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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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chapter 78

At last Monday came, and Philip thought his long torture was over. Looking out the trains he found that the latest by which Griffiths could reach home that night left Oxford soon after one, and he supposed that Mildred would take one which started a few minutes later to bring her to London. His desire was to go and meet it, but he thought Mildred would like to be left alone for a day; perhaps she would drop him a line in the evening to say she was back, and if not he would call at her lodgings next morning: his spirit was cowed. He felt a bitter hatred for Griffiths, but for Mildred, notwithstanding all that had passed, only a heart-rending desire. He was glad now that Hayward was not in London on Saturday afternoon when, distraught, he went in search of human comfort: he could not have prevented himself from telling him everything, and Hayward would have been astonished at his weakness. He would despise him, and perhaps be shocked or disgusted that he could envisage the possibility of making Mildred his mistress after she had given herself to another man. What did he care if it was shocking or disgusting? He was ready for any compromise, prepared for more degrading humiliations still, if he could only gratify his desire.

Towards the evening his steps took him against his will to the house in which she lived, and he looked up at her window. It was dark. He did not venture to ask if she was back. He was confident in her promise. But there was no letter from her in the morning, and, when about mid-day he called, the maid told him she had not arrived. He could not understand it. He knew that Griffiths would have been obliged to go home the day before, for he was to be best man at a wedding, and Mildred had no money. He turned over in his mind every possible thing that might have happened. He went again in the afternoon and left a note, asking her to dine with him that evening as calmly as though the events of the last fortnight had not happened. He mentioned the place and time at which they were to meet, and hoping against hope kept the appointment: though he waited for an hour she did not come. On Wednesday morning he was ashamed to ask at the house and sent a messenger-boy with a letter and instructions to bring back a reply; but in an hour the boy came back with Philip’s letter unopened and the answer that the lady had not returned from the country. Philip was beside himself. The last deception was more than he could bear. He repeated to himself over and over again that he loathed Mildred, and, ascribing to Griffiths this new disappointment, he hated him so much that he knew what was the delight of murder: he walked about considering what a joy it would be to come upon him on a dark night and stick a knife into his throat, just about the carotid artery, and leave him to die in the street like a dog. Philip was out of his senses with grief and rage. He did not like whiskey, but he drank to stupefy himself. He went to bed drunk on the Tuesday and on the Wednesday night.

On Thursday morning he got up very late and dragged himself, blear-eyed and sallow, into his sitting-room to see if there were any letters. A curious feeling shot through his heart when he recognised the handwriting of Griffiths.

Dear old man:

I hardly know how to write to you and yet I feel I must write. I hope you’re not awfully angry with me. I know I oughtn’t to have gone away with Milly, but I simply couldn’t help myself. She simply carried me off my feet and I would have done anything to get her. When she told me you had offered us the money to go I simply couldn’t resist. And now it’s all over I’m awfully ashamed of myself and I wish I hadn’t been such a fool. I wish you’d write and say you’re not angry with me, and I want you to let me come and see you. I was awfully hurt at your telling Milly you didn’t want to see me. Do write me a line, there’s a good chap, and tell me you forgive me. It’ll ease my conscience. I thought you wouldn’t mind or you wouldn’t have offered the money. But I know I oughtn’t to have taken it. I came home on Monday and Milly wanted to stay a couple of days at Oxford by herself. She’s going back to London on Wednesday, so by the time you receive this letter you will have seen her and I hope everything will go off all right. Do write and say you forgive me. Please write at once.

Yours ever, Harry.

Philip tore up the letter furiously. He did not mean to answer it. He despised Griffiths for his apologies, he had no patience with his prickings of conscience: one could do a dastardly thing if one chose, but it was contemptible to regret it afterwards. He thought the letter cowardly and hypocritical. He was disgusted at its sentimentality.

‘It would be very easy if you could do a beastly thing,’ he muttered to himself, ‘and then say you were sorry, and that put it all right again.’

He hoped with all his heart he would have the chance one day to do Griffiths a bad turn.

But at all events he knew that Mildred was in town. He dressed hurriedly, not waiting to shave, drank a cup of tea, and took a cab to her rooms. The cab seemed to crawl. He was painfully anxious to see her, and unconsciously he uttered a prayer to the God he did not believe in to make her receive him kindly. He only wanted to forget. With beating heart he rang the bell. He forgot all his suffering in the passionate desire to enfold her once more in his arms.

‘Is Mrs. Miller in?’ he asked joyously.

‘She’s gone,’ the maid answered.

He looked at her blankly.

‘She came about an hour ago and took away her things.’

For a moment he did not know what to say.

‘Did you give her my letter? Did she say where she was going?’

Then he understood that Mildred had deceived him again. She was not coming back to him. He made an effort to save his face.

‘Oh, well, I daresay I shall hear from her. She may have sent a letter to another address.’

He turned away and went back hopeless to his rooms. He might have known that she would do this; she had never cared for him, she had made a fool of him from the beginning; she had no pity, she had no kindness, she had no charity. The only thing was to accept the inevitable. The pain he was suffering was horrible, he would sooner be dead than endure it; and the thought came to him that it would be better to finish with the whole thing: he might throw himself in the river or put his neck on a railway line; but he had no sooner set the thought into words than he rebelled against it. His reason told him that he would get over his unhappiness in time; if he tried with all his might he could forget her; and it would be grotesque to kill himself on account of a vulgar slut. He had only one life, and it was madness to fling it away. He FELT that he would never overcome his passion, but he KNEW that after all it was only a matter of time.

He would not stay in London. There everything reminded him of his unhappiness. He telegraphed to his uncle that he was coming to Blackstable, and, hurrying to pack, took the first train he could. He wanted to get away from the sordid rooms in which he had endured so much suffering. He wanted to breathe clean air. He was disgusted with himself. He felt that he was a little mad.

Since he was grown up Philip had been given the best spare room at the vicarage. It was a corner-room and in front of one window was an old tree which blocked the view, but from the other you saw, beyond the garden and the vicarage field, broad meadows. Philip remembered the wall-paper from his earliest years. On the walls were quaint water colours of the early Victorian period by a friend of the Vicar’s youth. They had a faded charm. The dressing-table was surrounded by stiff muslin. There was an old tall-boy to put your clothes in. Philip gave a sigh of pleasure; he had never realised that all those things meant anything to him at all. At the vicarage life went on as it had always done. No piece of furniture had been moved from one place to another; the Vicar ate the same things, said the same things, went for the same walk every day; he had grown a little fatter, a little more silent, a little more narrow. He had become accustomed to living without his wife and missed her very little. He bickered still with Josiah Graves. Philip went to see the churchwarden. He was a little thinner, a little whiter, a little more austere; he was autocratic still and still disapproved of candles on the altar. The shops had still a pleasant quaintness; and Philip stood in front of that in which things useful to seamen were sold, sea-boots and tarpaulins and tackle, and remembered that he had felt there in his childhood the thrill of the sea and the adventurous magic of the unknown.

He could not help his heart beating at each double knock of the postman in case there might be a letter from Mildred sent on by his landlady in London; but he knew that there would be none. Now that he could think it out more calmly he understood that in trying to force Mildred to love him he had been attempting the impossible. He did not know what it was that passed from a man to a woman, from a woman to a man, and made one of them a slave: it was convenient to call it the sexual instinct; but if it was no more than that, he did not understand why it should occasion so vehement an attraction to one person rather than another. It was irresistible: the mind could not battle with it; friendship, gratitude, interest, had no power beside it. Because he had not attracted Mildred sexually, nothing that he did had any effect upon her. The idea revolted him; it made human nature beastly; and he felt suddenly that the hearts of men were full of dark places. Because Mildred was indifferent to him he had thought her sexless; her anaemic appearance and thin lips, the body with its narrow hips and flat chest, the languor of her manner, carried out his supposition; and yet she was capable of sudden passions which made her willing to risk everything to gratify them. He had never understood her adventure with Emil Miller: it had seemed so unlike her, and she had never been able to explain it; but now that he had seen her with Griffiths he knew that just the same thing had happened then: she had been carried off her feet by an ungovernable desire. He tried to think out what those two men had which so strangely attracted her. They both had a vulgar facetiousness which tickled her simple sense of humour, and a certain coarseness of nature; but what took her perhaps was the blatant sexuality which was their most marked characteristic. She had a genteel refinement which shuddered at the facts of life, she looked upon the bodily functions as indecent, she had all sorts of euphemisms for common objects, she always chose an elaborate word as more becoming than a simple one: the brutality of these men was like a whip on her thin white shoulders, and she shuddered with voluptuous pain.

One thing Philip had made up his mind about. He would not go back to the lodgings in which he had suffered. He wrote to his landlady and gave her notice. He wanted to have his own things about him. He determined to take unfurnished rooms: it would be pleasant and cheaper; and this was an urgent consideration, for during the last year and a half he had spent nearly seven hundred pounds. He must make up for it now by the most rigid economy. Now and then he thought of the future with panic; he had been a fool to spend so much money on Mildred; but he knew that if it were to come again he would act in the same way. It amused him sometimes to consider that his friends, because he had a face which did not express his feelings very vividly and a rather slow way of moving, looked upon him as strong-minded, deliberate, and cool. They thought him reasonable and praised his common sense; but he knew that his placid expression was no more than a mask, assumed unconsciously, which acted like the protective colouring of butterflies; and himself was astonished at the weakness of his will. It seemed to him that he was swayed by every light emotion, as though he were a leaf in the wind, and when passion seized him he was powerless. He had no self-control. He merely seemed to possess it because he was indifferent to many of the things which moved other people.

He considered with some irony the philosophy which he had developed for himself, for it had not been of much use to him in the conjuncture he had passed through; and he wondered whether thought really helped a man in any of the critical affairs of life: it seemed to him rather that he was swayed by some power alien to and yet within himself, which urged him like that great wind of Hell which drove Paolo and Francesca ceaselessly on. He thought of what he was going to do and, when the time came to act, he was powerless in the grasp of instincts, emotions, he knew not what. He acted as though he were a machine driven by the two forces of his environment and his personality; his reason was someone looking on, observing the facts but powerless to interfere: it was like those gods of Epicurus, who saw the doings of men from their empyrean heights and had no might to alter one smallest particle of what occurred.

第七十八章

星期一终于盼来了，菲利普心想精神上的旷日持久的折磨总算熬到了头。他查阅了火车时刻表，发现格里菲思乘最晚一班车可于当天夜里赶到故里，这班车将于下午一点后不久从牛津发出。他估计米尔德丽德将赶几分钟以后的那趟车返回伦敦。他真想去车站接她，但转而一想，米尔德丽德也许喜欢独自呆上一天，说不定这天夜里她会寄封短信来，告诉他她已经回到了伦敦，要不他就第二天到她住处去看望她。想到又要同她见面，他心里不觉有些黯然。他对格里菲思恨之人骨；而对米尔德丽德，尽管出了那么多事，却还怀有一种虽令人心酸但依然灼热的情欲。菲利普庆幸的是海沃德星期六下午离开了伦敦，发狂似的外出寻求人生的乐趣去了。要是海沃德还在伦敦，那他无论如何也熬不住不把这一切告诉海沃德，而海沃德定会对他的懦弱无能感到惊讶。当知道菲利普在米尔德丽德委身于另一个男人之后，居然还想她做自己的情妇，海沃德一定会鄙视他的，同时会感到震惊、厌恶。管它是震惊还是厌恶，他才不在乎呢！只要他能一遂平生所愿，让自己的欲望得以满足，他随时可以作出任何让步，并已作好准备，就是蒙受更加辱没人格的耻辱也在所不惜。

薄暮时分，他的两条腿违心地把他带到了米尔德丽德的寓所门外。菲利普抬头望了望她房间的窗户，黑洞洞的没见掌灯，但他驻步不前，不敢去打听她的消息，因为他对米尔德丽德的应许深信不疑。翌晨，他没见有信，便于中午时分跑去探问。那儿的女用人告诉他，米尔德丽德还没有回来。对此，他迷惑不解。他知道格里菲思不得不于前天赶回老家的，因为他要在一次婚礼上充当男演相，再说，米尔德丽德身上没钱啊。他脑子里顿时折腾开了，反复考虑着种种可能发生的事情。下午，菲利普又去了一趟，并留下张便条，邀请米尔德丽德晚上同他一道吃晚饭，措词口气平和，仿佛近半个月来压根儿没发生什么事似的。他在便条中写明地点和时间，并抱着米尔德丽德会准时践约的一线希望，耐心地等着。一个小时过去了，却不见她的人影儿。星期三早晨，菲利普不再好意思跑去询问了，便差一位信童去送信，并嘱咐他带个回音来。可是不出一个小时，那位信童回来了，带去的信原封不动地拿了回来。他报告菲利普，说那位女士还在乡下，尚未返回伦敦。菲利普简直要发狂了，正是米尔德丽德的这一谎言的打击使他难以忍受。他反复地喃喃自语，说他厌恶米尔德丽德，并把由米尔德丽德撒谎所带来的失意心情迁怒于格里菲思。他恨死了格里菲思，此时叫他用刀宰了格里菲思也是高兴的。菲利普在房间里踱来踱去，心想要是趁黑夜突然扑到他身上，对准喉部的颈动脉给他一刀，瞅着他像条癞皮狗似地倒在街头，那该有多么痛快啊。菲利普悲愤填膺，气得灵魂出窍。他一向不喜欢喝威士忌，但还是喝了，借以麻木自己的神经。星期二星期三，接连两晚，他都喝得酩酊大醉才上床睡觉。

星期四早晨，他起得很迟。他醉眼惺忪，一脸莱色，踽踽曳足来到起居间，看看有没有他的信。他一看到格里菲思的字体笔迹，一种莫可名状的感觉袭扰着他的心头。

亲爱的老兄：

此信不知从何落笔，但又不能不写。我希望你不要生我的气。我知道我不该带米莉出来，但无奈情火灼热，不能自已。她简直把我给迷住了，为了得到她，我完全会不择手段。当她告诉我你主动为我们出盘缠的时候，我哪里会拒绝呢。眼下，一切都成了过眼烟云。我真为自己感到害臊，要是当初我不那么昏头昏脑，该有多好啊！我希望你能写封信给我，说你不生我的气，同时我还希望你能允许我去看望你。千万给我写上几句，好老兄，告诉我你宽恕我。这样，才能使我的良心稍安。我当时认为你不持异议，否则你就不会主动给我们钱了。但是我知道我不该接受那笔钱。我于星期一抵达故乡，而米莉想独自在牛津多呆几天。她准备于星期三返回伦敦，因此，当你接到此信，你可能已经见到她了。但愿一切都会好起来。万望赐我一信，说你宽恕我。急盼回音。

你的忠实的朋友

哈利

菲利普怒不可遏，把信撕了个粉碎，他根本无意回复。他蔑视格里菲思的道歉，不能忍耐格里菲思对自己良心的那番谴责。一个人完全可以做出卑怯的事来，但是事情一过又忏悔，那才是卑鄙的。菲利普认为格里菲思的来信正表明他是个懦夫和伪君子，他对信中流露出来的伤感情绪深恶痛绝。

"你干下了畜生似的勾当，然后只消说声道歉，就什么事都没了，这倒轻巧呀！"菲利普喃喃自语道。

他内心深处盼着能有个机会给格里菲思点厉害瞧瞧。

不过，他知道米尔德丽德无论如何是已经回到了伦敦，便匆匆穿上衣服，也顾不得刮脸了，喝了点茶后就雇了辆马车，赶往米尔德丽德的寓所。马车好似蜗牛爬行。他急煎煎地想见到米尔德丽德，不知不觉地向他根本不相信的上帝祷告起来了，祈求上帝让米尔德丽德态度和善地接待他菲利普。他只求把以往的一切都忘掉。他怀揣着一颗狂跳不止的心，举手按着门铃。他满怀激情，急欲再次把米尔德丽德紧紧搂抱在自己的怀里，这当儿，他把以往遭受的痛苦都抛到了九霄云外。

"米勒太太在家吗？"菲利普快活地问道。

"她走了，"女用人回答说。

菲利普茫然地望着女用人。

"一个钟头以前她来这里把她的东西搬走了。"

有好一会儿，菲利普不知该说些什么。

"你把我的信交给她了吗？她说过她搬到哪儿了吗？"

菲利普顿然领悟到米尔德丽德又欺骗了他。她是决计不回到他身边来了。他极力在这位女用人面前挽回自己的面子。

"哦，嗯，我肯定马上就可以收到她的信的，兴许她把信寄往另一个地赴了。"

说罢，菲利普转身就走，神情沮丧地回到了自己的寓所。他完全可以料到她会这么做的；她从来就不把他放在心上，打一开始就当他是个傻瓜。她毫无怜悯之心，待人一点也不厚道，也没有一丝仁爱。眼下他只能忍气吞声地接受这不可避免的结局。他悲恸欲绝，宁愿去死，也不愿忍受这般痛苦的折磨。突然间，他想一了百了倒还好些：他可以去投河，也可以去卧轨，但是还没来得及说出这些想法就一一否决了。理智告诉菲利普，到时候这个不幸的遭遇会被忘怀的，只要他下狠心，也可以把米尔德丽德从脑海中抹去；为了一个俗不可耐的荡妇而去结果自己的生命，那是十分荒唐的。生命只有一次，无故把它抛去则是疯狂的举动。他感觉到他永远克服不了自己的情欲，不过他也明白说到底这只是个时间的问题。

菲利普不愿再在伦敦呆下去了。这儿的一切无不使他回忆起自己遭受的种种不幸。他先给大伯打了个电报，说他马上去布莱克斯泰勃，然后匆匆整理行装，搭乘最早的一趟车走了。他一心想离开那几个肮脏的房间，因为正是在那儿，痛苦接踵而至，一一降临到他的头上！他要呼吸一下清新空气。他厌恶自己，觉得自己有些儿疯了。

自菲利普长大成人，牧师大伯就把牧师公馆里最好的备用房间给了他。这个房间位于公馆的一角，一扇窗前有棵百年老树挡住了视线，不过从另一扇窗口望出去，可以看到在公馆花园和空地的尽头，有一片开阔的芳草地。房间里的糊墙纸，菲利普打幼年时代起就熟记于心了。墙四周贴满了描绘维多利亚时代早期的风格古雅的水彩画，都是牧师大伯年轻时候的一位朋友画的。画面的色彩虽说已经褪去，但风韵犹存。梳妆台的四周围着价格昂贵的薄纱绸。房间里还有一只放衣服的高脚柜。菲利普欣慰地叹了口气，他从没有意识到所有这一切对他还会有多大的用处。牧师公馆里的生活依然如故。没有一件家具挪动过位置。牧师大伯的食谱、谈吐一应如前，没有变化，每天工作之余，还是要散上一会儿步。所不同的是，他稍长胖了些，话儿更少了些，气量更狭小了些。对鳏夫的生活，他已经习惯了，因此很少想念他的亡妻。他还是动辄就同乔赛亚·格雷夫斯发生口角。菲利普跑去看望了这位教会执事。他显得较前清癯，脸色也苍白了些，表情更为严肃。他仍然独断独行，还对把蜡烛插在圣坛上这件事耿耿于怀。那几爿店依然呈现出一派古朴气氛，看来令人爽心说目。菲利普伫立在那爿专售诸如高统靴、防雨油布衣帽和帆的滑车索具之类的航海用品的商店跟前，这当儿，他回忆起孩提时代的情景来。那会儿，他感到这爿店里弥漫着那令人惊心动魄的海上生活的乐趣，富有一种诱发人们去未知世界探险的魅力。

每次邮差来"笃笃"敲门时，菲利普的那颗心总是控制不住地怦怦直跳，说不定房东太太会转来米尔德丽德给他的信件。但是，他肚里明白，根本不会有他的信的。如今，他能比较冷静地思考问题了。他认识到他试图强迫米尔德丽德爱自己，无疑是缘木求鱼。一个男人给予一个女人的、一个女人给予一个男人的究竟是什么东西，而这东西又为什么能使一个男人或一个女人变成顺从对方的奴隶，对此，菲利普一窍不通。把这种东西叫作性欲的本能倒是方便的。不过，要是事情还不仅仅于此，他又弄不懂为什么有时它会强烈地吸引着一个人，而对另一个人却毫无吸引力呢？这种东西是不可抗拒的。理智不是它的对手；而与他相比，什么友谊啦，感激啦，利益啦，统统软弱无力。正因为他激不起米尔德丽德的性欲冲动，所以他所做的一切对米尔德丽德不起一丝一毫的作用。这个想法使得菲利普感到恶心，这使得人类的本性与走兽无异了。蓦地，他感到人们的心灵里也有见不得人的阴暗角落。因为米尔德丽德对他的态度冷漠，所以他就认为她毫无性感，还认为她那毫无血色的容颜、两片薄薄的嘴唇、那臀部狭小和胸脯扁平的身材，还有那有气无力的动作，无不一一证实了他的假设。然而，她有时却情欲突发，不能自制，甚至敢冒天大的危险，以填欲壑。他永远也捉摸不透她同埃米尔·米勒之间的风流韵事，这似乎不像是她所能干出来的，而她自己也不可能解释。不过，眼下他亲眼目睹了她同格里菲思的勾搭成奸，知道这是旧事重演，她完全为一种抑制不住的欲望迷住了心窍。菲利普力图找出究竟是什么东西使得那两个男人对米尔德丽德具有神奇的吸引力。他们俩均本性粗俗，都拥有一种能挑起她平庸的幽默感的庸俗的逗笑本领，而使他们能得手的也许还是放浪形骸的性行为，这正是他们俩与众不同的特别之处。米尔德丽德感情细腻，举止文雅，一看到人生的赤裸裸的事实而感到战栗。她认为肉体的作用是不光彩的，谈论简单的事物时，她都运用各种各样委婉的说法，说话总是煞费苦心地挑个精确恰当的字眼儿，认为这样要比用简单的字眼儿更为适宜。所以，那两个男人的兽性犹如一根鞭子，在抽打着她那苍白纤弱的肩膀，而她怀着耽迷肉欲的痛苦的心情不住地颤抖着。

有件事菲利普已经下决心要付诸行动。他可不愿意再回到原先租赁的房间去了，因为在那儿他遭到了不堪忍受的痛苦。他写了封信通知房东太太。他想把属于自己的东西全部带走，决定另租几间没有家具的房间，这样的房间住了又舒服又便宜。他这样考虑也是迫于情势，因为在过去的一年半时间里，他花了近七百英镑，他得最大限度地紧缩开支，以弥补过去的亏损。间或他展望未来，不寒而栗。他过去真傻，竟在米尔德丽德身上花那么多钱。不过他心里明白，要是事情再重演一遍，他还是会那么千的。菲利普的朋友们因为他性格内向不那么生气横溢而认为他意志刚强，深谋远虑和头脑冷静，有时想到这一点，菲利普不觉好笑。他们认为他有理智，一致称赞他懂得为人处世的常识。但是他心里明白，他那平静的表情，不过是一张自己自觉不自觉套在脸上的假面具，其作用宛如彩蝶身上的保护色而已，相反他却为自己意志的薄弱而感到震惊。在他看来，他好比风中的一片孤叶，完全为感情上每一次掀起的哪怕是小小的涟漪所左右，一旦情欲控制了自己，他就显得无能为力。他完全丧失了自制力。他只是表面上显得还有自制力，因为许多能打动别人的事情，他却一概无动于衷。

他怀着几分讥诮的心情思索起自己安身立命的人生哲学来了，因为在他经历的多事之秋里，他的人生哲学对他没起多大的作用。他不禁怀疑起思想对一个人在其人生道路的关键时刻是否真会有什么帮助。在他看来，他倒是完全为一种异己的然而又存在于自己体内的力量所左右，这种力量犹如把保罗和弗兰茜斯卡步步推向罪恶深渊的巨大的地狱阴风那样催逼着自己。他考虑他所需要做的事情，以及何时采取行动，但在连他自己也莫名其妙的本能和情感的控制之中，他显得无能为力，一筹莫展。他做起事来就像是部机器，在他所处的环境和他的人格这两股力量的驱使下运转一般。他的理智却像个人在一旁冷眼旁观，而无力参与其间，就像伊壁鸠鲁所描述的诸神那样，在九天之上坐视人们的所作所为，却无力改变事态的发展，连一点点都改变不了。

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chapter 79

Philip went up to London a couple of days before the session began in order to find himself rooms. He hunted about the streets that led out of the Westminster Bridge Road, but their dinginess was distasteful to him; and at last he found one in Kennington which had a quiet and old-world air. It reminded one a little of the London which Thackeray knew on that side of the river, and in the Kennington Road, through which the great barouche of the Newcomes must have passed as it drove the family to the West of London, the plane-trees were bursting into leaf. The houses in the street which Philip fixed upon were two-storied, and in most of the windows was a notice to state that lodgings were to let. He knocked at one which announced that the lodgings were unfurnished, and was shown by an austere, silent woman four very small rooms, in one of which there was a kitchen range and a sink. The rent was nine shillings a week. Philip did not want so many rooms, but the rent was low and he wished to settle down at once. He asked the landlady if she could keep the place clean for him and cook his breakfast, but she replied that she had enough work to do without that; and he was pleased rather than otherwise because she intimated that she wished to have nothing more to do with him than to receive his rent. She told him that, if he inquired at the grocer’s round the corner, which was also a post office, he might hear of a woman who would ‘do’ for him.

Philip had a little furniture which he had gathered as he went along, an arm-chair that he had bought in Paris, and a table, a few drawings, and the small Persian rug which Cronshaw had given him. His uncle had offered a fold-up bed for which, now that he no longer let his house in August, he had no further use; and by spending another ten pounds Philip bought himself whatever else was essential. He spent ten shillings on putting a corn-coloured paper in the room he was making his parlour; and he hung on the walls a sketch which Lawson had given him of the Quai des Grands Augustins, and the photograph of the Odalisque by Ingres and Manet’s Olympia which in Paris had been the objects of his contemplation while he shaved. To remind himself that he too had once been engaged in the practice of art, he put up a charcoal drawing of the young Spaniard Miguel Ajuria: it was the best thing he had ever done, a nude standing with clenched hands, his feet gripping the floor with a peculiar force, and on his face that air of determination which had been so impressive; and though Philip after the long interval saw very well the defects of his work its associations made him look upon it with tolerance. He wondered what had happened to Miguel. There is nothing so terrible as the pursuit of art by those who have no talent. Perhaps, worn out by exposure, starvation, disease, he had found an end in some hospital, or in an access of despair had sought death in the turbid Seine; but perhaps with his Southern instability he had given up the struggle of his own accord, and now, a clerk in some office in Madrid, turned his fervent rhetoric to politics and bull-fighting.

Philip asked Lawson and Hayward to come and see his new rooms, and they came, one with a bottle of whiskey, the other with a pate de foie gras; and he was delighted when they praised his taste. He would have invited the Scotch stockbroker too, but he had only three chairs, and thus could entertain only a definite number of guests. Lawson was aware that through him Philip had become very friendly with Norah Nesbit and now remarked that he had run across her a few days before.

‘She was asking how you were.’

Philip flushed at the mention of her name (he could not get himself out of the awkward habit of reddening when he was embarrassed), and Lawson looked at him quizzically. Lawson, who now spent most of the year in London, had so far surrendered to his environment as to wear his hair short and to dress himself in a neat serge suit and a bowler hat.

‘I gather that all is over between you,’ he said.

‘I’ve not seen her for months.’

‘She was looking rather nice. She had a very smart hat on with a lot of white ostrich feathers on it. She must be doing pretty well.’

Philip changed the conversation, but he kept thinking of her, and after an interval, when the three of them were talking of something else, he asked suddenly:

‘Did you gather that Norah was angry with me?’

‘Not a bit. She talked very nicely of you.’

‘I’ve got half a mind to go and see her.’

‘She won’t eat you.’

Philip had thought of Norah often. When Mildred left him his first thought was of her, and he told himself bitterly that she would never have treated him so. His impulse was to go to her; he could depend on her pity; but he was ashamed: she had been good to him always, and he had treated her abominably.

‘If I’d only had the sense to stick to her!’ he said to himself, afterwards, when Lawson and Hayward had gone and he was smoking a last pipe before going to bed.

He remembered the pleasant hours they had spent together in the cosy sitting-room in Vincent Square, their visits to galleries and to the play, and the charming evenings of intimate conversation. He recollected her solicitude for his welfare and her interest in all that concerned him. She had loved him with a love that was kind and lasting, there was more than sensuality in it, it was almost maternal; he had always known that it was a precious thing for which with all his soul he should thank the gods. He made up his mind to throw himself on her mercy. She must have suffered horribly, but he felt she had the greatness of heart to forgive him: she was incapable of malice. Should he write to her? No. He would break in on her suddenly and cast himself at her feet—he knew that when the time came he would feel too shy to perform such a dramatic gesture, but that was how he liked to think of it—and tell her that if she would take him back she might rely on him for ever. He was cured of the hateful disease from which he had suffered, he knew her worth, and now she might trust him. His imagination leaped forward to the future. He pictured himself rowing with her on the river on Sundays; he would take her to Greenwich, he had never forgotten that delightful excursion with Hayward, and the beauty of the Port of London remained a permanent treasure in his recollection; and on the warm summer afternoons they would sit in the Park together and talk: he laughed to himself as he remembered her gay chatter, which poured out like a brook bubbling over little stones, amusing, flippant, and full of character. The agony he had suffered would pass from his mind like a bad dream.

But when next day, about tea-time, an hour at which he was pretty certain to find Norah at home, he knocked at her door his courage suddenly failed him. Was it possible for her to forgive him? It would be abominable of him to force himself on her presence. The door was opened by a maid new since he had been in the habit of calling every day, and he inquired if Mrs. Nesbit was in.

‘Will you ask her if she could see Mr. Carey?’ he said. ‘I’ll wait here.’

The maid ran upstairs and in a moment clattered down again.

‘Will you step up, please, sir. Second floor front.’

‘I know,’ said Philip, with a slight smile.

He went with a fluttering heart. He knocked at the door.

‘Come in,’ said the well-known, cheerful voice.

It seemed to say come in to a new life of peace and happiness. When he entered Norah stepped forward to greet him. She shook hands with him as if they had parted the day before. A man stood up.

‘Mr. Carey—Mr. Kingsford.’

Philip, bitterly disappointed at not finding her alone, sat down and took stock of the stranger. He had never heard her mention his name, but he seemed to Philip to occupy his chair as though he were very much at home. He was a man of forty, clean-shaven, with long fair hair very neatly plastered down, and the reddish skin and pale, tired eyes which fair men get when their youth is passed. He had a large nose, a large mouth; the bones of his face were prominent, and he was heavily made; he was a man of more than average height, and broad-shouldered.

‘I was wondering what had become of you,’ said Norah, in her sprightly manner. ‘I met Mr. Lawson the other day—did he tell you?—and I informed him that it was really high time you came to see me again.’

Philip could see no shadow of embarrassment in her countenance, and he admired the use with which she carried off an encounter of which himself felt the intense awkwardness. She gave him tea. She was about to put sugar in it when he stopped her.

‘How stupid of me!’ she cried. ‘I forgot.’

He did not believe that. She must remember quite well that he never took sugar in his tea. He accepted the incident as a sign that her nonchalance was affected.

The conversation which Philip had interrupted went on, and presently he began to feel a little in the way. Kingsford took no particular notice of him. He talked fluently and well, not without humour, but with a slightly dogmatic manner: he was a journalist, it appeared, and had something amusing to say on every topic that was touched upon; but it exasperated Philip to find himself edged out of the conversation. He was determined to stay the visitor out. He wondered if he admired Norah. In the old days they had often talked of the men who wanted to flirt with her and had laughed at them together. Philip tried to bring back the conversation to matters which only he and Norah knew about, but each time the journalist broke in and succeeded in drawing it away to a subject upon which Philip was forced to be silent. He grew faintly angry with Norah, for she must see he was being made ridiculous; but perhaps she was inflicting this upon him as a punishment, and with this thought he regained his good humour. At last, however, the clock struck six, and Kingsford got up.

‘I must go,’ he said.

Norah shook hands with him, and accompanied him to the landing. She shut the door behind her and stood outside for a couple of minutes. Philip wondered what they were talking about.

‘Who is Mr. Kingsford?’ he asked cheerfully, when she returned.

‘Oh, he’s the editor of one of Harmsworth’s Magazines. He’s been taking a good deal of my work lately.’

‘I thought he was never going.’

‘I’m glad you stayed. I wanted to have a talk with you.’ She curled herself into the large arm-chair, feet and all, in a way her small size made possible, and lit a cigarette. He smiled when he saw her assume the attitude which had always amused him.

‘You look just like a cat.’

She gave him a flash of her dark, fine eyes.

‘I really ought to break myself of the habit. It’s absurd to behave like a child when you’re my age, but I’m comfortable with my legs under me.’

‘It’s awfully jolly to be sitting in this room again,’ said Philip happily. ‘You don’t know how I’ve missed it.’

‘Why on earth didn’t you come before?’ she asked gaily.

‘I was afraid to,’ he said, reddening.

She gave him a look full of kindness. Her lips outlined a charming smile.

‘You needn’t have been.’

He hesitated for a moment. His heart beat quickly.

‘D’you remember the last time we met? I treated you awfully badly—I’m dreadfully ashamed of myself.’

She looked at him steadily. She did not answer. He was losing his head; he seemed to have come on an errand of which he was only now realising the outrageousness. She did not help him, and he could only blurt out bluntly.

‘Can you ever forgive me?’

Then impetuously he told her that Mildred had left him and that his unhappiness had been so great that he almost killed himself. He told her of all that had happened between them, of the birth of the child, and of the meeting with Griffiths, of his folly and his trust and his immense deception. He told her how often he had thought of her kindness and of her love, and how bitterly he had regretted throwing it away: he had only been happy when he was with her, and he knew now how great was her worth. His voice was hoarse with emotion. Sometimes he was so ashamed of what he was saying that he spoke with his eyes fixed on the ground. His face was distorted with pain, and yet he felt it a strange relief to speak. At last he finished. He flung himself back in his chair, exhausted, and waited. He had concealed nothing, and even, in his self-abasement, he had striven to make himself more despicable than he had really been. He was surprised that she did not speak, and at last he raised his eyes. She was not looking at him. Her face was quite white, and she seemed to be lost in thought.

‘Haven’t you got anything to say to me?’

She started and reddened.

‘I’m afraid you’ve had a rotten time,’ she said. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry.’

She seemed about to go on, but she stopped, and again he waited. At length she seemed to force herself to speak.

‘I’m engaged to be married to Mr. Kingsford.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me at once?’ he cried. ‘You needn’t have allowed me to humiliate myself before you.’

‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop you.... I met him soon after you’—she seemed to search for an expression that should not wound him—‘told me your friend had come back. I was very wretched for a bit, he was extremely kind to me. He knew someone had made me suffer, of course he doesn’t know it was you, and I don’t know what I should have done without him. And suddenly I felt I couldn’t go on working, working, working; I was so tired, I felt so ill. I told him about my husband. He offered to give me the money to get my divorce if I would marry him as soon as I could. He had a very good job, and it wouldn’t be necessary for me to do anything unless I wanted to. He was so fond of me and so anxious to take care of me. I was awfully touched. And now I’m very, very fond of him.’

‘Have you got your divorce then?’ asked Philip.

‘I’ve got the decree nisi. It’ll be made absolute in July, and then we are going to be married at once.’

For some time Philip did not say anything.

‘I wish I hadn’t made such a fool of myself,’ he muttered at length.

He was thinking of his long, humiliating confession. She looked at him curiously.

‘You were never really in love with me,’ she said.

‘It’s not very pleasant being in love.’

But he was always able to recover himself quickly, and, getting up now and holding out his hand, he said:

‘I hope you’ll be very happy. After all, it’s the best thing that could have happened to you.’

She looked a little wistfully at him as she took his hand and held it.

‘You’ll come and see me again, won’t you?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It would make me too envious to see you happy.’

He walked slowly away from her house. After all she was right when she said he had never loved her. He was disappointed, irritated even, but his vanity was more affected than his heart. He knew that himself. And presently he grew conscious that the gods had played a very good practical joke on him, and he laughed at himself mirthlessly. It is not very comfortable to have the gift of being amused at one’s own absurdity.

第七十九章

菲利普于开学前两三天赶回伦敦，以便为自己找个栖身之所。他在威斯敏斯特大桥路以远一带走街穿巷，四处寻觅，但这一带的房子肮脏极了，看了叫人恶心。最后，他终于在肯宁顿区找到了一幢房子。该地区弥漫着一种幽静、古朴的气氛，使人回想起当年萨克雷所了解的泰晤士河彼岸的伦敦的情景来。眼下肯宁顿大街两旁的梧桐树工纷纷抽出新叶。想当年纽科姆一家乘坐的四轮四座马车肯定是经过这儿鳞鳞驶往伦敦西区的。菲利普看中的那条街上的房子都是一色的两层楼房，窗户上大都张贴着供出租字样的告示。他走到一幢告示上注明房间无家具配备的房子跟前，举手叩了叩门。一位面孔板板的、不苟言笑的妇人应声出来开门，并带菲利普去看了看四个小房间，其中一个房间里有炉灶和洗涤槽。房租每周九个先令。菲利普并不需要这么多房间，但鉴于房租低廉，他希望同那位女人当场拍板。他问她是否可以为他打扫房间和烧顿早饭，但她回答说她不做这两件事就已经够忙的了。菲利普听了此话反而觉得挺高兴，因为她这是在暗示他，她除了收他的房租以外，不想同他有什么瓜葛。她接着又告诉菲利普说，如果他到街头拐角处那爿食品店--同时又是邮政所--去打听一下，说不定可以找到个愿意来"照料"他的女人。

菲利普的家具不多，还是他几次搬迁时逐步集拢来的。一张安乐椅是他在巴黎买的；一张桌子，三两幅画，还有一条小小的波斯地毯，这些东西都是克朗肖送给他的。他大伯给了他一张折叠床。因为现在他大伯不再在八月份出租房子了，所以用不着折叠床了。此外，他花了十先令买了几样必不可少的家具用品。他还花了十先令买了一种金黄色的糊墙纸，把那个他打算辟为起居室的房间裱糊起来。墙上挂着劳森送给他的一幅描绘大奥古斯丁街的素描画，以及安格尔的《女奴》和马奈的名画《奥兰毕亚》。他当年在巴黎时，每当刮胡子，他都对着这两张画沉思。为使自己不忘记一度涉足艺坛的经历，菲利普还挂起了他给那位年轻的西班牙人米格尔·阿胡里亚画的木炭肖像画--这是他的最佳画作，画面上挺立着一位赤身裸体的青年男子，双拳紧握，十个脚趾以一种奇特的力量紧紧抠着地板，脸上透出一股刚毅的神气，使人看后经久难忘。虽说隔了这么长时间，菲利普对这幅杰作的不足之处还是一目了然的，但是由这幅画勾起的种种联想使得自己原谅了这些暇疵。他心中纳闷，不知米格尔怎么样了。本无艺术天赋的人却偏要去敲艺术之宫的大门，世上没有比这种事儿更可怕的了。说不定，他因为不堪忍受餐风宿露、饥饿和疾病的折磨，最后病死在医院里；或者绝望之余，最后葬身于污浊的塞纳河；也许因为南方人所特有的不坚定性，他自动急流勇退，而现在兴许作为马德里一办公室的职员，正把他的雄才大略倾注于角逐政治或者斗牛场中。

菲利普邀请劳森和海沃德前来参观他乔迁的新居。他们俩践约而来，一个人手里拎了瓶威士忌酒，另一个人拿了包pate de foie gras。听到他们俩对自己的眼力啧啧称赞时，菲利普心里美极了。他本想把那位当证券经纪人的苏格兰佬一并请来热闹一番，无奈他只有三张椅子，只能招待两位客人，多请一位就没椅子啦。劳森知道菲利普正是通过他才同诺拉·内斯比特结识的。此时，他同菲利普说起了几天前他邂遇诺拉的事儿。

"她还问你好呢。"

一提起诺拉的名字，菲利普顿时双颊绊红（他就是改不了一发窘就脸红的令人难堪的习惯），劳森在一旁用疑惑的目光瞅着菲利普。现在，劳森一年中有大半时间呆在伦敦。他还真是人乡随俗哩，头发也理得短短的，一身笔挺的哗叽制服，头上还戴了顶圆顶硬礼帽。

"我想，你跟诺拉之间的事儿完结了吧，"劳森说。

"我已经有好几个月没见到她了。"

"她看上去还挺精神的哩。那天她戴了顶非常漂亮的帽子，上面还装饰着很多雪白雪白的鸵鸟羽毛。她日子一定过得很不错。"

菲利普转换了话题，可心里头却放不下诺拉。过了一会儿，他们三人正在谈论别的事情，菲利普却突然脱口问劳森说：

"你碰见她那会儿，有没有她还在生我的气的印象啊？"

"一点儿也没有。她还说了你一百二十个好哩！"

"我想去看看她。"

"她又不会把你吃掉的。"

前一个时期，菲利普常常思念诺拉。米尔德丽德抛弃他时，他第一个念头就是想起了诺拉，并满怀苦涩的心情对自己说，诺拉决不会像米尔德丽德那样对待他的。他一时情不自禁地想回到诺拉的身边去，而诺拉一定同情他的遭遇的。然而他又自惭形秽，因为诺拉一向待他很好，而他却待她非常刻薄。

劳森和海沃德告辞后，他吸着就寝前的最后一斗烟。这当儿，他自言自语地说："假使我一直守着她该多好啊！"

菲利普浮想联翩，回想起他和诺拉在文森特广场边那个舒适的小房间里度过的良辰美景，想起了他们俩上美术馆参观和上戏院看戏的情景，回忆起那一个个他们俩在一起促膝谈心的迷人的夜晚。他追忆起诺拉时刻把他的健康挂在心间，凡是有关他的事儿，她都深表关切。她怀着一种诚挚的、忠贞不渝的情意深深地爱着菲利普，这种爱远不止是性爱，而几乎是一种母爱。他知道这种爱是十分可贵的，正是为了这一点，他该诚心诚意地感谢上天诸神的恩泽。他拿定主意去求诺拉开恩。她内心一定非常痛苦，但他觉得她心地高洁、豁达大度，定会宽宥他的，因为她一向与人友善。是否给她写封信呢？不。他要突然闯进她的屋去，一下拜倒在她的脚下--他心里明白，到时候他怯心怯胆的，做不出这个富有戏剧性的动作来的。不过这确是他喜欢考虑的方式--直截了当地告诉她，如果她愿意收留他，那么她尽可以永远信赖他。他已经从他所经历的那令人憎恶的灾难中恢复过来了，他了解她的人品之可贵，向现在她完全可以相信他。他遐思翩跹，思绪一下子转入对未来的憧憬。他想象自己星期天同诺拉一道在河面上泛舟荡漾；他还要带她去格林威治游览。他永远忘不了那次同海沃德一道出去游览观光的欢乐，那伦敦港的美景永远深深地留在他的记忆里。炎夏的下午，他和诺拉将坐在公园里闲聊。他想起诺拉的欢声笑语，宛如一弯溪水旧泪流过卵石时发出的声响，趣味隽永，絮絮叨叨，却又富有个性。想到这里，菲利普不禁哧哧地笑了起来。到那时，他所蒙受的痛苦将像一场恶梦似的从他脑海里隐去。

次日下午用茶点时分，菲利普想这个时候诺拉肯定在家。但是他举手叩门时，一股勇气顿时跑得无影无踪。诺拉会宽恕他吗？他这样死乞白赖地缠着她太可鄙了。一位女用人应声出来开门。他以前每天来访时都没见过这位女用人。菲利普向她打听内斯比特太太是否在家。

"请你去问她能否见见凯里先生？"菲利普说，"我在这里等回话。"

那位女用人噔噔奔上楼去，不一会儿，又噔噔奔了下来。

"先生，请您上楼。二楼前面那个房间。"

"我知道，"菲利普说着，脸上绽出一丝微笑。

菲利普怀着一颗怦怦直跳的心走进屋去。他笃笃敲着房门。

"请进，"那个熟悉的、欢快的声音说道。

这个声音好比是在招呼他走到充满恬静、幸福的新大地里去。他的脚一跨入房间，诺拉便迎上前来。

她同菲利普握了握手，仿佛他们俩前一天才分手似的。这当儿，一个男人倏地站了起来。

"这位是凯里先生--这位是金斯福德先生。"

见到诺拉并非独自一人在家，菲利普感到很失望。他在就座的当儿，暗暗地仔细打量着面前的陌生男人。他从未听到诺拉提起过这个男人的名字，不过在他看来，那个陌生男人坐在椅子里无拘无束，就像是在自己家里一般。这个男人四十岁光景，胡子剃得溜光，一头长长的金发，搽着发油，梳理得平整熨贴。他的肤色红红的，长着一对美男子过了青春期才有的充满倦意的、浑浊的眼睛。他嘴大鼻大，颧骨高高隆起，突儿分明。他身材魁梧，腰圆背粗，个儿中等偏高。

"我一直在想，不知你究意怎么了，"诺拉说话时脸上还是原先那副欢天喜地的样子。"前些日子我碰见劳森先生--他告诉你了吗？--我对他说你也该来看看我。"

菲利普从她的面部表情情捉到一丝局促的神色。菲利普自己对眼下这次见面颇感别扭尴尬，看到诺拉却安之若素，钦慕之心油然而生。诺拉为他沏了杯茶，正要往茶里加糖时，菲利普连忙出来制上。

"瞧我的记性！"她嚷了起来，"我都忘了。"

菲利普才不信她会忘呢，他喝茶从不加糖这一习惯，她一定记得牢着呢。他把这件事当作她方寸已乱、沉不住气的一种外露。

因菲利普突然来访而中断的谈话又开始了。菲利普渐渐觉得自己夹在他们中问有点儿不尴不尬，似乎是个多余的人。金斯福德旁若无人，只当没他在场，一味自顾自的高谈阔沦。他的谈吐倒也不无幽默，只是口气嫌武断了点。他看上去是个报界人士，对每一个涉及到的论题他都有些饶有兴味的内容。菲利普发觉自己渐渐被挤出了谈话圈子，感到不胜惊愕。他打定生意要奉陪到底，一直坐到这位不速之客起身告退为止。他心中暗自纳闷，不知这位金斯福德先生是否也看上了诺拉。以往，他同诺拉经常在一起议论有些油头光棍想同诺拉吊膀子的事儿，还在一起嘲笑过那些不知趣的家伙呢。菲利普想方设法把谈话引入只有他同诺拉熟悉的话题中去，但是他每次这样做的时候，那位报界人士总是插进来，而且还总是成功地把谈话引入一个不容菲利普置喙、只得保持沉默的话题。对此，菲利普心中不觉对诺拉有些忿忿然，因为她应该看得出他正在被人愚弄的呀。不过说不定她这是借此对他惩罚，于是，这么一想，菲利普又恢复了原先的那股高兴劲儿。最后钟敲六点的时候，金斯福德蓦地站起身来。

"我得告辞了，"他说。

诺拉同他握了握手后，陪他走到楼梯平台处。她随手把房门带上，在外面呆了两三分钟。菲利普不知他们俩嘀咕了些什么。

"金斯福德先生是什么人？"诺拉回到房间时，菲利普兴高采烈地问道。

"噢，他是哈姆斯沃思市一家杂志的编辑，近来他录用了不少我的稿子。

"我还以为他想赖在这儿不走了呢。"

"你能留下来，我很高兴。我想同你聊聊。"她坐在一张大安乐椅里，把她那瘦小的身子尽可能蜷成一团，双腿盘在屁股底下。菲利普看到她这个逗人发笑的习惯姿势，不觉莞尔。

"你看上去活脱像只猫咪。"

诺拉那双妩媚的眼睛忽地一亮，朝菲利普瞟了一眼。

"我是该把这个习惯改掉了。到了我这样的年纪，动作还像个孩子似的，是有点儿荒唐，可是把双腿盘在屁股底下坐着，我就觉得舒服。"

"又坐在这个房间里了，我太高兴了，"菲利普愉快地说，"你不知道我是多想念这个房间啊！"

"那你前一时期到底为什么不来？"诺拉快活地问了一句。

"我怕来这儿，"菲利普说罢，脸又红了。

诺拉用充满慈爱的目光瞅了他一眼，嘴角泛起了妩媚的笑意。

"你大可不必嘛。"

菲利普犹豫了好一会儿。他的心怦怦直跳。

"我们上一次见面的情形你还记得吗？我待你太不像话了，对此，我深感惭愧。"

她两眼直直地凝视着菲利普，但没有说话。菲利普昏头昏脑的，仿佛上这儿来是为了完成一件他这时才意识到是荒谬绝伦的差事似的。诺拉只是闷声不响，于是菲利普又得生硬地脱口而说：

"你能宽恕我吗？"

接着，菲利普把感到痛心疾首几乎自杀的事儿告诉了诺拉，并把他和米尔德丽德之间所发生的一切，那个孩子的出世、格里菲思结识米尔德丽德的过程，以及自己的一片痴情、信任以及受人欺骗的事儿，一一抖搂了出来。他还对诺拉倾诉他常常想起她对自己的好意和爱情，并为自己抛弃了她对自己的好意和爱情而无限懊悔。只有当他同诺拉在一起的时候，他才感到幸福，而且他现在真正认识到诺拉的人品之高贵。由于情绪激动，菲利普的声音也变得嘶哑了。有时，他深感羞愧，简直到了无地自容的地步，因此说话时一双眼睛死死盯住地板。他那张脸因痛苦而扭曲着，然而能一诉满腔的情愫，使他获得了一种莫可名状的轻松感。他终于说完了。他颓然倒人椅子，筋疲力尽，默默地等待着诺拉开腔说话。他把心里话都和盘托出了，甚至在诉说的过程中，还把自己说成是个卑劣宵小之徒。可诺拉始终不吭一声，他感到十分惊讶。他抬起眼皮瞅着她，发觉她并未看着自己。诺拉的脸色异常苍白，一副心事重重的样子。

"你就没有话要对我说吗？"

诺拉不由得一惊，双颊蓦地绯红。

"你恐怕过了好长一段很不顺心的日子，"她说，"我太对不起你了。"

她看样子想继续往下讲，但又戛然打住话头。菲利普只得耐住性子等着。最后她像是强迫自己说话似的。

"我已经同金斯福德先生订婚了。"

"你为何不一开始就告诉我呢？"菲利普不禁嚷了起来，"你完全不必让我在你而前出自己的洋相嘛！"

"对不起，我是不忍打断你的话啊……你告诉我说你的朋友又回到了你的身边后不久，我就遇上了他--"她似乎在竭力搜寻不使菲利普伤心的词儿--"我难过了好一阵于，可他又待我非常好。他知道有人伤了我的心，当然他不了解此人就是你。要没有他，日子还真不知怎么过呢。突然间，我觉得我总不能老是这样子没完没了的干啊，干啊，干啊；我疲劳极了，觉得身体很不好。我把我丈夫的事儿告诉了他。要是我答应尽快同他结婚，他愿意给我笔钱去同我丈夫办理离婚手续。他有个好差使，因此我不必事事都去张罗，除非我想这么干。他非常喜欢我，而且还急于来照料我，这深深地打动了我的心。眼下我也非常喜欢他。"

"那么离婚手续办妥了没有？"

"离婚判决书已经拿到了，不过要等到七月才能生效。一到七月我们就立即结婚。"

有好一会儿，菲利普默然不语。

"但愿我没出自己的丑，"他最后喃喃地说。

此时，他在回味着自己那番长长的、出乖露丑的自白。诺拉用好奇的目光注视着他。

"你从来就没有正正经经受过我，"诺拉说。

"堕入情网不是件令人很愉快的事儿。"

不过，菲利普一向能很快使自己镇静下来。他站了起来，向诺拉伸出手去。这当儿，他嘴里说道：

"我希望你生活幸福。无论如何，这对你来说是件最好不过的事情。"

诺拉拉起菲利普的手握着，不无依恋地凝视着菲利普。

"你会再来看我的，不是吗？"诺拉问了一声。

"不会再来了，"菲利普边说边摇头，"看到你很幸福，我会吃醋的。"

菲利普踏着缓慢的步子离开了诺拉的寓所。不管怎么说，诺拉说他从来就没有爱过她，这话是说对了。他感到失望，甚至还有些儿忿然，不过与其说他伤心，还不如说是他的虚荣心受到了损伤。对此，他自己肚子里有数。这时，他渐渐意识到上帝跟自己开了个不大不小的玩笑，不由得噙着悲泪嘲笑起自己来了。借嘲笑自己的荒唐行为而自娱的滋味可不是好受的啊！

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等级: 内阁元老

青春又回来了嘛(*^▽^*)

举报只看该作者 82楼发表于: 2014-08-27 0

chapter 80

For the next three months Philip worked on subjects which were new to him. The unwieldy crowd which had entered the Medical School nearly two years before had thinned out: some had left the hospital, finding the examinations more difficult to pass than they expected, some had been taken away by parents who had not foreseen the expense of life in London, and some had drifted away to other callings. One youth whom Philip knew had devised an ingenious plan to make money; he had bought things at sales and pawned them, but presently found it more profitable to pawn goods bought on credit; and it had caused a little excitement at the hospital when someone pointed out his name in police-court proceedings. There had been a remand, then assurances on the part of a harassed father, and the young man had gone out to bear the White Man’s Burden overseas. The imagination of another, a lad who had never before been in a town at all, fell to the glamour of music-halls and bar parlours; he spent his time among racing-men, tipsters, and trainers, and now was become a book-maker’s clerk. Philip had seen him once in a bar near Piccadilly Circus in a tight-waisted coat and a brown hat with a broad, flat brim. A third, with a gift for singing and mimicry, who had achieved success at the smoking concerts of the Medical School by his imitation of notorious comedians, had abandoned the hospital for the chorus of a musical comedy. Still another, and he interested Philip because his uncouth manner and interjectional speech did not suggest that he was capable of any deep emotion, had felt himself stifle among the houses of London. He grew haggard in shut-in spaces, and the soul he knew not he possessed struggled like a sparrow held in the hand, with little frightened gasps and a quick palpitation of the heart: he yearned for the broad skies and the open, desolate places among which his childhood had been spent; and he walked off one day, without a word to anybody, between one lecture and another; and the next thing his friends heard was that he had thrown up medicine and was working on a farm.

Philip attended now lectures on medicine and on surgery. On certain mornings in the week he practised bandaging on out-patients glad to earn a little money, and he was taught auscultation and how to use the stethoscope. He learned dispensing. He was taking the examination in Materia Medica in July, and it amused him to play with various drugs, concocting mixtures, rolling pills, and making ointments. He seized avidly upon anything from which he could extract a suggestion of human interest.

He saw Griffiths once in the distance, but, not to have the pain of cutting him dead, avoided him. Philip had felt a certain self-consciousness with Griffiths’ friends, some of whom were now friends of his, when he realised they knew of his quarrel with Griffiths and surmised they were aware of the reason. One of them, a very tall fellow, with a small head and a languid air, a youth called Ramsden, who was one of Griffiths’ most faithful admirers, copied his ties, his boots, his manner of talking and his gestures, told Philip that Griffiths was very much hurt because Philip had not answered his letter. He wanted to be reconciled with him.

‘Has he asked you to give me the message?’ asked Philip.

‘Oh, no. I’m saying this entirely on my own,’ said Ramsden. ‘He’s awfully sorry for what he did, and he says you always behaved like a perfect brick to him. I know he’d be glad to make it up. He doesn’t come to the hospital because he’s afraid of meeting you, and he thinks you’d cut him.’

‘I should.’

‘It makes him feel rather wretched, you know.’

‘I can bear the trifling inconvenience that he feels with a good deal of fortitude,’ said Philip.

‘He’ll do anything he can to make it up.’

‘How childish and hysterical! Why should he care? I’m a very insignificant person, and he can do very well without my company. I’m not interested in him any more.’

Ramsden thought Philip hard and cold. He paused for a moment or two, looking about him in a perplexed way.

‘Harry wishes to God he’d never had anything to do with the woman.’

‘Does he?’ asked Philip.

He spoke with an indifference which he was satisfied with. No one could have guessed how violently his heart was beating. He waited impatiently for Ramsden to go on.

‘I suppose you’ve quite got over it now, haven’t you?’

‘I?’ said Philip. ‘Quite.’

Little by little he discovered the history of Mildred’s relations with Griffiths. He listened with a smile on his lips, feigning an equanimity which quite deceived the dull-witted boy who talked to him. The week-end she spent with Griffiths at Oxford inflamed rather than extinguished her sudden passion; and when Griffiths went home, with a feeling that was unexpected in her she determined to stay in Oxford by herself for a couple of days, because she had been so happy in it. She felt that nothing could induce her to go back to Philip. He revolted her. Griffiths was taken aback at the fire he had aroused, for he had found his two days with her in the country somewhat tedious; and he had no desire to turn an amusing episode into a tiresome affair. She made him promise to write to her, and, being an honest, decent fellow, with natural politeness and a desire to make himself pleasant to everybody, when he got home he wrote her a long and charming letter. She answered it with reams of passion, clumsy, for she had no gift of expression, ill-written, and vulgar; the letter bored him, and when it was followed next day by another, and the day after by a third, he began to think her love no longer flattering but alarming. He did not answer; and she bombarded him with telegrams, asking him if he were ill and had received her letters; she said his silence made her dreadfully anxious. He was forced to write, but he sought to make his reply as casual as was possible without being offensive: he begged her not to wire, since it was difficult to explain telegrams to his mother, an old-fashioned person for whom a telegram was still an event to excite tremor. She answered by return of post that she must see him and announced her intention to pawn things (she had the dressing-case which Philip had given her as a wedding-present and could raise eight pounds on that) in order to come up and stay at the market town four miles from which was the village in which his father practised. This frightened Griffiths; and he, this time, made use of the telegraph wires to tell her that she must do nothing of the kind. He promised to let her know the moment he came up to London, and, when he did, found that she had already been asking for him at the hospital at which he had an appointment. He did not like this, and, on seeing her, told Mildred that she was not to come there on any pretext; and now, after an absence of three weeks, he found that she bored him quite decidedly; he wondered why he had ever troubled about her, and made up his mind to break with her as soon as he could. He was a person who dreaded quarrels, nor did he want to give pain; but at the same time he had other things to do, and he was quite determined not to let Mildred bother him. When he met her he was pleasant, cheerful, amusing, affectionate; he invented convincing excuses for the interval since last he had seen her; but he did everything he could to avoid her. When she forced him to make appointments he sent telegrams to her at the last moment to put himself off; and his landlady (the first three months of his appointment he was spending in rooms) had orders to say he was out when Mildred called. She would waylay him in the street and, knowing she had been waiting about for him to come out of the hospital for a couple of hours, he would give her a few charming, friendly words and bolt off with the excuse that he had a business engagement. He grew very skilful in slipping out of the hospital unseen. Once, when he went back to his lodgings at midnight, he saw a woman standing at the area railings and suspecting who it was went to beg a shake-down in Ramsden’s rooms; next day the landlady told him that Mildred had sat crying on the doorsteps for hours, and she had been obliged to tell her at last that if she did not go away she would send for a policeman.

