派派小说论坛 English Corner 人性的枷锁 Of Human Bondage【9.02连载至第100章】

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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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青春又回来了嘛(*^▽^*)

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chapter 38

At the end of the year there was a great deal to do. Philip went to various places with a clerk named Thompson and spent the day monotonously calling out items of expenditure, which the other checked; and sometimes he was given long pages of figures to add up. He had never had a head for figures, and he could only do this slowly. Thompson grew irritated at his mistakes. His fellow-clerk was a long, lean man of forty, sallow, with black hair and a ragged moustache; he had hollow cheeks and deep lines on each side of his nose. He took a dislike to Philip because he was an articled clerk. Because he could put down three hundred guineas and keep himself for five years Philip had the chance of a career; while he, with his experience and ability, had no possibility of ever being more than a clerk at thirty-five shillings a week. He was a cross-grained man, oppressed by a large family, and he resented the superciliousness which he fancied he saw in Philip. He sneered at Philip because he was better educated than himself, and he mocked at Philip’s pronunciation; he could not forgive him because he spoke without a cockney accent, and when he talked to him sarcastically exaggerated his aitches. At first his manner was merely gruff and repellent, but as he discovered that Philip had no gift for accountancy he took pleasure in humiliating him; his attacks were gross and silly, but they wounded Philip, and in self-defence he assumed an attitude of superiority which he did not feel.

‘Had a bath this morning?’ Thompson said when Philip came to the office late, for his early punctuality had not lasted.

‘Yes, haven’t you?’

‘No, I’m not a gentleman, I’m only a clerk. I have a bath on Saturday night.’

‘I suppose that’s why you’re more than usually disagreeable on Monday.’

‘Will you condescend to do a few sums in simple addition today? I’m afraid it’s asking a great deal from a gentleman who knows Latin and Greek.’

‘Your attempts at sarcasm are not very happy.’

But Philip could not conceal from himself that the other clerks, ill-paid and uncouth, were more useful than himself. Once or twice Mr. Goodworthy grew impatient with him.

‘You really ought to be able to do better than this by now,’ he said. ‘You’re not even as smart as the office-boy.’

Philip listened sulkily. He did not like being blamed, and it humiliated him, when, having been given accounts to make fair copies of, Mr. Goodworthy was not satisfied and gave them to another clerk to do. At first the work had been tolerable from its novelty, but now it grew irksome; and when he discovered that he had no aptitude for it, he began to hate it. Often, when he should have been doing something that was given him, he wasted his time drawing little pictures on the office note-paper. He made sketches of Watson in every conceivable attitude, and Watson was impressed by his talent. It occurred to him to take the drawings home, and he came back next day with the praises of his family.

‘I wonder you didn’t become a painter,’ he said. ‘Only of course there’s no money in it.’

It chanced that Mr. Carter two or three days later was dining with the Watsons, and the sketches were shown him. The following morning he sent for Philip. Philip saw him seldom and stood in some awe of him.

‘Look here, young fellow, I don’t care what you do out of office-hours, but I’ve seen those sketches of yours and they’re on office-paper, and Mr. Goodworthy tells me you’re slack. You won’t do any good as a chartered accountant unless you look alive. It’s a fine profession, and we’re getting a very good class of men in it, but it’s a profession in which you have to...’ he looked for the termination of his phrase, but could not find exactly what he wanted, so finished rather tamely, ‘in which you have to look alive.’

Perhaps Philip would have settled down but for the agreement that if he did not like the work he could leave after a year, and get back half the money paid for his articles. He felt that he was fit for something better than to add up accounts, and it was humiliating that he did so ill something which seemed contemptible. The vulgar scenes with Thompson got on his nerves. In March Watson ended his year at the office and Philip, though he did not care for him, saw him go with regret. The fact that the other clerks disliked them equally, because they belonged to a class a little higher than their own, was a bond of union. When Philip thought that he must spend over four years more with that dreary set of fellows his heart sank. He had expected wonderful things from London and it had given him nothing. He hated it now. He did not know a soul, and he had no idea how he was to get to know anyone. He was tired of going everywhere by himself. He began to feel that he could not stand much more of such a life. He would lie in bed at night and think of the joy of never seeing again that dingy office or any of the men in it, and of getting away from those drab lodgings.

A great disappointment befell him in the spring. Hayward had announced his intention of coming to London for the season, and Philip had looked forward very much to seeing him again. He had read so much lately and thought so much that his mind was full of ideas which he wanted to discuss, and he knew nobody who was willing to interest himself in abstract things. He was quite excited at the thought of talking his fill with someone, and he was wretched when Hayward wrote to say that the spring was lovelier than ever he had known it in Italy, and he could not bear to tear himself away. He went on to ask why Philip did not come. What was the use of squandering the days of his youth in an office when the world was beautiful? The letter proceeded.

I wonder you can bear it. I think of Fleet Street and Lincoln’s Inn now with a shudder of disgust. There are only two things in the world that make life worth living, love and art. I cannot imagine you sitting in an office over a ledger, and do you wear a tall hat and an umbrella and a little black bag? My feeling is that one should look upon life as an adventure, one should burn with the hard, gem-like flame, and one should take risks, one should expose oneself to danger. Why do you not go to Paris and study art? I always thought you had talent.

The suggestion fell in with the possibility that Philip for some time had been vaguely turning over in his mind. It startled him at first, but he could not help thinking of it, and in the constant rumination over it he found his only escape from the wretchedness of his present state. They all thought he had talent; at Heidelberg they had admired his water colours, Miss Wilkinson had told him over and over again that they were chasing; even strangers like the Watsons had been struck by his sketches. La Vie de Boheme had made a deep impression on him. He had brought it to London and when he was most depressed he had only to read a few pages to be transported into those chasing attics where Rodolphe and the rest of them danced and loved and sang. He began to think of Paris as before he had thought of London, but he had no fear of a second disillusion; he yearned for romance and beauty and love, and Paris seemed to offer them all. He had a passion for pictures, and why should he not be able to paint as well as anybody else? He wrote to Miss Wilkinson and asked her how much she thought he could live on in Paris. She told him that he could manage easily on eighty pounds a year, and she enthusiastically approved of his project. She told him he was too good to be wasted in an office. Who would be a clerk when he might be a great artist, she asked dramatically, and she besought Philip to believe in himself: that was the great thing. But Philip had a cautious nature. It was all very well for Hayward to talk of taking risks, he had three hundred a year in gilt-edged securities; Philip’s entire fortune amounted to no more than eighteen-hundred pounds. He hesitated.

Then it chanced that one day Mr. Goodworthy asked him suddenly if he would like to go to Paris. The firm did the accounts for a hotel in the Faubourg St. Honore, which was owned by an English company, and twice a year Mr. Goodworthy and a clerk went over. The clerk who generally went happened to be ill, and a press of work prevented any of the others from getting away. Mr. Goodworthy thought of Philip because he could best be spared, and his articles gave him some claim upon a job which was one of the pleasures of the business. Philip was delighted.

‘You’ll ‘ave to work all day,’ said Mr. Goodworthy, ‘but we get our evenings to ourselves, and Paris is Paris.’ He smiled in a knowing way. ‘They do us very well at the hotel, and they give us all our meals, so it don’t cost one anything. That’s the way I like going to Paris, at other people’s expense.’

When they arrived at Calais and Philip saw the crowd of gesticulating porters his heart leaped.

‘This is the real thing,’ he said to himself.

He was all eyes as the train sped through the country; he adored the sand dunes, their colour seemed to him more lovely than anything he had ever seen; and he was enchanted with the canals and the long lines of poplars. When they got out of the Gare du Nord, and trundled along the cobbled streets in a ramshackle, noisy cab, it seemed to him that he was breathing a new air so intoxicating that he could hardly restrain himself from shouting aloud. They were met at the door of the hotel by the manager, a stout, pleasant man, who spoke tolerable English; Mr. Goodworthy was an old friend and he greeted them effusively; they dined in his private room with his wife, and to Philip it seemed that he had never eaten anything so delicious as the beefsteak aux pommes, nor drunk such nectar as the vin ordinaire, which were set before them.

To Mr. Goodworthy, a respectable householder with excellent principles, the capital of France was a paradise of the joyously obscene. He asked the manager next morning what there was to be seen that was ‘thick.’ He thoroughly enjoyed these visits of his to Paris; he said they kept you from growing rusty. In the evenings, after their work was over and they had dined, he took Philip to the Moulin Rouge and the Folies Bergeres. His little eyes twinkled and his face wore a sly, sensual smile as he sought out the pornographic. He went into all the haunts which were specially arranged for the foreigner, and afterwards said that a nation could come to no good which permitted that sort of thing. He nudged Philip when at some revue a woman appeared with practically nothing on, and pointed out to him the most strapping of the courtesans who walked about the hall. It was a vulgar Paris that he showed Philip, but Philip saw it with eyes blinded with illusion. In the early morning he would rush out of the hotel and go to the Champs Elysees, and stand at the Place de la Concorde. It was June, and Paris was silvery with the delicacy of the air. Philip felt his heart go out to the people. Here he thought at last was romance.

They spent the inside of a week there, leaving on Sunday, and when Philip late at night reached his dingy rooms in Barnes his mind was made up; he would surrender his articles, and go to Paris to study art; but so that no one should think him unreasonable he determined to stay at the office till his year was up. He was to have his holiday during the last fortnight in August, and when he went away he would tell Herbert Carter that he had no intention of returning. But though Philip could force himself to go to the office every day he could not even pretend to show any interest in the work. His mind was occupied with the future. After the middle of July there was nothing much to do and he escaped a good deal by pretending he had to go to lectures for his first examination. The time he got in this way he spent in the National Gallery. He read books about Paris and books about painting. He was steeped in Ruskin. He read many of Vasari’s lives of the painters. He liked that story of Correggio, and he fancied himself standing before some great masterpiece and crying: Anch’ io son’ pittore. His hesitation had left him now, and he was convinced that he had in him the makings of a great painter.

‘After all, I can only try,’ he said to himself. ‘The great thing in life is to take risks.’

At last came the middle of August. Mr. Carter was spending the month in Scotland, and the managing clerk was in charge of the office. Mr. Goodworthy had seemed pleasantly disposed to Philip since their trip to Paris, and now that Philip knew he was so soon to be free, he could look upon the funny little man with tolerance.

‘You’re going for your holiday tomorrow, Carey?’ he said to him in the evening.

All day Philip had been telling himself that this was the last time he would ever sit in that hateful office.

‘Yes, this is the end of my year.’

‘I’m afraid you’ve not done very well. Mr. Carter’s very dissatisfied with you.’

‘Not nearly so dissatisfied as I am with Mr. Carter,’ returned Philip cheerfully.

‘I don’t think you should speak like that, Carey.’

‘I’m not coming back. I made the arrangement that if I didn’t like accountancy Mr. Carter would return me half the money I paid for my articles and I could chuck it at the end of a year.’

‘You shouldn’t come to such a decision hastily.’

‘For ten months I’ve loathed it all, I’ve loathed the work, I’ve loathed the office, I loathe Loudon. I’d rather sweep a crossing than spend my days here.’

‘Well, I must say, I don’t think you’re very fitted for accountancy.’

‘Good-bye,’ said Philip, holding out his hand. ‘I want to thank you for your kindness to me. I’m sorry if I’ve been troublesome. I knew almost from the beginning I was no good.’

‘Well, if you really do make up your mind it is good-bye. I don’t know what you’re going to do, but if you’re in the neighbourhood at any time come in and see us.’

Philip gave a little laugh.

‘I’m afraid it sounds very rude, but I hope from the bottom of my heart that I shall never set eyes on any of you again.’

第三十八章

到了岁末，有一大堆的帐务要处理。菲利普跟着一个叫汤普逊的办事员到处奔波，从早到晚一成不变地干着一件事：把帐本上的开支项目一样样报给那个办事员听，让他核对，有时候还得把帐页上的一长串数字统加起来。他生来没有数学才能，只能一笔一笔慢慢往上加。汤普逊看到他错误百出，忍不住要发火。这位同事是个瘦长条儿，年岁在四十左右，脸带菜色，乌黑的头发，乱蓬蓬的胡须，双颊凹陷，鼻子两侧沟沟壑壑，皱纹很深。他不喜欢菲利普，因为他是个练习生。这小子只不过因为付得起三百个畿尼，能在这儿悠哉悠哉混上五年，日后说不定就有机会飞黄腾达；而他自己呢，尽管有经验，有能力，一生一世却只能当个月薪三十五先令的小办事员，永无出头之日。他儿女成群，被生活担子压得喘不过气来，所以养成个火爆脾气，动辄发怒。他自觉在菲利普身上辨察出一股傲气，颇有几分不平之意，他因为菲利普比自己多念了几年书，常报以冷嘲热讽。他讥笑菲利普的发音；他不能原谅菲利普的语音里不带伦敦腔，所以在同菲利普讲话时，故意把h这个字母的音发得特别响。起初，他的态度仅仅是生硬，惹人反感罢了。可是一等他发现菲利普压根儿没有当会计师的禀赋，就专以出他的洋相为乐事。他的攻击又粗鲁又笨拙，却足以伤害菲利普的自尊心；菲利普为了自卫，违反自己的本性，硬摆出一副恃才傲物的神气。

"今儿个早上洗澡了？"一天，菲利普上班迟到了，汤普逊就这么问一句。现在，菲利普不再像早先那样规矩守时了。

"是啊。你呢？"

"没有，我又不是什么贵人，不过是个小职员罢了。我只在星期六晚上洗个澡。"

"我想，这就是你在星期一比平时更惹人讨厌的缘故吧。"

"今天是否劳你驾，把几笔款子数目简单加一加？恐怕这对一个懂拉丁文和希腊文的上等人来说，过于苛求了吧。"

"你想说句把挖苦活，可说得不大高明哪。"

不过菲利普自己肚里雪亮，那些薪俸菲薄、举止粗鲁的职员，个个比门己强，更顶事。有那么一两回，连古德沃西先生也沉不住气了。

"到现在你实在也该有点长进罗，"他说，"你甚至还不如那个勤工来得伶俐。"

菲利普绷着脸听着。他不喜欢让人责怪。有时候古德沃西先生不满意他誊写的帐目，又叫别人去重抄一遍，这也使他感到下不了台。起初，由于这工作还算新鲜，好歹还凑合得过去，可现在越来越惹人厌烦，再加上他发现自己又没有这方面的才能，不由得恨起这工作来了。分配给他的份内差事，他常常撇在一边不管，信手在事务所的信笺上勾勒涂画，白白糟蹋时间。他替华生画了各种不同姿态的素描画，他的绘画才能给了华生很深的印象。一天华生心血来潮，把这些画拿回家去，第二天上班时，带来了他全家人的赞誉。

"我奇怪你干吗没当个画家呢，"他说。"话得说回来，靠这种玩意儿当然发不了财的。"

隔了两三天，卡特先生恰巧到华生家吃饭，这些画也拿给他看了。第二天早晨，他把菲利普叫到跟前。菲利普难得见到他，对他颇有几分惧意。

"听着，年轻人，你下班后于些什么我管不着，但是我看到了你的那些个画，都是画在事务所的信笺上的，而且古德沃西先生也说你现在有点吊儿郎当。作为一个见习会计师，你干事不巴结点，将来是搞不出什么名堂来的。这是门体面的行当，我们正在把一批有才于的人士网罗进来，但是要干这一行就得……"他想找个比较贴切的字眼来结束他的谈话，但一时又找不到，最后只好草草收场："要于这一行就得巴结些。"

要不是原来有约在先--一他如果不喜欢这工作，可以在一年后离开，并可收回所付合同费用的半数--说不定他就得硬着头皮干下去了。他觉得自己适合于干点更有出息的工作，而不是整天老是算算帐。说来也真丢人。这种低贱的事儿偏偏干得这么糟。同汤普逊的怄气斗嘴，更是搞得他心烦意乱。三月间，华生在事务所的一年见习期满了，虽说菲利普并不怎么喜欢这个人，但见他走了又不免有点惋惜。事务所的其他办事员对他们两个都没有好感，因为他俩所属的阶层要稍胜他们一筹，这个事实无形之中把他俩捆在一条船上了。菲利普一想到还得同这批浑浑噩噩的家伙打四个年头的交道，人都透心凉了。他原以为到了伦敦会过上如花似锦的生活，到头来却是一无所获。现在他痛恨这座城市。他举目无亲，什么人也不认识，也不知道该如何去同他人结交。他已厌倦了独个儿到处逛荡。他渐渐感到，这种生活没法再忍受下去。晚上他躺在床上，心里在想，要是永远不再见到那间肮脏的事务所，不再见到里面的那些家伙，从此离开这个犹如死水一潭的住所，那该多快活。

开春后，有件事使他大为扫兴。海沃德原说要到伦敦来消度春光，菲利普翘首企足，恨不得马上能同他见面。他最近看了不少书，想得也很多，脑子里塞满了各种各样的念头，很想找个人谈谈，而他所认识的人里面，谁也不对抽象的事物感兴趣。他想到很快有个知音来同他开怀畅谈，喜欢得什么似的。哪知海沃德却来信说，意大利今年春光明媚，比以往哪年都可爱，实在舍不得从那儿跑开。这好似给菲利普当头浇了一盆凉水。他信中还问菲利普，干吗不到意大利来。看世界如此多娇，硬把自己关在一间办公室里，磋路青春，何苦来着？信里接着写道：

我真想不通，那种生活你怎么受得了的。我现在只要一想到舰队街和林肯旅社，就恶心得直打哆嗦。世界上只有两件东西使我们的生活值得苟且，这就是爱情和艺术。我无法想象你竟能龟缩在办公室里，埋头伏案于帐册之中。你是不是还头戴礼帽，手拿雨伞和小黑包？我总觉得你我应当把生命视作一场冒险，应当让宝石般的火焰在胸中熊熊燃烧。做人就应该冒风险，应该赴汤蹈火，履险如夷。你为什么不去巴黎学艺术呢？我一向认为你是有艺术才华的。

最近一个时期，菲利普反复盘算着这种可能性，而海沃德的建议恰好与他的考虑不谋而合。一上来，这个念头着实使他吃了一惊，但他又没法不朝这方面想。经过反复思考，他觉得这是摆脱目前可悲处境的唯一出一路。他们都认为他有才华：在海德堡，人们夸奖他的水彩画；威尔金森小姐更是赞不绝口，说他的画很逗人爱；甚至像华生一家那样的陌生人，也不能不为他的速写所折服。《波希米亚人的生涯卜书留给他的印象可谓深矣。他把这本书也带到伦敦来了，逢到心情极度压抑的时候，只要看上几页，万般愁思顿作烟云散，恍惚已置身于那些令人销魂的小阁楼里，罗道夫他们在那儿唱歌，跳舞，谈情说爱。他开始向往巴黎，就像从前向往伦敦一样，不怕再经历第二次的幻灭。他渴望罗曼蒂克的生活，渴望美和爱情，而所有这一切，似乎在巴黎全能享受到。他酷爱绘画，为什么他就不能画得同他人一样出色呢？他写信向威尔金森小姐打听，他要是住在巴黎生活费用需要多少。她回信说，一年八十英镑足以应付了。她热情支持他的计划，说他有才情，不该埋没在办公室里。她颇富戏剧性地说：明明可以成为大艺术家的人，有谁甘心当一辈子小办事员呢？她恳求菲利普要有自信，这才是最关键的。然而，菲利普生性谨慎。海沃德奢谈什么做人应该冒风险，他当然可以这么说罗，他手里那些镀有金边的股票，每年给他生出三百镑的利息，而他菲利普的全部财产，充其量也不过一千八百镑。他举棋不定。

事有凑巧，一天古德沃西先生突然问他是否想去巴黎。该事务所替圣奥诺雷区的一家旅馆管理帐务，那是家由某英国公司开设的旅馆，古德沃西先生和一名办事员每年要去那儿两次。那个经常去的办事员碰巧病倒了，而事务所内工作很紧张，一时又抽不出别的人手。古德沃西先生想到了菲利普，因为这儿有他没他无所谓，况且契约上也规定他有权要求承担件把最能体现本行业乐趣的差事。菲利普自然是喜出望外。

"白天得忙一整天，"古德沃西先生说，"但是到了晚上就自由啦。巴黎毕竟是巴黎嘛。"他狡黠地微微一笑。"旅馆里的人待我们很周到，一日三餐分文不取，咱们一个子儿也不必花。所以我可喜欢上巴黎呢--让别人替咱掏腰包。"

抵达加来港时，菲利普见到一大群脚夫在不住指手划脚，他的心也随着跳荡了起来。

"这才是真正的生活呢，"他自言自语说。

火车在乡间田野上疾驶，他目不转睛地凝望窗外。他很喜欢那一片片起伏的沙丘，那沙丘的色调，似乎比他生平所见的任何景物都更为赏心悦目；那一道道沟渠，还有那一行行连绵不绝的白杨树，看得他入了迷。他们出了巴黎的北火车站，坐上一辆破破烂烂、不住吱嘎作响的出租马车，在碎石路上颠簸向前。异国的空气犹如芳醇，菲利普一口一口吸着，陶然忘情，几乎忍不住要纵声呼喊起来。他们来到旅馆时，只见经理已在门日恭候。经理胖墩墩的，一脸和气，说的英语还算过得去。他同古德沃西先生是老朋友了，他嘘寒问暖，热乎极了。他邀他们在经理专用雅室里进餐，经理太太也出席作陪。满席佳肴美酒，菲利普似乎还从未尝到过像beefsteak aux pommes那样鲜美可口的菜肴，也从未喝过像vin ordinaire那样醇香扑鼻的美酒呐。

对于古德沃西先生这样一个循规蹈矩、道貌岸然的当家人来说，法国首都乃是酒色之徒恣意行乐的天堂。第二天上午他问经理，眼下可有什么"够味"的东西能饱饱眼福。他深得巴黎之行的乐趣，说不时来这儿走一遭，可以防止脑瓜儿"生锈"。晚上，一天的工作结束了，吃过饭之后，他就带着菲利普到红磨坊和情人游乐场去。当他捕捉到那些淫秽场面时，那对小眼睛顿时忽溜忽溜放光，嘴角也禁不住浮起一丝狡猾的淫笑。那些专为外国人安排的寻欢作乐场所，他都--一跑遍了。事后，他又感叹一句：堂堂一个国家，竟放纵这类事儿，到头来不会有好结果的。有一回观看一出小型歌舞剧，台上出现了一个几乎一丝不挂的女伶，他用胳膊肘轻轻捣了一下菲利普，接着还指给他看那些在剧场内四下招摇的体态丰满、身材高大的巴黎名妓。他领给菲利普看的，是个庸俗低级的巴黎，但是菲利普却用一双被幻觉蒙住的眼睛，看着这个扑朔迷离的城市。一清早，他匆匆出了旅馆，来到爱丽舍田园大街，伫立在协和广场边上。时值六月，空气清新柔和，整个巴黎像抹了一层银粉似地清澈明亮。菲利普感到自己的心飞到了人群之中。他想，这儿才是他梦寐以求的浪漫之乡。

他们在巴黎呆了将近一周，于星期日离开。当菲利普深夜回到巴恩斯的暗淡寓所时，他已最后拿定了主意。他将解约赴巴黎学画。不过为了不让人觉得他不明事理，他决计在事务所呆满一年再走。到八月中旬他有两周假期，临走之前他要对赫伯特·卡特讲明，自己无意再回事务所。尽管菲利普可以强迫自己每天到事务所上班应卯，却没法叫自己对工作发生兴趣，哪怕只是装装门面。他脑子里无时不在想着将来。一过七月半，工作开始清闲下来，他借口要应付第一次考试，得去听业务讲座，经常不上班。他利用这些时间跑国家美术馆。他翻阅各种有关巴黎和绘画的书籍，埋头研读罗斯金的论著，另外还看了瓦萨里写的许多画家传记。他特别欣赏高里季奥的一生经历；他想象自己伫立在某幅不朽杰作跟前大声呼喊：Anch'io son'pittore。现在他不再游移不定，深信自己是块做大画家的料子。

"事到如今，我也只能试试自己的运气了，"他自言自语说。"人生贵在冒险嘛。"

八月中旬总算盼到了。卡特先生这个月在苏格兰消夏，所内一切事务由主管员全权处理。自巴黎之行以来，古德沃西先生似乎对菲利普有了几分好感，而菲利普想想反正自己很快就要远走高飞，对这个可笑的小老头也总忍着点，不多所计较。

"凯里，你明天就要去休假了？"傍晚下班时，古德沃西先生对他说。

一整天菲利普不断对自己念叨：这可是自己最后一次坐在这间可恨的办公室里了。

"是啊，我的第一年见习期算熬到头了。"

"恐怕你干得并不怎么出色呢。卡特先生对你很不满意。"

"我对卡特先生更不满意哩，"菲利普轻松地回敬了一句。

"凯里，我觉得你不该用这种腔调说话。"

"我不打算回来了。咱们有约在先，要是我不喜欢会计师的工作，卡特先生愿意把我所付的见习合同费用退还我一半，我只要呆满一年就可以歇手不干。"

"我劝你三思而行，别这么仓促作出决定。"

"早在十个月以前，我就开始讨厌这儿的一切，讨厌这儿的工作，讨厌这间办公室。我讨厌伦敦。我宁可在街头扫地，也不愿再在这儿混日子。"

"好吧，说实在的我也觉得你不适合于干会计师这一行。"

"再见了，"菲利普边说边伸出手来。"我得谢谢你对我的关心。如果我给你们添了麻烦，还请多多包涵。我差不多打一开始就知道自己是干不好的。"

"好吧，要是你果真主意定了，那就再见吧。不知你今后作何打算。要是你有机会上这一带来，不妨请进来看看我们。"

菲利普呵呵一笑。

"恐怕我的话很不中听，不过实话实说，我打心底里希望以后别再见到你们之中的任何一位。"

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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 41楼发表于: 2014-08-15 0

chapter 39

The Vicar of Blackstable would have nothing to do with the scheme which Philip laid before him. He had a great idea that one should stick to whatever one had begun. Like all weak men he laid an exaggerated stress on not changing one’s mind.

‘You chose to be an accountant of your own free will,’ he said.

‘I just took that because it was the only chance I saw of getting up to town. I hate London, I hate the work, and nothing will induce me to go back to it.’

Mr. and Mrs. Carey were frankly shocked at Philip’s idea of being an artist. He should not forget, they said, that his father and mother were gentlefolk, and painting wasn’t a serious profession; it was Bohemian, disreputable, immoral. And then Paris!

‘So long as I have anything to say in the matter, I shall not allow you to live in Paris,’ said the Vicar firmly.

It was a sink of iniquity. The scarlet woman and she of Babylon flaunted their vileness there; the cities of the plain were not more wicked.

‘You’ve been brought up like a gentleman and Christian, and I should be false to the trust laid upon me by your dead father and mother if I allowed you to expose yourself to such temptation.’

‘Well, I know I’m not a Christian and I’m beginning to doubt whether I’m a gentleman,’ said Philip.

The dispute grew more violent. There was another year before Philip took possession of his small inheritance, and during that time Mr. Carey proposed only to give him an allowance if he remained at the office. It was clear to Philip that if he meant not to continue with accountancy he must leave it while he could still get back half the money that had been paid for his articles. The Vicar would not listen. Philip, losing all reserve, said things to wound and irritate.

‘You’ve got no right to waste my money,’ he said at last. ‘After all it’s my money, isn’t it? I’m not a child. You can’t prevent me from going to Paris if I make up my mind to. You can’t force me to go back to London.’

‘All I can do is to refuse you money unless you do what I think fit.’

‘Well, I don’t care, I’ve made up my mind to go to Paris. I shall sell my clothes, and my books, and my father’s jewellery.’

Aunt Louisa sat by in silence, anxious and unhappy. she saw that Philip was beside himself, and anything she said then would but increase his anger. Finally the Vicar announced that he wished to hear nothing more about it and with dignity left the room. For the next three days neither Philip nor he spoke to one another. Philip wrote to Hayward for information about Paris, and made up his mind to set out as soon as he got a reply. Mrs. Carey turned the matter over in her mind incessantly; she felt that Philip included her in the hatred he bore her husband, and the thought tortured her. She loved him with all her heart. At length she spoke to him; she listened attentively while he poured out all his disillusionment of London and his eager ambition for the future.

‘I may be no good, but at least let me have a try. I can’t be a worse failure than I was in that beastly office. And I feel that I can paint. I know I’ve got it in me.’

She was not so sure as her husband that they did right in thwarting so strong an inclination. She had read of great painters whose parents had opposed their wish to study, the event had shown with what folly; and after all it was just as possible for a painter to lead a virtuous life to the glory of God as for a chartered accountant.

‘I’m so afraid of your going to Paris,’ she said piteously. ‘It wouldn’t be so bad if you studied in London.’

‘If I’m going in for painting I must do it thoroughly, and it’s only in Paris that you can get the real thing.’

At his suggestion Mrs. Carey wrote to the solicitor, saying that Philip was discontented with his work in London, and asking what he thought of a change. Mr. Nixon answered as follows:

Dear Mrs. Carey,

I have seen Mr. Herbert Carter, and I am afraid I must tell you that Philip has not done so well as one could have wished. If he is very strongly set against the work, perhaps it is better that he should take the opportunity there is now to break his articles. I am naturally very disappointed, but as you know you can take a horse to the water, but you can’t make him drink.

Yours very sincerely, Albert Nixon.

The letter was shown to the Vicar, but served only to increase his obstinacy. He was willing enough that Philip should take up some other profession, he suggested his father’s calling, medicine, but nothing would induce him to pay an allowance if Philip went to Paris.

‘It’s a mere excuse for self-indulgence and sensuality,’ he said.

‘I’m interested to hear you blame self-indulgence in others,’ retorted Philip acidly.

But by this time an answer had come from Hayward, giving the name of a hotel where Philip could get a room for thirty francs a month and enclosing a note of introduction to the massiere of a school. Philip read the letter to Mrs. Carey and told her he proposed to start on the first of September.

‘But you haven’t got any money?’ she said.

‘I’m going into Tercanbury this afternoon to sell the jewellery.’

He had inherited from his father a gold watch and chain, two or three rings, some links, and two pins. One of them was a pearl and might fetch a considerable sum.

‘It’s a very different thing, what a thing’s worth and what it’ll fetch,’ said Aunt Louisa.

Philip smiled, for this was one of his uncle’s stock phrases.

‘I know, but at the worst I think I can get a hundred pounds on the lot, and that’ll keep me till I’m twenty-one.’

Mrs. Carey did not answer, but she went upstairs, put on her little black bonnet, and went to the bank. In an hour she came back. She went to Philip, who was reading in the drawing-room, and handed him an envelope.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘It’s a little present for you,’ she answered, smiling shyly.

He opened it and found eleven five-pound notes and a little paper sack bulging with sovereigns.

‘I couldn’t bear to let you sell your father’s jewellery. It’s the money I had in the bank. It comes to very nearly a hundred pounds.’

Philip blushed, and, he knew not why, tears suddenly filled his eyes.

‘Oh, my dear, I can’t take it,’ he said. ‘It’s most awfully good of you, but I couldn’t bear to take it.’

When Mrs. Carey was married she had three hundred pounds, and this money, carefully watched, had been used by her to meet any unforeseen expense, any urgent charity, or to buy Christmas and birthday presents for her husband and for Philip. In the course of years it had diminished sadly, but it was still with the Vicar a subject for jesting. He talked of his wife as a rich woman and he constantly spoke of the ‘nest egg.’

‘Oh, please take it, Philip. I’m so sorry I’ve been extravagant, and there’s only that left. But it’ll make me so happy if you’ll accept it.’

‘But you’ll want it,’ said Philip.

‘No, I don’t think I shall. I was keeping it in case your uncle died before me. I thought it would be useful to have a little something I could get at immediately if I wanted it, but I don’t think I shall live very much longer now.’

‘Oh, my dear, don’t say that. Why, of course you’re going to live for ever. I can’t possibly spare you.’

‘Oh, I’m not sorry.’ Her voice broke and she hid her eyes, but in a moment, drying them, she smiled bravely. ‘At first, I used to pray to God that He might not take me first, because I didn’t want your uncle to be left alone, I didn’t want him to have all the suffering, but now I know that it wouldn’t mean so much to your uncle as it would mean to me. He wants to live more than I do, I’ve never been the wife he wanted, and I daresay he’d marry again if anything happened to me. So I should like to go first. You don’t think it’s selfish of me, Philip, do you? But I couldn’t bear it if he went.’

Philip kissed her wrinkled, thin cheek. He did not know why the sight he had of that overwhelming love made him feel strangely ashamed. It was incomprehensible that she should care so much for a man who was so indifferent, so selfish, so grossly self-indulgent; and he divined dimly that in her heart she knew his indifference and his selfishness, knew them and loved him humbly all the same.

‘You will take the money, Philip?’ she said, gently stroking his hand. ‘I know you can do without it, but it’ll give me so much happiness. I’ve always wanted to do something for you. You see, I never had a child of my own, and I’ve loved you as if you were my son. When you were a little boy, though I knew it was wicked, I used to wish almost that you might be ill, so that I could nurse you day and night. But you were only ill once and then it was at school. I should so like to help you. It’s the only chance I shall ever have. And perhaps some day when you’re a great artist you won’t forget me, but you’ll remember that I gave you your start.’

‘It’s very good of you,’ said Philip. ‘I’m very grateful.’ A smile came into her tired eyes, a smile of pure happiness.

‘Oh, I’m so glad.’

第三十九章

菲利普把自己的打算向布莱克斯泰勃教区牧师和盘托出，但是后者说什么也不肯点头同意。他有这么种高见：一个人不管干什么，都得有始有终。他也像所有软弱无能者一样，过分强调不该朝三暮四，见异思迁。

"当初要当会计师，那可纯粹出于你自愿，谁也没强迫过你，"他说。"

"我当初所以选中这一行，是因为我当时看到要进城，就只有这么个机会。我现在讨厌伦敦，讨厌那差使，说什么也别想叫我再回那儿去。"

听到菲利普要想习艺当画家，凯里夫妇丝毫不掩饰他们的满腔愤慨。他们正告菲利普，别忘了他父母是上等人，画画儿可不是个正经的行业，那是放荡不羁之徒干的，既不体面，又不讲道德。而且还要上巴黎！

"只要我在这事情上还有点发言权，我是决不会放你去巴黎鬼混的，"牧师口气坚决地说。

那是个罪恶的渊薮。妖艳的荡妇，巴比伦的娼妓，在那儿公开炫耀自己的罪恶，普天之下再也找不到比它更邪恶的城市了。

"你从小受到良好教育，有着上等人和基督徒的教养，如果我放你到魔窟去受诱惑，我就辜负了你已故双亲对我的嘱托。"

"嗯，我知道我不是个基督徒，现在甚至连自己是不是上等人也开始。有点怀疑，"菲利普说。

双方唇熗舌剑，各不相让。菲利普还得等上一年才能自行支配父亲留下的那一小笔遗产。凯里先生明确提出，在这期问菲利普要想得到生活费，非得继续留在事务所里不可。

菲利普明白，自己如果不打算继续干会计师这行当，必须趁现在离开，这样，所付的见习合同费还可以收回一半。但牧师根本听不进去。菲利普再也按捺不住，冲口说了些刺耳、伤人的话。

"你有什么权利把我的钱往水里扔！"最后他这么说。"这毕竟是我的钱，不是吗？我义不是三岁娃娃。如果我拿定主意去巴黎，你想拦也拦不住。你想强迫我回伦敦，办不到！"

"要是你干的事我认为不合适，我一个子儿也不给，这一点我是办得刊的。"

"好吧，我才不在乎呢！反正巴黎我是去定了，我可以变卖我的衣服、书籍，还有我父亲的首饰。"

路易莎伯母默默地坐在一边，又焦急又痛心她看到菲利普已经气昏了头，知道自己这时候不管说些什么，都只会往火上浇油。最后，牧师宣称他不想再谈论此事，说罢，神气十足地离开了房间。叔侄俩一连三天彼此不理不睬。菲利普写信给海沃德询问巴黎的情况，决计一有回音立即动身。凯里太太翻来覆去琢磨这件事。她觉得菲利普由于怨恨她丈人，结果把她自己也牵扯了进去。这个想法使她好生苦恼。她打心眼里疼爱这孩子。最后她主动找菲利普谈了，菲利普向她倾诉衷肠，谈到自己对伦敦所抱幻想的破灭，谈到对前途的憧憬和自己的远大志向，她一字不漏地悉心听着。

"也许，我混不出什么名堂来，但至少得让我试试。总不至于比呆在那个讨厌的事务所内更没出息。我感到自己还能画上几笔，自觉在这方面还有几分天赋。"

她并不像丈夫那样自信，认为侄儿想当什么画家，显然是鬼迷了心窍，做长辈的理当出面阻挠。但她看过一些大画家的传记，那些画家的父母都反对他们去学画习艺，事实证明这种做法有多愚蠢。再说，一个画家毕竟也可能像会计师那样，过贞洁的生活，为主增添荣耀嘛。

"我担心的倒是你去巴黎这一点，"她凄凄切切地说。"如果你在伦敦学画，那倒也算了。"

"要学就得学到家，真正的绘画艺术只有在巴黎才能学到手。"

凯里太太根据菲利普的建议，给律师写了封信，说菲利普不满意伦敦的差使，要是现在改弦更张，不知他高见以为如何。尼克逊先生作了如下的回复：

亲爱的凯里太太：

我已拜访过赫伯特'卡特先生，恐不能不如实相告，令侄这一年并未取得令人满意的进展。如若令侄辞意甚坚，则趁此机会及早解约为好。我自然颇感失望，但正如俗话所说："君可牵马去河边，焉能迫其饮河水？

你的忠诚的

阿尔贝特·尼克逊

信拿给牧师看了，结果反倒使他越发固执己见。他愿意让菲利普改换门庭，另外找个职业，甚至建议他继承父业，去当医生。然而，菲利普要是执意去巴黎，那就休想从他手中拿到一个子儿生活费。

"这无非是为自我放纵、耽于声色找个借日罢了，"牧师说。

"听到你责怪别人自我放纵，我觉得挺有趣的，"菲利普语中带刺地顶撞一句。

这时，海沃德已有回信来了。信中提到一家旅馆的名字，菲利普出三十法郎的月租，可以在那儿租到一个房间。信内还附了封给某美术学校女司库的介绍信。菲利普把信念给凯里太太听，并对她说，他打算在九月一日动身。

"可你身边一个子儿也没有呀？"她说。

"今天下午我打算去坎特伯雷变卖首饰。"

他父亲留给他一只带金链的金表、两三枚戒指和几副链扣，另外还有两枚饰针，其中一枚镶有珍珠，可以卖大价钱。

"买进是个宝，卖出是裸草，"路易莎伯母说。

菲利普笑了笑，因为这是他大伯的一句日头禅。

"这我知道。不过，我想这些玩意儿至少可以卖一百镑。有了这笔钱，我总能维持到二十一岁了吧。"

凯里太太没答腔，径自上了楼，戴上她那顶黑色小无边帽，随后出门去银行。一小时后她回来了。她进了起居室，走到正在埋头看书的菲利普面前，交给他一只信封袋。

"是什么呀？"他问。

"给你的一份薄礼，"她回答说，赧然一笑。

他拆开信封袋一看，里边有十一张五镑的钞票，还有一个塞满一枚枚金镑的小纸包。

"我不忍心眼睁睁看着你变卖你父亲的首饰。这是我存在银行里的钱，差不多有一百镑了。"

菲利普刷地红了脸，不知怎地，他心头一酸，顿时热泪盈眶。

"哦，亲爱的，这个我可不能拿，"他说。"你心肠真好，不过我怎么也不能忍心收下这笔钱。"

凯里太太出阁时，手头攒有三百镑的私房钱，她守着这笔钱一个子儿也舍不得乱花，临到有什么意想不到的开支，才拿出一点来救救急，比如要捐助一笔火烧眉毛的赈款啊，或是给伯侄俩买件把圣诞节或生日礼物什么的。这些年来，这笔可怜巴巴的款子虽然所剩无几，但仍被牧师当作打趣的笑料，他说到妻子时总称她"阔奶奶"，而且不断念叨那笔一私房钱"。

"哦，菲利普，请收下吧。只怪我平时用钱大手大脚，现在就只剩这些了。要是你肯收下，会使我很高兴的。"

"可你自己也很需要啊，"菲利普说。

"不，我想我用不着了。我留着这笔钱，原是防你大伯先我而去。我想，手头有点什么总有好处，可以应付应付不时之需，但现在想想，我已行将就木，活不了多久了。"

"哦，亲爱的，快别这么说。呃，你一定会长生不老的。我可少不了您啊。"

"哦，我现在可以瞑目了。"她双手掩面，语音颤抖着，说不出话来。俄顷，她擦干泪水，勇敢地破涕一笑。"起初，我常祈求上帝别把我先召去，因为我不愿让你大伯孤零零地留在世上，我不想让他忍痛受苦。但现在我已明白过来，他并不像我，不会把这一切看得那么重。他比我更想活。我从来就不是他理想的生活伴侣，要是我有个三长两短，我看他说不定会续弦再娶的。所以我希望能先走一步。菲利普，我这么说，你不会以为我自私吧。如果他先去了，我就受不了。"

菲利普亲了亲她那布满皱纹的瘦削面颊。他不明白，见到这种深情挚爱、催人涕下的场面，自己反会莫名其妙地感到羞惭。对那么个极其冷漠自私、极其粗俗任性的男人，她却这般关怀备至，简直不可理解。菲利普隐隐约约地捉摸到，尽管她心里明明知道丈夫冷漠自私，是的，她全明白，但还是低三下四地爱着他。

"你肯收下这笔钱的吧，菲利普？"她一面说，一面轻轻地抚摸菲利普。的手。"我知道你没有这笔钱也凑合得过去，但你收下这笔钱，会给我带来莫大的幸福。我一直想要为你做点什么。你看，我自己没养过孩子，我爱你，一直把你当作我的亲生儿子。你小时候，我差不多还巴望你生病来着，尽管我知道这个念头很邪恶，但是这一来我就可以日日夜夜地守护在。你身边。可惜你只生了一次病，后来你就去上学了。我非常想给你出点力。这是我一生中绝无仅有的一次机会了。说不定有朝一日你真的成了大画家，你就不会忘记我，你会想到是我第一个资助你创业的。"

"您老心肠真好，"菲利普说，"我说不出对您有多感激。"。

她疲惫的眼睛里，浮现出一缕笑意，这是一种发自心田的幸福笑意。

"哦，我多么高兴！"

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等级: 内阁元老

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chapter 40

A few days later Mrs. Carey went to the station to see Philip off. She stood at the door of the carriage, trying to keep back her tears. Philip was restless and eager. He wanted to be gone.

‘Kiss me once more,’ she said.

He leaned out of the window and kissed her. The train started, and she stood on the wooden platform of the little station, waving her handkerchief till it was out of sight. Her heart was dreadfully heavy, and the few hundred yards to the vicarage seemed very, very long. It was natural enough that he should be eager to go, she thought, he was a boy and the future beckoned to him; but she—she clenched her teeth so that she should not cry. She uttered a little inward prayer that God would guard him, and keep him out of temptation, and give him happiness and good fortune.

But Philip ceased to think of her a moment after he had settled down in his carriage. He thought only of the future. He had written to Mrs. Otter, the massiere to whom Hayward had given him an introduction, and had in his pocket an invitation to tea on the following day. When he arrived in Paris he had his luggage put on a cab and trundled off slowly through the gay streets, over the bridge, and along the narrow ways of the Latin Quarter. He had taken a room at the Hotel des Deux Ecoles, which was in a shabby street off the Boulevard du Montparnasse; it was convenient for Amitrano’s School at which he was going to work. A waiter took his box up five flights of stairs, and Philip was shown into a tiny room, fusty from unopened windows, the greater part of which was taken up by a large wooden bed with a canopy over it of red rep; there were heavy curtains on the windows of the same dingy material; the chest of drawers served also as a washing-stand; and there was a massive wardrobe of the style which is connected with the good King Louis Philippe. The wall-paper was discoloured with age; it was dark gray, and there could be vaguely seen on it garlands of brown leaves. To Philip the room seemed quaint and charming.

Though it was late he felt too excited to sleep and, going out, made his way into the boulevard and walked towards the light. This led him to the station; and the square in front of it, vivid with arc-lamps, noisy with the yellow trams that seemed to cross it in all directions, made him laugh aloud with joy. There were cafes all round, and by chance, thirsty and eager to get a nearer sight of the crowd, Philip installed himself at a little table outside the Cafe de Versailles. Every other table was taken, for it was a fine night; and Philip looked curiously at the people, here little family groups, there a knot of men with odd-shaped hats and beards talking loudly and gesticulating; next to him were two men who looked like painters with women who Philip hoped were not their lawful wives; behind him he heard Americans loudly arguing on art. His soul was thrilled. He sat till very late, tired out but too happy to move, and when at last he went to bed he was wide awake; he listened to the manifold noise of Paris.

Next day about tea-time he made his way to the Lion de Belfort, and in a new street that led out of the Boulevard Raspail found Mrs. Otter. She was an insignificant woman of thirty, with a provincial air and a deliberately lady-like manner; she introduced him to her mother. He discovered presently that she had been studying in Paris for three years and later that she was separated from her husband. She had in her small drawing-room one or two portraits which she had painted, and to Philip’s inexperience they seemed extremely accomplished.

‘I wonder if I shall ever be able to paint as well as that,’ he said to her.

‘Oh, I expect so,’ she replied, not without self-satisfaction. ‘You can’t expect to do everything all at once, of course.’

She was very kind. She gave him the address of a shop where he could get a portfolio, drawing-paper, and charcoal.

‘I shall be going to Amitrano’s about nine tomorrow, and if you’ll be there then I’ll see that you get a good place and all that sort of thing.’

She asked him what he wanted to do, and Philip felt that he should not let her see how vague he was about the whole matter.

‘Well, first I want to learn to draw,’ he said.

‘I’m so glad to hear you say that. People always want to do things in such a hurry. I never touched oils till I’d been here for two years, and look at the result.’

She gave a glance at the portrait of her mother, a sticky piece of painting that hung over the piano.

‘And if I were you, I would be very careful about the people you get to know. I wouldn’t mix myself up with any foreigners. I’m very careful myself.’

Philip thanked her for the suggestion, but it seemed to him odd. He did not know that he particularly wanted to be careful.

‘We live just as we would if we were in England,’ said Mrs. Otter’s mother, who till then had spoken little. ‘When we came here we brought all our own furniture over.’

Philip looked round the room. It was filled with a massive suite, and at the window were the same sort of white lace curtains which Aunt Louisa put up at the vicarage in summer. The piano was draped in Liberty silk and so was the chimney-piece. Mrs. Otter followed his wandering eye.

‘In the evening when we close the shutters one might really feel one was in England.’

‘And we have our meals just as if we were at home,’ added her mother. ‘A meat breakfast in the morning and dinner in the middle of the day.’

When he left Mrs. Otter Philip went to buy drawing materials; and next morning at the stroke of nine, trying to seem self-assured, he presented himself at the school. Mrs. Otter was already there, and she came forward with a friendly smile. He had been anxious about the reception he would have as a nouveau, for he had read a good deal of the rough joking to which a newcomer was exposed at some of the studios; but Mrs. Otter had reassured him.

‘Oh, there’s nothing like that here,’ she said. ‘You see, about half our students are ladies, and they set a tone to the place.’

The studio was large and bare, with gray walls, on which were pinned the studies that had received prizes. A model was sitting in a chair with a loose wrap thrown over her, and about a dozen men and women were standing about, some talking and others still working on their sketch. It was the first rest of the model.

‘You’d better not try anything too difficult at first,’ said Mrs. Otter. ‘Put your easel here. You’ll find that’s the easiest pose.’

Philip placed an easel where she indicated, and Mrs. Otter introduced him to a young woman who sat next to him.

‘Mr. Carey—Miss Price. Mr. Carey’s never studied before, you won’t mind helping him a little just at first will you?’ Then she turned to the model. ‘La Pose.’

The model threw aside the paper she had been reading, La Petite Republique, and sulkily, throwing off her gown, got on to the stand. She stood, squarely on both feet with her hands clasped behind her head.

‘It’s a stupid pose,’ said Miss Price. ‘I can’t imagine why they chose it.’

When Philip entered, the people in the studio had looked at him curiously, and the model gave him an indifferent glance, but now they ceased to pay attention to him. Philip, with his beautiful sheet of paper in front of him, stared awkwardly at the model. He did not know how to begin. He had never seen a naked woman before. She was not young and her breasts were shrivelled. She had colourless, fair hair that fell over her forehead untidily, and her face was covered with large freckles. He glanced at Miss Price’s work. She had only been working on it two days, and it looked as though she had had trouble; her paper was in a mess from constant rubbing out, and to Philip’s eyes the figure looked strangely distorted.

‘I should have thought I could do as well as that,’ he said to himself.

He began on the head, thinking that he would work slowly downwards, but, he could not understand why, he found it infinitely more difficult to draw a head from the model than to draw one from his imagination. He got into difficulties. He glanced at Miss Price. She was working with vehement gravity. Her brow was wrinkled with eagerness, and there was an anxious look in her eyes. It was hot in the studio, and drops of sweat stood on her forehead. She was a girl of twenty-six, with a great deal of dull gold hair; it was handsome hair, but it was carelessly done, dragged back from her forehead and tied in a hurried knot. She had a large face, with broad, flat features and small eyes; her skin was pasty, with a singular unhealthiness of tone, and there was no colour in the cheeks. She had an unwashed air and you could not help wondering if she slept in her clothes. She was serious and silent. When the next pause came, she stepped back to look at her work.

‘I don’t know why I’m having so much bother,’ she said. ‘But I mean to get it right.’ She turned to Philip. ‘How are you getting on?’

‘Not at all,’ he answered, with a rueful smile.

She looked at what he had done.

‘You can’t expect to do anything that way. You must take measurements. And you must square out your paper.’

She showed him rapidly how to set about the business. Philip was impressed by her earnestness, but repelled by her want of charm. He was grateful for the hints she gave him and set to work again. Meanwhile other people had come in, mostly men, for the women always arrived first, and the studio for the time of year (it was early yet) was fairly full. Presently there came in a young man with thin, black hair, an enormous nose, and a face so long that it reminded you of a horse. He sat down next to Philip and nodded across him to Miss Price.

‘You’re very late,’ she said. ‘Are you only just up?’

‘It was such a splendid day, I thought I’d lie in bed and think how beautiful it was out.’

Philip smiled, but Miss Price took the remark seriously.

‘That seems a funny thing to do, I should have thought it would be more to the point to get up and enjoy it.’

‘The way of the humorist is very hard,’ said the young man gravely.

He did not seem inclined to work. He looked at his canvas; he was working in colour, and had sketched in the day before the model who was posing. He turned to Philip.

‘Have you just come out from England?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did you find your way to Amitrano’s?’

‘It was the only school I knew of.’

‘I hope you haven’t come with the idea that you will learn anything here which will be of the smallest use to you.’

‘It’s the best school in Paris,’ said Miss Price. ‘It’s the only one where they take art seriously.’

‘Should art be taken seriously?’ the young man asked; and since Miss Price replied only with a scornful shrug, he added: ‘But the point is, all schools are bad. They are academical, obviously. Why this is less injurious than most is that the teaching is more incompetent than elsewhere. Because you learn nothing....’

‘But why d’you come here then?’ interrupted Philip.

‘I see the better course, but do not follow it. Miss Price, who is cultured, will remember the Latin of that.’

‘I wish you would leave me out of your conversation, Mr. Clutton,’ said Miss Price brusquely.

‘The only way to learn to paint,’ he went on, imperturbable, ‘is to take a studio, hire a model, and just fight it out for yourself.’

‘That seems a simple thing to do,’ said Philip.

‘It only needs money,’ replied Clutton.

He began to paint, and Philip looked at him from the comer of his eye. He was long and desperately thin; his huge bones seemed to protrude from his body; his elbows were so sharp that they appeared to jut out through the arms of his shabby coat. His trousers were frayed at the bottom, and on each of his boots was a clumsy patch. Miss Price got up and went over to Philip’s easel.

‘If Mr. Clutton will hold his tongue for a moment, I’ll just help you a little,’ she said.

‘Miss Price dislikes me because I have humour,’ said Clutton, looking meditatively at his canvas, ‘but she detests me because I have genius.’

He spoke with solemnity, and his colossal, misshapen nose made what he said very quaint. Philip was obliged to laugh, but Miss Price grew darkly red with anger.

‘You’re the only person who has ever accused you of genius.’

‘Also I am the only person whose opinion is of the least value to me.’

Miss Price began to criticise what Philip had done. She talked glibly of anatomy and construction, planes and lines, and of much else which Philip did not understand. She had been at the studio a long time and knew the main points which the masters insisted upon, but though she could show what was wrong with Philip’s work she could not tell him how to put it right.

‘It’s awfully kind of you to take so much trouble with me,’ said Philip.

‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ she answered, flushing awkwardly. ‘People did the same for me when I first came, I’d do it for anyone.’

‘Miss Price wants to indicate that she is giving you the advantage of her knowledge from a sense of duty rather than on account of any charms of your person,’ said Clutton.

Miss Price gave him a furious look, and went back to her own drawing. The clock struck twelve, and the model with a cry of relief stepped down from the stand.

Miss Price gathered up her things.

‘Some of us go to Gravier’s for lunch,’ she said to Philip, with a look at Clutton. ‘I always go home myself.’

‘I’ll take you to Gravier’s if you like,’ said Clutton.

Philip thanked him and made ready to go. On his way out Mrs. Otter asked him how he had been getting on.

‘Did Fanny Price help you?’ she asked. ‘I put you there because I know she can do it if she likes. She’s a disagreeable, ill-natured girl, and she can’t draw herself at all, but she knows the ropes, and she can be useful to a newcomer if she cares to take the trouble.’

On the way down the street Clutton said to him:

‘You’ve made an impression on Fanny Price. You’d better look out.’

Philip laughed. He had never seen anyone on whom he wished less to make an impression. They came to the cheap little restaurant at which several of the students ate, and Clutton sat down at a table at which three or four men were already seated. For a franc, they got an egg, a plate of meat, cheese, and a small bottle of wine. Coffee was extra. They sat on the pavement, and yellow trams passed up and down the boulevard with a ceaseless ringing of bells.

‘By the way, what’s your name?’ said Clutton, as they took their seats.

‘Carey.’

‘Allow me to introduce an old and trusted friend, Carey by name,’ said Clutton gravely. ‘Mr. Flanagan, Mr. Lawson.’

They laughed and went on with their conversation. They talked of a thousand things, and they all talked at once. No one paid the smallest attention to anyone else. They talked of the places they had been to in the summer, of studios, of the various schools; they mentioned names which were unfamiliar to Philip, Monet, Manet, Renoir, Pissarro, Degas. Philip listened with all his ears, and though he felt a little out of it, his heart leaped with exultation. The time flew. When Clutton got up he said:

‘I expect you’ll find me here this evening if you care to come. You’ll find this about the best place for getting dyspepsia at the lowest cost in the Quarter.’

