［翻译］伍尔夫――Time Passes（Chapter 1 2 3）

Chapter 1

"Well, we must wait for the future to show," said Mr Bankes, coming in from the terrace."

“好了，以后自会有分晓。”班克斯先生从露台走进房子。

It's almost too dark to see," said Andrew, coming up from the beach.

“黑得什么都看不见。”安德鲁从海滩边走了进来。

"One can hardly tell which is the sea and which is the land," said Prue.

“几乎分不清哪是大海哪是陆地。”普鲁应和着。

"Do we leave that light burning?" said Lily as they took their coats off indoors.

“那盏灯要留着吗？”莉丽看到他们把外套都脱下后问。

"No," said Prue, "not if every one's in."

“不”普鲁回道“如果大家都进来就熄掉。”

"Andrew," she called back, "just put out the light in the hall."

“安德鲁，”她回头叫道“把门厅的灯熄了就行了。”

One by one the lamps were all extinguished, except that Mr Carmichael, who liked to lie awake a little reading Virgil, kept his candle burning rather longer than the rest.

灯相继灭了，除了卡迈克尔先生那盏。他喜欢躺在床上读维吉尔，蜡烛也就烧得比其它人更久。

Chapter 2

So with the lamps all put out, the moon sunk, and a thin rain drumming on the roof a downpouring of immense darkness began. Nothing, it seemed, could survive the flood, the profusion of darkness which, creeping in at keyholes and crevices, stole round window blinds, came into bedrooms, swallowed up here a jug and basin, there a bowl of red and yellow dahlias, there the sharp edges and firm bulk of a chest of drawers. Not only was furniture confounded; there was scarcely anything left of body or mind by which one could say, "This is he" or "This is she." Sometimes a hand was raised as if to clutch something or ward off something, or somebody groaned, or somebody laughed aloud as if sharing a joke with nothingness.

灯尽灭，月西沉。薄纱般的细雨在屋顶上嘀嗒；无边的黑暗像瓢泼大雨般倾注而下。似乎没有什么能挺过这黑暗的洪流：它从锁眼和裂隙悄悄溜进来，偷偷摸摸地绕过百叶窗，钻进卧室。在这吞下水罐和水盆，在那吞下大丽花――一朵红的，一朵黄的，和五斗橱分明的边缘与结实的躯体。不仅仅只有家具沦陷至混淆，黑暗几乎没留一片空白好让人辨别“这是他”或“这是她”。有时会有手伸向半空，像要抓住什么，又像要挡住什么；有时会听到痛苦的呻吟；有时是一阵大笑, 好像其人正与虚无讲笑话偷乐着。

Nothing stirred in the drawing-room or in the dining-room or on the staircase. Only through the rusty hinges and swollen sea-moistened woodwork certain airs, detached from the body of the wind (the house was ramshackle after all) crept round corners and ventured indoors. Almost one might imagine them, as they entered the drawing-room questioning and wondering, toying with the flap of hanging wall-paper, asking, would it hang much longer, when would it fall? Then smoothly brushing the walls, they passed on musingly as if asking the red and yellow roses on the wall-paper whether they would fade, and questioning (gently, for there was time at their disposal) the torn letters in the wastepaper basket, the flowers, the books, all of which were now open to them and asking, Were they allies? Were they enemies? How long would they endure?

客厅、餐厅和楼梯都没有一点动静。只有在锈红的折叶和吸饱了海水潮气而膨胀的木板（房子毕竟破旧不堪了）上才可见风的踪迹。它们是从海风中离散的几缕微风，偷偷贴着墙脚，想闯进门来。它们不难想象。因为它们一进客厅就会好奇地这看看，那问问；哗哗地摆弄墙纸，问它还会在这挂很久吗？它什么时候掉下来？然后平静地拂过墙壁，经过之时若有所思，好像在问墙纸上那红蔷薇和黄蔷薇，它们会不会枯萎？它们有充裕的时间，总是不急不忙轻声问着纸篓里撕破的书信、花卉、书籍（这些现在都在它们面前）：它们是朋友？还是敌人？他们还能保存多久？

So some random light directing them with its pale footfall upon stair and mat, from some uncovered star, or wandering ship, or the Lighthouse even, with its pale footfall upon stair and mat, the little airs mounted the staircase and nosed round bedroom doors. But here surely, they must cease. Whatever else may perish and disappear, what lies here is steadfast. Here one might say to those sliding lights, those fumbling airs that breathe and bend over the bed itself, here you can neither touch nor destroy. Upon which, wearily, ghostlily, as if they had feather-light fingers and the light persistency of feathers, they would look, once, on the shut eyes, and the loosely clasping fingers, and fold their garments wearily and disappear. And so, nosing, rubbing, they went to the window on the staircase, to the servants' bedrooms, to the boxes in the attics; descending, blanched the apples on the dining-room table, fumbled the petals of roses, tried the picture on the easel, brushed the mat and blew a little sand along the floor. At length, desisting, all ceased together, gathered together, all sighed together; all together gave off an aimless gust of lamentation to which some door in the kitchen replied; swung wide; admitted nothing; and slammed to.

