So much depends then, thought Lily Briscoe, looking at the sea whichhad scarcely a stain on it, which was so soft that the sails and the cloudsseemed set in its blue, so much depends, she thought, upon distance:
whether people are near us or far from us; for her feeling for Mr Ramsaychanged as he sailed further and further across the bay. It seemed to beelongated, stretched out; he seemed to become more and more remote.
He and his children seemed to be swallowed up in that blue, that distance;but here, on the lawn, close at hand, Mr Carmichael suddenlygrunted. She laughed. He clawed his book up from the grass. He settledinto his chair again puffing1 and blowing like some sea monster. That wasdifferent altogether, because he was so near. And now again all wasquiet. They must be out of bed by this time, she supposed, looking at thehouse, but nothing appeared there. But then, she remembered, they hadalways made off directly a meal was over, on business of their own. Itwas all in keeping with this silence, this emptiness, and the unreality ofthe early morning hour. It was a way things had sometimes, she thought,lingering for a moment and looking at the long glittering windows andthe plume2 of blue smoke: they became illness, before habits had spunthemselves across the surface, one felt that same unreality, which was sostartling; felt something emerge. Life was most vivid then. One could beat one's ease. Mercifully one need not say, very briskly, crossing the lawnto greet old Mrs Beckwith, who would be coming out to find a corner tosit in, "Oh, good-morning, Mrs Beckwith! What a lovely day! Are you goingto be so bold as to sit in the sun? Jasper's hidden the chairs. Do let mefind you one!" and all the rest of the usual chatter3. One need not speak atall. One glided4, one shook one's sails (there was a good deal of movementin the bay, boats were starting off) between things, beyond things.
Empty it was not, but full to the brim. She seemed to be standing5 up tothe lips in some substance, to move and float and sink in it, yes, for thesewaters were unfathomably deep. Into them had spilled so many lives.
The Ramsays'; the children's; and all sorts of waifs and strays of things besides. A washer-woman with her basket; a rook, a red-hot poker6; thepurples and grey-greens of flowers: some common feeling which heldthe whole together.
It was some such feeling of completeness perhaps which, ten yearsago, standing almost where she stood now, had made her say that shemust be in love with the place. Love had a thousand shapes. There mightbe lovers whose gift it was to choose out the elements of things and placethem together and so, giving them a wholeness not theirs in life, make ofsome scene, or meeting of people (all now gone and separate), one ofthose globed compacted things over which thought lingers, and loveplays.
Her eyes rested on the brown speck7 of Mr Ramsay's sailing boat. Theywould be at the Lighthouse by lunch time she supposed. But the windhad freshened, and, as the sky changed slightly and the sea changedslightly and the boats altered their positions, the view, which a momentbefore had seemed miraculously8 fixed9, was now unsatisfactory. Thewind had blown the trail of smoke about; there was something displeasingabout the placing of the ships.
The disproportion there seemed to upset some harmony in her ownmind. She felt an obscure distress10. It was confirmed when she turned toher picture. She had been wasting her morning. For whatever reason shecould not achieve that razor edge of balance between two oppositeforces; Mr Ramsay and the picture; which was necessary. There wassomething perhaps wrong with the design? Was it, she wondered, thatthe line of the wall wanted breaking, was it that the mass of the trees wastoo heavy? She smiled ironically; for had she not thought, when shebegan, that she had solved her problem?
What was the problem then? She must try to get hold of something thtevaded her. It evaded11 her when she thought of Mrs Ramsay; it evadedher now when she thought of her picture. Phrases came. Visions came.
Beautiful pictures. Beautiful phrases. But what she wished to get hold ofwas that very jar on the nerves, the thing itself before it has been madeanything. Get that and start afresh; get that and start afresh; she said desperately,pitching herself firmly again before her easel. It was a miserablemachine, an inefficient13 machine, she thought, the human apparatus14 forpainting or for feeling; it always broke down at the critical moment;heroically, one must force it on. She stared, frowning. There was thehedge, sure enough. But one got nothing by soliciting15 urgently. One gotonly a glare in the eye from looking at the line of the wall, or from thinking—she wore a grey hat. She was astonishingly beautiful. Let itcome, she thought, if it will come. For there are moments when one canneither think nor feel. And if one can neither think nor feel, she thought,where is one?
