卵形的花壇裡栽得有百來枝花梗，從半中腰起就滿枝都是團團的綠葉，有心形的也有舌狀的；梢頭冒出一簇簇花瓣，紅的藍的黃的都有，花瓣上還有一顆顆斑點，五顏六色，顯眼極了。不管是紅的、藍的、還是黃的，那影影綽綽的底盤兒裡總還伸起一根挺直的花柱，粗頭細身，上面亂沾著一層金粉。花瓣張得很開，所以夏日的和風吹來也能微微掀動；花瓣一動，那紅的、藍的、黃的光彩便交叉四射，底下褐色的泥土每一寸都會沾上一個水汪汪的雜色的斑點。亮光或是落在光溜溜灰白色的鵝卵石頂上，或是落在蝸牛殼棕色的螺旋紋上，要不就照上一滴雨點，點化出一道道稀薄的水牆，紅的，藍的，黃的，色彩之濃，真叫人擔心會濃得迸裂，炸為烏有。然而並沒有迸裂，轉眼亮光一過，雨點便又恢復了銀灰色的原樣。亮光移到了一張葉片上，照出了葉子表皮底下枝枝杈杈的葉脈。亮光又繼續前移，射到了那天棚般密密層層的心形葉和舌狀葉下，在那一大片憧憧綠影裡放出了光明。這時高處的風吹得略微強了些，於是彩色的亮光便轉而反射到頂上遼闊的空間裡，映入了在這七月天來游邱園的男男女女的眼簾。
花壇旁三三兩兩的掠過了這些男男女女的身影，他們走路的樣子都不拘常格，隨便得出奇，看來跟草坪上那些迂迴穿飛、逐壇周遊的藍白蝴蝶倒不無相似之處。來了一個男的，走在女的前面，相隔半英尺光景，男的是隨意漫步，女的就比較專心，只是還常常回過頭去，留心別讓孩子們落下太遠。那男的是故意要這樣走在女的前面，不過要說有什麼心眼兒恐怕倒也未必，他無非是想一路走一路想想自己的心思罷了。
“十五年前我跟莉莉一塊兒上這兒來過，”他心想。 “我們坐在那邊的一個小湖畔，那天天也真熱，我向她求婚，求了整整一個下午。當時還有隻蜻蜓老是繞著我們飛個沒完。這蜻蜓的模樣我至今還記得清清楚楚，我還記得她的鞋頭上有個方方的銀扣。我嘴裡在說話，眼睛可看得見她的鞋子，只要看見她的鞋子不耐煩地一動，我連頭也不用抬一下，就知道她要說的是什麼了。她的全副心思似乎都集中在那鞋上。我呢，我卻把我的愛情、我的心願，都寄託在那蜻蜓的身上。我不知怎麼忽然心血來潮，認定那蜻蜓要是停下來，停在那邊的葉子上，停在那大紅花旁的闊葉上，那她馬上就會答應我的婚事。可是蜻蜓卻轉了一圈又一圈，哪兒也不肯停下——不停下對，不停下好，要不今天我也不會同愛理諾帶著孩子在這兒散步了。我說，愛理諾，你想不想過去的事？”
“你問這個乾什麼，賽蒙？”
“因為我就是在想過去的事。我在想莉莉，當初跟我吹了的那個對象。……咦，你怎麼不說話呀？我想起過去的事，你不高興了嗎？”
“我幹嗎要不高興呢，賽蒙？有多少先人長眠在這園子的大樹底下，到了這兒能不想起過去嗎？長眠在大樹底下的那些先人，那些不昧的亡靈，他們不就代表著我們的過去？我們的過去不就只留下了這麼一點陳跡？……我們的幸福不就受他們所賜？我們今天的現實不就由他們而來？”
“可我，想起的就是鞋頭上一個方方的銀扣和一隻蜻蜓……”
“我想起的可是輕輕的一吻。二十年前，六個小姑娘在那邊的一個小湖畔，坐在畫架前畫睡蓮，那是我生平第一次看到開紅花的睡蓮。突然，我脖頸兒上著了輕輕的一吻。我的手就此抖了一個下午，連畫都不能畫了。我取出表來，看著時間，我限定自己只准對這個吻回味五分鐘——這個吻太寶貴了。吻我的是一位鼻子上長著個疣子的鬢髮半白的老太太，我這輩子就是打這開始才真正懂得了吻的。快來呀，卡洛琳，快來呀，休伯特。”
