正文目录

只有乏味的人会在早餐时才华横溢

蛇蝎美人

打火匣

被偷的白象

无神论者做弥撒

显微镜下的失误

明天

夜晚在我周围变暗

一种可怕的美诞生了

被视为艺术的谋杀案

目录

封面

书名页

版权页

品牌页

中文内容

只有乏味的人会在早餐时才华横溢

英文内容

Only Dull People are Brilliant at Breakfast

关注企鹅兰登北亚

继续阅读

只有乏味的人会在早餐时才华横溢

企鹅经典：小黑书 第二辑

[英] 奥斯卡·王尔德/著

郑远涛/译

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正文目录

只有乏味的人会在早餐时才华横溢

Only Dull People are Brilliant at Breakfast

只有乏味的人会在早餐时才华横溢

对他们的伟人一无所知，是英国教育的必要元素之一。

我们人人都花时间寻找生活的秘诀。其实，生活的秘诀在艺术之中。

生活的至高目标是生活。很少人在生活。实现自己的完美状态，把自己的梦想逐一变为现实，那才叫生活。

商人早早起床吃了第一餐，赶火车进城，在昏暗无光、灰灰蒙蒙的商业世界混上一天，夜晚回到家里，吃完晚餐就睡觉，这种生活以我看来比奴工都不如——捆绑他的不是铁链，是金枷。

劣等艺术比没有艺术还要差远了。

……没有什么是值得做的，除了世人都说无法成功的事。

做一份美味沙拉相当于做一个优秀的外交家——两者涉及的问题完全相同：得知道应该往醋里掺多少油。

生活是太重要的事，不能认真地谈论它。

贵族政治里的金钱永远多于头脑。

好国王是唯一对现代民主政治构成威胁的敌人。

我一向认为，只有缺乏想象力的人会死守“始终如一”的立场……

……典型的英国厨子是个蠢女人，她的罪过是从来没学会如何放盐，为此她应该变成一根盐柱。[1]

关于莎士比亚，可以说他是第一个明白男式紧身上衣的戏剧价值，也知道如何运用一件裙撑托起一个高潮。

……舞台不单是各种艺术形式交会的地方，而且是艺术向生活回归的地方。

真正的戏剧家……向我们展现艺术条件下的生活，而不是生活形式的艺术。

……我们普通的英国小说家……没有做到……风格凝练。他们的人物过于能说会道，谈得自己也精疲力尽。我们想要的是多一点的现实，少一点的修辞……我们情愿他们谈得少些、想得多些。

它们领着我们穿越一片废话连连的荒漠，去到一座据说是人生的海市蜃楼：我们漫无目的地游走于词语的不毛之地，追寻一点点自然。不过，也别对英国小说太苛刻了；它们是智力空虚者的唯一消遣。

没有什么能打垮一个诗人，除了一处印刷错误。

……不神经质的诗人是稀有的。

美国没有蠢材。许多美国人招人厌烦、趣味庸俗、举止唐突、鲁莽无礼，这也同样是许多英国人爱犯的毛病；但愚蠢并不在美国人的缺点之列。真的，美国没有蠢材生存的土壤。美国人期许擦鞋的也有头脑，事实也不负所望。

至于婚姻，那是他们最流行的制度之一。美国男人早早结婚，美国女人常常结婚；这两种人是天作之合。

美洲始终不能原谅欧洲，因为在历史上它比自己被发现的时间早了一些。

……假如人要专门学习如何说话，那真会是一件功德。语言是我们拥有的最高贵的工具，既能揭示思想又能掩饰思想；讲话本身是一种精神化的行动，交谈则是最可爱的一门艺术。

唯一不会让真实人物显得突兀的杜撰之作是历史。

她在人生早年发现了一条重要的道理：一切都没有放浪那么看似天真；于是，借着一系列大胆的越轨行为（其中一半是无甚损害的），她获取了一个名人能有的各种特权。她不止一次换过丈夫；狄布列特说她有三场婚姻呢；但因为她从来没有换过情人，社会上早已不再流传她的丑闻了。

除非有钱，否则迷人的气质毫无用处。风流韵事是富人的特权，不是无业者的职业。穷人应当实际而本分。有一份持久收入比气质诱人更好。

哪怕在外郡[2]，也绝对不该容许在宴席上向人抛出一个纯属数学的智力问题。提这种问题，跟忽然询问人家灵魂的状况一样糟糕。

如果人不能畅所欲言，所谓良好的友谊又何在？人人都可以说动听的话去取悦和奉承，但是真朋友说的永远是逆耳的话，而且不担心令对方痛苦。的确，真朋友宁愿如此，因为这样一来他就会知道自己有益处。

觉得别人全都远远不如自己，这种意识是唯一叫人活得下去的东西，而我向来悉心培育这样的感觉。

我如此聪明，以至于有时我正在说的话，我自己一个词儿都听不懂。

我一向认为，操劳不过是无所事事者的救命稻草。

以“世纪末”这个词为人所知的一切，我都特别佩服和喜爱。这是我们的文明绽放的一朵娇花：唯有它才令世界不至于沦入平庸、粗俗、野蛮。

福楼拜没有写法语文章，他写的是一位艺术大师的文章，作者刚巧是法国人。

今天早晨我在床上想着，法国远远胜过英国的地方在于法国的资产阶级个个想当艺术家，而英国的艺术家个个想当资产阶级。

祈祷永远不能得到应答：否则哪还是祈祷，岂不成了通信。

我有一个重大发现……充分饮酒，足以产生沉醉的全部效果。

传教士呀，乖乖！难道你们不懂，传教士对又穷又饿的食人族来说是神赐的美食？每当他们快到饥馑边缘的时候，大慈大悲的老天就给他们送去一个白白胖胖的传教士。

哲学教我们心平气和地应对他人的不幸。

我个人的经验是我们越多研究艺术，就越少在乎自然……艺术是我们精神饱满的抗议，是我们要自然安守本分的英勇尝试。

思考是世界上最不健康的事，它像别的疾病一样可以夺人性命。谢天谢地，思考不会传染——至少在英国如此。

在文学中我们需要优异、魅力、美感和想象的魄力。我们不希望作品把下等阶级的所作所为描述一番，令人难受和恶心。

我完全承认现代小说有许多优点。我只不过坚持，作为一类书，它们没法读。

艺术本身就是一种夸张；艺术的精神在于甄选，它正是过度强调的一种强化模式。

事实不仅在历史中找到立足之地，而且逐渐在篡夺幻想的领域，并已经占领了传奇的王国。它们令人寒心地触碰着一切。它们让人类愈加庸俗。

社会迟早必须重投入它失去的领袖——那高雅迷人的说谎者的怀抱。

生活模仿艺术，远多于艺术模仿生活……生活向艺术举起镜子，要么复制画家或雕塑家想象的某种奇异事物，要么实现小说中的幻梦。

……模仿可以成为最恳切的一种侮辱。

昨晚阿伦德尔太太坚持要我走去窗前，看看她所谓的“天上荣光”。我当然不得不看。她是那种漂亮得不可理喻的俗人，你没法不答应她的任何要求。结果呢？那不过是一幅非常二流的透纳油画，属于透纳较差的时期，此画家最糟糕的缺点全都遭到夸张和过分的强调。

一种艺术越是抽象，越是理想化，就越可以向我们揭示它所属时代的气质。如果我们想通过艺术来了解一个国家，不妨看它的建筑，听它的音乐。

其实，我们完全仰赖了艺术的中介来回望历史，幸好，艺术从来就没有一次把真相告诉过我们。

成为一件艺术品是生活的宗旨。

英国人总把真实降级为事实。当真实变作事实的时候，就失去了它全部的智力价值。

小说从尾读起的好处一言难尽。最后一页通常最有兴味，当读者从灾难或结局开始，就会感到和作者平起平坐的愉悦，好比去剧场后台探班一样。人不再沉迷于故事，男主角绝处逢生，女主角呼天抢地，都完全令人无动于衷。读者知道了精心埋藏的秘密，那么，面对小说中傀儡们义不容辞地表现出的不必要的焦灼，就大可一笑而过。

一切风采翩翩的人，我猜，都是被惯坏了的。这是他们有魅力的秘诀。

给人建议总是一桩愚行，给人以好的建议则绝对是致命的。我希望你永远不犯这种错。否则，你将会追悔莫及。

你忘了，一件事并不由于有人为它丧命便是真实的。

艺术，哪怕是视野最完整、景象最开阔的艺术，也从未真的向我们呈现外在世界。它向我们呈现的只是我们自己的灵魂，那个我们唯一具有真切认识的世界……只有艺术能让我们发现自己。

评论家应当学会在评论一件艺术品的时候不谈及作者的个性。这其实是评论的开始。

如今每一个大人物都有门徒，而给他写传记的永远是犹大。

旁征博引的谈话要么是无知者的做作，要么是精神空虚者的专业。

教育是一件可敬的事。但最好不要忘了，值得了解的事情都不是能教的。

谁都能写一部三卷本的小说。这只需要对生活和文学全然无知。

谁都能创造历史。只有伟人能把它写出来。

有时听人说，艺术家生涯的悲剧在于他不能实现理想。但是大多数艺术家一路走来，妨碍他们的真正悲剧却在于他们把理想实现得太彻底。因为当理想实现时，它就失去了它的奇妙和神秘，仅仅变成了另一个理想的新起点。音乐是完美的艺术，这是原因所在。

交谈的话题，应该无所不触及，又无所偏重。

……生活极度缺乏形式。它的灾祸以错误方式发生在错误的人身上。它的喜剧有一种怪诞的恐怖，它的悲剧似乎以胡闹为高潮。人走近它的时候永远是受伤的。各种过程要么漫长，要么匆促。

……一切艺术都无关道德，除了较低层次的感官艺术或说教艺术，只有它们才会企图激起或邪恶或正义的行动。因为任何行动都属于道德领域。艺术的目标仅止于造成一种情绪。

世界上没有哪个国家像我们国家这样需要不切实际的人。在我们这儿，思想由于一直跟实践相联系而遭受贬低……我们活在一个工作过度，而又教养不足的时代；这时代的人勤勤恳恳，以至于变得愚不可及。

通向对生活无知的不二法门，是努力让自己有用。

人多么容易同情困苦，多么难同情思想。

一个不危险的观念根本不配称作观念。

人以自己的身份说话时最是言不由衷。给他一副面具，他就会道出真情。

因为何谓真实？在宗教方面，它不过是胜出的观点。在科学方面，它是最终的感觉。在艺术方面，它是人上一次的情绪。

不爱艺术有两种方式……一种是不爱它。另一种是理智地爱它。

一点点真诚会带来危险，大量的真诚绝对要致命。

看出美丽的事物蕴含着丑恶的意义，这样的人既堕落又不讨人喜欢。这是一种缺点。

看出美丽的事物蕴含着美丽的意义，这样的人有教养。他们身上有希望。

所谓道德的书和不道德的书都是无稽之谈。书要么写得好，要么写得糟。仅此而已。

恶习和美德对艺术家来说是艺术的素材。

一切艺术都兼具表面和象征。

揭开表面的人，风险自负。

解读象征的人，风险自负。

艺术之镜真正映出的是观者，不是生活。

评论家莫衷一是的时候，艺术家与自己达成了一致。

我们能原谅别人制作一件有用之物，只要他不欣赏它。制作一件无用之物的唯一理由是对它欣赏备至。

经验并没有伦理价值。大家只是用它来称呼自己犯过的错罢了。

一个人不再爱另一个人以后，对方表现出的感情总显得荒唐可笑。

自责含有一种奢侈。我们责备自己的时候，觉得别人都无权责备我们。给我们赦罪的是忏悔，不是神父。

不真诚有那么可怕？我不觉得。它只不过是一种令我们个性倍增的手段。

随着私有财产的废除，我们将会迎来真正、美好而健康的个人主义。将来不再有人会把生命浪费于积累物品和物品的符号上。人将会生活。生活是世界上最稀有的。多数人只是在生存，仅此而已。

社会之中只有一个阶级想钱比富人想得还多，那就是穷人。穷人没有别的可想。这是贫穷的痛苦。

民主一度被寄以厚望，但民主不过是代表人民者对人民的压迫。[3]

其实，文明需要奴隶。古希腊人的做法不无道理。除非有奴隶去做丑陋、可怕、无聊的工作，否则文化和沉思都遥不可及。人类奴隶制是错误、不安全且令人颓丧的。世界的未来有赖于机械奴隶制，有赖于奴役机器。

一件艺术品是一种独特心性的独到成果……艺术家一旦留意别人想要什么，并尝试有求必应的时候，他就不再是艺术家，而成了一个沉闷或逗笑的工匠，一个诚实或不诚实的买卖人。

艺术永远不应当努力做到通俗。公众应当努力学会鉴赏。

在英国，幸免于难的艺术，以那些不令公众感兴趣的艺术为最。诗歌这个例子可以佐证我的话。英国之所以继续有好诗，是因为公众不读诗，对它没有影响。

昔年人民受刑具之苦。如今他们被报章所误。

在英国，除了几个众所周知没有发展到粗暴无度的事例，报业依然是一个重要因素、一股可观的力量。它有意施于民众私生活的专横统治，以我看来非同寻常。其实，公众的好奇心是没有餍足的，他们什么都想知道，唯独对有价值的东西不感兴趣。报业深明此理，而且长于商人之道，对他们有求必应。在我们之前的很多个世纪，公众把记者的耳朵钉在水泵上。这骇人听闻。本世纪，记者把耳朵牢牢贴近钥匙孔。这样更加不堪。

谁都能够同情一个受苦的朋友，但同情一个成功的朋友，这就得有一种极好的性格——实际上，得有一个真正的个人主义者的性格。

工作是本国饮酒阶级的诅咒。

唯独没有想法的地方才有民意。

本身美丽的题材不能给艺术家以启发。它少了缺憾。

艺术是世界上唯一认真的事。艺术家是唯一从来不认真的人。

可以安慰穷人的只有挥霍。可以安慰富人的只有省俭。

人永远不该聆听。聆听意味着对你的听众漠不关心。

生活的头一件义务在于尽可能地做到人工化。第二件义务何在，迄今无人发现。

“坏”是好人杜撰的一种迷思，以此解释别人为何有奇异的魅力。

认为灵魂和肉体有区别的人这两样都没有。

一朵别在扣眼上的工艺精致的花，是艺术和自然的唯一联系。

宗教死于它们得到证实的时候。科学是已死宗教的记录。

上等人反驳别人。智者反驳自己。

真实发生的事，没有一桩是无足轻重的。

沉闷是严肃的成年阶段。

在所有不重要的事情上，风格而非诚意是基本要素；在所有重要的事情上，风格而非诚意是基本要素。

如果人说了真话，肯定是迟早要被识穿的。

人只该为了享受活着。幸福是最快变味的。

没有罪恶是粗俗的，但一切粗俗都是罪恶。粗俗是他人的行为举止。

唯独浅薄的人有自知之明。

时间是浪费金钱。

人永远应该有点不合常规。

一切良好的决心都有一个致命伤。那就是决心全都下得太快。

偶尔盛装过度只有一种补救，那就是，永远要绝对地表现出过度的学问。

执着于行为的对错观念，显示出智力发育的不完全。

“有野心”是失败的最后一种遁词。

人应该要么当一件艺术品，要么穿戴一件艺术品。

只有肤浅的性格才持久。人类较深沉的本性总被迅速识破。

产业是一切丑陋的根源。

各个时代以时空错杂的途径活在历史之中。

老年人无所不信，中年人无所不疑，青年人无所不晓。

完美性的条件是悠闲，完美性的目标是青春。

只有文体大师曾经成功地做到晦涩。

爱自己是终生浪漫之始。

啊，男人有一套律法，女人另有一套律法，这真是遗憾之至。我觉得，谁都应该无法无天才是。

第一杯之后，你看见的东西如你所愿。第二杯之后，你看见的东西似是而非。最后你看见了各种东西的本相，这是世界上最可怕的事。（谈苦艾酒）

我的存在是一桩丑闻。

生活中真实的悲剧，往往以一种难以言喻的方式发生，其伤人之处在于它们粗鲁的暴力、绝对的不连贯、荒谬的缺乏意义、彻底的没有风格。

一切同伴关系，不管婚姻还是友谊，纽带终究是谈话……

肉体的罪孽何足挂齿。它们只是让医生治疗的疾病，如果该治的话。只有灵魂的罪孽才可耻。

爱的目标就是去爱：不多，也不少。

对体验感到后悔是故步自封。否定自己的体验，是在个人生活的唇齿间放进一个谎言。那样无异于灵魂上的否定。

艺术家始终追寻的是灵肉合一而不相分割的存在模式：外在可以表现内在；形式即揭示。

依我如今看来，某个类型的爱恋，是人世间苦难深重的唯一合理解释。

大多数人是别人。他们的想法是别人的见解，他们的生活是一种模仿，他们的热情是一种照搬。

每件艺术品都是一个预言的实现：因为每件艺术品都是观念向形象转化而成的。

……一切伟大的观念都是危险的。

模仿结束的地方才是艺术开始之处……

一切糟糕的艺术都源于良好的意图。

出于天性和选择，我极其懒惰。

我从不推迟到明天——既然是可以后天做的事。

我天生属于例外，不属于规律。

赞美使我谦卑，但是谩骂纷起之际，我知道我摘到了星辰。

这一切何去何从呢？半个世界不相信上帝，另外半个世界不相信我。

假设我孤身一人滞留荒岛，而物品齐全的话，我每天晚餐时都会盛装打扮。

我有最单纯的品味。我向来只满意最好的。

由于爱国而身陷牢狱的爱国者爱他的国家，由于爱男孩子而坐牢的诗人爱男孩子。如果要改变我的人生，等于要我承认同性爱是不高贵的。我坚持认为它高贵，比其他形式的爱更高贵。

我进监狱时心如铁石，只考虑自己的享受，但现在我的心已被击碎，怜悯进入了我的心；我现在知道怜悯是世间最伟大也最美好的事物。所以，我无法怨恨那些控告我的人，也并不怨恨任何人，因为从前的我不会懂得这一切。

我不是一个为自己曾经坐牢感到羞愧的败类。令我羞愧难当的是那种把我送进牢狱的物质至上的生活。它跟一个艺术家大不相称。

我喜欢表演。它比生活真实太多。

人一旦上了年纪，活到看透的份儿上，就什么也看不透了。

老年的悲剧并不是人老迈，而是人稚嫩。

我会不惜一切来重获青春，除了锻炼身体、早起和循规蹈矩。

友善地对待自己毫不关心的人总是不难。

法律应该明文禁止自我牺牲。为别人牺牲自己，会极大地损害别人的志气。

英国人对美国的粗野兴致勃勃，对美国的文明兴味索然。

一件称身的衣物，对于两性都同样称身，根本没有什么分明属于女性的衣装。

实在是唯独有闲阶级才衣着不堪。任何需要体力劳动的时候，用到的服装通常都无比称身，因为劳动得有自由，而没有自由，就谈不上衣着之美。

穿上一身晚礼服，任何人，哪怕是证券经纪，也可以博得文雅之名。

只有浅薄的人才会不凭借外表作判断。

天然无饰只不过是一种姿态，据我所知是最讨厌的故作姿态。

也许人最自在的状态，莫过于他得要扮演某个角色的时候。

我觉得人应该虚构关于自己的神话。

一切艺术都毫无用处。

伟大的艺术家从来不会如实地观看事物。若然，他就不再是艺术家。

对美的欲望，不外乎生命欲望的一种高级形态。

挥霍是穷人的奢侈，吝啬是富人的奢侈。

世人常说，穷人对慈善感恩。当然有些人是感恩的，但是最优秀的穷人从来不会感恩。他们不感恩，愤愤不平，抗命，反叛。他们很有理由如此。

向穷人提倡节俭是既怪诞又无礼的。这好比建议挨饿的人减食。

他们（穷人）干吗要对从富人桌上洒落的面包屑感恩戴德？他们有平起平坐的权利，也渐渐知道了这一点。

穷人真正的悲剧在于，他们除了克己忘我就什么都没有条件做。美丽的罪孽，犹如美好的事物一样，是富人的特权。

狂恋是无所事事者的特权。一个国家的有闲阶级的用途莫不如此。

民族里代代相传的愚蠢——英国人健全的常识。

谁都能有常识，只要缺乏想象力。

我热衷于迷信。它们是思维和想象力的彩色元素。它们是常识的对手。

现在大多数人不知不觉地被一种常识拘禁终生，太晚才意识到人只对自己做错的事无悔。

自私不是过自己想过的生活，而是要求别人过自己想过的生活。

谈话属于最可爱的艺术之列。

谈话的目标在于消遣，不在于赐教。

“如果同伴乏味，那是你的错”这句格言，叫我们觉得未免乐观了些。

晚宴上遇见一位天才、一位公爵，这种时候，善谈者会试着把自己提升到天才的高度，而把公爵拉低到他自己的高度。要在社交场上高自己一等的人中间成功，你必须毫不犹豫地反驳他们。

一个人能在伦敦的晚宴上抢尽风头，就能在全世界抢尽风头。

我迷恋它们（伦敦的晚宴）。聪明人从不听别人说，蠢材从不开口。

向来只有智力上迷失的人要争辩。

相信是很无趣的。怀疑是引人入胜的。保持警醒是活着，沉陷于安全感是死去。

现在我从不赞成或反对什么。那样的人生态度是荒唐的。我们降生到世界上，并不是为了炫耀我们的道德偏见。

使人笃信不疑的事物从来都不真实。那是信仰的致命伤，和传奇的教训。

没有人殉身他了解的真实。人殉身他们期望的真实，殉身他们内心深处恐怖地知道并不真实的东西。

谋杀总是错的。人不该做任何一件不能在晚宴后谈起的事。

现代罪案的元祖是贫困，不是罪孽。

习惯性地用惩罚来治理会造成社区野蛮化，其恶果远远大于偶尔发生的罪案。

牢狱生涯叫人如实地看见人和事物。所以监狱使人变得冷酷。监狱外的人被幻象所迷惑，才以为生活在不断变动。

对身在狱中的人，眼泪属于日常的体验。在监狱里不曾哭泣的一天是心灵冷酷的一天，并不是心灵快乐的一天。

（牢狱生涯）最可怕的事不是它令人心碎——心天生是易碎的——而是它令人心如铁石。

正因为一个人没有能力做某件事，他才适合做这件事的裁判。

玩火唯一的好处……是玩火者永远不会被灼伤。不懂玩火的才是会被烧伤的人。

何谓犬儒主义者[4]？他们知道所有东西的价格，却不知道任何东西的价值。

感伤主义者内心永远是个犬儒主义者。没错，感伤主义不过是犬儒主义者休假的表现。

感伤主义者不过是个想要情感的奢侈又不愿为之付出的人。

他是个典型的英国人，永远乏味，时常粗暴。

像所有要把一个话题说尽的人那样，他说到听众全都筋疲力尽。

她举止像是个美人儿。美国女性大多如此。这是她们的魅力之源。

她努力打扮得像幅画，结果却显得景象凌乱。

（她）滔滔不绝而言语空洞，比我见识过的任何人更甚。她是个天生的演说家。

一个土气、乏味的姑娘，长着某一种典型的英国面孔，叫人一见之下再也回忆不起来。

不满是驱使一个人或一个民族前进的第一步。

在任何一个熟知历史的人看来，抗命是人类的原德[5]。进步是通过抗命——抗命和反叛——取得的。

如同在政治的领域一样，艺术领域的革命全都出自一个来源，那就是人追求一种更高贵的生活形态、更自由的表达方式和机会的愿望。

一个绅士的首要责任是梦想。

梦想家是只能借着月光认路的人，他受到的惩罚在于他比全世界更早看见曙光。

社会往往宽恕罪犯；它从不宽恕梦想家。

唯一比梦想家有更多幻觉的人是行动家。

我对自己的责任是让自己乐趣无穷。

世人从不考虑培育少女的想象力。这是现代教育的重大缺点。

我们教人记诵，我们从不教他们成长。

牛津在夏季学期开课传授闲逸这一门精妙的艺术，这是任何大学能传授的最重要的东西之一。

生活的秘诀是永远不要怀着不得体的情感。

只有浅薄的人，才需要用很多年来摆脱一份情感。能放能收的人了断一种哀愁，跟他生发一种快乐同样轻易。

啤酒、《圣经》和七宗致命的美德[6]，造就了我们今天的英格兰。

英国公众在听一个庸才讲话的时候永远感到无比舒服。

家庭真是一种可怕的妨碍，尤其是当人未婚的时候。

时装不过是一种难以承受的丑陋，我们忍无可忍，只好每半年改换它一次。

始于一句夸奖的相识必然会深化为真正的友谊。以这种方式开始是对的。

一场友谊从笑声开始一点也不赖，而且它绝对是友谊最好的收尾。

我对新朋友总想无所不知，对老朋友总想一无所知。

礼俗客套会让亲密友谊变得紧张。

儿女最初爱恋父母。过些年，他们评判父母。他们绝少（哪怕真有）会原谅父母。

我们这个灰蒙蒙的、又大又丑的伦敦呀，容纳着它难以计数的居民、它龌龊的罪人，和它辉煌的罪恶。

我不喜欢瑞士：它只出产过神学家和侍者。

对于专制者可以说一句好话：他是一个人，因此可能有教养，而乌合之众是一头怪物，绝无教养。

历史从不自我重复。历史学家们互相重复。

我们对历史的唯一义务是重写它。

我们全都喜欢把别人设想得很好，原因是我们全都替自己担忧。乐观主义的基础在于纯然的恐惧。

笑是对待生命的原初态度——这种模式只在艺术家和罪犯身上依然存在。

什么都不做是世界上最困难的事——最困难且最智性的。

生活的目标是自我完善。去完美地实现个人的天性——我们人人都为此而生。

有时候人会多年来浑浑噩噩地活着，然后在一个钟点之内经历生命的密集冲撞。

我们在生活中顶多只会有一种伟大的体验，而生活的秘诀就在于尽可能频繁地重复那体验。

别跟我说你榨干了生活的可能性。一个男人这么说，旁人便知道是生活榨干了他。

变成自己生活的旁观者，就是逃逸出生活的苦难。

生活用影子来玩弄我们。我们向它求取享受。它给我们享受，继之以苦恼和失望。

文学总是预言了生活。它不抄袭生活，而是照它的目标来塑造生活。我们所知的19世纪，一大半是巴尔扎克发明的。

我讨厌文学中的庸俗写实主义。实话照说的人应该被逼着拿起铁锹[7]。

难道没有一些书让我们在一小时内获得生命的丰收，盖过我们二十年乏善可陈的人生？

把真人放进小说或戏剧，意味着想象力贫乏的头脑、粗糙而不老练的观察、文体的完全缺失。

世人称为伤风败俗的书，是一些把世界的可耻面目展示出来的书。

没有人能经受高估，要毁掉一个作者的声望，最有力的手段莫过于一味地赞美他、过分地颂扬他。

所有爱情都是一场悲剧。

误会……是爱情的基础。

忠贞者只知道爱情琐碎的一面；不忠者才知道爱情的悲剧。

在感情生活方面忠贞，正如在智力生活方面见解始终不变——不外乎承认失败。

色欲……使人爱恋自己憎恶的一切。

人很难不对所爱的不公平。

人应该永远恋爱。因此之故，人应该永远不结婚。

婚姻的适当基础是互相误会。

婚姻生活只是一个习惯，一个坏习惯。

婚姻多么能毁掉男人！它跟香烟一样令人丧志，而价格贵得多。

已婚男人的幸福……取决于他没有娶的那些人。

婚姻只有一个魅力，那就是它让双方完全必要地过上哄骗的生活。

任何看似幸福婚姻的东西，现在都会引来世界的深深怀疑。

一个丈夫如今在公共场合对妻子注目是最危险的。旁人看了，总会认为这丈夫在夫妇独处的时候殴打妻子。

这年头所有人妒忌所有人，当然，无人妒忌夫妻。

谈二十年恋爱，女人看上去会像一座废墟；结二十年婚，她会变成公共建筑一类的东西。

姑娘从来不跟调情的对象结婚。姑娘觉得这样不对。

男人结婚是因为疲倦；女人是因为好奇。两者都感到失望。

男人太早懂得生活……女人太晚懂得生活。这是男女的区别。

女人只有一个改造男人的办法：令他彻底厌倦，以至他对生活完全失去兴趣。

男人一旦爱过一个女人，就会为她做任何事，但继续爱她除外。

男人跟任何女人在一起都能够快乐，只要是他不爱的女人。

男人总想做女人的初恋。那是他们笨拙的虚荣……女人对事物有较为精细的本能。（她们）喜欢的是做男人的最后一段罗曼史。

女人的生活中只有一个真正的悲剧：过去永远是她的爱人，而她的将来一成不变的是她的丈夫。

男女之间没有友谊。有激情、敌意、崇拜、爱，但没有友谊。

女人对事物有一种奇妙的本能。她们能发现一切，偏偏看不到最明显的。

人永远不该信任说出自己真实年龄的女人。连这个都说的女人，是无所不言的。

藏起面孔的女人总是要么奇丑，要么极美。

如果女人想控制一个男人，只需勾起他最坏的本性。

我旅行必带日记。坐火车，手上永远应该有一本耸动视听的读物。

假如我们不怕有人捡，我们会丢掉的东西有很多。

人何以落得身败名裂？毁灭何以有这样的魅力？

人需要不幸才能幸福地生活。

要活得幸福，你必须知道人生的某些不幸福。

世界上幸福的人有他们的价值，但仅仅是反衬作用的负值。他们令不幸福者的美感和魅力格外突出。

火烧而不毁的，益加坚固。

苦难和苦难的共同体使人们善良。

虽然打算成为更好的人是种没有科学根据的空谈，但曾经受苦的人确实独具优势，可以变成更有深度的人。

哀愁是无与伦比的真实。有些时候，我觉得哀愁是唯一的真实。

一切放纵，与一切克制相同，都会自食其果。

过度会带来无与伦比的成功。

形式上纯粹的现代性总是带有庸俗的倾向。

没什么比做得太现代更危险：它容易一下子就过时。

电话的价值，在于两人要说的话的价值。

只有一样东西始终叫我迷恋不已：情绪的奥秘。做这些情绪的主人是美妙的，凭它们做主又更加妙不可言。

你们这些标榜自己始终如一的人，跟别人会有一样多的情绪。仅有的差别在于你们的情绪没什么意义。

没有一种情绪是人不能感同身受的，没有一种暮气沉沉的生活是不能重焕朝气的。

道德只是我们对自己反感的人作出的姿态。

道德属于无稽之谈，因为心灵的健康没有通用法则；它是全然个人的，因人而异。

现代道德无非是接受生当其时的标准。我认为，任何有教养的人接受生当其时的标准，都是一种最重大的不道德行径。

举止风度比道德准则重要。

道德教训再明显不过。

我遇到的满腔道德感的人，没有一个不是硬心肠、冷酷、报复心重、愚蠢不堪、缺乏丝毫人情味的。所谓道德人士，是些简单的禽兽。

音乐这门艺术……最完全地实现了艺术的观念，它处于其他一切艺术时时在追求的境界。

音乐……给人开创了一个先前自己不知晓的过去，使人内心充满流泪时未曾体会的各种哀愁。

如果你弹奏出优美的音乐，人们会充耳不闻，如果你弹奏出糟糕的音乐，人们会一言不发。

我偏爱瓦格纳的音乐胜过别人的。它大吵大闹，由始至终你都可以谈话，又不会被人听见说了什么。

音乐界的人蛮不讲理。他们总是偏偏在你渴望完全耳聋的时候，希望你哑口无声。

天地万物并不属于我们；我们怎样领受的，就该怎样留给子孙。

至少在我而言，自然之中有治愈的力量。

我们全都对自然审视太多，与她共生太少。

假如自然令人舒适，人类就永远不会发明建筑。

自然令一切不会常驻，它永远在自我循环，好让造化的一切都不消失。

自然总是落后于时代。

每当我们回归于生活和自然，我们的作品总会变得粗俗、平庸、无趣。

只有两种人真正有魅力——无所不知的，和一无所知的。

我当然剽窃。这是赏识者的特权。

缺乏想象力的人方才杜撰。真艺术家的标志，就在于他把东西据为己有的手法，而他把一切都据为己有。

一出戏里的每一个词都既有智力上的也有音韵上的价值，它得传达出某种情感。

我从不给任何人写戏。我写戏是自娱自乐。过后，如果有人想演它，我有时会予以准许。

你可以用两种方式不欣赏我的话剧：要么统统不欣赏，要么欣赏《不可儿戏》[8]。

愉悦是大自然的测验，是她表达赞许的信号。人觉得开心，就是他跟自己和环境都和谐共处的时候。

没有文明人会去懊悔一次享受，粗鄙者从来不知享受为何物。

我钟爱简单的享受。它们是复杂之人最后的避难所。

一支烟就是一次完美享受的完美体现。它精致，又叫人意犹未尽，还奢求什么呢？

我没有一刻后悔过自己为了享受而活。我这样生活做到了极致，因为每个人都应该把自己做的事做到极致。我体验过的享受无所不有。

我喜欢人多于原则，我喜欢没有原则的人多于世上的一切。

我不喜欢原则……我宁可要偏见。

驱动时代的是人物，不是原则。

我纳闷是谁把人定义为理性动物。这是古往今来最不成熟的定义了。人是什么，一言难尽，但人并不理性。

我很想把人定义为理性动物——这种理性动物一到需要依照理性的指令行事时就发脾气。

期望别人和自己一样出色是不公平的。

只有乏味的人会在早餐时才华横溢。

[1] 《圣经•创世记》中，罗得的妻子未遵从天使的告诫，回望了自己所逃出的罪恶之城，化作盐柱。（说明：书中脚注均为译者注。）

[2] 外郡原文是provinces，指伦敦地区以外的各郡，一般认为外郡的人不如首都的人那么练达。

[3] 原文“democracy means simply the bludgeoning of the people by the people for the people”套用美国总统林肯葛底斯堡演说的名言“民有，民治，民享”（of the people, by the people, for the people）而去掉了其中的逗号铸成新意，有特殊的幽默感。

[4] 犬儒主义（Cynicism）是古希腊的一个哲学流派，英文中大写的Cynic译为“犬儒”。在近现代，小写的cynicism则泛称这样一种人生态度：不相信世间有超越自私自利之心的高贵品质。它近乎“理想主义”的反义词。

[5] 与基督教的概念“原罪”相对。

[6] 天主教中有七美德，是相对于七宗罪而提出的。“致命的”（deadly）原是七宗罪，挪用来形容“七美德”有揶揄之意。

[7] “实话照说”的原文“call a spade a spade”是一句古老的俗语，字面意义即“把铁锹叫成铁锹”。

[8] 原文剧名用简称Earnest，全称为The Importance of Being Earnest。

Only Dull People are Brilliant at Breakfast

To know nothing about their great men is one of the necessary elements of English education.

We spend our days, each one of us, in looking for the secret of life. Well, the secret of life is in art.

The supreme object of life is to live. Few people live. It is true life only to realize one’s own perfection, to make one’s every dream a reality.

To me the life of the businessman who eats his breakfast early in the morning, catches a train for the city, stays there in the dingy, dusty atmosphere of the commercial world, and goes back to his house in the evening, and after supper to sleep, is worse than the life of the galley slave – his chains are golden instead of iron.

Bad art is a great deal worse than no art at all.

. . . nothing is worth doing except what the world says is impossible.

To make a good salad is to be a brilliant diplomatist –the problem is entirely the same in both cases. To know exactly how much oil one must put with one’s vinegar.

Life is much too important a thing ever to talk seriously about it.

There is always more brass than brains in an aristocracy.

Good kings are the only dangerous enemies that modern democracy has.

I have always been of the opinion that consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative . . .

. . . the British cook is a foolish woman, who should be turned, for her iniquities, into a pillar of that salt which she never knows how to use.

Of Shakespeare it may be said he was the first to see the dramatic value of doublets, and that a climax may depend on a crinoline.

. . . the stage is not merely the meeting- place of all the arts, but is also the return of art to life.

The true dramatist . . . shows us life under the conditions of art, not art in the form of life.

. . . our ordinary English novelists . . . fail . . . in concentration of style. Their characters are far too eloquent and talk themselves to tatters. What we want is a little more reality and a little less rhetoric . . . we wish that they would talk less and think more.

They lead us through a barren desert of verbiage to a mirage that they call life: we wander aimlessly through a very wilderness of words in search of one touch of nature. However, one should not be too severe on English novels; they are the only relaxation of the intellectually unemployed.

A poet can survive everything but a misprint.

. . . a poet without hysterics is rare.

There is no such thing as a stupid American. Many Americans are horrid, vulgar, intrusive and impertinent, just as many English people are also; but stupidity is not one of the national vices. Indeed, in America there is no opening for a fool. They expect brains even from a boot- black, and get them.

As for marriage, it is one of their most popular institutions. The American man marries early, and the American woman marries often; and they get on extremely well together.

America has never quite forgiven Europe for having been discovered somewhat earlier in history than itself.

. . . it would be a very good thing if people were taught how to speak. Language is the noblest instrument we have, either for the revealing or the concealing of thought; talk itself is a sort of spiritualized action; and conversation is one of the loveliest of the arts.

The only form of fiction in which real characters do not seem out of place is history.

Early in life she had discovered the important truth that nothing looks so like innocence as an indiscretion; and by a series of reckless escapades, half of them quite harmless, she had acquired all the privileges of a personality. She had more than once changed her husband; indeed, Debrett credits her with three marriages; but as she had never changed her lover, the world had long ago ceased to talk scandal about her.

Unless one is wealthy there is no use in being a charming fellow. Romance is the privilege of the rich, not the profession of the unemployed. The poor should be practical and prosaic. It is better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating.

Nobody, even in the provinces, should ever be allowed to ask an intelligent question about pure mathematics across a dinner table. A question of this kind is quite as bad as inquiring suddenly about the state of a man’s soul . . .

But what is the good of friendship if one cannot say exactly what one means? Anybody can say charming things and try to please and to flatter, but a true friend always says unpleasant things, and does not mind giving pain. Indeed, if he is a really true friend he prefers it, for he knows that then he is doing good.

The only thing that sustains one through life is the consciousness of the immense inferiority of everybody else, and this is a feeling that I have always cultivated.

I am so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a single word of what I am saying.

I have always been of opinion that hard work is simply the refuge of people who have nothing whatever to do. All that is known by that term [fin de siècle ] I particularly admire and love. It is the fine flower of our civilization: the only thing that keeps the world from the commonplace, the coarse, the barbarous.

Flaubert did not write French prose, but the prose of a great artist who happened to be French.

I was thinking in bed this morning that the great superiority of France over England is that in France every bourgeois wants to be an artist, whereas in England every artist wants to be a bourgeois.

Prayer must never be answered: if it is, it ceases to be prayer and becomes correspondence.

I have made an important discovery . . . that alcohol, taken in sufficient quantities, produces all the effects of intoxication.

Missionaries, my dear! Don’t you realize that missionaries are the divinely provided food for destitute and underfed cannibals? Whenever they are on the brink of starvation, Heaven in its infinite mercy sends them a nice plump missionary.

Philosophy teaches us to bear with equanimity the misfortunes of others.

My own experience is that the more we study Art, the less we care for Nature . . . Art is our spirited protest, our gallant attempt to teach Nature her proper place.

Thinking is the most unhealthy thing in the world, and people die of it just as they die of any other disease. Fortunately, in England at any rate, thought is not catching.

In literature we require distinction, charm, beauty and imaginative power. We don’t want to be harrowed and disgusted with an account of the doings of the lower orders.

I quite admit that modern novels have many good points. All I insist on is that, as a class, they are quite unreadable.

Art itself is really a form of exaggeration; and selection, which is the very spirit of art, is nothing more than an intensified mode of over- emphasis.

Facts are not merely finding a footing- place in history, but they are usurping the domain of Fancy, and have invaded the kingdom of Romance. Their chilling touch is over everything. They are vulgarizing mankind.

Society sooner or later must return to its lost leader, the cultured and fascinating liar.

Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life . . . Life holds the mirror up to Art, and either reproduces some strange type imagined by painter or sculptor, or realizes in fact what has been dreamed in fiction.

. . . imitation can be made the sincerest form of insult.

Yesterday evening Mrs Arundel insisted on my going to the window, and looking at the glorious sky, as she called it. Of course I had to look at it. She is one of those absurdly pretty Philistines to whom one can deny nothing. And what was it? It was simply a very second- rate Turner, a Turner of a bad period, with all the painter’s worst faults exaggerated and over- emphasized.

The more abstract, the more ideal an art is, the more it reveals to us the temper of its age. If we wish to understand a nation by means of its art, let us look at its architecture or its music.

The fact is that we look back on the ages entirely through the medium of art, and art, very fortunately, has never once told us the truth.

To become a work of art is the object of living.

The English are always degrading truths into facts. When a truth becomes a fact it loses all its intellectual value.

There is a great deal to be said in favour of reading a novel backwards. The last page is as a rule the most interesting, and when one begins with the catastrophe or the dénouement one feels on pleasant terms of equality with the author. It is like going behind the scenes of a theatre. One is no longer taken in, and the hair- breadth escapes of the hero and the wild agonies of the heroine leave one absolutely unmoved. One knows the jealously guarded secret, and one can afford to smile at the quite unnecessary anxiety that the puppets of fiction always consider it their duty to display.

All charming people, I fancy, are spoiled. It is the secret of their attraction.

It is always a silly thing to give advice, but to give good advice is absolutely fatal. I hope you will never fall into that error. If you do, you will be sorry for it.

You forget that a thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it.

Art, even the art of fullest scope and widest vision, can never really show us the external world. All that it shows us is our own soul, the one world of which we have any real cognizance . . . It is Art, and Art only, that reveals us to ourselves.

A critic should be taught to criticize a work of art without making any reference to the personality of the author. This, in fact, is the beginning of criticism.

Every great man nowadays has his disciples, and it is always Judas who writes the biography.

Learned conversation is either the affectation of the ignorant or the profession of the mentally unemployed.

Education is an admirable thing. But it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.

Anybody can write a three- volume novel. It merely requires a complete ignorance of both life and literature.

Anybody can make history. Only a great man can write it.

It is sometimes said that the tragedy of an artist’s life is that he cannot realize his ideal. But the true tragedy that dogs the steps of most artists is that they realize their ideal too absolutely. For, when the ideal is realized, it is robbed of its wonder and its mystery, and becomes simply a new starting- point for an ideal that is other than itself. This is the reason why music is the perfect type of art.

Conversation should touch everything, but should concentrate itself on nothing.

. . . life is terribly deficient in form. Its catastrophes happen in the wrong way and to the wrong people. There is a grotesque horror about its comedies, and its tragedies seem to culminate in farce. One is always wounded when one approaches it. Things last either too long or not long enough.

. . . all the arts are immoral, except those baser forms of sensual or didactic art that seek to excite to action of evil or of good. For action of every kind belongs to the sphere of ethics. The aim of art is simply to create a mood.

There is no country in the world so much in need of unpractical people as this country of ours. With us, Thought is degraded by its constant association with practice . . . We live in the age of the overworked, and the under- educated; the age in which people are so industrious that they become absolutely stupid.

The sure way of knowing nothing about life is to try to make oneself useful.

It is so easy for people to have sympathy with suffering. It is so difficult for them to have sympathy with thought.

An idea that is not dangerous is unworthy of being called an idea at all.

Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.

For what is Truth? In matters of religion, it is simply the opinion that has survived. In matters of science, it is the ultimate sensation. In matters of art, it is one’s last mood.

There are two ways of disliking art . . . One is to dislike it. The other, to like it rationally.

A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal.

Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.

Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.

All art is at once surface and symbol.

Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.

Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.

It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.

When critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself.

We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.

Experience was of no ethical value. It was merely the name men gave to their mistakes.

There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love.

There is a luxury in self- reproach. When we blame ourselves we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution.

Is insincerity such a terrible thing? I think not. It is merely a method by which we can multiply our personalities.

With the abolition of private property, then, we shall have true, beautiful, healthy Individualism. Nobody will waste his life in accumulating things, and the symbols for things. One will live. To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.

There is only one class in the community that thinks more about money than the rich, and that is the poor. The poor can think of nothing else. That is the misery of being poor.

High hopes were once formed of democracy; but democracy means simply the bludgeoning of the people by the people for the people.

The fact is, that civilization requires slaves. The Greeks were quite right there. Unless there are slaves to do the ugly, horrible, uninteresting work, culture and contemplation become almost impossible. Human slavery is wrong, insecure and demoralizing. On mechanical slavery, on the slavery of the machine, the future of the world depends.

A work of art is the unique result of a unique temperament . . . the moment that an artist takes notice of what other people want, and tries to supply the demand, he ceases to be an artist, and becomes a dull or an amusing craftsman, an honest or a dishonest tradesman.

Now Art should never try to be popular. The public should try to make itself artistic.

In England, the arts that have escaped best are the arts in which the public take no interest. Poetry is an instance of what I mean. We have been able to have fine poetry in England because the public do not read it, and consequently do not influence it.

In the old days men had the rack. Now they have the Press.

In England, Journalism, except in a few wellknown instances, not having been carried to such excesses of brutality, is still a great factor, a really remarkable power. The tyranny that it proposes to exercise over people’s private lives seems to me to be quite extraordinary. The fact is that the public have an insatiable curiosity to know everything, except what is worth knowing. Journalism, conscious of this, and having tradesman- like habits, supplies their demands. In centuries before ours the public nailed the ears of journalists to the pump. That was quite hideous. In this century journalists have nailed their own ears to the keyhole. That is much worse.

Anybody can sympathize with the sufferings of a friend, but it requires a very fine nature – it requires, in fact, that nature of a true Individualist – to sympathize with a friend’s success.

Work is the curse of the drinking classes of this country.

Public opinion exists only where there are no ideas.

A subject that is beautiful in itself gives no suggestion to the artist. It lacks imperfection.

Art is the only serious thing in the world. And the artist is the only person who is never serious.

The only thing that can console one for being poor is extravagance. The only thing that can console one for being rich is economy.

One should never listen. To listen is a sign of indifference to one’s hearers.

The first duty in life is to be as artificial as possible. What the second duty is no one has as yet discovered.

Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others.

Those who see any difference between soul and body have neither.

A really well- made buttonhole is the only link between Art and Nature.

Religions die when they are proved to be true. Science is the record of dead religions.

The well- bred contradict other people. The wise contradict themselves.

Nothing that actually occurs is of the smallest importance.

Dullness is the coming of age of seriousness.

In all unimportant matters, style, not sincerity, is the essential. In all important matters, style, not sincerity, is the essential.

If one tells the truth, one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out.

Pleasure is the only thing one should live for. Nothing ages like happiness.

No crime is vulgar, but all vulgarity is crime. Vulgarity is the conduct of others.

Only the shallow know themselves.

Time is waste of money.

One should always be a little improbable.

There is a fatality about all good resolutions. They are invariably made too soon.

The only way to atone for being occasionally a little over- dressed is by being always absolutely overeducated.

Any preoccupation with ideas of what is right or wrong in conduct shows an arrested intellectual development.

Ambition is the last refuge of the failure.

One should either be a work of art, or wear a work of art.

It is only the superficial qualities that last. Man’s deeper nature is soon found out.

Industry is the root of all ugliness.

The ages live in history through their anachronisms.

The old believe everything: the middle- aged suspect everything: the young know everything.

The condition of perfection is idleness: the aim of perfection is youth.

Only the great masters of style ever succeed in being obscure.

To love oneself is the beginning of a life- long romance.

Oh, it is indeed a burning shame that there would be one law for men and another law for women. I think that there should be no law for anybody.

After the first glass, you see things as you wish they were. After the second, you see things as they are not. Finally you see things as they really are, and that is the most horrible thing in the world. (On absinthe)

My existence is a scandal.

It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an inarticulate manner that they hurt one by their crude violence, their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of style.

Ultimately the bond of all companionship, whether in marriage or in friendship, is conversation . . .

Sins of the flesh are nothing. They are maladies for physicians to cure, if they should be cured. Sins of the soul alone are shameful.

The aim of love is to love: no more, and no less.

To regret one’s own experiences is to arrest one’s own development. To deny one’s own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one’s own life. It is no less than a denial of the soul.

What the artist is always looking for is the mode of existence in which soul and body are one and indivisible: in which the outward is expressive of the inward: in which form reveals.

Now it seems to me that love of some kind is the only possible explanation of the extraordinary amount of suffering that there is in the world.

Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.

Every single work of art is the fulfilment of a prophecy: for every work of art is the conversion of an idea into an image.

. . . all great ideas are dangerous.

Art only begins where Imitation ends . . .

All bad art is the result of good intentions.

By nature and by choice, I am extremely indolent.

I never put off till tomorrow what I can possibly do – the day after.

I am one of those who are made for exceptions, not for laws.

Praise makes me humble, but when I am abused I know I have touched the stars.

Where will it all end? Half the world does not believe in God, and the other half does not believe in me.

If I were all alone, marooned on some desert island and had my things with me, I should dress for dinner every evening.

I have the simplest tastes. I am always satisfied with the best.

A patriot put in prison for loving his country loves his country, and a poet in prison for loving boys loves boys. To have altered my life would have been to have admitted that Uranian love is ignoble. I hold it to be noble, more noble than other forms.

I entered prison with a heart of stone, thinking only of my pleasure, but now my heart has been broken; pity has entered my heart; I now understand that pity is the greatest and the most beautiful thing that there is in the world. And that’s why I can’t be angry with those who condemned me, nor with anyone, because then I would not have known all that.

I am not a scrap ashamed of having been in prison. I am horribly ashamed of the materialism of the life that brought me there. It was quite unworthy of an artist.

I love acting. It is so much more real than life.

As soon as people are old enough to know better, they don’t know anything at all.

The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young.

To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable.

One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing.

Self- sacrifice is a thing that should be put down by law. It is so demoralizing to the people for whom one sacrifices oneself.

English people are far more interested in American barbarism than they are in American civilization.

Every right article of apparel belongs equally to both sexes, and there is absolutely no such thing as a definitely feminine garment.

It is really only the idle classes who dress badly. Wherever physical labour of any kind is required, the costume used is, as a rule, absolutely right, for labour necessitates freedom, and without freedom there is no such thing as beauty in dress at all.

With an evening coat and a white tie, anybody, even a stock- broker, can gain a reputation for being civilized.

It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances.

Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know.

Perhaps one never seems so much at one’s ease as when one has to play a part.

I think a man should invent his own myth.

All art is quite useless.

No great artist ever sees things as they really are. If he did, he would cease to be an artist.

The desire for beauty is merely a heightened form of the desire for life.

Extravagance is the luxury of the poor, penury the luxury of the rich.

We are often told that the poor are grateful for charity. Some of them are, no doubt, but the best amongst the poor are never grateful. They are ungrateful, discontented, disobedient, and rebellious. They are quite right to be so.

To recommend thrift to the poor is both grotesque and insulting. It is like advising a man who is starving to eat less.

Why should they [the poor] be grateful for the crumbs that fall from the rich man’s table? They should be seated at the board, and are beginning to know it.

The real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but self- denial. Beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilege of the rich.

A grande passion is the privilege of people who have nothing to do. That is the one use of the idle classes of a country.

The inherited stupidity of the race – sound English common sense.

Anybody can have common sense, provided that they have no imagination.

I love superstitions. They are the colour element of thought and imagination. They are the opponents of common sense.

Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover, when it is too late, that the only thing one never regrets are one’s mistakes.

Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live, it is asking others to live as one wishes to live.

Conversation is one of the loveliest of the arts.

Recreation, not instruction, is the aim of conversation.

The maxim ‘If you find the company dull, blame yourself’ seems to us somewhat optimistic.

In the case of meeting a genius and a duke at dinner, the good talker will try to raise himself to the level of the former and to bring the latter down to his own level. To succeed among one’s social superiors one must have no hesitation in contradicting them.

A man who can dominate a London dinner table can dominate the world.

I adore them [London dinner parties]. The clever people never listen, and the stupid people never talk.

It is only the intellectually lost who ever argue.

To believe is very dull. To doubt is intensely engrossing. To be on the alert is to live, to be lulled into security is to die.

I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd attitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air our moral prejudices.

The things one feels absolutely certain about are never true. That is the fatality of Faith, and the lesson of Romance.

No man dies for what he knows to be true. Men die for what they want to be true, for what some terror in their hearts tells them is not true.

Murder is always a mistake. One should never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner.

Starvation, and not sin, is the parent of modern crime.

A community is infinitely more brutalized by the habitual employment of punishment, than it is by the occasional occurrence of crime.

Prison life makes one see people and things as they really are. That is why it turns one to stone. It is the people outside who are deceived by the illusion of a life in constant motion.

To those who are in prison, tears are a part of every day’s experience. A day in prison on which one does not weep is a day on which one’s heart is hard, not a day on which one’s heart is happy.

The most terrible thing about it [imprisonment] is not that it breaks one’s heart – hearts are made to be broken – but that it turns one’s heart to stone.

It is exactly because a man cannot do a thing that he is the proper judge of it.

The one advantage of playing with fire . . . is that one never even gets singed. It is the people who don’t know how to play with it who get burned up.

What is a cynic? A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.

The sentimentalist is always a cynic at heart. Indeed sentimentality is merely the bank holiday of cynicism.

A sentimentalist is simply a man who desires to have the luxury of an emotion without paying for it.

He is a typical Englishman, always dull and usually violent.

Like all people who try to exhaust a subject, he exhausted his listeners.

She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do. It is the secret of their charm.

She tried to look picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy.

[She] talks more and says less than anybody I ever met. She is made to be a public speaker.

A dowdy dull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces, that, once seen, are never remembered.

Discontent is the first step in the progress of a man or a nation.

Disobedience, in the eyes of anyone who has read history, is man’s original virtue. It is through disobedience that progress has been made, through disobedience and through rebellion.

In art, as in politics, there is but one origin for all revolutions, a desire on the part of man for a nobler form of life, for a freer method and opportunity of expression.

It is the first duty of a gentleman to dream.

A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.

Society often forgives the criminal; it never forgives the dreamer.

The one person who has more illusions than the dreamer is the man of action.

My duty to myself is to amuse myself terrifically.

People never think of cultivating a young girl’s imagination. It is the great defect of modern education.

We teach people how to remember, we never teach them how to grow.

In the summer term Oxford teaches the exquisite art of idleness, one of the most important things that any University can teach.

The secret of life is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming.

It is only shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion. A man who is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure.

Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our England what she is.

The English public always feels perfectly at its ease when a mediocrity is talking to it.

A family is a terrible encumbrance, especially when one is not married.

Fashion is merely a form of ugliness so unbearable that we are compelled to alter it every six months.

An acquaintance that begins with a compliment is sure to develop into a real friendship. It starts in the right manner.

Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far the best ending for one.

I always like to know everything about my new friends, and nothing about my old ones.

Formal courtesies will strain a close friendship.

Children begin by loving their parents. After a time they judge them. Rarely, if ever, do they forgive them.

This grey, monstrous London of ours, with its myriads of people, its sordid sinners, and its splendid sins.

I don’t like Switzerland: it has produced nothing but theologians and waiters.

There is this to be said in favour of the despot, that he, being an individual, may have culture, while the mob, being a monster, has none.

History never repeats itself. The historians repeat each other.

The one duty we owe to history is to re- write it.

The reason we all like to think so well of others is that we are all afraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism is sheer terror.

Laughter is the primeval attitude towards life – a mode of approach that survives only in artists and criminals.

To do nothing at all is the most difficult thing in the world, the most difficult and the most intellectual.

The aim of life is self- development. To realize one’s nature perfectly – that is what each of us is here for.

One can live for years sometimes without living at all, and then all life comes crowding into one single hour.

We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible.

Don’t tell me that you have exhausted life. When a man says that one knows that life has exhausted him.

To become the spectator of one’s own life is to escape the suffering of life.

Life cheats us with shadows. We ask it for pleasure. It gives it to us, with bitterness and disappointment in its train.

Literature always anticipates life. It does not copy it, but moulds it to its purpose. The nineteenth century, as we know it, is largely an invention of Balzac.

I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one.

Are there not books that can make us live more in one single hour than life can make us live in a score of shameful years?

To introduce real people into a novel or a play is a sign of an unimaginative mind, a coarse, untutored observation, and an entire absence of style.

The books that the world calls immoral books are books that show the world its own shame.

No one survives being over- estimated, nor is there any surer way of destroying an author’s reputation than to glorify him without judgement and to praise him without tact.

All love is a tragedy.

Misunderstanding . . . is the basis of love.

Those who are faithful know only the trivial side of love: it is the faithless who know love’s tragedies.

Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of the intellect – simply a confession of failure.

Lust . . . makes one love all that one loathes.

It is difficult not to be unjust to what one loves.

One should always be in love. That is the reason one should never marry.

The proper basis for marriage is a mutual misunderstanding.

Married life is merely a habit, a bad habit.

How marriage ruins a man! It’s as demoralizing as cigarettes, and far more expensive.

The happiness of a married man . . . depends on the people he has not married.

The one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties.

The world has grown so suspicious of anything that looks like a happy married life.

It’s most dangerous nowadays for a husband to pay attention to his wife in public. It always makes people think he beats her when they are alone.

Nowadays everybody is jealous of everyone else, except, of course, husband and wife.

Twenty years of romance make a woman look like a ruin; but twenty years of marriage make her something like a public building.

Girls never marry the men they flirt with. Girls don’t think it right.

Men marry because they are tired; women because they are curious. Both are disappointed.

Men know life too early . . . Women know life too late. That is the difference between men and women.

The only way a woman can ever reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible interest in life.

When a man has once loved a woman, he will do anything for her, except continue to love her.

A man can be happy with any woman, as long as he does not love her.

Men always want to be a woman’s first love. That is their clumsy vanity . . . Women have a more subtle instinct about things. What [they] like is to be a man’s last romance.

There is only one real tragedy in a woman’s life. The fact that the past is always her lover, and her future invariably her husband.

Between men and women there is no friendship possible. There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship.

Women have a wonderful instinct about things. They can discover everything except the obvious.

One should never trust a woman who tells one her real age. A woman who would tell one that, would tell one anything.

It is only very ugly or very beautiful women who ever hide their faces.

If a woman wants to hold a man she has merely to appeal to what is worst in him.

I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.

There are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might pick them up.

Why is it that one runs to one’s ruin? Why has destruction such a fascination?

One needs misfortunes to live happily.

To live in happiness, you must know some unhappiness in life.

The happy people of the world have their value, but only the negative value of foils. They throw up and emphasize the beauty and the fascination of the unhappy.

What fire does not destroy, it hardens.

Suffering and the community of suffering makes people kind.

While to propose to be a better man is a piece of unscientific cant, to have become a deeper man is the privilege of those who have suffered.

There is no truth comparable to Sorrow. There are times when Sorrow seems to me to be the only truth.

All excess, as well as all renunciation, brings its own punishment.

Nothing succeeds like excess.

Pure modernity of form is always somewhat vulgarizing.

Nothing is so dangerous as being too modern; one is apt to grow old- fashioned quite suddenly.

The value of the telephone is the value of what two people have to say.

Only one thing remains infinitely fascinating to me, the mystery of moods. To be master of these moods is exquisite, to be mastered by them more exquisite still.

You people who go in for being consistent have just as many moods as others have. The only difference is that your moods are rather meaningless.

There must be no mood with which one cannot sympathize, no dead mode of life that one cannot make alive.

Morality is simply the attitude we adopt towards people whom we personally dislike.

There is no such thing as morality, for there is no general rule of spiritual health; it is all personal, individual.

Modern morality consists in accepting the standard of one’s age. I consider that for any man of culture to accept the standard of his age is a form of the grossest immorality.

Manners are of more importance than morals.

The moral is too obvious.

I never came across anyone in whom the moral sense was dominant who was not heartless, cruel, vindictive, log- stupid, and entirely lacking in the smallest sense of humanity. Moral people, as they are termed, are simple beasts.

Music is the art . . . which most completely realizes the artistic idea, and is the condition to which all the other arts are constantly aspiring.

Music . . . creates for one a past of which one has been ignorant, and fills one with a sense of sorrows that have been hidden from one’s tears.

If one plays good music, people don’t listen, and if one plays bad music, people don’t talk.

I like Wagner’s music better than anybody’s. It is so loud that one can talk the whole time without people hearing what one says.

Musical people are so absurdly unreasonable. They always want one to be perfectly dumb at the very moment when one is longing to be absolutely deaf.

The things of nature do not really belong to us; we should leave them to our children as we have received them.

In nature there is, for me at any rate, healing power.

We all look at Nature too much, and live with her too little.

If Nature had been comfortable, mankind would never have invented architecture.

Nature, which makes nothing durable, always repeats itself so that nothing which it makes may be lost.

Nature is always behind the age.

Whenever we have returned to Life and Nature, our work has always become vulgar, common, and uninteresting.

There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating – people who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing.

Of course I plagiarize. It is the privilege of the appreciative man.

It is only the unimaginative who ever invent. The true artist is known by the use he makes of what he annexes, and he annexes everything.

Every word in a play has a musical as well as an intellectual value, and must be made expressive of a certain emotion.

I never write plays for anyone. I write plays to amuse myself. After, if people want to act in them, I sometimes allow them to do so.

There are two ways of disliking my plays. One is to dislike them, the other is to like Earnest.

Pleasure is Nature’s test, her sign of approval. When man is happy he is in harmony with himself and his environment.

No civilized man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilized man ever knows what a pleasure is.

I adore simple pleasures. They are the last refuge of the complex.

A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want?

I don’t regret for a single moment having lived for pleasure. I did it to the full, as one should do everything that one does to the full. There was no pleasure I did not experience.

I like persons better than principles, and I like persons with no principles better than anything else in the world.

I don’t like principles . . . I prefer prejudices.

It is personalities, not principles, that move the age.

I wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational.

One is tempted to define man as a rational animal who always loses his temper when he is called upon to act in accordance with the dictates of reason.

It would be unfair to expect other people to be as remarkable as oneself.

让我们遇见在。。

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蛇蝎美人

企鹅经典：小黑书 第二辑

[法] 莫泊桑/著

李玉民/译

目录

封面

书名页

版权页

品牌页

中文内容

雄鸡报晓

蛇蝎美人

奥托父子

公墓妓女

英文内容

Cockcrow

Femme Fatale

Hautot ＆ Son

Laid to Rest

关注企鹅兰登北亚

继续阅读

蛇蝎美人

企鹅经典：小黑书 第二辑

[法] 莫泊桑/著

李玉民/译

企鹅图书 | PENGUIN BOOKS

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Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at:
global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

This translation published by arrangement with Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.
Magic Tree House® is a registered trademark of Mary Pope Osborne, used under license.

Simplified Chinese edition copyright © 2018 by Penguin Random House North Asia
in association with Xiron Publishing Company Ltd. and Zhejiang Education Publishing House
All rights reserved.

© “企鹅”及其相关标识是企鹅兰登（北京）文化发展有限公司已经注册或尚未注册的商标。
未经允许，不得擅用。

企鹅兰登电子书 | Penguin Random House eBooks

电子书监制：邵明鉴

数字发行：邵明鉴

选题策划：赵轩 | 白姗

* 此中文译本译自法语原文

* 书名翻译说明：

法语原篇名为《保罗的女人》，此标题为了与英文版本标题相对应而单独修改。书中其他内容皆由法语原文翻译而成。

正文目录

雄鸡报晓

蛇蝎美人

奥托父子

公墓妓女

Cockcrow

Femme Fatale

Hautot ＆ Son

Laid to Rest

雄鸡报晓

献给勒内·比约特

此前，贝尔特·德·阿旺塞勒夫人始终拒绝狂追她的约瑟夫·德·克罗瓦萨尔男爵的苦苦恳求。整个冬季在巴黎，男爵就紧追不舍，现在回到他在诺曼底的卡维尔城堡，又频频为她举办宴请聚会和出游打猎活动。

她丈夫德·阿旺塞勒先生还一如既往，对此一无所见，也一无所知。据说，他因身体衰弱，已同妻子分居。这在他夫人看来，是不可饶恕的。这个男人是个矮胖子，秃了顶，胳膊腿短，脖颈鼻子也短，全身无不奇短。

德·阿旺塞勒夫人则相反，是位高挑身材、棕发的少妇，她行事果断，冲她的先生咯咯大笑，声音洪亮，还当众称他“管家婆”。而她投向公开的追求者——约瑟夫·德·克罗瓦萨尔的目光，却含情脉脉，欣赏他那宽阔的肩膀、硕壮的颈项和长长金黄的胡须。

不过，她还什么都没有应承。男爵不惜为她倾家荡产，接二连三，不断组织晚会、打猎、各种新式娱乐活动，邀请周围一带城堡的贵族。

整个白天，大群猎犬在树林中飞奔，狂吠着追逐狐狸和野猪。而每天夜晚，烟火令人眼花缭乱，腾空的羽饰花焰，与星光交相辉映。客厅窗户灯火通明，一条条光带投向宽阔的草坪，只见人影幢幢。

入秋时节，万物一片橙黄色。落叶宛如一群群鸟雀，在草地上飞旋。空气中弥漫着卸下衣装的土地潮湿的气味，就像舞会散场之后，一位女子脱掉长裙，露出肌肤的气味。

就在今年春天，一次晚会上，德·阿旺塞勒夫人耐不住纠缠的恳求，这样答复德·克罗瓦萨尔先生：“如果我难免失足，我的朋友，在落叶之前绝不会发生。今年夏天我没有时间，要做的事情太多了。”这种大胆的笑谈，男爵念念不忘，因而他越发坚持，日甚一日，步步进逼，认为他在这位敢作敢为的美人心中已经立足，她那推却的态度，不过是装装样子而已了。

一场大型狩猎活动举办在即。前一天晚上，贝尔特夫人笑吟吟地对男爵说道：“男爵，如果您能猎杀野兽，我给您准备了点儿东西。”

天刚拂晓，他就起身，前去侦察那头独行的野猪藏身的巢穴。他让饲养猎犬的仆人们跟随，一路亲自组织部署，确保一举成功。当出发的号角一齐吹响时，他已身穿红色带金饰的紧身猎装出现了，只见他腰身束紧，虎背宽肩，目光炯炯有神，斗志昂扬，那劲头就好像刚刚起床。

猎手们出发了。那头野猪被驱逐出来，惊慌逃窜，随后紧追着吼叫的猎犬，穿过一片片荆丛；马匹也都奔跑起来，驮着男女骑手，冲进林间小径，而随行车辆驶在松软的土路上，不声不响，远远跟着打猎的队伍。

德·阿旺塞勒夫人很狡黠，留住男爵陪伴身边，在大路上缓缓前行。笔直的大道长不见尽头，排成四列橡树，枝叶树冠交织成长长的穹顶。男爵的内心，也交织着爱恋和不安，浑身不免发颤，他一只耳朵聆听少妇嘲弄般的饶舌，另一只则追踪渐行渐远的号角之声，以及猎犬的吠鸣。

“怎么，您不爱我了吗？”少妇问道。

“何出此言，怎么会呢？”男爵回应。

“然而，您的心思，似乎更顾虑打猎，而不是放在我身上。”少妇接着说道。

“还不是您命令我，亲手猎杀那只野兽吗？”男爵哀叹道。

“不错，这事我很看重，您必须当着我的面，将其猎杀。”她又正色补充了一句。

闻听此言，男爵坐在鞍上，不由得浑身一抖，他双脚一磕。他的坐骑被马刺刺痛，蹿跳起来，他也失去了耐性：

“真见鬼！夫人，我们就待在这里，这事怎么办得到！”

少妇咯咯笑起来，抛给他一句：

“真的，这可必须办到……否则的话……倒霉的是您。”

随后，她对男爵说话就柔声细语了，手搭到他的胳膊上，或者，仿佛心不在焉似的，抚弄他那匹马的鬃毛。

继而，他们就拐进右侧一条杂草丛生的小路。忽然，为了躲避一根拦路的树枝，她身子朝他一斜，靠得极近，他的脖颈都感到了她那秀发的拂痒。于是，他猛地抱住她，大胡子贴到她额角，狂热地亲吻她。

在这种冲动的爱抚下，她起初一动也不动，随后，她晃了晃，头扭了一下，似偶然又似有意，她这娇小的嘴唇，遇到他那瀑布般金黄胡须下的嘴唇。这时，或因羞愧，或因后悔，她一鞭抽向马腹，马奔跑起来。他们就这样跑了许久，彼此甚至没有交换一下目光。

越跑越靠近狩猎的嘈杂声，短树林仿佛也随之颤动，突然，一头野猪闯开枝条，浑身是血冲出来，挣脱咬住不放的猎犬。男爵一见，登时发出胜利的欢声，嚷道：“爱我者，随我上！”说罢，他就冲进矮树林不见了，仿佛被树林吞没了。贝尔特夫人几分钟之后，赶到林间一片空地，这时男爵已经站起来，满身是泥，上装也撕破了，双手沾满了鲜血，而那头野猪则躺倒在地，肩头深深插进一把猎刀，只露出刀柄。

点起火把，享用猎物，夜色温和而又忧伤。月光映黄了火把的红焰，而燃烧树脂的烟雾又笼罩了夜空。猎犬吼叫，相互撕咬，争食野猪发臭的内脏。饲养猎犬的仆人和打猎的贵绅们，则围在野味四周，用足气力吹着号角。阵阵号角声传至树林清朗的夜空，在远处山谷中回荡，惊醒了惴惴不安的鹿群，惊得狐狸吱吱尖叫，也惊扰了在林间空地边缘嬉戏的一群小灰兔。惊飞的一群夜鸟，在狂欢的人群上空惶惶乱飞。这种种场面，又甜美又凶残，女士们不由得动情，微微靠着男人的手臂，已经离群踏上小径，不待猎犬用完美餐。

这一整天，又疲倦又多情，德·阿旺塞勒夫人无精打采，对男爵说道：

“我的朋友，您愿意在院子里走一走吗？”

男爵却不应声，他浑身颤抖，双腿发软，拉走了夫人。

二人一避开人群，便拥抱在一起。他们缓步走在叶子几乎落光的树木下面，月光透着枝丫照射下来。此情此景，他们的爱恋，他们的欲望，他们对彼此的渴望，已经变得极其强烈，几乎支撑不住，就地倒在一棵树脚下了。

号角声断了，猎犬都疲惫不堪，回窝睡觉去了。

“咱们回去吧。”少妇说道。于是他们往回走。

他们走到城堡主楼前时，她的声音微弱，喃喃说道：“我累极了，要去睡觉了，我的朋友。”男爵张开双臂，正要抱住她最后吻一下子，她却跑开了，仿佛告别似的丢给他一句：“不，我去睡了……爱我者，跟我来！”

一小时过后，整个城堡一片死寂，男爵蹑手蹑脚，走出卧室，走到他女友的卧室，轻轻叩门，由于她没有应声，他就实施推门：没有插上门闩。

她正俯在窗台上遐想。男爵跪倒她脚下，隔着睡袍，狂热地亲吻她的双膝，她一句话不讲，只是将她纤细的手指，爱抚一般插进男爵的头发里。她仿佛做出了重大决定，猛然脱身，一副果敢的神情，低声喃喃说了一句：“我这就回来，您等着我。”说着，她指向黑暗中，卧室里端床铺隐约白色的影子。

男爵心醉神迷，摸索着走过去，双手颤抖着脱掉衣服，钻进了新铺的床单被罩中。他躺在床上舒服极了，几乎忘记了女友，整个身子乏得不想动弹，沉浸在无比舒坦的被窝的惬意中。少妇根本就没有回来，无疑是乐得让他热切地等待。男爵闭上眼睛安享着美妙的舒适，温柔地畅想，甜美地等待梦寐以求的事情。不过，他的肢体逐渐懈怠，头脑逐渐昏沉，神思飘忽不定。他最终被强大的疲倦击垮了，沉沉睡过去了。

精疲力竭的猎手的困倦无法抵制，他睡得死死的，一直睡到拂晓。突然，栖息在附近树上的一只公鸡报晓，从半开的窗户传入响亮的鸡鸣，男爵猛地惊醒，睁开了眼睛。他感到挨着一个女人的身体，发现自己睡在他认不出来的床上，不免十分惊诧，什么也想不起来了，他刚醒就慌了神儿，讷讷问道：“怎么？我在哪儿？怎么回事儿？”

且说她通宵未眠，此刻看着这个头发蓬乱、眼睛发红、厚嘴唇的男人，她拿出对丈夫说话的那种高傲的声调，回答说：“没事儿。是一只公鸡打鸣。您接着睡吧，先生，没您的事儿。”

蛇蝎美人

蟋蟀饭店是游艇手的法伦斯泰尔[1]，顾客慢慢散去，而门前却闹哄哄的，叫嚷和呼唤声响成一片。身穿白色运动衫的高大的小伙子，肩上扛着桨，在那里指手画脚。女人则身着浅颜色的春装，她们小心翼翼地跨上游艇，坐到船尾，整理一下衣裙。游艇场老板，一个有名的大力士、蓄留棕红胡子的壮小伙子，一边用手搀扶那些漂亮的小娘们儿，一边稳住轻飘飘的小船。

桨手们也各就各位，他们光着胳臂，挺起胸脯，给长廊里围观的人摆出架势。围观的人有节日打扮的市民、工人和士兵，他们俯在桥栏杆上，聚精会神地观赏这种场景。游艇一只接着一只离开浮桥。那些划船手身子前伏，再往后仰，动作十分均匀。在打了弯的长桨的推动下，小船在河面上迅速滑行，越驶越远，越来越小，在一座铁路桥下消失不见，顺流而下驶向青蛙滩。

只有一对伴侣留了下来。男青年还未长出胡须，身材瘦溜，脸色苍白，他搂着女伴的腰肢。女孩娇小细弱，一头棕发，走路蹦蹦跳跳。二人不时相对凝注。

老板喊道：“来呀，保罗先生，你们快点儿。”

二人应声走过去。这船场的所有顾客中，保罗先生最受喜爱，最受尊敬。他出手大方，又按期结账，而其他顾客要让人揪着耳朵催好久，还可能付不出钱就再不露面了。再说，他成了这个船场的活广告，因为他父亲是参议员。如果有个外地人问道：“那个小家伙是谁呀？他把那个小浪货搂得那么紧！”就会有一位常客，郑重而神秘的样子，悄声答道：“他就是保罗·巴隆，您不知道？参议员的儿子呀。”可是，对方总要情不自禁地感叹：“可怜的家伙，他神魂颠倒了。”蟋蟀大妈为人诚实，会做生意，管这个青年及其女伴叫作“我的一对小斑鸠”，似乎非常喜爱对她饭店有利的这一对情侣。

这对情侣缓步走过去。“玛德琳号”游艇已经准备好，可是上了船，他们又搂抱在一起，惹得聚在桥上的人都笑起来。于是，保罗先生操起桨，也朝青蛙滩划去。

划到那里，将近三点钟了，水上大咖啡厅已经坐满了顾客。水上咖啡厅是一座大木排，由木柱撑着涂了柏油的棚盖，有两座小桥通往美丽的克鲁瓦西岛，其中一座直插这个水上建筑物的正中，而另一座则连着仅长一棵树而得了“花盆”绰号的小岛，从那里上岸便是浴场管理处。

保罗顺着木排把船拴住，攀过咖啡厅的栏杆，再把他情妇拉上来，二人在餐桌一端面对面坐下。

河对岸的纤道上车水马龙，普通出租车同豪华马车相混杂。前一种十分笨重，便便大腹压低了车弓，套的是一匹脖颈下垂、膝头弯曲的劣马；而另一种车轮轻巧，车身挺秀飘逸，套的马四肢修长挺拔，高扬起脖子，嚼口泛着雪似的白沫，车夫则一本正经，穿着号服，高领支着发僵的脑袋，腰板挺得直直的，鞭子放在一个膝头上。

堤岸上游人熙熙攘攘，有全家人或成帮结伙来的，也有成双成对或者孤身前来的。他们揪草茎，下到水里，再登上岸，回到路上，大家都来到同一地点，停下来等候摆渡的船工。小渡船满载游客，送到岛上，在两岸之间不停地来往。

水上咖啡厅所靠的一道河汊，水流极缓，仿佛在沉睡，人称死河汊。各式各样的船只——游船、赛艇、单人艇、快艇、舢板等，在静止的水面上往来如梭，交错混杂，相互碰撞，有时猛一用力让船急停，然后再突然奋臂，让船又冲出去，飞快滑行，活像一条条红色和黄色的大鱼。

从上游夏图和从下游布吉谷，还源源不断地有船划来。河面上笑声此起彼伏，呼叫、谩骂、召唤或争吵声不绝于耳。划船的人将棕色的皮肤、隆起的二头肌曝露在烈日下，坐在船尾的女士则撑开丝阳伞，红绿蓝黄，五彩缤纷，宛如盛开的异域鲜花，在水上漂流。

七月的太阳在中天燃烧，空气中似乎弥漫着灼人的欢乐。没有一丝风，杨柳的枝叶都纹丝不动。对面远远一道屏障，那便是瓦莱里昂山，它陡峭的山坡展现在强烈的阳光下。右侧秀丽的卢浮西安丘峦，则随同河流弯转，形成半圆，在那大片大片园子的苍莽黛绿中，点缀着乡下人家的白墙。

青蛙滩头有不少参天大树，使这岛上一隅成为世上最惬意的公园。大群游人在滩头的树下散步。那些黄头发的妓女，挺着过度丰满的乳房，撅着过分肥大的屁股，脸上搽的脂粉就像抹了一层白灰，嘴唇涂得血红，身上紧紧箍着系了带子的奇特怪异的衣裙，她们从绿油油的草坪上走过，便留下那种庸俗打扮的强烈味道。陪伴她们的年轻男子，一个个也都装腔作势，身穿时髦版画上的那种奇装异服，手戴浅色手套，足蹬油亮的皮鞋，拄着细绳一般的手杖，还戴着单片眼镜，愈加突出他们微笑时的愚昧。

小岛恰巧在青蛙滩这里变得狭窄，另一边也有一只渡船，将从克鲁瓦西来的游人送过来。这条河汊水流湍急，到处是漩涡、回流和浪花泡沫，大有滚滚激流的气势。一支身穿炮兵服的架桥部队驻扎在对岸，一些士兵并排坐在一根长梁上观看流水。

水上餐厅里人声嘈杂，混乱不堪。木桌上摆满了半空的酒瓶，围着半醉的顾客，桌面上洒的饮料，形成一条条黏糊糊的细流。这里的人都在大嚷大叫，扯着嗓门儿唱歌。男的将帽子推到后脑勺儿，一个个红头涨脸，眼睛闪着醉态，他们这样肆无忌惮，咋呼鼓噪，完全是出于粗鲁的人天生的需要。那些女的，都在捕捉过夜的对象，眼下先让人请喝酒。在餐桌之间的空地上，主要站着这里的常客、好起哄的划船手们以及穿着法兰绒短裙的女伴。

他们当中有一位正在奋力弹钢琴，仿佛手脚并用。有四对人在跳四对方舞。一些漂亮端庄的年轻人在观看，如果不露出无法掩饰的破绽的话，他们还真像文雅之士。

然而破绽太明显了，一到这儿就能嗅出这全是世界渣滓，全是臭名昭著的荒淫之徒、巴黎社会一切霉烂的东西。这个大杂烩里有时新商店的伙计、蹩脚演员、下流记者、财产代管人、小额股票投机商、无耻的酒色之徒、老牌腐朽的浪荡鬼、各色各样形迹可疑的人。五分可知，五分未知，五分受人尊敬，五分声名狼藉，是些扒手、骗子、拉皮条的、冒险家。一个个却是正人君子的模样，虚张声势，那神气似乎在说：“哪个胆敢把我当成坏蛋，我就要他的命。”这里充斥着愚蠢荒唐的东西，散发着风月场的假意殷勤和无耻欺诈。在这里，男的女的都半斤八两。这里飘浮着廉价爱情的气味，为了一声“对”还是“不对”，就打架斗殴，动剑动枪，要维护坏透了的名声，结果名声会更臭。

附近有些居民好奇，每逢星期天来瞧瞧。每年，也有几个青年，非常年轻，来这里学习生活。还有一些人散步，路过到这里，有几个天真的人就迷不知返了。

这里叫青蛙滩也有道理。就在喝酒的水上餐厅旁边，紧挨着“花盆”的水域，有人在游泳。那些肌肤丰腴足以示人的女人，便来这里展露肉体以招徕顾客。其他女人却不屑一顾，她们身上虽然这里塞了棉花，那里撑起弹簧，这里垫高一点儿，那里改变一下，但是却以鄙夷的神气望着她们嬉水的姊妹。

游泳的人挤在一个小平台上，要头朝下扎猛子。他们的体形，有的长得像竹竿，有的圆得像柠檬，有的扭曲得像橄榄树，有的弓着腰，有的腆着肚子朝后仰，但无一例外，都丑陋不堪，他们跳水时，溅起的水花会洒到旁边喝咖啡的顾客身上。

水上咖啡厅尽管有繁茂的大树遮阴，又挨着水面，可是仍然溽暑熏蒸。洒掉饮料的气味、人体散发的气味，同爱情女贩的浓烈香水味混杂在一起，须知香水已经渗进爱情女贩的皮肤中，待在这个火炉里便蒸发出来。不过，在这形形色色的气味掩盖下，还飘浮着一种搽面香粉的清香，时隐时现，但总能再次闻到，就好像有一只隐蔽的手在空中摇晃着一个无形的粉扑。

美妙的景观还在河上，往来如梭的游船引人注目。船上的女客半躺在圆椅里，面对着臂膀强健的男伴，带着几分蔑视的神态，望着岛上那些游荡觅食的女人。有时，一只快船飞速划过去，岸上的朋友们便高喊加油。咖啡馆里的全体观众也都突然疯狂起来，开始大吼大叫。在夏图方向的河湾上，不断出现新的游船。船划近了，越来越大，人们也渐渐认出船上人的面孔，于是又发出一阵阵吼叫。

一只篷船载着四个女人，顺水慢慢划过来。划船的女人瘦小枯干，穿着见习水手服，头发绾上去，戴着一顶漆布帽。她对面是个金发胖女人，一副男装打扮，穿着白色法兰绒上衣。她仰卧在船舱里，双腿举起搭在桨手两侧的坐凳上，嘴里叼着香烟，每当双桨用力划一下，她的胸脯和腹部就颤动、摇晃起来。后面船篷下有两个细高挑儿的漂亮姑娘，一位棕发，一位金发，两人相互搂着腰，一直看着她们的同伴。

有人从青蛙滩喊了一声：“来宝斯来啦！”于是，突然爆发一阵狂呼乱叫，大家拼命拥挤。酒杯倒了，有人登上餐桌，所有人都歇斯底里，大吼大叫：“来宝斯！来宝斯！来宝斯！”喧声滚荡，变得混杂不清，汇成一种骇人的喧嚣，继而，仿佛猛然拔地而起，冲上半空，笼罩平野，充塞大树的茂盛枝叶，扩展到远处的丘峦，并直趋高悬的太阳。

在欢呼声中，那位划船的女人从容地停住双桨，而躺在船舱里的那个金发胖姑娘，则用两肘支起身子，漫不经心地转过头去。坐在船尾的那两位美丽姑娘一边向人群致意，一边咯咯笑起来。于是，喧叫之声变本加厉，震动了水上咖啡厅。男人举起帽子，女人挥动手帕，所有人，不管尖嗓门儿还是粗嗓门儿，都齐声高呼：“来宝斯！”这场面，真像一帮堕落的人在向头头儿致敬，如同一位海军司令检阅时，船队鸣礼炮一样。成群结队的游船也向那几位女子欢呼。她们的小艇又慢悠悠地划开，到稍远一点儿的地方靠岸。

保罗先生则不然，他从兜里掏出一个薄片钥匙，用全力吹响。他那神经质的情妇脸色更加苍白，拉他胳臂叫他停下，这回，她瞪着保罗，眼睛冒火了。然而，保罗似乎恼羞成怒，表现出一种男人的嫉妒，一种深沉的、本能的而又混乱的愤怒，他气得嘴唇颤抖，结结巴巴地说：“真不要脸！就该像溺死母狗那样，在她们脖子上吊上石头沉到河里！”

这时，玛德琳突然发火了，她那小尖嗓门儿变得刺耳了，说了一大套，仿佛是为自己辩解：“你来什么劲，这关你什么事儿？她们不欠任何人的，难道连想干什么就干什么的权利都没有吗？收起你这套吧，别烦别人，管好你自己的事儿吧……”

但是，保罗打断她的话：“这与警察局有关系，哼，我要把她们投进圣拉扎尔监狱！”

玛德琳浑身一抖。

“就你！”

“对，就我！而且，这会儿我也不准你同她们说话，听见了吧，我就是不准。”

于是，她耸了耸肩，立刻平静下来：“我的小宝贝，我高兴干什么就干什么，你要是不满意，那就走开，马上走。我不是你老婆，对不对？你还是闭嘴吧。”

保罗没有回嘴，二人对视，嘴角抽搐，呼吸急促。

四个女人从木质结构的大咖啡厅另一侧进来，两个男装打扮的走在前面，一个干瘦，酷似老气横秋的小男孩，鬓颊蜡黄色；另一个肥胖，塞满白色法兰绒外衣，肥臀也撑起肥大的裤子，走路像肥鹅一般摇摆，那两条大腿胖得要命，连膝盖都显得凹进去了。她们的两个女友跟在后面。划船手都纷纷上前同她们握手。

她们四人在岸边租了一间小木屋，像两家人在一起生活。她们的淫荡是人所共知的，也是明目张胆的。大家提起来，就像谈论一件自然而然的事情，抱着几分同情的态度，私下里还讲些有关她们的离奇故事、妒火中烧的女人编造的艳事，说是知名的妇女、女演员都秘密造访河边这间小屋。一位邻居听了这些丑闻十分生气，告诉宪警。一名队长带着一名属员来调查。这任务很棘手，总的说来，这些女人根本不卖淫，并没有什么可指责的。那位队长大惑不解，甚至没怎么弄明白所怀疑的罪过是什么性质，随便询问了一些人，写了一份冗长的报告，得出无罪的结论。这个笑话都传到了圣日耳曼。

她们摆出王后的架势，缓步穿过青蛙滩的咖啡厅，那神气显然为她们的名气感到自豪，为能引人注目而感到高兴。她们傲视这群人，这帮无名鼠辈、乌合之众。玛德琳和她的情人注视她们走过来，而姑娘的眼神燃得明亮。

走在前面的两位到了长桌这一端时，玛德琳喊了一声：“波莉娜！”那个胖子回过头来，站住了，但是仍然挽着那个穿着见习水手服的女伴的胳膊，应声说道：“咦！玛德琳……我的心肝儿，过来跟我说说话。”

保罗扣在他情妇腕子上的手指又用了用力，可是她却说：“要知道，我的宝贝，你可以离开。”那语气十分坚持，保罗便不讲话了，独自留下。

她们三人站在那里，低声交谈，话讲得很快，她们的嘴唇上不时掠过快意的神情。波莉娜有时偷偷看保罗一眼，那微笑则含有讥讽与刻薄。保罗终于忍不住了，他忽地站起来，冲到玛德琳面前，四肢都在颤抖，一把抓住她的肩膀，说道：“过来，我叫你过来呢，说过不准你同这些娼妇交谈！”

可是，波莉娜却提高嗓门儿，使出市井泼妇的全套本领同他吵架。周围的人开始哄笑，都凑到近前，踮起脚，想看个究竟。脏话雨点一般地浇到他头上，保罗呆住了，觉得从那张嘴里吐出的话，就像往他身上泼屎泼尿，因此这闹剧一开场，他就退却了，掉头回去，靠到临河的栏杆上，背向那三个旗开得胜的女人。保罗俯在那里，凝望水面，有时他迅速抹一下，用神经质的手指抹掉在眼角聚成的泪珠，就好像是一把抓走似的。

这是因为他坠入情网，也不知为什么，既违背他敏锐的直觉，也违背他的良知和意愿。他坠入情网，如同人掉进泥坑里。他天生多情敏感，曾梦想过那种美妙的、理想而炽热的恋情，岂料这个瘦小的女人，跟所有妓女一样愚蠢，愚蠢得不可救药，甚至谈不上漂亮，又瘦又爱生气。就是这样一个女人将他抓住，将他俘获，从头到脚，从肉体到灵魂占有了他。他中了女性这种神秘的、威慑无比的魔力，不知道这种陌生的力量、这种神奇的牵制从何而来，是肉体之魔授予的，能让一个最明智的男人，匍匐在一个寻常女郎的脚下，根本无法解释她身上有什么天生的主宰大权。

他感到就在他身后，正策划一种可耻的举动。一阵阵笑声直刺他的心。怎么办？他完全明白，但又办不到。他定睛看着对岸一个垂钓者，守着纹丝不动的鱼线。

突然，那人猛地抬起鱼竿，只见线梢儿从水中拉出一尾摆动的银色小鱼来。接着，他要把鱼钩摘下来，拧来扭去都不成，便不耐烦了，干脆用劲一拉，将小鱼带血的喉头连同一段肠子拉出来了。保罗浑身一抖，心都撕裂了，他觉得那鱼钩就是他的爱情，要想夺走，那么铁钩尖就会把他内心深处的东西，全部从胸膛里拉出来，而拉着钓线的正是玛德琳。

一只手搭到他肩膀上，他吓了一跳，扭头看看，原来是他情妇回到了身边。二人谁也不讲话，玛德琳也像他一样，趴到栏杆上，定睛望着河水。保罗想找话说，却一句也没有想出来。他甚至弄不清内心里有什么活动，只感到她回到身边、有她陪伴的快慰，也感到一种蒙耻的懦弱、一种宽恕一切的愿望，只要她不离开，就什么都答应。

沉默了几分钟之后，他终于口气十分温和地问道：“咱们走吧，好吗？到船上更舒服些。”

玛德琳答道：“好吧，我的小猫。”

于是，保罗搀她登上游艇，紧紧抓着双手扶住她，温情脉脉，眼角还挂着泪花。玛德琳也含笑看着他，于是，二人又拥抱亲吻了。他们沿着岸边，缓缓地溯流而上。岸上绿茵覆盖，柳树成行，静悄悄的，沐浴在午后温暖的阳光里。他们回到蟋蟀饭店的时候，刚敲六点钟。他们舍船登上小岛，沿着岸边高大的杨树，穿过牧场，朝贝松走去。

高高的牧草快要开割了，遍地野花盛开，西斜的太阳在上面铺了一层橙黄色晖光。傍晚暑热稍减，青草飘香，加上河流的潮气，给空气增添一种缠绵的情调、一种淡淡的幸福感，好似令人舒坦的氤氲之气。

心扉透进一股缱绻的柔情，似乎应和黄昏这种宁静的霞光、生命勃发的这种幽微而神秘的震颤，应和这种沁人心脾的忧伤的诗意。仿佛从草木万物生发而蔓延的诗意，在这温馨而沉思的时刻，充盈着他的感官。这一切，他都感受到了，而她却毫不体悟。他们并排走着，她不耐沉默了，忽然唱起歌来。她那假嗓音有点儿刺耳，唱的是街头流行曲，残留在记忆中的一个小调，却蓦地撕破了黄昏幽深静谧的和谐。

于是，他看了她一眼，感到他们之间隔着一道不可逾越的鸿沟。她用阳伞抽打着青草，略微低头瞧着自己的脚，边走边唱，拖长音节，尝试华彩过门，敢于模仿颤音。

她那小小的、狭窄的额头，他爱得多深，居然如此空虚，如此空虚！那里面只装着这种八音盒式的音乐，即使偶尔形成一点儿思想，也类似这种音乐。她根本不理解他，他们之间的距离比不在一起还要大。难道他的吻从来没有超越嘴唇吗？

这时，她抬起眼睛看他，又微微一笑。于是，一股冲动深入骨髓，他张开手臂，以双倍的爱热烈地拥抱她。她见衣裙弄皱了，便挣脱拥抱，用呢喃的一句话给点儿补偿：“好了，我非常爱你，我的小猫。”不过，他又搂住了她的腰，发狂一般拖着她跑起来，一边欢蹦乱跳，一边吻她的脸蛋、鬓角和脖子。他们气喘吁吁，倒在被夕阳照成一片火的灌木丛脚下，二人交欢了，而她却没有领会他那份激情。

他们手拉手走回来，从树木中间，突然望见河上那四个女人的游船。胖波莉娜也瞧见他们俩，她站起来，朝玛德琳送来飞吻，接着喊道：“今晚见！”

玛德琳答道：“今晚见！”

保罗觉得自己的心一下子浸入冰水里。他们回去用晚餐，二人坐在临水的凉棚下，开始闷头吃饭。天色黑下来，伙计送来一支点燃的蜡烛，玻璃球罩里的微弱烛光摇曳不定。二楼大餐厅里不时传来划船手的阵阵喧哗。快要上甜食的时候，保罗温存地拉起玛德琳的手，对她说道：“我非常疲乏，我的小乖乖，你要是愿意的话，咱们就早点儿睡觉。”

然而，玛德琳明白这种花招，十分暧昧地瞥了他一眼，女人眼睛的深处，往往闪现这种负情的神色。她想了一下，才回答说：“你要睡就去睡吧，我呢，已经答应人家去参加青蛙滩舞会。”

保罗凄然一笑，这是人们用以掩饰极痛深悲的一种微笑，不过，他还是用既温柔又伤感的声调答道：“你要是体贴一点儿，那么咱们俩就会待在一起了。”她摇了摇头，但没有讲出“不”字。保罗仍不死心：“求求你了，我的小鹿。”

可是，她却打断他的话：“你知道我对你说过什么。你要是不满意，门是敞开的，没人强留你。至于我，答应了，就得去。”

保罗双肘撑在桌子上，用手捂住额头，木然不动，沉浸在冥思苦想中。游船客下楼来，仍然大嚷大叫，他们要划船去参加青蛙滩舞会。玛德琳对保罗说：“快点儿决定，你要是不去，还有这些先生，我求一位送我去。”

保罗站起来，咕哝道：“走吧。”于是，他们去了。夜色弥漫，星斗满天，到处流动着灼人的气息、滞重的气浪，负载着溽暑，无形中透着一丝活力。微风受其拖累也缓慢了，似乎变得稠浓而厚重，拂面给人一种热乎乎爱抚的感觉，令人呼吸加快，乃至喘息了。一只只游船启程了，船头都挂一盏花灯。根本看不清船身，只见一盏盏小彩灯疾驰跳动，宛如狂舞的流萤。黑暗中，四面八方都流动着人声笑语。两个年轻人的游艇缓缓滑行。有时，一只快艇从旁边超过去，他们就突然瞧见划船手被灯光照亮的白色背影。他们驶过河湾，就远远望见青蛙滩了。

水上咖啡厅一派节日气氛，挂起了大花灯、小彩灯花束和葡萄灯串。几只平底大船在塞纳河上缓缓游动，五彩斑斓的灯光在空中绘成圆顶、金字塔以及复杂建筑物，形状各异。点亮的花彩一直拖到水面。有时，一盏红灯或蓝灯，高高挑在一根看不见的长竿上，好似一颗摇曳的巨星。

