Project Literary

Source Text

Original English version

La señora Dalloway decidió que ella misma compraría las flores. 

Sí, ya que Lucy tendría trabajo más que suficiente. Había que desmontar las puertas; acudirían los operarios de Rumpelmayer. Y entonces Clarissa Dalloway pensó: qué mañana diáfana, cual regalada a unos niños en la playa.

¡Qué fiesta! ¡Qué aventura! Siempre tuvo esta impresión cuando, con un leve gemido de las bisagras, que ahora le pareció oír, abría de par en par el balcón, en Bourton, y salía al aire libre. ¡Qué fresco, qué calmo, más silencioso que éste, desde luego, era el aire a primera hora de la mañana. .! como el golpe de una ola; como el beso de una ola; fresco y penetrante, y sin embargo (para una muchacha de dieciocho años, que eran los que entonces contaba) solemne, con la sensación que la embargaba mientras estaba en pie ante el balcón abierto, de que algo horroroso estaba a punto de ocurrir; mirando las flores mirando los árboles con el humo que sinuoso surgía de ellos, y las cornejas alzándose y descendiendo; y lo contempló, en pie, hasta que Peter Walsh dijo: .¿Meditando entre vegetales?..¿fue eso?., .Prefiero los hombres a las coliflores. ¿fue eso?

Seguramente lo dijo a la hora del desayuno, una mañana en que ella había salido a la terraza. Peter Walsh. Regresaría de la India cualquiera de estos días, en junio o julio, Clarissa Dalloway lo había olvidado debido a lo aburridas que eran sus cartas: lo que una recordaba eran sus dichos, sus ojos, su cortaplumas, su sonrisa, sus malos humores, y, cuando millones de cosas se habían desvanecido totalmente. ¡qué extraño era!., unas cuantas frases como ésta referente a las verduras.

Se detuvo un poco en la acera, para dejar pasar el camión de Durtnall. Mujer encantadora la consideraba Scrope Purvis (quien la conocía como se conoce a la gente que vive en la casa contigua en Westminster); algo de pájaro tenía, algo de grajo, azul-verde, leve, vivaz, a pesar de que había ya cumplido los cincuenta, y de que se había quedado muy blanca a raíz de su enfermedad. Y allí estaba, como posada en una rama, sin ver a Scrope Purvis, esperando el momento de cruzar, muy erguida.

Después de haber vivido en Westminster. ¿Cuántos años llevaba ahora allí?, más de veinte., una siente, incluso en medio del tránsito, o al despertar en la noche, y de ello estaba Clarissa muy cierta, un especial silencio o una solemnidad, una indescriptible pausa, una suspensión (aunque esto quizá fuera debido a su corazón, afectado, según decían; por la gripe), antes de las campanadas del Big Ben. ¡Ahora! Ahora sonaba solemne. Primero un aviso, musical; luego la hora, irrevocable. Los círculos de plomo se disolvieron en el aire.

Mrs. Dalloway decided that she would buy the flowers.

Yes, since Lucy would have more than enough work. The doors had to be dismantled; the Rumpelmayer workers would come. And then Clarissa Dalloway thought: what a clear morning, what a gift to some children on the beach.

 What party? What an adventure!  He always had this impression when, with a faint groan of the hinges, which he now seemed to hear, he opened wide the balcony, in Bourton, and went out into the open air. How cool, how calm, quieter than this, of course, was the air first thing in the morning...! like the blow of a wave; like the kiss of a wave; fresh and penetrating, and yet (to an eighteen-year-old girl, who were the ones then counting) solemn, with the sense that seized her as she stood before the open balcony, that something horrible was about to happen; looking at the flowers with the winding smoke rising from them, and the crows rising and descending; and beholding it, standing, till Peter Walsh said, Meditating among vegetables?.. was that it?., .I prefer men to cauliflowers. was that it?

He probably said it at breakfast time, one morning when she had gone out to the terrace. Peter Walsh. He would return from India any of these days, in June or July, Clarissa Dalloway had forgotten because of how boring her letters were: what one remembered were her sayings, her eyes, her penknife, her smile, her bad moods, and, when millions of things had totally vanished. how strange it was!.., a few phrases like this referring to vegetables.

He stopped a little on the sidewalk, to let Durtnall's truck pass. She was considered a charming woman by Scrope Purvis (who knew her as the people who live next door in Westminster are known); she had something of a bird, something of a dragon, blue-green, slight, vivacious, even though she had already turned fifty, and had turned very white as a result of her illness. And there she was, like an inn on a branch, not seeing Scrope Purvis, waiting for the moment to cross, very upright.

