Chapter 5 Chapter Four
The rising sun no longer lingered on the green mattress, and its flickering rays pierced the crystal gems, revealing its face, looking vertically over the heaving sea.The waves crashed down with a regular thud.The sound of their fall was like the clatter of countless horses' hooves on a racetrack.Their spray was like spears and javelins swung overhead by riders.They gleamed steely blue and splashed across the beach like diamonds.They churned violently, like a machine pumping its energy over and over again.The sun was shining on the crop fields and woods.The water turned blue and wrinkled; the grass sloped towards the water's edge became green, like the slightly ruffled feathers of a bird.The hills are twisted and shrunken like muscular arched limbs, as if held together by some straps; and on their sides, magnificently covered with patches of wood, it looks as though the necks of horses have been clipped. short mane.
In the garden where the shade was thick over the flower-beds, ponds, and conservatories, little birds sang and sang in the warm sunshine.One was singing at the bedroom window; another was on the tallest branch among the lilac bushes; and still another was on the edge of the wall.Every bird was chirping passionately, as if they were only interested in letting the song come out of their mouths, not caring whether the cacophony of cacophony disturbed the singing of others.Their round eyes are bulging and bright; their claws firmly grasp the branches or railings.They sang openly in the air and in the sun, beautifully clad in new feathers with shell-like veins or shiny armor, streaks of light blue here, a little golden there, Streaks of shiny feathers of the same colour.They sang, as if the song was involuntary because they were driven by the morning.They chirped as if the blades of life had been sharpened, needing to be chopped, to split the soft turquoise light, the dampness of the wet earth; and the steaming fumes of the kitchen; The fishy smell; the tangy sweetness of the pastries and fruits; the damp offal and vegetable peels in the slop bucket, these things will emit a burst of water vapor when dumped on the garbage dump.With their sharp, sharp, brutally sharp beaks, they land suddenly on all kinds of soaked, damp, moldy, wet wrinkled things.Suddenly they swoop down from lilac branches or fences.They found a snail, and then picked up the snail shell and knocked it on the stone.They knocked violently and methodically until the snail's shell was broken and a sticky substance flowed from the cracked shell.They soared swiftly, gliding, straight into the sky, with short chirping shrieks, and perched high in the tree-tops, overlooking the foliage and pinnacles below, and the fields of green grass and white flowers, And the sea rumbling like a drum beating a whole regiment of feathered and hooded soldiers.From time to time, the songs of the birds merged into a rapid sound, like flowing water in a mountain stream, intertwined, foam splashed, mixed into a torrent, along the river bed, rubbing the continuous leaves on both sides, more and more Plunging down with haste; but as soon as they hit a rock, they go their separate ways.
The sunlight shot into the room like a sharp wedge.Whatever the light touches is given a psychedelic presence.A plate seemed to become a white lake.A table knife looks like a cold dagger.Suddenly, the tumblers looked as if they were being lifted by streaks of light.The tables and chairs, which seemed to have been submerged in the water, rose to the surface and continued to rise, dimly covered with crimson, orange, and lavender, like the blush on the skin of ripe fruit.The luster on the porcelain, the lines on the wood, and the strands on the mats all became clearer and more refined.No matter what, there is no shadow.A pitcher was emerald green, and one's eyes seemed to be sucked through a funnel by its intense brilliance, clinging to it like a limpet.Then, the shapes of the objects take on their bodies and corners.Here, the carving on a chair; there, a bulky cupboard.Then, as the light became more and more intense, patches of shadows would be driven past them, gathered together, piled upon one another, and shrouded behind them.
"How beautiful, how queer," said Bernard, "this London, all its domes and steeples, gleamed before me in the misty mist. As we came nearer, she was Sleeping under the guards of the gas towers and factory chimneys. She embraced the huge colony of ants in her arms. All shouts, all noises, were quietly wrapped in silence. Not even Rome seemed more beautiful than she More solemn. However, our purpose is to come to her. Her motherly sleep has been a little awakened. Dense houses emerge from the fog, and the continuous ridges seem to have wings. Factories, churches, Glass cupolas, institutions, and theaters rose up. The morning train from the north was hurtling toward her like a cannonball. As we passed these sights, we pulled apart. As we rumbled past the stations, there were always dull expectant faces staring at us. Whenever we passed them like the wind with the threat of death, those people will squeeze the newspapers in their hands a little tighter. And we continue roaring and galloping. We seem to explode in the flank of the city, like a shell about to hit a huge, The loins of a motherly, majestic animal. She is humming and whispering; she is waiting for us to come.
"Meanwhile, as I stood by the car window and looked out, I felt oddly but surely that it was my own great joy (being engaged) that had brought me to this speed , part of the cannonball fired at the city. I have become numb to the point of tolerance and acquiescence to all this. I will say, dear sir, why do you take off your case with such trepidation and wear it all night What do we do in vain. We are all enveloped in a magnificent harmony. We seem to have the gray wings of a huge goose (It is a bright and dull morning) , all tall and majestic and uniform, because we have only one desire—to reach our destination. I don't want the train to stop with a clang. I don't want the association we've formed after sitting face to face all night to suddenly disappear. Interruption. I would not like to feel hatred and enmity reign supreme; and desires of every description. We sat together on a speeding train with only one desire in common, to reach Euston Road, and that commonality is rare Yes. But lo and behold! It's all over. We've had our wish. We've pulled up to the edge of the platform. The eagerness, the panic, the desire to be the first out of the gate and into the elevator, is all on display. I don't want to be the first out the gate, though, to bear the weight of my personal life. Since Monday—the day she took me in, I've had a sense of self-respect in every nerve, if I don't cry first' Where's my toothbrush', I can't see my toothbrush in the glass; but now, I'd rather just let go of my luggage and just stand here in the street--watching These buses, wanting nothing and enviing nothing—with a boundless curiosity about the fate of mankind, if it has any appeal to my intellect. But there is none. I have arrived, accepted Yes. I don't want anything.
"Just like a baby who spits out her nipple after a full meal and goes to sleep contentedly, I can now immerse myself as deeply as I want in this overlooked, ubiquitous ordinary life. (By the way, the role of pants Really important; smart minds are often stymied by ragged trousers.) You can often see that absurd hesitation people show at the elevator doors. Should I take this elevator or take the Which one, or another elevator? Then the personalities of the people emerged. They hurriedly went their separate ways. All their actions were driven by some kind of necessity. For example, to keep an appointment, Or have to buy a hat or whatever, and it's going to split these lovely humans who were once so consistent. For myself, I have no goals; I have no ambitions. I'd rather just go with the flow. Everything in my life is passing by in a hurry, like a gray stream that reflects what is there, leaving nothing behind. I can't remember my past, my nose, or my The color of my eyes, or what I think of myself in general. It is only in an emergency, at a crossroad, on the side of the street, that the desire to protect my body jumps up and grabs me and makes me Stopping here, in front of this bus. It seems that we are bent on being alive. But then the indifference pops up again. The noise of passing traffic, the many unidentifiable faces passing by— —some going this way, some going that way, I was immersed in drowsy imagination; the faces in front of me began to blur. People almost stepped on my body and walked past .And what time is this, this particular day when I find myself chained? The noise of pedestrians and traffic could be something else, like the roar of trees in the forest, or The roar of the beast. Time has staggered backward an inch or two; the few short steps we have taken forward have been in vain. I also think that our bodies are actually naked. We just Concealed by a thin layer of buttoned clothing; and beneath these pavements, shells and bones and silence.