所有这些彩灯，照亮咖啡厅的四周，从上到下照亮岸边的大树，只见浅灰色的树干和淡绿色的叶丛，被黑洞洞的田野和天空衬得尤为突出。乐队由五名郊区艺人组成，演奏着支离破碎的酒吧粗劣音乐，传得很远，玛德琳和着音乐歌唱。玛德琳要立刻进舞厅。保罗本来想在岛上转一圈，最后不得不让步。参加舞会的人几乎清一色是游船客，还有零星几个市民、几个携妓的青年。这场康康舞的指挥兼组织者，身穿黑色旧礼服，神气活现，满场展示他那颗兜售廉价娱乐的老商人秃头。胖波莉娜及其女伴不在那儿，保罗舒了一口气。

一对对跳舞的人面对面，发狂似的又蹦又吵，腿踢得很高，一直举到舞伴的鼻子上。那些女的大腿都要脱臼了，蹿跳时裙子飘起来，露出了内裤。她们的脚不费劲就举过头顶，令人惊叹。她们还摇晃肚子，摆动屁股，抖动乳房，向周围散发出汗馊的强烈气味。那些男的则蹲下来，学蛤蟆的样子，做出猥亵的姿势，身子弯来扭去，挤眉弄眼，丑态百出，还用手撑地倒翻跟头，或者忸怩作态，竭力装扮怪相。一名胖女招待和两名男招待送着饮料食物。

这个水上咖啡厅仅有棚盖，四面并无墙板同外面相隔，他们就在安谧的黑夜，在繁星满天的苍穹下疯狂地舞蹈。忽然间，对面瓦莱里昂山那边亮起来，仿佛山后发生了火灾。那片亮光越扩越大，越来越明亮，逐渐侵凌上空，勾画出一个光圈，先呈淡白色，继而又出现红晕，扩大开来，呈现火红色，如同铁砧上烧红的铁，再缓缓延展成圆，似乎从大地里出来。就这样，月亮很快离开地平线，冉冉升空，越升越高，绛红色随之渐淡，化为黄色，是亮晶晶的淡黄。而那星体离地面越远，也似乎越小了。

保罗久久凝望月亮，心驰神往，忘了他的情妇。等他再扭头看时，她已经不见了。

他寻找，却不见她的踪影。他那焦急不安的目光扫过一张张餐桌，他还来回奔走，问这个又问那个，谁也没有瞧见她。他担心得要命，就这样东找西找，这时，一名伙计对他说：“您是找玛德琳夫人吧？她刚才和波莉娜夫人一道走了。”

就在说话的同时，保罗望见咖啡厅的另一端，站着那个身穿见习水手服的女人和那两个漂亮姑娘，三个人相互搂着腰，一边窥视他，一边交头接耳。他明白了，立刻像疯了似的冲上小岛。他先朝夏图方向跑去，可是看到眼前一片平野，他沿原路返回，开始搜寻灌木丛，狂奔乱走，不时停下来听一听。四面八方都送来铿锵短促的蛙声。从布吉谷方面，还传来几声鸟叫，但是距离远而声音微弱。月亮的清辉洒在宽阔的草地上，仿佛白絮般的尘雾。清辉透过叶丛，沿着白杨的银色树皮流泻，看上去高高震颤的树冠就像被光雨打穿。这仲夏之夜醉人的诗意，也由不得保罗，还是透进他的心胸，穿越他惊慌失措的历程，带着残忍的嘲讽搅动他的心田；在他那颗沉思多情的灵魂上，激起狂热的渴望，要追求理想的爱情，要在一个忠贞可爱的女子怀中倾诉炽烈的情肠。

他柔肠寸断，泣不成声，不得不停下脚步。一阵悲痛过去，他又往前走。猛然，他好像挨了一刀：树丛里有人在拥抱。他跑过去一看，原来是一对情侣，两个身影搂抱在一起吻个没完，见他走近便躲开了。他不敢呼唤，就知道她不会答应。而且，他又深恐突然发现那两个。短号声令人心碎，笛子模仿欢笑，小提琴尖声狂叫，这些组成四对方舞的老调，一下下揪他的心，加剧他的痛苦。疯狂的音乐节奏混乱，在树下流窜，随着阵风时强时弱。

他猛然想到，也许她回去了吧？不错，她肯定回去啦！为什么不会呢？实在愚蠢，这一阵他无缘无故自相惊扰，胡乱猜疑，完全昏了头。痛苦绝望的情绪，也有奇异的间歇的时候，他正好碰到这种情况，又回头朝舞场走去。

他扫视整个大厅，仍然不见她的人影儿。他绕过餐桌，又突然面对那三个女人，他那气急败坏的样子一定很怪，因为她们仨都咯咯笑起来。他赶紧逃开，又跑上小岛，喘着粗气冲进树丛里。——继而，他又谛听——听了许久，因为耳朵嗡嗡鸣响。终于，他仿佛听见不远处有尖细的笑声，是他所熟悉的。于是，他蹑手蹑脚地靠近，拨开树枝朝前爬行，心跳得十分剧烈，连呼吸都感到困难。

两个人在窃窃私语，还听不清楚，随后又不出声了。

他忽然产生一个强烈的愿望，要逃开，不想看见，不想知道，永远逃开，远离这种毁掉他的狂热恋情。他要回到夏图，乘上火车，再也不回来，再也不见她了。可是，她的形象又突然浮现，他又在意念中看见她。早晨她在他们暖烘烘的床上醒来，紧紧贴着他亲昵，双臂搂住他的脖子，蓬乱的头发稍微遮住前额，眼睛还闭着，张开嘴唇接受第一个吻。他蓦然想起这种晨起的亲昵，心中立刻充满肠断魂销的遗憾、炽热狂燃的欲火。

那二人又说话了，他弯着腰靠近，忽听近旁枝叶下轻轻叫了一声。一声叫！那正是他们欢情深烈时他听熟了的叫声。他还继续靠近，仿佛不由自主，无法抵御那种吸引，完全是下意识的……果然看见她们了。

噢！另外一个，哪怕是个男人呢！不料却这样！却这样！他就觉得自己也被扯进她们的无耻行径里了。他愣在原地，神情沮丧，意乱心烦，就好像猛然发现一具被残害的亲人尸体，发现一件伤天害理的罪案、一种亵渎神灵的行为。这时，他不由自主地一闪念，想到他看见拉出肠子的那条小鱼……忽然玛德琳轻声叫道：“波莉娜！”那声调就跟叫“保罗”一样热烈。于是，保罗心如刀绞，立刻奋力逃开了。他撞到两棵树干，摔倒在一条树根上，爬起来又跑，忽然发觉到了河边，面对月光照亮的湍急的水流。激流形成许多巨大的漩涡，舞弄着月影。河岸形同峭壁，高踞于水面，河面如同一条宽宽的黑带，可以听见暗影中的汩汩水声。对岸是克鲁瓦西村，皎洁的月光下是一片农舍。

这一切如同梦境，保罗仿佛重温一件往事。他什么也不想，什么也不明白，自然万物，乃至他自身的存在，都变得恍惚遥远了，都忘却了，完结了。面前就是河流。他明白自己在做什么吗？他要寻死吗？他简直疯了。在这寂静的夜晚，庸俗舞曲的叠句还在微弱固执地回荡，他决然转过身，面向小岛，面向她，惨叫一声：“玛德琳！”那声音绝望、尖厉，迥非人声。

他那声撕肝裂胆的呼叫，穿过寥廓长天的沉寂，传向四面八方。接着，他纵身一跳，像野兽蹿跳那样，投进河中，溅起水花，河面随即又合拢。他消失的地方，泛起一圈圈波纹，映着月光越扩越大，一直扩展到对岸。两个女人听见了。玛德琳站起来，说道：“是保罗。”她心里萌生一丝疑虑：“他跳河了。”她冲向河边，胖波莉娜也随后赶到。

一条笨重的平底船上有两个男人，在那处水面转悠。一人划船，另一人将一根长竿探进水中，似乎在探寻什么。波莉娜嚷道：“你们干什么呢？那儿有什么？”

一个陌生的声音答道：“有个投河自杀的人。”

两个女人惊呆了，紧紧靠在一起，注视着船的移动。远处青蛙滩的音乐还在闹哄，那节拍仿佛给捞尸者的动作伴奏，而河流现在隐藏一具尸体，在月光下打漩流淌。

打捞了好长时间。可怕的等待，玛德琳瑟瑟发抖。至少过了半个钟头，其中一个人终于说道：“我钩住啦！”

他轻轻往上提竿。一样大东西终于浮出水面。另一个船员放下桨，两个人合力，拉那个不动的大坨子，拉到船上。然后，他们挑地势低并有月光的一处上岸。等他们上了岸，两个女人也赶到了。

玛德琳一见尸体，吓得连连后退。在月光下，他仿佛变绿了，嘴巴、眼睛、鼻子、衣服都沾满了污泥，合拢的僵硬的手指十分可怕，全身都糊了一层黑乎乎的泥水。脸好像肿胀了，沾了稀泥的头发上不断往下淌污水。

两个船员察看了尸体，其中一个问道：“你认识他吗？”

另一个是克鲁瓦西的摆渡人，他犹豫一下，答道：“认识，这张脸好像见过，不过你也知道，这是不容易认的。”接着，他突然说道：“嘿，这是保罗先生啊！”

“保罗先生是谁呀？”伙伴问道。

前一个回答：

“就是保罗·巴隆先生啊，参议员的儿子，小伙子太痴情了。”

另一个则达观地补充说：

“是啊，现在他玩到头了。不过，人有钱，走了还是挺可惜的。”

玛德琳失声痛哭，瘫倒在地上。波莉娜走到尸体跟前，问道：“他真死了吗？——救不活了吗？”

那两个人耸耸肩膀：“唉！都这么长时间啦！肯定完了。”

而后，其中一个人问道：“他是住在蟋蟀饭店吗？”

“对，”另一个答道，“该送到那儿去，能给赏钱的。”

他们又上了船，划走了，但是水流太急，船行得很慢。两个女人站在原地，好久还能望见他们，听到船桨有节奏击水的声音。

这时，可怜的玛德琳还在哀痛，波莉娜搂住她，极力爱抚，久久拥抱，安慰她说：“有什么办法，这根本不是你的错，对不对？没法儿阻止男人干傻事。归根结底，他要这么干，这就活该啦！”

接着，她把玛德琳扶起来，又说道：“好啦，宝贝儿，去我那儿睡吧。今晚，你不能回蟋蟀饭店了。”她又拥抱玛德琳，说道：“好啦，我们会治好你的。”

玛德琳站起来，还一直在哭泣，但声势减弱，她的头偎在波莉娜的肩上，仿佛找到了庇护所，是一种更体贴可靠、更亲热信赖的温情，她脚步蹀躞，蹒跚而去。

[1] 法伦斯泰尔是法国空想社会主义者夏尔·傅立叶创造的一种理想城邦概念——自给自足似的乌托邦生活社区。他认为为了更好的生活状态，人们应该打破家庭的概念，用“法郎吉”来替代，这些“法郎吉”住在被称为“法伦斯泰尔”的城中。——编者注

奥托父子

一

这座大庄院，半似农场，半像庄园，是混合型乡居，颇有几分领主庄园的气派，现在则居住着大庄户人家。院落苹果树上拴的几条狗守着院门，瞧见护树人和几个小青年扛着猎袋，便汪汪叫起来。

在厨房兼餐室的厅堂里，老奥托和小奥托父子，收税员贝尔蒙先生和公证人蒙达吕先生，正吃一顿便饭，喝杯红酒，就要出发打猎了，今天是正式开猎的日子。

老奥托拥有这份家产，很是得意，打猎前就先吹嘘客人到他这地盘上，能打到什么猎物。他这个诺曼底人身材高大，面色红润，特别健壮，是个能把苹果车举上肩头的汉子。他是半个农民，半个文化人，家境殷富，受人尊敬，很有影响力，也很专横。他让儿子凯撒上学受教育，念到三年级[1]就辍学，唯恐小奥托变成文化人而忽略田产。

凯撒小奥托，几乎跟父亲一般高，但是真瘦溜儿。他是个好小伙子，听话的儿子，对什么都满意，对老奥托的意愿和见解，满心赞赏，敬重且钦佩。

收税员贝尔蒙先生，则是个矮胖子，红红的面颊上，呈现青色血脉织成的细网，仿佛地图上的红河水道。他问道：“那么，野兔呢——有野兔吗？”

老奥托回答：“您要多少就有多少，特别是到比伊萨蒂埃那片林子深处。”

“我们先从哪儿开始呢？”公证人插言道。他是个胖子，脸色苍白，作为公证人，性格随和而开朗，同样大腹便便，穿一身崭新的猎装，全身箍得紧紧的，还是上周去鲁昂买的。

“喏，就从那里，从里端开始，我们先将山鹑轰到田野里，然后就势扑上去。”

老奥托说罢，就站起身，大家也都跟着站起来，去角落操起各自的猎枪，再检查一下全套装备，又跺跺脚，确定靴子非常跟脚。靴子偏硬一点儿，等走动起来血脉一热就会软和些。接着，他们走出去，猎犬立时扯直了绳索，身子立起来，前爪在半空乱抓，发出尖厉的叫声。

大家上路，走向林子深处。这是一道小山谷，确切点儿说，是一大道土质恶劣的沟壑，因而不能耕种。一条条细谷长满了蕨类植物，正是猎物极好的去处。猎手们拉开了距离，老奥托走右侧，小奥托走左侧，两位客人居中。猎场守护人和扛猎袋的人紧随其后。这是庄严的时刻，大家都等待打响第一枪，心跳不免有点儿加速，而紧张的手指随时准备叩动扳机。

突然，第一枪打响了！是老奥托开的枪。所有人都停下来，只见一只山鹑脱离拍打翅膀逃窜的一群，跌落到一条沟壑茂密的荆丛里。亢奋的猎手开始奔跑，跨越，挣脱挂住他的刺藤，他也消隐在矮树林中了，去寻找他的猎物。几乎紧随其后，第二声枪响了。

“嗬！嗬！这个无赖，”贝尔蒙先生叫起来，“在那下面，他很可能把一只野兔赶出窝了。”

所有人都等待，眼睛注视那片目光透不进去的茂密枝叶。公证人双手合成喊话筒，嚷道：“捉到了吗？”老奥托没有应声，于是凯撒回身对护林人说：“你去帮帮他，约瑟夫。必须一排往前推。我们等着。”

约瑟夫，干干巴巴，长得像根老树桩，疙里疙瘩，各个关节无不突显。他不慌不忙卸下装备，找准容易下脚的穴坑，像狐狸一样谨慎小心。不大工夫，听到他嚷起来，“噢！来人哪！来人哪！出乱子啦！”

所有人都跑下去，冲进荆丛里，老奥托侧身倒在地上，双手捂住肚子，只见鲜血从子弹打穿的帆布衣破洞里流到了荒草上。他在伸手去抓那只打死的山鹑时，丢下的猎枪磕到石头上，撞击走火，打出第二响，打穿了他的腹部。大家急忙上手，把他从沟里拖出来，扒开猎装，看到伤口惨不忍睹，肠子也流出来了。好歹给他包扎住伤口之后，当即抬他回家，等待早已派人请的医生以及一位神父。

医生赶来检查伤势，他神情凝重，摇了摇头，转过身来，对坐在椅子上哽泣的小奥托说道：“我可怜的小伙子，看来情况可不妙。”

不过，等伤口包扎好了，伤者动了动手指，张开嘴，睁开枯槁的双眼，目光焦虑地环顾四周。接着，他仿佛搜寻记忆，似乎想起来，明白过来了，这才咕哝一句：“妈的，这下子栽啦！”

医生拉住他的手，说道：

“哪儿的话，哪儿的话呢，休养几天就行了，没什么事。”

奥托接口道：“这下子栽啦！我肚子破开啦！我完全清楚。”

随即突然说道：“我想跟儿子谈谈，如果还来得及的话。”

小奥托不由得哭哭啼啼，像个小孩子似的反复说道：“爸爸，爸爸，可怜的爸爸！”

然而父亲，语气更加坚定，说道：“好了，别哭了，这不是时候。我有话跟你说。过这儿来，靠近前，很快就能说完，我也就放心了。你们几位，请给我一些时间。”

所有人都出去了，留下儿子面对父亲。只有父子二人了，父亲便说道：“听着，儿子，你已经二十四岁了，事情可以告诉你了。其实，我们说的，也不是什么天大的秘密。你清楚，你母亲过世已有七年了，对不对，我呢，现在不过四十五岁，当年结婚我才十九岁，对不对？”

儿子结结巴巴地回答：“对，是这样。”

“那好，你母亲过世都七年了，我呢，一直独身生活。好嘛！像我这样一个男人，不可能三十七岁就一直做个鳏父吧，对不对？”

儿子回答：“对，是这样。”

父亲喘着气，脸色惨白，面部肌肉抽搐着，他接着说道：

“天哪，疼得真邪乎！喏，你明白。男人天生就不能过独身生活，但是，我又不愿意续弦，替代你母亲，只因我向她许诺过……怎么样……你明白吧？”

“是的，父亲。”

“因此，我在鲁昂找了个小相好的，住在胡瓜鱼街，十八号，四层，二门——我对你说的这些，不要忘了，——那个小相好的很体贴人，对我一心一意，很重感情，很忠贞，是一个实实在在的女人，怎么？你懂了吧，我的孩子？”

“是的，父亲。”

“那好，如果我走了，我还欠她点儿什么，而且至关重要，能保证她生活无忧。你明白吧？”

“是的，父亲。”

“跟你说，她是个贤淑的姑娘，真的，很贤淑，如果不是有你，如果不是怀念你母亲，再说，如果没有我们三人生活过的这个家，那么，我就会带她来这里了，然后娶她，这是肯定的……你听好……听好了……我的孩子……我本可以立一份遗嘱……可我根本没有做！我不愿意……因为事情……这类事情……决不应该写下来……这太损害合法继承人了……况且，这样会全部搅乱了……这样能毁了所有人！你瞧，印花公文纸，不需要，永远呢不要使用。如果说我富有，就因为我一辈子都没有动用过。这你明白，我的儿子！”

“是的，父亲。”

“再听我说说……听好了……就是说，我没有立遗嘱……我不愿意……而且，我了解你，你心肠好，你不吝啬，怎么说呢，不斤斤计较。我心里想好了，等临终时，我就把事情一五一十告诉你，还要恳求你别忘记那个女孩：卡罗莉娜·多奈，胡瓜鱼街十八号，四层，二门，别忘了——再有，听我说，等我一走，你立刻就去那儿——去妥善处理，免得她想起我时产生抱怨情绪。——你有钱财——你办得到……我给你留下的相当多……你挺好……平日找不到她。她在莫罗太太家里干活，博瓦西纳街。星期四你去。这一天她等着我。这是我的日子，已经六年了。可怜的姑娘，她会怎么伤心哭泣啊！……这件事，我全对你讲了，我的儿子，就因为我非常了解你。这类事情，不能当众去讲，也不能告诉公证人和本堂神父。这种事天天发生，众所周知，但是不能讲，除非到了必要的时候。因此，除了家人，外人，谁也不知道这个秘密，就因为家庭，所有人拧成一股绳。你明白了吧？”

“是的，父亲。”

“你答应吗？”

“是的，父亲。”

“你发誓？”

“是的，父亲。”

“是我求你了，恳求你了，儿子，不要忘了，这是我的心事。”

“不会忘的，父亲。”

“你要亲自去。我希望这个事情你能妥善安排。”

“是的，父亲。”

“然后，就看情况吧……你看她怎么向你解释。我呢，不能对你多讲了。发过誓了。”

“是的，父亲。”

“就这样吧，我的儿子，吻吻我。别了。我不行了，确定无疑。告诉他们进来吧。”小奥托呻吟着亲吻了父亲，他也始终顺从，打开了房门。神父进屋，他身穿宽袖白色法袍，手上拿着圣体油。然而，重危的人已经闭上眼睛，再也不肯睁开了，也不肯回答，甚至都不肯做一个他听懂了的暗示。

这个汉子，他说得够多的了，不能再讲了。况且，此刻他心里很平静，就想这样安静地死去。他已经向他的儿子，这个家庭的成员忏悔了，何必还向上帝的代表忏悔呢？

照例为他行了圣事，净除了心中的邪魔。赎了罪过，他的朋友围在身边，仆人们跪了一圈，没见他脸上有一丝征象他还活着。

表明剧痛的抽搐持续了四小时之后，他于午夜时分离世了。

二

星期天开猎，星期二下了葬。凯撒·奥托送父亲到墓地，安葬之后回家，这天余下的时间，他就只顾伤心流泪了，通宵没有怎么睡觉，醒来感到特别凄苦，心想，今后这日子怎么过下去呢？不过，到了傍晚，他还是想到要遵从父亲的遗愿，次日他一定得前往鲁昂看望卡罗莉娜·多奈那个姑娘，记得她住在胡瓜鱼街十八号，四层，二门。他像喃喃祈祷一样，低声重复这个名字和这个地址，不知念叨了多少遍，以免忘记。最后就没完没了地咕哝，停都停不下来，或者无论想什么，他的舌头和他的思维却总被这句话控制着。

第二天，约莫八点钟，他就吩咐下人备车，套上“大麦粒”，那匹诺曼底种的高头大马，他上车起程，马车飞驰在安维尔通往鲁昂的大道上。他穿上他那件黑礼服，头戴丝绸大礼帽，穿一条裤脚松紧带套在脚底的长裤。考虑当时的境况，他不愿意显露他那漂亮的礼服，就套上了蓝罩衫，迎风便鼓起来，能遮挡灰尘和脏点，到达后一跳下车，随手就脱掉。

马车驶进鲁昂城，恰好敲响十点钟。凯撒·奥托还一如既往，到三潭街“好心肠”旅馆落脚，接受老板、老板娘及其五个儿子的拥抱，因为他们得知了办丧事的消息。他还不得不详细讲述是出意外的情况，这又引起他们伤心落泪。这些人都知道他有钱，百般殷勤招待，可是他却谢绝，甚至不吃他们的饭，这又让他们挺生气。

他掸掉帽子上的尘土，刷干净礼服，又擦亮了皮靴，便出去寻找胡瓜鱼街。他不敢向任何人打听，生怕被人认出来，引起怀疑。最终他还是没有找到，看见一名教士，认为教会的人信得过，他们在职业上就谨慎，于是向那人问路。原来，走过去不过百十来步远，就在右侧的第二条街。

这时，他倒犹豫起来。此前，他就像个粗人，一直按照死者的意愿行事。而现在，他却感到心慌意乱，迷惑起来，一想到他，作为儿子，要面对这个曾经是他父亲的姘头女人，就不免觉得丢脸。我们心中的全部道德观，是多少世纪传承教育在我们感情深处的积淀，关于生活中的坏女人，源自教理课本他所学到的一切，以及天性多疑的男人，对这种放荡的女人，哪怕娶了一个，也必然——本人心存的蔑视，再加上他这个农民身上所具备的整个狭隘的正派观念，凡此种种，都在他内心翻腾，令他畏缩不前，令他羞愧而脸红。

不过，他还是想：“我答应了父亲，总不该失信。”于是，他推开挂着十八号牌子的半掩的楼门，发现一座昏暗的楼梯，上到四层，看到一门，又看到二门，找见门铃绳，便拉了两下。丁零丁零的铃声，在里面的房间响起，让他浑身不由得猛一战栗，房门打开了，出现在他面前的是一位年轻太太，穿戴得很好，一头棕发，肤色鲜艳，她眼神惊愕地打量他。

凯撒不知道对她说什么好，而她，还什么都不知道，等待对方开口，并不请他进屋。二人彼此端详，就这样过了将近半分钟，女主人终于问道：“你有什么事吗，先生？”

他讷讷答道：“我是奥托的儿子。”

女人惊抖了一下，脸色刷的白了，她好像早就认识他似的，结结巴巴地说道：“凯撒先生？”

“对。”

“您来有什么事吗？”

“我代表父亲，有话对您说。”

她不由得发出一声：“噢！我的上帝！”随即后退一步，让他进屋。他关上房门，跟着往里走。这时，凯撒瞧见一个四五岁的小男孩，正逗弄一只猫玩。男孩坐在地上，身后一个火炉，火上正热着菜，冒着浊气。

“请坐。”她说道。

他坐了下来。

她问道：“怎么回事呢？”

凯撒再也不敢开口了，他的目光凝视摆在屋子中央的桌子，桌子已经放好三副餐具，一副是儿童的。他看着背对着炉火的椅子，对面摆好餐巾、酒杯、开启的红葡萄酒、未开瓶的白葡萄酒，那是他父亲的座位，背对着炉火还等着他呢。凯撒看到并认出，叉子旁边是为他父亲准备的面包，已经削下硬皮，因为奥托牙口不好。接着，他抬眼，又瞧见墙上挂的大照片，奥托在巴黎世博会那年照的相，而同样一张相片，就挂在安维尔家他卧室床头的上方。

少妇又问道：“怎么回事，凯撒先生？”

凯撒看了她一眼。她惶恐焦虑，面失血色，双手害怕得发抖，还在等待。于是，他鼓足了勇气：“是这样，小姐，星期天开猎，爸爸身亡了。”

少妇受到极大的震撼，一时动弹不得。沉默了半晌，她才喃喃说，声音低得几乎听不见：“噢！这不可能！”

继而，她眼中突然涌出泪水，她抬起双手，捂住脸，开始抽泣起来，这时，小男孩扭头看见他母亲哭了，便叫起来。接着，他看明白母亲突然悲痛，是这个陌生人引起的，便扑向凯撒，一只手揪住他的裤子，另一只手拼力打他的大腿。这对母子，一个是为他父亲痛哭的女人，一个是保卫母亲的孩子，凯撒夹在中间，手足无措又极为感动，他觉得自己也受到这种激动情绪的感染，眼睛因伤悲而肿胀起来，于是振作一下，开始讲述了：“是的，”他说道，“不幸的事件，是星期天早晨八点来钟发生的……”

他讲述，就好像她在听似的，不漏掉任何细节，以农民的那种细心，多么微不足道的情况都要讲到。而小家伙还一直打他，现在是用脚踢他脚踝了。当他说到老奥托谈她情况的时候，她听到自己的名字，双手便从脸上撤下来，请求道：

“对不起，我没有听您讲，我很想了解……如果您不介意，就再从头讲起。”

他又从头讲述，还是原来的话：“不幸的事件，是星期天早晨，八点来钟发生的……”

他全部讲了，讲了很久，中间有停顿，有句号，还时而有他的想法。她贪婪地听着，以女人神经的敏感度，领会他叙述的各种变化的情况，有时感叹一声：“噢，我的上帝！”孩子以为她平静了，就不再打凯撒了，过去拉住母亲的手，也同样倾听，就好像听懂了似的。小奥托叙述完了，又说道：“现在按照他的愿望，我们一起把事情安排一下，您听我说，我很富裕，他给我留下了财产。我不愿意安排不周让您抱怨……”

然而，她急忙打断他的话：“噢！凯撒先生，凯撒先生，今天不说了。我心如刀绞！等下次吧，改天。不，今天别谈了。如果我接受，听我说，也不是为我。不，不，不，我向您发誓。是为了孩子，而且，钱财也要落到他的名头。”

凯撒闻听此言，十分惊恐，他猜测出来，结结巴巴地说道：“这么说……是他的……这孩子？”

“当然了。”少妇回答。

小奥托注视着这个小弟弟，激动的心情很复杂，既强烈又难堪。少妇又哭起来，凯撒沉默了许久，处境十分尴尬，接着说道：“那好吧，多奈小姐，我先走了，什么时候您愿意，我们再谈好吗？”

她高声说：“噢！不，您别走，您别走，不要丢下我一个人跟埃米尔！我会伤心死的。我什么人都没有了，除了我孩子就没人了。噢！多大的苦难，多大的苦难啊，凯撒先生，喏，您请坐，您还要对我讲一讲。您要告诉我，他在那边，平时都做什么？”

凯撒顺从惯了，他又坐下来。她挪过一把椅子给自己，靠近他也坐下来，就在一直热着菜的火炉前面。凯撒还抱起埃米尔放到膝上，女人向凯撒问起有关父亲无数的事儿，全是私生活的小事儿，看得出来，凯撒不用推理就感觉得到，这个可怜的女人，真是全心全意爱奥托。

凯撒的想法并不多，他说着话，自然又回到那个意外的不幸事件。“他肚子崩开一个大洞，能塞进去两个拳头。”凯撒讲出这种情况时，她不由得叫了一声，泪水再次涌出。凯撒受此感染，也哭起来。眼泪总能软化心弦，他俯向埃米尔，嘴唇正巧接近孩子的额头，就势亲吻了他。

母亲缓过一口气，喃喃说道：“可怜的孩子，现在成了孤儿。”

“我也一样。”凯撒说道。

随后，他们又不说话了。

忽然，家庭主妇什么都想到的习惯——这种实践的本能在这少妇心中苏醒了。

“这一上午，也许您还没有吃什么吧，凯撒先生？”

“没有，小姐。”

“唔！您肯定饿了。您还是吃点儿东西吧。”

“谢谢，”他回答，“我不饿，心里太痛苦了。”

“难过归难过，总得活下去。这事儿您不能拒绝！而且，您也可以多留下一会儿。等您一走，真不知道我会成什么样子！”

凯撒还婉拒了两句，终于退让了，他坐下来，背靠着火，面对着她，吃了一盘在炉子上炖得咕咕作响的羊肚，喝了一杯红葡萄酒，但是说什么也不让她开那瓶白葡萄酒。小孩子吃饭，满嘴巴浇汁，凯撒给他擦了好几次。他起身告辞时，问道：“您看什么时候合适，我再来谈事呢，多奈小姐？”

“下星期四吧，凯撒先生，如果对您没妨碍的话。这样我就不用耽误干活时间了。我每逢星期四休息。”

“下星期四，我也方便。”

“您来吃午饭吧，好不好？”

“哦！吃午饭嘛，我还不能应承。”

“一边吃饭一边谈事更好，时间也充裕些。”

“那好吧。还是中午。”

他离去时，又亲了亲小埃米尔，还同多奈小姐握了握手。

三

这一周，凯撒·奥托感到很漫长。他从来没有这样寂寞过，觉得难以忍受这种孤独。此前，他一直如影随形，生活在父亲身边，跟随到田间地头，监督雇工执行命令的情况，即使分开一阵工夫，吃晚饭时又见到了。晚上的时光，爷儿俩就面对面，边抽着烟斗，边谈论马、牛和羊；而早晨醒来，父子就握手问好，洋溢着深厚的亲情。

现在，凯撒独自一人了。他沿着秋天的田地游荡，始终期望从一片平展的地头，立起父亲那挥动臂膀的高大身影。他要消磨时光，就走进邻居家，向所有未听过的人讲述那次意外事件，有时还向听过的人重讲一遍。这种事情忙完了，该想的事也想过了，他就坐到路边，思索这种日子还要持续多久。

他经常想到多奈小姐。他觉得挺喜欢她，确实认为她很像样，正如他父亲所言，是一个温柔的正派姑娘。对，若说一个正派姑娘，她确确实实是一个正派的姑娘。处理这件事，他决心要出手大方：在确保孩子资产的同时，给她买下两千法郎的年金。一想到星期四又要见到她，一起安排这件事，他甚至感到有几分欣喜。再一想到这个弟弟，这个五岁的小家伙，却是他父亲的儿子，又让他忧虑，颇为烦恼，同时也让他心里热乎乎的。这个私生的娃儿，虽然算作家里人，可是永远不能姓奥托，这个家他管不管也随意，但总归令他联想到父亲。

因此，星期四早晨，前往鲁昂的路上，驾车的“大麦粒”嗒嗒的马蹄声非常响亮，他坐在车上的心情，自不幸的事件发生后，还从来没有如此轻松，如此平静。

他走进多奈小姐的套房，看到餐桌已经摆好，同上星期四一样，只有一点不同，面包没有去掉硬皮。

凯撒握了握少妇的手，亲了亲埃米尔的脸蛋，随即坐下，有点儿像到了他的家，不过心情还照样沉重。他觉得多奈小姐廋了一点儿，脸色也苍白了些：她肯定流泪过多。现在她在凯撒面前，神态不自然了，就好像意识到了些什么，而上星期刚受不幸消息的打击时却未曾注意。她对他格外客气起来，表现出一种痛苦的谦恭、体贴的照顾，仿佛要用关心和忠诚来回报凯撒对她的善意。他们午饭吃了好长时间，谈论他此次来要办的事。她不要这么多钱。这太多了，实在太多了。她挣的钱足够生活了，她只是希望埃米尔长大后，还能有点儿钱。凯撒执意这样做，甚至还额外赠送一千法郎，作为抚恤金。等他喝完咖啡，多奈小姐问道，“您抽烟吗？”

“抽啊……我有烟斗。”他说道。

他摸了摸口袋。糟糕，烟斗忘记带了。他正欲气恼，多奈小姐却从杆子里给他取出他父亲的烟斗。他接受了，拿起一看便认出来，还嗅了嗅，夸赞它是最好的烟斗之一，声音中还透着一丝激动。随后他往烟斗里塞满烟丝，吸几口点着了。多奈小姐收拾桌子，将用过的餐具放进橱柜下层，准备等他走后清洗，他将埃米尔放到腿上，让孩子骑马玩，直到该走的时候。

快到三点时，他不免遗憾地站起身，想到该走了心里很烦。

“好啦，多奈小姐，”他说道，“希望您下午过得愉快，我很高兴看到您这种状况。”

多奈小姐伫立在他面前，脸有点儿红，显得挺激动，注视着她心里的另一个人。

“我们就再也不见面了吗？”

他回答得干脆：“可以呀，小姐，如果您愿意的话。”

“当然愿意了，凯撒先生。那好，下星期四，您方便吗？”

“方便啊，多奈小姐。”

“您来吃午饭，没错吧？”

“这，如果您乐意，我不谢绝。”

“当然乐意，凯撒先生，下星期四，中午，像今天这样。”

“星期四中午见，多奈小姐。”

[1] 相当于我国初中毕业。（说明：书中脚注除特别标明的之外，均为译者注。）

公墓妓女

五个朋友一起吃晚饭。这五个上流社会人士，都是成熟男子，富有，三人已有家室，两个仍然单身。他们这样聚会，每月一次，追忆他们的青春岁月，吃完饭便闲聊，直到凌晨两点钟。他们始终是知心密友，而且兴趣相投，也许认为这种聚会是他们一生中最美好的夜晚。他们无所不谈，谈遍了巴黎人喜闻乐见的大事小情，其实他们之间，也像大多数沙龙聚会那样，无非是重复在晨报上看到的那些社会新闻。

最欢快的要数约瑟夫·德·巴尔东。这个单身汉以别出心裁的方式全方位地过着巴黎生活。他绝非放荡之徒，也非堕落分子，而只是一个尚属年轻的好奇者、乐天派，因为他不过四十岁。说他是上流社会人士，是取这个词组最宽泛、最和善的含义。他天资聪慧，却没有多大深度；知识面很宽，又谈不上渊博；理解事物很快速，但不肯认真深入探讨。他从自己的观察、自己的奇遇，从自己所看到的、碰到的和找到的一切，提炼出哲理滑稽小说式的趣闻逸事，以及幽默的见解，从而在全城赢得了智慧的盛誉。他是饭局的演说家。他有自己的故事，每次都讲他的故事，别人也总有所期待。他不用别人请求，就开始讲起自己的故事了。

他抽着烟，两只臂肘支在餐桌上，半杯上等白兰地摆在餐盘前面，沉浸在弥漫热咖啡香味的烟雾中，仿佛就在自己家中，犹如某些生物在某时某处，绝对在自己栖息地的感觉，犹如礼拜堂里的一个虔诚的女信徒，又如鱼缸中的一只金鱼。他在吸烟的间歇，说道：

“不久之前，我有一次非常独特的艳遇。”

所有人几乎异口同声，要求道：“讲来听听。”

他便说下去。

好吧。你们都知道，我在巴黎走的地方很多，就像爱收集小摆设的人，到处探寻摆设的

橱窗那样。我则窥探热闹，窥探人，注视眼前经过的一切、发生的所有事。

且说九月中旬，一天午后我出门，去哪儿还不知道，天气好极了，就像此刻这样。男人总有一种模糊的欲望，不期而遇一位美女，而且在脑子里挨排挑选，比较，酌量她们能引起你多大兴趣，对你能施展多大魅力最终还是决定要看当天的吸引力了。不过，阳光明媚，天气温暖，往往就没什么兴致拜访人了。

阳光真是明媚，天气真是温暖，我点着一支雪茄，糊里糊涂走在环城大道上。我溜达了一会儿，便心生一念，何不一直走到蒙马特公墓，进去瞧瞧呢。我呢，很爱看公墓，能休息，也感受点儿忧伤，这是我所需要的。而且，有些好友，也在那里安息，再也没人去探视了；我呢，时而还去看望。

恰恰在这座蒙马特墓园，有我一段感情史。一个矮小的可爱女子，一个对我非常钟情也让我特别动情的相好。每每想起来，心里就难过到极点，同时也深感痛惜，百感交集的痛

惜。我就去她的墓畔静思，她走完了这一生。

此外，我也喜爱墓园，只因这是一座座大城池，居民异常密集。你们想想看，在这狭小的空间，埋葬了多少死者，世世代代的巴黎人，在这儿找到永久的归宿，关进小小的墓穴里，埋进小土坑，上面盖着一块石板或者立个十字架标志，彻彻底底成为穴居人；反之，活在世上的这些蠢货，却占据了大片地方，大肆喧哗闹腾。

再者，公墓里有些纪念性建筑物，其价值几乎不亚于博物馆的藏品。我得承认，卡芬雅克的坟墓，不用比较，就能让我联想到让·古戎的杰作——鲁昂大教堂地下礼拜堂里路易·德·布雷泽墓的全身浮雕像。先生们，凡是称得上现代和现实主义的艺术均来源于此。路易·德·布雷泽的浮雕像，比起今天在墓中所有受刑折磨的尸体，显得更为真实，更为骇人，更具有临终后痉挛且已无生命的肉体感。

不过，在蒙马特公墓，还能观赏到博丹宏伟的纪念碑，以及戈蒂埃、米尔热的墓碑。而

有一天，我看到米尔热的碑前，仅仅摆放了一个可怜的黄蜡菊花圈，是谁送的呢？也许是最后一个小女工，如今年迈，在附近当看门人时送来的吧？这是米勒制作的一尊小雕像，很精美，但是因为无人照管而肮脏不堪。米尔热哟，歌唱青春吧！

且说我走进蒙马特公墓，忽然一阵感伤袭上心头，倒是一种不太难受的忧伤，是那种能让健康的人思考的忧伤：“这地方嘛，没多大意思，不过，我还没有到迁居这里的时候。”秋色印象，暗淡的枯叶氤氲着温暖的潮湿，微弱的阳光强化了飘浮在这上空的孤独和终结的感受，为这墓园染上了些浪漫色彩。

我漫步在这些故冢的街道上，这里的邻居们绝不往来，再也不同床共枕，再也不看报了。我呢，则开始读起碑文来。读碑文，真的，这是世上最有趣的事。拉比升也好，梅拉克也罢，从来就没有滑稽得像碑文这样能引我如此发笑的文字。啊！这些大理石墓板，这些十字架上的文字，远高于保罗·德·科克的书，更能令

人捧腹大笑：父母倾诉丧失孩子的憾恨，唯愿逝者在另一个世界生活幸福，并且希望日后相聚——开什么玩笑！

不过，在这座墓园中，我尤其喜爱被遗弃的部分，非常凄清，布满紫杨和翠柏。埋葬前人的老区，用不了多久，又会重新变成新区，伐倒那些以死者遗体为养料的绿树，将新近的死者埋进排列整齐的小块大理石板下面。

我游荡了一段时间，头脑清爽了，心下明白就要感到乏味了，得赶紧到我那女友长眠的“床位”，敬献我忠诚的哀思。我走到她的墓前，感到一阵揪心。亲爱的人啊，多么可怜，生前她那么温柔，那么深情，那么白净，那么清新……而现在……如果开棺瞧瞧……隔着铁栅栏，我俯身对她低声讲述我的哀痛，当然她根本听不见了，正要离去，却瞥见旁边墓前跪着一位女子，身穿重孝，一色黑衣裙。她撩起黑纱，露出一副令人惊艳的容貌，那头金发分梳在两鬓，在她头巾的黑夜中仿佛照耀着曙光。我停下来。自不待言，她一定心潮涌动着深深

的痛苦，目光埋藏在双手里，全身僵直不动，俨然一尊沉思的雕像，行进在痛惜之路上，在遮蔽眼睛的阴影里，数着前尘往事折磨人的念珠，她自身仿佛一个死了的女人，可能在思念一个死去的男人。忽然，我看出她要哭了，只见她后背微微颤动，宛如弱风拂柳，我才做此猜想。起初她在饮泣，逐渐哭得厉害，脖颈和肩头急速抖动。猛然，她移开手，露出双眼，漫溢着泪水，很是迷人，惊慌的眼神扫视周围，处于从噩梦中醒来的状态。她瞧见我正注视她，不免有些羞愧，整张脸重又埋在双手中。这时，她的哭泣变得抽噎了，脑袋缓慢俯向大理石墓板，额头贴在上面，纱巾披散开，罩住了爱人坟墓的白衣角，仿佛新戴的孝。我听见她呜咽，继而全身瘫软，脸颊贴着石板，静止不动，失去了知觉。

我急步上前，拍打她的双手，往她眼睑吹气，同时浏览了十分简单的碑文：

“海军陆战队上尉，路易·泰奥道尔·卡雷尔之墓，战死于东京湾。为他的灵魂祈祷吧。”

数月前死去的。我也伤心为之落泪，便加倍努力救护。救护奏了效，她苏醒过来。当时我的神情很激动——我的相貌也不赖，未满四十岁——从她投来的第一眼，我就明白她是个懂礼貌、知感激的人。随后她又流了泪，讲述了身世，证明她确实是这样的人。她抽泣着，断断续续倾吐胸臆，说她是个孤女，父母双亡，这位军官出于爱情才娶她的，因为她的嫁妆勉强说得过去，不料结婚才一年，丈夫便倒在东京湾了。

我劝解，安慰她，扶她立起身，搀她站起来。然后，我对她说。

“不要在这里逗留了。跟我来吧。”

她喃喃答道：

“我走不了路了。”

“别担心，我帮您。”

“谢谢，先生，您真是好人。您来这里，也是祭拜死者吗？”

“是的，夫人。”

“死去的一位女子？”

“是的，夫人。”

“您妻子？”

“一位女友。”

“爱一位女友，也可能像爱妻子那样，爱情并无规范。”

“是的，夫人。”

于是，我们就一道走了，她偎依在我身上，在出墓园这一路，我几乎是抱着她走的。出来之后，她气息微弱，说道：“我觉得自己要病了似的。”

“要不要找个地方，您进去喝点儿什么？”

“好吧，先生。”

我看到一家饭馆，是办完丧事之后，亲友聚一聚的那种馆子。我们进去，我给她要了一杯热茶，她喝下去似乎有了点儿精神，嘴角泛起了一抹微笑，跟我谈起了她本人。要多凄凉有多凄凉啊，生活中孤单一人，在家里，白天黑夜，总是形影相吊，纵使有什么风情，信赖体恤、亲近相处的情意，也没有任何人可给予了。

这种话听来很诚恳，从她口中讲出来，也

讨人喜欢。我动了情感。她非常年轻，或许就二十岁。我恭维她几句，她坦然接受了。看看时间不早了，我提议叫辆车送她回家，她同意了。我们坐上出租马车，肩靠着肩挤在一起，体温透过衣服相交融，这种事最令人心猿意马了。

马车停到她家的楼门口，她低声问道：“我觉得单独上不了楼了，我住在五层。您这么热心，能不能搀扶我送到家呢？”

我赶忙答应了。她缓慢上楼，还气喘吁吁。到了她的家门口，她又说道：“您进屋坐一坐，好让我向您表示感谢。”

没的说，我进去了。

房间不大，甚至有点儿贫寒，但是很简朴，她家里收拾得整整齐齐。我们并排坐到小型长沙发上，她又向我提起她的孤寂。她摇铃唤女仆，要吩咐给我端上什么喝的。女仆没有来。我心下暗喜，想必那个女仆只是上午来干活，即所谓的清洁女工。她已经摘了帽子。她那双明澈的眼睛凝视我，样子确实非常可爱：那么明澈，又那么凝视，激发起我的极大欲念。

我情不自禁，一把将她搂在怀里，亲吻她那忽然闭起的眼睛，吻了又吻，吻个没够。她挣扎着推我，连声说：“行了，行了，行了！”

她这话是什么意思呢？此情此景，“行了”至少可能有两层意思。我要让她住声，就从眼睛移吻到嘴上，从而给“行了”这话赋予我喜爱的定义。她并不过分抗拒。在冒犯了对死于东京湾的上尉的纪念之后，我们重又凝视着对方时，她那样子显得倦怠、温柔、驯顺，这便驱散了我的不安情绪。

于是，我献起殷勤，因感激而更加热情。大约又交谈了一小时之后，我就问她：

“您在哪儿用晚餐？”

“在附近的一家小餐馆。”

“独自一人？”

“当然了。”

“您愿意同我共进晚餐吗？”

“去哪儿？”

“林荫大道一家好餐馆。”

她婉拒了一下，我坚持邀请，她就退让

了，给自己找了个台阶下：“我太烦闷，太烦闷了。”随后又补充一句：“我得换一条衣裙，颜色别这么暗了。”她说着，走进自己的画室。再一出来，她已换成戴半孝了，穿了一条灰色连衣裙，非常朴素，突显苗条的身段更有魅力了。显而易见，她有两套装束：扫墓的孝服，出门的便装。

晚餐很开心。她喝了香槟，兴奋起来，活跃起来。我同她一道回到她家里。在墓畔结缘的这段关系，大约持续三周。可是，人做什么事都有个够，尤其是男女的事儿。我借口一趟远行推不掉，便离开了她。分手时我也出手大方，她也向我千恩万谢。她让我答应她，向她发誓，我一归来就去找她，因为，她对我似乎真的有点儿依依不舍了。

我又另寻新欢去了，大约过了一个月，我也没有多大意愿再去见墓地艳遇的那个小妞。然而，我却忘不掉她……对她的记忆萦绕心头，仿佛一个秘密，仿佛一种心理问题，又像一种困扰我们的无解的疑问。

有一天，也说不清为什么，我想象到蒙马特公墓，就能见到她，于是去了。

我在墓园久久漫步，仅仅遇见那里的常客，还没有完全斩断同死者关系的那些人。至于在东京湾阵亡的那个上尉的墓前，既不见跪在大理石上哭泣的那位女子，也没有祭奠的鲜花、花圈。

不过，在这座亡灵的大城池，我误入另一个街区，忽然发现一条狭窄的十字架林荫路尽头，有一对身穿重孝的男女朝我走过来。噢，好不惊愕！他们渐行渐近，我认出那个女的：正是她！

她看见我，脸一红，与我擦肩而过时，她还向我打了个小暗号，向我丢了个眼色，示意“装作不认识我”，似乎还表明：“来看我呀，心爱的。”

那男人很体面，风度翩翩，佩戴着四级荣誉团勋章，年纪约有五十岁。他搀扶着她，一如我本人曾那样搀扶她走出公墓。

我走开了，不免十分惊诧，心中回味刚看

到的情景。这个墓园女猎手究竟属于哪类人，莫非就是个普通妓女，揽客有了灵感，专门在墓区拉伤心的男人，即心里还装着一个女人，妻子或情妇，还因念念不忘失去的恩爱而魂不守舍的那种男人。她是独此一家吗？抑或还有数人呢？莫非这是一种职业？在墓地也像在街头人行道那样吗？公墓妓女！再不然，唯独她发此奇想，能从哲学的深度发掘，到这种悲凄哀悼的场所，唤醒痛惜的爱情吧？

我真想知道，那天她是哪位墓主的孀妇呢？

Cockcrow

Madame Berthe d’Avancelles had rejected the advances of her admirer Baron Joseph de Croissard to such an extent that he was now in despair. He had pursued her relentlessly throughout the winter in Paris, and now at his château at Carville in Normandy he was holding a series of hunting parties in her honour.

The husband, Monsieur d’Avancelles, turned a blind eye to all this. It was rumoured that they lived separate lives on account of a physical shortcoming of his which Madame could not overlook. He was a fat little man with short arms, short legs, a short neck, short nose, short everything in fact.

Madame d’Avancelles, in contrast, was a tall, chestnuthaired, determined- looking young woman. She laughed openly at old Pipe and Slippers as she called him to his face but looked with tender indulgence on her admirer, the titled Baron Joseph de Croissard, with his broad shoulders, his sturdy neck and his fair, drooping moustache.

Until now, however, she had granted him no favours despite the fact that he was spending a fortune on her, throwing a constant round of receptions, hunting parties, and all kinds of celebrations to which he invited the local aristocracy.

All day long the woods rang to the sound of hounds in full cry after a fox or a wild boar and every night a dazzling display of fireworks spiralled upwards to join the sparkling stars. A tracery of light from the drawing- room windows shone on the huge lawns where shadowy figures occasionally passed.

It was the russet season of autumn when leaves swirled over the gardens like flocks of birds. Wafting on the air came the tang of damp, bare earth, caught as the smell of a woman’s naked flesh as her gown slips down to the floor after the ball.

On an evening during a reception held the previous spring, Madame d’Avancelles had replied to an imploring Monsieur de Croissard with the words: ‘If I am to fall at all, my friend, it will certainly not be before the leaves do likewise. I’ve far too many things to do this summer to give it a thought.’ He had remembered those daring words of hers spoken so provocatively and was now pressing his advantage. Each day he crept closer, gaining more and more of the bold beauty’s heart until by this point her resistance seemed hardly more than symbolic.

Soon there was to be a great hunting party. The night before, Madame Berthe had said laughingly to the Baron:‘Tomorrow, Baron, if you manage to kill the beast I shall have something to give you.’

He was up at dawn reconnoitring where the wild boar was wallowing. He accompanied his whips, setting out the order of the hunt in such a way that he should return from the field in triumph. When the horns sounded for the meet, he appeared in a well- cut hunting costume of scarlet and gold. With his upright, broad- chested figure and flashing eyes he glowed with good health and manly vigour.

The hunt moved off. The boar was raised and ran, followed by the baying hounds rushing through the undergrowth. The horses broke into a gallop, hurtling with their riders along the narrow forest paths while far behind the following carriages drove noiselessly over the softer verges.

Teasingly, Madame d’Avancelles kept the Baron at her side, slowing down to walking pace in an interminably long, straight avenue along which four rows of oaks arched vaultlike towards each other. Trembling with both desire and frustration he listened with one ear to the young woman’s light badinage, the other pricked for the hunting horns and the sound of the hounds growing fainter by the minute.

‘So you love me no longer,’ she was saying.

‘How can you say such a thing?’ he replied.

‘You do seem to be more interested in the hunt than in me,’ she went on. He groaned. ‘You do remember your own orders don’t you? To kill the beast myself.’

‘Indeed I do,’ she added with great seriousness. ‘Before my very eyes.’ At this he quivered impatiently in the saddle, spurred on his eager horse and finally lost his patience.

‘For God’s sake, Madame, not if we stay here a minute longer.’

‘That is how it has to be nevertheless,’ she cried laughingly. ‘Otherwise, you’re out of luck.’

Then she spoke to him gently, leaning her hand on his arm and, as if absentmindedly, stroking his horse’s mane. They had turned right on to a narrow path overhung with trees when, suddenly swerving to avoid one of their low branches, she leaned against him so closely that he felt her hair tickling his neck. He threw his arms around her and pressing his thick moustache to her forehead planted upon it a passionate kiss.

At first she was motionless, stunned by his ardour, then with a start she turned her head and, either by chance or design, her own delicate lips met his beneath their blond cascade. Then, out of either embarrassment or regret for the incident she spurred her horse on the flank and galloped swiftly away. For a long while they rode straight on together, without so much as exchanging a glance.

The hunt in full cry was close and the thickets seemed to shake, when suddenly, covered in blood and shaking off the hounds that clung to him, the boar went rushing past through the bushes. The Baron gave a triumphant laugh, cried ‘Let him who loves me follow me!’ and disappeared, swallowed up by the forest. When Madame d’Avancelles reached an open glade a few minutes later he was just getting up, covered with mud, his jacket torn and his hands bloody, while the animal lay full length on the ground with the Baron’s knife plunged up to the hilt in its shoulder.

The quarry was cut by torchlight on that mild and melancholy night. The moon gilded the red flames of the torches which filled the air with pine smoke. The dogs, yelping and snapping, devoured the stinking innards of the boar while the beaters and the gentlemen, standing in a circle around the spoil, blew their horns with all their might. The flourish of the hunting horns rose into the night air above the woods. Its echoes fell and were lost in the distant valleys beyond, alarming nervous stags, a barking fox and small grey rabbits at play on the edge of the glades. Terrified night birds fluttered above the crazed pack while the women, excited a little by the violence and vulnerability surrounding these events, leaned a little heavily on the men’s arms and, without waiting for the hounds to finish, drifted off with their partners down the many forest paths. Feeling languid after all the exhausting emotion of the day Madame d’Avancelles said to the Baron: ‘Would you care for a turn in the park, my friend?’

He gave no answer, but trembling and unsteady with desire pulled her to him. Instantly they kissed and as they walked very slowly under the almost leafless trees through which moonlight filtered, their love, their desire and their need for each other was so intense that they almost sank down at the foot of a tree.

The horns had fallen silent and the exhausted hounds were sleeping by now in their kennels.

‘Let us go back,’ the young woman said. They returned.

Just as they reached the château and were about to enter, she murmured in a faint voice: ‘I’m so tired, my friend, I’m going straight to bed.’ As he opened his arms for one last kiss she fled, with the parting words: ‘No . . . to sleep . . . but . . . let him who loves me follow me!’

An hour later when the whole sleeping château seemed dead to the world the Baron crept on tiptoe out of his room and scratched at the door of his friend. Receiving no reply he made to open it and found it unbolted.

She was leaning dreamily with her elbows on the window ledge. He threw himself at her knees which he showered with mad kisses through her nightdress. She said nothing, but ran her dainty fingers caressingly through the Baron’s hair. Suddenly, as if coming to a momentous decision, she disengaged herself and whispered provocatively: ‘Wait for me. I shall be back.’ Her finger raised in shadow pointed to the far end of the room where loomed the vague white shape of her bed.

With wildly trembling hands he undressed quickly by feel and slipped between the cool sheets. He stretched out in bliss and almost forgot his friend as his weary body yielded to the linen’s caress. Doubtless enjoying the strain on his patience, still she did not return. He closed his eyes in exquisitely pleasurable anticipation. His most cherished dream was about to come true. Little by little his limbs relaxed, as did his mind, where thoughts drifted, vague and indistinct. He succumbed at last to the power of great fatigue and finally fell asleep.

He slept the heavy, impenetrable sleep of the exhausted huntsman. He slept indeed till dawn. Then from a nearby tree through the still half- open window came the ringing cry of a cock. Startled awake, the Baron’s eyes flew open. Finding himself, to his great surprise, in a strange bed and with a woman’s body lying against his he remembered nothing and stammered as he struggled into consciousness: ‘What? Where am I? What is it?’

At this, she, who had not slept a wink, looked at the puffy, red- eyed and dishevelled man at her side. She answered in the same dismissive tone she took with her husband. ‘Nothing,’ she said, ‘it’s a cock. Go back to sleep, Monsieur. It’s nothing to do with you.’

Femme Fatale

The restaurant, Le Grillon, Mecca of the entire local boating community, was now slowly emptying. At the main entrance a large crowd of people were calling and shouting out to each other. With oars on their shoulders, strapping great fellows in white jerseys waved and gesticulated. Women in light spring frocks were stepping cautiously into the skiffs moored alongside and, having settled themselves in the stern of each, were smoothing out their dresses. The owner of the establishment, a tough- looking, red- bearded man of legendary strength, was helping the pretty young things aboard and with a practised hand was holding steady the gently bobbing craft.

The oarsmen then took their places, playing to the gallery and showing off broad chests and muscular arms in their sleeveless vests. The gallery in this case consisted of a crowd of suburbanites in their Sunday best, as well as a few workmen and some soldiers, all leaning on the parapet of the bridge and watching the scene below with keen interest. One by one the boats cast off from the landing stage. The oarsmen leaned forward and with a regular swing pulled back. At each stroke of the long, slightly curved blades the fast skiffs sped through the water making for La Grenouillère and growing progressively smaller till they disappeared beyond the railway bridge and into the distance.

Only one couple now remained. The slim, pale- faced young man, still a relatively beardless youth, had his arm around the waist of his girl, a skinny little grasshopper of a creature with brown hair. They stopped from time to time to gaze into each other’s eyes.

The owner cried: ‘Come on, Monsieur Paul, get a move on!’

The couple moved down closer. Of all the customers, Monsieur Paul, who paid regularly and in full, was the best liked and most respected. Many of the others ran up bills and frequently absconded without settling them. The son of a senator, he was also an excellent advertisement for the establishment. When some stranger asked, ‘And who’s that young chap over there with his eyes glued to the girl?’ one of the regulars would murmur, in a mysterious, important sort of way, ‘Oh, that’s Paul Baron, you know, the son of the senator.’ Then the stranger would inevitably have to comment,‘Poor young devil, he’s got it bad.’ The proprietress of Le Grillon, a good businesswoman and wise in the ways of the world, called the young man and his companion ‘my two turtle doves’ and looked with tender indulgence on the love affair which brought such glamour to her establishment.

The couple ambled slowly down to where a skiff called the Madeleine was ready. Before embarking, however, they stopped to kiss once more, much to the amusement of the audience gathered on the bridge. Finally, Monsieur Paul took up the oars and set off after the others also making for La Grenouillère.

When they arrived it was getting on for three and here too the vast floating café was swarming with people. It is in effect one huge raft with a tarpaulin roof supported by wooden columns. It is connected to the charming island of Croissy by two narrow footbridges, one of which runs right through to the centre of the café itself. The other connects at the far end with a tiny islet where a single tree grows and which is nicknamed the Pot- de- Fleurs. From there it connects with the land again via a bathing pool.

Monsieur Paul moored his boat alongside the café, climbed up to its balustrade then, holding his girl’s two hands, guided her up also. They entered, found a place for two at the end of a table and sat down opposite each other.

Lining the towpath on the opposite side of the river was a long string of vehicles. Fiacres alternated with the flashy carriages of gay young men- about- town. The first were lumbering great hulks whose bodywork crushed the springs beneath and to which were harnessed broken- down old hacks with drooping necks. The other carriages were streamlined, with light suspension and fine, delicate wheels. These were drawn by horses with slender, straight, strong legs, heads held high and bits snowy with foam. Their solemn, liveried drivers, heads held stiffly inside huge collars, sat ramrod straight with their whips resting on their knees.

The river banks were crowded with people coming and going in different kinds of configurations: family parties, groups of friends, couples and individuals. They idly plucked at blades of grass, wandered down to the water’s edge then climbed back up to the path. Having reached a certain spot they all congregated to wait for the ferryman whose heavy boat plied constantly back and forth, depositing passengers on the island.

The branch of the river, incidentally called the dead branch, which this floating bar dominates, seemed asleep, so slowly did the current move there. Flotillas of gigs, skiffs, canoes, pedaloes and river craft of all kinds streamed over the still water, mingling and intersecting, meeting and parting, running foul of each other, stopping, and with a sudden jerk of their oarsmen’s arms and a tensing of their muscles, taking off again, darting this way and that like shoals of red and yellow fish.

More were arriving all the time; some from Chatou upstream, some from Bougival, downstream. Gales of contagious laughter carried from one boat to another and the air was full of insults, complaints, protestations and howls. The men in the boats exposed their muscular, tanned bodies to the glare of the sun and, like exotic water- plants, the women’s parasols of red, green and yellow silk blossomed in the sterns of their craft.

The July sun blazed in the middle of the sky and the atmosphere was gay and carefree, while in the windless air not a leaf stirred in the poplars and willows lining the banks of the river. In the distance ahead, the conspicuous bulk of Mont- Valérien loomed, rearing the ramparts of its fortifications in the glare of the sun. On the right, the gentle slopes of Louveciennes, following the curve of the river, formed a semi- circle within which could be glimpsed, through the dense and shady greenery of their spacious lawns, the white- painted walls of weekend retreats.

On the land adjoining La Grenouillère strollers were sauntering under the gigantic trees which help to make this part of the island one of the most delightful parks imaginable. Busty women with peroxided hair and nipped- in waists could be seen, made up to the nines with blood red lips and black- kohled eyes. Tightly laced into their garish dresses they trailed in all their vulgar glory over the fresh green grass. They were accompanied by men whose fashion- plate accessories, light gloves, patent- leather boots, canes as slender as threads and absurd monocles made them look like complete idiots.

The part of the island facing La Grenouillère is narrow and between it and the opposite bank where another ferry plies, bringing people over from Croissy, the current is very strong and very fast. Here it swirls and roars, raging like a torrent in a myriad of eddies and foam. A detachment of pontoon- builders wearing the uniform of artillerymen was camped on the bank and some of the soldiers, side by side on a long beam of wood, sat watching the river below.

A noisy, rambunctious crowd filled the floating restaurant. The wooden tables, sticky and awash with streams of spilt drink, were covered with half- empty glasses and surrounded by half- tipsy customers. The crowd sang and shouted and brawled. Red- faced, belligerent men, their hats tipped at the backs of their heads and their eyes glassy with booze, prowled like animals spoiling for a fight. The women, cadging free drinks in the meantime, were seeking their prey for the night. The space between the tables was filled with the usual clientèle – noisy young boating blades and their female companions in short flannel skirts.

One of the men was banging away at the piano using his feet as well as his hands. Four couples were dancing a quadrille and watching them was a group of elegantly dressed young men whose respectable appearance was ruined by the hideous incongruity of the setting.

The place reeked of vice and corruption and the dregs of Parisian society in all its rottenness gathered there: cheats, con men and cheap hacks rubbed shoulders with under- age dandies, old roués and rogues, sleazy underworld types once notorious for things best forgotten mingled with other small- time crooks and speculators, dabblers in dubious ventures, frauds, pimps, and racketeers. Cheap sex, both male and female, was on offer in this tawdry meat- market of a place where petty rivalries were exploited, and quarrels picked over nothing in an atmosphere of fake gallantry where swords or pistols at dawn settled matters of highly questionable honour in the first place.

Every Sunday, out of sheer curiosity some of the people from the surrounding countryside would drop in. Every year would bring a fresh batch of young men, extremely young men at that, keen to make useful contacts. Casual cruisers would amble by and every so often a complete innocent would become embroiled.

La Grenouillère lived up to its name. There was a place for bathing between the tarpaulin- covered raft where drinks were served and the Pot- de- Fleurs. Women with the requisite curves came there to display their wares and their clients. Those less fortunate who required padding and corsetry to pass muster looked disdainfully on as their rivals cavorted and splashed about.

Awaiting their turn to plunge in and thronging around a small diving board were swimmers of every shape and size: some slim and straight as vine- poles, some round as pumpkins, some gnarled as olive- branches, some with bodies curved forward over pot- bellies, some whose vast stomachs threw the body backwards. Each was as ugly as the other as they leapt into the water and splashed the customers drinking at the café next door.

Despite the proximity of the river and the huge trees shading it, the place was suffocatingly hot. Mingling with the fumes of spilt drinks came the smell of flesh and the cheap perfume with which the skin of those trading in sex was drenched. Underlying all these smells was the slight but persistent aroma of talc, which wafted with varying intensity as if an unseen hand were waving some gigantic powder- puff over the entire scene.

All eyes were on the river where the comings and goings of the boats attracted everyone’s attention. Girls sprawled in the stern opposite their strong- wristed menfolk looked with contempt at those still prowling about the island in search of a male to buy them dinner that night. Sometimes when a crew in full swing flashed past their friends ashore would shout and were joined by the crazy, yelling crowd inside the restaurant. At the bend of the river near Chatou boats were constantly coming into view. As they approached and grew more distinct, faces became recognizable and more shouts went up.

A boat with an awning and containing four women came slowly downstream towards them. The woman at the oars was small, lean and past her prime. She wore her hair pinned up inside an oilskin hat. Opposite her a big blonde dressed in a man’s jacket was lying on her back at the bottom of the boat with a foot resting on the thwart on either side of the oarswoman. The blonde was smoking a cigarette and with each jerk of the oars her bosom and her belly quivered. At the very stern of the boat under the awning two beautiful, tall, slender girls, one blonde the other brunette, sat with their arms round each other’s waists watching their two companions.

A shout went up from La Grenouillère: ‘ Aye- aye! Lesbos!’and suddenly a wild clamour broke out. In the terrifying scramble to see, glasses were knocked over and people started climbing on the tables. Everyone began to chant‘Lesbos! Lesbos! Lesbos!’ The words merged into a vague howl before suddenly starting up again, rising into the air, filling the plain beyond, resounding in the dense foliage of the tall surrounding trees and echoing in the distance as if aimed at the sun itself.

During this ovation the oarswoman had calmly come to a halt. The big blonde lying at the bottom of the boat turned her head languorously and raised herself on her elbows. The two in the stern started laughing and waving to the crowd. At this there was even more of a hullabaloo and the place shook with the noise. The men raised their hats and the women waved their handkerchiefs. Every voice, deep and shrill alike, chanted in unison ‘Lesbos!’ This motley collection of undesirables seemed to be saluting a leader, as warships give a gun salute to their passing admiral. From the flotilla of boats also there was wild acclamation for the women’s boat which now continued at its leisurely pace, to land a little further off.

Monsieur Paul’s reaction was unlike that of the others. Pulling a key from his pocket he started using it as a whistle and blew hard. His girl, looking nervous now and even paler than before, pulled his arm to make him stop. This time when she looked into his eyes, it was with fury. But he was beside himself with male jealousy and a deep, instinctive ungovernable rage. His lips trembling with indignation he stammered: ‘Shouldn’t be allowed! They should be drowned like puppies with stones round their necks!’

Madeleine suddenly lost her temper. Her shrill voice became piercing as she lashed out at him: ‘Mind your own business, will you! They’ve got a perfect right to do whatever they want. They’re not doing any harm to anyone. Why don’t you just shut up and leave them alone . . .’

He cut her short. ‘This a matter for the police! If it was up to me I’d have them locked up in Saint- Lazare!’

She gave a start. ‘Oh you would, would you?’

‘Certainly I would. And in the meantime I forbid you to have anything to do with them. I absolutely forbid it, do you understand?’

She shrugged her shoulders at this and said in a suddenly calm voice: ‘Listen, dear, I shall do exactly as I please. If you don’t like it you know what you can do. Get the hell out. Now. I’m not your wife, so shut up.’

He remained silent and they stood staring each other out, breathing rapidly, their mouths set.

At the other end of the café the women were now making their entrance. The two dressed as men led, one gaunt and weatherbeaten, ageing and very mannish. The other, more than amply filling the white flannel outfit with her large bottom and her huge thighs encased in the wide trousers, waddled forward like a fat, bow- legged goose. The two friends followed and the whole boating community surged forward to shake hands.

The four had rented a riverside cottage and lived together there as two couples. Their vice was public, official and perfectly obvious to all. It was referred to quite naturally as something entirely normal. There were rumours about jealous scenes that took place there and about the various actresses and other famous women who frequented the little cottage near the water’s edge. One neighbour, scandalized by the goings- on, alerted the police at one stage and an inspector accompanied by one of his men came to make enquiries. It was a delicate mission: there was nothing the women could be prosecuted for, least of all prostitution. The inspector was deeply puzzled and could not understand what these alleged misdemeanours could possibly be. He asked a whole lot of pointless questions, compiled a lengthy report and dismissed the charges out of hand. The joke spread as far as Saint- Germain.

Like queens they now walked slowly the entire length of La Grenouillère. They seemed happy to be in the limelight and delighted with the attention paid to them by all this riff- raff. Madeleine and her lover watched them, and as they approached the girl’s face lit up.

When the leading couple reached their table Madeleine cried ‘Pauline!’ and the big girl, turning round, stopped, still arm in arm with her midshipwoman.

‘Well good heavens! Madeleine! Darling! Come and join us for a bit. We must catch up!’

Paul tightened his grip on his girl’s wrist but she said, ‘You know what you can do, sweetheart, shove off.’

He kept quiet and let her be. Standing huddled together the women continued their animated conversation sotto voce. Pauline from time to time cast furtive glances at Paul and flashed him an evil, sardonic smile. Finally, unable to bear it a minute longer he suddenly stood up and trembling in every limb leapt towards her. He seized Madeleine by the shoulders and said: ‘Come with me, do you hear? I said you were not to speak to these beastly women!’

Raising her voice, Pauline began to swear at him like a fish wife. People around started laughing. Others stood on tip- toe to get a better look. Under the hail of filthy abuse he was speechless. Feeling contaminated by it and fearing there might be worse to come he retreated, retraced his steps and went to lean on the balustrade overlooking the river, turning his back on the three triumphant women. He stayed there looking at the water and every so often brusquely wiping away the tears that sprang to his eyes.

The fact was that despite himself, without knowing why or how it had happened and very much against his better judgement, he had fallen hopelessly in love. He had fallen as if into some deep and muddy hole. By nature he was a delicate and sensitive soul. He had had ideals and dreamed of an exquisite and passionate affair. And now he had fallen for this little cricket of a creature. She was as stupid as every other woman and not even pretty to make up for it. Skinny and foul- tempered, she had taken possession of him entirely from tip to toe, body and soul. He had fallen under the omnipotent and mysterious spell of the female. He was overwhelmed by this colossal force of unknown origin, the demon in the flesh capable of hurling the most rational man in the world at the feet of a worthless harlot. There was no way he could explain its fatal and total power.

Behind his back now he could feel something evil brewing. Their laughter pierced his heart. What should he do? He knew very well but had not the courage. He stared fixedly at the opposite bank where an angler was fishing, his line perfectly still. All of a sudden the man jerked out of the water a little silver fish which wriggled at the end of his line. Twisting and turning it this way and that he tried to extract his hook, but in vain. Losing patience he started pulling and, as he did so, tore out the entire bloody gullet of the fish with parts of its intestines attached. Paul shuddered, feeling himself equally torn apart. It seemed to him that the hook was like his own love and that if he were to tear it out he too would be gutted by a piece of curved wire hooked deep into his essential self at the end of a line held by Madeleine.

Feeling a hand on his shoulder he started and turned round. Madeleine was standing beside him. Neither spoke. She simply put her elbows on the balustrade beside him and leaned with him, staring out at the river. He tried to think of something to say but failed. He was incapable of analysing what was going on inside him. All he felt now was joy in the very nearness of her and a shameful cowardice on his own part. He wanted to forgive her, to let her do anything in the world she liked provided she never left him again.

After a while in a very gentle voice he asked, ‘Would you like to leave now? We’ll be better off in the boat.’

‘All right my pet,’ she said.

Awash with forgiveness and with tears still in his eyes he held her two hands tightly and helped her on board. Basking in the warmth of the afternoon they rowed upstream again past the willows and the grass- covered banks. When they reached Le Grillon once more it was not yet six, so, leaving their skiff, they set off on foot towards Bezons across the meadows and past the high poplars bordering the banks.

The wide hayfields waiting to be harvested were full of flowers. The sinking sun cast a mantle of russet light over all and in the gentle warmth of the day’s end the fragrance of the grass wafted in on them mingling with the damp smells of the river and filling the air with easy languor and an atmosphere of blessed well- being.

He felt soft and unresistant, in communion with the calm splendour of the evening and with the vague, mysterious thrill of life itself. He felt in tune with the all- embracing poetry of the moment in which plants and all that surrounded him revealed themselves to his senses at this lovely restful and reflective time of day. He was sensitive to it all but she appeared totally unaffected. They were walking side by side when suddenly, bored by the silence, she began to sing. In a squeaky, unmodulated voice she sang one of the catchy tunes of the day which jarred violently with the deeply serene mood of the evening. He looked at her and felt between them an unbridgeable abyss. She was swinging her parasol through the grass with her head down, looking at her feet as she sang, drawing out the notes and adding the odd little trill.

So behind the smooth little brow which he so much adored there was nothing! Absolutely nothing! Its sole concern at the moment was this caterwauling. The thoughts which from time to time passed through it were as vapid as the music. She had no understanding of him. They were as separate and distinct as if they had never met. His kisses had touched her lips only and nothing deeper within.

When, however, she raised her eyes to meet his and smiled, he felt himself melt. Opening his arms out wide to her in a surge of renewed love he clasped her passionately to him. Since he was crushing her dress as he did so, she eventually broke free saying consolingly, ‘Yes, yes, I love you, my pet, now that’s enough.’ In a mad rush of relief he grabbed her round the waist and started to run, dragging her with him. He kissed her on the cheeks, the temples and the neck, all the time dancing with joy. They threw themselves down at the edge of a thicket incandescent in the light of the setting sun. Even before catching their breath they came together. She could not understand the rapture he felt.

Walking back hand in hand they suddenly saw through the trees the river and on it the boat containing the four women. Big Pauline must have caught sight of them at the same time since she straightened up, blew kisses at Madeleine and shouted, ‘See you tonight!’

‘See you tonight!’ shouted Madeleine in reply.

Paul felt his heart turn suddenly to ice. They returned for dinner and settling down in one of the arbours at the side of the water they began to eat in silence. When darkness fell, a candle enclosed in a globe was brought which shed a feeble, glimmering light on the two. All the time they could hear bursts of laughter coming from the large room on the first floor where the boat- trippers were. The couple were just about to order dessert when Paul, taking Madeleine’s hand tenderly in his own, said: ‘Darling, I feel so tired. Shall we make an early night of it?’

But she saw through his little ploy and shot him an enigmatic glance, one of those treacherous looks that so often appear in women’s eyes. She thought for a second, then said,‘You’re perfectly welcome to go to bed if you like but I’ve promised to go to the dance at La Grenouillère.’

Attempting to mask his misery he gave her a pitiful smile and answered in a coaxing, wheedling tone: ‘Be a darling. Let’s both stay here. Please.’

She shook her head without saying a word. He tried again.‘Please, sweetheart . . .’

She cut him off. ‘You know what I said. If you’re not happy, you know where the door is. Nobody’s stopping you. But I’ve promised, and I’m going.’

He put his two elbows on the table, sank his head into his hands and sat brooding. The trippers were coming down the stairs, yelling as usual before setting off for the dance at La Grenouillère. Madeleine said to Paul: ‘Make up your mind. If you’re not coming I’ll ask one of these gentlemen to take me there.’

Paul rose. ‘Come on then,’ he muttered before they too set off. The night was dark and the sky full of stars. Around them the air was still hot and the atmosphere heavy with seething, unseen activity. The warm breeze caressed their faces, its hot breath stifling their own and making them gasp slightly. The skiffs set off, each with a Venetian lantern in the prow. It was too dark to see anything of the boats themselves except for the little patches of colour in the night bobbing and dancing like frenzied glow- worms. Voices sounded from the shadows on all sides as the young couple’s skiff glided gently along. Sometimes when another overtook they would catch the flash of the oarsman’s white- jerseyed back illuminated by his lantern. As they came round the bend of the river, La Grenouillère came into sight in the distance.

In gala mood, the place was decorated with bunting and with strings, clusters and garlands of fairy lights. On the surface of the Seine large barges moved slowly about, representing domes, pyramids and all kinds of monuments picked out in variously coloured lights. Illuminated festoons hung down as far as the water itself, and here and there an enormous red or blue lantern suspended from an invisible rod hung like a huge star in the sky.

All these illuminations shone on the café and floodlit the great trees on the bank whose trunks stood out pale grey and whose leaves were milky green against the deep, pitch black of the fields and of the sky. A band consisting of five local players blared shrill, syncopated music across the water and, hearing it, Madeleine began to sing along. She wanted to go in right away. Paul would have preferred to make a tour of the island first but had to give in. The clientèle had thinned out a little by this time, still consisting mostly of boatmen with the odd sprinkling of middle- class couples and a few young men flanked by girls. The director and organizer of the can- can strutted in his faded black suit and cast round the audience the world- weary, professional eye of a cheap music- hall master of ceremonies. Paul was relieved to see that Big Pauline and her chums were nowhere to be seen.

People were dancing. Couples faced each other and capered about madly, kicking their legs as high as their partners’ noses. The women, who appeared to have double- jointed legs and hips, leapt about in a frou- frou of lifted skirts, flashing their knickers and kicking their legs up over their heads with amazing agility. They wriggled their bellies and shook their bosoms, spreading about them the powerful smell of female flesh in sweat. The males squatted like toads in front of them making faces and obscene gestures. They cavorted and turned cartwheels, posturing meanwhile in hideous parody, as one strapping maid and two waiters served the audience drinks.

Since the café- boat was covered by a roof only and had no side walls to separate it from the outdoors, the whole rumbustious dance was performed against the backdrop of the peaceful night and a firmament dusted with stars. Suddenly Mont- Valérien in the distance lit up as if a fire had started behind it. The glow deepened and spread, describing a wide, luminous circle of pale light. Then a ruby- coloured shape appeared, grew large, and glowed like red- hot metal. The circle widened further still and seemed to be emerging from the earth itself, as the moon, breaking free of the horizon, sailed gently upwards into space. As it rose, its crimson glow dimmed and turned to an increasingly light then bright yellow. As the planet climbed higher it grew smaller and smaller still in the distance.

Paul, lost in long contemplation of this sight, had become oblivious of his girl. When he turned round she had disappeared from view. He looked for her in vain. Having searched anxiously and systematically up and down the rows of tables he started asking people. No one had seen her. He then began to wander about wretchedly until one of the waiters said: ‘If you’re looking for Madame Madeleine, she went off a little while ago with Madame Pauline.’

Simultaneously, he caught sight of the midshipwoman and the two beautiful girls sitting at the opposite end of the café, arms round each other’s waists, watching him and whispering. Realizing what had happened, he ran off like a madman towards the island. Chasing first in the direction of Chatou, he stopped at the edge of the plain, turned and retraced his steps. He began to search the dense coppices, wandering about aimlessly and stopping every so often to listen. All he could hear around him was the short, metallic croak of frogs. Towards Bougival an unfamiliar bird sang a song which reached him faintly from a distance. Over the broad fields the moon shed a soft, filmy light. It filtered through the foliage, silvering the barks of the poplars and casting a shower of brilliant moonbeams on the shimmering tops of the tallest trees. Despite himself Paul was enchanted by the intoxicating loveliness of the night. It penetrated the terrible anguish he was feeling and stirred in his heart a fierce sense of irony. He longed with all his gentle and idealistic soul for a faithful woman to worship – someone in whose arms he could express all his love and tenderness as well as his passion.

Choked by racking sobs, he had to stop in his tracks. Having recovered a little he went on, only to feel a sudden stab in his heart. There, behind that bush . . . a pair of lovers! He ran forward and saw their silhouettes united in a seemingly endless kiss before they quickly ran off at his approach. He dared not call out, knowing full well that his own girl would not respond. He was desperately afraid now of coming upon them all of a sudden. The music of the quadrilles with its piercing solo cornets, the mock gaiety of the flute and the scraping of the fiddles pulled at his own heartstrings and deepened the pain he continued to feel.

Suddenly it occurred to him that she might have gone back in! Yes, that was it! She must have returned. He had lost all sense of proportion, he was stupid, he had been carried away by all the silly suspicions and fears that always haunted him. In one of those periods of strange calm which occur during periods of the blackest despair he turned and began to make for the café again.

He took in the whole room at a single glance. She was not there. He checked all the tables, and once again came face to face with the three women. He must have looked the picture of dejection for the three burst out laughing. Rushing out again, he ran back to the island. He threw himself into the coppices and stopped to listen once more. It was some time before he could hear anything save the roaring in his own ears. Finally, however, he thought he could hear some way ahead a shrill little laugh he knew only too well. Creeping forward he fell to his knees and crawled on, parting the branches cautiously as he went. His heart was beating so wildly in his chest that he could hardly breathe. Two voices were murmuring. He could not make out what they were saying. Then they fell silent again.

He had a sudden furious desire to run away, not to see, not to know and to keep on running to escape from the raging passion with which he was consumed. He would return to Chatou, catch a train and never come back. He would never see her again. Just as suddenly her face appeared in his mind’s eye. He saw her as she was waking up next to him in their warm bed. He saw her snuggle up to him and throw her arms round his neck. Her hair was loose and a little tangled over her brow. Her eyes were still closed and her lips parted, waiting for the first kiss of the day. The thought of this morning’s embrace filled him with unbearable regret and frantic desire.

They were talking again. He approached bent double. Then a cry rose from under the branches close to him. That cry! It was one of those he had come to know from their most tender, their most passionate love- making. He crept even closer, drawn irresistibly, blindly, despite himself . . . and then he saw them.

Oh! If only the other person had been a man! But this! He was transfixed by the loathsome sight before him. He remained there overwhelmed by shock. It was as though he had just stumbled upon the mutilated body of a loved one. It was a crime against nature, a monstrous and wicked desecration. Suddenly flashing into his mind’s eye this time came the image of the little fish whose entrails he had earlier seen ripped out. Madeleine was moaning ‘Pauline’, exactly as she used to moan ‘Paul’ to him. Hearing it, he felt such pain that he turned and fled. He hurtled into one tree and ricocheted into another, fell over a root, picked himself up and ran again until suddenly he found himself at the edge of the river. The raging torrent made whirls and eddies on which the moonbeams now played. On the opposite side the bank loomed over the water like a cliff, leaving a wide band of black at its foot from which the sound of the swirling water rose in the darkness. Clearly visible on the other side were the weekend homes at Croissy.

Paul saw all this as if in a dream or as something remembered. He was no longer thinking. He understood nothing now. Everything including his own existence seemed vague, distant, forgotten and finished. There was the river. Did he know what he was doing? Did he want to die? He had lost his mind. Nevertheless he turned round to face the island where she was. Into the night in which the faint but persistent beat of the dance- band still throbbed back and forth, he shouted, ‘Madeleine!’

His heart- rending call pierced the great silence of the sky and echoed, lost in the distance. Then with a furious animal- like leap he plunged into the river. The water splashed then closed over the spot setting up a series of ever- widening circles which rippled in the moonlight as far as the opposite bank. The two women had heard. Madeleine got up and said,‘That’s Paul.’ A suspicion arose suddenly in her mind. ‘He’s drowned himself,’ she said and rushed towards the bank where Pauline caught up with her.

A heavy punt with two men in it was circling over and over around the same spot. One of the men rowed while the other was plunging a long pole into the water evidently looking for something. Pauline shouted: ‘What’s happened? What are you doing?’

A stranger’s voice cried: ‘A man’s just drowned himself.’

With haggard faces the two women huddled together and watched the boat’s manoeuvres. The music from La Grenouillère pounding in the distance provided a grim counterpoint to the movements of the solemn fishermen. The river, now containing a corpse in its depths, continued to swirl in the moonlight. The search was prolonged and Madeleine, waiting in horrible suspense, shivered. Finally, after a good half- hour, one of the men announced: ‘I’ve got him!’

Very gradually he pulled in the boathook. A large mass appeared at the surface of the water. The other boatman left his oars and between the two, each heaving with all his strength, they managed to haul the inert body and bring it tumbling into the boat. They soon reached the bank and found an open, flat space in the moonlight. As they landed, the women approached.

As soon as she saw him Madeleine recoiled in horror. In the light of the moon’s rays he looked green already and his mouth, his eyes, his nose and his clothes were full of the river’s slime. The stiff fingers of his clenched fist looked hideous. Black, liquid silt covered his entire body. The face looked swollen and from his hair now plastered down with ooze a stream of filthy water ran. The two men examined him.

‘You know him?’ asked one.

The other, the Croissy ferryman, hesitated.

‘Seems to me I know the face . . .,’ he said, ‘but it’s difficult to tell seeing him like this . . .’

Then suddenly: ‘Oh! I know! It’s Monsieur Paul!’

‘Who’s Monsieur Paul?’ his friend asked.

The first went on: ‘You know! Monsieur Paul Baron. Son of that senator. The kid who was so hooked on that girl, you remember?’

The other added philosophically: ‘No more girls for him now, eh? Poor sod. And with all that money too!’

Madeleine, having collapsed on the ground, was sobbing. Pauline approached the body and said, ‘I suppose he really is dead . . . there’s no chance he might . . . ?’

The men shrugged their shoulders.

‘After that length of time no question.’

Then one of them asked: ‘Was he staying at Le Grillon?’

‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘We’d better take him back there. Handsome tip, mate.’ Re- embarking they set off, moving slowly against the rapid current. Long after they had disappeared from the two women’s sight the regular sound of their oars could still be heard.

Pauline took poor, weeping Madeleine in her arms, kissed and rocked her for a long time and then said: ‘Now look. As long as you know it’s not your fault. You can’t stop men doing stupid things. It was his decision so it’s just too bad, that’s all.’

Then lifting her to her feet, she added, ‘Come on darling! Come and sleep at the house. You can’t go back to Le Grillon tonight.’ She kissed her again. ‘Come on, you’ll feel better with us,’ she said.

Madeleine got up, still sobbing, but less violently. She leaned her head on Pauline’s shoulder. Seeming to find there a safer, warmer refuge and a closer, more intimate affection, she walked slowly away from the scene.

Hautot ＆ Son

The house, half farm and half manor, was one of those combinations often found in the country of a property once vaguely seigneurial and now owned by farmers themselves rich in land. In front of it the dogs tied to the farmyard apple trees were barking and yelping as the keeper and some small boys arrived carrying gamebags.

It was the opening day of the season and in the vast kitchen which served as dining room Hautot senior, Hautot junior, Monsieur Bermont the tax- collector and Monsieur Mondaru the lawyer were having a drink and a bite to eat before setting off on the day’s shoot. Hautot senior, very proud of his property, was telling his guests ahead of time what excellent game they would find on his land. He was a big- boned, ruddy- faced Norman, the powerfully built sort of man who can carry a whole barrel of apples on his shoulders. Somewhat authoritarian in manner, he was wealthy, respected and highly influential. He had sent his son César to school up to the fourth form so that he should have some education, then removed him lest he become so much of a gentleman that he no longer cared about his land.

César Hautot was nearly as tall as his father, but leaner. He was an easy- going, happy- go- lucky young man, a good son to his father whom he greatly admired and to whose every wish and opinion he was happy to defer.

Monsieur Bermont, the tax- collector, was a stout little man on whose red cheeks a maze of violet- coloured veins looked like a network of tortuous rivers and tributaries as might be seen on maps in an atlas. He asked, ‘And hare? Will there be . . . hare?’

Hautot senior replied, ‘As much as you like! Specially round Puysatier.’

‘Where shall we start?’ enquired the lawyer, a portly, well- fed man trussed up now in a new shooting jacket bought the previous week in Rouen.

‘Down at the bottom, I think. We’ll get the partridge out on the plain and then put them up from there.’

With this, Hautot senior rose. Following suit they all stood up and stamped their feet to bring warmth and suppleness to the leather of their newly- donned and tight- fitting boots. They collected the guns propped up in various corners of the room, examined the locks, then left the house. Outside, the dogs, still leashed, were now jumping up on their hind legs, yelping shrilly and pawing the air.

They set off towards the lower grounds and a small valley which was no more than a dip of poor- quality land left purposely uncultivated. It was criss- crossed with gullies and covered with fern – an excellent place for game. The guns spread out, with Hautot senior on the far right, Hautot junior on the far left and the two guests in the middle. The keeper and two gamebag carriers followed. Nervously fingering their triggers and with their hearts beating fast they stopped and stood waiting in solemn silence for the first shot of the season to ring out.

There it was! Hautot senior had fired. They saw one partridge fall away from the headlong flight of birds and come down in a gully covered with thick brush. Highly excited, Hautot leapt up and ran off, tearing up everything in his way and finally disappearing into the undergrowth to pick up his quarry. Almost immediately a second shot rang out.

‘The lucky devil!’ cried old Bermont. ‘He’s picked off a hare while he’s at it!’

They all waited, eyes fixed on the dense, impenetrable under growth. Cupping his hands round his mouth, the lawyer yelled: ‘Have you got them?’

Since no answer came from Hautot senior, César, turning to the keeper, said: ‘Go and give him a hand, Joseph, will you? We must spread out in line. We’ll wait for you.’

Joseph, a great gnarled tree- trunk of a man, set off calmly down towards the gully. Like a fox he carefully reconnoitred the easiest way through the brush. Having found it and disappeared, he cried out suddenly: ‘Come quick! Quick! There’s been an accident!’

Each man tore through the bushes towards the scene. When they got there they saw Hautot lying on his side, unconscious, clasping his stomach from which long streams of blood were flowing inside his bullet- torn jacket and into the grass. His fallen partridge within reach, Hautot must have dropped the gun to pick it up and in so doing triggered a second shot which shattered his own entrails. They dragged him from the ditch and on removing some of his clothing found a terrible wound now spilling out his intestines. They ligatured him as best they could and carried him home where the doctor they had sent for was waiting, along with a priest.

When the doctor saw him he shook his head gravely, and turning to Hautot’s son who was sobbing in a chair, said,‘My poor boy, I’m afraid it doesn’t look at all good.’

But when a dressing had been applied, the injured man moved his fingers, opened his mouth, then a pair of haggard eyes, and cast a few anxious glances around him. He seemed to be searching his mind for something and then, when the whole sequence of events came flooding back, murmured:‘Christ almighty! I’ve had it now.’

The doctor took his hand.

‘No! Certainly not! All you need is a few days’ rest and you’ll be absolutely fine.’

Hautot went on: ‘No, I know the score. Shattered stomach. I’ve had it.’

Then suddenly: ‘I want to talk to my son if I’ve got time.’

Young Hautot whimpered like a little boy: ‘Papa! Papa! Oh, poor Papa!’

In a firmer tone his father said: ‘Listen, stop crying. Doesn’t help. I’ve got to talk to you. Come close, it’ll only take a minute. Then I’ll feel much better. You lot, can we have a minute or two if you don’t mind?’

The others went out of the room, leaving father and son together. As soon as they were alone the father spoke:‘Listen, my boy, you’re twenty- four, I can tell you everything now. Not that there’s much to tell. Anyway you know when your mother died seven years ago I was . . . well I’m forty- five now. I was married at nineteen by the way, right?’

‘Yes I know.’

‘So when she died she left me a widower at thirty- seven. Can you imagine? Chap like me. Can’t be a permanent widower at thirty- seven, can you my boy?’

‘No father, of course not.’

The father’s face was pale and contorted with pain.

‘God, I’m in agony here. Anyway, to continue. A chap can’t live entirely on his own yet I couldn’t remarry. I’d promised your mum. So . . . are you following?’

‘Yes father.’

‘So. I took up with this girl in Rouen. Rue de l’Éperlan, number 18, third floor, second door. You are taking all this in I hope? This girl, she’s been so good to me, you know. I couldn’t have wished for a sweeter little wife. Loving, devoted, you get the picture my boy?’

‘Yes father.’

‘Well, anyway, if I should pop off I reckon I owe her. A lot. Enough to set her up. You understand?’

‘Yes, father.’

‘When I say she’s a good kid, I mean really good. If it hadn’t been for you, and out of respect for your mother’s memory, if it hadn’t been for this house, and us having lived here, the three of us, I’d have brought her home here and married her, no question. Listen, listen, my boy. I could have made a will but I didn’t. Didn’t want to. Never put things down in writing. Not that sort of thing anyway. Upsets the family. Makes everything too complicated. Everybody at each other’s throats. Who needs legal documents? Don’t ever use them. That’s how I’ve made my money, such as it is. Understand, my boy?’

‘Yes, father.’

‘Listen again, carefully. So I haven’t made a will. Didn’t need to. Because I know you. You’ve got a good heart, you’re not . . . careful . . . tight- fisted, you know what I mean? So I thought when the end came I’d just tell you how things stood and I’d ask you not to forget the girl: Caroline Donet, rue de l’Éperlan, number 18, third floor, second door, don’t forget. Listen again. Go straight there when I’ve gone . . . and make sure she’s seen all right by me. You’ll have plenty. You can do it. I’m leaving you enough. Listen. She won’t be there most of the week, she works for Madame Moreau, rue Beauvoisine. But go on Thursday. That’s when she expects me. That’s my day, has been for six years now. Oh the poor girl! She’s going to be so upset! I’m telling you all this because I know you, my boy. Not the sort of thing you tell everybody. Not the lawyer and not the curé. It happens, everybody knows that, but you don’t discuss it. Not unless you have to. So, no strangers in on it. Just the family that’s all. You understand?’

‘Yes father.’

‘Promise?’

‘Yes father.’

‘Swear?’

‘Yes, father.’

‘I beg of you, my boy, please. Please don’t forget. You mustn’t.’

‘I won’t father.’

‘Go in person. You’re in charge of everything.’

‘Yes, father.’

‘Then you’ll see what she says. I can’t talk any more. Swear to me.’

‘Yes father.’

‘That’s good, my boy. Come and give me a kiss goodbye. I’m nearly finished. This is it. Tell them they can come in.’

Moaning, the younger Hautot kissed his father and, obedient as always, opened the door. The priest appeared wearing a white surplice and carrying the holy oils. But the dying man had closed his eyes and refused to open them again. He refused to reply and refused to give any sign that he knew what was going on.

He had talked enough and could not say another word. Besides, he felt relieved now. He could die in peace. What need was there for him to confess to this delegate of God since he had already confessed to his own son who really was family?

The last rites were administered, and he was given communion in the midst of his kneeling friends and servants with never a movement of his face to indicate that he was still alive. He died at around midnight after four hours of spasms indicative of appalling pain.

The season had opened on the Sunday and Hautot was buried the following Tuesday. Having returned from taking his father to the cemetery, César Hautot spent the rest of the day in tears. He hardly slept that night and was so miserable the next day that he wondered how he could carry on living. Nevertheless he spent the whole day thinking that, if his father’s last wish was to be carried out, he should go to Rouen the following day and see this Caroline Donet at the rue de l’Éperlan, number 18, third floor, second door. He had repeated this like a mantra so many times so as not to forget it, that now he could think of little else. Both his mind and his ear were hypnotized by the phrase. Accordingly, the next morning around eight o’clock, having ordered Graindorge harnessed to the tilbury, he set off at a brisk pace behind the heavy Norman horse on the main road from Ainville to Rouen. He was wearing his black frock- coat, a tall silk topper and his trousers with the straps under the soles. In the circumstances he decided not to wear over his handsome suit the loose blue smock which, flapping in the wind, protected his better clothes against any dust or spots and which he normally shed as soon as he jumped down on arriving at his destination.

He got to Rouen just as ten o’clock was striking and went as usual to the Hôtel des Bons- Enfants, rue des Trois Mares. There he was embraced by the proprietor, the proprietor’s wife and their five sons, all of whom had heard the sad news. After that he had to tell them exactly how the accident had happened and this set him off crying again. He turned down their offers of comfort, all the more insistent now that he was a man of substance, and even refused their invitation to dinner, which really offended them.

Having dusted off his hat, brushed down his frock- coat and given his boots a quick wipe, he set out to find the rue de l’Éperlan. He dared not ask for directions lest he be recognized and suspicions raised. Finally drawing a complete blank, he spotted a priest and counting on the professional discretion of a clergyman found out from him the way to the address. It was very close. In the next street on the right in fact.

He began to feel a little hesitant. Until this moment he had been blindly following his dead father’s instructions. Now he felt a confusing mixture of sorrow and shame as he thought of himself, a son, soon to be face to face with the woman who had been his father’s mistress. All the old moral strictures lying buried in his unconscious under layer after layer of conventional, received wisdom handed down from generation to generation, everything he had learned from his catechism years and since about loose women and the instinctive mistrust men have of them even if they marry one – all these ignorant, peasant values clamoured inside him, held him back and brought a blush of shame to his cheeks.

