Chapter 2 Chapter One

Mrs. Dalloway said she was going to buy the flowers herself. For Lucy had work to do: to take off the hinges and open the door; the Rumper Meir Company was coming.Besides, thought Clarissa Dalloway, what a morning—the air was so fresh, it seemed to be for the children on the beach to enjoy. How wonderful!What a joy!Just like when she was in Bourton before, she always felt this way when she pushed open the French windows and ran outside; at this moment, she could still hear the slight creak of the hinges when the window was pushed open.How fresh and still the morning air was there, certainly stiller than it is now: like the lapping of waves, or the gentle blowing of spray; Solemn; when she stood at the open window, as if she had a premonition that something terrible was about to happen; she watched the flowers, and the mist in the trees, and the rooks flying up and down; she stood and gazed, until Peter Wall What's the voice came: "Contemplating in the vegetable field?"--Is that what you said? —“I like people, not cauliflower.” —Did you say that again?He—Peter Walsh—must have said that one morning at breakfast, when she was out on the terrace.He was coming back from India recently, either in June or July, she couldn't remember; because his letters were always very dull, but his words could make her remember, and his eyes, his Knife, his smile, and his bad temper; a thousand things of the past have long since vanished, and—strange to say! ——Similar words about Chinese cabbage will be kept in mind.

She straightened up a little on the curb sidewalk, waiting for the Duttnell delivery truck to pass.Scrope Purvis thought her a lovely woman (he knew her as well as his neighbors in Westminster knew each other); she had something of a bird about her, like a green booby, light , lively, though she was in her early fifties and had grown unusually pale since her illness.She was standing by the side of the road, erect, waiting to cross the street, without seeing him at all. Clarissa was sure, after living in Westminster—how many years?It’s been more than twenty years——Even when you are on the busy street, or when you dream back late at night, you will feel a special silence, or a solemn atmosphere, an indescribable stagnation. Influenza (probably the flu, they said, had weakened her heart).listen!The bell rang loudly.At first it was a forecast, with a melodious tone; then the time was announced with absolute accuracy; the heavy sound waves gradually disappeared in the air.She crossed Victoria Street, thinking: We are all big fools.Only old man knows why man loves life so much, sees it so, builds castles in the air around him, and overthrows them, inventing new ones every moment; The poor wretches (drinking makes them miserable) do the same with life.People love life--that is why no Act of Parliament can do anything; she is sure of that.People's eyes, light steps, heavy steps, trudging gaits, roars and noises; the endless stream of carriages, cars, buses and vans; people with billboards on their chests (staggering, swaggering) ; the brass band, the hurdy-gurdy; the euphoric atmosphere, the tinkling of bells, the strange screech of the planes overhead—it was all she loved: life, London, June at this very moment. .

It is now the middle of June.The war is over, but there are people who are as sad as Mrs. Foxcroft, who was at the embassy last night in agony, for her good son has been killed and the old estate must be passed to her nephew.And Mrs. Bakersborough, who are said to have opened the bazaar with the telegram in her hand: her dearest son, John, dead.But it was all over, thank God—it was over.It is now June.Both the king and queen live in the palace.Although it was too early, the sound of galloping horses and cricket bats could be heard everywhere.Lords, Ascot, Rainieri, and all such casinos were lost in the gray, blue mist of the morning, like a soft web, enveloping them all, and as the day came, The fog will disappear, and there will be galloping racehorses on the lawns and grounds of the casino, jumping as soon as their toes touch the ground; and galloping boys, and laughing girls in sheer dresses, dancing all night long, But now I have taken the fluffy and strange-looking dogs and let them go for a walk outside.Even at such times discreet old widows with estates raced off on mysterious errands in motor vehicles, while proprietors dealt with costume jewels and diamonds in the windows, antique emerald brooches set in eighteenth-century In the pedestal, cute enough to attract a Yankee (but she has to save and can't just buy jewelry for her daughter Elizabeth); but she likes these things herself, and has a ridiculously sincere enthusiasm for them, because she belongs to it all , her ancestors were ministers in the Georgian court, and she has lived in jewels since she was a child, and tonight she will hold a banquet, wearing jewels, shining dazzling light.But the strange thing is that when she walked into the park, there was only silence, mist, and buzzing; happy ducks were playing leisurely in the water.The bird with the pouch on its breast is swaying back and forth; but who is it?Appropriately, it was Hugh Whitbread, her old friend—the venerable and lovely Hugh!

"Good morning, Clarissa!" said Hugh solemnly, for they had known each other since childhood. "Where are you going?" "I like walking in London," replied Mrs. Dalloway. "It's more interesting than walking in the country, really." The Whitbreads had just arrived in London, and they were visiting a doctor—unfortunately.Others went to the city to watch movies, listen to operas, and take their daughters out to see the world; their family came to "see a doctor."Clarissa had visited Evelyn Whitbread in private nursing homes many times.Dare Evelyn is sick again?Evelyn was very uncomfortable, said Hugh, pouting his lips, or sticking out his well-dressed, imposing, suave figure (he was always overdressed, perhaps because he was a clerk at court and had to so), implying that his wife was afflicted, but not serious; as an old friend, Clarissa Dalloway understood without his having to tell.Oh, of course, she did understand him; what a pity; a twinge of sisterly affection welled up in her, and she wondered, perhaps, that her hat was not for the morning?For Hugh always made her feel that way, when he hurried forward, raised his hat too politely, and assured her that she looked like a girl of eighteen; and said, He must come to this evening's party, for Evelyn insists he must; but he may be a little late, for Jim's boy is to be taken first to the court party;—by Hugh's side, she Always felt a little awkward, a little schoolgirl; but took a liking to him, having known him a long time, and really thought he was a good fellow in his own way; Richard, however, was almost mad with his rage. ; and as for Peter Walsh, he still has a grudge against her because she likes Hugh.