But really, my fantasies, my hesitant gropings--like a man who is swept involuntarily under a river, is always baffled by spontaneous, capricious, irrelevant disturbed, destroyed, and torn apart by the impulses of curiosity, greed, and desire. (For example, I actually coveted that handbag.) No, I still want to go deeper; I want to explore the hidden depths; To explore; to hear the vague, ancient crackling of branches and the howling of mammoths; to indulge dreamily in the urge to comprehend the world in its entirety what is impossible to the action-minded.Didn't I tremble with a strange quivering pity when I walked?This sympathy, rising unrestrained as if I had been born into some secret being, made me understand these eager crowds, these men who go about with wide-eyed eyes, these servant boys on errand, And these furtive, restless girls who, oblivious to their fate, peer into shop windows.However, I am soberly aware of the life course that we live and die.
"But, really, I can't deny the feeling that life is mysteriously prolonged for me now. Does that mean I might have children, might spread as many as I please, To have a more prosperous descendant than this generation, these doomed mortals jostling each other in the streets in a never-ending rivalry? My daughters will come some summer Come here; my sons will break new ground. So we are not raindrops that blow dry in the wind; we will make the garden flourish and the woods noisy; we will grow and continue in different ways, forever and ever. Well, this is the reason why I am so confident and strong in my heart, otherwise when I am in the crowd of people on this crowded street, I can always open a path for myself in the crowd walking shoulder to shoulder. Aisles, always crossing the road at a safe moment, are not all absurdities. This is not a pompous boast, for I have no vanity at all; I do not remember any special gifts I have , temperament, or those features that I have on my body—eyes, nose, or mouth. At this moment, I am not myself.
"But look, it's back again. A man can't get rid of his inherent temperament. It creeps insensibly through some crack in a man's peculiar make-up—his character. I don't part of a street—no, I'm just looking at this street. So, people are divided. For example, in the back street over there, there's a girl standing there waiting for someone; waiting for someone? A romantic story. There was a small elevator mounted on the wall of that shop; I asked why it was there? And imagined that sometime in the sixties a smartly dressed, Noble lady, being dragged out of a carriage by her sweating husband. What an absurd story. That is to say, I am a born fictionalist, a born fellow who catches anything. .Also, in making these observations naturally and randomly, I craft my ego; making me stand out, and always hearing a voice say, 'Watch out! Get that down!' I would imagine that on some winter's night I would be asked to tell the meaning of all my observations--that would be a quote that would be passed on to one another, a final summary that would be well-concluded ...but talking to yourself in a back street gets boring very quickly. I need an audience. That's why I've fallen. For that reason, that final summary is always I can't form words. I can't sit in a dingy little restaurant day after day, always ordering the same glass of wine, immersing myself in a liquid— Such a life--in. I weave my rhetoric and run with it into a furnished room; where it will be lit by dozens of candles. I need to have many eyes Watch me put all this bells and whistles on display. To complete myself (I noticed this) I need to be inspired by someone else's eyes, so I often don't fully understand who I am People. And like Luis and Rhoda, the authenticity of their identities can be confirmed from their solitude. They hate being inspired and portrayed by others. They throw face down on the portrait that someone else painted them once In the wild. Lewis's words seem to be covered with a thick layer of ice. His words are squeezed, condensed, very firm and durable.
"So, I hope that after this slumber, I can be radiant and radiant in the light of the radiance on the faces of my friends. I have groped and groped in obscurity and bleakness. A queer place In fleeting moments of relief, in moments of contented momentary oblivion, I have heard the intermittent sighs of the waves leaking from this radiant, wanton tumultuous circle. I have had an infinite peace For a brief moment. That may be happiness. Now, I'm frustrated by some tingling sensations, by curiosity, insatiability (I'm hungry), and an overwhelming desire to express myself. I think of People with whom I could still talk things out: Louise, Neville, Susan, Jenny, and Rhoda. When I was with them, I would be versatile. They would save me from dark moods. We We'll meet tonight, thank God. Thank God, I don't have to be alone anymore. We'll have dinner together. We'll say goodbye to Percival, who's going to India. It's early, but I seem already I saw the figures of those pioneers, those leaders, those friends who were not in front of me. I saw Louis, with sharp edges and corners like a stone sculpture; Crystal; Jenny, like a ball of fire, dancing wildly on dry land; The images of my friends before me seemed bloated and grotesque, and would vanish at the touch of a real person's shoe. Yet their inspiration refreshed me. They swept away these foolish fantasies. I Getting tired of being alone - not wanting to feel its veils of stuffiness and obnoxiousness hanging over me. Oh, tear them off and be active! Anyone can be. I'm not picky. Sweep the street the postman; the waiter at the French restaurant; and the friendly proprietor, whose friendly attitude seemed to have been prepared for him. He was personally serving a special guest Mixed salad. Who is this special guest, I asked, why is he special? What is he talking about with the lady with the earring? Is she a friend or a customer? As soon as I sat down at the table, I felt the swarm of chaos, restlessness, possibilities and expectations. All kinds of fantasies were born in an instant. I was embarrassed by the richness of my imagination. I could never Effortlessly using a rich vocabulary to describe every chair, every table, and every person who dines here. My mind is busy here and there, putting a layer of words on everything. tulle. Even a word to the waiter about the wine would cause an explosion. A rocket would instantly soar into the air. Its golden particles would fall on the fertile soil of my imagination, making it moreFertile and prolific.The utterly unpredictable character of the explosion—that is the joy of human association.Who the hell am I, this one mingling with a strange Italian waiter?In this world, there are no fixed things.Who can tell what is the meaning of each thing?Who can predict where a sentence will eventually fall?It is like a balloon passing over the tops of many trees.Talking about knowledge is futile.It's all just experimentation and adventure.We are forever in the midst of unknowns.what will happenI have no idea.But as I put down my glass, I thought: I'm engaged.I'm having dinner with my friends tonight.I'm Bernard the man. "
"It's five minutes to eight," said Neville, "and I came early. I took my seat ten minutes early in order to fully appreciate every minute of anticipation; to watch the door Open it up and say, 'Is that Percival? No, it's not Percival.' I get a morbid pleasure in saying 'No, it's not Percival.' I've seen The door had been opened and closed no less than twenty times; each time the suspense intensified. Here was where he was going to come. Here was the table he was going to sit at. Here—it seemed Unbelievable—his own physical body was about to appear. This table, these chairs, this metal vase with three red flowers in it, was about to change dramatically. At this moment, all this The room, with its swing doors, its tables piled high with fruit and hunks of cold meat, took on an indeterminate, false appearance, like a place where you wait and expect something to happen. place. Everything was wobbling as if it didn't exist. The emptiness of the white tablecloth was particularly conspicuous. The hostile, indifferent atmosphere of the others who were eating here was oppressive. We exchanged glances; Knowing that we don't know each other, I just rolled my eyes and turned away. This kind of staring is like whipping. From it, I feel all the cruelty and heartlessness in the world. If he didn't want to come, I simply couldn't bear it all .I shall go. But someone must have seen him by now. He must be in a cab; he must be passing a shop. And, every minute he seems to pour this glare The light, the presence so intensely that everything seems to lose their normal purpose - the blade seems to be just a flash of light rather than a tool for cutting things. Normal standards seem to be cancelled. .
