They reached the hotel rather early in the afternoon, so that mostpeople were still lying down, or sitting speechless in their bedrooms,and Mrs. Thornbury, although she had asked them to tea, was nowhereto be seen. They sat down, therefore, in the shady hall,which was almost empty, and full of the light swishing sounds ofair going to and fro in a large empty space. Yes, this arm-chairwas the same arm-chair in which Rachel had sat that afternoon whenEvelyn came up, and this was the magazine she had been looking at,and this the very picture, a picture of New York by lamplight.
How odd it seemed--nothing had changed.
By degrees a certain number of people began to come down the stairsand to pass through the hall, and in this dim light their figurespossessed a sort of grace and beauty, although they were allunknown people. Sometimes they went straight through and out intothe garden by the swing door, sometimes they stopped for a few minutesand bent1 over the tables and began turning over the newspapers.
Terence and Rachel sat watching them through their half-closed eyelids2--the Johnsons, the Parkers, the Baileys, the Simmons', the Lees,the Morleys, the Campbells, the Gardiners. Some were dressedin white flannels3 and were carrying racquets under their arms,some were short, some tall, some were only children, and some perhapswere servants, but they all had their standing4, their reason forfollowing each other through the hall, their money, their position,whatever it might be. Terence soon gave up looking at them,for he was tired; and, closing his eyes, he fell half asleepin his chair. Rachel watched the people for some time longer;she was fascinated by the certainty and the grace of their movements,and by the inevitable5 way in which they seemed to follow each other,and loiter and pass on and disappear. But after a time her thoughtswandered, and she began to think of the dance, which had been heldin this room, only then the room itself looked quite different.
Glancing round, she could hardly believe that it was the same room.
It had looked so bare and so bright and formal on that nightwhen they came into it out of the darkness; it had been filled,too, with little red, excited faces, always moving, and people sobrightly dressed and so animated6 that they did not seem in the leastlike real people, nor did you feel that you could talk to them.
And now the room was dim and quiet, and beautiful silent peoplepassed through it, to whom you could go and say anything you liked.
She felt herself amazingly secure as she sat in her arm-chair, andable to review not only the night of the dance, but the entire past,tenderly and humorously, as if she had been turning in a fogfor a long time, and could now see exactly where she had turned.
For the methods by which she had reached her present position,seemed to her very strange, and the strangest thing about themwas that she had not known where they were leading her. That wasthe strange thing, that one did not know where one was going,or what one wanted, and followed blindly, suffering so much in secret,always unprepared and amazed and knowing nothing; but one thing ledto another and by degrees something had formed itself out of nothing,and so one reached at last this calm, this quiet, this certainty,and it was this process that people called living. Perhaps, then,every one really knew as she knew now where they were going;and things formed themselves into a pattern not only for her,but for them, and in that pattern lay satisfaction and meaning.
When she looked back she could see that a meaning of some kindwas apparent in the lives of her aunts, and in the brief visitof the Dalloways whom she would never see again, and in the life ofher father.
The sound of Terence, breathing deep in his slumber7, confirmed herin her calm. She was not sleepy although she did not see anythingvery distinctly, but although the figures passing through the hallbecame vaguer and vaguer, she believed that they all knew exactlywhere they were going, and the sense of their certainty filled herwith comfort. For the moment she was as detached and disinterestedas if she had no longer any lot in life, and she thought that shecould now accept anything that came to her without being perplexedby the form in which it appeared. What was there to frighten orto perplex in the prospect8 of life? Why should this insight everagain desert her? The world was in truth so large, so hospitable,and after all it was so simple. "Love," St. John had said, "that seemsto explain it all." Yes, but it was not the love of man for woman,of Terence for Rachel. Although they sat so close together, they hadceased to be little separate bodies; they had ceased to struggleand desire one another. There seemed to be peace between them.
It might be love, but it was not the love of man for woman.
Through her half-closed eyelids she watched Terence lying backin his chair, and she smiled as she saw how big his mouth was,and his chin so small, and his nose curved like a switchbackwith a knob at the end. Naturally, looking like that he was lazy,and ambitious, and full of moods and faults. She rememberedtheir quarrels, and in particular how they had been quarreling aboutHelen that very afternoon, and she thought how often they wouldquarrel in the thirty, or forty, or fifty years in which they wouldbe living in the same house together, catching9 trains together,and getting annoyed because they were so different. But all thiswas superficial, and had nothing to do with the life that wenton beneath the eyes and the mouth and the chin, for that lifewas independent of her, and independent of everything else.
