Mrs. Dalloway introduced them, saying you will like him. The conversation began some minutes before anything was said, for both Mr. Serle and Miss Arming looked at the sky and in both of their minds the sky went on pouring its meaning though very differently, until the presence of Mr. Serle by her side became so distinct to Miss Anning that she could not see the sky, simply, itself, any more, but the sky shored up by the tall body, dark eyes, grey hair, clasped hands, the stern melancholy1 (but she had been told “falsely melancholy”) face of Roderick Serle, and, knowing how foolish it was, she yet felt impelled2 to say:
“What a beautiful night!”
Foolish! Idiotically foolish! But if one mayn’t be foolish at the age of forty in the presence of the sky, which makes the wisest imbecile — mere3 wisps of straw — she and Mr. Serle atoms, motes4, standing5 there at Mrs. Dalloway’s window, and their lives, seen by moonlight, as long as an insect’s and no more important.
“Well!” said Miss Anning, patting the sofa cushion emphatically. And down he sat beside her. Was he “falsely melancholy,” as they said? Prompted by the sky, which seemed to make it all a little futile6 — what they said, what they did — she said something perfectly7 commonplace again:
“There was a Miss Serle who lived at Canterbury when I was a girl there.”
With the sky in his mind, all the tombs of his ancestors immediately appeared to Mr. Serle in a blue romantic light, and his eyes expanding and darkening, he said: “Yes.
“We are originally a Norman family, who came over with the Conqueror8. That is a Richard Serle buried in the Cathedral. He was a knight9 of the garter.”
Miss Arming felt that she had struck accidentally the true man, upon whom the false man was built. Under the influence of the moon (the moon which symbolized10 man to her, she could see it through a chink of the curtain, and she took dips of the moon) she was capable of saying almost anything and she settled in to disinter the true man who was buried under the false, saying to herself: “On, Stanley, on”— which was a watchword of hers, a secret spur, or scourge11 such as middle-aged12 people often make to flagellate some inveterate13 vice15, hers being a deplorable timidity, or rather indolence, for it was not so much that she lacked courage, but lacked energy, especially in talking to men, who frightened her rather, and so often her talks petered out into dull commonplaces, and she had very few men friends — very few intimate friends at all, she thought, but after all, did she want them? No. She had Sarah, Arthur, the cottage, the chow and, of course THAT, she thought, dipping herself, sousing herself, even as she sat on the sofa beside Mr. Serle, in THAT, in the sense she had coming home of something collected there, a cluster of miracles, which she could not believe other people had (since it was she only who had Arthur, Sarah, the cottage, and the chow), but she soused herself again in the deep satisfactory possession, feeling that what with this and the moon (music that was, the moon), she could afford to leave this man and that pride of his in the Serles buried. No! That was the danger — she must not sink into torpidity16 — not at her age. “On, Stanley, on,” she said to herself, and asked him:
“Do you know Canterbury yourself?”
Did he know Canterbury! Mr. Serle smiled, thinking how absurd a question it was — how little she knew, this nice quiet woman who played some instrument and seemed intelligent and had good eyes, and was wearing a very nice old necklace — knew what it meant. To be asked if he knew Canterbury. When the best years of his life, all his memories, things he had never been able to tell anybody, but had tried to write — ah, had tried to write (and he sighed) all had centred in Canterbury; it made him laugh.
His sigh and then his laugh, his melancholy and his humour, made people like him, and he knew it, and vet14 being liked had not made up for the disappointment, and if he sponged on the liking17 people had for him (paying long calls on sympathetic ladies, long, long calls), it was half bitterly, for he had never done a tenth part of what he could have done, and had dreamed of doing, as a boy in Canterbury. With a stranger he felt a renewal18 of hope because they could not say that he had not done what he had promised, and yielding to his charm would give him a fresh startat fifty! She had touched the spring. Fields and flowers and grey buildings dripped down into his mind, formed silver drops on the gaunt, dark walls of his mind and dripped down. With such an image his poems often began. He felt the desire to make images now, sitting by this quiet woman.
