But what have I done with my life? thought Mrs Ramsay, taking herplace at the head of the table, and looking at all the plates making whitecircles on it. "William, sit by me," she said. "Lily," she said, wearily, "overthere." They had that—Paul Rayley and Minta Doyle—she, only this—aninfinitely long table and plates and knives. At the far end was her husband,sitting down, all in a heap, frowning. What at? She did not know.
She did not mind. She could not understand how she had ever felt anyemotion or affection for him. She had a sense of being past everything,through everything, out of everything, as she helped the soup, as if therewas an eddy1—there— and one could be in it, or one could be out of it,and she was out of it. It's all come to an end, she thought, while theycame in one after another, Charles Tansley—"Sit there, please," shesaid—Augustus Carmichael—and sat down. And meanwhile shewaited, passively, for some one to answer her, for something to happen.
But this is not a thing, she thought, ladling out soup, that one says.
Raising her eyebrows2 at the discrepancy—that was what she wasthinking, this was what she was doing—ladling out soup—she felt, moreand more strongly, outside that eddy; or as if a shade had fallen, and,robbed of colour, she saw things truly. The room (she looked round it)was very shabby. There was no beauty anywhere. She forebore to look atMr Tansley. Nothing seemed to have merged3. They all sat separate. Andthe whole of the effort of merging4 and flowing and creating rested onher. Again she felt, as a fact without hostility5, the sterility6 of men, for ifshe did not do it nobody would do it, and so, giving herself a little shakethat one gives a watch that has stopped, the old familiar pulse beganbeating, as the watch begins ticking—one, two, three, one, two, three.
And so on and so on, she repeated, listening to it, sheltering and fosteringthe still feeble pulse as one might guard a weak flame with a newspaper.
And so then, she concluded, addressing herself by bending silentlyin his direction to William Bankes—poor man! who had no wife,and no children and dined alone in lodgings7 except for tonight; and in pity for him, life being now strong enough to bear her on again, shebegan all this business, as a sailor not without weariness sees the windfill his sail and yet hardly wants to be off again and thinks how, had theship sunk, he would have whirled round and round and found rest onthe floor of the sea.
"Did you find your letters? I told them to put them in the hall for you,"she said to William Bankes.
Lily Briscoe watched her drifting into that strange no-man's landwhere to follow people is impossible and yet their going inflicts8 such achill on those who watch them that they always try at least to followthem with their eyes as one follows a fading ship until the sails havesunk beneath the horizon.
How old she looks, how worn she looks, Lily thought, and how remote.
Then when she turned to William Bankes, smiling, it was as if theship had turned and the sun had struck its sails again, and Lily thoughtwith some amusement because she was relieved, Why does she pityhim? For that was the impression she gave, when she told him that hisletters were in the hall. Poor William Bankes, she seemed to be saying, asif her own weariness had been partly pitying people, and the life in her,her resolve to live again, had been stirred by pity. And it was not true,Lily thought; it was one of those misjudgments of hers that seemed to beinstinctive and to arise from some need of her own rather than of otherpeople's. He is not in the least pitiable. He has his work, Lily said to herself.
She remembered, all of a sudden as if she had found a treasure, thatshe had her work. In a flash she saw her picture, and thought, Yes, I shallput the tree further in the middle; then I shall avoid that awkward space.
That's what I shall do. That's what has been puzzling me. She took upthe salt cellar and put it down again on a flower pattern in the tablecloth,so as to remind herself to move the tree.
"It's odd that one scarcely gets anything worth having by post, yet onealways wants one's letters," said Mr Bankes.
What damned rot they talk, thought Charles Tansley, laying down hisspoon precisely9 in the middle of his plate, which he had swept clean, asif, Lily thought (he sat opposite to her with his back to the window preciselyin the middle of view), he were determined10 to make sure of hismeals. Everything about him had that meagre fixity, that bare unloveliness.
But nevertheless, the fact remained, it was impossible to dislike anyone if one looked at them. She liked his eyes; they were blue, deep set,frightening.
"Do you write many letters, Mr Tansley?" asked Mrs Ramsay, pityinghim too, Lily supposed; for that was true of Mrs Ramsay—she pitiedmen always as if they lacked something—women never, as if they hadsomething. He wrote to his mother; otherwise he did not suppose hewrote one letter a month, said Mr Tansley, shortly.
For he was not going to talk the sort of rot these condescended11 to bythese silly women. He had been reading in his room, and now he camedown and it all seemed to him silly, superficial, flimsy. Why did theydress? He had come down in his ordinary clothes. He had not got anydress clothes. "One never gets anything worth having by post"—that wasthe sort of thing they were always saying. They made men say that sortof thing. Yes, it was pretty well true, he thought. They never got anythingworth having from one year's end to another. They did nothing buttalk, talk, talk, eat, eat, eat. It was the women's fault. Women made civilisationimpossible with all their "charm," all their silliness.
"No going to the Lighthouse tomorrow, Mrs Ramsay," he said, assertinghimself. He liked her; he admired her; he still thought of the man inthe drain-pipe looking up at her; but he felt it necessary to assert himself.
He was really, Lily Briscoe thought, in spite of his eyes, but then lookat his nose, look at his hands, the most uncharming human being shehad ever met. Then why did she mind what he said? Women can't write,women can't paint—what did that matter coming from him, since clearlyit was not true to him but for some reason helpful to him, and that waswhy he said it? Why did her whole being bow, like corn under a wind,and erect12 itself again from this abasement13 only with a great and ratherpainful effort? She must make it once more. There's the sprig on thetable-cloth; there's my painting; I must move the tree to the middle; thatmatters—nothing else. Could she not hold fast to that, she asked herself,and not lose her temper, and not argue; and if she wanted revenge take itby laughing at him?
"Oh, Mr Tansley," she said, "do take me to the Lighthouse with you. Ishould so love it."She was telling lies he could see. She was saying what she did notmean to annoy him, for some reason. She was laughing at him. He wasin his old flannel14 trousers. He had no others. He felt very rough and isolatedand lonely. He knew that she was trying to tease him for some reason;she didn't want to go to the Lighthouse with him; she despised him:
so did Prue Ramsay; so did they all. But he was not going to be made afool of by women, so he turned deliberately15 in his chair and looked out of the window and said, all in a jerk, very rudely, it would be too roughfor her tomorrow. She would be sick.
