7. 邱园记事【Kew Gardens】

　小说T-xt天堂　 　

卵形的花坛里栽得有百来枝花梗，从半中腰起就满枝都是团团的绿叶，有心形的也有舌状的；梢头冒出一簇簇花瓣，红的蓝的黄的都有，花瓣上还有一颗颗斑点，五颜六色，显眼极了。不管是红的、蓝的、还是黄的，那影影绰绰的底盘儿里总还伸起一根挺直的花柱，粗头细身，上面乱沾着一层金粉。花瓣张得很开，所以夏日的和风吹来也能微微掀动；花瓣一动，那红的、蓝的、黄的光彩便交叉四射，底下褐色的泥土每一寸都会沾上一个水汪汪的杂色的斑点。亮光或是落在光溜溜灰白色的鹅卵石顶上，或是落在蜗牛壳棕色的螺旋纹上，要不就照上一滴雨点，点化出一道道稀薄的水墙，红的，蓝的，黄的，色彩之浓，真叫人担心会浓得迸裂，炸为乌有。然而并没有迸裂，转眼亮光一过，雨点便又恢复了银灰色的原样。亮光移到了一张叶片上，照出了叶子表皮底下枝枝杈杈的叶脉。亮光又继续前移，射到了那天棚般密密层层的心形叶和舌状叶下，在那一大片憧憧绿影里放出了光明。这时高处的风吹得略微强了些，于是彩色的亮光便转而反射到顶上辽阔的空间里，映入了在这七月天来游邱园的男男女女的眼帘。

花坛旁三三两两的掠过了这些男男女女的身影，他们走路的样子都不拘常格，随便得出奇，看来跟草坪上那些迂回穿飞、逐坛周游的蓝白蝴蝶倒不无相似之处。来了一个男的，走在女的前面，相隔半英尺光景，男的是随意漫步，女的就比较专心，只是还常常回过头去，留心别让孩子们落下太远。那男的是故意要这样走在女的前面，不过要说有什么心眼儿恐怕倒也未必，他无非是想一路走一路想想自己的心思罢了。

“十五年前我跟莉莉一块儿上这儿来过，”他心想。“我们坐在那边的一个小湖畔，那天天也真热，我向她求婚，求了整整一个下午。当时还有只蜻蜓老是绕着我们飞个没完。这蜻蜓的模样我至今还记得清清楚楚，我还记得她的鞋头上有个方方的银扣。我嘴里在说话，眼睛可看得见她的鞋子，只要看见她的鞋子不耐烦地一动，我连头也不用抬一下，就知道她要说的是什么了。她的全副心思似乎都集中在那鞋上。我呢，我却把我的爱情、我的心愿，都寄托在那蜻蜓的身上。我不知怎么忽然心血来潮，认定那蜻蜓要是停下来，停在那边的叶子上，停在那大红花旁的阔叶上，那她马上就会答应我的婚事。可是蜻蜓却转了一圈又一圈，哪儿也不肯停下——不停下对，不停下好，要不今天我也不会同爱理诺带着孩子在这儿散步了。我说，爱理诺，你想不想过去的事？”

“你问这个干什么，赛蒙？”

“因为我就是在想过去的事。我在想莉莉，当初跟我吹了的那个对象。……咦，你怎么不说话呀？我想起过去的事，你不高兴了吗？”

“我干吗要不高兴呢，赛蒙？有多少先人长眠在这园子的大树底下，到了这儿能不想起过去吗？长眠在大树底下的那些先人，那些不昧的亡灵，他们不就代表着我们的过去？我们的过去不就只留下了这么一点陈迹？……我们的幸福不就受他们所赐？我们今天的现实不就由他们而来？”

“可我，想起的就是鞋头上一个方方的银扣和一只蜻蜓……”

