Of course, she said to herself, coming into the room, she had to comehere to get something she wanted. First she wanted to sit down in a particularchair under a particular lamp. But she wanted something more,though she did not know, could not think what it was that she wanted.
She looked at her husband (taking up her stocking and beginning toknit), and saw that he did not want to be interrupted— that was clear.
He was reading something that moved him very much. He was halfsmiling and then she knew he was controlling his emotion. He was tossingthe pages over. He was acting1 it—perhaps he was thinking himselfthe person in the book. She wondered what book it was. Oh, it was oneof old Sir Walter's she saw, adjusting the shade of her lamp so that thelight fell on her knitting. For Charles Tansley had been saying (shelooked up as if she expected to hear the crash of books on the floorabove), had been saying that people don't read Scott any more. Then herhusband thought, "That's what they'll say of me;" so he went and got oneof those books. And if he came to the conclusion "That's true" whatCharles Tansley said, he would accept it about Scott. (She could see thathe was weighing, considering, putting this with that as he read.) But notabout himself. He was always uneasy about himself. That troubled her.
He would always be worrying about his own books—will they be read,are they good, why aren't they better, what do people think of me? Notliking to think of him so, and wondering if they had guessed at dinnerwhy he suddenly became irritable2 when they talked about fame andbooks lasting3, wondering if the children were laughing at that, shetwitched the stockings out, and all the fine gravings came drawn5 withsteel instruments about her lips and forehead, and she grew still like atree which has been tossing and quivering and now, when the breezefalls, settles, leaf by leaf, into quiet.
It didn't matter, any of it, she thought. A great man, a great book,fame—who could tell? She knew nothing about it. But it was his waywith him, his truthfulness—for instance at dinner she had been thinking quite instinctively6, If only he would speak! She had complete trust inhim. And dismissing all this, as one passes in diving now a weed, now astraw, now a bubble, she felt again, sinking deeper, as she had felt in thehall when the others were talking, There is somethingwant—something I have come to get, and she fell deeper and deeperwithout knowing quite what it was, with her eyes closed. And shewaited a little, knitting, wondering, and slowly rose those words theyhad said at dinner, "the China rose is all abloom and buzzing with thehoney bee," began washing from side to side of her mind rhythmically,and as they washed, words, like little shaded lights, one red, one blue,one yellow, lit up in the dark of her mind, and seemed leaving theirperches up there to fly across and across, or to cry out and to be echoed;so she turned and felt on the table beside her for a book.
And all the lives we ever livedAnd all the lives to be,Are full of trees and changing leaves,she murmured, sticking her needles into the stocking. And she openedthe book and began reading here and there at random7, and as she did so,she felt that she was climbing backwards8, upwards9, shoving her way upunder petals10 that curved over her, so that she only knew this is white, orthis is red. She did not know at first what the words meant at all.
Steer11, hither steer your winged pines, all beaten Marinersshe read and turned the page, swinging herself, zigzagging12 this wayand that, from one line to another as from one branch to another, fromone red and white flower to another, until a little sound roused her—herhusband slapping his thighs13. Their eyes met for a second; but they didnot want to speak to each other. They had nothing to say, but somethingseemed, nevertheless, to go from him to her. It was the life, it was thepower of it, it was the tremendous humour, she knew, that made himslap his thighs. Don't interrupt me, he seemed to be saying, don't sayanything; just sit there. And he went on reading. His lips twitched4. Itfilled him. It fortified14 him. He clean forgot all the little rubs and digs ofthe evening, and how it bored him unutterably to sit still while peopleate and drank interminably, and his being so irritable with his wife andso touchy15 and minding when they passed his books over as if they didn'texist at all. But now, he felt, it didn't matter a damn who reached Z (ifthought ran like an alphabet from A to Z). Somebody would reach it—ifnot he, then another. This man's strength and sanity16, his feeling forstraight forward simple things, these fishermen, the poor old crazed creature in Mucklebackit's cottage made him feel so vigorous, so relievedof something that he felt roused and triumphant17 and could not chokeback his tears. Raising the book a little to hide his face, he let them falland shook his head from side to side and forgot himself completely (butnot one or two reflections about morality and French novels and Englishnovels and Scott's hands being tied but his view perhaps being as true asthe other view), forgot his own bothers and failures completely in poorSteenie's drowning and Mucklebackit's sorrow (that was Scott at his best)and the astonishing delight and feeling of vigour18 that it gave him.
Well, let them improve upon that, he thought as he finished thechapter. He felt that he had been arguing with somebody, and had gotthe better of him. They could not improve upon that, whatever theymight say; and his own position became more secure. The lovers werefiddlesticks, he thought, collecting it all in his mind again. That's fiddlesticks,that's first-rate, he thought, putting one thing beside another. Buthe must read it again. He could not remember the whole shape of thething. He had to keep his judgement in suspense19. So he returned to theother thought—if young men did not care for this, naturally they did notcare for him either. One ought not to complain, thought Mr Ramsay, tryingto stifle20 his desire to complain to his wife that young men did not admirehim. But he was determined21; he would not bother her again. Herehe looked at her reading. She looked very peaceful, reading. He liked tothink that every one had taken themselves off and that he and she werealone. The whole of life did not consist in going to bed with a woman, hethought, returning to Scott and Balzac, to the English novel and theFrench novel.
