🔊 But, you may say, we asked you to speak about women and fiction--what has that got to do with a room of one's own? I will try to explain. When you asked me to speak about women and fiction I sat down on the banks of a river and began to wonder what the words meant. They might mean simply a few remarks about Fanny Burney; a few more about Jane Austen; a tribute to the Brontë and a sketch of Haworth Parsonage under snow; some witticisms if possible about Miss Mitford; a respectful allusion to George Eliot; a reference to Mrs. Gaskell and one would have done. But at second sight the words seemed not so simple. The title women and fiction might mean, and you may have meant it to mean, women and what they are like; or it might mean women and the fiction that they write; or it might mean women and the fiction that is written about them; or it might mean that somehow all three are inextricably mixed together and you want me to consider them in that light. But when I began to consider the subject in this last way, which seemed the most interesting, I soon saw that it had one fatal drawback. I should never be able to come to a conclusion. I should never be able to fulfil what is, I understand, the first duty of a lecturer--to hand you after an hour's discourse a nugget of pure truth to wrap up between the pages of your notebooks and keep on the mantelpiece for ever.

然而,你或许会说,我们请你谈的是妇女与小说--这与一间属于自己的房间有何关系？我将试着解释。当你邀我谈谈妇女与小说时,我便在一条河岸边坐下,开始琢磨这几个字眼究竟意味着什么。它们可能仅仅意味着对范妮·伯尼的几句评点；再添上些许关于简·奥斯汀的言辞；向勃朗特姐妹致意,并勾勒一幅雪中霍沃斯牧师住宅的素描；如果可能,再说上几句关于米特福德小姐的俏皮话；对乔治·艾略特致以敬意；提及盖斯凯尔夫人--这样也就交差了。但再一思量,这些字眼似乎又不那么简单。“妇女与小说”这个题目可能意味着--而你也可能有意让它意味着--女人以及她们是怎样的；或者,它可能意味着女人以及她们所创作的小说；或者,它可能意味着女人以及别人所撰写的关于她们的小说；又或者,它可能意味着这三者不知怎地已纠缠不清、难分彼此,而你要我依此来考量它们。然而,当我开始以这最后一种、也是最有趣的方式来思索这个主题时,我立刻发觉它有一个致命的缺陷。我将永远无法得出结论。我将永远无法履行--据我所知--一位演讲者的首要职责:经过一小时的演说,递给你一小块纯粹真理的矿石,好让你包裹在笔记本的书页之间,永远安放在壁炉架上。

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tribute /ˈtrɪbjuːt/

n. 贡品；敬意；颂词➕

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witticisms /ˈwɪtɪsɪzəmz/

n. 妙语,俏皮话➕

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allusion /əˈluːʒn/

n. 暗示,间接提及➕

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inextricably /ɪnˈekstrɪkəbli/

adv. 解不开地；不可分割地➕

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drawback /ˈdrɔːbæk/

n. 缺点,障碍➕

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nugget /ˈnʌɡɪt/

n. 天然金块；有价值的小东西；宝贵信息➕

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mantelpiece /ˈmæntlpiːs/

n. 壁炉台➕

🔊 All I could do was to offer you an opinion upon one minor point--a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction; and that, as you will see, leaves the great problem of the true nature of woman and the true nature of fiction unsolved. I have shirked the duty of coming to a conclusion upon these two questions--women and fiction remain, so far as I am concerned, unsolved problems. But in order to make some amends I am going to do what I can to show you how I arrived at this opinion about the room and the money. I am going to develop in your presence as fully and freely as I can the train of thought which led me to think this. Perhaps if I lay bare the ideas, the prejudices, that lie behind this statement you will find that they have some bearing upon women and some upon fiction. At any rate, when a subject is highly controversial--and any question about sex is that--one cannot hope to tell the truth. One can only show how one came to hold whatever opinion one does hold. One can only give one's audience the chance of drawing their own conclusions as they observe the limitations, the prejudices, the idiosyncrasies of the speaker. Fiction here is likely to contain more truth than fact. Therefore I propose, making use of all the liberties and licences of a novelist, to tell you the story of the two days that preceded my coming here--how, bowed down by the weight of the subject which you have laid upon my shoulders, I pondered it, and made it work in and out of my daily life. I need not say that what I am about to describe has no existence; Oxbridge is an invention; so is Fernham; "I" is only a convenient term for somebody who has no real being. Lies will flow from my lips, but there may perhaps be some truth mixed up with them; it is for you to seek out this truth and to decide whether any part of it is worth keeping. If not, you will of course throw the whole of it into the waste-paper basket and forget all about it.

我所能做的一切,仅仅是在一个微不足道的点上提供一点见解--一个女人若想创作小说,就必须有钱,以及一间属于自己的房间；正如你将看到的,这并未解决女人之真正本质与小说之真正本质这两大难题。我回避了对这两个问题--妇女与小说--作出结论的责任；就我而言,它们仍是悬而未决的谜题。但为了稍作弥补,我打算尽我所能,向你们展示我是如何得出这个关于房间与金钱的见解的。我将在你们面前,尽可能充分且自由地铺陈那引我得出此念的思绪轨迹。或许,倘若我将潜藏在这一论断背后的观念、偏见悉数袒露,你们会发现它们与妇女有些关联,与小说亦有些牵连。无论如何,当一个问题极具争议性时--任何涉及性别的问题皆然--一个人无法奢望道出真理。他只能展示自己是如何得出他现有的那个见解的。他只能给予听众机会,让他们在观察到他自身的局限、偏见与特立独行之处时,自行得出结论。小说在此处或许比事实更贴近真理。因此,我提议,借助小说家的一切自由与特许,向你们讲述我来此之前那两天的故事--我如何被你压在我肩头的这个主题的重负所压倒,如何思量它,如何让它在我日常生活的缝隙间穿梭起伏。毋庸赘言,我将描述的并不存在；牛剑是杜撰的；弗恩汉姆亦是虚构；“我”只是一个方便的名号,指代某个并无真实存在的人。谎言将从我唇间流淌而出,但其中或许混杂着些许真理；这有待于你们去探寻,并裁定其中是否有任何部分值得留存。若没有,你们当然会将它整个儿丢进废纸篓,忘得一干二净。

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shirked /ʃɜːkt/

v. 逃避,推卸（责任）➕

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amends /əˈmendz/

n. 赔偿,弥补➕

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idiosyncrasies /ˌɪdiəˈsɪŋkrəsiz/

n. （个人特有的）习性,癖好➕

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licences /ˈlaɪsnsɪz/

n. 许可；放肆,破格➕

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preceded /prɪˈsiːdɪd/

v. 在...之前发生（或出现）；先于➕

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pondered /ˈpɒndəd/

v. 深思,考虑➕

🔊 Here then was I (call me Mary Beton, Mary Seton, Mary Carmichael or by any name you please--it is not a matter of any importance) sitting on the banks of a river a week or two ago in fine October weather, lost in thought. That collar I have spoken of, women and fiction, the need of coming to some conclusion on a subject that raises all sorts of prejudices and passions, bowed my head to the ground. To the right and left bushes of some sort, golden and crimson, glowed with the colour, even it seemed burnt with the heat, of fire. On the further bank the willows wept in perpetual lamentation, their hair about their shoulders. The river reflected whatever it chose of sky and bridge and burning tree, and when the undergraduate had oared his boat through the reflections they closed again, completely, as if he had never been. There one might have sat the clock round lost in thought. Thought--to call it by a prouder name than it deserved--had let its line down into the stream. It swayed, minute after minute, hither and thither among the reflections and the weeds, letting the water lift it and sink it, until--you know the little tug--the sudden conglomeration of an idea at the end of one's line: and then the cautious hauling of it in, and the careful laying of it out? Alas, laid on the grass how small, how insignificant this thought of mine looked; the sort of fish that a good fisherman puts back into the water so that it may grow fatter and be one day worth cooking and eating. I will not trouble you with that thought now, though if you look carefully you may find it for yourselves in the course of what I am going to say.

这便是当时的情形--我（姑且叫我玛丽·贝顿、玛丽·西顿、玛丽·卡迈克尔,或任何你中意的名字--这无关紧要）坐在河岸边,那是一两个星期前,十月里一个晴好的日子,我陷入了沉思。我刚才提到的那个枷锁,“妇女与小说”,以及必须在这个激起万千偏见与激情的主题上得出某种结论的负担,将我的头压向地面。左右两旁,某种灌木丛燃烧着金黄与绯红的火焰,那颜色仿佛灼热得要将枝叶点燃。对岸的柳树披散着长发,陷入永恒的哀恸。河水任意拣选着天空、小桥与如火树木的倒影来映照,当那位本科生划着船穿过那些倒影,水面便又完全合拢,完好如初,仿佛他从未经过。一个人或许可以在此静坐整整一日,沉湎于思绪之中。思想--请允许我给它一个过于堂皇的称谓--已将它的钓线垂入溪流。它一分钟又一分钟地,在倒影与水草之间来回摇曳,任凭流水托举又下沉,直到--你知晓那轻微的拽动--一个念头在钓线末端突然凝成团块:然后便是小心翼翼地收线,谨慎万分地将它铺展开来？唉,平放在草地上,我这思想显得何等渺小,何等微不足道；恰似一位好渔夫会放回水中的那种鱼,好让它长得更丰腴,有朝一日值得烹煮享用。此刻我不会拿这思想来烦扰你们了,不过若你们细心寻觅,或许能在我接下来的讲述中找到它。

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crimson /ˈkrɪmzn/

adj. 深红色的➕

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perpetual /pəˈpetʃuəl/

adj. 永久的；不断的➕

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lamentation /ˌlæmənˈteɪʃn/

n. 哀悼,悲伤➕

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oared /ɔːd/

v. 划（船）➕

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hither /ˈhɪðə(r)/

adv. 到这里,向此处➕

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conglomeration /kənˌɡlɒməˈreɪʃn/

n. 聚集物,混合物➕

🔊 But however small it was, it had, nevertheless, the mysterious property of its kind--put back into the mind, it became at once very exciting, and important; and as it darted and sank, and flashed hither and thither, set up such a wash and tumult of ideas that it was impossible to sit still. It was thus that I found myself walking with extreme rapidity across a grass plot. Instantly a man's figure rose to intercept me. Nor did I at first understand that the gesticulations of a curious-looking object, in a cut-away coat and evening shirt, were aimed at me. His face expressed horror and indignation. Instinct rather than reason came to my help; he was a Beadle; I was a woman. This was the turf; there was the path. Only the Fellows and Scholars are allowed here; the gravel is the place for me. Such thoughts were the work of a moment. As I regained the path the arms of the Beadle sank, his face assumed its usual repose, and though turf is better walking than gravel, no very great harm was done. The only charge I could bring against the Fellows and Scholars of whatever the college might happen to be was that in protection of their turf, which has been rolled for 300 years in succession, they had sent my little fish into hiding.

