Chapter 6 chapter Five

"I...I..." Septimus stammered. "Think of yourself as little as possible," Sir William advised him kindly.To be honest, his body is not suitable for walking around at all. Is there anything else you want to ask me?Sir William said.He would make all the arrangements (he told Rezia in a low voice), and he would let her know between five and six that evening. "Leave everything to me," he said, and sent them both off. Rezia had never been in such pain since she was born, absolutely not!She begged the doctor for help, but was met with indifference and perfunctory!He lived up to their expectations!Sir William was not a kind man.

When they were out on the street, Septimus said, "It's going to cost a lot of money just to maintain his car." She gripped his arm tightly.They were both abandoned. In fact, what extravagance could she expect from a doctor? He had given the patient three quarters of an hour.A doctor would not be a doctor if he lost his sense of poise in this exact science, not to mention that science deals with areas of which we know nothing—the nervous system, the human brain.We must have a healthy body, and health means stability.When a patient walks into your clinic and declares that he is Jesus Christ (a common delusion), says he is going to enlighten the world (most patients say that), and threatens to kill himself (they often do), the doctor has to Use steady means: order the patient to stay in bed, rest alone, quiet and rest; during the rest period, he will not see friends, read books, or communicate with information; rest for six weeks until the patient's weight increases from 7.6 pounds when he was admitted to the hospital to 10 pounds. Up to two pounds.

Steady, holy steady, is Sir William's goddess.He acquired the idea while rounding the wards, fishing for salmon, and Mrs Bradshaw giving birth to her son in Harley Street.Mrs. Bradshaw also fished for salmon, and her photographs were as good as those of a professional photographer.By his worship of stability, Sir William not only made himself famous, but also made England prosperous; Accept his sense of poise too - if the patient is a man, accept his ideas, if a woman, accept Mrs. Bradshaw's ideas (a good wife and mother who embroiders, knits, and stays home with her son four days a week) because of this, not only his peers respect him, his subordinates fear him, but also the relatives and friends of patients have the deepest gratitude to him, because he insists: those men and women prophets who predict the end of the world or the epiphany of God, who call themselves Christ or Christine Ladies and gentlemen, all should obey Sir William's orders: lie in bed and drink milk--this was Sir William's conclusion from thirty years' experience in treating such cases, and his infallible intuition.This, is madness—the idea, his smooth idea.

However, there is a sister of Ping An, less smiley and more awe-inspiring; the goddess who is now rushing down the temple to smash the idol and replace it with her own grim image - on the hot Indian sand dunes , in the muddy African swamps, in the slums of London; in short, whenever unnatural weather or demons tempt men to abandon their true beliefs, she is there.Her big name is Probation, she ravages the will of the weak to her heart's content, is keen to attract attention, gives orders, imposes on others, and engraves her appearance on the faces of the people to be proud.At the Liberty Forum in Hyde Park she preached from a barrel; she dressed in white and put on a face of fraternal love, and walked about factories and councils with an air of penitence; she offered aid, but longed Power; she violently punished the dissident or the disaffected; she blessed the docile, who looked up to her, bowed their knees, and saw their own light in her eyes.This goddess (whom Rezia Warren Smith sees through) is also present in Sir William, though she lurks under plausible guises and grandiose titles: love, duty, self-sacrifice, and so on; She doesn't show her true colors on most occasions.How hard Sir William has been working--how hard he has been raising funds, preaching reforms, creating institutions!But Probation, the fastidious goddess, prefers blood to bricks, and eats away men's wills with the utmost subtlety.For example, Mrs. Bradshaw, she surrendered fifteen years ago and fell at the feet of the goddess of conversion, which is completely inexplicable: there was no public quarrel, no sharp reprimand, only subtle influence, her will gradually sank, she was submerged in water, transformed into his will.She complied quickly, with a sweet smile; and in the Harley Street house she prepared eight or nine courses, and entertained ten or fifteen specialists, and she handled them with perfect courtesy.But that night she showed some rigidity, uneasiness perhaps, nervous twitches, awkward gropings, hesitations, bewilderment; all this proved that the poor lady had lied—it was true to believe it. It is painful.Where once she was shrewd enough to catch salmon with ease, now she twitched, struggled, and peeled to satisfy her husband's burning desire for control and power, the kind that made his eyes glisten with slick greed. , pruning, cowering, peeping; she couldn't figure out what was making the dinner so unpleasant that day, why people were getting dizzy (possibly from the seriousness of the medical profession, or from the host Too much work and fatigue to be a great doctor; Mrs. Bradshaw says that a great doctor's life "belongs to his patients and not to himself"); in short, suppers are dreary; so, when the clock struck ten, When the dinner was over, the guests felt a great relief in breathing the clean air of Harley Street; but this comfort was not enjoyed by the patient of the famous doctor.

In the gray clinic with pictures on the walls and rich furniture, the patients, in the daylight reflected by the frosted glass, realized the seriousness of their mistakes; Waving his arms, he completed a set of strange movements.He stretched out his arm suddenly, and then withdrew it sharply, thus proving (if the patient was obstinate) that Sir William was in complete control of his movements, whereas the patient was not.There, in that clinic, some feeble patients could not stand it, weeping and bowing their heads; others, God knows what insanely stimulated them, called Sir William to his face a loathsome liar, and doubted even more savagely. life itself.Why do people live?they asked.Sir William replied: Because it is good to be alive.To Mrs. Bradshaw it was certainly good to be alive; her picture, draped in ostrich feathers, hung on the wall above the fireplace, and his income was not far from twelve thousand pounds a year. Nah.But for people like us, the patient asked, life does not offer these favors.Sir William implicitly agreed.They lack a sense of stability.Perhaps, in the final analysis, there is no God in the world, right?the patient asked again.He shrugged.All in all, isn't it our own business to live or die?On this point, you are wrong.Sir William had a friend who lived in Surrey, where a very difficult art was taught (Sir William frankly admitted)--steady ideas.In addition, there is family warmth, honor, bravery, and glorious career.Sir William was a staunch advocate of all this.If these finally fail, there are police and social forces to support him.They will watch out for recklessness in Surrey, which is not conducive to society, Sir William said quietly.These moves were largely bred out of humble origins.Then the goddess would emerge quietly from her lurking place to ascend her throne; her desire was to quell rebellion and to indelibly set her image in the temple of others.And so the naked, exhausted, unaccompanied, and defenseless were struck by Sir William's will.He swoops, he devours, he confines people.It was this resolution and humanity which made him feel so dear to the relatives of his victims.

