人性的枷锁 Of Human Bondage【9.02连载至第100章】_派派后花园

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[Novel] 人性的枷锁 Of Human Bondage【9.02连载至第100章】

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wj宝宝

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chapter 18

But Philip could not live long in the rarefied air of the hilltops. What had happened to him when first he was seized by the religious emotion happened to him now. Because he felt so keenly the beauty of faith, because the desire for self-sacrifice burned in his heart with such a gem-like glow, his strength seemed inadequate to his ambition. He was tired out by the violence of his passion. His soul was filled on a sudden with a singular aridity. He began to forget the presence of God which had seemed so surrounding; and his religious exercises, still very punctually performed, grew merely formal. At first he blamed himself for this falling away, and the fear of hell-fire urged him to renewed vehemence; but the passion was dead, and gradually other interests distracted his thoughts.

Philip had few friends. His habit of reading isolated him: it became such a need that after being in company for some time he grew tired and restless; he was vain of the wider knowledge he had acquired from the perusal of so many books, his mind was alert, and he had not the skill to hide his contempt for his companions’ stupidity. They complained that he was conceited; and, since he excelled only in matters which to them were unimportant, they asked satirically what he had to be conceited about. He was developing a sense of humour, and found that he had a knack of saying bitter things, which caught people on the raw; he said them because they amused him, hardly realising how much they hurt, and was much offended when he found that his victims regarded him with active dislike. The humiliations he suffered when first he went to school had caused in him a shrinking from his fellows which he could never entirely overcome; he remained shy and silent. But though he did everything to alienate the sympathy of other boys he longed with all his heart for the popularity which to some was so easily accorded. These from his distance he admired extravagantly; and though he was inclined to be more sarcastic with them than with others, though he made little jokes at their expense, he would have given anything to change places with them. Indeed he would gladly have changed places with the dullest boy in the school who was whole of limb. He took to a singular habit. He would imagine that he was some boy whom he had a particular fancy for; he would throw his soul, as it were, into the other’s body, talk with his voice and laugh with his heart; he would imagine himself doing all the things the other did. It was so vivid that he seemed for a moment really to be no longer himself. In this way he enjoyed many intervals of fantastic happiness.

At the beginning of the Christmas term which followed on his confirmation Philip found himself moved into another study. One of the boys who shared it was called Rose. He was in the same form as Philip, and Philip had always looked upon him with envious admiration. He was not good-looking; though his large hands and big bones suggested that he would be a tall man, he was clumsily made; but his eyes were charming, and when he laughed (he was constantly laughing) his face wrinkled all round them in a jolly way. He was neither clever nor stupid, but good enough at his work and better at games. He was a favourite with masters and boys, and he in his turn liked everyone.

When Philip was put in the study he could not help seeing that the others, who had been together for three terms, welcomed him coldly. It made him nervous to feel himself an intruder; but he had learned to hide his feelings, and they found him quiet and unobtrusive. With Rose, because he was as little able as anyone else to resist his charm, Philip was even more than usually shy and abrupt; and whether on account of this, unconsciously bent upon exerting the fascination he knew was his only by the results, or whether from sheer kindness of heart, it was Rose who first took Philip into the circle. One day, quite suddenly, he asked Philip if he would walk to the football field with him. Philip flushed.

‘I can’t walk fast enough for you,’ he said.

‘Rot. Come on.’

And just before they were setting out some boy put his head in the study-door and asked Rose to go with him.

‘I can’t,’ he answered. ‘I’ve already promised Carey.’

‘Don’t bother about me,’ said Philip quickly. ‘I shan’t mind.’

‘Rot,’ said Rose.

He looked at Philip with those good-natured eyes of his and laughed. Philip felt a curious tremor in his heart.

In a little while, their friendship growing with boyish rapidity, the pair were inseparable. Other fellows wondered at the sudden intimacy, and Rose was asked what he saw in Philip.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘He’s not half a bad chap really.’

Soon they grew accustomed to the two walking into chapel arm in arm or strolling round the precincts in conversation; wherever one was the other could be found also, and, as though acknowledging his proprietorship, boys who wanted Rose would leave messages with Carey. Philip at first was reserved. He would not let himself yield entirely to the proud joy that filled him; but presently his distrust of the fates gave way before a wild happiness. He thought Rose the most wonderful fellow he had ever seen. His books now were insignificant; he could not bother about them when there was something infinitely more important to occupy him. Rose’s friends used to come in to tea in the study sometimes or sit about when there was nothing better to do—Rose liked a crowd and the chance of a rag—and they found that Philip was quite a decent fellow. Philip was happy.

When the last day of term came he and Rose arranged by which train they should come back, so that they might meet at the station and have tea in the town before returning to school. Philip went home with a heavy heart. He thought of Rose all through the holidays, and his fancy was active with the things they would do together next term. He was bored at the vicarage, and when on the last day his uncle put him the usual question in the usual facetious tone:

‘Well, are you glad to be going back to school?’

Philip answered joyfully.

‘Rather.’

In order to be sure of meeting Rose at the station he took an earlier train than he usually did, and he waited about the platform for an hour. When the train came in from Faversham, where he knew Rose had to change, he ran along it excitedly. But Rose was not there. He got a porter to tell him when another train was due, and he waited; but again he was disappointed; and he was cold and hungry, so he walked, through side-streets and slums, by a short cut to the school. He found Rose in the study, with his feet on the chimney-piece, talking eighteen to the dozen with half a dozen boys who were sitting on whatever there was to sit on. He shook hands with Philip enthusiastically, but Philip’s face fell, for he realised that Rose had forgotten all about their appointment.

‘I say, why are you so late?’ said Rose. ‘I thought you were never coming.’

‘You were at the station at half-past four,’ said another boy. ‘I saw you when I came.’

Philip blushed a little. He did not want Rose to know that he had been such a fool as to wait for him.

‘I had to see about a friend of my people’s,’ he invented readily. ‘I was asked to see her off.’

But his disappointment made him a little sulky. He sat in silence, and when spoken to answered in monosyllables. He was making up his mind to have it out with Rose when they were alone. But when the others had gone Rose at once came over and sat on the arm of the chair in which Philip was lounging.

‘I say, I’m jolly glad we’re in the same study this term. Ripping, isn’t it?’

He seemed so genuinely pleased to see Philip that Philip’s annoyance vanished. They began as if they had not been separated for five minutes to talk eagerly of the thousand things that interested them.



第十八章

但是，菲利普不可能在山巅稀薄的空气中长久地生活下去。他上回沉浸在宗教热忱之中的那一幕，现在又再度重演了。因为他深切感受到信仰的魅力，因为自我牺牲的渴望之火在他胸中燃烧，迸射出宝石般的异彩，所以他显得有点力不从心。激情的猛烈冲动，把他的精力消耗一空。他的心灵突然像遇上一场百年未遇的大旱，完全干枯了。他开始把那位似乎无时不有、无处不在的上帝抛到了脑后。尽管他现在照样按时祈祷，做礼拜，但不过是摆摆样子，走走过场罢了。一上来，他还责备自己不该半途而废，再加上对于地狱之火的恐惧，曾一度驱使他振作起来。但是，热情已化为一堆灰烬，再说，生活中另外一些使他感兴趣的事，也逐渐分散了他的心思。

菲利普没有什么朋友。他酷爱读书的这一雅批癖，使他变得落落寡合。披卷破帙成了他生活的第一需要，他无论和谁呆在一块儿，不多一会便感到厌倦和烦躁；他自恃博览群书，学识丰富，不把旁人放在眼里；他思想敏捷，又不善于掩饰，对于同伴们的愚昧无知，轻蔑之情往往溢于言表。同窗学友抱怨他尾巴翘到了天上；在他们看来，菲利普又不是在什么了不起的事情上胜他们一筹，所以常反唇相讥，问他究竟凭什么这么目中无人。菲利普逐渐显示出辛辣的幽默感，自有一套挖苦人的功夫，一开口就能触到别人的痛处。对他来说，讲些调皮刻薄的话，无非是觉得有趣罢了，很少想到自己的话锋有多厉害，而等他发现被他挖苦过的人就此怀恨在心，他又自怨自艾起来。初进学校时所蒙受的种种屈辱，使他对那些同窗学友避之唯恐不及；他始终没法完全摆脱这种畏葸心理，始终那么忸怩腼腆，沉默寡言。其实，尽管他视同窗为异己，尽量敬而远之，然而心底里却渴望得到他们的拥戴，这对有些孩子来说，似乎易如反掌。他暗暗闪在一旁，对这些孩子崇拜得五体投地。虽说他讥讽起他们来往往更不留情面，而且常常当众取笑他们，可是他愿意拿自己的一切去换取他们的地位。说实在的，他心甘情愿做个全校脑子最不开窍的蠢学生，只要四肢健全就行。菲利普渐渐养成一种怪癖，常把自己想象成某个他特别为之着迷的孩子，也可以说，是把自己的灵魂倾注进那个孩子的躯体里，用那孩子的声音讲话，学那孩子的腔调嬉笑；想象自己是在做着那个孩子所做的一切。他想象得如此真切，一时间竟觉得自己真的变成了另一个人啦。他就是用这种办法，时而领略一番异想天开的欢乐。

行过坚信礼之后，学校放圣诞节假。节后新学期一开始，菲利普搬进了另一间书室。同室的孩子中，有个叫罗斯的，是菲利普的同班同学，菲利普对他既敬慕又忌妒。那孩子其貌不扬：他粗手大脚，腰宽肩阔，说明他将来准是个大高个儿。他长相粗笨，但那双眼睛倒是挺迷人的，每当他咧嘴一笑（他经常笑逐颜开），眼角周围的皮肤就皱编起来，样子挺有趣。罗斯这孩子谈不上聪明，也算不得尽笨，不过功课还不错，在游戏方面更是样样拿手。他是教师和同学心目中的宠儿，而他自己呢，也喜欢周围所有的人。

菲利普被安置在这间书室之后，一眼就注意到同室的其他人对自己相当冷淡。他们几个朝夕相处，已在一起住了三个学期。他颇感不安，觉得自己是个擅自闯入的异客。不过，他已学会了如何掩饰自己的情感，所以给人的印象是整天门声不响，挺安分守己的。菲利普同其他孩子一样，无法抵御罗斯的魅力，在罗斯面前越发显得羞涩、慌张。哪知正是这位罗斯，首先采取行动，把菲利普拉进了他们的生活圈子。至于罗斯为什么要这么做，是由于见到菲利普的扭妮、慌张，情不自禁地想在他身上试验一下自己的特殊魅力呢，还是纯粹出于一片好意，这就不得而知了。一天，他相当突然地问菲利普是否愿意同自己一起去足球场。菲利普涨红了脸。

"我走不快，跟不上你的，"他说。

"废话，走吧！"

他们正要动身，有个学生打书室门口探头进来。招呼罗斯同行。

"不行，"他回答说，"我已经答应了凯里。"

"别为我费心，"菲利普赶紧说，"我不会介意的。"

"废话，"罗斯说。

他用那双温厚的眼睛打量了菲利普一番，哈哈大笑起来。不知怎地，菲利普感到心头一阵颤动。

他俩就像一般男孩那样，说好就好，没多久，便成了一对形影不离的友伴。别的同学看到他俩突然这么热乎好生奇怪，有人问罗斯看中了菲利普哪一点。

"噢，我也不知道，"他回答说，"说真的，他这个人一点儿也不赖嘛。"

不久同学们也习惯了：他们经常看到他俩手挽手地上教堂，或是在教堂园地里漫步交谈；不管在哪儿，只要发现其中一个，另一个也必定在场。凡是有事找罗斯的，都会托凯里传个口信，似乎是承认罗斯已是非他莫属。起初，菲利普还颇有几分节制，不让自己因喜从天降而忘乎所以；但是没多久，他对命运的怀疑在如醉似狂的幸福面前涣然冰释了。他认为罗斯是他生平遇到的最了不起的人物。他爱不释手的那些书籍，现在也变得微不足道，可有可无的了；还有某些不知重要多少倍的事有待于他去做呢，岂能死捧书本不放！罗斯的朋友们无事可干的时候，常常到他书室来喝茶、闲坐--罗斯生性爱热闹，从不放过逗乐的机会--他们觉得菲利普是个挺正派的人。菲利普自然是满心喜欢。

转眼已是学期的最后一天，他和罗斯筹划假满返校时该乘哪一趟班车，这样他们就可以在此地车站碰头，一起在城里用茶点，然后再回学校。菲利普郁郁不乐地回到家里，整个假期，没有一天不在思念罗斯，脑瓜里浮想联翩，已在想象着下学期他俩会在一块儿做些什么了。他在牧师公馆里都待得发腻了。到了假期的最后一天，他大伯照例用那种开玩笑的口吻问他那个老问题：

"嗯，要回学校去罗，心里可高兴？"

菲利普快活地应了一声：

"那还用说！"

原来已讲好什么时候在车站碰头，但为万全起见，菲利普特地改乘早一班车提前来了。他在月台附近等了一个小时。等那趟从法弗沙姆开来的班车进站时，菲利普激动得随着火车奔跑起来，他知道罗斯一定得在法弗沙姆换车的。但是罗斯没乘这班车来。菲利普向搬运夫打听了下班火车什么时候到站，又继续等下去，然而再次大失所望。他又冷又饿，只得穿小巷，经贫民窟抄近路走回学校。哪知罗斯人已在书室里了，只见他两只脚搁在壁炉架上，同六七个同学海阔天空地闲扯，那些同学东一个西一个到处乱坐着。罗斯很热情地同菲利普握手，菲利普却拉长了脸。他明白，罗斯早把约定好要在车站碰头的事忘了个精光。

"嘿，你怎么到这时候才来啊！"罗斯说，"我还以为你永远不来了呢。"

"你四点半就到火车站了，"另一个同学说道，"我来的时候看见你的。"

菲利普的脸微微泛起红晕。他不想让罗斯知道自己竟像个傻瓜似地候在车站上。

"我得照顾家里的一个朋友，"罗斯随口编了套词儿，"他们要我送她一程

不管怎么说，朋友的爽约使他有点悻然。他一声不吭坐着，有人同他说话，他只是哼哼哈哈地勉强应付。菲利普打定主意，要等自己同罗斯单独在一起时，再向他兴师问罪。但是，等别人陆续离去之后，罗斯马上走到他跟前，菲利普则懒洋洋地靠在椅背上。罗斯一屁股坐在那把椅子的扶手上。

"嘿，我好高兴哪，咱俩这学期又是住在同一间书室里。真带劲，不是吗？"

见到菲利普他似乎真是打心眼里感到高兴，这一来菲利普肚子里一股怒气顿时烟消云散了。他俩就像分手还不满五分钟似的，又津津有味地谈起他们感兴趣的千百桩事儿来。

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chapter 19

At first Philip had been too grateful for Rose’s friendship to make any demands on him. He took things as they came and enjoyed life. But presently he began to resent Rose’s universal amiability; he wanted a more exclusive attachment, and he claimed as a right what before he had accepted as a favour. He watched jealously Rose’s companionship with others; and though he knew it was unreasonable could not help sometimes saying bitter things to him. If Rose spent an hour playing the fool in another study, Philip would receive him when he returned to his own with a sullen frown. He would sulk for a day, and he suffered more because Rose either did not notice his ill-humour or deliberately ignored it. Not seldom Philip, knowing all the time how stupid he was, would force a quarrel, and they would not speak to one another for a couple of days. But Philip could not bear to be angry with him long, and even when convinced that he was in the right, would apologise humbly. Then for a week they would be as great friends as ever. But the best was over, and Philip could see that Rose often walked with him merely from old habit or from fear of his anger; they had not so much to say to one another as at first, and Rose was often bored. Philip felt that his lameness began to irritate him.

Towards the end of the term two or three boys caught scarlet fever, and there was much talk of sending them all home in order to escape an epidemic; but the sufferers were isolated, and since no more were attacked it was supposed that the outbreak was stopped. One of the stricken was Philip. He remained in hospital through the Easter holidays, and at the beginning of the summer term was sent home to the vicarage to get a little fresh air. The Vicar, notwithstanding medical assurance that the boy was no longer infectious, received him with suspicion; he thought it very inconsiderate of the doctor to suggest that his nephew’s convalescence should be spent by the seaside, and consented to have him in the house only because there was nowhere else he could go.

Philip went back to school at half-term. He had forgotten the quarrels he had had with Rose, but remembered only that he was his greatest friend. He knew that he had been silly. He made up his mind to be more reasonable. During his illness Rose had sent him in a couple of little notes, and he had ended each with the words: ‘Hurry up and come back.’ Philip thought Rose must be looking forward as much to his return as he was himself to seeing Rose.

He found that owing to the death from scarlet fever of one of the boys in the Sixth there had been some shifting in the studies and Rose was no longer in his. It was a bitter disappointment. But as soon as he arrived he burst into Rose’s study. Rose was sitting at his desk, working with a boy called Hunter, and turned round crossly as Philip came in.

‘Who the devil’s that?’ he cried. And then, seeing Philip: ‘Oh, it’s you.’

Philip stopped in embarrassment.

‘I thought I’d come in and see how you were.’

‘We were just working.’

Hunter broke into the conversation.

‘When did you get back?’

‘Five minutes ago.’

They sat and looked at him as though he was disturbing them. They evidently expected him to go quickly. Philip reddened.

‘I’ll be off. You might look in when you’ve done,’ he said to Rose.

‘All right.’

Philip closed the door behind him and limped back to his own study. He felt frightfully hurt. Rose, far from seeming glad to see him, had looked almost put out. They might never have been more than acquaintances. Though he waited in his study, not leaving it for a moment in case just then Rose should come, his friend never appeared; and next morning when he went in to prayers he saw Rose and Hunter singing along arm in arm. What he could not see for himself others told him. He had forgotten that three months is a long time in a schoolboy’s life, and though he had passed them in solitude Rose had lived in the world. Hunter had stepped into the vacant place. Philip found that Rose was quietly avoiding him. But he was not the boy to accept a situation without putting it into words; he waited till he was sure Rose was alone in his study and went in.

‘May I come in?’ he asked.

Rose looked at him with an embarrassment that made him angry with Philip.

‘Yes, if you want to.’

‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Philip sarcastically.

‘What d’you want?’

‘I say, why have you been so rotten since I came back?’

‘Oh, don’t be an ass,’ said Rose.

‘I don’t know what you see in Hunter.’

‘That’s my business.’

Philip looked down. He could not bring himself to say what was in his heart. He was afraid of humiliating himself. Rose got up.

‘I’ve got to go to the Gym,’ he said.

When he was at the door Philip forced himself to speak.

‘I say, Rose, don’t be a perfect beast.’

‘Oh, go to hell.’

Rose slammed the door behind him and left Philip alone. Philip shivered with rage. He went back to his study and turned the conversation over in his mind. He hated Rose now, he wanted to hurt him, he thought of biting things he might have said to him. He brooded over the end to their friendship and fancied that others were talking of it. In his sensitiveness he saw sneers and wonderings in other fellows’ manner when they were not bothering their heads with him at all. He imagined to himself what they were saying.

‘After all, it wasn’t likely to last long. I wonder he ever stuck Carey at all. Blighter!’

To show his indifference he struck up a violent friendship with a boy called Sharp whom he hated and despised. He was a London boy, with a loutish air, a heavy fellow with the beginnings of a moustache on his lip and bushy eyebrows that joined one another across the bridge of his nose. He had soft hands and manners too suave for his years. He spoke with the suspicion of a cockney accent. He was one of those boys who are too slack to play games, and he exercised great ingenuity in making excuses to avoid such as were compulsory. He was regarded by boys and masters with a vague dislike, and it was from arrogance that Philip now sought his society. Sharp in a couple of terms was going to Germany for a year. He hated school, which he looked upon as an indignity to be endured till he was old enough to go out into the world. London was all he cared for, and he had many stories to tell of his doings there during the holidays. From his conversation—he spoke in a soft, deep-toned voice—there emerged the vague rumour of the London streets by night. Philip listened to him at once fascinated and repelled. With his vivid fancy he seemed to see the surging throng round the pit-door of theatres, and the glitter of cheap restaurants, bars where men, half drunk, sat on high stools talking with barmaids; and under the street lamps the mysterious passing of dark crowds bent upon pleasure. Sharp lent him cheap novels from Holywell Row, which Philip read in his cubicle with a sort of wonderful fear.

Once Rose tried to effect a reconciliation. He was a good-natured fellow, who did not like having enemies.

‘I say, Carey, why are you being such a silly ass? It doesn’t do you any good cutting me and all that.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ answered Philip.

‘Well, I don’t see why you shouldn’t talk.’

‘You bore me,’ said Philip.

‘Please yourself.’

Rose shrugged his shoulders and left him. Philip was very white, as he always became when he was moved, and his heart beat violently. When Rose went away he felt suddenly sick with misery. He did not know why he had answered in that fashion. He would have given anything to be friends with Rose. He hated to have quarrelled with him, and now that he saw he had given him pain he was very sorry. But at the moment he had not been master of himself. It seemed that some devil had seized him, forcing him to say bitter things against his will, even though at the time he wanted to shake hands with Rose and meet him more than halfway. The desire to wound had been too strong for him. He had wanted to revenge himself for the pain and the humiliation he had endured. It was pride: it was folly too, for he knew that Rose would not care at all, while he would suffer bitterly. The thought came to him that he would go to Rose, and say:

‘I say, I’m sorry I was such a beast. I couldn’t help it. Let’s make it up.’

But he knew he would never be able to do it. He was afraid that Rose would sneer at him. He was angry with himself, and when Sharp came in a little while afterwards he seized upon the first opportunity to quarrel with him. Philip had a fiendish instinct for discovering other people’s raw spots, and was able to say things that rankled because they were true. But Sharp had the last word.

‘I heard Rose talking about you to Mellor just now,’ he said. ‘Mellor said: Why didn’t you kick him? It would teach him manners. And Rose said: I didn’t like to. Damned cripple.’

Philip suddenly became scarlet. He could not answer, for there was a lump in his throat that almost choked him.



第十九章

起初，菲利普对罗斯向他表示的友情简直是感激涕零，从不对他提出任何要求。他一切听其自然，倒也过得很快活。但是时隔不久，他看到罗斯在任何人面前都那么和蔼可亲，开始忿忿不满起来，他要求的是一种专一笃实的情谊，过去作为恩惠接受下来的东西，现在却视为非我莫属了。他用妒忌的眼光注视着罗斯同别的孩子交往，尽管自知理亏，可有时还是忍不住要挖苦罗斯几句。要是罗斯在别人书室里消磨了个把小时，那么等他回到自己书室时，菲利普就皱眉蹙额给他看冷脸子。他常常一整天闷闷不乐；而罗斯呢，不是没有注意到他在耍脾气，就是故意不加理会，这就使菲利普倍觉伤心。他明明知道自己傻透了，但还是不止一次地同罗斯寻衅吵架，接着两人一连几天不讲话。然而翻脸的时间一长，菲利普又熬不住了，即使有时相信自己没错，也还是低声下气地向罗斯赔礼道歉。后来他们又言归于好，像过去一样亲密无间地好了一个星期。但是，友谊的黄金时代已去而返，菲利普看得出来，罗斯同他一起散步，往往是出于固有的习惯，或者是怕他发脾气；他们已不像当初那般情投意合，无话不谈。罗斯常常感到不胜厌烦。菲利普感觉得到，自己的瘸腿开始惹罗斯讨厌了。

学期快结束时，有两三个学生染上了猩红热。学校里一时议论纷纷，要求把他们送回家去，免得疫病传播开来。结果患者给隔离了起来，后来也没有学生再被感染上，大家这才放了心。一场时疫总算及时制止住了。菲利普是猩红热患者之一，整个复活节假期都是在医院里度过的。夏季学明开始时，他被送回牧师公馆疗养，透透新鲜空气。虽然医生打了包票，说菲利普的病已过了传染期，但牧师仍疑虑重重，认为医生建议他侄子到海边来疗养实属考虑不周，而他同意菲利普回家来，也是出于无奈，因为实在没有别的地方好送他去。

菲利普过了半个学期才回到学校。他已经把同罗斯口角争吵的事儿忘了，只记得罗斯是他的莫逆之交。他明白自己过去太傻了，决心以后要通情达理些。在他养病期间，罗斯曾寄来过几封短信，在每封信的结尾处，都祝他"早日康复返校"。菲利普想，罗斯一定在盼着他归来，其心情之迫切，就像自己想见到罗斯一样。

菲利普得知，由于六年级有个学生死于猩红热，书室已作了一些调整，罗斯边不再同他住在一块了。多扫兴！菲利普一到学校，直奔罗斯的书室，径自闯了进去。罗斯正坐在书桌旁，同一个名叫亨特的同学一道做功课。菲利普进门时，罗斯倏地转过身来。

"是哪个冒失鬼？"他大喝一声，然后定睛一看，"哟，原来是你啊。"

菲利普尴尬地收住脚步。

"我想进来瞧瞧你身体可好。"

"我们正在做功课哪。"

亨特从旁插了一句。

"你什么时候回来的？"

"才一回来五分钟。"

他们端坐不动，只是盯着他望，似乎嫌他来得不是时候。显然，他们巴不得菲利普快点走开。菲利普飞红了脸。

"我这就走。你做完了功课，是不是请到我房问来坐坐，"他朝罗斯说。

"好的。"

菲利普随手带上了门，一瘸一拐地朝自己书室走去。他好不伤心。罗斯见到自己，非但一点儿也不感到高兴，反而面现愠色，似乎他俩一向不过是泛泛之交罢了。他守在自己书室里，一步也不敢离开，生怕罗斯正巧这时来找他，不料他那位朋友始终没露面。第二天早上，他刚开始做晨祷，只见罗斯同亨特勾肩搭背，大摇大摆走了过去。别人把他走后的情形，一五一十地说给他听。菲利普忘了，在一个人的学生时代，三个月的时光。可不能算短哪。在这段时间里，他离群索居，养病在家，而罗斯却是生活在熙熙攘攘的人世之中。亨特正好填补了这个空缺。菲利普发觉罗斯一直在悄悄地回避自己。然而菲利普叶不是那种遇事迁就，有话也任其憋在肚子里的孩子；他在等待机会，等到确信只有罗斯一个人呆在书室里毕的时候，他走了进去。

"可以进来吗？"他问。

罗斯瞪着眼，尴尬之余不禁迁怒于菲利普。

"嗯，随你的便。"

"那就多谢您罗！"菲利普语中带刺地说。

"你来有何贵于？"

"听我说，打我回来后，你干吗变得这么窝囊？"

"噢，别说蠢话了，"罗斯说。

"真不懂你看上了亨特哪一点。"

"这你可管不着。"

菲利普垂下眼睑，满肚子的话却不知从何说起。他怕失言丢丑。罗斯站起身来。

"飞得上健身房去了，"他说。

他昂首阔步走到门口时，菲利普硬从喉咙日挤出一句话来：

"听我说，罗斯，别那么不讲情义。"

"哼，去你的吧。"

罗斯砰地一声把门带上，任菲利普一个人留在房里。菲利普气得浑身直哆嗦。他跑回自己的书室，脑子里反复回想着刚才的一席话。他现在恨罗斯，一定要设法报复，也让他难受难受，又想到刚才原可以说点什么挖苦他一下。菲利普沮丧地暗自嘀咕，这场情谊就此告吹啦，不知旁人会在背后怎么风言风语呢。他出于神经过敏，似乎在其他同学的言谈举止中看到了各种嘲讽和诧异的表示，其实他们才不把他放在心里呢。他想象着别人在怎么私下议论这件事。

"毕竟是好景不长嘛。真不知道他怎么会和凯里好上的，那么个讨厌家伙！"

为了显得白己对这事满不在乎，菲利普突然同一个自己一向讨厌而且瞧不起的同学打得火热。这同学叫夏普，是从伦敦来的，一副粗俗相：矮胖个儿，嘴唇上盖着一层刚长出来的绒髭，两道浓眉在鼻梁上方合到了一块。一双软绵绵的手，举止斯文得同他的年龄不相称。说起话来，带点儿伦敦土腔。他是属于行动过于迟钝而干脆什么游戏也不参加的那类学生，为了逃避学校规定必须参加的活动项目，他还挖空心思编造些借口来。同学和教师对他总隐隐有种厌恶之感。而菲利普现在主动同他结交，纯粹是出于牛心眼赌气。再过两个学期，夏普将要去德国，在那儿呆上一年。他讨厌上学，把求学念书看作是有失体面的苦差事，而在长大成人踏入社会之前又非得忍受不可。除了伦敦之外，他对什么也不感兴趣，而关于自己假期里在伦敦的活动，他有一肚子的故事好讲。他说起话来柔声细气，喉音低沉，言谈里似乎萦绕着伦敦街头夜生活的袅袅余音。菲利普听了既心荡神迷，又不胜厌恶。凭着他活跃的想象力，菲利普恍惚看到了剧院正厅门周围蜂拥的人流；看到了低级餐馆和酒吧间里的炫目灯；光，一些似醉非醉的汉子坐在高脚凳上，同侍女们搭讪攀谈；看到了路灯下影影绰绰的人群，神秘莫测地来来往往，一心想寻欢作乐。夏普把一些从霍利韦尔街买来的廉价小说借给菲利普，菲利普便一头躲进斗室，怀着某种奇妙的恐惧看了起来。

有一回，罗斯试图同菲利普言归于好。他性情温和，不喜欢结冤树敌。

"我说，凯里，你发这么大的傻劲，何苦来着？你不理睬我，对你自己又有什么好处呢？"

"我不明白你的意思，"菲利普回答道。

"嗯，我是说，咱俩何必连句话也不讲呢？"

"你使我讨厌。"

"那就请便吧。"

罗斯一耸肩，转身走开了。菲利普脸色煞白--每当他感情冲动时总是这样--心儿怦怦直跳。罗斯走后，他突然感到悲痛欲绝。他不明白自己干吗要那样回答罗斯。只要能同罗斯重归于好，他付愿牺牲一切。地怨恨自己刚才和罗斯发生了口角；看到自己给罗斯带来了痛苦，他感到十分内疚。但是在那当口上，他实在控制不了自己，就像魔鬼缠身似的，冲口说了些违心的刻薄话，其实，即使此时此刻，他何尝不想主动找上门去，同罗斯握手言欢。然而，他雪耻泄恨的欲望实在太强烈了。他一直想为自己所忍受的痛苦和屈辱找机会报复一下。这是自尊心在作怪，而这种做法又是多么愚蠢，因为他明知罗斯根本不会把这放在心上，自己反倒要为此备受折磨。他脑子里忽然闪过这样一个念头：去找罗斯，对他说：

"喂，对不起，我刚才太蛮不讲理了。我也实在没法子。让咱俩不记前隙，和好吧。"

然而他知道，自己说什么也不会这么干的。他怕招罗斯耻笑。他不由得生起自己的气来。不一会儿，夏普走了进来，菲利普一找到个碴儿就同他吵了一架。他具有一种揭别人伤疤的残忍本能，而且往往也因其一针见血而特别招人怨恨。可是这回，亮出致命绝招的却是夏普。

"嘿，我刚才听到罗斯同梅勒讲到你啦，"夏普说。"梅勒说：'那你干吗不飞腿给他一脚？这可以教训教训他，让他懂点规矩嘛！'罗斯说：'我才不屑这么干呢。该死的瘸子！'"

菲利普蓦地涨红脸，半晌回不出一句话来，喉咙口哽住了，几乎连气也透不过来。
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chapter 20

Philip was moved into the Sixth, but he hated school now with all his heart, and, having lost his ambition, cared nothing whether he did ill or well. He awoke in the morning with a sinking heart because he must go through another day of drudgery. He was tired of having to do things because he was told; and the restrictions irked him, not because they were unreasonable, but because they were restrictions. He yearned for freedom. He was weary of repeating things that he knew already and of the hammering away, for the sake of a thick-witted fellow, at something that he understood from the beginning.

With Mr. Perkins you could work or not as you chose. He was at once eager and abstracted. The Sixth Form room was in a part of the old abbey which had been restored, and it had a gothic window: Philip tried to cheat his boredom by drawing this over and over again; and sometimes out of his head he drew the great tower of the Cathedral or the gateway that led into the precincts. He had a knack for drawing. Aunt Louisa during her youth had painted in water colours, and she had several albums filled with sketches of churches, old bridges, and picturesque cottages. They were often shown at the vicarage tea-parties. She had once given Philip a paint-box as a Christmas present, and he had started by copying her pictures. He copied them better than anyone could have expected, and presently he did little pictures of his own. Mrs. Carey encouraged him. It was a good way to keep him out of mischief, and later on his sketches would be useful for bazaars. Two or three of them had been framed and hung in his bed-room.

But one day, at the end of the morning’s work, Mr. Perkins stopped him as he was lounging out of the form-room.

‘I want to speak to you, Carey.’

Philip waited. Mr. Perkins ran his lean fingers through his beard and looked at Philip. He seemed to be thinking over what he wanted to say.

‘What’s the matter with you, Carey?’ he said abruptly.

Philip, flushing, looked at him quickly. But knowing him well by now, without answering, he waited for him to go on.

‘I’ve been dissatisfied with you lately. You’ve been slack and inattentive. You seem to take no interest in your work. It’s been slovenly and bad.’

‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ said Philip.

‘Is that all you have to say for yourself?’

Philip looked down sulkily. How could he answer that he was bored to death?

‘You know, this term you’ll go down instead of up. I shan’t give you a very good report.’

Philip wondered what he would say if he knew how the report was treated. It arrived at breakfast, Mr. Carey glanced at it indifferently, and passed it over to Philip.

‘There’s your report. You’d better see what it says,’ he remarked, as he ran his fingers through the wrapper of a catalogue of second-hand books.

Philip read it.

‘Is it good?’ asked Aunt Louisa.

‘Not so good as I deserve,’ answered Philip, with a smile, giving it to her.

‘I’ll read it afterwards when I’ve got my spectacles,’ she said.

But after breakfast Mary Ann came in to say the butcher was there, and she generally forgot.

Mr. Perkins went on.

‘I’m disappointed with you. And I can’t understand. I know you can do things if you want to, but you don’t seem to want to any more. I was going to make you a monitor next term, but I think I’d better wait a bit.’

Philip flushed. He did not like the thought of being passed over. He tightened his lips.

‘And there’s something else. You must begin thinking of your scholarship now. You won’t get anything unless you start working very seriously.’

Philip was irritated by the lecture. He was angry with the headmaster, and angry with himself.

‘I don’t think I’m going up to Oxford,’ he said.

‘Why not? I thought your idea was to be ordained.’

‘I’ve changed my mind.’

‘Why?’

Philip did not answer. Mr. Perkins, holding himself oddly as he always did, like a figure in one of Perugino’s pictures, drew his fingers thoughtfully through his beard. He looked at Philip as though he were trying to understand and then abruptly told him he might go.

Apparently he was not satisfied, for one evening, a week later, when Philip had to go into his study with some papers, he resumed the conversation; but this time he adopted a different method: he spoke to Philip not as a schoolmaster with a boy but as one human being with another. He did not seem to care now that Philip’s work was poor, that he ran small chance against keen rivals of carrying off the scholarship necessary for him to go to Oxford: the important matter was his changed intention about his life afterwards. Mr. Perkins set himself to revive his eagerness to be ordained. With infinite skill he worked on his feelings, and this was easier since he was himself genuinely moved. Philip’s change of mind caused him bitter distress, and he really thought he was throwing away his chance of happiness in life for he knew not what. His voice was very persuasive. And Philip, easily moved by the emotion of others, very emotional himself notwithstanding a placid exterior—his face, partly by nature but also from the habit of all these years at school, seldom except by his quick flushing showed what he felt—Philip was deeply touched by what the master said. He was very grateful to him for the interest he showed, and he was conscience-stricken by the grief which he felt his behaviour caused him. It was subtly flattering to know that with the whole school to think about Mr. Perkins should trouble with him, but at the same time something else in him, like another person standing at his elbow, clung desperately to two words.

‘I won’t. I won’t. I won’t.’

He felt himself slipping. He was powerless against the weakness that seemed to well up in him; it was like the water that rises up in an empty bottle held over a full basin; and he set his teeth, saying the words over and over to himself.

‘I won’t. I won’t. I won’t.’

At last Mr. Perkins put his hand on Philip’s shoulder.

‘I don’t want to influence you,’ he said. ‘You must decide for yourself. Pray to Almighty God for help and guidance.’

When Philip came out of the headmaster’s house there was a light rain falling. He went under the archway that led to the precincts, there was not a soul there, and the rooks were silent in the elms. He walked round slowly. He felt hot, and the rain did him good. He thought over all that Mr. Perkins had said, calmly now that he was withdrawn from the fervour of his personality, and he was thankful he had not given way.

In the darkness he could but vaguely see the great mass of the Cathedral: he hated it now because of the irksomeness of the long services which he was forced to attend. The anthem was interminable, and you had to stand drearily while it was being sung; you could not hear the droning sermon, and your body twitched because you had to sit still when you wanted to move about. Then philip thought of the two services every Sunday at Blackstable. The church was bare and cold, and there was a smell all about one of pomade and starched clothes. The curate preached once and his uncle preached once. As he grew up he had learned to know his uncle; Philip was downright and intolerant, and he could not understand that a man might sincerely say things as a clergyman which he never acted up to as a man. The deception outraged him. His uncle was a weak and selfish man, whose chief desire it was to be saved trouble.

Mr. Perkins had spoken to him of the beauty of a life dedicated to the service of God. Philip knew what sort of lives the clergy led in the corner of East Anglia which was his home. There was the Vicar of Whitestone, a parish a little way from Blackstable: he was a bachelor and to give himself something to do had lately taken up farming: the local paper constantly reported the cases he had in the county court against this one and that, labourers he would not pay their wages to or tradesmen whom he accused of cheating him; scandal said he starved his cows, and there was much talk about some general action which should be taken against him. Then there was the Vicar of Ferne, a bearded, fine figure of a man: his wife had been forced to leave him because of his cruelty, and she had filled the neighbourhood with stories of his immorality. The Vicar of Surle, a tiny hamlet by the sea, was to be seen every evening in the public house a stone’s throw from his vicarage; and the churchwardens had been to Mr. Carey to ask his advice. There was not a soul for any of them to talk to except small farmers or fishermen; there were long winter evenings when the wind blew, whistling drearily through the leafless trees, and all around they saw nothing but the bare monotony of ploughed fields; and there was poverty, and there was lack of any work that seemed to matter; every kink in their characters had free play; there was nothing to restrain them; they grew narrow and eccentric: Philip knew all this, but in his young intolerance he did not offer it as an excuse. He shivered at the thought of leading such a life; he wanted to get out into the world.



第二十章

菲利普升入了六年级，但是现在他打心底里讨厌学校生活。由于失去了奋斗目标，他心灰意懒，觉得功课学得好坏都无所谓。每天一早醒来，他心情便十分沉重，因为又得熬过枯燥无味的一天。现在他干什么都觉着厌烦，因为这全是别人要他干的。他对校方规定的各种限制极其反感，这倒不是因为这些限制不合理，而在于它们本身就是束缚人们身心的条条框框。他渴望得到解脱。他讨厌教师重复自已早已知道的东西；教师上课有时为了照顾智力愚钝的学生，翻来复去地讲解某些内容，而这些内容自己一眼就看懂了，对此他也不胜烦腻。

珀金斯先生的课，学生听不听可以随自己的高兴。珀金斯先生讲课时，热切而又若有所思。六年级的教室设在一座经过修葺的古修道院内，教室里有一扇哥特式窗户，菲利普上课时就把这扇窗子画了一遍又一遍，想借此消闲解闷；有时他凭着记忆信手勾勒大教堂的主塔楼，或是描画那条通往教堂园地的过道。他还真能画上两笔。路易莎伯母年轻时曾画过一些水彩画，现在手头还藏有好几本画册，里面全是她的大作，有画教堂的，画古桥的，还有画田舍风光的。牧师公馆举行茶会时，常把这些画册拿出来请客人观赏。有回她送了一盒颜料给菲利普，作为圣诞节礼物；而菲利普学画，就是从临摹他伯母的水彩画人门的。他临摹得相当出色，出乎他人意料。不久，他就开始自行构思作画。凯里夫人鼓励他学画，觉得这样一来，他就无心再调皮捣蛋了，而且说不定日后菲利普画的画儿还能拿去义卖呢。他有两三幅画配上了镜框，挂在自己的卧室内。

可是有一天，上午的课刚结束菲利普正懒洋洋地往教室外走，珀金斯先生忽然把他叫住。

"我有话要对你说哩，凯里。"

菲利普等着。珀金斯先生一面用他精瘦的手指持着胡子，一面定睛打量菲利普，似乎是在琢磨要对这孩子说些什么。

"你怎么搞的，凯里？"他劈头问了这么一句。

菲利普红了脸，飞快地瞥了珀金斯先生一眼。但是他现在摸熟了珀金斯先生的脾气，所以并不急于回答，而是等他继续往下讲。

"我很不满意你近来的表现。老是这么松松垮垮，漫不经心的，似乎对自己的功课一点不感兴趣。作业做得潦潦草草，敷衍了事。"

"很抱歉，先生，"菲利普说。

"就这么句话吗？"

菲利普绷着脸，望着地面。他怎么能照实对珀金斯先生说，这儿的一切都叫他厌烦透了？！

"你知道，这学期你的学业非但没有长进，反而退步了。你别想得到一份成绩优秀的报告单。"

菲利普暗暗在想，要是这位夫子知道学校报告单的下场，不知会作何感慨呢。其实，学校成绩报告单早些时就寄到家了，凯里先生满不在乎地看了一眼，随手递给菲利普。

"是你的成绩报告单。你最好看看上面写些什么来着，"说毕，便只顾用手指去剥旧书目录册上的封面包纸。

菲利普看了一下成绩报告单。

"成绩好吗？"路易莎伯母问。

"没反映出我的实际成绩哪，"菲利普笑嘻嘻地应了一句，把成绩报告单递给他伯母。

"待会儿我戴上眼镜再看吧，"她说。

但是用过早餐，玛丽·安进来说肉铺掌柜来啦，因而她也就把这件事抛到了九霄云外……

这时，珀金斯先生继续说：

"你真叫我大失所望。简直没法理解。我知道，你只要愿意，一定能搞出点名堂来的，看来你再也不想在这方面花功夫了。我本打算下学期让你当班长，可现在我想还是等等再说吧。"

菲利普涨红了脸，想到自已被人瞧不起，心里很不服气。他紧咬嘴唇。

"还有一点。现在你得开始考虑考虑你的奖学金了。除非打现在起发奋攻读，否则，你什么也别想到手。"

菲利普被这顿训斥惹火了。他既生校长的气，又生自己的气。

"我想我不打算上牛津念书了，"他说。

"为什么？我想你是打算将来当牧师的。"

"我已经改变了主意。"

"为什么？"

菲利普不作回答。珀金斯先生摆出个习惯性的古怪姿势，颇像佩鲁季诺画里的人物，若有所思地捋弄着自己的胡须，他打量着菲利普，似乎想看透这孩子的心思，过了一会儿，突然对菲利普说他可以走了。

显然，珀金斯先生余言未尽。大约隔了一星期，有天晚上菲利普到他书房来交作文，他又拣起几天前的话题。不过这一次他改变了谈话方式：不是以校长身分对学生训话，而是作为普通人在与他人推心置腹交谈。这一回，他似乎并不计较菲利普功课差，也不在乎菲利普在劲敌面前很少有可能夺得进牛津深造所必须的奖学金，而重要的问题在于：菲利普竟贸然改变他今后的生活宗旨。珀金斯先生决计要重新点燃孩子心中献身教会的热情。他极其巧妙地在菲利普的感情上下功夫，这么做还是比较容易的，因为连珀金斯先生自己也动了真情。菲利普的改弦易辙，给他珀金斯带来莫大的痛苦，他真心认为菲利普竞莫名其妙地糟蹋了获得人生幸福的机会。他说话的口吻委婉亲切，感人肺腑。菲利普向来很容易被别人的情感所打动，尽管从外表来看，他常常不动声色--除了短暂地红一下脸之外，内心感受难得见于言表。这一方面是他生性如此，另一方面也是多年来在学校养成的习惯--实质上却极易动感情。此刻他被校长先生的一席恳谈深深打动了。他由衷地感激校长的关心，想到自己的所作所为给校长带来了痛苦，不免深感内疚。珀金斯先生作为一校之长，要考虑全校的事务，居然还在他的事情上如此操心，想到这里，菲利普不免有点受宠若惊；可是与此同时，总觉得心头有样异物，像个紧贴在他肘边的第三者，死命地抓住这两个字：

"我不！我不！我不！"

他感到自己在不断沉沦。他无力克服自己的软弱，而这种软弱之感似乎正逐渐充斥他整个身心，就像一只浸在满盆水里的空瓶，水正在不断往里灌；他咬紧牙关，一遍又一遍地对自己重复这几个字：

"我不！我不！我不！"

最后，珀金斯先生伸手按住菲利普的肩头。

"我也不想多劝你了，"他说。"你得自己拿定主意。向全能的上帝祈祷，求他保佑，给你指点迷津吧。"

菲利普从校长的屋子走出来时，天正下着丝丝小雨。他在那条通往教堂园地的拱道内走着。周围阒无一人，白嘴鸦悄然栖息在大榆树上。菲利普慢腾腾地四下转悠。他浑身燥热，身上淋点雨正好清凉一下。他反复回味着珀金斯先生刚才说的每一句话，现在既然已从自己个性的狂热之中摆脱出来，正可以作一番冷静的思考--他额手庆幸自己总算没有让步。

在朦胧的夜色中，他只能影影绰绰地看见大教堂的巨大轮廓：现在他憎恶这座教堂，因为他被迫要在那儿参加各种冗长而令人生厌的宗教仪式。唱起圣歌来又没完没了，而你得一直百无聊赖地木然站着；讲经时，声音单调而低沉，叫人没法听清楚，想舒展舒展肢体，但又不得不在那儿正襟危坐，于是身子不由自主地扭动起来。菲利普又联想到在布莱克斯泰勃做礼拜的情景：每个星期日得早晚做两次，空荡荡的教堂里，阴气逼人；四周弥散着一股润发脂和上过浆的衣服的气味。两次布道分别由副牧师和他大伯主持。随着年岁的增长，他逐渐认清了大伯的为人。菲利普性格率直、偏激；他没法理解这种现象：一个人可以作为教士虔诚地讲上一通大道理，却从不愿以普通人的身分躬身力行。这种言行不一的欺骗行为使他义愤填膺。他大伯是个懦弱、自私之徒，生活中的主要愿望就是别给自己找麻烦。

珀金斯先生对他讲到了鞠躬尽瘁、侍奉上帝的动人之处。菲利普洞悉自己家乡东英吉利那一隅衮衮牧师诸公过着什么样的生活。离布莱克斯泰勃不远，有个怀特斯通教区，教区牧师是个单身汉，为了不让自己闲得发慌，最近着手务农了。当地报纸不断报道他如何在郡法院一会儿同这个一会儿又同那个打官司的情况---一不是雇工们控告他拒不发给工资，就是他指控商人们骗取钱财；也有人愤愤然说他竟让自己的奶牛饿着肚子。人们议论纷纷，认为对这个牧师应该采取某种一致行动。另外还有费尔尼教区的牧师，一个蓄着大胡子，颇有几分大丈夫气概的角色，他的老婆因为受不了他的虐待，只得离家出走。她给左邻右舍数说了许多有关他的邪恶行径。在傍海的小村庄苏尔勒，人们每天晚上都可以见到教区牧师在小酒店里厮混。他的公馆离酒店仅一箭之遥。那一带的教会执事常登门向凯里先生求教。在那儿要想找个人聊聊，那只有去找农夫或渔夫。在漫长的冬夜，寒风在光秃秃的树林里凄厉呼啸；环顾四周，唯见一片片清一色的耕翻过的田地和贫困凄凉的景象。人们性格中的各种乘戾因素全都暴露无遗，没有什么可以使他们有所节制。他们变得心胸狭隘，脾气古怪。凡此种种，菲利普知道得一清二楚。但是出于小孩特有的偏执心理，他并不想把这作为口实提出来。他每每想到要去过那种生活就不寒而栗；不，他要跨出去，到尘世中去。
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chapter 21

Mr. Perkins soon saw that his words had had no effect on Philip, and for the rest of the term ignored him. He wrote a report which was vitriolic. When it arrived and Aunt Louisa asked Philip what it was like, he answered cheerfully.

‘Rotten.’

‘Is it?’ said the Vicar. ‘I must look at it again.’

‘Do you think there’s any use in my staying on at Tercanbury? I should have thought it would be better if I went to Germany for a bit.’

‘What has put that in your head?’ said Aunt Louisa.

‘Don’t you think it’s rather a good idea?’

Sharp had already left King’s School and had written to Philip from Hanover. He was really starting life, and it made Philip more restless to think of it. He felt he could not bear another year of restraint.

‘But then you wouldn’t get a scholarship.’

‘I haven’t a chance of getting one anyhow. And besides, I don’t know that I particularly want to go to Oxford.’

‘But if you’re going to be ordained, Philip?’ Aunt Louisa exclaimed in dismay.

‘I’ve given up that idea long ago.’

Mrs. Carey looked at him with startled eyes, and then, used to self-restraint, she poured out another cup of tea for his uncle. They did not speak. In a moment Philip saw tears slowly falling down her cheeks. His heart was suddenly wrung because he caused her pain. In her tight black dress, made by the dressmaker down the street, with her wrinkled face and pale tired eyes, her gray hair still done in the frivolous ringlets of her youth, she was a ridiculous but strangely pathetic figure. Philip saw it for the first time.

Afterwards, when the Vicar was shut up in his study with the curate, he put his arms round her waist.

‘I say, I’m sorry you’re upset, Aunt Louisa,’ he said. ‘But it’s no good my being ordained if I haven’t a real vocation, is it?’

‘I’m so disappointed, Philip,’ she moaned. ‘I’d set my heart on it. I thought you could be your uncle’s curate, and then when our time came—after all, we can’t last for ever, can we?—you might have taken his place.’

Philip shivered. He was seized with panic. His heart beat like a pigeon in a trap beating with its wings. His aunt wept softly, her head upon his shoulder.

‘I wish you’d persuade Uncle William to let me leave Tercanbury. I’m so sick of it.’

But the Vicar of Blackstable did not easily alter any arrangements he had made, and it had always been intended that Philip should stay at King’s School till he was eighteen, and should then go to Oxford. At all events he would not hear of Philip leaving then, for no notice had been given and the term’s fee would have to be paid in any case.

‘Then will you give notice for me to leave at Christmas?’ said Philip, at the end of a long and often bitter conversation.

‘I’ll write to Mr. Perkins about it and see what he says.’

‘Oh, I wish to goodness I were twenty-one. It is awful to be at somebody else’s beck and call.’

‘Philip, you shouldn’t speak to your uncle like that,’ said Mrs. Carey gently.

‘But don’t you see that Perkins will want me to stay? He gets so much a head for every chap in the school.’

‘Why don’t you want to go to Oxford?’

‘What’s the good if I’m not going into the Church?’

‘You can’t go into the Church: you’re in the Church already,’ said the Vicar.

‘Ordained then,’ replied Philip impatiently.

‘What are you going to be, Philip?’ asked Mrs. Carey.

‘I don’t know. I’ve not made up my mind. But whatever I am, it’ll be useful to know foreign languages. I shall get far more out of a year in Germany than by staying on at that hole.’

