Chapter 5 Chapter Four

True, she lived happily.She had a natural liking for the joie de vivre (although, God knows, she was good at hiding it too; he often felt, despite his years with her, that he knew her rather superficially).In any case, she was not complaining, nor did she have the repulsive virtues of a good wife and mother.She likes almost everything.If you were walking with her in Hyde Park, she would be fascinated by a bush of tulips, be interested in a child in a pram, and improvise some ridiculous drama on a whim. (If she thinks some lovers are unhappy, she's likely to comfort them.) She has a great sense of comedy, and the inevitable consequence is that she kills time, lunches, dinners, hosting her never-ending The rest of the banquet, say some inexplicable words, or insincere words, which will make the brain rigid and lose the ability to distinguish.She would sit at the head of the table, trying to entertain a fellow who might be of use to Dalloway—they knew all about the most boring trifles in Europe—or, Elizabeth walked in, and everything had to revolve around her again.Elizabeth is studying in middle school.The last time Peter came to her house, Elizabeth was still at the stage of not being good at words.She was a pale, round-eyed girl, silent and dull, not at all like her mother.She took it for granted, let her mother make a fuss, and asked, "Can I go?" as if she were only a four-year-old.Clarissa explained that Elizabeth had gone to play hockey, in a tone of mingled pleasure and pride which Dalloway himself seemed to have stirred up in her.Elizabeth may now be "into society" and thus see him as an old-fashioned old man who laughs at her mother's friends.Alas, that's okay too.Hat in one hand, Peter Walsh walked out of Regent's Park, thinking that there was only one compensation for old age: the passions in him were as strong as ever, but acquired--at last--the Power—the power to master lived experience, the power to bring life back to life slowly under the sun.

It was a horrible confession (he put his hat on again), but he was fifty-three now and hardly needed a companion.Life itself, every moment, every drop of life, here and now, in this moment, in the sun, in Regent's Park, is enough.In fact, it's overly satisfying.Now that one has acquired this power, it is a pity that life is too short to take in all the flavors, every drop of joy, every subtle layer of meaning; both more fulfilling and impersonal than ever.He would never suffer the pain Clarissa gave him again.For, for a while, for hours on end, (God forbid he could say that without being overheard!) hours and days on end, he didn't think of Daisy at all.

Was it because he was still in love with Clarissa?He recalled the pain, the torment, the passion of the past.This time was very different, much more enjoyable than before.In truth, of course, it was Daisy who was in love with him now.This, perhaps, explains why, after the steamer had set sail, he felt a strange sense of comfort in wanting nothing but solitude; and, besides, seeing in the cabin the little present which Daisy had taken pains to prepare for him— —cigars, notebooks, nautical rugs—he should be bored.Any honest man will say: a man in his early fifties doesn't need a partner; he doesn't want to flatter women any more and say they're beautiful; most men over fifty, if they're honest, will say the same, Peter Wall Thinking about it.

However, these shocking outpourings of emotion - bursts of tears this morning, what is the reason for that?What would Clarissa think?Dare to think that he is a fool, and it is not the first time to think so.It all boils down to jealousy, which outlasts any human emotion, thought Peter Walsh, knife in hand, arm outstretched.Daisy said in her last letter that she had been to see Major Ord; he knew she had written it on purpose, to make him jealous; How to break his heart.But it was all in vain, and he was furious!He had come back to England to find a lawyer to mediate, and this noisy fuss was not to marry her, but to prevent her from marrying someone else.It was precisely because of jealousy that tormented him.It was jealousy that touched him, too, when he saw Clarissa so calmly, coldly, so intently sewing dresses and such; and he realized that she could have saved him from pain, but it was she who Turn him into a whimpering old fellow.However, he thought to himself, women don't know what passion is; thinking of this, he closed his pocket knife.Women don't understand what passion means to a man.Clarissa was as cold as ice.She would sit next to him on the couch, let him hold her hand, even offer to kiss him on the cheek—and he came to a crossroads.

