For Cam grazed the easel by an inch; she would not stop for Mr Bankesand Lily Briscoe; though Mr Bankes, who would have liked a daughterof his own, held out his hand; she would not stop for her father, whomshe grazed also by an inch; nor for her mother, who called "Cam! I wantyou a moment!" as she dashed past. She was off like a bird, bullet, or arrow,impelled by what desire, shot by whom, at what directed, whocould say? What, what? Mrs Ramsay pondered, watching her. It mightbe a vision—of a shell, of a wheelbarrow, of a fairy kingdom on the farside of the hedge; or it might be the glory of speed; no one knew. Butwhen Mrs Ramsay called "Cam!" a second time, the projectile1 dropped inmid career, and Cam came lagging back, pulling a leaf by the way, to hermother.
What was she dreaming about, Mrs Ramsay wondered, seeing her engrossed,as she stood there, with some thought of her own, so that shehad to repeat the message twice—ask Mildred if Andrew, Miss Doyle,and Mr Rayley have come back?—The words seemed to be dropped intoa well, where, if the waters were clear, they were also so extraordinarilydistorting that, even as they descended2, one saw them twisting about tomake Heaven knows what pattern on the floor of the child's mind. Whatmessage would Cam give the cook? Mrs Ramsay wondered. And indeedit was only by waiting patiently, and hearing that there was an old womanin the kitchen with very red cheeks, drinking soup out of a basin,that Mrs Ramsay at last prompted that parrot-like instinct which hadpicked up Mildred's words quite accurately3 and could now producethem, if one waited, in a colourless singsong. Shifting from foot to foot,Cam repeated the words, "No, they haven't, and I've told Ellen to clearaway tea."Minta Doyle and Paul Rayley had not come back then. That could onlymean, Mrs Ramsay thought, one thing. She must accept him, or she mustrefuse him. This going off after luncheon4 for a walk, even thoughAndrew was with them—what could it mean? except that she had decided, rightly, Mrs Ramsay thought (and she was very, very fond ofMinta), to accept that good fellow, who might not be brilliant, but then,thought Mrs Ramsay, realising that James was tugging5 at her, to makeher go on reading aloud the Fisherman and his Wife, she did in her ownheart infinitely6 prefer boobies to clever men who wrote dissertations;Charles Tansley, for instance. Anyhow it must have happened, one wayor the other, by now.
But she read, "Next morning the wife awoke first, and it was just daybreak,and from her bed she saw the beautiful country lying before her.
Her husband was still stretching himself… "But how could Minta say now that she would not have him? Not if sheagreed to spend whole afternoons trapesing about the countryalone—for Andrew would be off after his crabs7—but possibly Nancywas with them. She tried to recall the sight of them standing8 at the halldoor after lunch. There they stood, looking at the sky, wondering aboutthe weather, and she had said, thinking partly to cover their shyness,partly to encourage them to be off (for her sympathies were with Paul),"There isn't a cloud anywhere within miles," at which she could feellittle Charles Tansley, who had followed them out, snigger. But she did iton purpose. Whether Nancy was there or not, she could not be certain,looking from one to the other in her mind's eye.
She read on: "Ah, wife," said the man, "why should we be King? I donot want to be King." "Well," said the wife, "if you won't be King, I will;go to the Flounder, for I will be King.""Come in or go out, Cam," she said, knowing that Cam was attractedonly by the word "Flounder" and that in a moment she would fidget andfight with James as usual. Cam shot off. Mrs Ramsay went on reading,relieved, for she and James shared the same tastes and were comfortabletogether.
"And when he came to the sea, it was quite dark grey, and the waterheaved up from below, and smelt9 putrid10. Then he went and stood by itand said,'Flounder, flounder, in the sea,Come, I pray thee, here to me;For my wife, good Ilsabil,Wills not as I'd have her will.'