"The door opened, but he didn't come. It was Louis who hesitated at the door. It was his strange combination of confidence and timidity. He looked at himself in the mirror as he came in; his hair; he was dissatisfied with his appearance. He used to say: 'I am a duke - the last of an old family.' He was sharp-tongued, suspicious, domineering, difficult to get along with (I mean Percival). And at the same time he was formidable, for there was always a mocking look in his eyes. He had seen me. He was coming."
"Here comes Susan," said Louise, "and she doesn't see us. She's undressed, for she despises the pomp of London. She stands for a moment looking left and right at the swing door, like an animal dazzled by lights. Now , she began to move her feet. Her movements (even among the tables and chairs) had a certain animal-like quietness and confidence. She seemed to feel her way by instinct. Walking back and forth, bumping into no one, ignoring the waiters, but heading straight to our corner table, she had a look of conviction on her face as soon as she saw us (Neville and me) Suspicious, rather frightening air, as if she had found what she was looking for. To be in love with Susan was like being impaled by a bird's sharp beak and nailed to the On the barn door. Yet sometimes, I'd rather be pierced by a beak, nailed to the barn door, literally, once and for all.
"Rhoda is here too, she came from nowhere, and slipped in when we were not looking. She must have made a big circle, hiding behind some waiter, hiding behind some ornamental pillar, to postpone as long as possible the excitement of meeting, to seize a moment to shake the petals in her basin. We would startle her. We would torture her. She fears us, she despised us; and yet she came toward us timidly, because no matter how cruel we were, there were still a few names, and there were still a few faces, and these faces would have joyful expressions. Greetings will light her way and keep her filled with beautiful dreams."
"The door opened, and the door kept opening and opening," said Neville, "but he didn't come."
"Here comes Jenny," said Susan, "and she's standing in the doorway. Everything seems to stand still. The waiter stops. At the table near the door, the diners stop and look at her. She seemed to be the center of everything; the tables, the series of doors, windows, ceilings, all radiated light around her, like a star reflected in the broken window glass, shining around her. Everything comes together at one point and becomes orderly. Now she sees us, moves, and all the lights start to dangle, drift, undulate, and create a new wave of emotional orgasm over our heads. We all start There was a change. Louis reached out and touched his tie. Neville sat there nervously waiting, restlessly shaking the knife and fork in front of him. Rhoda looked at her in surprise, as if in a distant place. There's a fire burning on the horizon, and I, though I try to fill my head with wet grass, wet fields, the sound of rain on roofs, and winter winds that shake houses, to keep my The heart can resist her, but I still feel her teasing silently surround me, her mocking flames envelop me, mercilessly setting off my poor clothes, my clumsy nails; Hide your hands under the tablecloth."
"He never came," Neville said. "The door opened, but he still didn't come. It was Bernard. As expected, when he took off his coat, his armpits showed the blue shirt. Also, unlike the rest of us, he barged in without pushing the door, without even thinking that he was breaking into a room full of strangers. He didn’t even look in a mirror. His The hair is disheveled, but he doesn't notice it. He doesn't feel any difference between us and him, and he doesn't think that this table is where he wants to be. He hesitated all the way here. That Who is it? he asked himself, for he knew a little of a woman in an opera cape. He knew a little of everybody; but he knew nobody (I mean him with Percival compare). But now, as soon as he saw us, he greeted us with affability; It was overwhelming; and in the end, if it weren't for Percival, who made it all so ethereal, you'd almost feel it—someone already felt it: This is our festival; we're all together now .But without Percival, there is no reality. We are nothing but shadows moving vaguely in nothingness, empty phantoms."
"The swing doors keep opening and opening," said Rhoda, "and strangers keep coming in, people we'll never meet again. They have an air of indifference that's annoying." brushes past us and makes us feel: the world will go on without us. We will never disappear, we will never forget our faces. Even I, though I have no face, Although walking in has no effect on others (Susan and Jenny have changed people's bodies and faces when they come in), belongs to nothing, has nothing to support, doesn't fit in with anything, can't even make I become a blank, a continuation of nature or a soundless wall as a background for these figures to move on, but I also feel restless. It's all because of Neville and his melancholy The intensity of his melancholy is driving me crazy. Nothing settles; Dare to raise his head, and then he looked at his neighbor inquisitively and said: 'He hasn't come yet.' But he finally came."
"Now," said Neville, "my tree is in bloom. My spirits are lifted. All gloom is gone. All obstacles are swept away. The gloom that hung over us is over. He has brought things back to normal order. The table knives are in use again."
"Here comes Percival," said Jenny, "and he doesn't dress himself up."
"Here comes Percival," said Bernard, "and he smooths his hair, not out of vanity (he doesn't look in the mirror), but out of favor with the God of Respect. He's a man; he's a Hero. The lads used to parade behind him across the field. When he blew his nose, they blew his nose too, but couldn't get it out because he was Percival. Now when he was leaving us for India All these little things come to the fore. He's a hero. Oh, really, there's no denying that. And when he sits down next to his favorite Susan, it all comes together. We These fellows who used to bark like a pack of jackals biting each other, now put on a regular and calm appearance like soldiers in front of their officers. Our group used to go our own way because of our youth (the oldest and the others were not yet twenty-five), who sang their own tunes like impetuous birds, smashing our respective snail shells with the ruthless, savage selfishness of youth until Smash it to pieces (I've been a part of that too), or once perched alone outside a bedroom window, singing about the love, glory, and all that is so precious to a fledgling, fledgling bird Personal experience; and now we're getting closer to each other, and when we sit down in this restaurant, we stick closer to each other because everyone's tastes are different in this restaurant; vehicles The constant flow of pedestrians keeps us distracted, and the glass-paneled doors are always opening and opening, forcing all kinds of temptations on us, which hurt and destroy our self-confidence, so together Sitting here makes us love each other more and trust our endurance to temptation."
"Now let's break free from the shadow of loneliness," Lewis said.
"Now, let's say what's on our minds, straight up and straight up," Neville said. "Gone are the days when we were alone and buried in our studies. The sneaky days when we hid and evaded each other, the days when we spilled secrets on the stairs and alternated between trepidation and ecstasy. Gone forever."
"The old Mrs. Constable lifted the sponge, and the warmth spread through us," said Bernard, "and it was as if we had put on a new and comfortable garment of skin and flesh."
"The boy in the boots is making love to the dish-maid in the garden," said Susan, "under the wind-blown laundry."
"The sound of the wind blowing was like a tiger panting," Rhoda said.
"The man lay black and blue in the gutter, and someone had cut his throat," Neville said, "and when I went up the stairs, I didn't have the strength to lift my foot to kick the unbearable tree. The apple tree, with its silvery leaves standing stiffly."
"That leaf on the hedge trembles, though no one blows on it," said Jenny.
"In that sun-baked corner," Louis said, "many petals are floating in the deep green."