He would not say that he felt Oxford would be little better than a continuation of his life at school. He wished immensely to be his own master. Besides he would be known to a certain extent among old schoolfellows, and he wanted to get away from them all. He felt that his life at school had been a failure. He wanted to start fresh.

It happened that his desire to go to Germany fell in with certain ideas which had been of late discussed at Blackstable. Sometimes friends came to stay with the doctor and brought news of the world outside; and the visitors spending August by the sea had their own way of looking at things. The Vicar had heard that there were people who did not think the old-fashioned education so useful nowadays as it had been in the past, and modern languages were gaining an importance which they had not had in his own youth. His own mind was divided, for a younger brother of his had been sent to Germany when he failed in some examination, thus creating a precedent but since he had there died of typhoid it was impossible to look upon the experiment as other than dangerous. The result of innumerable conversations was that Philip should go back to Tercanbury for another term, and then should leave. With this agreement Philip was not dissatisfied. But when he had been back a few days the headmaster spoke to him.

‘I’ve had a letter from your uncle. It appears you want to go to Germany, and he asks me what I think about it.’

Philip was astounded. He was furious with his guardian for going back on his word.

‘I thought it was settled, sir,’ he said.

‘Far from it. I’ve written to say I think it the greatest mistake to take you away.’

Philip immediately sat down and wrote a violent letter to his uncle. He did not measure his language. He was so angry that he could not get to sleep till quite late that night, and he awoke in the early morning and began brooding over the way they had treated him. He waited impatiently for an answer. In two or three days it came. It was a mild, pained letter from Aunt Louisa, saying that he should not write such things to his uncle, who was very much distressed. He was unkind and unchristian. He must know they were only trying to do their best for him, and they were so much older than he that they must be better judges of what was good for him. Philip clenched his hands. He had heard that statement so often, and he could not see why it was true; they did not know the conditions as he did, why should they accept it as self-evident that their greater age gave them greater wisdom? The letter ended with the information that Mr. Carey had withdrawn the notice he had given.

Philip nursed his wrath till the next half-holiday. They had them on Tuesdays and Thursdays, since on Saturday afternoons they had to go to a service in the Cathedral. He stopped behind when the rest of the Sixth went out.

‘May I go to Blackstable this afternoon, please, sir?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said the headmaster briefly.

‘I wanted to see my uncle about something very important.’

‘Didn’t you hear me say no?’

Philip did not answer. He went out. He felt almost sick with humiliation, the humiliation of having to ask and the humiliation of the curt refusal. He hated the headmaster now. Philip writhed under that despotism which never vouchsafed a reason for the most tyrannous act. He was too angry to care what he did, and after dinner walked down to the station, by the back ways he knew so well, just in time to catch the train to Blackstable. He walked into the vicarage and found his uncle and aunt sitting in the dining-room.

‘Hulloa, where have you sprung from?’ said the Vicar.

It was very clear that he was not pleased to see him. He looked a little uneasy.

‘I thought I’d come and see you about my leaving. I want to know what you mean by promising me one thing when I was here, and doing something different a week after.’

He was a little frightened at his own boldness, but he had made up his mind exactly what words to use, and, though his heart beat violently, he forced himself to say them.

‘Have you got leave to come here this afternoon?’

‘No. I asked Perkins and he refused. If you like to write and tell him I’ve been here you can get me into a really fine old row.’

Mrs. Carey sat knitting with trembling hands. She was unused to scenes and they agitated her extremely.

‘It would serve you right if I told him,’ said Mr. Carey.

‘If you like to be a perfect sneak you can. After writing to Perkins as you did you’re quite capable of it.’

It was foolish of Philip to say that, because it gave the Vicar exactly the opportunity he wanted.

‘I’m not going to sit still while you say impertinent things to me,’ he said with dignity.

He got up and walked quickly out of the room into his study. Philip heard him shut the door and lock it.

‘Oh, I wish to God I were twenty-one. It is awful to be tied down like this.’

Aunt Louisa began to cry quietly.

‘Oh, Philip, you oughtn’t to have spoken to your uncle like that. Do please go and tell him you’re sorry.’

‘I’m not in the least sorry. He’s taking a mean advantage. Of course it’s just waste of money keeping me on at school, but what does he care? It’s not his money. It was cruel to put me under the guardianship of people who know nothing about things.’

‘Philip.’

Philip in his voluble anger stopped suddenly at the sound of her voice. It was heart-broken. He had not realised what bitter things he was saying.

‘Philip, how can you be so unkind? You know we are only trying to do our best for you, and we know that we have no experience; it isn’t as if we’d had any children of our own: that’s why we consulted Mr. Perkins.’ Her voice broke. ‘I’ve tried to be like a mother to you. I’ve loved you as if you were my own son.’

She was so small and frail, there was something so pathetic in her old-maidish air, that Philip was touched. A great lump came suddenly in his throat and his eyes filled with tears.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to be beastly.’

He knelt down beside her and took her in his arms, and kissed her wet, withered cheeks. She sobbed bitterly, and he seemed to feel on a sudden the pity of that wasted life. She had never surrendered herself before to such a display of emotion.

‘I know I’ve not been what I wanted to be to you, Philip, but I didn’t know how. It’s been just as dreadful for me to have no children as for you to have no mother.’

Philip forgot his anger and his own concerns, but thought only of consoling her, with broken words and clumsy little caresses. Then the clock struck, and he had to bolt off at once to catch the only train that would get him back to Tercanbury in time for call-over. As he sat in the corner of the railway carriage he saw that he had done nothing. He was angry with himself for his weakness. It was despicable to have allowed himself to be turned from his purpose by the pompous airs of the Vicar and the tears of his aunt. But as the result of he knew not what conversations between the couple another letter was written to the headmaster. Mr. Perkins read it with an impatient shrug of the shoulders. He showed it to Philip. It ran:

Dear Mr. Perkins,

Forgive me for troubling you again about my ward, but both his Aunt and I have been uneasy about him. He seems very anxious to leave school, and his Aunt thinks he is unhappy. It is very difficult for us to know what to do as we are not his parents. He does not seem to think he is doing very well and he feels it is wasting his money to stay on. I should be very much obliged if you would have a talk to him, and if he is still of the same mind perhaps it would be better if he left at Christmas as I originally intended.

Yours very truly,  William Carey.

Philip gave him back the letter. He felt a thrill of pride in his triumph. He had got his own way, and he was satisfied. His will had gained a victory over the wills of others.

‘It’s not much good my spending half an hour writing to your uncle if he changes his mind the next letter he gets from you,’ said the headmaster irritably.

Philip said nothing, and his face was perfectly placid; but he could not prevent the twinkle in his eyes. Mr. Perkins noticed it and broke into a little laugh.

‘You’ve rather scored, haven’t you?’ he said.

Then Philip smiled outright. He could not conceal his exultation.

‘Is it true that you’re very anxious to leave?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Are you unhappy here?’

Philip blushed. He hated instinctively any attempt to get into the depths of his feelings.

‘Oh, I don’t know, sir.’

Mr. Perkins, slowly dragging his fingers through his beard, looked at him thoughtfully. He seemed to speak almost to himself.

‘Of course schools are made for the average. The holes are all round, and whatever shape the pegs are they must wedge in somehow. One hasn’t time to bother about anything but the average.’ Then suddenly he addressed himself to Philip: ‘Look here, I’ve got a suggestion to make to you. It’s getting on towards the end of the term now. Another term won’t kill you, and if you want to go to Germany you’d better go after Easter than after Christmas. It’ll be much pleasanter in the spring than in midwinter. If at the end of the next term you still want to go I’ll make no objection. What d’you say to that?’

‘Thank you very much, sir.’

Philip was so glad to have gained the last three months that he did not mind the extra term. The school seemed less of a prison when he knew that before Easter he would be free from it for ever. His heart danced within him. That evening in chapel he looked round at the boys, standing according to their forms, each in his due place, and he chuckled with satisfaction at the thought that soon he would never see them again. It made him regard them almost with a friendly feeling. His eyes rested on Rose. Rose took his position as a monitor very seriously: he had quite an idea of being a good influence in the school; it was his turn to read the lesson that evening, and he read it very well. Philip smiled when he thought that he would be rid of him for ever, and it would not matter in six months whether Rose was tall and straight-limbed; and where would the importance be that he was a monitor and captain of the eleven? Philip looked at the masters in their gowns. Gordon was dead, he had died of apoplexy two years before, but all the rest were there. Philip knew now what a poor lot they were, except Turner perhaps, there was something of a man in him; and he writhed at the thought of the subjection in which they had held him. In six months they would not matter either. Their praise would mean nothing to him, and he would shrug his shoulders at their censure.

Philip had learned not to express his emotions by outward signs, and shyness still tormented him, but he had often very high spirits; and then, though he limped about demurely, silent and reserved, it seemed to be hallooing in his heart. He seemed to himself to walk more lightly. All sorts of ideas danced through his head, fancies chased one another so furiously that he could not catch them; but their coming and their going filled him with exhilaration. Now, being happy, he was able to work, and during the remaining weeks of the term set himself to make up for his long neglect. His brain worked easily, and he took a keen pleasure in the activity of his intellect. He did very well in the examinations that closed the term. Mr. Perkins made only one remark: he was talking to him about an essay he had written, and, after the usual criticisms, said:

‘So you’ve made up your mind to stop playing the fool for a bit, have you?’

He smiled at him with his shining teeth, and Philip, looking down, gave an embarrassed smile.

The half dozen boys who expected to divide between them the various prizes which were given at the end of the summer term had ceased to look upon Philip as a serious rival, but now they began to regard him with some uneasiness. He told no one that he was leaving at Easter and so was in no sense a competitor, but left them to their anxieties. He knew that Rose flattered himself on his French, for he had spent two or three holidays in France; and he expected to get the Dean’s Prize for English essay; Philip got a good deal of satisfaction in watching his dismay when he saw how much better Philip was doing in these subjects than himself. Another fellow, Norton, could not go to Oxford unless he got one of the scholarships at the disposal of the school. He asked Philip if he was going in for them.

‘Have you any objection?’ asked Philip.

It entertained him to think that he held someone else’s future in his hand. There was something romantic in getting these various rewards actually in his grasp, and then leaving them to others because he disdained them. At last the breaking-up day came, and he went to Mr. Perkins to bid him good-bye.

‘You don’t mean to say you really want to leave?’

Philip’s face fell at the headmaster’s evident surprise.

‘You said you wouldn’t put any objection in the way, sir,’ he answered.

‘I thought it was only a whim that I’d better humour. I know you’re obstinate and headstrong. What on earth d’you want to leave for now? You’ve only got another term in any case. You can get the Magdalen scholarship easily; you’ll get half the prizes we’ve got to give.’

Philip looked at him sullenly. He felt that he had been tricked; but he had the promise, and Perkins would have to stand by it.

‘You’ll have a very pleasant time at Oxford. You needn’t decide at once what you’re going to do afterwards. I wonder if you realise how delightful the life is up there for anyone who has brains.’

‘I’ve made all my arrangements now to go to Germany, sir,’ said Philip.

‘Are they arrangements that couldn’t possibly be altered?’ asked Mr. Perkins, with his quizzical smile. ‘I shall be very sorry to lose you. In schools the rather stupid boys who work always do better than the clever boy who’s idle, but when the clever boy works—why then, he does what you’ve done this term.’

Philip flushed darkly. He was unused to compliments, and no one had ever told him he was clever. The headmaster put his hand on Philip’s shoulder.

‘You know, driving things into the heads of thick-witted boys is dull work, but when now and then you have the chance of teaching a boy who comes half-way towards you, who understands almost before you’ve got the words out of your mouth, why, then teaching is the most exhilarating thing in the world.’ Philip was melted by kindness; it had never occurred to him that it mattered really to Mr. Perkins whether he went or stayed. He was touched and immensely flattered. It would be pleasant to end up his school-days with glory and then go to Oxford: in a flash there appeared before him the life which he had heard described from boys who came back to play in the O.K.S. match or in letters from the University read out in one of the studies. But he was ashamed; he would look such a fool in his own eyes if he gave in now; his uncle would chuckle at the success of the headmaster’s ruse. It was rather a come-down from the dramatic surrender of all these prizes which were in his reach, because he disdained to take them, to the plain, ordinary winning of them. It only required a little more persuasion, just enough to save his self-respect, and Philip would have done anything that Mr. Perkins wished; but his face showed nothing of his conflicting emotions. It was placid and sullen.

‘I think I’d rather go, sir,’ he said.

Mr. Perkins, like many men who manage things by their personal influence, grew a little impatient when his power was not immediately manifest. He had a great deal of work to do, and could not waste more time on a boy who seemed to him insanely obstinate.

‘Very well, I promised to let you if you really wanted it, and I keep my promise. When do you go to Germany?’

Philip’s heart beat violently. The battle was won, and he did not know whether he had not rather lost it.

‘At the beginning of May, sir,’ he answered.

‘Well, you must come and see us when you get back.’

He held out his hand. If he had given him one more chance Philip would have changed his mind, but he seemed to look upon the matter as settled. Philip walked out of the house. His school-days were over, and he was free; but the wild exultation to which he had looked forward at that moment was not there. He walked round the precincts slowly, and a profound depression seized him. He wished now that he had not been foolish. He did not want to go, but he knew he could never bring himself to go to the headmaster and tell him he would stay. That was a humiliation he could never put upon himself. He wondered whether he had done right. He was dissatisfied with himself and with all his circumstances. He asked himself dully whether whenever you got your way you wished afterwards that you hadn’t.



第二十一章

没多久珀金斯先生就明白了，自己的那席话对菲利普不起什么作用，因而那学期就再也没去理他。学期终了，珀金斯先生给他写了份措词辛辣的报告单。学校报告单寄到家里时，路易莎伯母问菲利普报告单上怎么说的，菲利普嬉皮笑脸地答道：

"糟透了。"

"是吗？"牧师说，"那我得再看一下。"

"您觉得我在坎特伯雷呆下去真有好处？我早该想到，还是去德国果一阵于的好。"

"你怎么会生出这么个念头来的？"路易莎伯母说。

"您不觉得这是个挺好的主意吗？"

夏普已经离开了皇家公学，并从汉诺威给菲利普写过信。他才是真正挪开了生活的步子呐，菲利普每想到这点，就越发坐立不安。要他再在学校的樊笼里熬上一年，真觉得受不了。

"那你就拿不到奖学金啦。"

"反正我已经没指望了，再说，我觉得自己也不怎么特别想进牛津念书。"

"可你将来不是要当牧师的吗，菲利普？"路易莎伯母惊叫起来。

"我早就不做那个梦了。"

凯里太太瞪着双惊愕的眼睛，愣愣地望着菲利普，不过她惯于自我克制，旋即转身给菲利普的大伯又倒了一杯茶。伯侄二人全都沉默不语。顷刻，菲利普看见眼泪沿着伯母的双颊缓缓淌下。他的心猛地一抽，因为他给她带来了痛苦。她穿着街那头的成衣匠给她缝制的黑色紧身外衣，脸上布满了皱纹，眼神暗淡而倦怠，那一头灰发仍按年轻时的发式梳理成一圈圈轻佻的小发卷，她的整个儿模样，既引人发笑，又不知怎么叫人觉着怪可怜的。菲利普还是头一回注意到这一点。

后来，等牧师进了书房，关起门同副牧师在里面谈心的时候，菲利普伸出条胳臂一把搂住他伯母的腰。

"唉，路易莎伯母，真对不起，我使您伤心了，"他说。"但是，如果我秉性不宜当牧师，即使勉强当了，也不会有什么出息的，您说呢？"

"这太叫我失望了，菲利普，"她呻吟着说。"我早就存了这份心思。我想你将来可以成为你大伯的副手，万一我们有个三长两短--我们毕竟不可能长生不老的，是不--你就。可以接替你大伯的位置。"

菲利普惊慌失措，心儿怦怦直跳，浑身像筛糠般抖动，好似误人罗网的鸽子在不停地扑打翅膀。伯母把头靠在他肩上，抽抽搭搭地呜咽起来。

"希望您能劝劝威廉大伯，放我离开坎特伯雷算了。那地方我讨厌透了。"

然而，要那位布莱克斯泰勃的教区牧师改变主意，谈何容易。根据原来的打算，菲利普得在皇家公学呆到十八岁，随后进牛津深造。关于菲利普这时想退学的事儿，他说什么也听不进去，因为事先没有通知过学校，这学期的学费不管怎样还得照付不误。

"那您是不是通知一下学校，说我圣诞节要离开学校？"经过长时间舌剑唇熗的争论，菲利普最后这么说。

"好吧，我就写信给珀金斯先生，告诉他这件事，看看他有什么意见。"

"上帝哟，但愿我现在就满二十一岁了。干什么都得要别人点头，真憋气！"

"菲利普，你不该这么对你大伯说话啊，"凯里太太温和地说。

"难道你不知道珀金斯先生是不会放我走的吗？他恨不得把每个学生部攥在手心里呢。"

"你为什么不想上牛津念书？"

"既然我将来不打算当牧师，进牛津又有什么意思？"

"什么打算不打算当牧师，你已经是教会里的人啦！"牧师说。

"这么说，已经是牧师罗，"菲利普不耐烦地顶了一句。

"那你打算干什么呢，菲利普？"凯里太太问。

"我也说不上。我还没打定主意。不过将来不管干什么，学点外语总是有用的。在德国住上一年，要比继续呆在那个鬼地方强多了。"

菲利普觉得进牛津无非还是他学校中涯的继续，并不比现在强，不过他不愿意这么直说。他满心希望能主宰自己的命运。况且，一些老同学多多少少知道他这个人，而他就是想远远避开他们。他觉得他的求学生涯完全失败了。他要改弦易辙，开始新的生活。

说来也凑巧，菲利普想去德国的念头，正好和最近布莱克斯泰勃人们议沦的某些主张不谋而合。有时候，医生家有些朋友来访小住，他们谈到外界发生的新鲜事儿；八月里来海滨消夏的那此游人，也自有一套独特的观察事物的方式。牧师也听说过，有人认为老式教育目前已不及过去那么管用，他年轻时不为人重视的各种现代语，现在却日见重要。连他自己也感到有点无所适从。他的一个弟弟有回考试设及格，后来被送去德国念书，由此开创了个先例。但是既然后来他患伤寒死于异国他乡，就只能说明这样的试验实在危险得很。伯侄俩不知磨了多少嘴皮子，最后总算谈妥了：菲利普再回坎特伯雷读一学期，然后就离开那儿。对这样的解决办法，菲利普并不怎么满意。哪知他回学校几天之后校长就对他说：

"我收到你伯父的一封来信。看来你是想要去德国，他问我对这件事有什么看法。"

菲利普惊得目瞪口呆。他的保护人竟然说话不算数，这不能不使他人冒三丈。

"我认为事情已经定啦，先生，"他说。

"远非如此。我已经写信告诉你伯父，我认为让你中途退学是莫大的错误。"

菲利普立刻坐下来，给他大伯写了一封措词激烈的信。他也顾不上斟词酌句。那天晚上，他气得连党也睡不着，一直到深夜还在想这件事；一早醒来，又在细细琢磨他们耍弄自己的手法。菲利普心急如焚地等着回信。过了两三天回信来了，是路易莎伯母写的，写得很婉转，字里行间充满了痛苦，说菲利普不该对他大伯说那种话，搞得他大伯伤心透了，说他不懂得体谅人，没有基督徒的宽容精神；他得知道，他们为他费尽了心血，况且他们年纪比他大得多，究竟什么对他有利，想必更能作出判断。菲利普把拳头捏得紧紧的。这种话他听得多了，真不明白为什么有人将此奉为金科玉律。他们并不像他自己那样了解实际情况，他们凭哪点可以这么想当然，认为年长必定智高睿深呢？那封信的结尾还提到，凯里先谁已经撤回了他给学校的退学通知。

菲利普满腔怒火，一直憋到下个星期的半休日。学校的半休日一般放在星期二和星期四，因为星期六下午他们都得去大教堂做礼拜。那天上完课，六年级学生都散了，只有菲利普待着不走。

"先生，今天下午我想回布莱克斯泰勃，可以吗？"他问。

"不行，"校长回答得很干脆。

"我有要紧事同我大伯商量。"

"你没听到我说'不行'吗？'

菲利普二话不说，掉头出了教室。他羞愧难当，心里直想吐。他蒙受了双重羞辱，先是不得不启口求人，继而又被一口回绝。现在他痛恨这位校长。这种极端蛮不讲理的专横作风，真使菲利普揪心。他怒火中烧，什么也顾不上了，一吃过午饭，便抄一条自己很熟悉的小路走到火车站，正好赶上开往布莱克斯泰勃的班车。他走进牧师公馆，看见大伯和伯母正坐在餐室内。

"嘿，你打哪儿冒出来的？"牧师说。

很明显，他并不怎么高兴见到菲利普，看上去还有点局促不安。

"我来是要找您谈谈我离校的事。上回我在这儿的时候，您明明亲口答应了，谁知一星期后又突然变卦了，我想搞清楚你这么出尔反尔究竟是什么意思。"

菲利普不免对自己的大胆微微感到吃惊，但是自己究竟要说些什么他反正已拿定了主意，所以尽管心头小鹿猛撞不已，还是逼着自己一吐为快。

"你今天下午来这儿，学校准你假了？"

"没有。我向珀金斯先生请假，被他一口拒绝了。要是你高兴，不妨写信告诉他我来过这儿了，包管可以让我挨一顿臭骂呢。"

凯里太太坐在一旁做编结活，手不住地颤颤抖抖。她看不惯别人争吵，此刻伯侄俩剑拔弩张的场面，使她如坐针毡。

"要是我真的写信告诉他，你挨骂也是活该，"凯里先生说。

"你要是想当个道地的告密者，那也成嘛，反正你已经给珀金斯先生写过信了，这种事你内行着呢。"

菲利普说这些个话实在不高明，正好给了牧师一个求之不得的脱身机会。

"我可不想再坐在这儿，仕你冲着我满口胡言，"他气宇轩昂地说。

他站起身，阔步走出餐室，进了书房。菲利普听见他砰地关上了房门，而且还上了锁。

"唉，上帝，但愿我现在满二：十一岁就好了。像这样受人钳制糟糕透了。"

路易莎伯母低声抽泣起来。

"噢，菲利普，你可不该用这种态度对你伯父说话，快去给他赔个不是。"

"我可没什么要赔不是的。明明是他在要弄我嘛。让我继续留在那儿念书，还不是白白浪费金钱，但他在乎什么呢？反正又不是他的钱。让一些什么也不懂的人来做我的监护人，真够残忍的。"

"菲利普"

菲利普正口若悬河，发泄着心头怨气，听到她这一声叫唤，猛地闭上了嘴。那是声悲痛欲绝的凄叫。他没意识到自己说的话有多刻薄。

"菲利普，你怎么可以这么没有心肝？你要知道我们费尽心血无非是为了你好。我们知道自己没有经验，这可不比我们自己有过孩子，所以我们只得写信去请教珀金斯先生。"她声音发抖，一时说不下去。"我尽量像母亲那样对待你。我爱你，把你看作自己的亲生儿子。"

她小不丁点的个儿，风也吹得倒似的，在她老处女似的神态里，含带着几分凄迷的哀怨，菲利普的心被打动了。他喉咙口突然一阵梗塞，热泪夺眶而出。

"真对不起，"他说，"我不是存心要伤您老的心哪。"

他在她身旁跪下，张开胳膊将她抱住，吻着她那老泪纵横、憔悴的双颊。她伤心地低声饮泣；菲利普似乎油然生出一股怜悯之情，可怜她的一生就这么白白虚度了。她从来未像现在这样淋漓尽致地流露自己的情感。

"我知道，我一直不能按我心里想的那样对待你，菲利普，也不知道怎么才能把我的心掏给你。我膝下无儿，就像你幼年丧母一样，够寒心的。"

菲利普忘却了自己的满腔怒火，忘却了自己的重重心事，只想着怎么让她宽心，他结结巴巴地好言相劝，一边用小手笨拙地抚摸着她的身子。这时，时钟敲响了。他得立即动身去赶火车，只有赶上这趟车，才能及时返回坎特伯雷参加晚点名。当他在火车车厢的一角坐定，这才明白过来，门自己么也没干成，白跑了一趟。他对自己的懦弱无能感到气愤。牧师旁若无人的傲态，还有他伯母的几滴眼泪，竟搞得自己晕头转向，忘了回家是干什么来的了，真窝囊。然而，在他走后，也不知道那老两口于是怎么商量的，结果又有一封信写给了校长。珀金斯先生看到后，不耐烦地耸了耸肩。他把信让菲利普看了。上面这样写道：

亲爱的珀金斯先生：

请原谅我为菲利普的事儿再次冒昧打扰您。这个受我监护的孩子，实

在让我和内人焦虑不安。看来他急切希望离开学校，他伯母也觉得他愁苦

不开心。我们不是他的生身父母，究竟该如何处置，我们委实一筹莫展。

他似乎认为自己的学业不甚理想，觉得继续留在学校纯属浪费金钱。要是

您能同他恳谈一次，我们将感激不尽；倘若他不愿回心转意，也许还是按

我原先的打算让他在圣诞节离校为好。

您的非常忠实的

威廉·凯里

菲利普把信还给校长，一阵胜利的自豪感涌上心头。他毕竟如愿以偿，争取到了自行其事的权利，他的意志战胜了他人的意志。

"你大伯收到你下一封信，说不定又要改变主意了，我犯不着花半个钟头来复他的信，"校长不无恼怒地说。

菲利普默然不语，尽管他脸上一点声色不露，却无法掩饰眸子里的灼灼闪光。珀金斯先生觉察到了他的眼神，呵呵地笑了起来。

"你算得胜了，是吗？"他说。

菲利普坦然地莞尔一笑。他掩饰不住内心的狂喜。

"你真的急于想离开吗？"

"是的，先生。"

"你觉得在这儿心情不舒畅？"

菲利普涨红了脸，他本能地讨厌别人刺探他内心深处的情感。

"哦，我说不上来，先生。"

珀金斯光生慢条斯理地捋着下巴上的胡子，若有所思地打量着菲利普看来，他仿佛是在自言自语。

"当然罗，学校是为智力平常的学生而设的。反正就是这些个圆孔儿，管你木桩是方是圆，都得楔进去呆在那儿。谁也没时间去为那些智力出众的学生劳神费心。"接着，他猝然冲着菲利普发话："听着，我倒有个建议，你不妨听听。这学期反正没多少日子了，再待上一个学期，不见得会要你的命吧。假如你真想去德国，最好等过了复活节，别一过圣诞节就走。春日出门远比隆冬舒服嘛。要是等到下学期结束，你仍坚持要走，我就不阻拦你了。你觉得怎么样？"

"多谢您了，先生。"

菲利普满心喜悦，总算争取到了那最后三个月的时间，多呆一个学期也不在乎了。想到在复活节前就可以得到永久的解脱，学校似乎也减却了几分樊笼的气氛。菲利普心花怒放。那天晚上在学校小教堂里，他环顾周围那些规规矩矩站在年级队列里的同学，想到自己要不了多久就再见不着他们了，禁不住窃窃自喜。他几乎怀着友好的情意打量他们。他的目光落在了罗斯身上。罗斯一丝不苟地履行着班长的职责；他这个人一心想成为学校里有影响的模范学生。那天晚上，正轮到他朗读经文，他念得很生动。菲利普想到自己将与他永远分道扬镳，脸上绽出一缕笑纹。再过六个月，管他罗斯身材怎么高大，四肢怎么健全，都于他毫无关系了；罗斯当班长也罢，当耶稣十一个门徒的头头也罢，又有什么了不起呢？菲利普凝神注视那些身穿教士服的老夫子。戈登已经作古，两年前中风死的。其余的全都齐集一堂。菲利普现在明白他们是多么可怜的一群，也许特纳算得上个例外。他身上多少还有点人的气味。他想到自己竞一直受着这些人的管束，不觉感到痛心。再过六个月，也不用再买他们的帐了。他们的褒奖对他再没有什么意义，至于他们的训斥，尽可耸耸肩膀一笑了之。

菲利普已学会克制自己的感情，做到喜怒不形于色。尽管他仍为自己的扭。怩羞怯感到苦恼，然而就精神状态来说，倒往往是热烈而高昂的。他拐着条腿，带着淡漠的神情，沉默而拘谨地踽踽决独行，但他内心却洋溢着欢乐，在大声欢呼。在他自己看来，似乎觉得步履也轻松了。脑子里万念丛生，遐想联翩，简直难以捕捉。然而它们来而复往，给他留下了喜不自胜的满腔激情。现在，他心情开朗，叶以专心致志地刻苦攻读了。他决心在本学期剩余的几个星期里，把荒废多时的学业再补起来。他资质聪慧，脑子灵活，以激发自己的才智为人生一大快事。在期终考试时，他取得了优异的成绩。对此，珀金斯先生只简单评论了一句，那是他给菲利普评讲作文时说的。珀金斯先生作了一般性的评讲之后，说：

"看来你已下定决心不再做傻事了，是吗？"

他对菲利普微微一笑，露出一口皓齿，而菲利普则双目下垂，局促不安地回以一笑。

有五六个学生，一心希望明年夏季学期结束时，能把学校颁发的各种奖品和奖学金全都给包了，他们早已把菲利普排除在劲敌之外，现在却不得不对他刮目相看，且有点惴惴不安。菲利普将在复活节离校，所以根本谈不上是什么竞争对手，可是他在同学中间半点口风不露，任他们整日价提心吊胆。他知道，罗斯曾在法国度过两三个假期，自以为在法语方面胜人一筹；此外还希望能把牧师会教长颁发的英语作文奖拿到手。但罗斯现在发现，菲利普在这两门科目上远远胜过了自己，不免有些泄气；菲利普则冷眼相看，暗暗感到极大的满足。还有一个叫诺顿的同窗，要是拿不到学校的奖学金就没法进牛津念书。他问菲利普是否在争取奖学金。

"你有意见怎么的？"菲利普反诘了一句。

菲利普想到别人的前途竞操在自己手心里，觉得怪有趣的。这样的做法真有几分浪漫色彩--一先把各种各样的奖赏尽数抓在自己的掌心里，然后，因为自己不稀罕这些劳什子才让别人沾点便宜。冬去春来，预定分千的日子终于到了，菲利普前去同珀金斯先生告别。

"总不见得你当真要离开这儿吧？"

看到校长明显的惊讶神色，菲利普沉下脸来。

"您说过到时候不会横加阻拦的，先生，"菲利普回答道。

"我当时想，你不过是一时心血来潮，还是暂时迁就一下的好。现在看来你这个人脾气既固执，又刚愎自用。你倒说说，你现在急着要走究竟为的什么？不管怎么说，至多也只有一个学期了。你可以轻而易举地获得马格达兰学院的奖学金；我们学校颁发的各种奖品，你可以稳稳拿到一半

菲利普噘嘴望着珀金斯先生，觉得自己又被人捉弄了。不过珀金斯先生既然向自己许下了愿，他非得兑现不可。

"在牛津你会过得很顺心的。到了那儿不必立即决定今后要干什么。不知你是否了解，对于任何一个有头脑的人来说，那儿的生活有多愉快。"

"眼下我已经作好去德国的一切安排，先生，"菲利普说。

"安排好了就不能改变吗？"珀金斯先生问，嘴角上挂着嘲弄的浅笑。"失去你这样的学生，我很惋惜。学校里死啃书本的笨学生，成绩往往比偷懒的聪明学生要好，不过要是学生既聪明又肯用功，那会怎么样呢--会取得像你这学期所取得的成绩。"

菲利普满脸绯红。他不习惯听别人的恭维话，在这之前，还没有人夸过他聪明呐。校长把手按在菲利普的肩头上。

"你知道，要把知识硬塞到笨学生的脑瓜于里去，实在是件乏味的苦差事。要是不时有机会遇上个心有灵犀的聪明孩子，你只须稍加点拨，他就豁然贯通了。嘿，这时候呀，世上再没有比教书更快人心意的事儿了。"

校长的一片好意，使菲利普的心软了下来。他压根儿没想到珀金斯先生对于自己的去留这么在乎。他被打动了，心里有种说不出的甜美滋味。要是极其光彩地结束中学时代的学习生活，然后再进牛津深造，那该有多好呢。霎时间，他眼前闪现出一幕幕大学的生活场景。这些情况有的是从回校参加O．K．S．比赛的校友们的谈话中了解到的，有的是从同学们在书室里朗读的校友来信里听到的。但是他感到惭愧，假如他现在打起退堂鼓来，那他在自己眼里也是个十足的大傻瓜；他大伯会为校长的诡计得逞而暗暗窃笑。他本不把学校那些奖品放在眼里，因而打算颇有戏剧性地放弃这些唾手可得的东西，现在如果突然也像普通人一样去明争暗夺，这种前据后恭的态度岂不贻笑于他人。其实在这时候，只需有人从旁再规劝菲利普几句，给足他面子，他就会完全按珀金斯先生的愿望去做了。不过此时他声色不改，一点儿也没流露出他内心情感的冲突，怏怏不乐的脸上，显得很平静。

"我想还是离开的好，先生，"他说。

珀金斯先生也像许多惯于凭借个人影响处理事情的人那样，见到自己花的气力不能立时奏效，便有点不耐烦了。他要办的事情多着呢，总不能净把时间浪费在一个在他看来似乎是冥顽不化的疯孩子身上呀。

"好吧，我说过要是你执意要走，就放你走。我泺恪守的己的诺言。你你什么时候去德国？"菲利普的心剧烈搏动。这一仗算是打赢了反倒更好呢，他说不上来。

"五月初就走，先生，"菲利普回答说。

"嗯，你回来以后，务必来看看我们。"

他伸出了手。假如他再给菲利普一次机会，菲利普是会回心转意的，但是他觉得木已成舟，断无挽回的余地了。菲利普走出屋子。他的中学生涯就此结束了。他自由了。可是以前一直翘首期待的那种欣喜若狂的激情，这时却不知了去向。他在教堂园地里踟躇逡巡，心头沉甸甸的，感到无限压抑。现在，他懊悔自己不该这么愚蠢。他不想走了，但是，他知道他无论如何也不会再跑到校长跟前，说自己愿意留下来。他永远也不会让自己蒙受这等羞辱。他拿不准自己做得究竟对不对。他对自己，对自己周围的一切都感到忿忿不满。他怅们地问自己：这是不是人之常情呢，好不容易达到了目的，事后反倒希望自己功败垂成呢！
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chapter 22
Philip’s uncle had an old friend, called Miss Wilkinson, who lived in Berlin. She was the daughter of a clergyman, and it was with her father, the rector of a village in Lincolnshire, that Mr. Carey had spent his last curacy; on his death, forced to earn her living, she had taken various situations as a governess in France and Germany. She had kept up a correspondence with Mrs. Carey, and two or three times had spent her holidays at Blackstable Vicarage, paying as was usual with the Careys’ unfrequent guests a small sum for her keep. When it became clear that it was less trouble to yield to Philip’s wishes than to resist them, Mrs. Carey wrote to ask her for advice. Miss Wilkinson recommended Heidelberg as an excellent place to learn German in and the house of Frau Professor Erlin as a comfortable home. Philip might live there for thirty marks a week, and the Professor himself, a teacher at the local high school, would instruct him.

Philip arrived in Heidelberg one morning in May. His things were put on a barrow and he followed the porter out of the station. The sky was bright blue, and the trees in the avenue through which they passed were thick with leaves; there was something in the air fresh to Philip, and mingled with the timidity he felt at entering on a new life, among strangers, was a great exhilaration. He was a little disconsolate that no one had come to meet him, and felt very shy when the porter left him at the front door of a big white house. An untidy lad let him in and took him into a drawing-room. It was filled with a large suite covered in green velvet, and in the middle was a round table. On this in water stood a bouquet of flowers tightly packed together in a paper frill like the bone of a mutton chop, and carefully spaced round it were books in leather bindings. There was a musty smell.

Presently, with an odour of cooking, the Frau Professor came in, a short, very stout woman with tightly dressed hair and a red face; she had little eyes, sparkling like beads, and an effusive manner. She took both Philip’s hands and asked him about Miss Wilkinson, who had twice spent a few weeks with her. She spoke in German and in broken English. Philip could not make her understand that he did not know Miss Wilkinson. Then her two daughters appeared. They seemed hardly young to Philip, but perhaps they were not more than twenty-five: the elder, Thekla, was as short as her mother, with the same, rather shifty air, but with a pretty face and abundant dark hair; Anna, her younger sister, was tall and plain, but since she had a pleasant smile Philip immediately preferred her. After a few minutes of polite conversation the Frau Professor took Philip to his room and left him. It was in a turret, looking over the tops of the trees in the Anlage; and the bed was in an alcove, so that when you sat at the desk it had not the look of a bed-room at all. Philip unpacked his things and set out all his books. He was his own master at last.

A bell summoned him to dinner at one o’clock, and he found the Frau Professor’s guests assembled in the drawing-room. He was introduced to her husband, a tall man of middle age with a large fair head, turning now to gray, and mild blue eyes. He spoke to Philip in correct, rather archaic English, having learned it from a study of the English classics, not from conversation; and it was odd to hear him use words colloquially which Philip had only met in the plays of Shakespeare. Frau Professor Erlin called her establishment a family and not a pension; but it would have required the subtlety of a metaphysician to find out exactly where the difference lay. When they sat down to dinner in a long dark apartment that led out of the drawing-room, Philip, feeling very shy, saw that there were sixteen people. The Frau Professor sat at one end and carved. The service was conducted, with a great clattering of plates, by the same clumsy lout who had opened the door for him; and though he was quick it happened that the first persons to be served had finished before the last had received their appointed portions. The Frau Professor insisted that nothing but German should be spoken, so that Philip, even if his bashfulness had permitted him to be talkative, was forced to hold his tongue. He looked at the people among whom he was to live. By the Frau Professor sat several old ladies, but Philip did not give them much of his attention. There were two young girls, both fair and one of them very pretty, whom Philip heard addressed as Fraulein Hedwig and Fraulein Cacilie. Fraulein Cacilie had a long pig-tail hanging down her back. They sat side by side and chattered to one another, with smothered laughter: now and then they glanced at Philip and one of them said something in an undertone; they both giggled, and Philip blushed awkwardly, feeling that they were making fun of him. Near them sat a Chinaman, with a yellow face and an expansive smile, who was studying Western conditions at the University. He spoke so quickly, with a queer accent, that the girls could not always understand him, and then they burst out laughing. He laughed too, good-humouredly, and his almond eyes almost closed as he did so. There were two or three American men, in black coats, rather yellow and dry of skin: they were theological students; Philip heard the twang of their New England accent through their bad German, and he glanced at them with suspicion; for he had been taught to look upon Americans as wild and desperate barbarians.

Afterwards, when they had sat for a little on the stiff green velvet chairs of the drawing-room, Fraulein Anna asked Philip if he would like to go for a walk with them.

Philip accepted the invitation. They were quite a party. There were the two daughters of the Frau Professor, the two other girls, one of the American students, and Philip. Philip walked by the side of Anna and Fraulein Hedwig. He was a little fluttered. He had never known any girls. At Blackstable there were only the farmers’ daughters and the girls of the local tradesmen. He knew them by name and by sight, but he was timid, and he thought they laughed at his deformity. He accepted willingly the difference which the Vicar and Mrs. Carey put between their own exalted rank and that of the farmers. The doctor had two daughters, but they were both much older than Philip and had been married to successive assistants while Philip was still a small boy. At school there had been two or three girls of more boldness than modesty whom some of the boys knew; and desperate stories, due in all probability to the masculine imagination, were told of intrigues with them; but Philip had always concealed under a lofty contempt the terror with which they filled him. His imagination and the books he had read had inspired in him a desire for the Byronic attitude; and he was torn between a morbid self-consciousness and a conviction that he owed it to himself to be gallant. He felt now that he should be bright and amusing, but his brain seemed empty and he could not for the life of him think of anything to say. Fraulein Anna, the Frau Professor’s daughter, addressed herself to him frequently from a sense of duty, but the other said little: she looked at him now and then with sparkling eyes, and sometimes to his confusion laughed outright. Philip felt that she thought him perfectly ridiculous. They walked along the side of a hill among pine-trees, and their pleasant odour caused Philip a keen delight. The day was warm and cloudless. At last they came to an eminence from which they saw the valley of the Rhine spread out before them under the sun. It was a vast stretch of country, sparkling with golden light, with cities in the distance; and through it meandered the silver ribband of the river. Wide spaces are rare in the corner of Kent which Philip knew, the sea offers the only broad horizon, and the immense distance he saw now gave him a peculiar, an indescribable thrill. He felt suddenly elated. Though he did not know it, it was the first time that he had experienced, quite undiluted with foreign emotions, the sense of beauty. They sat on a bench, the three of them, for the others had gone on, and while the girls talked in rapid German, Philip, indifferent to their proximity, feasted his eyes.

‘By Jove, I am happy,’ he said to himself unconsciously.



第二十二章

菲利普的大伯有一个老朋友叫威尔金森小姐，住在柏林，是位牧师的女儿。凯里先生当副牧师的最后任期，就是在这位小姐的父亲手下度过的，当时他是林肯郡某村的教区长。父亲死后，威尔金森小姐被迫自谋生计，先后在法国和德国许多地方当过家庭教师。她同凯里太太保持着通信往来，还曾来布莱克斯泰勃牧师公馆度过两三次假期，她也像偶尔来凯里先生家作客的亲友一样，照例要付点儿膳宿费。等到事态已很清楚，凯里太太觉得执意违拗菲利普的心愿，只能给自己横生麻烦，还不如依顺他的好，于是便写信给威尔金森小姐，向她请教。威尔金森小姐推荐说，海德堡是个学习德语的理想之地，菲利普可以寄宿在欧林教授夫人的家里，那儿环境舒适，每星期付三十马克膳宿费。欧林教授在当地一所中学执教，他将亲自教授菲利普德语。

五月里的一个早晨，菲利普来到了海德堡。他把行李往小车上一搁，跟着脚夫出了车站。湛蓝的天空中，阳光明媚；他们所经过的大街上，枝叶扶疏，树影婆娑；四周的气氛给了菲利普一种新鲜之感。菲利普乍然进入新的生活天地，置身于陌生人中间，腼腆胆怯的心情之中掺杂着一股神清心爽的强烈喜悦。脚夫把他带到一幢白色大房子的正门处，径自走了。菲利普看到没人出来接他，有点不大痛快，而且感到很难为情。一个衣衫不整的小伙于把他让进门，领进客厅。客厅里摆满了一大套蒙有绿大鹅绒的家具；客厅中央有一张圆桌，上面放着一束养在清水里的鲜花，一条羊排肋骨似的装饰纸边把鲜花紧紧地扎在一起；花束周围井井有条地散放着皮封面的书籍。屋子里有股霉味。

不一会儿，随着一股厨房饭菜的油腻味，教授夫人走了进来。她身材不高，长得非常结实，头发丝纹不乱，红扑扑的脸，一对小眼睛像珠子似的晶莹发亮，神态举止洋溢着一股热情。她一把握住菲利普的双手，问起威尔金森小姐的情况。威尔金森小姐曾两次来她家，住了几个星期。她口操德语，间或夹着几句蹩脚英语。菲利普没法让她明白他自己并不认识威尔金森小姐。这时，她的两个女儿露面了。菲利普觉得她俩年龄似乎已经不小了，不过也许还没有超过二十五岁。大女儿特克拉，个儿同她母亲一般矮，脸上神情也同样那么灵活多变，不过容貌姣好，一头浓密的乌发；妹妹安娜，身材修长，姿色平庸，但她笑起来很甜，菲利普一见之下，觉得还是妹妹更讨人喜欢。彼此寒喧一阵之后，教授太太将菲利普领到他的房间便走开了。房间在顶层角楼上，俯视着街心花园内的一片树梢密叶。床支在凹室里，所以坐在书桌旁看这个房间，会觉得一点儿也不像间卧室。菲利普解开行李，把所有书籍都拿出来摆好。他终于摆脱了羁绊，不再受人掣肘。

一点钟铃声响了，唤他去用午餐。他走进客厅，发现教授太太的房客已济济一堂。她把菲利普介绍给自己丈夫，一个高个子中年人，脑瓜挺大，金黄色的鬓发已有点斑白，蓝蓝的眼睛，目光柔和。他用准确无误却是早已过时的英语同菲利普交谈，显然他的英语是通过钻研英国古典作品，而不是通过实际会话这一途径学到手的；他所用的口语词汇，菲利普只在莎士比亚的剧作中见到过，听起来怪别扭的。欧林教授太太并不把她经营的这所公寓叫作膳宿公寓，而是称之为"房客之家"，其实这两者究竟有何不同，兴许得惜重玄学家明察秋毫的眼力才辨别得出来。当大家在狭长而幽暗的客厅外套间坐下来用饭时，菲利普颇感腼腆。他看到席上共有十六人，教授太太坐在餐桌的一端，用刀切着熟肉。那个给菲利普开门的愣小子，负责端汤上菜，分送食物，他笨手笨脚，把餐盆子碰得丁丁当当震天价响；尽管他不停地来回穿梭，还是照顾不过来，最早一批拿到饭菜的人已经盆空肚饱，而后面的人还没拿到他们的那一份。教授太太执意要大家用餐时只讲讲德语，这样一来，即使忸怩不安的菲利普有勇气想凑兴几句，也不敢贸然开口了。他打量着面前这些自己将与之一起生活的人。教授太太身旁坐着几个老太太，菲利普对她们并不多加注意。餐桌上有两个年轻的金发姑娘，其中一个长得很漂亮，菲利普听到别人称呼她们赫德威格小姐和凯西莉小姐。凯西莉小姐的颈脖子后面拖条长辫子。她们俩并排坐着，一面嘁嘁喳喳地聊个不停，一面在吃吃地笑，并不时朝菲利普瞟上一眼，其中一位不知悄声儿说了句什么，只听见她俩格格地笑开了。菲利普尴尬得脸红耳赤，觉得她们暗中在拿自己打哈哈。她们旁边坐着一个中国人，黄黄的脸上挂着开朗的微笑。他正在大学里研究西方社会的状况。他说起话来很快，口音也很怪，所以他讲的话，姑娘们并不句句都懂。这一来，她们就张扬大笑，而他自己也随和地跟着笑了，笑的时候，那双细梢杏眼差不多合成了一道缝。另外还有两三个美国人，身穿黑外套，皮肤又黄又燥，是攻神学的大学生。菲利普在他们那一门蹩脚德语里听出了新英格兰的口音，用怀疑的目光扫了他们一眼。他所受的教育给他灌输了这样的看法：美国人尽是些轻率、喜欢铤而走险的野蛮人。

饭后，他们回到客厅，在那几张蒙有绿天鹅绒的硬椅上坐了一会。安娜小姐问菲利普是否愿意跟他们一起去散散步。

菲利普接受了邀请。散步的人不少哩，有教授太太的两个女儿，另外两位姑娘，一个美国大学生，再加上菲利普。菲利普走在安娜和赫德威格小姐的旁边。他有点忐忑不安。他从来没和姑娘打过交道。在布莱克斯泰勃，只有一些农家姑娘和当地商人的小姐。他知道她们的芳名，同她们打过几个照面，但他怯生生的，总以为她们在笑话他的残疾。牧师和凯里太太自视高人一等，不同于地位低下的庄稼人，菲利普也欣然接受了这种看法。医生有两个女儿，但年纪都比菲利普大得多，在菲利普还是小孩的时候就相继嫁给了医生的两位助手。学校里有些学生认识两三个胆量有余而庄重不足的姑娘，同学间飞短流长，说他们和那些姑娘有私情，这很可能是出于男性的想入非非，故意危言耸听。这类传闻常使菲利普不胜震怖，但表面上，他总装出一副清高、不屑一听的神气。他的想象力，还有他看过的书籍，在他心中唤起一种要在女子面前保持拜伦式风度的愿望。他一方面怀有病态的羞涩心理，一方面又确信自己应该自己出风流倜傥的骑士风度，结果被折腾得不知如何是好。此刻，他觉得正该显得聪明潇洒、风趣大方才是，哪知脑子里却偏偏空空如也，挖空心思也想不出一句话来。教授太太的女儿安娜小姐出于责任感，不时同他攀谈几句，但她身旁的那位姑娘却难得启口，时而转动那对门如流星的眸子乜他一眼，间或还在一旁纵声大笑，搞得他越发心慌意乱。菲利普觉得自己在她眼里一定可笑极了。他们沿着山麓，在松林中缓缓而行，松树沁人肺腑的阵阵幽香，使菲利普心旷神怡。天气暖洋洋的，晴空里不见一丝云翳。最后他们来到一处高地，居高临下，只见莱茵河流域跃然展现在他们面前。广阔的田野、远处的城市沐浴在阳光之中，金光闪烁。其间更有莱茵河曲折蜿蜒，宛如银色的缎带。在菲利普所熟悉的肯特郡那一隅，很少见到这等开阔的一马平川，只有凭海远眺，才能见到天地相连的胜景。眼前这一片广阔无垠的田野，使他的心灵激起一阵奇特的、难以描述的震颤。他猛地陶醉在幸福之中。尽管他自己并不了解，但这是他有生以来第一次真正领悟到了美，而且没有被奇异的感情所冲淡。他们，就他们三个人，坐在一张长凳上，其余的则继续往前去了。两位姑娘用德语快速交谈着，而菲利普毫不理会她们近在咫尺，尽情饱览眼前的绮丽风光。

"天啊，我真幸福！"他不知不觉地喃喃自语了一句。
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chapter 23

Philip thought occasionally of the King’s School at Tercanbury, and laughed to himself as he remembered what at some particular moment of the day they were doing. Now and then he dreamed that he was there still, and it gave him an extraordinary satisfaction, on awaking, to realise that he was in his little room in the turret. From his bed he could see the great cumulus clouds that hung in the blue sky. He revelled in his freedom. He could go to bed when he chose and get up when the fancy took him. There was no one to order him about. It struck him that he need not tell any more lies.

It had been arranged that Professor Erlin should teach him Latin and German; a Frenchman came every day to give him lessons in French; and the Frau Professor had recommended for mathematics an Englishman who was taking a philological degree at the university. This was a man named Wharton. Philip went to him every morning. He lived in one room on the top floor of a shabby house. It was dirty and untidy, and it was filled with a pungent odour made up of many different stinks. He was generally in bed when Philip arrived at ten o’clock, and he jumped out, put on a filthy dressing-gown and felt slippers, and, while he gave instruction, ate his simple breakfast. He was a short man, stout from excessive beer drinking, with a heavy moustache and long, unkempt hair. He had been in Germany for five years and was become very Teutonic. He spoke with scorn of Cambridge where he had taken his degree and with horror of the life which awaited him when, having taken his doctorate in Heidelberg, he must return to England and a pedagogic career. He adored the life of the German university with its happy freedom and its jolly companionships. He was a member of a Burschenschaft, and promised to take Philip to a Kneipe. He was very poor and made no secret that the lessons he was giving Philip meant the difference between meat for his dinner and bread and cheese. Sometimes after a heavy night he had such a headache that he could not drink his coffee, and he gave his lesson with heaviness of spirit. For these occasions he kept a few bottles of beer under the bed, and one of these and a pipe would help him to bear the burden of life.

‘A hair of the dog that bit him,’ he would say as he poured out the beer, carefully so that the foam should not make him wait too long to drink.