‘I tell you, my boy,’ said Ramsden, ‘you’re jolly well out of it. Harry says that if he’d suspected for half a second she was going to make such a blooming nuisance of herself he’d have seen himself damned before he had anything to do with her.’

Philip thought of her sitting on that doorstep through the long hours of the night. He saw her face as she looked up dully at the landlady who sent her away.

‘I wonder what she’s doing now.’

‘Oh, she’s got a job somewhere, thank God. That keeps her busy all day.’

The last thing he heard, just before the end of the summer session, was that Griffiths, urbanity had given way at length under the exasperation of the constant persecution. He had told Mildred that he was sick of being pestered, and she had better take herself off and not bother him again.

‘It was the only thing he could do,’ said Ramsden. ‘It was getting a bit too thick.’

‘Is it all over then?’ asked Philip.

‘Oh, he hasn’t seen her for ten days. You know, Harry’s wonderful at dropping people. This is about the toughest nut he’s ever had to crack, but he’s cracked it all right.’

Then Philip heard nothing more of her at all. She vanished into the vast anonymous mass of the population of London.

第八十章

在以后的三个月里，菲利普埋头研读三门新课程。不出两年工夫，原先蜂拥进入医学院学习的学生越来越少了。有些人离开医院，是因为发觉考试并不像他们原先想象的那么容易；有些则是被他们的家长领回去了，因为这些家长事先没料到在伦敦生活的开销竟会这么大；还有一些人也由于这样或那样的情况而纷纷溜了。菲利普认得一个年轻人，他别出心裁地想出了一个生财之道，把买来的廉价商品转手送进了当铺，没多久，又发现当赊购来的商品更能赚钱。然而有人在违警罪法庭的诉讼过程中供出了他的名字，消息传来，医院里引起了一阵小小的骚动。按着，被告人受到还押，以待证实，随后由他那位受惊的父亲交割了财产转让证才了结此事。最后这个年轻人出走海外，履行"白人的使命"去了。另有一个小伙子，在上医学院学习之前，从未见过城市是啥样的，一下子迷上了游艺场和酒吧间，成天价混迹于赛马迷、透露赛马情报者和驯兽师中间，现在已成了一名登录赌注者的助手。有一次，菲利普曾在皮卡迪利广场附近的一家酒吧间里碰上了他，只见他身上着一件紧身束腰的外套，头上戴着一顶帽檐又宽又厚的褐色帽子。还有一名学生，他颇有点歌唱和摹拟表演的天才，曾在医学院的吸烟音乐会上因模仿名噪一时的喜剧演员而大获成功。这个人弃医加入了一出配乐喜剧的合唱队。还有一位学生，菲利普对他颇感兴趣，因为此人举止笨拙，说起话来大叫大嚷的，使人倒不觉得他是个感情深切的人儿。可是，他却感到生活在伦敦鳞次栉比的房舍中间大有窒息之感。他因成天价关在屋里变得形容枯槁，那个连他自己也不知道是否存在的灵魂宛如被捏在手掌心的麻雀，苦苦挣扎着，悸怕得直喘气，心儿狂跳不止。他渴望着广袤的天空旷无人烟的田野，他孩提时代就是在这种环境里度过的。于是，一天，他趁两课之间的间隙时间不告而别了。以后，他的朋友们听说他抛弃了学医而在一个农场里干活了。

菲利普眼下在学有关内科和外科的课程。一周中有几个上午，他去为门诊病人包扎伤口，乐得借此机会赚几个外快，他还在医生的教授下学习使用听诊器给病人听诊的方法。他学会了配约方。他即将参加七月举行的药物学考试，他觉得在同各种各样药物打交道、调制药水、卷包药丸以及配制药膏中间自有一番乐趣。无论什么事，只要从中能领略得一丝人生的情趣，菲利普无不劲头十足地去做。

一次，菲利普远远地瞥见格里菲思，但没同他打照面，因为他不愿忍受见面时装着不认识他而带来的痛苦。菲利普意识到格里菲思的朋友们知道了他们俩之间的纷争，并推测他们是了解纷争的原委的，因此菲利普在格里菲思的朋友们面前感到有些儿不自然。其中有些人甚至现在也成了他的朋友。他们中间有位名叫拉姆斯登的青年人，此人身材修长，长着个小脑袋，整天没精打采的，是格里菲思最虔诚的崇拜者之一。格里菲思系什么样的领带他也系，格里菲思穿什么样的靴子他也穿，还模仿格里非思的谈吐和手势。他告诉菲利普说，格里菲思因菲利普没有回信而伤心透了。格里菲思想同菲利普重修旧好。

"是他请你来当说客的吗？"菲利普问道。

"喔，不是的，我这么说完全是自己的主意，"拉姆斯登回答说。"他为自己所干的事情感到心里很过意不去。他说你以往待他一直很好。我知道他非常想同你和好。他不上医院来是怕碰见你，他认为你会不理睬他的。

"我应该如此。"

"要知道，这件事弄得他心里难过极了。"

"我能忍受格里菲思得以极大的毅力才能忍受的这点小小的不便。"

"他将尽自己的一切努力来求得和解。"

"那也太孩子气、太歇斯底里了！他干吗要这样呢？我不过是个微不足道的小人物，没有我他日子照样可以过得非常好嘛！我对他丝毫不感兴趣。"

拉姆斯登心想菲利普这个人也太冷酷了，他顿了一两分钟，迷惑不解地用目光打量着四周。

"哈利向上帝祈祷，但愿他同那个女人没什么瓜葛就好了！"

"是吗？"菲利普问了一声。

他说话时语气冷淡。对此，他还挺感满意的哩。可谁又能想到此时他那颗心在胸膛里剧烈地跳荡着呢。他不耐烦地等待着拉姆斯登的下文。

"我想你差不多把这件苦恼的事儿给忘了，是不？"

"我？"菲利普答道。"是差不多全忘了。"

菲利普一点一滴地摸清了米尔德丽德同格里菲思之间的纠葛的来龙去脉。他嘴边挂着微笑，默默地谛听着，装出一副若无其事的样子，骗过了在跟他说话的那个蠢汉。米尔德丽德同格里菲思在牛津度过了周末，非但没有浇灭反而燃起了她那勃勃情火。因此，当格里菲思动身回乡之际，她突然心血来潮，决定独自留在牛津再呆上两三天，因为在那儿的几天日子过得太舒心了。她觉得没有任何一种力量可以把她再拉回到菲利普的身边去，一见到他，就要倒胃口。格里菲思对由自己勾起来的情火不觉大吃一惊，因为他早对同米尔德丽德一道在乡下度过的两天感到冗长乏味了，再说他也无意把一段饶有情趣的插曲变成一桩纠缠不清的私通事件。她迫使他给她写信，于是，作为一个诚实、正经，生来礼貌周全，彬彬有礼，还企望取悦于每一个人的小伙子，他一回到家，便给她写了一封洋洋洒洒、拨人心弦的信。米尔德丽德迅即写了封激情四溢的回信。信中措词不当，这是她缺乏表达能力的缘故。信上的字写得歪歪扭扭，语气猥亵，使得格里菲思心生腻烦，紧接着第二天又来了一封，过了一天，第三封信又接踵而至。此时，格里菲思开始意识到她的爱不再讨人喜欢，却令人深感惊恐。他连信也没有回。不料她给他发来连珠炮似的电报，询问他是否有病，有没有收到她的信，说她因不见他回信而忧心冲忡。这样一来，他只得又提起笔来写信，不过这次他把回信写得尽可能随便些，只要不惹她生气就行。他在信中求她以后别再打电报了，因为他很难就电报一事对他母亲解释清楚。他母亲是个老脑筋，总认为电报是个吓人的玩意儿。她随即写信来说她要见他，并说她打算把身边的东西送进当铺（她身边有只化妆手提包，还是菲利普送给她的结婚礼品，可值八镑），然后打票去找他，并要住在离格里菲思的父亲行医的村庄四英里远的市镇上。这下可把格里菲思吓坏了。这次他倒打了个电报给米尔德丽德，求她千万不要干出这种事情来，并答应一回到伦敦就同她联系。可是，格里菲思一回到伦敦就发觉米尔德丽德已经上格里菲思要去赴任的那家医院找过他了。他可不喜欢这种做法。因此，见到她时，便关照她不论用什么托词都不能上医院去找他。到了这个时候（两人隔了三个星期没有见面），他发觉米尔德丽德实在叫人讨厌，自己也闹不清当初为什么会同她纠缠在一起的。于是，他决心尽快地把米尔德丽德甩掉。他这个人可又不愿与人争吵，也不忍叫人伤心，不过他还有别的事情要干呀，最后还是横下一条心，决不让米尔德丽德再来缠扰自己。在同米尔德丽德见面时，他还是跟从前一样的举止文雅、笑容可掬、诙谐风趣、温情脉脉，而对自前一次见面以后一直没去看她一事，他总能找出些令人信服的借口来。尽管如此，他还是千方百计地躲着米尔德丽德。当米尔德丽德敦促他践约时，他总是在最后一刻打个电报给她，找个托辞溜之大吉。房东太太（格里菲思任职头三个月是在寓所度过的）奉命见到米尔德丽德来访就说他有事外出了。米尔德丽德便采取在街上堵截的办法。格里菲思得知她已在附近候了三两个钟头后，就住她耳朵里灌上几句甜言蜜语，随即推说有事务上的约会，便撒腿就走。后来他渐渐变得形迹诡秘，能神不知鬼不觉地溜出医院大门。有一次，他半夜里回寓所时，看到寓所前空地栏杆旁立着一位妇人。因不知她是何许人，格里菲思转身就走，一路奔到拉姆斯登的住所，在他那儿借宿一夜。第二天，房东太太告诉他说，前一天夜里米尔德丽德坐在他门口一连哭了几个钟头，最后房东太太只好无可奈何地对米尔德丽德说，如果她再不走，她可要派人去叫警察了。

"我说呀，老兄，"拉姆斯登说，"你倒脱得干系好自在。哈利说，要是他当初稍微考虑一下，想到她竟会这样惹人讨厌，就是去见鬼也不会跟她有什么瓜葛。"

菲利普脑海里浮现出米尔德丽德于深夜接连几个小时坐在门口哭泣的情景，仿佛看到她在房东太太驱赶时木然仰望的神情。

"不知她眼下怎么样了。"

"哦，她在某处找到了工作。真是谢天谢地。这样，她整日都有事忙了。"

关于米尔德丽德的最新消息，他是在夏季学期快结束时才听说的。他听说格里菲思被米尔德丽德的死乞白赖的纠缠激怒了，最后也顾不得文雅不文雅了，直截了当地对米尔德丽德说，他讨厌受人烦扰，叫她最好滚远点，别再打扰他。

"他只好这么着了，"拉姆斯登说，"事情也做得太过分了。"

"事情就这么了结了？"菲利普问道。

"噢，他已有十天没见着她了。要知道，哈利甩个把人的手段可高明啦。这是他遇到的最棘手的一件事，可他把它处理得妥妥帖帖。"

从此以后，菲利普再也没有听到有关米尔德丽德的消息。她湮没在伦敦茫茫的人海之中。

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举报只看该作者 83楼发表于: 2014-08-29 0

chapter 81

At the beginning of the winter session Philip became an out-patients’ clerk. There were three assistant-physicians who took out-patients, two days a week each, and Philip put his name down for Dr. Tyrell. He was popular with the students, and there was some competition to be his clerk. Dr. Tyrell was a tall, thin man of thirty-five, with a very small head, red hair cut short, and prominent blue eyes: his face was bright scarlet. He talked well in a pleasant voice, was fond of a little joke, and treated the world lightly. He was a successful man, with a large consulting practice and a knighthood in prospect. From commerce with students and poor people he had the patronising air, and from dealing always with the sick he had the healthy man’s jovial condescension, which some consultants achieve as the professional manner. He made the patient feel like a boy confronted by a jolly schoolmaster; his illness was an absurd piece of naughtiness which amused rather than irritated.

The student was supposed to attend in the out-patients’ room every day, see cases, and pick up what information he could; but on the days on which he clerked his duties were a little more definite. At that time the out-patients’ department at St. Luke’s consisted of three rooms, leading into one another, and a large, dark waiting-room with massive pillars of masonry and long benches. Here the patients waited after having been given their ‘letters’ at mid-day; and the long rows of them, bottles and gallipots in hand, some tattered and dirty, others decent enough, sitting in the dimness, men and women of all ages, children, gave one an impression which was weird and horrible. They suggested the grim drawings of Daumier. All the rooms were painted alike, in salmon-colour with a high dado of maroon; and there was in them an odour of disinfectants, mingling as the afternoon wore on with the crude stench of humanity. The first room was the largest and in the middle of it were a table and an office chair for the physician; on each side of this were two smaller tables, a little lower: at one of these sat the house-physician and at the other the clerk who took the ‘book’ for the day. This was a large volume in which were written down the name, age, sex, profession, of the patient and the diagnosis of his disease.

At half past one the house-physician came in, rang the bell, and told the porter to send in the old patients. There were always a good many of these, and it was necessary to get through as many of them as possible before Dr. Tyrell came at two. The H.P. with whom Philip came in contact was a dapper little man, excessively conscious of his importance: he treated the clerks with condescension and patently resented the familiarity of older students who had been his contemporaries and did not use him with the respect he felt his present position demanded. He set about the cases. A clerk helped him. The patients streamed in. The men came first. Chronic bronchitis, ‘a nasty ‘acking cough,’ was what they chiefly suffered from; one went to the H.P. and the other to the clerk, handing in their letters: if they were going on well the words Rep 14 were written on them, and they went to the dispensary with their bottles or gallipots in order to have medicine given them for fourteen days more. Some old stagers held back so that they might be seen by the physician himself, but they seldom succeeded in this; and only three or four, whose condition seemed to demand his attention, were kept.

Dr. Tyrell came in with quick movements and a breezy manner. He reminded one slightly of a clown leaping into the arena of a circus with the cry: Here we are again. His air seemed to indicate: What’s all this nonsense about being ill? I’ll soon put that right. He took his seat, asked if there were any old patients for him to see, rapidly passed them in review, looking at them with shrewd eyes as he discussed their symptoms, cracked a joke (at which all the clerks laughed heartily) with the H.P., who laughed heartily too but with an air as if he thought it was rather impudent for the clerks to laugh, remarked that it was a fine day or a hot one, and rang the bell for the porter to show in the new patients.

They came in one by one and walked up to the table at which sat Dr. Tyrell. They were old men and young men and middle-aged men, mostly of the labouring class, dock labourers, draymen, factory hands, barmen; but some, neatly dressed, were of a station which was obviously superior, shop-assistants, clerks, and the like. Dr. Tyrell looked at these with suspicion. Sometimes they put on shabby clothes in order to pretend they were poor; but he had a keen eye to prevent what he regarded as fraud and sometimes refused to see people who, he thought, could well pay for medical attendance. Women were the worst offenders and they managed the thing more clumsily. They would wear a cloak and a skirt which were almost in rags, and neglect to take the rings off their fingers.

‘If you can afford to wear jewellery you can afford a doctor. A hospital is a charitable institution,’ said Dr. Tyrell.

He handed back the letter and called for the next case.

‘But I’ve got my letter.’

‘I don’t care a hang about your letter; you get out. You’ve got no business to come and steal the time which is wanted by the really poor.’

The patient retired sulkily, with an angry scowl.

‘She’ll probably write a letter to the papers on the gross mismanagement of the London hospitals,’ said Dr. Tyrell, with a smile, as he took the next paper and gave the patient one of his shrewd glances.

Most of them were under the impression that the hospital was an institution of the state, for which they paid out of the rates, and took the attendance they received as a right they could claim. They imagined the physician who gave them his time was heavily paid.

Dr. Tyrell gave each of his clerks a case to examine. The clerk took the patient into one of the inner rooms; they were smaller, and each had a couch in it covered with black horse-hair: he asked his patient a variety of questions, examined his lungs, his heart, and his liver, made notes of fact on the hospital letter, formed in his own mind some idea of the diagnosis, and then waited for Dr. Tyrell to come in. This he did, followed by a small crowd of students, when he had finished the men, and the clerk read out what he had learned. The physician asked him one or two questions, and examined the patient himself. If there was anything interesting to hear students applied their stethoscope: you would see a man with two or three to the chest, and two perhaps to his back, while others waited impatiently to listen. The patient stood among them a little embarrassed, but not altogether displeased to find himself the centre of attention: he listened confusedly while Dr. Tyrell discoursed glibly on the case. Two or three students listened again to recognise the murmur or the crepitation which the physician described, and then the man was told to put on his clothes.

When the various cases had been examined Dr. Tyrell went back into the large room and sat down again at his desk. He asked any student who happened to be standing near him what he would prescribe for a patient he had just seen. The student mentioned one or two drugs.

‘Would you?’ said Dr. Tyrell. ‘Well, that’s original at all events. I don’t think we’ll be rash.’

This always made the students laugh, and with a twinkle of amusement at his own bright humour the physician prescribed some other drug than that which the student had suggested. When there were two cases of exactly the same sort and the student proposed the treatment which the physician had ordered for the first, Dr. Tyrell exercised considerable ingenuity in thinking of something else. Sometimes, knowing that in the dispensary they were worked off their legs and preferred to give the medicines which they had all ready, the good hospital mixtures which had been found by the experience of years to answer their purpose so well, he amused himself by writing an elaborate prescription.

‘We’ll give the dispenser something to do. If we go on prescribing mist: alb: he’ll lose his cunning.’

The students laughed, and the doctor gave them a circular glance of enjoyment in his joke. Then he touched the bell and, when the porter poked his head in, said:

‘Old women, please.’

He leaned back in his chair, chatting with the H.P. while the porter herded along the old patients. They came in, strings of anaemic girls, with large fringes and pallid lips, who could not digest their bad, insufficient food; old ladies, fat and thin, aged prematurely by frequent confinements, with winter coughs; women with this, that, and the other, the matter with them. Dr. Tyrell and his house-physician got through them quickly. Time was getting on, and the air in the small room was growing more sickly. The physician looked at his watch.

‘Are there many new women today?’ he asked.

‘A good few, I think,’ said the H.P.

‘We’d better have them in. You can go on with the old ones.’

They entered. With the men the most common ailments were due to the excessive use of alcohol, but with the women they were due to defective nourishment. By about six o’clock they were finished. Philip, exhausted by standing all the time, by the bad air, and by the attention he had given, strolled over with his fellow-clerks to the Medical School to have tea. He found the work of absorbing interest. There was humanity there in the rough, the materials the artist worked on; and Philip felt a curious thrill when it occurred to him that he was in the position of the artist and the patients were like clay in his hands. He remembered with an amused shrug of the shoulders his life in Paris, absorbed in colour, tone, values, Heaven knows what, with the aim of producing beautiful things: the directness of contact with men and women gave a thrill of power which he had never known. He found an endless excitement in looking at their faces and hearing them speak; they came in each with his peculiarity, some shuffling uncouthly, some with a little trip, others with heavy, slow tread, some shyly. Often you could guess their trades by the look of them. You learnt in what way to put your questions so that they should be understood, you discovered on what subjects nearly all lied, and by what inquiries you could extort the truth notwithstanding. You saw the different way people took the same things. The diagnosis of dangerous illness would be accepted by one with a laugh and a joke, by another with dumb despair. Philip found that he was less shy with these people than he had ever been with others; he felt not exactly sympathy, for sympathy suggests condescension; but he felt at home with them. He found that he was able to put them at their ease, and, when he had been given a case to find out what he could about it, it seemed to him that the patient delivered himself into his hands with a peculiar confidence.

‘Perhaps,’ he thought to himself, with a smile, ‘perhaps I’m cut out to be a doctor. It would be rather a lark if I’d hit upon the one thing I’m fit for.’

It seemed to Philip that he alone of the clerks saw the dramatic interest of those afternoons. To the others men and women were only cases, good if they were complicated, tiresome if obvious; they heard murmurs and were astonished at abnormal livers; an unexpected sound in the lungs gave them something to talk about. But to Philip there was much more. He found an interest in just looking at them, in the shape of their heads and their hands, in the look of their eyes and the length of their noses. You saw in that room human nature taken by surprise, and often the mask of custom was torn off rudely, showing you the soul all raw. Sometimes you saw an untaught stoicism which was profoundly moving. Once Philip saw a man, rough and illiterate, told his case was hopeless; and, self-controlled himself, he wondered at the splendid instinct which forced the fellow to keep a stiff upper-lip before strangers. But was it possible for him to be brave when he was by himself, face to face with his soul, or would he then surrender to despair? Sometimes there was tragedy. Once a young woman brought her sister to be examined, a girl of eighteen, with delicate features and large blue eyes, fair hair that sparkled with gold when a ray of autumn sunshine touched it for a moment, and a skin of amazing beauty. The students’ eyes went to her with little smiles. They did not often see a pretty girl in these dingy rooms. The elder woman gave the family history, father and mother had died of phthisis, a brother and a sister, these two were the only ones left. The girl had been coughing lately and losing weight. She took off her blouse and the skin of her neck was like milk. Dr. Tyrell examined her quietly, with his usual rapid method; he told two or three of his clerks to apply their stethoscopes to a place he indicated with his finger; and then she was allowed to dress. The sister was standing a little apart and she spoke to him in a low voice, so that the girl should not hear. Her voice trembled with fear.

‘She hasn’t got it, doctor, has she?’

‘I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it.’

‘She was the last one. When she goes I shan’t have anybody.’

She began to cry, while the doctor looked at her gravely; he thought she too had the type; she would not make old bones either. The girl turned round and saw her sister’s tears. She understood what they meant. The colour fled from her lovely face and tears fell down her cheeks. The two stood for a minute or two, crying silently, and then the older, forgetting the indifferent crowd that watched them, went up to her, took her in her arms, and rocked her gently to and fro as if she were a baby.

When they were gone a student asked:

‘How long d’you think she’ll last, sir?’

Dr. Tyrell shrugged his shoulders.

‘Her brother and sister died within three months of the first symptoms. She’ll do the same. If they were rich one might do something. You can’t tell these people to go to St. Moritz. Nothing can be done for them.’

Once a man who was strong and in all the power of his manhood came because a persistent aching troubled him and his club-doctor did not seem to do him any good; and the verdict for him too was death, not the inevitable death that horrified and yet was tolerable because science was helpless before it, but the death which was inevitable because the man was a little wheel in the great machine of a complex civilisation, and had as little power of changing the circumstances as an automaton. Complete rest was his only chance. The physician did not ask impossibilities.

‘You ought to get some very much lighter job.’

‘There ain’t no light jobs in my business.’

‘Well, if you go on like this you’ll kill yourself. You’re very ill.’

‘D’you mean to say I’m going to die?’

‘I shouldn’t like to say that, but you’re certainly unfit for hard work.’

‘If I don’t work who’s to keep the wife and the kids?’

Dr. Tyrell shrugged his shoulders. The dilemma had been presented to him a hundred times. Time was pressing and there were many patients to be seen.

‘Well, I’ll give you some medicine and you can come back in a week and tell me how you’re getting on.’

The man took his letter with the useless prescription written upon it and walked out. The doctor might say what he liked. He did not feel so bad that he could not go on working. He had a good job and he could not afford to throw it away.

‘I give him a year,’ said Dr. Tyrell.

Sometimes there was comedy. Now and then came a flash of cockney humour, now and then some old lady, a character such as Charles Dickens might have drawn, would amuse them by her garrulous oddities. Once a woman came who was a member of the ballet at a famous music-hall. She looked fifty, but gave her age as twenty-eight. She was outrageously painted and ogled the students impudently with large black eyes; her smiles were grossly alluring. She had abundant self-confidence and treated Dr. Tyrell, vastly amused, with the easy familiarity with which she might have used an intoxicated admirer. She had chronic bronchitis, and told him it hindered her in the exercise of her profession.

‘I don’t know why I should ‘ave such a thing, upon my word I don’t. I’ve never ‘ad a day’s illness in my life. You’ve only got to look at me to know that.’

She rolled her eyes round the young men, with a long sweep of her painted eyelashes, and flashed her yellow teeth at them. She spoke with a cockney accent, but with an affectation of refinement which made every word a feast of fun.

‘It’s what they call a winter cough,’ answered Dr. Tyrell gravely. ‘A great many middle-aged women have it.’

‘Well, I never! That is a nice thing to say to a lady. No one ever called me middle-aged before.’

She opened her eyes very wide and cocked her head on one side, looking at him with indescribable archness.

‘That is the disadvantage of our profession,’ said he. ‘It forces us sometimes to be ungallant.’

She took the prescription and gave him one last, luscious smile.

‘You will come and see me dance, dearie, won’t you?’

‘I will indeed.’

He rang the bell for the next case.

‘I am glad you gentlemen were here to protect me.’

But on the whole the impression was neither of tragedy nor of comedy. There was no describing it. It was manifold and various; there were tears and laughter, happiness and woe; it was tedious and interesting and indifferent; it was as you saw it: it was tumultuous and passionate; it was grave; it was sad and comic; it was trivial; it was simple and complex; joy was there and despair; the love of mothers for their children, and of men for women; lust trailed itself through the rooms with leaden feet, punishing the guilty and the innocent, helpless wives and wretched children; drink seized men and women and cost its inevitable price; death sighed in these rooms; and the beginning of life, filling some poor girl with terror and shame, was diagnosed there. There was neither good nor bad there. There were just facts. It was life.

第八十一章

冬季学期一开学，菲利普就上医院门诊部实习。门诊部有三名助理医师轮流为门诊病人看病，每人每周值班两天。菲利普投在蒂勒尔大夫手下当助手。蒂勒尔大夫在医科学生中颇有点声望，大家都争先恐后地要当他的助手。这位大夫年方三十五，身材颀长，面容清癯，小小的脑瓜上覆着剪得短短的红发，一双蓝眼睛鼓鼓的，红红的脸膛油光发亮。他能说会道，嗓音悦耳动听。说话时，还喜欢插句把笑话。他还有点儿玩世不恭。蒂勒尔大夫是个有所成就的人，行医多年，预期不日即将被授予爵士衔。由于常同医科学生和穷人们打交道，他一面孔的恩人气派；又因为常与病人周旋，他身上流露出一个壮汉的乐善好施的神态。所有这些均是某些顾问医师通常具有的职业风度。蒂勒尔大夫的言谈举止使得病人感到自己好比是站在一位和蔼可亲的教师面前的小学生，而他的疾病不过是一个可笑的恶作剧，与其说使人感到痛苦，毋宁说给人带来了乐趣。

前来实习的医科学生，每天都得到门诊部去观察病例，尽量学得一些医疗知识。不过，当轮到某个学生给自己的指导医师当助手时，他的职责就要略为具体些了。那个时候，圣路加医院门诊部共有三个相互沟通的就诊室，还有一个宽敞的、光线昏暗的候诊室。候诊室里竖着粗实的大理石柱，摆着一张张长条椅。病人们正午挂上号后就在此等候。他们手里拿着药瓶或药罐，排着长队，有的衣衫褴褛、蓬头垢面，有的穿着还颇为体面。男女老少各色人等，坐在这半明不暗的候诊室里，给人以一种怪异、可怕的印象。此情此景使人想起了多米尔所作的令人森然可怖的画画。这几个房间四周墙壁都漆成橙红色，高高的墙裙一抹栗色。里面弥漫着消毒药水的气味儿，随着下午时光的流逝，还充斥着从人身上散发出来的汗臭味。第一个房间最大，中央摆着供大夫看病用的桌子和椅于。这张桌子的两旁各放一张略微矮小的桌于，一边坐着住院医生，一边坐着当大负责记录的助手。记录用的簿子很大，里面分别登录着病人的姓名、可龄、性别、职业以及病情的诊断情况。

下午一点半，住院医生首先来到这儿，按了按铃，通知传达把老病号挨个儿叫进来。老病号总是不少的。他们得赶在蒂勒尔大夫两点上班之前尽快处理完这批复诊病人。跟菲利普在一起的这位住院医生，生得短小精悍，颇有些自尊自大的神气。他在助手面前总是摆出一副纡尊降贵的姿态。那些同他年龄相仿的医科学生对他的态度比较随便，并不用跟他目下地位相称的礼貌待他，对此，他很不以为然。他立即着手给复诊病人看病。这时，有个助手协助他。病人们川流不息地走进就诊室，走在前面的都是男病人。他们主要是来看慢性支气管炎和"令人头痛的咳嗽"。其中一人走到住院医生面前，另一人走到助手跟前，分别交上挂号证。事情进行得顺利的话，住院医生或助手就在挂号证上写明"连服十四天"的字样，于是病人就拿着药瓶或药罐上药房取足够服用十四天的药品。有些滑头病人缩在后面，希望让住院医生给他们看病，但很少有人得逞的。通常只有那么三四个人，因为病情特殊非得让住院医生亲自过问不可，才有幸被留下。

不一会儿，蒂勒尔大夫飘然而至。他脚步生风，动作敏捷，使人不禁想起嘴里一边嚷着"我们又来到贵方宝地"一边跃上马戏团舞台的丑角来了。他那股神气似乎在告诉人们：你们都生些什么样的荒唐病呀？鄙人驾到，手到病除！他刚坐稳身子，就问有没有要他看的复诊病人，接着便动作迅速地检查着病人，那对精明的眼睛审视着他们，在这同时，还同住院医生讨论病人的症状，不时地插句把笑话（逗得在场的助手们开怀畅笑）。那位住院医生格格地欢笑着，不过从他的神气来看，他似乎认为助手们竟咧嘴傻笑太不知趣了。接着他便哼哼哈哈地不是说天气很美就是抱怨天气太热，然后按响电铃，吩咐传达招呼初诊病人进来。

病人一个挨一个地走向蒂勒尔大夫的桌子跟前。他们中有老头，有小伙子，也有中年人。多数属于劳力者，其中有码头苦力、马车夫、工厂工人和酒店侍者。不过他们中也有些衣冠端正的人，显然是些社会地位比一较优越的店员、职员之类的人物。蒂勒尔大夫用怀疑的目光打量着他们。有时候，有些人故意披件蹩脚衣服，装出一副穷酸相。但是蒂勒尔大夫的目光犀利，对凡是他认为是伪装的一律加以制止，有时干脆拒绝给那些他认为出得起医疗费的人看病。女人可是最叫人头痛的捣乱者。不过她们伪装的手法实在不高明，往往身上穿件破烂不堪的斗篷或者裙于，可忘了抹去套在手指上的戒指。

"你戴得起珠宝饰物，也一定有钱请医生。医院是个慈善机构。"蒂勒尔大夫冷冷地说。

他说罢便把挂号证扔还给病人，叫下一位病人上来。

"但是我持有挂号证呀！"

"我才不在乎呢。你快给我出去！你没权利上这儿来揩油，占穷人看病的时间。"

那个病人恶狠狠地瞪了蒂勒尔大夫一眼，气呼呼地退了出去。

"她很可能会写信给报社，去告伦敦的医院管理不善，"蒂勒尔大夫一边笑吟吟地说，一边信手拿起下一个病人的挂号证，并用狡黠的目光朝那病人扫一眼。

大多数病人都以为这家医院是国立医疗机构，并认为他们交纳的赋税中就有一部分是用来办这家医院的。因此，他们把来看病当作自己的应有权利。他们还认为医生费时给他们看病一定得到很高报酬。

蒂勒尔大夫让他的助手们每人检查一名病人。助手们把病人带进里面房间。这些房间都很小，每个房间都摆着一张睡椅，上面铺着一块马毛呢。助手首先向病人提出各种各样的问题，然后检查他的肺部、心脏、肝脏，并把检查情况一一记在病历卡上，同时根据自己的判断开出处方。这一切完毕后，他便等候蒂勒尔大夫进来。蒂勒尔大夫一看完外头的男病人，就来小房间，身后还尾随着一小批实习的学生。此时，助手便高声读出自己检查的结果。蒂勒尔大夫听完后，便向助手提出一两个问题，然后亲自动手检查病人。要是碰到值得一听的情况的话，刚才跟他一道进来的那批医科学生便纷纷掏出听诊器。此时，你就会看到这样的场面：两三个学生站在病人的面前，默默地诊听着他的胸腔，可能还有两名学生在诊听他的背部，而在旁边还有几位学生，一个个急不可耐，急于想一饱耳福。那位病人处在这批学生的包围之中，脸上虽说有几分尴尬的神色，但看到自己成为人们注意的中心，倒也不见得不高兴。在蒂勒尔大夫口齿伶俐地剖析病例的当儿，那位病人扑朔迷离地在一旁聆听着。有两三个学生再次操起听诊器专心听着，力图听出蒂勒尔大夫刚才提到的杂音和噼啪声。他们听完后，才叫那病人穿上衣服。

病情诊断完毕后，蒂勒尔人大便回到大房间里，重新在他的办公桌旁就座。这时候，无论是哪位学生在他身边，他都要征求该学生对刚才他看过的病人开什么处方。被问的那位学生随即报出一两种药名。

"你开这种药？"蒂勒尔大夫接着说。"嗯，无论从哪一点来看，你那个处方颇有独到之处。不过，我认为我们不能轻率从事啊。"

他的话总是逗得学生哄堂大笑，而他对自己的连珠妙语似乎也颇为欣赏，眸子里总是闪烁着扬扬得意的神色。这时候，他开出完全不同于那位学生提出的处方来。一巳碰上两个一模一样的病例，学生就建议采用蒂勒尔大夫给第一个病人开的处方，可他却充分发挥其聪明才智，煞费苦心地开出一味完全不同的药来。有时候，配药房的药剂师成天疲于奔命，双腿累得够呛，他们喜欢医师开列已备药品，以及多年临床证明疗效灵验的该院的传统混合药剂。对此，蒂勒尔大夫心里知道得一清二楚，可他还是乐于开出一种配方复杂的药方来。

"我们得给药剂师找些事儿干干。要是我们老是在处方上写'药方：白肮'，那他的脑于就不好使了。"

学生们听后又爆发出一阵热烈的笑声。蒂勒尔大夫闪烁着兴奋的目光，朝他们扫视了一下。然后，他接了按铃，吩咐探头进来的传达说：

"请叫复诊女病人进来。"

在传达把复诊女病人领进就诊室时，他身子后仰靠在椅背上，同住院医生聊起天来。女病人徐徐进入房间，中间有一队队身患贫血症，额前留着蓬松的刘海，嘴唇惨白的姑娘。她们吃的食物很粗糙，而且常常吃了上顿没下顿的，但她们还是患有消化不良症。那些上了年纪的妇人，有胖墩墩的，也有瘦骨嶙峋的，因生育过多，天一凉就咳个不停，过早地衰老了。这些女人身上，这病那病的，应有尽有。蒂勒尔大大和住院医生很快就把她们打发走了。随着时间的流逝，那小小的就诊室里的空气变得越来越浑浊。住院医生看了看手上的表。

"今天初诊的女病人多不多？"蒂勒尔大大问了一声。

"我想不会少的，"住院医生回答说。

"我们还是让她们都进来吧。你继续替老病号看。"

初诊的女病人被唤进了就诊室。男人生病，大都是由饮酒过度而引起的，可对女人来说，她们的疾病则大半是由营养不良引起的。到了六点钟光景，病人全都看完了。由于全神贯注地站了整整一个下午，再加上房间里空气浑浊，菲利普觉得筋疲力尽。此时，他同其他几位助手一起踱向医学院去用茶。他感到工作富有情趣，令人向往，表面看来虽然粗陋，但其间却富有人情味，倒是艺术家们用来创作的好素材。菲利普突然想到自己本人就处在艺术家的地位上，而那些病人不过是捏在自己手中的泥团，心头不觉掠过一阵狂喜。当回忆起自己当年在巴黎度过的时光时，菲利普饶有兴味地耸了耸肩。那会儿，他抱着创造出美好事物的目的，成天热中于色彩、声调、价值，天晓得是些什么玩意儿。同男男女女的病人直接打交道，使他体会到一种从未有过的力量感。他发觉在端详他们的面孔和倾听他们的谈吐中间自有无穷的乐趣。他们走起路来，各有各的姿势，有的粗鲁地拖曳着脚步，有的踏着轻快的碎步，有的迈着缓慢、沉重的步子，还有的则羞羞答答，忸怩不前。往往只要瞧一眼他们的外表就知道他们从事何种职业。你学会该怎么发问才能使他们懂得你的意思，你会发现在哪些问题上他们通常是要撒谎的，这时你晓得该问哪些问题才能从他们嘴里掏出真情来。你发觉人们用各自不同的方式提着相同的问题。在接受对危急病症开的处方时，有的人不是启齿一笑就是开个玩笑，可有的却一脸丧气，绝望至极。菲利普发觉自己同这些人介一起时，就不像以往同别人在一起时那样害羞胆怯。他并不感到他有什么怜悯，因为怜悯意味着自己在摆架子。同他们在一起时，他大有如鱼得水之感。他还发觉自己有能耐叫他们安下心来，而每天大夫叫他检；查病人时，他仿佛觉得那病人怀着一种特殊的信任感把自己托付给他似的。"

"也许，"菲利普暗自思忖着，这当儿，脸上还挂着一丝微笑呢，"也许我生来就是当医生的料子。如果我无意中选择了正适合我干的事儿，那简直太有趣了。"

在菲利普看来，助手们中间只有他才能领悟到那些下午值班中的富有戏剧性的意趣。对其他也助手来说，那些男女仅仅是一个个病人而已。要是病情错综复杂，他们就欢迎；要是病情一目了然，他们就会觉得厌烦。他们为听到了杂音或为检查出肝病而不胜惊讶；听到肺部发出的一种异乎寻常的响声，他们就会喋喋不休地议论起来。但是，对菲利普来说，事情远不止于此。他只是看看他们的长相，头部的形状，手，眼神以及鼻子的高低，就觉得兴趣盎然。在那门诊室里，他看到的是被不测之故侵袭的人的本性，此时世俗的面具被粗暴地撕下了，呈现在眼前的是赤裸裸的心灵。有时还会看到一种无师自通的禁欲主义的表现，那情景简直动人心魄。有一次，菲利普遇上一位粗鲁、目不识丁的男病人。他告诉菲利普说他的病已无可救药，但说话时极力控制自己的情感。面对使得这位老兄在陌生人面前还是那么坚毅的奇妙的本能，菲利普不由得惊讶不已。要是他本人面对着自己的心灵时，是否也能这样勇敢呢？是否会向绝望的情感低头屈服呢？有时候也会发生令人悲伤的事情。一次，有位少妇带了她妹妹来作体检。那位姑娘年方十八，容颜娇嫩，生着一对大大的蓝眼睛。有那么一会儿，浅色的头发在一缕秋天阳光的照耀下，反射出缕缕金光。她的肤色美得惊人。在场的几位助手微笑地盯视着她。在这几间邋里邋遢的门诊室里，他们很少看到这样的窈窕女郎。那位少妇开始介绍亲属病史，说她的父母双亲均死于肺结核。一位弟弟和一位妹妹也由于同样的原因而夭亡了。她们姐妹俩是这家的幸存者。那位姑娘近来老是咳嗽，还日见消瘦。她解开罩衫，露出那白如牛奶的脖子。蒂勒尔大夫默默地检查着。同往常一样，他的动作敏捷利索。他吩咐两三个助手用听诊器诊听他手指示的部位。接着，他叫那位姑娘扣好衣服。那位少妇站得稍远一点。为了不让那姑娘听见，她压低了嗓门说话。她的声音因害怕而发颤了。

"大夫，她没得肺病，是不？"

"恐怕她毫无疑问是得了。"

"她是最后一个了。她再一走，我可没一个亲人了。"

那个少妇嘤嘤抽泣起来。蒂勒尔大夫脸色阴郁地望着她。他私下里想她自己又何尝不是如此，同样活不长。那姑娘转过身来，发觉她姐姐在流泪。她明白这意味着什么。血色渐渐从她那张妩媚的脸蛋上褪去，两行泪珠顺着双颊扑籁而下。她们俩站了分把钟，无声地抽泣着。接着，那少妇把在一旁冷眼旁观的几个人都忘了，走到她妹妹跟前，一把把她搂在怀里，一前一后地摇晃着，仿佛是在哄婴儿似的。

她们走后，一位学生问道：

"你认为她还能活多久了"

蒂勒尔大夫耸了耸双肩。

"她的兄弟和姐妹一发现症状以后三个月就死了。她也会是这样的。假如她们有钱，那还可以想想办法。你可不能叫她们上圣马利兹医院去呀。对她们这种人来说，无法可想。"

一天，来了位身体强壮、正当盛年的中年汉子。他身上有块地方终日疼痛不止，使他备受折磨。可给他看病的这位跛脚医生看来并没有使他的疼痛有丝毫的减轻，最后诊断为不治之症，只有等死。这不是那种令人胆寒然而还是情有可原的不可避免的死亡，因为科学在这病症面前也束手无策嘛。这种死亡之所以不可避免，是因为这个人不过是错综复杂的社会文明这部庞大机器上的一个小小齿轮，就像一部自动机那样，压根儿无力改变自己周围的环境。要病痊愈，他就得彻底休息。然而，蒂勒尔大夫并没有要求他做不可能做到的事情。

"你该换个轻微的工种干干。"

"在我那个行业里，可没一件轻活。"

"嗯，你再这样干下去，是要送命的。你的病可不轻呢。"

"你的意思是说我快要死了？"

"我可不想这么说，不过你肯定不宜干重活。"

"我不干，谁来替我养活妻子儿女呢？"

蒂勒尔大夫耸了耸肩膀。这种困境在他面前出现已不下上百次了。眼下，时间紧迫，还有许多病人在等着他呢。

"那好吧，我给你开些药，一个星期之后再来，告诉我你的感觉怎样。"

那个汉子拿起上面开着毫无疗效的药方转身走了出去。医生爱说什么随他说去。他对自己不能继续干活这一点倒并不觉得难过懊丧。他有个好工作，岂能轻易撒手。

"我说他还有一年可活，"蒂勒尔大夫说。

有时候，门诊室里会出些富有戏剧性的事件。耳边不时传来有人操着浓重的伦敦口音说些不无幽默的隐语。时而走进来个老妇人，就像狄更斯笔下出现的这一类人物一样，她说起话来特别罗唆，絮絮叨叨的说个没完没了，把他们逗得呵呵直乐。有一次，来了位女人，是一家颇有名气的杂耍剧场的芭蕾舞演员。她看上去有五十岁了，可自报才二十八岁，脸上涂抹着厚厚的脂粉，一对乌黑的大眸子滴溜溜地转动着，厚颜无耻地对那些学生们频递媚眼。她那笑容既下流又颇具诱惑力。她非常自信。特别令人感兴趣的是，她对蒂勒尔大夫那股随便亲热劲儿，正好比她在对待一位信誓旦旦的追求者一般。她患有慢性支气管炎，在蒂勒尔大夫面前抱怨这病给她眼下从事的行当带来不便。

"我真并不懂为什么我偏偏要生这种病。说句老实话，我真的弄不懂。我这辈子没生过一天病。你只要瞧我一眼就会知道这是不假的。"

她的眼睛对着周围的年轻人骨碌碌转，那假装的长睫毛对他们意味深长地眨了一下。她还朝着他们露了露那口黄牙。她操着一口伦敦士音，不过说话时却带着一种幽雅的情感，每吐一个字，都使听者觉得趣味隽永。

"这就是人们常说的咳嗽病，"蒂勒尔大夫神情严肃地答道，"许多中年妇女都得这种毛病。"

"哦，天哪！你的话跟一位女士去说倒蛮动听的。还从来没有人说我是个中年妇女呢。"

她圆睁着双眼，头朝一边歪着，带着一种难以形容的诡诈相凝视着蒂勒尔大夫。

"这就是我们这一行业的不利之处了，"蒂勒尔大夫说，"它有时逼着我们说话不能那么高雅了。"

她在接过处方的当儿，再一次朝蒂勒尔大夫嫣然一笑，那笑容颇有点勾魂摄魄的魅力。

"你一定会来看我跳舞的，亲爱的，是不？"

"我一定去。"

蒂勒尔大夫说罢按响电铃，吩咐带下一个病人。

"有你们这几位先生在这儿保护我，我感到非常高兴。"

不过，总的印象既非悲剧也非喜剧。这种印象无法用言语来表达。真是五花八门，色彩斑斓；充斥着眼泪和笑声、幸福和悲哀。一切是那么冗长乏味，既饶有兴趣而又平淡无奇。情况正如你见到的那样：它是那么的喧嚣、热烈，又那么的严肃；它是那么的可悲、可笑，又那么的微不足道；它既简单又复杂；有欢乐，但又包含着绝望；还有母亲对子女的母爱；男人对女人的情爱；欲望拖曳着沉重的步伐穿过房间，惩罚着罪人和无辜者以及一筹莫展的妻子们和可怜的孩子们；男男女女都酗酒，但不可避免地要付出那笔惨重的代价；一个个房间都回荡着死神的叹息声；新生命在那里得到了诊断，却使得一些可怜的姑娘心里充满恐惧和羞愧。这儿既不好又不坏，有的只是赤裸裸的事实。这就是生活。

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chapter 82

Towards the end of the year, when Philip was bringing to a close his three months as clerk in the out-patients’ department, he received a letter from Lawson, who was in Paris.

Dear Philip,

Cronshaw is in London and would be glad to see you. He is living at 43 Hyde Street, Soho. I don’t know where it is, but I daresay you will be able to find out. Be a brick and look after him a bit. He is very down on his luck. He will tell you what he is doing. Things are going on here very much as usual. Nothing seems to have changed since you were here. Clutton is back, but he has become quite impossible. He has quarrelled with everybody. As far as I can make out he hasn’t got a cent, he lives in a little studio right away beyond the Jardin des Plantes, but he won’t let anybody see his work. He doesn’t show anywhere, so one doesn’t know what he is doing. He may be a genius, but on the other hand he may be off his head. By the way, I ran against Flanagan the other day. He was showing Mrs. Flanagan round the Quarter. He has chucked art and is now in popper’s business. He seems to be rolling. Mrs. Flanagan is very pretty and I’m trying to work a portrait. How much would you ask if you were me? I don’t want to frighten them, and then on the other hand I don’t want to be such an ass as to ask L150 if they’re quite willing to give L300.

Yours ever, Frederick Lawson.

Philip wrote to Cronshaw and received in reply the following letter. It was written on a half-sheet of common note-paper, and the flimsy envelope was dirtier than was justified by its passage through the post.

Dear Carey,

Of course I remember you very well. I have an idea that I had some part in rescuing you from the Slough of Despond in which myself am hopelessly immersed. I shall be glad to see you. I am a stranger in a strange city and I am buffeted by the philistines. It will be pleasant to talk of Paris. I do not ask you to come and see me, since my lodging is not of a magnificence fit for the reception of an eminent member of Monsieur Purgon’s profession, but you will find me eating modestly any evening between seven and eight at a restaurant yclept Au Bon Plaisir in Dean Street.

Your sincere J. Cronshaw.

Philip went the day he received this letter. The restaurant, consisting of one small room, was of the poorest class, and Cronshaw seemed to be its only customer. He was sitting in the corner, well away from draughts, wearing the same shabby great-coat which Philip had never seen him without, with his old bowler on his head.

‘I eat here because I can be alone,’ he said. ‘They are not doing well; the only people who come are a few trollops and one or two waiters out of a job; they are giving up business, and the food is execrable. But the ruin of their fortunes is my advantage.’

Cronshaw had before him a glass of absinthe. It was nearly three years since they had met, and Philip was shocked by the change in his appearance. He had been rather corpulent, but now he had a dried-up, yellow look: the skin of his neck was loose and winkled; his clothes hung about him as though they had been bought for someone else; and his collar, three or four sizes too large, added to the slatternliness of his appearance. His hands trembled continually. Philip remembered the handwriting which scrawled over the page with shapeless, haphazard letters. Cronshaw was evidently very ill.

‘I eat little these days,’ he said. ‘I’m very sick in the morning. I’m just having some soup for my dinner, and then I shall have a bit of cheese.’

Philip’s glance unconsciously went to the absinthe, and Cronshaw, seeing it, gave him the quizzical look with which he reproved the admonitions of common sense.

‘You have diagnosed my case, and you think it’s very wrong of me to drink absinthe.’

‘You’ve evidently got cirrhosis of the liver,’ said Philip.

‘Evidently.’

He looked at Philip in the way which had formerly had the power of making him feel incredibly narrow. It seemed to point out that what he was thinking was distressingly obvious; and when you have agreed with the obvious what more is there to say? Philip changed the topic.

‘When are you going back to Paris?’

‘I’m not going back to Paris. I’m going to die.’

The very naturalness with which he said this startled Philip. He thought of half a dozen things to say, but they seemed futile. He knew that Cronshaw was a dying man.

‘Are you going to settle in London then?’ he asked lamely.

‘What is London to me? I am a fish out of water. I walk through the crowded streets, men jostle me, and I seem to walk in a dead city. I felt that I couldn’t die in Paris. I wanted to die among my own people. I don’t know what hidden instinct drew me back at the last.’

Philip knew of the woman Cronshaw had lived with and the two draggle-tailed children, but Cronshaw had never mentioned them to him, and he did not like to speak of them. He wondered what had happened to them.

‘I don’t know why you talk of dying,’ he said.

‘I had pneumonia a couple of winters ago, and they told me then it was a miracle that I came through. It appears I’m extremely liable to it, and another bout will kill me.’

‘Oh, what nonsense! You’re not so bad as all that. You’ve only got to take precautions. Why don’t you give up drinking?’

‘Because I don’t choose. It doesn’t matter what a man does if he’s ready to take the consequences. Well, I’m ready to take the consequences. You talk glibly of giving up drinking, but it’s the only thing I’ve got left now. What do you think life would be to me without it? Can you understand the happiness I get out of my absinthe? I yearn for it; and when I drink it I savour every drop, and afterwards I feel my soul swimming in ineffable happiness. It disgusts you. You are a puritan and in your heart you despise sensual pleasures. Sensual pleasures are the most violent and the most exquisite. I am a man blessed with vivid senses, and I have indulged them with all my soul. I have to pay the penalty now, and I am ready to pay.’

Philip looked at him for a while steadily.

‘Aren’t you afraid?’

For a moment Cronshaw did not answer. He seemed to consider his reply.

‘Sometimes, when I’m alone.’ He looked at Philip. ‘You think that’s a condemnation? You’re wrong. I’m not afraid of my fear. It’s folly, the Christian argument that you should live always in view of your death. The only way to live is to forget that you’re going to die. Death is unimportant. The fear of it should never influence a single action of the wise man. I know that I shall die struggling for breath, and I know that I shall be horribly afraid. I know that I shall not be able to keep myself from regretting bitterly the life that has brought me to such a pass; but I disown that regret. I now, weak, old, diseased, poor, dying, hold still my soul in my hands, and I regret nothing.’

‘D’you remember that Persian carpet you gave me?’ asked Philip.

Cronshaw smiled his old, slow smile of past days.

‘I told you that it would give you an answer to your question when you asked me what was the meaning of life. Well, have you discovered the answer?’

‘No,’ smiled Philip. ‘Won’t you tell it me?’

‘No, no, I can’t do that. The answer is meaningless unless you discover it for yourself.’

第八十二章

临近年底的时候，菲利普在医院门诊部为期三个月的实习生活也快结束了。这时，他接到劳森从巴黎寄来的一封信。

亲爱的菲利普：

克朗肖眼下正在伦敦，很想同你见见面。他的地址是：索霍区海德街四十三号。这条街究竟在伦敦哪一角，我也说不清楚，不过你肯定能找到的。行行好吧，去照顾照顾他。他很不走运。至于他眼下在于些什么，到时他会告诉你的。这儿的情况同往日无异，你走之后似乎没什么变化。克拉顿已经回到巴黎，但是他变得叫人无法忍受。他跟每个人都闹翻了。据我所知，他连一个子儿也没有搞到，眼下就住在离植物园不远的一间小小的画室里，可他不让任何人看他的作品。他整天不露面，因此谁也闹不清他在干些什么。他也许是个天才，但是就另一方面来说，他也可能神经错乱了。顺便告诉你件事：有一天我突然遇上了弗拉纳根。那时，他正领着弗拉纳根太太在拉丁区转悠呢。他早撒手不干画画，而改做制造爆玉米花机器的生意了，看上去手里还很有几个钱哩。弗拉纳根太太颇有几分姿色，我正在想法子给她画张肖像画。要是你是我的话，你会开多少价？我无意吓唬他们。不过，要是他们俩心甘情愿地出我三百镑，我还不想去当那个笨伯，只收一百五十镑呢。

永远属于你的

弗雷德里克·劳森

菲利普随即写了封信给克朗肖，翌日即收到了回音。

亲爱的凯里：

我当然不会忘记你的。曾记否，当年我助过你一臂之力，将你从"绝望的深渊"中拯救出来，而眼下我自己却无可挽回地堕入了"绝望的深渊"。能见到您我很高兴。我是个流落在一个陌生城市里的异乡客，深受市侩们的蹂躏。同您在一起谈谈昔日在巴黎的往事，倒是件令人愉快的事儿。我无意劳您的驾跑来看我，只因为我那一方斗室实在不够体面，不宜接待一位操珀根先生的职业的杰出人士。不过，我每天下午七至八时之间，都在迪恩街一家雅号为奥本普莱塞的餐馆里消夜，您这时候来准能找到我。

您的忠诚的J·克朗肖

菲利普接到回信后，当天便赶去看望克朗肖。那家餐馆只有一间店堂，属于最低级的一类餐馆。看来，克朗肖是这儿绝无仅有的一位顾客。克朗肖远离风口，坐在角落里，身上还是穿着那件寒酸的厚大衣，菲利普从来没见他脱过，头上戴了一顶破旧的圆顶硬礼帽。

"我上这儿吃饭，是因为我可以一人独处，无人打扰，"克朗肖开腔说道。"这家饭馆生意不那么景气，来吃饭的只是些妓女和一些失业的侍者。店家也准备关门了，所以这儿的饭菜糟糕透了。不过，他们破产却对找有利。"

克朗肖面前摆着一杯艾酒。他们俩已将近三年没碰面了，克朗肖容貌大变，菲利普见了不由得大吃一惊。克朗肖原先身子胖胖的，而眼下却显得干瘪，肤色焦黄；颈皮松弛，皱纹叠出；衣服飘挂在身上，像是给别人买的衣服似的，衣领要大上三四个尺码。所有这些，使他的外貌更显得邋遢。他双手不住地颤抖着。这时，菲利普想起了他的信笺上爬满了歪歪扭扭、杂乱无章的字母。很明显，克朗肖病得还不轻哩。

"这几天我吃得很少，"克朗肖又说。"我早晨病得很厉害。中饭也只是喝些汤，然后就吃一点儿奶酪。"

菲利普的目光下意识地落到了那杯艾酒上，却被克朗肖瞧见了，他对菲利普投以嘲弄的一瞥，借此阻止菲利普作常识上的劝告。

"你已经诊断了我的病症，你认为我喝艾酒是个极大的错误。"

"你显然得的是肝硬化，"菲利普说。

"显然是的。"

克朗肖盯视着菲利普，要是在过去，那目光足以使得菲利普难以忍受。那目光仿佛指出，他脑子里所考虑的问题虽令人苦恼，却是显而易见的；既然你对这显而易见的问题不持异议，那还有什么好说的呢？于是，菲利普换了话题。

"你打算什么时候回巴黎去？"

"我不打算回巴黎了，我快要死了。"

他竟以一种极其自然的口气谈论自己的死亡，菲利普听后不觉为之愕然。一霎间，千言万语涌上了菲利普的心头，但这些话似乎都是毫无意义的空话。菲利普肚里雪亮，克朗肖确是个垂死的人了。

"那么你打算在伦敦定居罗？"菲利普笨拙地问了一声。

"伦敦对我有什么意义呢？我就好比是条离了水的鱼。我穿过挤满人群的街道时，人们把我推过来挤过去的，仿佛走在一座死城里一样。我只觉得我不能死在巴黎。我想死在我自己的人民中间。我自己也不知道最终是一种什么样的神秘的本能把我拉回来的。"

菲利普认识那位和克朗肖同居的女人以及他们的两个拖着又脏又湿的裙子的女儿，但是克朗肖在他面前从来不提起她们，他也不愿谈论她们的事儿。菲利普暗自纳闷，不知她们景况如何。

"我不懂你为何要讲到死呢？"菲利普说。

"三两年以前的一个冬天，我患过肺炎，当时人们都说我竟能活了下来，真是个奇迹。看来我危如累卵，稍微有点什么就会死的，再生一场病就会要了我的命。"。

"哦，瞎说！你的身体还不至于坏到这种程度。只要当心就行了。你为什么不把酒戒了呢？"

"因为我不想戒。一个人要是准备承担一切后果，那他干什么都没有。顾忌。唔，我就准备承担一切后果。你倒会说叫我戒酒，可我现在就只有这么个嗜好了。想想看，要是戒了酒，那生活对我来说还有什么意义呢？我从艾酒里求得的幸福，你能理解吗？我就是想喝酒，而且每次喝酒，我都喝得一滴不剩，过后，只觉得我那颗心沉浸在莫可名状的幸福之中。酒。这玩意儿使你讨厌，因为你是个清教徒，你心里对肉体的快乐很反感。河肉体的快乐最强烈，且最细腻。我是个具有活泼的七情六欲的男人，而且我一向是全身心地沉湎于此。现在我得为之付出代价，而且我也准备付这笔代价。"

有好一会儿，菲利普两眼直直地盯视着克朗肖。

"你就不害怕吗？"

克朗肖沉思了半晌，没有作答。他似乎是在考虑他的回答。

"有时候，当我一人独坐的时候，我也害怕过，"他说话时眼睛瞅着菲利普。"你以为那是在谴责吗？你错了。我并不为我的害怕心理所吓倒。那是愚蠢的。基督教说，你活着就应该念念不忘死。死是微不足道的。付死亡的恐惧决不应该影响一个聪明人的一举一动。我知道我临死时会挣扎着想呼吸空气，我也知道到那时我会惊恐万状，我还知道我将无力抑制住自己不对人生把我逼人这样的绝境而悔恨不已，但是我不承认我会悔恨人生。眼下，虽说我身体虚弱，上了年纪，身患沉疴，一贫如洗，而且已行将就木，但我的命运依然掌握在我的手心。因此，我没什么好遗憾的。"

"你还记得你送给我的那条波斯地毯吗？"菲利普问道。

克朗肖同以往一样，脸上渐渐泛起一丝微笑。

"你问我人生的意义是什么的时候，我告诉你那条地毯会给你作出回答。嗯，你找到答案了吗？"

"还没呢，"菲利普莞尔一笑，"你不好告诉我吗？"

"不，不能，我不能做这种事。答案要你自己去找，否则就毫无意义。"

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等级: 内阁元老

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chapter 83

Cronshaw was publishing his poems. His friends had been urging him to do this for years, but his laziness made it impossible for him to take the necessary steps. He had always answered their exhortations by telling them that the love of poetry was dead in England. You brought out a book which had cost you years of thought and labour; it was given two or three contemptuous lines among a batch of similar volumes, twenty or thirty copies were sold, and the rest of the edition was pulped. He had long since worn out the desire for fame. That was an illusion like all else. But one of his friends had taken the matter into his own hands. This was a man of letters, named Leonard Upjohn, whom Philip had met once or twice with Cronshaw in the cafes of the Quarter. He had a considerable reputation in England as a critic and was the accredited exponent in this country of modern French literature. He had lived a good deal in France among the men who made the Mercure de France the liveliest review of the day, and by the simple process of expressing in English their point of view he had acquired in England a reputation for originality. Philip had read some of his articles. He had formed a style for himself by a close imitation of Sir Thomas Browne; he used elaborate sentences, carefully balanced, and obsolete, resplendent words: it gave his writing an appearance of individuality. Leonard Upjohn had induced Cronshaw to give him all his poems and found that there were enough to make a volume of reasonable size. He promised to use his influence with publishers. Cronshaw was in want of money. Since his illness he had found it more difficult than ever to work steadily; he made barely enough to keep himself in liquor; and when Upjohn wrote to him that this publisher and the other, though admiring the poems, thought it not worth while to publish them, Cronshaw began to grow interested. He wrote impressing upon Upjohn his great need and urging him to make more strenuous efforts. Now that he was going to die he wanted to leave behind him a published book, and at the back of his mind was the feeling that he had produced great poetry. He expected to burst upon the world like a new star. There was something fine in keeping to himself these treasures of beauty all his life and giving them to the world disdainfully when, he and the world parting company, he had no further use for them.