"At Elveton, the gardeners were sweeping and sweeping with their big brooms, and the woman was sitting at the desk writing a letter," Bernard said.
"Now, it's like pulling individual threads out of a tightly wound ball," Lewis said. "We meet here, thinking about the past."
"At that time," said Bernard, "we all pulled our brand new hats down over our eyes as the cab pulled up to the gate, so that no one could see our unmanly tears; and then we Just got into the carriage and drove through the streets; and in the street, even the maids were watching us, and our names were all written in white paint on the boxes, announcing to the world that we were going to school; and in our boxes, it was all The required sets of drawers and socks, on which our mothers pre-embroidered our initials. It was like we were giving birth a second time from our mothers."
"Then it was Miss Lamport, Miss Carting and Miss Budd who ruled everything," Jenny said. "These extraordinary ladies in white ruffs, with stone faces and inscrutable airs, whose amethyst rings, like spotless candles and dim fireflies, dangled in French, geography, and arithmetic textbooks and the map, and the dining table with the green baize, and the rows of shoes on a shelf."
“铃声按时响了，”苏珊说。“姑娘们一边嬉闹，一边咯咯地笑着。椅子在地毡上被不时地拖来拖去。不过在一间阁楼上，可以望见一片蓝色的风景，一片远方的原野，尚未被那种严密控制的、不自然的腐败生活所玷污的景色。”
“笼罩在我们头上的迷雾消散了，”罗达说。“我们紧紧地抓住那些衬着碧绿的叶子、在花环上沙沙摇曳的花朵。”
“我们起了变化，我们变得互相认不出来了，”路易斯说。“暴露在所有这些互不相同的光线底下，我们身上所有的东西，（因为我们也都是那样地互不相同）全都像夹杂在空白空间里的强烈斑点，陆陆续续显露出来，就像一滴酸不规则地滴在一块印版上。我变成了这样，奈维尔变成了那样，罗达则又是另外一种不同的样子，伯纳德也有了变化。”
“之后，一条条小船儿从淡黄色的树枝下面划过，”奈维尔说，“而伯纳德在以他惯有的漫不经心，迎着大片大片的浓绿、迎着成幢成幢的古老坚固的宅第行进的时候，让我身旁的一个土堆给绊倒了。在一阵情感的冲动下——风从未那么猛烈，闪电也从未那么突兀——我抓起我的诗，我把我的诗狠狠地掷在地上，我把门砰的一声在身后甩上。”
“可是我呢，”路易斯说，“当我看不见你们的时候，我就坐在我的办公室里，撕掉一页日历，然后向一班船舶经纪人、粮食零售商和保险统计员们宣告：十号，星期五，或是十八号，星期二的黎明已经在伦敦降临了。”
“那时，”珍妮说，“罗达和我穿着鲜艳夺目的盛装抛头露面，我们脖子上戴着凉爽的项链，上面镶嵌着几颗无价的宝石；我们跟人点头，跟人握手，面含微笑，从盘子里取上一片三明治。”
“老虎在腾跃，燕子在世界另一端墨绿的潭面上点湿自己的翼翅。”罗达说。
“然而，此时此刻我们正呆在一起，”伯纳德说，“我们在一个特定的时刻，团聚在这个特定的地方。我们被一种共同具有的、深沉的感情所吸引，加入了这次圣餐。我们可不可以为了方便起见，把这种感情称为'爱'？我们可不可以把它称为'对珀西瓦尔的爱'？因为珀西瓦尔就要到印度去了。
“不，这个命名太狭隘，太有局限了。我们不能把我们深广的感情拘囿于这么一个渺小的符号上面。我们相聚在一起（从北方，从南方，从苏珊的农庄，从路易斯的公司），是为了做一件事情，这件事情不需要勉强——为什么要勉强呢？——它只需要由许多双眼睛同时看到。在那只花瓶里有一朵粉红的康乃馨。当我们坐在这里等待的时候，它还只是单独的一朵花，而现在它已经成了一朵七边形的、花瓣重叠的、粉红中泛着紫褐的鲜花，挺立在银灰色的叶丛之中。这是一朵完整的花，我们每一双眼睛都为它做出了自己的贡献。”
“经历了青春时代反复无常的冲动和没完没了的苦闷之后，”奈维尔说，“现在光线投射到了真正的目标上。这里有餐刀和餐叉。世界展现出真实的面目，我们也同样如此，所以我们可以畅快地交谈了。”