“Yes, I know Canterbury,” he said reminiscently, sentimentally20, inviting21, Miss Anning felt, discreet22 questions, and that was what made him interesting to so many people, and it was this extraordinary facility and responsiveness to talk on his part that had been his undoing23, so he thought often, taking his studs out and putting his keys and small change on the dressing-table after one of these parties (and he went out sometimes almost every night in the season), and, going down to breakfast, becoming quite different, grumpy, unpleasant at breakfast to his wife, who was an invalid24, and never went out, but had old friends to see her sometimes, women friends for the most part, interested in Indian philosophy and different cures and different doctors, which Roderick Serle snubbed off by some caustic25 remark too clever for her to meet, except by gentle expostulations and a tear or two — he had failed, he often thought, because he could not cut himself off utterly26 from society and the company of women, which was so necessary to him, and write. He had involved himself too deep in life — and here he would cross his knees (all his movements were a little unconventional and distinguished27) and not blame himself, but put the blame off upon the richness of his nature, which he compared favourably28 with Wordsworth’s, for example, and, since he had given so much to people, he felt, resting his head on his hands, they in their turn should help him, and this was the prelude29, tremulous, fascinating, exciting, to talk; and images bubbled up in his mind.
“She’s like a fruit tree — like a flowering cherry tree,” he said, looking at a youngish woman with fine white hair. It was a nice sort of image, Ruth Anning thought — rather nice, yet she did not feel sure that she liked this distinguished, melancholy man with his gestures; and it’s odd, she thought, how one’s feelings are influenced. She did not like HIM, though she rather liked that comparison of his of a woman to a cherry tree. Fibres of her were floated capriciously this way and that, like the tentacles30 of a sea anemone31, now thrilled, now snubbed, and her brain, miles away, cool and distant, up in the air, received messages which it would sum up in time so that, when people talked about Roderick Serle (and he was a bit of a figure) she would say unhesitatingly: “I like him,” or “I don’t like him,” and her opinion would be made up for ever. An odd thought; a solemn thought; throwing a green light on what human fellowship consisted of.
“It’s odd that you should know Canterbury,” said Mr. Serle. “It’s always a shock,” he went on (the white-haired lady having passed), “when one meets someone” (they had never met before), “by chance, as it were, who touches the fringe of what has meant a great deal to oneself, touches accidentally, for I suppose Canterbury was nothing but a nice old town to you. So you stayed there one summer with an aunt?” (That was all Ruth Anning was going to tell him about her visit to Canterbury.) “And you saw the sights and went away and never thought of it again.”
Let him think so; not liking him, she wanted him to run away with an absurd idea of her. For really, her three months in Canterbury had been amazing. She remembered to the last detail, though it was merely a chance visit, going to see Miss Charlotte Serle, an acquaintance of her aunt’s. Even now she could repeat Miss Serle’s very words about the thunder. “Whenever I wake, or hear thunder in the night, I think ‘Someone has been killed’.” And she could see the hard, hairy, diamond-patterned carpet, and the twinkling, suffused32, brown eyes of the elderly lady, holding the teacup out unfilled, while she said that about the thunder. And always she saw Canterbury, all thundercloud and livid apple blossom, and the long grey backs of the buildings.
The thunder roused her from her plethoric33 middleaged swoon of indifference34; “On, Stanley, on,” she said to herself; that is, this man shall not glide35 away from me, like everybody else, on this false assumption; I will tell him the truth.
“I loved Canterbury,” she said.
He kindled36 instantly. It was his gift, his fault, his destiny.
“Loved it,” he repeated. “I can see that you did.”
Her tentacles sent back the message that Roderick Serle was nice.
