Chapter 3 Chapter two

The hall of the house was as cool as a cellar.Mrs Dalloway put her hands over her eyes.When Lucy closed the door, Mrs. Dalloway heard the rustle of Lucy's skirts, and felt like a nun away from the world, feeling the familiar veil covering the face, and the old piety being rewarded.The cook was whistling in the kitchen.She heard the click of the typewriter, and that was her life, and she leaned against the hall table, bowed her head, and felt blessed and purified by the influence of the effect.She picked up the little book that recorded the phone calls, and murmured to herself: such moments are buds on the tree of life, flowers in the dark (as if a lovely rose was budding for her alone); Picking up the little book, she thought to herself: I have never believed in God for a moment, but because of this, she needs to repay the servants, dogs and birds in her daily life, and the main thing is to repay her life. Pillars, her husband Richard--repay the cheerful voices, the green lights, even the cook's whistle, for Mrs Walker was Irish and whistled all day long--one must, she thought These quietly accumulated beautiful moments.She took up the little book, and Lucy stood aside, trying to explain to her:

"Mrs. Dalloway..." Clarissa continued to look at the phone number in the notebook: "Mrs. Bruton would like to know if Mr. Dalloway can have lunch with her?" "Mr. Dalloway, madam, let me tell you that he is not coming back for lunch." "My God!" Clarissa cried, and she said it so that Lucy could feel her disappointment (not the pain), so that she could feel the understanding between them, understand the meaning of it, and experience how gentlemen and ladies love each other , while quietly looking forward to her own future; Lucy carefully picked up Mrs. Dalloway's parasol, as if it were a sacred weapon left by a goddess returning from victory, and placed it on the umbrella stand.

"Don't be afraid again," Clarissa urged herself.No longer afraid of the heat of the sun.For the fact that Mrs. Bruton invited Richard and not her to the luncheon made her feel that the moment of life and life was shaken, and like a grass in the river bed is shaken by the stroke of the oars, so did she. Shaking, trembling in the same way. Millicent Bruton did not invite her.It is said that her luncheon was unique and very tasty.Vulgar jealousy cannot separate her relationship with Richard, but she is afraid that time flies like an arrow. From Mrs. Bruton's face, she sees that life is gradually shrinking, like a sundial carved on a cold stone; Life is excised bit by bit; the remaining hours cannot stretch out like adolescence to absorb the colors, flavors, and tones of existence.In the past, when she walked into a room, the room was filled with her breath. When she stood at the door of the living room and hesitated for a moment, she often felt a kind of wonderful suspense, just like a diver who is about to jump off and feels uncertain and hesitant. Because below him, the sea water was flickering and dark, and the waves were about to swell, but they only gently pushed aside the water surface, rolled forward, lifted up the weeds with glistening water droplets, and immediately rolled over, obliterating them.

She put the notebook on the table in the hall, then held on to the railing, and started to go upstairs slowly, as if she was returning from a banquet, and this or that friend at the banquet reflected her voice and smile; as if she closed the door and walked out, alone Facing the terrible night, or, rather, the gaze of this actual June morning; but she knew and felt that this morning was to some people like rose petals. A soft radiance; she stops at the open stair window, from which the flapping of the curtains and the barking of the dog bring the day's training, growth, and maturity; she feels suddenly shrunken, aged, The breasts were deflated; I was out of doors, out of the window, slipping away from my body and my bewildered mind; all because Mrs. Bruton didn't invite her to the luncheon, which Mrs. It's very tasty.

