She folded the green shawl about her shoulders. She took his arm. Hisbeauty was so great, she said, beginning to speak of Kennedy thegardener, at once he was so awfully1 handsome, that she couldn't dismisshim. There was a ladder against the greenhouse, and little lumps ofputty stuck about, for they were beginning to mend the greenhouse. Yes,but as she strolled along with her husband, she felt that that particularsource of worry had been placed. She had it on the tip of her tongue tosay, as they strolled, "It'll cost fifty pounds," but instead, for her heartfailed her about money, she talked about Jasper shooting birds, and hesaid, at once, soothing2 her instantly, that it was natural in a boy, and hetrusted he would find better ways of amusing himself before long. Herhusband was so sensible, so just. And so she said, "Yes; all children gothrough stages," and began considering the dahlias in the big bed, andwondering what about next year's flowers, and had he heard thechildren's nickname for Charles Tansley, she asked. The atheist3, theycalled him, the little atheist. "He's not a polished specimen," said MrRamsay. "Far from it," said Mrs Ramsay.
She supposed it was all right leaving him to his own devices, MrsRamsay said, wondering whether it was any use sending down bulbs;did they plant them? "Oh, he has his dissertation4 to write," said Mr Ram-say. She knew all about THAT, said Mrs Ramsay. He talked of nothingelse. It was about the influence of somebody upon something. "Well, it'sall he has to count on," said Mr Ramsay. "Pray Heaven he won't fall inlove with Prue," said Mrs Ramsay. He'd disinherit her if she marriedhim, said Mr Ramsay. He did not look at the flowers, which his wife wasconsidering, but at a spot about a foot or so above them. There was noharm in him, he added, and was just about to say that anyhow he wasthe only young man in England who admired his—when he choked itback. He would not bother her again about his books. These flowersseemed creditable, Mr Ramsay said, lowering his gaze and noticingsomething red, something brown. Yes, but then these she had put in with her own hands, said Mrs Ramsay. The question was, whathappened if she sent bulbs down; did Kennedy plant them? It was his incurablelaziness; she added, moving on. If she stood over him all daylong with a spade in her hand, he did sometimes do a stroke of work. Sothey strolled along, towards the red-hot pokers5. "You're teaching yourdaughters to exaggerate," said Mr Ramsay, reproving her. Her Aunt Camillawas far worse than she was, Mrs Ramsay remarked. "Nobody everheld up your Aunt Camilla as a model of virtue6 that I'm aware of," saidMr Ramsay. "She was the most beautiful woman I ever saw," said MrsRamsay. "Somebody else was that," said Mr Ramsay. Prue was going tobe far more beautiful than she was, said Mrs Ramsay. He saw no trace ofit, said Mr Ramsay. "Well, then, look tonight," said Mrs Ramsay. Theypaused. He wished Andrew could be induced to work harder. He wouldlose every chance of a scholarship if he didn't. "Oh, scholarships!" shesaid. Mr Ramsay thought her foolish for saying that, about a seriousthing, like a scholarship. He should be very proud of Andrew if he got ascholarship, he said. She would be just as proud of him if he didn't, sheanswered. They disagreed always about this, but it did not matter. Sheliked him to believe in scholarships, and he liked her to be proud ofAndrew whatever he did. Suddenly she remembered those little pathson the edge of the cliffs.
Wasn't it late? she asked. They hadn't come home yet. He flicked7 hiswatch carelessly open. But it was only just past seven. He held his watchopen for a moment, deciding that he would tell her what he had felt onthe terrace. To begin with, it was not reasonable to be so nervous.
Andrew could look after himself. Then, he wanted to tell her that whenhe was walking on the terrace just now—here he became uncomfortable,as if he were breaking into that solitude8, that aloofness9, that remotenessof hers. But she pressed him. What had he wanted to tell her, she asked,thinking it was about going to the Lighthouse; that he was sorry he hadsaid "Damn you." But no. He did not like to see her look so sad, he said.
Only wool gathering10, she protested, flushing a little. They both felt uncomfortable,as if they did not know whether to go on or go back. Shehad been reading fairy tales to James, she said. No, they could not sharethat; they could not say that.
They had reached the gap between the two clumps11 of red-hot pokers,and there was the Lighthouse again, but she would not let herself look atit. Had she known that he was looking at her, she thought, she wouldnot have let herself sit there, thinking. She disliked anything that remindedher that she had been seen sitting thinking. So she looked over her shoulder, at the town. The lights were rippling12 and running as if theywere drops of silver water held firm in a wind. And all the poverty, allthe suffering had turned to that, Mrs Ramsay thought. The lights of thetown and of the harbour and of the boats seemed like a phantom13 netfloating there to mark something which had sunk. Well, if he could notshare her thoughts, Mr Ramsay said to himself, he would be off, then, onhis own. He wanted to go on thinking, telling himself the story howHume was stuck in a bog14; he wanted to laugh. But first it was nonsenseto be anxious about Andrew. When he was Andrew's age he used towalk about the country all day long, with nothing but a biscuit in hispocket and nobody bothered about him, or thought that he had fallenover a cliff. He said aloud he thought he would be off for a day's walk ifthe weather held. He had had about enough of Bankes and of Carmichael.