第四十章

数日之后，凯里太太去车站给菲利普送行。她伫立在车厢门口，噙泪忍泣。菲利普显得急切而不安，巴不得早点插翅高飞。

"再吻我一下，"她说。

菲利普将身子探出车窗，吻了吻她。火车启动了。她站在小车站的木制月台上，频频挥动手绢，直至火车消失在视野之外。她心头像压上了铅块，沉重得很。回牧师公馆的路程总共才几百码，却似有千里之遥。她边走边沉思：菲利普这孩子，也难怪他那么迫不及待地要走，他毕竟年轻，未来在向他召唤。可她自己--她紧咬牙关，强忍着不哭出来。她默默祈祷，求上帝暗中保佑菲利普，让他免受诱惑，赐予他幸福和好运。

可是菲利普在车厢里坐定身子，不多一会就把他伯母撇在脑后。他心里充满着对未来的憧憬。他写过一封信给奥特太太某美术学校的司库，海沃德曾向她介绍过菲利普的情况，这时菲利普口袋里还揣着奥特太太邀他明天去喝茶的请帖。到了巴黎，他雇了辆小马车，让人把行李放到车上。马车徐徐行进，穿过五光十色的街道，爬过大桥，驶入拉丁区的狭街陋巷。菲利普在"两极"旅社已租下一个房问。这家旅馆坐落在离蒙帕纳斯大街不远的一条穷陋小街上，从这里到他学画的阿米特拉诺美术学校还算方便。一位侍者把行李搬上五楼，菲利普被领进一间小房间，里面窗户关得严严的，一进门就闻到股霉味。房间大部分地盘都叫一张大木床给占了。床上蒙着大红棱纹平布帐幔，窗上挂着同样布料制成的、厚实但已失去光泽的窗帘。五斗橱兼用作脸盆架，另外还有一只结实的大衣柜，其式样令人联想起那位贤明君主路易·腓力普。房间里的糊墙纸因年深日久，原来的颜色已褪尽，现呈深灰色，不过从纸上还能依稀辨认出村有棕色树叶的花环图案。菲利普觉得这房间布置得富有奇趣，令人销魂。

夜已深沉，菲利普却兴奋得难以成眠。他索性出了旅馆，走上大街，朝华灯辉门处信步逛去。他不知不觉来到火车站。车站前面的广场，在几盏弧光灯的照耀下，显得生趣盎然，黄颜色的有轨电车，似乎是从四面八方涌至广场，又丁丁当当地横穿而过。菲利普注视着这一切，禁不住快活地笑出声来。广场四周开设了不少咖啡馆。他正巧有点口渴，加上也很想把街上的人群看个仔细，于是就在凡尔赛啡咖馆外面的露天小餐桌旁坐下。今晚夜色迷人，其他餐桌上都已坐满了人，菲利普用好奇的目光打量着周围的人群：这边是家人在团聚小饮，那边坐着一伙头上戴着奇形怪状的帽子、下巴上蓄着大胡子的男子，他们一边粗声大气地拉呱，一边不住地指手划脚；邻坐的两个男子看上去像是画家，身边还坐着妇人，菲利普心想，她们不是画家的结发之妻才妙呢；背后，他听到有几个美国人在高谈阔论，争辩着有关艺术的问题。菲利普心弦震颤。他就这么坐在那儿，一直到很晚才恋恋不舍地离去，尽管筋疲力尽，心里却美滋滋的。等他最后好不容易上了床，却心清神爽，倦意全无。他侧耳谛听着巴黎夜生活的鼎沸喧嚣。

第二天下午喝茶时分，菲利普动身去贝尔福狮子街，在一条由拉斯帕依大街向外延伸的新铺筑的马路上，找到了奥特太太的寓所，奥特太太是个三十岁光景的微不足道的妇人，仪态粗俗，却硬摆出一副贵夫人的派头。她把菲利普介绍给她母亲。没聊上几句，菲利普就了解到她已在巴黎学了三年美术，后来又知道她已同丈夫分道扬镳。小小的起居室里，挂着一两幅出自她手笔的肖像画。菲利普毕竟不是个行家，在他看来，这些画尽善至美，功力已到了炉火纯青的地步。

"不知可有那么一天，我也能画出同样出色的画来，"他感叹地说。

"哦，我看你准行，"她不无得意地应道。"当然罗，一锹挖不出个井来，得一步步来嘛。"

她想得很周到，特地给了他一家商店的地址，说从那儿可以买到画夹、图画纸和炭笔等用品。

"明天上午九点左右我要去阿米特拉诺画室，如果你也在那时候到那儿，我可以设法给你找个好位子，帮你张罗点别的什么。"

她问菲利普具体想干些什么，菲利普觉得不能让她看出自己对整个事儿至今还没个明确的打算。

"嗯，我想先从素描着手，"他说。

"听你这么说我很高兴。一般人总是好高骛远，急于求成。拿我来说，到这儿呆了两年，才敢去试几笔油彩。至于效果如何，你自个儿瞧吧。"

奥特太太朝排在钢琴上方的一幅黏糊糊的油画瞟了一眼，那是幅她母亲的肖像。

"我要是你的话，在同陌生人交往时，一定火烛小心，不同外国人在一起厮混。我自己向来言行谨慎，丝毫不敢大意。"

菲利普谢谢她的忠告。但说实在的，这番话菲利普听了好生奇怪，他不明白自己干吗非要做个瞻前顾后、谨小慎微的君子呢。

"我们现在过日子，就像留在英国一样，"奥特太太的母亲说，她在一旁几乎一直没开过口。"我们来这儿的时候，把老家所有的家什全都搬了来。"

菲利普环顾四周。房间里塞满了笨实的家具，窗户上挂的那几幅镶花边的白窗帘，同夏天牧师公馆里挂的一模一样。钢琴和壁炉架上都铺着"自由"绸罩布。菲利普东张张西望望，奥特太太的目光也随着来回转动。

"晚上一把百叶窗关上，就真像回到了英国老家似的。"

"我们一日三餐仍然按老家的规矩，"她母亲补充说，"早餐有肉食，正餐放在中午。"

从奥特太太家出来，菲利普便去购置绘画用品。第二天上午，他准九点来到美术学校，竭力装出一副沉着自信的神态。奥特大大已先到一步，这时笑容可掬地迎上前来。菲利普一直在担心，他这个"nouyeau"会受到什么样的接待。他在不少书里看到，乍进画室习画的学生往往会受到别人的无礼捉弄，但是奥特太太的一句话，就使他的满腹疑虑涣然冰释。

"哦，这里可不兴那一套，"她说。"你瞧，我们同学中差不多有一半是女的，这儿是女士们当道呢。"

画室相当宽敞，空荡荡的，四周灰墙上挂着一幅幅获奖习作。一个模特儿正坐在椅子里，身上裹着件宽大的外套。她周围站着十来个男女学生，有的在聊天，有的还在埋头作画。这会儿是模特儿的第一次休息时间。

"一上来，最好先试些难度不太大的东西，"奥特太太说。"把画架放到这边来。你会发现，从这个角度上写生，最讨巧。"

菲利普根据她的指点搁好画架，奥特太太还把他介绍给近旁的一个年轻女子。

"这位是凯里先生。这位是普赖斯小姐。凯里先生以前从未学过画，开头还得有劳您多多点拨，您不会嫌麻烦的吧？"说着，她转身朝模特儿喊了声：La pose。

模特儿正在看《小共和国报》，这时把报纸随手一扔，绷着脸掀掉了外套，跨上画台。她支开双脚，稳稳地站在那里，双手十指交叉，托着后脑勺。

"这姿势够别扭的，"普赖斯小姐说，"真不明白他们怎么偏偏选中这么个怪姿势。"

刚才菲利普进画室时，人们向他投来好奇的目光，模特儿淡漠地瞟了他一眼，现在再没人注意他了。菲利普面前的画架上，铺着一张漂亮挺刮的画纸，他局促不安地注视着模特儿，不知该从何处落笔才好。他还是生平第一次见到裸体女人。这个模特儿年纪不轻了，乳房已趋萎缩，失去了光泽的金发，像一蓬乱草似地耷拉在脑门上，满脸尽是一块块显眼的雀斑。他朝普赖斯小姐的作品瞥了一眼。这幅画她刚画了两天，看来已遇上麻烦。由于她老是用橡皮擦拭，画面已搞得邋里邋遢。在菲利普看来，她笔下的人体全走了样，不知画的啥名堂。

"我早该想到，自己画起来不至于比这更糟吧，"他暗暗对自己说。

他着手先画头部，打算慢慢往下画。但不知怎么的，他发现同样是画头，写生却要比单凭想象作画难得多。他卡住了，再也画不下去。他朝普赖斯小姐瞥了一眼。她正聚精会神、一丝不苟地画着。她心情热切，连眉头都不觉紧蹩起来，目光中流露出焦躁不安的神情。画室里很热，她额头上沁出了一颗颗汗珠。普赖斯小姐今年二十六岁，一头浓密的金褐色柔发，发丝光滑美丽，可惜梳理得很马虎，她把头发打前额往后一挽，草草束成个大发髻。大脸盘上嵌着一对小眼睛，五官宽阔而扁平；皮肤白里泛青，带着几分怪异的病态，双颊不见一丝血色。她看上去像是从来不梳洗打扮似的，人们不禁要纳闷：她晚上没准儿是和衣而睡的呢。她生性沉默，不苟言笑。第二次休息时，她退后一步，端详着自己的大作。

"不知怎么搞的，老是不顺手，"她说，"不过，我也算把心思放在上面了。"她转脸朝菲利普。"你进展如何？"

"糟透了，"菲利普苦笑着应了一声。

她看了看他的画。

"你这么个画法哪成呢！你得先用笔比划一下，然后得在纸上框好轮廓线。一她干净利索地给他示范了一下。她这番真挚情意委实打动了菲利普，可她那毫无韵致的仪态还是让菲利普感到不悦。他感谢了她的热心指点，又重新操起画笔来。到这时候，其他学画的人也都陆陆续续到齐了，这会儿姗姗而来的人大多是男的，因为女的总是一早就来了。今年这时候（虽说季节还早了点），画室已是人满为患。过了一会，走进来一个青年，稀疏的黑发，特大的鼻子，一张长脸不由得叫人联想起马来。他在菲利普身旁坐下，并且隔着菲利普朝普赖斯小姐一点头。

"你怎么这时候才来，"她说，"是不是刚起床？"

"今天是这么个风和日丽的好日子，我想，我得躺在床上，好好想象一下户外的景色有多美。"

菲利普会意一笑。普赖斯小姐却挺顶真，不把这话当玩笑看待。

"这种做法真有点好笑。照我的想法，及早起床，趁天气大好出外逛逛，这才更加在理呢。"

"看来要想当个幽默家还真不容易呢，"那个年轻人一本正经地说。

他似乎还不想立即动笔，只是朝自己的画布望了一眼。他正在给画上水彩，这个模特儿的草图，他昨天就勾勒好了。他转身对菲利普说。

"您刚从英国来吧？"

"是的。"

"你怎么会跑到阿米特拉诺学校来的？"

"我只晓得这么一所美术学校。"

"但愿你来这儿时没存非分之想，以为在这儿可以学到点最起码的有用本事。"

"阿米特拉诺可是巴黎首屈一指的美术学校，"普赖斯小姐说，"这样认认真真对待艺术的学校，还不见有第二所呢。"

"难道对待艺术就非得认真不可？"年轻人问。既然普赖斯小姐的回答只是轻蔑地一耸肩，他也就自顾自往下说了："不过关键还在于：所有的美术学校全都大高而不妙。显然全都学究气十足。而这儿所以为害较浅，就因为这儿的教学比别处更为无能，在这儿啥也学不到手……"

"那您干吗要上这儿来呢？"菲利普插嘴问。

"我找到了捷径坦途，却还是在走老路。普赖斯小姐文化素养很高，一定记得这句话的拉丁语原文吧。"

"希望你谈话时别把我牵扯进去，克拉顿先生，"普赖斯小姐毫不客气地说。

"学习绘画的唯一途径，"他若无其事地继续说，"是租间小画室，雇个模特儿，靠自己闯出条路来。"

"这似乎并不难做到，"菲利普说。

"这可需要钱呐，"克拉顿接口说。

克拉顿开始动笔了，菲利普打眼角里偷偷打量他。只见他高高的个子，瘦得只剩下一把骨头，那宽大的骨架似乎突到肌体的外面；两肘尖削，差不多快要把他破外套的袖管给撑破了。裤子的臀部已经磨破，每只靴子上都打了个难看的补钉。普赖斯小姐站起身，朝着菲利普的画架走过来。

"如果克拉顿先生肯闭上嘴安静一会儿，我就过来帮你一下，"她说。

"普赖斯小姐不喜欢我，是因为我有几分幽默，"克拉顿一边说，一边若有所思地端详自己的画面，"而她讨厌我，则是因为我有几分才气。"

克拉顿煞有介事地说着，菲利普瞧着他那只模样古怪的大鼻子，觉得他的话听上去格外好笑，忍不住噗哧了一声。普赖斯小姐却气得满脸通红。

"这儿除你之外，谁也没埋怨过你有才气。"

"这儿唯独我的意见，我觉得最不足取。"

普赖斯小姐开始品评菲利普的习作。她滔滔不绝地谈到剖视、结构、平面、线条，以及其他许多菲利普一窍不通的东西。她在这儿画室已经呆了好长一段时间，通晓教师们再三强调的绘画要领，她一口气点出了菲利普习作中的各种毛病，然而讲不出个矫枉匡正的道道来。

"多谢你这么不厌其烦地开导我，"菲利普说。

"哦，没什么，"她回答说，不好意思地红了脸。"我刚来这里时，别人也是这么指点我的，不管是谁，我都乐意效劳。"

"普赖斯小姐要想说的是，她向您传经赐教，纯粹是出于责任感，而并非是由于您本人有什么迷人的魅力，"克拉顿说。

普赖斯小姐恶狠狠地白了他一眼，又回到自己的座位上继续画画。

时钟敲了十二下，模特儿如释重负般地叫了一声，从画台上走下来。

普赖斯小姐收拾好自己的画具。

"我们有些人要去格雷维亚餐馆就餐，"她对菲利普说，并乜了克拉顿一眼。"我自己一向是在家里吃午饭的。"

"如果你不介意，就让我陪你去格雷维亚餐馆吧，"克拉顿说。

菲利普道了谢，起身准备离开画室。没走几步，奥特太太过来问他今天学画的情况如何。

"范妮·普赖斯可手把手教你了？"她询问道。"我特意把你安排在她旁边，因为我知道，只要她乐意，她还是有这点能耐的。这个姑娘不怎么讨人喜欢，脾气又坏，她自己也不会作画。不过，她懂得作画的诀窍，只要她不嫌麻烦，倒可以给新来者指点一下迷津的。"

他们走上大街的时候，克拉顿对菲利普说：

"范妮·普赖斯对你的印象不错，你最好留神点。"

菲利普哈哈大笑。对她那样的女人，他压根儿没想到要留下什么好印象。他们来到一家经济小餐馆，画室的几个学生正坐在那儿用餐，克拉顿在一张餐桌旁坐下，那儿已经坐了三四个人。在这儿，花一个法郎，可以吃到一只鸡蛋、一碟子肉，外加奶酪和一小瓶酒。要喝咖啡，则须另外付钱。他们就坐在人行道上，黄颜色的电车在大街上来回穿梭，丁丁当当的铃声不绝于耳。

"哦，请问您尊姓？"在他们就座时，克拉顿猝然问了一声。

"凯里。"

"请允许我把一位可信赖的老朋友介绍给诸位-一他叫凯里，"克拉顿正经八百地说。"这位是弗拉纳根先生，这位是劳森先生。"

在座的人哈哈一笑，又继续谈自己的。他们海阔天空，无所不谈；大家七嘴八舌，只顾自己叽叽呱呱，根本不去理会旁人说些什么。他们谈到夏天去过哪些地方，谈到画室，还有这样那样的学校；他们提到许多在菲利普来说还是很陌生的名字：莫奈、马奈、雷诺阿、毕沙罗、德加等等。菲利普竖起耳朵听着，尽管感到有点摸不着头脑，却兴奋得什么似的，心头小鹿猛撞不已。

时间过得真快。克拉顿站起身说：

"今晚要是你愿意来，你准能在这儿找到我。你会发觉这儿是拉丁区里最经济实惠的一家馆子，花不了几个子儿，包管可以让你害上消化不良症。"

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chapter 41

Philip walked down the Boulevard du Montparnasse. It was not at all like the Paris he had seen in the spring during his visit to do the accounts of the Hotel St. Georges—he thought already of that part of his life with a shudder—but reminded him of what he thought a provincial town must be. There was an easy-going air about it, and a sunny spaciousness which invited the mind to day-dreaming. The trimness of the trees, the vivid whiteness of the houses, the breadth, were very agreeable; and he felt himself already thoroughly at home. He sauntered along, staring at the people; there seemed an elegance about the most ordinary, workmen with their broad red sashes and their wide trousers, little soldiers in dingy, charming uniforms. He came presently to the Avenue de l’Observatoire, and he gave a sigh of pleasure at the magnificent, yet so graceful, vista. He came to the gardens of the Luxembourg: children were playing, nurses with long ribbons walked slowly two by two, busy men passed through with satchels under their arms, youths strangely dressed. The scene was formal and dainty; nature was arranged and ordered, but so exquisitely, that nature unordered and unarranged seemed barbaric. Philip was enchanted. It excited him to stand on that spot of which he had read so much; it was classic ground to him; and he felt the awe and the delight which some old don might feel when for the first time he looked on the smiling plain of Sparta.

As he wandered he chanced to see Miss Price sitting by herself on a bench. He hesitated, for he did not at that moment want to see anyone, and her uncouth way seemed out of place amid the happiness he felt around him; but he had divined her sensitiveness to affront, and since she had seen him thought it would be polite to speak to her.

‘What are you doing here?’ she said, as he came up.

‘Enjoying myself. Aren’t you?’

‘Oh, I come here every day from four to five. I don’t think one does any good if one works straight through.’

‘May I sit down for a minute?’ he said.

‘If you want to.’

‘That doesn’t sound very cordial,’ he laughed.

‘I’m not much of a one for saying pretty things.’

Philip, a little disconcerted, was silent as he lit a cigarette.

‘Did Clutton say anything about my work?’ she asked suddenly.

‘No, I don’t think he did,’ said Philip.

‘He’s no good, you know. He thinks he’s a genius, but he isn’t. He’s too lazy, for one thing. Genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains. The only thing is to peg away. If one only makes up one’s mind badly enough to do a thing one can’t help doing it.’

She spoke with a passionate strenuousness which was rather striking. She wore a sailor hat of black straw, a white blouse which was not quite clean, and a brown skirt. She had no gloves on, and her hands wanted washing. She was so unattractive that Philip wished he had not begun to talk to her. He could not make out whether she wanted him to stay or go.

‘I’ll do anything I can for you,’ she said all at once, without reference to anything that had gone before. ‘I know how hard it is.’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Philip, then in a moment: ‘Won’t you come and have tea with me somewhere?’

She looked at him quickly and flushed. When she reddened her pasty skin acquired a curiously mottled look, like strawberries and cream that had gone bad.

‘No, thanks. What d’you think I want tea for? I’ve only just had lunch.’

‘I thought it would pass the time,’ said Philip.

‘If you find it long you needn’t bother about me, you know. I don’t mind being left alone.’

At that moment two men passed, in brown velveteens, enormous trousers, and basque caps. They were young, but both wore beards.

‘I say, are those art-students?’ said Philip. ‘They might have stepped out of the Vie de Boheme.’

‘They’re Americans,’ said Miss Price scornfully. ‘Frenchmen haven’t worn things like that for thirty years, but the Americans from the Far West buy those clothes and have themselves photographed the day after they arrive in Paris. That’s about as near to art as they ever get. But it doesn’t matter to them, they’ve all got money.’

Philip liked the daring picturesqueness of the Americans’ costume; he thought it showed the romantic spirit. Miss Price asked him the time.

‘I must be getting along to the studio,’ she said. ‘Are you going to the sketch classes?’

Philip did not know anything about them, and she told him that from five to six every evening a model sat, from whom anyone who liked could go and draw at the cost of fifty centimes. They had a different model every day, and it was very good practice.

‘I don’t suppose you’re good enough yet for that. You’d better wait a bit.’

‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t try. I haven’t got anything else to do.’

They got up and walked to the studio. Philip could not tell from her manner whether Miss Price wished him to walk with her or preferred to walk alone. He remained from sheer embarrassment, not knowing how to leave her; but she would not talk; she answered his questions in an ungracious manner.

A man was standing at the studio door with a large dish into which each person as he went in dropped his half franc. The studio was much fuller than it had been in the morning, and there was not the preponderance of English and Americans; nor were women there in so large a proportion. Philip felt the assemblage was more the sort of thing he had expected. It was very warm, and the air quickly grew fetid. It was an old man who sat this time, with a vast gray beard, and Philip tried to put into practice the little he had learned in the morning; but he made a poor job of it; he realised that he could not draw nearly as well as he thought. He glanced enviously at one or two sketches of men who sat near him, and wondered whether he would ever be able to use the charcoal with that mastery. The hour passed quickly. Not wishing to press himself upon Miss Price he sat down at some distance from her, and at the end, as he passed her on his way out, she asked him brusquely how he had got on.

‘Not very well,’ he smiled.

‘If you’d condescended to come and sit near me I could have given you some hints. I suppose you thought yourself too grand.’

‘No, it wasn’t that. I was afraid you’d think me a nuisance.’

‘When I do that I’ll tell you sharp enough.’

Philip saw that in her uncouth way she was offering him help.

‘Well, tomorrow I’ll just force myself upon you.’

‘I don’t mind,’ she answered.

Philip went out and wondered what he should do with himself till dinner. He was eager to do something characteristic. Absinthe! of course it was indicated, and so, sauntering towards the station, he seated himself outside a cafe and ordered it. He drank with nausea and satisfaction. He found the taste disgusting, but the moral effect magnificent; he felt every inch an art-student; and since he drank on an empty stomach his spirits presently grew very high. He watched the crowds, and felt all men were his brothers. He was happy. When he reached Gravier’s the table at which Clutton sat was full, but as soon as he saw Philip limping along he called out to him. They made room. The dinner was frugal, a plate of soup, a dish of meat, fruit, cheese, and half a bottle of wine; but Philip paid no attention to what he ate. He took note of the men at the table. Flanagan was there again: he was an American, a short, snub-nosed youth with a jolly face and a laughing mouth. He wore a Norfolk jacket of bold pattern, a blue stock round his neck, and a tweed cap of fantastic shape. At that time impressionism reigned in the Latin Quarter, but its victory over the older schools was still recent; and Carolus-Duran, Bouguereau, and their like were set up against Manet, Monet, and Degas. To appreciate these was still a sign of grace. Whistler was an influence strong with the English and his compatriots, and the discerning collected Japanese prints. The old masters were tested by new standards. The esteem in which Raphael had been for centuries held was a matter of derision to wise young men. They offered to give all his works for Velasquez’ head of Philip IV in the National Gallery. Philip found that a discussion on art was raging. Lawson, whom he had met at luncheon, sat opposite to him. He was a thin youth with a freckled face and red hair. He had very bright green eyes. As Philip sat down he fixed them on him and remarked suddenly:

‘Raphael was only tolerable when he painted other people’s pictures. When he painted Peruginos or Pinturichios he was charming; when he painted Raphaels he was,’ with a scornful shrug, ‘Raphael.’

Lawson spoke so aggressively that Philip was taken aback, but he was not obliged to answer because Flanagan broke in impatiently.

‘Oh, to hell with art!’ he cried. ‘Let’s get ginny.’

‘You were ginny last night, Flanagan,’ said Lawson.

‘Nothing to what I mean to be tonight,’ he answered. ‘Fancy being in Pa-ris and thinking of nothing but art all the time.’ He spoke with a broad Western accent. ‘My, it is good to be alive.’ He gathered himself together and then banged his fist on the table. ‘To hell with art, I say.’

‘You not only say it, but you say it with tiresome iteration,’ said Clutton severely.

There was another American at the table. He was dressed like those fine fellows whom Philip had seen that afternoon in the Luxembourg. He had a handsome face, thin, ascetic, with dark eyes; he wore his fantastic garb with the dashing air of a buccaneer. He had a vast quantity of dark hair which fell constantly over his eyes, and his most frequent gesture was to throw back his head dramatically to get some long wisp out of the way. He began to talk of the Olympia by Manet, which then hung in the Luxembourg.

‘I stood in front of it for an hour today, and I tell you it’s not a good picture.’

Lawson put down his knife and fork. His green eyes flashed fire, he gasped with rage; but he could be seen imposing calm upon himself.

‘It’s very interesting to hear the mind of the untutored savage,’ he said. ‘Will you tell us why it isn’t a good picture?’

Before the American could answer someone else broke in vehemently.

‘D’you mean to say you can look at the painting of that flesh and say it’s not good?’

‘I don’t say that. I think the right breast is very well painted.’

‘The right breast be damned,’ shouted Lawson. ‘The whole thing’s a miracle of painting.’

He began to describe in detail the beauties of the picture, but at this table at Gravier’s they who spoke at length spoke for their own edification. No one listened to him. The American interrupted angrily.

‘You don’t mean to say you think the head’s good?’

Lawson, white with passion now, began to defend the head; but Clutton, who had been sitting in silence with a look on his face of good-humoured scorn, broke in.

‘Give him the head. We don’t want the head. It doesn’t affect the picture.’

‘All right, I’ll give you the head,’ cried Lawson. ‘Take the head and be damned to you.’

‘What about the black line?’ cried the American, triumphantly pushing back a wisp of hair which nearly fell in his soup. ‘You don’t see a black line round objects in nature.’

‘Oh, God, send down fire from heaven to consume the blasphemer,’ said Lawson. ‘What has nature got to do with it? No one knows what’s in nature and what isn’t! The world sees nature through the eyes of the artist. Why, for centuries it saw horses jumping a fence with all their legs extended, and by Heaven, sir, they were extended. It saw shadows black until Monet discovered they were coloured, and by Heaven, sir, they were black. If we choose to surround objects with a black line, the world will see the black line, and there will be a black line; and if we paint grass red and cows blue, it’ll see them red and blue, and, by Heaven, they will be red and blue.’

‘To hell with art,’ murmured Flanagan. ‘I want to get ginny.’

Lawson took no notice of the interruption.

‘Now look here, when Olympia was shown at the Salon, Zola—amid the jeers of the Philistines and the hisses of the pompiers, the academicians, and the public, Zola said: ‘I look forward to the day when Manet’s picture will hang in the Louvre opposite the Odalisque of Ingres, and it will not be the Odalisque which will gain by comparison.’ It’ll be there. Every day I see the time grow nearer. In ten years the Olympia will be in the Louvre.’

‘Never,’ shouted the American, using both hands now with a sudden desperate attempt to get his hair once for all out of the way. ‘In ten years that picture will be dead. It’s only a fashion of the moment. No picture can live that hasn’t got something which that picture misses by a million miles.’

‘And what is that?’

‘Great art can’t exist without a moral element.’

‘Oh God!’ cried Lawson furiously. ‘I knew it was that. He wants morality.’ He joined his hands and held them towards heaven in supplication. ‘Oh, Christopher Columbus, Christopher Columbus, what did you do when you discovered America?’

‘Ruskin says...’

But before he could add another word, Clutton rapped with the handle of his knife imperiously on the table.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said in a stern voice, and his huge nose positively wrinkled with passion, ‘a name has been mentioned which I never thought to hear again in decent society. Freedom of speech is all very well, but we must observe the limits of common propriety. You may talk of Bouguereau if you will: there is a cheerful disgustingness in the sound which excites laughter; but let us not sully our chaste lips with the names of J. Ruskin, G. F. Watts, or E. B. Jones.’

‘Who was Ruskin anyway?’ asked Flanagan.

‘He was one of the Great Victorians. He was a master of English style.’

‘Ruskin’s style—a thing of shreds and purple patches,’ said Lawson. ‘Besides, damn the Great Victorians. Whenever I open a paper and see Death of a Great Victorian, I thank Heaven there’s one more of them gone. Their only talent was longevity, and no artist should be allowed to live after he’s forty; by then a man has done his best work, all he does after that is repetition. Don’t you think it was the greatest luck in the world for them that Keats, Shelley, Bonnington, and Byron died early? What a genius we should think Swinburne if he had perished on the day the first series of Poems and Ballads was published!’

The suggestion pleased, for no one at the table was more than twenty-four, and they threw themselves upon it with gusto. They were unanimous for once. They elaborated. Someone proposed a vast bonfire made out of the works of the Forty Academicians into which the Great Victorians might be hurled on their fortieth birthday. The idea was received with acclamation. Carlyle and Ruskin, Tennyson, Browning, G. F. Watts, E. B. Jones, Dickens, Thackeray, they were hurried into the flames; Mr. Gladstone, John Bright, and Cobden; there was a moment’s discussion about George Meredith, but Matthew Arnold and Emerson were given up cheerfully. At last came Walter Pater.

‘Not Walter Pater,’ murmured Philip.

Lawson stared at him for a moment with his green eyes and then nodded.

‘You’re quite right, Walter Pater is the only justification for Mona Lisa. D’you know Cronshaw? He used to know Pater.’

‘Who’s Cronshaw?’ asked Philip.

‘Cronshaw’s a poet. He lives here. Let’s go to the Lilas.’

La Closerie des Lilas was a cafe to which they often went in the evening after dinner, and here Cronshaw was invariably to be found between the hours of nine at night and two in the morning. But Flanagan had had enough of intellectual conversation for one evening, and when Lawson made his suggestion, turned to Philip.

‘Oh gee, let’s go where there are girls,’ he said. ‘Come to the Gaite Montparnasse, and we’ll get ginny.’

‘I’d rather go and see Cronshaw and keep sober,’ laughed Philip.

第四十一章

菲利普沿着蒙帕纳斯大街信步闲逛。眼前的这个巴黎，同他春上来给圣乔治旅合结算帐务时所看到的迥然不同--一他每想到那一段生活经历就不寒而栗--一就其风貌来说，倒和自己心目中的外省城镇差不多。周围是一派闲适自在的气氛；明媚的阳光，开阔的视野，把人们的心神引人飘飘欲仙的梦幻之中。修剪得齐齐整整的树木，富有生气的白净房屋，宽阔的街道，全都令人心旷神怡。他觉得自己完全适应了这里的生活。他在街头悠然漫步，一边打量来往行人。在他看来，就连那些最普通的巴黎人，比如那些束着大红阔边腰带、套着肥大裤管的工人，那些身材矮小、穿着褪了色却很迷人的制服的士兵，似乎都焕发着动人的风采。不一会儿，他来到天文台大街，展现在他眼前的那种气势磅礴且又典雅绮丽的景象，不由得令他赞叹不已。他又来到卢森堡花园：孩童在玩耍嬉戏，头发上束着长丝带的保姆，成双结对地款款而行；公务在身的男士们，夹着皮包匆匆而过；小伙子们穿着各式各样的奇装异服。风景匀称、精致。自然景色虽带着人工斧凿的痕迹，却显得玲珑剔透。由此看来，自然风光若不经人工修饰，反倒失之于粗鄙。菲利普陶然若醉。过去他念到过许多有关这一风景胜地的描写，如今终于身临其境，怎能不叫他喜上心头，情不自胜。对于他来说，这里算得上是历史悠久的文艺胜地，他既感敬畏，又觉欢欣，其情状如同老学究初次见到明媚多姿的斯巴达平原时一般。

菲利普逛着逛着，偶一抬眼，瞥见普赖斯小姐独自坐在一条长凳上。他踌躇起来，他此刻实在不想见到任何熟人，况且她那粗鲁的举止与自己周围的欢乐气氛极不协调。但他凭直觉辨察出她是个神经过敏、冒犯不得的女子。既然她已看到了自己，那么出于礼貌，也该同她应酬几句。

"你怎么上这儿来啦？"她见菲利普走过来，这样问。

"散散心呗。你呢？"

"哦，我每天下午四点至五点都要上这儿来。我觉得整天埋头于工作，不见得有什么好处。"

"可以在这儿坐一会儿吗？"他说。

"悉听尊便。"

"您这话似乎不大客气呢，"他笑着说。

"我这个人笨嘴拙舌，天生不会甜言蜜语。"

菲利普有点困窘，默默地点起一支烟。

"克拉顿议论过我的画吗？"她猝然问了这么一句。

"我印象里他什么也没说，"菲利普说。

"你知道，他这个人成不了什么气候。自以为是天才，纯粹瞎吹。别的不说，懒就懒得要命。天才应能吃得起大苦，耐得起大劳。最要紧的，是要有股换而不舍的韧劲。世上无难事，只怕有心人嘛。"

她说话时，激昂之情溢于言表。她头戴黑色水手草帽，上身穿一件不很干净的白衬衫，下身束一条棕色裙子。她没戴手套，而那双手真该好好洗洗。她毫无风韵可言，菲利普后悔不该跟她搭讪。他摸不透普赖斯小姐是希望他留下呢，还是巴不得他快点走开。

"我愿意尽力为你效劳，"她突然前言不搭后语地说，"我可深知其难呢。"

"多谢你了，"菲利普说。停了一会儿他又说："我请你去用茶点，肯赏光嘛？"

她飞快地瞟了他一眼，刷地涨红了脸。她脸一红，那苍白的皮肤顿时斑驳纷呈，模样儿好怪，就像变质的奶油里拌进了草莓似的。

"不，谢谢，你想我干吗要用茶点呢？我刚吃过午饭。"

"我想可以消磨消磨时间嘛，"菲利普说。

"哦，要是你闲得发慌，可犯不着为我操心。我一个人待着，并不嫌冷清。"

这时候，有两个男子打旁边走过。他们穿着棕色棉绒上衣，套着肥大的裤管，戴着巴斯克便帽。他们年纪轻轻，却蓄着胡子。

"嗳，他们是美术学校的学生吧？"菲利普说，"真像是从《波希米亚人的生涯》那本书里跳出来的哩。"

"是些美国佬，"普赖斯小姐用鄙夷的口吻说。"这号服装，法国人三十年前就不穿了。可那些从美国西部来的公子哥儿，一到巴黎就买下这种衣服，而且赶忙穿着去拍照。他们的艺术造诣大概也仅止于此了。他们才不在乎呢，反正有的是钱。"

菲利普对那些美国人大胆别致的打扮倒颇欣赏，认为这体现了艺术家的浪漫气质。普赖斯小姐问菲利普现在几点了。

"我得去画室了，"她说。"你可打算去上素描课？"

菲利普根本不知道有素描课。她告诉菲利普，每晚五时至六时，画室有模特儿供人写生，谁想去，只要付五十生丁就行。模特儿天天换，这是个不可多得的习画好机会。

"我看你目前的水平还够不上，最好过一个时期再去。"

"我不明白干吗不能去试试笔呢！反正闲着没事干。"

他们站起身朝画室走去。就普赖斯小姐的态度来说，菲利普摸不透她究竟希望有他作伴呢，还是宁愿独个儿前往。说实在的，他纯粹出于困窘，不知道用什么办法可以脱身，这才留在她身边的；而普赖斯小姐不愿多开口，菲利普问她的话，她总是爱理不理，态度简慢。

一个男子站在画室门口，手里托着一只大盘子，凡是进画室的人都得往里面丢半个法郎。画室济济一堂，人比早晨多得多，其中英国人和美国人不再占大多数，女子的比例也有所减少。菲利普觉得这么一大帮子人，跟他脑子里的习画者的形象颇不一致。大气暖洋洋的，屋子里的空气不多一会儿就变得混浊不堪。这回的模特儿是个老头，下巴上蓄着一大簇灰白胡子。菲利普想试试今天早晨学到的那点儿技巧，结果却画得很糟。他这才明白，他对自己的绘画水平实在估计得过高了。菲利普不胜钦羡地望了一眼身旁几个习画者的作品，心中暗暗纳闷，不知自己是否有一天也能那样得心应手地运用炭笔。一个小时飞快地溜了过去。他不愿给普赖斯小姐再添麻烦，所以刚才特意避着她找了个地方坐下。临了，当菲利普经过她身边朝外走时，普赖斯小姐却唐突地将他拦住，问他画得怎样。

"不怎么顺手，"他微笑着说。

"如果你刚才肯屈尊坐在我旁边，我满可以给你点提示。看来你这个人自视甚高的。"

"不，没有的事。我怕你会嫌我讨厌。"

"要是我真那么想，我会当面对你说的。"

菲利普发现，她是以其特有的粗鲁方式来表示她乐于助人的善意。

"那我明天就多多仰仗你了。"

"没关系，"她回答。

菲利普走出画室，自己也不知道该如何打发吃饭前的这段时间。他很想干点独出心裁的事儿。来点儿苦艾酒如何！当然很有此必要。于是，他信步朝车站走去，在一家咖啡馆的露天餐席上坐下，要了杯苦艾酒。他喝了一口，觉得恶心欲吐，心里却很得意。这酒喝在嘴里挺不是滋味，可精神效果极佳：他现在觉得自己是个道道地地的投身艺术的学生了。由于他空肚子喝酒，一杯下肚，顿觉飘然欲仙。他凝望着周遭的人群，颇有几分四海之内皆兄弟的感觉。他快活极了。当他来到格雷维亚餐馆时，克拉顿那张餐桌上已坐满了人，但是他一看到菲利普一拐一瘸地走过来，忙大声向他打招呼。他们给他腾出个坐儿。晚餐相当节俭，一盆汤，一碟肉，再加上水果、奶酪和半瓶酒。菲利普对自己面前的食物并不在意，只顾打量同桌进餐的那些人。弗拉纳根也在座。他是个美国人，年纪很轻，有趣的脸上竖着只扁塌的狮子鼻，嘴巴老是笑得合不拢。他身穿大花格子诺福克茄克衫，颈脖上围条蓝色的硬领巾，头上戴顶怪模怪样的花呢帽。那时候，拉丁区是印象派的一统天下，不过老的画派也只是最近才大势的。卡罗路斯一迪朗、布格柔之流仍被人捧出来，同马奈、莫奈和德加等人分庭抗礼。欣赏老一派画家的作品，依然是情趣高雅的一个标志。惠司勒以及他整理的那套颇有见识的日本版画集，在英国画家及同胞中间有很大的影响。古典大师们受到新标准的检验。几个世纪以来，世入对拉斐尔推崇备至，如今这在聪明伶俐的年轻人中间却传为笑柄。他们觉得他的全部作品，还及不上委拉斯开兹画的、现在陈列在国家美术馆里的一幅腓力四世头像。菲利普发现，谈论艺术已成了一股风气。午餐时遇到的那个劳森也在场，就坐在他对面。他是个身材瘦小的年轻人，满脸雀斑，一头红发，长着一对灼灼有光的绿眼睛。菲利普坐下后，劳森目不转睛地望着他，这时冷不防高谈阔论起来：

"拉斐尔只有在临摹他人作品时，还算过得去。譬如，他临摹彼鲁其诺或平图里乔的那些画，很讨人喜欢，而他想在作品中画出自己的风格时，就只是个--"说到这儿，他轻蔑地一耸肩，"--拉斐尔。"

劳森说话的口气之大，菲利普不觉暗暗吃惊，不过他也不必去答理他，因为这时候弗拉纳根不耐烦地插嘴了。

"哦，让艺术见鬼去吧！"他大声嚷道。"让咱们开怀痛饮，一醉方休。"

"昨晚上你喝得够痛快的了，弗拉纳根，"劳森说。

"昨晚是昨晚，我说的可是今夜良宵，"他回答。"想想吧，来到巴黎之后，整天价净在想着艺术、艺术。"他说话时，操着一口浓重的西部口音。"嘿，人生得意须尽欢嘛。"只见他抖擞精神，用拳头砰地猛击餐桌。"听我说，让艺术见鬼去吧！"

"说一遍就够啦，干吗婆婆妈妈的唠叨个没完，"克拉顿板着脸说。

同桌还有个美国人，他的穿着打扮，同菲利普下午在卢森堡花园见到的那些个公子哥儿如出一辙。他长得很清秀，眸子乌黑发亮，脸庞瘦削而严峻。他穿了那一身古怪有趣的服装，倒有点像个不顾死活的海盗。浓黑的头发不时耷拉下来，遮住了眼睛，所以他时而作出个颇带戏剧性的动作，将头往后一扬，把那几络长发甩开。他开始议论起马奈的名画《奥兰毕亚》，这幅画当时陈列在卢森堡宫里。'

"今儿个我在这幅画前逗留了一个小时。说实在的，这画算不得一幅。上乘之作。"

劳森放下手中的刀叉，一双绿眼珠快冒出火星来。他由于怒火中烧，连呼吸也急促起来，不难看出，他在竭力按捺自己的怒气。

"听一个头脑未开化的野小子高谈阔论，岂不有趣，"他说。"我们倒要请教，这幅画究竟有什么不好？"

那美国人还没来得及启口，就有人气冲冲地接过话茬。

"你的意思是说，你看着那幅栩栩如生的人体画，竟能说它算不上杰作？"

"我可没那么说。我认为右乳房画得还真不赖。"

"去你的右乳房，"劳森扯着嗓门直嚷嚷。"整幅画是艺苑中的一个奇」迹。"

他详尽地讲述起这幅杰作的妙处来，然而，在格雷维亚餐馆的这张餐桌上，谁也没在听他-一谁要是发表什么长篇大论，得益者唯他自己而已。那个美国人气势汹汹地打断劳森。

"你不见得要说，你觉得那头部画得很出色吧？"

劳森此时激动得脸色都发白了，他竭力为那幅画的头部辩解。再说那位克拉顿，他一直坐在一旁默默不语，脸上挂着一丝宽容的嘲笑，这时突然开腔了。

"就把那颗脑袋给他吧，咱们可以忍痛割爱。这无损于此画的完美。"

"好吧，我就把这颗脑袋给你了，"劳森嚷道，"提着它，见你的鬼去吧。"

"而那条黑线又是怎么回事？"美国人大声说着，得意扬扬一抬手，把一绺差点儿掉进汤盆里的头发往后一掠。"自然万物，无奇不有，可就是没见过四周有黑线的。"

"哦，上帝，快降下一把天火，把这个读神的歹徒烧死吧！"劳森说。"大自然同这幅画有何相于？自然界有什么，没有什么，谁说得清楚！此人是通过艺术家的眼睛来观察自然的。可不是！几个世纪来，世人看到马在跳越篱笆时，总是把腿伸得直直的。啊，老天在上，先生，马腿确实是伸得直直的！在莫奈发现影子带有色彩之前，世人一直看到影子是黑的，老天在上，先生，影子确实是黑的哟。如果我们用黑线条来勾勒物体，世人就会看到黑色的轮廓线，而这样的轮廓线也就真的存在了；如果我们把草木画成红颜色，把牛画成蓝颜色，人们也就看到它们是红色、蓝色的了，老天在上，它们确实会成为红色和蓝色的呢！"

"让艺术见鬼去吧！"弗拉纳根咕哝道，"我要的是开怀痛饮！"

劳森没理会他。

"现在请注意，当《奥兰毕亚》在巴黎艺展中展出时，左拉--在那批凡夫俗子的冷嘲热讽声中，在那伙守旧派画家、冬烘学究还有公众的一片唏嘘声中--一左拉宣布说：'我期待有那么一天，马奈的画将陈列在卢佛尔宫内，就挂在安格尔的《女奴》对面，相形之下，黯然失色的将是《女奴》。'《奥兰毕亚》肯定会挂在那儿的，我看这一时刻日益临近了。不出十年，《奥兰毕亚》定会在卢佛尔宫占一席之地。"

"永远进不了卢佛尔宫，"那个美国人大嚷一声，倏地用双手把头发狠命往后一掠，似乎想要一劳永逸地解决这个麻烦。"不出十年，那幅画就会销声匿迹。它不过是投合时好之作。任何一幅画要是缺少点实质性的内容，就不可能有生命力，拿这一点来衡量，马奈的画相去何止十万八千卫。"

"什么是实质性内容？"

"缺少道德上的内容，任何伟大的艺术都不可能存在。"

"哦，天哪！"劳森狂怒地咆哮。"我早知道是这么回事。他希罕的是道德说教。"他双手搓合，做出祈祷上苍的样子："哦，克利斯朵夫·哥伦币。克利斯朵夫·哥伦布，你在发现美洲大陆的时候，你可知道自己是在干什么啊？"

"罗斯金说……"

他还要往下说，冷不防克拉顿突然用刀柄乒乒乓乓猛敲桌面。

"诸位，"他正言厉色说，那只大鼻子因为过分激动而明显地隆起一道道褶皱。

"刚才有人提到了一个名字，我万万没想到在上流社会竟然也会听到它。言论自由固然是件好事，但也总得掌握点分寸，适可而止才是。要是你愿意，你尽可谈论布格柔：这个名字虽招人嫌，听上去却让人感到轻松，逗人发笑。但是我们可千万别让罗斯金，G·F·瓦茨和E·B·琼司这样一些名字来玷污我们贞洁的双唇。"

"这个罗斯金究属何人？"弗拉纳根问。

"维多利亚时代的伟人之一，擅长优美文体的文坛大师。"

"罗斯金文体--由胡言乱语和浮华词藻拼凑起来的大杂烩，"劳森说

"再说，让维多利亚时代的那些伟人统统见鬼去！我翻开报纸，只要一看见某个伟人的讣告，就额手庆幸：谢天谢地，这些家伙又少了一个啦。他们唯一的本事是精通养生之道，能老而不死。艺术家一满四十，就该让他们去见上帝。一个人到了这种年纪，最好的作品也已经完成。打这以后，他所做的不外乎是老凋重弹。难道诸位不认为，济慈、雪莱、波宁顿和拜伦等人早年丧生，实在是交上了人世间少有的好运？假如史文朋在出版第一卷《诗歌和民谣集》的那天溘然辞世，他在我们的心目中会是个多么了不起的天才！"

这席话可说到了大家的心坎上，因为在座的没一个人超过二十四岁。他们立刻津津有味地议论开了。这一回他们倒是众口一词，意见一致，而且还各自淋漓尽致地发挥了一通。有人提议把四十院士的所有作品拿来，燃起一大片篝火，维多利亚时代的伟人凡满四十者都要--往里扔。这个提议博得一阵喝彩。卡莱尔、罗斯金、丁尼生、勃朗宁、G·F·瓦茨、E·B·琼司、狄更斯和萨克雷等人，被匆匆抛进烈焰之中。格莱斯顿先生、约翰·布赖特和科勃登，也遭到同样下场。至于乔治·梅瑞狄斯，曾有过短暂的争执；至于马修·阿诺德和爱默生，则被病痛快快讨诸一炬。最后轮到了沃尔特·佩特。

"沃尔特·佩特就免了吧，"菲利普咕哝说。

劳森瞪着那双绿眼珠，打量了他一阵，然后点点头。

"你说得有理，只有沃尔特·佩特一人证明了《蒙娜丽莎》的真正价值。你知道克朗肖吗？他以前和佩特过往甚密。"

"克朗肖是谁？"

"他是个诗人，就住在这儿附近。现在让咱们上丁香园去吧。"

丁香园是一家咖啡馆，晚饭后他们常去那儿消磨时间。晚上九时以后，凌晨二时之前，准能在那儿遇到克朗肖。对弗拉纳根来说，一晚上的风雅之谈，已够受的了，这时一听劳森作此建议，便转身对菲利普说：

"哦，伙计，我们还是找个有姑娘的地方去乐乐吧。上蒙帕纳斯游乐场去，让咱们喝它个酩酊大醉。"

"我宁愿去见克朗肖，而不想把自己搞得醉醺醺的，"菲利普笑呵呵地说。

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举报只看该作者 44楼发表于: 2014-08-16 0

chapter 42

There was a general disturbance. Flanagan and two or three more went on to the music-hall, while Philip walked slowly with Clutton and Lawson to the Closerie des Lilas.

‘You must go to the Gaite Montparnasse,’ said Lawson to him. ‘It’s one of the loveliest things in Paris. I’m going to paint it one of these days.’

Philip, influenced by Hayward, looked upon music-halls with scornful eyes, but he had reached Paris at a time when their artistic possibilities were just discovered. The peculiarities of lighting, the masses of dingy red and tarnished gold, the heaviness of the shadows and the decorative lines, offered a new theme; and half the studios in the Quarter contained sketches made in one or other of the local theatres. Men of letters, following in the painters’ wake, conspired suddenly to find artistic value in the turns; and red-nosed comedians were lauded to the skies for their sense of character; fat female singers, who had bawled obscurely for twenty years, were discovered to possess inimitable drollery; there were those who found an aesthetic delight in performing dogs; while others exhausted their vocabulary to extol the distinction of conjurers and trick-cyclists. The crowd too, under another influence, was become an object of sympathetic interest. With Hayward, Philip had disdained humanity in the mass; he adopted the attitude of one who wraps himself in solitariness and watches with disgust the antics of the vulgar; but Clutton and Lawson talked of the multitude with enthusiasm. They described the seething throng that filled the various fairs of Paris, the sea of faces, half seen in the glare of acetylene, half hidden in the darkness, and the blare of trumpets, the hooting of whistles, the hum of voices. What they said was new and strange to Philip. They told him about Cronshaw.

‘Have you ever read any of his work?’

‘No,’ said Philip.

‘It came out in The Yellow Book.’

They looked upon him, as painters often do writers, with contempt because he was a layman, with tolerance because he practised an art, and with awe because he used a medium in which themselves felt ill-at-ease.

‘He’s an extraordinary fellow. You’ll find him a bit disappointing at first, he only comes out at his best when he’s drunk.’

‘And the nuisance is,’ added Clutton, ‘that it takes him a devil of a time to get drunk.’

When they arrived at the cafe Lawson told Philip that they would have to go in. There was hardly a bite in the autumn air, but Cronshaw had a morbid fear of draughts and even in the warmest weather sat inside.

‘He knows everyone worth knowing,’ Lawson explained. ‘He knew Pater and Oscar Wilde, and he knows Mallarme and all those fellows.’

The object of their search sat in the most sheltered corner of the cafe, with his coat on and the collar turned up. He wore his hat pressed well down on his forehead so that he should avoid cold air. He was a big man, stout but not obese, with a round face, a small moustache, and little, rather stupid eyes. His head did not seem quite big enough for his body. It looked like a pea uneasily poised on an egg. He was playing dominoes with a Frenchman, and greeted the new-comers with a quiet smile; he did not speak, but as if to make room for them pushed away the little pile of saucers on the table which indicated the number of drinks he had already consumed. He nodded to Philip when he was introduced to him, and went on with the game. Philip’s knowledge of the language was small, but he knew enough to tell that Cronshaw, although he had lived in Paris for several years, spoke French execrably.

At last he leaned back with a smile of triumph.

‘Je vous ai battu,’ he said, with an abominable accent. ‘Garcong!’

He called the waiter and turned to Philip.

‘Just out from England? See any cricket?’

Philip was a little confused at the unexpected question.

‘Cronshaw knows the averages of every first-class cricketer for the last twenty years,’ said Lawson, smiling.

The Frenchman left them for friends at another table, and Cronshaw, with the lazy enunciation which was one of his peculiarities, began to discourse on the relative merits of Kent and Lancashire. He told them of the last test match he had seen and described the course of the game wicket by wicket.

‘That’s the only thing I miss in Paris,’ he said, as he finished the bock which the waiter had brought. ‘You don’t get any cricket.’

Philip was disappointed, and Lawson, pardonably anxious to show off one of the celebrities of the Quarter, grew impatient. Cronshaw was taking his time to wake up that evening, though the saucers at his side indicated that he had at least made an honest attempt to get drunk. Clutton watched the scene with amusement. He fancied there was something of affectation in Cronshaw’s minute knowledge of cricket; he liked to tantalise people by talking to them of things that obviously bored them; Clutton threw in a question.

‘Have you seen Mallarme lately?’

Cronshaw looked at him slowly, as if he were turning the inquiry over in his mind, and before he answered rapped on the marble table with one of the saucers.

‘Bring my bottle of whiskey,’ he called out. He turned again to Philip. ‘I keep my own bottle of whiskey. I can’t afford to pay fifty centimes for every thimbleful.’

The waiter brought the bottle, and Cronshaw held it up to the light.

‘They’ve been drinking it. Waiter, who’s been helping himself to my whiskey?’

‘Mais personne, Monsieur Cronshaw.’

‘I made a mark on it last night, and look at it.’

‘Monsieur made a mark, but he kept on drinking after that. At that rate Monsieur wastes his time in making marks.’

The waiter was a jovial fellow and knew Cronshaw intimately. Cronshaw gazed at him.

‘If you give me your word of honour as a nobleman and a gentleman that nobody but I has been drinking my whiskey, I’ll accept your statement.’

This remark, translated literally into the crudest French, sounded very funny, and the lady at the comptoir could not help laughing.

‘Il est impayable,’ she murmured.

Cronshaw, hearing her, turned a sheepish eye upon her; she was stout, matronly, and middle-aged; and solemnly kissed his hand to her. She shrugged her shoulders.

‘Fear not, madam,’ he said heavily. ‘I have passed the age when I am tempted by forty-five and gratitude.’

He poured himself out some whiskey and water, and slowly drank it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘He talked very well.’

Lawson and Clutton knew that Cronshaw’s remark was an answer to the question about Mallarme. Cronshaw often went to the gatherings on Tuesday evenings when the poet received men of letters and painters, and discoursed with subtle oratory on any subject that was suggested to him. Cronshaw had evidently been there lately.

‘He talked very well, but he talked nonsense. He talked about art as though it were the most important thing in the world.’

‘If it isn’t, what are we here for?’ asked Philip.

‘What you’re here for I don’t know. It is no business of mine. But art is a luxury. Men attach importance only to self-preservation and the propagation of their species. It is only when these instincts are satisfied that they consent to occupy themselves with the entertainment which is provided for them by writers, painters, and poets.’

Cronshaw stopped for a moment to drink. He had pondered for twenty years the problem whether he loved liquor because it made him talk or whether he loved conversation because it made him thirsty.

Then he said: ‘I wrote a poem yesterday.’

Without being asked he began to recite it, very slowly, marking the rhythm with an extended forefinger. It was possibly a very fine poem, but at that moment a young woman came in. She had scarlet lips, and it was plain that the vivid colour of her cheeks was not due to the vulgarity of nature; she had blackened her eyelashes and eyebrows, and painted both eyelids a bold blue, which was continued to a triangle at the corner of the eyes. It was fantastic and amusing. Her dark hair was done over her ears in the fashion made popular by Mlle. Cleo de Merode. Philip’s eyes wandered to her, and Cronshaw, having finished the recitation of his verses, smiled upon him indulgently.

‘You were not listening,’ he said.

‘Oh yes, I was.’

‘I do not blame you, for you have given an apt illustration of the statement I just made. What is art beside love? I respect and applaud your indifference to fine poetry when you can contemplate the meretricious charms of this young person.’

She passed by the table at which they were sitting, and he took her arm.

‘Come and sit by my side, dear child, and let us play the divine comedy of love.’

‘Fichez-moi la paix,’ she said, and pushing him on one side continued her perambulation.

‘Art,’ he continued, with a wave of the hand, ‘is merely the refuge which the ingenious have invented, when they were supplied with food and women, to escape the tediousness of life.’

Cronshaw filled his glass again, and began to talk at length. He spoke with rotund delivery. He chose his words carefully. He mingled wisdom and nonsense in the most astounding manner, gravely making fun of his hearers at one moment, and at the next playfully giving them sound advice. He talked of art, and literature, and life. He was by turns devout and obscene, merry and lachrymose. He grew remarkably drunk, and then he began to recite poetry, his own and Milton’s, his own and Shelley’s, his own and Kit Marlowe’s.

At last Lawson, exhausted, got up to go home.

‘I shall go too,’ said Philip.

Clutton, the most silent of them all, remained behind listening, with a sardonic smile on his lips, to Cronshaw’s maunderings. Lawson accompanied Philip to his hotel and then bade him good-night. But when Philip got to bed he could not sleep. All these new ideas that had been flung before him carelessly seethed in his brain. He was tremendously excited. He felt in himself great powers. He had never before been so self-confident.

‘I know I shall be a great artist,’ he said to himself. ‘I feel it in me.’

A thrill passed through him as another thought came, but even to himself he would not put it into words:

‘By George, I believe I’ve got genius.’

He was in fact very drunk, but as he had not taken more than one glass of beer, it could have been due only to a more dangerous intoxicant than alcohol.

第42章
有一个普遍的干扰。Flanagan和两个或三个的音乐厅,而菲利普走得很慢Closerie des Lilas里表和劳森。
“你必须去Gaite蒙帕纳斯,”劳森说。这是在巴黎最可爱的事情之一。我打算把它漆成这些日子之一。”
菲利普,受海沃德用轻蔑的眼神看着音乐厅,但他已经到了巴黎的时候他们只是发现艺术的可能性。照明的特点,广大昏暗的红色和玷污了黄金,沉重的阴影和装饰线,提出了一个新的主题,和一半的工作室当季草图包含在一个或其他当地的剧院。之后,文人画家的醒来,合谋突然发现把艺术价值;天空和红鼻子喜剧演员被称赞为他们的角色;脂肪女歌手,晦涩地大声了二十年,被发现拥有独特的诙谐,有那些发现狗表演的审美快感,而另一些人耗尽了他们的词汇来赞美魔术师和trick-cyclists的区别。群众也在另一个的影响下,成为一个同情关心的对象。海沃德,菲利普蔑视人类大众,他收养了一个人的态度将自己包裹在孤独和手表和厌恶粗俗滑稽的;但里表,劳森热情地谈到了众人。他们描述了沸腾的人群,充满了各种展览会的巴黎,人山人海的,一半在乙炔的眩光,一半隐藏在黑暗中,小号的嘟嘟声,口哨声的喊叫,声音发出的嗡嗡声。他们说新的奇怪的菲利普。他们告诉他。关于●克朗肖说道
“你读过他的作品吗?”
“没有,”菲利普说。
“它在黄色的书出来。”
他们看着他,作为画家经常做作家,蔑视,因为他是一个门外汉,宽容,因为他练习一门艺术,和敬畏,因为他使用的介质本身感到局促不安。
他是一个非凡的家伙。你会发现他有点失望,他只有在他最好的时候他喝醉了。”
“麻烦的是,”添加里表,这需要他的魔鬼时间喝醉。”
当他们到达咖啡馆劳森告诉菲利普,他们将不得不进去。几乎没有在秋季一口空气,有一种病态的恐惧但●克朗肖说道跳棋,即使在最热的天气坐进去。
“他知道每个人都知道,”劳森说。”他知道父亲和奥斯卡·王尔德,他知道马拉美和那些家伙。”
他们搜索的对象坐在最受庇护的咖啡馆的角落里,与他的外套,领子。他戴着他的帽子压下来额头上,这样他应该避免冷空气。他是一个大男人,结实但不肥胖,圆圆的脸蛋,一个小的胡子,和小,而愚蠢的眼睛。他的头没有为他的身体似乎很足够大。看起来像一个豌豆不安地伫立在一个鸡蛋。他和一个法国人玩多米诺骨牌,欢迎香港的一个安静的微笑,他没有说话,但好像为他们腾出空间的推开小堆碟子在桌子上,表示数量的饮料他已经消耗。他点了点头,菲利普,当他被介绍给他,并继续游戏。菲利普的知识语言的很小,但他知道,足以看出●克朗肖说道,尽管他在巴黎住了几年,说法语恶劣地。
最后他胜利的微笑着靠在椅背上。
“我ai打脚,”他说,带着可恶的英语口音。“Garcong !”
他叫服务员,变成了菲利普。
“只是从英国吗?看到任何板球吗?”
菲利普有点困惑的意想不到的问题。
知道每一个一流的板球队员的平均“●克朗肖说道在过去的二十年,”劳森说,面带微笑。
法国人在另一个表,让他们为朋友,和●克朗肖说道与懒惰的表明这是他的特点之一,开始话语在肯特和兰开夏郡的相对优势。他告诉他们描述的最后一个测试匹配他看到和wicket的wicket的游戏。
这是我唯一在巴黎小姐,”他说,当他完成了侍者送来的一杯啤酒。你得不到任何的板球。
菲利普很失望,劳森,可宽恕地急于炫耀的名人之一,越来越不耐烦。Cronshaw正在他起床了,晚上,尽管碟子在他身边表示,他至少有一个诚实的尝试喝醉。里表眼看着现场娱乐。他幻想有一些分钟知识的板球矫揉造作的●克朗肖说道;他喜欢逗弄人谈论他们的事情显然无聊;里表扔在一个问题。
“你最近见过马拉美吗?”
Cronshaw慢慢地看着他,好像他是将调查在他看来,在他回答前,敲了大理石桌上的碟子。
“把我的一瓶威士忌,”他喊道。他又转向了菲利普。我把我自己的一瓶威士忌。我不能支付每极少量五十生丁。”
服务员给瓶子,到灯光下举行,●克朗肖说道。
他们一直喝它。服务员,帮助自己我的威士忌是谁?”
”。但是没有人,先生●克朗肖说道
“昨晚我做了一个标记,看看它。”
先生做了一个标志,但他继续喝酒。按照这个速度先生是浪费他的时间。”
服务员是一个快活的亲密,知道●克朗肖说道。Cronshaw盯着他。
荣誉“如果你给我你的话作为一个贵族和一个绅士,没有人但我一直喝威士忌,我要接受你的声明。”
这句话,逐字翻译成最法语,听起来很有趣,和夫人棉柜不禁笑了起来。
“Il est无价的,”她低声说道。
Cronshaw,听到她,把一个羞怯的眼睛,盯着她;她是结实的,稳重的,中年,庄严地吻了他的手。她耸了耸肩。
“不要害怕,夫人,”他说。我已经通过我的年龄被45和感激之情。”
他给自己倒了一些威士忌和水,慢慢地把它喝了。他与他的手背擦了擦嘴。
“他说得很好。”
罗森和里表的评论是一个知道●克朗肖说道对马拉美对这个问题的回答。Cronshaw时经常去聚会在周二晚上收到信件的人,画家、诗人和微妙的演讲就对他提出的任何话题。Cronshaw显然最近去过那里。
”他说话很好,但他说废话。他谈到艺术,仿佛它是世界上最重要的事情。”
如果它不是,我们这里是什么?”菲利普问。
“我不知道你在这里。这是我的任何业务。但艺术是一种奢侈品。男人只注重自我保护和传播的物种。只有当这些本能感到满意,他们同意占领自己为他们提供的娱乐作家、画家和诗人。
Cronshaw停一会儿喝。他思考了二十年的问题他是否爱酒,因为它使他说话或是否他喜欢谈话,因为它使他渴了。
然后他说:“我昨天写了一首诗。”
没有问他开始背诵,节奏很慢,标志着伸出食指。这可能是一个非常好诗,但在那一刻一个年轻女人走了进来。她鲜红的嘴唇,显然她的脸颊的生动的色彩不是由于大自然的庸俗,她黑她的睫毛和眉毛,和画都眼皮一个大胆的蓝色,这是继续在拐角处一个三角形的眼睛。这是神奇和有趣。她的黑发被做在她的耳朵在时尚流行的Mlle. Merode克莱奥。,菲利普的眼睛在她,●克朗肖说道他完成了背诵的诗句,他放任地笑了。
“你不听,”他说。
“哦,是的,我是。”
“我不怪你,因为你给了一个恰当的语句的说明我只是。什么是艺术在爱吗?我尊重和赞赏您对好诗当你可以考虑这个年轻人的俗气的魅力。”
她通过他们所坐的桌子,他抓住了她的手臂。
“过来坐在我旁边吧,亲爱的孩子,让我们玩爱的神曲”。
“Fichez-moi和平,”她说,一边推他继续她的勘查。
“艺术,”他接着说,一波又一波的手,“只是巧妙的发明的避难所,当他们提供食物和女人,为了逃避生活的沉闷。
Cronshaw又倒了杯酒,开始说话。他采访了洪亮的交付。奥巴马总统措辞谨慎。他智慧和意义融合在一起最惊人的方式,严肃地取笑他的听众在一个时刻,并在下次开玩笑地给他们合理的建议。他谈到艺术,文学,和生活。他轮流虔诚,淫秽、快乐和爱哭的。他变得非常醉,然后他开始背诵诗歌,他自己的和弥尔顿,他自己和雪莱的,他自己的和装备马洛。
最后劳森,筋疲力尽,起身回家。
“我也要去,”菲利普说。
里表,最沉默的,后面听,带着讽刺的微笑在他的嘴唇,的maunderings,●克朗肖说道。劳森伴随着菲利普他住的酒店,然后吩咐他道晚安。但当菲利普睡他睡不着。所有这些新的想法被扔在他面前不小心被放入他的大脑。他非常兴奋。他觉得自己大国。他从来没有如此的自信。
“我知道我将成为一个伟大的艺术家,”他对自己说。“我觉得在我。”
刺激通过他为另一个思想,但即便是他自己,他不会说出来:
“乔治,我相信我有天才。
他实际上是非常醉,但是当他没有超过一杯啤酒,这可能是由于只比酒精更危险的醉人的。

[ 此帖被wj宝宝在2014-08-16 19:30重新编辑 ]

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chapter 43

On Tuesdays and Fridays masters spent the morning at Amitrano’s, criticising the work done. In France the painter earns little unless he paints portraits and is patronised by rich Americans; and men of reputation are glad to increase their incomes by spending two or three hours once a week at one of the numerous studios where art is taught. Tuesday was the day upon which Michel Rollin came to Amitrano’s. He was an elderly man, with a white beard and a florid complexion, who had painted a number of decorations for the State, but these were an object of derision to the students he instructed: he was a disciple of Ingres, impervious to the progress of art and angrily impatient with that tas de farceurs whose names were Manet, Degas, Monet, and Sisley; but he was an excellent teacher, helpful, polite, and encouraging. Foinet, on the other hand, who visited the studio on Fridays, was a difficult man to get on with. He was a small, shrivelled person, with bad teeth and a bilious air, an untidy gray beard, and savage eyes; his voice was high and his tone sarcastic. He had had pictures bought by the Luxembourg, and at twenty-five looked forward to a great career; but his talent was due to youth rather than to personality, and for twenty years he had done nothing but repeat the landscape which had brought him his early success. When he was reproached with monotony, he answered:

‘Corot only painted one thing. Why shouldn’t I?’

He was envious of everyone else’s success, and had a peculiar, personal loathing of the impressionists; for he looked upon his own failure as due to the mad fashion which had attracted the public, sale bete, to their works. The genial disdain of Michel Rollin, who called them impostors, was answered by him with vituperation, of which crapule and canaille were the least violent items; he amused himself with abuse of their private lives, and with sardonic humour, with blasphemous and obscene detail, attacked the legitimacy of their births and the purity of their conjugal relations: he used an Oriental imagery and an Oriental emphasis to accentuate his ribald scorn. Nor did he conceal his contempt for the students whose work he examined. By them he was hated and feared; the women by his brutal sarcasm he reduced often to tears, which again aroused his ridicule; and he remained at the studio, notwithstanding the protests of those who suffered too bitterly from his attacks, because there could be no doubt that he was one of the best masters in Paris. Sometimes the old model who kept the school ventured to remonstrate with him, but his expostulations quickly gave way before the violent insolence of the painter to abject apologies.

It was Foinet with whom Philip first came in contact. He was already in the studio when Philip arrived. He went round from easel to easel, with Mrs. Otter, the massiere, by his side to interpret his remarks for the benefit of those who could not understand French. Fanny Price, sitting next to Philip, was working feverishly. Her face was sallow with nervousness, and every now and then she stopped to wipe her hands on her blouse; for they were hot with anxiety. Suddenly she turned to Philip with an anxious look, which she tried to hide by a sullen frown.

‘D’you think it’s good?’ she asked, nodding at her drawing.

Philip got up and looked at it. He was astounded; he felt she must have no eye at all; the thing was hopelessly out of drawing.

‘I wish I could draw half as well myself,’ he answered.

‘You can’t expect to, you’ve only just come. It’s a bit too much to expect that you should draw as well as I do. I’ve been here two years.’

Fanny Price puzzled Philip. Her conceit was stupendous. Philip had already discovered that everyone in the studio cordially disliked her; and it was no wonder, for she seemed to go out of her way to wound people.

‘I complained to Mrs. Otter about Foinet,’ she said now. ‘The last two weeks he hasn’t looked at my drawings. He spends about half an hour on Mrs. Otter because she’s the massiere. After all I pay as much as anybody else, and I suppose my money’s as good as theirs. I don’t see why I shouldn’t get as much attention as anybody else.’

She took up her charcoal again, but in a moment put it down with a groan.

‘I can’t do any more now. I’m so frightfully nervous.’

She looked at Foinet, who was coming towards them with Mrs. Otter. Mrs. Otter, meek, mediocre, and self-satisfied, wore an air of importance. Foinet sat down at the easel of an untidy little Englishwoman called Ruth Chalice. She had the fine black eyes, languid but passionate, the thin face, ascetic but sensual, the skin like old ivory, which under the influence of Burne-Jones were cultivated at that time by young ladies in Chelsea. Foinet seemed in a pleasant mood; he did not say much to her, but with quick, determined strokes of her charcoal pointed out her errors. Miss Chalice beamed with pleasure when he rose. He came to Clutton, and by this time Philip was nervous too but Mrs. Otter had promised to make things easy for him. Foinet stood for a moment in front of Clutton’s work, biting his thumb silently, then absent-mindedly spat out upon the canvas the little piece of skin which he had bitten off.

‘That’s a fine line,’ he said at last, indicating with his thumb what pleased him. ‘You’re beginning to learn to draw.’

Clutton did not answer, but looked at the master with his usual air of sardonic indifference to the world’s opinion.

‘I’m beginning to think you have at least a trace of talent.’

Mrs. Otter, who did not like Clutton, pursed her lips. She did not see anything out of the way in his work. Foinet sat down and went into technical details. Mrs. Otter grew rather tired of standing. Clutton did not say anything, but nodded now and then, and Foinet felt with satisfaction that he grasped what he said and the reasons of it; most of them listened to him, but it was clear they never understood. Then Foinet got up and came to Philip.

‘He only arrived two days ago,’ Mrs. Otter hurried to explain. ‘He’s a beginner. He’s never studied before.’

‘Ca se voit,’ the master said. ‘One sees that.’

He passed on, and Mrs. Otter murmured to him:

‘This is the young lady I told you about.’

He looked at her as though she were some repulsive animal, and his voice grew more rasping.

‘It appears that you do not think I pay enough attention to you. You have been complaining to the massiere. Well, show me this work to which you wish me to give attention.’

Fanny Price coloured. The blood under her unhealthy skin seemed to be of a strange purple. Without answering she pointed to the drawing on which she had been at work since the beginning of the week. Foinet sat down.

