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1. A Haunted House

　小＿说txt天＿堂　
1. a haunted house

whatever hour you woke there was a door shunting. from room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure—a ghostly couple.

“here we left it,” she said. and he added, “oh, but here too!” “it’s upstairs,” she murmured. “and in the garden,” he whispered “quietly,” they said, “or we shall wake them.”

but it wasn’t that you woke us. oh, no. “they’re looking for it; they’re drawing the curtain,” one might say, and so read on a page or two. “now they’ve found it,” one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. and then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. “what did i come in here for? what did i want to find?” my hands were empty. “perhaps it’s upstairs then?” the apples were in the loft. and so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.

but they had found it in the drawing room. not that one could ever see them. the window panes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. if they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling—what? my hands were empty. the shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. “safe, safe, safe,” the pulse of the house beat softly. “the treasure buried; the room. . .” the pulse stopped short. oh, was that the buried treasure?

a moment later the light had faded. out in the garden then? but the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. so fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam i sought always burnt behind the glass. death was the glass; death was between us; coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. he left it, left her, went north, went east, saw the stars turned in the southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the downs. “safe, safe, safe,” the pulse of the house beat gladly. “the treasure yours.”

the wind roars up the avenue. trees stoop and bend this way and that. moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. but the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. the candle burns stiff and still. wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.

“here we slept,” she says. and he adds, “kisses without number.” “waking in the morning—” “silver between the trees—” “upstairs—” “in the garden—” “when summer came—” “in winter snowtime—” the doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.

nearer they come; cease at the doorway. the wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. our eyes darken; we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. his hands shield the lantern. “look,” he breathes. “sound asleep. love upon their lips.”

stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. long they pause. the wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.

“safe, safe, safe,” the heart of the house beats proudly. “long years—” he sighs. “again you found me.” “here,” she murmurs, “sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. here we left our treasure—” stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. “safe! safe! safe!” the pulse of the house beats wildly. waking, i cry “oh, is this your buried treasure? the light in the heart.”

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2. A Society

小＿说txt天'堂
2. a society

this is how it all came about. six or seven of us were sitting one day after tea. some were gazing across the street into the windows of a milliner’s shop where the light still shone brightly upon scarlet feathers and golden slippers. others were idly occupied in building little towers of sugar upon the edge of the tea tray. after a time, so far as i can remember, we drew round the fire and began as usual to praise men—how strong, how noble, how brilliant, how courageous, how beautiful they were—how we envied those who by hook or by crook managed to get attached to one for life—when poll, who had said nothing, burst into tears. poll, i must tell you, has always been queer. for one thing her father was a strange man. he left her a fortune in his will, but on condition that she read all the books in the london library. we comforted her as best we could; but we knew in our hearts how vain it was. for though we like her, poll is no beauty; leaves her shoe laces untied; and must have been thinking, while we praised men, that not one of them would ever wish to marry her. at last she dried her tears. for some time we could make nothing of what she said. strange enough it was in all conscience. she told us that, as we knew, she spent most of her time in the london library, reading. she had begun, she said, with english literature on the top floor; and was steadily working her way down to the times on the bottom. and now half, or perhaps only a quarter, way through a terrible thing had happened. she could read no more. books were not what we thought them. “books,” she cried, rising to her feet and speaking with an intensity of desolation which i shall never forget, “are for the most part unutterably bad!”

of course we cried out that shakespeare wrote books, and milton and shelley.

“oh, yes,” she interrupted us. “you’ve been well taught, i can see. but you are not members of the london library.” here her sobs broke forth anew. at length, recovering a little, she opened one of the pile of books which she always carried about with her—“from a window” or “in a garden,” or some such name as that it was called, and it was written by a man called benton or henson, or something of that kind. she read the first few pages. we listened in silence. “but that’s not a book,” someone said. so she chose another. this time it was a history, but i have forgotten the writer’s name. our trepidation increased as she went on. not a word of it seemed to be true, and the style in which it was written was execrable.

“poetry! poetry!” we cried, impatiently.

“read us poetry!” i cannot describe the desolation which fell upon us as she opened a little volume and mouthed out the verbose, sentimental foolery which it contained.

“it must have been written by a woman,” one of us urged. but no. she told us that it was written by a young man, one of the most famous poets of the day. i leave you to imagine what the shock of the discovery was. though we all cried and begged her to read no more, she persisted and read us extracts from the lives of the lord chancellors. when she had finished, jane, the eldest and wisest of us, rose to her feet and said that she for one was not convinced.

“why,” she asked, “if men write such rubbish as this, should our mothers have wasted their youth in bringing them into the world?”

we were all silent; and, in the silence, poor poll could be heard sobbing out, “why, why did my father teach me to read?”

clorinda was the first to come to her senses. “it’s all our fault,” she said. “every one of us knows how to read. but no one, save poll, has ever taken the trouble to do it. i, for one, have taken it for granted that it was a woman’s duty to spend her youth in bearing children. i venerated my mother for bearing ten; still more my grandmother for bearing fifteen; it was, i confess, my own ambition to bear twenty. we have gone on all these ages supposing that men were equally industrious, and that their works were of equal merit. while we have borne the children, they, we supposed, have borne the books and the pictures. we have populated the world. they have civilized it. but now that we can read, what prevents us from judging the results? before we bring another child into the world we must swear that we will find out what the world is like.”

so we made ourselves into a society for asking questions. one of us was to visit a man–of–war; another was to hide herself in a scholar’s study; another was to attend a meeting of business men; while all were to read books, look at pictures, go to concerts, keep our eyes open in the streets, and ask questions perpetually. we were very young. you can judge of our simplicity when i tell you that before parting that night we agreed that the objects of life were to produce good people and good books. our questions were to be directed to finding out how far these objects were now attained by men. we vowed solemnly that we would not bear a single child until we were satisfied.

off we went then, some to the british museum; others to the king’s navy; some to oxford; others to cambridge; we visited the royal academy and the tate; heard modern music in concert rooms, went to the law courts, and saw new plays. no one dined out without asking her partner certain questions and carefully noting his replies. at intervals we met together and compared our observations. oh, those were merry meeting! never have i laughed so much as i did when rose read her notes upon “honour” and described how she had dressed herself as an ethiopian prince and gone aboard one of his majesty’s ships. discovering the hoax, the captain visited her (now disguised as a private gentleman) and demanded that honour should be satisfied. “but how?” she asked. “how?” he bellowed. “with the cane of course!” seeing that he was beside himself with rage and expecting that her last moment had come, she bent over and received, to her amazement, six light taps upon the behind. “the honour of the british navy is avenged!” he cried, and, raising herself, she saw him with the sweat pouring down his face holding out a trembling right hand. “away!” she exclaimed, striking an attitude and imitating the ferocity of his own expression, “my honour has still to be satisfied!” “spoken like a gentleman!” he returned, and fell into profound thought. “if six strokes avenge the honour of the king’s navy,” he mused, “how many avenge the honour of a private gentleman?” he said he would prefer to lay the case before his brother officers. she replied haughtily that she could not wait. he praised her sensibility. “let me see,” he cried suddenly, “did your father keep a carriage?” “no,” she said. “or a riding horse?” “we had a donkey,” she bethought her, “which drew the mowing machine.” at this his face lighted. “my mother’s name—” she added. “for god’s sake, man, don’t mention your mother’s name!” he shrieked, trembling like an aspen and flushing to the roots of his hair, and it was ten minutes at least before she could induce him to proceed. at length he decreed that if she gave him four strokes and a half in the small of the back at a spot indicated by himself (the half conceded, he said, in recognition of the fact that her great grandmother’s uncle was killed at trafalgar) it was his opinion that her honour would be as good as new. this was done; they retired to a restaurant; drank two bottles of wine for which he insisted upon paying; and parted with protestations of eternal friendship.

then we had fanny’s account of her visit to the law courts. at her first visit she had come to the conclusion that the judges were either made of wood or were impersonated by large animals resembling man who had been trained to move with extreme dignity, mumble and nod their heads. to test her theory she had liberated a handkerchief of bluebottles at the critical moment of a trial, but was unable to judge whether the creatures gave signs of humanity for the buzzing of the flies induced so sound a sleep that she only woke in time to see the prisoners led into the cells below. but from the evidence she brought we voted that it is unfair to suppose that the judges are men.

helen went to the royal academy, but when asked to deliver her report upon the pictures she began to recite from a pale blue volume, “o! for the touch of a vanished hand and the sound of a voice that is still. home is the hunter, home from the hill. he gave his bridle reins a shake. love is sweet, love is brief. spring, the fair spring, is the year’s pleasant king. o! to be in england now that april’s there. men must work and women must weep. the path of duty is the way to glory—” we could listen to no more of this gibberish.

“we want no more poetry!” we cried.

“daughters of england!” she began, but here we pulled her down, a vase of water getting spilt over her in the scuffle.

“thank god!” she exclaimed, shaking herself like a dog. “now i’ll roll on the carpet and see if i can’t brush off what remains of the union jack. then perhaps—” here she rolled energetically. getting up she began to explain to us what modern pictures are like when castalia stopped her.

“what is the average size of a picture?” she asked. “perhaps two feet by two and a half,” she said. castalia made notes while helen spoke, and when she had done, and we were trying not to meet each other’s eyes, rose and said, “at your wish i spent last week at oxbridge, disguised as a charwoman. i thus had access to the rooms of several professors and will now attempt to give you some idea—only,” she broke off, “i can’t think how to do it. it’s all so queer. these professors,” she went on, “live in large houses built round grass plots each in a kind of cell by himself. yet they have every convenience and comfort. you have only to press a button or light a little lamp. theirs papers are beautifully filed. books abound. there are no children or animals, save half a dozen stray cats and one aged bullfinch—a cock. i remember,” she broke off, “an aunt of mine who lived at dulwich and kept cactuses. you reached the conservatory through the double drawing–room, and there, on the hot pipes, were dozens of them, ugly, squat, bristly little plants each in a separate pot. once in a hundred years the aloe flowered, so my aunt said. but she died before that happened—” we told her to keep to the point. “well,” she resumed, “when professor hobkin was out, i examined his life work, an edition of sappho. it’s a queer looking book, six or seven inches thick, not all by sappho. oh, no. most of it is a defence of sappho’s chastity, which some german had denied, add i can assure you the passion with which these two gentlemen argued, the learning they displayed, the prodigious ingenuity with which they disputed the use of some implement which looked to me for all the world like a hairpin astounded me; especially when the door opened and professor hobkin himself appeared. a very nice, mild, old gentleman, but what could he know about chastity?” we misunderstood her.