Scenes of Bourton emerged before her eyes—Peter was furious; Hugh was certainly not Peter's opponent, but he was not such a complete imbecile or a fool as Peter thought.When his mother asked him to give up hunting, or to take her to Bath, he did so without saying a word, and he was not selfish indeed; Only the manners and breeding of an English gentleman, etc., were only the worst of her dear Peter; sometimes Peter was simply unbearable and impossible to live with; happy. (The June breath blows the trees and trees into lush greenery. In Pimlico, mothers are nursing their babies. Telegrams are constantly being sent from Fleet Street to the Admiralty. The noise of Arlington Street and Piccadilly seems to make the park The air is warmed, and the leaves are set, hot and shimmering, floating on the holy and energetic waves that Clarissa loves. Dancing and riding, she loves them all.)

She and Peter seemed to have been separated for hundreds of years, she never wrote to him, and his letters were dull.However, she would suddenly think, if he was beside her now, what would he say? ——Some days and situations will make her miss him silently, and the resentment of the past is no longer in her memories, which may be because she treats people sincerely.She remembered walking with Peter into the center of St. James's Park one fine morning—and it was.No matter how beautiful the weather was, how green the trees and flowers were, or how cute the little girl in the pink dress was, Peter ignored them all.If she told him to put them on, he would do so, and look at them.His interest, however, lies in the dynamics of the world: the music of Wagner, the poetry of Pope, the eternal humanity, and the flaws in Clarissa's own soul.How much he scolded her!How violently they argued!He said she would marry a prime minister and greet guests at the top of the stairs.He called her a perfect housewife (for which she had wept in her bedroom), and said she was born with such a mediocrity.

At the moment, she still felt that she had been arguing with Peter in St. James's Park, and that she was right in not marrying Peter--very right.Because once you are married, you have to be together day and night in the same house, you have to have a little freedom, a little autonomy between husband and wife.This, Richard gave her, and she also satisfied Richard. (Where was he this morning, for example? On some committee, she never asked.) However, with Peter it was intolerable that everything had to be laid out.When the relationship between the two developed to that day, when the scene by the fountain in the small garden appeared, she had to break up with him.Otherwise, she was convinced that they would both be ruined, that both parties would be finished.Still, she had endured the grief and anguish privately for years, like an arrow piercing her heart.Then came the terrible moment when she was told at a concert that Peter was married to the woman he had met on a ship to India.She will never forget all this.Peter had accused her of being callous and prim.She would never understand his love, and those Indian women seemed to understand--those stupid, beautiful, fragile fools.Her sympathy for him was wasted, for he emphasized to her that he had a good time, and that it still pissed her off that he had failed in one of the things they had talked about, that his life had been a failure.

She had reached the gate of the park without realizing it, and stopped for a while, watching the public vehicles coming and going on Piccadilly. Now she doesn't want to gossip about anyone in the world.She felt very young and yet indescribably old.Like a knife, she cuts into everything and at the same time stands out, watching.Looking at the passing taxis, she always felt in her heart that she was far away from this place and went to the beach alone.She always felt that it was extremely dangerous to live even a day, not because she thought she was very clever.Miss Daniels taught them only superficial knowledge, and she wondered how she could get by with it.In fact she knew nothing, no language, no history.Now she hardly reads anything but her memoirs in bed; and all this, the passing cars, etc., fascinates her.She didn't want to talk about Peter, and she didn't want to make any conclusions about herself.

At the moment, she walked forward, thinking that her only talent is that she can almost intuitively recognize people at a glance.If you put her in the same room with another person, instinct will make her angry or satisfied.Devonshire House, Bath House, the one with the white china parrots, she had seen them lit up, and she remembered Sylvia, Fred, Sally Seton--so many !She used to dance all night long; then she watched the wagons go by, heading for the market; she drove home through the park.She also remembered dropping a shilling nickel into the S-shaped lake in Hyde Park.But such a thing, everyone remembers.What she likes is the here and now, the reality in front of her eyes, like that fat woman in the cab.As she walked towards Bond Street, she asked herself: would she regret that she must die forever?Without her, everything in the world will continue, do you feel resentment?Or is it comforting to think that it will be over if you die?However, with the vicissitudes of life, she was able to adapt to the situation on the streets of London and survived. Peter also survived, and they trusted each other and lived together.She is convinced that she belongs to the trees and houses at home, ugly and messy as that house is; she also belongs to those who have never met; she is like a mist, scattered among the most familiar people, and they lift her aloft like a tree. It was like holding up clouds and mist, she had seen that kind of scene before.Yet her life, herself, stretches far and wide.What was she dreaming of now, as she looked in the window of Hachard's bookstore?Trying to remember what?As she recited the lines from the open book:

What vision of a country dawn flashed in her mind?The trauma the world has experienced recently has brought tears to the eyes of men and women.It brings tears and grief, courage and resilience, and an attitude of standing upright and unyielding.For example, the opening of the bazaar hosted by Mrs. Bakersborough, whom she admires the most, is a proof. Also in the window were Excursions and Feasts by Jarrox, and The Soaped Sponge, Memoirs by the Countess of Asquith, and The Nigerian Hunt, each of which was open.There were tons of books in the store, but none seemed suitable for Evelyn Whitbread in the nursing home.There was no book to cheer her up, so that this unusually wizened and small woman, when Clarissa entered the room, showed, if only for a moment, an expression of kindness, and then began to gossip, about women's diseases, etc., and so on.How she longed to make people happy when she came in!So thought Clarissa, and turned back to Bond Street.She was troubled again, because it would be foolish to do something for others.She would rather, like Richard, do things purely for herself.As she waited to cross the street, she thought that half her time was not just about getting things done, but about making people think one way or another.She knew it was the height of stupidity (the policeman raised his hand to let go now), because no one took her lead for a moment.It would be great if she could live a new life!You can even change your face!She thought, and stepped onto the sidewalk.

