Remember my party, remember my party, said Peter Walsh as he stepped down the street, speaking to himself rhythmically, in time with the flow of the sound, the direct downright sound of Big Ben striking the half-hour. (The leaden circles dissolved in the air.) Oh these parties, he thought; Clarissa’s parties. Why does she give these parties, he thought. Not that he blamed her or this effigy of a man in a tail-coat with a carnation in his buttonhole coming towards him. Only one person in the world could be as he was, in love. And there he was, this fortunate man, himself, reflected in the plate-glass window of a motor-car manufacturer in Victoria Street. All India lay behind him; plains, mountains; epidemics of cholera; a district twice as big as Ireland; decisions he had come to alone — he, Peter Walsh; who was now really for the first time in his life, in love. Clarissa had grown hard, he thought; and a trifle sentimental into the bargain, he suspected, looking at the great motor-cars capable of doing — how many miles on how many gallons? For he had a turn for mechanics; had invented a plough in his district, had ordered wheel-barrows from England, but the coolies wouldn’t use them, all of which Clarissa knew nothing whatever about.
记得我的派对，记得我的派对，彼德·沃尔什说着走到了大街上，他那有节奏的自言自语与大本钟有力的半点报时声十分合拍（沉重的声浪一波波地消逝在空中）。哦，这些个派对，他兀自寻思，克拉丽莎的派对。她为什么要办这些派对，他想。他并不是要责备她，也不是要责备这个正迎面走来的，燕尾服的纽扣眼里插着一朵康乃馨的镜像。世界上只有一个人可能像他那样，沉浸在恋爱中。他就在这儿，这个幸运儿，就是他自己，这个反射在维多利亚大街汽车制造商的厚玻璃橱窗上的他的镜像。印度的一切都呈现在他身后：平原，山脉，霍乱的流行，面积是爱尔兰两倍的一个地区。他独自做出的那些决定——他，彼德·沃尔什，他现在真的是生命里头一遭，恋爱了。克拉丽莎的心变硬了，他想，而且还有点感情用事。他怀疑，看着那些了不起的万能汽车——用多少加仑汽油可以跑多少英里。他对机械还略知一二，在他生活的那个地区，他还发明过一种犁具，还从英国订购了一辆手推车，但那些苦力们不愿意用这些玩意，克拉丽莎对这些一无所知。
As a cloud crosses the sun, silence falls on London; and falls on the mind. Effort ceases. Time flaps on the mast. There we stop; there we stand. Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame. Where there is nothing, Peter Walsh said to himself; feeling hollowed out, utterly empty within. Clarissa refused me, he thought. He stood there thinking, Clarissa refused me.
一朵云遮住了太阳，寂静降临在伦敦，也降临在人们的心里。不要再努力。时光轻抚着桅杆。我们就停在那儿，我们就站在那儿。就这么僵直地站着，只有习惯的骨架支撑着我们的躯体。这里什么也没有，彼德·沃尔什自言自语道，感情已被掏空，我们都是不折不扣的空心人。克拉丽莎拒绝了我，他想。他站在那儿想着，克拉丽莎拒绝了我。
The way she said “Here is my Elizabeth!”– that annoyed him. Why not “Here’s Elizabeth” simply? It was insincere. And Elizabeth didn’t like it either. (Still the last tremors of the great booming voice shook the air round him; the half-hour; still early; only half-past eleven still.) For he understood young people; he liked them. There was always something cold in Clarissa, he thought. She had always, even as a girl, a sort of timidity, which in middle age becomes conventionality, and then it’s all up, it’s all up, he thought, looking rather drearily into the glassy depths, and wondering whether by calling at that hour he had annoyed her; overcome with shame suddenly at having been a fool; wept; been emotional; told her everything, as usual, as usual.
