He said nothing. He took opium1. The children said he had stained hisbeard yellow with it. Perhaps. What was obvious to her was that thepoor man was unhappy, came to them every year as an escape; and yetevery year she felt the same thing; he did not trust her. She said, "I amgoing to the town. Shall I get you stamps, paper, tobacco?" and she felthim wince2. He did not trust her. It was his wife's doing. She rememberedthat iniquity3 of his wife's towards him, which had made her turn to steeland adamant4 there, in the horrible little room in St John's Wood, whenwith her own eyes she had seen that odious5 woman turn him out of thehouse. He was unkempt; he dropped things on his coat; he had the tiresomenessof an old man with nothing in the world to do; and she turnedhim out of the room. She said, in her odious way, "Now, Mrs Ramsayand I want to have a little talk together," and Mrs Ramsay could see, as ifbefore her eyes, the innumerable miseries6 of his life. Had he moneyenough to buy tobacco? Did he have to ask her for it? half a crown?
eighteenpence? Oh, she could not bear to think of the little indignitiesshe made him suffer. And always now (why, she could not guess, exceptthat it came probably from that woman somehow) he shrank from her.
He never told her anything. But what more could she have done? Therewas a sunny room given up to him. The children were good to him.
Never did she show a sign of not wanting him. She went out of her wayindeed to be friendly. Do you want stamps, do you want tobacco? Here'sa book you might like and so on. And after all—after all (here insensiblyshe drew herself together, physically7, the sense of her own beauty becoming,as it did so seldom, present to her) after all, she had not generallyany difficulty in making people like her; for instance, George Manning;Mr Wallace; famous as they were, they would come to her of anevening, quietly, and talk alone over her fire. She bore about with her,she could not help knowing it, the torch of her beauty; she carried it erectinto any room that she entered; and after all, veil it as she might, andshrink from the monotony of bearing that it imposed on her, her beautywas apparent. She had been admired. She had been loved. She hadentered rooms where mourners sat. Tears had flown in her presence.
Men, and women too, letting go to the multiplicity of things, had allowedthemselves with her the relief of simplicity8. It injured her that heshould shrink. It hurt her. And yet not cleanly, not rightly. That waswhat she minded, coming as it did on top of her discontent with her husband;the sense she had now when Mr Carmichael shuffled9 past, justnodding to her question, with a book beneath his arm, in his yellow slippers,that she was suspected; and that all this desire of hers to give, tohelp, was vanity. For her own self-satisfaction was it that she wished soinstinctively to help, to give, that people might say of her, "O Mrs Ram-say! dear Mrs Ramsay… Mrs Ramsay, of course!" and need her and sendfor her and admire her? Was it not secretly this that she wanted, andtherefore when Mr Carmichael shrank away from her, as he did at thismoment, making off to some corner where he did acrostics endlessly, shedid not feel merely snubbed back in her instinct, but made aware of thepettiness of some part of her, and of human relations, how flawed theyare, how despicable, how self-seeking, at their best. Shabby and wornout, and not presumably (her cheeks were hollow, her hair was white)any longer a sight that filled the eyes with joy, she had better devote hermind to the story of the Fisherman and his Wife and so pacify10 thatbundle of sensitiveness (none of her children was as sensitive as he was),her son James.
"The man's heart grew heavy," she read aloud, "and he would not go.
He said to himself, 'It is not right,' and yet he went. And when he cameto the sea the water was quite purple and dark blue, and grey and thick,and no longer so green and yellow, but it was still quiet. And he stoodthere and said—"Mrs Ramsay could have wished that her husband had not chosen thatmoment to stop. Why had he not gone as he said to watch the childrenplaying cricket? But he did not speak; he looked; he nodded; he approved;he went on. He slipped, seeing before him that hedge which hadover and over again rounded some pause, signified some conclusion,seeing his wife and child, seeing again the urns11 with the trailing of redgeraniums which had so often decorated processes of thought, and bore,written up among their leaves, as if they were scraps12 of paper on whichone scribbles13 notes in the rush of reading—he slipped, seeing all this,smoothly into speculation14 suggested by an article in THE TIMES aboutthe number of Americans who visit Shakespeare's house every year. IfShakespeare had never existed, he asked, would the world have differedmuch from what it is today? Does the progress of civilization dependupon great men? Is the lot of the average human being better now thanin the time of the Pharaohs? Is the lot of the average human being,however, he asked himself, the criterion by which we judge the measureof civilization? Possibly not. Possibly the greatest good requires the existenceof a slave class. The liftman in the Tube is an eternal necessity. Thethought was distasteful to him. He tossed his head. To avoid it, he wouldfind some way of snubbing the predominance of the arts. He would arguethat the world exists for the average human being; that the arts aremerely a decoration imposed on the top of human life; they do not expressit. Nor is Shakespeare necessary to it. Not knowing precisely15 whyit was that he wanted to disparage16 Shakespeare and come to the rescueof the man who stands eternally in the door of the lift, he picked a leafsharply from the hedge. All this would have to be dished up for theyoung men at Cardiff next month, he thought; here, on his terrace, hewas merely foraging17 and picnicking (he threw away the leaf that he hadpicked so peevishly) like a man who reaches from his horse to pick abunch of roses, or stuffs his pockets with nuts as he ambles18 at his easethrough the lanes and fields of a country known to him from boyhood. Itwas all familiar; this turning, that stile, that cut across the fields. Hourshe would spend thus, with his pipe, of an evening, thinking up anddown and in and out of the old familiar lanes and commons, which wereall stuck about with the history of that campaign there, the life of thisstatesman here, with poems and with anecdotes19, with figures too, thisthinker, that soldier; all very brisk and clear; but at length the lane, thefield, the common, the fruitful nut-tree and the flowering hedge led himon to that further turn of the road where he dismounted always, tied hishorse to a tree, and proceeded on foot alone. He reached the edge of thelawn and looked out on the bay beneath.
