According to a great and guiding principle, Fleur and Michael Mont attended the Hugo Solstis concert, not because they anticipated pleasure, but because they knew Hugo. They felt, besides, that Solstis, an Englishman of Russo-Dutch extraction, was one of those who were restoring English music, giving to it a wide and spacious freedom from melody and rhythm, while investing it with literary and mathematical charms. And one never could go to a concert given by any of this school without using the word 'interesting' as one was coming away. To sleep to this restored English music, too, was impossible. Fleur, a sound sleeper, had never even tried. Michael had, and complained afterwards that it had been like a nap in Liege railway station. On this occasion they occupied those gangway seats in the front row of the dress circle of which Fleur had a sort of natural monopoly. There Hugo and the rest could see her taking her place in the English restoration movement. It was easy, too, to escape into the corridor and exchange the word 'interesting' with side-whiskered cognoscenti; or, slipping out a cigarette from the little gold case, wedding present of Cousin Imogen Cardigan, get a whiff or two's repose. To speak quite honestly, Fleur had a natural sense of rhythm which caused her discomfort during those long and 'interesting' passages which evidenced, as it were, the composer's rise and fall from his bed of thorns. She secretly loved a tune, and the impossibility of ever confessing this without losing hold of Solstis, Baff, Birdigal, MacLewis, Clorane, and other English restoration composers, sometimes taxed to its limit a nature which had its Spartan side. Even to Michael she would not 'confess'; and it was additionally trying when, with his native disrespect of persons, accentuated by life in the trenches and a publisher's office, he would mutter: "Gad!Get on with it!" or: "Cripes!Ain't he took bad!" especially as she knew that Michael was really putting up with it better than herself, having a more literary disposition, and a less dancing itch in his toes.
依照一个伟大的并具有指导性的原则，弗勒和迈克尔·蒙特参加了雨果·苏斯迪斯的音乐会。出席这项活动不是为了娱乐，而是因为他们认识雨果。而且，他们认为，苏斯迪斯——这个混有俄罗斯与荷兰血统的英国人——是复兴英国音乐的中坚力量之一。他使英国音乐在节奏和旋律上都获得了充分的自由，又赋予了它文学和数学的魅力。无论是谁参加这一流派中任何一位音乐家的音乐会，在他离开时，总要发出“有趣”的称赞。听这种复兴的英国音乐，也不可能打瞌睡。虽说弗勒是个嗜睡的人，在这种场合却从未试着瞌睡过。迈克尔倒是打过一次瞌睡，事后却抱怨说，这就像在列日火车站打了个盹。这次，他们坐在特等包厢前排靠近通道的位子，这个位子似乎就是弗勒的专座。坐在那里，雨果和其他人都能看见她参加了这次英国复兴运动。而且，在那里也方便她溜到走廊里，和那些留着络腮胡的鉴赏家们互道一声“有趣”；或拿出表姐伊莫金·卡迪根送的结婚礼物——一个小金盒，抽出一支香烟，吸两口休息休息。坦率地说，弗勒的节奏感与生俱来，当演奏到那些冗长而“有趣”的乐章时，她仿佛对作曲家所表现的如坐针毡、坐立不安的情形感同身受，这不免让她十分难受。她默默喜欢一支曲调，为了不失去苏斯迪斯、巴夫、博迪格尔、麦克刘易斯、克罗雷和其他英国复兴派作曲家，她永远不会承认这一点。有时，这使她那具有自虐倾向的性格压抑到了极点。即使对迈克尔，她也不会承认。迈克尔生来不尊重别人，而战场上的生活和出版家的身份使他的这种态度更加严重，因此，每当他咕噜着：“上帝！快点儿过去吧！”或者“天啊！他这下可弄错了！”时，她就感到格外难受，尤其是她知道迈克尔实际比她更能忍耐，更有文学气质，而对舞蹈则没有她那么入迷。
The first movement of the new Solstis composition—'Phantasmagoria Piemontesque'—to which they had especially come to listen, began with some drawn-out chords. "What oh!" said Michael's voice in her ear: "Three pieces of furniture moved simultaneously on a parquet floor!"