His decision to come to England was caused directly by an announcement from Leonard Upjohn that a publisher had consented to print the poems. By a miracle of persuasion Upjohn had persuaded him to give ten pounds in advance of royalties.

‘In advance of royalties, mind you,’ said Cronshaw to Philip. ‘Milton only got ten pounds down.’

Upjohn had promised to write a signed article about them, and he would ask his friends who reviewed to do their best. Cronshaw pretended to treat the matter with detachment, but it was easy to see that he was delighted with the thought of the stir he would make.

One day Philip went to dine by arrangement at the wretched eating-house at which Cronshaw insisted on taking his meals, but Cronshaw did not appear. Philip learned that he had not been there for three days. He got himself something to eat and went round to the address from which Cronshaw had first written to him. He had some difficulty in finding Hyde Street. It was a street of dingy houses huddled together; many of the windows had been broken and were clumsily repaired with strips of French newspaper; the doors had not been painted for years; there were shabby little shops on the ground floor, laundries, cobblers, stationers. Ragged children played in the road, and an old barrel-organ was grinding out a vulgar tune. Philip knocked at the door of Cronshaw’s house (there was a shop of cheap sweetstuffs at the bottom), and it was opened by an elderly Frenchwoman in a dirty apron. Philip asked her if Cronshaw was in.

‘Ah, yes, there is an Englishman who lives at the top, at the back. I don’t know if he’s in. If you want him you had better go up and see.’

The staircase was lit by one jet of gas. There was a revolting odour in the house. When Philip was passing up a woman came out of a room on the first floor, looked at him suspiciously, but made no remark. There were three doors on the top landing. Philip knocked at one, and knocked again; there was no reply; he tried the handle, but the door was locked. He knocked at another door, got no answer, and tried the door again. It opened. The room was dark.

‘Who’s that?’

He recognised Cronshaw’s voice.

‘Carey. Can I come in?’

He received no answer. He walked in. The window was closed and the stink was overpowering. There was a certain amount of light from the arc-lamp in the street, and he saw that it was a small room with two beds in it, end to end; there was a washing-stand and one chair, but they left little space for anyone to move in. Cronshaw was in the bed nearest the window. He made no movement, but gave a low chuckle.

‘Why don’t you light the candle?’ he said then.

Philip struck a match and discovered that there was a candlestick on the floor beside the bed. He lit it and put it on the washing-stand. Cronshaw was lying on his back immobile; he looked very odd in his nightshirt; and his baldness was disconcerting. His face was earthy and death-like.

‘I say, old man, you look awfully ill. Is there anyone to look after you here?’

‘George brings me in a bottle of milk in the morning before he goes to his work.’

‘Who’s George?’

‘I call him George because his name is Adolphe. He shares this palatial apartment with me.’

Philip noticed then that the second bed had not been made since it was slept in. The pillow was black where the head had rested.

‘You don’t mean to say you’re sharing this room with somebody else?’ he cried.

‘Why not? Lodging costs money in Soho. George is a waiter, he goes out at eight in the morning and does not come in till closing time, so he isn’t in my way at all. We neither of us sleep well, and he helps to pass away the hours of the night by telling me stories of his life. He’s a Swiss, and I’ve always had a taste for waiters. They see life from an entertaining angle.’

‘How long have you been in bed?’

‘Three days.’

‘D’you mean to say you’ve had nothing but a bottle of milk for the last three days? Why on earth didn’t you send me a line? I can’t bear to think of you lying here all day long without a soul to attend to you.’

Cronshaw gave a little laugh.

‘Look at your face. Why, dear boy, I really believe you’re distressed. You nice fellow.’

Philip blushed. He had not suspected that his face showed the dismay he felt at the sight of that horrible room and the wretched circumstances of the poor poet. Cronshaw, watching Philip, went on with a gentle smile.

‘I’ve been quite happy. Look, here are my proofs. Remember that I am indifferent to discomforts which would harass other folk. What do the circumstances of life matter if your dreams make you lord paramount of time and space?’

The proofs were lying on his bed, and as he lay in the darkness he had been able to place his hands on them. He showed them to Philip and his eyes glowed. He turned over the pages, rejoicing in the clear type; he read out a stanza.

‘They don’t look bad, do they?’

Philip had an idea. It would involve him in a little expense and he could not afford even the smallest increase of expenditure; but on the other hand this was a case where it revolted him to think of economy.

‘I say, I can’t bear the thought of your remaining here. I’ve got an extra room, it’s empty at present, but I can easily get someone to lend me a bed. Won’t you come and live with me for a while? It’ll save you the rent of this.’

‘Oh, my dear boy, you’d insist on my keeping my window open.’

‘You shall have every window in the place sealed if you like.’

‘I shall be all right tomorrow. I could have got up today, only I felt lazy.’

‘Then you can very easily make the move. And then if you don’t feel well at any time you can just go to bed, and I shall be there to look after you.’

‘If it’ll please you I’ll come,’ said Cronshaw, with his torpid not unpleasant smile.

‘That’ll be ripping.’

They settled that Philip should fetch Cronshaw next day, and Philip snatched an hour from his busy morning to arrange the change. He found Cronshaw dressed, sitting in his hat and great-coat on the bed, with a small, shabby portmanteau, containing his clothes and books, already packed: it was on the floor by his feet, and he looked as if he were sitting in the waiting-room of a station. Philip laughed at the sight of him. They went over to Kennington in a four-wheeler, of which the windows were carefully closed, and Philip installed his guest in his own room. He had gone out early in the morning and bought for himself a second-hand bedstead, a cheap chest of drawers, and a looking-glass. Cronshaw settled down at once to correct his proofs. He was much better.

Philip found him, except for the irritability which was a symptom of his disease, an easy guest. He had a lecture at nine in the morning, so did not see Cronshaw till the night. Once or twice Philip persuaded him to share the scrappy meal he prepared for himself in the evening, but Cronshaw was too restless to stay in, and preferred generally to get himself something to eat in one or other of the cheapest restaurants in Soho. Philip asked him to see Dr. Tyrell, but he stoutly refused; he knew a doctor would tell him to stop drinking, and this he was resolved not to do. He always felt horribly ill in the morning, but his absinthe at mid-day put him on his feet again, and by the time he came home, at midnight, he was able to talk with the brilliancy which had astonished Philip when first he made his acquaintance. His proofs were corrected; and the volume was to come out among the publications of the early spring, when the public might be supposed to have recovered from the avalanche of Christmas books.

第八十三章

克朗肖要出版诗集了。多少年来，他的亲朋好友一直敦促他快把诗集出出来，可因懒惰，他一直没为此采取必要的步骤。他总是以在英国诗魂已丧失殆尽的说法来搪塞友人的劝勉。花费了多年的心血写成了一部书，出版后只是在浩繁的卷帙中排上两三行，卖掉二三十册，其余的竟落得个被拉回去化纸浆的下场。由于多年的磨难，他的名利之心早泯灭。这如同其他所有事情一样，不过是场梦幻虚境而已。然而，他朋友中却有一位把此事一手揽了过去。此人是位文人，名叫伦纳德·厄普姜。菲利普还是在巴黎拉丁区的一家咖啡馆里同克朗肖一起见过他一两回。厄普姜作为文艺批评家在英国颇有声望，同时也是大家所公认的法国现代文学的权威诠释者。他长期生活在法国，混迹于那些致力于把（法兰西墨耳库里》办成生动活泼的评论刊物的人士中间，因此只消用英语把这些人士的观点介绍一通，他在英国就赢得了独辟溪径的声誉。菲利普曾经拜读过他的一些文章。他通过直接模仿托马斯·布朗爵士的笔调确立了自己的风格。他写的句子，虽说复杂，但经苦心安排，倒还平稳。用的都是些冷僻但华丽的词藻，这就给他的文章蒙上一层与众不同的个性色彩。伦纳德·厄普姜诱使克朗肖把全部诗稿交到自己手中，翻开一看，发觉这些诗作足够出一部不小的诗集。他许诺要凭借自己的声望去影响出版商。其时，克朗肖手头拮据，急需用钱。自身染疾病以来，克朗肖发觉自己较前更难坚持写作了，弄来的几个钱勉强够付酒钱。厄普姜写信告诉他，说这个那个出版商均啧啧称赞他的诗作，不过认为不值得出版。这时，克朗肖的心倒被说动了，于是他写信给厄普姜，反复说明他已到了捉襟见肘的地步，并催促厄普姜再花些气力。克朗肖眼看自己将不久于人世，极想给自己身后留部正式出版的诗集，再说，在内心深处，他总觉得自己写下了伟大的诗作。他殷殷盼望着有朝一日自己会像颗新星般地出现在世人面前。他一辈子都把这些美妙的珍品秘藏在自己的心底，但在行将同世界诀别，再也用不着这些珍品之际，毫不在乎地把它们奉献给世人，此举确乎不无可资称道之处。

伦纳德·厄普姜来信说有位出版商已经同意出版他的诗集。克朗肖便当机立断，决定立即返回英国。通过一番奇迹般的说服工作，厄普姜使得克朗肖同意把超过版税的十英镑给他。

"注意，是先付版税，"克朗肖对菲利普说道。"弥尔顿那会儿才拿到十镑现钱呢。"

厄普姜答应为克朗肖的诗作写篇署名文章，同时还要邀请那些评论家朋友们尽力写好评论。克朗肖对此事表面上采取超然物外的态度，但明眼人一看就知道，想到自己将轰动文坛，他感到乐不可支。

一天，菲利普践约上那家克朗肖坚持要在那儿吃饭的蹩脚餐馆去，但是克朗肖却没有露面。菲利普得知他已三天没上这家餐馆了。菲利普胡乱吃了点东西，随即按克朗肖第一次来信中讲的地址跑去找他。他好不容易才找到海德街。这条街上挤满了被烟熏黑了的房子，许多窗户的玻璃部破了，上面粘着一条条法文报纸，极不雅观，门也多年没油漆了。房子的底层都是些脓膻破败的小商店，有洗衣店、皮匠店、文具店等等。衣衫褴褛的孩子们在马路上打闹戏耍。一架手摇风琴在奏一首淫荡的小凋。菲利普叩着克朗肖寓所的大门（底下是一爿专售廉价甜食的小店），一位身上系着脏围裙的法国女人应声出来开门。菲利普问她克朗肖是否在家。

"噢，是的，后面顶楼里是住着一个英国人。我不知道他在家不在家。你要见他，最好自己上去找。"

一盏煤气灯照亮了楼梯。屋子里弥漫着一股呛人的气味。菲利普走过二楼时，从一个房间里走出一位妇人，她用怀疑的目光打量着菲利普，但没有吭声。顶楼上有三扇房门，菲利普在中间的一扇门上敲了一下，接着又敲了敲，但屋里没有动静，接着转了转门把，发觉房门锁着。他又去敲另一扇门，还是没有响声，接着推了推房门。房门"吱呀"一声开了，只见房间里一片漆黑。

"谁？"

他听出这是克朗肖的声音。

"我是凯里。可以进来吗？"

他不等克朗肖回话，便径直走了进去。窗户紧闭着。一股恶臭扑鼻而来，简直不堪忍受。街上的弧光灯透过窗户的缝隙照进几缕光线。菲利普这时看清在这小小的房间里，虽说只有头靠头放着的两张床、一个脸盆架和一张椅子，人进来了却没有回旋的余地。克朗肖躺在紧挨窗户的那张床上，纹丝不动，只是低声格格笑了笑。

"你为什么不把蜡烛点起来呢？"隔了一会，克朗肖说。

菲利普划亮一根火柴，发现就在他床边的地板上有个蜡烛台。他点亮了蜡烛，把烛台移放在脸盆架上。克朗肖一动不动地仰卧在床上，穿着睡衣，模样儿挺古怪的。他那光秃的脑顶心特别显眼，一脸土灰色，活脱像个死人。

"喂，老兄，看上去病得不轻呀。这儿有没有人来照顾你呀？"

"乔治早晨上班前给我送来了一瓶牛奶。"

"乔治是谁？"

"我叫他乔治，是因为他的名字叫阿道尔夫。他同我合用这套宫殿般的房间。"

此时，菲利普方才注意到另外一张床上的被褥自有人睡过以来从未叠过，那只枕头上搁头的地方乌黑乌黑的。

"你不会是说你同别人合用这个房间吧？"菲利普不由得嚷了起来。

"为什么不好跟人合用呢？在索霍这个鬼地方，住房可是要花钱的呀。乔治是个跑堂的，每天早晨八点去上班，店不打烊不会回来，因此，他根本不碍我的事。我们俩都睡不好觉，于是他就给我讲讲他的身世，借此消磨长夜。他是个瑞士人。我对于跑堂的一向很感兴趣，他们都是从娱乐的角度来看待人生的。"

"你躺了几天了？"

"三天了。"

"你是说这三天中除了一瓶牛奶外别的啥也没吃吗？你究竟为何不给我捎个信呢？让你整天躺在床上，身边也没有一个人服侍你，我真于心不忍啊。"

克朗肖听罢笑了笑说：

"瞧你的脸色。哎呀，可爱的人儿，我知道你是真的为我难过。你这个好小于。"

菲利普脸刷地红了。看到这间简直不是人住的房间以及这位穷困的诗人的失意潦倒的境地，一股忧戚悲凉之情涌上了菲利普的心头，但不料内心的感受全部在他脸上显现出来了。克朗肖凝睇着菲利普，脸带微笑地继续说：

"我一直都很愉快。瞧，这都是诗集的校样。要晓得，区区不适可能会使别人惶惶不安，可我却是毫不在乎的。如果你做的梦赋予你任凭驰骋的无限的时间和空间，那么人生中境遇的变迁又有何了不得的呢？"

诗集的校样就放在床上。克朗肖躺在这个半明不暗的房间里，居然还能着手校对清样。他把校样拿给菲利普看，在这当儿，他的双眸忽地放亮。他翻过一张张校样，双眼望着那清晰的字体，不禁喜形于色。接着，他朗诵了一节诗。

"这诗写得不赖，对不？"

菲利普蓦地生出个主意。照这个主意去做，他要稍稍多花笔开支，可是即便多一笔哪怕数目最小的开支，菲利普都是无能为力的。不过，从另一个方面来说，对眼下这件事，菲利普却不愿考虑节省开支的问题。

"喂，我可不忍再让你留在这儿了。我那儿多个空房间，眼下空着无人住，我不费事就可以借张床来。你愿意不愿意上我那儿去，跟我住一段时问呢？这样省得你付房租了。"

"喔，亲爱的老弟，你会坚持要我把所有窗户都打开的。"

"只要你愿意，就是把所有的窗户都封上也不碍事的。"

"明天我就会好的。今天我本来也是可以起来的，只是觉得身子发懒。"

"那样的话，你很容易就可以搬过去住。你一感觉身体不适，就上床躺着，我会在家照顾你的。"

"你喜欢这样的话，那我就搬过去，"克朗肖说，脸上带着他那种迟钝而又凄苦的微笑。

"那再好没有了。"

他们俩商定菲利普第二天来接克朗肖。次日上午，菲利普忙里偷闲，抽出一个小时为这事作些准备。他发现克朗肖已经穿戴停当，头戴帽子，身穿厚呢大衣，默默地坐在床上。脚边地板上躺着只小小的、破旧的旅行皮箱，里面盛放着他的衣服和书籍，已经捆绑好了。他看上去像是坐在车站候车室似的。菲利普瞧见他这个模样，不觉哈哈笑了起来。他们俩乘四轮四座马车直奔肯宁顿大街而去。马车上的窗户全都关得严严实实。到了那儿以后，菲利普把他的客人安顿在自己的房间里。菲利普这天一大早就上街，为自己买了副旧床架，一只便宜的五斗柜和一面镜子。克朗肖一到就安下心来修改他的校样，他感觉精神好多了。

菲利普发觉他的这位客人除了其疾病症状有些恼人以外，总的说来还是很好相处的。他上午九时有课，因此要到晚上才能见着克朗肖。有那么一两次，菲利普劝克朗肖就跟他在一起将就吃些用残汤剩菜做的晚餐，但是克朗肖实在不好意思，不肯留下来，宁肯跑到索霍区，上一两家最便宜的饭馆买点东西填填肚子。菲利普叫他去找蒂勒尔大夫看病，他却一口回绝，因为他知道医生会叫他戒酒，而这酒他是决心不戒的了。每天上午，他总是病得很厉害，但是一到中午，几口艾酒下了肚，就又来了精神，到了子夜时分回到家里时，他又能侃侃而谈，谈话中才气横溢，正是这一点使得当时初次同他见面的菲利普惊叹不已。他的校样已修改完毕，诗集将于早春时节与其他一些出版物一同问世。到那时，人们说不定该从雪片般飞来的圣诞节书籍的重压下喘过气来了。

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chapter 84

At the new year Philip became dresser in the surgical out-patients’ department. The work was of the same character as that which he had just been engaged on, but with the greater directness which surgery has than medicine; and a larger proportion of the patients suffered from those two diseases which a supine public allows, in its prudishness, to be spread broadcast. The assistant-surgeon for whom Philip dressed was called Jacobs. He was a short, fat man, with an exuberant joviality, a bald head, and a loud voice; he had a cockney accent, and was generally described by the students as an ‘awful bounder’; but his cleverness, both as a surgeon and as a teacher, caused some of them to overlook this. He had also a considerable facetiousness, which he exercised impartially on the patients and on the students. He took a great pleasure in making his dressers look foolish. Since they were ignorant, nervous, and could not answer as if he were their equal, this was not very difficult. He enjoyed his afternoons, with the home truths he permitted himself, much more than the students who had to put up with them with a smile. One day a case came up of a boy with a club-foot. His parents wanted to know whether anything could be done. Mr. Jacobs turned to Philip.

‘You’d better take this case, Carey. It’s a subject you ought to know something about.’

Philip flushed, all the more because the surgeon spoke obviously with a humorous intention, and his brow-beaten dressers laughed obsequiously. It was in point of fact a subject which Philip, since coming to the hospital, had studied with anxious attention. He had read everything in the library which treated of talipes in its various forms. He made the boy take off his boot and stocking. He was fourteen, with a snub nose, blue eyes, and a freckled face. His father explained that they wanted something done if possible, it was such a hindrance to the kid in earning his living. Philip looked at him curiously. He was a jolly boy, not at all shy, but talkative and with a cheekiness which his father reproved. He was much interested in his foot.

‘It’s only for the looks of the thing, you know,’ he said to Philip. ‘I don’t find it no trouble.’

‘Be quiet, Ernie,’ said his father. ‘There’s too much gas about you.’

Philip examined the foot and passed his hand slowly over the shapelessness of it. He could not understand why the boy felt none of the humiliation which always oppressed himself. He wondered why he could not take his deformity with that philosophic indifference. Presently Mr. Jacobs came up to him. The boy was sitting on the edge of a couch, the surgeon and Philip stood on each side of him; and in a semi-circle, crowding round, were students. With accustomed brilliancy Jacobs gave a graphic little discourse upon the club-foot: he spoke of its varieties and of the forms which followed upon different anatomical conditions.

‘I suppose you’ve got talipes equinus?’ he said, turning suddenly to Philip.

‘Yes.’

Philip felt the eyes of his fellow-students rest on him, and he cursed himself because he could not help blushing. He felt the sweat start up in the palms of his hands. The surgeon spoke with the fluency due to long practice and with the admirable perspicacity which distinguished him. He was tremendously interested in his profession. But Philip did not listen. He was only wishing that the fellow would get done quickly. Suddenly he realised that Jacobs was addressing him.

‘You don’t mind taking off your sock for a moment, Carey?’

Philip felt a shudder pass through him. He had an impulse to tell the surgeon to go to hell, but he had not the courage to make a scene. He feared his brutal ridicule. He forced himself to appear indifferent.

‘Not a bit,’ he said.

He sat down and unlaced his boot. His fingers were trembling and he thought he should never untie the knot. He remembered how they had forced him at school to show his foot, and the misery which had eaten into his soul.

‘He keeps his feet nice and clean, doesn’t he?’ said Jacobs, in his rasping, cockney voice.

The attendant students giggled. Philip noticed that the boy whom they were examining looked down at his foot with eager curiosity. Jacobs took the foot in his hands and said:

‘Yes, that’s what I thought. I see you’ve had an operation. When you were a child, I suppose?’

He went on with his fluent explanations. The students leaned over and looked at the foot. Two or three examined it minutely when Jacobs let it go.

‘When you’ve quite done,’ said Philip, with a smile, ironically.

He could have killed them all. He thought how jolly it would be to jab a chisel (he didn’t know why that particular instrument came into his mind) into their necks. What beasts men were! He wished he could believe in hell so as to comfort himself with the thought of the horrible tortures which would be theirs. Mr. Jacobs turned his attention to treatment. He talked partly to the boy’s father and partly to the students. Philip put on his sock and laced his boot. At last the surgeon finished. But he seemed to have an afterthought and turned to Philip.

‘You know, I think it might be worth your while to have an operation. Of course I couldn’t give you a normal foot, but I think I can do something. You might think about it, and when you want a holiday you can just come into the hospital for a bit.’

Philip had often asked himself whether anything could be done, but his distaste for any reference to the subject had prevented him from consulting any of the surgeons at the hospital. His reading told him that whatever might have been done when he was a small boy, and then treatment of talipes was not as skilful as in the present day, there was small chance now of any great benefit. Still it would be worth while if an operation made it possible for him to wear a more ordinary boot and to limp less. He remembered how passionately he had prayed for the miracle which his uncle had assured him was possible to omnipotence. He smiled ruefully.

‘I was rather a simple soul in those days,’ he thought.

Towards the end of February it was clear that Cronshaw was growing much worse. He was no longer able to get up. He lay in bed, insisting that the window should be closed always, and refused to see a doctor; he would take little nourishment, but demanded whiskey and cigarettes: Philip knew that he should have neither, but Cronshaw’s argument was unanswerable.

‘I daresay they are killing me. I don’t care. You’ve warned me, you’ve done all that was necessary: I ignore your warning. Give me something to drink and be damned to you.’

Leonard Upjohn blew in two or three times a week, and there was something of the dead leaf in his appearance which made the word exactly descriptive of the manner of his appearance. He was a weedy-looking fellow of five-and-thirty, with long pale hair and a white face; he had the look of a man who lived too little in the open air. He wore a hat like a dissenting minister’s. Philip disliked him for his patronising manner and was bored by his fluent conversation. Leonard Upjohn liked to hear himself talk. He was not sensitive to the interest of his listeners, which is the first requisite of the good talker; and he never realised that he was telling people what they knew already. With measured words he told Philip what to think of Rodin, Albert Samain, and Caesar Franck. Philip’s charwoman only came in for an hour in the morning, and since Philip was obliged to be at the hospital all day Cronshaw was left much alone. Upjohn told Philip that he thought someone should remain with him, but did not offer to make it possible.

‘It’s dreadful to think of that great poet alone. Why, he might die without a soul at hand.’

‘I think he very probably will,’ said Philip.

‘How can you be so callous!’

‘Why don’t you come and do your work here every day, and then you’d be near if he wanted anything?’ asked Philip drily.

‘I? My dear fellow, I can only work in the surroundings I’m used to, and besides I go out so much.’

Upjohn was also a little put out because Philip had brought Cronshaw to his own rooms.

‘I wish you had left him in Soho,’ he said, with a wave of his long, thin hands. ‘There was a touch of romance in that sordid attic. I could even bear it if it were Wapping or Shoreditch, but the respectability of Kennington! What a place for a poet to die!’

Cronshaw was often so ill-humoured that Philip could only keep his temper by remembering all the time that this irritability was a symptom of the disease. Upjohn came sometimes before Philip was in, and then Cronshaw would complain of him bitterly. Upjohn listened with complacency.

‘The fact is that Carey has no sense of beauty,’ he smiled. ‘He has a middle-class mind.’

He was very sarcastic to Philip, and Philip exercised a good deal of self-control in his dealings with him. But one evening he could not contain himself. He had had a hard day at the hospital and was tired out. Leonard Upjohn came to him, while he was making himself a cup of tea in the kitchen, and said that Cronshaw was complaining of Philip’s insistence that he should have a doctor.

‘Don’t you realise that you’re enjoying a very rare, a very exquisite privilege? You ought to do everything in your power, surely, to show your sense of the greatness of your trust.’

‘It’s a rare and exquisite privilege which I can ill afford,’ said Philip.

Whenever there was any question of money, Leonard Upjohn assumed a slightly disdainful expression. His sensitive temperament was offended by the reference.

‘There’s something fine in Cronshaw’s attitude, and you disturb it by your importunity. You should make allowances for the delicate imaginings which you cannot feel.’

Philip’s face darkened.

‘Let us go in to Cronshaw,’ he said frigidly.

The poet was lying on his back, reading a book, with a pipe in his mouth. The air was musty; and the room, notwithstanding Philip’s tidying up, had the bedraggled look which seemed to accompany Cronshaw wherever he went. He took off his spectacles as they came in. Philip was in a towering rage.

‘Upjohn tells me you’ve been complaining to him because I’ve urged you to have a doctor,’ he said. ‘I want you to have a doctor, because you may die any day, and if you hadn’t been seen by anyone I shouldn’t be able to get a certificate. There’d have to be an inquest and I should be blamed for not calling a doctor in.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that. I thought you wanted me to see a doctor for my sake and not for your own. I’ll see a doctor whenever you like.’

Philip did not answer, but gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders. Cronshaw, watching him, gave a little chuckle.

‘Don’t look so angry, my dear. I know very well you want to do everything you can for me. Let’s see your doctor, perhaps he can do something for me, and at any rate it’ll comfort you.’ He turned his eyes to Upjohn. ‘You’re a damned fool, Leonard. Why d’you want to worry the boy? He has quite enough to do to put up with me. You’ll do nothing more for me than write a pretty article about me after my death. I know you.’

Next day Philip went to Dr. Tyrell. He felt that he was the sort of man to be interested by the story, and as soon as Tyrell was free of his day’s work he accompanied Philip to Kennington. He could only agree with what Philip had told him. The case was hopeless.

‘I’ll take him into the hospital if you like,’ he said. ‘He can have a small ward.’

‘Nothing would induce him to come.’

‘You know, he may die any minute, or else he may get another attack of pneumonia.’

Philip nodded. Dr. Tyrell made one or two suggestions, and promised to come again whenever Philip wanted him to. He left his address. When Philip went back to Cronshaw he found him quietly reading. He did not trouble to inquire what the doctor had said.

‘Are you satisfied now, dear boy?’ he asked.

‘I suppose nothing will induce you to do any of the things Tyrell advised?’

‘Nothing,’ smiled Cronshaw.

第八十四章

新年伊始，菲利普便上外科门诊部当敷裹员。此项工作的性质，同他不久前在内科门诊部所从事的工作没有什么两样，只不过是工作方式更加直接而已。这是外科不同于内科的性质所决定的。因循守旧的公众对内、外两科疾病的态度总是过分拘谨，任其四处蔓延，致使其中相当一部分人身受染病之苦。菲利普在一位名叫雅各布的外科助理医师手下当敷裹员。此人矮墩墩、胖乎乎的，脑顶心秃秃的，生性欢快，热情洋溢。说起话来，一口伦敦腔，嗓门扯得老大。医学院的学生们在背后送给他一个雅号--丑莽汉。然而，无论是作为一名外科大夫，还是一名教员，他都称得上才智过人，倒使得一部分学生忽略了他外表的丑陋。他还颇爱开玩笑，而且对病人也罢，对学生也罢，他都一视同仁，照开不误。他津津有味地出他手下的敷裹员们的洋相。那些敷裹员啥也不懂，诚惶诚恐，对他那副屈尊俯就俨然跟他们是平等的姿态很不适应。在这种情况下，拿他们开开心，那还不是易如反掌。一到下午，他心情更加愉快，因为他可以唠叨他的老生常谈，而那些来实习的学生们只得赔着笑脸硬着头皮听着。有一天，一个男孩跑来求医看跛足。他的父母亲想知道是否还有法子治好他的跛足。雅各布先生转过身来，对菲利普说：

"凯里，这个病人最好由你来看。这个课题你该了解一下。"

菲利普的脸红了。这位外科大夫显然是在捉弄他菲利普，而旁边的几位被他吓住了的敷裹员，一个个胁肩谄笑。看到这番情景，菲利普的脸不由得涨成了猪肝色。说实在的，自从来到圣路加医院，菲利普一直怀着急切的心情留心研究这个课题。图书馆里有关各种各样的跛足的资料他都读遍了。菲利普叫那孩子脱去靴子和长统袜。这孩子才十四岁。满是雀斑的脸上，长着一对蓝眼睛，嵌着一只塌鼻子。他父亲唠叨说，如有可能，他们想把孩子的脚治好，否则拖着条瘸脚对孩子独自谋生不利。那孩子性情可开朗啦，一点也不怕羞，伶牙俐齿的，且脸皮很厚。对此，他父亲很是反感。那孩子对自己的跛足还挺感兴趣的哩。

"要知道，这脚不过样子难看些吧，"他对菲利普说，"可我丝毫不觉得不便。"

"住嘴，厄尼，"他父亲呵斥道，"你废话说得太多了。"

菲利普检查着那孩子的跛足，并用手轻轻地抚摩着。他不理解这孩子为什么一点也不感到羞耻，而这种羞耻感却无时无刻不是沉重地压在自己的心上。他不知道为什么他就不能像这个孩子那样，对残疾抱明智的漠然的态度。这会儿，雅各布先生走到他的面前。那男孩坐在一张长椅边上，外科大大和菲利普两人分别站在他的两旁，其余几位学生成半月形围拢着。跟往常一样，雅各布才气横溢地、绘声绘色地就跛足发表了一个简短的演讲：他论及跛足的类型以及因不同的组织构造而形状各异的跛足。

"我想你那只跛足是呈马蹄形的，是不？"他说着，猛然转向菲利普。

"是的。"

菲利普觉察到同学们的目光一下子都集中在自己身上，脸刷地绯红，为此，他还暗暗地责骂自己。他感到手掌心沁出了涔涔汗水。由于行医多年，雅各布先生才能讲得头头是道，并独具慧眼，令人钦佩。他对自己的职业抱有浓厚的兴趣。但是菲利普并没有用心听讲，一心巴望这位老兄快点把话讲完。蓦地，他意识到雅各布是在对他说话。

"凯里，让你脱一会儿袜子，你不会介意吧？"

菲利普只觉得全身上下一阵震颤。刹那间，他真想冲着雅各布大喊"你给我滚"，然而他却没有勇气发脾气，生怕自己落得个被人讥笑的下场。于是，他强忍内心的愤懑，装出一副若无其事的样子来。

"这没什么，"他回了一声。

他一屁股坐了下来，开始解皮靴扣子。他的手指颤抖着，心里想他不该解这个扣子的。他回忆起上学时同学们强迫他脱下鞋袜裸露跛足时的情景，想起了由此而深深印在自己心灵上的创伤。

"他总是把双脚保养得好好的，洗得干干净净的，是不？"雅各布操着刺耳的伦敦土音说。

在场的学生们格格发笑。菲利普注意到刚才被检查脚的那个男孩用一种急切的、好奇的目光俯视着他的脚。雅各布一把抓住菲利普的跛足，接着说：

"是啊，这一点我预料到了。我看你这只脚是动过手术的。我想是小时候动的手术吧？"

接着，他滔滔不绝地解释着。学生们一个个倾过身子，注视着菲利普的跛足。雅各布放手的时候，两三个学生还盯着那只跛足仔仔细细地瞧了个够。

"你们看够了，我再穿袜子，"菲利普笑吟吟地说，但这微笑含有嘲讽的意味。

他准能把他们一个个都干掉。他想要是用把凿子（他不知道自己怎么会想起用这种工具来的）捅他们的脖子，那该多杀气啊！人是多么像野兽啊！他巴不得自己能相信炼狱之说，这样，想到他们这些人将受到可怕的折磨，他心里也可舒畅一些。雅各布先生把注意力转向治疗方法上，他的话一半是说给那孩子的父亲听的，一半是讲给学生们听的。菲利普套上袜子，扣上靴子。最后，那位外科大夫的话讲完了，但像是想起了什么似的，突然转向菲利普说：

"嘿，我认为你再动次手术说不定还是有好处的。当然我不能还你一只同常人一样的脚，不过我想我还是可以做些事情的。你好好想想吧。什么时候你想休假，你尽管到医院里来住一段时间好了。"

菲利普常常问自己这条跛腿是否还有办法治好。但是他讨厌提起自己的残疾，所以一直没有跟医院里任何一位外科医生商讨过这个问题。他从书中得知，小时候无论接受过什么样的治疗，都是不会有什么效果的，因为当时的医术不如现在的高明。不过，只要能使得他穿上正常的靴子，走路时也瘸得不那么厉害，就是再挨一刀还是值得的。他想起他曾虔诚地祈祷出现奇迹。他的牧师大伯曾许诺说，万能的上帝是完全能够创造出这种奇迹来的。想到这儿，他不觉凄苦地一笑。

"那会儿，我真傻！"他暗自思忖着。

快到二月底的时候，克朗肖的病情明显地恶化，再也起不来了。他整天躺在床上，但还坚持要把所有的窗户都闭上，仍旧拒绝医生看病。他只吃很少一点滋补食品，却一个劲儿要求给他买威士忌和香烟。菲利普知道他根本不该喝酒抽烟，但是拗不过克朗肖。他的观点是很难驳倒的。

"我知道烟酒肯定在夺我的命，可我不在乎，你功过我了，做到了仁至义尽。我不听你的忠告。给我酒喝，然后滚你的蛋。"

伦纳德·厄普姜一星期中有两三次飘然来访，枯叶般的外表使得用"枯叶"这个词儿来描写他的仪表最形象、最确切不过了。他三十五岁，头发又长又灰白，脸色苍白，长得活像棵野草。那样子叫人一看就知道他很少涉足户外。他头上戴了顶像是非国教牧师戴的帽子。菲利普对他那种傲慢的态度很反感，讨厌他那口若悬河的谈吐。伦纳德·厄普姜就喜欢夸夸其谈，全然不顾听众的兴趣，而这一点正是一位出色的演说家必不可少的品质。厄普姜从来不会想到他所讲的都是听众们早已听厌了的陈同滥调。他字斟句酌地对菲利普发表自己对罗丹、艾伯特·萨曼恩和凯撒·弗兰克的看法。菲利普雇佣的打杂女工只是上午来干一个小时的活，菲利普本人又整天都得泡在医院里，这样，一天大部分时间，克朗肖就得独自一人呆在家里。厄普姜告诉菲利普说他想叫个人来陪伴克朗肖，可只是于打雷，不下雨。

"想到那位伟大的诗人孤零零地呆在家里，实在叫人担心。喂，他很可能死的时候身边连个人影也没有呢。"

"我想这很可能，"菲利普说。

"你怎么好这样冷酷无情呢！"

"你满可以每天上这儿来干事，这样的话，他需要什么，身边也有个人呀。你为什么不这样做呢？"菲利普淡淡地反问道。

"我？亲爱的老兄，我只能在我熟悉的环境里工作，再说我经常要外出呀。"

另外，看到菲利普把克朗肖接到自己的住处，厄普姜满肚子的不高兴。

"我倒希望你让他仍旧住在索霍，"他说话的当儿，那双细长的手臂在空中挥舞了一下，"那个阁楼虽说脏了点，可还有一丝浪漫气息。即使是换成了华滨或肖迪奇，我也能容忍，可就是不能容忍把他搬到体面的肯宁顿来。那是一块多么理想的安葬诗魂的地方啊！"

克朗肖时常使性子。可菲利普时时提醒自己不要发脾气，因为他那急躁的心情不过是疾病的症状而已。厄普姜有时赶在菲利普下班以前来看望克朗肖，而克朗肖总是在这个时候，当着厄普姜的面，狠狠地发泄一通自己对菲利普的怨气。厄普姜则在一旁饶有兴趣地谛听着。

厄普姜对菲利普说话总是带着刺儿，而菲利普却极力抑制住自己的情感。但是，一天黄昏，菲利普终于忍无可忍了。那大，他在医院干了一天重活，回到寓所时，人已疲惫不堪。正当他在厨房里沏茶时，伦纳德·厄普姜一脚跨了进来，告诉菲利普说克朗肖对他坚持请医生来看病一事颇有怨言。

"难道你没有意识到，你享有一种非常罕见、非常微妙的特权吗？当然罗，你应该使出浑身解数，来证明你的高尚的品德是足以信赖的。"

"这种罕见的、微妙的特权，我可担当不起呀，"菲利普顶了一句。

每当提及钱的事儿，伦纳德·厄普姜总是流露出一种不屑一顾的神气，而且，他那敏感的天性总是变得激忿起来。

"克朗肖的举止言谈本来还有些优美的东西，可都被你的死乞白赖给搅了。你应该给你所体会不到的微妙的想象留些余地嘛。"

菲利普的脸色阴沉。

"我们一起去找克朗肖评评理，"菲利普态度冷冷地说。

那位诗人正躺在床上看书，嘴里还叼着烟斗呢。房间里弥漫着一股霉臭味。尽管菲利普常来打扫收拾，但房间里还是邋里邋遢的。看来，克朗肖住到哪儿，哪儿就休想干净。克朗肖看见他们俩走了进来，便摘下了眼镜。此时，菲利普简直是到了怒不可遏的地步。

"厄普姜说你埋怨我老是催你去请医生看病，"菲利普说。"我要你去看病，是因为你随时都有生命危险。再说，你一直不去找医生看病的话，那我就无法得到健康证明书。一旦你去世，我可要被传讯，还会为没请医生一事受到指责。"

"这一点我倒没想到。我原以为你催我去看病，是为了我而不是为你自个儿着想的。那好吧，你愿什么时候请医生来，我就什么时候看病。"

菲利普沉默不语，只是以难以觉察的动作耸了耸双肩。一直在注视着他的克朗肖不由得哧哧笑了起来。

"别生气嘛，亲爱的。我晓得，你想为我做你所能做到的一切。那就请你去叫医生来吧。说不定他真能帮点我的忙呢。至少说，这样可以使你得到些安慰。"接着，他把目光转向厄普姜。"你是个地道的蠢货，伦纳德。你怎么想起来去伤他的心呢？除了在我死后为我写篇漂亮的文章外，你啥也不会为我做的。我一向了解你。"

次日，菲利普跑去找蒂勒尔大夫。他想只要他把克朗肖的病情一讲，蒂勒尔大夫那个人准感兴趣。事情果真是这样。蒂勒尔大夫一下班，就跟着菲利普来到肯宁顿大街。他完全同意菲利普早先讲的那番话，也认为克朗肖已病人膏盲，无可救药了。

"你愿意的话，我可以把他送进医院，"他对菲利普说道。"可以安排他住在单人病房里。"

"说啥他也不会肯的。"

"要知道，他每分钟都有死亡的可能。要不，很可能还会再次生肺炎。"

菲利普点点头。蒂勒尔大夫又嘱咐了几句，并答应菲利普他随叫随到。临走时，他还留下了自己的地址。菲利普送走大夫，回到克朗肖的身边，发觉他正沉静地捧着本书看呢。克朗肖连问一声医生有何嘱咐都没有问。

"亲爱的老弟，这下你该满意了吧？"他问道。

"我想，你说啥也不会照蒂勒尔大夫的嘱咐去做的，对不？"

"那自然罗，"克朗肖笑眯眯地应了一声。

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chapter 85

About a fortnight after this Philip, going home one evening after his day’s work at the hospital, knocked at the door of Cronshaw’s room. He got no answer and walked in. Cronshaw was lying huddled up on one side, and Philip went up to the bed. He did not know whether Cronshaw was asleep or merely lay there in one of his uncontrollable fits of irritability. He was surprised to see that his mouth was open. He touched his shoulder. Philip gave a cry of dismay. He slipped his hand under Cronshaw’s shirt and felt his heart; he did not know what to do; helplessly, because he had heard of this being done, he held a looking-glass in front of his mouth. It startled him to be alone with Cronshaw. He had his hat and coat still on, and he ran down the stairs into the street; he hailed a cab and drove to Harley Street. Dr. Tyrell was in.

‘I say, would you mind coming at once? I think Cronshaw’s dead.’

‘If he is it’s not much good my coming, is it?’

‘I should be awfully grateful if you would. I’ve got a cab at the door. It’ll only take half an hour.’

Tyrell put on his hat. In the cab he asked him one or two questions.

‘He seemed no worse than usual when I left this morning,’ said Philip. ‘It gave me an awful shock when I went in just now. And the thought of his dying all alone.... D’you think he knew he was going to die?’

Philip remembered what Cronshaw had said. He wondered whether at that last moment he had been seized with the terror of death. Philip imagined himself in such a plight, knowing it was inevitable and with no one, not a soul, to give an encouraging word when the fear seized him.

‘You’re rather upset,’ said Dr. Tyrell.

He looked at him with his bright blue eyes. They were not unsympathetic. When he saw Cronshaw, he said:

‘He must have been dead for some hours. I should think he died in his sleep. They do sometimes.’

The body looked shrunk and ignoble. It was not like anything human. Dr. Tyrell looked at it dispassionately. With a mechanical gesture he took out his watch.

‘Well, I must be getting along. I’ll send the certificate round. I suppose you’ll communicate with the relatives.’

‘I don’t think there are any,’ said Philip.

‘How about the funeral?’

‘Oh, I’ll see to that.’

Dr. Tyrell gave Philip a glance. He wondered whether he ought to offer a couple of sovereigns towards it. He knew nothing of Philip’s circumstances; perhaps he could well afford the expense; Philip might think it impertinent if he made any suggestion.

‘Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do,’ he said.

Philip and he went out together, parting on the doorstep, and Philip went to a telegraph office in order to send a message to Leonard Upjohn. Then he went to an undertaker whose shop he passed every day on his way to the hospital. His attention had been drawn to it often by the three words in silver lettering on a black cloth, which, with two model coffins, adorned the window: Economy, Celerity, Propriety. They had always diverted him. The undertaker was a little fat Jew with curly black hair, long and greasy, in black, with a large diamond ring on a podgy finger. He received Philip with a peculiar manner formed by the mingling of his natural blatancy with the subdued air proper to his calling. He quickly saw that Philip was very helpless and promised to send round a woman at once to perform the needful offices. His suggestions for the funeral were very magnificent; and Philip felt ashamed of himself when the undertaker seemed to think his objections mean. It was horrible to haggle on such a matter, and finally Philip consented to an expensiveness which he could ill afford.

‘I quite understand, sir,’ said the undertaker, ‘you don’t want any show and that—I’m not a believer in ostentation myself, mind you—but you want it done gentlemanly-like. You leave it to me, I’ll do it as cheap as it can be done, ‘aving regard to what’s right and proper. I can’t say more than that, can I?’

Philip went home to eat his supper, and while he ate the woman came along to lay out the corpse. Presently a telegram arrived from Leonard Upjohn.

Shocked and grieved beyond measure. Regret cannot come tonight. Dining out. With you early tomorrow. Deepest sympathy. Upjohn.

In a little while the woman knocked at the door of the sitting-room.

‘I’ve done now, sir. Will you come and look at ‘im and see it’s all right?’

Philip followed her. Cronshaw was lying on his back, with his eyes closed and his hands folded piously across his chest.

‘You ought by rights to ‘ave a few flowers, sir.’

‘I’ll get some tomorrow.’

She gave the body a glance of satisfaction. She had performed her job, and now she rolled down her sleeves, took off her apron, and put on her bonnet. Philip asked her how much he owed her.

‘Well, sir, some give me two and sixpence and some give me five shillings.’

Philip was ashamed to give her less than the larger sum. She thanked him with just so much effusiveness as was seemly in presence of the grief he might be supposed to feel, and left him. Philip went back into his sitting-room, cleared away the remains of his supper, and sat down to read Walsham’s Surgery. He found it difficult. He felt singularly nervous. When there was a sound on the stairs he jumped, and his heart beat violently. That thing in the adjoining room, which had been a man and now was nothing, frightened him. The silence seemed alive, as if some mysterious movement were taking place within it; the presence of death weighed upon these rooms, unearthly and terrifying: Philip felt a sudden horror for what had once been his friend. He tried to force himself to read, but presently pushed away his book in despair. What troubled him was the absolute futility of the life which had just ended. It did not matter if Cronshaw was alive or dead. It would have been just as well if he had never lived. Philip thought of Cronshaw young; and it needed an effort of imagination to picture him slender, with a springing step, and with hair on his head, buoyant and hopeful. Philip’s rule of life, to follow one’s instincts with due regard to the policeman round the corner, had not acted very well there: it was because Cronshaw had done this that he had made such a lamentable failure of existence. It seemed that the instincts could not be trusted. Philip was puzzled, and he asked himself what rule of life was there, if that one was useless, and why people acted in one way rather than in another. They acted according to their emotions, but their emotions might be good or bad; it seemed just a chance whether they led to triumph or disaster. Life seemed an inextricable confusion. Men hurried hither and thither, urged by forces they knew not; and the purpose of it all escaped them; they seemed to hurry just for hurrying’s sake.

Next morning Leonard Upjohn appeared with a small wreath of laurel. He was pleased with his idea of crowning the dead poet with this; and attempted, notwithstanding Philip’s disapproving silence, to fix it on the bald head; but the wreath fitted grotesquely. It looked like the brim of a hat worn by a low comedian in a music-hall.

‘I’ll put it over his heart instead,’ said Upjohn.

‘You’ve put it on his stomach,’ remarked Philip.

Upjohn gave a thin smile.

‘Only a poet knows where lies a poet’s heart,’ he answered.

They went back into the sitting-room, and Philip told him what arrangements he had made for the funeral.

‘I hoped you’ve spared no expense. I should like the hearse to be followed by a long string of empty coaches, and I should like the horses to wear tall nodding plumes, and there should be a vast number of mutes with long streamers on their hats. I like the thought of all those empty coaches.’

‘As the cost of the funeral will apparently fall on me and I’m not over flush just now, I’ve tried to make it as moderate as possible.’

‘But, my dear fellow, in that case, why didn’t you get him a pauper’s funeral? There would have been something poetic in that. You have an unerring instinct for mediocrity.’

Philip flushed a little, but did not answer; and next day he and Upjohn followed the hearse in the one carriage which Philip had ordered. Lawson, unable to come, had sent a wreath; and Philip, so that the coffin should not seem too neglected, had bought a couple. On the way back the coachman whipped up his horses. Philip was dog-tired and presently went to sleep. He was awakened by Upjohn’s voice.

‘It’s rather lucky the poems haven’t come out yet. I think we’d better hold them back a bit and I’ll write a preface. I began thinking of it during the drive to the cemetery. I believe I can do something rather good. Anyhow I’ll start with an article in The Saturday.’

Philip did not reply, and there was silence between them. At last Upjohn said:

‘I daresay I’d be wiser not to whittle away my copy. I think I’ll do an article for one of the reviews, and then I can just print it afterwards as a preface.’

Philip kept his eye on the monthlies, and a few weeks later it appeared. The article made something of a stir, and extracts from it were printed in many of the papers. It was a very good article, vaguely biographical, for no one knew much of Cronshaw’s early life, but delicate, tender, and picturesque. Leonard Upjohn in his intricate style drew graceful little pictures of Cronshaw in the Latin Quarter, talking, writing poetry: Cronshaw became a picturesque figure, an English Verlaine; and Leonard Upjohn’s coloured phrases took on a tremulous dignity, a more pathetic grandiloquence, as he described the sordid end, the shabby little room in Soho; and, with a reticence which was wholly charming and suggested a much greater generosity than modesty allowed him to state, the efforts he made to transport the Poet to some cottage embowered with honeysuckle amid a flowering orchard. And the lack of sympathy, well-meaning but so tactless, which had taken the poet instead to the vulgar respectability of Kennington! Leonard Upjohn described Kennington with that restrained humour which a strict adherence to the vocabulary of Sir Thomas Browne necessitated. With delicate sarcasm he narrated the last weeks, the patience with which Cronshaw bore the well-meaning clumsiness of the young student who had appointed himself his nurse, and the pitifulness of that divine vagabond in those hopelessly middle-class surroundings. Beauty from ashes, he quoted from Isaiah. It was a triumph of irony for that outcast poet to die amid the trappings of vulgar respectability; it reminded Leonard Upjohn of Christ among the Pharisees, and the analogy gave him opportunity for an exquisite passage. And then he told how a friend—his good taste did not suffer him more than to hint subtly who the friend was with such gracious fancies—had laid a laurel wreath on the dead poet’s heart; and the beautiful dead hands had seemed to rest with a voluptuous passion upon Apollo’s leaves, fragrant with the fragrance of art, and more green than jade brought by swart mariners from the manifold, inexplicable China. And, an admirable contrast, the article ended with a description of the middle-class, ordinary, prosaic funeral of him who should have been buried like a prince or like a pauper. It was the crowning buffet, the final victory of Philistia over art, beauty, and immaterial things.

Leonard Upjohn had never written anything better. It was a miracle of charm, grace, and pity. He printed all Cronshaw’s best poems in the course of the article, so that when the volume appeared much of its point was gone; but he advanced his own position a good deal. He was thenceforth a critic to be reckoned with. He had seemed before a little aloof; but there was a warm humanity about this article which was infinitely attractive.

第八十五章

半个月以后的一天黄昏，菲利普从医院下班回到寓所，敲了敲克朗肖的房门，见里面没有动静，便推门走了进去。克朗肖蜷曲着身子侧卧着，菲利普来到床头前。他不知克朗肖是在睡梦中呢，还是同往常一样，只是躺在床上生闷气。看到他的嘴巴张着，菲利普不由得一惊。他摸了摸克朗肖的肩头，不禁惊叫了起来，连忙把手伸进克朗肖的衬衫底下试试心跳，他一下呆住了，惶然不知所措。绝望之中，他掏出镜子放在克朗肖的嘴上，因为他曾经听说以前人们也是这样做的。看到自己独自同克朗肖的尸体呆在一起，菲利普感到惊恐不安。他身上衣帽齐全，便噔噔跑下楼去，来到街上，跳上一辆马车，直奔哈利大街。幸好蒂勒尔大夫在家。

"嘿，请你立即跟我走一趟好吧？我想克朗肖已经死了。"

"他死了，我去也没多大用处，对不？"

"你能陪我走一趟，我将感激不尽。我已叫了辆马车，就停在门口。只消半个小时，你就可以回来的。"

蒂勒尔戴上了帽子。在马车里，他问了菲利普一两个问题。

"今天早晨我走的时候，他的病情也不见得比平时环呀，"菲利普告诉蒂勒尔大夫说。"可是我刚才走进他的房间时，可把我吓了一跳。想想看，他临终时身旁连一个人也没有……您认为当时他知道自己要死吗？"

这时，克朗肖先前说过的话儿又回响在菲利普的耳边，他暗自思忖着，不知克朗肖在生命即将终止的那一刹那，有没有被死亡的恐惧所吓倒。菲利普设想着自己处于同样的境地，面对死神的威胁，必然会惊惶失色，更何况克朗肖临终时，身边连一个安慰的人都没有哇。

"你的心情很不好，"蒂勒尔大夫说。

蒂勒尔大夫睁着晶莹闪烁的蓝眼睛凝视着菲利普，目光中流露出同情的神色。

他在看过克朗肖的尸体后对菲利普说：

"他已经死了好几个钟头了。我认为他是在睡眠中死去的。病人有时候是这样咽气的。"

克朗肖的躯体缩作一团，不堪人目，没有一点人样。蒂勒尔大夫平心静气地盯视着尸体，接着下意识地掏出怀表瞥了一眼。

"嗯，我得走了。待会儿我派人给你送死亡证明书来。我想你该给他的亲属报丧。"

"我想他并没有什么亲属，"菲利普答了一句。

"那葬礼怎么办？"

"喔，这由我来操持。"

蒂勒尔大夫朝菲利普瞥了一眼，肚里盘算着他该不该为葬礼掏几个英镑。他对菲利普的经济状况一无所知，说不定菲利普完全有能力承担这笔费用，要是这时他提出掏钱的话，菲利普兴许会觉得此举太不礼貌。

"唔，有什么要我帮忙的，尽管说好了，"他最后说了这么一句。

菲利普陪他走到门口，两人便分手了。菲利普径直去电报局拍了个电报，向伦纳德·厄普姜报丧。然后，菲利普去找殡仪员。每天上医院时，菲利普都得经过这位殡仪员的店面，橱窗里一块黑布上写的"经济、迅速、得体"六个银光闪闪的大字，陈列在橱窗里的两口棺材模型，常常吸引住他的注意力。这位殡仪员是个矮胖的犹太人，一头黑色鬈发，又长又油腻，在一根粗壮的手指上套了只钻石戒指。他用一种既颐指气使又神情温和的态度接待了上门来的菲利普。他不久便发觉菲利普一筹莫展，于是答应立即派个妇人去张罗必不可少的事宜。他建议举办的葬礼颇有些气派；而菲利普看到这位殡仪员似乎认为他的异议有些儿吝啬，不觉自惭形秽起来。为这区区小事而同他讨价还价，实在有失体面。因此，菲利普最后同意承担这笔他根本承担不起的费用。

"我很理解您的心情，先生，"殡仪员说，"您不希望大肆铺张--而我自己也不喜欢摆阔讲场面--可是，您希望把事情办得体体面面的呀。您尽管放心，把事情交给我好了。我一定尽力让您少花钱，而把事情办得既妥帖又得体。我就说这么些，也没别的可说了。"

菲利普回家吃晚饭。在这当儿，那个妇人上门来陈殓克朗肖的遗体。不一会儿，伦纳德·厄普姜打来的电报送到了。

惊悉噩耗，痛悼不已。今晚外出聚餐，不能前往，颇为遗憾。明日一早见您。深表同情。厄普姜。

没隔多久，那位妇人笃笃敲着起居室的房门。

"先生，我于完了。您是否进去瞧他一眼，看我做的合适不？"

菲利普尾随她走了进去。克朗肖仰面直挺挺地躺着，两眼紧闭，双手虔诚地交叉着放在胸口。

"按理说，您该在他身边放上些鲜花，先生。"

"我明天就去弄些来。"

那位妇人向那具僵直的躯体投去满意的一瞥。她已经履行了自己的职责，便捋下袖管，解开围裙，戴上无檐软帽。菲利普问她要多少工钱。

"嗯，先生，有给两先令六便士的，也有给五先令的。"

菲利普满面赧颜地递给那位妇人不到五个先令的工钱，而她却以与菲利普眼下所怀有的莫大的哀痛相称的心情连声道谢，随即便告退了。菲利普仍旧回到起居室，收拾掉晚饭留下来的剩菜残汤，坐下来阅读沃尔沙姆撰写的《外科学》。他发现这本书很难懂。他感到自己内心异常紧张，楼梯上一有响声，便从坐位上惊起，那颗心突突乱跳不止。隔壁房间里的东西，原先还是个人，可眼下却化作乌有，使得他心里充满惊悸。罩着房间的沉寂气氛仿佛也有生命似的，里面像是有个神秘物在悄然移动着；死亡的阴影沉重地压迫着这套房问，令人不可思议，森然可怖。菲利普为了曾经是他朋友的那个人而蓦地生出一种恐惧感。他力图迫使自己专心致志地读书，但过了没多一会，他便绝望地把书推开了。刚刚结束的那条生命毫无价值，这一点使得他心烦意乱。问题倒并不在克朗肖是死还是依旧活着，哪怕世界上从来就没有克朗肖这么个人，情况还是如此。菲利普想起了青年时代的克朗肖，然而要在自己脑海里勾勒出身材细长、步履轻快有力、脑袋覆着头发、意气风发、充满了信心的克朗肖来，还得作一番想象才行呢。在这里，菲利普的人生准则--即如同附近的警察那样凭本能行事--却未能奏效。这是因为克朗肖生前举行的也是这套人生准则，但他到头来还是令人可悲可叹地失败了。看来人的本能不足信。菲利普不禁觉得偶然。他扪心自问，要是那套人生准则不能奏效，那么还有什么样的人生准则呢？为什么人们往往采取这一种方式而不采取另一种方式行事呢？人们是凭自己的情感去行动的，但是他们的情感有时能是好的，也有可能是坏的呀。看来，他们的情感是把他们引向成功还是毁灭，纯粹是偶然的际遇而已。人生像是一片无法摆脱的混浊。人们在这种无形的力量的驱使下四处奔波，但是对这样做的目的何在，他们却一个也回答不出，似乎只是为了奔波而奔波。

翌日清晨，伦纳德·厄普姜手持一个用月桂树枝扎成的小花圈来到菲利普的寓所。他对自己向逝去的诗人敬献这样的花圈的做法颇为得意，不顾菲利普无声的反感，试着把花圈套在克朗肖的秃头上，可那模样儿实在不雅，看上去就像跳舞厅里卑劣的小丑戴的帽子的帽檐。

"我去把它拿下来，重新放在他的心口，"厄普姜说。

"可你却把花圈放到他的肚子上去了，"菲利普说。

厄普姜听后淡然一笑。

"只有诗人才知道诗人的心在哪里，"他接着回答道。

他们俩一起回到起居室。菲利普把葬礼的筹备情况告诉了厄普姜。

"我希望你不要心疼花钱。我喜欢灵枢后面有一长队空马车跟随着，还要让所有的马匹全都装饰着长长的随风飘摇的羽翎，送葬队伍里应该包括一大批哑巴，他们头戴系有长长飘带的帽子。我很欣赏空马车的想法。"

"葬礼的一切开销显然将落在我的肩上，可目前我手头并不宽裕，因此我想尽量压缩葬礼的规模。"

"但是，我亲爱的老兄，那你为何不把葬礼办得像是给一位乞丐送葬那样呢？那样的话，或者还有点儿诗意呢。你就是有一种在办平庸的事业方面从来不会有过错的本能。"

菲利普脸红了，但并没有搭腔。翌日，他同厄普姜一道坐在他出钱雇来的马车里，跟在灵枢的后面。劳森不能亲自前来，送来了只花圈，以示哀悼。为了不使灵枢显得太冷清，菲利普自己掏钱买了一对花圈。在回来的路上，马车夫不时挥鞭策马奔驰。菲利普心力交瘁，顿时酣然人睡了。后来他被厄普姜的说话声唤醒了。

"幸好他的诗集还没有出。我想，我们还是把诗集推迟一点出版的好。这样，我可以为诗集作序。我在去墓地的途中就开始考虑这个问题。我相信我能够做件非常好的事。不管怎么说，作为开头，先为《星期六评论》杂志写篇文章。"

菲利普没有接他的话茬。马车里一片沉静。最后还是厄普姜开腔说：

"我要充分利用我写的文章的想法恐怕还是比较明智的。我想为几家评论杂志中的一家写篇文章，然后将此文作为诗集的前言再印一次。"

菲利普密切注视着所有的杂志，几个星期以后，厄普姜的文章终于面世了。那篇文章似乎还掀起了一阵波动，许多家报纸还竞相摘要刊登呢。这确实是篇妙文，还略带传记的性质，因为很少有人了解克朗肖的早期生活。文章构思精巧，口气亲切动人，语言也十分形象生动。伦纳德·厄普姜撷取克朗肖在拉丁区与人交谈和吟诗作赋的几个镜头，以其缠绕繁复的笔调，将它们描绘得有声有色，风雅别致；经他笔下生花，克朗肖的形象顿时栩栩如生，跃然纸上，变成了英国的凡莱恩。他描写了克朗肖的凄惨的结局，以及那个坐落在索霍区的寒熗的小阁楼；他还允许自己有节制地陈述为说服那位诗人移居一间坐落在百花争艳的果园、掩映在忍冬树树荫里的村舍所作的种种努力，他那严谨的态度着实令人神魂颠倒，使人想起他的为人岂止是谦逊，简直是豁达大度。写到这里的时候，伦纳德·厄普姜添枝加叶，大肆渲染，其措词显得端庄却又战战兢兢，虽夸张却又委婉动人。然而有人却缺乏同情心，虽出于好心但却又不老练，把这位诗人带上了俗不可耐却体面的肯宁顿大街！伦纳德·厄普姜之所以用那种有所克制的诙谐的口气描写肯宁顿大街，是因为恪守托马斯·希朗爵士的遣词造句的风格所必须的。他还巧妙地用一种讽刺的口吻叙述了克朗肖生前最后三个星期的情况，说什么克朗肖以极大的耐心忍受了那位自命为他的看护的青年学生，那位青年学生好心却办了环事。还叙述了那位天才的流浪者在那不可救药的中产阶级氛围中的可怜的境遇。他还引用了艾赛亚的名言"美自灰烬出"来比喻克朗肖。对那位为社会所遗弃的诗人竟死在那俗不可耐的体面的氛围之中，这一反语运用得妙极了，这使得伦纳德·厄普姜想起了耶稣基督置身于法利赛人中间的情景来，而这一联想又给了他一个略显文采的机会写下一段字字玑珠的佳文。接着他又告诉读者，说逝者的一位朋友把一个月桂树枝编成的花圈安放在仙逝的诗人的心口。在讲述这一雅致的想象时，他那高雅的情趣竟使他能容忍仅仅暗示了一下而没有直接点明这位朋友是谁。还说死者的那秀美的双手以一种诱人情欲勃发的姿态安放在阿波罗的月桂枝上。这些月桂枝散发着艺术的幽香。它比那些精明的水手从物产丰富的、令人不可思议的中国带回来的绿宝石还要绿。跟上文相比，文章的结尾更有画龙点睛之妙。他详细叙述了为他举行的中产阶级的平淡无奇、毫无诗意的葬礼的情况，本来对像克朗肖这样的诗人，要不就应该像安葬王子那样，要不就该像埋葬一个乞丐那样举行葬礼的。这是一次登峰造极的打击，是腓力斯人对艺术、美和非物质的事物取得了最后胜利。

伦纳德·厄普姜从未写出过这么好的文章。这篇文章堪称富有风韵、文雅和怜悯的奇作。在文章中间，他不时引用了克朗肖写得最好的诗句，因此，当克朗肖诗集出版时，诗集的灵魂早已被抽去了，但是他却把自己的观点发挥得淋漓尽致。就这样，他成了一名引人瞩目的评论家。以前他看上去似乎有些傲气，但是，这篇文章里却充满了暖人心扉的人情味，使人读来趣味隽永，爱不释手。

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chapter 86

In the spring Philip, having finished his dressing in the out-patients’ department, became an in-patients’ clerk. This appointment lasted six months. The clerk spent every morning in the wards, first in the men’s, then in the women’s, with the house-physician; he wrote up cases, made tests, and passed the time of day with the nurses. On two afternoons a week the physician in charge went round with a little knot of students, examined the cases, and dispensed information. The work had not the excitement, the constant change, the intimate contact with reality, of the work in the out-patients’ department; but Philip picked up a good deal of knowledge. He got on very well with the patients, and he was a little flattered at the pleasure they showed in his attendance on them. He was not conscious of any deep sympathy in their sufferings, but he liked them; and because he put on no airs he was more popular with them than others of the clerks. He was pleasant, encouraging, and friendly. Like everyone connected with hospitals he found that male patients were more easy to get on with than female. The women were often querulous and ill-tempered. They complained bitterly of the hard-worked nurses, who did not show them the attention they thought their right; and they were troublesome, ungrateful, and rude.