First, she would look like Lady Bakersborough, with beautiful eyes and dark skin like crumpled leather.She would be slow, dignified, tall, manly interested in politics, with a country house in the country, like Lady Bexborough; extremely dignified, extremely sincere.However, her face was just the opposite, with a thin figure, a ridiculously small face, and an aquiline nose.True, she could make herself presentable; her hands and feet were beautiful, and she dressed well, though she did not spend much.But lately this body of hers (she pauses now to look at a Dutch painting), and its functions, seem to cease to exist—not at all.She had the most absurd feeling that she could be invisible, unseen, unknowable; now that there was no more marriage, no more children, all that was left was to be with the crowd, amazing and quite solemn headed towards Bond Street.Now she was Mrs Dalloway, not even Clarissa anymore, but Mrs Richard Dalloway. Bond Street fascinated her, Bond Street mornings in high season attracted her: flags flying, shops lined with no ostentatious ostentation.A bolt of Scotch tweed on display in a shop where her father had bought clothes for fifty years; a few pearls in a jewelry store; a salmon on ice in a fish store. "That's all," she said, looking at the fish shop, "that's all," she repeated, standing for a moment in front of a store that specialized in gloves.Before the war, one could buy almost perfect gloves there.Her uncle William used to say that a woman's character was known only by the shoes and gloves she wore.One morning in the middle of the Great War, he died in bed."I've had enough," he had said. As for gloves and shoes, she was especially fond of them, but her own daughter, her Elizabeth, cared for neither. Simply not interested.She thought as she continued down Bond Street and entered a flower shop.Whenever she held a banquet, the store always prepared flowers for her.What Elizabeth loved most was actually the dog.This morning, the house smelled like tar all over the place.But poor dog Grisel was better than Miss Kilman, who would rather put up with a dog's bad temper and tar smell and other defects than sit and read her prayers in a stuffy bedroom!Nothing could be worse, she wanted to say.But, as Richard said, maybe it's just a stage every girl goes through, maybe the daughter is in love.But why should he fall in love with Miss Kilman?It is true that Miss Kilman had been treated unfairly, and that she should be forgiven; Richard said she was competent, with a clear sense of history.In any case, she and Elizabeth are now inseparable.Her own daughter, Elizabeth, went to church to receive communion, and she didn't care much about what to wear or how to treat luncheon guests.Religious fanaticism tends to be cold and unfeeling (as is faith in great causes), numbing emotion, as she had learned.Take Miss Kilman, she would do anything for the Russians, she would starve for the Austrians, but she tortured people in secret.She's so insensitive, always wearing that green raincoat, year after year;She's so poor and you're so rich; she lives in a slum with no cushions or beds or rugs or anything like that in the house.Her whole soul was molded with resentment.She had been expelled from school during the war—poor, resentful, unhappy woman indeed!In fact, what people hate is not Kilman personally, but the idea she represents.Of course, there must be many factors that are not Miss Kilman mixed in.In men's minds she has become a phantom, whom one wrestles in the night, the phantom that mounts us and sucks half our blood dry; Turn black and white, and she might fall in love with Miss Kilman!However, it is impossible in this life.no. However, there is a ferocious monster stirring in her heart!It made her restless.Her mind was like a leafy forest, and in the depths of this