‘Well, what do you wish me to say to you? Do you wish me to tell you it is good? It isn’t. Do you wish me to tell you it is well drawn? It isn’t. Do you wish me to say it has merit? It hasn’t. Do you wish me to show you what is wrong with it? It is all wrong. Do you wish me to tell you what to do with it? Tear it up. Are you satisfied now?’

Miss Price became very white. She was furious because he had said all this before Mrs. Otter. Though she had been in France so long and could understand French well enough, she could hardly speak two words.

‘He’s got no right to treat me like that. My money’s as good as anyone else’s. I pay him to teach me. That’s not teaching me.’

‘What does she say? What does she say?’ asked Foinet.

Mrs. Otter hesitated to translate, and Miss Price repeated in execrable French.

‘Je vous paye pour m’apprendre.’

His eyes flashed with rage, he raised his voice and shook his fist.

‘Mais, nom de Dieu, I can’t teach you. I could more easily teach a camel.’ He turned to Mrs. Otter. ‘Ask her, does she do this for amusement, or does she expect to earn money by it?’

‘I’m going to earn my living as an artist,’ Miss Price answered.

‘Then it is my duty to tell you that you are wasting your time. It would not matter that you have no talent, talent does not run about the streets in these days, but you have not the beginning of an aptitude. How long have you been here? A child of five after two lessons would draw better than you do. I only say one thing to you, give up this hopeless attempt. You’re more likely to earn your living as a bonne a tout faire than as a painter. Look.’

He seized a piece of charcoal, and it broke as he applied it to the paper. He cursed, and with the stump drew great firm lines. He drew rapidly and spoke at the same time, spitting out the words with venom.

‘Look, those arms are not the same length. That knee, it’s grotesque. I tell you a child of five. You see, she’s not standing on her legs. That foot!’

With each word the angry pencil made a mark, and in a moment the drawing upon which Fanny Price had spent so much time and eager trouble was unrecognisable, a confusion of lines and smudges. At last he flung down the charcoal and stood up.

‘Take my advice, Mademoiselle, try dressmaking.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s twelve. A la semaine prochaine, messieurs.’

Miss Price gathered up her things slowly. Philip waited behind after the others to say to her something consolatory. He could think of nothing but:

‘I say, I’m awfully sorry. What a beast that man is!’

She turned on him savagely.

‘Is that what you’re waiting about for? When I want your sympathy I’ll ask for it. Please get out of my way.’

She walked past him, out of the studio, and Philip, with a shrug of the shoulders, limped along to Gravier’s for luncheon.

‘It served her right,’ said Lawson, when Philip told him what had happened. ‘Ill-tempered slut.’

Lawson was very sensitive to criticism and, in order to avoid it, never went to the studio when Foinet was coming.

‘I don’t want other people’s opinion of my work,’ he said. ‘I know myself if it’s good or bad.’

‘You mean you don’t want other people’s bad opinion of your work,’ answered Clutton dryly.

In the afternoon Philip thought he would go to the Luxembourg to see the pictures, and walking through the garden he saw Fanny Price sitting in her accustomed seat. He was sore at the rudeness with which she had met his well-meant attempt to say something pleasant, and passed as though he had not caught sight of her. But she got up at once and came towards him.

‘Are you trying to cut me?’ she said.

‘No, of course not. I thought perhaps you didn’t want to be spoken to.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I wanted to have a look at the Manet, I’ve heard so much about it.’

‘Would you like me to come with you? I know the Luxembourg rather well. I could show you one or two good things.’

He understood that, unable to bring herself to apologise directly, she made this offer as amends.

‘It’s awfully kind of you. I should like it very much.’

‘You needn’t say yes if you’d rather go alone,’ she said suspiciously.

‘I wouldn’t.’

They walked towards the gallery. Caillebotte’s collection had lately been placed on view, and the student for the first time had the opportunity to examine at his ease the works of the impressionists. Till then it had been possible to see them only at Durand-Ruel’s shop in the Rue Lafitte (and the dealer, unlike his fellows in England, who adopt towards the painter an attitude of superiority, was always pleased to show the shabbiest student whatever he wanted to see), or at his private house, to which it was not difficult to get a card of admission on Tuesdays, and where you might see pictures of world-wide reputation. Miss Price led Philip straight up to Manet’s Olympia. He looked at it in astonished silence.

‘Do you like it?’ asked Miss Price.

‘I don’t know,’ he answered helplessly.

‘You can take it from me that it’s the best thing in the gallery except perhaps Whistler’s portrait of his mother.’

She gave him a certain time to contemplate the masterpiece and then took him to a picture representing a railway-station.

‘Look, here’s a Monet,’ she said. ‘It’s the Gare St. Lazare.’

‘But the railway lines aren’t parallel,’ said Philip.

‘What does that matter?’ she asked, with a haughty air.

Philip felt ashamed of himself. Fanny Price had picked up the glib chatter of the studios and had no difficulty in impressing Philip with the extent of her knowledge. She proceeded to explain the pictures to him, superciliously but not without insight, and showed him what the painters had attempted and what he must look for. She talked with much gesticulation of the thumb, and Philip, to whom all she said was new, listened with profound but bewildered interest. Till now he had worshipped Watts and Burne-Jones. The pretty colour of the first, the affected drawing of the second, had entirely satisfied his aesthetic sensibilities. Their vague idealism, the suspicion of a philosophical idea which underlay the titles they gave their pictures, accorded very well with the functions of art as from his diligent perusal of Ruskin he understood it; but here was something quite different: here was no moral appeal; and the contemplation of these works could help no one to lead a purer and a higher life. He was puzzled.

At last he said: ‘You know, I’m simply dead. I don’t think I can absorb anything more profitably. Let’s go and sit down on one of the benches.’

‘It’s better not to take too much art at a time,’ Miss Price answered.

When they got outside he thanked her warmly for the trouble she had taken.

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ she said, a little ungraciously. ‘I do it because I enjoy it. We’ll go to the Louvre tomorrow if you like, and then I’ll take you to Durand-Ruel’s.’

‘You’re really awfully good to me.’

‘You don’t think me such a beast as the most of them do.’

‘I don’t,’ he smiled.

‘They think they’ll drive me away from the studio; but they won’t; I shall stay there just exactly as long as it suits me. All that this morning, it was Lucy Otter’s doing, I know it was. She always has hated me. She thought after that I’d take myself off. I daresay she’d like me to go. She’s afraid I know too much about her.’

Miss Price told him a long, involved story, which made out that Mrs. Otter, a humdrum and respectable little person, had scabrous intrigues. Then she talked of Ruth Chalice, the girl whom Foinet had praised that morning.

‘She’s been with every one of the fellows at the studio. She’s nothing better than a street-walker. And she’s dirty. She hasn’t had a bath for a month. I know it for a fact.’

Philip listened uncomfortably. He had heard already that various rumours were in circulation about Miss Chalice; but it was ridiculous to suppose that Mrs. Otter, living with her mother, was anything but rigidly virtuous. The woman walking by his side with her malignant lying positively horrified him.

‘I don’t care what they say. I shall go on just the same. I know I’ve got it in me. I feel I’m an artist. I’d sooner kill myself than give it up. Oh, I shan’t be the first they’ve all laughed at in the schools and then he’s turned out the only genius of the lot. Art’s the only thing I care for, I’m willing to give my whole life to it. It’s only a question of sticking to it and pegging away"

She found discreditable motives for everyone who would not take her at her own estimate of herself. She detested Clutton. She told Philip that his friend had no talent really; it was just flashy and superficial; he couldn’t compose a figure to save his life. And Lawson:

‘Little beast, with his red hair and his freckles. He’s so afraid of Foinet that he won’t let him see his work. After all, I don’t funk it, do I? I don’t care what Foinet says to me, I know I’m a real artist.’

They reached the street in which she lived, and with a sigh of relief Philip left her.

第四十三章

画师每逢星期二、五上午来阿米特拉诺画室评讲学生的习作。在法国，画家的收入微乎其微，出路是替人作肖像画，设法取得某些美国阔佬的庇护，就连一些知名画家，也乐于每周抽出两三小时到某个招收习画学生的画室去兼课，赚点外快，反正这类画室在巴黎多的是。星期二这一天，由米歇尔·罗兰来阿米特拉诺授课。他是个上了年纪的画家，胡子白苍苍的，气色很好。他曾为政府作过许多装饰画，而这现在却在他的学生中间传为笑柄。他是安格尔的弟子，看不惯美术的新潮流，一听到马奈、德加、莫奈和西斯莱tas de farceurs的名字就来火。不过，他倒是个不可多得的好教师：温和有礼，海人不倦，且善于引导。至于周五巡视画室的富瓦内，却是个颇难对付的角色。此公长得瘦小干瘪，满口蛀牙，一副患胆汁症的尊容，蓬蓬松松的灰胡子，恶狠狠的眼睛，讲起话来嗓门尖利，语透讥锋。早年，他有几幅作品被卢森堡美术馆买了去，所以在二十五岁的时候，踌躇满志，期待有朝一日能独步画坛。可惜他的艺术才华，只是出自青春活力的一时勃发，而并非深植于他的个性之中。二十年来，他除了复制一些早年使他一举成名的风景画之外，别无建树。当人们指责他的作品千篇一律之时，他反驳说：

"柯罗一辈子只画一样东西，我为何不可呢？"

别人的成功，无一不招他忌妒，至于那些印象派画家，他更是切齿痛恨，同他们势不两立。他把自己的失败归咎于疯狂的时尚，惯于赶时髦的公众--Sale bete--全被那些作品吸引了过去。对于印象派画家，米歇尔·罗兰还算留点情面，只是温和地唤他们一声"江湖骗子"，而富瓦内却和之以连声咒骂，crapule和canaille算是最文雅的措词了。他以低毁他们的私生活为乐事，用含带讥讽的幽默口吻，骂他们是私生子，攻击他们乱伦不轨，竭尽侮慢辱骂之能事。为了使那些不堪入耳的奚落之词更带点儿辛辣味儿，他还援用了东方人的比喻手法和东方人的强凋语势。即便在检查学生们的习作时，他也毫不掩饰自己的轻蔑之意。学生们对他既恨又怕；女学生往往由于受不了他那不留情面的嘲讽而哭鼻子，结果又免不了遭他一顿奚落。尽管学生被他骂得走投无路而群起抗议，可也奈何不得，他照样在画室内执教，因为他无疑是全巴黎首屈一指的美术教师。有时，学校的主持人，也就是那个老模特儿，斗胆规劝他几句，但在这位蛮横暴烈的画家面前，那规劝之语转眼就化为卑躬屈膝的连声道歉。

菲利普首先碰上的便是这位富瓦内画师。菲利普来到画室时，这位夫子已在里面了。他一个画架一个画架地巡视过去，学校司库奥特太太在一旁陪着，遇到那些不懂法语的学生，便由她充当翻译。范妮·普赖斯坐在菲利普边上，画得很巴结。她由于心情紧张，脸色发青；她时而放下画笔，把手放在上衣上搓擦，急得手心都出汗了。她突然神情焦躁地朝菲利普转过脸来，紧锁双眉，似乎想借此来掩饰内心的焦虑不安。

"你看画得还可以吗？"她问，一边朝自己的画点点头。

菲利普站起身，凑过来看她的画。不看还罢，一看大吃一惊。她莫非是瞎了眼不成？画儿完全走了样，简直不成个人形。

"我要能及到你一半就挺不错了，"他言不由衷地敷衍说。

"没门儿，你还刚来这儿嘛。你现在就想要赶上我，岂不有点想入非非。我来这儿已经两年了。"

听了范妮·普赖斯的话，菲利普不由得怔住了。她那股自负劲儿，实在叫人吃惊。菲利普已发现，画室里所有的人都对她敬而远之，看来这也不奇怪，因为她似乎特别喜欢出口伤人。

"我在奥特太太跟前告了富瓦内一状，"她接着说。"近两个星期，他对我的画竟看也不看一眼。他每回差不多要在奥特太太身上花半个小时，还不是因为她是这儿的司库。不管怎么说，我付的学费不比别人少一个子儿，我想我的钱也不见得是缺胳膊少腿的。我不明白，干吗单把我一个人撒在一边。"

她重新拿起炭笔，但不多一会儿，又搁下了，嘴里发出一声呻吟。

"我再也画不下去了，心里紧得慌哪。"

她望着富瓦内，他正同奥特太太一起朝他们这边走来。奥特太太脾气温顺，见地平庸，沾沾自喜的情态之中露出几分自命不凡的神气。富瓦内在一个名叫露思·查利斯的英国姑娘的画架边坐了下来。她身材矮小，衣衫不整，一对秀气的黑眼睛，目光倦怠，但时而热情闪烁；那张瘦削的脸蛋，冷峻而又富于肉感，肤色宛如年深日久的象牙--这种风韵，正；是当时一些深受布因一琼司影响的切尔西少女所蓄意培养的。富瓦内，今天似乎兴致很好，他没同她多说什么，只是拿起她的炭笔，信手画上几笔，点出了她的败笔所在。他站起来的时候，查利斯小姐高兴得满脸放。光。富瓦内走到克拉顿跟前，这时候菲利普也有点紧张起来，好在奥特大。太答应过，有事会照顾着他点的。富瓦内在克拉顿的习作前站了一会儿，默默地咬着大拇指，然后心不在焉地把一小块咬下的韧皮吐在画布上。

"这根线条画得不错，"他终于开了腔，一边用拇指点着他所欣赏的成功之笔，"看来你已经有点人门了。"

克拉顿没吭声，只是凝目望着这位画家，依旧是那一副不把世人之言放在眼里的讥诮神情。

"我现在开始，你至少是有几分才气的。"

奥特太太一向不喜欢克拉顿，听了这话就把嘴一噘。她看不出画里有什么特别的名堂。富瓦内坐定身子，细细地讲解起绘画技巧来。奥特太太站在一旁，有点不耐烦了。克拉顿一言不发，只是时而点点头；富瓦内感到很满意，他的这一席话，克拉顿心领神会，而且悟出了其中的道理。在场的大多数人虽说也在洗耳恭听，可显然没听出什么道道来。接着，富瓦内站起身，朝菲利普走来。

"他刚来两天，"奥特太太赶紧解释道，"是个新手，以前从没学过画。"

"Ca se voit,"画师说，"不说也看得出。"

他继续往前走，奥特太太压低嗓门对他说：

"这就是我同你提起过的那个姑娘。"

他瞪眼冲她望着，仿佛她是头令人憎恶的野兽似的，而他说话的声调也变得格外刺耳。

"看来你认为我是亏待你了。你老是在司库面前嫡咕抱怨。你不是要我关心一下你的这幅大作吗？好吧，现在就拿来让我开开眼界吧。"

范妮·普赖斯满脸通红，病态的皮肤下，血液似乎呈现出一种奇怪的紫色。她不加分辩，只是朝面前的画一指，这幅画，她从星期-一直画到现在。富瓦内坐了下来。

"嗯，你希望我对你说些什么呢？要我恭维你一句，说这是幅好画？没门儿。要我夸你一声，说画得挺不错的？没门儿。要我说这幅画总还有些可取之处吧？一无是处。要我点出你的画毛病在哪儿？全都是毛病。要我告诉你怎么处置？干脆把它撕了。现在你总该满意了吧？"

普赖斯小姐脸色惨白。她火极了，他竟当着奥特太太的面如此羞辱她。她虽然在法国呆了很久，完全听得懂法语，但要她自己讲，却吐不出几个词儿来。

"他没有权利这样对待我。我出的学费一个于儿也不比别人少，我出学费是要他来教我。可现在瞧他，哪儿是在教我！"

"她说些什么？她说些什么？"富瓦内问。

奥特太太支吾着，不敢转译给他听。普赖斯小姐自己用蹩脚的法语又说了一遍：

"Je vons paye pour m'apprendre．"

画师眼睛里怒火闪射，他拉开嗓门，挥着拳头。

"Maia，nom de Dieu，我教不了你。教头骆驼也比教你容易。"他转身对奥特太太说："问问她，学画是为了消闲解闷，还是指望靠它谋生。"

"我要像画家那样挣钱过日子，"普赖斯小姐答道。

"那么我就有责任告诉你：你是在白白浪费光阴。你缺少天赋，这倒不要紧，如今真正有天赋的人又有几个；问题是你根本没有灵性，直到现在还未开窍。你来这里有多久了？五岁小孩上了两堂课后，画得也比你现在强。我只想奉劝你一句，趁早放弃这番无谓的尝试吧。你若要谋生，恐怕当bonne a tout fatre也要比当画家稳妥些。瞧！"

他随手抓起一根炭条，想在纸上勾画，不料因为用力过猛，炭条断了。他咒骂了一声，随即用断头信手画了几笔，笔触苍劲有力。他动作利索，边画边讲，边讲边骂。

"瞧，两条手臂竟不一样长。还有这儿的膝盖，给画成个什么怪模样。刚才我说了，五岁的孩子也比你强。你看，这两条腿叫她怎么站得住呀！再瞧这只脚！"

他每吐出一个词，那支怒不可遏的炭笔就在纸上留下个记号，转眼间，范妮·普赖斯好几天来呕心沥血画成的画，就被他涂得面目全非，画面上尽是乱七八糟的条条杠杠和斑斑点点。最后他把炭条一扔，站起身来。

"小姐，听我的忠告，还是去学点裁缝的手艺吧。"他看看自己的表。"十二点了。A la semaine prochaine，messieurs."

普赖斯小姐慢腾腾地把画具收拢来。菲利普故意落在别人后面，想宽慰她几句。他搜索枯肠，只想出这么一句：

"哎，我很难过。这个人多粗鲁！"

谁知她竟恶狠狠地冲着他发火了。

"你留在这儿就是为了对我说这个？等我需要你怜悯的时候，我会开口求你的。现在请你别挡住我的去路。"

她从他身边走过，径自出了画室。菲利普耸耸肩，一拐一瘸地上格雷维亚餐馆吃午饭去了。

"她活该！"菲利普把刚才的事儿告诉劳森之后，劳森这么说，"环脾气的臭娘们儿。"

劳森很怕挨批评，所以每逢富瓦内来画室授课，他总是避之唯恐不及。

"我可不希望别人对我的作品评头品足，"他说。"是好是环，我自己心中有数。"

"你的意思是说，你不希望别人说你的大作不高明吧，"克拉顿冷冷接口说。

下午，菲利普想去卢森堡美术馆看看那儿的藏画。他在穿过街心花园时，一眼瞥见范妮·普赖斯在她的老位置上坐着。他先前完全出于一片好心，想安慰她几句，不料她竟如此不近人情，想起来心里好不懊丧，所以这回在她身边走过时只当没看见。可她倒立即站起身，朝他走过来。

"你想就此不理我了，是吗？"

"没的事，我想你也许不希望别人来打扰吧？"

"你去哪儿？"

"我想去看看马奈的那幅名画，我经常听人议论到它。"

"要我陪你去吗？我对卢森堡美术馆相当熟悉，可以领你去看一两件精采之作。"

看得出，她不愿爽爽快快地向他赔礼道歉，而想以此来弥补自己的过失。

"那就有劳你了。我正求之不得呢。"

"要是你想一个人去，也不必勉强，尽管直说就是了，"她半信半疑地说。

"我真的希望有人陪我去。"

他们朝美术馆走去。最近，那儿正在公展凯博特的私人藏画，习画者第一次有机会尽情尽兴地揣摩印象派画家的作品。以前，只有在拉菲特路迪朗一吕埃尔的画铺里（这个生意人和那些自以为高出画家一等的英国同行不一样，总是乐意对穷学生提供方便，他们想看什么就让他们看什么），或是在他的私人寓所内，才有幸看得到这些作品。他的寓所每逢周二对外开放，入场券也不难搞到，在那儿你可以看到许多世界名画。进了美术馆，普赖斯小姐领着菲利普径直来到马奈的《奥兰毕亚》跟前。他看着这幅油画，惊得目瞪口呆。

"你喜欢吗？"普赖斯小姐问。

"我说不上来，"他茫然无措地回答。

"你可以相信我的话，也许除了惠司勒的肖像画《母亲》之外，这幅画就是美术馆里最精采的展品了。"

她耐心地守在一旁，让他仔细揣摩这幅杰作的妙处，过了好一会才领他去看一幅描绘火车站的油画。

"看，这也是一幅莫奈的作品，"她说，"画的是圣拉扎尔火车站。"

"画面上的铁轨怎么不是平行的呢？"菲利普说。

"这又有什么关系呢？"她反问道，一脸的傲慢之气。

菲利普自惭形秽，范妮·普赖斯捡起目前画界议论不休的话题，凭着自己这方面的渊博知识，一下子就说得菲利普心悦诚服。她开始给菲利普讲解美术馆内的名画，虽说口气狂妄，倒也不无见地。她讲给他听各个画家的创作契机，指点他该从哪些方面着手探索。她说话时不时地用大拇指比划着。她所讲的这一切，对菲利普来说都很新鲜，所以他听得津津有味，同时也有点迷惘不解。在此以前，他一直崇拜瓦茨和布因-琼司，前者的绚丽色彩，后者的工整雕琢，完全投合他的审美观。他们作品中的朦胧的理想主义，还有他们作品命题中所包含的那种哲学意味，都同他在埋头啃读罗斯金著作时所领悟到的艺术功能吻合一致。然而此刻，眼前所看到的却全然不同：作品里缺少道德上的感染力，观赏这些作品，也无助于人们去追求更纯洁、更高尚的生活。他感到惶惑不解。

最后他说："你知道，我累坏了，脑子里再也装不进什么了。让咱们找张长凳，坐下歇歇脚吧。"

"反正艺术这玩意儿，得慢慢来，贪多嚼不烂嘛，"普赖斯小姐应道。

等他们来到美术馆外面，菲利普对她热心陪自己参观，再三表示感谢。

"哦，这算不得什么，"她大大咧咧地说，"如果你愿意，咱们明天去卢佛尔宫，过些日子再领你到迪朗一吕埃尔画铺走一遭。"

"你待我真好。"

"你不像他们那些人，他们根本不拿我当人待。"

"是吗？"他笑道。

"他们以为能把我从画室撵走，没门儿。我高兴在那儿果多久，就呆多久。今天早上发生的事，还不是露茜·奥特捣的鬼！没错，她对我一直怀恨在心，以为这一来我就会乖乖地走了。我敢说，她巴不得我走呢。她自己心里有鬼，她的底细我一清二楚。"

普赖斯小姐弯来绕去讲了一大通，意思无非是说，别看奥特太太这么个身材矮小的妇人，表面上道貌岸然，毫无韵致，骨子里却是水性杨花，常和野汉子偷情。接着，她的话锋又转到露思·查利斯身上，就是上午受到富瓦内夸奖的那个姑娘。

"她跟画室里所有的男人都有勾搭，简直同妓女差不多，而且还是个邋遢婆娘，一个月也洗不上一回澡。这全是事实，我一点也没瞎说。"

菲利普听着觉得很不是滋味。有关查利斯小姐的各种流言蜚语，他也有所风闻。但是要怀疑那位同母亲住在一起的奥特太太的贞操，未免有点荒唐。他身边的这个女人，竟然在光天化日之下恶意中伤别人，实在叫他心寒。

"他们说些什么，我才不在乎呢。我照样走自己的路。我知道自己有天赋，是当画家的料子。我宁可宰了自己也不放弃这一行。哦，在学校里遭人耻笑的，我又不是第一个，但到头来，还不正是那些受尽奚落的人反倒成了鹤立鸡群的天才。艺术是我唯一放在心上的事儿，我愿为它献出整个生命。问题全在于能否持之以恒，做到锲而不舍。"

这就是她对自己的评价，而谁要是对此持有异议，就会被她视为居心叵测，妒贤忌才。她讨厌克拉顿。她对菲利普说，克拉顿实际上并没有什么才能，他的画华而不实，肤浅得很。他一辈子也画不出稍微像样的东西来。至于劳森：

"一个红头发、满脸雀斑的混小子。那么害怕富瓦内，连自己的画也不敢拿出来给他看。不管怎么说，我毕竟还有点胆量，不是吗？我不在乎富瓦内说我什么，反正我知道自己是个真正的艺术家。"

他们到了她住的那条街上，菲利普如释重负地吁了口气，离开她走了。

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chapter 44

But notwithstanding when Miss Price on the following Sunday offered to take him to the Louvre Philip accepted. She showed him Mona Lisa. He looked at it with a slight feeling of disappointment, but he had read till he knew by heart the jewelled words with which Walter Pater has added beauty to the most famous picture in the world; and these now he repeated to Miss Price.

‘That’s all literature,’ she said, a little contemptuously. ‘You must get away from that.’

She showed him the Rembrandts, and she said many appropriate things about them. She stood in front of the Disciples at Emmaus.

‘When you feel the beauty of that,’ she said, ‘you’ll know something about painting.’

She showed him the Odalisque and La Source of Ingres. Fanny Price was a peremptory guide, she would not let him look at the things he wished, and attempted to force his admiration for all she admired. She was desperately in earnest with her study of art, and when Philip, passing in the Long Gallery a window that looked out on the Tuileries, gay, sunny, and urbane, like a picture by Raffaelli, exclaimed:

‘I say, how jolly! Do let’s stop here a minute.’

She said, indifferently: ‘Yes, it’s all right. But we’ve come here to look at pictures.’

The autumn air, blithe and vivacious, elated Philip; and when towards mid-day they stood in the great court-yard of the Louvre, he felt inclined to cry like Flanagan: To hell with art.

‘I say, do let’s go to one of those restaurants in the Boul’ Mich’ and have a snack together, shall we?’ he suggested.

Miss Price gave him a suspicious look.

‘I’ve got my lunch waiting for me at home,’ she answered.

‘That doesn’t matter. You can eat it tomorrow. Do let me stand you a lunch.’

‘I don’t know why you want to.’

‘It would give me pleasure,’ he replied, smiling.

They crossed the river, and at the corner of the Boulevard St. Michel there was a restaurant.

‘Let’s go in there.’

‘No, I won’t go there, it looks too expensive.’

She walked on firmly, and Philip was obliged to follow. A few steps brought them to a smaller restaurant, where a dozen people were already lunching on the pavement under an awning; on the window was announced in large white letters: Dejeuner 1.25, vin compris.

‘We couldn’t have anything cheaper than this, and it looks quite all right.’

They sat down at a vacant table and waited for the omelette which was the first article on the bill of fare. Philip gazed with delight upon the passers-by. His heart went out to them. He was tired but very happy.

‘I say, look at that man in the blouse. Isn’t he ripping!’

He glanced at Miss Price, and to his astonishment saw that she was looking down at her plate, regardless of the passing spectacle, and two heavy tears were rolling down her cheeks.

‘What on earth’s the matter?’ he exclaimed.

‘If you say anything to me I shall get up and go at once,’ she answered.

He was entirely puzzled, but fortunately at that moment the omelette came. He divided it in two and they began to eat. Philip did his best to talk of indifferent things, and it seemed as though Miss Price were making an effort on her side to be agreeable; but the luncheon was not altogether a success. Philip was squeamish, and the way in which Miss Price ate took his appetite away. She ate noisily, greedily, a little like a wild beast in a menagerie, and after she had finished each course rubbed the plate with pieces of bread till it was white and shining, as if she did not wish to lose a single drop of gravy. They had Camembert cheese, and it disgusted Philip to see that she ate rind and all of the portion that was given her. She could not have eaten more ravenously if she were starving.

Miss Price was unaccountable, and having parted from her on one day with friendliness he could never tell whether on the next she would not be sulky and uncivil; but he learned a good deal from her: though she could not draw well herself, she knew all that could be taught, and her constant suggestions helped his progress. Mrs. Otter was useful to him too, and sometimes Miss Chalice criticised his work; he learned from the glib loquacity of Lawson and from the example of Clutton. But Fanny Price hated him to take suggestions from anyone but herself, and when he asked her help after someone else had been talking to him she would refuse with brutal rudeness. The other fellows, Lawson, Clutton, Flanagan, chaffed him about her.

‘You be careful, my lad,’ they said, ‘she’s in love with you.’

‘Oh, what nonsense,’ he laughed.

The thought that Miss Price could be in love with anyone was preposterous. It made him shudder when he thought of her uncomeliness, the bedraggled hair and the dirty hands, the brown dress she always wore, stained and ragged at the hem: he supposed she was hard up, they were all hard up, but she might at least be clean; and it was surely possible with a needle and thread to make her skirt tidy.

Philip began to sort his impressions of the people he was thrown in contact with. He was not so ingenuous as in those days which now seemed so long ago at Heidelberg, and, beginning to take a more deliberate interest in humanity, he was inclined to examine and to criticise. He found it difficult to know Clutton any better after seeing him every day for three months than on the first day of their acquaintance. The general impression at the studio was that he was able; it was supposed that he would do great things, and he shared the general opinion; but what exactly he was going to do neither he nor anybody else quite knew. He had worked at several studios before Amitrano’s, at Julian’s, the Beaux Arts, and MacPherson’s, and was remaining longer at Amitrano’s than anywhere because he found himself more left alone. He was not fond of showing his work, and unlike most of the young men who were studying art neither sought nor gave advice. It was said that in the little studio in the Rue Campagne Premiere, which served him for work-room and bed-room, he had wonderful pictures which would make his reputation if only he could be induced to exhibit them. He could not afford a model but painted still life, and Lawson constantly talked of a plate of apples which he declared was a masterpiece. He was fastidious, and, aiming at something he did not quite fully grasp, was constantly dissatisfied with his work as a whole: perhaps a part would please him, the forearm or the leg and foot of a figure, a glass or a cup in a still-life; and he would cut this out and keep it, destroying the rest of the canvas; so that when people invited themselves to see his work he could truthfully answer that he had not a single picture to show. In Brittany he had come across a painter whom nobody else had heard of, a queer fellow who had been a stockbroker and taken up painting at middle-age, and he was greatly influenced by his work. He was turning his back on the impressionists and working out for himself painfully an individual way not only of painting but of seeing. Philip felt in him something strangely original.

At Gravier’s where they ate, and in the evening at the Versailles or at the Closerie des Lilas Clutton was inclined to taciturnity. He sat quietly, with a sardonic expression on his gaunt face, and spoke only when the opportunity occurred to throw in a witticism. He liked a butt and was most cheerful when someone was there on whom he could exercise his sarcasm. He seldom talked of anything but painting, and then only with the one or two persons whom he thought worth while. Philip wondered whether there was in him really anything: his reticence, the haggard look of him, the pungent humour, seemed to suggest personality, but might be no more than an effective mask which covered nothing.

With Lawson on the other hand Philip soon grew intimate. He had a variety of interests which made him an agreeable companion. He read more than most of the students and though his income was small, loved to buy books. He lent them willingly; and Philip became acquainted with Flaubert and Balzac, with Verlaine, Heredia, and Villiers de l’Isle Adam. They went to plays together and sometimes to the gallery of the Opera Comique. There was the Odeon quite near them, and Philip soon shared his friend’s passion for the tragedians of Louis XIV and the sonorous Alexandrine. In the Rue Taitbout were the Concerts Rouge, where for seventy-five centimes they could hear excellent music and get into the bargain something which it was quite possible to drink: the seats were uncomfortable, the place was crowded, the air thick with caporal horrible to breathe, but in their young enthusiasm they were indifferent. Sometimes they went to the Bal Bullier. On these occasions Flanagan accompanied them. His excitability and his roisterous enthusiasm made them laugh. He was an excellent dancer, and before they had been ten minutes in the room he was prancing round with some little shop-girl whose acquaintance he had just made.

The desire of all of them was to have a mistress. It was part of the paraphernalia of the art-student in Paris. It gave consideration in the eyes of one’s fellows. It was something to boast about. But the difficulty was that they had scarcely enough money to keep themselves, and though they argued that French-women were so clever it cost no more to keep two then one, they found it difficult to meet young women who were willing to take that view of the circumstances. They had to content themselves for the most part with envying and abusing the ladies who received protection from painters of more settled respectability than their own. It was extraordinary how difficult these things were in Paris. Lawson would become acquainted with some young thing and make an appointment; for twenty-four hours he would be all in a flutter and describe the charmer at length to everyone he met; but she never by any chance turned up at the time fixed. He would come to Gravier’s very late, ill-tempered, and exclaim:

‘Confound it, another rabbit! I don’t know why it is they don’t like me. I suppose it’s because I don’t speak French well, or my red hair. It’s too sickening to have spent over a year in Paris without getting hold of anyone.’

‘You don’t go the right way to work,’ said Flanagan.

He had a long and enviable list of triumphs to narrate, and though they took leave not to believe all he said, evidence forced them to acknowledge that he did not altogether lie. But he sought no permanent arrangement. He only had two years in Paris: he had persuaded his people to let him come and study art instead of going to college; but at the end of that period he was to return to Seattle and go into his father’s business. He had made up his mind to get as much fun as possible into the time, and demanded variety rather than duration in his love affairs.

‘I don’t know how you get hold of them,’ said Lawson furiously.

‘There’s no difficulty about that, sonny,’ answered Flanagan. ‘You just go right in. The difficulty is to get rid of them. That’s where you want tact.’

Philip was too much occupied with his work, the books he was reading, the plays he saw, the conversation he listened to, to trouble himself with the desire for female society. He thought there would be plenty of time for that when he could speak French more glibly.

It was more than a year now since he had seen Miss Wilkinson, and during his first weeks in Paris he had been too busy to answer a letter she had written to him just before he left Blackstable. When another came, knowing it would be full of reproaches and not being just then in the mood for them, he put it aside, intending to open it later; but he forgot and did not run across it till a month afterwards, when he was turning out a drawer to find some socks that had no holes in them. He looked at the unopened letter with dismay. He was afraid that Miss Wilkinson had suffered a good deal, and it made him feel a brute; but she had probably got over the suffering by now, at all events the worst of it. It suggested itself to him that women were often very emphatic in their expressions. These did not mean so much as when men used them. He had quite made up his mind that nothing would induce him ever to see her again. He had not written for so long that it seemed hardly worth while to write now. He made up his mind not to read the letter.

‘I daresay she won’t write again,’ he said to himself. ‘She can’t help seeing the thing’s over. After all, she was old enough to be my mother; she ought to have known better.’

For an hour or two he felt a little uncomfortable. His attitude was obviously the right one, but he could not help a feeling of dissatisfaction with the whole business. Miss Wilkinson, however, did not write again; nor did she, as he absurdly feared, suddenly appear in Paris to make him ridiculous before his friends. In a little while he clean forgot her.

Meanwhile he definitely forsook his old gods. The amazement with which at first he had looked upon the works of the impressionists, changed to admiration; and presently he found himself talking as emphatically as the rest on the merits of Manet, Monet, and Degas. He bought a photograph of a drawing by Ingres of the Odalisque and a photograph of the Olympia. They were pinned side by side over his washing-stand so that he could contemplate their beauty while he shaved. He knew now quite positively that there had been no painting of landscape before Monet; and he felt a real thrill when he stood in front of Rembrandt’s Disciples at Emmaus or Velasquez’ Lady with the Flea-bitten Nose. That was not her real name, but by that she was distinguished at Gravier’s to emphasise the picture’s beauty notwithstanding the somewhat revolting peculiarity of the sitter’s appearance. With Ruskin, Burne-Jones, and Watts, he had put aside his bowler hat and the neat blue tie with white spots which he had worn on coming to Paris; and now disported himself in a soft, broad-brimmed hat, a flowing black cravat, and a cape of romantic cut. He walked along the Boulevard du Montparnasse as though he had known it all his life, and by virtuous perseverance he had learnt to drink absinthe without distaste. He was letting his hair grow, and it was only because Nature is unkind and has no regard for the immortal longings of youth that he did not attempt a beard.

第四十四章

尽管如此，下星期日当普赖斯小姐主动表示要带他去参观卢佛尔宫时，菲利普还是欣然前往了。她领他去看《蒙娜丽莎》。菲利普望着那幅名画，心里隐隐感到失望。不过，他以前曾把沃尔特·佩特关于此画的评论念了又念，直至烂熟于心--一佩特的珠玑妙语，给这幅举世闻名的杰作平添了几分异彩--此刻，菲利普便把这段话背给普赖斯小姐听。

"那纯粹是文人的舞文弄墨，"她用略带几分鄙夷的口吻说，"千万别信那一套。"

她指给他看伦勃朗的名画，同时还对这些作品作了一番介绍，讲得倒也头头是道。她在《埃墨斯村的信徒》那幅画前面站定身子。

"如果你能领悟这幅杰作的妙处，那么你对绘画这一行也算摸着点门儿了。"

她让菲利普看了安格尔的《女奴》和《泉》。范妮·普赖斯是个专横的向导，由不得菲利普作主，爱看什么就看什么，而是硬要菲利普赞赏她所推崇的作品。她对学画极认真，很有一股子蛮劲。菲利普从长廊的窗口经过，见窗外的杜伊勒利宫绚丽、雅致，阳光明媚，宛如出自于拉斐尔之手的一幅风景画，情不自禁地喊道：

"嘿，太美啦！让咱们在这儿逗留一会儿吧。"然而，普赖斯却无动于衷，漠然地说："好吧，呆一会儿也无妨。不过别忘了咱们是来这儿看画的。"

秋风徐来，空气清新而爽神，菲利普颇觉心旷神怡。将近正午的时候，他俩伫立在卢佛尔宫宽敞的庭院里，菲利普真想学弗拉纳根的样，扯开喉咙大喊一声：让艺术见鬼去吧！

"我说啊，咱俩一块上米歇尔大街，找家馆子随便吃点什么，怎么样？"菲利普提议说。

普赖斯小姐向他投来怀疑的目光。

"我已在家里准备好了午饭，"她说。

"那也没关系，可以留着明天吃嘛。你就让我请你一回吧。"

"不知道你干吗要请我呢。"

"这会让我感到高兴，"他微笑着回答。

他们过了河，圣米歇尔大街的拐角处有家餐馆。

"我们进去吧。"

"不，我不进去，这家馆于太阔气了。"

她头也不回地径直朝前走，菲利普只好跟了上去。不多几步，又来到一家小餐馆跟前，那儿人行道的凉篷下面，已经有十来个客人在用餐。餐馆的橱窗上写着白色的醒目大字：Dejeuner 1.25，vin comprls.

"不可能吃到比这更便宜的中饭了，再说这地方看来也挺不错的。"

他们在一张空桌旁坐下，等侍者给他们送上煎蛋卷，那是菜单上的第一道菜。菲利普兴致勃勃地打量着过往行人，似乎被他们吸引住了。他虽有几分困倦，却有种说不出的快意。

"哎，瞧那个穿短外套的，真逗！"

他朝普赖斯小姐瞟了一眼，使他吃惊的是，他看到她根本不理会眼前的景象，而是盯着自己的菜盘子发愣，两颗沉甸甸的泪珠，正从脸颊上滚落下来。

"你这是怎么啦？"他惊呼道。

"别对我说什么，要不我这就起身走了，"她回答说。

这可把菲利普完全搞糊涂了。幸好这时候煎蛋卷送了上来。菲利普动手把它分成两半，一人一份吃了起来。菲利普尽量找些无关痛痒的话题来同他攀谈，而普赖斯小姐呢，似乎也在竭力约束自己，没耍性子。不过，这顿饭总叫人有点扫兴。菲利普本来就胃纳不佳，而普赖斯小姐吃东西的那号模样，更叫他倒足了胃口。她一边吃，一边不住发出啧啧之声，那狼吞虎咽的馋相，倒有点像动物园里的一头野兽。她每吃完一道菜，总用面包片拭菜盆子，直到把盆底拭得雪白铮亮才罢手，似乎连一小滴卤汁也舍不得让它留在上面。他们在吃卡门贝尔奶酪时，菲利普见她把自己那一份全吃了，连干酪皮也吞下了肚，不由得心生厌恶。哪怕是几天没吃到东西的饿鬼，也不见得会像她这么嘴馋。

普赖斯小姐性情乖张，喜怒无常，别看她今天分手时还是客客气气。的，说不定明天就会翻脸不认人，朝你横眉竖眼。但话得说回来，他毕竟从她那儿学到了不少东西。尽管她自己画得并不高明，但凡属可以口传。于授的知识，她多少都懂得一点，寸得有她不时在旁点拨，菲利普才在绘画方面有所长进。当然，奥特太太也给了他不少帮助，查利斯小姐有时也。指出他、品中的不足之处。另外，劳森滔若江河的高谈阔论，还有克拉顿一所提供的范本，也都使菲利普得益匪浅。然而，范妮·普赖斯小姐最恨他接受旁人的指点；每当菲利普同人交谈之后再去向她求教，总被她恶狠狠地拒之于门外。劳森、克拉顿、弗拉纳根等人常常借她来取笑菲利普。

"留神点，小伙子，"他们说，"她已经爱上你啦。"

"乱弹琴，"他哈哈大笑。

普赖斯小姐这样的人也会坠入情网，这念头简直荒谬透顶。菲利普只要一想到她那丑陋的长相，那头茅草似的乱发，那双邋遢的手，还有那一年到头常穿不换、又脏又破的棕色衣衫，就不由得浑身发凉：看来她手头很拮据。其实这儿又有谁手头宽的？她至少也该注意点边幅，保持整洁才是。就拿那条裙子来说，用针线缝补抬掇一下，总还是办得到的吧。

菲利普接触了不少人，他开始系统地归纳自己对周围人的印象。如今，他不再像旅居海德堡时那样少不更事（那一段岁月，在他看来已恍如隔世），而是对周围的人产生出一种更为冷静而成熟的兴趣，有意在一旁冷眼观察，并暗暗作出判断。他与克拉顿相识已有三个月，虽说天天见面，但对此人的了解，还是同萍水相逢时一样。克拉顿留给画室里众人的印象是：此人颇有几分才干。大家都说他前途无量，日后必定大有作为，他自己也是这么认为的。至于他将来究竟能干出什么样的事业来，那他自己也好，其他人也好，都说不出个名堂来。克拉顿来阿米特拉诺之前，曾先后在"朱利昂"、"美术"、"马克弗松"等画室学过画，说来还是呆在阿米特拉诺的时日最长，因为他发现在这儿可以独来独往，自行其是。他既不喜欢出示自己的作品，也不像其他学画的年轻人那样，动辄求教或赐教于他人。据说，他在首次战役路有间兼作工作室和卧室的小画室，那儿藏有他的一些精心佳作，只要谁能劝他把这些画拿出来公展，他肯定会就此一举成名。他雇不起模特儿，只搞些静物写生。对他所画的一幅盘中苹果图，劳森赞不绝口，声称此画是艺苑中的杰作。克拉顿生性喜好嫌歹，一心追求某种连自己也不甚了了的目标，总觉得自己的作品不能尽如人意。有时，他觉得作品中某一部分，譬如说，一幅人体画的前臂或下肢啊，静物写生中的一个玻璃杯或者瓷杯什么的，也许尚差强人意，于是他索性从油布剪下这些部分，单独加以保存，而把其余的画面毁掉。这样，如果有谁一定要欣赏他的大作，他就可以如实禀告：可供人观赏的画，他一幅也拿不出来。他在布列塔尼曾遇到过一个默默无闻的画家，一个怪人，原是证券经纪人，直至中年才幡然弃商习画。克拉顿深受此人作品的影响，他正打算脱离印象派的门庭，花一番心血，另辟蹊径，不仅要闯出一条绘画的新路子，而且要摸索出一套观察事物的新方法。菲利普感到克拉顿身上确实有一股独出心裁的古怪劲头。

无论是在格雷维亚餐馆的餐桌上，还是在凡尔赛或丁香园咖啡馆消磨黄昏的清谈中，克拉顿难得开腔。他默默地坐在一旁，瘦削的脸上露出讥诮的神情，只有看到有机会插句把俏皮话的时候才开一下金口。他喜欢同别人抬杠，要是在座的人中间有谁可以成为他凋侃挖苦的靶子，那他才来劲呢。他很少谈及绘画以外的话题，而且只在一两个他认为值得一谈的人面前发表自己的高见。菲利普在心里嘀咕：鬼知道这家伙在故弄什么玄虚。不错，他的沉默寡言、他那副憔悴的面容，还有那种辛辣的幽默口吻，似乎都表明了他的个性。然而所有这些，说不定只是一层掩饰他不学无术的巧妙伪装呢。

至于那位劳森，菲利普没几天就同他熟捻了。他兴趣广泛，是个讨人喜欢的好伙伴。他博览群书，同学中间很少有人能在这方面赶得上他的。尽管他收入甚微，却喜欢买书，也很乐意出借。菲利普于是有机会拜读福楼拜、巴尔扎克的小说，还有魏尔伦、埃雷迪亚和维利埃·德利尔一亚当等人的诗作。他俩经常一块儿去观赏话剧，有时候还跑歌剧场，坐在顶层楼座里看喜歌剧。离他们住处不远，就是奥代翁剧场。菲利普很快也沾染上他这位朋友的热情，迷上了路易十四时期悲剧作家的作品，以及铿锵悦耳的亚历山大体诗歌。在泰特布街常举行红色音乐会，花上七十五。个生丁，就可在那儿欣赏到优美动听的音乐，说不定还能免费喝上几口。座位不怎么舒适，场内听众挤得满满的，浑浊的空气里弥散着一股浓重的烟丝味儿，憋得人透不过气来，可是他们凭着一股年轻人的热情，对这一切毫不介意。有时候他们也去比利埃跳舞厅乐一下。逢到这种场合，弗拉纳根也跟着去凑热闹。他活泼好动，爱大声嚷嚷，一身的快活劲，常常逗得菲利普和劳森乐不可支。跳起舞来，又数他最在行。进舞厅还不到十分钟，就已经同一个刚结识的妙龄售货女郎在舞池里翩跹起舞啦。

他们这伙人谁都想搞到个情妇。情妇乃是巴黎习艺学生手里的一件装饰品。要是到手个情妇，周围的伙伴都会对他刮目相看，而他自己呢，也就有了自我吹嘘的资本。可难就难在他们这些穷措大连养活自己也成问题，尽管他们振振有词地说，法国女郎个个聪明绝顶，即使养了个情妇，也不见得会比单身过日子增加多少开支，可惜同他们长着一样心眼的姑娘，就是打着灯笼也难找啊。所以，就大部分学生来说，他们也只得满足于酸溜溜地骂那些臭娘们狗眼看人低，瞧不起他们这些穷学生，而去委身于那些功成名就的画家。万万想不到，在巴黎物色个情妇竟这等困难。有几次，劳森好不容易结识了一个小妞儿，而且同她订下了约会。在接下来的二十四小时内，他兴奋得坐卧不宁，逢人便夸那尤物如何如何迷人，可是到了约定的时候，那妞儿却影踪全无。直到天色很晚了劳森才赶到格雷维亚餐馆，气急败坏地嚷道：

"见鬼，又扑了个空！真不明白，凭哪一点她们不喜欢我。莫非是嫌我法语讲得不好，还是讨厌我的红头发怎么的。想想来巴黎已一年多了，竟连一个小妞儿也没搞到手，真窝囊。"

"你还没摸着门儿呗，"弗拉纳根说。

弗拉纳根在情场上屡屡得手，可以一口气报出一长串情妇的名字来，还真叫人有点眼红。尽管他们可以不相信他说的全是真话，可是在事实面前，他们又不能不承认他说的未必尽是谎言。不过他寻求的并不是那种永久性的结合。他只打算在巴黎呆两年；他不愿上大学，他花了一番口舌说通了父母，才来巴黎学画的。满两年之后，他准备回西雅图去继承父业。他早拿定要及时行乐的主意，所以他并不追求什么忠贞不渝的爱情，而是热中于拈花惹草，逢场作戏。

"真不知道你是怎么把那些娘儿弄到手的，"劳森愤愤不平地说。

"那还不容易，伙计！"弗拉纳根回答说。"只要瞅准了目标，迎上去就行了呗！难就难在事后如何把她们甩掉。这上面才要你耍点手腕呢。"

菲利普大部分时间忙于画画上，另外还要看书，上戏院，听别人谈天说地，哪还有什么心思去追女人。他想好在来日方长，等自己能操一口流利的法国话了，还愁没有机会！

他已有一年多没见到威尔金森小姐。就在他准备离开布莱克斯泰勃的时候，曾收到过她一封信，来巴黎之后，最初几个星期忙得不可开交，竟至没工夫回信。不久，她又投来一书，菲利普料想信里肯定是满纸怨忿，就当时的心情来说，他觉得还是不看为妙，于是就把信搁在一边，打算过些日子再看，谁知后来竟压根儿给忘了。事隔一月，直到有一天他拉开抽屉想找双没有破洞的袜子，才又无意中翻到那封信。他心情沮丧地望着那封未开封的信。想到威尔金森小姐准是伤透了心，他不能不责怪自己太薄情寡义。继而转念一想，管她呢，反正这时候她好歹已熬过来了，至少已熬过了最痛苦的时刻。他又想到女人说话写信，往往喜欢夸大其词，言过其实。同样这些话，若是出于男人之口，分量就重多了。再说，自己不是已下了决心，今后无论如何再不同她见面了吗，既然已好久没给她写信，现在又何必再来提笔复她的信呢？他决计不去拆看那封信。

"料她不会再写信来了，"他自言自语道。"她不会不明白，咱们间的这段缘分早尽了。她毕竟老啦，差不多可以做我老娘呢。她该有点自知之明嘛。"

有一两个小时光景，他心里感到不是个滋味。就他的处境来说，显然也应该取这种断然的态度，但是他思前顾后，总觉得整个事儿失之于荒唐。不过，威尔金森小姐果真没再给他写信，也没有出其不意地在巴黎露面，让他在朋友面前出丑--一他就怕她会来这一手，其实这种担心还真有点可笑。没过多少时候，他就把她忘得一干二净了。

与此同时，他毫不含糊地摒弃了旧时的崇拜偶像。想当初，他是那么惊讶地看待印象派作品，可是往日的惊讶之情，今日尽化为钦慕之意，菲利普也像其余的人一样，振振有词地谈着马奈、莫奈和德加等画家的过人之处。他同时买了一张安格尔名作《女奴》和一张《奥兰毕亚》的照片，把它们并排钉在脸盆架的上方，这样，他可以一边修面剃须，一边细细揣摩大师们的神来之笔。他现在确信，在莫奈之前根本谈不上有什么风景画。当他站在伦勃朗的《埃默斯村的信徒》或委拉斯开兹的《被跳蚤咬破鼻子的女士腼前，他真的感到心弦在震颤。"被跳蚤咬破鼻子"，这当然不是那位女士的真实姓名，但是他正因为有了这个浑号才在格雷维亚餐馆出了名。从这里岂不正看出此画的魅力吗，尽管画中人生就一副令人难以消受的怪模样。他已把罗斯金、布因一琼司和瓦茨等人，连同他来巴黎时穿戴的硬边圆顶礼帽和笔挺的蓝底白点领带，全都打入冷宫。现在，他戴的是宽边软帽，系的是随风飘飞的黑围巾，另外再套一件裁剪式样颇带几分浪漫气息的披肩。他在蒙帕纳斯大街上悠然漫步，那神态就像是他一生下来就知道这地方似的。由于凭着一股锲而不舍的韧劲，他居然也学会了喝苦艾酒，不再感到味儿苦涩。他开始留长发了，心里还很想在下巴颏上蓄起胡子，无奈造化不讲情面，历来对年轻人的非分之想不加理会，于是他也只得将就点了。

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青春又回来了嘛(*^▽^*)

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chapter 45

Philip soon realised that the spirit which informed his friends was Cronshaw’s. It was from him that Lawson got his paradoxes; and even Clutton, who strained after individuality, expressed himself in the terms he had insensibly acquired from the older man. It was his ideas that they bandied about at table, and on his authority they formed their judgments. They made up for the respect with which unconsciously they treated him by laughing at his foibles and lamenting his vices.

‘Of course, poor old Cronshaw will never do any good,’ they said. ‘He’s quite hopeless.’

They prided themselves on being alone in appreciating his genius; and though, with the contempt of youth for the follies of middle-age, they patronised him among themselves, they did not fail to look upon it as a feather in their caps if he had chosen a time when only one was there to be particularly wonderful. Cronshaw never came to Gravier’s. For the last four years he had lived in squalid conditions with a woman whom only Lawson had once seen, in a tiny apartment on the sixth floor of one of the most dilapidated houses on the Quai des Grands Augustins: Lawson described with gusto the filth, the untidiness, the litter.

‘And the stink nearly blew your head off.’

‘Not at dinner, Lawson,’ expostulated one of the others.

But he would not deny himself the pleasure of giving picturesque details of the odours which met his nostril. With a fierce delight in his own realism he described the woman who had opened the door for him. She was dark, small, and fat, quite young, with black hair that seemed always on the point of coming down. She wore a slatternly blouse and no corsets. With her red cheeks, large sensual mouth, and shining, lewd eyes, she reminded you of the Bohemienne in the Louvre by Franz Hals. She had a flaunting vulgarity which amused and yet horrified. A scrubby, unwashed baby was playing on the floor. It was known that the slut deceived Cronshaw with the most worthless ragamuffins of the Quarter, and it was a mystery to the ingenuous youths who absorbed his wisdom over a cafe table that Cronshaw with his keen intellect and his passion for beauty could ally himself to such a creature. But he seemed to revel in the coarseness of her language and would often report some phrase which reeked of the gutter. He referred to her ironically as la fille de mon concierge. Cronshaw was very poor. He earned a bare subsistence by writing on the exhibitions of pictures for one or two English papers, and he did a certain amount of translating. He had been on the staff of an English paper in Paris, but had been dismissed for drunkenness; he still however did odd jobs for it, describing sales at the Hotel Drouot or the revues at music-halls. The life of Paris had got into his bones, and he would not change it, notwithstanding its squalor, drudgery, and hardship, for any other in the world. He remained there all through the year, even in summer when everyone he knew was away, and felt himself only at ease within a mile of the Boulevard St. Michel. But the curious thing was that he had never learnt to speak French passably, and he kept in his shabby clothes bought at La Belle Jardiniere an ineradicably English appearance.

He was a man who would have made a success of life a century and a half ago when conversation was a passport to good company and inebriety no bar.

‘I ought to have lived in the eighteen hundreds,’ he said himself. ‘What I want is a patron. I should have published my poems by subscription and dedicated them to a nobleman. I long to compose rhymed couplets upon the poodle of a countess. My soul yearns for the love of chamber-maids and the conversation of bishops.’

He quoted the romantic Rolla,

‘Je suis venu trop tard dans un monde trop vieux.’

He liked new faces, and he took a fancy to Philip, who seemed to achieve the difficult feat of talking just enough to suggest conversation and not too much to prevent monologue. Philip was captivated. He did not realise that little that Cronshaw said was new. His personality in conversation had a curious power. He had a beautiful and a sonorous voice, and a manner of putting things which was irresistible to youth. All he said seemed to excite thought, and often on the way home Lawson and Philip would walk to and from one another’s hotels, discussing some point which a chance word of Cronshaw had suggested. It was disconcerting to Philip, who had a youthful eagerness for results, that Cronshaw’s poetry hardly came up to expectation. It had never been published in a volume, but most of it had appeared in periodicals; and after a good deal of persuasion Cronshaw brought down a bundle of pages torn out of The Yellow Book, The Saturday Review, and other journals, on each of which was a poem. Philip was taken aback to find that most of them reminded him either of Henley or of Swinburne. It needed the splendour of Cronshaw’s delivery to make them personal. He expressed his disappointment to Lawson, who carelessly repeated his words; and next time Philip went to the Closerie des Lilas the poet turned to him with his sleek smile:

‘I hear you don’t think much of my verses.’

Philip was embarrassed.

‘I don’t know about that,’ he answered. ‘I enjoyed reading them very much.’

‘Do not attempt to spare my feelings,’ returned Cronshaw, with a wave of his fat hand. ‘I do not attach any exaggerated importance to my poetical works. Life is there to be lived rather than to be written about. My aim is to search out the manifold experience that it offers, wringing from each moment what of emotion it presents. I look upon my writing as a graceful accomplishment which does not absorb but rather adds pleasure to existence. And as for posterity—damn posterity.’

Philip smiled, for it leaped to one’s eyes that the artist in life had produced no more than a wretched daub. Cronshaw looked at him meditatively and filled his glass. He sent the waiter for a packet of cigarettes.

‘You are amused because I talk in this fashion and you know that I am poor and live in an attic with a vulgar trollop who deceives me with hair-dressers and garcons de cafe; I translate wretched books for the British public, and write articles upon contemptible pictures which deserve not even to be abused. But pray tell me what is the meaning of life?’

‘I say, that’s rather a difficult question. Won’t you give the answer yourself?’

‘No, because it’s worthless unless you yourself discover it. But what do you suppose you are in the world for?’

Philip had never asked himself, and he thought for a moment before replying.

‘Oh, I don’t know: I suppose to do one’s duty, and make the best possible use of one’s faculties, and avoid hurting other people.’

‘In short, to do unto others as you would they should do unto you?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Christianity.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ said Philip indignantly. ‘It has nothing to do with Christianity. It’s just abstract morality.’

‘But there’s no such thing as abstract morality.’

‘In that case, supposing under the influence of liquor you left your purse behind when you leave here and I picked it up, why do you imagine that I should return it to you? It’s not the fear of the police.’

‘It’s the dread of hell if you sin and the hope of Heaven if you are virtuous.’

‘But I believe in neither.’

‘That may be. Neither did Kant when he devised the Categorical Imperative. You have thrown aside a creed, but you have preserved the ethic which was based upon it. To all intents you are a Christian still, and if there is a God in Heaven you will undoubtedly receive your reward. The Almighty can hardly be such a fool as the churches make out. If you keep His laws I don’t think He can care a packet of pins whether you believe in Him or not.’

‘But if I left my purse behind you would certainly return it to me,’ said Philip.

‘Not from motives of abstract morality, but only from fear of the police.’

‘It’s a thousand to one that the police would never find out.’

‘My ancestors have lived in a civilised state so long that the fear of the police has eaten into my bones. The daughter of my concierge would not hesitate for a moment. You answer that she belongs to the criminal classes; not at all, she is merely devoid of vulgar prejudice.’

‘But then that does away with honour and virtue and goodness and decency and everything,’ said Philip.

‘Have you ever committed a sin?’

‘I don’t know, I suppose so,’ answered Philip.

‘You speak with the lips of a dissenting minister. I have never committed a sin.’

Cronshaw in his shabby great-coat, with the collar turned up, and his hat well down on his head, with his red fat face and his little gleaming eyes, looked extraordinarily comic; but Philip was too much in earnest to laugh.

‘Have you never done anything you regret?’

‘How can I regret when what I did was inevitable?’ asked Cronshaw in return.

‘But that’s fatalism.’

‘The illusion which man has that his will is free is so deeply rooted that I am ready to accept it. I act as though I were a free agent. But when an action is performed it is clear that all the forces of the universe from all eternity conspired to cause it, and nothing I could do could have prevented it. It was inevitable. If it was good I can claim no merit; if it was bad I can accept no censure.’

‘My brain reels,’ said Philip.

‘Have some whiskey,’ returned Cronshaw, passing over the bottle. ‘There’s nothing like it for clearing the head. You must expect to be thick-witted if you insist upon drinking beer.’

Philip shook his head, and Cronshaw proceeded:

‘You’re not a bad fellow, but you won’t drink. Sobriety disturbs conversation. But when I speak of good and bad...’ Philip saw he was taking up the thread of his discourse, ‘I speak conventionally. I attach no meaning to those words. I refuse to make a hierarchy of human actions and ascribe worthiness to some and ill-repute to others. The terms vice and virtue have no signification for me. I do not confer praise or blame: I accept. I am the measure of all things. I am the centre of the world.’

‘But there are one or two other people in the world,’ objected Philip.

‘I speak only for myself. I know them only as they limit my activities. Round each of them too the world turns, and each one for himself is the centre of the universe. My right over them extends only as far as my power. What I can do is the only limit of what I may do. Because we are gregarious we live in society, and society holds together by means of force, force of arms (that is the policeman) and force of public opinion (that is Mrs. Grundy). You have society on one hand and the individual on the other: each is an organism striving for self-preservation. It is might against might. I stand alone, bound to accept society and not unwilling, since in return for the taxes I pay it protects me, a weakling, against the tyranny of another stronger than I am; but I submit to its laws because I must; I do not acknowledge their justice: I do not know justice, I only know power. And when I have paid for the policeman who protects me and, if I live in a country where conscription is in force, served in the army which guards my house and land from the invader, I am quits with society: for the rest I counter its might with my wiliness. It makes laws for its self-preservation, and if I break them it imprisons or kills me: it has the might to do so and therefore the right. If I break the laws I will accept the vengeance of the state, but I will not regard it as punishment nor shall I feel myself convicted of wrong-doing. Society tempts me to its service by honours and riches and the good opinion of my fellows; but I am indifferent to their good opinion, I despise honours and I can do very well without riches.’

‘But if everyone thought like you things would go to pieces at once.’

‘I have nothing to do with others, I am only concerned with myself. I take advantage of the fact that the majority of mankind are led by certain rewards to do things which directly or indirectly tend to my convenience.’

‘It seems to me an awfully selfish way of looking at things,’ said Philip.

‘But are you under the impression that men ever do anything except for selfish reasons?’

‘Yes.’

‘It is impossible that they should. You will find as you grow older that the first thing needful to make the world a tolerable place to live in is to recognise the inevitable selfishness of humanity. You demand unselfishness from others, which is a preposterous claim that they should sacrifice their desires to yours. Why should they? When you are reconciled to the fact that each is for himself in the world you will ask less from your fellows. They will not disappoint you, and you will look upon them more charitably. Men seek but one thing in life—their pleasure.’

‘No, no, no!’ cried Philip.

Cronshaw chuckled.

‘You rear like a frightened colt, because I use a word to which your Christianity ascribes a deprecatory meaning. You have a hierarchy of values; pleasure is at the bottom of the ladder, and you speak with a little thrill of self-satisfaction, of duty, charity, and truthfulness. You think pleasure is only of the senses; the wretched slaves who manufactured your morality despised a satisfaction which they had small means of enjoying. You would not be so frightened if I had spoken of happiness instead of pleasure: it sounds less shocking, and your mind wanders from the sty of Epicurus to his garden. But I will speak of pleasure, for I see that men aim at that, and I do not know that they aim at happiness. It is pleasure that lurks in the practice of every one of your virtues. Man performs actions because they are good for him, and when they are good for other people as well they are thought virtuous: if he finds pleasure in giving alms he is charitable; if he finds pleasure in helping others he is benevolent; if he finds pleasure in working for society he is public-spirited; but it is for your private pleasure that you give twopence to a beggar as much as it is for my private pleasure that I drink another whiskey and soda. I, less of a humbug than you, neither applaud myself for my pleasure nor demand your admiration.’

‘But have you never known people do things they didn’t want to instead of things they did?’