Then he would talk to Philip of the university, the quarrels between rival corps, the duels, and the merits of this and that professor. Philip learnt more of life from him than of mathematics. Sometimes Wharton would sit back with a laugh and say:

‘Look here, we’ve not done anything today. You needn’t pay me for the lesson.’

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ said Philip.

This was something new and very interesting, and he felt that it was of greater import than trigonometry, which he never could understand. It was like a window on life that he had a chance of peeping through, and he looked with a wildly beating heart.

‘No, you can keep your dirty money,’ said Wharton.

‘But how about your dinner?’ said Philip, with a smile, for he knew exactly how his master’s finances stood.

Wharton had even asked him to pay him the two shillings which the lesson cost once a week rather than once a month, since it made things less complicated.

‘Oh, never mind my dinner. It won’t be the first time I’ve dined off a bottle of beer, and my mind’s never clearer than when I do.’

He dived under the bed (the sheets were gray with want of washing), and fished out another bottle. Philip, who was young and did not know the good things of life, refused to share it with him, so he drank alone.

‘How long are you going to stay here?’ asked Wharton.

Both he and Philip had given up with relief the pretence of mathematics.

‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose about a year. Then my people want me to go to Oxford.’

Wharton gave a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. It was a new experience for Philip to learn that there were persons who did not look upon that seat of learning with awe.

‘What d’you want to go there for? You’ll only be a glorified schoolboy. Why don’t you matriculate here? A year’s no good. Spend five years here. You know, there are two good things in life, freedom of thought and freedom of action. In France you get freedom of action: you can do what you like and nobody bothers, but you must think like everybody else. In Germany you must do what everybody else does, but you may think as you choose. They’re both very good things. I personally prefer freedom of thought. But in England you get neither: you’re ground down by convention. You can’t think as you like and you can’t act as you like. That’s because it’s a democratic nation. I expect America’s worse.’

He leaned back cautiously, for the chair on which he sat had a ricketty leg, and it was disconcerting when a rhetorical flourish was interrupted by a sudden fall to the floor.

‘I ought to go back to England this year, but if I can scrape together enough to keep body and soul on speaking terms I shall stay another twelve months. But then I shall have to go. And I must leave all this’—he waved his arm round the dirty garret, with its unmade bed, the clothes lying on the floor, a row of empty beer bottles against the wall, piles of unbound, ragged books in every corner—‘for some provincial university where I shall try and get a chair of philology. And I shall play tennis and go to tea-parties.’ He interrupted himself and gave Philip, very neatly dressed, with a clean collar on and his hair well-brushed, a quizzical look. ‘And, my God! I shall have to wash.’

Philip reddened, feeling his own spruceness an intolerable reproach; for of late he had begun to pay some attention to his toilet, and he had come out from England with a pretty selection of ties.

The summer came upon the country like a conqueror. Each day was beautiful. The sky had an arrogant blue which goaded the nerves like a spur. The green of the trees in the Anlage was violent and crude; and the houses, when the sun caught them, had a dazzling white which stimulated till it hurt. Sometimes on his way back from Wharton Philip would sit in the shade on one of the benches in the Anlage, enjoying the coolness and watching the patterns of light which the sun, shining through the leaves, made on the ground. His soul danced with delight as gaily as the sunbeams. He revelled in those moments of idleness stolen from his work. Sometimes he sauntered through the streets of the old town. He looked with awe at the students of the corps, their cheeks gashed and red, who swaggered about in their coloured caps. In the afternoons he wandered about the hills with the girls in the Frau Professor’s house, and sometimes they went up the river and had tea in a leafy beer-garden. In the evenings they walked round and round the Stadtgarten, listening to the band.

Philip soon learned the various interests of the household. Fraulein Thekla, the professor’s elder daughter, was engaged to a man in England who had spent twelve months in the house to learn German, and their marriage was to take place at the end of the year. But the young man wrote that his father, an india-rubber merchant who lived in Slough, did not approve of the union, and Fraulein Thekla was often in tears. Sometimes she and her mother might be seen, with stern eyes and determined mouths, looking over the letters of the reluctant lover. Thekla painted in water colour, and occasionally she and Philip, with another of the girls to keep them company, would go out and paint little pictures. The pretty Fraulein Hedwig had amorous troubles too. She was the daughter of a merchant in Berlin and a dashing hussar had fallen in love with her, a von if you please: but his parents opposed a marriage with a person of her condition, and she had been sent to Heidelberg to forget him. She could never, never do this, and corresponded with him continually, and he was making every effort to induce an exasperating father to change his mind. She told all this to Philip with pretty sighs and becoming blushes, and showed him the photograph of the gay lieutenant. Philip liked her best of all the girls at the Frau Professor’s, and on their walks always tried to get by her side. He blushed a great deal when the others chaffed him for his obvious preference. He made the first declaration in his life to Fraulein Hedwig, but unfortunately it was an accident, and it happened in this manner. In the evenings when they did not go out, the young women sang little songs in the green velvet drawing-room, while Fraulein Anna, who always made herself useful, industriously accompanied. Fraulein Hedwig’s favourite song was called Ich liebe dich, I love you; and one evening after she had sung this, when Philip was standing with her on the balcony, looking at the stars, it occurred to him to make some remark about it. He began:

‘Ich liebe dich.’

His German was halting, and he looked about for the word he wanted. The pause was infinitesimal, but before he could go on Fraulein Hedwig said:

‘Ach, Herr Carey, Sie mussen mir nicht du sagen—you mustn’t talk to me in the second person singular.’

Philip felt himself grow hot all over, for he would never have dared to do anything so familiar, and he could think of nothing on earth to say. It would be ungallant to explain that he was not making an observation, but merely mentioning the title of a song.

‘Entschuldigen Sie,’ he said. ‘I beg your pardon.’

‘It does not matter,’ she whispered.

She smiled pleasantly, quietly took his hand and pressed it, then turned back into the drawing-room.

Next day he was so embarrassed that he could not speak to her, and in his shyness did all that was possible to avoid her. When he was asked to go for the usual walk he refused because, he said, he had work to do. But Fraulein Hedwig seized an opportunity to speak to him alone.

‘Why are you behaving in this way?’ she said kindly. ‘You know, I’m not angry with you for what you said last night. You can’t help it if you love me. I’m flattered. But although I’m not exactly engaged to Hermann I can never love anyone else, and I look upon myself as his bride.’

Philip blushed again, but he put on quite the expression of a rejected lover.

‘I hope you’ll be very happy,’ he said.



第二十三章

菲利普偶尔也想到坎特伯雷皇家公学，而每当他回想起以前他们某时某刻正在干些什么的时候，就禁不住暗自发笑。他常常梦见自己还待在那儿，等他一觉醒来意识到自己是躺在角楼的小房间内，心里立刻感受到一种异乎寻常的满足。他从床头就可以望见飘浮在蓝天里的大团大团积云。他尽情享受着自由的乐趣。他愿意何时安寝就何时安寝，高兴何时起床就何时起床。再没有人在他面前发号施令，要他于这干那了。他忽然想到今后无需再违心撒谎了。

根据安排，由欧林教授教菲利普拉丁语和德语，一个法国人每天上门来给他上法语课；此外，教授夫人还推荐一位英国人教他数学。此人名叫沃顿，目前在海德堡大学攻读语言学，打算得个学位。菲利普每天早晨去他那儿。他住在一幢破房子的顶楼上，那房间又脏又乱，满屋子的刺鼻怪味，各种污物散发出五花八门的臭气。菲利普十点钟来到这儿的时候，他往往尚未起床，接着，他便一跃而起，披件邋里遗邋遢的睡衣，趿双毛毡拖鞋，一面吃着简单的早餐，一面就开始授课了。他矮矮的个儿，由于贪饮啤酒而变得大腹便便。一撮又浓又黑的小胡子，一头蓬蓬松松的乱发。他在德国待了五年，人乡随俗，已十足条顿化了。他得过剑桥的学位，但提起那所大学时，总是语带嘲讽；在海德堡大学取得博士学位之后，他将不得不返回英国，开始其教书匠的生涯；而在谈到这种生活前景时，又不胜惶恐。他很喜欢德国大学的生活，无拘无束，悠然自在，而有好友良朋朝夕相伴。他是Burschenschft的会员，答应几时带菲利普去参加Kneip。他手头非常拮据，对菲利普也直言不讳，说给他上课直接关系到自己的午餐是吃肉饱口腹呢，还是嚼面包和干酪充饥。有时，他一夜狂饮，第二天头疼欲裂，连杯咖啡也喝不下，教课时，自然是昏昏沉沉打不起精神。为了应付这种场合，他在床底下藏了几瓶啤酒，一杯酒外加一个烟，就可帮助他承受生活的重担。

"解酒还须杯中物，"他常常一面这么说着，一面小心翼翼地给自己斟酒，不让酒面泛起泡沫，耽误自己喝酒的工夫。

随后，他就对菲利普大谈起海德堡大学里的事儿来，什么学生联合会里的两派之争啦，什么决斗啦，还有这位、那位教授的功过是非啦，等等。菲利普从他那儿学到的人情世故要比学到的数学还多。有时候，沃顿向椅背上一靠，呵呵笑着说：

"瞧，今天咱们什么也没干，你不必付我上课费啦。"

"噢，没关系，"菲利普说。

沃顿讲的事儿既新鲜，又极有趣，菲利普感到这要比三角学更重要，说实在的，这门学科他怎么学也搞不懂。现在面前好似打开了一扇生活的窗户，他有机会凭窗向内窥视，而且一面偷看，一面心里还扑通扑通跳个不停。

"不行，还是把你的臭钱留着吧，"沃顿说。

"那你午餐吃什么呢？"菲利普微笑着说，因为他对这位老师的经济情况了如指掌。

沃顿甚至要求菲利普把每节课两先令的束脩，从每月一付改为每周一付，这样算起钱来可以少一点麻烦。

"哦噢，别管我吃些什么。喝瓶啤酒当饭，又不是第一遭。这么一来，头脑反而比任何时候更清醒。"

说罢，他一骨碌钻到床底下（床上的床单由于不常换洗，已经呈暗灰色），又提出一瓶啤酒来。菲利普年纪还轻，不知晓生活中的神仙事，硬是不肯同他把杯对饮，于是他继续独个儿自斟自酌。

"你打算在这儿待多久？"沃顿问道。

他和菲利普两人干脆把数学这块装门面的幌子扔在一边，越发畅所欲言了。

"噢，我也不知道，大概一年吧。家里人要我一年之后上牛津念书。"

沃顿一耸肩，满脸鄙夷之色。菲利普有生以来还是第一次看到有人竟然对那样一所堂堂学府如此大不敬。

"你上那儿去干啥？无非是到那儿混混，镀一层金罢了。干吗不在这儿上大学呢？一年时间不管用，得花个五年时间。要知道，生活中有两件宝：思想自由和行动自由。在法国，你有行动的自由，你爱干什么就干什么，没人会出面干预，但是你的思想必须同他人一致。在德国，你的行动必须同他人一致，可是你爱怎么想就怎么想。这两件东西都很可贵。就我个人来说，更喜欢思想上的无拘无束。然而在英国，什么自由也没有：被陈规陋习压得透不过气来，既不能无拘无束地思想，也不能随心所欲地行动。这就因为它是个民主国家。我看美国的情况更糟。"

他小心翼翼地往后靠，因为他坐的那把椅子一条腿已有点晃悠，要是在他高谈阔论、妙语连珠的当儿，猛然一屁股摔倒在地，岂不大杀风景。

"年内我得回英国去，但要是我能积蓄点钱，勉勉强强凑合得过去，我就在这儿再待上一年。以后，我无论如何得回去，不得不和这儿的一切分手啦。"他伸出条胳臂朝那间肮脏的顶室四下一挥。屋子里，被褥凌乱，衣服散落了一地，靠墙是一排空啤酒瓶，哪个墙角落里都堆着断脊缺面的破书。"到外省的某个大学去，设法混个语言学教授的教席。到时候我还要打打网球，参加参加茶会。"他忽地收住话头，用疑惑的目光看了菲利普一眼。菲利普穿戴整齐，衣领一尘不染，头发梳得漂漂亮亮。"哟，我的上帝，我得洗把脸了。"

菲利普觉得自己的穿戴整齐竞受到了不能宽容的责备，顿时飞红了脸。他最近也开始注意起打扮来，还从英国带来了几条经过精心挑选的漂亮领带。

夏天偶然以征服者的姿态来到了人间。每天都是丽日当空的晴朗大气。湛蓝的天空透出一股傲气，像踢马刺一样刺痛人的神经。街心花园内的那一片青葱翠绿，浓烈粗犷，咄咄逼人；还有那一排排房屋，在阳光的照晒下，反射出令人眼花缭乱的白光，刺激着你的感官，最终使你无法忍受。有时，菲利普从沃顿那里出来，半路上就在街心花园的婆娑树影下找张条凳坐下歇凉，观赏着璀璨的阳光透过繁枝茂叶在地面交织成的一幅幅金色图案。他的心灵也像阳光那样欢快雀跃。他沉醉在这种忙里偷闲的欢乐之中。有时，菲利普在这座古老城市的街头信步漫游。他用敬爱的目光瞧着那些属于大学生联合会的学生，他们脸上划开了一道道日子，血迹斑斑，头上戴着五颜六色的帽子，在街上高视阔步。午后，他常同教授太太公寓里的女孩子们一道沿山麓闲逛。有时候，他们顺着河岸向上游走去，在浓荫蔽日的露天啤酒店里用茶点。晚上，他们在Stadtgarten里转悠，聆听小乐队的演奏。

菲利普不久就了解到这幢屋子里各人所关切的问题。教授的长女特克拉小姐同一个英国人订了婚，他曾在这座寓所里待过一年，专门学习德语，后来回国了。婚礼原定于今年年底举行，不料那个年轻人来信说，他父亲-一一个住在斯劳的橡胶商--不同意这门亲事，所以特克拉小姐常常偷洒相思泪。有时候，可以看到母女俩厉目圆睁，嘴巴抿得紧紧的，细嚼细咽地读着那位勉为其难的情人的来信。特克拉善画水彩画，她偶尔也同菲利普，再加上另一位姑娘的陪同，一起到户外去写生画意。俊俏的赫德威格小姐也有爱情方面的烦恼。她是柏林一个商人的女儿。有位风流倜傥的轻骑兵军官堕入了她的情网。他还是个"冯"哩。但是，轻骑兵军官的双亲反对儿子同一个像她这种身分的女子缔结亲事，于是她被送到海德堡来，好让她把对方忘掉。可是她呢，即使海枯了，石烂了，也没法将他忘掉的；她不断同他通信，而那位情郎也施出浑身解数，诱劝他那气冲牛斗的父亲回心转意。她红着脸，把这一切全告诉了菲利普，一边说一边妩媚地连声叹息，还把那个风流中尉的照片拿出来给菲利普看。教授太太寓所里的所有姑娘中，菲利普最喜欢她，出外散步时总是想法子挨在她身边。当别人开玩笑说他不该如此明显地厚此薄彼时，他的脸红到了耳根。菲利普在赫德威格小姐面前，破天荒第一次向异性吐露了心声，可惜纯粹是出于偶然罢了。事情的经过是这样的：姑娘们如果平时不出门，就在铺满绿天鹅绒的客厅里唱唱小曲，那位一向以助人为乐的安娜小姐，卖力地为她们弹琴伴唱。赫德威格小姐最喜欢唱的一支歌叫《Ich Liebe dieh》（《我爱你》）。一天晚上，她唱完了这首歌，来到阳台上，菲利普则站在她身边，抬头仰望满天星斗，忽然想到要就这首歌子谈一下自己的感受。他开口说：

"Ich Liebe dieh．"

他讲起德语来，结结巴巴，一边还搜索枯肠找自己需要的词儿。他真正只停顿了一刹那的工夫，可就在他要往下说的时候，赫德威格小姐却接过了话茬：

"Ach，Hers Carey Sle mussen mlr nleht'du' sagen"（不许您用第二人称单数这样对我说话）。

菲利普感到浑身一阵燥热，其实他根本没有勇气在少女面前这样亲昵放肆，可他一时怎么也想不出话来辩解。要是对她解释说，他并非在表示自己的想法，只是随口提到一首歌的歌名罢了，这未免有失骑士风度。

"Entschnldipen Sie，"（请您原谅）他说。

"没关系，"她悄声儿说。

她嫣然一笑，悄悄地抓住菲利普的手，紧紧一握，然后返身回进客厅。

翌日，菲利普在她面前窘得什么似的，一句话也讲不出来。出于羞愧，菲利普尽可能躲着她点。姑娘们像往日那样邀他出外散步，他推托有事，婉言谢绝了。可是赫德威格小姐瞅准了个机会，趁没有他人在场的当儿对菲利普说：

"您干吗要这样呢？"她和颜悦色地说，"您知道，我并没因您昨晚讲的话而生您的气呀。您要是爱上我，那也是没办法的嘛。我很高兴呢。话得说回来，虽说我还没有同赫尔曼正式订婚，但我决不会再爱别人了，我已把自己看作他的新娘啦。"

菲利普脸又红了，但这次他倒俨然摆出一副求爱遭到拒绝的神情。

"但愿您非常幸福，"他说。
[td]
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chapter 24

Professor Erlin gave Philip a lesson every day. He made out a list of books which Philip was to read till he was ready for the final achievement of Faust, and meanwhile, ingeniously enough, started him on a German translation of one of the plays by Shakespeare which Philip had studied at school. It was the period in Germany of Goethe’s highest fame. Notwithstanding his rather condescending attitude towards patriotism he had been adopted as the national poet, and seemed since the war of seventy to be one of the most significant glories of national unity. The enthusiastic seemed in the wildness of the Walpurgisnacht to hear the rattle of artillery at Gravelotte. But one mark of a writer’s greatness is that different minds can find in him different inspirations; and Professor Erlin, who hated the Prussians, gave his enthusiastic admiration to Goethe because his works, Olympian and sedate, offered the only refuge for a sane mind against the onslaughts of the present generation. There was a dramatist whose name of late had been much heard at Heidelberg, and the winter before one of his plays had been given at the theatre amid the cheers of adherents and the hisses of decent people. Philip heard discussions about it at the Frau Professor’s long table, and at these Professor Erlin lost his wonted calm: he beat the table with his fist, and drowned all opposition with the roar of his fine deep voice. It was nonsense and obscene nonsense. He forced himself to sit the play out, but he did not know whether he was more bored or nauseated. If that was what the theatre was coming to, then it was high time the police stepped in and closed the playhouses. He was no prude and could laugh as well as anyone at the witty immorality of a farce at the Palais Royal, but here was nothing but filth. With an emphatic gesture he held his nose and whistled through his teeth. It was the ruin of the family, the uprooting of morals, the destruction of Germany.

‘Aber, Adolf,’ said the Frau Professor from the other end of the table. ‘Calm yourself.’

He shook his fist at her. He was the mildest of creatures and ventured upon no action of his life without consulting her.

‘No, Helene, I tell you this,’ he shouted. ‘I would sooner my daughters were lying dead at my feet than see them listening to the garbage of that shameless fellow.’

The play was The Doll’s House and the author was Henrik Ibsen.

Professor Erlin classed him with Richard Wagner, but of him he spoke not with anger but with good-humoured laughter. He was a charlatan but a successful charlatan, and in that was always something for the comic spirit to rejoice in.

‘Verruckter Kerl! A madman!’ he said.

He had seen Lohengrin and that passed muster. It was dull but no worse. But Siegfried! When he mentioned it Professor Erlin leaned his head on his hand and bellowed with laughter. Not a melody in it from beginning to end! He could imagine Richard Wagner sitting in his box and laughing till his sides ached at the sight of all the people who were taking it seriously. It was the greatest hoax of the nineteenth century. He lifted his glass of beer to his lips, threw back his head, and drank till the glass was empty. Then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said:

‘I tell you young people that before the nineteenth century is out Wagner will be as dead as mutton. Wagner! I would give all his works for one opera by Donizetti.’



第二十四章

欧林教授每天给菲利普上一堂课。他开了一张书单，规定菲利普要读哪些著作，为最后研读巨著《浮士德》作好准备。与此同时，欧林教授独具匠心地一上来先教菲利普学一册莎翁剧作的德译本，莎翁的剧作他在中学里就念过的。那阵子，歌德在德国正处于盛名的顶峰。尽管歌德对爱国主义持相当傲慢的态度，但他还是作为民族诗人被德国人接受了。自一八七○年战争爆发以来，他似乎更成了最能体现民族团结的光辉代表人物之一。热情冲动的人们，听到炮击格拉夫洛的隆隆排炮声，似乎沉迷在五朔节前夜的颠狂之中。然而，一个作家之所以伟大，其标志就在于不同的人可以从他的作品里汲取到不同的灵感。这位憎恶普鲁士人的欧林教授，对歌德却佩服得五体投地，因为只有他那些庄严肃穆的作品，才为神志清醒的人提供了一个能抵御当代人蛮横进攻的庇护所。近来在海德堡，经常有人提到一位戏剧家的大名，去年冬天，他的一个剧本在剧院上演时，追随者欢呼喝彩，而正派人士却报以一片嘘声。在教授太太家的长桌旁，菲利普不止一次听到人们在议论这件事；逢到这种场合，欧林教授一反泰然自若的常态，挥拳拍桌，大声吼叫，他那低沉悦耳的喉音压倒了所有的反对意见。这出戏纯粹是乱弹琴，污言秽语不堪入耳。他硬逼着自己坐等戏演完，讲不出自己是厌烦呢，还是更感恶心。要是将来的戏剧都成了这副模样，那还不如趁早让警察出面干预，把所有戏院都来个大封门的好。欧林教授可不是个拘谨古板的夫子，他在皇家剧院观看闹剧时，听到台上伤风败俗之徒的插科打诨，也同所有观众一样捧腹大笑。可是在上面讲的那出戏里，除了乌七八糟的东西外，什么内容也没有。他打了个有力的手势，捏住鼻子，从牙缝间嘘了一声口哨。那出戏实在是家庭的毁灭，道德的沦丧，德意志的崩溃。

"Abor，Adolf，教授太太在桌子另一端说，"别激动嘛！"

他朝她扬了扬拳头。他这个人的性格再温驯不过，从不敢不向太太请教就贸然行事的。

"不，海伦，你听我说，"他大声嚷嚷，"我情愿让女儿死在我脚下，也不放她们去听那个无耻之尤的无聊废话。"

那出戏是《玩偶之家》，作者是亨利克·易卜生。

欧林教授把易卜生和理查德·瓦格纳归在一类里，但是他谈到后者时，并不生气，只是不甚计较地哈哈一笑。瓦格纳是个冒充内行的河湖客，不过冒充得不露破绽，单凭这一点，就颇有几分喜剧色彩，足以令人陶然。

"Verruckter kerl！"他说。

他看过《洛亨格林》，这出歌剧还算过得去，虽然有点沉闷，还不至于太糟。但是《齐格弗里特》，欧林教授一提到这出歌剧，就把头往于上一靠，声若洪钟似地大笑起来。歌剧从头到尾，一节悦耳动听的旋律也没有。不妨可以作这样的想象：剧作家理查德·瓦格纳本人就坐在包厢里，看到台下所有观众都在一本正经地观看这出歌剧，他忍俊不禁，最后连肚子也笑疼了。这是十九世纪最大的骗局。欧林教授把自己的那杯啤酒举到嘴唇边，头往后一仰，一饮而尽。然后，他用手背抹了抹嘴，说：

"年轻人，我可以告诉你们，不出十九世纪，瓦格纳就会被人们忘得一干二净。瓦格纳！我宁愿拿他所有的作品去换唐尼采蒂的一出歌剧。"
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chapter 25

The oddest of Philip’s masters was his teacher of French. Monsieur Ducroz was a citizen of Geneva. He was a tall old man, with a sallow skin and hollow cheeks; his gray hair was thin and long. He wore shabby black clothes, with holes at the elbows of his coat and frayed trousers. His linen was very dirty. Philip had never seen him in a clean collar. He was a man of few words, who gave his lesson conscientiously but without enthusiasm, arriving as the clock struck and leaving on the minute. His charges were very small. He was taciturn, and what Philip learnt about him he learnt from others: it appeared that he had fought with Garibaldi against the Pope, but had left Italy in disgust when it was clear that all his efforts for freedom, by which he meant the establishment of a republic, tended to no more than an exchange of yokes; he had been expelled from Geneva for it was not known what political offences. Philip looked upon him with puzzled surprise; for he was very unlike his idea of the revolutionary: he spoke in a low voice and was extraordinarily polite; he never sat down till he was asked to; and when on rare occasions he met Philip in the street took off his hat with an elaborate gesture; he never laughed, he never even smiled. A more complete imagination than Philip’s might have pictured a youth of splendid hope, for he must have been entering upon manhood in 1848 when kings, remembering their brother of France, went about with an uneasy crick in their necks; and perhaps that passion for liberty which passed through Europe, sweeping before it what of absolutism and tyranny had reared its head during the reaction from the revolution of 1789, filled no breast with a hotter fire. One might fancy him, passionate with theories of human equality and human rights, discussing, arguing, fighting behind barricades in Paris, flying before the Austrian cavalry in Milan, imprisoned here, exiled from there, hoping on and upborne ever with the word which seemed so magical, the word Liberty; till at last, broken with disease and starvation, old, without means to keep body and soul together but such lessons as he could pick up from poor students, he found himself in that little neat town under the heel of a personal tyranny greater than any in Europe. Perhaps his taciturnity hid a contempt for the human race which had abandoned the great dreams of his youth and now wallowed in sluggish ease; or perhaps these thirty years of revolution had taught him that men are unfit for liberty, and he thought that he had spent his life in the pursuit of that which was not worth the finding. Or maybe he was tired out and waited only with indifference for the release of death.

One day Philip, with the bluntness of his age, asked him if it was true he had been with Garibaldi. The old man did not seem to attach any importance to the question. He answered quite quietly in as low a voice as usual.

‘Oui, monsieur.’

‘They say you were in the Commune?’

‘Do they? Shall we get on with our work?’

He held the book open and Philip, intimidated, began to translate the passage he had prepared.

One day Monsieur Ducroz seemed to be in great pain. He had been scarcely able to drag himself up the many stairs to Philip’s room: and when he arrived sat down heavily, his sallow face drawn, with beads of sweat on his forehead, trying to recover himself.

‘I’m afraid you’re ill,’ said Philip.

‘It’s of no consequence.’

But Philip saw that he was suffering, and at the end of the hour asked whether he would not prefer to give no more lessons till he was better.

‘No,’ said the old man, in his even low voice. ‘I prefer to go on while I am able.’

Philip, morbidly nervous when he had to make any reference to money, reddened.

‘But it won’t make any difference to you,’ he said. ‘I’ll pay for the lessons just the same. If you wouldn’t mind I’d like to give you the money for next week in advance.’

Monsieur Ducroz charged eighteen pence an hour. Philip took a ten-mark piece out of his pocket and shyly put it on the table. He could not bring himself to offer it as if the old man were a beggar.

‘In that case I think I won’t come again till I’m better.’ He took the coin and, without anything more than the elaborate bow with which he always took his leave, went out.

‘Bonjour, monsieur.’

Philip was vaguely disappointed. Thinking he had done a generous thing, he had expected that Monsieur Ducroz would overwhelm him with expressions of gratitude. He was taken aback to find that the old teacher accepted the present as though it were his due. He was so young, he did not realise how much less is the sense of obligation in those who receive favours than in those who grant them. Monsieur Ducroz appeared again five or six days later. He tottered a little more and was very weak, but seemed to have overcome the severity of the attack. He was no more communicative than he had been before. He remained mysterious, aloof, and dirty. He made no reference to his illness till after the lesson: and then, just as he was leaving, at the door, which he held open, he paused. He hesitated, as though to speak were difficult.

‘If it hadn’t been for the money you gave me I should have starved. It was all I had to live on.’

He made his solemn, obsequious bow, and went out. Philip felt a little lump in his throat. He seemed to realise in a fashion the hopeless bitterness of the old man’s struggle, and how hard life was for him when to himself it was so pleasant.



第二十五章

在菲利普的这些私人教师中，最古怪的要数法语教帅了。这位迪克罗先生是位日内瓦的公民，一个高个儿老头，肤色蜡黄，双颊凹陷，头发灰白，又稀又长。他衣履寒伧，穿一身黑，上衣的肘部已露出破洞，裤于也已磨损。内衣很脏，菲利普还从没见他的衣领有过干净的时候。他不爱多说话，教课时一丝不苟，就是没有什么热情：准时到达，按点离去，分秒不差。收取的教课费微乎其微。他沉默寡言；而有关他的一些情况，菲利普全是从别人那儿打听到的。据说他曾在反对罗马教皇的斗争中同加里波迪工并肩战斗过。等他清楚地看到为自由--所谓"自由"就是指建立共和国--所作的一切努力无非是换一副枷锁而已，便怀着厌恶的心情离开了意大利；后来不知在政治上犯了什么罪，被驱逐出日内瓦。看到这样一个人物，菲利普又困惑又惊奇，他和自己脑子里的革命者形象大相径庭。迪克罗先生说起话来声音低沉，待人接物特别彬彬有礼；别人不请他坐，他就一直站着；有时偶然在大街上遇到菲利普，他免不了要摘下帽子，行个很道地的手势礼；他从来没有出声笑过，甚至脸上从未浮现过一丝笑意。假使有人比菲利普具有更完善的想象力，就会把当年的迪克罗想象成一位前程似锦的青年，因为他想必是在一八四八年开始进入成年时期的。那个年头，国王们想到他们法国兄弟的下场，便如有芒刺在背，惶惶然四处奔走；也许，那股席卷了整个欧洲的渴求自由的热浪，以摧枯拉朽之势，荡涤着横在它面前的污秽杂物-一那些在一七八九年革命之后的反动逆流中死而复燃的专制主义和暴政残灰--在每一个胸膛内点燃了一把更炽热的烈火。人们不妨还可以这样想象：他热烈地信奉各种有关人类平等和人权的理论，同别人探讨、争论，在巴黎街垒后面挥戈战斗，在米兰的奥地利骑兵面前疾驰飞奔：一会儿在这儿锒铛下狱，一会儿又在那儿遭到放逐。他总是希望满怀。"自由"这个字眼，这个似乎具有无限魔力的字眼，始终赋予他支撑的力量。直到最后，他被疾病、饥饿、衰老压垮了，除了给几个穷学生上这么几节课以外，再无其他谋生糊口的手段了。而且他还发现自己置身于这座外表整洁的小城镇，备受专制独裁暴政的蹂躏，其肆虐程度，更甚于欧洲其他城市。也许在他沉默寡言的外表之下，隐伏着对人类的蔑视，因为他的同类，已背弃了他年轻时代所憧憬的那些伟大的理想，沉湎于碌碌无为的怡适之中。说不定三十年来的革命已经使他懂得，人类是不配享有自由的，他醒悟过来，自己一生孜孜以求的目标原来并不值得探求。再不然就是他已精疲力竭，正冷漠地等待从死亡中得到解脱。

一天，菲利普带着他那种年纪所特有的愣劲，问起他过去是否真的同加里波迪在一起呆过。那老头似乎一点儿没把这个问题当作一回事。他用平日里的那种低沉声调，十分平静地应答了一声：

"Oui Monsieur."

"听别人说，你参加过公社。"

"别人这么说的吗？让我们开始上课吧，呃"

他把书本翻开，菲利普战战兢兢地开始翻译那段他已准备好的课文。

有一天，迪克罗先生好像受到巨大的疼痛折磨，几乎连那几级楼梯也爬不动，一进菲利普的屋就沉沉地往椅子上一坐，想歇歇喘口气，那张灰黄色的脸歪扭着，额头上沁出一颗颗汗珠。

"恐怕您病了吧，"菲利普说。

"没关系。"

但是菲利普看得出他病得不轻，等上完课、菲利普问他是否最好歇几天，等身体好些再继续上课。

"不，"老头说，声调还是那么平稳、低沉，"我身体还行，我愿意继续教下去。"

菲利普在不得不提及钱的事儿时，心里总是紧得发慌，这会儿他脸涨得通红。

"但这反正对您没什么影响，"菲利普说，"我课金还是照付不误。要是您不介意，我想现在就把下星期的课金预付给您。"

迪克罗先生的课金，一小时十八个便士。菲利普从口袋里掏出一枚十马克的硬币，很难为情地把它放在桌子上。他怎么能把钱塞到老头手里呢，好像他是个乞丐似的。

"既然这样，我想我就等身体好些再来吧。"他收下了那枚硬币，还是问往常一样，向菲利普一躬到底之后就走了出去，再没有什么别的表示。

"Bonjour，Monsieur．"

菲利普隐隐感到有点失望。想想自己如此慷慨解囊，迪克罗先生总该对他千恩万谢，感激涕零吧，哪知这位年迈的教师，收下这笔赠金就像是理所当然似的，菲利普颇感意外。他年纪还轻，不懂得人情世故。实际上，受惠者的知恩报答心理，要比施惠者的施恩图报心理淡薄得多。五六大之后，迪克罗先生又来了，步履越发踉跄，身体显得很衰弱，不过重病一场现在总算挺过来了。他仍旧像过去那样沉默寡言，还是那么神秘、孤僻、邋遢。一直等到上完了课，他才提到自己生病的事。接着，他起身告辞，就在他打开房门的时候，突然在门口刹住了脚。他犹豫着，仿佛有什么难言之隐似的。

"要不是您给我的那点钱，我早就饿死了。我全靠那点钱过日子。"

他庄重而巴结地鞠了一躬，走出房去。菲利普一阵心酸，喉咙口哽住了。他似乎多少有点明白过来，这位老人是在绝望的痛苦中挣扎着，就在菲利普觉着生活如此美好的时候，生活对这位老人来说却是多么艰难。
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chapter 26

Philip had spent three months in Heidelberg when one morning the Frau Professor told him that an Englishman named Hayward was coming to stay in the house, and the same evening at supper he saw a new face. For some days the family had lived in a state of excitement. First, as the result of heaven knows what scheming, by dint of humble prayers and veiled threats, the parents of the young Englishman to whom Fraulein Thekla was engaged had invited her to visit them in England, and she had set off with an album of water colours to show how accomplished she was and a bundle of letters to prove how deeply the young man had compromised himself. A week later Fraulein Hedwig with radiant smiles announced that the lieutenant of her affections was coming to Heidelberg with his father and mother. Exhausted by the importunity of their son and touched by the dowry which Fraulein Hedwig’s father offered, the lieutenant’s parents had consented to pass through Heidelberg to make the young woman’s acquaintance. The interview was satisfactory and Fraulein Hedwig had the satisfaction of showing her lover in the Stadtgarten to the whole of Frau Professor Erlin’s household. The silent old ladies who sat at the top of the table near the Frau Professor were in a flutter, and when Fraulein Hedwig said she was to go home at once for the formal engagement to take place, the Frau Professor, regardless of expense, said she would give a Maibowle. Professor Erlin prided himself on his skill in preparing this mild intoxicant, and after supper the large bowl of hock and soda, with scented herbs floating in it and wild strawberries, was placed with solemnity on the round table in the drawing-room. Fraulein Anna teased Philip about the departure of his lady-love, and he felt very uncomfortable and rather melancholy. Fraulein Hedwig sang several songs, Fraulein Anna played the Wedding March, and the Professor sang Die Wacht am Rhein. Amid all this jollification Philip paid little attention to the new arrival. They had sat opposite one another at supper, but Philip was chattering busily with Fraulein Hedwig, and the stranger, knowing no German, had eaten his food in silence. Philip, observing that he wore a pale blue tie, had on that account taken a sudden dislike to him. He was a man of twenty-six, very fair, with long, wavy hair through which he passed his hand frequently with a careless gesture. His eyes were large and blue, but the blue was very pale, and they looked rather tired already. He was clean-shaven, and his mouth, notwithstanding its thin lips, was well-shaped. Fraulein Anna took an interest in physiognomy, and she made Philip notice afterwards how finely shaped was his skull, and how weak was the lower part of his face. The head, she remarked, was the head of a thinker, but the jaw lacked character. Fraulein Anna, foredoomed to a spinster’s life, with her high cheek-bones and large misshapen nose, laid great stress upon character. While they talked of him he stood a little apart from the others, watching the noisy party with a good-humoured but faintly supercilious expression. He was tall and slim. He held himself with a deliberate grace. Weeks, one of the American students, seeing him alone, went up and began to talk to him. The pair were oddly contrasted: the American very neat in his black coat and pepper-and-salt trousers, thin and dried-up, with something of ecclesiastical unction already in his manner; and the Englishman in his loose tweed suit, large-limbed and slow of gesture.

Philip did not speak to the newcomer till next day. They found themselves alone on the balcony of the drawing-room before dinner. Hayward addressed him.

‘You’re English, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is the food always as bad it was last night?’

‘It’s always about the same.’

‘Beastly, isn’t it?’

‘Beastly.’

Philip had found nothing wrong with the food at all, and in fact had eaten it in large quantities with appetite and enjoyment, but he did not want to show himself a person of so little discrimination as to think a dinner good which another thought execrable.

Fraulein Thekla’s visit to England made it necessary for her sister to do more in the house, and she could not often spare the time for long walks; and Fraulein Cacilie, with her long plait of fair hair and her little snub-nosed face, had of late shown a certain disinclination for society. Fraulein Hedwig was gone, and Weeks, the American who generally accompanied them on their rambles, had set out for a tour of South Germany. Philip was left a good deal to himself. Hayward sought his acquaintance; but Philip had an unfortunate trait: from shyness or from some atavistic inheritance of the cave-dweller, he always disliked people on first acquaintance; and it was not till he became used to them that he got over his first impression. It made him difficult of access. He received Hayward’s advances very shyly, and when Hayward asked him one day to go for a walk he accepted only because he could not think of a civil excuse. He made his usual apology, angry with himself for the flushing cheeks he could not control, and trying to carry it off with a laugh.

‘I’m afraid I can’t walk very fast.’

‘Good heavens, I don’t walk for a wager. I prefer to stroll. Don’t you remember the chapter in Marius where Pater talks of the gentle exercise of walking as the best incentive to conversation?’

Philip was a good listener; though he often thought of clever things to say, it was seldom till after the opportunity to say them had passed; but Hayward was communicative; anyone more experienced than Philip might have thought he liked to hear himself talk. His supercilious attitude impressed Philip. He could not help admiring, and yet being awed by, a man who faintly despised so many things which Philip had looked upon as almost sacred. He cast down the fetish of exercise, damning with the contemptuous word pot-hunters all those who devoted themselves to its various forms; and Philip did not realise that he was merely putting up in its stead the other fetish of culture.

They wandered up to the castle, and sat on the terrace that overlooked the town. It nestled in the valley along the pleasant Neckar with a comfortable friendliness. The smoke from the chimneys hung over it, a pale blue haze; and the tall roofs, the spires of the churches, gave it a pleasantly medieval air. There was a homeliness in it which warmed the heart. Hayward talked of Richard Feverel and Madame Bovary, of Verlaine, Dante, and Matthew Arnold. In those days Fitzgerald’s translation of Omar Khayyam was known only to the elect, and Hayward repeated it to Philip. He was very fond of reciting poetry, his own and that of others, which he did in a monotonous sing-song. By the time they reached home Philip’s distrust of Hayward was changed to enthusiastic admiration.

They made a practice of walking together every afternoon, and Philip learned presently something of Hayward’s circumstances. He was the son of a country judge, on whose death some time before he had inherited three hundred a year. His record at Charterhouse was so brilliant that when he went to Cambridge the Master of Trinity Hall went out of his way to express his satisfaction that he was going to that college. He prepared himself for a distinguished career. He moved in the most intellectual circles: he read Browning with enthusiasm and turned up his well-shaped nose at Tennyson; he knew all the details of Shelley’s treatment of Harriet; he dabbled in the history of art (on the walls of his rooms were reproductions of pictures by G. F. Watts, Burne-Jones, and Botticelli); and he wrote not without distinction verses of a pessimistic character. His friends told one another that he was a man of excellent gifts, and he listened to them willingly when they prophesied his future eminence. In course of time he became an authority on art and literature. He came under the influence of Newman’s Apologia; the picturesqueness of the Roman Catholic faith appealed to his esthetic sensibility; and it was only the fear of his father’s wrath (a plain, blunt man of narrow ideas, who read Macaulay) which prevented him from ‘going over.’ When he only got a pass degree his friends were astonished; but he shrugged his shoulders and delicately insinuated that he was not the dupe of examiners. He made one feel that a first class was ever so slightly vulgar. He described one of the vivas with tolerant humour; some fellow in an outrageous collar was asking him questions in logic; it was infinitely tedious, and suddenly he noticed that he wore elastic-sided boots: it was grotesque and ridiculous; so he withdrew his mind and thought of the gothic beauty of the Chapel at King’s. But he had spent some delightful days at Cambridge; he had given better dinners than anyone he knew; and the conversation in his rooms had been often memorable. He quoted to Philip the exquisite epigram:

‘They told me, Herakleitus, they told me you were dead.’

And now, when he related again the picturesque little anecdote about the examiner and his boots, he laughed.

‘Of course it was folly,’ he said, ‘but it was a folly in which there was something fine.’

Philip, with a little thrill, thought it magnificent.

Then Hayward went to London to read for the Bar. He had charming rooms in Clement’s Inn, with panelled walls, and he tried to make them look like his old rooms at the Hall. He had ambitions that were vaguely political, he described himself as a Whig, and he was put up for a club which was of Liberal but gentlemanly flavour. His idea was to practise at the Bar (he chose the Chancery side as less brutal), and get a seat for some pleasant constituency as soon as the various promises made him were carried out; meanwhile he went a great deal to the opera, and made acquaintance with a small number of charming people who admired the things that he admired. He joined a dining-club of which the motto was, The Whole, The Good, and The Beautiful. He formed a platonic friendship with a lady some years older than himself, who lived in Kensington Square; and nearly every afternoon he drank tea with her by the light of shaded candles, and talked of George Meredith and Walter Pater. It was notorious that any fool could pass the examinations of the Bar Council, and he pursued his studies in a dilatory fashion. When he was ploughed for his final he looked upon it as a personal affront. At the same time the lady in Kensington Square told him that her husband was coming home from India on leave, and was a man, though worthy in every way, of a commonplace mind, who would not understand a young man’s frequent visits. Hayward felt that life was full of ugliness, his soul revolted from the thought of affronting again the cynicism of examiners, and he saw something rather splendid in kicking away the ball which lay at his feet. He was also a good deal in debt: it was difficult to live in London like a gentleman on three hundred a year; and his heart yearned for the Venice and Florence which John Ruskin had so magically described. He felt that he was unsuited to the vulgar bustle of the Bar, for he had discovered that it was not sufficient to put your name on a door to get briefs; and modern politics seemed to lack nobility. He felt himself a poet. He disposed of his rooms in Clement’s Inn and went to Italy. He had spent a winter in Florence and a winter in Rome, and now was passing his second summer abroad in Germany so that he might read Goethe in the original.

Hayward had one gift which was very precious. He had a real feeling for literature, and he could impart his own passion with an admirable fluency. He could throw himself into sympathy with a writer and see all that was best in him, and then he could talk about him with understanding. Philip had read a great deal, but he had read without discrimination everything that he happened to come across, and it was very good for him now to meet someone who could guide his taste. He borrowed books from the small lending library which the town possessed and began reading all the wonderful things that Hayward spoke of. He did not read always with enjoyment but invariably with perseverance. He was eager for self-improvement. He felt himself very ignorant and very humble. By the end of August, when Weeks returned from South Germany, Philip was completely under Hayward’s influence. Hayward did not like Weeks. He deplored the American’s black coat and pepper-and-salt trousers, and spoke with a scornful shrug of his New England conscience. Philip listened complacently to the abuse of a man who had gone out of his way to be kind to him, but when Weeks in his turn made disagreeable remarks about Hayward he lost his temper.

‘Your new friend looks like a poet,’ said Weeks, with a thin smile on his careworn, bitter mouth.

‘He is a poet.’

‘Did he tell you so? In America we should call him a pretty fair specimen of a waster.’

‘Well, we’re not in America,’ said Philip frigidly.

‘How old is he? Twenty-five? And he does nothing but stay in pensions and write poetry.’

‘You don’t know him,’ said Philip hotly.

‘Oh yes, I do: I’ve met a hundred and forty-seven of him.’

Weeks’ eyes twinkled, but Philip, who did not understand American humour, pursed his lips and looked severe. Weeks to Philip seemed a man of middle age, but he was in point of fact little more than thirty. He had a long, thin body and the scholar’s stoop; his head was large and ugly; he had pale scanty hair and an earthy skin; his thin mouth and thin, long nose, and the great protuberance of his frontal bones, gave him an uncouth look. He was cold and precise in his manner, a bloodless man, without passion; but he had a curious vein of frivolity which disconcerted the serious-minded among whom his instincts naturally threw him. He was studying theology in Heidelberg, but the other theological students of his own nationality looked upon him with suspicion. He was very unorthodox, which frightened them; and his freakish humour excited their disapproval.

‘How can you have known a hundred and forty-seven of him?’ asked Philip seriously.

‘I’ve met him in the Latin Quarter in Paris, and I’ve met him in pensions in Berlin and Munich. He lives in small hotels in Perugia and Assisi. He stands by the dozen before the Botticellis in Florence, and he sits on all the benches of the Sistine Chapel in Rome. In Italy he drinks a little too much wine, and in Germany he drinks a great deal too much beer. He always admires the right thing whatever the right thing is, and one of these days he’s going to write a great work. Think of it, there are a hundred and forty-seven great works reposing in the bosoms of a hundred and forty-seven great men, and the tragic thing is that not one of those hundred and forty-seven great works will ever be written. And yet the world goes on.’

Weeks spoke seriously, but his gray eyes twinkled a little at the end of his long speech, and Philip flushed when he saw that the American was making fun of him.

‘You do talk rot,’ he said crossly.