Having lived in Westminster. How many years had he been there now?, more than twenty., one feels, even in the middle of the traffic, or when waking up at night, and of this Clarissa was very certain, a special silence or a solemnity, an indescribable pause, a suspension (although this was perhaps due to her heart, affected, as they said; by the flu), before the chimes of Big Ben. "Now!" Now it sounded solemn. First a warning, musical; then the time, irrevocable. The leaden circles dissolved in the air.

Mrs. Dalloway decided that she would buy the flowers herself.

As Lucy would have more than enough work. The doors had to be dismantled; the workers of Rumpelmayer would come. And then Clarissa Dalloway thought: what an open morning, like a gift to some children on the beach.

¡What a party! What an adventure! He always had this impression when, with a slight groan from the hinges, which he now seemed to hear, he opened wide the balcony in Bourton and went out into the open. ¡How cool, how calm, more silent than this, of course, was the air first thing in the morning..! like the blow of a wave; like the kiss of a wave; fresh and penetrating, and yet (for an eighteen-year-old girl, who were then counting) solemn, with the feeling that overwhelmed her while standing before the open balcony, that something awful was about to happen; looking at the flowers looking at the trees with the smoke that was winding from them, and the crows rising and descending; and he beheld him, standing, until Peter Walsh said: . Meditating among vegetables?.. Was that it?. , . I prefer men to cauliflowers. Was that it?

He probably said it at breakfast time, one morning when she had gone out to the terrace. Peter Walsh. She would return from India any day now, in June or July, Clarissa Dalloway had forgotten it because of how boring her letters were: what one remembered were her sayings, her eyes, her penknife, her smile, her bad moods, and, when millions of things had completely vanished. ¡ how strange it was!. , a few phrases like this referring to vegetables. 

He stopped a little on the sidewalk to let Durtnall’s truck through. She was considered a charming woman by Scrope Purvis (who knew her as the people living in the adjoining house in Westminster were known); some bird had, some rook, blue-green, light, lively, although she had already turned fifty, and that he had become very white from his illness. And there he was, like an inn on a branch, not seeing Scrope Purvis, waiting for the moment to cross, very erect.

After having lived in Westminster. How many years have you been there? more than twenty. , a feeling, even in the middle of the transit, or when waking in the night, and of it Clarissa was very certain, a special silence or a solemnity, an indescribable pause, a suspension (although this perhaps was due to his heart, affected, as they said; by the flu) before the Big Ben chimes. ¡Now! Now it sounded solemn. First a musical warning; then the time, irrevocable. The lead circles dissolved into thin air.

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.

For Lucy had her work cut out for her. The doors would be taken off their hinges; Rumpelmayer's men were coming. And then, thought Clarissa Dalloway, what a morning—fresh as if issued to children on a beach.

What a lark! What a plunge! For so it had always seemed to her, when, with a little squeak of the hinges, which she could hear now, she had burst open the French windows and plunged at Bourton into the open air. How fresh, how calm, stiller than this of course, the air was in the early morning; like the flap of a wave; the kiss of a wave; chill and sharp and yet (for a girl of eighteen as she then was) solemn, feeling as she did, standing there at the open window, that something awful was about to happen; looking at the flowers, at the trees with the smoke winding off them and the rooks rising, falling; standing and looking until Peter Walsh said, "Musing among the vegetables?"—was that it?—"I prefer men to cauliflowers"—was that it?

He must have said it at breakfast one morning when she had gone out on to the terrace—Peter Walsh. He would be back from India one of these days, June or July, she forgot which, for his letters were awfully dull; it was his sayings one remembered; his eyes, his pocket-knife, his smile, his grumpiness and, when millions of things had utterly vanished—how strange it was!—a few sayings like this about cabbages.

She stiffened a little on the kerb, waiting for Durtnall's van to pass. A charming woman, Scrope Purvis thought her (knowing her as one does know people who live next door to one in Westminster); a touch of the bird about her, of the jay, blue-green, light, vivacious, though she was over fifty, and grown very white since her illness. There she perched, never seeing him, waiting to cross, very upright.

For having lived in Westminster – how many years now? over twenty – one feels even in the midst of the traffic, or waking at night, Clarissa was positive, a particular hush, or solemnity; an indescribable pause; a suspense (but that might be her heart, affected, they said, by influenza) before Big Ben strikes. There! Out it boomed. First a warning, musical; then the hour, irrevocable. The leaden circles dissolved in the air.