‘No. You put your question foolishly. What you mean is that people accept an immediate pain rather than an immediate pleasure. The objection is as foolish as your manner of putting it. It is clear that men accept an immediate pain rather than an immediate pleasure, but only because they expect a greater pleasure in the future. Often the pleasure is illusory, but their error in calculation is no refutation of the rule. You are puzzled because you cannot get over the idea that pleasures are only of the senses; but, child, a man who dies for his country dies because he likes it as surely as a man eats pickled cabbage because he likes it. It is a law of creation. If it were possible for men to prefer pain to pleasure the human race would have long since become extinct.’

‘But if all that is true,’ cried Philip, ‘what is the use of anything? If you take away duty and goodness and beauty why are we brought into the world?’

‘Here comes the gorgeous East to suggest an answer,’ smiled Cronshaw.

He pointed to two persons who at that moment opened the door of the cafe, and, with a blast of cold air, entered. They were Levantines, itinerant vendors of cheap rugs, and each bore on his arm a bundle. It was Sunday evening, and the cafe was very full. They passed among the tables, and in that atmosphere heavy and discoloured with tobacco smoke, rank with humanity, they seemed to bring an air of mystery. They were clad in European, shabby clothes, their thin great-coats were threadbare, but each wore a tarbouch. Their faces were gray with cold. One was of middle age, with a black beard, but the other was a youth of eighteen, with a face deeply scarred by smallpox and with one eye only. They passed by Cronshaw and Philip.

‘Allah is great, and Mahomet is his prophet,’ said Cronshaw impressively.

The elder advanced with a cringing smile, like a mongrel used to blows. With a sidelong glance at the door and a quick surreptitious movement he showed a pornographic picture.

‘Are you Masr-ed-Deen, the merchant of Alexandria, or is it from far Bagdad that you bring your goods, O, my uncle; and yonder one-eyed youth, do I see in him one of the three kings of whom Scheherazade told stories to her lord?’

The pedlar’s smile grew more ingratiating, though he understood no word of what Cronshaw said, and like a conjurer he produced a sandalwood box.

‘Nay, show us the priceless web of Eastern looms,’ quoth Cronshaw. ‘For I would point a moral and adorn a tale.’

The Levantine unfolded a table-cloth, red and yellow, vulgar, hideous, and grotesque.

‘Thirty-five francs,’ he said.

‘O, my uncle, this cloth knew not the weavers of Samarkand, and those colours were never made in the vats of Bokhara.’

‘Twenty-five francs,’ smiled the pedlar obsequiously.

‘Ultima Thule was the place of its manufacture, even Birmingham the place of my birth.’

‘Fifteen francs,’ cringed the bearded man.

‘Get thee gone, fellow,’ said Cronshaw. ‘May wild asses defile the grave of thy maternal grandmother.’

Imperturbably, but smiling no more, the Levantine passed with his wares to another table. Cronshaw turned to Philip.

‘Have you ever been to the Cluny, the museum? There you will see Persian carpets of the most exquisite hue and of a pattern the beautiful intricacy of which delights and amazes the eye. In them you will see the mystery and the sensual beauty of the East, the roses of Hafiz and the wine-cup of Omar; but presently you will see more. You were asking just now what was the meaning of life. Go and look at those Persian carpets, and one of these days the answer will come to you.’

‘You are cryptic,’ said Philip.

‘I am drunk,’ answered Cronshaw.

第四十五章

菲利普不久就意识到，正是克朗肖的灵感，使他那伙朋友变得聪明起来。劳森嘴里的那一套奇谈怪论，是从克朗肖那儿搬来的，就连那位力求不落入窠臼的克拉顿，在发表自己的高见时，也有意无意地袭用了那位长者的一些措词。他们在餐桌上议论的是克朗肖的一些想法；他们评判事物的是非曲直，则更要援引克朗肖的权威见解。他们无意间会对他流露出几分敬意，为了弥补这一过失，他们故意嘲笑他性格上的弱点，为他身染多种恶习而悲叹连连。

"不用说，可怜的老克朗肖再也成不了气候啦，"他们说，"这老头已无可救药。"

事实上，也只有他们这个圈子里的几个人欣赏他的天才，而他们自己颇以此为骄傲。出于青年人对干傻事的中年人所特有的那种轻蔑之情，他们在背后议论到他的时候，免不了要摆出一副纤尊降贵的架势。不过他们认为，此公郁郁不得志，实在是生不逢时，如今这个时代只允许一雄浊步群芳嘛，而他们能结识这样一位人杰，毕竟脸上很有几分光彩。克朗肖从不到格雷维亚餐馆来。近四年来，他一直和一个女人同居，只有劳森曾见过那女人一面。他们住在大奥古斯丁街的一幢破旧不堪的公寓里，靠六楼上的一个小套间栖身，境遇甚为糟糕。有一回，劳森津津有味地描绘了那屋里污秽凌乱、垃圾满地的情形：

"那股扑鼻的臭气，熏得你五脏六腑都要翻倒出来。"

"吃饭的时候别谈这些，劳森，"有人劝阻说。

可劳森正在兴头上，哪肯住嘴，硬是把那些曾钻进他鼻孔的气味绘声绘色描述了一番。他还惟妙惟肖地讲了那个给他开门的女人的模样，讲的的时候，那股得意劲儿就别提了。她肤色黝黑，身材矮小而丰腴，年纪很轻。满头乌黑的云鬓像是随时都会蓬松开来。她贴身裹了件邋遢的短上衣，连紧身胸衣也没穿。那张红扑扑的脸庞，那张富有性感的阔口，还有那对流光泛彩、勾魂摄魄的双眸，使人不禁想起那帧陈列在卢佛尔宫内的弗兰兹·海尔斯的杰作《波希米亚女子》。她浑身上下透出一股招蜂引蝶的浪劲儿，既让人觉得有趣，又令人不胜骇然。一个蓬头垢面的婴儿正趴在地上玩。那个荡妇背着克朗肖，同拉丁区一些不三不四的野小子勾勾搭搭，已不成其为什么秘密。然而才智过人、爱美胜似性命的克朗肖竟然和这样一个宝贝货搅在一起，真叫那些常在咖啡馆餐桌旁汲取克朗肖的睿智敏慧的天真青年百思而不得其解。克朗肖自己呢，对她满口不登大雅之堂的粗俗言词倒似乎大加赞赏，还常常把一些不堪入耳的粗话转述给别人听。他调侃地称她La fille de mon concierge。克朗肖一贫如洗，就靠给一两家英文报纸撰写评论画展的文章勉强糊口，同时还搞点翻译。他过去当过巴黎某英文报纸的编辑，后来由于好酒贪杯而砸了饭碗，不过现在仍不时为这家报纸干点零活，报道特鲁沃饭店举行的大拍卖啊，或是介绍杂耍剧场上演的活报剧什么的。巴黎的生活已经渗入他的骨髓之中；尽管他在这儿尝尽了贫困、劳累和艰苦，但他宁肯舍弃世间的一切，也不愿抛开这儿的生活。他一年到头都厮守在巴黎，即使在酷暑盛夏，他的朋友熟人全都离开巴黎消夏去了，他也不走：只要离开圣米歇尔大街一英里，他就浑身感到不自在。可说来也是桩怪事，他至今连句把像样的法国话也不会说。他穿着从"漂亮的园丁"商场买来的破旧衣衫，始终是一副英国佬的气派，大概至死也改不了啦。

这个人确实是生不逢辰，要是在一个半世纪之前，那他一定会混得很得志。因为那时候单凭能说会道这一条，就能出入于社交界，结交名流，觥筹交错地喝个大醉酩酊。

"我这个人啊，本该生在十九世纪的，"他对自己这么说道。"我缺少有钱有势的保护人。否则，我可以靠他的捐赠出版我的诗集，把它奉献给某个达官贵人。我多么希望能为某伯爵夫人的狮子狗写几行押韵的对句。我整个心灵都在渴望能和贵人的侍女谈情说爱，同主教大人们谈天说地。"

说着，他随口援引了浪漫诗人罗拉的诗句：

"Je suis venu trop tard dans un monde trop vleux．"

他喜欢看到一些陌生的面孔。他对菲利普颇有好感，因为菲利普在同人交谈时似乎具有这样一种不可多得的本事：言语不多又不少，既能引出谈论的话题，又不会影响对方侃侃而谈。菲利普被克朗肖迷住了，殊不知克朗肖说的大多是老调重弹，很少有什么新奇之点。他的谈吐个性鲜明，自有一股奇异的力量。他嗓音洪亮悦耳，面阐明事理的方式，又足以使青年人拜倒折服。他的一字一句，似乎都显得那么发人深思，难怪劳森和菲利普在归途中，往往为了讨论克朗肖随口提出的某个观点，而在各自寄宿的旅馆之间流连往返。菲利普身为年轻人，凡事都要看其结果如何，而克朗肖的诗作却有负于众望，这不免使他有点惶惑不解。克朗肖的诗作从未出过集子，大多发表在杂志上。后来菲利普磨了不少嘴皮子，他总算带来了一圈纸页，是从《黄皮书》、《星期六评论》以及其他一些杂志上撕下来的，每页上都刊登着他的一首诗。菲利普发现其中大多数诗作都使他联想起亨莱或史文朋的作品，不由得吓了一跳。克朗肖能把他人之作窜改成自己的诗章，倒也需要有一支生花妙笔呢。菲利普在劳森面前谈到了自己对克朗肖的失望，谁知劳森却把这些话随随便便地捅了出去，待到菲利普下回来到丁香园时，诗人圆滑地冲他一笑：

"听说你对我的诗作评价不高。"

菲利普窘困难当。

"没的事，"他回答说，"我非常爱读阁下的大作。"

"何必要顾及我的面子呢，"他将自己的胖乎一挥，接口说，"其实我自己也不怎么过分看重自己的诗作。生活的价值在于它本身，而不在于如何描写它。我的目标是要探索生活所提供的多方面经验，从生活的瞬息中捕捉它所激发的感情涟漪。我把自己的写作看成是一种幽雅的才艺，是用它来增添而不是减少现实生活的乐趣。至于后世如何评说-一让他们见鬼去吧！"

菲利普含笑不语，因为怎么也瞒不过明眼人：眼前的这位诗人，喜欢在纸上涂鸦，从未写出过什么像样的作品。克朗肖若有所思地打量了菲利普一眼，给自己的杯子里斟满酒。他打发侍者去买盒纸烟。

"你听我这么议论，一定觉得好笑。你知道我是个穷措大，同一个俗不可耐的骚婆娘住在公寓的顶楼上，那女人背着我偷野汉子，同理发师和garc ons de cafe勾勾搭搭。我为英国读者翻译不登大雅之堂的书籍，替一些不值一文的画儿写评论文章，而实际上对这些画儿，就连骂几句还嫌弄脏自己的嘴呢。不过，请你告诉我，生活的真谛究竟何在？"

"哦，这倒是个挺难回答的问题！还是请你自己来回答吧。"

"不，答案除非由你自己找出来，否则便一无价值。请问，你活在世上究竟为何来着？"

菲利普从来没问过自己这样的问题，他沉吟了半晌，然后答道：

"哎，我说不上来：我想是为了聊尽自己的责任，尽量发挥自己的才能，同时还要避免去伤害他人。"

"简而言之，就是人以德待吾，吾亦以德待人，对吗？"

"我想可以这么说吧。"

"基督徒的品性。"

"才不是呢，"菲利普愤愤然说，"这同基督徒的品性风马牛不相及，纯粹是抽象的道德准则。"

"但是，世界上根本不存在'抽象的道德准则'这种东西！"

"要真是这样，那么，假设你离开这儿时，因为喝醉了酒而把钱包丢下了，我顺手捡了起来，请问你凭什么认为我应该把钱全还给你呢？总不至于是害怕警察吧。""

"那是因为你怕造了孽会下地狱，也因为你想积点阴德好升天堂。"

"'可我既不信有地狱，也不信有天堂。'"

"那倒也可能。康德在构思'绝对命令'之说时，也是啥都不信的。你抛弃了信条，但仍保存了以信条为基础的伦理观。你骨于里还是个基督教徒；所以如果天堂里真有上帝，你肯定会得到报偿的。上帝不至于会像教会宣传的那般愚蠢。他只要求你遵守他的法规，至于你究竟信他还是不信，我想上帝才一点不在乎呢。"

"不过、要是我忘了拿钱包，你也一定会完壁奉还的吧，"菲利普说。

"这可不是出于抽象道德方面的动机，而仅仅是因为我害怕警察。"

"警察绝无可能查明此事。"

"我的祖先长期居住在文明之邦，所以对警察的畏惧已经深深地渗透进我的骨髓之中。而我的那位concierge就绝不会有片刻的犹豫。你也许要说，她是归在罪犯那一类里的。绝不是，她不过是已摆脱了世俗的偏见而已。"

"但同时也就抛弃了名誉、德行、良知、体面--一抛弃了一切，"菲利普说。

"你过去作过孽没有？"

"我不知道，我想大概作过吧。"

"瞧你说话的腔调，就像个非国教派的牧师似的。我可从来未作过什么孽。"

克朗肖裹着件破大衣，衣领子朝上翻起，帽檐压得很低，红光满面的胖圆脸上，一对小眼睛在忽闪忽闪，这副模样儿着实滑稽，只是因为菲利普大当真了，竟至一点儿不觉着好笑。

"你从未干过使自己感到遗憾的事吗？"

"既然我所做的一切都是不可避免的，我哪会有遗憾之感呢？"克朗肖反诘道。

"这可是宿命论的调子。"

"人们总抱有一种幻觉，以为自己的意志是自由的，而且这种幻觉如此根深蒂固，以至连我也乐意接受它了。当我采取这种或那种行动的时候，总以为自己是个有自由意志的作俑者。其实事成之后就很清楚：我所采取的行动，完全是各种各样的永恒不灭的宇宙力量共同作用的结果，我个人想防上也防止不了。它是不可避免的。所以，即使干了好事，我也不想去邀功请赏，而倘若干了环事，我也绝不引咎自责。"

"我有点头晕了。"

"来点威士忌吧，"克朗肖接口说，随手把酒瓶递给菲利普。"要想清醒清醒脑子，再没比喝这玩意儿更灵的了。要是净喝啤酒，脑子不生锈才怪呢。"

菲利普摇摇头，克朗肖又接着往下说：

"你是个挺不错的小伙子，可惜竞不会喝酒。要知道，神志清醒反倒有碍于你我之间的交谈。不过我所说的好事和环事，"菲利普明白他又接上了刚才的话头，"完全是套用传统的说法，并没有赋予什么特定的涵义。对我来说，'恶'与'善'这两个字毫无意义。对任何行为，我既不称许道好，也不非难指责，而是一古脑儿兜受下来。"

"在这世界上，总还有一两个其他人吧，"菲利普顶了他一句。

"我只替自己说话。只有当我的活动受到别人限制时，我才感觉到他们的存在。就他们来说，每个人的周围，也各有一个世界在不停转动着。各人就其自身来说，也都是宇宙的中心。我个人的能力大小，划定了我对世人的权限范围。只要是在力所能及的范围内，我尽可以为所欲为。我们爱群居交际，所以才生活在社会之中，而社会是靠力，也就是靠武力（即警察）和舆论力量（即格朗迪太太）来维系的。于是你面前就出现了以社会为一方，而以个人为另一方的阵势：双方都是致力于自我保存的有机体。彼此进行着力的较量。我孑然一身，只得接受社会现实。不过也谈不上过分勉强，因为我作为一个弱者，纳了税，就可换得社会的保护，免受强者的欺凌。不过我是迫于无奈才屈服于它的法律的。我不承认法律的正义性：我不懂得何谓正义，只知什么是权力。譬如说，我生活在一个实施征兵制的国家里，我为取得警察的保护而纳了税，还在军队里服过兵役（这个军队使我的房屋田产免受侵犯），这样我就不再欠社会什么了。S接下来，我就凭借自己的老谋深算来同社会的力量巧妙周旋。社会为了B保全自身而制定了法律，如果我犯了法，社会就会把我投入监狱，甚至将我处死。它有力量这么做，所以也就拥有了这份权利。假如我犯了法，我甘愿接受国家的报复，但是我决不会把这看作是对我的惩罚，也不会觉得自己真的犯了什么罪。社会用名誉、财富以及同胞们的褒奖作钓饵，想诱使我为它效劳，可同胞们的褒奖，我不希罕，名誉，我也不放在眼里。我虽无万贯家财，日子还不照样混得挺好。"，

"如果人人都像你这么想，社会岂不立即分崩离析了！"

"别人和我有何相干？我只关心我自己。反正人类中的大多数都是为了捞名获利才干事的，而他们干的事总会直接或间接地给我带来方便，我乐得坐享其成呢。"

"我觉得你这么看问题，未免太自私了吧。"

"难道你以为世人做事竟有不出于利己动机的？"

"是的。"

"我看不可能有。等你年事稍长，就会发现，要使世界成为一个尚可容忍的生活场所，首先得承认人类的自私是不可避免的。"

"要果真是这样，"菲利普嚷道，"那么，生活还有什么意思呢？去掉了天职，去掉了善与美，我们又何必到这世界上来呢？"

"灿烂的东方给我们提供答案来了，"克朗肖微笑着说。

克朗肖抬手朝店堂口一指：店门开了，随着一股飕飕冷风，进来了两个流动小贩。他们是地中海东岸一带的阿拉伯人，各人膀子上都挽着一卷毛毯，是来兜售廉价地毯的。时值星期六晚上，咖啡馆里座无虚席，只见这两个小贩在一张张餐桌间穿行而过。店堂里烟雾腾腾，空气很浑浊，还夹着酒客身上散发出的臭气。他们的来到，似乎给店堂里平添了一股神秘气氛。他俩身上倒是欧洲人的打扮，又旧又薄的大衣，绒毛全磨光了，可各人头上却戴着顶土耳其无檐毡帽。面孔冻得发青。一个是中年人，蓄着黑胡子；另一个是年约十八岁的小伙子，满脸大麻子，还瞎了一只眼。他们打克朗肖和菲利普身边走过。

"伟哉，真主！先知穆罕默德是真主的代言人，"克朗肖声情并茂地说。

中年人走在前面，脸上挂着谄媚的微笑，那模样就像只习惯于挨揍的杂种狗。只见他朝门口匕斜了一眼，鬼鬼祟祟而又手脚麻利地亮出一张春宫画。

"你是亚历山大的商人马萨埃德·迪恩？要不，你是从遥远的巴格达捎来这些货色的？哟，我的大叔，瞧那边的独眼龙，我看那小伙子真有点像谢赫拉查德给她主了讲的三国王故事里的一个国王呢，是吗？"

商贩尽管一句也没听懂克朗肖的话，却笑得越发巴结，他像变魔术似地拿出一只檀香木盒。

"不，还是给我们看看东方织机的名贵织品吧，"克朗肖说。我想借此说明个道理，给我的故事添加几分趣味。"

"东方人展开一幅红黄相间的台布，上面的图案粗俗丑陋，滑稽可笑。

"三十五个法郎，"他说。

"哟，大叔，这块料子既不是出自撒马尔罕的织匠之手，也不是布哈拉染坊上的色。"

"二十五个法郎，"商贩堆着一脸谄媚的微笑。

"谁知道是哪个鬼地方的货色，说不定还是我老家怕明翰的产品呢。"

"十五个法郎，"蓄着黑胡子的贩子摇尾乞怜道。

"快给我走吧，我的老弟，"克朗肖说，"但愿野驴子到你姥姥的坟上撒泡尿才好呢！"

东方人敛起脸上的笑容，夹着他的货物不动声色地朝另一张餐桌走去。

"你去过克鲁尼博物馆吗？在那儿你可以看到色调典雅的波斯地毯，其图案之绚丽多彩，真令人惊羡不止，从中你可以窥见到讳莫如深的东方秘密，感受到东方的声色之美，看到哈菲兹的玫瑰和莪默的酒杯。其实，到时候你看到的还远不止这些。刚才你不是问人生的真谛何在？去瞧瞧那些波斯地毯吧，说不定哪天你自己会找到答案的。

"你是在故弄玄虚呢，"菲利普说。

"我是喝醉了，"克朗肖回答说。

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chapter 46

Philip did not find living in Paris as cheap as he had been led to believe and by February had spent most of the money with which he started. He was too proud to appeal to his guardian, nor did he wish Aunt Louisa to know that his circumstances were straitened, since he was certain she would make an effort to send him something from her own pocket, and he knew how little she could afford to. In three months he would attain his majority and come into possession of his small fortune. He tided over the interval by selling the few trinkets which he had inherited from his father.

At about this time Lawson suggested that they should take a small studio which was vacant in one of the streets that led out of the Boulevard Raspail. It was very cheap. It had a room attached, which they could use as a bed-room; and since Philip was at the school every morning Lawson could have the undisturbed use of the studio then; Lawson, after wandering from school to school, had come to the conclusion that he could work best alone, and proposed to get a model in three or four days a week. At first Philip hesitated on account of the expense, but they reckoned it out; and it seemed (they were so anxious to have a studio of their own that they calculated pragmatically) that the cost would not be much greater than that of living in a hotel. Though the rent and the cleaning by the concierge would come to a little more, they would save on the petit dejeuner, which they could make themselves. A year or two earlier Philip would have refused to share a room with anyone, since he was so sensitive about his deformed foot, but his morbid way of looking at it was growing less marked: in Paris it did not seem to matter so much, and, though he never by any chance forgot it himself, he ceased to feel that other people were constantly noticing it.

They moved in, bought a couple of beds, a washing-stand, a few chairs, and felt for the first time the thrill of possession. They were so excited that the first night they went to bed in what they could call a home they lay awake talking till three in the morning; and next day found lighting the fire and making their own coffee, which they had in pyjamas, such a jolly business that Philip did not get to Amitrano’s till nearly eleven. He was in excellent spirits. He nodded to Fanny Price.

‘How are you getting on?’ he asked cheerily.

‘What does that matter to you?’ she asked in reply.

Philip could not help laughing.

‘Don’t jump down my throat. I was only trying to make myself polite.’

‘I don’t want your politeness.’

‘D’you think it’s worth while quarrelling with me too?’ asked Philip mildly. ‘There are so few people you’re on speaking terms with, as it is.’

‘That’s my business, isn’t it?’

‘Quite.’

He began to work, vaguely wondering why Fanny Price made herself so disagreeable. He had come to the conclusion that he thoroughly disliked her. Everyone did. People were only civil to her at all from fear of the malice of her tongue; for to their faces and behind their backs she said abominable things. But Philip was feeling so happy that he did not want even Miss Price to bear ill-feeling towards him. He used the artifice which had often before succeeded in banishing her ill-humour.

‘I say, I wish you’d come and look at my drawing. I’ve got in an awful mess.’

‘Thank you very much, but I’ve got something better to do with my time.’

Philip stared at her in surprise, for the one thing she could be counted upon to do with alacrity was to give advice. She went on quickly in a low voice, savage with fury.

‘Now that Lawson’s gone you think you’ll put up with me. Thank you very much. Go and find somebody else to help you. I don’t want anybody else’s leavings.’

Lawson had the pedagogic instinct; whenever he found anything out he was eager to impart it; and because he taught with delight he talked with profit. Philip, without thinking anything about it, had got into the habit of sitting by his side; it never occurred to him that Fanny Price was consumed with jealousy, and watched his acceptance of someone else’s tuition with ever-increasing anger.

‘You were very glad to put up with me when you knew nobody here,’ she said bitterly, ‘and as soon as you made friends with other people you threw me aside, like an old glove’—she repeated the stale metaphor with satisfaction—‘like an old glove. All right, I don’t care, but I’m not going to be made a fool of another time.’

There was a suspicion of truth in what she said, and it made Philip angry enough to answer what first came into his head.

‘Hang it all, I only asked your advice because I saw it pleased you.’

She gave a gasp and threw him a sudden look of anguish. Then two tears rolled down her cheeks. She looked frowsy and grotesque. Philip, not knowing what on earth this new attitude implied, went back to his work. He was uneasy and conscience-stricken; but he would not go to her and say he was sorry if he had caused her pain, because he was afraid she would take the opportunity to snub him. For two or three weeks she did not speak to him, and, after Philip had got over the discomfort of being cut by her, he was somewhat relieved to be free from so difficult a friendship. He had been a little disconcerted by the air of proprietorship she assumed over him. She was an extraordinary woman. She came every day to the studio at eight o’clock, and was ready to start working when the model was in position; she worked steadily, talking to no one, struggling hour after hour with difficulties she could not overcome, and remained till the clock struck twelve. Her work was hopeless. There was not in it the smallest approach even to the mediocre achievement at which most of the young persons were able after some months to arrive. She wore every day the same ugly brown dress, with the mud of the last wet day still caked on the hem and with the raggedness, which Philip had noticed the first time he saw her, still unmended.

But one day she came up to him, and with a scarlet face asked whether she might speak to him afterwards.

‘Of course, as much as you like,’ smiled Philip. ‘I’ll wait behind at twelve.’

He went to her when the day’s work was over.

‘Will you walk a little bit with me?’ she said, looking away from him with embarrassment.

‘Certainly.’

They walked for two or three minutes in silence.

‘D’you remember what you said to me the other day?’ she asked then on a sudden.

‘Oh, I say, don’t let’s quarrel,’ said Philip. ‘It really isn’t worth while.’

She gave a quick, painful inspiration.

‘I don’t want to quarrel with you. You’re the only friend I had in Paris. I thought you rather liked me. I felt there was something between us. I was drawn towards you—you know what I mean, your club-foot.’

Philip reddened and instinctively tried to walk without a limp. He did not like anyone to mention the deformity. He knew what Fanny Price meant. She was ugly and uncouth, and because he was deformed there was between them a certain sympathy. He was very angry with her, but he forced himself not to speak.

‘You said you only asked my advice to please me. Don’t you think my work’s any good?’

‘I’ve only seen your drawing at Amitrano’s. It’s awfully hard to judge from that.’

‘I was wondering if you’d come and look at my other work. I’ve never asked anyone else to look at it. I should like to show it to you.’

‘It’s awfully kind of you. I’d like to see it very much.’

‘I live quite near here,’ she said apologetically. ‘It’ll only take you ten minutes.’

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ he said.

They were walking along the boulevard, and she turned down a side street, then led him into another, poorer still, with cheap shops on the ground floor, and at last stopped. They climbed flight after flight of stairs. She unlocked a door, and they went into a tiny attic with a sloping roof and a small window. This was closed and the room had a musty smell. Though it was very cold there was no fire and no sign that there had been one. The bed was unmade. A chair, a chest of drawers which served also as a wash-stand, and a cheap easel, were all the furniture. The place would have been squalid enough in any case, but the litter, the untidiness, made the impression revolting. On the chimney-piece, scattered over with paints and brushes, were a cup, a dirty plate, and a tea-pot.

‘If you’ll stand over there I’ll put them on the chair so that you can see them better.’

She showed him twenty small canvases, about eighteen by twelve. She placed them on the chair, one after the other, watching his face; he nodded as he looked at each one.

‘You do like them, don’t you?’ she said anxiously, after a bit.

‘I just want to look at them all first,’ he answered. ‘I’ll talk afterwards.’

He was collecting himself. He was panic-stricken. He did not know what to say. It was not only that they were ill-drawn, or that the colour was put on amateurishly by someone who had no eye for it; but there was no attempt at getting the values, and the perspective was grotesque. It looked like the work of a child of five, but a child would have had some naivete and might at least have made an attempt to put down what he saw; but here was the work of a vulgar mind chock full of recollections of vulgar pictures. Philip remembered that she had talked enthusiastically about Monet and the Impressionists, but here were only the worst traditions of the Royal Academy.

‘There,’ she said at last, ‘that’s the lot.’

Philip was no more truthful than anybody else, but he had a great difficulty in telling a thundering, deliberate lie, and he blushed furiously when he answered:

‘I think they’re most awfully good.’

A faint colour came into her unhealthy cheeks, and she smiled a little.

‘You needn’t say so if you don’t think so, you know. I want the truth.’

‘But I do think so.’

‘Haven’t you got any criticism to offer? There must be some you don’t like as well as others.’

Philip looked round helplessly. He saw a landscape, the typical picturesque ‘bit’ of the amateur, an old bridge, a creeper-clad cottage, and a leafy bank.

‘Of course I don’t pretend to know anything about it,’ he said. ‘But I wasn’t quite sure about the values of that.’

She flushed darkly and taking up the picture quickly turned its back to him.

‘I don’t know why you should have chosen that one to sneer at. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done. I’m sure my values are all right. That’s a thing you can’t teach anyone, you either understand values or you don’t.’

‘I think they’re all most awfully good,’ repeated Philip.

She looked at them with an air of self-satisfaction.

‘I don’t think they’re anything to be ashamed of.’

Philip looked at his watch.

‘I say, it’s getting late. Won’t you let me give you a little lunch?’

‘I’ve got my lunch waiting for me here.’

Philip saw no sign of it, but supposed perhaps the concierge would bring it up when he was gone. He was in a hurry to get away. The mustiness of the room made his head ache.

第四十六章

菲利普发觉在巴黎过日子，开销并不像当初听人说的那样省，他随身带来的那几个钱，不到二月份就已花掉一大半。他秉性高傲，当然不肯启齿向他的监护人求助，而且他也不愿意让路易莎伯母得知他目前的捉襟见肘的窘境，因为他相信，伯母一旦知道了，定会刮尽私囊给他寄钱来，而他心里明白，伯母力不从心，她"私房"里实在也挤不出几个子儿。好在再熬上三个月，等满了法定的成年年龄，那笔小小的财产就可归自己支配了。他变卖了几件父亲留下的零星饰物，以应付眼前这段青黄不接的日子。
差不多也就在这时候，劳森向菲利普提议，是不是合伙把一间空关着的小画室租下来。画室坐落在拉斯佩尔大街的一条岔路上，租金甚为低廉，还附有一个可作卧室用的小房间。既然每天上午菲利普都要去学校上课，到时候劳森就可以独个儿享用画室，不愁有人打扰。劳森曾一连换过好几所学校，最后得出结论，还是单熗匹马干的好。他建议雇个模特儿，一周来个三四天。起初，菲利普担心开支太大，拿不定主意，后来他们一块儿算了笔细帐（他俩都巴不得能有间自己的画室，所以就实打实地估算起来），发现租间画室的费用似乎也不见得比住旅馆高出多少。虽说房租开支略微多了些，还要付给看门人清洁费，但是petit dejeuner由自己动手做，这样可以省出钱来。假如是在一两年以前，菲利普说什么也不肯同别人合住一个房间，因为他对自己的残疾过于敏感。不过，现在这种病态心理已渐趋淡薄：在巴黎，他的残疾似乎算不了一回事；尽管他自己一刻也没忘记过，但他不再感到别人老在注意他的跛足了。
他俩终于搬了进去，又添置了两张小床、只洗脸盆架和几把椅子，生平第一回感受到一种占有之喜。乔迁后的头天晚上，在这间可以称为"家"的屋子里，他们躺在床上，兴奋得合个上眼，唧唧呱呱一直谈到凌晨三时。第二天，他们自己生火煮咖啡，然后穿着睡衣细饮慢啜，倒真别有一番风味。直到十一点光景，菲利普才匆匆赶至阿米特拉诺画室。他今天的兴致特别好，一见到范妮·普赖斯就朝她点头打招呼。
"日子过得可好？"他快活地随口问了一声。
"管你什么事？"她反诘了一句。
菲利普忍不住呵呵笑了。
"这可把我给问住了，何必呢？我不过是想显得有点礼貌罢了。"
"谁希罕你的礼貌。"
"要是同我也吵翻了，您觉得划得来吗？"菲利普口气温和地说。"说实在的，乐意同您说句把话的人并不多呀。"
"那是我自个儿的事，对不？"
"当然罗。"
菲利普开始作画，心里暗暗纳闷：范妮·普赖斯干吗存心要惹人讨厌呢。他得出结论：这女人没有一点讨人喜欢的地方。这儿，大伙儿对她没好感。要说还有谁对她客客气气的话，那无非是顾忌她那片毒舌头，怕她在人前背后吐出些不堪入耳的脏话来。但是那天菲利普心里着实高兴，连普赖斯小姐也不想多所得罪，惹她反感。平时，他只须耍点手腕就能使她回嗔作喜，这会儿他又想重演一下故技。
"嘿，我真希望你能过来看看我的画。我画得糟透了。"
"谢谢你的抬举，可我没这许多闲工夫，我有更值得的事情要做。"
菲利普瞪大眼，吃惊地望着普赖斯小姐，他自以为已摸透了她的脾气，只要开口向她求教，她准会欣然应允的。只见她压低嗓门，气急败环地往下说：
"现在劳森走了，所以你又来迁就我了。多谢你的抬举。还是另请高明吧！我可不愿拾别人的破烂。"
劳森天生具有当教师的禀赋，每逢他有点什么心得体会，总是热切地传授给别人。正因为他乐于教人，所以教起来也颇得法。菲利普不知不觉地养成了习惯，一进画室就挨着劳森坐下；他万万没想到，范妮·普赖斯竟会打翻醋罐子，竟会因为看到他向别人求教而憋了一肚子火。
"当初，你在这儿人生地不熟，所以很乐意找我来着，"她悻悻地说。"可你一交上新朋友，立即把我给甩了，就像甩掉只旧手套那样。一她把这个早被用滥了的比喻，不无得意地又重复了一遍--"就像甩掉只。旧于套那样。好吧，反正我也不在乎，可你休想叫我再当第二次傻瓜！"
她的这番话倒也未必没有道理，菲利普由于被触到了痛处而恼羞成怒，脑子里一想到什么，立时脱口而出：
"去你的吧！我向你讨教，不过是为了投你所好罢了。""
她喘了一口粗气，突然朝菲利普投来满含痛楚的一瞥。接着，两行泪水沿着腮帮子滚落下来。她看上去既邋遢又古怪。这种神态，菲利普从未见到过，也不知算是怎么一回事，只顾忙自己的画去了。他心里很不自在，深感内疚。然而，他说什么也不肯跑到她跟前去，向她赔个不是，问一声自己有没有伤了她的心，因为怕反被她乘机奚落一番。打这以后，她有两三个星期没对他讲过一句话。起先，菲利普见她对自己不理不睬，心里很有点惴惴不安，可事情过后，他似乎反倒为自己摆脱了这样一个难于对付的女友，大有如释重负之感。以往，她总露出一副菲利普非她莫属的神气，菲利普真有点消受不了。这个女人确实不寻常。每天早晨八点就来到画室，模特儿刚摆好姿势，她便立即动手作画。画起来还真有一股韧劲，对谁也不吭一声，即使遇到无力克服的障碍，也依然一小时又一小时地埋头问于，直到钟敲十二点才离开画室。说到她画的画，那真是不可救药。大多数年轻人来画室学上几个月之后，总多少有所长进，好歹能画几笔，可她时至今日，还远远赶不上他们。她每天一成不变地穿着那身难看的棕色衣裙，裙边上还留着上一个雨天沾上的泥巴，菲利普初次同她见面。时就看到的破烂处，至今也没拾掇好。
然而有一天，她红着脸走到菲利普跟前，问菲利普待会儿她能否同他说几句话。
"当然可以，随你说多少句都行，"菲利普含笑说。"十二点我留下来等你。
课结束后，菲利普朝她走去。
"陪我走一程好吗？"她说，窘得不敢正眼看菲利普。
"乐意奉陪。"
他俩默默无言地走了两三分钟。
"你还记得那天你对我说什么来着？"她冷不防这么问。
"哎，我说呀，咱们可别吵嘴，"菲利普说，"实在犯不着哟。"
她痛苦而急促地猛抽一口气。
"我不想同你吵嘴。你是我在巴黎独一无二的朋友。我原以为你对我颇有几分好感。我觉得我俩之间似乎有点缘分。是你把我吸引住了--你知道我指的是什么，是你的跛足吸引了我。"
菲利普哥地红了脸，本能地想装出正常人走路的姿势来。他讨厌别人提及他的残疾。他明白范妮·普赖斯这番话的含义，无非是说：她其貌不扬，人又邋遢，而他呢，是个瘸子，所以他俩理应同病相怜。菲利普心里对她十分恼火，但强忍着没吭声。
"你说你向我对教，不过是为了投我所好。那你认为我的画一无是处罗？"
"我只看过你在阿米特拉诺作的画，光凭那些，很难下断语。"
"不知你是否愿意上我住处看看我的其他作品。我从不让别人看我的那些作品。我倒很想给你看看。"
"谢谢您的美意。我也真想饱饱眼福呢。"
"我就住在这儿附近，"她带着几分歉意说，"走十分钟就到了。"
"噢，行啊，"他说。
他们沿着大街走去。她拐人一条小街，领着菲利普走进一条更加狭陋的小街，沿街房屋的底层都是些出售廉价物品的小铺子。最后总算到了。他们爬上一层又一层的楼梯。她打开门锁，他们走进一间斜顶、开着扇小窗的小顶室。窗户关得严严的，屋里弥漫着一股霉味。虽然天气很冷，屋里也不生个火，看来这屋子从来就没生过炉子。床上被褥凌乱。一把椅子，一口兼作脸盆架的五斗橱，还有一只不值几个钱的画架--一这些就是房间里的全部陈设。这地方本来就够肮脏的了，再加上满屋子杂物，凌乱不堪，看了真叫人恶心。壁炉架上，胡乱堆放着颜料和画笔，其间还搁着一只杯子、一只脏盆子和一把茶壶。
"请你往那边站，我好把画放到椅子上，让你看清楚些。"
她给菲利普看了二十张长十八厘米，宽二十厘米左右的小幅油画。她把它们一张接一张地搁在椅子上，两眼留神着菲利普的脸色。菲利普每看完一张，就点点头。
"这些画你很喜欢，是吗？"过了一会儿，她急不可待地问。
"我想先把所有的画看完了，"他回答道，"然后再说说自己的看法。"
菲利普强作镇静，其实心里又惊又慌，不知该说什么是好。这些画不单画得糟糕，油彩也上得不好，像是由不懂美术的外行人涂上去似的，而且毫无章法，根本没有显示出明暗的层次对比，透视也荒唐可笑。这些画看上去就像是个五岁小孩画的。可话得说回来，要果真出自五岁小孩之手，还会有几分天真的意趣，至少试图把自己看到的东西按原样勾画下来。而摆在眼前的这些画，只能是出于一个市井气十足、脑袋里塞满了乱七八糟的庸俗画面的画匠之手。菲利普还记得她曾眉飞色舞地谈论过莫奈和印象派画家，可是摆在他面前的这些作品，却是蹈袭了学院派最拙劣的传统。
"喏，"她最后说，"全在这儿了。"
虽说菲利普待人接物不见得比别人更诚实，但要他当面撒一个弥天大谎，倒也着实使他为难。在他说出下面这段话的时候，脸一直红到了脖子根：
"我认为这些都画得挺不错的。"
她那苍白的脸上，泛起淡淡的红晕，嘴角处还漾起一丝笑容。
"我说，你要是觉得这些画并不怎么样，就不必当面捧我。我要听你的真心话。"
"这确实是我的心里话。"
"难道没什么好批评的了？总有几幅作品，你不那么喜欢的吧。"
菲利普无可奈何地四下张望了一眼。他瞥见一幅风景画，一幅业余爱好者最喜欢画的风景"小品"：画面五彩缤纷，画着一座古桥，一幢屋顶上爬满青藤的农舍，还有一条绿树成荫的堤岸。
"当然罗，我也不想冒充行家，说自己对绘画很精通，"他说，"不过，那幅画究竟有多大意思，我可不太明白。"
她的脸刷地涨得通红。她赶紧把那幅画拿在手里，把背面对着菲科普。
"我不懂你干吗偏偏选这张来挑剔。这可是我所画过的最好的一幅。我相信自己的眼力没错。至于画的价值，懂就是懂，不懂就是不懂，这种事儿是没法把着手教的。"
"我觉得所有这些都画得挺不错的，"菲利普重复了一句。
她带着沾沾自喜的神情望着那些画。
"依我看，这些画完全拿得出去，没什么好难为情的。"
菲利普看了看表。
"我说，时间不早了。我请你去吃顿便饭，肯赏脸吗？"
"这儿我已准备好了午饭。"
菲利普看不到一丝午饭的影子，心里想：也许等他走后，看门人会把午餐送上来的吧。他只想快点离开这儿，屋里的那股霉味把他头都熏疼了。

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chapter 47

In March there was all the excitement of sending in to the Salon. Clutton, characteristically, had nothing ready, and he was very scornful of the two heads that Lawson sent; they were obviously the work of a student, straight-forward portraits of models, but they had a certain force; Clutton, aiming at perfection, had no patience with efforts which betrayed hesitancy, and with a shrug of the shoulders told Lawson it was an impertinence to exhibit stuff which should never have been allowed out of his studio; he was not less contemptuous when the two heads were accepted. Flanagan tried his luck too, but his picture was refused. Mrs. Otter sent a blameless Portrait de ma Mere, accomplished and second-rate; and was hung in a very good place.

Hayward, whom Philip had not seen since he left Heidelberg, arrived in Paris to spend a few days in time to come to the party which Lawson and Philip were giving in their studio to celebrate the hanging of Lawson’s pictures. Philip had been eager to see Hayward again, but when at last they met, he experienced some disappointment. Hayward had altered a little in appearance: his fine hair was thinner, and with the rapid wilting of the very fair, he was becoming wizened and colourless; his blue eyes were paler than they had been, and there was a muzziness about his features. On the other hand, in mind he did not seem to have changed at all, and the culture which had impressed Philip at eighteen aroused somewhat the contempt of Philip at twenty-one. He had altered a good deal himself, and regarding with scorn all his old opinions of art, life, and letters, had no patience with anyone who still held them. He was scarcely conscious of the fact that he wanted to show off before Hayward, but when he took him round the galleries he poured out to him all the revolutionary opinions which himself had so recently adopted. He took him to Manet’s Olympia and said dramatically:

‘I would give all the old masters except Velasquez, Rembrandt, and Vermeer for that one picture.’

‘Who was Vermeer?’ asked Hayward.

‘Oh, my dear fellow, don’t you know Vermeer? You’re not civilised. You mustn’t live a moment longer without making his acquaintance. He’s the one old master who painted like a modern.’

He dragged Hayward out of the Luxembourg and hurried him off to the Louvre.

‘But aren’t there any more pictures here?’ asked Hayward, with the tourist’s passion for thoroughness.

‘Nothing of the least consequence. You can come and look at them by yourself with your Baedeker.’

When they arrived at the Louvre Philip led his friend down the Long Gallery.

‘I should like to see The Gioconda,’ said Hayward.

‘Oh, my dear fellow, it’s only literature,’ answered Philip.

At last, in a small room, Philip stopped before The Lacemaker of Vermeer van Delft.

‘There, that’s the best picture in the Louvre. It’s exactly like a Manet.’

With an expressive, eloquent thumb Philip expatiated on the charming work. He used the jargon of the studios with overpowering effect.

‘I don’t know that I see anything so wonderful as all that in it,’ said Hayward.

‘Of course it’s a painter’s picture,’ said Philip. ‘I can quite believe the layman would see nothing much in it.’

‘The what?’ said Hayward.

‘The layman.’

Like most people who cultivate an interest in the arts, Hayward was extremely anxious to be right. He was dogmatic with those who did not venture to assert themselves, but with the self-assertive he was very modest. He was impressed by Philip’s assurance, and accepted meekly Philip’s implied suggestion that the painter’s arrogant claim to be the sole possible judge of painting has anything but its impertinence to recommend it.

A day or two later Philip and Lawson gave their party. Cronshaw, making an exception in their favour, agreed to eat their food; and Miss Chalice offered to come and cook for them. She took no interest in her own sex and declined the suggestion that other girls should be asked for her sake. Clutton, Flanagan, Potter, and two others made up the party. Furniture was scarce, so the model stand was used as a table, and the guests were to sit on portmanteaux if they liked, and if they didn’t on the floor. The feast consisted of a pot-au-feu, which Miss Chalice had made, of a leg of mutton roasted round the corner and brought round hot and savoury (Miss Chalice had cooked the potatoes, and the studio was redolent of the carrots she had fried; fried carrots were her specialty); and this was to be followed by poires flambees, pears with burning brandy, which Cronshaw had volunteered to make. The meal was to finish with an enormous fromage de Brie, which stood near the window and added fragrant odours to all the others which filled the studio. Cronshaw sat in the place of honour on a Gladstone bag, with his legs curled under him like a Turkish bashaw, beaming good-naturedly on the young people who surrounded him. From force of habit, though the small studio with the stove lit was very hot, he kept on his great-coat, with the collar turned up, and his bowler hat: he looked with satisfaction on the four large fiaschi of Chianti which stood in front of him in a row, two on each side of a bottle of whiskey; he said it reminded him of a slim fair Circassian guarded by four corpulent eunuchs. Hayward in order to put the rest of them at their ease had clothed himself in a tweed suit and a Trinity Hall tie. He looked grotesquely British. The others were elaborately polite to him, and during the soup they talked of the weather and the political situation. There was a pause while they waited for the leg of mutton, and Miss Chalice lit a cigarette.

‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair,’ she said suddenly.

With an elegant gesture she untied a ribbon so that her tresses fell over her shoulders. She shook her head.

‘I always feel more comfortable with my hair down.’

With her large brown eyes, thin, ascetic face, her pale skin, and broad forehead, she might have stepped out of a picture by Burne-Jones. She had long, beautiful hands, with fingers deeply stained by nicotine. She wore sweeping draperies, mauve and green. There was about her the romantic air of High Street, Kensington. She was wantonly aesthetic; but she was an excellent creature, kind and good natured; and her affectations were but skin-deep. There was a knock at the door, and they all gave a shout of exultation. Miss Chalice rose and opened. She took the leg of mutton and held it high above her, as though it were the head of John the Baptist on a platter; and, the cigarette still in her mouth, advanced with solemn, hieratic steps.

‘Hail, daughter of Herodias,’ cried Cronshaw.

The mutton was eaten with gusto, and it did one good to see what a hearty appetite the pale-faced lady had. Clutton and Potter sat on each side of her, and everyone knew that neither had found her unduly coy. She grew tired of most people in six weeks, but she knew exactly how to treat afterwards the gentlemen who had laid their young hearts at her feet. She bore them no ill-will, though having loved them she had ceased to do so, and treated them with friendliness but without familiarity. Now and then she looked at Lawson with melancholy eyes. The poires flambees were a great success, partly because of the brandy, and partly because Miss Chalice insisted that they should be eaten with the cheese.

‘I don’t know whether it’s perfectly delicious, or whether I’m just going to vomit,’ she said, after she had thoroughly tried the mixture.

Coffee and cognac followed with sufficient speed to prevent any untoward consequence, and they settled down to smoke in comfort. Ruth Chalice, who could do nothing that was not deliberately artistic, arranged herself in a graceful attitude by Cronshaw and just rested her exquisite head on his shoulder. She looked into the dark abyss of time with brooding eyes, and now and then with a long meditative glance at Lawson she sighed deeply.

Then came the summer, and restlessness seized these young people. The blue skies lured them to the sea, and the pleasant breeze sighing through the leaves of the plane-trees on the boulevard drew them towards the country. Everyone made plans for leaving Paris; they discussed what was the most suitable size for the canvases they meant to take; they laid in stores of panels for sketching; they argued about the merits of various places in Brittany. Flanagan and Potter went to Concarneau; Mrs. Otter and her mother, with a natural instinct for the obvious, went to Pont-Aven; Philip and Lawson made up their minds to go to the forest of Fontainebleau, and Miss Chalice knew of a very good hotel at Moret where there was lots of stuff to paint; it was near Paris, and neither Philip nor Lawson was indifferent to the railway fare. Ruth Chalice would be there, and Lawson had an idea for a portrait of her in the open air. Just then the Salon was full of portraits of people in gardens, in sunlight, with blinking eyes and green reflections of sunlit leaves on their faces. They asked Clutton to go with them, but he preferred spending the summer by himself. He had just discovered Cezanne, and was uger to go to Provence; he wanted heavy skies from which the hot blue seemed to drip like beads of sweat, and broad white dusty roads, and pale roofs out of which the sun had burnt the colour, and olive trees gray with heat.

The day before they were to start, after the morning class, Philip, putting his things together, spoke to Fanny Price.

‘I’m off tomorrow,’ he said cheerfully.

‘Off where?’ she said quickly. ‘You’re not going away?’ Her face fell.

‘I’m going away for the summer. Aren’t you?’

‘No, I’m staying in Paris. I thought you were going to stay too. I was looking forward....’

She stopped and shrugged her shoulders.

‘But won’t it be frightfully hot here? It’s awfully bad for you.’

‘Much you care if it’s bad for me. Where are you going?’

‘Moret.’

‘Chalice is going there. You’re not going with her?’

‘Lawson and I are going. And she’s going there too. I don’t know that we’re actually going together.’

She gave a low guttural sound, and her large face grew dark and red.

‘How filthy! I thought you were a decent fellow. You were about the only one here. She’s been with Clutton and Potter and Flanagan, even with old Foinet—that’s why he takes so much trouble about her—and now two of you, you and Lawson. It makes me sick.’

‘Oh, what nonsense! She’s a very decent sort. One treats her just as if she were a man.’

‘Oh, don’t speak to me, don’t speak to me.’

‘But what can it matter to you?’ asked Philip. ‘It’s really no business of yours where I spend my summer.’

‘I was looking forward to it so much,’ she gasped, speaking it seemed almost to herself. ‘I didn’t think you had the money to go away, and there wouldn’t have been anyone else here, and we could have worked together, and we’d have gone to see things.’ Then her thoughts flung back to Ruth Chalice. ‘The filthy beast,’ she cried. ‘She isn’t fit to speak to.’

Philip looked at her with a sinking heart. He was not a man to think girls were in love with him; he was too conscious of his deformity, and he felt awkward and clumsy with women; but he did not know what else this outburst could mean. Fanny Price, in the dirty brown dress, with her hair falling over her face, sloppy, untidy, stood before him; and tears of anger rolled down her cheeks. She was repellent. Philip glanced at the door, instinctively hoping that someone would come in and put an end to the scene.

‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he said.

‘You’re just the same as all of them. You take all you can get, and you don’t even say thank you. I’ve taught you everything you know. No one else would take any trouble with you. Has Foinet ever bothered about you? And I can tell you this—you can work here for a thousand years and you’ll never do any good. You haven’t got any talent. You haven’t got any originality. And it’s not only me—they all say it. You’ll never be a painter as long as you live.’

‘That is no business of yours either, is it?’ said Philip, flushing.

‘Oh, you think it’s only my temper. Ask Clutton, ask Lawson, ask Chalice. Never, never, never. You haven’t got it in you.’

Philip shrugged his shoulders and walked out. She shouted after him.

‘Never, never, never.’

Moret was in those days an old-fashioned town of one street at the edge of the forest of Fontainebleau, and the Ecu d’Or was a hotel which still had about it the decrepit air of the Ancien Regime. It faced the winding river, the Loing; and Miss Chalice had a room with a little terrace overlooking it, with a charming view of the old bridge and its fortified gateway. They sat here in the evenings after dinner, drinking coffee, smoking, and discussing art. There ran into the river, a little way off, a narrow canal bordered by poplars, and along the banks of this after their day’s work they often wandered. They spent all day painting. Like most of their generation they were obsessed by the fear of the picturesque, and they turned their backs on the obvious beauty of the town to seek subjects which were devoid of a prettiness they despised. Sisley and Monet had painted the canal with its poplars, and they felt a desire to try their hands at what was so typical of France; but they were frightened of its formal beauty, and set themselves deliberately to avoid it. Miss Chalice, who had a clever dexterity which impressed Lawson notwithstanding his contempt for feminine art, started a picture in which she tried to circumvent the commonplace by leaving out the tops of the trees; and Lawson had the brilliant idea of putting in his foreground a large blue advertisement of chocolat Menier in order to emphasise his abhorrence of the chocolate box.

Philip began now to paint in oils. He experienced a thrill of delight when first he used that grateful medium. He went out with Lawson in the morning with his little box and sat by him painting a panel; it gave him so much satisfaction that he did not realise he was doing no more than copy; he was so much under his friend’s influence that he saw only with his eyes. Lawson painted very low in tone, and they both saw the emerald of the grass like dark velvet, while the brilliance of the sky turned in their hands to a brooding ultramarine. Through July they had one fine day after another; it was very hot; and the heat, searing Philip’s heart, filled him with languor; he could not work; his mind was eager with a thousand thoughts. Often he spent the mornings by the side of the canal in the shade of the poplars, reading a few lines and then dreaming for half an hour. Sometimes he hired a rickety bicycle and rode along the dusty road that led to the forest, and then lay down in a clearing. His head was full of romantic fancies. The ladies of Watteau, gay and insouciant, seemed to wander with their cavaliers among the great trees, whispering to one another careless, charming things, and yet somehow oppressed by a nameless fear.

They were alone in the hotel but for a fat Frenchwoman of middle age, a Rabelaisian figure with a broad, obscene laugh. She spent the day by the river patiently fishing for fish she never caught, and Philip sometimes went down and talked to her. He found out that she had belonged to a profession whose most notorious member for our generation was Mrs. Warren, and having made a competence she now lived the quiet life of the bourgeoise. She told Philip lewd stories.

‘You must go to Seville,’ she said—she spoke a little broken English. ‘The most beautiful women in the world.’

She leered and nodded her head. Her triple chin, her large belly, shook with inward laughter.

It grew so hot that it was almost impossible to sleep at night. The heat seemed to linger under the trees as though it were a material thing. They did not wish to leave the starlit night, and the three of them would sit on the terrace of Ruth Chalice’s room, silent, hour after hour, too tired to talk any more, but in voluptuous enjoyment of the stillness. They listened to the murmur of the river. The church clock struck one and two and sometimes three before they could drag themselves to bed. Suddenly Philip became aware that Ruth Chalice and Lawson were lovers. He divined it in the way the girl looked at the young painter, and in his air of possession; and as Philip sat with them he felt a kind of effluence surrounding them, as though the air were heavy with something strange. The revelation was a shock. He had looked upon Miss Chalice as a very good fellow and he liked to talk to her, but it had never seemed to him possible to enter into a closer relationship. One Sunday they had all gone with a tea-basket into the forest, and when they came to a glade which was suitably sylvan, Miss Chalice, because it was idyllic, insisted on taking off her shoes and stockings. It would have been very charming only her feet were rather large and she had on both a large corn on the third toe. Philip felt it made her proceeding a little ridiculous. But now he looked upon her quite differently; there was something softly feminine in her large eyes and her olive skin; he felt himself a fool not to have seen that she was attractive. He thought he detected in her a touch of contempt for him, because he had not had the sense to see that she was there, in his way, and in Lawson a suspicion of superiority. He was envious of Lawson, and he was jealous, not of the individual concerned, but of his love. He wished that he was standing in his shoes and feeling with his heart. He was troubled, and the fear seized him that love would pass him by. He wanted a passion to seize him, he wanted to be swept off his feet and borne powerless in a mighty rush he cared not whither. Miss Chalice and Lawson seemed to him now somehow different, and the constant companionship with them made him restless. He was dissatisfied with himself. Life was not giving him what he wanted, and he had an uneasy feeling that he was losing his time.

The stout Frenchwoman soon guessed what the relations were between the couple, and talked of the matter to Philip with the utmost frankness.

‘And you,’ she said, with the tolerant smile of one who had fattened on the lust of her fellows, ‘have you got a petite amie?’

‘No,’ said Philip, blushing.

‘And why not? C’est de votre age.’

He shrugged his shoulders. He had a volume of Verlaine in his hands, and he wandered off. He tried to read, but his passion was too strong. He thought of the stray amours to which he had been introduced by Flanagan, the sly visits to houses in a cul-de-sac, with the drawing-room in Utrecht velvet, and the mercenary graces of painted women. He shuddered. He threw himself on the grass, stretching his limbs like a young animal freshly awaked from sleep; and the rippling water, the poplars gently tremulous in the faint breeze, the blue sky, were almost more than he could bear. He was in love with love. In his fancy he felt the kiss of warm lips on his, and around his neck the touch of soft hands. He imagined himself in the arms of Ruth Chalice, he thought of her dark eyes and the wonderful texture of her skin; he was mad to have let such a wonderful adventure slip through his fingers. And if Lawson had done it why should not he? But this was only when he did not see her, when he lay awake at night or dreamed idly by the side of the canal; when he saw her he felt suddenly quite different; he had no desire to take her in his arms, and he could not imagine himself kissing her. It was very curious. Away from her he thought her beautiful, remembering only her magnificent eyes and the creamy pallor of her face; but when he was with her he saw only that she was flat-chested and that her teeth were slightly decayed; he could not forget the corns on her toes. He could not understand himself. Would he always love only in absence and be prevented from enjoying anything when he had the chance by that deformity of vision which seemed to exaggerate the revolting?

He was not sorry when a change in the weather, announcing the definite end of the long summer, drove them all back to Paris.