Nevertheless, he thought, I promised my father. Mustn’t let him down. The door marked 18 was ajar so he pushed it open and saw beyond it a dark stairway which he climbed as far as the third floor. There he saw first one door, then a second with a bell- pull which he now tugged. The tinkle which he heard echo into the room beyond made his heart sink. The door was opened and he found himself standing opposite a very well- dressed, fresh- faced brunette who was staring at him in astonishment.

He had no idea what to say and she, unaware of anything untoward and expecting his father any minute, did not invite him in. They looked at each other for a full thirty seconds, at the end of which she said: ‘Can I help you, monsieur?’

He murmured, ‘I’m Hautot, the son.’

She started, turned pale and stammered as if she had known him all her life: ‘Oh! Monsieur César?’

‘Yes.’

‘What . . . what’s . . . ?’

‘I have a message for you from my father.’

She said, ‘Oh my God!’ and took a step backwards to let him in. He then saw a little boy playing with a cat on the floor in front of a stove where several dishes were cooking.

‘Sit down,’ she said.

He sat down.

‘Well?’ she asked.

He was struck dumb, his eyes on the table in the middle of the room laid for three including a child. He looked at the chair with its back to the fire, the plate, the napkin, the glasses, one bottle of red wine, already drunk from, and one unopened bottle of white. That must be his father’s usual place with his back to the fire! He was still expected by her! That would have been his father’s bread with all the crust removed because of his poor teeth. Raising his eyes, he saw hanging on the wall a large photograph of his father taken at the Paris Exhibition, the duplicate of one which hung over the bed in the master bedroom at Ainville.

The young woman went on: ‘So? Monsieur César?’

He looked at her. She was pale with dread and her hands were trembling fearfully as she waited for him to speak. Eventually he gathered up enough courage to do so. ‘Well Mam’zelle, I’m afraid Papa died on Sunday on the opening day of the shooting season.’

She was shocked literally rigid. After a few moments’silence she said in a barely audible voice, ‘Oh no! He can’t have!’

Then suddenly her eyes filled with tears. She raised her hands to cover her face and began to sob. The little boy, seeing his mother burst into tears and deducing that this stranger was the cause, hurled himself on César, grabbed him by the trouser- leg with one hand and started smacking him on the thigh as hard as he could with the other. César, frantic with grief himself, his own eyes still swollen with crying, was moved at the sight of this woman weeping for his father and the little boy defending the mother. He felt almost overwhelmed with emotion and, in order to keep from breaking down himself, started to speak: ‘Yes,’ he said,‘the tragedy occurred on Sunday morning at eight o’clock . . .’

He went on, assuming she was hearing it all and forgetting no detail, omitting not the smallest incident in a painstaking, plodding peasant way. The little boy continued to smack him and had now begun to kick him on the ankles. When Hautot junior came to the part where Hautot senior had talked about her, the young woman, hearing her own name, uncovered her face and asked: ‘I’m sorry. Could you start again please? I wasn’t taking it in . . . I really want to know what happened . . .’

He began again, using exactly the same words: ‘The tragedy occurred on Sunday morning at eight o’clock . . .’

Again he told her everything, stopping every now and then to punctuate the story with little asides of his own. She listened attentively. With the sensitive perception of a woman, she seized every implication of each twist and turn of events, shuddering with horror and saying ‘Oh my God’ from time to time. The little boy, seeing his mother had calmed down, stopped hitting César and was now holding her hand, listening too as if he understood every word. When he came to the end Hautot junior said: ‘And now what we must do is make sure his wishes are carried out. I’m in a comfortable position. He’s left me property so . . . I wouldn’t want you to feel in any need . . .’

She broke in abruptly: ‘Oh, please, please, Monsieur César! Not today! My heart’s breaking! Another time, another day, perhaps. But not today. And if I were to accept, I do want you to know it would not be for me, oh no, no, no, I swear I wouldn’t want anything for myself but for the little one. We’ll put any money in his name.’

César was aghast. Then the penny dropped. He stammered, ‘You mean . . . he’s his?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said.

Hautot junior looked at his half- brother with a mixture of emotions, all deeply painful. After a long silence, for she had begun to weep again, César was at a complete loss as to what to do. He said: ‘Well then, Mam’zelle Donet, I’d better be going. When would you like us to meet and talk about arrangements?’

She cried out: ‘Oh don’t go! Please! Please don’t leave me and Émile on our own. I’d die of grief. I’ve got nobody now except my little boy. Oh it’s awful, Monsieur César, it’s terrible! Please, please sit down! Talk to me some more. Tell me about what he used to do when he was away from here, when he was back home with you.’

And so César, obedient as always, sat down again. She drew her chair up close to his in front of the stove where the food was still cooking. She put Émile on her lap and asked César hundreds of little intimate questions about his father from which he could see or rather feel instinctively that this poor young woman had loved Hautot with all her heart.

The conversation naturally kept returning to the accident and he told her all over again what had happened, in the same detail. When he said, ‘The hole in his stomach was so big you could have put both hands in it’, she gave a sort of cry and began sobbing yet again. This time César too broke down with her and started to weep. Softened by his own tears he leaned down towards Émile whose forehead was within reach and kissed it. His mother struggled to get her breath back.

‘Poor little mite,’ she said, ‘he’s fatherless now.’

‘Me too,’ said César.

At this, each stopped talking. Suddenly the young woman became the practical housewife who thinks of everything and everyone.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve eaten a thing all morning, have you, Monsieur César?’

‘No, Mam’zelle.’

‘Oh, you must be hungry! Will you have something to eat?’

‘No thank you,’ he said, ‘I’m not hungry. Too upset.’

‘Oh, but you’ve got to eat in spite of everything, you’ll grant me that. Do stay a bit longer. I don’t know what I’ll do when you leave.’

After a few attempts at resistance, he sat down opposite her, and in the chair with its back to the fire he settled down to a dish of the tripe that had been sizzling in the oven, and to a glass of red wine. Several times he wiped the mouth of the little boy who had dribbled sauce all over his chin. As he rose to leave, he said: ‘When would you like me to come back and talk business, Mam’zelle Donet?’

‘If it’s all the same to you, Monsieur César, next Thursday. It’ll save me taking time off. I’ve always got Thursday off anyway.’

‘That’s fine with me. Next Thursday.’

‘You’ll have lunch, won’t you?’

‘Oh, I don’t know . . . really.’

‘It’s much easier to talk over a meal. Saves time too.’

‘All right then. Let’s say twelve o’clock.’

After giving little Émile another kiss and shaking Mademoiselle Donet’s hand he left.

The week passed very slowly for César Hautot. He had never been on his own before and solitude seemed unbearable to him. Until then, he had shadowed his father all his life, following him into the fields, seeing that his orders were carried out, then, after a little while apart, he would see him again at dinner. In the evenings they would sit opposite each other smoking their pipes and talking about horses, cows and sheep. Their morning handshake was an expression of deep family attachment.

And now César was alone. He wandered about in the ploughed fields of autumn, all the time expecting to see the tall silhouette of his father waving to him from some field or other. To kill time he would drop in on neighbours, describe the accident to anyone who had not heard what had happened, and retell the story to those who had. Sometimes when he had run out of things that needed thinking about or doing he would sit down at the side of a cart track and wonder how much longer he could carry on.

He thought often of Mademoiselle Donet. He had liked her very much. He thought she was a very nice person indeed, a good, kind girl as his father had said. Yes, she was a lovely girl. A really lovely girl. He was determined to do her proud and to give her 2,000 francs in interest on capital to be settled on the child. He was rather pleased that he had to go and see her the following Thursday to sort things out with her. The thought of this brother, this new little fellow was a bit of a worry. It bothered him a little, yet at the same time it gave him a warm sort of feeling. There was a bit of kin for him there. The kid born on the other side of the blanket would never be called Hautot, but he was a bit of family with no pressure attached, a bit of his father after all.

When he found himself once more on the way to Rouen on Thursday morning, with these and similar thoughts in his head and the sound of Graindorge’s rhythmical clip- clop, his heart was lighter and his mind calmer than at any time since the accident. As he entered Mademoiselle Donet’s apartment he saw that everything was laid exactly as it had been the previous Thursday with one single exception – the crust of the bread at his place had not been removed.

He shook hands with the young woman, kissed Émile on both cheeks and sat down feeling both very much at home and extremely emotional. Mademoiselle Donet seemed slightly thinner and slightly paler. She must have cried her little heart out. This time she was a bit awkward in her manner towards him as if she had realized something she had been unable to absorb on that first occasion when she was still taking in the enormity of what had happened. She was extremely attentive to his needs and humble in her approach, as if trying to pay back in devotion and service towards him some of the generosity he was showing her. They took a long time over lunch and discussed the business which had brought him there. She did not want so much money. It was too much, far too much. She earned enough to keep herself; all she wanted was that Émile might have something to look forward to when he reached his majority. César, however, stuck to his guns and even added a present for herself as a token of mourning. As he finished his coffee, she asked, ‘Do you smoke?’

‘Yes, I’ve got my pipe here . . .,’ he began.

He patted his pockets. Damnation. He had left it at home! He was just about to bemoan the fact when she produced one belonging to his father which she had kept tucked away in a cupboard. He took it from her and recognized it. Sniffing it and with emotion in his voice, declaring it to be one of the best, he filled and lit it. Then he put Émile on his knee and played ride- a- cock- horse with him while she cleared the table, stacking the dirty dishes in the sideboard to wash later after he had gone.

At about three, when he rose regretfully, he hated the idea of leaving.

‘Well, Mamz’elle Donet,’ he said, ‘I’ll wish you a very good afternoon. I’m delighted to have made your acquaintance like this.’

She remained standing in front of him, blushing and near to tears. As she looked at him she thought of his father.

‘Are we not to see each other again then?’ she asked.

He replied simply: ‘We can, Mam’zelle, if that’s what you’d like.’

‘It most certainly is, Monsieur César. Shall we say next Thursday, if that’s convenient for you?’

‘Indeed it is, Mam’zelle Donet.’

‘You’ll come for lunch, of course?’

‘Well, if you’re offering I wouldn’t say no.’

‘Very well, Monsieur César. Thursday next it is, at twelve o’clock, like today.’

‘Twelve o’clock on Thursday then, Mam’zelle Donet!’

Laid to Rest

Five friends had been dining together. They were all rich, middle- aged men of the world, two of them bachelors, three married men. These monthly meetings of theirs were some of the happiest evenings of their lives. They had all known each other since their youth, remained close friends, enjoyed one another’s company and often stayed talking till two o’clock in the morning. The conversation was about anything and everything that might interest or amuse a Parisian and, as in most drawing rooms, it was a kind of verbal version of the news in the morning papers.

One of the most footloose and fancy- free among them was Joseph de Bardon, a bachelor who exploited to the full all the attractions Paris has to offer. Though not exactly decadent or debauched in his habits, he managed to satisfy all the natural curiosity of a fun- loving man in his late thirties. A man of the world in the best and widest sense of the word, he was witty rather than profound, knowledgeable rather than wise and possessed a quick rather than a deep understanding of human nature. His experiences and encounters provided him with a fund of anecdotes, some edifying, some frankly hilarious. He had a reputation in society as a bright fellow with a good sense of humour – everyone’s favourite after- dinner speaker whose tales were always the ones most looked forward to. He never needed any urging to begin, as he did on this occasion.

Certain creatures at certain times and places look absolutely in their element, let’s say a goldfish in its bowl, a nun in church, or what have you. Sitting there smoking a cigar, with his elbows on the table, a half- filled glass of liqueur brandy to hand and relaxing in a warm haze of coffee and tobacco, he looked like a man in his ideal milieu. Between a couple of puffs he spoke.

‘The funniest thing happened to me not so long ago . . .’

A near- instantaneous chorus replied, ‘Go on, do!’

And he was off.

‘Thank you, I shall. You know I get around Paris a fair amount. As other people window- shop, I watch what’s going on. I watch the world and his brother pass by, I watch what’s going on around me. Well, some time towards the middle of last September, I left the house one afternoon with no clear idea of where I was going. You know how you always have a vague yen to go and see some pretty woman or other . . . you riffle through your little black book, you do a few mental comparisons, you weigh up the possible delights and you decide more or less on the spur of the moment. But when the sun’s shining and it’s warm outside you don’t always want to be cooped up indoors. On this particular day, it was warm and sunny and I lit a cigar before starting to stroll along the outer boulevard. As I was sauntering along I decided to make for the cemetery in Montmartre and have a little wander about there. I like cemeteries, you know. They sadden and they soothe me and I find I need that from time to time. And of course some of one’s chums are there, people nobody goes to see any more. I drop by every so often still. And as it happens, an old flame of mine is buried in Montmatre Cemetery, a lovely little lady I was very keen on at one point in my life, very attached to. So although it’s painful, I find it does me good. I mean all kinds of memories come flooding back while I’m there, letting my thoughts drift beside her grave. It’s all over for her of course . . .

‘The other reason I like cemeteries is because they’re like cities in themselves, densely populated at that. Just think how many generations of Parisians are packed in there for ever; so many people stuck in their caves, their little holes just covered with a stone or marked with a cross, while the living take up so much room and make such a stupid racket.

‘Then of course you’ve got all the monuments, some of them much more interesting than in a museum. Though I wouldn’t put them in the same league, Cavaignac’s grave reminded me so much of that masterpiece by Jean Goujon, the statue of Louis de Brézé in the underground chapel at Rouen cathedral. That’s actually the root of all so- called modern, realist art, you know. That statue of the dead Louis de Brézé is more convincing, more terrible and more suggestive of inanimate flesh still convulsed in the death- agony than any of the tortured corpses you see sculpted these days on people’s tombs.

‘But in Montmartre Cemetery you can still admire the impressive monument to Baudin, the one to Gautier, and that to Murger, on which incidentally, only the other day I spotted one poor solitary wreath of helichrysums. I wonder who put that there. Perhaps the last of the grisettes, now a very old woman and possibly one of the local concierges. It’s a pretty little statue by Millet, suffering badly from neglect and all the accumulated dirt of the years. Oh for the joys of youth, eh, Murger?

‘Anyway there I was, stepping into Montmartre Cemetery, suddenly filled with sadness of a not entirely disagreeable kind, the sort that makes a healthy fellow think “Not the most cheerful of spots, but thank God I’m not stuck in here just yet.” The feeling of autumn, the warm dampness of dead leaves in pale, weak sunshine heightened and romanticized the sense of solitude and finality surrounding this place of the dead.

‘I wandered slowly along the streets of graves where neighbours no longer call, no longer sleep together and never hear the news. Then I started reading the epitaphs. I tell you gentlemen, they are absolutely killing. Not even Labiche or Meilhac can give me more of a laugh than the language of the headstone. When you read what the nearest and dearest have put on the marble slabs and crosses, pouring out their grief and their best wishes for the happiness of the departed in the next world, and their hopes – the liars! – for a speedy reunion, it’s hilarious! Better than a Paul de Kock any day!

‘But what I love most in that cemetery is the deserted, lonely part planted with all those tall yews and cypresses, the old district where those who died long ago now lie. Soon it will become the new part of town; the green trees nourished by human corpses will be felled to make room for the recently departed to be lined up in turn under their own little marble slabs.

‘After I had wandered about long enough to refresh my mind, I realized I was now getting a little bored and that it was time to go to the last resting place of my old love and pay her my ever- faithful respects. By the time I reached her graveside I was feeling quite upset. Poor darling, she was so sweet, so loving, so fair and rosy . . . and now . . . if this spot were ever opened up . . . Leaning on the iron railings I whispered to her a few sad words which I dare say she is unlikely to have heard. I was just about to leave when I saw a woman in deep mourning on her knees at the next graveside. She had lifted her crêpe veil and under it could be seen a pretty head of fair hair, a crown of bright dawn under the dark night of her head- dress. I lingered. In what was obviously deep distress she had buried her face in her hands and, stiff as a statue, was deep in meditation. Absorbed by her grief and telling the painful beads of memory behind closed and hidden eyes, she seemed herself dead to the world in her loss. Suddenly I saw that she was about to break down. I could tell from the slight movement her back made, like a willow stirring in the wind. She wept gently at first then more and more violently with her neck and shoulders shaking hard and rapidly. All of a sudden she uncovered her eyes. Full of tears they were lovely. She looked wildly about her as if waking from a nightmare. She saw me looking at her, seemed ashamed and buried her whole face once more in her hands. Then she burst into convulsive sobs and her head bent slowly down towards the marble slab. She rested her forehead on it and her veil, spreading about her, covered the white corners of her beloved sepulchre like a new mourning- cloth. I heard her moan before she collapsed with her cheek against the tombstone and lay there motionless and unconscious.

‘I rushed over to her, slapped her hands and breathed on her eyelids while reading the simple epitaph beyond:

HERE LIES LOUIS- THEODORE CARREL

Captain of Marines

Killed by the enemy at Tonkin

PRAY FOR HIS SOUL

The date of death was some months earlier. I was moved to tears and redoubled my efforts to revive her. Finally they succeeded and she came to. I’m not bad- looking, not yet forty, remember, and at that moment I must have been looking extremely solicitous. At any rate, from her first glance I realized she would be both polite and grateful to me. I was not disappointed. Between further tears and sobs she told me about the officer who had been killed at Tonkin after they had been married for just one year. He had married her for love. She had been an orphan and possessed nothing but the smallest dowry.

‘I comforted her, consoled her, lifted her up, then helped her to her feet.

“You can’t stay here like this,” I said, “come on . . .”

“I’m not sure I can manage to walk . . .”

“I’ll help you, don’t worry.”

“Thank you, Monsieur, you’re very kind. Did you have someone here yourself you wanted to mourn?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“A lady?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Your wife?”

“A . . . friend.”

“One can love a friend as much as a wife. Passion has its own laws.”

“Indeed so, Madame.”

‘We walked away together, she leaning on me so heavily that I was almost carrying her along the paths of the cemetery. As we were leaving it, she said: “I think I’m going to faint.”

“Would you like to go in and sit down somewhere? Let me get you something to . . .”

“Yes thank you, I would.”

‘I noticed a place nearby, one of those restaurants where the friends of the recently buried go when they have completed their grim duties. We went in and I made her drink a cup of hot tea which seemed to restore her strength somewhat. A faint smile came to her lips and she began to tell me a little about herself. How sad, how very sad it was to be all alone in the world, to be alone at home day and night, to have no one with whom to share love, trust and intimacy.

‘It all seemed sincere and so genuine the way she told it. I felt my heart softening. She was very young, twenty at most. I flattered her a little and she responded gracefully. Then, as time was getting on, I offered to take her home by cab. She accepted. In the cab we were so close to each other, shoulder to shoulder, that we could feel the warmth of each other’s bodies through our clothing – one of the most disturbing feelings in the world, as you know. When the cab drew up in front of her house she murmured: “I really don’t think I can get up the stairs on my own. I live on the fourth floor. You’ve been so kind . . . could you possibly give me your arm again, please?”

‘I said of course I could, and she went up slowly, breathing hard all the time. Then at her door she added: “Do come in for a few moments so that I can thank you.”

‘In I went, naturally.

‘It was a modest, not to say poor little apartment furnished in simple but good taste. We sat side by side on a little sofa where she started talking again about how lonely she was. She rang for her maid to bring me something to drink. No one appeared. I was delighted about this and imagined that this maid must work mornings only, in other words, she only had a cleaner. She had taken off her hat. She really was quite a charmer. Her lovely, limpid eyes were fixed on me with such a clear, direct gaze that I suddenly felt an irresistible urge. I succumbed on the spot and clasped her in my arms. On her eyelids, which had instantly closed, I rained kiss after kiss after kiss. She struggled, pushing me away and repeating: “Please . . . please . . . please . . . have done!”

‘What exactly did she mean? In the circumstances there were two ways of interpreting the words. To silence her I moved down from the eyes to the mouth and, putting my preferred interpretation on her request to please have done, complied with it. She put up little resistance and when later we looked at each other again after an insult to the memory of the captain killed at Tonkin she wore a languorous expression of tender resignation which dispelled any misgivings of my own.

‘I showed my gratitude by being gallant and attentive, and after an hour or so’s conversation asked: “Where do you normally dine?”

“At a little restaurant nearby.”

“All on your own?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

“Where did you have in mind?”

“Oh, a very good restaurant on the boulevard.”

‘She demurred for a while but I insisted and finally she gave in, reasoning that she would otherwise be terribly lonely again. Then she added, “I’d better change into something less severe,” and disappeared into her bedroom. When she emerged she was in half- mourning and wearing a very simple but elegant grey dress in which she looked slender and charming. She obviously had markedly different outfits for the cemetery and for town.

‘Dinner was very pleasant. She drank champagne, became very animated and excited, after which I went back to her apartment with her. This little liaison begun between the tombstones went on for some three weeks or so. But novelty, particularly with regard to women, eventually palls. I dropped her on the pretext of some unavoidable trip I had to make. I was very generous when we parted and she in turn very grateful. She made me promise, no, swear, to come back on my return and really seemed to care a little for me.

‘I lost no time in forming other attachments, however, and about a month went by without my having felt any particular desire to resume my funereal fling. But nor did I forget her. The memory of her haunted me like some unsolved mystery, a psychological teaser, one of those nagging little puzzles you can’t leave alone. One day, for some inexplicable reason, I wondered whether, if I went back to Montmartre Cemetery again, I might bump into her, and decided to return.

‘I walked around for a long time but there was no one there apart from the usual sort of people who visit the place, mourners who have not yet severed all ties with their dead. At the grave of the captain killed at Tonkin no one mourned over the marble slab, no flowers lay there, no wreaths. However, as I was walking through another district of the city of the departed I suddenly saw a couple, a man and a woman in deep mourning, coming towards me down a narrow avenue lined with crosses. To my amazement as they approached, I recognized the woman. It was she! Seeing me she blushed. As I brushed past her she gave me a tiny signal, the merest glance, but conveying in the clearest possible way both: “Don’t show you know me,” and “Come back and see me, darling.”

‘The man with her was about fifty, distinguished- looking and well- dressed, with the rosette of the Légion d’honneur in his lapel. He was supporting her just as I had done when we both left the cemetery that day.

‘I went off, flabbergasted by what I had just seen and trying to imagine what tribe of creatures she belonged to, hunting as she obviously did on this sepulchral terrain. Was she a single prostitute who had struck on the brilliant idea of frequenting graveyards and picking up unhappy men still haunted by the loss of a wife or a mistress and troubled by the memory of past caresses? Was she unique? Or were there more like her? Was it a professional speciality to work the cemetery like the street? The loved ones of those laid to rest! Or was she alone in having conceived the psychologically sound idea of exploiting the feelings of amorous nostalgia awakened in these mournful venues?

‘I was longing to know whose widow she had chosen to be that day.’

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打火匣

企鹅经典：小黑书 第二辑

[丹麦] 安徒生/著

宁蒙/译

目录

封面

书名页

版权页

品牌页

中文内容

打火匣

小克劳斯和大克劳斯

豌豆公主

坚定的锡兵

夜莺

红鞋

英文内容

The T inderbox

Little Claus and Big Claus

The Princess on the Pea

The Steadfast T in Soldier

The N ightingale

The Red Shoes

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打火匣

企鹅经典：小黑书 第二辑

[丹麦] 安徒生/著

宁蒙/译

企鹅图书 | PENGUIN BOOKS

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Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at:
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This translation published by arrangement with Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.
Magic Tree House® is a registered trademark of Mary Pope Osborne, used under license.

Simplified Chinese edition copyright © 2018 by Penguin Random House North Asia
in association with Xiron Publishing Company Ltd. and Zhejiang Education Publishing House
All rights reserved.

© “企鹅”及其相关标识是企鹅兰登（北京）文化发展有限公司已经注册或尚未注册的商标。
未经允许，不得擅用。

企鹅兰登电子书 | Penguin Random House eBooks

电子书监制：邵明鉴

数字发行：邵明鉴

选题策划：赵轩 | 白姗

* 此中文译本译自丹麦语原文

正文目录

打火匣

小克劳斯和大克劳斯

豌豆公主

坚定的锡兵

夜莺

红鞋

The T inderbox

Little Claus and Big Claus

The Princess on the Pea

The Steadfast T in Soldier

The N ightingale

The Red Shoes

打火匣

大路上一名士兵迈着正步走来：一，二！一，二！他背着军包，挎着军刀，因为他刚打完仗，现在要回家了。然后他在大路上遇到一个老巫婆；她丑恶极了，她的下嘴唇一直垂到胸前。她说：“晚上好，士兵！你的军刀真漂亮，军包真大，你是个不折不扣的士兵！现在你想要多少钱就能有多少钱。”

“谢谢你，老巫婆！”士兵说。

“你看见那棵大树了吗？”巫婆指着他们身边的一棵树说，“里面是空的。你要爬到顶上去，那样你就会看到一个洞，你可以从那儿滑进去，进入树干深处。我会在你的腰上系一根绳子，你喊我的时候，我就可以把你再拉上来。”

“那我到树里去干什么？”士兵问。

“取钱呀！”巫婆说，“你会知道的，你钻到树底下之后，就会进入一条宽大的走廊，那儿很明亮，因为那里点着一百多盏灯。你会看到三扇门，都可以打开，门上插着钥匙。走进第一个房间，你就会看到地板中央放着一口大箱子，上面坐着一条狗，它有一对大如茶杯的眼睛，但你别把它当回事！我把我的蓝格子围裙给你，你可以把它铺在地上；尽快走过去抱住那条狗，把它放到我的围裙上，打开箱子，想拿多少钱就拿多少钱。这些钱都是铜币。但如果你想要银币的话，就得进第二个房间，但那儿也坐着一条狗，它有一对大如水车的眼睛，但你别把它当回事，把它放到我的围裙上，然后拿钱！不过，如果你想要金币的话，你也能拿到，你搬得动多少就能拿多少，进第三个房间就行。但坐在钱箱上的那条狗，有一对眼睛，每只都像‘圆塔’[1]那么大。那条狗可了不得！但你别把它当回事。只要把它放到我的围裙上，它就动不了你，你就从那个箱子里想拿多少金币就拿多少。”

“听上去不错，”士兵说，“但我拿什么东西给你呢，老巫婆？我想你总会要点什么吧。”

“不要，”巫婆说，“我一个铜子儿都不要！你只要替我把那个旧打火匣拿来，那是我祖母上回落在下面的！”

“一言为定！把绳子系到我腰上吧。”士兵说。

“好嘞！”巫婆说，“还有我的蓝格子围裙。”

于是士兵爬上树，跳进洞里，站起身，正如巫婆说的那样，下面的大走廊里点着上百盏灯。

现在他打开第一扇门。啊！那儿坐着那条狗，眼睛大如茶碗，正瞪着他呢。

“你个好家伙!”士兵说，然后把它抱到巫婆的围裙上，往口袋里塞满铜币，锁上箱子，再把狗儿放上去，接着他走进第二个房间。哎呀！那儿坐着的那条狗，眼睛大如水车。

“你不应该老这么看着我，”士兵说，“眼睛会看疼的！”于是他把狗抱到女巫的围裙上，但当他看到箱子里那么多银币的时候，他把他所有的铜币都扔了，然后往口袋和军包里塞满银币。随后他走进第三个房间！哎呀不好，太可怕了！那里的那条狗真有两只大如“圆塔”的眼睛！它们在它脸上打转，就像两个大转盘!

“晚上好！”士兵说，并举了举军帽，因为他从来没见过这样的狗；但瞧了它一会儿之后，他心里想，这下礼数总算够了吧，于是他把它抱到地上，打开箱子，天哪！那么多金币！用这些金币，他可以把整个哥本哈根都买下来，还有全世界所有蛋糕店的甜点，所有的锡兵、皮鞭和木马。没错，就有这么多钱！于是士兵把他口袋里、军包里装满的所有银币都倒了出来，换成了金币，是的，他的口袋、军包、军帽，还有靴子全都装满，他几乎都挪不开步。这下他可有钱了。他把狗放到箱子上，关上门，透过树干朝外喊：“把我拉上去吧，老巫婆!”

“你拿到打火匣了吗？”巫婆问。

“还真是！”士兵说。“这事儿我忘得一干二净。”于是他去拿打火匣。巫婆把他拉了上来，然后他就又回到大路上，口袋、靴子、军包、军帽里全都塞满了钱。

“你要打火匣干什么？”士兵问。

“这不关你的事，”巫婆说，“你不是已经拿到钱了嘛！把打火匣给我就行了。”

“少废话!”士兵说。“快告诉我你要它干什么，不然我就拔出军刀来，砍掉你的头！”

“不行！”巫婆说。

于是士兵就把她的头砍了下来。她倒在地上！而他把他所有的钱都包进她的围裙里，像包袱一样驮在背上，把打火匣放进口袋向城市走去。

这是一座美丽的城市，他进了一家最美丽的酒店，订了最好的房间，点了他最喜欢吃的美食，因为他发财了，有的是钱。

要替他擦皮靴的服务员觉得，像他这样一位有钱的先生，穿这么旧的皮鞋真有些滑稽，但他还没来得及买新的；第二天他买了合适的靴子和漂亮的衣服！现在我们的士兵摇身一变成了尊贵的先生，大家把这座城市里发生的一切都告诉了他，包括他们国王的事，以及国王的女儿是一位多么美丽的公主。

“到哪儿可以看到她？”士兵问。

“她可不是随随便便就能看到的，”大家都说，“她住在一座宏伟的铜城堡里，周围壁垒森严塔楼林立！除了国王没人敢随便出入，因为有预言称，她会嫁给一个很普通的士兵，这让国王难以忍受。”

“我一定得看看她。”士兵想，但国王肯定不会允许！

如今他生活得很愉快，看看喜剧表演，逛逛国王花园，还施舍很多钱给穷人，真是一种善举！他以前深有体会，一文不名有多糟糕！现在他有钱了，有漂亮的衣服穿，交了很多朋友，大家都说他是个善良的人，一位真正的骑士，这话士兵很爱听！但他每天只往外花钱，却一分钱都赚不回来，就这样，最后他只剩下两个铜币，只好从那些华丽的房间里搬出来，搬到顶楼一间小小的阁楼里去住，他只好自己动手擦靴子，自己用织补针补靴子，他的朋友没有一个来找他，因为需要爬那么多楼梯。

有一天晚上天很黑，他连一根蜡烛都买不起，但他想起来，还有一小截蜡烛装在那个打火匣里，就是那回巫婆帮他下到空树底部，他在那里拿到的那个打火匣。他拿出打火匣和那一小截蜡烛来，正当他打着火，火星从火石上冒出来的时候，房门忽然开了，他在树底下见到的那条眼睛大如茶杯的狗出现在他面前，它说：“有什么吩咐，我的主人！”

“怎么回事！”士兵说，“真是个好玩的打火匣，要是这样我就能想要什么就有什么了!给我弄点儿钱来吧。”他对那条狗说。然后“嗖”的一声，狗就不见了！又是“嗖”的一声，狗又回来了，嘴里衔着一大口袋钱。

这下士兵知道这个打火匣有多美妙了！他打一下，那条坐在铜币箱上的狗就会出现，他打两下，来的就是那条有银币的狗，要是他打三下，来的就是那条有金币的狗。现在士兵又搬回了楼下那些华丽的房间，又穿上了好衣服，他的所有朋友马上又把他认了出来，他们都好喜欢他。

有那么一天他心想：说来真是奇怪，谁都见不到那位公主！她肯定非常美丽，大家都这么说！但要是她整天只能坐在塔楼林立的铜城堡里的话，这又有什么用？难道我真的就见不到她吗？我的打火匣在哪儿？他打起火来，“嗖”的一声，那只眼睛大如茶杯的狗就跑了出来。

“现在的确是深更半夜，”士兵说，“但我真心想见见那位公主，哪怕只见那么一小会儿。”

那条狗马上跑出了门，士兵还来不及想一想这件事，就已经看到它带着公主回来了，她躺在那条狗的背上熟睡，美得是个人就能看出来那是个真正的公主；士兵按捺不住吻了她，因为他是个不折不扣的士兵。

然后狗就带着公主回去了，但第二天早上，国王和王后正倒着茶的时候，公主说话了，她说她晚上做了个奇怪的梦，梦见一条狗和一名士兵，她骑在狗背上，那个士兵吻了她。

“这倒是个不错的故事！”王后说。

第二天一个老宫女到公主的床边守夜，来看看这到底真是一场梦还是怎么回事。

士兵迫切地想再见一次那位美丽的公主，于是晚上狗又来了，背上她，竭尽全力飞奔，但那个老宫女穿上雨靴，在后面紧追不舍；当她看到他们跑进一幢大房子之后，她心想，这下我知道这是哪儿了，然后在大门上用一段粉笔画了个大十字。之后她就回去睡觉了，狗也把公主送了回去；但当它看到士兵住处的大门上画着个十字的时候，它也拿了一段粉笔，在全城的所有大门上都画了十字，这件事干得很聪明，因为既然所有的门上都有十字，这下老宫女就找不到正确的大门了。

第二天一大早，国王和王后，还有那个老宫女，以及所有的官员都来了，要看看公主到底去过哪儿！

“就是那儿！”国王说，他看到了第一扇画着十字的门。

“不对，是那儿，我可爱的丈夫！”王后说，她看到另一扇门上有十字。

“那儿有一个，那儿也有一个！”大家都说。不管他们往哪儿看，每扇门上都有十字。于是他们意识到，他们再怎么找也没有用。

但王后毕竟是个非常聪明的女人，她可不是只会坐坐四轮马车那么简单。她取出她的纯金大剪刀，把一大块绸缎剪成几片，缝了一个精致的小袋子，在里面装满了很细很细的荞麦粉，再绑到公主背上。绑好之后，她在袋子上剪了一个小口，这样公主不管走到哪儿，都会在地上撒上粉。

夜里狗又来了，把公主驮到背上，带着她跑到士兵那儿，他已经深深地爱上了她，他多想能成为王子，娶她为妻。

狗背着公主跳上高墙的时候，完全没有注意到，面粉跟着她从城堡一直撒到了士兵的窗口。就这样，第二天早晨，国王和王后马上就看明白他们的女儿去过什么地方，他们抓走了士兵，把他关进了大牢。

他坐在牢里。呜，里面好黑暗好无聊啊，然后大家对他说：明天你就要被绞死了。这话听起来可不好玩，而他把打火匣也忘在了酒店里。第二天早晨，他从小窗的铁栏杆里可以看见人们蜂拥出城，来看他上绞刑架。他听到鼓声，看到士兵们迈着正步。所有人都跑了出来；其中有一个鞋匠的学徒，穿着皮围裙和拖鞋，他跑得太快，一只拖鞋飞了出去，砸在士兵坐着隔着铁栏杆朝外张望的那堵墙上。

“喂，鞋匠小子！你着什么急呀，”士兵对他说，“我到场之前没什么可看的。但你能不能跑到我住的地方，把我的打火匣拿来？这样的话你能得到四个铜币！但你可得撒开腿儿呀。”鞋匠小子很想要那四个铜币，于是撒腿就跑，取来打火匣，交给士兵，这下好戏开场了。

城外架起了一座巨大的绞刑架，周围站满了士兵和成千成万的老百姓。国王和王后坐在华丽的宝座上，面前就是法官和整个议会成员。

那个士兵已经站到了梯子上。但正当他们要把绞索套到他脖子上的时候，他说，总是应该让罪犯在受刑前了却一个无辜的心愿吧。他很想抽一管烟，这将是他在这个世上抽的最后一管烟了。

国王无法拒绝这样的请求，于是士兵拿起他的打火匣，打起火来，一、二、三！三条狗都出现了，眼睛大如茶杯的那条，眼睛大如水车的那条，还有眼睛大如圆塔的那条。

“救救我，别让他们绞死我!”士兵说，于是那几条狗就朝法官和所有议员扑了过去，扯这个人腿，咬那个人鼻子，把他们抛向几丈高的天空，他们掉下来个个摔得粉身碎骨。

“我不要啊！”国王说。但最大的那条狗咬住了他和王后，跟其他所有人一样抛了出去。士兵们都吓坏了，老百姓高喊起来：“小兵，你应该做我们的国王，娶了美丽的公主吧!”

于是他们把这名士兵让进了国王的四轮马车，三条狗一齐在前面欢蹦乱跳，并高呼：“万岁！”男孩们用手指吹起口哨，士兵们上前行礼。公主走出她的铜城堡，成了王后，对此她心满意足！婚礼持续了八天，那几条狗也坐上了饭桌，眼睛瞪得一个比一个大。

[1] 哥本哈根著名历史建筑，三一教堂的一部分。（说明：本书脚注均为译者注。）

小克劳斯和大克劳斯

很久以前，一个村子里有两个人叫同一个名字，他们都叫克劳斯，但其中一个有四匹马，而另一个只有一匹马；为了可以区分他们，人们管有四匹马的那个叫大克劳斯，而只有一匹马的那个就叫小克劳斯。现在让我们来听听他们俩之间发生了什么，因为这是个真实的故事！

整个星期小克劳斯都必须为大克劳斯耕田，并且把自己唯一的马也借给他；而大克劳斯也会把所有四匹马都拿出来帮他，但每星期只有一次，就是星期日。嘚儿驾！小克劳斯挥舞着他的皮鞭同时赶着五匹马，在这一天，它们就像都是他的马一样好使。阳光明媚，所有教堂塔楼的钟一齐敲响，人们都打扮得漂漂亮亮，胳膊下夹着赞美诗集去教堂听神父布道，他们看着小克劳斯赶着五匹马耕地，他看上去那么得意，挥舞鞭子吆喝道：“驾，我的马儿们！”

“你不能这么说，”大克劳斯说，“明明只有一匹是你的！”

但又有人去教堂的路上经过的时候，小克劳斯已经忘了他不能这么说，又吆喝起来：“驾，我的马儿们！”

“好吧，这下我可不能再让你为所欲为了！”大克劳斯说，“你要再这么喊一次，我就砸你马的额头，当场把它砸死，这事儿就算完了！”

“我以后再也不这么说了！”小克劳斯说，但有人经过的时候，他们冲他点头问好，小克劳斯又得意起来，觉得这样有五匹马同时耕自己的地看上去很帅气，于是又挥舞着鞭子吆喝起来：“驾，我的马儿们！”

“就让我来驾你的马吧！”大克劳斯说着，挥起大木槌砸在小克劳斯唯一那匹马的额头上，马应声倒地，奄奄一息。

“啊，我现在一匹马都没有了！”小克劳斯说着哭了起来。之后他剥下了马皮，风干以后装进袋子里，扛在肩上去城里卖马皮。

他要走很长的路，必须穿过一大片黑漆漆的森林，天气非常恶劣；他迷了路，还没等他走上正道，天已经黑了，无论进城还是回家路都太遥远，一会儿就夜深了。

紧挨着路边有一座大农庄，窗户的挡风板掩着，但灯光还是从上面的缝隙里透了出来。应该会让我在这儿过夜吧，小克劳斯心想，于是就走过去敲门。

农妇打开门，但当她听到了他的请求后，她让他还是赶紧上路走吧，她的丈夫不在家，她不能收留陌生人。

“那我就只能睡在门外了。”小克劳斯说，农妇在他面前关上了门。

紧挨着农庄有一大堆干草，干草和房子之间搭着一个茅草顶的小窝棚。

“我可以睡那上面！”小克劳斯看着茅草顶说，“这不就是一张舒服的床吗，希望那只鹳不会飞下来啄我的腿。”屋顶上站着一只活鹳，它在那儿筑了巢。

小克劳斯爬上窝棚，躺下来翻着身，想找个舒服的姿势。窗户的木挡板并没有挡到顶，他可以看进客厅里去。

“谁那么好口福！”小克劳斯说，朝窗户伸直了脑袋。天哪，他看到了什么，多棒的蛋糕呀！真是一桌丰盛的宴席。

这时他听见有人从大路骑着马朝农庄而来，是农妇的丈夫回家来了。

丈夫是个好人，但他有一种奇怪的病，他见不得牧师；只要他一见到牧师就会大发雷霆。正巧牧师来串门，因为他知道丈夫不在家，他来给农妇问个好，农妇因此为他做了一桌美味佳肴；他们听见丈夫来了，害怕起来，农妇求牧师爬进墙脚的一个空箱子里；他照办了，因为他知道那个可怜的丈夫见不得牧师。农妇把一桌好酒好菜都藏进了烤箱里，要是让丈夫看见，他一定会问这是什么意思。

“啊哟！”小克劳斯在窝棚上叹了口气，眼睁睁地看着食物消失。

“上面有人吗？”农夫抬头看着小克劳斯问，“你躺在那儿干吗？快下来进客厅里坐！”

于是小克劳斯就把迷路的事儿都说了，并请求留宿过夜。

“当然可以！”农夫说，“但我们得先弄点东西吃。”

农妇很友好地招待了他们俩，铺了一张长桌子，给他们一大盘粥。农夫饿急了，津津有味地吃起来，但小克劳斯忍不住想起那桌美味的烤肉、肥鱼和蛋糕，他知道它们都藏在烤箱里。

桌下他的脚边放着装马皮的包，我们知道他就是为了进城卖马皮才离家出远门的。他才不要喝什么粥，于是他踩了一脚自己的包，包里干燥的马皮发出的吱嘎声还挺响。

“嘘！”小克劳斯对自己的包说，但同时又踩了一脚，这下吱嘎声比之前更响。

“哟！你袋子里装的是什么？”农夫问。

“哦，里面是个魔法师！”小克劳斯说，“他说我们不用喝粥了，他变了一烤箱的烤肉、肥鱼和蛋糕。”

“什么！”农夫说。然后打开烤箱，看到农妇在里面藏着的所有美味佳肴，但他以为这都是藏在袋子里的魔法师为他们变出来的。农妇一声都不敢吭，赶紧把食物都端上桌，他们把肥鱼、烤肉和蛋糕都吃得一干二净。然后小克劳斯又踩了一脚自己的袋子，马皮吱嘎响。

“他现在说什么？”农夫问。

“他说他还给我们变了三壶酒，放在烤箱旁的角落里！”这下农妇只好端出她藏的酒来，农夫喝得酣畅淋漓，小克劳斯袋子里这样的魔法师他也想要一个。

“他能把魔鬼变出来吗？”农夫问，“我倒想见见他，反正我现在高兴！”

“行啊，”小克劳斯说，“我的魔法师什么都能变，只要我开口，对不对？”他边问边踩袋子，吱嘎吱嘎，“你听见没有，他说没错。但魔鬼长得太难看，实在不值一看！”

“哦，没关系，他长什么样？”

“嗯，他看上去很像个牧师。”

“呼！”农夫说，“那太糟糕了！要知道，我是见不得牧师的！但现在无所谓了，反正我知道那是魔鬼，应该会好一点！现在我还有点勇气！但别让他靠太近。”

“我来问问我的魔法师。”小克劳斯踩踩袋子，把耳朵凑过去。

“他说什么？”

“他说你可以去把那个箱子打开，就在角落里，这样你就可以看到魔鬼了，他就蹲在箱子里，但一定要抓紧盖子，别让他跑了。”

“你能搭把手吗？”农夫说着走到箱子跟前，就是农妇把真正的牧师藏起来的那个箱子，他现在就坐在箱子里害怕得要命。

农夫把箱子盖掀起一条缝，朝里瞥了一眼，“哟！”他喊了一声，向后一闪，“没错，这下我看见他了，他看上去真的挺像我们的牧师！哎呀，太吓人了！”

他不得不喝口酒压压惊，于是他们一直喝到深夜。

“这个魔法师你可得卖给我，”农夫说，“要多少钱尽管开口！对，我可以马上给你一大桶的钱！”

“不行，我可不能卖！”小克劳斯说，“你想想，这个魔法师能给我多少好处！”

“啊，但我太想要他了。”农夫说，开始央求起来。

“好吧，”小克劳斯最后说，“既然你对我这么好，还让我进屋过夜，卖就卖了吧，一大桶钱就一大桶钱，但桶一定要装满。”

“这个没问题，”农夫说，“但那边那个箱子你得带走，我一刻都不想再把它留在房子里，谁知道他是不是还坐在里面。”

小克劳斯于是就把自己那个装着干马皮的袋子给了农夫，换回满满一大桶钱。农夫还给了他一辆手推车，让他装钱和箱子。

“再见！”小克劳斯说，然后就推着他的钱和坐着牧师的大箱子上路了。

树林的另一端有一条水很深的大河，水流湍急，几乎难以逆流游泳。有人在河上造了一座崭新的大桥，小克劳斯停在桥中央，为了让箱子里的牧师听见，他大声说：

“哎呀，我拿这讨厌的箱子怎么办？又那么重，跟装着石头似的！要是再推下去我就快累趴下了，我还是把它扔河里算了，要是它漂回我家就最好，要是不行也无所谓。”

接着他用一只手托住箱子，把它举起来一点点，就想要把它翻到水里去一样。

“不要啊，”箱子里的牧师说，“让我出来吧！”

“咦！”小克劳斯说，假装吃了一惊，“他还坐在里面！我得把他扔到河里去，淹死他再说！”

“哦不，哦不！”牧师喊道，“我给你一整桶的钱，你放了我吧！”

“这就另当别论了!”小克劳斯说着打开箱子。牧师马上爬出来，把空箱子推进了水里，然后回到家里，小克劳斯在那儿又得到一整桶钱，加上他在农夫那儿得到的那桶，这下整辆手推车上都装满了钱。

“看，这匹马还让我赚了不少钱！”回到自家的客厅里后小克劳斯自言自语着，把所有的钱都倒在房间中央堆成一座小钱山，“大克劳斯要是知道我靠一匹马发这么大财该多气恼，但我不会老实告诉他！”

他派了自己的儿子去找大克劳斯借量桶。

“他要量桶干什么！”大克劳斯心想，于是他在量桶底部抹了点焦油，好粘点称的东西回来看看是什么，他还真的得逞了，当他讨回量桶的时候，桶底粘了三枚崭新的银币。

“怎么回事？”大克劳斯立刻飞奔到小克劳斯家，“你从哪儿弄到这么多钱？”

“哦，是我的马皮，我昨天把它卖了！”

“可算卖了大价钱呀！”大克劳斯说着，马上飞奔回家，拿斧子砸开了他所有四匹马的额头，扒下它们的皮来，驾车载着马皮进城去了。

“卖皮啦！卖皮啦！谁要买皮呀！”他沿街吆喝着。

所有鞋匠和皮匠都跑了出来，问他皮怎么卖。

“一桶钱一张。”大克劳斯说。

“你疯了吗？”大家都说，“你真以为我们这么有钱？”

“卖皮啦！卖皮啦！谁要买皮呀！”他继续吆喝，但不管谁问他，马皮多少钱，他都回答：“一桶钱。”

“他是在耍我们。”大家都这么说，于是鞋匠们拿起了皮带，皮匠们拿起了皮围裙，开始抽打大克劳斯。

“卖皮啦！卖皮啦！”他们嘲弄他，“我们把你这一身皮，抽出点猪血来！快滚出城去吧！”他们喊，大克劳斯只好不顾一切地逃，他可从没被谁揍得这么狼狈过。

“哼！”回到家以后他自言自语道，“这笔账得找小克劳斯算，看我不打死他！”

而小克劳斯家里也出了事，他的祖母去世了；虽然她确实一直对小克劳斯很凶很不好，但他还是很难过，他把死去的祖母放到自己温暖的床上，看看她还能不能活过来；她要在那儿躺一整夜，而他自己搬了张椅子坐到角落里，他要在椅子上过夜，以前也这么干过。

那天晚上他就这么在椅子上坐着，门开了，大克劳斯举着斧子闯了进来；他当然知道小克劳斯的床在什么地方，他径直走到床边，用斧子砸了已死的祖母的额头，他还以为躺在那儿的是小克劳斯。

“瞧！”他说，“这下你再也没法儿耍我了！”然后他就回家去了。

“可真是个卑鄙的恶人！”小克劳斯心想，“他竟然想打死我，幸好祖母已经死了，要不然她就死在他手上了！”

然后他给老祖母穿上节日盛装，从邻居那里借了匹马，驾上马车，把祖母放在马车最后排的座位上，这样她就不会倒下来。就这样，他驾着马车穿过森林，太阳升起的时候，他们来到一家大客栈门前，小克劳斯停下马车进去弄点吃的。

客栈老板有许多许多钱，也是个很善良的人，但性情暴躁，就像藏了一肚子胡椒和烟草。

“早上好！”他对小克劳斯说，“你今天来得可真早，穿得也气派！”

“是呀，”小克劳斯说，“我要跟我的老祖母一起进城去，她坐在外面的马车里，我没办法让她进大厅来。你能给她一杯蜜酒吗？但你说话得大声点，因为她耳背听不清。”

“好的，我这就去！”老板说着，倒了一大杯蜜酒，捧去给死去的祖母，马车里一片寂静。

“这儿有您孙子给您的蜜酒一杯！”老板说，但那位已经死了的农妇当然一声不吭，一动不动地坐在那里！

“没听见吗！”老板使出全身力气高喊，“这儿有您孙子给您的蜜酒！”

他把同样的话喊了一遍又一遍，但她还是纹丝不动，这让他火冒三丈，把杯子往她脸上扔过去，蜜酒顺着她的鼻子淌下来，她向后一仰从马车上摔了下来，因为小克劳斯只是把她放在那儿，并没有绑牢。

“天哪！”小克劳斯喊着冲出门来，抓住客栈老板的前襟！“你杀死了我的祖母！你看见没有，她的额头上有个大窟窿！”

“哦，这是个意外！”老板喊道，双手一拍！“都怪我的暴脾气！亲爱的小克劳斯，我给你一整桶钱，还会安葬你的祖母，就像对我自己的祖母一样，但千万别声张，不然的话他们会砍掉我的头，那样就惨了！”

于是小克劳斯得到一整桶钱，客栈老板还亲自安葬了老祖母，就像那是他自己的祖母一样。

小克劳斯又一次满载而归，他马上派自己的儿子去找大克劳斯，向他借量桶。

“怎么回事？”大克劳斯说，“我不是把他打死了吗！我得亲眼看看。”然后亲自给小克劳斯送来了量桶。

“你这又是从哪里弄来的这么多钱？”他问，瞪大了眼睛看着面前的钱堆，好壮观。

“你杀死的是我的祖母，不是我！”小克劳斯说，“我把她卖掉了，赚了一桶钱。”

“这可是卖了大价钱呀！”大克劳斯说着赶回家，拿起斧子立即砸死了自己的老祖母，把她装上马车送进城，到一个药剂师家，问他要不要买死尸。

“死了的是谁，你是怎么得到尸体的？”药剂师问。

“是我的祖母！”大克劳斯说，“我把她打死了，来换一桶钱！”

“上帝饶恕我们吧！”药剂师说，“你说的什么疯话！千万别再说了，你会掉脑袋的！”然后他告诉大克劳斯他干的事多么伤天害理，他是个多邪恶的人，他应该受到惩罚；大克劳斯吓坏了，他从药剂师那儿逃出来，飞奔上了马车，抽打着马匹逃回家，但药剂师和其他人都以为他疯了，就放他走了。

“你要为此付出代价！”大克劳斯跑到大路上以后心想，“没错，你要为此付出代价，小克劳斯！”他回家以后马上拿了一个他能找到的最大的口袋来到小克劳斯家，说：“这次你又耍了我！我先是打死了我的马儿们，然后又打死了我的祖母！这全都是你的错，但你休想再耍我了。”然后他一把抱住小克劳斯的腰，把他塞进口袋里，扛到肩上，对他喊，“我这就出门把你淹死！”

去河边要走的路还挺长，小克劳斯扛着也不轻。路上经过教堂门口，传来里面美妙的风琴声和人们的歌声。于是大克劳斯把装着小克劳斯的口袋紧挨着教堂大门放好，心想，继续赶路之前，先进去听个赞美诗也不错，小克劳斯又跑不了，所有人都在教堂里，于是他就走了进去。

“啊呀！啊呀！”小克劳斯在口袋里叹气。他翻来覆去，但怎么也解不开绑绳。这时来了一个很老很老的牧羊人，满头白发，手里拄着大拐杖，用它赶着一大群牛，它们撞到了装着小克劳斯的口袋，口袋翻倒在地。

“啊呀！”小克劳斯叹息道，“我那么年轻，却马上就要上天堂了！”

“而可怜的我！”牧羊人说，“那么老了却还去不了！”

“把袋子解开！”小克劳斯喊道，“代替我钻进来，这样你很快就能上天堂了！”

“好呀，我非常乐意。”牧羊人说，帮小克劳斯解开口袋，他立刻从里面钻了出来。

“那你帮我照看我的牲口吧。”老人说，钻进袋子里，小克劳斯绑好绑绳然后赶着所有的公牛母牛上路了。

过了一会儿，大克劳斯从教堂走出来，他又把口袋扛到肩上，感觉到口袋肯定是变轻了，因为那个老牧羊人还不到半个小克劳斯那么重！“他变得好轻呀！肯定是因为我听了赞美诗！”于是他来到河边，河又深又宽，他把装着老牧羊人的口袋扔进水里，然后冲他喊道——因为他当然还以为那是小克劳斯：“瞧！这下你没法儿再耍我了吧！”

然后他朝家走，经过岔路的时候他遇到了小克劳斯，赶着牲口迎面走来。

“怎么回事！”大克劳斯说，“我不是把你淹死了吗？”

“没错，”小克劳斯说，“你不到半小时前是把我扔到河里去了！”

“但你这么多漂亮的牲口是哪儿来的？”大克劳斯问。

“它们是海牛！”小克劳斯说，“我来把来龙去脉都讲给你听。还要感谢你，因为你把我扔到了河里，这下我的财产超过你了，而且真的发了大财，你想得到吗！我在口袋里的时候吓坏了，当时你从桥上把我扔向冰冷的河里，风在耳边呼啸。我很快沉到了河底，但我没有磕到自己，因为下面长着美丽的嫩草。我就掉在草地上，很快袋子就开了，这时来了个世界上最美丽的姑娘，穿着洁白的衣服，湿漉漉的头发上戴着绿色的花环，她拉着我的手说：‘你是小克劳斯吗？先带一些海牛去吧！沿着这条路一英里之外还有一大群，是我赠送给你的！’这下我看到了，河底是一条宽阔的大路，专供海洋人使用。他们就这样从海底或走路或驾车一直到岸上，到大河的尽头。那儿的花美极了，还有最新鲜的嫩草，还有鱼，在水底游来游去，它们在我耳边飞快地穿梭，就像这儿空中的鸟。那儿的人都好漂亮，还有那么多的牲口，漫山遍野到处走！”

“那为什么你这么快就回来了，”大克劳斯问，“下面既然那么美，换我就不回来了！”

“没错，”小克劳斯说，“这就是我机智的地方！你不是听我说了嘛：海姑娘说，沿路一英里之外——她说的路其实就是河，因为她去不了别的地方——还有一大群牲口等着我。但我知道河有多蜿蜒曲折，一会儿东一会儿西，这可是绕了大远路呀，能走捷径当然走捷径啦，上岸抄近路到河的另一边可以省掉将近一半的路程，你看我这么快就已经把我的海牛赶回来了！”

“你运气真是太好了！”大克劳斯说，“你觉得如果我也下到河底的话能不能也弄到几头海牛？”

“当然，我觉得没问题，”小克劳斯说，“但我可不能把你装进袋子里扛到河边，你对我来说太重了，你要不自己走到那儿然后钻进袋子里，这样的话我很乐意把你扔下去。”

“谢谢你！”大克劳斯说，“但要是我得不到海牛，等我回来看我怎么收拾你，你信不信！”

“别呀！别那么恶狠狠的！”于是他们来到河边。牲口们口渴难耐，看到水立刻撒开腿奔过去喝水。

“看它们跑得多快！”小克劳斯说，“它们着急想回河底呢！”

“快先帮帮我！”大克劳斯说，“不然我揍你了啊！”说着他钻进一只驮在一头公牛背上的那个大口袋，“放块石头，不然我怕我沉不下去。”大克劳斯说。

“肯定可以！”小克劳斯说，但还是在口袋里放了一块大石头，绑紧绳子，往下一推：扑通！大克劳斯掉进河里，很快就沉到水底。

“恐怕他是找不到海牛咯！”小克劳斯说，然后赶着他的牲口回家去了。

豌豆公主

很久以前有一位王子，他想为自己找一位公主，但必须是一位真正的公主。于是他走遍了全世界，为了寻找这样一位公主，他总是到处碰壁，公主倒不少，但是不是真正的公主，他也无从考证，总是有什么地方不对劲。后来他只好闷闷不乐地回家了，他真的非常渴望得到一位真正的公主。

一天晚上，天气异常恶劣；电闪雷鸣，大雨倾盆，可怕极了！这时，有人敲响了城门，老国王过去开门。

城外站着的是一位公主。但是，老天爷呀，狂风暴雨让她看上去那么狼狈！水从她的头发和衣服上直往下淌，从鞋尖淌进去，又从鞋跟流出来，而她却说，她是一位真正的公主。

“好吧，反正我们早晚都会知道。”老王后心想。但她什么都没说，只是走进卧房，把所有的被褥都拿掉，在床板上放了一颗豌豆，然后她拿来二十张床垫，盖在豌豆上，之后又在这些垫子上盖了二十床羽绒被。

这就是公主晚上睡觉的地方。

第二天早上大家问她睡得怎么样。

“哦，糟糕透了！”公主说，“我几乎整夜都没合眼！天知道，我的床上有什么东西？我睡在什么硬邦邦的东西上面，全身青一块紫一块！吓死人了!”

这样大家就看出来，这是一位真正的公主，隔着二十张床垫和二十床羽绒被，她都能感觉到下面的豌豆。除了真正的公主，还会有谁这么敏锐。

于是王子就娶了她做妻子，因为他知道，他终于得到了一位真正的公主，而豌豆则进了国家美术馆，如果没有被人拿走的话，现在大家还能看到它。

瞧，这可是个真实的故事！

坚定的锡兵

很久以前，有二十五个锡做的士兵，他们都是兄弟，因为他们是同一把旧锡勺生的。他们怀揣步枪、面朝前方。红红蓝蓝的制服还挺美的。他们在这个世界上听到的第一句话是：“锡兵！”他们当时正待在一个盒子里，盒盖掀开，一个农家男孩一边拍着双手一边这么喊；他们是他的礼物，因为那天是他的生日，他现在把他们一个一个摆到桌子上。士兵们个个都长得一模一样，只有一个稍有不同，他只有一条腿，因为他是最后一个铸出来的，锡不够用了；但他用一条腿站得跟别人用两条腿一样稳当，正是他最引人注目。

他们站着的桌子上，还摆着许多其他玩具，但最让人目不转睛的是一座纸糊的美丽城堡。透过那些小窗户可以望到里面的大厅。城堡外面立着几棵小树，围着一面小镜子——可以看成是一面湖。蜡制的天鹅在湖面游弋并欣赏着自己的倒影。一切都很美丽，不过最美丽的是一个小姑娘，她站在敞开的城堡门口。她也是纸剪出来的，但她穿着一条最纯净的棉布裙，肩上有一条窄窄的蓝丝带，就像一条披肩；场景的中央镶着一枚亮晶晶的闪片——几乎跟她整张脸一样大。小姑娘舒展着双臂——因为她是个舞者，一条腿高高举向天空，高得锡兵几乎望不到，以为她跟自己一样，也只有一条腿。

“她可以做我的妻子！”他心想，“但她太高贵了。她住的是城堡，而我只有一个盒子，而且还挤着我们二十五个人，可不是她该住的地方！尽管如此，我还是得想办法认识认识她！”于是他整个人躺平，藏在桌上的一个鼻烟壶背后；这样他正好可以看到这位漂亮的女士，她一直单腿站着，丝毫没有失去平衡。

夜幕降临的时候，其余的锡兵都回到盒子里，家里的人也都上床睡觉去了。这时候玩具们开始玩起了游戏，串门的串门，打仗的打仗，有的还开起了舞会。锡兵们也在盒子里闹腾起来，因为他们也想参加，但他们掀不开盒盖。胡桃夹子翻起了筋斗，石笔在画板上兴风作浪。骚动吵醒了金丝鸟，她说起话来，还抑扬顿挫的。没有挪窝的只有两个人，一个是锡兵，一个是小舞蹈家。她直挺挺地踮着脚尖，展开双臂。锡兵也坚定地用他的一条腿站立着，目不转睛地看着她。

这时钟敲响了十二下，鼻烟壶的盖子“咔”的一声弹开，但里面装的并不是烟草，而是一个黑黑的小妖怪，原来鼻烟壶只是个幌子。

“锡兵！”妖怪说，“管好自己的眼睛行不行！”

但锡兵假装没听见。

“好吧，明天走着瞧！”妖怪说。

第二天早晨，孩子们起床后，把锡兵摆到了窗台上。不是那个妖怪就是一阵劲风，窗一下子就吹开了，锡兵一头从三楼大厅栽了下去。这一跤跌得好险！他高举着腿，军帽顶着地，刺刀插在石铺的地缝隙里。

女佣和那个男孩立刻下楼来找他，尽管他们差点从他身上踩过去，但谁都没有看见他。要是当时锡兵喊一声“我在这儿！”他们就肯定能找到他。但他觉得高声喊叫不合时宜，他还穿着制服呢。

这时下起雨来，雨点越来越密，成了瓢泼大雨；大雨过后，来了两个流浪儿。

“你瞧！”其中一个说，“那儿躺着一个锡兵！他要扬帆远航啦！”

说着他们就用报纸折了一条船，把锡兵放在中央，他就这样沿着排水沟顺流而下；两个男孩都在一旁跟着跑，还边拍着手。哎呀！排水沟里的浪真大，水流真湍急！那可是一场瓢泼大雨呀。纸船上下颠簸，时不时来个急转弯，吓得锡兵心直哆嗦；但他重新振作起来，面不改色，目视前方，紧握步枪。

突然之间，船冲进一条长长的排水管；里面一片漆黑，就像回到了他的盒子里。

“不知道我现在到哪儿了。”他想，“就是，就是，是那个妖怪的错。唉，要是那个姑娘在船里就好了，那样的话再黑一倍也没关系。”

这时突然出现了一只住在水管里的老鼠。

“你有通行证吗？”老鼠问，“交出通行证来！”

但锡兵保持沉默，并把手里的步枪握得更紧。船继续前进，老鼠紧追不舍。哟！瞧它那咬牙切齿还冲着稻草木棍大喊大叫的样子：

“抓住他！抓住他！他没交过路费！他没出示通行证！”

但水流越来越湍急！锡兵已经能看到水管开口处传进来的天光，但他也听到了一阵可怕的声音，足以让再勇敢的人都胆战心惊。想象一下：水管的尽头，水流落入一条大运河里，对他来说，这其中的危险不亚于我们坠入一座大瀑布。

现在他已经近得无法刹车了。船冲了出去，可怜的锡兵尽可能地挺直身体，谁都别想说他眨过一下眼皮子。船旋转了三四圈，里面灌满了水，一直漫到了船沿，船要沉了；锡兵站在没到脖子的水中，船越沉越深，纸也越来越松。此刻水已没过了士兵的头，这时他想起了那个美丽的小舞者，他再也见不到她了；然后锡兵的耳朵里响起了一个声音：

“前进，前进，勇敢的人！

迎接你的是死神！”

就这样，纸破了，锡兵掉了出来，但与此同时，一条大鱼一口把他吞了下去。

哦不，里面好黑啊！比在水管里还要糟糕，而且地方很窄；但锡兵还是很坚定，直挺挺地躺着，紧握着步枪。

鱼游来游去，做着各种各样可怕的动作；后来它终于平静了下来，就像有一道闪电划过它的身躯。光线明亮起来，有人高声喊道：“锡兵！”原来鱼被人捉住，送到了集市口，卖掉之后进了厨房，女仆用一把大刀把它剖开。她用两根手指把锡兵拦腰夹住，带进客厅，大家都想看看这位在鱼肚子里驰骋过的大人物；但锡兵一点都不骄傲。他们把他放到桌子上，天哪！这世界真是无奇不有！锡兵又回到了他之前待过的同一个客厅，他看着同样的孩子，桌上放着同样的玩具；漂亮的城堡和美丽的小舞者；她仍然单腿站立着，另一条腿高高举在空中，她也很坚定；这让锡兵很感动，几乎要流出锡做的眼泪来，但他觉得这么做不合时宜。他看着她，她也看着他，但他们没有说一句话。

正在这时候，其中一个小男孩拿起锡兵，把他扔进了陶瓷壁炉。他也没有给出任何理由；一定是鼻烟壶里的小妖怪，就是他搞的鬼。

锡兵明晃晃地站在那儿，感到一股热浪，这很可怕，但热浪究竟是来自火焰还是爱情，他也不知道。色彩从他身上褪去，究竟是旅途中发生的，还是悲伤造成的，谁也说不上来。他看着那个小姑娘，她也在看着他，他感觉到自己在熔化，但他仍然坚定地站着，紧握步枪。这时忽然开了一扇门，一阵风卷起了舞者，她像风精灵一样飞进陶瓷壁炉，落在锡兵身边，燃起火焰，消失了，然后锡兵也熔成一团。第二天女仆清理炉灰的时候，她发现锡兵已经变成了一颗小小的锡心；而舞者留下的只有那枚闪片，并已经烧成了黑炭。

夜莺

在中国——这你肯定知道——皇帝是个中国人，他周围的人也都是中国人。这是许多年以前的事了，正因为如此才要听听这个故事，趁它还没有被大家忘记！这位皇帝的宫殿是世界上最雄伟壮丽的，一砖一瓦都是用精美的陶瓷制作的，非常昂贵，但也非常易碎，摸起来要非常小心。花园里可以看到各种奇花异草，那些最美艳的花上都系着银铃，铃儿叮当响，为了不让经过的人们错过这些花儿。诚然，御花园里的一切都那么引人注目，花园那么大，连园丁都不知道哪里是尽头；一直走下去，就会进入到最美丽的森林，那里有很高的树和很深的湖；树林一直延伸到大海，海水蔚蓝深邃；巨大的船只可以一直行驶到树枝下，就在这里，住着一只夜莺，它的歌声如此动听，连穷苦的渔夫，哪怕再繁忙劳碌，都会在夜里收网的时候，停下手中的活静静地聆听。“天哪，实在太美了！”他说，然后他不得不继续忙碌，忘掉这只鸟；然而第二天晚上它又唱起了歌，在外劳作的渔夫又会说同样的话：“天哪！实在太美了！”

世界各地的游客来到皇帝的都城，他们叹赏着这座城市，以及宫殿和花园，但当他们听到夜莺歌唱的时候，他们都会说：“这才是最美的！”

旅行家们回家之后，都会分享他们的所见所闻，其中那些学者写了许多关于皇城、宫殿和花园的书，他们也没有忘记那只夜莺，它被放在了第一位；而那些会写诗的人，写出了最美丽的诗篇，每一首写的都是深海边森林里的那只夜莺。

这些书在全世界流传，有几本还传到了皇帝手上。他坐在自己的金龙椅上，孜孜不倦地读着，时不时点点头，因为那些关于皇城、宫殿和花园的壮美描写让他很满意。“但最美的还是那只夜莺！”书上分明写着。

“怎么回事！”皇帝说，“夜莺！朕怎么完全不知道！朕的帝国里还有这么一只鸟，而且居然就在朕的花园里！朕却从来没听到过！朕还是从书上看来的！”

于是他唤来了他的侍臣，那可是个高贵的人，要是有任何比他卑微的人，胆敢跟他说话，或问他问题，他除了“呸！”之外不会多说一个字，而这个字本身也毫无意义。

“这儿应该有一只非常引人注目的鸟，名叫夜莺！”皇帝说，“大家都说它是朕泱泱大国中最美的东西！为什么从来没人跟朕提起过它！”

“微臣以前从没听说过这个名字！”侍臣说，“从来没人带它来上过朝！”

“朕要让它今晚到这儿来为朕唱歌！”皇帝说，“全世界都知道朕有什么，就朕不知道！”

“微臣以前从没听说过这个名字！”侍臣说，“微臣会去找，微臣会找到它！”

但到哪里去找它呢；侍臣上上下下跑遍所有楼梯，穿过大大小小的厅堂和走廊，但他遇到的人中，没有一个听说过关于夜莺的事，侍臣又跑回皇帝那儿，说这一定是写书的人编出来的寓言。“陛下不能相信书上写的东西！那都是虚构的，也就是所谓的‘无稽之谈’！”

“但朕读到它的那本书，”皇帝说，“是日本那位德高望重的天皇送的，不太可能是胡编乱造的。朕要听夜莺唱歌！今晚就要它在这里出现！这是朕的圣旨！假如它今晚不来，满朝文武吃完晚饭都得在肚子上挨板子。”

“遵旨！”侍臣说，然后又上上下下跑了一遍所有的楼梯，穿过大大小小的厅堂和走廊。半个朝廷都跟着他跑，因为他们不想肚子上挨板子。大家都在找这只奇怪的夜莺——举世闻名，但满朝文武却对它一无所知。

最后他们终于在御膳房里遇到一个贫穷的小女孩，她说：“哦，天哪，夜莺！我当然知道！是呀，它多会唱歌呀！每天晚上我都获准带一些饭桌上的剩菜回家，给我那可怜的、生病的母亲，她住在海边，我回家的路上累了，在森林里休息的时候，就会听到夜莺的歌唱！我听得热泪盈眶，感觉就像母亲吻了我一样！”

“小厨娘!”侍臣说，“我会给你御膳房的固定职位，并准你侍奉吾皇用膳，只要你带我们去找夜莺，因为有圣旨传它今晚进宫！”

于是他们一齐走进夜莺平时唱歌的那片森林；跟来半个朝廷。他们走着走着，一头母牛哞哞叫起来。

“呀！”一位年轻的朝臣说，“终于找到了！这么小的动物身上居然有这么神奇的爆发力！我以前肯定听到过这个声音！”

“不对，这是牛叫！”小厨娘说，“我们还有很长的路要走。”

这下是青蛙在池塘里呱呱叫。

“美妙！”国寺方丈说，“现在我算是听到它的声音了——就像小小的寺庙钟声。”

“不对，这是青蛙！”小厨娘说，“但我想我们很快就能听到它的声音了！”

说着夜莺就开始唱了起来。

“就是它！”小女孩说，“听！听！它就在那儿！”然后她指了指树枝上的一只灰色小鸟。

“真没想到！”侍臣说，“它居然长这样！看上去多普通！一定是因为看到自己身边围了这么多高贵的人它才失去了光彩！”

“小夜莺!”小厨娘高声喊道，“吾皇圣恩，宣你进宫唱歌。”

“荣幸之至！”夜莺说着就兴致盎然地唱了起来。

“宛如琉璃编钟！”侍臣说，“看这副小嗓音，运用得多妙！我们居然从来没听见过，真奇怪！它在宫中一定大获成功！”

“我还要为皇上再唱一次吗？”夜莺问，它还以为皇帝在场。

“我非同凡响的小夜莺！”侍臣说，“能请您入宫参加宫廷夜宴，让您为吾皇一展歌喉以悦龙颜，是在下最大的荣幸。”

“歌儿还是在绿荫下最动听！”夜莺说，但当它听说这是皇帝的希望时，还是欣然答应去了。

宫殿里装点得富丽堂皇！墙和地板都是瓷砖铺成的，被成千上万的金灯照得金碧辉煌！那些最美丽的花朵挂着铃摆在走廊上；只要有人奔跑或一阵穿堂风吹过，所有的铃就会一起叮当响起，没人能听见彼此的说话声。

皇帝正襟危坐的大殿中央，竖着一根金杆，这是给夜莺坐的；满朝文武都到齐了，小厨娘也获准在门后侍应，因为她现在已经正式获得“御厨”的封号。每个人都穿上了最华丽的盛装，大家都望着这只灰色的小鸟，皇帝冲它点点头。

夜莺的歌声如此美妙，听得皇帝热泪盈眶，泪珠从脸颊上滚落，夜莺的歌声越来越优美，动人心弦；皇帝那么高兴，他说要把他的金拖鞋挂到夜莺脖子上。但夜莺谢绝了，它已经得到了足够的酬赏。

“我见到了皇上眼里的泪珠，这对我来说是最珍贵的宝藏！皇上的泪珠有一种神奇的力量。神知道我已经得到了足够的酬赏！”然后它又用天赐的甜美歌喉唱起歌来。

“这是我见过最可爱的尤物！”周围的宫女们说，有人跟她们说话的时候，她们就故意喝口水，在嘴里发出“咯咯”声：她们以为自己也是夜莺。太监和侍女们也表了态，说他们也很满意，这很说明问题，因为这些人是最难伺候的。没错，夜莺首演大获成功。

于是它在宫中住了下来，有了自己的笼子，它还有自由出去散步的时间，白天两次，夜晚一次。每次总有十二个随从跟着，每个人手里都攥着一根系在它腿上的丝线，还都拉得紧紧的，这样散步根本谈不上享受。

整座京城的人都在谈论这只出类拔萃的鸟，两个人在路上相遇，其中一个人别的不必多说，只要说：“夜——！”另一个人就会说：“莺！”然后他们就都叹一口气，彼此心领神会了，的确有十一个小贩的孩子都起名为“夜莺”，但其中没有一个唱歌着调的。

有一天皇帝收到一个大包裹，下面写着：“夜莺”。

“又一本写我们这只名鸟的书吧！”皇帝说。但包裹里不是书，而是一件小工艺品，装在一个盒子里，一只手工制造的夜莺，它很像那只活的夜莺，但全身镶满了钻石、红宝石和蓝宝石；只要给它上好发条，它就会唱一首真的夜莺唱过的歌，尾巴上下摆动着，晶莹剔透。它的脖颈上缠着一根小丝带，上面写着：“日本皇帝的夜莺，无法与中国皇帝的夜莺媲美。”

“太美了！”大家都说。而那个送来手工夜莺的人马上受封：首席皇家夜莺使者。

“现在让它们在一起唱歌吧！那会是多动听的二重唱呀！”

就这样，它们不得不一起唱歌，但怎么都不对劲，因为那只真正的夜莺有自己的风格，而人造鸟是上发条的，只会按部就班。“没关系，”乐师说，“节奏很独特，还挺对我口味！”于是人造鸟就要独唱了——它取得了和真鸟不相上下的成功，另外，它的外表要美艳得多：它像手镯和胸针一样闪闪发亮。

同样的曲目，它唱了三十三遍，并且不厌其烦：大家都愿意再听下去，但皇帝却说也该让那只活的夜莺唱点儿什么了——但它去哪儿了？谁都没有注意到，它已经飞出窗外，回它的绿森林里去了。

“这到底是怎么回事！”皇帝说。满朝官员都在咒骂，说那只夜莺是个忘恩负义的畜生。“反正我们有一只最棒的鸟！”他们说，就这样，那只人造鸟不得不又唱了起来，这是他们第三十四次听同一首歌，但他们还是学不会，因为这首歌太难，乐师对这只鸟赞不绝口，可以肯定，它比那只真的夜莺好得多，不仅衣装以及镶有这么多精美钻石的外表，还有它的内在。

“各位大人，特别是皇帝陛下，恕我直言！谁都无法捉摸那只真的夜莺会唱出什么歌来，而这只人造鸟是有定式的！该怎么样就怎么样！大家可以搞清楚它的工作原理，可以把它拆开，看看其中的匠心，发条在哪里，它是怎么转动的，怎么一步接一步工作的——！”

“我差不多也是这么想的！”大家都说。于是乐师获准在下周日向民众展示这只鸟。他们也应该听听它的歌喉，皇帝说。他们听了，也很满意，就像畅饮香茶一般——因为喝茶是件很具中国特色的事，大家都说：“哇！”一边点头一边向天空举起食指。但那些贫穷的渔夫听到过真正夜莺的歌声，他们说：“声音够优美，也很逼真，但就是缺了点什么，我也不知道缺的是什么！”

真正的夜莺已被放逐出这片国土。

人造鸟紧挨着皇帝的床在一个真丝枕头上落了脚：它得到的所有礼品，金玉珠宝，都堆在它的周围，它的封号已经升为“至尊皇家床头歌手”，等级为左手边第一位，因为皇帝认为左边最尊贵，左边是心脏的位置，哪怕是皇帝的心脏。乐师为人造鸟写了长达二十五卷的书，文章渊博而冗长，使用了最繁难的汉字，大家都说他们读过并读懂了这部书，因为不这么说就是愚蠢，肚子上要挨板子的。

就这样过了整整一年；皇帝、群臣，以及所有其余的中国人都能背得出夜莺的歌里每一处细小的转折，但正因为这样大家才觉得最妙；他们可以跟着一起唱了。流浪儿唱着“唧唧唧！咕咕咕！”，皇帝也这么唱！——没错，这样肯定很美妙！

但某天晚上，人造鸟正唱着最拿手的曲目，皇帝躺在床上听着，鸟的身体里突然“噌！”的一声；哪儿断了什么东西，“唰！”，所有轮子都飞转起来，歌声戛然而止。

皇帝立即跳下床，唤来了他的御医，但喊御医有什么用！于是又传了一个钟表匠来，几番口舌和几番检视之后，他总算把鸟修了个八九不离十，但他说这只鸟以后可要省着点用，因为它的机芯已经锈蚀，换新的机芯让音乐恢复正常是不可能的了。这是一件非常悲伤的事！大家只敢让人造鸟一年演唱一次，就这样也已经算是勉为其难了；然而乐师用那些繁难的字眼做了个简短的发言，他说一切都跟过去一样好，于是一切就都算跟过去一样好。

五年过去了，整个国家遭遇了一场最重大的悲伤，因为大家都很喜欢他们的皇帝，而他现在病了，据说不久于人世，新的皇帝已经选好，老百姓都站在大街上，向侍臣打听皇帝的病情。

“唉!”他边说边摇头。

皇帝冰冷苍白地躺在他华丽的大床上。满朝文武都以为他死了，每个人都跑去向新皇帝请安。太监们都跑出来闲言碎语，宫女们开着盛大的茶话会。所有的大厅和走廊里都铺满了布，为了有人经过的时候不发出脚步声，所以到处都很寂静，非常寂静。但皇帝还没有死，他僵硬苍白地躺在华丽的床上，长长的天鹅绒帷幔和沉重的黄金穗饰；高处开着一扇窗，月亮照进来，月光洒在皇帝和人造鸟身上。

可怜的皇帝几乎透不过气来，感觉就像胸口压着什么东西；他勉强睁开眼睛，看到死神坐在他胸口上，头上戴着金冠，一只手握着皇帝的金剑，另一只手举着他那柄华丽的令旗；他的四周，天鹅绒帷幔的褶皱里探出许多奇形怪状的脑袋来，有些很丑陋，有些很祥和：这些都是皇帝的恶业和善行，他们都瞪着他，而死神就坐在他的心坎上。

“你还记得吗？”脑袋一个接一个地低声问，“你还记得吗？”他们对他讲了许多往事，搞得他满头冷汗。

“朕从来都不知道！”皇帝说。“奏乐，奏乐，大鼓敲起来！”他喊道，“别让朕听到他们说的话！”

但他们还是挥之不去，不管说什么，死神都点头。

“奏乐，奏乐！”皇帝大叫，“你这祥瑞的小金鸟！唱呀，唱呀！朕给你穿金戴银，还亲自把朕的金拖鞋挂在你的脖颈上，唱呀，唱呀！”

但那只鸟一声不吭地站在那儿，没人来给它上发条，它也就不会唱歌；但死神仍然用他空洞的大眼睛瞪着皇帝，四周一片寂静，寂静得可怕。

就在这时，紧挨着窗传来了那最美丽的歌声，是那只活着的小夜莺，它站在窗外的树枝上；它听说皇帝病危，所以赶来用歌声送上安慰与希望。随着它的歌声，那些鬼魂越来越苍白，血液在皇帝孱弱的四肢中流淌得越来越快，连死神都在聆听，他说：“唱下去，小夜莺，唱下去吧!”

“好的，但把华丽的金剑交给我吧！把贵重的令旗也给我吧！把皇帝的金冠也给我吧！”

死神用每一件宝物交换一首歌，夜莺就一直唱下去，它唱到寂静的墓园，白色的玫瑰在那儿生长，接骨木树在那儿散发着幽香，嫩草在那儿沐浴着遗属的眼泪；这让死神怀念起自己的花园来，化作一缕冰冷的白雾，飘出窗外。

“谢谢，谢谢！”皇帝说，“你这只天使般的小鸟，朕认得你！是朕把你逐出朕的国土的！而你却用歌唱驱除了朕床边的恶灵，让死神离开朕的心坎！朕该如何酬谢你？”

“你已经酬谢过我了！”夜莺说，“第一次歌唱的时候，我已从你的眼里唱出了泪珠，我将永生不忘！那些泪珠是珍宝，让歌唱的心受益匪浅。但现在快睡吧，变得健康强壮起来！我会为你歌唱！”

于是它唱了起来——而皇帝就这么进入了甜美的梦乡，温柔而祥和！

他醒来时感觉强健而康明，阳光从窗口洒进来，照耀着他；他的侍从一个都还没有来，因为他们以为，他死了。但夜莺仍在那里唱着歌。

“你要永远和朕在一起！”皇帝说，“只有你想唱的时候才需要唱，那只人造鸟朕要把它摔成碎片。”

“别这样！”夜莺说，“它已经尽力了！永远留着它吧！我无法在宫中安家定居，但让我想来的时候就来吧，那样我就会在傍晚停在窗边的树枝上，为你歌唱，这样你就会快乐并格外地深思，我将歌唱那些幸福的人以及那些煎熬的人！我将歌唱善与恶，它们就隐藏在你的周围。我这唱歌的小鸟还要到处飞翔，去找贫穷的渔夫，去农家的屋顶，去每个远离你和你宫殿的地方。我爱你的心远胜于你的皇冠，然而皇冠本身也有某种神圣的气息！——我会前来为你歌唱！——但有一件事你必须向我承诺。”

“任何事！”皇帝说，他亲自穿上自己的龙袍站在那儿，手持沉重而闪耀的金剑抵住自己的心口。

“我只求你一件事！别告诉任何人你有一只会把什么都告诉你的小鸟，这样一切都会变得更美好。”

然后夜莺就飞走了。

侍从们进来想为他们死去的皇帝善后——他们就这么站在那儿，而皇帝却说：“早上好！”

红鞋

有个小女孩，既可爱又漂亮，但一到夏天她就不得不到哪儿都打着赤脚，因为她很穷。冬天她穿一双大木鞋，小脚背都红了，看着挺吓人。

村子的正中央住着年迈的鞋匠姥姥，她坐在那儿穿针引线，竭尽全力，用旧红布条缝出了一双小鞋，很笨拙，但很用心，这双鞋就是给那个小女孩的。小姑娘名叫卡伦。

就在她的母亲下葬的那天，她得到了那双红鞋并第一次穿上了它们；这双鞋哀悼的时候穿的确不合时宜，但她也没有别的鞋子可穿，于是她就光着脚穿着它们，跟在一口简陋的稻草棺材后面走。

这时突然出现了一辆高大的老爷车，里面坐着一位高大的老妇人，她看着这个小姑娘，心里非常地怜惜，于是就对牧师说：“听着，把这个小姑娘给我吧，我会好好待她的！”

卡伦以为这都是因为那双红鞋，但老妇人却说它们太丑了，于是就把鞋烧了。但卡伦自己却穿上了干净得体的衣服；她必须学习读书和缝纫，大家都说她很漂亮。但她的镜子说：“你岂止是漂亮，你美极了！”

有一次王后周游全国，随行的还有她的小女儿，也就是公主，人们蜂拥来到城堡门外，其中就有卡伦，小公主穿一身精致的白衣服，站在窗子里给大家欣赏；她既没有拖着长长的裙摆，也没有戴金冠，但穿着一双美丽的红色萨非皮鞋；它们确实比鞋匠姥姥为小卡伦缝的鞋好看得多。世上没有什么东西能和红鞋相提并论！

现在卡伦长大了，要参加成人礼，她得到了新衣服，还有新鞋子。城里有钱的鞋匠为她的小脚丫量了尺寸，是在他自己家的客厅里量的，厅里立着大玻璃柜，里面摆着迷人的鞋子和光鲜的靴子。那儿看上去很漂亮，但老妇人眼神不好，所以也受用不到。在这些鞋子中间有一双红鞋，像极了公主穿的那双，真是美极了！鞋匠也说这双鞋是为一位伯爵的女儿缝的，但鞋不合脚。

“一定是打光革的！”老妇人说，“好亮！”

“是的，好亮！”卡伦说。鞋子很合脚，于是她们就买了下来；但老妇人并不知道鞋是红色的，不然她决不会让卡伦穿着红鞋参加成人礼，但是她还是这么去了。

所有人都看着她的脚，当她穿过教堂的大厅走向诗班席大门的时候，她觉得就连墓碑上的古画——那些戴着硬邦邦的襞襟穿着黑色长袍的牧师和牧师夫人的肖像，都把目光锁定在她的红鞋上。牧师把手搭在她的头上，讲述神圣的洗礼，对上帝的誓约，说她已经是成年的基督徒，但哪怕这个时候，她想的还是那双鞋；风琴演奏的音乐如此庄严，优美的童声在唱，年迈的领唱也在唱，但卡伦想的只有那双红鞋。

下午连那个老妇人都知道鞋是红色的，她说这太糟糕，太不合时宜，卡伦从此以后去教堂都必须穿黑色的鞋子，哪怕是旧鞋。

下一个星期日是圣餐礼，卡伦看了看那双黑鞋，又看了看那双红鞋——然后她又看了看红鞋，拿起来穿在了脚上。

那天阳光明媚，卡伦和老妇人穿过田间小径，灰尘弥漫。

教堂门口站着一个老兵，拄着一根拐杖，留着一把奇怪的长胡子，胡子的颜色比白色要红，因为它就是红色的；他深深地鞠了个躬，脑袋几乎着了地，并问老妇人他能不能擦擦她的鞋。卡伦也把她的小脚伸了出来。“瞧，多美丽的舞鞋啊！”士兵说，“你跳舞的时候鞋也穿得牢！”说着他用手敲敲鞋底。

老妇人给士兵一个小铜币，然后带着卡伦走进教堂。

教堂里所有人都看着卡伦的红鞋，所有的画像也都在看着它们，当卡伦跪在圣坛前，把圣杯端到嘴边的时候，她想的只有她的红鞋，就像它们在圣杯中为了她游来荡去；她忘了唱赞美诗，她忘了念“亲爱的圣父”。

之后大家都走出教堂，老妇人迈进她的马车。卡伦跟在后面抬起脚，这时那个站在她们身旁的老兵说：“瞧，多美丽的舞鞋啊！”卡伦忍不住想跳几个舞步，她一开始跳起来，双腿就停不下来，就像这双鞋控制了它们；她绕着教堂一角跳了一圈，她忍不住；车夫不得不跟在她身后，跑过来一把抓住她，把她抱进马车里，但她的脚仍在舞蹈，结果她狠狠地踢了那位好心的老妇人。最后他们终于脱下了她的鞋，腿才恢复平静。

回家后，这双鞋放进了柜子里，但卡伦还是忍不住想看看它们。

后来老妇人病倒了，大家都说她将不久于人世！她需要有人照顾护理，她身边没有比卡伦更亲近的人了。但正巧城里举行盛大的舞会，也邀请了卡伦。她看了看那位老妇人，反正她将不久于人世，她又看了看那双红鞋，觉得看看也不算什么罪孽。她穿上这双红鞋，穿穿总可以吧。然而她还是去参加了舞会，并且又开始跳舞。

但她想往右，鞋偏跳向左，她想向前，鞋却偏跳向后，下楼，穿过大街，出城门。她跳着舞，不得不跳着舞，一直跳到黑暗的森林里。

树丛中亮起一束光，她以为那是月亮，因为她看到一张脸，但那是那个红胡子老兵，他坐在那儿点着头说：“瞧，多美丽的舞鞋啊！”

她害怕起来，想把红鞋扔掉，但它们紧紧地箍着她的脚，她扯下了她的袜子，但鞋已经长在了她的脚上。她跳着舞，不得不跳舞，穿过田野和草坪，无论雨淋还是日晒，无论黑夜还是白昼，而黑夜是最可怕的。

她跳进一座开放的墓园，不过那儿的亡灵不跳舞，他们有比跳舞更重要的事要做；她想在一座长满苦涩菊蒿的陋坟上坐一下，但她根本不得安宁，于是她跳到敞开着的教堂门口，在那儿她看到一位身穿白色长袍的天使。他的翅膀一直从肩膀拖到地上，他的表情庄重而严肃，他手中持着一把宽宽的剑。

“你要跳舞！”他说，“穿着你的红鞋跳舞，直到你变得苍白冰冷！直到你的肌肤萎缩，把你变成一具骨架。你要从一户人家跳到另一户人家，那些家里住着傲慢可恶的孩子，你要敲他们的门，让他们听到你的声音并怕你！你要跳舞，跳舞——！”

“宽恕我！”卡伦喊道。但她没有听到天使的回答，因为鞋把她带出了门，带到田野上，穿过大路，穿过小径，她得一直跳舞。

一天早晨她跳过一扇门，她很熟悉的门；里面传出赞美诗来，人们抬出一口棺材，上面装饰着花朵；这时她才知道老妇人死了，她觉得自己已经被所有人遗弃并受到了上帝天使的诅咒。

她跳着舞，不得不跳着舞，在漆黑的夜里跳着舞。鞋带着她穿过满是荆棘和木桩的地方，把她扎出了血；她跳着舞穿过荒地来到一座孤零零的小屋跟前。她知道那个刽子手住在这儿，她用手指敲着玻璃窗上说：“出来！——出来！——我进不来，因为我在跳舞！”

刽子手说：“你难道不知道我是谁？我会砍掉恶人的脑袋，我能感觉到我的斧子已经在颤动了！”

“别砍我的头，”卡伦说，“因为这样我就不能忏悔我的罪过了。但把我的脚砍掉吧，连我的鞋一起！”

于是她坦白了自己所有的罪孽，刽子手砍下了她穿着红鞋的脚，但鞋带着她的小脚跳着舞穿过田野，跳进了茂密的森林深处。

他为她削了一双木脚和一副拐杖，还教给她一首罪人常唱的赞美诗，她吻了那只握斧子的手，然后穿过荒地而去。

“我已经受够了那双红鞋的折磨！”她说，“现在我要去教堂，让大家看看我！”于是她飞快地走向教堂大门，但她到那儿的时候，红鞋就在她面前跳舞，她吓坏了，只得转身离开。

整个星期她都很悲伤，流了许多沉重的眼泪，但星期天到来的时候，她说：“看吧，我已经受尽折磨竭尽全力！我觉得，我已经和那些昂首坐在教堂里的人一样善良了！”于是她勇敢地去了；但她还是只走到门口，她又看到那双红鞋在面前跳舞，她吓坏了，转过身，并打心底忏悔起她的罪过。

她走到牧师家，请求在那里服务，她会勤勤恳恳地工作，做所有力所能及的事，她无所谓报酬，只求有一个安身之处，有好人为伴。牧师夫人可怜她，收留了她。她的确很勤恳也很用心。晚上牧师朗读《圣经》的时候，她就静静地坐下来听。所有孩子都很喜欢她，但他们说起装饰、城市，以及她像皇后一样美丽的时候，她就摇头。

接下来的星期天，一家人都要去教堂，他们问她愿不愿意一起去，但她噙着眼泪，悲伤地看着她的拐杖，于是其他人都去听上帝的训诫，而她独自走进自己的小房间；地方不大，只够放一张床和一把椅子。她坐下拿起自己的赞美诗；无比虔诚地读起来，随风传来教堂的管风琴声，她抬起头，泪流满面地说：“哦，上帝，救救我！”

阳光如此明媚地照耀着，她的面前出现了上帝的白衣天使，就是那天晚上她在教堂门口见到的那位，但他手中拿着的不再是锋利的剑，而是开满玫瑰的绿枝，他用它触碰了一下天花板，天花板就高高地升了起来，凡是他触碰过的地方，都会有一颗金色的星星在闪烁，他触碰了一下墙壁，墙壁就延展开来，她看到了演奏着的管风琴，她看到了画有牧师和牧师夫人的古画；人们坐在装饰过的座位上，唱着他们的赞美诗。要不是教堂为可怜的小女孩来到这逼仄的小房间里，就是她已经进了教堂；她和牧师家的其他人一起坐在座位上，当他们唱完赞美诗抬起头的时候，他们点点头说：“你来对了，卡伦！”

“这是上帝的恩典！”她说。

风琴鸣响，童声合唱如此温柔优美。明媚的阳光温暖地透过窗户洒在卡伦坐着的教堂长椅上；她的心被阳光、平和与欢乐充盈，直至破碎；她的灵魂顺着阳光飞向上帝，在天堂再也没人问起那双红鞋。

The T inderbox

A soldier came marching along the road: left, right! left, right! He had his knapsack on his back and a sword at his side, because he had been off to war, and now he was on his way home. Then he met an old witch on the road. She was so hideous, her lower lip hung all the way down to her breast. She said, ‘Good evening, soldier. What a nice sword and big knapsack you have – you must be a real soldier! Now you shall have all the money you could ask for!’

‘Well, thanks a lot, you old witch,’ said the soldier.

‘Do you see that big tree?’ said the witch, pointing at a tree right next to them. ‘It’s completely hollow inside. Climb up to the top and you’ll find a hole that you can slip into and slide all the way down inside the tree. I’ll tie a rope around your waist so I can hoist you back up when you call me.’

‘Why would I go inside that tree?’ asked the soldier.

‘To get the money!’ said the witch. ‘You see, when you reach the bottom of the tree, you’ll be in a huge passageway that’s very bright because it’s lit by more than a hundred lamps. Then you’ll see three doors, and you’ll be able to open them because the keys are in the locks. If you go inside the first chamber you’ll see a big chest in the middle of the room, and on top of it sits a dog. He has eyes as big as a pair of teacups, but never mind that. I’ll give you my blue- checked apron that you can spread on the floor. Go right over and pick up the dog and set him on my apron. Then open the chest and take as many skillings as you like. They’re all made of copper, but if you’d rather have silver, then go into the next room. In there is a dog with eyes as big as a pair of mill wheels, but never mind that. Set him on my apron and take the money. But if it’s gold you want, you can have that too, and as much as you can carry, if you go into the third chamber. But the dog sitting on the money chest has two eyes that are each as big as the Round Tower. Now that’s a real dog, believe me! But never you mind. Just set him on my apron and he won’t harm you. Then take from the chest as much gold as you like.’

‘Not bad,’ said the soldier. ‘But what do I have to give you in return, you old witch? Because I imagine there must be something you want.’

‘No,’ said the witch, ‘I don’t want a single skilling. All you have to bring me is an old tinderbox that my grandmother left behind when she was down there last.’

‘Fine. Then let’s have that rope around my waist,’ said the soldier.

‘Here it is,’ said the witch. ‘And here is my blue- checked apron.’

So the soldier climbed up the tree, tumbled down the hole, and then, just as the witch had said, he stood inside the huge passageway where hundreds of lamps were burning.

He opened the first door. Ooh! There sat the dog with eyes as big as teacups, staring at him.

‘You’re a handsome fellow!’ said the soldier and set him on the witch’s apron. Then he took as many copper skillings as his pockets would hold, closed the chest, put the dog back, and went into the second room. Eeek! There sat the dog with eyes as big as mill wheels.