他们专程来听苏斯迪斯新乐曲的第一乐章——《皮埃蒙特斯克幻想曲》，该乐章以几个悠长的和弦开始。她耳边传来迈克尔的声音：“哇哦，三件家具同时在一块镶木地板上移动！”
In Fleur's involuntary smile was the whole secret of why her marriage had not been intolerable. After all, Michael was a dear! Devotion and mercury—jesting and loyalty—combined, they piqued and touched even a heart given away before it was bestowed on him. Touch' without 'pique' would have bored; 'pique' without 'touch' would have irritated. At this moment he was at peculiar advantage! Holding on to his knees, with his ears standing up, eyes glassy from loyalty to Hugo, and tongue in cheek, he was listening to that opening in a way which evoked Fleur's admiration. The piece would be 'interesting'—she fell into the state of outer observation and inner calculation very usual with her nowadays. Over there was L.S.D., the greater dramatist; she didn't know him—yet. He looked rather frightening, his hair stood up so straight. And her eye began picturing him on her copper floor against a Chinese picture. And there—yes! Gurdon Minho! Imagine HIS coming to anything so modern! His profile WAS rather Roman—of the Aurelian period! Passing on from that antique, with the pleased thought that by this time tomorrow she might have collected it, she quartered the assembly face by face—she did not want to miss any one important.
弗勒不禁笑了，她的婚姻并非无法忍受，她的笑容把这个秘密完全暴露了。迈克尔毕竟很可爱！他既专一又活泼，既幽默又忠诚——这一切都触动甚至是感动了她，虽然在嫁给他之前她就心有所属了。没有“触动”的“感动”惹人厌恶，而没有“感动”的“触动”又惹人恼怒。此刻，他处于极其有利的地位！为了表示对雨果的尊重，他双手抓牢膝盖，双耳竖起，目光呆滞，装模作样地听着序曲。他做出的这副样子引起了弗勒的钦佩。这段乐曲会很“有趣”——她陷入了一种状态：外表看上去在观察，而内心却在无限遐想，最近她一直这样。那边坐着L. S. D.，一位更加伟大的剧作家，她还不认识他。他看上去相当可怕，头发竖得直直的。于是，她眼前浮现出一个画面：他正站在她家的红棕色地板上，身后是一幅中国画。啊，快看那边！是格登·明霍！想不到他竟会到如此时髦的地方来！他的侧面颇有点儿罗马味道——奥勒利安皇帝时期的味道。她把目光从那个古董身上移开，想到明晚这个时候她准会收罗到这件东西了，心里颇为高兴，一一打量了剧场里的每一个人——她可不想遗漏任何一个重要人物。
"The furniture" had come to a sudden standstill.
“那件家具”突然停住了。
"Interesting!" said a voice over her shoulder. Aubrey Greene! Illusive, rather moonlit, with his silky fair hair brushed straight back, and his greenish eyes—his smile always made her feel that he was 'getting' at her. But, after all, he was a cartoonist!
“有趣！”声音从她背后传来。是奥布里·格林！好像幻影一般，颇有点儿月朦胧的感觉。他柔亮的金色头发笔直地向后梳着；他淡绿色的眼眸以及他的微笑，总让她有种被“挑逗”的感觉。不管怎么说，毕竟他也是个漫画家！
"Yes, isn't it?"
“嗯，可不是吗？”
He curled away. He might have stayed a little longer—there wouldn't be time for any one else before those songs of Birdigal's! Here came the singer Charles Powls! How stout and efficient he looked, dragging little Birdigal to the piano.
他转身走了。他本可以多呆一会儿的。因为在博迪格尔的那几首曲子之前，其他人是不会有时间表演的！现在歌唱家查尔斯·波尔斯出场了！他把个子矮小的博迪格尔拖到钢琴那边，这让他看起来既壮实又能干。
Charming accompaniment—rippling, melodious!
迷人的伴奏——轻轻荡漾着，和谐悦耳！
The stout, efficient man began to sing. How different from the accompaniment! The song hit every note just off the solar plexus. It mathematically prevented her from feeling pleasure. Birdigal must have written it in horror of some one calling it 'vocal.' Vocal! Fleur knew how catching the word was; it would run like a measle round the ring, and Birdigal would be no more! Poor Birdigal! But this was 'interesting.' Only, as Michael was saying: "O, my Gawd!"