Mrs Ramsay raised her head and like a person in a light sleep seemedto say that if he wanted her to wake she would, she really would, butotherwise, might she go on sleeping, just a little longer, just a littlelonger? She was climbing up those branches, this way and that, layinghands on one flower and then another.
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose,she read, and so reading she was ascending22, she felt, on to the top, onto the summit. How satisfying! How restful! All the odds23 and ends of theday stuck to this magnet; her mind felt swept, felt clean. And then thereit was, suddenly entire; she held it in her hands, beautiful and reasonable,clear and complete, here—the sonnet24.
But she was becoming conscious of her husband looking at her. Hewas smiling at her, quizzically, as if he were ridiculing25 her gently for being asleep in broad daylight, but at the same time he was thinking, Goon reading. You don't look sad now, he thought. And he wondered whatshe was reading, and exaggerated her ignorance, her simplicity26, for heliked to think that she was not clever, not book-learned at all. Hewondered if she understood what she was reading. Probably not, hethought. She was astonishingly beautiful. Her beauty seemed to him, ifthat were possible, to increaseYet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,As with your shadow I with these did play,she finished.
"Well?" she said, echoing his smile dreamily, looking up from herbook.
As with your shadow I with these did play,she murmured, putting the book on the table.
What had happened, she wondered, as she took up her knitting, sinceshe had seen him alone? She remembered dressing27, and seeing themoon; Andrew holding his plate too high at dinner; being depressed28 bysomething William had said; the birds in the trees; the sofa on the landing;the children being awake; Charles Tansley waking them with hisbooks falling—oh, no, that she had invented; and Paul having a wash-leather case for his watch. Which should she tell him about?
"They're engaged," she said, beginning to knit, "Paul and Minta.""So I guessed," he said. There was nothing very much to be said aboutit. Her mind was still going up and down, up and down with the poetry;he was still feeling very vigorous, very forthright29, after reading aboutSteenie's funeral. So they sat silent. Then she became aware that shewanted him to say something.
Anything, anything, she thought, going on with her knitting. Anythingwill do.
"How nice it would be to marry a man with a wash-leather bag for hiswatch," she said, for that was the sort of joke they had together.
He snorted. He felt about this engagement as he always felt about anyengagement; the girl is much too good for that young man. Slowly itcame into her head, why is it then that one wants people to marry? Whatwas the value, the meaning of things? (Every word they said now wouldbe true.) Do say something, she thought, wishing only to hear his voice.
For the shadow, the thing folding them in was beginning, she felt, to close round her again. Say anything, she begged, looking at him, as if forhelp.
He was silent, swinging the compass on his watch-chain to and fro,and thinking of Scott's novels and Balzac's novels. But through thecrepuscular walls of their intimacy30, for they were drawing together, involuntarily,coming side by side, quite close, she could feel his mind likea raised hand shadowing her mind; and he was beginning, now that herthoughts took a turn he disliked—towards this "pessimism31" as he calledit—to fidget, though he said nothing, raising his hand to his forehead,twisting a lock of hair, letting it fall again.
"You won't finish that stocking tonight," he said, pointing to her stocking.
That was what she wanted—the asperity32 in his voice reproving her.
If he says it's wrong to be pessimistic probably it is wrong, she thought;the marriage will turn out all right.
"No," she said, flattening33 the stocking out upon her knee, "I shan't finishit."And what then? For she felt that he was still looking at her, but that hislook had changed. He wanted something—wanted the thing she alwaysfound it so difficult to give him; wanted her to tell him that she lovedhim. And that, no, she could not do. He found talking so much easierthan she did. He could say things—she never could. So naturally it wasalways he that said the things, and then for some reason he would mindthis suddenly, and would reproach her. A heartless woman he calledher; she never told him that she loved him. But it was not so—it was notso. It was only that she never could say what she felt. Was there nocrumb on his coat? Nothing she could do for him? Getting up, she stoodat the window with the reddish-brown stocking in her hands, partly toturn away from him, partly because she remembered how beautiful it oftenis—the sea at night. But she knew that he had turned his head as sheturned; he was watching her. She knew that he was thinking, You aremore beautiful than ever. And she felt herself very beautiful. Will younot tell me just for once that you love me? He was thinking that, for hewas roused, what with Minta and his book, and its being the end of theday and their having quarrelled about going to the Lighthouse. But shecould not do it; she could not say it. Then, knowing that he was watchingher, instead of saying anything she turned, holding her stocking, andlooked at him. And as she looked at him she began to smile, for thoughshe had not said a word, he knew, of course he knew, that she loved him.
He could not deny it. And smiling she looked out of the window andsaid (thinking to herself, Nothing on earth can equal this happiness)—"Yes, you were right. It's going to be wet tomorrow. You won't be ableto go." And she looked at him smiling. For she had triumphed again. Shehad not said it: yet he knew.
收听单词发音 |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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zigzagging
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| v.弯弯曲曲地走路，曲折地前进( zigzag的现在分词 )；盘陀 | |
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thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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ridiculing
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的现在分词 ) | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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forthright
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| adj.直率的，直截了当的 [同]frank | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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flattening
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| n. 修平 动词flatten的现在分词 | |
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