However, Rezia Warren Smith, who was walking on Harley Street, said she didn't like the guy. The bells in Harley Street rang in unison, chopping and slicing, dividing and dividing the day in June, as if to persuade people to obey, to maintain authority, and to proclaim in unison the superiority of the idea of ​​​​steadiness, until the multiplicity of bells became more and more dwindled until there was only a commercial clock on a shop in Oxford Street, striking half-past one in a cordial and friendly manner, as if the shop (Rigby and Lowndes & Co.) were honored to tell everyone the time free of charge.

Looking up, it appears that each letter on the sign stands for a certain hour; one cannot help but thank Rigby-Rounds for telling the public the time--Greenwich Mean Time; this gratitude will naturally prompt them to buy it later. Footwear from that store.As Whitbread loitered by the window, those thoughts were on his mind.That's how he changed his mind.This is his habit.However, he didn't think deeply.He is always fleeting, reading stale ancient prose for a while, engaging in contemporary languages ​​for a while, and yearning for life in Paris, Rome, and Constantinople by turns; he used to like riding horses, shooting, and playing tennis.Someone jokingly claimed: Now he is a guard at Buckingham Palace, wearing silk stockings and shorts, guarding something.But then again, this person is exceptionally capable.He had been in London society for fifty-five years, and had known several prime ministers.It is said that his affection was very deep.If he never took part in any of the great movements of our time, nor held a prominent office, at least he took part in some of the lesser reforms, such as the improvement of public housing, the protection of owls in Norfolk, and the protection of housemaids. Welfare, wait.In addition, he has repeatedly written to the "Times", asking people to donate to the fund, calling on the public to maintain public welfare, remove garbage, reduce smog, and prohibit dirty behavior in the park; the signature at the end of these letters is awe-inspiring.

At that moment, half past one was fading away, and he lingered in front of the window for a while, critically and solemnly examining the socks and shoes. Looking down on the world; and aware at the same time that such a rich and rosy look must be accompanied by proper manners, so that even on occasions where it is not necessary, he is restrained, polite, and old-fashioned. a demeanor worth imitating and remembering; for example, whenever he dined with Mrs Bruton (with whom he had known her for twenty years) he always held a bouquet of carnations , handing it to her with both hands; at the same time greeting the wife's secretary, Miss Blossy, and asking how her brother in South Africa is doing; Furious, he said, "Thanks, he's doing well in South Africa." In fact, he'd been scraping by in Portsmouth for the past six years.

As for Mrs Bruton, she preferred Richard Dalloway; he arrived at the same time as Whitbread, and met in fact at the door. Mrs Bruton would of course prefer Richard Dalloway.His material is much better.She would not, however, dwarf poor dear Hugh.She would never forget his kindness--he was a wonderfully kind--she couldn't remember the exact occasion, but he was--surprisingly kind.In any case, the difference between one person and another is nothing.Clarissa Dalloway was used to dissecting this and that, judging--dissecting them, dissecting them, and sewing them up again; Mrs Bruton couldn't see the point, anyway, At the age of sixty-two, it's even more boring.At that moment, she took the carnations from Xio, and forced a smile, revealing a gloomy edge.She said there were no other guests.She made an excuse to ask them to come, and wanted them to help her solve a difficult problem...

