第二章（第7/8页）

后来，他想找康妮谈谈守活寡的事……聊聊她有名无实的婚姻状态。但他始终羞于启口。两人既亲密无间，又彼此疏离。精神层面相互交融，但肉体层面却从无交集，而小夫妻又都不愿谈及这令人难堪的事实。两人情深意笃，但全无床笫之乐。

Connie guessed, however, that her father had said something, and that something was in Clifford's mind. She knew that he didn't mind whether she were demi-vierge or demi-monde, so long as he didn't absolutely know, and wasn't made to see. What the eye doesn't see and the mind doesn't know, doesn't exist.

康妮猜出父亲肯定跟克利福德说过什么，而丈夫心中却有些事难以启齿。她明白，自己独守空闺或是红杏出墙，丈夫并不介怀，只要不让他抓到把柄，或者撞个正着。眼不见、心不知的事情，自然就是不存在的。

Connie and Clifford had now been nearly two years at Wragby, living their vague life of absorption in Clifford and his work. Their interests had never ceased to flow together over his work. They talked and wrestled in the throes of composition, and felt as if something were happening, really happening, really in the void.

转眼间，康妮和克利福德已在拉格比府住了将近两年，过着混沌不清的日子，全部精力都集中在克利福德和他的作品上。创作的过程中，两人的兴趣不断高涨、彼此交融。他们相互交换意见，反复推敲，仔细斟酌，深尝创作的艰辛，感觉到那些虚无的故事里，果然发生着什么，的确发生着什么。

And thus far it was a life: in the void. For the rest it was non-existence. Wragby was there, the servants...but spectral, not really existing. Connie went for walks in the park, and in the woods that joined the park, and enjoyed the solitude and the mystery, kicking the brown leaves of autumn, and picking the primroses of spring. But it was all a dream; or rather it was like the simulacrum of reality. The oak-leaves were to her like oak-leaves seen ruffling in a mirror, she herself was a figure somebody had read about, picking primroses that were only shadows or memories, or words. No substance to her or anything...no touch, no contact! Only this life with Clifford, this endless spinning of webs of yarn, of the minutiae of consciousness, these stories Sir Malcolm said there was nothing in, and they wouldn't last. Why should there be anything in them, why should they last? Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Sufficient unto the moment is the appearance of reality.

而这就是迄今为止他们生活的全部——无尽的虚空。此外并无真实的存在。拉格比府仍巍然耸立，仆从们依旧来回奔忙……但这些都如同幽灵般虚幻，并非真实地存在着。康妮时常独自去花园里散步，在通往花园的树林中徜徉，踢踩秋日泛黄的落叶，摘撷春天的樱草花，体味着那里的幽静和神秘。但这一切都只是梦境，或者更像是现实的幻影。在她看来，橡树叶仿佛在镜中摇曳，而自己也化身成书中的人物，采撷着那些投影于镜像中、深埋于记忆里、或者记叙于文字间的樱草花。对她而言，一切都是虚无缥缈的……没有联系，缺少沟通！只有与克利福德的生活，那无穷无尽、曲折离奇的故事情节，细小琐碎的心理变化，还有马尔科姆爵士口中空洞无物、不会长久流传的小说。为什么非要有内涵呢？为什么非得长久流传呢？眼下烦恼已不少，莫为将来空自扰。今朝有酒今朝醉，明日愁来明日忧。

Clifford had quite a number of friends, acquaintances really, and he invited them to Wragby. He invited all sorts of people, critics and writers, people who would help to praise his books. And they were flattered at being asked to Wragby, and they praised. Connie understood it all perfectly. But why not? This was one of the fleeting patterns in the mirror. What was wrong with it? She was hostess to these people...mostly men. She was hostess also to Clifford's occasional aristocratic relations. Being a soft, ruddy, country-looking girl, inclined to freckles, with big blue eyes, and curling, brown hair, and a soft voice, and rather strong, female loins she was considered a little old-fashioned and 'womanly'. She was not a 'little pilchard sort of fish', like a boy, with a boy's flat breast and little buttocks. She was too feminine to be quite smart.