Chapter 4 third chapter
As if a dark cloud covered the sun, a silence settled over London, oppressing the soul.All efforts ceased.Time beat against the mast.We stop here, we stand here.Only the dead bones of rigid custom support the skeleton of the human body, and there is nothing inside, Peter Walsh murmured; he felt the body hollowed out, and there was nothing inside.Clarissa rejected me, he stood brooding, Clarissa rejected me.
Like a hostess who arrives punctually in the drawing-room and excuses herself when her guests are already present, so the bells of St. Margaret's say: I am not late.Not too late, she said, it was half past eleven; and yet, though she was absolutely right, her voice was unwilling to be individual, for it was the solemn tone of a hostess.A certain melancholy for the past, a certain concern for the present, made her hide her personality.The bell is saying: half past eleven.The bell of St. Margaret's Church quietly drilled into the depths of the heart and disappeared in circles of sound waves, as if something alive wanted to confide its heart to itself, drive itself away, and go away with a trembling of happiness. Rest—as Clarissa came downstairs in all her whites, thought Peter Walsh to the sound of the bell.It was Clarissa herself, and he thought of her with such passion, so distinctly, and somehow, as if such bells had echoed in the room years before, as they sat opposite each other, sharing the good times together, as if The bee who returned from gathering honey left with a moment of tenderness and sweetness.But which room is it in?at what time?And why did he feel so elated when the bell rang?After a while, when the bells of St. Margaret's church died away, he remembered that she had been ill, and that the bells expressed weakness and pain.It was, he imagined, her heart attack; the last chime struck loud and powerful, a life-shaking death knell, and Clarissa fell to the ground in her drawing-room.No!No!He shouted, she is not dead!I am not old, he cried, striding up Whitehall Street, as if the bright future lay before him, full of life and never ending.
He's not old, stubborn, or boring.And as for them--Dalloway, Whitbread, and the rest of them, he didn't care what was said about him--not at all (though he did sometimes have to think about it, Richard Can you find him a job).He stalked and stared, staring at the statue of the Duke of Cambridge.He had been expelled from Oxford - that was a fact.He had been a socialist and, in a sense, a loser—and that was true.But, he believed, the future of civilization lay in the hands of young men like himself thirty years ago; those who love abstract principles, who order books from London and send them to their Himalayan peaks, who study science , study philosophy.He believes that the future lies in the hands of young people like that.
There was a sound behind him, like the rustling of leaves in the forest, and then another rustling, a regular rattle, caught up with him, disturbed his train of thought, and made him involuntarily step forward in neat steps. Walk up Whitehall Street.A group of boys in uniform strode forward, guns in hand, staring straight ahead; their arms stiffened, their faces resembling the inscriptions carved around the base of statues—praising duty, gratitude, fidelity, love of country.
Peter Walsh kept pace with them and thought it was good practice.However, these children do not look strong, most of them are thin, and these teenage boys may one day stand behind the counter with bowls of rice and bars of soap.Now they were bearing wreaths from Fisbury Street to lay before the empty tomb;They have sworn.Traffic respected them and trucks stopped to let them pass.
As they marched down Whitehall Street Peter Walsh felt he could not keep up with them.Indeed, they went on steadily, past him, past each passerby, as if a single will ruled the limbs, and the ever-changing and unspoken life had been placed under the steps of monuments and wreaths, Because of the discipline, life becomes a wide-eyed zombie, and one has to respect it, laugh at it though it may, but respect it, he thought.And so they marched, thought Peter Walsh, pausing for a moment on the edge of the steps, and they passed all the tall black statues: Nelson, Gordon, Havelock, the great warriors towered above them, looking far; As if they too had been similarly self-denying, sacrificing (Peter Walsh felt that he too had made a great sacrifice), ravaged by the same temptations, and finally reduced to stony staring.However, Peter himself did not want this look at all, although he respected it in others.He can respect the look in the children's eyes.The children went on toward the Embankment and faded out of sight; they hadn't tasted the troubles of life, he thought--never tasted what I've been through, he thought; and he crossed the road and stood Beneath the statue of Gordon, standing under the statue of Gordon, his childhood idol; the General stood alone with arms folded and one leg crossed—poor Gordon, he thought to himself.
No one except Clarissa knew he was in London.The earth still seemed to him an island after the sea voyage, and that was why he could not bear the strangeness—he was alone, alive and unknown, standing alone in Trafalgar Square at eleven-thirty .what does this mean?Where am I?And, he thought, why even do this?Divorce seemed pure fantasy.His mood suddenly fell, and he was bewildered by three strong emotions: understanding, great compassion, and finally an irrepressible and perfect pleasure, which seemed to be the product of the other two emotions; The ropes were pulled, the shutters moved, and he himself, detached as he was, stood at the beginning of the infinite avenue, which he could, if he chose, wander forward.He hadn't felt so young in a long time.
He got away!Completely free--as when freed from the shackles of a habit, the mind is like a fire that shoots at will, rushing about as if about to burst out of its cage.I haven't felt so young in ages!Peter thought, forgetting who he was (for only a moment, of course), and feeling like a child running out of doors and seeing the old nurse get the wrong window and wave wildly as he ran.He was walking across Trafalgar Square towards Haymarket, and there came a young lady, very attractive, thought Peter.As she passed the Gordon Statue, Peter vaguely felt (he was emotional) that she seemed to shed layer after layer of veils, and finally became the ideal woman he had always dreamed of: young and generous, lively and steady, dark skinned But charming.
He straightened up, touched the jackknife furtively, and followed the girl to seek the woman he had in mind, to seek this kind of stimulation, even if it was not a direct encounter, it seemed to bring him light and connect them. Together, he was singled out, as if the randomly sounded rattling car sounded through the divine hand, softly calling his name, not Peter, but the nickname he called himself in private.She wore white gloves, shrugged her shoulders, and called "you" and only "you".Then, as she passed Dent's shop on Coxpur Street, the wind stirred her long thin cloak with universal kindness and melancholy tenderness, as if to open her arms to embrace Weary beings...
Yet she was unmarried, she was young, very young, thought Peter; and he saw her cross Trafalgar Square wearing a red carnation, and now the flower burned in his eyes again, making her lips scarlet.She is waiting on the street.There was a dignity about her, not so worldly as Clarissa, not as well off as she was.As she began to walk, Peter wondered: Is she decent?Fairly bright, with a lizard's tongue, he thought (he had to fantasize, had to have a little fun), she had a kind of waiting wisdom, a quick wit, and she didn't show it off.