So too, although she was going to marry him and to live with himfor thirty, or forty, or fifty years, and to quarrel, and to beso close to him, she was independent of him; she was independentof everything else. Nevertheless, as St. John said, it was love thatmade her understand this, for she had never felt this independence,this calm, and this certainty until she fell in love with him,and perhaps this too was love. She wanted nothing else.
For perhaps two minutes Miss Allan had been standing at a little distancelooking at the couple lying back so peacefully in their arm-chairs.
She could not make up her mind whether to disturb them or not,and then, seeming to recollect10 something, she came across the hall.
The sound of her approach woke Terence, who sat up and rubbed his eyes.
He heard Miss Allan talking to Rachel.
"Well," she was saying, "this is very nice. It is very nice indeed.
Getting engaged seems to be quite the fashion. It cannot oftenhappen that two couples who have never seen each other before meetin the same hotel and decide to get married." Then she pausedand smiled, and seemed to have nothing more to say, so that Terencerose and asked her whether it was true that she had finished her book.
Some one had said that she had really finished it. Her face lit up;she turned to him with a livelier expression than usual.
"Yes, I think I can fairly say I have finished it," she said.
"That is, omitting Swinburne--Beowulf to Browning--I ratherlike the two B's myself. Beowulf to Browning," she repeated,"I think that is the kind of title which might catch one's eye ona railway book-stall."She was indeed very proud that she had finished her book, for no oneknew what an amount of determination had gone to the making of it.
Also she thought that it was a good piece of work, and, consideringwhat anxiety she had been in about her brother while she wrote it,she could not resist telling them a little more about it.
"I must confess," she continued, "that if I had known how manyclassics there are in English literature, and how verbose11 the bestof them contrive12 to be, I should never have undertaken the work.
They only allow one seventy thousand words, you see.""Only seventy thousand words!" Terence exclaimed.
"Yes, and one has to say something about everybody," Miss Allan added.
"That is what I find so difficult, saying something differentabout everybody." Then she thought that she had said enoughabout herself, and she asked whether they had come down to jointhe tennis tournament. "The young people are very keen about it.
It begins again in half an hour."Her gaze rested benevolently13 upon them both, and, after a momentarypause, she remarked, looking at Rachel as if she had rememberedsomething that would serve to keep her distinct from other people.
"You're the remarkable14 person who doesn't like ginger15." But thekindness of the smile in her rather worn and courageous16 face made themfeel that although she would scarcely remember them as individuals,she had laid upon them the burden of the new generation.
"And in that I quite agree with her," said a voice behind;Mrs. Thornbury had overheard the last few words about not liking17 ginger.
"It's associated in my mind with a horrid18 old aunt of ours (poor thing,she suffered dreadfully, so it isn't fair to call her horrid)who used to give it to us when we were small, and we never hadthe courage to tell her we didn't like it. We just had to putit out in the shrubbery--she had a big house near Bath."They began moving slowly across the hall, when they were stoppedby the impact of Evelyn, who dashed into them, as though in runningdownstairs to catch them her legs had got beyond her control.
"Well," she exclaimed, with her usual enthusiasm, seizing Rachelby the arm, "I call this splendid! I guessed it was going to happenfrom the very beginning! I saw you two were made for each other.
Now you've just got to tell me all about it--when's it to be,where are you going to live--are you both tremendously happy?"But the attention of the group was diverted to Mrs. Elliot,who was passing them with her eager but uncertain movement,carrying in her hands a plate and an empty hot-water bottle.
She would have passed them, but Mrs. Thornbury went up and stopped her.
"Thank you, Hughling's better," she replied, in answer to Mrs. Thornbury'senquiry, "but he's not an easy patient. He wants to know what histemperature is, and if I tell him he gets anxious, and if I don'ttell him he suspects. You know what men are when they're ill!
And of course there are none of the proper appliances, and, though heseems very willing and anxious to help" (here she lowered her voicemysteriously), "one can't feel that Dr. Rodriguez is the sameas a proper doctor. If you would come and see him, Mr. Hewet,"she added, "I know it would cheer him up--lying there in bed all day--and the flies--But I must go and find Angelo--the food here--of course, with an invalid19, one wants things particularly nice."And she hurried past them in search of the head waiter. The worryof nursing her husband had fixed20 a plaintive21 frown upon her forehead;she was pale and looked unhappy and more than usually inefficient,and her eyes wandered more vaguely22 than ever from point to point.
