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“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 t