第四十七章

到三月份，画室里热闹了起来，大家净忙着为一年一度的巴黎艺展投送画稿。唯独克拉顿超然物外，没准备任何作品，还把劳森送去的两幅头像画大大奚落了一番。这两幅画显然出自初学者之手，是直接根据模特儿写生的，不过笔力苍劲，有股雄浑之气，而克拉顿所追求的，是完美无缺的艺术，他不能容忍火候功力还未到家的彷徨逡巡之作。他耸耸肩对劳森说，一些连画室门都拿不出的习作，竟要送去展览，真有点不知天高地厚。即使后来那两幅头像被画展处接受了，他仍然固执己见。弗拉纳根也试了运气，结果送去的画被退了回来。奥特太太送去了一幅《母亲之像》，一幅具有一定造诣、无可非议的二流作品，被挂在十分显眼的地方。

劳森和菲利普打算在自己的画室里举行一次聚餐会，对劳森的作品荣获公展聊表庆贺之意。这时海沃德也到巴黎来小住几天，正好凑上了这场热闹。打他离开海德堡之后，菲利普还没见到过他。菲利普一直很盼望能再次见到海沃德，可是如今真的会了面，倒不觉有点失望。海沃德的模样变了。一头金黄色的柔发变得稀稀拉拉，随着姣好容颜的迅速衰败，人也显得干瘪瘪的没一点生气。那对蓝眼睛失去了昔日的光泽，整个面容都带点灰溜溜的神情，然而他的思想却似乎丝毫未变。可惜，使十八岁的菲利普深为叹服的那种文化素养，对二十一岁的菲利普来说，似乎只能激起轻蔑之情。菲利普已今非昔比：往日那一整套有关艺术、人生和文学的见解，而今一概视如敝屣；至于那些至今仍死抱住这些迂腐之见的人，他简直无法容忍。他似乎没意识到自己多么急于在海沃德面前露一手。等他陪着海沃德参观美术馆的时候，他情不自禁地把自己也不过刚接受过来的革命观点，一古脑儿端了出来。菲利普把海沃德领到马奈的《奥兰毕亚》跟前，用颇带戏剧性的口吻说：

"我愿意拿古典大师的全部作品，来换取眼前的这一幅杰作，当然委拉斯开兹、伦勃朗和弗美尔的作品除外。"

"弗美尔是谁？"海沃德问。

"哟，亲爱的老兄，你连弗美尔都不知道？你莫非是还没开化怎么的。要是连弗美尔也不知道，人活着还有啥意思。他是唯一具有现代派风格的古典大师。"

菲利普把海沃德从卢森堡展览馆里硬拖了出来，催着他上卢佛尔宫去。

"这儿的画都看完了？"海沃德怀着那种唯恐有所遗漏的游客心理问。

"剩下的净是些微不足道的作品，你以后可以自己带着导游手册来看。"

到了卢佛尔宫之后，菲利普径直领着他的朋友步入长廊。

"我想看看那幅《永恒的微笑》，"海沃德说。

"噢，我的老兄，那算不得杰作，被文人捧起来的，"菲利普答道。

最后来到一间小房间，菲利普在弗美尔·凡·戴尔夫特的油画《织女》跟前停了下来。

"瞧，这是卢佛尔宫内首屈一指的珍品，完全像出自马奈的手笔。"

菲利普翘起他富于表现力的大拇指，细细介绍起这幅佳作的迷人之处。他一口画家的行话，叫人听了不能不为之折服。

"不知我是否能尽领其中妙处，"海沃德说。

"当然罗，那是画家的作品嘛，"菲利普说。"我敢说，门外汉是看不出多大名堂的。"

"门--什么？"海沃德说。

"门外汉。"

跟大多数艺术爱好者一样，海沃德很想充当行家，最怕在别人面前露馅。倘若对方闪烁其词，不敢断然发表自己的见解，他就要摆出一副权威的架势来；倘若对方引经据典，振振有词，他就做出虚心听取的样子。菲利普斩钉截铁的自信口吻，不由海沃德不服，他乖乖地认可了菲利普的言外之意：只有画家才有资格评断绘画的优劣，而且不管怎么说也不嫌武断。

一两天后，菲利普和劳森举行了聚餐会。克朗肖这回也破例赏光，同意前来尝尝他们亲手制作的食品。查利斯小姐主动跑来帮厨。她对女性不感兴趣，要他们不必为了她的缘故而特地去邀请别的女客。出席聚餐会的有克拉顿、弗拉纳根、波特和另外两位客人。屋里没什么家什，只好把模特儿台拿来权充餐桌。客人们要是喜欢，可以坐在旅行皮箱上；要是不高兴，那就席地而坐。菜肴有查利斯小姐做的蔬菜肉汤，有从街角处一家餐馆买来的烤羊腿，拿来时还冒着腾腾的热气，散发着令人馋涎欲滴的香味（查利斯小姐早已把土豆煮好，画室里还散发着一股油煎胡萝卜的香味，这可是查利斯小姐的拿手好菜），这以后是一道火烧白兰地梨，是克朗肖自告奋勇做的。最后一道菜将是一块大得出奇的fromage de Brie，这会儿正靠窗口放着，给已经充满各种奇香异味的画室更添了一股浓香。克朗肖占了首席，端坐在一只旅行皮箱上，盘起了两条腿，活像个土耳其帕夏，对着周围的年轻人露出宽厚的笑意。尽管画室里生着火，热得很，但他出于习惯，身上仍然裹着大衣，衣领朝上翻起，头上还是戴着那顶硬边礼帽。他心满意足地望着面前的四大瓶意大利西昂蒂葡萄酒出神。那四瓶酒在他面前排成一行，当中还夹着瓶威士忌酒。克朗肖说，这引起了他的联想，好似四个大腹便便的太监守护着一位体态苗条、容貌俊美的彻尔克斯女子。海沃德为了不让别人感到拘束，特意穿了套花呢服，戴了条"三一堂"牌领带。他这副英国式打扮看上去好古怪。在座的人对他彬彬有礼，敬如上宾。喝蔬菜肉汤的时候，他们议论天气和政局。在等羊肉上桌的当儿，席间出现了片刻的冷场。查利斯小姐点了一支烟。

"兰蓬泽尔，兰蓬泽尔，把你的头发放下来吧，"她冷不丁冒出了这么一句。

她仪态潇洒地抬起手，解下头上的绸带，让一头长发披落到肩上。随即又是一摇头。

"我总觉得头发放下来比较惬意。"

瞧着她那双棕色的大眼睛、苦行僧似的瘦削脸庞、苍白的皮肤和宽阔的前额，真叫人以为她是从布因-琼司的画里走下来的呢。她的那双手，十指纤纤，煞是好看，美中不足的是指端已被尼古丁熏得蜡黄。她穿了件绿紫辉映的衣裙，浑身上下透出一股肯辛顿高街的淑女们所特有的浪漫气息。她风流放荡，但为人随和、善良，不失为出色的人间尤物，惜乎情感比较浅薄。这时猛听得门外有人敲门，席上的人齐声欢呼起来。查利斯小姐起身去开门。她接过羊腿，高高举托过头，仿佛盛在盘子里的是施洗者圣约翰的头颅。她嘴里仍叼着支烟卷，脚一下跨着庄重、神圣的步伐。

"妙啊！希律迪亚斯的女儿！"克朗肖喊道。

席上的人全都津津有味地大啃其羊腿来，尤其是那位面如粉玉的女郎大啖大嚼的馋相，看了更叫人觉着有趣。在她的左右两边，分别坐着克拉顿和波特。在场的人心里全明白，她对这两个男子决不会故作扭。泥之态。对于大多数男子，不出六个星期，她就感到厌倦了，不过她很懂得事后该如何同那些曾经拜倒在她石榴裙下的多情郎应付周旋。她爱过他们，后来不爱了，但她并不因此而对他们怀有任何怨隙，她同他们友好相处，却不过分亲昵。这会儿，她不时用忧郁的目光朝劳森望上一眼。火烧白兰地梨大受欢迎，一则是因为里面有白兰地，一则是由于查利斯小姐坚持要大家夹着奶酪吃。

"这玩意儿究竟是美味可口呢，还是令人恶心，我实在说不上来，"她在充分品尝了这道杂拌以后评论说。

咖啡和科涅克白兰地赶紧端了上来，以防出现什么棘手局面。大家坐着惬惬意意地抽着烟。露思·查利斯一抬手、一投足，都有意要显示出她的艺术家风度。她姿态忧美地坐在克朗肖身旁，把她那小巧玲珑的头倚靠在他的肩头。她若有所思地凝望空中，仿佛是想望穿那黑森森的时间的深渊，间或朝劳森投去长长的、沉思的一瞥，同时伴以一声长叹。

转眼间夏天到了。这几位年轻人再也坐不住了。湛蓝湛蓝的天穹引诱他们去投身大海；习习和风在林荫大道的梧桐枝叶间轻声叹息，吸引他们去漫游乡间。人人都打算离开巴黎。他们在商量该带多大尺寸的画布最合适；他们还备足了写生用的油画板；他们争辩着布列塔尼各个避暑地的引人入胜之处。最后，弗拉纳根和波特到孔卡努去了；奥特太太和她母亲，性喜一览无余的自然风光，宁愿去篷特阿旺；菲利普和劳森决计去枫丹白露森林。查利斯小姐晓得在莫雷有一家非常出色的旅馆，那儿有不少东西很值得挥笔一画，再说，那儿离巴黎又不远，菲利普和劳森对车费也并非毫不在乎。露思·查利斯也要去那儿。劳森打算替她在野外画一幅肖像画。那时候，巴黎艺展塞满了这类人像画；阳光灿烂的花园，画中人身居其间，眨巴着眼睛，阳光透过繁枝茂叶，在他们的脸庞上投下斑驳的绿影。他们请克拉顿结伴同游，可是克拉顿喜欢独个儿消夏。他刚刚发现了塞尚，急着要去普罗旺斯。他向往云幕低垂的天空，而那火辣辣的点点蓝色，似乎像汗珠那样从云层间滴落下来。他眷恋尘土飞扬的宽阔的白色公路、因日晒而变得苍白的屋顶，还有被热浪烤成灰色的橄榄树。

就在准备动身的前一天，上午上完课后，菲利普一边收拾画具，一边对范妮·普赖斯说：

"我明天要走啦，"他兴冲冲地说。

"去哪儿？"她立刻追问道，"你不会离开这儿吧？"她的脸沉了下来。

"我要找个地方去避避暑，你呢？"

"我不走，我留在巴黎。我还以为你也留下呢。我原盼望着……"

她戛然收住口，耸了耸肩。

"夏天这儿不是热得够呛吗？对你身体很不利呢。"

"对我身体有利没有利，你才无所谓呢。你打算去哪儿？"

"莫雷。"

"查利斯也去那儿。你该不是同她一起去吧？"

"我和劳森一块儿走。她也打算去那儿，是不是同行我就不清楚了。"

她喉咙里轻轻咕噜了一声，大脸盘憋得通红，脸色阴沉得可怕。

"真不要脸，我还当你是个正派人，大概是这儿独一无二的正派人呢。那婆娘同克拉顿、波特和弗拉纳根都有过私情，甚至同老富瓦内也勾勾搭搭--所以他才特别为她费神嘛--现在可又轮到你和劳森两个了，这真叫我恶心！"

"哟，你胡扯些什么呀。她可是个正经女人，大家差不多把她当男子看待。"

"哟，我不想听！我不想听！"

"话说回来，这又管你什么事？"菲利普诘问道。"我愿上哪儿消夏，完全是我自个儿的事嘛。"

"我一直痴痴地盼望着这样一个机会，"她喘着粗气，仿佛是在自言自语，"我还以为你没钱出去呢。到时候，这儿再没旁人，咱们俩就可以一块儿作画，一块儿出去走走看看。"说到这儿，她又猛地想起了露思·查利斯。"那个臭婊子，"她嚷了起来，"连跟我说话都不配。"

菲利普望着她，心头有股说不出的滋味。他不是个自作多情的人，以为世上的姑娘都会爱上自己；相反，他由于对自己的残疾十分敏感，在女人面前总感到狼狈，显得笨嘴拙舌。此刻，他不知道她这顿发作，除了一泄心头之火外还能有什么别的意思。她站在他跟前，身上套着那件邀遏的棕色衣裙，披头散发，衣衫不整，腮帮子上还挂着两串愤怒的泪水，真叫人受不了。菲利普朝门口瞟了一眼，本能地巴望此刻有人走进屋来，好马上结束这个尴尬的场面。

"我实在很抱歉，"他说。

"你和他们都是一路货。能捞到手的，全捞走了，到头来连谢一声都不说。你现在学到的东西，还不都是我把着手教给你的？除我以外，还有谁肯为你操这份心。富瓦内关心过你吗？老实对你说了吧，你哪怕在那里学上一千年，也决不会有什么出息。你这个人没有天分，没一点匠心。不光是我一个人--他们全都是这么说的。你一辈子也当不了画家。"

"那也不管你的事，对吗？"菲利普红着脸说。

"哟，你以为我不过是在发脾气，讲气话？不信你去问问克拉顿，去问问劳森，去问问查利斯！你永远当不成画家。永远！永远！永远当不成！你根本不是这块料子！"

菲利普耸耸肩，径自走了出去。她冲着他的背影，大声喊道：

"永远！永远！永远当不成！"

那时光，莫雷是个只有一条街的老式小镇，紧挨在枫丹白露森林的边沿。"金盾"客栈是一家还保持王政时代遗风的小旅舍，面临蜿蜒曲折的洛英河。查利斯小姐租下的那个房间，有个俯瞰河面的小凉台，从那儿可以看到一座古桥及其加固过的桥日通道，景致别有风味。每天晚上用过晚餐，他们就坐在这儿，喝咖啡，抽烟卷，谈艺术。离这儿不远，有条汇入洛英河的运河，河面狭窄，两岸种着白杨树。工作之余，他们常沿运河的堤岸溜达一会。白天的时间，他们全用来画画。他们也跟同时代的大多数青年人一样，对于富有诗情画意的景色感到头痛；展现在眼前的小镇的绮丽风光，他们偏偏视而不见，而有意去捕捉一些质朴无华的景物。凡是俏丽之物，他们一概嗤之以鼻。西斯莱和莫奈曾经画过这儿白杨掩映的运河，他们也很想试试笔锋，画一幅具有典型法国情调的风景画，可是又害怕眼前景色所具有的那种匀称之美，于是煞费苦心地要加以回避。心灵手巧的查利斯小姐落笔时，故意把树顶部分略去不画，以使画面独具新意，不落窠臼。劳森尽管一向瞧不起女子的艺术作品，可这一回也不得不叹服她独具匠心。至于他自己，灵机一动，在画的前景添上一块蓝色的美尼尔巧克力糖的大广告牌，以显示他对巧克力盒糖的厌恶。

现在菲利普开始学画油画了。当他第一次使用这种可爱的艺术媒介时，心里止不住感到一阵狂喜。早晨，他带着小画盒随同劳森外出，坐在劳森身旁，一笔一笔地在画布上涂抹着。他得心应手，画得好欢，殊不知他所干的充其量只是依样画葫芦罢了。他受这位朋友的影响之深，简直可以说他是通过他朋友的眼睛来观察世界的。劳森作画，爱用很低的色调，绿宝石似的草地，到了他俩眼里则成了深色的天鹅绒，而光华闪烁的晴空，在他们的笔下也成了一片郁郁苍苍的深蓝。整个七月都是大好晴天，气候酷热，热浪似乎把菲利普的灵感烤干了，他终日没精打采，连画笔也懒得拿，脑子里乱哄哄的，杂念丛生。早晨，他常常侧身躲入河边的浓荫，念上几首小诗，然后神思恍惚地默想半个钟头。有时候，他骑了辆租来的破自行车，沿着尘土飞扬的小路朝森林驶去。随后拣一块林中空地躺下，任自己沉浸在罗曼蒂克的幻想之中。他仿佛看到华托笔下的那些活泼好动、漫不经心的窈窕淑女，在骑士们的伴同之下，信步漫游于参天巨树之间；她们喁喁私语，相互诉说着轻松、迷人的趣事，然而不知怎么地，似乎总摆脱不掉一种无名恐惧的困扰。

整个客栈里，除了一个胖胖的法国中年妇人之外，就他们这几个人了。那女人颇似拉伯雷笔下的人物，动辄咧嘴大笑，发出一阵阵淫荡的笑声。她常去河边，很有耐心地钓上一整天鱼，尽管从未钓到过一条。有时候，菲利普走上去同她搭讪几句。菲利普发现，她过去是干那种营生的-一那一行里面最负盛名的人物，在我们这一代就数华伦太太了。她赚足了钱，现在到乡下来过她布尔乔亚的清闲日子。她给菲利普讲了些不堪入耳的淫秽故事。

"你得去塞维利亚走一遭，"她说--一她还能讲几句蹩脚英语，"那儿的女人是世界上最标致的。"

她用淫荡的目光瞟了菲利普一眼，又朝他点点头。她的上下三层下颔，还有那鼓突在外的大肚子，随着格格笑声不住地抖动起来。

气温愈来愈高，晚上几乎无法人眠。暑热像是一种有形物质，在树丛间滞留不散。他们不愿离开星光灿烂的夜景，三个人悄没声儿地坐在露思·查利斯的房间的凉台上，一小时又一小时，谁都懒得说一句话，只顾尽情地享受夏夜的幽静。他们侧耳谛听潺潺的流水声，直到教堂的大钟打了一下，两下，有时甚至打了三下，才拖着疲惫的身子上床去睡。菲利普恍然醒悟过来，露思和劳森原来是对情侣。这一点，他是凭自己的直觉，从姑娘凝望年轻画家的目光以及后者着了魔似的神态中揣测到的。菲利普同他们坐在一块儿的时候，总觉得他们在眉来眼去，传送着某种射流，似乎空气也因夹带了某种奇异之物而变得沉重起来。这一意想不到的发现，着实叫菲利普大吃一惊。他向来认为查利斯小姐是个好伙伴，很喜欢同她聊上几句，似乎从没想到能同她建立起更深一层的关系。一个星期天，他们三人带着茶点篓筐，一齐走进森林。他们来到一块绿树环拥的理想的林间空地，查利斯小姐认为这儿具有田园风味，执意要脱下鞋袜。惜乎她的脚太大了些，而且两只脚的第三个脚趾上都长着一个大鸡眼，要不然她那双脚倒也够迷人的。菲利普暗自嘀咕，这大概就是她行走时步态有点滑稽可笑的缘故吧。可是现在，菲利普对她刮目相看了。她那双大眼睛，那一身橄榄色的皮肤，都显露出女性所特有的温柔。菲利普觉得自己真是个大傻瓜，竟一直没注意到她原是那么富于魅力。他似乎觉得她有点儿瞧他不起，就因为他过于迟钝，竟然会感觉不到有她这样的尤物存在；而他发现劳森现在似乎也带有几分自恃高人一等的神气。他忌妒劳森，不过他忌炉的倒也并非劳森本人，而是忌妒他的爱情。要是他能取劳森而代之，像劳森那样去爱，那该有多好呀。菲利普心烦意乱，忧心忡忡，唯恐爱情会从他身旁悄悄溜走。他盼望有股感情的激流向他猛然袭来，把他卷走。他愿意听凭这股激流的摆布，不管卷至何方，他全不在乎。在他看来，查利斯小姐和劳森似乎有点异样，老是守在他们身边，使他感到惴惴不安。他对自己很不满意。他想获得的东西，生活就是不给。他心里很不是个滋味，觉得自己是在蹉跎光阴。

那个法国胖女人没多久就猜到了这对青年男女之间的关系，而且在菲利普面前直言不讳。

"而你呢，"她说，脸上挂着那种靠同胞委身卖笑而养肥自己的人所特有的微笑，"你有petite amie吗？

"没有，"菲利普红着脸说。

"怎么会没有呢？C'est de votre age。

菲利普耸耸肩。他手里拿着魏尔伦的一本诗集，信步走开了。他想看看书，但是情欲在他心头骚动得厉害。他想起弗拉纳根给他讲过的男人们寻花问柳的荒唐经：小巷深院里的幽室，装饰着乌得勒支天鹅绒织品的客厅，还有那些涂脂抹粉的卖笑女子。想到这里，菲利普禁不住打了个寒噤。他往草地上一倒，像头刚从睡梦中醒来的幼兽那样仰肢八叉地躺着。那泛着涟漪的河水，那在微风中婆娑起舞的白杨树，那蔚蓝的天穹--周围的这一切，菲利普几乎都没法忍受。他现在已堕入了自织的情网。他想入非非，似乎感到有两片温暖的嘴唇在吻他，有一双温柔的手搂着他的脖子。他想象着自己如何躺在露思·查利斯的怀里，想到了她那对乌黑的明眸，那细腻光洁的皮肤，他竟白白地错过了这份良缘，自己不是疯子才怪呢！既然劳森这么干了，他为何不可呢？不过，只是她不在跟前的时候--晚上躺在床上睡不着觉，或是白天在运河边沉思的时候，他才会有这样的欲念。而一见到她，他的感情就起了突变，既不想拥抱她，也不再想象自己如何吻她了。这真是天下少有的怪事！她不在跟前时，他觉得她千媚百娇，仪态万方，只想到她那双勾魂摄魄的眸子和略透奶油色的苍白脸庞；可是同她呆在一块儿的时候，他只看到她平直的胸脯和那一口微蛀的龋齿，而且还忘不了她脚趾上的鸡眼。他简直没法理解自己。难道是回于自己的那种似乎净在夸大伊人的不尽人意之处的畸形视觉，他才永远只有在心上人不在跟前的时候才能去爱，而一旦有机会和她面面相对，反党扫兴的吗？

气候的变换，宣布漫漫长夏已尽。他们返回巴黎，而菲利普心里并天半点遗憾之感。

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举报只看该作者 50楼发表于: 2014-08-17 0

chapter 48

When Philip returned to Amitrano’s he found that Fanny Price was no longer working there. She had given up the key of her locker. He asked Mrs. Otter whether she knew what had become of her; and Mrs. Otter, with a shrug of the shoulders, answered that she had probably gone back to England. Philip was relieved. He was profoundly bored by her ill-temper. Moreover she insisted on advising him about his work, looked upon it as a slight when he did not follow her precepts, and would not understand that he felt himself no longer the duffer he had been at first. Soon he forgot all about her. He was working in oils now and he was full of enthusiasm. He hoped to have something done of sufficient importance to send to the following year’s Salon. Lawson was painting a portrait of Miss Chalice. She was very paintable, and all the young men who had fallen victims to her charm had made portraits of her. A natural indolence, joined with a passion for picturesque attitude, made her an excellent sitter; and she had enough technical knowledge to offer useful criticisms. Since her passion for art was chiefly a passion to live the life of artists, she was quite content to neglect her own work. She liked the warmth of the studio, and the opportunity to smoke innumerable cigarettes; and she spoke in a low, pleasant voice of the love of art and the art of love. She made no clear distinction between the two.

Lawson was painting with infinite labour, working till he could hardly stand for days and then scraping out all he had done. He would have exhausted the patience of anyone but Ruth Chalice. At last he got into a hopeless muddle.

‘The only thing is to take a new canvas and start fresh,’ he said. ‘I know exactly what I want now, and it won’t take me long.’

Philip was present at the time, and Miss Chalice said to him:

‘Why don’t you paint me too? You’ll be able to learn a lot by watching Mr. Lawson.’

It was one of Miss Chalice’s delicacies that she always addressed her lovers by their surnames.

‘I should like it awfully if Lawson wouldn’t mind.’

‘I don’t care a damn,’ said Lawson.

It was the first time that Philip set about a portrait, and he began with trepidation but also with pride. He sat by Lawson and painted as he saw him paint. He profited by the example and by the advice which both Lawson and Miss Chalice freely gave him. At last Lawson finished and invited Clutton in to criticise. Clutton had only just come back to Paris. From Provence he had drifted down to Spain, eager to see Velasquez at Madrid, and thence he had gone to Toledo. He stayed there three months, and he was returned with a name new to the young men: he had wonderful things to say of a painter called El Greco, who it appeared could only be studied in Toledo.

‘Oh yes, I know about him,’ said Lawson, ‘he’s the old master whose distinction it is that he painted as badly as the moderns.’

Clutton, more taciturn than ever, did not answer, but he looked at Lawson with a sardonic air.

‘Are you going to show us the stuff you’ve brought back from Spain?’ asked Philip.

‘I didn’t paint in Spain, I was too busy.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘I thought things out. I believe I’m through with the Impressionists; I’ve got an idea they’ll seem very thin and superficial in a few years. I want to make a clean sweep of everything I’ve learnt and start fresh. When I came back I destroyed everything I’d painted. I’ve got nothing in my studio now but an easel, my paints, and some clean canvases.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’ve only got an inkling of what I want.’

He spoke slowly, in a curious manner, as though he were straining to hear something which was only just audible. There seemed to be a mysterious force in him which he himself did not understand, but which was struggling obscurely to find an outlet. His strength impressed you. Lawson dreaded the criticism he asked for and had discounted the blame he thought he might get by affecting a contempt for any opinion of Clutton’s; but Philip knew there was nothing which would give him more pleasure than Clutton’s praise. Clutton looked at the portrait for some time in silence, then glanced at Philip’s picture, which was standing on an easel.

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘Oh, I had a shot at a portrait too.’

‘The sedulous ape,’ he murmured.

He turned away again to Lawson’s canvas. Philip reddened but did not speak.

‘Well, what d’you think of it?’ asked Lawson at length.

‘The modelling’s jolly good,’ said Clutton. ‘And I think it’s very well drawn.’

‘D’you think the values are all right?’

‘Quite.’

Lawson smiled with delight. He shook himself in his clothes like a wet dog.

‘I say, I’m jolly glad you like it.’

‘I don’t. I don’t think it’s of the smallest importance.’

Lawson’s face fell, and he stared at Clutton with astonishment: he had no notion what he meant, Clutton had no gift of expression in words, and he spoke as though it were an effort. What he had to say was confused, halting, and verbose; but Philip knew the words which served as the text of his rambling discourse. Clutton, who never read, had heard them first from Cronshaw; and though they had made small impression, they had remained in his memory; and lately, emerging on a sudden, had acquired the character of a revelation: a good painter had two chief objects to paint, namely, man and the intention of his soul. The Impressionists had been occupied with other problems, they had painted man admirably, but they had troubled themselves as little as the English portrait painters of the eighteenth century with the intention of his soul.

‘But when you try to get that you become literary,’ said Lawson, interrupting. ‘Let me paint the man like Manet, and the intention of his soul can go to the devil.’

‘That would be all very well if you could beat Manet at his own game, but you can’t get anywhere near him. You can’t feed yourself on the day before yesterday, it’s ground which has been swept dry. You must go back. It’s when I saw the Grecos that I felt one could get something more out of portraits than we knew before.’

‘It’s just going back to Ruskin,’ cried Lawson.

‘No—you see, he went for morality: I don’t care a damn for morality: teaching doesn’t come in, ethics and all that, but passion and emotion. The greatest portrait painters have painted both, man and the intention of his soul; Rembrandt and El Greco; it’s only the second-raters who’ve only painted man. A lily of the valley would be lovely even if it didn’t smell, but it’s more lovely because it has perfume. That picture’—he pointed to Lawson’s portrait—‘well, the drawing’s all right and so’s the modelling all right, but just conventional; it ought to be drawn and modelled so that you know the girl’s a lousy slut. Correctness is all very well: El Greco made his people eight feet high because he wanted to express something he couldn’t get any other way.’

‘Damn El Greco,’ said Lawson, ‘what’s the good of jawing about a man when we haven’t a chance of seeing any of his work?’

Clutton shrugged his shoulders, smoked a cigarette in silence, and went away. Philip and Lawson looked at one another.

‘There’s something in what he says,’ said Philip.

Lawson stared ill-temperedly at his picture.

‘How the devil is one to get the intention of the soul except by painting exactly what one sees?’

About this time Philip made a new friend. On Monday morning models assembled at the school in order that one might be chosen for the week, and one day a young man was taken who was plainly not a model by profession. Philip’s attention was attracted by the manner in which he held himself: when he got on to the stand he stood firmly on both feet, square, with clenched hands, and with his head defiantly thrown forward; the attitude emphasised his fine figure; there was no fat on him, and his muscles stood out as though they were of iron. His head, close-cropped, was well-shaped, and he wore a short beard; he had large, dark eyes and heavy eyebrows. He held the pose hour after hour without appearance of fatigue. There was in his mien a mixture of shame and of determination. His air of passionate energy excited Philip’s romantic imagination, and when, the sitting ended, he saw him in his clothes, it seemed to him that he wore them as though he were a king in rags. He was uncommunicative, but in a day or two Mrs. Otter told Philip that the model was a Spaniard and that he had never sat before.

‘I suppose he was starving,’ said Philip.

‘Have you noticed his clothes? They’re quite neat and decent, aren’t they?’

It chanced that Potter, one of the Americans who worked at Amitrano’s, was going to Italy for a couple of months, and offered his studio to Philip. Philip was pleased. He was growing a little impatient of Lawson’s peremptory advice and wanted to be by himself. At the end of the week he went up to the model and on the pretence that his drawing was not finished asked whether he would come and sit to him one day.

‘I’m not a model,’ the Spaniard answered. ‘I have other things to do next week.’

‘Come and have luncheon with me now, and we’ll talk about it,’ said Philip, and as the other hesitated, he added with a smile: ‘It won’t hurt you to lunch with me.’

With a shrug of the shoulders the model consented, and they went off to a cremerie. The Spaniard spoke broken French, fluent but difficult to follow, and Philip managed to get on well enough with him. He found out that he was a writer. He had come to Paris to write novels and kept himself meanwhile by all the expedients possible to a penniless man; he gave lessons, he did any translations he could get hold of, chiefly business documents, and at last had been driven to make money by his fine figure. Sitting was well paid, and what he had earned during the last week was enough to keep him for two more; he told Philip, amazed, that he could live easily on two francs a day; but it filled him with shame that he was obliged to show his body for money, and he looked upon sitting as a degradation which only hunger could excuse. Philip explained that he did not want him to sit for the figure, but only for the head; he wished to do a portrait of him which he might send to the next Salon.

‘But why should you want to paint me?’ asked the Spaniard.

Philip answered that the head interested him, he thought he could do a good portrait.

‘I can’t afford the time. I grudge every minute that I have to rob from my writing.’

‘But it would only be in the afternoon. I work at the school in the morning. After all, it’s better to sit to me than to do translations of legal documents.’

There were legends in the Latin quarter of a time when students of different countries lived together intimately, but this was long since passed, and now the various nations were almost as much separated as in an Oriental city. At Julian’s and at the Beaux Arts a French student was looked upon with disfavour by his fellow-countrymen when he consorted with foreigners, and it was difficult for an Englishman to know more than quite superficially any native inhabitants of the city in which he dwelt. Indeed, many of the students after living in Paris for five years knew no more French than served them in shops and lived as English a life as though they were working in South Kensington.

Philip, with his passion for the romantic, welcomed the opportunity to get in touch with a Spaniard; he used all his persuasiveness to overcome the man’s reluctance.

‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ said the Spaniard at last. ‘I’ll sit to you, but not for money, for my own pleasure.’

Philip expostulated, but the other was firm, and at length they arranged that he should come on the following Monday at one o’clock. He gave Philip a card on which was printed his name: Miguel Ajuria.

Miguel sat regularly, and though he refused to accept payment he borrowed fifty francs from Philip every now and then: it was a little more expensive than if Philip had paid for the sittings in the usual way; but gave the Spaniard a satisfactory feeling that he was not earning his living in a degrading manner. His nationality made Philip regard him as a representative of romance, and he asked him about Seville and Granada, Velasquez and Calderon. But Miguel bad no patience with the grandeur of his country. For him, as for so many of his compatriots, France was the only country for a man of intelligence and Paris the centre of the world.

‘Spain is dead,’ he cried. ‘It has no writers, it has no art, it has nothing.’

Little by little, with the exuberant rhetoric of his race, he revealed his ambitions. He was writing a novel which he hoped would make his name. He was under the influence of Zola, and he had set his scene in Paris. He told Philip the story at length. To Philip it seemed crude and stupid; the naive obscenity—c’est la vie, mon cher, c’est la vie, he cried—the naive obscenity served only to emphasise the conventionality of the anecdote. He had written for two years, amid incredible hardships, denying himself all the pleasures of life which had attracted him to Paris, fighting with starvation for art’s sake, determined that nothing should hinder his great achievement. The effort was heroic.

‘But why don’t you write about Spain?’ cried Philip. ‘It would be so much more interesting. You know the life.’

‘But Paris is the only place worth writing about. Paris is life.’

One day he brought part of the manuscript, and in his bad French, translating excitedly as he went along so that Philip could scarcely understand, he read passages. It was lamentable. Philip, puzzled, looked at the picture he was painting: the mind behind that broad brow was trivial; and the flashing, passionate eyes saw nothing in life but the obvious. Philip was not satisfied with his portrait, and at the end of a sitting he nearly always scraped out what he had done. It was all very well to aim at the intention of the soul: who could tell what that was when people seemed a mass of contradictions? He liked Miguel, and it distressed him to realise that his magnificent struggle was futile: he had everything to make a good writer but talent. Philip looked at his own work. How could you tell whether there was anything in it or whether you were wasting your time? It was clear that the will to achieve could not help you and confidence in yourself meant nothing. Philip thought of Fanny Price; she had a vehement belief in her talent; her strength of will was extraordinary.

‘If I thought I wasn’t going to be really good, I’d rather give up painting,’ said Philip. ‘I don’t see any use in being a second-rate painter.’

Then one morning when he was going out, the concierge called out to him that there was a letter. Nobody wrote to him but his Aunt Louisa and sometimes Hayward, and this was a handwriting he did not know. The letter was as follows:

Please come at once when you get this. I couldn’t put up with it any more. Please come yourself. I can’t bear the thought that anyone else should touch me. I want you to have everything.

F. Price

I have not had anything to eat for three days.

Philip felt on a sudden sick with fear. He hurried to the house in which she lived. He was astonished that she was in Paris at all. He had not seen her for months and imagined she had long since returned to England. When he arrived he asked the concierge whether she was in.

‘Yes, I’ve not seen her go out for two days.’

Philip ran upstairs and knocked at the door. There was no reply. He called her name. The door was locked, and on bending down he found the key was in the lock.

‘Oh, my God, I hope she hasn’t done something awful,’ he cried aloud.

He ran down and told the porter that she was certainly in the room. He had had a letter from her and feared a terrible accident. He suggested breaking open the door. The porter, who had been sullen and disinclined to listen, became alarmed; he could not take the responsibility of breaking into the room; they must go for the commissaire de police. They walked together to the bureau, and then they fetched a locksmith. Philip found that Miss Price had not paid the last quarter’s rent: on New Year’s Day she had not given the concierge the present which old-established custom led him to regard as a right. The four of them went upstairs, and they knocked again at the door. There was no reply. The locksmith set to work, and at last they entered the room. Philip gave a cry and instinctively covered his eyes with his hands. The wretched woman was hanging with a rope round her neck, which she had tied to a hook in the ceiling fixed by some previous tenant to hold up the curtains of the bed. She had moved her own little bed out of the way and had stood on a chair, which had been kicked away. it was lying on its side on the floor. They cut her down. The body was quite cold.

第四十八章

菲利普回到阿米特拉诺画室，发现范妮·普赖斯已不再在那儿学画。她个人专用柜的钥匙也已交还给学校。菲利普向奥特太太打听她的情况，奥特太太双肩一耸，说她很可能回英国去了。菲利普听了不觉松了口气。她那副臭脾气实在让人受不了。更气人的是，菲利普在作画的时候，她定要在旁指手划脚，倘若菲利普不按她的意见办，她便认为是有意怠慢，不把她放在眼里。殊不知他菲利普早已不是当初那么个一窍不通的傻小子啦。没多久，菲利普便把她忘得一干二净。现在他迷上了油画，一心希望画出一两幅有分量的作品来，好参加明年的巴黎艺展。劳森在作查利斯小姐的肖像画。就这位小姐的模样来说，确实颇堪入画，凡是拜倒在她脚下的青年人，都曾替她作过画。她天生一副慵慵恹恹的神态，再加上喜欢搔首弄姿，使她成为一个不可多得的模特儿。再说她自己对门也很在行，还可以在旁提些中肯的意见。她之所以热中于艺术，主要是因为向往艺术家的生涯。至于自己的学业是否有所长进，倒是满不在乎。她喜欢画室里的热闹气氛，还有机会大量抽烟。她用低沉而悦耳的声，谈论对艺术的爱，谈论爱的艺术，而这两者究竟有何区别，连她自己也分辨不清。

近来，劳森一直在埋头苦干，差不多真到了废寝忘食的地步。他一连画上好几天，直到支撑不住才罢手，接着却又把画好的部分统统刮掉。幸好是露思·查利斯，若换了别人早就不耐烦了。最后，画面被他搞得一团糟，再也没法补救。

"看来只得换块画布，重砌炉灶罗，"他说。"这回我心里有底了，不消多久就能画成的。"

当时菲利普正好也在场，查利斯小姐对他说：

"你干吗不也来给我画一张？你观摩劳森先生作画，一定会学到不少东西的。"

查利斯小姐对他的情人一律以姓氏相称--这也是她待人接物细致入微的地方。

"要是劳森不介意，我当然非常乐意罗。"

"我才不在乎呢！"劳森说。

菲利普还是第一次动手画人像，一上来尽管有点紧张，但心里很得意。他坐在劳森旁边。一边看他画，一边自己画。面前放着这么个样板，又有劳森和查利斯小姐毫无保留地在旁点拨，菲利普自然得益匪浅。最后，劳森终于大功告成，请克拉顿来批评指教。克拉顿刚回巴黎。他从普罗旺斯顺路南下，到了西班牙，很想见识一下委拉斯开兹在马德里的作品，然后他又去托列多待了三个月。回来后，他嘴里老念叨着一个在这些年轻人听来很觉陌生的名字：他竭力推崇一个名叫埃尔·格列柯的画家，并说倘若要想学他的画，则似乎非去托列多不可。

"哦，对了，这个人我听说过，"劳森说，"他是个古典大师，其特色却在于他的作品同现代派一样拙劣。"

克拉顿比以往更寡言少语，这会儿他不作任何回答，只是脸带讥讽地瞅了劳森一眼。

"你打算让咱们瞧瞧你从西班牙带回来的大作吗？"

"我在西班牙什么也没画，我太忙了。"

"那你在忙点啥？"

"我在思考问题。我相信自己同印象派一刀两断了。我认为不消几，年工夫，他们的作品就会显得十分空洞而浅薄。我想把以前学的东西统。统扔掉，一切从零开始。我回来以后，就把我过去所画的东西全都销毁了。在我的画室里，除了一只画架、我用的颜料和几块干净的画布之外，什么也没有了。"

"那你打算干什么呢？"

"我说不上来。今后要干什么我还只有一点模糊的想法。"

他说起话来慢腾腾的，神态很怪，好像在留神谛听某种勉强可闻的声音。他身上似乎有股连他自己也不理解的神秘力量，隐隐然挣扎着寻求发泄的机会。他那股劲头还真有点儿咄咄逼人。劳森嘴上说恭请指教，心里可有点发慌，忙不迭摆出一副对克拉顿的见解不屑一听的架势，以冲淡可能挨到的批评。但菲利普在一旁看得清楚，劳森巴不得能从克拉顿嘴里听到几句赞许的话呢。克拉顿盯着这张人像，看了半晌，一言不发，接着又朝菲利普画架上的画瞥了一眼。

"那是什么玩意儿？"他问。

"哦，我也试着画画人像。"

"依着葫芦学画瓢，"他嘟哝了一句。

他再转过身去看劳森的画布。菲利普涨红了脸，没吱声。

"嗯，阁下高见如何？"最后劳森忍不住问道。

"很有立体感，"克拉顿说，"我看画得挺好。"

"你看明暗层次是不是还可以？"

"相当不错。"

劳森喜得咧开了嘴。他像条落水狗似的，身子连着衣服一起抖动起来。

"嘿，你喜欢这幅画，我说不出有多高兴。"

"我才不呢！我认为这幅画毫无意思。"

劳森拉长了脸，惊愕地望着克拉顿，不明白他葫芦里卖的什么药。克拉顿不善辞令，说起话来似乎相当费劲，前言不搭后语，结结巴巴，罗里罗唆，不过菲利普对他东拉西扯的谈话倒还能琢磨出个究竟来。克拉顿自己从不开卷看书，这些话起初是从克朗肖那儿听来的，当时虽然印象不深，却留在他的记忆里了。最近，这些话又霍然浮现在脑际，给了他某种新的启示：一个出色的画像，有两个主要的描绘对象，即人及其心灵的意愿。印象派沉湎于其他方面，尽管他们笔下的人物，有形有色，令人赞叹，但他们却像十八世纪英国肖像画家那样，很少费心去考虑人物心灵的意愿。

"可你果真朝这方面发展，就会变得书卷气十足了，"劳森插嘴说，"还是让我像马奈那样画人物吧，什么心灵的意愿，见他的鬼去！"

"要是你能在马奈擅长的人像画方面胜过他，当然再好不过，可实际上你赶不上他的水平。你今天立足的这个地盘，已是光光的一无所有，你怎么能既站在现在的地盘上又想用往昔的东西来丰富自己的创作呢？你得脚踏实地重新退回去。直到我见到格列柯的作品之后，我才开了眼界，感到可以从肖像画中得到以前所不知道的东西。"

"那不是又回到罗斯金的老路上去了！"劳森嚷道。

"不--你得明白，他喜欢说教，而我才不在乎那一套呢。说教呀，伦理道德呀，诸如此类的玩意儿，根本没用，要紧的是激情和情感。最伟大的肖像画家，不仅勾勒人物的外貌，而且也描绘出人物心灵的意愿。勒勃朗和埃尔·格列柯就是这样。只有二流画家，才局限于刻划人物的外貌。幽谷中的百合花，即使没有香味，也是讨人喜欢的；可是如果还能散发出阵阵芳馨，那就更加迷人了。那幅画，"一他指着劳森画的人像一"嗯，构图不错，立体感也可以，就是没有一点新意。照理说，线条的勾勒和实体的表现，都应该让你一眼就看出这是个卖弄风骚的婆娘。外形准确固然是好，可埃尔·格列柯笔下的人物，却是身高八英尺，因为非如此便不足以表达他所想表达的意趣。"

"去他妈的埃尔·格列柯，"劳森说，"这个人的作品我们连看都没看到过，却在这儿谈论此人如何如何，还不是瞎放空炮！"

克拉顿耸耸肩，默默地点上一支烟，走开了。菲利普和劳森面面相觑。

"他讲的倒也不无道理，"菲利普说。

劳森悻悻然冲着自己的画发愣。

"除了把你看到的东西毫不走样地勾勒下来，还有什么别的方法可用来表达人物心灵的意愿？"

差不多就在这时候，菲利普结交了个新朋友。星期一早晨，模特儿们。照例要到学校来应选，选中者就留下来工作一周。有一回，选中了个青年男子，他显然不是个职业模特儿。菲利普被他的姿态吸引住了：他跨上，站台，两腿交叉成直角，稳稳地站着，紧攥双拳，头部傲然前倾，这一姿态鲜明地显示了他体型的健美；他身上胖瘦适中，鼓突的肌肉犹如铜铸铁浇一般。头发剪得很短，头部轮廓线条很优美，下巴上留着短短的胡须；一对眼睛又大又黑，两道眉毛又粗又浓。他一连几个小时保持着这种姿势，不见半点倦意。他那略带几分羞惭的神态之中，隐隐透出一股刚毅之气。他活力充沛，神采奕奕，激起了菲利普的罗曼蒂克的遐想。等他工作完毕，穿好衣服，菲利普反觉得他像个裹着褴褛衣衫的君王。他寡言少语，不轻易开口。过了几天，奥特太太告诉菲利普，这模特儿是个西班牙人，以前从未干过这一行。

"想来他是为饥饿所迫吧，"菲利普说。

"你注意到他的衣服了？既整洁又体面，是吗？"

说来也凑巧，在阿米特拉诺画室习画的美国人波特，这时要去意大利。小住几个月，愿意让菲利普借用他的画室。菲利普正求之不得。他对劳森那种命令式的诲训已渐渐有点不耐烦，正想一个人住开去。周末，他跑到那个模特儿跟前，借口说自己的画还没画完，问他是否肯上自己那儿去加一天班。

"我不是模特儿，"西班牙人回答说，"下星期我有别的事要干。"

"现在跟我一起去吃中饭，咱们可以边吃边商量嘛，"菲利普说。他见对方迟疑不决，又笑着说："陪我吃顿便饭会把你坑了怎么的。"

那个模特儿耸了耸肩，同意了，他们便一块儿去一家点心店就餐。那个模特儿说一口蹩脚的法语，吐词又像连珠炮似的，所以听起来很吃力。菲利普小心应付，和他谈得还算投机。那西班牙人是个作家，来巴黎写小说的，在此期间，为了糊口，穷光蛋干的苦差事他差不多全干过：他教书，搞翻译，主要是搞商务文件翻译（凡能揽到手的，不管什么都译），到最后，竟不得不靠自己的健美体型来赚钱。给人当模特儿，收入倒还不错，这个星期所挣到的钱，够他以后两个星期花的。他对菲利普说，他靠两个法郎就能舒舒服服地过上一天（菲利普听了好生惊讶）。不过，为了挣几个子儿而不得不裸露自己的身子，这实在使他感到羞愧难当。在他看来，做模特儿无异是一种堕落，唯一可聊以自慰的是：总不见得眼睁睁地让自己饿死吧。菲利普解释说，他并不想画整个身子，而是单画头部，他希望画张他的头像，争取送到下一届巴黎艺展去展出。

"干吗你一定要画我呢？"西班牙人问。

菲利普回答说自己对他的头型很感兴趣，说不定能画出一幅成功的人像画来。

"我可抽不出时间来。要我挤掉写作时间，哪怕是一分一秒，我也不乐意。"

"但我只想占用你下午的时间。上午我在学校里作画。不管怎么说，坐着让我画像，总比翻译法律公文要强吧。"

拉丁区内不同国籍的学生，一度曾相处得十分融洽，至今仍传为美谈，可惜这早已成了往事。如今，差不多也像在东方城市里那样，不同国籍的学生老死不相往来。在朱利昂画室或是在美术学院里，一个法国学生苦与外国人交往，就会遭到本国同胞的侧目；而一个旅居巴黎的英国人要想与所住城市的当地居民有所深交，似乎比登天还难。说真的，有许多学生在巴黎住了五年之久，学到的法语只够在跑商店饭馆时派点用处。他们仍过着道地的英国式生活，好似在南肯辛顿工作、学习一样。

菲利普一向醉心于富有浪漫气息的事物，现在有机会和一个西班牙人接触，他当然不舍得白白放过。他拨动如簧巧舌，连劝带哄，想把对方说通。

"我说就这么办吧，"西班牙人最后说，"我答应给你当模特儿，但不是为了钱，而是我自个儿高兴这么做。"

菲利普劝他接受点报酬，但对方拒意甚坚。最后他们商定，他下星期一下午一时来。他给了菲利普一张名片，上面印着他的大名：米格尔·阿胡里亚。

米格尔定期来当模特儿，他虽然拒绝收费，但不时问菲利普借个五十法郎什么的，所以菲利普实际的破费，比按常规付他工钱只多不少。不过，西班牙人感到满意了，因为这些钱可不是干下践活儿挣来的。由于他有着西班牙的国籍，菲利普就把他当作浪漫民族的代表，执意要他谈谈塞维利亚和格拉纳达，谈谈委拉斯开兹和卡尔德隆。但是米格尔并不把自己国家的灿烂文化放在眼里。他也像他的许多同胞一样，认为只有法国才算得上英才荟萃之乡，而巴黎则是世界的中心。

"西班牙完蛋了，"他大声叫道。"没有作家，没有艺术，什么也没有。"

渐渐地，米格尔以其民族所特有的那种浮夸辩才，向菲利普披露了自己的抱负。他正在写一部长篇小说，希望能借此一举成名。他深受左拉的影响，把巴黎作为自己小说的主要生活场景。他详细地给菲利普讲了小说的情节。在菲利普听来，作品内容粗俗而无聊，有关秽行的幼稚描写--c'est la vie，mon cher，c'est la vie，他叫道--反而更衬托出故事的陈腐俗套。他置身于难以想象的困境之中，坚持写了两年，含辛茹苦，清心寡欲，舍弃了当初吸引他来巴黎的种种生活乐趣，为了艺术而甘心忍饥挨饿；他矢志不移，任何力量也阻挡不了实现毕生宏愿的决心。这种苦心孤诣的精神倒真了不起呢。

"你何不写西班牙呢？"菲利普大声说。"那会有趣多了。你熟悉那儿的生活。"

"巴黎是唯一值得描写的地方。巴黎才是生活。"

有一天，他带来一部分手稿，自念自译。他激动得什么似的，再加上他的法语又那么蹩脚，菲利普听了简直不知其所云。他一口气念了好几段。实在糟糕透了。菲利普望着自己的画发愣：他实在没法理解，藏在宽阔的眉宇后面的思想，竟是那么浅薄平庸；那对灼灼有光、热情洋溢的眸子，竞只看到生活中浮光掠影的表象。菲利普对自己的画总觉着不顺心，每回作画临结束时，差不多总要把已成的画面全部刮掉。人物肖像，旨在表现心灵的意愿，这说法固然很中听，可如果出现在你面前的是一些集各种矛盾于一身的人物，那又有谁说得出心灵的意愿是什么呢？他喜欢米格尔，看到他呕心沥血却劳而无功，不免感到痛心。成为出色作家的各种条件，他差不多一应俱全，唯独缺少天赋。菲利普望着自己的作品。谁又分辨得出这里面确实凝聚着天才，还是纯粹在虚掷光阴呢？显然，那种不达目的誓不罢休的意志，帮不了你什么忙，自信心也毫无意义。菲利普想到了范妮·普赖斯：她既坚信自己的禀赋，意志力也相当惊人。

"要是我自知成不了大器，我宁可就此封笔不画了，"菲利普说。"我看当个二流画家实在毫无出息。"

一天早上他刚要出门，看门人将他叫住，说有封他的信。平时除了路易莎伯母，间或还有海沃德外，再没别人给他写信了。而这封信的笔迹他过去从未见过。信上这么写着：

见信后请速来我处。我再也支撑不住。你务必亲自前来。想到让别人来碰我的身子，我简直受不了。我要把所有的东西全留给你。

范·普赖斯

我已经一连三天没吃到一口食物。

菲利普突然感到一阵惶恐，浑身发软。他急匆匆直奔她的住所。使他吃惊的是，她竟还留在巴黎。他已经好几个月没见到她，以为她早就回英国去了。他一到那儿，便问门房她是否在家。

"在的吧，我已经有两天没见她出门了。"

菲利普一口气奔上了楼，敲敲房门。里面没人应答，他叫唤她的名字。房门锁着，他弯腰一看，发现钥匙插在锁孔里。

"哦，天哪，但愿她没干出什么糊涂事来，"他失声大叫。

他急忙跑到楼下对门房说，她肯定是在房间里。他刚收到她的一封信，担心出了什么意外。他建议把门撬开。起初门房板着脸，不想听他说话，后来知道事态严重，一时又慌了手脚。他负不起破门而入的责任，坚持要把警察署长请来。他们一块儿到了警察署，然后又找来了锁匠。菲利普了解到普赖斯小姐还欠着上个季度的房租。元旦那天，也没给门房礼物，而门房根据惯例，认为元旦佳节从房客那儿到手件把礼物乃是理所当然的事。他们四人一起上了楼，又敲了敲门，还是无人应答。锁匠动手开锁，最后大家总算进了房间。菲利普大叫一声，本能地用手捂住眼睛。这个可怜的姑娘已上吊自尽了--绳索就套在天花板的铁钩上，而这钩子是先前某个房客用来挂床帘的。她把自己的小床挪到一边，先站在椅于上，随后用两脚把椅于蹬开。椅子现在就横倒在地上。他们割断绳索，把她放下来。她的身子早已凉透了。

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chapter 49

The story which Philip made out in one way and another was terrible. One of the grievances of the women-students was that Fanny Price would never share their gay meals in restaurants, and the reason was obvious: she had been oppressed by dire poverty. He remembered the luncheon they had eaten together when first he came to Paris and the ghoulish appetite which had disgusted him: he realised now that she ate in that manner because she was ravenous. The concierge told him what her food had consisted of. A bottle of milk was left for her every day and she brought in her own loaf of bread; she ate half the loaf and drank half the milk at mid-day when she came back from the school, and consumed the rest in the evening. It was the same day after day. Philip thought with anguish of what she must have endured. She had never given anyone to understand that she was poorer than the rest, but it was clear that her money had been coming to an end, and at last she could not afford to come any more to the studio. The little room was almost bare of furniture, and there were no other clothes than the shabby brown dress she had always worn. Philip searched among her things for the address of some friend with whom he could communicate. He found a piece of paper on which his own name was written a score of times. It gave him a peculiar shock. He supposed it was true that she had loved him; he thought of the emaciated body, in the brown dress, hanging from the nail in the ceiling; and he shuddered. But if she had cared for him why did she not let him help her? He would so gladly have done all he could. He felt remorseful because he had refused to see that she looked upon him with any particular feeling, and now these words in her letter were infinitely pathetic: I can’t bear the thought that anyone else should touch me. She had died of starvation.

Philip found at length a letter signed: your loving brother, Albert. it was two or three weeks old, dated from some road in Surbiton, and refused a loan of five pounds. The writer had his wife and family to think of, he didn’t feel justified in lending money, and his advice was that Fanny should come back to London and try to get a situation. Philip telegraphed to Albert Price, and in a little while an answer came:

‘Deeply distressed. Very awkward to leave my business. Is presence essential. Price.’

Philip wired a succinct affirmative, and next morning a stranger presented himself at the studio.

‘My name’s Price,’ he said, when Philip opened the door.

He was a commonish man in black with a band round his bowler hat; he had something of Fanny’s clumsy look; he wore a stubbly moustache, and had a cockney accent. Philip asked him to come in. He cast sidelong glances round the studio while Philip gave him details of the accident and told him what he had done.

‘I needn’t see her, need I?’ asked Albert Price. ‘My nerves aren’t very strong, and it takes very little to upset me.’

He began to talk freely. He was a rubber-merchant, and he had a wife and three children. Fanny was a governess, and he couldn’t make out why she hadn’t stuck to that instead of coming to Paris.

‘Me and Mrs. Price told her Paris was no place for a girl. And there’s no money in art—never ‘as been.’

It was plain enough that he had not been on friendly terms with his sister, and he resented her suicide as a last injury that she had done him. He did not like the idea that she had been forced to it by poverty; that seemed to reflect on the family. The idea struck him that possibly there was a more respectable reason for her act.

‘I suppose she ‘adn’t any trouble with a man, ‘ad she? You know what I mean, Paris and all that. She might ‘ave done it so as not to disgrace herself.’

Philip felt himself reddening and cursed his weakness. Price’s keen little eyes seemed to suspect him of an intrigue.

‘I believe your sister to have been perfectly virtuous,’ he answered acidly. ‘She killed herself because she was starving.’

‘Well, it’s very ‘ard on her family, Mr. Carey. She only ‘ad to write to me. I wouldn’t have let my sister want.’

Philip had found the brother’s address only by reading the letter in which he refused a loan; but he shrugged his shoulders: there was no use in recrimination. He hated the little man and wanted to have done with him as soon as possible. Albert Price also wished to get through the necessary business quickly so that he could get back to London. They went to the tiny room in which poor Fanny had lived. Albert Price looked at the pictures and the furniture.

‘I don’t pretend to know much about art,’ he said. ‘I suppose these pictures would fetch something, would they?’

‘Nothing,’ said Philip.

‘The furniture’s not worth ten shillings.’

Albert Price knew no French and Philip had to do everything. It seemed that it was an interminable process to get the poor body safely hidden away under ground: papers had to be obtained in one place and signed in another; officials had to be seen. For three days Philip was occupied from morning till night. At last he and Albert Price followed the hearse to the cemetery at Montparnasse.

‘I want to do the thing decent,’ said Albert Price, ‘but there’s no use wasting money.’

The short ceremony was infinitely dreadful in the cold gray morning. Half a dozen people who had worked with Fanny Price at the studio came to the funeral, Mrs. Otter because she was massiere and thought it her duty, Ruth Chalice because she had a kind heart, Lawson, Clutton, and Flanagan. They had all disliked her during her life. Philip, looking across the cemetery crowded on all sides with monuments, some poor and simple, others vulgar, pretentious, and ugly, shuddered. It was horribly sordid. When they came out Albert Price asked Philip to lunch with him. Philip loathed him now and he was tired; he had not been sleeping well, for he dreamed constantly of Fanny Price in the torn brown dress, hanging from the nail in the ceiling; but he could not think of an excuse.

‘You take me somewhere where we can get a regular slap-up lunch. All this is the very worst thing for my nerves.’

‘Lavenue’s is about the best place round here,’ answered Philip.

Albert Price settled himself on a velvet seat with a sigh of relief. He ordered a substantial luncheon and a bottle of wine.

‘Well, I’m glad that’s over,’ he said.

He threw out a few artful questions, and Philip discovered that he was eager to hear about the painter’s life in Paris. He represented it to himself as deplorable, but he was anxious for details of the orgies which his fancy suggested to him. With sly winks and discreet sniggering he conveyed that he knew very well that there was a great deal more than Philip confessed. He was a man of the world, and he knew a thing or two. He asked Philip whether he had ever been to any of those places in Montmartre which are celebrated from Temple Bar to the Royal Exchange. He would like to say he had been to the Moulin Rouge. The luncheon was very good and the wine excellent. Albert Price expanded as the processes of digestion went satisfactorily forwards.

‘Let’s ‘ave a little brandy,’ he said when the coffee was brought, ‘and blow the expense.’

He rubbed his hands.

‘You know, I’ve got ‘alf a mind to stay over tonight and go back tomorrow. What d’you say to spending the evening together?’

‘If you mean you want me to take you round Montmartre tonight, I’ll see you damned,’ said Philip.

‘I suppose it wouldn’t be quite the thing.’

The answer was made so seriously that Philip was tickled.

‘Besides it would be rotten for your nerves,’ he said gravely.

Albert Price concluded that he had better go back to London by the four o’clock train, and presently he took leave of Philip.

‘Well, good-bye, old man,’ he said. ‘I tell you what, I’ll try and come over to Paris again one of these days and I’ll look you up. And then we won’t ‘alf go on the razzle.’

Philip was too restless to work that afternoon, so he jumped on a bus and crossed the river to see whether there were any pictures on view at Durand-Ruel’s. After that he strolled along the boulevard. It was cold and wind-swept. People hurried by wrapped up in their coats, shrunk together in an effort to keep out of the cold, and their faces were pinched and careworn. It was icy underground in the cemetery at Montparnasse among all those white tombstones. Philip felt lonely in the world and strangely homesick. He wanted company. At that hour Cronshaw would be working, and Clutton never welcomed visitors; Lawson was painting another portrait of Ruth Chalice and would not care to be disturbed. He made up his mind to go and see Flanagan. He found him painting, but delighted to throw up his work and talk. The studio was comfortable, for the American had more money than most of them, and warm; Flanagan set about making tea. Philip looked at the two heads that he was sending to the Salon.

‘It’s awful cheek my sending anything,’ said Flanagan, ‘but I don’t care, I’m going to send. D’you think they’re rotten?’

‘Not so rotten as I should have expected,’ said Philip.

They showed in fact an astounding cleverness. The difficulties had been avoided with skill, and there was a dash about the way in which the paint was put on which was surprising and even attractive. Flanagan, without knowledge or technique, painted with the loose brush of a man who has spent a lifetime in the practice of the art.

‘If one were forbidden to look at any picture for more than thirty seconds you’d be a great master, Flanagan,’ smiled Philip.

These young people were not in the habit of spoiling one another with excessive flattery.

‘We haven’t got time in America to spend more than thirty seconds in looking at any picture,’ laughed the other.

Flanagan, though he was the most scatter-brained person in the world, had a tenderness of heart which was unexpected and charming. Whenever anyone was ill he installed himself as sick-nurse. His gaiety was better than any medicine. Like many of his countrymen he had not the English dread of sentimentality which keeps so tight a hold on emotion; and, finding nothing absurd in the show of feeling, could offer an exuberant sympathy which was often grateful to his friends in distress. He saw that Philip was depressed by what he had gone through and with unaffected kindliness set himself boisterously to cheer him up. He exaggerated the Americanisms which he knew always made the Englishmen laugh and poured out a breathless stream of conversation, whimsical, high-spirited, and jolly. In due course they went out to dinner and afterwards to the Gaite Montparnasse, which was Flanagan’s favourite place of amusement. By the end of the evening he was in his most extravagant humour. He had drunk a good deal, but any inebriety from which he suffered was due much more to his own vivacity than to alcohol. He proposed that they should go to the Bal Bullier, and Philip, feeling too tired to go to bed, willingly enough consented. They sat down at a table on the platform at the side, raised a little from the level of the floor so that they could watch the dancing, and drank a bock. Presently Flanagan saw a friend and with a wild shout leaped over the barrier on to the space where they were dancing. Philip watched the people. Bullier was not the resort of fashion. It was Thursday night and the place was crowded. There were a number of students of the various faculties, but most of the men were clerks or assistants in shops; they wore their everyday clothes, ready-made tweeds or queer tail-coats, and their hats, for they had brought them in with them, and when they danced there was no place to put them but their heads. Some of the women looked like servant-girls, and some were painted hussies, but for the most part they were shop-girls. They were poorly-dressed in cheap imitation of the fashions on the other side of the river. The hussies were got up to resemble the music-hall artiste or the dancer who enjoyed notoriety at the moment; their eyes were heavy with black and their cheeks impudently scarlet. The hall was lit by great white lights, low down, which emphasised the shadows on the faces; all the lines seemed to harden under it, and the colours were most crude. It was a sordid scene. Philip leaned over the rail, staring down, and he ceased to hear the music. They danced furiously. They danced round the room, slowly, talking very little, with all their attention given to the dance. The room was hot, and their faces shone with sweat. it seemed to Philip that they had thrown off the guard which people wear on their expression, the homage to convention, and he saw them now as they really were. In that moment of abandon they were strangely animal: some were foxy and some were wolf-like; and others had the long, foolish face of sheep. Their skins were sallow from the unhealthy life they led and the poor food they ate. Their features were blunted by mean interests, and their little eyes were shifty and cunning. There was nothing of nobility in their bearing, and you felt that for all of them life was a long succession of petty concerns and sordid thoughts. The air was heavy with the musty smell of humanity. But they danced furiously as though impelled by some strange power within them, and it seemed to Philip that they were driven forward by a rage for enjoyment. They were seeking desperately to escape from a world of horror. The desire for pleasure which Cronshaw said was the only motive of human action urged them blindly on, and the very vehemence of the desire seemed to rob it of all pleasure. They were hurried on by a great wind, helplessly, they knew not why and they knew not whither. Fate seemed to tower above them, and they danced as though everlasting darkness were beneath their feet. Their silence was vaguely alarming. It was as if life terrified them and robbed them of power of speech so that the shriek which was in their hearts died at their throats. Their eyes were haggard and grim; and notwithstanding the beastly lust that disfigured them, and the meanness of their faces, and the cruelty, notwithstanding the stupidness which was worst of all, the anguish of those fixed eyes made all that crowd terrible and pathetic. Philip loathed them, and yet his heart ached with the infinite pity which filled him.

He took his coat from the cloak-room and went out into the bitter coldness of the night.