She moved, she crossed the street, he followed her.He never wanted to embarrass her, but if she stopped, he would say, "Have an ice cream." She would reply, quite simply, "Okay."
However, other pedestrians on the street stood between them, blocking him and covering her.He followed closely.She is unpredictable.There was a flush on her face, and a mocking look in her eyes.He considers himself an adventurer, bohemian, quick-sighted, daring, a true romantic pirate (just returned from India last night), forgetting all that formality, not paying attention to yellow dressing gowns, pipes, and fishing hooks in the windows. Pay attention, ignore any respectability, dinner party, well-dressed old man in white leggings under a vest.He is a pirate.She continued to walk ahead of him, across Piccadilly and up Regent Street, her cape and gloves and shoulders mingling with the tassels and lace and feather shawls in the shop windows in an air of splendor and strangeness, which gradually Shrinking, floating from the shop to the street, like a flickering light at night, illuminating a hedge in the dark.
She crossed Oxford Street and Great Portland Street laughingly, turned into a side street, and at this moment, at this moment, the critical moment was coming, because now she slowed down, opened her handbag, and walked in his direction A glance without looking at him, a farewell glance that sums up the whole picture and triumphantly casts it away forever.She had put the key in the lock, opened the door, and disappeared without a trace!Clarissa's voice echoed in his ears: Remember my party, remember my party.The house in front of me is that kind of monotonous red house with flower baskets hanging, maybe it's a brothel looking for flowers and willows.That was the end of the affair.
"Anyway, I've had a taste of it," he thought, looking up at the swinging basket of pale geraniums, and thinking, I've had a taste of it.And yet his fun—shattered at once, because he knew very well that it was mostly fantasy, that the jokes he made with the girl was nothing but fiction, he thought to himself, as one imagines the better side of life— —give yourself an illusion, make a fiction of her, create a wonderful pleasure and whatnot.But none of this can be shared—it's shattered, which is strange but true.
He turned and walked up the high street to find a place to sit and wait a while before going to Lincoln's Law Society--to Hooper and Greatley's office.Where should I go now?It doesn't matter.Just follow this road towards Regent's Park.His boots rattled on the pavement, as if to say "it doesn't matter," because it was early, still early.
Besides, what a beautiful morning it is.The streets are filled with the breath of life, just like a sound heart beating.No fumbling, no indecision.The car sped along precisely, punctually, and silently, made sharp turns, and stopped just in time at the door.A girl got out, she was lithe in stockings and feathers, but he didn't find her particularly attractive (because he had already tasted the sweetness).Peter looked out the open door into the hall, admiring the awe-inspiring butler, the tan Chinese puppy, the black-and-white diamond-checked floor, and the white hangings blowing in the wind.At the end of the day, there is something unique about London: social season, social civility.He came from a respectable Anglo-Indian family that ruled a sub-continent for at least three generations (although he hated India, empires, and armies, it was odd, he thought, that I should have such feelings for them) .Sometimes civilization, even this civilization, was dear to him, as if it were his own; sometimes he was proud of England, and proud of the housekeeper, and the Chinese puppies, and the easy girls. pride.He knew it was ridiculous, but the feeling was still there.The doctors, the industrialists, and the capable women who went about their affairs, all punctual, clever, strong, seemed worthy of his admiration, men to be trusted, companions in the art of living in haste, The reason, the sight before him was indeed quite satisfactory; he would sit for a while in the shade and smoke a cigarette.
Over there is Regent's Park.Yes, he used to walk in Regent's Park when he was a boy—strange, he thought, how he kept thinking about his childhood—perhaps seeing Clarissa, because women miss the past more than we do, he thought, and they take Connecting themselves to places, flesh and blood to their fathers--every woman is always proud of her father.Bourton's a nice place, very nice; but, he thought, I couldn't get along with her father, the old man, and had a big row with him one night--arguing about something, what exactly, can't remember Well, probably about politics.
Yes, he remembered Regent's Park: the straight avenue, the hut on the left selling balloons, and a grotesque statue in it with an inscription on it.He is looking for an empty seat.He doesn't want to be disturbed by people asking the time (he feels a little sleepy).Seeing an elderly, gray-haired nurse with a sleeping baby in a pram beside him—the best seat he could find there—he sat down at the other end of the nurse's chair.
Suddenly, he thought of the scene when Elizabeth entered the room and stood beside his mother. She looked very unique, tall and almost fully grown. She could not be called beautiful, but beautiful, and she was only eighteen years old at most. .Maybe Clarissa and Elizabeth didn't have a good relationship. "This is my Elizabeth"—why say that—why not simply "This is Elizabeth"? ——Just like most mothers, trying to cover up the truth.She believed too much in her own charms, he thought, she was too conceited.
The rich, soft cigar smoke seeps into his throat, bringing a cool feeling; he exhales the smoke round and round, and the smoke gathers in the air for a while, and the blue smoke circles around-I will find a chance tonight, Talk to Elizabeth alone, Peter thought—and after a while the smoke began to shake, hourglass-shaped, tapered at the top, and fade away; the shape of the smoke was queer, he thought.Suddenly, he closed his eyes and raised his hand with great effort to throw away the heavy cigarette butt.Trembling branches, children's voices, random footsteps, and the high or low roar of passing pedestrians and vehicles flashed in his mind, as if there was a big brush, and all these were smoothly swept into his mind .He sank more and more, sank, and finally fell deeply into a feather-soft dreamland.
The grizzled nurse resumed her knitting needles, and Peter Walsh snored in the warm seat beside her.Wearing a gray cloth dress, she knits her hands tirelessly and calmly. She looks like a messenger defending the rights of sleepers, and also like an elf, appearing in the forest of sky and branches at dawn.He was like a lonely wanderer, haunting the small streets and alleys, touched the wild fern and damaged the hemlock, suddenly looked up, and saw a huge figure at the end of the road.
Perhaps because he is convinced that he is an atheist, he is surprised when he occasionally feels unusually excited like a believer.There is nothing in us, he thought, but thought; a desire for comfort and relief, and for some power to rise above the mortals, the miserable dwarves, men and women who are feeble and ugly and timid.If he could conceive of this power, give it a feminine form, then, in a way, she was in the world; he walked along the path, looking up at the sky and the branches, and quickly gave them feminine characteristics. and noticed with amazement that they had become more dignified and graceful; that as the breeze stirred the boughs, and as the dull leaves quivered, they radiated love, understanding, and grace; Carnival defiled the cloak of piety.