Presently Philip was fortunate enough to make a friend. One morning the house-physician gave him a new case, a man; and, seating himself at the bedside, Philip proceeded to write down particulars on the ‘letter.’ He noticed on looking at this that the patient was described as a journalist: his name was Thorpe Athelny, an unusual one for a hospital patient, and his age was forty-eight. He was suffering from a sharp attack of jaundice, and had been taken into the ward on account of obscure symptoms which it seemed necessary to watch. He answered the various questions which it was Philip’s duty to ask him in a pleasant, educated voice. Since he was lying in bed it was difficult to tell if he was short or tall, but his small head and small hands suggested that he was a man of less than average height. Philip had the habit of looking at people’s hands, and Athelny’s astonished him: they were very small, with long, tapering fingers and beautiful, rosy finger-nails; they were very smooth and except for the jaundice would have been of a surprising whiteness. The patient kept them outside the bed-clothes, one of them slightly spread out, the second and third fingers together, and, while he spoke to Philip, seemed to contemplate them with satisfaction. With a twinkle in his eyes Philip glanced at the man’s face. Notwithstanding the yellowness it was distinguished; he had blue eyes, a nose of an imposing boldness, hooked, aggressive but not clumsy, and a small beard, pointed and gray: he was rather bald, but his hair had evidently been quite fine, curling prettily, and he still wore it long.

‘I see you’re a journalist,’ said Philip. ‘What papers d’you write for?’

‘I write for all the papers. You cannot open a paper without seeing some of my writing.’ There was one by the side of the bed and reaching for it he pointed out an advertisement. In large letters was the name of a firm well-known to Philip, Lynn and Sedley, Regent Street, London; and below, in type smaller but still of some magnitude, was the dogmatic statement: Procrastination is the Thief of Time. Then a question, startling because of its reasonableness: Why not order today? There was a repetition, in large letters, like the hammering of conscience on a murderer’s heart: Why not? Then, boldly: Thousands of pairs of gloves from the leading markets of the world at astounding prices. Thousands of pairs of stockings from the most reliable manufacturers of the universe at sensational reductions. Finally the question recurred, but flung now like a challenging gauntlet in the lists: Why not order today?

‘I’m the press representative of Lynn and Sedley.’ He gave a little wave of his beautiful hand. ‘To what base uses...’

Philip went on asking the regulation questions, some a mere matter of routine, others artfully devised to lead the patient to discover things which he might be expected to desire to conceal.

‘Have you ever lived abroad?’ asked Philip.

‘I was in Spain for eleven years.’

‘What were you doing there?’

‘I was secretary of the English water company at Toledo.’

Philip remembered that Clutton had spent some months in Toledo, and the journalist’s answer made him look at him with more interest; but he felt it would be improper to show this: it was necessary to preserve the distance between the hospital patient and the staff. When he had finished his examination he went on to other beds.

Thorpe Athelny’s illness was not grave, and, though remaining very yellow, he soon felt much better: he stayed in bed only because the physician thought he should be kept under observation till certain reactions became normal. One day, on entering the ward, Philip noticed that Athelny, pencil in hand, was reading a book. He put it down when Philip came to his bed.

‘May I see what you’re reading?’ asked Philip, who could never pass a book without looking at it.

Philip took it up and saw that it was a volume of Spanish verse, the poems of San Juan de la Cruz, and as he opened it a sheet of paper fell out. Philip picked it up and noticed that verse was written upon it.

‘You’re not going to tell me you’ve been occupying your leisure in writing poetry? That’s a most improper proceeding in a hospital patient.’

‘I was trying to do some translations. D’you know Spanish?’

‘No.’

‘Well, you know all about San Juan de la Cruz, don’t you?’

‘I don’t indeed.’

‘He was one of the Spanish mystics. He’s one of the best poets they’ve ever had. I thought it would be worth while translating him into English.’

‘May I look at your translation?’

‘It’s very rough,’ said Athelny, but he gave it to Philip with an alacrity which suggested that he was eager for him to read it.

It was written in pencil, in a fine but very peculiar handwriting, which was hard to read: it was just like black letter.

‘Doesn’t it take you an awful time to write like that? It’s wonderful.’

‘I don’t know why handwriting shouldn’t be beautiful.’ Philip read the first verse:

In an obscure night With anxious love inflamed O happy lot! Forth unobserved I went, My house being now at rest...

Philip looked curiously at Thorpe Athelny. He did not know whether he felt a little shy with him or was attracted by him. He was conscious that his manner had been slightly patronising, and he flushed as it struck him that Athelny might have thought him ridiculous.

‘What an unusual name you’ve got,’ he remarked, for something to say.

‘It’s a very old Yorkshire name. Once it took the head of my family a day’s hard riding to make the circuit of his estates, but the mighty are fallen. Fast women and slow horses.’

He was short-sighted and when he spoke looked at you with a peculiar intensity. He took up his volume of poetry.

‘You should read Spanish,’ he said. ‘It is a noble tongue. It has not the mellifluousness of Italian, Italian is the language of tenors and organ-grinders, but it has grandeur: it does not ripple like a brook in a garden, but it surges tumultuous like a mighty river in flood.’

His grandiloquence amused Philip, but he was sensitive to rhetoric; and he listened with pleasure while Athelny, with picturesque expressions and the fire of a real enthusiasm, described to him the rich delight of reading Don Quixote in the original and the music, romantic, limpid, passionate, of the enchanting Calderon.

‘I must get on with my work,’ said Philip presently.

‘Oh, forgive me, I forgot. I will tell my wife to bring me a photograph of Toledo, and I will show it you. Come and talk to me when you have the chance. You don’t know what a pleasure it gives me.’

During the next few days, in moments snatched whenever there was opportunity, Philip’s acquaintance with the journalist increased. Thorpe Athelny was a good talker. He did not say brilliant things, but he talked inspiringly, with an eager vividness which fired the imagination; Philip, living so much in a world of make-believe, found his fancy teeming with new pictures. Athelny had very good manners. He knew much more than Philip, both of the world and of books; he was a much older man; and the readiness of his conversation gave him a certain superiority; but he was in the hospital a recipient of charity, subject to strict rules; and he held himself between the two positions with ease and humour. Once Philip asked him why he had come to the hospital.

‘Oh, my principle is to profit by all the benefits that society provides. I take advantage of the age I live in. When I’m ill I get myself patched up in a hospital and I have no false shame, and I send my children to be educated at the board-school.’

‘Do you really?’ said Philip.

‘And a capital education they get too, much better than I got at Winchester. How else do you think I could educate them at all? I’ve got nine. You must come and see them all when I get home again. Will you?’

‘I’d like to very much,’ said Philip.

第八十六章

转眼间，春天到了。外科门诊部的敷裹工作一结束，菲利普便上住院部当助手。这项工作要延续半年之久。每天上午，助手都得同住院医生一道去查巡病房，先是男病房，然后是女病房。他得登录病情，替病人体检，接着便同护士们在一起消磨时光。每周两个下午，值班医师带领几名助手查巡病房，研究病情，给助手们传授医疗知识。这里可不像门诊部，工作显得平淡、单调，同实际挂得不紧。尽管如此，菲利普还是学到了不少东西。他同病人们相处得很融洽，看到病人们张着笑脸欢迎他去护理他们，颇有点沾沾自喜哩。其实，他对病人的痛痒也不见得有多深的同情，不过他很喜欢他们，在人前从不摆架子。因此，他比其他几位助手要得人心。菲利普性情和顺，待人厚道，言语暖人心窝。正如每一个同医院有关系的人一样，菲利普也发觉男病人比女病人要容易相处些。女病人动辄发牢骚，脾气环透了。她们常常言词刻薄地抱怨疲于奔命的护士们，责怪护土对她们照顾不周。她们一个个都是令人头痛的、没心没肝的臭婆娘。

菲利普真够幸运的，没隔多久就交上了一位朋友。一天上午，住院医生把一位新来的男病人交给了菲利普。菲利普坐在床沿上，着手往病历卡里记载病人的病情细节。在看病历卡的当儿，菲利普发觉这位病人是位新闻记者，名字叫索普·阿特尔涅，年纪四十八，这倒是位并不常见的住院病人。该病人的黄疽病突然发作，而且来势还很猛。鉴于病状不明显，似有必要作进一步观察，就被送进病房里来了。菲利普出于职业需要，用一种悦耳动听的、富有教养的语调问了一连串问题，病人都一一作了回答。索普·阿特尔涅躺在床上，因此一下子很难断定他是高是矮。不过那小小的脑瓜和一双小手表明他个儿中等偏矮。菲利普有种观察别人的手的习惯，而眼下阿特尔涅的那双手使他看了感到十分惊奇：一双纤小的手，细长、尖削的手指顶端长着秀美的玫瑰色指甲，皮肤很细腻，要不是身患黄疽病的缘故，肤色定是白得出奇。阿特尔涅把手放在被子上面，其中一只手稍稍张着，而无名指和中指并拢着，一边在跟菲利普说着话，一边似乎还颇得意地端详着他的手指呢。菲利普忽闪着晶莹发亮的眼睛，扫视了一下对方的脸盘。尽管脸色苍黄，但仍不失为一张生动的脸。眸子蓝蓝的，鼻子显眼地凸露着，鼻尖呈钩状，虽说样子有点吓人，倒也不难看。一小撮花白胡须翘翘的。脑顶心秃得很厉害。不过他原来显然长着一头浓密的鬈发，还挺秀气的哩。眼下他还蓄着长发。

"我想你是当记者的，"菲利普开腔说。"你为哪家报纸撰稿呀？"

"不管哪家报纸，我都给他们写稿。没有一家报纸打开来看不到我的文章的。"

此时床边就有一张报纸，阿特尔涅伸手指了指报纸上的广告。只见报上用大号铅字赫然印着那家菲利普熟悉的公司的名称：莱恩-赛特笠公司位于伦敦雷根林大街。下面紧接着是司空见惯的广告：拖延就是偷盗时间。字体虽比上面的略小些，但也够突兀显眼的了。接下去是一个问题，因其问得合情合理，故显得触目惊心：为什么不今天就订货？接着又用大号字体重复了"为什么不呢？"这五个大字，字字犹如一把把榔头，在敲击着时间偷盗者的良心。下面是几行大字：以高得惊人的价格从世界各主要市场购进千万副手套。宇内几家最可靠的制造商出产的千万双长统袜大减价。广告最后又重复了"为什么不今天就订货？"这个问题，不过，这次字体写得就像竞技场中的武土用的臂铠似的。

"我是莱恩-赛特笠公司的新闻代理人。"阿特尔涅在作自我介绍的当儿，还挥了挥他那漂亮的手。

菲利普接着问些普普通通的问题，其中有些不过是些日常琐事，而有些则是精心设计的，巧妙地诱使这位病人吐出他或许不想披露的事情来。

"你到过外国吗？"菲利普问道。

"曾在西班牙呆过十一年。""

"在那儿干啥来着？"

"在托莱多的英国水利公司当秘书。"。

此时，菲利普想起克拉顿也曾在托莱多呆过几个月。听了这位记者的答话，菲利普怀着更浓的兴趣注视着他。但是，他又感到自己如此情感毕露很不合适，因为作为医院的一名职员，他有必要同住院病人保持一定距离。于是，他给阿特尔涅检查完毕后，便走向别的病床。

索普·阿特尔涅的病情并不严重，虽说肤色还是很黄，但他很快就感觉好多了。他之所以还卧床不起，是因为医生认为某些反应趋于正常之前，他还得接受观察。一天，菲利普走进病房时，发现阿特尔涅手里拿着支铅笔，正在看书。菲利普走到他的床前时，他突然啪地合上书本。

"我可以看看你读的书吗？"菲利普问道，他这个人一瞧见书不翻阅一下是不会罢休的。

菲利普拿起那本书，发觉是册西班牙诗集，都是圣胡安·德拉克鲁斯写的。在他翻开诗集的当儿，一张纸片从书里掉了出来。菲利普拾起一看，原来纸上写着一首诗呢。

"你总不能说你这是借定诗来消闲吧？对一位住院病人来说，做这种事是最不合适的。"

"我这是试着搞些诗歌翻译。你懂西班牙语吗？"

"不懂。"

"嗯，有关圣胡安·德拉克鲁斯的事儿，你都知道啰，对不？"

"我真的一无所知。"

"他是西班牙的神秘人物之一，也是西班牙出类拔萃的诗人之一。我认为把他的诗译成英语倒挺有意思的。"

"我拜读一下你的译搞好吗？"

"译稿还很粗糙。"阿特尔涅嘴上这么说，可他的手还是把译稿递到了菲利普的面前，其动作之快，正表明他巴不得菲利普一读呢。

译稿是用铅笔写的，字体清秀，但很古怪，像是一堆黑体活字，难以辨认。

"你把字写成这样，是不是要花很多时间呀？你的字漂亮极了。"

"我不明白为什么不应该把字写得漂亮些呢？"

菲利普读着阿特尔涅泽的第一首诗：

夜深了，

月色正朦胧；

心田欲火熊熊，

喔，幸福的心情难以形容！

趁一家人睡意正浓，

我悄然向前步履匆匆……

菲利普闪烁着好奇的目光打量着索普·阿待尔涅。他说不清自己在他面前是有点儿羞怯呢，还是被他深深吸引住了。蓦地，他觉悟到自己的态度一直有些儿傲慢。当想到阿特尔涅可能觉得他可笑时，菲利普不觉脸上一阵发臊。

"你的名字起得真特别，"菲利普终于开腔说话了，不过总得找些话聊聊呀。

"阿特尔涅这个姓在约克郡可是个极为古老的名门望族的姓氏。我一家之长出去巡视他的家产，一度要骑上整整一大的马，可后来家道中落，一蹶不振。钱都在放浪的女人身上和赛马赌博上头挥霍光了。"

阿特尔涅眼睛近视，在说话的时候，两眼古怪地眯缝着，使劲地瞅着别人。他拿起了那部诗集。

"你应该学会西班牙语，"阿特尔涅对菲利普说。"西班牙语是一种高雅的语言，虽没有意大利语那么流畅，因为意大利语是那些男高音歌手和街上手转风琴师们使用的语言，但是气势宏伟。它不像花园里的小溪发出的潺潺流水声，而是像大江涨潮时汹涌澎湃的波涛声。"

他那不无夸张的话语把菲利普给逗笑了，不过菲利普还是颇能领略他人讲话的妙处的。阿特尔涅说话时眉飞色舞，热情洋溢，滔滔不绝地给菲利普讲述着阅读《堂吉诃德》原著的无比的快乐，还侃侃谈论着令人着迷的考德隆的文体清晰，富有节奏、激情和传奇色彩的剧作。此时此刻，菲利普在一旁饶有兴味地聆听着。

"哦，我得干事去了，"突然，菲利普说了一句。

"喔，请原谅，我忘了。我将叫我妻子给我送张托莱多的照片来，到时一定拿给你瞧瞧。有机会就过来跟我聊聊。你不知道，跟你在一起聊天我有多高兴啊。"

在以后的几大里，菲利普一有机会就跑去看望阿特尔涅，因此两人的友情与日俱增。索普·阿特尔涅可谓伶牙俐齿的，谈吐虽不怎么高明，但个时地闪烁着激发人想象力的火花，倒蛮鼓舞人心的。菲利普在这个虚假的世界上生活了这么多年之后，发觉自己的脑海里涌现出许许多多前所未有的崭新画面。阿特尔涅态度落落大方，无论是人情世故还是书本知识，都比菲利普懂得多。他比菲利普年长多岁。他谈话侃侃，颇有一种长者风度。可眼下，他人在医院，是个慈善领受者，凡事都得遵循严格的规章制度。他对这两种身分所处的不同的地位，却能应付自如，而且还不无幽默感。一次，菲利普问他为何要住进医院。

"哦，尽可能地享用社会所能提供的福利，这就是我的生活准则。我得好好利用我所赖以生存的这个时代。病了，就进医院歇着。我可不讲虚假的面子。我还把孩子都送进寄宿学校读书呢。"

"真的呀？"菲利普问了一声。

"他们还受到了起码的教育，比起我在温切斯特受到的教育，不知要强多少倍呢。你想想看，除了这一着，我还能有别的什么办法使他们得到教育呢？我一共有九个孩子哪。我出院回家后，你一定得上我家去见见他们。好吗？"

"非常愿意，"菲利普连声答道。

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chapter 87

Ten days later Thorpe Athelny was well enough to leave the hospital. He gave Philip his address, and Philip promised to dine with him at one o’clock on the following Sunday. Athelny had told him that he lived in a house built by Inigo Jones; he had raved, as he raved over everything, over the balustrade of old oak; and when he came down to open the door for Philip he made him at once admire the elegant carving of the lintel. It was a shabby house, badly needing a coat of paint, but with the dignity of its period, in a little street between Chancery Lane and Holborn, which had once been fashionable but was now little better than a slum: there was a plan to pull it down in order to put up handsome offices; meanwhile the rents were small, and Athelny was able to get the two upper floors at a price which suited his income. Philip had not seen him up before and was surprised at his small size; he was not more than five feet and five inches high. He was dressed fantastically in blue linen trousers of the sort worn by working men in France, and a very old brown velvet coat; he wore a bright red sash round his waist, a low collar, and for tie a flowing bow of the kind used by the comic Frenchman in the pages of Punch. He greeted Philip with enthusiasm. He began talking at once of the house and passed his hand lovingly over the balusters.

‘Look at it, feel it, it’s like silk. What a miracle of grace! And in five years the house-breaker will sell it for firewood.’

He insisted on taking Philip into a room on the first floor, where a man in shirt sleeves, a blousy woman, and three children were having their Sunday dinner.

‘I’ve just brought this gentleman in to show him your ceiling. Did you ever see anything so wonderful? How are you, Mrs. Hodgson? This is Mr. Carey, who looked after me when I was in the hospital.’

‘Come in, sir,’ said the man. ‘Any friend of Mr. Athelny’s is welcome. Mr. Athelny shows the ceiling to all his friends. And it don’t matter what we’re doing, if we’re in bed or if I’m ‘aving a wash, in ‘e comes.’

Philip could see that they looked upon Athelny as a little queer; but they liked him none the less and they listened open-mouthed while he discoursed with his impetuous fluency on the beauty of the seventeenth-century ceiling.

‘What a crime to pull this down, eh, Hodgson? You’re an influential citizen, why don’t you write to the papers and protest?’

The man in shirt sleeves gave a laugh and said to Philip:

‘Mr. Athelny will ‘ave his little joke. They do say these ‘ouses are that insanitory, it’s not safe to live in them.’

‘Sanitation be damned, give me art,’ cried Athelny. ‘I’ve got nine children and they thrive on bad drains. No, no, I’m not going to take any risk. None of your new-fangled notions for me! When I move from here I’m going to make sure the drains are bad before I take anything.’

There was a knock at the door, and a little fair-haired girl opened it.

‘Daddy, mummy says, do stop talking and come and eat your dinner.’

‘This is my third daughter,’ said Athelny, pointing to her with a dramatic forefinger. ‘She is called Maria del Pilar, but she answers more willingly to the name of Jane. Jane, your nose wants blowing.’

‘I haven’t got a hanky, daddy.’

‘Tut, tut, child,’ he answered, as he produced a vast, brilliant bandanna, ‘what do you suppose the Almighty gave you fingers for?’

They went upstairs, and Philip was taken into a room with walls panelled in dark oak. In the middle was a narrow table of teak on trestle legs, with two supporting bars of iron, of the kind called in Spain mesa de hieraje. They were to dine there, for two places were laid, and there were two large arm-chairs, with broad flat arms of oak and leathern backs, and leathern seats. They were severe, elegant, and uncomfortable. The only other piece of furniture was a bargueno, elaborately ornamented with gilt iron-work, on a stand of ecclesiastical design roughly but very finely carved. There stood on this two or three lustre plates, much broken but rich in colour; and on the walls were old masters of the Spanish school in beautiful though dilapidated frames: though gruesome in subject, ruined by age and bad treatment, and second-rate in their conception, they had a glow of passion. There was nothing in the room of any value, but the effect was lovely. It was magnificent and yet austere. Philip felt that it offered the very spirit of old Spain. Athelny was in the middle of showing him the inside of the bargueno, with its beautiful ornamentation and secret drawers, when a tall girl, with two plaits of bright brown hair hanging down her back, came in.

‘Mother says dinner’s ready and waiting and I’m to bring it in as soon as you sit down.’

‘Come and shake hands with Mr. Carey, Sally.’ He turned to Philip. ‘Isn’t she enormous? She’s my eldest. How old are you, Sally?’

‘Fifteen, father, come next June.’

‘I christened her Maria del Sol, because she was my first child and I dedicated her to the glorious sun of Castile; but her mother calls her Sally and her brother Pudding-Face.’

The girl smiled shyly, she had even, white teeth, and blushed. She was well set-up, tall for her age, with pleasant gray eyes and a broad forehead. She had red cheeks.

‘Go and tell your mother to come in and shake hands with Mr. Carey before he sits down.’

‘Mother says she’ll come in after dinner. She hasn’t washed herself yet.’

‘Then we’ll go in and see her ourselves. He mustn’t eat the Yorkshire pudding till he’s shaken the hand that made it.’

Philip followed his host into the kitchen. It was small and much overcrowded. There had been a lot of noise, but it stopped as soon as the stranger entered. There was a large table in the middle and round it, eager for dinner, were seated Athelny’s children. A woman was standing at the oven, taking out baked potatoes one by one.

‘Here’s Mr. Carey, Betty,’ said Athelny.

‘Fancy bringing him in here. What will he think?’

She wore a dirty apron, and the sleeves of her cotton dress were turned up above her elbows; she had curling pins in her hair. Mrs. Athelny was a large woman, a good three inches taller than her husband, fair, with blue eyes and a kindly expression; she had been a handsome creature, but advancing years and the bearing of many children had made her fat and blousy; her blue eyes had become pale, her skin was coarse and red, the colour had gone out of her hair. She straightened herself, wiped her hand on her apron, and held it out.

‘You’re welcome, sir,’ she said, in a slow voice, with an accent that seemed oddly familiar to Philip. ‘Athelny said you was very kind to him in the ‘orspital.’

‘Now you must be introduced to the live stock,’ said Athelny. ‘That is Thorpe,’ he pointed to a chubby boy with curly hair, ‘he is my eldest son, heir to the title, estates, and responsibilities of the family. There is Athelstan, Harold, Edward.’ He pointed with his forefinger to three smaller boys, all rosy, healthy, and smiling, though when they felt Philip’s smiling eyes upon them they looked shyly down at their plates. ‘Now the girls in order: Maria del Sol...’

‘Pudding-Face,’ said one of the small boys.

‘Your sense of humour is rudimentary, my son. Maria de los Mercedes, Maria del Pilar, Maria de la Concepcion, Maria del Rosario.’

‘I call them Sally, Molly, Connie, Rosie, and Jane,’ said Mrs. Athelny. ‘Now, Athelny, you go into your own room and I’ll send you your dinner. I’ll let the children come in afterwards for a bit when I’ve washed them.’

‘My dear, if I’d had the naming of you I should have called you Maria of the Soapsuds. You’re always torturing these wretched brats with soap.’

‘You go first, Mr. Carey, or I shall never get him to sit down and eat his dinner.’

Athelny and Philip installed themselves in the great monkish chairs, and Sally brought them in two plates of beef, Yorkshire pudding, baked potatoes, and cabbage. Athelny took sixpence out of his pocket and sent her for a jug of beer.

‘I hope you didn’t have the table laid here on my account,’ said Philip. ‘I should have been quite happy to eat with the children.’

‘Oh no, I always have my meals by myself. I like these antique customs. I don’t think that women ought to sit down at table with men. It ruins conversation and I’m sure it’s very bad for them. It puts ideas in their heads, and women are never at ease with themselves when they have ideas.’

Both host and guest ate with a hearty appetite.

‘Did you ever taste such Yorkshire pudding? No one can make it like my wife. That’s the advantage of not marrying a lady. You noticed she wasn’t a lady, didn’t you?’

It was an awkward question, and Philip did not know how to answer it.

‘I never thought about it,’ he said lamely.

Athelny laughed. He had a peculiarly joyous laugh.

‘No, she’s not a lady, nor anything like it. Her father was a farmer, and she’s never bothered about aitches in her life. We’ve had twelve children and nine of them are alive. I tell her it’s about time she stopped, but she’s an obstinate woman, she’s got into the habit of it now, and I don’t believe she’ll be satisfied till she’s had twenty.’

At that moment Sally came in with the beer, and, having poured out a glass for Philip, went to the other side of the table to pour some out for her father. He put his hand round her waist.

‘Did you ever see such a handsome, strapping girl? Only fifteen and she might be twenty. Look at her cheeks. She’s never had a day’s illness in her life. It’ll be a lucky man who marries her, won’t it, Sally?’

Sally listened to all this with a slight, slow smile, not much embarrassed, for she was accustomed to her father’s outbursts, but with an easy modesty which was very attractive.

‘Don’t let your dinner get cold, father,’ she said, drawing herself away from his arm. ‘You’ll call when you’re ready for your pudding, won’t you?’

They were left alone, and Athelny lifted the pewter tankard to his lips. He drank long and deep.

‘My word, is there anything better than English beer?’ he said. ‘Let us thank God for simple pleasures, roast beef and rice pudding, a good appetite and beer. I was married to a lady once. My God! Don’t marry a lady, my boy.’

Philip laughed. He was exhilarated by the scene, the funny little man in his odd clothes, the panelled room and the Spanish furniture, the English fare: the whole thing had an exquisite incongruity.

‘You laugh, my boy, you can’t imagine marrying beneath you. You want a wife who’s an intellectual equal. Your head is crammed full of ideas of comradeship. Stuff and nonsense, my boy! A man doesn’t want to talk politics to his wife, and what do you think I care for Betty’s views upon the Differential Calculus? A man wants a wife who can cook his dinner and look after his children. I’ve tried both and I know. Let’s have the pudding in.’

He clapped his hands and presently Sally came. When she took away the plates, Philip wanted to get up and help her, but Athelny stopped him.

‘Let her alone, my boy. She doesn’t want you to fuss about, do you, Sally? And she won’t think it rude of you to sit still while she waits upon you. She don’t care a damn for chivalry, do you, Sally?’

‘No, father,’ answered Sally demurely.

‘Do you know what I’m talking about, Sally?’

‘No, father. But you know mother doesn’t like you to swear.’

Athelny laughed boisterously. Sally brought them plates of rice pudding, rich, creamy, and luscious. Athelny attacked his with gusto.

‘One of the rules of this house is that Sunday dinner should never alter. It is a ritual. Roast beef and rice pudding for fifty Sundays in the year. On Easter Sunday lamb and green peas, and at Michaelmas roast goose and apple sauce. Thus we preserve the traditions of our people. When Sally marries she will forget many of the wise things I have taught her, but she will never forget that if you want to be good and happy you must eat on Sundays roast beef and rice pudding.’

‘You’ll call when you’re ready for cheese,’ said Sally impassively.

‘D’you know the legend of the halcyon?’ said Athelny: Philip was growing used to his rapid leaping from one subject to another. ‘When the kingfisher, flying over the sea, is exhausted, his mate places herself beneath him and bears him along upon her stronger wings. That is what a man wants in a wife, the halcyon. I lived with my first wife for three years. She was a lady, she had fifteen hundred a year, and we used to give nice little dinner parties in our little red brick house in Kensington. She was a charming woman; they all said so, the barristers and their wives who dined with us, and the literary stockbrokers, and the budding politicians; oh, she was a charming woman. She made me go to church in a silk hat and a frock coat, she took me to classical concerts, and she was very fond of lectures on Sunday afternoon; and she sat down to breakfast every morning at eight-thirty, and if I was late breakfast was cold; and she read the right books, admired the right pictures, and adored the right music. My God, how that woman bored me! She is charming still, and she lives in the little red brick house in Kensington, with Morris papers and Whistler’s etchings on the walls, and gives the same nice little dinner parties, with veal creams and ices from Gunter’s, as she did twenty years ago.’

Philip did not ask by what means the ill-matched couple had separated, but Athelny told him.

‘Betty’s not my wife, you know; my wife wouldn’t divorce me. The children are bastards, every jack one of them, and are they any the worse for that? Betty was one of the maids in the little red brick house in Kensington. Four or five years ago I was on my uppers, and I had seven children, and I went to my wife and asked her to help me. She said she’d make me an allowance if I’d give Betty up and go abroad. Can you see me giving Betty up? We starved for a while instead. My wife said I loved the gutter. I’ve degenerated; I’ve come down in the world; I earn three pounds a week as press agent to a linendraper, and every day I thank God that I’m not in the little red brick house in Kensington.’

Sally brought in Cheddar cheese, and Athelny went on with his fluent conversation.

‘It’s the greatest mistake in the world to think that one needs money to bring up a family. You need money to make them gentlemen and ladies, but I don’t want my children to be ladies and gentlemen. Sally’s going to earn her living in another year. She’s to be apprenticed to a dressmaker, aren’t you, Sally? And the boys are going to serve their country. I want them all to go into the Navy; it’s a jolly life and a healthy life, good food, good pay, and a pension to end their days on.’

Philip lit his pipe. Athelny smoked cigarettes of Havana tobacco, which he rolled himself. Sally cleared away. Philip was reserved, and it embarrassed him to be the recipient of so many confidences. Athelny, with his powerful voice in the diminutive body, with his bombast, with his foreign look, with his emphasis, was an astonishing creature. He reminded Philip a good deal of Cronshaw. He appeared to have the same independence of thought, the same bohemianism, but he had an infinitely more vivacious temperament; his mind was coarser, and he had not that interest in the abstract which made Cronshaw’s conversation so captivating. Athelny was very proud of the county family to which he belonged; he showed Philip photographs of an Elizabethan mansion, and told him:

‘The Athelnys have lived there for seven centuries, my boy. Ah, if you saw the chimney-pieces and the ceilings!’

There was a cupboard in the wainscoting and from this he took a family tree. He showed it to Philip with child-like satisfaction. It was indeed imposing.

‘You see how the family names recur, Thorpe, Athelstan, Harold, Edward; I’ve used the family names for my sons. And the girls, you see, I’ve given Spanish names to.’

An uneasy feeling came to Philip that possibly the whole story was an elaborate imposture, not told with any base motive, but merely from a wish to impress, startle, and amaze. Athelny had told him that he was at Winchester; but Philip, sensitive to differences of manner, did not feel that his host had the characteristics of a man educated at a great public school. While he pointed out the great alliances which his ancestors had formed, Philip amused himself by wondering whether Athelny was not the son of some tradesman in Winchester, auctioneer or coal-merchant, and whether a similarity of surname was not his only connection with the ancient family whose tree he was displaying.

第八十七章

十天以后，索普·阿特尔涅的病况大有好转，可以出院了。临走时，他把自己的住址留给了菲利普。菲利普答应于下星期天下午一点同他一道进餐。阿特尔涅曾告诉菲利普，说他就住在一幢还是英尼戈·琼斯盖的房子里，说话间，就像他议论任何一件事情那样，还唾沫四溅地把栎本栏杆大吹特吹了一通。在下楼为菲利普开门的瞬间，他又迫使菲利普当场对那过梁上的精致雕花啧啧称赞了一番。这幢房子坐落在昌策里巷和霍尔本路之间的一条小街上，样子寒伧，极需油漆，不过因为它历史悠久，倒也显得庄严。这幢房子一度颇为时髦，但眼下却比贫民窟好不了多少。据说有计划要把它推倒，在原址造几幢漂亮的办公大楼。再说，房租低廉，因此阿特尔涅的那点工资，还能够付他一家赁住的楼上两层房间所需的租金。阿特尔涅站直身子是啥模样，菲利普还从没见到过呢。这时候，他看到阿特尔涅竟这么矮小，不由得吃了一惊。他身高至多不过五英尺五英寸。他的装束奇形怪状：下身套了条只有法国工人才穿的蓝色亚麻布裤子，上身穿了件棕色天鹅绒旧外套，腰间束了根鲜红的饰带，衣领很矮，所谓领带，是一个飘垂着的蝴蝶结，而这种领带只有（笨拙》杂志画页上的法国小丑才系。他热情地欢迎菲利普的到来，接着便迫不及待地谈起房子来了，说话的当儿，还满怀深情地用手抚摩着栏杆。

"瞧瞧这栏杆，再用手摸摸，真像一块绸子。实在是个了不起的奇迹！五年后，强盗就会拆去当柴卖罗。"

他执意要把菲利普拖到二楼一个房间里去。那里，一位只穿件衬衫的男人和一位胖墩墩的妇人正在同他们的三个孩子一道品尝星期日午餐呢。

"我把这位先生带来看看你家的天花板。你从前看过这么漂亮的天花板吗？唷，霍奇森太太，你好呀！这位是凯里先生，我住院时，就是他照顾的。"

"请进，先生，"那个男人说。"不管是谁，只要是阿特尔涅先生的朋友，我们都欢迎。阿特尔涅先生把他的朋友全都领来参观我家的天花板。不管我们在干什么，我们在睡觉也罢，我正在洗澡也罢，他都砰地一声推门直往里闯。"

菲利普看得出来，在他们这些人眼里，阿特尔涅是个怪人。不过尽管如此，他们还是很喜欢他。此时，阿特尔涅正情绪激昂地、滔滔不绝地讲解这块十七世纪就有的天花板的美妙之处，而那一家子一个个张大着嘴巴听得入了神。

"霍奇森，把这房子推倒简直是犯罪，呢，对不？你是位有影响的公民，为什么不写信给报社表示抗议呢？"

那位穿衬衫的男人呵呵笑了笑，接着面对菲利普说：

"阿特尔涅先生就喜欢开个小小的玩笑。人们都说这几幢房子不到生，还说住在这里不安全。"

"什么卫生不卫生，见鬼去吧。我要的是艺术。"阿特尔涅说。"我有九个孩子，喝的水不干不净，可一个个壮得像头牛似的。不，不行，我可不想冒险。你们那些怪念头我可不想听！搬家时，我不弄清楚这儿的水脏不脏的就决计不搬东西。"

门上响起了一记敲门声，接着一个金发小姑娘推门走进来。

"爸爸，妈妈叫你别光顾着说话，快回去吃午饭。"

"这是我的三女儿，"阿特尔涅戏剧性地伸出食指点着那小妞儿说。"她叫玛丽亚·德尔皮拉尔，不过人家叫她吉恩，她更乐意答应。吉恩，你该擤擤鼻子啦。"

"爸爸，我没有手绢儿。"

"嘘！嘘！孩子，"说话间，他变戏法似的掏出了一块漂亮的印花大手帕，"你瞧，上帝给你送什么来啦？"

他们三人上楼后，菲利普被领进一个四周嵌着深色栎本护墙板的房间。房间中央摆着一张狭长的柚木桌子，支架是活动的，由两根铁条固定着。这种式样的桌子，西班牙人管它叫mesa de hieraje。看来他们就要在这里用餐了，因为桌子上已摆好了两副餐具。桌旁还摆着两张大扶手椅，栎木扶手又宽又光滑，椅子的靠背与坐位均包着皮革。这两张椅子，朴素雅洁，但坐了并不舒适。除此以外，房间里就只有一件家具，那是bargueno，上面精心装饰着烫金铁花，座架上刻着基督教义图案，虽说粗糙了些，但图像倒还精致。顶上搁着两三只釉碟。碟子上裂缝纵横，但色彩还算鲜艳。四周墙上挂着镶在镜框里的西班牙画坛名师之作，框架虽旧但很漂亮。作品的题材令人厌恶，画面因年深日久加上保管不善已有损坏；作品所表达的思想并不高雅。尽管如此，这些作品还洋溢着一股激情。房间里再没有什么值钱的陈设了，但气氛倒还亲切可人。里面弥漫着既堂皇又淳朴的气息。菲利普感到这正是古老的西班牙精神。阿特尔涅打开bargueno，把里面漂亮的装饰和暗抽屉一一指给菲利普看。就在这个时候，一个身材修长、背后垂着两根棕色发辫的姑娘一脚跨了进来。

"妈妈说午饭做好了，就等你们二位了。你们一坐好，我就把饭菜端进来。"

"莎莉，过来呀，同这位凯里先生握握手，"他掉过脸去，面对菲利普说。"她长得个儿大不大？她是我最大的孩子。你多大啦，莎莉？"

"爸爸，到六月就十五岁了。"

"我给她取了个教名，叫玛丽亚·德尔索尔。因为她是我的第一个孩子，我就把她献给荣耀的卡斯蒂尔的太阳神。可她妈妈却叫她莎莉，她弟弟管她叫布丁脸。"

那姑娘羞赧地微笑着，露出了那口齐整洁白的牙齿，双颊泛起了两朵红晕。她身材苗条，按年龄来说，个儿很高。她长着一对褐色的眸子，额头宽阔，面颊红扑扑的。

"快去叫你妈妈上这儿来，趁凯里先生还没有坐下来用饭，先跟他握个手。"

"妈妈说一吃过中饭就来。她还没梳洗呢。"

"那好，我们这就去看她。凯里先生不握一下那双做约克郡布丁的手决不能吃。"

菲利普尾随着主人走进厨房，只见厨房不大，可里面的人倒不少，显得过分拥挤。孩子们吵着、嚷着，可一见来了个陌生人，戛然平静下来了，厨房中央摆着一张大桌子，四周坐着阿特尔涅的儿女们，一个个伸长脖子等吃。一位妇人正俯身在锅灶上把烤好的马铃薯取出来。

"贝蒂，凯里先生看你来了，"阿特尔涅通报了一声。

"亏你想得出来的，把他带到这儿来。晓得人家会怎么想？"

阿特尔涅太太身上系了条脏围裙，棉布上衣的袖子卷到胳膊肘，头夹满了卷发用的夹子。她身材修长，比她丈夫高出足有三英寸。她五官端正，长着一对蓝眼睛，一脸的慈善相。她年轻时模样儿挺标致的，但岁月不饶人，再加上接连不断的生养孩子，目下身体发胖，显得臃肿，那对蓝眸子失却了昔日的光彩，皮肤变得通红、粗糙，原先富有色泽的青丝也黯然失色。这时候，阿特尔涅太太直起腰来，撩起围裙擦了擦手，随即向菲利普伸过手去。

"欢迎，欢迎，先生，"她低声地招呼着。菲利普心中好生奇怪，觉得她的口音太熟悉了。"听阿特尔涅回来说，在医院里你待他可好啦。"

"现在该让你见见我那些小畜生了，"阿特尔涅说。"那是索普，"他说着用手指了指那个长着一头鬈发的胖小子，"他是我的长子，也是我的头衔、财产和义务的继承者。"接着他伸出食指点着其他三个小男孩。他们一个个长得挺结实，小脸蛋红扑扑的，挂着微笑。当菲利普笑眯眯地望着他们时，他们都难为情地垂下眼皮，盯视着各自面前的盘子。"现在我按大小顺序给你介绍一下我的女儿们：玛丽亚·德尔索尔……"

"布丁脸！"一个小男孩冲口喊了一声。

"我的儿呀，你的幽默也太差劲了。玛丽亚·德洛斯梅塞德斯、玛丽亚·德尔皮拉尔、玛丽亚·德拉孔塞普西翁、玛丽亚·罗萨里奥。"

"我管她们叫莎莉、莫莉、康尼、露茜和吉恩，"阿特尔涅太太接着说。

"嘿，阿特尔涅，你们二位先回你的房间，我马上给端饭菜去。我把孩子们流洗好后，就让他们到你那儿去。"

"亲爱的，如果让我给你起个名字的话，我一定给你起个'肥皂水玛丽亚'。你老是用肥皂来折磨这些可怜的娃娃。"

"凯里先生，请先走一步，要不我怎么也没办法叫他安安稳稳地坐下来吃饭的。"

阿特尔涅和菲利普两人刚在那两张僧侣似的椅子上坐定，莎莉就端来了两大盘牛肉、约克郡布丁、烤马铃薯和白菜。阿特尔涅从口袋里掏出六便士，吩咐莎莉去打壶啤酒来。

"我希望你不是特地为我才在这儿吃饭，"菲利普说。"其实跟孩子们在一起吃，我一定会很高兴的。"

"嗳，不是这么回事，我平时一直是一个人在这个房间里用餐的。我就喜欢保持这古老的习俗。我认为女人不应该同男人坐在一张桌子上吃饭。那样的话，我们的谈兴都给搅了。再说，那样对她们也没有好处。我们说的话会被她们听见的。女人一有思想，可就不安分守己罗。"

宾主两人都吃得津津有味。

"你从前吃过这样的布丁吗？谁做都赶不上我太太做得好。这倒是不娶阔小姐为妻的一大优点。你一定注意到我太太不是位名门淑女了吧？"

这个问题把菲利普弄得尴尬极了，他不知怎么回答才好。

"我可不曾想过这方面的问题，"他笨嘴拙舌地回答了一句。

阿特尔涅哈哈大笑，笑声爽朗，颇具特色。

"不，她可不是富家小姐，连一点点小姐的影子都没有。她父亲是个农夫，可她这辈子从来不为生活操心。我们一共生了十二个孩子，只活了九个。我总是叫她赶快停止，别再生了，可她这个死女人太顽固了。现在她已经养成习惯了，就是生了二十个，找还不知道她是否就心满意足了呢。"

就在这个时候，莎莉手捧啤酒走了进来，随即给菲利普斟了一杯，然后走到桌子的另一边给她父亲倒酒。阿特尔涅用手勾住了她的腰。

"你对曾见过这么漂亮、高大的姑娘吗？才十五岁，可看上去像是二十岁了。瞧她的脸蛋儿。她长这么大，连一天病也没生过。谁娶了她真够走运的，是不，莎莉？"

莎莉所惯了父亲的这种调侃的话，所以并不觉得难堪，只是默默地听着，脸上露出淡淡的、稳重的笑意。她那种大方中略带几分羞赧的神情倒怪逗人疼爱的。

"当心别让饭菜凉了，爸爸，"她说着便从她父亲的怀抱里挣脱开去。"要吃布丁，就叫我一声，好不好？"

房间里就剩下他们两位。阿特尔涅端起锡酒杯，深深地喝了一大口。

"我说呀，世上还有比英国的啤酒更好喝的酒吗？"他说。"感谢上帝赐予我们欢乐、烤牛肉、米粉布醒、好胃口和啤酒。找曾经娶过一个阔女人。哦，找的上帝！千万别娶阔女人为妻，我的老弟。"

菲利普不由得哈哈笑了起来。这个场面、这位装束古怪令人发笑的小矮个儿，这嵌有护墙板的房间、西班牙式样的家具和英国风味的食物，这一切无不使得菲利普陶醉。这儿的一切是那么的不协调，却又是雅趣横生，妙不可言。

"我的老弟，你刚才之所以笑，是因为你不屑娶一位比你地位低的女人为妻的缘故。你想娶个同你一样的知书识理的妻子。你的脑子里塞满了什么志同道合之类的念头。那完全是一派胡言，我的老弟！一个男人总不见得去同他的妻子谈论政治吧。难道你还认为我在乎贝蒂对微分学有什么看法吗？一个男人只要一位能为他做饭、看孩子的妻子。名门闺秀和平民女子我都娶过，个中的滋味我清楚着哪。我们叫莎莉送布丁来吧。"

说罢，阿特尔涅两手拍了几下，莎莉应声走了进来。她动手收盘子时，菲利普刚要站起来帮忙，却被阿特尔涅一把拦住了。

"让她自个儿收拾好了，我的老弟。她可不希望你无事自扰。对不，莎莉？再说，她也不会因为她伺候而你却坐着就认为你太粗鲁无礼的。她才不在乎什么骑士风度呢。我的话对不，莎莉？"

"对，爸爸，"莎莉一字一顿地回答道。

"我讲的你都懂吗，莎莉？"

"不懂，爸爸。不过你可知道妈妈不喜欢你赌咒发誓的。"

阿特尔涅扯大嗓门格格笑着。莎莉给他们送来两盘油汪汪、香喷喷、味儿甘美的米粉布丁。阿特尔涅津津有味地吃着自己的一份布丁。

"鄙人家里有个规矩，就是星期天这顿中饭决不能更改。这是一种礼仪。一年五十个星期天，都得吃烤牛肉和米粉布丁。复活节日那天，吃羔羊肉和青豆。在米迦勒节，我们就吃烤鹅和苹果酱。我们就这样来保持我们民族的传统。莎莉出嫁后，会把我教给她的许多事情都忘掉的，可有一件事她决不会忘，就是若要日子过得美满幸福，那就必须在星期天吃烤牛肉和米粉布丁。"

"要奶酪的话，就喊我一声，"莎莉随便地说。

"你可晓得有关翠鸟的传说吗？"阿特尔涅问道。对他这种跳跃性的谈话方式，菲利普渐渐也习惯了。"翠鸟在大海上空飞翔的过程中乏力时，它的配偶便钻到它身子底下，用其强劲有力的翅膀托着它继续向前飞去。一个男人也正希望自己的妻子能像那只雌翠鸟那样。我同前妻在一起生活了三年。她是个阔小姐，每年有一千五百镑的进帐。因此，我们当时经常在肯辛顿大街上那幢小红砖房里举办小型宴会。她颇有几分姿色，令人销魂。人们都是这么说的，比如那些同我们一道吃过饭的律师和他们的太太啦，作家代理人啦，初出茅庐的政客啦，等等，他们都这么夸她。哦，她长得风姿绰约，夺人魂魄。她让我戴了绸帽穿上大礼服上教堂。她带我去欣赏古典音乐。她还喜欢在星期天下午去听讲演。她每天早晨八点半吃早饭。要是我迟了，就吃凉的。她读正经书，欣赏正经画，喜欢听正经的音乐。上帝啊，这个女人真叫我讨厌！现在她的姿色依然不减当年。她仍旧住在肯辛顿大街上的那幢小红砖房里。房子四周墙壁贴满了莫里斯的文章和韦斯特勒的蚀刻画。她还是跟二十年前一样，从冈特商店里买回小牛奶油和冰块在家举行小型宴会。"

菲利普并没有问这对毫不相配的夫妇俩后来是怎么分居的，但阿特尔涅本人却主动为他提供了答案。

"要晓得，贝蒂并不是我的妻子。我的妻子就是不肯同我离婚。几个孩子也混帐透顶，没一个是好东西。他们那么坏又怎么样呢？那会儿贝蒂是那里的女用人之一。四五年前，我一贫如洗，陷入了困境，可还得负担七个孩子的生活。于是我去求我妻子帮我一把。可她却说，只要我撇下贝蒂跑到国外去，她就给我一笔钱。你想，我忍心这么做吗？有段时间，我们常常饿肚子。可我妻子却说我就爱着贫民窟呐。我失魂落魄，潦倒不堪。我现在在亚麻制品公司当新闻代理人，每周拿三镑工资。尽管如此，我每天都向上帝祈祷，谢天谢地我总算离开了肯辛顿大街上的那幢小小的红砖房。"

莎莉进来送茄达奶酪，但阿特尔涅仍旧滔滔不绝地说着：

"认为一个人有了钱才能养家活口，这是世界上最大的错误。你需要钱把你的子女培养成绅士和淑女，可我并不希望我的孩子们成为淑女和绅士。再过一年，莎莉就要出去自己混饭吃。她将去学做裁缝。对不，莎莉？至于那几个男孩，到时都得去为大英帝国效劳。我想叫他们都去当海军。那里的生活非常有趣，也很有意义。再说，那儿伙食好，待遇高，最后还有一笔养老金供他们养老送终。"

菲利普点燃了烟斗，而阿特尔涅吸着自己用哈瓦那烟丝卷成的香烟。此时，莎莉已把桌子收拾干净。菲利普默默无言，心里却为自己与闻阿特尔涅家庭隐私而感到很不自在。阿特尔涅一副外国人的相貌，个头虽小，声音却非常洪亮，好夸夸其谈，说话时还不时加重语气，以示强调，这一切无不令人瞠目吃惊。菲利普不由得想起了业已作古的克朗肖。阿特尔涅似乎同克朗肖相仿佛，也善于独立思考，性格豪放不羁，但性情显然要比克朗肖开朗欢快。然而，他的脑子要粗疏些，对抽象的理性的东西毫不感兴趣，可克朗肖正由于这一点才使得他的谈话娓娓动听、引人入胜。阿特。尔涅声称自己是乡下显赫望族的后裔，并为之感到自豪。他把一幢伊丽莎白时代的别墅的几张照片拿出来给菲利普看，并对菲利普说：

"我的老弟，阿特尔涅家几代人在那儿生活了七个世纪。啊，要是你能亲眼看到那儿的壁炉和天花板，该多有意思呀！"

护墙板的镶装那儿有个小橱。阿特尔涅从橱子里取出一本家谱。他仿佛是个稚童，怀着扬扬得意的心情把家谱递给了菲利普。那本家谱看上去怪有气派的。

"你瞧，家族的名字是怎么重现的吧：索普、阿特尔斯坦、哈罗德、爱德华。我就用家族的名字给我的儿子们起名。至于那几个女儿，你瞧，我都给她们起了西班牙名字。"

菲利普心中倏忽生出一种不安来，担心阿特尔涅的那席话说不定是他精心炮制的谎言。他那样说倒并不是出于一种卑劣的动机，不过是出于一种炫耀自己、使人惊羡的欲望而已。阿特尔涅自称是温切斯特公学的弟子。这一点瞒不过菲利普，因为他对人们仪态方面的差异是非常敏感的。他总觉得他这位主人的身上丝毫没有在一所享有盛誉的公学受过教育的气息。阿特尔涅津津有味地叙说他的祖先同哪些高贵门第联姻的趣闻逸事，可就在这时，菲利普却在一旁饶有兴味地作着种种猜测，心想阿特尔涅保不住是温切斯特某个商人--不是煤商就是拍卖商--的儿子呢；他同那个古老的家族之间的唯一关系保不住仅是姓氏碰巧相同罢了，可他却拿着该家族的家谱在人前大肆张扬，不住炫耀。

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举报只看该作者 90楼发表于: 2014-08-29 0

chapter 88

There was a knock at the door and a troop of children came in. They were clean and tidy, now. their faces shone with soap, and their hair was plastered down; they were going to Sunday school under Sally’s charge. Athelny joked with them in his dramatic, exuberant fashion, and you could see that he was devoted to them all. His pride in their good health and their good looks was touching. Philip felt that they were a little shy in his presence, and when their father sent them off they fled from the room in evident relief. In a few minutes Mrs. Athelny appeared. She had taken her hair out of the curling pins and now wore an elaborate fringe. She had on a plain black dress, a hat with cheap flowers, and was forcing her hands, red and coarse from much work, into black kid gloves.

‘I’m going to church, Athelny,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing you’ll be wanting, is there?’

‘Only your prayers, my Betty.’

‘They won’t do you much good, you’re too far gone for that,’ she smiled. Then, turning to Philip, she drawled: ‘I can’t get him to go to church. He’s no better than an atheist.’

‘Doesn’t she look like Rubens’ second wife?’ cried Athelny. ‘Wouldn’t she look splendid in a seventeenth-century costume? That’s the sort of wife to marry, my boy. Look at her.’

‘I believe you’d talk the hind leg off a donkey, Athelny,’ she answered calmly.

She succeeded in buttoning her gloves, but before she went she turned to Philip with a kindly, slightly embarrassed smile.

‘You’ll stay to tea, won’t you? Athelny likes someone to talk to, and it’s not often he gets anybody who’s clever enough.’

‘Of course he’ll stay to tea,’ said Athelny. Then when his wife had gone: ‘I make a point of the children going to Sunday school, and I like Betty to go to church. I think women ought to be religious. I don’t believe myself, but I like women and children to.’

Philip, strait-laced in matters of truth, was a little shocked by this airy attitude.

‘But how can you look on while your children are being taught things which you don’t think are true?’

‘If they’re beautiful I don’t much mind if they’re not true. It’s asking a great deal that things should appeal to your reason as well as to your sense of the aesthetic. I wanted Betty to become a Roman Catholic, I should have liked to see her converted in a crown of paper flowers, but she’s hopelessly Protestant. Besides, religion is a matter of temperament; you will believe anything if you have the religious turn of mind, and if you haven’t it doesn’t matter what beliefs were instilled into you, you will grow out of them. Perhaps religion is the best school of morality. It is like one of those drugs you gentlemen use in medicine which carries another in solution: it is of no efficacy in itself, but enables the other to be absorbed. You take your morality because it is combined with religion; you lose the religion and the morality stays behind. A man is more likely to be a good man if he has learned goodness through the love of God than through a perusal of Herbert Spencer.’