"Poor thing!" Mrs. Thornbury exclaimed. She told them that for somedays Hughling Elliot had been ill, and the only doctor availablewas the brother of the proprietor23, or so the proprietor said,whose right to the title of doctor was not above suspicion.
"I know how wretched it is to be ill in a hotel," Mrs. Thornburyremarked, once more leading the way with Rachel to the garden.
"I spent six weeks on my honeymoon24 in having typhoid at Venice,"she continued. "But even so, I look back upon them as some of thehappiest weeks in my life. Ah, yes," she said, taking Rachel's arm,"you think yourself happy now, but it's nothing to the happinessthat comes afterwards. And I assure you I could find it in my heartto envy you young people! You've a much better time than we had,I may tell you. When I look back upon it, I can hardly believehow things have changed. When we were engaged I wasn't allowed to gofor walks with William alone--some one had always to be in the roomwith us--I really believe I had to show my parents all his letters!--though they were very fond of him too. Indeed, I may say theylooked upon him as their own son. It amuses me," she continued,"to think how strict they were to us, when I see how they spoiltheir grand-children!"The table was laid under the tree again, and taking her placebefore the teacups, Mrs. Thornbury beckoned25 and nodded until she hadcollected quite a number of people, Susan and Arthur and Mr. Pepper,who were strolling about, waiting for the tournament to begin.
A murmuring tree, a river brimming in the moonlight, Terence's wordscame back to Rachel as she sat drinking the tea and listeningto the words which flowed on so lightly, so kindly27, and with suchsilvery smoothness. This long life and all these children hadleft her very smooth; they seemed to have rubbed away the marksof individuality, and to have left only what was old and maternal28.
"And the things you young people are going to see!"Mrs. Thornbury continued. She included them all in her forecast,she included them all in her maternity29, although the partycomprised William Pepper and Miss Allan, both of whom mighthave been supposed to have seen a fair share of the panorama30.
"When I see how the world has changed in my lifetime," she went on,"I can set no limit to what may happen in the next fifty years.
Ah, no, Mr. Pepper, I don't agree with you in the least," she laughed,interrupting his gloomy remark about things going steadilyfrom bad to worse. "I know I ought to feel that, but I don't,I'm afraid. They're going to be much better people than we were.
Surely everything goes to prove that. All round me I see women,young women, women with household cares of every sort, going outand doing things that we should not have thought it possible to do."Mr. Pepper thought her sentimental31 and irrational32 like all old women,but her manner of treating him as if he were a cross old baby baffledhim and charmed him, and he could only reply to her with a curiousgrimace which was more a smile than a frown.
"And they remain women," Mrs. Thornbury added. "They give a greatdeal to their children."As she said this she smiled slightly in the direction of Susanand Rachel. They did not like to be included in the same lot,but they both smiled a little self-consciously, and Arthur and Terenceglanced at each other too. She made them feel that they were all inthe same boat together, and they looked at the women they were goingto marry and compared them. It was inexplicable33 how any one couldwish to marry Rachel, incredible that any one should be ready to spendhis life with Susan; but singular though the other's taste must be,they bore each other no ill-will on account of it; indeed, they likedeach other rather the better for the eccentricity34 of their choice.
"I really must congratulate you," Susan remarked, as she leantacross the table for the jam.
There seemed to be no foundation for St. John's gossip about Arthurand Susan. Sunburnt and vigorous they sat side by side, with theirracquets across their knees, not saying much but smiling slightlyall the time. Through the thin white clothes which they wore, it waspossible to see the lines of their bodies and legs, the beautifulcurves of their muscles, his leanness and her flesh, and it wasnatural to think of the firm-fleshed sturdy children that wouldbe theirs. Their faces had too little shape in them to be beautiful,but they had clear eyes and an appearance of great health and powerof endurance, for it seemed as if the blood would never ceaseto run in his veins35, or to lie deeply and calmly in her cheeks.
Their eyes at the present moment were brighter than usual, and worethe peculiar36 expression of pleasure and self-confidence which isseen in the eyes of athletes, for they had been playing tennis,and they were both first-rate at the game.