It is this vision that seems to bring great cone-shaped sacks full of fruit to the solitary wanderer, or murmur in his ear like a siren's song on emerald waves, or like bouquets of roses Flowers, blowing towards him, or emerging from the water like pale faces, attract fishermen to swim vigorously in the huge waves, wanting to be intimate.
It is this illusion which rises endlessly, with the real, yet puts their form before the real, so that the solitary wanderer is often overwhelmed by their charm, and robs him of the sense of the earth and the desire to return, Compensation was given to him for a general tranquility, as if (as he thought as he entered the winding path) all this desire to exist was so simple, that a thousand things merged into one, and that this phantom, a form made of sky and branches, , rising from the raging sea (he is old, in his early fifties), as if a shadow might emerge from the waves, pouring love, understanding and grace through her noble hands.He thought to himself: Let us never go back to the lights, never to go back into the drawing room, never to finish reading our books, never to knock the ashes out of our pipes, never to ring the bell for Mrs. Turner to put away the glasses. ;Let me go forward and catch the great phantom, who lifts me above her streamers when she raises her head, and makes me and all else vanish into nothingness.
Such is the case with hallucinations.The lonely wanderer soon came out of the woods, and there, an old woman came to the door, raised her hand to her forehead, her white apron was blown by the wind, perhaps waiting for his return.She seems (fragile, but powerful) to cross the desert to find her lost son, to find a ruined rider, to be the mother of sons who died in human strife.So when the solitary wanderer walked along the village streets, the women stood weaving, the men dug in the gardens, the evening seemed ominous; people stood still as if they knew and fearlessly Waiting for a dreadful doom that is about to destroy them all.
Indoors, among the commonplace objects of the pantry, the table, the window-sill with the geraniums, the landlady stooped to remove the tablecloth, and at that moment her figure suddenly softened in the light, the embodiment of loveliness and admiration. We couldn't help wanting to hug her, but we restrained ourselves only because we remembered the indifference of human feelings.She took the jam and put it in the pantry:
"Is everything all right tonight, sir?"
But to whom does the solitary wanderer answer?
That's how the elderly nurse knits around a sleeping baby and Peter Walsh snores in Regent's Park.Suddenly, he woke up suddenly and muttered to himself: "The soul is dead."
"God, God!" he said aloud to himself, stretching his limbs and opening his eyes: "the soul is dead." These four words were related to a certain scene, a certain room, and a certain past event in his dream.In the dream, the scene, the room, and the past became clearer.
It was a summer in Bourton in the early nineties, and he was madly in love with Clarissa.There were many people in the room. After drinking tea, everyone sat around the table talking and laughing. The room was filled with orange lights, and the smoke filled the whole room.They were talking of a gentleman in the neighborhood who had married a maid whose name he had forgotten.Anyway, the man married the maid and brought her to visit at Bourton--bad!She was all dressed up, it was ridiculous.Clarissa followed her example and said she looked like a "white parrot."Moreover, the woman was chattering and chattering non-stop.Clarissa imitated the way she spoke.It was said afterward—it was Sally Seton—that if it were known that she had had a child before marriage, would it affect the relationship? (Back then, it was bold enough to ask such a question in a mixed-gender setting.) Now, Peter relived Clarissa in his mind: flushed and contorted for some reason, she said: "Hey, then I can't talk to her anymore." At this moment, all the people sitting around the tea table seemed to be fidgeting, which was very embarrassing.
He didn't blame her for thinking about it, because in those days, girls who grew up like her didn't understand anything.But her posture irritated him: she was timid and stern, haughty and formal.He instinctively said, "The soul is dead"—her soul is dead—to give the moment a specific meaning, which was his usual behavior.
Everyone is uneasy.Everyone seemed to grovel when she spoke, then straighten up and look different.He still remembered that Sally Seton was like a naughty child at that time, Philip blushed and leaned forward, trying to speak but scared.Clarissa can really scare people off. (Sally was Clarissa's best friend. She used to live in Bourton. She was lovely, pretty, and dark. At that time, she was considered a very bold woman. He used to smoke her cigars. She was in the bedroom She didn't know whether she was engaged to someone or had a quarrel with her family, but old Parry didn't like either of them, which only made their friendship stronger.) Then Clarissa rose, With an angry look on his face, he left alone with an excuse.When she opened the door, the big shaggy collie came running in.She hugged the dog in ecstasy.It seemed to Peter that she was saying to him—he knew it was all directed at him—"I know you think what I've just said about that woman is ridiculous, but look how sympathetic I am, look How I love my Robert!"
He and Clarissa always connected without talking, and she sensed at once that he was criticizing her, and she made an overt gesture of justification, like this one about the dog— —Never fooled him, however, he could always see through Clarissa.Of course he didn't say anything, just sat sullenly.Quarrels between them often start like this.
She closed the door.Suddenly he became very depressed.All seemed futile—what was the use of continuing to love, to continue to quarrel, to continue to make up? !He wandered alone, wandering between the outhouses and stables, watching the horses. (It was a rough place, and the Parrys were never rich, but there were always grooms and stableboys--Clarissa loved to ride--and an old coachman--what's his name?--and an old Nanny, they called her something like Old Moody or Old Goody. People were shown to see her in a small room with pictures and cages.)
It was a terrible night!He was getting more and more depressed, not just about that, but about everything.To make matters worse, he couldn't see her, couldn't explain to her, couldn't make things clear.There were always outsiders around them - but she acted as usual, as if nothing had happened.That was the hateful thing about her--this indifference, this indifference, buried deep in her heart; he felt it again this morning when he talked to her, her heart was unfathomable.But God knows he loves her.She has a strange charm that can touch people's nerves, yes, she can tie people's nerves to the strings of the harp.
To make his presence known, he went to supper late on purpose, and sat down beside old Miss Parry, Aunt Helena, Mr. Parry's sister.By rights, she was the hostess of the dinner.She was wearing a white cashmere scarf, with her head against the window, a forbidding old lady who was kind to him because he had once found her a rare flower.She loves biology. She always wears thick leather boots and carries a black lead specimen box on her back to collect specimens.Peter sat down beside her, not saying a word, everything seemed to pass him by, he just sat and ate.It was halfway through dinner when he forced himself to glance at Clarissa for the first time.She is talking to a young man sitting to her right.Suddenly, he had a premonition: "She will marry that man," he said to himself.At that moment, he didn't even know the man's name.