It annoyed him that she should have made him speak like that, withMrs Ramsay listening. If only he could be alone in his room working, hethought, among his books. That was where he felt at his ease. And hehad never run a penny into debt; he had never cost his father a pennysince he was fifteen; he had helped them at home out of his savings16; hewas educating his sister. Still, he wished he had known how to answerMiss Briscoe properly; he wished it had not come out all in a jerk likethat. "You'd be sick." He wished he could think of something to say toMrs Ramsay, something which would show her that he was not just adry prig. That was what they all thought him. He turned to her. But MrsRamsay was talking about people he had never heard of to WilliamBankes.
"Yes, take it away," she said briefly17, interrupting what she was sayingto William Bankes to speak to the maid. "It must have been fifteen— no,twenty years ago—that I last saw her," she was saying, turning back tohim again as if she could not lose a moment of their talk, for she was absorbedby what they were saying. So he had actually heard from her thisevening! And was Carrie still living at Marlow, and was everything stillthe same? Oh, she could remember it as if it were yesterday—on theriver, feeling it as if it were yesterday—going on the river, feeling verycold. But if the Mannings made a plan they stuck to it. Never should sheforget Herbert killing18 a wasp19 with a teaspoon20 on the bank! And it wasstill going on, Mrs Ramsay mused21, gliding22 like a ghost among the chairsand tables of that drawing-room on the banks of the Thames where shehad been so very, very cold twenty years ago; but now she went amongthem like a ghost; and it fascinated her, as if, while she had changed, thatparticular day, now become very still and beautiful, had remained there,all these years. Had Carrie written to him herself? she asked.
"Yes. She says they're building a new billiard room," he said. No! No!
That was out of the question! Building a new billiard room! It seemed toher impossible.
Mr Bankes could not see that there was anything very odd about it.
They were very well off now. Should he give her love to Carrie?
"Oh," said Mrs Ramsay with a little start, "No," she added, reflectingthat she did not know this Carrie who built a new billiard room. But howstrange, she repeated, to Mr Bankes's amusement, that they should begoing on there still. For it was extraordinary to think that they had been capable of going on living all these years when she had not thought ofthem more than once all that time. How eventful her own life had been,during those same years. Yet perhaps Carrie Manning had not thoughtabout her, either. The thought was strange and distasteful.
"People soon drift apart," said Mr Bankes, feeling, however, some satisfactionwhen he thought that after all he knew both the Mannings andthe Ramsays. He had not drifted apart he thought, laying down hisspoon and wiping his clean-shaven lips punctiliously23. But perhaps hewas rather unusual, he thought, in this; he never let himself get into agroove. He had friends in all circles… Mrs Ramsay had to break off hereto tell the maid something about keeping food hot. That was why he preferreddining alone. All those interruptions annoyed him. Well, thoughtWilliam Bankes, preserving a demeanour of exquisite24 courtesy andmerely spreading the fingers of his left hand on the table-cloth as amechanic examines a tool beautifully polished and ready for use in an intervalof leisure, such are the sacrifices one's friends ask of one. It wouldhave hurt her if he had refused to come. But it was not worth it for him.
Looking at his hand he thought that if he had been alone dinner wouldhave been almost over now; he would have been free to work. Yes, hethought, it is a terrible waste of time. The children were dropping in still.
"I wish one of you would run up to Roger's room," Mrs Ramsay was saying.
How trifling26 it all is, how boring it all is, he thought, compared withthe other thing— work. Here he sat drumming his fingers on the tableclothwhen he might have been—he took a flashing bird's-eye view of hiswork. What a waste of time it all was to be sure! Yet, he thought, she isone of my oldest friends. I am by way of being devoted27 to her. Yet now,at this moment her presence meant absolutely nothing to him: her beautymeant nothing to him; her sitting with her little boy at the window—nothing, nothing. He wished only to be alone and to take up that book.
He felt uncomfortable; he felt treacherous28, that he could sit by her sideand feel nothing for her. The truth was that he did not enjoy family life.
It was in this sort of state that one asked oneself, What does one live for?
Why, one asked oneself, does one take all these pains for the human raceto go on? Is it so very desirable? Are we attractive as a species? Not sovery, he thought, looking at those rather untidy boys. His favourite,Cam, was in bed, he supposed. Foolish questions, vain questions, questionsone never asked if one was occupied. Is human life this? Is humanlife that? One never had time to think about it. But here he was askinghimself that sort of question, because Mrs Ramsay was giving orders toservants, and also because it had struck him, thinking how surprised Mrs Ramsay was that Carrie Manning should still exist, that friendships,even the best of them, are frail29 things. One drifts apart. He reproachedhimself again. He was sitting beside Mrs Ramsay and he had nothing inthe world to say to her.
"I'm so sorry," said Mrs Ramsy, turning to him at last. He felt rigid30 andbarren, like a pair of boots that have been soaked and gone dry so thatyou can hardly force your feet into them. Yet he must force his feet intothem. He must make himself talk. Unless he were very careful, shewould find out this treachery of his; that he did not care a straw for her,and that would not be at all pleasant, he thought. So he bent31 his headcourteously in her direction.
"How you must detest32 dining in this bear garden," she said, makinguse, as she did when she was distracted, of her social manner. So, whenthere is a strife33 of tongues, at some meeting, the chairman, to obtainunity, suggests that every one shall speak in French. Perhaps it is badFrench; French may not contain the words that express the speaker'sthoughts; nevertheless speaking French imposes some order, some uniformity.
Replying to her in the same language, Mr Bankes said, "No, notat all," and Mr Tansley, who had no knowledge of this language, evenspoke thus in words of one syllable35, at once suspected its insincerity.
They did talk nonsense, he thought, the Ramsays; and he pounced36 onthis fresh instance with joy, making a note which, one of these days, hewould read aloud, to one or two friends. There, in a society where onecould say what one liked he would sarcastically37 describe "staying withthe Ramsays" and what nonsense they talked. It was worth while doingit once, he would say; but not again. The women bored one so, he wouldsay. Of course Ramsay had dished himself by marrying a beautiful womanand having eight children. It would shape itself something like that,but now, at this moment, sitting stuck there with an empty seat besidehim, nothing had shaped itself at all. It was all in scraps38 and fragments.