"But let's talk after we eat," said Mrs Bruton. So, the maids in aprons and white hats passed through the revolving door lightly, without making a sound; Housewives, from one-thirty to two o'clock in the afternoon, hold a mysterious and dreamlike feast; at that time, with a wave of the hand, the traffic stops, the guests and the host take their seats, and a deep hallucination flashes. It costs nothing; in a moment, the table seems to be automatically filled with gold and silver cutlery, fine linens, and saucers with red fruits; brown flounder fillets are revealed with butter, and chicken nuggets swim in the steamer; colorful flames are burning. , is not a home-made fire; good wine and coffee (it is said to cost nothing), everyone is dazzled by drinking, wonderful illusions are swaying in front of their eyes, their eyes are soft and contemplative, and they feel in a trance that life is mysterious and full of music. At this moment, the excited eyes are gazing at the bright red carnations, which are very beautiful; the flowers are placed on the side of the plate by Mrs. Bruton (her movements are always angular); Hugh, full of beauty. Whitbread felt relaxed and happy, felt that the whole universe was in harmony, and at the same time was quite sure of his position, so he put down the knife and fork and asked:

"Wouldn't the flower be more lovely if it complemented your lace?" Such intimacy and abruptness disgusted Miss Brecht to the extreme.She thought him an uneducated scumbag.Mrs. Bruton laughed off her idea. The old lady held up the carnation flower and held it in her hand, just like the general holding the scroll in the portrait behind her; she didn't move, lost in thought.Seeing her like this, Richard Dalloway wondered to himself: what does she look like now?The general's great-granddaughter?Ganqing is the great-great-grandson, right?Ho - just like Sir Roderick, Sir Miles, Sir Talbot.It's strange, that family is full of women forcing Xiao Zuxian.She herself is qualified to be a general of the dragoons.Richard would gladly serve under her, whom he held in the utmost esteem; he had romantic notions of the venerable old lady, and, with his usual kindly disposition, thought of bringing some warm-hearted friends with him. Go to dinner, make her acquaintance; it seems that a lady like her can be brought up by a mild-tempered, tea-drinker!He is familiar with her hometown.He knows her loved ones.There was an old vine on her estate, still alive; under it, it was said, Lovelace or Herrick rested; and though the old lady never read a verse, the legend survives.At this moment, Mrs. Bruton was thinking: it would be better to wait a while to discuss with the guests, and wait until they had coffee before discussing the issues that bothered her-whether to appeal to the public, how to word it, and so on.With this in mind, the old lady put the bouquet of carnations back on the plate. "How is Clarissa?" she asked abruptly. Clarissa kept saying that Mrs. Bruton didn't like her.Indeed, Mrs Bruton was known to be politically and impersonally interested; gradually revealed in his memoirs.No doubt there was an alcove in her living room in which was built a desk with a photograph of the late General Talbot Moore on it; night), in the presence of Mrs Bruton, with her tacit consent (and perhaps some ideas), the general wrote a telegram ordering the advance of British troops at a historic moment.She kept the pen, and told the anecdote.So, when she casually asked "How is Clarissa," it was hard to believe that she cared about any woman, and it was hard for men to persuade their wives to believe it, when, in fact, no matter how loyal they were to the old lady, in private and the wives often hindered their husbands from taking office overseas; and when the House was not in session they often had the flu, and they had to go to the seaside with their husbands to recuperate.To the women, however, the old lady's greeting ("How is Clarissa?") must have been a good-natured solicitude; she was almost a taciturn companion to the women, perhaps only five or six times in her life. Saying hello, but these words reflect that she admits she has a sisterly friendship with other women; although she entertains the men at the banquet, she has a deeper friendship for the women in her bones, which makes Mrs. Bruton and Mrs. Dalloway strange. Although the two rarely meet each other, and when they get along by chance, they seem indifferent to each other, and even seem to be hostile. "I met Clarissa in the park this morning," said Hugh Whitbread, jerking his fork into the steamer, eager to give himself a taste; Meeting all the acquaintances; seeing him like this, Miss Brecht thought to herself: Glutton!He was one of the most gluttonous fellows she had ever met; Miss Brecht observed