'Well, what does she want then?' said the Flounder." And where werethey now? Mrs Ramsay wondered, reading and thinking, quite easily, both at the same time; for the story of the Fisherman and his Wife waslike the bass11 gently accompanying a tune12, which now and then ran upunexpectedly into the melody. And when should she be told? If nothinghappened, she would have to speak seriously to Minta. For she could notgo trapesing about all over the country, even if Nancy were with them(she tried again, unsuccessfully, to visualize13 their backs going down thepath, and to count them). She was responsible to Minta's parents—theOwl and the Poker15. Her nicknames for them shot into her mind as sheread. The Owl14 and the Poker—yes, they would be annoyed if theyheard—and they were certain to hear—that Minta, staying with theRamsays, had been seen etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. "He wore a wig16 in theHouse of Commons and she ably assisted him at the head of the stairs,"she repeated, fishing them up out of her mind by a phrase which, comingback from some party, she had made to amuse her husband. Dear,dear, Mrs Ramsay said to herself, how did they produce this incongruousdaughter? this tomboy Minta, with a hole in her stocking? How didshe exist in that portentous17 atmosphere where the maid was always removingin a dust-pan the sand that the parrot had scattered18, and conversationwas almost entirely19 reduced to the exploits—interesting perhaps,but limited after all—of that bird? Naturally, one had asked her to lunch,tea, dinner, finally to stay with them up at Finlay, which had resulted insome friction20 with the Owl, her mother, and more calling, and more conversation,and more sand, and really at the end of it, she had told enoughlies about parrots to last her a lifetime (so she had said to her husbandthat night, coming back from the party). However, Minta came… Yes,she came, Mrs Ramsay thought, suspecting some thorn in the tangle21 ofthis thought; and disengaging it found it to be this: a woman had onceaccused her of "robbing her of her daughter's affections"; something MrsDoyle had said made her remember that charge again. Wishing to dominate,wishing to interfere22, making people do what she wished—that wasthe charge against her, and she thought it most unjust. How could shehelp being "like that" to look at? No one could accuse her of taking painsto impress. She was often ashamed of her own shabbiness. Nor was shedomineering, nor was she tyrannical. It was more true about hospitalsand drains and the dairy. About things like that she did feel passionately,and would, if she had the chance, have liked to take people by thescruff of their necks and make them see. No hospital on the whole island.
It was a disgrace. Milk delivered at your door in London positivelybrown with dirt. It should be made illegal. A model dairy and a hospitalup here—those two things she would have liked to do, herself. But how?
With all these children? When they were older, then perhaps she wouldhave time; when they were all at school.
Oh, but she never wanted James to grow a day older! or Cam either.
These two she would have liked to keep for ever just as they were,demons of wickedness, angels of delight, never to see them grow up intolong-legged monsters. Nothing made up up for the loss. When she readjust now to James, "and there were numbers of soldiers with kettledrumsand trumpets," and his eyes darkened, she thought, why should theygrow up and lose all that? He was the most gifted, the most sensitive ofher children. But all, she thought, were full of promise. Prue, a perfectangel with the others, and sometimes now, at night especially, she tookone's breath away with her beauty. Andrew—even her husband admittedthat his gift for mathematics was extraordinary. And Nancy and Roger,they were both wild creatures now, scampering23 about over thecountry all day long. As for Rose, her mouth was too big, but she had awonderful gift with her hands. If they had charades24, Rose made thedresses; made everything; liked best arranging tables, flowers, anything.
She did not like it that Jasper should shoot birds; but it was only a stage;they all went through stages. Why, she asked, pressing her chin onJames's head, should they grow up so fast? Why should they go toschool? She would have liked always to have had a baby. She was happiestcarrying one in her arms. Then people might say she was tyrannical,domineering, masterful, if they chose; she did not mind. And, touchinghis hair with her lips, she thought, he will never be so happy again, butstopped herself, remembering how it angered her husband that sheshould say that. Still, it was true. They were happier now than theywould ever be again. A tenpenny tea set made Cam happy for days. Sheheard them stamping and crowing on the floor above her head the momentthey awoke. They came bustling25 along the passage. Then the doorsprang open and in they came, fresh as roses, staring, wide awake, as ifthis coming into the dining-room after breakfast, which they did everyday of their lives, was a positive event to them, and so on, with one thingafter another, all day long, until she went up to say good-night to them,and found them netted in their cots like birds among cherries and raspberries,still making up stories about some little bit of rubbish—something they had heard, something they had picked up in thegarden. They all had their little treasures… And so she went down andsaid to her husband, Why must they grow up and lose it all? Never willthey be so happy again. And he was angry. Why take such a gloomyview of life? he said. It is not sensible. For it was odd; and she believed it to be true; that with all his gloom and desperation he was happier, morehopeful on the whole, than she was. Less exposed to human worries—perhaps that was it. He had always his work to fall back on. Notthat she herself was "pessimistic," as he accused her of being. Only shethought life—and a little strip of time presented itself to her eyes—herfifty years. There it was before her—life. Life, she thought—but she didnot finish her thought. She took a look at life, for she had a