It was that afternoon that Dalloway came.Clarissa calls him "Wickham," and that's how it all started.Someone had brought Dalloway as a guest, but Clarissa misremembered his name and introduced him to everyone as Wickham.Finally, he said: "My name is Dalloway!"—that was Peter's first impression of Richard—a young blond man with awkward manners, sitting on a recliner, blurted out "My name is Dalloway." David!" Sully couldn't forget this incident, and from then on he always called him "My name is Dalloway!"
At that time, Peter always had all kinds of premonitions.Clarissa was going to marry Dalloway, and this premonition made him dizzy and depressed at the moment.There was something—he did not know how to express it—in her manner to Dalloway, a sort of ease, a maternal tenderness.They were talking about politics.Throughout dinner Peter tried to hear what they were talking about.
He still remembered that later in the living room, standing by old Miss Parry's seat, Clarissa came up to him with the dainty grace of a real housewife to introduce him to someone—as she spoke He looked as if he was a stranger.This set him on fire.Still, even then, he admired her for it.He admired her courage, her social genius, her ability to do things from beginning to end.He said she was "a perfect housewife".She trembled all over after hearing this.He had wanted to hurt her.After seeing her with Dalloway, all he wanted was to make her miserable.So she left him.He felt that they were all involved in some conspiracy against him, that they were whispering and mocking behind his back.So he stood on the edge of old Miss Parry's seat, talking of wildflowers, as if he had been carved in clay or wood.He had never, never felt such pain!He even forgot to pretend to listen to Miss Parry, until at last he awoke with a start and saw Miss Parry quite agitated and angry, her protruding eyes fixed.He almost cried out: I can't accompany you, because I have fallen into hell!People started coming out of the room, and he heard them talking about getting their coats, and how it was cold on the lake, and so on.They were going to go boating on the lake by moonlight—it was Sally's whim.He could hear Sally drawing the moon.Everyone is out.He was left, utterly alone.
"Don't you want to go with them?" asked Aunt Helena.Poor old lady!She guessed right.He turned to see Clarissa walking in again.She had come back to call him.He was deeply moved by her generosity and kindness.
"Come on," she said, "they're waiting."
He had never felt so happy in his life!Without saying a word, they made up.They walked to the lake, and for twenty minutes he had a great time.Her voice and smile, her dress (floating on the water, red and white), her look, her spirit of adventure, all fascinated him; A hen; she laughs, she sings.All the while, however, it was perfectly clear to him that Dalloway was in love with her, and she was in love with Dalloway; but this did not seem to matter.It doesn't matter what.The two of them—he and Clarissa—sat on the floor talking.They read each other's minds effortlessly.But in the blink of an eye, everything was over."She'll marry that man," he murmured gloomily to himself as they boarded. He held no grudges, but it was clear: Dalloway would marry Clarissa.
Dalloway rowed them back.He said nothing, and they watched him get on his bike and start the twenty-mile journey through the woods, staggering down the driveway, waving, out of sight.Somehow he obviously felt it all instinctively, violently, intensely: night, love, Clarissa.Dalloway is entitled to her.
But he is not close to humanity.What he was asking of Clarissa (now he understood) was unreasonable, he was asking for the impossible.He also quarreled with her.Maybe she would still accept him if he wasn't so ridiculous, Sally thought.All that summer Sally wrote him long letters: what she and Clarissa talked about him, how she praised him, and why Clarissa burst into tears!It was an unusual summer--all those letters, telegrams, and quarrels--and he was at Bourton early in the morning, and wandered about till the servants were up; Aunt Helena was dignified and kind; Sally took him to talk in the vegetable garden; Clarissa was bedridden, complaining of a headache.
The last quarrel happened at three o'clock in the afternoon on a hot day.He believed that terrible quarrel was the most important event in his life (this may be an exaggeration-but it is true in retrospect).The cause was a trifle--Sally talking about Dalloway at lunch, jokingly calling him "My name is Dalloway"; Clarissa suddenly became angry, blushed, and said sharply with her characteristic expression. Said: "We've heard enough of this silly joke." That's all, but to him it seemed as if she had said: "I'm just entertaining you, and Richard Dale and I Luo Wei is the confidant." That's how he understood her words.For several nights he could not sleep.He said to himself, "This matter has to be settled anyway." So he asked Sally to send Clarissa a note and asked her to meet at the fountain at three o'clock."Something big happened," he scribbled at the end of the letter.
The fountain sits in the middle of a small bush, far from the house, surrounded by greenery.She came, earlier than the appointed time.They stood facing each other across the fountain, and a trickle gurgled from the spout (broken) of the fountain.How deeply those scenes are engraved on the mind!For example, he always remembers the green moss.
She didn't move. "Tell me the truth, tell me," he repeated.His forehead felt like it was going to explode.She looked shrunken and stiff.She didn't move at all. "Tell me the truth," he repeated.Suddenly, the old man Breikopf came in with the "Times" in his hand, took a look at them, was stunned with surprise, turned and left.Both stood still. "Tell me the truth," he repeated.He felt that he was grinding something hard, and she was unyielding, like pig iron, like flint, indestructible.He talked and talked, tears soaked his cheeks, and the hours seemed to pass.Finally, she said: "No, no, this is the last meeting." Her words were like a slap in the face, slapped on his face.She turned away from him and left.
"Clarissa!" he called, "Clarissa!" But she never came back, and it was over.He left Bourton that night and never saw her again.
This is terrible, he cried, terrible, terrible!
However, the sun is still hot.People still forget the past.Life still goes by day by day.He stretched and began to notice his surroundings—Regent's Park hadn't changed since he was a boy, except for a few more squirrels—but life had to make up for it, he thought.Elise Mitchell, Jr. has been picking pebbles to add to her and her brother's collection, and put them on the mantelpiece in the nursery.Now, suddenly, she snatched up a handful of pebbles, dropped them on the nurse's lap, and ran away so fast that she bumped into a woman's thigh, and Peter Walsh laughed loudly.
Lucrezia Warren Smith, on the other hand, was thinking to herself: It's not fair, why should I suffer?She walked along the road, asking herself.No, I can bear it no longer, she said, now that she was away from Septimus.He was no longer Septimus, or how could he sit there in that chair, and say something harsh, cruel, and vicious, or murmur to himself, or talk to dead men; On top of her, she fell to the ground and burst into tears.
