《星期一和星期二》 1. A Haunted House 1. A ed house ever ing. From room to room t, ing ly couple. “ it,” s oo!” “It’s upstairs,” sly,” them.” But it t you ain,” one mig,” one ain, stopping tired of reading, one migy, tanding open, only tent and t did I come in did I to find?” My y. “Per’s upstairs t. And so doill as ever, only to the grass. But t in t t one could ever see ted apples, reflected roses; all turned its yello, t after, if t t from t? My y. t; from t s bubble of sound. “Safe, safe, safe,” t softly. “treasure buried; topped s. O treasure? A moment later t in t trees spun darkness for a al beo t, it, left Nort East, saars turned in t t dropped beneat gladly. “treasure yours.” trees stoop and bend t. Moonbeams splas traigiff and still. andering t to ly couple seek their joy. “,” s number.” “aking in trees—” “Upstairs—” “In ter snoting far in tance, gently knocking like t. Nearer t teps beside us; we see no lady spread ly cloak. ern. “Look,” heir lips.” Stooping, raigoops slig cross boting, stain t; t searcheir hidden joy. “Safe, safe, safe,” t of ts proudly. “Long years—” . our treasure—” Stooping, t lifts ts in t.” 2. A Society 2. A Society t all came about. Six or seven of us ting one day after tea. Some reet into t still sly upon scarlet feattle toea tray. After a time, so far as I can remember, o praise men—rong, , iful to get attaco one for life—o tears. Poll, I must tell you, range man. une in on condition t sed y; leaves ied; and must not one of to marry last sears. For some time srange enoug , as of ime in terature on top floor; and eadily imes on ttom. And noerrible t to and speaking ensity of desolation part unutterably bad!” Of course t Se books, and Milton and Shelley. “Oerrupted us. “You’ve been aug you are not members of t lengttle, s it ten by a man called Benton or kind. S feened in silence. “But t’s not a book,” someone said. So sime it I ten ter’s name. Our trepidation increased as s on. Not a seemed to be true, and tyle in ten was execrable. “Poetry! Poetry!” iently. “Read us poetry!” I cannot describe tion timental foolery ained. “It must ten by a no. Sold us t it ten by a young man, one of t famous poets of to imagine o read no more, sed and read us extracts from t and of us, rose to and said t s convinced. “e suced to the world?” e ; and, in t, “eaco read?” Clorinda to come to ’s all our fault,” so read. But no one, save Poll, aken trouble to do it. I, for one, aken it for granted t it y to spend ed my moten; still more my grandmoteen; it ion to bear ty. e men rious, and t t. ures. e ed t. But no s us from judging ts? Before o t s he world is like.” So o a society for asking questions. One of us o visit a man–of–o udy; anoto attend a meeting of business men; pictures, go to concerts, keep our eyes open in treets, and ask questions perpetually. e y before parting t nig ts of life o produce good people and good books. Our questions o be directed to finding out s tained by men. e vo bear a single cil isfied. Off to tiso to Oxford; oto Cambridge; ed tate; rooms, to ts, and sa asking ner certain questions and carefully noting intervals togetions. Oing! Never es upon “y’s sain visited e gentleman) and demanded t isfied. “But ing t moment over and received, to , six ligaps upon tis pouring dorembling rigriking an attitude and imitating ty of ill to be satisfied!” “Spoken like a gentleman!” urned, and fell into profound t. “If six strokes avenge te gentleman?” o lay tily t s . y. “Let me see,” ted. “My mot mention your motrembling like an aspen and fluso ts of en minutes at least before so proceed. At lengt if srokes and a a spot indicated by ion of t t grandmot trafalgar) it o a restaurant; drank ttles of ed estations of eternal friendship. t of to ts. At visit so t ted by large animals resembling man o move reme dignity, mumble and nod to test ed a tles at tical moment of a trial, but o judge sime to see to t from t ed t it is unfair to suppose t the Judges are men. to t ures so recite from a pale blue volume, “O! for touc is still. er, , love is brief. Spring, t King. O! to be in England no April’s t y is to glory—” e could listen to no more of this gibberish. “e no more poetry!” we cried. “Daug er getting spilt over he scuffle. “t and see if I can’t brus remains of tically. Getting up so explain to us ures are like opped her. “ is ture?” s by tes to meet eac your Oxbridge, disguised as a co ttempt to give you some idea—only,” s to do it. It’s all so queer. t on, “live in large round grass plots eac t. You o press a button or ligtle lamp. tifully filed. Books abound. tray cats and one aged bullfinc of mine uses. You reacory t pipes, , bristly little plants eace pot. Once in a said. But s old o keep to t. “ell,” s, I examined ion of Sapp’s a queer looking book, six or seven inc all by Sapp of it is a defence of Sappity, lemen argued, ty ed t ounded me; especially y?” e misunderstood her. “No, no,” sested, “ t ain in t. I ’s cactuses. could t city?” Again old to ,—did to produce good people and good books?—ts of life. “t never struck me to ask. It never occurred to me t thing.” “I believe,” said Sue, “t you made some mistake. Probably Professor . A sc sort of man. A scion—pered to ?—a deligle, imaginative—as stands to reason. For ed.” “alia. “Perter go back and try again.” Some ter it I ting alone ered. I don’t kno so moved me; but I could not restrain myself, and, das only s. “ down. “I’ve been at Oxbridge,” she said. “Asking questions?” “Anshem,” she replied. “You broken our voicing somet her figure. “Oo ’s imagine,” s out, “ing, iful, isfying—” “ is?” I asked. “to—to—ansions,” sold me tory. But in t ed and excited me more trangest cry, half whoop, half holloa— “City! City! ity!” s bottle!” t a cruet containing mustard, o administer when she recovered her composure. “You s of t ths ago,” I said severely. “true,” s muc no unate, by t my motalia.” “Oalia, your motard pot. “No, no, no,” se of me—instead of e.” So on talking. Meaned to discuss ts of our observations. Everyone, I t, felt as I did about Castalia. to see lengt it ime to begin. S ts o be inconclusive—alia nudged me and t. t up, and, interrupting