第四十九章

从菲利普多方面了解到的情况来看，范妮·普赖斯的境遇够惨的。平时，画室里的女同学常结伴去餐馆用餐，唯独她范妮·普赖斯从未凑过。这份热闹，所以她们免不了要在背后嘀咕几句。其实原因很清楚：她一贫如洗，哪有钱上馆子。菲利普想起他初来巴黎时曾同她在一块儿吃过一顿午餐，当时她那副狼吞虎咽的馋相，菲利普看了不胜厌恶，现在他明白过来，她原来并非嘴馋贪吃，而实在是饿坏了。她平日吃些什么，看门人给菲利普讲了：每天给她留一瓶牛奶，面包由她自个儿买，中午她从学校回来，啃半个面包，喝半瓶牛奶，剩下的就留在晚上吃。一年四季天天如此。想到她生前忍饥挨饿，一定受够了苦，菲利普不由得一阵心酸。她从来不让人知道自己比谁都穷；她显然已落到山穷水尽的地步，最后连画室的学费也付不出。她的一方斗室里，空空荡荡的几乎没什么家具。至于她的衣服，除了那件一年穿到头的破旧棕色裙衫外，就再没有什么了。菲利普翻看她的遗物，想找到个把亲友的地址，好同他联系。他发现了一张纸条，上面写着他菲利普的名字，一连写了几十次。他像当头挨了一棍子似地愣住了。想来她准是爱上自己了哩。那具悬梁高挂、裹在棕色衣衫里的形销骨立的尸体，顿时浮现在眼前，他禁不住打了个寒战。要是她心里果真有他，那干吗不开口向他求助呢？他肯定乐意尽力周济的嘛。当初不该明知她对自己有特殊的感情，竟然装聋作哑，漠然置之，现在想来，心里悔恨交集。她遗书中的那句留言，包含着几多哀怨：想到让别人来碰我的身子，我简直受不了。她是活活给饥饿逼死的。

菲利普终于找到了一封落款为"家兄艾伯特"的信件。信是在两三个星期之前从萨比顿区某街寄来的，信中一口回绝了商借五英镑的请求。写信人说，他有家室之累，得为妻子儿女着想；他不认为自己有理由可随意借钱给别人。他功范妮回伦敦设法谋个差事。菲利普给艾伯特·普赖斯发了份电报。不久，回电来了：

"深感悲恸。商务繁忙，难以脱身。是否非来不可？普赖斯。"

菲利普又去了份简短的电报，请他务必拨冗前来。第二天早上，一个陌生人来画室找他。

"我叫普赖斯，"菲利普把门打开，对方自我介绍说。

来人略带几分粗俗之气，穿一身黑衣服，圆顶礼帽上箍了根簿条带。他那笨手笨脚的模样有点像范妮。他蓄着一撮短须，一口的伦敦士腔。菲利普请他进了屋子。在菲利普向他详述出事经过以及他如何料理后事的时候，他不时斜睨着眼四下打量。

"我就不必去看她的遗体了吧，呃？"艾伯特·普赖斯问。"我的神经比较脆弱，受不了一点儿刺激。"

他渐渐打开了话匣子。他是个橡胶商，家里有老婆和三个孩子。范妮原是当家庭教师的，他不明白为什么她好端端的差事不干，非要跑到巴黎来不可。

"我和内人都对她说，巴黎可不是姑娘家待的地方。干画画这一行赚不了钱的--历来如此嘛。"

不难看出，他们兄妹俩的关系并不怎么融洽。他抱怨她不该自寻短见，死了还要给他添麻烦。他不愿让人说他妹妹是迫于贫困才走此绝路的，因为这似乎有辱他们家的门庭。他忽然想到，她走这一步会不会出于某种较为体面的动机。

"我想她总不至于同哪个男人有什么瓜葛吧。你明白我的意思，巴黎这个地方，无奇不有嘛，她也许是为了保全自己的名誉才不得已这么干的呢。"

菲利普感到自己脸上发烫，心里暗暗诅咒自己的软心肠。普赖斯那对刺人的小眼睛，似乎在怀疑菲利普和他妹妹有什么私情。

"我相信令妹的贞操是无可指摘的，"他以坚决的口气答道，"她自寻短见是因为她快饿死了。"

"嗯，您这么一说，可使她家里人感到难堪罗，凯里先生。她只需给我来封信就行了。我总不会眼睁睁看着妹妹缺吃少穿的嘛。"

菲利普正是看了这位兄长拒绝借钱的信才知道他地址的，可菲利普只是耸了耸肩：何必当面揭穿他的谎言呢。他十分讨厌这个小个儿男人，只求能尽快地把他打发走。艾伯特·普赖斯也希望能快点把事办完，及早回伦敦去。他们来到可怜的范妮生前住的小斗室。艾伯特·普赖斯看了看屋子里的画和家具。

"在艺术方面我可不想充内行，"他说，"我想这些画还对以卖几个子儿的，是吗？"

"一文不值，"菲利普说。

"这些家具值不了十个先令。"

艾伯特·普赖斯对法语一窍不通，凡事都得由菲利普出面张罗。看来还得经过一道道没完没了的手续，才能让那具可怜的遗体安然人士。从这儿取到证件，得上那儿去盖印儿，还得求见不少盲老爷。一连三天，菲利普从早一直忙到晚，简直连喘口气的工夫也没有。最后，他总算和艾伯特·普赖斯一起，跟随在灵车后面，朝蒙帕纳斯公墓走去。

"我也希望把丧事办得体面些，"艾伯特·普赖斯说，"不过，想想白白把钱往水里扔，实在没意思。"

灰蒙蒙的早晨，寒意侵人，草草举行的葬礼显得分外凄凉。参加葬礼的还有另外五六个人，都是和范妮·普赖斯在画室里共过学的同窗：奥特太太---一因为她身为司库，自认为参加葬礼责无旁贷：露思·查利斯--一因为她心地善良；此外还有劳森、克拉顿和弗拉纳根。她生前从未得到过这些人的好感。菲利普纵目望去，只见碑石林立，有的简陋、粗糙，有的浮华俗气，不堪入目。菲利普看着看着不由得一阵哆嗦。眼前这一片景象好不肃杀凄然。他们离开公墓时，艾伯特·普赖斯要菲利普陪他一起去吃午饭。菲利普一则对他十分厌恶，二则感到困顿异常（这些天来他一直眠不安神，老是梦见身裹破旧棕色衣服的范妮·普赖斯悬梁高挂的惨状），很想一口回绝，但一时又想不出什么话来推托。

"你领我去一家上等馆子，让咱俩吃顿像样的午餐。这种事儿糟透了，真叫我的神经受不了。"

"拉夫组餐厅可算是这儿附近最上乘的一家馆子了，"菲利普答道。

艾伯特·普赖斯在一张天鹅绒靠椅上坐定身子，如释重负地吁了口气。他要了份丰盛的午餐，外加一瓶酒。

"嘿，我真高兴，事情总算办完了。"

他狡猾地问了几个问题，菲利普一听就知道他很想了解巴黎画家的私生活情况。尽管他口口声声说画家的私生活糟透了，但实际上却巴不得能听到他想象中画家们所过的那种淫逸放浪生活的细枝末节。他时而狡黠地眨眨眼睛，时而颇有城府地窃笑几声，那意思分明是说：菲利普休想瞒得过他，得好好从实招来。他是个见过世面的人，对这类事的内情暗幕也并非一无所知。他问菲利普是否去过蒙马特尔，那儿下至坦普尔酒吧，上至皇家交易所，全是享有盛名的冒险家的乐园。他真想编些词儿，说自己曾去过"红磨坊游乐场"呢！他们这顿午餐菜肴精美，酒也香醇醉人。艾伯特·普赖斯酒足饭饱之余，兴致更高了。

"再来点白兰地吧，"咖啡端上餐桌时，他说，"索性破点财罗！"

他搓了搓手。

"我说呀，我还真想在这儿过夜，明儿再回去呢。让咱俩一块儿消度今宵，老弟意下如何？"

"你是要我今儿晚上陪你去逛蒙马特尔？见你的鬼去吧！"菲利普说。

"我想我不是那个意思。"

他回答得那么一本正经，反倒把菲利普逗乐了。

"再说，你的神经恐怕也消受不了哪，"菲利普神态严肃地说。

艾伯特·普赖斯最后还是决定搭下午四时的火车回伦敦去，不一会儿，他就和菲利普分手了。

"再见了，老弟，"他说。"告诉你，过些日子我还要上巴黎来的，到时候我再来拜访你，让咱们痛痛快快地乐一下。"

那天下午菲利普心神不定，索性跳上一辆公共汽车过河去迪朗一吕埃尔画铺，看看那儿可有什么新的画儿展出。然后，他沿着大街信步闲逛。寒风劲吹，卷地而过。行人裹紧大衣，蜷缩着身子，想挡住侵骨的寒气。他们愁眉锁眼，行色匆匆，一副心事重重的神态。此刻，在那白色墓碑林立的蒙帕纳斯公墓的地下，准像冰窖似的阴冷彻骨。菲利普感到自己在此茫茫人世间，好不孤独，心头不禁涌起一股莫可名状的思乡之情。他想找个伴儿。但眼下这时候，克朗肖正在工作，克拉顿从来就不欢迎别人登门造访，劳森正忙着给露思·查利斯画另一幅肖像，自然不希望有人来打扰。于是他决计去找弗拉纳根。菲利普发现他在作画，不过正巴不得丢下画来跟人聊聊。画室里又舒适又暖和，这个美国学生比他们大多数人都阔绰。弗拉纳根忙着去张罗茶水。菲利普端详着弗拉纳根那两幅准备送交巴黎艺展的头像。

"我要送画去展出，脸皮未免厚了点吧，"弗拉纳根说。"管他呐，我就是要送去。阁下认为这两张画够糟的吧？"

"不像我想象的那么糟，"菲利普说。

事实上，这两幅画的手法之巧妙，令人拍案。凡是难以处理的地方，均被作画人圆熟地回避掉了；调色用彩很大胆，透出一股刚劲之气，叫人惊讶之余，更觉得回味无穷。弗拉纳根虽不懂得绘画的学问或技巧，倒像个毕生从事绘画艺术的画家，信手挥毫，笔锋所至，画面顿生异趣。

"如果规定每幅画的欣赏时间不得超过三十秒钟，那你弗拉纳根啊，包管会成为个了不起的大画家，"菲利普笑着说。

这些年轻人之间倒没有那种相互奉承、吹吹拍拍的风气。

"在我们美国，时间紧着呢，谁也抽不出三十秒钟的工夫来看一幅画，"弗拉纳根大笑着说。

弗拉纳根虽然算得是天字第一号的浮躁之徒，可他心肠之好，不但令人感到意外，更叫人觉得可爱。谁要是生了病，他自告奋勇地充当看护。他那爱说爱笑的天性，对病人来说，着实胜过吃药打针。他生就一副美国人的脾性，不像英国人那样严严控制自己的情感，唯恐让人说成是多愁善感。相反，他认为感情的流露本是人之天性。他那充溢的同情心，常使一些身陷苦恼的朋友感激不尽。菲利普经过几天来好大一番折腾，心情沮丧，弗拉纳根出于真心好意，说呀笑呀闹个没完，一心想把菲利普的劲头鼓起来。他故意加重自己的美国腔--他知道这是惹英国人捧腹的绝招--滔滔不绝地随口扯淡，他兴致勃勃，想入非非，那股快活劲儿就别提了。到时候，他们一起去外面吃饭，饭后又上蒙帕纳斯游乐场，那是弗拉纳根最喜欢去的娱乐场所。黄昏一过，他的兴头更足了。他灌饱了酒，可他那副疯疯癫癫的醉态，与其说是酒力所致，还不如归之于他天生活泼好动。他提议去比里埃舞厅，菲利普累过了头反倒不想睡觉了，所以很乐于上那儿走一遭。他们在靠近舞池的平台上找了张桌子坐下。这儿地势稍高，他们可以一边喝啤酒一边看别人跳舞。刚坐下不久，弗拉纳根一眼瞧见了个朋友。他发狂似地喊了一声，纵身越过栅栏，跳到舞池里去了。菲利普打量着周围的人群。比里埃舞场并非是上流人士出入的游乐场所。那是个星期四的晚上，舞厅里人头躜动，其中有些是来自各个学院的大学生，但小职员和店员占了男客的大多数。他们穿着日常便服：现成的花呢上装或式样古怪的燕尾服--而且还都戴着礼帽，因为他们把帽子带进了舞厅，跳舞的时候帽子无处可放，只得搁在自己的脑瓜上。有些女的看上去像是用人，有些是浓妆艳抹的轻挑女子，但大多数是售货女郎，她们身上穿的虽说是些便宜货，却是模仿河对岸的时兴款式。那些个轻佻姑娘打扮得花枝招展，像杂耍场里卖艺的，要不就是有意学那些名噪一时的舞蹈演员的模样；她们在眼睛周围涂了一层浓浓的黑色化妆品，两颊抹得鲜红。真不知道什么叫害臊。舞厅里的白色大灯，低低挂着，使人们脸上的阴影越发显得浓黑。在这样的强光之下，所有的线条似乎都变得钢硬死板，而周围的色调也显得粗俗不堪。整个舞厅里呈现一片乌烟瘴气的景象。菲利普倾靠在栅栏上，目不转睛地望着台下，他的耳朵里听不到音乐声了。舞池里的人们忘情地跳着。他们在舞池里缓缓地转着圈子，个个神情专注，很少有人说话。舞厅里又间又热，人们的脸上沁出亮晶晶的汗珠。在菲利普看来，他们平时为了提防别人而戴上的那层道貌岸然的假面具，此刻全部剥落下来，露出了他们的本来面目。说来也怪，在此恣意纵乐的时刻，他们全都露出了兽类的特征：有的像狐狸，有的像狼，也有的长着愚不可及的山羊似的长脸。由于他们过着有害身心的生活，吃的又是营养不足的食物，他们脸上带着一层菜色。庸俗的生活趣味，使他们的面容显得呆板愚钝，唯有那一双狡诈的小眼睛在骨溜溜地打转。他们鼠口寸光，胸无大志。你可以感觉到，对所有这些人来说，生活无非是一长串的琐事和邪念罢了。舞厅里空气浑浊，充满了人身上发出来的汗臭。但他们狂舞不止，仿佛是受着身体内某种力量的驱使，而在菲利普看来，驱使他们向前的乃是一股追求享受的冲动。他们不顾一切地想逃避这个充满恐怖的现实世界。……命运之神凌驾于他们头上。他们跳呀，跳呀，仿佛他们的脚下是茫茫无尽头的黑暗深渊。他们之所以缄默不语，是因为他们隐隐感到惊恐。他们好似被生活吓破了胆，连他们的发言权也被剥夺了，所以他们内心的呼声到了喉咙口又被咽了回去。他们的眼神凶悍而残忍；尽管他们的兽欲使他们脱却了人形，尽管他们面容显得卑劣而凶狠，尽管最糟糕的还在于他们的愚蠢无知，然而，那一双虎视眈眈的眼睛却掩饰不住内心的极度痛苦，使得这一群浑浑噩噩之徒，显得既可怕而又可怜。菲利普既厌恶他们，又为他们感到痛心，对他们寄予无限同同情。

他从衣帽间取出外衣，跨出门外，步入凛冽的寒夜之中。

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chapter 50

Philip could not get the unhappy event out of his head. What troubled him most was the uselessness of Fanny’s effort. No one could have worked harder than she, nor with more sincerity; she believed in herself with all her heart; but it was plain that self-confidence meant very little, all his friends had it, Miguel Ajuria among the rest; and Philip was shocked by the contrast between the Spaniard’s heroic endeavour and the triviality of the thing he attempted. The unhappiness of Philip’s life at school had called up in him the power of self-analysis; and this vice, as subtle as drug-taking, had taken possession of him so that he had now a peculiar keenness in the dissection of his feelings. He could not help seeing that art affected him differently from others. A fine picture gave Lawson an immediate thrill. His appreciation was instinctive. Even Flanagan felt certain things which Philip was obliged to think out. His own appreciation was intellectual. He could not help thinking that if he had in him the artistic temperament (he hated the phrase, but could discover no other) he would feel beauty in the emotional, unreasoning way in which they did. He began to wonder whether he had anything more than a superficial cleverness of the hand which enabled him to copy objects with accuracy. That was nothing. He had learned to despise technical dexterity. The important thing was to feel in terms of paint. Lawson painted in a certain way because it was his nature to, and through the imitativeness of a student sensitive to every influence, there pierced individuality. Philip looked at his own portrait of Ruth Chalice, and now that three months had passed he realised that it was no more than a servile copy of Lawson. He felt himself barren. He painted with the brain, and he could not help knowing that the only painting worth anything was done with the heart.

He had very little money, barely sixteen hundred pounds, and it would be necessary for him to practise the severest economy. He could not count on earning anything for ten years. The history of painting was full of artists who had earned nothing at all. He must resign himself to penury; and it was worth while if he produced work which was immortal; but he had a terrible fear that he would never be more than second-rate. Was it worth while for that to give up one’s youth, and the gaiety of life, and the manifold chances of being? He knew the existence of foreign painters in Paris enough to see that the lives they led were narrowly provincial. He knew some who had dragged along for twenty years in the pursuit of a fame which always escaped them till they sunk into sordidness and alcoholism. Fanny’s suicide had aroused memories, and Philip heard ghastly stories of the way in which one person or another had escaped from despair. He remembered the scornful advice which the master had given poor Fanny: it would have been well for her if she had taken it and given up an attempt which was hopeless.

Philip finished his portrait of Miguel Ajuria and made up his mind to send it to the Salon. Flanagan was sending two pictures, and he thought he could paint as well as Flanagan. He had worked so hard on the portrait that he could not help feeling it must have merit. It was true that when he looked at it he felt that there was something wrong, though he could not tell what; but when he was away from it his spirits went up and he was not dissatisfied. He sent it to the Salon and it was refused. He did not mind much, since he had done all he could to persuade himself that there was little chance that it would be taken, till Flanagan a few days later rushed in to tell Lawson and Philip that one of his pictures was accepted. With a blank face Philip offered his congratulations, and Flanagan was so busy congratulating himself that he did not catch the note of irony which Philip could not prevent from coming into his voice. Lawson, quicker-witted, observed it and looked at Philip curiously. His own picture was all right, he knew that a day or two before, and he was vaguely resentful of Philip’s attitude. But he was surprised at the sudden question which Philip put him as soon as the American was gone.

‘If you were in my place would you chuck the whole thing?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I wonder if it’s worth while being a second-rate painter. You see, in other things, if you’re a doctor or if you’re in business, it doesn’t matter so much if you’re mediocre. You make a living and you get along. But what is the good of turning out second-rate pictures?’

Lawson was fond of Philip and, as soon as he thought he was seriously distressed by the refusal of his picture, he set himself to console him. It was notorious that the Salon had refused pictures which were afterwards famous; it was the first time Philip had sent, and he must expect a rebuff; Flanagan’s success was explicable, his picture was showy and superficial: it was just the sort of thing a languid jury would see merit in. Philip grew impatient; it was humiliating that Lawson should think him capable of being seriously disturbed by so trivial a calamity and would not realise that his dejection was due to a deep-seated distrust of his powers.

Of late Clutton had withdrawn himself somewhat from the group who took their meals at Gravier’s, and lived very much by himself. Flanagan said he was in love with a girl, but Clutton’s austere countenance did not suggest passion; and Philip thought it more probable that he separated himself from his friends so that he might grow clear with the new ideas which were in him. But that evening, when the others had left the restaurant to go to a play and Philip was sitting alone, Clutton came in and ordered dinner. They began to talk, and finding Clutton more loquacious and less sardonic than usual, Philip determined to take advantage of his good humour.

‘I say I wish you’d come and look at my picture,’ he said. ‘I’d like to know what you think of it.’

‘No, I won’t do that.’

‘Why not?’ asked Philip, reddening.

The request was one which they all made of one another, and no one ever thought of refusing. Clutton shrugged his shoulders.

‘People ask you for criticism, but they only want praise. Besides, what’s the good of criticism? What does it matter if your picture is good or bad?’

‘It matters to me.’

‘No. The only reason that one paints is that one can’t help it. It’s a function like any of the other functions of the body, only comparatively few people have got it. One paints for oneself: otherwise one would commit suicide. Just think of it, you spend God knows how long trying to get something on to canvas, putting the sweat of your soul into it, and what is the result? Ten to one it will be refused at the Salon; if it’s accepted, people glance at it for ten seconds as they pass; if you’re lucky some ignorant fool will buy it and put it on his walls and look at it as little as he looks at his dining-room table. Criticism has nothing to do with the artist. It judges objectively, but the objective doesn’t concern the artist.’

Clutton put his hands over his eyes so that he might concentrate his mind on what he wanted to say.

‘The artist gets a peculiar sensation from something he sees, and is impelled to express it and, he doesn’t know why, he can only express his feeling by lines and colours. It’s like a musician; he’ll read a line or two, and a certain combination of notes presents itself to him: he doesn’t know why such and such words call forth in him such and such notes; they just do. And I’ll tell you another reason why criticism is meaningless: a great painter forces the world to see nature as he sees it; but in the next generation another painter sees the world in another way, and then the public judges him not by himself but by his predecessor. So the Barbizon people taught our fathers to look at trees in a certain manner, and when Monet came along and painted differently, people said: But trees aren’t like that. It never struck them that trees are exactly how a painter chooses to see them. We paint from within outwards—if we force our vision on the world it calls us great painters; if we don’t it ignores us; but we are the same. We don’t attach any meaning to greatness or to smallness. What happens to our work afterwards is unimportant; we have got all we could out of it while we were doing it.’

There was a pause while Clutton with voracious appetite devoured the food that was set before him. Philip, smoking a cheap cigar, observed him closely. The ruggedness of the head, which looked as though it were carved from a stone refractory to the sculptor’s chisel, the rough mane of dark hair, the great nose, and the massive bones of the jaw, suggested a man of strength; and yet Philip wondered whether perhaps the mask concealed a strange weakness. Clutton’s refusal to show his work might be sheer vanity: he could not bear the thought of anyone’s criticism, and he would not expose himself to the chance of a refusal from the Salon; he wanted to be received as a master and would not risk comparisons with other work which might force him to diminish his own opinion of himself. During the eighteen months Philip had known him Clutton had grown more harsh and bitter; though he would not come out into the open and compete with his fellows, he was indignant with the facile success of those who did. He had no patience with Lawson, and the pair were no longer on the intimate terms upon which they had been when Philip first knew them.

‘Lawson’s all right,’ he said contemptuously, ‘he’ll go back to England, become a fashionable portrait painter, earn ten thousand a year and be an A. R. A. before he’s forty. Portraits done by hand for the nobility and gentry!’

Philip, too, looked into the future, and he saw Clutton in twenty years, bitter, lonely, savage, and unknown; still in Paris, for the life there had got into his bones, ruling a small cenacle with a savage tongue, at war with himself and the world, producing little in his increasing passion for a perfection he could not reach; and perhaps sinking at last into drunkenness. Of late Philip had been captivated by an idea that since one had only one life it was important to make a success of it, but he did not count success by the acquiring of money or the achieving of fame; he did not quite know yet what he meant by it, perhaps variety of experience and the making the most of his abilities. It was plain anyway that the life which Clutton seemed destined to was failure. Its only justification would be the painting of imperishable masterpieces. He recollected Cronshaw’s whimsical metaphor of the Persian carpet; he had thought of it often; but Cronshaw with his faun-like humour had refused to make his meaning clear: he repeated that it had none unless one discovered it for oneself. It was this desire to make a success of life which was at the bottom of Philip’s uncertainty about continuing his artistic career. But Clutton began to talk again.

‘D’you remember my telling you about that chap I met in Brittany? I saw him the other day here. He’s just off to Tahiti. He was broke to the world. He was a brasseur d’affaires, a stockbroker I suppose you call it in English; and he had a wife and family, and he was earning a large income. He chucked it all to become a painter. He just went off and settled down in Brittany and began to paint. He hadn’t got any money and did the next best thing to starving.’

‘And what about his wife and family?’ asked Philip.

‘Oh, he dropped them. He left them to starve on their own account.’

‘It sounds a pretty low-down thing to do.’

‘Oh, my dear fellow, if you want to be a gentleman you must give up being an artist. They’ve got nothing to do with one another. You hear of men painting pot-boilers to keep an aged mother—well, it shows they’re excellent sons, but it’s no excuse for bad work. They’re only tradesmen. An artist would let his mother go to the workhouse. There’s a writer I know over here who told me that his wife died in childbirth. He was in love with her and he was mad with grief, but as he sat at the bedside watching her die he found himself making mental notes of how she looked and what she said and the things he was feeling. Gentlemanly, wasn’t it?’

‘But is your friend a good painter?’ asked Philip.

‘No, not yet, he paints just like Pissarro. He hasn’t found himself, but he’s got a sense of colour and a sense of decoration. But that isn’t the question. it’s the feeling, and that he’s got. He’s behaved like a perfect cad to his wife and children, he’s always behaving like a perfect cad; the way he treats the people who’ve helped him—and sometimes he’s been saved from starvation merely by the kindness of his friends—is simply beastly. He just happens to be a great artist.’

Philip pondered over the man who was willing to sacrifice everything, comfort, home, money, love, honour, duty, for the sake of getting on to canvas with paint the emotion which the world gave him. it was magnificent, and yet his courage failed him.

Thinking of Cronshaw recalled to him the fact that he had not seen him for a week, and so, when Clutton left him, he wandered along to the cafe in which he was certain to find the writer. During the first few months of his stay in Paris Philip had accepted as gospel all that Cronshaw said, but Philip had a practical outlook and he grew impatient with the theories which resulted in no action. Cronshaw’s slim bundle of poetry did not seem a substantial result for a life which was sordid. Philip could not wrench out of his nature the instincts of the middle-class from which he came; and the penury, the hack work which Cronshaw did to keep body and soul together, the monotony of existence between the slovenly attic and the cafe table, jarred with his respectability. Cronshaw was astute enough to know that the young man disapproved of him, and he attacked his philistinism with an irony which was sometimes playful but often very keen.

‘You’re a tradesman,’ he told Philip, ‘you want to invest life in consols so that it shall bring you in a safe three per cent. I’m a spendthrift, I run through my capital. I shall spend my last penny with my last heartbeat.’

The metaphor irritated Philip, because it assumed for the speaker a romantic attitude and cast a slur upon the position which Philip instinctively felt had more to say for it than he could think of at the moment.

But this evening Philip, undecided, wanted to talk about himself. Fortunately it was late already and Cronshaw’s pile of saucers on the table, each indicating a drink, suggested that he was prepared to take an independent view of things in general.

‘I wonder if you’d give me some advice,’ said Philip suddenly.

‘You won’t take it, will you?’

Philip shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

‘I don’t believe I shall ever do much good as a painter. I don’t see any use in being second-rate. I’m thinking of chucking it.’

‘Why shouldn’t you?’

Philip hesitated for an instant.

‘I suppose I like the life.’

A change came over Cronshaw’s placid, round face. The corners of the mouth were suddenly depressed, the eyes sunk dully in their orbits; he seemed to become strangely bowed and old.

‘This?’ he cried, looking round the cafe in which they sat. His voice really trembled a little.

‘If you can get out of it, do while there’s time.’

Philip stared at him with astonishment, but the sight of emotion always made him feel shy, and he dropped his eyes. He knew that he was looking upon the tragedy of failure. There was silence. Philip thought that Cronshaw was looking upon his own life; and perhaps he considered his youth with its bright hopes and the disappointments which wore out the radiancy; the wretched monotony of pleasure, and the black future. Philip’s eyes rested on the little pile of saucers, and he knew that Cronshaw’s were on them too.

第五十章

这一不幸事件一直在菲利普脑际萦绕，叫他想忘也忘不了。最使他烦忧不安的是，范妮勤学多年，到头来竟是白辛苦一场。论刻苦，比诚心，谁也赶不上她：她真心相信自己赋有艺术才华。可是在这方面，自信心显然说明不了什么问题。他的朋友们不是个个都很自信？至于其他人，比如米格尔·阿胡里亚，亦复如此。这个西班牙人从事写作，可谓苦心孤诣，矢志不移，可写出来的东西却浅薄无聊，不堪一读。所费心血之多，所得成果之微，其间差距委实令人瞠目。菲利普早年凄楚不幸的学校生活，唤起他内心的自我剖析机能。他在不知不觉间染上的这种怪癖，就像吸毒成痛那样，早已根深蒂固，无法摆脱。如今，他更是深切地感到有必要对自己的内心情感作一番剖析。他不能不看到，自己对艺术的感受毕竟有异于他人。一幅出色的美术作品能直接扣动劳森的心弦。他是凭直觉来欣赏作品的。即使弗拉纳根能从感觉上把握某些事物，而菲利普却非得经过一番思索才能有所领悟。菲利普是靠理性来欣赏作品的。他不由得暗自感叹：假如他身上也有那种所谓"艺术家的气质"（他讨厌这个用语，可又想不出别的说法），他就会像他们那样，也能借助感情而不是借助推理来获得美的感受。他开始怀疑自己莫非只有手面上那么一点巧劲儿，至多也只能靠它依样画葫芦。这实在毫不足取。他现在也学别人的样，不再把技巧放在眼里。最要紧的是如何借画面表达作画人的内心感受。劳森按某种格调作画，这本是由他的天性所决定了的；而他作为一个习画者，尽管易于接受各种影响，然而在他的刻意模仿之中，却棱角分明地显露出他个人的风格。菲利普呆呆地望着自己那帧露思·查利斯像，成画到现在已三月有零，他这时才意识到自己的画不过是劳森作品的忠实翻版而已。他感到自己毫无匠心，不堪造就。他是用脑子来作画的，而他心里明白，有价值的美术作品，无一不是心灵的结晶。

他没有多少财产，总共还不到一千六百镑，他得节衣缩食，精打细算地过日子。十年之内，他别指望挣到一个子儿。纵观一部美术史，一无收益的画家比比皆是。他得安于贫穷，苦度光阴。当然罗，要是哪天能创作出一幅不朽之作来，那么即使穷苦一辈子倒也还算值得，怕就怕自己至多只能有个当二流画家的出息。倘若牺牲了自己的青春韶华，舍弃了生活的乐趣，错过了人生的种种机缘，到头来只修得个二流画家的正果，这值得吗？菲利普对于一些侨居巴黎的外国画家的情况，十分熟悉，知道他们生活在一方小天地里，活动圈子极其狭窄。他知道有些画家为了想扬名四海，含辛茹苦二十年如一日，最后仍然出不了名，于是一个个皆穷途潦倒，沦为一蹶不振的酒鬼。范妮的悬梁自尽，唤起了菲利普对往事的回忆。他常听人谈到过这个或那个画家的可怕遭遇，说他们为了摆脱绝境，如何如何寻了短见。他还回想起那位画师如何讥锋犀利地向可怜的范妮提出了忠告。她要是早点听了他的话，断然放弃这一毫无希望的尝试，或许尚不至于落个那样的下场。

菲利普完成了那幅米格尔·阿胡里亚人像之后，决计送交巴黎艺展。弗拉纳根也打算送两幅画去，菲利普自以为水平和弗拉纳根不相上下。他在这幅画上倾注了不少心血，自信不无可取之处。他在审视这幅作品时，固然觉得有什么地方画得不对头，一时又说不出个所以然来，可是只要他眼前看不到那幅画，他又会转化为喜，不再有快快失意之感。送交艺展的画被退了回来。起初他倒也不怎么在乎，因为他事先就想过各种理由来说服自己，人选的可能性微乎其微。谁知几天之后，弗拉纳根却兴冲冲地跑来告诉菲利普和劳森，他送去的画中有一幅已被画展选中了。菲利普神情冷淡地向他表示祝贺。陶然忘情的弗拉纳根只顾额手称庆，一点儿也没察觉菲利普道贺时情不自禁流露出的讥诮口风。头脑机灵的劳森，当即辨出菲利普话里有刺，好奇地望了菲利普一眼。劳森自己送去的画不成问题，他在一两天前就知道了，他对菲利普的态度隐隐感到不悦。等那美国人一走，菲利普立即向劳森发问，问题问得很突然，颇叫劳森感到意外。

"你要是处于我的地位，会不会就此洗手不干了？"

"你这话是什么意思？"

"我怀疑当个二流画家是否值得。你也明白，要是换个行当，就说行医或经商吧，即使庸庸碌碌地混一辈子也不打紧，只要能养家糊口就行了。然而要是一辈子净画些二流作品，能有多大出息？"

劳森对菲利普颇有几分好感，他想菲利普一向遇事顶真，此时一定是为画稿落选的事在苦恼，所以竭力好言相劝：谁都知道，好些被巴黎画展退回的作品，后来不是成了画坛上的名作？他菲利普首次投稿应选，遭到拒绝，也是在意料之中的嘛；至于弗拉纳根的侥幸成功，不外乎这么回事：他的画完全是卖弄技巧的肤浅之作，而暮气沉沉的评选团所赏识的偏偏就是这号作品。菲利普越听越不耐烦；劳森怎么也不明白菲利普心情沮丧，乃是由于从根本上对自己的能力丧失了信心，而竟然以为自己会为了这等微不足道的挫折而垂头丧气！这未免太小看人了。

近来，克拉顿似乎有意疏远那些在格雷维亚餐馆同桌进餐的伙伴，过起离群索居的日子来。弗拉纳根说他准是跟哪个姑娘闹恋爱了，可是从他不苟言笑的严肃神情里却看不到一点堕入情网的迹象。菲利普心想，他回避旧日的朋友，很可能是为了好好清理一下他脑子里的那些新的想法。然而有一天晚上，其他人全离开餐馆上剧场看话剧去了，只留下菲利普一个人闲坐着，这时克拉顿走了进来，点了饭菜。他们随口攀谈起来。菲利普发现克拉顿比平时健谈，说的话也不那么刺人，决定趁他今天高兴的当儿好好向他讨教一下。

"哎，我很想请你来看看我的习作，"他试探着说，"很想听听阁下的高见。"

"我才不干呢。"

"为什么？"菲利普红着脸问。

他们那伙人相互之间经常提出这种请求，谁也不会一口回绝的。克拉顿耸了耸肩。

"大家嘴上说敬请批评指教，可骨子里只想听恭维话。况且就算提出了批评，又有何益？你画得好也罢，歹也罢，有什么大不了的？"

"对我可大有关系呢？"

"没的事。一个人所以要作画，只是因为他非画不可。这也算得上是一种官能，就跟人体的所有其他官能一样，不过只有少数人才具有这种官能罢了。一个人作画，纯粹是为了自己，要不让他作画，他说不定会自杀。请你想一想，为了能在画布上涂上几笔，天知道你下了多少年的苦功夫，呕沥了多少心血，结果又如何呢？交送画展的作品，十有八九要被退回来；就算有幸被接受了，人们打它跟前走过时至多朝它看上个十秒钟。要是有哪个不学无术的笨伯把你的画买了去，挂在他家的墙上，你就算是交了好运，而他对你的画就像对屋子里的餐桌一样，难得瞧上一眼。批评向来同艺术家无缘。批评纯粹是客观性的评断，而凡属客观之物皆同画家无关。"

克拉顿用手捂住眼睛，好让自己的心思全部集中在自己要说的话上。

"画家从所见事物中获得某种独特的感受之后，身不由主地要想把它表现出来。他自己也说不清是为了什么，反正他得用线条和色彩来表现自己的内心感受。这就跟音乐家一样。音乐家只要读上一两行文字，脑子里就会自然而然地映现出某种音符的组合，他自己也说不清为什么这几个词或那几个词会在他心里唤起这一组或那一组的音符来，反正就是这么来着。我还可以给你举个理由，说明批评纯属无谓之举。大画家总是迫使世人按他的眼光来观察自然，但是，时隔一代，一位画坛新秀则按另一种方式来观察世界，而公众却仍按其前辈而不是按他本人的眼光来评断他的作品。巴比松派画家教我们的先辈以某种方式来观察树木，可后来又出了个莫奈，他另辟蹊径，独树一帜，于是人们议论纷纷：树木怎会是这个样子的呢。他们从来没想到过，画家爱怎么观察树木，树木就会有个什么样子。我们作画时是由里及表的--假如我们能迫使世人接受我们的眼光，人们就称我们是大画家；假如不能呢，世人便不把我们放在眼里。但我们并不因此而有所不同。伟大也罢，渺小也罢，我们才不看重世人的这些褒贬之词哩。我们的作品问世之后会有什么样的遭遇，那是无关紧要的；在我们作画的时候，我们已经获得了所能获得的一切。"

谈话暂时中断，克拉顿风卷残云似地把他面前的食品一扫而光。菲利普一面抽着廉价雪茄，一面仔细打量克拉顿。他那凹凸不平的头颅--一仿佛是用顽石雕刻而成的，而在雕刻的时候，雕刻家的凿于怎么也制伏不了这块顽石-一再配上那一头粗鬃似的黑发、大得出奇的鼻子和宽阔的下颚骨，表明他是一条个性倔强的硬汉子。可是菲利普心里却在暗暗嘀咕：在这强悍的面具下面，会不会隐伏着出奇的软弱呢？克拉顿不愿意让别人看到他的大作，说不定纯粹是虚荣心在作怪：他受不了他人的批评，也不愿冒被巴黎艺展拒之于门外的风险；他希望别人能把他当作艺术大师看待，可又不敢把作品拿出来同他人较量，唯恐相形之下自愧不如。菲利普同他相识已有十八个月，只见他变得愈来愈粗鲁、尖刻，尽管他不愿意公开站出来与同伴比个高低，可是对伙伴们轻而易举地获得成功往往露出愤愤不平之意。他看不惯劳森。当初菲利普刚认识他们的时候，他和劳森过往甚密，形同莫逆，可如今这已成往事。

"劳森吗，没问题，"他用鄙夷的口吻说，"日后他回英国去，当个时髦的肖像画家，一年挣个万把英镑，不到四十岁就会戴上皇家艺术协会会员的桂冠。只要动手为显贵名流多画几帧肖像就行了呗！"

菲利普听了这席话，不由得也窥测了一下未来。他仿佛见到了二十年后的克拉顿，尖刻、孤僻、粗野、默默无闻，仍死守在巴黎，因为巴黎的生活已经渗入他的骨髓之中；他靠了那条不饶人的舌头，成为小型cenacle上的风云人物，他同自己过不去，也同周围世界过不去；他愈来愈狂热地追求那种可望而不可即的尽善尽美的艺术境界，却拿不出什么作品来，最后说不定还会沦为酒鬼。近来，有个想法搞得菲利普心神不定。既然人生在世只有一次，那就切不可虚度此生。他并不认为只有发迹致富、名扬天下，才算没枉活于世，可究竟怎样才无愧于此生，他自己也说不上来。也许应该阅尽人世沧桑，做到人尽其才吧。不管怎么说，克拉顿显然已难逃失败的厄运，除非他日后能画出几幅不朽杰作来。他想起克朗肖借波斯地毯所作的古怪比喻，近来菲利普也经常想到这个比喻。当时克朗肖像农牧神那样故弄玄虚，硬是不肯进一步说清意思，只是重复了一句：除非由你自己悟出其中的奥妙来，否则便毫无意义。菲利普之所以在是否继续其艺术生涯的问题上游移不定，归根结底是因为他不希望让自己的一生年华白白虚度掉。克拉顿这时又开腔了。

"你还记得吗，我曾同你谈起过我在布列塔尼遇到的那个家伙？前几天，我在这儿又遇到他了。他正打算去塔希提岛。他现在成了个一文不名的穷光蛋。他本是个brasseu，d'affaires，我想也就是英语中所说的股票经纪人吧。他有老婆孩子，有过十分可观的收入，可他心甘情愿地抛弃了这一切，一心一意想当画家。他离家出走，只身来到布列塔尼，开始了他的艺术生涯。他身无分文，险些儿饿死。"

"那他的老婆孩子呢？"菲利普问。

"哦，他撇下他们，任他们饿死拉倒。"

"这未免太缺德了吧。"

"哦，我亲爱的老弟，要是你想做个止人君于，就千万别当艺术家。两者是水火不相容的。你听说过有些人为了赡养老母，不惜粗制滥造些无聊作品来骗取钱财--唔，这表明他们是克尽孝道的好儿子，但这可不能成为粗制滥造的理由。他们只能算是生意人。真正的艺术家宁可把自己的老娘往济贫院里送。我认识这儿的一位作家。有一回他告诉我，他老婆在分娩时不幸去世了。他爱妻的死，使他悲痛欲绝；但是当他坐在床沿上守护奄奄一息的爱妻时，他发现自己竟然在偷偷地打腹稿，默默记下她弥留时的脸部表情、她临终前的遗言以及自己当时的切身感受。这恐怕有失绅士风度吧，呃？"

"你那位朋友是个有造诣的画家吗？"

"不，现在还算不上。他绘图的风格颇似毕沙罗。他还没察觉自己的特长，过他很懂得运用色彩和装饰。但关键不在这儿。要紧的是激情，而他身上就蕴藏着那么一股激情。他对待自己的老婆孩子，像个十足的无赖；他的行为举止始终像个十足的无赖，他对待那些帮过他忙的人--有时他全仗朋友们的接济才免受饥馁之苦---态度粗鲁，简直像个畜生。可他恰恰是位了不起的艺术家。"

菲利普陷入了沉思。那人为了能用颜料将人世给予他的情感在画布上表现出来，竟不惜牺牲一切：舒适的生活、家庭、金钱、爱情、名誉和天职。这还真了不起。可他菲利普就是没有这种气魄。

刚才想到克朗肖，菲利普忽然记起他已经有一星期没见到这位作家了，所以同克拉顿分手后，便径直朝丁香园咖啡馆近去，他知道在那儿准能遇到克朗肖。在他旅居巴黎的头几个月里，他曾把克朗肖的一言一语皆奉为金科玉律，然而时日一久，讲究实际的菲利普便渐渐对克朗肖的那套空头理论不怎么买帐了。他那薄薄的一束诗章，似乎算不得是悲惨一生的丰硕之果。菲利普出身于中产阶级，他没法把自己品性中的中产阶级本能驱除掉。克朗肖一贫如洗，干着雇佣文人的营生，勉强糊口。他不是蜷缩在腌(月赞)污秽的小顶室里，就是在咖啡馆餐桌边狂饮，过着两点一线的单凋生活--凡此种种，都是同菲利普心目中的体面概念相抵触的。克朗肖是个精明人，不会不知道这年轻人对自己有看法，所以不时要回敬菲利普几句，有时带点开玩笑的口气，而在更多的场合，则是犀利地加以冷嘲热讽，挖苦他市侩气十足。

"你是个生意人，"他对菲利普说，"你想把人生投资在统一公债上，这样就可稳稳到手三分年利。我可是个挥霍成性的败家子，我打算把老本吃光用尽，赤裸着身子去见上帝。"

这个比喻颇叫菲利普恼火。因为这样的说法不仅给克朗肖的处世态度平添了几分罗曼蒂克的色彩，同时又诋毁了菲利普对人生的看法。菲利普本能地觉得要为自己申辩几句，可是一时却想不出什么话来。

那天晚上，菲利普心里好矛盾，迟迟拿不定主意，所以想找克朗肖谈谈自己的事儿。幸好时间已晚，克朗肖餐桌上的茶托高叠（有多少只茶托就表示他已灌下了多少杯酒），看来他已准备就人生世事发表自己的独到见解了。

"不知你是否肯给我提点忠告，"菲利普猝然开口说。

"你不会接受的，对吧？"

菲利普不耐烦地一耸肩。

"我相信自己在绘画方面搞不出多大的名堂来。当个二流画家，我看不出会有什么出息，所以我打算洗手不干了。"

"干吗不干了呢？"

菲利普沉吟了片刻。

"我想是因为我爱生活吧。"

克朗肖那张平和的圆脸上形容大变。嘴角骤然垂挂下来，眼窝深陷，双目黯然无光。说来也奇怪，他竟突然腰也弯、背也驼了，显出一副龙钟老态。

"是因为这个？"他嚷了一声，朝周围四座扫了一眼。真的，他连说话的声音也有些颤抖了。

"你要是想脱身，那就趁早吧。"

菲利普瞪大眼，吃惊地望着克朗肖。这种动感情的场面，常使菲利普感到羞涩不安，不由得垂下眼睑。他知道，呈现在他面前的乃是一尊人生潦倒的悲剧。一阵沉默。菲利普心想，这会儿克朗肖一定在回顾自己的一生，也许他想到了自己充满灿烂希望的青年时代，后来这希望的光辉逐渐泯灭在人生的坎坷失意之中，空留下可怜而单调的杯盏之欢，还有渺茫凄清的惨淡未来。菲利普愣愣地望着那一小叠茶托，他知道克朗肖的目光这时也滞留在那些茶托上面。

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chapter 51

Two months passed.

It seemed to Philip, brooding over these matters, that in the true painters, writers, musicians, there was a power which drove them to such complete absorption in their work as to make it inevitable for them to subordinate life to art. Succumbing to an influence they never realised, they were merely dupes of the instinct that possessed them, and life slipped through their fingers unlived. But he had a feeling that life was to be lived rather than portrayed, and he wanted to search out the various experiences of it and wring from each moment all the emotion that it offered. He made up his mind at length to take a certain step and abide by the result, and, having made up his mind, he determined to take the step at once. Luckily enough the next morning was one of Foinet’s days, and he resolved to ask him point-blank whether it was worth his while to go on with the study of art. He had never forgotten the master’s brutal advice to Fanny Price. It had been sound. Philip could never get Fanny entirely out of his head. The studio seemed strange without her, and now and then the gesture of one of the women working there or the tone of a voice would give him a sudden start, reminding him of her: her presence was more noticuble?? now she was dead than it had ever been during her life; and he often dreamed of her at night, waking with a cry of terror. it was horrible to think of all the suffering she must have endured.

Philip knew that on the days Foinet came to the studio he lunched at a little restaurant in the Rue d’Odessa, and he hurried his own meal so that he could go and wait outside till the painter came out. Philip walked up and down the crowded street and at last saw Monsieur Foinet walking, with bent head, towards him; Philip was very nervous, but he forced himself to go up to him.

‘Pardon, monsieur, I should like to speak to you for one moment.’

Foinet gave him a rapid glance, recognised him, but did not smile a greeting.

‘Speak,’ he said.

‘I’ve been working here nearly two years now under you. I wanted to ask you to tell me frankly if you think it worth while for me to continue.’

Philip’s voice was trembling a little. Foinet walked on without looking up. Philip, watching his face, saw no trace of expression upon it.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I’m very poor. If I have no talent I would sooner do something else.’

‘Don’t you know if you have talent?’

‘All my friends know they have talent, but I am aware some of them are mistaken.’

Foinet’s bitter mouth outlined the shadow of a smile, and he asked:

‘Do you live near here?’

Philip told him where his studio was. Foinet turned round.

‘Let us go there? You shall show me your work.’

‘Now?’ cried Philip.

‘Why not?’

Philip had nothing to say. He walked silently by the master’s side. He felt horribly sick. It had never struck him that Foinet would wish to see his things there and then; he meant, so that he might have time to prepare himself, to ask him if he would mind coming at some future date or whether he might bring them to Foinet’s studio. He was trembling with anxiety. In his heart he hoped that Foinet would look at his picture, and that rare smile would come into his face, and he would shake Philip’s hand and say: ‘Pas mal. Go on, my lad. You have talent, real talent.’ Philip’s heart swelled at the thought. It was such a relief, such a joy! Now he could go on with courage; and what did hardship matter, privation, and disappointment, if he arrived at last? He had worked very hard, it would be too cruel if all that industry were futile. And then with a start he remembered that he had heard Fanny Price say just that. They arrived at the house, and Philip was seized with fear. If he had dared he would have asked Foinet to go away. He did not want to know the truth. They went in and the concierge handed him a letter as they passed. He glanced at the envelope and recognised his uncle’s handwriting. Foinet followed him up the stairs. Philip could think of nothing to say; Foinet was mute, and the silence got on his nerves. The professor sat down; and Philip without a word placed before him the picture which the Salon had rejected; Foinet nodded but did not speak; then Philip showed him the two portraits he had made of Ruth Chalice, two or three landscapes which he had painted at Moret, and a number of sketches.

‘That’s all,’ he said presently, with a nervous laugh.

Monsieur Foinet rolled himself a cigarette and lit it.

‘You have very little private means?’ he asked at last.

‘Very little,’ answered Philip, with a sudden feeling of cold at his heart. ‘Not enough to live on.’

‘There is nothing so degrading as the constant anxiety about one’s means of livelihood. I have nothing but contempt for the people who despise money. They are hypocrites or fools. Money is like a sixth sense without which you cannot make a complete use of the other five. Without an adequate income half the possibilities of life are shut off. The only thing to be careful about is that you do not pay more than a shilling for the shilling you earn. You will hear people say that poverty is the best spur to the artist. They have never felt the iron of it in their flesh. They do not know how mean it makes you. It exposes you to endless humiliation, it cuts your wings, it eats into your soul like a cancer. It is not wealth one asks for, but just enough to preserve one’s dignity, to work unhampered, to be generous, frank, and independent. I pity with all my heart the artist, whether he writes or paints, who is entirely dependent for subsistence upon his art.’

Philip quietly put away the various things which he had shown.

‘I’m afraid that sounds as if you didn’t think I had much chance.’

Monsieur Foinet slightly shrugged his shoulders.

‘You have a certain manual dexterity. With hard work and perseverance there is no reason why you should not become a careful, not incompetent painter. You would find hundreds who painted worse than you, hundreds who painted as well. I see no talent in anything you have shown me. I see industry and intelligence. You will never be anything but mediocre.’

Philip obliged himself to answer quite steadily.

‘I’m very grateful to you for having taken so much trouble. I can’t thank you enough.’

Monsieur Foinet got up and made as if to go, but he changed his mind and, stopping, put his hand on Philip’s shoulder.

‘But if you were to ask me my advice, I should say: take your courage in both hands and try your luck at something else. It sounds very hard, but let me tell you this: I would give all I have in the world if someone had given me that advice when I was your age and I had taken it.’

Philip looked up at him with surprise. The master forced his lips into a smile, but his eyes remained grave and sad.

‘It is cruel to discover one’s mediocrity only when it is too late. It does not improve the temper.’

He gave a little laugh as he said the last words and quickly walked out of the room.

Philip mechanically took up the letter from his uncle. The sight of his handwriting made him anxious, for it was his aunt who always wrote to him. She had been ill for the last three months, and he had offered to go over to England and see her; but she, fearing it would interfere with his work, had refused. She did not want him to put himself to inconvenience; she said she would wait till August and then she hoped he would come and stay at the vicarage for two or three weeks. If by any chance she grew worse she would let him know, since she did not wish to die without seeing him again. If his uncle wrote to him it must be because she was too ill to hold a pen. Philip opened the letter. it ran as follows:

My dear Philip,

I regret to inform you that your dear Aunt departed this life early this morning. She died very suddenly, but quite peacefully. The change for the worse was so rapid that we had no time to send for you. She was fully prepared for the end and entered into rest with the complete assurance of a blessed resurrection and with resignation to the divine will of our blessed Lord Jesus Christ. Your Aunt would have liked you to be present at the funeral so I trust you will come as soon as you can. There is naturally a great deal of work thrown upon my shoulders and I am very much upset. I trust that you will be able to do everything for me.

Your affectionate uncle, William Carey.

第五十一章

几个月一晃就过去了。

菲利普经过一番思索，似乎从眼前这些事情里悟出了一个道理：凡属真正的画家、作家和音乐家，身上总有那么一股力量，驱使他们将全部身心都扑在事业上，这一来，他们势必要让个人生活从属于整个艺术事业。他们明明屈从于某种影响，自己却从未有所察觉，像中了邪似地受着本能驱使和愚弄，只是自己还不知道罢了。生活打他们身边一溜而过，一辈子就像没活过一样。菲利普觉得，生活嘛，就该痛痛快快地生活，而不应仅仅成为可入画面的题材。他要阅历世事，从人生的瞬间里吸取生活所提供的全部激情。最后，他决心采取果断行动，并准备承担其后果。决心既定，他打算立即付诸行动。正巧明天上午是富瓦内来校讲课的日子，菲利普决定直截了当地向他请教：他菲利普是否值得继续学画？这位画师对范妮·普赖斯所提的忠告，他始终铭记在心。听来逆耳，却切中要害。菲利普无论怎样也没法把范妮从脑子里完全排除出去。画室少了她，似乎显得生疏了。班上有哪个女生一抬手或一开口，往往会让他吓一跳，使他不由得想起范妮来。她死了反倒比活着的时候更让人感觉到她的存在。菲利普夜里常常梦见她，有时会被自己的惊叫声吓醒。她生前一定吃足了苦头，受尽了煎熬--想到这些就使菲利普心惊肉跳。

菲利普知道，富瓦内逢到来画室上课的日子，总要在奥德萨街上的一家小饭店吃午饭。菲利普三划两口，匆匆吃完自己的那顿午饭，以便及时赶到小饭店外面恭候。他在行人熙来攘往的街上来回踱步，最后，总算看见富瓦内先生低着头朝他这边走过来。菲利普的心里很紧张，但他硬着头皮迎上前去。

"对不起，先生，我想耽搁您一下，有几句话要对您说。"

富瓦内朝他扫了一眼，认出了他，但是绷着脸没同他打招呼。

"说吧，"他说。

"我在这儿跟您学画，差不多已学了两年。想请您坦率地告诉我，您觉得我是否还值得继续学下去？"

菲利普的声音微微颤抖。富瓦内头也不抬地继续往前迈着步子。菲利普在一旁察颜观色，不见他脸上有任何表示。

"我不明白你的意思。"。

"我家境贫寒。如果我没有天分，我想还不如及早改行的好。"

"你有没有天分，难道你自己不清楚？"

"我的那些朋友们，个个自以为有天才，可我知道，其中有些人缺少自知之明。"

富瓦内那张不饶人的嘴巴微微一撇，嘴角漾起一丝笑意，问道：

"你就住在这儿附近？"

菲利普把自己画室的地址告诉了他。富瓦内转过身子。

"咱们就上你画室去。你得让我看看你的作品。"

"现在？"菲利普嚷了一声。

"有何不可呢？"

菲利普反倒无言以对。他默不作声地走在画家的身旁，心里七上八下，说不出有多紧张。他万万没想到富瓦内竟会立时三刻要去看他的作品。他真想问问富瓦内：要是请他改日再去，或是让自己把作品拿到他画室去，他可介意？这样菲利普就可在思想上早作准备，免得像现在这样措手不及。菲利普心慌意乱，连身子也哆嗦起来。他打心底里希望富瓦内在看了他的作品以后，脸上会泛起那种难得看到的笑容，而且还一边同。他握手一边说："Pasmal。好好干吧，小伙子。你很有才气，真有几分才气哩。"想到这儿，菲利普心头不觉热乎起来。那该是多大的安慰！多么令人欢欣！他从此可以勇往直前了。只要能达到胜利的终点，什么艰苦呀，贫困呀，失望呀，那又算得了什么呢？他从来没偷懒，而要是吃尽辛苦，到头来竟是白费劲一场，那才叫人疾首痛心呢。他猛地一惊，想起范妮·普赖斯不也正是这么说的！等他们走到了住所跟前，菲利普完全被恐惧攫住了。他要是有胆量的话，说不定会请富瓦内走开的。现在他不想知道真情了。在他们进屋子的当儿，看门人递给菲利普一封信，他朝信封看了一眼，认出上面是他大伯的笔迹。富瓦内随着菲利普上了楼。菲利普想不出话茬来，富瓦内也一语不发，而这种沉默比什么都更叫人心慌。意乱。教授坐了下来，菲利普什么也不说，只是把那幅被艺展退回来的油画放在富瓦内面前。富瓦内点点头，还是不做声。接着，菲利普又给富瓦内看了两幅他给露思·查利斯画的肖像，两三幅在莫雷画的风景画，另外还有几幅速写。

"就这些了，"菲利普一边说，一边局促不安地干笑一声。

富瓦内自己动手卷了一支烟，点着了。

"你没什么家私吧？"他终于开口问道。

"很少，"菲利普回答，心里倏地凉了半截，"尚不足以糊口。"

"要时时刻刻为生计操心，世上再没有什么比这更丢脸的了。那些视金钱如粪土的人，我就最瞧不起。他们不是伪君子就是傻瓜。金钱好比第六感官，少了它，就别想让其余的五种感官充分发挥作用。没有足够的收入，生活的希望就被截去了一半。你得处心积虑，锱铢必较，决不为赚得一个先令而付出高于一个先令的代价。你常听到人们说，穷困是对艺术家最有力的鞭策。唱这种高调的人，自己从来没有亲身尝过穷困的滋味。他们不知道穷困会使你变得多么卑贱。它使你蒙受没完没了的羞辱，扼杀掉你的雄心壮志，甚至像癌一样地吞蚀你的灵魂。艺术家要求的并非是财富本身，而是财富提供的保障：有了它，就可以维持个人尊严，工作不受阻挠，做个慷慨、率直、保持住独立人格的人。我打心底里可怜那种完全靠艺术糊口的艺术家，耍笔杆子的也罢，搞画画的也罢。"

菲利普悄没声儿地把刚才拿出来的画，一一收了起来。

"说话听音--我想您的意见似乎是说，我很少有成功的希望吧。"

富瓦内先生微微耸了耸肩。

"你的手不可谓不巧。看来你只要肯下苦功夫，持之以恒，没有理由当不成个兢兢业业、还算能干的画家。到那时，你会发现有成百上千个同行了还及不上你，也有成百上千个同行得同你不相上下。在你给我看的那些东西里，我没有看到横溢的才气，只看到勤奋和智慧。你永远也不会超过二三流的水平。"

菲利普故作镇静，用相当沉着的口吻回答说：

"太麻烦您了，真过意不去。不知该怎么谢您才好。"

富瓦内先生站起身，似乎要告辞了，忽儿又改变了主意，他收住脚步，将一只手搭在菲利普的肩膀上。

"要是你想听听我的忠告，我得说，拿出点勇气来，当机立断，找些别的行当碰碰运气吧。尽管话不中听，我还是要对你直言一句：假如我在你这种年纪的时候，也有人向我进此忠告并使我接受的话，那我乐意把我在这世界上所拥有的一切都奉献给他。"

菲利普抬起头，吃惊地望着他。只见画家张开双唇，勉强挤出一丝笑意来，但他的眼神依旧是那样的严肃、忧郁。

"等你追悔不及的时候再发现自己的平庸无能，那才叫人痛心呢，但再痛心，也无助于改善一个人的气质。"

当他说出最后几个字的时候，他呵呵一笑，旋即疾步走出房间。

菲利普机械地拿起大伯的信，看到大伯的字迹，心里颇觉忐忑不安，因为往常总是由伯母给他写信的。可近三个月以来，她一直卧床不起。菲利普曾主动表示要回英国去探望她，但她婉言谢绝，怕影响他的学业。她不愿意给他添麻烦，说等到八月份再说吧，希望到时候菲利普能回牧师公馆来住上两三个星期。万一病势转重，她会通知他的。她希望在临终前无论如何能见他一面。既然这封信是他大伯写来的，准是伯母病得连笔杆儿也提不起了。菲利普拆开信，信里这样写道：

亲爱的菲利普：

我悲痛地告知你这一噩耗，你亲爱的伯母已于今日清晨溘然仙逝。由于病势突然急转直下，竟至来不及唤你前来。她自己对此早有充分准备，安然顺从了我主耶稣基督的神圣意志，与世长辞，同时深信自己将于天国复活。你伯母临终前表示，希望你能前来参加葬礼，所以我相信你一定会尽快赶回来的。不用说，眼下有一大堆事务压在我肩上，亟待处理，而我却是心乱如麻。相信你是能替我料理好这一切的。

你亲爱的大伯

威廉·凯里

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chapter 52

Next day Philip arrived at Blackstable. Since the death of his mother he had never lost anyone closely connected with him; his aunt’s death shocked him and filled him also with a curious fear; he felt for the first time his own mortality. He could not realise what life would be for his uncle without the constant companionship of the woman who had loved and tended him for forty years. He expected to find him broken down with hopeless grief. He dreaded the first meeting; he knew that he could say nothing which would be of use. He rehearsed to himself a number of apposite speeches.

He entered the vicarage by the side-door and went into the dining-room. Uncle William was reading the paper.

‘Your train was late,’ he said, looking up.

Philip was prepared to give way to his emotion, but the matter-of-fact reception startled him. His uncle, subdued but calm, handed him the paper.

‘There’s a very nice little paragraph about her in The Blackstable Times,’ he said.

Philip read it mechanically.

‘Would you like to come up and see her?’

Philip nodded and together they walked upstairs. Aunt Louisa was lying in the middle of the large bed, with flowers all round her.

‘Would you like to say a short prayer?’ said the Vicar.

He sank on his knees, and because it was expected of him Philip followed his example. He looked at the little shrivelled face. He was only conscious of one emotion: what a wasted life! In a minute Mr. Carey gave a cough, and stood up. He pointed to a wreath at the foot of the bed.

‘That’s from the Squire,’ he said. He spoke in a low voice as though he were in church, but one felt that, as a clergyman, he found himself quite at home. ‘I expect tea is ready.’

They went down again to the dining-room. The drawn blinds gave a lugubrious aspect. The Vicar sat at the end of the table at which his wife had always sat and poured out the tea with ceremony. Philip could not help feeling that neither of them should have been able to eat anything, but when he saw that his uncle’s appetite was unimpaired he fell to with his usual heartiness. They did not speak for a while. Philip set himself to eat an excellent cake with the air of grief which he felt was decent.

‘Things have changed a great deal since I was a curate,’ said the Vicar presently. ‘In my young days the mourners used always to be given a pair of black gloves and a piece of black silk for their hats. Poor Louisa used to make the silk into dresses. She always said that twelve funerals gave her a new dress.’

Then he told Philip who had sent wreaths; there were twenty-four of them already; when Mrs. Rawlingson, wife of the Vicar at Ferne, had died she had had thirty-two; but probably a good many more would come the next day; the funeral would start at eleven o’clock from the vicarage, and they should beat Mrs. Rawlingson easily. Louisa never liked Mrs. Rawlingson.

‘I shall take the funeral myself. I promised Louisa I would never let anyone else bury her.’

Philip looked at his uncle with disapproval when he took a second piece of cake. Under the circumstances he could not help thinking it greedy.

‘Mary Ann certainly makes capital cakes. I’m afraid no one else will make such good ones.’

‘She’s not going?’ cried Philip, with astonishment.

Mary Ann had been at the vicarage ever since he could remember. She never forgot his birthday, but made a point always of sending him a trifle, absurd but touching. He had a real affection for her.

‘Yes,’ answered Mr. Carey. ‘I didn’t think it would do to have a single woman in the house.’

‘But, good heavens, she must be over forty.’

‘Yes, I think she is. But she’s been rather troublesome lately, she’s been inclined to take too much on herself, and I thought this was a very good opportunity to give her notice.’

‘It’s certainly one which isn’t likely to recur,’ said Philip.

He took out a cigarette, but his uncle prevented him from lighting it.

‘Not till after the funeral, Philip,’ he said gently.

‘All right,’ said Philip.

‘It wouldn’t be quite respectful to smoke in the house so long as your poor Aunt Louisa is upstairs.’

Josiah Graves, churchwarden and manager of the bank, came back to dinner at the vicarage after the funeral. The blinds had been drawn up, and Philip, against his will, felt a curious sensation of relief. The body in the house had made him uncomfortable: in life the poor woman had been all that was kind and gentle; and yet, when she lay upstairs in her bed-room, cold and stark, it seemed as though she cast upon the survivors a baleful influence. The thought horrified Philip.

He found himself alone for a minute or two in the dining-room with the churchwarden.

‘I hope you’ll be able to stay with your uncle a while,’ he said. ‘I don’t think he ought to be left alone just yet.’

‘I haven’t made any plans,’ answered Philip. ‘if he wants me I shall be very pleased to stay.’

By way of cheering the bereaved husband the churchwarden during dinner talked of a recent fire at Blackstable which had partly destroyed the Wesleyan chapel.

‘I hear they weren’t insured,’ he said, with a little smile.

‘That won’t make any difference,’ said the Vicar. ‘They’ll get as much money as they want to rebuild. Chapel people are always ready to give money.’

‘I see that Holden sent a wreath.’

Holden was the dissenting minister, and, though for Christ’s sake who died for both of them, Mr. Carey nodded to him in the street, he did not speak to him.

‘I think it was very pushing,’ he remarked. ‘There were forty-one wreaths. Yours was beautiful. Philip and I admired it very much.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ said the banker.

He had noticed with satisfaction that it was larger than anyone’s else. It had looked very well. They began to discuss the people who attended the funeral. Shops had been closed for it, and the churchwarden took out of his pocket the notice which had been printed: Owing to the funeral of Mrs. Carey this establishment will not be opened till one o’clock.’

‘It was my idea,’ he said.

‘I think it was very nice of them to close,’ said the Vicar. ‘Poor Louisa would have appreciated that.’

Philip ate his dinner. Mary Ann had treated the day as Sunday, and they had roast chicken and a gooseberry tart.

‘I suppose you haven’t thought about a tombstone yet?’ said the churchwarden.

‘Yes, I have. I thought of a plain stone cross. Louisa was always against ostentation.’

‘I don’t think one can do much better than a cross. If you’re thinking of a text, what do you say to: With Christ, which is far better?’

The Vicar pursed his lips. It was just like Bismarck to try and settle everything himself. He did not like that text; it seemed to cast an aspersion on himself.

‘I don’t think I should put that. I much prefer: The Lord has given and the Lord has taken away.’

‘Oh, do you? That always seems to me a little indifferent.’

The Vicar answered with some acidity, and Mr. Graves replied in a tone which the widower thought too authoritative for the occasion. Things were going rather far if he could not choose his own text for his own wife’s tombstone. There was a pause, and then the conversation drifted to parish matters. Philip went into the garden to smoke his pipe. He sat on a bench, and suddenly began to laugh hysterically.

A few days later his uncle expressed the hope that he would spend the next few weeks at Blackstable.

‘Yes, that will suit me very well,’ said Philip.

‘I suppose it’ll do if you go back to Paris in September.’

Philip did not reply. He had thought much of what Foinet said to him, but he was still so undecided that he did not wish to speak of the future. There would be something fine in giving up art because he was convinced that he could not excel; but unfortunately it would seem so only to himself: to others it would be an admission of defeat, and he did not want to confess that he was beaten. He was an obstinate fellow, and the suspicion that his talent did not lie in one direction made him inclined to force circumstances and aim notwithstanding precisely in that direction. He could not bear that his friends should laugh at him. This might have prevented him from ever taking the definite step of abandoning the study of painting, but the different environment made him on a sudden see things differently. Like many another he discovered that crossing the Channel makes things which had seemed important singularly futile. The life which had been so charming that he could not bear to leave it now seemed inept; he was seized with a distaste for the cafes, the restaurants with their ill-cooked food, the shabby way in which they all lived. He did not care any more what his friends thought about him: Cronshaw with his rhetoric, Mrs. Otter with her respectability, Ruth Chalice with her affectations, Lawson and Clutton with their quarrels; he felt a revulsion from them all. He wrote to Lawson and asked him to send over all his belongings. A week later they arrived. When he unpacked his canvases he found himself able to examine his work without emotion. He noticed the fact with interest. His uncle was anxious to see his pictures. Though he had so greatly disapproved of Philip’s desire to go to Paris, he accepted the situation now with equanimity. He was interested in the life of students and constantly put Philip questions about it. He was in fact a little proud of him because he was a painter, and when people were present made attempts to draw him out. He looked eagerly at the studies of models which Philip showed him. Philip set before him his portrait of Miguel Ajuria.

‘Why did you paint him?’ asked Mr. Carey.

‘Oh, I wanted a model, and his head interested me.’

‘As you haven’t got anything to do here I wonder you don’t paint me.’

‘It would bore you to sit.’

‘I think I should like it.’

‘We must see about it.’

Philip was amused at his uncle’s vanity. It was clear that he was dying to have his portrait painted. To get something for nothing was a chance not to be missed. For two or three days he threw out little hints. He reproached Philip for laziness, asked him when he was going to start work, and finally began telling everyone he met that Philip was going to paint him. At last there came a rainy day, and after breakfast Mr. Carey said to Philip:

‘Now, what d’you say to starting on my portrait this morning?’ Philip put down the book he was reading and leaned back in his chair.

‘I’ve given up painting,’ he said.