This time it relieved her.She picked up the baby, patted the little one's coat, kissed her, comforted her.
In retrospect, she was not at fault herself, she had loved Septimus, she had been happy, she had a good home, and her sisters still lived there and made hats.为什么她该受苦呢？
孩子径直跑回保姆那儿，雷西娅看见保姆责备她，又安慰她。保姆放下织物，抱起了她；同时，看上去很和善的那个男子把自己的表给她，让她打开，逗她乐儿——可是，雷西娅想，为什么我就该无依无靠呢？为什么不让我留在米兰？为什么我要忍受折磨？Why?
泪水使眼前的大路、保姆、穿灰衣服的男子以及童车，都微微晃动。她命中注定要受这个邪恶的虐待狂的摆布。Why is that?她好比一只小鸟，栖身在一片薄薄的树叶之下；当树叶飘拂时，鸟儿对着阳光䀹眼，一根树枝的毕剥声也会使她惊吓。她举目无亲，被冷漠世界中的参天大树和团团乌云包围，毫无庇荫，备受折磨；然而，究竟为什么她该受苦呢？Why?
她蹙眉，她跺脚。她必须回到赛普蒂默斯身边，因为去看威廉·布雷德肖爵士的时间快到了。她必须回去告诉他，回到他坐的地方去。他趺坐在树下绿椅子上，自言自语，或与那死人埃文斯讲话。她只在一家商店里匆匆见过埃文斯一面。看来他像个温和文静的人，是赛普蒂默斯的知心朋友，在大战中牺牲了。不过，这类事情人人都会遇到。每个人都有朋友在大战中阵亡。每个人在结婚时都得做一些牺牲。她舍弃了自己的家，来到这讨厌的城市里。赛普蒂默斯老是想一些恐怖的事。要是她愿意尝试，她也能这么想的。他变得越来越古怪了，说什么人们在卧室的墙后窃窃私语。菲尔默太太认为这不正常。他的眼前还会呈现幻景——他在一棵蕨草中看见一个老太婆的头。其实，要是他愿意，他也能快活的。有一回，他俩坐在公共汽车上层，到汉普顿宫廷花园去，他就很高兴。草地上盛开小小的红花和黄花，他说他俩像飘浮的明灯，他有说有笑，信口编造故事。忽然，他说：“现在咱们来自杀吧。”那一刻，他俩正站在河边，他凝望河水，眼睛里那种神色，她以前也曾见过。当火车与公共汽车经过时，他眼中就会闪现这样的神色——似乎有什么东西使他着迷，她感到他似乎已不再在她身旁，于是抓住了他的手臂。但是在回家的路上，他却完全恢复了平静——非常通情达理。他会和她争论自杀的事，向她解释人是多么邪恶，还说什么他看得出街上行人边走边捏造谎话。他说他洞悉人们的思想，他对什么都了如指掌，还说，他参透宇宙的意蕴哩。
然而，他们回家后，他几乎寸步难行。他躺在沙发上，要她握紧他的手，让他不致倒下，倒下，他狂呼，别让我掉入火海！他看见墙上露出一张张脸，对着他嗤笑，又用可怖而恶心的名字呼唤他，纱窗周围伸出一只只手，对着他指指点点。实际上，他们身边杳无人影。他却高声嚷嚷，一忽儿回答什么人，一忽儿争辩，哭呀笑的，激动万分，还要她一一记录，尽是些胡言乱语：死亡啰，伊莎贝尔·波尔小姐啰。她实在受不了，她要回家去。
眼下，她离他很近，看得出他攥紧双手，凝望高空，喃喃自语。然而，霍姆斯大夫却说他什么病也没有。那么，究竟出了什么事呢？——为什么他要走开？当她在他身边坐下时，他为什么大吃一惊，对她颦眉，赶紧走开呢？还要捏着她的手，拿过来，恐惧地盯着，为什么？
是否因为她把结婚戒指脱下了呢？“我的手瘦多了，”她说，“我把戒指放在皮包里了，”她告诉他。
他放松了她的手。他俩的婚姻完蛋了，他痛苦地思量，但又感到宽慰。绳子已割断，他跨上了马，他自由了，正如命里注定的那样，他，赛普蒂默斯，人类的上帝，应当得到自由；他孤苦伶仃（因为他的妻子扔掉了结婚戒指，离开了他），他，赛普蒂默斯，孑然一身，在芸芸众生之中，首先被神明召唤，去谛听真理，领悟正道，经过文明社会的全部辛勤劳动——希腊人、罗马人、莎士比亚、达尔文，当今则是他本人——终于要完全传给……“传给谁呢？”他大声问道。“传给首相，”他头上的低语声回答他。绝密信息必须透露给内阁：第一，树木有生命；第二，世上没有罪恶；第三，爱和博爱；他在喘气，颤抖，喃喃自语，痛楚地吐露这些深奥的真谛，它们是如此深刻，如此玄妙，必须用九牛二虎之力才能阐明，但是值得，因为它们永远改变了世界。
没有罪恶，唯有爱，他反复说道；他的手在摸索，寻找铅笔和卡片。这时，一只訇狗过来嗅他的裤子，他惊跳起来，恐惧万分：那条狗正在变成人！他不能注视这种怪事！眼看狗变人，太可怕啦，令人惊骇。顿时，那条狗跑开了。
苍天神圣而慈悲，无限地宽宏。它赦免了他，宽恕了他的软弱。但是科学（因为人必须首先讲究科学）又是怎么解释的？为何他能透视身体内部，预见未来狗会变人呢？大概是热浪冲昏头脑而引起的吧，亿万年的进化已使脑子变得敏感。用科学来剖析，应该说肉体溶化了，超逸红尘了。他的身体经受百般磨练，最后只留下神经纤维，仿佛薄纱铺在岩石上。