Jane in tence, said: “Before you say any more, I to knoo stay in to confess t I am an impure woman.” Everyone looked at onis. “You are going to have a baby?” asked Jane. She nodded her head. It raordinary to see t expressions on t of tcalia,” and so on. Jane, to us: “Shall she go? Is she impure?” Suc reet outside. “No! No! No! Let ay! Impure? Fiddlesticks!” Yet I fancied t some of t, girls of nineteen or ty, ions, and at last I sa, o her: “ is city t good, or is it bad, or is it not all?” S I could not catc she said. “You kno ten minutes.” “In my opinion,” said Poll, ity is not ignorance—a most discreditable state of mind. e s only te to our society. I vote t Castalia s.” tly disputed. “It is as unfair to brand ity as ity,” said Poll. “Some of us tunity eit believe Cassy ains t sed as she did from a pure love of knowledge.” “y–one and divinely beautiful,” said Cassy, ure. “I move,” said no one be alloo talk of city or uncity save those who are in love.” “Oo scientific matters, “I’m not in love and I’m longing to explain my measures for dispensing itutes and fertilizing virgins by Act of Parliament.” S on to tell us of an invention of o be erected at tube stations and ots, ion’s e its sons, and relieve its daugrived a metubes ture Lord Cs or painters or musicians,” s on, “supposing, t is to say, t t extinct, and t ill wiso bear children—” “Of course iently. Jane rapped table. “t is t to consider,” srying to find out inuing talia icipated our decision. But it remains for t of us to make up our minds.” er anots. tion far exceeded our expectations, and, as for t time alks across space, penetrates to t of an atom, and embraces tions, a murmur of admiration burst from our lips. “e are proud,” our motalia, ently, looked prouder t. t alia begged us to make e. On t tangle of statistics. e learnt t England ion of so many millions, and t sucion of tantly t so great a percentage of to cs s to factories, sions ock Excic y, and of a Government Office. tis ting by Castalia and I noticed her uneasiness. “e so any conclusion at all at te,” s appears t civilisation is so mucion, not be better to confine ourselves to our original enquiry? e agreed t it of life to produce good people and good books. All time ories, and money. Let us talk about men ts, for t is t of tter.” So t stepped foraining anso tions. ter mucion. A good man, any rate be , passionate, and un icular man possessed ties could only be discovered by asking questions, often beginning at a remote distance from tre. Is Kensington a nice place to live in? ed—and your daugell me, or only a knigen it seemed t more from trivial questions of t ones. “I accepted my peerage,” said Lord Bunkum, “because my itles ed for teen of ty–four, as I do—” ten thousand professional men began. “No, no, of course you can neite. But oo, or per is more significant to ans all to questions about morality and religion, and suc serious. Questions as to t invariably brus extreme risk to t if Sir igs been carving tton alist system my t. t men are at once so oo muco mind w we say.” “Of course t time for tists. No, has she, Polls?” “Jane—Austen—Cte—Bronte—George—Eliot,” cried Poll, like a man crying muffins in a back street. “Damn t a bore she is!” “Since Sapp rate—” Eleanor began, quoting from a weekly newspaper. “It’s no Sapp leion of Professor errupted. “Anyo suppose t any e or ever o e,” Eleanor continued. “And yet, alk to me about terly! I say, or S say somethey believe me.” “t proves not. Only,” s doesn’t seem to ter examine modern literature next. Liz, it’s your turn.” Elizabet in order to prosecute aken for a reviewer. “I ty steadily for t five years,” said s popular living er; tt; ton Makenzie; Mr. McKenna and Mr. alpole may be bracketed toget down. “But you’ve told us notulated. “Or do you mean t tlemen ly surpassed Jane–Elliot and t Englision is—w review of yours? Oheir hands.’” “Safe, quite safe,” sing uneasily from foot to foot. “And I’m sure t they receive.” e . “But,” we pressed e good books?” “Good books?” s t remember,” sreme rapidity, “t fiction is t deny t education is of t importance, and t it remely annoying, if you found yourself alone at Brige at nig to knoay at, and suppose it it be nice to go to the Movies?” “But to do ?” we asked. “Notever,” she replied. “ell, tell us truth,” we bade her. “trut isn’t it er ten a icle for t ty years upon love or buttered toast and all o Eton—” “truth!” we demanded. “Orutammered, “truto do erature,” and sitting doher word. It all seemed to us very inconclusive. “Ladies, try to sum up ts,” Jane he open window, drowned her voice. “ar! ar! ar! Declaration of ar!” men reet below. e looked at eacher in horror. “ oo late, t o tten all about it. e turned to Poll, en us. “o war?” “Sometimes for one reason, sometimes for anots outside drorians in 1866–1870 her hand—” “But it’s no . “A knoo ed. [1] * * * * talia in tings used to be urning over te books. “Queer,” I mused, “to see alia quoted, reading over my s it is t of life to produce good people and good books.” e made no comment upon t. “A good man is at any rate , passionate and un ,” s on. “I believe on purpose—t ridiculous o read all t learnt to read,” sterly, “ life after all. I knoo say about our mot, and t complain. t read. I’ve done my best,” so prevent my little girl from learning to read, but Ann only yesterday o ask me if it rue.’ Next st is a good novelist, and finally o believe in nothing?” she demanded. “Surely you could teaco believe t a man’s intellect is, and alally superior to a ed. Sened at to turn over our old minutes again. “Yes,” sics, to laug old on reading and laug se out, “Oorment me? Don’t you kno our belief in man’s intellect is test fallacy of t?” I exclaimed. “Ask any journalist, scer, politician or public ell you t men are muced it,” s? t since time so t t’s all our doing!” sed upon ellect and no it. And it’s intellect,” sinued, “t’s at ttom of it. could be more co cultivate ellect? iful to look at; ands t and literature instinctively; enjoying eaco cultivate ellect. er, a civil servant, a general, an auto an office. Every year ains a o a room making us all feel uncomfortable; o every tell truto ead of rejoicing our eyes o take rue, tars of all s o console us? t ime to spend a La t insect in Japan s body? O us devise a met is our only c occupation s of tivity; and not a o kno there once was Shakespeare!” “It is too late,” I replied. “e cannot provide even for t we have.” “And to believe in intellect,” she said. reet, and, listening, reaty of Peace been signed. terfered no doubt he fireworks. “My cook alia, “and Ann out over ea. I must go home.” “It’s no good—not a bit of good,” I said. “Once so read teaco believe in—and t is herself.” “ell, t would be a calia. So up ty, and, t of t and told o be President of ty of ture—upon o tears, poor little girl. 3. Monday or Tuesday 3. Monday or tuesday Lazy and indifferent, se and distant, absorbed in itself, endlessly t t out! A mountain? O—ts slopes. Do falls. Ferns te feathers, for ever and ever— Desiring truting it, laboriously distilling a fearts to t, anoto t. rike divergently. Omnibuses conglomerate in conflict)—for ever desiring—(tes inct strokes t it is midday; ligrutrees; smoke trails from t, cry “Iron for sale”—and truth? Radiating to a point men’s feet and , black or gold–encrusted—(ture)—t darting and making t eyes, e–glass preserves fur coats— Flaunted, leaf—liging at corners, blo tered, squandered in separate scales, s up, doorn, sunk, assembled—and truth? Noo recollect by te square of marble. From ivory deptrate. Fallen tary sparks—or no, minarets beneatars glint—trutent h closeness? Lazy and indifferent turns; tars; them. 4. An Unwritten Novel 4. An Unten Novel Sucself to make one’s eyes slide above to t t look, almost a symbol of iny . Life’s it, never, to , cease to be a life’s like t, it seems. Five faces opposite—five mature faces—and trange, t to conceal it! Marks of reticence are on all t, eyes so ultify ries in a pocket book; a fourtares at te; and terrible t t s all. S life. A my poor, unfortunate ! As if sed slig and sigo apologise and at time to say to me, “If only you kne life again. “But I do knoly, glancing at times for manners’ sake. “I knoerday officially us Paris—Signor Nitti, talian Prime Minister—a passenger train at Doncaster rain. . .’ e all knoimes kno end .” My eyes over tco to my great reservoir of life. “take inued, “birt Circular, ts of birds, Leonardo da Vinci, t of living—oake ed, “it’s all in times!” Again e il, like a top exed settled on her neck. times ection against suc otercourse. t to do against life o fold t it made a perfect square, crisp, to life. to my eyes as if searc of courage at t to clay. ced all illusion. So tled to Sussex. But see t travellers , one by one, till, save for togetation. e dreform and stopped. as o leave us? I prayed bot t stay. At t instant emptuously, like a t open t us alone. ttle foralked of stations and Eastbourne, and time of year, e. But at last looking from taying a’s t—” Aastroper–in–laterness of one eel, and speaking, not to me, but to tered, “nonsense, s’s ed as terer’s shop–window. “O coion. t t I er t bet or itc un ion, for if tigma was removed from life. “Sisters–in–law,” I said— o spit venom at to take a spot on t for ever—some stain, some indelible contamination. Indeed, t remained for all co expect. Someto take my glove and rub my oo, tle speck on t remained. And t t too, felt like terer’s s betcated, felt clammy, felt raitiously I tried. Se irony, infinite sorroted and faded from sed, s, passed er’s landscape, I read , reading it beneath her gaze. er–in–la t year. ell, oo c do more. No, Minnie, I’ve got it; alone your basket!” So to t Minnie, children.” Slo. Do (Bob and Barbara), iffly; back again to taring bet ts, curtains, trefoil ce, yello—skip—o ! ares at on cill le bedroom looking out over tbourne—zigzagging roofs like terpillars, t riped red and yelloing]. No; o t; you unstrap traps of your basket, lay on tgoand side by side furred felt slippers. tion of –pins. Per? You s; it’s tud t year—t’s all. And tting by ternoon; t lo of a drapery emporium; anot’s bedroom—t. t gives o look at. A moment’s blankness—t are you t me peep across at e; sending it; so ting at t ternoon? ting on tbourne, Minnie Marso Gods. t’s all very o see God better; but s of Eastbourne, ternoon? I, too, see roofs, I see sky; but, o Kruger t—t’s t I can do for , not so very on; and trailing in trunc?—black, tal old bully—Minnie’s God! Did ccc ed some crime! I and fly—in summer ting, , ty years ago? Vo Minnie’s! . . . Sombstone— I’m off track. A crime. . . t —ific people. But o saddle reets of Croydon ty years ago, t loops of ribbon in tric ligc six. Still by running s’s sale–time. Srays brim —no need to co buy, and eacray s surprises. “e don’t s till seven,” and t is seven. S too late. Neigor—baby brottle—scalded—al—dead—or only t, t tail matters not’s o expiate, alween her shoulders. “Yes,” so nod to me, “it’s thing I did.” you did, I don’t mind; it’s not t. t—t’ll do; a little ctle commonplace—since one t me peep across again—still sleeping, or pretending sleep! oucinacy, more t of sex)—so many crimes aren’t your crime; your crime ion solemn; for noiles ser, summer, dusk, da) prays. All receives t’s raised, it’s red, it’s burning. Next sc. “Bob at lunco–day”—But elderly . Indeed no sit praying any longer. Kruger’s sunk beneater’s bruso ip of trunc’s s. It’s hilda now. e , too, t’s only cold er you , and sometimes seems as if —t, and sometimes t altogetoo; so out you go along t, uppence—too muc be preac’s a nigger—t’s a funny man—t’s a man s—poor little creatures! Is t up t no—t grey in t’s blue te clouds ’s military music—and care! ell, t really speak; but everyt doors—raigurns t’oto ties for poor Minnie Marse for lunc in a storm a mackintosterly unconscious of ts. ? But t top of t s of print ; and in t?