第二十六章

菲利普已在海德堡呆了三个月。一天早晨，教授太太告诉他有个名叫海沃德的英国人要住进这寓所来，就在当天晚上吃饭时，他见到了一张陌生面孔。连日来，这屋子里的人一直沉浸在兴奋之中。首先，经过教授太太母女俩低三下四的恳求，加上含而不露的恫吓，另外天知道还耍了些什么鬼花招，那位与特克拉小姐订婚的英国青年的父母，终于邀请她去英国看望他们。她动身时，随身带了一本水彩画册，有意显示一下自己的多才多艺，另外还带去一大捆情书，以证明那位英国青年在孽海中陷得有多深。一星期之后，赫德威格小姐又春风满面地宣布，她的意中人，那位轻骑兵中尉，就要偕同父母前来海德堡。中尉的父母一则吃不住宝贝儿子死皮赖脸的纠缠，二则对赫德威格小姐的父亲主动提出的那笔嫁妆动了心，终于同意来海德堡同这位少女结识一下。会面的结果尽如人意，赫德威格小姐洋洋得意地把情人领市立公园，让欧林教授家所有的人一睹丰采……那几位紧靠教授太太端坐上席的老太太，平时一向沉静端庄，今晚却显得心绪不宁。当赫德威格小姐说她要立即启程回家去举行订婚仪式时，教授太太毫不吝惜地说，她愿意请大家喝Maibowle，聊表祝贺之意。欧林教授颇为自己调制这种淡雅、香醇的酒的手艺感到自豪。晚餐后，在客厅的圆桌上隆重地摆上了一大碗掺苏打水的白葡萄酒，碗里还漂着一些香草和野生草莓。安娜小姐拿菲利普打趣，说他的情人要甩下他走了，菲利普听了浑身不白在，有种说不出的惆怅之感。赫德威格小姐唱了好几支歌子，安娜小姐演奏了《婚礼进行曲》，教授唱了《Die Wacht am Rhein》。沉浸在这样的欢乐气氛之中，菲利普很少留意那位新来的房客。刚才吃晚饭时他俩面对面坐着，但菲利普净忙着同赫德威格小姐拉扯絮叨，而那位陌生人不懂德语，只顾一个人埋头吃饭。菲利普注意到他系了条淡蓝色的领带，单因为这一点，菲利普就陡然心生厌恶。此人二十六岁，眉清目秀，蓄着波浪形的长发，时而还漫不经心地抬手抚弄一下。一双蓝色的大眼睛，不过是很淡很淡的蓝色，眼神里颇带几分倦怠之意。胡子刮得精光，尽管嘴唇薄薄的，但整个口形很美。安娜小姐对于相面术很感兴趣，她要菲利普日后留神一下，那陌生人的头颅外形有多匀称，而他脸庞的下部却显得松软。那颗脑袋，她评论说，是颗思想家的脑袋，但他的下颚却缺少个性。这位注定了要当一辈子老处女的安娜小姐，生就一副高高的颧骨和一只怪模怪样的大鼻子，特别注重人的个性。就在他们谈论此人长相的时候，他已离开大伙儿，站在一旁冷眼观看这闹哄哄的一群人，怡然自得的神态中微带几分傲慢。他身材修长。这会儿，他有意摆出一副风雅不俗的仪态。维克斯，那几个美国学生中的一个，见他独自站在一旁，便跑去同他搭讪。他们两位形成了奇怪的对照：那个美国人穿戴整洁，上身穿一件黑色外套，下身套一条椒盐色的裤子，长得又瘦又干俾，举止神情之中多少掺着点教士的热忱；而那个英国人呢，穿着一身宽松的花哨的呢服，粗手粗脚，举动慢条市里。

菲利普直到第二天才同新来的房客讲了话。午餐前，他们发现就自已两个站在客厅前的凉台上。海沃德向他招呼说：

"我想你是英国人吧？"

"是的。"

"这儿的伙食老是像昨晚上的那么差劲？"

"差不多就是这个样子。"

"糟透了，是不？"

"糟透了。"

菲利普一点儿没觉着伙食有什么不对头。事实上，他不但吃起来津津有味，而且食量颇大。但是，他可不想让人看出自己在吃的方面是个外行，竟把别人认为不堪入口的伙食视作上乘佳品。

特克拉小姐已去英国作客，操持家务就得偏劳妹妹安娜，她再抽不出时间经常到野外去散步。那位脸小鼻塌、金发束成长辫子的凯西莉小姐，近来也常闭门独处，似乎不大愿意同别人交往。赫德威格小姐走了，经常陪他们一同外出散步的那个美国人维克斯，现在也到德国南部旅行去了，丢下菲利普一个人，怪冷清的。海沃德有心要同他结交，可菲利普却有这么个不幸的特点：由于生性羞怯，或者说，由于在他身上出现某种返祖遗传--承继了穴居人的习性，他在同别人乍打交道时，总是心生嫌恶。一直要等到以后熟捻了，才会消除初次见面时别人给自己留下的坏印象。鉴于这点，外人很难同他接近。对于海沃德的友好表示，菲利普虚与应付，感到羞赧难当。一天，海。德邀菲利普同去散步，菲利普不得已同。了，因为他实在想不出句体面的托辞来。他照例是那么一句告罪的话，同时对自己禁不住要脸红这一点很是恼怒，于是故意张扬一笑，想借此来掩饰自己的窘态。

"我恐怕走不快呀。"

"我的老天，我又不是要打赌看谁走得快。我就是喜欢随便溜达溜达。您不记得佩特在《马里乌斯》的一章里曾经讲过，悠然漫步乃是最理想的交谈助兴剂？"

菲利普颇能领略他人讲话的妙处。虽然他自己也常常想说些语惊四座的妙语，但往往等到说话的机会已经错过了，才想起句把来；海沃德却谈锋甚健。换个比菲利普稍微老练些的人，也许会觉得海沃德就是喜欢别人听他自己高谈阔论。他那目空一切的傲态，给了菲利普很深的印象。对于许多被自己视为近乎神圣不可侵犯的事物，此人竟敢表示轻侮之意，单凭这一点，就不能不叫人佩服，不能不叫人肃然起敬。海沃德针砭世人对体育的盲目崇拜，把热心各种体育活动的人一概斥之为"奖品迷"；其实菲利普不明白，海沃德毕竟脱不了此窠臼，在身心的陶冶方面，他也总得迷恋些别的什么。

他们信步逛到古堡那儿，在古堡前那座俯瞰着海德堡全城的平台上坐定。小城傍依在风光宜人的内卡河畔，显示出一种与世无争的恬淡气氛。千家万户的烟囱里，腾起袅袅青烟，弥漫在古城上空，化成一片淡蓝的雾霭；高耸的屋顶和教堂的塔尖，错落有致，赋予小城一种赏心悦目的中世纪风味。整个古城自有一种沁人肺腑的亲切暖意。海沃德谈到了《理查·弗浮莱尔》和《包法利夫人》，谈到了魏尔伦、但丁和马修·阿诺德。那时候，菲茨杰拉德翻译的莪默·伽亚谟的诗集，只为少数上帝的特选子民所知晓，而海沃德却能将诗集逐字逐句地背诵给菲利普听。他很喜欢背诵诗篇，自己写的，或是别人写的，都以一种平直的歌调加以吟诵。等到他们回到家里时，菲利普对海沃德的态度，已从敷衍猜疑一转而为热情崇拜。

他们每天下午总要一起出外走一遭。菲利普没多久就了解到海沃德的身世点滴。他是位乡村法官的儿子，不久前法官去世，他继承到一笔岁人三百镑的遗产。海沃德在查特豪斯公学的学业成绩优异出众，他进剑桥大学时，甚至连特林尼特学院院长也破格亲自出迎，对他决定进该学院深造表示满意。海沃德厉兵袜马，准备干一番轰轰烈烈的事业。他同出类拔萃的知识界人士周旋交往，热情研读勃朗宁的诗作，对了尼生的作品嗤之以鼻。雪莱同海略特的那段啼笑姻缘的细节，他洞晓无遗；他对艺术史也有所涉猎（在他房间的墙壁上，挂有G·F·华茨、伯恩-琼斯和波提切利等画家杰作的复制品）。他自己也写了一些格调悲凉，却不乏特色的诗篇。朋友间相互议论，说他资质聪颖，才气横溢；海沃德很乐意听他们预言自己将来如何一鸣惊人，蜚声文坛。没多久，他自然而然地成了义学艺术方面的权威。纽曼的《自辩书》对他颇有影响；罗马天主教生动别致的教义，和他敏锐的美感一拍即合，他只是伯父亲（他父亲是个思想褊狭、心直口快的愣汉，平生喜读麦考利的作品）大发雷霆才没有"幡然改宗"，皈依天主教。当海沃德在毕业考试中只取得个及格成绩时，朋友们都惊愕不止；而他自己却耸耸肩，巧妙地暗示说，他可不愿充当主考人手里的玩偶。他让人感到优异的考试成绩总不免沾有几分市井之气。他用豁达调侃的口吻描述了一次口试的经过：某个围了只讨厌透顶的领圈的角色，提问他逻辑学上的问题；口试冗长乏味到了极点，突然，他注意到主考人穿着一双宽紧靴，这情况怪诞而可笑，他思想开起小差来，想到了金斯学院哥特式教堂的粗犷之美。话得说回来，他也确实在剑桥度过一段美好时光：在那儿，他宴请过亲朋好友，餐席之丰美，还未见过能与之比肩的；他在自己的书室里与同窗纵论天下事，其言谈之高雅，往往令人永志难忘。说着，他随口给菲利普引述了一句精辟的警句：

"他们告诉我，赫拉克利特，他们告诉我，你已经归天了。"

这会儿，当他言归正传，继续绘声绘色地讲述关于主考人和他靴子的轶事时，他禁不住仰面大笑起来。

"这当然是件蠢事罗，"他说，"不过在此蠢事之中也有其微妙之处。"

菲利普不无激动地想：真了不起！

之后，海沃德去伦敦攻读法律。他在克莱门特法律协会租了几间十分雅致的、墙壁上镶有嵌板的房间，设法把它们布置得像学院里的书室那样。他的抱负，多多少少是着眼于政界官场的。他自称是辉格党人。有人推举他加入一个虽带有自由党色彩、绅士气息却很浓的俱乐部。海沃德的想法是先开业当律师（他打算处理大法官法庭方面的诉讼事务，因为这比较仁慈些），一俟各方的许诺兑现之后，便设法当上某个地利人和的选区的议员。在此期间，他经常上歌剧院，结交少数几个趣味相投的风雅之士。他还加入某个聚餐俱乐部，俱乐部的座右铭是：全、佳、美。他同一个住在肯辛顿广场、比他年长八岁的女士建立了柏拉图式的情谊。几乎每天下午，他都要同她在带遮光罩的烛灯之下品茶对饮，谈论乔治·梅瑞狄斯和沃特·佩特。众所周知，律师协会举行的考试是不论哪个傻瓜都通得过的；所以海沃德也就疲疲沓沓地应付着学业。哪知到头来，结业考试却没及格，海沃德认为这是主考人存心同他过不去。也就在这时，那位住在肯辛顿广场的太太告诉他说，她丈夫马上要从印度回国来度假了，丈夫的为人尽管在各方面都无可指责，但毕竟是个见地平庸的男人，对于一位青年男子的频繁拜访，不见得会予以充分谅解的吧。海沃德感到生活里充满了丑恶，同时，想到还要再一次面对玩世不恭的主考人，真是打心底里感到厌恶。他觉得干脆把脚边的球一脚踢开去，倒不失为快刀斩乱麻的好办法。况且他眼下债台高筑；在伦敦，想依靠三百镑的岁人来维持个体面的生活，也实在是难。他内心向往着威尼斯和佛罗伦萨，这两处地方被约翰·罗斯金说得神乎其神。他觉得自己适应不了庸俗繁忙的法律事务，因为他已发现，先把自己的大名往大门上一写，是招揽不到什么诉讼案的，而且现代政治似乎也欠尊严。他觉得自己生来是个诗人。他退掉克莱门特法律协会的房间，动身去意大利。他在佛罗伦萨和罗马分别度过了一个冬天，现在又来到德国，消度他在国外的第二个夏天，以便日后可以欣赏歌德的原著。

海沃德具有极其可贵的天赋：他对文学有很高的鉴赏力，能够将自已的激情淋漓尽致地倾注在作品之中，使自己获得与作家相同的感受，洞察作家的一切精华所在，然后垦切入理地加以评论。菲利普读的书不可谓不多，但是从不加以选择，拿到什么就读什么，现在遇到这么一个能在义学鉴赏方面加以点拨的良师益友，真是三生有幸。菲利普从本城藏书量有限的外借图书馆借来各种书籍，凡是海沃德提到过的精采之作，他一本连一本地拜读过去。虽然读的时候并不都觉得饶有兴味，但他锲而不舍地往下钻。他感到自己太无知，太浅薄，热切地希望自己能有所长进。到八底，维克斯从德国南部回来的时候，菲利普已经完全置于海沃德的影响之下。海沃德不喜欢维克斯，对那个美国人的黑外套和椒盐色裤子连声哀叹；每每讲到他那新英格兰的良心，则轻蔑地一耸肩。听着海沃德出言不逊，糟蹋维克斯，菲利普也暗暗得意，尽管维克斯对他特别殷勤友善：反过来，维克斯对海沃德稍微发表几句不中听的议论，菲利普听了就会顿时发起火来。

"你的新朋友看上去倒像个诗人呢，"维克斯不无挖苦地说，饱经忧患的嘴角上挂着一缕微笑。

"他本是个诗人嘛。"

"是他自己对你这么说的吗？在我们美国，管他这号人叫标准饭桶。"

"可我们现在并不在美国，"菲利普冷冷地说。

"他多大了？二十五岁？他就这样成天无所事事，住在膳宿公寓里写诗。"

"你不了解他，"菲利普气冲冲地说。

"不，我很了解他呢！像他这样的人我见过一百四十七个了。"

维克斯的那对眸子灼灼有光，但是菲利普欣赏不了美国人的幽默，噘嘴翘唇，铁板着脸。在菲利普看来，维克斯似乎已届中年，实际上他才三十出头。维克斯是个瘦长条子，像学者似的，有点佝偻，头颅大得难看，头发暗淡而稀疏，皮肤呈土色。薄薄的嘴唇，细长的鼻子，额骨明显地向前突出，生就一副粗俗相。他的态度冷淡，举止拘泥刻板，既无生气，也无热情，却有一种莫名其妙的轻浮气质，闹得一些容严心肃的人周章失措，而维克斯出于本能，偏偏喜欢同这等人混在一起。他在海德堡大学攻读神学，而另外一些也在此地攻读神学的同胞对他都心存戒意。此人离经叛道的味儿太浓，使他们望而生畏。他的那种古怪幽默感，也使他们颇不以为然。

"他这样的人你怎么可能见过一百四十七个呢？"

"我在巴黎的拉丁居民区见到过他；我在柏林、慕尼黑的寄宿公寓里见到过他。他住在佩鲁贾和阿西西的小旅馆里。他那样的人三五成群地伫立在佛罗伦萨的波提切利名画之前；他那样的人占满了罗马西斯廷教堂的座席。在意大利，他喝葡萄酒稍微多一点；他在德国喝起啤酒来，则是开怀痛饮，全无节制。凡属正确的东西，不问是什么，他一概膜拜顶礼。他打算在不久的将来写一部皇皇巨著。想一想吧，一百四十七部惊世之作，蕴藏在一百四十七位大人物的心头；不幸的是，这一百四十七部惊世之作一部也写不出来。而世界呢，照样在前进。"

维克斯一本正经地侃侃而谈，临结束时，那一双浅灰眸于忽闪了几下。菲利普脸红了，知道这位美国人在拿他打趣。

"净瞎扯淡，"菲利普怒气冲冲地说。
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chapter 27

Weeks had two little rooms at the back of Frau Erlin’s house, and one of them, arranged as a parlour, was comfortable enough for him to invite people to sit in. After supper, urged perhaps by the impish humour which was the despair of his friends in Cambridge, Mass., he often asked Philip and Hayward to come in for a chat. He received them with elaborate courtesy and insisted on their sitting in the only two comfortable chairs in the room. Though he did not drink himself, with a politeness of which Philip recognised the irony, he put a couple of bottles of beer at Hayward’s elbow, and he insisted on lighting matches whenever in the heat of argument Hayward’s pipe went out. At the beginning of their acquaintance Hayward, as a member of so celebrated a university, had adopted a patronising attitude towards Weeks, who was a graduate of Harvard; and when by chance the conversation turned upon the Greek tragedians, a subject upon which Hayward felt he spoke with authority, he had assumed the air that it was his part to give information rather than to exchange ideas. Weeks had listened politely, with smiling modesty, till Hayward finished; then he asked one or two insidious questions, so innocent in appearance that Hayward, not seeing into what a quandary they led him, answered blandly; Weeks made a courteous objection, then a correction of fact, after that a quotation from some little known Latin commentator, then a reference to a German authority; and the fact was disclosed that he was a scholar. With smiling ease, apologetically, Weeks tore to pieces all that Hayward had said; with elaborate civility he displayed the superficiality of his attainments. He mocked him with gentle irony. Philip could not help seeing that Hayward looked a perfect fool, and Hayward had not the sense to hold his tongue; in his irritation, his self-assurance undaunted, he attempted to argue: he made wild statements and Weeks amicably corrected them; he reasoned falsely and Weeks proved that he was absurd: Weeks confessed that he had taught Greek Literature at Harvard. Hayward gave a laugh of scorn.

‘I might have known it. Of course you read Greek like a schoolmaster,’ he said. ‘I read it like a poet.’

‘And do you find it more poetic when you don’t quite know what it means? I thought it was only in revealed religion that a mistranslation improved the sense.’

At last, having finished the beer, Hayward left Weeks’ room hot and dishevelled; with an angry gesture he said to Philip:

‘Of course the man’s a pedant. He has no real feeling for beauty. Accuracy is the virtue of clerks. It’s the spirit of the Greeks that we aim at. Weeks is like that fellow who went to hear Rubenstein and complained that he played false notes. False notes! What did they matter when he played divinely?’

Philip, not knowing how many incompetent people have found solace in these false notes, was much impressed.

Hayward could never resist the opportunity which Weeks offered him of regaining ground lost on a previous occasion, and Weeks was able with the greatest ease to draw him into a discussion. Though he could not help seeing how small his attainments were beside the American’s, his British pertinacity, his wounded vanity (perhaps they are the same thing), would not allow him to give up the struggle. Hayward seemed to take a delight in displaying his ignorance, self-satisfaction, and wrongheadedness. Whenever Hayward said something which was illogical, Weeks in a few words would show the falseness of his reasoning, pause for a moment to enjoy his triumph, and then hurry on to another subject as though Christian charity impelled him to spare the vanquished foe. Philip tried sometimes to put in something to help his friend, and Weeks gently crushed him, but so kindly, differently from the way in which he answered Hayward, that even Philip, outrageously sensitive, could not feel hurt. Now and then, losing his calm as he felt himself more and more foolish, Hayward became abusive, and only the American’s smiling politeness prevented the argument from degenerating into a quarrel. On these occasions when Hayward left Weeks’ room he muttered angrily:

‘Damned Yankee!’

That settled it. It was a perfect answer to an argument which had seemed unanswerable.

Though they began by discussing all manner of subjects in Weeks’ little room eventually the conversation always turned to religion: the theological student took a professional interest in it, and Hayward welcomed a subject in which hard facts need not disconcert him; when feeling is the gauge you can snap your angers at logic, and when your logic is weak that is very agreeable. Hayward found it difficult to explain his beliefs to Philip without a great flow of words; but it was clear (and this fell in with Philip’s idea of the natural order of things), that he had been brought up in the church by law established. Though he had now given up all idea of becoming a Roman Catholic, he still looked upon that communion with sympathy. He had much to say in its praise, and he compared favourably its gorgeous ceremonies with the simple services of the Church of England. He gave Philip Newman’s Apologia to read, and Philip, finding it very dull, nevertheless read it to the end.

‘Read it for its style, not for its matter,’ said Hayward.

He talked enthusiastically of the music at the Oratory, and said charming things about the connection between incense and the devotional spirit. Weeks listened to him with his frigid smile.

‘You think it proves the truth of Roman Catholicism that John Henry Newman wrote good English and that Cardinal Manning has a picturesque appearance?’

Hayward hinted that he had gone through much trouble with his soul. For a year he had swum in a sea of darkness. He passed his fingers through his fair, waving hair and told them that he would not for five hundred pounds endure again those agonies of mind. Fortunately he had reached calm waters at last.

‘But what do you believe?’ asked Philip, who was never satisfied with vague statements.

‘I believe in the Whole, the Good, and the Beautiful.’

Hayward with his loose large limbs and the fine carriage of his head looked very handsome when he said this, and he said it with an air.

‘Is that how you would describe your religion in a census paper?’ asked Weeks, in mild tones.

‘I hate the rigid definition: it’s so ugly, so obvious. If you like I will say that I believe in the church of the Duke of Wellington and Mr. Gladstone.’

‘That’s the Church of England,’ said Philip.

‘Oh wise young man!’ retorted Hayward, with a smile which made Philip blush, for he felt that in putting into plain words what the other had expressed in a paraphrase, he had been guilty of vulgarity. ‘I belong to the Church of England. But I love the gold and the silk which clothe the priest of Rome, and his celibacy, and the confessional, and purgatory: and in the darkness of an Italian cathedral, incense-laden and mysterious, I believe with all my heart in the miracle of the Mass. In Venice I have seen a fisherwoman come in, barefoot, throw down her basket of fish by her side, fall on her knees, and pray to the Madonna; and that I felt was the real faith, and I prayed and believed with her. But I believe also in Aphrodite and Apollo and the Great God Pan.’

He had a charming voice, and he chose his words as he spoke; he uttered them almost rhythmically. He would have gone on, but Weeks opened a second bottle of beer.

‘Let me give you something to drink.’

Hayward turned to Philip with the slightly condescending gesture which so impressed the youth.

‘Now are you satisfied?’ he asked.

Philip, somewhat bewildered, confessed that he was.

‘I’m disappointed that you didn’t add a little Buddhism,’ said Weeks. ‘And I confess I have a sort of sympathy for Mahomet; I regret that you should have left him out in the cold.’

Hayward laughed, for he was in a good humour with himself that evening, and the ring of his sentences still sounded pleasant in his ears. He emptied his glass.

‘I didn’t expect you to understand me,’ he answered. ‘With your cold American intelligence you can only adopt the critical attitude. Emerson and all that sort of thing. But what is criticism? Criticism is purely destructive; anyone can destroy, but not everyone can build up. You are a pedant, my dear fellow. The important thing is to construct: I am constructive; I am a poet.’

Weeks looked at him with eyes which seemed at the same time to be quite grave and yet to be smiling brightly.

‘I think, if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re a little drunk.’

‘Nothing to speak of,’ answered Hayward cheerfully. ‘And not enough for me to be unable to overwhelm you in argument. But come, I have unbosomed my soul; now tell us what your religion is.’

Weeks put his head on one side so that he looked like a sparrow on a perch.

‘I’ve been trying to find that out for years. I think I’m a Unitarian.’

‘But that’s a dissenter,’ said Philip.

He could not imagine why they both burst into laughter, Hayward uproariously, and Weeks with a funny chuckle.

‘And in England dissenters aren’t gentlemen, are they?’ asked Weeks.

‘Well, if you ask me point-blank, they’re not,’ replied Philip rather crossly.

He hated being laughed at, and they laughed again.

‘And will you tell me what a gentleman is?’ asked Weeks.

‘Oh, I don’t know; everyone knows what it is.’

‘Are you a gentleman?’

No doubt had ever crossed Philip’s mind on the subject, but he knew it was not a thing to state of oneself.

‘If a man tells you he’s a gentleman you can bet your boots he isn’t,’ he retorted.

‘Am I a gentleman?’

Philip’s truthfulness made it difficult for him to answer, but he was naturally polite.

‘Oh, well, you’re different,’ he said. ‘You’re American, aren’t you?’

‘I suppose we may take it that only Englishmen are gentlemen,’ said Weeks gravely.

Philip did not contradict him.

‘Couldn’t you give me a few more particulars?’ asked Weeks.

Philip reddened, but, growing angry, did not care if he made himself ridiculous.

‘I can give you plenty’ He remembered his uncle’s saying that it took three generations to make a gentleman: it was a companion proverb to the silk purse and the sow’s ear. ‘First of all he’s the son of a gentleman, and he’s been to a public school, and to Oxford or Cambridge.’

‘Edinburgh wouldn’t do, I suppose?’ asked Weeks.

‘And he talks English like a gentleman, and he wears the right sort of things, and if he’s a gentleman he can always tell if another chap’s a gentleman.’

It seemed rather lame to Philip as he went on, but there it was: that was what he meant by the word, and everyone he had ever known had meant that too.

‘It is evident to me that I am not a gentleman,’ said Weeks. ‘I don’t see why you should have been so surprised because I was a dissenter.’

‘I don’t quite know what a Unitarian is,’ said Philip.

Weeks in his odd way again put his head on one side: you almost expected him to twitter.

‘A Unitarian very earnestly disbelieves in almost everything that anybody else believes, and he has a very lively sustaining faith in he doesn’t quite know what.’

‘I don’t see why you should make fun of me,’ said Philip. ‘I really want to know.’

‘My dear friend, I’m not making fun of you. I have arrived at that definition after years of great labour and the most anxious, nerve-racking study.’

When Philip and Hayward got up to go, Weeks handed Philip a little book in a paper cover.

‘I suppose you can read French pretty well by now. I wonder if this would amuse you.’

Philip thanked him and, taking the book, looked at the title. It was Renan’s Vie de Jesus.



第二十七章

维克斯在欧林夫人家的后屋租了两个小房间，其中一间布置成会客室，用来接待客人，倒也够宽敞的。维克斯生性爱淘气，他在麻省坎布里奇的一些朋友也拿他一点没办法。现在，也许是由于这种脾气在作怪，他常常一吃过晚餐就邀请菲利普和海沃德上他屋里来闲聊几句。他礼数周全地接待他们，一定要他们在屋里绝无仅有的两张比较舒服的椅子里坐下。他自己点酒不沾，却把几瓶啤酒端放在海沃德的胳膊肘旁边，在这般殷勤好客的礼仪中，菲利普不难辨别出嘲弄之意。在双方唇熗舌剑的激烈争论中，每当海沃德的烟斗熄掉的时候，维克斯就坚持要替他划火柴点火。他们刚结识上的时候，海沃德作为名扬四海的最高学府中的一员，在哈佛大学毕业生维克斯面前摆出一副降尊纤贵的姿态。谈话之中，话锋偶尔转到希腊悲剧作家身上，海沃德自觉得在这个题目上尽可以发表一通权威性评论，于是摆出一副指点迷津非他莫属的架势，不容对方插嘴发表意见。维克斯脸带微笑，虚怀若谷地在一旁洗耳恭听，直到海沃德的高论发表完了，他才提出一两个表面听上去相当幼稚、暗中却打了埋伏的问题，海沃德不知深浅，不假思索地回答了，结果当然中了圈套。维克斯先生彬彬有礼地表示异议，接着纠正了一个事实，然后又援引某个不见经传的拉工民族注释家的一段注释，再加上一句德国某权威的精辟论断--情况明摆着：他是个精通古典文学的学者。他就这么面带微笑，从容不迫，连连表示歉意，结果却把海沃德的全部立论批驳得体无完肤。他既揭示了海沃德学识的肤浅，又丝毫不失礼仪。他温和委婉地挖苦了海沃德几句。菲利普不能不看到海沃德的那副十足傻相；他本人刚愎自用，不知进退，仍在气急败坏地力图狡辩。他信口开河，妄加评论，维克斯则在一旁和颜悦色地加以纠正；他理屈词穷却硬要强词夺理，维克斯又证明他这么做是多么荒谬。最后，维克斯说了实话，他曾在哈佛大学教过希腊文学。海沃德对此报以轻蔑的一笑。

"这一点你不说我也看得出。你当然是像学究冬烘那样啃希腊文学作品，"他说，"而我是像诗人那样来欣赏它的。"

"在你对作品原意不甚了了的情况下，你是否反倒觉得作品的诗味更浓了呢？我个人认为，只有在天启教里，错译才会使原意更加丰满呢。"

最后，海沃德喝完啤酒，离开维克斯的屋子，全身燥热，头发蓬松，他忿忿然一挥手，对菲利普说：

"不用说，这位先生是个书呆子，对于美没有丝毫真切的感受。精确是办事员的美德。我们的着眼点在于希腊文学的精髓。维克斯就好比是这么个煞风景的角色，去听鲁宾斯坦演奏钢琴，却抱怨他弹错了几个音符。弹错了几个音符！只要他演奏得出神入化，错弹几个音符又何足道哉？！"

这段议论给了菲利普很深的印象，殊不知世间有多少无能之辈正是借这种无知妄说聊以自慰呢！

海沃德屡遭败北，但他决不肯放过维克斯提供的任何机会，力图夺回前一次失掉的地盘，所以维克斯不费吹灰之力就将海沃德拉了来进行争论。尽管海沃德不会不清楚，他在这个美国人面前显得多么才疏学浅，但是出于英国人特有的那股执拗劲儿，由于自尊心受到了挫伤（也许这两者本是一码事），他不愿就此罢休。他似乎是以显示自己的无知、自满和刚愎白用为乐事呢。每当海沃德讲了一些不合逻辑的话，维克斯三言两语就点出他推理中的破绽，得意扬扬地停顿一会儿，然后匆匆转人另一个话题，似乎是基督徒的兄弟之爱促使他竟有已被击败的敌手。有时候，菲利普试图插言几句，帮他朋友解围，可是经不住维克斯轻轻一击，便溃不成军了。不过，维克斯对他的态度同对付海沃德不一样，极其温和，甚至连极度敏感的菲利普也不觉得自尊心受到挫伤。海沃德由于感到自己越来越像个傻瓜，常常沉不住气，索性破口大骂起来，幸亏那个美国人总是客客气气地堆着笑脸，才没使争论变为无谓的争吵。每当海沃德在这种情况下离开维克斯的房间，他总要气呼呼地咕哝一句：

"该死的美国佬！"

这样一切就解决了。对于某个似乎无法辩驳的论点，这句咒语就是最妙不过的回答。

他们在维克斯的那个小房间里，虽说开始讨论的是各种各样的问题，但最后总难免要转到宗教这个题目上来：神学学生出于职业上的偏爱，总是三句不离本行；而海沃德也欢迎这样的话题，因为无需列举那些使他仓皇失措的无情事实--在这方面，既然个人感受才是衡量事物的尺度，那就全不必把逻辑放在眼里，既然逻辑又是他的薄弱环节，能把它甩开岂不是正中下怀？海沃德觉得，不花费一番口舌，很难把自己的信仰同菲利普解释清楚。其实，不说也明白（因为这完全符合菲利普对人生世道的看法），海沃德一直是在国教的熏陶中成长起来的。虽然海沃德现在已经摒弃了皈依罗马天主教的念头，但对那个教派仍抱有同情。关于罗马天主教的优点，他有好多话要说。比如，他比较喜欢罗马天主教的豪华典礼，而英国国教的仪式就嫌过于简单。他给菲利普看了纽曼写的《自辩书》，菲利普觉得这本书枯燥无味，不过还是硬着头皮把它看完了。

"看这本书，是为了欣赏它的风格，而不在乎它的内容，"海沃德点拨说。

海沃德兴致勃勃地谈论着祈祷室里的音乐，并且还就焚香与心诚之问的关系，发表了一通娓娓动听的议论。维克斯静静听着，脸上挂着那惯有的一丝冷笑。

"阁下以为单凭这番高论就足以证明罗马大主教体现了宗教的真谛，证明约翰·亨利·纽曼写得一于好英语，证明红衣主教曼宁丰姿出众，是吗？"

海沃德暗示说，他的心灵饱经忧患。他曾在黑茫茫的迷海里漂泊了一年。他用手指抚弄了一下那一头金色的波浪形柔发，对他们说，即使给他五百镑钱，他也不重新经受那此精神上的痛苦折磨。值得庆幸的是，他总算安然进入了风平浪静的海域。

"那么，你究竞信仰什么呢？"菲利普问，他永远也不满足于含糊其词的说法。

"我相信--全、佳、美。"

他说这话的时候，顾长的四肢怡然舒展，再配上优雅的头部姿势，模样几显得十分潇洒、俊逸，而且吐词也颇有韵味。

"您在户口调查表里就是这么填写您的宗教信仰的？"维克斯语调温和地问。

"我就是讨厌僵死的定义：那么丑陋，那么一目了然。要是您不见怪，我得说我信奉的是惠灵顿公爵和格莱斯顿先生所信奉的那个教。"

"那就是英国国教罗，"菲利普说。

"哟，多聪明的年轻人！"海沃德回敬了一句，同时还淡淡一笑，把个菲利普羞得脸都没处搁，因为菲利普顿时意识到，自己把别人推衍性的言词用平淡如水的语言直统统地表达出来，未免有失风雅。"我属于英国国教，但是我很喜欢罗马教士身上穿戴的金线线罗，喜欢他们奉行的独身主义，喜欢教堂里的忏悔室，还喜欢洗涤有罪灵魂的炼狱。置身于意大利黑黢黢的大教堂内，沉浸在熏烟缭绕、神秘莫测的气氛之中，我心悦诚服，相信弥撒的神奇魔力。在威尼斯，我亲眼见到一位渔妇赤裸着双脚走进教堂，把鱼篓往身旁一扔，双膝下跪，向圣母马利亚祈祷。我感到这才是真正的信仰，我怀着同样的信仰，同她一道祈祷。不过，我也信奉阿芙罗狄蒂、阿波罗和伟大的潘神。"

他的声音悦耳动听，说话时字斟句酌，吐词抑扬顿挫，铿锵有力。他滔滔不绝地还想往下说，可是维克斯这时打开了第二瓶啤酒。

"让我再给您斟点。"

海沃德转身朝菲利普，现出那副颇使这位青年动心的略带几分屈尊俯就的姿态。

"现在你满意了吧？"他问。

如堕五里雾中的菲利普，表示自己满意了。

"我可有点失望，你没在自己的信仰里再加上点佛教的禅机，"维克斯说。"坦白地说，我。可有点同情穆罕默德。我感到遗憾，您竟把他撇在一边不理不睬。"

海沃德开怀大笑。那天晚上他心情舒畅，那些铿锵悦耳的妙语仍在自己耳边回响。他将杯子里的啤酒一口干了。

"我并不指望你能了解我，"他回答说。"你们美国人只有冷冰冰的理解力，只可能持批评的态度，就像爱默生之流一样。何谓批评？批评纯粹是破坏性的。任何人都会破坏，但并非所有的人都会建设。你是个书呆子，我亲爱的老兄。重要的问题在于建设：我是富有建设性的；我是个诗人。"

维克斯注视着海沃德，目光中似乎既带着严肃的神色，同时又露出明朗的笑意。

"我想，要是你不见怪的话，我得说，你有点醉了。"

"没有的事，"海沃德兴致勃勃地回答说。"这点酒算得了什么，我照样可以在辩论中压垮您老兄的。得啦，我已经对您开诚布公了。现在您得说说您自己的宗教信仰罗。"

维克斯把头一侧，看上去活像只停歇在栖木上的麻雀。

"这问题我一直琢磨了好多年。我想我是个唯一神教派教徒。"

"那就是个非国教派教徒罗，"菲利普说。

他想象不出他们俩为什么同时哑然失笑：海沃德纵声狂笑，而维克斯则滑稽地溟抿嘴格格傻笑。

"在英国，非国教派教徒都算不上是绅士，对吗？"维克斯问。

"嗯，如果您要我直言相告，我得说是的，"菲利普颇为生气地回答说。

他讨厌他们笑他，可他们偏偏又笑了起来。

"那就请您告诉我，何谓绅士？"

"哟，我说不上来，反正这一点尽人皆知。"

"您是个绅士吗？"

在这个问题上，菲利普从未有过半点儿怀疑，不过，他知道这种事儿是不该由本人来表白的。

"假如有那么个人在您面前大言不惭自称是绅士，那您完全有把握此人决非是个绅土！"菲利普顶撞了一句。

"那我算得上绅士吗？"

不会说假话的菲利普觉得很难回答这个问题，然而，他生来很讲礼貌。

"喔，您不一样，"他说，"您是美国人嘛。"

"我想，是不是可以这样认为，只有英国人才算得上是绅士罗，"维克斯神情严肃地说。

菲利普没有反驳。

"是不是请您再稍微讲得具体些？"维克斯问。

菲利普红了脸，不过他一冒火，也就顾不得会不会当众出洋相了。

"我可以给你讲得非常具体。"他想起他大伯曾讲过：要花上三代人的心血才能造就一个绅士。常言道，猪耳朵成不了绸线袋，就是这么个意思。"首先，他必须是绅士的儿子，在公学里念过书，而且还上过牛津或者剑桥。"

"这么说，念过爱丁堡大学还不行罗？"维克斯问。

"他得像绅士那样讲英语，他的穿戴恰到好处，无可挑剔。要是他本人是绅士，那他任何时候都能判断别人是不是绅士。"

菲利普越往下说，越觉得自己的论点站不住脚。不过这本是不言而喻的：所谓"绅士"，就是他说的那么个意思，他所认识的人里面也全都是这么说的。

"我明白了，我显然算不上个绅士，"维克斯说。"可我不明白，为什么我一说自己是非国教派教徒，你竟会那么感到意外。"

"我不太清楚唯一神教派教徒究竟是怎么回事，"菲利普说。

维克斯又怪里怪气地把头一歪，你简直以为他当真要像麻雀那样吱吱啁啾呢。

"对于唯一神教派的教徒来说，凡是世人相信的事物，他差不多一概极其真诚地不予相信，而对凡是自己不甚了然的事物，都深信不疑。"

"不明白您干吗要取笑我，"菲利普说。"我是真心想要知道呐。"

"我亲爱的朋友，我可没在取笑您。我是经过多年的惨淡经营，经过多年呕心沥血、绞尽脑汁的钻研，才下了个那样的定义。"

当菲利普和海沃德起身告辞时，维克斯递给菲利普一本薄薄的平装书。

"我想您现在看法文书没问题了吧。不知这本书会不会使你感兴趣。"

菲利普向他道了谢，接过书，一看书名，原来是勒南写的《耶稣传》。
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chapter 28

It occurred neither to Hayward nor to Weeks that the conversations which helped them to pass an idle evening were being turned over afterwards in Philip’s active brain. It had never struck him before that religion was a matter upon which discussion was possible. To him it meant the Church of England, and not to believe in its tenets was a sign of wilfulness which could not fail of punishment here or hereafter. There was some doubt in his mind about the chastisement of unbelievers. It was possible that a merciful judge, reserving the flames of hell for the heathen—Mahommedans, Buddhists, and the rest—would spare Dissenters and Roman Catholics (though at the cost of how much humiliation when they were made to realise their error!), and it was also possible that He would be pitiful to those who had had no chance of learning the truth,—this was reasonable enough, though such were the activities of the Missionary Society there could not be many in this condition—but if the chance had been theirs and they had neglected it (in which category were obviously Roman Catholics and Dissenters), the punishment was sure and merited. It was clear that the miscreant was in a parlous state. Perhaps Philip had not been taught it in so many words, but certainly the impression had been given him that only members of the Church of England had any real hope of eternal happiness.

One of the things that Philip had heard definitely stated was that the unbeliever was a wicked and a vicious man; but Weeks, though he believed in hardly anything that Philip believed, led a life of Christian purity. Philip had received little kindness in his life, and he was touched by the American’s desire to help him: once when a cold kept him in bed for three days, Weeks nursed him like a mother. There was neither vice nor wickedness in him, but only sincerity and loving-kindness. It was evidently possible to be virtuous and unbelieving.

Also Philip had been given to understand that people adhered to other faiths only from obstinacy or self-interest: in their hearts they knew they were false; they deliberately sought to deceive others. Now, for the sake of his German he had been accustomed on Sunday mornings to attend the Lutheran service, but when Hayward arrived he began instead to go with him to Mass. He noticed that, whereas the Protestant church was nearly empty and the congregation had a listless air, the Jesuit on the other hand was crowded and the worshippers seemed to pray with all their hearts. They had not the look of hypocrites. He was surprised at the contrast; for he knew of course that the Lutherans, whose faith was closer to that of the Church of England, on that account were nearer the truth than the Roman Catholics. Most of the men—it was largely a masculine congregation—were South Germans; and he could not help saying to himself that if he had been born in South Germany he would certainly have been a Roman Catholic. He might just as well have been born in a Roman Catholic country as in England; and in England as well in a Wesleyan, Baptist, or Methodist family as in one that fortunately belonged to the church by law established. He was a little breathless at the danger he had run. Philip was on friendly terms with the little Chinaman who sat at table with him twice each day. His name was Sung. He was always smiling, affable, and polite. It seemed strange that he should frizzle in hell merely because he was a Chinaman; but if salvation was possible whatever a man’s faith was, there did not seem to be any particular advantage in belonging to the Church of England.

Philip, more puzzled than he had ever been in his life, sounded Weeks. He had to be careful, for he was very sensitive to ridicule; and the acidulous humour with which the American treated the Church of England disconcerted him. Weeks only puzzled him more. He made Philip acknowledge that those South Germans whom he saw in the Jesuit church were every bit as firmly convinced of the truth of Roman Catholicism as he was of that of the Church of England, and from that he led him to admit that the Mahommedan and the Buddhist were convinced also of the truth of their respective religions. It looked as though knowing that you were right meant nothing; they all knew they were right. Weeks had no intention of undermining the boy’s faith, but he was deeply interested in religion, and found it an absorbing topic of conversation. He had described his own views accurately when he said that he very earnestly disbelieved in almost everything that other people believed. Once Philip asked him a question, which he had heard his uncle put when the conversation at the vicarage had fallen upon some mildly rationalistic work which was then exciting discussion in the newspapers.

‘But why should you be right and all those fellows like St. Anselm and St. Augustine be wrong?’

‘You mean that they were very clever and learned men, while you have grave doubts whether I am either?’ asked Weeks.

‘Yes,’ answered Philip uncertainly, for put in that way his question seemed impertinent.

‘St. Augustine believed that the earth was flat and that the sun turned round it.’

‘I don’t know what that proves.’

‘Why, it proves that you believe with your generation. Your saints lived in an age of faith, when it was practically impossible to disbelieve what to us is positively incredible.’

‘Then how d’you know that we have the truth now?’

‘I don’t.’

Philip thought this over for a moment, then he said:

‘I don’t see why the things we believe absolutely now shouldn’t be just as wrong as what they believed in the past.’

‘Neither do I.’

‘Then how can you believe anything at all?’

‘I don’t know.’

Philip asked Weeks what he thought of Hayward’s religion.

‘Men have always formed gods in their own image,’ said Weeks. ‘He believes in the picturesque.’

Philip paused for a little while, then he said:

‘I don’t see why one should believe in God at all.’

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he realised that he had ceased to do so. It took his breath away like a plunge into cold water. He looked at Weeks with startled eyes. Suddenly he felt afraid. He left Weeks as quickly as he could. He wanted to be alone. It was the most startling experience that he had ever had. He tried to think it all out; it was very exciting, since his whole life seemed concerned (he thought his decision on this matter must profoundly affect its course) and a mistake might lead to eternal damnation; but the more he reflected the more convinced he was; and though during the next few weeks he read books, aids to scepticism, with eager interest it was only to confirm him in what he felt instinctively. The fact was that he had ceased to believe not for this reason or the other, but because he had not the religious temperament. Faith had been forced upon him from the outside. It was a matter of environment and example. A new environment and a new example gave him the opportunity to find himself. He put off the faith of his childhood quite simply, like a cloak that he no longer needed. At first life seemed strange and lonely without the belief which, though he never realised it, had been an unfailing support. He felt like a man who has leaned on a stick and finds himself forced suddenly to walk without assistance. It really seemed as though the days were colder and the nights more solitary. But he was upheld by the excitement; it seemed to make life a more thrilling adventure; and in a little while the stick which he had thrown aside, the cloak which had fallen from his shoulders, seemed an intolerable burden of which he had been eased. The religious exercises which for so many years had been forced upon him were part and parcel of religion to him. He thought of the collects and epistles which he had been made to learn by heart, and the long services at the Cathedral through which he had sat when every limb itched with the desire for movement; and he remembered those walks at night through muddy roads to the parish church at Blackstable, and the coldness of that bleak building; he sat with his feet like ice, his fingers numb and heavy, and all around was the sickly odour of pomatum. Oh, he had been so bored! His heart leaped when he saw he was free from all that.

He was surprised at himself because he ceased to believe so easily, and, not knowing that he felt as he did on account of the subtle workings of his inmost nature, he ascribed the certainty he had reached to his own cleverness. He was unduly pleased with himself. With youth’s lack of sympathy for an attitude other than its own he despised not a little Weeks and Hayward because they were content with the vague emotion which they called God and would not take the further step which to himself seemed so obvious. One day he went alone up a certain hill so that he might see a view which, he knew not why, filled him always with wild exhilaration. It was autumn now, but often the days were cloudless still, and then the sky seemed to glow with a more splendid light: it was as though nature consciously sought to put a fuller vehemence into the remaining days of fair weather. He looked down upon the plain, a-quiver with the sun, stretching vastly before him: in the distance were the roofs of Mannheim and ever so far away the dimness of Worms. Here and there a more piercing glitter was the Rhine. The tremendous spaciousness of it was glowing with rich gold. Philip, as he stood there, his heart beating with sheer joy, thought how the tempter had stood with Jesus on a high mountain and shown him the kingdoms of the earth. To Philip, intoxicated with the beauty of the scene, it seemed that it was the whole world which was spread before him, and he was eager to step down and enjoy it. He was free from degrading fears and free from prejudice. He could go his way without the intolerable dread of hell-fire. Suddenly he realised that he had lost also that burden of responsibility which made every action of his life a matter of urgent consequence. He could breathe more freely in a lighter air. He was responsible only to himself for the things he did. Freedom! He was his own master at last. From old habit, unconsciously he thanked God that he no longer believed in Him.

Drunk with pride in his intelligence and in his fearlessness, Philip entered deliberately upon a new life. But his loss of faith made less difference in his behaviour than he expected. Though he had thrown on one side the Christian dogmas it never occurred to him to criticise the Christian ethics; he accepted the Christian virtues, and indeed thought it fine to practise them for their own sake, without a thought of reward or punishment. There was small occasion for heroism in the Frau Professor’s house, but he was a little more exactly truthful than he had been, and he forced himself to be more than commonly attentive to the dull, elderly ladies who sometimes engaged him in conversation. The gentle oath, the violent adjective, which are typical of our language and which he had cultivated before as a sign of manliness, he now elaborately eschewed.

Having settled the whole matter to his satisfaction he sought to put it out of his mind, but that was more easily said than done; and he could not prevent the regrets nor stifle the misgivings which sometimes tormented him. He was so young and had so few friends that immortality had no particular attractions for him, and he was able without trouble to give up belief in it; but there was one thing which made him wretched; he told himself that he was unreasonable, he tried to laugh himself out of such pathos; but the tears really came to his eyes when he thought that he would never see again the beautiful mother whose love for him had grown more precious as the years since her death passed on. And sometimes, as though the influence of innumerable ancestors, Godfearing and devout, were working in him unconsciously, there seized him a panic fear that perhaps after all it was all true, and there was, up there behind the blue sky, a jealous God who would punish in everlasting flames the atheist. At these times his reason could offer him no help, he imagined the anguish of a physical torment which would last endlessly, he felt quite sick with fear and burst into a violent sweat. At last he would say to himself desperately:

‘After all, it’s not my fault. I can’t force myself to believe. If there is a God after all and he punishes me because I honestly don’t believe in Him I can’t help it.’



第二十八章

海沃德也好，维克斯也好，全没想到他们借以消磨无聊黄昏的那些饭后清谈，竟会在菲利普灵活的头脑里引起好大一番折腾。菲利普以前从没想到宗教竟是件可以随意探讨的事儿。对他来说，宗教就是英国国教，不相信该教的教义乃是任性妄为的表现，不是今生就是来世，迟早要受到惩罚。关于不信国教者要受惩罚这一点，他脑子里也有一些怀疑。说不定有这么一位慈悲为怀的判官，专把地狱之火用来对付那些相信伊斯兰教、佛教以及其他宗教的异教徒，而对非国教派的基督徒和罗马天主教徒则可能高抬贵手，网开一面。（不过这可得付出代价--他们在被迫承认错误的时候得蒙受什么样的屈辱！）说不定上帝本人也可能动恻隐之心，宽宥那些没有机会了解真相的人--这也言之成理，因为尽管布道团四下活动，其活动范围毕竟有限-一不过，倘若他们明明有这样的机会却偏偏置若罔闻（罗马天主教徒和非国教派教徒显然属于这一范畴），他们就逃脱不了应得的惩罚。不用说，信奉异端邪说者，处境危如累卵。由许并没有人拿这些话来开导过菲利普，但是，他无疑得到了这样的印象：唯有英国国教派的教友，才真正可望获得永恒的幸福。

有一点菲利普倒是听人明确提起过的，这就是：不从国教者，尽是此邪恶、凶险之徒。可这位维克斯，尽管对他菲利普所信仰的一切事物几乎全表示怀疑，却过着基督徒纯洁无暇的生活。菲利普并没有从生活中得到多少温暖友爱，而现在倒是被这个美国人乐于助人的精神深深打动了。有一次，他因患感冒在床上整整躺了三天，维克斯像慈母一般在旁悉心照料。在维克斯身上，没有半点邪恶和凶险的影子，唯见一片赤诚和仁爱。显然，一个人完全有可能做到既有德行，而又不信从国教。

另外，菲利普从他人的言谈中也了解到，有些人之所以死抱住其他信仰不放，若不是由于冥顽不化，就是出于私利的考虑：他们心里明知那些信仰纯属虚妄，但仍有意装模作样来蒙骗他人。为了学习德语，菲利普本来已习惯于主日上午去路德会教堂做礼拜，自从海沃德来到这儿以后，又开始跟他一起去做弥撒。他注意到新教堂内门庭冷落，做礼拜的教友都显得没精打采；而另一方，耶稣会教堂内却是人头攒动，座无虚席，善男信女祷告时似乎虔诚到了极点。他们看上去也不像是一伙伪君子。见到如此鲜明的对比，菲利普不由暗暗吃惊，不用说，他知道路德会的教义较接近于英国国教，所以比罗马天主教会更贴近真理。大部分信徒（做礼拜的基本上都是男信徒）是德国南部人士，菲利普不禁暗自嘀咕，要是自己出生在德国南部，也肯定会成为天主教徒的。诚然，他生于英国，但也完全有可能出生在某个天主教国家；就是在英国，他诞生在一个幸好是遵奉法定国教的家庭，但也完全可能诞生在某个美以美教友、浸礼会教友或卫理会教友的家庭。好险啊，差点儿投错了娘胎！想到这儿，菲利普还真舒了一口气。菲利普扣那位身材矮小的中国人相处得很融洽，每天要和他同桌共餐两次。此人姓宋，总是笑眯眯的，为人和善，举止文雅。要是仅仅因为他是个中国人就非得下地狱受煎熬，岂不奇哉怪也？反之，要是一个人不问有何信仰，灵魂都能获得拯救，那么信奉英国国教似乎也谈不上有什么得天独厚之处了。

菲利普一生中，从未像现在这样迷惘惶惑，他去试探维克斯对这事的看法。他得慎之又慎，因为他对别人的嘲弄颇为敏感，而那个美国人谈论英国国教时的尖酸口吻，弄得菲利普狼狈不堪。维克斯反而使他越发迷惑不解。他迫使菲利普承认：他在耶稣会教堂看到的那些德国南部人士，他们笃信罗马天主教，就像他笃信英国国教一样至诚。维克斯进而又使他承认，伊斯兰教徒和佛教徒也同样对各自的宗教教义坚信不疑。由此看来，自认为正确并不说明任何问题，大家都自认为正确得很。维克斯无意破坏这孩子的信仰，只不过是因为自己对宗教深感兴趣，觉得宗教是个引人入胜的话题罢了。他说过，凡是他人信仰的事物，他差不多一概加以怀疑，这话倒也精确无误地表达了他自己的观点。有一回，菲利普问了他一个问题，那是菲利普以前听到他大伯提出来的，当时报纸正在热烈讨论某部温和的唯理主义作品，而他大伯也在家里同人谈起了这部作品。

"请问，为什么偏偏是你对，而像圣安塞姆和圣奥古斯丁那样一些人物倒错了呢？"

"你的意思是说，他们是聪明绝顶，博学多才的圣人。而对于我呢，你很有怀疑，觉得我既不聪明，又无学问，是吗？"

"嗯，"菲利普支支吾吾，不知说什么是好，自己刚才那样提出问题，未免有点儿唐突失礼。

"圣奥古斯丁认为地球是平的，而且太阳是绕着地球转动的。"

"我不懂这话说明什么问题。"

"嘿，这证明一代人有着一代人的信仰。您的那些圣人生活在信仰的年代里，在他们那种时代，那些在我们看来绝对无法置信的事物，他们却几乎不能不奉为玉律金科。"

"那么，您又怎么知道我们现在掌握了真理呢？"

"我并没这么说。"

菲利普沉思片刻之后说：

"我不明白，为什么我们今天置信不疑的事物，就不会像过去他们所相信的事物那样，同样也是错误的呢？"

"我也不明白。"

"那您怎么还可能有信仰呢？"

"我说不上来。"

菲利普又问维克斯对海沃德所信奉的宗教有何看法。

"人们总是按照自身的形象来塑造神抵的，"维克斯说，"他信奉生动别致的事物。"

菲利普沉思了半晌，又说：

"我不明白一个人干吗非得信奉上帝。"

话刚一出口，他顿时意识到自己已不再信奉上帝了。他好似一头栽进了冷水里，气也透不过来。他瞪着惊恐的双眼望着维克斯，突然害怕起来，赶紧离开了维克斯。他希望独自冷静一下。这是他有生以来最触目惊心的际遇。菲利普想把这件事通盘思考一下；这件事使他激动不已，因为它关系到他的整个一生（他觉得在这个问题上所作出的决定，势必深刻影响到他今后一辈子的生活历程），只要偶一失足，就可能沉沦万世，永劫不复。然而，他越是前思后想，主意就越坚定；尽管在以后的几个星期里，他如饥似渴地研读了几本帮助了解怀疑主义的书籍，结果无非是进一步坚定了他本能感受到的东西。事实是，他已不再相信上帝了，这并非出于这层或那层理由，而在于他天生没有笃信宗教的气质。信仰是外界强加给他的。这完全是环境和榜样在起作用。新的环境和新的榜样，给了他认识自我的机会。抛弃童年时代形成的信仰，毫不费事，就像脱掉一件他不再需要的斗篷一样。抛弃信仰以后，一上来，生活似乎显得陌生而孤独，尽管他一直没意识到，信仰毕竟是他生活中的可靠支柱。他感到自己像个一向依赖拐杖走路的人，现在突然被迫要独立跨步了。说真的，白天似乎更加寒冷，夜晚似乎越发凄凉。但是内心的激动在支撑着他，这一来，生活似乎成了一场更加惊心动魄的冒险；不久以后，那根被他扔在一边的拐棍，那件从他肩头滑落的斗篷，就像难以忍受的重担，永远从他身上卸去了。多年来一直强加在他身上的那一套宗教仪式，已成了他宗教信仰的一个重要组成部分。他不时想到那些过去要他死记硬背的祈祷文和使徒书，想到大教堂里所举行的那些冗长的礼拜仪式--从开始到结束就那么坐着，四肢发痒，巴不得能松动一下。他回忆起当年夜间如何沿着泥泞的道路走向布莱克斯泰勃的教区礼拜堂，那幢暗淡的建筑物里多么阴冷，他坐着坐着，双脚冻得像冰一般，手指又僵又重，无法动弹，而周围还弥漫着一股令人恶心的润发油的腻味，真是无聊透了。明白到自己已永远摆脱了所有这一切时，他的心房止不住跳荡起来。

他对自己感到吃惊，竟如此轻而易举地抛弃了上帝。他进入了心明神清的不惑之境，将此归因于自己的小聪明，殊不知他之所以会有这样的感受，乃是由于内在性格的微妙作用。他飘飘然有点忘乎所以。菲利普少年气盛，缺乏涵养，看不惯任何不同于自己的处世态度。他对维克斯和海沃德颇有几分鄙夷之意，因为他们满足于那种被称之为上帝的模糊感情，逡巡不前，不原跨出在菲利普看来似乎是非跨不可的那一步。一天，他为了登高远望，饱餐秀色，独自来到某座山岗。他自己也不明白，为什么野外景色总能使他心旷神怡，充满腾云飞天似的狂喜之情。眼下已入秋季，还经常是万里无云的大好天气，天幕上似乎闪烁着更加璀璨的光芒：大自然好似有意识要把更饱满的激情，倾注在所剩无几的晴朗日子里。菲利普俯视着眼前那一大片在阳光下微微颤抖的广阔平原，远处隐隐可见曼海姆的楼房屋顶，而那朦胧迷离的沃尔姆斯显得分外邈远。更为光耀夺目的，则是那横贯平原的莱茵河。宽阔的河面，华波涌涌，浮光闪金。菲利普伫立在山头，心儿不住欢快地跳动，他想象着魔鬼是如何同耶稣一块儿站在高山之巅，指给他看人世间的天堂。菲利普陶醉在眼前的绮丽风光之中，对他来说，似乎整个世界都展示在他面前，他急不可待地要飞步下山，去尽情领略尘世的欢乐。他摆脱了对沉沦堕落的恐惧，摆脱了世俗偏见的羁绊。他尽可以走自己的路，不必再害怕地狱之火的无情折磨。他猛地意识到自己同时也摆脱了责任的重负，以往由于这一重负压肩，他对自己生活中的一举一动，都得考虑其后果，不敢掉以轻心。现在，他可以在无拘无束的气氛中自由地呼吸。他的一言一行只需对自己负责就行了。自由！他终于摆脱了一切羁绊，成了自己的主宰。出于原有的习惯，他又不知不觉地为此而感谢那位他已不再信奉的上帝。

菲利普一面陶醉在自己的智慧和勇气之中，一面从容不迫地开始了新的生活。但是信仰的丧失，并没像他预期的那样明显地影响到自己的言谈举止。尽管他把基督教的信条扔到了一边，但他从未想到要去批评基督教的伦理观；他接受了基督教倡导的各种美德，并且进而认为，要是能因其本身的价值而身体力行，并不顾及报偿或惩罚，那倒也不失为好事。在教授太太的家里，很少有实践这些美德的用武之地。不过，他还是原意表现得比以往更诚实些，强迫自己对那几位枯燥乏味的老太太更殷勤些。有时她们想跟他攀谈，而他呢，只是一般性地敷衍几句。文雅的诅咒语，激烈的形容词，这些体现我们英国语言特色的东西，菲利普一向视为男子气的象征，努力修习，可现在则是煞费苦心地戒绝不说了。

既然已把这件事一劳永逸地圆满解决了，菲利普便想把它抛置脑后。不过，嘴上说说很容易，做起来可不简单哪：他无法排除那些后悔的念头，也不能抑制那此不时折磨着自己的疑虑情绪。菲利普毕竟年纪尚轻，结交的朋友又不多，所以灵魂的永生不灭对他并无特别的吸引力，说不信也就不信了，没什么大不了的。但是有一件事情使他黯然伤神。菲利普暗暗责备自己太不近情理，试图借嘲笑自己来排遣这种悲怆之情。可是，每当他想到这一来将永远见不着那位美丽的母亲了，总忍不住热泪盈眶。他母亲死后，随着岁月的流逝，他越来越觉得母爱的珍贵。似乎是由于无数虔诚、敬神的先人在冥冥中对他施加影响，他有时会陷于莫名其妙的恐惧之中而不能自拔：说不定这一切竟是真的呢，在那儿，蓝色的天幕后面，藏着一位生性忌妒的上帝，他将用永不熄灭的烈火来惩罚无神论者。逢到这种时候，理智也帮不了他什么忙，他想象着无休止的肉体折磨会给人带来什么样的巨大痛苦，吓得浑身冷汗淋漓，差不多要晕了过去。最后，他绝望地自言自语说：

"这毕竟不是我的过错。我不能强迫自己去相信。若是果真有个上帝，而且就因为我老实表示不相信他而一定要惩罚我，那我也只得随他去了。"
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chapter 29

Winter set in. Weeks went to Berlin to attend the lectures of Paulssen, and Hayward began to think of going South. The local theatre opened its doors. Philip and Hayward went to it two or three times a week with the praiseworthy intention of improving their German, and Philip found it a more diverting manner of perfecting himself in the language than listening to sermons. They found themselves in the midst of a revival of the drama. Several of Ibsen’s plays were on the repertory for the winter; Sudermann’s Die Ehre was then a new play, and on its production in the quiet university town caused the greatest excitement; it was extravagantly praised and bitterly attacked; other dramatists followed with plays written under the modern influence, and Philip witnessed a series of works in which the vileness of mankind was displayed before him. He had never been to a play in his life till then (poor touring companies sometimes came to the Assembly Rooms at Blackstable, but the Vicar, partly on account of his profession, partly because he thought it would be vulgar, never went to see them) and the passion of the stage seized him. He felt a thrill the moment he got into the little, shabby, ill-lit theatre. Soon he came to know the peculiarities of the small company, and by the casting could tell at once what were the characteristics of the persons in the drama; but this made no difference to him. To him it was real life. It was a strange life, dark and tortured, in which men and women showed to remorseless eyes the evil that was in their hearts: a fair face concealed a depraved mind; the virtuous used virtue as a mask to hide their secret vice, the seeming-strong fainted within with their weakness; the honest were corrupt, the chaste were lewd. You seemed to dwell in a room where the night before an orgy had taken place: the windows had not been opened in the morning; the air was foul with the dregs of beer, and stale smoke, and flaring gas. There was no laughter. At most you sniggered at the hypocrite or the fool: the characters expressed themselves in cruel words that seemed wrung out of their hearts by shame and anguish.