Like a nun retreating, or a child exploring a pagoda, she went upstairs, paused at the window, and went into the bathroom.There was a green carpet in the room, and a water tap was dripping.The core of life is empty, like an empty attic.Women must take off their pretty clothes.They must unload at noon.She put the hair pins in the needle sockets, and put the yellow feathered hat on the bed.The wide white sheets were clean and the sides were drawn straight.Her bed will get narrower and narrower.Half the candle is burnt out.She had been fascinated by the memoirs of Baron Marbert, and read late at night about the evacuation from Moscow.Because of the length of the House session and Richard's late return, he insisted that she must be left to sleep alone after her illness.In reality, however, she preferred to read accounts of the retreat from Moscow.He also knows this.So she slept alone in a small room on a narrow bed; because she couldn't sleep well, she lay down and read a book, always feeling in her heart that although she had given birth to a child, she was still a virgin, and this idea was like a sheet wrapped around her body, cannot be eliminated.She had been lovely in her girlhood, and then suddenly, for a moment--such as that time on the bank under Clifden Wood--she had let him down just by that cold disposition.Another time was at Constantinople, and the same thing happened again and again.She knows her flaws.After all, it is neither beauty nor reason, but an inner core that permeates the whole body; a passionate emotion that breaks through the surface and makes the cold contact between man and woman or woman fluctuate.She could vaguely sense this.She loathed it, and was strangely wary of it, which she felt was perhaps innate, a gift of (always wise) nature; yet she could not help being attracted sometimes by the charms of a woman, not by a maiden, but by Attracted to a woman who tells of their embarrassment or follies, they often come to her to confide in them.Whether it's out of pity, or infatuation with their beauty, or because I'm old, or purely by chance—for example, smelling a scent of fragrance, hearing the sound of a neighbor's violin (at a certain moment, the power of sound So strange)—she did feel what people felt then.The feeling is fleeting, but enough.It was a sudden revelation, just like a blush, as if a person wanted to curb his blushing, but the blushing became more and more blushing, so he let it go, hurried to the farthest corner, trembling slightly there, feeling the outside world approaching, Expansion, pregnant with some amazing connotation, some irrepressible ecstasy, it breaks through the thin surface, gushes out, and fills the cracks and pain with infinite comfort.Then, just for a split second, she saw the light: a match was burning in a saffron, and an inner mystery was almost interpreted.However, the foreground disappears and the hard matter softens.That moment—gone.Compared with these moments (including those with women) (she lowered her hat), there was only a bed, Baron Marbert's book, and a half-burned candle.Lying in bed, unable to sleep, she heard the creaking of the floorboards and the sudden darkness of the lighted room; if she looked up, she could faintly hear the faint click of Richard turning the doorknob very lightly. Hey, he only wore socks, tiptoed upstairs, but often accidentally dropped the hot water bottle on the ground, so he scolded himself fiercely!At the moment, she smiles so happily!

But (she puts her coat aside, thinking) what about love, love with a woman?Let's just talk about Sally Seton. Isn't my past relationship with Sally Seton not love? Sally was sitting on the floor—that was her first impression of Sally—with her hands folded on her knees, sitting on the floor smoking a cigarette.where is itIs it at the Mannings' house?Or at the Kinloch Jones house?It was at some party anyway (she couldn't remember where), because she distinctly remembered asking the man she was with, "Who's that?" Parents have a bad relationship. (She was taken aback at the time—parents can fight!) But she couldn't take her eyes off Sally all night.She had the unique beauty that Clarissa admired most: dark skin, big eyes, and an almost dissolute personality, as if she had no scruples in whatever she said or did. What she lacks, she has always envied; this kind of character is usually found in foreigners, but it is unusual in English women.Sally always said she was of French blood.One of her ancestors, who had been a courtier to Queen Marie Antoinette, was beheaded and left a ruby ​​ring.That summer, Sally came to live in Bourton. One day after dinner, she suddenly broke into the door unexpectedly, with no money on her body. Perhaps because of her behavior, poor Aunt Helena was very annoyed and never forgiven. she.It turned out that there was a big quarrel in Sally's house, and she rushed out of the house in a fit of anger.When she came to Clarissa's house she was penniless--she pawned a brooch to get it.That night, the two of them talked all night.Sally made her feel for the first time how closed life in Bourton was.She doesn't know anything about sex -- and she doesn't know anything about social issues.Once she saw an old man dying violently in a field--and a cow with a new calf, and wanted to talk to someone, but Aunt Helena never liked to talk about anything (when Sally showed her William Morris, had to wrap the cover in brown paper).She sat with Sally in her bedroom upstairs and talked for hours on end.They discuss life and discuss how to change the world.They wanted to create a society that would abolish private property, and they did write a letter about it, but they never sent it.It was Sally's idea, to be sure--but she was soon as excited as Sally--reading Plato's philosophy in bed before breakfast, Morris's too, and Shelley by the hour. .