“no, no,” she protested, “he’s the soul of honour i’m sure—not that he resembled rose’s sea captain in the least. i was thinking rather of my aunt’s cactuses. what could they know about chastity?”

again we told her not to wander from the point,—did the oxbridge professors help to produce good people and good books?—the objects of life.

“there!” she exclaimed. “it never struck me to ask. it never occurred to me that they could possibly produce anything.”

“i believe,” said sue, “that you made some mistake. probably professor hobkin was a gynecologist. a scholar is a very different sort of man. a scholar is overflowing with humour and invention—perhaps addicted to wine, but what of that?—a delightful companion, generous, subtle, imaginative—as stands to reason. for he spends his life in company with the finest human beings that have ever existed.”

“hum,” said castalia. “perhaps i’d better go back and try again.”

some three months later it happened that i was sitting alone when castalia entered. i don’t know what it was in the look of her that so moved me; but i could not restrain myself, and, dashing across the room, i clasped her in my arms. not only was she very beautiful; she seemed also in the highest spirits. “how happy you look!” i exclaimed, as she sat down.

“i’ve been at oxbridge,” she said.

“asking questions?”

“answering them,” she replied.

“you have not broken our vows?” i said anxiously, noticing something about her figure.

“oh, the vow,” she said casually. “i’m going to have a baby, if that’s what you mean. you can’t imagine,” she burst out, “how exciting, how beautiful, how satisfying—”

“what is?” i asked.

“to—to—answer questions,” she replied in some confusion. whereupon she told me the whole of her story. but in the middle of an account which interested and excited me more than anything i had ever heard, she gave the strangest cry, half whoop, half holloa—

“chastity! chastity! where’s my chastity!” she cried. “help ho! the scent bottle!”

there was nothing in the room but a cruet containing mustard, which i was about to administer when she recovered her composure.

“you should have thought of that three months ago,” i said severely.

“true,” she replied. “there’s not much good in thinking of it now. it was unfortunate, by the way, that my mother had me called castalia.”

“oh, castalia, your mother—” i was beginning when she reached for the mustard pot.

“no, no, no,” she said, shaking her head. “if you’d been a chaste woman yourself you would have screamed at the sight of me—instead of which you rushed across the room and took me in your arms. no, cassandra. we are neither of us chaste.” so we went on talking.

meanwhile the room was filling up, for it was the day appointed to discuss the results of our observations. everyone, i thought, felt as i did about castalia. they kissed her and said how glad they were to see her again. at length, when we were all assembled, jane rose and said that it was time to begin. she began by saying that we had now asked questions for over five years, and that though the results were bound to be inconclusive—here castalia nudged me and whispered that she was not so sure about that. then she got up, and, interrupting jane in the middle of a sentence, said:

“before you say any more, i want to know—am i to stay in the room? because,” she added, “i have to confess that i am an impure woman.”

everyone looked at her in astonishment.

“you are going to have a baby?” asked jane.

she nodded her head.

it was extraordinary to see the different expressions on their faces. a sort of hum went through the room, in which i could catch the words “impure,” “baby,” “castalia,” and so on. jane, who was herself considerably moved, put it to us:

“shall she go? is she impure?”

such a roar filled the room as might have been heard in the street outside.

“no! no! no! let her stay! impure? fiddlesticks!” yet i fancied that some of the youngest, girls of nineteen or twenty, held back as if overcome with shyness. then we all came about her and began asking questions, and at last i saw one of the youngest, who had kept in the background, approach shyly and say to her:

“what is chastity then? i mean is it good, or is it bad, or is it nothing at all?” she replied so low that i could not catch what she said.

“you know i was shocked,” said another, “for at least ten minutes.”

“in my opinion,” said poll, who was growing crusty from always reading in the london library, “chastity is nothing but ignorance—a most discreditable state of mind. we should admit only the unchaste to our society. i vote that castalia shall be our president.”

this was violently disputed.

“it is as unfair to brand women with chastity as with unchastity,” said poll. “some of us haven’t the opportunity either. moreover, i don’t believe cassy herself maintains that she acted as she did from a pure love of knowledge.”

“he is only twenty–one and divinely beautiful,” said cassy, with a ravishing gesture.

“i move,” said helen, “that no one be allowed to talk of chastity or unchastity save those who are in love.”

“oh, bother,” said judith, who had been enquiring into scientific matters, “i’m not in love and i’m longing to explain my measures for dispensing with prostitutes and fertilizing virgins by act of parliament.”

she went on to tell us of an invention of hers to be erected at tube stations and other public resorts, which, upon payment of a small fee, would safeguard the nation’s health, accommodate its sons, and relieve its daughters. then she had contrived a method of preserving in sealed tubes the germs of future lord chancellors “or poets or painters or musicians,” she went on, “supposing, that is to say, that these breeds are not extinct, and that women still wish to bear children—”

“of course we wish to bear children!” cried castalia, impatiently. jane rapped the table.

“that is the very point we are met to consider,” she said. “for five years we have been trying to find out whether we are justified in continuing the human race. castalia has anticipated our decision. but it remains for the rest of us to make up our minds.”

here one after another of our messengers rose and delivered their reports. the marvels of civilisation far exceeded our expectations, and, as we learnt for the first time how man flies in the air, talks across space, penetrates to the heart of an atom, and embraces the universe in his speculations, a murmur of admiration burst from our lips.

“we are proud,” we cried, “that our mothers sacrificed their youth in such a cause as this!” castalia, who had been listening intently, looked prouder than all the rest. then jane reminded us that we had still much to learn, and castalia begged us to make haste. on we went through a vast tangle of statistics. we learnt that england has a population of so many millions, and that such and such a proportion of them is constantly hungry and in prison; that the average size of a working man’s family is such, and that so great a percentage of women die from maladies incident to childbirth. reports were read of visits to factories, shops, slums, and dockyards. descriptions were given of the stock exchange, of a gigantic house of business in the city, and of a government office. the british colonies were now discussed, and some account was given of our rule in india, africa and ireland. i was sitting by castalia and i noticed her uneasiness.

“we shall never come to any conclusion at all at this rate,” she said. “as it appears that civilisation is so much more complex than we had any notion, would it not be better to confine ourselves to our original enquiry? we agreed that it was the object of life to produce good people and good books. all this time we have been talking of aeroplanes, factories, and money. let us talk about men themselves and their arts, for that is the heart of the matter.”

so the diners out stepped forward with long slips of paper containing answers to their questions. these had been framed after much consideration. a good man, we had agreed, must at any rate be honest, passionate, and unworldly. but whether or not a particular man possessed those qualities could only be discovered by asking questions, often beginning at a remote distance from the centre. is kensington a nice place to live in? where is your son being educated—and your daughter? now please tell me, what do you pay for your cigars? by the way, is sir joseph a baronet or only a knight? often it seemed that we learnt more from trivial questions of this kind than from more direct ones. “i accepted my peerage,” said lord bunkum, “because my wife wished it.” i forget how many titles were accepted for the same reason. “working fifteen hours out of the twenty–four, as i do—” ten thousand professional men began.

“no, no, of course you can neither read nor write. but why do you work so hard?” “my dear lady, with a growing family—” “but why does your family grow?” their wives wished that too, or perhaps it was the british empire. but more significant than the answers were the refusals to answer. very few would reply at all to questions about morality and religion, and such answers as were given were not serious. questions as to the value of money and power were almost invariably brushed aside, or pressed at extreme risk to the asker. “i’m sure,” said jill, “that if sir harley tightboots hadn’t been carving the mutton when i asked him about the capitalist system he would have cut my throat. the only reason why we escaped with our lives over and over again is that men are at once so hungry and so chivalrous. they despise us too much to mind what we say.”

“of course they despise us,” said eleanor. “at the same time how do you account for this—i made enquiries among the artists. now, no woman has ever been an artist, has she, polls?”

“jane—austen—charlotte—bronte—george—eliot,” cried poll, like a man crying muffins in a back street.

“damn the woman!” someone exclaimed. “what a bore she is!”

“since sappho there has been no female of first rate—” eleanor began, quoting from a weekly newspaper.

“it’s now well known that sappho was the somewhat lewd invention of professor hobkin,” ruth interrupted.

“anyhow, there is no reason to suppose that any woman ever has been able to write or ever will be able to write,” eleanor continued. “and yet, whenever i go among authors they never cease to talk to me about their books. masterly! i say, or shakespeare himself! (for one must say something) and i assure you, they believe me.”

“that proves nothing,” said jane. “they all do it. only,” she sighed, “it doesn’t seem to help us much. perhaps we had better examine modern literature next. liz, it’s your turn.”

elizabeth rose and said that in order to prosecute her enquiry she had dressed as a man and been taken for a reviewer.

“i have read new books pretty steadily for the past five years,” said she. “mr. wells is the most popular living writer; then comes mr. arnold bennett; then mr. compton makenzie; mr. mckenna and mr. walpole may be bracketed together.” she sat down.

“but you’ve told us nothing!” we expostulated. “or do you mean that these gentlemen have greatly surpassed jane–elliot and that english fiction is—where’s that review of yours? oh, yes, ‘safe in their hands.’”

“safe, quite safe,” she said, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. “and i’m sure that they give away even more than they receive.”

we were all sure of that. “but,” we pressed her, “do they write good books?”

“good books?” she said, looking at the ceiling “you must remember,” she began, speaking with extreme rapidity, “that fiction is the mirror of life. and you can’t deny that education is of the highest importance, and that it would be extremely annoying, if you found yourself alone at brighton late at night, not to know which was the best boarding house to stay at, and suppose it was a dripping sunday evening—wouldn’t it be nice to go to the movies?”

“but what has that got to do with it?” we asked.

“nothing—nothing—nothing whatever,” she replied.

“well, tell us the truth,” we bade her.

“the truth? but isn’t it wonderful,” she broke off—“mr. chitter has written a weekly article for the past thirty years upon love or hot buttered toast and has sent all his sons to eton—”

“the truth!” we demanded.

“oh, the truth,” she stammered, “the truth has nothing to do with literature,” and sitting down she refused to say another word.

it all seemed to us very inconclusive.

