《星期一和星期二》第16章

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，?