dense forest she seemed to hear the snapping of the branches, and feel the trampling of horses' hooves; and she would never be content or at ease, for the monster—the hatred within —would disturb her heart at any time, especially since her serious illness, a mood of hatred that would leave her skin broken, her back bruised, her body painful, and everything about beauty, friendship, health, love, and building The pleasures of a happy family sway, tremble, and fall like a young tree in the wind, as if a monster were indeed digging at the roots, as if her contentment was nothing but self-enjoyment!How terrible is the heart of hatred! intolerable!intolerable!She cried out inwardly, pushing open the revolving door of Mulbury's. She walked forward with brisk steps, tall and tall, and Miss Pym immediately came forward to greet her.This lady was born with a button-shaped face, and her hands were always flushed, as if she had been soaking flowers in cold water. Here is the world of flowers: delphiniums, sweet peas, bunches of lilacs, and carnations, a lot of carnations, and roses, three-tailed kites, ah, how lovely--she stood with Miss Pym Talk and inhale the fragrance of the earthy garden.Miss Pym had had her favors, and thought she was kind; indeed, she had been a kind, and very kind, many years ago; but she was old this year.Among the three-tailed kites, roses and clusters of swaying lilacs, she squinted her eyes and looked around, greedily smelling the intoxicating fragrance, enjoying the refreshing coolness, and dispelling the noise on the street just now.After a while she opened her eyes: the roses, so fresh, like lacy linens freshly laundered in the laundry and neatly placed in wicker trays; Violet, white and pastel sweet peas clustered in bowls - as if it were dusk when girls in tulle go outdoors after a wonderful summer day to pick sweet peas and roses, the sky is almost blue , where delphiniums, carnations, and lilies were in bloom; it was six or seven o'clock in the evening, and at that hour every flower—rose, carnation, three-tailed kite, lilac—shone: white, purple , red, and deep orange mingled together; each seemed to burn softly and purely in its twilight bed; oh, how she loved the little gray-white moths, around the balsam, in the twilight of the primroses Fly in and out all around! She and Miss Pym walked along the pots, carefully selecting flowers; she murmured to herself: That hate is really bad, bad--the voice became softer and softer, and the beauty, the fragrance, the color, And the confluence of Miss Pym's fondness and confidence in her, which she allowed herself to be submerged in, to subdue her hatred, drive away the monster, drive it out entirely; Just then—bang, there was a sound like a shot in the street! "My God, those cars are terrible." Miss Pym went to the window to look, and came back, with a hand full of sweet peas and a guilty smile on her face, as if the cars and the blown tires were all her fault . It was the loud bang of a car parked on the pavement directly opposite the Marlbury Flower Shop that startled Mrs Dalloway and made Miss Pym go to the window and apologize.The passers-by naturally stopped to watch, and happened to see the face of a number one dignitary in the car decorated with light gray furnishings, and then a man's hand pulled down the curtain, leaving only a light gray side. However, in an instant, rumors spread silently and invisible from the center of Bond Street to both sides, to Oxford Street on the one hand, and to the perfume shop on Atkins Street on the other, like a cloud, quickly covering the green hills, As if to throw a veil over it; indeed the rumors descended upon the faces like a sudden cloud of solemnity and serenity.A moment ago, the facial expressions of these people were still different, but at this moment, mysterious wings