay.She pitied him too, Lily guessed; because Mrs. Ramsay did—she was always sympathetic to men, as if they lacked something—never so with women, as if they were all independent.He wrote to his mother; otherwise, he did not think he could write a letter a month, Mr. Tansley replied tersely. He wasn't going to talk the kind of nonsense those people wanted him to say.He didn't want the condescension and extra favors of those stupid women.He had been reading in his room, and now that he had gone downstairs, it all seemed dull, shallow, and vulgar to him.Why do they have to dress up and come to the table?He just went downstairs in ordinary civilian clothes.He didn't have much dress to wear. "You rarely get valuable email" - this is what they often talk about.It's them that make men talk about such things.Yes, indeed, he thought.Throughout the year, they never get anything of value.They do nothing but talk, talk, talk, eat, eat, eat.It's all the woman's fault.Women, with all their "charm" and stupidity, have turned civilization into a mess.

"To-morrow lighthouse won't work, Mrs. Ramsay," said he; still insisting on his own opinion.He liked her, he admired her, he remembered how the sewer worker looked up at her; but he felt compelled to insist on his own opinion. He had nice eyes, thought Lily Briscoe, but look at his nose and his hands, he was the ugliest man she had ever seen in her life.So why should she care about what he said?Women can't write, women can't paint—what does it matter if he says that?Obviously, these words were insincere to him, but for some reason, it was in his interest to say so, so he said this.Why was her whole body bowed like a cornstalk in the wind, and it took a huge, rather painful effort to straighten herself out of this humble state?She has to do it all over again.There's a twig on the tablecloth; my picture is here; I have to move the tree to the center of the picture; that's what matters—all else is irrelevant.She asked herself: Could she hold on to the matter without getting angry or arguing?If she wanted revenge, couldn't she laugh at him on purpose?

"Oh, Mr. Tansley," she said, "you must accompany me to the lighthouse to-morrow. I should really like to." He could see that she was lying.For some reason, she was saying something that wasn't meant to be meant to make him angry.She is laughing at him.He was wearing a pair of old flannel trousers.He has no other trousers to wear.He felt very distressed, alone, lonely.He knew she was playing tricks on him for some reason; she didn't want to go to the lighthouse with him at all; she despised him; Prue Ramsay; they all did.But he couldn't be made a fool by a woman, so he sat in his chair, looked back out of the window on purpose, and immediately said rudely that she wouldn't be able to take it if the weather was bad tomorrow.She will get seasick.

Mrs. Ramsay was listening, and it annoyed him that Lily should have made him say something like that.He thought it would be great if he could bury his head in his room and read a book.There, he felt at ease.He never owed anyone a penny in his life; since he was fifteen years old, he has been earning his own living without spending a penny from his father; he has used his savings to supplement the family; he has paid for his sister's school fees.Still, he wished he knew how to answer Miss Briscoe properly; Come and talk to Mrs Ramsay, and show her that he's not a dry pedant.They all thought he was that kind of person.He turned to Mrs Ramsay.But she was talking to William Banks about characters he had never heard of.

"Well, take the tray away," she said briefly to the maid, interrupting her conversation with Mr. Bankes. "Last time I saw her, it must have been fifteen—no, twenty years ago," she said, turning to him again, as if she did not want to delay a moment in their conversation, because she was The content fascinated me deeply.Well, tonight, he really received her letter!Kelly still lives in Marlow, is everything the same?Oh, it's all so vivid, it's like it happened yesterday—we were rowing together on the river and it was chilly.If the Mannings planned something, they stuck with it.She would never forget that time when Herbert killed a wasp on the bank with a teaspoon!And now all this is going on, Mrs Ramsay mused silently, twenty years ago she had stalked like a ghost among the tables and chairs in the drawing room by the Thames with great indifference; now she is like a ghost again She usually stalks among them; the idea fascinates her that she has changed, and that special day, now seemingly still and beautiful, remains intact in her memory all these years ago.Had Kelly written him a letter herself?she asked.

"Yes. She wrote that they were building a new billiard room," he said.No!No!That's unimaginable!Build a billiard room!It seemed impossible to her. Mr. Bankes saw nothing strange in the matter.Now they are very rich.Would he say hello to Kelly for her? "Oh," Mrs. Ramsay started, "no," she added.She thought to herself that she didn't know Kelly who built the new billiard room.But how strange, she repeated, that they continued to live there. (Her attitude amused Mr. Bankes.) It was a little unusual that they should go on living on for so many years and she never thought of them.In these years, she has experienced many vicissitudes.Maybe Kelly Manning never missed her either.The idea is strange and unpleasant.