He felt extremely, even physically39, uncomfortable. He wanted somebodyto give him a chance of asserting himself. He wanted it so urgently thathe fidgeted in his chair, looked at this person, then at that person, triedto break into their talk, opened his mouth and shut it again. They weretalking about the fishing industry. Why did no one ask him his opinion?
What did they know about the fishing industry?
Lily Briscoe knew all that. Sitting opposite him, could she not see, as inan X-ray photograph, the ribs40 and thigh41 bones of the young man's desireto impress himself, lying dark in the mist of his flesh—that thin mistwhich convention had laid over his burning desire to break into the conversation? But, she thought, screwing up her Chinese eyes, and rememberinghow he sneered42 at women, "can't paint, can't write," whyshould I help him to relieve himself?
There is a code of behaviour, she knew, whose seventh article (it maybe) says that on occasions of this sort it behoves the woman, whateverher own occupation might be, to go to the help of the young man oppositeso that he may expose and relieve the thigh bones, the ribs, of his vanity,of his urgent desire to assert himself; as indeed it is their duty, she reflected,in her old maidenly43 fairness, to help us, suppose the Tube wereto burst into flames. Then, she thought, I should certainly expect MrTansley to get me out. But how would it be, she thought, if neither of usdid either of these things? So she sat there smiling.
"You're not planning to go to the Lighthouse, are you, Lily," said MrsRamsay. "Remember poor Mr Langley; he had been round the worlddozens of times, but he told me he never suffered as he did when myhusband took him there. Are you a good sailor, Mr Tansley?" she asked.
Mr Tansley raised a hammer: swung it high in air; but realising, as itdescended, that he could not smite44 that butterfly with such an instrumentas this, said only that he had never been sick in his life. But in thatone sentence lay compact, like gunpowder45, that his grandfather was afisherman; his father a chemist; that he had worked his way up entirelyhimself; that he was proud of it; that he was Charles Tansley—a fact thatnobody there seemed to realise; but one of these days every single personwould know it. He scowled47 ahead of him. He could almost pitythese mild cultivated people, who would be blown sky high, like bales ofwool and barrels of apples, one of these days by the gunpowder that wasin him.
"Will you take me, Mr Tansley?" said Lily, quickly, kindly48, for, ofcourse, if Mrs Ramsay said to her, as in effect she did, "I am drowning,my dear, in seas of fire. Unless you apply some balm to the anguish49 ofthis hour and say something nice to that young man there, life will runupon the rocks—indeed I hear the grating and the growling50 at thisminute. My nerves are taut51 as fiddle52 strings53. Another touch and they willsnap"—when Mrs Ramsay said all this, as the glance in her eyes said it,of course for the hundred and fiftieth time Lily Briscoe had to renouncethe experiment—what happens if one is not nice to that young manthere—and be nice.
Judging the turn in her mood correctly—that she was friendly to himnow—he was relieved of his egotism, and told her how he had been thrown out of a boat when he was a baby; how his father used to fishhim out with a boat-hook; that was how he had learnt to swim. One ofhis uncles kept the light on some rock or other off the Scottish coast, hesaid. He had been there with him in a storm. This was said loudly in apause. They had to listen to him when he said that he had been with hisuncle in a lighthouse in a storm. Ah, thought Lily Briscoe, as the conversationtook this auspicious55 turn, and she felt Mrs Ramsay's gratitude56 (forMrs Ramsay was free now to talk for a moment herself), ah, she thought,but what haven't I paid to get it for you? She had not been sincere.
She had done the usual trick—been nice. She would never know him.
He would never know her. Human relations were all like that, shethought, and the worst (if it had not been for Mr Bankes) were betweenmen and women. Inevitably57 these were extremely insincere she thought.
Then her eye caught the salt cellar, which she had placed there to remindher, and she remembered that next morning she would move the treefurther towards the middle, and her spirits rose so high at the thought ofpainting tomorrow that she laughed out loud at what Mr Tansley wassaying. Let him talk all night if he liked it.
"But how long do they leave men on a Lighthouse?" she asked. He toldher. He was amazingly well informed. And as he was grateful, and as heliked her, and as he was beginning to enjoy himself, so now, Mrs Ramsaythought, she could return to that dream land, that unreal but fascinatingplace, the Mannings' drawing-room at Marlow twenty years ago; whereone moved about without haste or anxiety, for there was no future toworry about. She knew what had happened to them, what to her. It waslike reading a good book again, for she knew the end of that story, sinceit had happened twenty years ago, and life, which shot down even fromthis dining-room table in cascades58, heaven knows where, was sealed upthere, and lay, like a lake, placidly59 between its banks. He said they hadbuilt a billiard room—was it possible? Would William go on talkingabout the Mannings? She wanted him to. But, no—for some reason hewas no longer in the mood. She tried. He did not respond. She could notforce him. She was disappointed.
"The children are disgraceful," she said, sighing. He said somethingabout punctuality being one of the minor60 virtues62 which we do not acquireuntil later in life.
"If at all," said Mrs Ramsay merely to fill up space, thinking what anold maid William was becoming. Conscious of his treachery, consciousof her wish to talk about something more intimate, yet out of mood for it at present, he felt come over him the disagreeableness of life, sittingthere, waiting. Perhaps the others were saying something interesting?
What were they saying?
That the fishing season was bad; that the men were emigrating. Theywere talking about wages and unemployment. The young man was abusingthe government. William Bankes, thinking what a relief it was tocatch on to something of this sort when private life was disagreeable,heard him say something about "one of the most scandalous acts of thepresent government." Lily was listening; Mrs Ramsay was listening; theywere all listening. But already bored, Lily felt that something was lacking;Mr Bankes felt that something was lacking. Pulling her shawl roundher Mrs Ramsay felt that something was lacking. All of them bendingthemselves to listen thought, "Pray heaven that the inside of my mindmay not be exposed," for each thought, "The others are feeling this. Theyare outraged63 and indignant with the government about the fishermen.