“我想起的可是轻轻的一吻。二十年前，六个小姑娘在那边的一个小湖畔，坐在画架前画睡莲，那是我生平第一次看到开红花的睡莲。突然，我脖颈儿上着了轻轻的一吻。我的手就此抖了一个下午，连画都不能画了。我取出表来，看着时间，我限定自己只准对这个吻回味五分钟——这个吻太宝贵了。吻我的是一位鼻子上长着个疣子的鬓发半白的老太太，我这辈子就是打这开始才真正懂得了吻的。快来呀，卡洛琳，快来呀，休伯特。”

于是他们四个人并排走过了花坛，不一会儿在大树间就只留下了四个小小的身影，阳光和树阴在他们背上拂动，投下了摇曳不定的大块斑驳的碎影。

卵形的花坛里，那红的、蓝的、黄的光彩刚才在蜗牛壳上停留了有两三分钟光景，这会儿蜗牛似乎在壳里微微一动，然后就费劲地在松松碎碎的泥巴上爬了起来，一路过处，松土纷纷翻起，成片倒下。这蜗牛似乎心目中自有个明确的去处，在这一点上可就跟前面一只瘦腰细腿、怪模怪样的青虫不一样了，那青虫高高的抬起了腿，起初打算从蜗牛面前横穿而过，但是转而又抖动着触须犹豫了一会，像是考虑了一下，临了还是迈着原先那样快速而古怪的步子，回头向相反的方向而去。褐色的峭壁下临沟壑，沟内有一湖湖深深的绿水，扁扁的树木犹如利剑，从根到梢一起摆动，灰白色的浑圆大石当道而立，还有那薄薄脆脆的一片片，又大又皱，拦在地里——这蜗牛要去自己的目的地，一路上就有这么许多障碍横在一枝枝花梗之间。蜗牛来到了一张圆顶篷帐般的枯叶跟前，还没有来得及决定是绕道而过还是往前直闯，花坛跟前早已又是影晃动，有人来了。

这一回来的两个都是男的。那年轻的一个，一副表情平静得似乎有点不大正常。同行的另一位说话时，他就抬起眼来，直勾勾地一个劲儿盯着前方，同行的那位话一说完，他就又眼望着地下，有时过了好大半晌才开口，有时则干脆来个不吭声。另一位年岁大些，走起路来高一脚低一脚的，摇晃得厉害，那朝前一甩手、猛地一抬头的模样，很像一匹性子急躁的拉车大马，在宅门前等得不耐烦了，不过对他来说，他这种动作却并没有什么用心，也没有什么含意。他的话说得简直没有个停，对方不答腔，他可以自得其乐地笑笑，又接着说了起来，仿佛这一笑就表示对方已经回了话似的。他是在谈论灵魂——死者的灵魂。据他说，那些死者的灵魂一直在冥冥之中向他诉说他们在天国的经历，千奇百怪的事儿，什么都有。

“天国，古人认为就是色萨利，威廉。如今战争一起，灵物就常在那里的山间徘徊出没，所过之处声震如雷。”他说到这里停了一下，像是听着，然后微微一笑，猛然把头一仰，又接着说：

“只要一个小电池，另外还要一段胶布包扎电线，以免走电……叫漏电？还是走电？……不管它，这些细节就不用说了，反正人家也听不懂，说了也没用……总之，把这个小机关就装在床头，看哪儿方便就搁在哪儿，比方说，可以搁在一只干净的红木小几上。哪个女人死了丈夫，只要叫工匠把这一切都按照我的指示装配齐全，然后虔心静听，约好的暗号一发出，亡灵马上就可以召来。那可只有女人才行?选死了丈夫的女人?选还没有除下孝服的女人?选……”

刚说到这儿，他似乎就在远处看到了一个女人的衣服，在阴影里看来隐隐像是紫黑色的。他马上摘下帽子，一手按在心口，口中念念有词，做出种种痴痴狂狂的手势，急匆匆向她走去。可是威廉一把抓住了他的袖子，为了把老头儿的注意力吸引过来，又举起手杖在一朵花上点了点。老头儿一时似乎有些惶惑，他对着那朵花瞅了一阵，凑过耳朵去听，好像听到花儿里有个声音在说话，就搭上了腔。于是他就大谈其乌拉圭的森林，说是在几百年前他曾经同欧洲最美丽的一位小姐一起到那里去过。只听他嘟嘟囔囔的，说起乌拉圭的森林里满地都是热带野花的蜡一般的花瓣，还说起夜莺啦，海滩啦，美人鱼啦，海里淹死的女人啦。他一边说着，一边就不由自主地被威廉推着往前走，威廉脸上那种冷漠自若的表情也慢慢地变得愈来愈严峻了。