"Life is like duckweed, and it never comes together," said Mr. Banks; yet, thinking that he knew both the Mannings and the Ramsays, he was not, after all, separated from old friends like duckweed, and felt quite satisfied.He hasn't parted with his old friends, he thought, setting down his spoon and dabbing his shaven lips carefully with his napkin.But perhaps he was rather unusual in this respect, he thought; he never allowed himself to fall into a rut.He has friends in various circles….At this point Mrs. Ramsay had to interrupt him to order the maid to keep the dishes warm, which were supposed to be served piping hot.All these distractions annoyed him, and that was why he liked to eat alone.But he remained courteous, merely spreading the fingers of his left hand across the tablecloth, like a mechanic examining a polished tool between work.Well, he thought, that's the kind of sacrifice friendship requires of one.She would be upset if he refused to come to dinner.But, to him, it was a pointless sacrifice not worth it.He looked at his hands and thought that if he had eaten alone, he would probably be done by now; he would be free to work soon.Yes, he thought, such entertainments were a terrible waste of time.The children are still entering the restaurant. "I wish any of you would go upstairs to Roger's room," said Mrs. Ramsay.How trivial and dull it all seemed, he thought, compared with the other thing—the work.Thinking of this, he sat drumming impatiently on the table with his fingers, and he could have—a brief outline of his work flashed through his mind.What a waste of time!Yet, he thought, she's one of my oldest friends.I have a loyal friendship with her.But now, at this very moment, her existence meant nothing to him; her beauty meant nothing to him; she sat at the window with her young son--nothing, nothing.All he wanted was to be alone, to pick up that book and read it.He felt very uncomfortable; he felt that he was too ungrateful to sit next to her and be indifferent to her.In fact, it's because he doesn't like family life.It is in this situation that you ask yourself: why does one live.You ask yourself: Why would a man go to such pains to organize a family so that the human race can continue?Is this really so desirable?Are we attractive as a race?Not very attractive, he thought, as he glanced at the rather untidy children.His favorite kid, Cam, was in bed, he supposed.Stupid question, boring question; if you were concentrating on your work, you wouldn't ask such a question.Is life like this?Is life like that?You never have time to think about these questions.But here he was posing the question to himself just now.This was because Mrs. Ramsay was ordering the servants just now, and because Mrs. Ramsay was so surprised to hear that Carrie Manning was alive, and it reminded him of how fragile friendship, even the best friendship, was.Friends are drifting and estranged from each other.He blamed himself again.He was sitting beside Mrs. Ramsay, but he had nothing to say to her. "I'm very sorry," Mrs. Ramsay said, turning to him at last.He felt stiff and dry, like a pair of leather boots that have dried after being soaked, and it was difficult to get his feet into them.However, he had to bite the bullet and stuff his feet in.He had to say a few perfunctory words.Unless he was very careful with his words, she would find him heartless and indifferent to her, and that would never be pleasant, he thought.So he leaned towards her, bowing his head politely and listening. "You must find it disgusting to dine in such a noisy place," said Mrs. Ramsay in French.When she's upset, she uses her social graces.Just like when there was a dispute at the meeting, the chairman suggested that everyone speak French in order to achieve the goal of unity.Possibly it was broken French, and the words were not conveyed, but nevertheless, as long as French was spoken by all, there would be some order and unity.Mr. Banks also replied in French: "No, not at all." Not sincere, just perfunctory each other.The Ramsays are talking nonsense, he thought; and he was glad to make a fuss of this fresh instance, which he would record and read