然而,无论它多么渺小,却毕竟拥有其同类那种神秘的特质--一旦放回脑海,它立刻变得激动人心且至关重要；当它穿梭、沉潜、忽左忽右地闪烁时,激起的思绪之浪涛与喧嚣,令人再也无法安坐。就这样,我发现自己正以极快的步速穿过一片草坪。霎时间,一个男人的身影站起身来拦住了我。起初我甚至没明白,那个模样奇特、身着燕尾服与晚礼衬衫的东西,其手势竟是冲我而来。他脸上写满了惊骇与愤慨。本能而非理性帮了我的忙:他是位校役；而我是个女人。这儿是草坪；那边才是小径。只有院士与学者方可涉足此地；砂砾路才是我的去处。这些念头只在一瞬间闪过。待我退回小径,那校役的双臂便垂落下来,脸上恢复了惯常的平静。虽说踏在草坪上比走在砂石上更舒适,倒也没酿成什么大祸。无论这碰巧是哪所学院,我能归咎于其院士与学者们的唯一过失,便是他们为了保护那已连续滚压了三百年的草坪,将我那条小鱼惊得躲藏了起来。

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intercept /ˌɪntəˈsept/

v. 拦截,截住➕

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gesticulations /dʒeˌstɪkjuˈleɪʃnz/

n. 手势,姿势➕

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indignation /ˌɪndɪɡˈneɪʃn/

n. 愤慨,愤怒➕

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Beadle /ˈbiːdl/

n. （英国大学或教堂的）仪仗官,差役➕

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turf /tɜːf/

n. 草皮；地盘,势力范围➕

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gravel /ˈɡrævl/

n. 砾石,沙砾➕

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repose /rɪˈpəʊz/

n. 休息；平静,安宁➕

🔊 What idea it had been that had sent me so audaciously trespassing I could not now remember. The spirit of peace descended like a cloud from heaven, for if the spirit of peace dwells anywhere, it is in the courts and quadrangles of Oxbridge on a fine October morning. Strolling through those colleges past those ancient halls the roughness of the present seemed smoothed away; the body seemed contained in a miraculous glass cabinet through which no sound could penetrate, and the mind, freed from any contact with facts (unless one trespassed on the turf again), was at liberty to settle down upon whatever meditation was in harmony with the moment. As chance would have it, some stray memory of some old essay about revisiting Oxbridge in the long vacation brought Charles Lamb to mind--Saint Charles, said Thackeray, putting a letter of Lamb's to his forehead. Indeed, among all the dead (I give you my thoughts as they came to me), Lamb is one of the most congenial; one to whom one would have liked to say, 'Tell me then how you wrote your essays?' For his essays are superior even to Max Beerbohm's, I thought, with all their perfection, because of that wild flash of imagination, that lightning crack of genius in the middle of them which leaves them flawed and imperfect, but starred with poetry. Lamb then came to Oxbridge perhaps a hundred years ago. Certainly he wrote an essay--the name escapes me--about the manuscript of one of Milton's poems which he saw here. It was Lycidas perhaps, and Lamb wrote how it shocked him to think it possible that any word in Lycidas could have been different from what it is. To think of Milton changing the words in that poem seemed to him a sort of sacrilege. This led me to remember what I could of Lycidas and to amuse myself with guessing which word it could have been that Milton had altered, and why. It then occurred to me that the very manuscript itself which Lamb had looked at was only a few hundred yards away, so that one could follow Lamb's footsteps across the quadrangle to that famous library where the treasure is kept. Moreover, I recollected, as I put this plan into execution, it is in this famous library that the manuscript of Thackeray's Esmond is also preserved. The critics often say that Esmond is Thackeray's most perfect novel. But the affectation of the style, with its imitation of the eighteenth century, hampers one, so far as I remember; unless indeed the eighteenth-century style was natural to Thackeray--a fact that one might prove by looking at the manuscript and seeing whether the alterations were for the benefit of the style or of the sense. But then one would have to decide what is style and what is meaning, a question which--but here I was actually at the door which leads into the library itself. I must have opened it, for instantly there issued, like a guardian angel barring the way with a flutter of black gown instead of white wings, a deprecating, silvery, kindly gentleman, who regretted in a low voice as he waved me back that ladies are only admitted to the library if accompanied by a Fellow of the College or furnished with a letter of introduction.

究竟是哪个念头驱使我如此胆大妄为地擅闯禁地,我此刻已记不真切了。一片祥云自天而降,带来和平之灵,因为若说和平之灵栖身于何处,那便是十月晴朗清晨的牛剑的庭院与方庭之中。漫步穿过那些学院,经过那些古老的大厅,现世的粗糙棱角仿佛被抚平；躯体仿佛被收纳进一个神奇的玻璃柜,隔绝了所有声响；而心灵,既然摆脱了与事实的接触,便得以自由地沉浸于任何与此刻心境相谐的冥思--除非你再度踏上草坪。机缘巧合,关于在长假中重访牛剑的某篇旧文残章,勾起了我对查尔斯·兰姆的回忆--“圣徒查尔斯”,萨克雷曾这样称呼他,并将兰姆的一封信按在额前。的确,在所有逝者之中--我将思绪如实呈现--兰姆是最投契的一位；你会乐于对他说,“那么,告诉我你是如何写出那些散文的？”因为在我看来,他的散文甚至比马克斯·比尔博姆的更为高明,尽管后者臻于完美,却因兰姆文中那狂野的想象闪光,那如惊雷乍现的天才火花,使得它们虽有瑕疵、未尽完美,却闪烁着诗意的星光。兰姆大约百年前也曾来过牛剑。他当然写过一篇散文--篇名我已忘却--记述在此所见弥尔顿某首诗作的手稿。或许是《利西达斯》,兰姆写道,想到《利西达斯》中任何一个词有可能与现在的样子不同,他便深感震撼。在他看来,设想弥尔顿竟会改动那首诗中的字句,几近一种亵渎。这使我忆起自己还能记诵的《利西达斯》诗句,并自娱自乐地猜想,弥尔顿改掉的究竟是哪个词,又是为何而改。随即我又想到,兰姆曾审视的那份手稿真迹,此刻就在数百码之外,人们可以追随兰姆的脚步穿过方庭,前往那珍藏宝物的著名图书馆。不仅如此,当我将此计划付诸行动时,我又忆起,萨克雷的《埃斯蒙德》手稿同样珍藏于这座著名图书馆。评论家常说《埃斯蒙德》是萨克雷最为完美的小说。然而,依我记忆,那种模仿十八世纪风格的矫饰文风,总令人感到拘束；除非十八世纪的风格对萨克雷而言确是浑然天成--这一点或许可以通过查阅手稿来证实,看看那些修改是旨在润饰文风,还是为了达意更明。不过,这样一来,人们又必须界定何为文风、何为意义,这个问题--然而此刻,我已实实在在地站在了通往图书馆本身的那扇门前。我定是推开了它,因为立时便有一位先生走了出来,好似一位守护天使,并非展开白翼,而是挥动黑袍挡住了去路。他态度谦和,声音轻柔,神情和蔼,一边挥手示意我后退,一边低声致歉,说女士唯有在学院院士陪同或持有介绍信函时,方得进入图书馆。

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audaciously /ɔːˈdeɪʃəsli/

adv. 大胆地,鲁莽地➕

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quadrangles /ˈkwɒdræŋɡlz/

n. 四方院子（尤指牛津、剑桥大学学院的）➕

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congenial /kənˈdʒiːniəl/

adj. 意气相投的；宜人的➕

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flawed /flɔːd/

adj. 有瑕疵的,有缺陷的➕

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sacrilege /ˈsækrəlɪdʒ/

n. 亵渎圣物（或圣地）的行为；大不敬➕

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deprecating /ˈdeprəkeɪtɪŋ/

adj. 表示反对的；不以为然的；谦逊的➕

🔊 That a famous library has been cursed by a woman is a matter of complete indifference to a famous library. Venerable and calm, with all its treasures safe locked within its breast, it sleeps complacently and will, so far as I am concerned, so sleep for ever. Never will I wake those echoes, never will I ask for that hospitality again, I vowed as I descended the steps in anger. Still an hour remained before luncheon, and what was one to do? Stroll on the meadows? sit by the river? Certainly it was a lovely autumn morning; the leaves were fluttering red to the ground; there was no great hardship in doing either. But the sound of music reached my ear. Some service or celebration was going forward. The organ complained magnificently as I passed the chapel door. Even the sorrow of Christianity sounded in that serene air more like the recollection of sorrow than sorrow itself; even the groanings of the ancient organ seemed lapped in peace. I had no wish to enter had I the right, and this time the verger might have stopped me, demanding perhaps my baptismal certificate, or a letter of introduction from the Dean. But the outside of these magnificent buildings is often as beautiful as the inside. Moreover, it was amusing enough to watch the congregation assembling, coming in and going out again, busying themselves at the door of the Chapel like bees at the mouth of a hive. Many were in cap and gown; some had tufts of fur on their shoulders; others were wheeled in bath-chairs; others, though not past middle age, seemed creased and crushed into shapes so singular that one was reminded of those giant crabs and crayfish who heave with difficulty across the sand of an aquarium. As I leant against the wall the University indeed seemed a sanctuary in which are preserved rare types which would soon be obsolete if left to fight for existence on the pavement of the Strand. Old stories of old deans and old dons came back to mind, but before I had summoned up courage to whistle--it used to be said that at the sound of a whistle old Professor ---- instantly broke into a gallop--the venerable congregation had gone inside. The outside of the chapel remained. As you know, its high domes and pinnacles can be seen, like a sailing-ship always voyaging never arriving, lit up at night and visible for miles, far away across the hills. Once, presumably, this quadrangle with its smooth lawns, its massive buildings and the chapel itself was marsh too, where the grasses waved and the swine rootled. Teams of horses and oxen, I thought, must have hauled the stone in wagons from far counties, and then with infinite labour the grey blocks in whose shade I was now standing were poised in order one on top of another, and then the painters brought their glass for the windows, and the masons were busy for centuries up on that roof with putty and cement, spade and trowel. Every Saturday somebody must have poured gold and silver out of a leathern purse into their ancient fists, for they had their beer and skittles presumably of an evening. An unending stream of gold and silver, I thought, must have flowed into this court perpetually to keep the stones coming and the masons working; to level, to ditch, to dig and to drain. But it was then the age of faith, and money was poured liberally to set these stones on a deep foundation, and when the stones were raised, still more money was poured in from the coffers of kings and queens and great nobles to ensure that hymns should be sung here and scholars taught. Lands were granted; tithes were paid. And when the age of faith was over and the age of reason had come, still the same flow of gold and silver went on; fellowships were founded; lectureships endowed; only the gold and silver flowed now, not from the coffers of the king, but from the chests of merchants and manufacturers, from the purses of men who had made, say, a fortune from industry, and returned, in their wills, a bounteous share of it to endow more chairs, more lectureships, more fellowships in the university where they had learnt their craft. Hence the libraries and laboratories; the observatories; the splendid equipment of costly and delicate instruments which now stands on glass shelves, where centuries ago the grasses waved and the swine rootled. Certainly, as I strolled round the court, the foundation of gold and silver seemed deep enough; the pavement laid solidly over the wild grasses. Men with trays on their heads went busily from staircase to staircase. Gaudy blossoms flowered in window-boxes. The strains of the gramophone blared out from the rooms within. It was impossible not to reflect--the reflection whatever it may have been was cut short. The clock struck. It was time to find one's way to luncheon.