“ladies, we must try to sum up the results,” jane was beginning, when a hum, which had been heard for some time through the open window, drowned her voice.

“war! war! war! declaration of war!” men were shouting in the street below.

we looked at each other in horror.

“what war?” we cried. “what war?” we remembered, too late, that we had never thought of sending anyone to the house of commons. we had forgotten all about it. we turned to poll, who had reached the history shelves in the london library, and asked her to enlighten us.

“why,” we cried, “do men go to war?”

“sometimes for one reason, sometimes for another,” she replied calmly. “in 1760, for example—” the shouts outside drowned her words. “again in 1797—in 1804—it was the austrians in 1866–1870 was the franco–prussian—in 1900 on the other hand—”

“but it’s now 1914!” we cut her short.

“ah, i don’t know what they’re going to war for now,” she admitted.

[1] * * * *

the war was over and peace was in process of being signed, when i once more found myself with castalia in the room where our meetings used to be held. we began idly turning over the pages of our old minute books. “queer,” i mused, “to see what we were thinking five years ago.” “we are agreed,” castalia quoted, reading over my shoulder, “that it is the object of life to produce good people and good books.” we made no comment upon that. “a good man is at any rate honest, passionate and unworldly.” “what a woman’s language!” i observed. “oh, dear,” cried castalia, pushing the book away from her, “what fools we were! it was all poll’s father’s fault,” she went on. “i believe he did it on purpose—that ridiculous will, i mean, forcing poll to read all the books in the london library. if we hadn’t learnt to read,” she said bitterly, “we might still have been bearing children in ignorance and that i believe was the happiest life after all. i know what you’re going to say about war,” she checked me, “and the horror of bearing children to see them killed, but our mothers did it, and their mothers, and their mothers before them. and they didn’t complain. they couldn’t read. i’ve done my best,” she sighed, “to prevent my little girl from learning to read, but what’s the use? i caught ann only yesterday with a newspaper in her hand and she was beginning to ask me if it was ‘true.’ next she’ll ask me whether mr. lloyd george is a good man, then whether mr. arnold bennett is a good novelist, and finally whether i believe in god. how can i bring my daughter up to believe in nothing?” she demanded.

“surely you could teach her to believe that a man’s intellect is, and always will be, fundamentally superior to a woman’s?” i suggested. she brightened at this and began to turn over our old minutes again. “yes,” she said, “think of their discoveries, their mathematics, their science, their philosophy, their scholarship—” and then she began to laugh, “i shall never forget old hobkin and the hairpin,” she said, and went on reading and laughing and i thought she was quite happy, when suddenly she drew the book from her and burst out, “oh, cassandra, why do you torment me? don’t you know that our belief in man’s intellect is the greatest fallacy of them all?” “what?” i exclaimed. “ask any journalist, schoolmaster, politician or public house keeper in the land and they will all tell you that men are much cleverer than women.” “as if i doubted it,” she said scornfully. “how could they help it? haven’t we bred them and fed and kept them in comfort since the beginning of time so that they may be clever even if they’re nothing else? it’s all our doing!” she cried. “we insisted upon having intellect and now we’ve got it. and it’s intellect,” she continued, “that’s at the bottom of it. what could be more charming than a boy before he has begun to cultivate his intellect? he is beautiful to look at; he gives himself no airs; he understands the meaning of art and literature instinctively; he goes about enjoying his life and making other people enjoy theirs. then they teach him to cultivate his intellect. he becomes a barrister, a civil servant, a general, an author, a professor. every day he goes to an office. every year he produces a book. he maintains a whole family by the products of his brain—poor devil! soon he cannot come into a room without making us all feel uncomfortable; he condescends to every woman he meets, and dares not tell the truth even to his own wife; instead of rejoicing our eyes we have to shut them if we are to take him in our arms. true, they console themselves with stars of all shapes, ribbons of all shades, and incomes of all sizes—but what is to console us? that we shall be able in ten years’ time to spend a weekend at lahore? or that the least insect in japan has a name twice the length of its body? oh, cassandra, for heaven’s sake let us devise a method by which men may bear children! it is our only chance. for unless we provide them with some innocent occupation we shall get neither good people nor good books; we shall perish beneath the fruits of their unbridled activity; and not a human being will survive to know that there once was shakespeare!”

“it is too late,” i replied. “we cannot provide even for the children that we have.”

“and then you ask me to believe in intellect,” she said.

while we spoke, man were crying hoarsely and wearily in the street, and, listening, we heard that the treaty of peace had just been signed. the voices died away. the rain was falling and interfered no doubt with the proper explosion of the fireworks.

“my cook will have bought the evening news,” said castalia, “and ann will be spelling it out over her tea. i must go home.”

“it’s no good—not a bit of good,” i said. “once she knows how to read there’s only one thing you can teach her to believe in—and that is herself.”

“well, that would be a change,” sighed castalia.

so we swept up the papers of our society, and, though ann was playing with her doll very happily, we solemnly made her a present of the lot and told her we had chosen her to be president of the society of the future—upon which she burst into tears, poor little girl.

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3. Monday or Tuesday

小!说!txt!天.堂
3. monday or tuesday

lazy and indifferent, shaking space easily from his wings, knowing his way, the heron passes over the church beneath the sky. white and distant, absorbed in itself, endlessly the sky covers and uncovers, moves and remains. a lake? blot the shores of it out! a mountain? oh, perfect—the sun gold on its slopes. down that falls. ferns then, or white feathers, for ever and ever—

desiring truth, awaiting it, laboriously distilling a few words, for ever desiring—(a cry starts to the left, another to the right. wheels strike divergently. omnibuses conglomerate in conflict)—for ever desiring—(the clock asseverates with twelve distinct strokes that it is midday; light sheds gold scales; children swarm)—for ever desiring truth. red is the dome; coins hang on the trees; smoke trails from the chimneys; bark, shout, cry “iron for sale”—and truth?

radiating to a point men’s feet and women’s feet, black or gold–encrusted—(this foggy weather—sugar? no, thank you—the commonwealth of the future)—the firelight darting and making the room red, save for the black figures and their bright eyes, while outside a van discharges, miss thingummy drinks tea at her desk, and plate–glass preserves fur coats—

flaunted, leaf—light, drifting at corners, blown across the wheels, silver–splashed, home or not home, gathered, scattered, squandered in separate scales, swept up, down, torn, sunk, assembled—and truth?

now to recollect by the fireside on the white square of marble. from ivory depths words rising shed their blackness, blossom and penetrate. fallen the book; in the flame, in the smoke, in the momentary sparks—or now voyaging, the marble square pendant, minarets beneath and the indian seas, while space rushes blue and stars glint—truth? content with closeness?

lazy and indifferent the heron returns; the sky veils her stars; then bares them.

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4. An Unwritten Novel

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4. an unwritten novel

such an expression of unhappiness was enough by itself to make one’s eyes slide above the paper’s edge to the poor woman’s face—insignificant without that look, almost a symbol of human destiny with it. life’s what you see in people’s eyes; life’s what they learn, and, having learnt it, never, though they seek to hide it, cease to be aware of—what? that life’s like that, it seems. five faces opposite—five mature faces—and the knowledge in each face. strange, though, how people want to conceal it! marks of reticence are on all those faces: lips shut, eyes shaded, each one of the five doing something to hide or stultify his knowledge. one smokes; another reads; a third checks entries in a pocket book; a fourth stares at the map of the line framed opposite; and the fifth—the terrible thing about the fifth is that she does nothing at all. she looks at life. ah, but my poor, unfortunate woman, do play the game—do, for all our sakes, conceal it!

as if she heard me, she looked up, shifted slightly in her seat and sighed. she seemed to apologise and at the same time to say to me, “if only you knew!” then she looked at life again. “but i do know,” i answered silently, glancing at the times for manners’ sake. “i know the whole business. ‘peace between germany and the allied powers was yesterday officially ushered in at paris—signor nitti, the italian prime minister—a passenger train at doncaster was in collision with a goods train. . .’ we all know—the times knows—but we pretend we don’t.” my eyes had once more crept over the paper’s rim she shuddered, twitched her arm queerly to the middle of her back and shook her head. again i dipped into my great reservoir of life. “take what you like,” i continued, “births, deaths, marriages, court circular, the habits of birds, leonardo da vinci, the sandhills murder, high wages and the cost of living—oh, take what you like,” i repeated, “it’s all in the times!” again with infinite weariness she moved her head from side to side until, like a top exhausted with spinning, it settled on her neck.

the times was no protection against such sorrow as hers. but other human beings forbade intercourse. the best thing to do against life was to fold the paper so that it made a perfect square, crisp, thick, impervious even to life. this done, i glanced up quickly, armed with a shield of my own. she pierced through my shield; she gazed into my eyes as if searching any sediment of courage at the depths of them and damping it to clay. her twitch alone denied all hope, discounted all illusion.

so we rattled through surrey and across the border into sussex. but with my eyes upon life i did not see that the other travellers had left, one by one, till, save for the man who read, we were alone together. here was three bridges station. we drew slowly down the platform and stopped. was he going to leave us? i prayed both ways—i prayed last that he might stay. at that instant he roused himself, crumpled his paper contemptuously, like a thing done with, burst open the door, and left us alone.

the unhappy woman, leaning a little forward, palely and colourlessly addressed me—talked of stations and holidays, of brothers at eastbourne, and the time of year, which was, i forget now, early or late. but at last looking from the window and seeing, i knew, only life, she breathed, “staying away—that’s the drawback of it—” ah, now we approached the catastrophe, “my sister–in–law”—the bitterness of her tone was like lemon on cold steel, and speaking, not to me, but to herself, she muttered, “nonsense, she would say—that’s what they all say,” and while she spoke she fidgeted as though the skin on her back were as a plucked fowl’s in a poulterer’s shop–window.

“oh, that cow!” she broke off nervously, as though the great wooden cow in the meadow had shocked her and saved her from some indiscretion. then she shuddered, and then she made the awkward angular movement that i had seen before, as if, after the spasm, some spot between the shoulders burnt or itched. then again she looked the most unhappy woman in the world, and i once more reproached her, though not with the same conviction, for if there were a reason, and if i knew the reason, the stigma was removed from life.