Sally's strength is amazing, she's highly gifted and has a personality.For example, her attitude towards flowers is unusual.At Bourton, where the family always had a dull row of vases on the table, Sally went out and picked hollyhocks and dahlias--and all kinds of flowers that no one had ever seen put together-- She plucked the flowers, put them in bowls of water, and let them float on the surface.When the sun goes down and people come in for dinner, it's a really chic sight to see. (Of course, Aunt Helena thought it a sin to do that to flowers.) Another time, she went to the bath, forgot her sponge, and ran down the corridor naked.That sullen old housemaid, Ellen Atkins, muttered all over the place—"What if some gentleman saw it?" Really, Sally was a shocker.Her father thought she didn't pay attention to grooming.

In retrospect, it is strange that her feelings for Sally were pure and loyal, unlike feelings for men.There is no selfishness, and there is also a characteristic that can only exist among women, especially among women who have just grown up.For her this affection was always protective, formed out of a conspiracy, a presentiment, as if something was bound to tear them apart (they always talked of marriage as a disaster) , and thus arose this chivalry, a protective feeling.This feeling was more pronounced in her than in Sally; for in those days Sally was completely unscrupulous, and to show it she would do the most absurd things, like riding around the railing of the terrace. Bikes, smoking cigars.She was ridiculous--absurd!But, at least for her, Sally's charm is irresistible. She still remembers that she once stood in the bedroom on the top floor, holding a kettle in her hand, and said to herself: "She is under this roof... She's under this roof!"

These words, however, meant nothing to her now, not even to rekindle her old love.But the memories of the old days were still there: she was shaking with excitement, combing her hair in a trance (now when she took off the pins, put them on the table, and started to comb her hair, the old feelings came back to her. ), the rook was flying up and down triumphantly in the reddish twilight, she was fully dressed and went downstairs, and as she walked through the hall, she felt in her heart: "It would be a great happiness to die at this moment." This is Her mood—Othello's mood, her conviction that she felt as strongly as Shakespeare wanted Othello to feel, and all because she was wearing a white coat, going downstairs to dinner, and going down with Sally Say See you soon!

Sally was wearing a pink tulle shirt—could that be?In any case, she looked radiant and radiant all over, like a bird, or like a floating bubble, lingering for a moment among the thorns.When a person is in love (is it not love), the most difficult thing to understand is that other people should be indifferent.Aunt Helena left after dinner, and Father read the newspaper.Peter Walsh might have been there, and perhaps old Miss Cummings; Joseph Braykopf must have been, for the poor old man lived for weeks every summer, pretending to read German with her, In reality he was playing the piano and singing Brahms in a poor voice.

All this is just to set off Sally.She stood by the fire and talked to Clarissa's father in a voice that made everything she said sound like a caress, and he couldn't help being attracted to her (he lent her a book, and later He never forgot to find the book soaked on the terrace), and then she said suddenly: "It's a pity to be bored in the house!" and they went for a walk up and down the terrace.Peter Walsh and Joseph Breikopf continued to talk about Wagner, and she and Sully fell a little behind.Then the two of them walked past a stone urn with flowers, and that's when the most beautiful moment of her whole life came: Sally stopped, plucked a flower, and kissed her on the lips.The scene at that time can be said to have been turned upside down!Everyone else disappeared, only her and Sally.She felt she had