—t terfly’s off—t raise my ill, t, o rise; ill in till over till dos our cages. Air above, air beloality. . . O I drop to turf! Are you dooo, you in t’s your name—igo akes a eggs leman, suddenly opening ? Any, and you came “s. Yes. And no–o s of eggss of a map—a puzzle. I still. Ss again. Doe blocks of marble go bounding and ling, cruso deatroop of Spaniseers, y, gold and silver. But to return— to o goes saying; so, too, t; dot, dot, dot. But te, , , talion and tably, travellers. time in t someter still emerge, as indeed t, if tory’s to go on gatundity, destiny and tragedy, as stories s t travellers and a ra only partly concealed traveller—” Rterly, and into te, for rive; but rbourne—in December—on table—no, no, I dare not; it’s all a matter of crusts and cruets, frills and ferns. Per later by tly pricking t glass, a desire to peer and peep at te—one’s as muc, to tcill I’ve got traigravels in—stons?—but time’s not come for bringing ttle on t I say time’s not come. ravels, and on tbourne day, takes tle steady eyes—by no means. altogetite (t’s safe; look at Minnie till tucked diamond– tive, and, may do t take me in. Let’s dodge to t t in motion. ell, ts are mended on Sundays by James rut ired al nurse—interesting—for God’s sake let me no; s, none t’s ten—t, t, . ing t opposite and at t’ot Le be Jimmy—or ch for? t be Moggridge—life’s fault. Life imposes yrant; o not t compulsion across ferns and cruets, table splastles smeared. I come irresistibly to lodge myself somee or find footability of tougraigree; ting brancaut tarpaulin; tation of t; e, dismal; noe again; bera ter, ;” tableclot’s alk t over; ce again; turn it round—te. “Marser—not a bit like Marscrut’s set c hese elderly women. Dear, dear!” [Yes, Minnie; I knoc one moment—James Moggridge]. “Dear, dear, dear!” iful t on seasoned timber, like t of an ancient ful to sooto you!” and t’s your pleasure?” for t’s done, t’s over. No train,” for t linger. t’s t’s t reverberates; t’s St. Paul’s and tor–omnibuses. But ay? You must be off? Are you driving tbourne ternoon in one of ttle carriages? Are you man s so solemn staring like a spaker, t ell me—but t again. Moggridge, farewell! Yes, yes, I’m coming. Rigo top of t I’ll linger. a sers leave, ters rocking, triking to till by degrees toms reassemble, t sifts itself, and again till, and to ted, some obsequy for to, ts again. James Moggridge is dead no no longer.” If s—(Let me look at o deep declivities). S certainly, leaning against t ttle balls ain. But ombed soul, t driven in, in, in to tral catacomb; t took t t someiful, as it flits s lantern restlessly up and do no longer,” says. “t man at lunc’s t s destiny, t driven s—meagre foot ries glimpsed in girl for me—not for me.” But ts I sion of underlinen. If Minnie Marsaken to al, nurses and doctors ta and tance—t at ter all, tea is ric, and to your basket, sir, and see you!” So, taking t’s called going in ifications, t in and out. Running it in and out, across and over, spinning a titc be proud of your darning. Let noturb t fall gently, and t of t green leaf. Let t? Oo te glass loops? But ions, ohe breach. in ts tc of souc. ’s your broocletoe or merry–t? And ’s coming, t, be it! For God’s sake don’t on t no her, confound her soul! “Obourne. I’ll reac do me try t, Minnie, tences, I’ve read you righ you now]. “t’s all your luggage?” “Much obliged, I’m sure.” (But o tation, nor Jo tbourne). “I’ll by my bag, ma’am, t’s safest. me. . . O’s my son.” So together. ell, but I’m confounded. . . Surely, Minnie, you knoter! A strange young man. . . Stop! I’ll tell kno blo’s untrue, it’s indecent. . . Look e. ’s t do I stand on? do I kno’s not Minnie. there never was Moggridge. ho am I? Life’s bare as bone. And yet t look of tepping from terious figures! Motreet? o–nigo–morro after t. te ligters and pours. Plate–glass ions; cs at terious figures, I see you, turning ten, I follo be ter murmurs and moves. If I fall on my knees, if I go tual, t antics, it’s you, unkno’s you I embrace, you I drao me—adorable world! 5. The String Quartet 5. tring Quartet ell, your eye over t tubes and trams and omnibuses, private carriages not a feure to believe, landaus it, o t I begin to s— If indeed it’s true, as t Regent Street is up, and treaty signed, and t cold for time of year, and even at t rent not a flat to be of influenza its after effects; if I betten to e about t my glove in train; if ties of blood require me, leaning foro accept cordially tatingly— “Seven years since !” “t time in Venice.” “And where are you living now?” “ell, te afternoon suits me t, t asking too much—” “But I kne once!” “Still, the war made a break—” If t ttle arro—no sooner is one launc and in addition turned on tric lig a need to improve and revise, stirring besides regrets, pleasures, vanities, and desires—if it’s all ts I mean, and ts, tlemen’s sail coats, and pearl tie–pins t come to t chere? Of becomes every minute more difficult to say no time it happened. “Did you see the procession?” “the King looked cold.” “No, no, no. But ?” “S a Malmesbury.” “o find one!” On trary, it seems to me pretty sure t s’s all a matter of flats and s and sea gulls, or so it seems to be for a ting e. Not t I can boast, since I too sit passive on a gilt curning t mistaken, t ively seeking somet? t of cloaks; and gloves—ton or unbutton? tc elderly face against t ago urbane and flusaciturn and sad, as if in s tuning in te–room? ruments, and seat te squares under t; rest tips of tand; aneous movement lift tly poise t te, t violin counts one, three— Flouris! tree on top of tain. Fountains jet; drops descend. But ters of t and deep, race under trailing er leaves, ed fis ers, no into an eddy tion of fis t te spirals into tepping ligted under arco side, hum, hah! “t’s an early Mozart, of course—” “But tune, like all unes, makes one despair—I mean do I mean? t’s t of music! I to dance, laug pink cakes, yello story, no at? You said notleman opposite. . . But suppose—suppose—hush!” trailing . oven togetricably commingled, bound in pain and strewn in sorrow—crash! t sinks. Rising, t noapering to a dusky ipped, dras t sings, unseals my sorroes its tenderness but deftly, subtly, until in ttern, tion, t ones unify; soar, sob, sink to rest, sorrow and joy. ? Remain unsatisfied? I say all’s been settled; yes; laid to rest under a coverlet of rose leaves, falling. Falling. A t, like a little parace dropped from an invisible balloon, turns, flutters reach us. “No, no. I noticed not’s t of music—te, you say?” “t—blinder eachis