於是他們四個人並排走過了花壇，不一會兒在大樹間就只留下了四個小小的身影，陽光和樹陰在他們背上拂動，投下了搖曳不定的大塊斑駁的碎影。
卵形的花壇裡，那紅的、藍的、黃的光彩剛才在蝸牛殼上停留了有兩三分鍾光景，這會兒蝸牛似乎在殼裡微微一動，然後就費勁地在鬆鬆碎碎的泥巴上爬了起來，一路過處，鬆土紛紛翻起，成片倒下。這蝸牛似乎心目中自有個明確的去處，在這一點上可就跟前面一隻瘦腰細腿、怪模怪樣的青蟲不一樣了，那青蟲高高的抬起了腿，起初打算從蝸牛面前橫穿而過，但是轉而又抖動著觸鬚猶豫了一會，像是考慮了一下，臨了還是邁著原先那樣快速而古怪的步子，回頭向相反的方向而去。褐色的峭壁下臨溝壑，溝內有一湖湖深深的綠水，扁扁的樹木猶如利劍，從根到梢一起擺動，灰白色的渾圓大石當道而立，還有那薄薄脆脆的一片片，又大又皺，攔在地裡——這蝸牛要去自己的目的地，一路上就有這麼許多障礙橫在一枝枝花梗之間。蝸牛來到了一張圓頂篷帳般的枯葉跟前，還沒有來得及決定是繞道而過還是往前直闖，花壇跟前早已又是影晃動，有人來了。
這一回來的兩個都是男的。那年輕的一個，一副表情平靜得似乎有點不大正常。同行的另一位說話時，他就抬起眼來，直勾勾地一個勁兒盯著前方，同行的那位話一說完，他就又眼望著地下，有時過了好大半晌才開口，有時則乾脆來個不吭聲。另一位年歲大些，走起路來高一腳低一腳的，搖晃得厲害，那朝前一甩手、猛地一抬頭的模樣，很像一匹性子急躁的拉車大馬，在宅門前等得不耐煩了，不過對他來說，他這種動作卻並沒有什麼用心，也沒有什麼含意。他的話說得簡直沒有個停，對方不答腔，他可以自得其樂地笑笑，又接著說了起來，彷彿這一笑就表示對方已經回了話似的。他是在談論靈魂——死者的靈魂。據他說，那些死者的靈魂一直在冥冥之中向他訴說他們在天國的經歷，千奇百怪的事兒，什麼都有。
“天國，古人認為就是色薩利，威廉。如今戰爭一起，靈物就常在那裡的山間徘徊出沒，所過之處聲震如雷。”他說到這裡停了一下，像是聽著，然後微微一笑，猛然把頭一仰，又接著說：
“只要一個小電池，另外還要一段膠布包紮電線，以免走電……叫漏電？還是走電？……不管它，這些細節就不用說了，反正人家也聽不懂，說了也沒用……總之，把這個小機關就裝在床頭，看哪兒方便就擱在哪兒，比方說，可以擱在一隻乾淨的紅木小几上。哪個女人死了丈夫，只要叫工匠把這一切都按照我的指示裝配齊全，然後虔心靜聽，約好的暗號一發出，亡靈馬上就可以召來。那可只有女人才行?選死了丈夫的女人?選還沒有除下孝服的女人?選……”
剛說到這兒，他似乎就在遠處看到了一個女人的衣服，在陰影裡看來隱隱像是紫黑色的。他馬上摘下帽子，一手按在心口，口中念念有詞，做出種種痴癡狂狂的手勢，急匆匆向她走去。可是威廉一把抓住了他的袖子，為了把老頭兒的注意力吸引過來，又舉起手杖在一朵花上點了點。老頭兒一時似乎有些惶惑，他對著那朵花瞅了一陣，湊過耳朵去聽，好像聽到花兒裡有個聲音在說話，就搭上了腔。於是他就大談其烏拉圭的森林，說是在幾百年前他曾經同歐洲最美麗的一位小姐一起到那裡去過。只聽他嘟嘟囔囔的，說起烏拉圭的森林裡滿地都是熱帶野花的蠟一般的花瓣，還說起夜鶯啦，海灘啦，美人魚啦，海裡淹死的女人啦。他一邊說著，一邊就不由自主地被威廉推著往前走，威廉臉上那種冷漠自若的表情也慢慢地變得愈來愈嚴峻了。