aloud to some friends someday.There, in a small, outspoken circle, he was going to give a wry account of "the days with the Ramsays" and the nonsense they said.He will say: This life is worth trying; but not the next.He's going to say: Those women are just killing people.Of course, Mr. Ramsay married a beautiful lady, had eight children, and seemed to have a happy family.But at this very moment, as he sat smothered in an empty seat, it all came to naught, and the illusion of a happy family fell apart.Tansley felt uncomfortable, even physically.He hopes that someone can give him a chance to express himself.His desire was so strong that he couldn't sit still in his chair; he looked from one to the other, tried to join in their conversation, but just as he opened his mouth to speak, he shut it again.They are discussing fisheries.Why didn't they come to him for advice?What do they know about fishing? Lily Briscoe knew Tansley's mood well.Sitting across from him, couldn't she see his uncontrollable impulse?Like in an X-ray photograph, through the haze of flesh and blood, buried deep inside ribs and leg bones, she saw the young man's desire to express himself—the thin layer of The fog, the conventions that veiled his frenzied desire to chime in.However, her small Chinese-style eyeballs rolled up, and she remembered how he ridiculed women "cannot paint or write", and she thought: Why should I help him escape from the oppressive pain? She knew that there was such a set of codes of conduct, (maybe) its seventh article said that in such a situation, a woman, regardless of her professional status, she is obliged to help the young man opposite, so that He could show the vanity that was as deep as a rib and a leg bone, and satisfy his urge to express himself; she considered the problem with the spinster's fair and reasonable attitude, and felt that it was their men's duty to help. We women, if the Underground Railway exploded and caught fire, then, she thought, I'd be looking to Mr. Tansley to get me out.But, she thought, what would happen if neither of us wanted to help the other?So she sat there smiling silently. "You're not going to the lighthouse to-morrow, Lily," said Mrs Ramsay. "You remember poor Mr. Ringley, who had been around the world a dozen times, but he told me he had never been so sick as the time my husband took him to the lighthouse. He was very seasick that time. Are you a good sailor, Mr Tansley?" she asked. Mr. Tansley swung the sledgehammer, and held it high in the air; but when the hammer came down, he knew that the butterfly could not be hit with such a thing, and all he said was: He never gets seasick.But, in this sentence, full of gunpowder explosiveness, it says that his grandfather was a fisherman; his father was a pharmacist; Charles Tansley—it seems that no one here is aware of this fact; but some day it will be a household name.He frowned, his face sullen.He almost pitied the gentle, cultivated characters who would one day be blown up into the air by the dynamite inside him like bales of wool and barrels of apples. "Would you like to come with me, Mr. Tansley?" asked Lily hastily and kindly.For, if Mrs. Ramsay had said to her, as she had said: "My dear, I'm going to die in the fire. Unless you put some balm on the pain in front of you and say something to the lad Good word, life's ship is on the rocks—truly, I can hear the gnashing of teeth and moans of pain right now. My nerves are taut like the strings of a violin. Just one more touch and they'll snap Broken," said Mrs Ramsay (and her eyes conveyed them to her), Lily Briscoe, of course, had to give up the experiment once more--she had wanted to try it, for that What would happen to a young man to be rude--and he was treated politely. He had correctly judged her change of mood—she was friendly to him now—and he was out of his self-important state of mind.He told her how, as a baby, he had been thrown from a boat into the water, and how his father had hooked him up with a hooked boat pole so he could learn to swim.He had an uncle who ran a lighthouse on a reef off the coast of Scotland, he said.He had once been in a storm with this uncle.It