‘You shouldn’t look at me so hard,’ said the soldier. ‘You might hurt your eyes!’ And then he set the dog on the witch’s apron, but when he saw all the silver coins inside the chest he threw away the copper coins he was carrying and filled his pockets and his knapsack with nothing but silver. Next he went into the third chamber. Oh, how hideous! The dog in there really did have eyes as big as round towers, and they were spinning around in his head like wheels.

‘Good evening,’ said the soldier and doffed his cap, for he had never seen a dog like that before. But after he’d looked at him for a while, he thought to himself, ‘All right, that’s enough.’ And he lifted him onto the floor and opened the chest. Good Lord, there was a lot of gold! Enough to buy all of Copenhagen and every single sugar- pig sold by the cake- wives, and all the tin soldiers, whips, and rocking horses in the whole world! Yes, there was certainly plenty of money! So the soldier threw away all the silver coins that filled his pockets and knapsack and took the gold instead. Yes, all his pockets, his knapsack, his cap, and his boots were so full that he could hardly walk. Now he had money! He put the dog back on the chest, slammed the door shut, and called up through the tree:

‘Hoist me up now, you old witch!’

‘Do you have the tinderbox?’ asked the witch.

‘Oh, that’s right,’ said the soldier. ‘I forgot all about it.’And he went over and picked it up. The witch hoisted him up and he once again stood on the road, with his pockets, boots, knapsack, and cap full of money.

‘What do you want the tinderbox for?’ asked the soldier.

‘That’s none of your business,’ said the witch. ‘You’ve got the money. Now just give me the tinderbox.’

‘Pish posh!’ said the soldier. ‘Tell me right now what you want it for or I’ll pull out my sword and chop off your head!’

‘No,’ said the witch.

So the soldier chopped off her head. There she lay! But he wrapped up all his money in her apron, slung it in a bundle over his shoulder, stuffed the tinderbox in his pocket, and headed straight for the city.

It was a lovely city, and he went inside the loveliest of inns and demanded the very best rooms and his favorite food, because now he had so much money that he was rich.

The servant who was supposed to polish his boots thought they were rather strange old boots for such a rich gentleman to be wearing, but he hadn’t yet bought himself new ones. By the next day he had a good pair of boots and fine clothes to wear. The soldier was now a distinguished gentleman, and the people told him about all the splendid things to be found in their city, and about their king and what a charming princess his daughter was.

‘Where might I catch a glimpse of her?’ asked the soldier.

‘It’s impossible to catch a glimpse of her,’ they all said.‘She lives in an enormous copper palace surrounded by dozens of walls and towers. No one but the king dares visit her, because it was foretold that she would marry a simple soldier, and that certainly did not please the king.’

‘She’s someone I’d like to see,’ thought the soldier, but that wasn’t possible.

He was now leading a merry life, going to the theater, taking drives in the king’s gardens, and giving away a great deal of money to the poor, which was a very nice gesture. No doubt he remembered from the old days how miserable it was not to have even a skilling. He was now rich and wore fine clothes, and had so many friends who all said that he was a pleasant fellow, a real gentleman, and that certainly pleased the soldier. But since he was spending money each day and not taking any in, he finally had no more than two skillings left and had to move out of the beautiful rooms where he had been living and into a tiny little garret room right under the roof. He had to brush his own boots and mend them with a darning needle, and none of his friends came to see him because there were too many stairs to climb.

It was a very dark evening, and he couldn’t even afford to buy a candle, but then he remembered there was a little stump of one in the tinderbox he had taken from the hollow tree when the witch had helped him inside. He took out the tinderbox and the candle stump, but the minute he struck fire and sparks leaped from the flint, the door flew open and the dog that he had seen inside the tree, the one with eyes as big as two teacups, stood before him and said, ‘What is my master’s command?’

‘What’s this?’ said the soldier. ‘What an amusing tinderbox, if I can wish for whatever I want! Bring me some money,’ he said to the dog, and zip, he was gone; zip, he was back, holding a big sack of skillings in his mouth.

Now the soldier realized what a wonderful tinderbox it was. If he stuck it once, the dog who sat on the chest of copper coins came; if he struck it twice, the one with the silver coins came; and if he struck it three times, the one with the gold came. Now the soldier moved back downstairs to the beautiful rooms, dressed in fine clothing, and all his friends recognized him again, because they were so fond of him.

One day he thought, ‘How odd that no one is allowed to see that princess. Everyone says she’s supposed to be so lovely. But what good is it if she’s always kept inside that enormous copper palace with all the towers? Couldn’t I possibly have a look at her? Where’s my tinderbox?’ And then he struck fire and zip, the dog with eyes as big as teacups appeared.

‘I know it’s the middle of the night,’ said the soldier, ‘but I have such a great desire to see the princess, if only for a moment.’

The dog was out the door at once, and before the soldier knew it, he was back with the princess. She was sitting on the dog’s back, asleep, and she was so lovely that anyone could see she was a real princess. The soldier couldn’t resist, he had to kiss her, because he was a real soldier.

Then the dog ran back with the princess, but when morning came and the king and queen were pouring their tea, the princess said that she’d had a strange dream in the night about a dog and a soldier. She was riding on the dog’s back, and the soldier had kissed her.

‘That’s certainly a fine story!’ said the queen.

One of the old ladies- in- waiting was then ordered to keep watch at the bedside of the princess on the following night, to see if it was really a dream, or what else it might be.

The soldier was longing terribly to see the lovely princess once more, so the dog appeared in the night, picked her up, and ran as fast as he could, but the old lady- in- waiting put on her wading boots and ran just as swiftly right behind. When she saw them disappear inside a large building, she thought to herself: Now I know where it is. And with a piece of chalk she drew a big cross on the door. Then she returned home and went to bed, and the dog came back too, bringing the princess. But when he saw that a cross had been drawn on the door where the soldier lived, he took another piece of chalk and put a cross on all the doors in the whole city. That was a clever thing to do, because now the lady- in- waiting wouldn’t be able to find the right door, since there were crosses on all of them.

Early the next morning the king and queen, the old lady- in- waiting, and all the officers went out to see where the princess had been.

‘There it is!’ said the king when he saw the first door with a cross on it.

‘No, it’s over there, my dear husband,’ said the queen, who saw another door with a cross on it.

‘But there’s one there, and one there!’ they all said. Wherever they looked, there was a cross on every door. Then they realized it was no use to go on searching.

But the queen was a very clever woman who was capable of more than just riding around in a coach. She took her big golden scissors, cut a large piece of silk into pieces, and then stitched together a charming little pouch, which she filled with fine grains of buckwheat. She tied it to the back of the princess, and when that was done, she cut a tiny hole in the pouch so the grains would sprinkle out wherever the princess went.

That night the dog appeared once again, put the princess on his back, and ran off with her to the soldier, who loved her so much and wanted dearly to be a prince so that he could make her his wife.

The dog didn’t notice the grain sprinkling out all the way from the palace to the soldier’s window, as he ran along the wall, carrying the princess. In the morning the king and queen could see quite well where their daughter had been, and they seized the soldier and threw him into jail.

And there he sat. Oh, how dark and dreary it was, and then they told him, ‘Tomorrow you will hang.’ That was not a pleasant thing to hear, and he had left his tinderbox behind at the inn. In the morning he could see through the iron bars on the little window that people were hurrying to the outskirts of the city to watch him hang. He heard the drums and saw the marching soldiers. Everyone was in a great rush, including a shoemaker’s apprentice wearing a leather apron and slippers. He was moving along at such a gallop that one of his slippers flew off and struck the wall right where the soldier was sitting, peering out through the iron bars.

‘Hey, shoemaker’s apprentice! You don’t have to be in such a rush,’ said the soldier. ‘Nothing’s going to happen until I get there. But if you run over to the place where I was staying and bring me my tinderbox, I’ll give you four skillings. But you have to be quick about it!’ The shoemaker’s apprentice wanted those four skillings, so he raced off to get the tinderbox, brought it to the soldier, and . . . well, let’s hear what happened.

Outside the city a huge gallows had been built, and around it stood the soldiers and many hundreds of thousands of people. The king and queen sat on a lovely throne right across from the judge and the entire council.

The soldier was already standing on the ladder, but as they were about to put the rope around his neck, he said that before a sinner faced his punishment he was always allowed one harmless request. He dearly wanted to smoke a pipe of tobacco; it would be the last pipe he had in this world.

Now, that was not something the king could refuse, and so the soldier took out his tinderbox and struck fire, one, two, three! And there stood all three dogs: the one with eyes as big as teacups, the one with eyes like mill wheels, and the one with eyes as big as the Round Tower.

‘Help me now, so I won’t be hanged!’ said the soldier, and then the dogs rushed at the judge and the entire council, seizing one by the leg and one by the nose, and flinging them high into the air so they fell back down and were crushed to bits.

‘Not me!’ said the king, but the biggest dog seized both him and the queen and tossed them after all the others. Then the soldiers were afraid, and all the people shouted, ‘Little soldier, you shall be our king and wed the lovely princess!’

They put the soldier in the king’s coach, and all three dogs danced before it, shouting, ‘Hurrah!’ The boys whistled through their fingers, and the soldiers presented arms. The princess came out of the copper palace and became queen, and that certainly pleased her! The wedding celebration lasted for a week, and the dogs sat at the table too, making big eyes.

Little Claus and Big Claus

There was a town where two men had the very same name. Both of them were named Claus, but one owned four horses while the other had only one. In order to tell them apart, people called the man with four horses Big Claus, and the man with only one horse Little Claus. Now we’re going to hear what happened between those two, because this is a real story!

All week long Little Claus had to do the plowing for Big Claus, lending him his only horse. Then Big Claus would help him in return with all four of his horses, but only once a week, and that was on Sunday. Hee- ya! How Little Claus would crack his whip at all five horses. They might as well have belonged to him on that one day. The sun shone so wondrously, and all the bells in the tower rang, summoning people to church. Everyone was dressed in their best, walking with their hymnals under their arms, on their way to hear the pastor preach. And they looked at Little Claus, who was plowing with five horses, and he was so pleased that he cracked his whip again and shouted, ‘ Giddy- up, all my horses!’

‘You shouldn’t say that,’ said Big Claus. ‘Only one of those horses is yours.’

But when someone else passed by on his way to church, Little Claus forgot that he wasn’t supposed to say that and he shouted, ‘ Giddy- up, all my horses!’

‘All right, now I really must ask you to stop that,’ said Big Claus. ‘Because if you say it one more time, I’m going to strike your horse on the forehead, and he’ll drop dead on the spot, and that will be the end of him.’

‘Well, I certainly won’t say it again,’ said Little Claus, but when people came past and nodded hello, he was so pleased and thought it looked so splendid that he had five horses plowing his field that he cracked his whip and shouted,‘ Giddy- up, all my horses!’

‘I’ll giddy- up your horses!’ said Big Claus, and he seized the tethering mallet and struck Little Claus’s only horse on the forehead so that it fell to the ground, stone dead.

‘Oh no, now I have no horse at all!’ said Little Claus and began to cry. Later he flayed the horse and let the hide dry in the wind. Then he stuffed it in a sack that he hoisted onto his back and set off for town to sell his horsehide.

He had such a long way to go. He had to pass through a big, dark forest, and a terrible storm came up. He completely lost his way, and before he found the right road, dusk had fallen, and it was much too far to reach town or to go back home before night came.

Close to the road stood a large farm. The shutters on all the windows were closed, and yet there was a glimpse of light above. Surely they’ll let me spend the night here, thought Little Claus, and he went over and knocked.

The farmer’s wife opened the door, but when she heard what he wanted, she told him to keep on going. Her husband wasn’t home, and she didn’t take in strangers.

‘Well, then I guess I’ll have to sleep outside,’ said Little Claus, and the farmer’s wife shut the door in his face.

Nearby stood a big haystack, and between the haystack and house a little shed had been built with a flat, thatched roof.

‘I can sleep up there,’ said Little Claus when he saw the roof. ‘That would make a lovely bed, and I’m sure the stork isn’t going to fly down and bite me on the leg.’ A real live stork was standing on the roof, where it had made a nest.

So Little Claus climbed up onto the shed, lay down, and turned onto his side to settle in properly. The wooden shutters on the windows of the house didn’t quite meet at the top, which meant that he could peek into the room.

A great feast had been laid out with wine and a roast and such a lovely fish. The farmer’s wife and the deacon were sitting at the table, all alone. She was pouring wine for him, and he began with the fish, because he was awfully fond of fish.

‘If only I could have a bite too,’ said Little Claus, craning his neck toward the window. Lord, what a lovely cake he could see in there. Oh yes, it was quite a feast.

Then he heard someone come riding along the road toward the house. It was the woman’s husband, on his way home.

Now, it’s true that he was a good man, but he had a strange affliction: He couldn’t stand to see deacons. If he caught sight of a deacon, he would grow quite furious. That was also why the deacon had come to visit the woman when he knew that her husband wasn’t home, and that’s why the good woman had set out for him the best food she could offer. When they heard her husband coming, they were both terrified. The woman told the deacon to climb into a big empty chest that stood in the corner, which he did, because he knew full well that the poor man couldn’t stand the sight of a deacon. The woman quickly hid all the wonderful food and wine inside her baking oven, because if her husband saw it, he was sure to ask what was going on.

‘Oh no!’ sighed Little Claus up on the shed when he saw all the food disappear.

‘Is somebody up there?’ asked the farmer, peering up at Little Claus. ‘Why are you lying up there? Come on into the house!’

Then Little Claus told him how he had lost his way and asked if he might stay the night.

‘Yes, of course,’ said the farmer. ‘But first we’ll have a bite to eat.’

The woman welcomed them both, set dishes on a long table, and brought them a big bowl of porridge. The farmer was hungry and ate with gusto, but Little Claus couldn’t help thinking about the wonderful roast, fish, and cake that he knew were hidden in the oven.

Under the table at his feet he had put the sack with the horsehide in it, because we know, after all, that this was what he had brought from home to sell in town. The porridge was not at all to his liking, and so he stepped on his sack, and the dry horsehide inside creaked quite loudly.

‘Hush!’ said Little Claus to his sack, but at the same instant he stepped on it again, and it creaked even louder than before.

‘Tell me, what do you have in your bag?’ asked the farmer.

‘Oh, it’s a troll,’ said Little Claus. ‘He says we shouldn’t eat the porridge because he has conjured a whole oven full of roast and fish and cake.’

‘Is that right?’ said the farmer and quickly opened the oven. There he saw all the wonderful food that his wife had hidden, but he now thought the troll in the bag had conjured it up. His wife didn’t dare say a word but set the food on the table at once, and so they ate the fish and the roast and the cake. Then Little Claus stepped on his sack again, making the hide creak.

‘What’s he saying now?’ asked the farmer.

‘He says,’ said Little Claus, ‘that he has also conjured up three bottles of wine for us, and they’re standing over in the corner by the oven.’ Then the woman had to bring out the wine she had hidden, and the farmer drank and grew quite merry. A troll like the one that Little Claus had in his bag was something that he would certainly like to own.

‘Can he also conjure up the Devil?’ asked the farmer.‘That’s someone I’d really like to see, now that I’m feeling so merry.’

‘Yes,’ said Little Claus, ‘my troll can do anything I ask. Isn’t that right?’ he said as he stepped on the bag, making it creak. ‘Did you hear him say yes? But the Devil looks so horrid that you wouldn’t want to look at him.’

‘Oh, I’m not the least bit afraid. How bad do you think he could look?’

‘Well, he’s going to look exactly like a deacon.’

‘Whoa!’ said the farmer. ‘That’s ghastly, all right. I must tell you that I can’t stand the sight of deacons. But that doesn’t matter, because I’ll know it’s the Devil, so it won’t bother me as much. I’m feeling brave now. But don’t let him come too close.’

‘Let me ask my troll,’ said Little Claus, and he stepped on the bag, cupping his ear.

‘What does he say?’

‘He says that you can go over and open the chest that’s standing in the corner, and you’ll see the Devil moping inside, but you have to hold on to the lid so he doesn’t get out.’

‘Come and help me hold on to it,’ said the farmer, and he went over to the chest where his wife had hidden the real deacon, who sat there completely terrified.

The farmer lifted the lid slightly and peeked inside.‘Whoa!’ he yelled, jumping back. ‘I saw him all right, and he looks just like our deacon! Oh, that was terrible!’

After that they had to have a drink, and then they kept on drinking until late into the night.

‘You’ve got to sell me that troll,’ said the farmer. ‘Ask whatever price you like. Why, I’d even give you a whole bushelful of money!’

‘No, I can’t do that,’ that Claus. ‘Just think how much I’ll gain from owning this troll.’

‘Oh, but I’d certainly like to have it,’ said the farmer, and he kept on begging.

‘All right,’ said Little Claus at last. ‘Since you’ve been kind enough to give me shelter for the night, I can’t refuse. You can have the troll for a bushel of money, but I want the bushel to be full to the brim.’

‘And that’s what you’ll get,’ said the farmer, ‘but you have to take that chest over there with you. I refuse to have it in the house for even an hour longer. There’s no telling whether he’s still inside.’

Little Claus gave the farmer the sack with the dried horsehide and got in return a whole bushel of money, full to the brim. The farmer even presented him with a big wheelbarrow for carrying the money and the chest.

‘Farewell!’ said Little Claus, and then he set off with his money and the big chest in which the deacon was still sitting.

On the other side of the woods was a big, deep river. The water was running so fast that it was almost impossible to swim against the current. A big new bridge had been built across it. Little Claus stopped in the middle of the bridge and said very loudly so that the deacon inside the chest would hear him:

‘Well, what do I need this stupid chest for? It’s so heavy it feels like it’s full of rocks. I’m getting awfully tired of carting it around, so I think I’ll throw it in the river. If it floats home to me, that’s fine, but if it doesn’t, it won’t matter at all.’

Then he grabbed one handle of the chest and lifted it slightly, as if he were going to shove it into the water.

‘No, stop!’ yelled the deacon inside the chest. ‘Let me out!’

‘Ooh!’ said Little Claus, pretending to be scared. ‘He’s still inside! I’ve got to toss it in the river as quick as I can so he’ll drown.’

‘Oh no, oh no!’ shouted the deacon. ‘I’ll give you a whole bushelful of money if you don’t.’

‘Well, that’s a different story,’ said Little Claus, and opened the chest. The deacon crawled out at once, shoved the empty chest into the water, and went off to his house, where he gave Little Claus a whole bushelful of money. Little Claus already had one bushel from the farmer; now his whole wheelbarrow was full of money.

‘Look at that, I certainly did get a good price for that horse,’ he said to himself when he came back to his own house and dumped all the money in a big heap in the middle of the floor. ‘Big Claus will be annoyed when he finds out how rich I’ve become from my only horse, but I’m not going to come right out and tell him about it.’

Then he sent a boy over to Big Claus to borrow a bushel measure.

‘I wonder what he wants it for,’ thought Big Claus, and smeared tar inside the bottom so that a little of whatever was being weighed would stick to it. And it did, because when he got the bushel measure back, there were three new silver eight- skilling coins stuck to it.

‘What’s this?’ said Big Claus and ran right over to see Little Claus. ‘Where did you get all this money?’

‘Oh, I got it for my horsehide. I sold it last night.’

‘That was certainly a good price!’ said Big Claus, and he raced back home, picked up an ax, and struck every one of his four horses on the forehead. Then he skinned them and drove into town with the hides.

‘Hides! Hides! Who wants to buy hides?’ he shouted through the streets.

All the shoemakers and tanners came running and asked him how much he wanted for the hides.

‘A bushel of money for each of them,’ said Big Claus.

‘Are you crazy?’ they all said. ‘Do you think we have bushels of money?’

‘Hides, hides! Who wants to buy hides?’ he shouted again, but to everyone who asked how much the hides cost, he replied, ‘A bushel of money.’

‘He’s trying to make fools of us,’ they all said. Then the shoemakers picked up their straps and the tanners their leather aprons, and they all started beating Big Claus.

‘Hides, hides!’ they jeered at him. ‘Oh yes, we’ll give you a hide that bleeds like a pig! Now get out of town!’ they shouted, and Big Claus had to rush off as fast as he could. He had never been beaten so badly in his life.

‘Well!’ he said when he got home. ‘Little Claus is going to pay for this. I’m going to murder him for this!’

But back at Little Claus’s house his grandmother had just died. Now, it’s true that she had been terribly ill- tempered and mean toward him, but even so he was quite sad. He took the dead woman and put her in his warm bed to see whether she might come back to life. There she would lie all night long while he slept in the corner, sitting on a chair; that was something he had done before.

As he was sitting there that night, the door opened and Big Claus came in with an ax. He knew where Little Claus’s bed stood, and he went right over a struck the dead grandmother on the forehead, thinking that it was Little Claus.

‘Take that!’ he said. ‘Now you won’t make a fool of me anymore.’ And then he went back home.

‘What a mean and evil man,’ said Little Claus. ‘He wanted to murder me, but it’s a good thing the old lady was already dead, or he would have taken her life.’

Then he dressed his old grandmother in her Sunday best, borrowed a horse from his neighbor, harnessed it to his wagon, and put his old grandmother on the back seat so that she wouldn’t fall out when he started driving. Then they headed off through the woods. When the sun came up, they were outside a big inn, where Little Claus stopped and went inside to get a bite to eat.

The innkeeper was very, very rich, and he was also a good man, but hot- tempered, as if there were pepper and tobacco inside of him.

‘Good morning,’ he said to Little Claus. ‘You’ve put on your fine clothes awfully early today.’

‘Yes,’ said Little Claus, ‘I’m going to town with my old grandmother. She’s sitting outside in the wagon, and I can’t get her to come indoors. Would you mind taking her a glass of mead? But you’ll have to speak up because she doesn’t hear very well.’

‘Why, certainly,’ said the innkeeper. He poured a big glass of mead and took it outside to the dead grandmother, who was propped up in the wagon.

‘Here’s a glass of mead from your grandson,’ said the innkeeper, but the dead woman didn’t say a word, just sat there without moving.

‘Didn’t you hear me?’ shouted the innkeeper as loud as he could. ‘Here’s a glass of mead from your grandson!’

Once again he shouted the same thing, and then one more time, but when she didn’t budge in the slightest, he got angry and tossed the glass of mead right in her face so it ran down her nose. And she toppled over backward into the wagon, because she had merely been propped up but wasn’t tied down.

‘What’s this?’ shouted Little Claus as he came running out the door and grabbed the innkeeper by the shirtfront.‘You’ve gone and killed my grandmother! Just look at that big hole in her forehead!’

‘Oh, what bad luck!’ cried the innkeeper, wringing his hands. ‘It’s all the fault of my bad temper. Dear Little Claus, I’ll give you a whole bushelful of money and pay for your grandmother’s burial as if she were my own, but don’t say a word or they’ll chop off my head, and that would be awful!’

So Little Claus got a whole bushelful of money, and the innkeeper buried the old grandmother as if she were his own.

As soon as Little Claus got back home with all the money, he at once sent his boy over to see Big Claus, to ask if he could borrow a bushel measure.

‘What’s this?’ said Big Claus. ‘I thought I killed him! I’m going to have to see this for myself.’ And so he took the bushel measure over to Little Claus in person.

‘Where on earth did you get all that money?’ he asked, opening his eyes wide when he saw how much more Little Claus had accumulated.

‘It was my grandmother, not me that you killed,’ said Little Claus. ‘But now I’ve sold her for a bushelful of money.’

‘That was certainly a good price,’ said Big Claus, and he rushed home, picked up an ax, and promptly killed his old grandmother. He put her in his wagon, drove into town to the apothecary’s shop, and asked him whether he wanted to buy a dead body.

‘Who is it, and where did you get it?’ asked the apothecary.

‘It’s my grandmother,’ said Big Claus. ‘I’ve killed her for a bushelful of money.’

‘Good Lord!’ said the apothecary. ’You don’t know what you’re saying! Don’t say things like that or you could lose your head.’ And then he told him exactly what a dreadful, evil thing he had done, and what a bad person he was, and that he ought to be punished. Big Claus was so scared that he leaped straight from the apothecary’s shop into his wagon, cracked his whip at the horses, and raced off home. The apothecary and everyone else thought he was mad, and so they let him go where he liked.

‘You’re going to pay for this!’ said Big Claus when he was out on the road. ‘Oh yes, you’re going to pay for this, Little Claus!’ As soon as he got home he took the biggest sack he could find and went over to Little Claus and said, ‘You’ve made a fool of me again. First I killed my horses, and then my old grandmother. It’s all your fault, but you’re never going to trick me again.’ And he grabbed Little Claus around the waist and stuffed him into the sack. Then he slung him over his back and shouted, ‘Now I’m going to take you out and drown you!’

It was a long walk to reach the river, and Little Claus wasn’t easy to carry. The road passed very close to the church, where the organ was playing and people were singing so beautifully inside. Then Big Claus put down the sack holding Little Claus right next to the church door, thinking that it might do him good to go inside and listen to a hymn first, before continuing on his way. Little Claus couldn’t get out, and everyone else was in church, so Big Claus went inside.

‘Oh me, oh my!’ sighted Little Claus from inside the sack. He twisted and turned, but it was impossible for him to loosen the cord. At that moment an old, old cattle- driver with chalk- white hair and a big walking stick in his hand came by. He was driving a big herd of cows and bulls in front of him. They trampled over the sack that Claus was in, tumbling it onto its side.

‘Oh my,’ sighed Little Claus. ‘I’m so young, but I’m already headed for Heaven.’

‘And what a poor man am I,’ said the cattle- driver. ‘Here I am so old but it’s not yet my time to go.’

‘Open the sack!’ shouted Little Claus. ‘Climb in and take my place, and you’ll end up in Heaven at once.’

‘Oh, I’d like that very much,’ said the cattle- driver, untying the sack. And Little Claus jumped right out.

‘Could you take care of the cattle?’ said the old man, and he climbed into the bag, which Little Claus tied up and then went on his way, taking along the cows and bulls.

A little while later Big Claus came out of the church and hoisted the sack onto his back, thinking that it certainly was a lot lighter, because the old cattle- driver was no more than half the weight of Little Claus. ‘How easy it is to carry him now! Well, that’s probably because I’ve been listening to a hymn.’ Then he went over to the river, which was deep and wide, threw the sack with the old cattle- driver into the water, and shouted after him, thinking he was Little Claus, ‘Take that! Now you won’t be making a fool of me anymore!’

Then he headed home, but when he came to the crossroads, he met Little Claus walking along with all his cattle.

‘What’s this?’ said Big Claus. ‘Didn’t I drown you?’

‘Yes, you did,’ said Little Claus. ‘You threw me in the river less than half an hour ago.’

‘But where did you get all these wonderful cattle?’ asked Big Claus.

‘They’re sea cattle,’ said Little Claus. ‘Let me tell you the whole story. And by the way, thanks for drowning me, because now I’m back on my feet and let me tell you, I’m as rich as can be! I was so scared when I was inside that sack, and the wind whistled in my ears when you threw me off the bridge and into the cold water. I sank straight to the bottom, but I didn’t hurt myself because the loveliest soft grass grows down there. That’s where I landed, and the bag was opened at once. The loveliest maiden, wearing chalk- white clothing and with a green wreath on her wet hair, took my hand and said, “Is that you, Little Claus? Well, first let me give you these cattle. Five miles up the road there’s another whole herd that I want you to have.” Then I saw that the river was a great highway for the sea folk. Down on the bottom they were walking and driving all the way from the sea toward land, to the place where the river ends. It was so lovely with flowers and the freshest of grass, and fish swimming in the water; they flitted around my ears like the birds in the air. How handsome the people were and how many cattle there were, ambling along the ditches and fences.’

‘But why did you come back to us so soon?’ asked Big Claus. ‘That’s not what I would have done if it was so charming down there.’

‘Well, you see,’ said Little Claus, ‘it was really very cunning of me. You heard me say that the mermaid told me that five miles up the road – and by road she meant the river, of course, since she can’t travel any other way – there was a whole herd of cattle waiting for me. I happen to know where the river starts to bend, first one way and then the other, making a whole detour. It’s much shorter, if you can do it, to come up here on land and head straight across to the river. That way I saved almost two and a half miles and reached my sea cattle much quicker.’

‘Oh, you certainly are a lucky man!’ said Big Claus. ‘Do you think I could get some sea cattle too, if I went down to the bottom of the river?’

‘Oh yes, I imagine so,’ said Little Claus. ‘But I can’t carry you in a sack to the river; you’re much too heavy for me. But if you walk there yourself and then climb into the bag, I’d be more than happy to throw you in.’

‘Thanks so much,’ said Big Claus. ‘But if I don’t get any sea cattle when I get there, I’m going to give you a beating, believe you me!’

‘Oh no! Don’t be so mean!’ And then they went down to the river. The cattle were so thirsty that when they saw the water, they ran as fast as they could down the slope to drink.

‘Look how fast they’re moving,’ said Little Claus. ‘They’re longing to go back down to the bottom.’

‘Yes, but help me first,’ said Big Claus. ‘Otherwise I’ll give you a beating!’ And then he climbed into the big sack that was lying across the back of one of the bulls. ‘Put a rock inside, because otherwise I’m afraid I won’t sink,’ said Big Claus.

‘Oh, I’m sure you will,’ said Little Claus, but just the same, he put a big rock in the sack, tied the cord tight, and then gave it a shove. Plop! Big Claus landed in the river and promptly sank to the bottom.

‘I’m afraid he’s not going to find any cattle,’ said Little Claus, and then he headed home with all he had.

The Princess on the Pea

Once upon a time there was a prince. He wanted a princess, but she had to be a real princess. So he traveled all over the world to find one, but wherever he went there was something wrong. There were plenty of princesses, but he wasn’t quite sure if they were real princesses. There was always something that wasn’t quite right. Then he went back home and was so sad because he dearly wanted to have a real princess.

One evening there was a terrible storm. Lightning flashed and thunder roared, the rain poured down, it was simply dreadful! Then there was a knock at the town gate, and the old king went to open it.

There was a princess standing outside. But good Lord how she looked because of the rain and terrible weather! Water was streaming from her hair and her clothes, running in the toes of her shoes and out of the heels. Then she said that she was a real princess.

‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ thought the old queen, but she didn’t say a word. She went into the bedroom, took off all the bedclothes, and placed a pea at the bottom of the bed. Then she took twenty mattresses and put them on top of the pea, and another twenty eiderdown quilts on top of the mattresses.

That’s where the princess was to sleep that night.

The next morning they asked her how she had slept.

‘Oh, dreadfully!’ said the princess. ‘I hardly closed my eyes all night. Lord knows what there was in my bed. I was lying on something hard, and I’m black and blue all over! It’s simply dreadful!’

Then they could see that she was a real princess, since she had felt the pea through those twenty mattresses and those twenty eiderdown quilts. No one else could have such tender skin except for a real princess.

And so the prince took her as his wife, because now he knew that he had a real princess. And the pea was placed in the Royal Curiosity Cabinet, where it can still be seen today, as long as no one has taken it.

Now you see, that was a real story!

The Steadfast T in Soldier

Once upon a time there were twenty- five tin soldiers. They were brothers, because they were all born from an old tin spoon. Rifles they held at their shoulders, and their faces looked straight ahead. Red and blue, and oh so lovely were their uniforms. When the lid was removed from the box in which they lay, the very first words they heard in the world were, ‘Tin soldiers!’ That’s what a little boy cried, clapping his hands. They had been given to him because it was his birthday, and now he lined them up on the table. Each soldier looked exactly like the next, except for one who was slightly different. He had only one leg because he was the last to be cast, and there wasn’t enough tin left. Yet he stood just as firmly on one leg as the others did on two, and he’s the one who turned out to be remarkable.

On the table where they stood were many other toys, but the one that was most striking was a charming castle made of paper. Through the tiny windows you could see right into the halls. Outside stood small trees around a little mirror that was meant to look like a lake. Swans made of wax were swimming around on it, reflected in the mirror. The whole thing was so charming, and yet the most charming of all was a little maiden who stood in the open doorway to the castle. She had also been cut out of paper, but she was wearing a skirt of the sheerest tulle and a tiny narrow blue ribbon over her shoulder like a sash. In the middle sat a gleaming spangle as big as her face. The little maiden was stretching out both arms, because she was a dancer, and she was also lifting one leg so high in the air that the tin soldier couldn’t see it at all, and he thought that she had only one leg, just like him.

‘Now there’s a wife for me!’ he thought. ‘But she looks rather refined, and she lives in a castle. I have only a box, and it has to hold twenty- five of us. That’s no place for her! Still, I have to see about making her acquaintance.’ And then he stretched out full- length behind a snuff box that stood on the table. From there he could get a good look at the elegant little lady, who continued to stand on one leg without losing her balance.

Later that evening all the other tin soldiers were put back in their box, and the people of the house went to bed. Then the toys began to play. They gave tea parties, fought battles, and danced. The tin soldiers rattled in their box because they wanted to play too, but they couldn’t open the lid. The nutcracker turned somersaults, and the slate pencil scribbled all over the slate. There was such a commotion that the canary woke up and started chattering too, and in verse, of all things. The only two who didn’t budge were the tin soldier and the little dancer. She held herself erect on her toes, with her arms held out. He was just as steadfast on one leg, and his eyes didn’t leave her for a second.

Then the clock struck twelve, and Bam! the lid of the snuff box flew open, but there was no tobacco inside – no, there was a little black troll. What a wily trick that was.

‘Tin soldier!’ said the troll. ‘Keep your eyes to yourself!’

But the tin soldier pretended not to hear him.

‘Well, just wait till morning,’ said the troll.

When morning came and the children got up, the tin soldier was moved over to the windowsill, and whether it was the troll or a gust of wind, all of a sudden the window flew open and the soldier plummeted headfirst from the fourth floor. What a terrifying speed, with his leg turned upward! He landed on his cap, with his bayonet stuck between the cobblestones.

The servant girl and the little boy went downstairs at once to look for him, but even though they nearly stepped on him, they couldn’t see him. If the tin soldier had shouted‘Here I am!’ they probably would have found him, but he didn’t think it was proper to yell when he was in uniform.

Then it started to rain. One drop came down faster than the other; it turned into a regular downpour. When it was over, two street urchins came along.

‘Hey, look!’ said one of them. ‘There’s a tin soldier lying here. Let’s send him out for a sail.’

And so they made a boat out of newspaper, set the tin soldier in the middle of it, and he sailed off down the gutter. The two boys ran alongside, clapping their hands. God save us, what waves there were in that gutter, and what a current! Well, it’s true that there had just been a downpour. The paper boat pitched up and down, and at times it would spin so fast that the tin soldier swayed. But he remained steadfast, his expression unflinching, standing erect with his rifle at his shoulder.

All of a sudden the boat washed in under a plank that lay over the gutter. It grew just as dark as inside his box.

‘I wonder where I’ll end up now,’ he thought. ‘Yes, well, this is all the troll’s fault. Oh, if only the little maiden were sitting here in the boat, then I wouldn’t care if it was twice as dark!’

At that moment a big water rat appeared. It lived under the gutter plank.

‘Have you got a travel pass?’ asked the rat. ‘Let’s see your travel pass!’

But the tin soldier didn’t say a word, holding his rifle even tighter. The boat raced along, with the rat right behind. Oh, how it gnashed its teeth, shouting to sticks and pieces of straw:

‘Stop him! Stop him! He didn’t pay the toll! He didn’t show his travel pass!’

But the current grew stronger and stronger. The tin soldier could already glimpse daylight up ahead where the plank ended, but he also heard a roaring sound that would scare even a brave man. Just imagine: Where the plank ended, the gutter plunged right into a huge canal. For him it would be just as dangerous as for us to sail over an enormous waterfall.

He was already so close that he couldn’t stop. The boat rushed forward; the poor tin soldier held himself as upright as he could. No one was going to say that he so much as blinked an eye. The boat spun around three or four times and filled with water up to the rim. It was going to sink. The tin soldier was standing in water up to his neck, and the boat sank deeper and deeper, the paper began dissolving faster and faster. Then the water was over the soldier’s head. That’s when he thought about the charming little dancer, whom he would never see again. And in his ears the soldier heard:

‘Flee, warrior, flee!

Death is after you!’

Then the paper fell apart, and the tin soldier plunged right through. But at that very instant he was swallowed by a big fish.

Oh, how dark it was inside! It was even worse than under the gutter plank, and it was much more cramped. But the tin soldier was steadfast and stretched out full- length with his rifle at his shoulder.

The fish thrashed about, making the most terrifying movements. Finally it grew quite still, and what looked like a bolt of lightning flashed through it. The light shone so bright, and someone cried loudly, ‘Tin soldier!’ The fish had been caught, brought to market, sold, and then ended up in a kitchen where the servant girl slit it open with a big knife. Putting two fingers around his waist, she plucked out the soldier and carried him into the parlor where everyone wanted to see the remarkable man who had traveled inside the belly of a fish. But the tin soldier was not the least bit proud of himself. They set him on the table and there . . . Oh, what strange things can happen in the world! The tin soldier was in the very same parlor where he had been before. He saw the very same children and the toys on the table and the lovely castle with the charming little dancer. She was still standing on one leg with the other lifted high in the air. She too was steadfast. The tin soldier was touched, he was just about to weep tears of tin, but that wouldn’t be proper. He looked at her and she looked at him, but neither said a word.

At that moment one of the little boys picked up the soldier and tossed him right into the stove, giving no explanation at all. The troll in the box was most certainly to blame.

The tin soldier stood there, brightly lit, and felt a terrible heat, but whether it was from the actual fire or from love, he didn’t know. The paint had worn right off him, but whether this had happened on his journey or from sorrow, no one could say. He looked at the little maiden, she looked at him, and he felt himself melting. But he still stood there, steadfast, with his rifle at his shoulder. Then a door opened, the wind seized hold of the dancer, and she flew like a sylph right into the stove to the tin soldier, burst into flame, and was gone. Then the tin soldier melted into a lump, and the next day, when the servant girl took out the ashes, she found him in the shape of a little tin heart. But all that was left of the dancer was the spangle, and that had been burned black as coal.

The N ightingale

In China, as you probably know, the Emperor is Chinese, and everyone around him is Chinese too. This story happened many years ago, but that’s precisely why it’s worth hearing, before it’s forgotten. The Emperor’s palace was the most magnificent in the world, made entirely of fine porcelain, so costly but so fragile, so delicate to the touch that you had to be extremely careful. In the garden you could see the most wondrous flowers. Tied to the most splendid of them were silver bells that jingled, and you couldn’t walk past without noticing the flowers. Yes, everything was quite artful in the Emperor’s garden, which stretched so far that even the gardener didn’t know where it ended. If you kept on walking you would come to the loveliest forest with tall trees and deep lakes. The forest went right down to the sea, which was deep and blue. Great ships could sail right under the branches. And among the branches lived a nightingale who sang so blissfully that even the poor fisherman, who had many other things to tend to, would lie still and listen whenever he heard the nightingale as he pulled in his fishing nets at night. ‘Dear Lord, how beautiful she sounds!’ he said.

But then he had to go back to his work and forget about the bird. Yet the next night when she sang again and the fisherman appeared, he would say the same thing, ‘Dear Lord, how beautiful she sounds!’

Travelers came from countries all over the world to admire the Emperor’s city and the palace and the garden. But if they happened to hear the nightingale, they all said, ‘That’s the best thing of all!’

The travelers would talk about everything when they went back home, and the learned men wrote many books about the city, the palace, and the garden, but they didn’t forget the nightingale; she was esteemed above all else. Those who could write poetry wrote the loveliest poems, every single one about the nightingale in the forest by the deep sea.

These books circulated around the world, and one day some of them even reached the Emperor. He sat on his golden chair, reading and reading, as he kept nodding his head, because it pleased him to hear the magnificent descriptions of the city, the palace, and the garden. ‘Yet the nightingale is the best of all!’ he read in the book.

‘What’s this?’ said the Emperor. ‘The nightingale? I know nothing about it! Is there such a bird in my empire, let alone in my own garden? I’ve never heard of her. To think I had to learn about her from a book!’

And then he called for his Lord Chamberlain, who was so refined that if anyone lower in rank dared speak to him or ask him about something, his only reply was ‘P!’ And that means nothing at all.

‘Supposedly there is a truly extraordinary bird here called the nightingale,’ said the Emperor. ‘They say that she’s the best thing in all my vast domain. Why hasn’t anyone told me about her?’

‘I’ve never heard her mentioned before,’ said the Lord Chamberlain. ‘She has never been presented at court.’

‘I want her to come here tonight and sing for me,’ said the Emperor. ‘The whole world knows what I have, but I do not.’

‘I’ve never heard her mentioned before,’ said the Lord Chamberlain. ‘I’ll search for her, I’ll find her!’

But where was she to be found? The Lord Chamberlain ran up and down all the stairs, through the halls and corridors. Not a single person he met had ever heard mention of the nightingale. So the Lord Chamberlain ran back to the Emperor and said that she must be a fable concocted by those who write books. ‘Your Imperial Majesty should not believe what people write. It’s all fabrication and what’s called black magic.’

‘But the book I was reading was sent to me by the mighty Emperor of Japan,’ said the Emperor, ‘so it must be true. I want to hear the nightingale. She must be here tonight! I bestow on her my highest favor! And if she doesn’t come, then all the members of the court will be punched in the stomach after they’ve eaten their supper.’

‘ Xing- pei! ’ said the Lord Chamberlain, and once again he ran up and down all the stairs, through all the halls and corridors. And half the court ran along with him, because they didn’t want to be punched in the stomach. Everyone was asking about the remarkable nightingale that was known to the whole world but to no one at court.

Finally they came upon a poor little girl in the kitchen, and she said, ‘Oh Lord, the nightingale! I know her well. Yes, how she can sing! Every evening I’m allowed to take home a few scraps from the table for my poor sick mother. She lives down near the shore, and when I walk back feeling tired, I take a rest in the forest, and then I hear the nightingale singing. It makes my eyes fill with tears. It’s as if my mother were kissing me.’

‘Little kitchen maid,’ said the Lord Chamberlain, ‘I shall arrange a permanent post for you in the kitchen and permission to watch the Emperor eat if you can lead us to the nightingale. She has been summoned here tonight.’

And so they all set off for the forest, to the place where the nightingale usually sang. Half the court went along. As they were walking, a cow began to moo.

‘Oh!’ said the royal squires. ‘Now we’ve found her. What remarkable power for such a small creature! We’re quite certain we’ve heard her before.’

‘No, those are the cows mooing,’ said the little kitchen maid. ‘We’re still quite far from the place.’

Now the frogs began croaking in the bog.

‘Lovely!’ said the Chinese Court Chaplain. ‘Now I can hear her. It sounds just like little church bells.’

‘No, those are the frogs,’ said the little kitchen maid. ‘But I think we’ll hear her soon.’

Then the nightingale began to sing.

‘There she is,’ said the little girl. ‘Listen! Listen! And there she sits!’ And then she pointed at a little gray bird up in the branches.

‘Is it possible?’ said the Lord Chamberlain. ‘That’s not at all how I imagined her. How plain she looks! She must have lost her color from seeing so many refined people all around.’

‘Little nightingale!’ cried the little kitchen maid in a loud voice. ‘Our Most Gracious Emperor would like so much for you to sing for him.’

‘With the greatest pleasure,’ said the nightingale and sang so it was sheer delight.

‘It sounds just like glass bells,’ said the Lord Chamberlain.‘And look at her little throat – she’s singing with all her might. It’s strange that we’ve never heard this bird before. She will be a huge success at court.’

‘Shall I sing some more for the Emperor?’ asked the nightingale, who thought the Emperor was among them.

‘My splendid little nightingale,’ said the Lord Chamberlain, ‘I have the great pleasure of summoning you to a royal celebration this evening, where you will enchant His Exalted Imperial Grace with your charming song.’

‘My song sounds best out in nature,’ said the nightingale, but she willingly went along with them when she heard that this was the Emperor’s wish.

At the palace everything had been properly cleaned and polished. The walls and floors, which were made of porcelain, gleamed with thousands of golden lamps. The loveliest flowers, the ones with bells attached, had been placed in the corridors; there was a draft and a great commotion, making all the bells ring. You couldn’t hear yourself think.

In the middle of the great hall, where the Emperor was seated, a golden perch had been placed, and that was where the nightingale was to sit. The entire court was present, and the little kitchen maid had been given permission to stand behind the door, since she now held the title of Real Kitchen Maid. Everyone was dressed in his very finest, and everyone was looking at the little gray bird, to whom the Emperor nodded.

And the nightingale sang so wondrously that tears filled the Emperor’s eyes. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and then the nightingale sang even more beautifully; the song went straight to the heart. The Emperor was so happy that he said the nightingale must wear his golden slipper around her neck. But the nightingale thanked him and said that she had already received reward enough.

‘I’ve seen tears in the Emperor’s eyes. For me that is the richest treasure. An emperor’s tears have a wondrous power. God knows, that is reward enough.’ And then she sang again in her sweet, blessed voice.

‘This is the most lovable coquetry we’ve ever known,’ said the women all around, and then they put water in their mouths in order to cluck whenever anyone spoke to them. They thought they too could be nightingales. Even the lackeys and chambermaids announced that they were satisfied, and that is saying a great deal because they’re the most difficult of all to please. Yes, the nightingale certainly was a success!

Now she would stay at court, and have her own cage, as well as the freedom to promenade twice a day and once at night. Twelve servants were sent along, each of them holding tight to a silk ribbon attached to her leg. There wasn’t the least bit of pleasure in those excursions.

The whole city was talking about the extraordinary bird. If two people met, one of them would say to the other‘Night!’ and the other would say ‘Gale!’ and then they would sigh, fully understanding each other. Why, eleven grocers’ children were named after her, but not one of them could even carry a tune.

One day a big package arrived for the Emperor. On the outside it said: ‘Nightingale.’

‘Here we have a new book about our famous bird,’ said the Emperor. But it wasn’t a book. A little work of art lay inside the box, a mechanical nightingale that was supposed to look like the live one, although it was completely encrusted with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. As soon as they wound up the mechanical bird it sang one of the tunes that the real bird sang, and its tail moved up and down, glittering with silver and gold. Around its neck hung a little ribbon, and on it were the words: ‘The Emperor of Japan’s nightingale is paltry compared to the Emperor of China’s.’

‘It’s lovely!’ they all said, and the person who had brought the mechanical bird was at once given the title of Supreme Imperial Nightingale Bringer.

‘Let’s have them sing together. What a duet that will be!’

And then they had to sing together, but it was not a success, because the real nightingale sang in her own way, while the mechanical bird ran on cylinders. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that,’ said the Music Master. ‘It keeps perfect time and is obviously a follower of my own methods.’ Then the mechanical bird had to sing alone. It brought just as much joy as the real bird, and on top of that it was much more charming in appearance. It glittered like bracelets and brooches.

Thirty- three times it sang the very same tune, and yet it never grew tired. Everyone could have listened to it all over again, but the Emperor felt that the live nightingale should also sing a little. But where was she? No one had noticed that she had flown out the open window, off to her green forests.

‘Well, what sort of behavior is that?’ said the Emperor. And all the members of court began scolding, saying that the nightingale was a most ungrateful creature. ‘Yet we have the best bird of all,’ they said, and then the mechanical bird had to sing some more, and that was the thirty- fourth time they heard the same tune. But they didn’t yet know it by heart, because it was so complicated, and the Music Master lavished great praise on the bird. Yes, he assured them that it was better than the real nightingale, not only in terms of its attire and the scores of lovely diamonds, but also internally.

‘For you see, ladies and gentlemen, and above all Your Imperial Highness! You can never count on what will come out of the real nightingale, but with the mechanical bird everything is certain. This is how it will sound, and no other way. You can explain it, you can open it up and demonstrate the human reasoning, how the cylinders are arranged, how they operate, and how one turns the other.’

‘Those are my thoughts exactly,’ they all said. And the Music Master was granted permission, on the following Sunday, to display the bird to the people. They too should hear it sing, said the Emperor. And they heard it and were as pleased as if they had drunk themselves giddy on tea; that was so typically Chinese. And everyone said ‘Oh!’ and held up in the air the finger that we call ‘ pot- licker’ and then they nodded. But the poor fishermen who had heard the real nightingale said, ‘It sounds nice enough, and it does look quite like it, but something is missing, we don’t know what.’

The real nightingale was banished from the realm.

The mechanical bird had its place on a silk pillow close to the Emperor’s bed. All the gifts it had been given, gold and precious stones, were spread around it, and in title it had risen to Supreme Imperial Nightstand Singer. In rank it was number one on the left, because the Emperor considered the side of the heart to be the most noble, and even in an Emperor the heart is on the left. The Music Master wrote twenty- five volumes about the mechanical bird, books that were so learned and so lengthy, and written in the most difficult of Chinese words, that everyone said they had read and understood them, because otherwise they would have seemed stupid and then they would have been punched in the stomach.

A whole year passed in this fashion. The Emperor, the court, and all the other Chinese people knew by heart every little cluck of the mechanical bird’s song, but that was precisely why they liked it above all else. They could sing it themselves, and they did. The street urchins sang ‘ Xi- xi- xi! Cluck- cluck- cluck!’ And the Emperor sang it too. Oh yes, it was certainly lovely!

But one evening when the mechanical bird was singing its best and the Emperor was lying in bed and listening, it went‘Clunk!’ inside. Something burst. ‘Buzzzzzz!’ all the gears spun around, and then the music stopped.

The Emperor sprang out of bed at once and called for his royal physician, but what good could he do? Then they summoned the watchmaker. After much discussion and a great deal of study, he managed to get the bird working fairly well, but he said that it would have to be played sparingly because the cylinder pegs were worn out. It would be impossible to replace them with new ones so that the music would play properly. That was a terrible shame! Only once a year did they dare let the mechanical bird sang, and even that was almost too often. But then the Music Master gave a little speech using big words and said that it was just as good as new, and so it was just as good as new.

Five years passed, and the whole land suffered a great sadness, because everyone was truly very fond of their Emperor. Now they said he was ill and about to die. A new emperor had already been chosen, and the people stood outside on the street and asked the Lord Chamberlain how things were going with their Emperor.

‘P!’ he said and shook his head.

Cold and pale, the Emperor lay in his big, magnificent bed. The entire court thought he was dead, and all of them had run off to greet the new Emperor. The valets had run outside to talk about it, and the palace maids were holding a big coffee party. All around in the halls and corridors cloth had been laid down so that no one’s footsteps could be heard. That’s why it was so quiet, so quiet. But the Emperor was not yet dead. Rigid and pale, he lay in the magnificent bed with the long velvet curtains and the heavy gold tassels. High above, a window stood open, and the moon was shining on the Emperor and the mechanical bird.

The poor Emperor could hardly breathe; it felt as if something were sitting on his chest. He opened his eyes and saw that it was Death sitting on his chest. He had put on the gold crown and was holding in one hand the Emperor’s gold sword, and in the other his magnificent banner. All around in the folds of the great velvet bed curtains peculiar heads were sticking out, some of them quite horrid, others so blessedly gentle. They were all of the Emperor’s good and bad deeds, looking at him, now that Death was sitting on his heart.

‘Do you remember this?’ one after the other whispered.‘Do you remember this?’ And then they told him so many things that the sweat poured from his brow.

‘I never knew that!’ said the Emperor. ‘Music, music, the great Chinese drum!’ he shouted. ‘So I won’t have to listen to everything they’re saying.’

But they kept on, and Death nodded, as the Chinese do, at everything that was said.

‘Music, music!’ screamed the Emperor. ‘You blessed little golden bird! Sing now, sing! I’ve given you gold and precious things. I myself have hung my golden slipper around your neck. So sing now, sing!’

But the bird stood silent. There was no one to wind it up, and otherwise it couldn’t sing. But Death kept on looking at the Emperor with his big, empty eye sockets, and it was so quiet, so horribly quiet.

At that moment, close to the window, the loveliest song was heard. It was the live little nightingale, who was sitting on a branch outside. She had heard about the Emperor’s distress, and that’s why she had come, to offer solace and hope. And as she sang, the figures grew more and more pale, the blood began to flow faster and faster through the Emperor’s weak limbs, and Death himself listened and said, ‘Keep singing, little nightingale! Keep singing!’

‘Yes, if you give me the magnificent gold sword! Yes, if you give me the opulent banner! If you give me the Emperor’s crown!’

And Death returned each treasure for a song, and the nightingale still kept singing. She sang of the silent churchyard where the white roses grow, where the fragrant elder tree stands, and where the fresh grass is watered by the tears of the bereaved. Then Death had such a longing for his own garden that he floated out like a cold white fog, out the window.

‘Thank you, thank you!’ said the Emperor. ‘You heavenly little bird, of course I recognize you! You’re the one I chased from my realm. And yet you have sung the evil visions away from my bed and driven Death from my heart. How shall I reward you?’

‘You have already rewarded me,’ said the nightingale. ‘I won tears from your eyes the first time I sang. I will never forget that about you. They are the jewels that make a singer’s heart glad. But sleep now and grow strong and healthy. I will sing for you.’

And she sang. The Emperor fell into a sweet slumber, so gentle and refreshing was his sleep.

The sun was shining through the windows when he awoke, strong and healthy. None of his servants had yet returned, because they all thought he was dead. But the nightingale was still sitting there, singing.

‘You must stay with me forever,’ said the Emperor. ‘You shall only sing when you want to, and I will smash the mechanical bird into a thousand pieces.’

‘Don’t do that,’ said the nightingale. ‘It has done the best it could. Keep it as you always have. I can’t live in the palace, but let me come whenever I wish. Then in the evening I will sit on the branch by your window and sing for you, to make you both joyous and pensive. I will sing about those who are happy and those who suffer. I will sing about the evil and the good that is kept hidden from you. The little songbird flies far and wide, to the poor fisherman, to the farmer’s rooftop, to everyone who is far from you and your court. I love your heart more than your crown, and yet the crown has a scent of something sacred about it. I will come, I will sing for you. But one thing you must promise me.’

‘Anything!’ said the Emperor, standing there in his imperial robes, which he had donned himself, and holding the sword that was heavy with gold pressed to his heart.

‘One thing I ask of you. Tell no one that you have a little bird who tells you everything, and things will go even better.’

And then the nightingale flew off.

The servants came in to tend to their dead Emperor. Oh yes, there they stood. And the Emperor said, ‘Good morning!’

The Red Shoes

There was a little girl who was so delicate and charming, but in the summer she always had to go barefoot because she was poor. In the winter she wore big wooden clogs that made her little ankles turn quite red, and that was awful.

In the middle of the village lived old Mother Shoemaker. She sat and sewed as best she could, using old strips of red cloth to make a little pair of shoes. Quite clumsy they were, but well- intended, and the little girl was to have them. The little girl’s name was Karen.

On the very day that her mother was buried, Karen was given the red shoes, and she wore them for the first time. Now, it’s true that they weren’t the proper shoes for mourning, but she didn’t have any others, and so she wore them on her bare feet, walking behind the humble coffin made of straw.

All at once a grand old carriage appeared, and inside sat a grand old woman. She looked at the little girl and felt sorry for her. Then she said to the pastor, ‘Listen here, give me that little girl and I will be kind to her!’

Karen thought she said this because of her red shoes, but the old woman said they were awful, and they were burned, while Karen was dressed in nice, clean clothes. She had to learn to read and sew, and people said that she was charming, but the mirror said, ‘You are much more than charming, you’re lovely!’

Then the queen happened to travel through the land, and she brought along her little daughter, who was a princess. People came flocking to the palace, and Karen was there too. The little princess stood in a window for all to see dressed in fine white clothes. She wore neither a train nor a golden crown, but she had lovely, red kidskin shoes. Of course they were much prettier than the ones that Mother Shoemaker had sewn for little Karen. But nothing in the world could compare with red shoes!

Then Karen was old enough to be confirmed. She was given new clothes and she was also to have new shoes. The rich shoemaker in town measured her little foot. This was at home in his own parlor, where big glass cupboards stood filled with elegant shoes and shiny boots. Everything looked charming, but the old woman didn’t see well, so it gave her no pleasure. In the midst of all the shoes stood a pair of red ones just like the ones the princess had worn. How beautiful they were! The shoemaker said they had been sewn for the child of a count, but they didn’t fit properly.

‘They must be made of the finest leather,’ said the old woman. ‘How they shine!’

‘Yes, how they shine!’ said Karen. And they fit, so they were bought. But the old woman didn’t know that they were red, because she would never have allowed Karen to be confirmed wearing red shoes, and yet she did.

Everyone looked at her feet. When she walked up the church aisle toward the chancel doorway, she thought even the old paintings on the crypts, those portraits of pastors and their wives wearing stiff collars and long black gowns, had fixed their eyes on her red shoes. And that was all she could think of when the pastor placed his hand on her head and spoke of the holy baptism, of the pact with God, and the fact that she should now be a good Christian. The organ played so solemnly, the children sang so beautifully, and the old cantor sang too, but Karen thought only of her red shoes.

By that afternoon the old woman had heard from everyone that the shoes were red, and she said how dreadful that was. It wasn’t the least bit proper. From that day on, whenever Karen went to church, she would always wear black shoes, even if they were old.

The following Sunday was her first communion, and Karen looked at the black shoes, she looked at the red ones –and then she looked at the red ones again and put them on.

It was lovely sunny weather. Karen and the old woman walked along the path through the grain fields where it was rather dusty.

At the church door stood an old soldier with a crutch and a long, odd- looking beard that was more red than white; in fact, it was red. He bowed all the way to the ground and asked the old woman whether he might wipe off her shoes. Karen stretched out her little foot too. ‘Oh look, what lovely dancing shoes!’ said the soldier. ‘Stay on tight when you dance!’ Then he slapped his hand on the soles.

The old woman gave the soldier a little skilling and then went with Karen into the church.

Everyone inside looked at Karen’s red shoes; all the paintings looked at them too. And when Karen knelt before the altar and put the golden chalice to her lips, she thought only of the red shoes. They seemed to be swimming around in the chalice before her, and she forgot to sing the hymn, she forgot to say the Lord’s Prayer.

Then everyone left the church, and the old woman climbed into her carriage. As Karen lifted her foot to climb in after her, the old soldier who was standing close by said, ‘Oh look, what lovely dancing shoes!’ And Karen couldn’t help herself, she had to take a few dance steps. As soon as she started, her feet kept on dancing. It was as if the shoes had taken control. She danced around the corner of the church, she couldn’t stop herself. The coachman had to run after and grab her, and he lifted her into the carriage, but her feet kept on dancing and she kicked hard at the kind old woman. Finally they managed to take off the shoes, and her feet stopped moving.

At home the shoes were put in a cupboard, but Karen couldn’t help looking at them.

Then the old woman fell ill, and they said she wouldn’t live long. She needed someone to nurse and tend her, and who should do it but Karen? But over in town there was to be a great ball, and Karen was invited. She looked at the old woman, who didn’t have long to live, after all. She looked at the red shoes, and she didn’t think there was any sin in that. She put on the red shoes. Why shouldn’t she? And then she went to the ball and began to dance.

But when she wanted to turn right, the shoes danced to the left, and when she wanted to move up the floor, the shoes danced down the floor, down the stairs, along the street, and out the town gate. Dance she did, and dance she must, right out into the dark forest.

Then she saw a light overhead among the trees, and she thought it must be the moon, because it had a face, but it was the old soldier with the red beard. He sat there nodding and said, ‘Oh look, what lovely dancing shoes!’

Then Karen was horrified and tried to take off the red shoes, but they wouldn’t come off. She tore off her stockings, but the shoes had grown onto her feet; dance she did and dance she must, over field and meadow, in rain and in sunshine, night and day, but nighttime was the most terrible of all.

She danced into the open churchyard, but the dead weren’t dancing. They had better things to do than dance. She wanted to sit down on the pauper’s grave where bitter tansy grew, but for her there was no peace or rest. And when she danced toward the open church door, she saw an angel there in long white robes, with wings that reached from his shoulders to the ground. His face was stern and solemn, and in his hand he held a sword, gleaming and wide.

‘Dance you shall!’ he said. ‘Dance in your red shoes until you turn pale and cold! Until your skin shrivels up like a mummy’s! Dance from door to door. And wherever proud and vain children live, you will knock so they hear and fear you! Dance you shall, dance–!’

‘Have mercy!’ cried Karen. But she didn’t hear what the angel replied, because her shoes carried her through the gate, out to the field, across the road, and along the path, and always she had to keep dancing.

Early one morning she danced past a door she knew quite well. Inside a hymn could be heard, and they carried out a coffin that was adorned with flowers. Then she knew that the old woman was dead, and she felt as if she had now been forsaken by everyone and cursed by the angel of God.

Dance she did, and dance she must, dance into the dark night. Her shoes carried her over thickets and stumps, her feet were worn bloody. She danced across the heath to a lonely little house. She knew that this was where the executioner lived. She tapped her finger on the windowpane and said, ‘Come out! Come out! I can’t come inside, because I’m dancing!’

And the executioner said, ‘Don’t you know who I am? I chop off the heads of evil people, and I can feel my ax is trembling!’

‘Don’t chop off my head,’ said Karen. ‘Because then I won’t be able to repent my sin. But chop off my feet with the red shoes!’

Then she confessed to her sin, and the executioner chopped off her feet with the red shoes. But the shoes kept dancing with the little feet across the fields and into the deep forest.

And he carved wooden feet and crutches for her, taught her a hymn that sinners always sing, and she kissed the hand that had wielded the ax and set out across the heath.

‘Now I’ve suffered enough for those red shoes,’ she said.‘Now I’m going to church so they can see me.’ And she walked as fast as she could toward the church door, but when she got there, the red shoes were dancing in front of her. She was horrified and turned away.

All week long she was sad and wept many bitter tears, but when Sunday came, she said, ‘All right! Now I’ve suffered and struggled enough! I should think that I’m just as good as many of those people sitting so proudly inside the church.’Then she set off quite boldly, but she got no farther than to the gate when she saw the red shoes dancing in front of her. She was horrified and turned away, repenting her sin with all her heart.

She went over to the parsonage and asked if she might be taken into service there. She would work hard and do everything she could. She had no wish for wages; all she asked for was a roof over her head and permission to stay with good people. The pastor’s wife felt sorry for her and gave her a position. And she was hardworking and thoughtful. Quietly she would sit and listen when the pastor read aloud from the Bible in the evening. All the children were very fond of her, but whenever they spoke of adornments and finery and being as lovely as a queen, she would shake her head.

The next Sunday they all went to church and they asked if she would like to come along, but with tears in her eyes she looked sadly at her crutches. Then the others went to hear God’s Word while she went alone into her tiny room. It was only big enough for a bed and a chair. There she sat with her hymnbook. As she began reading with a pious heart, the wind carried the tones of the organ from the church to her. She raised her tear- stained face and said, ‘Oh, help me, God!’

Then the sun shone so bright, and right in front of her stood the angel of God in the white robes, the one she had seen that night at the church door. He was no longer holding a sharp sword but a lovely green bough that was covered with roses. He touched it to the ceiling, which raised up high, and at the spot he had touched shone a golden star. He touched the walls and they moved outward. She saw the organ that was playing; she saw the old paintings of the pastors and their wives. The congregation was sitting in the carved pews and singing from their hymnals.

The church itself had come home to the poor girl in the tiny, cramped room, or perhaps she had gone to the church. She was sitting in a pew with the others from the parsonage. When they finished the hymn and looked up, they nodded and said, ‘It was right for you to come, Karen.’

‘It was God’s mercy,’ she said.

The organ soared, and the children’s voices in the choir sounded gentle and lovely. The bright, warm sunshine streamed through the window, reaching the church pew where Karen sat. Her heart was so filled with sunlight, with peace and joy, that it burst. Her soul flew on the sunlight to God, and no one asked about the red shoes.

让我们遇见在。。

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被偷的白象

企鹅经典：小黑书 第二辑

[美] 马克·吐温/著

张友松 郭宇萌/译

目录

封面

书名页

版权页

品牌页

中文内容

被偷的白象

一个顺风顺水的坏小子的故事

一个不得善终的好孩子的故事

加利维拉县有名的跳蛙

英文内容

The Stolen White Elephant

The Story of the Bad Little Boy Who Didn’t Come to Grief

The Story of the Good Little Boy Who Did Not Prosper

The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County

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被偷的白象

企鹅经典：小黑书 第二辑

[美] 马克·吐温/著

张友松 郭宇萌/译

企鹅图书 | PENGUIN BOOKS

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Magic Tree House® is a registered trademark of Mary Pope Osborne, used under license.

Simplified Chinese edition copyright © 2018 by Penguin Random House North Asia
in association with Xiron Publishing Company Ltd. and Zhejiang Education Publishing House
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数字发行：邵明鉴

选题策划：赵轩 | 白姗

正文目录

被偷的白象

一个顺风顺水的坏小子的故事

一个不得善终的好孩子的故事

加利维拉县有名的跳蛙

The Stolen White Elephant

The Story of the Bad Little Boy Who Didn’t Come to Grief

The Story of the Good Little Boy Who Did Not Prosper

The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County

被偷的白象

一

下面这个稀奇的故事是我在火车上偶然相识的一个人讲给我听的。他是一位年过七十的老先生，他那和善而斯文的面貌和真挚而诚实的态度使他嘴里说出来的每一桩事情都给人以无可置疑的真实的印象。他说：

你知道暹罗的皇家白象在那个国家是多么受人尊敬的吧。你也知道，它是国王御用的。只有国王才能养它，而且它实际上甚至比国王多少还要高出几分，因为它不仅受人尊敬，而且还受人崇拜。好吧，五年前，大不列颠和暹罗两国之间发生国界纠纷的时候，没过多久，事实就证明了错误在暹罗方面。因此一切赔偿手续被迅速执行，英国代表说他很满意，过去的嫌隙也应该忘记才行。这使暹罗国王大为安心，于是一方面为了表示感激，一方面也许是为了要消除英国对他可能还存在着的一点儿残余的不满情绪，他愿意给英国女王送一份礼物——照东方人的想法，这是与敌方和解的唯一妥当的方法。这份礼物不但应该是高贵的，而且必须是超乎一切的高贵才行。那么，还有什么礼物能比一只白象更适当呢？当时我在印度担任着一种特殊的文官职位，因此被认为特别配得上给女皇陛下献礼的荣幸任务。暹罗政府特地给我备了一只船，还配备了侍从、随员和伺候象的人。经过相当长的时间，我到了纽约港，就把我那受皇家重托的礼物安顿在泽西城，叫它住在很讲究的地方。为了恢复这只牲口的健康，然后继续航行，我们不得不停留一些时候。

过了两个星期，一切安然无事——然后我的灾祸就开始了。白象被偷了！深夜有人把我叫醒，通知我这个可怕的不幸事件。我一时简直因恐惧和焦急而发狂，我真不知如何是好。然后我渐渐平静下来，恢复了神志。我不久就想出了办法——因为事实上一个有头脑的人所能采取的有且只有一个办法。那时候虽然已经是深夜，我还是赶到纽约，找到一位警察引我到侦缉总队去。幸好我到的正是时候，侦缉队的头目、有名的督察长布朗特正准备动身回家。他是个中等身材、体格结实的人，当他深思的时候，他惯爱皱起眉头、凝神地用手指头敲着额部，这会马上给你一个印象，使你深信自己站在一个不平凡的人物面前。一看他那样子，就使我有了信心、有了希望。我向他申述了我的来意。这桩事情丝毫也不使他惊慌，看样子，他还是铁一般的镇定，并没有引起他多大的反应，就好像我告诉他的事情是有人偷了我的狗一般。他挥手叫我坐下，沉着地说道：

“请让我想一会儿吧。”

他一面这么说，一面在他的办公桌前面坐下，用手托着头。好几个书记正在办公室的另一头工作，往后的六七分钟里，我所听到的声音就只有他们的笔在纸上划出的响声。同时，督察长坐在那儿，凝神沉思。最后，他抬起头来，他的面孔那种坚定的轮廓表现出一种胸有成竹的神气，这向我说明他的脑子里已经想出了主意，计划已经拟订了。他说（声音低沉而且给人深刻的印象）：

“这不是个普通案件。一切步骤都要小心周到，每一步都要站稳脚跟，然后再放胆走下一步。一定要保守秘密才行——深深的、绝对的秘密。无论对什么人都不要谈起这件事，连对报馆记者也不要提。他们这批人归我来对付吧，我会只叫他们得到一点儿符合我的目的、故意告诉他们的消息。”他按了按铃，一个年轻人走过来。“阿拉里克，叫记者们暂时不要走。”那个小伙子出去了。“现在我们再继续来谈正经事吧——要有条有理地谈。干我这一行，要是不用严格和周密的方法，什么事也办不好。”

他拿起笔和纸来：“那么——象的名字？”

“哈森·本·阿里·本·赛林·阿布达拉·穆罕默德·摩伊赛·阿汉莫尔·杰姆赛杰吉布荷伊·都里普·苏丹·爱布·布德普尔。”

“好的。教名是什么？”

“大壮。”

“好的。出生的地方呢？”

“暹罗首都。”

“父母还在吗？”

“不——死了。”

“除了他而外，他们还生过别的孩子吗？”

“没有——他是独生子。”

“好的。在这一项底下，有这几点就够了。现在请你描述一下这只象的样子，千万不要遗漏细节，无论多么不重要的——这就是说，照你的看法认为不重要的。对于我们这一行的人，根本就没有什么不重要的细节，这种事情根本就不存在。”

于是我一边描述，他一边记录。我说完的时候，他说：

“好吧，你听着。要是我有弄错的地方，请你更正。”

他照下面这样念：

“身高十九英尺[1]，身长从额顶到尾根二十六英尺，鼻长十六英尺，尾长六英尺，全长，包括鼻子和尾巴，四十八英尺，牙长九英尺，耳朵大小与这些尺寸相称。脚印好像一只桶子立在雪里印上的痕迹。象的颜色，灰白。每只耳朵上有一个装饰珠宝的洞，像碟子那么大。特别喜欢给旁观的人喷水，并且爱拿鼻子作弄

人，不仅是那些和他相识的，连完全陌生的人也是一样。右后腿略跛，左腋下因从前生过疮，有一个小疤。被偷时背上有一个包括十五个座位的乘厢，披着一张普通地毯大小的金丝缎鞍毯。”

他写的没有错误。督察长按了按铃，把这份说明书交给阿拉里克，吩咐他说——

“把这张东西马上印五万份，寄到全州各地的侦缉队和当铺去。”阿拉里克出去了。

“哈——说了半天，总算还不错。另外我还得要一张这个东西的相片才行。”我给了他一张。他很认真地把它仔细看了一阵，说道：

“只好将就吧，反正找不到更好的。可是他把鼻子卷起来，塞在嘴里，这未免太不凑巧，一定要使人产生误会，因为他平常当然不会把鼻子卷成这个样子。”他又按了按铃。

“阿拉里克，把这张相片拿去印五万份，明天早上先办这件事，和那张说明书一同寄出。”

阿拉里克出去执行他的命令。督察长说——

“当然非悬赏不可了。那么，数目怎么样？”

“你看多少合适呢？”

“第一步，我认为——唔，先来个两万五千块钱吧。这桩事情很复杂、很难办，不知有多少逃避的路子和隐藏的机会哩。这些小偷到处都有朋友和伙伴——”

“哎呀，您知道那些人是谁吗？”

那张习惯于把思想和感情隐藏在心里的谨慎的面孔使我猜不出一点儿影子，他那说得若无其事的回答也是一样：

“那个你不用管。我可能知道，也可能不知道。我们通常都是看犯案的人下手的方法和他所要弄到手的东西的大小，从这里去找到一点儿巧妙的线索，推测他是谁。我们现在要对付的不是一个扒手，也不是一个普通的小偷，这个你可要弄明白。这回被偷的东西不是一个生手随便‘扒’了去的。刚才我说过，办这个案子是要跑许多地方的，小偷们一路往别处跑，还要随时掩盖他们的踪迹，查起来也很费劲，所以照这些情形来看，两万五千块钱也许还太少一点儿，不过我想起头先给这个数目还是可以的。”

于是我们就商定了这个数目，作为初步的悬赏，然后这位先生说道：

“在侦探史里有些案子说明某些犯人是根据他们的胃口方面的特点而破案的。那么，这只象究竟吃什么东西、吃多少分量呢？”凡是可以做线索的事情，这位先生没有不注意的。

“啊，说到他吃的东西嘛——他不管什么都吃。人也吃，《圣经》也吃——人和《圣经》之间的东西，不管什么他都吃。”

“好——真是好得很，可是太笼统了。必须说得仔细些——干我们这一行，最讲究的就是仔细。好吧，先说人。每一顿——再不然你爱说每一天也行——他要吃几个人呢，要是新鲜的话？”

“他不管新鲜不新鲜，每一顿他要吃五个普通的人。”

“好极了！五个人，我把这个记下来。他最爱吃哪些国家的人呢？”

“他对国籍也不大在乎。他特别爱吃熟人，可是对生人也并没有成见。”

“好极了。那么再说《圣经》吧，他每一顿要吃几部《圣经》呢？”

“他可以吃得下整整的一版。”

“这说得不够清楚，你指的是普通的八开本，还是家庭用的插图本呢？”

“我想他对插图是不在乎的。那就是说，我觉得他并不会把插图看得比简单的文本更宝贵。”

“不，你没听明白我的意思。我说的是本子的大小。普通八开本的《圣经》大概是两磅半重，可是带插图的四开大本有十磅到十二磅重。他每顿能吃几本多莱版的《圣经》呢？”

“你要是认识这只象的话，就不会问这些了。人家有多少他就吃多少。”

“好吧，那么照钱数来计算吧，这点我们总得大概弄清楚才行。多莱版每本要一百块钱，俄国皮子包书角的。”

“他大概要五万块钱的才够吃——就算是五百本吧。”

“对，这倒是比较明确一点儿，我把这个记下来。好吧，他爱吃人和《圣经》，这些都说得很不错。另外他还吃什么呢？我要知道详细情形。”

“他会丢开《圣经》去吃砖头，他会丢开砖头去吃瓶子，他会丢开瓶子去吃衣服，他会丢开衣服去吃猫儿，他会丢开猫儿去吃牡蛎，他会丢开牡蛎去吃火腿，他会丢开火腿去吃糖，他会丢开糖去吃馅儿饼，他会丢开馅儿饼去吃洋芋，他会丢开洋芋去吃糠皮，他会丢开糠皮去吃干草，他会丢开干草去吃燕麦，他会丢开燕麦去吃大米，因为他主要是靠这个喂大的。除了欧洲的奶油，无论什么东西他都来者不拒的，就连奶油，他要是尝出了味道，那也会吃的。”

“好极了。平常每顿的食量是……大概要……”

“噢，从四分之一吨到半吨之间，随便多少都行。”

“他爱喝……”

“凡是液体的东西都行。牛奶、水、威士忌、糖浆、蓖麻油、樟脑油、石炭酸[2]——这样说下去是没有用处的。你无论想到什么液体的东西都记下就是了。只要是液体的东西，他什么都喝，只除了欧洲的咖啡。”

“好极了。喝多大分量呢？”

“你就写五至十五桶吧——他口渴的程度一时一样，别的方面，他的胃口是没有变化的。”

“这些事情都非常重要。这对于寻找他应该是可以提供很好的线索。”

他按了按铃。

“阿拉里克，把伯恩斯队长找来吧。”

伯恩斯来了。布朗特督察长给他说明全部案情，一五一十地说得很详细。然后他用爽朗而果断的口吻说（由他的声调可以听出他的办法已经拟订得很清楚，而且也可以知道他是惯于下命令的）：

“伯恩斯队长，派琼斯、戴维斯、哈尔西、贝茨、哈克特他们这几个侦探去追寻这只象吧。”

“是，督察长。”

“派摩西、戴金、墨菲、罗杰斯、塔珀、希金斯和巴塞洛缪他们这几个侦探去追寻小偷。”

“是，督察长。”

“在那只象被偷出去的地方安排一个强有力的卫队——三十个精选的弟兄组成的卫队，还要三十个换班的——叫他们在那儿日夜严格守卫，没有我的书面手令，谁也不许走出去——除了记者。”

“是，督察长。”

“派些便衣侦探到火车上、轮船上和码头仓库那些地方去，还有由泽西城往外面去的大路上，命令他们搜查所有形迹可疑的人。”

“是，督察长。”

“把那只象的照片和附带的说明书拿给这些人，吩咐他们搜查所有的火车和往外开的渡船以及其他的船。”

“是，督察长。”

“象要是找到了，就把他捉住，打电报通知我。”

“是，督察长。”

“要是找出了什么线索，也要马上通知我——不管是这畜生的脚印，还是诸如此类的踪迹。”

“是，督察长。”

“发一道命令，叫港口警察留心巡逻河边一带。”

“是，督察长。”

“赶快派便衣侦探到所有的铁路上去，往北直到加拿大，往西直到俄亥俄，往南直到华盛顿。”

“是，督察长。”

“派一批专家到所有的电报局去，收听所有的电报，叫他们要求电报局把所有的密码电报都译给他们看。”

“是，督察长。”

“这些事情千万要做得极其秘密——注意，要秘密得绝对不走漏消息才行。”

“是，督察长。”

“照通常的时刻准时向我报告。”

“是，督察长。”

“去吧！”

“是，督察长。”

他走了。

布朗特督察长沉思了一会儿，没有作声，同时他眼睛里的那股子火气渐渐冷静下来，终于消失了。然后他向我转过身来，用平静的声音说道：

“我不喜欢吹牛，那不是我的习惯，可是——我们一定能找到那只象。”

我热情地和他握手，向他道谢，而且心里也确实是感谢他。我越看这位先生，就越喜欢他，也越对他这职业当中那些神秘且不可思议的事情感到羡慕和惊讶。然后我们在这天晚上暂时分手了，我回寓所的时候，比到他的办公室的时候心里快活得多了。

二

第二天早上，一切都登在报上，登得非常详细，甚至还增加了新的内容——包括：侦探甲、侦探乙和侦探丙的“推测”，估计这次的盗窃案是怎么干的，盗窃犯是谁，以及他们带着赃物到什么地方去了。一共有十一种推测，把一切可能的估计都包括了，单是这一个事实就表示侦探们是些怎样的别出心裁的思想家。没有哪两种推测是相同的，甚至连大致相似的都没有，唯一相同的只有一个显著的情节，关于这一点，十一个人的见解倒通通是绝对一致的。那就是，虽然我的房子后面被人拆开了墙，而唯一的门又照旧是锁着的，那只象却并不是由那个口子被牵出去的，而是由另外一条出路（还没有发现的）出去的。大家一致认为盗窃犯是故意拆开一个豁口，迷惑侦探们。像我或是任何其他外行，恐怕绝不会想得出这个，可是却一会儿都骗不了侦探们。所以我所认为没有什么奥妙的唯一的一桩事情实际上正是我弄得最迷糊的一桩事情。十一种见解都指出了盗窃嫌疑犯，可是没有两个人说的盗窃犯是相同的，嫌疑犯总数共计三十七人。报纸上的各种记载末尾都提到了一切意见中最重要的一种——布朗特督察长的意见。这种叙述有一部分是像下面这样说的：

督察长知道两个主犯是谁，即“好汉”达菲和“红毛”麦克法登。在这次盗窃事件发生前十天，他就感觉到会有人打算干这桩事，并

且还暗中跟踪这两个有名的坏蛋。可是不幸在事件发生的那天晚上，他们忽然去向不明，还没有来得及找到他们的下落，那家伙已经不见了——也就是那只象。

达菲和麦克法登是干这一行的最大胆的匪徒，督察长有理由相信去年冬天在一个严寒的夜里从侦缉总队把火炉偷出去的就是他们——结果还没有到第二天早上，督察长和在场的每个侦探都归医生照料了，有些人冻坏了脚，有些人冻坏了手指头、耳朵和其他部分。

我看了这段头一半的时候，对于这位奇特的人的了不起的智慧比以前更加惊叹。他不但以明亮的眼光看透目前的一切，就连未来的事情也瞒不住他。我不久就到了他的办公室，并且对他说，我不能不认为他早该把那两个人逮捕起来，预先防止这桩麻烦事和一切损失才对。可是他的回答很简单，而且是无可辩驳的：

“预防罪行发生不是我们的责任范围以内的事，我们的任务是惩治罪行。在罪行发生之前，我们当然不能先行惩治。”

我说我们第一步的秘密被报纸破坏了，不但我们的一切事实，连我们所有的计划和目的通通被泄露了，甚至所有的嫌疑犯的名字也被宣布出来，这些人现在当然就会伪装起来，或是隐藏着不露面。

“随他们去吧。叫他们看看我的本事，知道我要是打定了主意要抓他们的时候，我的手就会落在他们身上，把他们从秘密地方捉到，就像命运之神的手那么准确。至于报纸呢，我们非和他们通声气不可。名誉、声望，经常被大家谈到——这些事就是当侦探的人的命根子。他必须发表他的事实，否则人家还以为他根本不知道什么事实；他也必须发表他的推测，因为无论什么事情也赶不上一个侦探的推测那么稀奇、那么惊人，而且这也最能使人对他敬佩万分；我们还必须发表我们的计划，因为报纸刊物非要这个不可，我们要是不给他们，就不免要得罪他们。我们必须经常让大家知道我们在干些什么，否则他们就会以为我们什么也没干。我们与其让报纸上说些刻薄话，或者更糟糕，说些讽刺话，就不如让它说‘布朗特督察长的聪明和非凡的推测是如此这般’，那要痛快得多。”

“我知道您的话是很有道理的。可是我看了今天早上报纸发表的您的谈话，里面有一段说到您对某一个小小问题不肯吐露您的意见。”

“是呀，我们常来这一手，这是颇有作用的，并且我对那个问题根本还没有一定的主张哩。”

我交了一笔数目相当大的款子给督察长，作为临时开支，接着就是坐下来等待消息。现在我们随时都准备着电报会陆续拍来。我把报纸重新拿来看，又看看我们那份说明的传单，结果发现那二万五千元的悬赏似乎是专给侦探们的。我说我认为这笔奖金应该给任何捉到那只象的人。督察长却说：

“将来找到象的总是侦探们，所以奖金反正会归给应得的人。要是别人找到这只畜生，那也无非是靠着留心侦探们的行动，利用从他们那儿偷来的线索和踪迹才办得到。那么归根结底，奖金也还是应该归侦探们得才对。奖金的正当作用是要鼓励那些贡献他们的时间和专门智慧来干这类事情的人，而不是要把好处拿给那些幸运儿，他们不过是碰巧发现一件悬赏寻找的东西，并不是靠他们的才能和辛苦来赚得这些奖金的。”

不消说，这当然是很有道理的。现在角落上的电报机开始嘚嘚地响起来了，结果收到下面这封急电：

纽约州，花站，上午七时半

已有线索。附近农场上发现连串足迹甚深。向东跟踪两英里[3]，无结果；料象已西去。拟向该方追踪。

达利侦探

“达利是我们队里最得力的侦探之一，”督察长说，“我们不久就可以再接到他的消息。”

第二封电报又来了：

新泽西，巴克镇，上午七时四十分

刚到此地。玻璃工厂夜间被闯入，吞去瓶子八百只。附近唯一多水处在五英里外。必向该地前进。象必渴。所吞系空瓶。

贝克侦探

“这也表示很有希望。”督察长说，“我跟你说过这家伙的胃口可以做很好的线索吧。”

第三封电报是：

长岛，泰勒维尔，上午八时十五分

附近一干草堆夜间失踪。想系食去。已有线索，再前进。

哈伯德侦探

“你看他这么东奔西跑的！”督察长说：“我早就知道这事情够麻烦，可是我们终归还是可以把他抓到。”

纽约州，花站，上午九时

向西跟踪三英里。足迹大而深，不整齐。适遇一农民，据云并非象脚印，乃冬寒地冻时挖出树秧之坑。请示机宜。

达利侦探

“啊哈！偷儿的同党！这事情越来越热闹了。”督察长说。

他口授了下面这封电报给达利：

逮捕此人，逼供同伙。继续跟踪——必要时直抵太平洋岸。

布朗特督察长

其后一封电报是：

宾夕法尼亚州，康尼点，上午八时四十五分

煤气公司营业部夜间被闯入，食去三个月未付款煤气账单。已获线索，续进。

墨菲侦探

“天哪！”督察长说，“他连煤气账单也吃吗？”

“他大概不知道——当然吃啰，可是这不能饱肚子。至少没有别的东西一起吃下去是不行的。”

这时候又来了这封令人兴奋的电报：

纽约州，艾恩维尔，上午九时半

初抵此。全村惊惶万状。象于今晨五时过此村。或谓象已西去，一说东行，一说北行，一说南行——但众人均称彼等未及细察。象触毙一马，已割取小块供线索。此系象鼻击毙者；由打击方式推断，似系自左方袭击。由此马卧地姿势判断，料象已沿柏克莱铁路北去。先行四小时半，拟立即跟踪追捕。

霍斯侦探

我发出了欢呼。督察长还是像一尊雕像似的不动声色。他镇静地按了按铃。

“阿拉里克，请伯恩斯队长到这儿来。”

伯恩斯来了。

“有多少人可以马上派去出勤？”

“九十六个，督察长。”

“立刻派他们往北去，叫他们集中在柏克莱铁路沿线艾恩维尔以北一带。”

“是，督察长。”

“叫他们极其秘密地行动。另外还有别的人下班的时候，马上叫他们准备出勤。”

“是，督察长。”

“去吧!”