这位既壮实又能干的人开始唱了。怎么与伴奏如此不一样呢！这首歌的每个音调都没有打动她的交感神经。精确地讲，没有一个音调让她感到快乐。博迪格尔创作这首歌时，一定害怕有人将之称为“声乐作品”。声乐作品！弗勒知道这个词极具传染性，它会像麻疹一样迅速传遍全场，这样一来，博迪格尔就完蛋了！可怜的博迪格尔！但是这一点很“有趣”。这时，迈克尔也发出感叹：“上帝啊！”
Three songs! Powls was wonderful—so loyal! Never one note hit so that it rang out like music! Her mind fluttered off to Wilfrid. To him, of all the younger poets, people accorded the right to say something; it gave him such a position—made him seem to come out of life, instead of literature. Besides, he had done things in the war, was a son of Lord Mullyon, would get the Mercer Prize probably, for 'Copper Coin.' If Wilfrid abandoned her, a star would fall from the firmament above her copper floor. He had no right to leave her in the lurch. He must learn not to be violent—not to think physically. No! she couldn't let Wilfrid slip away; nor could she have any more sob-stuff in her life, searing passions, cul de sacs, aftermaths. She had tasted of that; a dulled ache still warned her.
三首歌！波尔斯真了不起啊——如此忠诚！没有一个音符听起来像音乐！她的思绪跑到威尔弗里德那里去了。在所有的年轻诗人中，人们给了他话语权；这给他奠定了一种地位——似乎他来自于生活而非来自文学。此外，他参加过战争，是马利昂勋爵的儿子，有望凭《铜币》获得默瑟奖。如果威尔弗里德离她而去的话，那么一颗明星将会从她家的红棕色地板上空落下。他无权让她陷入困境。他必须要学会不粗鲁——不随心所欲。不！她决不能让威尔弗里德溜走，她也不允许自己的生活中再出现任何痛苦的事情、枯萎的感情、走不通的路以及不幸的结果。她曾经尝过这种滋味，旧伤疤还在隐隐作痛，时刻提醒着她。
Birdigal was bowing, Michael saying: "Come out for a whiff! The next thing's a dud!" Oh! ah! Beethoven. Poor old Beethoven! So out of date—one did RATHER enjoy him!
博迪格尔鞠躬致谢，迈克尔说道：“出去吸口烟吧！下一个节目没什么可看的！”哦！啊！贝多芬。可怜的老贝！早就过时了——人们从前确实很欣赏他！
The corridor, and refectory beyond, were swarming with the restoration movement. Young men and women with faces and heads of lively and distorted character, were exchanging the word 'interesting.' Men of more massive type, resembling sedentary matadors, blocked all circulation. Fleur and Michael passed a little way along, stood against the wall, and lighted cigarettes. Fleur smoked hers delicately—a very little one in a tiny amber holder. She had the air of admiring blue smoke rather than of making it; there were spheres to consider beyond this sort of crowd—one never knew who might be about!—the sphere, for instance, in which Alison Charwell moved, politico-literary, catholic in taste, but, as Michael always put it, "Convinced, like a sanitary system, that it's the only sphere in the world; look at the way they all write books of reminiscence about each other!" They might, she always felt, disapprove of women smoking in public halls. Consorting delicately with iconoclasm, Fleur never forgot that her feet were in two worlds at least. Standing there, observant of all to left and right, she noted against the wall one whose face was screened by his programme. Wilfrid,' she thought, 'and doesn't mean to see me!' Mortified, as a child from whom a sixpence is filched, she said:
走廊和那一边的休息室都挤满了参与复兴运动的人。青年们看起来活泼而又偏执，他们彼此交流，互道“有趣”。体态魁梧的男子们，像岿然不动的斗牛士，把过道都堵住了。弗勒和迈克尔向前走了几步就靠墙站住了，点燃了香烟。弗勒的香烟包在琥珀烟嘴里，显得格外小巧玲珑，她优雅地吸着烟。与其说她在吸烟，倒不如说她在欣赏吐出的缕缕青烟；除了这些听众外，她还要考虑其他社会领域的人——具体那个领域里会涉及什么样的人物谁也不清楚！比如，艾莉森·查韦尔的活动领域：层次广泛的政治文学。但是，正如迈克尔常说的：“类似于一种卫生制度，相信自己是世界上仅有的社会领域；可以看看他们在回忆录里是怎么写彼此的！”她始终感觉他们似乎不赞成妇女在公共场合吸烟。弗勒巧妙地同反对传统的人交往，从不忘记她至少同时属于两个世界。站在那里，她观察着周围的一切，突然看到一个人靠墙站着，用节目单挡着脸。她心想：“是威尔弗里德，他还故意装作没看见我！”她像一个被偷走了六便士的小孩一样，感觉十分受辱。她说道：
"There's Wilfrid! Fetch him, Michael!"