‘Why?’ asked his uncle in astonishment.

‘I don’t think there’s much object in being a second-rate painter, and I came to the conclusion that I should never be anything else.’

‘You surprise me. Before you went to Paris you were quite certain that you were a genius.’

‘I was mistaken,’ said Philip.

‘I should have thought now you’d taken up a profession you’d have the pride to stick to it. It seems to me that what you lack is perseverance.’

Philip was a little annoyed that his uncle did not even see how truly heroic his determination was.

‘‘A rolling stone gathers no moss,’’ proceeded the clergyman. Philip hated that proverb above all, and it seemed to him perfectly meaningless. His uncle had repeated it often during the arguments which had preceded his departure from business. Apparently it recalled that occasion to his guardian.

‘You’re no longer a boy, you know; you must begin to think of settling down. First you insist on becoming a chartered accountant, and then you get tired of that and you want to become a painter. And now if you please you change your mind again. It points to...’

He hesitated for a moment to consider what defects of character exactly it indicated, and Philip finished the sentence.

‘Irresolution, incompetence, want of foresight, and lack of determination.’

The Vicar looked up at his nephew quickly to see whether he was laughing at him. Philip’s face was serious, but there was a twinkle in his eyes which irritated him. Philip should really be getting more serious. He felt it right to give him a rap over the knuckles.

‘Your money matters have nothing to do with me now. You’re your own master; but I think you should remember that your money won’t last for ever, and the unlucky deformity you have doesn’t exactly make it easier for you to earn your living.’

Philip knew by now that whenever anyone was angry with him his first thought was to say something about his club-foot. His estimate of the human race was determined by the fact that scarcely anyone failed to resist the temptation. But he had trained himself not to show any sign that the reminder wounded him. He had even acquired control over the blushing which in his boyhood had been one of his torments.

‘As you justly remark,’ he answered, ‘my money matters have nothing to do with you and I am my own master.’

‘At all events you will do me the justice to acknowledge that I was justified in my opposition when you made up your mind to become an art-student.’

‘I don’t know so much about that. I daresay one profits more by the mistakes one makes off one’s own bat than by doing the right thing on somebody’s else advice. I’ve had my fling, and I don’t mind settling down now.’

‘What at?’

Philip was not prepared for the question, since in fact he had not made up his mind. He had thought of a dozen callings.

‘The most suitable thing you could do is to enter your father’s profession and become a doctor.’

‘Oddly enough that is precisely what I intend.’

He had thought of doctoring among other things, chiefly because it was an occupation which seemed to give a good deal of personal freedom, and his experience of life in an office had made him determine never to have anything more to do with one; his answer to the Vicar slipped out almost unawares, because it was in the nature of a repartee. It amused him to make up his mind in that accidental way, and he resolved then and there to enter his father’s old hospital in the autumn.

‘Then your two years in Paris may be regarded as so much wasted time?’

‘I don’t know about that. I had a very jolly two years, and I learned one or two useful things.’

‘What?’

Philip reflected for an instant, and his answer was not devoid of a gentle desire to annoy.

‘I learned to look at hands, which I’d never looked at before. And instead of just looking at houses and trees I learned to look at houses and trees against the sky. And I learned also that shadows are not black but coloured.’

‘I suppose you think you’re very clever. I think your flippancy is quite inane.’

第五十二章

菲利普第二天就赶回布莱克斯泰勃。自母亲去世之后，他还从未失掉过任何至亲好友。伯母的溘然辞世，不仅使他感到震惊，而且还使他心头充满一股无名的恐惧：他有生以来第一回感觉到自己最终也难逃一死。他无法想象，他大伯离开了那位爱他、伺候他四十年如一日的贤内助将如何生活下去。他料想大伯定然是悲恸欲绝，人整个儿垮掉了。他害怕这服丧期间的第一次见面，他知道，自己在这种场合说不出句把起作用的话来。他暗自念叨着几段得体的吊慰之同。

菲利普从边门进了牧师公馆，径直来到餐室。威廉大伯正在看报。

"火车误点了，"他抬起头说。

菲利普原准备声泪俱下地一泄自己的感情，哪知接待场面竟是这般平淡无奇，倒不免吃了一惊。大伯情绪压抑，不过倒还镇静，他把报纸递给菲利普。

"《布莱克斯泰勃时报》有一小段关于她的文章，写得很不错的，"他说。

菲利普机械地接过来看了。

"想上楼见她一面吗？"

菲利普点点头。伯侄俩一起上了楼。路易莎伯母躺在大床中央，遗体四周簇拥着鲜花。

"请为她祈祷吧，"牧师说。

牧师屈膝下跪，菲利普也跟着跪下，他知道牧师是希望他这么做的。菲利普端详着那张形容枯槁的瘦脸，心里只有一种感触：一生年华竞这样白白虚度了！少顷，凯里先生于咳一声，站起身，指指床脚边的一只花圈。

"那是乡绅老爷送来的，"他说话的嗓门挺低，仿佛这会儿是在教堂里做礼拜似的。但是，他那口气让人感到，身为牧师的凯里先生，此刻颇得其所。"茶点大概已经好了。"

他们下楼回到餐室。餐室里百叶窗下着，气氛显得有点冷清。牧师坐在桌端他老伴生前的专座上，礼数周全地斟茶敬点心。菲利普心里暗暗嘀咕，像现在这种场合，他俩理应什么食物也吞咽不下的呢，可是他一转眼，发现大伯的食欲丝毫不受影响，于是他也像平时那样津津有味地大嚼起来。有一阵子，伯侄俩谁也不吱声。菲利普专心对付着一块精美可口的蛋糕，可脸上却露出一副哀容，他觉得这样才说得过去。

"同我当副牧师的那阵子比起来，世风大不相同罗，"不一会儿牧师开口了。"我年轻的时候，吊丧的人总能拿到一副黑手套和一块蒙在礼帽上的黑绸。可怜的路易莎常把黑绸拿来做衣服。她总说，参加十二回葬礼就可以到手一件新衣裙。"

然后，他告诉菲利普有哪些人送了花圈，说现在已收到二十四只，佛尔尼镇的牧师老婆罗林森太太过世的时候，曾经收到过三十二只花圈。不过，明天还会有好多花圈送来。送丧的行列要到十一点才从牧师公馆出发，他们肯定能轻取罗林森太太。路易莎向来讨厌罗林森太太。

"我将亲自主持葬礼。我答应过路易莎，安葬她的事儿绝不让别人插手。"

当牧师拿起第二块蛋糕时，菲利普朝他投去不满的目光。在这种场合竟要吃两块蛋糕，他不能不认为他大伯过于贪恋口腹之欲了。

"玛丽·安做的蛋糕，真是没说的。我怕以后别人再也做不出这么出色的蛋糕。"

"她不打算走吧？"菲利普吃惊地喊道。

从菲利普能记事的时候起，玛丽·安就一直待在牧师家里。她从未忘记过菲利普的生日，到时候总要送他件把小玩意儿，尽管礼物很不像样，情意可重呢。菲利普打心眼里喜欢她。

"不，她要走的，"凯里先生回答，"我想，让个大姑娘留在这儿欠妥当吧。"

"我的老天，她肯定有四十多啦。"

"是啊，我知道她有这把岁数了。不过，她近来有点惹人讨厌，管得实在太宽啦。我想这正是打发她走的好机会。"

"这种机会以后倒是不会再有了呢，"菲利普说。

菲利普掏出烟来，但他大伯不让他点火。

"行完葬礼后再拍吧，菲利普，"他温和地说。

"好吧，"菲利普说。

"只要你可怜的路易莎伯母还在楼上，在这屋子里抽烟，总不太得体吧。"

葬礼结束后，银行经理兼教会执事乔赛亚·格雷夫斯又回转牧师公馆进餐。百叶窗拉开了，不知怎的，菲利普身不由己地生出一种如释重负之感。遗体停放在屋于里，使他感到颇不自在。这位可怜的妇人生前堪称善良、温和的化身，然而，当她身躯冰凉、直挺挺僵硬地躺在楼上卧室卫，却似乎成了一股能左右活人的邪恶力量。这个念头使菲利普不胜惊骇。

有一两分钟光景，餐室里只剩他和教会执事两个人。

"希望您能留下来陪您大伯多住几天，"他说。"我想，眼下不该撇下他孤老头子一个人。"

"我还没有什么明确的打算，"菲利普回答说，"如果他要我留下来，我是很乐意尽这份孝心的。"

进餐时，教会执事为了给那位不幸丧偶的丈夫排解哀思，谈起了布莱克斯泰勃最近发生的一起失火事件，这场火灾烧毁了美以美会教堂的部分建筑。

"听说他们没有保过火险，"他说，脸上露出一丝浅笑。

"有没有保火险还不是一个样，"牧师说。"反正到时候重建教堂，还不是需要多少就能募集到多少。非国教的教徒们总是很乐意解囊捐助的。"

"我看到霍尔登也送了花圈。"

霍尔登是当地的非国教派牧师。凯里先生看在耶稣份上--耶稣正是为了拯救他们双方而慷慨捐躯的嘛--在街上常同他颔首致意，但没问他说过一句话。

"我想这一回出足风头了，"他说。"一共有四十一只花圈。您送来的那只花圈漂亮极啦，我和菲利普都很喜欢。"

"算不上什么，"银行家说。

其实，他也很得意，注意到自己送的花圈比谁都大，看上去好不气派。他们议论起参加葬礼的人。由于举行葬礼，镇上有些商店甚至都未开门营业。教会执事从口袋里掏出一张通告，上面印着广兹因参加凯里太太的葬礼，本店于下午一时前暂停营业。"

"这可是我的主意哪，"他说。

"他们这份情意我领受了，"牧师说，"可怜的路易莎要是在天有灵也会心生感激的。"

菲利普只顾自己吃饭。玛丽·安把那天当成主日对待，所以，他们就吃上了烤鸡和鹅莓馅饼。

"你大概还没有考虑过墓碑的事吧？"教会执事说。

"不，我考虑过了，我打算搞个朴素大方的石头十字架。路易莎向来反对讲排场。""

"搞个十字架倒是最合适不过的了。要是你正在考虑碑文，你觉得这句经文如何：留在基督身边，岂不更有福分？"

牧师嚼起了嘴。这执事简直像俾斯麦，什么事都想由他来作主！他不喜欢那句经文。这似乎是有意在往自己脸上抹灰。

"我想那段经文不妥吧。我倒更喜欢这一句：主赐予的，主已取走。"

"噢，你喜欢这个！我总觉得这一句似乎少了点感情。

牧师尖酸地回敬了一句，而格雷夫斯先生答话时的口吻，在那位鳏夫听来又嫌过于傲慢，简直不知分寸。要是他这个做丈夫的还不能为亡妻的墓碑选择经文，那成何体统！经过一段冷场之后，他们把话题转到教区事务上去了。菲利普跑到花园里去抽烟斗。他在长凳上坐下，蓦地歇斯底里地大笑起来。

几天以后，牧师表示希望菲利普能在布莱克斯泰勃再住几个星期。

"好的，我觉得这样安排很合乎我的心意，"菲利普说。

"我想叫你待到九月份再回巴黎去，不知行不行。"

菲利普没有回答。最近他经常想到富瓦内对他讲过的话，兀自拿不定主意，所以不愿多谈将来的事儿。假如他放弃学美术，自然不失为上。策，因为他有自知之明，深信自己在这方面不可能超群出众。不幸的是，似乎只有他一个人才这么想，别人会以为他是知难而退，认输了，而他就是不肯服输。他生性倔强，明知自己在某方面不见得有天赋，却偏要和命运拼搏一番，非在这方面搞出点名堂不可。他决不愿让自己成为朋友们的笑柄。由于这种个性，他本来很可能一时还下不了放弃学画的决心，但是环境一换，他对事物的看法也突然跟着起了变化。他也像许多人那样，发现一过了英吉利海峡，原来似乎是至关重要的事情，霎时间变得微不足道了。原先觉得那么迷人、说什么也舍不得离开的生活，现在却显得索然无味。他对那儿的咖啡馆，对那些烹调手艺相当糟糕的饭馆，对他们那伙人的穷酸潦倒的生活方式，油然生出一股厌恶。他不在乎朋友们会对他有什么看法了。巧言善辩的克朗肖也罢，正经体面的奥特太太也罢，矫揉造作的露思·查利斯也罢，争吵不休的劳森和克拉顿也罢，所有这些人，菲利普统统感到厌恶。他写信给劳森，麻烦他把留在巴黎的行李物品全寄来。过了一星期，东西来了。菲利普把帆布包解开，发现自己竟能毫无感触地定睛打量自己的画。他注意到了这一事实，觉得很有趣。他大伯倒急不可待地想看看他的画。想当初，牧师激烈反对菲利普去巴黎，如今木已成舟，他倒无所谓了。牧师对巴黎学生的学习生活很感兴趣，一个劲儿问这问那，想打听这方面的情况。事实上，他因为侄儿成了画家而颇有几分自豪。当有人来作客，牧师总寻方设法想逗菲利普开腔。菲利普拿给他看的那几张画模特儿的习作，牧师看了又看，兴致才浓咧。菲利普把自己画的那幅米格尔·阿胡里亚头像放在牧师面前。

"你干吗要画他呢？"凯里先生问。

"噢，我需要个模特儿练练笔。他的头型使我感兴趣。"

"我说啊，反正你在这儿闲着没事，干吗不给我画个像呢？"

"您坐着让人画像，会感到腻烦的。"

"我想我会喜欢的吧。"

"咱们瞧着办吧。"

菲利普被大伯的虚荣心给逗乐了。显然，他巴不得菲利普能给他画幅像。有得而无所失的机会，可不能白白放跑了。接下来的两三天，他不时有所暗示。他责怪菲利普太懒，老问他什么时候可以动手工作。后来，他逢人便说菲利普要给自己画像了。最后，等来了一个下雨天，吃过早饭，凯里先生对菲利普说：

"嗯，今天上午，你就动手给我画像吧，你说呢？"

菲利普搁下手里的书，身子往椅背上一靠。

"我已经放弃画画了，"他说。

"为什么？"他大伯吃惊地问。

"我认为当个二流画家没多大意思，而我看准了自己不会有更大的成就。"

"你真叫我吃惊。你去巴黎之前，不是斩钉截铁地说自己是个天才来着。"

"那时候我没自知之明，菲菲利普说。

"我原以为你选定了哪一行，就会有点骨气一于到底的呢。现在看来你这个人见异思迁，就是没个长性。"

菲利普不免有点恼火，大伯竟然一点儿不明白他这份决心有多了不起，凝聚了多大的勇气。

"滚石不长苔藓，"牧师继续说。菲利普最讨厌这句谚语，因为在他看来，这条谚语毫无意义。早在菲利普离开会计事务所之前，大伯同他争论时就动辄搬出这句谚语来训人。现在，他的监护人显然又想起了那时的情景。

"如今你已不是个孩子，也该考虑自己的安身立命之所了。最初你执意要当会计师，后来觉得腻了，又想当画家，可现在心血来潮又要变卦这说明你这个人……"

他迟疑了一下，想考虑这究竟说明了性格上的哪些缺陷，却被菲利普接过话茬，一口气替他把话讲完。

"优柔寡断、软弱无能、缺乏远见、没有决断力。"

牧师倏地抬起头，朝侄儿扫了一眼，看看他是不是在嘲弄自己。菲利普的脸挺一本正经，可他那双眸子却在一闪一闪，惹得牧师大为恼火。菲利普不该这么玩世不恭。牧师觉得应该好好训侄儿一顿才是。

"今后，我不再过问你金钱方面的事儿，你可以自己作主了。不过，我还是想提醒你一句，你的钱并不是多得花不完的，再说你还不幸身患残疾，要养活自己肯定不是件容易的事。"

菲利普现在明白了，不论是谁，只要一同他发火，第一个念头就要提一下他的跛足。而他对整个人类的看法正是由下面这一事实所决的：几乎没人能抵制住诱惑，不去触及人家的痛处。好在菲利普现在练多了，即使有人当面提到他的残疾，也能照样不露声色。菲利普小时常为自己动辄脸红而深深苦恼，而现在就连这一点他也能控制自如了。

"你倒说句公道话，当初你执意要去学画，我反对你没有反对错吧不管怎么说，你这点总得承认罗。"

"这一点我可说不清楚。我想，一个人与其在别人指点下规规矩矩行事，还不如让他自己去闯闯，出点差错，反能获得更多的教益。反正我已放荡过一阵子。现在我不反对找个职业安顿下来。"

"干哪一行呢？"

菲利普对这个问题毫无准备，事实上，他连主意也没最后拿定。他脑子里盘算过十来种职业。

"对你来说，最合适的莫过于继承父业，当一名医生。"

"好不奇怪，我也正是这么打算的呢。"

在这么多的职业中，菲利普所以会想到行医这一行，主要是因为医生这个职业可以让人享受到更多的个人自由，而他过去蹲办公室的那段生活经历，也使他决心不再干任何与办公室沾边的差事。可他刚才对牧师的回答，几乎是无意识脱口而出的，纯粹是一种随机应变的巧答。他以这种偶然方式下定了决心，自己也感到有点好玩。他当场就决定于秋季进他父亲曾念过书的医院。

"这么说来，你在巴黎的那两年就算自丢了？"

"这我可说不上来。这两年我过得很快活，而且还学到了一两件本事。"

"什么本事？"

菲利普沉吟片刻，他接下来所作的回答，听起来倒也不无几分撩拨人的意味。

"我学会了看手，过去我从来没有看过。我还学会了如何借天空作背景来观察房屋和树木，而不是孤零零地观察房屋和树木。我还懂得了影子并不是黑色的，而是有颜色的。"

"我想你自以为很聪明吧，可我认为你满口轻狂，好蠢。"

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等级: 内阁元老

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chapter 53

Taking the paper with him Mr. Carey retired to his study. Philip changed his chair for that in which his uncle had been sitting (it was the only comfortable one in the room), and looked out of the window at the pouring rain. Even in that sad weather there was something restful about the green fields that stretched to the horizon. There was an intimate charm in the landscape which he did not remember ever to have noticed before. Two years in France had opened his eyes to the beauty of his own countryside.

He thought with a smile of his uncle’s remark. It was lucky that the turn of his mind tended to flippancy. He had begun to realise what a great loss he had sustained in the death of his father and mother. That was one of the differences in his life which prevented him from seeing things in the same way as other people. The love of parents for their children is the only emotion which is quite disinterested. Among strangers he had grown up as best he could, but he had seldom been used with patience or forbearance. He prided himself on his self-control. It had been whipped into him by the mockery of his fellows. Then they called him cynical and callous. He had acquired calmness of demeanour and under most circumstances an unruffled exterior, so that now he could not show his feelings. People told him he was unemotional; but he knew that he was at the mercy of his emotions: an accidental kindness touched him so much that sometimes he did not venture to speak in order not to betray the unsteadiness of his voice. He remembered the bitterness of his life at school, the humiliation which he had endured, the banter which had made him morbidly afraid of making himself ridiculous; and he remembered the loneliness he had felt since, faced with the world, the disillusion and the disappointment caused by the difference between what it promised to his active imagination and what it gave. But notwithstanding he was able to look at himself from the outside and smile with amusement.

‘By Jove, if I weren’t flippant, I should hang myself,’ he thought cheerfully.

His mind went back to the answer he had given his uncle when he asked him what he had learnt in Paris. He had learnt a good deal more than he told him. A conversation with Cronshaw had stuck in his memory, and one phrase he had used, a commonplace one enough, had set his brain working.

‘My dear fellow,’ Cronshaw said, ‘there’s no such thing as abstract morality.’

When Philip ceased to believe in Christianity he felt that a great weight was taken from his shoulders; casting off the responsibility which weighed down every action, when every action was infinitely important for the welfare of his immortal soul, he experienced a vivid sense of liberty. But he knew now that this was an illusion. When he put away the religion in which he had been brought up, he had kept unimpaired the morality which was part and parcel of it. He made up his mind therefore to think things out for himself. He determined to be swayed by no prejudices. He swept away the virtues and the vices, the established laws of good and evil, with the idea of finding out the rules of life for himself. He did not know whether rules were necessary at all. That was one of the things he wanted to discover. Clearly much that seemed valid seemed so only because he had been taught it from his earliest youth. He had read a number of books, but they did not help him much, for they were based on the morality of Christianity; and even the writers who emphasised the fact that they did not believe in it were never satisfied till they had framed a system of ethics in accordance with that of the Sermon on the Mount. It seemed hardly worth while to read a long volume in order to learn that you ought to behave exactly like everybody else. Philip wanted to find out how he ought to behave, and he thought he could prevent himself from being influenced by the opinions that surrounded him. But meanwhile he had to go on living, and, until he formed a theory of conduct, he made himself a provisional rule.

‘Follow your inclinations with due regard to the policeman round the corner.’

He thought the best thing he had gained in Paris was a complete liberty of spirit, and he felt himself at last absolutely free. In a desultory way he had read a good deal of philosophy, and he looked forward with delight to the leisure of the next few months. He began to read at haphazard. He entered upon each system with a little thrill of excitement, expecting to find in each some guide by which he could rule his conduct; he felt himself like a traveller in unknown countries and as he pushed forward the enterprise fascinated him; he read emotionally, as other men read pure literature, and his heart leaped as he discovered in noble words what himself had obscurely felt. His mind was concrete and moved with difficulty in regions of the abstract; but, even when he could not follow the reasoning, it gave him a curious pleasure to follow the tortuosities of thoughts that threaded their nimble way on the edge of the incomprehensible. Sometimes great philosophers seemed to have nothing to say to him, but at others he recognised a mind with which he felt himself at home. He was like the explorer in Central Africa who comes suddenly upon wide uplands, with great trees in them and stretches of meadow, so that he might fancy himself in an English park. He delighted in the robust common sense of Thomas Hobbes; Spinoza filled him with awe, he had never before come in contact with a mind so noble, so unapproachable and austere; it reminded him of that statue by Rodin, L’Age d’Airain, which he passionately admired; and then there was Hume: the scepticism of that charming philosopher touched a kindred note in Philip; and, revelling in the lucid style which seemed able to put complicated thought into simple words, musical and measured, he read as he might have read a novel, a smile of pleasure on his lips. But in none could he find exactly what he wanted. He had read somewhere that every man was born a Platonist, an Aristotelian, a Stoic, or an Epicurean; and the history of George Henry Lewes (besides telling you that philosophy was all moonshine) was there to show that the thought of each philospher was inseparably connected with the man he was. When you knew that you could guess to a great extent the philosophy he wrote. It looked as though you did not act in a certain way because you thought in a certain way, but rather that you thought in a certain way because you were made in a certain way. Truth had nothing to do with it. There was no such thing as truth. Each man was his own philosopher, and the elaborate systems which the great men of the past had composed were only valid for the writers.

The thing then was to discover what one was and one’s system of philosophy would devise itself. It seemed to Philip that there were three things to find out: man’s relation to the world he lives in, man’s relation with the men among whom he lives, and finally man’s relation to himself. He made an elaborate plan of study.

The advantage of living abroad is that, coming in contact with the manners and customs of the people among whom you live, you observe them from the outside and see that they have not the necessity which those who practise them believe. You cannot fail to discover that the beliefs which to you are self-evident to the foreigner are absurd. The year in Germany, the long stay in Paris, had prepared Philip to receive the sceptical teaching which came to him now with such a feeling of relief. He saw that nothing was good and nothing was evil; things were merely adapted to an end. He read The Origin of Species. It seemed to offer an explanation of much that troubled him. He was like an explorer now who has reasoned that certain natural features must present themselves, and, beating up a broad river, finds here the tributary that he expected, there the fertile, populated plains, and further on the mountains. When some great discovery is made the world is surprised afterwards that it was not accepted at once, and even on those who acknowledge its truth the effect is unimportant. The first readers of The Origin of Species accepted it with their reason; but their emotions, which are the ground of conduct, were untouched. Philip was born a generation after this great book was published, and much that horrified its contemporaries had passed into the feeling of the time, so that he was able to accept it with a joyful heart. He was intensely moved by the grandeur of the struggle for life, and the ethical rule which it suggested seemed to fit in with his predispositions. He said to himself that might was right. Society stood on one side, an organism with its own laws of growth and self-preservation, while the individual stood on the other. The actions which were to the advantage of society it termed virtuous and those which were not it called vicious. Good and evil meant nothing more than that. Sin was a prejudice from which the free man should rid himself. Society had three arms in its contest with the individual, laws, public opinion, and conscience: the first two could be met by guile, guile is the only weapon of the weak against the strong: common opinion put the matter well when it stated that sin consisted in being found out; but conscience was the traitor within the gates; it fought in each heart the battle of society, and caused the individual to throw himself, a wanton sacrifice, to the prosperity of his enemy. For it was clear that the two were irreconcilable, the state and the individual conscious of himself. THAT uses the individual for its own ends, trampling upon him if he thwarts it, rewarding him with medals, pensions, honours, when he serves it faithfully; THIS, strong only in his independence, threads his way through the state, for convenience’ sake, paying in money or service for certain benefits, but with no sense of obligation; and, indifferent to the rewards, asks only to be left alone. He is the independent traveller, who uses Cook’s tickets because they save trouble, but looks with good-humoured contempt on the personally conducted parties. The free man can do no wrong. He does everything he likes—if he can. His power is the only measure of his morality. He recognises the laws of the state and he can break them without sense of sin, but if he is punished he accepts the punishment without rancour. Society has the power.

But if for the individual there was no right and no wrong, then it seemed to Philip that conscience lost its power. It was with a cry of triumph that he seized the knave and flung him from his breast. But he was no nearer to the meaning of life than he had been before. Why the world was there and what men had come into existence for at all was as inexplicable as ever. Surely there must be some reason. He thought of Cronshaw’s parable of the Persian carpet. He offered it as a solution of the riddle, and mysteriously he stated that it was no answer at all unless you found it out for yourself.

‘I wonder what the devil he meant,’ Philip smiled.

And so, on the last day of September, eager to put into practice all these new theories of life, Philip, with sixteen hundred pounds and his club-foot, set out for the second time to London to make his third start in life.

第五十三章

凯里先生拿着报纸回书房去了。菲利普换了个座位，坐到他大伯刚才坐的椅子上（这是房间里绝无仅有的一张舒服椅子），望着窗外瓢泼般的大雨。即使在这样阴郁的天气，那一片绵连天际的翠绿田野仍不失其固有的怡然气氛。这幅田园景色里，自有一股令人感到亲切的魅力，菲利普想不起自己以前曾否有过这样的感受。两年的旅法生活，启迪了他的心智，使他察觉到自己家乡的美之所在。

菲利普想起他大伯的话，嘴角不由得漾起一丝浅笑。他的脾性还幸亏是倾向于轻狂的呢！他开始意识到双亲早亡，使他蒙受了多大的损失。这是他人生道路中一个与众不同的地方，使他不能袭用一般世人的眼光来观察事物。唯有父母的舐犊之情，才算得上是真正无私的感情。置身于陌生人中间，他好歹总算长大成人了，但是别人对待他，往往既无耐心，又不加克制。他颇为自己的自制力感到自豪。他的这股自制力，硬是伙伴们的冷嘲热讽锤炼出来的，到头来，他们反说他玩世不恭、薄情寡义。他在待人接物方面，学会了沉着应付，在大多数情况下，能做到不露声色，久而久之，现在再也没法使自己的情感见之于言表。人家说他是个冷血动物，可他心里明白自己极易动感情，有谁偶尔帮了他点什么忙，他就感动得什么似的，有时甚至连口也不敢开，生怕让人发觉自己的声音在发抖。他回想起痛苦的学生时代以及那时所忍受的种种屈屏，回想起同学们对他的讪笑如何造成了他唯恐在旁人面前出丑的病态心理。最后，他还想到自己始终感到落落寡合，而踏上社会之后，由于自己想象力活跃。对人生充满憧憬，但现实生活却是那么无情，两者之间的悬殊，导致了幻想和希望的破灭。尽管如此，他还是能客观地剖析自己，而且轻松地付之一笑。

"天哪！要不是我生性轻狂，我真要去上吊呢！"他心情轻松地暗自嘀咕。

菲利普又想到刚才他回答他大伯的话。他在巴黎学到了点什么？实际上，他学到的远比他告诉给大伯听的要多。同克朗肖的一席谈话，令他永生难忘；克朗肖随口说出的任何一句话，虽说是再普通不过，却使菲利普心窍大开。

"我的老弟，世界上根本就不存在'抽象的道德准则'这种玩意儿。"

想当初菲利普放弃了对基督教的信仰，颇有如释重负之感。在此之前，他的一举一动都直接关系到不朽灵魂的安宁，决不敢稍有玩忽。在此之后，那种束缚他手脚的责任感被抛开了，他感到无牵无挂，好不自在。但是现在他知道，这只是一种幻觉。他是在宗教的熏陶之下成长起来的。尽管他抛弃了宗教，但是却把作为宗教重要组成部分的道德观念完整无损地保留了下来。所以，他下了决心，今后事事须经自己的独立思考，绝不为各种偏见所左右。他把有关德行与罪恶的陈腐观念以及有关善与恶的现存法则，统统从脑子里清除了出去，并抱定宗旨，要给自己另外找出一套生活的准则。他不知道生活中是否非要有准则不可。这也是他要想摸清楚的事物之一。显然，世间许多"道理"他之所以觉得言之成理，无非是因为从小人们就是这么教育他的，如此而已。他读过的书不可谓不多，但是全帮不了他什么忙，因为这些著作无一不是基于基督教的道德观念之上的，甚至那些口口声声自称不信基督教义的作者，最后也还是满足于依照基督登山训众的戒律，制定出一整套的道德训条来。一本皇皇巨著，如果说来说去无非是劝人随波逐流，遇事切莫越雷池一步，那么此书似乎也根本不值一读。菲利普要想弄清楚，自己究竟该如何为人处世，他相信能把握住自己，不为周围舆论所左右。不管怎么说，他还得活下去，所以在确立一套处世哲学之前，他先给自己规定了一条临时性的准则。

"尽可随心所欲，只是得适当留神街角处的警察。"

他认为他在旅居巴黎期间最宝贵的收获，就是精神上得到了彻底的解脱。他终于感到自己绝对自由了。他曾随意浏览过大量哲学著作，而现在可望安享今后几个月的闲暇。他开始博览群书。他怀着激动的心情涉猎各种学说体系，指望从中找到支配自己行动的指南。他觉得自己好像置身于异国他乡的游子，一面在爬山涉水，一往无前，一面由于身历奇境而感到心荡神移。他读着各种哲学著作，心潮起伏，就像别人研读纯文学作品一样。当他在意境高雅的字里行间，发现了自己早已朦胧感觉到的东西时，他的心就止不住怦怦直跳。他那适合于形象思维的脑袋，一旦涉及抽象观念的领域就不怎么听使唤了。即使他有时无法把握作者的推理，然而随着作者迂回曲折的思路，在玄奥艰深的学海边缘上巧妙穿行，也能领受到一番异趣。有时候，大哲学家们似乎对他已无话可说，有时候，他又从他们的声音中辨认出了一个自己所熟悉的智者。他仿佛是深入中非腹地的探险家，突然闯入了一片开阔的高地，只见高地上奇树参天，其间错落着一片片如茵的草地，他竟以为自己是置身在英国的公园之中。菲利普喜欢托马斯·霍布斯富有生命力且通俗易懂的见解，对斯宾诺莎则充满了敬畏之意。在此以前，他还从未接触过如此高洁、如此矜持严峻的哲人，这使他联想起他所热烈推崇的罗丹雕塑《青铜时代》。还有休谟，这位迷人的哲学家的怀疑主义也轻轻拨动了菲利普的心弦。菲利普十分喜欢他笔下的清澈见底的文体，这种文体似乎能把复杂的思想演绎成具有音乐感和节奏感的简洁语言，所以他在阅读休漠的著作时，就像在欣赏小说那样，嘴角上挂着一丝愉快的微笑。然而，在所有这些书里，菲利普就是找不到自己所需要的东西。他似乎曾在哪一本书里看到过这种说法：一个人究竟是柏拉图主义者还是亚里士多德的信徒，是禁欲主义者还是享乐主义者，都是天生就注定了的。乔奇·亨利·刘易斯的一生经历（除了告诉世人哲学无非是一场空谈之外）正表明了这样一个事实：每个哲学家的思想，总是同他的为人血肉相联的；只要了解哲学家其人，就可以在很大程度上猜测到他所阐述的哲学思想。看来，似乎并不因为你是按某种方式思维，所以才接某种方式行事；实际上，你之所以按某种方式思维，倒是因为你是按某种方式造就而成的。真理与此毫不相干。压根儿就没有"真理"这种东西。每个人都有其一套哲学。过去的伟人先哲所煞费苦心炮制的整套整套观念，仅仅对著作者自己有效。

这么说来，问题的症结所在，就是得搞清楚你自己是什么样的人，这点清楚了，你的一套哲学体系也就水到渠成了。在菲利普看来，有三件事需要了解清楚：一个人同他借以存身的世界关系如何；一个人同生活在他周围的人关系如何；一个人同他自己的关系如何。菲利普精心制定了一份学习计划。

生活在国外有这样一个好处：你既能具体接触到周围人们的风俗习惯，又能作为旁观者客观地加以观察，从而发现那些被当地人视为须臾不可缺少的风俗习惯，其实并无遵从的必要。你不会不注意到这样的情况：一些在你看来似乎是天经地义的信仰，在外国人眼里却显得荒唐可笑。菲利普先在德国生活过一年，后又在巴黎呆了很长一段时期，这就为他接受怀疑论学说作好思想准备，所以现在当这种学说摆在他面前时，他一拍即合，感到有种说不出的快慰。他看到世间的事物本无善恶之分，无非是为了适应某种目的而存在的。他读了《物种起源》，许多使他感到困惑的问题似乎都迎刃而解了。他现在倒像个这样的自然考察者：根据推论，他料定大自然必然会展现某些特点，然后，溯大河而上，果然不出所料，发现此处有一条支流，那儿有人口稠密的沃野，再过去则是连绵起伏的群山。每当有了某种重大发现，世人日后总会感到奇怪：为何当初没有立即为人们所接受？为何对那些承认其真实性的人竟然也没有产生任何重大影响？《物种起源》一书最早的读者，虽然在理性上接受了该书的观点，但是他们行动的基础--情感，却未被触动。从这本巨著问世到菲利普出生，中间隔了整整一代人；书中许多曾使上代人不胜骇然的内容，渐渐为这一代的多数人所接受，所以菲利普现在尽可怀着轻松的心情来阅读这部巨著。菲利普被蔚为壮观的生存竞争深深打动了，这种生存竞争所提出的道德准则，似乎同他原有的思想倾向完全吻合。他暗暗对自己说，是啊，强权即公理嘛。在这种斗争中，社会自成一方--社会是个有机体，有其自身的生长及自我保存的规律--而个人则为另一方。凡是对社会有利的行为，皆被誉为善举；凡是于社会有害的行为，则被唤作恶行。所谓善与恶，无非就是这个意思。而所谓"罪孽"，实在是自由人应加以摆脱的一种偏见……

菲利普觉得，如果就个人来说并不存在谁是谁非的问题，那么良心也就随之失去了约束的力量。他发出一声胜利的欢呼，一把抓住这个吃里爬外的恶棍，把他从自己的胸膛里狠狠摔了出去。然而，他并没有比以往更接近人生的真谛。为什么要有这个大千世界存在？人类的产生又是为何来着？这些问题仍像以前那样无从解释。当然罗，原因肯定是有的。他想到克朗肖所打的那个"波斯地毯"比方。克朗肖打那个比方算是对生活之谜的解答。记得他还故弄玄虚地加了一句：答案得由你自己找出来，否则就不成其为答案。

"鬼才知道他葫芦里卖的什么药，"菲利普笑了。

就这样，在九月份的最后一天，急于实施新的处世哲学的菲利普，带着一千六百镑的财产，拖着那条瘸腿，第二次前往伦敦。这是他人生道路上的第三个开端。

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chapter 54

he examination Philip had passed before he was articled to a chartered accountant was sufficient qualification for him to enter a medical school. He chose St. Luke’s because his father had been a student there, and before the end of the summer session had gone up to London for a day in order to see the secretary. He got a list of rooms from him, and took lodgings in a dingy house which had the advantage of being within two minutes’ walk of the hospital.

‘You’ll have to arrange about a part to dissect,’ the secretary told him. ‘You’d better start on a leg; they generally do; they seem to think it easier.’

Philip found that his first lecture was in anatomy, at eleven, and about half past ten he limped across the road, and a little nervously made his way to the Medical School. Just inside the door a number of notices were pinned up, lists of lectures, football fixtures, and the like; and these he looked at idly, trying to seem at his ease. Young men and boys dribbled in and looked for letters in the rack, chatted with one another, and passed downstairs to the basement, in which was the student’s reading-room. Philip saw several fellows with a desultory, timid look dawdling around, and surmised that, like himself, they were there for the first time. When he had exhausted the notices he saw a glass door which led into what was apparently a museum, and having still twenty minutes to spare he walked in. It was a collection of pathological specimens. Presently a boy of about eighteen came up to him.

‘I say, are you first year?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ answered Philip.

‘Where’s the lecture room, d’you know? It’s getting on for eleven.’

‘We’d better try to find it.’

They walked out of the museum into a long, dark corridor, with the walls painted in two shades of red, and other youths walking along suggested the way to them. They came to a door marked Anatomy Theatre. Philip found that there were a good many people already there. The seats were arranged in tiers, and just as Philip entered an attendant came in, put a glass of water on the table in the well of the lecture-room and then brought in a pelvis and two thigh-bones, right and left. More men entered and took their seats and by eleven the theatre was fairly full. There were about sixty students. For the most part they were a good deal younger than Philip, smooth-faced boys of eighteen, but there were a few who were older than he: he noticed one tall man, with a fierce red moustache, who might have been thirty; another little fellow with black hair, only a year or two younger; and there was one man with spectacles and a beard which was quite gray.

The lecturer came in, Mr. Cameron, a handsome man with white hair and clean-cut features. He called out the long list of names. Then he made a little speech. He spoke in a pleasant voice, with well-chosen words, and he seemed to take a discreet pleasure in their careful arrangement. He suggested one or two books which they might buy and advised the purchase of a skeleton. He spoke of anatomy with enthusiasm: it was essential to the study of surgery; a knowledge of it added to the appreciation of art. Philip pricked up his ears. He heard later that Mr. Cameron lectured also to the students at the Royal Academy. He had lived many years in Japan, with a post at the University of Tokyo, and he flattered himself on his appreciation of the beautiful.

‘You will have to learn many tedious things,’ he finished, with an indulgent smile, ‘which you will forget the moment you have passed your final examination, but in anatomy it is better to have learned and lost than never to have learned at all.’

He took up the pelvis which was lying on the table and began to describe it. He spoke well and clearly.

At the end of the lecture the boy who had spoken to Philip in the pathological museum and sat next to him in the theatre suggested that they should go to the dissecting-room. Philip and he walked along the corridor again, and an attendant told them where it was. As soon as they entered Philip understood what the acrid smell was which he had noticed in the passage. He lit a pipe. The attendant gave a short laugh.

‘You’ll soon get used to the smell. I don’t notice it myself.’

He asked Philip’s name and looked at a list on the board.

‘You’ve got a leg—number four.’

Philip saw that another name was bracketed with his own.

‘What’s the meaning of that?’ he asked.

‘We’re very short of bodies just now. We’ve had to put two on each part.’

The dissecting-room was a large apartment painted like the corridors, the upper part a rich salmon and the dado a dark terra-cotta. At regular intervals down the long sides of the room, at right angles with the wall, were iron slabs, grooved like meat-dishes; and on each lay a body. Most of them were men. They were very dark from the preservative in which they had been kept, and the skin had almost the look of leather. They were extremely emaciated. The attendant took Philip up to one of the slabs. A youth was standing by it.

‘Is your name Carey?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, then we’ve got this leg together. It’s lucky it’s a man, isn’t it?’

‘Why?’ asked Philip.

‘They generally always like a male better,’ said the attendant. ‘A female’s liable to have a lot of fat about her.’

Philip looked at the body. The arms and legs were so thin that there was no shape in them, and the ribs stood out so that the skin over them was tense. A man of about forty-five with a thin, gray beard, and on his skull scanty, colourless hair: the eyes were closed and the lower jaw sunken. Philip could not feel that this had ever been a man, and yet in the row of them there was something terrible and ghastly.

‘I thought I’d start at two,’ said the young man who was dissecting with Philip.

‘All right, I’ll be here then.’

He had bought the day before the case of instruments which was needful, and now he was given a locker. He looked at the boy who had accompanied him into the dissecting-room and saw that he was white.

‘Make you feel rotten?’ Philip asked him.

‘I’ve never seen anyone dead before.’

They walked along the corridor till they came to the entrance of the school. Philip remembered Fanny Price. She was the first dead person he had ever seen, and he remembered how strangely it had affected him. There was an immeasurable distance between the quick and the dead: they did not seem to belong to the same species; and it was strange to think that but a little while before they had spoken and moved and eaten and laughed. There was something horrible about the dead, and you could imagine that they might cast an evil influence on the living.

‘What d’you say to having something to eat?’ said his new friend to Philip.

They went down into the basement, where there was a dark room fitted up as a restaurant, and here the students were able to get the same sort of fare as they might have at an aerated bread shop. While they ate (Philip had a scone and butter and a cup of chocolate), he discovered that his companion was called Dunsford. He was a fresh-complexioned lad, with pleasant blue eyes and curly, dark hair, large-limbed, slow of speech and movement. He had just come from Clifton.

‘Are you taking the Conjoint?’ he asked Philip.

‘Yes, I want to get qualified as soon as I can.’

‘I’m taking it too, but I shall take the F. R. C. S. afterwards. I’m going in for surgery.’

Most of the students took the curriculum of the Conjoint Board of the College of Surgeons and the College of Physicians; but the more ambitious or the more industrious added to this the longer studies which led to a degree from the University of London. When Philip went to St. Luke’s changes had recently been made in the regulations, and the course took five years instead of four as it had done for those who registered before the autumn of 1892. Dunsford was well up in his plans and told Philip the usual course of events. The ‘first conjoint’ examination consisted of biology, anatomy, and chemistry; but it could be taken in sections, and most fellows took their biology three months after entering the school. This science had been recently added to the list of subjects upon which the student was obliged to inform himself, but the amount of knowledge required was very small.

When Philip went back to the dissecting-room, he was a few minutes late, since he had forgotten to buy the loose sleeves which they wore to protect their shirts, and he found a number of men already working. His partner had started on the minute and was busy dissecting out cutaneous nerves. Two others were engaged on the second leg, and more were occupied with the arms.

‘You don’t mind my having started?’

‘That’s all right, fire away,’ said Philip.

He took the book, open at a diagram of the dissected part, and looked at what they had to find.

‘You’re rather a dab at this,’ said Philip.

‘Oh, I’ve done a good deal of dissecting before, animals, you know, for the Pre Sci.’

There was a certain amount of conversation over the dissecting-table, partly about the work, partly about the prospects of the football season, the demonstrators, and the lectures. Philip felt himself a great deal older than the others. They were raw schoolboys. But age is a matter of knowledge rather than of years; and Newson, the active young man who was dissecting with him, was very much at home with his subject. He was perhaps not sorry to show off, and he explained very fully to Philip what he was about. Philip, notwithstanding his hidden stores of wisdom, listened meekly. Then Philip took up the scalpel and the tweezers and began working while the other looked on.

‘Ripping to have him so thin,’ said Newson, wiping his hands. ‘The blighter can’t have had anything to eat for a month.’

‘I wonder what he died of,’ murmured Philip.

‘Oh, I don’t know, any old thing, starvation chiefly, I suppose.... I say, look out, don’t cut that artery.’

‘It’s all very fine to say, don’t cut that artery,’ remarked one of the men working on the opposite leg. ‘Silly old fool’s got an artery in the wrong place.’

‘Arteries always are in the wrong place,’ said Newson. ‘The normal’s the one thing you practically never get. That’s why it’s called the normal.’

‘Don’t say things like that,’ said Philip, ‘or I shall cut myself.’

‘If you cut yourself,’ answered Newson, full of information, ‘wash it at once with antiseptic. It’s the one thing you’ve got to be careful about. There was a chap here last year who gave himself only a prick, and he didn’t bother about it, and he got septicaemia.’

‘Did he get all right?’

‘Oh, no, he died in a week. I went and had a look at him in the P. M. room.’

Philip’s back ached by the time it was proper to have tea, and his luncheon had been so light that he was quite ready for it. His hands smelt of that peculiar odour which he had first noticed that morning in the corridor. He thought his muffin tasted of it too.

‘Oh, you’ll get used to that,’ said Newson. ‘When you don’t have the good old dissecting-room stink about, you feel quite lonely.’

‘I’m not going to let it spoil my appetite,’ said Philip, as he followed up the muffin with a piece of cake.

第五十四章

菲利普在跟会计师当学徒之前曾通过一次考试，凭这层资格他可以进任何一所医科学校学习。他选了圣路加医学院，因为他父亲就是在那儿学的医。夏季学期结束之前，他抽出一天工夫跑了趟伦敦，去找学校的干事。他从干事那儿拿到一张寄宿房间一览表，接着在一幢光线暗淡的房子里找了个安顿之所。住在这儿有个好处，去医院不消两分钟。

"你得准备好一份解剖材料，"干事对菲利普说。"最好先从解剖人腿着手，一般学生都是这么做的，似乎认为人腿比较容易解剖。"

菲利普发现自己要上的第一堂课便是解剖学，于十一点开始。大约十点半光景，他一瘸一拐地穿过马路，往医学院走去，心里有点紧张。一进校门，就看见张贴在布告栏里的几份通告，有课程表、足球赛预告等等。菲利普安闲地望着这些布告，竭力摆出一副轻松自在的神态。一些年轻小伙子三三两两地走进校门，一面在信架上翻找信件，一面叽叽呱呱闲聊，随后沿着楼梯朝地下室走去，那儿是学生阅览室。菲利普看见有几个学生在四下闲逛，怯生生地东张西望，想来这些人也和自己一样，是第一回来这儿的。待他看完了一张张布告，发现自己来到一扇玻璃门前，屋里面好像是个陈列馆。反正离上课还有二十分钟，菲利普便信步走了进去。里面陈列着各种病理标本。不一会儿，一个约莫十八岁的小伙子朝他走过来。

"嘿，你是一年级的吧？"他说。

"不错，"菲利普回答道。

"你知道讲堂在哪儿？快十一点啦。"

"咱们这就去找找看。"

他们从陈列馆出来，进了一条又暗又长的过道。过道两边的墙壁上漆着深浅两种红色。他看到另外一些年轻人也在往前走，这说明讲堂就在前面。他们来到一扇写有"解剖学讲堂"字样的房门前，菲利普发现里面已坐了好多人。这是间阶梯教室。就在菲利普进门的时候，有位工友走进来，端了杯茶水放在教室前边的讲台上，随后又拿来一个骨盆和左右两块股骨。义有一些学生进来，在座位上坐定。到十一点的时候，讲堂里已差不多座无虚席。大约共有六十多名学生，多半比菲利普年轻得多，是些嘴上无毛的十八岁小伙于，也有几个年纪比他大的。他注意到一个大高个儿，长着一脸的红胡子，模样在三十岁左右；还有一个头发乌黑的小个子，年纪比前者大概小一两岁；再一个是戴眼镜的男子，胡子已有点灰白。

讲师卡梅伦先生走了进来。他眉清目秀，五官端正，头发已染上一层霜。他开始点名，一长串的名字从头叫到底，然后来了一段开场白。他的嗓音悦耳动听，说话时字斟句酌，似乎颇为自己这席言简意赅的谈话暗暗得意。他提到一两本书，建议学生买来备在身边，还劝他们每人备置一具骨架。他谈起解剖学时口气热烈：这是学习外科的必修课目；懂得点解剖学，也有助于提高艺术鉴赏力。菲利普聚精会神地听着。后来他听人说，卡梅伦先生也给皇家艺术学院的学生上课。他曾侨居日本多年，在东京大学任过教，卡梅伦先生自以为对天地间的美物胜景独具慧眼。

"今后你们有许多沉闷乏味的东西要学，"他在结束自己的开场白时这么说，脸上挂着宽容的微笑，"而这些东西，只要你们一通过结业考试，就会立刻忘得一干二净。但是，就解剖学而言，即使学了再丢掉，也总比从没学过要好。"

卡梅伦先生拿起放在桌子上的骨盆，开始讲课了。他讲得条理清晰，娓娓动听。

那个在病理标本陈列馆同菲利普搭讪过的小伙子，听课时就坐在菲利普身边，下课以后，他提议一齐去解剖室。菲利普同他又沿过道走去，一位工友告诉他们解剖室在哪儿一进解剖室，菲利普立即明白过来，刚才在过道里闻到的那股冲鼻子的涩味儿是怎么回事了。他点燃了烟斗，那工友呵呵一笑。

"这股味儿你很快会习惯的。我嘛，已是久而不闻其'臭，啦。"

他问了菲利普的姓名，朝布告板上的名单望了望。

"你分到了一条腿--一四号。"

菲利普看到他和另一个人的名字同写在一个括号里。

"这是什么意思？"他问。

"眼下人体不够用，只好两人合一份肢体。"

解剖室很宽敞，房间里漆的颜色同走廊一样，上半部是鲜艳的橙红色，下半部的护墙板则呈深暗的赤褐色。沿房间的纵向两侧置放着一块块铁板，都和墙壁交成直角，铁板之间隔有一定的距离。铁板像盛肉的盆于那样开有糟口，里面各放一具尸体。大部分是男尸。尸体由于长期浸在防腐剂里，颜色都发黑了，皮肤看上去差不多像皮革一样。尸体形销骨立，皱缩得不成样子。工友把菲利普领到一块铁板跟前。那儿站着一个青年人。

"你是凯里吧？"他问道。

"是的。"

"哦，那咱俩就合用这条大腿罗。算咱走运，是个男的，呃？"

"此话怎讲？"菲利普问。

"一般学生都比较喜欢解剖男尸，"那工友说，"女的往往有厚厚一层脂肪。"

菲利普打量着面前的尸体。四肢瘦得脱却了原形，肋骨全都鼓突了出来，外面的皮肤绷得紧紧的。死者在四十五岁左右，下巴上留有一撮淡淡的灰胡子，脑壳上稀稀拉拉地长着不多几根失去了光泽的头发；双目闭合，下颚塌陷。菲利普怎么也想象不出，躺在这儿的曾是个活人，说实在的，这一排尸体就这么横陈在那儿，气氛真有点阴森可怖。

"我想我大概在下午两时动手，"那个将与菲利普合伙解剖的小伙子说。

"好吧，到时候我会来这儿的。"

前一天，菲利普买了那盒必不可少的解剖器械，这会儿他分配到了一只更衣柜、他朝那个和他一块进解剖室来的小伙子望了一眼，只见他脸色煞白。

"这滋味不好受吧？"菲利普问他。

"我还是第一回见到死人。"

他们俩沿着走廊一直走到校门口。菲利普想起了范妮·普赖斯。那个悬梁自尽的女子，是他头一回见到的死人。他现在还记得当时的惨状给了他什么样的奇怪感受。活人与死者之间，存在着无法测量的距离，两者似乎并非属于同一物种。想想也真奇怪，就在不久以前，这些人还在说话，活动，吃饭，嬉笑呢。死者身上似乎有着某种令人恐怖的东西，难怪有人要想，他们说不定真有一股蛊惑作祟的邪劲儿呢。

"去吃点东西好吗？"这位新朋友对菲利普说。

他们来到地下室。那儿有个布置成餐厅的房间，就是光线暗了点。供应倒是一应俱全，学生同样能吃到外面点心店所供应的各种食品。在吃东两的时候（菲利普要了一客白脱麦饼和一杯巧克力），他知道这位伙伴叫邓斯福德。小伙子气色很好，一双蓝眼睛，一头深色的鬈发乌黑发亮，大手人脚，长得很结实；说起话来，不紧不慢，一举一动挺斯文。他是克里夫顿人，初来伦敦。

"你是不是读联合课程？"他问菲利普。

"是的，我想尽早取得医生资格。"

"我也读联合课程，不过日后我想成为皇家外科协会会员。我打算主攻外科。"

大多数学生学的都是内外科协会联合委员会规定的课程。不过，一些雄心勃勃或者勤奋好学的学生，还要继续攻读一段时期，直到获得伦敦入学的学位。就在菲利普进圣路加医学院前不久，学校章程已有所变化；一八九二年秋季前实行的四年制现已改为五年制。关于自己的学习打算，邓斯福德早已胸有成竹，他告诉菲利普学校课程的一般安排："第一轮联合课程"考试包括生物学、解剖学和化学三门学科，不过可以分科分期参加考试，大多数学生是在入学三个月后参加生物学考试。这是一门新近刚增加的必修课程，不过只要略懂得点皮毛就行了。

菲利普回解剖室的时候已迟到了几分钟，因为他忘了事先买好解剖用的护袖。他看到好些人在埋头工作。他的合伙人准时动手干了，这会儿正忙着解剖皮肤神经。另外有两个人在解剖另一条腿。还有些人在解剖上肢。

"我已经动手了，你不会介意吧？"

"哪儿的话，继续于你的吧，"菲利普说。

菲利普拿起解剖用书，书已翻到了画有人腿解剖图的地方，他仔细看着需要搞清楚的有关部分。

"看来你对这玩意儿还真有一手呢。"菲利普说。

"噢，其实嘛，我在读预科时就做过大量的动物解剖实验。"

解剖台上话声不断，有谈工作的，有预测足球联赛的前景的，也有议沦解剖示范和各种讲座的。菲利普感到自己比在座所有的人都要年长好多岁。他们都是些毛孩子。但是年纪大小并不说明什么问题，更重要的倒在于你肚子里的学问。纽森，那个跟他在一块儿做解剖实验的机灵的小伙子，对这门课很精通。也许他并不觉得卖弄一下学问有什么不好意思，所以详详细细地向菲利普解释他是怎么干的。菲利普尽管满腹经纶，也不得不在一旁洗耳恭听。随后，菲利普拿起解剖刀和镊子，动手解剖，纽森在一旁看着。

"碰上这么个瘦猴，多带劲，"纽森一面揩手一面说。"这家伙可能有一个月没捞到一点儿吃的。"

"不知道他是得什么病死的，"菲利普咕哝道。

"噢，这我可不知道。凡是老家伙吗，十有八九是饿死的。……嘿，当心点，别把那根动脉割断了。"

"'别把那根动脉割断了'，说得多轻巧，"坐在对面解剖另一条腿的学生发表议论了，"可这个老蠢货的动脉长错地方啦。"

"动脉总是长错地方的，"纽森说，"所谓'标准'就是指永远找不到的东西，否则干吗要称作'标准，呢。"

"别说这些个俏皮话了，"菲利普说，"要不然，我可要割破手了。"

"如果割破手，"见多识广的纽森接口说，"得赶紧用消毒剂冲洗。这一点你千万马虎不得。去年有个家伙只是稍微给刺了一下，他也没把这当一回事，结果染上了败血症。"

"后来好了吗？"

"哪里！没到一星期就报销了。我特地上太平间看过他一眼。"

到吃茶点的时候，菲利普已累得腰酸背疼，由于午饭吃得很少，他早就盼着吃茶点了。他手上有股气味，正是他上午在走廊里第一次闻到的那种怪味。他觉得他手里的松饼同样有这股味儿。

"哦，你很快就会闻惯的，"纽森说，"日后你要是在周围闻不到那股讨人喜欢的解剖室臭味，你还会感到挺寂寞的呢。"

"我可不想被这怪味倒了胃口，"菲利普说。他一块松饼刚下肚，赶紧又追加了一块蛋糕。

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chapter 55

Philip’s ideas of the life of medical students, like those of the public at large, were founded on the pictures which Charles Dickens drew in the middle of the nineteenth century. He soon discovered that Bob Sawyer, if he ever existed, was no longer at all like the medical student of the present.

It is a mixed lot which enters upon the medical profession, and naturally there are some who are lazy and reckless. They think it is an easy life, idle away a couple of years; and then, because their funds come to an end or because angry parents refuse any longer to support them, drift away from the hospital. Others find the examinations too hard for them; one failure after another robs them of their nerve; and, panic-stricken, they forget as soon as they come into the forbidding buildings of the Conjoint Board the knowledge which before they had so pat. They remain year after year, objects of good-humoured scorn to younger men: some of them crawl through the examination of the Apothecaries Hall; others become non-qualified assistants, a precarious position in which they are at the mercy of their employer; their lot is poverty, drunkenness, and Heaven only knows their end. But for the most part medical students are industrious young men of the middle-class with a sufficient allowance to live in the respectable fashion they have been used to; many are the sons of doctors who have already something of the professional manner; their career is mapped out: as soon as they are qualified they propose to apply for a hospital appointment, after holding which (and perhaps a trip to the Far East as a ship’s doctor), they will join their father and spend the rest of their days in a country practice. One or two are marked out as exceptionally brilliant: they will take the various prizes and scholarships which are open each year to the deserving, get one appointment after another at the hospital, go on the staff, take a consulting-room in Harley Street, and, specialising in one subject or another, become prosperous, eminent, and titled.

The medical profession is the only one which a man may enter at any age with some chance of making a living. Among the men of Philip’s year were three or four who were past their first youth: one had been in the Navy, from which according to report he had been dismissed for drunkenness; he was a man of thirty, with a red face, a brusque manner, and a loud voice. Another was a married man with two children, who had lost money through a defaulting solicitor; he had a bowed look as if the world were too much for him; he went about his work silently, and it was plain that he found it difficult at his age to commit facts to memory. His mind worked slowly. His effort at application was painful to see.

Philip made himself at home in his tiny rooms. He arranged his books and hung on the walls such pictures and sketches as he possessed. Above him, on the drawing-room floor, lived a fifth-year man called Griffiths; but Philip saw little of him, partly because he was occupied chiefly in the wards and partly because he had been to Oxford. Such of the students as had been to a university kept a good deal together: they used a variety of means natural to the young in order to impress upon the less fortunate a proper sense of their inferiority; the rest of the students found their Olympian serenity rather hard to bear. Griffiths was a tall fellow, with a quantity of curly red hair and blue eyes, a white skin and a very red mouth; he was one of those fortunate people whom everybody liked, for he had high spirits and a constant gaiety. He strummed a little on the piano and sang comic songs with gusto; and evening after evening, while Philip was reading in his solitary room, he heard the shouts and the uproarious laughter of Griffiths’ friends above him. He thought of those delightful evenings in Paris when they would sit in the studio, Lawson and he, Flanagan and Clutton, and talk of art and morals, the love-affairs of the present, and the fame of the future. He felt sick at heart. He found that it was easy to make a heroic gesture, but hard to abide by its results. The worst of it was that the work seemed to him very tedious. He had got out of the habit of being asked questions by demonstrators. His attention wandered at lectures. Anatomy was a dreary science, a mere matter of learning by heart an enormous number of facts; dissection bored him; he did not see the use of dissecting out laboriously nerves and arteries when with much less trouble you could see in the diagrams of a book or in the specimens of the pathological museum exactly where they were.

He made friends by chance, but not intimate friends, for he seemed to have nothing in particular to say to his companions. When he tried to interest himself in their concerns, he felt that they found him patronising. He was not of those who can talk of what moves them without caring whether it bores or not the people they talk to. One man, hearing that he had studied art in Paris, and fancying himself on his taste, tried to discuss art with him; but Philip was impatient of views which did not agree with his own; and, finding quickly that the other’s ideas were conventional, grew monosyllabic. Philip desired popularity but could bring himself to make no advances to others. A fear of rebuff prevented him from affability, and he concealed his shyness, which was still intense, under a frigid taciturnity. He was going through the same experience as he had done at school, but here the freedom of the medical students’ life made it possible for him to live a good deal by himself.

It was through no effort of his that he became friendly with Dunsford, the fresh-complexioned, heavy lad whose acquaintance he had made at the beginning of the session. Dunsford attached himself to Philip merely because he was the first person he had known at St. Luke’s. He had no friends in London, and on Saturday nights he and Philip got into the habit of going together to the pit of a music-hall or the gallery of a theatre. He was stupid, but he was good-humoured and never took offence; he always said the obvious thing, but when Philip laughed at him merely smiled. He had a very sweet smile. Though Philip made him his butt, he liked him; he was amused by his candour and delighted with his agreeable nature: Dunsford had the charm which himself was acutely conscious of not possessing.

They often went to have tea at a shop in Parliament Street, because Dunsford admired one of the young women who waited. Philip did not find anything attractive in her. She was tall and thin, with narrow hips and the chest of a boy.

‘No one would look at her in Paris,’ said Philip scornfully.

‘She’s got a ripping face,’ said Dunsford.

‘What DOES the face matter?’

She had the small regular features, the blue eyes, and the broad low brow, which the Victorian painters, Lord Leighton, Alma Tadema, and a hundred others, induced the world they lived in to accept as a type of Greek beauty. She seemed to have a great deal of hair: it was arranged with peculiar elaboration and done over the forehead in what she called an Alexandra fringe. She was very anaemic. Her thin lips were pale, and her skin was delicate, of a faint green colour, without a touch of red even in the cheeks. She had very good teeth. She took great pains to prevent her work from spoiling her hands, and they were small, thin, and white. She went about her duties with a bored look.

Dunsford, very shy with women, had never succeeded in getting into conversation with her; and he urged Philip to help him.

‘All I want is a lead,’ he said, ‘and then I can manage for myself.’

Philip, to please him, made one or two remarks, but she answered with monosyllables. She had taken their measure. They were boys, and she surmised they were students. She had no use for them. Dunsford noticed that a man with sandy hair and a bristly moustache, who looked like a German, was favoured with her attention whenever he came into the shop; and then it was only by calling her two or three times that they could induce her to take their order. She used the clients whom she did not know with frigid insolence, and when she was talking to a friend was perfectly indifferent to the calls of the hurried. She had the art of treating women who desired refreshment with just that degree of impertinence which irritated them without affording them an opportunity of complaining to the management. One day Dunsford told him her name was Mildred. He had heard one of the other girls in the shop address her.

‘What an odious name,’ said Philip.

‘Why?’ asked Dunsford.

‘I like it.’

‘It’s so pretentious.’

It chanced that on this day the German was not there, and, when she brought the tea, Philip, smiling, remarked:

‘Your friend’s not here today.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said coldly.

‘I was referring to the nobleman with the sandy moustache. Has he left you for another?’ ‘I’m awfully sorry, old man, but we’re all in the same boat. No one thought the war was going to hang on this way. I put you into them, but I was in myself too.’

‘Some people would do better to mind their own business,’ she retorted. ‘It doesn’t matter at all,’ said Philip. ‘One has to take one’s chance.’

She left them, and, since for a minute or two there was no one to attend to, sat down and looked at the evening paper which a customer had left behind him. He moved back to the table from which he had got up to talk to Macalister. He was dumfounded; his head suddenly began to ache furiously; but he did not want them to think him unmanly. He sat on for an hour. He laughed feverishly at everything they said. At last he got up to go.