“我们是互不相同的，这点要解释起来可能会太玄奥了，”路易斯说，“但是让我们来试着解释吧。我走进来时把头发往平地捋了捋，希望看起来能跟你们彼此相像。然而我做不到，因为我不像你们那样单纯和完整。我已经度过了上千个一生。每一天，我都在开掘——都在挖掘。我在沙堆里找到了自己的遗骸，那是数千年之前由尼罗河畔的妇女们堆积起来的沙堆，当时我正在聆听她们唱歌的声音和戴着镣铐的野兽跺脚的声音。你们在你们身旁看到的这个人，这个路易斯，只不过是某种曾经辉煌过的事物的残渣和灰烬。我曾经是一位阿拉伯王子；瞧瞧我豪爽大度的举止吧。我曾经是伊丽莎白时代的一位杰出诗人。我曾经是路易十四宫廷里的一位公爵。我非常虚荣，非常自负；我有一个无尽的欲望，要使所有的女性都同情地叹息。我今天没有吃午饭，目的是让苏珊会觉得我面色苍白，让珍妮能赠给我她那充满同情的细腻的安慰。不过，在羡慕苏珊和珀西瓦尔的同时，我却恨其他人，因为我就是为了他们才做出抚平头发、掩饰口音这些滑稽不堪的举止的。我是一只捧着粒坚果喋喋不休的小猿猴，而你们则是提着塞满变味小面包的亮丽口袋的邋遢女人；同时我是一只关在笼子里的老虎，而你们则是手执烧得通红的铁条的看守。这就是说，我比起你们来要凶猛和有力，可是经过许多年的默默无闻之后才终于显露出来的期望，将会被消磨殆尽，有的只是唯恐被你们嘲笑的担忧，只是为躲开迷眼的风暴而对风向做的探索，以及为写出像钢铁般铿锵悦耳的诗行而做的努力——这些诗行能把海鸥和牙齿残缺的妇人联系起来，能把教堂的尖顶和我在吃午餐时（其时，我正在把我的诗集——可能是卢克莱修斯诗集吧？——竖在调料瓶和溅上肉卤的菜单旁边）看见的那些时隐时现的毡帽联系起来。”
“不过，你是永远不会恨我的，”珍妮说，“即使是在一间处处都是描金坐椅和外交使节的屋子里我们各居一头，如果不是为了寻求我的同情而穿过屋子向我走来，你是永远也不会看见我的。就在刚才我进来的时候，所有的东西都陷入一种凝滞状态。侍者们呆住不动了，正在吃饭的人们举着叉子愣在那里。我现出一副已经预料到要发生什么事情的神态。当我坐下来时，你伸出手摸了摸你的领带，然后又把手藏在桌子下面。但是我什么也不掩藏。我对此早有预料。每一次门被推开，我都会叫到：'又来人了！'不过我所想象的只限于身体。我除了想象我的身体所涉及的范围之内的东西，不能再有任何其他的想象。我的身体是我的前导，就像在一盏灯光的照耀下穿行于一条漆黑的小巷，一样一样的东西都被灯光照耀着走出黑暗进入光圈。我使得你眼花缭乱；我使得你相信这就是一切。”
“可是当你站在门口的时候，”奈维尔说，“你使人发呆，招人赞叹，而这对无拘无束的交往来说是一个巨大的障碍。你一站在门口，就引起我们的注意。但是你们谁也没有看见我的到来。我一早就来了；我没有拐任何弯路就很快地来到了这里，为的是能够坐在我所喜爱的人的旁边。我的生活中有一种你们所缺乏的急速感。我就像一只凭着嗅觉追逐猎物的猎犬。我从黎明直到黄昏一刻不停地追逐。对我来说，无论是在荒漠里追求完美，还是追求名誉或金钱，没有一件事情是有意义的。我一定会得到财富；我一定会得到名誉。但我永远不会得到我所渴望的东西，因为我缺乏躯体上的魅力和与之俱来的勇气。我头脑的敏捷程度远远超过了我的躯体。在尚未达到目的地之前，我的躯体就垮掉了，跌倒在一个潮湿的、甚或令人呕吐的土堆上。在人生的危机时刻，我赢得的是别人的同情，而不是爱。所以我承受着极其可怕的痛苦。不过我并没有像路易斯那样遭受使自己丢人现眼的痛苦。我非常实事求是，绝不会允许自己去搞这些欺骗人的小把戏。这是我的可取之处。就是它使得我的痛苦具有了永无止境的激奋的特点。就是它使得我即便处于沉默状态也能支配别人。而且，由于我在某些方面有点自欺欺人，由于一个人总是在不停地发生变化，尽管这不是你的愿望，并且在早上时我根本无法预料晚上会跟谁坐在一起，所以我绝不会固步自封，裹足不前；我会从最糟糕的处境中挺起身来，我会转变方向，寻求变化。一粒粒卵石会从我全身铠甲似的皮肉上、从我舒展开的躯体上反弹出去。在这样孜孜探求的过程中，我将逐渐衰老。”
“要是我能够相信，”罗达说，“我将在孜孜探求和变化的过程中逐渐衰老，我就可以摆脱我因为没有任何事物会永久存在而产生的恐惧了。此一时刻不会导向下一时刻。门打开了，老虎跳跃起来了。你们没有瞧见我到来。为了避免那一跳引起的恐惧，我是绕过椅子走过来的。我害怕你们所有的人。我害怕那跳到我身上来的感情的震荡，因为我没法像你们那样应付它——我做不到将这一时刻融入下一时刻。对我来说，它们都是激烈的，相互独立的；而如果我在此一时刻跳跃的震荡中惊倒了，你们就会扑到我身上，将我撕成碎片。我没有考虑过任何目标。我不知道该怎样从这个时刻走向下一时刻，从这个钟头走向下一个钟头，任凭某种自然的力量去解决它们，直到它们变成一个整体，一个不可分割的总体，也就是你们所谓的生活。因为你们全都拥有一个目标——一个要坐在他身旁的人，对吗？一个观念，对吗？你的美，对吗？我弄不清楚——你们度过每一天、每一小时，就像一只追逐猎物的猎犬跑过森林中的一根根树干和林中的一片片绿茵。但是对我来说，根本存在一个猎物或躯体可以让我追踪。而且我没有面孔。我就像那涌上海滩的泡沫，就像那月光，笔直地时而洒落在罐头盒上，时而洒落在披着铠甲似的海冬青的尖利枝叶上，或者洒落在一块骸骨上——一条即将被腐蚀完的船骸上。我被风卷入各种各样的大洞穴，并且像一片纸屑一样翻飞在没有尽头的长廊里，我只有用手撑住墙壁，才能从里面挣脱出来。
“但是由于我非常渴望每一种事物都有它的立足之地，所以每当我跟在珍妮和苏珊后面、慢吞吞地上楼梯的时候，我就会假装出拥有一个目标的样子。当我看见她们穿上袜子的时候，我就也跟着穿上我的袜子。我等着你先说话，然后再学着你的样子去说。我被吸引着穿过整个伦敦，来到一个特殊的地点，一个特定的场所，不是为了来看你，你，或者是你，而是想点燃我自己的火焰，在你们这些过着完整的、不可分割的、无忧无虑生活的人们的共同火焰上，点燃我的火焰。”