This was contrary to all Philip’s ideas. He still looked upon Christianity as a degrading bondage that must be cast away at any cost; it was connected subconsciously in his mind with the dreary services in the cathedral at Tercanbury, and the long hours of boredom in the cold church at Blackstable; and the morality of which Athelny spoke was to him no more than a part of the religion which a halting intelligence preserved, when it had laid aside the beliefs which alone made it reasonable. But while he was meditating a reply Athelny, more interested in hearing himself speak than in discussion, broke into a tirade upon Roman Catholicism. For him it was an essential part of Spain; and Spain meant much to him, because he had escaped to it from the conventionality which during his married life he had found so irksome. With large gestures and in the emphatic tone which made what he said so striking, Athelny described to Philip the Spanish cathedrals with their vast dark spaces, the massive gold of the altar-pieces, and the sumptuous iron-work, gilt and faded, the air laden with incense, the silence: Philip almost saw the Canons in their short surplices of lawn, the acolytes in red, passing from the sacristy to the choir; he almost heard the monotonous chanting of vespers. The names which Athelny mentioned, Avila, Tarragona, Saragossa, Segovia, Cordova, were like trumpets in his heart. He seemed to see the great gray piles of granite set in old Spanish towns amid a landscape tawny, wild, and windswept.

‘I’ve always thought I should love to go to Seville,’ he said casually, when Athelny, with one hand dramatically uplifted, paused for a moment.

‘Seville!’ cried Athelny. ‘No, no, don’t go there. Seville: it brings to the mind girls dancing with castanets, singing in gardens by the Guadalquivir, bull-fights, orange-blossom, mantillas, mantones de Manila. It is the Spain of comic opera and Montmartre. Its facile charm can offer permanent entertainment only to an intelligence which is superficial. Theophile Gautier got out of Seville all that it has to offer. We who come after him can only repeat his sensations. He put large fat hands on the obvious and there is nothing but the obvious there; and it is all finger-marked and frayed. Murillo is its painter.’

Athelny got up from his chair, walked over to the Spanish cabinet, let down the front with its great gilt hinges and gorgeous lock, and displayed a series of little drawers. He took out a bundle of photographs.

‘Do you know El Greco?’ he asked.

‘Oh, I remember one of the men in Paris was awfully impressed by him.’

‘El Greco was the painter of Toledo. Betty couldn’t find the photograph I wanted to show you. It’s a picture that El Greco painted of the city he loved, and it’s truer than any photograph. Come and sit at the table.’

Philip dragged his chair forward, and Athelny set the photograph before him. He looked at it curiously, for a long time, in silence. He stretched out his hand for other photographs, and Athelny passed them to him. He had never before seen the work of that enigmatic master; and at the first glance he was bothered by the arbitrary drawing: the figures were extraordinarily elongated; the heads were very small; the attitudes were extravagant. This was not realism, and yet, and yet even in the photographs you had the impression of a troubling reality. Athelny was describing eagerly, with vivid phrases, but Philip only heard vaguely what he said. He was puzzled. He was curiously moved. These pictures seemed to offer some meaning to him, but he did not know what the meaning was. There were portraits of men with large, melancholy eyes which seemed to say you knew not what; there were long monks in the Franciscan habit or in the Dominican, with distraught faces, making gestures whose sense escaped you; there was an Assumption of the Virgin; there was a Crucifixion in which the painter by some magic of feeling had been able to suggest that the flesh of Christ’s dead body was not human flesh only but divine; and there was an Ascension in which the Saviour seemed to surge up towards the empyrean and yet to stand upon the air as steadily as though it were solid ground: the uplifted arms of the Apostles, the sweep of their draperies, their ecstatic gestures, gave an impression of exultation and of holy joy. The background of nearly all was the sky by night, the dark night of the soul, with wild clouds swept by strange winds of hell and lit luridly by an uneasy moon.

‘I’ve seen that sky in Toledo over and over again,’ said Athelny. ‘I have an idea that when first El Greco came to the city it was by such a night, and it made so vehement an impression upon him that he could never get away from it.’

Philip remembered how Clutton had been affected by this strange master, whose work he now saw for the first time. He thought that Clutton was the most interesting of all the people he had known in Paris. His sardonic manner, his hostile aloofness, had made it difficult to know him; but it seemed to Philip, looking back, that there had been in him a tragic force, which sought vainly to express itself in painting. He was a man of unusual character, mystical after the fashion of a time that had no leaning to mysticism, who was impatient with life because he found himself unable to say the things which the obscure impulses of his heart suggested. His intellect was not fashioned to the uses of the spirit. It was not surprising that he felt a deep sympathy with the Greek who had devised a new technique to express the yearnings of his soul. Philip looked again at the series of portraits of Spanish gentlemen, with ruffles and pointed beards, their faces pale against the sober black of their clothes and the darkness of the background. El Greco was the painter of the soul; and these gentlemen, wan and wasted, not by exhaustion but by restraint, with their tortured minds, seem to walk unaware of the beauty of the world; for their eyes look only in their hearts, and they are dazzled by the glory of the unseen. No painter has shown more pitilessly that the world is but a place of passage. The souls of the men he painted speak their strange longings through their eyes: their senses are miraculously acute, not for sounds and odours and colour, but for the very subtle sensations of the soul. The noble walks with the monkish heart within him, and his eyes see things which saints in their cells see too, and he is unastounded. His lips are not lips that smile.

Philip, silent still, returned to the photograph of Toledo, which seemed to him the most arresting picture of them all. He could not take his eyes off it. He felt strangely that he was on the threshold of some new discovery in life. He was tremulous with a sense of adventure. He thought for an instant of the love that had consumed him: love seemed very trivial beside the excitement which now leaped in his heart. The picture he looked at was a long one, with houses crowded upon a hill; in one corner a boy was holding a large map of the town; in another was a classical figure representing the river Tagus; and in the sky was the Virgin surrounded by angels. It was a landscape alien to all Philip’s notion, for he had lived in circles that worshipped exact realism; and yet here again, strangely to himself, he felt a reality greater than any achieved by the masters in whose steps humbly he had sought to walk. He heard Athelny say that the representation was so precise that when the citizens of Toledo came to look at the picture they recognised their houses. The painter had painted exactly what he saw but he had seen with the eyes of the spirit. There was something unearthly in that city of pale gray. It was a city of the soul seen by a wan light that was neither that of night nor day. It stood on a green hill, but of a green not of this world, and it was surrounded by massive walls and bastions to be stormed by no machines or engines of man’s invention, but by prayer and fasting, by contrite sighs and by mortifications of the flesh. It was a stronghold of God. Those gray houses were made of no stone known to masons, there was something terrifying in their aspect, and you did not know what men might live in them. You might walk through the streets and be unamazed to find them all deserted, and yet not empty; for you felt a presence invisible and yet manifest to every inner sense. It was a mystical city in which the imagination faltered like one who steps out of the light into darkness; the soul walked naked to and fro, knowing the unknowable, and conscious strangely of experience, intimate but inexpressible, of the absolute. And without surprise, in that blue sky, real with a reality that not the eye but the soul confesses, with its rack of light clouds driven by strange breezes, like the cries and the sighs of lost souls, you saw the Blessed Virgin with a gown of red and a cloak of blue, surrounded by winged angels. Philip felt that the inhabitants of that city would have seen the apparition without astonishment, reverent and thankful, and have gone their ways.

Athelny spoke of the mystical writers of Spain, of Teresa de Avila, San Juan de la Cruz, Fray Luis de Leon; in all of them was that passion for the unseen which Philip felt in the pictures of El Greco: they seemed to have the power to touch the incorporeal and see the invisible. They were Spaniards of their age, in whom were tremulous all the mighty exploits of a great nation: their fancies were rich with the glories of America and the green islands of the Caribbean Sea; in their veins was the power that had come from age-long battling with the Moor; they were proud, for they were masters of the world; and they felt in themselves the wide distances, the tawny wastes, the snow-capped mountains of Castile, the sunshine and the blue sky, and the flowering plains of Andalusia. Life was passionate and manifold, and because it offered so much they felt a restless yearning for something more; because they were human they were unsatisfied; and they threw this eager vitality of theirs into a vehement striving after the ineffable. Athelny was not displeased to find someone to whom he could read the translations with which for some time he had amused his leisure; and in his fine, vibrating voice he recited the canticle of the Soul and Christ her lover, the lovely poem which begins with the words en una noche oscura, and the noche serena of Fray Luis de Leon. He had translated them quite simply, not without skill, and he had found words which at all events suggested the rough-hewn grandeur of the original. The pictures of El Greco explained them, and they explained the pictures.

Philip had cultivated a certain disdain for idealism. He had always had a passion for life, and the idealism he had come across seemed to him for the most part a cowardly shrinking from it. The idealist withdrew himself, because he could not suffer the jostling of the human crowd; he had not the strength to fight and so called the battle vulgar; he was vain, and since his fellows would not take him at his own estimate, consoled himself with despising his fellows. For Philip his type was Hayward, fair, languid, too fat now and rather bald, still cherishing the remains of his good looks and still delicately proposing to do exquisite things in the uncertain future; and at the back of this were whiskey and vulgar amours of the street. It was in reaction from what Hayward represented that Philip clamoured for life as it stood; sordidness, vice, deformity, did not offend him; he declared that he wanted man in his nakedness; and he rubbed his hands when an instance came before him of meanness, cruelty, selfishness, or lust: that was the real thing. In Paris he had learned that there was neither ugliness nor beauty, but only truth: the search after beauty was sentimental. Had he not painted an advertisement of chocolat Menier in a landscape in order to escape from the tyranny of prettiness?

But here he seemed to divine something new. He had been coming to it, all hesitating, for some time, but only now was conscious of the fact; he felt himself on the brink of a discovery. He felt vaguely that here was something better than the realism which he had adored; but certainly it was not the bloodless idealism which stepped aside from life in weakness; it was too strong; it was virile; it accepted life in all its vivacity, ugliness and beauty, squalor and heroism; it was realism still; but it was realism carried to some higher pitch, in which facts were transformed by the more vivid light in which they were seen. He seemed to see things more profoundly through the grave eyes of those dead noblemen of Castile; and the gestures of the saints, which at first had seemed wild and distorted, appeared to have some mysterious significance. But he could not tell what that significance was. It was like a message which it was very important for him to receive, but it was given him in an unknown tongue, and he could not understand. He was always seeking for a meaning in life, and here it seemed to him that a meaning was offered; but it was obscure and vague. He was profoundly troubled. He saw what looked like the truth as by flashes of lightning on a dark, stormy night you might see a mountain range. He seemed to see that a man need not leave his life to chance, but that his will was powerful; he seemed to see that self-control might be as passionate and as active as the surrender to passion; he seemed to see that the inward life might be as manifold, as varied, as rich with experience, as the life of one who conquered realms and explored unknown lands.

第八十八章

随着一阵叩门声，一群孩子蜂拥而入。此刻，他们一个个浑身上下收拾得干干净净、整整齐齐。一张张小脸蛋因刚用肥皂擦洗过而闪闪发亮。湿润的头发梳理得服服帖帖。他们将在莎莉的带领下到主日学校去。阿特尔涅喜气洋洋，像演戏似地同孩子们打趣逗乐。不难看出，他还怪疼爱他们的哩。他为自己的孩子们一个个长得身强体壮、英气勃勃而感到骄傲，他那股骄傲的神气倒蛮感人肺腑的呢。菲利普隐约觉得孩子们在他跟前显得有点儿拘束，而当他们的父亲把他们打发走时，他们很明显怀着一种释然的心情一溜烟地跑开了。没过几分钟，阿特尔涅太太走了进来。这时，卷发的夹子拿掉了，额前的刘海梳理得一丝不乱。她穿了件朴素的黑上衣，戴了顶饰有几朵廉价鲜花的帽子。眼下她正在使劲往那双因劳作而变得通红、粗糙的手上套着手套。

"我这就上教堂去，阿特尔涅，"她说，"你们不需要什么了吧？"

"只要你的祷告，贝蒂。"

"我的祷告对你不会有什么好处，你这个人根本连听也没心思所。"她说罢微微笑了笑，接着转过脸去，面对着菲利普，慢声慢气地说："我没办法叫他跟我一块上教堂。他比无神论者好不了多少。"

"你看她像不像鲁宾斯的第二个妻子？"阿特尔涅顿时嚷了起来。"她穿上十七世纪的服装，看上去不也是仪态雍容吗？要娶老婆，就要娶她这样的老婆，我的老弟。你瞧她那副模样儿！"

"我晓得你又要要贫嘴了，阿特尔涅，"她沉着地顶了他一句。

阿特尔涅太太好不容易揿下了手套的揿钮。临行前，她朝菲利普转过身去，脸上露出和蔼但略为尴尬的笑容。

"你留下来用茶点，好不？阿特尔涅喜欢找个人说个话儿，可不是经常能找到有头脑的人的。"

"那还用你讲，他当然要在这儿用茶点咯，"阿特尔涅说。妻子走后，他又接下去说道："我规定让孩子们上主日学校，我也喜欢贝蒂到教堂去。我认为女人应该信教。我自己不相信宗教，可我喜欢女人和孩子信教。"

菲利普自己对涉及真理方面问题的态度极端严谨，因此当看到阿特尔涅采取这种轻浮的态度，不觉微微一怔。

"孩子们所接受的恰恰是你认为是不真实的东西，你怎么能无动于衷、听之任之呢？"

"只要那些东西美丽动听，就是不真实，那又有什么关系呢。要求每一件事情既符合你的理智又符合你的审美观，那你的要求也太高了。我原先希望贝蒂成为天主教徒，还巴不得能看到她头戴纸花王冠皈依天主教呢。可是，她却是个耶稣教徒，真是不可救药。再说，信不信教是一个人的气质问题。要是你生来就有颗信教的脑袋，那你对什么事情都会笃信不疑；要是你生来就没有信教的脑袋，不管你头脑里灌进什么样的信仰，你慢慢总会摆脱这些信仰的。宗教或许还是最好的道德学校呐。这好比你们这些绅士常用的药剂中的一味药，不用这味药而改用别的，也同样解决问题。这就说明那味药本身并无功效，不过起分解别的药使其容易被吸收罢了。你选择你的道德观念，这是因为它与宗教结合在一起的。你失去宗教信仰，但道德观念依然还在。一个人假如不是通过研读赫伯特·斯宾塞的哲学著作而是通过热爱上帝来修身养性的话，那他将更容易成为一个好人。"

菲利普的观点正好同阿特尔涅的背道而驰。他依然认为基督教是使人堕落的枷锁，必须不惜一切代价摧毁之。在他头脑里，他的这种看法总是自觉或不自觉地与坎特伯雷大教堂的令人生厌的礼拜仪式和布莱克斯泰勃的冷冰冰的教堂里的冗长乏味的布道活动联系在一起的。在他看来，阿特尔涅刚才谈论的道德观念，不过是一种一旦抛弃使之成立的种种信仰时就只有一个战战兢兢的神明庇佑的宗教的一部分。就在菲利普思索如何回答的当儿，阿特尔涅突然就罗马天主教发表了长篇宏论，他这个人对听自己讲话比听别人发言要更有兴趣得多。在他的眼里，罗马天主教是西班牙的精髓。西班牙对他来说可非同一般，因为他终于摆脱了传统习俗的束缚而在西班牙找到了精神庇护所，他的婚后生活告诉他传统习俗实在令人厌倦。阿特尔涅对菲利普娓娓描述起西班牙大教堂那幽暗空旷的圣堂、祭坛背面屏风上的大块金子、烫过金粉但已黯然失色的颇有气派的铁制饰物，还描述了教堂内如何香烟缭绕、如何阒然无声。说话间，阿特尔涅还配以丰富的表情，时而加重语气，使他所讲的显得更加动人心魄。菲利普仿佛看到了写在主教穿的宽大白法衣上的圣徒名单，身披红法衣的修道士们纷纷从圣器收藏室走向教士席位，他耳边仿佛响起了那单调的晚祷歌声。阿特尔汉在谈话中提到的诸如阿维拉、塔拉戈约、萨拉戈萨、塞哥维亚、科尔多瓦之类的地名，好比是他心中的一只只喇叭。他还仿佛看到，在那满目黄土、一片荒凉、寒风呼啸的原野上，在一座座西班牙古城里矗立着一堆堆巨大的灰色花岗岩石。

"我一向认为我应该到塞维利亚去看看，"菲利普信口说了这么一句，可阿特尔涅却戏剧性地举起一只手，呆呆地愣了一会儿。

"塞维利亚！"阿特尔涅叫嚷道。"不，不行，千万别到那儿去。塞维利亚，一提起这个地方，就会想起少女们踏着响板的节奏翩翩起舞，在瓜达尔基维尔河畔的花园里引吭高歌的场面，就会想起斗牛、香橙花以及女人的薄头罩和mantones de Manila。那是喜歌剧和蒙马特尔的西班牙。这种轻而易举的噱头只能给那些智力平平、浅尝辄止的人带来无穷的乐趣。尽管塞维利亚有那么多好玩好看的东西，可塔渥菲尔·高蒂亚还是从那儿跑了出来。我们去步他后尘，也只能体验一下他所体验过的感觉而已。他那双既大又肥的手触到的只是显而易见的东西。然而，那儿除了显而易见的东西之外，再也没有别的什么了。那儿的一切都打上了指纹，都被磨损了。那儿的画家叫缪雷里奥。"

阿特尔涅从椅子里站起身来，走到那个西班牙式橱子跟前，打开闪闪发光的锁，顺着烫金铰链打开阔门，露出里面一格格小抽屉。他从里面拿出一叠照片来。

"你可晓得埃尔·格列柯这个人？"他问菲利普。

"喔，我还记得在巴黎的时候，就有个人对埃尔·格列柯着了迷似的。"

"埃尔·格列柯是托菜多画家。我要给你看的那张画，贝蒂就是找不出来。埃尔·格列柯在那张画里就是画他喜爱的那个城市，画得比任何一张画都要真实。坐到桌子边上来。"

菲利普把坐椅向前挪了挪，接着阿特尔涅把那些照片摆在他面前的桌上。他惊奇地注视着，有好一会儿，他屏息凝气，一声不吭。他伸长手去拿其他几张照片，阿特尔涅随手把它们递了过来。那位谜一般的画师的作品，他从来未看到过。界眼一看，他倒被那任意的画法弄糊涂了：人物的身子奇长，脑袋特别小，神态狂放不羁。这不是现实主义的笔法，然；而，这些画面还是给留下一个令人惴惴不安的真实印象。阿特尔涅迫不及待地忙着作解说，且使用的全是些鲜明生动的词藻，但是菲利普只是模模糊糊地听进了几句。他感到迷惑不解。他莫名其妙地深受感动。在他看来，这些图画似乎有些意思，但又说不清究竟是什么意思。画面上的一些男人，睁大着充满忧伤的眼睛，他们似乎在向你诉说着什么，你却又不知所云；带有方济各会或多明我会特征的长脚修道士，一个个脸红脖子粗，打着令人莫名其妙的手势。有一张画的是圣母升天的场面。另一幅是画耶稣在十字架上钉死的情景，在这幅画里，画家以一种神奇的感情成功地表明，耶稣的身躯决不是凡人那样的肉体，而是神圣之躯。还有一幅耶稣升天图，上面画着耶稣基督徐徐升向太空，仿佛脚下踩的不是空气而是坚实的大地：基督的使徒们欣喜若狂，举起双臂，挥舞着衣巾，这一切给人以一种圣洁的欢愉和狂喜的印象牙所有这些图画的背景凡乎都是夜空：心灵之夜幕，地狱阴风飕飕，吹得乱云飞渡，在闪闪烁烁的月光照射下，显得一片灰黄。

这当儿，菲利普想起当年克拉顿深受这位令人不可思议的画师的影响的事情来。这是他平生第一次目睹这位画师的遗墨。他认为克拉顿是他在巴黎所熟识的人中间最最有趣的。他好挖苦人，高傲矜夸，对一切都怀有敌意，这一切使得别人很难了解他。回首往事，菲利普似乎觉得克拉顿身上有股悲剧性的力量，千方百计想在绘画中得到表现，但终究未能得逞。他那个人性格怪异特别，好像一个毫无神秘主义倾向的时代那样不可理解；他对生活不能忍受，因为他感到自己无法表达他微弱的心跳所暗示的意义。他的智力不适应精神的功能。这样看来，他对采取新办法来表现内心的渴望的那位希腊人深表同情也就不奇怪了。菲利普再次浏览那些西班牙绅士们的众生相，只见他们脸上皱纹纵横，翘着尖尖的胡子，在浅黑色的衣服和漆黑的背景映衬下，他们的脸显得十分苍白。埃尔·格列柯是位揭示心灵的画家。而那些绅士，脸色惨白，形容憔悴，但不是由劳累过度而是由精神备受压抑才这样的。他们的头脑惨遭摧残。他们走路时，仿佛对世界之美毫无意识似的。因为他们的眼睛只是注视着自己的心，所以他们被灵魂世界的壮观搞得眼花缘乱。没有一个画家能像埃尔·格列柯那样无情地揭示出世界不过是临时厕身之地罢了。他笔下的那些人物是通过眼睛来表达内心的渴望的：他们的感官对声音、气味和颜色的反应迟钝，可对心灵的微妙的情感却十分灵敏。这位卓越的画家怀着一颗菩萨心肠到处转悠，看到了升入天国的死者也能看到的形形色色的幻物，然而他却丝毫不感到吃惊。他的嘴从来就不是一张轻易张开微笑的嘴。

菲利普依然缄默不语，目光又落到了那张托莱多的风景画上。在他眼里，这是所有的画中最引人注目的一幅。他说什么也不能把自己的目光从这幅画上移开去。此时，他心里不由得生起一种莫可名状的情感，他感到自己开始对人生的真谛有了新的发现。他内心激荡着一种探险的激清。瞬息间，他想起了曾使他心力交瘁的爱情：爱情除了眼下激起他内心一阵激动之外，简直微不足道。他注视着的那幅画很长，上面画着一座小山。山上房舍鳞次栉比，拥挤不堪；照片的一角，有个男孩，手里拿着一张该城的大地图；另一角站着位象征塔古斯河的古典人物；天空中，一群天使簇拥着圣母。这种景致同菲利普的想法正好相悻，因为多年来他一直生活在这样一个圈子里，这个圈子里的人们唯不折不扣的现实主义为尊。然而，他这时又再次感觉到，比起他先前竭力亦步亦趋地加以模仿的那些画师们所取得的成就来，埃尔·格列柯的这幅画更具有强烈的真实感。他为什么会有这种感受，这连他自己也莫名其妙。他听阿特尔涅说画面是如此的逼真，以致让托莱多的市民来看这张画时，他们还能认出各自的房屋来。埃尔·格列柯笔下所画的正是他眼睛所看到的，但他是用心灵的眼睛观察人生的。在那座灰蒙蒙的城市里，似乎飘逸着一种超凡越圣的气氛。在惨淡的光线照耀下，这座心灵之城看上去既不是在白天，也不是在黑夜。该城屹立在一座绿色的山丘之上，但这绿色却又不是今世所见的那种色彩。城市四周围着厚实的城墙和棱堡，将为祷告、斋戒、懊悔不已的叹息声和禁锢的七情六欲所摧毁，而不是为现代人所发明创造的现代机器和引擎所推倒。这是上帝的要塞。那些灰白色的房屋并非是用一种为石匠所熟知的石头砌成的，那样子令人森然可怖，不知道人们是怎样在这里面生活的。你穿街走巷，看到那儿恰似无人却不空，大概不会感到惊奇，那是因为你感觉到一种存在虽说看不见摸不着，但内心深处却感到它无处不在、无时不有的缘故。在这座神秘的城市里，人的想象力颤摇着，就好比人刚从亮处走进黑暗里一般。赤裸裸的灵魂来回逡巡，领悟到不可知的东西，奇怪地意识到经验之亲切却又不可言喻，并且还奇怪地意识到了绝对。在那蔚蓝的天空，人们看到一群两胛插翅的天使簇拥着身穿红袍和蓝外套的圣母，但毫不觉得奇怪。那蔚蓝色的天空因具有一种由心灵而不是肉眼所证明的现实而显得真实可信，那朵朵浮云随着缕缕奇异的犹如永堕地狱的幽灵的哭喊声和叹息声的微风飘动着。菲利普感到该城的居民面对这一神奇的景象，无论是出于崇敬还是感激，都不感到惊奇，而是自由自在，一意孤行。

阿特尔涅谈起了西班牙神秘主义作家，议论起特雷莎·德阿维拉、圣胡安·德拉克普斯、弗赖·迭戈·德莱昂等人。他们都对灵魂世界怀着强烈的情感，而这灵魂世界菲利普只有在埃尔·格列柯的画作中才能体会得到：他们似乎都有触摸无形体和看到灵界的能力。他们是他们那个时代的西班牙人，在他们的心里，一个伟大民族的光辉业绩都在颤抖。他们的想象中充满了美利坚的光荣和加勒比海的四季常绿的岛屿；他们的血管里充满了由长期同摩尔人作战磨练出来的活力；他们因为自己是世界的一代宗师而感到骄傲；他们感到自己胸怀天涯海角、黄褐色的荒原、终年积雪的卡斯蒂尔山脉、阳光和蓝天，还有安达卢西亚鲜花怒放的平原。生活充满了激情，色彩斑斓。正因为生活提供的东西太多，所以他们的欲望永无止境，总是渴望得到更多更多。正因为他们也是人，所以他们的欲壑总是填不平，于是，他们将他们的勃勃生气化为追求不可言喻的东西的激情。阿特尔涅有段时间借译诗以自遣，对找到个能读懂自己的译稿的人，他不无高兴。他用其优美动听且带着颤抖的嗓音，背诵起对灵魂及其情人基督的赞美诗，以及弗赖·卢易斯·德莱昂开头写着en una noche oscura和noche serena的优美诗?Ｋ囊敫逦奶?简朴，但不无匠心。他觉得，无论怎么说，他所用的词藻正体现了原作那虽粗糙然而雄浑的风韵。埃尔·格列柯的图画解释了诗歌的含义，而诗歌也道出了图画中的真义。

菲利普对理想主义怀有某种厌恶感。他一向强烈地热爱生活，而就他平生所见，理想主义在生活面前大多胆怯地退却。理想主义之所以退却，是因为他不能忍受人们相互你争我夺；他自己没有勇气奋起而战，于是把争斗说成是庸俗的。他自己庸庸碌碌，可当同伴们并不像他看待自己那样对待他时，他就蔑视伙伴们，并借此聊以自慰。在菲利普看来，海沃德就是这样的人。海沃德五官端正，精神萎顿，眼下变得体态臃肿，秃了脑顶心。但他还精心爱护着几处残留的俊俏的容颜，仍旧趣味隽永地谈论着要在那含糊不定的未来作出一番成就。然而，在所有这一切的后面，却是威士忌，在街上追逐女人，恣情纵欲。与海沃德所代表的人生观恰恰相反，菲利普回口声声要求生活就像它现在这个样子，什么卑鄙、恶习和残疾，这些他都无动于衷。他声称他希望人都应该是赤身裸体、一丝不挂。当下贱、残忍、自私或色欲出现在他面前时，他都愉快地搓着双手：那才是事情的本来面目。在巴黎的时候，他就知道世间既无美也无丑，而只有事实；追求美完全是感情用事。为了摆脱美的专横，他不是就在一张风景画上画了个推销chocolat Menier的广告吗？

然而这样一来，他似乎又把一件事情加以神圣化了。好久以来，他对此一直有些感觉，但总是犹犹豫豫地吃不准，直到此时方才觉悟到了这一点。他感到自己开始有所发现，隐隐约约地觉得，世间还有比他推崇备至的现实主义更为完美的东西，不过这一更为完美的东西当然不是面对人生软弱无力的理想主义。它大强烈，非常有魄力；生活中的欢乐、丑和美、卑劣行径和英雄行为，它都一概接受。它仍旧是现实主义，不过是一种更为高级的现实主义。在这种现实主义里面，事实为一种更为鲜明的荣光所改造。通过已故的卡斯蒂尔贵族们的悲哀目光，菲利普似乎看问题更为深刻。而那些圣徒的脸部表情，乍一看似乎有点癫狂和异样，可现在看来里面似乎蕴含着某种令人难以捉摸的意义。但是菲利普却无法解出其中之味。这好比是个信息，一个他要接受的非常重要的信息，但是这个信息却是用一种他陌生的语言传递的，他怎么也听不懂。他一直在孜孜探索着人生的意义。他似乎觉得这里已为他提供了答案，却又嫌太隐晦，太空泛。他困惑不解。他仿佛看到了某种像是真理的东西，就好比在暴风雨的黑夜里，借着闪电望见大山的轮廓一般。他似乎认识到自己的意志是强大的；认识到自我克制完全可能同屈服于欲望一样强烈、活跃；还认识到精神生活会与一个征服多种领域并进而对未知的世界进行探索的人的生活一样色彩斑斓，一样五光十色，一样充满了经验。

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举报只看该作者 91楼发表于: 2014-08-29 0

chapter 89

The conversation between Philip and Athelny was broken into by a clatter up the stairs. Athelny opened the door for the children coming back from Sunday school, and with laughter and shouting they came in. Gaily he asked them what they had learned. Sally appeared for a moment, with instructions from her mother that father was to amuse the children while she got tea ready; and Athelny began to tell them one of Hans Andersen’s stories. They were not shy children, and they quickly came to the conclusion that Philip was not formidable. Jane came and stood by him and presently settled herself on his knees. It was the first time that Philip in his lonely life had been present in a family circle: his eyes smiled as they rested on the fair children engrossed in the fairy tale. The life of his new friend, eccentric as it appeared at first glance, seemed now to have the beauty of perfect naturalness. Sally came in once more.

‘Now then, children, tea’s ready,’ she said.

Jane slipped off Philip’s knees, and they all went back to the kitchen. Sally began to lay the cloth on the long Spanish table.

‘Mother says, shall she come and have tea with you?’ she asked. ‘I can give the children their tea.’

‘Tell your mother that we shall be proud and honoured if she will favour us with her company,’ said Athelny.

It seemed to Philip that he could never say anything without an oratorical flourish.

‘Then I’ll lay for her,’ said Sally.

She came back again in a moment with a tray on which were a cottage loaf, a slab of butter, and a jar of strawberry jam. While she placed the things on the table her father chaffed her. He said it was quite time she was walking out; he told Philip that she was very proud, and would have nothing to do with aspirants to that honour who lined up at the door, two by two, outside the Sunday school and craved the honour of escorting her home.

‘You do talk, father,’ said Sally, with her slow, good-natured smile.

‘You wouldn’t think to look at her that a tailor’s assistant has enlisted in the army because she would not say how d’you do to him and an electrical engineer, an electrical engineer, mind you, has taken to drink because she refused to share her hymn-book with him in church. I shudder to think what will happen when she puts her hair up.’

‘Mother’ll bring the tea along herself,’ said Sally.

‘Sally never pays any attention to me,’ laughed Athelny, looking at her with fond, proud eyes. ‘She goes about her business indifferent to wars, revolutions, and cataclysms. What a wife she’ll make to an honest man!’

Mrs. Athelny brought in the tea. She sat down and proceeded to cut bread and butter. It amused Philip to see that she treated her husband as though he were a child. She spread jam for him and cut up the bread and butter into convenient slices for him to eat. She had taken off her hat; and in her Sunday dress, which seemed a little tight for her, she looked like one of the farmers’ wives whom Philip used to call on sometimes with his uncle when he was a small boy. Then he knew why the sound of her voice was familiar to him. She spoke just like the people round Blackstable.

‘What part of the country d’you come from?’ he asked her.

‘I’m a Kentish woman. I come from Ferne.’

‘I thought as much. My uncle’s Vicar of Blackstable.’

‘That’s a funny thing now,’ she said. ‘I was wondering in Church just now whether you was any connection of Mr. Carey. Many’s the time I’ve seen ‘im. A cousin of mine married Mr. Barker of Roxley Farm, over by Blackstable Church, and I used to go and stay there often when I was a girl. Isn’t that a funny thing now?’

She looked at him with a new interest, and a brightness came into her faded eyes. She asked him whether he knew Ferne. It was a pretty village about ten miles across country from Blackstable, and the Vicar had come over sometimes to Blackstable for the harvest thanksgiving. She mentioned names of various farmers in the neighbourhood. She was delighted to talk again of the country in which her youth was spent, and it was a pleasure to her to recall scenes and people that had remained in her memory with the tenacity peculiar to her class. It gave Philip a queer sensation too. A breath of the country-side seemed to be wafted into that panelled room in the middle of London. He seemed to see the fat Kentish fields with their stately elms; and his nostrils dilated with the scent of the air; it is laden with the salt of the North Sea, and that makes it keen and sharp.

Philip did not leave the Athelnys’ till ten o’clock. The children came in to say good-night at eight and quite naturally put up their faces for Philip to kiss. His heart went out to them. Sally only held out her hand.

‘Sally never kisses gentlemen till she’s seen them twice,’ said her father.

‘You must ask me again then,’ said Philip.

‘You mustn’t take any notice of what father says,’ remarked Sally, with a smile.

‘She’s a most self-possessed young woman,’ added her parent.

They had supper of bread and cheese and beer, while Mrs. Athelny was putting the children to bed; and when Philip went into the kitchen to bid her good-night (she had been sitting there, resting herself and reading The Weekly Despatch) she invited him cordially to come again.

‘There’s always a good dinner on Sundays so long as Athelny’s in work,’ she said, ‘and it’s a charity to come and talk to him.’

On the following Saturday Philip received a postcard from Athelny saying that they were expecting him to dinner next day; but fearing their means were not such that Mr. Athelny would desire him to accept, Philip wrote back that he would only come to tea. He bought a large plum cake so that his entertainment should cost nothing. He found the whole family glad to see him, and the cake completed his conquest of the children. He insisted that they should all have tea together in the kitchen, and the meal was noisy and hilarious.

Soon Philip got into the habit of going to Athelny’s every Sunday. He became a great favourite with the children, because he was simple and unaffected and because it was so plain that he was fond of them. As soon as they heard his ring at the door one of them popped a head out of window to make sure it was he, and then they all rushed downstairs tumultuously to let him in. They flung themselves into his arms. At tea they fought for the privilege of sitting next to him. Soon they began to call him Uncle Philip.

Athelny was very communicative, and little by little Philip learned the various stages of his life. He had followed many occupations, and it occurred to Philip that he managed to make a mess of everything he attempted. He had been on a tea plantation in Ceylon and a traveller in America for Italian wines; his secretaryship of the water company in Toledo had lasted longer than any of his employments; he had been a journalist and for some time had worked as police-court reporter for an evening paper; he had been sub-editor of a paper in the Midlands and editor of another on the Riviera. From all his occupations he had gathered amusing anecdotes, which he told with a keen pleasure in his own powers of entertainment. He had read a great deal, chiefly delighting in books which were unusual; and he poured forth his stores of abstruse knowledge with child-like enjoyment of the amazement of his hearers. Three or four years before abject poverty had driven him to take the job of press-representative to a large firm of drapers; and though he felt the work unworthy his abilities, which he rated highly, the firmness of his wife and the needs of his family had made him stick to it.

第八十九章

菲利普同阿特尔涅的谈话为一阵上楼梯的咯噔咯噔的脚步声打断了。阿特尔涅跑去为从主日学校归来的孩子们开门，孩子们笑着嚷着蜂拥而入。阿特尔涅笑逐颜开地询间他们在主日学校里的情况。莎莉只呆了一会就走了，因为她母亲吩咐她趁她父亲同孩子们逗着玩的时候去准备茶点。阿特尔涅开始给孩子们讲一则汉斯·安徒生的童话故事。这些孩子一点也不怯生，他们很快就得出结论：菲利普并不可怕。珍妮走过来，站在菲利普的身旁，不一会儿，竟爬到菲利普的身上，舒舒服服地坐在他的大腿上。对过着孤单的光棍汉生活的菲利普来说，这还是第一次置身于洋溢着天伦之乐的小家庭之中。当日光落在那些全神贯注地谛听着童话故事的孩子们身上时，他那双眼睛不由自主地眯眯笑了起来。他这位新结识的朋友的生活，乍看起来似乎有些古怪，眼下却显得十分自然，尽善尽美。莎莉又回到了房间。

"嘿，孩子们，茶点准备好了，"莎莉喊道。

珍妮从菲利普的腿上溜了下来，跟着其他孩子一道跑向厨房。莎莉这才开始在那张长长的西班牙餐桌上铺台布。

"妈妈说，她是不是也来这儿同你们一块用茶点？"莎莉问道。"我可以去招呼孩子们吃茶点。"

"请禀告你母，若蒙她光临作伴，我两人将不胜荣幸骄傲之至，"阿特尔涅戏谑地说。

在菲利普看来，阿特尔涅不说话则已，一张嘴说话总是离不开演说家的华丽的词藻。

"那好，我也给妈妈铺块台布，"莎莉应声说。

不一会，莎莉又回来了，手里托着浅盘，盘子里放着一只面包、一块厚厚的黄油和一罐草莓果酱。在她把这些东西一一摆在桌子上的当儿，她父亲同她打趣逗乐。他说莎莉该出去见见世面了。他告诉菲利普，说成双成对的追求者排着队候在主日学校门口等她，一个个争先恐后地要伴送她回家，可她却矜夸傲慢，连睬也不睬他们。

"爸爸，你就别说了，"莎莉嗔怪地说，脸上现出她那冷漠但不无好意的微笑。

"一个裁缝店的伙计就因为莎莉不肯同他打招呼，一气之下去当了兵。还有一位工程师，请注意，这回是个工程师，只为了莎莉不愿在教堂同他合用一本赞美诗集这件事，就开始酗酒。你知道了这一切之后，恐怕连想看她一眼都不敢想喽。我真担心，她束发以后还不知会怎么样呢？"

"妈妈自己送茶来，"莎莉淡淡地说了一句。

"莎莉从来不听我的话，"阿特尔涅哈哈大笑，用慈爱的、骄傲的目光望着莎莉。"她整天只知道干她的事，什么战争啦，革命啦，动乱啦，她都一慨不闻不问。对一个诚实的男人来说，她将会是个多么贤惠的妻子哟！"

阿特尔涅太太端茶进来。她一坐下来便动手切面包和黄油。看到她把丈夫当小孩子似的伺候，菲利普感到挺有趣的。她给阿特尔涅涂果酱，把面包和黄油切成一片片的，好让他不费事就送进嘴里。她取下了帽子。她身上穿的节日服装似乎紧了点，样子就像他小时候有时跟大伯去拜访的那位农夫的妻子。直到此时，他才明白她的声音听上去为什么这么熟悉的原因。她的口音同布莱克斯泰勃一带居民的口音非常相近。

"您是哪里人？"菲利普问阿特尔涅太太说。

"我是肯特郡人，老家在费尔恩。"

"我想大概是这样。我大伯是布莱克斯泰勃教区的牧师。"

"说来真有趣，"阿特尔涅太太说。"我刚才在教堂还在想您同凯里先生是否是亲戚来着。我见过凯里先生多次啦。我的一位表妹就是嫁给布莱克斯泰勃教堂那边的罗克斯利农场的巴克先生的。我做姑娘时常到那儿去住上几天。你们说这事有趣不有趣呀？"

阿特尔涅太太说罢又饶有兴趣地把菲利普打量了一番，此时她那对黯然失色的眸于又放出了光亮。她问菲利普知道不知道费尔恩这块地方。费尔恩离布莱克斯泰勃只有十英里，是个美丽的村庄，菲利普的牧师大伯有时候在收割季节也到那儿去作感恩祈祷。阿特尔涅太太还报出了村庄附近的几位农夫的姓名。她为能再一次谈论她少女时代度过的乡村而感到高兴，对她来说，回想一下凭她这种阶层的女人所特有的记忆力而刻在脑海的往昔的情景和熟悉的人们，确是人生一大快事。这也使得菲利普内心生出一种莫名其妙的情感。一缕乡村气息似乎消融、荡漾在这间位于伦敦中心的门墙镶有嵌板的房间里了。菲利普仿佛看到了高耸着亭亭若盖的榆树的肯特沃土，嗅到了馥郁芬芳的气味，气味中充斥着北海海风的咸味，因此变得更加刺鼻、浓烈。

钟敲十点，菲利普才起身告辞。八点钟时，孩子们进来同他告别，一个个无拘无束地仰起小脸蛋让菲利普亲吻。他对这些孩子满怀怜爱之情。丽莎莉只是向他伸过一只手来。

"莎莉是从来不吻只见过一面的先生的，"她的父亲打趣说。

"那你得再请我来啊，"菲利普接着说了一句。

"你不要理睬我爸爸说的话就是了，"莎莉笑吟吟地说。

"她是个最有自制力的妙龄女郎，"她父亲又补了一句。

在阿特尔涅大大张罗孩子们睡觉的当儿，菲利普和阿特尔涅两人吃了顿有面包、奶酪和啤酒的夜餐。当菲利普走进厨房同阿特尔涅太太告别时（她一直坐在厨房里休息，并看着《每周快讯》），阿特尔涅太太亲切地邀请他以后再来。

"只要阿特尔涅不失业，星期天总是有一顿丰盛的饭菜的，"阿特尔涅太太对菲利普说，"你能来伴他说个话儿是最好不过的。"

在随后一周的星期六，菲利普接到阿特尔涅的一张明信片，信上说他全家引颈盼望菲利普于星期日与他们共进午餐。但是菲利普担心阿特尔涅家的经济状况并不如他说的那么好，于是便写了封回信，说他只来用茶点。菲利普去时，买了一块大葡萄干蛋糕带着，为的是不让自己空着手去接受别人的款待。他到时发觉阿特尔涅全家见到他都非常高兴。而他带去的那块蛋糕彻底地赢得了孩子们对他的好感。菲利普随大家一道在厨房里用茶点，席间欢声笑语不绝。

不久，菲利普养成了每个星期日都上阿特尔涅家的习惯。他深得阿特尔涅的儿女们的爱戴，这是因为他心地纯真，从来不生气的缘故。还有一个最简单不过的理由是他也喜欢他们。每当菲利普来按响门铃的时候，一个孩子便从窗户探出小脑袋，要是吃准是菲利普到了的话，孩子们便一窝蜂地冲下楼来开门迎他，接着一个个投入菲利普的怀抱。用茶点的时候，他们你争我夺地抢着坐在菲利普的身边。没过多久，他们便称呼他菲利普叔叔了。

阿特尔涅谈锋甚健，因此菲利普渐渐了解到阿特尔涅在不同时期的生活情况。阿特尔涅一生中于过不少行当，但在菲利普的印象中，阿特尔涅每千一项工作，总是设法把工作弄得一团糟。他曾在锡兰的一个茶场里做过事，还在美国当过兜售意大利酒的旅行推销员。他在托莱多水利公司任秘书一职比他干任何别的差使都长。他当过记者，一度还是一家晚报的违警罪法庭新闻记者。他还当过英国中部地区一家报纸的副编辑以及里维埃拉的另一家报纸的编辑。阿特尔涅从他干过的种种职业里搜集到不少趣闻，他什么时候想娱乐一番，就兴趣盎然地抖落那些趣闻。他披卷破帙，博览群书，主要的兴趣在读些海内珍本；他讲起那些充满深奥难懂的知识的故事来，真是口若悬河，滔滔不绝，还像小孩子似的，看到听众脸上显出惊奇的神情而感到沾沾自喜。三四年以前，他落到了赤贫如洗的境地，不得不接受一家大花布公司的新闻代理人一职。他自认自己才识过人，觉得接受这一差使后没了自己的才干，但是，在他妻子的一再坚持之下，以及迫于家庭生计，他才硬着头皮干了下来。

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举报只看该作者 92楼发表于: 2014-08-29 0

chapter 90

When he left the Athelnys’ Philip walked down Chancery Lane and along the Strand to get a ‘bus at the top of Parliament Street. One Sunday, when he had known them about six weeks, he did this as usual, but he found the Kennington ‘bus full. It was June, but it had rained during the day and the night was raw and cold. He walked up to Piccadilly Circus in order to get a seat; the ‘bus waited at the fountain, and when it arrived there seldom had more than two or three people in it. This service ran every quarter of an hour, and he had some time to wait. He looked idly at the crowd. The public-houses were closing, and there were many people about. His mind was busy with the ideas Athelny had the charming gift of suggesting.

Suddenly his heart stood still. He saw Mildred. He had not thought of her for weeks. She was crossing over from the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and stopped at the shelter till a string of cabs passed by. She was watching her opportunity and had no eyes for anything else. She wore a large black straw hat with a mass of feathers on it and a black silk dress; at that time it was fashionable for women to wear trains; the road was clear, and Mildred crossed, her skirt trailing on the ground, and walked down Piccadilly. Philip, his heart beating excitedly, followed her. He did not wish to speak to her, but he wondered where she was going at that hour; he wanted to get a look at her face. She walked slowly along and turned down Air Street and so got through into Regent Street. She walked up again towards the Circus. Philip was puzzled. He could not make out what she was doing. Perhaps she was waiting for somebody, and he felt a great curiosity to know who it was. She overtook a short man in a bowler hat, who was strolling very slowly in the same direction as herself; she gave him a sidelong glance as she passed. She walked a few steps more till she came to Swan and Edgar’s, then stopped and waited, facing the road. When the man came up she smiled. The man stared at her for a moment, turned away his head, and sauntered on. Then Philip understood.

He was overwhelmed with horror. For a moment he felt such a weakness in his legs that he could hardly stand; then he walked after her quickly; he touched her on the arm.

‘Mildred.’

She turned round with a violent start. He thought that she reddened, but in the obscurity he could not see very well. For a while they stood and looked at one another without speaking. At last she said:

‘Fancy seeing you!’

He did not know what to answer; he was horribly shaken; and the phrases that chased one another through his brain seemed incredibly melodramatic.

‘It’s awful,’ he gasped, almost to himself.

She did not say anything more, she turned away from him, and looked down at the pavement. He felt that his face was distorted with misery.

‘Isn’t there anywhere we can go and talk?’

‘I don’t want to talk,’ she said sullenly. ‘Leave me alone, can’t you?’

The thought struck him that perhaps she was in urgent need of money and could not afford to go away at that hour.

‘I’ve got a couple of sovereigns on me if you’re hard up,’ he blurted out.

‘I don’t know what you mean. I was just walking along here on my way back to my lodgings. I expected to meet one of the girls from where I work.’

‘For God’s sake don’t lie now,’ he said.

Then he saw that she was crying, and he repeated his question.

‘Can’t we go and talk somewhere? Can’t I come back to your rooms?’

‘No, you can’t do that,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m not allowed to take gentlemen in there. If you like I’ll met you tomorrow.’

He felt certain that she would not keep an appointment. He was not going to let her go.

‘No. You must take me somewhere now.’

‘Well, there is a room I know, but they’ll charge six shillings for it.’

‘I don’t mind that. Where is it?’

She gave him the address, and he called a cab. They drove to a shabby street beyond the British Museum in the neighbourhood of the Gray’s Inn Road, and she stopped the cab at the corner.

‘They don’t like you to drive up to the door,’ she said.

They were the first words either of them had spoken since getting into the cab. They walked a few yards and Mildred knocked three times, sharply, at a door. Philip noticed in the fanlight a cardboard on which was an announcement that apartments were to let. The door was opened quietly, and an elderly, tall woman let them in. She gave Philip a stare and then spoke to Mildred in an undertone. Mildred led Philip along a passage to a room at the back. It was quite dark; she asked him for a match, and lit the gas; there was no globe, and the gas flared shrilly. Philip saw that he was in a dingy little bed-room with a suite of furniture, painted to look like pine much too large for it; the lace curtains were very dirty; the grate was hidden by a large paper fan. Mildred sank on the chair which stood by the side of the chimney-piece. Philip sat on the edge of the bed. He felt ashamed. He saw now that Mildred’s cheeks were thick with rouge, her eyebrows were blackened; but she looked thin and ill, and the red on her cheeks exaggerated the greenish pallor of her skin. She stared at the paper fan in a listless fashion. Philip could not think what to say, and he had a choking in his throat as if he were going to cry. He covered his eyes with his hands.

‘My God, it is awful,’ he groaned.

‘I don’t know what you’ve got to fuss about. I should have thought you’d have been rather pleased.’

Philip did not answer, and in a moment she broke into a sob.

‘You don’t think I do it because I like it, do you?’

‘Oh, my dear,’ he cried. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m so awfully sorry.’

‘That’ll do me a fat lot of good.’

Again Philip found nothing to say. He was desperately afraid of saying anything which she might take for a reproach or a sneer.

‘Where’s the baby?’ he asked at last.

‘I’ve got her with me in London. I hadn’t got the money to keep her on at Brighton, so I had to take her. I’ve got a room up Highbury way. I told them I was on the stage. It’s a long way to have to come down to the West End every day, but it’s a rare job to find anyone who’ll let to ladies at all.’

‘Wouldn’t they take you back at the shop?’

‘I couldn’t get any work to do anywhere. I walked my legs off looking for work. I did get a job once, but I was off for a week because I was queer, and when I went back they said they didn’t want me any more. You can’t blame them either, can you? Them places, they can’t afford to have girls that aren’t strong.’

‘You don’t look very well now,’ said Philip.

‘I wasn’t fit to come out tonight, but I couldn’t help myself, I wanted the money. I wrote to Emil and told him I was broke, but he never even answered the letter.’

‘You might have written to me.’

‘I didn’t like to, not after what happened, and I didn’t want you to know I was in difficulties. I shouldn’t have been surprised if you’d just told me I’d only got what I deserved.’

‘You don’t know me very well, do you, even now?’

For a moment he remembered all the anguish he had suffered on her account, and he was sick with the recollection of his pain. But it was no more than recollection. When he looked at her he knew that he no longer loved her. He was very sorry for her, but he was glad to be free. Watching her gravely, he asked himself why he had been so besotted with passion for her.

‘You’re a gentleman in every sense of the word,’ she said. ‘You’re the only one I’ve ever met.’ She paused for a minute and then flushed. ‘I hate asking you, Philip, but can you spare me anything?’

‘It’s lucky I’ve got some money on me. I’m afraid I’ve only got two pounds.’

He gave her the sovereigns.

‘I’ll pay you back, Philip.’

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ he smiled. ‘You needn’t worry.’

He had said nothing that he wanted to say. They had talked as if the whole thing were natural; and it looked as though she would go now, back to the horror of her life, and he would be able to do nothing to prevent it. She had got up to take the money, and they were both standing.

‘Am I keeping you?’ she asked. ‘I suppose you want to be getting home.’

‘No, I’m in no hurry,’ he answered.

‘I’m glad to have a chance of sitting down.’

Those words, with all they implied, tore his heart, and it was dreadfully painful to see the weary way in which she sank back into the chair. The silence lasted so long that Philip in his embarrassment lit a cigarette.

‘It’s very good of you not to have said anything disagreeable to me, Philip. I thought you might say I didn’t know what all.’

He saw that she was crying again. He remembered how she had come to him when Emil Miller had deserted her and how she had wept. The recollection of her suffering and of his own humiliation seemed to render more overwhelming the compassion he felt now.

‘If I could only get out of it!’ she moaned. ‘I hate it so. I’m unfit for the life, I’m not the sort of girl for that. I’d do anything to get away from it, I’d be a servant if I could. Oh, I wish I was dead.’

And in pity for herself she broke down now completely. She sobbed hysterically, and her thin body was shaken.

‘Oh, you don’t know what it is. Nobody knows till they’ve done it.’

Philip could not bear to see her cry. He was tortured by the horror of her position.

‘Poor child,’ he whispered. ‘Poor child.’

He was deeply moved. Suddenly he had an inspiration. It filled him with a perfect ecstasy of happiness.

‘Look here, if you want to get away from it, I’ve got an idea. I’m frightfully hard up just now, I’ve got to be as economical as I can; but I’ve got a sort of little flat now in Kennington and I’ve got a spare room. If you like you and the baby can come and live there. I pay a woman three and sixpence a week to keep the place clean and to do a little cooking for me. You could do that and your food wouldn’t come to much more than the money I should save on her. It doesn’t cost any more to feed two than one, and I don’t suppose the baby eats much.’

She stopped crying and looked at him.

‘D’you mean to say that you could take me back after all that’s happened?’

Philip flushed a little in embarrassment at what he had to say.

‘I don’t want you to mistake me. I’m just giving you a room which doesn’t cost me anything and your food. I don’t expect anything more from you than that you should do exactly the same as the woman I have in does. Except for that I don’t want anything from you at all. I daresay you can cook well enough for that.’

She sprang to her feet and was about to come towards him.

‘You are good to me, Philip.’

‘No, please stop where you are,’ he said hurriedly, putting out his hand as though to push her away.

He did not know why it was, but he could not bear the thought that she should touch him.

‘I don’t want to be anything more than a friend to you.’

‘You are good to me,’ she repeated. ‘You are good to me.’

‘Does that mean you’ll come?’

‘Oh, yes, I’d do anything to get away from this. You’ll never regret what you’ve done, Philip, never. When can I come, Philip?’

‘You’d better come tomorrow.’

Suddenly she burst into tears again.

‘What on earth are you crying for now?’ he smiled.

‘I’m so grateful to you. I don’t know how I can ever make it up to you?’

‘Oh, that’s all right. You’d better go home now.’

He wrote out the address and told her that if she came at half past five he would be ready for her. It was so late that he had to walk home, but it did not seem a long way, for he was intoxicated with delight; he seemed to walk on air.