接踵而来的是两个上了点年纪的妇女，因为跟老头儿相距颇近，所以见了老头儿的举动，未免有点摸不着头脑。这两个女人都属于下层中产阶级，一个体形奇肥，十分笨重，另一个两颊红润，手脚还相当麻利。她们那种身份地位的人往往都有这么个特点，就是看见有人——特别是有钱人——举动古怪，可能脑子不大正常，那她们的劲头马上就上来了。可惜这一回离老头儿终究还不够近，没法肯定这人到底只是行径怪僻呢，还是当真发了疯。她们对着老头儿的背影默默端详了好一会儿，偷偷交换了一个古怪的眼色，然后又兴致勃勃地继续谈了起来，那杂拌儿似的对话也实在难懂：

“奈尔，伯特，罗特，萨斯，菲尔，爸爸，他说，我说，她说，我说，我说……”

“我的伯特，妹妹，比尔，爷爷，那老头子，白糖，白糖，面粉，鲑鱼，蔬菜，白糖，白糖，白糖。”

就在这一大篇话像雨点般打来的同时，那个胖大女人见到了这些花朵冷淡而坚定地笔直挺立在泥地里，便带着好奇的神情盯着看了起来。那模样儿就像一个人从沉睡中醒来，看到黄铜烛台的反光有些异样，便把眼睛闭了闭再睁开，看到的还是黄铜烛台，这才完全醒了过来，于是就聚精会神地盯着烛台看。所以那大个子女人干脆就对着卵形花坛站住不动了，她本来还装模作样像在听对方说话，现在索性连点样子都不装了。她由着对方的话像雨点般的向她打来，她只管站在那里，轻轻款款地时而前俯，时而后仰，一心赏她的花。赏够了，这才提出，还是去找个座位喝点茶吧。

蜗牛这时已经完全考虑过了：要既不绕道而行，又不爬上枯叶，还能有些什么样的法子，可以到达自己的目的地？且不说爬上枯叶得费那么大的劲儿，就看这薄薄的玩意儿吧，才拿触角的尖头轻轻一碰，就摇摆了半天，稀里哗啦好不吓人，是不是能担得起自己的那点分量，实在是个疑问；所以蜗牛终于还是决定往底下爬，因为那枯叶有个翘起的地方，离地较高，蜗牛完全钻得进去。蜗牛刚刚把头伸进缺口，正在打量那褐赤赤的高高的顶棚，对那里褐赤赤冷森森的光线还没有怎么适应，外边草坪上又有两个人过来了。这一回两个都是年轻人，一男一女。两人都正当青春妙龄，甚至可能还要年轻些，正如粉红鲜润的蓓蕾还含苞待放，长成了翅膀的彩蝶尚未在艳阳下展翅飞舞。

“走运，今天不是星期五，”那男的说。

“怎么？你也相信有运气？”

“星期五来就得破费六个便士。”

“六个便士算得了什么？那还不值六个便士？”

“什么叫‘那’呀——你这‘那’字，意思指啥呀？”

“啊，说说罢了……我的意思……我的意思你还会不明白？”