Something interrupted his train of thought, a slender, trembling voice, constantly popping up like bubbles, without direction, without vitality, without beginning or end, just floating slightly and sharply, inaudible Out of the slightest meaning of the world: I couldn't tell whether the voice was young or old, male or female; it seemed to be the sound of an ancient hot spring, coming from a tall, constantly vibrating figure opposite the Regent's Park subway station, It is shaped like a funnel, a rusty water pump, and a dead tree blown by the wind. It is bare and will never grow a single green leaf. No matter how the wind shuttles through the branches, it sings:

The dead tree swayed and swayed in the never-ending breeze, rustling and whimpering. In all the years—when the sidewalks were grass and swamps, through the ages of mammoth and ivory, through the ages of the sun rising silently—wounded woman—she wore a dress— With her right hand bare and her left hand close to her side, she stands, singing the hymn of love—she sings of love that lasts millions of years, love that lasts forever.She sang softly of her lover who had been dead for millions of years.Millions of years ago, her lover walked with her in May; yet she remembered that, though the days were long as summer, and the fields were full of fiery daisies, he passed away as the years passed; Her great scythe cut down the towering mountains, and at last her old and gray head was buried in the earth, now a lump of ice; and she begged the gods to place a bouquet of purple heather on the raised cemetery beside her. ; the last ray of the last sunset will shine on the tomb, for then the cosmic pageant will be at an end.

When this ancient song spread across the Regent's Park tube station, the earth still seemed to be lush and full of flowers; although the song came from the mouth of the Lower Liba people, it seemed to come from a muddy hole in the ground, with the tangled weeds and trees. The root fibers are tangled together, however, that ancient song is like rising bubbles and gurgling water, soaking the intertwined rhizomes of endless years, soaking bones and treasures, gurgling water, converging into streams, It flowed over the pavement, over Marylebone Street, and down Euston Street, watering the earth and leaving a wet speck.

The old woman who has gone through vicissitudes of life is like a rusty pump. She still remembers that in the distant ancient times, on a sunny day in May, she once walked side by side with her lover; One hand clutches her side; ten thousand years later, she'll still be there, remembering a sunny day in May, when she went for a walk, and now there's only the sea running; it doesn't matter who walks with— —Anyway he was a man, oh, really, he was the man who had loved her.But the passage of time dimmed that distant May sun, and the bright petals were covered with a silvery-gray frost; she begged him (as she begged unequivocally now): "Look into my eyes with your sweet eyes." It's a pity that now she can no longer see the brown eyes, black beard and sun-burned face, only a shadowy figure looming indistinctly; she still With the fresh mind of a bird that is unique to people who are more than seventy years old, he sang softly: "Give me your hand, let me touch it tenderly;" (Peter Walsh couldn't help giving the poor a silver coin from the old woman, and get into a taxi.) "What does it matter if someone sees it?" she asked, clenching her hands and smilingly, putting the silver coin into her pocket; the curious staring eyes seemed to disappear And with them the past generations--the sidewalks bustling, middle-class gentlemen and ladies hurrying--like leaves trodden underfoot, watered, drowned, shaped by that eternal spring--

"Poor old woman," said Rezia Warren Smith. Ah, poor miserable old woman, she said.She stood on the side of the street and waited, ready to cross the road. What if it's a rainy night?What would the old woman's father, or someone who had known her when her life was happy, happen to pass by here and see her desolate appearance, what would he think?Where did she spend the night? The unquenchable gossamer song drifted joyfully, almost joyously, into the air, like smoke from a farmhouse chimney, curling up and wrapping the clean beech tree in a wisp of smoke that drifted among the leaves at the tops of the trees. .

"What's the point of being seen?" Rezia had been so unhappy for weeks that she felt everything that was going on around her, and sometimes, seeing people with good faces, she almost felt compelled to stop them in the street, just to tell them: "I Are you unhappy"; and the old woman singing in the street "What's the matter with being seen?" made her feel suddenly that everything would be all right.She and her husband were going to see Sir William Bradshaw; the doctor's name sounded very comfortable to her, and he would surely cure Septimus at once.At this time, a brewery cart came over, the gray horse's tail was stuck straight like a mane of straw, and there were news posters.Unhappiness, she felt, was a foolish dream.