一座著名图书馆被一名女子诅咒,于一座著名图书馆而言,全然无关痛痒。它尊贵而沉静,所有珍宝安然锁于其胸怀,正心满意足地酣眠,且就我而言,它将永远这般沉睡下去。我走下台阶,心中愤然起誓:我绝不会再唤醒那些回声,绝不会再乞求那份殷勤。午餐前尚有一小时,该做些什么呢？在草甸上徜徉？去河边静坐？这确是一个可爱的秋晨；红叶正飘零坠地；做哪一样都算不得苦差。然而,乐声飘入耳际。某种仪式或庆典正在进行。当我走过礼拜堂门口,管风琴正发出恢宏如诉的悲鸣。即便是基督教的哀恸,在这宁谧的空气中也更似追忆中的悲伤,而非悲伤本身；即便是那古老管风琴的呻吟,仿佛也被宁静温柔包裹。即便我有权进入,也无意踏入,而这次,教堂司事或许又会拦下我,索要我的洗礼证明,或是院长的引荐信函。但这些宏伟建筑的外表,其美往往不逊于内里。况且,观看会众聚集,进进出出,在礼拜堂门口忙碌如同蜂巢口的群蜂,也足够有趣。许多人头戴方帽、身披长袍；有些人肩饰毛皮绶边；另一些人坐在轮椅上；还有些人,虽未过中年,身躯却似被揉皱压扁,呈现出异常古怪的形态,让人想起那些在鱼缸沙地上艰难挪动的巨螯蟹与龙虾。当我倚墙而立,这所大学确乎像一座圣殿,保存着那些稀有类型,倘若任其在河滨街的人行道上为生存挣扎,恐怕早已绝迹。关于老院长、老学究的旧闻轶事浮现脑际,但未等我鼓足勇气吹响口哨--据说从前哨声一响,某位老教授便会立刻疾步如飞--那群可敬的会众已悉数入内。礼拜堂的外部依然矗立。如你所知,它高耸的穹顶与尖塔清晰可见,犹如一艘永在航程、永不到港的帆船,夜间灯火通明,越过群山,数英里外仍可望见。想必在很久以前,这个有着平整草坪、厚重建筑与礼拜堂本身的方庭,也曾是一片沼泽,青草随风起伏,野猪在此拱食。我想,必定有成队的马匹与公牛,将石料从遥远的郡县用货车拖来；而后经过无尽的辛劳,这些此刻我正立于其荫下的灰色巨块,被稳稳地、一块垒一块地安置妥当；接着,画师们为窗牖镶嵌玻璃；石匠们则在那屋顶之上,操持着油灰、水泥、铁锹与抹刀,忙碌了几个世纪。每个星期六,想必都有人从皮制钱囊中倾倒出金银钱币,放入他们那古老的手掌--因为想来他们晚间是要享用啤酒与九柱戏的。我想,必定有一条源源不绝的金银之河,永不止息地流入这庭院,以确保石料持续运抵,石匠持续劳作；用以平整土地、挖掘沟渠、疏浚排水。但那是个信仰的时代,金钱被慷慨倾注,将这些巨石奠定于深厚的地基之上；而当巨石立起,仍有更多钱财从国王、女王与显贵们的宝库中源源注入,以确保圣歌在此吟唱,学子在此受教。土地被赐予；什一税被缴纳。及至信仰时代终结,理性时代来临,同样的金银洪流依然继续；只是如今,研究员席位得以设立,讲师职位获得资助,这金银不再源自帝王的宝库,而是出自商贾与制造商的箱柜,来自那些凭实业--譬如说--积攒了财富的人们,他们于遗嘱中返还丰厚的一份,用以在他们习得技艺的大学里,设立更多教席、更多讲师职位、更多研究员名额。图书馆与实验室由此而生；天文台由此而建；那些如今静置于玻璃架上、昂贵而精密的绝妙仪器,其陈设如此华美--而在数个世纪之前,那里唯见青草起伏,野猪拱食。诚然,当我漫步于这方庭,金银奠定的基石似乎足够深厚；人行道已牢牢铺设在曾经的荒草之上。头顶托盘的人们在楼梯间穿梭忙碌。窗台上的花箱里,艳丽的花朵正在盛放。留声机的乐声从房间内喧嚷传出。人不可能不陷入沉思--无论这沉思为何,它被骤然打断。钟声敲响。是时候寻路前去用午餐了。

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Venerable /ˈvenərəbl/

adj. 德高望重的；古老的➕

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complacently /kəmˈpleɪsntli/

adv. 自满地,满足地➕

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verger /ˈvɜːdʒə(r)/

n. （教堂的）堂守,司事➕

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congregation /ˌkɒŋɡrɪˈɡeɪʃn/

n. （教堂的）会众；人群➕

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tufts /tʌfts/

n. 一簇,一丛（毛发、草等）➕

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creased /kriːst/

adj. 有皱褶的,起皱的➕

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crayfish /ˈkreɪfɪʃ/

n. 小龙虾➕

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aquarium /əˈkweəriəm/

n. 水族馆；养鱼缸➕

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sanctuary /ˈsæŋktʃuəri/

n. 圣所；避难所；保护区➕

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obsolete /ˈɒbsəliːt/

adj. 过时的,淘汰的➕

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pinnacles /ˈpɪnəklz/

n. 尖顶；顶峰➕

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massive /ˈmæsɪv/

adj. 巨大的；大量的➕

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rootled /ˈruːtld/

v. （猪等）用鼻拱土觅食➕

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trowel /ˈtraʊəl/

n. 抹子,镘刀；小铲子➕

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skittles /ˈskɪtlz/

n. 九柱戏（一种类似保龄球的游戏）➕

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coffers /ˈkɒfəz/

n. 金库；资金➕

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tithes /taɪðz/

n. 什一税（原指将收入的十分之一捐给教会）➕

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bounteous /ˈbaʊntiəs/

adj. 慷慨的；丰富的➕

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observatories /əbˈzɜːvətri/

n. 天文台,观象台➕

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Gaudy /ˈɡɔːdi/

adj. 花哨的,俗艳的➕

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gramophone /ˈɡræməfəʊn/

n. 留声机➕

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blared /bleəd/

v. 发出刺耳的声音,大声鸣响➕

🔊 It is a curious fact that novelists have a way of making us believe that luncheon parties are invariably memorable for something very witty that was said, or for something very wise that was done. But they seldom spare a word for what was eaten. It is part of the novelist's convention not to mention soup and salmon and ducklings, as if soup and salmon and ducklings were of no importance whatsoever, as if nobody ever smoked a cigar or drank a glass of wine. Here, however, I shall take the liberty to defy that convention and to tell you that the lunch on this occasion began with soles, sunk in a deep dish, over which the college cook had spread a counterpane of the whitest cream, save that it was branded here and there with brown spots like the spots on the flanks of a doe. After that came the partridges, but if this suggests a couple of bald, brown birds on a plate you are mistaken. The partridges, many and various, came with all their retinue of sauces and salads, the sharp and the sweet, each in its order; their potatoes, thin as coins but not so hard; their sprouts, foliated as rosebuds but more succulent. And no sooner had the roast and its retinue been done with than the silent serving-man, the Beadle himself perhaps in a milder manifestation, set before us, wreathed in napkins, a confection which rose all sugar from the waves. To call it pudding and so relate it to rice and tapioca would be an insult. Meanwhile the wineglasses had flushed yellow and flushed crimson; had been emptied; had been filled. And thus by degrees was lit, half-way down the spine, which is the seat of the soul, not that hard little electric light which we call brilliance, as it pops in and out upon our lips, but the more profound, subtle and subterranean glow which is the rich yellow flame of rational intercourse. No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself. We are all going to heaven and Vandyck is of the company--in other words, how good life seemed, how sweet its rewards, how trivial this grudge or that grievance, how admirable friendship and the society of one's kind, as, lighting a good cigarette, one sunk among the cushions in the window-seat.