a wrapped present to keep, but not to peek at—yet when they were walking (to and fro, to and fro) she peeked, and it was a diamond, a It is a priceless treasure, covered with a cover, perhaps the light of the gemstone shines through, it is the revelation of the gods, religious feelings! —At this very moment old Joseph and Peter came up to them: "Looking at the stars?" Peter asked. Like a man bumping against a granite wall in the dark!How disgusting, how terrible! Not feeling this way for myself.She just felt that Sally had been hurt and abused; she sensed Peter's hostility, his jealousy, and his determination to get between her and Sally.She saw all this as clearly as one sees a landscape in a flash of lightning—and Sally (whom Clarissa had never loved so strongly!) ignored it and went about her own way.She laughed, and made old Joseph tell her the names of the stars, which he did with great pleasure and seriousness.She stood and listened.She heard the names of the stars. "Oh, this is dreadful!" said Clarissa to herself, as if she had always had a presentiment that something would disturb and spoil her moment of happiness. And yet, how much companionship Peter had shown her afterwards!Whenever she thought of him, she somehow remembered the quarrel with him—perhaps because she needed his good opinion so badly.He used to say these words about her: "sentimental" and "civilized"; she began her daily life with these words, as if he was protecting her.A book she reads is "sentimental", and her attitude towards life is also "sentimental".Now, she may be "sentimental" when she blindly recalls the past.I wonder what he will think when he returns home?she mused. Do you think she is old?Will he say that when he comes back?Maybe she sensed that he thought she was old?Indeed, she had been almost pale since her illness. She put the brooch on the table and felt a shudder, as if cold claws had taken the opportunity to penetrate her while she was lost in thought.She is not old yet, fifty-two is just beginning, and there are many months to go: June, July, August!Almost every month is intact.Clarissa (going to the dresser) seems to want to catch the passing years, she pours her whole being into the core of this moment, makes it stay still - this June morning hour, on top of it Building up all the other morning stresses, she sees the mirror, dresser, and all the bottles again, and she (looks at the mirror) brings her whole body to one point, where she sees only the pink The delicate, delicate face of Clarissa Dalloway, her own face. She had looked at her own face countless times, and each time she always restrained herself with the same subtlety.When looking at herself in the mirror, she pursed her lips, sharpening the shape of her face.That's who she is--sharp, spear-like, decisive.That was herself, when a force, a call to be what she was, brought her parts together (only she knew how different and contradictory they were), combined so that the world had but one center, a diamond , a woman who sat in the parlour, and formed a rallying point which no doubt would bring light to those whose lives were dull, and perhaps provide shelter to the lonely; she had helped the youth, and they were grateful to her; she had tried to always Like one, never revealing her other sides—mistakes, jealousy, vanity, and suspicions, such as resentment that Mrs. Bruton didn't invite her to dinner; she (finally began to comb her hair) felt that was base!But where is her dress? Her evening dress hangs in the closet.Clarissa reached into the soft clothing, gently removed the green skirt, and carried it to the window.The skirt was torn by her.Someone stepped on a skirt.At the embassy banquet, she felt that one of the top pleats of the dress had split.In the light, the green is quite vivid, but now it looks dull in the sun.She's going to mend the skirt.The maid has enough to do.She had to bring silk, scissors, and—what was it? —Yes, and the thimble, all taken to the drawing-room, for she