Whereas, I feel nothing at all." But perhaps, thought Mr Bankes, as helooked at Mr Tansley, here is the man. One was always waiting for theman. There was always a chance. At any moment the leader might arise;the man of genius, in politics as in anything else. Probably he will be extremelydisagreeable to us old fogies, thought Mr Bankes, doing his bestto make allowances, for he knew by some curious physical sensation, asof nerves erect in his spine64, that he was jealous, for himself partly, partlymore probably for his work, for his point of view, for his science; andtherefore he was not entirely46 open-minded or altogether fair, for MrTansley seemed to be saying, You have wasted your lives. You are all ofyou wrong. Poor old fogies, you're hopelessly behind the times. Heseemed to be rather cocksure, this young man; and his manners werebad. But Mr Bankes bade himself observe, he had courage; he had ability;he was extremely well up in the facts. Probably, Mr Bankes thought,as Tansley abused the government, there is a good deal in what he says.
"Tell me now… " he said. So they argued about politics, and Lilylooked at the leaf on the table-cloth; and Mrs Ramsay, leaving the argumententirely in the hands of the two men, wondered why she was sobored by this talk, and wished, looking at her husband at the other endof the table, that he would say something. One word, she said to herself.
For if he said a thing, it would make all the difference. He went to theheart of things. He cared about fishermen and their wages. He could notsleep for thinking of them. It was altogether different when he spoke34;one did not feel then, pray heaven you don't see how little I care, becauseone did care. Then, realising that it was because she admired him so much that she was waiting for him to speak, she felt as if somebody hadbeen praising her husband to her and their marriage, and she glowed allover withiut realising that it was she herself who had praised him. Shelooked at him thinking to find this in his face; he would be looking magnificent…But not in the least! He was screwing his face up, he wasscowling and frowning, and flushing with anger. What on earth was itabout? she wondered. What could be the matter? Only that poor oldAugustus had asked for another plate of soup—that was all. It was unthinkable,it was detestable (so he signalled to her across the table) thatAugustus should be beginning his soup over again. He loathed66 peopleeating when he had finished. She saw his anger fly like a pack of houndsinto his eyes, his brow, and she knew that in a moment something violentwould explode, and then—thank goodness! she saw him clutch himselfand clap a brake on the wheel, and the whole of his body seemed toemit sparks but not words. He sat there scowling65. He had said nothing,he would have her observe. Let her give him the credit for that! But whyafter all should poor Augustus not ask for another plate of soup? He hadmerely touched Ellen's arm and said:
"Ellen, please, another plate of soup," and then Mr Ramsay scowledlike that.
And why not? Mrs Ramsay demanded. Surely they could let Augustushave his soup if he wanted it. He hated people wallowing in food, MrRamsay frowned at her. He hated everything dragging on for hours likethis. But he had controlled himself, Mr Ramsay would have her observe,disgusting though the sight was. But why show it so plainly, Mrs Ram-say demanded (they looked at each other down the long table sendingthese questions and answers across, each knowing exactly what the otherfelt). Everybody could see, Mrs Ramsay thought. There was Rose gazingat her father, there was Roger gazing at his father; both would be off inspasms of laughter in another second, she knew, and so she saidpromptly (indeed it was time):
"Light the candles," and they jumped up instantly and went andfumbled at the sideboard.
Why could he never conceal67 his feelings? Mrs Ramsay wondered, andshe wondered if Augustus Carmichael had noticed. Perhaps he had; perhapshe had not. She could not help respecting the composure withwhich he sat there, drinking his soup. If he wanted soup, he asked forsoup. Whether people laughed at him or were angry with him he wasthe same. He did not like her, she knew that; but partly for that very reason she respected him, and looking at him, drinking soup, very largeand calm in the failing light, and monumental, and contemplative, shewondered what he did feel then, and why he was always content anddignified; and she thought how devoted he was to Andrew, and wouldcall him into his room, and Andrew said, "show him things." And therehe would lie all day long on the lawn brooding presumably over his poetry,till he reminded one of a cat watching birds, and then he clappedhis paws together when he had found the word, and her husband said,"Poor old Augustus—he's a true poet," which was high praise from herhusband.
Now eight candles were stood down the table, and after the first stoopthe flames stood upright and drew with them into visibility the longtable entire, and in the middle a yellow and purple dish of fruit. Whathad she done with it, Mrs Ramsay wondered, for Rose's arrangement ofthe grapes and pears, of the horny pink-lined shell, of the bananas, madeher think of a trophy68 fetched from the bottom of the sea, of Neptune'sbanquet, of the bunch that hangs with vine leaves over the shoulder ofBacchus (in some picture), among the leopard69 skins and the torches lollopingred and gold… Thus brought up suddenly into the light it seemedpossessed of great size and depth, was like a world in which one couldtake one's staff and climb hills, she thought, and go down into valleys,and to her pleasure (for it brought them into sympathy momentarily) shesaw that Augustus too feasted his eyes on the same plate of fruit,plunged in, broke off a bloom there, a tassel70 here, and returned, afterfeasting, to his hive. That was his way of looking, different from hers.
But looking together united them.
Now all the candles were lit up, and the faces on both sides of the tablewere brought nearer by the candle light, and composed, as they had notbeen in the twilight71, into a party round a table, for the night was nowshut off by panes72 of glass, which, far from giving any accurate view ofthe outside world, rippled73 it so strangely that here, inside the room,seemed to be order and dry land; there, outside, a reflection in whichthings waved and vanished, waterily.
Some change at once went through them all, as if this had reallyhappened, and they were all conscious of making a party together in ahollow, on an island; had their common cause against that fluidity outthere. Mrs Ramsay, who had been uneasy, waiting for Paul and Minta tocome in, and unable, she felt, to settle to things, now felt her uneasinesschanged to expectation. For now they must come, and Lily Briscoe, tryingto analyse the cause of the sudden exhilaration, compared it with that moment on the tennis lawn, when solidity suddenly vanished, andsuch vast spaces lay between them; and now the same effect was got bythe many candles in the sparely furnished room, and the uncurtainedwindows, and the bright mask-like look of faces seen by candlelight.
Some weight was taken off them; anything might happen, she felt. Theymust come now, Mrs Ramsay thought, looking at the door, and at thatinstant, Minta Doyle, Paul Rayley, and a maid carrying a great dish inher hands came in together. They were awfully75 late; they were horriblylate, Minta said, as they found their way to different ends of the table.