And so the Septimus couple crossed the road; what was so remarkable about them?What traits would lead a passer-by to suspect that deep within this young man's breast were hidden the most important revelations in the world?And, would anyone have thought that he was the happiest and most miserable person in the world?Perhaps they walked more slowly than the others, the man seemed hesitant and hesitant; but what could be better than looking up at the sky, Is it more natural to look left and right?Portland Street seemed to be a room he entered, where the people had gone out, the chandelier hung in a coarse cloth bag, and the butler drew back a corner of the long curtain, so that long slender beams of light entered the room, illuminating the strange-looking Empty chair; she told the tourists how wonderful the place was, how wonderful; but how strange, he thought. Outwardly he might have looked like a clerk, a high-ranking clerk, for he wore brown leather boots; his hands suggested that he was well-bred, as did his profile--angular, with a large nose, wise and Sensitive, but his lips are loose and out of proportion; his eyes are (like most people) nondescript, but hazel and large; on the whole, he is a borderline figure somewhere in between. : Maybe he'll end up in a mansion in Purley and own a car; maybe he'll spend his whole life renting a small flat in a back lane; Public library books; he wrote letters to eminent authors, following their advice, to read every night after work. As for the rest of life, what people feel when they are alone in a bedroom or an office, or when they are walking in a field or a London street, he knew it all; Downstairs to tea, for he saw that in Stroud there was no future for poets; so he went to London, only told the little sister of his confidant, and left a ridiculous note, as the big man wrote ; Only when they become famous through struggle, people all over the world will come to read their messages. London hosts thousands of youngsters named Smith, but does not care much about strange names like Septimus; parents give their children such strange names to make them appear different.He lived near Euston Street, and had a mixed history.For example, within two years his rosy, childish, oval face had become pointed, thin, and hostile.But of all this, what can even the most observant friend say?Unless it is like what the gardener said when he opened the door of the greenhouse in the morning and saw that another flower he planted was blooming: the flower is blooming!It was a strange outgrowth of the common seeds of vanity, ambition, idealism, passion, solitude, courage, and inertia, all of which mixed (in a small room just off Euston Street) made him feel timid and speechless. Stuttering made him eager to improve his education, and it made him fall in love with Miss Isabel Pole, who gave Shakespeare lectures in Waterloo Street. Isn't he a bit like Keats?She pondered how to get him to enjoy Antony and Cleopatra and other Shakespeare plays; she lent him books, wrote him short notes; kindled in him the only fire of his life that produced no heat. , just flickering golden red flames around Miss Ball, infinitely elegant and ethereal; the background is "Antony and Cleopatra", Waterloo Avenue.He thinks she is beautiful and believes that she is brilliant and flawless; he misses her in his dreams and writes poems dedicated to her, but she ignores her nostalgia and only corrects his mistakes with a red ink pen; there is a summer That night, he saw her walking in the square in a green dress. "The flowers are blooming," the gardener might say if he opened the door; in other words, if on any given night, at about the same hour, the gardener came into the room and saw him writing and tearing up what he had written, Seeing him write a great book at three o'clock in the morning, rushing