Philip was carried away by the sordid intensity of it. He seemed to see the world again in another fashion, and this world too he was anxious to know. After the play was over he went to a tavern and sat in the bright warmth with Hayward to eat a sandwich and drink a glass of beer. All round were little groups of students, talking and laughing; and here and there was a family, father and mother, a couple of sons and a girl; and sometimes the girl said a sharp thing, and the father leaned back in his chair and laughed, laughed heartily. It was very friendly and innocent. There was a pleasant homeliness in the scene, but for this Philip had no eyes. His thoughts ran on the play he had just come from.

‘You do feel it’s life, don’t you?’ he said excitedly. ‘You know, I don’t think I can stay here much longer. I want to get to London so that I can really begin. I want to have experiences. I’m so tired of preparing for life: I want to live it now.’

Sometimes Hayward left Philip to go home by himself. He would never exactly reply to Philip’s eager questioning, but with a merry, rather stupid laugh, hinted at a romantic amour; he quoted a few lines of Rossetti, and once showed Philip a sonnet in which passion and purple, pessimism and pathos, were packed together on the subject of a young lady called Trude. Hayward surrounded his sordid and vulgar little adventures with a glow of poetry, and thought he touched hands with Pericles and Pheidias because to describe the object of his attentions he used the word hetaira instead of one of those, more blunt and apt, provided by the English language. Philip in the daytime had been led by curiosity to pass through the little street near the old bridge, with its neat white houses and green shutters, in which according to Hayward the Fraulein Trude lived; but the women, with brutal faces and painted cheeks, who came out of their doors and cried out to him, filled him with fear; and he fled in horror from the rough hands that sought to detain him. He yearned above all things for experience and felt himself ridiculous because at his age he had not enjoyed that which all fiction taught him was the most important thing in life; but he had the unfortunate gift of seeing things as they were, and the reality which was offered him differed too terribly from the ideal of his dreams.

He did not know how wide a country, arid and precipitous, must be crossed before the traveller through life comes to an acceptance of reality. It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched, for they are full of the truthless ideals which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they were victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ideal by the necessity of selection, and the conversation of their elders, who look back upon the past through a rosy haze of forgetfulness, prepare them for an unreal life. They must discover for themselves that all they have read and all they have been told are lies, lies, lies; and each discovery is another nail driven into the body on the cross of life. The strange thing is that each one who has gone through that bitter disillusionment adds to it in his turn, unconsciously, by the power within him which is stronger than himself. The companionship of Hayward was the worst possible thing for Philip. He was a man who saw nothing for himself, but only through a literary atmosphere, and he was dangerous because he had deceived himself into sincerity. He honestly mistook his sensuality for romantic emotion, his vacillation for the artistic temperament, and his idleness for philosophic calm. His mind, vulgar in its effort at refinement, saw everything a little larger than life size, with the outlines blurred, in a golden mist of sentimentality. He lied and never knew that he lied, and when it was pointed out to him said that lies were beautiful. He was an idealist.



第二十九章

秋尽冬来。维克斯到柏林听保尔森讲学去了，海沃德开始考虑去南方。当地的剧院在上演各种戏目。菲利普和海沃德每周要跑两三次戏院。看戏的目的倒也颇值得嘉许，乃是为了提高他们的德语水平。菲利普发觉，通过这种途径来掌握语言比听牧师布道更生动有趣。他们置身于戏剧的复兴浪潮之中。冬季准备上演的剧目中，有好几出易卜生的戏剧。苏台尔曼的《荣誉》是一部新作，它上演之后，使这座恬静的大学城顿时为之哗然，有的推崇备至，有的痛加抨击。另有些剧作家也紧紧跟上，奉献了不少在新思潮影响下写成的剧本。菲利普眼界大开，在他看到的一系列剧作中，人类的罪恶暴露无遗。在此之前，他还从未看过话剧（有时候，一些可怜巴巴的巡回剧团也来布莱克斯泰勃的村会议厅演出，但是那位教区牧师一则碍于自己的职业，二则认为看戏有失风雅，所以从不肯屈尊赏脸），他被舞台上人物的喜怒哀乐深深吸引住了。他一走进灯光暗淡的蹩脚小戏馆，就感到心弦颤动。没多久，菲利普对那小剧团的特色已了如指掌。只要看一下演员角色的分派情况，就能立刻说出剧中人物的性格特征；不过这并不影响菲利普的兴致。在他看来，戏剧是真实生活，那是一种阴森而痛苦的奇怪生活，男男女女都把自己内心的邪念暴露在无情的睽睽泯众目之下：姣好的容貌把堕落的灵魂包藏了起来；君子淑女拿德行当作掩饰丑恶隐私的面具；徒有其表的强者由于自身的弱点而逐渐演为色厉内荏；诚实之徒并不诚实；高洁之辈原是荡妇、淫棍。你恍惚置身于这样一个房间：前一夜，人们在这儿纵酒宴乐，清晨，窗户尚未打开，空气浑浊不堪，酒残烟陈，杯盘狼藉，煤气灯还在闪亮。台下没有爽朗的笑声，至多也只是对那些伪君子或傻瓜蛋窃笑几声罢了：剧中人自我表白时所使用的残忍言词，仿佛是在羞痛交逼之下硬从心坎里挤出来的。

菲利普完全被这人间的罪恶渊薮迷住了。他似乎是按另一种方式重新审视着世界，对于眼前的这个世界他也渴望了解透彻。演出结束后，菲利普同海沃德一道去小酒店，坐在又明亮又暖和的店堂里，吃一客三明治，喝一杯啤酒。他们周围，三五成群的学生谈笑风生。阖家光临酒店的也不少，父母，两三个儿子，还有一个女儿。有时，女儿说了句刺耳的俏皮话，做父亲的就往椅背上一靠，仰面大笑，笑得还真欢哩。气氛极其亲切、纯真，好一幅天伦之乐图。但是，对于这一切，菲利普却视而不见。他还在回味着刚才在剧院里见到的那一幕幕。

"你不认为这就是生活吗，呢？"他激动地说。"你知道，我不会再在这儿长呆下去。我要去伦敦，开始过真正的生活。我要见见世面。老是在为生活作准备，真使人发腻：我要尝尝生活的滋味。"

有时候，海沃德让菲利普独个儿回公寓。他从不针对菲利普心急火燎的提问作出确切回答，而是无所用心地嘻嘻傻笑一声，转弯抹角地谈起。某一件风流韵事。他还引用一些岁塞蒂的诗句。有次甚至给菲利普看了一首十四行诗。诗中热情洋溢，词藻华丽，充满了悲惋凄怆的情调、全部诗情为一个名叫特鲁德的少女而发。海沃德把自己的肮脏、庸俗的无矿艳遇"，抹上一层光泽照人的诗意，还认为自己的诗笔颇得伯里克理斯和菲狄亚斯的几分遗风，因为他在描述自己所追求的意中人时特意选用了"hetaira"这样一个词而不屑从英语所提供的那些直截了当、比较贴切的字眼中挑选一个。日大，菲利普受着好奇心的驱使，曾特地去古桥附近的小街上走了一遭。街上有几幢整洁的、装有绿色百叶窗的白房子，据海沃德说，特鲁德小姐就住在那儿。但是，打门里走出来的那些女人，个个涂脂抹粉，脸带凶相，粗声粗气地同他打招呼，不能不叫他心惊肉跳。她们还伸出双粗壮的手来想把菲利普拦住，吓得他拔腿就溜。他特别渴望增加阅历，觉得自己幼稚可笑，因为自己到了这般年纪，还没有领略过所有小说作品无不渲染的那种所谓"人生最重要的东西"；不幸的是，他天生具有那种洞察事物本来面目的能力，出现在他面前的现实，同他梦境中的理想，其差别之大，有如天壤。

他不懂得在人生的旅途上，非得越过一大片干旱贫瘠、地形险恶的荒野，才能跨入活生生的现实世界。所谓"青春多幸福"的说法，不过是一种幻觉，是青春已逝的人们的一种幻觉；而年轻人知道自己是不幸的，因为他们充满了不切实际的幻想，全是从外部灌输到他们头脑里去的，每当他们同实际接触时，他们总是碰得头破血流。看来，他们似乎成了一场共谋的牺牲品，因为他们所读过的书籍（由于经过必然的淘汰，留存下来的都是尽善至美的），还有长辈之间的交谈（他们是透过健忘的玫瑰色烟雾来回首往事的），都为他们开拓了一个虚假的生活前景。年轻人得靠自己去发现：过去念到过的书，过去听到过的话，全是谎言，谎言，谎言；而且每一次的发现，又无异是往那具已被钉在生活十字架上的身躯再打入一根钉子。不可思议的是，大凡每个经历过痛苦幻灭的人，由于受到内心那股抑制不住的强劲力量的驱使，又总是有意无意地再给现实生活添上一层虚幻的色彩。对于菲利普来说，世上再不会有比与海沃德为伍更糟糕的事了。海沃德这个人是带着十足的书生气来观察周围一切的，没有一工点儿自己的看法；他很危险，是因为他欺骗自己，达到了真心诚意的地步。他真诚地错把自己的肉欲当作浪漫的恋情，错把自己的优柔寡断视为艺术家的气质，还错把自己的无所事事看成哲人的超然物外。他心智平庸，却孜孜追求高尚娴雅，因而从他眼睛里望出去，所有的事物都蒙上了一层感伤的金色雾纱，轮廓模糊不清，结果就显得比实际的形象大些。他在撒谎，却从不知道自己在撒谎；当别人点破他时，他却说谎言是美的。他是一个理想主义者。
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chapter 30

Philip was restless and dissatisfied. Hayward’s poetic allusions troubled his imagination, and his soul yearned for romance. At least that was how he put it to himself.

And it happened that an incident was taking place in Frau Erlin’s house which increased Philip’s preoccupation with the matter of sex. Two or three times on his walks among the hills he had met Fraulein Cacilie wandering by herself. He had passed her with a bow, and a few yards further on had seen the Chinaman. He thought nothing of it; but one evening on his way home, when night had already fallen, he passed two people walking very close together. Hearing his footstep, they separated quickly, and though he could not see well in the darkness he was almost certain they were Cacilie and Herr Sung. Their rapid movement apart suggested that they had been walking arm in arm. Philip was puzzled and surprised. He had never paid much attention to Fraulein Cacilie. She was a plain girl, with a square face and blunt features. She could not have been more than sixteen, since she still wore her long fair hair in a plait. That evening at supper he looked at her curiously; and, though of late she had talked little at meals, she addressed him.

‘Where did you go for your walk today, Herr Carey?’ she asked.

‘Oh, I walked up towards the Konigstuhl.’

‘I didn’t go out,’ she volunteered. ‘I had a headache.’

The Chinaman, who sat next to her, turned round.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I hope it’s better now.’

Fraulein Cacilie was evidently uneasy, for she spoke again to Philip.

‘Did you meet many people on the way?’

Philip could not help reddening when he told a downright lie.

‘No. I don’t think I saw a living soul.’

He fancied that a look of relief passed across her eyes.

Soon, however, there could be no doubt that there was something between the pair, and other people in the Frau Professor’s house saw them lurking in dark places. The elderly ladies who sat at the head of the table began to discuss what was now a scandal. The Frau Professor was angry and harassed. She had done her best to see nothing. The winter was at hand, and it was not as easy a matter then as in the summer to keep her house full. Herr Sung was a good customer: he had two rooms on the ground floor, and he drank a bottle of Moselle at each meal. The Frau Professor charged him three marks a bottle and made a good profit. None of her other guests drank wine, and some of them did not even drink beer. Neither did she wish to lose Fraulein Cacilie, whose parents were in business in South America and paid well for the Frau Professor’s motherly care; and she knew that if she wrote to the girl’s uncle, who lived in Berlin, he would immediately take her away. The Frau Professor contented herself with giving them both severe looks at table and, though she dared not be rude to the Chinaman, got a certain satisfaction out of incivility to Cacilie. But the three elderly ladies were not content. Two were widows, and one, a Dutchwoman, was a spinster of masculine appearance; they paid the smallest possible sum for their pension, and gave a good deal of trouble, but they were permanent and therefore had to be put up with. They went to the Frau Professor and said that something must be done; it was disgraceful, and the house was ceasing to be respectable. The Frau Professor tried obstinacy, anger, tears, but the three old ladies routed her, and with a sudden assumption of virtuous indignation she said that she would put a stop to the whole thing.

After luncheon she took Cacilie into her bed-room and began to talk very seriously to her; but to her amazement the girl adopted a brazen attitude; she proposed to go about as she liked; and if she chose to walk with the Chinaman she could not see it was anybody’s business but her own. The Frau Professor threatened to write to her uncle.

‘Then Onkel Heinrich will put me in a family in Berlin for the winter, and that will be much nicer for me. And Herr Sung will come to Berlin too.’

The Frau Professor began to cry. The tears rolled down her coarse, red, fat cheeks; and Cacilie laughed at her.

‘That will mean three rooms empty all through the winter,’ she said.

Then the Frau Professor tried another plan. She appealed to Fraulein Cacilie’s better nature: she was kind, sensible, tolerant; she treated her no longer as a child, but as a grown woman. She said that it wouldn’t be so dreadful, but a Chinaman, with his yellow skin and flat nose, and his little pig’s eyes! That’s what made it so horrible. It filled one with disgust to think of it.

‘Bitte, bitte,’ said Cacilie, with a rapid intake of the breath. ‘I won’t listen to anything against him.’

‘But it’s not serious?’ gasped Frau Erlin.

‘I love him. I love him. I love him.’

‘Gott im Himmel!’

The Frau Professor stared at her with horrified surprise; she had thought it was no more than naughtiness on the child’s part, and innocent, folly. but the passion in her voice revealed everything. Cacilie looked at her for a moment with flaming eyes, and then with a shrug of her shoulders went out of the room.

Frau Erlin kept the details of the interview to herself, and a day or two later altered the arrangement of the table. She asked Herr Sung if he would not come and sit at her end, and he with his unfailing politeness accepted with alacrity. Cacilie took the change indifferently. But as if the discovery that the relations between them were known to the whole household made them more shameless, they made no secret now of their walks together, and every afternoon quite openly set out to wander about the hills. It was plain that they did not care what was said of them. At last even the placidity of Professor Erlin was moved, and he insisted that his wife should speak to the Chinaman. She took him aside in his turn and expostulated; he was ruining the girl’s reputation, he was doing harm to the house, he must see how wrong and wicked his conduct was; but she was met with smiling denials; Herr Sung did not know what she was talking about, he was not paying any attention to Fraulein Cacilie, he never walked with her; it was all untrue, every word of it.

‘Ach, Herr Sung, how can you say such things? You’ve been seen again and again.’

‘No, you’re mistaken. It’s untrue.’

He looked at her with an unceasing smile, which showed his even, little white teeth. He was quite calm. He denied everything. He denied with bland effrontery. At last the Frau Professor lost her temper and said the girl had confessed she loved him. He was not moved. He continued to smile.

‘Nonsense! Nonsense! It’s all untrue.’

She could get nothing out of him. The weather grew very bad; there was snow and frost, and then a thaw with a long succession of cheerless days, on which walking was a poor amusement. One evening when Philip had just finished his German lesson with the Herr Professor and was standing for a moment in the drawing-room, talking to Frau Erlin, Anna came quickly in.

‘Mamma, where is Cacilie?’ she said.

‘I suppose she’s in her room.’

‘There’s no light in it.’

The Frau Professor gave an exclamation, and she looked at her daughter in dismay. The thought which was in Anna’s head had flashed across hers.

‘Ring for Emil,’ she said hoarsely.

This was the stupid lout who waited at table and did most of the housework. He came in.

‘Emil, go down to Herr Sung’s room and enter without knocking. If anyone is there say you came in to see about the stove.’

No sign of astonishment appeared on Emil’s phlegmatic face.

He went slowly downstairs. The Frau Professor and Anna left the door open and listened. Presently they heard Emil come up again, and they called him.

‘Was anyone there?’ asked the Frau Professor.

‘Yes, Herr Sung was there.’

‘Was he alone?’

The beginning of a cunning smile narrowed his mouth.

‘No, Fraulein Cacilie was there.’

‘Oh, it’s disgraceful,’ cried the Frau Professor.

Now he smiled broadly.

‘Fraulein Cacilie is there every evening. She spends hours at a time there.’

Frau Professor began to wring her hands.

‘Oh, how abominable! But why didn’t you tell me?’

‘It was no business of mine,’ he answered, slowly shrugging his shoulders.

‘I suppose they paid you well. Go away. Go.’

He lurched clumsily to the door.

‘They must go away, mamma,’ said Anna.

‘And who is going to pay the rent? And the taxes are falling due. It’s all very well for you to say they must go away. If they go away I can’t pay the bills.’ She turned to Philip, with tears streaming down her face. ‘Ach, Herr Carey, you will not say what you have heard. If Fraulein Forster—’ this was the Dutch spinster—‘if Fraulein Forster knew she would leave at once. And if they all go we must close the house. I cannot afford to keep it.’

‘Of course I won’t say anything.’

‘If she stays, I will not speak to her,’ said Anna.

That evening at supper Fraulein Cacilie, redder than usual, with a look of obstinacy on her face, took her place punctually; but Herr Sung did not appear, and for a while Philip thought he was going to shirk the ordeal. At last he came, very smiling, his little eyes dancing with the apologies he made for his late arrival. He insisted as usual on pouring out the Frau Professor a glass of his Moselle, and he offered a glass to Fraulein Forster. The room was very hot, for the stove had been alight all day and the windows were seldom opened. Emil blundered about, but succeeded somehow in serving everyone quickly and with order. The three old ladies sat in silence, visibly disapproving: the Frau Professor had scarcely recovered from her tears; her husband was silent and oppressed. Conversation languished. It seemed to Philip that there was something dreadful in that gathering which he had sat with so often; they looked different under the light of the two hanging lamps from what they had ever looked before; he was vaguely uneasy. Once he caught Cacilie’s eye, and he thought she looked at him with hatred and contempt. The room was stifling. It was as though the beastly passion of that pair troubled them all; there was a feeling of Oriental depravity; a faint savour of joss-sticks, a mystery of hidden vices, seemed to make their breath heavy. Philip could feel the beating of the arteries in his forehead. He could not understand what strange emotion distracted him; he seemed to feel something infinitely attractive, and yet he was repelled and horrified.

For several days things went on. The air was sickly with the unnatural passion which all felt about them, and the nerves of the little household seemed to grow exasperated. Only Herr Sung remained unaffected; he was no less smiling, affable, and polite than he had been before: one could not tell whether his manner was a triumph of civilisation or an expression of contempt on the part of the Oriental for the vanquished West. Cacilie was flaunting and cynical. At last even the Frau Professor could bear the position no longer. Suddenly panic seized her; for Professor Erlin with brutal frankness had suggested the possible consequences of an intrigue which was now manifest to everyone, and she saw her good name in Heidelberg and the repute of her house ruined by a scandal which could not possibly be hidden. For some reason, blinded perhaps by her interests, this possibility had never occurred to her; and now, her wits muddled by a terrible fear, she could hardly be prevented from turning the girl out of the house at once. It was due to Anna’s good sense that a cautious letter was written to the uncle in Berlin suggesting that Cacilie should be taken away.

But having made up her mind to lose the two lodgers, the Frau Professor could not resist the satisfaction of giving rein to the ill-temper she had curbed so long. She was free now to say anything she liked to Cacilie.

‘I have written to your uncle, Cacilie, to take you away. I cannot have you in my house any longer.’

Her little round eyes sparkled when she noticed the sudden whiteness of the girl’s face.

‘You’re shameless. Shameless,’ she went on.

She called her foul names.

‘What did you say to my uncle Heinrich, Frau Professor?’ the girl asked, suddenly falling from her attitude of flaunting independence.

‘Oh, he’ll tell you himself. I expect to get a letter from him tomorrow.’

Next day, in order to make the humiliation more public, at supper she called down the table to Cacilie.

‘I have had a letter from your uncle, Cacilie. You are to pack your things tonight, and we will put you in the train tomorrow morning. He will meet you himself in Berlin at the Central Bahnhof.’

‘Very good, Frau Professor.’

Herr Sung smiled in the Frau Professor’s eyes, and notwithstanding her protests insisted on pouring out a glass of wine for her. The Frau Professor ate her supper with a good appetite. But she had triumphed unwisely. Just before going to bed she called the servant.

‘Emil, if Fraulein Cacilie’s box is ready you had better take it downstairs tonight. The porter will fetch it before breakfast.’

The servant went away and in a moment came back.

‘Fraulein Cacilie is not in her room, and her bag has gone.’

With a cry the Frau Professor hurried along: the box was on the floor, strapped and locked; but there was no bag, and neither hat nor cloak. The dressing-table was empty. Breathing heavily, the Frau Professor ran downstairs to the Chinaman’s rooms, she had not moved so quickly for twenty years, and Emil called out after her to beware she did not fall; she did not trouble to knock, but burst in. The rooms were empty. The luggage had gone, and the door into the garden, still open, showed how it had been got away. In an envelope on the table were notes for the money due on the month’s board and an approximate sum for extras. Groaning, suddenly overcome by her haste, the Frau Professor sank obesely on to a sofa. There could be no doubt. The pair had gone off together. Emil remained stolid and unmoved.



第三十章

菲利普坐卧不安，身心得不到满足。海沃德富有诗意的旁征博引，使他想入非非，他的心灵渴望着浪漫艳遇，至少，他对自己就是这么说的。

正好这时候欧林太太的公寓里发生了一桩事儿，使菲利普越发专注于有关两性的问题。有两三回菲利普在山间散步，遇到凯西莉小姐一个人在那里溜达。菲利普走过她身边，朝她一躬身，继续往前；没走多远，又看到了那个中国人。当时也不觉得有什么；可是有一天傍晚，夜幕已经低垂，他在回家的路上打两个行人身旁经过。那两人原是紧靠在一起的，可他们一听到菲利普的脚步声，赶紧向两旁闪开。夜色朦胧，菲利普看不真切，但几乎可以肯定那是凯西莉和宋先生。他俩如此忙不迭分开，说明他们刚才是手勾着手走的。菲利普惊讶之余又有点困惑。他对凯西莉从未多加注意。这个姑娘平常得很，方方的脸，五官并不怎么清秀。既然她把一头金发编成长辫子，说明她还没超过十六岁。那天晚上用餐时，菲利普好奇地打量她，尽管她近来在桌上很少言语，这会儿倒主动跟菲利普攀谈起来了。

"您今天去哪儿散步来着，凯里先生？"她问。

"哦，我朝御座山那儿走了一程。"

"我呆在屋里没出去，"她主动表白说，"头有点疼。"

坐在她身边的那个中国人，这时转脸对她说：

"真遗憾"他说："希望您这会儿好点了吧。

凯西莉小姐显然放心不下，因为她又问了菲利普这么一句：

"路上您遇到不少人吧？"

菲利普当面扯了个弥大大谎，脸儿禁不住红了起来。

"没啊，我想连个人影儿也没见着。"

菲利普觉得她的眼睛里闪过宽慰的神情。

然而不久，关于他俩关系暧昧这一点，不可能再有什么好怀疑的了。教授太太公寓里的其他人，也看到过他俩躲在幽暗处不知鬼鬼祟祟干啥。坐在上席的那几位老太太，现在开始把这件事当作丑闻来谈论。教授太太义气又恼，但她尽力装作什么也没察觉。此时已近隆冬，不比夏天了，要让公寓住满房客可不那么容易。宋先生是位不。不可多得的好主顾：他在底楼租了两个房间，每餐都要喝一瓶摩泽尔葡萄酒，教授太太每瓶收他二个马克，赚头挺不错。可是，她的其他房客都不喝酒，有的甚至连啤酒也点滴不沾。她也不想失掉凯西莉小姐这样的房客。她的父母在南美洲经商，为了酬谢教授太太慈母般的悉心照顾，他们付的费用相当可观。教授太太心里明白，假如她写信给那位住在柏林的凯西莉小姐的伯父，他会马上把她带走的。于是，教授太太满足于在餐桌上朝他俩狠狠地瞪上几眼；她不敢得罪那位中国人，不过尽可以对凯西莉小姐恶声恶气，以发泄自己的心头之恨。但是那三位老太太却不肯就此罢休。她们三个，两个是寡妇，一个是长相颇似男子的荷兰老处女。她们付的膳宿费已经少得不能再少，而且还经常给人添麻烦，但她们毕竟是永久性的房客，所以对她们也只得将就些。她们跑到教授太太跟前说，一定得果断处置才是，这太不成体统，整个公寓的名声都要给败坏了。教授太太施出浑身解数招架，时而正面顶牛，时而勃然大怒，时而痛哭流涕，但还是敌不过那三位老太太。最后，她突然摆出一副疾恶如仇的架势，愤然表示要了结这桩公案。

吃完午饭，教授太太把凯西莉带到自己的卧房里，开始正言厉色地同她谈话。使教授太太吃惊的是，凯西莉的态度竟那么厚颜无耻，公然提出得任她自行其是，如果她高兴同那位中国先生一起散步，她看不出这同旁人有何相于，这本是她自己的事嘛。教授太太威胁说要给她伯父写信。

"那亨利希伯父就会送我到柏林的某户人家去过冬，这对我来说岂非更好！宋先生也会去柏林的嘛。"

教授太太开始号啕起来，眼泪沿着红通通的、又粗又肥的腮帮子扑籁扑簌往下掉，凯西莉却还在一个劲儿取笑她。

"那就是说，整个冬天要有三间屋子空着罗，"她说。

接着，教授太太变换对策，想用软功来打动凯西莉的柔肠：说她善良，理智，忍让；不该再拿她当女孩子看待，她已经是个大人啦。教授太太说，要不是姓宋的，事情本不会这么糟嘛，黄皮肤，塌鼻梁，一对小小的猪眼睛，这才是使人惶恐不安的症结所在。想到那副尊容，就叫人恶心。

"Bitte，Bitte！"凯西莉说，一面喘着粗气，"别人讲他讲话，我一句也不要听。"

"这话你只是说说的吧？"欧林太太倒抽着凉气。

"我爱他！我爱他！我爱他！"

"Gott in Himmel！"

教授太太神色惊恐地冲着凯西莉小姐发愣。她原以为这一切无非是女孩子的淘气，一场无知的胡闹罢了。然而，她话音里情感之热切，泄露了全部真情。凯西莉用那双灼热的眼睛，端详了教授太太一番，然后肩膀一耸，扬长而去。

欧林太太绝口不提这次谈话的经过。过了一两天，她把餐席的座次变换了一下。她问宋先生是否愿意坐到她这一头来，始终那么温文尔雅的宋先生欣然从命。凯西莉对这一改变满不在乎。似乎是因为他俩的关系反正在这幢公寓里已是尽人皆知，他们也就越发肆无忌惮。现在，他们不再瞒着人偷偷地一起出外散步，而是每天下午都大大咧咧地到小山同那儿溜达。显然，他们已不在乎旁人的说三道四。闹到最后，甚至连秉性温和的欧林教授也沉不住气了，他坚持要妻子同那个姓宋的谈一次。教授太太这回把宋先生拉到一边，对他好言规劝：他不该败坏那姑娘的名誉；他正危及整个公寓的名声；他必须明白他的所作所为有多荒唐，有多邪恶。但是，她得到的却是面带微笑的矢口否认；宋先生不知道她说的是什么，他对凯西莉小姐不感兴趣，他从来没同她一起散过步。所有这一切纯属子虚乌有，全是捕风捉影。

"啊，宋先生，您怎能这么说呢？人家不止一次看到你们俩在一起。"

"不，您搞错了。哪有这种事呢。"

他始终笑眯眯地望着教授太太，露出一口整齐、洁白的细牙。他泰然自若，什么也不认帐。他厚脸而又文雅地百般抵赖。最后，教授太太冒火了，说那姑娘自己也承认爱上他了。但是宋先生还是不动声色，脸上仍旧挂着微笑。

"扯淡！扯淡！根本没这种事。"

教授太太从他嘴里掏不出一句实话来。天气渐渐变得十分恶劣，又是下雪，又是降霜。然后，冰融雪化，一连好几天，让人感到没精打采，出外散步也变得索然无味。一天晚上，菲利普刚上完教授先生的德语课，站在客厅里同欧林太太说话，还没说上几句，只见安娜急匆匆地跑了进来。

"妈妈，凯西莉在哪儿？"她说。

"大概在她自己房间里吧。"

"她房间里没有灯光。"

教授大大惊叫一声，神情沮丧地望着女儿。安娜脑袋里的念头也在她脑际闪过。

"打铃叫埃米尔上这儿来，"她嗓音嘶哑地说。

埃米尔是个笨头笨脑的愣小子，吃饭时，他在桌旁伺候，平时屋里的大部分活计都丢给他一个人干。他应声走了进来。

"埃米尔，到楼下宋先生的房间去，进去时别敲门。要是里面有人，你就说是来照看火炉的。"

在埃米尔呆板的脸上，不见有半点惊讶的表示。

他慢腾腾地走下楼去。教授太太母女俩任房门开着，留神楼下的动静。不一会儿，他们听见埃米尔又上楼来了，他们忙招呼他。

"屋里有人吗？"教授太太问。

"宋先生在那儿。"

"就他一个人吗？"

他抿起嘴，脸上绽出一丝狡黠的微笑。

"不，凯西莉小姐也在那儿。"

"哟，真丢人，"教授太太叫了起来。

这会儿，埃米尔咧嘴笑了。

"凯西莉小姐每天晚上都在那儿。一呆就是几个小时。"

教授太太开始绞扭双手。

"哟，真可恶！你为什么不早点告诉我？"

"这。可不关我的事，"他回答，同时慢腾腾地耸了耸肩。

"我看他们一定赏了你不少钱吧，走开！走吧！"

他脚步蹒跚地向门口走去。

"一定得把他们撵走，妈妈，"安娜说。

"那让谁来付房租呢？税单就要到期了。得把他们撵走，说得多轻巧！可是他们一走，我拿什么来付帐。"她转身面朝菲利普，脸上挂着两串热泪。"哎，凯里先生，您不会把听到的话声张出去吧。假如让福斯特小姐知道了，"--就是那位荷兰老处女--"假如让福斯特小姐知道了，她会立刻离开这儿的。假如大家都跑了，咱们就只好关门大吉。我实在无力维持下去。"

"我当然什么也不会说的。"

"如果让她再在这儿呆下去，我可不愿再理睬她了，"安娜说。

那天晚上吃饭时，凯西莉小姐准时人席就座。她脸色比平日红此，带着一股执拗的神情。但是宋先生没有露面，菲利普暗自思忖，他今天是有意要躲开这个难堪的局面吧。不料最后宋先生还是来了，满脸堆笑，一双眼睛忽溜忽溜转着，为自己的概栅来迟不住连声道歉。他还是像往常一样，硬要给教授太太斟一杯他订的摩泽尔葡萄酒，另外还给福斯特小姐斟了一杯。屋子里很热，因为炉子整天烧着，窗户又难得打开。埃米尔慌慌张张地奔来跑去，不过手脚倒还算麻利，好歹把席上的人挨个儿应付了过去。三位老太太坐在那儿不吭声，一脸不以为然的神气；教授太太哭了一场，似乎还没恢复过来；她丈夫不言不语，闷闷不乐。大家都懒得启口。菲利普恍惚觉得，在这伙一日三餐与他共坐一席的人身上，似乎有着某种令人胆寒的东西，在餐室那两盏吊灯的映照下，他们看上去同往常有些异样，菲利普隐隐感到局促不安。有一回，他的目光偶然同凯西莉小姐相遇，他觉得她的目光里射出仇恨与轻蔑。屋子里空气沉闷，压得人透不过气来，似乎大家被这对情人的兽欲搞得心神不宁；周围有一种东方人堕落的特有气氛：炷香袅袅，幽香阵阵，还有窃玉偷香的神秘味儿，似乎逼得人直喘粗气。菲利普感觉得到额头上的脉管在搏动。他自己也不明白，究竟是什么奇怪的感情搞得他如此心慌意乱，他似乎觉得有什么东西在极其强烈地吸引他，而同时又引起他内心的反感和惶恐。

这种局面延续了好几天，整个气氛令人恶心，人们感到周围充斥着那股违反常理的情欲，小小客寓中所有人的神经都被拉得紧紧的，似乎一碰即崩。只有宋先生神态如故，逢人还像以前那么笑容满面，那么和蔼可亲，那么彬彬有引。谁也说不准他的那种神态算是文明的胜利呢，还是东方人对于败倒在他们脚下的西方世界的一种轻蔑表示。凯西莉则四处招摇副玩世不恭的神气。最后，这种局面甚至连教授太太也感到忍无可忍了。惊恐之感突然攫住她心头，因为欧林教授用极其严峻的坦率的口气向她她点明，这一众人皆知的私通事件。可能会引起什么样的后果。这件丑事说不定会闹得满城风雨，而她就得眼睁睁看着自己在海德堡的好名声，连同自己一生惨淡经营的寄宿公寓的良好声誉毁于一旦。不知怎地，她也许是被一些蝇头小利迷住了心窍，竟一直没想到这种。可能性。而现在，她又因极度的恐惧而乱了套套，几乎忍不住要立时把这姑娘撵出门去。多了安娜还算有见识，给柏林的那位伯父写了封措辞谨慎的信，建议地把凯西莉领走。

但是，教授太太在横下心决计忍痛牺牲这两个房客之后，再也憋不住心头的一股于怨气，非要痛痛快快地发泄一通不可--她已经克制了好久啦。现在她可以当着凯西莉的面，爱怎么说就怎么说。

"我已经写信给你伯父了，凯西莉，要他来把你领走。我不能再让你在我屋里呆下去。"

教授太太注意到那姑娘脸色刷地发白，自己那双溜圆的小眼睛禁不住一闪一闪发亮。

"你真不要脸，死不要脸，"她继续说。

她把凯西莉臭骂了一顿。

"您对我的亨利希伯父说了些什么呢，教授太太？"姑娘问，原先那股扬扬自得、梁骛不驯的神气突然化为乌有了。

"噢，他会当面告诉你的。估计明天就能收到他的回信。"

第二天，教授太太为了要让凯西莉当众出丑，故意在吃晚饭时拉开嗓门，冲着坐在餐席下首的那姑娘大声嚷嚷。

"我已经收到你伯父的来信啦，凯西莉。你今晚就给我把行李收抬好，明天一早，我们送你上火车。他会亲自到中央车站去接你的。"

"太好了，教授太太。"

教授太太看到宋先生仍然满脸堆笑，尽管她再三拒绝，他还是硬给她斟了一杯酒。这顿饭，教授太太吃得津津有味。虽说她一时占了上风，可到头来还是失算了。就在就寝之前，她把仆人唤到跟前。

"埃米尔，要是凯西莉小姐的行李箱已经收拾停当，你最好今晚就把它拿到楼下去。明天早饭之前，脚夫要来取的。"

仆人走开不多一会儿，又回来了。

"凯西莉小姐不在她房里，她的手提包也不见了。"

教授太太大叫一声，拔脚就往凯西莉的房间跑去：箱子放在地板上，已经捆扎好而且上了锁，但是手提包不见了，帽子、斗篷也不知去向。梳妆台上空空如也。教授太太喘着粗气，飞步下楼，直奔姓宋的房间。她已有二十年没这么健步如飞了。埃米尔在她背后连声呼喊，要她当心别摔倒。她连门也顾不得敲，径直往里面闯。房间里空荡荡的，行李已不翼而飞，那扇通向花园的门豁然洞开着，说明行李是从那儿搬出去的。桌上放着一只信封，里面有几张钞票，算是偿付这个月的膳宿费和外加的一笔小费。教授太太由于刚才的疾步飞奔，这时突然支撑不住，她嘴里呻吟着，胖乎乎的身躯颓然倒在沙发里。事情再清楚不过了：那对情人双双私奔了。埃米尔仍旧是那么一副木然、无动于衷的神态。
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chapter 31

Hayward, after saying for a month that he was going South next day and delaying from week to week out of inability to make up his mind to the bother of packing and the tedium of a journey, had at last been driven off just before Christmas by the preparations for that festival. He could not support the thought of a Teutonic merry-making. It gave him goose-flesh to think of the season’s aggressive cheerfulness, and in his desire to avoid the obvious he determined to travel on Christmas Eve.

Philip was not sorry to see him off, for he was a downright person and it irritated him that anybody should not know his own mind. Though much under Hayward’s influence, he would not grant that indecision pointed to a charming sensitiveness; and he resented the shadow of a sneer with which Hayward looked upon his straight ways. They corresponded. Hayward was an admirable letter-writer, and knowing his talent took pains with his letters. His temperament was receptive to the beautiful influences with which he came in contact, and he was able in his letters from Rome to put a subtle fragrance of Italy. He thought the city of the ancient Romans a little vulgar, finding distinction only in the decadence of the Empire; but the Rome of the Popes appealed to his sympathy, and in his chosen words, quite exquisitely, there appeared a rococo beauty. He wrote of old church music and the Alban Hills, and of the languor of incense and the charm of the streets by night, in the rain, when the pavements shone and the light of the street lamps was mysterious. Perhaps he repeated these admirable letters to various friends. He did not know what a troubling effect they had upon Philip; they seemed to make his life very humdrum. With the spring Hayward grew dithyrambic. He proposed that Philip should come down to Italy. He was wasting his time at Heidelberg. The Germans were gross and life there was common; how could the soul come to her own in that prim landscape? In Tuscany the spring was scattering flowers through the land, and Philip was nineteen; let him come and they could wander through the mountain towns of Umbria. Their names sang in Philip’s heart. And Cacilie too, with her lover, had gone to Italy. When he thought of them Philip was seized with a restlessness he could not account for. He cursed his fate because he had no money to travel, and he knew his uncle would not send him more than the fifteen pounds a month which had been agreed upon. He had not managed his allowance very well. His pension and the price of his lessons left him very little over, and he had found going about with Hayward expensive. Hayward had often suggested excursions, a visit to the play, or a bottle of wine, when Philip had come to the end of his month’s money; and with the folly of his age he had been unwilling to confess he could not afford an extravagance.

Luckily Hayward’s letters came seldom, and in the intervals Philip settled down again to his industrious life. He had matriculated at the university and attended one or two courses of lectures. Kuno Fischer was then at the height of his fame and during the winter had been lecturing brilliantly on Schopenhauer. It was Philip’s introduction to philosophy. He had a practical mind and moved uneasily amid the abstract; but he found an unexpected fascination in listening to metaphysical disquisitions; they made him breathless; it was a little like watching a tight-rope dancer doing perilous feats over an abyss; but it was very exciting. The pessimism of the subject attracted his youth; and he believed that the world he was about to enter was a place of pitiless woe and of darkness. That made him none the less eager to enter it; and when, in due course, Mrs. Carey, acting as the correspondent for his guardian’s views, suggested that it was time for him to come back to England, he agreed with enthusiasm. He must make up his mind now what he meant to do. If he left Heidelberg at the end of July they could talk things over during August, and it would be a good time to make arrangements.

The date of his departure was settled, and Mrs. Carey wrote to him again. She reminded him of Miss Wilkinson, through whose kindness he had gone to Frau Erlin’s house at Heidelberg, and told him that she had arranged to spend a few weeks with them at Blackstable. She would be crossing from Flushing on such and such a day, and if he travelled at the same time he could look after her and come on to Blackstable in her company. Philip’s shyness immediately made him write to say that he could not leave till a day or two afterwards. He pictured himself looking out for Miss Wilkinson, the embarrassment of going up to her and asking if it were she (and he might so easily address the wrong person and be snubbed), and then the difficulty of knowing whether in the train he ought to talk to her or whether he could ignore her and read his book.

At last he left Heidelberg. For three months he had been thinking of nothing but the future; and he went without regret. He never knew that he had been happy there. Fraulein Anna gave him a copy of Der Trompeter von Sackingen and in return he presented her with a volume of William Morris. Very wisely neither of them ever read the other’s present.



第三十一章

一个月来，海沃德四日声声说自己明天就要动身去南方，可是想到整理行装好不麻烦，还有旅途的沉闷乏味，他又下不了这个决心，结果行期一周又一周地往后延宕，直到圣诞节前，大家都忙着过节，这才迫不得已动了身。他受不了条顿民族的寻欢作乐方式，只要一想到节日期间那种放浪形骸的狂欢场面，他身上就会起鸡皮疙瘩。为了不招人注目，他决定趁圣诞节前夜悄悄启程。

菲利普送走海沃德时，心里并不感到依依不舍，因为他生性爽直，见到有谁优柔寡断拿不定主意，就会生出一股无名火来。尽管他深受海沃德的影响，但他认为一个人优柔寡断，并不说明他感官锐敏，讨人喜欢。另外，海沃德对他为人处世的一板一眼，不时暗露嘲讽之意，这也使他忿忿不满。他们俩保持通信往来。海沃德可谓是尺续圣手，他自知在这方面颇有天分，写信时也就特别肯下功夫。就海沃德的气质来说，他对接触到的胜景美物，具有很强的感受力，他还能把淡雅的意大利乡土风光，倾注在他罗马来信的字里行间。他认为这座古罗马人缔造的城市，有点俗不可耐，只是由于罗马帝国的衰微才沾光出了名；不过教皇们的罗马，却在他心头引起共鸣，经他字斟句酌的精心描绘，洛可可式建筑的精致华美跃然纸上。海沃德谈到古色古香的教堂音乐和阿尔卑斯山区的绮丽风光，谈到袅袅熏香的催人欲眠，还说到令人销魂的雨夜街景：人行道上微光闪烁，街灯摇曳不定，显得虚幻迷离。这些令人赞叹的书信，说不定他还只字不改地抄寄给诸亲好友。他哪知道这些书信竟扰乱了菲利普心头的平静呢。相形之下，菲利普眼下的生活显得何其索然寡味。随着春天的来临，海沃德诗兴勃发，他建议菲利普来意大利。他呆在海德堡纯粹是虚掷光阴。德国人举止粗野，那儿的生活平淡无奇。置身于那种古板划一的环境，人的心灵怎能得到升华？在托斯卡纳，眼下已是春暖花开，遍地花团锦簇；而菲利普已经十九岁了。快来吧，他们可以一起遍游翁布里亚诸山城。那些山城的名字深深印刻在菲利普的心坎上。还有凯西莉，她也同情人一起去意大利了。不知怎地，他一想到这对情侣，就有一种莫可名状的惶惶之感攫住了他的心。他诅咒自己的命运，因为他连去意大利的川资也无法筹措，他知道大伯除了按约每月寄给他十五镑外，一个子儿也不会多给的。他自己也不善于精打细算。付了膳宿费和学费之后，菲利普的口袋里已是所剩无几。再说，他发现同海沃德结伴外出，开销实在太大。海沃德一会儿提出去郊游，一会儿又要去看戏，或者去喝瓶啤酒，而这种时候，菲利普的月现钱早已花个精光，囊中空空；而在他那种年岁的年轻人都有那么一股子傻气，硬是不肯承认自己手头拮据，一点铺张不起的。

幸好海沃德的信来得不算太勤，菲利普还有时间安下心来过他穷学生的勤奋生活。菲利普进了海德堡大学，旁听一两门课程。昆诺·费希尔此时名声大噪，红得发紫。那年冬季，他作了一系列有关叔本华的相当出色的讲座。菲利普学哲学正是由此人的门。他的头脑注重实际，一接触抽象思维就如堕烟海似地惴惴不安起来，可是他在聆听完验哲学的专题报告时，却销声敛息，出乎意外地入了迷，有点像观赏走钢丝的舞蹈演员在悬崖峭壁表演惊险绝技似的，令人兴奋不已。这一厌世主义的主题，深深吸引了这个年轻人。他相信，他即将步入的社会乃是一片暗无天日的无情苦海，这也丝毫不减他急于踏入社会的热情。不久，凯里太太来信转达了菲利普的监护人的意见：他该回国了。菲利普欣然表示同意。将来到底干什么，现在也得拿定主意了。假如菲利普在七月底动身离开海德堡，他们可以在八月间好好商量一下，如能就此作出妥善安排，倒也不失时宜。

回国行期确定之后，凯里太太又来了一封信，提醒他别忘了威尔金森小姐，承蒙这位小姐的推荐，菲利普才在海德堡欧林太太的家里找到落脚之处。信中还告诉他，说威尔金森小姐准备来布莱克斯泰勃同他们小住几周。预计她将在某月某日自弗拉欣渡海，他要是也能在这一天动身，到时候可以同她结伴同行，在来布莱克斯泰勃的路上照顾照顾她。生性怕羞的菲利普赶忙回信推托，说他得迟一两天才能动身。他想象着自己如何在人群里寻找威尔金森小姐，如何难为情地跑上前去问她是否就是威尔金森小姐（他很可能招呼错了人而横遭奚落），然后又想到，他拿不准在火车上是该同她攀谈呢，还是可以不去搭理她，只管自己看书。

菲利普终于离开了海德堡。近三个月来，他净是在考虑自己的前途，走时并无眷恋之意。他一直没觉得那里的生活有多大乐趣。安娜小姐送给他一本《柴金恩的号手》，菲利普回赠她一册威廉·莫里斯的著作。他俩总算很聪明，谁也没去翻阅对方馈赠的书卷。
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chapter 32

Philip was surprised when he saw his uncle and aunt. He had never noticed before that they were quite old people. The Vicar received him with his usual, not unamiable indifference. He was a little stouter, a little balder, a little grayer. Philip saw how insignificant he was. His face was weak and self-indulgent. Aunt Louisa took him in her arms and kissed him; and tears of happiness flowed down her cheeks. Philip was touched and embarrassed; he had not known with what a hungry love she cared for him.

‘Oh, the time has seemed long since you’ve been away, Philip,’ she cried.

She stroked his hands and looked into his face with glad eyes.

‘You’ve grown. You’re quite a man now.’

There was a very small moustache on his upper lip. He had bought a razor and now and then with infinite care shaved the down off his smooth chin.

‘We’ve been so lonely without you.’ And then shyly, with a little break in her voice, she asked: ‘You are glad to come back to your home, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, rather.’