was during a lull in the conversation that he uttered these words aloud.They all had to listen when he told how he and his uncle had been caught in a storm in the lighthouse.The tone of the conversation thus turned smoothly, and Lily felt Mrs. Ramsay look appreciatively at her (for Mrs. Ramsay was now free to talk for a while on her own).Ah, she thought, what price have I not paid for your gratitude and approval?However, she was not sincere just now. She had just played the usual trick--being polite and perfunctory.She will never understand him.He will never understand her either.It was the same with human beings, she thought, and especially between men and women (with the possible exception of Mr. Bankes) where the divide was deepest.There is no doubt that these relationships are extremely hypocritical, she thought.Then she caught sight of the salt shaker, and she put it there to remind herself, reminding her that she was going to move the tree to the center of the picture the next morning, and thinking of the joy of painting the next morning, her interest was almost Higher, she laughed loudly at what Mr Tansley had said.Let him talk all night if he likes it. "How long do they want the watchmen to stay on the lighthouse?" she asked.He answered her.His knowledge is amazing.He was very grateful to her, he liked talking to her, and he was beginning to feel a little more at ease.That being the case, thought Mrs Ramsay, she could now go back to that dream, that unreal and enchanted place--the drawing-room of the Mannings' house in Marlow, twenty years ago--where you dangled, Move around without worry, because you don't have to worry about the future.She knew what happened to them, and she knew what happened to herself.It was like rereading a good book, she already knew how the story would end, because it all happened twenty years ago; and the flow of life, even from this dining table, was pouring like a cascade , somewhere, its source is sealed, stored as still as a lake between its banks.He said they built a billiard room—is that possible?Will William continue to talk about the current situation of the Manning family?She wanted him to talk badly.But no—for some reason, he wasn't in the mood to talk any further.She tried to get him to talk.He didn't respond.She can't force him.She is disappointed. "Those kids are a disgrace," she said with a sigh.He said that the lesser virtue of keeping time was not acquired until older age. "That's all right, if that's the case," said Mrs. Ramsay, only trying to find something to say so as not to stand in the way, while she thought how William had become as prim as a spinster.He realizes that he is ungrateful, that she wants to talk about something more intimate, but he is not in the mood for it at the moment, he feels that life is not going well, and he sits there awkwardly, waiting for something.Maybe someone else was talking about something interesting?What are they talking about? They are saying that the fish season is not good this year; the fishermen are moving elsewhere.They are talking about wages and unemployment.The young man was berating the government.William Banks thought to himself that since talking about one's private life was uncomfortable, it would be a relief to seize a subject of this sort and listen to them talk about "one of the most notorious laws of the present government."Lily was listening, and Mrs Ramsay was listening, and everyone was listening, but they were tired of hearing it.Lily felt as if something was missing; Mr. Bankes felt the same way.Mrs. Ramsay threw the scarf over herself, and she, too, felt that something was missing.They were all listening, but they were all thinking, "Please God, don't let what's on my mind come out." They were all thinking, "Other people get so angry when they talk about the government's decree about fishermen, Outraged, and I'm indifferent." Mr. Banks looked at Mr. Tansley, and he thought, Maybe this is the character.People are always looking forward to the appearance of such characters.There are always opportunities.At any given time, there will always be such a leader; a genius, political and otherwise.Perhaps