这几句对话，每一句说完之后总要歇上好大一会儿，口气也都很平淡、单调。两口子静静地站在花坛边上，一起按着她那把阳伞，摁呀摁的，把伞尖都深深地按进了松软的泥土里。他把手搁在她的手上，两人一起把阳伞尖都按进了泥地，这就很不寻常地表明了他们的感情。其实他们这短短的几句无关紧要的话也一样大有深意，只是意重情厚，话的翅膀太短，承载不起这么大的分量，勉强起飞也飞不远，只能就近找个寻常话题尴尬地落下脚来，可他们那稚嫩的心灵却已经感受到话的分量奇重了。他们一边把阳伞尖往泥土里按，一边暗暗琢磨：谁说得定这些话里不是藏着万丈深崖呢？谁说得定这丽日之下，背面坡上不是一片冰天雪地呢？谁说得定？这种事儿谁经历过？她不过随便说了一句，不知邱园的茶好不好，他一听立刻觉得这话的背后像是朦胧浮现起一个幽影，似乎有个庞大而结实的东西矗立在那儿。好容易薄雾慢慢地散去，眼前似乎出现了……天哪，那是些什么玩意儿？……是雪白的小桌子，还有女服务员，先瞅瞅她，又瞅瞅他。一付账，得两个先令，可不是假的。他摸了摸口袋里那个两先令的硬币，暗暗安慰自己：不是做梦，绝对不是做梦。这种事本来谁都觉得毫不足怪，惟有他和她是例外，如今可连他也感到这似乎不是非非之想了，而且……想到这里他兴奋得站也站不住、想也没心想了，于是他猛地拔出阳伞尖，急不可耐地要去找喝茶的地方，和人家一样喝茶去。

“来吧，特丽西，咱们该喝茶去了。”

“这喝茶的地方可在哪儿啦？”她口气激动得难描难摹，两眼迷惘四顾，一任他牵着走，把阳伞拖在背后，顺着草坪上的小径而去。她把头这边转转那边转转，这里也想去那里也想去，喝茶也不在心上了，只记得哪儿野花丛中有兰草仙鹤，哪儿有一座中国式的宝塔，哪儿还有一头红冠鸟。可她终于还是跟着他去了。

就这样，一双双一对对，从花坛旁不断过去，走路的样子差不多都是这样不拘常格，脚下也都没个准谱儿。一层又一层青绿色的雾霭，渐渐把他们裹了起来，起初还看得见他们的形体，色彩分明，可是随后形体和色彩就全都消融在青绿色的大气里了。天气实在太热了?选热得连乌鸦都宁可躲在花荫里，要隔上好大半天才蹦跶一下，就是跳起来也是死板板的，像自动玩具一样。白蝴蝶也不再随处飞舞，自在遨游了，而是三三两两上下盘旋，宛如撒下了白花花的一片片，飘荡在最高一层鲜花的顶上，勾勒出一副轮廓，活像半截颓败的大理石圆柱。栽培棕榈的温室玻璃作顶，光芒四射，仿佛阳光下开辟了好大一个露天市场，摆满了闪闪发亮的绿伞。飞机的嗡嗡声，是夏日的苍穹在喃喃诉说自己激烈的情怀。远远的天边，一时间出现了五光十色的许多人影，有黄的也有黑的，有粉红的也有雪白的，看得出有男，有女，还有孩子，可是他们看见了草地上金灿灿的一大片，马上就动摇了，都纷纷躲进树阴里，像水滴一样融入了这金灿灿、绿茸茸的世界，只留下了几点淡淡的红的、蓝的残痕。看来一切庞然大物似乎都已被热气熏倒，蜷作一团，卧地不动，可是他们的嘴里仍然吐出颤颤悠悠的声音，好似粗大的蜡烛吐着火苗儿一样。声音。对，是声音。是无言的声音，含着那样酣畅的快意，也含着那样炽烈的欲望，孩子的声音里则含着那样稚气的惊奇，一下子把沉寂都打破了。打破了沉寂？这里哪儿来的沉寂啊。公共汽车的轮子一直在不绝飞转，排档一直在不绝变换。嗡嗡的市声，就像一大套连环箱子①，全是铸钢浇铸的，一箱套一箱，箱箱都在那里转个不停。可是那无言的声音却响亮得压过了市声，万紫千红的花瓣也把自己的光彩都射入了辽阔的空中。