Here on the grass, on the ground, she thought, sitting down, and examiningwith her brush a little colony of plantains. For the lawn wasvery rough. Here sitting on the world, she thought, for she could notshake herself free from the sense that everything this morning was happeningfor the first time, perhaps for the last time, as a traveller, eventhough he is half asleep, knows, looking out of the train window, that hemust look now, for he will never see that town, or that mule-cart, or thatwoman at work in the fields, again. The lawn was the world; they wereup here together, on this exalted16 station, she thought, looking at old MrCarmichael, who seemed (though they had not said a word all this time)to share her thoughts. And she would never see him again perhaps. Hewas growing old. Also, she remembered, smiling at the slipper17 thatdangled from his foot, he was growing famous. People said that his poetrywas "so beautiful." They went and published things he had writtenforty years ago. There was a famous man now called Carmichael, shesmiled, thinking how many shapes one person might wear, how he wasthat in the newspapers, but here the same as he had always been. Helooked the same—greyer, rather. Yes, he looked the same, but somebodyhad said, she recalled, that when he had heard of Andrew Ramsay'sdeath (he was killed in a second by a shell; he should have been a greatmathematician) Mr Carmichael had "lost all interest in life." What did itmean—that? she wondered. Had he marched through Trafalgar Squaregrasping a big stick? Had he turned pages over and over, without readingthem, sitting in his room in St. John's Wood alone? She did not knowwhat he had done, when he heard that Andrew was killed, but she felt itin him all the same. They only mumbled18 at each other on staircases; theylooked up at the sky and said it will be fine or it won't be fine. But thiswas one way of knowing people, she thought: to know the outline, notthe detail, to sit in one's garden and look at the slopes of a hill runningpurple down into the distant heather. She knew him in that way. Sheknew that he had changed somehow. She had never read a line of his poetry.
She thought that she knew how it went though, slowly and sonorously19.
It was seasoned and mellow20. It was about the desert and thecamel. It was about the palm tree and the sunset. It was extremely impersonal;it said something about death; it said very little about love. Therewas an impersonality21 about him. He wanted very little of other people.
Had he not always lurched rather awkwardly past the drawing-roomwindow with some newspaper under his arm, trying to avoid Mrs Ram-say whom for some reason he did not much like? On that account, ofcourse, she would always try to make him stop. He would bow to her.
He would halt unwillingly22 and bow profoundly. Annoyed that he didnot want anything of her, Mrs Ramsay would ask him (Lily could hearher) wouldn't he like a coat, a rug, a newspaper? No, he wanted nothing.
(Here he bowed.) There was some quality in her which he did not muchlike. It was perhaps her masterfulness, her positiveness, somethingmatter-of-fact in her. She was so direct.
(A noise drew her attention to the drawing-room window—the squeakof a hinge. The light breeze was toying with the window.)There must have been people who disliked her very much, Lilythought (Yes; she realised that the drawing-room step was empty, but ithad no effect on her whatever. She did not want Mrs Ramsaynow.)—People who thought her too sure, too drastic.
Also, her beauty offended people probably. How monotonous23, theywould say, and the same always! They preferred another type—the dark,the vivacious24. Then she was weak with her husband. She let him makethose scenes. Then she was reserved. Nobody knew exactly what hadhappened to her. And (to go back to Mr Carmichael and his dislike) onecould not imagine Mrs Ramsay standing painting, lying reading, a wholemorning on the lawn. It was unthinkable. Without saying a word, theonly token of her errand a basket on her arm, she went off to the town, tothe poor, to sit in some stuffy25 little bedroom. Often and often Lily hadseen her go silently in the midst of some game, some discussion, withher basket on her arm, very upright. She had noted26 her return. She hadthought, half laughing (she was so methodical with the tea cups), halfmoved (her beauty took one's breath away), eyes that are closing in painhave looked on you. You have been with them there.
And then Mrs Ramsay would be annoyed because somebody was late,or the butter not fresh, or the teapot chipped. And all the time she wassaying that the butter was not fresh one would be thinking of Greektemples, and how beauty had been with them there in that stuffy littleroom. She never talked of it—she went, punctually, directly. It was herinstinct to go, an instinct like the swallows for the south, the artichokesfor the sun, turning her infallibly to the human race, making her nest inits heart. And this, like all instincts, was a little distressing27 to people whodid not share it; to Mr Carmichael perhaps, to herself certainly. Some notion was in both of them about the ineffectiveness of action, the supremacyof thought. Her going was a reproach to them, gave a differenttwist to the world, so that they were led to protest, seeing their own prepossessionsdisappear, and clutch at them vanishing. Charles Tansleydid that too: it was part of the reason why one disliked him. He upset theproportions of one's world. And what had happened to him, shewondered, idly stirring the platains with her brush. He had got his fellowship.
He had married; he lived at Golder's Green.