一个耐人寻味的现象是,小说家总有法子让我们相信,午餐会之所以令人难忘,总是因为席间有人妙语连珠,或是有人行止睿智。但他们极少提及席上究竟吃了什么。不提汤品、鲑鱼与乳鸭,仿佛它们全然无足轻重,仿佛无人曾吸雪茄、啜美酒,此乃小说家约定俗成的惯例。然而此刻,我且冒昧违此成规,告诉诸位,那日的午餐以龙利鱼开场,鱼身没于深盘之中,学院的厨子在其上铺展了一床最为洁白的奶油衾被,衾上四处烙着褐色斑点,宛若牝鹿胁腹的花纹。继而是山鹑,但若你由此联想到盘中两只光秃秃的褐色禽鸟,那便大错特错了。山鹑形态各异,为数不少,携着全套随行的酱汁与沙拉--或辛或甘,依次罗列；配着的土豆薄如钱币却不那般坚硬；芽甘蓝叶片层叠宛若玫瑰蓓蕾,却更为多汁。烤品及其扈从刚被撤下,那位沉默的侍者--或许正是那位校役,只是神态稍显温和--便将一道甜品置于我们面前,它被餐巾环抱,宛如一座糖霜堆砌的浪峰从盘中拔地而起。若仅称之为布丁,将其与米饭、木薯粉相提并论,不啻为一种冒犯。与此同时,酒杯时而泛起金黄,时而漾起深红；斟满,又饮空。于是,在脊柱的中段--灵魂的栖所--渐渐点燃的,并非那种随着我们唇齿开合而明灭不定、我们称之为“才气”的坚硬小电光,而是更为深邃、精妙、潜藏于意识深处的暖意,那是理性交谈那丰厚而温润的黄色火焰。无须匆忙。无须锋芒毕露。无须扮演任何人,只需做自己。我们都将去往天堂,而范戴克亦在同行之列--换句话说,当点燃一支好烟,深深陷入窗座那堆靠垫之中时,生命显得何等美好,其回报何等甜蜜,这点点怨怼或那些不满何等微不足道,友谊与同类相伴又何等令人赞叹。

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defy /dɪˈfaɪ/

v. 违抗；向…挑战；使…成为不可能➕

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soles /səʊlz/

n. 比目鱼；鞋底➕

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counterpane /ˈkaʊntəpeɪn/

n. 床罩➕

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doe /dəʊ/

n. 母鹿,雌兔➕

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partridges /ˈpɑːtrɪdʒɪz/

n. 山鹑➕

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retinue /ˈretɪnjuː/

n. 随行人员,扈从➕

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foliated /ˈfəʊlieɪtɪd/

adj. 由叶片组成的；有叶形装饰的➕

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succulent /ˈsʌkjələnt/

adj. 多汁的；肉质植物的➕

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confection /kənˈfekʃn/

n. 甜食,糕点；精工制作的物品➕

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tapioca /ˌtæpiˈəʊkə/

n. 木薯淀粉；西米➕

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subterranean /ˌsʌbtəˈreɪniən/

adj. 地下的；隐蔽的➕

🔊 If by good luck there had been an ash-tray handy, if one had not knocked the ash out of the window in default, if things had been a little different from what they were, one would not have seen, presumably, a cat without a tail. The sight of that abrupt and truncated animal padding softly across the quadrangle changed by some fluke of the subconscious intelligence the emotional light for me. It was as if someone had let fall a shade. Perhaps the excellent hock was relinquishing its hold. Certainly, as I watched the Manx cat pause in the middle of the lawn as if it too questioned the universe, something seemed lacking, something seemed different. But what was lacking, what was different, I asked myself, listening to the talk? And to answer that question I had to think myself out of the room, back into the past, before the war indeed, and to set before my eyes the model of another luncheon party held in rooms not very far distant from these; but different. Everything was different. Meanwhile the talk went on among the guests, who were many and young, some of this sex, some of that; it went on swimmingly, it went on agreeably, freely, amusingly. And as it went on I set it against the background of that other talk, and as I matched the two together I had no doubt that one was the descendant, the legitimate heir of the other. Nothing was changed; nothing was different save only--here I listened with all my ears not entirely to what was being said, but to the murmur or current behind it. Yes, that was it--the change was there. Before the war at a luncheon party like this people would have said precisely the same things but they would have sounded different, because in those days they were accompanied by a sort of humming noise, not articulate, but musical, exciting, which changed the value of the words themselves. Could one set that humming noise to words? Perhaps with the help of the poets one could. A book lay beside me and, opening it, I turned casually enough to Tennyson. And here I found Tennyson was singing: There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate; The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near"; And the white rose weeps, "She is late"; The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear"; And the lily whispers, "I wait." Was that what men hummed at luncheon parties before the war? And the women? My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water'd shoot; My heart is like an apple tree Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these Because my love is come to me. Was that what women hummed at luncheon parties before the war?

倘若当时恰巧手边有个烟灰缸；倘若我不是因无处弹灰而将烟蒂抛出窗外；倘若情形稍有不同--那么,我多半就不会看见那只无尾的猫了。瞥见那只身形突兀、仿佛被截去一截的动物,悄然无声地穿过方庭,潜意识里某种偶然的联动,为我转换了情感的光影。仿佛有人轻轻放下了遮光帘。或许是那上好的霍克酒正渐渐褪去它的魔力。的确,当我注视着那只曼岛猫在草坪中央驻足,仿佛它也在叩问苍茫宇宙时,某种东西似乎缺失了,某种东西似乎不同了。但究竟缺失了什么,又有什么不同呢？我自问,一面倾听着席间的谈笑。为解答此问,我不得不让自己的神思游离出这房间,回溯过往,确切说,回到战前,将另一次午餐会的场景置于眼前,那次聚会就在离此不远的房间里举行；然而一切迥异。万物皆不相同。与此同时,宾客们--人数众多,且都年轻,男女皆有--的谈话仍在继续；它流畅地进行着,愉快地、自由地、饶有兴味地进行着。我一面听着,一面将它置于另一次谈话的背景之中加以比照；将两者并置时,我毫不怀疑,前者正是后者的后裔,是合法的继承者。一切未变；一切皆同,唯有一处例外--此刻我凝神谛听,不全为话语本身,更为那话语背后的低语或潜流。是的,变化正在于此。战前,在这样的午餐会上,人们会说出一模一样的话,但听来却截然不同,因为那时话语总伴随着一种嗡嗡的背景音,虽不清晰,却富有乐感,令人兴奋,它改变了词语本身的价值。我们能否将那嗡嗡声诉诸文字？或许在诗人的襄助下可以。一本诗集恰在身侧,我翻开它,颇为随意地翻到了丁尼生。在此,我发现丁尼生正在吟唱:“一颗璀璨的泪珠已坠落自门边的西番莲花。她来了,我的鸽,我的亲爱；她来了,我的命,我的运；红玫瑰呼告,‘她近了,她近了’；白玫瑰泣诉,‘她迟了’；飞燕草聆听,‘我听见,我听见’；百合低语,‘我等待。’”这便是战前男人们在午餐会上低声哼唱的曲调吗？那女人们呢？“我的心像一只啼鸟筑巢在润泽的嫩梢；我的心像一株苹果树累累果实将枝条压弯；我的心像一枚虹彩贝徜徉在风平浪静的海；我的心比这一切更欢欣因我的爱已来到我身边。”这便是战前女人们在午餐会上低声哼唱的曲调吗？

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Manx /mæŋks/

adj. 马恩岛的；马恩岛猫的（一种无尾猫）➕

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fluke /fluːk/

n. 侥幸,意外；锚爪➕

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swimmingly /ˈswɪmɪŋli/

adv. 顺利地,顺畅地➕

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articulate /ɑːˈtɪkjuleɪt/

adj. 口齿清晰的；能明确表达的➕

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larkspur /ˈlɑːkspɜː(r)/

n. 飞燕草➕

🔊 There was something so ludicrous in thinking of people humming such things even under their breath at luncheon parties before the war that I burst out laughing, and had to explain my laughter by pointing at the Manx cat, who did look a little absurd, poor beast, without a tail, in the middle of the lawn. Was he really born so, or had he lost his tail in an accident? The tailless cat, though some are said to exist in the Isle of Man, is rarer than one thinks. It is a queer animal, quaint rather than beautiful. It is strange what a difference a tail makes--you know the sort of things one says as a lunch party breaks up and people are finding their coats and hats.

想到战前人们在午餐会上,即便是压低嗓音哼唱这样的诗句,也觉着荒诞不经,我竟噗嗤笑出声来,只得指着那只曼岛猫来解释我的失态--这可怜的家伙,没了尾巴,立在草坪中央,确实显得有点滑稽。它是天生如此,还是在某次事故中失了尾巴？无尾猫,虽说曼岛上确有此物种,实则比想象中更为罕见。它是一种奇特的生灵,与其说美丽,不如说古趣。奇怪的是,一条尾巴竟能造成如此差异--你总知道午餐散席、人们寻取衣帽时会说的那类闲话。

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ludicrous /ˈluːdɪkrəs/

adj. 荒谬的,可笑的➕

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queer /kwɪə(r)/

adj. 奇怪的,古怪的➕

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quaint /kweɪnt/

adj. 古色古香的,奇特而有趣的➕

🔊 This one, thanks to the hospitality of the host, had lasted far into the afternoon. The beautiful October day was fading and the leaves were falling from the trees in the avenue as I walked through it. Gate after gate seemed to close with gentle finality behind me. Innumerable beadles were fitting innumerable keys into well-oiled locks; the treasure-house was being made secure for another night. After the avenue one comes out upon a road--I forget its name--which leads you, if you take the right turning, along to Fernham. But there was plenty of time. Dinner was not till half-past seven. One could almost do without dinner after such a luncheon. It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road. Those words-- There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear-- sang in my blood as I stepped quickly along towards Headingley. And then, switching off into the other measure, I sang, where the waters are churned up by the weir: My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water'd shoot; My heart is like an apple tree... What poets, I cried aloud, as one does in the dusk, what poets they were!