她说话的方式，“这是我的伊丽莎白！”——令他讨厌。为什么不简简单单地说“这是伊丽莎白”呢？这样说太虚伪了。而且，伊丽莎白也不喜欢她这么说（洪亮的钟声依然带着余音，回响在他的耳畔，半点钟，还早呢，刚刚十一点半）。因为他了解年轻人，他喜欢年轻人。克拉丽莎身上总有些冷冰冰的地方，他想。她总是这样，即使在少女时，也有些腼腆，人到中年后更是成为了一种习惯，随后一切都完了，一切都完了，他想，一边相当厌倦地注视着橱窗玻璃的深处，心想在那个时辰去拜会她是否惹她生气了。想到他刚才的行为像个傻瓜，他突然觉得羞愧难当：痛哭流涕，感情激动，把什么都告诉了她，就像过去一样，完全一样。
Ah, said St. Margaret’s, like a hostess who comes into her drawing- room on the very stroke of the hour and finds her guests there already. I am not late. No, it is precisely half-past eleven, she says. Yet, though she is perfectly right, her voice, being the voice of the hostess, is reluctant to inflict its individuality. Some grief for the past holds it back; some concern for the present. It is half-past eleven, she says, and the sound of St. Margaret’s glides into the recesses of the heart and buries itself in ring after ring of sound, like something alive which wants to confide itself, to disperse itself, to be, with a tremor of delight, at rest — like Clarissa herself, thought Peter Walsh, coming down the stairs on the stroke of the hour in white. It is Clarissa herself, he thought, with a deep emotion, and an extraordinarily clear, yet puzzling, recollection of her, as if this bell had come into the room years ago, where they sat at some moment of great intimacy, and had gone from one to the other and had left, like a bee with honey, laden with the moment. But what room? What moment? And why had he been so profoundly happy when the clock was striking? Then, as the sound of St. Margaret’s languished, he thought, She has been ill, and the sound expressed languor and suffering. It was her heart, he remembered; and the sudden loudness of the final stroke tolled for death that surprised in the midst of life, Clarissa falling where she stood, in her drawing-room. No! No! he cried. She is not dead! I am not old, he cried, and marched up Whitehall, as if there rolled down to him, vigorous, unending, his future.
啊，圣玛格利特教堂的钟声在感叹着，就像一个女主人在钟声响起的一刻走进了客厅，却发现她的客人们早已在那儿了。我没有迟到。不，现在是十一点半整，她说。然而，尽管她完全正确，她的声音，作为女主人一本正经的声音，却不愿彰显出她的个性。过去的一些伤痛使她隐藏起个性，还有对现时的一些顾虑。现在是十一点半，钟声在诉说着，圣玛格利特的钟声悄悄飘入心灵深处，掩埋在一圈又一圈的声波中，如一个有生命的存在，想要倾诉衷肠，想要排遣自我，想要在欢乐的战栗中获得安宁——就像克拉丽莎自己，彼德·沃尔什想。穿着一袭白衣，在钟声响起的那一刻走下了楼梯，这是克拉丽莎自己，他想，怀着深深的感情，异常清晰却又困惑不解地，想起了她，就像这钟声在多年前已经飘进了这个房间，他们曾坐在这里，享受着亲密无间的时刻，从此时到彼时，直至离别的一刻，如采蜜而归的蜂儿，满载着时时刻刻的记忆。可那是在哪个房间呢？在哪个时刻呢？钟声敲响时，他的内心又为何会感觉如此幸福呢？接着，圣玛格利特的钟声渐次零落，他想道，她一直病恹恹的，那钟声代表着虚弱与痛苦。她的心脏不好，他想起来。最后一记钟声猝然响起，如此嘹亮，仿佛是在风华正茂的生命中突然宣告了死神的降临，克拉丽莎在她站立之处倒下了，就在她的客厅里。不！不！他喊道。她没有死！我也不老，他喊着，大步走上了白厅街，仿佛他的未来在那儿召唤着他，如此强劲、永不停歇的未来。
He was not old, or set, or dried in the least. As for caring what they said of him — the Dalloways, the Whitbreads, and their set, he cared not a straw — not a straw (though it was true he would have, some time or other, to see whether Richard couldn’t help him to some job). Striding, staring, he glared at the statue of the Duke of Cambridge. He had been sent down from Oxford — true. He had been a Socialist, in some sense a failure — true. Still the future of civilisation lies, he thought, in the hands of young men like that; of young men such as he was, thirty years ago; with their love of abstract principles; getting books sent out to them all the way from London to a peak in the Himalayas; reading science; reading philosophy. The future lies in the hands of young men like that, he thought.