"I lost my brooch—my grandmother's brooch," said Minta with asound of lamentation76 in her voice, and a suffusion77 in her large browneyes, looking down, looking up, as she sat by Mr Ramsay, which rousedhis chivalry78 so that he bantered79 her.
How could she be such a goose, he asked, as to scramble80 about therocks in jewels?
She was by way of being terrified of him—he was so fearfully clever,and the first night when she had sat by him, and he talked about GeorgeEliot, she had been really frightened, for she had left the third volume ofMIDDLEMARCH in the train and she never knew what happened in theend; but afterwards she got on perfectly81, and made herself out evenmore ignorant than she was, because he liked telling her she was a fool.
And so tonight, directly he laughed at her, she was not frightened.
Besides, she knew, directly she came into the room that the miracle hadhappened; she wore her golden haze82. Sometimes she had it; sometimesnot. She never knew why it came or why it went, or if she had it until shecame into the room and then she knew instantly by the way some manlooked at her. Yes, tonight she had it, tremendously; she knew that bythe way Mr Ramsay told her not to be a fool. She sat beside him, smiling.
It must have happened then, thought Mrs Ramsay; they are engaged.
And for a moment she felt what she had never expected to feel again—jealousy. For he, her husband, felt it too—Minta's glow; he liked thesegirls, these golden-reddish girls, with something flying, something alittle wild and harum-scarum about them, who didn't "scrape their hairoff," weren't, as he said about poor Lily Briscoe, "skimpy". There wassome quality which she herself had not, some lustre83, some richness,which attracted him, amused him, led him to make favourites of girlslike Minta. They might cut his hair from him, plait him watch-chains, orinterrupt him at his work, hailing him (she heard them), "Come along, Mr Ramsay; it's our turn to beat them now," and out he came to playtennis.
But indeed she was not jealous, only, now and then, when she madeherself look in her glass, a little resentful that she had grown old, perhaps,by her own fault. (The bill for the greenhouse and all the rest of it.)She was grateful to them for laughing at him. ("How many pipes haveyou smoked today, Mr Ramsay?" and so on), till he seemed a youngman; a man very attractive to women, not burdened, not weighed downwith the greatness of his labours and the sorrows of the world and hisfame or his failure, but again as she had first known him, gaunt but gallant;helping84 her out of a boat, she remembered; with delightful85 ways,like that (she looked at him, and he looked astonishingly young, teasingMinta). For herself—"Put it down there," she said, helping the Swiss girlto place gently before her the huge brown pot in which was the BOEUFEN DAUBE—for her own part, she liked her boobies. Paul must sit byher. She had kept a place for him. Really, she sometimes thought sheliked the boobies best. They did not bother one with their dissertations86.
How much they missed, after all, these very clever men! How dried upthey did become, to be sure. There was something, she thought as he satdown, very charming about Paul. His manners were delightful to her,and his sharp cut nose and his bright blue eyes. He was so considerate.
Would he tell her—now that they were all talking again—what hadhappened?
"We went back to look for Minta's brooch," he said, sitting down byher. "We"—that was enough. She knew from the effort, the rise in hisvoice to surmount88 a difficult word that it was the first time he had said"we." "We did this, we did that." They'll say that all their lives, shethought, and an exquisite scent89 of olives and oil and juice rose from thegreat brown dish as Marthe, with a little flourish, took the cover off. Thecook had spent three days over that dish. And she must take great care,Mrs Ramsay thought, diving into the soft mass, to choose a speciallytender piece for William Bankes. And she peered into the dish, with itsshiny walls and its confusion of savoury brown and yellow meats and itsbay leaves and its wine, and thought, This will celebrate the occasion—acurious sense rising in her, at once freakish and tender, of celebrating afestival, as if two emotions were called up in her, one profound—forwhat could be more serious than the love of man for woman, what morecommanding, more impressive, bearing in its bosom91 the seeds of death;at the same time these lovers, these people entering into illusion glitteringeyed, must be danced round with mockery, decorated with garlands.
"It is a triumph," said Mr Bankes, laying his knife down for a moment.
He had eaten attentively92. It was rich; it was tender. It was perfectlycooked. How did she manage these things in the depths of the country?
he asked her. She was a wonderful woman. All his love, all his reverence,had returned; and she knew it.
"It is a French recipe of my grandmother's," said Mrs Ramsay, speakingwith a ring of great pleasure in her voice. Of course it was French.
What passes for cookery in England is an abomination (they agreed). It isputting cabbages in water. It is roasting meat till it is like leather. It iscutting off the delicious skins of vegetables. "In which," said Mr Bankes,"all the virtue61 of the vegetable is contained." And the waste, said MrsRamsay. A whole French family could live on what an English cookthrows away. Spurred on by her sense that William's affection had comeback to her, and that everything was all right again, and that her suspensewas over, and that now she was free both to triumph and to mock,she laughed, she gesticulated, till Lily thought, How childlike, how absurdshe was, sitting up there with all her beauty opened again in her,talking about the skins of vegetables. There was something frighteningabout her. She was irresistible93. Always she got her own way in the end,Lily thought. Now she had brought this off—Paul and Minta, one mightsuppose, were engaged. Mr Bankes was dining here. She put a spell onthem all, by wishing, so simply, so directly, and Lily contrasted thatabundance with her own poverty of spirit, and supposed that it waspartly that belief (for her face was all lit up—without looking young, shelooked radiant) in this strange, this terrifying thing, which made PaulRayley, sitting at her side, all of a tremor94, yet abstract, absorbed, silent.
Mrs Ramsay, Lily felt, as she talked about the skins of vegetables, exaltedthat, worshipped that; held her hands over it to warm them, to protect it,and yet, having brought it all about, somehow laughed, led her victims,Lily felt, to the altar. It came over her too now—the emotion, the vibration,of love. How inconspicuous she felt herself by Paul's side! He,glowing, burning; she, aloof95, satirical; he, bound for adventure; she,moored to the shore; he, launched, incautious; she solitary96, left out—and,ready to implore97 a share, if it were a disaster, in his disaster, she saidshyly:
"When did Minta lose her brooch?"He smiled the most exquisite smile, veiled by memory, tinged98 bydreams. He shook his head. "On the beach," he said.