to the streets, visiting churches, fasting some days, drinking heavily on other days, reading Shakespeare, Darwin, "History of Civilization" and Shaw's "History of Civilization" greedily. work. Mr. Brewer knew what had happened to Smith.Mr. Brewer is general manager of Sibley and Arrowsmith, which deals in auctions, appraisals and estate sales.Something had happened to Smith, he thought; he had a fatherly affection for the young man, thought highly of Smith's talents, and predicted that within ten to fifteen years he would be successful in the manager's office. Sunlit leather armchairs surrounded by boxes for deeds and other documents. "As long as he stays fit," Mr Brewer said.However, Smith looked weak—a hidden danger; so he suggested that Smith play football, exercise, buy him dinner, and consider recommending a raise, but at this point something happened that overturned Smith. Most of Mr. Rule's schemes deprived him of his ablest young men.So vicious and pervasive was the clutches of the European War that it finally smashed a plaster statue of the Goddess of Grain, blew a hole in a geranium bed, and killed the cook at Mr Brewer's in Muswellshire. Scared out of my mind. Septimus joined the ranks of the first volunteers to enlist.He went to fight in France to save England; in his mind the idea of ​​England was almost entirely a Shakespeare play, and Miss Isabel Ball walking in the square in a green dress.In the trenches of France, an instant change of mind and body took place in him, the same change Mr. Breuer envisaged when he advised him to play football; Even love.It was as if two dogs were playing on the hearth-rug; a little dog was playing with a paper ball, growling and pounced on it, and now and then biting the ear of the old dog; Looking at the fire, stretched out a paw, turned around and barked a few times lovingly.They were inseparable, shared everything, quarreled, and fought; yet, when Evans (whom Rezia met only once, calling him a "quiet fellow"), he ), when Evans died in Italy on the eve of the armistice, Septimus seemed indifferent, and did not even regard it as the termination of a friendship, but congratulated himself for being calm and rational.The war educated him.The battle is spectacular.He'd been through it all: friendship, European war, death, had been promoted, was under thirty, and would surely live.This, he expected well.The last batch of shells missed him.He watched them explode with indifference.He was in Milan when peace came, and was lodged with an innkeeper, where there was a courtyard with flowers in pots, and a little table in the open space, where the innkeeper's daughters were making hats.One night, when he became engaged to Lucrezia, the youngest daughter of the family, he realized with horror that he felt numb. Everything was over, the armistice was signed, the dead were buried, but he was overwhelmed by a sudden terror, especially at night.He lost the ability to feel.He opened the door of the Italian girls sitting in the room making hats, and he saw them and heard their voices; little dishes held pearls, among which the girls twisted gold thread; The made model turned from side to side, the table was covered with feathers, sequins, silks, and ribbons, and the scissors rattled against the table; but he had one defect, the loss of feeling.But the rattle of the scissors, the laughter of the girls, and the making of the hat protected him, kept him safe, and gave him refuge.But he couldn't sit there all night.He often suffers from insomnia in the morning.The bed was collapsing and he was falling.Ho, just ask for the safety of scissors, lights, and burlap models!So he asked Lucrezia, the younger of the two girls, to marry him, vivacious and flirtatious, with artist's slender fingers, which she would often raise and say, "There's all the magic in