他一点也不老，也不固执，也不乏味。至于别人对他的闲言碎语——达洛维呀，惠特布莱德呀，以及他们那种人，他都不在乎——一点也不在乎（尽管有时候，他也确实不得不考虑一下，理查德是否能帮他找份工作）。他大步向前，放眼张望，瞪着坎布里奇公爵[28]的雕像。他曾被牛津开除——确实如此。他曾是个社会主义的信仰者，从某种意义上说是个失败者——确实如此。然而，他觉得，文明的未来就掌握在那样的年轻人手上，像三十年前他那样的年轻人。他们喜爱抽象的法则，他们要的书籍会从伦敦出发，长途跋涉送达至他们所在的喜马拉雅之巅，他们研究科学，研究哲学。未来掌握在那样的年轻人手上，他觉得。【注：[28]坎布里奇公爵：即英王乔治三世的儿子阿道弗斯·弗雷德里克（1774~1850）。】
A patter like the patter of leaves in a wood came from behind, and with it a rustling, regular thudding sound, which as it overtook him drummed his thoughts, strict in step, up Whitehall, without his doing. Boys in uniform, carrying guns, marched with their eyes ahead of them, marched, their arms stiff, and on their faces an expression like the letters of a legend written round the base of a statue praising duty, gratitude, fidelity, love of England.
背后传来一阵窸窣，如林中树叶的沙沙，伴随着一阵瑟瑟，一阵有规律的嘚嘚声赶上了他，如鼓点般打乱了他的思绪，使他不由自主地跟上那节奏，亦步亦趋地走上了白厅街。穿着制服的一队男孩，扛着枪，眼望前方，大步行进着，行进着。他们的手臂僵直，脸上的表情如刻在雕像底座上的铭文，歌颂着尽职、感恩、忠诚，和热爱英格兰的精神。
I can’t keep up with them, Peter Walsh thought, as they marched up Whitehall, and sure enough, on they marched, past him, past every one, in their steady way, as if one will worked legs and arms uniformly, and life, with its varieties, its irreticences, had been laid under a pavement of monuments and wreaths and drugged into a stiff yet staring corpse by discipline. One had to respect it; one might laugh; but one had to respect it, he thought. There they go, thought Peter Walsh, pausing at the edge of the pavement; and all the exalted statues, Nelson, Gordon, Havelock, the black, the spectacular images of great soldiers stood looking ahead of them, as if they too had made the same renunciation (Peter Walsh felt he too had made it, the great renunciation), trampled under the same temptations, and achieved at length a marble stare. But the stare Peter Walsh did not want for himself in the least; though he could respect it in others. He could respect it in boys. They don’t know the troubles of the flesh yet, he thought, as the marching boys disappeared in the direction of the Strand — all that I’ve been through, he thought, crossing the road, and standing under Gordon’s statue, Gordon whom as a boy he had worshipped; Gordon standing lonely with one leg raised and his arms crossed,– poor Gordon, he thought.