have passed by them, they listened to the voice of authority, the holy spirit of religion has appeared, her eyes are tightly covered with bandages , with his mouth open.However, no one knew whose face was actually seen.Is it the Prince of Wales?Is it the queen?Or the Prime Minister?Whose face is it?No one can tell. With his usual roll of lead pipe wrapped around his arm, Edgar Ding Waukis said in a humorous tone audible to others: "The locomotive (car) of Mr. Hugh (Prime Minister) .” Septimus Warren Smith heard him, and at the same time found himself blocked. Septimus Warren Smith was about thirty, with a hooked nose, a pale face, an old overcoat and brown shoes; Also feel afraid.The world has raised its whip, where will it go? Everything comes to a standstill.The rattling sound of a car engine is like a pulse, beating irregularly around a person's body.The sun was getting extra hot because the car was parked right outside the window of the Marlbury flower shop.The old ladies on the upper deck of the open-top bus all put up black parasols; sometimes a green umbrella here, sometimes a red umbrella there, and they opened it gently with a bang.Mrs. Dalloway, with her arms full of sweet peas, went to the window and wrinkled her little pink face and looked out, wondering what was the matter.All eyes were on the car, and so was Septimus.The boys on the bikes all jumped off.Traffic vehicles are piling up.And the car was parked on the street with its blinds down.Septimus thought: That drapery is strangely patterned, like a tree.Everything before his eyes was gradually converging towards one center, and the sight terrified him, as if something terrible was about to happen, and would immediately burn and spew out flames.The sky and the earth were shaking and trembling, and they were about to turn into a raging fire.I am in the way, he thought.Aren't people looking at him and pointing at him?Didn't he occupy the sidewalk with ulterior motives, as if rooting in the ground?But what is his intention? "Let us go on, Septimus," said his wife.She was an Italian woman of short stature, with large eyes on a pointed pale yellow face. Yet Lucrezia herself could not help looking at the car and at the tree pattern on the drapes.Is the queen sitting in the car? —Does the queen go shopping? The driver had been busy opening and closing and turning something, and now he was in the driver's seat. "Come on," said Lucrezia. But her husband (they had been married for four or five years) was taken aback, shuddered, and said angrily, "Okay!" as if she had interrupted his train of thought. People must notice, must see them.People, she thought, looking at the crowd staring at the cars; she was a little envious of the Englishmen and their children, their horses, their clothes; Mers once said: "I'm going to kill myself." What a terrible word!What if they heard what he said?Help!Help!She looked around the crowd, eager to call out to the butcher's son and the women: Help!Just last autumn she had put on the same coat and stood with Septimus on the Embankment; Septimus was reading the paper without saying a word, while she snatched the paper from his hand and returned it. Laugh out loud at the old man who saw them!But about bad luck, people always keep secret.She had to get him out of here and take him to a park. "Let's just cross the street," she said. She walked with his arm for a reason, and even though it was not emotional, he would not refuse.She was only twenty-four years old, so innocent, so impulsive, she had left Italy for him, and she was alone and lonely in England. The curtained car drove towards Piccadilly with an air of unfathomable mystery, still attracting people's attention, still arousing the same admiration on the faces of the onlookers on both sides of the street, as for the queen , or a tribute