he will be extremely difficult with us conservative old-timers, thought Mr Banks.He thought with as much leeway as he could, for he sensed by some strange sense, as well as by the nerves in his spine, that the lad was jealous and cynical, half for himself, perhaps more likely Half for his work, for his views, for his science; therefore, his statements are neither entirely candid nor entirely justified, for Mr. Tansley seems to be saying: you are wasting your lives.You are all wrong.Poor oldies, you are hopelessly behind the times.The lad seemed quite confident; what a haughty attitude he had.But Mr. Banks asked himself to observe calmly: he had courage;As Mr Tansley lashed out at the government, Mr Banks thought maybe there was some truth to what he was saying. "Now please tell me..." he said.So the two of them argued endlessly over political issues.Lily gazed dreamily at the petals of the table-cloth pattern; and Mrs Ramsay left the two men to argue, wondering why she was so sick of such squabbles.She looked at her husband, who was sitting at the other end of the table, and hoped that he would also say a few words.Just one word, she told herself.Because, as long as he said a word, the situation would be very different.His words always hit home.He had always cared about the fishermen and their income, and he couldn't even sleep thinking about them.As soon as he spoke, the situation would be completely different.Maybe other people don't feel it, please God, don't let people see how indifferent I am, because people do care about those issues.Later she realized that because she adored him, she expected his opinion.She felt as if someone had been praising her husband and her marriage in front of her, and she couldn't help beaming with excitement, completely unaware that it was she who was praising her husband.She looked at him, always thinking that she would find that his appearance looked majestic...But that's not the case at all!He was pursing his mouth, frowning, blushing and angry.God knows, what's the matter?She was puzzled.What is going on?Just to have more soup for poor old Mr. Augustus--that's all.It's unthinkable, it's disgusting (he gestures to her with his eyes from the other end of the table), that Augustus, it's soup again.What he hates most is seeing other people eating after he has finished eating himself.She saw his anger rushing into his eyes and on the brows of his eyebrows like a pack of hounds, and she knew that something terrible would erupt soon, and when the time came—please God forgive me!She saw him clenching his fists to restrain himself like a brake on a wheel, sparks seemed to be shooting out of his whole body, but he didn't say a word.He sat there with a straight face.He didn't say anything, he asked her to watch carefully.Let her praise him for it!But why on earth could poor Augustus have another plate of soup?He just touched Ellen's arm and said, "Ellen, please bring me another plate of soup." So Mr. Ramsay put on a serious face. Why couldn't he refill the soup, asked Mrs Ramsay.Of course they could let him have another set, if he needed it.He hated people eating and drinking, and Mr. Ramsay, frowning to her, suggested to her that he hated this endless delay.But he restrained himself, and Mr. Ramsay demanded her attention to it, indecent though he looked.But why do you want to show your disgust so clearly?Mrs Ramsay demanded an explanation. (The two of them looked at each other across the long table, conveying these questions and answers with a wink that read exactly how the other felt.) Everyone could see that he was angry, thought Mrs Ramsay.Ruth stared at her father; Roger looked at him; knowing that in a second they would both be laughing wildly, she ordered them decisively (very timely): "Light the candles." They jumped up and groped in the cupboard. Why could he never hide his feelings?Mrs Ramsay could not understand.She wondered if Augustus Carmichael noticed his reaction.Maybe he noticed; maybe he didn't.She could not help admiring him as he sat there eating his soup with great poise.If he wanted soup, he asked for another plate, and he didn't care whether people laughed