She had gone one day into a Hall and heard him speaking during thewar. He was denouncing something: he was condemning28 somebody. Hewas preaching brotherly love. And all she felt was how could he love hiskind who did not know one picture from another, who had stood behindher smoking shag ("fivepence an ounce, Miss Briscoe") and making it hisbusiness to tell her women can't write, women can't paint, not so muchthat he believed it, as that for some odd reason he wished it? There hewas lean and red and raucous29, preaching love from a platform (therewere ants crawling about among the plantains which she disturbed withher brush—red, energetic, shiny ants, rather like Charles Tansley). Shehad looked at him ironically from her seat in the half-empty hall, pumpinglove into that chilly30 space, and suddenly, there was the old cask orwhatever it was bobbing up and down among the waves and Mrs Ram-say looking for her spectacle case among the pebbles31. "Oh, dear! What anuisance! Lost again. Don't bother, Mr Tansley. I lose thousands everysummer," at which he pressed his chin back against his collar, as if afraidto sanction such exaggeration, but could stand it in her whom he liked,and smiled very charmingly. He must have confided32 in her on one ofthose long expeditions when people got separated and walked backalone. He was educating his little sister, Mrs Ramsay had told her. It wasimmensely to his credit. Her own idea of him was grotesque33, Lily knewwell, stirring the plantains with her brush. Half one's notions of otherpeople were, after all, grotesque. They served private purposes of one'sown. He did for her instead of a whipping-boy. She found herself flagellatinghis lean flanks when she was out of temper. If she wanted to beserious about him she had to help herself to Mrs Ramsay's sayings, tolook at him through her eyes.
She raised a little mountain for the ants to climb over. She reducedthem to a frenzy34 of indecision by this interference in their cosmogony.
Some ran this way, others that.
One wanted fifty pairs of eyes to see with, she reflected. Fifty pairs ofeyes were not enough to get round that one woman with, she thought.
Among them, must be one that was stone blind to her beauty. Onewanted most some secret sense, fine as air, with which to steal throughkeyholes and surround her where she sat knitting, talking, sitting silentin the window alone; which took to itself and treasured up like the airwhich held the smoke of the steamer, her thoughts, her imaginations, herdesires. What did the hedge mean to her, what did the garden mean toher, what did it mean to her when a wave broke? (Lily looked up, as shehad seen Mrs Ramsay look up; she too heard a wave falling on thebeach.) And then what stirred and trembled in her mind when the childrencried, "How's that? How's that?" cricketing? She would stop knittingfor a second. She would look intent. Then she would lapse35 again,and suddenly Mr Ramsay stopped dead in his pacing in front of her andsome curious shock passed through her and seemed to rock her in profoundagitation on its breast when stopping there he stood over her andlooked down at her. Lily could see him.
He stretched out his hand and raised her from her chair. It seemedsomehow as if he had done it before; as if he had once bent36 in the sameway and raised her from a boat which, lying a few inches off some island,had required that the ladies should thus be helped on shore by thegentlemen. An old-fashioned scene that was, which required, verynearly, crinolines and peg-top trousers. Letting herself be helped by him,Mrs Ramsay had thought (Lily supposed) the time has come now. Yes,she would say it now. Yes, she would marry him. And she steppedslowly, quietly on shore. Probably she said one word only, letting herhand rest still in his. I will marry you, she might have said, with herhand in his; but no more. Time after time the same thrill had passedbetween them—obviously it had, Lily thought, smoothing a way for herants. She was not inventing; she was only trying to smooth outsomething she had been given years ago folded up; something she hadseen. For in the rough and tumble of daily life, with all those childrenabout, all those visitors, one had constantly a sense of repetition—of onething falling where another had fallen, and so setting up an echo whichchimed in the air and made it full of vibrations37.
But it would be a mistake, she thought, thinking how they walked offtogether, arm in arm, past the greenhouse, to simplify their relationship.
It was no monotony of bliss—she with her impulses and quicknesses; hewith his shudders38 and glooms. Oh, no. The bedroom door would slamviolently early in the morning. He would start from the table in a temper.
He would whizz his plate through the window. Then all through thehouse there would be a sense of doors slamming and blinds fluttering, as if a gusty39 wind were blowing and people scudded40 about trying in ahasty way to fasten hatches and make things ship-shape. She had metPaul Rayley like that one day on the stairs. They had laughed andlaughed, like a couple of children, all because Mr Ramsay, finding anearwig in his milk at breakfast had sent the whole thing flying throughthe air on to the terrace outside. 'An earwig, Prue murmured, awestruck,'in his milk.' Other people might find centipedes. But he had built roundhim such a fence of sanctity, and occupied the space with such a demeanourof majesty41 that an earwig in his milk was a monster.
But it tired Mrs Ramsay, it cowed her a little—the plates whizzing andthe doors slamming. And there would fall between them sometimes longrigid silences, when, in a state of mind which annoyed Lily in her, halfplaintive, half resentful, she seemed unable to surmount42 the tempestcalmly, or to laugh as they laughed, but in her weariness perhaps concealedsomething. She brooded and sat silent. After a time he wouldhang stealthily about the places where she was—roaming under the windowwhere she sat writing letters or talking, for she would take care tobe busy when he passed, and evade12 him, and pretend not to see him.