She was so thin that she seemed almost transparent, the arms she put round his neck were frail bones that reminded you of chicken bones, and her faded face was oh! so wrinkled. The gray curls which she still wore in the fashion of her youth gave her a queer, pathetic look; and her little withered body was like an autumn leaf, you felt it might be blown away by the first sharp wind. Philip realised that they had done with life, these two quiet little people: they belonged to a past generation, and they were waiting there patiently, rather stupidly, for death; and he, in his vigour and his youth, thirsting for excitement and adventure, was appalled at the waste. They had done nothing, and when they went it would be just as if they had never been. He felt a great pity for Aunt Louisa, and he loved her suddenly because she loved him.

Then Miss Wilkinson, who had kept discreetly out of the way till the Careys had had a chance of welcoming their nephew, came into the room.

‘This is Miss Wilkinson, Philip,’ said Mrs. Carey.

‘The prodigal has returned,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I have brought a rose for the prodigal’s buttonhole.’

With a gay smile she pinned to Philip’s coat the flower she had just picked in the garden. He blushed and felt foolish. He knew that Miss Wilkinson was the daughter of his Uncle William’s last rector, and he had a wide acquaintance with the daughters of clergymen. They wore ill-cut clothes and stout boots. They were generally dressed in black, for in Philip’s early years at Blackstable homespuns had not reached East Anglia, and the ladies of the clergy did not favour colours. Their hair was done very untidily, and they smelt aggressively of starched linen. They considered the feminine graces unbecoming and looked the same whether they were old or young. They bore their religion arrogantly. The closeness of their connection with the church made them adopt a slightly dictatorial attitude to the rest of mankind.

Miss Wilkinson was very different. She wore a white muslin gown stamped with gay little bunches of flowers, and pointed, high-heeled shoes, with open-work stockings. To Philip’s inexperience it seemed that she was wonderfully dressed; he did not see that her frock was cheap and showy. Her hair was elaborately dressed, with a neat curl in the middle of the forehead: it was very black, shiny and hard, and it looked as though it could never be in the least disarranged. She had large black eyes and her nose was slightly aquiline; in profile she had somewhat the look of a bird of prey, but full face she was prepossessing. She smiled a great deal, but her mouth was large and when she smiled she tried to hide her teeth, which were big and rather yellow. But what embarrassed Philip most was that she was heavily powdered: he had very strict views on feminine behaviour and did not think a lady ever powdered; but of course Miss Wilkinson was a lady because she was a clergyman’s daughter, and a clergyman was a gentleman.

Philip made up his mind to dislike her thoroughly. She spoke with a slight French accent; and he did not know why she should, since she had been born and bred in the heart of England. He thought her smile affected, and the coy sprightliness of her manner irritated him. For two or three days he remained silent and hostile, but Miss Wilkinson apparently did not notice it. She was very affable. She addressed her conversation almost exclusively to him, and there was something flattering in the way she appealed constantly to his sane judgment. She made him laugh too, and Philip could never resist people who amused him: he had a gift now and then of saying neat things; and it was pleasant to have an appreciative listener. Neither the Vicar nor Mrs. Carey had a sense of humour, and they never laughed at anything he said. As he grew used to Miss Wilkinson, and his shyness left him, he began to like her better; he found the French accent picturesque; and at a garden party which the doctor gave she was very much better dressed than anyone else. She wore a blue foulard with large white spots, and Philip was tickled at the sensation it caused.

‘I’m certain they think you’re no better than you should be,’ he told her, laughing.

‘It’s the dream of my life to be taken for an abandoned hussy,’ she answered.

One day when Miss Wilkinson was in her room he asked Aunt Louisa how old she was.

‘Oh, my dear, you should never ask a lady’s age; but she’s certainly too old for you to marry.’

The Vicar gave his slow, obese smile.

‘She’s no chicken, Louisa,’ he said. ‘She was nearly grown up when we were in Lincolnshire, and that was twenty years ago. She wore a pigtail hanging down her back.’

‘She may not have been more than ten,’ said Philip.

‘She was older than that,’ said Aunt Louisa.

‘I think she was near twenty,’ said the Vicar.

‘Oh no, William. Sixteen or seventeen at the outside.’

‘That would make her well over thirty,’ said Philip.

At that moment Miss Wilkinson tripped downstairs, singing a song by Benjamin Goddard. She had put her hat on, for she and Philip were going for a walk, and she held out her hand for him to button her glove. He did it awkwardly. He felt embarrassed but gallant. Conversation went easily between them now, and as they strolled along they talked of all manner of things. She told Philip about Berlin, and he told her of his year in Heidelberg. As he spoke, things which had appeared of no importance gained a new interest: he described the people at Frau Erlin’s house; and to the conversations between Hayward and Weeks, which at the time seemed so significant, he gave a little twist, so that they looked absurd. He was flattered at Miss Wilkinson’s laughter.

‘I’m quite frightened of you,’ she said. ‘You’re so sarcastic.’

Then she asked him playfully whether he had not had any love affairs at Heidelberg. Without thinking, he frankly answered that he had not; but she refused to believe him.

‘How secretive you are!’ she said. ‘At your age is it likely?’

He blushed and laughed.

‘You want to know too much,’ he said.

‘Ah, I thought so,’ she laughed triumphantly. ‘Look at him blushing.’

He was pleased that she should think he had been a sad dog, and he changed the conversation so as to make her believe he had all sorts of romantic things to conceal. He was angry with himself that he had not. There had been no opportunity.

Miss Wilkinson was dissatisfied with her lot. She resented having to earn her living and told Philip a long story of an uncle of her mother’s, who had been expected to leave her a fortune but had married his cook and changed his will. She hinted at the luxury of her home and compared her life in Lincolnshire, with horses to ride and carriages to drive in, with the mean dependence of her present state. Philip was a little puzzled when he mentioned this afterwards to Aunt Louisa, and she told him that when she knew the Wilkinsons they had never had anything more than a pony and a dog-cart; Aunt Louisa had heard of the rich uncle, but as he was married and had children before Emily was born she could never have had much hope of inheriting his fortune. Miss Wilkinson had little good to say of Berlin, where she was now in a situation. She complained of the vulgarity of German life, and compared it bitterly with the brilliance of Paris, where she had spent a number of years. She did not say how many. She had been governess in the family of a fashionable portrait-painter, who had married a Jewish wife of means, and in their house she had met many distinguished people. She dazzled Philip with their names. Actors from the Comedie Francaise had come to the house frequently, and Coquelin, sitting next her at dinner, had told her he had never met a foreigner who spoke such perfect French. Alphonse Daudet had come also, and he had given her a copy of Sappho: he had promised to write her name in it, but she had forgotten to remind him. She treasured the volume none the less and she would lend it to Philip. Then there was Maupassant. Miss Wilkinson with a rippling laugh looked at Philip knowingly. What a man, but what a writer! Hayward had talked of Maupassant, and his reputation was not unknown to Philip.

‘Did he make love to you?’ he asked.

The words seemed to stick funnily in his throat, but he asked them nevertheless. He liked Miss Wilkinson very much now, and was thrilled by her conversation, but he could not imagine anyone making love to her.

‘What a question!’ she cried. ‘Poor Guy, he made love to every woman he met. It was a habit that he could not break himself of.’

She sighed a little, and seemed to look back tenderly on the past.

‘He was a charming man,’ she murmured.

A greater experience than Philip’s would have guessed from these words the probabilities of the encounter: the distinguished writer invited to luncheon en famille, the governess coming in sedately with the two tall girls she was teaching; the introduction:

‘Notre Miss Anglaise.’

‘Mademoiselle.’

And the luncheon during which the Miss Anglaise sat silent while the distinguished writer talked to his host and hostess.

But to Philip her words called up much more romantic fancies.

‘Do tell me all about him,’ he said excitedly.

‘There’s nothing to tell,’ she said truthfully, but in such a manner as to convey that three volumes would scarcely have contained the lurid facts. ‘You mustn’t be curious.’

She began to talk of Paris. She loved the boulevards and the Bois. There was grace in every street, and the trees in the Champs Elysees had a distinction which trees had not elsewhere. They were sitting on a stile now by the high-road, and Miss Wilkinson looked with disdain upon the stately elms in front of them. And the theatres: the plays were brilliant, and the acting was incomparable. She often went with Madame Foyot, the mother of the girls she was educating, when she was trying on clothes.

‘Oh, what a misery to be poor!’ she cried. ‘These beautiful things, it’s only in Paris they know how to dress, and not to be able to afford them! Poor Madame Foyot, she had no figure. Sometimes the dressmaker used to whisper to me: ‘Ah, Mademoiselle, if she only had your figure.’ ‘

Philip noticed then that Miss Wilkinson had a robust form and was proud of it.

‘Men are so stupid in England. They only think of the face. The French, who are a nation of lovers, know how much more important the figure is.’

Philip had never thought of such things before, but he observed now that Miss Wilkinson’s ankles were thick and ungainly. He withdrew his eyes quickly.

‘You should go to France. Why don’t you go to Paris for a year? You would learn French, and it would—deniaiser you.’

‘What is that?’ asked Philip.

She laughed slyly.

‘You must look it out in the dictionary. Englishmen do not know how to treat women. They are so shy. Shyness is ridiculous in a man. They don’t know how to make love. They can’t even tell a woman she is charming without looking foolish.’

Philip felt himself absurd. Miss Wilkinson evidently expected him to behave very differently; and he would have been delighted to say gallant and witty things, but they never occurred to him; and when they did he was too much afraid of making a fool of himself to say them.

‘Oh, I love Paris,’ sighed Miss Wilkinson. ‘But I had to go to Berlin. I was with the Foyots till the girls married, and then I could get nothing to do, and I had the chance of this post in Berlin. They’re relations of Madame Foyot, and I accepted. I had a tiny apartment in the Rue Breda, on the cinquieme: it wasn’t at all respectable. You know about the Rue Breda—ces dames, you know.’

Philip nodded, not knowing at all what she meant, but vaguely suspecting, and anxious she should not think him too ignorant.

‘But I didn’t care. Je suis libre, n’est-ce pas?’ She was very fond of speaking French, which indeed she spoke well. ‘Once I had such a curious adventure there.’

She paused a little and Philip pressed her to tell it.

‘You wouldn’t tell me yours in Heidelberg,’ she said.

‘They were so unadventurous,’ he retorted.

‘I don’t know what Mrs. Carey would say if she knew the sort of things we talk about together.’

‘You don’t imagine I shall tell her.’

‘Will you promise?’

When he had done this, she told him how an art-student who had a room on the floor above her—but she interrupted herself.

‘Why don’t you go in for art? You paint so prettily.’

‘Not well enough for that.’

‘That is for others to judge. Je m’y connais, and I believe you have the making of a great artist.’

‘Can’t you see Uncle William’s face if I suddenly told him I wanted to go to Paris and study art?’

‘You’re your own master, aren’t you?’

‘You’re trying to put me off. Please go on with the story.’ Miss Wilkinson, with a little laugh, went on. The art-student had passed her several times on the stairs, and she had paid no particular attention. She saw that he had fine eyes, and he took off his hat very politely. And one day she found a letter slipped under her door. It was from him. He told her that he had adored her for months, and that he waited about the stairs for her to pass. Oh, it was a charming letter! Of course she did not reply, but what woman could help being flattered? And next day there was another letter! It was wonderful, passionate, and touching. When next she met him on the stairs she did not know which way to look. And every day the letters came, and now he begged her to see him. He said he would come in the evening, vers neuf heures, and she did not know what to do. Of course it was impossible, and he might ring and ring, but she would never open the door; and then while she was waiting for the tinkling of the bell, all nerves, suddenly he stood before her. She had forgotten to shut the door when she came in.

‘C’etait une fatalite.’

‘And what happened then?’ asked Philip.

‘That is the end of the story,’ she replied, with a ripple of laughter.

Philip was silent for a moment. His heart beat quickly, and strange emotions seemed to be hustling one another in his heart. He saw the dark staircase and the chance meetings, and he admired the boldness of the letters—oh, he would never have dared to do that—and then the silent, almost mysterious entrance. It seemed to him the very soul of romance.

‘What was he like?’

‘Oh, he was handsome. Charmant garcon.’

‘Do you know him still?’

Philip felt a slight feeling of irritation as he asked this.

‘He treated me abominably. Men are always the same. You’re heartless, all of you.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Philip, not without embarrassment.

‘Let us go home,’ said Miss Wilkinson.



第三十二章

菲利普见到伯父伯母，不觉暗暗一惊。他以前怎么从没注意到他俩已是这般老态龙钟了？牧师照例用那种不冷不热的态度接待了他。牧师又稍许胖了一点，头发又秃了些，白发也更多了。在菲利普眼里，大伯是个多么微不足道的小人物啊。他脸上流露出内心的软弱和任性。路易莎们母把菲利普搂在怀里，不住地亲他，幸福的热泪夺眶而出，顺着面颊滚滚流下。菲利普深受感动，又有点扭泥不安，他以前并不知道她竟是这般舐犊情深地疼爱自己。

"哦！菲利普，你走后，我们可是度日如年呀，"她抽搭着说。

她抚摩着他的双手，用喜滋滋的目光端详着他的脸庞。

"你长大了，简直是个大人啦。"

他上唇边上已长出薄薄一层软髭。他特地买了把剃刀，不时小心翼翼地将光滑的下巴颏上的柔毛剃掉。

"你不在家，我们好冷清啊。"接着，她又用微带颤抖的声音腼腆地问："回到自己家里很高兴吧？"

"那还用说！"

她又瘦削又单薄，仿佛目光也能将她的身子穿透似的。那两条勾住菲利普颈脖的胳膊，瘦骨嶙峋，不禁让人联想起鸡骨头来；那张凋枯的脸哦，皱纹竟是这般密密层层！一头斑斑白发，仍梳理成她年轻时流行的鬈发式样，模样儿既古怪，又叫人觉得可怜。那于瘪瘦小的身躯，好似秋大的一片枯叶，你觉得只要寒风一起，就会将它吹得无影无踪。菲利普意识到，他们这两个默默无闻的小人物，已经走完人生的历程：他们属于过去的一代，现在正在那儿耐心而又相当麻木地等待着死神的来临。而他呢，却是朝气蓬勃，年富力强，渴望着刺激与冒险，看到如此浑浑噩噩地虚度年华，自然不胜惊骇。他们一生碌碌无为，一旦辞世之后，也就如同未曾到过人世一般。他对路易莎伯母倍感怜悯，突然疼爱起她来，因为她也疼爱自己呢。

这时，威尔金森小姐走进屋来。刚才她十分知趣地回避开，好让凯里夫妇有机会同侄儿亲热一会儿。

"这是威尔金森小姐，菲利普，"凯里太太说。

"浪子回家啦，"她边说边伸出手来，"我给浪子带来了一朵玫瑰花，把它别在衣扣上吧。"

她笑吟吟地把那朵刚从花园里摘来的玫瑰花别在菲利普上衣的钮扣眼里。菲利普脸涨得通红，觉得自己傻乎乎的。他知道威尔金森小姐是威廉大伯从前的教区长的女儿；自己也认识许多牧师的女儿。这些小姐衣着很差，脚上的靴子也过于肥大。她们通常穿一身黑衣服。菲利普早先呆在布莱克斯泰勃的那几年，手织衣还没传到东英吉利来，而且牧师家的太太小姐们也不喜欢穿红戴绿。她们的头发蓬蓬松松，梳得很马虎，上过浆的内衣发出一股刺鼻的怪味。她们认为女性健力的外露，有失体统，因而无论老妇少女全是千篇一律的打扮。她们把自己的宗教当作借以目空一切的金字招牌。她们自恃与教会血缘相联，在对待同类的态度上，免不了带有几分专横之气。

威尔金森小姐可不同凡响。她身穿一袭白纱长服，上面印有鲜艳的小花束图案，脚蹬一双尖头高跟鞋，再配上一双网眼长袜。在不见世面的菲利普眼里，她的穿戴似乎极为阔气，岂知她的外衣乃是一件华而不实的便宜货。她头发做得十分考究，故意将一络光滑的发鬈耷拉在前额中央，发丝乌黑发亮，很有骨干，看上去似乎永远不会蓬松散乱。一双眼睛又黑又大，鼻梁略呈钩形，她的侧影略带几分猛禽的凶相，而从正面看上去，却很逗人喜欢。她总是笑容可掬，但因为嘴大，笑的时候，得留神不让自己那口又大又黄的板牙露出来。最使菲利普不好受的，是她脸上抹的那厚厚一层脂粉。他对女性的风度举止向来很挑剔，认为一个有教养的上流女子万万不可涂脂抹粉；不过话得说回来，威尔金森小姐当然是位有教养的小姐罗，因为她是牧师的千金，而牧师则是属于有教养的上流人士。

菲利普打定主意不对她产生半点好感。她说话时带点法国腔，他不明白她为什么要这样，她明明是在英格兰内地土生土长的嘛。他觉得她笑起来流于矫揉造作，还有那股故作羞态的轻浮劲儿，也使他感到恼火。头两三天里，他心怀敌意，不和她多罗唆，而威尔金森小姐显然没有注意到他的态度，在他面前显得特别和蔼可亲。她几乎只跟他一个人交谈，并且不断就某些问题征求菲利普的意见，这种做法自有讨人喜欢的地方。她还故意逗他发笑，而菲利普对那些使自己感到有趣的人，一向无法拒之于门外：他颇有几分口才，能时而说几句高雅风趣的妙语，现在碰上了一位知音者，怎么能不叫他喜上心头呢。牧师和凯里太太都没一点幽默感，无论他说什么都不能引他们开颜展笑。菲利普渐渐同威尔金森小姐厮混熟了，他不再感到拘泥羞涩，而且渐渐喜欢起她来了：他发觉她的法国腔别有风味；在医生家的游园会上，她打扮得比谁都漂亮，穿一身蓝底大白点子的印花绸裙衫，单凭这一点，就足已使菲利普心荡神移。

"我敢肯定，他们准会认为你有失身分，"他笑着对她说。

"让人们看作放荡的野女人，本是我平生夙愿，"她回答说。

有一天，菲利普趁威尔金森小姐呆在自己房里的当儿，问路易莎伯母她有多大了。

"哎哟，亲爱的，你万万不可打听一位姑娘的年龄。不过一点是肯定的，你要和她结婚，那她年纪可嫌太大啦。"

牧师肥胖的脸膛上，慢慢漾起一丝笑意。

"她可不是个黄毛丫头吧，路易莎，"他说。"我们在林肯郡的那阵儿，她就差不多已是个大姑娘了。那还是二十年前的事儿了。那会儿，她背后还拖着根大辫子呢。"

"那时她也许还不满十岁吧，"菲利普说。

"不止十岁了，"路易莎伯母说。

"我想那时候她快二十了吧，"牧师说。

"哦，不，威廉，至多不过十六七岁。"

"那她早已三十出头罗，"菲利普说。

就在这时候，威尔金森小姐步履轻盈地走下楼来，嘴里还哼着支本杰明·戈达德的曲子。她戴着帽子，因为已经约好菲利普一块儿去散步；她伸出手来，让菲利普给她扣好手套的钮扣。他并不精于此道，动作笨拙。他虽有几分尴尬，却自觉显示了骑士风度。他们俩现在交谈起来，无拘无束，十分投机；这会儿他们信步闲逛，一边天南海北地聊着。她给他讲在柏林的所见所闻，而他则告诉她这一年在海德堡的生活情形。过去似乎是无足轻重的琐事，现在谈起来却增添了新的趣味。他描述了欧林太太寓所内的房客以及海沃德和维克斯之间的那几次谈话。当时似乎对他影响至深，此刻他却略加歪曲，使两位当事人显得荒唐可笑。听到威尔金森小姐的笑声，菲利普颇感得意。

"你真让人害怕，"她说，"你的舌头好厉害。"

接着，她又打趣地问他在海德堡时可有过什么艳遇。菲利普不假思索直言相告：福分太浅，一事无成。但威尔金森小姐就是不相信。

"你嘴巴真紧！"她又说，"在你这种年纪，怎么可能呢？一

菲利普双颊刷地红了，哈哈一笑。

"啊，你打听的事未免多了点，"他说。

"哈哈，我说嘛，"威尔金森小姐得意洋洋地笑了起来，"瞧你脸都红啦。"

说来好不叫人得意，她竟会认为自己是风月场中的老手。为了让她相信自已确实有种种风流事儿要隐瞒，他赶忙变换话题。他只怨自己从来没谈过情，说过爱。实在没有机缘哪。

威尔金森小姐时乖命蹇，怨天尤人。她怨恨自己不得不自谋生计糊口，她在菲利普面前絮絮叨叨地讲述自己的身世；她原可以从她母亲的一个叔父那儿继承到一笔财产，哪知这个叔父意跟他的厨娘结了婚，把遗嘱改了。言谈之中，她暗暗示自己家境曾相当阔绰，她将当年在林肯郡野游有马可策、出门有车代步的宽裕生活，同目前寄人篱下的潦倒处境作了对比。事后菲利普对路易莎伯母提起此事时，路易莎伯母的话却使他有点迷惑不解。她告诉菲利普，当年她认识威尔金森一家的时候，他们家充其量也只有一匹小驹和一辆寒伧单马马车；至于那个阔叔父，路易莎伯母倒确实听人说起过，但他不仅结过婚，而且在埃米莉出世前就有了孩子，所以埃米莉压根儿没希望得到他的遗产。威尔金森小姐眼下在柏林工作，她把那儿说得一无是处。她抱怨德国的生活粗俗不堪，不无痛苦地将它同巴黎的五光十色作了对比。她在巴黎呆过好几年，但没说清究竟呆了几年。她在一个时髦的肖像画师家里当家庭教师，女主人是个有钱的犹太人。在那儿，她有幸遇到许多知名人士，她一口气说了一大串名流的名字，听得菲利普晕头转向。法兰西喜剧院的几位演员是她主人家的常客。吃饭时，科克兰就坐在她身边，他对她说，他还从未遇到过哪个外国人能说这么一口纯粹、流利的法国话。阿尔方斯·都德也来过，曾给她一本《萨福诗选》。他原答应把她的芳名写在书上，可她后来忘记提醒他了。不管怎么说，她现在仍把这本书当宝贝似地保存在手边，她愿意借给菲利普一阅。还有那位莫泊桑。威尔金森小姐提到他时格格一笑，意味深长地瞅着菲利普。了不起的人物！了不起的作家！海沃德曾讲到过莫泊桑，因而此人的名声菲利普也略有所闻。

"他向你求爱了吗？"他问道。

说来也奇怪，这句话冒到喉咙口时似乎在那儿哽住了，可毕竟还是吐了出来。现在他挺喜欢威尔金森小姐，同她闲聊时，心里止不住阵阵激动，可他很难想象会有人向她求爱。

"瞧你问的！一她叫了起来。"可怜的居伊，他不论遇到什么样的女人都会向她求爱的。他这个脾气怎么也改变不了。"

她轻轻地叹了口气，似乎是满怀柔情地回忆着往事。

"他可是个迷人的男子啊，"她低声嘟哝。

只有阅历比菲利普深些的人，才能从她的话里猜测出那种可能有的邂道场面：那位著名作家应邀前来赴家庭便宴，女教师带着两个身材修长的女学生，彬彬有礼地走了进来：主人向客人介绍：

"Notre Melle Anglaise．"

"Mademoiselle．"

席间，名作家同男女主人谈大说地，那位Melle Anglaise默默地坐在一旁。

可是她的那番话，却在菲利普的头脑里唤起远为罗曼蒂克的奇思遐想。

"快跟我讲讲他的事情吧，"他激动地说。

"也没什么好讲的，"她这句说的倒是实话，可眉宇间的那副神气却似乎在说：哪怕写上三厚本也写不尽其中的艳史佳话呢。"你可不该这么刨根问底呀。"

她开始议论起巴黎来。她喜欢那儿的林荫大道和奇花异木。条条马路都优美雅致，而爱丽舍田园大街上的树丛林苑，更是别具一格。他们俩这会儿坐在公路边的栅栏梯瞪上，威尔金森小姐望着面前那几棵挺拔的榆树，目光里流露出鄙夷的神情。还有那儿的剧院，其节目之瑰丽多彩，演技之精湛高超，均是无与伦比的。她学生的母亲，福约太太，要去成衣铺试衣时，常由她陪同前往。

"哦，做人没钱花，真是活受罪！"她大声嚷嚷。"那些个漂亮时装！只有巴黎人才懂得穿衣打扮，而我呢，却买不起！可怜的福约太太，身段太差劲了。有时候成衣匠在我耳边轻声嘀咕："唉，小姐，要是她能有您这样的身段就好啦！"

菲利普这时才注意到威尔金森小姐体态丰满，而且她本人也颇为之自豪。

"英国的男人够蠢的，只看重脸蛋长相。法国人才是个懂得爱情的民族，他们知道身段远比相貌重要。"

菲利普以前从不留神这种事儿，现在可注意到了威尔金森小姐脚脖子又粗又难看。他赶紧把目光移开。

"你应该去法国。你干吗不去巴黎住上一年。你可以把法语学到手，这样会使你变得deniaiser"

"那是什么意思？"他问道。

她狡黠地抿嘴一笑。

"这你可得去查查词典罗。英国男人不懂如何对待女人，他们羞羞答答的。男子汉还羞羞答答，多可笑。他们不懂得如何向女人求爱，甚至在恭维女人的漂亮迷人时，也免不了显出一副傻相。"

菲利普感到自己愚蠢可笑。显然，威尔金森小姐希望自己别这么拘谨。说真的，这时要是能说几句妙趣横生的俏皮话，献一点儿殷勤，那该多快人心意。可惜他搜索枯肠，就是掏不出半句来；等到他真的想到了，却又怕说出口会出洋相。

一哦，那时我爱上了巴黎，"威尔金森小姐感叹地说，"却不得不去柏林。福约家的女儿后来相继出嫁，我没法再在他们家待下去，一时又找不到事干，而柏林倒有个位置，就是我眼下干的这个差使。他们是福约太太的亲戚，我答应了下来。我在布里达街有个小套间，是在cinouieme那儿实在毫无体面可言。布里达街的情形你县知道的--cesdames，是吧。"

菲利普点点头，其实根本不明白她说的是什么，只是模模糊糊猜到了一点。他生怕她会笑向己少不更事。

不过我也不在乎。je suis libre. n'est-ce-pas"她很喜欢插句把法语，而她法语也确实说得不错。"我在那儿还有过一段奇遇呢。"

她蓦地收住话头，菲利普催她往下说。

"你也不肯把自己在海德堡的奇遇讲给我听嘛，"她说。

"实在太平淡无奇啦，"菲利普辩解说。

"假如凯里太太知道我们在一起谈这种事儿，真不知道她会怎么说呢。"

"你想我怎么会去告诉她呢？"

"你能保证不说？"

他作了保证之后，她就开始说：她接上房间里住了个学美术的学生，他--但她又突然改变话题。

"你干吗不去学美术？你画得挺不错呢。"

"差得远呐。"

"这得由别人来评判。Je m'y connais，我相信你具有大画家的气质。"

"要是我突然跑去对威廉大伯说我要去巴黎学美术，他的那副嘴脸够你瞧的！"

"你总不见得现在还是任人牵着鼻子走的吧。"

"你存心在卖关子哪，还是请你把刚才的事说下去吧。"

威尔金森小姐莞尔一笑，继续说她的故事。有几次，她在楼梯上同那个学美术的学生交臂而过，而她并没怎么特别去留意他，只看到他有一对漂亮的眼睛，他还彬彬有礼地脱帽致意。有一天，她发现从门缝里塞进来一封信。是他写的。信上说他几个月来一直对她暗中敬慕，他故意站在楼梯旁等她走过。哦，信写得委婉动人！她当然没回信罗。不过，天底下有哪个女人不喜欢受人奉承？第二天，又送来了一封信！这封信写得妙极了，热情洋溢，感人至深。后来，她在楼梯上同他再次相遇时，简直不知道眼睛该往哪儿看才好。每天都有信来，信中恳求与她相会。他说他晚上来，vers neuf heures，她不知如何是好。这当然是万万不可的，他或许会不断拉铃，而她决不会去开门；然而就在她等待铃声了当作响时，他却出其不意地出现在她面前。原来她自己进屋时忘了把门关上。

"C'etait une fatslite．"

"后来呢？"菲利普追问道。

"故事到此结束啦，"她回答说，同时伴随着一串格格的笑声。

菲利普半晌没言语。他心儿突突直跳，心田里似乎涌起一阵阵莫名其妙的感情的波澜。他眼前浮现出那条黑洞洞的楼梯，还有那一幕又一幕邂逅相遇的情景。他钦佩写信人的胆量--哦，他可永远不敢那么胆大妄为--还佩服他竟那么悄没声儿，几乎是神不知鬼不觉地进了她的房间。在他看来，这才是风流韵事的精华所在。

"他长得怎么样？"

"哦，长得挺帅。Charmant garcon。"

"你现在还同他往来吗？"

菲利普问这句话的时候，心中隐隐感到一股酸溜溜的滋味。

"他待我讲透了，男人嘛，全是一丘之貉。你们全是没良心的，没一个好货。"

"这一点我可没有体会，"菲利普不无困窘地说。

"让我们回家去吧，"威尔金森小姐说。
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chapter 33

Philip could not get Miss Wilkinson’s story out of his head. It was clear enough what she meant even though she cut it short, and he was a little shocked. That sort of thing was all very well for married women, he had read enough French novels to know that in France it was indeed the rule, but Miss Wilkinson was English and unmarried; her father was a clergyman. Then it struck him that the art-student probably was neither the first nor the last of her lovers, and he gasped: he had never looked upon Miss Wilkinson like that; it seemed incredible that anyone should make love to her. In his ingenuousness he doubted her story as little as he doubted what he read in books, and he was angry that such wonderful things never happened to him. It was humiliating that if Miss Wilkinson insisted upon his telling her of his adventures in Heidelberg he would have nothing to tell. It was true that he had some power of invention, but he was not sure whether he could persuade her that he was steeped in vice; women were full of intuition, he had read that, and she might easily discover that he was fibbing. He blushed scarlet as he thought of her laughing up her sleeve.

Miss Wilkinson played the piano and sang in a rather tired voice; but her songs, Massenet, Benjamin Goddard, and Augusta Holmes, were new to Philip; and together they spent many hours at the piano. One day she wondered if he had a voice and insisted on trying it. She told him he had a pleasant baritone and offered to give him lessons. At first with his usual bashfulness he refused, but she insisted, and then every morning at a convenient time after breakfast she gave him an hour’s lesson. She had a natural gift for teaching, and it was clear that she was an excellent governess. She had method and firmness. Though her French accent was so much part of her that it remained, all the mellifluousness of her manner left her when she was engaged in teaching. She put up with no nonsense. Her voice became a little peremptory, and instinctively she suppressed inattention and corrected slovenliness. She knew what she was about and put Philip to scales and exercises.

When the lesson was over she resumed without effort her seductive smiles, her voice became again soft and winning, but Philip could not so easily put away the pupil as she the pedagogue; and this impression convicted with the feelings her stories had aroused in him. He looked at her more narrowly. He liked her much better in the evening than in the morning. In the morning she was rather lined and the skin of her neck was just a little rough. He wished she would hide it, but the weather was very warm just then and she wore blouses which were cut low. She was very fond of white; in the morning it did not suit her. At night she often looked very attractive, she put on a gown which was almost a dinner dress, and she wore a chain of garnets round her neck; the lace about her bosom and at her elbows gave her a pleasant softness, and the scent she wore (at Blackstable no one used anything but Eau de Cologne, and that only on Sundays or when suffering from a sick headache) was troubling and exotic. She really looked very young then.

Philip was much exercised over her age. He added twenty and seventeen together, and could not bring them to a satisfactory total. He asked Aunt Louisa more than once why she thought Miss Wilkinson was thirty-seven: she didn’t look more than thirty, and everyone knew that foreigners aged more rapidly than English women; Miss Wilkinson had lived so long abroad that she might almost be called a foreigner. He personally wouldn’t have thought her more than twenty-six.

‘She’s more than that,’ said Aunt Louisa.

Philip did not believe in the accuracy of the Careys’ statements. All they distinctly remembered was that Miss Wilkinson had not got her hair up the last time they saw her in Lincolnshire. Well, she might have been twelve then: it was so long ago and the Vicar was always so unreliable. They said it was twenty years ago, but people used round figures, and it was just as likely to be eighteen years, or seventeen. Seventeen and twelve were only twenty-nine, and hang it all, that wasn’t old, was it? Cleopatra was forty-eight when Antony threw away the world for her sake.

It was a fine summer. Day after day was hot and cloudless; but the heat was tempered by the neighbourhood of the sea, and there was a pleasant exhilaration in the air, so that one was excited and not oppressed by the August sunshine. There was a pond in the garden in which a fountain played; water lilies grew in it and gold fish sunned themselves on the surface. Philip and Miss Wilkinson used to take rugs and cushions there after dinner and lie on the lawn in the shade of a tall hedge of roses. They talked and read all the afternoon. They smoked cigarettes, which the Vicar did not allow in the house; he thought smoking a disgusting habit, and used frequently to say that it was disgraceful for anyone to grow a slave to a habit. He forgot that he was himself a slave to afternoon tea.

One day Miss Wilkinson gave Philip La Vie de Boheme. She had found it by accident when she was rummaging among the books in the Vicar’s study. It had been bought in a lot with something Mr. Carey wanted and had remained undiscovered for ten years.

Philip began to read Murger’s fascinating, ill-written, absurd masterpiece, and fell at once under its spell. His soul danced with joy at that picture of starvation which is so good-humoured, of squalor which is so picturesque, of sordid love which is so romantic, of bathos which is so moving. Rodolphe and Mimi, Musette and Schaunard! They wander through the gray streets of the Latin Quarter, finding refuge now in one attic, now in another, in their quaint costumes of Louis Philippe, with their tears and their smiles, happy-go-lucky and reckless. Who can resist them? It is only when you return to the book with a sounder judgment that you find how gross their pleasures were, how vulgar their minds; and you feel the utter worthlessness, as artists and as human beings, of that gay procession. Philip was enraptured.

‘Don’t you wish you were going to Paris instead of London?’ asked Miss Wilkinson, smiling at his enthusiasm.

‘It’s too late now even if I did,’ he answered.

During the fortnight he had been back from Germany there had been much discussion between himself and his uncle about his future. He had refused definitely to go to Oxford, and now that there was no chance of his getting scholarships even Mr. Carey came to the conclusion that he could not afford it. His entire fortune had consisted of only two thousand pounds, and though it had been invested in mortgages at five per cent, he had not been able to live on the interest. It was now a little reduced. It would be absurd to spend two hundred a year, the least he could live on at a university, for three years at Oxford which would lead him no nearer to earning his living. He was anxious to go straight to London. Mrs. Carey thought there were only four professions for a gentleman, the Army, the Navy, the Law, and the Church. She had added medicine because her brother-in-law practised it, but did not forget that in her young days no one ever considered the doctor a gentleman. The first two were out of the question, and Philip was firm in his refusal to be ordained. Only the law remained. The local doctor had suggested that many gentlemen now went in for engineering, but Mrs. Carey opposed the idea at once.

‘I shouldn’t like Philip to go into trade,’ she said.

‘No, he must have a profession,’ answered the Vicar.

‘Why not make him a doctor like his father?’

‘I should hate it,’ said Philip.

Mrs. Carey was not sorry. The Bar seemed out of the question, since he was not going to Oxford, for the Careys were under the impression that a degree was still necessary for success in that calling; and finally it was suggested that he should become articled to a solicitor. They wrote to the family lawyer, Albert Nixon, who was co-executor with the Vicar of Blackstable for the late Henry Carey’s estate, and asked him whether he would take Philip. In a day or two the answer came back that he had not a vacancy, and was very much opposed to the whole scheme; the profession was greatly overcrowded, and without capital or connections a man had small chance of becoming more than a managing clerk; he suggested, however, that Philip should become a chartered accountant. Neither the Vicar nor his wife knew in the least what this was, and Philip had never heard of anyone being a chartered accountant; but another letter from the solicitor explained that the growth of modern businesses and the increase of companies had led to the formation of many firms of accountants to examine the books and put into the financial affairs of their clients an order which old-fashioned methods had lacked. Some years before a Royal Charter had been obtained, and the profession was becoming every year more respectable, lucrative, and important. The chartered accountants whom Albert Nixon had employed for thirty years happened to have a vacancy for an articled pupil, and would take Philip for a fee of three hundred pounds. Half of this would be returned during the five years the articles lasted in the form of salary. The prospect was not exciting, but Philip felt that he must decide on something, and the thought of living in London over-balanced the slight shrinking he felt. The Vicar of Blackstable wrote to ask Mr. Nixon whether it was a profession suited to a gentleman; and Mr. Nixon replied that, since the Charter, men were going into it who had been to public schools and a university; moreover, if Philip disliked the work and after a year wished to leave, Herbert Carter, for that was the accountant’s name, would return half the money paid for the articles. This settled it, and it was arranged that Philip should start work on the fifteenth of September.

‘I have a full month before me,’ said Philip.

‘And then you go to freedom and I to bondage,’ returned Miss Wilkinson.

Her holidays were to last six weeks, and she would be leaving Blackstable only a day or two before Philip.

‘I wonder if we shall ever meet again,’ she said.

‘I don’t know why not.’

‘Oh, don’t speak in that practical way. I never knew anyone so unsentimental.’

Philip reddened. He was afraid that Miss Wilkinson would think him a milksop: after all she was a young woman, sometimes quite pretty, and he was getting on for twenty; it was absurd that they should talk of nothing but art and literature. He ought to make love to her. They had talked a good deal of love. There was the art-student in the Rue Breda, and then there was the painter in whose family she had lived so long in Paris: he had asked her to sit for him, and had started to make love to her so violently that she was forced to invent excuses not to sit to him again. It was clear enough that Miss Wilkinson was used to attentions of that sort. She looked very nice now in a large straw hat: it was hot that afternoon, the hottest day they had had, and beads of sweat stood in a line on her upper lip. He called to mind Fraulein Cacilie and Herr Sung. He had never thought of Cacilie in an amorous way, she was exceedingly plain; but now, looking back, the affair seemed very romantic. He had a chance of romance too. Miss Wilkinson was practically French, and that added zest to a possible adventure. When he thought of it at night in bed, or when he sat by himself in the garden reading a book, he was thrilled by it; but when he saw Miss Wilkinson it seemed less picturesque.

At all events, after what she had told him, she would not be surprised if he made love to her. He had a feeling that she must think it odd of him to make no sign: perhaps it was only his fancy, but once or twice in the last day or two he had imagined that there was a suspicion of contempt in her eyes.

‘A penny for your thoughts,’ said Miss Wilkinson, looking at him with a smile.

‘I’m not going to tell you,’ he answered.

He was thinking that he ought to kiss her there and then. He wondered if she expected him to do it; but after all he didn’t see how he could without any preliminary business at all. She would just think him mad, or she might slap his face; and perhaps she would complain to his uncle. He wondered how Herr Sung had started with Fraulein Cacilie. It would be beastly if she told his uncle: he knew what his uncle was, he would tell the doctor and Josiah Graves; and he would look a perfect fool. Aunt Louisa kept on saying that Miss Wilkinson was thirty-seven if she was a day; he shuddered at the thought of the ridicule he would be exposed to; they would say she was old enough to be his mother.

‘Twopence for your thoughts,’ smiled Miss Wilkinson.

‘I was thinking about you,’ he answered boldly.

That at all events committed him to nothing.

‘What were you thinking?’

‘Ah, now you want to know too much.’

‘Naughty boy!’ said Miss Wilkinson.

There it was again! Whenever he had succeeded in working himself up she said something which reminded him of the governess. She called him playfully a naughty boy when he did not sing his exercises to her satisfaction. This time he grew quite sulky.

‘I wish you wouldn’t treat me as if I were a child.’

‘Are you cross?’

‘Very.’

‘I didn’t mean to.’

She put out her hand and he took it. Once or twice lately when they shook hands at night he had fancied she slightly pressed his hand, but this time there was no doubt about it.

He did not quite know what he ought to say next. Here at last was his chance of an adventure, and he would be a fool not to take it; but it was a little ordinary, and he had expected more glamour. He had read many descriptions of love, and he felt in himself none of that uprush of emotion which novelists described; he was not carried off his feet in wave upon wave of passion; nor was Miss Wilkinson the ideal: he had often pictured to himself the great violet eyes and the alabaster skin of some lovely girl, and he had thought of himself burying his face in the rippling masses of her auburn hair. He could not imagine himself burying his face in Miss Wilkinson’s hair, it always struck him as a little sticky. All the same it would be very satisfactory to have an intrigue, and he thrilled with the legitimate pride he would enjoy in his conquest. He owed it to himself to seduce her. He made up his mind to kiss Miss Wilkinson; not then, but in the evening; it would be easier in the dark, and after he had kissed her the rest would follow. He would kiss her that very evening. He swore an oath to that effect.

He laid his plans. After supper he suggested that they should take a stroll in the garden. Miss Wilkinson accepted, and they sauntered side by side. Philip was very nervous. He did not know why, but the conversation would not lead in the right direction; he had decided that the first thing to do was to put his arm round her waist; but he could not suddenly put his arm round her waist when she was talking of the regatta which was to be held next week. He led her artfully into the darkest parts of the garden, but having arrived there his courage failed him. They sat on a bench, and he had really made up his mind that here was his opportunity when Miss Wilkinson said she was sure there were earwigs and insisted on moving. They walked round the garden once more, and Philip promised himself he would take the plunge before they arrived at that bench again; but as they passed the house, they saw Mrs. Carey standing at the door.

‘Hadn’t you young people better come in? I’m sure the night air isn’t good for you.’

‘Perhaps we had better go in,’ said Philip. ‘I don’t want you to catch cold.’

He said it with a sigh of relief. He could attempt nothing more that night. But afterwards, when he was alone in his room, he was furious with himself. He had been a perfect fool. He was certain that Miss Wilkinson expected him to kiss her, otherwise she wouldn’t have come into the garden. She was always saying that only Frenchmen knew how to treat women. Philip had read French novels. If he had been a Frenchman he would have seized her in his arms and told her passionately that he adored her; he would have pressed his lips on her nuque. He did not know why Frenchmen always kissed ladies on the nuque. He did not himself see anything so very attractive in the nape of the neck. Of course it was much easier for Frenchmen to do these things; the language was such an aid; Philip could never help feeling that to say passionate things in English sounded a little absurd. He wished now that he had never undertaken the siege of Miss Wilkinson’s virtue; the first fortnight had been so jolly, and now he was wretched; but he was determined not to give in, he would never respect himself again if he did, and he made up his mind irrevocably that the next night he would kiss her without fail.

Next day when he got up he saw it was raining, and his first thought was that they would not be able to go into the garden that evening. He was in high spirits at breakfast. Miss Wilkinson sent Mary Ann in to say that she had a headache and would remain in bed. She did not come down till tea-time, when she appeared in a becoming wrapper and a pale face; but she was quite recovered by supper, and the meal was very cheerful. After prayers she said she would go straight to bed, and she kissed Mrs. Carey. Then she turned to Philip.

‘Good gracious!’ she cried. ‘I was just going to kiss you too.’

‘Why don’t you?’ he said.

She laughed and held out her hand. She distinctly pressed his.

The following day there was not a cloud in the sky, and the garden was sweet and fresh after the rain. Philip went down to the beach to bathe and when he came home ate a magnificent dinner. They were having a tennis party at the vicarage in the afternoon and Miss Wilkinson put on her best dress. She certainly knew how to wear her clothes, and Philip could not help noticing how elegant she looked beside the curate’s wife and the doctor’s married daughter. There were two roses in her waistband. She sat in a garden chair by the side of the lawn, holding a red parasol over herself, and the light on her face was very becoming. Philip was fond of tennis. He served well and as he ran clumsily played close to the net: notwithstanding his club-foot he was quick, and it was difficult to get a ball past him. He was pleased because he won all his sets. At tea he lay down at Miss Wilkinson’s feet, hot and panting.

‘Flannels suit you,’ she said. ‘You look very nice this afternoon.’

He blushed with delight.

‘I can honestly return the compliment. You look perfectly ravishing.’

She smiled and gave him a long look with her black eyes.

After supper he insisted that she should come out.

‘Haven’t you had enough exercise for one day?’

‘It’ll be lovely in the garden tonight. The stars are all out.’

He was in high spirits.

‘D’you know, Mrs. Carey has been scolding me on your account?’ said Miss Wilkinson, when they were sauntering through the kitchen garden. ‘She says I mustn’t flirt with you.’

‘Have you been flirting with me? I hadn’t noticed it.’

‘She was only joking.’

‘It was very unkind of you to refuse to kiss me last night.’

‘If you saw the look your uncle gave me when I said what I did!’

‘Was that all that prevented you?’

‘I prefer to kiss people without witnesses.’

‘There are no witnesses now.’

Philip put his arm round her waist and kissed her lips. She only laughed a little and made no attempt to withdraw. It had come quite naturally. Philip was very proud of himself. He said he would, and he had. It was the easiest thing in the world. He wished he had done it before. He did it again.

‘Oh, you mustn’t,’ she said.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I like it,’ she laughed.