他们行进在白厅街上，彼德·沃尔什觉得自己跟不上他们了。确实如此，他们步伐坚定、不断向前，超过了他，超过了每个人，仿佛是同一个意志在指挥着他们的四肢统一行动。而生命，多彩的生命，喧嚣的生命，已被埋葬在由纪念碑和花圈构成的台阶之下，虽说纪律已经将它麻醉为一具僵尸，但它依旧在地底下瞪着双眼。人们必须尊重它，尽管你也许会嘲笑它，但你必须尊重它，他想。他们走过去了，彼德·沃尔什想着，在人行道边上停下了脚步。还有所有那些至高无上的雕像，纳尔逊[30]、戈登[31]、哈夫洛克[32]，这些伟大战士那壮观的黑色肖像矗立在他们的头上，就好像他们也曾做出了同样的自我牺牲（彼德·沃尔什觉得，他也曾做过伟大的自我牺牲），被同样的诱惑所蹂躏，终于练就出石像般的冷漠目光。可是，彼德·沃尔什自己一点也不想要这样的目光，尽管他尊重别人的这种目光。他尊重男孩们眼中的这种目光。他们还不了解尘世的烦恼，他想。孩子们继续向着滨河大道前进，渐渐消失在他的视线中——他们对我所经历过的一切一无所知，他想道，穿过街道，站在戈登的雕像下，他小时候非常崇拜戈登。戈登孤单地站在那里，抬着一条腿，交叉着双臂——可怜的戈登，他想。【注：[30]纳尔逊（1758~1805）：英国海军上将，曾屡次击败拿破仑的舰队。[31]戈登（1833~1885）：英国将军，曾为侵略中国的英军首领。[32]亨利·哈夫洛克（1795~1857）：英国爵士、将军。】
It is, thought Peter Walsh, beginning to keep step with them, a very fine training. But they did not look robust. They were weedy for the most part, boys of sixteen, who might, to-morrow, stand behind bowls of rice, cakes of soap on counters. Now they wore on them unmixed with sensual pleasure or daily preoccupations the solemnity of the wreath which they had fetched from Finsbury Pavement to the empty tomb. They had taken their vow. The traffic respected it; vans were stopped.
彼德·沃尔什觉得，同他们保持一致的步伐是一种极好的锻炼。可他们看上去并不强壮。他们大多骨瘦如柴，十五六岁的样子，也许等到将来，他们都会站在摆着一碗碗米饭、一块块肥皂的柜台后面。现在，他们的手中拿着从芬斯伯里[29]的大街上取来的花圈去往一座空坟，脸上的表情就和这花圈一般严肃，既没有感官享乐的愉悦，也没有日常琐事的烦恼。他们都已宣誓过。来往的车辆都在表示敬意，货车停下来为他们让路。【注：[29]芬斯伯里：伦敦的一个区名，在泰晤士河的南岸。】
He had escaped! was utterly free — as happens in the downfall of habit when the mind, like an unguarded flame, bows and bends and seems about to blow from its holding. I haven’t felt so young for years! thought Peter, escaping (only of course for an hour or so) from being precisely what he was, and feeling like a child who runs out of doors, and sees, as he runs, his old nurse waving at the wrong window. But she’s extraordinarily attractive, he thought, as, walking across Trafalgar Square in the direction of the Haymarket, came a young woman who, as she passed Gordon’s statue, seemed, Peter Walsh thought (susceptible as he was), to shed veil after veil, until she became the very woman he had always had in mind; young, but stately; merry, but discreet; black, but enchanting.
他逃脱了！彻底自由了——就像是挣脱了习惯的束缚，心灵如一束不羁的火焰，向四面八方尽情蔓延，眼看就要冲破牢笼而去。我已经多年没有感觉这么年轻了！彼德想，摆脱了过去的那个自我（当然，只有那么一个小时左右），感觉像个冲到了室外的小孩，一边跑一边看着，他那个老保姆弄错了方向，在另一边的窗口胡乱挥手呢。他穿过特拉法尔加广场朝干草市场方向走去，这时走过来一个年轻女子，她长得真是标致，他想。在她经过戈登雕像时，彼德·沃尔什觉得（他这人真是个多情种），她似乎褪下了层层面纱，终于成为了他心目中始终向往的那个女人：年轻，而又端庄；快乐，而又稳重；肤色黝黑，而又娇艳动人。
And just because nobody yet knew he was in London, except Clarissa, and the earth, after the voyage, still seemed an island to him, the strangeness of standing alone, alive, unknown, at half-past eleven in Trafalgar Square overcame him. What is it? Where am I? And why, after all, does one do it? he thought, the divorce seeming all moonshine. And down his mind went flat as a marsh, and three great emotions bowled over him; understanding; a vast philanthropy; and finally, as if the result of the others, an irrepressible, exquisite delight; as if inside his brain by another hand strings were pulled, shutters moved, and he, having nothing to do with it, yet stood at the opening of endless avenues, down which if he chose he might wander. He had not felt so young for years.