舒心译

7. Kew Gardens

From the oval–shaped flower–bed there rose perhaps a hundred stalks spreading into heart–shaped or tongue–shaped leaves half way up and unfurling at the tip red or blue or yellow petals marked with spots of colour raised upon the surface; and from the red, blue or yellow gloom of the throat emerged a straight bar, rough with gold dust and slightly clubbed at the end. The petals were voluminous enough to be stirred by the summer breeze, and when they moved, the red, blue and yellow lights passed one over the other, staining an inch of the brown earth beneath with a spot of the most intricate colour. The light fell either upon the smooth, grey back of a pebble, or, the shell of a snail with its brown, circular veins, or falling into a raindrop, it expanded with such intensity of red, blue and yellow the thin walls of water that one expected them to burst and disappear. Instead, the drop was left in a second silver grey once more, and the light now settled upon the flesh of a leaf, revealing the branching thread of fibre beneath the surface, and again it moved on and spread its illumination in the vast green spaces beneath the dome of the heart–shaped and tongue–shaped leaves. Then the breeze stirred rather more briskly overhead and the colour was flashed into the air above, into the eyes of the men and women who walk in Kew Gardens in July.

The figures of these men and women straggled past the flower–bed with a curiously irregular movement not unlike that of the white and blue butterflies who crossed the turf in zig–zag flights from bed to bed. The man was about six inches in front of the woman, strolling carelessly, while she bore on with greater purpose, only turning her head now and then to see that the children were not too far behind. The man kept this distance in front of the woman purposely, though perhaps unconsciously, for he wished to go on with his thoughts.

“Fifteen years ago I came here with Lily,” he thought. “We sat somewhere over there by a lake and I begged her to marry me all through the hot afternoon. How the dragonfly kept circling round us: how clearly I see the dragonfly and her shoe with the square silver buckle at the toe. All the time I spoke I saw her shoe and when it moved impatiently I knew without looking up what she was going to say: the whole of her seemed to be in her shoe. And my love, my desire, were in the dragonfly; for some reason I thought that if it settled there, on that leaf, the broad one with the red flower in the middle of it, if the dragonfly settled on the leaf she would say “Yes” at once. But the dragonfly went round and round: it never settled anywhere—of course not, happily not, or I shouldn’t be walking here with Eleanor and the children—Tell me, Eleanor. D’you ever think of the past?”

“Why do you ask, Simon?”

“Because I’ve been thinking of the past. I’ve been thinking of Lily, the woman I might have married. . . Well, why are you silent? Do you mind my thinking of the past?”

“Why should I mind, Simon? Doesn’t one always think of the past, in a garden with men and women lying under the trees? Aren’t they one’s past, all that remains of it, those men and women, those ghosts lying under the trees. . . one’s happiness, one’s reality?”

“For me, a square silver shoe buckle and a dragonfly—”

“For me, a kiss. Imagine six little girls sitting before their easels twenty years ago, down by the side of a lake, painting the water–lilies, the first red water–lilies I’d ever seen. And suddenly a kiss, there on the back of my neck. And my hand shook all the afternoon so that I couldn’t paint. I took out my watch and marked the hour when I would allow myself to think of the kiss for five minutes only—it was so precious—the kiss of an old grey–haired woman with a wart on her nose, the mother of all my kisses all my life. Come, Caroline, come, Hubert.”

They walked on the past the flower–bed, now walking four abreast, and soon diminished in size among the trees and looked half transparent as the sunlight and shade swam over their backs in large trembling irregular patches.

In the oval flower bed the snail, whose shelled had been stained red, blue, and yellow for the space of two minutes or so, now appeared to be moving very slightly in its shell, and next began to labour over the crumbs of loose earth which broke away and rolled down as it passed over them. It appeared to have a definite goal in front of it, differing in this respect from the singular high stepping angular green insect who attempted to cross in front of it, and waited for a second with its antenna trembling as if in deliberation, and then stepped off as rapidly and strangely in the opposite direction. Brown cliffs with deep green lakes in the hollows, flat, blade–like trees that waved from root to tip, round boulders of grey stone, vast crumpled surfaces of a thin crackling texture—all these objects lay across the snail’s progress between one stalk and another to his goal. Before he had decided whether to circumvent the arched tent of a dead leaf or to breast it there came past the bed the feet of other human beings.