"I'm going to find it," he said, "I'm getting up early." This being keptsecret from Minta, he lowered his voice, and turned his eyes to whereshe sat, laughing, beside Mr Ramsay.
Lily wanted to protest violently and outrageously99 her desire to helphim, envisaging100 how in the dawn on the beach she would be the one topounce on the brooch half-hidden by some stone, and thus herself be includedamong the sailors and adventurers. But what did he reply to heroffer? She actually said with an emotion that she seldom let appear, "Letme come with you," and he laughed. He meant yes or no— either perhaps.
But it was not his meaning—it was the odd chuckle101 he gave, as ifhe had said, Throw yourself over the cliff if you like, I don't care. Heturned on her cheek the heat of love, its horror, its cruelty, its unscrupulosity.
It scorched102 her, and Lily, looking at Minta, being charming to MrRamsay at the other end of the table, flinched103 for her exposed to thesefangs, and was thankful. For at any rate, she said to herself, catchingsight of the salt cellar on the pattern, she need not marry, thank Heaven:
she need not undergo that degradation104. She was saved from that dilution105.
She would move the tree rather more to the middle.
Such was the complexity106 of things. For what happened to her, especiallystaying with the Ramsays, was to be made to feel violently two oppositethings at the same time; that's what you feel, was one; that's what Ifeel, was the other, and then they fought together in her mind, as now. Itis so beautiful, so exciting, this love, that I tremble on the verge107 of it, andoffer, quite out of my own habit, to look for a brooch on a beach; also it isthe stupidest, the most barbaric of human passions, and turns a niceyoung man with a profile like a gem's (Paul's was exquisite) into a bullywith a crowbar (he was swaggering, he was insolent) in the Mile EndRoad. Yet, she said to herself, from the dawn of time odes have beensung to love; wreaths heaped and roses; and if you asked nine peopleout of ten they would say they wanted nothing but this—love; while thewomen, judging from her own experience, would all the time be feeling,This is not what we want; there is nothing more tedious, puerile108, and inhumanethan this; yet it is also beautiful and necessary. Well then, wellthen? she asked, somehow expecting the others to go on with the argument,as if in an argument like this one threw one's own little bolt whichfell short obviously and left the others to carry it on. So she listenedagain to what they were saying in case they should throw any light uponthe question of love.
"Then," said Mr Bankes, "there is that liquid the English call coffee." "Oh, coffee!" said Mrs Ramsay. But it was much rather a question (shewas thoroughly109 roused, Lily could see, and talked very emphatically) ofreal butter and clean milk. Speaking with warmth and eloquence110, she describedthe iniquity111 of the English dairy system, and in what state milkwas delivered at the door, and was about to prove her charges, for shehad gone into the matter, when all round the table, beginning withAndrew in the middle, like a fire leaping from tuft to tuft of furze, herchildren laughed; her husband laughed; she was laughed at, fire-encircled,and forced to veil her crest112, dismount her batteries, and only retaliateby displaying the raillery and ridicule113 of the table to Mr Bankes asan example of what one suffered if one attacked the prejudices of theBritish Public.
Purposely, however, for she had it on her mind that Lily, who hadhelped her with Mr Tansley, was out of things, she exempted114 her fromthe rest; said "Lily anyhow agrees with me," and so drew her in, a littlefluttered, a little startled. (For she was thinking about love.) They wereboth out of things, Mrs Ramsay had been thinking, both Lily and CharlesTansley. Both suffered from the glow of the other two. He, it was clear,felt himself utterly115 in the cold; no woman would look at him with PaulRayley in the room. Poor fellow! Still, he had his dissertation87, the influenceof somebody upon something: he could take care of himself. WithLily it was different. She faded, under Minta's glow; became more inconspicuousthan ever, in her little grey dress with her little puckered116 faceand her little Chinese eyes. Everything about her was so small. Yet,thought Mrs Ramsay, comparing her with Minta, as she claimed her help(for Lily should bear her out she talked no more about her dairies thanher husband did about his boots—he would talk by the hour about hisboots) of the two, Lily at forty will be the better. There was in Lily athread of something; a flare117 of something; something of her own whichMrs Ramsay liked very much indeed, but no man would, she feared. Obviously,not, unless it were a much older man, like William Bankes. Butthen he cared, well, Mrs Ramsay sometimes thought that he cared, sincehis wife's death, perhaps for her. He was not "in love" of course; it wasone of those unclassified affections of which there are so many. Oh, butnonsense, she thought; William must marry Lily. They have so manythings in common. Lily is so fond of flowers. They are both cold andaloof and rather self-sufficing. She must arrange for them to take a longwalk together.
Foolishly, she had set them opposite each other. That could beremedied tomorrow. If it were fine, they should go for a picnic.
Everything seemed possible. Everything seemed right. Just now (but thiscannot last, she thought, dissociating herself from the moment whilethey were all talking about boots) just now she had reached security; shehovered like a hawk118 suspended; like a flag floated in an element of joywhich filled every nerve of her body fully25 and sweetly, not noisily, solemnlyrather, for it arose, she thought, looking at them all eating there,from husband and children and friends; all of which rising in this profoundstillness (she was helping William Bankes to one very small piecemore, and peered into the depths of the earthenware119 pot) seemed nowfor no special reason to stay there like a smoke, like a fume120 rising upwards,holding them safe together. Nothing need be said; nothing couldbe said. There it was, all round them. It partook, she felt, carefully helpingMr Bankes to a specially90 tender piece, of eternity121; as she had alreadyfelt about something different once before that afternoon; there is a coherencein things, a stability; something, she meant, is immune fromchange, and shines out (she glanced at the window with its ripple74 of reflectedlights) in the face of the flowing, the fleeting122, the spectral123, like aruby; so that again tonight she had the feeling she had had once today,already, of peace, of rest. Of such moments, she thought, the thing ismade that endures.
"Yes," she assured William Bankes, "there is plenty for everybody.""Andrew," she said, "hold your plate lower, or I shall spill it." (TheBOEUF EN DAUBE was a perfect triumph.) Here, she felt, putting thespoon down, where one could move or rest; could wait now (they wereall helped) listening; could then, like a hawk which lapses124 suddenly fromits high station, flaunt125 and sink on laughter easily, resting her wholeweight upon what at the other end of the table her husband was sayingabout the square root of one thousand two hundred and fifty-three. Thatwas the number, it seemed, on his watch.