第九十章

菲利普从阿特尔涅家告辞出来，穿过昌策里巷，沿着河滨马路走到国会大街的尽头去搭乘公共汽车。同阿特尔涅一家结识六个星期之后的一个星期天，菲利普同往常一样赶着去乘公共汽车，到站后发觉开往肯宁顿的汽车已客满了。此时虽说还是六月，但白天下了整整一大的雨，夜间的空气变得既潮湿又阴冷。为了能坐上位子，他便步行来到皮卡迪利广场。公共汽车停靠在喷泉附近，汽车到达这儿时，车上的乘客很少超过两三位的。汽车每隔一刻钟开一班，因此他还得等些时候才能乘上汽车。他目光懒散地瞅着广场上的人群。酒吧间都打烊了，周围却还有不少人在走动。菲利普的脑海里正翻腾着在阿特尔涅富有魔力的天才的启迪下萌生出来的各种各样的念头。

蓦然间，菲利普的心咯噔一下--他看到了米尔德丽德。他已有好几个星期没去想她了。她正要从沙夫兹伯雷林荫道的拐角处横穿马路，见一队马车驶过来，便站在候车亭里等着。她一心想寻找机会穿过马路，对其他事情一概无暇顾及，米尔德丽德头戴一顶硕大的黑草帽，上面饰有一簇羽毛，身上穿了件黑绸衣。那个时候，女人时兴穿拖裙。见道路畅通了，米尔德丽德随即穿过马路，朝皮卡迪利大街的方向走去，衣裙在身后地上拖着。菲利普怀着一颗狂跳不止的心，默然地尾随着她。他并不希冀同米尔德丽德说话，只是心中有些纳闷，这么晚了，她还上哪儿去呢？他想看一看她的脸。米尔德丽德步履蹒跚地往前走去，随即拐入埃尔街，又穿过里根特大街，最后又朝着皮卡迪利广场的方向走去。菲利普被搞懵了，猜不透她葫芦里卖的是什么药。兴许她是在等人吧。蓦地，菲利普产生一种极大的好奇心，想弄清楚她究竟在等谁。米尔德丽德匆匆追赶前面一位头戴圆顶硬礼帽的矮个子男人，此人正漫不经心地朝前走去，米尔德丽德乜斜着眼睛，打他身旁擦肩而过。她朝前走去，最后在斯旺一埃德加商店大楼前戛然收住脚步，面向大路位候着。当那矮个子男人走近时，米尔德丽德启齿一笑。那男人瞪着双眼望了她一会，然后掉过头去，继续朝前晃悠而去。此时，菲利普一切都明白了。

菲利普的心被一种恐惧感紧紧地攫住了。有好一阵子，他只觉得双腿软弱无力，连站都站不住。过了一会儿，他连忙追上米尔德丽德，触了触她的臂膀。

"米尔德丽德！"

她蓦然惊恐地转过身来。他想米尔德丽德的脸红了，不过他站在暗处看不分明。半晌，他们俩相对无言地站立着。最后还是米尔德丽德打破了沉默。

"想不到在这儿见到你！"

菲利普一时不知说什么是好，浑身震颤不已。他思绪万千，心潮起伏，情难自禁。

"真可怕，"他气喘吁吁地说，声音之低，像是说给自己听似的。

米尔德丽德再也没有吭声，转过身子背朝着菲利普，眼睛朝下望着地面。菲利普感到自己的脸因痛苦而扭曲着。

"有没有说话的地方？"

"我不想跟你说什么，"米尔德丽德脸色冷冷地说。"别缠我了，好吗？"

菲利普陡然想起说不定她眼下急需用钱，一时不得脱身。

"你实在没钱用，我身上倒还有两三个硬币，"菲利普脱口而出。

"我不懂你的意思。我这是回住处的路上碰巧路过这儿。我想等一位跟我在一起干活的女友。"

"我的天哪，你就别说谎了吧，"菲利普喟然叹道。

蓦地，他发觉米尔德丽德在嘤嘤抽泣，于是又问道：

"我们能不能找个地方说个话儿？我能不能上你那儿去呢？"

"使不得，万万使不得，"她呜咽地说。"他们不许我把男人带到那儿去。如果你愿意的话，我明天去找你。"

菲利普肚里雪亮，米尔德丽德是决不会践约的。这一回他决不轻易放她走了。

"不能捱到明天，我要你现在就带我去找个地方说话。"

"嗯，好，地方倒是有一个的，不过要付六先令。"

"我付给六先令就是了，在哪？"

米尔德丽德把地址告诉了菲利普，菲利普随即叫了一辆马车。马车驶过不列颠博物馆，来到格雷旅馆路附近的一条穷街陋巷。米尔德丽德叫车夫把马车停在街道的拐角处。

"他们可不喜欢把马车一直赶到门口，"米尔德丽德嘟哝了一句。

这还是打他们俩坐上马车以来的第一句话。他们下了马车朝前走了几码，接着米尔德丽德对着一扇大门重重地连击三下。菲利普注意到扇形窗上有块硬纸板告示，上面写着"房间出租"的字样。大门悄然无声地开了，从里面走出一位上了年纪的高个子妇人。她瞪了菲利普一眼，随后压低了声音同米尔德丽德叽咕了几句。米尔德丽德领着菲利普穿过过道，来到房子后部的一个房间。里面黑洞洞的。米尔德丽德向菲利普讨了根火柴，点亮了一盏煤气灯，因没有灯罩，火舌直发出刺耳的咝咝声。菲利普这才看清自己此时站在一个又脏又小的卧室里，里面摆着一套漆成松树一般颜色的家具，对这个房问来说，它们显得太大了。花边窗帘很龌龊，窗格栅蒙着一把大纸扇。米尔德丽德一屁股瘫进壁炉边的一张安乐椅里，菲利普则坐在床沿上。他感到害臊。他这才看清米尔德丽德的双颊涂抹着厚厚的胭脂，眉毛描得漆黑，可她形容憔悴，一副病恹恹的样子，面颊上红红的胭脂使得她白里泛绿的肤色分外触目。米尔德丽德心神不宁地凝视着那面纸扇，而菲利普也想不出说些什么，直觉得语塞喉管，像是要哭出来似的，他连忙用手蒙住自己的双眼。

"我的上帝，这事真可怕，"菲利普哀戚地叹道。

"我真弄不懂你大惊小怪些什么呀，我本以为你心里一定很高兴。"

菲利普没有回话，转眼间她一下子呜咽起来。

"你总不会认为我这么做是因为我喜欢吧？"

"喔，我亲爱的，"菲利普不由得嚷了起来，"我非常难过，简直难过极了。"

"这对我屁的用处都没有！"

菲利普再一次感到无言以对，生怕自己一开口，她会误解为他这是在责备或者嘲笑她。

"孩子呢？"菲利普最后问了一句。

"我把她带到伦敦来了。我手头没钱，不能让她继续呆在布赖顿，只得我自个儿带了。我在去海伯里的路上租了个房间，告诉他们说我是一个演员。每天都得从那儿走到伦敦西端。伦敦的活是少有人让太太们干的呀。"

"先前的店主们不愿意你再回去吗？"

"哪里也找不到工作。为了找工作，我的两条腿都跑断了。有一次我的确找到了工作，但是我因生病离开了一个星期，待我回去上班时，他们就不要我了。你也不能责怪他们，对不？那是他们的地方嘛，他们可用不起身体不健壮的姑娘啊。"

"现在你的气色很不好，"菲利普说。

"今晚我本不宜出门的，但是有啥办法呢，我得用钱哪。我曾经给埃米尔写过信，告诉他我身边一个子儿也没有，但是他连一封回信都不给我。"

"你完全可以写信给我嘛。"

"我不想写信给你，倒不是因为以前发生的事情，而是因为我不想让你知道我陷入了困境。如果你说我这是罪有应得，我也决不会感到奇怪的。"

"即使到了今天，你还是很不了解我，不是吗？"

有一会儿，菲利普回忆起他正是因为米尔德丽德的缘故才遭受的极度痛苦，对此，他深深感到发腻。但往事毕竟是往事，都已成了过眼烟云。当他望着眼前的米尔德丽德，他知道他再也不爱她了。他很为她感到难过，但又为自己摆脱了与她的一切纠葛而感到庆幸。菲利普神情忧郁地凝望着米尔德丽德，不禁暗暗地问自己当初怎么会沉湎于对她的一片痴情之中的。

"你是个地地道道的正人君子，"米尔德丽德开口说，"你是我平生见到的唯一的君子。"她停顿了片刻，接着红着脸儿说："菲利普，我实在不想启口，不过请问你能否给我几个钱呢？"

"我身上碰巧还带了点钱，恐怕总共不过两镑吧。"

菲利普说罢把钱全掏给了她。

"我以后会还你的，菲利普。"

"哎，这没什么，"菲利普脸带微笑地说，"你就不必操这份心啦。"

菲利普并没有说出他想说的话，他们俩你一言我一语地交谈着，仿佛事情本来就该如此似的，就好像她此刻将重新过她那种可怕的生活，而他却不能做出什么来阻止她似的。米尔德丽德从安乐椅里站起身来接钱，此时他们俩都站立着。

"我送你走一程好吗？"米尔德丽德问道，"我想你要回去了。"

"不，我不着急，"菲利普答道。

"能有机会坐下歇息，我很高兴。"

这句话以及这句话包含的全部意思撕裂着菲利普的心。看到她疲惫不堪地瘫入安乐椅的样儿，菲利普感到痛心疾首。良久，房间里一片沉寂，窘迫中，菲利普点燃了一支香烟。

"菲利普，你太好了，连一句不中听的话都没说。我原以为你会说我不知羞耻呢。"

菲利普看到米尔德丽德又哭了。当初埃米尔·米勒抛弃她时她跑到自己的面前痛哭流涕的情景，此刻又浮现在他眼前。一想起她那多舛的命途以及他自己所蒙受的羞辱，他对她怀有的恻隐之心似乎变得愈发强烈。

"要是我能摆脱这种困境多好！"米尔德丽德呻吟地说。"我恨透了。我是不宜过这种日子的，我可不是过这种日子的姑娘啊。只要能跳出这个火坑，我干什么都心甘情愿。就是去当用人，我也愿意。喔，但愿我现在就死。"

她作了这番自怨自怜之后，精神彻底垮了。她歇斯底里地呜咽着，瘦小的身体在不住地颤抖。

"喔，你不知道这种日子是啥滋味儿，不亲身体验是决不会知道它的苦处的。"

菲利普实在不忍心看着她哭，看到她处于这么可怕的境地，他的心都碎了。

"可怜的孩子，"他喃喃地说，"可怜的孩子。"

他深感震撼。突然间，他脑际闪过一个念头，这个念头在他心里激起了一阵狂喜，简直到了心醉神迷的地步。

"听我说呀，如果你想摆脱这个困境，我倒有个主意。眼下我手头拮据，处境十分艰难，我得尽量节省。不过，我还是在肯宁顿大街上租赁了一套房间，里面有一间空着没人住。愿意的话，你可以带着孩子上我那儿去住。我每周出三先令六便士雇了个妇人，为我打扫房间和烧饭。这两件事儿，你也能做，你的饭钱也不会比我付给那位妇人的工钱多多少。再说，两个人吃饭的开销也不会比一个人多。至于你那孩子，我想她吃不了多少东西的。"

米尔德丽德倏地停止了抽泣，目不转睛地望着菲利普。

"你的意思是说，尽管发生了这么多事情，你还能让我回到你的身边去吗？"

菲利普想到他要说的话儿，脸上不觉显出尴尬的神情。

"我不想叫你误解我的意思。我只是为你提供一个我并不要额外多出一个子儿的房间和供你吃饭。我只指望你做我雇佣的那位妇人所做的事情，除此之外，我别无他求。我想你也肯定能够烧好饭菜的。"

米尔德丽德从安乐椅里一跃而起，正要朝他跟前走来。

"你待我真好，菲利普。"

"别过来，就请你站在那儿吧，"菲利普连忙说，还匆匆伸出手来，像是要把她推开似的。

他不明白自己为什么要这么做，但是他不能容忍米尔德丽德来碰他。

"我只想成为你的一个朋友，除此以外，我没有任何其他念头。"

"你待我真好，"米尔德丽德絮絮叨叨地说，"你待我真好！"

"这么说你会到我那儿去罗？"

"哦，是的，只要能摆脱这个困境，我干啥都愿意。你是决不会懊悔你所做的事情的，菲利普，决不会的。菲利普，什么时候我可以上你那儿去？"

"最好明天就来。"

米尔德丽德又突然哭起来了。

"你这哭什么呀？"菲利普笑吟吟地问道。

"我真是感激不尽。我不知道我这辈子还能不能报答你？"

"喔，别放在心上。现在你还是回去歇着吧。"

菲利普把地址写给了她，并对她说如果她次晨五点半到的话，他会把一切都安排得顺顺当当的。夜很深了，没有车子可乘，只得步行回去。不过，本来很长的路，现在也不觉长了，他完全为兴奋的心情所陶醉，只觉得脚底生风，有点儿飘然欲仙的味道。

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chapter 91

Next day he got up early to make the room ready for Mildred. He told the woman who had looked after him that he would not want her any more. Mildred came about six, and Philip, who was watching from the window, went down to let her in and help her to bring up the luggage: it consisted now of no more than three large parcels wrapped in brown paper, for she had been obliged to sell everything that was not absolutely needful. She wore the same black silk dress she had worn the night before, and, though she had now no rouge on her cheeks, there was still about her eyes the black which remained after a perfunctory wash in the morning: it made her look very ill. She was a pathetic figure as she stepped out of the cab with the baby in her arms. She seemed a little shy, and they found nothing but commonplace things to say to one another.

‘So you’ve got here all right.’

‘I’ve never lived in this part of London before.’

Philip showed her the room. It was that in which Cronshaw had died. Philip, though he thought it absurd, had never liked the idea of going back to it; and since Cronshaw’s death he had remained in the little room, sleeping on a fold-up bed, into which he had first moved in order to make his friend comfortable. The baby was sleeping placidly.

‘You don’t recognise her, I expect,’ said Mildred.

‘I’ve not seen her since we took her down to Brighton.’

‘Where shall I put her? She’s so heavy I can’t carry her very long.’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t got a cradle,’ said Philip, with a nervous laugh.

‘Oh, she’ll sleep with me. She always does.’

Mildred put the baby in an arm-chair and looked round the room. She recognised most of the things which she had known in his old diggings. Only one thing was new, a head and shoulders of Philip which Lawson had painted at the end of the preceding summer; it hung over the chimney-piece; Mildred looked at it critically.

‘In some ways I like it and in some ways I don’t. I think you’re better looking than that.’

‘Things are looking up,’ laughed Philip. ‘You’ve never told me I was good-looking before.’

‘I’m not one to worry myself about a man’s looks. I don’t like good-looking men. They’re too conceited for me.’

Her eyes travelled round the room in an instinctive search for a looking-glass, but there was none; she put up her hand and patted her large fringe.

‘What’ll the other people in the house say to my being here?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Oh, there’s only a man and his wife living here. He’s out all day, and I never see her except on Saturday to pay my rent. They keep entirely to themselves. I’ve not spoken two words to either of them since I came.’

Mildred went into the bedroom to undo her things and put them away. Philip tried to read, but his spirits were too high: he leaned back in his chair, smoking a cigarette, and with smiling eyes looked at the sleeping child. He felt very happy. He was quite sure that he was not at all in love with Mildred. He was surprised that the old feeling had left him so completely; he discerned in himself a faint physical repulsion from her; and he thought that if he touched her it would give him goose-flesh. He could not understand himself. Presently, knocking at the door, she came in again.

‘I say, you needn’t knock,’ he said. ‘Have you made the tour of the mansion?’

‘It’s the smallest kitchen I’ve ever seen.’

‘You’ll find it large enough to cook our sumptuous repasts,’ he retorted lightly.

‘I see there’s nothing in. I’d better go out and get something.’

‘Yes, but I venture to remind you that we must be devilish economical.’

‘What shall I get for supper?’

‘You’d better get what you think you can cook,’ laughed Philip.

He gave her some money and she went out. She came in half an hour later and put her purchases on the table. She was out of breath from climbing the stairs.

‘I say, you are anaemic,’ said Philip. ‘I’ll have to dose you with Blaud’s Pills.’

‘It took me some time to find the shops. I bought some liver. That’s tasty, isn’t it? And you can’t eat much of it, so it’s more economical than butcher’s meat.’

There was a gas stove in the kitchen, and when she had put the liver on, Mildred came into the sitting-room to lay the cloth.

‘Why are you only laying one place?’ asked Philip. ‘Aren’t you going to eat anything?’

Mildred flushed.

‘I thought you mightn’t like me to have my meals with you.’

‘Why on earth not?’

‘Well, I’m only a servant, aren’t I?’

‘Don’t be an ass. How can you be so silly?’

He smiled, but her humility gave him a curious twist in his heart. Poor thing! He remembered what she had been when first he knew her. He hesitated for an instant.

‘Don’t think I’m conferring any benefit on you,’ he said. ‘It’s simply a business arrangement, I’m giving you board and lodging in return for your work. You don’t owe me anything. And there’s nothing humiliating to you in it.’

She did not answer, but tears rolled heavily down her cheeks. Philip knew from his experience at the hospital that women of her class looked upon service as degrading: he could not help feeling a little impatient with her; but he blamed himself, for it was clear that she was tired and ill. He got up and helped her to lay another place at the table. The baby was awake now, and Mildred had prepared some Mellin’s Food for it. The liver and bacon were ready and they sat down. For economy’s sake Philip had given up drinking anything but water, but he had in the house a half a bottle of whiskey, and he thought a little would do Mildred good. He did his best to make the supper pass cheerfully, but Mildred was subdued and exhausted. When they had finished she got up to put the baby to bed.

‘I think you’ll do well to turn in early yourself,’ said Philip. ‘You look absolute done up.’

‘I think I will after I’ve washed up.’

Philip lit his pipe and began to read. It was pleasant to hear somebody moving about in the next room. Sometimes his loneliness had oppressed him. Mildred came in to clear the table, and he heard the clatter of plates as she washed up. Philip smiled as he thought how characteristic it was of her that she should do all that in a black silk dress. But he had work to do, and he brought his book up to the table. He was reading Osler’s Medicine, which had recently taken the place in the students’ favour of Taylor’s work, for many years the text-book most in use. Presently Mildred came in, rolling down her sleeves. Philip gave her a casual glance, but did not move; the occasion was curious, and he felt a little nervous. He feared that Mildred might imagine he was going to make a nuisance of himself, and he did not quite know how without brutality to reassure her.

‘By the way, I’ve got a lecture at nine, so I should want breakfast at a quarter past eight. Can you manage that?’

‘Oh, yes. Why, when I was in Parliament Street I used to catch the eight-twelve from Herne Hill every morning.’

‘I hope you’ll find your room comfortable. You’ll be a different woman tomorrow after a long night in bed.’

‘I suppose you work till late?’

‘I generally work till about eleven or half-past.’

‘I’ll say good-night then.’

‘Good-night.’

The table was between them. He did not offer to shake hands with her. She shut the door quietly. He heard her moving about in the bed-room, and in a little while he heard the creaking of the bed as she got in.

第九十一章

第二天一清早，菲利普就起床为米尔德丽德收拾房间。他把那位一直照料他生活的妇人辞退了。大约六点光景，米尔德丽德来了。一直伫立在窗前向外张望的菲利普，连忙下楼开门，并帮她把行李拿上楼来。所谓行李，不过是三只用褐色纸包着的大包裹。因迫于生计，她不得不把一些并非必需的用品典卖了。米尔德丽德身上穿的还是昨晚那件绸衣裙，虽说眼下没施脂粉，但眼圈周围还是黑黑的，这显然是早上洗脸马虎而留下的印记。这使得她显得病恹恹的。她怀抱着孩子步出马车时的姿态凄楚动人。她显得有点儿腼腆。他们俩发觉没什么好说的，只是平平淡淡地互相寒暄了几句。

"啊，你到底来了。"

"我从来没在伦敦的这一带住过。"

菲利普领她去看房间。克朗肖就是在那个房间里咽气的。菲利普一直不想再搬回那个房间去住，虽说他也知道这种想法有些儿荒唐。自从克朗肖猝然弃世以来，他一直呆在那个小房间里，睡的是一张折叠床。当初，他是想让自己的朋友睡得舒适些才搬进那个小房间的。那个孩子安静地躺在她母亲的怀里。

"我想，你认不出她来了吧，"米尔德丽德说。

"打我们把她送到布赖顿起，我就没看见过她。"

"把她安顿在哪儿呀？她太沉了，时间长了，我可抱不动。"

"我恐怕还没置摇篮呢，"菲利普说话的当儿，局促不安地笑了笑。

"喔，她可以跟我睡。她一直是跟我睡的。"

米尔德丽德把孩子放在一张安乐椅里，随即目光朝房间四下里打量着。她认出房间里大部分陈设均是她在菲利普原来的住处见过的。只有一件没见过，那就是劳森去年夏天为菲利普画的那幅人头像，眼下悬挂在壁炉上方。米尔德丽德用一种不无挑剔的目光审视着这幅画像。

"从几个方面来说，我喜欢这张画。可从另一些方面来说，我又不喜欢它。我认为你要比这张画漂亮得多。"

"事情还真起了变化呢，"菲利普哈哈大笑，"你可从来没有当面说过我漂亮呀。"

"我这个人可没那个闲心思去为一个男人的相貌担忧。我不喜欢漂亮的男人。在我来看，漂亮的男人太傲慢了。"

说罢，她的目光扫视着房间，出乎女性的本能，她在寻找一面镜于，但是房间里却一面也没有。她抬起手拍了拍额前浓密的刘海。

"我住在这儿，别人会说什么呢？"她突然发问道。

"喔，这儿只住着另一个男人同他的妻子。他成天在外头，除了星期天去付房租外，其余的日子里我一直见不到他的妻子。他们夫妇俩从不跟人交往。打我住到这儿以来，我对他们中间的一位还没讲满两句话呢。"

米尔德丽德走进卧室，打开包裹，把东西安放好。菲利普试图读一点书，但无奈情绪亢奋，无心阅读。于是，他仰坐在椅子里，嘴里叼了支香烟，眼睛笑眯眯地凝视着熟睡的孩子。菲利普感到非常愉快。他自信他压根儿没有眷恋米尔德丽德之心。原先他对米尔德丽德所怀有的那种情感已荡然无存，对此，他也感到不胜惊讶。他隐隐约约觉得自己对她的肉体有种嫌恶的情绪，他想要是去抚摩她，他身上准会起鸡皮疙瘩。他猜不透自己究竟是怎么回事。就在这当儿，米尔德丽德随着一阵叩门声走了进来。

"我说呀，以后你进来就甭敲门了，"菲利普说，"每一个房间你都看过了吗？"

"我从来还未见过这么小的厨房呢。"

"到时你会发觉这个厨房大得足够你给我们俩烹制高级点心的了，"菲利普口气淡淡地顶了她一句。

"我看到厨房里啥也没有。我想还是上街去买些东西来。"

"是得去买些来。不过，对不起，我得提醒你花钱得算计着点。"

菲利普给了她些钱。她出门上街去了。半个小时以后，她就回来了，并把买来的东西往桌子上一放。因爬楼梯，此时她还直喘气呢。

"嘿，你身患贫血症，"菲利普说，"我得给你开些布劳氏丸吃吃。"

"我找了好一会儿才找到商店。买了点猪肝。猪肝的味儿挺鲜的，对不？再说也不能一下吃很多猪肝，所以说猪肝要比肉铺子里的猪肉上算得多。"

厨房里有个煤气灶，米尔德丽德把猪肝炖在煤气灶上以后，便走进房里来摊台布。

"你为什么只摊一块呢？"菲利普问道，"你自己不吃吗？"

米尔德丽德两颊绯红。

"我想兴许你不喜欢跟我同桌吃饭。"

"为什么会不喜欢跟你同桌吃饭呢？"

"嗯，我只是个用人，是不？"

"别傻里傻气的啦！你怎么会这么傻呢？"

菲利普粲然一笑，但是米尔德丽德那谦恭的态度在他心中激起了一阵莫名其妙的慌乱。可怜的人儿啊！他们俩初次见面时她的仪态至今还历历在目。菲利普沉吟了半晌才开腔说话。

"别以为我这是在给你施舍，"他说，"我们俩不过是做笔交易。我为你提供食宿，而你为我干活。你并不欠我什么东西。对你来说，也没有什么不光彩的。"

对此，米尔德丽德没有应声，然而，大颗大颗的泪珠顺着双额滚滚而下。菲利普根据在医院的经验得知，像米尔德丽德这一阶层的女人都把伺候人视为下品。菲利普不由得有点儿沉不住气了，但是他还是责怪自己，因为米尔德丽德显然是身子疲乏不舒服。他站了起来，走过去帮她在桌子的另一边也摊上块台布。这时，那孩子醒了。米尔德丽德预先已经给她准备下梅林罐头食品了。猪肝和香肠做好后，他们便坐下来吃饭。为了节约起见，菲利普把酒给戒了，只是喝点儿开水。不过，他家里还存有半瓶威士忌酒。于是他想喝上一点儿兴许对米尔德丽德会有好处。他尽力使这顿晚餐吃得愉快些，但是米尔德丽德却神情阴郁，显得精疲力竭的样子。一吃完晚饭，她便站起来，把孩子送回床上。

"我想你早些上床休息对你的身体会有好处的，"菲利普说，"你瞧上去累极了。"

"我想洗好碗碟后就去睡觉。"

菲利普点燃了烟斗，开始埋头看书。听到隔壁房间有人走动的声响是愉快的。因为有的时候，孤独感压得他喘不过气来。米尔德丽德走进来打扫桌子。耳边不时传来她洗涤时发出的碗碟磕碰声。菲利普暗自思忖着，竟穿着黑色绸衣裙打扫桌子，收拾碗碟，这正是她与众不同的个性特点，他想着想着不觉莞尔一笑。但是，他还得用功呢，于是捧着书走到桌子跟前。他正在研读奥斯勒的《内科学》。这本书深受学生欢迎，从而取代了使用多年的泰勒撰写的教科书。不一会儿，米尔德丽德走了进来，边走边放下卷起的袖子。菲利普漫不经心地瞥了她一眼，但没有移动。这个场面怪离奇的。菲利普感到有些儿尴尬，生怕米尔德丽德会认为他会出她的洋相，然而除了用满足性欲的办法之外，他又不知用什么办法去安抚她。

"喂，明天上午九时我有课，因此我得八点一刻就吃早饭。你来得及做吗？"

"哦，来得及的。怎么会来不及呢？我在国会大街时，每天早晨我都得赶到赫尔内山去乘八点十二分的车。"

"我希望你会发觉你的房间很舒服。今晚睡个长觉，明天你一定会大变样。"

"我想你看书看得很晚，是不？"

"我一般要到十一点，或十一点半左右。"

"那祝你晚安。"

"晚安。"

他们中间就隔着张桌子，但菲利普并没有主动伸出手去。米尔德丽德轻轻地把房门闭上了。菲利普听到她在卧室里走动的声响。不一会儿，耳边传来了米尔德丽德上床就寝时那张床发出的吱吱嘎嘎声。

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chapter 92

The following day was Tuesday. Philip as usual hurried through his breakfast and dashed off to get to his lecture at nine. He had only time to exchange a few words with Mildred. When he came back in the evening he found her seated at the window, darning his socks.

‘I say, you are industrious,’ he smiled. ‘What have you been doing with yourself all day?’

‘Oh, I gave the place a good cleaning and then I took baby out for a little.’

She was wearing an old black dress, the same as she had worn as uniform when she served in the tea-shop; it was shabby, but she looked better in it than in the silk of the day before. The baby was sitting on the floor. She looked up at Philip with large, mysterious eyes and broke into a laugh when he sat down beside her and began playing with her bare toes. The afternoon sun came into the room and shed a mellow light.

‘It’s rather jolly to come back and find someone about the place. A woman and a baby make very good decoration in a room.’

He had gone to the hospital dispensary and got a bottle of Blaud’s Pills, He gave them to Mildred and told her she must take them after each meal. It was a remedy she was used to, for she had taken it off and on ever since she was sixteen.

‘I’m sure Lawson would love that green skin of yours,’ said Philip. ‘He’d say it was so paintable, but I’m terribly matter of fact nowadays, and I shan’t be happy till you’re as pink and white as a milkmaid.’

‘I feel better already.’

After a frugal supper Philip filled his pouch with tobacco and put on his hat. It was on Tuesdays that he generally went to the tavern in Beak Street, and he was glad that this day came so soon after Mildred’s arrival, for he wanted to make his relations with her perfectly clear.

‘Are you going out?’ she said.

‘Yes, on Tuesdays I give myself a night off. I shall see you tomorrow. Good-night.’

Philip always went to the tavern with a sense of pleasure. Macalister, the philosophic stockbroker, was generally there and glad to argue upon any subject under the sun; Hayward came regularly when he was in London; and though he and Macalister disliked one another they continued out of habit to meet on that one evening in the week. Macalister thought Hayward a poor creature, and sneered at his delicacies of sentiment: he asked satirically about Hayward’s literary work and received with scornful smiles his vague suggestions of future masterpieces; their arguments were often heated; but the punch was good, and they were both fond of it; towards the end of the evening they generally composed their differences and thought each other capital fellows. This evening Philip found them both there, and Lawson also; Lawson came more seldom now that he was beginning to know people in London and went out to dinner a good deal. They were all on excellent terms with themselves, for Macalister had given them a good thing on the Stock Exchange, and Hayward and Lawson had made fifty pounds apiece. It was a great thing for Lawson, who was extravagant and earned little money: he had arrived at that stage of the portrait-painter’s career when he was noticed a good deal by the critics and found a number of aristocratic ladies who were willing to allow him to paint them for nothing (it advertised them both, and gave the great ladies quite an air of patronesses of the arts); but he very seldom got hold of the solid philistine who was ready to pay good money for a portrait of his wife. Lawson was brimming over with satisfaction.

‘It’s the most ripping way of making money that I’ve ever struck,’ he cried. ‘I didn’t have to put my hand in my pocket for sixpence.’

‘You lost something by not being here last Tuesday, young man,’ said Macalister to Philip.

‘My God, why didn’t you write to me?’ said Philip. ‘If you only knew how useful a hundred pounds would be to me.’

‘Oh, there wasn’t time for that. One has to be on the spot. I heard of a good thing last Tuesday, and I asked these fellows if they’d like to have a flutter, I bought them a thousand shares on Wednesday morning, and there was a rise in the afternoon so I sold them at once. I made fifty pounds for each of them and a couple of hundred for myself.’

Philip was sick with envy. He had recently sold the last mortgage in which his small fortune had been invested and now had only six hundred pounds left. He was panic-stricken sometimes when he thought of the future. He had still to keep himself for two years before he could be qualified, and then he meant to try for hospital appointments, so that he could not expect to earn anything for three years at least. With the most rigid economy he would not have more than a hundred pounds left then. It was very little to have as a stand-by in case he was ill and could not earn money or found himself at any time without work. A lucky gamble would make all the difference to him.

‘Oh, well, it doesn’t matter,’ said Macalister. ‘Something is sure to turn up soon. There’ll be a boom in South Africans again one of these days, and then I’ll see what I can do for you.’

Macalister was in the Kaffir market and often told them stories of the sudden fortunes that had been made in the great boom of a year or two back.

‘Well, don’t forget next time.’

They sat on talking till nearly midnight, and Philip, who lived furthest off, was the first to go. If he did not catch the last tram he had to walk, and that made him very late. As it was he did not reach home till nearly half past twelve. When he got upstairs he was surprised to find Mildred still sitting in his arm-chair.

‘Why on earth aren’t you in bed?’ he cried.

‘I wasn’t sleepy.’

‘You ought to go to bed all the same. It would rest you.’

She did not move. He noticed that since supper she had changed into her black silk dress.

‘I thought I’d rather wait up for you in case you wanted anything.’

She looked at him, and the shadow of a smile played upon her thin pale lips. Philip was not sure whether he understood or not. He was slightly embarrassed, but assumed a cheerful, matter-of-fact air.

‘It’s very nice of you, but it’s very naughty also. Run off to bed as fast as you can, or you won’t be able to get up tomorrow morning.’

‘I don’t feel like going to bed.’

‘Nonsense,’ he said coldly.

She got up, a little sulkily, and went into her room. He smiled when he heard her lock the door loudly.

The next few days passed without incident. Mildred settled down in her new surroundings. When Philip hurried off after breakfast she had the whole morning to do the housework. They ate very simply, but she liked to take a long time to buy the few things they needed; she could not be bothered to cook anything for her dinner, but made herself some cocoa and ate bread and butter; then she took the baby out in the gocart, and when she came in spent the rest of the afternoon in idleness. She was tired out, and it suited her to do so little. She made friends with Philip’s forbidding landlady over the rent, which he left with Mildred to pay, and within a week was able to tell him more about his neighbours than he had learned in a year.

‘She’s a very nice woman,’ said Mildred. ‘Quite the lady. I told her we was married.’

‘D’you think that was necessary?’

‘Well, I had to tell her something. It looks so funny me being here and not married to you. I didn’t know what she’d think of me.’

‘I don’t suppose she believed you for a moment.’

‘That she did, I lay. I told her we’d been married two years—I had to say that, you know, because of baby—only your people wouldn’t hear of it, because you was only a student’—she pronounced it stoodent—‘and so we had to keep it a secret, but they’d given way now and we were all going down to stay with them in the summer.’

‘You’re a past mistress of the cock-and-bull story,’ said Philip.

He was vaguely irritated that Mildred still had this passion for telling fibs. In the last two years she had learnt nothing. But he shrugged his shoulders.

‘When all’s said and done,’ he reflected, ‘she hasn’t had much chance.’

It was a beautiful evening, warm and cloudless, and the people of South London seemed to have poured out into the streets. There was that restlessness in the air which seizes the cockney sometimes when a turn in the weather calls him into the open. After Mildred had cleared away the supper she went and stood at the window. The street noises came up to them, noises of people calling to one another, of the passing traffic, of a barrel-organ in the distance.

‘I suppose you must work tonight, Philip?’ she asked him, with a wistful expression.

‘I ought, but I don’t know that I must. Why, d’you want me to do anything else?’

‘I’d like to go out for a bit. Couldn’t we take a ride on the top of a tram?’

‘If you like.’

‘I’ll just go and put on my hat,’ she said joyfully.

The night made it almost impossible to stay indoors. The baby was asleep and could be safely left; Mildred said she had always left it alone at night when she went out; it never woke. She was in high spirits when she came back with her hat on. She had taken the opportunity to put on a little rouge. Philip thought it was excitement which had brought a faint colour to her pale cheeks; he was touched by her child-like delight, and reproached himself for the austerity with which he had treated her. She laughed when she got out into the air. The first tram they saw was going towards Westminster Bridge and they got on it. Philip smoked his pipe, and they looked at the crowded street. The shops were open, gaily lit, and people were doing their shopping for the next day. They passed a music-hall called the Canterbury and Mildred cried out:

‘Oh, Philip, do let’s go there. I haven’t been to a music-hall for months.’

‘We can’t afford stalls, you know.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind, I shall be quite happy in the gallery.’

They got down and walked back a hundred yards till they came to the doors. They got capital seats for sixpence each, high up but not in the gallery, and the night was so fine that there was plenty of room. Mildred’s eyes glistened. She enjoyed herself thoroughly. There was a simple-mindedness in her which touched Philip. She was a puzzle to him. Certain things in her still pleased him, and he thought that there was a lot in her which was very good: she had been badly brought up, and her life was hard; he had blamed her for much that she could not help; and it was his own fault if he had asked virtues from her which it was not in her power to give. Under different circumstances she might have been a charming girl. She was extraordinarily unfit for the battle of life. As he watched her now in profile, her mouth slightly open and that delicate flush on her cheeks, he thought she looked strangely virginal. He felt an overwhelming compassion for her, and with all his heart he forgave her for the misery she had caused him. The smoky atmosphere made Philip’s eyes ache, but when he suggested going she turned to him with beseeching face and asked him to stay till the end. He smiled and consented. She took his hand and held it for the rest of the performance. When they streamed out with the audience into the crowded street she did not want to go home; they wandered up the Westminster Bridge Road, looking at the people.

‘I’ve not had such a good time as this for months,’ she said.

Philip’s heart was full, and he was thankful to the fates because he had carried out his sudden impulse to take Mildred and her baby into his flat. It was very pleasant to see her happy gratitude. At last she grew tired and they jumped on a tram to go home; it was late now, and when they got down and turned into their own street there was no one about. Mildred slipped her arm through his.

‘It’s just like old times, Phil,’ she said.

She had never called him Phil before, that was what Griffiths called him; and even now it gave him a curious pang. He remembered how much he had wanted to die then; his pain had been so great that he had thought quite seriously of committing suicide. It all seemed very long ago. He smiled at his past self. Now he felt nothing for Mildred but infinite pity. They reached the house, and when they got into the sitting-room Philip lit the gas.

‘Is the baby all right?’ he asked.

‘I’ll just go in and see.’

When she came back it was to say that it had not stirred since she left it. It was a wonderful child. Philip held out his hand.

‘Well, good-night.’

‘D’you want to go to bed already?’

‘It’s nearly one. I’m not used to late hours these days,’ said Philip.

She took his hand and holding it looked into his eyes with a little smile.

‘Phil, the other night in that room, when you asked me to come and stay here, I didn’t mean what you thought I meant, when you said you didn’t want me to be anything to you except just to cook and that sort of thing.’

‘Didn’t you?’ answered Philip, withdrawing his hand. ‘I did.’

‘Don’t be such an old silly,’ she laughed.

He shook his head.

‘I meant it quite seriously. I shouldn’t have asked you to stay here on any other condition.’

‘Why not?’

‘I feel I couldn’t. I can’t explain it, but it would spoil it all.’

She shrugged her shoulders.

‘Oh, very well, it’s just as you choose. I’m not one to go down on my hands and knees for that, and chance it.’

She went out, slamming the door behind her.

第九十二章

翌日是星期二。同往常一样，菲利普扒拉了两口早饭后，便连奔带跑地去赶九点钟的课。因此，他只能同米尔德丽德三言两语打个招呼，没时间多说话。黄昏时分，他从医院回到寓所，发现米尔德丽德凭窗而坐，双手在不停地补缀他的袜子。

"哟，你倒蛮勤俭的嘛，"菲利普满面春风地说。"你这一天干了些啥呀？"

"哦，我把房间彻底打扫了一下，然后抱着孩子出去溜达了一会儿。"

此刻，米尔德丽德身上穿了件陈旧的黑上衣。这还是她当初在茶食店里干活时穿的制服，旧是旧了些，不过穿上它要比穿前天那件绸衣裙显得精神些。那女孩坐在地板上，仰着头，忽闪着一对神秘的大眼睛瞅着菲利普。当菲利普蹲下去坐在她身边抚弄她的光脚丫时，她突然格格笑了起来。斜阳西照，房间里充满缕缕柔和的光线。

"一回来看到屋里有人走动，真叫人心里感到乐滋滋的。一个女人，外加一个孩子，倒把房间点缀得富有生气。"

菲利普从医院药房搞回来一瓶布劳氏丸，交给了米尔德丽德，并嘱咐她每餐饭后一定要服用。这种药她已经用惯了，因为打十六岁起，她就断断续续地吃了不少。

"劳森肯定会喜欢上你这泛着绿色的皮肤，"菲利普说道。"他一定会说你这皮肤很有画头。但是近日来我倒挺担忧的，你的皮肤一天不变得像挤奶女工那样白里透红，我心里一天也不会好受。""

"我已经觉得好多了。"

吃过饭菜简单的晚餐之后，菲利普便往烟草袋里装满烟丝，然后戴上帽子。星期二晚上，他一般都要到皮克大街上的那家酒菜馆去，而今晚他高兴的是自从米尔德丽德来到他这儿，转眼又是星期二了，因为他想借此机会向米尔德丽德明白无误地表明他俩之间的关系。

"你要出去吗？"米尔德丽德问道。

"是的，每逢星期二，我总是要出去玩一个晚上。我们明天见。祝你晚安。"

菲利普总是怀着一种兴奋的心情上这家酒菜馆。那位颇有哲学家头脑的证券经纪人马卡利斯特是那儿的常客，天底下任何一件事情，他都要与人争个长短。海沃德只要人在伦敦也常到那儿去，虽然他同马卡利斯特两人相互都讨厌对方，但他们却一反常态，每逢星期二晚上都上这家酒菜馆会上一面。马卡利斯特认为海沃德是个可怜的家伙，对他那多愁善感的气质嗤之以鼻；他用讥讽挖苦的口吻询问海沃德创作文学作品的情况，当海沃德含糊其词地回答说不久将有杰作面世时，他听后总是报之以嘲弄的微笑。他们俩争论起来十分激烈，说起话来都颇有分量，对此，他们俩都很欣赏。夜间酒馆聚首临近结束时，他俩一般都能弥合分歧，握手言欢，相互认为对方是顶呱呱的一流人才。这天晚上，菲利普发觉除了他们两位外，劳森也在场。随着在伦敦结识的人越来越多，劳森经常于夜间外出就餐，因此很少到这家酒菜馆来。他们三位在一起谈笑风生，气氛十分融洽，因为马卡利斯特通过证券交易所为他们两位捞了笔外快，海沃德和劳森各得了五十英镑。对劳森来说，这五十英镑非同小可，因为他进帐不大，可花起钱来倒是大手大脚的。此时，劳森已达到了画人物肖像画的阶段，并受到了评论界的普遍关注，同时他还发现为数不少的贵妇人更乐于不掏一个子儿端坐着让他画肖像（无论是对那些贵妇人还是对劳森本人来说，这种做法都是做广告的绝好机会，同时也为那些贵妇人赢来了艺术保护人的声誉）。但是，劳森很少能找到个傻瓜肯出一大笔钱让劳森给他的夫人画肖像画的。尽管如此，劳森还是感到心满意足。

"这倒是个绝妙的赚钱办法，以前我从来没想到过，"劳森喜滋滋地嚷道，"我甚至连六便士的本钱都不必掏。"

"年轻人，你上星期二没上这儿来，可失掉了一个极好的机会，"马卡利斯特对菲利普说。

"老天爷，你为啥不写信告诉找呢？"菲利普接着说，"要知道一百镑对我有多大的用处啊！"

"喔，那会儿时间来不及了。人得呆在现场。上星期二我听到了一个好消息，便问他们两个家伙是否也想试一试。星期三上午我为他们买进了一千股，下午行情就看涨了，于是我赶紧把股票抛出去。这样，我为他们两人各赚得五十镑，而我自己得了两三百镑。"

菲利普心里充满了妒意。近来他把最后一张抵押契据卖了，这张抵押契据是他的全部财产，眼下就剩了六百英镑现款了。有时候，一想到今后的日子，菲利普心里不觉栖惶。他还得读两年才能取得当医生的资格，此后他得设法在医院找个职位，这样一来，至少有三年的光景，他别指望能赚得一个子儿。就是他紧缩开支，过最俭朴的生活，到那时，他手头至多只剩百把英镑。百把英镑的积蓄微乎其微，万一生病不能挣钱或者什么时候找不到工作，那日子就更难打发了。因此，玩上一玩可带来幸运的赌博，对他来说，那情形就完全不同啦。

"哦，嗯，别着急，"马卡利斯特说，"机会很快就会有的。几天之内，南非国家很快就会出现股票行情暴涨，到时候我一定为你好生留意着就是了。

马卡利斯特当时正在南非矿山股票市场干事，他常常给他们讲起一两年以前股票行情暴涨时发大财的故事。

"好吧，下次可别忘了我呀。"

他们围坐在一起高谈阔论，不觉已到子夜时分。菲利普住得最远，首先告辞。如果赶不上最后一班电车，他就得步行，那样回到寓所就很迟了。事实上，将近十二点半光景，他才回到寓所。他上得楼来，发觉米尔德丽德仍旧坐在他的安乐椅里，感到十分诧异。

"你为什么还不上床睡觉？"菲利普大声嚷着。

"我不困。"

"就是不困，也该上床躺着，这一样可以得到休息嘛！"

她一动不动地坐在安乐椅里。菲利普注意到晚饭后她又换上了那件黑色绸衣裙。

"我想我还是等着你，万一你需要拿个东西什么的。"

米尔德丽德说罢两眼直勾勾地望着他，两片毫无血色的嘴唇隐隐约约露出一丝笑意。菲利普自己也拿不准他是否理解了她的用意。他只觉得有点儿尴尬，似还是装出一到快活的、漫不经心的样子。

"你这样做是好的，但也太淘气了。快给我睡觉去，要不明天早晨就爬不起来了。"

"我还不想上床睡觉。"

"扯淡，"菲利普冷冷地说了一声。

米尔德丽德从安乐椅里站了起来，绷着脸儿，走进了她的卧室。当耳边传来她沉重的锁门声时，菲利普脸上绽开了笑容。

以后的几天倒平安无事地过去了。米尔德丽德随遇而安，在这陌生的环境中定居下来了。菲利普匆匆赶去上课之后，她一上午就在寓所操持家务。他们吃的很简单。不过，她就喜欢为了买些许必不可少的食品而在街上磨蹭个老半天。她不能自己想吃什么就做什么，但尽管如此，她还是给自己煮杯可可喝喝，弄些奶油和面包啃啃。享受过后，便用小人车推着孩子上街溜达，然后回到寓所，百无聊赖地打发下午余下的时光。她心力交瘁，然而只做几件轻便的家务活儿还是合适的。菲利普把房租钱交由米尔德丽德去付，借此她同菲利普的令人生畏的房东太太交上了朋友，而且不出一个星期，她居然能够给菲利普聊聊左邻右舍的情况，了解的情况之多，远远超过了菲利普一年中所知道的。

"她可是位非常好的太太，"米尔德丽德对菲利普说，"简直像个贵妇人。我告诉她说我们是夫妻。"

"你认为有此必要吗？"

"嗯，我总得对她说点什么呀。我人住在这儿而又不是你的妻子，这事叫人看来不是太可笑了吗？我不知道她对我会有什么看法。"

"我想她根本不相信你说的话。"

"她肯定相信，我敢打赌。我告诉她说我们结婚已两年了--要知道，由于有了这个孩子，我只好这么说--只有你那儿的人才会不相信，因为你还是个学生。因此，我们得瞒着不让别人知道，不过现在他们的看法也改变了，因为我们将要跟他们一道去海滨消暑。"

"你可是个编造荒诞故事的老手罗，"菲利普说了一句。

看到米尔德丽德撒谎的劲头仍不减当初，菲利普心中隐隐有些反感。在过去的两年中，她可什么教训都没记取。但是当着米尔德丽德的面，他只是耸了耸肩膀。

"归根结蒂一句话，"菲利普暗自思忖，"她运气不佳。"

这是个美丽的夜晚，夜空无一丝云彩，天气温暖宜人，伦敦南部地区的人们似乎倾巢而出，都涌到了街上。周围有一种使得那些伦敦佬坐立不安的气氛，而每当天气突然变化，这种气氛总是唆使伦敦佬走出家门来到户外。米尔德丽德收拾好饭桌以后，便走到窗口跟前，凭窗眺望。街上的喧闹声迎面扑来，人们相互的呼唤声、来往车辆的呼啸声、远处一架手转风琴的乐曲声，纷纷从窗口灌进房间，送进他俩的耳中。

"菲利普，我想今晚你非看书不可，对不？"米尔德丽德问菲利普，脸上现出渴望的神情。

"我应该看书。不过，我不晓得为什么我非看不可。嘿，你想叫我干点别的什么事吗？"

"我很想出去散散心。难道我们就不能去坐在电车顶上溜它一圈吗？"

"随你的便。"

"我这就去戴帽子，"她兴高采烈地说。

在这样的夜晚，人们要耐住性子呆在家里是不可能的。那孩子早已进入温柔的梦乡，留她在家决不会有什么问题的。米尔德丽德说以前夜里外出就常常把孩子一人扔在家里，她可从来没醒过。米尔德丽德戴好帽子回来时，心里别提有多高兴了。她还抓紧时间往脸上搽了点胭脂。而菲利普还以为她是太激动了，苍白的面颊才升起了两朵淡淡的红晕呢。看到她高兴得像个孩子似的，菲利普真地动了感情，还暗暗责备起自己待她太苛刻来了。来到户外时，她开心地哈哈笑了起来。他们一看到驶往威斯敏斯特大桥的电车，便跳了上去。菲利普嘴里衔着烟斗，同米尔德丽德一道注视着车窗外人头攒动的街道。一家家商店开着，灯光通明，人们忙着为第二天采购食品。当电车驶过一家叫做坎特伯雷的杂耍剧场时，米尔德丽德迫不及待地喊了起来：

"哦，菲利普，我们一定得上那儿去看看，我可有好久没上杂耍剧场了。"

"我们可买不起前排正厅座位的票，这你是知道的。"

"喔，我才不计较呢，就是顶层楼座我也够高兴的了。"

他们俩下了电车，往回走了百把码的路，才来到杂耍剧场门口。他们花了十二便士买了两个极好的座位，座位在高处，但决不是顶层楼座。这晚他们运气真好，剧场里有不少空位置呢。米尔德丽德双眸烟烟闪光，感到快活极了。她身上有种纯朴的气质打动了菲利普的心。她对菲利普来说是个猜不透的谜。她身上某些东西至今对菲利普仍不无吸引力，菲利普认为她身上还有不少好的地方。米尔德丽德从小没有教养，她人生坎坷；他还为了许多连她本人也无法可想的事情去责备她。如果他要求从她那里得到她自己也无力给予的贞操，那是他自己的过错。要是她生长在另一种生存环境里，她完全可能出落成一个妩媚可爱的姑娘。她根本不堪人生大搏斗的冲击。此刻，菲利普凝睇着她的侧影，只见她的嘴微微张着，双颊升起两朵淡淡的红晕，他认为她看上去出人意料的圣洁。一朋遏制不住的怜悯之情涌上他的心头，他诚心诚意地宽有她给自己带来了苦难的罪过。剧场里烟雾腾腾，使得菲利普的两眼发痛，但是当他对米尔德丽德提议回家时，她却转过脸来，一脸的恳求人的神色，请求他陪她呆到终场。菲利普粲然一笑，同意了。米尔德丽德握住了菲利普的手，一直握到表演结束。当他们汇入观众人流走出剧场来到熙熙攘攘的街上时，米尔德丽德还无意返回寓所。于是，他们俩比肩漫步来到威斯敏斯特大街上立在那儿，凝眸望着熙来攘往的人群。

"几个月来我还没有这么痛快过呢，"米尔德丽德说。

菲利普感到心满意足。他一时情不自禁地要把米尔德丽德及其女儿领到自己的寓所，而现在已变成了现实，为此，他对命运之神充满了感激的心情。看到她表示善意的感激之情，他打心眼里感到高兴。最后米尔德丽德终于累了，他们跳上一辆电车返回寓所。此时夜已深了，当他们步下电车，拐入寓所所在的街道时，街上空荡荡的阒无一人。这当儿，米尔德丽德悄悄地挽起了菲利普的胳膊。

"这倒有点像过去的情景了，菲尔，"米尔德丽德说道。

以前她从来没有叫过他菲尔，只有格里菲思一人这样叫过，即使是现在，一听到这一称呼，一种莫可名状的剧痛便袭上心来。他还记得当初他痛心疾首欲求一死的情景。那会儿，巨大的痛苦实难忍受，他还颇为认真地考虑过自杀来着。这一切似乎都是遥远的往事罗。他想起过去的自己时，不觉莞尔。眼下，他对米尔德丽德只有满腔的怜悯之情，除此别无任何其他感情可言。他们来到寓所跟前。步入起居间之后，菲利普随手点亮了煤气灯。

"孩子好吗？"他口中问道。

"我这就去瞧瞧她。"

米尔德丽德回到起居间，并说打她走了之后，那孩子睡得一直很香甜，连动也没动。这孩子可真乖！菲利普向米尔德丽德伸出一只手，并说：

"嗯，晚安。"

"你这就去睡觉吗？"

"都快一点啦。近来我不习惯睡得很迟，"菲利普答道。

米尔德丽德抓起了他的手，一边紧紧地攥着，一边笑眯眯地望着他的眼睛。

"菲尔，那天夜里在那个房间里，你叫我上这儿来同你呆在一起，你说你只要我给你做些烧饭之类的事情，除此之外，你不想我做别的什么。就在那会儿，我脑子里想的事情同你认为我在想的事情，可不是一码事啊。"

"是吗？"菲利普说着，从米尔德丽德的手中抽回自己的手。"我可是这样想的。"

"别这样傻里傻气的啦，"米尔德丽德哈哈笑着说。

菲利普摇了摇头。

"我是很认真的。我决不会提出任何别的条件来让你呆在这儿的。"

"为什么不呢？"

"我觉得我不能那么做。这种事我解释不了，不过它会把全盘事情搞懵的。"

米尔德丽德耸了耸双肩。

"唔，很好，那就随你的便吧。不过，我决不会为此跪下来求你的。我可不是那种人！"

说罢，她走出起居间，随手砰地带上身后的房门。

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举报只看该作者 95楼发表于: 2014-08-29 0

chapter 93

Next morning Mildred was sulky and taciturn. She remained in her room till it was time to get the dinner ready. She was a bad cook and could do little more than chops and steaks; and she did not know how to use up odds and ends, so that Philip was obliged to spend more money than he had expected. When she served up she sat down opposite Philip, but would eat nothing; he remarked on it; she said she had a bad headache and was not hungry. He was glad that he had somewhere to spend the rest of the day; the Athelnys were cheerful and friendly. It was a delightful and an unexpected thing to realise that everyone in that household looked forward with pleasure to his visit. Mildred had gone to bed when he came back, but next day she was still silent. At supper she sat with a haughty expression on her face and a little frown between her eyes. It made Philip impatient, but he told himself that he must be considerate to her; he was bound to make allowance.

‘You’re very silent,’ he said, with a pleasant smile.

‘I’m paid to cook and clean, I didn’t know I was expected to talk as well.’

He thought it an ungracious answer, but if they were going to live together he must do all he could to make things go easily.

‘I’m afraid you’re cross with me about the other night,’ he said.

It was an awkward thing to speak about, but apparently it was necessary to discuss it.

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

‘Please don’t be angry with me. I should never have asked you to come and live here if I’d not meant our relations to be merely friendly. I suggested it because I thought you wanted a home and you would have a chance of looking about for something to do.’

‘Oh, don’t think I care.’

‘I don’t for a moment,’ he hastened to say. ‘You mustn’t think I’m ungrateful. I realise that you only proposed it for my sake. It’s just a feeling I have, and I can’t help it, it would make the whole thing ugly and horrid.’

‘You are funny’ she said, looking at him curiously. ‘I can’t make you out.’

She was not angry with him now, but puzzled; she had no idea what he meant: she accepted the situation, she had indeed a vague feeling that he was behaving in a very noble fashion and that she ought to admire it; but also she felt inclined to laugh at him and perhaps even to despise him a little.

‘He’s a rum customer,’ she thought.

Life went smoothly enough with them. Philip spent all day at the hospital and worked at home in the evening except when he went to the Athelnys’ or to the tavern in Beak Street. Once the physician for whom he clerked asked him to a solemn dinner, and two or three times he went to parties given by fellow-students. Mildred accepted the monotony of her life. If she minded that Philip left her sometimes by herself in the evening she never mentioned it. Occasionally he took her to a music hall. He carried out his intention that the only tie between them should be the domestic service she did in return for board and lodging. She had made up her mind that it was no use trying to get work that summer, and with Philip’s approval determined to stay where she was till the autumn. She thought it would be easy to get something to do then.

‘As far as I’m concerned you can stay on here when you’ve got a job if it’s convenient. The room’s there, and the woman who did for me before can come in to look after the baby.’

He grew very much attached to Mildred’s child. He had a naturally affectionate disposition, which had had little opportunity to display itself. Mildred was not unkind to the little girl. She looked after her very well and once when she had a bad cold proved herself a devoted nurse; but the child bored her, and she spoke to her sharply when she bothered; she was fond of her, but had not the maternal passion which might have induced her to forget herself. Mildred had no demonstrativeness, and she found the manifestations of affection ridiculous. When Philip sat with the baby on his knees, playing with it and kissing it, she laughed at him.

‘You couldn’t make more fuss of her if you was her father,’ she said. ‘You’re perfectly silly with the child.’

Philip flushed, for he hated to be laughed at. It was absurd to be so devoted to another man’s baby, and he was a little ashamed of the overflowing of his heart. But the child, feeling Philip’s attachment, would put her face against his or nestle in his arms.

‘It’s all very fine for you,’ said Mildred. ‘You don’t have any of the disagreeable part of it. How would you like being kept awake for an hour in the middle of the night because her ladyship wouldn’t go to sleep?’

Philip remembered all sorts of things of his childhood which he thought he had long forgotten. He took hold of the baby’s toes.

‘This little pig went to market, this little pig stayed at home.’

When he came home in the evening and entered the sitting-room his first glance was for the baby sprawling on the floor, and it gave him a little thrill of delight to hear the child’s crow of pleasure at seeing him. Mildred taught her to call him daddy, and when the child did this for the first time of her own accord, laughed immoderately.

‘I wonder if you’re that stuck on baby because she’s mine,’ asked Mildred, ‘or if you’d be the same with anybody’s baby.’

‘I’ve never known anybody else’s baby, so I can’t say,’ said Philip.

Towards the end of his second term as in-patients’ clerk a piece of good fortune befell Philip. It was the middle of July. He went one Tuesday evening to the tavern in Beak Street and found nobody there but Macalister. They sat together, chatting about their absent friends, and after a while Macalister said to him:

‘Oh, by the way, I heard of a rather good thing today, New Kleinfonteins; it’s a gold mine in Rhodesia. If you’d like to have a flutter you might make a bit.’

Philip had been waiting anxiously for such an opportunity, but now that it came he hesitated. He was desperately afraid of losing money. He had little of the gambler’s spirit.

‘I’d love to, but I don’t know if I dare risk it. How much could I lose if things went wrong?’

‘I shouldn’t have spoken of it, only you seemed so keen about it,’ Macalister answered coldly.

Philip felt that Macalister looked upon him as rather a donkey.

‘I’m awfully keen on making a bit,’ he laughed.

‘You can’t make money unless you’re prepared to risk money.’

Macalister began to talk of other things and Philip, while he was answering him, kept thinking that if the venture turned out well the stockbroker would be very facetious at his expense next time they met. Macalister had a sarcastic tongue.

‘I think I will have a flutter if you don’t mind,’ said Philip anxiously.

‘All right. I’ll buy you two hundred and fifty shares and if I see a half-crown rise I’ll sell them at once.’

Philip quickly reckoned out how much that would amount to, and his mouth watered; thirty pounds would be a godsend just then, and he thought the fates owed him something. He told Mildred what he had done when he saw her at breakfast next morning. She thought him very silly.

‘I never knew anyone who made money on the Stock Exchange,’ she said. ‘That’s what Emil always said, you can’t expect to make money on the Stock Exchange, he said.’

Philip bought an evening paper on his way home and turned at once to the money columns. He knew nothing about these things and had difficulty in finding the stock which Macalister had spoken of. He saw they had advanced a quarter. His heart leaped, and then he felt sick with apprehension in case Macalister had forgotten or for some reason had not bought. Macalister had promised to telegraph. Philip could not wait to take a tram home. He jumped into a cab. It was an unwonted extravagance.

‘Is there a telegram for me?’ he said, as he burst in.

‘No,’ said Mildred.

His face fell, and in bitter disappointment he sank heavily into a chair.

‘Then he didn’t buy them for me after all. Curse him,’ he added violently. ‘What cruel luck! And I’ve been thinking all day of what I’d do with the money.’

‘Why, what were you going to do?’ she asked.

‘What’s the good of thinking about that now? Oh, I wanted the money so badly.’

She gave a laugh and handed him a telegram.

‘I was only having a joke with you. I opened it.’

He tore it out of her hands. Macalister had bought him two hundred and fifty shares and sold them at the half-crown profit he had suggested. The commission note was to follow next day. For one moment Philip was furious with Mildred for her cruel jest, but then he could only think of his joy.

‘It makes such a difference to me,’ he cried. ‘I’ll stand you a new dress if you like.’

‘I want it badly enough,’ she answered.

‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to be operated upon at the end of July.’

‘Why, have you got something the matter with you?’ she interrupted.

It struck her that an illness she did not know might explain what had so much puzzled her. He flushed, for he hated to refer to his deformity.

‘No, but they think they can do something to my foot. I couldn’t spare the time before, but now it doesn’t matter so much. I shall start my dressing in October instead of next month. I shall only be in hospital a few weeks and then we can go away to the seaside for the rest of the summer. It’ll do us all good, you and the baby and me.’

‘Oh, let’s go to Brighton, Philip, I like Brighton, you get such a nice class of people there.’ Philip had vaguely thought of some little fishing village in Cornwall, but as she spoke it occurred to him that Mildred would be bored to death there.

‘I don’t mind where we go as long as I get the sea.’

He did not know why, but he had suddenly an irresistible longing for the sea. He wanted to bathe, and he thought with delight of splashing about in the salt water. He was a good swimmer, and nothing exhilarated him like a rough sea.

‘I say, it will be jolly,’ he cried.

‘It’ll be like a honeymoon, won’t it?’ she said. ‘How much can I have for my new dress, Phil?’