to the prince, or to the prime minister, no one knows.Only three people saw that face in just a few seconds. Whether they saw a man or a woman is still in dispute.But there was no question that someone was in the car: the dignitary was slipping through Bond Street, just a stone's throw away from the common man.At this moment, the eternal symbol of their country-the British monarch may be so close that they can almost talk.For these ordinary people, this is the first and last once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.How many years from now, London will be a weedy moor, and the people who rush through this Wednesday morning will be left with nothing but bones, a few wedding rings mixed with the ashes of the corpses, and a lot of corruption Gold dust fillings on broken teeth.By then, curious archaeologists will have traced the remains of the past and will have figured out who the man in the car really was. Mrs. Dalloway walked out of Mulberry Flower Shop with flowers in her arms.She thought: It's the queen, it's the queen in the car.The heavily shaded car drove by a foot away from her, and she stood by the flower shop, basking in the sun, and for a split second her face took on a look of great majesty.That may be the Queen's visit to a hospital, or to a bazaar to cut the ribbon. Although it was still early, the streets were already crowded.Does Lords, Ascot, Herringham have racehorses?What is it for?She doesn't understand.The streets were packed.English middle-class gentlemen and ladies sat on either side of the top of the open car, carrying bags and parasols, and some even wore fur coats on such a warm day; Clarissa found them particularly ridiculous, more unimaginable than anything; The queen herself was also blocked, and the queen could not pass.Clarissa was blocked on one side of Brook Street, and old Justice Sir John Buckhurst was blocked on the other, with the car between them (Sir John has been in law for many years and he likes beautifully dressed women) .At that moment, the driver bowed slightly, not knowing what to say to the policeman, or to show him something; the policeman saluted, raised his arms, turned his head sideways, and motioned for the bus to move aside to let the Car traffic.The car drove away slowly and silently. Clarissa guessed well, and of course she understood what was going on; she caught a glimpse of the mysterious white disc in the footman's hand, with a name engraved on it—was it the queen's name?Or the Prince of Wales, or the name of the Prime Minister?It illuminates the road ahead with its own radiance (Clarissa watches as the car shrinks and disappears).That night, at Buckingham Palace, it will shine brightly, surrounded by chandeliers, brilliant stars, puffed chests in oak leaves, Hugh Whitbread and all his colleagues, the gentlemen of England.And Clarissa was having a banquet that night.Thinking of this, she straightened her body slightly, and she will stand on the stairs in this posture to welcome the guests. The car was gone, but there was still an aftermath, echoing in the glove, hat and tailor shops on both sides of Bond Street.Within half a minute, everyone's faces were turned in the same direction - the window.The ladies who were choosing gloves paused - what kind of gloves?Up to the elbow or above the elbow?Lemon or light gray?As soon as the words fell, something happened.Such things alone are so insignificant that even the most delicate mathematical instruments cannot measure the vibrations of such things, although they can record the earthquakes in China.And yet such things come together with astonishing force, and universal attention, and emotion: strangers look at each other, and they think of the dead, of the flag, of the Empire.In a backstreet tavern, there was a commotion and beer glasses were broken over a colonial