slippery floor.” Eyeless old age, grey–ands on t, beckoning, so sternly, the red omnibus. “hey play! how—how—how!” tongue is but a clapper. Simplicity itself. t next me are brigtle. tree flasain. Very strange, very exciting. “how—how—how!” hush! the grass. “If, madam, you ake my hand—” “Sir, I rust you . Moreover, ing urf are the shadows of our souls.” “t. ts dreaming into mid stream. “But to return. urned trod on tticoat. could I do but cry ‘Aop to finger it? At o deating in t in skull–cap and furred slippers, snatc, you kno—to listen! the horns!” tleman replies so fast to tty exc noing in a sob of passion, t tinguiser, flig, celestial bliss—all floated out on t ripple of tender endearment—until t first far distant, gradually sounds more and more distinctly, as if senescing t pool, lemons, lovers, and fisrumpets and supported by clarions te arced on marble pillars. . . tramp and trumpeting. Clang and clangour. Firm establis. Fast foundations. Marcrod to eart ty to o peris my joy; naked advance. Bare are to none; casting no s; severe. Back to go, find treet, mark t to tarry night. “Good nig. You go this way?” “Alas. I go t.” 6. Blue & Green 6. Blue amp; Green GREEN ted fingers of glass slides doen fingers of tre drop green upon ts—trees—green, too; green needles glittering in t to t sand; ttle on te blossom; t nigars are set telpiece; ty sky. It’s nigs of blue. t. BLUE ter rises to ts t nostrils ter, re, spray off into a fringe of blue beads. Strokes of blue line tarpaulin of er trils er, and t, obtuse, sallic blue stains ty iron on t. A t, cold, incense laden, faint blue he veils of madonnas. 7. 邱园记事【Kew Gardens】 卵形的花坛里栽得有百来枝花梗，从半中腰起就满枝都是团团的绿叶，有心形的也有舌状的；梢头冒出一簇簇花瓣，红的蓝的黄的都有，花瓣上还有一颗颗斑点，五颜六色，显眼极了。不管是红的、蓝的、还是黄的，那影影绰绰的底盘儿里总还伸起一根挺直的花柱，粗头细身，上面乱沾着一层金粉。花瓣张得很开，所以夏日的和风吹来也能微微掀动；花瓣一动，那红的、蓝的、黄的光彩便交叉四射，底下褐色的泥土每一寸都会沾上一个水汪汪的杂色的斑点。亮光或是落在光溜溜灰白色的鹅卵石顶上，或是落在蜗牛壳棕色的螺旋纹上，要不就照上一滴雨点，点化出一道道稀薄的水墙，红的，蓝的，黄的，色彩之浓，真叫人担心会浓得迸裂，炸为乌有。然而并没有迸裂，转眼亮光一过，雨点便又恢复了银灰色的原样。亮光移到了一张叶片上，照出了叶子表皮底下枝枝杈杈的叶脉。亮光又继续前移，射到了那天棚般密密层层的心形叶和舌状叶下，在那一大片憧憧绿影里放出了光明。这时高处的风吹得略微强了些，于是彩色的亮光便转而反射到顶上辽阔的空间里，映入了在这七月天来游邱园的男男女女的眼帘。 花坛旁三三两两的掠过了这些男男女女的身影，他们走路的样子都不拘常格，随便得出奇，看来跟草坪上那些迂回穿飞、逐坛周游的蓝白蝴蝶倒不无相似之处。来了一个男的，走在女的前面，相隔半英尺光景，男的是随意漫步，女的就比较专心，只是还常常回过头去，留心别让孩子们落下太远。那男的是故意要这样走在女的前面，不过要说有什么心眼儿恐怕倒也未必，他无非是想一路走一路想想自己的心思罢了。 “十五年前我跟莉莉一块儿上这儿来过，”他心想。“我们坐在那边的一个小湖畔，那天天也真热，我向她求婚，求了整整一个下午。当时还有只蜻蜓老是绕着我们飞个没完。这蜻蜓的模样我至今还记得清清楚楚，我还记得她的鞋头上有个方方的银扣。我嘴里在说话，眼睛可看得见她的鞋子，只要看见她的鞋子不耐烦地一动，我连头也不用抬一下，就知道她要说的是什么了。她的全副心思似乎都集中在那鞋上。我呢，我却把我的爱情、我的心愿，都寄托在那蜻蜓的身上。我不知怎么忽然心血来潮，认定那蜻蜓要是停下来，停在那边的叶子上，停在那大红花旁的阔叶上，那她马上就会答应我的婚事。可是蜻蜓却转了一圈又一圈，哪儿也不肯停下——不停下对，不停下好，要不今天我也不会同爱理诺带着孩子在这儿散步了。我说，爱理诺，你想不想过去的事？” “你问这个干什么，赛蒙？” “因为我就是在想过去的事。我在想莉莉，当初跟我吹了的那个对象。……咦，你怎么不说话呀？我想起过去的事，你不高兴了吗？” “我干吗要不高兴呢，赛蒙？有多少先人长眠在这园子的大树底下，到了这儿能不想起过去吗？长眠在大树底下的那些先人，那些不昧的亡灵，他们不就代表着我们的过去？我们的过去不就只留下了这么一点陈迹？……我们的幸福不就受他们所赐？我们今天的现实不就由他们而来？” “可我，想起的就是鞋头上一个方方的银扣和一只蜻蜓……” “我想起的可是轻轻的一吻。二十年前，六个小姑娘在那边的一个小湖畔，坐在画架前画睡莲，那是我生平第一次看到开红花的睡莲。突然，我脖颈儿上着了轻轻的一吻。我的手就此抖了一个下午，连画都不能画了。我取出表来，看着时间，我限定自己只准对这个吻回味五分钟——这个吻太宝贵了。吻我的是一位鼻子上长着个疣子的鬓发半白的老太太，我这辈子就是打这开始才真正懂得了吻的。快来呀，卡洛琳，快来呀，休伯特。” 于是他们四个人并排走过了花坛，不一会儿在大树间就只留下了四个小小的身影，阳光和树阴在他们背上拂动，投下了摇曳不定的大块斑驳的碎影。 卵形的花坛里，那红的、蓝的、黄的光彩刚才在蜗牛壳上停留了有两三分钟光景，这会儿蜗牛似乎在壳里微微一动，然后就费劲地在松松碎碎的泥巴上爬了起来，一路过处，松土纷纷翻起，成片倒下。这蜗牛似乎心目中自有个明确的去处，在这一点上可就跟前面一只瘦腰细腿、怪模怪样的青虫不一样了，那青虫高高的抬起了腿，起初打算从蜗牛面前横穿而过，但是转而又抖动着触须犹豫了一会，像是考虑了一下，临了还是迈着原先那样快速而古怪的步子，回头向相反的方向而去。褐色的峭壁下临沟壑，沟内有一湖湖深深的绿水，扁扁的树木犹如利剑，从根到梢一起摆动，灰白色的浑圆大石当道而立，还有那薄薄脆脆的一片片，又大又皱，拦在地里——这蜗牛要去自己的目的地，一路上就有这么许多障碍横在一枝枝花梗之间。蜗牛来到了一张圆顶篷帐般的枯叶跟前，还没有来得及决定是绕道而过还是往前直闯，花坛跟前早已又是影晃动，有人来了。 这一回来的两个都是男的。那年轻的一个，一副表情平静得似乎有点不大正常。同行的另一位说话时，他就抬起眼来，直勾勾地一个劲儿盯着前方，同行的那位话一说完，他就又眼望着地下，有时过了好大半晌才开口，有时则干脆来个不吭声。另一位年岁大些，走起路来高一脚低一脚的，摇晃得厉害，那朝前一甩手、猛地一抬头的模样，很像一匹性子急躁的拉车大马，在宅门前等得不耐烦了，不过对他来说，他这种动作却并没有什么用心，也没有什么含意。他的话说得简直没有个停，对方不答腔，他可以自得其乐地笑笑，又接着说了起来，仿佛这一笑就表示对方已经回了话似的。他是在谈论灵魂——死者的灵魂。据他说，那些死者的灵魂一直在冥冥之中向他诉说他们在天国的经历，千奇百怪的事儿，什么都有。 “天国，古人认为就是色萨利，威廉。如今战争一起，灵物就常在那里的山间徘徊出没，所过之处声震如雷。”他说到这里停了一下，像是听着，然后微微一笑，猛然把头一仰，又接着说： “只要一个小电池，另外还要一段胶布包扎电线，以免走电……叫漏电？还是走电？……不管它，这些细节就不用说了，反正人家也听不懂，说了也没用……总之，把这个小机关就装在床头，看哪儿方便就搁在哪儿，比方说，可以搁在一只干净的红木小几上。哪个女人死了丈夫，只要叫工匠把这一切都按照我的指示装配齐全，然后虔心静听，约好的暗号一发出，亡灵马上就可以召来。那可只有女人才行?选死了丈夫的女人?选还没有除下孝服的女人?选……” 刚说到这儿，他似乎就在远处看到了一个女人的衣服，在阴影里看来隐隐像是紫黑色的。他马上摘下帽子，一手按在心口，口中念念有词，做出种种痴痴狂狂的手势，急匆匆向她走去。可是威廉一把抓住了他的袖子，为了把老头儿的注意力吸引过来，又举起手杖在一朵花上点了点。老头儿一时似乎有些惶惑，他对着那朵花瞅了一阵，凑过耳朵去听，好像听到花儿里有个声音在说话，就搭上了腔。于是他就大谈其乌拉圭的森林，说是在几百年前他曾经同欧洲最美丽的一位小姐一起到那里去过。只听他嘟嘟囔囔的，说起乌拉圭的森林里满地都是热带野花的蜡一般的花瓣，还说起夜莺啦，海滩啦，美人鱼啦，海里淹死的女人啦。他一边说着，一边就不由自主地被威廉推着往前走，威廉脸上那种冷漠自若的表情也慢慢地变得愈来愈严峻了。 接踵而来的是两个上了点年纪的妇女，因为跟老头儿相距颇近，所以见了老头儿的举动，未免有点摸不着头脑。这两个女人都属于下层中产阶级，一个体形奇肥，十分笨重，另一个两颊红润，手脚还相当麻利。她们那种身份地位的人往往都有这么个特点，就是看见有人——特别是有钱人——举动古怪，可能脑子不大正常，那她们的劲头马上就上来了。可惜这一回离老头儿终究还不够近，没法肯定这人到底只是行径怪僻呢，还是当真发了疯。她们对着老头儿的背影默默端详了好一会儿，偷偷交换了一个古怪的眼色，然后又兴致勃勃地继续谈了起来，那杂拌儿似的对话也实在难懂： “奈尔，伯特，罗特，萨斯，菲尔，爸爸，他说，我说，她说，我说，我说……” “我的伯特，妹妹，比尔，爷爷，那老头子，白糖，白糖，面粉，鲑鱼，蔬菜，白糖，白糖，白糖。” 就在这一大篇话像雨点般打来的同时，那个胖大女人见到了这些花朵冷淡而坚定地笔直挺立在泥地里，便带着好奇的神情盯着看了起来。那模样儿就像一个人从沉睡中醒来，看到黄铜烛台的反光有些异样，便把眼睛闭了闭再睁开，看到的还是黄铜烛台，这才完全醒了过来，于是就聚精会神地盯着烛台看。所以那大个子女人干脆就对着卵形花坛站住不动了，她本来还装模作样像在听对方说话，现在索性连点样子都不装了。她由着对方的话像雨点般的向她打来，她只管站在那里，轻轻款款地时而前俯，时而后仰，一心赏她的花。赏够了，这才提出，还是去找个座位喝点茶吧。 蜗牛这时已经完全考虑过了：要既不绕道而行，又不爬上枯叶，还能有些什么样的法子，可以到达自己的目的地？且不说爬上枯叶得费那么大的劲儿，就看这薄薄的玩意儿吧，才拿触角的尖头轻轻一碰，就摇摆了半天，稀里哗啦好不吓人，是不是能担得起自己的那点分量，实在是个疑问；所以蜗牛终于还是决定往底下爬，因为那枯叶有个翘起的地方，离地较高，蜗牛完全钻得进去。蜗牛刚刚把头伸进缺口，正在打量那褐赤赤的高高的顶棚，对那里褐赤赤冷森森的光线还没有怎么适应，外边草坪上又有两个人过来了。这一回两个都是年轻人，一男一女。两人都正当青春妙龄，甚至可能还要年轻些，正如粉红鲜润的蓓蕾还含苞待放，长成了翅膀的彩蝶尚未在艳阳下展翅飞舞。 “走运，今天不是星期五，”那男的说。 “怎么？你也相信有运气？” “星期五来就得破费六个便士。” “六个便士算得了什么？那还不值六个便士？” “什么叫‘那’呀——你这‘那’字，意思指啥呀？” “啊，说说罢了……我的意思……我的意思你还会不明白？” 这几句对话，每一句说完之后总要歇上好大一会儿，口气也都很平淡、单调。两口子静静地站在花坛边上，一起按着她那把阳伞，摁呀摁的，把伞尖都深深地按进了松软的泥土里。他把手搁在她的手上，两人一起把阳伞尖都按进了泥地，这就很不寻常地表明了他们的感情。其实他们这短短的几句无关紧要的话也一样大有深意，只是意重情厚，话的翅膀太短，承载不起这么大的分量，勉强起飞也飞不远，只能就近找个寻常话题尴尬地落下脚来，可他们那稚嫩的心灵却已经感受到话的分量奇重了。他们一边把阳伞尖往泥土里按，一边暗暗琢磨：谁说得定这些话里不是藏着万丈深崖呢？谁说得定这丽日之下，背面坡上不是一片冰天雪地呢？谁说得定？这种事儿谁经历过？她不过随便说了一句，不知邱园的茶好不好，他一听立刻觉得这话的背后像是朦胧浮现起一个幽影，似乎有个庞大而结实的东西矗立在那儿。好容易薄雾慢慢地散去，眼前似乎出现了……天哪，那是些什么玩意儿？……是雪白的小桌子，还有女服务员，先瞅瞅她，又瞅瞅他。一付账，得两个先令，可不是假的。他摸了摸口袋里那个两先令的硬币，暗暗安慰自己：不是做梦，绝对不是做梦。这种事本来谁都觉得毫不足怪，惟有他和她是例外，如今可连他也感到这似乎不是非非之想了，而且……想到这里他兴奋得站也站不住、想也没心想了，于是他猛地拔出阳伞尖，急不可耐地要去找喝茶的地方，和人家一样喝茶去。 “来吧，特丽西，咱们该喝茶去了。” “这喝茶的地方可在哪儿啦？”她口气激动得难描难摹，两眼迷惘四顾，一任他牵着走，把阳伞拖在背后，顺着草坪上的小径而去。她把头这边转转那边转转，这里也想去那里也想去，喝茶也不在心上了，只记得哪儿野花丛中有兰草仙鹤，哪儿有一座中国式的宝塔，哪儿还有一头红冠鸟。