“是，督察长。”

马上又来了另外一封电报：

纽约州，赛奇角，十时半

初抵此。八时十五分象过此地。全镇人已逃空，仅留一警察。象显然未向警察袭击，而欲击灯柱。但击中两者。已自警察尸体割肉一块做线索。

斯图曼侦探

“原来象已经转向西边去了，”督察长说，“可是他逃不掉，因为我派出的人已经在那一带地方分布到各处了。”

其后的一封电报说：

格罗佛站，十一时十五分

初抵此。全村人已逃空，仅余老弱病夫。三刻钟前象由此经过。正值反禁酒群众大会召

开，象由窗中伸入其鼻，自蓄水池吸水将大会冲散，有人遭水灌注——旋即死去，数人淹毙。侦探克洛斯与奥少夫纳西曾过此镇，但向南行——故与象相左。周围数英里地区均大为惊恐——居民均由家中逃出。逃往各处，均遇此象，丧命者颇多。

布朗特侦探

我简直要流泪，因为这场灾难太使我难受了。可是督察长只说：

“你看——我们正在一步步把他包围起来。他觉出了我们已经来到，又往东转了。”

可是还有许多叫我们伤脑筋的消息在后面。电报又带来了这个消息：

霍艮港，十二时十九分

初到此。半小时前象行经此地，曾引起极度惊恐与兴奋。象在各街横行——装管工二人路过，一人丧命，一人得解脱，众皆悲恸。

欧弗拉赫第侦探

“这下子他可是让我的弟兄们包围住了，”督察长说，“怎么也逃不掉了。”

分布到新泽西和宾夕法尼亚各地的侦探们又拍来了一连串的电报，他们都在追踪各种线索，其中包括被蹂躏的粮仓、工厂、主日学校的图书馆，大家都怀着很大的希望——实际上这些希望简直成了确有把握的事。督察长说：

“我很想能够和他们通消息，叫他们往北去，可是这办不到。侦探只到电报局去发电报来向我报告；马上他又走了，你简直不知在哪儿找得到他。”

然后又来了这封电报：

康涅狄格州，桥港，十二时十五分

巴南愿出每年四千元代价，获使用此象供张贴流动广告之特权，由目前至侦探寻获此象时为止。拟在象身贴马戏团招贴画。盼即复。

波格斯侦探

“这简直是荒谬绝伦！”我大声地说。

“当然是啰，”督察长说，“巴南先生自以为非常精明，可是他显然还看不透我——我可看透了他。”

于是他给这封急电口授回电：

谢绝巴南所提条件。需七千元，否则作罢。

布朗特督察长

“看吧。不要等多久就会有回电。巴南先生不在家，他在电报局——他在交涉生意的时候有这个习惯。不消三分钟……”

同意。

巴南

电报机嘚嘚嘚的声音打断了督察长的谈话。我对这个非常离奇的插曲还没有来得及发表意见，下面这封急电就把我的心思引到另一个恼人的方面去了：

纽约州，波利维亚，十二时五十分

象由南方抵此，十一时五十分过此向森林

前进。途中驱散出殡行列，送葬者牺牲二人。居民放小炮击象后逃散。侦探伯克与我于十分钟后由北方赶到，但因误认若干地下土坑为象踪，致延误甚久；但终获象踪，追至森林。然后伏地爬行，继续注视象踪，追随至丛林中。伯克先行，不幸象已停步休息；故伯克因低头察看象踪，尚未发觉象在眼前，头已触其后腿。伯克即刻起立，手握象尾欢呼“奖金应归……”但出言未毕，象鼻一击已使此勇士粉身碎骨而死。我向后逃，象转身穷追，直至林边，速度惊人，我本非丧命不可，幸因老天保佑，送葬行列所余数人又与象遭遇，使其转移目标。现闻送葬者无一人生还，但也不算损失过重，剩余送葬用品足以再举办另一丧葬活动。象已再行失踪。

马尔鲁尼侦探

分派到新泽西、宾夕法尼亚、得拉维尔和弗吉尼亚等地的那些苦干和有信心的侦探们都在跟着有希望的新线索追寻，我们除了从他们那里以外，始终没有得到任何消息，直到下午两点过后，才接到这封电报：

巴克斯特中心，二时十五分

象曾到此地，周身贴马戏团广告，驱散一奋兴会，将改过自新者毙伤甚多。居民将象囚于栏中，派人守卫。其后侦探布朗与我来此，即入栏持照片与说明书对此象进行鉴定。各种特征一概相符，仅有一项不得见——即腋下疮疤。布郎为查明起见，匍匐至象体下细察，结果立即丧命——头部被击碎，但碎脑中一无所有。众皆奔逃，象亦匿去，横冲直撞，伤亡多人。象虽逃去，但因炮伤，沿途均留显著之血迹。定能再度寻获。现象已穿越茂林向南前进。

布朗特侦探

这是最后一封电报。晚上起了雾，非常之浓，以至三英尺外的东西都看不见。浓雾整夜没有散。渡船不得不停开，甚至连公共汽车都不能行驶。

三

第二天早晨，报纸上还是像从前一样，登满了侦探们的推测；我们那些惨剧也通通登出来了，另外还登了许多消息，都是报馆从各地电报通讯员方面得来的。篇幅占了一栏又一栏，一直占到一版三分之一的地位，还加上一些显眼的标题，使我看了心里发烦。这些标题一般的情状大致是这样：

白象尚未捕获！

仍在继续前进，到处闯祸！

各处村庄居民惊骇欲狂，逃避一空！

白色恐怖在他前面传播，死亡与

糜烂接踵而至！

侦探尾随其后。粮仓被毁，工厂被劫一空，收成被吃光，公众集会被驱散，酿成惨剧无法形容！侦缉队中三十四位最出色的侦探的推测！督察长布朗特的推测！

“啊哈！”督察长布朗特几乎露出兴奋的神色，说道，“这可真是了不起！这是任何侦探机关从来没有碰到过的好运道。这个案件的名声会传到天涯地角，永垂不朽，我的名字也会跟着传出去的。”

但是我没有什么可高兴的。我觉得所有那些血案似乎都是我干出来的，那只象只不过是我不负责任的代理人罢了。受害的人数增加得多么快呀！有一个地方，他“干涉了一次选举，弄死了五个投重票的违法选民”。在这个举动之后，他又杀害了两个不幸的人，他们名叫奥唐诺休和麦克弗兰尼根，“前一天才来到这全世界被压迫者的家乡来避难，正想要第一次运用美国公民选举投票的光荣权利，恰好遭到这个暹罗煞星的毒手而丧命了”。到另一处，他“发现了一个疯狂的兴风作浪的传教士，正在准备他新一轮的对跳舞、戏剧和其他不能还击的事物所要进行的英勇的攻击，一脚就把他踩死了”。又在另一个地方，他“杀害了一个避雷针经纪人”。遇难的人数越来越多，血腥气越来越重，伤心惨目的事件越来越多。丧命的共达六十人，受伤的二百四十人，一切记载都证明了侦探们的活动和热心，而且结尾都是说“有三十万老百姓和四个侦探看见过这个可怕的畜生，而这四个侦探之中有两个被他弄死了”。

电报机又嘚嘚嘚地响起来，我简直听了就害怕。随即消息就一条条传过来，可是这些消息的性质却使我感到快慰的失望。不久就明白了，象已不知去向。雾使他得以找到一个很好的藏身之所，没有被人发觉。从一些极荒谬的遥远地点打来的电报说是在某时某刻有人在雾里瞥见过一个隐隐约约的庞然大物，那“无疑是象”。这个隐隐约约的庞然大物曾在新港、新泽西、宾夕法尼亚、纽约州内地、布鲁克林，甚至在纽约市区，处处都曾有人瞥见过！但是处处都是这个隐隐约约的庞然大物很快就不见了，丝毫没有留下什么痕迹。强大的侦缉队分派到广大地区的那许多侦探，每人都按时来电报告，个个都有线索，而且都在跟踪，拼命往前穷追。

但是那一天过去了，并无其他结果。

第二天又是一样。

再往后一天还是一样。

报纸上的消息渐成千篇一律，其中的各种事实都是毫无价值的，各种线索都是没有结果的，各种推测几乎都是搜尽枯肠想出来故意使人惊讶、使人高兴、使人眼花缭乱的。

我遵照督察长的建议，把奖金加了一倍。

又过了四个沉闷的日子，然后那些可怜的、干得很起劲的侦探遭到了一次严重的打击——报馆记者们谢绝发表他们的推测，很冷淡地说：“让我们歇一歇吧。”

白象失踪两个星期之后，我遵照督察长的意见，把奖金增加到七万五千元。这个数目是很大的，但是我觉得我宁肯牺牲我的全部私人财产，也不要失掉我的政府对我的信任。现在侦探们倒了霉，报纸上就转过笔锋来攻击他们，对他们加以最令人难堪的讽刺。这使一些卖艺的歌手们想出了一个好主意，他们把自己打扮成侦探，在舞台上用可笑至极的方法追寻那只象。漫画家们画出那些侦探拿着小望远镜在全国各地一处一处地仔细察看，而象却在他们背后从他们口袋里偷苹果吃。他们还把侦探们戴的徽章画成各式各样的可笑的漫画——侦探小说的封底上用金色印着这个徽章，你一定是看到过的——那是一只睁得很大的眼睛，配上“我们永远不睡”这几个字。侦探们到酒店去喝酒的时候，那故意逗笑的掌柜就恢复一句早已作废的话，说道：“您喝杯醒眼酒好吗？”空气中弥漫着浓厚的讽刺气氛。

但是有一个人在这种气氛中始终保持镇定，处之泰然，不动声色，那就是坚定不移的督察长。他那双大胆的眼睛永不表示丧气，他那沉着的信心永不动摇。他老是说：

“让他们去嘲笑吧！谁最后笑就笑得最痛快。”

我对这位先生的敬仰变成了一种崇拜。我经常在他身边。他的办公室对他而言已经成为一个不愉快的地方，现在一天比一天更加厉害了。可是他既然受得了，我当然也要撑持下去——至少是能撑多久就撑多久。所以我经常到他这里来，并且停留很久——我好像是唯一能够忍受得了的外人。大家都不知道我怎么会熬得下去。我每每似乎觉得非开小差不可，可是一到这种时候，我就看看那张沉着而且显然是满不在乎的脸，于是又坚持下去了。

白象失踪以后，大约过了三个星期，有一天早上，我正想要说我不得不息鼓收兵的时候，那位大侦探却提出一个绝妙的拿手办法来，这下子可阻止了我那个念头。

这个办法就是和窃犯们妥协。我虽然和世界上最有机智的天才有过广泛的接触，可是这位先生的思想之丰富实在是我生平从来没有见过的。他说他相信可以出十万元和对方妥协，把那只象找回来。我说我相信可以勉强凑这个数目。可是那些可怜的侦探非常忠心地努力干了一场，怎么办呢？他说：

“按照妥协的办法，他们照例得一半。”

这就打消了我唯一的反对理由，于是督察长写了两封信，内容如下：

亲爱的夫人。——你的丈夫只要和我立即约谈一次，就可以得一笔巨款（而且完全保证不受法律干涉）。

督察长布朗特

他派他信任的信差把这两封信送一封给“好汉”达菲“不知是真是假的妻子”，另一封给“红毛”麦克法登的“不知真假的妻子”。

一小时之内，来了这么两封无礼的回信：

你这老糊涂蛋：“好汉”达菲已经死了两年了。

布里奇特·马奥尼

瞎子督察长，——“红毛”麦克法登早就被绞死了，他已经升天一年半了。除了当侦探

的，随便哪个笨蛋也知道这桩事情。

玛丽·奥胡里根

“早就猜想到这些事情了，”督察长说，“这一证明足见我的直觉真是千真万确。”

一个办法刚刚行不通，他又想出另外一个主意来了。他马上写了一则广告拿到早报上去登，我把它抄了一份：

子——亥戌丑卯酉。二四二辰。未丑寅卯——辰亥三二八成酉丑卯。寅亥申寅，——；二已！寅丑酉。密。

他说只要偷儿还活着，见了这则广告就会到往常约会的地点去。他还说明了这个往常约会的地点是侦探和罪犯之间进行一切谈判的地方。这次的约会定在第二天晚上十二点举行。

在那个时刻来到之前，我们什么事情也不能做，所以我赶快走出这个办公室，而且心里实在因为得到这个喘息的机会而有谢天谢地的感觉。

第二天晚上十一点，我带着十万元现钞，交到督察长手里，过了一会儿他就告辞了，眼睛里流露出那勇往直前的、一向没有消失的信心。一个钟头几乎无法忍受的时光终于熬过去了，然后我听见他那可喜的脚步声，于是我喘着气站起来，一歪一倒地跑过去迎接他，他那双明亮的眼睛里发出多么得意的闪光啊！他说：

“我们妥协了！那些开玩笑的家伙明天就要改变论调了！跟我去！”

他拿着一支点着的蜡烛大步地走进一个绝大的圆顶地窖，那儿经常有六十个侦探在睡觉，这时候还有二十来个在打牌消遣。我紧跟在他后面。他飞快地一直往地窖里老远的、阴暗的那一头走过去。我正在闷得要命、简直要晕倒的时候，他一下子绊倒了，倒在一个大家伙的伸开的肢体上。我听见他一面倒下去，一面欢呼道：

“我们这种高贵的职业果然是名不虚传的。你的象在这儿哪！”

我被人抬到上面那办公室里，他们用石炭酸使我清醒过来了。整个侦缉队都拥了进来，随后那一番欢天喜地的祝贺真是热闹非凡，我从来没有见过那种场面。他们把记者们邀请过来，打开一桶一桶的香槟酒来痛饮祝贺，大家握手、道贺，简直没有个完，兴头十足。当时的英雄人物当然是督察长，他的快乐到了顶点了，而且也是靠他的耐心、品德和勇敢换来的，所以叫我看了很欢喜。虽然我站在那儿，已经成了一个无家可归的穷光蛋，我受托的那个无价之宝也死了，我为本国服务的职位也完蛋了，一切都由于我向来似乎有个致命的老毛病——对于一个重大的托付老是粗心大意地执行。一双双传神的眼睛对督察长表示了深切的敬仰，还有许多侦探的声音悄悄地说：“你瞧瞧人家——实在是这一行的大王——只要给他一点儿线索就行，他就只需要这个，不管什么东西藏起来了，他没有找不着的。”大家分那五万元奖金的时候，真是兴高采烈；分完之后，督察长一面把他那一份塞进腰包，一面发表了一篇简短的谈话。他在这篇谈话里说道：“痛痛快快地享受这笔奖金吧，伙计们，因为这是你们赚来的；并且还不只这个——你们还给侦探这种职业博得了不朽的名声。”

又来了一封电报，内容是：

密歇根，孟禄，上午十时

三星期来，初遇一电报局。随象踪骑马穿过森林，抵此地时已奔波千英里，脚印日见其

重，日见其大，且日益显明。望勿急躁——至多再一星期，定能将象寻获。万无一失。

达利侦探

督察长叫大家给达利三呼喝彩，给“侦缉队里这位能手”欢呼，然后吩咐手下给他打电报去，叫他回来领取他那一份奖金。

被偷的象这场惊人的风波就这样完结了，第二天报纸上又是满篇好听的恭维话，只有一个无聊的例外。这个报纸说：“侦探真是伟大！像一只失踪了的象这么个小小的东西，他找起来也许是慢一点儿——白天他尽管整天寻找，夜里就跟象的尸体睡在一起，一直拖到三个星期，可是他终归还是会把他找着——只要把象错放在那里的人给他说明地点就行了！”

我永远失去了可怜的大壮。炮弹给了他致命伤，他在雾里悄悄地走到那个倒霉的地方；在敌人的包围之中，又经常受到侦缉的危险，他连饿带熬，一直瘦下来，最后死神才给了他安息。

最后的妥协花掉了我十万元，侦探的费用另外花掉四万二千元，我再也没有向我本国政府去申请一个职位，我成了个倾家荡产的人，成了个落魄人间的流浪汉——可是我始终觉得那位先生是全世界空前的大侦探，我对他的敬仰至今还是没有减退，而且一辈子都不会改变。

（张友松 译）

[1] 1英尺≈0.3米。（说明：书中脚注除特别标明的之外，均为译者注。）

[2] 即苯酚。常温下为无色透明针状晶体。此处所指可能是石炭酸水溶液或其它含有石炭酸成分的液体。——编者注

[3] 1英里≈1.6公里。——编者注

一个顺风顺水的坏小子的故事

从前，有个叫吉姆的坏小子——然而，如果你留意一下，就会发现你在主日学校[1]读到的那些书里，几乎所有坏小子都叫詹姆斯。这着实很奇怪，不过，咱们这位主人公确实叫吉姆，千真万确。

吉姆没有一位患病的母亲——一位笃信宗教、痨病缠身、十分乐于从此躺进坟墓长眠不起的母亲，但是，因为对儿子强烈的爱，她最终还是生下了他，心中满是焦虑，害怕自己哪天撒手人寰，她的儿子将被留下独自面对这个残暴而冷酷的世界。在主日学校的那些书里，大多数坏小子都叫詹姆斯，并且有个患病的母亲。她们会对詹姆斯说，“好，我现在躺下啦”，诸如此类的话，然后用甜蜜而哀伤的语调唱歌哄他们入睡，再给他们一个晚安吻。最后，詹姆斯入眠后，母亲则跪在他的床边哀哭。但是，我们这位主人公可不一样。他叫吉姆，母亲没病没灾——没有痨病，也没有任何如此这般的毛病，反之，她身体还挺壮实。而且，她也并不虔诚信教。更甚者，她也没那么担心吉姆。她曾经说，吉姆要是不小心伤到了脖子，那也没什么大不了。晚上睡觉前，她经常打吉姆的屁股，且从来没给过他什么晚安吻；相反，她所谓的“晚安”就是离开前扇吉姆一顿耳光。

有一次，这个坏小子偷了食品柜的钥匙，伸手进去偷吃果酱。为了不让母亲看出来，他还往果酱罐里倒焦油来掩人耳目。不过，他做这些的时候，心里可没有突然间掠过什么糟糕的感觉，也没有一个声音在他耳边说：“我这样忤逆妈妈对吗？这么做是不是太罪恶了？那些偷吃善良母亲果酱的坏孩子后来都怎么样了？”接下来，他也没有一个人孤零零地跪在地上，心中暗暗保证再也不做坏事，继而，捧着一颗轻盈、愉悦的心站起来去找妈妈，跟她道出个中缘由并乞求原谅。不用说，他母亲也没有被感动得双眼满是骄傲的泪水，心怀感激地祝福他。不，那是其他坏小子在书本中的境遇；奇怪的是，咱们这位吉姆的遭遇可谓与众不同。他吃了果酱，还用他一贯粗鄙而应受谴责的方式说“棒呆了！”。然后，他又往里面倒了倒焦油，再次说，“棒呆了！”。接着哈哈大笑，断言道，当他母亲发现这一切，那个老婆子一定会暴跳如雷。然而，当她真的有所察觉，他坚称自己毫不知情，而她则狠狠地抽了他一顿鞭子，弄得自己号啕大哭。关于这个小男孩的一切都如此稀奇——一切都和那些在其他书中司空见惯的坏小子詹姆斯大相径庭。

有一次，他爬到橡子果园的苹果树上去偷苹果。树枝没有折断，他也没有摔着胳膊、被农场主家的神犬咬伤，更没有因此连续几个星期卧病在床，进而在病中忏悔，从此摇身一变，成为一个乖孩子。哦，根本没有！他随心所欲地偷了好多苹果，又安然无恙地返回地面。他连怎么对付那只狗都盘算好了，当它跑过来准备咬他的时候，他举起一块砖头将它砸了个四仰八叉。这实在太奇怪了，其他那些劝人向善的书里（通常封底绘有大理石花纹，插图里满是身穿燕尾服、短马裤，头戴大檐帽的男士，以及长裙的腰线在胳膊以下、没有加束腰的女士），可从来没发生过这种事儿。主日学校的书里从来没有这档子事儿。

有一次，他偷了老师的铅笔刀。一想到被发现就要挨一顿鞭子，吉姆不禁十分害怕，于是，他将铅笔刀塞进了乔治·威尔逊的帽子里——可怜的威尔逊，寡妇威尔逊太太的孩子，道德小标兵，全村公认的好孩子。威尔逊总是很听妈妈的话，从不说谎，勤奋好学，对主日学校简直着了迷。当那把小刀从威尔逊的帽子里掉出来，这个可怜的小男孩一下垂下头，羞红了脸，好像自己真的犯了错。气急败坏的老师认定他就是小偷，就在老师的戒尺马上要打到威尔逊瑟瑟发抖的肩膀上时，他们中间并没有突然出现一位纯属虚构的白发太平绅士[2]，更见不到他拿腔拿调地说：“放了那个高尚的小男孩——那个真正犯错的懦夫就在这里！课间休息的时候，我正好路过校门口，没人注意到我，而我却看到了真正偷东西的人！”没有这样的事情发生，吉姆也没有因此挨一顿揍。自然，那位受人尊敬的绅士也没有在这些哭哭啼啼、感激涕零的师生面前进行什么长篇的说教。他也没有牵起乔治的手说，这样的小男孩值得被夸奖，然后邀请他上门与自己同住，让他帮忙打扫办公室，生生火，跑跑腿，砍砍柴，之后，再让乔治去学法律，平时帮自己的妻子做做家务，再空出些时间去消遣，最后，这个小男孩月入四十美分，幸福无忧。不，故事本该是这样的，但吉姆的版本不是这样的。没有一位爱管闲事的老绅士突然闯入，找吉姆的麻烦，所以，好孩子乔治挨了打，吉姆则在一旁幸灾乐祸。因为，你知道的，吉姆讨厌好孩子。吉姆说：“他看不起那些没种的。”多么粗鄙的语言啊，这个又坏又疏于管教的臭小子。

然而，吉姆身上最让人啧啧称奇的地方就是当他星期日[3]去划船的时候，居然没有溺水；又一个星期天，吉姆去钓鱼，正赶上暴风雨，却没有被闪电击中。怎么会这样？你也许翻了又翻，翻遍了主日学校的书，然而，从现在到下一个圣诞节你也找不到一个相似的故事。哦，不！你能找到的那些星期日去划船的坏小子全都会无一例外地溺水；而他们如果星期日去钓鱼，则一定会遭雷击。那些星期日载着小坏蛋的船都不太好过。而当那些小坏蛋在安息日[4]跑去钓鱼，则十有八九会遭遇暴风雨。咱们这位吉姆是怎么躲过这一切的，对我来说可真是个谜。

这位吉姆的日子过得有如神助——一准儿是这样。什么都伤不到他。有一次，他甚至给兽栏里的大象喂了一块口嚼烟，也没有被大象用鼻子敲得脑袋落地。他在橱柜里翻翻拣拣，找一瓶薄荷露，可从来没有因此把硝酸喝进肚。他偷走了父亲的枪，在安息日那天跑出去打猎，也没有崩掉自己三四根手指。他一时气急，挥拳打向自己妹妹的太阳穴，但她也没有因此整个夏天都病恹恹，接着不幸离世，更没有在弥留之际，留下温柔宽恕的蜜语，让他备受谴责的内心更受打击。不，她挺过来了。故事的最后，他离开了，走到海边，再也没有回来。他发现自己在这个世界上悲伤而孤独，他心爱的人都已经长眠地下，而他孩童时代那藤蔓掩映中的家也已经轰隆隆倒塌，走向破败。啊，不！这些都没有发生。他回来了，醉醺醺的，像个浪人似的，先进了警察局。

他长大了，结婚了，拥有了一个庞大的家庭。一天晚上，他用斧头一个个敲碎了他们的脑袋。后来，他凭着一整套的偷奸耍滑发了家，现在已经成了村子里最可鄙、最恶毒的无赖了。可他广受尊敬，已经是州议会的一员了。

所以，你看到了，主日学校那些书里的可从来没有一个詹姆斯能有咱们这位有如神助的坏蛋吉姆的好运气。

（郭宇萌 译）

[1] 主日学校：英、美等诸国为贫民开办的初等教育机构，通常周日开课。兴起于18世纪末，盛行于19世纪上半期。

[2] 太平绅士是一种源于英国，由政府委任民间人士担任维持社区安宁、防止非法刑罚及处理一些较简单的法律程序的职衔，多半是适用在英美法系的国家或是曾使用英美法系的地区。

[3] 根据当时的习俗，星期日，教徒应该去教堂做礼拜。

[4] 安息日（the Sabbath）被普遍认为是犹太教（Judaism）主要节日之一。Sabbath一词源于阿卡德语，本意为“七”，希伯来语意为“休息”“停止工作”，犹太历每周的第七日（每逢星期五日落到星期六日落）。犹太人谨守安息日为圣日，不许工作。

一个不得善终的好孩子的故事

本文是在几个文友的坚持之下写就的，他们认为，如果我之前写的道德小品《一个顺风顺水的坏小子的故事》值得被印制发售并保存上几个星期，那么，一个合理而不带偏见的姊妹篇理应获得同样的不朽。

——写在前面的话

从前，有个叫雅各布·比利文斯的好孩子。他总是很听父母的话，无论他们的要求多么不可理喻，他总是认真读书，去主日学校的时候从来没有迟到过。他不会逃学，即使冷静下来想想，发现逃学将是他能做到的最有利可图的事儿。从来没有一个小孩能把他约出来玩，他实在太奇怪了。无论谎言多么便利，他也不会撒谎。他只是说撒谎是不对的，而这个理由对他来说就足够了。他太诚实，简直有些可笑了。雅各布这套古怪的行为方式简直超越了世间万物。他不会在星期天玩弹球，不会掏鸟窝，也不会给街头艺人的猴子们几枚辣味糖果；他看上去对一切合情合理的娱乐活动都兴致缺乏。因此，其他几个男孩总是试图推测并理解他，可是他们完全得不出任何令人满意的答案；就像我之前说过的一样，他们只能得出一些模模糊糊的答案——他一定是“有毛病”了。因此，他们将他纳入自己的保护，从不允许任何人伤害他。

这个好孩子读了主日学校所有的书，这些书是他最大的慰藉——这就是全部奥秘所在了。他相信主日学校书里那些优秀的小男孩，并对他们充满信心，希望可以邂逅他们中的一员；但他从来没有真的遇到过。也许，他们全都在他出生前就去世了吧。无论什么时候，只要他读到一个好孩子的故事，马上就会翻到结局去看这个孩子结局如何，因为他想不远万里地去找他，好好端详端详他。但这些都无济于事，那些好孩子全都在故事结尾过世了。你能在书页里看到一张葬礼的图片——所有亲朋好友和主日学校的孩子都来了，他们穿着十分短小的马裤，搭配过大的女帽，站在墓碑前，每个人都拿着一码半长的纸巾哭哭啼啼。他经常这样寻不到结果，从来没有亲眼见过任何一个好孩子，谁让他们在故事最后都死了呢。

雅各布有一个崇高的理想——他希望被写进主日学校的书里。他希望被写进去，再配上一幅画，画面中，他满怀光荣地坚决不肯对自己的母亲撒谎，而她则因为他的“成就”喜极而泣；或者另一幅画，画中，他站在门廊上，给一位可怜兮兮、抚养着六个孩子、无家可归的女乞丐一便士，告诉她想怎么花就怎么花，但是不能挥霍无度，因为挥霍可是一种罪行；抑或另一幅画，画面中，他宽宏大量地拒不告发一个坏小子，而这家伙总是在雅各布从学校出来的路上躲在拐角处等着他，抄起一块板子猛打他的脑袋，一路“嘿！嘿！”地大叫，追着雅各布回家。这就是年轻的雅各布·比利文斯的志向——他渴望被写入主日学校的书里。但是，有时当他想起所有好孩子都死了的时候，心里多多少少有些不舒服。他喜欢活着，你知道的，而那些主日学校书里的好孩子却都死了，这实在是“成为他们”最让人感到不舒服的地方了。他知道，做个好孩子是有损健康的；他知道，想要和书里那些好孩子一样好到不可思议的程度可是比得了痨病还要致命的；他知道，他们之中没有一个人能够活得长久，而一想到如果他真的被写进书里自己也看不到，他就十分痛苦；然而，如果他们在他去世之前就出了书，那这本书可就流行不起来了——没有葬礼画面可不行。如果书里不写上他弥留之际给身边人的箴言，那可算不上一本主日学校藏书。所以，到了最后一刻，他当然只好拿定了主意，竭尽全力，好好活着，尽量坚持，并且在死期将近时准备好自己的遗言。

但是，不知为何，这个好孩子一直诸事不顺，发生在他身上的事儿和其他书里那些好孩子的经历一直大相径庭。那些好孩子一路顺风顺水，而坏小子们都摔断了腿；但是，在他的故事里，一定是哪颗螺母松动了，哪里出了岔子，一切都对不上。他发现吉姆[1]·布莱克在偷苹果，便走到树下，给他讲书里那些坏小子的下场——从邻居家的树上摔下来，伤了胳膊。吉姆也从树上摔了下来，但是，吉姆摔到了他身上，伤到了他的胳膊，自己却毫发无伤。雅各布搞不懂这是怎么回事。书里可从来没发生过这种事。

还有一次，那些坏小子将一位盲人推到泥坑里，雅各布冲上去帮忙，满心以为会得到盲人的祝福。然而，那个盲人根本毫无谢意，而是举起拐杖狠狠打了他的脑瓜子一下，并称下次雅各布要是再敢先推他、再假意帮助他，他就要抓他个现行——这和哪本书里写的都对不上，雅各布把所有书都重新看了一遍。

雅各布一直想要找一只无家可归、饥肠辘辘且饱受折磨的牧羊犬。他想把它带回家，好好喂养，并得到狗狗长久的感激。终于被他找到了一只，雅各布高兴坏了。他把它带回家喂养，不过，正当他想好好摸摸它的时候，那只狗猛地扑向他，咬碎了他身上所有的衣服，只有前裆的布片还稍有保留，让他狠狠出了个大洋相。这可够奇怪的。它和书里的狗是同一种品种，但习性却大相径庭。这个男孩无论做什么都会弄得一团糟。那些书里的孩子屡屡被嘉奖的地方，恰恰成了雅各布最徒劳倒霉的地方。

有一次，他在去主日学校的路上看到一群坏小子出发去划帆船。他吓坏了，要知道，在他受过的教育里那些星期日去开帆船的男孩无一例外都溺水了。所以，他赶紧划着一个小木筏去警告他们，不过，一根原木挡了他的路，他脚下一滑，栽进了水里。很快，有人把他捞出水里，医生帮他把身体里的水挤出来，大吼着将他叫醒了。但他还是感冒了，足足卧床了九个星期。最莫名其妙的就是，那些坏小子倒是一整天都玩得很尽兴，最后活蹦乱跳地回家了，实在不可思议。雅各布·比利文斯说，书里可从来没有发生过这样的事。他完全惊呆了。

痊愈后，雅各布有些心灰意冷。但无论如何，他还是决定继续干下去。他知道，直到目前为止，他的经历还不足以成书。他还没有过上好孩子的生活，如果他可以坚持到最后，那么他希望有一天可以做到最好。如果一切都不尽如人意，他还能靠着临终遗言扳回一城。

看过书，雅各布发现现在是他出海去当船上侍者的时候了。他拜访了一位船长，提出了自己的申请。当船长管他要介绍信的时候，他骄傲地掏出一个小册子，指着上面的话：“致雅各布·比利文斯，来自他慈爱的老师”。但那位船长是个粗鄙野蛮的汉子，他说道，“哦！这算什么！”这根本证明不了雅各布能刷好盘子、使好饮料机。他可不需要雅各布。这简直是雅各布一生中最不可理喻的一件事了。在如何唤起船长的恻隐之心这方面，一本写着老师溢美之词的小册子可从来没有失手过，它们通常能为被推荐者带来各种既光荣又赚钱的职务——他从来没在任何一本书上读到自己这种境遇。他实在无法相信发生在自己身上的事。

这个男孩总是四处碰壁。发生在他身上的事儿从来都和书上对不上。终于有一天，当他正四处寻觅坏孩子想要加以劝诫时，他发现他们都聚在一个老铸铁厂里，正在拿十四五只狗取乐。他们将这群狗拴成长长的一列，正准备往它们的尾巴上紧紧地系上空炸药罐。雅各布心有所动。他坐在一个罐子上，使命将至，他毫不介意沾上油腻。他抓住打头那只狗的脖子，转眼充满责备地望着最调皮的汤姆·琼斯。但就在此时，麦克沃尔特总督盛怒着走进来了。所有坏小子都跑了，雅各布却特意满脸无辜地站起来，并开始了主日学校书里那一套庄重的发言，开头不外乎“哦，先生！”。然而，现实中，无论乖小孩还是坏小子都没能就着“哦，先生！”来一番高谈阔论。总督根本等不及听下面的话。他抓着雅各布的耳朵就将他提起来转了个圈儿，举起手狠狠打了他背后一下，瞬间，雅各布被弹出屋顶，朝着太阳一路高飞，那些狗则像风筝一样跟着他飞。地面上，一点儿总督和老铸铁厂的影子都看不见了。而雅各布·比利文斯呢，他根本没机会留下精心准备的遗言了，除非是说给鸟听。最后，虽然他身体的主要部分算是落在了邻郡树顶上，他身体的其他部分却散落在四个小镇上，所以，人们不得不验了五次尸来看他是不是死了，是怎么死的。从来没有一个男孩被这么惨烈地分尸过。

这个已故的好孩子，事事竭尽全力，却从来得不到书中的待遇。除了他之外，其他男孩照他那么做都兴旺发达了。他的故事实在卓绝，个中缘由也许永远也弄不清了。

（郭宇萌 译）

[1] 可能是对应上一篇文章提到的，所有“坏小子都叫吉姆”的说法。

加利维拉县有名的跳蛙

有一位朋友从东部给我写信，托我去拜访和蔼而多话的西蒙·惠勒老先生，探听我朋友的朋友留尼达·斯迈利的消息。我遵照他的嘱咐去拜访，下面所写的故事就是这次拜访的结果。我内心至今有一个疑团。总觉得所谓留尼达·斯迈利是一位乌有先生，我的朋友根本不认识这么一个人物。大概是他猜想着我要是向惠勒老先生问起他，就会使他联想到他那位无聊的吉姆·斯迈利，于是他就会打开话匣子，搬出关于那个人的一些令人生气的回忆，说得又长又讨厌，对我也毫无益处，徒然把我烦得要命。如果我的朋友的诡计是这样，结果是很成功的。

找到西蒙·惠勒的时候，发现他正在那业已衰落的安奇尔矿区市镇上一所快要坍塌的酒店里酒吧间的火炉旁边舒舒服服地打盹，我看出他是个肥胖和秃头的人，在他那安闲的面容上，露出一种可亲的温和朴实的表情，他醒过来给我问好。我告诉他说，我有一位朋友托我来探访他并打听他少年时代的一个名叫留尼达·斯迈利的亲爱的伴侣——留尼达·斯迈利牧师，福音会的一个年轻的牧师，我的朋友听说他曾有一个时期住在安奇尔矿区镇上，我还说惠勒先生如果能够告诉我一点儿关于这位留尼达·斯迈利牧师的消息，我是很感谢他的。

西蒙·惠勒把我逼到一个角落里，用他的椅子把我拦住，然后坐下来，喋喋不休地叙述这一段后面接着的那个单调的故事。他一直不笑，不皱眉头，甚至不改变声音，始终保持着他开始说第一句话所用的那种细水长流似的音调，一直没有丝毫起劲的表现；可是在他叙述这个冗长的故事的时候，从头到尾，老有一股令人感动的认真和诚恳的情调，这使我分明地体会到他虽然决不认为他这个故事有什么可笑或好玩的地方，他可是把它当作一桩重要事情，并且还佩服那里面的两位主角，觉得他们是斗智的奇才。我让他随意地说下去，一次也没有打搅过他。

留尼达牧师，嗯，留尼达牧师——唉，这儿从前有过一个家伙，叫作吉姆·斯迈利，那是在1849年冬天——也许是1850年春天吧——不知怎么的，我记不清楚了，不过我之所以觉得反正总是那两个年头，是因为我记得他初到这市镇上来的时候，那道大水槽还没有修成。可是不管怎样，你在这儿再也找不出一个比他更奇怪的人，他无论碰到什么事情，只要找得到一个人在对立方下赌注，他就要和人家打赌；要是找不到，他就换到另外一边来也行。别人乐意怎么赌，他就怎么赌——只要他能和人家打成赌，他就心满意足。可是虽然这样，他还是运气好，简直好得不得了。差不多老是他赌赢了。他老是一心一意找机会；不管一桩什么事情，只要有人提起，那家伙就要和人家打赌，随你挑选哪一边都行，就像我刚才说的那样。要是举行赛马，赛完的时候你就会发现他大赢特赢或是赌得两手空空；要是有人斗狗，他也要赌；有人斗猫，他也要赌；有人斗鸡，他也要赌；嗯，哪怕有两只鸟落在篱笆上，他也要和你赌一赌哪一只先飞；要是举行野外的布道会，他一定准时到场，拿华克尔牧师来打赌，照他看来，华克尔牧师是这一带地方讲道讲得最好的，本来也是，他的确是好人。他哪怕是看见一只屎壳郎在往什么地方走，他也要和你赌一赌它走多大工夫才走得到它要去的地方，要是你答应和他打赌，他就跟着那只屎壳郎一直到墨西哥去，也要弄清楚它究竟到什么地方，以及它在路上走多久。这儿有许多小伙子看见过那个斯迈利，都可以给你谈谈他的事情。嗯，不管是什么，对他都是一样——他赌什么都行——那才是个顶有趣的角色哩。有一回华克尔牧师的太太得了一场大病，病了很久，好像是没有救了。可是有一天早上他走进来，斯迈利马上跑过去问他的太太的病怎么样，他说她好得多了——感谢天主无限的慈悲——看情形大有起色，靠老天的保佑，她还可以恢复健康。可是斯迈利连想也没有想一下，就冲口而出地说：“嗯，我敢跟你赌两块半钱，准保她决不会好。”

这个斯迈利买了一匹母马——小伙子们把它叫作十五分钟的老爷马，可是那不过是开玩笑，你明白吗，因为它当然比这跑得快些——而且他还常常靠那匹马赢钱，虽然它跑得慢，并且老害气喘病，或是害瘟热病，要不就害肺痨，或是这一类的毛病。他们老是让它先跑两三百码，然后把它撵过去；可是每次到了比赛的终点，它就上了劲头，简直是拼命地跑，一跳一跳地赶着大步往上撵，它把腿轻快地乱甩，一时甩到空中，一时甩到一边，踢到围栏上，掀起的灰尘越来越多，它的咳嗽、打喷嚏和喷鼻息的声音越来越响——结果每次老是赶到裁判台前，恰好赶过人家一个脖子那么点儿远，刚刚叫你能够算得清楚。

他还有一只小斗狗，你看它那样子，还会以为它一钱不值，只会坐在那儿闲着，显得古里古怪的神气，光等着找机会偷东西吃。可是只要给它押上了赌注，它马上就不同了：它那下半边嘴巴就伸出来，活像一只轮船前面的水手舱那样，它的牙齿也就露出来，像火炉那样发亮。别的狗尽管抓住它、欺负它、咬它，接二连三地把它甩过肩头。可是安得鲁·杰克逊——这是那小狗的名字——老是装出并没什么不满意的样子，好像是情愿受欺负——那么大家一直在它的对手那一边下赌注，一倍又一倍地往上加，一直把钱都押光了。这时候它才突然一下子咬住对方那只狗的后腿拐子，死咬住不放——并不嚼，你明白吗，光只咬住不松嘴，直到人家认输的时候，哪怕拖一年它也不在乎。斯迈利拿这个小狗儿打赌，老是赢，直到后来有一次它干上了一只没有后腿的狗，因为它的腿让圆锯给锯掉了。等到斗了好一阵的时候，赌注通通押上了，杰克逊就去咬它最爱咬的地方，它马上就看出它上了当，知道另外那只狗叫它扑了个空。可以这么说吧，它好像吃了一惊，这下子它就有点儿泄气的样子，再也不打算斗赢了，所以它就吃了个大亏。它望了斯迈利一眼，好像是说它伤心透了，觉得这是他的错，不应该弄一只没有后腿的狗来叫它去斗，因为它斗起来就专靠咬人家的后腿，后来它就一瘸一瘸地走到一边，躺在地下死了。那是个很好的小狗儿，那安得鲁·杰克逊，它要是活着的话，一定是出了名，因为它有一套本事，还很聪明——这我知道，因为它根本说不上有什么占便宜的地方，要是它不聪明的话，碰到那些厉害的对手还能斗得过，那实在说不通。我一想起它最后斗的那一场，心里就难受。

嗯，这个斯迈利还养了捉耗子的小狗、小雄鸡和公猫，还有别的这类东西，简直叫你赌个没完，不管你拿什么和他打赌，他准和你做对手。有一天他捉到一只青蛙，就把它带回家来，他说他打算教一教它。所以他整整三个月，什么事也没干，专在后院里教那青蛙跳。果然不错，他真把它教会了。他在后面推一下，马上你就看见那青蛙在空中打转，好像一块炸面卷似的——看见它翻一个筋斗，要是劲头使对了，也许还能翻两下，再好好地落下来，稳稳当当地，就像一只猫那样。他又教它学会了捉苍蝇，常常叫它练习，后来它每回都能把苍蝇捉到，不管多远，只要它能看得见。斯迈利说青蛙只要教一教就行，它差不多什么事都会干——我相信他说的不错。嘿，我看见过他把丹尼尔·韦伯斯特放在这儿的地板上——那只青蛙的名字叫作丹尼尔·韦伯斯特——大声叫起来：“苍蝇，丹尼尔，苍蝇！”你简直还来不及眨一下眼睛，它就往上一跳，从那个柜台上捉住一只苍蝇，吧嗒一下掉在地下，就像一团泥似的，这下子它就拿后腿抓它的脑袋旁边，简直就跟没有那回事一样，好像它根本不觉得它比别的青蛙本事大。它虽然那么聪明，可是你再也找不到像它那么谦虚、那么爽快的青蛙。要是规规矩矩从平地跳起来的时候，它使一把劲往上一跳，就比你看到过的和它同类的动物随便哪一个都跳得高。从平地往上一跳是它的拿手戏，你明白吗？赛起这个来的时候，斯迈利就拼命在他这一边押赌注，连最后一个钱都押上。斯迈利对他这个青蛙简直是得意得要命，也难怪，因为那些到各处跑过码头、见过世面的人都说它比他们看见过的青蛙随便哪一只都强。

嗯，斯迈利把这小家伙放在一只小笼子里，有时候就把它带到城里去，跟人家打赌。有一天来了一个人——他还是头一次到这市镇上来的——他碰见斯迈利拿着那只小笼子，就说：

“你那小笼子里装着什么好东西呀？”

斯迈利爱理不理地说：“照说这也许是只鹦鹉，也许是只金丝雀，这很难说，可就偏不是——这倒偏偏是只青蛙。”

那位老兄把这小笼子接过来，仔细看了一阵，把它转来转去，他说：“哼，原来是这么回事，它有什么用处呀？”

“噢，”斯迈利满不在乎地说，“它有一个本事很了不起，据我看——它能比加利维拉县随便哪只青蛙都跳得高。”

这家伙又把小笼子拿过来，再仔仔细细地看了好一阵，又把它交还斯迈利，从从容容地说：“哼，”他说，“我可看不出这只青蛙有什么了不起，还不是和别的青蛙一样嘛。”

“也许你是看不出，”斯迈利说，“也许你对青蛙是内行，也许是外行；也许你有经验，也许你不过是个客串，不客气地说。可是不管怎样，我有我的看法，我敢跟你赌四十块钱，管保它比加利维拉县随便哪一只青蛙都跳得高。”

那个人盘算了一会儿，后来就显得有点儿为难的样子，他说：“嘿，我在这儿是个陌生人，没带着青蛙；我要是有青蛙的话，那我就愿意和你赌一下。”

于是斯迈利就说：“那不要紧——那不要紧——你要是能替我把这小笼子拿一会儿，我就去给你抓一只青蛙来。”所以那位老兄就拿着那只小笼子，取出四十块钱来和斯迈利的放在一起，坐下来等着。

他在那儿坐了很久，心里翻来覆去地想，后来他就把那青蛙拿出来，把它的嘴撬开，拿一只茶匙给它灌了一肚子打鹌鹑用的弹子——差不多给它灌得齐了下巴那儿——然后把它放在地上。斯迈利跑到了泥塘里去，在烂泥里稀里哗啦找了一阵，终归抓到了一只青蛙，就把它拿进来，交给那个人，他说：

“好吧，你要是预备好了的话，就把它跟丹尼尔并排放着，让它的前脚和丹尼尔的一般齐，我来发口令。”于是他就说：“一——二——三——跳！”他和那个人都从后面轻轻地推了推他们的青蛙，新抓来的那只青蛙就跳得很有劲头，可是丹尼尔鼓了一把劲，耸起肩膀——像这样——就和一个法国人似的，可是没有用——它连动也不能动。它稳稳地蹲在那儿，好像一座教堂，它再也不能动弹了，跟一只船抛了锚一样。斯迈利简直莫名其妙，他还觉得很伤脑筋，可是他当然一点儿也不明白究竟是怎么回事。

那个人拿起钱就走，当他走出门去的时候，他从肩膀上伸出大拇指——像这样——向着丹尼尔摆一摆，很从容地再说了一遍：“哼，我可看不出这只青蛙有什么了不起，还不是和别的青蛙一样嘛。”

斯迈利就站着直挠头，朝着地下的丹尼尔望了很久，后来他说：“我实在不懂这个青蛙这回究竟为什么泄了气——说不定它出了什么毛病——它好像是肚子胀得很大哩。”于是他就揪住丹尼尔的脖子上面，把它拿起来掂了一下分量，说：“嗬，它要没有五磅重才怪哪！”他就把它倒起来提着，它呼噜呼噜吐出了两把弹子。这下他才明白是怎么回事，简直气疯了——他把青蛙放下，赶快跑出去追那个坏蛋，可是他始终没有追着。后来……

西蒙·惠勒说到这里，听见前院里有人叫他的名字，他就站起来去看外面有什么事情要找他。他一面往外走，一面转过脸来对我说：“你就在那儿坐着别动吧，先生，请你别着急——我马上就回来。”

可是对不起，我觉得他再把那个有赌癖的流氓吉姆·斯迈利的故事说下去，也不能给我多少关于留尼达·斯迈利牧师的消息，所以我就开步走了。

我在门口碰见那个好客的惠勒回来了，他把我留住，又往下说：

“噢，这位斯迈利有一头一只眼的黄牛，没有尾巴，矮墩墩的，像只香蕉似的，并且……”

可是我既没有工夫，也没有兴致，所以我没有在他那儿等着听他讲那头倒霉的牛的故事。就告辞了。

（张友松 译）

The Stolen White Elephant

1

The following curious history was related to me by a chance railway acquaintance. He was a gentleman more than seventy years of age, and his thoroughly good and gentle face and earnest and sincere manner imprinted the unmistakable stamp of truth upon every statement which fell from his lips. He said:

You know in what reverence the royal white elephant of Siam is held by the people of that country. You know it is sacred to kings, only kings may possess it, and that it is indeed in a measure even superior to kings, since it receives not merely honour but worship. Very well; five years ago, when the troubles concerning the frontier line arose between Great Britain and Siam, it was presently manifest that Siam had been in the wrong. Therefore every reparation was quickly made, and the British representative stated that he was satisfied and the past should be forgotten. This greatly relieved the King of Siam, and partly as a token of gratitude, but partly also, perhaps, to wipe out any little remaining vestige of unpleasantness which England might feel toward him, he wished to send the Queen a present – the sole sure way of propitiating an enemy, according to Oriental ideas. This present ought not only to be a royal one, but transcendently royal. Wherefore, what offering could be so meet as that of a white elephant? My position in the Indian civil service was such that I was deemed peculiarly worthy of the honour of conveying the present to her Majesty. A ship was fitted out for me and my servants and the officers and attendants of the elephant, and in due time I arrived in New York harbour and placed my royal charge in admirable quarters in Jersey City. It was necessary to remain awhile in order to recruit the animal’s health before resuming the voyage.

All went well during a fortnight – then my calamities began. The white elephant was stolen! I was called up at dead of night and informed of this fearful misfortune. For some moments I was beside myself with terror and anxiety; I was helpless. Then I grew calmer and collected my faculties. I soon saw my course – for indeed there was but the one course for an intelligent man to pursue. Late as it was, I flew to New York and got a policeman to conduct me to the headquarters of the detective force. Fortunately I arrived in time, though the chief of the force, the celebrated Inspector Blunt, was just on the point of leaving for his home. He was a man of middle size and compact frame, and when he was thinking deeply he had a way of knitting his brows and tapping his forehead reflectively with his finger, which impressed you at once with the conviction that you stood in the presence of a person of no common order. The very sight of him gave me confidence and made me hopeful. I stated my errand. It did not flurry him in the least; it had no more visible effect upon his iron self- possession than if I had told him somebody had stolen my dog. He motioned me to a seat, and said calmly, ‘Allow me to think a moment, please.’

So saying, he sat down at his office table and leaned his head upon his hand. Several clerks were at work at the other end of the room; the scratching of their pens was all the sound I heard during the next six or seven minutes. Meantime the inspector sat there, buried in thought. Finally he raised his head, and there was that in the firm lines of his face which showed me that his brain had done its work and his plan was made. Said he – and his voice was low and impressive, ‘This is no ordinary case. Every step must be warily taken; each step must be made sure before the next is ventured. And secrecy must be observed – secrecy profound and absolute. Speak to no one about the matter, not even the reporters. I will take care of them ; I will see that they get only what it may suit my ends to let them know.’ He touched a bell; a youth appeared. ‘Alaric, tell the reporters to remain for the present.’ The boy retired.

‘Now let us proceed to business – and systematically. Nothing can be accomplished in this trade of mine without strict and minute method.’

He took a pen and some paper. ‘Now – name of the elephant?’

‘Hassan Ben Ali Ben Selim Abdallah Mohammed Moisé Alhammal Jamsetjejeebhoy Dhuleep Sultan Ebu Bhudpoor.’

‘Very well. Given name?’

‘Jumbo.’

‘Very well. Place of birth?’

‘The capital city of Siam.’

‘Parents living?’

‘No – dead.’

‘Had they any other issue besides this one?’

‘None. He was an only child.’

‘Very well. These matters are sufficient under that head. Now please describe the elephant, and leave out no particular, however insignificant – that is, insignificant from your point of view. To men in my profession there are no insignificant particulars; they do not exist.’

I described – he wrote. When I was done, he said, ‘Now listen. If I have made any mistakes, correct me.’

He read as follows:

‘Height, 19 feet; length from apex of forehead to insertion of tail, 26 feet; length of trunk, 16 feet; length of tail, 6 feet; total length, including trunk and tail, 48 feet; length of tusks, 9 feet; ears in keeping with these dimensions;

footprint resembles the mark left when one up- ends a barrel in the snow; colour of the elephant, a dull white; has a hole the size of a plate in each ear for the insertion of jewellery, and possesses the habit in a remarkable degree of squirting water upon spectators and of maltreating with his trunk not only such persons as he is acquainted with, but even entire strangers; limps slightly with his right hind leg, and has a small scar in his left armpit caused by a former boil; had on, when stolen, a castle containing seats for fifteen persons, and a gold- cloth saddle- blanket the size of an ordinary carpet.’

There were no mistakes. The inspector touched the bell, handed the description to Alaric, and said, ‘Have fifty thousand copies of this printed at once and mailed to every detective office and pawnbroker’s shop on the continent.’ Alaric retired. ‘There – so far, so good. Next, I must have a photograph of the property.’

I gave him one. He examined it critically, and said,‘It must do, since we can do no better; but he has his trunk curled up and tucked into his mouth. That is unfortunate, and is calculated to mislead, for of course he does not usually have it in that position.’ He touched his bell.

‘Alaric, have fifty thousand copies of this photograph made, the first thing in the morning, and mail them with the descriptive circulars.’

Alaric retired to execute his orders. The inspector said,‘It will be necessary to offer a reward, of course. Now as to the amount?’

‘What sum would you suggest?’

‘To begin with, I should say – well, twenty- five thousand dollars. It is an intricate and difficult business; there are a thousand avenues of escape and opportunities of concealment. These thieves have friends and pals everywhere –’

‘Bless me, do you know who they are?’

The wary face, practised in concealing the thoughts and feelings within, gave me no token, nor yet the replying words, so quietly uttered: ‘Never mind about that. I may, and I may not. We generally gather a pretty shrewd inkling of who our man is by the manner of his work and the size of the game he goes after. We are not dealing with a pickpocket or a hall thief, now, make up your mind to that. This property was not “lifted” by a novice. But, as I was saying, considering the amount of travel which will have to be done, and the diligence with which the thieves will cover up their traces as they move along, twenty- five thousand may be too small a sum to offer, yet I think it worthwhile to start with that.’

So we determined upon that figure, as a beginning. Then this man, whom nothing escaped which could by any possibility be made to serve as a clue, said: ‘There are cases in detective history to show that criminals have been detected through peculiarities in their appetites. Now, what does this elephant eat, and how much?’

‘Well, as to what he eats – he will eat anything. He will eat a man, he will eat a Bible – he will eat anything between a man and a Bible.’

‘Good – very good indeed, but too general. Details are necessary, details are the only valuable things in our trade. Very well – as to men. At one meal – or, if you prefer, during one day – how many men will he eat, if fresh?’

‘He would not care whether they were fresh or not; at a single meal he would eat five ordinary men.’

‘Very good; five men; we will put that down. What nationalities would he prefer?’

‘He is indifferent about nationalities. He prefers acquaintances, but is not prejudiced against strangers.’

‘Very good. Now, as to Bibles. How many Bibles would he eat at a meal?’

‘He would eat an entire edition.’

‘It is hardly succinct enough. Do you mean the ordinary octavo, or the family illustrated?’

‘I think he would be indifferent to illustrations; that is, I think he would not value illustrations above simple letter- press.’

‘No, you do not get my idea. I refer to bulk. The ordinary octavo Bible weighs about two pounds and a half, while the great quarto with the illustrations weighs ten or twelve. How many Doré Bibles would he eat at a meal?’

‘If you knew this elephant, you could not ask. He would take what they had.’

‘Well, put it in dollars and cents, then. We must get at it somehow. The Doré costs a hundred dollars a copy, Russia leather, bevelled.’

‘He would require about fifty thousand dollars’ worth –say an edition of five hundred copies.’

‘Now that is more exact. I will put that down. Very well; he likes men and Bibles; so far, so good. What else will he eat? I want particulars.’

‘He will leave Bibles to eat bricks, he will leave bricks to eat bottles, he will leave bottles to eat clothing, he will leave clothing to eat cats, he will leave cats to eat oysters, he will leave oysters to eat ham, he will leave ham to eat sugar, he will leave sugar to eat pie, he will leave pie to eat potatoes, he will leave potatoes to eat bran, he will leave bran to eat hay, he will leave hay to eat oats, he will leave oats to eat rice, for he was mainly raised on it. There is nothing whatever that he will not eat but European butter, and he would eat that if he could taste it.’

‘Very good. General quantity at a meal – say about –’

‘Well, anywhere from a quarter to half a ton.’

‘And he drinks –’

‘Everything that is fluid. Milk, water, whiskey, molasses, castor oil, camphene, carbolic acid – it is no use to go into particulars; whatever fluid occurs to you set it down. He will drink anything that is fluid, except European coffee.’

‘Very good. As to quantity?’

‘Put it down five to fifteen barrels – his thirst varies; his other appetites do not.’

‘These things are unusual. They ought to furnish quite good clues toward tracing him.’

He touched the bell. ‘Alaric, summon Captain Burns.’

Burns appeared. Inspector Blunt unfolded the whole matter to him, detail by detail. Then he said in the clear, decisive tones of a man whose plans are clearly defined in his head, and who is accustomed to command, ‘Captain Burns, detail Detectives Jones, Davis, Halsey, Bates, and Hackett to shadow the elephant.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Detail Detectives Moses, Dakin, Murphy, Rogers, Tupper, Higgins, and Bartholomew to shadow the thieves.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Place a strong guard – a guard of thirty picked men, with a relief of thirty – over the place from whence the elephant was stolen, to keep strict watch there night and day, and allow none to approach – except reporters –without written authority from me.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Place detectives in plain clothes in the railway, steamship, and ferry depots, and upon all roadways leading out of Jersey City, with orders to search all suspicious persons.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Furnish all these men with photograph and accompanying description of the elephant, and instruct them to search all trains and outgoing ferry- boats and other vessels.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘If the elephant should be found, let him be seized, and the information forwarded to me by telegraph.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Let me be informed at once if any clues should be found – footprints of the animal, or anything of that kind.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Get an order commanding the harbour police to patrol the frontages vigilantly.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Despatch detectives in plain clothes over all the railways, north as far as Canada, west as far as Ohio, south as far as Washington.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Place experts in all the telegraph offices to listen to all messages; and let them require that all cipher despatches be interpreted to them.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Let all these things be done with the utmost secrecy –mind, the most impenetrable secrecy.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Report to me promptly at the usual hour.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Go!’

‘Yes, sir.’

He was gone.

Inspector Blunt was silent and thoughtful a moment, while the fire in his eye cooled down and faded out. Then he turned to me and said in a placid voice, ‘I am not given to boasting, it is not my habit but – we shall find the elephant.’

I shook him warmly by the hand and thanked him; and I felt my thanks, too. The more I had seen of the man the more I liked him, and the more I admired him and marvelled over the mysterious wonders of his profession. Then we parted for the night, and I went home with a far happier heart than I had carried with me to his office.

2

Next morning it was all in the newspapers, in the minutest detail. It even had additions – consisting of Detective This, Detective That, and Detective The Other’s ‘Theory’as to how the robbery was done, who the robbers were, and whither they had flown with their booty. There were eleven of these theories, and they covered all the possibilities; and this single fact shows what independent thinkers detectives are. No two theories were alike, or even much resembled each other, save in one striking particular, and in that one all the eleven theories were absolutely agreed. That was, that although the rear of my building was torn out and the only door remained locked, the elephant had not been removed through the rent, but by some other(undiscovered) outlet. All agreed that the robbers had made that rent only to mislead the detectives. That never would have occurred to me or to any other layman, perhaps, but it had not deceived the detectives for a moment. Thus, what I had supposed was the only thing that had no mystery about it was in fact the very thing I had gone furthest astray in. The eleven theories all named the supposed robbers, but no two named the same robbers; the total number of suspected persons was thirty- seven. The various newspaper accounts all closed with the most important opinion of all – that of Chief Inspector Blunt. A portion of this statement read as follows:

The chief knows who the two principals are, namely,‘Brick’ Duffy and ‘Red’ McFadden. Ten days before the robbery was achieved he was already aware that it was to be attempted, and had quietly proceeded to shadow these two noted villains; but unfortunately on the night in question their track was lost, and before it could be found again the bird was flown – that is, the elephant.

Duffy and McFadden are the boldest scoundrels in the profession; the chief has reasons for believing that they are the men who stole the stove out of the detective headquarters on a bitter night last winter – in consequence of which the chief and every detective present were in the hands of the physicians before morning, some with frozen feet, others with frozen fingers, ears, and other members.

When I read the first half of that I was more astonished than ever at the wonderful sagacity of this strange man. He not only saw everything in the present with a clear eye, but even the future could not be hidden from him. I was soon at his office, and said I could not help wishing he had had those men arrested, and so prevented the trouble and loss; but his reply was simple and unanswerable: ‘It is not our province to prevent crime, but to punish it. We cannot punish it until it is committed.’

I remarked that the secrecy with which we had begun had been marred by the newspapers; not only all our facts but all our plans and purposes had been revealed; even all the suspected persons had been named; these would doubtless disguise themselves now, or go into hiding.

‘Let them. They will find that when I am ready for them my hand will descend upon them, in their secret places, as unerringly as the hand of fate. As to the newspapers, we must keep in with them. Fame, reputation, constant public mention – these are the detective’s bread and butter. He must publish his facts, else he will be supposed to have none; he must publish his theory, for nothing is so strange or striking as a detective’s theory, or brings him so much wondering respect; we must publish our plans, for these the journals insist upon having, and we could not deny them without offending. We must constantly show the public what we are doing, or they will believe we are doing nothing. It is much pleasanter to have a newspaper say,“Inspector Blunt’s ingenious and extraordinary theory is as follows,” than to have it say some harsh thing, or, worse still, some sarcastic one.’

‘I see the force of what you say. But I noticed that in one part of your remarks in the papers this morning you refused to reveal your opinion upon a certain minor point.’

‘Yes, we always do that; it has a good effect. Besides, I had not formed any opinion on that point, anyway.’

I deposited a considerable sum of money with the inspector, to meet current expenses, and sat down to wait for news. We were expecting the telegrams to begin to arrive at any moment now. Meantime I reread the newspapers and also our descriptive circular, and observed that our $25,000 reward seemed to be offered only to detectives. I said I thought it ought to be offered to anybody who would catch the elephant. The inspector said:‘It is the detectives who will find the elephant, hence the reward will go to the right place. If other people found the animal, it would only be by watching the detectives and taking advantage of clues and indications stolen from them, and that would entitle the detectives to the reward, after all. The proper office of a reward is to stimulate the men who deliver up their time and their trained sagacities to this sort of work, and not to confer benefits upon chance citizens who stumble upon a capture without having earned the benefits by their own merits and labours.’

This was reasonable enough, certainly. Now the telegraphic machine in the corner began to click, and the following despatch was the result:

Flower Station, N.Y., 7.30 a.M.

Have got a clue. Found a succession of deep tracks across a farm near here. Followed them two miles east without

result; think elephant went west. Shall now shadow him in that direction.

Darley, Detective

‘Darley’s one of the best men on the force,’ said the inspector. ‘We shall hear from him again before long.’Telegram No. 2 came:

Barker’s, N.J., 7.40 a.M.

Just arrived. Glass factory broken open here during night, and eight hundred bottles taken. Only water in large quantity near here is five miles distant. Shall strike for there. Elephant will be thirsty. Bottles were empty.

Baker, Detective

‘That promises well, too,’ said the inspector. ‘I told you the creature’s appetites would not be bad clues.’

Telegram No. 3:

Taylorville, L.I., 8.15 a.M.

A haystack near here disappeared during night. Probably eaten. Have got a clue, and am off.

Hubbard, Detective

‘How he does move around!’ said the inspector. ‘I knew we had a difficult job on hand, but we shall catch him yet.’

Flower Station, N.Y., 9 a.M.

Shadowed the tracks three miles westward. Large, deep, and ragged. Have just met a farmer who says they are not elephant tracks. Says they are holes where he dug up

saplings for shade- trees when ground was frozen last winter. Give me orders how to proceed.

Darley, Detective

‘Aha! a confederate of the thieves! The thing grows warm,’ said the inspector.

He dictated the following telegram to Darley:

Arrest the man and force him to name his pals. Continue to follow the tracks – to the Pacific, if necessary.

Chief Blunt

Next telegram:

Coney Point, PA., 8.45 a.M.

Gas office broken open here during night and three months’ unpaid gas bills taken. Have got a clue and am away.

Murphy, Detective

‘Heavens!’ said the inspector; ‘would he eat gas bills?’

‘Through ignorance – yes; but they cannot support life. At least, unassisted.’

Now came this exciting telegram:

Ironville, N.Y., 9.30 a.M.

Just arrived. This village in consternation. Elephant passed through here at five this morning. Some say he went east, some say west, some north, some south – but all say they did not wait to notice particularly. He killed a horse; have secured a piece of it for a clue. Killed it with his trunk; from style of blow, think he struck it left- handed. From

position in which horse lies, think elephant travelled northward along line of Berkley railway. Has four and a half hours’ start, but I move on his track at once.

Hawes, Detective

I uttered exclamations of joy. The inspector was as self- contained as a graven image. He calmly touched his bell.

‘Alaric, send Captain Burns here.’

Burns appeared.

‘How many men are ready for instant orders?’

‘ Ninety- six, sir.’

‘Send them north at once. Let them concentrate along the line of the Berkley road north of Ironville.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Let them conduct their movements with the utmost secrecy. As fast as others are at liberty, hold them for orders.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Go!’

‘Yes, sir.’

Presently came another telegram:

Sage Corners, N.Y., 10.30 a.M.

Just arrived. Elephant passed through here at 8.15. All escaped from the town but a policeman. Apparently elephant did not strike at policeman, but at the lamp-post. Got both. I have secured a portion of the policeman as clue.

StuMM, Detective

‘So the elephant has turned westward,’ said the inspector. ‘However, he will not escape, for my men are scattered all over that region.’

The next telegram said:

Glover’s, 11.15 a.M.

Just arrived. Village deserted, except sick and aged. Elephant passed through three quarters of an hour ago. The anti- temperance mass meeting was in session; he put his trunk in at a window and washed it out with water from cistern. Some swallowed it – since dead; several drowned. Detectives Cross and O’Shaughnessy were passing through town, but going south – so missed elephant. Whole region for many miles around in terror – people flying from their homes. Wherever they turn they meet elephant, and many are killed.

Brant, Detective

I could have shed tears, this havoc so distressed me. But the inspector only said, ‘You see – we are closing in on him. He feels our presence; he has turned eastward again.’

Yet further troublous news was in store for us. The telegraph brought this:

Hoganport, 12.19 p.M.

Just arrived. Elephant passed through half an hour ago, creating wildest fright and excitement. Elephant raged around streets; two plumbers going by, killed one – other escaped. Regret general.

O’Flaherty, Detective

‘Now he is right in the midst of my men,’ said the inspector. ‘Nothing can save him.’

A succession of telegrams came from detectives who were scattered through New Jersey and Pennsylvania, and who were following clues consisting of ravaged barns, factories, and Sunday- school libraries, with high hopes – hopes amounting to certainties, indeed. The inspector said, ‘I wish I could communicate with them and order them north, but that is impossible. A detective only visits a telegraph office to send his report; then he is off again, and you don’t know where to put your hand on him.’

Now came this despatch:

Bridgeport, CT., 12.15 p.M.

Barnum offers rate of $4,000 a year for exclusive priv ilege

of using elephant as travelling advertising medium from

now till detectives find him. Wants to paste circus- posters

on him. Desires immediate answer.

Boggs, Detective

‘That is perfectly absurd!’ I exclaimed. ‘Of course it is,’ said the inspector. ‘Evidently Mr Barnum, who thinks he is so sharp, does not know me – but I know him.’

Then he dictated this answer to the despatch:

Mr Barnum’s offer declined. Make it $7,000 or nothing.

Chief Blunt

‘There. We shall not have to wait long for an answer. Mr Barnum is not at home; he is in the telegraph office – it is his way when he has business on hand. Inside of three –’

Done. – P. T. BarnuM.

So interrupted the clicking telegraphic instrument. Before I could make a comment upon this extra ordinary episode, the following despatch carried my thoughts into another and very distressing channel:

Bolivia, N.Y., 12.50 p.M.

Elephant arrived here from the south and passed through toward the forest at 11.50, dispersing a funeral on the way, and diminishing the mourners by two. Citizens fired some small cannonballs into him, and then fled. Detective Burke and I arrived ten minutes later, from the north, but mistook some excavations for footprints, and so lost a good deal of time; but at last we struck the right trail and followed it to the woods. We then got down on our hands and knees and continued to keep a sharp eye on the track, and so shadowed it into the brush. Burke was in advance. Unfortunately the animal had stopped to rest; therefore, Burke having his head down, intent upon the track, burred up against the elephant’s hind legs before he was aware of his vicinity. Burke instantly rose to his feet, seized the tail, and exclaimed joyfully, ‘I claim the re –’ but got no further, for a single blow of the huge trunk laid the brave fellow’s fragments low in death. I fled rearward, and the elephant turned and shadowed me to the edge of the wood,

making tremendous speed, and I should inevitably have been lost, but that the remains of the funeral providentially intervened again and diverted his attention. I have just learned that nothing of that funeral is now left; but this is no loss, for there is an abundance of material for another. Meantime, the elephant has disappeared again.

Mulrooney, Detective

We heard no news except from the diligent and confident detectives scattered about New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, and Virginia – who were all following fresh and encouraging clues – until shortly after 2 p.m., when this telegram came:

Baxter Center, 2.15 p.M.

Elephant been here, plastered over with circus- bills, and broke up a revival, striking down and damaging many who were on the point of entering upon a better life. Citizens penned him up, and established a guard. When Detective Brown and I arrived, sometime after, we entered enclosure and proceeded to identify elephant by photograph and description. All marks tallied exactly except one, which we could not see – the boil- scar under armpit. To make sure, Brown crept under to look, and was immediately brained – that is, head crushed and destroyed, though nothing issued from debris. All fled; so did elephant, striking right and left with much effect. Has escaped, but left bold blood- track from cannon- wounds.

Rediscovery certain. He broke southward, through a dense forest.

Brent, Detective

That was the last telegram. At nightfall a fog shut down which was so dense that objects but three feet away could not be discerned. This lasted all night. The ferry- boats and even the omnibuses had to stop running.

3

Next morning the papers were as full of detective theories as before; they had all our tragic facts in detail also, and a great many more which they had received from their telegraphic correspondents. Column after column was occupied, a third of its way down, with glaring headlines, which it made my heart sick to read. Their general tone was like this:

‘THE WHITE ELEPHANT AT LARGE!

HE MOVES UPON HIS FATAL MARCH!

WHOLE VILLAGES DESERTED BY THEIR FRIGHT-

STRICKEN OCCUPANTS!

PALE TERROR GOES BEFORE HIM, DEATH AND

DEVASTATION FOLLOW AFTER!

AFTER THESE, THE DETECTIVES.

BARNS DESTROYED, FACTORIES GUTTED, HARVESTS

DEVOURED, PUBLIC ASSEMBLAGES DISPERSED,

ACCOMPANIED BY SCENES OF CARNAGE IMPOSSIBLE

TO DESCRIBE!

THEORIES OF THIRTY- FOUR OF THE MOST

DISTINGUISHED DETECTIVES ON THE FORCE!

THEORY OF CHIEF BLUNT!’

‘There!’ said Inspector Blunt, almost betrayed into excitement, ‘this is magnificent! This is the greatest windfall that any detective organisation ever had. The fame of it will travel to the ends of the earth, and endure to the end of time, and my name with it.’

But there was no joy for me. I felt as if I had committed all those red crimes, and that the elephant was only my irresponsible agent. And how the list had grown! In one place he had ‘interfered with an election and killed five repeaters.’ He had followed this act with the destruction of two poor fellows, named O’Donohue and McFlannigan, who had ‘found a refuge in the home of the oppressed of all lands only the day before, and were in the act of exercising for the first time the noble right of American citizens at the polls, when stricken down by the relentless hand of the Scourge of Siam.’ In another, he had ‘found a crazy sensation- preacher preparing his next season’s heroic attacks on the dance, the theatre, and other things which can’t strike back, and had stepped on him.’ And in still another place he had ‘killed a lightning- rod agent.’And so the list went on, growing redder and redder, and more and more heartbreaking. Sixty persons had been killed, and two hundred and forty wounded. All the accounts bore just testimony to the activity and devotion of the detectives, and all closed with the remark that ‘three hundred thousand citizens and four detectives saw the dread creature, and two of the latter he destroyed.’

I dreaded to hear the telegraphic instrument begin to click again. By and by the messages began to pour in, but I was happily disappointed in their nature. It was soon apparent that all trace of the elephant was lost. The fog had enabled him to search out a good hiding place unobserved. Telegrams from the most absurdly distant points reported that a dim vast mass had been glimpsed there through the fog at such and such an hour, and was‘undoubtedly the elephant.’ This dim vast mass had been glimpsed in New Haven, in New Jersey, in Pennsylvania, in interior New York, in Brooklyn, and even in the city of New York itself! But in all cases the dim vast mass had vanished quickly and left no trace. Every detective of the large force scattered over this huge extent of country sent his hourly report, and each and every one of them had a clue, and was shadowing something, and was hot upon the heels of it.

But the day passed without other result.

The next day the same.

The next just the same.

The newspaper reports began to grow monotonous with facts that amounted to nothing, clues which led to nothing, and theories which had nearly exhausted the elements which surprise and delight and dazzle.

By advice of the inspector I doubled the reward.

Four more dull days followed. Then came a bitter blow to the poor, hard- working detectives – the journalists declined to print their theories, and coldly said, ‘Give us a rest.’

Two weeks after the elephant’s disappearance I raised the reward to $75,000 by the inspector’s advice. It was a great sum, but I felt that I would rather sacrifice my whole private fortune than lose my credit with my government. Now that the detectives were in adversity, the newspapers turned upon them, and began to fling the most stinging sarcasms at them. This gave the minstrels an idea, and they dressed themselves as detectives and hunted the elephant on the stage in the most extravagant way. The caricaturists made pictures of detectives scanning the country with spyglasses, while the elephant, at their backs, stole apples out of their pockets. And they made all sorts of ridiculous pictures of the detective badge – you have seen that badge printed in gold on the back of detective novels, no doubt – it is a wide- staring eye, with the legend, ‘We Never Sleep.’ When detectives called for a drink, the would- be facetious bar- keeper resurrected an obsolete form of expression and said, ‘Will you have an eye- opener?’ All the air was thick with sarcasms. But there was one man who moved calm, untouched, unaffected, through it all. It was that heart of oak, the Chief Inspector. His brave eye never drooped, his serene confidence never wavered. He always said, ‘Let them rail on; he laughs best who laughs last.’

My admiration for the man grew into a species of worship. I was at his side always. His office had become an unpleasant place to me, and now became daily more and more so. Yet if he could endure it I meant to do so also; at least, as long as I could. So I came regularly, and stayed –the only outsider who seemed to be capable of it. Everybody wondered how I could; and often it seemed to me that I must desert, but at such times I looked into that calm and apparently unconscious face, and held my ground.

About three weeks after the elephant’s disappearance, I was about to say one morning that I should have to strike my colours and retire, when the great detective arrested the thought by proposing one more superb and masterly move.

This was to compromise with the robbers. The fertility of this man’s invention exceeded anything I have ever seen, and I have had a wide intercourse with the world’s finest minds. He said he was confident he could compromise for $100,000 and recover the elephant. I said I believed I could scrape the amount together, but what would become of the poor detectives who had worked so faithfully? He said, ‘In compromises they always get half.’

This removed my only objection. So the inspector wrote two notes, in this form:

Dear MadaM – Your husband can make a large sum of

money (and be entirely protected from the law) by making

an immediate appointment with me. Chief Blunt

He sent one of these by his confidential messenger to the ‘reputed wife’ of Brick Duffy, and the other to the reputed wife of Red McFadden.

Within the hour these offensive answers came:

YE OWLD FOOL: brick McDuffys bin ded 2 yere.

Bridget Mahoney

CHIEF Bat – Red McFadden is hung and in heving 18 month. Any Ass but a detective knose that.

Mary O’Hooligan

‘I had long suspected these facts,’ said the inspector;‘this testimony proves the unerring accuracy of my instinct.’

The moment one resource failed him he was ready with another. He immediately wrote an advertisement for the morning papers, and I kept a copy of it:

A. – xwblv. 242 N. Tjnd – fz328wmlg. Ozpo – ; 2 m! ogw. MuM.

He said that if the thief was alive this would bring him to the usual rendezvous. He further explained that the usual rendezvous was a place where all business affairs between detectives and criminals were conducted. This meeting would take place at twelve the next night.

We could do nothing till then, and I lost no time in getting out of the office, and was grateful indeed for the privilege.

At 11 the next night I brought $100,000 in banknotes and put them into the chief’s hands, and shortly afterward he took his leave, with the brave old undimmed confidence in his eye. An almost intolerable hour dragged to a close; then I heard his welcome tread, and rose gasping and tottered to meet him. How his fine eyes flamed with triumph! He said, ‘We’ve compromised! The jokers will sing a different tune tomorrow! Follow me!’

He took a lighted candle and strode down into the vast vaulted basement where sixty detectives always slept, and where a score were now playing cards to while the time. I followed close after him. He walked swiftly down to the dim remote end of the place, and just as I succumbed to the pangs of suffocation and was swooning away he stumbled and fell over the outlying members of a mighty object, and I heard him exclaim as he went down, ‘Our noble profession is vindicated. Here is your elephant!’

I was carried to the office above and restored with carbolic acid. The whole detective force swarmed in, and such another season of triumphant rejoicing ensued as I had never witnessed before. The reporters were called, baskets of champagne were opened, toasts were drunk, the hand- shakings and congratulations were continuous and enthusiastic. Naturally the chief was the hero of the hour, and his happiness was so complete and had been so patiently and worthily and bravely won that it made me happy to see it, though I stood there a homeless beggar, my priceless charge dead, and my position in my country’s service lost to me through what would always seem my fatally careless execution of a great trust. Many an eloquent eye testified its deep admiration for the chief, and many a detective’s voice murmured, ‘Look at him –just the king of the profession – only give him a clue, it’s all he wants, and there ain’t anything hid that he can’t find.’ The dividing of the $50,000 made great pleasure; when it was finished the chief made a little speech while he put his share in his pocket, in which he said, ‘Enjoy it, boys, for you’ve earned it; and more than that you’ve earned for the detective profession undying fame.’

A telegram arrived, which read:

Monroe, MiCh., 10 p.M.

First time I’ve struck a telegraph office in over three weeks. Have followed those footprints, horseback, through the woods, a thousand miles to here, and they get stronger and bigger and fresher every day. Don’t worry – inside of another week I’ll have the elephant. This is dead sure.

Darley, Detective

The chief ordered three cheers for ‘Darley, one of the finest minds on the force’, and then commanded that he be telegraphed to come home and receive his share of the reward.

So ended that marvellous episode of the stolen elephant. The newspapers were pleasant with praises once more, the next day, with one contemptible exception. This sheet said, ‘Great is the detective! He may be a little slow in finding a little thing like a mislaid elephant – he may hunt him all day and sleep with his rotting carcass all night for three weeks, but he will find him at last – if he can get the man who mislaid him to show him the place!’

Poor Hassan was lost to me forever. The cannon- shots had wounded him fatally, he had crept to that unfriendly place in the fog, and there, surrounded by his enemies and in constant danger of detection, he had wasted away with hunger and suffering till death gave him peace.

The compromise cost me $100,000; my detective expenses were $42,000 more; I never applied for a place again under my government; I am a ruined man and a wanderer in the earth – but my admiration for that man, whom I believe to be the greatest detective the world has ever produced, remains undimmed to this day, and will so remain unto the end.

The Story of the Bad Little Boy Who Didn’t Come to Grief

Once there was a bad little boy, whose name was Jim –though, if you will notice, you will find that bad little boys are nearly always called James in your Sunday- school books. It was very strange, but still it was true, that this one was called Jim.

He didn’t have any sick mother, either – a sick mother who was pious and had the consumption, and would be glad to lie down in the grave and be at rest, but for the strong love she bore her boy, and the anxiety she felt that the world would be harsh and cold toward him when she was gone. Most bad boys in the Sunday books are named James, and have sick mothers, who teach them to say, ‘Now I lay me down,’ etc., and sing them to sleep with sweet plaintive voices, and then kiss them goodnight, and kneel down by the bedside and weep. But it was different with this fellow. He was named Jim, and there wasn’t anything the matter with his mother – no consumption, nor anything of that kind. She was rather stout than otherwise, and she was not pious; moreover, she was not anxious on Jim’s account. She said if he were to break his neck, it wouldn’t be much loss. She always spanked Jim to sleep, and she never kissed him goodnight; on the contrary, she boxed his ears when she was ready to leave him.

Once this little bad boy stole the key of the pantry and slipped in there and helped himself to some jam, and filled up the vessel with tar, so that his mother would never know the difference; but all at once a terrible feeling didn’t come over him, and something didn’t seem to whisper to him, ‘Is it right to disobey my mother? Isn’t it sinful to do this? Where do bad little boys go who gobble up their good kind mother’s jam?’ and then he didn’t kneel down all alone and promise never to be wicked anymore, and rise up with a light, happy heart, and go and tell his mother all about it, and beg her forgiveness, and be blessed by her with tears of pride and thankfulness in her eyes. No; that is the way with all other bad boys in the books; but it happened otherwise with this Jim, strangely enough. He ate that jam, and said it was bully, in his sinful, vulgar way; and he put in the tar, and said that was bully also, and laughed, and observed that‘the old woman would get up and snort’ when she found it out; and when she did find it out, he denied knowing anything about it, and she whipped him severely, and he did the crying himself. Everything about this boy was curious – everything turned out differently with him from the way it does to the bad Jameses in the books.

Once he climbed up in Farmer Acorn’s apple- tree to steal apples, and the limb didn’t break, and he didn’t fall and break his arm, and get torn by the farmer’s great dog, and then languish on a sickbed for weeks, and repent and become good. Oh! no; he stole as many apples as he wanted, and came down all right; and he was all ready for the dog, too, and knocked him endways with a brick when he came to tear him. It was very strange – nothing like it ever happened in those mild little books with marbled backs, and with pictures in them of men with swallow- tailed coats, and bell- crowned hats, and pantaloons that are short in the legs, and women with the waists of their dresses under their arms and no hoops on. Nothing like it in any of the Sunday- school books.

Once he stole the teacher’s penknife, and when he was afraid it would be found out, and he would get whipped, he slipped it into George Wilson’s cap – poor Widow Wilson’s son, the moral boy, the good little boy of the village, who always obeyed his mother, and never told an untruth, and was fond of his lessons and infatuated with Sunday- school. And when the knife dropped from the cap, and poor George hung his head and blushed, as if in conscious guilt, and the grieved teacher charged the theft upon him, and was just in the very act of bringing the switch down upon his trembling shoulders, a white- haired improbable justice of the peace did not suddenly appear in their midst and strike an attitude and say,‘spare this noble boy – there stands the cowering culprit! I was passing the school- door at recess, and, unseen myself, I saw the theft committed!’ And then Jim didn’t get whaled, and the venerable justice didn’t read the tearful school a homily, and take George by the hand and say such a boy deserved to be exalted, and then tell him to come and make his home with him, and sweep out the office, and make fires, and run errands, and chop wood, and study law, and help his wife do household labours, and have all the balance of the time to play, and get forty cents a month, and be happy. No; it would have happened that way in the books, but it didn’t happen that way to Jim. No meddling old clam of a justice dropped in to make trouble, and so the model boy George got thrashed, and Jim was glad of it; because, you know, Jim hated moral boys. Jim said he was ‘down on them milksops.’Such was the coarse language of this bad, neglected boy.

But the strangest thing that ever happened to Jim was the time he went boating on Sunday and didn’t get drowned, and that other time that he got caught out in the storm when he was fishing on Sunday, and didn’t get struck by lightning. Why, you might look, and look, all through the Sunday- school books, from now till next Christmas and you would never come across anything like this. Oh! no; you would find that all the bad boys who go boating on Sunday invariably get drowned; and all the bad boys who get caught out in storms, when they are fishing on Sunday, infallibly get struck by lightning. Boats with bad boys in them always upset on Sunday, and it always storms when bad boys go fishing on the Sabbath. How this Jim ever escaped is a mystery to me.

This Jim bore a charmed life – that must have been the way of it. Nothing could hurt him. He even gave the elephant in the menagerie a plug of tobacco, and the elephant didn’t knock the top of his head off with his trunk. He browsed around the cupboard after essence of peppermint, and didn’t make a mistake and drink aqua fortis. He stole his father’s gun and went hunting on the Sabbath, and didn’t shoot three or four of his fingers off. He struck his little sister on the temple with his fist when he was angry, and she didn’t linger in pain through long summer days, and die with sweet words of forgiveness upon her lips that redoubled the anguish of his breaking heart. No; she got over it. He ran off and went to sea at last, and didn’t come back and find himself sad and alone in the world, his loved ones sleeping in the quiet churchyard, and the vine- embowered home of his boyhood rumbled down and gone to decay. Ah! no; he came home drunk as a piper, and got into the station house the first thing.

And he grew up, and married, and raised a large family, and brained them all with an axe one night, and got wealthy by all manner of cheating and rascality, and now he is the infernalest wickedest scoundrel in his native village, and is universally respected, and belongs to the Legislature.

So you see there never was a bad James in the Sunday- school books that had such a streak of luck as this sinful Jim with the charmed life.

The Story of the Good Little Boy Who Did Not Prosper

[The following has been written at the insistence of several literary friends, who thought that if the history of ‘The Bad Little Boy Who Didn’t Come to Grief’ (a moral sketch which I published five or six years ago) was worthy of preservation several weeks in print, a fair and unprejudiced companion piece to it would deserve a similar immortality.

editorial MeMoranduM]

Once there was a good little boy by the name of Jacob Blivens. He always obeyed his parents, no matter how absurd and unreasonable their demands were; and he always learned his book, and never was late at Sabbath school. He would not play hookey, even when his sober judgment told him it was the most profitable thing he could do. None of the other boys could ever make that boy out, he acted so strangely. He wouldn’t lie, no matter how convenient it was. He just said it was wrong to lie, and that was sufficient for him. And he was so honest that he was simply ridiculous. The curious ways that that Jacob had surpassed everything. He wouldn’t play marbles on Sunday, he wouldn’t rob birds’ nests, he wouldn’t give hot pennies to organ- grinders’ monkeys; he didn’t seem to take any interest in any kind of rational amusement. So the other boys used to try to reason it out and come to an understanding of him, but they couldn’t arrive at any satisfactory conclusion; as I said before, they could only figure out a sort of vague idea that he was‘afflicted,’ and so they took him under their protection, and never allowed any harm to come to him.

This good little boy read all the Sunday- school books; they were his greatest delight. This was the whole secret of it. He believed in the good little boys they put in the Sunday- school books; he had every confidence in them. He longed to come across one of them alive, once; but he never did. They all died before his time, maybe. Whenever he read about a particularly good one, he turned over quickly to the end to see what became of him, because he wanted to travel thousands of miles and gaze on him; but it wasn’t any use; that good little boy always died in the last chapter, and there was a picture of the funeral, with all his relations and the Sunday- school children standing around the grave in pantaloons that were too short, and bonnets that were too large, and everybody crying into handkerchiefs that had as much as a yard and a half of stuff in them. He was always headed off in this way. He never could see one of those good little boys, on account of his always dying in the last chapter.

Jacob had a noble ambition to be put in a Sunday- school book. He wanted to be put in, with pictures representing him gloriously declining to lie to his mother, and she weeping for joy about it; and pictures representing him standing on the doorstep giving a penny to a poor beggar- woman with six children, and telling her to spend it freely, but not to be extravagant, because extravagance is a sin; and pictures of him magnanimously refusing to tell on the bad boy who always lay in wait for him around the corner, as he came from school, and welted him over the head with a lath, and then chased him home, saying ‘Hi! hi!’ as he proceeded. That was the ambition of young Jacob Blivens. He wished to be put in a Sunday- school book. It made him feel a little uncomfortable sometimes when he reflected that the good little boys always died. He loved to live, you know, and this was the most unpleasant feature about being a Sunday- school- book boy. He knew it was not healthy to be good. He knew it was more fatal than consumption to be so supernaturally good as the boys in the books were; he knew that none of them had ever been able to stand it long, and it pained him to think that if they put him in a book he wouldn’t ever see it, or even if they did get the book out before he died, it wouldn’t be popular without any picture of his funeral in the back part of it. It couldn’t be much of a Sunday- school book that couldn’t tell about the advice he gave to the community when he was dying. So, at last, of course he had to make up his mind to do the best he could under the circumstances – to live right, and hang on as long as he could, and have his dying speech all ready when his time came.

But somehow, nothing ever went right with this good little boy; nothing ever turned out with him the way it turned out with the good little boys in the books. They always had a good time, and the bad boys had the broken legs; but in his case there was a screw loose somewhere, and it all happened just the other way. When he found Jim Blake stealing apples, and went under the tree to read to him about the bad little boy who fell out of a neighbour’s apple tree, and broke his arm, Jim fell out of the tree too, but he fell on him, and broke his arm, and Jim wasn’t hurt at all. Jacob couldn’t understand that. There wasn’t anything in the books like it.

And once, when some bad boys pushed a blind man over in the mud, and Jacob ran to help him up and receive his blessing, the blind man did not give him any blessing at all, but whacked him over the head with his stick and said he would like to catch him shoving him again and then pretending to help him up. This was not in accordance with any of the books. Jacob looked them all over to see.

One thing that Jacob wanted to do was to find a lame dog that hadn’t any place to stay, and was hungry and persecuted, and bring him home and pet him and have that dog’s imperishable gratitude. And at last he found one, and was happy; and he brought him home and fed him, but when he was going to pet him the dog flew at him and tore all the clothes off him except those that were in front, and made a spectacle of him that was astonishing. He examined authorities, but he could not understand the matter. It was of the same breed of dogs that was in the books, but it acted very differently. Whatever this boy did, he got into trouble. The very things the boys in the books got rewarded for turned out to be about the most unprofitable things he could invest in.

Once when he was on his way to Sunday- school he saw some bad boys starting off pleasuring in a sailboat. He was filled with consternation, because he knew from his teaching that boys who went sailing on Sunday invariably got drowned. So he ran out on a raft to warn them, but a log turned with him and slid him into the river. A man got him out pretty soon, and the doctor pumped the water out of him and gave him a fresh start with his bellows, but he caught cold and lay sick abed nine weeks. But the most unaccountable thing about it was that the bad boys in the boat had a good time all day, and then reached home alive and well, in the most surprising manner. Jacob Blivens said there was nothing like these things in the books. He was perfectly dumbfounded.

When he got well he was a little discouraged, but he resolved to keep on trying, anyhow. He knew that so far his experiences wouldn’t do to go in a book, but he hadn’t yet reached the allotted term of life for good little boys, and he hoped to be able to make a record yet, if he could hold on till his time was fully up. If everything else failed, he had his dying speech to fall back on.

He examined his authorities, and found that it was now time for him to go to sea as a cabin boy. He called on a ship captain and made his application, and when the captain asked for his recommendations he proudly drew out a tract and pointed to the words: ‘To Jacob Blivens, from his affectionate teacher.’ But the captain was a coarse, vulgar man, and he said, ‘Oh, that be blowed!’That wasn’t any proof that he knew how to wash dishes or handle a slush- bucket, and he guessed he didn’t want him. This was altogether the most extraordinary thing that ever had happened to Jacob in all his life. A compliment from a teacher, on a tract, had never failed to move the tenderest of emotions of ship captains and open the way to all offices of honour and profit in their gift – it never had in any book that ever he had read. He could hardly believe his senses.

This boy always had a hard time of it. Nothing ever came out according to the authorities with him. At last, one day, when he was around hunting up bad little boys to admonish, he found a lot of them in the old iron foundry fixing up a little joke on fourteen or fifteen dogs, which they had tied together in long procession and were going to ornament with empty nitroglycerine cans made fast to their tails. Jacob’s heart was touched. He sat down on one of those cans – for he never minded grease when duty was before him – and he took hold of the foremost dog by the collar, and turned his reproving eye upon wicked Tom Jones. But just at that moment Alderman McWelter, full of wrath, stepped in. All the bad boys ran away; but Jacob Blivens rose in conscious innocence and began one of those stately little Sunday- school- book speeches which always commence with ‘Oh, Sir!’ in dead opposition to the fact that no boy, good or bad, ever starts a remark with‘Oh, Sir!’ But the Alderman never waited to hear the rest. He took Jacob Blivens by the ear and turned him around, and hit him a whack in the rear with the flat of his hand; and in an instant that good little boy shot out through the roof and soared away toward the sun, with the fragments of those fifteen dogs stringing after him like the tail of a kite. And there wasn’t a sign of that Alderman or that old iron foundry left on the face of the earth; and as for young Jacob Blivens, he never got a chance to make his last dying speech after all his trouble fixing it up, unless he made it to the birds; because, although the bulk of him came down all right in a treetop in an adjoining county, the rest of him was apportioned around among four townships, and so they had to hold five inquests on him to find out whether he was dead or not, and how it occurred. You never saw a boy scattered so.

Thus perished the good little boy who did the best he could, but didn’t come out according to the books. Every boy who ever did as he did prospered, except him. His case is truly remarkable. It will probably never be accounted for.

The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County

Mr A. Ward,

Dear Sir: – Well, I called on good- natured, garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and I inquired after your friend Leonidas W. Smiley, as you requested me to do, and I hereunto append the result. If you can get any information out of it you are cordially welcome to it. I have a lurking suspicion that your Leonidas W. Smiley is a myth – that you never knew such a personage, and that you only conjectured that if I asked old Wheeler about him it would remind him of his infamous Jim Smiley, and he would go to work and bore me nearly to death with some infernal reminiscence of him as long and tedious as it should be useless to me. If that was your design, Mr Ward, it will gratify you to know that it succeeded.

I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the barroom stove of the little old dilapidated tavern in the ancient mining camp of Boomerang, and I noticed that he was fat and bald- headed, and had an expression of winning gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance. He roused up and gave me good- day. I told him a friend of mine had commissioned me to make some inquiries about a cherished companion of his boyhood named Leonidas W. Smiley – Rev Leonidas W. Smiley – a young minister of the gospel, who he had heard was at one time a resident of this village of Boomerang. I added that if Mr Wheeler could tell me anything about this Rev Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel under many obligations to him.

Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me there with his chair – and then sat down and reeled off the monotonous narrative which follows this paragraph. He never smiled, he never frowned, he never changed his voice from the quiet, gently- flowing key to which he tuned the initial sentence, he never betrayed the slightest suspicion of enthusiasm – but all through the interminable narrative there ran a vein of impressive earnestness and sincerity, which showed me plainly that so far from his imagining that there was anything ridiculous or funny about his story, he regarded it as a really important matter, and admired its two heroes as men of transcendent genius in finesse. To me, the spectacle of a man drifting serenely along through such a queer yarn without ever smiling was exquisitely absurd. As I said before, I asked him to tell me what he knew of Rev Leonidas W. Smiley, and he replied as follows. I let him go on in his own way, and never interrupted him once.

There was a feller here once by the name of Jim Smiley, in the winter of ’49 – or maybe it was the spring of ’50 – I don’t recollect exactly, somehow, though what makes me think it was one or the other is because I remember the big flume wasn’t finished when he first come to the camp; but anyway, he was the curiousest man about always betting on anything that turned up you ever see, if he could get anybody to bet on the other side, and if he couldn’t he’d change sides – any way that suited the other man would suit him – any way just so’s he got a bet, he was satisfied. But still, he was lucky – uncommon lucky; he most always come out winner. He was always ready and laying for a chance; there couldn’t be no solitary thing mentioned but what that feller’d offer to bet on it – and take any side you please, as I was just telling you: if there was a horse race, you’d find him flush or you find him busted at the end of it; if there was a dogfight, he’d bet on it; if there was a catfight, he’d bet on it; if there was a chickenfight, he’d bet on it; why if there was two birds setting on a fence, he would bet you which one would fly first – or if there was a camp meeting he would be there reglar to bet on parson Walker, which he judged to be the best exhorter about here, and so he was, too, and a good man; if he even see a straddle- bug start to go anywheres, he would bet you how long it would take him to get wherever he was going to, and if you took him up he would foller that straddle- bug to Mexico but what he would find out where he was bound for and how long he was on the road. Lots of the boys here has seen that Smiley and can tell you about him. Why, it never made no difference to him – he would bet on anything – the dangdest feller. Parson Walker’s wife laid very sick, once, for a good while, and it seemed as if they warn’t going to save her; but one morning he come in and Smiley asked him how she was, and he said she was considerable better – thank the Lord for his inf’nit mercy – and coming on so smart that with the blessing of Providence she’d get well yet – and Smiley, before he thought, says, ‘Well, I’ll resk two and a half that she don’t anyway.’

Thish- yer Smiley had a mare – the boys called her the fifteen- minute nag, but that was only in fun, you know, because, of course, she was faster than that – and he used to win money on that horse, for all she was so slow and always had the asthma, or the distemper, or the consumption, or something of that kind. They used to give her two or three hundred yards’ start, and then pass her under way; but always at the fag- end of the race she’d get excited and desperate- like, and come cavorting and spraddling up, and scattering her legs around limber, sometimes in the air, and sometimes out to one side amongst the fences, and kicking up m– o– r– e dust, and raising m– o– r– e racket with her coughing and sneezing and blowing her nose – and always fetch up at the stand just about a neck ahead, as near as you could cipher it down.

And he had a little small bull- pup, that to look at him you’d think he warn’t worth a cent, but to set around and look ornery, and lay for a chance to steal something. But as soon as money was up on him he was a different dog –his under- jaw’d begin to stick out like the for’castle of a steamboat, and his teeth would uncover, and shine savage like the furnaces. And a dog might tackle him, and bully- rag him, and bite him, and throw him over his shoulder two or three times, and Andrew Jackson – which was the name of the pup – Andrew Jackson would never let on but what he was satisfied, and hadn’t expected nothing else – and the bets being doubled and doubled on the other side all the time, till the money was all up –and then all of a sudden he would grab that other dog just by the joint of his hind legs and freeze to it – not chaw, you understand, but only just grip and hang on till they throwed up the sponge, if it was a year. Smiley always came out winner on that pup till he harnessed a dog once that didn’t have no hind legs, because they’d been sawed off in a circular saw, and when the thing had gone along far enough, and the money was all up, and he came to make a snatch for his pet holt, he saw in a minute how he’d been imposed on, and how the other dog had him in the door, so to speak, and he ’peared surprised, and then he looked sorter discouraged like, and didn’t try no more to win the fight, and so he got shucked out bad. He gave Smiley a look as much as to say his heart was broke, and it was his fault, for putting up a dog that hadn’t no hind legs for him to take holt of, which was his main dependence in a fight, and then he limped off a piece, and laid down and died. It was a good pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and would have made a name for hisself if he’d lived, for the stuff was in him, and he had genius – I know it, because he hadn’t had no opportunities to speak of, and it don’t stand to reason that a dog could make such a fight as he could under them circumstances, if he hadn’t no talent. It always makes me feel sorry when I think of that last fight of his’on, and the way it turned out.

Well, thish- yer Smiley had rat- terriers and chicken cocks, and tomcats, and all them kind of things, till you couldn’t rest, and you couldn’t fetch nothing for him to bet on but he’d match you. He ketched a frog one day and took him home and said he cal’lated to educate him; and so he never done nothing for three months but set in his back yard and learn that frog to jump. And you bet you he did learn him, too. He’d give him a little hunch behind, and the next minute you’d see that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut – see him turn one summerset, or maybe a couple, if he got a good start, and come down flat- footed and all right, like a cat. He got him up so in the matter of ketching flies, and kept him in practice so constant, that he’d nail a fly every time as far as he could see him. Smiley said all a frog wanted was education, and he could do most anything – and I believe him. Why, I’ve seen him set Dan’l Webster down here on this floor –Dan’l Webster was the name of the frog – and sing out,‘Flies! Dan’l, flies,’ and quicker’n you could wink, he’d spring straight up, and snake a fly off’n the counter there, and flop down on the floor again as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of his head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn’t no idea he’d done any more’n any frog might do. You never see a frog so modest and straightfor’ard as he was, for all he was so gifted. And when it come to fair- and- square jumping on a dead level, he could get over more ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever see. Jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand, and when it come to that, Smiley would ante up money on him as long as he had a red. Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might be, for fellers that had travelled and ben everywheres all said he laid over any frog that ever they see.

Well, Smiley kept the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to fetch him downtown sometimes and lay for a bet.

One day a feller – a stranger in the camp, he was –come across him with his box, and says: ‘What might it be that you’ve got in the box?’

And Smiley says, sorter indifferent like, ‘It might be a parrot, or it might be a canary, maybe, but it ain’t – it’s only just a frog.’

And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it round this way and that, and says, ‘H’m – so’tis. Well, what’s he good for?’

‘Well,’ Smiley says, easy and careless, ‘he’s good enough for one thing I should judge – he can out- jump any frog in Calaveras county.’

The feller took the box again, and took another long, particular look, and give it back to Smiley and says, very deliberate, ‘Well – I don’t see no points about that frog that’s any better’n any other frog.’

‘Maybe you don’t,’ Smiley says. ‘Maybe you understand frogs, and maybe you don’t understand ’em; maybe you’ve had experience, and maybe you ain’t only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I’ve got my opinion, and I’ll resk forty dollars that he can out- jump any frog in Calaveras county.’

And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad, like, ‘Well – I’m only a stranger here, and I ain’t got no frog – but if I had a frog I’d bet you.’

And then Smiley says, ‘That’s all right – that’s all right – if you’ll hold my box a minute I’ll go and get you a frog;’ and so the feller took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley’s, and set down to wait.

So he set there a good while thinking and thinking to hisself, and then he got the frog out and prised his mouth open and took a teaspoon and filled him full of quail- shot – filled him pretty near up to his chin – and set him on the floor. Smiley he went out to the swamp and slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a frog and fetched him in and give him to this feller and says:

‘Now if you’re ready, set him alongside of Dan’l, with his forepaws just even with Dan’l’s, and I’ll give the word.’ Then he says, ‘One – two – three – jump!’ and him and the feller touched up the frogs from behind, and the new frog hopped off lively, but Dan’l give a heave, and hysted up his shoulders – so – like a Frenchman, but it wasn’t no use – he couldn’t budge; he was planted as solid as a anvil, and he couldn’t no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley was a good deal surprised, and he was disgusted too, but he didn’t have no idea what the matter was, of course.

The feller took the money and started away, and when he was going out at the door he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulder – this way – at Dan’l, and says again, very deliberate, ‘Well – I don’t see no points about that frog that’s any better’n any other frog.’

Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan’l a long time, and at last he says, ‘I do wonder what in the nation that frog throwed off for – I wonder if there ain’t something the matter with him – he ’pears to look might baggy, somehow’ – and he ketched Dan’l by the nap of the neck, and lifted him up and says, ‘Why blame my cats if he don’t weigh five pound’ – and turned him upside down, and he belched out about a double- handful of shot. And then he see how it was, and he was the maddest man – he set the frog down and took out after that feller, but he never ketched him. And –

[Here Simon Wheeler heard his name called from the front yard, and got up to go and see what was wanted.] And turning to me as he moved away, he said: ‘Just sit where you are, stranger, and rest easy – I ain’t going to be gone a second.’

But by your leave, I did not think that a continuation of the history of the enterprising vagabond Jim Smiley would be likely to afford me much information concerning the Rev Leonidas W. Smiley, and so I started away.

At the door I met the sociable Wheeler returning, and he buttonholed me and recommenced: ‘Well, this- yer Smiley had a yaller one- eyed cow that didn’t have no tail only just a short stump like a bannanner, and –’

‘O, curse Smiley and his afflicted cow!’ I muttered, good- naturedly, and bidding the old gentleman good- day, I departed.