immigrant's inappropriate reference to the Windsors.It is strange that it should pass through the street and reach the ears of the ladies, and arouse their sympathy.They were shopping for white underwear with crisp white ribbons for their wedding.The superficial agitation caused by the passing car gradually faded away, but something extremely deep was touched in his bones. The car rolled briskly down Piccadilly and turned into St. James's Street.Tall, well-built men, well-dressed men in tailcoats and white trousers, with their hair pulled back, all of them for some reason stood before the oriel window of the Whitney Hotel, with their arms crossed Behind them, the eyes stared out of the window; they instinctively felt that a great person was passing there.The pale light of the Immortal Man seized their hearts, as it had just illuminated Clarissa.Immediately they straightened up more, and their hands were no longer behind their backs, as if they were ready to serve the royal family, and if need be, they would die under the gunfire like their ancestors.酒店四周的白色半身雕像、放着《闲谈者》杂志以及苏打水瓶的小桌子，似乎也赞许他们，好似他们象征着英国辽阔的麦地和大庄园；又把车轮轻微的轧轧声传送开去，犹如低音廊里的传音壁，以整个大教堂一般的力量，把一个声音扩张为深邃洪亮的回声。围着披肩的莫尔·帕莱脱握着鲜花，站在人行道上，她衷心祝愿那可爱的青年万事如意（车内肯定是威尔士王子），她本想把一束玫瑰——相当于一壶啤酒的价格——抛入圣·詹姆士街心，以表示她的轻松愉快以及对贫困的蔑视，可她正巧瞥见警察的眼光在盯住她，使这位爱尔兰老妇满腔忠诚之心受到挫折。圣·詹姆士宫的卫兵举手敬礼，亚历山大王后的警官表示赞许。 就在此时，白金汉宫前聚集了一小群民众，他们全是穷苦人，懒懒散散而又信心十足地等待着，望着国旗飘扬的宫殿，望着维多利亚女王的雕像，她威严地站在高处；百姓们赞美女王宝座下架子上的流水和装饰的天竺葵；在墨尔街行驶的许多汽车中，他们时而选中这一辆，时而挑出那一辆，向它倾注满腔热情，其实那是驾车出游的平民；当不相干的汽车接连驶过时，他们又把这番热情收回，贮藏在内心；在整个过程中，他们一想到王室在瞅着他们，就不禁胡思乱想，激动得两腿发抖；敢情是王后在欠身致意吧，或是王子在敬礼吧；想到上帝赐予帝王家天堂般的生活，想到宫廷侍从和屈膝行礼，想到王后幼时的玩偶之屋，想到玛丽公主同一个英国公民结婚，更想到了王子——啊，王子！听说他长得酷似老爱德华国王，但身材匀称得多。王子住在圣·詹姆士宫，不过早上他也可能来探望母亲呢。 萨拉·布莱切利就这么自言自语。她怀里抱着孩子，上下踢动着足尖，似乎她此刻就在平姆里科自己家里的火炉围栏边上，不过她的眼睛却注视着墨尔街。当下，埃米利·科茨正在皇宫的窗前徘徊，她想到了那些女仆和寝宫，那里有无数女仆和寝宫。人群愈聚愈多，又有一个牵着一条亚伯丁㹴狗的老先生和一些无业游民挤进来。矮小的鲍利先生在奥尔巴尼区置有房产，对人生的奥秘素来守口如瓶，但某些事情却会使他突然大发议论，既不恰当，又相当感伤；譬如，穷妇人等着瞧王后经过——穷苦的女人，可爱的孩子、孤儿、寡妇、战争——啧啧！谈起这一切，他竟然会热泪盈眶。透过稀疏的树木，一阵暖洋洋的微风轻轻吹入墨尔街，吹过英雄的铜像，也吹起鲍利先生的大不列颠心胸中飘扬着的国旗。当汽车转入墨尔街时，他举起帽子。当汽车驶近时，他把帽子举得更高，人也站得笔直，让平姆里科穷苦的母亲们紧挨在他身边。 忽然，科茨太太抬头向天上眺望。飞机的隆隆声钻入人群的耳鼓，预示某种不祥之兆。飞机就在树木上空飞翔，后面冒出白烟，袅袅回旋，竟然在描出什么字！在空中写字！人人都仰头观看。 飞机猛地俯冲，随即直上云霄，在高空翻了个身，迅疾飞行，时而下降，时而上升，但无论怎么飞，往哪儿飞，它的后面总曳着一团白色浓烟，在空中盘旋，组成一个个字母。不过，那是些什么字母呢？写的是A和C，还是先写个E，再写个L呢？这些字母在空中只显示片刻，瞬息之间即变形、融化、消逝在茫茫天穹之中。飞机急速飞开，又在另一片太空中描出一个K，一个E，兴许是Y吧？ “Blaxo”科茨太太凝视天空，带着紧张而敬畏的口吻说。她那白嫩的婴孩，静静地躺在她的怀中，也睁开眼望着天空。 “Kreemo”布莱切利太太如梦游者一般轻轻低语。鲍利先生安详地举着帽子，抬头望天。整个墨尔街上的人群一齐站着注视天上。此时此刻，四周变得阒无声息，一群群海鸥掠过蓝天，最初仅有一只海鸥领头翱翔，接着又出现一只。就在这异常的静谧和安宁中，在这白茫茫的纯净的气氛中，钟声敲响十一下，余音缭绕，消泯在海鸥之中。 飞机调转方向，随心所欲地时而劲飞一阵，时而又向下俯冲，那么迅捷，那么自在，恰如一个溜冰运动员—— “那是E。”布莱切利太太说—— 或许像个舞蹈家，那飞机—— “那是toffee，”鲍利太太说。 （汽车驶进了大门，没有一个人向它注视；）飞机不再放出白烟，急速向远处飞去，天空中残留的白烟渐次淡薄，依附在一团团白云周围。 飞机离去，隐没在云层之后。四下里万籁俱寂。被E、G或L这些字母围绕的云朵自由地移动，仿佛注定要从西方飘向东方，去完成一项重大使命，虽然它的性质不容泄露，但是千真万确，那是一项重大使命。突然，犹如穿越隧道的火车，飞机又拨云而出，隆隆的声音响彻墨尔街、绿色公园、皮卡迪利大街、摄政大街和摄政公园，传入每个人的耳鼓。机身后面白烟缭绕。飞机往下俯冲，继而又腾入高空，描出一个又一个字母——但它写的是什么字呢？ 在摄政公园的大道上，卢克丽西娅·沃伦·史密斯坐在丈夫身边的座位上，抬头观看。 “瞧，瞧哪，赛普蒂默斯！”她喊道。因为霍姆斯大夫对她说过，要使她丈夫（他实际上并没有什么病，只是有点心绪不佳）把兴趣转移到其他事情上去，不要老是想着自己。 赛普蒂默斯抬头观望，心想原来是他们在给我发信号哩。当然并非用具体的词来表示，也就是说，他还不能理解用烟雾组成的语言；但是这种美、无与伦比之美是显而易见的。他的眼中噙满泪水，当他瞅着那些烟雾写成的字逐渐暗淡，与太空融为一体，并且以他们无限的宽容和含笑的善意，把一个又一个无法想象的美的形态赐给他，并向他发出信号，让他明白他们的意愿就是要使他无偿地永远只看到美，更多的美！泪水流下了他的面颊。 一位保姆告诉雷西娅那个词是“太妃”，他们在给太妃糖做广告。她俩开始一起拼读：t…o…f… “K…R…”保姆辨认着字母，赛普蒂默斯听到耳边响起她那低沉、柔和的声音，念出“凯伊”、“阿尔”，宛如音质甘美的风琴声，但是她的嗓子还带着一种蚱蜢般的粗厉声，刺激他的脊梁，并把一阵阵声浪传送到他的脑海里，在那儿经过激烈的震荡后才终止。这真是一大发现——人的嗓音在某种大气条件下（人必须讲究科学，科学至上嘛）能加速树木的生长！雷西娅高兴地把手重重地压在他的膝上，就这样，他被压在下面，无法动弹；榆树的枝叶兴奋得波动着，波动着，闪烁着光芒，色彩由浅入深，由蓝色转为巨浪般的绿色，仿佛马头上的鬃毛，又如妇女们戴的羽饰；榆树那么自豪地波动着，美妙之极！要不是雷西娅的手按住了他，这一切几乎会使他癫狂，但是他不能发狂。他要闭上眼睛，什么也不看了。 然而，树在向他招手，树叶有生命，树木也有生命。通过千千万万极细小的纤维，树叶与他那坐在椅上的身体息息相通，把他的身躯上下扇动；当树枝伸展时，他说自己也随之伸展。麻雀在凹凸不平的水池边展翅飞舞，忽上忽下，它们构成图案的一部分；白色、蓝色、中间嵌着黑色的树枝。声音和冥想交融，它们之间的间歇与声音同样意味深长。一个孩子在啼哭，远处刚巧响起号角。所有这一切象征着一种新宗教的诞生。 “赛普蒂默斯！”雷西娅在呼唤他。他猛然惊醒。人们一定注意到他了。 “我到喷水池那边去一会儿就回来，”她说。 因为她再也无法忍受。霍姆斯大夫尽可以说无关紧要。可是，她宁愿他不如死掉！