men with unwavering severity, but was also unfailingly loyal, especially to women; and she herself was tested by life. , skinny, without the slightest feminine grace. "Do you know who's in London?" Mrs. Bruton suddenly remembered the secretary. "Our old friend, Peter Walsh." Everyone will smile with satisfaction.Peter Walsh!Miss Brech thought to herself again: Mr. Dalloway was really glad to hear that, and Mr. Whitbread wanted nothing more than chicken. Peter Walsh!All three (Lady Bruton, Hugh Whitbread, Richard Dalloway) evoked the same memories - how Peter fell passionately in love, was rejected, exiled in India, became a plantation Richard Dalloway was very fond of his dear old friend.Miss Brech saw this, saw the affection in his brown pupils, saw him hesitate, consider; this aroused her interest, indeed she had always been interested in Mr. Dalloway; She wondered to herself: What on earth did he think of Peter Walsh? Or so he was thinking: Peter Walsh had loved Clarissa; he was going to come home right after lunch and talk to Clarissa;Really, he would have said that. Miss Brech was almost in love with those musings for a time; and Mr. Dalloway was always so reliable, and a very refined gentleman.Millie Brech is forty now, so when Mrs. Bruton nods her head, or turns her face slightly suddenly, she understands it, though she has been deeply absorbed in those meditations; Possessing an attitude and a flawless heart, life cannot deceive her, because she has never given her anything of value; she is born with no charm, neither lips, cheeks, nor nose smile. so that, at the first nod of Mrs Bruton's head, she would at once tell Perkins to hurry up for coffee. "Yes, Peter Walsh is back," said Mrs Bruton.Everyone present is somewhat proud.Because, after suffering all kinds of hardships, he finally returned to them, as if he had returned to a peaceful beach.However, they also considered that it was impossible to help him because of a defect in his character.At the moment, said Hugh Whitbread, of course Peter could be mentioned to someone important.He said he would write to the ministers in power to clear the way for "my old friend Peter Walsh," but at the thought of such a letter he frowned with seriousness and resignation.Because such a letter of recommendation would have no effect--it would not produce a once-for-all result, due to Peter's flawed character. "He's got some trouble with some woman," said Mrs. Bruton.Those present had already speculated that those words were the source of the trouble. "However," said Mrs. Bruton eagerly to put the subject aside, "let us hear what Peter himself has to say." (The coffee hasn't come yet, it's very slow.) "Where does he live now?" murmured Hugh Whitbread; and the question at once caused a little echo among the servants, like a ripple in a gray tide; Surrounding Mrs. Bruton unceasingly, collecting what she needs, and blocking the annoying people, like a net woven with delicate fibers, protecting the old lady, resisting the impact for her and reducing disturbance; There was a net over this house in Brook Street, where everything was kept in perfect order and picked out as needed by grey-haired Perkins, who had been with Mrs Bruton for thirty years; The old man wrote down Peter's address and gave it to Mr. Whitbread, who took out his notebook, raised his eyebrows, and sandwiched the slip of paper among the most important papers, and said that he would ask Evelyn to ask Peter is coming to eat. (The servants wait for Mr. Whitbread to clip the paper.) Mrs. Bruton thought to herself: Hugh is really slow.She also noticed that he had gained weight.Richard is always looking refreshed.The old lady grew impatient of waiting; her whole being was absolutely, undeniably, even imperiously absorbed in a project, anxious to get rid of this trifle (Peter Walsh and his private life); The project preoccupied her, not only that, but took possession of her soul, penetrated to the very depths of her soul, which was her lifeblood, without which Millicent Bruton would not be Millicent Bruton. The plan is to send the young children of the upper classes abroad and help them establish themselves in Canada and develop fairly smoothly.Oh, she exaggerated.Dare to feel that she has lost the golden mean.For others, the immigration program is not