still had to write letters, and see if everything was generally in order. She stopped at the foot of the stairs, seeing the shape of the diamond and the solitary figure in her eyes, and thought to herself, how inconceivable it is that a housewife can control the atmosphere and mood of a given moment in her own home!Tiny sounds spiraled up the stairs: the squeak of the mop, the tap, the knock, the noise of the door opening, someone's voice in the basement, the clang of silverware on a disc, Clean silverware for banquet preparation.Everything is getting ready for the banquet. (Lucy enters the drawing-room with the tray, puts the candlestick on the mantel-piece, with the silver box in the center, and turns the crystal dolphin to face the clock. The guests will come, stand in the drawing-room; the ladies and gentlemen will could talk in a soft voice, a tone she could imitate. She had the loveliest mistress of all--she was the mistress of the silver, the china, the linen; the sun, the silver, The doors off their hinges, the clerk from Rump Palmayer's, it all made her feel like she was on a mission, she thought as she set the paper-knife on the carved table. In Canterham , she was working in a bakery for the first time, when she peeped furtively through the glass windows and said to some old friends in the shop: Look! Look! That's Lady Angela, Princess Mary's page. Now, Mrs Dalloway enters.) "Oh, Lucy," she said, "the silver looks beautiful!" She put the crystal dolphin upright and said, "Did you like the show last night?" "Oh, they have to go home before the show is over!" back," she said, "so they don't know how it ends," she added. "That's unfortunate," said Mrs. Dalloway. (Her servants are allowed to come home later with her permission.) "It's too bad," she said, picking up an old, bare-looking cushion in the center of the sofa, stuffing it into Lucy's arm, and pushing gently against it. gave her a moment, and said, "Take it away! Give it to Mrs. Walker, and say my regards to her! Take it!" Lucy stood by the living room door with her cushions in her arms, her face flushed slightly, and she asked Mrs. Dalloway very shyly if she could help her mend that dress. But, Mrs. Dalloway said, Lucy was too busy with her own affairs to do enough without mending her dresses. "Thank you, though, Lucy, thank you," said Mrs Dalloway.She kept saying thank you, thank you (she sat down on the sofa with her skirt on her knees, and scissors and silk), and she kept saying thank you, thank you, with gratitude to the servants in her heart.Because they had done her a favor by making her the gentle, generous person she was now, which was what she wanted to be.The servants liked her.Take a look at the dress—where is the tear?Now it's time to thread the needle.This was her favorite dress, it was made by Sally Parker, oh, it was almost the last dress she sewed, because Sally was retired and lived in Ealing.If I had a moment to spare (but she never would have any), thought Clarissa, I would visit her in Ealing.Sally Parker has a lot of personality and is a true artist.She remembered some of Sally's slightly erratic behaviors, but the dresses she sewed were never weird.In Hatfield, in Buckingham Palace, it's all right.She'd been there both times in a dress Sally sewed. Stitch after stitch, she sewed the silk lightly and properly, gathered the green ruffles, and sewed them on the belt lightly.Just as summer waves meet, lose their balance, and drift; meet, drift; and the whole world seems to say more and more deeply, "That's all," until the man lying in the sun on the beach by the sea says inwardly: That's all.Never fear again, the heart says.Fear no more, says the heart, give the sea its heavy burden, which sighs for all beings, and then renews, begins, gathers, and disperses at will.Only the body listens to the buzzing of the flying bees; the roaring of the waves, the barking of the dogs, barking and barking in the distance. "My God, someone is ringing the bell at the front