“sisters–in–law,” i said—

her lips pursed as if to spit venom at the word; pursed they remained. all she did was to take her glove and rub hard at a spot on the window–pane. she rubbed as if she would rub something out for ever—some stain, some indelible contamination. indeed, the spot remained for all her rubbing, and back she sank with the shudder and the clutch of the arm i had come to expect. something impelled me to take my glove and rub my window. there, too, was a little speck on the glass. for all my rubbing it remained. and then the spasm went through me i crooked my arm and plucked at the middle of my back. my skin, too, felt like the damp chicken’s skin in the poulterer’s shop–window; one spot between the shoulders itched and irritated, felt clammy, felt raw. could i reach it? surreptitiously i tried. she saw me. a smile of infinite irony, infinite sorrow, flitted and faded from her face. but she had communicated, shared her secret, passed her poison she would speak no more. leaning back in my corner, shielding my eyes from her eyes, seeing only the slopes and hollows, greys and purples, of the winter’s landscape, i read her message, deciphered her secret, reading it beneath her gaze.

hilda’s the sister–in–law. hilda? hilda? hilda marsh—hilda the blooming, the full bosomed, the matronly. hilda stands at the door as the cab draws up, holding a coin. “poor minnie, more of a grasshopper than ever—old cloak she had last year. well, well, with too children these days one can’t do more. no, minnie, i’ve got it; here you are, cabby—none of your ways with me. come in, minnie. oh, i could carry you, let alone your basket!” so they go into the dining–room. “aunt minnie, children.”

slowly the knives and forks sink from the upright. down they get (bob and barbara), hold out hands stiffly; back again to their chairs, staring between the resumed mouthfuls. [but this we’ll skip; ornaments, curtains, trefoil china plate, yellow oblongs of cheese, white squares of biscuit—skip—oh, but wait! half–way through luncheon one of those shivers; bob stares at her, spoon in mouth. “get on with your pudding, bob;” but hilda disapproves. “why should she twitch?” skip, skip, till we reach the landing on the upper floor; stairs brass–bound; linoleum worn; oh, yes! little bedroom looking out over the roofs of eastbourne—zigzagging roofs like the spines of caterpillars, this way, that way, striped red and yellow, with blue–black slating]. now, minnie, the door’s shut; hilda heavily descends to the basement; you unstrap the straps of your basket, lay on the bed a meagre nightgown, stand side by side furred felt slippers. the looking–glass—no, you avoid the looking–glass. some methodical disposition of hat–pins. perhaps the shell box has something in it? you shake it; it’s the pearl stud there was last year—that’s all. and then the sniff, the sigh, the sitting by the window. three o’clock on a december afternoon; the rain drizzling; one light low in the skylight of a drapery emporium; another high in a servant’s bedroom—this one goes out. that gives her nothing to look at. a moment’s blankness—then, what are you thinking? (let me peep across at her opposite; she’s asleep or pretending it; so what would she think about sitting at the window at three o’clock in the afternoon? health, money, bills, her god?) yes, sitting on the very edge of the chair looking over the roofs of eastbourne, minnie marsh prays to gods. that’s all very well; and she may rub the pane too, as though to see god better; but what god does she see? who’s the god of minnie marsh, the god of the back streets of eastbourne, the god of three o’clock in the afternoon? i, too, see roofs, i see sky; but, oh, dear—this seeing of gods! more like president kruger than prince albert—that’s the best i can do for him; and i see him on a chair, in a black frock–coat, not so very high up either; i can manage a cloud or two for him to sit on; and then his hand trailing in the cloud holds a rod, a truncheon is it?—black, thick, thorned—a brutal old bully—minnie’s god! did he send the itch and the patch and the twitch? is that why she prays? what she rubs on the window is the stain of sin. oh, she committed some crime!

i have my choice of crimes. the woods flit and fly—in summer there are bluebells; in the opening there, when spring comes, primroses. a parting, was it, twenty years ago? vows broken? not minnie’s! . . . she was faithful. how she nursed her mother! all her savings on the tombstone—wreaths under glass—daffodils in jars. but i’m off the track. a crime. . . they would say she kept her sorrow, suppressed her secret—her sex, they’d say—the scientific people. but what flummery to saddle her with sex! no—more like this. passing down the streets of croydon twenty years ago, the violet loops of ribbon in the draper’s window spangled in the electric light catch her eye. she lingers—past six. still by running she can reach home. she pushes through the glass swing door. it’s sale–time. shallow trays brim with ribbons. she pauses, pulls this, fingers that with the raised roses on it—no need to choose, no need to buy, and each tray with its surprises. “we don’t shut till seven,” and then it is seven. she runs, she rushes, home she reaches, but too late. nei***ours—the doctor—baby brother—the kettle—scalded—hospital—dead—or only the shock of it, the blame? ah, but the detail matters nothing! it’s what she carries with her; the spot, the crime, the thing to expiate, always there between her shoulders.

“yes,” she seems to nod to me, “it’s the thing i did.”

whether you did, or what you did, i don’t mind; it’s not the thing i want. the draper’s window looped with violet—that’ll do; a little cheap perhaps, a little commonplace—since one has a choice of crimes, but then so many (let me peep across again—still sleeping, or pretending sleep! white, worn, the mouth closed—a touch of obstinacy, more than one would think—no hint of sex)—so many crimes aren’t your crime; your crime was cheap; only the retribution solemn; for now the church door opens, the hard wooden pew receives her; on the brown tiles she kneels; every day, winter, summer, dusk, dawn (here she’s at it) prays. all her sins fall, fall, for ever fall. the spot receives them. it’s raised, it’s red, it’s burning. next she twitches. small boys point. “bob at lunch to–day”—but elderly women are the worst.

indeed now you can’t sit praying any longer. kruger’s sunk beneath the clouds—washed over as with a painter’s brush of liquid grey, to which he adds a tinge of black—even the tip of the truncheon gone now. that’s what always happens! just as you’ve seen him, felt him, someone interrupts. it’s hilda now.

how you hate her! she’ll even lock the bathroom door overnight, too, though it’s only cold water you want, and sometimes when the night’s been bad it seems as if washing helped. and john at breakfast—the children—meals are worst, and sometimes there are friends—ferns don’t altogether hide ‘em—they guess, too; so out you go along the front, where the waves are grey, and the papers blow, and the glass shelters green and draughty, and the chairs cost tuppence—too much—for there must be preachers along the sands. ah, that’s a nigger—that’s a funny man—that’s a man with parakeets—poor little creatures! is there no one here who thinks of god?—just up there, over the pier, with his rod—but no—there’s nothing but grey in the sky or if it’s blue the white clouds hide him, and the music—it’s military music—and what they are fishing for? do they catch them? how the children stare! well, then home a back way—“home a back way!” the words have meaning; might have been spoken by the old man with whiskers—no, no, he didn’t really speak; but everything has meaning—placards leaning against doorways—names above shop–windows—red fruit in baskets—women’s heads in the hairdresser’s—all say “minnie marsh!” but here’s a jerk. “eggs are cheaper!” that’s what always happens! i was heading her over the waterfall, straight for madness, when, like a flock of dream sheep, she turns t’other way and runs between my fingers. eggs are cheaper. tethered to the shores of the world, none of the crimes, sorrows, rhapsodies, or insanities for poor minnie marsh; never late for luncheon; never caught in a storm without a mackintosh; never utterly unconscious of the cheapness of eggs. so she reaches home—scrapes her boots.

have i read you right? but the human face—the human face at the top of the fullest sheet of print holds more, withholds more. now, eyes open, she looks out; and in the human eye—how d’you define it?—there’s a break—a division—so that when you’ve grasped the stem the butterfly’s off—the moth that hangs in the evening over the yellow flower—move, raise your hand, off, high, away. i won’t raise my hand. hang still, then, quiver, life, soul, spirit, whatever you are of minnie marsh—i, too, on my flower—the hawk over the down—alone, or what were the worth of life? to rise; hang still in the evening, in the midday; hang still over the down. the flicker of a hand—off, up! then poised again. alone, unseen; seeing all so still down there, all so lovely. none seeing, none caring. the eyes of others our prisons; their thoughts our cages. air above, air below. and the moon and immortality. . . oh, but i drop to the turf! are you down too, you in the corner, what’s your name—woman—minnie marsh; some such name as that? there she is, tight to her blossom; opening her hand–bag, from which she takes a hollow shell—an egg—who was saying that eggs were cheaper? you or i? oh, it was you who said it on the way home, you remember, when the old gentleman, suddenly opening his umbrella—or sneezing was it? anyhow, kruger went, and you came “home a back way,” and scraped your boots. yes. and now you lay across your knees a pocket–handkerchief into which drop little angular fragments of eggshell—fragments of a map—a puzzle. i wish i could piece them together! if you would only sit still. she’s moved her knees—the map’s in bits again. down the slopes of the andes the white blocks of marble go bounding and hurtling, crushing to death a whole troop of spanish muleteers, with their convoy—drake’s booty, gold and silver. but to return—

to what, to where? she opened the door, and, putting her umbrella in the stand—that goes without saying; so, too, the whiff of beef from the basement; dot, dot, dot. but what i cannot thus eliminate, what i must, head down, eyes shut, with the courage of a battalion and the blindness of a bull, charge and disperse are, indubitably, the figures behind the ferns, commercial travellers. there i’ve hidden them all this time in the hope that somehow they’d disappear, or better still emerge, as indeed they must, if the story’s to go on gathering richness and rotundity, destiny and tragedy, as stories should, rolling along with it two, if not three, commercial travellers and a whole grove of aspidistra. “the fronds of the aspidistra only partly concealed the commercial traveller—” rhododendrons would conceal him utterly, and into the bargain give me my fling of red and white, for which i starve and strive; but rhododendrons in eastbourne—in december—on the marshes’ table—no, no, i dare not; it’s all a matter of crusts and cruets, frills and ferns. perhaps there’ll be a moment later by the sea. moreover, i feel, pleasantly pricking through the green fretwork and over the glacis of cut glass, a desire to peer and peep at the man opposite—one’s as much as i can manage. james moggridge is it, whom the marshes call jimmy? [minnie, you must promise not to twitch till i’ve got this straight]. james moggridge travels in—shall we say buttons?—but the time’s not come for bringing them in—the big and the little on the long cards, some peacock–eyed, others dull gold; cairngorms some, and others coral sprays—but i say the time’s not come. he travels, and on thursdays, his eastbourne day, takes his meals with the marshes. his red face, his little steady eyes—by no means. altogether commonplace—his enormous appetite (that’s safe; he won’t look at minnie till the bread’s swamped the gravy dry), napkin tucked diamond–wise—but this is primitive, and, whatever it may do the reader, don’t take me in. let’s dodge to the moggridge household, set that in motion. well, the family boots are mended on sundays by james himself. he reads truth. but his passion? roses—and his wife a retired hospital nurse—interesting—for god’s sake let me have one woman with a name i like! but no; she’s of the unborn children of the mind, illicit, none the less loved, like my rhododendrons. how many die in every novel that’s written—the best, the dearest, while moggridge lives. it’s life’s fault. here’s minnie eating her egg at the moment opposite and at t’other end of the line—are we past lewes?—there must be jimmy—or what’s her twitch for?

