No, she thought, putting together some of the pictures he had cut out— arefrigerator, a mowing1 machine, a gentleman in evening dress— childrennever forget. For this reason, it was so important what one said, andwhat one did, and it was a relief when they went to bed. For now sheneed not think about anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And thatwas what now she often felt the need of—to think; well, not even tothink. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive,glittering, vocal2, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity,to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisibleto others. Although she continued to knit, and sat upright, it was thusthat she felt herself; and this self having shed its attachments3 was free forthe strangest adventures. When life sank down for a moment, the rangeof experience seemed limitless. And to everybody there was always thissense of unlimited4 resources, she supposed; one after another, she, Lily,Augustus Carmichael, must feel, our apparitions5, the things you knowus by, are simply childish. Beneath it is all dark, it is all spreading, it isunfathomably deep; but now and again we rise to the surface and that iswhat you see us by. Her horizon seemed to her limitless. There were allthe places she had not seen; the Indian plains; she felt herself pushingaside the thick leather curtain of a church in Rome. This core of darknesscould go anywhere, for no one saw it. They could not stop it, shethought, exulting6. There was freedom, there was peace, there was, mostwelcome of all, a summoning together, a resting on a platform of stability.
Not as oneself did one find rest ever, in her experience (she accomplishedhere something dexterous7 with her needles) but as a wedge ofdarkness. Losing personality, one lost the fret8, the hurry, the stir; andthere rose to her lips always some exclamation9 of triumph over life whenthings came together in this peace, this rest, this eternity10; and pausingthere she looked out to meet that stroke of the Lighthouse, the longsteady stroke, the last of the three, which was her stroke, for watchingthem in this mood always at this hour one could not help attachingoneself to one thing especially of the things one saw; and this thing, thelong steady stroke, was her stroke. Often she found herself sitting andlooking, sitting and looking, with her work in her hands until she becamethe thing she looked at—that light, for example. And it would liftup on it some little phrase or other which had been lying in her mind likethat—"Children don't forget, children don't forget"—which she wouldrepeat and begin adding to it, It will end, it will end, she said. It willcome, it will come, when suddenly she added, We are in the hands of theLord.
But instantly she was annoyed with herself for saying that. Who hadsaid it? Not she; she had been trapped into saying something she did notmean. She looked up over her knitting and met the third stroke and itseemed to her like her own eyes meeting her own eyes, searching as shealone could search into her mind and her heart, purifying out of existencethat lie, any lie. She praised herself in praising the light, withoutvanity, for she was stern, she was searching, she was beautiful like thatlight. It was odd, she thought, how if one was alone, one leant to inanimatethings; trees, streams, flowers; felt they expressed one; felt they becameone; felt they knew one, in a sense were one; felt an irrational11 tendernessthus (she looked at that long steady light) as for oneself. Thererose, and she looked and looked with her needles suspended, therecurled up off the floor of the mind, rose from the lake of one's being, amist, a bride to meet her lover.
What brought her to say that: "We are in the hands of the Lord?" shewondered. The insincerity slipping in among the truths roused her, annoyedher. She returned to her knitting again. How could any Lord havemade this world? she asked. With her mind she had always seized thefact that there is no reason, order, justice: but suffering, death, the poor.
There was no treachery too base for the world to commit; she knew that.
No happiness lasted; she knew that. She knitted with firm composure,slightly pursing her lips and, without being aware of it, so stiffened12 andcomposed the lines of her face in a habit of sternness that when her husbandpassed, though he was chuckling13 at the thought that Hume, thephilosopher, grown enormously fat, had stuck in a bog14, he could nothelp noting, as he passed, the sternness at the heart of her beauty. Itsaddened him, and her remoteness pained him, and he felt, as he passed,that he could not protect her, and, when he reached the hedge, he wassad. He could do nothing to help her. He must stand by and watch her.
Indeed, the infernal truth was, he made things worse for her. He wasirritable—he was touchy15. He had lost his temper over the Lighthouse. Helooked into the hedge, into its intricacy, its darkness.
Always, Mrs Ramsay felt, one helped oneself out of solitude16 reluctantlyby laying hold of some little odd or end, some sound, some sight.
She listened, but it was all very still; cricket was over; the children werein their baths; there was only the sound of the sea. She stopped knitting;she held the long reddish-brown stocking dangling17 in her hands a moment.
She saw the light again. With some irony18 in her interrogation, forwhen one woke at all, one's relations changed, she looked at the steadylight, the pitiless, the remorseless, which was so much her, yet so littleher, which had her at its beck and call (she woke in the night and saw itbent across their bed, stroking the floor), but for all that she thought,watching it with fascination19, hypnotised, as if it were stroking with itssilver fingers some sealed vessel20 in her brain whose bursting wouldflood her with delight, she had known happiness, exquisite21 happiness,intense happiness, and it silvered the rough waves a little more brightly,as daylight faded, and the blue went out of the sea and it rolled in wavesof pure lemon which curved and swelled22 and broke upon the beach andthe ecstasy23 burst in her eyes and waves of pure delight raced over thefloor of her mind and she felt, It is enough! It is enough!
He turned and saw her. Ah! She was lovely, lovelier now than ever hethought. But he could not speak to her. He could not interrupt her. Hewanted urgently to speak to her now that James was gone and she wasalone at last. But he resolved, no; he would not interrupt her. She wasaloof from him now in her beauty, in her sadness. He would let her be,and he passed her without a word, though it hurt him that she shouldlook so distant, and he could not reach her, he could do nothing to helpher. And again he would have passed her without a word had she not, atthat very moment, given him of her own free will what she knew hewould never ask, and called to him and taken the green shawl off thepicture frame, and gone to him. For he wished, she knew, to protect her.
1 mowing | |
n.割草,一次收割量,牧草地v.刈,割( mow的现在分词 ) | |
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2 vocal | |
adj.直言不讳的;嗓音的;n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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3 attachments | |
n.(用电子邮件发送的)附件( attachment的名词复数 );附着;连接;附属物 | |
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4 unlimited | |
adj.无限的,不受控制的,无条件的 | |
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5 apparitions | |
n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 );幽灵;鬼;(特异景象等的)出现 | |
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6 exulting | |
vi. 欢欣鼓舞,狂喜 | |
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7 dexterous | |
adj.灵敏的;灵巧的 | |
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8 fret | |
v.(使)烦恼;(使)焦急;(使)腐蚀,(使)磨损 | |
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9 exclamation | |
n.感叹号,惊呼,惊叹词 | |
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10 eternity | |
n.不朽,来世;永恒,无穷 | |
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11 irrational | |
adj.无理性的,失去理性的 | |
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12 stiffened | |
加强的 | |
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13 chuckling | |
轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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14 bog | |
n.沼泽;室...陷入泥淖 | |
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15 touchy | |
adj.易怒的;棘手的 | |
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16 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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17 dangling | |
悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 ); 摆动不定; 用某事物诱惑…; 吊胃口 | |
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18 irony | |
n.反语,冷嘲;具有讽刺意味的事,嘲弄 | |
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19 fascination | |
n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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20 vessel | |
n.船舶;容器,器皿;管,导管,血管 | |
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21 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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22 swelled | |
增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 ); 肿胀; (使)凸出; 充满(激情) | |
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23 ecstasy | |
n.狂喜,心醉神怡,入迷 | |
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