‘You are a fool to put her back up,’ said Dunsford. ‘You take it pretty coolly,’ said Macalister, shaking hands with him. ‘I don’t suppose anyone likes losing between three and four hundred pounds.’

‘I’m really quite indifferent to the attitude of her vertebrae,’ replied Philip. When Philip got back to his shabby little room he flung himself on his bed, and gave himself over to his despair. He kept on regretting his folly bitterly; and though he told himself that it was absurd to regret for what had happened was inevitable just because it had happened, he could not help himself. He was utterly miserable. He could not sleep. He remembered all the ways he had wasted money during the last few years. His head ached dreadfully.

But he was piqued. It irritated him that when he tried to be agreeable with a woman she should take offence. When he asked for the bill, he hazarded a remark which he meant to lead further. The following evening there came by the last post the statement of his account. He examined his pass-book. He found that when he had paid everything he would have seven pounds left. Seven pounds! He was thankful he had been able to pay. It would have been horrible to be obliged to confess to Macalister that he had not the money. He was dressing in the eye-department during the summer session, and he had bought an ophthalmoscope off a student who had one to sell. He had not paid for this, but he lacked the courage to tell the student that he wanted to go back on his bargain. Also he had to buy certain books. He had about five pounds to go on with. It lasted him six weeks; then he wrote to his uncle a letter which he thought very business-like; he said that owing to the war he had had grave losses and could not go on with his studies unless his uncle came to his help. He suggested that the Vicar should lend him a hundred and fifty pounds paid over the next eighteen months in monthly instalments; he would pay interest on this and promised to refund the capital by degrees when he began to earn money. He would be qualified in a year and a half at the latest, and he could be pretty sure then of getting an assistantship at three pounds a week. His uncle wrote back that he could do nothing. It was not fair to ask him to sell out when everything was at its worst, and the little he had he felt that his duty to himself made it necessary for him to keep in case of illness. He ended the letter with a little homily. He had warned Philip time after time, and Philip had never paid any attention to him; he could not honestly say he was surprised; he had long expected that this would be the end of Philip’s extravagance and want of balance. Philip grew hot and cold when he read this. It had never occurred to him that his uncle would refuse, and he burst into furious anger; but this was succeeded by utter blankness: if his uncle would not help him he could not go on at the hospital. Panic seized him and, putting aside his pride, he wrote again to the Vicar of Blackstable, placing the case before him more urgently; but perhaps he did not explain himself properly and his uncle did not realise in what desperate straits he was, for he answered that he could not change his mind; Philip was twenty-five and really ought to be earning his living. When he died Philip would come into a little, but till then he refused to give him a penny. Philip felt in the letter the satisfaction of a man who for many years had disapproved of his courses and now saw himself justified.

‘Are we no longer on speaking terms?’ he smiled.

‘I’m here to take orders and to wait on customers. I’ve got nothing to say to them, and I don’t want them to say anything to me.’ Philip began to pawn his clothes. He reduced his expenses by eating only one meal a day beside his breakfast; and he ate it, bread and butter and cocoa, at four so that it should last him till next morning. He was so hungry by nine o’clock that he had to go to bed. He thought of borrowing money from Lawson, but the fear of a refusal held him back; at last he asked him for five pounds. Lawson lent it with pleasure, but, as he did so, said:

She put down the slip of paper on which she had marked the sum they had to pay, and walked back to the table at which she had been sitting. Philip flushed with anger. ‘You’ll let me have it back in a week or so, won’t you? I’ve got to pay my framer, and I’m awfully broke just now.’

‘That’s one in the eye for you, Carey,’ said Dunsford, when they got outside. Philip knew he would not be able to return it, and the thought of what Lawson would think made him so ashamed that in a couple of days he took the money back untouched. Lawson was just going out to luncheon and asked Philip to come too. Philip could hardly eat, he was so glad to get some solid food. On Sunday he was sure of a good dinner from Athelny. He hesitated to tell the Athelnys what had happened to him: they had always looked upon him as comparatively well-to-do, and he had a dread that they would think less well of him if they knew he was penniless.

‘Ill-mannered slut,’ said Philip. ‘I shan’t go there again.’ Though he had always been poor, the possibility of not having enough to eat had never occurred to him; it was not the sort of thing that happened to the people among whom he lived; and he was as ashamed as if he had some disgraceful disease. The situation in which he found himself was quite outside the range of his experience. He was so taken aback that he did not know what else to do than to go on at the hospital; he had a vague hope that something would turn up; he could not quite believe that what was happening to him was true; and he remembered how during his first term at school he had often thought his life was a dream from which he would awake to find himself once more at home. But very soon he foresaw that in a week or so he would have no money at all. He must set about trying to earn something at once. If he had been qualified, even with a club-foot, he could have gone out to the Cape, since the demand for medical men was now great. Except for his deformity he might have enlisted in one of the yeomanry regiments which were constantly being sent out. He went to the secretary of the Medical School and asked if he could give him the coaching of some backward student; but the secretary held out no hope of getting him anything of the sort. Philip read the advertisement columns of the medical papers, and he applied for the post of unqualified assistant to a man who had a dispensary in the Fulham Road. When he went to see him, he saw the doctor glance at his club-foot; and on hearing that Philip was only in his fourth year at the hospital he said at once that his experience was insufficient: Philip understood that this was only an excuse; the man would not have an assistant who might not be as active as he wanted. Philip turned his attention to other means of earning money. He knew French and German and thought there might be some chance of finding a job as correspondence clerk; it made his heart sink, but he set his teeth; there was nothing else to do. Though too shy to answer the advertisements which demanded a personal application, he replied to those which asked for letters; but he had no experience to state and no recommendations: he was conscious that neither his German nor his French was commercial; he was ignorant of the terms used in business; he knew neither shorthand nor typewriting. He could not help recognising that his case was hopeless. He thought of writing to the solicitor who had been his father’s executor, but he could not bring himself to, for it was contrary to his express advice that he had sold the mortgages in which his money had been invested. He knew from his uncle that Mr. Nixon thoroughly disapproved of him. He had gathered from Philip’s year in the accountant’s office that he was idle and incompetent.

His influence with Dunsford was strong enough to get him to take their tea elsewhere, and Dunsford soon found another young woman to flirt with. But the snub which the waitress had inflicted on him rankled. If she had treated him with civility he would have been perfectly indifferent to her; but it was obvious that she disliked him rather than otherwise, and his pride was wounded. He could not suppress a desire to be even with her. He was impatient with himself because he had so petty a feeling, but three or four days’ firmness, during which he would not go to the shop, did not help him to surmount it; and he came to the conclusion that it would be least trouble to see her. Having done so he would certainly cease to think of her. Pretexting an appointment one afternoon, for he was not a little ashamed of his weakness, he left Dunsford and went straight to the shop which he had vowed never again to enter. He saw the waitress the moment he came in and sat down at one of her tables. He expected her to make some reference to the fact that he had not been there for a week, but when she came up for his order she said nothing. He had heard her say to other customers: ‘I’d sooner starve,’ Philip muttered to himself.

‘You’re quite a stranger.’ Once or twice the possibility of suicide presented itself to him; it would be easy to get something from the hospital dispensary, and it was a comfort to think that if the worst came to the worst he had at hand means of making a painless end of himself; but it was not a course that he considered seriously. When Mildred had left him to go with Griffiths his anguish had been so great that he wanted to die in order to get rid of the pain. He did not feel like that now. He remembered that the Casualty Sister had told him how people oftener did away with themselves for want of money than for want of love; and he chuckled when he thought that he was an exception. He wished only that he could talk his worries over with somebody, but he could not bring himself to confess them. He was ashamed. He went on looking for work. He left his rent unpaid for three weeks, explaining to his landlady that he would get money at the end of the month; she did not say anything, but pursed her lips and looked grim. When the end of the month came and she asked if it would be convenient for him to pay something on account, it made him feel very sick to say that he could not; he told her he would write to his uncle and was sure to be able to settle his bill on the following Saturday.

She gave no sign that she had ever seen him before. In order to see whether she had really forgotten him, when she brought his tea, he asked: ‘Well, I ‘ope you will, Mr. Carey, because I ‘ave my rent to pay, and I can’t afford to let accounts run on.’ She did not speak with anger, but with determination that was rather frightening. She paused for a moment and then said: ‘If you don’t pay next Saturday, I shall ‘ave to complain to the secretary of the ‘ospital.’

‘Have you seen my friend tonight?’ ‘Oh yes, that’ll be all right.’

‘No, he’s not been in here for some days.’ She looked at him for a little and glanced round the bare room. When she spoke it was without any emphasis, as though it were quite a natural thing to say.

He wanted to use this as the beginning of a conversation, but he was strangely nervous and could think of nothing to say. She gave him no opportunity, but at once went away. He had no chance of saying anything till he asked for his bill. ‘I’ve got a nice ‘ot joint downstairs, and if you like to come down to the kitchen you’re welcome to a bit of dinner.’

‘Filthy weather, isn’t it?’ he said. Philip felt himself redden to the soles of his feet, and a sob caught at his throat.

It was mortifying that he had been forced to prepare such a phrase as that. He could not make out why she filled him with such embarrassment. ‘Thank you very much, Mrs. Higgins, but I’m not at all hungry.’

‘It don’t make much difference to me what the weather is, having to be in here all day.’ ‘Very good, sir.’

There was an insolence in her tone that peculiarly irritated him. A sarcasm rose to his lips, but he forced himself to be silent. When she left the room Philip threw himself on his bed. He had to clench his fists in order to prevent himself from crying.

‘I wish to God she’d say something really cheeky,’ he raged to himself, ‘so that I could report her and get her sacked. It would serve her damned well right.’

第五十五章

菲利普对医科学生生活的看法，也就像他对一般公众的看法一样，其源盖出于查尔斯·狄更斯在十九世纪中期所描绘的社会生活画面。没有多久他就发现，狄更斯笔下的那个鲍勃·沙耶，就算实有其人的话，也同眼下的医科学生无半点相似之处。

就投身医界的人员来说，真可谓鱼龙混杂，良萎不齐，其中自然也不乏懒散成性的冒失鬼。他们以为学医最省劲儿，可以在学校里吊儿郎当地混上几年，然而到头来，或是囊空钱尽，或是盛怒难消的父母不愿再供养他们，没奈何只得夹着尾巴悄悄离开医学院。也有一些人觉得考试实在难以应付，接二连三的考场失利，使他们心中的余勇丧失殆尽。他们一跨进那令人望而生畏的联合课程委员会的大楼，就吓得魂不附体，先前背得滚瓜烂熟的书本内容，顷刻之间全忘光了。年复一年，他们始终是年轻后生们的打趣对象。最后，他们中间有些人总算勉勉强强地通过了药剂师考堂的考试；有些人则什么资格也没混到手，只好充当个医生助手，寄人篱下，苟且度日，一举一动都得看雇主的眼色。他们的命运就是贫困加酗酒。天知道他们到头来会有个什么样的结局。但是就大多数而言，医科学生都是些好学不倦的小伙于。他们出身于中产阶级家庭，父母给他们的月规钱，足可使他们维持原已习惯了的体面的生活方式。有许多学生，父辈就是行医的，他们已经俨然是一副行家里手的派头。他们的事业蓝图也早规划好了：资格一旦混到手，便申请个医院的职位（也说不定先当一名随船医生，去远东跑一趟），然后就回家乡同父亲合伙挂牌行医，安度其一生。至于那少数几个被标榜为"出类拔萃"的高才生，他们每年理所当然地领取各种奖品和奖学金，到时候受聘于院方，担任这样那样的职务，成为医院里的头面人物，最后在哈里街开设一家私人诊所，成为某个科目的专家。他们功成名就，出人头地，享尽人世之荣华。

各行各业之中，唯有行医这一行没有年龄限制，谁都可以来试试身手，到时候说不定也能靠它混口饭吃。就拿菲利普那个年级来说吧，有三四个人青春韶华已逝。有一个人当过海军，据说是因酗酒而被开除了军籍，他今年三十岁，红扑扑的脸，举止唐突，说话时粗声大气的。另一位已经成家，有两个孩子，他上了一个不负责任的律师的当，把家产赔光了；他腰弯背驼，仿佛生活的重担已把他给压垮了；他整天不声不响地埋头苦读，显然知道自己到了这把年纪，要死背硬记点东西很吃力，况且脑筋也不灵活了。看着他这么死用功，真叫人觉得可怜。

菲利普住在那套小房间里自在得很。他把书籍排得整整齐齐，再把自己手头的一些画和速写都挂在墙上。他的楼上，即有客厅的那一层，住着个名叫格里菲思的五年级学生。菲利普很少同他照面，一来是因为他大部分时间呆在医院病房里，二来是因为他上过牛津大学。凡是过去在大学里混过的学生，经常聚在一块儿。他们采用了年轻人所惯于采用的那一套办法，故意冷落那些时运欠佳者，让他们自知低人一等；他们那副拒人于千里之外的超然姿态，其余的学生都觉得受不了。格里菲思高高的个儿，长着一头浓密的红色鬈发，蓝眼睛，白皮肤，嘴唇则是鲜红欲滴。他是属于那种谁见了都喜欢的幸运儿，整天兴高采烈，嘻嘻哈哈。钢琴他能胡乱摆弄几下，还可以兴致勃勃地拉开嗓门唱几首滑稽歌曲。差不多每天晚上，当菲利普呆在屋里独自看书的时候，都能听到格里菲思那伙朋友们在楼上嚷呀，笑呀，闹个不停。菲利普回想起自己在巴黎度过的那些令人愉快的夜晚：他同劳森、弗拉纳根和克拉顿坐在画室里，一道谈论艺术与道德，讲述眼下所遇到的风流韵事，展望将来如何扬名天下。菲利普心里好不懊丧。他觉得凭一时之勇作出某种壮烈的姿态，那是很容易的，难倒难在要承担由此而引起的后果。最糟糕的是，他对目前所学的东西似乎已感到腻烦。解剖示范教师的提问使他头痛；听课时思想老开小差。解剖学是一门枯燥乏味的学科，尽叫人死记硬背那些数不清的条条框框，解剖实验也使他觉着讨厌。吃辛吃苦地解剖那些个神经和动脉又有何用，从书本上的图表或是病理学陈列馆的标本了解神经和动脉的位置，岂不省事得多。

菲利普偶尔也交几个朋友，但都是些泛泛之交，因为他觉得在同伴面前似乎没有什么特别的话好说。有时他对他们所关心的事情，也尽量表示感兴趣，可又觉得他们认为自己是在曲意迁就。菲利普也不是那种人，一讲起使自己感兴趣的话题来，就根本不管听者是否感到厌烦。有个同学听说菲利普曾在巴黎学过绘画，自以为他俩情趣相投，便想同菲利普探讨艺术。但是，菲利普容忍不了别人的不同观点。没谈上几句他就发现对方所说的不过是些老生常谈，便嗯嗯噢噢地懒得多开口了。菲利普想讨大家的喜欢，可又不肯主动接近别人。他由于怕受到冷遇而不敢向人献殷勤。就他的气质来说，他还是相当腼腆怕羞的，但又不愿让人家看出来，所以就靠冷若冰霜的沉默来加以掩饰。他在皇家公学的那一段经历似乎现在又要重演了，幸好这儿的医科学生生活挺自由，他尽可以独来独往，少同别人接触。

菲利普渐渐地同邓斯福德热乎起来，这倒并非出于菲利普的主动努力。邓斯福德就是他在开学时认识的那个气色好、身子壮实的小伙子。邓斯福德之所以爱同菲利普接近，只因为菲利普是他在圣路加医学院里结识的第一个朋友。邓斯福德在伦敦无亲无友，每到星期六晚上总要同菲利普一块上杂耍剧场，坐在正厅后座看杂耍，再不就是去戏院，站在顶层楼座上看戏。邓斯福德生性愚笨，但脾气温和，从来也不发火。他总讲此大可不必多说的事情，即便菲利普有时笑话他几句，他也只是微微一笑--而且笑得真甜。别看菲利普爱拿他打哈哈，可心里还是挺喜欢他的。他觉得邓斯福德直率得有趣，而且也喜欢他随和的脾性：邓斯福德身上的迷人之处，恰恰是菲利普痛感缺少的。

他们常常去国会街上的一家点心店用茶点，因为邓斯福德倾心于店里的一个年轻女招待。菲利普看不出那女人有什么诱人之处--瘦长的个子，狭窄的臀部，胸部平坦坦的像个男孩。

"要在巴黎，谁也不会瞧她一眼，"菲利普鄙夷地说。

"她那张脸蛋挺帅！"邓斯福德说。

"脸蛋又有什么大不了的？"

她五官生得小巧端正，蓝蓝的眼睛，低而宽阔的前额（莱顿勋爵、阿尔马·泰德默以及其他不计其数的维多利亚女王时代的画家，都硬要世人相信这种低而宽阔的前额乃是一种典型的希腊美），头发看上去长得很密，经过精心疏理，有意让一缕缕青丝耷拉在前额上。这就是所谓的"亚历山大刘海"。她患有严重的贫血症，薄薄的嘴唇显得很苍白，细嫩的皮肤微微发青，就连脸颊上也不见一丝儿血色，一口洁白的细牙倒挺漂亮。不论干什么，她都小心翼翼的，唯恐糟踏了那双又瘦又白的纤手。伺候客人时，总挂着一脸不耐烦的神色。

邓斯福德在女人面前显得很腼腆，直到现在他还未能同她搭讪上。他央求菲利普帮他牵线搭桥。

"你只要替我引个头，"他说，"以后我自个儿就能对付了。"

为了不让邓斯福德扫兴，菲利普就主动同她拉话，可她嗯嗯噢噢地硬是不接话茬。她已经暗暗打量过，他们不过是些毛孩子，估计还在念书。她对他们不感兴趣。邓斯福德注意到，有个长着淡茶色头发、蓄一撮浓密小胡子的男人，看上去像是德国人，颇得她的青睐。他每次进店来，她总是殷勤相待；而菲利普他们想要点什么，非得招呼个两三次她才勉强答应。对于那些素不相识的顾客，她冷若冰霜，傲慢无礼；要是她在同朋友讲话，有急事的顾客不论唤她多少遍，她也不予理睬。至于对那些来店里用点心的女客，她更有一套独到的应付本事：态度傲慢，却不失分寸，既惹她们恼火，又不让她们抓到什么好向经理告状的把柄。有一天，邓斯福德告诉菲利普，她的名字叫米尔德丽德。他听到店里另外一个女招待这么称呼她来着。

"多难听的名字，"菲利普说。

"有啥难听？"邓斯福德反问道，"我倒挺喜欢呐。"

"这名字好别扭。"

碰巧那天德国客人没来。她送茶点来的时候，菲利普朝她笑笑，说：

"你那位朋友今天没来呢。"

"我可不明白你这话的意思，"她冷冷地说。

"我是指那个留胡子的老爷。他扔下你找别人去了？"

"奉劝某些人还是少管闲事的好，"她反唇相讥。

米尔德丽德丢下他们走了。有一阵于，店堂里没有别的顾客要伺候，她就坐下来，翻看一份顾客忘了带走的晚报。

"瞧你有多傻，把她给惹火了。"

"谁叫她摆什么臭架子，我才不吃这一套呢。"

菲利普嘴上这么说，心里却着实有点气恼。他原想取悦于一个女人，谁知弄巧成拙，反倒把她惹火了，好不叫人懊恼。他索取帐单时，又壮着胆子同她搭腔，想借此打开局面。

"咱们就此翻脸，连话也不讲了吗？"菲利普微笑着。

"我在这儿的差使，是上茶送点心，伺候顾客。我对他们没什么要说的，也不想听他们对我说些什么。"

她把一张标明应付款数的纸条往餐桌上一放，就朝刚才她坐的那张餐桌走回去。菲利普气得满脸通红。

"她是存心给你点颜色看呢，凯里，"他们来到店外面，邓斯福德这么说道。

"一个没教养的臭婊于，"菲利普说，"我以后再也不上那儿去了。"

邓斯福德对菲利普言听计从，乖乖地跟他到其他地方去吃茶点了。过了不久，邓斯福德又找到了另一个追逐的对象。可菲利普受到那女招待的冷遇之后，始终耿耿于怀。假如她当初待他彬彬有礼，那他根本不会把这样的女人放在心上的。然而，她显然很讨厌他，这就伤害了他的自尊心。菲利普忿忿不平，觉得非要报复她一下不可。他因自己存这样的小心眼而生自己的气。他一连熬过三四天，赌气不再上那家点心店，可结果也没把那个报复念头压下去。最后他对自己说，算了吧，还是去见她一面最省事，因为再见上她一面，他肯定不会再想她了。一天下午，菲利普推说要去赴约，丢下了邓斯福德，直奔那家他发誓一辈子再也不去光顾的点心店，心里倒一点也不为自己的软弱感到羞愧。菲利普一进店门，就看到那个女招待，于是在一张属于她照管的餐桌边坐下。他巴望她会开口问自己为什么有一个星期不上这儿来了，谁知她走过来之后就等他点茶点，什么话也没说。刚才他还明明听到她这么招呼别的顾客来着：

"您还是第一次光顾小店呢！"

从她的神情上，一点也看不出他俩以前曾打过交道。为了试探一下她是否真的把自己给忘了，菲利普等她来上茶点的时候问了一句：

"今儿晚上见到我的朋友了吗？"

"没。他已经有好几天没来这儿了。"

菲利普本想利用这作为话茬，和她好好交谈几句，不知怎地心里一慌，什么词儿也没了。对方也不给他一个机会，扭身就走。菲利普一直等到索取帐单时，才又抓着谈话的机会。

"天气够糟的，是吗？"他说。

说来也真气死人，他斟酌了好半天，临到头竟挤出这么一句话来。他百思不得其解，在这个女招待面前，自己怎么会感到如此困窘。

"我从早到晚都得呆在这儿，天气好坏同我有什么关系。"

她口气里含带的那股傲劲，特别叫菲利普受不了。他真恨不得冲着她挖苦一句，可话到了嘴边，还是强咽了回去。

"我还真巴不得这女人说出句把不成体统的话来呢！"菲利普气冲冲地对自己说，"这样我就可以到老板那儿告她一状，把她的饭碗砸掉。那时就活该她倒霉罗。"

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青春又回来了嘛(*^▽^*)

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chapter 56

Saturday. It was the day on which he had promised to pay his landlady. He had been expecting something to turn up all through the week. He had found no work. He had never been driven to extremities before, and he was so dazed that he did not know what to do. He had at the back of his mind a feeling that the whole thing was a preposterous joke. He had no more than a few coppers left, he had sold all the clothes he could do without; he had some books and one or two odds and ends upon which he might have got a shilling or two, but the landlady was keeping an eye on his comings and goings: he was afraid she would stop him if he took anything more from his room. The only thing was to tell her that he could not pay his bill. He had not the courage. It was the middle of June. The night was fine and warm. He made up his mind to stay out. He walked slowly along the Chelsea Embankment, because the river was restful and quiet, till he was tired, and then sat on a bench and dozed. He did not know how long he slept; he awoke with a start, dreaming that he was being shaken by a policeman and told to move on; but when he opened his eyes he found himself alone. He walked on, he did not know why, and at last came to Chiswick, where he slept again. Presently the hardness of the bench roused him. The night seemed very long. He shivered. He was seized with a sense of his misery; and he did not know what on earth to do: he was ashamed at having slept on the Embankment; it seemed peculiarly humiliating, and he felt his cheeks flush in the darkness. He remembered stories he had heard of those who did and how among them were officers, clergymen, and men who had been to universities: he wondered if he would become one of them, standing in a line to get soup from a charitable institution. It would be much better to commit suicide. He could not go on like that: Lawson would help him when he knew what straits he was in; it was absurd to let his pride prevent him from asking for assistance. He wondered why he had come such a cropper. He had always tried to do what he thought best, and everything had gone wrong. He had helped people when he could, he did not think he had been more selfish than anyone else, it seemed horribly unjust that he should be reduced to such a pass.

He could not get her out of his mind. He laughed angrily at his own foolishness: it was absurd to care what an anaemic little waitress said to him; but he was strangely humiliated. Though no one knew of the humiliation but Dunsford, and he had certainly forgotten, Philip felt that he could have no peace till he had wiped it out. He thought over what he had better do. He made up his mind that he would go to the shop every day; it was obvious that he had made a disagreeable impression on her, but he thought he had the wits to eradicate it; he would take care not to say anything at which the most susceptible person could be offended. All this he did, but it had no effect. When he went in and said good-evening she answered with the same words, but when once he omitted to say it in order to see whether she would say it first, she said nothing at all. He murmured in his heart an expression which though frequently applicable to members of the female sex is not often used of them in polite society; but with an unmoved face he ordered his tea. He made up his mind not to speak a word, and left the shop without his usual good-night. He promised himself that he would not But it was no good thinking about it. He walked on. It was now light: the river was beautiful in the silence, and there was something mysterious in the early day; it was going to be very fine, and the sky, pale in the dawn, was cloudless. He felt very tired, and hunger was gnawing at his entrails, but he could not sit still; he was constantly afraid of being spoken to by a policeman. He dreaded the mortification of that. He felt dirty and wished he could have a wash. At last he found himself at Hampton Court. He felt that if he did not have something to eat he would cry. He chose a cheap eating-house and went in; there was a smell of hot things, and it made him feel slightly sick: he meant to eat something nourishing enough to keep up for the rest of the day, but his stomach revolted at the sight of food. He had a cup of tea and some bread and butter. He remembered then that it was Sunday and he could go to the Athelnys; he thought of the roast beef and the Yorkshire pudding they would eat; but he was fearfully tired and could not face the happy, noisy family. He was feeling morose and wretched. He wanted to be left alone. He made up his mind that he would go into the gardens of the palace and lie down. His bones ached. Perhaps he would find a pump so that he could wash his hands and face and drink something; he was very thirsty; and now that he was no longer hungry he thought with pleasure of the flowers and the lawns and the great leafy trees. He felt that there he could think out better what he must do. He lay on the grass, in the shade, and lit his pipe. For economy’s sake he had for a long time confined himself to two pipes a day; he was thankful now that his pouch was full. He did not know what people did when they had no money. Presently he fell asleep. When he awoke it was nearly mid-day, and he thought that soon he must be setting out for London so as to be there in the early morning and answer any advertisements which seemed to promise. He thought of his uncle, who had told him that he would leave him at his death the little he had; Philip did not in the least know how much this was: it could not be more than a few hundred pounds. He wondered whether he could raise money on the reversion. Not without the old man’s consent, and that he would never give.

‘Not so bad as that.’

‘Yes.’

But that seemed to satisfy her curiosity. She went away and, since at that late hour there was nobody else at her tables, she immersed herself in a novelette. This was before the time of the sixpenny reprints. There was a regular supply of inexpensive fiction written to order by poor hacks for the consumption of the illiterate. Philip was elated; she had addressed him of her own accord; he saw the time approaching when his turn would come and he would tell her exactly what he thought of her. It would be a great comfort to express the immensity of his contempt. He looked at her. It was true that her profile was beautiful; it was extraordinary how English girls of that class had so often a perfection of outline which took your breath away, but it was as cold as marble; and the faint green of her delicate skin gave an impression of unhealthiness. All the waitresses were dressed alike, in plain black dresses, with a white apron, cuffs, and a small cap. On a half sheet of paper that he had in his pocket Philip made a sketch of her as she sat leaning over her book (she outlined the words with her lips as she read), and left it on the table when he went away. It was an inspiration, for next day, when he came in, she smiled at him.

go any more, but the next day at tea-time he grew restless. He tried to think of other things, but he had no command over his thoughts. At last he said desperately:

‘After all there’s no reason why I shouldn’t go if I want to.’

The struggle with himself had taken a long time, and it was getting on for seven when he entered the shop. silent; and when he took up his place those around him gave him a look of hostility. He heard one man say:

‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ the girl said to him, when he sat down. ‘The only thing I look forward to is getting my refusal soon enough to give me time to look elsewhere.’

His heart leaped in his bosom and he felt himself reddening. ‘I was detained. I couldn’t come before.’ The man, standing next him, glanced at Philip and asked:

‘Cutting up people, I suppose?’ ‘Had any experience?’

‘I didn’t know you could draw,’ she said.

‘I was an art-student in Paris for two years.’

‘I showed that drawing you left be’ind you last night to the manageress and she WAS struck with it. Was it meant to be me?’

‘It was,’ said Philip.

When she went for his tea, one of the other girls came up to him.

‘I saw that picture you done of Miss Rogers. It was the very image of her,’ she said.

That was the first time he had heard her name, and when he wanted his bill he called her by it.

‘I see you know my name,’ she said, when she came.

‘Your friend mentioned it when she said something to me about that drawing.’

‘She wants you to do one of her. Don’t you do it. If you once begin you’ll have to go on, and they’ll all be wanting you to do them.’ Then without a pause, with peculiar inconsequence, she said: ‘Where’s that young fellow that used to come with you? Has he gone away?’

‘Fancy your remembering him,’ said Philip.

‘He was a nice-looking young fellow.’

Philip felt quite a peculiar sensation in his heart. He did not know what it was. Dunsford had jolly curling hair, a fresh complexion, and a beautiful smile. Philip thought of these advantages with envy.

‘Oh, he’s in love,’ said he, with a little laugh.

Philip repeated every word of the conversation to himself as he limped home. She was quite friendly with him now. When opportunity arose he would offer to make a more finished sketch of her, he was sure she would like that; her face was interesting, the profile was lovely, and there was something curiously fascinating about the chlorotic colour. He tried to think what it was like; at first he thought of pea soup; but, driving away that idea angrily, he thought of the petals of a yellow rosebud when you tore it to pieces before it had burst. He had no ill-feeling towards her now.

‘She’s not a bad sort,’ he murmured.

It was silly of him to take offence at what she had said; it was doubtless his own fault; she had not meant to make herself disagreeable: he ought to be accustomed by now to making at first sight a bad impression on people. He was flattered at the success of his drawing; she looked upon him with more interest now that she was aware of this small talent. He was restless next day. He thought of going to lunch at the tea-shop, but he was certain there would be many people there then, and Mildred would not be able to talk to him. He had managed before this to get out of having tea with Dunsford, and, punctually at half past four (he had looked at his watch a dozen times), he went into the shop.

Mildred had her back turned to him. She was sitting down, talking to the German whom Philip had seen there every day till a fortnight ago and since then had not seen at all. She was laughing at what he said. Philip thought she had a common laugh, and it made him shudder. He called her, but she took no notice; he called her again; then, growing angry, for he was impatient, he rapped the table loudly with his stick. She approached sulkily.

‘How d’you do?’ he said.

‘You seem to be in a great hurry.’

She looked down at him with the insolent manner which he knew so well.

‘I say, what’s the matter with you?’ he asked.

‘If you’ll kindly give your order I’ll get what you want. I can’t stand talking all night.’

‘Tea and toasted bun, please,’ Philip answered briefly.

He was furious with her. He had The Star with him and read it elaborately when she brought the tea.

‘If you’ll give me my bill now I needn’t trouble you again,’ he said icily.

She wrote out the slip, placed it on the table, and went back to the German. Soon she was talking to him with animation. He was a man of middle height, with the round head of his nation and a sallow face; his moustache was large and bristling; he had on a tail-coat and gray trousers, and he wore a massive gold watch-chain. Philip thought the other girls looked from him to the pair at the table and exchanged significant glances. He felt certain they were laughing at him, and his blood boiled. He detested Mildred now with all his heart. He knew that the best thing he could do was to cease coming to the tea-shop, but he could not bear to think that he had been worsted in the affair, and he devised a plan to show her that he despised her. Next day he sat down at another table and ordered his tea from another waitress. Mildred’s friend was there again and she was talking to him. She paid no attention to Philip, and so when he went out he chose a moment when she had to cross his path: as he passed he looked at her as though he had never seen her before. He repeated this for three or four days. He expected that presently she would take the opportunity to say something to him; he thought she would ask why he never came to one of her tables now, and he had prepared an answer charged with all the loathing he felt for her. He knew it was absurd to trouble, but he could not help himself. She had beaten him again. The German suddenly disappeared, but Philip still sat at other tables. She paid no attention to him. Suddenly he realised that what he did was a matter of complete indifference to her; he could go on in that way till doomsday, and it would have no effect.

‘I’ve not finished yet,’ he said to himself.

The day after he sat down in his old seat, and when she came up said good-evening as though he had not ignored her for a week. His face was placid, but he could not prevent the mad beating of his heart. At that time the musical comedy had lately leaped into public favour, and he was sure that Mildred would be delighted to go to one.

‘I say,’ he said suddenly, ‘I wonder if you’d dine with me one night and come to The Belle of New York. I’ll get a couple of stalls.’

He added the last sentence in order to tempt her. He knew that when the girls went to the play it was either in the pit, or, if some man took them, seldom to more expensive seats than the upper circle. Mildred’s pale face showed no change of expression.

‘I don’t mind,’ she said.

‘When will you come?’

‘I get off early on Thursdays.’

They made arrangements. Mildred lived with an aunt at Herne Hill. The play began at eight so they must dine at seven. She proposed that he should meet her in the second-class waiting-room at Victoria Station. She showed no pleasure, but accepted the invitation as though she conferred a favour. Philip was vaguely irritated.

第五十六章

菲利普怎么也没法把她忘了。对自己的愚蠢行为，他觉得又气又好笑：堂堂男子汉竟为了那么几句话而同个患贫血症的女招待斤斤计较起来，说来岂不荒唐，可他就是想不开，像是蒙受了什么奇耻大辱似的。其实就算它是件丢人的事吧，也只有邓斯福德一个人知道，而且他肯定早给忘了。可菲利普觉得，自己一天不洗刷掉这层耻辱，心里就一天得不到安宁。他左思右想，不知该如何办才好。最后他打定主意，以后每天都要上那点心店去。他显然已给她落了个环印象。不过，要消除这种印象，自己这点本事还是有的吧。今后在她面前，自己的出言谈吐得多留点神，要做到即使让最敏感的人听了也不会觉得受了冒犯。后来他也确实这么做了，但毫无效果。他进店时，总要道一声"晚上好"，她也依样回他一句。有一回他故意没向她打招呼，想看看她是否会主动向自己问好，结果她什么也没说。菲利普肚子里暗暗嘀咕了一声，而他嘀咕的那个词，尽管对某些女性往往很适用，但是在上流社会里却难得用来谈论她们。他脸上装着没事儿似地要了份茶点。他咬紧牙关，一语不发，临走时，连平日那声"晚安"也没说。他决心再也不上那儿去了。可到了第二天吃茶点的时候，他只觉得站也不是，坐也不是。他尽量去想别的事情，可就是控制不了自己的思绪。最后，他心一横，说：
"想去就去呗，何苦定要同自己作对呢！"
就这样，菲利普已经折腾了好一阵子，等他最后走进那家点心店，已快七点了。
"我还以为你今天不来了呢，"菲利普就座时，那姑娘招呼说。
菲利普的心怦地一跳，觉得自己脸也红了。
"有事给耽搁了，没法早来。"
"怕是在外面同人胡闹吧？"
"还不至于那么淘气。"
"你大概还在学校里念书，是吗？"
"不错。"
她的好奇心似乎得到了满足，径自走开了。这会儿时间已经不早，她照管的那几张餐桌上已没其他顾客，她专心致志地看起小说来，那时候，市面上还没流行那种廉价版的单行本小说。自有一批没出息的雇佣文人，专门为一些识字不多的市民定期炮制些廉价小说，供他们消闲遣闷。菲利普心里喜滋滋的。她毕竟主动同他打招呼了，他感到风水在转了，等真的轮到自己逞威风的时候，他可要把自己对她的看法当面说个明白。要是能把自己一肚子的轻蔑之情统统发泄出来，那才真叫一吐为快呢。他定睛打量她。不错，她的侧影很美。说来也奇怪，属于她那个阶层的英国姑娘，常具有完美无缺的、令人惊叹的轮廓线条，然而她那侧影，却给人一种冷感，仿佛是用大理石雕刻出来的，微微发青的细洁皮肤，给人一种病态的印象。所有的女招待，都是一式打扮：白围裙，黑色平布服，再加上一副护腕和一顶小帽。菲利普从口袋里掏出半员白纸，趁她坐在那儿一面伏案看书，一面努动嘴唇喃喃念诵的当儿，给她画了幅速写。菲利普离开时，随手把画留在餐桌上。想不到这一招还真起作用。第二天，他一进店门，她就冲着他嫣然一笑。
"真没想到你还会画画呢，"她说。
"我在巴黎学过两年美术。"
"昨晚你留下来的那张画，我拿去给女经理看了，她竟看得出了神。那画的是我吧。"
"没错，"菲利普说。
当她去端茶点时，另外一个女招待朝他走过来。
"您给罗杰斯小姐画的那张画我看到了，画得真像，"她说。
菲利普还是第一次听说她姓罗杰斯，当他索取帐单时，就用这个姓招呼她。
"看来你知道我名字了，"她走到跟前时这么说。
"你朋友同我讲起那幅画的时候，提到了你的芳名。"
"她也想要你替她画一幅呢。你可别替她画。一开了个头，事情就没个完了，她们会排着队来叫你画的。"稍顿之后，她突然把话题一转，问道："过去常和你一块来的那个小伙子，现在上哪儿去了？已离开这儿了？"
"没想到你还惦记着他，"菲利普说。
"小伙子长得挺帅。"
菲利普心里顿生一股奇异的感觉。他自己也说不清是怎么回事。邓斯福德长着一头讨人喜欢的鬈发，脸上气色很好，笑起来也很甜。菲利普想起邓斯福德的这些长处，心里很有点酸溜溜的滋味。
"哎，他忙着谈情说爱呢，"菲利普呵呵一笑。
菲利普一瘸一拐地走回家去，一路上一字一句地回味着刚才的那一席话。现在她已对他相当友好。以后有机会，他打算为她画幅精致些的素描，相信她一定会喜欢的。她那张脸蛋叫人感兴趣，侧面轮廓很可爱，即使那因贫血而微微发育的皮肤，也有一种奇特的吸引力。这颜色像什么呢，菲利普胡思乱想着。一上来他想到了豌豆汤，但立刻气呼呼地把这个念头赶跑了，继而又想到黄玫瑰花蕾的花瓣，是那种含苞未放就被人摘下的玫瑰花朵。此刻，菲利普对她已全无反感。
"这妞儿毕竟不赖呢，"他低声自语。
就因为她曾当面冲了自己几句而生她一肚子的气？好傻呀。她又没存心要冒犯谁。说起来还应怪他自己不好，初次见面时没给人留下好印象。何止仅此一次？对这种情况自己现在也该习以为常才是。他对自己那幅画的成功颇洋洋自得。她现在既然知道他还有这么一手，自然要对他刮目相看了。次日，菲利普一整天坐立不安。他想去点心店用午餐，但知道那时候店里顾客一定很多，米尔德丽德不会有工夫来陪他闲谈的。菲利普现在已没有同邓斯福德共进茶点的习惯，到四点半整（他已看了十二次手表），菲利普走进那家点心店。
米尔德丽德背对着菲利普，这时正一边坐下来，一边同那个德国佬交谈。前一阵子，菲利普几乎天天见到那个德国佬，可最近这两个星期，他一直没在店里露面。不知德国佬说了些什么，把个米尔德丽德逗得格格直笑。她笑得好俗气，菲利普不由得打了个寒噤。菲利普唤了她一声，她没理会。他又叫了她一声，这下子菲利普可不耐烦了，他生气地用手杖啪嗒啪嗒敲打桌面。米尔德丽德绷着脸走了过来。
"你好！"菲利普说。
"你好像有什么天大的急事似的。"
她双目看着菲利普，那脸的傲慢之色倒是菲利普非常熟悉的呢。
"我说你怎么啦？"他问道。
"你想要点什么，我可以给你端来，可要我一晚上光站着说话，我可受不了。"
"请来客茶和烤面包，"菲利普简短地应了一句。
菲利普对她十分恼火。他身边带着一份《星》报，等她来上茶点的时候，就故意装作埋头看报的样子。
"假如您愿意现在就把帐单开给我，您就不必劳神再跑一趟了，"菲利普冷冷地说。
米尔德丽德随手开了帐单，往餐桌上一放，扭头又往德国佬那边走去。不一会，她就同他谈笑风生地扯开了。这个德国人中等身材，长着典型的日耳曼民族的圆脑袋，一张灰黄色的脸，一撮浓而密的小胡子，身上穿着一件燕尾服和一条灰裤于，胸前拖着一根粗粗的金表链。菲利普心想，店里其他的女招待，这会儿大概正溜转着眼睛，轮流瞅着自己和那边餐桌上的一对，同时还相互交换着意味深长的眼色。他甚至觉得她们准在笑他，想到这儿，他全身血液沸腾。现在他打心眼里恨死了米尔德丽德。他知道自己最好的对策，就是以后再别光顾这家点心店，想想自己竞被她搞得如此狼狈，这口恶气怎能咽得下去！于是，他想出一个主意，要让她明白他菲利普压根儿就瞧她不起。第二天，菲利普换了张餐桌坐下，向另一个女招待要了茶点。米尔德丽德的朋友这会儿也在店里，米尔德丽德只顾同他拉扯，没去注意菲利普。于是，菲利普有意趁她非得从他面前穿过的当儿，起身朝店门外走去。他俩交臂而过时，菲利普漠然地朝她看了一眼，就像不认识她似的。这办法他一连试了三四天，哪天都在盼望她会凑准个机会找他说话。他想，她可能会问他最近为什么一直没光顾她照管的餐桌。菲利普甚至还想好了答话，话里充溢着对她的厌恶之情。他明知自己是在自寻烦恼，可笑得很，但就是控制不了自己。他又一次败下阵来。后来，那个德国佬突然不见了，但是菲利普照旧坐在别的餐桌干。米尔德丽德仍对他不加理会。菲利普恍然醒悟了，任凭自己爱怎么干，她才不在乎呢。像这样硬顶下去，哪怕顶到世界末日，也不见得会有什么效果。
"我可是一不干，二不休呢！"菲利普喃喃自语道。
次日，他又坐回到原来的餐桌上，等米尔德丽德走近时，向她道了声"晚安"，仿佛这一星期来他并没有冷落过她。菲利普脸面上很平静，心儿却上不住狂跳。那时候，喜歌剧刚刚时兴起来，颇受公众欢迎。菲利普料定米尔德丽德很乐意去看一场的。
"我说，"他突然开口说，"不知您是否肯常个脸，哪天陪我吃顿晚饭，然后再去看场《纽约美女》。我可以搞到两张正厅头等座的戏票。"
他那最后一句是有意加上去的，为的是诱她上钩。他知道女招待上戏院，一般都坐在正厅后座，即使有男朋友陪着，也很少有机会坐到比楼厅更贵的座位上去。米尔德丽德那张脸上，不见有一丝半点的表情。
"好吧，我没意见，"她说。
"你哪天有空？"
"星期四我下班早。"
他们商量怎么碰头。米尔德丽德同她姨妈一块儿住在赫尼希尔。戏八点钟开场，所以他们得在七点用晚餐。她建议菲利普在维多利亚车站的二等候车室里等她。她脸上没一点儿高兴的表示，明明是她接受别人的邀请，看上去倒像她在帮别人忙似的。菲利普心里隐隐感到不悦。

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举报只看该作者 59楼发表于: 2014-08-19 0

chapter 57

Philip arrived at Victoria Station nearly half an hour before the time which Mildred had appointed, and sat down in the second-class waiting-room. He waited and she did not come. He began to grow anxious, and walked into the station watching the incoming suburban trains; the hour which she had fixed passed, and still there was no sign of her. Philip was impatient. He went into the other waiting-rooms and looked at the people sitting in them. Suddenly his heart gave a great thud.

‘There you are. I thought you were never coming.’

‘I like that after keeping me waiting all this time. I had half a mind to go back home again.’

‘But you said you’d come to the second-class waiting-room.’

‘I didn’t say any such thing. It isn’t exactly likely I’d sit in the second-class room when I could sit in the first is it?’

Though Philip was sure he had not made a mistake, he said nothing, and they got into a cab.

‘Where are we dining?’ she asked.

‘I thought of the Adelphi Restaurant. Will that suit you?’

‘I don’t mind where we dine.’

She spoke ungraciously. She was put out by being kept waiting and answered Philip’s attempt at conversation with monosyllables. She wore a long cloak of some rough, dark material and a crochet shawl over her head. They reached the restaurant and sat down at a table. She looked round with satisfaction. The red shades to the candles on the tables, the gold of the decorations, the looking-glasses, lent the room a sumptuous air.

‘I’ve never been here before.’

She gave Philip a smile. She had taken off her cloak; and he saw that she wore a pale blue dress, cut square at the neck; and her hair was more elaborately arranged than ever. He had ordered champagne and when it came her eyes sparkled.

‘You are going it,’ she said.

‘Because I’ve ordered fiz?’ he asked carelessly, as though he never drank anything else.

‘I WAS surprised when you asked me to do a theatre with you.’ Conversation did not go very easily, for she did not seem to have much to say; and Philip was nervously conscious that he was not amusing her. She listened carelessly to his remarks, with her eyes on other diners, and made no pretence that she was interested in him. He made one or two little jokes, but she took them quite seriously. The only sign of vivacity he got was when he spoke of the other girls in the shop; she could not bear the manageress and told him all her misdeeds at length.

‘I can’t stick her at any price and all the air she gives herself. Sometimes I’ve got more than half a mind to tell her something she doesn’t think I know anything about.’

‘What is that?’ asked Philip.

‘Well, I happen to know that she’s not above going to Eastbourne with a man for the week-end now and again. One of the girls has a married sister who goes there with her husband, and she’s seen her. She was staying at the same boarding-house, and she ‘ad a wedding-ring on, and I know for one she’s not married.’

Philip filled her glass, hoping that champagne would make her more affable; he was anxious that his little jaunt should be a success. He noticed that she held her knife as though it were a pen-holder, and when she drank protruded her little finger. He started several topics of conversation, but he could get little out of her, and he remembered with irritation that he had seen her talking nineteen to the dozen and laughing with the German. They finished dinner and went to the play. Philip was a very cultured young man, and he looked upon musical comedy with scorn. He thought the jokes vulgar and the melodies obvious; it seemed to him that they did these things much better in France; but Mildred enjoyed herself thoroughly; she laughed till her sides ached, looking at Philip now and then when something tickled her to exchange a glance of pleasure; and she applauded rapturously.

‘This is the seventh time I’ve been,’ she said, after the first act, ‘and I don’t mind if I come seven times more.’

She was much interested in the women who surrounded them in the stalls. She pointed out to Philip those who were painted and those who wore false hair.

‘It is horrible, these West-end people,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how they can do it.’ She put her hand to her hair. ‘Mine’s all my own, every bit of it.’

She found no one to admire, and whenever she spoke of anyone it was to say something disagreeable. It made Philip uneasy. He supposed that next day she would tell the girls in the shop that he had taken her out and that he had bored her to death. He disliked her, and yet, he knew not why, he wanted to be with her. On the way home he asked:

‘I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself?’

‘Rather.’

‘Will you come out with me again one evening?’

‘I don’t mind.’

He could never get beyond such expressions as that. Her indifference maddened him.

‘That sounds as if you didn’t much care if you came or not.’

‘Oh, if you don’t take me out some other fellow will. I need never want for men who’ll take me to the theatre.’

Philip was silent. They came to the station, and he went to the booking-office.

‘I’ve got my season,’ she said.

‘I thought I’d take you home as it’s rather late, if you don’t mind.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind if it gives you any pleasure.’

He took a single first for her and a return for himself.

‘Well, you’re not mean, I will say that for you,’ she said, when he opened the carriage-door.

Philip did not know whether he was pleased or sorry when other people entered and it was impossible to speak. They got out at Herne Hill, and he accompanied her to the corner of the road in which she lived.

‘I’ll say good-night to you here,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘You’d better not come up to the door. I know what people are, and I don’t want to have anybody talking.’

She said good-night and walked quickly away. He could see the white shawl in the darkness. He thought she might turn round, but she did not. Philip saw which house she went into, and in a moment he walked along to look at it. It was a trim, common little house of yellow brick, exactly like all the other little houses in the street. He stood outside for a few minutes, and presently the window on the top floor was darkened. Philip strolled slowly back to the station. The evening had been unsatisfactory. He felt irritated, restless, and miserable.

When he lay in bed he seemed still to see her sitting in the corner of the railway carriage, with the white crochet shawl over her head. He did not know how he was to get through the hours that must pass before his eyes rested on her again. He thought drowsily of her thin face, with its delicate features, and the greenish pallor of her skin. He was not happy with her, but he was unhappy away from her. He wanted to sit by her side and look at her, he wanted to touch her, he wanted... the thought came to him and he did not finish it, suddenly he grew wide awake... he wanted to kiss the thin, pale mouth with its narrow lips. The truth came to him at last. He was in love with her. It was incredible.

He had often thought of falling in love, and there was one scene which he had pictured to himself over and over again. He saw himself coming into a ball-room; his eyes fell on a little group of men and women talking; and one of the women turned round. Her eyes fell upon him, and he knew that the gasp in his throat was in her throat too. He stood quite still. She was tall and dark and beautiful with eyes like the night; she was dressed in white, and in her black hair shone diamonds; they stared at one another, forgetting that people surrounded them. He went straight up to her, and she moved a little towards him. Both felt that the formality of introduction was out of place. He spoke to her.

‘I’ve been looking for you all my life,’ he said.

‘You’ve come at last,’ she murmured.

‘Will you dance with me?’

She surrendered herself to his outstretched hands and they danced. (Philip always pretended that he was not lame.) She danced divinely.

‘I’ve never danced with anyone who danced like you,’ she said.

She tore up her programme, and they danced together the whole evening.

‘I’m so thankful that I waited for you,’ he said to her. ‘I knew that in the end I must meet you.’

People in the ball-room stared. They did not care. They did not wish to hide their passion. At last they went into the garden. He flung a light cloak over her shoulders and put her in a waiting cab. They caught the midnight train to Paris; and they sped through the silent, star-lit night into the unknown.

He thought of this old fancy of his, and it seemed impossible that he should be in love with Mildred Rogers. Her name was grotesque. He did not think her pretty; he hated the thinness of her, only that evening he had noticed how the bones of her chest stood out in evening-dress; he went over her features one by one; he did not like her mouth, and the unhealthiness of her colour vaguely repelled him. She was common. Her phrases, so bald and few, constantly repeated, showed the emptiness of her mind; he recalled her vulgar little laugh at the jokes of the musical comedy; and he remembered the little finger carefully extended when she held her glass to her mouth; her manners like her conversation, were odiously genteel. He remembered her insolence; sometimes he had felt inclined to box her ears; and suddenly, he knew not why, perhaps it was the thought of hitting her or the recollection of her tiny, beautiful ears, he was seized by an uprush of emotion. He yearned for her. He thought of taking her in his arms, the thin, fragile body, and kissing her pale mouth: he wanted to pass his fingers down the slightly greenish cheeks. He wanted her.

He had thought of love as a rapture which seized one so that all the world seemed spring-like, he had looked forward to an ecstatic happiness; but this was not happiness; it was a hunger of the soul, it was a painful yearning, it was a bitter anguish, he had never known before. He tried to think when it had first come to him. He did not know. He only remembered that each time he had gone into the shop, after the first two or three times, it had been with a little feeling in the heart that was pain; and he remembered that when she spoke to him he felt curiously breathless. When she left him it was wretchedness, and when she came to him again it was despair.

He stretched himself in his bed as a dog stretches himself. He wondered how he was going to endure that ceaseless aching of his soul.

第五十七章

菲利普来到了维多利亚车站，比米尔德丽德指定的时间差不多提早了半个小时。他坐在二等候车室里左等右盼，迟迟不见她来。他有点憋不住了，便起身步入车站，望着打郊区来的一列列火车。她定下的时间已经过了，还是不见她的人影。菲利普着急了，跑进另外几间候车室，四下张望。突然，他的心扑通地跳了一下。

"你在这儿！我还以为你不来了呢。"

"是知道要等那么多时间，我才不高兴来呢。我正在想还是回家算了。"

"可你说好是在二等候车室里等的啊。"

"我根本没那么说。我既然可以坐在一等候车室里，干吗要坐到二等候车室去等，你说呢？"

菲利普确信自己没听错，但他不再为自己辩解。他俩上了一辆出租马车。

"我们上哪儿吃饭？"她问。

"我想去阿德尔夫饭店。你看可合适？"

"随便上哪儿吃饭，我全不在乎。"

米尔德丽德没好气地说。刚才她空等了好半天，憋了一肚子火，这会儿菲利普想同她拉话，她嗯嗯噢噢地爱理不理。她身上披了件深色粗料的长斗篷，头上裹条钩针编织的围巾。他们来到餐馆，在一张餐桌旁就了座。她满意地环顾四周。餐桌上的烛灯，一律罩着红色的灯罩，餐室里镶金嵌银，满目琳琅，再加上一面面大玻璃镜，显得金碧辉煌，气派豪华。

"我还是头一回来这儿。"

米尔德丽德朝菲利普粲然一笑。她脱下斗篷，只见她穿着一袭淡蓝色方领外衣，头发比往常梳得更加考究。他点的是香槟酒，酒菜端上餐桌时，米尔德丽德的眼睛熠熠放光。

"你会喝醉的，"她说。

"就因为我要的是香槟吗？"他用满不在乎的口吻问，那言下之意似乎是，他向来是非此酒而不喝的。

"那天你邀我上戏院，我着实吃了一惊。"

双方谈得不怎么投机，米尔德丽德似乎没什么要说的，而菲利普因为自己没本事把她逗乐而感到惴惴不安。米尔德丽德心不在焉地听着他说话，一双眼睛却忙着左顾右盼，打量其他顾客，她显然无意于装出对菲利普感兴趣的样子。菲利普偶尔同她开一两个玩笑，她却当真了，朝他虎起了脸。只有在菲利普谈起餐馆里其他女招待的时候，她才稍微显得活跃些。米尔德丽德非常讨厌店里的那个女经理，她在菲利普面前一五一十地数说着女经理的种种不端行为。

"我怎么也跟她合不来，特别是她那副臭架子，真叫人受不了。有时候，我真想当着她的面把事情抖出来，她别以为我不知道她的底细。"

"什么事呀？"菲利普问。

"嗯，有一回我偶然听人说起，她常跟一个男人到伊斯特本去度周木。我们店里的一个姑娘，她姐姐已经成家，有回她同丈夫一块儿去伊斯特本，碰巧撞见了我们店的女经理。女经理和她同住在一家旅店里。别看她手上戴着结婚戒指，至少我知道她根本没结过婚。"

菲利普给她的杯于斟得满满的，希望她喝了香槟酒会变得热乎些，心中巴望这次出游能就此打开局面。他注意到她拿餐刀的样子，就像握笔杆似的，而她举杯呷洒时，那根兰花似的小拇指怡然翘起。菲利普一连换了好几个话题，就是没法从米尔德丽德嘴里多掏出几句话来，再想想她在店里同那德国佬一起谈天说地，嘻嘻哈哈的快活劲儿，真叫人又气又恼。吃完晚饭，他们一块儿儿上戏院。菲利普是个颇有点修养的年轻人，根本不把喜歌剧放在眼里。他觉得戏里的噱头轻浮庸俗，不登大雅之堂，而音乐的曲调又太浅露，不堪回味。在这方面，法国的喜歌剧似乎要高明得多。然而米尔德丽德却看得津津有味，每看到发噱之处，笑得连腰都直不起来，而且不时瞟上菲利普一眼，分明是想同他交换一下领会个中妙处的眼色，同时还一面欣喜若狂地拍着手。

"我已是第七次上这儿来了，"第一幕结束后，她说，"就是再来这么七回，我也不嫌多。"

米尔德丽德对周围头等座里的妇人很感兴趣。她点给菲利普看，哪些是脸上涂了脂粉的，哪些是头上戴了假发的。

"这些西区的娘儿们真要不得，"她说，"我不懂她们戴了那么个玩意儿，怎么受得了，"她把手放在自己的头发上。"我的头发可根根都是自个儿的。"

剧场里没有一个是她看得上眼的，不管提到哪个，她都要讲几句坏话。菲利普听了觉得很不是滋味。他想，说不定到了明天她会在店里的姑娘面前，说他带她出去玩过了，而且他这个人乏味至极等等。他对米尔德丽德很反感，然而不知道为什么，他就是要同她呆在一起。在回家的路上，菲利普问她：

"但愿你今天玩得很尽兴？"

"那还用说。"

"改天晚上再和我一块儿出去走走，好吗？"

"我没意见。"

她总是说些这类阴阳怪气的话。她那种冷冰冰的神情简直把菲利普气疯了。

"听你说话的口气，似乎去不去都无所谓。"

"哦，你不带我去，自有别人会来约我。我从来就不愁没人陪我上戏院。"

菲利普不吭声了。他们来到车站，菲利普朝票房走去。

"我有月票，"她说。

"我想要是你不介意，让我送你回家吧，这会儿时间很晚了。"

"要是这样能让你高兴，我也没意见。"

菲利普给她买了张单程头等票，给自己买了一张往返票。

"嗯，我得说，你这个人倒是挺大方的，"在菲利普推开车厢门时，她说。

其他的旅客陆续进了车厢，菲利普只得闭上嘴，他自己也不知道心里是高兴还是懊丧。他们在赫尼希尔下了车，菲利普一直陪她走到她住的那条街的街角上。

"就送到这儿吧，晚安，"她边说边伸出了手。"你最好别跑到我家门门来。人言可畏哪，我可不喜欢让别人嚼舌头。"

她道了声晚安，旋即匆匆离去。浓浓的夜色之中，那条白围巾仍依稀可见。他想她也许会转过身来，但她连头也没回。菲利普留神看她进了某一所房子，随即走上前去打量了一番。那是一幢普普通通的黄砖住屋，整洁且小巧，同街面上的其他小屋一模一样。他在外面逗留了几分钟，不一会儿，顶层窗户里的灯光灭了。菲利普慢腾腾地踱回车站。这一晚算个啥名堂。他又气又恼，心里说不出有多窝囊。

菲利普躺在床上，似乎仍看到米尔德丽德的身影：她坐在车厢的角落里，头上兜着那条钩针编织的围巾。从现在算起，还要过好几个小时才能同她再次见面。真不知道该如何打发这段时间才好。他睡意蒙咙地想到她那张瘦削的脸庞，纤巧的五官，还有那苍白而微呈绿色的肌肤。虽说同她呆在一起并不感到快活，可是一旦离开了她，却感到痛苦不堪。他渴望坐在她身旁，望着她，抚摸她的身体，他想要……那念头刚迷迷糊糊冒出来，还没来得及细想下去，脑子就豁然清醒了……他要吻她那张没有血色的小嘴，吻她那两片薄薄的嘴唇。他终于明白过来：自己已爱上她了。他简直不敢相信竟会有这种事。

他过去常常憧憬着爱神的降临，脑子里不止一遍地展现过这样一幕情景：他看到自己翩然步入舞厅，目光停留在一小群正在聊天的男女来宾身上，其中一位女郎转过身来，双眸凝视着自己。他觉得喉头阵阵发紧，粗气直喘，而且知道那女郎也在喘着粗气。他收住脚步，纹丝不动。她身材修长，肤色黝黑，亭亭玉立，楚楚动人，一双明眸像夜一样黑，一身舞服像雪一样白，乌黑的云鬓之中，钻石在熠熠闪光。他俩四目对视，旁若无人。菲利普径直朝她走去，她也挪开轻盈的脚步迎上前来。他俩都感到寒暄客套已属多余。菲利普对她说：

"我一生都在把你寻找。"

"你终于来到了我跟前，"她喃喃地说。

"愿意和我跳舞吗？"

菲利普张开双手，女郎迎上前去，两人一道翩翩起舞。（菲利普总把自己想象成身无足疾之累的）她舞姿轻盈如仙女。

"和我跳过舞的人当中，谁也不像你跳得这么出色，"她说。

她改变了原来的安排，整个晚上只陪菲利普一个跳舞。

"我真幸运，幸亏我一直在等待着你，"菲利普对她说，"我心里明白，早晚会遇到你的。"

舞厅里的人全都看傻了眼。他俩全不在意，丝毫不想掩藏自己内心的激情。最后，他们步入花园之中，菲利普把一件轻巧的斗篷披搭在她的肩头，扶她上了一辆正在等候的马车。他们赶上了午夜去巴黎的火车。火车载着他们穿过万籁俱寂、星光灿烂的黑夜，朝着未知的远方疾驰而去……

他沉浸在他旧日的罗曼蒂克的幻想之中。他怎么会爱上米尔德丽德·罗杰斯这样的女人呢？似乎根本不可能。她的名字古怪可笑。菲利普嫌她长得不漂亮，而且人也太瘦了点。就在那天晚上他还注意到，她因"为穿上了夜礼眼，胸骨明显地鼓突出来。菲利普将她的面部五官逐一品'评过去，他不喜欢那张嘴，那病态的肤色也隐隐激起他的反感。她人品平庸，毫无特色。她词汇贫乏，谈吐无味，颠来倒去就是那么几句言词，这正是她心灵空虚的表现。菲利普想起她在观看喜歌剧时怎么被那些噱头逗得格格直笑--笑得那么粗俗；想起她举杯呷酒时如何有意翘起那根兰花小指。她的举止如同她的谈吐，故作斯文，令人作呕。菲利普还想起。她平日里那股盛气凌人的神气，有时候他恨不得劈面给她两巴掌，可是突然他自己也不晓得是何缘故一也许是因为想到要揍她，或者是因为想一到她那对漂亮的小耳朵--他被一股突如其来的感情冲动紧紧攫住。他涌起万股缱绻之情，想象着自己如何把她那娇弱瘦小的身子紧紧搂在怀里，并亲吻那两片苍白的嘴唇。他要用手抚摸她那微微发青的脸颊。他多需要她啊。

菲利普一直把爱情看作是令人销魂的温柔之乡，总以为一旦堕入了情网，整个世界就会变得像春天那样美好，他一直在期待着那种令人心醉神迷的欢乐。谁知现在，爱情给他带来的却不是欢乐，而是心灵的饥渴，是痛苦的思念，是极度的苦恼--这种滋味是他有生以来从未尝到过的。

菲利普竭力回想，爱情的种于到底是何时何日撒进他的心田里来的。他自己也说不清。只记得最初几回去那点心店，并不觉得怎么的。可这以后，每去一回，心底里便涌起一阵莫可名状的感觉。那是心灵在隐隐作痛。而且，每当米尔德丽德对他说话的时候，他不知怎么地总觉得喉头紧收，连气都喘不过来。假如说，她一从他身边走开，给他留下的便是苦恼，那么，每当她出现在他面前的时候，给他带来的则是绝望。

菲利普像条狗那样仰肢八叉地躺在床上，心里暗暗纳闷：这种永无休止的心灵的痛楚，自己如何忍受得了。

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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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