there must be moggridge—life’s fault. life imposes her laws; life blocks the way; life’s behind the fern; life’s the tyrant; oh, but not the bully! no, for i assure you i come willingly; i come wooed by heaven knows what compulsion across ferns and cruets, table splashed and bottles smeared. i come irresistibly to lodge myself somewhere on the firm flesh, in the robust spine, wherever i can penetrate or find foothold on the person, in the soul, of moggridge the man. the enormous stability of the fabric; the spine tough as whalebone, straight as oaktree; the ribs radiating branches; the flesh taut tarpaulin; the red hollows; the suck and regurgitation of the heart; while from above meat falls in brown cubes and beer gushes to be churned to blood again—and so we reach the eyes. behind the aspidistra they see something: black, white, dismal; now the plate again; behind the aspidistra they see elderly woman; “marsh’s sister, hilda’s more my sort;” the tablecloth now. “marsh would know what’s wrong with morrises. . .” talk that over; cheese has come; the plate again; turn it round—the enormous fingers; now the woman opposite. “marsh’s sister—not a bit like marsh; wretched, elderly female. . . you should feed your hens. . . god’s truth, what’s set her twitching? not what i said? dear, dear, dear! these elderly women. dear, dear!”

[yes, minnie; i know you’ve twitched, but one moment—james moggridge].

“dear, dear, dear!” how beautiful the sound is! like the knock of a mallet on seasoned timber, like the throb of the heart of an ancient whaler when the seas press thick and the green is clouded. “dear, dear!” what a passing bell for the souls of the fretful to soothe them and solace them, lap them in linen, saying, “so long. good luck to you!” and then, “what’s your pleasure?” for though moggridge would pluck his rose for her, that’s done, that’s over. now what’s the next thing? “madam, you’ll miss your train,” for they don’t linger.

that’s the man’s way; that’s the sound that reverberates; that’s st. paul’s and the motor–omnibuses. but we’re brushing the crumbs off. oh, moggridge, you won’t stay? you must be off? are you driving through eastbourne this afternoon in one of those little carriages? are you man who’s walled up in green cardboard boxes, and sometimes has the blinds down, and sometimes sits so solemn staring like a sphinx, and always there’s a look of the sepulchral, something of the undertaker, the coffin, and the dusk about horse and driver? do tell me—but the doors slammed. we shall never meet again. moggridge, farewell!

yes, yes, i’m coming. right up to the top of the house. one moment i’ll linger. how the mud goes round in the mind—what a swirl these monsters leave, the waters rocking, the weeds waving and green here, black there, striking to the sand, till by degrees the atoms reassemble, the deposit sifts itself, and again through the eyes one sees clear and still, and there comes to the lips some prayer for the departed, some obsequy for the souls of those one nods to, the people one never meets again.

james moggridge is dead now, gone for ever. well, minnie—“i can face it no longer.” if she said that—(let me look at her. she is brushing the eggshell into deep declivities). she said it certainly, leaning against the wall of the bedroom, and plucking at the little balls which edge the claret–coloured curtain. but when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking?—the entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb; the self that took the veil and left the world—a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors. “i can bear it no longer,” her spirit says. “that man at lunch—hilda—the children.” oh, heavens, her sob! it’s the spirit wailing its destiny, the spirit driven hither, thither, lodging on the diminishing carpets—meagre footholds—shrunken shreds of all the vanishing universe—love, life, faith, husband, children, i know not what splendours and pageantries glimpsed in girlhood. “not for me—not for me.”

but then—the muffins, the bald elderly dog? bead mats i should fancy and the consolation of underlinen. if minnie marsh were run over and taken to hospital, nurses and doctors themselves would exclaim. . . there’s the vista and the vision—there’s the distance—the blue blot at the end of the avenue, while, after all, the tea is rich, the muffin hot, and the dog—“benny, to your basket, sir, and see what mother’s brought you!” so, taking the glove with the worn thumb, defying once more the encroaching demon of what’s called going in holes, you renew the fortifications, threading the grey wool, running it in and out.

running it in and out, across and over, spinning a web through which god himself—hush, don’t think of god! how firm the stitches are! you must be proud of your darning. let nothing disturb her. let the light fall gently, and the clouds show an inner vest of the first green leaf. let the sparrow perch on the twig and shake the raindrop hanging to the twig’s elbow. . . why look up? was it a sound, a thought? oh, heavens! back again to the thing you did, the plate glass with the violet loops? but hilda will come. ignominies, humiliations, oh! close the breach.

having mended her glove, minnie marsh lays it in the drawer. she shuts the drawer with decision. i catch sight of her face in the glass. lips are pursed. chin held high. next she laces her shoes. then she touches her throat. what’s your brooch? mistletoe or merry–thought? and what is happening? unless i’m much mistaken, the pulse’s quickened, the moment’s coming, the threads are racing, niagara’s ahead. here’s the crisis! heaven be with you! down she goes. courage, courage! face it, be it! for god’s sake don’t wait on the mat now! there’s the door! i’m on your side. speak! confront her, confound her soul!

“oh, i beg your pardon! yes, this is eastbourne. i’ll reach it down for you. let me try the handle.” [but, minnie, though we keep up pretences, i’ve read you right—i’m with you now].

“that’s all your luggage?”

“much obliged, i’m sure.”

(but why do you look about you? hilda don’t come to the station, nor john; and moggridge is driving at the far side of eastbourne).

“i’ll wait by my bag, ma’am, that’s safest. he said he’d meet me. . . oh, there he is! that’s my son.”

so they walk off together.

well, but i’m confounded. . . surely, minnie, you know better! a strange young man. . . stop! i’ll tell him—minnie!—miss marsh!—i don’t know though. there’s something queer in her cloak as it blows. oh, but it’s untrue, it’s indecent. . . look how he bends as they reach the gateway. she finds her ticket. what’s the joke? off they go, down the road, side by side. . . well, my world’s done for! what do i stand on? what do i know? that’s not minnie. there never was moggridge. who am i? life’s bare as bone.

and yet the last look of them—he stepping from the kerb and she following him round the edge of the big building brims me with wonder—floods me anew. mysterious figures! mother and son. who are you? why do you walk down the street? where to–night will you sleep, and then, to–morrow? oh, how it whirls and surges—floats me afresh! i start after them. people drive this way and that. the white light splutters and pours. plate–glass windows. carnations; chrysanthemums. ivy in dark gardens. milk carts at the door. wherever i go, mysterious figures, i see you, turning the corner, mothers and sons; you, you, you. i hasten, i follow. this, i fancy, must be the sea. grey is the landscape; dim as ashes; the water murmurs and moves. if i fall on my knees, if i go through the ritual, the ancient antics, it’s you, unknown figures, you i adore; if i open my arms, it’s you i embrace, you i draw to me—adorable world!

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5. The String Quartet

小!说!txt!天.堂
5. the string quartet

well, here we are, and if you cast your eye over the room you will see that tubes and trams and omnibuses, private carriages not a few, even, i venture to believe, landaus with bays in them, have been busy at it, weaving threads from one end of london to the other. yet i begin to have my doubts—

if indeed it’s true, as they’re saying, that regent street is up, and the treaty signed, and the weather not cold for the time of year, and even at that rent not a flat to be had, and the worst of influenza its after effects; if i bethink me of having forgotten to write about the leak in the larder, and left my glove in the train; if the ties of blood require me, leaning forward, to accept cordially the hand which is perhaps offered hesitatingly—

“seven years since we met!”

“the last time in venice.”

“and where are you living now?”

“well, the late afternoon suits me the best, though, if it weren’t asking too much—”

“but i knew you at once!”

“still, the war made a break—”

if the mind’s shot through by such little arrows, and—for human society compels it—no sooner is one launched than another presses forward; if this engenders heat and in addition they’ve turned on the electric light; if saying one thing does, in so many cases, leave behind it a need to improve and revise, stirring besides regrets, pleasures, vanities, and desires—if it’s all the facts i mean, and the hats, the fur boas, the gentlemen’s swallow–tail coats, and pearl tie–pins that come to the surface—what chance is there?

of what? it becomes every minute more difficult to say why, in spite of everything, i sit here believing i can’t now say what, or even remember the last time it happened.

“did you see the procession?”

“the king looked cold.”

“no, no, no. but what was it?”

“she’s bought a house at malmesbury.”

“how lucky to find one!”

on the contrary, it seems to me pretty sure that she, whoever she may be, is damned, since it’s all a matter of flats and hats and sea gulls, or so it seems to be for a hundred people sitting here well dressed, walled in, furred, replete. not that i can boast, since i too sit passive on a gilt chair, only turning the earth above a buried memory, as we all do, for there are signs, if i’m not mistaken, that we’re all recalling something, furtively seeking something. why fidget? why so anxious about the sit of cloaks; and gloves—whether to button or unbutton? then watch that elderly face against the dark canvas, a moment ago urbane and flushed; now taciturn and sad, as if in shadow. was it the sound of the second violin tuning in the ante–room? here they come; four black figures, carrying instruments, and seat themselves facing the white squares under the downpour of light; rest the tips of their bows on the music stand; with a simultaneous movement lift them; lightly poise them, and, looking across at the player opposite, the first violin counts one, two, three—

flourish, spring, burgeon, burst! the pear tree on the top of the mountain. fountains jet; drops descend. but the waters of the rhone flow swift and deep, race under the arches, and sweep the trailing water leaves, washing shadows over the silver fish, the spotted fish rushed down by the swift waters, now swept into an eddy where—it’s difficult this—conglomeration of fish all in a pool; leaping, splashing, scraping sharp fins; and such a boil of current that the yellow pebbles are churned round and round, round and round—free now, rushing downwards, or even somehow ascending in exquisite spirals into the air; curled like thin shavings from under a plane; up and up. . . how lovely goodness is in those who, stepping lightly, go smiling through the world! also in jolly old fishwives, squatted under arches, oh scene old women, how deeply they laugh and shake and rollick, when they walk, from side to side, hum, hah!