“今夜，当我走进这间屋子的时候，”苏珊说，“我停了停。我就像一只眼睛贴近地面的野兽一样向四周凝望。地毯、家具、香水的气味使我作呕。我喜欢独自穿行于润湿的田野，或是驻足于某个门口，用我那塞特种猎狗似的鼻子警惕地望着四周，并且疑惑：野兔在哪儿呢？我喜欢跟这样的一些人在一起：他们和我父亲一样，手里拈着药草，朝火堆里吐着痰，穿着拖鞋慢条斯理地沿着长长的小径行走。我唯一能够听懂的话语就是爱怜、憎恨、愤怒和痛苦的大喊大叫。这样的说话方式，简直就像从一个老妇身上解除那已经成为她身体一部分的衣服；但是此刻，当我们谈话的时候，她已经在衣服底下羞红了全身，并且只有皱巴巴的大腿和松垮垮的乳房。而当你们沉静不语的时候，你们就又显得美丽起来。我所拥有的只有自然而然的乐趣。它就差不多使我心满意足了。我疲倦的时候就上床睡觉。我躺在那里，就像一片周而复始地生长着各种农作物的田野；夏天，热浪将绕着我的身体舞蹈；冬天，我会冻得皮肤皲裂。但是热浪和寒冷将会不管我愿意与否而自然地交替。我的孩子将会延续我的生命；他们会长牙、啼哭、上学和回家，就像大海在我体内波荡起伏一样。没有一天会没有海浪的翻腾。与你们当中的任何一个人相比，我都会被更高地举向每一个季节的高峰。等到我要死的时候，我将会比珍妮、罗达拥有多得多的东西。不过，在另一方面，对其他人的思想和欢笑，你们会表现出各式各样的态度，并无数次地做出千娇百媚的姿态，我却只会闷闷不乐，怒形于色，搞得满面绛紫。我会被残酷而又美好的母性的热情搞得只剩皮包骨头，惨不忍睹。我会不择手段地设法提高我的孩子们的社会地位。我会仇恨那些看出我的孩子身上的缺陷的人们。我会卑鄙无耻地撒谎以庇护我的孩子。我会依靠他们作为屏障来远离你，你，还有你。而同时，我又得遭受嫉妒的折磨。我恨珍妮，因为她使我看到我的手掌红赤赤的，我的指甲被啃得参差不齐。我的爱是极度狂热的，所以当我至爱的对象被人用他不该听到的言词来品评时，我会痛苦得死去活来。他逃开了那些言词，我则被留下来，拼命想抓住一根在树梢上的叶丛里滑进滑出的丝线。我理解不了那些言辞的含义。”
“假如我生来就不懂得一个词的后面总会跟来另一个词的话，”伯纳德说，“那么，谁知道呢，我也许早已成了随便什么东西了。所以事实是，为了无论在什么事情上都能找到它们之间的前后秩序，我承受不了孤身独处的重负。只要我看不见辞藻像烟圈似的在我四周缭绕，我就像是陷身于黑暗之中——变得什么也不是了。当我一个人的时候，我就会陷入没精打采的状态，一边捅着炉栅里的炉灰，一边郁郁寡欢地对自己说，莫法特夫人就要来了。她就要来了，来把这些炉渣打扫干净。路易斯独自一人的时候，他会想得令人吃惊地深刻，而且会写下一些也许比我们大伙存在得更为长久的词句。罗达喜欢一个人独处。她害怕我们，因为我们会破坏她孤身独处中才有的那种强烈的存在感——瞧她把餐叉抓得多紧——那是她用来对抗我们的武器。可是我，只有那个管道工、或是那个马贩子、或者随便什么人说上几句话，让我兴奋起来，我才会感到自己存在着。那时，我的词句所形成的袅袅烟圈升腾降落，飘扬凝聚，缭绕在鲜红的龙虾、黄澄澄的水果上面，把它们装饰成为一个美丽的形象。可是要看到，言词是多么的轻浮——它全是由形形色色的遁词和陈腐不堪的谎言构成的。所以我的性格中有一部分是由别人提供的刺激构成的，它不像你们，并不完全属于我自己。这就像银子上有一些要命的瑕疵，一些毫无规则、难以捉摸的纹痕，从而降低了它的成色。正是因为这个，在学校的时候常常发生使奈维尔恼火的事情，也就是我撇下他而去。我曾经跟那些戴着小制帽和像章、喜欢吹牛皮的小子们一起，坐着四轮大马车——今天晚上，他们当中也有几个穿得整整齐齐地在这里聚餐，随后他们就要默契地到音乐大厅里去了；我真的喜欢他们。因为和你们一样，他们也总是让我感到自己的存在。而且也正是为此，当我离开你们，当火车开走的时候，你们会觉得走掉的不是火车，而是我——伯纳德，他满不在乎，他无动于衷，他没有车票，而且兴许连钱包也搞丢了。苏珊两眼凝视着在山毛榉树的叶丛里滑进滑出的那根丝线，叫喊起来：'他走啦！他从我身边逃走啦！'因为她什么也抓不住。我总是处在被连续不断地制造和再制造的过程中。互不相同的人们都能从我这儿引出互不相同的词句。
“因此，今天晚上我渴望能与之坐在一起的不是某一个人，而是五十个人。但是在诸位中间唯有我在这里表现得无拘无束而又没有太放肆随便。我并不粗俗；我也不是势利小人。即使我面对社会的重压，我也常常可以凭借灵巧的舌头，使一些别扭费解的事情传播开来。瞧瞧我那些小巧的玩意儿吧，转眼之间就能无中生有地编织出来，它们真使人愉快啊。我不是什么奇货囤积者——当我死的时候，我会只留下一柜子旧衣服——而且我也基本上对那些在生活中给路易斯招来那么多烦恼的小小虚名丝毫不感兴趣。不过我做出的牺牲很多。像我这样浑身散布着钢铁、银子和普通泥土的斑驳纹理的人，是不可能被那些无须外在刺激就能握紧拳头的人紧紧地捏在手中的。我没法做到路易斯和罗达那样的自我克制和英雄主义。我永远也造不出一个完美的语句来，即便是在正儿八经的谈话中也造不出。但是对于转瞬即逝的某一瞬间，我却可以比你们中的任何一位献出更多；我会比你们中的任何一位走进更多的房间，更多的互不相同的房间。可是由于我身上有一些东西不是从内部发生的，而是来自于外部，所以我将会被人们遗忘；我的声音一消失，你们就再也不会记得我了，不然，那也只能是偶尔将我当作某个曾经把水果编织成漂亮辞藻的声音的回声而回想起来。”
“瞧啊，”罗达说，“听我说。瞧啊，光线正在分分秒秒愈变愈强烈，到处可见繁花盛开、果实成熟；而我们的目光，当它们环视这间屋子和所有的桌子时，仿佛穿透了那些彩色的窗帘——鲜红的、橙黄的、红棕的以及其他古里古怪的中间色调，那些窗帘犹如帏幔一样，缓缓张开又随后闭合，恰似一样东西融入了另一样东西。”
“是的，”珍妮说，“我们的感官已经扩展了。那些原来苍白脆弱的神经网络和薄膜涨大并且扩延开来，它们就像纤细的丝线满布我们的全身，它们使空气变得可以触摸，使以前听不到的遥远的声音也全都被捕捉进去。”
“伦敦的喧嚣声，”路易斯说，“包围着我们。机动车、运货车、公共汽车来来往往，络绎不绝。一切全都淹没在一种犹如转动的车轮似的单调声音里。所有独成一类的声音——车轮声，铃声，醉汉、寻欢作乐者的叫喊声——全都搅腾在一起，成为一种散发着钢蓝色泽、循环往复的喧闹。这时汽笛长鸣一声。于是海岸渐渐远去，烟囱逐渐隐没，轮船驶向辽阔的大海。”
“珀西瓦尔走了，”奈维尔说。“我们坐在这里，被人群包围着，被灯光照耀着，显得五光十色；所有的东西——手，窗帘，餐刀餐叉，正在用餐的其他人——混合成了一片。我们被围困在这里。而印度却在外面的世界里。”
