inally 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 mon 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。
“e 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。
。。
8。 墙上的斑点【The Mark on the Wall】
大约是在今年一月中旬，我抬起头来，第一次看见了墙上的那个斑点。为了要确定是在哪一天，就得回忆当时我看见了些什么。现在我记起了炉子里的火，一片黄色 的火光一动不动地照射在我的书页上；壁炉上圆形玻璃缸里插着三朵菊花。对啦，一定是冬天，我们刚喝完茶，因为我记得当时我正在吸烟，我抬起头来，第一次看 见了墙上那个斑点。我透过香烟的烟雾望过去，眼光在火红的炭块上停留了一下，过去关于在城堡塔楼上飘扬着一面鲜红的旗帜的幻觉又浮现在我脑际，我想到无数 红色骑士潮水般地骑马跃上黑色岩壁的侧坡。这个斑点打断了我这个幻觉，使我觉得松了一口气，因为这是过去的幻觉，是一种无意识的幻觉，可能是在孩童时期产 生的。墙上的斑点是一块圆形的小迹印，在雪白的墙壁上呈暗黑色，在壁炉上方大约六七英寸的地方。
我们的思绪是多么容易一哄而上，簇拥着一件新鲜事物，像一群蚂蚁狂热地抬一根稻草一样，抬了一会，又把它扔在那里……如果这个斑点是一只钉子留下的痕迹，那一定不是为了挂一幅油画，
而是为了挂一幅小肖像画──一 幅卷发上扑着白粉、脸上抹着脂粉、嘴唇像红石竹花的贵妇人肖像。它当然是一件赝品，这所房子以前的房客只会选那一类的画──老房子得有老式画像来配它。他 们就是这种人家──很有意思的人家，我常常想到他们，都是在一些奇怪的地方，因为谁都不会再见到他们，也不会知道他们后来的遭遇了。据他说，那家人搬出这 所房子是因为他们想换一套别种式样的家具，他正在说，按他的想法，艺术品背后应该包含着思想的时候，我们两人就一下子分了手，这种情形就像坐火车一样，我 们在火车里看见路旁郊外别墅里有个老太太正准备倒茶，有个年轻人正举起球拍打网球，火车一晃而过，我们就和老太太以及年轻人分了手，把他们抛在火车后面。
但是，我还是弄不清那个斑点到 底是什么；我又想，它不像是钉子留下的痕迹。它太大、太圆了。我本来可以站起来，但是，即使我站起身来瞧瞧它，十之八九我也说不出它到底是什么；因为一旦 一件事发生以后，就没有人能知道它是怎么发生的了。唉！天哪，生命是多么神秘；思想是多么不准确！人类是多么无知！为了证明我们对自己的私有物品是多么无 法加以控制──和我们的文明相比，人的生活带有多少偶然性啊──我只要列举少数几件我们一生中遗失的物件就够了。就从三只装着订书工具的浅蓝色罐子说起 吧，这永远是遗失的东西当中丢墙上的斑点失得最神秘的几件──哪只猫会去咬它们，哪只老鼠会去啃它们呢？再数下去，还有那几个鸟笼子、铁裙箍、钢滑冰鞋、 安女王时代的煤斗子、弹子戏球台、手摇风琴──全都丢失了，还有一些珠宝，也遗失了。有乳白宝石、绿宝石，它们都散失在芜菁的根部旁边。它们是花了多少心 血节衣缩食积蓄起来的啊！此刻我四周全是挺有分量的家具，身上还穿着几件衣服，简直是奇迹。要是拿什么来和生活相比的话，就只能比做一个人以一小时五十英 里的速度被射出地下铁道，从地道口出来的时候头发上一根发针也不剩。光着身子被射到上帝脚下！头朝下脚朝天地摔倒在开满水仙花的草原上，就像一捆捆棕色纸 袋被扔进邮局的输物管道一样！头发飞扬，就像一匹赛马会上跑马的尾巴。对了，这些比拟可以表达生活的飞快速度，表达那永不休止的消耗和修理；一切都那么偶 然，那么碰巧。
那么来世呢？粗大的绿色茎条慢 慢地被拉得弯曲下来，杯盏形的花倾覆了，它那紫色和红色的光芒笼罩着人们。到底为什么人要投生在这里，而不投生到那里，不会行动、不会说话、无法集中目 光，在青草脚下，在巨人的脚趾间摸索呢？至于什么是树，什么是男人和女人，或者是不是存在这样的东西，人们再过五十年也是无法说清楚的。别的什么都不会 有，只有充塞着光亮和黑暗的空间，中间隔着一条条粗大的茎干，也许在更高处还有一些色彩不很清晰的──淡淡的粉红色或蓝色的──玫瑰花形状的斑块，随着时 光的流逝，它会越来越清楚、越──我也不知道怎样……
可是墙上的斑点不是一个小孔。 它很可能是什么暗黑色的圆形物体，比如说，一片夏天残留下来的玫瑰花瓣造成的，因为我不是一个警惕心很高的管家──只要瞧瞧壁炉上的尘土就知道了，据说就 是这样的尘土把特洛伊城严严地埋了三层，只有一些罐子的碎片是它们没法毁灭的，这一点完全能叫人相信。
窗外树枝轻柔地敲打着玻璃…… 我希望能静静地、安稳地、从容不迫地思考，没有谁来打扰，一点也用不着从椅子里站起来，可以轻松地从这件事想到那件事，不感觉敌意，也不觉得有阻碍。我希 望深深地、更深地沉下去，离开表面，离开表面上的生硬的个别事实。让我稳住自己，抓住第一个一瞬即逝的念头……莎士比亚……对啦，不管是他还是别人，都 行。这个人稳稳地坐在扶手椅里，凝视着炉火，就这样──一阵骤雨似的念头源源不断地从某个非常高的天国倾泻而下，进入他的头脑。他把前额倚在自己的手上， 于是人们站在敞开的大门外面向里张望──我们假设这个景象发生在夏天的傍晚──可是，所有这一切历史的虚构是多么沉闷啊！它丝毫引不起我的兴趣。我希望能 碰上一条使人愉快的思路，同时这条思路也能间接地给我增添几分光彩，这样的想法是最令人愉快的了。连那些真诚地相信自己不爱听别人赞扬的谦虚而灰色的人们 头脑里，也经常会产生这种想法。它们不是直接恭维自己，妙就妙在这里。这些想法是这样的：“于是我走进屋子。他们