What did it all mean? To this day she had no notion. A square root?
What was that? Her sons knew. She leant on them; on cubes and squareroots; that was what they were talking about now; on Voltaire and Madamede Stael; on the character of Napoleon; on the French system ofland tenure126; on Lord Rosebery; on Creevey's Memoirs127: she let it upholdher and sustain her, this admirable fabric128 of the masculine intelligence,which ran up and down, crossed this way and that, like iron girdersspanning the swaying fabric, upholding the world, so that she couldtrust herself to it utterly, even shut her eyes, or flicker129 them for a moment,as a child staring up from its pillow winks130 at the myriad131 layers of the leaves of a tree. Then she woke up. It was still being fabricated. WilliamBankes was praising the Waverly novels.
He read one of them every six months, he said. And why should thatmake Charles Tansley angry? He rushed in (all, thought Mrs Ramsay,because Prue will not be nice to him) and denounced the Waverly novelswhen he knew nothing about it, nothing about it whatsoever132, Mrs Ram-say thought, observing him rather than listening to what he said. Shecould see how it was from his manner—he wanted to assert himself, andso it would always be with him till he got his Professorship or marriedhis wife, and so need not be always saying, "I—I—I." For that was whathis criticism of poor Sir Walter, or perhaps it was Jane Austen, amountedto. "I—I—I." He was thinking of himself and the impression he was making,as she could tell by the sound of his voice, and his emphasis and hisuneasiness. Success would be good for him. At any rate they were offagain. Now she need not listen. It could not last, she knew, but at themoment her eyes were so clear that they seemed to go round the tableunveiling each of these people, and their thoughts and their feelings,without effort like a light stealing under water so that its ripples133 and thereeds in it and the minnows balancing themselves, and the sudden silenttrout are all lit up hanging, trembling. So she saw them; she heard them;but whatever they said had also this quality, as if what they said was likethe movement of a trout134 when, at the same time, one can see the rippleand the gravel135, something to the right, something to the left; and thewhole is held together; for whereas in active life she would be nettingand separating one thing from another; she would be saying she likedthe Waverly novels or had not read them; she would be urging herselfforward; now she said nothing. For the moment, she hung suspended.
"Ah, but how long do you think it'll last?" said somebody. It was as ifshe had antennae136 trembling out from her, which, intercepting137 certainsentences, forced them upon her attention. This was one of them. Shescented danger for her husband. A question like that would lead, almostcertainly, to something being said which reminded him of his own failure.
How long would he be read—he would think at once. WilliamBankes (who was entirely free from all such vanity) laughed, and said heattached no importance to changes in fashion. Who could tell what wasgoing to last—in literature or indeed in anything else?
"Let us enjoy what we do enjoy," he said. His integrity seemed to MrsRamsay quite admirable. He never seemed for a moment to think, Buthow does this affect me? But then if you had the other temperament,which must have praise, which must have encouragement, naturally you began (and she knew that Mr Ramsay was beginning) to be uneasy; towant somebody to say, Oh, but your work will last, Mr Ramsay, orsomething like that. He showed his uneasiness quite clearly now by saying,with some irritation138, that, anyhow, Scott (or was it Shakespeare ?)would last him his lifetime. He said it irritably139. Everybody, she thought,felt a little uncomfortable, without knowing why. Then Minta Doyle,whose instinct was fine, said bluffly140, absurdly, that she did not believethat any one really enjoyed reading Shakespeare. Mr Ramsay said grimly(but his mind was turned away again) that very few people liked it asmuch as they said they did. But, he added, there is considerable merit insome of the plays nevertheless, and Mrs Ramsay saw that it would be allright for the moment anyhow; he would laugh at Minta, and she, MrsRamsay saw, realising his extreme anxiety about himself, would, in herown way, see that he was taken care of, and praise him, somehow or other.
But she wished it was not necessary: perhaps it was her fault that itwas necessary. Anyhow, she was free now to listen to what Paul Rayleywas trying to say about books one had read as a boy. They lasted, hesaid. He had read some of Tolstoi at school. There was one he always remembered,but he had forgotten the name. Russian names were impossible,said Mrs Ramsay. "Vronsky," said Paul. He remembered thatbecause he always thought it such a good name for a villain141. "Vronsky,"said Mrs Ramsay; "Oh, ANNA KARENINA," but that did not take themvery far; books were not in their line. No, Charles Tansley would putthem both right in a second about books, but it was all so mixed up with,Am I saying the right thing? Am I making a good impression? that, afterall, one knew more about him than about Tolstoi, whereas, what Paulsaid was about the thing, simply, not himself, nothing else. Like all stupidpeople, he had a kind of modesty142 too, a consideration for what youwere feeling, which, once in a way at least, she found attractive. Now hewas thinking, not about himself, or about Tolstoi, but whether she wascold, whether she felt a draught143, whether she would like a pear.
No, she said, she did not want a pear. Indeed she had been keepingguard over the dish of fruit (without realising it) jealously, hoping thatnobody would touch it. Her eyes had been going in and out among thecurves and shadows of the fruit, among the rich purples of the lowlandgrapes, then over the horny ridge144 of the shell, putting a yellow against apurple, a curved shape against a round shape, without knowing why shedid it, or why, every time she did it, she felt more and more serene145; until,oh, what a pity that they should do it—a hand reached out, took a pear,and spoilt the whole thing. In sympathy she looked at Rose. She looked at Rose sitting between Jasper and Prue. How odd that one's childshould do that!
How odd to see them sitting there, in a row, her children, Jasper, Rose,Prue, Andrew, almost silent, but with some joke of their own going on,she guessed, from the twitching146 at their lips. It was something quiteapart from everything else, something they were hoarding147 up to laughover in their own room. It was not about their father, she hoped. No, shethought not. What was it, she wondered, sadly rather, for it seemed toher that they would laugh when she was not there. There was all thathoarded behind those rather set, still, mask-like faces, for they did notjoin in easily; they were like watchers, surveyors, a little raised or setapart from the grown-up people. But when she looked at Prue tonight,she saw that this was not now quite true of her. She was just beginning,just moving, just descending148. The faintest light was on her face, as if theglow of Minta opposite, some excitement, some anticipation149 of happinesswas reflected in her, as if the sun of the love of men and womenrose over the rim54 of the table-cloth, and without knowing what it wasshe bent towards it and greeted it. She kept looking at Minta, shyly, yetcuriously, so that Mrs Ramsay looked from one to the other and said,speaking to Prue in her own mind, You will be as happy as she is one ofthese days. You will be much happier, she added, because you are mydaughter, she meant; her own daughter must be happier than otherpeople's daughters. But dinner was over. It was time to go. They wereonly playing with things on their plates. She would wait until they haddone laughing at some story her husband was telling. He was having ajoke with Minta about a bet. Then she would get up.