“那是威尔弗里德！迈克尔，请他过来！”
Michael crossed, and touched his best man's sleeve; Desert's face emerged, frowning. She saw him shrug his shoulders, turn and walk into the throng. Michael came back.
迈克尔走过去，碰碰他的男傧相的袖子。德赛特的脸露了出来，愁容满面。她看见他耸耸肩膀，转身走入人群中去了。迈克尔回来了。
"Wilfrid's got the hump to-night; says he's not fit for human society—queer old son!"
“威尔弗里德今晚闷闷不乐，说自己不适合人类社会了，真是个古怪的家伙！”
How obtuse men were! Because Wilfrid was his pal, Michael did not see; and that was lucky! So Wilfrid really meant to avoid her! Well, she would see! And she said:
男人多迟钝啊！因为威尔弗里德是迈克尔的朋友，迈克尔就看不出来，这倒也算幸运！这样看来，威尔弗里德真的打算避开她了！好吧，她倒要瞧瞧！于是她说：
"I'm tired, Michael; let's go home."
“迈克尔，我累了，咱们回家吧。”
His hand slid round her arm.
他轻轻挽住她的胳膊。
"Sorry, old thing; come along!"
“对不起，宝贝，走吧！”
They stood a moment in a neglected doorway, watching Woomans, the conductor, launched towards his orchestra.
他们在一个无人注意的门口站了一会儿，望着乐队指挥伍曼士朝他的管弦乐队走去。
"Look at him," said Michael; "guy hung out of an Italian window, legs and arms all stuffed and flying! And look at the Frapka and her piano—that's a turbulent union!"
“你看他，”迈克尔说，“多像挂在意式小窗上，腿和胳膊把衣服撑得满当当的，还在那儿手舞足蹈着！再看看这位弗莱帕凯和她弹的钢琴曲——真是一团糟！”
There was a strange sound.
突然传来一阵奇怪的声音。
"Melody, by George!" said Michael.
“天啊，这旋律真好听！”迈克尔说道。
An attendant muttered in their ears: "Now, sir, I'm going to shut the door." Fleur had a fleeting view of L.S.D. sitting upright as his hair, with closed eyes. The door was shut—they were outside in the hall.
一位服务生在他们耳边低声说：“先生，我要关门了。”弗勒快速瞥了一眼L. S. D.，他坐得和他头发一样笔直，闭着眼睛。门关上了，他们站在了外面的大厅里。
"Wait here, darling; I'll nick a rickshaw."
“亲爱的，在这等会儿，我去叫辆人力车。”
Fleur huddled her chin in her fur. It was easterly and cold.
弗勒将下巴缩进毛皮领子里。天刮着东风，很冷。
A voice behind her said:
有个声音在她背后说道：
"Well, Fleur, am I going East?"
“喂，弗勒，我该去东方吗？”
Wilfrid! His collar up to his ears, a cigarette between his lips, hands in pockets, eyes devouring.
威尔弗里德！他的衣领竖到耳根，嘴里还叼着烟，双手插兜，眼睛直勾勾地盯着她。
"You're very silly, Wilfrid!"
“你真傻，威尔弗里德！”
"Anything you like; am I going East?"
“随你怎么想，我该去东方吗？”
"No; Sunday morning—eleven o'clock at the Tate. We'll talk it out."
“别去，星期天上午11点，泰特美术馆见。咱俩好好谈谈。”
"Convenu!" And he was gone.
“同意！”说完他就走了。
Alone suddenly, like that, Fleur felt the first shock of reality. Was Wilfrid truly going to be unmanageable? A taxicab ground up; Michael beckoned; Fleur stepped in.
突然就这样孤独地一个人呆在那里，弗勒第一次被现实震撼了。难道威尔弗里德真的要变得难以掌控了吗？一辆出租车停了下来，迈克尔招呼她，弗勒跨了进去。
Passing a passionately lighted oasis of young ladies displaying to the interested Londoner the acme of Parisian undress, she felt Michael incline towards her. If she were going to keep Wilfrid, she must be nice to Michael. Only:
他们经过一片灯红酒绿之地，一群年轻女子正向饶有兴致的伦敦人展示巴黎裸体艺术的最高成就，这时，她感觉迈克尔正朝她凑过来。如果想留住威尔弗里德，她就必须对迈克尔亲热些。她只说：
"You needn't kiss me in Piccadilly Circus, Michael!"