这次午宴,承蒙主人盛情,一直延续到午后很晚。当我穿过林荫道时,那美好的十月天光正渐渐黯淡,道旁树木的叶子正纷纷飘落。一扇又一扇大门仿佛在我身后带着温和的决绝轻轻合拢。无数的司役正将无数的钥匙插入油润的锁孔；这宝藏之库正被妥帖地锁闭,以待又一个夜晚。走过林荫道,便来到一条大路--我忘了它的名字--若你选对了岔口,它会引你一路走向弗恩汉姆。但时间尚充裕。晚餐要到七点半才开始。经过这样一顿午餐,几乎可以免去晚餐了。奇怪的是,一段诗歌的残章如何在心间萦绕,让双腿不由地踏着它的节拍在路上行进。那些诗句--“一颗璀璨的泪珠已坠落自门边的西番莲花。她来了,我的鸽,我的亲爱”--在我快步走向海丁利时,在我血脉中歌唱。接着,我切换至另一种韵律,在水闸搅起粼粼波光的地方吟唱:“我的心像一只啼鸟筑巢在润泽的嫩梢；我的心像一株苹果树……”何等诗人啊！我在暮色中不禁高声赞叹,就像人们常会做的那样,他们曾是怎样的诗人！

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weir /wɪə(r)/

n. 堰,拦河坝➕

🔊 In a sort of jealousy, I suppose, for our own age, silly and absurd though these comparisons are, I went on to wonder if honestly one could name two living poets now as great as Tennyson and Christina Rossetti were then. Obviously it is impossible, I thought, looking into those foaming waters, to compare them. The very reason why that poetry excites one to such abandonment, such rapture, is that it celebrates some feeling that one used to have (at luncheon parties before the war perhaps), so that one responds easily, familiarly, without troubling to check the feeling, or to compare it with any that one has now. But the living poets express a feeling that is actually being made and torn out of us at the moment. One does not recognise it in the first place; often for some reason one fears it; one watches it with keenness and compares it jealously and suspiciously with the old feeling that one knew. Hence the difficulty of modern poetry; and it is because of this difficulty that one cannot remember more than two consecutive lines of any good modern poet. For this reason--that my memory failed me--the argument flagged for want of material. But why, I continued, moving on towards Headingley, have we stopped humming under our breath at luncheon parties? Why has Alfred ceased to sing She is coming, my dove, my dear. Why has Christina ceased to respond? My heart is gladder than all these Because my love is come to me? Shall we lay the blame on the war? When the guns fired in August 1914, did the faces of men and women show so plain in each other's eyes that romance was killed? Certainly it was a shock (to women in particular with their illusions about education, and so on) to see the faces of our rulers in the light of the shell-fire. So ugly they looked--German, English, French--so stupid. But lay the blame where one will, on whom one will, the illusion which inspired Tennyson and Christina Rossetti to sing so passionately about the coming of their loves is far rarer now than then. One has only to read, to look, to listen, to remember. But why say "blame"? Why, if it was an illusion, not praise the catastrophe, whatever it was, that destroyed illusion and put truth in its place? For truth... those dots mark the spot where, in search of truth, I missed the turning up to Fernham. Yes indeed, which was truth and which was illusion, I asked myself? What was the truth about these houses, for example, dim and festive now with their red windows in the dusk, but raw and red and squalid, with their sweets and their bootlaces, at nine o'clock in the morning? And the willows and the river and the gardens that run down to the river, vague now with the mist stealing over them, but gold and red in the sunlight--which was the truth, which was the illusion about them? I spare you the twists and turns of my cogitations, for no conclusion was found on the road to Headingley, and I ask you to suppose that I soon found out my mistake about the turning and retraced my steps to Fernham.

我想,或许是出于对我们自身时代的一种妒意吧,尽管这类比较愚不可及,我仍继续思忖:如今,我们能否真心实意地举出两位在世的诗人,其伟大堪比当时的丁尼生与克里斯蒂娜·罗塞蒂？显然不能,我凝望着那翻腾的流水思忖,两者无法相提并论。那旧日诗歌之所以能激起我们如此忘情的狂喜,恰恰因为它咏赞的是某种我们曾经拥有的感受--或许就在战前的午餐会上--所以我们能够轻易地、熟稔地与之共鸣,无需费力检视这感受,或拿它与当下的任何感受相比较。但在世的诗人们所表达的,是一种此刻正从我们身上被塑造出来、又被撕裂的感受。起初你无法辨认它；常常因着某种缘由,你甚至畏惧它；你以敏锐的目光审视它,并怀着妒意与猜疑,将它与你所熟知的旧日感受相比较。现代诗歌的艰涩便源于此；也正因这艰涩,我们难以记诵任何一位优秀现代诗人超过两行的连句。由于这个缘故--我的记忆于此告罄--论证因缺乏材料而难以为继。然而,为何我们不再在午餐会上低声哼唱了呢？我继续思索,一边朝海丁利走去。为何阿尔弗雷德不再歌唱“她来了,我的鸽,我的亲爱”？为何克里斯蒂娜不再回应“我的心比这一切更欢欣因我的爱已来到我身边”？我们该归咎于战争吗？当一九一四年八月的炮声轰然响起,男人与女人的面容是否在彼此的眼中显得如此直白无误,以至于浪漫情致就此湮灭？诚然,目睹我们的统治者在炮火映照下的面孔--尤其对于那些对教育等事怀有幻想的女性而言--确是一记重击。它们显得如此丑陋--德国人、英国人、法国人--如此愚蠢。但无论归咎于何事、何人,曾激发丁尼生与克里斯蒂娜·罗塞蒂如此热烈地歌咏爱人降临的那种幻梦,如今已远比往昔罕有。我们只需阅读、观察、倾听、回忆便知。然而,何必定要说“归咎”？倘若那本是一种幻梦,为何不赞美那场无论是什么、摧毁了幻梦并以真相取而代之的灾变呢？因为真相……这省略号标记的,正是我为追寻真相而错过了通往弗恩汉姆的那个岔路口。是啊,究竟何为真相,何为幻梦？我扪心自问。例如,这些屋舍的真相是什么？此刻在暮色中,它们红色的窗扉朦胧而透着节庆般的光晕,但在清晨九点,它们却粗陋、鲜红、杂乱,陈列着糖果与鞋带。还有那些柳树、那条河流,以及那些迤逦至河边的花园,此刻因悄然弥漫的雾霭而朦胧不清,但在阳光下却呈现金黄与绯红--关于它们的真相是什么,幻梦又是什么？我省略了我思虑的千回百转,因为在通往海丁利的路上并未得出任何结论,我只请诸位设想,我很快便发觉自己走错了岔路,于是折返脚步,走向弗恩汉姆。

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rapture /ˈræptʃə(r)/

n. 狂喜,着迷➕

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flagged /flæɡd/

v. 变弱,疲乏；用石板铺➕

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catastrophe /kəˈtæstrəfi/

n. 大灾难,灾祸➕

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squalid /ˈskwɒlɪd/

adj. 肮脏的；卑鄙的➕

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cogitations /ˌkɒdʒɪˈteɪʃnz/

n. 深思,思考➕

🔊 As I have said already that it was an October day, I dare not forfeit your respect and imperil the fair name of fiction by changing the season and describing lilacs hanging over garden walls, crocuses, tulips and other flowers of spring. Fiction must stick to facts, and the truer the facts the better the fiction--so we are told. Therefore it was still autumn and the leaves were still yellow and falling, if anything, a little faster than before, because it was now evening (seven twenty-three to be precise) and a breeze (from the south-west to be exact) had risen. But for all that there was something odd at work: My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water'd shoot; My heart is like an apple tree Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit-- perhaps the words of Christina Rossetti were partly responsible for the folly of the fancy--it was nothing of course but a fancy--that the lilac was shaking its flowers over the garden walls, and the brimstone butterflies were scudding hither and thither, and the dust of the pollen was in the air. A wind blew, from what quarter I know not, but it lifted the half-grown leaves so that there was a flash of silver grey in the air. It was the time between the lights when colours undergo their intensification and purples and golds burn in window-panes like the beat of an excitable heart; when for some reason the beauty of the world revealed and yet soon to perish (here I pushed into the garden, for, unwisely, the door was left open and no beadles seemed about), the beauty of the world which is so soon to perish, has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder. The gardens of Fernham lay before me in the spring twilight, wild and open, and in the long grass, sprinkled and carelessly flung, were daffodils and bluebells, not orderly perhaps at the best of times, and now wind-blown and waving as they tugged at their roots. The windows of the building, curved like ships' windows among generous waves of red brick, changed from lemon to silver under the flight of the quick spring clouds. Somebody was in a hammock, somebody, but in this light they were phantoms only, half guessed, half seen, raced across the grass--would no one stop her?--and then on the terrace, as if popping out to breathe the air, to glance at the garden, came a bent figure, formidable yet humble, with her great forehead and her shabby dress--could it be the famous scholar, could it be J---- H---- herself? All was dim, yet intense too, as if the scarf which the dusk had flung over the garden were torn asunder by star or sword--the flash of some terrible reality leaping, as its way is, out of the heart of the spring. For youth----

既然我已言明这是十月里的一天,我便不敢冒险改变季节,去描绘垂挂于花园墙头的紫丁香、番红花、郁金香及其他春日花卉,从而丧失诸位的尊重,并危及小说那公正无偏的名声。小说必须忠实于事实,且事实越真实,小说便越出色--我们被告知如此。因此,此刻仍是秋季,树叶依旧泛黄飘落,若说有何不同,便是落得比先前更急了些,因为此刻已是傍晚--精确而言是七点二十三分--且起了一阵微风--确切地说来自西南方。然而尽管如此,某种奇异的力量仍在暗中运作:“我的心像一只啼鸟筑巢在润泽的嫩梢；我的心像一株苹果树累累果实将枝条压弯”--或许克里斯蒂娜·罗塞蒂的诗句,部分地促成了我那痴狂的幻想--当然,那只是幻想,别无其他--幻想紫丁香在花园墙头摇曳着花簇,黄粉蝶四处疾飞,花粉的尘埃弥漫在空气之中。一阵风起,不知来自何方,却掀动了那些半大的树叶,在空中掠过一片银灰。这正是昼夜交替的时分,色彩变得格外浓烈,窗玻璃上燃烧着紫色与金色,宛如一颗兴奋心脏的搏动；不知何故,世界那被揭示却又转瞬即逝的美--此时我信步走进了花园,因为门不明智地敞开着,四下似乎并无司役--世界那转瞬即逝的美,有着双重的锋刃,一刃是欢笑,一刃是痛苦,将心生生剖成两半。弗恩汉姆的花园在春日的暮色中展现在我眼前,荒芜而开阔,高高的草丛中,水仙与蓝铃花星罗棋布,随意抛洒,即便在最好的时节也未必齐整,此刻更被风吹得摇曳不定,仿佛在拉扯着自己的根须。建筑的窗户,犹如航行于恢弘红砖波涛间的船舷窗,在疾驰的春云掠影之下,由柠檬色转为银白。有人在吊床里,还有人,但在这光线下,他们只是幻影,半是臆测,半是瞥见,有人奔过草地--没人拦下她吗？--而后在露台上,仿佛突然现身来透口气、瞥一眼花园,出现了一个佝偻的身影,令人生畏却又谦卑,有着宽阔的前额与破旧的衣衫--这会不会是那位著名的学者,会不会是 J-- H-- 本人？一切都朦胧不清,却又异常强烈,仿佛暮色抛覆于花园之上的纱巾被星芒或利剑骤然撕裂--某种可怖现实的闪光,以其固有的方式,从春天的核心跃然而出。因为青春--