“我看见了印度。”伯纳德说，“我看见那低平的、长长的海岸；我看见一些被践踏得满街泥泞的弯弯曲曲的小街，在摇摇欲坠的宝塔之间拐进拐出；我看见一些雉堞状的金光闪闪的屋顶，一派脆弱而衰颓的气象，仿佛它们只是在一个东方博览会上匆匆搭建起来的临时建筑。我看见一对阉牛正拉着一辆低矮的大车，沿着烈日炙烤的大路走去。那辆快要散架的大车东倒西歪，摇摇晃晃。这时有个轮子陷在了辙沟里，马上就有数不清的缠着腰布的土著围拢上来。他们起劲地喋喋不休，但却什么也不做。时间仿佛永无止境，雄心勃勃则总是虚幻一场。一种人类的所有努力全属徒劳的感觉笼罩着一切。弥散着怪里怪气的酸臭味儿。一个老人站在一条水沟里，一边不停地嚼着槟榔，一边凝神静气，意守丹田。但是现在，瞧，珀西瓦尔过来了；珀西瓦尔骑着一匹叮满跳蚤的牝马，戴着一顶太阳帽。经过实施西方的行为规范，经过运用他所习以为常的粗暴语言，那辆阉牛拉的大车在不到五分钟的时间里就搞定了。有关东方的难题解决了。他骑着马继续上路；人群包围着他，把他看作——他其实就是——一个神。”
“他是不可捉摸的，无论他身上有或没有神秘莫测之处，”罗达说，“这都无关紧要。他就像一块投入池塘的石头，总被成群的小鱼围绕。跟这些小鱼一样，我们平时东跑西跑，但只要他一来，我们就会全都跑过去围着他团团转。跟这些小鱼一样，只要发现前面出现一块大石头，我们就会心满意足地波动，回旋。舒适的感觉悄悄漫过我们的身体。金色的亮光射进我们的血液。一下，两下；一下，两下；心脏在宁静、自信的状态中跳动，在一种感觉良好的忘我境界中跳动，在慈祥宽厚的喜悦心情中跳动；而且你们瞧——所有外部的世界——遥远地平线上的朦胧影像，例如印度，全部闯进了我们的视野。一度萎缩的世界又自动舒展开来；遥远的外省从黑暗中重又浮现出来；我们仿佛在我们的视野之内，在我们引以为自豪的、美丽富饶的外省的一角，看见泥泞的道路、混杂缠绕的荆丛、成堆成堆的人群以及啄食腐烂尸骸的秃鹫；这都是因为珀西瓦尔骑着一匹爬满跳蚤的牝马，沿着一条僻静的小路踽踽而行，在荒凉的树下扎下营帐，孤身一人坐在那里，眺望巍峨连绵的群山的缘故。”
“正是珀西瓦尔，”路易斯说，“正是那个在微风吹拂下分散又聚合的云彩底下，坐在刺得人发痒的草丛里，只管静悄悄地坐着的珀西瓦尔，使得我们感到，当我们像一个肉体和灵魂之间相互分离的构成部分一样重又汇聚在一起时，我们所做的那些试图说出'我是这个，我是那个'的努力，是多么的荒谬。因为恐惧，有些东西没有被考虑到。因为虚荣，有些东西遭到了篡改。我们曾经竭力强调差异。因为渴望显示各自的独立性，我们曾经有意地突出我们各自的缺点和各自身上独特的地方。但是总有一根链条在我们的脚下绕着一个钢蓝色的圆圈不停地旋转，旋转。”
“那是恨，也是爱，”苏珊说。“那就是那条只要我们向下一望，就会觉得头晕目眩的黑不见底的汹涌激流。我们这会儿站在一块岩礁上，可是只要我们朝下一望，马上就眼花缭乱，站立不稳。”
“那是爱，也是恨，”珍妮说，“就像因为有一次我在花园里亲吻了路易斯，苏珊对我的感觉一样；因为我是这样的装扮一新，当我走进来时，就让她觉得'我的手红赤赤的'，并且赶紧把手掩藏起来。然而，我们相互之间的怨恨跟我们相互之间的爱，却几乎是不可区分的。”
“但是这些喧嚣的激流，”奈维尔说，“在上面我们架起了属于我们各自的摇摇晃晃的立足平台，这些喧嚣的激流比起我们站起身来想要说话时发出的那些声嘶力竭、自相矛盾的叫喊都要显得平稳许多；当我们据理争辩，叫嚷着抛出这些荒谬的话语——'我就是这个；我就是那个！'——的时候，言说本身就是荒谬的。
“然而我吃东西。当我吃东西的时候，我就逐渐忘记了我究竟有什么独特的地方。我渐渐地变得被食物所压倒。这些美味的、大口大口的烤鸭，配着各式各样适宜的蔬菜，络绎不绝地散发着暖和、瓷实、甘甜、辛辣的美妙滋味，经过我的嘴巴，咽入我的喉咙，装进我的肚腹，使我浑身上下舒适安逸。我感到平静，庄重，克制。现在，一切都显得牢靠实在。现在，我的嘴巴本能地渴求并且预先享受着某种甜丝丝的、清淡可口的东西，某种加了糖的、细嫩柔软的东西；还有清凉的酒，如同葡萄叶一般的碧绿、麝香一般的芬芳、葡萄一般的紫红，特别适宜慰抚我的上颚里震颤的敏感神经，当我啜饮它的时候，它会使我的嘴巴大大地张开，变得就像一个有拱顶的山洞。现在，我可以镇定自若地望着在我脚底下泡沫四溅的湍急水流了。我们该用一个什么样的特殊名称来称呼它？让罗达来讲吧，我看见她的脸正影影绰绰地显现在对面的镜子里；有一次，当她正在摇晃一个棕色面盆里的花瓣时，我打断了她，问她寻找伯纳德偷走的小刀子。对她来说，爱绝不是什么漩涡。她往下看的时候从来也不觉得晕眩。她的目光远远地越过了我们的肩头，望向印度之外的远方。”
“是的，从你们肩与肩之间空隙，越过你们的头顶，”罗达说，“我望见一处景色，一处低谷，那里皱襞层叠的山崖呈合拢之势，就像飞鸟合拢它们的翅膀。那里，在长着矮短而挺直的蒿草的草地上，到处都是叶色暗淡的灌木丛；在这暗淡的背景上，我看见一个人影，白色的，但绝非石头像，它在移动，可能是个活人。不过它不是你，不是你，也不是你；不是珀西瓦尔、苏珊、珍妮、奈维尔或路易斯。当那白晃晃的手臂支在膝盖上时，它就像一个三角形；当它站直的时候——则是一根柱子；现在，则像一股洒落泉水的喷泉。它不做任何手势，也不打任何招呼，他根本就没有看见我们。在它的身后，大海在咆哮。它是我们所无法企及的。但是我却冒险到过那里。我到那里去充实过我的空虚，延长过我的黑夜，使它们尽可能地充满各式各样的梦境。而且即使是在此时此地，转眼之间我就可以抵达我的目标跟前，告诉它：'别再游荡了。一切别的东西全都是考验和伪装。这里就是目的地啊。'不过这类远游，这类出发的时刻，总是趁你们都在场的时候开始的，从这张桌子旁边，从这些灯光下面，从珀西瓦尔和苏珊身旁，于此时此刻开始的。所以，越过你们的头顶，穿过你们的肩与肩之间的空隙，或者当我在舞会上穿过房间，站在一扇窗户前面望向外面的大街时，我总是看见那片小树林。”
“但是他的鞋子的声音呢？”奈维尔说，“他在楼下大厅里说话的声音呢？还有别人在他对谁也不看一眼的时候看见他呢？有人在等候，他却一直不来。时间已经越来越晚。他忘记了。他正在跟别的人在一起。他不守信用，他的爱情毫无价值。哦，所以才有极度的痛苦——所以才有难以忍受的绝望啊！而这时门开了。他来了。”
“我用非常甜美的声音对他说，'快来呀'，”珍妮说，“于是他就过来了；他穿过房间朝我坐着的地方走了过来，我坐在一把描金的椅子上，我的礼服像飘浮的轻纱包裹着我的身体。我们轻轻地触了触对方的手，我们的身体仿佛燃起了一团烈火。座椅、杯子、桌子——没有一样东西不是光彩熠熠的。所有的东西都在颤抖，所有的东西都像燃起了烈火，所有的东西都被照得光亮闪烁。”