Yours, truly,

Mark Twain

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企鹅经典：小黑书 第二辑

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无神论者做弥撒

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献给奥居斯特·博尔热

——他的朋友德·巴尔扎克

皮安训大夫是一个以出色的生理学理论对科学做出贡献的医生，他年纪轻轻，就跻身于巴黎大学医学院名教授的行列，而这个医学院是欧洲医学界人士敬仰的中心。在行医以前，皮安训大夫曾经在很长的一段时间内在外科实习。他早期的实习，受法国最伟大的外科医生，声名显赫的德斯普兰指导。德斯普兰在科学界的出现，就像流星一样转瞬即逝。连他的敌人也承认，他把一种不能传授的方法带进坟墓里了。像所有的天才一样，他也没有继承人，他的一切与生俱来，又随身带走。外科医生的光荣，好像演员的光荣一样，只在他们活着的时候存在，人一死，他们的天才就再也不受重视了。因此演员、外科医生、伟大的歌手，还有以他们的演奏使音乐的威力增加十倍的天才乐师，都是些一时的英雄。德斯普兰自己就可以证明这些短暂的天才的命运是相同的。他的名字，昨天还那么震耳，今天几乎被忘却了，只能在他自己的专业内流传，而不能越出界外。是否要有一些非常特殊的环境，才能使一个科学家的名字越出科学界而进入人类史册呢？德斯普兰有那么广泛的知识，使他能够成为一个世纪的“声音”或者“代表人物”吗？德斯普兰具有神奇的眼光：他能凭先天的或后天培养的直觉，一眼看透病人和他的毛病。他凭这种直觉，能够对一个人的病情了如指掌。他能够考虑到环境气氛和病人的气质、情绪等条件，决定动手术的准确时间，可以具体到几点钟和几分钟。难道他紧跟大自然的步子，研究过生命和基本养分的不断结合——这种养分蕴藏在空气中，或者由大地提供给人类，人类吸收、消化以后会流露出一种特殊的表情吗？还是他运用演绎法和类推法，像天才的居维埃[1]那样呢？不管怎样，这个人深知“人体”的秘密，他能根据现在看透它的过去和未来。他有没有把整个科学汇总于一身，像希波克拉底、加利安[2]、亚里士多德那样呢？他有没有领导一个新学派走向新世界呢？没有。我们不得不承认这个人体化学变化的永恒观察者掌握古代魔术，换句话说，就是具有元素融合的知识，懂得生命的起源，未有生命以前的生命，和生命的将来。但是，可惜的是他的一切都是个人的：他活着的时候利己心使他与世隔绝，到了今天，利己心又消灭了他的荣誉。他的坟上没有竖立一个能够传声的雕像，可以将“天才”利用他来找寻的秘密复述给将来一代听。不过德斯普兰的天才也许同他的信仰有连带关系，因而也是可以死亡的。他认为地球的大气层是一种有生殖力的液汁，地球好像是蛋壳里面的鸡蛋，既然他不能够断定到底是先有鸡，还是先有蛋，他就既不承认鸡，也不承认蛋。他既不相信人性以前的兽性，也不相信人性以后的灵性。德斯普兰并不怀疑，他肯定。他纯粹而坦率的无神论同许多学者的无神论相同，这些学者是世界上最好的人，然而也是顽固的无神论者，顽固的程度与有宗教信仰的人不相信世间有无神论者相同。像德斯普兰这样的人，不可能有别的信仰，因为他从年轻时起便习惯于解剖人，从人有生命以前，到有生命期间，以至生命消失以后，他都解剖过，他搜遍了人体的一切组织，却找不到在宗教理论上占唯一重要地位的灵魂。他认为人体有一个大脑中枢、一个神经中枢、一个血气中枢，前两者互相交替补充得那么密切，以至于到他临死前几天，他坚信听的官能对听觉并非绝对必要，视的官能对视觉也不是绝对必要的，太阳神经丛可以代替它们，代替了还不容易使人发觉。德斯普兰既然在人身上找到两个灵魂，便用这个事实证实了他的无神论，虽然他对于上帝是没有丝毫成见的。据说这个人临死前并没有忏悔和认罪，像许多伟大的天才一样可怜地死去，请上帝宽恕他们吧。

这么一位伟大的人物的一生，却有许多渺小的地方。“渺小”是他的仇人的用语，这些仇人想尽量损害他的名声，比较确切的说法应该是显然的矛盾。忌妒的人或者愚蠢的人由于从来不知道才智高明者行为的动机，总是马上抓住一些表面矛盾来提出指控，暂时将才智高明的人列为被告。等到后来如果被他们攻击的事业反而获得成功，他们就来证明以前的准备工作和结果之间的相互关系，使得先前的诽谤总有一部分留存下来。因此，在我们的时代，拿破仑想将他的雄鹰的翅膀伸展到英国去的时候，他便被与他同时代的人攻击。事实上，要等到1822年才能解释1804年和布洛尼厄的平底船[3]。

在德斯普兰身上，荣誉和科学知识既然无懈可击，他的仇人只好攻击他的古怪脾气和他的性格；他也的确有英国人称为“怪癖”[4]的那种品质。有时他的衣着非常考究，穿得有点像悲剧诗人克雷比庸[5]那样，有时却故意不修边幅，有时人们看见他坐车子，有时人们看见他步行。他有时粗鲁，有时和善；外表看来既狠心又吝啬，而他却能够把财产献给他的流亡在国外的老师，这些老师们也领他的情，有好些日子都受着他的捐助。没有人比他更能引起各种互相矛盾的批评了。虽然他为了获得一枚一般医生所不应希冀的圣米歇尔勋章[6]，可以在宫廷里让一本祈祷书从他的衣袋里掉下来，可是请你相信他的心里是嘲笑这一切的。他从上到下观察过人类，在人生最庄严的行为和最卑鄙的行为中发现过他们的真面目，因此他对人类有极大的轻蔑。在一个伟人身上，所有品质往往是有连带关系的。如果这些巨人中有一个人的才能比见识高，那么他的见识起码也比仅仅被人称为“有见识的人”的见识广泛得多。一切天才都有一个道德观，这个道德观能够适用于一种专业，可是凡是看见花儿的人，都应该看见太阳。这位大夫听见被自己救活的外交官问：“皇帝健康如何？”居然回答：“朝臣已恢复了健康，他也会随着恢复！”他不仅是一位外科或内科医生，而且是绝顶聪明的人。因此耐心而热诚地观察人类的人，会原谅德斯普兰的过度自负，而且会跟德斯普兰一样，相信他能当一个伟大的部长，正如他是一个伟大的外科医生一样。

德斯普兰的几个同时代人认为德斯普兰的一生中有几件令人迷惑不解的事情，我们选择了其中最令人感兴趣的一件叙述于下，因为这件事的谜底就在故事的结尾，而且可以为他澄清某些愚蠢的诽谤。

在医院的所有学生中，德斯普兰最疼爱的是荷拉斯·皮安训。在进入市立医院当实习医生以前，荷拉斯·皮安训是一个医科大学生，寄居在拉丁区一所名为伏盖公寓的破旧宿舍里。这个可怜的青年在那里经受贫困的煎熬，仿佛落在一个炽热的熔炉里，而许多伟大的天才人物都从这类熔炉里毫无损伤和纯洁无瑕地走出来，好像金刚钻不论怎样磕碰也不致碎裂一样。他们奔放的热情像一团烈火，他们从烈火中锻炼出永恒的正直。他们不断地工作，用工作来抑制住自己不能满足的欲望，从工作中养成了斗争的习惯，这些斗争是天才人物必然要遇到的。荷拉斯是一个正直的青年，在荣誉问题上从不转弯抹角，总是单刀直入，一针见血。既肯为朋友当掉自己的大衣，又肯为朋友牺牲自己的时间，甚至彻夜不眠。总之，荷拉斯是这样一种朋友：他们从不计较给予人家的和从人家那里接受的是否相等，因为他们肯定自己得到的一定比付出的多。荷拉斯的大多数朋友都从内心对他崇敬，因为他有一种毫不夸张的美德，其中有些朋友甚至害怕他的谴责。荷拉斯显示他的优点的时候，丝毫不带学究气。他既不是一个清教徒，也不是一个宣教士，他给你忠告的时候也很自然地骂街，有机会的时候，他也会愉快地大吃一顿。他是个好伙伴，像大兵那样不会假作正经，行动又痛快又坦率，但又不像水手，因为这年头的水手都是狡猾的外交家，他像一个事无不可对人言的诚实青年，走起路来总是昂着头，心情舒畅。总之，用一句话概括，荷拉斯是许多奥莱斯特的比拉德，债主们就是古代复仇三女神在今天的最真实的形象[7]。他带着高兴的心情来忍受贫困，这种心情也许就是使他勇气百倍的主要原因之一，何况他又像一切身无长物的人一样，欠的债很少。他像骆驼那样少食，像牡鹿那样轻灵，他的思想和行为却都非常坚定。他的缺点正如他的优点一样，使荷拉斯·皮安训大夫在他的朋友们的心目中倍觉可亲。自德斯普兰确实掌握了皮安训的优点和缺点那天起，皮安训的幸福生活便开始了。正如人家说的，一个诊所的主任医师把一个青年人带在身边，这个青年人便开始飞黄腾达了。德斯普兰每次到富贵人家出诊的时候，总要带着皮安训做他的助手，而且几乎每次都有一些礼金落到这位助手的钱袋里。巴黎生活的秘密也在那里不知不觉地展现在这位外省青年的眼前。德斯普兰门诊的时候，也把皮安训留在诊所里，而且派他工作。有时，他会派他陪同一个有钱的病人到矿泉去疗养。总之，他总在为他安排好的雇主。这样做的结果就是过了一段日子，这位外科的暴君，便有了一个忠心耿耿的塞伊德[8]。这两个人，一个在地位上和学问上都已登峰造极，享有巨大的财富和无限的光荣，另一个则是刚起步的无名小卒[9]，既没有钱也没有名，这两个人竟成了密友。伟大的德斯普兰什么事都告诉他的弟子；他的弟子也知道哪个妇女曾经在老师旁边的椅子上坐过，或者在诊所里那张尽人皆知的、德斯普兰在上面睡觉的长躺椅上坐过。皮安训熟知这个狮子兼雄牛的体质的秘密，这个体质终于使这位伟大人物的上半身无限扩大，最后由于心脏扩张而死。他研究他忙碌一生中的奇闻逸事，研究他悭吝的计划，他具有政治头脑的科学家的希望。他的心即使不是冷酷的，也是久经考验的，心里埋藏着唯一的一种感情，皮安训能预见到等待着这种感情的是幻灭。

有一天，皮安训告诉德斯普兰：圣雅克区有一个穷苦的挑水夫由于疲劳和贫困得了很严重的病。这个可怜的挑水夫是奥韦尼省人[10]，在1821年漫长的冬天里只吃得上土豆。德斯普兰马上扔下所有的病人，驾着马车，由皮安训跟随着，冒着把马累死的危险，飞驰到病人那里，亲自把他运送到著名的杜博瓦[11]在圣丹尼郊区创立的疗养院里去。他每天去医治病人，等到病人恢复健康以后，他又给了病人一笔钱使他够买一匹马和一只水桶。这个奥韦尼省挑水夫有一点特别的地方。每逢他有一个朋友病了，他马上就把朋友带到德斯普兰那里去，对他的恩人说：“我决不让他到别的大夫那里去。”德斯普兰虽然脾气很坏，在这种时候却总是和挑水夫握握手，对他说：“把他们全都带来给我吧。”于是他便让这个康塔尔的子孙[12]住进了市立医院，而且对他尽心医治。皮安训已经有好几次注意到他的老师对奥韦尼省人，尤其是对挑水夫，有一种偏爱。可是由于德斯普兰对于他在市立医院的医疗工作颇为自豪，因此学生也就不觉得这中间有什么特别可怪的了。

有一天，皮安训约在上午九点钟穿过圣絮尔皮斯广场[13]的时候，瞥见他的老师正在走进教堂。德斯普兰向来是没有他的二轮马车连一步都不肯走的，这时候却在步行，偷偷摸摸地从小狮街那道门走进去，仿佛走进暗栈私寮似的。实习医生是深知他的老师的信仰的，而且他自己也是一个百分之一百二十的卡巴尼斯主义者[14]，自然觉得非常奇怪。皮安训也潜进了圣絮尔皮斯教堂，一看吃惊得非同小可。原来伟大的德斯普兰，这位对天使们毫无感情的无神论者，因为天使们既不受制于解剖刀，又不会患痔瘘或者胃炎，总之，这位无畏的嘲弄鬼神的人，竟恭恭敬敬地跪在……跪在什么地方？跪在圣母小教堂前面，在那里参加弥撒，付弥撒费，接济贫困，态度非常严肃，仿佛在动手术似的。

“他肯定不是来弄清楚关于圣母生孩子的问题的吧？”皮安训这样想，他的惊讶达到了想象不到的程度，“如果我在圣体节看见他在游行的人丛中持着遮盖圣体的天帏的一根流苏，那只不过是开玩笑的吧，可是在这时候，独自一个人，没有人看见，那就耐人寻味了！”

皮安训不愿意显得像是在侦察市立医院外科主任医生的行动，便走开了。凑巧这一天德斯普兰请他吃晚饭，不是在家里吃，而是在饭馆里。吃到梨子和奶酪的时候，皮安训用巧妙的办法，把话题转到弥撒上面，将弥撒比拟为虚伪的礼节，一种滑稽剧。

“这种滑稽剧，”德斯普兰说，“使基督徒流过的血比拿破仑的所有战役和布鲁塞的所有水蛭[15]所付出的血还要多！弥撒是教皇创立的，最早出现于6世纪，它的根据是Hoc est corpus[16]。为了建立圣体节，不知流尽了多少血！罗马教廷想借这个节日的建立，证明他们在圣餐是耶稣的血和肉这个有争议的问题上得到了胜利，这个有争议的问题曾经使教会纷乱了三个世纪！德·图卢兹伯爵和阿耳比人的战争[17]，就是这一事件的尾声。沃杜瓦教派[18]和阿耳比教派的信徒都拒绝承认这个新事物。”

接着德斯普兰兴高采烈地大肆发挥无神论者的想象力，说了一长串伏尔泰式的笑话[19]，或者更正确点说，是可恶地引用了一大套《语录》[20]上的话。

“咦？”皮安训心里想，“今天早上那个虔诚的信徒哪里去了？”

他没有问出口，他怀疑自己有没有在圣絮尔皮斯教堂看见他的上司。德斯普兰用不着对皮安训说谎：他们彼此相知太深了，他们在类似的严肃问题上交换过思想，讨论过《事物本性》[21]的各种学说，深入地探讨过这些问题，或者用不信鬼神的利刃和解剖刀将它们剖析过。三个月过去了。皮安训没有追究这件事，虽然这件事已经深深地印在他的记忆里。同一年，有一天，市立医院的一个大夫当着皮安训的面抓住德斯普兰的胳膊，似乎要审问他。

“我亲爱的老师，您到圣絮尔皮斯教堂去干什么？”他问他。

“到那里去看一位膝盖上生骨疽的教士，是安古兰末公爵夫人介绍给我的病人。”德斯普兰回答。

提问的大夫满意了，皮安训却不然。

“咳！他到教堂去看膝盖生病的病人！他去听他的弥撒！”实习医生心里想。

皮安训决定侦察德斯普兰，他记住他看见老师走进圣絮尔皮斯教堂的日子和时刻，打定主意在来年同一日子、同一时刻再来看看，看是否能再遇见他的老师。如果再遇见了，他的周期性的宗教信仰就值得做一次科学调查了，因为在这样一个人物身上，他的思想和行为之间不应该有这样直接的矛盾。

第二年，皮安训已经不再是德斯普兰的实习医生，在同一日期和时刻，皮安训看见外科医生的二轮马车停在图尔农街和小狮街的街角，他的朋友从车上下来，诚惶诚恐地沿着墙走进圣絮尔皮斯教堂，又在圣母小教堂参加了弥撒。这的确是德斯普兰！的确是那位外科主任医生，秘密的[22]无神论者，偶然的信徒。事情复杂化了。这位著名科学家的固执的行为使一切都陷入混乱。等到德斯普兰走出去以后，皮安训走到圣器监守人的身边，监守人正走过来收拾小堂里的圣器，皮安训问他那位先生是否常到这里来。

“我在这里二十年了，”圣器监守人说，“二十年以来德斯普兰先生每年四次到这儿来参加这个弥撒，这场弥撒是他举办的[23]。”

“他举办的弥撒！”皮安训一边走开，一边想，“这和圣母怀孕同样神秘，光这件事就可以使一个医生对一切都怀疑了。”

皮安训虽然是德斯普兰的朋友，后来过了好久却还没有机会同他谈谈他生活中的这件怪事。即使他们在诊病的时候或者在交际场中遇见了，也很难找到两个人可以把脚搁在火炉的薪架上、头靠在沙发的靠背上，清静地、推心置腹地谈心的机会。最后，过了七年，经过1830年的革命[24]以后，当人民冲进大主教官邸[25]的时候，当民主的思潮促使人民摧毁那些在房屋的海洋上像闪电似的直指天空的金色十字架的时候，当反宗教和叛乱盘踞在各处街道上的时候，皮安训又一次出其不意地发现德斯普兰走进圣絮尔皮斯教堂。皮安训马上跟着他进去，跪在他旁边，德斯普兰见到他没有丝毫表示，也没有表现出惊讶。两个人一起参加了他举办的那场弥撒。

“亲爱的老师，”他们走出教堂以后皮安训对德斯普兰说，“您能告诉我您这样过分虔诚的理由吗？我已经三次发现您来参加弥撒了，的确是您！您要告诉我这个秘密，解释给我听为什么在您的信仰和行为之间有这样明显的矛盾。您不相信上帝，而您参加弥撒！我亲爱的老师，您一定要回答我！”

“我跟许多信徒，许多外表上非常虔诚的人相似，其实他们心里同你和我一样，都是无神论者。”

接着他便对几个政治上的大人物[26]大肆讽刺，其中最著名的一个可以让我们在本世纪内写一本新版的莫里哀的《伪君子》。

“我要问您的不是这些，”皮安训说，“我想知道的是：为什么您要到这儿来？为什么您要举办这场弥撒？”

“说老实话，我亲爱的朋友，”德斯普兰说，“我已经到了坟墓的边沿，我当然可以对你谈谈我早期的生活。”

这时候，皮安训和那位伟人正走到四风街上，这条街是巴黎最糟的街道之一。德斯普兰指给他看一座形状像方尖塔的房屋的第七层楼，这座房屋的角门通向一条甬道，甬道的尽头有一道曲曲折折的楼梯，被邻墙上小窗透进的光线照亮，这种小窗很恰当地被称为“气窗”。这是一座暗绿色的房屋，底层住着一个家具商人，这个商人似乎使他的每一层楼都寄居着一种不同类型的贫困。德斯普兰举起臂膀，做了一个有力的手势，对皮安训说：“我在那上面住过两年!”

“我知道，德·阿泰兹也在这里住过，我年轻时几乎天天来这里，当时我们把这阁楼称为熔炼伟人的短颈大口瓶！后来呢？”

“我刚才听弥撒，跟我当时住在阁楼里发生的事情有关。您对我说，德·阿泰兹也住过那间阁楼，就是窗口摆着一盆花，上面荡着一根绳子，晾满了衣物那一间。亲爱的皮安训，早年我生活非常艰难，巴黎的困苦生活就数我忍受得多。我样样苦都熬过：饥饿，口渴，缺钱，没有外衣、鞋子和内衣，贫困交加，一一尝遍。我曾在这熔炼伟人的短颈大口瓶里，哈着冻僵的手指。我真想同您一起再去看看这个阁楼。整个冬天，我在用功时看见自己脑袋冒烟，只见一片热气，就像结冰的日子里马身上冒出来的热气一样。我才知道怎么才能支撑住，忍受这种生活。我孑然一身，孤苦无援，无钱去买书和支付学医的费用。我没有朋友：我的性格暴躁易怒，疑心重重，不安好动，帮了我的倒忙。没有人愿意看到，在我的一触即怒中，有着一个想从社会底层挣扎到上面来的人的苦恼和劳累。在您面前我用不着遮遮掩掩，我可以告诉您，我本性善良，非常敏感，这始终会成为意志坚强，在贫困的沼泽里长期跋涉，然后攀登上高峰的人具有的特性。除了一笔人们给我的、不够用的膳宿费以外，我从我的家庭和故乡什么也得不到。总之，在那个时期，我每天早上吃一块小面包，是小狮街的面包店老板贱卖给我的，因为面包是隔日或前天的，我掰碎了浸在牛奶中——这样，我的早饭只花两个苏。我每隔一天在一家膳宿公寓吃晚饭，每顿晚饭花十六个苏。这样，我平均每天只花九个苏。您跟我一样清楚，我对自己的衣服和鞋子多么爱惜！我不知道后来您和我，我们被同行暗算时，心里感到的难过，是否抵得上当初看到一只脱了线的鞋咧嘴怪笑，或听到礼服袖笼绷开的响声那样的难受。我只喝清水，我对咖啡馆敬而远之。对我来说，佐皮咖啡馆好像一块乐土，只有拉丁语国家吕库吕斯那样的人才有权出入。我有时心想：‘我也能在里面喝一杯牛奶咖啡，玩一局多米诺骨牌吗？’总之，我把贫困使我产生的狂热转化为用功。我千方百计获得有用的知识，使自身拥有巨大的价值，一旦我摆脱了默默无闻，便能配得上那时所达到的地位。我点灯用掉的油多过吃掉的面包：在那些苦读的夜晚，我用于照明的费用超过了我的伙食费。这场战斗是漫长、持久、得不到安慰的。我没有唤起周围人的任何同情。要有朋友，不就是结交年轻人，身上有几个钱好跟他们去品尝几杯，到大学生们想去的地方嘛！我身无分文！在巴黎，没有人想象得出一无所有意味着什么。当有人看出我的贫穷时，我的喉咙便感到一种神经性的痉挛，这种痉挛常使病人以为，有一样圆东西从食道升到喉咙。后来我遇到一些生来有钱的人，他们从来没有短缺过什么。这些有钱的傻瓜问我：‘那时您为什么要欠债呢？您为什么借利息那么高的债呢？’他们使我想起那位王后，她听说老百姓饿得要命时，这样说：‘为什么他们不去买点奶油圆球蛋糕呢？’我很想看到一个富人，抱怨我给他动手术收费昂贵。他在巴黎孤零零，一文不名，没有朋友，告贷无门，不得不靠自己的五根手指干活谋生。怎么办呢？他将怎样解除他的饥饿呢？皮安训，如果有时你看见我刻薄无情，那是因为我将早年我经受的痛苦，加到我在上流社会所经历的几千次的无情和自私上面；或者是因为我想起了仇恨、贪欲、嫉妒、诽谤在成功和我之间所树立起的障碍。在巴黎，有人看见你踏镫上马开始发迹的时候，马上有些人来扯住你的衣襟，另一些人松开马肚带的扣子，使你跌下来摔破脑袋。这一个除去你的马蹄铁，那一个偷去你的马鞭子。最不阴险的还算是那个跑过来对准你用手枪打你一枪的人。你相当有天赋，我的亲爱的孩子，你不久就可以知道那些庸俗的人对有天赋的人所发动的可怕的、无休止的战争：如果你在一天晚上输掉二十五个路易，第二天人家便咬定你是一个赌徒，你的最好的朋友会说你昨天晚上输掉了二万五千法郎；如果你头痛两下，人家便认为你有神经病；如果你态度生硬一点，人家便说你难以交往；如果你集中优势兵力来对付这些侏儒，你的最好的朋友便要叫嚷，说你想鲸吞一切，说你有意横行霸道，压制别人。总之，你的优点都会变成缺点，你的缺点变成罪恶，而你的德行都成了犯罪。如果你救了一个人，人家会说你的本意是想杀死他；如果你的病人没有死，人家肯定会说你为了保证他的现在，损害了他的将来。他现在没有死，将来也会死的。只要你稍一踉跄，你便会跌倒在地上爬不起来！随便你发明什么，只要你主张你的权利，人家就会说你是个喜欢刁难的人，是个狡猾的人，不肯让青年人有飞黄腾达的机会。因此，我的朋友，如果我不相信上帝，我更不相信人类。你难道看不出在我身上有一个与被每一个人恶语中伤的德斯普兰完全不同的德斯普兰吗？可是这些不堪回首的往事，不去想它也罢。却说我住在那所房子里，正在用功读书，准备我的第一次考试，我身边没有一个子儿。你知道，我已经到了要说‘我当兵去’那种穷途末路了！我只有一个希望。我正等待着一箱子从我故乡运来的衬衣，这是那些老姑母们送给我的，她们因为不认识巴黎，以为她们的侄子每月花三十个法郎就可以整天吃山珍海味，所以只想着你的衬衫。箱子运到时，我正在医学院里，搬运费要四十个法郎，看门人是一个德国鞋匠，住在小阁楼里，代我付了运费，把箱子留在他那里。我一个人在福塞圣日耳曼草场街和医学院街走来走去，想不出一个计策来取回箱子，使我可以先不付那四十个法郎，等我卖了那些衬衣再付。我在这种事情上的愚蠢使我明白了除了当外科医生，我不能干别的职业。我的朋友，有些高尚的心灵，他们的能力只适合在较高级的范围中发挥，他们缺少阴谋诡计的机智，这种机智能产生种种手段和计划；他们的才气靠运气：他们本身不去找寻，他们靠偶然碰上。总之，到了晚上，我回家了，这时候，我的邻居，一个名叫布尔雅的挑水夫，是圣夫卢尔[27]人，也回来了。我们中间的交情也不过是同住在一层楼的不同房间，每天听见彼此睡觉、咳嗽、穿衣的声音而终于彼此习惯下来的两个互相认识的房客而已。我的邻居告诉我说，我欠了房东三个月租金，房东赶我搬家，我第二天就要搬走。他自己也因他从事的职业被赶搬家。那天晚上是我生平最痛苦的一夜。‘到哪里去找一个搬运工人来搬走我那些不值钱的行李和书籍呢？拿什么来付给那个搬运工人和看门人呢？搬到哪里去呢？’这些不能解决的问题，我含着眼泪将它们说了一遍又一遍，像疯子总是重复他习惯的那两句话一样。我睡了。困苦的人自有他们充满甜蜜的梦的美妙睡眠。第二天早上，我正在吃着我那碗牛奶浸面包的时候，布尔雅走进来用发音和语法都不准确的法语对我说：‘大学生先生，我是一个穷苦的人，是圣夫卢尔医院的一个孤儿，无父无母，穷得娶不起亲。您的亲戚也不多，钱也不多吧。您听我说，楼下有一辆手推车，是我按每个钟头两个苏的价钱租来的，我们俩所有的东西都能装得下，假使您愿意，我们可以合起来到别处租房子住，既然这儿已经将我们赶了出来。这儿到底不是地上乐园呀！’‘我知道，我的好布尔雅，’我对他说，‘可是我在发愁，在楼下我有一个箱子，装着的衬衫内衣值一百个艾居[28]，我可以拿来付清欠租和还钱给看门人，可是我连一百个苏也没有。’‘好吧，我这里面还有点钱，’布尔雅愉快地回答我，指给我看一个沾满油污的破旧皮包，‘留着您的衬衣吧。’于是布尔雅替我付清了三个月欠租，付了自己的租金，而且还了钱给看门人。然后他把我的家具和衬衫装到他的手推车上，推着车穿街走巷，看见有出租牌子就停下来。我呢，我走上楼去看看出租的房间对我们是否合适。到了中午我们还在拉丁区徘徊，一无所获。租金是最大的障碍。布尔雅向我提议在一家酒铺里吃午饭，我们把手推车停放在酒铺门口。快到黄昏时分，我终于发现在商业胡同、罗昂大院一家房子的顶层，屋顶下面有两个被楼梯隔开的房间。我们每人每年只要付六十个法郎的房租。于是我同我那位微贱的朋友便安顿下来了。我们一起吃饭。布尔雅每天约可赚到五十个苏，已经有差不多一百艾居的存款，不久便可实现他的野心，买一只水桶和一匹马了。他用一种狡猾的方法和亲切的态度把我的秘密都挖了出来，他的亲切态度一直到现在回忆起来都使我的心震动。等到他知道我的全部情况以后，他就暂时放弃他憧憬了一生的野心：布尔雅当挑水夫已经二十二年了，他为了我的前途牺牲了他的一百艾居。”

说到这里德斯普兰紧紧抓住皮安训的胳膊。

“他给了我必要的钱，让我准备考试！我的朋友，这个人懂得我有一个使命，知道我的才智的需要比他的需要更重要。他照顾我，管我叫他的‘孩子’，借给我必要的钱让我买书，有时还蹑手蹑脚地走过来看我用功，最后，他还像慈母般采取措施，把我以前不得不吃的数量不足、质量低劣的食物，换成卫生可口、数量充足的食物。布尔雅是一个四十岁左右的人，相貌很像中世纪时的市民，前额突出，脑袋可以给一个画家用来作为李居尔格[29]的模特儿。这个可怜的人觉得自己心中充满爱，无处发泄。他从来没有被人爱过，只有不久以前死去的一只卷毛狗爱过他。他经常对我谈起这只狗，总是问我是否相信天主教堂会同意为它的灵魂的安息举办弥撒。据他说，他的狗是一个真正的教徒，十二年来，一直跟随他到教堂去，从来不吠一声，总是闭着嘴聆听风琴的乐声，蹲在他的身边，那样子使他相信它正在同他一起祈祷。这个人把他的全部的爱倾注到我身上：他把我当作一个孤独的、受苦的人，他变成了我的无微不至的慈母，面面俱到的恩人，总之，他是无私地做好事的典型。每当我在街上遇见他，他总向我会意地望上一眼，眼光里充满难以想象的崇高的感情。那时候他就装出不在挑水的样子走着，他看见我身体健康，衣服齐整，似乎显得很高兴。他的所作所为，是普通人的献身精神和村姑的爱情应用到高一级的范围。布尔雅替我办事，晚上在约好的钟点把我叫醒，为我揩拭灯罩，擦我们的地板，他既是好仆人，又是好父亲，而且像个英国姑娘那么干净。他负责我们的家务。像菲洛珀芒[30]一样，他锯我们自己的木柴，他做一切事情都简单、自然，同时保持他的尊严，因为他似乎明白只要目的高贵，便连带使一切都高贵起来。当我离开这个老实人进入市立医院当实习医生的时候，他一想到再也不能同我一起生活了，便感到异乎寻常的悲痛，可是他还自我安慰，希望积些钱来为我准备论文，而且叫我答应在休息的日子去看他。布尔雅为我感到骄傲，他爱我是为了我也为他自己。如果你翻开我的论文，你一定会看到这是献给他的。在我当实习医生的最后一年，我攒了足够的钱，可以买一匹马和一只水桶，以偿还我欠这位可敬的奥韦尼人的一切。他知道我花了许多钱，非常生气，然而看见他的希望实现了，又非常高兴。他一边笑一边责备我，他凝视着他的水桶和他的马，一边抹去眼泪一边对我说：‘这不好！啊！多漂亮的水桶！你做错了，这马真和一个奥韦尼人一样结实。’我从来没有见过比这更动人的场面。布尔雅一定要给我买一个医用器械包，就是你在我的诊所里看见的镶银的那一个，这对我是生平最宝贵的东西。虽然他对我早期的成功感到万分兴奋，但是他从来不漏出一句话、一个手势表示：‘这个人多亏了我！’而事实上没有他，贫困早已要了我的命。这个可怜的人为我牺牲了他自己。为了使我有咖啡喝来开夜车，他只吃大蒜抹面包。他病了，你想象得出，我在他的床头守夜，第一次我把他救过来了。可是两年以后病又复发，尽管有热情的照顾，有医学上的种种巨大努力，他终于还是一病不起。国王从来也没有像他那样受到医疗照料。是的，皮安训，为了从死神手里夺回这条生命，我尝试过从来没有试过的方法。我想让他活下去，使他能够看到他亲手促成的成果，看到他的愿望全部实现，同时满足充斥我心中的唯一感恩之情，从而熄灭至今还燃烧着我的火焰!”

“布尔雅，”德斯普兰显然非常激动，停顿了一会儿又说，“我的第二个父亲，死在我的怀里，用遗嘱把他的全部财产遗留给我。遗嘱是他找一个街头代书人写的，订立的日期是我们搬进罗昂大院的那一年。这个人的宗教信仰天真而单纯。他爱圣母仿佛爱他自己的妻子。他是虔诚的天主教徒，但是对我的无宗教信仰从来不发一言。他病危的时候，他求我用尽一切方法使他得到教会的帮助。我叫教堂每天为他奉献一场弥撒。他经常在夜里向我表达他对来世的恐惧，他害怕他今世的生活还过得不够圣洁。可怜的人！他从早到晚劳动。假如真有天堂的话，除了他还有什么人能进天堂呢？他像一个圣者一样接受了临终圣事，他的死配得上他的一生。送殡的人，除了我没有别人。我将我唯一的恩人埋葬以后，我考虑用什么方法可以报他的恩，我发觉他既没有家庭，也没有朋友、妻子、儿女。但是他信上帝！他有一个宗教信仰，我有权利和他争辩吗？他曾经小心翼翼地和我谈起过用弥撒来使死者的亡灵安息，但是他不想把这个负担加到我的身上，因为他认为这就等于叫我报他的恩。因此等到我有财力可以举办一场弥撒的时候，我就给了圣絮尔皮斯教堂足够的钱，使他们每年举行四次弥撒。我唯一可以献给布尔雅的，就是满足他的虔诚的愿望。因此每季度的开始，举行这场弥撒的日子，我就以他的名义去参加弥撒，而且背诵他所希望背诵的经文。我以一个无神论者的诚意祷告：‘我的上帝啊，如果你有一个地方去安置那些生前十全十美的人，请你想到善良的布尔雅吧。如果你要叫他受苦，请把他的痛苦给我，使他得以更快地进入人们所谓的天堂吧。’我的朋友，这就是像我这样有非宗教信仰的人所能做的一切。上帝应该是一个善良的家伙，他不会因此而恨我的。我向你发誓，如果有人能使布尔雅的信仰进入我的脑子，我愿意将我的全部财产送给他。”

皮安训在德斯普兰最后一次生病的时候看护过德斯普兰，现在他不敢肯定这位著名的外科医生死时还是个无神论者。信神的人们也许喜欢想象那位微贱的奥韦尼人会来给他打开天国的门，正如从前他曾为他打开地上神殿的门一样，这神殿[31]的门楣上写着：“祖国感谢所有的伟人”！

1836年1月，巴黎

（郑永慧 译）

[1] 居维埃（Cuvier，1769—1832），法国动物学家，古生物学家。按照居维埃的方法，可以根据破碎的骨头，断定它是哪个世纪哪种动物的遗骸。（说明：书中脚注均为译者注。）

[2] 加利安（Galien，131—约201），希腊名医，在解剖学上曾有重要发明。

[3] 拿破仑于1805在布洛尼厄滨海省集中大军，造平底船，准备在英国登陆。之所以说“要等到1822年才能解释1804年……”，大概是指拿破仑死于1821年，死后拿破仑的回忆录发表，对于他的政治活动做过很多新的解释，因此对1804年他的所作所为要做新的评价。

[4] “怪癖”，原文是英语eccentricity。

[5] 克雷比庸（P.J. Crébillon，1674—1762），法国悲剧诗人。

[6] 圣米歇尔勋章，又名黑绸带，创立于1469年，1816年路易十八予以恢复，专门奖给科学家。

[7] 奥莱斯特（Oreste）是希腊神话中阿伽门农的儿子，同比拉德（Pylade）结为生死之交，他们的友谊传为千古美谈。复仇三女神（Les Furies）专司惩罚人类的罪行。奥莱斯特为父报仇，杀死亲母，被复仇女神追逐，受到比拉德的救助和保护。这里是说荷拉斯·皮安训帮助许多朋友不受债主的追逼。

[8] 塞伊德（Seïde），穆罕默德的奴隶，盲目地忠于他的主人，他的名字象征狂热的忠诚。

[9] 无名小卒，原文是奥米伽（Oméga），是希腊文字母表的最后一个字母，这里做专有名词用，指皮安训在医学界的事业刚刚开始。

[10] 奥韦尼省（Auvergne），过去法国的省份，首府是克勒蒙菲朗，包括现在的多姆山省、康塔尔省和上卢瓦尔省的一部分。

[11] 杜博瓦（Antorire Dubois，1756—1837），法国著名的外科医生。

[12] 康塔尔（Cantal），奥韦尼省的一部分，以有康塔尔山脉而得名。这就是说，这个病人也是奥韦尼省人。

[13] 圣絮尔皮斯广场上有圣絮尔皮斯教堂，因而得名。

[14] 卡巴尼斯主义者，信仰卡巴尼斯学说的人。卡巴尼斯（Pierre Jean Georges Cabanis，1757—1808），法国医生，唯物主义哲学家，是个激烈的无神论者。

[15] 布鲁塞（Francois Broussais，1772—1838），著名的法国医生，他的治疗以放血、节食为主，常使用水蛭放血。

[16] Hoc est corpus，拉丁文，意思是：“这是我的躯体。”相传是耶稣的话。照天主教的说法，圣餐里面的面包和酒，包含着耶稣的圣体、圣血和圣神。这种说法使教会分裂成两派：一派相信，另一派不相信。1264年教皇于班四世建立圣体节，加深了教会内两派之争。

[17] 指普罗旺斯的宗教战争，阿耳比人开创了一个新教派，11世纪时在法国南部流传甚广，被天主教会下令讨伐，血战数年，才镇压下去。

[18] 沃杜瓦教派也流传于法国南部，与阿耳比教派同受迫害。

[19] 伏尔泰以攻击教会闻名于世。

[20] 《语录》（Citateur，1803），法国作家皮戈－勒勃伦（Pigault-Lebrun，1753—1835）所写的书，书中集中了无数揭穿天主教教士的假面具的语录，王政复古时期曾被没收和焚毁。

[21] 《事物本性》（de natur arerum），原文是拉丁文，是著名拉丁诗人吕克拉新（Lucrèce，约公元前98—前55）的一首诗的题目。

[22] 秘密的（in petto），原文是意大利文。

[23] 举办一场弥撒，指付一笔款子给教士，使教士在指定的日期、为特定的目的做弥撒。

[24] 1830年7月，巴黎人民筑起街垒，在三天之内推翻了波旁王朝的专制统治，但胜利果实被资产阶级篡夺，银行家们拥立路易·菲利浦为国王。

[25] 1832年在悼念反动的德·贝里公爵（Le due de Berry）被暗杀的弥撒礼仪上，复辟党人为1830年七月革命中受伤的王室卫士募捐。巴黎人民知道以后，立即冲向教堂，将教堂砸烂。接着又冲向大主教官邸，将官邸抢劫一空。

[26] 这个最著名的人物大概是指苏尔元帅（Soult，1769—1851），他曾经几次当内阁总理，平时热衷于参加宗教游行，因过分热衷，使人产生怀疑。

[27] 圣夫卢尔（Saint Flour）是奥韦尼省的一个城市。

[28] 艾居（écu），法国古币单位，每个值三法郎。

[29] 李居尔格（Lycurgue），根据历代传说，是斯巴达的立法者，约活在公元前9世纪。

[30] 菲洛珀芒（Philopcemen，公元前253—前189），古希腊的军事统帅，以正直和勤劳享有盛名。

[31] 神殿指巴黎的先贤祠（Panthéon），建于1754至1780年，自1791年起，专门收受对国家有贡献的著名人物的骨灰，文学家雨果、左拉等人的骨灰，都在这个大门上有“祖国感谢所有的伟人”的题词的神殿里。

新兵

他们发现，有些时候，借助某个想法或举动，他可以在时间与距离两种模式中废除空间，一种是思想的，另一种是物理的。

——《路易·朗贝尔的思想史》

1793年11月的一个晚上，卡朗唐镇的重要人士都聚集在戴伊夫人家的客厅，集会每天在这里进行。有些事情，在大城市不会引起一丁点的注意，但是，在小城镇却会牵动所有人的神经。这种常规性的集会在小地方就格外引人注目。两天前，戴伊夫人以身体不适为由，闭门谢客，前一天也没有接待任何人。普普通通的日子里，这两件事情在卡朗唐产生的影响，堪比巴黎所有的剧院关门停演。这样的生活好像是不完整的。然而，在1793年，戴伊夫人的举动无疑会招来最致命的后果。对于贵族来说，即便是很小的冒险举动，都可能变成关乎生存与死亡的问题。这一晚，诺曼底人的脸上挂着强烈的好奇和高度的敏感，为了清楚了解诺曼底人的反应，尤其是戴伊夫人内心的挣扎，有必要解释一下她在卡朗唐扮演的角色。她此刻的危险处境，许多人在革命期间也经历过。此外，读者的怜悯之心也会使这个故事更加有声有色。

戴伊夫人，是个寡妇，在贵族流亡时期离开了宫廷，她已故的丈夫是一位中将，曾获骑士勋章。她在卡朗唐一带拥有大量财产，避难于此，期许躲避恐怖浪潮的影响。基于对小镇的充分了解，她的预期十分准确。革命没有对下诺曼底地区带来大面积的破坏。尽管从前戴伊夫人只是在巡视自己的地产时与当地的贵族有过几面之缘，但是，现在她决计向当地的大资本家和新权威人士敞开家门，努力让他们因能和自己攀上关系而感到沾沾自喜，又不引起仇恨和嫉妒。优雅、和善，骨子带着不可言喻的温柔，她不必奴颜婢膝，也无须求天告地，便可以轻松取悦他人。借助巧妙的策略，她成功赢得了广泛的尊重。机敏的性格使得她在微妙之处也游刃有余，满足不同社会阶级要求的同时，既不伤害倔强的新贵的自尊心，也不冒犯老朋友。

不同于下诺曼底女子的光鲜、丰满的美，三十八岁的她有着纤弱的美，或者说贵族的高雅。外貌俊美、端庄；体态轻盈、纤细。说起话来，苍白的脸色就会变得光彩照人，充满活力。黑色的大眼睛散发着和蔼与亲切，平静与虔诚的眼神又仿佛在昭示，她的人生已经由不得她了。在如花的年纪嫁给了一个年老又多疑的军人。丈夫在风流宫廷中有名无实的地位在她脸上罩上了深沉的忧郁。曾经这张脸上肯定也焕发过迷人的魅力和爱情的活力。她不得不始终压抑女人的天真与任性，尽管依旧感受得到，只是不去想，总之，在她心底埋藏着少女的激情。其实她的魅力源于这种内在的青春。只是，有时候内在的青春会在神情上出卖她，让人觉得是内心欲望的天真表达。她的眼神使人生敬，举止言谈中却总是夹杂着少女对未知的将来的渴望与冲动；很快，再不敏感的男人也会爱上她，尽管如此，迫于她端庄的举止，也只能敬而远之。她的心灵生而高贵，又因经历多番残酷斗争的磨砺，超乎众人，连男人都自叹不如。这般性格势必内含某种强大的激情。戴伊夫人的爱都集中一处——母爱。嫁为人妻，她在对儿子过分的疼爱中找回被生活剥夺的幸福与快乐。她不仅仅以纯洁、无私的母爱去爱他，还带着情人的妩媚，妻子的嫉妒。儿子不在眼前时，她就感到难过。儿子不在家时，她就坐立不安。永远也看不够，她只因儿子活着，也只为他活着。为了让大家体会这种情感的力量，只需要略做一点补充，这孩子不单单是戴伊夫人唯一的儿子，也是她在世上唯一的亲人，她唯一可以寄托人生的忧虑、期望、快乐的人。已故的丈夫戴伊伯爵是家族最后的香火，她也是自己家族最后的继承人。人世利益的盘算和人心灵深处最崇高的渴望相并而行，使得在女人身上本来就很强烈的情感，在伯爵夫人心里越燃越烈。她对儿子百般呵护，养儿的艰辛也使得孩子对她来说更加宝贵；医生不止一次预言，她可能会失去他，但是，她只相信自己的直觉，从不灰心。不管医生怎么说，她还是幸福地陪着儿子闯过童年的难关，看他身体日益强壮，有种不可名状的开心。

多亏她持续不断的照料，孩子日渐长大，长成风度优雅的小伙子。二十岁的时候，就已经是凡尔赛镇最出色的骑兵之一。诚然，不是所有母亲的付出都会得到回报，但是戴伊夫人很幸运，她的儿子非常爱她；他们心灵共通，情同挚友。即便没有血缘关系，他们也一定可以像兄弟一样相互感知，这种友谊在生活中是十分罕见的。十八岁时，这位年轻的伯爵被任命为龙骑兵团少尉，依当时的处境，为了捍卫荣誉，不得不跟随贵族流亡。

戴伊夫人，高贵、富有，作为流亡贵族的母亲，不可能对自己严峻的处境视而不见。除了给儿子保留一笔丰厚的财产，别无他求。她放弃了与他一同流亡的幸福。当读到那些严苛的法条，得知共和派每天都依照它们没收卡朗唐流亡贵族的家产时，她为自己大胆的举动拍手叫好。难道她不是冒着生命危险来守护儿子的财富吗？后来，听说国民议会判决残忍的死刑时，她确认自己唯一的宝贝安好，远离危险、远离断头台，便安心地睡了。她快乐地认为自己做出了最明智的选择，可以同时保全所有的财产。保守着自己心中的秘密，对不幸的年代做出所有必需的妥协，为了不损害女人的尊严和牺牲贵族的信念，她把自己的痛苦包裹在冷酷的神秘中。在卡朗唐等待她的重重困难，她早已了然于心。在这里占居首户，岂不是每天都有被推上断头台的可能？可是，被作为母亲所拥有的勇气支撑，她知道如何平等对待穷人，减轻他们的痛苦，以赢得拥护；她也知道如何保护富人的财产，取悦他们，让自己变得不可或缺。她接待市镇检察官、镇长、地方法院庭长、公诉人，甚至革命法庭的法官。这群人中，前面四位都未婚，百般献殷勤，想要娶她为妻。为了得到她，他们不是恐吓她，自己可以给她带来多少麻烦，就是告诉她，自己可以向她提供怎样的庇护。这位公诉人是卡昂的前任律师，从前负责照管伯爵夫人的财产利益，试图以忠心与慷慨，博得她的爱情。危险的手段！他是所有追求者中，最可怕的一位。他也是唯一对伯爵夫人巨额财产状况了如指掌的人，因为她曾经是他的客户。仗着拥有巨大的权力，可以说是这个地区的生杀大权，他的贪婪与日俱增。这个男人，尚年轻，举止如此高贵优雅，以至于戴伊夫人无法辨清他的为人。然而，无视与诺曼底人明争暗斗的危险，她运用女人天生的才智和狡黠，使情敌之间相互牵制。竭力争取时间，她希望可以安然无损地度过混乱期。当时，国内保皇主义分子每天自信地认为革命结束指日可待，而这一执念断送了他们其中很多人的性命。

尽管困难重重，戴伊夫人还是很巧妙地保持着自身的独立，直到这一天，以一种令人费解的轻率，她毫无顾忌地关上了家门。她的反常举动勾起了大家浓厚、真切的兴趣。当晚来访的客人得知伯爵夫人无法接待他们的时候，表现出强烈的不安。再者，出于当地人特有的、赤裸裸的好奇，他们打探戴伊夫人是遭遇了不幸，遇到了烦心事，还是得了重病。名叫布丽吉特的老管家解答了大家的疑惑。她说，夫人把自己关在房间里，谁也不想见，甚至家仆。生活在修道院似的小镇，人们养成了分析和解释他人行为举止的习惯。自然，在对戴伊夫人略表同情之后，不知道她到底是高兴还是悲伤，每个人都开始搜寻她突然闭门谢客的原因。

“如果她生病了，她应该打发人去找医生，”第一个好奇者揣测道，“但是医生今天一天都在我家下棋。他笑着对我说，现今只有一种病……并且这种病无药可救。”

他小心翼翼地抛出这个笑话。于是，女人、男人，老人和年轻的女孩开始了形形色色的猜测。每个人都觉得自己瞥见了一个秘密，这个秘密充满了大胆的想象。第二天，他们的猜疑持续加重。一如小镇的生活很难掩人耳目，女人们首先察觉到布丽吉特采购的食物比往常要多得多。这一点无可争议。一大早，就有人在集市上看见了老管家，不同往常的是，她买了市场上唯一的野兔。小镇上的人都知道，戴伊夫人不喜欢吃野味。野兔也就成了种种猜疑的出发点。与平常一样，老人们出来散散步，他们察觉伯爵夫人家里可能正在进行某种秘密集会，家仆的谨小慎微和遮遮掩掩可以提供佐证。仆人在花园里拍打地毯，要是在前一天，没有人会注意这件事情，可是现在，这张地毯成了故事的线索，大家都借此发挥。每个人都有自己的版本。第二天，听说戴伊夫人自称身体不适，当晚，卡朗唐所有的大人物聚集在镇长的兄弟家。他是一位已婚的老商人，为人正直，受人敬重，连戴伊夫人都很尊重他。聚会中，这位富有孀妇的追求者们都讲出了自己大大小小的猜测；每个人都想让此次迫使她名誉受损的神秘事件对自己有利。公诉人编了一整出戏，故事的结局是戴伊夫人的儿子连夜赶回了家中。镇长认为是有一位旺代的反抗派教士，逃亡于此，请求庇护。但是，这天是周五，买野兔的事情让镇长觉得很尴尬。地方法院庭长则坚信她收留的是被严密追捕的朱安党人或西部保皇党人的某个头目。其他人觉得她收留的是一个从巴黎监狱逃脱的贵族。总之，大家都怀疑伯爵夫人做出了一个大胆的举动，而这一举动依照当时的法律是重罪，足以把她送上断头台。公诉人小声说，大家最好保守这个秘密，尽力去拯救这个大步迈向深渊的不幸女人。

“如果你们散播这件事，”他补充道，“我就不得不介入，去搜查她的家，这样的话……”他没有把话说完，但是大家都明白他的意思。

伯爵夫人的挚友都十分担心她，以至于第三天的一大早，镇行政长官让他的妻子给她写信，鼓励她当晚像往常一样接待客人。更果断的是老商人，这天早上，他直接去了戴伊夫人家。他决心伸出援手，执意要见她，不过令他感到吃惊的是，当他看到戴伊夫人时，她正忙着在小花园里摘花，准备把它们插在花瓶里。

“她肯定在庇护她的情人。”老商人自言自语道，突然十分同情这个迷人的女人。伯爵夫人反常的神情证实了他的猜疑。老商人被女人天生的献身精神深深打动了，因为男人都会因女人甘心为他们牺牲而感到欣喜。老商人告诉了戴伊夫人镇上关于她的流言，以及她危险的处境。

“因为，”他最后说道，“尽管有些公职人员会欣然宽恕保护神父的英勇行为，但是没有人会同情您，如果他们发现您是为爱献身。”

听了这一席话，戴伊夫人用疑惑又疯狂的眼神盯着老商人，看得他瑟瑟发抖。

“跟我来。”她一边说一边拉着他的手往卧室走。确定只有他们两个人的时候，她从胸口掏出一封脏兮兮、皱巴巴的信。“读。”她使出全身的力气从牙缝里挤出这个字。

她瘫在扶手椅上，像丢了魂。老商人掏出眼镜擦拭时，她抬起头来，第一次用好奇的目光打量着他。她有点变腔，轻声对他说：“我十分信任您。”

“我不是来分担您的罪行了吗？”这位老好人直率地回答道。

她浑身战栗。在这个小镇上，她第一次感到自己的灵魂与另一个灵魂相契合。老商人一下子就明白了伯爵夫人的沮丧与欢乐。她的儿子参加了格朗维勒远征，被捕，这封信是儿子在狱中写给她的。这封信给她带来的可能是喜讯，也可能是噩耗。儿子在信中说，对自己的越狱计划很有把握，这三天，他会乔装打扮回到家中。这封致命的信也预示着，如果他第三天晚上没有出现，等待伯爵夫人的将是撕心裂肺的永别。他恳请母亲给冒生命危险捎信的人一大笔钱。老商人拿着信的手不听使唤地颤抖。

“已经是第三天了！”戴伊夫人吼道，她迅速站起来，抢过信，焦急地在房间里走来走去。

“您之前太不小心了，”老商人说道，“为什么让女管家买那些食物？”

“他回来的时候可能饿得要死，累得要命，还有……”她说不下去了。

“我还是很了解我弟弟的，”老商人接过话来，“我这就去说服他站在您这边。”

在这个事情上，老商人重新找回了自己从前在生意场上的机敏，给戴伊夫人出了很谨慎又很有远见的主意。在商量妥当他们各自该说和该做的事情以后，老商人利用各种巧妙的理由，去走访卡朗唐所有的大人物，通知他们，尽管戴伊夫人身体抱恙，今晚还是会在家中接待他们。机智地与诺曼底人周旋，巧妙地回答了大家对伯爵夫人病情的询问，他成功瞒过了所有关心此神秘事件的人。他的初次走访可谓十分成功。他跟一个患痛风的老妇人说，戴伊夫人急性痛风发作，差点要了她的命。从前发生类似状况的时候，著名的特罗尚医生给她开过一个方子。在胸口上贴一张新鲜的兔皮，卧床静养。幸好及时用了这个神奇的偏方，这两天戴伊夫人才脱离生命危险。目前已经痊愈，今晚可以接待来访的客人。故事取得了惊人的效果。这位卡朗唐的医生是一位秘密保皇党人。他进一步解释了药方的原理，借助自己的声望加强了故事的影响力。尽管如此，种种猜疑已经深深扎根在一些顽固分子和理性主义者的心里，不可能一下完全消除。这天晚上，客人早早来到戴伊夫人家中，其中一些人来窥探她的脸色，另一些是出于友谊，大部分人都被她奇迹般的康复吸引而来。他们看见伯爵夫人坐在客厅的壁炉旁。戴伊夫人家的客厅和卡朗唐人家的装修一样简朴。为了不伤害来访客人的狭隘胸襟，她放弃了从前奢华的生活，房间还都是老样子，甚至接待室的地砖都没打磨。她还留着墙上灰暗的旧挂毯，具有乡村特色的家具，点起了蜡烛。入乡随俗，在吝啬与拮据的生活面前，她没有退缩。但是她知道，她的客人会原谅她的奢华，如果是对他们有益的话。她从来不会忽略任何一个能够取悦客人的细节，比如给他们提供丰盛的晚餐。她甚至假装吝啬去迎合爱算计的人。她佯装在奢华面前做出让步，她懂得优雅地服从。所以，这天晚上七点左右，卡朗唐最优秀也是最糟糕的小集团就已经聚集在戴伊夫人家中，围坐在壁炉旁。在老商人同情、关切的目光的支持下，房间的女主人带着难以想象的勇气，应付着客人琐碎的问题、无聊愚蠢的争论。但是，每当有人敲门，或者听到路上有脚步回声时，她便会问一些关乎小镇利益的问题，以掩盖自己的不安。她引发了大家对苹果酒的热议，在老商人的积极应和下，大家似乎已经忘了去窥探她的神情，觉得她举止得体，落落大方。公诉人和其中一位革命法庭的法官则沉默不语，仔细观察着戴伊夫人面部表情的细微变化，尽管房间里十分嘈杂，他们还是静下心来仔细地听。他们多次提出了使她很尴尬的问题，但是，她都灵活应对了。这是母亲才有的勇气啊！戴伊夫人组织了牌局，大家分别围坐在牌桌前，玩波士顿、翻转棋、惠斯特牌。她自己依旧和几个年轻人攀谈，十分悠然自得，像极了老练的演员。戴伊夫人提议玩罗多游戏，假称只有自己知道游戏用具在哪儿，然后就消失了。

“亲爱的布丽吉特，我快要被闷死了。”她一边喊叫，一边擦着喷涌而出的泪水，泪光闪烁的双眸里充满了躁动、痛苦和焦虑。“他还没有来。”她接着说道，爬上楼梯，看了看卧室，“在这里，我呼吸和生存。再过几分钟，他就会来的，无论如何！因为他还活着，我确定他还活着。我的心这么对我说的。你什么也没听到吗，布丽吉特？老天爷，我愿意用我的余生作为交换，只为知道他在监狱中，还是正走在乡间的路上！我忍不住去想！”

她又一次检查房间是否布置妥当。壁炉里火烧得正旺。百叶窗关得严严实实。家具也擦得锃亮。从床铺的细节也可看出所有的东西都是她和布丽吉特一起准备的。她的期待体现在每一个精心的小细节，房间的花香里，飘荡着甜蜜的温柔和最纯洁的爱。只有母亲可以预知一个士兵的渴望，并完完全全地满足他。可口的菜肴，精心挑选的酒，鞋子，换洗衣物，总之，一个劳累的旅行者归家所需要的一切都准备好了，什么也不缺。一个母亲的爱尽现眼前。

“布丽吉特？”她用让人心碎的嗓音叫了她一声，她正把椅子挪到桌子前，仿佛她的梦想就要成真，又仿佛在加强自己的幻想。

“会的！夫人，他肯定会回来的。他肯定不远了。我保证他肯定活着，正在回来的路上。”布丽吉特回应道，“我在《圣经》里放了一把钥匙，珂丹读《约翰福音》的时候，我把钥匙捧在手上。夫人，您知道吗？钥匙没有转动。”

“这可信吗？”伯爵夫人问道。

“当然了，夫人，很灵验的。我以我的灵魂得救向您担保，他还活着。上帝从不欺人。”

“尽管在这里等待他的是危险，我还是十分想见他。”

“可怜的奥古斯特先生，”布丽吉特哭喊道，“他肯定是靠双脚走回来的。”

“八点的钟已经敲响了！”伯爵夫人惊恐地叫道。

她担心自己在房间里待太久了，她本不应该来的。看着房间里的一切，她相信儿子还活着。她下了楼。在走进客厅之前，她在楼梯的廊柱旁停留了片刻，听听寂静的小城里是否有回声。她对守在门口的布丽吉特的丈夫笑了笑。他因为长时间集中精力听外面的动静，目光显得有些呆滞。她无论看什么，都能看见儿子的影子。她迅速回到客厅，假装一副很开心的样子，和小姑娘们一起玩罗多游戏。玩的过程中，她时不时说自己有点不舒服，就又回到了壁炉旁边的扶手椅上休息。这就是当时戴伊夫人家的活动情况和大家的精神状态。

与此同时，一个身着褐色卡马尼奥拉服的年轻人——那个年代十分典型的着装——正在从巴黎到瑟堡的路上，赶往卡朗唐。刚开始征兵的时候，没有什么规章纪律。当时需求紧急，共和派没有时间给士兵提供装备，在路上碰到穿着平民便服的新兵，也不稀奇。这些年轻人，有人走在队伍的前面，有人拖在队伍的后面，他们前进的步伐主要取决于他们承受劳累的长途跋涉的方式。大家关心的“旅行者”，正走在向瑟堡进发的特遣部队前面。卡朗唐的镇长已经等了他们好几小时，想要给他们分发士兵借宿证。这位年轻人的脚步沉重又坚定，仿佛在宣示，他早已习惯了粗野的军旅生活。尽管皎洁的月光洒满卡朗唐周围丛生的杂草，他早已注意到云层积得很厚，仿佛要下雪了。害怕被暴风围困，他加快了脚步，顾不上劳累。他背上背着一个差不多空了的包，手里拿着黄杨手杖，是从高大的树篱上砍下来的，这种形状的灌木在下诺曼底地区十分常见。孤独的旅行者一走进卡朗唐，就看见沐浴在冷寂的月光中的楼塔。他的脚步声回荡在寂静无人的街上。他不得不向一个还在工作的纺织工打听镇长的住处。镇长家并不远，他很快就走到他家门廊下，申请了士兵借宿证，坐在石椅上等待。但是，他却被叫到镇长跟前，被从头到脚，仔细打量了一番。这个新兵风度翩翩，不像是一般人家的孩子，神情透露出贵族的气质，脸上的智慧也暗示着他曾经接受过良好的教育。

“你叫什么名字？”镇长一边问，一边向他投去耐人寻味的目光。

“于连·朱西厄。”新兵回答道。

“你从哪里来？”他接着问，嘴角露出一丝狐疑的微笑。

“巴黎。”

“你的战友应该离这里还有一段距离吧？”他操着诺曼底人嘲讽的口吻继续问道。

“我比大部队快十二公里。”

“一定有什么特殊的情感吸引你来到卡朗唐吧，新兵？”镇长狡猾地问道。“这样也好，”他摆手止住了将要开口讲话的年轻人，“我知道该把你送到哪里了。拿着，这是你的士兵借宿证明，走吧，公民朱西厄！”

镇长在说“公民”二字时，带着一股嘲讽的意味。借宿证上有戴伊夫人提前安排好的住处。年轻人好奇地看着地址。

“他知道他不用走太远。他出门后，要穿过广场！”年轻人离开时，镇长自己吼道，“他可真是胆大！愿上帝带领他！看来他早就想好了如何应对一切。但是，如果不是我，而是其他人要求看他的证件，他就完蛋了！”

就在这时，卡朗唐九点半的钟声响起。戴伊夫人家前厅的风灯点着了，家仆帮他们的女主人和男主人们穿好鞋子，披上外套或者斗篷。打牌的人算清账目。按照小城当地的风俗，大家一起离开。

“公诉人好像不想离开。”一位夫人说道。他们在广场上相互道别，准备各自归家时，她发现这位重要的人物不在。

事实上，这位可怕的公诉人正和伯爵夫人单独待在一起。她浑身颤抖，期待他赶紧离开。

“女公民，”在漫长、恐怖的沉寂后，他终于开了口，“我在这里是为了看看共和国的法律是如何执行的……”

戴伊夫人打了个寒战。

“您没有什么想对我说的吗？”他问道。

“没有。”她吃惊地答道。

“啊！夫人！”他一边喊一边坐在她旁边，换了另外一种口吻，继续说，“这个节骨眼上，说错一个字，你、我都有可能被送上断头台。我观察您的性格、您的精神状况、您的行为举止很久了，才不会被您今晚演的这出戏欺骗。您在等您的儿子，我确信无疑。”

伯爵夫人摆手否认。尽管她已经面色苍白，为了显示自己的坚定，依旧紧绷着脸上的肌肉。她所有的举动都没有逃脱公诉人犀利的目光。

“那么，就接他回家吧，”这位革命的官员接着说道，“但是他最迟只能在家里待到明天早上七点。明天，天一亮，我就会带着一封起草好的告发信登门……”

她惊愕地看着他，神情足以使老虎心生怜悯。

他又用温柔的口气继续说：“我会用细致的搜查证实这封告发信是无稽之谈。有了我的报告，今后您就可以彻底摆脱大家的猜疑。我会高谈您的爱国情操，您的公民责任感，不会有任何闪失。”

戴伊夫人害怕这是一个陷阱，她一动不动，但是她的脸已经憋得通红，舌头也僵住了。突然传来了敲门声……

“天哪！”这个母亲惊恐地叫道，瘫在了地上，“救救他吧，救救他吧！”

“没有问题，我会救他的！”公诉人充满激情地答道，“就算搭上我们的性命，也要保全他。”

“我要死了！”她叫道。公诉人礼貌地扶她起来。

“夫人，”他摆出演说家的架势说，“我不想您有任何的亏欠，包括您自己。”

“夫人，他……”布丽吉特惊呼，她原本以为只有女主人一个人在家。

看见公诉人的瞬间，兴奋、开心的老仆人愣住了，吓得脸色苍白。

“谁来了，布丽吉特？”他温和、优雅地问道。

“一个新兵，镇长让他暂住这里。”仆人答道，顺手递出了士兵借宿证。

“的确，”公诉人看了证明之后说，“今天会有一个部队抵达卡朗唐！”

他离开了。

伯爵夫人此刻需要百分之百信任她的前任律师，容不得半点怀疑。尽管已经没有站立的力气，她还是迅速爬上楼。打开门，看见儿子，跌进他的怀里：“哦！我的孩子，我的孩子！”她抽泣着叫道，疯狂地亲吻他。

“夫人。”陌生人说道。

“天哪！这不是他！”她向后跌了几步，在新兵面前站定，用惊恐的目光盯着他。

“老天爷，怎么会长得如此相像！”布丽吉特惊叹道。

一瞬间，大家陷入了沉寂。年轻人看着戴伊夫人的神情紧张得发抖。

“先生，”她说，靠着布丽吉特的丈夫，痛苦侵袭了她全身，这第一次打击就足以要了她的命，“抱歉，我不能继续待在这里陪您了，如果您不介意的话，让我的家仆来服侍您。”

她被布丽吉特和她的丈夫扶下楼梯。

“怎么会这样，夫人？”老女仆一边安顿女主人，一边叫道，“这个男人竟然要睡在奥古斯特先生的床上，穿奥古斯特先生的拖鞋，吃我精心为奥古斯特先生准备的馅饼！我要是被推上断头台，我……”

“布丽吉特！”戴伊夫人吼道。

老仆人默不作声。

“闭嘴，你这个话痨，”她的丈夫小声说，“难道你想害死夫人吗？”

就在这时，新兵的房间里传出来一些动静，他准备吃饭了。

“我不能待在这里了，”戴伊夫人喊道，“我要去花房，在那里，夜间更方便听外面的声音。”

她在失去儿子的恐惧和重逢的希望之间挣扎。夜，一片可怕的死寂。当新兵大部队到达卡朗唐，每个人都找到自己的住处时，对于伯爵夫人来说，是可怕的时刻。每个脚步，每个动静都会激起她的希望，但紧跟而来的安静，又会让希望变成泡影。

清晨，伯爵夫人不得不回她自己的房间。布丽吉特留心主人的一举一动，看她没有出来，就走进房间，发现夫人已经死了。

“她肯定听见了新兵穿好衣服后，在奥古斯特先生的房间里走来走去，唱那首该死的《马赛曲》，像在马槽里一样，”布丽吉特哭喊道，“这足以要了她的命！”

导致伯爵夫人死亡的痛苦远比这个要沉重得多，很可能是可怕的幻象。戴伊夫人在卡朗唐逝世的那一刻，她的儿子在莫尔比昂被枪决了。我们可以将这出悲剧纳入所有超越法律空间，关乎同情的观察里。孤独的人们带着好奇收集的资料，有一天会成为一门新兴科学的基础，只是今天，这个天才还没有出现。

1831年2月于巴黎

（陈爽 译）

The Atheist’s Mass

A doctor to whom science owes a fine physiological theory and who, while still young, achieved a place amongst the celebrities of the Paris school of medicine(that centre of enlightenment to which all the doctors of Europe pay homage), Doctor Bianchon, practised surgery for a long time before devoting himself to medicine. His early studies were directed by one of the greatest of French surgeons, by the celebrated Desplein who passed through the world of science like a meteor. Even his enemies admit that he took with him to the grave a method that could not be handed on to others. Like all men of genius he had no heirs; he carried his skill within him and he carried it away with him. A surgeon’s fame is like an actor’s. It exists only so long as he is alive and his talent can no longer be appreciated once he has gone. Actors and surgeons, great singers too, and virtuoso musicians who by their playing increase tenfold the power of music, are all heroes of the moment. Desplein’s life is a proof of the resemblance between the destinies of these transitory geniuses. His name which was so famous yesterday is almost forgotten today. It will remain only in his own field without going beyond it. But extraordinary conditions are surely necessary for the name of a scholar to pass from the domain of Science into the general history of humanity. Did Desplein have that width of knowledge which makes a man the mouthpiece or the representative of an age? Desplein possessed a god- like glance; he understood the patient and his disease by means of a natural or acquired intuition which allowed him to appreciate the diagnosis appropriate to the individual, to decide the precise moment, the hour, the minute at which he should operate, taking into account atmospheric conditions and temperamental peculiarities. To be able to collaborate with Nature in this way, had he then studied the endless combination of beings and elemental substances contained in the atmosphere or provided by the earth for man, who absorbs them and uses them for a particular purpose? Did he use that power of deduction and analogy to which Cuvier owes his genius? However that may be, this man understood the secrets of the flesh; he understood its past as well as its future, by studying the present. But did he contain all science in his person as did Hippocrates, Galen, Aristotle? Did he lead a whole school towards new worlds? No. If it is impossible to refuse to this constant observer of human chemistry the ancient science of Magism, that is to say, the knowledge of the elements in fusion, of the causes of life, of life before life, of what it will be, judging from its antecedents before it exists, all this unfortunately was personal to him. In his life he was isolated by egoism, and today that egoism is the death of his fame. Over his tomb there is no statue proclaiming to the future, in ringing tones, the mysteries which Genius seeks out at its own expense. But perhaps Desplein’s talent was in keeping with his beliefs, and consequently mortal. For him the terrestrial atmosphere was like a generative bag; he saw the earth as if it were an egg in its shell, and unable to know whether the egg or the hen came first, he denied both the fowl and the egg. He believed neither in the animal anterior to man nor in the spirit beyond him. Desplein was not in doubt, he affirmed his opinion. He was like many other scholars in his frank, unmixed atheism. They are the best people in the world but incorrigible atheists, atheists such as religious people don’t believe exist. It was hardly possible for such a man to hold a different opinion, for from his youth he was used to dissecting the living being par excellence, before, during and after life, and to examining all its functions without finding the unique soul that is indispensable to religious theories. Desplein recognized a cerebral centre, a nervous centre and a circulatory centre, of which the first two do duty for each other so well that at the end of his life he was convinced that the sense of hearing was not absolutely necessary to hear, nor the sense of sight absolutely necessary to see, and that the solar plexus could replace them without anyone noticing it. He thus found two souls in man and this fact confirmed his atheism, although it still tells us nothing about God. He died, they say, impenitent to the last, as unfortunately do many fine geniuses. May God forgive them!

This really great man’s life exhibited many pettinesses, to use the expression of his enemies who in their jealousy wanted to diminish his fame, but it would be more appropriate to call them apparent contradictions. Envious or stupid people who do not know the reasons which explain the activities of superior minds immediately take advantage of a few superficial contradictions to make accusations on which they obtain a momentary judgement. If, later on, the plans which have been attacked are crowned with success, when the preparations are correlated with the results, some of the calumnies which were made beforehand remain. Thus, in our own time, Napoleon was condemned by our contemporaries when he spread out the wings of his eagle over England: but we needed the events of 1822 to explain 1804 and the flat- bottomed boats at Boulogne.[1]

Since Desplein’s fame and scientific knowledge were unassailable, his enemies attacked his strange disposition and his character, while in fact he was simply what the English call eccentric. At times he dressed magnificently like the tragedian Crébillon, at times he seemed unusually indifferent to clothes. Sometimes he was to be seen in a carriage, sometimes on foot. He was now sharp- tempered, now kind, apparently hard and stingy, yet capable of offering his fortune to his exiled rulers who honoured him by accepting it for a few days. No man has inspired more contradictory judgements. Although, to obtain the Order of Saint Michael (which doctors are not supposed to solicit), he was capable of dropping a Book of Hours from his pocket at Court, you can be sure that inwardly he laughed at the whole thing. He had a profound contempt for mankind, having studied them from above and from below, having surprised them without pretence, as they performed the most solemn as well as the pettiest acts of life. A great man’s gifts often hang together. If one of these giants has more talent than wit, his wit is still greater than that of a man of whom one says simply, ‘He is witty.’ All genius presupposes moral insight. This insight may be applied to some speciality, but he who sees the flower must see the sun. The doctor who heard a diplomat whose life he had saved ask, ‘How is the Emperor?’, and who replied, ‘The courtier is coming back to life, the man will follow!’ was not only a surgeon or a physician, he was also extremely witty. Thus the close and patient observer of humanity will justify Desplein’s exorbitant pretensions and will realize, as he himself realized, that he was capable of being as great a minister as he was a surgeon.

Among the riddles which Desplein’s life reveals to his contemporaries we have chosen one of the most interesting, because the solution will be found at the end of this tale and will answer some of the foolish accusations which have been made against him.

Of all the pupils whom Desplein had at his hospital, Horace Bianchon was one of those to whom he became most warmly attached. Before doing his internship at the Hôtel Dieu,[2] Horace Bianchon was a medical student, living in a miserable boarding- house in the Latin Quarter, known by the name of La Maison Vauquer.[3] There this poor young man experienced that desperate poverty which is a kind of melting- pot whence great talents emerge pure and incorruptible, just as diamonds can be subjected to any kind of shock without breaking. In the violence of their unleashed passions, they acquire the most unshakeable honesty, and by dint of the constant labour with which they have contained their balked appetites, they become used to the struggles which are the lot of genius. Horace was an upright young man, incapable of double- dealing in affairs of honour, going straight to the point without fuss, as capable of pawning his coat for his friends as of giving them his time and his night’s rest. In short, Horace was one of those friends who are not worried about what they receive in exchange for what they give, certain as they are to receive in their turn more than they will give. Most of his friends had for him that inner respect which is inspired by unostentatious goodness, and several of them were afraid of his strictures. But Horace exercised these virtues without being prudish. He was neither a puritan nor a preacher; he swore quite readily when giving advice, and enjoyed a good meal in gay company when opportunity offered. He was good company, no more squeamish than a soldier, bluff and open, not like a sailor – for the sailor of today is a wily diplomatist – but like a fine young man who has nothing to hide in his life; he walked with his head high and his heart light. In a word, Horace was the Pylades of more than one Orestes, creditors being today the most real shape assumed by the ancient Furies. He wore his poverty with that gaiety which is perhaps one of the greatest elements of courage, and like all those who have nothing, he contracted few debts. Sober as a camel, brisk as a stag, he was unwavering both in his principles and in his behaviour. The happiness of Bianchon’s life began on the day when the famous surgeon obtained evidence of the good qualities and failings which, the one as much as the other, made Doctor Horace Bianchon doubly precious to his friends. When a clinical chief adopts a young man, that young man has, as they say, his foot in the stirrup. Desplein always took Bianchon with him to act as his assistant in well- to- do homes, where some reward would nearly always find its way into the student’s purse, and where little by little the mysteries of Parisian life were revealed to the young provincial. Desplein also kept him in his surgery during consultations and gave him work to do there. Sometimes he would send him to accompany a rich patient to a spa. In short, he was making a practice for him. The result of all this was that after a time the lord of surgery had a devoted slave. These two men, the one at the height of his fame and leader of his profession, enjoying an immense fortune and an immense reputation, the other, a modest Omega, having neither fortune nor fame, became intimate friends. The great Desplein told his assistant everything. He knew if a certain lady had sat down on a chair beside the master, or on the famous surgery couch where Desplein slept. Bianchon knew the mysteries of that temperament, both lion- like and bull- like, which in the end expanded and abnormally developed the great man’s chest and caused his death from enlargement of the heart. The student studied the eccentricities of Desplein’s very busy life, the plans made by his sordid avarice, the hopes of the politician concealed behind the scientist; he foresaw the disappointments in store for the only feeling hidden in that heart which was hardened rather than hard.

One day Bianchon told Desplein that a poor watercarrier from the Saint- Jacques quarter had a horrible illness caused by fatigue and poverty; this poor Auvergnat had eaten only potatoes during the severe winter of 1821. Desplein left all his patients. At the risk of working his horse to death, he rode as fast as he could, followed by Bianchon, to the poor man’s house and himself had him carried to the nursing- home founded by the famous Dubois in the Faubourg Saint- Denis. Desplein attended the man, and when he had cured him, gave him the money to buy a horse and a water- cart. This Auvergnat was remarkable for one original characteristic. One of his friends fell ill; he took him straight away to Desplein and said to his benefactor, ‘I would not have allowed him to go to another doctor.’ Surly as he was, Desplein grasped the water- carrier’s hand and said, ‘Bring them all to me.’And he had the peasant from the Cantal admitted to the Hôtel Dieu, where he took the greatest care of him. Bianchon had already noticed several times that his chief had a predilection for Auvergnats, and especially for water- carriers. But as Desplein had a kind of pride in his treatments at the Hôtel Dieu, his pupil didn’t see anything very strange in that.

One day, as Bianchon was crossing the Place Saint- Sulpice, he noticed his master going into the church about nine o’clock in the morning. Desplein, who at that period of his life never moved a step except by carriage, was on foot and slipping in by the door of the Rue du Petit- Lion, as if he had been going into a house of doubtful reputation. Bianchon’s curiosity was naturally aroused, since he knew his master’s opinions and that he was a‘devyl’ of a Cabanist[4] (devyl with a y, which in Rabelais seems to suggest a superiority in devilry). Slipping into Saint- Sulpice, he was not a little astonished to see the great Desplein, that atheist without pity for the angels, who cannot be subjected to the surgeon’s knife, who cannot have sinus or gastric trouble, that dauntless scoffer, kneeling humbly, and where? . . . in the chapel of the Virgin, where he listened to a Mass, paid for the cost of the service, gave alms for the poor, all as solemnly as if he had been performing an operation.

‘He certainly didn’t come to clear up questions about the Virgin birth,’ said Bianchon in boundless astonishment. ‘If I had seen him holding one of the tassels of the canopy on Corpus Christi day, I would have taken it as a joke; but at this hour, alone, with no one to see him, that certainly gives one food for thought!’

Bianchon did not want to look as if he was spying on the chief surgeon of the Hôtel Dieu and he went away. By chance Desplein invited him to dinner that very day, not at home but at a restaurant.

Between the fruit and the cheese, Bianchon managed skilfully to bring the conversation round to the subject of the Mass, calling it a masquerade and a farce.

‘A farce,’ said Desplein, ‘which has cost Christendom more blood than all Napoleon’s battles and all Broussais’leeches! The Mass is a papal invention which goes no further back than the sixth century and which is based on Hoc est corpus. What torrents of blood had to be spilt to establish Corpus Christi day! By the institution of this Feast the court of Rome intended to proclaim its victory in the matter of the Real Presence, a schism which troubled the Church for three centuries. The wars of the Counts of Toulouse and the Albigensians are the tail- end of this affair. The Vaudois and the Albigensians[5] refused to recognize this innovation.’

In short Desplein enjoyed himself, giving free rein to his atheistic wit, and pouring out a flood of Voltairean jokes, or, to be more precise, a horrible parody of the Citateur.[6]

‘Well,’ Bianchon said to himself, ‘where is the pious man I saw this morning?’

He said nothing; he had doubts whether he really had seen his chief at Saint- Sulpice. Desplein would not have bothered to lie to Bianchon. They both knew each other too well; they had already exchanged ideas on subjects which were just as serious, and they had discussed systems de natura rerum, probing or dissecting them with the knives and the scalpel of incredulity. Three months went by. Bianchon did not follow up the incident, although it remained stamped on his memory. One day in the course of that year, one of the doctors at the Hôtel Dieu took Desplein by the arm, in Bianchon’s presence, as if to ask him a question.

‘What were you going to do at Saint- Sulpice, my dear chief?’ he asked.

‘I went to see a priest who had a diseased knee. Madame la Duchesse d’Angoulême did me the honour of recommending me,’ said Desplein.

The doctor was satisfied with this excuse, but not so Bianchon.

‘Oh! So he goes to see bad knees in church! He was going to hear Mass,’ the student said to himself.

Bianchon determined to keep a watch on Desplein. He recalled the day and the time on which he had surprised him going in to Saint- Sulpice and he determined to go there the following year on the same day and at the same time, to find out if he would surprise him there again. If that happened, the regularity of his worship would justify a scientific investigation, for in such a man there should not be a direct contradiction between thought and deed. The following year, on the day and at the hour in question, Bianchon, who was by this time no longer Desplein’s assistant, saw the surgeon’s carriage stop at the corner of the Rue de Tournon and the Rue du Petit- Lion. From there his friend crept stealthily along by the walls of Saint- Sulpice where he again heard Mass at the altar of the Virgin. It was certainly Desplein, the chief surgeon, the atheist in petto, the pious man on occasion. The plot became more involved. The famous scientist’s persistence complicated everything. When Desplein had left the church, Bianchon went up to the sacristan who came to minister to the chapel, and asked him if the gentleman was a regular attendant.

‘I have been here for twenty years,’ said the sacristan,‘and for all that time Monsieur Desplein has been coming four times a year to hear this Mass; it was he who founded it.’

‘He founded it!’ said Bianchon as he walked away. ‘This is as much a mystery as the Immaculate Conception, which of itself must make a doctor an unbeliever.’

Although Dr Bianchon was a friend of Desplein’s, some time went by before he was in a position to speak to him about this strange circumstance of his life. If they met at a consultation or in society, it was difficult to find that moment of confidence and solitude when, with feet up on the fire- dogs and heads leaning against the backs of their chairs, two men tell each other their secrets. Finally, seven years later, after the 1830 Revolution, when the people stormed the Archbishopric, when, inspired by Republican sentiments, they destroyed the golden crosses which appeared, like flashes of lightning, in this vast sea of houses, when Disbelief and Violence swaggered together through the streets, Bianchon surprised Desplein going into Saint- Sulpice. The doctor followed him in and took a place near him without his friend making the least sign or showing the least surprise. Both of them heard the foundation Mass.

‘Will you tell me, my friend,’ Bianchon said to Desplein when they were outside the church, ‘the reason for this display of piety? I have already caught you three times going to Mass, you! You must tell me the reason for this mysterious activity, and explain to me the flagrant discrepancy between your opinions and your behaviour. You don’t believe in God, yet you go to Mass! My dear chief, you must answer me.’

‘I am like many pious men, men who appear to be profoundly religious but are quite as atheistic as we are, you and I.’

And he let forth a torrent of epigrams about political personalities of whom the best known provides us in this century with a new edition of Molière’s Tartuffe.

‘That’s not what I am talking about,’ said Bianchon. ‘I want to know the reason for what you have just been doing here. Why did you found this Mass?’

‘Well, my dear friend,’ said Desplein, ‘since I am on the brink of the grave, there is no reason why I shouldn’t speak to you about the beginning of my life.’

At this moment Bianchon and the great man happened to be in the Rue des Quatre- Vents, one of the most horrible streets in Paris. Desplein pointed to the sixth storey of one of those houses which are shaped like an obelisk and have a medium- sized door opening on to a passage. At the end of the passage is a spiral staircase lit by apertures called jours de souffrance. The house was a greenish colour; on the ground floor lived a furniture dealer; a different kind of poverty seemed to lodge on each floor. Raising his arm with an emphatic gesture, Desplein said to Bianchon, ‘I lived up there for two years.’

‘I know the place; d’Arthez lived there and I came here almost every day in my youth. At that time we called it the “jar of great men”! Well, what of it?’

‘The Mass that I have just heard is linked to events which took place at the time when I lived in the attic where, so you tell me, d’Arthez lived. It is the one where a line of washing is dangling at the window above a pot of flowers. I had such a difficult time to start with, my dear Bianchon, that I can dispute the palm of the sufferings of Paris with anyone. I have put up with everything, hunger, thirst, lack of money, lack of clothes, of footwear, of linen, everything that is hardest about poverty. I have blown on my numbed fingers in that “jar of great men”which I should like to visit again with you. I worked during one winter, when I could see my own head steaming and a cloud of my own breath rising like horses’breath on a frosty day. I don’t know what enables a man to stand up to such a life. I was alone, without help, without a farthing either to buy books or to pay the expenses of my medical education. I had no friends and my irritable, sensitive, restless temperament did me no good. No one could see that my bad temper was caused by the difficulties and the work of a man who, from his position at the bottom of the social ladder, was striving to reach the top. But I can tell you, you to whom I don’t need to pretend, that I had that basis of good feeling and keen sensitivity which will always be the prerogative of men who, after having been stuck for a long time in the slough of poverty, are strong enough to climb to any kind of summit. I could get nothing from my family or my home beyond the inadequate allowance they made me. In short, at this period of my life, all I had to eat in the mornings was a roll which the baker in the Rue du Petit- Lion sold me more cheaply because it was yesterday’s, or the day before yesterday’s. I crumbled it up into some milk and so my morning meal cost me only two sous. I dined only every other day at a boarding- house where dinner cost sixteen sous. In this way I spent only nine sous a day. You know as well as I do the care I had to take of my clothes and my footwear. I don’t think, later on in life, we are as much distressed by a colleague’s disloyalty as you and I were when we saw the mocking grin of a shoe that was becoming unsewn, or heard the armhole of a frock- coat split. I drank only water; I had the greatest respect for cafés. Zoppi’s seemed to me like a promised land which the Luculli of the Latin Quarter alone had the right to patronize. Sometimes I wondered whether I would ever be able to have a cup of white coffee there, or play a game of dominoes. In short, I transferred to my work the fury which poverty inspired in me. I tried to master scientific knowledge so that I should have an immense personal worth deserving of the place I would reach when I emerged from my obscurity. I consumed more oil than bread; the light which lit up those stubborn vigils cost me more than my food. The struggle was long, hard and unrelieved. I aroused no feelings of friendship in those around me. To make friends, you must mix with young people, have a few sous so that you can go and have a drink with them, go with them everywhere where students go. I had nothing. And no one in Paris realizes that“nothing” is “nothing”. When there was any question of revealing my poverty I experienced that nervous contraction of the throat which makes our patients think that a ball is rising up from the gullet into the larynx. Later on I met people who, born rich and never having lacked for anything, don’t know the problem of this rule of three:“A young man is to crime as a hundred sous piece is to X.”These gilded fools say to me, “Why did you get into debt? Why did you take on such crushing obligations?” They remind me of the princess who, knowing that the people were dying of hunger, asked, “Why don’t they buy cake?”I should very much like to see one of those rich people, who complains that I charge too much for operating on him, alone in Paris, without a penny, without a friend, without credit and forced to work with his two hands to live. What would he do? Where would he satisfy his hunger? Bianchon, if at times you have seen me bitter and hard, it was because I was superimposing my early sufferings on the lack of feeling, the selfishness, of which I had thousands of examples in high places; or I was thinking of the obstacles which hatred, envy, jealousy, and calumny have placed between me and success. In Paris, when certain people see you ready to put your foot in the stirrup, some of them pull you back by the coat- tail, others loosen the buckle of the saddle- girth so that you’ll fall and break your head; this one takes the shoes of your horse, that one steals your whip. The least treacherous is the one you see coming up to shoot you at point- blank range. You have enough talent, my dear fellow, soon to be acquainted with the horrible, unending battle which mediocrity wages against superiority. If one evening you lose twenty- five louis, the next day you will be accused of being a gambler and your best friends will say that the day before you lost twenty- five thousand francs. If you have a headache, you will be called a lunatic. If you have one outburst of temper, they will say you are a social misfit. If, in order to resist this army of pygmies, you muster your superior forces, your best friends will cry out that you want to eat up everything, that you claim to have the right to dominate and lord it over others. In short, your good qualities will become failings, your failings will become vices, and your virtues will be crimes. If you have saved a man, they’ll say you have killed him; if your patient is in circulation again, they will affirm that you have sacrificed the future to the present; if he is not dead, he will die. Hesitate, and you will be lost! Invent anything at all, claim your just due, you will be regarded as a sly character, difficult to deal with, who is standing in the way of the young men. So, my dear fellow, if I don’t believe in God, I believe still less in man. You recognize in me a Desplein very different from the Desplein everyone speaks ill of, don’t you? But let’s not rummage in this muck heap. Well, I used to live in this house; I was busy working to pass my first examination and I hadn’t a sou. I had reached one of those extreme situations where, you know, a man says to himself, “I shall join the army.” I had one last hope. I was expecting from home a trunk full of linen, a present from old aunts of the kind who, knowing nothing of Paris, think of your shirts and imagine that with thirty francs a month their nephew lives on caviar. The trunk arrived while I was at the school; the carriage cost forty francs. The porter, a German cobbler who lived in a garret, had paid the money and was keeping the trunk. I went for a walk in the Rue des Fossés- Saint-Germain- des- Prés and in the Rue de l’ Ecole- de- Médecine, but I could not think up a plan which would deliver my trunk to me without my having to pay the forty francs; naturally I would have paid them after I had sold the linen. My stupidity made me realize that I was gifted for nothing but surgery. My dear fellow, sensitive souls whose gifts are deployed in a lofty sphere are lacking in that spirit of intrigue which is so resourceful in contriving schemes. Their genius lies in chance; they don’t seek for things, they come on them by chance. Well, I returned at nightfall at the same time that my neighbour, a water- carrier named Bourgeat, a man from Saint- Flour, was going home. We knew each other in the way two tenants do who have rooms on the same landing, and who hear each other sleeping, coughing, and dressing, till in the end they get used to one another. My neighbour informed me that the landlord, to whom I owed three quarters’ rent, had turned me out; I would have to clear out the next day. He himself had been given notice because of his calling. I spent the most unhappy night of my life. Where would I find a carrier to remove my poor household affairs and my books? How would I be able to pay the carrier and the porter? Where was I to go? I kept on asking myself these unanswerable questions through my tears, like a madman repeating a refrain. I fell asleep. Poverty has in its favour an exquisite sleep filled with beautiful dreams. The next morning, just as I was eating my bowlful of crumbled bread and milk, Bourgeat came in and said in his bad French, “Monchieur l’étudiant, I’m a poor man, a foundling from the Chain- Flour hospital. I’ve no father or mother and I’m not rich enough to get married. You haven’t many relations either, or much in the way of hard cash. Now listen. I’ve got a hand- cart downstairs which I’ve hired for two chous an hour. It’ll take all our things. If you’re willing, we’ll look for digs together since we’re turned out of here. After all, this place isn’t an earthly paradise.”

‘ “I know that alright, Bourgeat, my good fellow,” I replied. “But I’m in rather a jam. Downstairs I have a trunk containing linen worth a hundred crowns. With that I could pay the landlord and what I owe the porter, but I haven’t got a hundred sous.”

‘ “That doesn’t matter, I’ve got some cash,” Bourgeat replied cheerfully, showing me a filthy old leather purse.“Keep your linen.”

‘Bourgeat paid my three quarters’ rent and his own and settled with the porter. Then he put our furniture and my linen on to his cart and dragged it through the streets, stopping in front of every house which had a “to let” sign hanging out. My job was to go up and see if the place to let would suit us. At midday we were still wandering about the Latin Quarter without having found anything. The price was a great difficulty. Bourgeat suggested that we should have lunch at a wine- shop; we left our cart at the door. Towards evening, I discovered in the Cour de Rohan, Passage du Commerce, two rooms, separated by the stair in the attic at the top of a house. The rent was sixty francs a year each. We were housed at last, my humble friend and I. We had dinner together. Bourgeat, who earned about fifty sous a day, had about a hundred crowns. He was soon going to be able to realize his ambition and buy a water- cart and a horse. When he learned about my situation (for he dragged my secrets out of me with a deep cunning and a good nature the memory of which still touches my heart), he gave up for some time his whole life’s ambition. Bourgeat had been a street- merchant for twenty- two years; he sacrificed his hundred crowns to my future.’

Desplein gripped Bianchon’s arm with emotion.

‘He gave me the money I needed for my exams. My friend, that man realized that I had a mission, that the needs of my intelligence were more important than his own. He took care of me; he called me his child and lent me the money I needed to buy books. Sometimes he would come in very quietly to watch me working. Last but not least, he took care, as a mother might have done, to see that instead of the bad and insufficient food which I had been forced to put up with, I had a healthy and plentiful diet. Bourgeat, who was a man of about forty, had the face of a medieval burgess, a dome- like forehead and a head that a painter might have used as a model for Lycurgus. The poor man’s heart was filled with affections which had no outlet. The only creature that had ever loved him was a poodle which had died a short time before. He talked to me continually about it and asked me if I thought that the Church would be willing to say Masses for the repose of its soul. His dog was, so he said, a true Christian and it had gone to church with him for twelve years, without ever barking there. It had listened to the organ without opening its mouth and squatted beside him with a look that made him think it was praying with him. This man transferred all his affections to me; he accepted me as a lonely and unhappy creature. He became for me the most attentive of mothers, the most tactful of benefactors, in short, the ideal of that virtue which delights in its own work. Whenever I met him in the street, he would glance at me with an understanding look filled with remarkable nobility; then he would pretend to walk as if he was carrying nothing. He seemed happy to see me in good health and well- dressed. In short, it was the devotion of a man of the people, the love of a working- girl transferred to a higher sphere. Bourgeat did my errands; he woke me up at night at the hours I asked him to. He cleaned my lamp and polished our landing. He was as good a servant as he was a father, and tidy as an English girl. He did the housework. Like Philopoemen he used to saw up our wood, doing everything with simplicity and dignity, for he seemed to realize that his objective added nobility to everything he did. When I left this good man to do my residence at the Hôtel Dieu, he felt an indescribable grief at the thought that he could no longer live with me. But he consoled himself with the prospect of saving up the money needed for the expenses of my thesis, and made me promise to come and see him on my days off. Bourgeat was proud of me; he loved me both for my sake and for his own. If you look up my thesis you will see that it was dedicated to him. During the last year of my internship, I had earned enough money to pay back everything I owed to this admirable Auvergnat, by buying him a horse and a water- cart. He was furious when he knew that I had been depriving myself of my money, and nevertheless he was delighted to see his wishes realized. He both laughed and scolded me. He looked at his cart and his horse, wiping a tear from his eyes as he said, “That’s bad! Oh, what a splendid cart! You shouldn’t have done it. The horse is as strong as an Auvergnat.” I have never seen anything more moving than this scene. Bourgeat absolutely insisted on buying me that case of instruments mounted in silver which you have seen in my study, and which is for me the most valuable thing I have there. Although he was thrilled by my first successes, he never let slip the least word or gesture which implied,“That man’s success is due to me.” And yet, without him, poverty would have killed me. The poor man had dug his own grave to help me. He had eaten nothing but bread rubbed with garlic, so that I could have coffee to help me work at night. He fell ill. As you can imagine, I spent the nights at his bedside. I pulled him through the first time, but he had a relapse two years later, and in spite of the most constant care, in spite of the greatest efforts of medical science, his end had come. No king was ever as well cared for as he was. Yes, Bianchon, to snatch that life from death I made supreme efforts. I wanted to make him live long enough for me to show him the results of his work and realize all his hopes for me; I wanted to satisfy the only gratitude which has ever filled my heart and put out a fire which still burns me today.’

After a pause, Desplein, visibly moved, resumed his tale. ‘Bourgeat, my second father, died in my arms leaving me everything he possessed in a will which he had had made by a public letter- writer and dated the year when we went to live in the Cour de Rohan. This man had the simple faith of a charcoal- burner. He loved the Blessed Virgin as he would have loved his wife. Although he was an ardent Catholic, he had never said a word to me about my lack of religion. When his life was in danger, he begged me to do everything possible to enable him to have the help of the Church. I had Mass said for him every day. Often, during the night, he would express fears for his future; he was afraid that he had not lived a sufficiently holy life. Poor man! He worked from morning to night. To whom then would Paradise belong – if there is a Paradise? He received the last rites like the saint he was and his death was worthy of his life. I was the only person to attend his funeral. When I had buried my only benefactor, I tried to think of a way of paying my debt to him. I realized that he had neither family nor friends, wife nor children. But he was a believer, he had a religious conviction. Had I any right to dispute it? He had spoken to me shyly about Masses said for the repose of the dead. He didn’t want to impose this duty upon me, thinking that it would be like asking payment for his services. As soon as I could establish an endowment fund, I gave Saint- Sulpice the necessary amount to have four Masses said there a year. As the only thing I can give to Bourgeat is the satisfaction of his religious wishes, the day when this Mass is said at the beginning of each season, I say with the good faith of a doubter, “Oh God, if there is a sphere where, after their death, you place all those who have been perfect, think of good Bourgeat. And if there is anything for him to suffer, give me his sufferings so that he may enter more quickly into what is called Paradise.”That, my dear fellow, is the most that a man with my opinions can allow himself. God must be a decent chap; he couldn’t hold it against me. I swear to you, I would give my fortune to be a believer like Bourgeat.’

Bianchon, who looked after Desplein in his last illness, dares not affirm nowadays that the distinguished surgeon died an atheist. Believers will like to think that the humble Auvergnat will have opened the gate of heaven for him as, earlier, he had opened for him the gate of that earthly temple on whose doorway is written Aux grands hommes la patrie reconnaissante.[7]

[1] In 1804 Napoleon planned to invade England, using a fleet of flat- bottomed boats based on Boulogne. But he was unable to gain command of the sea, and abandoned this plan in favour of the land conquest of Europe. In 1822 the French Government wanted to intervene in the civil conflict in Spain, in spite of the vigorous protest of Great Britain. Balzac’s point is, however, unclear.

[2] L’ Hôtel- Dieu was one of the oldest and most important hospitals in Paris.

[3] Life in La Maison Vauquer is depicted in Balzac’s novel Le Père Goriot.

[4] Cabanis was the author of the Traité du pbysique et du moral de l’homme, an influential atheistic and materialistic work.

[5] The Vaudois and the Albigensians were twelfth- century heretical sects in the south of France.

[6] Le Citateur was an anti- clerical pamphlet by Pigault- Lebrun.

[7] These words (meaning ‘To our great men from their grateful country’) are inscribed above the doorway of the Panthéon in Paris where many of the great men of France are buried.

The Conscript

Sometimes they saw that, by a phenomenon of vision or movement, he could abolish space in its two aspects of Time and Distance, one of these being intellectual and the other physical.

Histoire Intellectuelle de Louis Lambert.

One evening in the month of November 1793, the most important people in Carentan were gathered together in the drawing- room of Madame de Dey, who received company every day. Certain circumstances, which would not have attracted attention in a large town but which were bound to arouse curiosity in a small one, gave an unwonted interest to this everyday gathering. Two days earlier, Madame de Dey had closed her doors to visitors, and she had not received any the previous day either, pretending that she was unwell. In normal times these two events would have had the same effect in Carentan as the closing of the theatres has in Paris. On such days existence is, in a way, incomplete. But in 1793 Madame de Dey’s behaviour could have the most disastrous consequences. At that time if an aristocrat risked the least step, he was nearly always involved in a matter of life and death. To understand properly the eager curiosity and the narrow- minded cunning which, during that evening, were expressed on the faces of all these Norman worthies, but above all to appreciate the secret worries of Madame de Dey, the part she played at Carentan must be explained. As the critical position in which she was placed at that time was, no doubt, that of many people during the Revolution, the sympathies of more than one reader will give an emotional background to this narrative.