正因为还没人知道他已经到了伦敦，除了克拉丽莎，再加上经过海上旅行之后，陆地在他看来仍然像是一座岛屿，他独自一人，在十一点半的时候站在特拉法尔加广场[33]上，精力充沛而又默默无闻，一种全然的陌生感浮上了他的心头。这是怎么回事？我在哪儿？究竟为了什么，人们要做那件事呢？他想到，离婚就如月光般虚无。他的心情顿时低落得如一片沼泽，有三股强烈的情绪同时将他击倒：领悟，大慈大悲，最后，是一种无法抑制的、极致的快感，如另两种情绪的衍生物。就好像他人之手在他的脑子里拉动了一根绳索，移开了百叶窗，而他虽与这些全然无关，却依旧站在那无尽的大道的入口，只要他愿意，他也可以前去漫游一番。他已有多年没有感觉这么年轻过了。【注：[33]特拉法尔加广场：伦敦市中心著名的广场，其名字是为了纪念纳尔逊将军在特拉法尔加海战中击败了拿破仑舰队。】
But she’s not married; she’s young; quite young, thought Peter, the red carnation he had seen her wear as she came across Trafalgar Square burning again in his eyes and making her lips red. But she waited at the kerbstone. There was a dignity about her. She was not worldly, like Clarissa; not rich, like Clarissa. Was she, he wondered as she moved, respectable? Witty, with a lizard’s flickering tongue, he thought (for one must invent, must allow oneself a little diversion), a cool waiting wit, a darting wit; not noisy.
但她还是个未婚女子，她还年轻，很年轻，彼德想。在她穿过特拉法尔加广场时，他看见她戴着的那朵红色康乃馨，此时又再次在他眼中燃烧起来，使她的嘴唇显得格外红润。但她等在街边。她身上有种尊严感。她不像克拉丽莎那般世故，也不像克拉丽莎那般富有。她继续走着，他思忖着，她是否是个体面女子呢？聪慧，生着一片蜥蜴般挥洒自如的舌头，他想着（因为人们总要幻想，总要给自己找一点小小的乐趣），她有一种冷静的、潜藏的智慧，一种反应敏捷的智慧，而不是夸夸其谈的智慧。
Straightening himself and stealthily fingering his pocket-knife he started after her to follow this woman, this excitement, which seemed even with its back turned to shed on him a light which connected them, which singled him out, as if the random uproar of the traffic had whispered through hollowed hands his name, not Peter, but his private name which he called himself in his own thoughts. “You,” she said, only “you,” saying it with her white gloves and her shoulders. Then the thin long cloak which the wind stirred as she walked past Dent’s shop in Cockspur Street blew out with an enveloping kindness, a mournful tenderness, as of arms that would open and take the tired —
他挺直身子，偷偷地摸了摸他那把折刀，开始尾随着这个女人，多么刺激，似乎就连她的背影也在向他发光，这份光明将他俩联系在一起，这份光明只为他而来，就好像车流的杂乱喧嚣通过一双空空如也的手，在轻轻地呼唤着他的名字，不是叫他彼德，而是他在私底下为自己取的小名。“你”，她说，戴着白手套，抖了抖肩，只说了一个“你”字。接着，在她走过考克斯珀街上的登特商店时，清风拂动起她那件薄薄的长披风，焕发出一种包容众生的仁慈，一腔幽怨的柔情，仿佛一双即将张开的臂膀，要去拥抱疲惫的人们…
But other people got between them in the street, obstructing him, blotting her out. He pursued; she changed. There was colour in her cheeks; mockery in her eyes; he was an adventurer, reckless, he thought, swift, daring, indeed (landed as he was last night from India) a romantic buccaneer, careless of all these damned proprieties, yellow dressing-gowns, pipes, fishing-rods, in the shop windows; and respectability and evening parties and spruce old men wearing white slips beneath their waistcoats. He was a buccaneer. On and on she went, across Piccadilly, and up Regent Street, ahead of him, her cloak, her gloves, her shoulders combining with the fringes and the laces and the feather boas in the windows to make the spirit of finery and whimsy which dwindled out of the shops on to the pavement, as the light of a lamp goes wavering at night over hedges in the darkness.