一些不规则的光线――揭去面纱的星星，或是迷途的船只，甚至是灯塔，在楼梯和地毯上留下一些苍白的足印指引微风。跟随这些足印，这几缕微风上了楼梯，在卧室门口这嗅嗅，那嗅嗅。但在这，他们得停住了。什么都有可能消失殆尽，但永远不可能是在这躺着的这些。可能有人会对这变幻的灯光和这摸索的微风（它们呼吸着，俯视着床）说：这儿的东西你们碰不得，也毁坏不了。于是，它们像鬼魅一样慵懒地飘着，好像生出羽毛般轻柔的手指。它们四下看看――闭着的眼，松散搭一起的手，懒洋洋地吹折他们的睡衣后就离开了。而后，又嗅着碰着来到了楼梯的窗边，仆人的卧室和阁楼的盒子堆里。它们又下楼了, 把餐桌上的苹果变得惨白，翻动蔷薇花瓣，与画架上的画掰手腕，掠过地毯，把一些细沙吹到了地上。最后，它们终于停息。大家一道止步、聚集、叹息，一起发着无名的悲叹――厨房的门却做了回应。它霍然洞开，什么也没收进去，然后――砰……

[Here Mr Carmichael, who was reading Virgil, blew out his candle. It was past midnight.]

［读维吉尔的卡迈克尔先生吹灭了蜡烛。午夜已过。］

Chapter 3

But what after all is one night? A short space, especially when the darkness dims so soon, and so soon a bird sings, a cock crows, or a faint green quickens, like a turning leaf, in the hollow of the wave. Night, however, succeeds to night. The winter holds a pack of them in store and deals them equally, evenly, with indefatigable fingers. They lengthen; they darken. Some of them hold aloft clear planets, plates of brightness. The autumn trees, ravaged as they are, take on the flash of tattered flags kindling in the gloom of cool cathedral caves where gold letters on marble pages describe death in battle and how bones bleach and burn far away in Indian sands. The autumn trees gleam in the yellow moonlight, in the light of harvest moons, the light which mellows the energy of labour, and smooths the stubble, and brings the wave lapping blue to the shore.

一个夜晚又算什么？它十分短促。很快夜色就淡了，鸟儿歌唱，公鸡报晓, 波谷像转换颜色的树叶很快披上了浅浅的绿色。不过，夜之后还有夜。冬天早就把它们储存起来，不知疲倦地用手指计量好，然后每天都拿出一点点。它们渐长；它们渐暗。有些夜晚，清晰可见的行星像金盘在高空闪烁。秋天的树木已经枝叶凋零，活像寒冷幽隐地窖中燃烧的残破的旗帜。地窖的大理石岩面上刻着金色字母，描述战争里死去的人以及他们的尸骨如何在印度沙土上变白、燃烧。这些树在淡黄的月光下微闪，笼罩在收获季的满月下―― 它的光慰解着辛劳, 梳理着残株，也带着波涛拍击海岸，使它染上一片蓝色。

It seemed now as if, touched by human penitence and all its toil, divine goodness had parted the curtain and displayed behind it, single, distinct, the hare erect; the wave falling; the boat rocking; which, did we deserve them, should be ours always. But alas, divine goodness, twitching the cord, draws the curtain; it does not please him; he covers his treasures in a drench of hail, and so breaks them, so confuses them that it seems impossible that their calm should ever return or that we should ever compose from their fragments a perfect whole or read in the littered pieces the clear words of truth. For our penitence deserves a glimpse only; our toil respite only.

上帝好像被人的忏悔和辛劳所触动。他拉开帷幕，展现出独一无二的东西：直立的野兔，退去的海潮，颠簸的小船――如果我们确实有幸拥有它们，它们会永远属于我们。但是突然间，上帝猛地拉动幕索，帷幕又合上了。这并不使他高兴。他用一阵冰雹覆盖他的宝贝，把它们碰碎。碎片混在一起，它们不可能再有以往平静的面容。我们也无法从碎片中修复出完美的整体，无法从这些散乱的片断上获得真理的字句。因为忏悔只能得到短暂一撇，而辛劳只能得到片刻休息。

The nights now are full of wind and destruction; the trees plunge and bend and their leaves fly helter skelter until the lawn is plastered with them and they lie packed in gutters and choke rain pipes and scatter damp paths. Also the sea tosses itself and breaks itself, and should any sleeper fancying that he might find on the beach an answer to his doubts, a sharer of his solitude, throw off his bedclothes and go down by himself to walk on the sand, no image with semblance of serving and divine promptitude comes readily to hand bringing the night to order and making the world reflect the compass of the soul. The hand dwindles in his hand; the voice bellows in his ear. Almost it would appear that it is useless in such confusion to ask the night those questions as to what, and why, and wherefore, which tempt the sleeper from his bed to seek an answer.

现在，夜间的风肆虐破坏着一切。树被刮得摇晃弯曲，它们的叶子慌张地在空中飞走。最后，它们覆着草坪, 填满水沟，堵住排雨管，散乱地躺在潮湿的小径上。大海推起一层层浪，随后又将之击碎。要是有失眠者幻想着他可能会在海滩上找到解他疑惑的答案，找到他孤独的同伴；那么，他会匆匆掀开被子，一个人去海滩徘徊。他被怠慢了，那个让夜重归秩序，让世界反映心灵航向的人始终没有显现。那个人的手在他手里萎缩消失，声音却在耳里际震响。多么混乱！此时若是向夜询问是什么，又为什么诱惑着这个失眠者下床寻找答案？是无用的罢了。

[Mr Ramsay, stumbling along a passage one dark morning, stretched his arms out, but Mrs Ramsay having died rather suddenly the night before, his arms, though stretched out, remained empty.]

［一个昏黑的凌晨，拉姆齐先生在走廊里蹒跚而行。他伸开双臂，但拉姆齐夫人已在前夜骤然离世。他的手臂打开着，抱住的只有空气。］