a panacea or a noble idea.For them (including Hugh, Richard, and even the loyal Miss Brecht) the plan could not give vent to the smoldering egoism which, Mrs Bruton felt, She is on the rise, because she is a strong and mighty woman, well-nourished, distinguished family, straightforward and impulsive, full of emotions but lacking introspective intelligence-she believes that everyone should be frank and simple, why not?A woman like her, once her youth fades away, must channel her egoism toward some goal, whether "immigration" or "liberation"; , so it must become radiant and shining, like a mirror, and like a gem, sometimes carefully hidden, lest people will laugh, and sometimes taken out to show off.In short, the "immigrant" had become Mrs. Bruton's flesh and blood. In any case, she must write.Yet, as she was wont to tell Miss Brecht, writing a letter to The Times took more thought than planning a South African expedition (although she did not work so hard during the Great War).She had to struggle all morning to write a letter, begin, tear up, begin again, exhausting herself, and she felt a weak woman like she never did on any other occasion; and she would Think with gratitude of Hugh Whitbread, who no one doubts has mastered the art of writing a letter to The Times. The man was quite different from her own endowments, such a master of language as to write letters that would please the editors;Mrs. Bruton has always been lenient in judging men, for they (not women) have a mystical conformity with the natural laws of the universe which she admires; ; so if she called Richard as an adviser and Hugh would catch the knife for her, she would probably be at ease.So she let Hugh finish the soufflé, and greeted poor Evelyn; and when they were smoking, she said: "Millie, will you go and get the paper?" Miss Brech went out at once, and when she came back she spread the papers on the table; Hugh took out the fountain pen, his silver pen, which had been used for twenty years, and took off the cap as he spoke.He said: This pen is not bad at all. He has checked it with the manufacturer. The thoughts and feelings expressed by the pen (Richard Dalloway thought so); at the same time, Hugh began to write stroke by stroke, first writing cursive capital letters, word by word Mrs. Bruton's disordered The clarity and grammatical precision with which the thoughts were conveyed was truly miraculous; and Mrs Bruton, seeing the miraculous transformation, could not help thinking that the editor of the Times must admire it.Hugh wrote very slowly.He has a lot of energy.One has to take a little risk, says Richard.Hugh suggested a milder tone, out of respect for people's sentiments; Richard scoffed, Hugh said sharply that favors "must be taken into consideration", reading aloud a sentence from the letter: "Our humble opinion, therefore, is , the time has come... in view of the growing population of our country, some of the youth have become superfluous... this is our duty to the dead..." Richard thought it was all nonsense, but of course it didn't matter; so Hugh went on drafting word for word The letter, expressing the most sublime sentiments, brushing the cigar ashes from his waistcoat, summing up from time to time which paragraph he had written; finally finished the whole manuscript, and read it aloud; Mrs Bruton thought, it was undoubtedly a masterpiece; he wrote her The meaning of the expression is so wonderful, it is incredible! Hugh could not guarantee that the editor would publish the letter, but he said he would meet someone at the banquet. Therefore, Mrs. Bruton, who made a rare graceful movement, stuffed the carnation flower presented by Hugh on her chest, waved her hands at the same time, and called him: "My Prime Minister!" She really didn't know what to do.The two stood up.Richard Dalloway wandered out as usual to look at the portrait of the old General, for he intended to take a break from his busy schedule to write a history of Mrs Bruton's family. Millicent Bruton was very proud of her heritage.However, she looked at the portrait and said: They can wait a while, they can wait a while; what she means is that she can put off describing her family's grandparents, those generals, admirals and civil servants are all practical people, He had fulfilled his duties during