他背靠椅子，精疲力竭而获得支撑。他靠在椅子上，憩息，等待，而后又竭力地、痛楚地给人类讲解。他依稀躺在高耸入云之巅，在世界的屋脊上。大地在他脚下颤动。红花从他体内茁生，花朵的硬叶在他头边瑟瑟作响。这儿的岩石旁开始响起铿锵的乐曲，那是街上的汽车喇叭声，他咕哝着；但是在这里，乐声从一块岩石传到另一块岩石，宛如大炮轰鸣，音波向四处扩散，又在震荡中凝聚，形成平滑的音柱，冉冉上升（声音竟能为肉眼所见，这可是个新发现），成为一首赞歌，此刻它与牧童的笛声（其实是个老人在酒店门口吹小管乐的声音，他咕哝道）融合在一起；当牧童静静地伫立时，乐声便从芦笛内涌出；尔后，当他攀上更高的峰顶时，笛子发出了哀婉之声，如泣如诉，同时，车辆在他脚下行驶。赛普蒂默斯觉得，那孩子的哀歌交织在车马声中。须臾，他退隐至雪山中，身边盛开蔷薇花——那是在他卧室墙上的大朵红蔷薇，他提醒自己。音乐消逝了，他揣想，一定是老人得了钱，又上另一家酒店去了。
然而，他自己仍待在嵯峨的岩石上，仿佛一个遇难的水手趺坐在礁石上。他寻思：我把身子探出船外，掉入水里。我沉入海底。我曾经死去，如今又复活了，哎，让我安息吧，他祈求着。（他又喃喃自语：这太可怕了，太可怕啦！）恍惚在苏醒之前，鸟语嘤嘤，车声辚辚，汇合成一片奇异的和谐；繁音徐徐增长，使梦乡之人似乎感到被引至生命的岸边，赛普蒂默斯觉得，自己也被生活所吸引，骄阳更加灼热，喊声愈发响亮，一桩大事行将爆发了。
他只要睁开眼睛就好了，但眼皮上压得沉甸甸的，那是一种恐怖。他眯缝双眼，奋力挣扎，举目凝望，只见眼前的摄政公园。阳光闪烁，修长的光带抚弄着他的双脚。树木在婆娑起舞。大地恍惚在说：我们欢迎，我们接受，我们创造。大地恍惚在说：美。仿佛为了（科学地）证实美的存在，无论他往哪里看，无论他看的是房屋、栏杆，还是跨越栅栏的羚羊，美立即在那里呈现。他瞅着一片树叶在风中颤抖，只觉得心花怒放。天空中，燕子翩然掠过，飞翔，旋转，尽情地飞进飞出，萦回缭绕，却又像被松紧带所牵引，总是那么富于节奏；蝇儿飞上飞下；嘲弄似的太阳时而照射这片树叶，时而照亮那片树叶，心平气和地给绿叶蒙上一层柔美的金色；不时传来和谐的乐声（兴许是汽车喇叭声），洒在草茎上，发出神奇的丁冬声——这一切宁静而合理，均由平凡的事物所孕育；现在，这一切就是真理，现在，美就是真理。到处都洋溢着美。
“时间到了，”雷西娅道。
“时间”这个词撕开了外壳，把它的财富泻在他身心中；从他唇边不由地吐出字字珠玑，坚贞、洁白、永不磨灭，仿佛贝壳，又似刨花，纷纷飘洒，组成一首时间的颂歌，一首不朽的时光颂。他放声歌唱。埃文斯在树背后应声而唱：死者在撒塞里，在兰花丛中。他们始终在那里期待，直到大战终止。此刻，死者，埃文斯本人，显灵了……
“看在上帝面上，别过来！”赛普蒂默斯嚷道，因为他不能正视死者。
可是树枝分开了，一个穿灰衣服的人竟在向他俩走来。那是埃文斯！不过他身上没有污泥，没有伤痕，他没有变样。
我必须向全世界宣布，赛普蒂默斯举起了手（当穿灰衣服的死者向他走近时），大声呐喊，恰如一个巨人，多年来独自在沙漠里悲叹人类的命运，双手压住前额，面颊上刻着一道道绝望的皱纹；眼下他却望见沙漠的边缘闪现光明，光点越来越大，照射那黑憧憧的鬼影（赛普蒂默斯从椅子上欠身而起），他背后匍伏着千百万人，而他，这巨人般的哀悼者，在一瞬间，露出大慈大悲的脸容……
“我苦恼极了，赛普蒂默斯，”雷西娅说，试图让他坐下。
千百万人在哀伤，千百年来众生都在悲痛。他要转过身去，片刻之后，只要再过片刻，他就会告诉人们这种慰藉，这种欢欣，这一惊人的启示……
“几点钟了，赛普蒂默斯？”雷西娅又问：“几点了？”
他却自言自语，他显得惊慌失措。那陌生人肯定会注意到他的举动，他在盯着他俩呢。
“我会告诉你时间的，”赛普蒂默斯带着神秘的微笑，缓慢而困倦地对穿灰衣服的死者说。他含笑坐在椅上，当下，钟声敲响了：一刻钟——十二点差一刻了。
彼得·沃尔什从他们身旁走过，心想，年轻人就是这样嘛，早晨刚过去一半便吵得这么凶——那位可怜的姑娘看上去心灰意懒，可这是怎么回事呢？他心中纳闷。那个穿大衣的青年跟她说了些什么，使她的脸色变得那么难看？在这样美好的夏日早晨，两人却都显得那么沮丧而绝望，他们卷入了什么难以摆脱的困境呢？有趣的是，阔别五年重返英伦，一切都变得新鲜了，好像他以前从未见过似的；无论如何，回国最初的几天里总有这种感觉：恋人们在树下口角，公园里弥漫着家庭生活的气息，伦敦从未如此迷人——向远处眺望，景色柔和、丰美、翠绿，一派文明的气象；从印度归来，这一切显得分外魅人；他在草地上边漫步边沉思。
毫无疑问，这样敏感是他失败的原因。在他这把年纪，却还像个少女，易于情绪波动，莫名其妙地时而欢乐，时而颓丧，看见漂亮的面孔便会感到幸福，看到一个丑女人就会痛苦不堪。诚然，在印度住过后，碰到每个女人，他都会倾心。她们身上散发出一种朝气，即便最穷的女人也肯定比五年前穿戴得整齐多了；在他看来，当前流行的时装式样最惬意了：长幅的黑斗篷，纤细的身材，优雅的姿态；而且，人人显然都有化妆的习惯，真令人心醉呀。每个女人，甚至最受尊敬的女人，都有温室内玫瑰般的面颊，殷红的嘴唇，好似被刀子割过似的，加上黑色鬈发，处处都显示出艺术加工；无疑地，国内发生了一种什么变化。青年们在想些什么呢？彼得·沃尔什思索着。
