mrsdalloway达洛维夫人

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.达洛维夫人说她要亲自去买些花。

For Lucy had her work cut out for her. The doors would be taken off their hinges; umpelmayer's men were coming. And then, thought Clarissa Dalloway, what a morning —fresh as if issued to children on a beach.因为露西已有一份合适的工作要做。

要把门从铰链上卸下来；昂伯尔梅尔公司的人就要到了。

然后，克拉丽莎·达洛维思忖，多惬意的早晨啊——空气清新得仿佛是特意送给海滩上的孩子们似的。

What a lark! What a plunge! For so it had always seemed to her, when, with a little squeak of the hinges, which she could hear now, she had burst open the French windows and plunged at Bourton into the open air. How fresh, how calm, stiller than this of course, the air was in the early morning; like the flap of a wave; the kiss of a wave; chill and sharp and yet (for a girl of eighteen as she then was) solemn, feeling as she did, standing there at the open window, that something awful was about to happen; looking at the flowers, at the trees with the smoke winding off them and the rooks rising,falling; standing and looking until Peter Walsh said, "Musing among the vegetables"—was that it—"I prefer men to cauliflowers"—was that it He must have said it at breakfast one morning when she had gone out on to the terrace—Peter Walsh. He would be back from India one of these days, June or July, she forgot which, for his letters were awfully dull; it was his sayings one remembered; his eyes, his pocket-knife, his smile, his grumpiness and, when millions of things had utterly vanished—how strange it was!—a few sayings like this about cabbages.多么动听的百灵！多么迅疾的举动！对她来说过去似乎总是这样，随着合叶轻微的吱吱声，这声音她现在也能听到，她会突然打开落地窗，扎到伯顿的户外。

那里清晨的空气多清新、多宁静，自然比眼前的更静谧，宛如浪涛拍打，又像浪花亲吻，冰冷刺骨却又（对当时她这样芳龄十八的姑娘来说）显得肃穆，那时她对着敞开的窗伫立着，预感到某种可怕的事即将发生。

她赏着花，凝视着雾霭缭绕的树丛和飞起飞落的白嘴鸭，这样站着凝视着直到听见彼得·沃尔什说：“在蔬菜中冥想吗”——说了那样的话吗“我喜欢人胜过花椰菜”——说了那样的话吗他——彼得·沃尔什一定在一天早晨吃早餐时说了那样的话，那时她已走到外面的阳台了。

近日他会从印度归来，是六月还是七月，她忘了，因为他写的信异常乏味。

他的话她倒记得。

他的双眼、他的折叠刀、他的微笑、他的暴躁，千百万件往事都已如烟消散——真怪！几句如此有关卷心菜的话却浮现出来。

She stiffened a little on the kerb, waiting for Durtnall's van to pass. A charming woman, Scrope Purvis thought her (knowing her as one does know people who live next door to one in Westminster); a touch of the bird about her, of the jay, blue-green,light, vivacious, though she was over fifty, and grown very white since her illness. There she perched, never seeing him, waiting to cross, very upright.她站在马路边上的一个大石头旁，稍微挺了挺身子，等达特奈尔公司的运货车开过。

真是个迷人的女人，斯克罗普·珀维斯这样认为（他熟悉她就如你了解住在威斯敏斯特区隔壁的人那样）。

她有一点鸟的特性，犹如松鸦，青绿、轻快、活泼，尽管她已五十有余，并且患病以来愈显苍白。

她倚在马路边上，压根儿没看到他，直立着身子，等着过街。

For having lived in Westminster—how many years now over twenty,—one feels even in the midst of the traffic, or waking at night, Clarissa was positive, a particular hush, or solemnity; an indescribable pause; a suspense (but that might be her heart, affected, they said, by influenza) before Big Ben strikes. There! Out it boomed. First a warning, musical; then the hour, irrevocable. The leaden circles dissolved in the air. Such fools we are, she thought, crossing Victoria Street. For Heaven only knows why one loves it so, how one sees it so,making it up, building it round one, tumbling it, creating it every moment afresh; but the veriest frumps, the most dejected of miseries sitting on doorsteps (drink their downfall) do the same; can't be dealt with, she felt positive, by Acts of Parliament for that very reason: they love life. In people's eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.在威斯敏斯特区住了——到如今多少年有二十几年吧——克拉丽莎可以肯定，即使置身于川流不息的大街，亦或夜晚梦醒，你都会觉察出一种特有的静谧，或是肃穆；一种难以名状的停滞；大本钟敲响之前的心神不宁（不过他们说，那或许是由于她的心脏受了流感的影响）。

听啊！钟声隆隆地响起来了。

开始是预报，悦耳动听；接着是报时，精确无误。

如铅般沉重的音波在空气中渐渐消逝。

她一边穿过维多利亚大街，一边思忖，我们真是大笨蛋。

因为只有天晓得为何人如此热爱生活，怎样看待生活，为之精心构思，围绕自己来构建生活，又将其推翻，每时每刻都在刷新重建；但是即便衣着过时之极的老顽固，坐在门阶上异常懊丧苦恼之辈（酗酒致使他们潦倒）也这般看待生活；她毫不怀疑，正是由于那个原因，即使是议会法案也无可奈何：人们就是热爱生活。

在人们眼里，在轻盈的、沉重的、艰难的步履中，在吼叫和喧嚣里，在四轮马车、汽车、公共汽车、有蓬货车、胸前身后都挂有广告牌的脚步沉重、摇摇摆摆的广告员中，铜管乐队，手摇风琴，在庆功的欢呼声和铃儿的叮当声以及头顶上空飞机奇怪的高歌声中，有她热爱的事物。

生活、伦敦、这六月的时刻。

For it was the middle of June. The War was over, except for some one like Mrs. Foxcroft at the Embassy last night eating her heart out because that nice boy was killed and now the old Manor House must go to a cousin; or Lady Bexborough who opened a bazaar,they said, with the telegram in her hand, John, her favourite, killed; but it was over; thank Heaven—over. It was June. The King and Queen were at the Palace. And everywhere, though it was still so early, there was a beating, a stirring of galloping ponies, tapping of cricket bats; Lords, Ascot, Ranelagh and all the rest of it; wrapped in the soft mesh of the grey-blue morning air, which, as the day wore on, would unwind them, and set down on their lawns and pitches the bouncing ponies, whose forefeet just struck the ground and up they sprung, the whirling young men,and laughing girls in their transparent muslins who, even now, after dancing all night, were taking their absurd woolly dogs for a run; and even now, at this hour, discreet old dowagers were shooting out in their motor cars on errands of mystery;and the shopkeepers were fidgeting in their windows with their paste and diamonds, their lovely old sea-green brooches in eighteenth-century settings to tempt Americans (but one must economise, not buy things rashly for Elizabeth),and she, too, loving it as she did with an absurd and faithful passion, being part of it, since her people were courtiers once in the time of the Georges, she, too, was going that very night to kindle and illuminate; to give her party. But how strange, on entering the Park, the silence; the mist;the hum; the slow-swimming happy ducks; the pouched birds waddling; and who should be coming along with his back against the Government buildings, most appropriately, carrying a despatch box stamped with the Royal Arms, who but Hugh Whitbread; her old friend Hugh—the admirable Hugh!因为时值六月中旬。