Trotting1 through Deans Yard that afternoon, Prickett Ellis ran straight into Richard Dalloway, or rather, just as they were passing, the covert2 side glance which each was casting on the other, under his hat, over his shoulder, broadened and burst into recognition; they had not met for twenty years. They had been at school together. And what was Ellis doing? The Bar? Of course, of course — he had followed the case in the papers. But it was impossible to talk here. Wouldn’t he drop in that evening. (They lived in the same old place — just round the corner). One or two people were coming. Joynson perhaps. “An awful swell3 now,” said Richard.
“Good — till this evening then,” said Richard, and went his way, “jolly glad” (that was quite true) to have met that queer chap, who hadn’t changed one bit since he had been at school — just the same knobbly, chubby4 little boy then, with prejudices sticking out all over him, but uncommonly5 brilliant — won the Newcastle. Well — off he went.
Prickett Ellis, however, as he turned and looked at Dalloway disappearing, wished now he had not met him or, at least, for he had always liked him personally, hadn’t promised to come to this party. Dalloway was married, gave parties; wasn’t his sort at all. He would have to dress. However, as the evening drew on, he supposed, as he had said that, and didn’t want to be rude, he must go there.
But what an appalling6 entertainment! There was Joynson; they had nothing to say to each other. He had been a pompous7 little boy; he had grown rather more self-important — that was all; there wasn’t a single other soul in the room that Prickett Ellis knew. Not one. So, as he could not go at once, without saying a word to Dalloway, who seemed altogether taken up with his duties, bustling8 about in a white waistcoat, there he had to stand. It was the sort of thing that made his gorge9 rise. Think of grown up, responsible men and women doing this every night of their lives! The lines deepened on his blue and red shaven cheeks as he leant against the wall in complete silence, for though he worked like a horse, he kept himself fit by exercise; and he looked hard and fierce, as if his moustaches were dipped in frost. He bristled10; he grated. His meagre dress clothes made him look unkempt, insignificant11, angular.
Idle, chattering13, overdressed, without an idea in their heads, these fine ladies and gentlemen went on talking and laughing; and Prickett Ellis watched them and compared them with the Brunners who, when they won their case against Fenners’ Brewery14 and got two hundred pounds compensation (it was not half what they should have got) went and spent five of it on a clock for him. That was a decent sort of thing to do; that was the sort of thing that moved one, and he glared more severely15 than ever at these people, overdressed, cynical16, prosperous, and compared what he felt now with what he felt at eleven o’clock that morning when old Brunner and Mrs. Brunner, in their best clothes, awfully17 respectable and clean looking old people, had called in to give him that small token, as the old man put it, standing18 perfectly19 upright to make his speech, of gratitude20 and respect for the very able way in which you conducted our case, and Mrs. Brunner piped up, how it was all due to him they felt. And they deeply appreciated his generosity21 — because, of course, he hadn’t taken a fee.
And as he took the clock and put it on the middle of his mantelpiece, he had felt that he wished nobody to see his face. That was what he worked for — that was his reward; and he looked at the people who were actually before his eyes as if they danced over that scene in his chambers22 and were exposed by it, and as it faded — the Brunners faded — there remained as if left of that scene, himself, confronting this hostile population, a perfectly plain, unsophisticated man, a man of the people (he straightened himself) very badly dressed, glaring, with not an air or a grace about him, a man who was an ill hand at concealing23 his feelings, a plain man, an ordinary human being, pitted against the evil, the corruption24, the heartlessness of society. But he would not go on staring. Now he put on his spectacles and examined the pictures. He read the titles on a line of books; for the most part poetry. He would have liked well enough to read some of his old favourites again — Shakespeare, Dickens — he wished he ever had time to turn into the National Gallery, but he couldn’t — no, one could not. Really one could not — with the world in the state it was in. Not when people all day long wanted your help, fairly clamoured for help. This wasn’t an age for luxuries. And he looked at the arm chairs and the paper knives and the well bound books, and shook his head, knowing that he would never have the time, never he was glad to think have the heart, to afford himself such luxuries. The people here would be shocked if they knew what he paid for his tobacco; how he had borrowed his clothes. His one and only extravagance was his little yacht on the Norfolk Broads. And that he did allow himself, He did like once a year to get right away from everybody and lie on his back in a field. He thought how shocked they would bethese fine folk — if they realized the amount of pleasure he got from what he was. old fashioned enough to call the love of nature; trees and fields he had known ever since he was a boy.
These fine people would be shocked. Indeed, standing there, putting his spectacles away in his pocket, he felt himself grow more and more shocking every instant. And it was a very disagreeable feeling. He did not feel this — that he loved humanity, that he paid only fivepence an ounce for tobacco and loved nature — naturally and quietly. Each of these pleasures had been turned into a protest. He felt that these people whom he despised made him stand and deliver and justify25 himself. “I am an ordinary man,” he kept saying. And what he said next he was really ashamed of saying, but he said it. “I have done more for my kind in one day than the rest of you in all your lives.” Indeed, he could not help himself; he kept recalling scene after scene, like that when the Brunners gave him the clockhe kept reminding himself of the nice things people had said of his humanity, of his generosity, how he had helped them. He kept seeing himself as the wise and tolerant servant of humanity. And he wished he could repeat his praises aloud. It was unpleasant that the sense of his goodness should boil within him. It was still more unpleasant that he could tell no one what people had said about him. Thank the Lord, he kept saying, I shall be back at work to-morrow; and yet he was no longer satisfied simply to slip through the door and go home. He must stay, he must stay until he had justified26 himself. But how could he? In all that room full of people, he did not know a soul to speak to.