他揣想，那五个年头——一九一八至一九二三——在某种程度上是关键的五年，人们变得异样了，报纸也和过去不同了；譬如，现在竟有人在一张正经的周报上公然谈论厕所。要是在十年之前，绝对不允许——这样公开地在有名的周报上谈论厕所。还有，在大庭广众之间，竟然掏出口红或粉扑，涂脂抹粉起来。在回国途中，船上有许多青年男女——他特别记得贝蒂和伯第——居然当众打情骂俏；年迈的母亲却兀自坐在一旁打毛线，看在眼里无动于衷。那姑娘竟会当着大家的面，在鼻子上扑粉哩；况且他们并未订婚，只是逢场作戏，双方都不伤感情。那个叫贝蒂什么的，真够老练呐；不过，在他看来，不失为一个好姑娘。到她三十岁的时候，她会成为好妻子的——在适当的时机她会嫁人，嫁给某个阔佬，住在曼彻斯特附近的一所大厦里。
是谁这样做了呢？彼得·沃尔什思量着，拐弯走到大路上——是谁嫁了个有钱人，住在曼彻斯特附近的一所大厦里？那人最近给他写了封热情洋溢的长信，大谈了一通“蓝色的绣球花”。她是看到了蓝色绣球花才想起他和往事的——噢，当然是萨利·赛顿喽！是她——那个任性、大胆、浪漫的萨利！无论谁也想不到她竟会嫁给一个阔佬，去住在曼彻斯特附近的一所大厦里。
但是，在过去的那些人中间，在克拉丽莎的那些朋友中间——惠特布雷德·金德斯利一家、坎宁安一家，以及金洛克·琼斯一家——萨利可算凤毛麟角。不管怎么说，她试图从正确的角度去看待人事，她总算看透了休·惠特布雷德的为人——那位令人钦佩的休——当时，克拉丽莎和其余的人都对他五体投地哩。
“惠特布雷德一家吗？”她的话好像仍在彼得耳边回响。“他们是干什么的？煤商，可尊敬的生意人。”
由于某种缘故，她厌恶休的为人。她说，休只想到自己的外貌。他应该是个公爵，那么他必定会娶个公主呢。诚然，在彼得认识的人中间，休对英国贵族怀有最特殊的、最本能的、最崇高的敬意，甚至克拉丽莎也不得不承认这一点。喔，不过他真是个好人呀，那么忘我，为了母亲的欢心而放弃打猎——还记得她姨妈的生日，等等。
说句公道话，萨利没有被这一切蒙骗。有一件事彼得记忆犹新。那是个星期天上午，他们在布尔顿争论女权问题（那个老问题），当下萨利勃然大怒，指责休代表英国中产阶级的一切最卑鄙的东西。她对休说，她认为，他对皮卡迪利大街上“那些可怜的女子”的境况负有责任——休，可怜的休，这位十足的绅士！ ——从没有人显得像他那样震惊！事后她告诉彼得，她是故意冒犯休的（那时她和彼得经常在菜园里会面，交换记下的信息）。 “他不读书，不思考，麻木不仁。”彼得耳边又响起萨利用十分强调的语气讲的这些话。这种语气表达的内容远远超过她了解的情况。她说，小马倌也比休更有生气哩。他正是那种私立学校培养的典型，她说，只有英国这种国家才可能产生像他那样的人。由于某种原因，她确实对他鄙视透顶，对他怀有某种怨恨。曾经发生过一桩事——他记不清什么事了——是在吸烟室里。他侮辱了她——吻了她吗？真不可思议！当然，谁也不相信对休的任何坏话。谁能相信呢？在吸烟室里吻萨利！God knows!如果是什么伊迪斯贵族小姐，或者什么维奥莉特夫人，那倒颇有可能，但决不会是那个衣衫不整、一文不名的萨利，何况她还有个父亲（兴许是母亲）在蒙的卡罗赌博呢。因为在他的相识者中间，休为人最势利——最爱拍马——其实他并非十足的马屁精。他这个人过于一本正经，不可能老是阿谀别人。把他比作第一流的侍从显然更合适——就是那种跟在主人背后提箱子的角色；可以放心地派他去发电报——对女主人来说，他是不可或缺的人物。况且，他找到了差使——由于娶了个贵族小姐伊芙琳为妻，他在宫廷里得了个小差使：照料陛下的地窖，擦亮皇家用的鞋扣，穿着短外裤和有褶边的制服当差。在宫廷里干一份小差使！生活多么无情！
他与那位贵族小姐伊芙琳结了婚，就住在这儿附近吧，彼得想（他注视着俯瞰公园的宏大建筑），因为有一次，他曾在其中一座房子里用过午餐，那里面有些陈设就同休所有的财产一样，在别人家里几乎是绝无仅有的——可能是放床单、毛巾等的柜子之类。你不得不走过去观赏一番——无论那是什么东西，你不得不花许多时间赞美它——不管是放床单的柜子，还是枕套，老橡木家具或者图画，休选择这些是从一首古老的歌谣得到的启示。不过，休的太太有时会露出马脚。她是那种不起眼的、胆小如鼠的女人，一味崇拜强有力的男子汉。她几乎被人忽视。然而，她会突然出人意表地讲起话来——讲得挺尖刻。或许，她还留着一丁点儿高贵的气派呐。燃煤的蒸汽使空气混浊，对她不太适宜吧。反正，他们就住在那儿，连同他们的床单柜、名画，以及配上地道花边的枕套，一年约莫有五千或一万英镑的收入；可是我，彼得思忖，尽管比休大两岁，却为找职业而困扰呢。
他已五十三岁了，可还得求他们设法给他一份秘书的职务，或给他找个教孩子拉丁文的代课的工作，去忍受办公室里某个小官吏的差遣，仅仅为了一年能挣上五百英镑；因为，他要是娶了戴西，即便加上抚恤金，他们的收入也不能低于这个数目。惠特布雷德大概能帮他一把，达洛卫也能办到，他并不介意请达洛卫帮他忙。达洛卫是正人君子，只是有点狭隘，脑子不怎么灵活；这些都是事实，但他是彻头彻尾的正人君子。无论什么事，他都以同样刻板的理智去处理，没有半分想象力，也没有一丝才气，却有一种无法形容的优点，这是他一类人所共有的。他应该是个乡绅——搞政治完全是浪费他的精力。在野外养狗骑马，最能发挥他的长处。譬如有一回，克拉丽莎的长毛狗掉入陷阱，有半个爪子都撕裂了，克拉丽莎晕了过去，而达洛卫却把一切都办得妥妥帖帖——给狗儿扎上绷带，安上夹板，安慰克拉丽莎，叫她别惊慌失措。敢情这便是她喜欢达洛卫的缘故——她需要的正是这个：“啊，亲爱的，别傻了，握住这个——把那个拿来。”一边又不断对狗说些什么，好像它也是人哩。