第九十三章

翌日上午，米尔德丽德脸色阴沉，闷声吞气。她把自己关在卧室里，足不出户，直到该烧中饭时才走出房门。她可是个蹩脚厨娘，除了烧排骨、炒肉片之外，会做的菜就寥寥无几了，而且她还不懂得要物尽其用，把一些碎杂儿都给扔了。因此，菲利普不得不承担一笔比原先估计的要大得多的开支。米尔德丽德摆好饭菜之后，便在菲利普的对面坐了下来，可就是不吃不喝。菲利普问她，她只说是头疼得厉害，肚子不饿。菲利普心里高兴的是他还有个好去处可以打发这天余下的时光--阿特尔涅一家子都挺爽快，且还很好客。他们一个个都怀着高兴的心情期待着他的登门造访，这倒是件意想不到的好事。菲利普从阿特尔涅家回到寓所时，米尔德丽德早已就寝了。可是到了第二天，她还是那样的一言不发。吃晚饭时，她坐在桌边，愁眉锁眼的，但他默默告诫自己要体贴她，要体谅她的心情。

"你怎么一声也不吭呀？"菲利普笑容可掬地问道。

"我受雇替人烧饭和打扫房间，可不曾想到还要与人说话。"

菲利普认为这个答话太无礼了，但是如果他们俩还要继续在一起过日子，那他就必须尽力而为，使得他俩的关系不要过于紧张。

"恐怕你是为了那天晚上的事儿生我的气了吧？"菲利普说。

谈论这件事倒叫人颇为尴尬，不过显然有必要跟她把话说清楚。

"我不知道你的话是什么意思，"米尔德丽德回了一句。

"请别发脾气。要不是我认为我们之间的关系只能是朋友关系，当初我就不会叫你住到这儿来了。我之所以提出这个建议，是因为我想你希望有个栖身之处，你也可以有个出去找个活儿干干的机会。"

"喔，别以为我看重这件事儿。"

"我

一刻儿也没这样想过，"菲利普连忙接口说，"你也不应当以为我这个人不讲情义。我知道你是为了我才提出那个事情的。我只是感到那个事情会使一切都显得丑恶和可怕，我也说不清楚自己怎么会有这种想法的。"

"你这个人真怪，"米尔德丽德说着用好奇的目光注视着菲利普，"真叫人猜不透。"

此刻，她对菲利普已无怨恨之心，但颇感惆怅迷惘，不知道菲利普究竟是什么心思。她默默地接受了这种生活方式，她的确朦朦胧胧地感到菲利普的行为是非常高尚的，对此，她不能不佩服。不过在这同时，她又想嘲笑他，或许还有点儿瞧不起他。

"他是个不好对付的家伙，"米尔德丽德私下里这么想。

对他们来说，日子倒过得挺顺当的。菲利普白天都泡在医院里，晚上除了去阿特尔涅家或上皮克大街上的那家酒菜馆以外，一般都在寓所看书做功课。有一次，一位医生邀请他出席一次正式的午餐会，因他曾在这位医生手下实习过。他还参加了两三次同学们举行的晚会。而米尔德丽德则听其自然，对这种寂寞单调的生活倒也接受下来了。要是她对菲利普在晚上把她独自一人扔在寓所这件事有所介意，她嘴上可从来不说。间或，菲利普也把她带上杂耍剧场去散散心。菲利普是在切实地贯彻他的意图，即他们俩之间的关系只能是他为米尔德丽德提供食宿之便，而米尔德丽德得以操持家务来抵偿。米尔德丽德决定夏天不去找工作，因为去找也没有用。在菲利普的许可下，她拿定主意在原地呆到秋天。她想，到了秋天，出去找工作要容易些。

"就我来说，就是你找到了工作，只要你认为方便的话，你还可以呆在这里。房间是现成的，原先我雇佣的那个老妈于可以来照料孩子。"

菲利普变得非常疼爱米尔德丽德的孩子。他有做慈父的大性，可就是没有机会得以表露。米尔德丽德待孩子也不能说不好。她把孩子照应得很好。有一次，孩子患了重感冒，她就像位尽心尽职的护士那样照料着孩子。可是，孩子使她心生厌烦。孩子一打扰她，她就恶声恶气的。她喜次这孩子，可缺少那种忘我的母爱。米尔德丽德不是个感情外露的人，相反觉得情感的流露荒唐可笑。当菲利普把孩子抱在膝上坐着，逼孩子玩、吻孩子的时候，她就大声嘲笑他。

"你真是她的生身父亲的话，也至多只能这样喜爱她了，"她说，"跟这孩子在一起的时候，你要多傻气有多傻气。"

菲利普的脸刷地红了，他就怕受人奚落。自己对另一个男人的孩子竟会如此的一往情深，真是荒唐！他不由得为自己感情的洋溢而感到难为情。然而，此刻那孩子似乎感觉到他喜欢她，便把那张小脸紧紧地贴住菲利普的脸，并依偎在他的怀抱里。

"对你来说一切都很好罗，"米尔德丽德说。"不顺心的事儿你又沾不上边。要是你夜里睡得好好的，可就因为这位小太太不想睡，让你醒上个把钟头，你会有什么想法呢？"

菲利普以为早忘却了的自己孩提时代的往事，一下子都涌现在自己的脑海里。他信手抓起了孩子的脚趾。

"这只小猪卖给市场，这只小猪留在家里。"

傍晚回家，一走进起居间，他第一眼就是搜索那四肢趴在地板上的孩子。一听到那孩子看到他后发出的愉快的叫唤声，他心里不由激起几朵兴奋的浪花。米尔德丽德教孩子管菲利普叫爸爸，可是当孩子第一次自动地叫菲利普爸爸时，她又肆无忌惮地发出一阵浪笑。

"我怀疑你是否因为这孩子是我的才这么喜欢她的，"米尔德丽德说，"不知道你对别人的孩子可也是这样的。"

"我从来不认识任何人的孩子，所以我也说不上来，"菲利普答道。

菲利普在住院部实习的第二学期即将结束。此时，他交上了好运。时值七月中旬。一个星期二晚上，他上皮克大街上的那家酒菜馆去，发现只有马卡利斯特一人在那儿。他们俩坐在一起，谈了一会儿那两位缺席的朋友。过了一会儿，马卡利斯特对菲利普说：

"喂，顺便给你说个事儿。今天我听到了一个非常好的消息。是关于新克莱恩丰顿的消息。新克莱恩丰顿是罗得西亚的一座金矿。要是你想投一下机的话，倒是可以赚一笔钱的。"

菲利普一直在心情迫切地等待这么个机会，可机会真的来了，他倒犹豫起来了。他极怕输钱，因为他缺少点赌徒的气质。

"我很想试试，不过我不知道我是否敢去冒这个险。一旦环事，我要蚀掉多少本呀？"

"就因为看你对这事很迫切，我才把这件事告诉你的，要不然，我根本不会讲。"

菲利普觉得马卡利斯特把他看作是一头蠢驴。

"我是很想赚笔钱的，"他哈哈笑着说。

"除非你准备冒险，否则就甭想赚到一个子儿。"

马卡利斯特谈起别的事情来了。坐在一旁的菲利普，嘴上嗯嗯哼哼地应答着，可心里头却一刻不停地盘算着，要是这场交易最后成功了，那么下次他们俩见面时，这位证券经纪人就会看他的笑话。马卡利斯特的那张嘴可会挖苦人了。

"如果你不介意的话，我倒想试它一试，"菲利普热切地说。

"好吧。我给你买进二百五十份股票，一看到涨上两个半先令的话，我就立即把你的股票抛售出去。"

菲利普很快就算出了这笔数字有多大，此刻，他不禁垂涎三尺。到时候，就会从天外飞来三十英镑的意外之财，他认为命运的确欠他的债。第二天早晨吃早饭时，他一看到米尔德丽德，就把此事告诉了她。可她却认为他太愚蠢了。

"我从来没碰到过有谁通过证券交易所发了大财的，"她说道，"埃米尔经常这么说的。他说，你不能指望通过证券交易所去发财。"

菲利普在回家的路上买了张晚报，眼睛一下子就盯住了金融栏。他对这类事一窍不通，好不容易才找到马卡利斯特讲起的股票。他发现股票行情上涨了四分之一。他的心怦怦直跳。蓦地，他又忧心如焚，担心马卡利斯特把他的事给忘了，或者由于别的什么原因没有代他购进股票。马卡利斯特答应给他打电报。菲利普等不及乘电车回家，跳上了一辆马车。这在他来说，倒是个罕见的奢侈行为。

"有我的电报吗？"他一跨进房门便问道。

"没有，"米尔德丽德答了一声。

他顿时拉长了脸，深感失望，重重地瘫进了一张椅子里。

"这么说来，他根本没给我购进股票。这个混蛋！"他愤愤地骂了一句。"真倒运！我整天在考虑我怎么花那笔钱。"

"喂，你打算干什么呀？"米尔德丽德问了一句。

"现在还想它做什么？喔，我多么需要那笔钱啊！"

米尔德丽德哈哈一笑，随手递给他一封电报。

"刚才我是跟你闹着玩的。这电报我拆过了。"

他一把从她手中夺过电报。马卡利斯特给他购进了二百五十份股票，并正如他说的那样，以两个半先令的利息把股票抛了出去。委托书第二天就到。有一会儿，菲利普很恼火，米尔德丽德竟跟他开这么个残忍的玩笑，可是隔了不久，他完全沉浸在欢乐之中了。

"我有了这笔钱，情形可就不同啦，"他大声叫了起来。"你愿意的话，我给你买件新衣服。"

"我正需要买一件新衣服，"米尔德丽德接口说。

"我现在把我的打算告诉你。我打算在七月底去开刀。"

"哎，你有啥毛病啊？"她插进来问道。

米尔德丽德觉得，他身患一种她不知道的暗疾这件事，兴许能够帮助她弄明白她为什么对他感到迷惑不解的原因。而菲利普涨红了脸，因为他不愿提起他的残疾。

一没什么毛病，不过他们认为我的跛足还是有办法治的。以前我腾不出时间来，可现在就没有关系了。我在医院里只呆几个星期，然后我们可以去海滨度过余下的夏日。这对你，对孩子，对我，对我们大家都有好处。"

"哦，我们上布赖顿去吧，菲利普。我喜欢布赖顿，你在那儿有那么多的颇有身份的朋友。"

菲利普依稀想起了康沃尔一带的小渔村。但是在米尔德丽德说话的当儿，他忽然觉得到那儿去，米尔德丽德会憋得发慌的。

"只要能看到大海，上哪儿都行。"

不知怎么的，菲利普心中突然萌生出一种不可抗拒的对大海的渴望之情。他想痛痛快快地洗个海水浴。他兴奋地畅想起自己拍击海水浪花四溅的情景来，没有比波涛汹涌的大海更能激起他无限的欢乐。

"嘿，那可美极啦！"菲利普叫喊着。

"倒像是去度蜜月一样，是不？"米尔德丽德说。"菲尔，你给我多少钱去买新衣服呀？"

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chapter 94

Philip asked Mr. Jacobs, the assistant-surgeon for whom he had dressed, to do the operation. Jacobs accepted with pleasure, since he was interested just then in neglected talipes and was getting together materials for a paper. He warned Philip that he could not make his foot like the other, but he thought he could do a good deal; and though he would always limp he would be able to wear a boot less unsightly than that which he had been accustomed to. Philip remembered how he had prayed to a God who was able to remove mountains for him who had faith, and he smiled bitterly.

‘I don’t expect a miracle,’ he answered.

‘I think you’re wise to let me try what I can do. You’ll find a club-foot rather a handicap in practice. The layman is full of fads, and he doesn’t like his doctor to have anything the matter with him.’

Philip went into a ‘small ward’, which was a room on the landing, outside each ward, reserved for special cases. He remained there a month, for the surgeon would not let him go till he could walk; and, bearing the operation very well, he had a pleasant enough time. Lawson and Athelny came to see him, and one day Mrs. Athelny brought two of her children; students whom he knew looked in now and again to have a chat; Mildred came twice a week. Everyone was very kind to him, and Philip, always surprised when anyone took trouble with him, was touched and grateful. He enjoyed the relief from care; he need not worry there about the future, neither whether his money would last out nor whether he would pass his final examinations; and he could read to his heart’s content. He had not been able to read much of late, since Mildred disturbed him: she would make an aimless remark when he was trying to concentrate his attention, and would not be satisfied unless he answered; whenever he was comfortably settled down with a book she would want something done and would come to him with a cork she could not draw or a hammer to drive in a nail.

They settled to go to Brighton in August. Philip wanted to take lodgings, but Mildred said that she would have to do housekeeping, and it would only be a holiday for her if they went to a boarding-house.

‘I have to see about the food every day at home, I get that sick of it I want a thorough change.’

Philip agreed, and it happened that Mildred knew of a boarding-house at Kemp Town where they would not be charged more than twenty-five shillings a week each. She arranged with Philip to write about rooms, but when he got back to Kennington he found that she had done nothing. He was irritated.

‘I shouldn’t have thought you had so much to do as all that,’ he said.

‘Well, I can’t think of everything. It’s not my fault if I forget, is it?’

Philip was so anxious to get to the sea that he would not wait to communicate with the mistress of the boarding-house.

‘We’ll leave the luggage at the station and go to the house and see if they’ve got rooms, and if they have we can just send an outside porter for our traps.’

‘You can please yourself,’ said Mildred stiffly.

She did not like being reproached, and, retiring huffily into a haughty silence, she sat by listlessly while Philip made the preparations for their departure. The little flat was hot and stuffy under the August sun, and from the road beat up a malodorous sultriness. As he lay in his bed in the small ward with its red, distempered walls he had longed for fresh air and the splashing of the sea against his breast. He felt he would go mad if he had to spend another night in London. Mildred recovered her good temper when she saw the streets of Brighton crowded with people making holiday, and they were both in high spirits as they drove out to Kemp Town. Philip stroked the baby’s cheek.

‘We shall get a very different colour into them when we’ve been down here a few days,’ he said, smiling.

They arrived at the boarding-house and dismissed the cab. An untidy maid opened the door and, when Philip asked if they had rooms, said she would inquire. She fetched her mistress. A middle-aged woman, stout and business-like, came downstairs, gave them the scrutinising glance of her profession, and asked what accommodation they required.

‘Two single rooms, and if you’ve got such a thing we’d rather like a cot in one of them.’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t got that. I’ve got one nice large double room, and I could let you have a cot.’

‘I don’t think that would do,’ said Philip.

‘I could give you another room next week. Brighton’s very full just now, and people have to take what they can get.’

‘If it were only for a few days, Philip, I think we might be able to manage,’ said Mildred.

‘I think two rooms would be more convenient. Can you recommend any other place where they take boarders?’

‘I can, but I don’t suppose they’d have room any more than I have.’

‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me the address.’

The house the stout woman suggested was in the next street, and they walked towards it. Philip could walk quite well, though he had to lean on a stick, and he was rather weak. Mildred carried the baby. They went for a little in silence, and then he saw she was crying. It annoyed him, and he took no notice, but she forced his attention.

‘Lend me a hanky, will you? I can’t get at mine with baby,’ she said in a voice strangled with sobs, turning her head away from him.

He gave her his handkerchief, but said nothing. She dried her eyes, and as he did not speak, went on.

‘I might be poisonous.’

‘Please don’t make a scene in the street,’ he said.

‘It’ll look so funny insisting on separate rooms like that. What’ll they think of us?’

‘If they knew the circumstances I imagine they’d think us surprisingly moral,’ said Philip.

She gave him a sidelong glance.

‘You’re not going to give it away that we’re not married?’ she asked quickly.

‘No.’

‘Why won’t you live with me as if we were married then?’

‘My dear, I can’t explain. I don’t want to humiliate you, but I simply can’t. I daresay it’s very silly and unreasonable, but it’s stronger than I am. I loved you so much that now...’ he broke off. ‘After all, there’s no accounting for that sort of thing.’

‘A fat lot you must have loved me!’ she exclaimed.

The boarding-house to which they had been directed was kept by a bustling maiden lady, with shrewd eyes and voluble speech. They could have one double room for twenty-five shillings a week each, and five shillings extra for the baby, or they could have two single rooms for a pound a week more.

‘I have to charge that much more,’ the woman explained apologetically, ‘because if I’m pushed to it I can put two beds even in the single rooms.’

‘I daresay that won’t ruin us. What do you think, Mildred?’

‘Oh, I don’t mind. Anything’s good enough for me,’ she answered.

Philip passed off her sulky reply with a laugh, and, the landlady having arranged to send for their luggage, they sat down to rest themselves. Philip’s foot was hurting him a little, and he was glad to put it up on a chair.

‘I suppose you don’t mind my sitting in the same room with you,’ said Mildred aggressively.

‘Don’t let’s quarrel, Mildred,’ he said gently.

‘I didn’t know you was so well off you could afford to throw away a pound a week.’

‘Don’t be angry with me. I assure you it’s the only way we can live together at all.’

‘I suppose you despise me, that’s it.’

‘Of course I don’t. Why should I?’

‘It’s so unnatural.’

‘Is it? You’re not in love with me, are you?’

‘Me? Who d’you take me for?’

‘It’s not as if you were a very passionate woman, you’re not that.’

‘It’s so humiliating,’ she said sulkily.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t fuss about that if I were you.’

There were about a dozen people in the boarding-house. They ate in a narrow, dark room at a long table, at the head of which the landlady sat and carved. The food was bad. The landlady called it French cooking, by which she meant that the poor quality of the materials was disguised by ill-made sauces: plaice masqueraded as sole and New Zealand mutton as lamb. The kitchen was small and inconvenient, so that everything was served up lukewarm. The people were dull and pretentious; old ladies with elderly maiden daughters; funny old bachelors with mincing ways; pale-faced, middle-aged clerks with wives, who talked of their married daughters and their sons who were in a very good position in the Colonies. At table they discussed Miss Corelli’s latest novel; some of them liked Lord Leighton better than Mr. Alma-Tadema, and some of them liked Mr. Alma-Tadema better than Lord Leighton. Mildred soon told the ladies of her romantic marriage with Philip; and he found himself an object of interest because his family, county people in a very good position, had cut him off with a shilling because he married while he was only a stoodent; and Mildred’s father, who had a large place down Devonshire way, wouldn’t do anything for them because she had married Philip. That was why they had come to a boarding-house and had not a nurse for the baby; but they had to have two rooms because they were both used to a good deal of accommodation and they didn’t care to be cramped. The other visitors also had explanations of their presence: one of the single gentlemen generally went to the Metropole for his holiday, but he liked cheerful company and you couldn’t get that at one of those expensive hotels; and the old lady with the middle-aged daughter was having her beautiful house in London done up and she said to her daughter: ‘Gwennie, my dear, we must have a cheap holiday this year,’ and so they had come there, though of course it wasn’t at all the kind of thing they were used to. Mildred found them all very superior, and she hated a lot of common, rough people. She liked gentlemen to be gentlemen in every sense of the word.

‘When people are gentlemen and ladies,’ she said, ‘I like them to be gentlemen and ladies.’

The remark seemed cryptic to Philip, but when he heard her say it two or three times to different persons, and found that it aroused hearty agreement, he came to the conclusion that it was only obscure to his own intelligence. It was the first time that Philip and Mildred had been thrown entirely together. In London he did not see her all day, and when he came home the household affairs, the baby, the neighbours, gave them something to talk about till he settled down to work. Now he spent the whole day with her. After breakfast they went down to the beach; the morning went easily enough with a bathe and a stroll along the front; the evening, which they spent on the pier, having put the baby to bed, was tolerable, for there was music to listen to and a constant stream of people to look at; (Philip amused himself by imagining who they were and weaving little stories about them; he had got into the habit of answering Mildred’s remarks with his mouth only so that his thoughts remained undisturbed;) but the afternoons were long and dreary. They sat on the beach. Mildred said they must get all the benefit they could out of Doctor Brighton, and he could not read because Mildred made observations frequently about things in general. If he paid no attention she complained.

‘Oh, leave that silly old book alone. It can’t be good for you always reading. You’ll addle your brain, that’s what you’ll do, Philip.’

‘Oh, rot!’ he answered.

‘Besides, it’s so unsociable.’

He discovered that it was difficult to talk to her. She had not even the power of attending to what she was herself saying, so that a dog running in front of her or the passing of a man in a loud blazer would call forth a remark and then she would forget what she had been speaking of. She had a bad memory for names, and it irritated her not to be able to think of them, so that she would pause in the middle of some story to rack her brains. Sometimes she had to give it up, but it often occurred to her afterwards, and when Philip was talking of something she would interrupt him.

‘Collins, that was it. I knew it would come back to me some time. Collins, that’s the name I couldn’t remember.’

It exasperated him because it showed that she was not listening to anything he said, and yet, if he was silent, she reproached him for sulkiness. Her mind was of an order that could not deal for five minutes with the abstract, and when Philip gave way to his taste for generalising she very quickly showed that she was bored. Mildred dreamt a great deal, and she had an accurate memory for her dreams, which she would relate every day with prolixity.

One morning he received a long letter from Thorpe Athelny. He was taking his holiday in the theatrical way, in which there was much sound sense, which characterised him. He had done the same thing for ten years. He took his whole family to a hop-field in Kent, not far from Mrs. Athelny’s home, and they spent three weeks hopping. It kept them in the open air, earned them money, much to Mrs. Athelny’s satisfaction, and renewed their contact with mother earth. It was upon this that Athelny laid stress. The sojourn in the fields gave them a new strength; it was like a magic ceremony, by which they renewed their youth and the power of their limbs and the sweetness of the spirit: Philip had heard him say many fantastic, rhetorical, and picturesque things on the subject. Now Athelny invited him to come over for a day, he had certain meditations on Shakespeare and the musical glasses which he desired to impart, and the children were clamouring for a sight of Uncle Philip. Philip read the letter again in the afternoon when he was sitting with Mildred on the beach. He thought of Mrs. Athelny, cheerful mother of many children, with her kindly hospitality and her good humour; of Sally, grave for her years, with funny little maternal ways and an air of authority, with her long plait of fair hair and her broad forehead; and then in a bunch of all the others, merry, boisterous, healthy, and handsome. His heart went out to them. There was one quality which they had that he did not remember to have noticed in people before, and that was goodness. It had not occurred to him till now, but it was evidently the beauty of their goodness which attracted him. In theory he did not believe in it: if morality were no more than a matter of convenience good and evil had no meaning. He did not like to be illogical, but here was simple goodness, natural and without effort, and he thought it beautiful. Meditating, he slowly tore the letter into little pieces; he did not see how he could go without Mildred, and he did not want to go with her.

It was very hot, the sky was cloudless, and they had been driven to a shady corner. The baby was gravely playing with stones on the beach, and now and then she crawled up to Philip and gave him one to hold, then took it away again and placed it carefully down. She was playing a mysterious and complicated game known only to herself. Mildred was asleep. She lay with her head thrown back and her mouth slightly open; her legs were stretched out, and her boots protruded from her petticoats in a grotesque fashion. His eyes had been resting on her vaguely, but now he looked at her with peculiar attention. He remembered how passionately he had loved her, and he wondered why now he was entirely indifferent to her. The change in him filled him with dull pain. It seemed to him that all he had suffered had been sheer waste. The touch of her hand had filled him with ecstasy; he had desired to enter into her soul so that he could share every thought with her and every feeling; he had suffered acutely because, when silence had fallen between them, a remark of hers showed how far their thoughts had travelled apart, and he had rebelled against the unsurmountable wall which seemed to divide every personality from every other. He found it strangely tragic that he had loved her so madly and now loved her not at all. Sometimes he hated her. She was incapable of learning, and the experience of life had taught her nothing. She was as unmannerly as she had always been. It revolted Philip to hear the insolence with which she treated the hard-worked servant at the boarding-house.

Presently he considered his own plans. At the end of his fourth year he would be able to take his examination in midwifery, and a year more would see him qualified. Then he might manage a journey to Spain. He wanted to see the pictures which he knew only from photographs; he felt deeply that El Greco held a secret of peculiar moment to him; and he fancied that in Toledo he would surely find it out. He did not wish to do things grandly, and on a hundred pounds he might live for six months in Spain: if Macalister put him on to another good thing he could make that easily. His heart warmed at the thought of those old beautiful cities, and the tawny plains of Castile. He was convinced that more might be got out of life than offered itself at present, and he thought that in Spain he could live with greater intensity: it might be possible to practise in one of those old cities, there were a good many foreigners, passing or resident, and he should be able to pick up a living. But that would be much later; first he must get one or two hospital appointments; they gave experience and made it easy to get jobs afterwards. He wished to get a berth as ship’s doctor on one of the large tramps that took things leisurely enough for a man to see something of the places at which they stopped. He wanted to go to the East; and his fancy was rich with pictures of Bangkok and Shanghai, and the ports of Japan: he pictured to himself palm-trees and skies blue and hot, dark-skinned people, pagodas; the scents of the Orient intoxicated his nostrils. His heart but with passionate desire for the beauty and the strangeness of the world.

Mildred awoke.

‘I do believe I’ve been asleep,’ she said. ‘Now then, you naughty girl, what have you been doing to yourself? Her dress was clean yesterday and just look at it now, Philip.’

第九十四章

菲利普在雅各布先生手下当过敷裹员，于是他便请这位助理外科医师给他的跛足开刀。雅各布先生欣然同意，因为他就是对被众人忽视的跛足感兴趣，而且眼下正在为撰写一篇论文搜集资料。事先他忠告菲利普，说他不能使跛足变得像那只好足一模一样，不过他相信他还是能够有所作为的。还说动过手术后，菲利普走起路来还是有点跛，但可以不再穿先前那样难看的靴子了。当想起自己过去曾因笃信上帝能够为他背走沉重的大山而虔诚地向上帝祷告的情景，菲利普的脸上总是浮出一丝凄苦的笑容。

"我并不希望出现奇迹，"菲利普回答说。

"我认为你能让我尽我所能医治你的残疾的决定是明智的。到时候，你会发觉拖着条跛腿行起医来是很不方便的。外行人就好生怪念头，死也不肯同医生打交道。"

菲利普住进了单人病房。每个病区外头楼梯平台处都有这么个只有一个房间的单人病房，它是专门为特殊病人预备的。他在那儿住了一个月，因为雅各布先生在他能够走动之前是不让他走出这个病房的。手术进行得很顺利，他有足够的时间好生养息。劳森和阿特尔涅跑来看望他。有一次，阿特尔涅太太还带了两个孩子来探望他哩。还有他所认识的同学们也不时地前来和他闲聊解闷。米尔德丽德一星期来两次。大家都对他很和气。菲利普这个人一看到别人不厌其烦地关心体贴他，心里总是激动不已，而眼下更是深受感动，感激不尽了。他没什么要烦的，心情轻松愉快。他不必为未来担忧，管它钱够不够花还是期终测验能不能通过，这些都没什么好发愁的。此时，他可以尽心披卷破帙了。近来他一直不能好好看书，因为米尔德丽德老是干扰他：有时候他正要集中脑筋思考些问题，可米尔德丽德却打开了话匣，说些不着边际的话儿，而且菲利普不回答她还决不罢休；每当他要定下心来好好看书，米尔德丽德就要他帮手干件事，不是跑来叫他把个她拔不出来的瓶塞子拔出来，就是拿来个榔头叫他相帮钉个钉子。

他们决定于八月赴布赖顿度假。菲利普想到了那儿之后去住旅馆，可米尔德丽德却说那样的话，她又得做家务了。她提议他们赁住在食宿公寓，这样，她也可以享受几天假期呀。

"在家我得天天张罗饭菜，我都腻透了，想彻底改变一下。"

菲利普最后同意去住食宿公寓。而米尔德丽德凑巧还认识肯普镇上的一家食宿公寓。住在那儿，每人一周的开销也不会超过二十五个先令。她同菲利普商定由她写信去预订房间。但是，在从外边回到肯宁顿寓所时，菲利普却发觉信根本没写，不觉恼怒。

"想不到你还真忙呢，"他没好气地说了一句。

"嗯，我可不能什么事都想到呀。即使我忘记了，那也不是我的过错，对不？"

菲利普急于要到海边去，也不愿意为同那家食宿公寓的女主人联系而滞留伦敦。

"我们可以把行李寄存在车站，直接走去，看看那儿有没有房间。如果有，我们只要到外边去雇位脚夫，让他去取行李好了。"

"你看怎么好就怎么干吧！"米尔德丽德口气生硬地回了一句。

她可不喜欢受人的气，顿时一声不吭，满脸怒容，心神不定地坐在一边，望着菲利普忙着为外出度假准备行装。在八月的阳光照射下，这幢小小的公寓里头异常闷热，户外马路上腾起一阵阵带有恶臭的热浪。当他躺在病房里的病榻上，面对着涂抹着红色颜料的墙壁，他一直向往着呼吸海边的新鲜空气，让海涛拍打自己的胸膛。他觉得，要是再在伦敦呆上一夜，他准会发疯。一看到布赖顿的大街上挤满了前来度假的人群，米尔德丽德的脾气又好了。当乘上马车驶出车站前往肯普镇时，他们俩都变得兴致勃勃。菲利普还用手轻轻地抚摩着孩子的脸颊哩。

"我们在这儿呆上几天，准能让她的小脸蛋变得红扑扑的，"菲利普说话时，双眼还含着微笑。

他们来到那家食宿公寓门前，便把马车辞退了。一位衣着不整的妇人应声出来开门。当菲利普问及是否有空房间时，她却回答她得进去问一下。她把她的女主人领了出来。一位身材敦实、一副生意人脸孔的中年妇人下得楼来，先是按职业习惯对菲利普他们狠狠地盯视了一眼，然后才开口询问他们要开什么样的房间。

"开两个单人房间，如果可能的话，还要在其中一个房间放个摇篮。"

"恐怕我这儿没有两个单人房间。我这儿还有个双人大房间，我可以给你们一个摇篮。"

"我想那样不怎么合适，"菲利普说。

"到了下个星期，我可以再给你们一个房间。眼下布赖顿游客拥挤，将就些吧。"

"就只住几天工夫，菲利普，我想我们可以凑合着对付几天再说，"米尔德丽德接口说。

"我想两个房间要方便些。你可以给我们另外介绍一处食宿公寓吗？"

"可以，不过我想他们也不见得会有比我更多的空房间。"

"请你把地址告诉我们，你不会介意吧？"

那位身材敦实的女主人指给他们的食宿公寓就在下一条街上。于是，他们转身朝它走去。菲利普走起路来还是挺快的，虽说他的身体孱弱，走路还得借助拐杖。米尔德丽德抱着孩子。两人默默地走了一阵子后，他蓦地发觉米尔德丽德哭了。哭声扰得他心烦意乱。他不予理睬，可是她硬是把他的注意力吸引了过去。

"把你的手帕给我用一用好吗？我抱着孩子不能掏手帕，"她抽抽搭搭地说着，转过脑袋，不看菲利普。

菲利普默默无言地把自己的手帕递了过去。米尔德丽德擦干了眼泪，看他不说话，便接着说：

"我这个人身上可能有毒。"

"请你别在大街上吵吵嚷嚷的，"菲利普说。

"你那样坚持要两个单人房间也太可笑了。别人对我们会怎么看呢？"

"要是人们知道真情的话，我想他们一定会认为我们俩都很有道德，"菲利普说。

这当儿，米尔德丽德睨视了菲利普一眼。

"你总不会告诉人家我们不是夫妻吧？"米尔德丽德紧接着问道。

"不会的。"

"那你为何不能像丈夫似的跟我睡在一起呢？"

"亲爱的，对此，我无法解释。我无意羞屏你，但我就是解释不清。我知道这种念头是愚蠢的，也是不合情理的，但这种念头非常执著，比我坚强。我过去非常爱你，以至如今……"他突然中断了他的话。"不管怎么说，这种事情是不可言喻的。"

"哼，你从来就没有爱过我！"米尔德丽德嚷道。

他们俩按着所给的地址，一路摸到了那家食宿公寓。原来，这家食宿公寓是个精力旺盛的老处女开设的。她长着一对狡黠的眼睛，说起话来伶牙俐齿的。他们要么租赁一个双人房间，每人每周出二十五先令，那小孩也要出五先令，要么就住两个单人房间，但每周可得多付租金一英镑之多。

"我不得不收这么高的租金，"那个老处女带着歉意解释道，"因为，如果有必要的话，我甚至可以在单人房间里都摆上两张床。"

"我想那租金也不见得会使我们破产。你说呢，米尔德丽德？"

"嗨，我才不在乎呢，一切安排对我来说都是够好的，"她回答说。

菲利普讨厌她那阴阳怪气的回答，但一笑置之。女房东已经派人去车站取他们的行李了，于是，他们坐下来边休息边等着。此刻，菲利普感到那只开过刀的脚隐隐作痛，便把它搁在一张椅子上，心里舒坦多了。

"我想我和你同坐在一个房间里，你不会介意吧？"米尔德丽德冲撞地说。

"我们就不要赌气斗嘴啦，米尔德丽德，"菲利普轻声规劝道。

"我倒不了解你手头还很有几个钱呢，竟能每周抛出去一镑的房钱。"

"别对我发火。我要让你明白，我们俩只能这样子住在一起。"

"我想你是瞧不起我，肯定是的。"

"当然不是这样的。我为什么瞧不起你呢？"

"一切都是那么别扭，很不自然。"

"是吗？你并不爱我，是不？"

"我？你把我当成什么人了？"

"看来你也不像是个易动情的女人，你不是那样的女人。"

"此话说得太丢脸了，"米尔德丽德阴沉沉地说。

"哦，我要是你的话，才不会为这种事大惊小怪呢。"

这家食宿公寓里大约住着十多个人。他们都来到一个狭窄的、光线昏暗的房间里，围坐在一张狭长的桌子四周用餐。女房东端坐在餐桌的顶头，为大家分发食物。饭菜做得很差劲，可女房东却称之为法国烹调，她说这话的意思是下等的原料加上些蹩脚的佐料：用鲽鱼冒充箬鳎鱼，把新西兰老羊肉充作羔羊肉。厨房既小又不方便，所以端上来的饭菜差一不多都是凉的。房客中有陪伴上了年纪尚未出阁的老姑娘的老夫人；有。假装斯文、滑稽可笑的老光棍；还有脸色苍白的中年职员和他们的夫人，他们在一起津津有味地谈论着他们那些已出嫁的女儿以及在殖民地身居高位的儿子。这些人反应迟钝，却又装腔作势。在餐桌上，他们议论科雷莉小姐的最新出版的小说，其中有些人喜欢莱顿勋爵而不喜欢阿尔马·塔德曼先生，而另外几位恰恰与此相反。不久，米尔德丽德却跟那些太太们谈论起她同菲利普两人的富有浪漫色彩的婚姻来了。她说菲利普发觉自己成了众矢之的，因为他还是个"书生"（说话时，米尔德丽德常常把"学生"说成"书生"）时就同一位姑娘成了亲，所以他一家人--颇有地位的乡下绅士--便取消了他的财产继承权；而米尔德丽德的父亲--在德文郡拥有大片土地--就因为米尔德丽德同菲利普结婚，也撒手不管她的事儿。这就是为什么他们来住一家食宿公寓而又不为孩子雇个保姆的缘故。不过，他们得分开住两个房间，因为他们历来舒适惯了，可不想一家人挤在一个狭小的房间里头。同样，其他几位游客对他们自己之所以住在这种食宿公寓里也有各种各样的理由。其中一位单身绅士通常总是到大都市去度假的，可他喜欢热闹，而在那些大旅馆里总是找不到一个可心的伙伴。那位身边带着一位中年未出阁女儿的老太太正在伦敦修建一幢漂亮的别墅，可她却对女儿说："格文妮，我亲爱的，今年我们一定得换换口味，去度个穷假。"因此，她们俩就来到了这儿，尽管这儿的一切同她们的生活习惯是那么的格格不入。米尔德丽德发觉他们这些人都太矜夸傲慢了，而她就是厌恶粗俗的平庸之辈。她喜欢的绅士就应该是名副其实的绅士。

"一旦人成了绅士和淑女，"米尔德丽德说，"我就喜欢他们是绅士和淑女。"

这种话对菲利普来说有些儿神秘莫测。但是当他听到她三番两次地跟不同的人说这种话时，他发现听者无不欣然赞同，由此他得出结论，只有他是个榆木脑瓜，一点也不开窍。菲利普和米尔德丽德单独成天厮守在一起，这还是破天荒第一次。在伦敦，他白天整天看不到她，晚上回家时，他们也只是聊一阵子家务、孩子以及邻居的事儿，随后他就坐下来做他的功课。眼下，他却成天伴在她左右。早饭后，他们俩便步行去海边，下海洗把澡，然后沿着海滩散一会儿步，上午的时光不费事就过去了。到了黄昏时分，他们把孩子弄上床睡着以后，便上海边码头消磨时光，倒还舒畅。因为在那里，耳畔不时传来轻柔的乐曲声，服前人流络绎不绝（菲利普借想象这些人的各种各样的身分并就这些编造了许许多多小故事以自娱。现在，他养成一种习惯，就是嘴上哼哼哈哈地敷衍着米尔德丽德的话语，而自己的思绪不为所动，继续自由地驰骋着），可就是下午的时间冗长乏味，令人难熬。他们俩坐在海滩上。米尔德丽德说他们要尽情享受布赖顿博士赐予人们的恩泽。由于她老是在一旁剌剌不休地发表她对世间万物的高见，他一点也没法看书。要是他不加理睬，她就会埋怨。

"喔，快把你那些愚蠢的破书收起来吧。你老是看书也看不出名堂来的，只会越看头脑越糊涂，你将来肯定是昏头昏脑的，菲利普。"

"尽说些混帐话！"他顶了一句。

"再说，老是捧着本书，待人也太简慢了。"

菲利普发现也难跟她交谈。她自己在说话的当儿，也不能集中自己的注意力，因此，每每眼前跑过一条狗，或者走过一位身穿色彩鲜艳的运动夹克的男人，都会引起她叽叽呱呱地议论上几句。然而，过不了多久，她会把刚才说的话忘个精光。她的记忆力甚差，就是记不住人的名字，但不记起这些名字又不甘心，因此常常在讲话中戛然停顿下来，绞尽脑汁，搜索枯肠，硬是要把它们记起来，有时候，因实在想不出而只好作罢。可是后来她谈着谈着，又忽然想起来了，这时，即使菲利普在讲另外一些事，她也会打断他的话，插进来说：

"科林斯，正是这个名字。我那会儿就知道我会记起来的。科林斯，我刚才一下记不起来的就是这个名字。"

这倒把菲利普给激怒了。却原来不管他在说些什么，她都不听；而要是她讲话时菲利普一声不响的话，她可要埋怨他死气沉沉的。对那些抽象的慨念，听不了五分钟，她那个脑子就转不起来了。每当菲利普津津有味地把一些具体的事物上升为抽象的理论，她脸上立刻就会显露出厌烦的神色。米尔德丽德常常做梦，而且记得非常牢，每天都要在菲利普跟前罗罗唆唆地复述她的梦境。

一天早晨，他收到了索普·阿特尔涅写来的一封长信。阿特尔汉正以戏剧性的方式度假。这种方式很有见地，同时也显示出他此人的个性。他以这样的方式度假由来已久，已有十年的历史了。他把全家带到肯特郡的一片蛇麻草田野上，那儿离阿特尔涅太太的老家不远，他们要在那儿采集三周的蛇麻子草。这样，他们可以成天呆在旷野里，还可以赚几个外快。使阿特尔涅太太更感满意的是，这样的度假方式同以使他们全家同生她养她的故乡土地之间的关系得到加强。而阿特尔涅在信中也正是特别强调这一点。置身在旷野里给他们带来了新的活力，这像是举行了一次富有魔力的典礼，使得他们返老还童，生气勃勃，精神大振。以前，菲科普就曾经听到阿特尔涅就这个问题滔滔不绝地、绘声绘色地发表过一通离奇古怪的议论。此刻，阿特尔涅在信中邀请菲利普到他们那儿呆上一天，说他渴望把他对莎士比亚以及奏乐杯的想法告诉给菲利普听，还说孩子们嚷着要见见菲利普叔叔。下午，在同米尔德丽德一道坐在海滩上时，他又把信打开来看了一遍。他思念起那九个孩子的慈祥的妈妈、好客的阿特尔涅太太；想起了莎莉，她年纪不大却神情端庄，稍稍带有一种做母亲的仪态和一种富有权威的神气，她前额宽阔，一头秀发编成一根长长的辫子；接着又想起了一大群别的孩子，一个个长得俊俏、健康，成天乐呵呵的，吵吵嚷嚷的。他的心一下子飞到了他们的身边。他们身上具有一种品质--仁慈，这是他以前从来没有在别的人身上看到过的。直到现在，菲利普才意识到他的心显然被他们那种光彩照人的品质深深地吸引住了。从理论上来说，他不相信什么仁慈不仁慈，因为倘若道德不过是件给人方便的事儿的话，那善与恶也就没有意义了。他可不喜欢自己的思路缺乏逻辑性，但是仁慈却明摆着，那么自然而毫无矫饰，而且他认为这种仁慈美不可言。在沉思的当儿，他漫不经心地把阿特尔涅的来信撕成了碎片。他想不出一个甩掉米尔德丽德而自己独身前往的办法来，但他又不愿意带着米尔德丽德一同前去。

这天烈日炎炎，天空中无一丝云彩，他们只得躲避在一个阴凉的角落里。那孩子一本正经地坐在沙滩上玩石子，间或爬到菲利普的身边，递过一块石子让菲利普握着，接着又把它从他手中抠去，小心翼翼地放在沙滩上。她在玩一种只有她知道的神秘的、错综复杂的游戏。此时，米尔德丽德呼呼人睡了，仰面朝天，嘴巴微启着，两腿成八字形叉开，脚上套的靴子祥于古怪地顶着衬裙。以往他的目光只是木然无神地落在她的身上，可此刻他却目不转睛地望着她，目光里闪烁着一种希奇的神情。他以往狂热地爱恋着她的情景历历在目，他心里头不禁暗自纳闷，不知道他为什么现在对她会这么冷淡的。这种感情上的变化使他心里充满了苦痛，看来，他以往所遭受的一切痛苦毫无价值。过去，一触到她的手，心里便激起一阵狂喜；他曾经渴望自己能钻进她的心灵里去，这样可以同她用一个脑子思想，分享她的每一种感情。当他们俩陷入沉默的时候，她所说的每一句话无不表明他们俩的思想简直是南辕北辙，背道而驰。他曾对隔在人与人之间一道不可逾越的障碍作出过反抗。为此，他身受切肤之痛。他曾经发狂似地爱过她，而眼下却对她无一丝一毫爱情可言。他莫名其妙地感到这是一种悲剧。有时候，他很恨米尔德丽德。她啥也学不会，而从生活的经历中她什么教训也没有汲取。她一如既往，还是那么粗野。听到她粗暴地呵斥食宿公寓里的那位累断筋骨的女用人时，菲利普心中十分反感。

不一会儿，菲利普盘算起自己的种种计划来了。学完四年之后，他就可以参加妇产科的考试了，再过上一年，他就可以取得当医生的资格。然后，他就设法到西班牙去旅行一趟，亲眼去欣赏一下只能从照片上看到的那儿的旖旎风光。刹那间，他深深地感到神秘莫测的埃尔·格列柯紧紧地攫住了他的心，暗自思忖，到了托莱多他一定能找到埃尔·格列柯。他无意去任意挥霍，有了那一百英镑，他可以在西班牙住上半年。要是马卡利斯特再能给他带来个好运，他完全可以轻而易举地达到自己的目的。一想到那些风景优美的城池和卡斯蒂尔一带黄褐色的平原，他的心里就热乎乎的。他深信他可以从现世生活中享受到比它给予的更多的乐趣，他想他在西班牙的生活可能更为紧张：也许有可能在一个古老城市里行医，因为那儿有许多路过或者定居的外国人，他可以在那儿找到一条谋生之路。不过那还是以后的事。首先，他要谋得一两个医院里的差使，这样可以积累些经验，以后找工作更为容易些。他希望能在一条不定期的远洋货轮上当名随船医生，在船上有个住舱。这种船装卸货物没有限期，这样可以有足够的时间在轮船停留地游览观光。他想到东方去旅行。他的脑海里闪现出曼谷、上海和日本海港的风光。他遐想着那一丛丛棕榈树、烈日当空的蓝天、肤色黧黑的人们以及一座座宝塔，那东方特有的气味刺激着他的鼻腔。他那心房激荡着对那世界的奇妙的渴望之情。

米尔德丽德醒了。

"我想我肯定睡着了，"她说。"哎哟，你这个死丫头，瞧你尽干了些啥呀？菲利普，她身上的衣服昨天还是干干净净的，可你瞧，现在成了什么样儿了！"

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chapter 95

When they returned to London Philip began his dressing in the surgical wards. He was not so much interested in surgery as in medicine, which, a more empirical science, offered greater scope to the imagination. The work was a little harder than the corresponding work on the medical side. There was a lecture from nine till ten, when he went into the wards; there wounds had to be dressed, stitches taken out, bandages renewed: Philip prided himself a little on his skill in bandaging, and it amused him to wring a word of approval from a nurse. On certain afternoons in the week there were operations; and he stood in the well of the theatre, in a white jacket, ready to hand the operating surgeon any instrument he wanted or to sponge the blood away so that he could see what he was about. When some rare operation was to be performed the theatre would fill up, but generally there were not more than half a dozen students present, and then the proceedings had a cosiness which Philip enjoyed. At that time the world at large seemed to have a passion for appendicitis, and a good many cases came to the operating theatre for this complaint: the surgeon for whom Philip dressed was in friendly rivalry with a colleague as to which could remove an appendix in the shortest time and with the smallest incision.

In due course Philip was put on accident duty. The dressers took this in turn; it lasted three days, during which they lived in hospital and ate their meals in the common-room; they had a room on the ground floor near the casualty ward, with a bed that shut up during the day into a cupboard. The dresser on duty had to be at hand day and night to see to any casualty that came in. You were on the move all the time, and not more than an hour or two passed during the night without the clanging of the bell just above your head which made you leap out of bed instinctively. Saturday night was of course the busiest time and the closing of the public-houses the busiest hour. Men would be brought in by the police dead drunk and it would be necessary to administer a stomach-pump; women, rather the worse for liquor themselves, would come in with a wound on the head or a bleeding nose which their husbands had given them: some would vow to have the law on him, and others, ashamed, would declare that it had been an accident. What the dresser could manage himself he did, but if there was anything important he sent for the house-surgeon: he did this with care, since the house-surgeon was not vastly pleased to be dragged down five flights of stairs for nothing. The cases ranged from a cut finger to a cut throat. Boys came in with hands mangled by some machine, men were brought who had been knocked down by a cab, and children who had broken a limb while playing: now and then attempted suicides were carried in by the police: Philip saw a ghastly, wild-eyed man with a great gash from ear to ear, and he was in the ward for weeks afterwards in charge of a constable, silent, angry because he was alive, and sullen; he made no secret of the fact that he would try again to kill himself as soon as he was released. The wards were crowded, and the house-surgeon was faced with a dilemma when patients were brought in by the police: if they were sent on to the station and died there disagreeable things were said in the papers; and it was very difficult sometimes to tell if a man was dying or drunk. Philip did not go to bed till he was tired out, so that he should not have the bother of getting up again in an hour; and he sat in the casualty ward talking in the intervals of work with the night-nurse. She was a gray-haired woman of masculine appearance, who had been night-nurse in the casualty department for twenty years. She liked the work because she was her own mistress and had no sister to bother her. Her movements were slow, but she was immensely capable and she never failed in an emergency. The dressers, often inexperienced or nervous, found her a tower of strength. She had seen thousands of them, and they made no impression upon her: she always called them Mr. Brown; and when they expostulated and told her their real names, she merely nodded and went on calling them Mr. Brown. It interested Philip to sit with her in the bare room, with its two horse-hair couches and the flaring gas, and listen to her. She had long ceased to look upon the people who came in as human beings; they were drunks, or broken arms, or cut throats. She took the vice and misery and cruelty of the world as a matter of course; she found nothing to praise or blame in human actions: she accepted. She had a certain grim humour.

‘I remember one suicide,’ she said to Philip, ‘who threw himself into the Thames. They fished him out and brought him here, and ten days later he developed typhoid fever from swallowing Thames water.’

‘Did he die?’

‘Yes, he did all right. I could never make up my mind if it was suicide or not.... They’re a funny lot, suicides. I remember one man who couldn’t get any work to do and his wife died, so he pawned his clothes and bought a revolver; but he made a mess of it, he only shot out an eye and he got all right. And then, if you please, with an eye gone and a piece of his face blow away, he came to the conclusion that the world wasn’t such a bad place after all, and he lived happily ever afterwards. Thing I’ve always noticed, people don’t commit suicide for love, as you’d expect, that’s just a fancy of novelists; they commit suicide because they haven’t got any money. I wonder why that is.’

‘I suppose money’s more important than love,’ suggested Philip.

Money was in any case occupying Philip’s thoughts a good deal just then. He discovered the little truth there was in the airy saying which himself had repeated, that two could live as cheaply as one, and his expenses were beginning to worry him. Mildred was not a good manager, and it cost them as much to live as if they had eaten in restaurants; the child needed clothes, and Mildred boots, an umbrella, and other small things which it was impossible for her to do without. When they returned from Brighton she had announced her intention of getting a job, but she took no definite steps, and presently a bad cold laid her up for a fortnight. When she was well she answered one or two advertisements, but nothing came of it: either she arrived too late and the vacant place was filled, or the work was more than she felt strong enough to do. Once she got an offer, but the wages were only fourteen shillings a week, and she thought she was worth more than that.

‘It’s no good letting oneself be put upon,’ she remarked. ‘People don’t respect you if you let yourself go too cheap.’

‘I don’t think fourteen shillings is so bad,’ answered Philip, drily.

He could not help thinking how useful it would be towards the expenses of the household, and Mildred was already beginning to hint that she did not get a place because she had not got a decent dress to interview employers in. He gave her the dress, and she made one or two more attempts, but Philip came to the conclusion that they were not serious. She did not want to work. The only way he knew to make money was on the Stock Exchange, and he was very anxious to repeat the lucky experiment of the summer; but war had broken out with the Transvaal and nothing was doing in South Africans. Macalister told him that Redvers Buller would march into Pretoria in a month and then everything would boom. The only thing was to wait patiently. What they wanted was a British reverse to knock things down a bit, and then it might be worth while buying. Philip began reading assiduously the ‘city chat’ of his favourite newspaper. He was worried and irritable. Once or twice he spoke sharply to Mildred, and since she was neither tactful nor patient she answered with temper, and they quarrelled. Philip always expressed his regret for what he had said, but Mildred had not a forgiving nature, and she would sulk for a couple of days. She got on his nerves in all sorts of ways; by the manner in which she ate, and by the untidiness which made her leave articles of clothing about their sitting-room: Philip was excited by the war and devoured the papers, morning and evening; but she took no interest in anything that happened. She had made the acquaintance of two or three people who lived in the street, and one of them had asked if she would like the curate to call on her. She wore a wedding-ring and called herself Mrs. Carey. On Philip’s walls were two or three of the drawings which he had made in Paris, nudes, two of women and one of Miguel Ajuria, standing very square on his feet, with clenched fists. Philip kept them because they were the best things he had done, and they reminded him of happy days. Mildred had long looked at them with disfavour.

‘I wish you’d take those drawings down, Philip,’ she said to him at last. ‘Mrs. Foreman, of number thirteen, came in yesterday afternoon, and I didn’t know which way to look. I saw her staring at them.’

‘What’s the matter with them?’

‘They’re indecent. Disgusting, that’s what I call it, to have drawings of naked people about. And it isn’t nice for baby either. She’s beginning to notice things now.’

‘How can you be so vulgar?’

‘Vulgar? Modest, I call it. I’ve never said anything, but d’you think I like having to look at those naked people all day long.’

‘Have you no sense of humour at all, Mildred?’ he asked frigidly.

‘I don’t know what sense of humour’s got to do with it. I’ve got a good mind to take them down myself. If you want to know what I think about them, I think they’re disgusting.’

‘I don’t want to know what you think about them, and I forbid you to touch them.’

When Mildred was cross with him she punished him through the baby. The little girl was as fond of Philip as he was of her, and it was her great pleasure every morning to crawl into his room (she was getting on for two now and could walk pretty well), and be taken up into his bed. When Mildred stopped this the poor child would cry bitterly. To Philip’s remonstrances she replied:

‘I don’t want her to get into habits.’

And if then he said anything more she said:

‘It’s nothing to do with you what I do with my child. To hear you talk one would think you was her father. I’m her mother, and I ought to know what’s good for her, oughtn’t I?’

Philip was exasperated by Mildred’s stupidity; but he was so indifferent to her now that it was only at times she made him angry. He grew used to having her about. Christmas came, and with it a couple of days holiday for Philip. He brought some holly in and decorated the flat, and on Christmas Day he gave small presents to Mildred and the baby. There were only two of them so they could not have a turkey, but Mildred roasted a chicken and boiled a Christmas pudding which she had bought at a local grocer’s. They stood themselves a bottle of wine. When they had dined Philip sat in his arm-chair by the fire, smoking his pipe; and the unaccustomed wine had made him forget for a while the anxiety about money which was so constantly with him. He felt happy and comfortable. Presently Mildred came in to tell him that the baby wanted him to kiss her good-night, and with a smile he went into Mildred’s bed-room. Then, telling the child to go to sleep, he turned down the gas and, leaving the door open in case she cried, went back into the sitting-room.

‘Where are you going to sit?’ he asked Mildred.

‘You sit in your chair. I’m going to sit on the floor.’

When he sat down she settled herself in front of the fire and leaned against his knees. He could not help remembering that this was how they had sat together in her rooms in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, but the positions had been reversed; it was he who had sat on the floor and leaned his head against her knee. How passionately he had loved her then! Now he felt for her a tenderness he had not known for a long time. He seemed still to feel twined round his neck the baby’s soft little arms.

‘Are you comfy?’ he asked.

She looked up at him, gave a slight smile, and nodded. They gazed into the fire dreamily, without speaking to one another. At last she turned round and stared at him curiously.

‘D’you know that you haven’t kissed me once since I came here?’ she said suddenly.

‘D’you want me to?’ he smiled.

‘I suppose you don’t care for me in that way any more?’

‘I’m very fond of you.’

‘You’re much fonder of baby.’

He did not answer, and she laid her cheek against his hand.

‘You’re not angry with me any more?’ she asked presently, with her eyes cast down.

‘Why on earth should I be?’

‘I’ve never cared for you as I do now. It’s only since I passed through the fire that I’ve learnt to love you.’ It chilled Philip to hear her make use of the sort of phrase she read in the penny novelettes which she devoured. Then he wondered whether what she said had any meaning for her: perhaps she knew no other way to express her genuine feelings than the stilted language of The Family Herald.

‘It seems so funny our living together like this.’

He did not reply for quite a long time, and silence fell upon them again; but at last he spoke and seemed conscious of no interval.

‘You mustn’t be angry with me. One can’t help these things. I remember that I thought you wicked and cruel because you did this, that, and the other; but it was very silly of me. You didn’t love me, and it was absurd to blame you for that. I thought I could make you love me, but I know now that was impossible. I don’t know what it is that makes someone love you, but whatever it is, it’s the only thing that matters, and if it isn’t there you won’t create it by kindness, or generosity, or anything of that sort.’

‘I should have thought if you’d loved me really you’d have loved me still.’

‘I should have thought so too. I remember how I used to think that it would last for ever, I felt I would rather die than be without you, and I used to long for the time when you would be faded and wrinkled so that nobody cared for you any more and I should have you all to myself.’

She did not answer, and presently she got up and said she was going to bed. She gave a timid little smile.

‘It’s Christmas Day, Philip, won’t you kiss me good-night?’

He gave a laugh, blushed slightly, and kissed her. She went to her bed-room and he began to read.