door!" cried Clarissa, stopping her sewing to listen. "Mrs. Dalloway will see me," said an elderly man in the hall. "Well, yes, she'll see me," he repeated, pushing Lucy away very gently, very kindly, and running up the stairs very nimbly. "Yes, yes, yes," he murmured as he trotted upstairs, "she will see me. Five years in India, and Clarissa will see me." "Who—what—" Mrs. Dalloway wondered (too much to be interrupted at eleven o'clock in the morning on the day of her party), when she heard footsteps on the stairs. .Someone put a hand on the door.She hastily hid her skirt, like a virgin guarding her body like a jade, living in seclusion.Just then the brass handle turned, the door opened, and a man walked in—she couldn't remember his name for a second!She was so surprised and delighted and ashamed to see him!How little did she expect that Peter Walsh would come to see her unexpectedly in the morning! (She did not read his letter.) "How are you?" said Peter Walsh, trembling indeed; he took her hands and kissed them.He sat down, feeling that she was older than before.I won't tell her straight, he thought, but she's older than she used to be.She's looking at me, he thought, suddenly embarrassed, even though he had kissed her hand.He reached into his pocket and drew out a jackknife, which was half-opened. He hadn't changed at all, thought Clarissa, still had the same queer look, still had the same checked clothes; "It's great to see you again!" she said excitedly.Peter pushed aside the jackknife.That's the way he behaves, she thought. He told her that he had just arrived last night and was off to the country at once.How is the situation?How is everyone? — How is Richard?How is Elizabeth? "What are these for?" he asked, pointing at her green dress with a jackknife. He's well dressed, Clarissa thought, but he's always blaming me. She's mending skirts, mending skirts as usual, he thought; all the time I was in India, she just sat and mended skirts; wandered about, attended parties; or hurried to Parliament and hurried home , etc.; he thought of all this, and his mood became more and more irritable and agitated; he thought that for some women, the worst thing in the world is to marry, get involved in politics, marry a Conservative, like the Honorable Richard.That's right, that's what happened, he thought, snapping the jackknife shut. "Richard is fine, he's at the committee meeting," Clarissa said. She opened the scissors and told him that there was a party at her house tonight.Does he mind if she mends the dress right now? "I don't want you to come to the meeting," she said, "my dear Peter!" How enchanting it is to hear her address it—my dear Peter!Really, it's all beautiful - the silverware, the chairs, all intoxicating! Why didn't she want to invite him to the meeting?he asked her. Ah, thought Clarissa, of course he is fascinating!Fascinating!I still remember that in that loathsome summer, I couldn't make up my mind to refuse to marry him-but, how strange, why did I make up my mind not to marry him later? "It's unbelievable that you're here this morning!" she cried, clasping her hands on her skirt. "Remember," she said, "the curtains kept fluttering in Bourton?" "Well," he said, remembering the embarrassment of having breakfast alone with her father; her father had died and he hadn't written comforting letters to Clarissa; Whispering, indecisive old man Justin Parry, just never gets along. "I often wish I could get on better with your father," he said. "But he never liked any friend who wanted to...never liked me," said Clarissa; she wanted to bite her tongue and remind Peter that he had wanted to marry her. Of course I want to marry you, Peter thought; that almost broke my heart; he was lost in his mournful thoughts, and the pain was like the moon seen from a platform rising, bathed in twilight and showing a kind of paleness. beauty.Since then, he thought, I have never been so sad.He moved closer to Clarissa as if he were actually sitting on the