但是，街上的行人隔在了他们中间，挡住了他，也遮住了她。他紧追上去，她的表情变了。她的脸颊上泛着红晕，眼睛里闪烁着嘲弄。他成了个冒险的登徒子，他想道，一个脾性鲁莽、身手敏捷、胆大妄为的家伙，简直可说是个浪漫的海盗（他昨晚刚从印度回来嘛），他才不管什么该死的繁文缛节，还有那商店橱窗里的黄色晨衣、烟斗、钓鱼竿之类，还有什么绅士风度啦、晚宴啦，还有那些在背心下面穿着白色紧身裤的干净老头。他是个海盗。她继续往前走，穿过皮卡迪里，走上了摄政街，依旧走在他前面，她的披风、手套和肩膀与橱窗里的流苏、花边和羽毛围巾相映成趣，构成了一道华丽而奇幻的风景，它从商店里飘落到外面的街道上，渐次褪色，犹如向晚时分在黑暗的树篱上摇曳着的灯火。
She moved; she crossed; he followed her. To embarrass her was the last thing he wished. Still if she stopped he would say “Come and have an ice,” he would say, and she would answer, perfectly simply, “Oh yes.”
她继续走着，穿过了大街，他尾随着她。他丝毫也不想引起她的窘迫。然而，如果她停下来，他就会说，“来吃客冰淇淋吧。”而她也会简单明了地答复他，“好的呀。”
Laughing and delightful, she had crossed Oxford Street and Great Portland Street and turned down one of the little streets, and now, and now, the great moment was approaching, for now she slackened, opened her bag, and with one look in his direction, but not at him, one look that bade farewell, summed up the whole situation and dismissed it triumphantly, for ever, had fitted her key, opened the door, and gone! Clarissa’s voice saying, Remember my party, Remember my party, sang in his ears. The house was one of those flat red houses with hanging flower-baskets of vague impropriety. It was over.
她开心地笑着，穿过了牛津街和大波特兰街，拐进了一条小巷，就在此时，就在此刻，伟大的时刻降临了！她放慢了脚步，打开包，朝他的方向看了一眼，但没有正眼瞧他，这是一个告别的眼神，它总结了整个形势，随后又得意洋洋地将其丢弃，永远丢弃。她把钥匙插入锁眼，打开了门，就此消失了！克拉丽莎的声音响起来：记得我的派对，记得我的派对。这句话鸣响在他的耳畔。眼前的这幢房子是那种庸俗的红房子，花篮垂挂在窗外，隐隐地透露出一股淫邪之气。他的浪漫之旅就此结束。
Well, I’ve had my fun; I’ve had it, he thought, looking up at the swinging baskets of pale geraniums. And it was smashed to atoms — his fun, for it was half made up, as he knew very well; invented, this escapade with the girl; made up, as one makes up the better part of life, he thought — making oneself up; making her up; creating an exquisite amusement, and something more. But odd it was, and quite true; all this one could never share — it smashed to atoms.