at him or got angry with him.He didn't like her, and she knew it.But, in a way, it was for that very reason that she respected him.She watched him drink his soup, tall and serene, brooding in the fading twilight.She didn't know how he felt now, or why he was always content and dignified; and she thought, how devoted he was to Andrew, he would call the boy to his room, "show him all kinds of things." something." And he used to sleep all day on the lawn, as if pondering over his lines, and his appearance reminded one of a cat watching a bird, snapping when he found the right word. Folding his palms together, her husband said, "Poor Augustus—he's a real poet." It was a high compliment coming from her husband's mouth. Now eight candles were placed on the dining table. At first the candlelight flickered for a while, and then radiated straight and bright light, illuminating the whole dining table and a plate of pale yellow and lavender fruits in the center of the table.Mrs Ramsay marveled at how beautifully the boy had adorned the bowl.For Ruth has so beautifully adorned a bowl of grapes, pears, bananas, and shell-like horns with pink lines, reminiscent of the golden cups taken from Neptune's banquet table under the sea, In the picture) a bunch of grapes with branches and leaves on the shoulder of Bacchus, the god of wine, complements the leopard skins worn by the gods, the bright red and golden flames emitted by the torches in his hands,...So suddenly reflected in the candlelight, the fruit bowl seemed to have a huge volume and depth, like a world, she thought, in which you could swim, climb the peaks and walk down the valleys with your walking stick.She was delighted (for it brought a momentary feeling together) to see that Augustus was also looking at the plate of fruit, penetrating deeply into it, and opening a veil of fruit there. The flower ball, pick a bunch of flower spikes here, and after enjoying it for a while, return to his eye socket.That was his way of seeing things, very different from hers.But looking at an object together makes them feel united. Now that all the candles were lit, the faces on both sides of the table seemed closer together, forming a collective around the table, which had never been felt in the twilight just now.Because the night is cut off by the panes of glass on the window, through which the exact view of the outside world cannot be seen clearly, there is a ripple that wonderfully separates the inside and the outside: in the house, it seems to be orderly , the land is dry; outdoors, a watery scene is reflected in which things fluctuate and disappear. 他们的心情马上发生了某种变化，好像真的发生了这种情况：他们正在一个岛上的洞穴里结成一个整体，去共同对抗外面那个湿漉漉的世界。拉姆齐夫人刚才一直在心绪不安地等待保罗和敏泰进来，觉得无法定下心来处理各种事情，现在感到她的心情已经由不安转为盼望。因为，现在他们总该进来了吧。而莉丽·布里斯库想要分析一下大家突然精神振奋的原因，把它和刚才网球场上的瞬间相比较：当时，坚实的形体突然消融，彼此之间的空隙是如此宽阔；现在，许多蜡烛在这家具简陋、没有窗帘的房间里照耀，人们的容貌在烛光之中看上去好像是些光亮的面具，产生的效果却和刚才相同。压在他们心上的某种重荷被移去了；她觉得任何事情都有可能发生。现在他们该进来了，拉姆齐夫人想。她向门口望去，敏泰·多伊尔、保罗·雷莱和一个捧着大砂锅的女仆一起走了进来。他们来得太晚了，实在太晚了，敏泰抱歉道。同时，他们俩分别走向餐桌两端各自的座位。 “我把我的别针——我祖母的别针给丢了，”敏泰说。她的声音有点悲伤，她那双棕色的大眼睛有些发红，当她在拉姆齐先生旁边就座时，她的目光一会儿低垂、一会儿仰望，不敢正视别人的眼睛，这引起了拉姆齐先生的怜爱之心，于是他摆出骑士风度来和她逗趣。 她怎么会这样傻，他问道，竟然会佩戴着珠宝去攀登那些岩礁？ 她装作害怕他的样子——他是如此惊人地渊博，头一天晚上，她坐在他身旁，他就和她谈论乔治·艾略特，当时她真是十分惶恐，因为她把《米德尔马奇》第三卷遗忘在火车上了，不知道这部小说的结尾如何；但从此以后，她和他相处得很融洽，她使自己显得比实际的更加幼稚无知，因为他喜欢把她叫作小傻瓜。因此，今晚他直截了当地嘲笑她，她也不怕。此外，她知道，她一走进房间，那个奇迹就发生了：她被一层金色的云雾笼罩着。有时候她具有这种魔力，有时候却没有。她从来也不清楚，它为什么会到来，又为什么会离去，也不知道她当时是否具有这种魔力，直到她走进房间，看到男人们瞅着她的神态，才能立刻作出判断。对，今晚她具有惊人的魔力；拉姆齐先生叫她别当傻瓜时那副神态，使她意识到这一点。她坐在他的身旁微笑。 那件事情肯定已经发生了，拉姆齐夫人想，他们俩必定已经私订终身。在一刹那间，她出乎意料地重新感到有点儿——嫉妒。因为他，她的丈夫，也感觉到了——今晚敏泰容光焕发；他喜欢那些少女，那些闪耀着青春的光辉、脸上带着红晕的少女，她们神采飞扬，有点儿飘飘然，有点儿任性和轻浮，她们不会“把她们的头发剃净”，不会像他所说的可怜的莉丽那样“……缺乏生气”。她们具有某种她本人所没有的品质：那种灿烂夺目的光彩，那种醇厚芬芳的神韵，这吸引着他，使他精神欢畅，使他特别宠爱像敏泰那样的姑娘。她们可以为他剪头发，给他编织表链，或者在他工作之际打扰他，大声呼喊他（她听到她们的呼声）：“来呀，拉姆齐先生，现在该轮到咱们来打败他们啦。”而他就马上丢下手中的工作，跑出去打网球。 但是，实际上她并不嫉妒，只是偶尔在对镜整容之时，看到自己两鬓花白，稍为有点悔恨而已。她已显得衰老，也许这是她自己的过错（这是她为暖房修理费用以及其他家务琐事操心的结果）。她很感谢那些姑娘和她的丈夫开开玩笑（“拉姆齐先生，您今天抽了多少烟啊？”等等），她们使他恢复了青春，看上去像个对妇女颇有吸引力的青年。他不复是压在繁重的劳动、尘世的忧伤、个人的成败得失这些精神负担的重荷之下的学者，而是像他们初次会见时那样，成了一个瘦削英俊的青年，她还记得当年他用一种讨人喜欢的风度，搀扶她跨出游艇（她瞅了他一眼，他看上去惊人地年轻，正在和敏泰开着玩笑）。至于她自己——“就把它放在这儿吧，”她一边说，一边帮助那瑞士姑娘把盛着牛肉的棕色砂锅放在自己面前——她喜欢淳朴的少年。保罗必须坐在她的身边。她为他保留了一席之地。真的，有时候她想，她最喜欢那些头脑单纯的少年。