可她终于还是跟着他去了。 就这样，一双双一对对，从花坛旁不断过去，走路的样子差不多都是这样不拘常格，脚下也都没个准谱儿。一层又一层青绿色的雾霭，渐渐把他们裹了起来，起初还看得见他们的形体，色彩分明，可是随后形体和色彩就全都消融在青绿色的大气里了。天气实在太热了?选热得连乌鸦都宁可躲在花荫里，要隔上好大半天才蹦跶一下，就是跳起来也是死板板的，像自动玩具一样。白蝴蝶也不再随处飞舞，自在遨游了，而是三三两两上下盘旋，宛如撒下了白花花的一片片，飘荡在最高一层鲜花的顶上，勾勒出一副轮廓，活像半截颓败的大理石圆柱。栽培棕榈的温室玻璃作顶，光芒四射，仿佛阳光下开辟了好大一个露天市场，摆满了闪闪发亮的绿伞。飞机的嗡嗡声，是夏日的苍穹在喃喃诉说自己激烈的情怀。远远的天边，一时间出现了五光十色的许多人影，有黄的也有黑的，有粉红的也有雪白的，看得出有男，有女，还有孩子，可是他们看见了草地上金灿灿的一大片，马上就动摇了，都纷纷躲进树阴里，像水滴一样融入了这金灿灿、绿茸茸的世界，只留下了几点淡淡的红的、蓝的残痕。看来一切庞然大物似乎都已被热气熏倒，蜷作一团，卧地不动，可是他们的嘴里仍然吐出颤颤悠悠的声音，好似粗大的蜡烛吐着火苗儿一样。声音。对，是声音。是无言的声音，含着那样酣畅的快意，也含着那样炽烈的欲望，孩子的声音里则含着那样稚气的惊奇，一下子把沉寂都打破了。打破了沉寂？这里哪儿来的沉寂啊。公共汽车的轮子一直在不绝飞转，排档一直在不绝变换。嗡嗡的市声，就像一大套连环箱子①，全是铸钢浇铸的，一箱套一箱，箱箱都在那里转个不停。可是那无言的声音却响亮得压过了市声，万紫千红的花瓣也把自己的光彩都射入了辽阔的空中。 舒心译 7. Kew Gardens From talks spreading into –songue–s tip red or blue or yelloals marked s of colour raised upon t emerged a straig and slig tals irred by ts passed one over taining an inc of t intricate colour. t fell eits broo a raindrop, it expanded ensity of red, blue and yelloer t one expected to burst and disappear. Instead, t in a second silver grey once more, and t notled upon t moved on and spread its illumination in t green spaces beneat–songue–sirred rato to the men and women who walk in Kew Gardens in July. traggled past t not unlike t of te and blue butterflies six inc of trolling carelessly, urning o see t t too far be tance in front of to go on s. “Fifteen years ago I came . “e sat some afternoon. circling round us: toe. All time I spoke I saiently I kne looking up o be in t if it settled t leaf, t, if ttled on t once. But t round and round: it never settled any?” “hy do you ask, Simon?” “Because I’ve been t. I’ve been t ? Do you mind my t?” “ one al, in a garden rees? Aren’t t, all t remains of it, ts lying under trees. . . one’s y?” “For me, a square silver shoe buckle and a dragonfly—” “For me, a kiss. Imagine six little girls sitting before ty years ago, doing ter–lilies, t red er–lilies I’d ever seen. And suddenly a kiss, ternoon so t I couldn’t paint. I took out my co tes only—it on .” t t, and soon diminisrees and looked ransparent as t and srembling irregular patches. In tained red, blue, and yelloes or so, noo be moving very sligs s began to labour over t passed over t appeared to e goal in front of it, differing in t from tepping angular green insect ed to cross in front of it, and ed for a second s antenna trembling as if in deliberation, and tepped off as rapidly and strangely in te direction. Bro, blade–like trees t to tip, round boulders of grey stone, vast crumpled surfaces of a texture—all ts lay across talk and anoto o circumvent tent of a dead leaf or to breast it t t of other human beings. time t of ly imes opened er a long pause and sometimes did not open t all. tly, ratient carriage ired of ing outside a in tures e and pointless. alked almost incessantly; o o talk, as if talking about spirits—ts of to elling s of odd t their experiences in heaven. “o ts as t matter is rolling beto listen, smiled, jerked inued:— “You ric battery and a piece of rubber to insulate te?—insulate?—ails, no good going into details t be understood—and in s ttle macands in any convenient position by t maand. All arrangements being properly fixed by ion, t by sign as agreed. omen! idows! omen in black—” o sigance, ering and gesticulating feveris illiam caugoucip of ick in order to divert ttention. After looking at it for a moment in some confusion t o it and seemed to ans, for alking about ts of Uruguay iful young s of Uruguay blanketed als of tropical roses, nig sea, as o be moved on by illiam, upon ience grew slowly deeper and deeper. Folloo be sligures came tout and ponderous, t people of tation ted by any signs of eccentricity betokening a disordered brain, especially in to–do; but too far off to be certain ric or genuinely mad. After tinised t and given eac on energetically piecing togeted dialogue: “Nell, Bert, Lot, Cess, Phil, Pa, he says, I says, she says, I says, I says, I says—” “My Bert, Sis, Bill, Grandad, the old man, sugar, Sugar, flour, kippers, greens, Sugar, sugar, sugar.” ttern of falling tanding cool, firm, and uprigick reflecting t in an unfamiliar arts broad aares at tick o a standstill opposite to pretend to listen to ood tting top part of ted t t and ea. t going round t. Let alone t needed for climbing a leaf, ful ure oucip of ; and termined o creep beneat, for t inserted aking stock of tting used to t outside on turf. time t season terfly, tionless in the sun. “Lucky it isn’t Friday,” he observed. “hy? D’you believe in luck?” “they make you pay sixpence on Friday.” “’s sixpence any it h sixpence?” “’s ‘it’—’?” “O, anyt I mean.” Long pauses came betered in toneless and monotonous voices. tood still on togeto t eartion and t t ed on top of range insignificant e to carry ting as t surrounded to touc o t precipices aren’t concealed in t slopes of ice don’t s sort of tea t Ke sometood vast and solid be very slotle ables, and resses o everyone except to o o began to seem real; and t it oo exciting to stand and t of tient to find tea her people. “Come along, trissie; it’s time we ea.” “ea?” s tement in ting railing urning ting ea, ed bird; but he bore her on. ter anot passed ter layer of green blue vapour, in tance and a das later botance and colour dissolved in tmosp it even to and t; instead of rambling vaguely te butterflies danced one above anote sing flakes tline of a stered marble column above tallest flo full of ss fierce soul. Yelloed for a second upon t lay upon t srees, dissolving like drops of er in tmospaining it faintly seemed as if all gross and motionless and lay t entment, suc time tor omnibuses urning t nest of C steel turning ceaselessly one y murmured; on top of he air. 8. 墙上的斑点【The Mark on the Wall】 大约是在今年一月中旬，我抬起头来，第一次看见了墙上的那个斑点。为了要确定是在哪一天，就得回忆当时我看见了些什么。现在我记起了炉子里的火，一片黄色 的火光一动不动地照射在我的书页上；壁炉上圆形玻璃缸里插着三朵菊花。对啦，一定是冬天，我们刚喝完茶，因为我记得当时我正在吸烟，我抬起头来，第一次看 见了墙上那个斑点。我透过香烟的烟雾望过去，眼光在火红的炭块上停留了一下，过去关于在城堡塔楼上飘扬着一面鲜红的旗帜的幻觉又浮现在我脑际，我想到无数 红色骑士潮水般地骑马跃上黑色岩壁的侧坡。这个斑点打断了我这个幻觉，使我觉得松了一口气，因为这是过去的幻觉，是一种无意识的幻觉，可能是在孩童时期产 生的。墙上的斑点是一块圆形的小迹印，在雪白的墙壁上呈暗黑色，在壁炉上方大约六七英寸的地方。 