第三十三章

菲利普没法把威尔金森小姐的那段风流事从脑子里排除开去。尽管她讲到紧要处戛然收住话头，但意思还是够清楚的，他不免有点震惊。这种事对已婚女子来说当然无所谓，他读过不少法国小说，知道这类苟且事在法国确实可谓司空见惯。然而，威尔金森小姐是个英国女子，还未结婚，况且她的父亲又是个牧师。接着他一转念，说不定那个学美术的学生既不是她的第一个，也不是她的最后一个情人呐，想到这儿不由得倒抽了口冷气：他从未打这方面去体察威尔金森小姐，居然有人向她求爱，简直不可思议。他由于天真单纯，并不怀疑她自述的真实性，就像从不怀疑书里的内容一样；令他气恼的倒是，为什么这种奇妙的事儿从来轮不到自己头上。要是威尔金森小姐执意要他讲讲在海德堡的艳遇而他竟无可奉告，那该多丢人。他固然也有一套臆造杜撰的本事，然而他是否能使她相信自己是沾花惹草的老手，那就很难说了。女子的直觉十分敏锐，菲利普看到书本上是这么说的，她也许一眼就识破他是在撒谎。他想到她也许会掩面窃笑他，不由羞得面红耳赤。

威尔金森小姐一边弹着钢琴，一边懒洋洋地唱着。她唱的是马赛耐特、本杰明·戈达特和奥古斯塔·霍姆斯谱写的歌曲，不过这些曲子对菲利普来说都很新鲜。他俩就这样厮守在钢琴旁边，一连消磨上好几个钟头。有一天，威尔金森小姐想知道他是否生就一副歌喉，执意要他试试嗓音。她夸他有一副悦耳动听的男中音嗓子，主动提出要教他唱歌。一上来，他出于惯有的腼腆谢绝了。但她再三坚持，于是，每天早餐以后凑着空就教他一小时。她颇有当教师的天赋，无疑是个出色的家庭教师。她教授有方，要求严格。讲课时，虽然仍带着一口浓厚的法国腔，但那种软绵绵的嗲劲却一扫而尽。自始至终没有半句废话，断然的口气中带几分威势儿；学生思想一开小差，或是稍有马虎，她出于本能，当即毫不客气地予以制止和纠正。她知道自己的职责所在，逼着菲利普练声吊嗓子。

课一结束，她脸上又自然而然地泛起诱人的浅笑，说话的口吻也重新变得温柔可爱。她转瞬就卸掉了那层为人之师的外壳，可是要菲利普摆脱自己当门生的身分就没这么容易，上课时得到的印象，同听她讲述个人艳遇时的内心感受，颇有点格格不入。他对她的观察更加细致入微。他发觉威尔金森小姐晚上要比早晨可爱得多。早晨，她脸上的皱纹不少，颈脖上的皮肤也有点粗糙。他真希望她能把脖子遮起来，但天气很暖和，她穿的上衣领口开得很低。她又非常喜欢穿白色的服装，而在上午穿这种颜色的衣服对她实在不很合适。一到了晚上她就显得妩媚动人：她穿着像晚礼服一样的长裙，脖子上挂着一串红石榴珠项练，长裙前胸和两肘上缀有花边，使她显得温柔而讨人喜欢。她用的香水溢出一股撩人的异香（在布莱克斯泰勃人们只用科隆香水，而且只在星期天或者头疼病发作时才洒上几滴）。这时候，她看上去确实很年轻。

菲利普为计算她的年龄伤透了脑筋。他把二十和十七加在一起，总得不出一个满意的答数来。他不止一次地问路易莎伯母，为什么她认为威尔金森小姐有三十七岁了。她看上去还不满三十岁呢！谁都知道，外国女子比英国女子老得快；威尔金森小姐长期身居异邦，差不多也称得上是个外国人了。菲利普个人认为她还不满二十六岁。

"她可不止那把年纪罗，"路易莎伯母说。

菲利普对凯里夫妇说话的精确性抱有怀疑。他们唯一记得清的，是他们在林肯郡最后一次见到威尔金森小姐时她还留着辫于。是嘛，她那时说不定才十一二岁呢。那足多年以前的事情，而牧师的记忆力一向靠不住。他们说这是二十年前的事情，但是人们总喜欢用整数，所以很可能是十八年，或者十七年前的事。十七加十二，只不过二十九。活见鬼，这个岁数算老吗？安东尼为获得克莉奥佩特拉而舍弃整个世界时，那位埃及女王已经四十八岁。

那年夏季天气晴好。日复一日，碧空无云。气候虽炎热，不过由于靠近海，暑气有所冲淡，空气中渗透着一股令人振奋的清新之意，所以即使置身于八月盛夏的骄阳之下，也不觉得熏烤难受，反而横生一股兴致。花园里有个小池，池中喷泉飞溅，睡莲盛开，金鱼翔浮在水面，沐浴着阳光。午餐之后，菲利普和威尔金森小姐常常带着旅行毯和坐垫来到池边，躺在草地上，借那一排排高高的玫瑰树篱遮荫。他们一个下午就这么躺在那儿聊天、看书，时而还抽支把烟。牧师禁止在室内抽烟，认为抽烟是种恶习。他经常说，任何人若沦为某一嗜好的奴隶，未免有失体统。他忘了他自己也有喝午茶的嗜好。

有一天，威尔金森小姐给菲利普看《波希米亚人的生涯》一书。这本书是她在牧师书房的书堆里偶然翻到的。凯里先生有回要买一批廉价书，也连带把它买了来，十年来就一直丢在那儿没人问津。

米尔热的这本杰作，情节离奇，文笔拙劣，内容荒诞，菲利普一翻开就立刻被迷住了。书中有关饥馑的描写，笔调诙谐，怨而不怒；关于赤贫景象的画面，栩栩如生，跃然纸上吓流的恋情经作家写来，却那么富于浪漫色彩；无病呻吟的哀怨感伤，到了作家的笔下却是缠绵徘侧，婉约动人--所有这一切，都使菲利普心驰神往，喜不自胜。鲁多尔夫和米密，缪塞和肖纳德！他们穿着路易·腓力普时代的稀奇古怪的服装，在拉丁区的灰暗街道上游荡，时而栖身于这个小阁楼上，时而又在那一个小顶楼里安顿下来.含着眼泪，挂着微笑，醉生梦死，及时行乐。谁能不被他们勾了魂去？只有等你获有更健全的鉴别力再回过头来看这本书的时候，你才会感到他们的欢乐是多么粗俗，他们的心灵是多么平庸，这时你才会感到，那一伙放浪形骸之徒，不论作为艺术家，还是作为凡人，都一无可取之处。但菲利普却为之心醉神迷。

"现在你打算去的是巴黎而不是伦敦了吧？"威尔金森小姐问，对他的热情不无讥讽之意。

"现在即使我打算去巴黎也来不及了，"他回答道。

他从德国回来已有两个星期，曾同大伯多次谈到自己的前途问题。他坚决拒绝进牛津念书，再说他再也别想拿到奖学金，甚至连凯里先生也得出他无力上大学的结论。菲利普的全部财产本来只有两千镑，虽然这笔钱以百分之五的利息投资于抵押业，但他无法靠其利息过日子。现在这笔钱又减少了一点。上大学的最低生活费用一年至少得二百镑，花这样一大笔钱去念书，简直荒唐。因为即使在牛津大学读上三年，还是照样不能养活自己。他急于直接上伦敦去谋生计。凯里太太认为，有身分的绅士只能在四种行业中选择：陆军、海军、司法和教会。她还加上一门医业，因为她的小叔子就是干这一行的，不过她没忘记在她年轻时，谁也不把医生算在上等人之列的。前两门行当根本不用去考虑，而菲利普本人又坚决反对任圣职，剩下的就只有进司法界这条出路。本地医生建议，如今许多有身分的人都从事工程实业，但凯里太太当即表示反对。

"我不想让菲利普去做买卖，"她说。

"是啊，不过他总得有个职业，"牧师应道。

"为什么不能让他像父亲那样去当医生呢？"

"我讨厌这种职业，"菲利普说。

凯里太太并不感到惋惜。既然他不打算进牛津，也别指望干律师这一行。因为凯里夫妇觉得，要想在这一行里搞出点名堂，还非得有学位不可。商量来商量去，最后建议菲利普去给一个律师当学徒。他们写信给家庭律师阿尔伯特·尼克逊，问他愿不愿意收菲利普做徒弟。他与布莱克斯泰勃教区牧师同是亨利·凯里生前指定的遗嘱执行人。隔了一两天回信来了，说他门下没有空额，而且对他们的整个计划很不以为然。目前这门行业已是人满为患，一个人要是没有资金，没有靠山，至多也只能做个事务所主管员。他建议菲利普去当会计师。而会计师算个什么行当，牧师也罢，他老伴也罢，都一无所知，菲利普也从没听说过有谁是当会计师的。律师又来信解释说：随着现代工商业的发展，随着企业公司的增加，出现了许多审核帐目、协助客户管理财务的会计师事务所，它们建立的那一套行之有效的财务管理制度，是老式财务管理所没有的。自从几年前取得皇家特许之后，这个行业逐年重要起来，不仅受人尊重，而且收入丰厚。给阿尔伯特·尼克逊管理了三十年财务的会计师事务所，恰好有个练习生的空额，他们愿意收下菲利普，收费三百镑，其中有一半在五年合同期内以工资形式付还本人。尽管前景并不怎么吸引人，但菲利普觉得自己总该有个决断才是，他权衡得失，最后还是对伦敦生活的向往之情压倒了心头的退缩之意。布莱克斯泰勃的教区牧师写信请教尼克逊先生，这是不是一门适于上等人干的体面职业，尼克逊先生回信说：自从授予特许状以后，许多念过公学和大学的青年人都投身于这门行业。再说，要是菲利普觉得这工作不合心意，一年之后希望离开的话，赫伯特·卡特--就是那位会计师--愿意归还合同费用的半数。事情就算这样定了。根据安排，菲利普将在九月十五日开始工作。

"我还可以逍遥整整一个月，"菲利普说。

"到那时，你将走向自由，而我却要投身桎梏"威尔金森小姐应了一句。她共有六周假期，到时候只比菲利普早一两天离开布莱克斯泰勃。

"不知我们以后是否还会再见面，"她说。

"我不明白怎么不会呢？"

"哦，别用这种干巴巴的腔调说话吧。还没见过像你这样不懂温情的人呢。"

菲利普满脸通红。他就怕威尔金森小姐把自己看成个脓包：她毕竟是个年纪不大的女子，有时还挺漂亮的，而自己也快二十岁了，假若他们的交谈仅止于艺术和文学，未免有点可笑。他应向她求爱。他们经常议论爱情，谈到过布里达街的那个学艺术的学生，还有那位巴黎肖像画家。她在他家住了很久，他请她做模特儿，而且狂热地追求她，吓得她不得不借故推托，不再给他当模特儿。不用说，威尔金森小姐对这类献殷勤的玩意儿早已司空见惯。那天，她戴了一顶大草帽，看上去十分妩媚动人。下午天气炎热，是人夏以来最热的一天，她上嘴唇上挂着一串豆大的汗珠。他想起了凯西莉小姐和宋先生。他以前想到凯西莉时毫不动心。她姿色平庸，一无动人之处，但是现在回想起来，他俩的私情却似乎很富有浪漫气息。他此刻眼看也有遇到点风流事的机缘。威尔金森小姐差不多完全法国化了，这就给可能经历的艳遇增添几分情趣。当他晚间躺在床上或是白天独自在花园里看书时，一想到此事，心弦就禁不住震颤起来，可是当威尔金森小姐出现在他面前时，事情似乎就不那么香艳动人了。

不管怎么说，在她讲了那几段风流韵事之后，如果他也向她表示爱情，想来她不至于会大惊小怪吧。他还隐隐觉得，她一定对自己至今无所表示感到奇怪。也许这只是自己的胡思乱想，不过近两天来，他不止一次地在她的目光里依稀辨觉出点鄙夷的意味。

"你愣愣地在想些什么，"威尔金森小姐笑吟吟地瞅着他说。

"我可不想告诉你，"他答道。

他想，应当就在此时此地吻她。不知道她是不是正巴望他这么做呢。但毕竞事先没有半点儿表示，怎能这么冒冒失失呢。她不以为自己疯了才怪哩，也许会赏自己一个耳刮子，说不定还会到他大伯面前去告状。真不知道宋先生怎么把凯西莉勾搭上的。要是她把事情告诉了伯父，那就糟了。他深知大伯的为人，他一定会说给医生和乔赛亚·格雷夫斯听的，这样他在众人面前就成了个十足的大傻瓜。路易莎伯母不是一口咬定威尔金森小姐已整整三十七岁了吗？想到自己会成为众人的笑柄，不禁透心凉了半截。他们还会说，她的年龄那么大，足可做他的母亲呢！

"瞧你又在愣神了，"威尔金森小姐莞尔一笑。

"我在想你呐，"他鼓足勇气答道。

不管怎么样，这句话可抓不到什么辫子。

"在想些什么呢？"

"啊，这回是你在刨根问底了。"

"淘气鬼！"威尔金森小姐说。

又是这种口气！每当他好不容易把感情鼓动了起来，她却总是说些杀风景的话，让人忘不了她那家庭教师的身分。他练声时没达到她的要求，她就俏皮地骂他淘气鬼。这一回可惹得他一肚子不高兴。

"希望你别把我当作三岁小孩。"

"恼火了吗？"

"恼火得很哪。"

"我可不是有意的。"

她伸出手来，他握住了。近来，有几次他们晚上握手告别时，他似乎感到她有意捏了捏他的手，而这回再没什么好怀疑的了。

他不知接下去该说些什么。此刻，任他冒险的机会终于来了，如果他坐失此良机，岂非真成了个傻瓜蛋？惜乎这场面过于平淡了些，该更多一点魅力才是。他读到过不少关于爱情的描写，而他现在一点也感觉不到小说家们描绘的那种内心情感的奔突勃发，他并没有被一阵阵情欲冲动搞得神魂颠倒，何况威尔金森小姐也不是他理想中的情人。他经常给自己描绘了这么个千媚百娇的姑娘：长着一对水汪汪的大眼睛，皮肤像雪花石膏似的白皙滑润；他常常幻想自己如何把脸埋在她一绺绺涟般的浓密褐发之中。可是他没法想象自己会把脸埋在威尔金森小姐的头发里，而这位小姐的头发总使他感到有点黏糊。话又得说回来，偷香窃玉毕竟是够刺激的，他为自己即将取得的成功感到激动，感到由衷的自豪。他是完全靠自己把她勾引到手的。他打定主意要去吻威尔金森小姐，不过不是在此刻，得等到晚上，在灯火阑珊之处比较方便些。只要吻了她，那以后的事就有谱儿了。就在今天晚上，一定要吻她。他还如此这般地立下了誓言。

他已胸有成竹，考虑周全。晚饭后，他建议两人到花园里去散步，威尔金森小姐同意了。他俩肩并肩地在花园中转悠。菲利普十分紧张。不知怎么的，话说来说去总是引不上那条路子。他原来决定第一步要用手臂挽住她的腰肢，而她却在大谈特谈下周举行的赛船会，他总不能贸然伸手去勾住她吧。他巧妙地把她引人花园的浓荫深处，可一到了那儿，他的勇气却不知了去向。他俩坐在长凳上，他真的打定了主意要利用眼前的大好良机了，可就在这时，威尔金森小姐突然说这里肯定有忸怩虫，说什么也要往前走。他们又在花园里逛了一圈，菲利普决计要在转到那张长凳之前断然采取行动，可就在他们打屋子旁边经过的时候，看见凯里太太站在门口。

"年轻人，你们最好进屋来吧。夜里寒气重，我敢说对你们身体没好处的呢。"

"也许我们还是进去的好，"菲利普说，"我不想让你着了凉。"

说罢，他顿觉松了口气。今晚不必再胡思乱想干什么了。可是后来等他独自回到房里，却对自己大为恼火。真是十足的傻瓜。可以肯定，威尔金森小姐正等着自己去吻她，否则她才不会上花园去呢。她不是常说只有法国人才懂得怎么对待女人吗？菲利普看过不少法国小说。要是他是个法国人的话，他会一把将她搂在怀里，热情奔放地向她诉说爱慕之情；他要把双唇紧紧地贴在她的nuque上。他不明白法国人干吗总是喜欢吻女人的nuque。他自己可从来没注意到颈脖子有什么迷人之处。当然，对法国人来说于这些事是很容易的，语言帮了不少忙，而菲利普总感到用英语说那些热情奔放的话，听上去荒唐可笑。菲利普心想，要是自已从来没打算围攻威尔金森小姐的贞操，那该多好。开始的两星期，日子过得挺轻松的，而现在他却感到痛苦不安。然而，他决不能就此罢休，否则他要一辈子瞧不起自己。他铁了心，非要在明天晚上吻她不可。

翌日，他起床一看，外面在下雨，他第一个念头就是今晚不能上花园去了。早餐时他兴致很好。威尔金森小姐差玛丽来说，她头疼不想起床。直到下午用茶点时她才下楼来，脸色苍白，穿着一件合身的晨衣。等到吃晚饭时，她完全复元了，因此晚餐的气氛很活跃。做完了祷告，她说她得回房休息去了，她吻了吻凯里太太，然后转身对菲利普说：

"我的天哪！"她嚷道，"我真想亲亲你呢！"

"干吗不呢？"他说。

她呵呵一笑，伸出手来。她明显地紧捏了一下他的手。

第二天天气转晴，蓝天不见一缕云翳，雨霁的花园，空气分外清新芳香。菲利普去海滨游泳，回来后，美美地饱餐一顿。下午，牧师公馆里举行网球聚会，威尔金森小姐穿上最漂亮的衣服。她穿衣打扮确实很在行，菲利普没法不注意到，她出现在副牧师太太和医生那位已出阁的女儿旁边，还真算得上仪态万方哩。她在腰带上缀了两朵玫瑰，坐在草坪边上的庭院靠椅里，打着一把大红阳伞，日光透过伞面，映着她的脸盘，浓淡恰到好处。菲利普喜欢打网球，发球技术不错，他不便奔跑，所以专打近网球。虽说他有足疾，动作却挺利索，很难使他失球。他每局都打赢了，高兴得什么似的。喝茶时他坐在威尔金森小姐脚边，浑身淋汗，气喘吁吁。

"你穿着这身法兰绒服很合适，"她说，"今天下午你看上去挺帅。"

他高兴得脸都红了。

"我也可以老实地恭维你一句。你的样子使人神魂颠倒。"

她嫣然一笑，那双乌黑的眸子久久地盯在他脸上。

晚饭后，他坚持要她出去散步。

"你玩了一整天还没玩够？"

"今晚花园里夜色迷人，星星都出来了。"

他兴致勃勃。

"你知道吗？为了你，凯里太太还怪我哩，"当他们款步穿过菜园子时，威尔金森小姐说，"她说我不该跟你凋情。"

"你跟我调情了吗？我还没觉察到哩。"

"她不过是说句笑话罢了。"

"昨晚你好狠心，就是不肯吻我。"

"你也不看看我说那话时，你大伯瞅我的那副神情！"

"你就这样被吓住了？"

"我吻别人时不喜欢有人在场。"

"现在可没人在场啊。"

菲利普用手勾住她的腰肢，在她的嘴上亲了亲。她只是咧嘴笑笑，毫无退缩之意。一切进行得相当自然。菲利普颇感自豪。他决心要做的，毕竟做到了。这本是世界上最轻而易举的事。要是他早这样干就好了。他又吻了她一下。

"哦，你不该这么着，"她说。

"为什么？"

"因为你的吻太叫我喜欢啦，"她呵呵笑了。
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chapter 34

Next day after dinner they took their rugs and cushions to the fountain, and their books; but they did not read. Miss Wilkinson made herself comfortable and she opened the red sun-shade. Philip was not at all shy now, but at first she would not let him kiss her.

‘It was very wrong of me last night,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t sleep, I felt I’d done so wrong.’

‘What nonsense!’ he cried. ‘I’m sure you slept like a top.’

‘What do you think your uncle would say if he knew?’

‘There’s no reason why he should know.’

He leaned over her, and his heart went pit-a-pat.

‘Why d’you want to kiss me?’

He knew he ought to reply: ‘Because I love you.’ But he could not bring himself to say it.

‘Why do you think?’ he asked instead.

She looked at him with smiling eyes and touched his face with the tips of her fingers.

‘How smooth your face is,’ she murmured.

‘I want shaving awfully,’ he said.

It was astonishing how difficult he found it to make romantic speeches. He found that silence helped him much more than words. He could look inexpressible things. Miss Wilkinson sighed.

‘Do you like me at all?’

‘Yes, awfully.’

When he tried to kiss her again she did not resist. He pretended to be much more passionate than he really was, and he succeeded in playing a part which looked very well in his own eyes.

‘I’m beginning to be rather frightened of you,’ said Miss Wilkinson.

‘You’ll come out after supper, won’t you?’ he begged.

‘Not unless you promise to behave yourself.’

‘I’ll promise anything.’

He was catching fire from the flame he was partly simulating, and at tea-time he was obstreperously merry. Miss Wilkinson looked at him nervously.

‘You mustn’t have those shining eyes,’ she said to him afterwards. ‘What will your Aunt Louisa think?’

‘I don’t care what she thinks.’

Miss Wilkinson gave a little laugh of pleasure. They had no sooner finished supper than he said to her:

‘Are you going to keep me company while I smoke a cigarette?’

‘Why don’t you let Miss Wilkinson rest?’ said Mrs. Carey. ‘You must remember she’s not as young as you.’

‘Oh, I’d like to go out, Mrs. Carey,’ she said, rather acidly.

‘After dinner walk a mile, after supper rest a while,’ said the Vicar.

‘Your aunt is very nice, but she gets on my nerves sometimes,’ said Miss Wilkinson, as soon as they closed the side-door behind them.

Philip threw away the cigarette he had just lighted, and flung his arms round her. She tried to push him away.

‘You promised you’d be good, Philip.’

‘You didn’t think I was going to keep a promise like that?’

‘Not so near the house, Philip,’ she said. ‘Supposing someone should come out suddenly?’

He led her to the kitchen garden where no one was likely to come, and this time Miss Wilkinson did not think of earwigs. He kissed her passionately. It was one of the things that puzzled him that he did not like her at all in the morning, and only moderately in the afternoon, but at night the touch of her hand thrilled him. He said things that he would never have thought himself capable of saying; he could certainly never have said them in the broad light of day; and he listened to himself with wonder and satisfaction.

‘How beautifully you make love,’ she said.

That was what he thought himself.

‘Oh, if I could only say all the things that burn my heart!’ he murmured passionately.

It was splendid. It was the most thrilling game he had ever played; and the wonderful thing was that he felt almost all he said. It was only that he exaggerated a little. He was tremendously interested and excited in the effect he could see it had on her. It was obviously with an effort that at last she suggested going in.

‘Oh, don’t go yet,’ he cried.

‘I must,’ she muttered. ‘I’m frightened.’

He had a sudden intuition what was the right thing to do then.

‘I can’t go in yet. I shall stay here and think. My cheeks are burning. I want the night-air. Good-night.’

He held out his hand seriously, and she took it in silence. He thought she stifled a sob. Oh, it was magnificent! When, after a decent interval during which he had been rather bored in the dark garden by himself, he went in he found that Miss Wilkinson had already gone to bed.

After that things were different between them. The next day and the day after Philip showed himself an eager lover. He was deliciously flattered to discover that Miss Wilkinson was in love with him: she told him so in English, and she told him so in French. She paid him compliments. No one had ever informed him before that his eyes were charming and that he had a sensual mouth. He had never bothered much about his personal appearance, but now, when occasion presented, he looked at himself in the glass with satisfaction. When he kissed her it was wonderful to feel the passion that seemed to thrill her soul. He kissed her a good deal, for he found it easier to do that than to say the things he instinctively felt she expected of him. It still made him feel a fool to say he worshipped her. He wished there were someone to whom he could boast a little, and he would willingly have discussed minute points of his conduct. Sometimes she said things that were enigmatic, and he was puzzled. He wished Hayward had been there so that he could ask him what he thought she meant, and what he had better do next. He could not make up his mind whether he ought to rush things or let them take their time. There were only three weeks more.

‘I can’t bear to think of that,’ she said. ‘It breaks my heart. And then perhaps we shall never see one another again.’

‘If you cared for me at all, you wouldn’t be so unkind to me,’ he whispered.

‘Oh, why can’t you be content to let it go on as it is? Men are always the same. They’re never satisfied.’

And when he pressed her, she said:

‘But don’t you see it’s impossible. How can we here?’

He proposed all sorts of schemes, but she would not have anything to do with them.

‘I daren’t take the risk. It would be too dreadful if your aunt found out.’

A day or two later he had an idea which seemed brilliant.

‘Look here, if you had a headache on Sunday evening and offered to stay at home and look after the house, Aunt Louisa would go to church.’

Generally Mrs. Carey remained in on Sunday evening in order to allow Mary Ann to go to church, but she would welcome the opportunity of attending evensong.

Philip had not found it necessary to impart to his relations the change in his views on Christianity which had occurred in Germany; they could not be expected to understand; and it seemed less trouble to go to church quietly. But he only went in the morning. He regarded this as a graceful concession to the prejudices of society and his refusal to go a second time as an adequate assertion of free thought.

When he made the suggestion, Miss Wilkinson did not speak for a moment, then shook her head.

‘No, I won’t,’ she said.

But on Sunday at tea-time she surprised Philip. ‘I don’t think I’ll come to church this evening,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’ve really got a dreadful headache.’

Mrs. Carey, much concerned, insisted on giving her some ‘drops’ which she was herself in the habit of using. Miss Wilkinson thanked her, and immediately after tea announced that she would go to her room and lie down.

‘Are you sure there’s nothing you’ll want?’ asked Mrs. Carey anxiously.

‘Quite sure, thank you.’

‘Because, if there isn’t, I think I’ll go to church. I don’t often have the chance of going in the evening.’

‘Oh yes, do go.’

‘I shall be in,’ said Philip. ‘If Miss Wilkinson wants anything, she can always call me.’

‘You’d better leave the drawing-room door open, Philip, so that if Miss Wilkinson rings, you’ll hear.’

‘Certainly,’ said Philip.

So after six o’clock Philip was left alone in the house with Miss Wilkinson. He felt sick with apprehension. He wished with all his heart that he had not suggested the plan; but it was too late now; he must take the opportunity which he had made. What would Miss Wilkinson think of him if he did not! He went into the hall and listened. There was not a sound. He wondered if Miss Wilkinson really had a headache. Perhaps she had forgotten his suggestion. His heart beat painfully. He crept up the stairs as softly as he could, and he stopped with a start when they creaked. He stood outside Miss Wilkinson’s room and listened; he put his hand on the knob of the door-handle. He waited. It seemed to him that he waited for at least five minutes, trying to make up his mind; and his hand trembled. He would willingly have bolted, but he was afraid of the remorse which he knew would seize him. It was like getting on the highest diving-board in a swimming-bath; it looked nothing from below, but when you got up there and stared down at the water your heart sank; and the only thing that forced you to dive was the shame of coming down meekly by the steps you had climbed up. Philip screwed up his courage. He turned the handle softly and walked in. He seemed to himself to be trembling like a leaf.

Miss Wilkinson was standing at the dressing-table with her back to the door, and she turned round quickly when she heard it open.

‘Oh, it’s you. What d’you want?’

She had taken off her skirt and blouse, and was standing in her petticoat. It was short and only came down to the top of her boots; the upper part of it was black, of some shiny material, and there was a red flounce. She wore a camisole of white calico with short arms. She looked grotesque. Philip’s heart sank as he stared at her; she had never seemed so unattractive; but it was too late now. He closed the door behind him and locked it.



第三十四章

第二天吃了午饭，他俩带着旅行毛毯和软垫来到喷水池边。虽然他们随身还带着书，但谁也没心思去看。威尔金森小姐舒舒服服安顿好之后，信手撑开那柄大红伞面的阳伞。现在菲利普已无所顾忌，可是一上来威尔金森小姐却不许他吻自己。

"昨晚，我太有失检点啦，"她说，"我怎么也睡不着，觉得自己做了亏心事。"

"瞎扯淡！"他大声说。"我可以肯定你昨晚睡得才香哪。"

"你不想想，要是让你大伯知道了，他会怎么说？"

"瞧你说的，他才不会知道呢！"

他向她凑过身子，心儿扑通扑通直跳。

"你为什么想吻我？"

他知道自己该回答一句"因为我爱你嘛"，可就是说不出口。

"你倒说说看呢？"他反诘一句。

她满眼含笑地瞅着他，同时用手指尖轻轻地触摸他的脸。

"瞧你的脸蛋多滑嫩！"她悄声儿说。

"我的脸真得勤刮才行，"他说。

说来也奇怪，想不到谈情说爱竟这么难！他觉得沉默反倒比言语更能帮自己的忙，他可以用目光来表达无法言传的情感。威尔金森小姐叹了口气。

"你到底喜欢我不？"

"喜欢得很哩。"

他又凑上去要吻她，这回她半推半就了。菲利普看上去热情冲动，其实是在虚张声势，他在扮演风流情种的角色，而且自觉演得惟妙惟肖。

"你开始让我有点害怕了，"威尔金森小姐说。

"吃过晚饭你出来好吗？"他恳求说。

"除非你答应别胡来。"

"随你说什么我全答应。"

这股半真半假拨弄起来的情焰，现在真的烧到他身上来了。下午用茶点时，他嘻嘻哈哈，旁若无人，威尔金森小姐心神不安地看着他。

"你那双忽闪忽闪的眸子该悠着点才是，"她后来对他说。"你的路易莎伯母会怎么想呢？"

"她怎么想我才不管呢！"

威尔金森小姐快活地呵呵一笑。晚饭刚一吃完，菲利普就冲着她说："你可高兴陪我去抽支烟？"

"你就不能让威尔金森小姐好好歇会儿？"凯里太太说。"别忘了她可不像你那么年轻。"

"哦，我就是想出去走走呢，凯里太太，"她颇不买帐地说。

"吃罢午饭走一程，吃罢晚饭歇一阵，"牧师说。

"你伯母为人挺好，可就是有时候婆婆妈妈的惹人恼火，"他们出了屋子刚把边门带上，威尔金森小姐就咕嗜了这么一句。

菲利普把刚点着的烟卷往地上一扔，张开胳臂猛地将她搂住。她用力想把他推开。

"你答应过不胡来的，菲利普。"

"你也不见得真的相信我会信守这种诺言的，是吗？"

"别这样，离屋子太近了，菲利普，"她说。"万一有人突然打屋里出来呢？"

菲利普把她引到菜园子里，这时候没人会上这儿来，而这一回威尔金森小姐也没有想到蛆妮虫。菲利普热烈地吻她。有一点他百思不得其解：早晨，他对她一无好感；过了中午，觉得她尚可人意；可是到了晚上，一碰到她的手，魂儿就被摄了去。而且怎么也想不到，自己的舌头也变巧了，竟能吐出那一连串绵绵情话来。如果在大白天，那是无论如何也说不出口的，连他自己听了，得意之余也不免暗觉惊讶。

"谈情说爱你还真有一手哩，"她说。

他自己也是这么想的。

"哦，要是我能把心中燃烧的激情一古脑儿倾吐出来，那有多好！"他口气热烈地喃喃低语。

真是妙不可言！他还从未玩过这么富有刺激性的游戏，妙就妙在他说的每句话差不多都出自肺腑，只是略带几分夸张罢了。看到这一切竟在她身上立时奏效，他不仅觉得极有趣，而且兴奋得什么似的。最后，她显然费了好大劲才开得口，说她要回屋去了。

"哦，别现在就走，"他嚷道。

"一定得走了，"她嘟哝着说。"我心里害怕。"

他突然产生一种直觉，知道此刻该作何反应才不失分寸。

"我现在不能进屋去，我要留在这儿好好想想，我双颊发烫，需要吹点晚风凉凉。晚安。"

菲利普煞有介事地伸出手，她默然不语地握着。他觉得她在竭力克制，不让自己发出呜咽之声。哦，真带劲！他一个人在黑洞洞的园子里，百无聊赖地呆了一段时间，想想也说得过去了，便走进屋子，发现威尔金森小姐已回房睡觉去了。

打这以后，他俩之间的关系自然已非同一般。第二天和第三天，菲利普俨然是个堕入情网的热恋之人。他发现威尔金森小姐爱上了自己，心里美滋滋的，好不得意：她用英语对他这么说，也用法语对他这么说。她向他倾诉钦慕之情。过去，从未有谁当面说他有一双迷人的眼睛，有一张肉感的嘴。他一向很少在个人仪表上劳神费心，可现在一有机会，就要在镜子面前顾影自怜一番。在同她接吻的时候，菲利普能感受到那股似乎使她心灵震颤的激情，真是奇哉妙也。他经常吻她，因为这要比说些个卿卿我我的情话来得容易。不过，他本能地感到她巴不得自己能在她耳边情语吁吁。即使现在，要向她吐露爱慕之意，仍使自己觉得愚蠢可笑。他情场得意，满希望眼前能有个把听他吹嘘夸耀的人，愿意同此人讨论自己谈情说爱时的细微末节。有时她说的事儿挺玄乎，听得他如堕五里雾中。要是海沃德在这儿就好了，可以向他请教她说的究竟是什么意思，自己下一步最好采取什么行动。是速战速决呢，还是听其自然，他拿不定主意。现在只剩下三个星期的时间了。

"一想到假期快要结束，我就受不了，"她说，"我难过得心如刀剐，到时候咱俩说不定就此永别了。"

"你要是果真对我有半点情意，决不会对我这么狠心，"他低声说。

"哦，咱俩一直就这样，不是挺好的吗，你为什么还不满足？男人全都一个样，得寸进尺，永远没有满足的时候。"

在他死乞白赖纠缠之下，她只得说：

"你没看到这不可能嘛！这儿怎么行呢？"

他提出种种方案，可她说什么也不肯沾边试试。

"我可不敢冒这份险，万一被你伯母发觉了，岂不糟透！"

一两天后，他想出了个看来是万无一失的好主意。

"听着，如果星期天晚上你推说头疼，愿意留下看家，那么路易莎伯母就会上教堂去了。

通常星期天晚上，为了好让玛丽·安上教堂，凯里太太总是留下来看家。不过，要是有机会参加晚祷，她是不大肯放过的。

菲利普在德国时已改变了对基督教的看法，不过他觉着没有必要让他的亲戚们知道，也个指望取得他们的谅解，看来还是不声不响地去教堂。做礼拜的好，省得给自己找麻烦。但他只在早晨去一次，把这看成是对社会偏见所作的一种体面让步；他拒绝晚间再上教堂，认为这是他决心维护思想自由的一种恰如其分的表示。

当他提出这个建议时，威尔金森小姐沉吟了半晌，然后摇摇头。

"不，我不干，"她说。

可是到了星期天下午用茶点时，她却大大出乎菲利普的意外。

"我今晚不想去教堂了，"冷不防她竟这么说了。"我头疼得好厉害。"

凯里太太十分关心，一个劲儿劝她服用几滴她自己经常喝的"头痛药水"。威尔金森小姐谢谢她的好意，喝完茶就说要回房去休息了。

"你真的啥也不需要吗？"凯里太太焦虑地问。

"啥也不要，谢谢您。"

"要真是这样，我可要上教堂去了。平时我很少有机会去做晚祷。"

"哦，行，您放心去是了！"

"还有我在家呢，"菲利普说，"威尔金森小姐如果需要点什么，可以差遣我嘛。"

"你最好把起居室的门开着，菲利普，这样，要是威尔金森小姐打铃，你就听得到了。"

"好的，"菲利普说。

于是，过了六时，家里只剩下菲利普和威尔金森小姐他们俩。菲利普反倒害怕起来，心里慌得很，他真心懊悔，自己怎么会出这么个馊主意，但现在悔之也晚矣，总不能把好不容易才争取来的机会白白放过吧。要是他临阵退却，威尔金森小姐会怎么想呢！菲利普走到穿堂里，侧耳细听，屋里悄无声息，不知道威尔金森小姐是不是真的头疼。说不定她早就把他的建议给忘啦。他的心痛苦地折腾着。他蹑手蹑脚地爬上楼梯。楼梯嘎吱一响，他猛吓一跳，忙不迭收住脚步。他总算来到威尔金森小姐的房门口，先是站在门外听了听，然后把手搭在门把上。又等了一会儿。他似乎在那儿至少伫立了五分钟之久，迟迟拿不定主意，那只手不住哆嗦。要不是怕自己事后会反悔不迭，他早就溜之大吉了。现在好比是已爬上游泳池的最高一层跳台。站在台下仰头往上看，似乎没什么大不了的；可是等你站到跳台上，再朝下凝望水面，心儿不免凉了半截。仅仅因为怕出乖露丑，才肯硬着头皮纵身下跳。如果从刚才爬上来的阶梯再畏畏葸葸地爬下去，多丢人。菲利普鼓足勇气，轻轻地转动门把，挪步走了进去。他觉得自己浑身筛糠，好似风中的一片残叶。

威尔金森小姐站在梳妆台前，背对着门，一听到开门声，忙转过身来。

"哦，是你啊！你来干什么？"

她已脱掉了裙子和上衣，就穿着条衬裙站在那儿。衬裙很短，只齐靴帮高；裙摆是用一种乌黑发亮的料于缝制成的，下面镶着一条荷叶边。她上身穿着件短袖白布衬衣。她那副怪模样，菲利普看了心都凉透了。从未见到她像此刻这样缺少韵致，可是事到如今，已断无后退的余地。他随手把门带上，并上了锁。
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chapter 35

Philip woke early next morning. His sleep had been restless; but when he stretched his legs and looked at the sunshine that slid through the Venetian blinds, making patterns on the floor, he sighed with satisfaction. He was delighted with himself. He began to think of Miss Wilkinson. She had asked him to call her Emily, but, he knew not why, he could not; he always thought of her as Miss Wilkinson. Since she chid him for so addressing her, he avoided using her name at all. During his childhood he had often heard a sister of Aunt Louisa, the widow of a naval officer, spoken of as Aunt Emily. It made him uncomfortable to call Miss Wilkinson by that name, nor could he think of any that would have suited her better. She had begun as Miss Wilkinson, and it seemed inseparable from his impression of her. He frowned a little: somehow or other he saw her now at her worst; he could not forget his dismay when she turned round and he saw her in her camisole and the short petticoat; he remembered the slight roughness of her skin and the sharp, long lines on the side of the neck. His triumph was short-lived. He reckoned out her age again, and he did not see how she could be less than forty. It made the affair ridiculous. She was plain and old. His quick fancy showed her to him, wrinkled, haggard, made-up, in those frocks which were too showy for her position and too young for her years. He shuddered; he felt suddenly that he never wanted to see her again; he could not bear the thought of kissing her. He was horrified with himself. Was that love?

He took as long as he could over dressing in order to put back the moment of seeing her, and when at last he went into the dining-room it was with a sinking heart. Prayers were over, and they were sitting down at breakfast.

‘Lazybones,’ Miss Wilkinson cried gaily.

He looked at her and gave a little gasp of relief. She was sitting with her back to the window. She was really quite nice. He wondered why he had thought such things about her. His self-satisfaction returned to him.

He was taken aback by the change in her. She told him in a voice thrilling with emotion immediately after breakfast that she loved him; and when a little later they went into the drawing-room for his singing lesson and she sat down on the music-stool she put up her face in the middle of a scale and said:

‘Embrasse-moi.’

When he bent down she flung her arms round his neck. It was slightly uncomfortable, for she held him in such a position that he felt rather choked.

‘Ah, je t’aime. Je t’aime. Je t’aime,’ she cried, with her extravagantly French accent.

Philip wished she would speak English.

‘I say, I don’t know if it’s struck you that the gardener’s quite likely to pass the window any minute.’

‘Ah, je m’en fiche du jardinier. Je m’en refiche, et je m’en contrefiche.’

Philip thought it was very like a French novel, and he did not know why it slightly irritated him.

At last he said:

‘Well, I think I’ll tootle along to the beach and have a dip.’

‘Oh, you’re not going to leave me this morning—of all mornings?’ Philip did not quite know why he should not, but it did not matter.

‘Would you like me to stay?’ he smiled.

‘Oh, you darling! But no, go. Go. I want to think of you mastering the salt sea waves, bathing your limbs in the broad ocean.’

He got his hat and sauntered off.

‘What rot women talk!’ he thought to himself.

But he was pleased and happy and flattered. She was evidently frightfully gone on him. As he limped along the high street of Blackstable he looked with a tinge of superciliousness at the people he passed. He knew a good many to nod to, and as he gave them a smile of recognition he thought to himself, if they only knew! He did want someone to know very badly. He thought he would write to Hayward, and in his mind composed the letter. He would talk of the garden and the roses, and the little French governess, like an exotic flower amongst them, scented and perverse: he would say she was French, because—well, she had lived in France so long that she almost was, and besides it would be shabby to give the whole thing away too exactly, don’t you know; and he would tell Hayward how he had seen her first in her pretty muslin dress and of the flower she had given him. He made a delicate idyl of it: the sunshine and the sea gave it passion and magic, and the stars added poetry, and the old vicarage garden was a fit and exquisite setting. There was something Meredithian about it: it was not quite Lucy Feverel and not quite Clara Middleton; but it was inexpressibly charming. Philip’s heart beat quickly. He was so delighted with his fancies that he began thinking of them again as soon as he crawled back, dripping and cold, into his bathing-machine. He thought of the object of his affections. She had the most adorable little nose and large brown eyes—he would describe her to Hayward—and masses of soft brown hair, the sort of hair it was delicious to bury your face in, and a skin which was like ivory and sunshine, and her cheek was like a red, red rose. How old was she? Eighteen perhaps, and he called her Musette. Her laughter was like a rippling brook, and her voice was so soft, so low, it was the sweetest music he had ever heard.

‘What ARE you thinking about?’

Philip stopped suddenly. He was walking slowly home.

‘I’ve been waving at you for the last quarter of a mile. You ARE absent-minded.’

Miss Wilkinson was standing in front of him, laughing at his surprise.

‘I thought I’d come and meet you.’

‘That’s awfully nice of you,’ he said.

‘Did I startle you?’

‘You did a bit,’ he admitted.

He wrote his letter to Hayward all the same. There were eight pages of it.

The fortnight that remained passed quickly, and though each evening, when they went into the garden after supper, Miss Wilkinson remarked that one day more had gone, Philip was in too cheerful spirits to let the thought depress him. One night Miss Wilkinson suggested that it would be delightful if she could exchange her situation in Berlin for one in London. Then they could see one another constantly. Philip said it would be very jolly, but the prospect aroused no enthusiasm in him; he was looking forward to a wonderful life in London, and he preferred not to be hampered. He spoke a little too freely of all he meant to do, and allowed Miss Wilkinson to see that already he was longing to be off.

‘You wouldn’t talk like that if you loved me,’ she cried.

He was taken aback and remained silent.

‘What a fool I’ve been,’ she muttered.

To his surprise he saw that she was crying. He had a tender heart, and hated to see anyone miserable.

‘Oh, I’m awfully sorry. What have I done? Don’t cry.’

‘Oh, Philip, don’t leave me. You don’t know what you mean to me. I have such a wretched life, and you’ve made me so happy.’

He kissed her silently. There really was anguish in her tone, and he was frightened. It had never occurred to him that she meant what she said quite, quite seriously.

‘I’m awfully sorry. You know I’m frightfully fond of you. I wish you would come to London.’

‘You know I can’t. Places are almost impossible to get, and I hate English life.’

Almost unconscious that he was acting a part, moved by her distress, he pressed her more and more. Her tears vaguely flattered him, and he kissed her with real passion.

But a day or two later she made a real scene. There was a tennis-party at the vicarage, and two girls came, daughters of a retired major in an Indian regiment who had lately settled in Blackstable. They were very pretty, one was Philip’s age and the other was a year or two younger. Being used to the society of young men (they were full of stories of hill-stations in India, and at that time the stories of Rudyard Kipling were in every hand) they began to chaff Philip gaily; and he, pleased with the novelty—the young ladies at Blackstable treated the Vicar’s nephew with a certain seriousness—was gay and jolly. Some devil within him prompted him to start a violent flirtation with them both, and as he was the only young man there, they were quite willing to meet him half-way. It happened that they played tennis quite well and Philip was tired of pat-ball with Miss Wilkinson (she had only begun to play when she came to Blackstable), so when he arranged the sets after tea he suggested that Miss Wilkinson should play against the curate’s wife, with the curate as her partner; and he would play later with the new-comers. He sat down by the elder Miss O’Connor and said to her in an undertone:

‘We’ll get the duffers out of the way first, and then we’ll have a jolly set afterwards.’

Apparently Miss Wilkinson overheard him, for she threw down her racket, and, saying she had a headache, went away. It was plain to everyone that she was offended. Philip was annoyed that she should make the fact public. The set was arranged without her, but presently Mrs. Carey called him.

‘Philip, you’ve hurt Emily’s feelings. She’s gone to her room and she’s crying.’

‘What about?’

‘Oh, something about a duffer’s set. Do go to her, and say you didn’t mean to be unkind, there’s a good boy.’

‘All right.’

He knocked at Miss Wilkinson’s door, but receiving no answer went in. He found her lying face downwards on her bed, weeping. He touched her on the shoulder.

‘I say, what on earth’s the matter?’

‘Leave me alone. I never want to speak to you again.’

‘What have I done? I’m awfully sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings. I didn’t mean to. I say, do get up.’

‘Oh, I’m so unhappy. How could you be cruel to me? You know I hate that stupid game. I only play because I want to play with you.’

She got up and walked towards the dressing-table, but after a quick look in the glass sank into a chair. She made her handkerchief into a ball and dabbed her eyes with it.

‘I’ve given you the greatest thing a woman can give a man—oh, what a fool I was—and you have no gratitude. You must be quite heartless. How could you be so cruel as to torment me by flirting with those vulgar girls. We’ve only got just over a week. Can’t you even give me that?’

Philip stood over her rather sulkily. He thought her behaviour childish. He was vexed with her for having shown her ill-temper before strangers.

‘But you know I don’t care twopence about either of the O’Connors. Why on earth should you think I do?’

Miss Wilkinson put away her handkerchief. Her tears had made marks on her powdered face, and her hair was somewhat disarranged. Her white dress did not suit her very well just then. She looked at Philip with hungry, passionate eyes.

‘Because you’re twenty and so’s she,’ she said hoarsely. ‘And I’m old.’

Philip reddened and looked away. The anguish of her tone made him feel strangely uneasy. He wished with all his heart that he had never had anything to do with Miss Wilkinson.

‘I don’t want to make you unhappy,’ he said awkwardly. ‘You’d better go down and look after your friends. They’ll wonder what has become of you.’

‘All right.’

He was glad to leave her.

The quarrel was quickly followed by a reconciliation, but the few days that remained were sometimes irksome to Philip. He wanted to talk of nothing but the future, and the future invariably reduced Miss Wilkinson to tears. At first her weeping affected him, and feeling himself a beast he redoubled his protestations of undying passion; but now it irritated him: it would have been all very well if she had been a girl, but it was silly of a grown-up woman to cry so much. She never ceased reminding him that he was under a debt of gratitude to her which he could never repay. He was willing to acknowledge this since she made a point of it, but he did not really know why he should be any more grateful to her than she to him. He was expected to show his sense of obligation in ways which were rather a nuisance: he had been a good deal used to solitude, and it was a necessity to him sometimes; but Miss Wilkinson looked upon it as an unkindness if he was not always at her beck and call. The Miss O’Connors asked them both to tea, and Philip would have liked to go, but Miss Wilkinson said she only had five days more and wanted him entirely to herself. It was flattering, but a bore. Miss Wilkinson told him stories of the exquisite delicacy of Frenchmen when they stood in the same relation to fair ladies as he to Miss Wilkinson. She praised their courtesy, their passion for self-sacrifice, their perfect tact. Miss Wilkinson seemed to want a great deal.

Philip listened to her enumeration of the qualities which must be possessed by the perfect lover, and he could not help feeling a certain satisfaction that she lived in Berlin.

‘You will write to me, won’t you? Write to me every day. I want to know everything you’re doing. You must keep nothing from me.’

‘I shall be awfully, busy’ he answered. ‘I’ll write as often as I can.’

She flung her arms passionately round his neck. He was embarrassed sometimes by the demonstrations of her affection. He would have preferred her to be more passive. It shocked him a little that she should give him so marked a lead: it did not tally altogether with his prepossessions about the modesty of the feminine temperament.

At length the day came on which Miss Wilkinson was to go, and she came down to breakfast, pale and subdued, in a serviceable travelling dress of black and white check. She looked a very competent governess. Philip was silent too, for he did not quite know what to say that would fit the circumstance; and he was terribly afraid that, if he said something flippant, Miss Wilkinson would break down before his uncle and make a scene. They had said their last good-bye to one another in the garden the night before, and Philip was relieved that there was now no opportunity for them to be alone. He remained in the dining-room after breakfast in case Miss Wilkinson should insist on kissing him on the stairs. He did not want Mary Ann, now a woman hard upon middle age with a sharp tongue, to catch them in a compromising position. Mary Ann did not like Miss Wilkinson and called her an old cat. Aunt Louisa was not very well and could not come to the station, but the Vicar and Philip saw her off. Just as the train was leaving she leaned out and kissed Mr. Carey.

‘I must kiss you too, Philip,’ she said.

‘All right,’ he said, blushing.

He stood up on the step and she kissed him quickly. The train started, and Miss Wilkinson sank into the corner of her carriage and wept disconsolately. Philip, as he walked back to the vicarage, felt a distinct sensation of relief.

‘Well, did you see her safely off?’ asked Aunt Louisa, when they got in.

‘Yes, she seemed rather weepy. She insisted on kissing me and Philip.’

‘Oh, well, at her age it’s not dangerous.’ Mrs. Carey pointed to the sideboard. ‘There’s a letter for you, Philip. It came by the second post.’

It was from Hayward and ran as follows:

My dear boy,

I answer your letter at once. I ventured to read it to a great friend of mine, a charming woman whose help and sympathy have been very precious to me, a woman withal with a real feeling for art and literature; and we agreed that it was charming. You wrote from your heart and you do not know the delightful naivete which is in every line. And because you love you write like a poet. Ah, dear boy, that is the real thing: I felt the glow of your young passion, and your prose was musical from the sincerity of your emotion. You must be happy! I wish I could have been present unseen in that enchanted garden while you wandered hand in hand, like Daphnis and Chloe, amid the flowers. I can see you, my Daphnis, with the light of young love in your eyes, tender, enraptured, and ardent; while Chloe in your arms, so young and soft and fresh, vowing she would ne’er consent—consented. Roses and violets and honeysuckle! Oh, my friend, I envy you. It is so good to think that your first love should have been pure poetry. Treasure the moments, for the immortal gods have given you the Greatest Gift of All, and it will be a sweet, sad memory till your dying day. You will never again enjoy that careless rapture. First love is best love; and she is beautiful and you are young, and all the world is yours. I felt my pulse go faster when with your adorable simplicity you told me that you buried your face in her long hair. I am sure that it is that exquisite chestnut which seems just touched with gold. I would have you sit under a leafy tree side by side, and read together Romeo and Juliet; and then I would have you fall on your knees and on my behalf kiss the ground on which her foot has left its imprint; then tell her it is the homage of a poet to her radiant youth and to your love for her.

Yours always,  G. Etheridge Hayward.

‘What damned rot!’ said Philip, when he finished the letter.

Miss Wilkinson oddly enough had suggested that they should read Romeo and Juliet together; but Philip had firmly declined. Then, as he put the letter in his pocket, he felt a queer little pang of bitterness because reality seemed so different from the ideal.



第三十五章

菲利普第二天一早就醒了。尽管他辗转反侧，一宿没睡好，但是此刻他展舒双腿，望着从软百叶窗里透进来的阳光在地板上交织成金色的图案，还是心满意足地吁了口气。他颇有点沾沾自喜。他开始想到威尔金森小姐。她要菲利普叫她埃米莉，但不知怎地，他就是叫不出口。在他脑子里她始终是威尔金森小姐。既然唤她威尔金森小姐要挨她骂，菲利普干脆什么名儿也不叫。记得在小时候，他常听人说起路易莎伯母有个妹妹，一个海军军官的未亡人，大家全叫她埃米莉姨妈。所以现在要他用这个名字来称呼威尔金森小姐，他感到怪别扭的，而他也想不出有什么更合适的称呼。她打一开始就是威尔金森小姐，在他的印象里，这个名字似乎和她本人须臾不可分离的。他眉尖微蹙。不知怎么地，他现在总把她往坏处里看。他忘不了昨晚目睹她身穿衬衣衬裙，倏然转身过来那一瞬间自己心里所产生的沮丧之感，想起了她那稍显粗糙的皮肤，还有颈脖子上又长又深的皱褶。他那股胜利的喜悦顿时作了烟云散。他又估算了一下她的年龄，不明白她怎么会还不满四十岁。这一来，这段风流韵事就显得荒唐可笑了。她人老珠黄，风韵全无。他脑海里顿时浮现出她的形象来：形容憔悴，尽管涂脂抹粉，也掩盖不住满脸皱纹；那一身打扮，就她的地位而论，未免显得过于艳丽，而对她的年龄来说，似乎又嫌太花哨。他打了个寒颤。他突然觉得自己再也不愿见到她了。想到自己竟还同她亲嘴，真有点受不了。他对自己的所作所为不胜骇然。难道这就是爱情？

为了晚点同她照面，他穿衣时尽量磨蹭拖时间，等他最后迫不得已走进餐室时，他的心绪环到了极点。祷告仪式已结束，大家围在餐桌边吃早饭。

"懒骨头！"威尔金森小姐快活地嚷了一声。

一看到她本人，他倒不觉宽慰地舒了日气。她背朝窗口坐着，模样儿还真俏。他不明白自己干吗尽往她坏处想。他顿时又洋洋又得起来。

昨日今朝她判若两人，菲利普着实吃了一惊。刚吃罢早饭，她就迫不及待地说她爱他，而说话的声音则因内心的激动而微微颤抖。过了一会儿他俩去起居室上唱歌课，他在琴凳上坐定。一行音阶只弹到一半，她就仰起脸，说：

"Embrasse-moi."