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forfeit /ˈfɔːfɪt/

v. （因过失、疏忽等）丧失,失去➕

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imperil /ɪmˈperəl/

v. 危及,使陷于危险➕

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lilacs /ˈlaɪləks/

n. 丁香花➕

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crocuses /ˈkrəʊkəsɪz/

n. 番红花,藏红花➕

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brimstone /ˈbrɪmstəʊn/

n. 硫磺；黄粉蝶➕

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scudding /ˈskʌdɪŋ/

v. 疾行,飞奔；（云等）飘飞➕

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pollen /ˈpɒlən/

n. 花粉➕

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asunder /əˈsʌndə(r)/

adv. 分开地,化为碎片地➕

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sprinkled /ˈsprɪŋkld/

v. 撒,洒；点缀➕

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bluebells /ˈbluːbelz/

n. 蓝铃花➕

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hammock /ˈhæmək/

n. 吊床➕

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phantoms /ˈfæntəmz/

n. 幽灵,幻影➕

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formidable /ˈfɔːmɪdəbl/

adj. 可怕的；难以克服的；令人敬畏的➕

🔊 Here was my soup. Dinner was being served in the great dining-hall. Far from being spring it was in fact an evening in October. Everybody was assembled in the big dining-room. Dinner was ready. Here was the soup. It was a plain gravy soup. There was nothing to stir the fancy in that. One could have seen through the transparent liquid any pattern that there might have been on the plate itself. But there was no pattern. The plate was plain. Next came beef with its attendant greens and potatoes--a homely trinity, suggesting the rumps of cattle in a muddy market, and sprouts curled and yellowed at the edge, and bargaining and cheapening, and women with string bags on Monday morning. There was no reason to complain of human nature's daily food, seeing that the supply was sufficient and coal-miners doubtless were sitting down to less. Prunes and custard followed. And if anyone complains that prunes, even when mitigated by custard, are an uncharitable vegetable (fruit they are not), stringy as a miser's heart and exuding a fluid such as might run in misers' veins who have denied themselves wine and warmth for eighty years and yet not given to the poor, he should reflect that there are people whose charity embraces even the prune. Biscuits and cheese came next, and here the water-jug was liberally passed round, for it is the nature of biscuits to be dry, and these were biscuits to the core. That was all. The meal was over. Everybody scraped their chairs back; the swing-doors swung violently to and fro; soon the hall was emptied of every sign of food and made ready no doubt for breakfast next morning. Down corridors and up staircases the youth of England went banging and singing. And was it for a guest, a stranger (for I had no more right here in Fernham than in Trinity or Somerville or Girton or Newnham or Christchurch), to say, "The dinner was not good," or to say (we were now, Mary Seton and I, in her sitting-room), "Could we not have dined up here alone?" for if I had said anything of the kind I should have been prying and searching into the secret economies of a house which to the stranger wears so fine a front of gaiety and courage. No, one could say nothing of the sort. Indeed, conversation for a moment flagged. The human frame being what it is, heart, body and brain all mixed together, and not contained in separate compartments as they will be no doubt in another million years, a good dinner is of great importance to good talk. One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well. The lamp in the spine does not light on beef and prunes. We are all probably going to heaven, and Vandyck is, we hope, to meet us round the next corner--that is the dubious and qualifying state of mind that beef and prunes at the end of the day's work breed between them. Happily my friend, who taught science, had a cupboard where there was a squat bottle and little glasses--(but there should have been sole and partridge to begin with)--so that we were able to draw up to the fire and repair some of the damages of the day's living. In a minute or so we were slipping freely in and out among all those objects of curiosity and interest which form in the mind in the absence of a particular person, and are naturally to be discussed on coming together again--how somebody has married, another has not; one thinks this, another that; one has improved out of all knowledge, the other most amazingly gone to the bad--with all those speculations upon human nature and the character of the amazing world we live in which spring naturally from such beginnings. While these things were being said, however, I became shamefacedly aware of a current setting in of its own accord and carrying everything forward to an end of its own. One might be talking of Spain or Portugal, of book or racehorse, but the real interest of whatever was said was none of those things, but a scene of masons on a high roof some five centuries ago. Kings and nobles brought treasure in huge sacks and poured it under the earth. This scene was for ever coming alive in my mind and placing itself by another of lean cows and a muddy market and withered greens and the stringy hearts of old men--these two pictures, disjointed and disconnected and nonsensical as they were, were for ever coming together and combating each other and had me entirely at their mercy. The best course, unless the whole talk was to be distorted, was to expose what was in my mind to the air, when with good luck it would fade and crumble like the head of the dead king when they opened the coffin at Windsor. Briefly, then, I told Miss Seton about the masons who had been all those years on the roof of the chapel, and about the kings and queens and nobles bearing sacks of gold and silver on their shoulders, which they shovelled into the earth; and then how the great financial magnates of our own time came and laid cheques and bonds, I suppose, where the others had laid ingots and rough lumps of gold. All that lies beneath the colleges down there, I said; but this college, where we are now sitting, what lies beneath its gallant red brick and the wild unkempt grasses of the garden? What force is behind that plain china off which we dined, and (here it popped out of my mouth before I could stop it) the beef, the custard and the prunes?

我的汤来了。晚餐正在大餐厅里供应。远非春日,事实上这是十月的一个夜晚。众人皆已齐聚大餐厅。晚餐已备好。汤来了。那是一道寻常的肉汁清汤。其中并无任何能激发想象之物。透过那澄澈的汤汁,本可瞥见盘底可能有的任何花纹。但并无花纹。盘子素朴无华。接着是牛肉,以及随之奉上的青菜与土豆--一个家常的三位一体,令人联想到泥泞市场里牲口的后臀,边缘卷曲发黄的芽甘蓝,讨价还价与锱铢必较,还有星期一早晨提着网兜的妇人们。人类日常的饮食本无可抱怨,毕竟供应充足,而矿工们此刻无疑正享用着更为简薄的饭食。随后是梅干与蛋奶冻。若有人抱怨梅干,即使被蛋奶冻调和,仍是一种刻薄的菜蔬--它们算不得水果--干瘪多筋如同守财奴的心,渗出的汁液恰似那些八十年来戒绝酒暖、却未曾施舍穷人的吝啬鬼血管里流淌的液体,那么他应想到,世上确有人怀有足够的仁慈,甚至能包容梅干。接下来是饼干与奶酪,此时水壶被殷勤地传递着,因为饼干的天性便是干燥,而这些饼干从里到外都干得彻底。便是如此。餐毕。众人向后刮擦着椅子；弹簧门剧烈地来回摆动；很快,大厅里食物的痕迹一扫而空,无疑是为翌日早餐做好了准备。英格兰的青年们,沿着走廊,踏上楼梯,砰砰作响地走着、唱着。而作为一个宾客,一个陌生人--我在弗恩汉姆此地,与在三一学院、萨默维尔学院、格顿学院、纽纳姆学院或基督堂学院一样,并无更多权利--能否说“晚餐不佳”？或能否说--此刻,玛丽·西顿与我,正在她的起居室里--“我们能否独自在此用餐”？因为倘若我说了任何此类言语,便无异于刺探并窥视一所宅邸隐秘的经济状况,而这宅邸向陌生人展现的,却是一副如此欢乐与勇敢的美好门面。不,一个人断不能说出那样的话。的确,交谈一时陷入了沉寂。人类的构造本是如此,心灵、躯体与头脑交杂混融,并非如千百万年后无疑会那般,被分隔于不同的隔间,因此,一顿美餐对于畅谈至关重要。食不甘味,则思不深、爱不切、眠不安。脊柱里的那盏灯,不会因牛肉与梅干而点亮。我们很可能终将步入天堂,而范戴克,我们希冀着,会在下一个转角与我们相遇--那便是一日劳作之后,牛肉与梅干共同催生出的那种暧昧不明、带着保留条件的心绪。幸而我那位教授自然科学的朋友,有一个橱柜,里面藏着一个矮胖的酒瓶和几只小玻璃杯--但这本应以龙利鱼与山鹑开场才是--于是我们得以靠近炉火,稍事修复这一日生活的磨损。片刻之后,我们便自如地穿梭于所有那些因某位特定人物缺席而在心头萦绕的、激起好奇与兴味的话题之间,重逢时自然要加以探讨--某某如何结了婚,某某却尚未；此人这般想,彼人那般看；一位已进步得面目全非,另一位则惊人地堕落了--连同所有那些由这些开端自然生发的、关于人性与我们栖居的这惊异世界的种种揣测。然而,正当这些话题被谈论之际,我羞愧地意识到,一股潜流正自行涌动,将一切事物裹挟向前,推向它自身的终点。我们或许在谈论西班牙或葡萄牙,书本或赛马,但无论谈论什么,其真正的兴味皆不在此,而在于大约五百年前,一群石匠在高耸屋顶上劳作的景象。国王与贵族们用巨袋运来财宝,将其倾倒入大地深处。这幅景象不断地在我脑海中鲜活浮现,并与另一幅景象并置:瘦骨嶙峋的母牛、泥泞的市场、枯萎的青菜、老人干瘪如绳的心脏--这两幅画面,尽管支离破碎、互不关联且荒诞不经,却不断地交织碰撞,将我完全置于它们的掌控之下。除非想让整个谈话被扭曲,最佳的对策便是将我心中的所思暴露于空气之中,运气好的话,它会像温莎古堡中开启棺椁时所见的那位故去国王的头颅一般,褪色、碎裂。于是,我简短地告诉塞顿小姐,那些曾在礼拜堂屋顶上劳作多年的石匠,那些肩负着金银麻袋的国王、王后与贵族,他们如何将财宝铲入地底；随后,我们这个时代的金融巨擘们又如何到来,我想,在昔人放置金锭与粗砺金块之处,放下了支票与债券。所有这些都深埋在那边的学院之下,我说；但这所学院,我们此刻正坐于其中的这个地方,它那豪迈的红砖与花园里恣意蔓生的荒草之下,又埋藏着什么？是什么力量,藏在我们用餐的素净瓷器背后,还有--这话在我能阻止之前脱口而出--那牛肉、那蛋奶冻、那梅干的背后？