好吧，我已经得到了乐趣，我得到过了，他想，一边抬头望着白天竺葵的花篮在风中摇摆。它被彻底粉碎了——他的乐趣，因为那多半是编造出来的，他自己也很清楚的。它是幻想，与那姑娘的这场邂逅；是编造，就像人们喜欢把生活编造得更美好，他想——给自己编造出一份浪漫，编造出一个美人，编造出一份精美的乐趣，诸如此类。可它也很怪异，而且相当真实。人们从来也无法把它拿出来与人分享——因为它被彻底粉碎了。
It was a splendid morning too. Like the pulse of a perfect heart, life struck straight through the streets. There was no fumbling — no hesitation. Sweeping and swerving, accurately, punctually, noiselessly, there, precisely at the right instant, the motor-car stopped at the door. The girl, silk-stockinged, feathered, evanescent, but not to him particularly attractive (for he had had his fling), alighted. Admirable butlers, tawny chow dogs, halls laid in black and white lozenges with white blinds blowing, Peter saw through the opened door and approved of. A splendid achievement in its own way, after all, London; the season; civilisation. Coming as he did from a respectable Anglo-Indian family which for at least three generations had administered the affairs of a continent (it’s strange, he thought, what a sentiment I have about that, disliking India, and empire, and army as he did), there were moments when civilisation, even of this sort, seemed dear to him as a personal possession; moments of pride in England; in butlers; chow dogs; girls in their security. Ridiculous enough, still there it is, he thought. And the doctors and men of business and capable women all going about their business, punctual, alert, robust, seemed to him wholly admirable, good fellows, to whom one would entrust one’s life, companions in the art of living, who would see one through. What with one thing and another, the show was really very tolerable; and he would sit down in the shade and smoke.
这也是个美好的早晨。如遒劲有力的心跳，大街上涌动着欣欣向荣的生命力。不要再摸索了，不要再犹豫了。就在那一刻，就在那儿，一辆汽车呼啸而来，猛然拐弯，准确地、准时地、悄悄地，停在了一个门口。一个姑娘，穿着长筒丝袜，戴着羽饰，娉娉婷婷地，但对他也没什么特别的魅力（因为他已有过自己的艳遇），走下车来。可敬的管家，中国种的小黄狗，铺着菱形的黑白地砖，飘动着白色百叶的大厅，彼德透过打开的房门看见了这一切，他对此十分赞许。毕竟，伦敦以它独特的方式取得了辉煌的成绩：社交季节，城市文明。他出生于一个可敬的驻印度的英国家庭，他家至少有三代曾管理过那片大陆的事务（多奇怪呀，他想，我竟会有那样的感情，尽管我如此讨厌印度，讨厌帝国，也讨厌军队）。有时候哪怕是这样的一种文明，也会像他的私人物品一般令他觉得亲切，为英国感到骄傲，为管家，为小黄狗，为安全有保障的姑娘。真够荒谬的，但确实是事实，他想。所有的医生们、生意人们、女强人们都在忙着自己的事情，他们遵守时间，小心谨慎，精力充沛，他觉得他们都值得钦佩，都是些好人，你可以把自己的生命托付给他们，他们可以成为和你探讨生活艺术的良师益友，可以和你风雨同舟。这里那里的场景，真的令人非常满意。现在，他要在树荫下坐下来，抽支香烟。
He turned; went up the street, thinking to find somewhere to sit, till it was time for Lincoln’s Inn — for Messrs. Hooper and Grateley. Where should he go? No matter. Up the street, then, towards Regent’s Park. His boots on the pavement struck out “no matter”; for it was early, still very early.
他转身，走上大街，想要找个地方坐一坐，直到该去林肯律师协会——胡珀和格雷特利律师事务所——的时候。他该去哪里呢？无所谓。那么，就走上街去，就朝摄政公园走吧。他的皮靴在地面上橐橐地敲击出“无所谓”三个字，因为时辰还早，还早得很哩。
Yes, he remembered Regent’s Park; the long straight walk; the little house where one bought air-balls to the left; an absurd statue with an inscription somewhere or other. He looked for an empty seat. He did not want to be bothered (feeling a little drowsy as he did) by people asking him the time. An elderly grey nurse, with a baby asleep in its perambulator — that was the best he could do for himself; sit down at the far end of the seat by that nurse.