This time they were both men. The younger of the two wore an expression of perhaps unnatural calm; he raised his eyes and fixed them very steadily in front of him while his companion spoke, and directly his companion had done speaking he looked on the ground again and sometimes opened his lips only after a long pause and sometimes did not open them at all. The elder man had a curiously uneven and shaky method of walking, jerking his hand forward and throwing up his head abruptly, rather in the manner of an impatient carriage horse tired of waiting outside a house; but in the man these gestures were irresolute and pointless. He talked almost incessantly; he smiled to himself and again began to talk, as if the smile had been an answer. He was talking about spirits—the spirits of the dead, who, according to him, were even now telling him all sorts of odd things about their experiences in Heaven.

“Heaven was known to the ancients as Thessaly, William, and now, with this war, the spirit matter is rolling between the hills like thunder.” He paused, seemed to listen, smiled, jerked his head and continued:—

“You have a small electric battery and a piece of rubber to insulate the wire—isolate?—insulate?—well, we’ll skip the details, no good going into details that wouldn’t be understood—and in short the little machine stands in any convenient position by the head of the bed, we will say, on a neat mahogany stand. All arrangements being properly fixed by workmen under my direction, the widow applies her ear and summons the spirit by sign as agreed. Women! Widows! Women in black—”

Here he seemed to have caught sight of a woman’s dress in the distance, which in the shade looked a purple black. He took off his hat, placed his hand upon his heart, and hurried towards her muttering and gesticulating feverishly. But William caught him by the sleeve and touched a flower with the tip of his walking–stick in order to divert the old man’s attention. After looking at it for a moment in some confusion the old man bent his ear to it and seemed to answer a voice speaking from it, for he began talking about the forests of Uruguay which he had visited hundreds of years ago in company with the most beautiful young woman in Europe. He could be heard murmuring about forests of Uruguay blanketed with the wax petals of tropical roses, nightingales, sea beaches, mermaids, and women drowned at sea, as he suffered himself to be moved on by William, upon whose face the look of stoical patience grew slowly deeper and deeper.

Following his steps so closely as to be slightly puzzled by his gestures came two elderly women of the lower middle class, one stout and ponderous, the other rosy cheeked and nimble. Like most people of their station they were frankly fascinated by any signs of eccentricity betokening a disordered brain, especially in the well–to–do; but they were too far off to be certain whether the gestures were merely eccentric or genuinely mad. After they had scrutinised the old man’s back in silence for a moment and given each other a queer, sly look, they went on energetically piecing together their very complicated dialogue:

“Nell, Bert, Lot, Cess, Phil, Pa, he says, I says, she says, I says, I says, I says—”

“My Bert, Sis, Bill, Grandad, the old man, sugar, Sugar, flour, kippers, greens, Sugar, sugar, sugar.”

The ponderous woman looked through the pattern of falling words at the flowers standing cool, firm, and upright in the earth, with a curious expression. She saw them as a sleeper waking from a heavy sleep sees a brass candlestick reflecting the light in an unfamiliar way, and closes his eyes and opens them, and seeing the brass candlestick again, finally starts broad awake and stares at the candlestick with all his powers. So the heavy woman came to a standstill opposite the oval–shaped flower bed, and ceased even to pretend to listen to what the other woman was saying. She stood there letting the words fall over her, swaying the top part of her body slowly backwards and forwards, looking at the flowers. Then she suggested that they should find a seat and have their tea.

The snail had now considered every possible method of reaching his goal without going round the dead leaf or climbing over it. Let alone the effort needed for climbing a leaf, he was doubtful whether the thin texture which vibrated with such an alarming crackle when touched even by the tip of his horns would bear his weight; and this determined him finally 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 common 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.

“Come 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.