菲利普刚弯下身子，她就张开双臂一把搂住他的颈脖。这滋味可不大好受，因为她连拖带拉地紧紧勾住菲利普，差点儿没把他憋死。

"Ah！Je t'aime．Je t'aime． Je t'aime！"她操着一口浓重的法国腔大声说。

菲利普真希望她能用英语讲话。

"嘿，不知你想到没有，园丁随时都有可能打窗口经过。

"Ah！ie m'en nche dujardlnler． Je m'en retlche， et je m'enCofltrehche．"

菲利普觉得这一切简直成了法国小说里的场景，心头无端冒出股无名火来。

最后他说：

"嗯，我想到海滩那儿去逛逛，顺便泡泡海水。"

"哦，总不见得你--偏偏要在今天早晨撇下我一个人吧？"

菲利普不大明白干吗今天就不行呢？不过，她要这么说自己也管不着。

"你要我呆在家里？"他微笑着说。

"噢，亲爱的！不，你去吧。去吧。我要想象一下你顶着带咸味的波浪，畅游在广阔海面上的情景。"

他拿起帽子，悠然走开了。

"真是娘儿们的蠢话，"他暗自嘀咕了一声。

不过他感到兴奋，快乐，飘飘然。她显然已完全被自己迷住啦。他一瘸一拐地走在布莱克斯泰勃的大街上，带点儿园空一切的神气，打量着过往行人。他同不少人有点头之交，他微笑着向他们颔首致意，心想要是让他门知道自己的风流事儿，那该多好啊！他真巴不得能有个把人晓得呢。他想他要给海沃德写信，而且在脑子里构思起来。信里，他要谈到花园和玫瑰，还有那位娇小玲珑的法国女教师，她像玫瑰丛中的一朵奇葩，芬芳馥郁，妖艳异常。他要说她是法国人，因为--嗯，她在法国住了那么多年，差不多也算得上个法国人了。再说，如果把整个事儿毫不走样地和盘托出，也未免有点不雅，不是吗？他要告诉海沃德他俩初次见面的情景：她穿着一袭漂亮的薄纱衣裙，还献给了他一朵鲜花。为了描写这一情景，他还编了一首玲珑剔透的短诗：阳光和海水赋予爱情以烈焰和魔力，星星更增添了诗情画意，古色古香的牧师公馆花园正是天造地设的谈情说爱的场所。他的情人颇像梅瑞狄斯笔下的人物，虽算不上是露茜·弗浮莱尔，也比不上克拉拉·米德尔顿，但她干妩百娇的媚态，却非笔墨所能形容。菲利普的心口突突直跳。他的联翩浮想，使他心醉神迷，所以当他水淋淋地爬回海滩，抖抖嗦嗦地钻进更衣车之后，又堕入漫漫逻想之中。他想着自己钟爱的情人。在给海沃德的信里，他要这样来描绘她：玲珑娇小的鼻子，流星似的棕色大眼睛，还有一头浓密的棕色柔发，把脸埋在这样的发堆里才真是妙不可言呢；说到她的皮肤，白腻如象牙、光洁似日光，面颊像是鲜艳欲滴的红玫瑰。她多大了？也许是十八岁吧。她叫她缪赛。她笑声清脆，宛如溪水淙淙；说起话来，嗓音之轻柔婉转，胜过人间最甜美悦耳的音乐。

"你出神想啥啊？"

菲利普蓦地收住脚步。他正在回家的路上慢腾腾地走着。

"我在四分之一英里以外的地方就开始向你招手了，瞧你这副神不守舍的德行。"

威尔金森小姐站在他面前，取笑他那副吃惊的神情。

"我想我得来接你哩。"

"你想得真周到，"他说。

"让你吓了一跳，是吗？"

"有那么一点，"他承认说。

他到底还是给海沃德写了封长达八页的信。

时光荏苒，剩下的两周时间转眼过去了。虽然每天晚上吃过晚饭去花园散步的时候，威尔金森小姐照例要感叹又是一天过去了，但菲利普的勃勃兴致并未因此而有所消减。一天晚上，威尔金森小姐提出，如果她能放弃柏林的工作而在伦敦另找个差事，该多称人心意啊。这样他们就可以经常见面了。菲利普嘴上敷衍说，真要能那样就好了，但实际上，这种前景并没有在他心中激起半点热情。他指望在伦敦能开始一种奇妙的新生活，最好别受到任何牵累。他在讲述自己今后的打算时口气过于随便了些，威尔金森小姐一眼就看出，他是恨不得马上就能远走高飞呢。

"你要是爱我，就不会用这种口气说话了，"她哭着说。

他猛吃一惊，闭口不言语了。

"我多傻啊，"她咕哝着。

他万万没料到她竟哭了起来。他心肠很软，平时就怕看到别人伤心落泪。

"哦，真抱歉。我哪儿对不起你啦？别哭呀。"

"哦，菲利普，别把我丢了。你不明白，你对我有多重要，我一生多么不幸，是你让我感受到人生的幸福。"

他默默地吻着她。她的声调里确实饱含着极大的痛楚，他害怕了。他万万没料到她的话全然出自肺腑，绝非说着玩的。

"我实在很抱歉。你知道我很喜欢你。我巴不得你上伦敦来呢。"

"你知道我来不了的。这儿很难找到工作，而且我也讨厌英国生活。"

菲利普被她的悲苦不幸所打动，几乎不再意识到自己是在扮演某种角色，他抱住她，越搂越紧。她的泪水隐隐使他高兴，他热烈地吻她，这回倒是出于一片真情。

但一两天后，她却当众大闹了一场。牧师公馆举行了一次网球聚会，来客中有两位年轻姑娘，她们的父亲是印度驻军的退休少校，最近才到布莱克斯泰勃安的家。姐妹俩长得很漂亮，姐姐和菲利普同庚，妹妹大约小一两岁。她们习惯于同青年男子交往，肚子里装满了有关印度避暑地的逸闻趣事（那时，拉迪亚德·吉卜林的短篇小说风靡于世，人人竞相间读）。她们同菲利普嘻嘻哈哈开玩笑，而菲利普也觉得挺新鲜--布莱克斯泰勃的年轻小姐对待牧师的侄子都有点一本正经-一快活得什么似的。不知是哪个魔鬼附到他身上，他竞放肆地同那姐妹俩打情骂俏起来；由于这儿只有他这么个年轻人，她俩也相当主动地凑合上来。碰巧她俩的球艺都很不错，而菲利普本来就觉得同威尔金森小姐推来拍去很不过瘾（她来布莱克斯泰勃时刚开始学打网球），所以等他喝完茶，着手安排比赛阵容时，便建议先由威尔金森小姐同副牧师搭档，跟副牧师太太对阵，然后才让他与新来的人交锋。他在奥康纳大小姐身边坐下，压低嗓门对她说：

"我们先把那些个窝囊废打发掉，随后我们痛痛快快地打上一盘。"

显然，他的悄悄话给威尔金森小姐偷听到了，只见她把球拍往地上一扔，说是闹头疼，扭身便走。大家都看出来她是生气了。菲利普见她竟然当众耍脾气，很是恼火。他们撇开她，重新安排了阵容，但不多一会儿凯卫太太来叫他了。

"菲利普，你伤了埃米莉的心。她回到房里，这会儿在哭呢。"

"干吗要哭？"

"哦，说是什么窝囊废对局的事儿。快到她跟前赔个不是，说你不是有意要伤她的心的，好孩子，快去！"

"好吧！"

他敲敲威尔金森小姐的房门，见没人应声，便径自走了进去。只见她合扑在床上，嘤嘤抽泣着。他轻轻拍拍她的肩膀。

"嘿，到底是怎么回事？"

"别管我，我再不想同你讲话了。"

"我怎么啦？我很抱歉，没想到让你伤心了。我不是有意的。听我说，快起来！"

"哦，我多么不幸。你怎忍心这么对待我。你知道我讨厌那套无聊玩意儿。我所以有这份兴致，还不是为了想和你在一块儿玩。"

她站起身，朝梳妆台走去，往镜子里飞快地瞟了一眼，然后颓然倒在椅子里。她把手帕捏成个小球，轻轻拭擦眼角。

"一个女人能给男子的最珍贵的东西，我已经给了你了--哦，我好傻啊！而你呢，全无感激之意。你一定是个没心肝的。你怎么能这么狠心地折磨我，当着我的面跟那两个俗不可耐的野丫头勾勾搭搭。我们只剩下一个多星朗了。你连这么点时间都不能留来陪我吗？"

菲利普绷着脸，站在一边望着她。他觉得她的举动幼稚得叶笑。尤为恼火的是，她竟当着外人的面耍起脾气来。

"其实你也知道，我对那两位奥康纳小姐一点也不感冒。你凭哪一点以为我喜欢她们呢？"

威尔金森小姐收起手帕。那张抹了粉的脸蛋上泪痕斑斑，头发也有些凌乱。这时候，那件白衣裙对她就不怎么合适了。她用如饥似渴的火热眼光，凝视着菲利普。

"因为你和她都才二十岁，"她嘶哑地说，"而我已经老了。"

菲利普涨红了脸，扭过头看着别处。她那凄楚悲苦的声调，使他感到有种说不出的滋味。他悔恨交集，要是自己从未和威尔金森小姐有过瓜葛，那该多好。

"我并不想让你痛苦，"他尴尬地说。"你最好还是下楼去照看一下你的朋友们。他们不知道你出什么事了。"

"好吧。"

他很高兴，总算得以脱身了。

他俩闹了一场别扭，很快就言归于好。但是在剩下为数不多的几天里，菲利普有时感到不胜厌烦。他只想谈谈今后的事儿，可是一提到今后，威尔金森小姐总是哭鼻子。一上来，她的眼泪还有点感化作用，使他感到自己薄情狠心，于是他竭力表白自己的炽热爱情永不泯灭。可是现在，徒然引起他的反感：如果她是个少女，倒还说得过去，可像她那样的半老徐娘，老是哭哭啼啼的，简直蠢透了。威尔金森小姐一再提醒他，他欠她的这笔风流孽债，是一辈子也还不清的。既然她口口声声这么说，他也愿意认可；不过说实在的，他不明白为什么自己得感激她，而不是她该感激自己呢？她要菲利普知恩图报，要从多万面履行情人的义务，这实在够呛。他一向习惯于只身独处，有时这还真成了他的切身之需。可是在威尔金森小姐看来，他须整天厮守在身边，对她俯首帖耳，否则就是忘恩负义。两位奥康纳小姐曾邀他俩去喝茶，菲利普当然乐意前往，但威尔金夺小姐却说，她再过五天就要走了，他必须归她一人所有。虽然这种说法所起来甜滋滋的，可做起来却烦死人。威尔金森小姐在他耳边絮聒，说法国人感情细腻，要是他们和漂亮女人好上了，就像菲利普同她威尔金森小姐那样，他们会是如何体贴入微。她对法国男人赞不绝口，夸他们倜傥风流，感情炽热，渴望自我牺牲，且温存得体。威尔金森小姐的要求似乎还真个低呐。

菲利普听了威尔金森小姐所列举的、完美情人必须具备的种种品质，不禁暗暗庆幸：亏得她是住在柏林呢。

"你会给我写信的，是吗？每天都要给我写信。我想知道你的情况，你的一言一行不得对我有任何隐瞒。"

"到时候我会忙得够呛的，"他答道，"我尽更多给你写信就是了。"

她猛张开胳膊，热烈地搂住菲利普的脖子。她的这种爱情表示，有时搞得菲利普狼狈不堪，他宁可她悠着点，居于守势。她所作的暗示是那么露骨，真有点叫他震惊，这同他心目中女性的端庄贤淑完全格格不入。

威尔金森小姐预定动身的日子终于来到了。她下楼来吃早饭，脸色苍白，神情沮丧，套一件经久耐穿的黑白格子旅行服，俨然是个精明能干的家庭女教师。菲利普也默然不语，因为他不知道在这种场合该说些什么，生怕出言不慎，惹得威尔金森小姐当着他大伯的面哭闹一场。昨晚他们在花园里已相互挥泪告别过，这会儿看来没有机会可容他俩单独聚叙，菲利普感到很放心。早饭后他一直呆在餐室里，提防威尔金森小姐硬要在楼梯上吻他。他不想让玛丽·安撞见这种暧昧可疑的场面。玛丽·安匕届中年，嘴尖舌辣，很不好对付。她不欢喜威尔金森小姐，背底下叫她老馋猫。路易莎伯母身体欠佳，不能亲自到车站送行，就由牧师和菲利普一并代劳了。就在火车快要开动的时候，她探出身子吻了凯里先生。

"我也得吻吻你呢，菲利普，"她说。

"可以嘛，"他红着脸说。

他站在月台上，挺直身子，威尔金森小姐迅速地吻了吻他。火车启动了，威尔金森小姐颓然倒在车厢的角落里，黯然泪下。在回牧师公馆的路上，菲利普如释重负，着实松了口气。

"嗯，你们把她平平安安地送走了？"路易莎伯母见他们进屋来这么问道。

"送走了，她几乎成了泪人儿了。她硬是要吻我和菲利普。"

"哦，是吗？在她那种年纪，吻一下也没什么危险。"说罢，凯里太太指指餐具柜。"菲利普，那儿有你的一封信，随着第二班邮件来的。"

信是海沃德寄来的。全文如下：

亲爱的老弟：

我立即给你复信。我不揣冒昧，擅自把你的信念给我的一位挚友听了。那是个迷人的女子，一个对文学艺术真正具有鉴赏力的女子。她的帮助和同情于我是十分珍贵的。我们俩一致认为你的信婉约动人。你的信发自心田。你不知道，字里行间渗透着多么今人心醉的天真烂漫气息。正因为你在恋爱，所以你落笔时就像个诗人。啊，亲爱的老弟，说真的，我感觉到了你炽热的青春激情；字字句句皆出于真挚的情感，犹如音乐般扣人心弦。你一定很幸福！我多么希望自己也能在场，躲在那座令人销魂的花园里，看着你们俩肩抵肩，手挽手，像扎弗尼斯和赫洛一样漫步在百花丛中。我可以看到你，我的扎弗尼斯，温存热烈，如痴似醉，眸子里闪烁着初恋的光芒；而你怀里的赫洛，那么年轻、温柔、娇嫩，她发誓决不同意，决不--最后还是同意了。玫瑰、紫罗兰、忍冬花！哦，我的朋友，我真忌妒你哟。想到你的初恋竟像纯洁的诗篇，多叫人高兴。珍惜这宝贵的时刻吧，因为不朽的众神已将人世间最珍贵的礼物赐给了你，这种既甜蜜又郁悒的回忆，将伴随至你生命的最后一刻。你以后再也领略不到这种无牵无挂的极乐狂喜。初恋是最难能可贵的；她美丽，你年轻，整个世界都属于你俩。当你怀着值得钦慕的质朴之情，向我披肝沥胆，说你把脸埋在她秀长的柔发之中，我感到我的脉搏加快了。我敢说，那肯定是一头光泽细洁的栗发，好似轻轻抹上了一层金色。我要让你俩并肩坐在枝叶扶疏的葱茏树下，共读一册《罗米欧与朱丽叶》。然后我要你双膝跪下，代表我亲吻那留有她脚印的一方土地，并转告她，这是一个诗人对她的灿烂青春，也是对你的忠贞情爱所表示的一份敬意。

永远是你的

G·埃思里奇，海沃德

"简直是乱弹琴！"菲利普看完信说。说来好不蹊跷，威尔金森小姐也曾提议他俩一块儿看《罗米欧与朱丽叶》，但遭到菲利普的坚决拒绝。接着，在他把信揣人衣袋里的时候，一阵莫可名状的痛楚蓦地袭上心头，因为现实与理想竟如天壤之别。
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chapter 36

A few days later Philip went to London. The curate had recommended rooms in Barnes, and these Philip engaged by letter at fourteen shillings a week. He reached them in the evening; and the landlady, a funny little old woman with a shrivelled body and a deeply wrinkled face, had prepared high tea for him. Most of the sitting-room was taken up by the sideboard and a square table; against one wall was a sofa covered with horsehair, and by the fireplace an arm-chair to match: there was a white antimacassar over the back of it, and on the seat, because the springs were broken, a hard cushion.

After having his tea he unpacked and arranged his books, then he sat down and tried to read; but he was depressed. The silence in the street made him slightly uncomfortable, and he felt very much alone.

Next day he got up early. He put on his tail-coat and the tall hat which he had worn at school; but it was very shabby, and he made up his mind to stop at the Stores on his way to the office and buy a new one. When he had done this he found himself in plenty of time and so walked along the Strand. The office of Messrs. Herbert Carter & Co. was in a little street off Chancery Lane, and he had to ask his way two or three times. He felt that people were staring at him a great deal, and once he took off his hat to see whether by chance the label had been left on. When he arrived he knocked at the door; but no one answered, and looking at his watch he found it was barely half past nine; he supposed he was too early. He went away and ten minutes later returned to find an office-boy, with a long nose, pimply face, and a Scotch accent, opening the door. Philip asked for Mr. Herbert Carter. He had not come yet.

‘When will he be here?’

‘Between ten and half past.’

‘I’d better wait,’ said Philip.

‘What are you wanting?’ asked the office-boy.

Philip was nervous, but tried to hide the fact by a jocose manner.

‘Well, I’m going to work here if you have no objection.’

‘Oh, you’re the new articled clerk? You’d better come in. Mr. Goodworthy’ll be here in a while.’

Philip walked in, and as he did so saw the office-boy—he was about the same age as Philip and called himself a junior clerk—look at his foot. He flushed and, sitting down, hid it behind the other. He looked round the room. It was dark and very dingy. It was lit by a skylight. There were three rows of desks in it and against them high stools. Over the chimney-piece was a dirty engraving of a prize-fight. Presently a clerk came in and then another; they glanced at Philip and in an undertone asked the office-boy (Philip found his name was Macdougal) who he was. A whistle blew, and Macdougal got up.

‘Mr. Goodworthy’s come. He’s the managing clerk. Shall I tell him you’re here?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Philip.

The office-boy went out and in a moment returned.

‘Will you come this way?’

Philip followed him across the passage and was shown into a room, small and barely furnished, in which a little, thin man was standing with his back to the fireplace. He was much below the middle height, but his large head, which seemed to hang loosely on his body, gave him an odd ungainliness. His features were wide and flattened, and he had prominent, pale eyes; his thin hair was sandy; he wore whiskers that grew unevenly on his face, and in places where you would have expected the hair to grow thickly there was no hair at all. His skin was pasty and yellow. He held out his hand to Philip, and when he smiled showed badly decayed teeth. He spoke with a patronising and at the same time a timid air, as though he sought to assume an importance which he did not feel. He said he hoped Philip would like the work; there was a good deal of drudgery about it, but when you got used to it, it was interesting; and one made money, that was the chief thing, wasn’t it? He laughed with his odd mixture of superiority and shyness.

‘Mr. Carter will be here presently,’ he said. ‘He’s a little late on Monday mornings sometimes. I’ll call you when he comes. In the meantime I must give you something to do. Do you know anything about book-keeping or accounts?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ answered Philip.

‘I didn’t suppose you would. They don’t teach you things at school that are much use in business, I’m afraid.’ He considered for a moment. ‘I think I can find you something to do.’

He went into the next room and after a little while came out with a large cardboard box. It contained a vast number of letters in great disorder, and he told Philip to sort them out and arrange them alphabetically according to the names of the writers.

‘I’ll take you to the room in which the articled clerk generally sits. There’s a very nice fellow in it. His name is Watson. He’s a son of Watson, Crag, and Thompson—you know—the brewers. He’s spending a year with us to learn business.’

Mr. Goodworthy led Philip through the dingy office, where now six or eight clerks were working, into a narrow room behind. It had been made into a separate apartment by a glass partition, and here they found Watson sitting back in a chair, reading The Sportsman. He was a large, stout young man, elegantly dressed, and he looked up as Mr. Goodworthy entered. He asserted his position by calling the managing clerk Goodworthy. The managing clerk objected to the familiarity, and pointedly called him Mr. Watson, but Watson, instead of seeing that it was a rebuke, accepted the title as a tribute to his gentlemanliness.

‘I see they’ve scratched Rigoletto,’ he said to Philip, as soon as they were left alone.

‘Have they?’ said Philip, who knew nothing about horse-racing.

He looked with awe upon Watson’s beautiful clothes. His tail-coat fitted him perfectly, and there was a valuable pin artfully stuck in the middle of an enormous tie. On the chimney-piece rested his tall hat; it was saucy and bell-shaped and shiny. Philip felt himself very shabby. Watson began to talk of hunting—it was such an infernal bore having to waste one’s time in an infernal office, he would only be able to hunt on Saturdays—and shooting: he had ripping invitations all over the country and of course he had to refuse them. It was infernal luck, but he wasn’t going to put up with it long; he was only in this internal hole for a year, and then he was going into the business, and he would hunt four days a week and get all the shooting there was.

‘You’ve got five years of it, haven’t you?’ he said, waving his arm round the tiny room.

‘I suppose so,’ said Philip.

‘I daresay I shall see something of you. Carter does our accounts, you know.’

Philip was somewhat overpowered by the young gentleman’s condescension. At Blackstable they had always looked upon brewing with civil contempt, the Vicar made little jokes about the beerage, and it was a surprising experience for Philip to discover that Watson was such an important and magnificent fellow. He had been to Winchester and to Oxford, and his conversation impressed the fact upon one with frequency. When he discovered the details of Philip’s education his manner became more patronising still.

‘Of course, if one doesn’t go to a public school those sort of schools are the next best thing, aren’t they?’

Philip asked about the other men in the office.

‘Oh, I don’t bother about them much, you know,’ said Watson. ‘Carter’s not a bad sort. We have him to dine now and then. All the rest are awful bounders.’

Presently Watson applied himself to some work he had in hand, and Philip set about sorting his letters. Then Mr. Goodworthy came in to say that Mr. Carter had arrived. He took Philip into a large room next door to his own. There was a big desk in it, and a couple of big arm-chairs; a Turkey carpet adorned the floor, and the walls were decorated with sporting prints. Mr. Carter was sitting at the desk and got up to shake hands with Philip. He was dressed in a long frock coat. He looked like a military man; his moustache was waxed, his gray hair was short and neat, he held himself upright, he talked in a breezy way, he lived at Enfield. He was very keen on games and the good of the country. He was an officer in the Hertfordshire Yeomanry and chairman of the Conservative Association. When he was told that a local magnate had said no one would take him for a City man, he felt that he had not lived in vain. He talked to Philip in a pleasant, off-hand fashion. Mr. Goodworthy would look after him. Watson was a nice fellow, perfect gentleman, good sportsman—did Philip hunt? Pity, THE sport for gentlemen. Didn’t have much chance of hunting now, had to leave that to his son. His son was at Cambridge, he’d sent him to Rugby, fine school Rugby, nice class of boys there, in a couple of years his son would be articled, that would be nice for Philip, he’d like his son, thorough sportsman. He hoped Philip would get on well and like the work, he mustn’t miss his lectures, they were getting up the tone of the profession, they wanted gentlemen in it. Well, well, Mr. Goodworthy was there. If he wanted to know anything Mr. Goodworthy would tell him. What was his handwriting like? Ah well, Mr. Goodworthy would see about that.

Philip was overwhelmed by so much gentlemanliness: in East Anglia they knew who were gentlemen and who weren’t, but the gentlemen didn’t talk about it.



第三十六章

数日之后，菲利普上伦敦去了。副牧师劝他住在巴恩斯，于是菲利普写信去那儿赁了一套房间，租金一周十四个先令。他到那儿已是黄昏时分。女房东是个古怪的老太婆，身子矮小而干瘪，脸上的皱纹又深又密。她替菲利普准备了顿便餐。起居室内大部分地盘让餐具柜和一张方桌占了，靠墙一侧放着一张覆盖着马鬃的沙发，壁炉边配置了一张扶手椅，椅背上套着白罩布，座子弹簧坏了，所以上面放了个硬垫子。
吃完便餐，菲利普解开行李，放好书籍，随后坐下来想看看书，却打不起精神。悄然无声的街道，使他有点忐忑不安，他觉得怪冷清的。
次日他一早就起床，穿好燕尾服，戴上礼帽。这顶帽子还是他以前在学校念书时戴的，寒论得很，他决计在去事务所的途中进百货店买顶新的。买好帽子，他发觉时间还早，便沿着河滨信步往前走。赫伯特·卡特先生公司的事务所坐落在法院街附近的一条小街上，菲利普不得不三番五次地向行人问路。他发觉过往行人老是在瞅自己，有一回他特地摘下帽子，看看是不是自己一时疏忽把标签留在上面了。到了事务所，他举手叩门，里面没人应声。他看了看表，发现刚刚九点半，心想自己来得太早了点。他转身走开去，十分钟后又回过来，这回有个打杂的小伙子出来开门了。那勤工长着个长鼻子，满脸粉刺，说话时一口苏格兰腔。菲利普问起赫伯特·卡特先生。他还没有上班视事呢。
"他什么时候来这儿？"
"十点到十点半之间。"
"我还是在这儿等吧？"菲利普说。
"您有事吗？"那个勤工问。
菲利普有点局促不安，他想用调侃的口吻来掩饰内心的慌张。
"嗯，如果您不反对的话，本人将在贵所工作。"
"哦，您是新来的练习生？请进来吧。古德沃西先生一会儿就到。"
菲利普进了事务所，他一边走，一边注意到那个勤工--他跟菲利普年龄相仿，自称是初级书记员-在打量他的脚，菲利普刷地涨红了脸，赶忙坐下来，把跛足藏到另一只脚的后面。他举目环顾了办公室，室内光线暗淡，而且邋遢得很，就靠屋顶天窗透进来的那几缕光照明。屋子里有三排办公桌，桌前靠放着高脚凳。壁炉架上放着一帧画面污秽的版画，画的是拳击赛的一个场面。这时办事员们陆陆续续来上班了。他们瞟了菲利普一眼，悄悄地问那勤工他是干什么来的（菲利普知道了那勤工叫麦克道格尔）。这时耳边响起一声口哨，麦克道格尔站起身。
"古德沃西先生来了，他是这儿的主管。要不要我去对他说您来了。"
"好的，劳驾您了，"菲利普说。
勤工走出去，不一会儿又回身进来。
"请这边来好吗？"
菲利普跟着他穿过走道，进了另一间狭小的斗室，里面空荡荡的，没有什么家具陈设。背对壁炉，站着个瘦小的男子，个儿比中等身材还矮一大截，脑袋瓜却挺大，松软地耷拉在身躯上，模样儿丑陋得出奇。他五官开豁而扁平，一双灰不溜丢的眼睛鼓突在外，稀稀拉拉的头发黄中带红，脸上胡子拉碴，应该长满须发的地方却偏偏寸毛不生。他的皮肤白里泛黄。他向菲利普伸出手来，同时咧嘴一笑，露出一口的蛀牙。他说话时，一届尊俯就的神态之中又露出几分畏怯，似乎他明知自己是个微不足道的角色，却偏要摆出一副不同凡响的架势来。他说他希望菲利普会爱上这门行当，当然罗，工作中颇多乏味之处，但一旦习惯了，也会感到兴味盎然的。毕竞是门赚钱的行当，这才是主要的，对不？他带着那种傲慢与畏怯交杂在一起的古怪神情，嘿嘿笑了起来。
"卡特先生马上就到，"他说。"星期一早晨，他有时来得稍晚一些。他来了我会叫你的。这会儿我得找点事给你干干罗。你学过点簿记或记帐吗？"
"没学过，"菲利普回答说。
"料你也没学过。那些商业中很管用的学间，学校里是从不教给学生的呢。"他沉吟片刻。"我想我能给你找到点事干干。"
他走进隔壁房间，隔了一会儿出来时，手里捧着个大硬纸板箱，里面塞满了一大堆乱七八糟的信件。他叫菲利普先把信件分分类，再按写信人姓氏的字母顺序整理好。
"让我领你到练习生办公的房间去。那儿有个很好的小伙子，名字叫华生，是华生·克莱格·汤普森公司老板华生的儿子--你也知道，是搞酿酒业的。他要在我们这儿见习一年。"
古德沃西先生领着菲利普穿过那间邋遢不堪的办公室--现在有六至八名职员在那儿办公---走进里面的狭窄后问，那是用一道玻璃板壁从大房间里隔出来的。他们看到华生靠着椅背在看《运动员》杂志。他是个体格结实、魁梧的年轻人，衣着很考究。古德沃西先生进屋时，他抬起头来。他对主管员直呼其名，借此显示自己的身分不同一般。主管员对他的这种故作亲昵颇不以为然，毫不含糊地冲着他叫华生先生，可是华生并不认为这是种指责，而把这一称呼看作是对他本人绅士气派的一种恭维。
"我看他们已把里哥雷托撤下来了，"等到只剩下他们两人时，他对菲利普说。
"是吗？"菲利普应了一声，他对马赛一无所知。
他望着华生那身华丽的衣饰，不由得肃然起敬。他的燕尾服非常合身，颈口的大领结中央，巧妙地别着一枚贵重的饰针。壁炉架上放着他的礼帽，帽子上瘦下肥，款式入时，且闪闪发亮。菲利普不免自惭形秽。华生开始谈起狩猎来--一在这么个鬼地方浪费光阴，简直窝囊透了，他只能在星期六去打一回猎--接着，话锋一转，又谈到了射击，邀请信从全国各地雪片似地向他飞来，多带劲，但他当然只好一一婉言谢绝罗。窝囊透了，好在受罪的时间不会太长，他只打算在这鬼地方混一年，然后就进商界去闯啦。到那时候，他可以每星期打上四天猎，还可参加各地的射击比赛。
"你要呆在这儿捱上五个年头，是吗？"他一边说，一边伸出条手臂朝小房间四下一挥。
"我想是吧，"菲利普说。
"日后我们还会有见面的机会。你也知道，我们公司的帐务是托卡特管的。"
菲利普可说是被这位青年绅士的降尊纡贵的气度震慑住了。在布莱克斯泰勃，人们对待酿酒行业虽不冷言相讥，却总怀有几分轻慢之意，牧师也常常拿酿酒业开句把玩笑。而现在菲利普发现，他面前的华生竟是这么个举足轻重、气宇轩昂的角色，大大出乎意外。他在温彻斯特公学和牛津大学念过书，交谈过程中他反复提到这一点，使人不能不留下深刻印象。当他了解到菲利普受教育的曲折经过，越发摆出一副曾经沧海的架势来。
"当然罗，一个人如果没上过公学，还以为那类学校是此数一数二的名牌学府呢，是吗？"
菲利普问起事务所内其他人的情况。
"哦，我才不同在他们身上费心思哩，"华生说。"卡特这老家伙还算不赖。我们时而请他来吃顿饭。其余的人嘛，净是些酒囊饭袋。"
说罢，他就埋头处理手头上的事务，菲利普也动手整理信件。不一会儿，古德沃西先生进来说卡特先生到了。他把菲利普领进他自己办公室旁边的一个大房间。房里放着一张大办公桌，两张大扶手椅，地板上铺着土耳其地毯，四周墙上挂着好多幅体育图片。卡特先生坐在办公桌旁，一见他们进来，就站起身来同菲利普握手。他穿着礼服大衣，模样儿像个军人，胡子上了蜡，灰白的头发短而齐整，昂首挺胸，腰杆笔直，说话时口气轻快，谈笑风生。他住在恩弗尔德，是个体育迷，追求乡间生活的情趣。他是哈福德郡义勇骑兵队的军官，又是保守党人协会的主席。当地有位大亨说，谁也不会把他当作伦敦城里人看待，他听说之后，觉得自己的这大半辈子总算没有白过。他跟菲利普随口交谈着，态度和蔼可亲。古德沃西先生不会亏待他的。华生这个人挺不错，是个道地的绅士，还是个出色的猎手--菲利普打猎吗？多可惜，这可是上等人的消遣哩。现在他很少有机会去狩猎了，得留给儿子去享受啦。他儿子在剑桥念书，以前进过拉格比--出色的拉格比公学，那儿培养的全是品学兼优的学生。再过一两年他儿子也要来此当练习生，那时菲利普就有伴了，菲利普准会喜欢他儿子的，他可是个百发百中的好猎手。他希望菲利普不断有所长进，爱上这儿的工作。他要给见习生上业务课，菲利普可千万别错过了，他们这一行正处于兴旺发达之时，要物色网罗有识之士。嗯，好了，古德沃西先生在那儿，如果菲利普还想了解什么，古德沃西先生会告诉他的。他的书法如何？啊，好，古德沃西先生会有所安排的。
这种洒脱飘逸的绅士风度，菲利普不能不为之折服倾倒：在东英吉利，人们知道谁是上等人，谁算不得上等人，然而上等人对此历来都是心照不宣的。
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chapter 37

At first the novelty of the work kept Philip interested. Mr. Carter dictated letters to him, and he had to make fair copies of statements of accounts.

Mr. Carter preferred to conduct the office on gentlemanly lines; he would have nothing to do with typewriting and looked upon shorthand with disfavour: the office-boy knew shorthand, but it was only Mr. Goodworthy who made use of his accomplishment. Now and then Philip with one of the more experienced clerks went out to audit the accounts of some firm: he came to know which of the clients must be treated with respect and which were in low water. Now and then long lists of figures were given him to add up. He attended lectures for his first examination. Mr. Goodworthy repeated to him that the work was dull at first, but he would grow used to it. Philip left the office at six and walked across the river to Waterloo. His supper was waiting for him when he reached his lodgings and he spent the evening reading. On Saturday afternoons he went to the National Gallery. Hayward had recommended to him a guide which had been compiled out of Ruskin’s works, and with this in hand he went industriously through room after room: he read carefully what the critic had said about a picture and then in a determined fashion set himself to see the same things in it. His Sundays were difficult to get through. He knew no one in London and spent them by himself. Mr. Nixon, the solicitor, asked him to spend a Sunday at Hampstead, and Philip passed a happy day with a set of exuberant strangers; he ate and drank a great deal, took a walk on the heath, and came away with a general invitation to come again whenever he liked; but he was morbidly afraid of being in the way, so waited for a formal invitation. Naturally enough it never came, for with numbers of friends of their own the Nixons did not think of the lonely, silent boy whose claim upon their hospitality was so small. So on Sundays he got up late and took a walk along the tow-path. At Barnes the river is muddy, dingy, and tidal; it has neither the graceful charm of the Thames above the locks nor the romance of the crowded stream below London Bridge. In the afternoon he walked about the common; and that is gray and dingy too; it is neither country nor town; the gorse is stunted; and all about is the litter of civilisation. He went to a play every Saturday night and stood cheerfully for an hour or more at the gallery-door. It was not worth while to go back to Barnes for the interval between the closing of the Museum and his meal in an A. B. C. shop, and the time hung heavily on his hands. He strolled up Bond Street or through the Burlington Arcade, and when he was tired went and sat down in the Park or in wet weather in the public library in St. Martin’s Lane. He looked at the people walking about and envied them because they had friends; sometimes his envy turned to hatred because they were happy and he was miserable. He had never imagined that it was possible to be so lonely in a great city. Sometimes when he was standing at the gallery-door the man next to him would attempt a conversation; but Philip had the country boy’s suspicion of strangers and answered in such a way as to prevent any further acquaintance. After the play was over, obliged to keep to himself all he thought about it, he hurried across the bridge to Waterloo. When he got back to his rooms, in which for economy no fire had been lit, his heart sank. It was horribly cheerless. He began to loathe his lodgings and the long solitary evenings he spent in them. Sometimes he felt so lonely that he could not read, and then he sat looking into the fire hour after hour in bitter wretchedness.

He had spent three months in London now, and except for that one Sunday at Hampstead had never talked to anyone but his fellow-clerks. One evening Watson asked him to dinner at a restaurant and they went to a music-hall together; but he felt shy and uncomfortable. Watson talked all the time of things he did not care about, and while he looked upon Watson as a Philistine he could not help admiring him. He was angry because Watson obviously set no store on his culture, and with his way of taking himself at the estimate at which he saw others held him he began to despise the acquirements which till then had seemed to him not unimportant. He felt for the first time the humiliation of poverty. His uncle sent him fourteen pounds a month and he had had to buy a good many clothes. His evening suit cost him five guineas. He had not dared tell Watson that it was bought in the Strand. Watson said there was only one tailor in London.

‘I suppose you don’t dance,’ said Watson, one day, with a glance at Philip’s club-foot.

‘No,’ said Philip.

‘Pity. I’ve been asked to bring some dancing men to a ball. I could have introduced you to some jolly girls.’

Once or twice, hating the thought of going back to Barnes, Philip had remained in town, and late in the evening wandered through the West End till he found some house at which there was a party. He stood among the little group of shabby people, behind the footmen, watching the guests arrive, and he listened to the music that floated through the window. Sometimes, notwithstanding the cold, a couple came on to the balcony and stood for a moment to get some fresh air; and Philip, imagining that they were in love with one another, turned away and limped along the street with a heavy hurt. He would never be able to stand in that man’s place. He felt that no woman could ever really look upon him without distaste for his deformity.

That reminded him of Miss Wilkinson. He thought of her without satisfaction. Before parting they had made an arrangement that she should write to Charing Cross Post Office till he was able to send her an address, and when he went there he found three letters from her. She wrote on blue paper with violet ink, and she wrote in French. Philip wondered why she could not write in English like a sensible woman, and her passionate expressions, because they reminded him of a French novel, left him cold. She upbraided him for not having written, and when he answered he excused himself by saying that he had been busy. He did not quite know how to start the letter. He could not bring himself to use dearest or darling, and he hated to address her as Emily, so finally he began with the word dear. It looked odd, standing by itself, and rather silly, but he made it do. It was the first love letter he had ever written, and he was conscious of its tameness; he felt that he should say all sorts of vehement things, how he thought of her every minute of the day and how he longed to kiss her beautiful hands and how he trembled at the thought of her red lips, but some inexplicable modesty prevented him; and instead he told her of his new rooms and his office. The answer came by return of post, angry, heart-broken, reproachful: how could he be so cold? Did he not know that she hung on his letters? She had given him all that a woman could give, and this was her reward. Was he tired of her already? Then, because he did not reply for several days, Miss Wilkinson bombarded him with letters. She could not bear his unkindness, she waited for the post, and it never brought her his letter, she cried herself to sleep night after night, she was looking so ill that everyone remarked on it: if he did not love her why did he not say so? She added that she could not live without him, and the only thing was for her to commit suicide. She told him he was cold and selfish and ungrateful. It was all in French, and Philip knew that she wrote in that language to show off, but he was worried all the same. He did not want to make her unhappy. In a little while she wrote that she could not bear the separation any longer, she would arrange to come over to London for Christmas. Philip wrote back that he would like nothing better, only he had already an engagement to spend Christmas with friends in the country, and he did not see how he could break it. She answered that she did not wish to force herself on him, it was quite evident that he did not wish to see her; she was deeply hurt, and she never thought he would repay with such cruelty all her kindness. Her letter was touching, and Philip thought he saw marks of her tears on the paper; he wrote an impulsive reply saying that he was dreadfully sorry and imploring her to come; but it was with relief that he received her answer in which she said that she found it would be impossible for her to get away. Presently when her letters came his heart sank: he delayed opening them, for he knew what they would contain, angry reproaches and pathetic appeals; they would make him feel a perfect beast, and yet he did not see with what he had to blame himself. He put off his answer from day to day, and then another letter would come, saying she was ill and lonely and miserable.

‘I wish to God I’d never had anything to do with her,’ he said.

He admired Watson because he arranged these things so easily. The young man had been engaged in an intrigue with a girl who played in touring companies, and his account of the affair filled Philip with envious amazement. But after a time Watson’s young affections changed, and one day he described the rupture to Philip.

‘I thought it was no good making any bones about it so I just told her I’d had enough of her,’ he said.

‘Didn’t she make an awful scene?’ asked Philip.

‘The usual thing, you know, but I told her it was no good trying on that sort of thing with me.’

‘Did she cry?’

‘She began to, but I can’t stand women when they cry, so I said she’d better hook it.’

Philip’s sense of humour was growing keener with advancing years.

‘And did she hook it?’ he asked smiling.

‘Well, there wasn’t anything else for her to do, was there?’

Meanwhile the Christmas holidays approached. Mrs. Carey had been ill all through November, and the doctor suggested that she and the Vicar should go to Cornwall for a couple of weeks round Christmas so that she should get back her strength. The result was that Philip had nowhere to go, and he spent Christmas Day in his lodgings. Under Hayward’s influence he had persuaded himself that the festivities that attend this season were vulgar and barbaric, and he made up his mind that he would take no notice of the day; but when it came, the jollity of all around affected him strangely. His landlady and her husband were spending the day with a married daughter, and to save trouble Philip announced that he would take his meals out. He went up to London towards mid-day and ate a slice of turkey and some Christmas pudding by himself at Gatti’s, and since he had nothing to do afterwards went to Westminster Abbey for the afternoon service. The streets were almost empty, and the people who went along had a preoccupied look; they did not saunter but walked with some definite goal in view, and hardly anyone was alone. To Philip they all seemed happy. He felt himself more solitary than he had ever done in his life. His intention had been to kill the day somehow in the streets and then dine at a restaurant, but he could not face again the sight of cheerful people, talking, laughing, and making merry; so he went back to Waterloo, and on his way through the Westminster Bridge Road bought some ham and a couple of mince pies and went back to Barnes. He ate his food in his lonely little room and spent the evening with a book. His depression was almost intolerable.

When he was back at the office it made him very sore to listen to Watson’s account of the short holiday. They had had some jolly girls staying with them, and after dinner they had cleared out the drawing-room and had a dance.

‘I didn’t get to bed till three and I don’t know how I got there then. By George, I was squiffy.’

At last Philip asked desperately:

‘How does one get to know people in London?’

Watson looked at him with surprise and with a slightly contemptuous amusement.

‘Oh, I don’t know, one just knows them. If you go to dances you soon get to know as many people as you can do with.’

Philip hated Watson, and yet he would have given anything to change places with him. The old feeling that he had had at school came back to him, and he tried to throw himself into the other’s skin, imagining what life would be if he were Watson.



第三十七章

一上来，由于工作很新鲜，菲利普并不感到乏味。卡特先生向他口授信稿，此外他还得缮写誊抄财务报表。

卡特先生希望把事务所办得更富有绅士气派；他不愿同打字文稿沾边，对速记也绝无好感。那位勤工会速记，但只有古德沃西先生利用他的这门特长。菲利普经常跟一位老资格的办事员去某家商行查帐，他渐渐摸清了客户的底细：对哪些客户须恭而敬之，而哪些客户境况不妙，头寸紧得很。人们不时交给他一长串一长串的帐目要他统计。为了应付第一次考试，他还要去听课。古德沃西先生几次三番地对他说，这门行当嘛，一开始虽觉得枯燥乏味，但他慢慢会习惯起来的。菲利普六时下班，安步当车，穿过河来到滑铁卢区。等他到了寓所，晚饭已给他准备好了。整个晚上他呆在家里看书。每逢星期六下午，他总去国家美术馆转上一圈。海沃德曾介绍他看一本游览指南，是根据罗斯金的作品编纂而成的，菲利普手里捧着这本指南，不知疲倦地从一间陈列室转到另一间陈列室：他先是仔细研读这位批评家对某幅名画的评论，然后按图索骥，审视画面，不把该画的真髓找出来决不罢休。星期天的时间，就颇难打发了。他在伦敦没一个熟人，常常只好孤零零地捱过一天。某个星期天，律师尼克逊先生曾邀他去汉普斯泰德作客，菲利普混在一伙精力旺盛的陌生人里面度过了愉快的一天。酒足饭饱之后，还到公园里溜了一圈。告辞的时候，主人泛泛地说了声请他有空时再来玩。可他深恐自己的造访会打扰主人家，因此一直在等候正式邀请。不用说，他以后再也没等到，因为尼克逊家经常高朋满座，他们哪会想到这么个孤独、寡言的年轻人呢，何况又不欠他什么人情。因此，他星期天总是很晚才起身，随后就在河滨的纤路上散散步。巴恩斯那儿的泰晤士河，河水污秽浑浊，随着海潮时涨时落。那儿既看不到船闸上游一带引人入胜的绮丽风光，也不见伦敦大桥下那种后浪推前浪的壮观奇景。下午，他在公用草地上四下闲逛。那里也是灰不溜丢的，脏得够呛，既不属于乡村，也算不上是城镇；那儿的金雀花长得又矮又小，满眼皆是文明世界扔出来的杂乱废物。（星期六晚上，他总要去看场戏，兴致勃勃地在顶层楼座的厅门旁边站上个把小时。）博物馆关门之后，去A．B．C．咖啡馆吃饭还太早，要在这段时问里回巴恩斯一次，似乎又不值得。时间真不知如何消磨才好。他或是沿证券街溜达一会，或是在伯林顿拱道上信步闲逛，感到疲倦了，就去公园小坐片刻，如果碰上雨天，就到圣马丁街的公共图书馆看看书。他瞅着路上熙来攘往的行人，羡慕他们都有亲朋好反。有时这种羡慕会演变为憎恨，因为他们足那么幸福，而自己却是这般凄苫。他从未想到，身居偌大一座闹市，竟会感到如此孤寂。有时他站在顶层楼座门边看戏，身旁看客想同他搭讪几句，菲利普出于乡巴佬对陌生人固有的猜疑，在答话中总是爱理不理的，致使对方接不住话茬，攀谈不下去。戏散场后，他只好把自己的观感憋在肚子里，匆匆穿过大桥来到滑铁卢区。等回到自己寓所--为了省几个钱，房间里连个火都舍不得生--心灰意懒到了极点。生活凄凉得可怕。他开始厌恶这所客寓，厌恶在这里度过的悲凉凄清的漫漫长夜。有时候他感到孤独难熬，连书也看不进去，于是就一小时又一小时地坐在屋里发愣，双眼死瞪着壁炉，陷于极大的悲苦之中。

此时他已在伦敦住了三个月，除了在汉普斯泰德度过了那个星期天外，他至多也只是同事务所的同事们交谈过几句。一天晚上，华生邀他去饭店吃饭，饭后又一起上杂耍剧场，但他感到怯生生的，浑身不自在。华生侃侃而谈，讲的净是些他不感兴趣的事。在他看来，华生自然是个市井之徒，但他又情不自禁地羡慕他。他感到气愤，因为华生显然并不把他的文化素养放在眼里，可是根据别人的评价再来重新估量自己，他也禁不住藐视起自己那一肚子的一向自认为并非无足轻重的学问来了。他生平第一回感到贫穷是件丢脸的事。他大伯按月寄给他十四镑，他还得靠这笔钱添置许多衣服。单单晚礼服就花了他五个畿尼。他不敢告诉华生这套晚礼服是在河滨街买的。华生说过真正像样的裁缝店，全伦敦只有一家。

"我想你不会跳舞吧，"有一天，华生这么说着，朝菲利普的跛足扫了一眼。

"不会，"菲利普说。

"可惜有人要我约几个会跳舞的人去参加个舞会。要不然，我满可以介绍你认识几个讨人喜欢的小妞。"

有一两次，菲利普实在不想回巴恩斯，就留在市里，一直逛荡到深夜。这时，他发现有一幢宅邸，里面正在举行社交聚会。他混在一群衣衫褴褴的人里面，站在仆役的背后，看着宾客们纷至沓来，谛听着从窗口飘来的音乐。有时一对男女，不顾夜凉气寒，到阳台上来站一会儿，呼吸几口新鲜空气，在菲利普想来，他俩一定是堕入情网的情侣。他赶紧转过身子，怀着沉重的心情，一瘸一拐地继续踽踽前行。那个男子交上了桃花运，可他自己永远也不会有这么一天。他觉得天底下没有哪个女子会真心不嫌恶他的残疾。

这使他想起威尔金森小姐。即使想到她，心里也不觉着快慰。他们分手时曾讲定：她在知道他的确切地址之前，就把信投寄至切尔林克罗斯邮局。菲利普去邮局取信时，一下子拿到了三封。她用的是紫墨水、蓝信笺，而且是用法语写的。菲利普暗自纳闷，她干吗不能像个有见地的女人那样用英语写呢？尽管她情话绵绵，却丝毫打动不了他的心，因为信的措词使他想起了法国小说。她责怪菲利普为什么不给她写信，他回信推托说自己工作忙。一上来他还真不知道信该用什么抬头，他说什么也不愿用"最亲爱的"或者"心肝宝贝"之类的称呼，也不高兴称她埃米莉，所以最后就用了"亲爱的"这样的抬头。它孤零零吊在那儿，看上去不但别扭，而且有点傻乎乎的，但他还是这么用了。这是他有生以来所写的第一封情书，他自己也知道信写得平淡乏味。他觉得，应该用上各种热得发烫的言词来倾吐自己的感情，说他无时不在思念她呀，如何渴望吻她美丽的双手啊，如何一想到她那红艳欲滴的嘴唇心弦就止不住颤动啊，等等。但是，出于某种难以言传的羞怯心理，他并没这样写，而只是向她谈了一下自己的新寓所和他上班的地方。下一班回邮带来了她的回信，满纸都是愤激而辛酸的责备之词：他怎么能这般冷酷无情！他难道不知道她在痴痴地等待他的回信？她把一个女人所能给予的全奉献给了他，而她得到的竟是这样的酬报！是不是他已经对她厌倦了？他好几天没有回信，于是威尔金森小姐的信就像雪片似的向他袭来，大兴问罪之师。她无法忍受他的寡情薄义；她望眼欲穿地盼望鸿雁传书，却终未见有他的片言只语。夜复一夜，她都是噙着泪珠入梦的。她现在是斯人独憔悴，大家都在私下议论纷纷。他要是不爱她，干吗不干脆直说呢？接着她又说，一旦失去了他，她自己也没法活了，就只有了结残生这样一条出路。她责备他冷酷自私，忘恩负义。所有这些都是用法语写的。菲利普心里明白，她这么做是存心向他炫耀，不管怎么说，她的来信搞得他忧心如焚。他并不想惹她伤心。过了不久，她写信来说她再也忍受不了这种身居异地的相思之苦，要设法到伦敦来过圣诞节。菲利普赶紧回信说，他巴不得她能来呢，可惜他已同朋友有约在先，要到乡间去过圣诞节，总不能临时变卦自食其言吧？她回信说，她并不想死皮赖脸地来缠住他，明摆着是他不希望见到自己嘛，这不能不使她深感痛心，她从没想到他会如此薄情地报答她的一片痴心。她的信写得缠绵排恻，菲利普觉得信笺上泪痕依稀可见。他一时冲动，写了封回信，说他十二万分抱歉，恳求她到伦敦来，直到收到她的回信才算松了口气，因为她信上说，眼下实在抽不出身来。这之后，他一收到她的来信，心就发凉，迟迟不敢拆开。他知道信中的内容无非是愤怒的责备，外加悲戚的哀求。看到这些信，不免让自己感到是个无情无义的负心汉，可是他不明白自己有什么该引咎自责的。他迟迟不愿提笔复信，一天一天往后拖，接着她就又寄来一封信，说她病倒了，感到寂寞而悲苦。

"上帝啊，当初真不该同她发生这层瓜葛啊！"他说。

他佩服华生，因为他处理起这类事情来毫不费劲。华生和巡回剧团的一个姑娘勾搭上了，他绘声绘色地描述这段风流事，听得菲利普惊羡不已。可是过了不多久，喜新厌旧的华生变了心。一天，他向菲利普介绍了同那姑娘一刀两断的经过。

"我看，在这种事儿上优柔寡断没半点好处。我开门见山地对她说，我已经同你玩腻啦，"他说。

"她没大吵大闹？"菲利普问。

"你也知道，这当然免不了的罗。但我对她说，别跟我来这一套，没什么用处的。"

"她可哭了？"

"开始哭鼻子啦！可我最头疼那些哭哭啼啼的娘们，所以我当即对她说，还是知趣点儿，趁早溜吧。"

随着年岁的增长，菲利普的幽默感也益见敏锐。

"她就这么夹着尾巴溜了？"他笑着问。

"嗯。她除此之外还有什么别的妙着呢，嗯？"

圣诞节一天天临近了。整个十一月，凯里太太一直在害病，医生建议她和牧师最好在圣诞节前后去康威尔住上几个星期，让她好生调养调养。这一来，菲利普可没了去处，只好在自己寓所内消度圣诞节。由于受到海沃德的影响，菲利普也接受了这种说法：圣诞节期间的那一套喜庆活动，既庸俗又放肆。所以他打定主意别去理会这个节日。可是真的到了这一大，家家户户喜气洋洋的节日气氛，却使他无端伤感，愁肠百结。节日里，房东太太和丈夫要同已出嫁的女儿团聚，菲利普为了不给他们添麻烦，宣布他要到外面去吃饭。将近中午，他才去伦敦，独自在凯蒂餐馆吃了一片火鸡和一客圣诞节布丁。饭后他闲得发慌，便到西敏寺去做午祷。整个街道空荡荡的，即使有三两个行人，看上去也都是带着副若有所思的神态，急匆匆地赶去某个地方，没一个人在逛荡转悠，差不多全是结伴而行。在菲利普看来，他们似乎全是有福之人，唯独他形单影只，从没像现在这样感到孤苦伶仃。他原打算无论如何要在街头把这一天消磨掉，然后到某个饭馆去吃顿晚饭。可是面对这些兴高采烈的人群--他们在说笑，在寻欢作乐--他再也呆不下去，所以他还是折回滑铁卢，在路过西敏桥路时买了一些火腿和几块碎肉馅饼，回到巴恩斯来。他在冷清清的小房间里胡乱吞了些食物充饥，晚上就借书解闷，万股愁思压得他几乎没法忍受。

节后回事务所上班时，华生津津有味地谈着自己是如何欢度这个短暂节日的，菲利普听了越发不是滋味。他们家来了几位挺活泼可爱的姑娘，晚饭后，他们把起居室腾出来，开了个舞会。

"我一直玩到三点钟才上床，嘿，真不知道是怎么爬上床的。天哪，我喝得个酩酊大醉。"

最后，菲利普鼓足勇气，不顾一切地问：

"在伦敦，人们是怎么结交朋友的？"

华生惊讶地望着他，暗觉好笑的神色之中又夹着几分鄙夷。

"哦，叫我怎么说呢。就这么认识了呗。你如果经常去跳舞，就会立刻结识许多人，只要你应付得过来，结识多少都行。"

菲利普对华生绝无好感，可他甘愿牺牲自己的一切，只求能换得华生的地位。昔日在学校里经受过的那种感觉，又在心田悄然复萌。他让自己钻进别人的皮囊，想象自己若是华生，会过着什么样的生活。
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