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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，