Madame de Dey, the widow of a lieutenant- general, a chevalier of several orders, had left the Court at the beginning of the emigration. As she owned a considerable amount of property in the Carentan region, she had taken refuge there, hoping that the influence of the Terror would be little felt in those parts. This calculation, founded on an accurate knowledge of the region, was correct. The Revolution wrought little havoc in Lower Normandy. Although, in the past, when Madame de Dey visited her property in Normandy, she associated only with the noble families of the district, she now made a policy of opening her doors to the principal townspeople and to the new authorities, trying to make them proud of having won her over, without arousing either their hatred or their jealousy. She was charming and kind, and gifted with that indescribable gentleness which enabled her to please without having to lower herself or ask favours. She had succeeded in winning general esteem thanks to her perfect tact which enabled her to keep wisely to a narrow path, satisfying the demands of that mixed society without humiliating the touchy amour propre of the parvenus, or upsetting the sensibilities of her old friends.

She was about thirty- eight years old, and she still retained, not the fresh, rounded good looks which distinguish the girls of Lower Normandy, but a slender, as it were aristocratic, type of beauty. Her features were neat and delicate; her figure was graceful and slender. When she spoke, her pale face seemed to light up and come to life. Her large black eyes were full of friendliness, but their calm, religious expression seemed to show that the mainspring of her existence was no longer within herself. In the prime of her youth she had been married to a jealous old soldier, and her false position at a flirtatious court no doubt helped to spread a veil of serious melancholy over a face which must once have shone with the charms and vivacity of love. Since, at an age when a woman still feels rather than reflects, she had always had to repress her instinctive feminine feelings and emotions, passion had remained unawakened in the depths of her heart. And so her principal attraction stemmed from this inner youthfulness which was, at times, revealed in her face and which gave her thoughts an expression of innocent desire. Her appearance commanded respect, but in her bearing and in her voice there was always the expectancy of an unknown future as with a young girl. Soon after meeting her the least susceptible of men would find himself in love with her and yet retain a kind of respectful fear of her, inspired by her courteous, dignified manner. Her soul, naturally great but strengthened by cruel struggles, seemed far removed from ordinary humanity, and men recognized their inferiority. This soul needed a dominating passion. Madame de Dey’s affections were thus concentrated in one single feeling, that of maternity. The happiness and the satisfactions of which she had been deprived as a wife, she found instead in the intense love she had for her son. She loved him not only with the pure and profound devotion of a mother, but with the coquetry of a mistress and the jealousy of a wife. She was unhappy when he was away, and, anxious during his absence, she could never see enough of him and lived only through and for him. To make the reader appreciate the strength of this feeling, it will suffice to add that this son was not only Madame de Dey’s only child, but also her last surviving relative, the one being on whom she could fasten the fears, the hopes and the joys of her life. The late Comte de Dey was the last of his family and she was the sole heiress of hers. Material motives and interests thus combined with the noblest needs of the soul to intensify in the countess’s heart a feeling which is already so strong in women. It was only by taking the greatest of care that she had managed to bring up her son and this had made him even more dear to her. Twenty times the doctors told her she would lose him, but confident in her own hopes and instincts, she had the inexpressible joy of seeing him safely overcome the perils of childhood, and of marvelling at the improvement in his health, in spite of the doctors’verdict.

Due to her constant care, this son had grown up and developed into such a charming young man that at the age of twenty he was regarded as one of the most accomplished young courtiers at Versailles. Above all, thanks to a good fortune which does not crown the efforts of every mother, she was adored by her son; they understood each other in fraternal sympathy. If they had not already been linked by the ties of nature, they would instinctively have felt for each other that mutual friendship which one meets so rarely in life. At the age of eighteen the young count had been appointed a sub- lieutenant of dragoons and in obedience to the code of honour of the period he had followed the princes when they emigrated.

Madame de Dey, noble, rich and the mother of an émigré, thus could not conceal from herself the dangers of her cruel situation. As her only wish was to preserve her large fortune for her son, she had denied herself the happiness of going with him, and when she read the strict laws under which the Republic was confiscating every day the property of émigrés at Carentan, she congratulated herself on this act of courage. Was she not watching over her son’s wealth at the risk of her life? Then, when she heard of the terrible executions decreed by the Convention, she slept peacefully in the knowledge that her only treasure was in safety, far from the danger of the scaffold. She was happy in the belief that she had done what was best to save both her son and her fortune. To this private thought she made the concessions demanded by those unhappy times, without compromising her feminine dignity or her aristocratic convictions, but hiding her sorrows with a cold secrecy. She had understood the difficulties which awaited her at Carentan. To come there and occupy the first place, wasn’t that a way of defying the scaffold every day? But, supported by the courage of a mother, she knew how to win the affection of the poor by relieving all kinds of distress without distinction, and made herself indispensable to the rich by ministering to their pleasures. She entertained at her house the procureur[1] of the commune, the mayor, the president of the district, the public prosecutor and even the judges of the revolutionary tribunal. The first four of these were unmarried and so they courted her, hoping to marry her either by making her afraid of the harm they could do her or by offering her their protection. The public prosecutor, who had been procureur at Caen and used to look after the countess’s business interests, tried to make her love him, by behaving with devotion and generosity – a dangerous form of cunning! He was the most formidable of all the suitors. As she had formerly been a client of his, he was the only one who had an intimate knowledge of the state of her considerable fortune. His passion was reinforced by all the desires of avarice and supported by an immense power, the power of life and death throughout the district. This man, who was still young, behaved with such an appearance of magnanimity that Madame de Dey had not yet been able to form an opinion of him. But, despising the danger which lay in vying in cunning with Normans, she made use of the inventive craftiness with which Nature has endowed women to play off these rivals against each other. By gaining time, she hoped to survive safe and sound to the end of the revolutionary troubles. At that period, the royalists who had stayed in France deluded themselves each day that the next day would see the end of the Revolution, and this conviction caused the ruin of many of them.

In spite of these difficulties, the countess had very skilfully maintained her independence until the day on which, with unaccountable imprudence, she took it into her head to close her door. The interest she aroused was so deep and genuine that the people who had come to her house that evening became extremely anxious when they learned that it was impossible for her to receive them. Then, with that frank curiosity which is engrained in provincial manners, they made inquiries about the misfortune, the sorrow, or the illness which Madame de Dey must be suffering from. An old servant named Brigitte answered these questions saying that her mistress had shut herself up in her room and wouldn’t see anyone, not even the members of her own household. The almost cloister- like existence led by the inhabitants of a small town forms in them the habit of analysing and explaining the actions of others. This habit is naturally so invincible that after pitying Madame de Dey, and without knowing whether she was really happy or sad, everyone began to look for the causes of her sudden retreat.

‘If she were ill,’ said the first inquirer, ‘she would have sent for the doctor. But the doctor spent the whole day at my house playing chess. He said to me jokingly that nowadays there is only one illness . . . and that unfortunately it is incurable.’

This jest was made with caution. Men and women, old men and girls then began to range over the vast field of conjectures. Each one thought he spied a secret, and this secret filled all their imaginations. The next day their suspicions had grown nastier. As life is lived in public in a small town, the women were the first to find out that Brigitte had bought more provisions than usual at the market. This fact could not be denied. Brigitte had been seen first thing in the morning in the market- square and –strange to relate – she had bought the only hare available. The whole town knew that Madame de Dey did not like game. The hare became a starting point for endless conjectures. As they took their daily walk, the old men noticed in the countess’s house a kind of concentrated activity which was revealed by the very precautions taken by the servants to conceal it. The valet was beating a carpet in the garden. The previous day no one would have paid any attention to it, but this carpet became a piece of evidence in support of the fanciful tales which everyone was inventing. Each person had his own. The second day, when they heard that Madame de Dey said she was unwell, the leading inhabitants of Carentan gathered together in the evening at the mayor’s brother’s house. He was a retired merchant, married, honourable, generally respected, and the countess had a high regard for him. That evening all the suitors for the hand of the rich widow had a more or less probable tale to tell, and each one of them considered how to turn to his own profit the secret event which forced her to place herself in this compromising position. The public prosecutor imagined a whole drama in which Madame de Dey’s son would be brought to her house at night. The mayor thought that a non- juring priest had arrived from La Vendée and sought asylum with her.[2] But the purchase of a hare on a Friday couldn’t be explained by this story. The president of the district was convinced that she was hiding a chouan[3] or a Vendéen leader who was being hotly pursued. Others thought it was a noble who had escaped from the Paris prisons. In short, everyone suspected the countess of being guilty of one of those acts of generosity which the laws of that period called a crime and which could lead to the scaffold. The public prosecutor, however, whispered that they must be silent and try to save the unfor tunate woman from the abyss towards which she was hastening.

‘If you make this affair known,’ he added, ‘I shall be obliged to intervene, to search her house, and then! . . .’He said no more but everyone understood what he meant.

The countess’s real friends were so alarmed for her that, on the morning of the third day, the procureur- syndic [4] of the commune got his wife to write her a note urging her to receive company that evening as usual. Bolder still, the retired merchant called at Madame de Dey’s house during the morning. Very conscious of the service which he wanted to render her, he insisted on being allowed in to see her, and was amazed when he caught sight of her in the garden, busy cutting the last flowers from her borders to fill her vases.

‘She must have given refuge to her lover,’ the old man said to himself, as he was overcome with pity for this charming woman. The strange expression of the countess’s face confirmed his suspicions. The merchant was deeply moved by this devotion which is so natural to women, but which men always find touching because they are all flattered by the sacrifices which a woman makes for a man; he told the countess about the rumours which were all over the town, and of the danger in which she was placed. ‘For,’ he said in conclusion, ‘though some of our officials may be willing to forgive you for acting heroically to save a priest, nobody will pity you if they find out you are sacrificing yourself for the sake of a love affair.’

At these words, Madame de Dey looked at the old man with a distraught and crazy expression which made him shudder, despite his age.

‘Come with me,’ she said taking him by the hand and leading him into her room where, having first made sure that they were alone, she took a dirty crumpled letter from the bodice of her dress. ‘Read that,’ she cried pronouncing the words with great effort.

She collapsed into her chair, as if she were overcome. While the old merchant was looking for his glasses and cleaning them, she looked up at him, examined him for the first time with interest and said gently in a faltering voice, ‘I can trust you.’

‘Have I not come to share in your crime?’ replied the worthy man simply.

She gave a start. For the first time in this little town, her soul felt sympathy with another’s. The merchant understood at once both the dejection and the joy of the countess. Her son had taken part in the Granville expedition;[5] his letter to his mother was written from the depths of his prison, giving her one sad, yet joyful hope. He had no doubts about his means of escape, and he mentioned three days in the course of which he would come to her house, in disguise. The fatal letter contained heart- rending farewells in case he would not be at Carentan by the evening of the third day, and he begged his mother to give a fairly large sum of money to the messenger who, braving countless dangers, had undertaken to bring her this letter. The paper shook in the old man’s hands.

‘And this is the third day,’ cried Madame de Dey as she got up quickly, took back the letter, and paced up and down the room.

‘You have acted rashly,’ said the merchant. ‘Why did you have food bought in?’

‘But he might arrive, dying with hunger, exhausted, and . . .’ She said no more.

‘I can count on my brother,’ continued the old man, ‘I will go and bring him over to your side.’

In this situation the merchant deployed again all the subtlety which he had formerly used in business and gave the countess prudent and wise advice. After they had agreed on what they both should say and do, the old man, on cleverly invented pretexts, went to the principal houses in Carentan. There he announced that he had just seen Madame de Dey, who would receive company that evening, although she was not very well. As he was a good match for the cunning Norman minds who, in every family, cross- examined him about the nature of the countess’s illness, he managed to deceive nearly everybody who was interested in this mysterious affair. His first visit worked wonders. He told a gouty old lady that Madame de Dey had nearly died from an attack of stomach gout. The famous Doctor Tronchin had on a former, similar occasion advised her to lay on her chest the skin of a hare, which had been flayed alive, and to stay absolutely immobile in bed. The countess who, two days ago, had been in mortal danger, was now, after having punctiliously obeyed Tronchin’s extraordinary instructions, well enough to receive visitors that evening. This tale had an enormous success, and the Carentan doctor, a secret royalist, added to the effect by the seriousness with which he discussed the remedy. Nevertheless, suspicions had taken root too strongly in the minds of some obstinate people, or of some doubters, to be entirely dissipated. So, that evening, Madame de Dey’s visitors came eagerly, in good time, some to observe her face carefully, others out of friendship, most of them amazed at her recovery. They found the countess by the large fireplace in her drawing- room, which was almost as small as the other drawing- rooms in Carentan, for to avoid offending the narrow- minded ideas of her guests, she had denied herself the luxuries she had been used to and so had made no changes in her house. The floor of the reception room was not even polished. She left dingy old hangings on the walls, kept the local furniture, burnt tallow candles and followed the fashions of the place. She adopted provincial life, without shrinking from its most uncomfortable meannesses or its most disagreeable privations. But, as she knew that her guests would forgive her any lavishness conducive to their comfort, she left nothing undone which would minister to their personal pleasures. And so she always provided excellent dinners. She went as far as to feign meanness in order to please these calculating minds and she skilfully admitted to certain concessions to luxury, in order to give in gracefully. And so, about seven o’clock that evening, the best of Carentan’s poor society was at Madame de Dey’s house and formed a large circle around the hearth. The mistress of the house, supported in her trouble by the old merchant’s sympathetic glances, endured with remarkable courage her guests’detailed questioning and their frivolous and stupid arguments. But at every knock on the door, and whenever there was a sound of footsteps in the street, she hid her violent emotion by raising questions of importance to the prosperity of the district. She started off lively discussions about the quality of the ciders and was so well supported by her confidant that the company almost forgot to spy on her, since the expression of her face was so natural and her self- possession so imperturbable. Nevertheless the public prosecutor and one of the judges of the revolutionary tribunal said little, watching carefully the least changes in her expression and, in spite of the noise, listening to every sound in the house. Every now and then they asked the countess awkward questions but she answered them with admirable presence of mind. A mother has so much courage! When Madame de Dey had arranged the card- players, and settled everyone at the tables to play boston or reversis or whist, she still lingered in quite a carefree manner to chat with some young people. She was playing her part like a consummate actress. She got someone to ask for lotto, pretended to be the only person who knew where the set was, and left the room.

‘I feel stifled, my dear Brigitte,’ she exclaimed as she wiped the tears springing from her eyes which shone with fever, grief and impatience. ‘He is not coming,’ she continued, as she went upstairs and looked round the bedroom.‘Here, I can breathe and live. Yet in a few more moments he will be here! For he is alive, of that I am sure. My heart tells me so. Don’t you hear anything, Brigitte? Oh! I would give the rest of my life to know whether he is in prison or walking across the countryside. I wish I could stop thinking.’

She looked round the room again to see if everything was in order. A good fire was burning brightly in the grate, the shutters were tightly closed, the polished furniture was gleaming, the way the bed had been made showed that the countess had discussed the smallest details with Brigitte. Her hopes could be discerned in the fastidious care which had obviously been lavished on this room; in the scent of the flowers she had placed there could be sensed the gracious sweetness and the most chaste caresses of love. Only a mother could have anticipated a soldier’s wants and made preparations which satisfied them so completely. A superb meal, choice wines, slippers, clean linen, in short everything that a weary traveller could need or desire was brought together so that he should lack for nothing, so that the delights of home should show him a mother’s love.

‘Brigitte,’ cried the countess in a heart- rending voice as she went to place a chair at the table. It was as if she wanted to make her prayers come true, as if she wanted to add strength to her illusions.

‘Ah, Madame, he will come. He is not far away – I am sure that he is alive and on his way. I put a key in the Bible and I kept it on my fingers while Cottin read the Gospel of St John . . . and, Madame, the key didn’t turn.’

‘Is that a reliable sign?’ asked the countess.

‘Oh, yes! Madame, it’s well known. I would stake my soul he’s still alive. God cannot be wrong.’

‘I would love to see him, in spite of the danger he will be in when he gets here.’

‘Poor Monsieur Auguste,’ cried Brigitte, ‘he must be on the way, on foot.’

‘And there’s the church clock striking eight,’ exclaimed the countess in terror.

She was afraid that she had stayed longer than she should have done in this room where, as everything bore witness to her son’s life, she could believe that he was still alive. She went downstairs but before going into the drawing- room, she paused for a moment under the pillars of the staircase, listening to hear if any sound disturbed the silent echoes of the town. She smiled at Brigitte’s husband, who kept guard like a sentinel and seemed dazed with the effort of straining to hear the sounds of the night from the village square. She saw her son in everything and everywhere. She soon went back into the room, putting on an air of gaiety, and began to play lotto with some little girls. But every now and then she complained of not feeling well and sat down in her armchair by the fireplace.

That is how people and things were in Madame de Dey’s house while on the road from Paris to Cherbourg a young man wearing a brown carmagnole, the obligatory dress of the period, was making his way to Carentan. When the conscription of August 1793 first came into force, there was little or no discipline. The needs of the moment were such that the Republic could not equip its soldiers immediately, and it was not uncommon to see the roads full of conscripts still wearing their civilian clothes. These young men reached their halting places ahead of their battalions, or lagged behind, for their progress depended on their ability to endure the fatigues of a long march. The traveller in question was some way ahead of a column of conscripts which was going to Cherbourg and which the mayor of Carentan was expecting from hour to hour, intending to billet the men on the inhabitants. The young man was marching with a heavy tread, but he was still walking steadily and his bearing suggested that he had long been familiar with the hardships of military life. Although the meadow- land around Carentan was lit up by the moon, he had noticed big white clouds threatening a snowfall over the countryside. The fear of being caught in a storm probably made him walk faster, for he was going at a pace ill- suited to his fatigue. On his back he had an almost empty rucksack, and in his hand was a boxwood stick cut from one of the high, thick hedges which this shrub forms around most of the estates of Lower Normandy. A moment after the solitary traveller had caught sight of the towers of Carentan silhouetted in the eerie moonlight, he entered the town. His step aroused the echoes of the silent, deserted streets and he had to ask a weaver who was still at work the way to the mayor’s house. This official did not live far away and the conscript soon found himself in the shelter of the porch of the mayor’s house. He applied for a billeting order and sat down on a stone seat to wait. But he had to appear before the mayor who had sent for him and he was subjected to a scrupulous cross- examination. The soldier was a young man of good appearance who seemed to belong to a good family. His demeanour indicated that he was of noble birth and his face expressed that intelligence which comes from a good education.

‘What’s your name?’ asked the mayor looking at him knowingly.

‘Julien Jussien,’ replied the conscript.

‘And where do you come from?’ asked the official with an incredulous smile.

‘From Paris.’

‘Your comrades must be some distance away,’ continued the Norman half jokingly.

‘I am three miles ahead of the battalion.’

‘Some special feeling attracts you to Carentan, no doubt, citoyen réquisitionnaire,’[6] said the mayor shrewdly.

‘It is all right,’ he added, as with a gesture he imposed silence on the young man who was about to speak. ‘We know where to send you. There you are,’ he added giving him his billeting order. ‘Off you go, citoyen Jussien.’

There was a tinge of irony in the official’s tone as he pronounced these last two words and handed out a billet order giving the address of Madame de Dey’s house. The young man read the address with an air of curiosity.

‘He knows quite well that he hasn’t far to go. And once he’s outside he’ll soon be across the square,’ exclaimed the mayor talking to himself as the young man went out. He’s got some nerve! May God guide him! He has an answer to everything. Yes, but if anyone but me had asked to see his papers, he would have been lost.’

At this moment, the Carentan clocks had just struck half past nine. The torches were being lit in Madame de Dey’s ante- chamber; the servants were helping their masters and mistresses to put on their clogs, their overcoats or their capes; the card- players had settled their accounts and they were all leaving together, according to the established custom in all little towns.

‘It looks as if the prosecutor wants to stay,’ said a lady, who noticed that this important personage was missing when, having exhausted all the formulae of leave- taking, they separated in the square to go to their respective homes.

In fact that terrible magistrate was alone with the countess who was waiting, trembling, till he chose to go.

After a long and rather frightening silence, he said at last, ‘I am here to see that the laws of the Republic are obeyed . . .’

Madame de Dey shuddered.

‘Have you nothing to reveal to me?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ she replied, amazed.

‘Ah, Madame,’ cried the prosecutor sitting down beside her and changing his tone, ‘at this moment, one word could send you or me to the scaffold. I have observed your character, your feelings, your ways too closely to share the mistake into which you managed to lead your guests this evening. I have no doubt at all that you are expecting your son.’

The countess made a gesture of denial, but she had grown pale and the muscles of her face had contracted under the necessity of assuming a false air of calmness.

‘Well, receive him,’ continued the magistrate of the Revolution, ‘but don’t let him stay under your roof after seven o’clock in the morning. At daybreak, tomorrow, I shall come to your house armed with a denunciation which I shall have drawn up . . .’

She looked at him with a dazed expression which would have melted the heart of a tiger.

He went on gently, ‘I shall demonstrate the falsity of the denunciation by a minute search, and by the nature of my report you will be protected from all further suspicion. I shall speak of your patriotic gifts, of your civic devotion, and we shall all be saved.’

Madame de Dey was afraid of a trap. She stood there motionless but her face was burning and her tongue was frozen. The sound of the door- knocker rang through the house.

‘Ah,’ cried the terrified mother, falling on her knees.‘Save him, save him!’

‘Yes, let us save him!’ replied the public prosecutor, looking at her passionately, ‘even at the cost of our lives.’

‘I am lost,’ she cried as the prosecutor politely helped her to rise.

‘Ah! Madame,’ he replied with a fine oratorical gesture,‘I want to owe you to nothing . . . but yourself.’

‘Madame, he’s –,’ cried Brigitte thinking her mistress was alone.

At the sight of the public prosecutor, the old servant who had been flushed with joy, became pale and motionless.

‘Who is it, Brigitte?’ asked the magistrate gently, with a knowing expression.

‘A conscript sent by the mayor to be put up here,’replied the servant showing the billet order.

‘That’s right,’ said the prosecutor after reading the order. ‘A battalion is due in the town tonight.’ And he went out.

At that moment the countess needed so much to believe in the sincerity of her former lawyer that she could not entertain the slightest doubt of it. Quickly she went upstairs, though she scarcely had the strength to stand. Then she opened her bedroom door, saw her son, and fell half- dead into his arms. ‘Oh, my child, my child,’ she cried sobbing and covering him with wild kisses.

‘Madame,’ said the stranger.

‘Oh! It’s someone else,’ she cried. She recoiled in horror and stood in front of the conscript, gazing at him with a haggard look.

‘Oh, good God, what a strong resemblance!’ said Brigitte.

There was silence for a moment and even the stranger shuddered at the sight of Madame de Dey.

She leaned for support on Brigitte’s husband and felt the full extent of her grief; this first blow had almost killed her. ‘Monsieur,’ she said, ‘I cannot bear to see you any longer; I hope you won’t mind if my servants take my place and look after you.’

She went down to her own room half carried by Brigitte and her old manservant.

‘What, Madame!’ cried the housekeeper as she helped her mistress to sit down. ‘Is that man going to sleep in Monsieur Auguste’s bed, put on Monsieur Auguste’s slippers and eat the pâté that I made for Monsieur Auguste? If I were to be sent to the guillotine, I . . .’

‘Brigitte,’ cried Madame de Dey.

Brigitte said no more.

‘Be quiet, you chatterbox,’ said her husband in a low voice. ‘You’ll be the death of Madame.’

At this moment, the conscript made a noise in his room as he sat down to table.

‘I can’t stay here,’ exclaimed Madame de Dey. ‘I shall go into the conservatory. From there I shall be able to hear better what’s going on outside during the night.’

She was still wavering between the fear of having lost her son and the hope of seeing him come back. The silence of the night was horrible. When the conscript battalion came into town and each man had to seek out his lodgings, it was a terrible time for the countess. Her hopes were dashed at every footstep, at every sound; then soon the awful stillness of Nature returned. Towards morning, the countess had to go back to her own room. Brigitte, who was watching her mistress’s movements, did not see her come out; she went into the room and there found the countess dead.

‘She must have heard the conscript finishing dressing and walking about in Monsieur Auguste’s room singing their damned Marseillaise, as if he were in a stable,’ cried Brigitte. ‘That will have killed her!’

The countess’s death was caused by a more important feeling and, very likely, by a terrible vision. At the exact moment when Madame de Dey was dying in Carentan, her son was being shot in Le Morbihan. We can add this tragic fact to all the observations that have been made of sympathies which override the laws of space. Some learned recluses, in their curiosity, have collected this evidence in documents which will one day serve as a foundation for a new science – a science that has hitherto failed to produce its man of genius.

[1] An official elected to represent the central government on local courts and administration.

[2] The priests often helped the inhabitants of La Vendée in the west of France in their risings against the Revolution.

[3] The chouans were royalist insurgents from Western France who engaged in guerrilla warfare against the Revolution.

[4] See note 1 above.

[5] Granville is a small town, south- west of Carentan, on the other side of the Cotentin peninsula. In 1793 the Vendéens tried unsuccessfully to capture it for the royalists.

[6] Citoyen was a form of address during the Revolution replacing monsieur. A decree passed by the National Convention in 1793 called for military service all men between eighteen and twenty- five. The conscripts were known as réquisitionnaires.

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显微镜下的失误

企鹅经典：小黑书 第二辑

[英] 赫伯特·乔治·威尔斯/著

张羽佳/译

目录

封面

书名页

版权页

品牌页

中文内容

墙中门

显微镜下的失误

英文内容

The Door in the Wall

A Slip under the Microscope

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继续阅读

显微镜下的失误

企鹅经典：小黑书 第二辑

[英] 赫伯特·乔治·威尔斯/著

张羽佳/译

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正文目录

墙中门

显微镜下的失误

The Door in the Wall

A Slip under the Microscope

墙中门

第一章

不到三个月前，莱昂内尔·华莱士在向我推心置腹那个夜晚，给我讲了“墙中门”的故事。当时，我认为至少在他看来，这是一个真实的故事。

在讲述的过程中，他那坚信不疑的态度直接而单纯，让我无法不相信他。但第二天清晨，我从自己的公寓醒来后，却有了不同的感受。我躺在床上，回忆起昨晚他告诉我的一切，剥去他诚挚而缓慢的声线魅惑，抛开那光线集中而幽暗的桌灯，在那样的夜晚，包裹着我俩的暧昧气氛，那些让人愉悦的闪闪发光的物件，我俩在晚餐间分享的甜点、酒杯以及餐巾——这所有的一切都让我们置身于彻底与现实脱离的明亮小世界当中，坦白说，我觉得这一切太难以令人相信了。“他在故弄玄虚！”我恍然大悟，“他装得也太像了！我万万没想到的是，他能装得这么好。”

随后，我起身坐在床上，啜着清晨的第一杯茶，试图从中重新品味出现实的味道，因为他的记忆太难以置信，让我不知所措，可不得不承认，它们的确在某种程度上暗示、呈现或是传达——我都不知道该用哪个词——出了只能以这种方式讲述的经历。

好吧，无论如何，现在我并不太倾向于这个解释，该怀疑的我也怀疑过了。我现在就如同昨晚一样，相信华莱士尽他最大的努力把自己秘密中最真实的部分剥离出来告诉我。但究竟他是否曾经看见，还是他自认为看到过，究竟自己是无价特权的持有者还是痴人说梦的受害者，我无法肆意妄测。就连他身亡这一事实，虽然彻底地了断了我的各种猜疑的念头，却也没有给我带来任何答案。

这只能由读者自己判断了。

我一时半会儿也想不起来，究竟是我发表过的什么意见或者是评论，能够打动如此沉默寡言的一个男人，让他产生向我吐露心声的想法。在一次重大公共运动中，我曾因为他的懈怠和不靠谱而谴责过他，那次他让我失望透顶，我觉得他当时是在为自己辩护。他突然插进来说：“我被其他事情占据了思绪……”他在停顿了一下后继续说道：“我知道，我最近有些玩忽职守。事实是——这并不是鬼魂或者是幽灵什么的——但，这实在是太难以启齿了。列德蒙，我被缠上了。我被什么东西给缠上了——它让一切都黯淡无光，它让我充满渴求……”

他停了下来，每当我们英国人谈论到感人的、严肃的或是其他美丽事物的时候所呈现出特有的羞怯打断了他。“你一直都在圣·阿瑟尔斯坦吧。”他说道。当时在我看来，这根本毫无关联。“好吧。”他又顿了一下。然后，他起初讲话的时候支支吾吾，慢慢地顺畅起来。他开始讲述一直掩藏在生命当中，那段让他念念不忘的回忆，这段美好回忆使他内心充满幸福和无法满足的渴望，却同时也让尘世间的一切利益和奇观显得枯燥乏味和徒有其表。

既然我现在有了头绪，那时他脸上的表情其实说明了一切。我有这么一张照片，他那疏离的神情彻底呈现在照片之上，甚至更加凸显了。这让我想起有一位女士曾这样描述过他——这位女士曾深深地爱着他。“突然间，”她说，“他对一切都失去了兴趣。他忘记了你的存在，哪怕你就在他鼻子底下，他也一点都不在乎……”

但是华莱士并不是一直对什么都毫无兴趣，当他全神贯注的时候，他能够设法取得巨大的成功。毫无疑问，他的事业打从一开始就非常成功。他早就把我甩在了身后；他在我身旁一飞冲天，在社会上占据了一席之地，无论如何，那是我所无法达成的。他还差一年才满四十岁，现在人们都说，如果他还活着的话，肯定能继续任职，还很有可能进入内阁。在学校的时候，他总是能够毫不费力地击败我——就好像他天生理当如此。我们是一起在西肯辛顿的圣·阿瑟尔斯坦学院上学的，一起度过了整个学生生涯。他入校的时候和我旗鼓相当，但很快就凭借奖学金和出色的表现远远地超越了我。当然我觉得我也差不多尽力了。正是在学校里，我第一次听到了“墙中门”——在他去世的一个月前，是我第二次听到它。

至少对他来说，“墙中门”是一扇真实存在的门，穿过真实存在的墙到达永恒的现实。对于这点，我现在是十分确信的。

而这扇门出现在他人生很早期，大概还是五六岁小孩的时候。我之所以记得，是因为他在向我坦白的时候，沉重而缓慢地推理和计算出了当时的日期。“当时有，”他说，“一株猩红色的五叶地锦，在琥珀色的阳光下，一整片深红色在白墙的映衬下格外显眼。我还记得，虽然不是特别清晰，绿色门外的人行道上散落着七叶树的叶子。它们是斑驳的黄绿色的，你知道，并不是棕色，也不脏，所以肯定刚从树上落下来。我觉得这意味着那是十月份。我每年都留意着七叶树树叶，我肯定知道的。”

“如果没记错的话，那我当时应该是五岁零四个月大。”

他说自己是个早熟的孩子——他学会讲话的年龄异常早，条理清晰，还有点“老派”，正如人们所说，这让他获取了其他小孩在七八岁不可能得到的自主权。他的母亲在他两岁时候去世了，家庭教师的管教相对来说没有那么严苛。他的父亲是一名严肃的、业务繁忙的律师，他的注意力没过多地放在儿子身上，却对他期待很高。我觉得作为一个聪明绝顶的小孩，他认为生活单调乏味。有一天，他溜了出去。

他已经记不清具体是谁的疏忽让他能有机会溜出来的，也记不清走的是西肯辛顿哪一条路。所有的一切都从模糊的记忆中彻底褪去。但关于白墙和绿门的记忆是清晰可见的。

追溯儿时的记忆，他记得第一眼看到那扇门，就感受到一种特别的情绪，那是一种吸引力，一种让他想要打开门走进去的欲望。但与此同时，他又确信向这吸引力屈服是不理智或是错误的——究竟是不理智还是错误，他无从知晓。自打一开始，他就知道那扇门并没有锁，而且如果他乐意，就可以走进去，为什么对这件事如此肯定，他也觉得很是奇怪——当然除非这一切都是记忆和他开了一个最诡异的玩笑。

我似乎都能看见那个内心挣扎着的小男孩的样子，而且他脑袋里清楚地知道——虽然也没法儿解释他为什么会知道——如果父亲发现他进入那扇门会勃然大怒。

华莱士极其详尽地向我描述了他的犹豫不决。他走过了那扇门，双手插着口袋，笨拙地吹着口哨，溜达到了墙的尽头。他记得那里有几家寒酸、脏乱的商店，他尤其记得有一个水管工和装潢工人在卖缸瓦管、薄铅板、浮球栓和墙纸的样品簿，还有一罐瓷漆，东西都布满灰尘，堆得乱七八糟。他停下来，假装在打量这些东西，觊觎着，热烈地渴望着那扇绿色的门。

他说，接下来有一股强烈的情绪涌上心头。这一丁点的犹豫不决无法再阻挠他，他直接奔向那扇门，蓦地一冲，伸手打开绿门，只身进入，把门甩在自己身后。于是就在一转眼间，他走进了那座纠缠他至今的花园。

对华莱士来说，他很难向我表达走进那座花园的全部感受。

那里的空气中有一股让人愉悦的气氛，它让人感到轻松，有种好事将至的幸福感；它让一切颜色看起来干净、完美并且微微地透着光。人一走进这里，立刻感到快乐至极——因为在我们生活的世界里，只有在很少数的时刻，当人们在年轻和愉快的时候，才会感到快乐，而且那里的一切都那么美丽……

华莱士在告诉我之前冥思了一阵。“你看，”他的声音就像普通人讲到让人无法置信的事情时，会变得有点可疑，“那里有两头美洲豹，就在那儿，是的，长着斑点的美洲豹。而我一点都不害怕。那里还有一条宽敞而悠长的道路，两旁的花径用的是大理石镶边，这两头柔软的野兽在那儿玩着球。有一头美洲豹抬起头，向我走来，看起来有点好奇。它径直走向我，用它柔软的圆耳朵轻轻地蹭着我伸出去的小手，发出咕噜咕噜的声响。我告诉你，这是一座施了魔法的花园。我确定。而它有多大？噢！它延绵不绝伸向四面八方。我相信在更远处还有山丘。天知道突然之间西肯辛顿跑到哪儿去了。但不知为何，那种感觉就像是回到了故乡。”

“你要知道，就在我关上那道门的那一刻，我忘记了门外飘落在道路上的七叶树树叶；我忘记了门外的马车和商人的货车；我忘记了那股像引力一样把我拉回充满纪律和服从的家中的力量；我忘记了所有的犹豫和恐惧，忘记了谨慎，忘记了现实生活中所熟悉的一切。在那一瞬间，我——在另一个世界里——成为一个快乐并且超级幸福的小男孩。那个世界有着不同的特质，那里更温暖，阳光更有穿透力却更柔软，空气里弥漫着一丝丝清澈而愉悦的味道，头顶湛蓝的天空中飘浮着一撮撮被阳光拂过的云朵。在我面前，这条又宽又长的道路延伸向前方，路两旁没有多余的杂草，花团锦簇但疏于打理，还有这两头神奇的美洲豹，仿佛都在对我发出邀请。我无畏地把双手放在它们柔软的皮毛上，轻抚着它们圆圆的耳朵和耳下敏感的地方，和它们嬉戏玩耍，那种感觉就像它们在欢迎我回家。在我脑海中，有一种强烈的回到家的感觉，紧接着一位高挑美丽的女孩出现在路上来接我，她微笑着对我说：‘来吧。’然后把我举起来亲了一口，又放了下来，拉着我往前走。当这一切发生的时候，我丝毫没有感到吃惊，反而有一种理所当然的愉悦之感，这种感觉就像是再次回忆起能够让你感到快乐的事情，而这种感觉不知为何早已被忽略。我记得那里有巨大的红色阶梯，越爬越高，映入眼帘的是一穗穗飞燕草，最后我们来到了一大片林荫道，道路两侧栽种着古老而暗沉的树木。你知道，在整条林荫道上红色的龟裂树干之间，摆放着大理石雕刻的贵宾席、雕像，还有温驯友好的白鸽……

“女伴带我走在这凉爽的林荫道上，她低头看着我——我回想起那些令人愉快的对话，她那精雕细琢的下巴和甜美的容颜——用温柔悦耳的嗓音问我问题，告诉我事情，我知道那些内容让人愉悦，虽然我再也记不起具体是些什么……不久后，一只干净的卷尾猴爬下树，它一身红棕色的毛，栗色的眼睛看起来非常友善，它靠近我们，跑到我身边，抬头看着我咧着嘴笑了起来，随后跳到了我的肩膀上。然后我俩无比快乐地继续向前走。”

他停了下来。“继续啊。”我说。“我记不住多少了，只记得我们经过了在月桂花丛中沉思的老人，还有一处栖息着各种长尾小鹦鹉的地方，穿过了荫蔽的柱廊，来到了一个宽敞而凉爽的宫殿，在那里，四处可见的是可爱的喷泉，布满了美丽的事物，都是人们内心所向往的特质和希望。而且那里有许多事、许多人，有的还让我记忆犹新，有的已经模糊不清，但所有人都美丽和善。某种程度来说——我也说不清为什么——我能够感受到他们对我的友好，我的到来让他们快乐，他们的一举一动都让我感到快乐，他们触碰我的双手、他们对我的热情以及他们眼中的关爱。是的……”

他沉思了一阵。“我在那儿找到了玩伴。这对我来说非常重要，因为我是一个孤独的小男孩。他们在铺着草皮的庭院中玩着有意思的游戏，那里有一个用花朵做成的日晷。那游戏让人爱不释手……”

“但奇怪的是，我的记忆中有一个空缺。我不记得我们玩了什么游戏。我从没记起过。在此以后，我在孩童时花了很长的时间试图记起让我感到如此幸福的游戏究竟是什么，我甚至因此而落泪。我想在幼儿园独自再玩一次这个游戏，可是都失败了！我唯一能记得的就是我当时感到多么幸福以及那两个一直陪我玩耍的玩伴……随后出现了一个阴郁的女人，她脸色苍白、神情严肃、眼神涣散，这个阴郁的女人穿着柔软的紫色长袍，她拿着一本书，召唤我到一边，带着我来到了大厅之上的画廊里——虽然我的小伙伴非常不情愿让我离开，他们停下了手中的游戏，站在那儿眼睁睁看着我被带走。‘回来找我们！’他们喊道，‘快回来找我们！’我抬头看着她，但她根本没留意到小伙伴的存在。她的表情温和而严肃。她把我带到画廊的一个座位边，我站在她身旁，她在膝盖上把书翻开，我准备看看书里面是些什么。打开书，她手指到哪儿，我看到哪儿，简直太神奇了，因为在栩栩如生的故事中，我看到了我自己——这是关于我的故事，里面讲述的是我从出生到现在所发生的一切……

“这对我来说太奇妙了，因为书里面的每一页都不是照片，你知道的，它们是真实的。”

华莱士凝重地顿了顿，疑惑地看着我。“你继续说，我明白。”我说。“那些都是真实的，是的，一定没错。里面的人和物都是鲜活的，我亲爱的母亲，我几乎都快忘记她了，还有我那严厉正直的父亲、家里的仆人，幼儿园，所有家中熟悉的一切。还有家里的前门，门外忙碌的街道，街道上的车来车往。我看着书，彻底惊呆了，再次充满疑惑地抬头看着那个女人的脸庞，然后继续翻着书，为了看更多的内容，跳过了中间的几页，翻着翻着，直到最后，我看见自己站在长长的白墙中的绿门前徘徊不定、犹豫不决，我再次感到了内心的挣扎和恐惧。”

“还有呢？”

“我哭喊起来，想要继续翻页，但严肃女人冰冷的手制止了我。”

“接下来呢？”

“我坚持着，在她手中轻轻挣扎，用一个孩子那可笑的力量扳开她的手指。最后她放弃了，我翻到了下一页，与此同时她弯下腰，一层阴影笼罩在我上方，她在我额头上亲了一下。

“但接下来的书中并没有出现那魔法花园，也没有美洲豹，没有拉着我手的女孩，更没有不情愿放我离开的玩伴们。在里面出现的是西肯辛顿冗长而灰暗的街道，在路灯点亮前的下午空旷无人。而我，这个可怜的小家伙，在那儿放声痛哭。我竭尽所能压抑自己，而我痛哭是因为不能回到我的玩伴身边了，我还能听到他们的呼唤——‘回来找我们！快回来找我们！’我在那儿，这不是书里面的某一页，而是残酷的现实，那个充满魔力的地方，我曾站在那位严肃的母亲的膝边，她制止我的手，这一切都消失了——他们都到哪里去了？”

他再次停下来，好长一段时间都只是盯着燃烧的炉火。

“噢！返回到现实世界是如此痛苦！”他喃喃自语道。“然后呢？”我等了一分多钟后问。“当时的我太可怜了！再次被带回这个灰暗的世界！当我意识到刚刚所发生的一切，便深陷于无法掌控的悲伤之中。那次在公共场合哭泣和如此丢人的回归方式给我带来的侮辱和羞愧，我直到现在还记忆犹新。我又看见那位相貌慈祥、戴着金边眼镜的老绅士，他停下来先用雨伞戳了戳我，对我说：‘可怜的小家伙，你迷路了吗？’而我不过是个五岁多大的伦敦男孩！他想必是找了一位亲切的年轻警察，在众人的围观下，把我护送回家。我害怕得边走边哭，非常引人注目，就这样从魔法花园回到了父亲住宅门前的台阶上。”

“这也就是我能记得的关于这个花园的一切——那个让我魂牵梦绕至今的花园。当然，我无法传达出那种难以描述的特质，那种清澈透明的不真实感，它与我们平常所经历到的一切完全不同，但这——这就是过去所发生的。如果这只是一场梦，我肯定它发生在大白天，而总体来说是一场非凡好梦……嗯！——自然而然，随之而来的是一系列可怕的审问，有我的姨妈、我的父亲、我的保姆，还有家教——所有人……

“我试图告诉他们，而父亲因为我说谎，第一次痛打了我一顿。之后我试着告诉姨妈，她因为我顽劣的坚持，又惩罚了我一次。之后，正如我说的，他们禁止所有人听我的故事，一个字也不准听。最后甚至把我的童话故事书也没收了一段时间——因为我的想象力太‘丰富’。呃？是的，他们真的那么做了！我父亲很保守……于是我只能自己给自己讲故事。我躺在枕头上对自己低语——枕头经常被我的口水或泪水浸湿，潮潮的、咸咸的。而我总是在每日的祷告——没那么虔诚的祷告——中加上衷心的请求：‘求求你上帝，请让我梦见那个花园。噢！把我带回到那个花园吧！’让我回到那个花园！我经常梦到那个花园。我可能添油加醋，我不确定……所有的这一切，你要知道，都是我试图重组早年经历过的破碎记忆。在小时候的那次经历和其他连续性的回忆之间，仿佛有一道鸿沟。有一阵子，我觉得甚至不应该再提到那神奇的惊鸿一瞥。”

我问了一个显而易见的问题。

“没有，”他回答说，“在早些年我不记得曾试图重返花园。现在看来有些奇怪，但我觉得很有可能是因为在那次‘历险’过后，他们对我严加看管，以防我再次走失。不，一直到我们相识，我才再次尝试寻找那个花园。而我相信有那么一段时间——现在看起来难以置信——我彻底忘记了那个花园，大概是我八九岁的时候吧。你还记得我在圣·阿瑟尔斯坦是个怎样的小孩吗？”

“记得非常清楚！”

“在那些日子里，我并没有显露出藏着一个秘密的梦境的迹象，对吧？”

第二章

他突然笑着抬起头：“你和我玩过‘西北通道’吗？”

不，你和我当然不是一路的。

“那种游戏，”他继续说，“想象力丰富的小孩整天都在玩。大致上就是找一条通往学校的‘西北通道’。每天上学的路十分无聊，游戏目标在于找一条不那么无趣的上学之路，提前十分钟出发，选一个看起来完全无望的方向，在不熟悉的街道上探索前往学校的新径。有一天，我在坎佩切山那侧的底层街区迷了路，还以为输掉游戏的这一天终于来临了，这下上学要迟到了。绝望之中，我选了一条看起来像死胡同的路，但却在小巷尽头，找到了一个出口。希望再次燃起，我快速走了出去。‘我能行的。’我边想边走过了一排乱糟糟的商铺，这种似曾相识的感觉让人费解，天哪，那不是把我带到魔法花园的白色长墙和绿色的门吗？”

“那时的记忆有如潮水向我猛然袭来。而那花园，那美好的花园，终归不仅仅是一场梦。”

他停了下来。

“我觉得和绿门的第二次相遇标志着忙碌的中学生活和童年时期无尽的闲暇时光有着天壤之别。无论如何，第二次的时候，我完全没有想要立刻走进去。你看……首先，我一股脑儿想着的都是如何按时到达学校——为的是不能中断每天按时到校的记录。我肯定也有一点点的冲动想要去试试那扇门——是的，我肯定也感受到了那股冲动——但在我记忆中，似乎只把那扇门的吸引力看成是阻挠我雷打不动想要准时到校的障碍。当然这次发现引起了我巨大的兴趣——我满脑子都是它——可我还是继续前行。那扇门并没有让我停下脚步。我边跑边拉出怀表，发现距离上课还有十分钟，而我已经下坡回到了熟悉的环境中。我上气不接下气地赶到学校，可没骗你，我跑得一身大汗，连衣服都湿了，可我准时到校了。我还记得把大衣和帽子挂起来……就这样经过了那扇门，把它抛在身后。很奇怪，对吧？”

他若有所思地看着我。“当然我当时并不知道那扇门并不会一直在那儿。中学生的想象力有限。我觉得知道门在那儿、知道怎样走回去让我非常开心，但当时有学校拖着我。我觉得那天早晨我肯定特别心神不宁、心不在焉，回想着，如果再次与不久前见到的那些美丽的陌生人重逢会是怎样的情形。奇怪的是，当时我脑中如此确信他们再次见到我一定会感到高兴。没错，那天早晨我肯定把花园当成了一个让人可以暂时逃离紧张学业的愉快场所。”

“我那天根本没去找那扇门。第二天有半天假期，这可能影响了我的决定。或者，我漫不经心的状态给我造成了负担，让我错过了重返花园的最佳时机。我也不知道。与此同时，我只知道那个魔法花园在脑海中挥之不去，我根本无法保守这个秘密。

“我告诉了——他叫什么名字来着？——一个长得像雪貂的小孩，我们以前管他叫呆呆。”

“小霍普金斯。”我回答说。

“就是霍普金斯。我也不想告诉他，因为总觉得告诉他是违反规矩的，但我还是说了。回家有段路我俩一起走，他太能说了，而如果我们不聊魔法花园，我们就得说点别的，而对我来说，当时脑子里根本容不下其他任何话题。我就这么说漏嘴了。

“好吧，他把我的秘密说出去了。第二天课间玩耍的时候，我被六个高年级男生包围了，他们半开着玩笑，都想听我说更多关于魔法花园的事。其中有大块头福西特——你还记得他吗？还有卡纳比和莫雷·雷诺兹。你当时不会也在那儿吧？不，如果你在的话我应该会记得的……

“男孩这种生物太奇特了。抛开掩藏在内心深处的自我厌恶不说，我当时对于能够得到这么多高年级生的关注，内心深处是有点沾沾自喜的，至少我是这么认为的。我记忆尤其深刻的是得到克罗肖表扬的那一刻——你记得大一点的克罗肖，作曲家克罗肖的儿子？——他说这是他所听过的最棒的谎话。可与此同时，把在我眼中如此神圣的秘密透露出去的羞耻之感有如逆流般向我袭来。福西特那个禽兽还开起了花园里女孩的玩笑……”

因为沉浸在那段羞耻的回忆当中，华莱士的声音也低沉下来。“我假装没听见他说的是什么，”他说，“然后卡纳比突然管我叫‘小骗子’，我坚持这些都是真的，可他一点都不相信。我说我知道绿门在哪里，十分钟就可以把他们带过去。卡纳比这次已经出乎意料地善良了，他说我必须证明所说的一切，不然就要我好看。卡纳比可曾扭过你的手臂？如果有的话，那恐怕你就能理解我的处境了。我发誓我的故事是真的。当时学校里没有一个人能从卡纳比手中救下一个小屁孩，虽然克罗肖可能替我说了几句好话。卡纳比奸计得逞，我变得越来越激动，面红耳赤，也有点害怕。总体来说，我表现得就像是一个傻不拉叽的小屁孩，而最后结果就是，本该由我独自寻找的魔法花园的计划，变成了由我带领着六个恐吓我的同学一起去。他们既嘲讽，又好奇，而我则是满脸通红、耳根火热、双眼刺痛，灵魂深处饱受痛苦和屈辱的煎熬。”

“我们一直没有找到白墙和绿门……”

“你的意思是？”

“我的意思是我找不到那扇门。如果能的话，我也想找到。可就算是之后我自己一个人去，也找不到。我再也没找到过那扇门。想起来，似乎在我整个中学求学期间，都在找寻那扇门，但我再也没有见过它——再也没有。”

“那帮人——没让你好过吧？”

“卡纳比……那个禽兽，他以我荒唐的谎言为由开了会。我还记得为了不让人看见我满脸泪痕，后来我是如何悄悄回家溜上楼的。但让我哭着入睡的原因并不是卡纳比，而是那花园——我全心向往的那美丽的午后、那可爱友善的女士、那些还在等待着我的玩伴、我想要学会的游戏、遗忘的美丽游戏——我的眼泪是为它们而流的。

“我坚信如果我没有说出去……在那之后好些日子里，我状态都很糟——无数个哭泣的黑夜和心不在焉的白日。足足有两个学期，我松懈下来了，成绩下滑。你还记得吗？你当然记得！因为是你——是你数学成绩打败我这事让我重新开始用功的。”

第三章

我的朋友安静地盯着壁炉中的火苗好一阵子。随后他开口道：“直到我十七岁时，才再次见到那扇门。”

“它第三次赫然出现在我面前——我当时正在去牛津领取奖学金的路上，路过帕丁顿，就瞥了一眼。当时我正把头伸出马车挡板外抽烟，毫无疑问，觉得自己特别老成世故，而突然间，眼前一闪而过的是那扇门和那道墙，那种无法忘怀而又触手可得的珍贵感觉。

“马车咔嗒咔嗒地路过——我也吃了一惊，直到马车走到转弯处才让它停下。随后那一瞬间对我来说特别诡异，我内心陷入了怀疑和挣扎——我敲了敲马车顶的小门，伸出手掏出了怀表。‘是的，先生！’车夫利索地回答。‘呃，好吧，没什么。’我喊道，‘我的错。我们没多少时间了！继续走吧！’然后他继续前行……

“我拿到了奖学金。收到通知的第二天晚上，我回到父亲家，坐在楼上我书房的壁炉前，父亲很罕见地表扬了我，他那些合理的建议在我耳边作响，我抽着最爱的烟斗——青春期陪伴着我的斗牛犬大烟斗——想的却是嵌在白色长墙上的那一扇门。‘如果我停下来了，’我想，‘那肯定就要错过奖学金、错过牛津，把未来的大好前程搅得一团糟！我头脑更加清晰起来！’虽然思绪凝重，但当时我对于为事业牺牲这件事，没有丝毫的怀疑。

“那些亲爱的朋友和明朗的氛围的确对我很好，非常美好，却十分遥远。我的注意力现在专注于这个世界。我看到了另一扇门向我打开——事业的大门。”

他再次凝视着炉火。有那么一瞬间，他的脸庞在红色火光的映照下，露出了一丝丝坚韧的表情，可它随即便消失不见了。

“好吧，”他叹息着说道，“我已经为事业付出了很多。我非常用心地工作，非常努力。但在那之后，我上千次地梦见过那座魔法花园，也看到过那扇门，它至少四次在我面前一闪而过。在好长一段时间里，这个世界的一切看起来是如此光明而有趣，看起来是那么充满意义和可能性，而对比之下，花园日益消减的吸引力让人觉得温和而遥远。谁愿意在赶去和美丽女子、出色男子共进晚餐的途中抚摸美洲豹？我从牛津来到伦敦，必须要成就一番事业以履行我大胆的承诺。事业——当然其中也有失望……”

“我一共谈过两次恋爱——我就不细说了——但有一次和某人约会，我知道她怀疑我是否敢现身，于是我冒险抄了一条近路，那条路在伯爵阁附近，不经常走，可白墙和绿门就在那里出现了。‘奇怪，’我自言自语道，‘可我以为它在坎佩切山。那是我怎么也找不到的地方——就像数巨石阵——那个诡异的白日梦中所出现的场所。’而我心无旁骛地走过了那扇门，那天下午，它对我没有丝毫的吸引力。

“有那么一瞬间，我有股冲动想要试着打开那扇门，最多就是再走三步——虽然心底确信那扇门会为我而开，可我随即意识到这么做就会迟到，而这关乎我的荣誉。之后我情愿自己没准时到达——我至少应该偷偷看一眼花园，向那些美洲豹招招手，但这次我清楚地认识到不应该紧抓着错过的事物不放。是的，那一次让我非常后悔……

“在那之后，我努力工作好多年，一直也没再见过那扇门，直到最近它才再次出现。随之而来的，我感到似乎有一层薄锈蔓延开来，笼罩着我的世界。我开始为再也看不到这扇门而感到悲伤和苦痛。或许是因为我同样也备受超负荷工作量的折磨——或许那就是别人口中的年到四十的感觉。我也不知道。但我所肯定的是，那种让人对努力工作感到轻而易举的强烈愉悦之感已经不复存在，在所有这些新政治趋势发展的时机下，正是我应该努力工作的时候。奇怪，对吧？但生活的确开始让我感到疲惫不堪，而它的回报，当那些回报慢慢变得触手可得时，我觉得它们很廉价。就在不久前，我开始迫切地渴望那个花园。是的——而我又见过它三次。”

“你走进花园了？”

“不——是那扇门！而我并没有进去！”他朝着我的方向靠向桌子，声音里承载着巨大的伤痛，“我有三次机会——三次！如果那门再出现在我面前，我发誓，我会走进去，离开这片尘嚣和嘈杂之地，抛下这枯燥乏味的耀眼虚荣，远离这些劳神费心的徒劳无功。我要走进去，永不回头。这次我会留下……我发誓，可当时机来临——我并没有走进去。”

“这一年中，我有三次路过那扇门的机会，却没能走进去。去年一年有三次。

“第一次是在租户救赎法案的紧急投票之夜，最后以三票多数票保住了政府。你还记得吗？我们这边没人——可能对方也没几个人——预料到当晚的结果。随后的讨论像蛋壳一样分崩离析。我和霍奇基斯当时正和他的表亲在布伦特福德用餐，我俩都没携伴出席。电话一打来，我们立刻开着他表亲的车出发，差点就迟到了。在赶路的时候，经过了我的墙和门——在月光的照耀下一片苍白，刺眼的路灯在墙上投射出一大块炙热的黄斑，但不会错的。‘我的天。’我脱口而出。‘怎么了？’霍奇基斯问道。我回答说：‘没事！’然后就错过了那个时机。

“‘我做出了极大的牺牲。’在进门的时候我告诉党鞭。‘大家都是。’他匆匆走过的时候回答道。

“我不知道当时不这么做还能怎样。第二次机会是在我赶去父亲的床前，去跟这个严厉的老头子告别的时候。那一次也是，在生命的面前，这选择是毋庸置疑的。但第三次不一样，它发生在一周前。光是回忆起来，都让我悔恨不已。我当时和古尔克及拉尔夫在一起——现在已经不是什么秘密了，你知道的，我和古尔克谈过了。我们当时在弗罗比舍用餐，聊得越来越深入。而我在内阁重组当中的位置总游走在我们的话题之间。是的——是的。已经尘埃落定了。虽然还不能对外公布，不过我不认为需要向你保守秘密……是的——非常感谢！非常感谢！但让我继续给你讲我的故事。

“然后，在那个晚上，似乎一切都悬而未决。我的处境有些微妙。我非常迫切地想要从古尔克口中得到确切的答复，但拉尔夫的出现阻碍了这一切。我绞尽脑汁让那晚的对话显得轻松愉快，尽可能不把话题转移到我最关注的地方。我必须如此。拉尔夫随后的表现证实了我的谨慎是正确的。我知道拉尔夫走到肯辛顿大街就会和我们分道扬镳，之后我就可以和古尔克打开天窗说亮话。有时候人必须借助于这种小手段……而正在此时，我眼角的余光瞄见了白墙和绿门，就在路的前方。

“我们聊着天经过了那扇门。我走过了它。直到现在，我还记得古尔克醒目的侧脸所投射出的阴影，他的大礼帽向前倾斜，滑落在挺拔的鼻子上方，我们漫步在街道时，他脖间围了好几层围巾的投影总是走在我和拉尔夫的影子之前。

“路过的时候，我距离那扇门也就二十英寸1的距离。‘如果我跟他们说晚安告别，然后走进门里，’我问自己，‘接下来会发生什么？’而我当时一心想着要和古尔克谈话。在心里被其他问题占据的同时，我没法儿回答这个问题。‘他们会以为我疯了，’我想，‘而假如我现在失踪了——杰出的政治家离奇消失事件！’这影响了我当时的决定。在那紧要关头，各种各样难以想象的尘世间琐事占据了我的思绪。

“随后古尔克转过身，抱歉地笑了笑，缓慢地说：‘我到了！’

1.1英寸约等于2.5厘米。（说明：书中脚注除特别标明的之外，均为译者注。）

“‘我到了！’他重复了一次。而我彻底失去了我的机会。一年中，有三次进入那扇门的机会——那扇引导你走向平静、走向愉悦、走向比梦境更美、走向世上无人知晓之善的大门。而我拒绝了它，雷德蒙，它现在离我而去——”

“你怎么知道？”

“我知道。我就知道。现在我被留下来面对这一切，我曾经有机会离开，当时拖着我后腿的任务把我困在此处。你说我取得了成功——这庸俗、花哨、讨人厌、惹人妒忌的东西。我得到了。”他大手中拿着一个核桃。“如果这就是我的成功……”他说着，把手中的核桃捏碎了，随后把手伸出来让我看。

“让我告诉你吧，雷德蒙。这次的擦肩而过正在摧毁我。过去两个月里，到现在为止快十周了，除去那些必要和紧急的任务，我什么工作都没做。我的灵魂被无法平息的悔恨之感所占据。我在夜晚出门——那时候不太容易被认出来。我在街头游荡。是的，我好奇如果人们知道，会怎么看我。一个内阁大臣，所有部门里最重要的负责人在大街上独自游荡——为一扇门、一座花园默哀——有时候那悲伤过于沉重，似乎都能被听到。”

第四章

直到现在，我才意识到那晚他脸色多么苍白，眼中燃起了我所不熟悉的阴郁火光。今天晚上，他在我眼中是如此鲜活。我坐在这里，回想着他的辞藻、他的语气，而最新一期的《威斯敏斯特公报》还躺在我的沙发上，里面刊登的是他的死讯。今日午餐的时候，俱乐部里人人都关注着他的死讯。除了这个，我们没有探讨任何其他事情。

他们昨天一大早在肯辛顿东站附近的一个深坑里找到了他的尸首。为了连接向南延伸的铁路，工人挖了两个竖井。为了防止公众进入，在大街上用栅墙把坑遮挡起来，在墙上留了一个小门，以便住在另一侧的工人进出。而因为监工交接的失误，这扇门没有锁好，他就是穿过那扇门走了进去。

心中的疑惑和迷思让我心情越发沉重。

看起来他似乎当晚从议院一路走回家——在过去这段会期内，他经常走回家——因此，我猜，那个专注地走在空荡荡的街道上，包裹得严严实实的身影，就是他。是不是车站附近电灯那苍白的光线蒙骗了他，让他误以为粗糙的木板是白色的？是不是那扇致命的、没上锁的门唤醒了某些回忆？

究竟，是否存在着这样一面白墙，墙上嵌着一扇绿门？

我不知道。我一字不漏地把他讲的故事转述出来。有时候我也想相信华莱士不过是一个意外的受害者，被困在幻觉和无心的陷阱之中，这种情况很鲜有，却并不是毫无先例，但这肯定不是我最坚定的信念。如果要这么想的话，你或许认为我很迷信，还很傻，但实际上我更倾向于相信他是真的拥有某种非比寻常的天赋，一种感知力还是什么的，我也说不清楚，可这种感知力以墙和门为幌子，给他提供了一个出口、一个秘密的特别通道，让他可以逃到另一个更美好的世界。无论如何，你或许会说，这种力量最终还是背叛了他。可你确定吗？在那里，你碰触到这些造梦之人内心最深处的秘密，这些人有如此的远见和想象力。这个世界在我们眼中普通而平凡，就像那个栅墙和土坑。以日常准则看来，他走出安全区，走进了黑暗，走进了危险，走进了死亡。

可在他眼中，又是否如此呢？

显微镜下的失误

实验室的窗外湿雾弥漫，桌子对面分别摆放着两盏绿色的瓦斯灯，离得很近，昏黄的光线透着一丝暖意。每张桌子上都放着几个学生们做实验用的玻璃罐，里面装着龙虾、贻贝、青蛙以及豚鼠的残骸。房间另一头的架子正对着窗户，架上存放着解剖体，漂白过后，泡在酒精里。一排精美的解剖图悬挂在架子上方，它们镶嵌在白木框里，架子下方是一列方形的储物柜。实验室的每道门上都嵌着黑板，上面还写着前一天上课留下的部分图解。实验室里除了助教空无一人，他安静地坐在备课室的门附近，偌大空间内，只听见他手中的摇杆切片机在絮絮叨叨、低声细语。环视房内，不少学生曾驻足的痕迹还是四处可见：有手提包若干，亮闪闪的仪器箱数只；在某个角落还有藏在报纸下的巨大画幅；另外还有一册装帧得非常精致的《乌有乡消息》，这本书出现在这样的环境中，显得有些格格不入。学生们都赶着去隔壁的阶梯教室抢占座位，随手把这些东西摆放在桌上。紧闭的大门降低了教授的音量，让他韵律十足的腔调听起来就像是毫无生气的喃喃自语。

不久后，窗外传来了微弱的钟声，教堂的钟敲了十一下。切片机的声音停了下来，助教看了看表，站起身，双手插着口袋，穿过实验室，缓慢地走向阶梯教室的门口。他站在门口听了一会儿，随后眼光落在了一小册威廉·莫里斯的书上。他拿起书，扫了一眼标题，笑着打开书，看了看衬页上的名字，随手翻了几页，然后把书放回桌面。与此同时，阶梯课室内单调的呢喃止住了，屋内突然响起了铅笔摩擦桌面的沙沙声，嘈杂的脚步声和好几个人说话的声音混在一起。紧接着坚定的脚步声渐渐向门口靠近，门打开了，敞在那儿，而刚进来的人们的注意力似乎被依稀传来的发问声所吸引，停住了脚步。

助教转过身，缓慢地走过切片机，穿过备课室的门走出了实验室。在他走出门外的同时，学生们拿着课本一个接着一个从阶梯教室走回实验室，分散着坐在小桌前，有几个站在门口。这是异常混杂的一个群体，因为当牛津和剑桥还在回避不分阶层的教育方式所带来的窘况时，帝国理工学院先于美国，早在好些年前就采用了阶层混合式教学——社会地位也是一视同仁，因为学院声名在外，而奖学金的申请不受任何年龄限制，比那些苏格兰的大学招生范围更广。这个班上一共有二十一名学生，但有的人还留在教室向教授提问，有的赶在黑板擦干净前把上面的图示抄下来，还有人在仔细查看教授为了演示课专门准备的标本。走进实验室的九名学生中，有三位女生，其中一位是身材娇小的漂亮女生，她戴着眼镜，衣服是灰绿色的，正盯着窗外的浓雾。其余两位都是看起来健健康康的女生，相貌平平，纷纷解开卷好的围裙，穿在身上。这种棕色的亚麻围裙是解剖时穿的。男生中，有两位直接走到他们在实验室的座位上，其中一位以前是名裁缝，苍白的脸上长着一圈深色的胡子；另一位体格健硕的年轻人二十出头，面色红润，穿着合身的棕色西装——小韦德伯恩，是眼科医生韦德伯恩的儿子。其他几个人在课室门附近挤作一团。一个戴眼镜的小矮子驼着背，坐在横木凳上；另外两位，一个是矮个子、肤色深的年轻人，另一位年轻人长着亚麻色的头发，肤色红彤彤的，他倚在板岩水槽旁；而第四个人面对着大家，是这群人中的主要发言人。

最后一个人名叫希尔，这个身体结实的年轻小伙子，和韦德伯恩年纪相仿，他肤色很白，眼珠是深灰色的，发色说不上来，五官立体，不太对称。他说话声音大于常人，双手深深地插在口袋里，衣领上有磨痕，还有粗心的洗衣女工上浆后留下的蓝色痕迹，他的衣服明显是成衣，靴子靠近脚趾的地方还有一块补丁。当他发表意见或是倾听别人讲话时，时不时地向阶梯教室的门口张望。他们在讨论今天刚上完的那节动物学入门课程，如此冗长，多么让人绝望。“高等脊椎动物的目标是从一个卵子到另一个卵子……”讲师语气忧郁地说着，同时把他画了好久的对比解剖学图画完了。戴眼镜的驼背大声重复了一次，语气中充满了欣赏，并把话题丢向了一头秀发的学生，态度明显带着挑衅。随后便开始了那种含糊不清的讨论，不用说，像这种漫无边界的讨论，相信对全世界的学生来说都非常的熟悉。

“或者，这就是我们的目标——我承认，至少从科学的角度来说，”这是一头秀发的学生对挑衅的回应，“但总有什么是凌驾在科学之上的。”

“科学，”希尔信心十足地说，“是系统的知识。一切系统外的概念，无论如何，肯定是不靠谱的。”只有当听众把他的话当回事，他才能确定这话说得到底是高明还是愚蠢。

“我所不能理解的是，”驼背随意说道，“希尔究竟是不是唯物主义者。”

“有一样东西是凌驾于物质之上的，”希尔觉得这次能够更加清楚地表明自己的立场，同时也意识到有人在门背后，于是为了引起她的注意稍稍提高了音量，他迅速回答道，“那就是妄想有什么可以凌驾于物质之上。”

“所以我们终于听完你的传教了。”俊美的学生说，“我们对高于畜生的生活方式的渴求，我们对高于自身的一切所付出的努力，这所有一切都是妄想，是吧？但看看你是多么前后不一。比如说你的社会主义，为什么还要浪费时间关心种族？为什么还要为生活在贫民窟的乞丐费心？为什么还要自找麻烦把那本书，”他用头指了指威廉·莫里斯的书，“借给实验室的所有人？”

“女生来了。”驼背含糊地嘟囔了一句，紧张地向后瞄了一眼。

那个女孩穿着褐色的衣服，眼睛也是褐色的，她走进实验室，站在桌子的另一侧，也就是驼背身边，一手拿着卷好的围裙，转头听着大家的讨论。她没注意到驼背的存在，因为她的视线游走于希尔以及和他对话的人之间。希尔刻意忽略她的存在，这暴露了自己对她的出现有多在意，女孩读懂了这一点，感到非常满意。“我不需要理由，”他说，“就因为一个人知道没有任何事物凌驾于物质之上，也不期待自己长命百岁，他就要活得像畜生？”

“为什么不呢？”一头秀发的学生问道。

“为什么要呢？”希尔回答。

“那他的奖赏是什么？”

“你们这些信教的人，对你们来说一切都和奖赏有关。难道一个人就不能接受公义，为公义而存在吗？”

现场安静了一会儿，随后秀发男挣扎着用简单的词凑数以争取时间：“但——你看——奖赏——当我说奖赏的时候……”然后驼背突然插入的问题拯救了他。驼背的问题在辩论界是臭名昭著的，因为他的问题总是一个花样——要求对方下定义。“这就是你对公义的定义？”这就是驼背当时的问题。

希尔突然失去了回答这个问题的自信，不过虽然对方把问题丢出来了，可实验室助教布鲁克斯的出现救了场，他提着一批刚宰杀的豚鼠后腿。“这是这节课最后一批材料。”之前一直没开口的年轻人说道。布鲁克斯走向实验室前方，随手把豚鼠丢在每张桌子上。班上其他学生在远处闻到了豚鼠的味道，纷纷从阶梯教室挤回实验室，之前的讨论戛然而止，本来没坐在自己位子上的学生匆忙赶回去抢占实验样品。挂在圈上的钥匙咯咯作响，有人打开了储物柜拿出了解剖器材。希尔本来就站在自己座位旁边，他的解剖刀伸到了口袋外面。褐衣女子向前走了一步，靠着他的桌子，温柔地说：“你看到我把书还给你了吧，希尔先生？”

整个过程中，在希尔的意识里，女孩和书的存在是如此之清晰，可他笨拙地假装自己刚看到那本书。“噢，是的，”他边说边拿起书，“我知道了，你喜欢这本书吗？”

“有时间的话，我想请教你几个关于这本书的问题。”

“当然没问题，”希尔说，“这是我的荣幸。”他尴尬地停顿了一下。

“你喜欢这本书吗？”他问道。

“这本书很精彩。只是有的部分我不太理解。”

突然间，实验室响起了一阵古怪刺耳的声音，随后彻底安静下来。是助教，他已经走到黑板前，准备开始指导当日的解剖。他习惯于使用这种介乎于普通交媾时所发出的“呃”和喇叭发出的巨大声响之间的某种声音来让学生闭嘴。褐衣女子溜回自己的座位，就在希尔的正前方。希尔立刻忽略了她的存在，从桌子抽屉里拿出了笔记本，快速翻开本子，从口袋里拔出一支短胖的铅笔，准备以海量的笔记记录下助教接下来要做的示范。对于大学里的学生来说，示范和讲座是他们神圣而不可侵犯的教材。除了教授的书之外，你可以，甚至最好忽略其他教材。

希尔的父亲是兰德波特的修鞋匠，一次偶然的机会，政府下达给兰德波特技术学院的蓝皮书，让希尔拿到了奖学金。他靠着每周一几尼的零用钱留在了伦敦，发现只要精打细算，这笔钱也足够支付他的置装费——偶尔买个防水衣领，还有像墨水、针线这种城市男士生活的必需品。他第一年和第一学期就是这么过下来的，而黝黑的老头子在兰德波特几处酒馆，因为吹嘘自己的儿子是“教授”而遭到了当地人的厌恶。希尔是个精力旺盛的年轻人，他内心深处暗暗蔑视着所有宗教的神职人员，胸怀着重建世界的远大志向。在他看来，获得奖学金是一次非常好的机会。他七岁就开始读书，自那时起一直坚持着，对于身边能够接触到的书籍，无论好坏都来者不拒。他为人处世的经验仅限于波特西岛，主要是靴子批发工厂。十七岁离开寄宿学校后，他每天都在那儿上班。在演讲方面，他有着很大的天赋，并且已经得到了大学辩论社的认可，集会每次都在楼下冶金学教室碾压机和矿石模型的包围下召开，你可以从希尔每次站起来讲话时，对方拍打课桌的疯狂程度中看得出其他人对他的表现的肯定。而他正处于那个特别让人激动人心的年龄，此时的人生在羊肠小道尽头豁然开朗，就好像这一整片山谷都任其支配，未来等待着他的都是神奇的新发现和巨大的成就。除了知道自己不会拉丁语和法语之外，希尔对于自己的局限一无所知。

一开始，他的兴趣点平均地分配在学校的生物学和构建社会学和神学理论上，他十分热衷于这项工作。夜幕降临的时候，如果大博物馆的图书馆没开门，他就坐在切尔西家中的床上，穿着外套、围着围巾，誊写讲座的笔记、背诵解剖备忘录，直到索普在屋外吹起口哨——房东太太拒绝为阁楼租户的访客开门——他们俩接下来一同游走于街头，那街道在煤气灯的照射下忽明忽暗，他们几乎是照本宣科，按着刚学会的方式聊着上帝的旨意、公义、卡莱尔以及社会重组。而在所有的过程中，希尔有时赞成索普，有时赞成某个随便经过的路人的观点，但当浓妆艳抹的女性若有所思地看着他走过时，他的思绪也不免为之所动，一时迷乱，失去论点。科学和公义！但这些日子里，有那么一两次征兆，似乎他的生活中出现了第三个让他产生兴趣的事。他发现自己的注意力会从中胚层体节的命运或是胚乳的可能意义上，时不时地，游移到坐在自己前排的褐眼女孩身上。

她是自费学生，光是和他说话，她已是纡尊降贵。一想到她从小到大所接受的教育、所获得的成就，希尔的灵魂就开始感到煎熬。她第一次和希尔说话是因为兔子的翼蝶骨上有她搞不懂的地方，而这使他发现，至少在生物上，不需要自我贬低。自那以后，他们就像所有年轻人一样，随便开个头就能继续闲聊下去，而当希尔在社会主义的问题上攻击她时——本能告诉他不要直接攻击她的宗教信仰——而她则下决心，说服自己去担负起提高他审美品位的重任。她比他大一两年，虽然这对希尔来说，从来都不是问题。在《乌有乡消息》后，他们就开始频繁地把书借给彼此。希尔有个荒谬的首要原则，他从来不在诗歌上“浪费时间”，这对她来说可是很可怕的缺陷。有天在午餐的时候，她偶然撞见希尔躲在放骨架的小博物馆里吃小圆面包——这基本就是他每日的午餐，在这样的情况下被她撞见让他感到十分尴尬。难得有机会独处，她转身走出去，不一会儿，神秘兮兮地拿着一卷勃朗宁回来借给他。他侧着身子面对着她，笨手笨脚地接过了书，因为另一只手还拿着面包。事后想起来，他的语气没能像他所希望表现出来的那么愉悦爽朗。

这一切发生在比较解剖学的考试后，也是学校对外开放的最后一天，在这之后，在圣诞假期前，学校会清理所有在校生，仔细锁好校园。为了用功准备第一学期期末考试，希尔发愤图强地复习，注意力暂时从其他兴趣点上转移开来。在所有人都乐此不疲地预测这次考试以及接下来将要进行的两次考试成绩的时候，他惊奇地发现，没人认为他有竞争哈维纪念勋章的潜力。一直以来，韦德伯恩基本上默默无闻地生活在希尔认知的最边缘地带，也该轮到他以竞争对手的身份登场了。索普和希尔达成协议，在考试前的三周，不再出去夜游。而房东太太指出，以这么低的房价，她无法提供更多的灯油。于是希尔拿着帮助记忆的小纸条，往返行走于学校与住处之间，纸条上列着小龙虾的附肢、兔子的头骨还有脊椎动物的神经体统。而他也成为让反向行人十分头疼的一号人物。

可诗歌和褐眼女孩自然而然地占据了整个圣诞假期。尚未公布的考试成绩变得不再那么重要，希尔甚至为他父亲的激动而感到惊讶。

就算他想学习比较解剖学，这些书在兰德波特也无处可借，而他太穷了，也买不起新书，但图书馆里囤积了大量诗歌，这充分地满足了希尔的需求。他让自己沉浸于朗费罗和丁尼生流畅的诗篇之中，在莎士比亚身上感受到了勇气，在蒲柏身上找到了似曾相识的灵魂，在雪莱身上见识到了大师的水平，他甚至还浅尝辄止地读了伊莱莎·库克[1]和希曼太太[2]的诱人辞藻。但他没有读勃朗宁其他的作品，因为他希望回到伦敦后能够继续向希丝曼小姐借阅。

他从住处走到学校，亮闪闪的黑包里装着一卷勃朗宁，满脑子都是和诗歌相关的好话。的确，他构思好了聊天的开场白，还打好了最后用于表达对返校的欣喜的腹稿。以伦敦的标准来说，这个早晨格外怡人，可以清晰地看到厚厚的霜冻和湛蓝的天空，薄雾轻轻地勾勒出世间万物的轮廓，一缕缕阳光洒落在街区间，在向阳那侧的街道上渲染出了琥珀色和金色。到了学校大堂，他摘下手套，手指冻得太僵，以至于他在签名那一栏写出来的，是一条颤抖的黑线。他觉得希丝曼小姐应该就在附近。转身面向楼梯时，他发现在楼梯下面围了一群人，挣扎着挤在通告栏前。这估计就是生物考试的排名。那一刻，他忘记了勃朗宁和希丝曼小姐，加入到人群当中，向中间挤去。终于，在脸快被站在上层楼梯的人的袖子挤扁之时，他看到了排名表——

一等

H.J.萨默思·韦德伯恩

威廉·希尔

随后紧接着是二等成绩的学生，目前这不在我们所关心的范围之内。以他一贯的风格，希尔根本没浪费时间去查看索普在物理班的排名，他退出拥挤的人群，陷入了一种奇怪的情绪当中，这种情绪介乎比普通二等生感到更骄傲和输给韦德伯恩的巨大失落感之间，他带着这种情绪走上了楼。上去后，他在楼道里挂好了自己的大衣，动物学的助教对他表达了衷心的祝贺，这位年轻的助教来自牛津，在此之前，他私下里认为希尔是那种最糟糕的无赖混混。

希尔在实验室门口停顿了几秒，喘了口气，随后推门而入。他的目光穿过实验室，看到五位女学生站在一起，韦德伯恩——之前沉默寡言的韦德伯恩优雅地靠在窗边，把玩着窗帘的流苏，很明显在和那五位女生聊天。好吧，希尔或许能够有勇气，甚至是有些霸气地和一个女生聊天，或者也能在满满一屋的女生面前演讲，但像韦德伯恩这样从容地站在一群女生面前享受谈话、掌握局面、机智应答，希尔知道自己是做不到的。走上楼梯的时候，他对韦德伯恩的态度还是比较慷慨的，或许还带有一丝钦佩，他愿意真心诚意地在大家面前和他握手，就像两人只是结束了第一回合对决那样。但在圣诞节前，韦德伯恩从来没有走到实验室的那一头去聊天。希尔那一丝模糊的兴奋情绪转瞬即逝，快速地变成了对韦德伯恩明显的嫌恶。也可能是因为他的表情产生了变化。当他走近韦德伯恩时，韦德伯恩漫不经心地向希尔点头示意，其他人转身看了一眼。希丝曼小姐的视线投向了希尔，两人眼神稍作碰撞，很快又错开了。“韦德伯恩先生，我无法认同你的说法。”她说。

“我必须要恭喜你的一等成绩，希尔先生。”戴眼镜穿绿衣服的女生转过身，笑容满面地对他说道。

“这没什么。”希尔回答的时候，眼神一直没离开在旁聊天的韦德伯恩和希丝曼小姐，他迫切地想听他们在聊些什么。

“我们这些可怜的二等生可不这么认为啊。”戴眼镜的女生说。

韦德伯恩在说什么？好像是和威廉·莫里斯有关。希尔没有继续回答戴眼镜的女生，脸上的笑容也渐渐消失了。他听不清楚，于是也找不到加入谈话的时机。该死的韦德伯恩！他坐下来，打开包，犹豫了一下是否应该当着全班人的面，立刻把勃朗宁还回去，最后还是决定放弃，取而代之，他拿出了下堂课的笔记本，接下来要上的是基础植物学，这门课是短期课程，二月份就结束了。与此同时，一个肥硕的男人从阶梯教室走进来，穿过实验室，他面带微笑，边走边搓着双手，看起来和蔼可亲。这个肤色白皙、眼珠淡蓝的男人名叫宾顿，是植物学的教授，他从克佑来，上一、二月份的课。

在接下来的六个星期里，希尔体验到了一种快速而异常复杂的情感成长。大多数情况下，他的注意力主要集中在韦德伯恩身上——希丝曼小姐没看出这一点。她告诉希尔（因为博物馆相对来说比较隐蔽，她在那里和希尔聊了很多关于社会主义、勃朗宁还有其他方面的话题）自己在一个熟人家碰到过韦德伯恩，而他“继承了父亲的聪明才智，因为你知道，他的父亲是位出色的眼科医生”。

“我父亲是鞋匠。”希尔回答说，这两者并没有什么关联，可从他的语气中，你能感觉到他的自尊心在作祟。但他那一闪而过的嫉妒没有让她感到不适，她能够想象得到这种情绪源自何方。他从韦德伯恩身上痛苦地感受到了不公，也意识到了自己的缺陷。这个韦德伯恩，他选了一个杰出的男人当父亲，而这个优势不会让他丢分，反而对他来说是公义的。而当希尔只能在实验室的豚鼠残肢前笨拙地和希丝曼小姐搭话时，这个韦德伯恩，已经背着他攀入了她的社交圈，恐怕还能和希丝曼小姐用高雅的上层语言交谈，希尔或许也听得懂他们的对话，但自己绝对无法使用这样的语言。当然，他也并不想使用这种语言。而对于希尔来说，像韦德伯恩这样，每天穿着合身的西服、别着崭新的袖扣、梳着整齐的发型，完美地出现在学校，这本身，就是一种粗鲁的、轻蔑的行为。此外，韦德伯恩最初鬼鬼崇崇假装低调、假装谦虚的状态，让希尔幻想着自己理所当然能成为今年的头号人物，之后突然之间一跃而起，以这种方式毫无节制地膨胀，这种行径太过于鬼鬼祟祟。除此之外，韦德伯恩还越发表现出对希丝曼小姐的兴趣，无论她出现在哪个讨论组，他都试图加入，冒着风险找准一切时机，表达对社会主义和无神论的诋毁。他以类似某类领袖人物的个性——简洁、肤浅以及超高效率——刺激着希尔，让他变得失去理智，直到最后，希尔就像恨萧伯纳优雅的自负、恨威廉·莫里斯限量奢华的墙纸以及恨沃尔特·克兰对于工人阶级匪夷所思的看法一样，仇恨起韦德伯恩来。

实验室的研讨在上个学期还是希尔大放光彩的时刻，现在却变得危险起来，沦落成和韦德伯恩之间毫不体面的斗争，希尔之所以坚持下来，是因为他产生了这事关自己荣誉的奇怪想法。至于在辩论社，希尔清楚地认识到，伴随着雷鸣般的拍桌声，他可以轻而易举地战胜韦德伯恩。只是韦德伯恩并没有给他在辩论社击垮自己的机会——他“用餐很晚”——多么恶心做作！

你一定不能认为所有这一切都以如此低级的状态呈现在希尔的认知当中，他天生喜欢概括总结。韦德伯恩在他眼中并不是一个独立的障碍物，而是一类人，是一个阶层突出的那一角。经济学理论经过了发酵，在希尔的脑中已经形成固有姿态，在现实中变得异常具体。这个世界中到处充斥着像韦德伯恩这样轻慢、优雅、衣着高雅、口若悬河的人，姓韦德伯恩的主教、国会议员、教授还有地主们，他们都用着腐朽的洗指碗，引述着强劲辩手们所使用的警句式遁词。在希尔的想象中，任何衣冠不整、装扮邋遢的人，从鞋匠到车夫，都亲如兄弟，是受苦受难的同胞。于是他仿佛成为底层阶级和被压迫人士的拥护者，尽管表面看起来他只是个我行我素的粗鲁年轻人，而且还是个不太成功的拥护者。在下午茶时，一次又一次的小冲突已经开始让女学生丢下希尔一个人在那儿红着脸、发脾气，而辩论社也注意到希尔的讲话中出现了挖苦式嘲讽的新特质。

现在你就能明白，如果是为了人类利益，希尔在下一次考试中击垮韦德伯恩，并且在希丝曼小姐眼中把他比下去，是多么有必要的。而且你或许也能察觉，希丝曼小姐误入了某种常见的女性的认知误区。因为韦德伯恩以一种低调的方式应对希尔掩藏不住的敌意，这场希尔和韦德伯恩的争执成为对她无尽魅力的颂词——她就是这场充斥着手术刀和粗短铅笔的竞赛之中的绝世佳人。让希丝曼小姐的密友私下感到为难的是，这甚至让她良心不安，因为她是个好女孩，通过拉斯金和当代小说痛苦地认识到，男人所有的行为都是由女性的态度决定的。而如果万一希尔从未向她提及“爱情”这个话题，她也只会认为他避而不谈，只不过是因为过于害羞。

紧接着，第二次考试马上就要到了，希尔越发苍白的面容证实了他在发奋学习的谣言。你能在肯辛顿南站附近的加气面包[3]店里看到他，掰着面包，小口地啜着牛奶，眼睛一直没有离开过面前那张记着密密麻麻笔记的纸张。在卧室的镜子周围，他贴满了芽和茎的提示，在洗手池上，如果肥皂没有遮挡的时候，有一张图表可供阅读。他缺席了几次辩论社的聚会，但他还是挤出了和希丝曼小姐碰面的时间，有时在附近宽敞的艺术博物馆里，有时在学校楼上的小博物馆里，更平常的是在学校走廊，这里更安静，不容易受到打扰。他们还特别喜欢在靠近艺术图书馆的一个小画廊里见面，里面到处是铸铁箱子和门。在那里，希尔在她崇拜的眼神鼓励下，谈论着勃朗宁还有自己的雄心壮志。她在他身上发现了一个非比寻常的特质，那就是他一点也不贪婪。他冷静地深思熟虑过，自己未来可以靠年收入一百镑过活。但他立志要出名，在被自己的同类认可的同时，要把世界变得更好。他以布拉德劳和约翰·伯恩斯为领袖和榜样，这两位都是穷困潦倒的伟人。但希丝曼小姐认为这样的生活在审美方面是有缺陷的，虽然她没意识到，但她所指的是美丽的墙纸和室内装潢、精致的书本、优雅的服装、演唱会以及精心准备的食物和恭敬的服务。

最后，第二次考试终于到来了，植物学教授是个挑剔认真的人，他把所有书桌都重新排放在一个狭长的实验室里，为的是防止抄袭。他在桌子上放了把椅子，让自己的助教坐在上面（据助教自己说，坐在上面感觉像个印度神明），这样就能够看到任何作弊的人。他还在门口贴了一张“此门不通”的告示，可根本没什么人能看得到那张告示。整个早上，从十点到下午一点，韦德伯恩的奋笔疾书——手中鹅毛笔摩擦纸张所发出的尖锐响声，就是对希尔的挑衅，教室里的其他人也不屈不挠地追赶着这两个领军人物。随后就到了下午，韦德伯恩比往常安静了一些，而希尔的双颊一整天下来都是滚烫的。他外套口袋塞满了前一分钟还在复习的课本和笔记本。第二天早上和下午都是实操考试，有一门是切片，另外一门是读玻片。希尔早上很郁闷，因为他知道自己切片切得太厚，而神秘的玻片就是在下午出现的。

这是植物学教师一直做的事情。就像报收入税一样，它提供了作弊的诱惑。这是个放在显微镜下的标本，一个小玻片，用金属压夹片固定在显微镜的载物台上，而按照规定不能移动这个玻片。每个学生轮流上去，把看到的画下来，在本子上写下自己认为正确的答案，然后回到自己的座位。好吧，如果有人手指不小心动了一下，在那一瞬间，就有可能移动整个玻片。教授之所以命令大家不能移动玻片，是因为他想让大家辨认的是某种树茎的特征。按照他所摆放的位置，很难认出这是什么植物，可是一旦移动了玻片，看到里面其他的部分后，它的属性就一目了然了。

希尔走过来，上一门考试中和染色试剂的一番搏斗让他满脸通红。他坐在了显微镜前的小凳子上，移动反光镜寻找最佳光线。随后，只是个习惯性动作，他移动了玻片。他立刻想起来这是禁止的，于是紧接着立刻用手把玻片推了回去，他被自己的行为吓了一跳，坐在那儿一动也不敢动。

随后，他缓缓地转过头。教授在考场外，助教高坐在临时搭建的“神坛”上，读着科学期刊，其他考生背对着他，忙着答题。他是否应该坦白交代这次意外？他现在清楚地知道那个玻片上是什么，这个分类鉴定标本是皮孔，取自接骨木树。他的目光徘徊于专心答题的同学身上，突然之间，韦德伯恩转过头以一种奇怪的眼神瞄了他一眼。让希尔在过去这两天保持着士气高昂状态的精神亢奋突然被奇怪的精神压力取而代之。写答案的本子放在身边，他没有在上面写下答案，但他一边单眼看着显微镜，一边潦草地把看到的东西画下来。突然之间，关于道德规范的怪诞难题在他脑海中翻江倒海。他到底应该写出答案，还是把这个问题的答案空出来？可如果这样的话，韦德伯恩在第二次考试中恐怕也还会排在第一。他现在怎么知道如果没移动玻片的话，自己是不是能认出里面的东西？当然，韦德伯恩也有可能认不出来。可假如他也移动了玻片呢？他抬头看了看表，还有十五分钟去做最后决定。他收起答题本和画答案用的彩色铅笔，走回到自己的座位上。

他把自己的答案从头到尾检查了一遍，然后坐在那儿思索着，啃着自己的指节。如果现在才跳出来承认，看起来会显得可疑。他必须要打败韦德伯恩。于是他忘记了像约翰·伯恩斯和布拉德劳那样耀眼绅士的榜样。而且在他看来，这种瞥见玻片其余部分的行为毕竟只是场意外，这是强加在他身上的，更像是上天的旨意而并非不公平待遇。对他来说，利用这个机会也并不见得是那么不诚实，因为像布鲁姆就相信祷告的作用，他每天都在祈祷着能够拿到第一名。“还有五分钟。”助教一边说，一边折起文章，开始仔细巡视考场。希尔盯着时钟，直到指针走到还剩两分钟交卷时，他打开答题本，两耳通红、佯装镇定地在画好的皮孔旁边写上了名称。

当第二次考试成绩公布后，韦德伯恩和希尔的排名和上一次对调了。认识助教的穿绿衣服戴眼镜的女生（助教私底下也是个普通人）告诉大家，两次考试成绩加一起，在满分是200分的情况下，希尔得了167分，以一分领先于166分的韦德伯恩。在某种意义上，每个人都很佩服希尔，虽然怀疑自己“夺取别人成绩”的想法萦绕在他心头。而且希尔慢慢地发现，无论是别人的恭喜还是希丝曼小姐对他好感加剧，甚至是韦德伯恩在如日中天时明显下滑的地位，都被那不开心的回忆给玷污了。一开始，他感到全身上下充满了能量，辩论词中再次出现了民主主义迈向胜利的语句。他把大量的热情和精力投入在对比解剖学上，也在继续提升自己的审美修养。但在这一切背后，他脑海中不断地出现这个清晰的画面——一个移动了玻片的卑鄙小人。

没有一个人看到那一幕，而他也确信没有神圣的力量能看到他的所作所为，但尽管如此，他还是很担心。记忆并不是死物，而是有生命的，如果不再碰触，它们会慢慢褪色，可如果时常为之懊恼，它们会茁壮成长成各种可疑的形态。奇怪的是，虽然当时他清楚地意识到移动玻片只是一个意外，可随着时间的流逝，他的记忆开始变得混乱，直到最后，他无法确定——虽然他向自己保证是确定的——移动玻片究竟是否是完全下意识的动作。当然，很有可能希尔的饮食习惯也导致了这种病态的自责。他早餐一般都吃得很草率，午饭吃个面包，为了方便，晚上进餐一般在五点之后，肉的选择由他的收入决定，通常是在远离布朗普顿主路的后街里面的一个小餐馆里解决。偶尔，他犒劳自己，来一份三便士或者九便士的经典套餐，而通常端上来的时候，碟子里不是缺点土豆就是少点排骨。这种自我厌恶的爆发和情绪的复苏，毫无疑问和那段时间生活上物资的匮乏有明显的关系。而抛开这对情绪的影响不算，还有就是兰德波特鞋匠——希尔那亵渎神祇的父亲，在他对希尔从儿时起反反复复的暴力教育和语言灌输下，希尔对虚伪深恶痛绝。对于公开宣称自己是无神论者的人，我有一样很确定，那就是他们很可能（通常）都是傻瓜，神经大条，喜欢谩骂神职机构，说话蛮不讲理，是爱捉弄人的恶棍，但他们通常都不善于撒谎。如果他们不是这样，如果他们哪怕能做到有一丝丝的妥协，大概也就变成了自由派教徒。此外，这段记忆还破坏了他对希丝曼小姐的感情。因为比起韦德伯恩，她现在非常明显更喜欢希尔，希尔也确信自己喜欢她，于是开始以腼腆的敬慕方式来回报她对自己的关心。有一次他甚至买了一把紫罗兰，装在口袋里带到铸铁画廊，支支吾吾地解释着把花献给她，而花儿早已凋零枯萎。这记忆同样妨碍了他对于资本家不忠行为的谴责，这一直以来都是他生活的一大乐趣。而最后，它还侵蚀了击败韦德伯恩所带来的喜悦。在此之前，他一直自以为比韦德伯恩高尚，而内心燃起怒火仅仅是因为想要得到认可。现在他开始苦恼，偷偷怀疑这一切是不是源于自卑作祟。他幻想着能从勃朗宁的作品中找到对自己目前情况的辩解，但它们在分析过后就烟消云散了。终于——诡异的是，他被当初让他做出不诚实举动的相同动力所打动——他去找宾登教授，向他坦白了整个事件。因为希尔不是自费学生，宾登教授并没有招呼他坐下，他就这样站在教授的书桌前坦白了一切。

“这件事太奇怪了。”宾登教授说，随后缓慢地意识到自己对这件事的态度，怒火渐渐燃烧起来，“这件事实在太让人震惊了。我不明白你为何会做出这样的事，而我也不明白你为什么要坦白。你是那种学生……剑桥人做梦也不敢……我应该早点想到……你为什么要作弊？”

“我没有作弊。”希尔回答说。

“但你刚刚才告诉我你作弊了。”

“我以为我解释清楚了……”

“你要不就是作弊了，要不就是没有作弊……”

“我说了我的动作是无意识的。”

“我不是个形而上学者，我是科学——也就是事实——的仆人。你得到的命令是不要移动那个玻片。而你的确移动了玻片。如果这不是作弊的话……”

“如果我想作弊”，希尔的声音变得歇斯底里起来，“我为什么要来这里向你坦白？”

“你的忏悔为你挽回了一点，”宾登教授说，“但这并不能改变最初的真相。”

“的确不能，先生。”希尔彻底向自卑举旗投降。

“现在你甚至带来了很大的麻烦。考试排名必须要修正。”

“我想是的，先生。”

“你想是的？当然必须修正。而我不认为我的良心能够过得去，让你通过这次考试。”

“不让我通过？”希尔问，“要给我不及格？”

“这是所有考试的规定。不然我们还能怎么样？你还能期待什么？你不是想逃避自己的所作所为带来的后果吧？”

“我以为，或者……”希尔紧接着说，“让我挂科？我以为，如果我告诉你，你只会把玻片那一题的分数给扣掉。”

“这是不可能的！”宾登说，“而且，扣掉那题的分，你还是排在韦德伯恩前面。只是把那个分扣了？简直荒谬！学院规章制度明确地指出……”

“但我是自己坦白的，先生。”

“规章制度说，无论是什么原因或者以什么方式发现这种行为，他们只不过提供——”

“这会毁了我的，如果我这次考试不及格，他们就不会续发我的奖学金了。”

“你之前就应该想到这一点。”

“但先生，考虑到我的处境……”

“我什么也考虑不了。在这所学校里，教授也只是机器。规章制度甚至不让我们给学生推荐职位。我只是个机器，而你已经让我开始运转了。我必须这么做……”

“这太严苛了，先生。”

“可能是吧。”

“如果我这次考试没法儿通过，那我不如直接回家算了。”

“这就要由你自己考虑清楚了。”宾登的语气软了一点。他意识到自己有点不公平，假如他不是自相矛盾的话，他的确想要改正。“从个人而言，”他说，“我认为你的坦白能够大大地减轻你的过错。但你已经开启了这个机器，现在它只能尽自己的本分。我，我真的很抱歉你把真相说出来了。”

一波强烈的情绪让希尔说不出话来。突然之间，他清晰地看到兰德波特的老鞋匠——他父亲——布满皱纹的脸庞。“我的天！我太蠢了！”他突然之间激动地说道。

“我希望，”宾登说，“这能够让你吸取教训。”

但，诡异的是，他们脑海中所谓的教训，根本不是一回事。

随后两人都没说话。

“我希望能够考虑一下，先生，之后我会告诉你我的决定——我的意思是，关于回不回家。”希尔边说边走向门口。

第二天，希尔没来上课。穿绿衣服戴眼镜的女生一如既往地抢先得到了消息。她说起这件事的时候，韦德伯恩和希丝曼小姐正在探讨诗乐协会会员的表演。

“你们听说了吗？”她问。

“听说什么？”

“上次考试抓到了作弊。”

“作弊？”韦德伯恩的脸突然红了起来，“怎么会？”

“那个玻片……”

“有人动了？不可能！”

“就是有人动了，那个我们不能动的玻片……”

“一派胡言！”韦德伯恩说，“为什么？他们怎么能发现？他们知道是谁……？”

“是希尔先生。”

“希尔！”

“希尔先生！”

“不，肯定不是那个纯洁的希尔吧？”韦德伯恩慢慢恢复正常。

“我不相信。”希丝曼小姐说，“你是怎么知道的？”

“我之前不知道，”戴眼镜的女生说，“但是现在我知道这是真的。希尔先生自己去宾登教授那儿坦白了。”

“我的天哪！”韦德伯恩说，“偏偏是希尔。不过我一直都不太信得过这些原则上的博爱主义……”

“你敢肯定？”希丝曼小姐呼吸急促地问。

“非常确定。这太可怕了，不是吗？但你知道，不然你以为呢？他父亲是个鞋匠。”

随后希丝曼小姐把戴眼镜的女生吓了一跳。

“我不在乎。我是不会相信的。”她柔和的肤色变得越来越红。“除非他自己当面告诉我，否则我不会相信的。就算那样，我也不太能相信。”然后她突然转身背对着戴眼镜的女生，走回到自己的座位去了。

“但这还是真的。”戴眼镜的女生说，微笑着盯着韦德伯恩。

但韦德伯恩没有回答。她似乎注定是那一类人——说出来的话，总是让人没有回答的欲望。

[1] 伊莱莎·库克，生于1818年12月24日，英国女诗人、作家，支持女性政治自由。

[2] 即菲利西亚·海曼斯，生于1793年9月25日，英国女诗人。

[3] 用二氧化碳充气面团制成的面包。

The Door in the Wall

1

One confidential evening, not three months ago, Lionel Wallace told me this story of the Door in the Wall. And at the time I thought that so far as he was concerned it was a true story.