it." Silk Birds, feathers, and everything else came to life at the touch of her fingers. "The hat is the most important thing," she would say when they went for walks together.She would carefully examine every hat she saw along the way, observing cloaks, dresses, and the manners of women.She criticized disheveled clothing and opposed heavy make-up, but without malice, only with gestures of impatience, like a painter's gesture when he removes a dazzling fake from his eyes, although the fake painters are obviously harmless.Besides, Lucrezia would praise a well-dressed shopgirl with a generous but critical eye, or, with a connoisseur's eye, enthusiastically and unreservedly admire a French lady who had just disembarked from a carriage.The lady was wearing a chinchilla coat, a burqa, and pearl jewellery. "It's beautiful!" murmured Lucrezia, nudging Septimus to look at it too.There's also "Gourmet Food," displayed behind glass windows.But he felt tasteless (Rezia likes sweets like ice cream and chocolate).He put the glass on the small marble table, not wanting to eat.He looked at the crowd on the street. They seemed to be very happy, gathered in the middle of the street, shouting loudly, laughing and arguing endlessly for no reason.He ate but didn't know the taste and felt numb.Right there in the tea-room, among the tea-tables and chattering waiters, a terrible terror seized his mind--he had lost the power of feeling.He could reason, and he could read, for example, Dante without difficulty ("Septimus, you must put the book down," said Rezia, closing the "Divine Comedy: Inferno"); he can settle his accounts, and his mind is quite sound; then, there must be something wrong with society-so that he has lost his senses. "The English are really quiet," said Rezia.She likes it that way, she said.She respected the English, and she wanted to see London, its horses and its fashionably tailored clothes.She had an aunt who married an Englishman and lived in Soho; she remembered telling her that London had wonderful shops. They took the train out of New Haven, and Septimus stared out the window at England passing by, thinking: Maybe the world itself is meaningless. In the office, his superiors promoted him to important positions and were proud of him.He was awarded the Order of the Cross.Mr. Brewer said, "You've done your duty, now it's up to us..." He was so excited that he couldn't even speak.He and Rezia then moved into an enviable house off Court Street, Tottenham. Here, he turns to Shakespeare again.The boyish intoxication with language—Antony and Cleopatra—was gone without a trace.What a Shakespeare abhorrence of man--dress, child-bearing, dirty mouths and bellies!This point, now seen by Septimus, is the revelation contained in the gorgeous rhetoric.The secret message that one generation transmits under guise to the next is nothing but hatred, hatred, despair.Dante is like that.The same is true (from the translation) of Aeschylus.Rezia sat over there at the table decorating the hats she had made for Mrs. Filmer's friend, and she worked by the hour.She looked pale and mysterious to Septimus, like a submerged lily. "The English are too prim," she would say, throwing her arms around Septimus and pressing her cheek to his. Shakespeare hated love between men and women.Sexual relations made him feel dirty.But Rezia said she must have children.They have been married for five years. The pair visited the Tower of London, visited the Victoria and Albert Museum and stood in the crowd to watch the King open Parliament.And the shops—hatters, dressers, firms with leather bags in their windows, Rezia would stand and stare at.However, she must have a son. There must be a son like Septimus, she said.In fact, no one can compare with Septimus: he is so gentle, so dignified, and so wise.Couldn't she read some Shakespeare