“迈克尔，你没必要在皮卡迪利广场吻我！”
"Sorry, duckie! It's a little previous—I meant to get you opposite the Partheneum."
“对不起，宝贝！我看时间还早，想带你到对面先贤祠去。”
Fleur remembered how he had slept on a Spanish sofa for the first fortnight of their honeymoon; how he always insisted that she must not spend anything on him, but must always let him give her what he liked, though she had three thousand a year and he twelve hundred; how jumpy he was when she had a cold—and how he always came home to tea. Yes, he was a dear! But would she break her heart if he went East or West tomorrow?
弗勒回想起，在他们度蜜月的头两个星期里，他一直睡在西班牙式的沙发上；他一直坚持不让她给他花钱，却总是送她他想送给她的东西，尽管她一年收入3000镑，而他只有1200镑；在她感冒时，他又是多么担心——而且他总是会回家喝下午茶。的确，他真的很可爱！但是，如果明天他打算去东方或者西方的话，她也会伤心吗？
Snuggled against him, she was surprised at her own cynicism.
她依偎在他怀里，不禁为自己的玩世不恭而惊讶。
A telephone message written out, in the hall, ran: "Please tell Mrs. Mont I've got Mr. Gurding Minner. Lady Alisson."
门厅里有一条电话留言，写着：“请转告蒙特太太，我已邀请到格亭·明纳先生。艾莉森夫人。”
It was restful. A real antique! She turned on the lights in her room, and stood for a moment admiring it. Truly pretty! A slight snuffle from the corner—Ting-a-ling, tan on a black cushion, lay like a Chinese lion in miniature; pure, remote, fresh from evening communion with the Square railings.
这让人感觉踏实了。一件真正的古董！她打开房间里的灯，站了一会儿，欣赏着屋子。真美啊！房间的角落里传来一阵轻微的鼻息声——是小叮铃，在黑色垫子上的棕褐色的小家伙，像只小巧的中国狮子躺在那里一样；它纯净、淡漠，刚和广场围栏夜会了一场。
"I see you," said Fleur.
“我看到你了。”弗勒说。
Ting-a-ling did not stir; his round black eyes watched his mistress undress. When she returned from the bathroom he was curled into a ball. Fleur thought: 'Queer! How does he know Michael won't be coming?' And slipping into her well warmed bed, she too curled herself up and slept.
小叮铃一动不动，用浑圆的黑眼睛望着女主人脱衣服。当她从浴室出来，它已蜷缩成一团。弗勒心想：“奇怪！它怎么知道迈克尔不会来？”于是它钻进了弗勒那张舒适而温暖的床里，她也蜷起身子睡了。
But in the night, contrary to her custom, she awoke. A cry—long, weird, trailing, from somewhere—the river—the slums at the back—rousing memory—poignant, aching—of her honeymoon—Granada, its roofs below, jet, ivory, gold; the watchman's cry, the lines in Jon's letter:
但是，到了深夜，她反常地醒了。叫喊声——悠长、怪异、拖曳，不知来自何处——可能来自后面河对岸的贫民窟——唤起了她在格拉纳达度蜜月时伤心刺骨的记忆——格拉纳达的屋顶下，泛起黑玉色、象牙白和金黄色；更夫的叫喊声，让她想起了乔恩信中的那些诗句：
"Voice in the night crying, down in the old sleeping Spanish City darkened under her white stars. What says the voice—its clear, lingering anguish? Just the watchman, telling his dateless tale of safety? Just a road-man, flinging to the moon his song? No! Tis one deprived, whose lover's heart is weeping, Just his cry: 'How long?'"
“深夜里回荡着哭泣声，从古老的沉睡的西班牙城市下传来，在她银白色的星空下黯淡。这声音在诉说什么——是它切肤的挥之不去的痛苦吗？还是巡夜人报着他那无休止的平安？抑或是筑路人对着明月诉说自己的心声？不！这是一位被剥夺权利的人，他恋人的心正在哭泣。他在叫喊：‘还要多久？’”
A cry, or had she dreamed it? Jon, Wilfrid, Michael! No use to have a heart!
是有人在叫喊，还是她在做梦？乔恩、威尔弗里德、迈克尔！她的心已疲惫不堪！
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