At last Richard Dalloway came up.
“I want to introduce Miss O’Keefe,” he said. Miss O’Keefe looked him full in the eyes. She was a rather arrogant27, abrupt28 mannered woman in the thirties.
Miss O’Keefe wanted an ice or something to drink. And the reason why she asked Prickett Ellis to give it her in what he felt a haughty29, unjustifiable manner, was that she had seen a woman and two children, very poor, very tired, pressing against the railings of a square, peering in, that hot afternoon. Can’t they be let in? she had thought, her pity rising like a wave; her indignation boiling. No; she rebuked30 herself the next moment, roughly, as if she boxed her own ears. The whole force of the world can’t do it. So she picked up the tennis ball and hurled31 it back. The whole force of the world can’t do it, she said in a fury, and that was why she said so commandingly, to the unknown man:
“Give me an ice.”
Long before she had eaten it, Prickett Ellis, standing beside her without taking anything, told her that he had not been to a party for fifteen years; told her that his dress suit was lent him by his brother-in-law; told her that he did not like this sort of thing, and it would have eased him greatly to go on to say that he was a plain man, who happened to have a liking32 for ordinary people, and then would have told her (and been ashamed of it afterwards) about the Brunners and the clock, but she said:
“Have you seen the Tempest?”
then (for he had not seen the Tempest), had he read some book? Again no, and then, putting her ice down, did he never read poetry?
And Prickett Ellis feeling something rise within him which would decapitate this young woman, make a victim of her, massacre33 her, made her sit down there, where they would not be interrupted, on two chairs, in the empty garden, for everyone was upstairs, only you could hear a buzz and a hum and a chatter12 and a jingle34, like the mad accompaniment of some phantom35 orchestra to a cat or two slinking across the grass, and the wavering of leaves, and the yellow and red fruit like Chinese lanterns wobbling this way and that — the talk seemed like a frantic36 skeleton dance music set to something very real, and full of suffering.
“How beautiful!” said Miss O’Keefe.
Oh, it was beautiful, this little patch of grass, with the towers of Westminster massed round it black, high in the air, after the drawing-room; it was silent, after that noise. After all, they had that — the tired woman, the children.
Prickett Ellis lit a pipe. That would shock her; he filled it with shag tobacco — fivepence halfpenny an ounce. He thought how he would lie in his boat smoking, he could see himself, alone, at night, smoking under the stars. For always to-night he kept thinking how he would look if these people here were to see him. He said to Miss O’Keefe, striking a match on the sole of his boot, that he couldn’t see anything particularly beautiful out here.
“Perhaps,” said Miss O’Keefe, “you don’t care for beauty.” (He had told her that he had not seen the Tempest; that he had not read a book; he looked ill-kempt, all moustache, chin, and silver watch chain.) She thought nobody need pay a penny for this; the Museums are free and the National Gallery; and the country. Of course she knew the objections — the washing, cooking, children; but the root of things, what they were all afraid of saying, was that happiness is dirt cheap. You can have it for nothing. Beauty.
Then Prickett Ellis let her have it — this pale, abrupt, arrogant woman. He told her, puffing37 his shag tobacco, what he had done that day. Up at six; interviews; smelling a drain in a filthy38 slum; then to court.
Here he hesitated, wishing to tell her something of his own doings. Suppressing that, he was all the more caustic39. He said it made him sick to hear well fed, well dressed women (she twitched40 her lips, for she was thin, and her dress not up to standard) talk of beauty.
“Beauty!” he said. He was afraid he did not understand beauty apart from human beings.
So they glared into the empty garden where the lights were swaying, and one cat hesitating in the middle, its paw lifted.
Beauty apart from human beings? What did he mean by that? she demanded suddenly.
Well this: getting more and more wrought41 up, he told her the story of the Brunners and the clock, not concealing his pride in it. That was beautiful, he said.
She had no words to specify42 the horror his story roused in her. First his conceit43; then his indecency in talking about human feelings; it was a blasphemy44; no one in the whole world ought to tell a story to prove that they had loved their kind. Yet as he told it — how the old man had stood up and made his speech — tears came into her eyes; ah, if any one had ever said that to her! but then again, she felt how it was just this that condemned45 humanity for ever; never would they reach beyond affecting scenes with clocks; Brunners making speeches to Prickett Ellises, and the Prickett Ellises would always say how they had loved their kind; they would always be lazy, compromising, and afraid of beauty. Hence sprang revolutions; from laziness and fear and this love of affecting scenes. Still this man got pleasure from his Brunners; and she was condemned to suffer for ever and ever from her poor poor women shut out from squares. So they sat silent. Both were very unhappy. For Prickett Ellis was not in the least solaced46 by what he had said; instead of picking her thorn out he had rubbed it in; his happiness of the morning had been ruined. Miss O’Keefe was muddled47 and annoyed; she was muddy instead of clear.
“I am afraid I am one of those very ordinary people,” he said, getting up, “who love their kind.”
Upon which Miss O’Keefe almost shouted: “So do L”
Hating each other, hating the whole houseful of people who had given them this painful, this disillusioning48 evening, these two lovers of their kind got up, and without a word, parted for ever.
收听单词发音 |
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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brewery
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| n.啤酒厂 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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specify
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| vt.指定，详细说明 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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45
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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solaced
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| v.安慰，慰藉( solace的过去分词 ) | |
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muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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48
disillusioning
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| 使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭( disillusion的现在分词 ) | |
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