too?Was Shakespeare a difficult writer? Children cannot be born in such a world.He cannot perpetuate pain, or breed these lustful animals, who have no permanent emotions but fancies and vanities, flocking now one way and now the other. He watched Rezia's cutting and shaping, just like a person watching a bird jumping and flying in the grass, without daring to move his fingers.It was true (although she dismissed it) that man had neither goodwill nor faith, no kindness beyond the pursuit of more immediate pleasure.People go hunting in groups.They formed gangs and gangs to search the desert, screaming and disappearing into the wilderness.They abandon the dead.Their faces were full of grimaces.That Brewer in the office, for example, with his waxed moustache, coral tie pins, white leggings, and delightful enthusiasm--yet he was apathetic and Cowardly—his geraniums were blown up in the Great War—his cook was insane; and there was that Amelia or something who always brought everyone tea at five o’clock—she was a sly-eyed, contemptuous , notorious, insatiable little things; and those Toms and Berties in their starched corsets, dripping with sin, who had never seen their ugliness as he drew them in his notebook: naked Expose, put on a show.In the street, trucks rumbled past him, and posters revealed dazzling atrocities: men trapped in mine shafts, women burned alive; on one occasion, a parade of crippled lunatics paraded in Tottenham Cottage. On the street, stepping briskly, nodding to him with grinning teeth, passing him, everyone apologetically yet triumphantly displaying incurable distress; these lunatics are practicing, ventilating, Perhaps as an exhibit, for public entertainment (people roar with laughter).Will he go crazy? At tea Rezia told him that Mrs. Filmer's daughter was expecting a baby.She can't grow old and childless!She is lonely and unhappy!For the first time since their marriage, she cried.Her cries reached him far away, and he did hear and notice them clearly, comparing it to the crash of the pistons.But he didn't feel it. He didn't feel a thing when his wife was crying; but every time she wept so deeply, silently, hopelessly, he sank to hell. Finally, he buried his head in his hands, a gesture so contrived that he knew full well that there was no sincerity in it, it was just a mechanical movement.Now that he had surrendered, it was up to someone else to help him; someone had to be called, and he surrendered. Nothing could wake him up.Rezia helped him to bed, and a doctor was called—Dr. Holmes, introduced by Mrs. Filmer.The doctor examined him and said he was fine.Oh what a relief!What a kind, what a kind person!Rezia thought to herself.Dr. Holmes said that if he felt strange himself, he would go to the music hall for entertainment, or take a day off with his wife and play golf.Why not take some bromide before bed?Two tablets each time, swallow with boiling water.Dr. Holmes knocked on the wall and said that in the old houses in the Bloomsbury area, the panelwork is mostly well done, but the landlord has stupidly covered them with wallpaper; one day not long ago, He went to see a sick man named Sir Who lived in Bedford Square... In this way, there was no excuse left, he had nothing but the crime for which humanity had condemned him to death and deprived him of his senses.When Evans was killed he did not care, and that was his greatest crime; but in the morning all the other crimes raised their heads at the rail of the bed, wagging their fingers, and mocking his lying body.He lay in bed, conscious of his depravity; he did not love his wife, married her, cheated her, seduced her, and made Miss Isabel Pole furious; Women trembled when they saw him in the street.The sentence of humanity is death for such wretches. Dr. Holmes came to visit again and make outpatient visits.He was tall, ruddy, and