Their eyes met; collided rather, for each felt that behind the eyes the secluded37 being, who sits in darkness while his shallow agile38 companion does all the tumbling and beckoning39, and keeps the show going, suddenly stood erect40; flung off his cloak; confronted the other. It was alarming; it was terrific. They were elderly and burnished41 into a glowing smoothness, so that Roderick Serle would go, perhaps to a dozen parties in a season, and feel nothing out of the common, or only sentimental19 regrets, and the desire for pretty images — like this of the flowering cherry tree — and all the time there stagnated42 in him unstirred a sort of superiority to his company, a sense of untapped resources, which sent him back home dissatisfied with life, with himself, yawning, empty, capricious. But now, quite suddenly, like a white bolt in a mist (but this image forged itself with the inevitability43 of lightning and loomed44 up), there it had happened; the old ecstasy45 of life; its invincible46 assault; for it was unpleasant, at the same time that it rejoiced and rejuvenated47 and filled the veins48 and nerves with threads of ice and fire; it was terrifying. “Canterbury twenty years ago,” said Miss Anning, as one lays a shade over an intense light, or covers some burning peach with a green leaf, for it is too strong, too ripe, too full.
Sometimes she wished she had married. Sometimes the cool peace of middle life, with its automatic devices for shielding mind and body from bruises50, seemed to her, compared with the thunder and the livid appleblossom of Canterbury, base. She could imagine something different, more like lightning, more intense. She could imagine some physical sensation. She could imagine ——
And, strangely enough, for she had never seen him before, her senses, those tentacles which were thrilled and snubbed, now sent no more messages, now lay quiescent51, as if she and Mr. Serle knew each other so perfectly, were, in fact, so closely united that they had only to float side by side down this stream.
Of all things, nothing is so strange as human intercourse52, she thought, because of its changes, its extraordinary irrationality53, her dislike being now nothing short of the most intense and rapturous love, but directly the word “love” occurred to her, she rejected it, thinking again how obscure the mind was, with its very few words for all these astonishing perceptions, these alternations of pain and pleasure. For how did one name this. That is what she felt now, the withdrawal54 of human affection, Serle’s disappearance55, and the instant need they were both under to cover up what was so desolating56 and degrading to human nature that everyone tried to bury it decently from sight — this withdrawal, this violation57 of trust, and, seeking some decent acknowledged and accepted burial form, she said:
“Of course, whatever they may do, they can’t spoil Canterbury.”
He smiled; he accepted it; he crossed his knees the other way about. She did her part; he his. So things came to an end. And over them both came instantly that paralysing blankness of feeling, when nothing bursts from the mind, when its walls appear like slate58; when vacancy59 almost hurts, and the eyes petrified60 and fixed61 see the same spot — a pattern, a coal scuttle62 — with an exactness which is terrifying, since no emotion, no idea, no impression of any kind comes to change it, to modify it, to embellish63 it, since the fountains of feeling seem sealed and as the mind turns rigid64, so does the body; stark65, statuesque, so that neither Mr. Serle nor Miss Anning could move or speak, and they felt as if an enchanter had freed them, and spring flushed every vein49 with streams of life, when Mira Cartwright, tapping Mr. Serle archly on the shoulder, said:
“I saw you at the Meistersinger, and you cut me. Villain,” said Miss Cartwright, “you don’t deserve that I should ever speak to you again.”
And they could separate.
收听单词发音 |
1
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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motes
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| n.尘埃( mote的名词复数 )；斑点 | |
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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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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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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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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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symbolized
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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vet
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| n.兽医，退役军人；vt.检查 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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torpidity
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| n.麻痹 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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sentimentally
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| adv.富情感地 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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tentacles
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| n.触手( tentacle的名词复数 )；触角；触须；触毛 | |
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anemone
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| n.海葵 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
plethoric
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| adj.过多的，多血症的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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40
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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41
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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42
stagnated
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| v.停滞，不流动，不发展( stagnate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
inevitability
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| n.必然性 | |
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44
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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45
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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46
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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rejuvenated
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| 更生的 | |
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48
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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49
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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50
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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51
quiescent
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| adj.静止的，不活动的，寂静的 | |
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52
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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53
irrationality
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| n. 不合理，无理性 | |
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54
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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55
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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56
desolating
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| 毁坏( desolate的现在分词 )； 极大地破坏； 使沮丧； 使痛苦 | |
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57
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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58
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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59
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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60
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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scuttle
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| v.急赶，疾走，逃避；n.天窗；舷窗 | |
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embellish
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| v.装饰，布置；给…添加细节，润饰 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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