platform; he reached out, raised it, let it drop again.The bright moon hung over them.Under the moonlight, she seemed to be sitting side by side with him on the platform. "Herbert lives at Bourton now," she told him, "and I don't go there any more now." And then, as happened on the moonlit terrace, one feels guilty for being bored, and the other sits silently, very still, looking at the moon sadly, unwilling to speak, just moving his feet and clearing his throat, Noticing a sort of cartouche on a table leg, plucking a leaf, without saying a word--and Peter was doing the same now.Because he was thinking, why revisit old dreams?Why should he recall the past again?She has tortured him so cruelly, why should she make him suffer?Why? "Do you remember the lake?" she asked awkwardly.Her heart fluttered, so her throat muscles tensed, and her lips trembled when she said the word "lake."Because she is not only a child, who once stood between her parents to feed ducks, but also an adult woman, holding her own life in her arms, walking towards her parents standing by the lake. A full life, a full life, which she gave to them and said, "This is the life I made! This is it!" But what kind of life did she make?What exactly is it?Just sitting and sewing with Peter this morning. She looked at Peter Walsh, and her eyes flitted over the whole time and emotion, fell on him doubtfully, lingered on him tearfully; then floated upward like a bird on a branch. Touch it and fly high.She wiped her eyes unabashedly. "Yes," Peter said, "yes, yes, yes." He repeated it, as if she had pulled something to the surface, and as it surfaced, he was stabbed.shut up!shut up!He wanted to cry because he wasn't old, his life wasn't over, absolutely not, he was in his early fifties.Shall I tell her?he wondered.He would like to tell the truth, but he thinks she is too cold, blindly sewing with scissors; beside Clarissa, Daisy will look very ordinary.Clarissa would see him as a failure, he thought.In their eyes, in the eyes of the Dalloways, I was a loser.Yes, he had no doubts of that, he was a loser; compared with all this--the engraved table, the jeweled paper-knife, the dolphin ornaments, the candlesticks, the chair-covers, and those precious old British Chromatic Prints - He's a Loser!However, I hate the smugness involved in all this, he thought; that's what Richard is passionate about, not Clarissa, but she's married to him. (At this moment Lucy comes in with a silver tray, oh, more silver; when she stoops to put the tray down, he thinks she is slender and charming and charming.) And yet it goes on and on!Week after week, Clarissa's life went by; and me, he thought; and for a moment, everything shone from him: journeys, rides, quarrels, adventures, bridge, love, work, work, Work!He openly took out his pocket-knife—his old horn-handled jackknife, which Clarissa was sure he had carried with him for thirty years—and clutched it tightly in his hand. What a strange habit, Clarissa thought, always playing with a knife, always making one feel frivolous, boring, empty, just a silly chatterbox, as he always said.She picked up the needle, feeling like an unprotected queen (Peter's sudden visit surprised her—it bothered her), her guards were asleep, and anyone could slip in and see her lying on the bushes Overgrown place, but she would call for aid, think of her own accomplishments and favorite things, call all to her: her husband, Elizabeth, herself; in short, she would call all to drive the enemy away.Peter knew almost nothing about all this now. "What have you been up to lately?" she asked.Just like on the eve of a battle, the horse's feet are scratching the ground, the head is held high, the sun shines on the flanks on both sides, and the neck is bent into an arc. Similarly, Peter and Clarissa sit side by side on the blue sofa and challenge each other.His strength impacted from within his body, rolling over.He collects all sorts of things from all directions: praise for him, his experience