imposing; he kicked his boots a little, looked in the mirror a little, and made everything trivial—headaches, insomnia, terrors, dreams—he said Nothing but symptoms of neuroticism.If Dr. Holmes found that he had lost a hundred and sixteen pounds, even if he had only lost half a pound, he would ask his wife for another order of porridge at breakfast (Rezia would have to learn how to cook porridge); He also said that, all in all, health is mainly controlled by oneself.To make yourself interested in external things, develop a certain hobby.He opened the Shakespeare play—Antony and Cleopatra—and pushed the Shakespeare book away.An interest, said Dr. Holmes, for to this he owed his own physical fitness (he worked as hard as many Londoners) to this: he could always turn his energies from treating patients to Isn't it the case for hunting for antique-style furniture?Oh, if he didn't mind being presumptuous, what a beautiful comb Mrs. Warren Smith put in! When the damned fellow visited again, Septimus refused to see him.Did he really not see me?said Dr. Holmes, smiling pleasantly.Well, he had to kindly push the petite and sweet Mrs. Smith past her and into her husband's bedroom. "Oh, you're frightened," he said cheerfully, and sat down beside the patient.He actually told his wife that he was going to commit suicide. She is still so young and a foreigner, isn't she?Wouldn't that give her a very queer idea of ​​an English husband?A man has a duty to his wife, doesn't he?Wouldn't it be better to do a job instead of lying in bed?He had forty years of experience, and Septimus could trust that Dr. Holmes would not lie to him—he was not sick at all.The next time Dr. Holmes came, he hoped to see Septimus out of bed and not worrying his wife, the lovely little lady, so much about him. In short, humanity—this blood-nosed, hideous, utterly brutal beast had him.Holmes caught him.Dr. Holmes came to see him regularly every day.Septimus wrote on the back of a postcard: "Once you stray and go astray, human nature sticks with you."Holmes will not let him go.Their only way of life was to escape, without Holmes knowing it, to Italy—wherever, wherever, just out of Holmes. However, Rezia could not understand him.Dr. Holmes is so kind.He took great care of Septimus.He said he wanted nothing more than to help them.She told Septimus that Dr. Holmes had four children, and that he had invited her to tea. So, he was abandoned.People all over the world are shouting: For us, kill yourself, kill yourself!But why would he kill himself for them?Think about it, the food is delicious and the sun is warm; but what about suicide?With a table knife, blood all over the floor, it's disgusting - or gas pipe?He was so weak that he could barely lift his hands.Besides, he has been condemned, abandoned, alone, as lonely as a dying person; yet, in this solitude, there is a great comfort, a sublime independence and freedom, which is a person who cares unenjoyable.True, Holmes was the victor, and the brute with the blood-red nostrils was the victor.But not even Holmes himself could touch this outcast, outcast grotesque, the last misanthrope adrift at the ends of the earth, staring back at the world like a drowned sailor lying on the edge of the world. At that juncture (Rezia was out shopping) the great revelation came.A voice came from behind the curtain.Evans was speaking.The dead were with him. "Evans, Evans," he called. Mr. Smith was talking aloud to himself, and Agnes, the young maid, told Mrs. Filmer in the kitchen.As she went in with the tray, he yelled, "Evans, Evans!" She was startled and jumped up.She staggered downstairs. Rezia came in with flowers in her hands.She crossed the room and put the roses in the vase, and the sunlight fell on the flowers, and Rezia laughed and jumped for joy in the room. Rezia said that she had to