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trinity /ˈtrɪnəti/

n. 三位一体；三件套；三人小组➕

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homely /ˈhəʊmli/

adj. 朴素的；舒适的；不好看的（英式用法）➕

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bargaining /ˈbɑːɡənɪŋ/

n. 讨价还价,谈判➕

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cheapening /ˈtʃiːpənɪŋ/

n. 降价；贬低➕

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prunes /pruːnz/

n. 西梅干➕

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custard /ˈkʌstəd/

n. 蛋奶沙司,吉士酱➕

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mitigated /ˈmɪtɪɡeɪtɪd/

v. 使缓和,减轻➕

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uncharitable /ʌnˈtʃærɪtəbl/

adj. 不仁慈的,苛刻的➕

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stringy /ˈstrɪŋi/

adj. 纤维多的；瘦而结实的；像线的➕

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exuding /ɪɡˈzjuːdɪŋ/

v. 渗出；流露➕

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misers /ˈmaɪzəz/

n. 守财奴,吝啬鬼➕

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prying /ˈpraɪɪŋ/

adj. 爱打听的,窥探的➕

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economies /ɪˈkɒnəmiz/

n. 经济状况；节俭措施➕

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gaiety /ˈɡeɪəti/

n. 欢乐,愉快➕

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squat /skwɒt/

adj. 矮胖的➕

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shamefacedly /ˌʃeɪmˈfeɪsɪdli/

adv. 羞愧地,难为情地➕

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masons /ˈmeɪsnz/

n. 石匠；共济会成员➕

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combating /ˈkɒmbætɪŋ/

v. 与…战斗,与…斗争➕

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distorted /dɪˈstɔːtɪd/

v. 扭曲,使变形；歪曲➕

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ingots /ˈɪŋɡəts/

n. 锭,铸块（尤指金、银、钢的）➕

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gallant /ˈɡælənt/

adj. 英勇的；华丽的；（对女子）殷勤的➕

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unkempt /ʌnˈkempt/

adj. 不整洁的,（头发）蓬乱的➕

🔊 Well, said Mary Seton, about the year 1860--Oh, but you know the story, she said, bored, I suppose, by the recital. And she told me--rooms were hired. Committees met. Envelopes were addressed. Circulars were drawn up. Meetings were held; letters were read out; so-and-so has promised so much; on the contrary, Mr. ---- won't give a penny. The Saturday Review has been very rude. How can we raise a fund to pay for offices? Shall we hold a bazaar? Can't we find a pretty girl to sit in the front row? Let us look up what John Stuart Mill said on the subject. Can anyone persuade the editor of the ---- to print a letter? Can we get Lady ---- to sign it? Lady ---- is out of town. That was the way it was done, presumably, sixty years ago, and it was a prodigious effort, and a great deal of time was spent on it. And it was only after a long struggle and with the utmost difficulty that they got thirty thousand pounds together.1 So obviously we cannot have wine and partridges and servants carrying tin dishes on their heads, she said. We cannot have sofas and separate rooms. "The amenities," she said, quoting from some book or other, "will have to wait."2

“嗯,”玛丽·西顿说,“大约在一八六零年左右--哦,不过这故事你是知道的,”她说,想必是对复述感到厌倦了。于是她告诉我--租用了房间。委员会开了会。信封写好了地址。通告拟订了。会议举行了；信件宣读了；某某承诺了这么多；相反,某先生分文不肯出。《星期六评论》言辞极为无礼。我们如何筹款支付办公费用？办个义卖会如何？能否找位标致的姑娘坐在前排？让我们查查约翰·斯图尔特·密尔对此有何高论。谁能说服某某报刊的编辑刊登一封来信？我们能请某某夫人署名吗？某某夫人出城了。大约六十年前,事情想必便是这么办的,那是一次艰辛卓绝的努力,耗费了大量的光阴。他们经过漫长的奋斗,历尽千难万阻,才总算凑足了三万英镑。所以很显然,我们不能有葡萄酒和山鹑,也不能有仆人头顶着锡盘上菜,”她说。“我们不能有沙发和单独的房间。”“那些安逸舒适的享受,”她引用了某本书里的话,“只得等待了。”

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recital /rɪˈsaɪtl/

n. 朗诵；独奏会；详述➕

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prodigious /prəˈdɪdʒəs/

adj. 巨大的；惊人的➕

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amenities /əˈmiːnətiz/

n. 便利设施；生活福利设施➕

🔊 At the thought of all those women working year after year and finding it hard to get two thousand pounds together, and as much as they could do to get thirty thousand pounds, we burst out in scorn at the reprehensible poverty of our sex. What had our mothers been doing then that they had no wealth to leave us? Powdering their noses? Looking in at shop windows? Flaunting in the sun at Monte Carlo? There were some photographs on the mantelpiece. Mary's mother--if that was her picture--may have been a wastrel in her spare time (she had thirteen children by a minister of the church), but if so her gay and dissipated life had left too few traces of its pleasures on her face. She was a homely body; an old lady in a plaid shawl which was fastened by a large cameo; and she sat in a basket-chair, encouraging a spaniel to look at the camera, with the amused, yet strained expression of one who is sure that the dog will move directly the bulb is pressed. Now if she had gone into business; had become a manufacturer of artificial silk or a magnate on the Stock Exchange; if she had left two or three hundred thousand pounds to Fernham, we could have been sitting at our ease to-night and the subject of our talk might have been archaeology, botany, anthropology, physics, the nature of the atom, mathematics, astronomy, relativity, geography. If only Mrs. Seton and her mother and her mother before her had learnt the great art of making money and had left their money, like their fathers and their grandfathers before them, to found fellowships and lectureships and prizes and scholarships appropriated to the use of their own sex, we might have dined very tolerably up here alone off a bird and a bottle of wine; we might have looked forward without undue confidence to a pleasant and honourable lifetime spent in the shelter of one of the liberally endowed professions. We might have been exploring or writing; mooning about the venerable places of the earth; sitting contemplative on the steps of the Parthenon, or going at ten to an office and coming home comfortably at half-past four to write a little poetry. Only, if Mrs. Seton and her like had gone into business at the age of fifteen, there would have been--that was the snag in the argument--no Mary. What, I asked, did Mary think of that? There between the curtains was the October night, calm and lovely, with a star or two caught in the yellowing trees. Was she ready to resign her share of it and her memories (for they had been a happy family, though a large one) of games and quarrels up in Scotland, which she is never tired of praising for the fineness of its air and the quality of its cakes, in order that Fernham might have been endowed with fifty thousand pounds or so by a stroke of the pen? For, to endow a college would necessitate the suppression of families altogether. Making a fortune and bearing thirteen children--no human being could stand it. Consider the facts, we said. First there are nine months before the baby is born. Then the baby is born. Then there are three or four months spent in feeding the baby. After the baby is fed there are certainly five years spent in playing with the baby. You cannot, it seems, let children run about the streets. People who have seen them running wild in Russia say that the sight is not a pleasant one. People say, too, that human nature takes its shape in the years between one and five. If Mrs. Seton, I said, had been making money, what sort of memories would you have had of games and quarrels? What would you have known of Scotland, and its fine air and cakes and all the rest of it? But it is useless to ask these questions, because you would never have come into existence at all. Moreover, it is equally useless to ask what might have happened if Mrs. Seton and her mother and her mother before her had amassed great wealth and laid it under the foundations of college and library, because, in the first place, to earn money was impossible for them, and in the second, had it been possible, the law denied them the right to possess what money they earned. It is only for the last forty-eight years that Mrs. Seton has had a penny of her own. For all the centuries before that it would have been her husband's property--a thought which, perhaps, may have had its share in keeping Mrs. Seton and her mothers off the Stock Exchange. Every penny I earn, they may have said, will be taken from me and disposed of according to my husband's wisdom--perhaps to found a scholarship or to endow a fellowship in Balliol or Kings, so that to earn money, even if I could earn money, is not a matter that interests me very greatly. I had better leave it to my husband.

一想到所有那些妇女年复一年地劳作,却发现要凑齐两千英镑都如此艰难,而她们竭尽全力也只能筹到三万英镑,我们不禁对我们性别那应受谴责的贫困爆发出轻蔑的嘲笑。我们的母亲们那时究竟在做些什么,竟没有留下财富给我们？往鼻子上扑粉吗？流连于商店橱窗前吗？在蒙特卡洛的阳光下招摇过市吗？壁炉架上有几张照片。玛丽的母亲--如果那是她的肖像--或许在闲暇时是个浪荡之人--她与一位教会牧师生养了十三个孩子--但若果真如此,她那欢愉放纵的生活,在她面容上留下的欢乐痕迹也委实太少了。她是个朴实的妇人；一位围着格子披肩的老太太,披肩用一枚大大的浮雕宝石胸针扣住；她坐在一把藤条椅中,逗引一只西班牙猎犬望向镜头,脸上带着一种既觉有趣又略显紧张的神情,确信那狗儿会在快门按下的瞬间立刻挪动身子。倘若她当时投身商界；成了人造丝制造商,或是证券交易所的大亨；倘若她留给弗恩汉姆二三十万英镑,我们今晚便能安逸闲坐于此,而我们的话题或许是考古学、植物学、人类学、物理学、原子本质、数学、天文学、相对论、地理学。只要塞顿夫人,以及她的母亲,还有她母亲的母亲,学会了赚钱这门伟大的艺术,并能像她们的父亲、祖父及其先辈那样,将她们的财富遗赠给大学,用以设立专供她们自身性别使用的研究员席位、讲师职位、奖金与奖学金,我们或许便能在此单独享用一只禽鸟与一瓶葡萄酒,度过一顿颇为惬意的晚餐；我们或许便能怀着恰如其分的信心,期待在一个资金充裕、受人尊敬的体面职业庇护下,度过愉快而荣耀的一生。我们或许正在勘探或写作；在地球上那些古老的地方悠然漫游；坐在帕特农神庙的台阶上沉思冥想；或是十点前往办公室,四点半舒适地返家,写点小诗。只是,倘若塞顿夫人及其同类在十五岁便踏入商界,那么--这正是论证中的症结所在--便不会有玛丽了。我问玛丽,她对此作何感想？窗帘之外是十月的夜色,宁谧而可爱,一两颗星辰点缀在渐渐转黄的树梢。她是否愿意放弃她在这夜色中的份额,放弃她对苏格兰--她总是不厌其烦地赞美那里空气的清冽与糕饼的美味--那些嬉戏与争吵的回忆--尽管是个大家庭,他们曾是个快乐的家庭--仅仅为了让弗恩汉姆能因某人一挥笔便获得五万英镑左右的捐赠？因为,要捐赠一所学院,势必需要全然压制家庭的繁衍。既要积攒财富,又要生养十三个孩子--凡人之躯无法承受。我们剖析事实:婴儿出生前有九个月。然后婴儿降生。接着要花费三四个月哺育婴儿。婴儿喂饱之后,肯定还需五年光阴陪伴婴儿玩耍。你似乎不能让孩童在街头乱跑。在俄国见过他们撒野的人说,那景象并不令人愉快。人们也说,人性是在一至五岁间塑造成型的。倘若塞顿夫人当时在赚钱谋利,我说,你又怎会有那些关于嬉戏与争吵的回忆？你又能如何知晓苏格兰,它清冽的空气、美味的糕饼以及其他一切？但追问这些毫无意义,因为你根本就不会降生。况且,同样无意义的是追问:倘若塞顿夫人、她的母亲以及她母亲的母亲积聚了巨额财富,并将其奠基于学院与图书馆的地基之下,又会发生什么；因为,首先,对她们而言赚钱本无可能；其次,即便可能,法律也剥夺了她们拥有自己所赚财富的权利。仅仅在过去的四十八年里,塞顿夫人才真正拥有属于自己的哪怕一便士。在那之前的所有世纪里,那都会是她丈夫的财产--这个念头,或许也是促使塞顿夫人及其母辈远离证券交易所的原因之一。她们或许会说:我赚的每一分钱,都会被取走,依照我丈夫的智慧来处置--或许用来在贝利奥尔学院或国王学院设立一项奖学金或资助一个研究员席位；因此,赚钱,即便我能赚钱,也并非一件令我十分感兴趣的事。我最好还是留给我的丈夫去做吧。