瞧着他那样愣愣地瞪视，连她坐在身边也视而不见，这使周围的一切都变得可怕，无论是天空、树林、嬉戏的孩子，还是拉车，吹哨子，摔跤；一切都显得可怕。她确实不能再和他坐在一块了。但是他不肯自杀，而她又不能向任何人吐露真情。 “赛普蒂默斯近来工作太累了……”她只能这样告诉自己的母亲。爱，使人孤独，她想。她不能告诉任何人，现在甚至不能对赛普蒂默斯诉说真情。她回头望去，只见赛普蒂默斯穿着那件旧大衣，拱着背，坐在座位上，茫然凝视。一个男子汉却说要自杀，这是懦弱的表现。然而，赛普蒂默斯曾经打过仗，他以前很勇敢，不像现在这样。她为他套上有花边的衣领，给他戴上新帽子，而他却毫不在意；没有她在身边，他反而更称心。而她呢，如果没有了他，什么也不能让她感到幸福！什么也不能！他是自私的。男人都是如此。他没有病。霍姆斯大夫说他没有病。她摊开了手。look!她的结婚戒指滑了下来——她已这般消瘦。是她在经受煎熬呵——却无人可告。 意大利远在天涯，那里有白色的房屋。她的姊妹们坐在屋里编织帽子。那里的街道每天晚上都挤满人群，他们边散步边嬉笑，不像这里的人那样，半死不活地蜷缩在轮椅中，瞅着栽在花盆里的几朵难看的花儿。 “你该去看看米兰的公园嘛，”她大声说。不过说给谁听呢？ 四周了无人迹。她的话音消逝了，仿佛火箭消逝一般。它射出的火花掠过夜空，淹没在夜色之中，黑暗降临，笼罩了房屋、尖塔的轮廓；荒山两边的线条渐趋朦胧，只留下漆黑一团。然而，这一切虽不可见，却依然蕴含在夜色之中；尽管色彩已被吞噬，房屋上的窗户也不复显现，它们却更深沉地存在着，表现出阳光下无从传递的意境——各种事物的烦恼及悬念，在黑暗中凝聚在一起，挤成一团。黑夜夺去了黎明带给人们的宽慰。当曙光洗净四壁的黑暗，照出每个窗户，驱散田野上的薄雾，照见那些棕红色奶牛在安详地吃草，一切事物重又整整齐齐地呈现于眼前，恢复了生存。我孑然一身，多么孤寂！孤零零地站在摄政公园喷水池边，她呻吟着（一面看着那印度人和他的十字架），也许好似在夜半时分，黑暗笼罩大地，一切界线都不复存在，整个国土恢复到洪荒时期的形态，宛如古罗马人登陆时见到的那样，宇宙一片混沌，山川无名，河水自流，不知流向何方——这便是她内心的黑暗。忽然，仿佛从何处抛来一块礁石，她站在上面，诉说自己是他的妻子，好几年前他们在米兰结婚，她是他的妻子，永远、永远不会告诉别人他疯了！她转过身子，礁石倾倒了，她渐渐往下掉。因为他走了，她想——像他扬言过的那样，去自杀了——去扑在大车底下！不，他还在那儿，依旧独自坐在座位上，穿着他那件旧大衣，交叉着腿，瞪着眼，大声自言自语。 人们不准砍伐树木。世上有上帝。（他从信封背面得到这一启示。）要改变世界。人不准因仇恨而杀戮。让所有的人明白这一点（他记了下来）。他期待着。他倾听着。一只雀儿栖息在他对面的栏杆上，叫着赛普蒂默斯，赛普蒂默斯，连续叫了四五遍，尔后又拉长音符，用希腊语尖声高唱：没有什么罪行。过了一会，又有一只雀子跟它一起，拖长嗓子，用希腊语尖声唱起：没有什么死亡。两只鸟就在河对岸生命之乐园里，在树上啁鸣，那里死者在徘徊呢。 他的手在那边，死者便在那边。白色的东西在对面栏杆后集结。但是他不敢看。埃文斯就在那栏杆后面！ “你在说什么？”雷西娅在他身旁坐下，突然问。 又被打断了！她总是打断他的思路。 远离人们——他俩必须避开人们，他说（他跳起身来），立刻到那边去，那里的树下有几张椅子。园内的斜坡宛如一段绿绒，空中有蓝色和粉红色烟雾幻成顶篷，远处，在烟雾弥漫之中，参差不齐的房屋构成一道围墙，车辆转着圈子，嗡嗡作响；右边，深褐色的动物把长长的脖子伸出动物园的栅栏，又叫又嚷。他俩就在那里的一棵树荫里坐下。 “你瞧，”她指着一小群男孩，央求他看，孩子们拿着板球柱，其中一个拖着步子，走了几步，脚跟不动转了个身，然后又拖着步子走，似乎他正在音乐厅里扮演小丑呐。 “瞧，”她恳求他看。因为霍姆斯大夫告诉过她，要让他注意真实的事情，去听听音乐，打打板球——霍姆斯大夫说，她丈夫需要的正是板球这种有益的户外活动。 “你瞧呀，”她重复一遍。 看吧，一个声音对他说，却杳无人影。他，赛普蒂默斯，乃是人类最伟大的一员，刚经历了由生到死的考验，他是降临人间重建社会的上帝。他躺着，活像一床铺着的床单、白雪堆成的毯子，永远不会损坏，惟有太阳才能毁掉它。他永远受苦受难，他是替罪羊，永恒的受难者，但是他不要扮演这角色；他呻吟着，挥手把那永久的受难、永久的孤独推开了。 “瞧，”她再次说，因为他决不可在外面大声自言自语。 “嗳，瞧一下吧，”她恳求他。但有什么可瞧呢？几头羊，如此而已。 到摄政公园地铁怎么走？——人们能告诉她怎么去摄政公园地铁站吗？——两天前刚从爱丁堡来的梅西·约翰逊想知道。 梅西·约翰逊觉得这一对看来有点儿古怪。一切都显得异样。她初次来伦敦，要到莱顿霍尔街她叔叔家去做事。这天上午她正穿过摄政公园，却被坐在椅子上的一对男女吓了一大跳：那个年轻女人似乎是外国人，那个男的，看上去疯疯癫癫。即使到她老的时候，她也不会忘却这一情景。到那时，她的记忆中又会浮现五十年前某一个和煦的夏日早晨，她如何走过摄政公园的一幕，因为她仅仅十九岁，终于有机会来到伦敦；可是这一对男女多么古怪呀，她向他们问路，女的显得很吃惊，猛地做了个手势，而那个男人呢——看上去真不对劲，也许他俩正在吵嘴，也许正在诀别，也许……她知道他俩之间肯定出了什么事。现在，所有这些人（她已回到公园的大路上），这些石制花坛、整齐的花朵以及坐在轮椅上的老头，他们多数是病人——这一切与爱丁堡相比，都显得别扭。梅西·约翰逊加入了那群迎着微风缓步向前、目光迷离者的行列——松鼠栖息在枝头，用嘴巴啄着，梳理毛皮；小水池边麻雀展翅飞翔，寻找着面包屑；几条狗儿一刻不停地围着栏杆嬉戏，或互相追逐；同时，和风吹拂着他们，给他们那种冷漠地看待生活的凝视增添了几分怪诞和平静——当梅西·约翰逊加入这一行列时，她真想大叫一声“嗬！”（因为那个坐在椅子上的青年男子把她吓坏了，她知道肯定出了什么事。） horrible!horrible!她想哭泣。 （她离开了亲人，他们曾警告她会出什么事的。） 为什么她不待在家里？她呼喊着，一面转动铁栏杆上的圆把手。 登普斯特太太（她常在摄政公园里吃早饭，把面包屑留给松鼠）在想：那姑娘依然十分无知；说真的，她认为还不如长得胖一点、懒散一点、期望少一点的好。她的女儿珀西爱喝酒。登普斯特太太感到，还是有个儿子好些。她在生活中吃了不少苦，如今看到像这样的一位姑娘，她不由得微笑起来。你会嫁人的，因为你长得够漂亮，登普斯特太太心里想。去嫁人吧，那时你就会明白喽。哦，那些厨师，等等。每个男人都有特殊的性子。要是当时我能知道的话，会不会作出那样的选择呢？登普斯特太太扪心自问。她不禁想悄悄地向梅西·约翰逊进一言，让自己那布满皱纹的脸感受怜悯的一吻。她的生活可真不容易呐，她想。为了生活，她还有什么没牺牲的呢？玫瑰花，体态，还有腿形（她把裙下肉团般的双脚并拢）。 玫瑰花，她觉得可笑。全是废话，亲爱的。因为事实上，由于生活中有吃有喝，寻找伴侣，有欢乐也有悲伤，生活不仅是玫瑰花嘛。而且，让我告诉你，卡里·登普斯特并不愿与肯蒂什城中的任何女人交换命运。但是，她祈求怜悯。为了失去的玫瑰，怜悯她吧。她请求站在风信子花床旁的梅西·约翰逊给予她怜悯。 啊，瞧那架飞机！登普斯特太太不是总想到国外观光吗？她有个侄儿，是在异乡的传教士。飞机迅速直上高空。她总是到玛甘特去出海，但并不远航，始终让陆地呈现在她视野之中。她讨厌那些怕水的女人。飞机一掠而过，又垂下飞行，她害怕得心都快跳了出来。飞机又往上冲去。登普斯特太太吃得准，驾驶飞机的准是个好样的小伙子。飞机迅捷地越飞越远，逐渐模糊，又继续往远处急速飞行：飞过格林威治，飞过所有的船桅，飞过一栋栋灰色教堂，其中有圣·保罗大教堂和其他教堂；终于，在伦敦两边展现了田野和深棕色树林，爱冒险的鸫鸟在林子里勇敢地跳跃，迅速地一瞥就啄起一只蜗牛，放在石块上猛击，一下、两下、三下。 飞机急速往远处飞去，最后只剩下一个闪亮的光点：那是理想，是凝聚点，象征人的灵魂（本特利先生就这样认为，他正在格林威治精力充沛地平整他那块草地）；它也象征着人决心通过思维、爱因斯坦、推测、数学和孟德尔学说去挣脱躯壳，离开住宅而远走高飞——本特利先生正在雪松四周清扫，一边这样思索着——飞机又迅疾地飞去了。 尔后，一个衣衫褴褛、普普通通的男人挟着只皮包迟疑地站在圣·保罗大教堂的台阶上，因为教堂里一片芳香，多么热忱的欢迎，多少个飘扬着旗帜的坟墓，那是胜利的标志，但不是战胜军队的标志，而是战胜那烦扰的追求真理之心，他思忖，正是这种心思使我茫然若失；况且，他想，教堂还给予你伴侣，邀请你成为社团的一员，大人物属于它，殉难者为它牺牲；他兀自想，为什么不进去呢？把这个装满传单的皮包放在圣台与十字架前，它们象征一种已升华到无从寻求、无从问讯、亦无法表达而变得虚无飘渺的东西——他想，为什么不进去呢？正当他踟蹰之时，飞机又出现在勒德门圆形广场上空。 多奇怪，一片岑寂，阒无声息，惟有车辆在行驶。飞机似乎没有人指挥一般，任意地疾飞。当下它不断升入高空，直上霄汉，仿佛是什么物体，纯粹为了娱乐，欣喜若狂地上升，机身后面喷出一团白烟，在蓝天盘旋，描出字母T、O和F。 “他们在看什么？”克拉丽莎·达洛卫问开门的女仆。