his lifetime; and now, Richard must first fulfill his duties for the motherland; but she looked at the portrait and said, that face is very heroic; if you want to write family history, all the files are in Altmix Dun, well preserved, for Richard to quote when the time comes; she means, wait until the Labor government has collapsed; and at the same time, she exclaims, "Ah, hear the news from India?!" Afterwards, when they stood in the hall, and each took their yellow gloves from a china basin on the malachite table, Hugh made a gesture of politely giving Miss Brecht an unnecessary theater ticket, or something like that. but Miss Brecht blushed with disgust at his pretentiousness; at this moment Richard, hat in his hand, turned to Mrs Bruton: "Will you come to our banquet tonight?" and Mrs. Bruton regained her poise, which was deflated when she wrote.She replied that she might or might not come.Clarissa is really full of energy.Mrs Bruton, however, was terribly afraid of parties.Besides, she is getting older every day.So she declared, standing at the doorway, her body straight and elegant; at this time, her Chinese dog was lying on all fours behind her, and Miss Brech was holding letter paper and blank paper, etc., Backed away. Mrs Bruton plodded demurely to her bedroom, where she lay on the sofa with one arm outstretched.She let out a breath, snored again, did not fall asleep, just drowsy and drowsy, as if the clover in the field was scorched by the scorching sun on a hot day in June, surrounded by bees and yellow butterflies Come and go.She kept thinking of the fields near her home in Devon, and her childhood with her brothers Mortimer and Tom, riding her pony, Patty, and leaping streams.Thinking of the dogs, and the mice; and her parents, resting in the shade on the lawn, with the tea set in front of them; Miles!Sneaking back from the bushes, afraid of being discovered; being naughty, he was dirty from head to toe.Oh, how badly the old Nan scolded her for her tricks! Oh, she woke up from the memory--it was Wednesday, in Brook Street.Those two good fellows, Richard Dalloway and Hugh Whitbread, went through the streets on such a hot day; On the sofa.Power, status, money, she has it all.She was at the forefront of the times.She has had bosom friends and met contemporary talented people.At this moment, the sound of London's city was softer, like the sound of rippling water, flowing to her ears; her hand rested on the back of the sofa, her fingers were curled up, and she was holding an imaginary baton, just as her ancestors had held it. in a state of drowsiness, she felt vaguely that she was directing a large army to Canada; and she remembered that those two good-hearted fellows were walking the streets of London, passing through the "territory" of their generation. ", Mayfair District, like a small carpet in the metropolis. They were getting farther and farther away from her, and although they had dined with her just now, there was a thin tie to each other, but as they passed through the city, this thread would be longer and longer. as if after inviting her friends to a meal, there was a thin tie linking them to herself; while she was drowsy, the chiming bell rang, perhaps a church bell, The believers are called to pray; with this leisurely sound wave, the slender bonds are blurred, like drops of raindrops sprinkled on a spider's web, which cannot withstand the load and hangs down.So she fell asleep. Millicent Bruton thus lay on the sofa, let the bond snap, and snored himself; at this very moment Richard Dalloway and Hugh Whitbread were on the corner of Conduit Street. hesitated.At the corner, two headwinds were blowing.The two were looking at the windows of a shop, and they wanted nothing to buy or talk, but to part; but, a little languid from the headwind blowing around the corner, they lingered there, as if two forces had been drawn into a vortex, From morning to afternoon, I had to take a rest.At this moment, a billboard of a newspaper towered high into the sky, like a kite.From which window looms a lady's veil.The light-yellow curtains are fluttering.In the morning, the continuous flow of vehicles was scarce, and occasionally a few large vehicles strolled leisurely on the empty street, making rattling noises.At this moment, Richard vaguely thought