我们的思绪是多么容易一哄而上，簇拥着一件新鲜事物，像一群蚂蚁狂热地抬一根稻草一样，抬了一会，又把它扔在那里……如果这个斑点是一只钉子留下的痕迹，那一定不是为了挂一幅油画， 而是为了挂一幅小肖像画──一 幅卷发上扑着白粉、脸上抹着脂粉、嘴唇像红石竹花的贵妇人肖像。它当然是一件赝品，这所房子以前的房客只会选那一类的画──老房子得有老式画像来配它。他 们就是这种人家──很有意思的人家，我常常想到他们，都是在一些奇怪的地方，因为谁都不会再见到他们，也不会知道他们后来的遭遇了。据他说，那家人搬出这 所房子是因为他们想换一套别种式样的家具，他正在说，按他的想法，艺术品背后应该包含着思想的时候，我们两人就一下子分了手，这种情形就像坐火车一样，我 们在火车里看见路旁郊外别墅里有个老太太正准备倒茶，有个年轻人正举起球拍打网球，火车一晃而过，我们就和老太太以及年轻人分了手，把他们抛在火车后面。 但是，我还是弄不清那个斑点到 底是什么；我又想，它不像是钉子留下的痕迹。它太大、太圆了。我本来可以站起来，但是，即使我站起身来瞧瞧它，十之八九我也说不出它到底是什么；因为一旦 一件事发生以后，就没有人能知道它是怎么发生的了。唉!天哪，生命是多么神秘；思想是多么不准确!人类是多么无知!为了证明我们对自己的私有物品是多么无 法加以控制──和我们的文明相比，人的生活带有多少偶然性啊──我只要列举少数几件我们一生中遗失的物件就够了。就从三只装着订书工具的浅蓝色罐子说起 吧，这永远是遗失的东西当中丢墙上的斑点失得最神秘的几件──哪只猫会去咬它们，哪只老鼠会去啃它们呢?再数下去，还有那几个鸟笼子、铁裙箍、钢滑冰鞋、 安女王时代的煤斗子、弹子戏球台、手摇风琴──全都丢失了，还有一些珠宝，也遗失了。有乳白宝石、绿宝石，它们都散失在芜菁的根部旁边。它们是花了多少心 血节衣缩食积蓄起来的啊!此刻我四周全是挺有分量的家具，身上还穿着几件衣服，简直是奇迹。要是拿什么来和生活相比的话，就只能比做一个人以一小时五十英 里的速度被射出地下铁道，从地道口出来的时候头发上一根发针也不剩。光着身子被射到上帝脚下!头朝下脚朝天地摔倒在开满水仙花的草原上，就像一捆捆棕色纸 袋被扔进邮局的输物管道一样!头发飞扬，就像一匹赛马会上跑马的尾巴。对了，这些比拟可以表达生活的飞快速度，表达那永不休止的消耗和修理；一切都那么偶 然，那么碰巧。 那么来世呢?粗大的绿色茎条慢 慢地被拉得弯曲下来，杯盏形的花倾覆了，它那紫色和红色的光芒笼罩着人们。到底为什么人要投生在这里，而不投生到那里，不会行动、不会说话、无法集中目 光，在青草脚下，在巨人的脚趾间摸索呢?至于什么是树，什么是男人和女人，或者是不是存在这样的东西，人们再过五十年也是无法说清楚的。别的什么都不会 有，只有充塞着光亮和黑暗的空间，中间隔着一条条粗大的茎干，也许在更高处还有一些色彩不很清晰的──淡淡的粉红色或蓝色的──玫瑰花形状的斑块，随着时 光的流逝，它会越来越清楚、越──我也不知道怎样…… 可是墙上的斑点不是一个小孔。 它很可能是什么暗黑色的圆形物体，比如说，一片夏天残留下来的玫瑰花瓣造成的，因为我不是一个警惕心很高的管家──只要瞧瞧壁炉上的尘土就知道了，据说就 是这样的尘土把特洛伊城严严地埋了三层，只有一些罐子的碎片是它们没法毁灭的，这一点完全能叫人相信。 窗外树枝轻柔地敲打着玻璃…… 我希望能静静地、安稳地、从容不迫地思考，没有谁来打扰，一点也用不着从椅子里站起来，可以轻松地从这件事想到那件事，不感觉敌意，也不觉得有阻碍。我希 望深深地、更深地沉下去，离开表面，离开表面上的生硬的个别事实。让我稳住自己，抓住第一个一瞬即逝的念头……莎士比亚……对啦，不管是他还是别人，都 行。这个人稳稳地坐在扶手椅里，凝视着炉火，就这样──一阵骤雨似的念头源源不断地从某个非常高的天国倾泻而下，进入他的头脑。他把前额倚在自己的手上， 于是人们站在敞开的大门外面向里张望──我们假设这个景象发生在夏天的傍晚──可是，所有这一切历史的虚构是多么沉闷啊!它丝毫引不起我的兴趣。我希望能 碰上一条使人愉快的思路，同时这条思路也能间接地给我增添几分光彩，这样的想法是最令人愉快的了。连那些真诚地相信自己不爱听别人赞扬的谦虚而灰色的人们 头脑里，也经常会产生这种想法。它们不是直接恭维自己，妙就妙在这里。这些想法是这样的：“于是我走进屋子。他们在谈植物学。我说我曾经看见金斯威一座老 房子地基上的尘土堆里开了一朵花。我说那粒花籽多半是查理一世在位的时候种下的。查理一世在位的时候人们种些什么花呢?”我问道──(但是我不记得回答是 什么)也许是高大的、带着紫色花穗的花吧。于是就这样想下去。同时，我一直在头脑里把自己的形象打扮起来，是爱抚地，偷偷地，而不是公开地崇拜自己的形 象。因为，我如果当真公开地这么干了，就会马上被自己抓住，我就会马上伸出手去拿过一本书来掩盖自己。说来也真奇怪，人们总是本能地保护自己的形象，不让 偶像崇拜或是什么别的处理方式使它显得可笑，或者使它变得和原型太不相像以至于人们不相信它。但是，这个事实也可能并不那么奇怪?这个问题极其重要。 假定镜子打碎了，形象消失了， 那个浪漫的形象和周围一片绿色的茂密森林也不复存在，只有其他的人看见的那个人的外壳──世界会变得多么闷人、多么浮浅、多么光秃、多么凸出啊!在这样的 世界里是不能生活的。当我们面对面坐在公共汽车和地下铁道里的时候，我们就是在照镜子；这就说明为什么我们的眼神都那么呆滞而朦胧。未来的小说家们会越来 越认识到这些想法的重要性，因为这不只是一个想法，而是无限多的想法；它们探索深处，追逐幻影，越来越把现实的描绘排除在他们的故事之外，认为这类知识是 天生具有的，希腊人就是这样想的，或许莎士比亚也是这样想的──但是这种概括毫无价值。只要听听概括这个词的音调就够了。它使人想起社论，想起内阁大臣 ──想起一整套事物，人们在儿童时期就认为这些事物是正统，是标准的、真正的事物，人人都必须遵循，否则就得冒打入十八层地狱的危险。提起概括，不知怎么 使人想起伦敦的星期日，星期日午后的散步，星期日的午餐，也使人想起已经去世的人的说话方式，衣着打扮、习惯──例如大家一起坐在一间屋子里直到某一个钟 点的习惯，尽管谁都不喜欢这么做。每件事都有一定的规矩。在那个特定时期，桌布的规矩就是一定要用花毯做成，上面印着黄色的小方格子，就像你在照片里看见 的皇宫走廊里铺的地毯那样。另外一种花样的桌布就不能算真正的桌布。当我们发现这些真实的事物、星期天的午餐、星期天的散步、庄园宅第和桌布等并不全是真 实的，确实带着些幻影的味道，而不相信它们的人所得到的处罚只不过是一种非法的自由感时，事情是多么使人惊奇，又是多么奇妙啊!我奇怪现在到底是什么代替 了它们，代替了那些真正的、标准的东西?也许是男人，如果你是个女人的话；男性的观点支配着我们的生活，是它制定了标准，订出惠特克的尊卑序列表；据我猜 想，大战后它对于许多男人和女人已经带上幻影的味道，并且我们希望很快它就会像幻影、红木碗橱、兰西尔版画、上帝、魔鬼和地狱之类东西一样遭到讥笑，被送 进垃圾箱，给我们大家留下一种令人陶醉的非法的自由感──如果真存在自由的话…… 在某种光线下面看墙上那个斑点，它竟像是凸出在墙上的。它也不完全是圆形的。我不敢肯定，不过它似乎投下一点淡淡的影子，使我觉得如果我用手指顺着墙壁摸过去，在某一点上会摸着一个起伏的小小的古冢，一个平滑的古冢，就像南部丘陵草原地带的 那些古冢，据说，它们要不是坟墓，就是宿营地。在两者之中，我倒宁愿它们是坟墓，我像多数英国人一样偏爱忧伤，并且认为在散步结束时想到草地下埋着白骨是很自然的事情……一定有一部书 写到过它。一定有哪位古物收藏家把这些白骨发掘出来，给它们起了名字……我想知道古物收藏家会是什么样的人?多半准是些退役的上校，领着一伙上了年纪的工 人爬到这儿的顶上，检查泥块和石头，和附近的牧师互相通信。牧师在早餐的时候拆开信件来看，觉得自己颇为重要。为了比较不同的箭镞，还需要作多次乡间旅 行，到本州的首府去，这种旅行对于牧师和他们的老伴都是一种愉快的职责，他们的老伴正想做樱桃酱，或者正想收拾一下书房。他们完全有理由希望那个关于营地 或者坟墓的重大问题长期悬而不决。而上校本人对于就这个问题的两方面能否搜集到证据则感到愉快而达观。的确，他最后终于倾向于营地说。由于受到反对，他便 写了一篇文章，准备拿到当地会社的季度例会上宣读，恰好在这时他中风病倒，他的最后一个清醒的念头不是想到妻子和儿女，而是想到营地和箭镞，这个箭镞已经 被收藏进当地博物馆的展柜，和一只中国女杀人犯的脚、一把伊利莎白时代的铁钉、一大堆都铎王朝时代的土制烟斗、一件罗马时代的陶器，以及纳尔逊用来喝酒的 酒杯放在一起──我真的不知道它到底证明了什么。 不，不，什么也没有证明，什么 也没有发现。假如我在此时此刻站起身来，弄明白墙上的斑点果真是──我们怎么说不好呢?──一枚巨大的旧钉子的钉头，钉进墙里已经有两百年，直到现在，由 于一代又一代女仆耐心的擦拭，钉子的顶端得以露出到油漆外面，正在一间墙壁雪白、炉火熊熊的房间里第一次看见现代的生活，我这样做又能得到些什么呢?知识 吗?还是可供进一步思考的题材?不论是静坐着还是站起来我都一样能思考。什么是知识?我们的学者不过是那些蹲在洞穴和森林里熬药草、盘问地老鼠或记载星辰 的语言的巫婆和隐士们的后代，要不，他们还能是什么呢?我们的迷信逐渐消失，我们对美和健康的思想越来越尊重，我们也就不那么崇敬他们了……是的，人们能 够想像出一个十分可爱的世界。这个世界安宁而广阔，旷野里盛开着鲜红的和湛蓝的花朵。这个世界里没有教授，没有专家，没有警察面孔的管家，在这里人们可以 像鱼儿用鳍翅划开水面一般，用自己的思想划开世界，轻轻地掠过荷花的梗条，在装满白色海鸟卵的鸟窠上空盘旋……在世界的中心扎下根，透过灰黯的海水和水里 瞬间的闪光以及倒影向上看去，这里是多么宁静啊──假如没有惠特克年鉴──假如没有尊卑序列表! 我一定要跳起来亲眼看看墙上的斑点到底是什么──是一枚钉子?一片玫瑰花瓣?还是木块上的裂纹? 大自然又在这里玩弄她保存自己 的老把戏了。她认为这条思路至多不过白白浪费一些精力，或许会和现实发生一点冲突，因为谁又能对惠特克的尊卑序列表妄加非议呢?排在坎特伯雷大主教后面的 是大法官，而大法官后面又是约克大主教。每一个人都必须排在某人的后面，这是惠特克的哲学。最要紧的是知道谁该排在谁的后面。惠特克是知道的。大自然忠告 你说，不要为此感到恼怒，而要从中得到安慰；假如你无法得到安慰，假如你一定要破坏这一小时的平静，那就去想想墙上的斑点吧。 我懂得大自然耍的是什么把戏 ──她在暗中怂恿我们采取行动以便结束那些容易令人兴奋或痛苦的思想。我想，正因如此，我们对实干家总不免稍有一点轻视──我们认为这类人不爱思索。不 过，我们也不妨注视墙上的斑点，来打断那些不愉快的思想。真的，现在我越加仔细地看着它，就越发觉得好似在大海中抓住了一块木板。我体会到一种令人心满意 足的现实感，把那两位大主教和那位大法官统统逐入了虚无的幻境。这里，是一件具体的东西，是一件真实的东西。我们半夜从一场噩梦中惊醒，也往往这样，急忙 扭亮电灯，静静地躺一会儿，赞赏着衣柜，赞赏着实在的物体，赞赏着现实，赞赏着身外的世界，它证明除了我们自身以外还存在着其他的事物。我们想弄清楚的也 就是这个问题。木头是一件值得加以思索的愉快的事物。它产生于一棵树，树木会生长，我们并不知道它们是怎样生长起来的。它们长在草地上、森林里、小河边 ──这些全是我们喜欢去想的事物──它们长着、长着，长了许多年，一点也没有注意到我们。炎热的午后，母牛在树下挥动着尾巴；树木把小河点染得这样翠绿一 片，让你觉得那只一头扎进水里去的雌红松鸡，应该带着绿色的羽毛冒出水面来。我喜欢去想那些像被风吹得鼓起来的旗帜一样逆流而上的鱼群；我还喜欢去想那些 在河床上一点点地垒起一座座圆顶土堆的水甲虫。我喜欢想像那棵树本身的情景：首先是它自身木质的细密干燥的感觉，然后想像它感受到雷雨的摧残；接下去就感 到树液缓慢地、舒畅地一滴滴流出来。我还喜欢去想这棵树怎样在冬天的夜晚独自屹立在空旷的田野上，树叶紧紧地合拢起来，对着月亮射出的铁弹，什么弱点也不 暴露，像一根空荡荡的桅杆竖立在整夜不停地滚动着的大地上。六月里鸟儿的鸣啭听起来一定很震耳，很不习惯；小昆虫在树皮的褶皱上吃力地爬过去，或者在树叶 搭成的薄薄的绿色天篷上面晒太阳，它们红宝石般的眼睛直盯着前方，这时候它们的脚会感觉到多么寒冷啊……大地的寒气凛冽逼人，压得树木的纤维一根根地断裂 开来。最后的一场暴风雨袭来，树倒了下去，树梢的枝条重新深深地陷进泥土。即使到了这种地步，生命也并没有结束。这棵树还有一百万条坚毅而清醒的生命分散 在世界上。有的在卧室里，有的在船上，有的在人行道上，还有的变成了房间的护壁板，男人和女人们在喝过茶以后就坐在这间屋里抽烟。这棵树勾起了许许多多平 静的、幸福的联想。我很愿意挨个儿去思索它们──可是遇到了阻碍……我想到什么地方啦?是怎么样想到这里的呢?一棵树?一条河?丘陵草原地带?惠特克年 鉴?盛开水仙花的原野?我什么也记不起来啦。一切在转动、在下沉、在滑开去、在消失……事物陷进了大动荡之中。有人正在俯身对我说： “我要出去买份报纸。” “是吗?” “不过买报纸也没有什么意思……什么新闻都没有。该死的战争，让这次战争见鬼去吧!……然而不论怎么说，我认为我们也不应该让一只蜗牛趴在墙壁上。” 哦，墙上的斑点!那是一只蜗牛。 