（“瞧，罗达，”路易斯说，“他们变成了夜猫子，显得那么欣喜若狂。他们的眼睛闪闪地眨动，就像快速扇动的飞蛾翼翅，看上去仿佛从来就没有眨动过似的。”
“号角和喇叭的声音响起来了，”罗达说，“叶丛分开了；牝鹿在灌木丛中高声鸣叫。有人在跳舞和敲鼓，就像一些赤身露体的野人手持标枪在舞蹈和敲鼓。”
“就像一些野人在围着篝火舞蹈，”路易斯说，“他们是野性未驯的；他们是残酷无情的。他们围成一圈，一边舞蹈一边拍打肚皮。火焰腾起，照亮他们涂抹得五颜六色的脸孔，照亮豹子皮，以及他们从活着的动物身上撕下来的血淋淋的肢体。”
“节日的焰火越来越高涨，”罗达说，“盛大的游行队伍经过的时候，向四周抛洒着嫩绿的树桠和鲜艳的花枝。他们的号角喷射着蓝烟；他们的皮肤在火把的照耀下呈现出红黄相间的斑纹。他们抛撒着紫罗兰。他们为心爱的人戴上花环和桂冠，就在那片有皱襞层叠的峭壁俯瞰的圆形草地上。游行的队伍走过了。当他们走过时，路易斯，我们感到了气氛的冷落，我们抵制着气氛的衰颓。影子渐渐斜去。我们心心相印地一起撤退下来，斜倚在一个冰凉的坟墓上，望着紫红的焰火逐渐垂落下去。”
“死亡是和那些紫罗兰编织在一起的，”路易斯说，“死亡，然后还是死亡。”）
“我们是多么自豪地坐在这里呀，”珍妮说，“我们这些人还不满二十五岁呢！外面一些树上鲜花盛开；外面一些女人游来荡去；外面一些马车急促转弯，匆匆驶过。经过青春时代的种种摸索，种种迷蒙和困惑，我们正视着前方，已经准备好随时面对可能发生的事情（门开了，门一直在开了又开）。一切都是真实的；一切都是确定无疑的，不存在任何幻影或错觉。美呈现在我们的眉梢上。我有我的美，苏珊有苏珊的美。我们的肌肤既坚实又镇静。我们之间的差异就像骄阳照耀下的岩石的阴影一样轮廓分明。我们身边摆放着新鲜的面包卷，又黄又瓷实；罩桌子的布是雪白的；我们微屈着手掌，随时准备握紧。数不清的时日将要来临；冬天的时日，夏天的时日；我们几乎还没有触动过我们的宝藏。现在果实在叶子底下长得饱满成熟了。房间里金碧辉煌，我对他说，'快过来'。”
“他长着一对红通通的耳朵，”路易斯说，“当那些城市里的小职员在午餐馆里吃快餐的时候，肉味儿就像一张湿腻腻的罗网笼罩在四周。”
“既然在我们前面有无限的时间，”奈维尔说，“我们就得问问自己该做些什么？我们是否会沿着证券大街逛来逛去，这儿瞧瞧那儿望望，而且兴许还会买一支自来水笔，就因为它是绿颜色的，或者询问一下一枚镶着蓝宝石的戒指值多少钱？抑或我们是否会坐在房间里，注视着炉中的煤块烧成绯红的火焰？我们是否会伸手取一本书，读读这一页，读读那一页？我们会无缘无故地又嚷又笑吗？我们是否会踏入繁花盛开的草地，采摘一些雏菊，编成花环？我们是否会去查询什么时间会有开往赫布里狄群岛的最近的一班列车，并且设法去预定一节车厢？所有这一切都可能成为现实。”
“对你来说是这样，”伯纳德说，“但是昨天我走路的时候却砰地撞在一个邮筒上。昨天我订婚了。”
“搁在我们餐盘旁边的这一小堆砂糖，”苏珊说，“看上去多么奇怪呀。还有这些色彩斑驳的梨子皮，以及这些镜子边上的丝绒镶边。以前，我从未注意过它们。所有的东西现在都是稳固不变的；所有的东西都是确定不移的。伯纳德订婚了。某种不可挽回的事情已经发生了。一个圆圈已经投在了水面上；一条锁链已经被加上。我们再也不能随心所欲地漂流了。”
“这只是暂时的事情，”路易斯说，“在链子迸断之前，在混乱恢复之前，人们会看到我们被束缚住，被展示出来，被老虎钳夹住。
“然而现在那个圆圈破碎了。现在水流动起来了。现在我们比以前冲闯得更为迅速了。那些在心底丛生的阴暗杂草的深处潜伏等待的种种欲念，现在冒了出来，将我们淹没在它们翻腾的浪波里。痛苦和嫉妒，羡慕和欲望，还有某种比它们更为深沉，比爱更为强大、更为隐秘的东西。行动的声音响了起来。听，罗达（因为我们是心心相印的，我们的手贴在冰凉的坟头上），听那要求行动的凌乱、急促、亢奋的声音，听那猎犬追逐猎物般的声音。他们现在急不择言地讲着话，甚至顾不上话是否说完整了。他们像情侣们一样用一种喁喁细语相互交谈。一种傲慢专横的兽性辖制住他们。他们股腿上的神经亢奋地颤动。他们的心脏在肋腹下面跳跃、翻腾。苏珊拧着她的小手帕。珍妮的眸子里跳跃着火焰。”
“别人的指指点点和挑剔的眼神，”罗达说，“对她们不会产生任何影响。她们转过身来，瞥视一眼，显得多么从容自如；她们摆出的架势，显得多么能干和自豪！珍妮的眸子里闪烁着多么充沛的生命力；苏珊搜寻草根里的虫子时，目光是多么锐利，多么纯粹！她们的头发闪烁着光泽。她们的眼睛就像冲进叶丛追逐猎物的野兽的眼睛，熠熠闪光。圈子不复存在了。我们已是各奔东西。”
“但是这种狂妄自大的得意很快就消失了，”伯纳德说，“简直是太快了。对个性贪得无厌地进行追求的时刻很快就会结束，对幸福、幸福以及更多幸福的贪求也已得到满足。石头沉了下去；那样的时刻已经结束。在我的四周展现出一片广阔、冷漠的世界。现在我的眼睛里仿佛张开了无数双充满好奇的眼睛。现在任何人都可以杀死伯纳德，这个已经订了婚的人，只要他们还未曾接触过这片未知领域的边缘，这片未知世界的丛林。为什么，我自问（小心谨慎地低语），那边的那些女人光她们自己在一起吃饭？她们是什么人？是什么原因致使她们在这个特殊的晚上聚集到这个特殊的地方来了？屋角的那个年轻人，从他一次又一次伸手摸后脑勺的那种局促不安的姿态判断，一定是从乡下来的。他有求于人，所以是那么急切地想得体应酬他的东道主——他父亲的朋友——的热心款待，以致此刻，他对明天上午十一点半左右就会尽情享受到的乐趣，简直一点也感受不到。我还看到那位女士在一场全神贯注的谈话中间，往她的鼻子上扑了三次粉；她们也许是在谈论爱情，也许是在谈论她们某个亲密好友的不幸。'哦，我的鼻子现在会是一副什么样子啊！'她想，接着，就拿出她的粉扑；在扑粉的过程中，也就把刚才关于人心不古的强烈感慨全部擦抹而去了。然而，一些无法解释的疑团依然存在：那个戴眼镜的孤单的男人是谁？那个独自喝着香槟的上了岁数的太太是谁？这些素不相识的人都是谁，都是干什么的？我自问。我可以根据他或她所说的话，编出成打成打的故事，我可以看到成打成打的画面。然而故事是什么？是我绞来绞去的玩具，是我吹起来的一些气泡，是一个圆圈穿过另一个圆圈。而且有时候我甚至怀疑是否有所