第九十五章

他们从布赖顿回到伦敦以后，菲利普便上外科病房做包扎工作。他对外科的兴趣不如对内科来得浓厚，因为内科学是一门以经验为依据的科学，给人的想象力以更大的驰骋余地，再说，外科的工作相应地要比内科的累人一些。上午九点至十点他得去听课。课一散，便上病房包扎伤口啦，拆线啦，换绷带啦，忙个不停。菲利普自夸上绷带还有一手。每当护上说了句把赞许的话，他听后心里总有一种甜丝丝的感觉。每周总有几个下午进行外科手术，此时，菲利普便身穿白大褂，站在手术示范室的助手位置上，随时递上手术师所需要的器械，或者用海绵吸去污血，好让手术师看清下手的位置。一旦对不常见的疑难病症开刀时，手术示范室里就挤得满屋子都是人，不过，通常只有五六个学生在场。接着手术便在一种菲利普颇为欣赏的恬静的气氛下有条不紊地进行着。当时，世人好像特别爱生阑尾炎似的，被送进手术室来割除盲肠的病人何其多矣！菲利普在一名外科医生手下当敷裹员，而这位大夫同他的一名同事进行着一场友好对抗赛，比谁盲肠割除得快，谁的切口小。

不久，菲利普被指派去负责事故急诊病人。敷裹员们轮流担当此职，轮上一次，连续值班三天。在这期间，他们得住在医院，一日三餐都在公共休息室里吃。大楼底层临时收容室附近有个房间，里面有张床，白天叠起来放在壁橱里。无论白天黑夜，当班的敷裹员都得随叫随到，时刻准备照料送来的受伤病人，从早到晚，疲于奔命。夜里，每过一两个小时，头顶上方的铃声便当哪当哪响个不停；铃声一响，当班的敷裹员便本能地从床上一跃而起。星期六夜里当然是最忙的，特别是酒馆一打烊，医院里更是忙得不可开交。警察们把一个个醉汉送进来。此时，他们得赶快用胃唧筒把他们胃里的酒抽出来。而送进来的女人比那些醉汉情况更严重，不是被她们的丈夫打破了头，就是打得鼻子鲜血直淌。其中有的女人对大赌咒发誓，要上法庭去控告丈夫；有的则羞愧万分，只说是碰上交通事故了。面对这种种情况，敷裹员能处理的，便尽力而为，如处理不了，便去把住院医生请来。不过，敷裹员们一个个都很谨慎，万不得已才去请住院医生，因为住院医生没有好处是决不愿意跑五段楼梯下来看病的。送进医院来的，从断了个指头到割断喉管，各色病人，应有尽有。小伙子们跑来要求包扎被机器轧坏了的双手；被马车撞倒了的行人，在玩耍时不是摔断了腿就是跌折了手的小孩，也被送进医院。间或，警察们还把自杀未遂者抬了进来。菲利普看到一个人脸色惨白，圆睁着一双疯狂的眼睛，嘴巴张着吐出大口大口的血。菲利普在病房里工作了数周之后，一次负责照看一名警官。那位警官看到自己还活着，整天不说一句话，一脸的愤怒和凶相，还公开嚷道，他一出院还要自杀。病房里塞满了病人，此时警察们再送病人来，住院医生就会处于进退两难、首鼠两端的境地。要是叫他们把病人抬到火车站转别处去治疗，万一病人就死在火车站，那各家报纸就会发表耸人听闻的言论。可是有时候也很难断定病人究竟是奄奄一息呢还是醉酒不醒。菲利普直到累得力不能支的时候才上床睡觉，省得才躺下个把小时又要爬起来。他趁工作间隙时间，到急救室同夜班女护士一起聊天。这个女人一副男人相，头发花白，在急救部当了二十年的护士。她很喜欢这个工作，因为不论什么事她自个儿可以说了算，没旁的护士来打扰她。她干起事来手脚不快，不过非常能干，在处理危急病人方面从未出过差错。敷裹员们，不是初出茅庐毫无经验，就是一有事就慌了神儿，但一看到她在场，就顿觉浑身增添了无穷无尽的力量。她见过敷裹员千百个，可从来没有在她脑子里留下一点印象，无论是谁，她都管他们叫布朗先生。当他们劝戒她以后别叫他们布朗先生，并把他们的真实姓名告诉她时，她只是点点头，过后还是继续叫他们布朗先生。她那个房间没什么摆设，只有两张马毛呢面子的长椅，一盏火光融融的煤气灯。菲利普饶有兴趣地坐在那儿聆听她的谈话。她早已不把那些送进医院来的病人当人看待了。在她眼里，他们只是酒鬼、断臂、割破的喉咙。她把疾病、不幸和世界的残忍统统当作理所当然的事情，觉得人们的行动既无值得赞扬也无值得责备的地方。她都默认了。她具有某种冷峭的幽默感。

"有个人的自杀事儿，我至今还记得清清楚楚，"她对菲利普说。"那个人跳进了泰晤士河。人们把他捞了出来，并把他送到这儿来。可十天后，他因喝了泰晤士河里的水而得了伤寒症。"

"他死了吗？"

"是的，他死了。他是不是自杀，我也一直弄不清楚……也真有趣，还会寻短见。我还记得有个人，他找不到活儿干，老婆也死了，就把衣服全部送进当铺，拿了这笔钱买了支左轮手熗。他把自己弄得不成人样，打瞎了一只眼睛，可人却没有死。后来你猜他怎么样，一只眼睛瞎了，脸皮也给削去一块，可他得出个结论，说这个世界毕竟还不太坏。打那以后，他日子还过得挺好的哩。有件事情我一直在注意观察，那就是人们并不像你认为的那样是为爱情去自杀的。这种说法纯粹是小说家们的胡思乱想。人们之所以要寻短见，是因为他们没有钱。我也不知道为什么会这样的。"

"看来金钱比爱情更为重要，"菲利普说道。

就在那时候，钱的事儿不时地在他脑海里盘旋着。他过去常说两人的开销跟一个人的差不多，现在看来那话说得太轻飘了，事实上根本不是这么回事。他越来越为自己的开销之大而发愁。米尔德现德可不是个好管家，由她当家，花费之大，就好比他们一日几餐都是在馆子里吃似的。再说，那个小孩要添置衣服，米尔德丽德要买靴子以及其他一些离了它们就没法过活的零星什物。他们从布赖顿回到伦敦以后，米尔德丽德口口声声说要出去找工作，但就是不见她行动。没几天，一场重感冒害得她接连半个月卧病在床。痊愈后，她根据招聘广告出去试了几次，结果不是因为去迟了位子被人占去，就是因为活儿太重她吃不消而作罢。一次，有个地方主动招她去做工，每周工资十四先令，可她认为自己不应该只拿那么点工资。

"不管人家开什么价你都接受，那样做是没有好处的，"她振振有词地说。"要是你太自贱了，人家会瞧不起的。"

"我认为每周十四先令也不能算少了，"菲利普干巴巴地顶了一句。

菲利普不禁想有了这十四先令，家里的开销就可以松一些了。可米尔德丽德已经在暗示菲利普，说她之所以找不到工作，是因为她去会见雇主的时候，身上没有一件像样的衣服。菲利普便买了件给她。虽然她又出去试了几次，但菲利普认为她根本不诚心找工作，啥事都不想干。菲利普所了解的唯一生财之道是股票交易所。他夏天初次尝试，就得到了甜头，眼下急于再交个好运。但是，德兰士瓦发生了战事，南非境内一切陷入停顿。马卡利斯特对菲利普说，不出一个月，雷德弗斯·布勒就要开进比勒陀利亚，到那时，行情就会看涨。眼下他们只有耐心等待，等着英国的反击使物价下跌，到那时兴许可以购进股票。菲利普迫不及待地翻阅着他常看的报纸上的"市井趣谈"专栏。他忧心忡忡，肝火很旺，动不动就发脾气。有那么一两次，他正言厉色地说了米尔德丽德几句，可碰上米尔德丽德既不圆通也没那份耐心，当场以牙还牙，发了通脾气，结果两人大吵一场。菲利普照例对自己所做的事情感到悔恨万分，而米尔德丽德对人生就没有宽容之心，接连好几天，不给菲利普一点好颜色看，并且吃饭时故作姿态，有意不扫房间，把衣服什物扔得起居室满地都是，变着法儿来刺激菲利普，搅得他一刻不得安宁。菲利普一门心思注视着战事的进展，早早晚晚贪婪地翻阅着报纸，可她对眼前的一切却毫无兴趣。她在街道上结识了几个人，其中一位曾问过她是否要叫副牧师来看看她。米尔德丽德便戴上一只结婚戒指，自称为凯里太太。寓所墙上挂了两三张菲利普在巴黎创作的画，其中两张是女人的裸体像，还有一张画的是米格尔·阿胡里亚，画面上的米格尔·阿胡里亚紧握双拳，两腿叉开地挺立着。菲利普把这几张画挂在墙上，因为它们是他的最佳画作，一看见它们，他就想起了在巴黎度过的那段美好时光。米尔德丽德对这几张裸体画早就看不顺眼了。

"菲利普，我希望你把那几张画摘下来，"一天，她终于憋不住了，开腔说道。"昨天下午住十三号的福尔曼太太来后，我的眼睛不知看什么好了。我发觉她两眼瞪视着那几张画。"

"那几张画怎么啦？"

"那几张画很不正经。照我说，房间里挂满了裸体画像，真叫人讨厌。再说这对我的孩子也没有益处。她慢慢开始懂事了。"

"你怎么这样庸俗？"

"庸俗？我说这是叫趣味高雅。对这几张画，我一直没说过什么话，难道你就以为我喜欢成天价看着那几个赤身裸体的画中人吗？"

"米尔德丽德，你怎么就没有一点点幽默感呢？"菲利普口气冷冷地诘问道。

"我不晓得此事跟幽默感有什么关系。我真想伸手把它们摘下来。如果你想听听我对这几张画的看法，那么老实告诉你，我认为它们令人作呕。"

"我不想知道你有什么看法，我也不准你碰这几张画。"

每当米尔德丽德同菲利普怄气时，她就拿孩子出气，借此惩罚菲利普。那个小女孩正如菲利普喜欢她那样也非常喜欢菲利普。她把每天清晨爬进菲利普的卧室（她快两岁了，已经会走路了），随即被抱进他的被窝里这件事，当作一大乐事。米尔德丽德一不让她爬时，她就会伤心地哭叫起来。菲利普一劝说，米尔德丽德随即顶撞道：

"我不希望她养成这种习惯。"

此时，要是菲利普再多言，她就会说：

"我怎么管教我的孩子，不与你相干。让别人听见了，还以为你就是她的老子呢。我是她的老娘，我应该知道什么事是对她有好处的，难道我不应该吗？"

米尔德丽德竟如此不明事理，菲利普感到非常恼怒。不过，菲利普这一向对她很冷淡，因此很少生她的气了。对她在自己身边走动，菲利普也慢慢习惯了。转眼圣诞节到了，菲利普有几天假日。他带了几棵冬青树回家，把房间装饰了一番。圣诞节那天，他还分别给米尔德丽德及其女儿赠送了几件小小的礼物。他们总共才两个人，所以不能吃火鸡了。但是米尔德丽德还是烧了只小鸡，煮了块圣诞节布丁，这些东西是她从街上食品店里买来的。他们俩还喝了瓶葡萄酒。吃完晚餐后，菲利普坐在炉火边的安乐椅里，抽着烟斗。他喝不惯葡萄酒，几滴酒下肚，倒使他暂时忘却了近来一直在为钱操心的事儿。他感到心旷神怡。不一会儿，米尔德丽德走了进来，告诉他那女孩要他吻她。菲利普脸带微笑地走进了米尔德丽德的卧室。接着，他哄那孩子闭上眼睛睡觉，随手捻暗煤气灯。在走出卧室时，他怕孩子会哭，便让房门敞开着。他回到了起居室。

"你坐在哪儿？"他问米尔德丽德说。

"你还坐在安乐椅里。我就坐在地板上。"

他坐进安乐椅里，接着米尔德丽德席地坐在火炉前，背倚着菲利普的双膝。此时，他不由得回想起当初在沃克斯霍尔大桥路那个房间里的情景来了。那时，他们俩也是这样坐着，不同的是两人的位子颠倒了一下。当时，他菲利普坐在地板上，把头搁在米尔德丽德的膝上。那会儿，他是多么狂热地爱着她呀！眼下，他心中萌发出一种长久以来没有过的温情。他仿佛感到那女孩的柔软的双臂依然环绕着他的颈部。

"你坐得舒服吗？"他问米尔德丽德。

米尔德丽德抬头仰望着菲利普，脸上笑容嫣然，随即点了点头。他们俩神情恍惚地望着壁炉里的火苗，谁也不说话。最后，米尔德丽德转过身来，凝视着菲利普，眼睛里闪烁着好奇的目光。

"打我来到这里，你还一次没吻过我呢。你知道吗？"她突然说道。

"你要我吻吗？"菲利普笑着反问了一句。

"我想你再也不会用那种方式来表示你喜欢我了吧？"

"我非常喜欢你。"

"你更喜欢我的女儿。"

菲利普没有回答，此时，米尔德丽德将脸颊紧贴着他的手。

"你不再生我的气了？"接着她又问道，两眼望着地板。

"我为什么要生你的气呢？"

"我从来没有像现在这样喜欢你，我是在历尽辛苦、受尽磨难之后才学会爱你的呀。"

听到她说出这样的话来，菲利普的心一下子冷了半截。她用的那些词语全是她从看过的廉价小说里抠来的。他不禁怀疑她说这番话时，她心里是否当真是那样想的。或许她除了运用从《家政先驱报》上学来的夸张言词之外，不知道用什么办法来表达她的真情实感吧。

"我们俩像这样子生活在一起，似乎太离奇了。"

菲利普久久没有作答，沉默再次笼罩着他们俩。不过最后菲利普终于开口说话了，看来还没完没了呢。

"你不要生我的气。这类事情的发生，实在也是没有法子。我知道我过去因为你做的那些事情而认为你刻毒、狠心，但我也太傻气了。你过去不爱我，为此而责备你是荒谬的。我曾经认为我可以想法子叫你爱我，但我现在明白了，那是根本不可能的。我不知道是什么东西使得别人爱上你的，但不管是什么缘故，只有一个条件在起作用，要是不具备这个条件，你的心再好，你再大方，也决不能创造出这种条件来的。"

"我早该想到，要是你曾经真心实意地爱我，那你应该仍旧爱着我。"

"我也早该这么想的。我至今还记得清清楚楚。过去我常常认为这种爱情将是天长地久不会变的。那时候，我感到宁愿去死也不能没有你。我时常渴望着有那么一天，当你色衰容谢，谁也不喜欢你的时候，我将永生永世陪伴着你。"

米尔德南德默不作声。接着，她站了起来，说是要上床歇着去了。她朝菲利普胆怯地启齿笑了笑。

"今天是圣诞节，菲利普，你愿意同我吻别吗？"

菲利普哈哈一笑，双颊微微发红。他吻了吻米尔德丽德。米尔德丽德走进了卧室，他便开始埋头读书。

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等级: 内阁元老

青春又回来了嘛(*^▽^*)

举报只看该作者 98楼发表于: 2014-09-02 0

chapter 96

The climax came two or three weeks later. Mildred was driven by Philip’s behaviour to a pitch of strange exasperation. There were many different emotions in her soul, and she passed from mood to mood with facility. She spent a great deal of time alone and brooded over her position. She did not put all her feelings into words, she did not even know what they were, but certain things stood out in her mind, and she thought of them over and over again. She had never understood Philip, nor had very much liked him; but she was pleased to have him about her because she thought he was a gentleman. She was impressed because his father had been a doctor and his uncle was a clergyman. She despised him a little because she had made such a fool of him, and at the same time was never quite comfortable in his presence; she could not let herself go, and she felt that he was criticising her manners.

When she first came to live in the little rooms in Kennington she was tired out and ashamed. She was glad to be left alone. It was a comfort to think that there was no rent to pay; she need not go out in all weathers, and she could lie quietly in bed if she did not feel well. She had hated the life she led. It was horrible to have to be affable and subservient; and even now when it crossed her mind she cried with pity for herself as she thought of the roughness of men and their brutal language. But it crossed her mind very seldom. She was grateful to Philip for coming to her rescue, and when she remembered how honestly he had loved her and how badly she had treated him, she felt a pang of remorse. It was easy to make it up to him. It meant very little to her. She was surprised when he refused her suggestion, but she shrugged her shoulders: let him put on airs if he liked, she did not care, he would be anxious enough in a little while, and then it would be her turn to refuse; if he thought it was any deprivation to her he was very much mistaken. She had no doubt of her power over him. He was peculiar, but she knew him through and through. He had so often quarrelled with her and sworn he would never see her again, and then in a little while he had come on his knees begging to be forgiven. It gave her a thrill to think how he had cringed before her. He would have been glad to lie down on the ground for her to walk on him. She had seen him cry. She knew exactly how to treat him, pay no attention to him, just pretend you didn’t notice his tempers, leave him severely alone, and in a little while he was sure to grovel. She laughed a little to herself, good-humouredly, when she thought how he had come and eaten dirt before her. She had had her fling now. She knew what men were and did not want to have anything more to do with them. She was quite ready to settle down with Philip. When all was said, he was a gentleman in every sense of the word, and that was something not to be sneezed at, wasn’t it? Anyhow she was in no hurry, and she was not going to take the first step. She was glad to see how fond he was growing of the baby, though it tickled her a good deal; it was comic that he should set so much store on another man’s child. He was peculiar and no mistake.

But one or two things surprised her. She had been used to his subservience: he was only too glad to do anything for her in the old days, she was accustomed to see him cast down by a cross word and in ecstasy at a kind one; he was different now, and she said to herself that he had not improved in the last year. It never struck her for a moment that there could be any change in his feelings, and she thought it was only acting when he paid no heed to her bad temper. He wanted to read sometimes and told her to stop talking: she did not know whether to flare up or to sulk, and was so puzzled that she did neither. Then came the conversation in which he told her that he intended their relations to be platonic, and, remembering an incident of their common past, it occurred to her that he dreaded the possibility of her being pregnant. She took pains to reassure him. It made no difference. She was the sort of woman who was unable to realise that a man might not have her own obsession with sex; her relations with men had been purely on those lines; and she could not understand that they ever had other interests. The thought struck her that Philip was in love with somebody else, and she watched him, suspecting nurses at the hospital or people he met out; but artful questions led her to the conclusion that there was no one dangerous in the Athelny household; and it forced itself upon her also that Philip, like most medical students, was unconscious of the sex of the nurses with whom his work threw him in contact. They were associated in his mind with a faint odour of iodoform. Philip received no letters, and there was no girl’s photograph among his belongings. If he was in love with someone, he was very clever at hiding it; and he answered all Mildred’s questions with frankness and apparently without suspicion that there was any motive in them.

‘I don’t believe he’s in love with anybody else,’ she said to herself at last.

It was a relief, for in that case he was certainly still in love with her; but it made his behaviour very puzzling. If he was going to treat her like that why did he ask her to come and live at the flat? It was unnatural. Mildred was not a woman who conceived the possibility of compassion, generosity, or kindness. Her only conclusion was that Philip was queer. She took it into her head that the reasons for his conduct were chivalrous; and, her imagination filled with the extravagances of cheap fiction, she pictured to herself all sorts of romantic explanations for his delicacy. Her fancy ran riot with bitter misunderstandings, purifications by fire, snow-white souls, and death in the cruel cold of a Christmas night. She made up her mind that when they went to Brighton she would put an end to all his nonsense; they would be alone there, everyone would think them husband and wife, and there would be the pier and the band. When she found that nothing would induce Philip to share the same room with her, when he spoke to her about it with a tone in his voice she had never heard before, she suddenly realised that he did not want her. She was astounded. She remembered all he had said in the past and how desperately he had loved her. She felt humiliated and angry, but she had a sort of native insolence which carried her through. He needn’t think she was in love with him, because she wasn’t. She hated him sometimes, and she longed to humble him; but she found herself singularly powerless; she did not know which way to handle him. She began to be a little nervous with him. Once or twice she cried. Once or twice she set herself to be particularly nice to him; but when she took his arm while they walked along the front at night he made some excuse in a while to release himself, as though it were unpleasant for him to be touched by her. She could not make it out. The only hold she had over him was through the baby, of whom he seemed to grow fonder and fonder: she could make him white with anger by giving the child a slap or a push; and the only time the old, tender smile came back into his eyes was when she stood with the baby in her arms. She noticed it when she was being photographed like that by a man on the beach, and afterwards she often stood in the same way for Philip to look at her.

When they got back to London Mildred began looking for the work she had asserted was so easy to find; she wanted now to be independent of Philip; and she thought of the satisfaction with which she would announce to him that she was going into rooms and would take the child with her. But her heart failed her when she came into closer contact with the possibility. She had grown unused to the long hours, she did not want to be at the beck and call of a manageress, and her dignity revolted at the thought of wearing once more a uniform. She had made out to such of the neighbours as she knew that they were comfortably off: it would be a come-down if they heard that she had to go out and work. Her natural indolence asserted itself. She did not want to leave Philip, and so long as he was willing to provide for her, she did not see why she should. There was no money to throw away, but she got her board and lodging, and he might get better off. His uncle was an old man and might die any day, he would come into a little then, and even as things were, it was better than slaving from morning till night for a few shillings a week. Her efforts relaxed; she kept on reading the advertisement columns of the daily paper merely to show that she wanted to do something if anything that was worth her while presented itself. But panic seized her, and she was afraid that Philip would grow tired of supporting her. She had no hold over him at all now, and she fancied that he only allowed her to stay there because he was fond of the baby. She brooded over it all, and she thought to herself angrily that she would make him pay for all this some day. She could not reconcile herself to the fact that he no longer cared for her. She would make him. She suffered from pique, and sometimes in a curious fashion she desired Philip. He was so cold now that it exasperated her. She thought of him in that way incessantly. She thought that he was treating her very badly, and she did not know what she had done to deserve it. She kept on saying to herself that it was unnatural they should live like that. Then she thought that if things were different and she were going to have a baby, he would be sure to marry her. He was funny, but he was a gentleman in every sense of the word, no one could deny that. At last it became an obsession with her, and she made up her mind to force a change in their relations. He never even kissed her now, and she wanted him to: she remembered how ardently he had been used to press her lips. It gave her a curious feeling to think of it. She often looked at his mouth.

One evening, at the beginning of February, Philip told her that he was dining with Lawson, who was giving a party in his studio to celebrate his birthday; and he would not be in till late; Lawson had bought a couple of bottles of the punch they favoured from the tavern in Beak Street, and they proposed to have a merry evening. Mildred asked if there were going to be women there, but Philip told her there were not; only men had been invited; and they were just going to sit and talk and smoke: Mildred did not think it sounded very amusing; if she were a painter she would have half a dozen models about. She went to bed, but could not sleep, and presently an idea struck her; she got up and fixed the catch on the wicket at the landing, so that Philip could not get in. He came back about one, and she heard him curse when he found that the wicket was closed. She got out of bed and opened.

‘Why on earth did you shut yourself in? I’m sorry I’ve dragged you out of bed.’

‘I left it open on purpose, I can’t think how it came to be shut.’

‘Hurry up and get back to bed, or you’ll catch cold.’

He walked into the sitting-room and turned up the gas. She followed him in. She went up to the fire.

‘I want to warm my feet a bit. They’re like ice.’

He sat down and began to take off his boots. His eyes were shining and his cheeks were flushed. She thought he had been drinking.

‘Have you been enjoying yourself?’ she asked, with a smile.

‘Yes, I’ve had a ripping time.’

Philip was quite sober, but he had been talking and laughing, and he was excited still. An evening of that sort reminded him of the old days in Paris. He was in high spirits. He took his pipe out of his pocket and filled it.

‘Aren’t you going to bed?’ she asked.

‘Not yet, I’m not a bit sleepy. Lawson was in great form. He talked sixteen to the dozen from the moment I got there till the moment I left.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘Heaven knows! Of every subject under the sun. You should have seen us all shouting at the tops of our voices and nobody listening.’

Philip laughed with pleasure at the recollection, and Mildred laughed too. She was pretty sure he had drunk more than was good for him. That was exactly what she had expected. She knew men.

‘Can I sit down?’ she said.

Before he could answer she settled herself on his knees.

‘If you’re not going to bed you’d better go and put on a dressing-gown.’

‘Oh, I’m all right as I am.’ Then putting her arms round his neck, she placed her face against his and said: ‘Why are you so horrid to me, Phil?’

He tried to get up, but she would not let him.

‘I do love you, Philip,’ she said.

‘Don’t talk damned rot.’

‘It isn’t, it’s true. I can’t live without you. I want you.’

He released himself from her arms.

‘Please get up. You’re making a fool of yourself and you’re making me feel a perfect idiot.’

‘I love you, Philip. I want to make up for all the harm I did you. I can’t go on like this, it’s not in human nature.’

He slipped out of the chair and left her in it.

‘I’m very sorry, but it’s too late.’

She gave a heart-rending sob.

‘But why? How can you be so cruel?’

‘I suppose it’s because I loved you too much. I wore the passion out. The thought of anything of that sort horrifies me. I can’t look at you now without thinking of Emil and Griffiths. One can’t help those things, I suppose it’s just nerves.’

She seized his hand and covered it with kisses.

‘Don’t,’ he cried.

She sank back into the chair.

‘I can’t go on like this. If you won’t love me, I’d rather go away.’

‘Don’t be foolish, you haven’t anywhere to go. You can stay here as long as you like, but it must be on the definite understanding that we’re friends and nothing more.’

Then she dropped suddenly the vehemence of passion and gave a soft, insinuating laugh. She sidled up to Philip and put her arms round him. She made her voice low and wheedling.

‘Don’t be such an old silly. I believe you’re nervous. You don’t know how nice I can be.’

She put her face against his and rubbed his cheek with hers. To Philip her smile was an abominable leer, and the suggestive glitter of her eyes filled him with horror. He drew back instinctively.

‘I won’t,’ he said.

But she would not let him go. She sought his mouth with her lips. He took her hands and tore them roughly apart and pushed her away.

‘You disgust me,’ he said.

‘Me?’

She steadied herself with one hand on the chimney-piece. She looked at him for an instant, and two red spots suddenly appeared on her cheeks. She gave a shrill, angry laugh.

‘I disgust YOU.’

She paused and drew in her breath sharply. Then she burst into a furious torrent of abuse. She shouted at the top of her voice. She called him every foul name she could think of. She used language so obscene that Philip was astounded; she was always so anxious to be refined, so shocked by coarseness, that it had never occurred to him that she knew the words she used now. She came up to him and thrust her face in his. It was distorted with passion, and in her tumultuous speech the spittle dribbled over her lips.

‘I never cared for you, not once, I was making a fool of you always, you bored me, you bored me stiff, and I hated you, I would never have let you touch me only for the money, and it used to make me sick when I had to let you kiss me. We laughed at you, Griffiths and me, we laughed because you was such a mug. A mug! A mug!’

Then she burst again into abominable invective. She accused him of every mean fault; she said he was stingy, she said he was dull, she said he was vain, selfish; she cast virulent ridicule on everything upon which he was most sensitive. And at last she turned to go. She kept on, with hysterical violence, shouting at him an opprobrious, filthy epithet. She seized the handle of the door and flung it open. Then she turned round and hurled at him the injury which she knew was the only one that really touched him. She threw into the word all the malice and all the venom of which she was capable. She flung it at him as though it were a blow.

‘Cripple!’

第九十六章

两三个星期之后，菲利普和米尔德丽德两人龃龉的局面白热化了。米尔德丽德被菲利普的言谈举止弄得莫名其妙，愤激非常。她心里好比打翻了五味瓶，酸、甜、苦、辣、咸，各种情感一齐涌泛上来，然而她却从容自如地转换着心情。她常常独处一隅，思量着自己日下的处境。她并没有把她全部感情通过嘴说出来，甚至连那些究竟是什么样的情感都闹不清楚，然而浮现在脑海里的某些东西却是那么清晰明显。于是她反反复复地咀嚼着，回味着。她对菲利普一直不理解，也不怎么喜欢他，但有他伴在自己的身旁，她又感到高兴，因为她认为菲利普是位绅士。她之所以有这样的印象，是因为他的父亲是位医生，他的大伯又是名牧师。她又有点瞧不起他，把他当作傻瓜一样地加以戏弄，呆在他面前她心里又总觉得不是个味儿。她下不了一走了之的决心，但又感到菲利普老是在挑她的岔儿，因而心中很是不快。

刚来肯宁顿这套小房间那会儿，她心力交瘁，内心羞愧不已。能过上无人打搅的清静日子，这正是她求之不得的。一想到不用村房租，她心里舒畅极了。不管天好天环，她都不必外出，要是身体不适，还可以安安静静地躺在床上歇息。她对自己以往过的日子深恶痛绝。见人要堆三分笑，还得卑躬屈膝献殷勤，那种营生简直可怕极了。即使现在，当她回想起男人的粗鲁和他们满嘴的秽语时，当那些情景闪现在她脑际时，她忍不住还要为自己凄苦的身世悲恸欲绝地痛哭一场。不过昔日那种生涯很少出现在她的脑海里了。菲利普帮她跳出了火坑，她感激涕零。当她回忆起往日菲利普爱她爱得那么真诚而她待他又是那么不近情理，一种悔恨自责心情袭上心头。同菲利普和好如初，还不是易如反掌。在她看来，这不是什么了不得的大事。当菲利普拒绝她的建议时，她倒不觉吃了一惊，不过她只是轻蔑地耸了耸双肩：他爱摆架子就让他摆吧，她才不在乎呢。要不了多久，他就会变得心急火燎，到那时，就挨到她拒绝啦。要是菲利普认为他那么一摆架子，她就什么办法也没有了，那他就大错特错了。毫无疑问，她还是拿得住他的。菲利普那人是有点叫人捉摸不定，但是这不打紧，他的脾性她可算是摸透了。菲利普常常同她拌嘴，并一再发誓再也不要见到她，可要不了多久，他又跑回来，跪在她面前，乞求宽恕。想到菲利普拜倒在自己面前的那副丑态，米尔德丽德的心头掠过一阵狂喜。菲利普甚至会心片情愿地躺在地上，让她米尔德丽德踏着他的身子走过去。她看到过他痛哭流涕的样子。米尔德丽德可知道该怎么整治菲利普：不理睬他，任他去发脾气，自己只当没看见，故意冷落他，过不了一会儿，他肯定会跑到她面前来摇尾乞怜的。她脑海里蓦地浮现出菲利普在她面前那种奴颜卑膝的可怜相，她不觉扑哧一笑，还觉得怪开心的哩。这一下她可出了气了。男人的滋味，她算是尝够了，眼下并不想同他们发生什么瓜葛。她差不多打定主意要跟菲利普过一辈子了。说千道万，说到底，菲利普毕竟还是个地地道道的绅士，这一点总不能讥诮嘲弄吧？难道不是吗？不管怎么说，她可用不着着急，她也不准备采取主动。看到菲利普愈来愈喜欢她的女儿，米尔德丽德感到很高兴，虽说她有时也觉得可笑。他居然会那么疼爱她与另一个男人所生的孩子，这事太滑稽了。毋庸置疑，菲利普他那个人是有点儿怪。

不过，有那么一两件事情使得她颇觉诧异。菲利普对她一向百依百顺，唯命是从，对此，她倒也习以为常了。在过去，他巴不得给她跑腿做事呢。她常常看到他为自己的一句气话而神情沮丧，为自己的一句好话而欢天喜地。可现在他却变得判若两人。米尔德丽德自言自语地说，这一年来，菲利普的态度丝毫没有转变。她倒从来没料到菲利普的感情竟会起变化，这种可能性在她脑子里连间都没有闪一下，她总以为她发脾气的当儿菲利普那不闻不问的态度完全是假装的。有时他要读书，竟直截了当地叫她闭嘴不要做声。这当儿，她不知自己该怎么办才好，是以牙还牙，发一通火呢，还是忍气吞声，逆来顺受；她感到迷惑不解，竟什么反应也没有。接着，在一次谈话中间，菲利普告诉她，说他只想让他们俩之间的关系成为一种纯粹是精神上的爱恋关系。此时，米尔德丽德记起他俩相好时的一件事情来了，她突然以为菲利普是怕她会怀孕。为此，她苦口婆心地劝慰他，向他保证出不了纸漏，可菲利普却无动于衷，依然故我。像米尔德丽德这种女人，是不可能理解居然有男人会不像她那样迷恋肉欲的，而她本人同男人的关系则纯粹是一种肉体关系。她永远也不能理解男人还会有其他兴趣和爱好。她心中突然萌发出一个念头，认为菲利普另有所爱了。于是她暗暗观察菲利普，怀疑他同医院里的护士或外面的野女人勾搭上了。她巧妙地问了菲利普几个问题，但从他的答话中得知阿特尔涅家中没有她值得忧虑的人物。她还牵强附会地认为，菲利普同其他医科学生一样，因工作关系才同护士接触，可压根儿没有意识到她们是些女性呢。在他的脑子里，她们总是同淡淡的碘仿气味联系在一起的。没有人给菲利普来信，他的东西里也没夹着姑娘的相片。要是他心有所爱的话，他会把相片藏得好好的，可是他总是态度极其坦率地回答米尔德丽德的所有问题，从中找不出一点蛛丝马迹来。

"我深信他没有爱上任何别的女人，"米尔德丽德自言自语地说。

这件事倒使她心上的石头落了地。这么说来，菲利普当然还是爱着她米尔德丽德啰。但是，这又使菲利普的言谈举止显得难以理解。如果他真是那样对待她的话，那当初又为什么要叫她来住在这套寓所里呢？这事不是太离奇了吗！像米尔德丽德这种女人是根本想不到世间还真有可能存在着怜悯、豁达和仁慈的。她得出的唯一结论是菲利普那个人叫人捉摸不透。她甚至还认为，菲利普的举止态度只有一个理由可以解释，那就是他富有骑士风度，非常敬重女人。她的头脑塞满了廉价小说里的那些污七八糟的荒唐事，整天想入非非，对菲利普那令人伤透脑筋的行为作着种种富有浪漫色彩的解释。她的想象纵横驰骋，想起了什么痛苦的误会啦，圣火的涤罪洁身啦，雪白雪白的心灵啦，还有什么圣诞节之夜的严寒冻死人啦，等等。她决心要趁他俩在布赖顿度假期间，断了他那些荒唐念头。因为到了那儿，他们俩就能单独相处，周围的人无疑都会认为他们是一对夫妻。再说，那儿还有码头和管弦乐队呢。当她发觉任凭她说什么都不能使菲利普同她合住一个房间时，当他用一种她从未听到过的声调跟她谈论这件事时，她顿时醒悟到他根本不需要她。此时，她感到不胜惊骇。菲利普以往向她倾诉的痴情话以及昔日他狂热地钟爱着自己的情景，她至今还记忆犹新。她内心里羞恨交集，很不是滋味。但她天生有种傲慢骄横的性格，难过了一阵后也就没事了。菲利普别以为她真的爱他，其实她根本不爱他。有时，她还恨死他了，巴不得有朝一日好好羞辱他一番呢。但是她发觉自己简直无能为力，真不知有什么办法能对付他。跟他在一起的时候，米尔德丽德渐渐变得局促不安起来。她还暗暗痛哭了一两次哩。有几次，她决心对他分外友好，可是当他们并肩在寓所前街上溜达时，她一挽起菲利普的手臂，菲利普总是找个借口脱开身去，仿佛被她一碰就感到很不舒服似的。她百思不得其解。此时，她只有通过她的女儿才能对他施加影响，因为他看上去愈来愈喜欢她的女儿了：她只要给女儿一巴掌或有力的一推，都足以叫菲利普气得脸色发白。

只有当她怀抱女儿站着的时候，菲利普的双眼才会再现昔日那种温柔的笑意。有一次，一位站在海滩上的男人给她和女儿照相时，她才发现这个秘密。从那以后，她常常做出这种姿势，专门让菲利普瞧。

他们俩从布赖顿返回伦敦之后，米尔德丽德开始寻找她声称非常容易找到的工作。此时，她不再想依赖菲利普了，竟畅想起她怀着得意的心情告诉菲利普，说她即将带着孩子搬进新居的情景来了。她想那样才杀气呢。不过，当快要找到工作时，她突然变卦了。她眼下已经变得不习惯干时间老长的活儿了，也不想让女老板支来差去的，况且她的尊严使得她一想起又要穿上制服心里就反感嫌恶。她早就对她所有认识的街坊邻里说过，她跟菲利普日子过得蛮红火的，要是他们听说她不得不外出干活，那她的脸皮往哪里搁呢？她生就的惰性又执著地抬起头来。她不想离开菲利普，再说，只要他心甘情愿地供养她，她不明白自己为什么一定要走呢。诚然，他们不能大手大脚地花钱，不过她到底还有得吃，有得住呀，再说菲利普的境况还会好转的嘛。他的大伯老了，随时都可能咽气，到时候，他就可以得到一笔小小的钱财；即便是眼下这种日子，也比为了一周几个先令而从早到晚当牛做马要强得多呀。于是，她找工作的劲头松了下来，虽然她还是不停地翻阅着报纸上的广告栏，那也只是装装样子，表明只要一有值得她干的活儿，她还是想干活罢了。但是，一种恐惧感攫住了她的心，她生怕菲利普腻味了，不愿再负担她的生活费用。眼下，她根本拿不住菲利普。她思忖着，菲利普之所以还让她留在跟前，是因为他喜欢那个孩子。她心里不停地盘算着，还气呼呼地想有朝一日她一定要向菲利普报仇雪恨。对菲利普再也不喜欢她了这一点，她怎么也不甘心，她要想法子叫他喜欢自己。她气得七窍冒烟，可有时候她又莫名其妙地渴望得到菲利普。现在他的态度竟变得冷若冰霜，真把她给气死了。她就这样不断地思念着菲利普。她认为菲利普对她太残忍了，她也不知道自己到底做错了什么事而要受这份罪。她不断振振有词地说，像他们这样生活在一起，简直不近情理。转而她又想，如果情况是另外一个样，而她又即将临盆分娩，那他肯定会娶她为妻的。菲利普那个人的确古怪，不过他还是个货真价实的绅士，谁也不能否认这一点。久而久之，她都想入迷了，心里拿定主意要采取强硬措施来促使他们之间的关系有个转机。近来他一直不肯吻她，而她却很希望他能亲亲她。她至今还清晰地记得以往他是那么激情奔放地紧贴着她的嘴唇啊。每当想到这件事，她心中不由得生出一种不可名状的情感。她常常目不转睛地瞅着菲利普的嘴。

二月初的一天黄昏，菲利普关照米尔德丽德，说他晚饭要跟劳森在一起吃。那天，劳森要在他画室里办生日宴会。他还说要很迟才能回来。劳森从皮克街上的那家酒菜馆里打了几瓶他们喜欢喝的混合酒。他们准备痛痛快快玩一个晚上。米尔德丽德问那儿有没有女宾，菲利普说那儿没有女宾，只请了几个男人，他们只准备坐坐聊聊天，吸吸烟。米尔德丽德认为这种生日宴会听上去不怎么有趣，要是她是个画家的话，那非得在房间四周摆上半打模特儿不可。她独自上床睡觉，可说什么也睡不着。顿时，她计上心来，随即从床上爬起，跑去把楼梯口的插销插上，这样菲利普就进不来了。午夜一点光景，菲利普才回到寓所，这时她听到了菲利普发现插销被插上后的骂娘声。她爬下床来，跑去把插销拉开。

"你干吗要插上插销睡觉呢？噢，对不起，让我把你从床上拖了出来。"

"我特地把插销拉开的，也不晓得它怎么会插上的。"

"快回去睡觉，要不会着凉的。"

菲利普说罢，便走进起居室，捻亮煤气灯。米尔德丽德跟在他后头走了进来，径直朝壁炉跟前走去。

"我的脚冰冷的，烤烤火暖一暖。"

菲利普坐了下来，开始脱靴子。他那对眸子闪闪发亮，双颊泛着红光。她想他肯定喝酒了。

"玩得痛快吗？"米尔德丽德问罢，朝他嫣然一笑。

"当然啰，玩得可痛快啦！"

菲利普的神志很清醒，不过在劳森那儿他一直不停地说呀笑呀的，因此眼下他还是非常兴奋。这顿夜宵勾起了他对昔日在巴黎生活的情景的回忆。他心情十分激动，从口袋甲掏出烟斗，往烟斗里装着烟丝。

"你还不睡吗？"米尔德丽德问道。

"还不想睡，连一点睡意都没有。劳森的劲头可足了。从我到他画室那刻起，他的嘴巴就没有停过，一直滔滔不绝地讲到我走。"

"你们谈些什么呢？"

"天晓得，海阔天空，无所不谈。你应该去瞧瞧那个场面，我们大家都扯大了嗓门狂呼乱叫，可旁边就没有一个人在听。"

回忆起夜宵情景时，菲利普欢悦地哈哈笑了起来，米尔德丽德也附和着哈哈笑着。她肚里雪亮，菲利普喝酒喝过量了。她还巴不得他喝醉了呢。对男人的习性，她可真算是摸透了。

"我坐下来好吗？"她问了一声。

菲利普还没来得及回话，她已稳稳当当地一屁股坐在他的腿上了。

"你还不睡的话，那最好去披件睡衣。"

"噢，这样很好嘛。"话音刚落，她展开双臂，钩住他的脖子，把脸紧紧地贴着他的脸，接着又说："你为什么变得这么可怕的呢，菲尔？"

菲利普想站起身子，可她就是不让。

"我爱死你了，菲利普，"她说。

"别讲这种混帐话。"

"这不是假的，是真的。我没有了你就不能活下去。我需要你。"

菲利普挣脱了她钩住自己脖子的双臂。

"请站起来吧。你自己轻狎自己还不算，把我也弄得像个白痴似的。"

"我爱你，菲利普。我想弥补我过去对你的一切过错。我不能再像这个样子活下去了，这样子不合人性呀。"

菲利普从安乐椅里站了起来，把米尔德丽德独自扔在那儿。

"很抱歉，现在为时太迟了。"

米尔德丽德蓦地痛心疾首地抽泣起来。

"可为什么呢？你怎么会变得这样冷酷无情呢？"

"我想，这是因为我过去太爱你的缘故。我那股热情都耗尽了。一想起那种事情，我厌恶得浑身汗毛直竖。现在，每当我看见你，我就不能不联想起埃米尔和格里菲思来。我自己也无法控制，我想，这兴许是神经质吧。"

米尔德丽德一把抓起菲利普的手，在上面吻了个遍。

"快别这样，"菲利普不由得叫了起来。

米尔德丽德神情颓然地瘫进安乐椅中。

"我不能再像这个样子生活下去了。你不爱我，我宁可走。"

"别傻了，你没地方可去，你可以在这儿爱呆多久就呆多久。不过务必记住，我们俩除了朋友关系，别的啥关系都没有。"

猛地，米尔德丽德一反刚才那种激情奔放的神态，柔声媚气地笑了笑。她侧着身子挨近菲利普，张开双臂一把搂住了他。她操着一种轻柔的、甜蜜的声调说：

"别再傻里傻气的啦。你心里不好受，这我知道。可你还不知道我也是个好女子。"

说罢，米尔德丽德把脸依偎在菲利普的脸上，并使劲地厮磨着。可在菲利普看来，她那双笑眼是令人生厌的媚眼，从那里射出的猥亵的目光使得他心里充满了恐怖。他本能地往后退了退。

"放开我！"他喊了一声。

但是米尔德丽德就是不松手。她噘起嘴唇直往菲利普的嘴边凑过去。菲利普抓住她的双手，粗暴地把它们掰开，然后猛地把她推开去。

"你真使人讨厌！"他喝道。

"我？"

米尔德丽德伸出一只手撑着壁炉稳了稳身子，定睛瞅了菲利普一会儿，双颊顿时泛起了两片红晕。她突然发出一阵尖利、愤怒的笑声。

"我还讨厌你呢！"

她顿了顿，深深地吸了口气。接着，她便拉开嗓门，破口大骂起来。凡是她能想到的脏话都写出来了。她骂出的话竟那么污秽刺耳，菲利普不觉为之愕然。过去她一向热切地要使自己变得高雅，每当听到一声粗鲁的话语都会为之变脸。菲利普倒从来没料到她居然也学会了她刚刚说出的那些脏话。她走到菲利普的跟前，把脸直冲着他的脸。她那张脸因情绪激愤而扭曲着。在她扯开嗓子滔滔不绝地骂娘的当儿，口水顺着嘴角滴答滴答直滴。

"我从来就没把你放在眼里，一天也没有过。我一直拿你当傻瓜耍。看到你，我就讨厌，讨厌极了。我恨死你了，要不是为了几个钱，我从来也不会让你碰我一个指头。我不得不让你吻我时，我心里腻味极了。格里菲思和我在背后讥笑你，笑你是个十足的蠢驴。蠢驴！蠢驴！"

接下去是一连串不堪入耳的骂人话。她把天底下所有的卑鄙行为都往菲利普头上栽，说他是个吝啬鬼，头脑迟钝，骂他金玉其外，败絮其中，为人自私刻薄。凡是菲利普很敏感的事情，她都言语刻毒地挖苦一番。最后，她猛地转过身走开去。此时，她还是歇斯底里大发作，嘴里不干不净地叫骂着。她一把抓住房门把手，使劲打开房门。接着她掉过脸来，口吐恶言，刺伤菲利普的心。她知道有句话是菲利普最忌讳听到的。于是，她把满腔的怨恨和恶意一股脑儿地倾进她的话中，憋足气冲口骂了一声，好似一记当头棒喝！

"瘸子！"

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顶端

wj宝宝

ZxID：11619415

53521鲜花 0鸡蛋

等级: 内阁元老

青春又回来了嘛(*^▽^*)

举报只看该作者 99楼发表于: 2014-09-02 0

chapter 97

Philip awoke with a start next morning, conscious that it was late, and looking at his watch found it was nine o’clock. He jumped out of bed and went into the kitchen to get himself some hot water to shave with. There was no sign of Mildred, and the things which she had used for her supper the night before still lay in the sink unwashed. He knocked at her door.

‘Wake up, Mildred. It’s awfully late.’

She did not answer, even after a second louder knocking, and he concluded that she was sulking. He was in too great a hurry to bother about that. He put some water on to boil and jumped into his bath which was always poured out the night before in order to take the chill off. He presumed that Mildred would cook his breakfast while he was dressing and leave it in the sitting-room. She had done that two or three times when she was out of temper. But he heard no sound of her moving, and realised that if he wanted anything to eat he would have to get it himself. He was irritated that she should play him such a trick on a morning when he had over-slept himself. There was still no sign of her when he was ready, but he heard her moving about her room. She was evidently getting up. He made himself some tea and cut himself a couple of pieces of bread and butter, which he ate while he was putting on his boots, then bolted downstairs and along the street into the main road to catch his tram. While his eyes sought out the newspaper shops to see the war news on the placards, he thought of the scene of the night before: now that it was over and he had slept on it, he could not help thinking it grotesque; he supposed he had been ridiculous, but he was not master of his feelings; at the time they had been overwhelming. He was angry with Mildred because she had forced him into that absurd position, and then with renewed astonishment he thought of her outburst and the filthy language she had used. He could not help flushing when he remembered her final jibe; but he shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. He had long known that when his fellows were angry with him they never failed to taunt him with his deformity. He had seen men at the hospital imitate his walk, not before him as they used at school, but when they thought he was not looking. He knew now that they did it from no wilful unkindness, but because man is naturally an imitative animal, and because it was an easy way to make people laugh: he knew it, but he could never resign himself to it.

He was glad to throw himself into his work. The ward seemed pleasant and friendly when he entered it. The sister greeted him with a quick, business-like smile.

‘You’re very late, Mr. Carey.’

‘I was out on the loose last night.’

‘You look it.’

‘Thank you.’

Laughing, he went to the first of his cases, a boy with tuberculous ulcers, and removed his bandages. The boy was pleased to see him, and Philip chaffed him as he put a clean dressing on the wound. Philip was a favourite with the patients; he treated them good-humouredly; and he had gentle, sensitive hands which did not hurt them: some of the dressers were a little rough and happy-go-lucky in their methods. He lunched with his friends in the club-room, a frugal meal consisting of a scone and butter, with a cup of cocoa, and they talked of the war. Several men were going out, but the authorities were particular and refused everyone who had not had a hospital appointment. Someone suggested that, if the war went on, in a while they would be glad to take anyone who was qualified; but the general opinion was that it would be over in a month. Now that Roberts was there things would get all right in no time. This was Macalister’s opinion too, and he had told Philip that they must watch their chance and buy just before peace was declared. There would be a boom then, and they might all make a bit of money. Philip had left with Macalister instructions to buy him stock whenever the opportunity presented itself. His appetite had been whetted by the thirty pounds he had made in the summer, and he wanted now to make a couple of hundred.

He finished his day’s work and got on a tram to go back to Kennington. He wondered how Mildred would behave that evening. It was a nuisance to think that she would probably be surly and refuse to answer his questions. It was a warm evening for the time of year, and even in those gray streets of South London there was the languor of February; nature is restless then after the long winter months, growing things awake from their sleep, and there is a rustle in the earth, a forerunner of spring, as it resumes its eternal activities. Philip would have liked to drive on further, it was distasteful to him to go back to his rooms, and he wanted the air; but the desire to see the child clutched suddenly at his heartstrings, and he smiled to himself as he thought of her toddling towards him with a crow of delight. He was surprised, when he reached the house and looked up mechanically at the windows, to see that there was no light. He went upstairs and knocked, but got no answer. When Mildred went out she left the key under the mat and he found it there now. He let himself in and going into the sitting-room struck a match. Something had happened, he did not at once know what; he turned the gas on full and lit it; the room was suddenly filled with the glare and he looked round. He gasped. The whole place was wrecked. Everything in it had been wilfully destroyed. Anger seized him, and he rushed into Mildred’s room. It was dark and empty. When he had got a light he saw that she had taken away all her things and the baby’s (he had noticed on entering that the go-cart was not in its usual place on the landing, but thought Mildred had taken the baby out;) and all the things on the washing-stand had been broken, a knife had been drawn cross-ways through the seats of the two chairs, the pillow had been slit open, there were large gashes in the sheets and the counterpane, the looking-glass appeared to have been broken with a hammer. Philip was bewildered. He went into his own room, and here too everything was in confusion. The basin and the ewer had been smashed, the looking-glass was in fragments, and the sheets were in ribands. Mildred had made a slit large enough to put her hand into the pillow and had scattered the feathers about the room. She had jabbed a knife into the blankets. On the dressing-table were photographs of Philip’s mother, the frames had been smashed and the glass shivered. Philip went into the tiny kitchen. Everything that was breakable was broken, glasses, pudding-basins, plates, dishes.

It took Philip’s breath away. Mildred had left no letter, nothing but this ruin to mark her anger, and he could imagine the set face with which she had gone about her work. He went back into the sitting-room and looked about him. He was so astonished that he no longer felt angry. He looked curiously at the kitchen-knife and the coal-hammer, which were lying on the table where she had left them. Then his eye caught a large carving-knife in the fireplace which had been broken. It must have taken her a long time to do so much damage. Lawson’s portrait of him had been cut cross-ways and gaped hideously. His own drawings had been ripped in pieces; and the photographs, Manet’s Olympia and the Odalisque of Ingres, the portrait of Philip IV, had been smashed with great blows of the coal-hammer. There were gashes in the table-cloth and in the curtains and in the two arm-chairs. They were quite ruined. On one wall over the table which Philip used as his desk was the little bit of Persian rug which Cronshaw had given him. Mildred had always hated it.

‘If it’s a rug it ought to go on the floor,’ she said, ‘and it’s a dirty stinking bit of stuff, that’s all it is.’

It made her furious because Philip told her it contained the answer to a great riddle. She thought he was making fun of her. She had drawn the knife right through it three times, it must have required some strength, and it hung now in tatters. Philip had two or three blue and white plates, of no value, but he had bought them one by one for very small sums and liked them for their associations. They littered the floor in fragments. There were long gashes on the backs of his books, and she had taken the trouble to tear pages out of the unbound French ones. The little ornaments on the chimney-piece lay on the hearth in bits. Everything that it had been possible to destroy with a knife or a hammer was destroyed.

The whole of Philip’s belongings would not have sold for thirty pounds, but most of them were old friends, and he was a domestic creature, attached to all those odds and ends because they were his; he had been proud of his little home, and on so little money had made it pretty and characteristic. He sank down now in despair. He asked himself how she could have been so cruel. A sudden fear got him on his feet again and into the passage, where stood a cupboard in which he kept his clothes. He opened it and gave a sigh of relief. She had apparently forgotten it and none of his things was touched.

He went back into the sitting-room and, surveying the scene, wondered what to do; he had not the heart to begin trying to set things straight; besides there was no food in the house, and he was hungry. He went out and got himself something to eat. When he came in he was cooler. A little pang seized him as he thought of the child, and he wondered whether she would miss him, at first perhaps, but in a week she would have forgotten him; and he was thankful to be rid of Mildred. He did not think of her with wrath, but with an overwhelming sense of boredom.

‘I hope to God I never see her again,’ he said aloud.

The only thing now was to leave the rooms, and he made up his mind to give notice the next morning. He could not afford to make good the damage done, and he had so little money left that he must find cheaper lodgings still. He would be glad to get out of them. The expense had worried him, and now the recollection of Mildred would be in them always. Philip was impatient and could never rest till he had put in action the plan which he had in mind; so on the following afternoon he got in a dealer in second-hand furniture who offered him three pounds for all his goods damaged and undamaged; and two days later he moved into the house opposite the hospital in which he had had rooms when first he became a medical student. The landlady was a very decent woman. He took a bed-room at the top, which she let him have for six shillings a week; it was small and shabby and looked on the yard of the house that backed on to it, but he had nothing now except his clothes and a box of books, and he was glad to lodge so cheaply.

第九十七章

次日早晨，菲利普一觉从梦中惊醒，发觉时间不早了，连忙望了望表，只见指针指着九点。他一骨碌从床上跃起，跑进厨房弄了点热水刮了刮脸。此时，连米尔德丽德的人影都未见。她吃晚餐用的餐具都堆在洗涤槽里，还没有洗呢。菲利普走过去敲了敲她的房门。

"醒醒，米尔德丽德，时间不早了。"

米尔德丽德在里面一声不吭。菲利普接着重叩了几下，可她还是闷声不响。菲利普心想她这是故意同自己怄气。此时，菲利普急着要到医院去，没工夫来理会她。他自个儿烧了点水，然后跳进浴缸洗了个澡。浴缸里的水通常是前一天晚上就放好的，以便驱赶寒气。穿衣的当儿，他脑子里在想米尔德丽德总会给他准备好早餐的。他边想边步出浴室，来到起居室。以前有那么两三次，她虽发脾气，但早餐还是给他做的。可是他还没见米尔德丽德有什么动静，此时，他意识到这一回他真想吃东西的话，就得自己动手罗。这天早晨。他一觉睡过了头，可她倒好，还这么捉弄他，菲利普不觉又气又恼。他早餐都准备好了，可还不见米尔德丽德出来，耳边只听得她在卧室里走动的脚步声。她显然是起床了。菲利普自顾自倒了杯茶，切了几片牛油面包，一边吃着。一边往脚上套着靴子。然后，噔噔冲下楼去，穿过小巷，来到大街上等电车。他两眼一眨不眨地望着报亭前的告示牌，搜寻着有关战争的消息。在这同时，他心里暗自思量着前一天晚上发生的事儿。眼下事情算是过去了，第二天再说吧。他忍不住认为这件事太离奇了。他觉得自己太可笑了，连自己的情感都抑制不住，有时候还被它冲得昏头昏脑的。他非常憎恨米尔德丽德，因为是她使得自己陷入眼下这种荒谬的境地的。菲利普重新怀着惊奇的心情，回味着米尔德丽德歇斯底里大发作的场面，以及她嘴里吐出的一连串污言秽语。一想起她最后骂他的话，菲利普的脸就不由得红了，可他只是神情轻蔑地耸了耸双肩。他的同事们一生他的气，总是拿他的残疾来出气，对此，他早就司空见惯了。他还看到医院里有人模仿他一瘸一拐的走路姿势。当然，那些人是不会在他面前学的，总是在他们认为菲利普不注意的时候才模仿。现在他也知道那些人学他走路，绝不是出于一种恶意，而是因为人本来就是一种好模仿的动物。再说，模仿他人的动作是逗人发笑的最简便的办法。他深深懂得这一点，但他永远不能听之任之，无动于衷。

菲利普为自己又要开始工作而感到高兴。走进病房，他觉得里面洋溢着一种愉快、友好的气氛。护士同他打着招呼，脸上挂着职业性的微笑。

"您来得太迟了，凯里先生。"

"昨晚我尽情玩了一个晚上。"

"从你的脸色就看得出来。"

"谢谢。"

菲利普满面春风地走到第一个病人--一个患有结节溃疡的男孩--跟前，给他拆去绷带。那孩子看到了菲利普感到很高兴。菲利普一边给他上干净绷带，一边逗着他玩。菲利普可是病人心目中的宠儿。他对他们总是和颜悦色地问寒问暖；他那双手又柔软又敏捷，病人们从没有疼痛的感觉。可有些敷裹员就不一样，做起事来毛手毛脚，不把病人的痛痒放在心上。菲利普和同事们一道在俱乐部聚会室吃中饭，只是吃几块烤饼和面包，外加一杯可可。他们一边吃着一边议论战事。有些人也准备去参战，然而上司对此事倒挺顶真的，一概不接纳那些尚未获得医院职位的人。有人认为，要是战争继续打下去的话，到时候他们会乐意接纳凡是取得医生资格的人的，不过大多数人都认为要不了一个月就会停战的。眼下罗伯兹就在那儿，形势很快就会好转的。马卡利斯特也持同样看法，并对菲利普说，他们得瞅准机会，抢在宣布停火之前购进股票，到时候，股票行情就会看涨，这样他们俩都能发笔小小的洋财。菲利普托付马卡利斯特一有机会就代为购进股票。夏天赚得的三十英镑，吊起了菲利普的胃口，这次他希望能捞它三百两百的。

一天的工作结束后，菲利普乘电车返回肯宁顿大街。他心里有些纳闷，不知晚上米尔德丽德会做出什么事来呢。一想到她很可能倔头倔脑不搭理自己，菲利普感到腌(月赞)极了。每年这个时候，傍晚温暖宜人，即使光线幽暗的伦敦南端的街上，也充斥着二月那令人昏昏欲睡的气氛。漫长的隆冬季节消逝了，世间万物蠢蠢欲动，一切生物均从长眠中苏醒过来了。整个大地响遍窸窸窣窣声，好似春天重返人间的脚步声，预示着春天又要开始其万世不易的活动了。此时此刻，菲利普实在讨厌回到寓所去，只想坐车朝前再走一程，尽情地呼吸一下户外的新鲜空气。但是，一种急着想见见那孩子的欲望蓦地攫住了他的心。当脑海里浮现出那孩子咧着嘴嘻嘻笑着，一步一颤地向他扑来的情景时，菲利普情不自禁地微笑起来。他来到寓所跟前，抬头一望，只见窗户黑咕隆咚的，心里不觉一惊。他连忙跑上楼去叩房门，但屋里毫无动静。米尔德丽德出门时，总是把钥匙放在门口的蹭鞋垫底下的。菲利普在那儿拿到了房门钥匙。他打开门走进起居室，随手划亮一根火柴。他顿觉出事了，但脑子一时没反应过来，不知究竟出了什么事。他开足煤气，点亮灯盏，灯光把整个房间照得通明雪亮。他朝四下里打量了一番，不禁倒抽了口凉气。房间里被弄得一塌糊涂，所有东西都被捣毁了。顿时，他火冒三丈，一个箭步奔进米尔德丽德的卧室。那里漆黑一团，空空荡荡的。他点了盏灯照了照，发现米尔德丽德把她和孩子的衣物一应席卷而去（刚才进门时，他发觉手推车没放在原处，还以为米尔德丽德推着孩子上街溜达了哩），洗脸架上的东西全被搞坏了，两张椅子上布满纵横交错的砍痕，枕头被撕开了，床上的床单和床罩被刀戳得像破鱼网似的。那面镜子看上去是用榔头敲碎的。菲利普感到不胜惊骇。他转身走进自己的卧室，那儿也是一个样，被搞得乱七八糟，乌烟瘴气。木盆和水罐被砸破了，镜子粉碎了，床单撕成了布条子。米尔德丽德把枕头上的小洞撕开，伸进手去把里面的羽毛掏出来，撒得满地都是。她一刀捅穿了毯子。梳妆台上凌乱地摊着他母亲的一些相片，镜框散架了，玻璃砸得粉碎。菲利普跑进厨房，只见杯子、布丁盆、盘子和碟子等凡能砸碎的东西全都被砸成了碎片。

面对眼前一片凌乱的景象，菲利普气得七窍冒烟，连气都喘不过来。米尔德丽德没留下片言只字，只留下这副烂摊子，以示其满腔的憎恨。菲利普完全想象得出她造孽时那副咬牙切齿、紧绷着脸的神态来。菲利普重新回到起居室，惘然地环顾四周。他感到惊奇的是他内心竟无一丝怨恨。他好奇地凝视着米尔德丽德放在桌子上的菜刀和榔头。随即，他的目光落在扔进壁炉里的那把断裂的切肉用的大餐刀上。米尔德丽德着实花了番时间才把这些东西捣毁的。劳森给他画的那张肖像画被米尔德丽德用刀划了个"十"字，那画面可怕地开裂着。菲利普自己创作的画都被她撕成了碎片。所有的照片、马奈的名画《奥兰毕亚》、安格尔的《女奴》以及腓力普四世的画像都被米尔德丽德用榔头捣烂了。桌布、窗帘和两张安乐椅都留下了斑斑刀痕，破得不能用了。菲利普用作书桌的桌子上方，墙上挂着一条小小的波斯地毯，那还是克朗肖生前赠送给他的。米尔德丽德一向对这条地毯心怀不满。

"如果那是条地毯的话，那就应该把它铺在地板上，"她曾经这样对菲利普说过。"那东西又脏又臭，真不是个玩意儿"

那条波斯地毯惹得米尔德丽德经常发火。菲利普曾对米尔德丽德说过，那条地毯隐含着一个难猜的谜语的谜底，而米尔德丽德印以为菲利普是在讥诮她。她用刀在地毯上连划三下，看来她还真的花了点气力呢。此时，那条地毯拖一块挂一片地悬在墙上。菲利普有两三只蓝白两色相间的盘子，并不值钱，不过是他花很少几个钱一只只陆续买回来的。这几只盘子常常勾起当时购买时的情景，因此他非常珍爱它们。可眼下它们也同遭厄运，碎片溅得满屋都是。书脊也被刀砍了。米尔德丽德还不厌其烦地把未装订成册的法文书拆得一页一页的。壁炉上小小的饰物被弄破扔进了炉膛。凡是能用刀或榔头捣毁的东西都捣毁了。

菲利普的全部财产加起来也卖不到三十英镑，可是其中好多东西已伴随他多年了。菲利普是个会治家的人，非常珍惜那些零星什物，因为那些零星什物都是他的财产呀。他只花了区区几个钱，却把这个家装扮得漂漂亮亮的，又富有个性特征，因此他很为自己这个小小的家感到自豪。他神情颓丧地瘫进了椅子里。他喃喃自语地问道，米尔德丽德怎么会变得如此心狠手辣。转瞬间，一阵惊悸向他心头袭来。他从椅子里一跃而起，三步并作两步地奔进过道，那儿有一只盛放着他全部衣服的柜子。他急切地打开柜门，顿时松了口气。米尔德丽德显然把柜子给忘了，里面的衣服一件都没动过。

他又回到起居室，再次看了看那混乱不堪的场面，茫然不知所措。他无心整理那堆废品。屋里连一点吃的东西都没有。他肚子饿得叽里咕噜直叫唤。他上街胡乱买了点东西填了填肚子。从街上回到寓所时，他心情平静了些。一想到那孩子，菲利普心里不由得咯噔了一下。他思忖着，不知那孩子会不会想念他，刚开始的时候，她也许会想他的，但是过了个把星期之后，怕是会把他忘得一干二净的。啊，终于摆脱了米尔德丽德的胡搅蛮缠，菲利普暗暗额手庆幸。此时，他想起米尔德丽德，心中已没有忿恨，有的只是一种强烈的厌倦感。

"上帝啊，但愿我这辈子再不要碰见米尔德丽德了！"他喟然一声长叹。

眼下，他只有一条路可走，那就是搬出这套房间。他决定第二天上午就通知房东太太，说他不再赁住这套房间了。他无力弥补这场损失，再说，身边余下的几个钱，只够租个租金低廉的房间了。他巴不得赶快离开这套房间：一来租金昂贵，他不能不为此犯愁；二来在这套房间里，米尔德丽德的影子无时不在，无处不有。菲利普一拿定了主张，不付诸行动，他总是心神不定，坐立不安。于是，第二天下午，他领来了一位做旧货生意的经纪人。这位经纪人出价三英镑，买下了那些被毁坏的和未被毁坏的家具什物。两天之后，菲利普搬进了医院对面的一幢房子。他刚进圣路加医院那会儿，就赁住在这儿的。房东太太是个正正经经的女人。菲利普租了个顶楼卧室，她只要他每周付六先令的租金。卧室狭小、简陋，窗户正对屋背后的院子。此时，菲利普除了几件衣服和一箱书籍以外，身边别无长物。不过，菲利普对自己还能住上这间租金不贵的卧室，心里还是很高兴的。

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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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