Evelyn had not spoken, but she had been looking from Susanto Rachel. Well--they had both made up their minds very easily,they had done in a very few weeks what it sometimes seemed to herthat she would never be able to do. Although they were so different,she thought that she could see in each the same look of satisfactionand completion, the same calmness of manner, and the same slownessof movement. It was that slowness, that confidence, that contentwhich she hated, she thought to herself. They moved so slowlybecause they were not single but double, and Susan was attachedto Arthur, and Rachel to Terence, and for the sake of this one manthey had renounced38 all other men, and movement, and the real thingsof life. Love was all very well, and those snug39 domestic houses,with the kitchen below and the nursery above, which were so secludedand self-contained, like little islands in the torrents40 of the world;but the real things were surely the things that happened, the causes,the wars, the ideals, which happened in the great world outside,and went so independently of these women, turning so quietly andbeautifully towards the men. She looked at them sharply. Of coursethey were happy and content, but there must be better things than that.
Surely one could get nearer to life, one could get more out of life,one could enjoy more and feel more than they would ever do.
Rachel in particular looked so young--what could she know of life?
She became restless, and getting up, crossed over to sit beside Rachel.
She reminded her that she had promised to join her club.
"The bother is," she went on, "that I mayn't be able to start workseriously till October. I've just had a letter from a friend of minewhose brother is in business in Moscow. They want me to stay with them,and as they're in the thick of all the conspiracies41 and anarchists,I've a good mind to stop on my way home. It sounds too thrilling."She wanted to make Rachel see how thrilling it was. "My friendknows a girl of fifteen who's been sent to Siberia for life merelybecause they caught her addressing a letter to an anarchist42.
And the letter wasn't from her, either. I'd give all I have inthe world to help on a revolution against the Russian government,and it's bound to come."She looked from Rachel to Terence. They were both a little touchedby the sight of her remembering how lately they had been listeningto evil words about her, and Terence asked her what her scheme was,and she explained that she was going to found a club--a club fordoing things, really doing them. She became very animated, as shetalked on and on, for she professed43 herself certain that if oncetwenty people--no, ten would be enough if they were keen--set aboutdoing things instead of talking about doing them, they could abolishalmost every evil that exists. It was brains that were needed.
If only people with brains--of course they would want a room,a nice room, in Bloomsbury preferably, where they could meet oncea week. . . .
As she talked Terence could see the traces of fading youth in her face,the lines that were being drawn44 by talk and excitement round her mouthand eyes, but he did not pity her; looking into those bright, rather hard,and very courageous eyes, he saw that she did not pity herself,or feel any desire to exchange her own life for the more refinedand orderly lives of people like himself and St. John, although,as the years went by, the fight would become harder and harder.
Perhaps, though, she would settle down; perhaps, after all,she would marry Perrott. While his mind was half occupied withwhat she was saying, he thought of her probable destiny, the lightclouds of tobacco smoke serving to obscure his face from her eyes.
Terence smoked and Arthur smoked and Evelyn smoked, so that the airwas full of the mist and fragrance45 of good tobacco. In the intervalswhen no one spoke37, they heard far off the low murmur26 of the sea,as the waves quietly broke and spread the beach with a film of water,and withdrew to break again. The cool green light fell throughthe leaves of the tree, and there were soft crescents and diamondsof sunshine upon the plates and the tablecloth46. Mrs. Thornbury,after watching them all for a time in silence, began to ask Rachelkindly questions--When did they all go back? Oh, they expectedher father. She must want to see her father--there would be agreat deal to tell him, and (she looked sympathetically at Terence)he would be so happy, she felt sure. Years ago, she continued,it might have been ten or twenty years ago, she remembered meetingMr. Vinrace at a party, and, being so much struck by his face,which was so unlike the ordinary face one sees at a party, that shehad asked who he was, and she was told that it was Mr. Vinrace,and she had always remembered the name,--an uncommon47 name,--and hehad a lady with him, a very sweet-looking woman, but it was one ofthose dreadful London crushes, where you don't talk,--you only lookat each other,--and although she had shaken hands with Mr. Vinrace,she didn't think they had said anything. She sighed very slightly,remembering the past.
Then she turned to Mr. Pepper, who had become very dependent on her,so that he always chose a seat near her, and attended to what shewas saying, although he did not often make any remark of his own.
"You who know everything, Mr. Pepper," she said, "tell us how didthose wonderful French ladies manage their salons48? Did we everdo anything of the same kind in England, or do you think that thereis some reason why we cannot do it in England?"Mr. Pepper was pleased to explain very accurately50 why there hasnever been an English salon49. There were three reasons, and they werevery good ones, he said. As for himself, when he went to a party,as one was sometimes obliged to, from a wish not to give offence--his niece, for example, had been married the other day--he walkedinto the middle of the room, said "Ha! ha!" as loud as ever he could,considered that he had done his duty, and walked away again.
