She seemed to have shrivelled slightly, he thought. She looked a littleskimpy, wispy1; but not unattractive. He liked her. There had been sometalk of her marrying William Bankes once, but nothing had come of it.
His wife had been fond of her. He had been a little out of temper too atbreakfast. And then, and then—this was one of those moments when anenormous need urged him, without being conscious what it was, to approachany woman, to force them, he did not care how, his need was sogreat, to give him what he wanted: sympathy.
Was anybody looking after her? he said. Had she everything shewanted?
"Oh, thanks, everything," said Lily Briscoe nervously2. No; she couldnot do it. She ought to have floated off instantly upon some wave ofsympathetic expansion: the pressure on her was tremendous. But she remainedstuck. There was an awful pause. They both looked at the sea.
Why, thought Mr Ramsay, should she look at the sea when I am here?
She hoped it would be calm enough for them to land at the Lighthouse,she said. The Lighthouse! The Lighthouse! What's that got to do with it?
he thought impatiently. Instantly, with the force of some primeval gust(for really he could not restrain himself any longer), there issued fromhim such a groan3 that any other woman in the whole world would havedone something, said something—all except myself, thought Lily, girdingat herself bitterly, who am not a woman, but a peevish4, ill-tempered,dried-up old maid, presumably.
[Mr Ramsay sighed to the full. He waited. Was she not going to sayanything? Did she not see what he wanted from her? Then he said hehad a particular reason for wanting to go to the Lighthouse. His wifeused to send the men things. There was a poor boy with a tuberculouship, the lightkeeper's son. He sighed profoundly. He sighed significantly.
All Lily wished was that this enormous flood of grief, this insatiable hungerfor sympathy, this demand that she should surrender herself up tohim entirely5, and even so he had sorrows enough to keep her supplied for ever, should leave her, should be diverted (she kept looking at thehouse, hoping for an interruption) before it swept her down in its flow.
"Such expeditions," said Mr Ramsay, scraping the ground with his toe,"are very painful." Still Lily said nothing. (She is a stock, she is a stone, hesaid to himself.) "They are very exhausting," he said, looking, with asickly look that nauseated6 her (he was acting7, she felt, this great man wasdramatising himself), at his beautiful hands. It was horrible, it was indecent.
Would they never come, she asked, for she could not sustain thisenormous weight of sorrow, support these heavy draperies of grief (hehad assumed a pose of extreme decreptitude; he even tottered8 a little ashe stood there) a moment longer.
Still she could say nothing; the whole horizon seemed swept bare ofobjects to talk about; could only feel, amazedly, as Mr Ramsay stoodthere, how his gaze seemed to fall dolefully over the sunny grass anddiscolour it, and cast over the rubicund9, drowsy10, entirely contented11 figureof Mr Carmichael, reading a French novel on a deck-chair, a veil ofcrape, as if such an existence, flaunting12 its prosperity in a world of woe13,were enough to provoke the most dismal14 thoughts of all. Look at him, heseemed to be saying, look at me; and indeed, all the time he was feeling,Think of me, think of me. Ah, could that bulk only be wafted15 alongsideof them, Lily wished; had she only pitched her easel a yard or two closerto him; a man, any man, would staunch this effusion, would stop theselamentations. A woman, she had provoked this horror; a woman, sheshould have known how to deal with it. It was immensely to her discredit,sexually, to stand there dumb. One said—what did one say?—Oh, MrRamsay! Dear Mr Ramsay! That was what that kind old lady whosketched, Mrs Beckwith, would have said instantly, and rightly. But, no.
They stood there, isolated16 from the rest of the world. His immense self-pity, his demand for sympathy poured and spread itself in pools at therfeet, and all she did, miserable17 sinner that she was, was to draw herskirts a little closer round her ankles, lest she should get wet. In completesilence she stood there, grasping her paint brush.
Heaven could never be sufficiently18 praised! She heard sounds in thehouse. James and Cam must be coming. But Mr Ramsay, as if he knewthat his time ran short, exerted upon her solitary19 figure the immensepressure of his concentrated woe; his age; his frailty20: his desolation;when suddenly, tossing his head impatiently, in his annoyance—for afterall, what woman could resist him?—he noticed that his boot-laces wereuntied. Remarkable21 boots they were too, Lily thought, looking down atthem: sculptured; colossal22; like everything that Mr Ramsay wore, from his frayed23 tie to his half-buttoned waistcoat, his own indisputably. Shecould see them walking to his room of their own accord, expressive24 inhis absence of pathos25, surliness, ill-temper, charm.
"What beautiful boots!" she exclaimed. She was ashamed of herself. Topraise his boots when he asked her to solace26 his soul; when he hadshown her his bleeding hands, his lacerated heart, and asked her to pitythem, then to say, cheerfully, "Ah, but what beautiful boots you wear!"deserved, she knew, and she looked up expecting to get it in one of hissudden roars of ill-temper complete annihilation.