Then he would turn smooth as silk, affable, urbane43, and try to win herso. Still she would hold off, and now she would assert for a brief seasonsome of those prides and airs the due of her beauty which she was generallyutterly without; would turn her head; would look so, over hershoulder, always with some Minta, Paul, or William Bankes at her side.
At length, standing outside the group the very figure of a famished44 wolfhound(Lily got up off the grass and stood looking at the steps, at thewindow, where she had seen him), he would say her name, once only,for all the world like a wolf barking in the snow, but still she held back;and he would say it once more, and this time something in the tonewould rouse her, and she would go to him, leaving them all of a sudden,and they would walk off together among the pear trees, the cabbages,and the raspberry beds. They would have it out together. But with whatattitudes and with what words? Such a dignity was theirs in this relationshipthat, turning away, she and Paul and Minta would hide theircuriosity and their discomfort45, and begin picking flowers, throwing balls,chattering, until it was time for dinner, and there they were, he at oneend of the table, she at the other, as usual.
"Why don't some of you take up botany?.. With all those legs and armswhy doesn't one of you… ?" So they would talk as usual, laughing,among the children. All would be as usual, save only for some quiver, asof a blade in the air, which came and went between them as if the usual sight of the children sitting round their soup plates had freshened itselfin their eyes after that hour among the pears and the cabbages. Especially,Lily thought, Mrs Ramsay would glance at Prue. She sat in themiddle between brothers and sisters, always occupied, it seemed, seeingthat nothing went wrong so that she scarcely spoke46 herself. How Pruemust have blamed herself for that earwig in the milk How white she hadgone when Mr Ramsay threw his plate through the window! How shedrooped under those long silences between them! Anyhow, her mothernow would seem to be making it up to her; assuring her that everythingwas well; promising47 her that one of these days that same happinesswould be hers. She had enjoyed it for less than a year, however.
She had let the flowers fall from her basket, Lily thought, screwing upher eyes and standing back as if to look at her picture, which she was nottouching, however, with all her faculties48 in a trance, frozen over superficiallybut moving underneath49 with extreme speed.
She let her flowers fall from her basket, scattered50 and tumbled them onto the grass and, reluctantly and hesitatingly, but without question orcomplaint—had she not the faculty51 of obedience52 to perfection?—wenttoo. Down fields, across valleys, white, flower-strewn—that was how shewould have painted it. The hills were austere53. It was rocky; it was steep.
The waves sounded hoarse54 on the stones beneath. They went, the threeof them together, Mrs Ramsay walking rather fast in front, as if she expectedto meet some one round the corner.
Suddenly the window at which she was looking was whitened bysome light stuff behind it. At last then somebody had come into thedrawing-room; somebody was sitting in the chair. For Heaven's sake, sheprayed, let them sit still there and not come floundering out to talk toher. Mercifully, whoever it was stayed still inside; had settled by somestroke of luck so as to throw an odd-shaped triangular55 shadow over thestep. It altered the composition of the picture a little. It was interesting. Itmight be useful. Her mood was coming back to her. One must keep onlooking56 without for a second relaxing the intensity57 of emotion, the determinationnot to be put off, not to be bamboozled58. One must hold thescene—so—in a vise and let nothing come in and spoil it. One wanted,she thought, dipping her brush deliberately59, to be on a level with ordinaryexperience, to feel simply that's a chair, that's a table, and yet at thesame time, It's a miracle, it's an ecstasy60. The problem might be solvedafter all. Ah, but what had happened? Some wave of white went over thewindow pane61. The air must have stirred some flounce in the room. Herheart leapt at her and seized her and tortured her.
"Mrs Ramsay! Mrs Ramsay!" she cried, feeling the old horror comeback—to want and want and not to have. Could she inflict62 that still? Andthen, quietly, as if she refrained, that too became part of ordinary experience,was on a level with the chair, with the table. Mrs Ramsay—it waspart of her perfect goodness—sat there quite simply, in the chair, flickedher needles to and fro, knitted her reddish-brown stocking, cast hershadow on the step. There she sat.
And as if she had something she must share, yet could hardly leaveher easel, so full her mind was of what she was thinking, of what shewas seeing, Lily went past Mr Carmichael holding her brush to the edgeof the lawn. Where was that boat now? And Mr Ramsay? She wantedhim.
收听单词发音 |
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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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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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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inefficient
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| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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soliciting
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| v.恳求( solicit的现在分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sonorously
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| adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；堂皇地；朗朗地 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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impersonality
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| n.无人情味 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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shudders
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| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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scudded
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| v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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surmount
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| vt.克服；置于…顶上 | |
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urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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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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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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triangular
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| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
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onlooking
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| n.目击，旁观adj.旁观的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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bamboozled
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| v.欺骗，使迷惑( bamboozle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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