接踵而來的是兩個上了點年紀的婦女，因為跟老頭兒相距頗近，所以見了老頭兒的舉動，未免有點摸不著頭腦。這兩個女人都屬於下層中產階級，一個體形奇肥，十分笨重，另一個兩頰紅潤，手腳還相當麻利。她們那種身份地位的人往往都有這麼個特點，就是看見有人——特別是有錢人——舉動古怪，可能腦子不大正常，那她們的勁頭馬上就上來了。可惜這一回離老頭兒終究還不夠近，沒法肯定這人到底只是行徑怪僻呢，還是當真發了瘋。她們對著老頭兒的背影默默端詳了好一會兒，偷偷交換了一個古怪的眼色，然後又興致勃勃地繼續談了起來，那雜拌兒似的對話也實在難懂：
“奈爾，伯特，羅特，薩斯，菲爾，爸爸，他說，我說，她說，我說，我說……”
“我的伯特，妹妹，比爾，爺爺，那老頭子，白糖，白糖，麵粉，鮭魚，蔬菜，白糖，白糖，白糖。”
就在這一大篇話像雨點般打來的同時，那個胖大女人見到了這些花朵冷淡而堅定地筆直挺立在泥地裡，便帶著好奇的神情盯著看了起來。那模樣兒就像一個人從沉睡中醒來，看到黃銅燭台的反光有些異樣，便把眼睛閉了閉再睜開，看到的還是黃銅燭台，這才完全醒了過來，於是就聚精會神地盯著燭台看。所以那大個子女人乾脆就對著卵形花壇站住不動了，她本來還裝模作樣像在聽對方說話，現在索性連點樣子都不裝了。她由著對方的話像雨點般的向她打來，她只管站在那裡，輕輕款款地時而前俯，時而後仰，一心賞她的花。賞夠了，這才提出，還是去找個座位喝點茶吧。
蝸牛這時已經完全考慮過了：要既不繞道而行，又不爬上枯葉，還能有些什麼樣的法子，可以到達自己的目的地？且不說爬上枯葉得費那麼大的勁兒，就看這薄薄的玩意兒吧，才拿觸角的尖頭輕輕一碰，就搖擺了半天，稀里嘩啦好不嚇人，是不是能擔得起自己的那點分量，實在是個疑問；所以蝸牛終於還是決定往底下爬，因為那枯葉有個翹起的地方，離地較高，蝸牛完全鑽得進去。蝸牛剛剛把頭伸進缺口，正在打量那褐赤赤的高高的頂棚，對那裡褐赤赤冷森森的光線還沒有怎麼適應，外邊草坪上又有兩個人過來了。這一回兩個都是年輕人，一男一女。兩人都正當青春妙齡，甚至可能還要年輕些，正如粉紅鮮潤的蓓蕾還含苞待放，長成了翅膀的彩蝶尚未在艷陽下展翅飛舞。
“走運，今天不是星期五，”那男的說。
“怎麼？你也相信有運氣？”
“星期五來就得破費六個便士。”
“六個便士算得了什麼？那還不值六個便士？”
“什麼叫'那'呀——你這'那'字，意思指啥呀？”
“啊，說說罷了……我的意思……我的意思你還會不明白？”
這幾句對話，每一句說完之後總要歇上好大一會兒，口氣也都很平淡、單調。兩口子靜靜地站在花壇邊上，一起按著她那把陽傘，摁呀摁的，把傘尖都深深地按進了鬆軟的泥土裡。他把手擱在她的手上，兩人一起把陽傘尖都按進了泥地，這就很不尋常地表明了他們的感情。其實他們這短短的幾句無關緊要的話也一樣大有深意，只是意重情厚，話的翅膀太短，承載不起這麼大的分量，勉強起飛也飛不遠，只能就近找個尋常話題尷尬地落下腳來，可他們那稚嫩的心靈卻已經感受到話的分量奇重了。他們一邊把陽傘尖往泥土裡按，一邊暗暗琢磨：誰說得定這些話裡不是藏著萬丈深崖呢？誰說得定這麗日之下，背面坡上不是一片冰天雪地呢？誰說得定？這種事兒誰經歷過？