“that’s an early mozart, of course—”

“but the tune, like all his tunes, makes one despair—i mean hope. what do i mean? that’s the worst of music! i want to dance, laugh, eat pink cakes, yellow cakes, drink thin, sharp wine. or an indecent story, now—i could relish that. the older one grows the more one likes indecency. hall, hah! i’m laughing. what at? you said nothing, nor did the old gentleman opposite. . . but suppose—suppose—hush!”

the melancholy river bears us on. when the moon comes through the trailing willow boughs, i see your face, i hear your voice and the bird singing as we pass the osier bed. what are you whispering? sorrow, sorrow. joy, joy. woven together, like reeds in moonlight. woven together, inextricably commingled, bound in pain and strewn in sorrow—crash!

the boat sinks. rising, the figures ascend, but now leaf thin, tapering to a dusky wraith, which, fiery tipped, draws its twofold passion from my heart. for me it sings, unseals my sorrow, thaws compassion, floods with love the sunless world, nor, ceasing, abates its tenderness but deftly, subtly, weaves in and out until in this pattern, this consummation, the cleft ones unify; soar, sob, sink to rest, sorrow and joy.

why then grieve? ask what? remain unsatisfied? i say all’s been settled; yes; laid to rest under a coverlet of rose leaves, falling. falling. ah, but they cease. one rose leaf, falling from an enormous height, like a little parachute dropped from an invisible balloon, turns, flutters waveringly. it won’t reach us.

“no, no. i noticed nothing. that’s the worst of music—these silly dreams. the second violin was late, you say?”

“there’s old mrs. munro, feeling her way out—blinder each year, poor woman—on this slippery floor.”

eyeless old age, grey–headed sphinx. . . there she stands on the pavement, beckoning, so sternly, the red omnibus.

“how lovely! how well they play! how—how—how!”

the tongue is but a clapper. simplicity itself. the feathers in the hat next me are bright and pleasing as a child’s rattle. the leaf on the plane–tree flashes green through the chink in the curtain. very strange, very exciting.

“how—how—how!” hush!

these are the lovers on the grass.

“if, madam, you will take my hand—”

“sir, i would trust you with my heart. moreover, we have left our bodies in the banqueting hall. those on the turf are the shadows of our souls.”

“then these are the embraces of our souls.” the lemons nod assent. the swan pushes from the bank and floats dreaming into mid stream.

“but to return. he followed me down the corridor, and, as we turned the corner, trod on the lace of my petticoat. what could i do but cry ‘ah!’ and stop to finger it? at which he drew his sword, made passes as if he were stabbing something to death, and cried, ‘mad! mad! mad!’ whereupon i screamed, and the prince, who was writing in the large vellum book in the oriel window, came out in his velvet skull–cap and furred slippers, snatched a rapier from the wall—the king of spain’s gift, you know—on which i escaped, flinging on this cloak to hide the ravages to my skirt—to hide. . . but listen! the horns!”

the gentleman replies so fast to the lady, and she runs up the scale with such witty exchange of compliment now culminating in a sob of passion, that the words are indistinguishable though the meaning is plain enough—love, laughter, flight, pursuit, celestial bliss—all floated out on the gayest ripple of tender endearment—until the sound of the silver horns, at first far distant, gradually sounds more and more distinctly, as if seneschals were saluting the dawn or proclaiming ominously the escape of the lovers. . . the green garden, moonlit pool, lemons, lovers, and fish are all dissolved in the opal sky, across which, as the horns are joined by trumpets and supported by clarions there rise white arches firmly planted on marble pillars. . . tramp and trumpeting. clang and clangour. firm establishment. fast foundations. march of myriads. confusion and chaos trod to earth. but this city to which we travel has neither stone nor marble; hangs enduring; stands unshakable; nor does a face, nor does a flag greet or welcome. leave then to perish your hope; droop in the desert my joy; naked advance. bare are the pillars; auspicious to none; casting no shade; resplendent; severe. back then i fall, eager no more, desiring only to go, find the street, mark the buildings, greet the applewoman, say to the maid who opens the door: a starry night.

“good night, good night. you go this way?”

“alas. i go that.”

w w w.x iaoshu otx t.c o m



6. Blue & Green

　小＿说txt天＿堂　
6. blue & green

green

the ported fingers of glass hang downwards. the light slides down the glass, and drops a pool of green. all day long the ten fingers of the lustre drop green upon the marble. the feathers of parakeets—their harsh cries—sharp blades of palm trees—green, too; green needles glittering in the sun. but the hard glass drips on to the marble; the pools hover above the dessert sand; the camels lurch through them; the pools settle on the marble; rushes edge them; weeds clog them; here and there a white blossom; the frog flops over; at night the stars are set there unbroken. evening comes, and the shadow sweeps the green over the mantelpiece; the ruffled surface of ocean. no ships come; the aimless waves sway beneath the empty sky. it’s night; the needles drip blots of blue. the green’s out.

blue

the snub–nosed monster rises to the surface and spouts through his blunt nostrils two columns of water, which, fiery–white in the centre, spray off into a fringe of blue beads. strokes of blue line the black tarpaulin of his hide. slushing the water through mouth and nostrils he sings, heavy with water, and the blue closes over him dowsing the polished pebbles of his eyes. thrown upon the beach he lies, blunt, obtuse, shedding dry blue scales. their metallic blue stains the rusty iron on the beach. blue are the ribs of the wrecked rowing boat. a wave rolls beneath the blue bells. but the cathedral’s different, cold, incense laden, faint blue with the veils of madonnas.

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7. 邱园记事【Kew Gardens】

　小说t-xt天堂　  　
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 the oval–shaped flower–bed there rose perhaps a hundred stalks spreading into heart–shaped or tongue–shaped leaves half way up and unfurling at the tip red or blue or yellow petals marked with spots of colour raised upon the surface; and from the red, blue or yellow gloom of the throat emerged a straight bar, rough with gold dust and slightly clubbed at the end. the petals were voluminous enough to be stirred by the summer breeze, and when they moved, the red, blue and yellow lights passed one over the other, staining an inch of the brown earth beneath with a spot of the most intricate colour. the light fell either upon the smooth, grey back of a pebble, or, the shell of a snail with its brown, circular veins, or falling into a raindrop, it expanded with such intensity of red, blue and yellow the thin walls of water that one expected them to burst and disappear. instead, the drop was left in a second silver grey once more, and the light now settled upon the flesh of a leaf, revealing the branching thread of fibre beneath the surface, and again it moved on and spread its illumination in the vast green spaces beneath the dome of the heart–shaped and tongue–shaped leaves. then the breeze stirred rather more briskly overhead and the colour was flashed into the air above, into the eyes of the men and women who walk in kew gardens in july.

the figures of these men and women straggled past the flower–bed with a curiously irregular movement not unlike that of the white and blue butterflies who crossed the turf in zig–zag flights from bed to bed. the man was about six inches in front of the woman, strolling carelessly, while she bore on with greater purpose, only turning her head now and then to see that the children were not too far behind. the man kept this distance in front of the woman purposely, though perhaps unconsciously, for he wished to go on with his thoughts.

“fifteen years ago i came here with lily,” he thought. “we sat somewhere over there by a lake and i begged her to marry me all through the hot afternoon. how the dragonfly kept circling round us: how clearly i see the dragonfly and her shoe with the square silver buckle at the toe. all the time i spoke i saw her shoe and when it moved impatiently i knew without looking up what she was going to say: the whole of her seemed to be in her shoe. and my love, my desire, were in the dragonfly; for some reason i thought that if it settled there, on that leaf, the broad one with the red flower in the middle of it, if the dragonfly settled on the leaf she would say “yes” at once. but the dragonfly went round and round: it never settled anywhere—of course not, happily not, or i shouldn’t be walking here with eleanor and the children—tell me, eleanor. d’you ever think of the past?”

“why do you ask, simon?”

“because i’ve been thinking of the past. i’ve been thinking of lily, the woman i might have married. . . well, why are you silent? do you mind my thinking of the past?”

“why should i mind, simon? doesn’t one always think of the past, in a garden with men and women lying under the trees? aren’t they one’s past, all that remains of it, those men and women, those ghosts lying under the trees. . . one’s happiness, one’s reality?”

“for me, a square silver shoe buckle and a dragonfly—”

“for me, a kiss. imagine six little girls sitting before their easels twenty years ago, down by the side of a lake, painting the water–lilies, the first red water–lilies i’d ever seen. and suddenly a kiss, there on the back of my neck. and my hand shook all the afternoon so that i couldn’t paint. i took out my watch and marked the hour when i would allow myself to think of the kiss for five minutes only—it was so precious—the kiss of an old grey–haired woman with a wart on her nose, the mother of all my kisses all my life. come, caroline, come, hubert.”

they walked on the past the flower–bed, now walking four abreast, and soon diminished in size among the trees and looked half transparent as the sunlight and shade swam over their backs in large trembling irregular patches.

in the oval flower bed the snail, whose shelled had been stained red, blue, and yellow for the space of two minutes or so, now appeared to be moving very slightly in its shell, and next began to labour over the crumbs of loose earth which broke away and rolled down as it passed over them. it appeared to have a definite goal in front of it, differing in this respect from the singular high stepping angular green insect who attempted to cross in front of it, and waited for a second with its antenna trembling as if in deliberation, and then stepped off as rapidly and strangely in the opposite direction. brown cliffs with deep green lakes in the hollows, flat, blade–like trees that waved from root to tip, round boulders of grey stone, vast crumpled surfaces of a thin crackling texture—all these objects lay across the snail’s progress between one stalk and another to his goal. before he had decided whether to circumvent the arched tent of a dead leaf or to breast it there came past the bed the feet of other human beings.

this time they were both men. the younger of the two wore an expression of perhaps unnatural calm; he raised his eyes and fixed them very steadily in front of him while his companion spoke, and directly his companion had done speaking he looked on the ground again and sometimes opened his lips only after a long pause and sometimes did not open them at all. the elder man had a curiously uneven and shaky method of walking, jerking his hand forward and throwing up his head abruptly, rather in the manner of an impatient carriage horse tired of waiting outside a house; but in the man these gestures were irresolute and pointless. he talked almost incessantly; he smiled to himself and again began to talk, as if the smile had been an answer. he was talking about spirits—the spirits of the dead, who, according to him, were even now telling him all sorts of odd things about their experiences in heaven.