at Oxford, his marriage (which Clarissa knows nothing about), his passionate love affairs.All in all, he accomplished his mission. "Thousands of things!" he exclaimed.This accumulated power was rampaging at the moment, which made him feel mixed surprises, as if being lifted on the shoulders by some people he could not see, galloping in mid-air, inspired by this power, he raised his hand to his forehead. Clarissa sat upright, holding her breath. "I'm in love," he said, not to Clarissa, but to some woman who was lifted up in the dark, where one could not touch her but lay garlands on the grass, Dedicated to her. "I'm in love," he repeated, this time to Clarissa, rather flatly. "Fell in love with a girl in India." He'd laid the garland, whatever Clarissa might think. "Love!" she said.At his age, wearing a small bow tie, he is still at the mercy of this monster!Look at his neck so thin that there is no flesh, and his hands are red, not to mention he is six months older than me!She shot her eyes back on herself, but she still felt in her heart—he was in love.She felt that he was in love, that he was in love. But that unconquerable selfishness always tramples on opponents, just as the river always flows onward, onward, onward; though it also admits that there is no goal for man, it still goes on; this unconquerable私心使她的双颊泛红，显得很年轻，很健康；她的眼睛闪亮，身子微微颤抖地坐着，裙子散在膝上，针插在绿绸末端。他在恋爱！可不是爱她。当然是爱一个更年轻的女人。 “她是谁？”她问。 现在必须把这尊雕像从高处取下，放在他们中间。 “不幸，她已嫁给别人了，”他说，“丈夫是个印度陆军少校。” 他就这么可笑地把她奉献给了克拉丽莎，脸上露出一丝古怪的笑容，甜蜜之中带着嘲弄。 （不过，他仍然在恋爱，克拉丽莎想。） “她有两个孩子，一男一女。”彼得非常理智地说下去，“我这次是来和我的律师商议离婚手续的。” 喏，告诉你了——她与两个孩子！he thought.克拉丽莎，你对他们怎么想，就怎么想吧！他们就在那儿！Time passed by second by second.当克拉丽莎在揣测他们时，彼得恍惚感到，那印度少校的妻子（他的戴西）和她的两个孩子变得越来越可爱，仿佛他叫盘里一个小灰球发出光华，一株可爱的小树冉冉升起，在那轻快而带有海水咸味的亲密气氛之中（因为在某种意义上，没有人像克拉丽莎那样理解他，同他的思想共鸣）——一株小树，在他俩亲密无间的气氛中茁生。 那个女人一定奉承他，欺骗他，克拉丽莎思忖；她大刀阔斧地唰、唰、唰三下，便勾勒出那个女人的轮廓，那印度陆军少校的老婆的轮廓。多糟糕！多愚蠢！彼得一生都这样被人愚弄，最初是被牛津开除，接着又在去印度的船上，同一个陌生女子结婚，如今又爱上了一个少校的婆娘——上帝保佑，当初她幸亏不嫁给他！可是，他在恋爱，她的好朋友、她亲爱的彼得，在恋爱哟。 “那么，你打算怎么办呢？”她问他。呃，那是林肯法律协会的胡珀—格雷脱莱事务所那些律师的事，他答道。接着，他竟然用大折刀修起指甲来。 看在老天爷分上，别玩那把折刀了！她抑制不住恼怒，在心中呼喊；他的放荡不羁、不谙世故，他的软弱无能，他对任何人的感情的茫无所知，始终叫她恼火，如今又使她生气了；这么一把年纪，多愚蠢呵！ 这些我全明白，彼得想；他的手指摸着刀刃，心中寻思：我知道自己的对手是谁，就是克拉丽莎，达洛卫，还有他们那一帮人；但是，我要让克拉丽莎看到——这时，他莫名其妙地突然被一些无法控制的力量支配，完全失却平衡，不由得热泪盈眶，泫然流涕；他毫不感到羞耻地坐在沙发上啜泣，泪水从脸颊上淌下。 克拉丽莎俯身向前，拿起他的手，把他拉到自己身边，吻了他——确实感到他的脸贴着她的面颊，她硬压下胸中的热情，那翩翩飞舞的银光闪闪的羽衣，犹如热带阵风中飘荡的蒲苇；当她逐渐恢复平静后，便握着他的手，轻轻拍他的膝盖，舒服地靠着沙发，心里觉得，跟他在一起无限融洽、轻松；她忽然想起，如果我嫁给了他，这种快乐将会整天伴随着我哩！ 对她来说，一切都已结束。床很窄，床单已铺上。她独自走上塔楼，撇下他们在阳光下采撷草莓。门已关上，在落下的泥灰扬起的尘埃和零乱的鸟窝之间，眼前的景象显得多么遥远，传来的声音听上去微弱、阴凉（她记得有一次在利思山上就是这样）；还有理查德，啊，理查德！她在内心呼唤，恍惚酣睡的人在夜半惊醒，在黑暗中伸出手来祈求援助。她重又想起理查德正与布鲁顿夫人共进午餐。理查德把我给撇下了，我永远是孤独的，她想，一面交叉双手，搁在膝盖上。 彼得·沃尔什已站起身来，走到窗前，背向着她，轻轻地挥动着一方印花大手帕。他看上去颇老练，而又乏味、寂寞；他那瘦削的肩胛把上衣微微掀起，他擤着鼻子，发出挺大的响声。把我带走吧，克拉丽莎一阵感情冲动，仿佛彼得即将开始伟大的航行；尔后，过了片刻，恰如异常激动人心、沁人肺腑的五幕剧已演完，她身历其境地度过了一生，曾经离家出走，与彼得一起生活，但此刻，这一切都烟消云散了。 应该行动了。她从沙发上站起来，向彼得走去，就像一个女人把东西整理舒齐，收拾起斗篷、手套、看戏用的望远镜，起身离开剧院，走到街上。 真令人不可思议，他想，当她走近时，带着轻微的叮当声、瑟瑟声，当她穿过房间时，竟然仍有一股魅力，仿佛当年，在夏天晚上，她能使月亮在布尔顿平台上升起，尽管他厌恶月亮。 “告诉我，”他抓住她的肩膀，“你幸福吗，克拉丽莎？理查德——” The door opened. “这是我的伊丽莎白，”克拉丽莎激动地说，兴许有点故作姿态。 “您好！”伊丽莎白走上前来。 在他们之间响起了大本钟铿锵有力的钟声，报告半点钟，犹如一个强壮、冷漠、不近人情的青年正使劲地扯着哑铃，忽而扯向这边，忽而扯向那边。 “你好，伊丽莎白！”彼得把手插进口袋，迈步向她走去，一边说了声“再见，克拉丽莎”，便头也不回，迅速走出房间，跑下楼梯，打开外厅的大门。 “彼得！彼得！”克拉丽莎追到楼梯口，“记住我的宴会！别忘了今晚我家的宴会！”她不得不提高嗓子，企图压下户外的喧嚣。彼得·沃尔什关上大门时，听见她呼喊：“别忘了今晚我家的宴会！”那声音又细又远，淹没在车水马龙和万钟齐鸣的喧哗之中。 记住我的宴会，记住我的宴会，彼得·沃尔什走上大街，口中有节奏地自言自语，同大本钟报时的直截了当的声音保持协调。 （一圈圈沉重的音波融入空中。）唔，这些宴会，克拉丽莎的宴会，他兀自寻思。为什么她要举行这些宴会呢？he thinks.不过，他并不怪她，也不责备迎面走来的身穿燕尾服、钮孔里插一朵康乃馨的所谓的人。世界上只有一个人能像他那样，沉湎在恋爱中。这幸运儿便是他自己。此刻他的身影映现在维多利亚街上一家汽车制造商店的厚玻璃橱窗上。整个印度都是他的后盾：平原，山脉，霍乱，比爱尔兰更为辽阔的土地；他，彼得·沃尔什——独自作出的抉择；在他的一生中，他破天荒第一次真正恋爱。克拉丽莎变得严厉了，他想，而且，他怀疑她还有点感情用事。他望着那些庞大的汽车，它们能够——行驶多少英里？需要多少加仑汽油？因为他对机械比较内行，在他居住的地区里，他还发明过一种犁，并且从英国定购过手推车，遗憾的是那些劳工不愿使用这些工具。克拉丽莎对这一切毫不知情。 “这是我的伊丽莎白！”她说这句话的语气——叫他听了很不舒服。为什么不简单地说“这是伊丽莎白”呢？不真诚。伊丽莎白也不喜欢她这样说。（那洪亮、沉重的钟声的余波仍然震荡着周围的空气，报告半点钟的钟声，时间尚早，刚十一点半。）因为他了解年轻人，喜欢年轻人。而在克拉丽莎身上，他总感到有那么一点儿冷酷。当她年轻时，她总有一种羞怯的心理，到了中年，这种心理变成了世俗观念，然后一事无成，一场空，他思索着，阴郁地望着那玻璃橱窗深处，心想，是否因为他在那一时刻去看她而惹她生气了？忽然，他只觉得羞愧难当，自己表现得像个傻瓜：哭泣，动了感情，把什么都告诉她，就跟往常一样，完全一样。