是的，他还记得摄政公园：那条笔直的、悠长的人行道，人们在那里买气球的位于左侧的小房子，在某个地方还有座刻着铭文的傻乎乎的雕塑。他在寻找一张空凳子。他不愿意有人上前来问他时间（他感觉有点昏昏欲睡），来打搅他。一位白发苍苍的老保姆，带着个睡在童车里的小宝宝——那是他能找到的最佳位子了，他在老保姆坐着的那张长椅的另一头坐下来。
There was Regent’s Park. Yes. As a child he had walked in Regent’s Park — odd, he thought, how the thought of childhood keeps coming back to me — the result of seeing Clarissa, perhaps; for women live much more in the past than we do, he thought. They attach themselves to places; and their fathers — a woman’s always proud of her father. Bourton was a nice place, a very nice place, but I could never get on with the old man, he thought. There was quite a scene one night — an argument about something or other, what, he could not remember. Politics presumably.
这儿是摄政公园。不错，他小时候在摄政公园里散过步——多奇怪，他想，童年的情景总会回到我的脑海里——也许是因为见到了克拉丽莎的缘故，因为女人比男人更容易沉湎于过去，他寻思。她们喜欢把自己和地点联系在一起，还有她们的父亲——女人总是为自己的父亲骄傲。伯尔顿是个好地方，一个非常好的地方，但我永远也无法和她的老头子搞好关系，他想。有天晚上我和克拉丽莎吵得简直不可开交——为了什么事吵了起来，到底为了啥，他记不起来了。想必是关于政治吧。
She’s a queer-looking girl, he thought, suddenly remembering Elizabeth as she came into the room and stood by her mother. Grown big; quite grown-up, not exactly pretty; handsome rather; and she can’t be more than eighteen. Probably she doesn’t get on with Clarissa. “There’s my Elizabeth”– that sort of thing — why not “Here’s Elizabeth” simply?– trying to make out, like most mothers, that things are what they’re not. She trusts to her charm too much, he thought. She overdoes it.
她是个长相古怪的姑娘，他想，他突然想起伊丽莎白走进房间站在她母亲旁边的那一幕。她个子高大，几乎已是个成熟女人了，不能算严格意义上的美女，但也相当漂亮了，她肯定还未满十八岁。她或许和克拉丽莎处不好。“这是我的伊丽莎白”——那种说法——为什么不简单地说“这是伊丽莎白”呢？——是为了向人家证明，她们母女关系没什么不好，就像大多数母亲的做法一样。克拉丽莎过分相信自己的魅力了，他想，她太自负了。
The rich benignant cigar smoke eddied coolly down his throat; he puffed it out again in rings which breasted the air bravely for a moment; blue, circular — I shall try and get a word alone with Elizabeth to-night, he thought — then began to wobble into hour- glass shapes and taper away; odd shapes they take, he thought. Suddenly he closed his eyes, raised his hand with an effort, and threw away the heavy end of his cigar. A great brush swept smooth across his mind, sweeping across it moving branches, children’s voices, the shuffle of feet, and people passing, and humming traffic, rising and falling traffic. Down, down he sank into the plumes and feathers of sleep, sank, and was muffled over.
味道醇厚的雪茄烟被他舒舒服服地吸进了喉咙，然后又一圈圈地吐出来，刹那间放肆地迎着空气而上，蓝色的，圆形的——我要试一下，今晚要单独和伊丽莎白谈一谈，彼德心里盘算着——然后摇晃着变成为沙漏形，渐渐消失。它们的形状多奇怪呀，他想。他突然闭上眼睛，奋力举起手来，把粗壮的雪茄烟蒂扔掉了。一把大刷子柔和地拂过他的大脑，将摇曳的树枝、孩子的声音、沉重的脚步、过往的路人、辚辚的车流声，将所有的一切统统扫入他的脑海。他不断下沉、下沉，沉入了羽毛般柔软的梦乡中，沉入了酣甜之乡。
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