他们不会拿什么学位论文来叫你腻烦。归根结蒂，那些聪明的学者们错过了多少有意义的事情啊！说真的，他们变得多么枯燥乏味！当保罗就座之时，她觉得他有某种十分可爱的魅力。他彬彬有礼的风度，挺直的鼻梁，神采奕奕的蓝眼睛，都很讨她的喜欢。他是多么温柔体贴。他是否能告诉她——既然现在大家又在聊天——究竟发生了什么事情？ “咱们又回去找敏泰的别针，”他一边说一边在她身旁坐下。“咱们”——那就够了。她注意到他嗓音的变化和难以启口的样子，就明白他是第一遭使用“咱们”这个词儿。“咱们干了这个；咱们干了那个。”他们将一辈子使用这种口吻来说话，她想。玛莎有几分夸耀地揭开了盖子，那个棕包的砂锅里喷发出橄榄油和肉汁的浓郁香味。那厨娘为了准备这道菜，足足花了三天时间。拉姆齐夫人把刀叉深深地插到酥软的牛肉里，她一定要精心挑选一块最嫩的给威廉·班克斯。她凝视着油光闪亮的锅壁和锅里棕黄色的香味扑鼻的肉片、肉桂树叶和美酒。她想，这道佳肴可以用来庆贺那桩喜事——一种欢庆节日的难以捉摸而又柔情脉脉的感觉涌上了心头，好像在她的内心唤起了两种感情；其中有一种感情是深刻的——因为，还有什么比男子对于妇女的爱情更加严肃、威力无边、感人至深的呢？就在它的怀里，孕育着死亡的种子。同时，这些情人，这些眼里射出兴奋的光芒、进入如醉如痴的梦境的人儿，他们必须戴上花冠，让人家嘲弄地围着他们跳舞。 “这是大大的成功，”班克斯先生暂时放下手中的刀叉说道。他细细地品尝了一番。它美味可口、酥嫩无比，烹调得十全十美。她怎么能够在这穷乡僻壤搞出这样的佳肴？he asked her.她是位了不起的女人。他对她的全部爱慕敬仰之情，又重新恢复了。她意识到这一点。 “这是按照祖母的法国菜谱做的，”拉姆齐夫人不胜喜悦地说。这当然是法国菜。所谓英国的烹饪法，简直是糟透了（他们大家都表示同意）。那就是把白菜放在水里煮。那就是把肉片烤得像牛皮。那就是把美味的菜皮全削掉。“菜皮，”班克斯先生说，“是蔬菜中营养最丰富的部分。”拉姆齐夫人说，这简直是暴殄天物。一个英国厨师所抛弃的东西，足以养活一家法国人。她知道威廉现在已恢复了对她的仰慕之情，现在一切都顺顺当当，她刚才的忧虑已经消除，她又可以自由自在地享受胜利的喜悦，嘲笑命运的无能，在这种感觉的鼓舞之下，她又指手划脚、谈笑风生了。莉丽想，她是多么幼稚、多么可笑：她坐在那儿，蕴藏在她体内的所有的美，又像花朵一般开放了，而她却在谈论什么菜皮。她具有某种惊人的气质。她是所向披靡、不可抗拒的。莉丽觉得，拉姆齐夫人最后总是能够随心所欲。现在她已经圆满成功了——保罗和敏泰大概已经订婚；班克斯先生正在这儿用膳。她对他们施展一种魔力，只要她心中盼望，最后总能如愿以偿。情况就是如此简单，如此直截了当。（她容光焕发——看上去并不年轻，但是光芒四射。）莉丽把拉姆齐夫人丰富的感染力和自己的精神贫乏进行对比。她猜想，一部分是由于对她这种奇异的、可怕的力量的信赖，使保罗·雷莱坐在她身旁激动颤抖、茫然沉思、默然无语。莉丽觉得，当拉姆齐夫人在谈论菜皮之时，她正在提高这种力量，崇拜这种力量；她伸出手来发挥它，保护它，使他们感到温暖，然而，当她把这一切都完成了，不知道为什么，她笑了，莉丽觉得，好像她把她的牺牲品领上了祭坛。现在，这种魔力，这种爱的感情和激动，也向她袭来，征服了她。她感到自己在保罗身旁显得多么微不足道！他，光彩照人，热情洋溢；她，冷漠无情，挖苦嘲讽；他，启程去冒险；她，停泊在岸边；他，如箭离弦，勇往直前；她，茕茕孑立，被人遗忘——她打算分担他的灾难，如果这是一场灾难的话。她怯生生地说： “敏泰的别针是什么时候丢失的？” 他的脸上浮现出一丝微妙的笑容，它笼罩着回忆的面纱，点染着梦幻的色彩。He shook his head. “在海滩上，”他说。 “我要去找的，”他说，“明天一早就起床去找。”这是对敏泰保密的，因此他说话时压低了嗓音，并且把目光转向她坐的地方。她正在拉姆齐先生身旁谈笑。 莉丽想要强烈地、坚决地表示，她渴望帮助他；她想象她自己如何在黎明时分来到沙滩上，而正是她找到了隐藏在一块石头后面的别针，这样，她就跻身于那些水手和探险者的行列之中了。但是，对于她的毛遂自荐，他如何答复呢？她确实带着难得显示的热情说：“让我和你一起去找。”他却笑而不答。他的意思是同意还是不同意？——也许是不置可否。然而，他的意思还不是这个——他发出一阵奇特的笑声，似乎在说：如果你高兴从悬崖上跳下去，我也不管。他当着她的面，公然显示出爱情的热烈、可怕、冷酷、无情。它像火一般灼伤了她。莉丽瞧着敏泰在餐桌的另一端和拉姆齐先生撒娇，她想到敏泰已暴露在冷酷的爱情的毒牙之下，感到不寒而栗；然而，她又有一种感激之情，无论如何，她对自己说，（她一眼看到放在桌布图案上的那只盐瓶）她不必结婚，多谢老天爷，她不必去遭受那种有失身分的灾难。她要把那棵树移到更中间一点。 情况就是如此复杂。她的遭遇，特别是她待在拉姆齐家中的遭遇，使她同时感觉到两种相反的因素在剧烈地斗争：一方面，是你的感觉；另一方面，是我的感觉；然后这两方面就在她的心里搏斗，就像现在这样。这爱情是如此美丽，如此令人兴奋，使我在它的边缘颤抖，并且违反自己的习惯，主动提出到沙滩上去寻找别针；同时，这爱情又是一种人类最愚蠢、最野蛮的热情，它把这样一个侧影像宝玉一般俊美的好青年（保罗的侧影十分优美），变成一个手执铁棍的暴徒（他真是傲慢无礼）。然而，她想，自古以来，人们就歌颂爱情，向它奉献无数的花环和玫瑰，如果你询问十个人，其中有九个会回答，他们什么也不要，就要这个——爱情；另一方面，从她个人的经验来看，妇女们一直感觉到，这并不是我们所要求的东西，没有比它更单调乏味、幼稚无聊、不近人情的了；然而，它又是美好的、必要的。那末，究竟如何？究竟如何呢？she asked.不知道为什么，她盼望其他人把这个问题继续讨论下去，似乎在这样一场辩论中，一个人射出的弩箭，是远远达不到目标的，必须留待别人来继续努力。因此，她回过头来聆听别人的谈论，或许他们能够使这个爱情的问题稍为明朗化。 “还有，”班克斯先生说，“英国人称之为咖啡的那种液体。” “噢，咖啡！”拉姆齐夫人说。但更成问题的是真正的黄油和干净的牛奶。（莉丽可以看出，拉姆齐夫人开始兴奋了，她正在用非常强烈的语气说话。）她激动地、滔滔不绝地描述英国乳酪业的弊病，告诉大家，牛奶送到门口已脏成什么样子，而且她准备拿出事实来证明她的指责，因为她已经调查过这个问题。这时，围绕着整个餐桌，打中间的安德鲁开头，就像野火燃着了一簇又一簇金雀花，她的孩子们都乐开了；她的丈夫也忍俊不禁；她被那嘲笑的火焰包围住了，被迫偃旗息鼓、卸下大炮，而她唯一的回击，是把同桌者对她的嘲笑和奚落作为一个例子，来向班克斯先生证明：如果你胆敢向英国公众的偏见进攻，你将会遭到什么下场。 莉丽刚才曾经帮助她照应塔斯莱先生，在拉姆齐夫人的印象中，她有点落落寡合，因此，她有意识地对她另眼相看；她说道：“无论如何，莉丽会同意我的意见的，”这样，她就把莉丽也卷进了争论，这使她有点儿不安，有点儿吃惊（因为她正在思考那个爱情的问题）。拉姆齐夫人觉得，莉丽和查尔士·塔斯莱都有点落落寡合、郁郁不欢。他们俩都被另外那两个人夺目的光彩所掩盖了。他显然感觉到自己完全被人冷落了；只要保罗·雷莱在这个房间里，就没有一个女人会瞧上他一眼。可怜的人儿！尽管如此，他还有他的学位论文（论某人对某事的影响）；他能够自力更生。莉丽的情况就不同了。光彩照人的敏泰使她相形之下黯然失色，更加显得其貌不扬；她那灰色短小的衣裙、布满皱纹的小脸和中国式的小眼睛，更加不引人注目。她的一切都显得如此渺小。然而，当拉姆齐夫人向莉丽求援之时（莉丽应该支持她，证明她谈论乳酪场还没她丈夫谈论皮靴那么唠叨——他说起皮靴，就可以讲上个把钟头），她把莉丽和敏泰相比较，认为到了四十岁，还是莉丽更胜一筹。在莉丽身上，贯穿着某种因素，闪耀着一星火花，这是某种属于她个人的独特品质，拉姆齐夫人对此十分欣赏，但是，她恐怕男人不会赏识。男人显然不能赏识，除非他是一位像威廉·班克斯那样的高龄长者。但是，威廉所关心的，嗯，拉姆齐夫人有时想道，自从他的妻子死后，也许他对她相当关心。当然他不是在“恋爱”；这只是形形色色无法加以分门别类的感情之一。噢，别胡思乱想了；威廉应该和莉丽结婚。他们有这么多共同之处。莉丽多么喜爱花卉。他们都有一种冷淡、超脱、无求于人的处世态度。她一定要设法让他们在一起散步谈心。 她真傻，怎么让他们俩相对而坐。这个失误明天就能加以补救。如果明儿天晴，他们应当去野餐。似乎一切都有可能发生。似乎一切都可以安排妥当。刚才（但是这种情况不能持久，她想，当他们都在大谈其皮靴之时，她的思绪却游离开去），刚才她达到了安全的境界，有把握地左右着局势；她像一只兀鹰一般在上空翱翔盘旋，像一面旗帜那样在喜悦的气氛中迎风飘扬，她身上的每一根神经都甜蜜地、悄悄地、庄严地充满着喜悦，她瞧着他们全都在吃喝，她想，她的喜悦就是来自她的丈夫、子女和宾客；这喜悦全是从这深沉的寂静之中产生出来的（她把一小片牛肉递给班克斯先生，并且向砂锅深处窥望），似乎没有什么别的特殊原因，现在，这喜悦的气氛就像烟雾一般逗留在这儿，像一股袅袅上升的水汽，把他们安全地凝聚在一起。什么话也不必说；什么话也不能说。它就在他们的周围缭绕萦回。（她仔细地帮班克斯先生挑了一块特别酥嫩的牛肉。）她觉得它带有永恒的意味；正如今天下午她曾感到过的某种东西；在一些事物之中，有某种前后一贯的稳定性；她的意思是指某种不会改变的东西，它面对着（她瞅了一眼玻璃窗上反光的涟漪）那流动的、飞逝的、光怪陆离的世界，像红宝石一般闪闪发光；因此，今晚她又感到白天经历过的那种平静和安息。她想，那种永恒持久的东西，就是由这种宁静的瞬间构成的。 她向威廉·班克斯保证：“对，还有不少牛肉，人人都可以添一份。” “安德鲁，”她说，“把你的盘子放低些，不然的话我要把肉汁溅出来了。”（都勃牛肉取得了美满的成功。）她把手中的勺子放了下来。