It was his fate, his peculiarity20, whether he wished it or not, to come outthus on a spit of land which the sea is slowly eating away, and there tostand, like a desolate21 sea-bird, alone. It was his power, his gift, suddenlyto shed all superfluities, to shrink and diminish so that he looked barerand felt sparer, even physically, yet lost none of his intensity22 of mind,and so to stand on his little ledge23 facing the dark of human ignorance,how we know nothing and the sea eats away the ground we standon—that was his fate, his gift. But having thrown away, when he dismounted,all gestures and fripperies, all trophies24 of nuts and roses, andshrunk so that not only fame but even his own name was forgotten byhim, kept even in that desolation a vigilance which spared no phantomand luxuriated in no vision, and it was in this guise25 that he inspired inWilliam Bankes (intermittently) and in Charles Tansley(obsequiously)and in his wife now, when she looked up and saw himstanding at the edge of the lawn, profoundly, reverence26, and pity, andgratitude too, as a stake driven into the bed of a channel upon which thegulls perch27 and the waves beat inspires in merry boat-loads a feeling ofgratitude for the duty it is taking upon itself of marking the channel outthere in the floods alone.
"But the father of eight children has no choice." Muttering half aloud,so he broke off, turned, sighed, raised his eyes, sought the figure of hiswife reading stories to his little boy, filled his pipe. He turned from thesight of human ignorance and human fate and the sea eating the groundwe stand on, which, had he been able to contemplate28 it fixedly29 mighthave led to something; and found consolation30 in trifles so slight comparedwith the august theme just now before him that he was disposedto slur31 that comfort over, to deprecate it, as if to be caught happy in aworld of misery32 was for an honest man the most despicable of crimes. Itwas true; he was for the most part happy; he had his wife; he had hischildren; he had promised in six weeks' time to talk "some nonsense" tothe young men of Cardiff about Locke, Hume, Berkeley, and the causesof the French Revolution. But this and his pleasure in it, his glory in thephrases he made, in the ardour of youth, in his wife's beauty, in the tributesthat reached him from Swansea, Cardiff, Exeter, Southampton, Kidderminster,Oxford, Cambridge—all had to be deprecated and concealedunder the phrase "talking nonsense," because, in effect, he had not donethe thing he might have done. It was a disguise; it was the refuge of aman afraid to own his own feelings, who could not say, This is what Ilike—this is what I am; and rather pitiable and distasteful to WilliamBankes and Lily Briscoe, who wondered why such concealments shouldbe necessary; why he needed always praise; why so brave a man inthought should be so timid in life; how strangely he was venerable andlaughable at one and the same time.
Teaching and preaching is beyond human power, Lily suspected. (Shewas putting away her things.) If you are exalted33 you must somehowcome a cropper. Mrs Ramsay gave him what he asked too easily. Thenthe change must be so upsetting, Lily said. He comes in from his booksand finds us all playing games and talking nonsense. Imagine what achange from the things he thinks about, she said.
He was bearing down upon them. Now he stopped dead and stoodlooking in silence at the sea. Now he had turned away again.
1 opium | |
n.鸦片;adj.鸦片的 | |
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2 wince | |
n.畏缩,退避,(因痛苦,苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动;v.畏缩,退缩,退避 | |
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3 iniquity | |
n.邪恶;不公正 | |
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4 adamant | |
adj.坚硬的,固执的 | |
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5 odious | |
adj.可憎的,讨厌的 | |
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6 miseries | |
n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 );痛苦的事;穷困;常发牢骚的人 | |
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7 physically | |
adj.物质上,体格上,身体上,按自然规律 | |
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8 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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9 shuffled | |
v.洗(纸牌)( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 );拖着脚步走;粗心地做;摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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10 pacify | |
vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒);抚慰 | |
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11 urns | |
n.壶( urn的名词复数 );瓮;缸;骨灰瓮 | |
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12 scraps | |
油渣 | |
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13 scribbles | |
n.潦草的书写( scribble的名词复数 );乱画;草草地写;匆匆记下v.潦草的书写( scribble的第三人称单数 );乱画;草草地写;匆匆记下 | |
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14 speculation | |
n.思索,沉思;猜测;投机 | |
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15 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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16 disparage | |
v.贬抑,轻蔑 | |
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17 foraging | |
v.搜寻(食物),尤指动物觅(食)( forage的现在分词 );(尤指用手)搜寻(东西) | |
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18 ambles | |
v.(马)缓行( amble的第三人称单数 );从容地走,漫步 | |
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19 anecdotes | |
n.掌故,趣闻,轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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20 peculiarity | |
n.独特性,特色;特殊的东西;怪癖 | |
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21 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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22 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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23 ledge | |
n.壁架,架状突出物;岩架,岩礁 | |
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24 trophies | |
n.(为竞赛获胜者颁发的)奖品( trophy的名词复数 );奖杯;(尤指狩猎或战争中获得的)纪念品;(用于比赛或赛跑名称)奖 | |
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25 guise | |
n.外表,伪装的姿态 | |
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26 reverence | |
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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27 perch | |
n.栖木,高位,杆;v.栖息,就位,位于 | |
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28 contemplate | |
vt.盘算,计议;周密考虑;注视,凝视 | |
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29 fixedly | |
adv.固定地;不屈地,坚定不移地 | |
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30 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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31 slur | |
v.含糊地说;诋毁;连唱;n.诋毁;含糊的发音 | |
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32 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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33 exalted | |
adj.(地位等)高的,崇高的;尊贵的,高尚的 | |
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