“heaven was known to the ancients as thessaly, william, and now, with this war, the spirit matter is rolling between the hills like thunder.” he paused, seemed to listen, smiled, jerked his head and continued:—

“you have a small electric battery and a piece of rubber to insulate the wire—isolate?—insulate?—well, we’ll skip the details, no good going into details that wouldn’t be understood—and in short the little machine stands in any convenient position by the head of the bed, we will say, on a neat mahogany stand. all arrangements being properly fixed by workmen under my direction, the widow applies her ear and summons the spirit by sign as agreed. women! widows! women in black—”

here he seemed to have caught sight of a woman’s dress in the distance, which in the shade looked a purple black. he took off his hat, placed his hand upon his heart, and hurried towards her muttering and gesticulating feverishly. but william caught him by the sleeve and touched a flower with the tip of his walking–stick in order to divert the old man’s attention. after looking at it for a moment in some confusion the old man bent his ear to it and seemed to answer a voice speaking from it, for he began talking about the forests of uruguay which he had visited hundreds of years ago in company with the most beautiful young woman in europe. he could be heard murmuring about forests of uruguay blanketed with the wax petals of tropical roses, nightingales, sea beaches, mermaids, and women drowned at sea, as he suffered himself to be moved on by william, upon whose face the look of stoical patience grew slowly deeper and deeper.

following his steps so closely as to be slightly puzzled by his gestures came two elderly women of the lower middle class, one stout and ponderous, the other rosy cheeked and nimble. like most people of their station they were frankly fascinated by any signs of eccentricity betokening a disordered brain, especially in the well–to–do; but they were too far off to be certain whether the gestures were merely eccentric or genuinely mad. after they had scrutinised the old man’s back in silence for a moment and given each other a queer, sly look, they went on energetically piecing together their very complicated 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.”

the ponderous woman looked through the pattern of falling words at the flowers standing cool, firm, and upright in the earth, with a curious expression. she saw them as a sleeper waking from a heavy sleep sees a brass candlestick reflecting the light in an unfamiliar way, and closes his eyes and opens them, and seeing the brass candlestick again, finally starts broad awake and stares at the candlestick with all his powers. so the heavy woman came to a standstill opposite the oval–shaped flower bed, and ceased even to pretend to listen to what the other woman was saying. she stood there letting the words fall over her, swaying the top part of her body slowly backwards and forwards, looking at the flowers. then she suggested that they should find a seat and have their tea.

the snail had now considered every possible method of reaching his goal without going round the dead leaf or climbing over it. let alone the effort needed for climbing a leaf, he was doubtful whether the thin texture which vibrated with such an alarming crackle when touched even by the tip of his horns would bear his weight; and this determined him finally to creep beneath it, for there was a point where the leaf curved high enough from the ground to admit him. he had just inserted his head in the opening and was taking stock of the high brown roof and was getting used to the cool brown light when two other people came past outside on the turf. this time they were both young, a young man and a young woman. they were both in the prime of youth, or even in that season which precedes the prime of youth, the season before the smooth pink folds of the flower have burst their gummy case, when the wings of the butterfly, though fully grown, are motionless in the sun.

“lucky it isn’t friday,” he observed.

“why? d’you believe in luck?”

“they make you pay sixpence on friday.”

“what’s sixpence anyway? isn’t it worth sixpence?”

“what’s ‘it’—what do you mean by ‘it’?”

“o, anything—i mean—you know what i mean.”

long pauses came between each of these remarks; they were uttered in toneless and monotonous voices. the couple stood still on the edge of the flower bed, and together pressed the end of her parasol deep down into the soft earth. the action and the fact that his hand rested on the top of hers expressed their feelings in a strange way, as these short insignificant words also expressed something, words with short wings for their heavy body of meaning, inadequate to carry them far and thus alighting awkwardly upon the very common objects that surrounded them, and were to their inexperienced touch so massive; but who knows (so they thought as they pressed the parasol into the earth) what precipices aren’t concealed in them, or what slopes of ice don’t shine in the sun on the other side? who knows? who has ever seen this before? even when she wondered what sort of tea they gave you at kew, he felt that something loomed up behind her words, and stood vast and solid behind them; and the mist very slowly rose and uncovered—o, heavens, what were those shapes?—little white tables, and waitresses who looked first at her and then at him; and there was a bill that he would pay with a real two shilling piece, and it was real, all real, he assured himself, fingering the coin in his pocket, real to everyone except to him and to her; even to him it began to seem real; and then—but it was too exciting to stand and think any longer, and he pulled the parasol out of the earth with a jerk and was impatient to find the place where one had tea with other people, like other people.

“come along, trissie; it’s time we had our tea.”

“wherever does one have one’s tea?” she asked with the oddest thrill of excitement in her voice, looking vaguely round and letting herself be drawn on down the grass path, trailing her parasol, turning her head this way and that way, forgetting her tea, wishing to go down there and then down there, remembering orchids and cranes among wild flowers, a chinese pagoda and a crimson crested bird; but he bore her on.

thus one couple after another with much the same irregular and aimless movement passed the flower–bed and were enveloped in layer after layer of green blue vapour, in which at first their bodies had substance and a dash of colour, but later both substance and colour dissolved in the green–blue atmosphere. how hot it was! so hot that even the thrush chose to hop, like a mechanical bird, in the shadow of the flowers, with long pauses between one movement and the next; instead of rambling vaguely the white butterflies danced one above another, making with their white shifting flakes the outline of a shattered marble column above the tallest flowers the glass roofs of the palm house shone as if a whole market full of shiny green umbrellas had opened in the sun; and in the drone of the aeroplane the voice of the summer sky murmured its fierce soul. yellow and black, pink and snow white, shapes of all these colours, men, women, and children were spotted for a second upon the horizon, and then, seeing the breadth of yellow that lay upon the grass, they wavered and sought shade beneath the trees, dissolving like drops of water in the yellow and green atmosphere, staining it faintly with red and blue. it seemed as if all gross and heavy bodies had sunk down in the heat motionless and lay huddled upon the ground, but their voices went wavering from them as if they were flames lolling from the thick waxen bodies of candles. voices. yes, voices. wordless voices, breaking the silence suddenly with such depth of contentment, such passion of desire, or, in the voices of children, such freshness of surprise; breaking the silence? but there was no silence; all the time the motor omnibuses were turning their wheels and changing their gear; like a vast nest of chinese boxes all of wrought steel turning ceaselessly one within another the city murmured; on the top of which the voices cried aloud and the petals of myriads of flowers flashed their colours into the air.

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8. 墙上的斑点【The Mark on the Wall】

小说-txt天堂
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******、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 mark on the wall

perhaps it was the middle of january in the present that i first looked up and saw the mark on the wall. in order to fix a date it is necessary to remember what one saw. so now i think of the fire; the steady film of yellow light upon the page of my book; the three chrysanthemums in the round glass bowl on the mantelpiece. yes, it must have been the winter time, and we had just finished our tea, for i remember that i was smoking a cigarette when i looked up and saw the mark on the wall for the first time. i looked up through the smoke of my cigarette and my eye lodged for a moment upon the burning coals, and that old fancy of the crimson flag flapping from the castle tower came into my mind, and i thought of the cavalcade of red knights riding up the side of the black rock. rather to my relief the sight of the mark interrupted the fancy, for it is an old fancy, an automatic fancy, made as a child perhaps. the mark was a small round mark, black upon the white wall, about six or seven inches above the mantelpiece.

how readily our thoughts swarm upon a new object, lifting it a little way, as ants carry a blade of straw so feverishly, and then leave it. . . if that mark was made by a nail, it can’t have been for a picture, it must have been for a miniature—the miniature of a lady with white powdered curls, powder–dusted cheeks, and lips like red carnations. a fraud of course, for the people who had this house before us would have chosen pictures in that way—an old picture for an old room. that is the sort of people they were—very interesting people, and i think of them so often, in such queer places, because one will never see them again, never know what happened next. they wanted to leave this house because they wanted to change their style of furniture, so he said, and he was in process of saying that in his opinion art should have ideas behind it when we were torn asunder, as one is torn from the old lady about to pour out tea and the young man about to hit the tennis ball in the back garden of the suburban villa as one rushes past in the train.

but as for that mark, i’m not sure about it; i don’t believe it was made by a nail after all; it’s too big, too round, for that. i might get up, but if i got up and looked at it, ten to one i shouldn’t be able to say for certain; because once a thing’s done, no one ever knows how it happened. oh! dear me, the mystery of life; the inaccuracy of thought! the ignorance of humanity! to show how very little control of our possessions we have—what an accidental affair this living is after all our civilization—let me just count over a few of the things lost in one lifetime, beginning, for that seems always the most mysterious of losses—what cat would gnaw, what rat would nibble—three pale blue canisters of book–binding tools? then there were the bird cages, the iron hoops, the steel skates, the queen anne coal–scuttle, the bagatelle board, the hand organ—all gone, and jewels, too. opals and emeralds, they lie about the roots of turnips. what a scraping paring affair it is to be sure! the wonder is that i’ve any clothes on my back, that i sit surrounded by solid furniture at this moment. why, if one wants to compare life to anything, one must liken it to being blown through the tube at fifty miles an hour—landing at the other end without a single hairpin in one’s hair! shot out at the feet of god entirely naked! tumbling head over heels in the asphodel meadows like brown paper parcels pitched down a shoot in the post office! with one’s hair flying back like the tail of a race–horse. yes, that seems to express the rapidity of life, the perpetual waste and repair; all so casual, all so haphazard. . .

but after life. the slow pulling down of thick green stalks so that the cup of the flower, as it turns over, deluges one with purple and red light. why, after all, should one not be born there as one is born here, helpless, speechless, unable to focus one’s eyesight, groping at the roots of the grass, at the toes of the giants? as for saying which are trees, and which are men and women, or whether there are such things, that one won’t be in a condition to do for fifty years or so. there will be nothing but spaces of light and dark, intersected by thick stalks, and rather higher up perhaps, rose–shaped blots of an indistinct colour—dim pinks and blues—which will, as time goes on, become more definite, become—i don’t know what. . .