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reprehensible /ˌreprɪˈhensəbl/

adj. 应受谴责的➕

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Flaunting /ˈflɔːntɪŋ/

v. 炫耀,夸示➕

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wastrel /ˈweɪstrəl/

n. 挥霍者,败家子➕

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dissipated /ˈdɪsɪpeɪtɪd/

adj. 放荡的；消散的➕

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plaid /plæd/

n. 格子呢；格子图案➕

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cameo /ˈkæmiəʊ/

n. 多彩浮雕宝石；（名演员的）客串➕

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archaeology /ˌɑːkiˈɒlədʒi/

n. 考古学➕

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anthropology /ˌænθrəˈpɒlədʒi/

n. 人类学➕

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endowed /ɪnˈdaʊd/

v. 赋予；捐赠➕

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mooning /ˈmuːnɪŋ/

v. 闲逛；发呆➕

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snag /snæɡ/

n. 障碍,困难；钩丝➕

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amassed /əˈmæst/

v. 积聚,积累➕

🔊 At any rate, whether or not the blame rested on the old lady who was looking at the spaniel, there could be no doubt that for some reason or other our mothers had mismanaged their affairs very gravely. Not a penny could be spared for "amenities"; for partridges and wine, beadles and turf, books and cigars, libraries and leisure. To raise bare walls out of the bare earth was the utmost they could do.

无论如何,无论责任是否在那个注视着西班牙猎犬的老妇人身上,毋庸置疑的是,出于某种缘由,我们的母亲们严重地处置失当了。没有一分钱能节省下来用于“安逸舒适的享受”；用于山鹑与葡萄酒,司役与草坪,书籍与雪茄,图书馆与闲暇。她们所能做的极致,不过是在光秃的土地上竖起光秃的墙壁。

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spaniel /ˈspeɪnjəl/

n. 西班牙猎犬➕

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mismanaged /ˌmɪsˈmænɪdʒd/

v. 管理不善,处理不当➕

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gravely /ˈɡreɪvli/

adv. 严肃地,严重地➕

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beadles /ˈbiːdlz/

n. 教区执事,小吏（复数）➕

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utmost /ˈʌtməʊst/

adj. 极度的,最大的➕

🔊 So we talked standing at the window and looking, as so many thousands look every night, down on the domes and towers of the famous city beneath us. It was very beautiful, very mysterious in the autumn moonlight. The old stone looked very white and venerable. One thought of all the books that were assembled down there; of the pictures of old prelates and worthies hanging in the panelled rooms; of the painted windows that would be throwing strange globes and crescents on the pavement; of the tablets and memorials and inscriptions; of the fountains and the grass; of the quiet rooms looking across the quiet quadrangles. And (pardon me the thought) I thought, too, of the admirable smoke and drink and the deep arm-chairs and the pleasant carpets: of the urbanity, the geniality, the dignity which are the offspring of luxury and privacy and space. Certainly our mothers had not provided us with any thing comparable to all this--our mothers who found it difficult to scrape together thirty thousand pounds, our mothers who bore thirteen children to ministers of religion at St. Andrews.

于是我们站在窗边交谈,如同每夜成千上万的人所做的那样,俯瞰着我们下方这座名城那些圆顶与塔楼。它在秋月的清辉下显得如此美丽,如此神秘。古老的石料泛着洁白而尊贵的光泽。人们想到汇聚于其下的所有书籍；想到悬挂在镶板房间里的那些古老主教与贤达的画像；想到那些彩绘玻璃窗将在地板上投下奇异的光球与新月；想到那些碑铭、纪念碑与题刻；想到喷泉与草地；想到那些俯瞰着宁静方庭的宁静房间。并且--请原谅我作此想--我也想到了那令人赞叹的烟酒,深陷的扶手椅与舒适的地毯；想到了那种温文尔雅、亲切友善与庄重尊严,它们是奢华、私密与充裕空间的产物。的确,我们的母亲们未曾提供给我们任何堪与此相比拟的事物--我们的母亲们,她们发觉要凑足三万英镑都如此艰难；我们的母亲们,她们为圣安德鲁斯的宗教牧师生养了十三个孩子。

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domes /dəʊmz/

n. 穹顶,圆屋顶（复数）➕

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prelates /ˈprelət/

n. 高级教士（复数）➕

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worthies /ˈwɜːrðiz/

n. 要人,知名人士（复数）➕

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panelled /ˈpænld/

adj. 镶有木板的,装有嵌板的➕

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globes /ɡləʊbz/

n. 球体；地球仪（复数）➕

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crescents /ˈkresnts/

n. 新月形；新月形建筑（复数）➕

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tablets /ˈtæbləts/

n. 碑,牌匾；药片（复数）➕

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memorials /məˈmɔːriəlz/

n. 纪念碑,纪念馆（复数）➕

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inscriptions /ɪnˈskrɪpʃnz/

n. 铭文,碑文（复数）➕

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urbanity /ɜːrˈbænəti/

n. 文雅,彬彬有礼➕

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geniality /ˌdʒiːniˈæləti/

n. 亲切,友好➕

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dignity /ˈdɪɡnəti/

n. 尊严,高贵➕

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offspring /ˈɒfsprɪŋ/

n. 子女,后代；产物➕

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luxury /ˈlʌkʃəri/

n. 奢侈,奢华➕

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privacy /ˈprɪvəsi/

n. 隐私,清静➕

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comparable /ˈkɒmpərəbl/

adj. 可比较的,比得上的➕

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scrape /skreɪp/

v. 刮擦；积攒➕

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bore /bɔːr/

v. 生育（bear的过去式）➕

🔊 So I went back to my inn, and as I walked through the dark streets I pondered this and that, as one does at the end of the day's work. I pondered why it was that Mrs. Seton had no money to leave us; and what effect poverty has on the mind; and what effect wealth has on the mind; and I thought of the queer old gentlemen I had seen that morning with tufts of fur upon their shoulders; and I remembered how if one whistled one of them ran; and I thought of the organ booming in the chapel and of the shut doors of the library; and I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse perhaps to be locked in; and, thinking of the safety and prosperity of the one sex and of the poverty and insecurity of the other and of the effect of tradition and of the lack of tradition upon the mind of a writer, I thought at last that it was time to roll up the crumpled skin of the day, with its arguments and its impressions and its anger and its laughter, and cast it into the hedge. A thousand stars were flashing across the blue wastes of the sky. One seemed alone with an inscrutable society. All human beings were laid asleep--prone, horizontal, dumb. Nobody seemed stirring in the streets of Oxbridge. Even the door of the hotel sprang open at the touch of an invisible hand--not a boots was sitting up to light me to bed, it was so late.

于是我回到了下榻的旅店,当我穿过漆黑的街道,我思量着这个,思量着那个,正如人们在一天劳作将尽时常做的那样。我思量着为何塞顿夫人没有钱财遗赠给我们；思索着贫穷对心灵的影响；思索着财富对心灵的影响；我想起那天早晨见过的、肩饰毛皮绶边的那些古怪老先生们；我记得曾有人说,若吹响口哨,他们中的一位便会奔跑起来；我想起礼拜堂里管风琴的轰鸣与图书馆紧闭的门扉；我想起被拒之门外的滋味多么令人不快；我想起或许被禁锢于内更为糟糕；并且,想到一个性别的安稳与昌盛,以及另一个性别的贫穷与不安,想到传统以及传统的缺失对一位作家心灵的影响,我最终想到,是时候卷起这一日皱巴巴的皮囊了--连同它的争辩、印象、愤怒与笑声--将它抛入树篱之中了。上千颗星辰在蓝色无垠的天幕上闪烁。人仿佛独处于一个莫测的群体之中。所有生灵都已躺下安眠--俯卧着,横陈着,沉默着。牛剑的街道上似乎杳无人迹。连旅店的门也在无形之手的触碰下自行弹开--没有门童熬夜为我引路去卧房,时辰实在太晚了。

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organ /ˈɔːɡən/

n. 管风琴；器官➕

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booming /ˈbuːmɪŋ/

v. 发出低沉声响的➕

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chapel /ˈtʃæpl/

n. 小教堂➕

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prosperity /prɒˈsperəti/

n. 繁荣,兴旺➕

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insecurity /ˌɪnsɪˈkjʊərəti/

n. 不安全,不安全感➕

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crumpled /ˈkrʌmpld/

adj. 弄皱的,起皱的➕

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hedge /hedʒ/

n. 树篱➕

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wastes /weɪsts/

n. 荒地,荒野（复数）➕

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inscrutable /ɪnˈskruːtəbl/

adj. 高深莫测的,难以理解的➕

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prone /prəʊn/

adj. 俯卧的；易于...的➕

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horizontal /ˌhɒrɪˈzɒntl/

adj. 水平的,与地面平行的➕

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stirring /ˈstɜːrɪŋ/

v. 活动,微动➕

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Oxbridge /ˈɒksbrɪdʒ/

n. 牛津和剑桥的合称➕

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boots /buːts/

n. 旅馆擦鞋工➕

Chapter one (第一章)