她不過隨便說了一句，不知邱園的茶好不好，他一聽立刻覺得這話的背後像是朦朧浮現起一個幽影，似乎有個龐大而結實的東西矗立在那兒。好容易薄霧慢慢地散去，眼前似乎出現了……天哪，那是些什麼玩意兒？ ……是雪白的小桌子，還有女服務員，先瞅瞅她，又瞅瞅他。一付賬，得兩個先令，可不是假的。他摸了摸口袋裡那個兩先令的硬幣，暗暗安慰自己：不是做夢，絕對不是做夢。這種事本來誰都覺得毫不足怪，惟有他和她是例外，如今可連他也感到這似乎不是非非之想了，而且……想到這裡他興奮得站也站不住、想也沒心想了，於是他猛地拔出陽傘尖，急不可耐地要去找喝茶的地方，和人家一樣喝茶去。
“來吧，特麗西，咱們該喝茶去了。”
“這喝茶的地方可在哪兒啦？”她口氣激動得難描難摹，兩眼迷惘四顧，一任他牽著走，把陽傘拖在背後，順著草坪上的小徑而去。她把頭這邊轉轉那邊轉轉，這裡也想去那裡也想去，喝茶也不在心上了，只記得哪兒野花叢中有蘭草仙鶴，哪兒有一座中國式的寶塔，哪兒還有一頭紅冠鳥。可她終於還是跟著他去了。
就這樣，一雙雙一對對，從花壇旁不斷過去，走路的樣子差不多都是這樣不拘常格，腳下也都沒個準譜儿。一層又一層青綠色的霧靄，漸漸把他們裹了起來，起初還看得見他們的形體，色彩分明，可是隨後形體和色彩就全都消融在青綠色的大氣裡了。天氣實在太熱了?選熱得連烏鴉都寧可躲在花蔭裡，要隔上好大半天才蹦躂一下，就是跳起來也是死板板的，像自動玩具一樣。白蝴蝶也不再隨處飛舞，自在遨遊了，而是三三兩兩上下盤旋，宛如撒下了白花花的一片片，飄蕩在最高一層鮮花的頂上，勾勒出一副輪廓，活像半截頹敗的大理石圓柱。栽培棕櫚的溫室玻璃作頂，光芒四射，彷彿陽光下開闢了好大一個露天市場，擺滿了閃閃發亮的綠傘。飛機的嗡嗡聲，是夏日的蒼穹在喃喃訴說自己激烈的情懷。遠遠的天邊，一時間出現了五光十色的許多人影，有黃的也有黑的，有粉紅的也有雪白的，看得出有男，有女，還有孩子，可是他們看見了草地上金燦燦的一大片，馬上就動搖了，都紛紛躲進樹陰裡，像水滴一樣融入了這金燦燦、綠茸茸的世界，只留下了幾點淡淡的紅的、藍的殘痕。看來一切龐然大物似乎都已被熱氣熏倒，蜷作一團，臥地不動，可是他們的嘴裡仍然吐出顫顫悠悠的聲音，好似粗大的蠟燭吐著火苗兒一樣。聲音。對，是聲音。是無言的聲音，含著那樣酣暢的快意，也含著那樣熾烈的慾望，孩子的聲音裡則含著那樣稚氣的驚奇，一下子把沉寂都打破了。打破了沉寂？這裡哪兒來的沉寂啊。公共汽車的輪子一直在不絕飛轉，排檔一直在不絕變換。嗡嗡的市聲，就像一大套連環箱子①，全是鑄鋼澆鑄的，一箱套一箱，箱箱都在那裡轉個不停。可是那無言的聲音卻響亮得壓過了市聲，萬紫千紅的花瓣也把自己的光彩都射入了遼闊的空中。
舒心譯
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, reveal ing 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 t he 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 the n, 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.