and yet that mark on the wall is not a hole at all. it may even be caused by some round black substance, such as a small rose leaf, left over from the summer, and i, not being a very vigilant housekeeper—look at the dust on the mantelpiece, for example, the dust which, so they say, buried troy three times over, only fragments of pots utterly refusing annihilation, as one can believe.

the tree outside the window taps very gently on the pane. . . i want to think quietly, calmly, spaciously, never to be interrupted, never to have to rise from my chair, to slip easily from one thing to another, without any sense of hostility, or obstacle. i want to sink deeper and deeper, away from the surface, with its hard separate facts. to steady myself, let me catch hold of the first idea that passes. . . shakespeare. . . well, he will do as well as another. a man who sat himself solidly in an arm–chair, and looked into the fire, so—a shower of ideas fell perpetually from some very high heaven down through his mind. he leant his forehead on his hand, and people, looking in through the open door,—for this scene is supposed to take place on a summer’s evening—but how dull this is, this historical fiction! it doesn’t interest me at all. i wish i could hit upon a pleasant track of thought, a track indirectly reflecting credit upon myself, for those are the pleasantest thoughts, and very frequent even in the minds of modest mouse–coloured people, who believe genuinely that they dislike to hear their own praises. they are not thoughts directly praising oneself; that is the beauty of them; they are thoughts like this:

“and then i came into the room. they were discussing botany. i said how i’d seen a flower growing on a dust heap on the site of an old house in kingsway. the seed, i said, must have been sown in the reign of charles the first. what flowers grew in the reign of charles the first?” i asked—(but, i don’t remember the answer). tall flowers with purple tassels to them perhaps. and so it goes on. all the time i’m dressing up the figure of myself in my own mind, lovingly, stealthily, not openly adoring it, for if i did that, i should catch myself out, and stretch my hand at once for a book in self–protection. indeed, it is curious how instinctively one protects the image of oneself from idolatry or any other handling that could make it ridiculous, or too unlike the original to be believed in any longer. or is it not so very curious after all? it is a matter of great importance. suppose the looking glass smashes, the image disappears, and the romantic figure with the green of forest depths all about it is there no longer, but only that shell of a person which is seen by other people—what an airless, shallow, bald, prominent world it becomes! a world not to be lived in. as we face each other in omnibuses and underground railways we are looking into the mirror that accounts for the vagueness, the gleam of glassiness, in our eyes. and the novelists in future will realize more and more the importance of these reflections, for of course there is not one reflection but an almost infinite number; those are the depths they will explore, those the phantoms they will pursue, leaving the description of reality more and more out of their stories, taking a knowledge of it for granted, as the greeks did and shakespeare perhaps—but these generalizations are very worthless. the military sound of the word is enough. it recalls leading articles, cabinet ministers—a whole class of things indeed which as a child one thought the thing itself, the standard thing, the real thing, from which one could not depart save at the risk of nameless damnation. generalizations bring back somehow sunday in london, sunday afternoon walks, sunday luncheons, and also ways of speaking of the dead, clothes, and habits—like the habit of sitting all together in one room until a certain hour, although nobody liked it. there was a rule for everything. the rule for tablecloths at that particular period was that they should be made of tapestry with little yellow compartments marked upon them, such as you may see in photographs of the carpets in the corridors of the royal palaces. tablecloths of a different kind were not real tablecloths. how shocking, and yet how wonderful it was to discover that these real things, sunday luncheons, sunday walks, country houses, and tablecloths were not entirely real, were indeed half phantoms, and the damnation which visited the disbeliever in them was only a sense of illegitimate freedom. what now takes the place of those things i wonder, those real standard things? men perhaps, should you be a woman; the masculine point of view which governs our lives, which sets the standard, which establishes whitaker’s table of precedency, which has become, i suppose, since the war half a phantom to many men and women, which soon—one may hope, will be laughed into the dustbin where the phantoms go, the mahogany sideboards and the landseer prints, gods and devils, hell and so forth, leaving us all with an intoxicating sense of illegitimate freedom—if freedom exists. . .

in certain lights that mark on the wall seems actually to project from the wall. nor is it entirely circular. i cannot be sure, but it seems to cast a perceptible shadow, suggesting that if i ran my finger down that strip of the wall it would, at a certain point, mount and descend a small tumulus, a smooth tumulus like those barrows on the south downs which are, they say, either tombs or camps. of the two i should prefer them to be tombs, desiring melancholy like most english people, and finding it natural at the end of a walk to think of the bones stretched beneath the turf. . . there must be some book about it. some antiquary must have dug up those bones and given them a name. . . what sort of a man is an antiquary, i wonder? retired colonels for the most part, i daresay, leading parties of aged labourers to the top here, examining clods of earth and stone, and getting into correspondence with the nei***ouring clergy, which, being opened at breakfast time, gives them a feeling of importance, and the comparison of arrow–heads necessitates cross–country journeys to the county towns, an agreeable necessity both to them and to their elderly wives, who wish to make plum jam or to clean out the study, and have every reason for keeping that great question of the camp or the tomb in perpetual suspension, while the colonel himself feels agreeably philosophic in accumulating evidence on both sides of the question. it is true that he does finally incline to believe in the camp; and, being opposed, indites a pamphlet which he is about to read at the quarterly meeting of the local society when a stroke lays him low, and his last conscious thoughts are not of wife or child, but of the camp and that arrowhead there, which is now in the case at the local museum, together with the foot of a chinese murderess, a handful of elizabethan nails, a great many tudor clay pipes, a piece of roman pottery, and the wine–glass that nelson drank out of—proving i really don’t know what.

no, no, nothing is proved, nothing is known. and if i were to get up at this very moment and ascertain that the mark on the wall is really—what shall we say?—the head of a gigantic old nail, driven in two hundred years ago, which has now, owing to the patient attrition of many generations of housemaids, revealed its head above the coat of paint, and is taking its first view of modern life in the sight of a white–walled fire–lit room, what should i gain?—knowledge? matter for further speculation? i can think sitting still as well as standing up. and what is knowledge? what are our learned men save the descendants of witches and hermits who crouched in caves and in woods brewing herbs, interrogating shrew–mice and writing down the language of the stars? and the less we honour them as our superstitions dwindle and our respect for beauty and health of mind increases. . . yes, one could imagine a very pleasant world. a quiet, spacious world, with the flowers so red and blue in the open fields. a world without professors or specialists or house–keepers with the profiles of policemen, a world which one could slice with one’s thought as a fish slices the water with his fin, grazing the stems of the water–lilies, hanging suspended over nests of white sea eggs. . . how peaceful it is drown here, rooted in the centre of the world and gazing up through the grey waters, with their sudden gleams of light, and their reflections—if it were not for whitaker’s almanack—if it were not for the table of precedency!

i must jump up and see for myself what that mark on the wall really is—a nail, a rose–leaf, a crack in the wood?

here is nature once more at her old game of self–preservation. this train of thought, she perceives, is threatening mere waste of energy, even some collision with reality, for who will ever be able to lift a finger against whitaker’s table of precedency? the archbishop of canterbury is followed by the lord high chancellor; the lord high chancellor is followed by the archbishop of york. everybody follows somebody, such is the philosophy of whitaker; and the great thing is to know who follows whom. whitaker knows, and let that, so nature counsels, comfort you, instead of enraging you; and if you can’t be comforted, if you must shatter this hour of peace, think of the mark on the wall.

i understand nature’s game—her prompting to take action as a way of ending any thought that threatens to excite or to pain. hence, i suppose, comes our slight contempt for men of action—men, we assume, who don’t think. still, there’s no harm in putting a full stop to one’s disagreeable thoughts by looking at a mark on the wall.

indeed, now that i have fixed my eyes upon it, i feel that i have grasped a plank in the sea; i feel a satisfying sense of reality which at once turns the two archbishops and the lord high chancellor to the shadows of shades. here is something definite, something real. thus, waking from a midnight dream of horror, one hastily turns on the light and lies quiescent, worshipping the chest of drawers, worshipping solidity, worshipping reality, worshipping the impersonal world which is a proof of some existence other than ours. that is what one wants to be sure of. . . wood is a pleasant thing to think about. it comes from a tree; and trees grow, and we don’t know how they grow. for years and years they grow, without paying any attention to us, in meadows, in forests, and by the side of rivers—all things one likes to think about. the cows swish their tails beneath them on hot afternoons; they paint rivers so green that when a moorhen dives one expects to see its feathers all green when it comes up again. i like to think of the fish balanced against the stream like flags blown out; and of water–beetles slowly raiding domes of mud upon the bed of the river. i like to think of the tree itself:—first the close dry sensation of being wood; then the grinding of the storm; then the slow, delicious ooze of sap. i like to think of it, too, on winter’s nights standing in the empty field with all leaves close–furled, nothing tender exposed to the iron bullets of the moon, a naked mast upon an earth that goes tumbling, tumbling, all night long. the song of birds must sound very loud and strange in june; and how cold the feet of insects must feel upon it, as they make laborious progresses up the creases of the bark, or sun themselves upon the thin green awning of the leaves, and look straight in front of them with diamond–cut red eyes. . . one by one the fibres snap beneath the immense cold pressure of the earth, then the last storm comes and, falling, the highest branches drive deep into the ground again. even so, life isn’t done with; there are a million patient, watchful lives still for a tree, all over the world, in bedrooms, in ships, on the pavement, lining rooms, where men and women sit after tea, smoking cigarettes. it is full of peaceful thoughts, happy thoughts, this tree. i should like to take each one separately—but something is getting in the way. . . where was i? what has it all been about? a tree? a river? the downs? whitaker’s almanack? the fields of asphodel? i can’t remember a thing. everything’s moving, falling, slipping, vanishing. . . there is a vast upheaval of matter. someone is standing over me and saying—

“i’m going out to buy a newspaper.”

“yes?”

“though it’s no good buying newspapers. . . nothing ever happens. curse this war; god damn this war! . . . all the same, i don’t see why we should have a snail on our wall.”

ah, the mark on the wall! it was a snail.

 w w w. xiao shuotxt. co m

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