这儿，她觉得，是接近事物核心的静止的空间，她可以在这里活动或休息；现在她可以等待（他们的盘里都已添过牛肉）、倾听；然后，她可以像一头兀鹰突然凌空而下，洋洋得意地翱翔盘旋，轻松地发出一阵笑声，把她的全部分量落在餐桌的另一端，她的丈夫正在那儿说什么一千二百五十三的平方根。这个数字好像就是他手表上的号码。 What does it mean?她至今毫无概念。平方根？那是什么玩意儿？反正她的儿子们知道。她侧转身躯，倾听他们正在谈论的事情：平方根和立方根；伏尔泰和斯达尔夫人；拿破仑的个性；法国的土地租借政策；罗斯伯雷爵士；克里维的回忆录。让这令人羡慕的男性的智慧所编织出来的东西衬托住、支撑住她的身躯，这男性的智慧就像织布机上的铁桁一般，上下摆动、左右穿梭，织出了晃动不已的布匹，托起了整个世界，因此，她可以完全放心地把自己交托给它，甚至可以闭上眼睛，或者让她的目光闪烁片刻，就像一个孩子从枕头上仰望树上的层层叶片，对它们眨眨眼睛。然后她从幻梦中醒来。那匹布还在织布机上继续编织。威廉·班克斯正在称赞司各特的威佛利小说。 威廉·班克斯说，每隔半年，他总要读一本威佛利小说。为什么那会使查尔士·塔斯莱生气呢？他迫不及待地插嘴（拉姆齐夫人认为，这都是由于普鲁不愿意待他好一点的缘故），并且抨击威佛利小说，实际上他却对此一无所知，无论如何，他一点儿也不懂得这个问题，拉姆齐夫人想。她是在观察他的态度，而不是在倾听他的言论。根据他的态度，她就能看出事实的真相——他要表现自己，他会一直保持这种态度，直到他升任教授或者娶了妻子，那时他就不必老是再说，“我——我——我。”因为，他对于可怜的司各特爵士（或者是简·奥斯丁）的批评，充其量不过是在标榜他自己罢了。“我——我——我。”他总是在考虑他自己，还有别人对他的印象，这一点，她从他说话的声调、强调的语气和坐立不安的态度，就能判断出来。事业的成功将会对他大有裨益。不管怎样，他们又开始交谈了。现在她不必再留神倾听。她知道，这种情况不会持久，然而，此刻她的目光如此清澈，似乎不费吹灰之力，就能环顾餐桌，揭开每一个人的面纱，洞察他们内心的思想感情，她的目光就像一束悄悄潜入水下的灯光，照亮了水面的涟漪和芦苇、在水中平衡它们躯体的鲽鱼、突然静止不动的鳟鱼，它们悬浮在水中，颤动不已。就像如此，她看到他们；她听见他们；不论他们说什么，都带有这种性质：他们所说的话，就像一条鳟鱼在游动，同时她又能看到水面的涟漪和水底的沙砾，看到左方和右方的某些东西；而所有这一切，都结合在一起，构成了一个整体。然而，要是在活跃的现实生活中，她会撒网捕捞，把捞到的东西一一分类；她会说她喜欢威佛利小说，或者说她还没读过这些书；她会鼓励自己前进；但是，她现在什么也不说。此刻她正处于悬而不决的静止状态。 “啊，但是你认为这类小说还能流行多久？”有人提出这样的问题。好像有一双触角从她身上颤动着向外伸展出去，抓住了某些句子，强迫她对它们加以注意。这句话就是其中之一。她觉察到，对于她的丈夫说来，这句话里蕴藏着某种危险。一个这样的问句，几乎肯定会引起别人说一些话，来使他想起他自己著作的失败。他马上就会想到：他的著作还能流行多久。威廉·班克斯（他完全没有这种虚荣心）对这问题置之一笑，他说，文学风尚的变化对他说来无关紧要。谁能预料什么东西将会永存不朽——在文学方面，或者确切一点说，在任何其他方面？ “让我们欣赏我们自己真正欣赏的东西，”他说。拉姆齐夫人对他的正直肃然起敬。他似乎从来没有考虑过：这对我有何影响？但是，如果你具有另一种性格，这种性格使你必须得到别人的赞扬和鼓励，你自然就会开始（她知道拉姆齐先生正在开始）感到不自在，你会要别人对你说，噢，拉姆齐先生，不过您的著作是不朽的，或者说些诸如此类的话。他有点烦躁地说，无论如何，他对司各特（或许是莎士比亚？）的兴趣是一辈子不会衰退的。他说得很激动。她认为，每个人，不知道为什么，都感到有点局促不安。敏泰·多伊尔具有良好的本能，她故意娇憨地说，她不相信有谁真的欣赏莎士比亚。拉姆齐先生严峻地说（但他的心情已经转变）：很少有人真正像他们自己所说的那样喜欢莎士比亚。但是，他接着说，无论如何，莎士比亚的某些剧本的确具有一定的优点。拉姆齐夫人发觉，紧张的气氛缓和下来了，无论如何暂时不会有什么问题，他会去嘲笑敏泰，而（拉姆齐夫人发现）敏泰意识到拉姆齐先生对他本人的成败极为忧虑，她自有办法来体贴他、奉承他，用各种方法来叫他心平气和。但是，她希望这一切都是不必要的；也许正是由于她自己的过错，才造成了这种必要性。总之，现在她可以放下心来，听保罗谈谈他童年时代读过的书了。他说那些书是不朽的。他在学校里念过一点托尔斯泰的小说。其中有一本他永远也忘不了，但他想不起那书名了。俄国人的名字就是记不住，拉姆齐夫人说。“伏龙斯基，”保罗说。他想起了这个名字，因为他总是觉得，对一个坏蛋来说，这个名字实在是太好了。“伏龙斯基，”拉姆齐夫人说，“噢，准是，”但他们并未深入讨论这本书；书籍本来不是他们所擅长的话题。不，讲起关于书的事情，查尔士·塔斯莱只要一秒钟就能纠正他们俩的错误，但他老是在想：我说得恰当吗？我给人留下一个良好的印象了吗？这些想法和他关于书籍的意见混杂在一起，结果你对他本人的了解比对于托尔斯泰的了解还要多一点；和他相反，保罗说起话来直截了当，都是关于所谈的问题本身，而不是关于他自己或什么别的东西。和所有智力迟钝的人们一样，他也有一种谦逊的品德，他很关心体贴对方的感觉如何，这一点有时候至少使她觉得他很讨人喜欢。现在他所考虑的不是他自己，不是托尔斯泰，而是她是否觉得有点冷，是否觉得有一阵穿堂风；是否想吃个梨子。 不，她说，她可不要吃梨。真的，她一直在（无意识地）留心看守着那盘水果，希望谁也别去碰它。她的目光一直出没于那些水果弯曲的线条和阴影之间，在葡萄浓艳的紫色和贝壳的角质脊埂上逗留，让黄色和紫色互相衬托，曲线和圆形互相对比，她不知道自己为什么要这样做，也不明白为什么她每一次凝视这盘水果，就觉得越来越宁静安详、心平如镜；噢，如果他们想吃水果，那多可惜——一只手终于伸了过去，取了一只梨子，破坏了整个画面。她不胜惋惜地瞅了露丝一眼。她望着坐在杰斯泼和普鲁中间的露丝。多奇怪，她自己的孩子，竟会干出这种大煞风景的事儿！ 那多奇怪，看见他们，她的孩子们，杰斯泼、露丝、普鲁、安德鲁在那儿坐成一排，他们几乎默不作声，但是，从他们嘴唇的轻微翕动，她猜测他们正在讲一些属于他们自己的笑话。那是和其他一切都无关的事情，是他们等一会儿到他们自己房间里才放声谈笑的事情。她希望这不是关于他们的父亲的什么事情。不，她想不会的。那究竟是什么呢？她可猜不到。她有点儿伤心，因为，她似乎觉得，他们要等到她不在场的时候，才自由地说笑。在那些相当安定、静止、像面具一般缺乏表情的脸庞后面，隐藏着所有那些她不知道的事情；因为他们不容易参加到成人的谈话中来，他们就像旁观者或检查员，和那些成年人隔开一段距离，或者有些凸出。但是，当她今晚瞧一下普鲁，就发现上述结论对她来说并不完全正确。她刚刚在起步，坠入尘世。在她的脸上，有一种非常模糊微弱的光彩，好像坐在对面的敏泰的光芒、某种兴奋的情绪、某种对于幸福的预期，在她的身上反映了出来；好像爱情的太阳从桌布的边缘升起，而她还不知道这是什么，就弯下身去向它致意。她一直在含羞地、好奇地瞅着敏泰，因此，拉姆齐夫人瞧瞧这个，再望望那个，在心里暗暗地对普鲁说，总有一天，你将像她一样幸福；你将比她还要幸福得多，她又加了一句，因为你是我的女儿；她的意思是说，她的亲生闺女，应该比别人的女儿更加幸福。但是晚餐已经结束。是离开餐桌的时候了。他们只是在玩弄他们盘子上的刀叉。她的丈夫正在和敏泰讲一个关于打赌的笑话。她要等他们听他讲完，笑个畅快，然后她才站起来。 她突然觉得喜欢查尔士·塔斯莱；她喜欢他的笑声。她喜欢他对保罗和敏泰那样生气。她喜欢他手足无措、局促不安的窘态。毕竟在那小伙子身上还有不少优点。还有莉丽，拉姆齐夫人把餐巾放在她的盘子旁边想道，她总有一些别出心裁的笑话可说。你永远不必为她费心。She is waiting.她把餐巾折好，塞在盘子的边缘下面。嗯，他们讲完了吗？No.那个笑话又引出了另一个故事。她的丈夫今晚兴高采烈，她猜想，他希望在那盘汤所引起的芥蒂之后，和老奥古斯都言归于好，因此把他也拉进了谈话的圈子——他们正在讲关于他们俩在大学里认识的一位朋友的故事。她向窗户望去，窗上的玻璃一片漆黑，蜡烛的火焰在窗上的反光更明亮了，她向外面望去，谈话的声音传入她的耳鼓，有一种非常奇怪的感觉，好像这是在一个大教堂里做礼拜的声音，因为她并不在聆听所说的词句。突然传来一阵笑声和一个人（敏泰）单独说话的声音，这使她想起男人们和男孩们在罗马天主教会的大教堂里做弥撒时高声念诵拉丁语经文。她等待着。她的丈夫开腔了。他在重复一些词句，那节奏和他悲喜交集的声音，使她明白这是一首诗： 那吟诗的声音（她凝视着窗户），宛如漂浮在户外水面上的花朵，与他们全都脱离了关系，似乎并没有什么人在吟咏，而是那些诗句在自动涌现出来。 她不知道这些诗句的涵义是什么。但是，像音乐一般，这些诗句好像是由她自己的声音吟诵出来的，这声音在她的躯体之外，流畅自如地说出了她心中整个黄昏的感受，虽然在这段时间里，她谈论着各种各样不同的话题。不必左顾右盼，她就知道餐桌旁的每一个人都在倾听： 怀着与她相同的解脱和喜悦之情，他们感到好像这是出自他们自己肺腑的声音，终于说出了自然而然要说的话。 但这声音停止了。她环顾四周。She stood up.奥古斯都·卡迈克尔也欠身起立，他手中拿着餐巾，看上去就像一条白色的披肩，他站着吟诵： 和杉木的箭束， 当她经过他面前时，他稍微转过身来，对她重复那最后一行诗句： 并且向她鞠躬，好像他是在向她致以崇高的敬礼。不知道为什么，她觉得，他对于她似乎比以往任何时候更有好感；带着一种宽慰和感激的心情，她躬身答礼，从他为她打开的门口走了出去。 现在有必要把一切都往前推进一步。走到门槛上，她逗留了片刻，回首向餐厅望了一眼，当她还在注目凝视之时，刚才的景象正在渐渐消失；当她移动身躯、挽住敏泰的手臂离开餐厅之际，它改变了，呈现出不同的面貌；她回过头去瞥了最后一眼，知道刚才的一切，都已经成为过去了。