buy the roses from a poor man in the street; but the flowers were almost withered, she said, putting them in. Well, there's someone out there, Evans for sure; as for the nearly wilted roses Rezia speaks of, he picked them in the fields of Greece.Exchange of information means health and happiness.Exchange information, he muttered softly. "What are you talking about, Septimus?" Rezia asked him, terrified, for he was muttering to himself. She told Agnes to run for Dr. Holmes.She said her husband was so deranged that he hardly even knew her. "You beast! You beast!" Septimus swore, as he saw humanity, Dr. Holmes, enter the room. "Well, what's the matter with all this?" Dr. Holmes asked him, in the most gentle tone on earth. "Scare your wife with nonsense?" Holmes would give him some medicine and put him to sleep.If they were rich (Holmes glanced sneeringly at the room), if they did not trust his medicine, they could have gone to Harley Street; and when Dr. Holmes said these words, Not so pleasant. 时间恰恰十二点整，大本钟敲响了十二下，钟声飘荡至伦敦北部，同其他钟声汇合，又与云彩及烟雾飘渺地交融，终于在蓝天翱翔的海鸥之间消逝了——当克拉丽莎·达洛卫把绿色衣裙放在床上，当沃伦·史密斯夫妇一走上哈利街，就在此时，正午的钟声敲响了。十二点是他们预约的时间。雷西娅望过去，心想，那也许就是威廉·布雷德肖爵士的寓所吧，门前停着一辆灰色汽车。（一圈圈沉重的声波在空中回荡而消融。） 果然——是威廉·布雷德肖爵士的汽车，那辆灰色汽车，车身低、功率高，嵌板上只简朴地刻着他的姓名缩写，字字连缀；似乎他认为，不宜刻上贵族的纹章，因为他更高贵，乃是神灵的助手，传播科学的大法师。正因为汽车是灰色的，为了同这庄重与柔和的色泽相配，车内层层叠叠铺设灰色毛皮和银灰色毛毯，这样，爵士夫人在车中等候时就不会受风寒侵袭。威廉爵士经常驾驶六十英里甚至更长的路程，到乡间去为那些有钱的病人出诊，恰如其分地索取高额诊金，因为这些病人付得起。爵士夫人背靠座位在车中等候一小时或更长一些时间，膝盖周围用毛毯裹住，心中有时想着病人，有时想着一堵金墙；就在她等待的时候，金墙每分钟都在增高；她这么想是有道理的，因为金墙能使他们俩摆脱所有的变故和忧患（她曾勇敢地忍受忧虑，他俩曾苦苦奋斗）。她这么想着、想着，感到自己置身于宁静的海洋上，那里唯有香风吹拂；她受人尊敬、赞美、羡慕，她的愿望好像都已实现，尽管身子肥胖不免令她遗憾；每星期四晚上，他俩都要设盛宴，招待同行；偶尔为义卖市场剪彩，还觐见过皇族；可惜她和丈夫相聚的时光过于短暂，因为他的工作越来越繁忙；他们有一个儿子在伊顿公学念书，学习很出色；她还想生一个女儿；她的兴趣很广泛，儿童福利啰、癫痫症的病后调养啰，她都关心；此外，她也酷爱摄影，要是正在兴建一座教堂，或者一座教堂行将倒坍，她就会在等候丈夫的时候，买通教堂司事，拿了钥匙进去拍照，那些照片几乎能和职业摄影师的作品媲美呢。 威廉爵士本人年纪不轻了。他曾拼命工作，他的地位完全由于他的能力（其父是个小店主）；他热爱自己这一行，善于在大场面上显露头角，又有雄辩的口才——当他受封爵位时，多年的辛劳使他显得滞重、倦怠（川流不息的病人简直永无休止，名医的重任和特权那么艰巨），这种倦怠的神色配上白发，使他的形象更显得与众不同，并且带来一种声誉（这对于治疗神经科疾病尤为重要），说他不仅具有闪电般的绝技和几乎万无一失的诊断，而且富有同情心，手腕高明，洞察人心。当他们俩（沃伦·史密斯夫妇）一走进房间，他便一目了然；一看到赛普蒂默斯，他就断定这是一个极为严重的病例。他在几分钟内就确定，这是精神彻底崩溃的病例——体力和神经全面衰竭，每个症状都表明病情严重（他在一张浅红色病历卡上记录他俩的回答，一面小心地喃喃自语）。 霍姆斯大夫给他治疗了多久？ 六个星期。 开了一点溴化剂吗？他说什么病也没有吗？噢，是的。（这些普通开业医生！威廉爵士心想，他一半时间都得花在纠正他们的错误上，有些根本无法弥补。） “你在战争中表现很出色吗？” 病人迟疑地再说了“战争”一词。 病人给词汇赋予象征性的含义。这是个严重迹象，应记入病历卡。 “战争？”病人问。欧洲大战——是小学生用火药搞的小骚动吗？他在服役期间表现很出色吗？他真的忘了。正是在大战中他失败了。 “不，他在战争中表现非常出色，”雷西娅肯定地告诉医生。“他得到了晋升。” “在你的办事处，人们对你的评价也很高吗？”威廉爵士扫了一眼布鲁尔先生那封充满赞美之词的信，低声问道。“那么，你没什么需要担忧，没有经济问题，什么问题也没有，是吗？” 他犯了一桩可怕的罪，被人性判处了死刑。 “我……我曾经，”他开始说，“犯了罪……” “他什么过错也没有，”雷西娅向医生保证。威廉爵士道，如果史密斯先生不介意的话，他想和史密斯太太在隔壁房间谈一谈。你的丈夫病情很严重，威廉爵士告诉雷西娅。他是否扬言要自杀？ 是的，他是这么说的，她答道。不过，他不是当真的，雷西娅说。of course not.问题只是他需要休息，威廉爵士道：休息，休息，再休息，长期的卧床休息。乡下有一所令人惬意的疗养院，她的丈夫会在那儿得到充分照料。要叫他离开她吗？she asked.威廉爵士道：没有别的办法，他必须离开她；当我们患病时，最亲近的人对我们并无好处。不过，他没有发疯吧，不是吗？she asked.威廉爵士从来不提“疯狂”这个词，他称之为丧失平衡感。她又说，她的丈夫不喜欢医生，他会拒绝到疗养院去的。威廉爵士简短而耐心地跟她解释病情。他曾扬言要自杀。所以，没有别的办法可供选择。这是个法律问题。他将在乡间一所美妙的屋子里卧床休息。那里的护士很出色呐。威廉爵士每星期会去探望他一次。假如沃伦·史密斯太太真的感到没有其他问题需要问他了——他从不催促病人——那么，他们就回到她丈夫那儿去。她说，没有什么要问了——没有什么需要询问威廉爵士的了。 于是，他们回到赛普蒂默斯·沃伦·史密斯跟前，这个人类中最崇高的人，他是面对法官的罪人，绑在高处示众的牺牲者，亡命之徒，溺死的水手，写下不朽颂歌的诗人，撇开生命走向死亡的上帝。他坐在一张扶手椅上，在日光照耀下，谛视着布雷德肖夫人身穿宫廷服装的照片，含糊地咕哝着关于美的字眼。 “我们已经简短地交换了意见，”威廉爵士道。 “他说你病得很重，很严重，”雷西娅说。 “我们认为你应该到疗养院去，”威廉爵士告诉他。 “霍姆斯办的疗养院吗？”赛普蒂默斯嗤之以鼻。 这家伙给我的印象极坏，威廉爵士自忖；因为他的父亲是个生意人，他对教养和衣着怀有本能的敬意，衣衫不整使他恼怒；而且，更隐秘的原因是，威廉爵士内心深处嫉恨有教养的人，因为他自己从来没时间读书，而那些人来到他的诊所，暗示医生并非受过教育的人，尽管这个职业需要才智高超的人时刻绞尽脑汁。 “不错，是我办的一个疗养院，沃伦·史密斯先生，”他说，“在那里，我们将教会你休息。” 最后还有一桩事。 他深信沃伦·史密斯先生复原以后，世上没有人会比他更温存，决不会让妻子受惊吓的。不过，他曾扬言要自杀哩。 “我们都有消沉的时刻嘛，”威廉爵士道。 你一旦失足，人性就会揪住你不放，赛普蒂默斯反复告诫自己。霍姆斯和布雷德肖不会放过你的。哪怕你逃入沙漠，他们也会去搜索，哪怕你遁入荒野，他们也会尖叫着冲过来，还用拉肢刑具和拇指夹折磨你。人性残酷无情哪。 “他有时会冲动吗？”威廉爵士问雷西娅，把铅笔搁在浅红色病历卡上。 那是我自己的事，赛普蒂默斯在一边说。 “没有人只为自己而活着，”威廉爵士道，同时瞟了一眼他妻子穿着宫廷服装的相片。 “你还有远大的前程哩，”威廉爵士道。布鲁尔先生的信就放在桌上。“前途无量嘛。” 假如他吐露真情呢？假如他实言相告呢？霍姆斯、布雷德肖会不会放过他？ “我……我……”他结结巴巴地说。 可他究竟犯了什么罪？想不起来了。 “什么？”威廉爵士鼓励他说下去。（时间可不早了。） 爱、树木，没有罪行——他给人们的启示是什么呢？ 想不起来了。