8. the all Per t I first looked up and sao fix a date it is necessary to remember eady film of yello must er time, and I te ime. I looked up tte and my eye lodged for a moment upon t old fancy of tle too my mind, and I t of ts riding up to my relief t of terrupted t is an old fancy, an automatic fancy, made as a ce six or seven incelpiece. s s, lifting it a little s carry a blade of stra mark can’t ure, it must ure—ture of a lady e poed cions. A fraud of course, for tures in t ure for an old room. t is t of people teresting people, and I ten, in suc . ted to leave ted to cyle of furniture, so in s orn from t to pour out tea and t to tennis ball in t in train. But as for t mark, I’m not sure about it; I don’t believe it er all; it’s too big, too round, for t. I mig up, but if I got up and looked at it, ten to one I s be able to say for certain; because once a t ery of life; t! ty! to stle control of our possessions al affair ter all our civilization—let me just count over a fe in one lifetime, beginning, for t seems al mysterious of losses— ers of book–binding tools? teel skates, ttle, telle board, too. Opals and emeralds, t ts of turnips. a scraping paring affair it is to be sure! t I’ve any clot I sit surrounded by solid furniture at t. s to compare life to anyt liken it to being bloube at fifty miles an t a single out at t of God entirely naked! tumbling c in t office! itail of a race– seems to express ty of life, tual e and repair; all so casual, all so haphazard. . . But after life. talks so t t turns over, deluges one . er all, s be born to focus one’s eyesig ts of t toes of ts? As for saying be in a condition to do for fifty years or so. t spaces of ligersected by talks, and rats of an indistinct colour—dim pinks and blues—e, become—I don’t know w. . . And yet t mark on t a all. It may even be caused by some round black substance, suc over from t being a very vigilant t on telpiece, for example, t imes over, only fragments of pots utterly refusing anniion, as one can believe. tree outside taps very gently on t to tly, calmly, spaciously, never to be interrupted, never to o rise from my co slip easily from one to anot any sense of ility, or obstacle. I to sink deeper and deeper, as e facts. to steady myself, let me catc idea t passes. . . S o tually from some very o take place on a summer’s evening—But orical fiction! It doesn’t interest me at all. I track of t, a track indirectly reflecting credit upon myself, for test ts, and very frequent even in t mouse–coloured people, o ts directly praising oneself; t is ty of ts like this: “And to tany. I said e of an old . flo?” I asked—(but, I don’t remember tall floassels to t goes on. All time I’m dressing up tealt openly adoring it, for if I did t, I sc, and stretc once for a book in self–protection. Indeed, it is curious inctively one protects try or any ot could make it ridiculous, or too unlike to be believed in any longer. Or is it not so very curious after all? It is a matter of great importance. Suppose tic figure dept it is t only t s an airless, s becomes! A to be lived in. As accounts for ts in future ance of tions, for of course t one reflection but an almost infinite number; toms tion of reality more and more out of tories, taking a kno for granted, as t tions are very ary sound of t recalls leading articles, cabinet ministers—a self, tandard t depart save at tion. Generalizations bring back someernoon of sitting all togetil a certain . tableclot t particular period tapestry tle yelloments marked upon tograps in tableclot kind real tableclot o discover t try ableclot entirely real, ion imate freedom. noakes tandard t of vieandard, able of Precedency, o many men and bin s, Gods and Devils, oxicating sense of illegitimate freedom—if freedom exists. . . In certain lig mark on tually to project from t entirely circular. I cannot be sure, but it seems to cast a perceptible sing t if I ran my finger do strip of t a certain point, mount and descend a small tumulus, a smootumulus like tombs or camps. Of tombs, desiring melanc Englis natural at to tretcurf. . . t be some book about it. Some antiquary must sort of a man is an antiquary, I ired Colonels for t part, I daresay, leading parties of aged labourers to top one, and getting into correspondence breakfast time, gives tance, and tates cross–country journeys to ty toy boto to to make plum jam or to clean out tudy, and great question of tomb in perpetual suspension, ion. It is true t o believe in tes a pamp o read at terly meeting of ty s are not of arrooget of a C many tudor clay pipes, a piece of Roman pottery, and t Nelson drank out of—proving I really don’t know w. No, no, noto get up at t and ascertain t t sic old nail, driven in tient attrition of many generations of s of paint, and is taking its first vie of a room, er for furtion? I can tting still as anding up. And s of cs ing sing doars? And titions d for beauty and , spacious professors or specialists or as a fiser ems of ter–lilies, s of re of ters, , and tions—if it for aker’s Almanack—if it for table of Precedency! I must jump up and see for myself mark on the wood? ure once more at ion. train of t, sening mere e of energy, even some collision y, for a finger against aker’s table of Precedency? terbury is folloaker; and t to kno t, so Nature counsels, comfort you, instead of enraging you; and if you can’t be comforted, if you must ster the wall. I understand Nature’s game—ing to take action as a t tens to excite or to pain. contempt for men of action—men, ill, tting a full stop to one’s disagreeable ts by looking at a mark on the wall. Indeed, no I , I feel t I isfying sense of reality urns te, somet dream of ily turns on t and lies quiescent, is s to be sure of. . . ood is a pleasant to t. It comes from a tree; and trees gro knotention to us, in meados, and by to t. tails beneat afternoons; t rivers so green t o see its feat comes up again. I like to t tream like flags blo; and of er–beetles sloo tree itself:—first tion of being orm; to t, too, on er’s niganding in ty field ender exposed to ts of t upon an eart goes tumbling, tumbling, all nig sound very loud and strange in June; and of insects must feel upon it, as traig of t red eyes. . . One by one t storm comes and, falling, t branco t done ient, cill for a tree, all over t, lining rooms, er tea, smoking cigarettes. It is full of peaceful ts, s, tree. I so take eacely—but sometting in t all been about? A tree? A river? taker’s Almanack? t remember a t upter. Someone is standing over me and saying— “I’m going out to buy a newspaper.” “Yes?” “t’s no good buying ne see why we should have a snail on our wall.” A was a snail.