Instead, Mr Ramsay smiled. His pall27, his draperies, his infirmities fellfrom him. Ah, yes, he said, holding his foot up for her to look at, theywere first-rate boots. There was only one man in England who couldmake boots like that. Boots are among the chief curses of mankind, hesaid. "Bootmakers make it their business," he exclaimed, "to cripple andtorture the human foot." They are also the most obstinate28 and perverse29 ofmankind. It had taken him the best part of his youth to get boots made asthey should be made. He would have her observe (he lifted his right footand then his left) that she had never seen boots made quite that shapebefore. They were made of the finest leather in the world, also. Mostleather was mere30 brown paper and cardboard. He looked complacentlyat his foot, still held in the air. They had reached, she felt, a sunny islandwhere peace dwelt, sanity31 reigned32 and the sun for ever shone, theblessed island of good boots. Her heart warmed to him. "Now let me seeif you can tie a knot," he said. He poohpoohed her feeble system. Heshowed her his own invention. Once you tied it, it never came undone33.
Three times he knotted her shoe; three times he unknotted it.
Why, at this completely inappropriate moment, when he was stoopingover her shoe, should she be so tormented34 with sympathy for him that,as she stooped too, the blood rushed to her face, and, thinking of her callousness(she had called him a play-actor) she felt her eyes swell35 andtingle with tears? Thus occupied he seemed to her a figure of infinitepathos. He tied knots. He bought boots. There was no helping36 Mr Ram-say on the journey he was going. But now just as she wished to saysomething, could have said something, perhaps, here they were—Camand James. They appeared on the terrace. They came, lagging, side byside, a serious, melancholy37 couple.
But why was it like THAT that they came? She could not help feelingannoyed with them; they might have come more cheerfully; they mighthave given him what, now that they were off, she would not have the chance of giving him. For she felt a sudden emptiness; a frustration38. Herfeeling had come too late; there it was ready; but he no longer needed it.
He had become a very distinguished39, elderly man, who had no need ofher whatsoever40. She felt snubbed. He slung41 a knapsack round hisshoulders. He shared out the parcels—there were a number of them, illtied in brown paper. He sent Cam for a cloak. He had all the appearanceof a leader making ready for an expedition. Then, wheeling about, he ledthe way with his firm military tread, in those wonderful boots, carryingbrown paper parcels, down the path, his children following him. Theylooked, she thought, as if fate had devoted42 them to some stern enterprise,and they went to it, still young enough to be drawn43 acquiescent44 intheir father's wake, obediently, but with a pallor in their eyes whichmade her feel that they suffered something beyond their years in silence.
So they passed the edge of the lawn, and it seemed to Lily that shewatched a procession go, drawn on by some stress of common feelingwhich made it, faltering45 and flagging as it was, a little company boundtogether and strangely impressive to her. Politely, but very distantly, MrRamsay raised his hand and saluted46 her as they passed.
But what a face, she thought, immediately finding the sympathywhich she had not been asked to give troubling her for expression. Whathad made it like that? Thinking, night after night, she supposed—aboutthe reality of kitchen tables, she added, remembering the symbol whichin her vagueness as to what Mr Ramsay did think about Andrew hadgiven her. (He had been killed by the splinter of a shell instantly, she bethoughther.) The kitchen table was something visionary, austere;something bare, hard, not ornamental47. There was no colour to it; it wasall edges and angles; it was uncompromisingly plain. But Mr Ramsaykept always his eyes fixed48 upon it, never allowed himself to be distractedor deluded49, until his face became worn too and ascetic50 and partook ofthis unornamented beauty which so deeply impressed her. Then, she recalled(standing where he had left her, holding her brush), worries hadfretted it—not so nobly. He must have had his doubts about that table,she supposed; whether the table was a real table; whether it was worththe time he gave to it; whether he was able after all to find it. He had haddoubts, she felt, or he would have asked less of people. That was whatthey talked about late at night sometimes, she suspected; and then nextday Mrs Ramsay looked tired, and Lily flew into a rage with him oversome absurd little thing. But now he had nobody to talk to about thattable, or his boots, or his knots; and he was like a lion seeking whom hecould devour51, and his face had that touch of desperation, of exaggeration in it which alarmed her, and made her pull her skirts about her. Andthen, she recalled, there was that sudden revivification, that sudden flare(when she praised his boots), that sudden recovery of vitality52 and interestin ordinary human things, which too passed and changed (for hewas always changing, and hid nothing) into that other final phase whichwas new to her and had, she owned, made herself ashamed of her ownirritability, when it seemed as if he had shed worries and ambitions, andthe hope of sympathy and the desire for praise, had entered some otherregion, was drawn on, as if by curiosity, in dumb colloquy53, whether withhimself or another, at the head of that little procession out of one's range.
An extraordinary face! The gate banged.
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wispy
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| adj.模糊的；纤细的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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nauseated
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| adj.作呕的，厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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rubicund
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| adj.(脸色)红润的 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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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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frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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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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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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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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acquiescent
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| adj.默许的，默认的 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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51
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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52
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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