She liked Charles Tansley, she thought, suddenly; she liked his laugh.
She liked him for being so angry with Paul and Minta. She liked his awkwardness.
There was a lot in that young man after all. And Lily, shethought, putting her napkin beside her plate, she always has some jokeof her own. One need never bother about Lily. She waited. She tuckedher napkin under the edge of her plate. Well, were they done now? No.
That story had led to another story. Her husband was in great spirits tonight,and wishing, she supposed, to make it all right with old Augustusafter that scene about the soup, had drawn150 him in— they were tellingstories about some one they had both known at college. She looked at thewindow in which the candle flames burnt brighter now that the paneswere black, and looking at that outside the voices came to her verystrangely, as if they were voices at a service in a cathedral, for she didnot listen to the words. The sudden bursts of laughter and then one voice (Minta's) speaking alone, reminded her of men and boys crying out theLatin words of a service in some Roman Catholic cathedral. She waited.
Her husband spoke. He was repeating something, and she knew it waspoetry from the rhythm and the ring of exultation151, and melancholy152 in hisvoice:
Come out and climb the garden path, Luriana Lurilee. The China roseis all abloom and buzzing with the yellow bee.
The words (she was looking at the window) sounded as if they werefloating like flowers on water out there, cut off from them all, as if no onehad said them, but they had come into existence of themselves.
And all the lives we ever lived and all the lives to be Are full of treesand changing leaves.
She did not know what they meant, but, like music, the words seemedto be spoken by her own voice, outside her self, saying quite easily andnaturally what had been in her mind the whole evening while she saiddifferent things. She knew, without looking round, that every one at thetable was listening to the voice saying:
I wonder if it seems to you, Luriana, Lurileewith the same sort of relief and pleasure that she had, as if this were, atlast, the natural thing to say, this were their own voice speaking.
But the voice had stopped. She looked round. She made herself get up.
Augustus Carmichael had risen and, holding his table napkin so that itlooked like a long white robe he stood chanting:
To see the Kings go riding by Over lawn and daisy lea With their palmleaves and cedar153 Luriana, Lurilee,and as she passed him, he turned slightly towards her repeating thelast words:
Luriana, Lurileeand bowed to her as if he did her homage154. Without knowing why, shefelt that he liked her better than he ever had done before; and with a feelingof relief and gratitude she returned his bow and passed through thedoor which he held open for her.
It was necessary now to carry everything a step further. With her footon the threshold she waited a moment longer in a scene which was vanishingeven as she looked, and then, as she moved and took Minta's armand left the room, it changed, it shaped itself differently; it had become,she knew, giving one last look at it over her shoulder, already the past.
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eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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merging
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| 合并（分类） | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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sterility
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| n.不生育，不结果，贫瘠，消毒，无菌 | |
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lodgings
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inflicts
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的第三人称单数 ) | |
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precisely
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determined
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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erect
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abasement
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flannel
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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savings
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briefly
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killing
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wasp
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teaspoon
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mused
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gliding
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punctiliously
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exquisite
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fully
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trifling
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devoted
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treacherous
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frail
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rigid
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bent
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detest
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strife
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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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pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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sarcastically
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scraps
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physically
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ribs
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thigh
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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44
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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45
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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46
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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47
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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49
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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50
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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51
taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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52
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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53
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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54
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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55
auspicious
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| adj.吉利的；幸运的，吉兆的 | |
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56
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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57
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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58
cascades
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| 倾泻( cascade的名词复数 )； 小瀑布（尤指一连串瀑布中的一支）； 瀑布状物； 倾泻（或涌出）的东西 | |
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59
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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60
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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61
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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62
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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63
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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64
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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65
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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66
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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67
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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68
trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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69
leopard
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| n.豹 | |
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70
tassel
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| n.流苏，穗；v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须 | |
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71
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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72
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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73
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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74
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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75
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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76
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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77
suffusion
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| n.充满 | |
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78
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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79
bantered
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| v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的过去式和过去分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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80
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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81
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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82
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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83
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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84
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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85
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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86
dissertations
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| 专题论文，学位论文( dissertation的名词复数 ) | |
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87
dissertation
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| n.（博士学位）论文，学术演讲，专题论文 | |
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88
surmount
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| vt.克服；置于…顶上 | |
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89
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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90
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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91
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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92
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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93
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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94
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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95
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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96
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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97
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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98
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
outrageously
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| 凶残地； 肆无忌惮地； 令人不能容忍地； 不寻常地 | |
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100
envisaging
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| 想像，设想( envisage的现在分词 ) | |
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101
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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102
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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103
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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105
dilution
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| n.稀释，淡化 | |
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106
complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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107
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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108
puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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109
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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110
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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111
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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112
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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113
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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114
exempted
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| 使免除[豁免]( exempt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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116
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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118
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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119
earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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120
fume
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| n.(usu pl.)(浓烈或难闻的)烟，气，汽 | |
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121
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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122
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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123
spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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124
lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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125
flaunt
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| vt.夸耀，夸饰 | |
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126
tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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127
memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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128
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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129
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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130
winks
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| v.使眼色( wink的第三人称单数 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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131
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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132
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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133
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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134
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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135
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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136
antennae
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| n.天线；触角 | |
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137
intercepting
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| 截取（技术），截接 | |
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138
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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139
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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140
bluffly
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| 率直地，粗率地 | |
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141
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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142
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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143
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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144
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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145
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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146
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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147
hoarding
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| n.贮藏；积蓄；临时围墙；囤积v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的现在分词 ) | |
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148
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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149
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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150
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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151
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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152
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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153
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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154
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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