Mrs. Thornbury protested. She was going to give a party directlyshe got back, and they were all to be invited, and she should setpeople to watch Mr. Pepper, and if she heard that he had been caughtsaying "Ha! ha!" she would--she would do something very dreadfulindeed to him. Arthur Venning suggested that what she must dowas to rig up something in the nature of a surprise--a portrait,for example, of a nice old lady in a lace cap, concealing51 a bathof cold water, which at a signal could be sprung on Pepper's head;or they'd have a chair which shot him twenty feet high directly he saton it.
Susan laughed. She had done her tea; she was feeling very wellcontented, partly because she had been playing tennis brilliantly,and then every one was so nice; she was beginning to find it so mucheasier to talk, and to hold her own even with quite clever people,for somehow clever people did not frighten her any more.
Even Mr. Hirst, whom she had disliked when she first met him,really wasn't disagreeable; and, poor man, he always looked so ill;perhaps he was in love; perhaps he had been in love with Rachel--she really shouldn't wonder; or perhaps it was Evelyn--she was ofcourse very attractive to men. Leaning forward, she went on withthe conversation. She said that she thought that the reason whyparties were so dull was mainly because gentlemen will not dress:
even in London, she stated, it struck her very much how peopledon't think it necessary to dress in the evening, and of courseif they don't dress in London they won't dress in the country.
It was really quite a treat at Christmas-time when there werethe Hunt balls, and the gentlemen wore nice red coats, but Arthurdidn't care for dancing, so she supposed that they wouldn't goeven to the ball in their little country town. She didn't thinkthat people who were fond of one sport often care for another,although her father was an exception. But then he was an exceptionin every way--such a gardener, and he knew all about birds and animals,and of course he was simply adored by all the old women in the village,and at the same time what he really liked best was a book.
You always knew where to find him if he were wanted; he would bein his study with a book. Very likely it would be an old, old book,some fusty old thing that no one else would dream of reading.
She used to tell him that he would have made a first-rate old bookwormif only he hadn't had a family of six to support, and six children,she added, charmingly confident of universal sympathy, didn't leaveone much time for being a bookworm.
Still talking about her father, of whom she was very proud, she rose,for Arthur upon looking at his watch found that it was time theywent back again to the tennis court. The others did not move.
"They're very happy!" said Mrs. Thornbury, looking benignantlyafter them. Rachel agreed; they seemed to be so certain of themselves;they seemed to know exactly what they wanted.
"D'you think they _are_ happy?" Evelyn murmured to Terence inan undertone, and she hoped that he would say that he did not thinkthem happy; but, instead, he said that they must go too--go home,for they were always being late for meals, and Mrs. Ambrose,who was very stern and particular, didn't like that. Evelyn laidhold of Rachel's skirt and protested. Why should they go?
It was still early, and she had so many things to say to them.
"No," said Terence, "we must go, because we walk so slowly. We stopand look at things, and we talk.""What d'you talk about?" Evelyn enquired52, upon which he laughedand said that they talked about everything.
Mrs. Thornbury went with them to the gate, trailing very slowlyand gracefully53 across the grass and the gravel54, and talking allthe time about flowers and birds. She told them that she had taken upthe study of botany since her daughter married, and it was wonderfulwhat a number of flowers there were which she had never seen,although she had lived in the country all her life and she was nowseventy-two. It was a good thing to have some occupation which wasquite independent of other people, she said, when one got old.
But the odd thing was that one never felt old. She always felt thatshe was twenty-five, not a day more or a day less, but, of course,one couldn't expect other people to agree to that.
"It must be very wonderful to be twenty-five, and not merely toimagine that you're twenty-five," she said, looking from one to theother with her smooth, bright glance. "It must be very wonderful,very wonderful indeed." She stood talking to them at the gatefor a long time; she seemed reluctant that they should go.
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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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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inevitable
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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verbose
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| adj.用字多的；冗长的；累赘的 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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benevolently
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| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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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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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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plaintive
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vaguely
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proprietor
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honeymoon
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beckoned
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murmur
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kindly
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maternal
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maternity
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panorama
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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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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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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conspiracies
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| n.阴谋，密谋( conspiracy的名词复数 ) | |
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anarchist
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| n.无政府主义者 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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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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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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