然而，她怎么能全盘接受他那一大通关于诗歌的议论呢？她怎么能听任他大谈特谈莎士比亚呢？理查德·达洛卫气势汹汹地大放厥辞，说什么正经人都不应该读莎士比亚的十四行诗，因为念这些诗就像凑着小孔偷听（况且他不赞成诗中流露的那种暧昧关系），还说什么正派人不应当让妻子去拜访一个亡妇的姊妹。Simply inexplicable!唯一的办法是用杏仁糖塞住他的嘴——他是在晚餐桌上说的这番话。可是，克拉丽莎把他的谬论照单全收，认为他非常诚实，颇有独到之见。天知道她是否认为，达洛卫是她遇到的最有思想的人呐！
这一点，又成了彼得和萨利之间的一根纽带。他们常到一个花园里散步，园子四周有围墙，栽着玫瑰花和大棵的花椰菜——他还记得萨利摘下一朵玫瑰，止步赞叹月光照耀下卷心菜叶多美（他好多年来从未想过这些往事，奇怪的是，昔日的情景竟然这么历历在目地涌上心头）；此外，萨利又恳求他把克拉丽莎带走（诚然她是半开玩笑地说），把她从休和达洛卫之流“不折不扣的绅士们”那里拯救出来，他们只会“扼杀她的灵魂”（那时萨利写了许多诗歌），只能使她成为一个主妇，滋长她的世俗感。不过，对克拉丽莎也应当公正。无论如何她不会嫁给休，她很明白自己需要的是什么。她的情感全部露在表面，而在内心深处，她却十分机敏——例如，在判断人的性格上，萨利远远不及她，这种能力完全出自一种女性的直觉，她具有女性特有的天赋，不管在何处，她都能创造个人的小天地。她走进一个房间，站在门口，周围簇拥着一大群人，就像他常看到的那样，但留在人们记忆中的却是克拉丽莎。并非是她与众不同，她一点也不美，没什么动人之处，谈吐也从不显得格外机智，尽管如此，她却令人难忘，令人难忘。
No, no, no!他不再爱她了！不过，今天早上看到她拿着剪刀和绸片准备宴会之后，他无法抑制自己对她的思念；他的心头不断浮现她的倩影，仿佛坐在火车里，总是感到枕木的颠簸；诚然，这不是爱情，只是想念她，也批评她；事隔三十年，一切又重新开始，他试图剖析她的性格。显然她很世故，过分热衷于社交、地位和成功。从某种意义上讲，这些都是真实的，她本人曾向他承认过。 （只要你不厌其烦，总是能从她那儿了解到真情，她不会撒谎。）她会说，她讨厌衣衫不整的女人，讨厌思想保守和一事无成的人——大概就像他那种人吧；她认为，人们没有权利游手好闲，懒懒散散，无所事事；人必须干一番事业，出人头地；在她看来，在她的客厅里见到的社会名流、公爵夫人和白发苍苍的老伯爵夫人，象征着某种实际的权势，而他却认为这批人毫无价值可言。有一回她说，贝克斯巴勒夫人体态轩昂（克拉丽莎本人也同样，她决不会懒洋洋地斜靠着，总是挺直身子，其实有点僵硬）。她说，那些名流体现了一种勇气，随着年龄的增长，她越来越敬佩这种勇气了。当然，其中不少是达洛卫先生的观点，诸如热心公益、大英帝国、关税改革、统治阶级的精神，等等，所有这些对她潜移默化，熏陶颇深。尽管她的才智超出达洛卫两倍，她却不得不用他的眼光去看待事物——这是婚姻的悲剧之一。虽然她自己也有头脑，却老是引用理查德的话——好像人们读了晨报以后，还无法确切了解理查德在想些什么似的！譬如说，举行这些宴会都是为了他，或者可以说，为了她理想中的他（其实，替理查德说句公道话，他要是在诺福克乡下务农会更愉快些）。她把家里的客厅变成一种聚会的场所，在这方面她简直有天才。彼得曾屡次看见她庇护一个初出茅庐的青年，摆布他，转化他，教他觉醒，送他踏上人生的历程。诚然，无数干巴巴的人都聚集在她周围。但是，也会突然冒出几个意想不到的人物：有时出现一位艺术家，有时是一位作家，这类人同那种气氛格格不入。并且，这一切后面还有一整套的探亲访友，留赠名片，待人以礼，带着一束束鲜花与小礼品到处奔走；比如，某某人要到法国去了——就得送只气垫给他；像她这种女人投入的无休止的社交活动，确实令人身心交瘁，她却真心诚意地乐此不倦，乃是出于天性吧。
奇怪的是，在他熟识的人中间，她是最彻底的无神论者，也许（她在某些方面令人一眼见底，在另一些方面却十分难以捉摸，以前他惯于用这种想法去解释她的为人）她对自己这么说：既然我们的民族被锁在即将沉没的船上，注定要灭亡（她少女时代最爱读赫克斯利和廷德尔的著作，两人都爱用海上生涯的比喻），既然这一切只不过是可怕的笑话，就让我们至少尽一份力吧，减轻我们同室囚徒的痛苦（又是赫克斯利的语言），用鲜花和气垫装饰地牢，尽可能保持体面吧。那些凶神恶煞，不能让他们随心所欲，为所欲为——她认为，神始终在利用每一个社会去伤害、妨碍、摧毁人的生命，但是只要你举止端庄，不失大家闺秀的风范，那么神的威力就会大受挫折。她那种心情完全是受了西尔维亚之死——那件可怕的事——的影响。克拉丽莎老是说，目睹自己的亲姐妹被一棵倒下的树压死（那全是贾斯廷·帕里的过错——全怪他不小心），足以使你愤世嫉俗；当时西尔维亚也正当豆蔻年华，又绝顶聪敏，在姊妹中最为出色。或许，后来克拉丽莎不那么愤慨了；她认为没有什么神，也不是任何人的过错；这样她就形成了一套无神论者的宗教——为善而善。