clear sense ofit there, something real, something private, which she shared neitherwith her children nor with her husband. A sort of transaction went onbetween them, in which she was on one side, and life was on another,and she was always trying to get the better of it, as it was of her; andsometimes they parleyed (when she sat alone); there were, she remembered,great reconciliation26 scenes; but for the most part, oddlyenough, she must admit that she felt this thing that she called life terrible,hostile, and quick to pounce27 on you if you gave it a chance. Therewere eternal problems: suffering; death; the poor. There was always awoman dying of cancer even here. And yet she had said to all these children,You shall go through it all. To eight people she had said relentlesslythat (and the bill for the greenhouse would be fifty pounds). Forthat reason, knowing what was before them—love and ambition and beingwretched alone in dreary28 places—she had often the feeling, Whymust they grow up and lose it all? And then she said to herself, brandishingher sword at life, Nonsense. They will be perfectly29 happy. Andhere she was, she reflected, feeling life rather sinister30 again, makingMinta marry Paul Rayley; because whatever she might feel about herown transaction, she had had experiences which need not happen toevery one (she did not name them to herself); she was driven on, tooquickly she knew, almost as if it were an escape for her too, to say thatpeople must marry; people must have children.
Was she wrong in this, she asked herself, reviewing her conduct forthe past week or two, and wondering if she had indeed put any pressureupon Minta, who was only twenty-four, to make up her mind. She wasuneasy. Had she not laughed about it? Was she not forgetting again howstrongly she influenced people? Marriage needed—oh, all sorts of qualities(the bill for the greenhouse would be fifty pounds); one—she neednot name it—that was essential; the thing she had with her husband.
Had they that?
"Then he put on his trousers and ran away like a madman," she read.
"But outside a great storm was raging and blowing so hard that he couldscarcely keep his feet; houses and trees toppled over, the mountains trembled, rocks rolled into the sea, the sky was pitch black, and itthundered and lightened, and the sea came in with black waves as highas church towers and mountains, and all with white foam31 at the top."She turned the page; there were only a few lines more, so that shewould finish the story, though it was past bed-time. It was getting late.
The light in the garden told her that; and the whitening of the flowersand something grey in the leaves conspired32 together, to rouse in her afeeling of anxiety. What it was about she could not think at first. Thenshe remembered; Paul and Minta and Andrew had not come back. Shesummoned before her again the little group on the terrace in front of thehall door, standing looking up into the sky. Andrew had his net and basket.
That meant he was going to catch crabs and things. That meant hewould climb out on to a rock; he would be cut off. Or coming back singlefile on one of those little paths above the cliff one of them might slip. Hewould roll and then crash. It was growing quite dark.
But she did not let her voice change in the least as she finished thestory, and added, shutting the book, and speaking the last words as ifshe had made them up herself, looking into James's eyes: "And therethey are living still at this very time.""And that's the end," she said, and she saw in his eyes, as the interestof the story died away in them, something else take its place; somethingwondering, pale, like the reflection of a light, which at once made himgaze and marvel33. Turning, she looked across the bay, and there, sureenough, coming regularly across the waves first two quick strokes andthen one long steady stroke, was the light of the Lighthouse. It had beenlit.
In a moment he would ask her, "Are we going to the Lighthouse?"And she would have to say, "No: not tomorrow; your father says not."Happily, Mildred came in to fetch them, and the bustle34 distracted them.
But he kept looking back over his shoulder as Mildred carried him out,and she was certain that he was thinking, we are not going to the Lighthousetomorrow; and she thought, he will remember that all his life.
收听单词发音 |
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projectile
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| n.投射物，发射体；adj.向前开进的；推进的；抛掷的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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crabs
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| n.蟹( crab的名词复数 )；阴虱寄生病；蟹肉v.捕蟹( crab的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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putrid
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| adj.腐臭的；有毒的；已腐烂的；卑劣的 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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visualize
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| vt.使看得见，使具体化，想象，设想 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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24
charades
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| n.伪装( charade的名词复数 )；猜字游戏 | |
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25
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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pounce
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| n.猛扑；v.猛扑，突然袭击，欣然同意 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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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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30
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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31
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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32
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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33
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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