of Norfolk: a warm breeze was blowing the petals, and there were ripples on the water, the grass was lush and undulating.Farmers who dry hay all morning, take a nap by the bamboo fence, rest for a while, sometimes push aside the dense green grass and the quivering, ball-like parsley in the wind, look at the sky, the ancient, fire General summer blue sky. Richard just felt sluggish, unable to think or move, though he knew he was looking at a two-handled, Jacobean silver goblet in the window; He admired a Spanish necklace; he wanted to go in and ask the price, maybe Evelyn would like it.The torrent of life has brought these fakes up, and the shop windows are full of artificial gems; people stand there looking on, like rigid old people, listless and lifeless.Evelyn Whitbread might want to buy the Spanish necklace—she might like it.But he had to yawn.Hugh was going into the shop. "Look at you!" said Richard, following in. God knows, he didn't want to go shopping for some necklaces with Hugh.But the flow of the spirit is like the tide, rising and falling.Morning meets afternoon.Just like a flat boat, floating and sinking in the deep, deep waves.Mrs. Bruton's ancestors and his memoirs, and his North American campaigns, were swallowed up and drowned in the flood of life.So did Mrs Bruton.She is drowning.理查德压根儿不关心她的“移民”计划；那封信会不会刊登，关他鸟事。眼下只见那串项链吊在休的优雅的手指间。假使他真的要买首饰，那就让他送给一个姑娘吧——随便什么姑娘，哪怕街头的女郎。理查德打心眼里痛感这种生活之无聊——给伊芙琳买项链呢。倘若自己有个儿子，就会叮嘱他：工作，工作。不过他只有伊丽莎白，他可宠爱他的伊丽莎白呐。 “我要去找杜邦尼特先生，”休简短地说，依然用他那世俗的口吻。原来这位杜邦尼特量过惠特布雷德太太的脖子，知道那尺寸，而且更奇怪的是，他还了解她对西班牙首饰的看法，她拥有多少这一类珠宝（休却记不清了）。在理查德看来，所有这一切都是不可思议的。因为他从未正式给过克拉丽莎任何礼物，除了两三年前送过一对手镯，但没有讨她的喜欢。她从来不戴这玩艺儿，这使他一想起就难受。理查德的心灵从麻木不仁中清醒过来，此刻他的心思倾注于自己的妻子，克拉丽莎身上，犹如一张蜘蛛网飘来晃去，终于粘住了一片叶尖儿；彼得·沃尔什曾经神魂颠倒地爱她；理查德忽然瞥见了自己同她进餐的幻景，只有他和克拉丽莎，他俩生活在一起；于是他把店里一盘旧的珠宝挪到面前，先挑一枚胸针，再捡一只戒指，估量着，问道：“那一只多少钱？”心里却怀疑自己的鉴赏力。他要在回家时，打开客厅的门，手里握着一样东西——给克拉丽莎的礼品。不过，究竟买什么呢？当下，休又在走动，要离开了。那家伙摆出一副无法形容的架势。然而，他毕竟是这家店的老主顾，做了三十五年的交易了，他才不愿跟一个乳臭未干的小店员打交道呐，那小子一窍不通嘛。可惜杜邦尼特不在店里，除非那老板回来，他决不买任何东西；那小伙计听他这么说，不由得脸涨得通红，毕恭毕敬地一鞠躬。完全合情合理。可是，理查德无论如何不会那样讲的。为什么那些店员竟甘心忍受这种可恶的傲慢呢，简直不可想象。休变成一头蠢驴了，令人无法容忍。理查德跟他作伴儿最多一小时，再拖下去便受不了。所以，一到康杜依特街口，他赶紧把大礼帽一扬，算是告别；接着连忙转过拐角，归心如箭地奔回家去，仿佛粘在叶尖上的那张蜘蛛网，急于同克拉丽莎见面；他要径直到威斯敏斯特去，同她相会哩。 然而，他走进家门时总要拿着些东西。鲜花吧？对，就是花儿，因为他对金银首饰的鉴赏力缺乏自信；随便买多少鲜花——玫瑰、兰花，都行，为了庆祝一番，不管怎样考虑，这是一桩大事；就是他俩在午餐桌上谈起彼得·沃尔什时，他对她怀有的情感；他俩从未谈到过这种情愫，好多年来都没谈过，他心里想，这是莫大的错误，手里捏着嫣红与洁白的玫瑰花（一大把，用薄纸包着）。到了节骨眼上却讲不出口，他思量着，过于腼腆了，一面把六便士左右的找头塞进口袋里，胸口捧着那一大把花儿，回到威斯敏斯特去；不管她对他有什么看法，他要把鲜花献给她，同时滔滔不绝地爽快地说：“我爱你。”为什么不表白呢？ !当他想起大战时，觉得真是个奇迹：成千上万的可怜虫本来都有光明的前途，却死掉了，埋成一堆，如今几乎被遗忘了；而他却安然无恙，眼下正在穿过伦敦，简直是个奇迹哟；他要回家去，对克拉丽莎翻来覆去地说：我爱你；不过他又想，实际上，这话儿是决不会说的，因为自己贪懒，并且害臊。唔，克拉丽莎……难以想象她的形象，除非在偶然的场合，譬如一起吃午饭的时候，他能异常清晰地看见她，以及他俩的全部生活。他在十字街头停住了，反复寻思：真是个奇迹呢——他这样想是因为天性单纯，没有沾染习气；因为他曾行军与射击，而且有一股韧劲，曾坚定地维护被压迫者的利益，并在下议院中，按这天然的信念发言；他天真未泯，却又变得沉默寡言，相当古板——他反复思量：居然跟克拉丽莎结了婚，委实是奇迹呐——一个奇迹，他的生活就是奇迹嘛；他在沉思中踌躇着，不想穿过大街了。但是，他看见几个五岁上下的小孩没有大人领着，径自穿过皮卡迪利，便觉得怒火中烧。警察在干些什么呀，应当立即指挥车辆停住。他对伦敦的警察不存一点幻想。事实上，他正在搜集他们恶劣行径的证据，例如不准小贩把手推车停在街上喽，禁止娼妓拉客喽；老天爷哪，她们并没有过失，年轻的嫖客也不足怪，都是我们这可憎的社会制度造成的，等等；他在思考这一切，看得出他在思考；头发灰白，一股韧劲，而又衣冠楚楚，周身整洁；当下他穿过公园，要去告诉妻子，他如何爱她。 当他走进房间时，他要一而再、再而三地说这句话。因为他思忖，倘若不表达自己的情感，那太可怜了；他边想边穿过格林公园，欣喜地看到树荫里躺着不少穷人，摊手摊脚的，都是扶老携幼，全家来逛公园；孩子们把小腿儿跷得高高的，吸着牛奶，纸袋扔了一地；其实，如果人们提出抗议，那些穿制服的大汉们中间只要一个人去收拾，便会弄干净的；他认为，在夏季，每个公园、每个广场都应该向儿童们开放。（这时，天光云影映照得公园内草坪忽隐忽现，衬托着威斯敏斯特区穷人家的母亲，以及在地上爬的婴儿，仿佛底下有一盏黄色的幻灯在移动。）刹那间，他又瞥见一个女人，像个流浪者，仰天躺在那儿。（好像她一下子扑倒在大地上，摆脱了所有的羁绊，以便好奇地观察一切，大胆地思索，探讨种种缘由；她嘴唇咧开，一派放肆而调皮的样子；）对她那样的女人该怎么办呢？他可毫无办法，只会捧着那一大把鲜花，恰如擎着一柄刀，走近那女子，目不斜视地踅过她面前；虽然只有一瞬，还是燃起了一星通灵的火花，她向他嘲弄地一哂，他则性情愉快地报以一粲，同时考虑如何处理浪荡女子的问题；当然他和她是决不会交谈的。反正他要告诉克拉丽莎，他爱她，他爱她，一遍又一遍。以前，他曾妒忌过彼得·沃尔什，妒忌他与克拉丽莎。不过，她常跟他说，她没有嫁给彼得·沃尔什是做对了；他深知克拉丽莎的性格，所以，她这样说显然是真心话，她要有人依靠呗。并非说她脆弱，而是她要靠得住的人。 至于白金汉宫呢（它好比一位歌剧名演员，半老徐娘，穿着一身白礼服，面向观众），不可否认有一种庄严的气派，他是这样想的，而且并不鄙视它，因为在千百万人的心目中（眼下就有一小圈人围在宫门口，想看陛下乘车出巡），这宫殿毕竟是一个象征，尽管它看上去是可笑的；他想，一个孩子用一盒砖形玩具，便能搭得比它像样哩；他兀自瞧着维多利亚女王纪念碑（他还记得她老人家戴着玳瑁边眼镜，乘车经过肯辛顿的情景）；那一座白色雕像，波纹似的白石塑出慈母般的体态；他可乐意被霍沙的后裔统治呢，因为他赞成历史的延续性，以及把昔日的传统世代相传之感。生活在她统治的伟大时代才有意思哩。实际上，他自己的生活就是奇迹嘛，这是毫不含糊的，不要有任何错觉；瞧，他年富力强，风华正茂，此刻在折回威斯敏斯特，到家后要跟克拉丽莎说，他爱她。他想，这才是幸福呐。 “正是如此，”他自言自语，一面走进教长场。大本钟鸣响了，起先是预报的乐声，悠悠扬扬地，然后报时，分秒不差。他走近家门，兀自寻思：午餐宴会把整个下午都消磨掉了。 大本钟的钟声响彻克拉丽莎的客厅，她坐在那里，靠着写字台看信，心烦意乱，焦躁不堪。她确实没有请埃利·亨德森赴宴，是故意忽视的。而马香夫人却来了这封信：“我已告诉埃利·亨德森，我将为她要求克拉丽莎……埃利真想参加哩。” 可是，为什么要我请伦敦所有的蠢女人来赴宴呢？ !为什么马香夫人要插手？况且，这一阵子伊丽莎白总是跟多里斯·基尔曼关在密室里。再也没有比这使她更恶心的了。跟那个女人在这时刻一起祷告，真是！当下，钟声悒郁的音波在屋子里流荡，渐渐消退了，又卷土重来，再次鸣响；此时，她只听得有什么东西在门上搔，摸摸索索地，叫人心烦。