He would like a little solitude. Yes, she said. It annoyed him thatshe did not protest. She knew that he would never do it. He was too oldnow to walk all day long with a biscuit in his pocket. She worried aboutthe boys, but not about him. Years ago, before he had married, hethought, looking across the bay, as they stood between the clumps ofred-hot pokers, he had walked all day. He had made a meal off breadand cheese in a public house. He had worked ten hours at a stretch; anold woman just popped her head in now and again and saw to the fire.
That was the country he liked best, over there; those sandhills dwindlingaway into darkness. One could walk all day without meeting a soul.
There was not a house scarcely, not a single village for miles on end. Onecould worry things out alone. There were little sandy beaches where noone had been since the beginning of time. The seals sat up and looked atyou. It sometimes seemed to him that in a little house out there,alone—he broke off, sighing. He had no right. The father of eight children—he reminded himself. And he would have been a beast and a curto wish a single thing altered. Andrew would be a better man than hehad been. Prue would be a beauty, her mother said. They would stemthe flood a bit. That was a good bit of work on the whole—his eight children.
They showed he did not damn the poor little universe entirely16, foron an evening like this, he thought, looking at the land dwindling15 away,the little island seemed pathetically small, half swallowed up in the sea.
"Poor little place," he murmured with a sigh.
She heard him. He said the most melancholy17 things, but she noticedthat directly he had said them he always seemed more cheerful than usual.
All this phrase-making was a game, she thought, for if she had saidhalf what he said, she would have blown her brains out by now.
It annoyed her, this phrase-making, and she said to him, in a matterof-fact way, that it was a perfectly18 lovely evening. And what was hegroaning about, she asked, half laughing, half complaining, for sheguessed what he was thinking—he would have written better books if hehad not married.
He was not complaining, he said. She knew that he did not complain.
She knew that he had nothing whatever to complain of. And he seizedher hand and raised it to his lips and kissed it with an intensity19 thatbrought the tears to her eyes, and quickly he dropped it.
They turned away from the view and began to walk up the path wherethe silver-green spear-like plants grew, arm in arm. His arm was almostlike a young man's arm, Mrs Ramsay thought, thin and hard, and shethought with delight how strong he still was, though he was over sixty,and how untamed and optimistic, and how strange it was that beingconvinced, as he was, of all sorts of horrors, seemed not to depress him,but to cheer him. Was it not odd, she reflected? Indeed he seemed to hersometimes made differently from other people, born blind, deaf, anddumb, to the ordinary things, but to the extraordinary things, with aneye like an eagle's. His understanding often astonished her. But did henotice the flowers? No. Did he notice the view? No. Did he even noticehis own daughter's beauty, or whether there was pudding on his plate orroast beef? He would sit at table with them like a person in a dream. Andhis habit of talking aloud, or saying poetry aloud, was growing on him,she was afraid; for sometimes it was awkward—Best and brightest come away!
poor Miss Giddings, when he shouted that at her, almost jumped outof her skin. But then, Mrs Ramsay, though instantly taking his sideagainst all the silly Giddingses in the world, then, she thought, intimatingby a little pressure on his arm that he walked up hill too fast for her,and she must stop for a moment to see whether those were fresh molehillson the bank, then, she thought, stooping down to look, a great mindlike his must be different in every way from ours. All the great men shehad ever known, she thought, deciding that a rabbit must have got in,were like that, and it was good for young men (though the atmosphereof lecture-rooms was stuffy21 and depressing to her beyond endurance almost)simply to hear him, simply to look at him. But without shootingrabbits, how was one to keep them down? she wondered. It might be arabbit; it might be a mole20. Some creature anyhow was ruining her EveningPrimroses. And looking up, she saw above the thin trees the first pulse of the full-throbbing star, and wanted to make her husband look atit; for the sight gave her such keen pleasure. But she stopped herself. Henever looked at things. If he did, all he would say would be, Poor littleworld, with one of his sighs.
At that moment, he said, "Very fine," to please her, and pretended toadmire the flowers. But she knew quite well that he did not admirethem, or even realise that they were there. It was only to please her. Ah,but was that not Lily Briscoe strolling along with William Bankes? Shefocussed her short-sighted eyes upon the backs of a retreating couple.
Yes, indeed it was. Did that not mean that they would marry? Yes, itmust! What an admirable idea! They must marry!
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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dissertation
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| n.（博士学位）论文，学术演讲，专题论文 | |
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pokers
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| n.拨火铁棒( poker的名词复数 )；纸牌；扑克；（通常指人）（坐或站得）直挺挺的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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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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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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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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