这个时候有什么人来呢？钟打了三下，老天爷哪！已经三点啦！大本钟敲了三下，极其干脆，庄严得很，有一种威慑的力量；除了钟声，她什么也听不见，不过房门的把柄转动了，进来一个人，竟是理查德！真令人惊讶！理查德走进来，把鲜花递到她面前。以前有一回，在君士坦丁堡，她曾使他失望；这一次，布鲁顿夫人没有请她参加午宴，而那老夫人主持的宴会，据说是非常有趣的。不过此刻，他却献上鲜花了——是玫瑰，嫣红的雪白的玫瑰花。 （可是他鼓不起勇气说他爱她，至少不能反复地说。） 她接过花儿，说道：多可爱哟！她了解他，用不着他讲，她就懂得他的心思，毕竟是他的克拉丽莎嘛。她把鲜花插在炉架上的花瓶里，啧啧赞叹：看上去多可爱哟！尔后问道：午餐会有趣吗？布鲁顿夫人问候她了吗？彼得·沃尔什回国了。马香夫人写信来说项。非请埃利·亨德森不可吗？那女人基尔曼在楼上呢。 “咱们坐下来，谈一会吧，”理查德说。 客厅里看起来空荡荡的。所有的椅子都靠着墙。他们在干些什么呀？哦，是准备设宴，他可没有忘记她要请客。她说：彼得·沃尔什回来了，已经见到他了，那没错儿。他打算离婚，在国外爱上哪个女人了。他样子一点没变。她坐在那儿，絮絮而谈，一面补衣裳…… “想念老家布尔顿哩，”她边补边说。 理查德却道，“午餐会上休也来了。”嗯，她也见到他了。哎，这个人变得越来越糟，讨厌透了：要给伊芙琳买项链呢，胖得不像话，讨厌透顶的蠢驴。 “我忽然想跟他说，'有一阵子我可能嫁给你的。'”她说着便想起那天彼得坐在那儿，系着蝴蝶结，掏出随身带的小刀子，不断地从鞘子里拔出来，塞进去，“他老是这样神经质的，你懂嘛。” 理查德说：午餐会上谈起他来着。（然而，他讲不出他爱她这句话，只是握住她的手，一面自忖：这就是幸福。）还告诉她，饭后，他们替布鲁顿夫人拟了一封给《泰晤士报》的信。休也只配做这种动笔头的事。 接着他问道：“咱们那位亲爱的基尔曼小姐呢？”克拉丽莎却觉得，玫瑰花可爱极了，起先还簇拢着，此刻已经自然地纷披了。 “我们刚吃过饭，基尔曼便来了，”她答道，“伊丽莎白一见她就脸红。现在两人关在密室里。敢情在祈祷吧。” 上帝呵！他可不喜欢那样，不过这种事情任其自然，便会淡下去的。 “那女人穿了雨衣还带伞哩，”克拉丽莎道。 他仍然没说“我爱你”，讲不出口嘛，只好握紧她的手，心里想：幸福就是这样，就是这样。 “可是，我干吗要把伦敦所有的蠢女人都请来呢？！”克拉丽莎道，“要是马香夫人自己设宴的话，难道她会请所有的客人吗？” 理查德叹道，“可怜的埃利·亨德森；”一面思量，真怪，克拉丽莎对她的宴会太操心啦。 但是，对于怎样布置一间客厅，理查德是个外行；不过除了这个，他还能提出什么话题呢？ 如果她对宴会过于操心，他就要劝她不必举行了。以前她曾愿意嫁给彼得吗？可是眼下他得出去了。 于是他站起来说：我得走了。却又站着不动，想了一会儿，好像有什么话要说似的；她心里纳闷：他要说些什么呢？为什么那样？一面瞧着玫瑰。 “那个委员会开会吗？”她在他开房门时问道。 “讨论亚美尼亚人的问题，”他回答，兴许他说的是“阿尔巴尼亚人”。 凡是人都有一种尊严，都有独处的生活，即便夫妻之间也不容干扰；必须尊重这种权利，克拉丽莎思忖着，一面望着他开门；自己不愿丧失独处的权利，也不能强求丈夫放弃它，否则就会失去自主和自尊——这毕竟是无价之宝哩。 他却抱着枕头与被子回到屋子里。 “午饭后要安安静静躺一小时，”他说着便走了。 他就是这种脾性！他会一天又一天地唠叨，“午饭后安安静静躺一小时，”因为有一次医生曾经嘱咐过；他会划一不二地照医生的话做，这正是他的性格，也是他那令人敬爱的、圣洁的赤子之心的一种表现，任何人都不像他那么单纯；正是这天性使他不辞奔波，去干必需的事情，而她却跟彼得吵嘴，消磨时间。此刻，他已经在去下议院的半路上了，要去讨论他的亚美尼亚人，或是阿尔巴尼亚人，她却舒舒服服地躺在沙发上，欣赏玫瑰呢。人们会说：“克拉丽莎被宠坏啦。”可不是，她只喜欢玫瑰花，压根儿不关心什么亚美尼亚人。尽管那些人被迫害得走投无路，受尽煎熬，又冻又饿，成为暴政与专制的牺牲品（她曾听见理查德翻来覆去地这样说），她却无动于衷，不会对阿尔巴尼亚人（或是亚美尼亚人吧？）有一点儿同情；她只喜欢她的玫瑰，（这对亚美尼亚人有些帮助吧？）只有这种花才使她能忍受别人摘下来供养。不过此时理查德大概已到了下议院，正在他的委员会里开会，他已解决了她所有的困难。哎，不，不对。他还没懂得为什么她不愿请埃利·亨德森呐。要是他想请那女人，她自然会照办的。此刻，既然他已把枕头拿来了，她就躺一会吧……可是——可是——为什么她一下子莫名其妙地觉得挺难受，好闷哪？恰如什么人丢了一粒珍珠或一块钻石，落到野草丛里，因而小心翼翼地拨开高高的草茎，拨到东又拨到西，这儿寻寻，那儿觅觅，老是找不到；最后，总算在一些草根那里发现了；就这样，她心潮起伏，思前想后，感到苦闷并非由于萨利·赛顿说过：理查德肯定进不了内阁，因为他的脑子是第二流的（她想起萨利说过这句话）；不，对于这一点，她毫不介意；苦闷的缘故同伊丽莎白与基尔曼也无关，她俩的行径是明摆着的嘛。这种感觉，很不惬意的感觉，兴许在当天早些时候就有了：敢情是彼得说的什么话引起的，加上自己在卧室内脱帽子时心中的抑郁，再加上理查德讲了令人烦闷的话，不过他究竟说了些什么？他献给她那些鲜花，还有，提到她的宴会。可不是！她的宴会！他们两人都很不公平地批评她，极不公正地嘲笑她，为了她的那些宴会。正是这个！正是这缘故！ 唔，她将怎样为自己辩护呢？弄清了苦闷的原因，她便觉得异常舒坦了。他们俩认为，至少彼得认为，她爱突出自己，喜欢有一批名流围着她转，都是些响当当的名字；总之，她实在是个势利鬼。嗯，彼得可能这样想的。至于理查德嘛，仅仅以为她有些傻，因为她爱热闹，而那种兴奋对她的心脏是不利的。他认为，这是孩子气。可是，两人都想错了。她爱过简朴的生活呗。 “我的行动就是为了这一目标，”她对生活宣称。 由于她躺在沙发上，幽居室内，与世隔绝，故而在清静中感到，这十分明显的道理变得有血有肉一般；当下，街上传来一阵阵声浪，户外阳光灿烂，灼热的微风轻轻吹来，拂动了窗帘。嗯，假如彼得跟她说：“不错，不错，但是你那些宴会——你的宴会有什么意思呢？”她只能回答（而且预料没有人会理解）：那是一种奉献。听上去模糊得很。然而，彼得算得上什么，他有资格领会生活是一帆风顺的吗？ ——彼得老是陷入情网，老是找错对象，他有什么资格质问我？ !我也可以质问他：你的爱情算什么？她知道他会这样回答：那是世界上最重要的事情，没有一个女人会理解的。好得很，但是，哪个男子能了解她的意思——关于生活的意义呢？她不能想象，彼得或理查德会无缘无故费心去开宴会的。 再深一层想，在人们的风言风语之外，（那些评头论足的话多浅薄、多琐碎呀！）挖到自己内心，对她来说，所谓生活究竟有什么意义呢？哎，想起来真怪。就好比某人在南肯辛顿，某人在倍士沃特，另一个人在梅弗尔；她每时每刻感到他们各自孤独地生活，不由得怜悯他们，觉得这是无谓地消磨生命，因此心里想，要是能把他们聚拢来，那多好呵！她便这样做了。所以，设宴是一种奉献：联合，创造嘛。然而，奉献给谁呢？ 或许是为了奉献而奉献吧。不管怎样，这是她的天赋。此外，她没有一丁点儿才能，不会思考，不会写作，甚至弹钢琴也不行。她分不清亚美尼亚人与土耳其人，却好大喜功，贪图安逸，一心讨人喜欢，胡言乱语一大通；至今都不知道赤道是什么东西，倘若有人问她，那可僵啦。 无论如何，必须一天又一天地过下去：星期三、星期四、星期五、周末；总得在早晨醒来；眺望天空，在公园里漫步；同休·惠特布雷德相遇，尔后理查德忽然回家来，捧着那些玫瑰花；这就够了。之后呢，死亡，多么不可思议呵！——一切都会了结，而世界上没有人会懂得，她多爱这一切呀，每时每刻，多么…… The door opened.伊丽莎白悄悄地踅进来，她知道母亲在憩息。这姑娘静静地伫立着。她母亲在寻思：也许一百年前，有个蒙古人翻了船，漂流到诺福克海岸上（有如希尔伯里太太所说的），后来跟达洛卫家的几位女士交配了吧？因为一般说来，达洛卫家的人大都是蓝眼睛、浅色头发；伊丽莎白却相反，头发乌黑，苍白的脸上一双中国式的眼睛；东方人神秘的风韵；温柔、体贴、娴静。她小时候嬉笑谑浪，现在十七岁了，却变得异常庄重；克拉丽莎简直弄不懂怎么会变的；宛如绿叶遮蔽的一棵风信子，只生出淡淡的萌芽，阳光照不到嘛。 姑娘兀自不动地站着，瞅着母亲。门虚掩着，外面是基尔曼小姐；克拉丽莎知道她在那里，穿着雨衣，窃听母女俩谈些什么。 可不是，此刻基尔曼小姐立在楼梯平台上，穿着雨衣，她穿这个是有道理的。首先是便宜，其次，她四十出头了，穿什么，戴什么，毕竟不是为了讨人喜欢。况且，她穷，穷得不像样。要不然，她才不会替达洛卫这号人当差哩，他们是富人，喜欢做出好心的样子。不过，说句公道话，达洛卫先生是真正的好心。达洛卫太太却不，她仅仅恩赐而已。她属于最不值钱的阶级——富人，只有一点儿肤浅的文化。他们家堆满了奢华的东西：图画喽，地毯喽，而且奴仆成群。基尔曼小姐认为，无论达洛卫家给了她什么好处，她都是当之无愧的。 她被欺骗了，这样说毫不夸张，因为一个姑娘肯定有权利享受某种幸福吧？她却从未享过福，因为那么穷、那么笨拙。况且，恰恰她在多尔比小姐的学校里可能得到幸福时，大战爆发了，而她从来不肯对德国人的看法言不由衷。多尔比小姐对她的想法不以为然，认为同那些跟自己对德国佬的意见一样的人相处，要愉快些。结果基尔曼非退学不可。诚然，她家是有德国血统的，在十八世纪的时候，她家的姓氏是基艾尔曼；不过，在大战期间，她的兄弟照样被德国人打死了。校方开除她，是由于她不愿违心地说德国人全是坏蛋——当时她还有德国朋友嘛，并且她一生中最快活的日子是在德国度过的！以后，她不得不随遇而安。她毕竟念过些历史。当她为友谊会工作的时候，遇见了达洛卫先生。他让她给自己的女儿教历史（他真是好心肠）。此外，她在夜校之类的学校里兼些课，等等。尔后，上帝给她启示了（对于天主，她总是稽首的）。她是在两年零三个月之前蒙受圣恩的。从此，她再也不妒忌克拉丽莎·达洛卫之流的女人了，现在她只觉得她们可怜呢。 她从心坎里怜悯而又鄙视那种女人，当下她正站在柔软的地毯上，瞧着一幅版画，上面是一个小女孩，还戴着皮手筒哩。到处是这类奢侈的东西，怎能指望世道好起来呢？ !克拉丽莎不该躺在沙发上（她女儿说：“妈妈在休息；”）——她应当在工厂里干活，或者站柜台；达洛卫太太和所有其他的贵妇人，都得工作！