He told it me with such a direct simplicity of conviction that I could not do otherwise than believe in him. But in the morning, in my own flat, I woke to a different atmosphere; and as I lay in bed and recalled the things he had told me, stripped of the glamour of his earnest slow voice, denuded of the focused, shaded table light, the shadowy atmosphere that wrapped about him and me, and the pleasant bright things, the dessert and glasses and napery of the dinner we had shared, making them for the time a bright little world quite cut off from everyday realities, I saw it all as frankly incredible. ‘He was mystifying!’ I said, and then: ‘How well he did it! . . . It isn’t quite the thing I should have expected him, of all people, to do well.’

Afterwards as I sat up in bed and sipped my morning tea, I found myself trying to account for the flavour of reality that perplexed me in his impossible reminiscences, by supposing they did in some way suggest, present, convey – I hardly know which word to use – experiences it was otherwise impossible to tell.

Well, I don’t resort to that explanation now. I have got over my intervening doubts. I believe now, as I believed at the moment of telling, that Wallace did to the very best of his ability strip the truth of his secret for me. But whether he himself saw, or only thought he saw, whether he himself was the possessor of an inestimable privilege or the victim of a fantastic dream, I cannot pretend to guess. Even the facts of his death, which ended my doubts for ever, throw no light on that.

That much the reader must judge for himself.

I forget now what chance comment or criticism of mine moved so reticent a man to confide in me. He was, I think, defending himself against an imputation of slackness and unreliability I had made in relation to a great public movement, in which he had disappointed me. But he plunged suddenly. ‘I have,’ he said, ‘a preoccupation–

‘I know,’ he went on, after a pause, ‘I have been negligent. The fact is – it isn’t a case of ghosts or apparitions – but – it’s an odd thing to tell of, Redmond –I am haunted. I am haunted by something – that rather takes the light out of things, that fills me with longings . . .’

He paused, checked by that English shyness that so often overcomes us when we would speak of moving or grave or beautiful things. ‘You were at Saint Althelstan’s all through,’ he said, and for a moment that seemed to me quite irrelevant. ‘Well’ – and he paused. Then very haltingly at first, but afterwards more easily, he began to tell of the thing that was hidden in his life, the haunting memory of a beauty and a happiness that filled his heart with insatiable longings, that made all the interests and spectacle of worldly life seem dull and tedious and vain to him.

Now that I have the clue to it, the thing seems written visibly in his face. I have a photograph in which that look of detachment has been caught and intensified. It reminds me of what a woman once said of him – a woman who had loved him greatly. ‘Suddenly,’ she said, ‘the interest goes out of him. He forgets you. He doesn’t care a rap for you – under his very nose . . .’

Yet the interest was not always out of him, and when he was holding his attention to a thing Wallace could contrive to be an extremely successful man. His career, indeed, is set with successes. He left me behind him long ago; he soared up over my head, and cut a figure in the world that I couldn’t cut – anyhow. He was still a year short of forty, and they say now that he would have been in office and very probably in the new Cabinet if he had lived. At school he always beat me without effort – as it were by nature. We were at school together at Saint Althelstan’s College in West Kensington for almost all our school- time. He came into the school as my co- equal, but he left far above me, in a blaze of scholarships and brilliant performance. Yet I think I made a fair average running. And it was at school I heard first of the ‘Door in the Wall’ – that I was to hear of a second time only a month before his death.

To him at least the Door in the Wall was a real door, leading through a real wall to immortal realities. Of that I am now quite assured.

And it came into his life quite early, when he was a little fellow between five and six. I remember how, as he sat making his confession to me with a slow gravity, he reasoned and reckoned the date of it. ‘There was,’ he said,‘a crimson Virginia creeper in it – all one bright uniform crimson, in a clear amber sunshine against a white wall. That came into the impression somehow, though I don’t clearly remember how, and there were horse- chestnut leaves upon the clean pavement outside the green door. They were blotched yellow and green, you know, not brown nor dirty, so that they must have been new fallen. I take it that means October. I look out for horse- chestnut leaves every year and I ought to know.

‘If I’m right in that, I was about five years and four months old.’

He was, he said, rather a precocious little boy – he learnt to talk at an abnormally early age, and he was so sane and ‘ old- fashioned’, as people say, that he was permitted an amount of initiative that most children scarcely attain by seven or eight. His mother died when he was two, and he was under the less vigilant and authoritative care of a nursery governess. His father was a stern, preoccupied lawyer, who gave him little attention and expected great things of him. For all his brightness he found life grey and dull, I think. And one day he wandered.

He could not recall the particular neglect that enabled him to get away, nor the course he took among the West Ken sington roads. All that had faded among the incurable blurs of memory. But the white wall and the green door stood out quite distinctly.

As his memory of that childish experience ran, he did at the very first sight of that door experience a peculiar emotion, an attraction, a desire to get to the door and open it and walk in. And at the same time he had the clearest conviction that either it was unwise or it was wrong of him – he could not tell which – to yield to this attraction. He insisted upon it as a curious thing that he knew from the very beginning – unless memory has played him the queerest trick – that the door was unfastened, and that he could go in as he chose.

I seem to see the figure of that little boy, drawn and repelled. And it was very clear in his mind, too, though why it should be so was never explained, that his father would be very angry if he went in through that door.

Wallace described all these moments of hesitation to me with the utmost particularity. He went right past the door, and then, with his hands in his pockets and making an infantile attempt to whistle, strolled right along beyond the end of the wall. There he recalls a number of mean dirty shops, and particularly that of a plumber and decorator with a dusty disorder of earthenware pipes, sheet lead, ball taps, pattern books of wallpaper, and tins of enamel. He stood pretending to examine these things, and coveting, passionately desiring, the green door.

Then, he said, he had a gust of emotion. He made a run for it, lest hesitation should grip him again; he went plump with outstretched hand through the green door and let it slam behind him. And so, in a trice, he came into the garden that has haunted all his life.

It was very difficult for Wallace to give me his full sense of that garden into which he came.

There was something in the very air of it that exhilarated, that gave one a sense of lightness and good happening and well- being; there was something in the sight of it that made all its colour clean and perfect and subtly luminous. In the instant of coming into it one was exquisitely glad – as only in rare moments, and when one is young and joyful one can be glad in this world. And everything was beautiful there . . .

Wallace mused before he went on telling me. ‘You see,’he said, with the doubtful inflection of a man who pauses at incredible things, ‘there were two great panthers there . . . Yes, spotted panthers. And I was not afraid. There was a long wide path with marble- edged flower borders on either side, and these two huge velvety beasts were playing there with a ball. One looked up and came towards me, a little curious as it seemed. It came right up to me, rubbed its soft round ear very gently against the small hand I held out, and purred. It was, I tell you, an enchanted garden. I know. And the size? Oh! it stretched far and wide, this way and that. I believe there were hills far away. Heaven knows where West Ken sington had suddenly got to. And somehow it was just like coming home.

‘You know, in the very moment the door swung to behind me, I forgot the road with its fallen chestnut leaves, its cabs and tradesmen’s carts, I forgot the sort of gravitational pull back to the discipline and obedience of home, I forgot all hesitations and fear, forgot discretion, forgot all the intimate realities of this life. I became in a moment a very glad and wonder- happy little boy – in another world. It was a world with a different quality, a warmer, more penetrating and mellower light, with a faint clear gladness in its air, and wisps of sun- touched cloud in the blueness of its sky. And before me ran this long wide path, invitingly, with weedless beds on either side, rich with untended flowers, and these two great panthers. I put my little hands fearlessly on their soft fur, and caressed their round ears and the sensitive corners under their ears, and played with them, and it was as though they welcomed me home. There was a keen sense of homecoming in my mind, and when presently a tall, fair girl appeared in the pathway and came to meet me, smiling, and said “Well?” to me, and lifted me and kissed me, and put me down and led me by the hand, there was no amazement, but only an impression of delightful rightness, of being reminded of happy things that had in some strange way been overlooked. There were broad red steps, I remember, that came into view between spikes of delphinium, and up these we went to a great avenue between very old and shady dark trees. All down this avenue, you know, between the red chapped stems, were marble seats of honour and statuary, and very tame and friendly white doves . . .

‘Along this cool avenue my girl- friend led me, looking down – I recall the pleasant lines, the finely- modelled chin of her sweet kind face – asking me questions in a soft, agreeable voice, and telling me things, pleasant things I know, though what they were I was never able to recall . . . Presently a Capuchin monkey, very clean, with a fur of ruddy brown and kindly hazel eyes, came down a tree to us and ran beside me, looking up at me and grinning, and presently leapt to my shoulder. So we two went on our way in great happiness.’

He paused.

‘Go on,’ I said.

‘I remember little things. We passed an old man musing among laurels, I remember, and a place gay with paroquets, and came through a broad shaded colonnade to a spacious cool palace, full of pleasant fountains, full of beautiful things, full of the quality and promise of heart’s desire. And there were many things and many people, some that still seem to stand out clearly and some that are vaguer; but all these people were beautiful and kind. In some way – I don’t know how – it was conveyed to me that they all were kind to me, glad to have me there, and filling me with gladness by their gestures, by the touch of their hands, by the welcome and love in their eyes. Yes—’

He mused for a while. ‘Playmates I found there. That was very much to me, because I was a lonely little boy. They played delightful games in a grass- covered court where there was a sundial set about with flowers. And as one played one loved . . .

‘But – it’s odd – there’s a gap in my memory. I don’t remember the games we played. I never remembered. Afterwards, as a child, I spent long hours trying, even with tears, to recall the form of that happiness. I wanted to play it all over again – in my nursery – by myself. No! All I remember is the happiness and two dear playfellows who were most with me . . . Then presently came a sombre dark woman, with a grave, pale face and dreamy eyes, a sombre woman, wearing a soft long robe of pale purple, who carried a book, and beckoned and took me aside with her into a gallery above a hall – though my playmates were loth to have me go, and ceased their game and stood watching as I was carried away. “Come back to us!” they cried. “Come back to us soon!” I looked up at her face, but she heeded them not at all. Her face was very gentle and grave. She took me to a seat in the gallery, and I stood beside her, ready to look at her book as she opened it upon her knee. The pages fell open. She pointed, and I looked, marvelling, for in the living pages of that book I saw myself; it was a story about myself, and in it were all the things that had happened to me since ever I was born . . .

‘It was wonderful to me, because the pages of that book were not pictures, you understand, but realities.’

Wallace paused gravely – looked at me doubtfully.

‘Go on,’ I said. ‘I understand.’

‘They were realities – yes, they must have been; people moved and things came and went in them; my dear mother, whom I had near forgotten; then my father, stern and upright, the servants, the nursery, all the familiar things of home. Then the front door and the busy streets, with traffic to and fro. I looked and marvelled, and looked half doubtfully again into the woman’s face and turned the pages over, skipping this and that, to see more of this book and more, and so at last I came to myself hovering and hesitating outside the green door in the long white wall, and felt again the conflict and the fear.

‘ “And next?” I cried, and would have turned on, but the cool hand of the grave woman delayed me.

‘ “Next?” I insisted, and struggled gently with her hand, pulling up her fingers with all my childish strength, and as she yielded and the page came over she bent down upon me like a shadow and kissed my brow.

‘But the page did not show the enchanted garden, nor the panthers, nor the girl who had led me by the hand, nor the playfellows who had been so loth to let me go. It showed a long grey street in West Kensington, in that chill hour of afternoon before the lamps are lit; and I was there, a wretched little figure, weeping aloud, for all that I could do to restrain myself, and I was weeping because I could not return to my dear playfellows who had called after me, “Come back to us! Come back to us soon!” I was there. This was no page in a book, but harsh reality; that enchanted place and the restraining hand of the grave mother at whose knee I stood had gone – whither had they gone?’

He halted again, and remained for a time staring into the fire.

‘Oh! the woefulness of that return!’ he murmured.

‘Well?’ I said, after a minute or so.

‘Poor little wretch I was! – brought back to this grey world again! As I realized the fullness of what had happened to me, I gave way to quite ungovernable grief. And the shame and humiliation of that public weeping and my disgraceful homecoming remain with me still. I see again the benevolent- looking old gentleman in gold spectacles who stopped and spoke to me – prodding me first with his umbrella. “Poor little chap,” said he; “and are you lost then?” – and me a London boy of five and more! And he must needs bring in a kindly young policeman and make a crowd of me, and so march me home. Sobbing, conspicuous, and frightened, I came back from the enchanted garden to the steps of my father’s house.

‘That is as well as I can remember my vision of that garden – the garden that haunts me still. Of course, I can convey nothing of that indescribable quality of translucent unreality, that difference from the common things of experience that hung about it all; but that – that is what happened. If it was a dream, I am sure it was a daytime and altogether extraordinary dream . . . H’m! – naturally there followed a terrible questioning, by my aunt, my father, the nurse, the governess – everyone . . .

‘I tried to tell them, and my father gave me my first thrashing for telling lies. When afterwards I tried to tell my aunt, she punished me again for my wicked persistence. Then, as I said, everyone was forbidden to listen to me, to hear a word about it. Even my fairy- tale books were taken away from me for a time – because I was too“imaginative”. Eh? Yes, they did that! My father belonged to the old school . . . And my story was driven back upon myself. I whispered it to my pillow – my pillow that was often damp and salt to my whispering lips with childish tears. And I added always to my official and less fervent prayers this one heartfelt request: “Please God I may dream of the garden. Oh! take me back to my garden!”Take me back to my garden! I dreamt often of the garden. I may have added to it, I may have changed it; I do not know . . . All this, you understand, is an attempt to reconstruct from fragmentary memories a very early experience. Between that and the other consecutive memories of my boyhood there is a gulf. A time came when it seemed impossible I should ever speak of that wonder glimpse again.’

I asked an obvious question.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t remember that I ever attempted to find my way back to the garden in those early years. This seems odd to me now, but I think that very probably a closer watch was kept on my movements after this misadventure to prevent my going astray. No, it wasn’t till you knew me that I tried for the garden again. And I believe there was a period – incredible as it seems now –when I forgot the garden altogether – when I was about eight or nine it may have been. Do you remember me as a kid at Saint Althelstan’s?’

‘Rather!’

‘I didn’t show any signs, did I, in those days of having a secret dream?’

2

He looked up with a sudden smile.

‘Did you ever play North- West Passage with me? . . . No, of course you didn’t come my way!

‘It was the sort of game,’ he went on, ‘that every imaginative child plays all day. The idea was the discovery of a North- West Passage to school. The way to school was plain enough; the game consisted in finding some way that wasn’t plain, starting off ten minutes early in some almost hopeless direction, and working my way round through unaccustomed streets to my goal. And one day I got entangled among some rather low- class streets on the other side of Campden Hill, and I began to think that for once the game would be against me and that I should get to school late. I tried rather desperately a street that seemed a cul- de- sac, and found a passage at the end. I hurried through that with renewed hope. “I shall do it yet,” I said, and passed a row of frowsy little shops that were inexplicably familiar to me, and behold! there was my long white wall and the green door that led to the enchanted garden!

‘The thing whacked upon me suddenly. Then, after all, that garden, that wonderful garden, wasn’t a dream!’

He paused.

‘I suppose my second experience with the green door marks the world of difference there is between the busy life of a schoolboy and the infinite leisure of a child. Anyhow, this second time I didn’t for a moment think of going in straight away. You see—. For one thing, my mind was full of the idea of getting to school in time – set on not breaking my record for punctuality. I must surely have felt some little desire at least to try the door – yes. I must have felt that . . . But I seem to remember the attraction of the door mainly as another obstacle to my overmastering determination to get to school. I was immensely interested by this discovery I had made, of course – I went on with my mind full of it – but I went on. It didn’t check me. I ran past, tugging out my watch, found I had ten minutes still to spare, and then I was going downhill into familiar surroundings. I got to school, breathless, it is true, and wet with perspiration, but in time. I can remember hanging up my coat and hat . . . Went right by it and left it behind me. Odd, eh?’

He looked at me thoughtfully. ‘Of course I didn’t know then that it wouldn’t always be there. Schoolboys have limited imaginations. I suppose I thought it was an awfully jolly thing to have it there, to know my way back to it; but there was the school tugging at me. I expect I was a good deal distraught and inattentive that morning, recalling what I could of the beautiful strange people I should presently see again. Oddly enough I had no doubt in my mind that they would be glad to see me . . . Yes, I must have thought of the garden that morning just as a jolly sort of place to which one might resort in the interludes of a strenuous scholastic career.

‘I didn’t go that day at all. The next day was a half- holiday, and that may have weighed with me. Perhaps, too, my state of inattention brought down impositions upon me, and docked the margin of time necessary for the détour. I don’t know. What I do know is that in the meantime the enchanted garden was so much upon my mind that I could not keep it to myself.

‘I told – what was his name? – a ferrety- looking youngster we used to call Squiff.’

‘Young Hopkins,’ said I.

‘Hopkins it was. I did not like telling him. I had a feeling that in some way it was against the rules to tell him, but I did. He was walking part of the way home with me; he was talkative, and if we had not talked about the enchanted garden we should have talked of something else, and it was intolerable to me to think about any other subject. So I blabbed.

‘Well, he told my secret. The next day in the play interval I found myself surrounded by half a dozen bigger boys, half teasing, and wholly curious to hear more of the enchanted garden. There was that big Fawcett – you remember him? – and Carnaby and Morley Reynolds. You weren’t there by any chance? No, I think I should have remembered if you were . . .

‘A boy is a creature of odd feelings. I was, I really believe, in spite of my secret self- disgust, a little flattered to have the attention of these big fellows. I remember particularly a moment of pleasure caused by the praise of Crawshaw – you remember Crawshaw major, the son of Crawshaw the composer? – who said it was the best lie he had ever heard. But at the same time there was a really painful undertow of shame at telling what I felt was indeed a sacred secret. That beast Fawcett made a joke about the girl in green—’

Wallace’s voice sank with the keen memory of that shame. ‘I pretended not to hear,’ he said. ‘Well, then Carnaby suddenly called me a young liar, and disputed with me when I said the thing was true. I said I knew where to find the green door, could lead them all there in ten minutes. Carnaby became outrageously virtuous, and said I’d have to – and bear out my words or suffer. Did you ever have Carnaby twist your arm? Then perhaps you’ll understand how it went with me. I swore my story was true. There was nobody in the school then to save a chap from Carnaby, though Crawshaw put in a word or so. Carnaby had got his game. I grew excited and red- eared, and a little frightened. I behaved altogether like a silly little chap, and the outcome of it all was that instead of starting alone for my enchanted garden, I led the way presently – cheeks flushed, ears hot, eyes smarting, and my soul one burning misery and shame – for a party of six mocking, curious, and threatening schoolfellows.

‘We never found the white wall and the green door . . .’

‘You mean—?’

‘I mean I couldn’t find it. I would have found it if I could.

‘And afterwards when I could go alone I couldn’t find it. I never found it. I seem now to have been always looking for it through my schoolboy days, but I never came upon it – never.’

‘Did the fellows – make it disagreeable?’

‘Beastly . . . Carnaby held a council over me for wanton lying. I remember how I sneaked home and upstairs to hide the marks of my blubbering. But when I cried myself to sleep at last it wasn’t for Carnaby, but for the garden, for the beautiful afternoon I had hoped for, for the sweet friendly women and the waiting playfellows, and the game I had hoped to learn again, that beautiful forgotten game . . .

‘I believed firmly that if I had not told— . . . I had bad times after that – crying at night and wool- gathering by day. For two terms I slacked and had bad reports. Do you remember? Of course you would! It was you – your beating me in mathematics that brought me back to the grind again.’

3

For a time my friend stared silently into the red heart of the fire. Then he said: ‘I never saw it again until I was seventeen.

‘It leapt upon me for the third time – as I was driving to Paddington on my way to Oxford and a scholarship. I had just one momentary glimpse. I was leaning over the apron of my hansom smoking a cigarette, and no doubt thinking myself no end of a man of the world, and suddenly there was the door, the wall, the dear sense of unforgettable and still attainable things.

‘We clattered by – I too taken by surprise to stop my cab until we were well past and round a corner. Then I had a queer moment, a double and divergent movement of my will: I tapped the little door in the roof of the cab, and brought my arm down to pull out my watch. “Yes, sir!” said the cabman, smartly. “Er – well – it’s nothing,”I cried. “My mistake! We haven’t much time! Go on!”And he went on . . .

‘I got my scholarship. And the night after I was told of that I sat over my fire in my little upper room, my study, in my father’s house, with his praise – his rare praise – and his sound counsels ringing in my ears, and I smoked my favourite pipe – the formidable bulldog of adolescence –and thought of that door in the long white wall. “If I had stopped,” I thought, “I should have missed my scholarship, I should have missed Oxford – muddled all the fine career before me! I begin to see things better!” I fell musing deeply, but I did not doubt then this career of mine was a thing that merited sacrifice.

‘Those dear friends and that clear atmosphere seemed very sweet to me, very fine but remote. My grip was fixing now upon the world. I saw another door opening – the door of my career.’

He stared again into the fire. Its red light picked out a stubborn strength in his face for just one flickering moment, and then it vanished again.

‘Well,’ he said and sighed, ‘I have served that career. I have done – much work, much hard work. But I have dreamt of the enchanted garden a thousand dreams, and seen its door, or at least glimpsed its door, four times since then. Yes – four times. For a while this world was so bright and interesting, seemed so full of meaning and opportunity, that the half- effaced charm of the garden was by comparison gentle and remote. Who wants to pat panthers on the way to dinner with pretty women and distinguished men? I came down to London from Oxford, a man of bold promise that I have done something to redeem. Something – and yet there have been disappointments . . .

‘Twice I have been in love – I will not dwell on that –but once, as I went to someone who, I knew, doubted whether I dared to come, I took a short cut at a venture through an unfrequented road near Earl’s Court, and so happened on a white wall and a familiar green door.“Odd!” said I to myself, “but I thought this place was on Campden Hill. It’s the place I never could find somehow – like counting Stonehenge – the place of that queer daydream of mine.” And I went by it intent upon my purpose. It had no appeal to me that afternoon.

‘I had just a moment’s impulse to try the door, three steps aside were needed at the most – though I was sure enough in my heart that it would open to me – and then I thought that doing so might delay me on the way to that appointment in which my honour was involved. Afterwards I was sorry for my punctuality – I might at least have peeped in and waved a hand to those panthers, but I knew enough by this time not to seek again belatedly that which is not found by seeking. Yes, that time made me very sorry . . .

‘Years of hard work after that, and never a sight of the door. It’s only recently it has come back to me. With it there has come a sense as though some thin tarnish had spread itself over my world. I began to think of it as a sorrowful and bitter thing that I should never see that door again. Perhaps I was suffering a little from overwork –perhaps it was what I’ve heard spoken of as the feeling of forty. I don’t know. But certainly the keen brightness that makes effort easy has gone out of things recently, and that just at a time – with all these new political developments –when I ought to be working. Odd, isn’t it? But I do begin to find life toilsome, its rewards, as I come near them, cheap. I began a little while ago to want the garden quite badly. Yes – and I’ve seen it three times.’

‘The garden?’

‘No – the door! And I haven’t gone in!’

He leant over the table to me, with an enormous sorrow in his voice as he spoke. ‘Thrice I have had my chance –thrice! If ever that door offers itself to me again, I swore, I will go in, out of this dust and heat, out of this dry glitter of vanity, out of these toilsome futilities. I will go and never return. This time I will stay . . . I swore it, and when the time came – I didn’t go.

‘Three times in one year have I passed that door and failed to enter. Three times in the last year.

‘The first time was on the night of the snatch division on the Tenants’ Redemption Bill, on which the Government was saved by a majority of three. You remember? No one on our side – perhaps very few on the opposite side – expected the end that night. Then the debate collapsed like eggshells. I and Hotchkiss were dining with his cousin at Brentford; we were both unpaired, and we were called up by telephone, and set off at once in his cousin’s motor. We got in barely in time, and on the way we passed my wall and door – livid in the moonlight, blotched with hot yellow as the glare of our lamps lit it, but unmistakable. “My God!” cried I. “What?” said Hotchkiss. “Nothing!” I answered, and the moment passed.

‘ “I’ve made a great sacrifice,” I told the whip as I got in. “They all have,” he said, and hurried by.

‘I do not see how I could have done otherwise then. And the next occasion was as I rushed to my father’s bedside to bid that stern old man farewell. Then, too, the claims of life were imperative. But the third time was different; it happened a week ago. It fills me with hot remorse to recall it. I was with Gurker and Ralphs – it’s no secret now, you know, that I’ve had my talk with Gurker. We had been dining at Frobisher’s, and the talk had become intimate between us. The question of my place in the reconstructed Ministry lay always just over the boundary of the discussion. Yes – yes. That’s all settled. It needn’t be talked about yet, but there’s no reason to keep a secret from you . . . Yes – thanks! thanks! But let me tell you my story.

‘Then, on that night things were very much in the air. My position was a very delicate one. I was keenly anxious to get some definite word from Gurker, but was hampered by Ralphs’ presence. I was using the best power of my brain to keep that light and careless talk not too obviously directed to the point that concerned me. I had to. Ralphs’ behaviour since has more than justified my caution . . . Ralphs, I knew, would leave us beyond the Kensington High Street, and then I could surprise Gurker by a sudden frankness. One has sometimes to resort to these little devices . . . And then it was that in the margin of my field of vision I became aware once more of the white wall, the green door before us down the road.

‘We passed it talking. I passed it. I can still see the shadow of Gurker’s marked profile, his opera hat tilted forward over his prominent nose, the many folds of his neck wrap going before my shadow and Ralphs’ as we sauntered past.

‘I passed within twenty inches of the door. “If I say goodnight to them, and go in,” I asked myself, “what will happen?” And I was all a- tingle for that word with Gurker.

‘I could not answer that question in the tangle of my other problems. “They will think me mad,” I thought.“And suppose I vanish now! – Amazing disappearance of a prominent politician!” That weighed with me. A thousand inconceivably petty worldlinesses weighed with me in that crisis.’

Then he turned on me with a sorrowful smile, and, speaking slowly, ‘Here I am!’ he said.

‘Here I am!’ he repeated, ‘and my chance has gone from me. Three times in one year the door has been offered me – the door that goes into peace, into delight, into a beauty beyond dreaming, a kindness no man on earth can know. And I have rejected it, Redmond, and it has gone—’

‘How do you know?’

‘I know. I know. I am left now to work it out, to stick to the tasks that held me so strongly when my moments came. You say I have success – this vulgar, tawdry, irksome, envied thing. I have it.’ He had a walnut in his big hand. ‘If that was my success,’ he said, and crushed it, and held it out for me to see.

‘Let me tell you something, Redmond. This loss is destroying me. For two months, for ten weeks nearly now, I have done no work at all, except the most necessary and urgent duties. My soul is full of inappeasable regrets. At nights – when it is less likely I shall be recognized – I go out. I wander. Yes. I wonder what people would think of that if they knew. A Cabinet Minister, the responsible head of that most vital of all departments, wandering alone – grieving – sometimes near audibly lamenting –for a door, for a garden!’

4

I can see now his rather pallid face, and the unfamiliar sombre fire that had come into his eyes. I see him very vividly tonight. I sit recalling his words, his tones, and last evening’s Westminster Gazette still lies on my sofa, containing the notice of his death. At lunch today the club was busy with his death. We talked of nothing else.

They found his body very early yesterday morning in a deep excavation near East Kensington Station. It is one of two shafts that have been made in connection with an extension of the railway southward. It is protected from the intrusion of the public by a hoarding upon the high road, in which a small doorway has been cut for the convenience of some of the workmen who live in that direction. The doorway was left unfastened through a misunderstanding between two gangers, and through it he made his way.

My mind is darkened with questions and riddles.

It would seem he walked all the way from the House that night – he has frequently walked home during the past Session – and so it is I figure his dark form coming along the late and empty streets, wrapped up, intent. And then did the pale electric lights near the station cheat the rough planking into a semblance of white? Did that fatal unfastened door awaken some memory?

Was there, after all, ever any green door in the wall at all?

I do not know. I have told his story as he told it to me. There are times when I believe that Wallace was no more than the victim of the coincidence between a rare but not unprecedented type of hallucination and a careless trap, but that indeed is not my profoundest belief. You may think me superstitious, if you will, and foolish; but, indeed, I am more than half convinced that he had, in truth, an abnormal gift, and a sense, something – I know not what – that in the guise of wall and door offered him an outlet, a secret and peculiar passage of escape into another and altogether more beautiful world. At any rate, you will say, it betrayed him in the end. But did it betray him? There you touch the inmost mystery of these dreamers, these men of vision and the imagination. We see our world fair and common, the hoarding and the pit. By our daylight standard he walked out of security into darkness, danger, and death.

But did he see like that?

A Slip under the Microscope

Outside the laboratory windows was a watery- grey fog, and within a close warmth and the yellow light of the green- shaded gas lamps that stood two to each table down its narrow length. On each table stood a couple of glass jars containing the mangled vestiges of the crayfish, mussels, frogs, and guineapigs upon which the students had been working, and down the side of the room, facing the windows, were shelves bearing bleached dissections in spirits, surmounted by a row of beautifully executed anatomical drawings in whitewood frames and overhanging a row of cubical lockers. All the doors of the laboratory were panelled with blackboard, and on these were the half- erased diagrams of the previous day’s work. The laboratory was empty, save for the demonstrator, who sat near the preparation- room door, and silent, save for a low, continuous murmur, and the clicking of the rocker microtome at which he was working. But scattered about the room were traces of numerous students: handbags, polished boxes of instruments, in one place a large drawing covered by newspaper, and in another a prettily bound copy of News from Nowhere, a book oddly at variance with its surroundings. These things had been put down hastily as the students had arrived and hurried at once to secure their seats in the adjacent lecture theatre. Deadened by the closed door, the measured accents of the professor sounded as a featureless muttering.

Presently, faint through the closed windows came the sound of the Oratory clock striking the hour of eleven. The clicking of the microtome ceased, and the demonstrator looked at his watch, rose, thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked slowly down the laboratory towards the lecture- theatre door. He stood listening for a moment, and then his eye fell on the little volume by William Morris. He picked it up, glanced at the title, smiled, opened it, looked at the name on the fly- leaf, ran the leaves through with his hand, and put it down. Almost immediately the even murmur of the lecturer ceased, there was a sudden burst of pencils rattling on the desks in the lecture theatre, a stirring, a scraping of feet, and a number of voices speaking together. Then a firm footfall approached the door, which began to open, and stood ajar as some indistinctly heard question arrested the newcomer.

The demonstrator turned, walked slowly back past the microtome, and left the laboratory by the preparation- room door. As he did so, first one, and then several students carrying notebooks entered the laboratory from the lecture theatre, and distributed themselves among the little tables, or stood in a group about the doorway. They were an exceptionally heterogeneous assembly, for while Oxford and Cambridge still recoil from the blushing prospect of mixed classes, the College of Science anticipated America in the matter years ago – mixed socially too, for the prestige of the College is high, and its scholarships, free of any age limit, dredge deeper even than do those of the Scotch universities. The class numbered one- andtwenty, but some remained in the theatre questioning the professor, copying the blackboard diagrams before they were washed off, or examining the special specimens he had produced to illustrate the day’s teaching. Of the nine who had come into the laboratory three were girls, one of whom, a little fair woman wearing spectacles and dressed in greyish- green, was peering out of the window at the fog, while the other two, both wholesome- looking, plain- faced schoolgirls, unrolled and put on the brown holland aprons they wore while dissecting. Of the men, two went down the laboratory to their places, one a pallid, dark- bearded man, who had once been a tailor; the other a pleasant- featured, ruddy young man of twenty, dressed in a well- fitting brown suit; young Wedderburn, the son of Wedderburn the eye specialist. The others formed a little knot near the theatre door. One of these, a dwarfed, spectacled figure with a hunchback, sat on a bent wood stool; two others, one a short, dark youngster and the other a flaxen- haired, reddish- complexioned young man, stood leaning side by side against the slate sink, while the fourth stood facing them, and maintained the larger share of the conversation.

This last person was named Hill. He was a sturdily built young fellow, of the same age as Wedderburn; he had a white face, dark grey eyes, hair of an indeterminate colour, and prominent, irregular features. He talked rather louder than was needful, and thrust his hands deeply into his pockets. His collar was frayed and blue with the starch of a careless laundress, his clothes were evidently ready- made, and there was a patch on the side of his boot near the toe. And as he talked or listened to the others, he glanced now and again towards the lecture-theatre door. They were discussing the depressing peroration of the lecture they had just heard, the last lecture it was in the introductory course in zoology. ‘From ovum to ovum is the goal of the higher vertebrata,’ the lecturer had said in his melancholy tones, and so had neatly rounded off the sketch of comparative anatomy he had been developing. The spectacled hunchback had repeated it with noisy appreciation, had tossed it towards the fair- haired student with an evident provocation, and had started one of those vague, rambling discussions on general ities so unaccountably dear to the student mind all the world over.

‘That is our goal, perhaps – I admit it, as far as science goes,’ said the fair- haired student, rising to the challenge.‘But there are things above science.’

‘Science,’ said Hill confidently, ‘is systematic knowledge. Ideas that don’t come into the system – must anyhow – be loose ideas.’ He was not quite sure whether that was a clever saying or a fatuity until his hearers took it seriously.

‘The thing I cannot understand,’ said the hunchback, at large, ‘is whether Hill is a materialist or not.’

‘There is one thing above matter,’ said Hill promptly, feeling he made a better point this time, aware, too, of someone in the doorway behind him, and raising his voice a trifle for her benefit, ‘and that is, the delusion that there is something above matter.’

‘So we have your gospel at last,’ said the fair student.‘It’s all a delusion, is it? All our aspirations to lead something more than dogs’ lives, all our work for anything beyond ourselves. But see how inconsistent you are. Your socialism, for instance. Why do you trouble about the interests of the race? Why do you concern yourself about the beggar in the gutter? Why are you bothering yourself to lend that book’ – he indicated William Morris by a movement of the head – ‘to everyone in the lab?’

‘Girl,’ said the hunchback indistinctly, and glanced guiltily over his shoulder.

The girl in brown, with the brown eyes, had come into the laboratory, and stood on the other side of the table behind him, with her rolled- up apron in one hand, looking over her shoulder, listening to the discussion. She did not notice the hunchback, because she was glancing from Hill to his interlocutor. Hill’s consciousness of her presence betrayed itself to her only in his studious ignoring of the fact; but she understood that, and it pleased her.‘I see no reason,’ said he, ‘why a man should live like a brute because he knows of nothing beyond matter, and does not expect to exist a hundred years hence.’

‘Why shouldn’t he?’ said the fair- haired student.

‘Why should he?’ said Hill.

‘What inducement has he?’

‘That’s the way with all you religious people. It’s all a business of inducements. Cannot a man seek after righteousness for righteousness’ sake?’

There was a pause. The fair man answered, with a kind of vocal padding, ‘But – you see – inducement – when I said inducement,’ to gain time. And then the hunchback came to his rescue and inserted a question. He was a terrible person in the debating society with his questions, and they invariably took one form – a demand for a definition. ‘What’s your definition of righteousness?’ said the hunchback at this stage.

Hill experienced a sudden loss of complacency at this question, but even as it was asked, relief came in the person of Brooks, the laboratory attendant, who entered by the preparation- room door, carrying a number of freshly killed guineapigs by their hind legs. ‘This is the last batch of material this session,’ said the youngster who had not previously spoken. Brooks advanced up the laboratory, smacking down a couple of guineapigs at each table. The rest of the class, scenting the prey from afar, came crowding in by the lecture theatre door, and the discussion perished abruptly as the students who were not already in their places hurried to them to secure the choice of a specimen. There was a noise of keys rattling on split rings as lockers were opened and dissecting instruments taken out. Hill was already standing by his table, and his box of scalpels was sticking out of his pocket. The girl in brown came a step towards him, and leaning over his table said softly, ‘Did you see that I returned your book, Mr Hill?’

During the whole scene she and the book had been vividly present in his consciousness; but he made a clumsy pretence of looking at the book and seeing it for the first time. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, taking it up. ‘I see. Did you like it?’

‘I want to ask you some questions about it –sometime.’

‘Certainly,’ said Hill. ‘I shall be glad.’ He stopped awkwardly. ‘You liked it?’ he said.

‘It’s a wonderful book. Only some things I don’t understand.’

Then suddenly the laboratory was hushed by a curious braying noise. It was the demonstrator. He was at the blackboard ready to begin the day’s instruction, and it was his custom to demand silence by a sound midway between the ‘Er’ of common intercourse and the blast of a trumpet. The girl in brown slipped back to her place: it was immediately in front of Hill’s, and Hill, forgetting her forthwith, took a notebook out of the drawer of his table, turned over its leaves hastily, drew a stumpy pencil from his pocket, and prepared to make a copious note of the coming demonstration. For demonstrations and lectures are the sacred text of the College students. Books, saving only the Professor’s own, you may – it is even expedient to – ignore.

Hill was the son of a Landport cobbler, and had been hooked by a chance blue paper the authorities had thrown out to the Landport Technical College. He kept himself in London on his allowance of a guinea a week, and found that, with proper care, this also covered his clothing allowance, an occasional waterproof collar, that is; and ink and needles and cotton and such- like necessaries for a man about town. This was his first year and his first session, but the brown old man in Landport had already got himself detested in many public- houses by boasting of his son, ‘the Professor’. Hill was a vigorous youngster, with a serene contempt for the clergy of all denominations, and a fine ambition to reconstruct the world. He regarded his scholarship as a brilliant opportunity. He had begun to read at seven, and had read steadily whatever came in his way, good or bad, since then. His worldly experience had been limited to the island of Portsea, and acquired chiefly in the wholesale boot factory in which he had worked by day, after passing the seventh standard of the Board school. He had a considerable gift of speech, as the College Debating Society, which met amidst the crushing machines and mine models in the metallurgical theatre downstairs, already recognized – recognized by a violent battering of desks whenever he rose. And he was just at that fine emotional age when life opens at the end of a narrow pass like a broad valley at one’s feet, full of the promise of wonderful discoveries and tremendous achievements. And his own limitations, save that he knew that he knew neither Latin nor French, were all unknown to him.

At first his interest had been divided pretty equally between his biological work at the College and social and theological theorizing, an employment which he took in deadly earnest. Of a night, when the big museum library was not open, he would sit on the bed of his room in Chelsea with his coat and a muffler on, and write out the lecture notes and revise his dissection memoranda until Thorpe called him out by a whistle – the landlady objected to open the door to attic visitors – and then the two would go prowling about the shadowy, shiny, gaslit streets, talking, very much in the fashion of the sample just given, of the God Idea and Righteousness and Carlyle and the Reorganization of Society. And in the midst of it all, Hill, arguing not only for Thorpe but for the casual passer- by, would lose the thread of his argument glancing at some pretty painted face that looked meaningly at him as he passed. Science and Righteousness! But once or twice lately there had been signs that a third interest was creeping into his life, and he had found his attention wandering from the fate of the mesoblastic somites or the probable meaning of the blastopore, to the thought of the girl with the brown eyes who sat at the table before him.

She was a paying student; she descended inconceivable social altitudes to speak to him. At the thought of the education she must have had, and the accomplishments she must possess, the soul of Hill became abject within him. She had spoken to him first over a difficulty about the alisphenoid of a rabbit’s skull, and he had found that, in biology at least, he had no reason for self- abasement. And from that, after the manner of young people starting from any starting- point, they got to generalities, and while Hill attacked her upon the question of socialism, –some instinct told him to spare her a direct assault upon her religion – she was gathering resolution to undertake what she told herself was his aesthetic education. She was a year or two older than he, though the thought never occurred to him. The loan of News from Nowhere was the beginning of a series of cross loans. Upon some absurd first principle of his, Hill had never ‘wasted time’ upon poetry, and it seemed an appalling deficiency to her. One day in the lunch hour, when she chanced upon him alone in the little museum where the skeletons were arranged, shamefully eating the bun that constituted his midday meal, she retreated, and returned to lend him, with a slightly furtive air, a volume of Browning. He stood sideways towards her and took the book rather clumsily, because he was holding the bun in the other hand. And in the retrospect his voice lacked the cheerful clearness he could have wished.

That occurred after the examination in comparative anatomy, on the day before the College turned out its students and was carefully locked up by the officials for the Christmas holidays. The excitement of cramming for the first trial of strength had for a little while dominated Hill to the exclusion of his other interests. In the forecasts of the result in which everyone indulged he was surprised to find that no one regarded him as a possible competitor for the Harvey Commemoration Medal, of which this and the two subsequent examinations disposed. It was about this time that Wedderburn, who so far had lived inconspicuously on the uttermost margin of Hill’s perceptions, began to take on the appearance of an obstacle. By a mutual agreement, the nocturnal prowlings with Thorpe ceased for the three weeks before the examination, and his landlady pointed out that she really could not supply so much lamp oil at the price. He walked to and fro from the College with little slips of mnemonics in his hand, lists of crayfish appendages, rabbits’ skull- bones, and vertebrate nerves, for example, and became a positive nuisance to foot passengers in the opposite direction.

But, by a natural reaction, Poetry and the girl with the brown eyes ruled the Christmas holiday. The pending results of the examination became such a secondary consideration that Hill marvelled at his father’s excitement. Even had he wished it, there was no comparative anatomy to read in Landport, and he was too poor to buy books, but the stock of poets in the library was extensive, and Hill’s attack was magnificently sustained. He saturated himself with the fluent numbers of Longfellow and Tennyson, and fortified himself with Shakespeare; found a kindred soul in Pope and a master in Shelley, and heard and fled the siren voices of Eliza Cook and Mrs Hemans. But he read no more Browning, because he hoped for the loan of other volumes from Miss Haysman when he returned to London.

He walked from his lodgings to the College with that volume of Browning in his shiny black bag, and his mind teeming with the finest general propositions about poetry. Indeed, he framed first this little speech and then that with which to grace the return. The morning was an exceptionally pleasant one for London; there was a clear hard frost and undeniable blue in the sky, a thin haze softened every outline, and warm shafts of sunlight struck between the house blocks and turned the sunny side of the street to amber and gold. In the hall of the College he pulled off his glove and signed his name with fingers so stiff with cold that the characteristic dash under the signature he cultivated became a quivering line. He imagined Miss Haysman about him everywhere. He turned at the staircase, and there, below, he saw a crowd struggling at the foot of the noticeboard. This, possibly, was the biology list. He forgot Browning and Miss Haysman for the moment, and joined the scrimmage. And at last, with his cheek flattened against the sleeve of the man on the step above him, he read the list –

　　　　　CLASS I

　　　H. J. Somers Wedderburn

　　　William Hill

and thereafter followed a second class that is outside our present sympathies. It was characteristic that he did not trouble to look for Thorpe on the physics list, but backed out of the struggle at once, and in a curious emotional state between pride over common second- class humanity and acute disappointment at Wedderburn’s success, went on his way upstairs. At the top, as he was hanging up his coat in the passage, the zoological demonstrator, a young man from Oxford who secretly regarded him as a blatant‘mugger’ of the very worst type, offered his heartiest congratulations.

At the laboratory door Hill stopped for a second to get his breath, and then entered. He looked straight up the laboratory and saw all five girl students grouped in their places, and Wedderburn, the once retiring Wedderburn, leaning rather gracefully against the window, playing with the blind tassel and talking apparently to the five of them. Now, Hill could talk bravely enough and even overbearingly to one girl, and he could have made a speech to a roomful of girls, but this business of standing at ease and appreciating, fencing, and returning quick remarks round a group was, he knew, altogether beyond him. Coming up the staircase his feelings for Wedderburn had been generous, a certain admiration perhaps, a willingness to shake his hand conspicuously and heartily as one who had fought but the first round. But before Christmas Wedderburn had never gone up to that end of the room to talk. In a flash Hill’s mist of vague excitement condensed abruptly to a vivid dislike of Wedderburn. Possibly his expression changed. As he came up to his place, Wedderburn nodded carelessly to him, and the others glanced round. Miss Haysman looked at him and away again, the faintest touch of her eyes. ‘I can’t agree with you, Mr Wedderburn,’ she said.

‘I must congratulate you on your first class, Mr Hill,’said the spectacled girl in green, turning round and beaming at him.

‘It’s nothing,’ said Hill, staring at Wedderburn and Miss Haysman talking together, and eager to hear what they talked about.

‘We poor folks in the second class don’t think so,’ said the girl in spectacles.

What was it Wedderburn was saying? Something about William Morris! Hill did not answer the girl in spectacles, and the smile died out of his face. He could not hear, and failed to see how he could ‘cut in’. Confound Wedderburn! He sat down, opened his bag, hesitated whether to return the volume of Browning forthwith, in the sight of all, and instead drew out his new notebooks for the short course in elementary botany that was now beginning, and which would terminate in February. As he did so, a fat heavy man with a white face and pale grey eyes –Bindon, the professor of botany, who came up from Kew for January and February – came in by the lecture-theatre door, and passed, rubbing his hands together and smiling, in silent affability down the laboratory.

In the subsequent six weeks Hill experienced some very rapid and curiously complex emotional developments. For the most part he had Wedderburn in focus – a fact that Miss Haysman never suspected. She told Hill (for in the comparative privacy of the museum she talked a good deal to him of socialism and Browning and general propositions) that she had met Wedderburn at the house of some people she knew, and ‘he’s inherited his cleverness; for his father, you know, is the great eye specialist’.

‘My father is a cobbler,’ said Hill, quite irrelevantly, and perceived the want of dignity even as he said it. But the gleam of jealousy did not offend her. She conceived herself the fundamental source of it. He suffered bitterly from a sense of Wedderburn’s unfairness, and a realization of his own handicap. Here was this Wedderburn had picked up a prominent man for a father, and instead of his losing so many marks on the score of that advantage, it was counted to him for righteousness! And while Hill had to introduce himself and talk to Miss Haysman clumsily over mangled guineapigs in the laboratory, this Wedderburn, in some backstairs way, had access to her social altitudes, and could converse in a polished argot that Hill understood perhaps, but felt incapable of speaking. Not, of course, that he wanted to. Then it seemed to Hill that for Wedderburn to come there day after day with cuffs unfrayed, neatly tailored, precisely barbered, quietly perfect, was in itself an ill- bred, sneering sort of proceeding. Moreover, it was a stealthy thing for Wedderburn to behave insignificantly for a space, to mock modesty, to lead Hill to fancy that he himself was beyond dispute the man of the year, and then suddenly to dart in front of him, and incontinently to swell up in this fashion. In addition to these things, Wedderburn displayed an increasing disposition to join in any conversational grouping that included Miss Haysman; and would venture, and indeed seek occasion, to pass opinions derogatory to socialism and atheism. He goaded Hill to incivilities by neat, shallow, and exceedingly effective personalities about the socialist leaders, until Hill hated Bernard Shaw’s graceful egotisms, William Morris’s limited editions and luxurious wallpapers, and Walter Crane’s charmingly absurd ideal working men, about as much as he hated Wedderburn. The dissertations in the laboratory, that had been his glory in the previous term, became a danger, degenerated into inglorious tussles with Wedderburn, and Hill kept to them only out of an obscure perception that his honour was involved. In the debating society Hill knew quite clearly that, to a thunderous accompaniment of banged desks, he could have pulverized Wedderburn. Only Wedderburn never attended the debating society to be pulverized, because – nauseous affectation! – he ‘dined late’.

You must not imagine that these things presented themselves in quite such a crude form to Hill’s perception. Hill was a born generalizer. Wedderburn to him was not so much an individual obstacle as a type, the salient angle of a class. The economic theories that, after infinite ferment, had shaped themselves in Hill’s mind, became abruptly concrete at the contact. The world became full of easy- mannered, graceful, gracefully dressed, conversationally dexterous, finally shallow Wedderburns, Bishops Wedderburn, Wedderburn M.P.s, Professors Wedderburn, Wedderburn landlords, all with finger- bowl shibboleths and epigrammatic cities of refuge from a sturdy debater. And everyone ill- clothed or ill- dressed, from the cobbler to the cab- runner, was, to Hill’s imagination, a man and a brother, a fellow- sufferer. So that he became, as it were, a champion of the fallen and oppressed, albeit to outward seeming only a self- assertive, illmannered young man, and an unsuccessful champion at that. Again and again a skirmish over the afternoon tea that the girl students had inaugurated left Hill with flushed cheeks and a tattered temper, and the debating society noticed a new quality of sarcastic bitterness in his speeches.

You will understand now how it was necessary, if only in the interests of humanity, that Hill should demolish Wedderburn in the forthcoming examination and outshine him in the eyes of Miss Haysman; and you will perceive, too, how Miss Haysman fell into some common feminine misconceptions. The Hill–Wedderburn quarrel, for in his unostentatious way Wedderburn reciprocated Hill’s ill- veiled rivalry, became a tribute to her indefinable charm: she was the Queen of Beauty in a tournament of scalpels and stumpy pencils. To her confidential friend’s secret annoyance, it even troubled her conscience, for she was a good girl, and painfully aware, through Ruskin and contemporary fiction, how entirely men’s activities are determined by women’s attitudes. And if Hill never by any chance mentioned the topic of love to her, she only credited him with the finer modesty for that omission.

So the time came on for the second examination, and Hill’s increasing pallor confirmed the general rumour that he was working hard. In the aerated bread shop near South Kensington Station you would see him, breaking his bun and sipping his milk with his eyes intent upon a paper of closely written notes. In his bedroom there were propositions about buds and stems round his lookingglass, a diagram to catch his eye, if soap should chance to spare it, above his washing basin. He missed several meetings of the debating society, but he found the chance encounters with Miss Haysman in the spacious ways of the adjacent art museum, or in the little museum at the top of the College, or in the College corridors, more frequent and very restful. In particular, they used to meet in a little gallery full of wrought- iron chests and gates near the art library, and there Hill used to talk, under the gentle stimulus of her flattering attention, of Browning and his personal ambitions. A characteristic she found remarkable in him was his freedom from avarice. He contemplated quite calmly the prospect of living all his life on an income below a hundred pounds a year. But he was determined to be famous, to make, recognizably in his own proper person, the world a better place to live in. He took Bradlaugh and John Burns for his leaders and models, poor, even impecunious, great men. But Miss Haysman thought that such lives were deficient on the aesthetic side, by which, though she did not know it, she meant good wallpaper and upholstery, pretty books, tasteful clothes, concerts, and meals nicely cooked and respectfully served.

At last came the day of the second examination, and the professor of botany, a fussy, conscientious man, rearranged all the tables in a long narrow laboratory to prevent copying, and put his demonstrator on a chair on a table (where he felt, he said, like a Hindu god), to see all the cheating, and stuck a notice outside the door,‘Door closed’, for no earthly reason that any human being could discover. And all the morning from ten till one the quill of Wedderburn shrieked defiance at Hill’s, and the quills of the others chased their leaders in a tireless pack, and so also it was in the afternoon. Wedderburn was a little quieter than usual, and Hill’s face was hot all day, and his overcoat bulged with textbooks and notebooks against the last moment’s revision. And the next day, in the morning and in the afternoon, was the practical examination, when sections had to be cut and slides identified. In the morning Hill was depressed because he knew he had cut a thick section, and in the afternoon came the mysterious slip.

It was just the kind of thing that the botanical professor was always doing. Like the income tax, it offered a premium to the cheat. It was a preparation under the microscope, a little glass slip, held in its place on the stage of the instrument by light steel clips, and the inscription set forth that the slip was not to be moved. Each student was to go in turn to it, sketch it, write in his book of answers what he considered it to be, and return to his place. Now, to move such a slip is a thing one can do by a chance movement of the finger, and in a fraction of a second. The professor’s reason for decreeing that the slip should not be moved depended on the fact that the object he wanted identified was characteristic of a certain tree- stem. In the position in which it was placed it was a difficult thing to recognize, but once the slip was moved so as to bring other parts of the preparation into view, its nature was obvious enough.

Hill came to this, flushed from a contest with staining reagents, sat down on the little stool before the microscope, turned the mirror to get the best light, and then, out of sheer habit, shifted the slip. At once he remembered the prohibition, and, with an almost continuous motion of his hands, moved it back, and sat paralysed with astonishment at his action.

Then, slowly, he turned his head. The professor was out of the room; the demonstrator sat aloft on his impromptu rostrum, reading the Q. Jour. Mi. Sci.; the rest of the examinees were busy, and with their backs to him. Should he own up to the accident now? He knew quite clearly what the thing was. It was a lenticel, a characteristic preparation from the elder- tree. His eyes roved over his intent fellow- students and Wedderburn suddenly glanced over his shoulder at him with a queer expression in his eyes. The mental excitement that had kept Hill at an abnormal pitch of vigour these two days gave way to a curious nervous tension. His book of answers was beside him. He did not write down what the thing was, but with one eye at the microscope he began making a hasty sketch of it. His mind was full of this grotesque puzzle in ethics that had suddenly been sprung upon him. Should he identify it? or should he leave this question unanswered? In that case Wedderburn would probably come out first in the second result. How could he tell now whether he might not have identified the thing without shifting it? It was possible that Wedderburn had failed to recognize it, of course. Suppose Wedderburn too had shifted the slide? He looked up at the clock. There were fifteen minutes in which to make up his mind. He gathered up his book of answers and the coloured pencils he used in illustrating his replies and walked back to his seat.

He read through his manuscript, and then sat thinking and gnawing his knuckle. It would look queer now if he owned up. He must beat Wedderburn. He forgot the examples of those starry gentlemen, John Burns and Bradlaugh. Besides, he reflected, the glimpse of the rest of the slip he had had was after all quite accidental, forced upon him by chance, a kind of providential revelation rather than an unfair advantage. It was not nearly so dishonest to avail himself of that as it was of Broome, who believed in the efficacy of prayer, to pray daily for a first- class. ‘Five minutes more,’ said the demonstrator, folding up his paper and becoming observant. Hill watched the clock hands until two minutes remained; then he opened the book of answers, and, with hot ears and an affectation of ease, gave his drawing of the lenticel its name.

When the second pass list appeared, the previous positions of Wedderburn and Hill were reversed, and the spectacled girl in green, who knew the demonstrator in private life (where he was practically human), said that in the result of the two examinations taken together Hill had the advantage of a mark – 167 to 166 out of a possible 200. Everyone admired Hill in a way, though the suspicion of ‘mugging’ clung to him. But Hill was to find congratulations and Miss Haysman’s enhanced opinion of him, and even the decided decline in the crest of Wedderburn, tainted by an unhappy memory. He felt a remarkable access of energy at first, and the note of a democracy marching to triumph returned to his debating society speeches; he worked at his comparative anatomy with tremendous zeal and effect, and he went on with his aesthetic education. But through it all, a vivid little picture was continually coming before his mind’s eye – of a sneakish person manipulating a slide.

No human being had witnessed the act, and he was cocksure that no higher power existed to see it; but for all that it worried him. Memories are not dead things, but alive; they dwindle in disuse, but they harden and develop in all sorts of queer ways if they are being continually fretted. Curiously enough, though at the time he perceived clearly that the shifting was accidental, as the days wore on his memory became confused about it, until at last he was not sure – although he assured himself that he was sure – whether the movement had been absolutely involuntary. Then it is possible that Hill’s dietary was conducive to morbid conscientiousness; a breakfast frequently eaten in a hurry, a midday bun, and, at such hours after five as chanced to be convenient, such meat as his means determined, usually in a chop- house in a back street off the Brompton Road. Occasionally he treated himself to threepenny or ninepenny classics, and they usually represented a suppression of potatoes or chops. It is indisputable that outbreaks of self- abasement and emotional revival have a distinct relation to periods of scarcity. But apart from this influence on the feelings, there was in Hill a distinct aversion to falsity that the blasphemous Landport cobbler had inculcated by strap and tongue from his earliest years. Of one fact about professed atheists I am convinced; they may be – they usually are – fools, void of subtlety, revilers of holy institutions, brutal speakers, and mischievous knaves, but they lie with difficulty. If it were not so, if they had the faintest grasp of the idea of compromise, they would simply be liberal churchmen. And, moreover, this memory poisoned his regard for Miss Haysman. For she now so evidently preferred him to Wedderburn that he felt sure he cared for her, and began reciprocating her attentions by timid marks of personal regard; at one time he even bought a bunch of violets, carried it about in his pocket, and produced it with a stumbling explanation, withered and dead, in the gallery of old iron. It poisoned, too, the denunciation of capitalist dishonesty that had been one of his life’s pleasures. And, lastly, it poisoned his triumph in Wedderburn. Previously he had been Wedderburn’s superior in his own eyes, and had raged simply at a want of recognition. Now he began to fret at the darker suspicion of positive inferiority. He fancied he found justifications for his position in Browning, but they vanished on analysis. At last – moved, curiously enough, by exactly the same motive forces that had resulted in his dishonesty – he went to Professor Bindon, and made a clean breast of the whole affair. As Hill was a paid student, Professor Bindon did not ask him to sit down, and he stood before the professor’s desk as he made his confession.

‘It’s a curious story,’ said Professor Bindon, slowly realizing how the thing reflected on himself, and then letting his anger rise, – ‘A most remarkable story. I can’t understand your doing it, and I can’t understand this avowal. You’re a type of student – Cambridge men would never dream – I suppose I ought to have thought – Why did you cheat?’

‘I didn’t cheat,’ said Hill.

‘But you have just been telling me you did.’

‘I thought I explained–’

‘Either you cheated or you did not cheat.’–

‘I said my motion was involuntary.’

‘I am not a metaphysician, I am a servant of science – of fact. You were told not to move the slip. You did move the slip. If that is not cheating–’

‘If I was a cheat,’ said Hill, with the note of hysterics in his voice, ‘should I come here and tell you?’

‘Your repentance, of course, does you credit,’ said Professor Bindon, ‘but it does not alter the original facts.’

‘No, sir,’ said Hill, giving in in utter self- abasement.

‘Even now you cause an enormous amount of trouble. The examination list will have to be revised.’

‘I suppose so, sir.’

‘Suppose so? Of course it must be revised. And I don’t see how I can conscientiously pass you.’

‘Not pass me?’ said Hill. ‘Fail me?’

‘It’s the rule in all examinations. Or where should we be? What else did you expect? You don’t want to shirk the consequences of your own acts?’

‘I thought, perhaps’ – said Hill. And then, ‘Fail me? I thought, as I told you, you would simply deduct the marks given for that slip.’

‘Impossible!’ said Bindon. ‘Besides, it would still leave you above Wedderburn. Deduct only the marks –Preposterous! The Departmental Regulations distinctly say–’

‘But it’s my own admission, sir.’

‘The Regulations say nothing whatever of the manner in which the matter comes to light. They simply provide–’

‘It will ruin me. If I fail this examination, they won’t renew my scholarship.’

‘You should have thought of that before.’

‘But, sir, consider all my circumstances–’

‘I cannot consider anything. Professors in this College are machines. The Regulations will not even let us recommend our students for appointments. I am a machine, and you have worked me. I have to do–’

‘It’s very hard, sir.’

‘Possibly it is.’

‘If I am to be failed this examination, I might as well go home at once.’

‘That is as you think proper.’ Bindon’s voice softened a little; he perceived he had been unjust, and, provided he did not contradict himself, he was disposed to amelioration. ‘As a private person,’ he said, ‘I think this confession of yours goes far to mitigate your offence. But you have set the machinery in motion, and now it must take its course. I – I am really sorry you gave way.’

A wave of emotion prevented Hill from answering. Suddenly, very vividly, he saw the heavily lined face of the old Landport cobbler, his father. ‘Good God! What a fool I have been!’ he said hotly and abruptly.

‘I hope,’ said Bindon, ‘that it will be a lesson to you.’

But, curiously enough, they were not thinking of quite the same indiscretion.

There was a pause.

‘I would like a day to think, sir, and then I will let you know – about going home, I mean,’ said Hill, moving towards the door.

The next day Hill’s place was vacant. The spectacled girl in green was, as usual, first with the news. Wedderburn and Miss Haysman were talking of a performance of The Meister singers when she came up to them.

‘Have you heard?’ she said.

‘Heard what?’

‘There was cheating in the examination.’

‘Cheating!’ said Wedderburn, with his face suddenly hot. ‘How?’

‘That slide’–

‘Moved? Never!’

‘It was. That slide that we weren’t to move’–

‘Nonsense!’ said Wedderburn. ‘Why! How could they find out? Who do they say–?’

‘It was Mr Hill.’

‘Hill! ’

‘Mr Hill!’

‘Not – surely not the immaculate Hill?’ said Wedderburn, recovering.

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Miss Haysman. ‘How do you know?’

‘I didn’t,’ said the girl in spectacles. ‘But I know it now for a fact. Mr Hill went and confessed to Professor Bindon himself.’

‘By Jove!’ said Wedderburn. ‘Hill of all people. But I am always inclined to distrust these philanthropists- onprinciple’ –

‘Are you quite sure?’ said Miss Haysman, with a catch in her breath.

‘Quite. It’s dreadful, isn’t it? But, you know, what can you expect? His father is a cobbler.’

Then Miss Haysman astonished the girl in spectacles.

‘I don’t care. I will not believe it,’ she said, flushing darkly under her warm- tinted skin. ‘I will not believe it until he has told me so himself – face to face. I would scarcely believe it then,’ and abruptly she turned her back on the girl in spectacles, and walked to her own place.

‘It’s true, all the same,’ said the girl in spectacles, peering and smiling at Wedderburn.

But Wedderburn did not answer her. She was indeed one of those people who seem destined to make unanswered remarks.

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在海港小镇科尔布鲁克，汉格伯船长的名声并不好。他本是外乡人，去该地定居的动机，虽荒诞不经，却根本谈不上神秘。毕竟，当初，他很爱对人说起自己为何去该地。此外，汉格伯船长显然有些小钱，因为他买下一块地，雇人用黄砖匆匆盖起两栋难看的简陋小屋：一栋自住，一栋租给乔赛亚·卡尔维。瞎子卡尔维曾是造船工人，现已退休，因对家人专横跋扈而臭名昭著。

这两栋小屋有一堵共同的墙，前后院子分别以铁栅栏和木篱笆相隔。贝茜·卡尔维小姐理直气壮地在那道木篱笆上晾晒擦拭茶具用的茶巾、蓝色的破旧衣服或围裙，仿佛这是她的正当权利。

“贝茜啊，我的孩子，这会使木头腐烂的。”每次撞见贝茜行使此项“特权”，汉格伯船长都会隔着木篱笆，和蔼地提醒。

贝茜个子高挑，而木篱笆低矮，所以她能将胳膊肘支到木篱笆上。其双手因刚洗了东西而变得通红，但小臂白皙且匀称。她一言不发地注视着房东，沉默中透着理解、期待与渴望。

“这会使木头腐烂的。”汉格伯船长重复了一遍，接着说，“我发现这是你唯一一个浪费而粗心的习惯。为什么不在后院拉一根晾衣绳呢？”

对此，卡尔维小姐不做任何回应，只是不以为然地摇摇头。她那边的狭小后院里，有几处以石块垒就、里面是黑土的小花坛。她抽空栽种的那些普通花儿，不知怎的，生机盎然，十分繁茂，仿佛长在热带。木篱笆另一侧，却杂草蔓生。挺拔而硬朗的汉格伯船长，经常从齐膝高的草丛中突然冒出来，从头到脚以一号厚篷帆布蔽体——用这种材料制衣，实在出人意外，而一有谁对此发表意见，他就嘟哝着回道：“暂时凑合一下。”那身行头的颜色和粗粝梆硬的质地，使他整个人看上去，犹如毛糙的花岗石雕像，矗立在荒芜已久、小得连像样的台球室都做不了的院子里。这尊“石像”身材魁梧；红色的脸庞仍显英俊，蓝色的独眼目光恍惚；胡子皓白而浓密，垂至腰间，而且自到科尔布鲁克至今，从未修剪过。

七年前的一天，汉格伯船长走进港湾附近的“新酒馆”，准备购买一盎司烟叶，恰逢当地有名的巧嘴，也是理发师，傲慢地坐在酒吧间。面对理发师以打趣的口吻招徕生意，汉格伯船长一本正经地回答：“下月吧。”最后，他自袖口掏出手帕，又从手帕边角摸出三枚面值半便士的硬币，付了账并随即离去。一等酒馆的门关闭，理发师便哈哈大笑。“不久，一老一少将胳膊挽着胳膊，一块儿溜达来我店里刮胡子。裁缝、理发师和蜡扦匠都将开始忙碌。科尔布鲁克必将重现往日盛景，绝错不了。以前，一直是‘下周’，现在变成了‘下月’；照此下去，说不定，很快就变成‘下个春天’。”

登时，理发师发现一个陌生人咧着嘴，正一脸茫然地笑着，在听自己说话，于是他边毫无顾忌地舒展双腿，边解释道：那怪老头汉格伯曾是沿海小商船的船长，现已退休，正在此地等儿子回来。那孩子很可能让父母赶出家门，然后跑去当水手，从此杳无音信。这些年中，说不定早已葬身海底。三年前，那老头急匆匆赶来科尔布鲁克：穿一身黑色细平布衣服（当时刚没了老伴），迫不及待地跳下火车三等吸烟车厢，仿佛魔鬼就在身后追赶似的。他之所以来，仅仅是因为一封信。不过，那信很可能是恶作剧。有爱开玩笑的家伙写信告诉他：据传，一位名字相似的水手正在科尔布鲁克或附近，与某个姑娘鬼混。“很可笑，对吧？”此前，那老兄一直通过伦敦各家报纸发布寻找哈里·汉格伯的启事，称对提供任何可信线索者，都会给予酬金。继而，理发师以嘲讽的口吻，兴致勃勃地描述：有人目睹那个身着丧服的外乡老头，或坐运货马车，或步行，遍访周围的乡村；向所有人诉说自己的心事；走进方圆数英里内的每一家旅店和酒馆；当路拦下行人询问；甚至查看几乎每一条沟渠。刚开始，他满怀期待，无比兴奋，后来全凭意念苦苦坚持，行动变得越来越缓慢。而且，他甚至说不清，自己儿子究竟长什么样。曾有两名水手离开一艘木材运输船，估计其中之一便是他儿子。有人看到该水手在追求某个姑娘。可根据那老头的描述，他儿子只有十四岁上下，是“一个看起来既聪明又有冲劲的男孩”。对此，听者往往一笑置之。此时，他会困惑地摸摸自己额头，接着面带愠色，逃之夭夭。自然，那老头没找到任何人，哪怕只是影子——至少，从未打探到任何可靠的消息。但不知为何，他就是待在科尔布鲁克不走。

“也许是因为找儿子未果的打击，加上刚没了老伴，他终于疯了。”理发师做出论断——说话时的神态，俨然一位心理学大师。一段时间以后，那老头不再积极寻找。他儿子显然已离开科尔布鲁克。但那老头住了下来，打算就在此地等。至少有过一次，他儿子曾选择来科尔布鲁克，而不是回家乡。这一定是有原因的，他似乎认为，一定存在什么巨大的诱惑，而这诱惑会让他儿子再次回到科尔布鲁克。

“哈，哈，哈！哎呀，当然会来科尔布鲁克。除此以外，还能去哪儿呢？英国虽大，但所有失踪已久的儿子只会选择来科尔布鲁克。于是，他卖掉在科尔切斯特[1]的老宅，来到这里。嗨，他绝对疯了，毫无疑问。要是我的哪个孩子离家出走，我绝不会发疯。我可有八个孩子呢。”在声震酒吧间的大笑中，理发师神气地夸耀自己意志坚强。

不过，奇怪的是，这种疯症似乎具有传染性，理发师坦言——听其口吻，俨然一位聪慧过人的智者。比方说，其理发店位于港湾附近，每逢水手上门理发或刮胡子，假如是一张陌生面孔，他会立即情不自禁地想：“说不定，这人就是汉格伯老头的儿子！”说完，理发师哈哈大笑，以示自嘲。这是一种传染性很强的疯症，一度席卷整个海港小镇。对此，理发师记忆犹新。不过，他对那老兄仍抱有希望，相信能用一系列审慎的玩笑，治愈对方。而且，他一直在密切监控治疗的进展。下周——下月——明年！等那老船长把幻想儿子回来的时间推迟至明年，过不了多久，他将再也不会提及此事。对于别的事情，那老船长神志十分清楚，所以在这件事上，也一定会恢复理智。对此，理发师满怀信心。

理发师从未遭到反驳。自那以后，他的头发逐渐斑白，而汉格伯船长的胡子更是变得皓白而浓密，垂至腰间，同时天天身穿用一号厚篷帆布缝制的衣服。汉格伯船长亲手用浸过柏油的麻线，秘密缝制了那身行头，然后在一个晴朗的早晨，突然穿着那身行头出门。要知道，就在前一晚，有人看到他回家时还穿着之前的细平布丧服。汉格伯船长的这次亮相，在镇中心大街引起了轰动。众店主全部走到店门边，街上居民也纷纷抓起帽子，跑出家门。看到这番情景，汉格伯船长自己反倒大吃一惊，接着开始害怕。不过，面对好奇之人的询问，他一概惊恐而含糊地回答：“暂时凑合一下。”

当时的轰动，早已无人记得。连汉格伯船长本人，大家即便没有遗忘，也已不再理睬。这是习以为常的后果，就像谁也不会留意太阳，除非太阳把人晒得受不了。汉格伯船长的动作，瞧不出丝毫年老体衰的迹象：穿那身帆布行头的他，走起路来，四肢直挺，模样奇特而惹眼；只有目光显得比过去更加恍惚、鬼祟。不过，他举手投足间完全没了当初的兴奋与机警，而是变得困惑且羞怯，似乎在怀疑自己身上出现了有失体面、令人尴尬的怪癖，却又始终无法弄清究竟哪里不对劲。

现在，汉格伯船长不愿再与镇上居民搭话。在生活上，他得了铁公鸡、守财奴的恶名：在店里买什么东西，总要懊悔地嘟哝一阵；犹豫半天，才舍得买一点不好的边角肉。此外，他决不允许任何人提起他的那身行头。一切正如理发师所料。在别人看来，汉格伯船长的病已经痊愈，即不再抱有希望。唯有贝茜·卡尔维小姐知道，汉格伯船长之所以绝口不提等儿子回来的事，是因为在他的幻想中，那个时间已不再是“下周”“下月”甚或“明年”，而是“明天”。

在没有别人的前院或后院相遇时，汉格伯船长总和贝茜搭话，说话过程中不仅如慈父般语重心长，而且通情达理，尽管难免自以为是，还有点武断。他俩相识，出于毫无保留的信任——表现为汉格伯船长不时满怀关爱地冲对方眨眼睛。渐渐地，贝茜开始有些期待汉格伯船长的这一举动。起初，她对此很不安，认为这个可怜的家伙疯了；后来往往一笑置之，因为对方全无恶意；如今会不由得感到快乐却又不愿相信，并微微脸红。汉格伯船长眨眼睛，毫无猥亵的意味。那张瘦削的红脸，配上高挺的鹰钩鼻，显得气宇不凡，尤其是在与贝茜说话时。因为此时，他的目光会变得更加坚定而睿智。这男人虽胡子皓白，却英俊、硬朗、挺拔、干练，使你不会留意他的年纪。他声称，其儿子打出生就长得非常像自己，和他简直是从一个模子刻出来的。

明年七月，哈里就三十一岁了，汉格伯船长说。正该找个明事理、重家庭的好姑娘结婚。哈里这孩子很有冲劲。有冲劲的丈夫最好管束。至于那些没什么能力的软蛋，你可能觉得在他们嘴里连黄油都不会融化，但其实他们才会让女人过得非常悲惨。另外，没什么能比得上自己的家——有炉火取暖、有结实屋顶的家。有了家，管它什么天气，你都不用被迫离开温暖的被窝。“对吧，亲爱的孩子？”

有一类水手所干的行当，是在看得见陆地的沿海活动。汉格伯船长便是其中之一。其父是农民，子女众多，后来破了产，于是匆匆送他去给某位海滨小商船的船长做学徒。从此，他在海滨度过了整个水手生涯。那种日子，对汉格伯船长而言，刚开始绝非易事：他从未喜欢过海上的漂泊，反而逐渐迷恋陆地、陆地上数不清的房屋和千家万户聚在炉边烤火的平静生活。许多水手基于理性考虑，不喜欢航海，并直言不讳，而汉格伯船长不喜欢航海，却是出于个人情感，且到了深恶痛绝的地步，仿佛对安稳生活的渴慕，是他家代代相传的基因。

“世人不知道，让儿子去海上讨生活，就是把他们往火坑里推。”汉格伯船长对贝茜解释，“与其那样做，还不如立即送他们去坐牢呢。”他决不信，有谁能适应航海生活。相反，年纪越大，就会越感到厌倦。这到底是一种什么行当？入了行，竟大半时间都回不成家？一旦出海，便完全无法了解家里的情况。有人可能认为，汉格伯船长之所以这么说，是因为厌倦了远洋航行。其实，就算他水手生涯最长的一次航行，也仅仅持续了两周，而且大部分时间都在抛锚停泊，躲避恶劣天气。在他妻子从自己叔叔那里继承一所房子和足够维持生计的钱财后（该叔叔生前做煤炭生意赚了一些钱，但打了一辈子光棍），他立即辞去东海岸某运煤船船长职务，并为此感到庆幸，犹如从古罗马舰队眼皮底下死里逃生一般。干了那么多年水手，汉格伯船长看不见英国的日子，两只手就能数得过来。他从未在深度超过六百英尺的深海航行，而且经常吹嘘的其中一句话，便是“我从没离开陆地超过八十英寻[2]”。

上述这一切，贝茜·卡尔维并非首次听闻。在他们父女租住的小屋前，有一株低矮的白蜡树。夏日午后，她常常搬出椅子，坐在树底草坪上，做针线活儿。此刻，汉格伯船长总会穿着那身帆布行头，拄着铁锹。他天天在自己前院的空地挖土，每年都要把那块空地反复翻整多遍，但“暂时”——他的原话——什么也不种。

对贝茜·卡尔维，汉格伯船长会说得更加明确：“等明天我们的哈里回来再种。”这充满希望的套话，只能唤起贝茜的些许同情，因为她已听那位满怀希望的老人重复过无数遍了。

一切都如这般再三拖延，一切都是为明天而做的准备。汉格伯船长攒了满满一箱品种众多、小袋分装的花籽，以备在前院播种。“选种什么花，他肯定会听取你的意见，亲爱的孩子。”汉格伯船长隔着铁栅栏，向贝茜暗示。

贝茜小姐对此也已听过无数遍，所以仍埋头做针线活儿，不予理睬。不过，她偶尔也会起身，放下手中的活儿，缓步踱向铁栅栏。这些善意的疯话，透着某种魔力。汉格伯船长认定，儿子一旦回来，就不会再走，因为此处有个为其准备好一切的家。多年来，汉格伯船长自住的小屋逐渐塞满各种各样的家具。贝茜想象，那些家具都是崭新的，清漆完好，而且重叠堆放，如在仓库。其中，可能有几张裹着粗麻布的桌子，几捆卷成圆筒状的地毯——又粗又直，好像断柱。此外，在窗帘紧闭、一片昏暗的屋内，某些家具的白色大理石表面可能散发着淡淡的光泽。汉格伯船长每次都向贝茜详细描述购置的家具，仿佛那些也是她的合法财产。过了明天，他还要打理其杂草蔓生的后院，并浇注混凝土……

“我们不妨把木篱笆拆了。这样，你就可以拉一条晾衣绳，又绝不会碰到你的那些花儿。”汉格伯船长说着，眨了眨眼。贝茜不由得微微脸红。

贝茜心地善良，所以汉格伯船长才会对她说些疯言疯语。但这些疯话并非全是无稽之谈。万一哪天，他儿子回来了，该怎么办？但贝茜甚至不太确定，汉格伯船长是否真有儿子。就算真有儿子，那人也已久无音信。汉格伯船长说着，说着，可能变得非常激动。为使他恢复平静，贝茜会假装对他的话深信不疑，并微微笑一笑，以减轻心中内疚。

唯有一次，贝茜出于同情，试着对那个注定破灭的希望表达了些许疑虑，结果把自己吓了一大跳。只见汉格伯船长顿时露出既万分惊恐又不敢相信的神色，犹如目睹天空开裂。

“你——你——他不会淹死的！”

在贝茜看来，汉格伯船长平时没别人想的那么不正常，但那一刻，她觉得后者即将彻底发疯。不过，随着失控的情绪逐渐平复，汉格伯船长变得如慈父般和蔼可亲，而且极为谦恭。

“别担心，亲爱的孩子。”汉格伯船长带着一丝狡黠说，“大海无法留住他。他也不属于大海。我们汉格伯家，世世代代，从没出过属于大海的人。瞧瞧我——并未淹死在海里。再说，他压根儿不是水手。而如果不是水手，必定会回来。没有什么——”

汉格伯船长的眼神开始变得恍惚。

“——阻碍他明天回来。”

贝茜再未对汉格伯船长的希望表达过任何疑虑，以免他当场发疯。汉格伯船长完全信赖贝茜，认为她是全镇唯一明事理的人，还会当她的面，毫不掩饰地庆幸给儿子物色了这样一个头脑清楚的好妻子。曾有一次，汉格伯船长在气头上向贝茜吐露，镇上其他人脑子都不正常，绝错不了。他们瞧你的眼神、对你说话的口气，暴露无遗！这里的人，从未有谁与自己合得来。他不喜欢他们。显而易见，要不是儿子非常喜欢科尔布鲁克，他决不会离开家乡。

贝茜不做任何反驳，只是默默地站在木篱笆旁，一边耐心听汉格伯船长诉说，一边低垂眉眼，用钩针编织着什么。她面色煞白，脸红起来并不明显；浓密的红褐色头发，胡乱盘在头顶——她父亲的头发就呈橘红色，而且非常红。

贝茜身材丰满，面色总是显得疲倦而没有精神。每逢汉格伯船长大谈有个家是多么必要且应当、在自家炉边烤火又是多么幸福，她只是动动嘴唇，报以微微一笑。在人生最美好的十年，只能守在家里，伺候父亲，这便是家给予她的全部“幸福”。

从楼上窗户会传来犹如野兽发出的咆哮，打断他俩的谈话。一听到那声音，贝茜立即开始收拾手中的编织或针线活儿，但丝毫不显慌张。与此同时，呼喊她名字的咆哮仍在继续。如果恰巧有渔夫在路对面海堤上溜达，他们便会纷纷扭头，望向那两栋小屋。收起手中的活儿后，贝茜慢悠悠地走进自家前门。过了片刻，他们父女租住的小屋便陷入一片沉寂。不久，她再次现身：牵着一个男人的手，引领其走出门来。那男人肥硕而笨拙，活像河马，而且脸色极其阴沉。

那男人已丧偶，曾是造船工人；多年前，正当事业蒸蒸日上时，突然双目失明。他对待女儿的态度，就像眼睛无法治愈全都怪女儿似的。有人曾听到那鳏夫仿佛出于对上帝的藐视，声嘶力竭地吼道：他对失明毫不在乎，因为赚的钱，足够天天早餐吃火腿煎蛋。他为能过这样的生活而感谢上帝，但听其口气，更像恶魔在诅咒。

汉格伯船长极不喜欢这位租客，所以曾对贝茜小姐说：“他是个毫不节约的家伙，亲爱的孩子。”

那天，贝茜在赶着织完给父亲穿的袜子。在其父看来，做女红是女儿的本分，但贝茜讨厌编织。由于正织到后跟部分，她不得不全神贯注地盯着手中织针。

“当然，他没有儿子需要供养。”汉格伯船长怅然若失，继续说，“女儿需要的东西，自然没那么多，唔——唔。她们也不会离家出走，亲爱的孩子。”

“是的。”贝茜平静地附和。

汉格伯船长站在翻土后形成的土堆中间，咯咯地笑。他穿着那身古怪的帆布行头，配上饱经风霜的面孔和尼普顿[3]那样的长须，活像一位遭贬下凡、拿三叉戟换了铁锹的海神。

“他肯定认为，对你多少已尽了抚养的义务。这正是生女儿的最大好处。丈夫……”汉格伯船长眨了眨眼。专心织袜子的贝茜小姐，不由得微微脸红。

“贝茜！我的帽子！”卡尔维老头突然吼道。此前，他一直坐在树下，沉默不语，纹丝不动，酷似一尊神像——象征的是某种极为骇人的迷信。他要么不开口，一开口就大声咆哮：喊女儿，吼女儿，偶尔还骂女儿，而且尽用恶毒的词。贝茜的应对方法，是决不搭话。其父会不停地大吼大叫，直至得到回应：贝茜摇动他的胳膊，或把烟斗咬嘴插入他齿间。身为盲人还抽烟，真是少见。感觉帽子落到头顶，卡尔维老头立即停止吼叫。等女儿扶他起身后，两人便一块儿走出院子大门。

卡尔维老头把身体全部重量都压在女儿胳膊上。他俩缓慢而艰难地往前走，看起来就像是贝茜为了给自己赎罪，拖着那具虚弱、肥硕的躯体，负重而行。通常，他俩一出院子便横穿门前小路——两栋小屋坐落在港湾附近的野地里，门前有条小路通往两百码外的大街尽头。过了很久，仍能望见那对父女的身影，尽管瞧不出他俩正沿着通往海堤顶部的木台阶，费力地拾级而上。这条海堤沿英吉利海峡而修，东西横亘，犹如一段废弃已久、在人类记忆中从无列车驶过的铁路路堤。健壮的渔夫会成群结队，从天际冒出来，往前走一走，接着变得越来越矮，越来越矮，直至慢慢消失。一张张棕色渔网，平铺在杂草蔓生的堤坡上，酷似巨大的蛛网。来到大街尽头的镇上居民，抬眼望见那蹒跚而缓慢的步伐，立即便能认出卡尔维父女。在两栋小屋周围闲荡的汉格伯船长，经常抬头眺望，看看那对散步的父女走到哪儿了。

汉格伯船长仍在每逢周日出版的各家报纸发布寻找哈里·汉格伯的启事。他一方面告诉贝茜，这些报纸的读者，遍布全世界各个国家与地区；一方面却似乎认为，儿子就在英国，离科尔布鲁克非常近，“明天”肯定会到来。对于汉格伯船长的后一念头，贝茜并未直截了当地发表意见，而是说：既然如此，就没必要每周浪费两先令六便士，发布寻人启事，汉格伯船长还不如把那些钱用于自己身上。她还称，自己不知道汉格伯船长靠什么为生。听了贝茜的话，汉格伯船长会陷入苦思，并沮丧好一会儿。“别人都这么做。”他辩解。而且，每家报纸都设有一栏，专用于刊登寻找失踪亲属的启事。他会取来报纸，向贝茜证明自己所说属实。多年来，他们夫妇一直在各家报纸发布寻人启事。可惜，他妻子不是一个有耐心的女人。她头天刚下葬，第二天就从科尔布鲁克传来了消息。要不是那么没耐心，她可能这会儿也在这里，而且顶多再等一天，就能见到儿子。“你是一个有耐心的女人，亲爱的孩子。”

“有时候，我对您真的失去了耐心。”贝茜会说。

汉格伯船长虽仍在各家报纸发布寻找儿子的启事，但对提供线索者，已不再给予任何酬金。因为，出于神志错乱之人自以为理智、实则糊涂的逻辑，他坚信以下这点是明摆着的，即自己已获得通过该途径所能获得的一切线索。他还想了解什么呢？儿子肯定会来科尔布鲁克。知道这一点，便足够了。卡尔维小姐夸其明智，令汉格伯船长大为宽慰。在他看来，贝茜不仅肯定了他那个已成痴心妄想的希望，而且也赞同他的判断——这判断使他看不见事实真相与其他可能，恰如另一栋小屋里的另一名老人，因另一种疾病而双目失明，看不见这个世界的光明与美好。

尽管如此，只要认为自己受到任何怀疑，汉格伯船长都会激动得直抽搐，并用恶毒的眼神斜睨对方：例如，向他表达赞成时口气冷淡，甚或仅仅未留意他那些计划的进展——那些计划的目的，是做好关于家庭生活的各项准备，以便儿子回来后，与儿子、儿媳共叙天伦之乐。他还会把铁锹猛地往地里一插，然后在旁边走过来，走过去。每逢此时，贝茜小姐都认为汉格伯船长在使性子，她便会用食指指着他，以示责备。汉格伯船长见状，会气冲冲地远离贝茜。但等贝茜再次来到屋外，他会用眼角余光偷瞥对方，以求发现丝毫表示鼓励的暗示，好走近铁栅栏，恢复两人之间父亲对女儿、长辈对晚辈的关系。

他俩虽相熟已有几年，但每次都隔着木篱笆或铁栅栏交谈。汉格伯船长经常告诉贝茜，自己为将来一家人生活而积攒的各种家当是多么豪华，但从未邀请贝茜过去瞧一瞧。除了哈里，谁也不能先瞧。事实上，从无别人进过汉格伯船长自住的小屋。此外，汉格伯船长不仅自己做所有家务，而且偶尔去镇上买了什么家用小物件，总是揣在帆布外套里，匆匆穿过前院，偷偷带进屋，唯恐别人先于儿子瞧见。从屋里出来后，他会为自己辩解：“不过是一只小烧水壶，亲爱的孩子。”

假如不是家务干到筋疲力尽，或不堪其父烦扰，贝茜会微微红着脸，冲汉格伯船长笑一笑，说：“没关系，汉格伯船长。我是一个有耐心的女人。”

“唔，亲爱的孩子，你不用等很久了。”汉格伯船长会如此回应，并突然变得羞怯。他不安地东张西望，仿佛早就在怀疑哪里不对劲。

每逢周一，贝茜会隔着铁栅栏，把房租递给汉格伯船长。他会贪婪地一把抓过那些先令。汉格伯船长极不情愿把钱用于必要的生活花销，哪怕仅仅一便士，而且每当告别贝茜去买东西，一到大街上，立即就像换了个人。离开贝茜的同情与鼓励，他觉得自己完全暴露于各种危险之中，所以总是肩膀贴着墙壁，沿街边行走，还认为遇到的人都很可疑。但其实，到了那会儿，就连镇上的孩童都不再追着他大呼小叫，而商店店主接待他时，也往往一言不发。汉格伯船长对自己的衣着尤为敏感：假如有谁提起，哪怕极其委婉，也会令他大感困惑和惊恐，仿佛听到什么毫无道理、匪夷所思之事。

秋天，每逢下起滂沱大雨，硕大的雨滴吧嗒吧嗒，直打在汉格伯船长那身帆布行头上。那身行头湿透后，变得几乎如铁皮般坚硬，而且雨水顺着其表面各处不断往下流淌。假如天气过于恶劣，汉格伯船长只能被迫躲在狭小的门廊下，紧贴屋门而立，眼巴巴地望着插于前院中间的铁锹。整个前院，到处挖了又挖，随着季节推移，逐渐变成一片泥淖。当地面完全冻住，他会变得忧心忡忡。哈里要是见了，会说什么呢？从另一栋小屋紧闭的窗户，不时隐隐传来卡尔维老头在屋里使唤贝茜的咆哮。由于每年这个时节，与贝茜见面的机会大为减少，汉格伯船长就对卡尔维老头的咆哮感到极为恼怒。

“那个毫不节约的家伙，为什么不给你请个用人呢？”汉格伯船长没好气地问贝茜。那天下午挺暖和，贝茜往头上随便搭了样东西，跑出来活动活动。

“我不知道。”贝茜疲惫地回答，并望向别处，眼神里全无期待。她脸色苍白，眼皮耷拉，灰色的眼睛下方总是带着两抹阴影。给人的感觉，她似乎看不到自己的人生会出现任何改变，或存在一个尽头。

“等到结婚，就好了，亲爱的孩子。”贝茜唯一的朋友边缓步走近铁栅栏，边说，“哈里会给你请一个的。”

汉格伯船长盲目乐观的疯症，在绝望的贝茜看来，是对自己赤裸裸的嘲弄。她一时激愤难当，忍不住要当场破口大骂，但最后只是像面对正常人那样自嘲道：“哎呀，汉格伯船长，说不定您儿子连瞧都不想瞧我一眼。”

汉格伯船长把脑袋往后一仰，通过喉咙，沙哑而做作地嘎嘎大笑，以示愤怒。

“什么！那小子？对方圆几英里内唯一明事理的姑娘，连瞧都不想瞧一眼？你认为，我在这里，是为了什么，亲爱的孩子？亲爱的孩子？亲爱的孩子……什么？你等着瞧吧。你等着瞧好了。明天就能见分晓。我很快就将——”

“贝茜！贝茜！贝茜！”卡尔维老头在屋里咆哮，“贝茜！我的烟斗！”那个肥硕的瞎子，懒惰到了衣来伸手、饭来张口的地步。他决不抬一抬手，自己拿女儿事先在他手肘边精心备下的东西；决不动一动腿或胳膊；决不自己从椅子上起身；虽然完全能在客厅自由穿梭，犹如双目并未失明一般，但不将女儿唤至身旁，并将肥硕躯体的全部重量压到女儿肩上，决不把一只脚迈到另一只脚前；此外，决不自己吃一口东西，只等女儿去喂。失明确实带来不便，但卡尔维老头故意表现得生活完全不能自理，好尽可能地奴役女儿。黄昏中，贝茜紧咬牙关，纹丝不动地站了一会儿，然后转身，缓步回屋。

汉格伯船长走回铁锹所插之处。从卡尔维父女租住的小屋，不再传出咆哮声。没过一会儿，那栋小屋楼下客厅的窗户里亮起灯光。有个男人迈着坚定而从容的步伐，从大街尽头走来。打两栋小屋前经过时，他似乎瞧见了汉格伯船长，于是又折回来一两步。西边的天空，尚留一抹冷冰冰的白光。来人趴在院子大门上，显得饶有兴趣。

“你一定就是汉格伯船长吧。”那人从容且胸有成竹地说。

听到陌生人的声音，老人大吃一惊，随即原地转了个身，同时顺手从土里拔出铁锹。

“是的，我就是。”老人紧张地回答。

对方边冲老人微笑，边缓缓道：“你一直在报纸上发布寻找儿子的启事，对吧？”

“我儿子哈里，”汉格伯船长嘟哝着，暂时放下戒备，但仅此一次，“他明天就会回家。”

“他会回家才怪！”陌生人既非常惊讶又不以为然地高呼，并用几乎相同的语气继续道，“瞧你留的胡子，都赶上圣诞老人了！”

汉格伯船长缓缓地朝院子大门走了几步，然后拄着铁锹而立，同时身子在铁锹上方微微前倾。“走开。”他说话的语气既愤恨又羞怯，因为一直以来，他生怕遭人嘲笑。无论处于何种精神状态的人，哪怕神志错乱的疯子，皆有自尊。自尊是其保持内心平静的基础；一旦自尊受挫，便会导致不悦。另外，汉格伯船长对生活已形成一系列根深蒂固的观念，而别人的大笑令他对这些观念心生怀疑，并因此感到痛苦。没错，看到别人冲自己大笑，非常可恶。那是在暗示什么地方不对劲。可究竟哪里不对劲呢？他弄不明白。显而易见，那陌生人正在咧嘴大笑——特意上门来这么做。在各条街上，遇到别人冲自己大笑，汉格伯船长也非常不悦，但从未如此愤怒。

陌生人并未意识到自己的脑袋差点让铁锹劈成两半，严肃地回道：“我站在这里，不算擅闯私宅，对吧？我认为，你得到的消息有误。要不让我进去再说？”

“让你进来？！”汉格伯船长嘟哝道，言语中透着无法形容的恐惧。

“我可以提供一些关于你儿子的真实情况——最新的独家消息，如果你想听的话？”

“不想听！”汉格伯船长嚷着，开始极为激动地走过来，走过去，接着又扛起铁锹，并用另一条胳膊比画各种动作。“这个咧嘴大笑的家伙，说我得到的消息有误。我知道的消息，比你多。我早就知道了所有想要知道的消息。几年前就知道了！几年前！几年前！我不再需要任何消息，只需等待明天到来。让你进来——等着吧！哈里要是知道了，会怎么说呢？”

此时，另一栋小屋楼下客厅的窗户映出贝茜·卡尔维的黑色人影。接着，伴随开门的声响，那人影从小屋前面飞掠而出：全身漆黑，头上却搭着什么白色的东西。突然听见外面这两人的说话声，屋里的贝茜激动得瞠目结舌。

汉格伯船长看上去，活像慌不择路、企图逃离牢笼的困兽。他在一片泥潭里嘎吱嘎吱地乱走——这片泥潭正是他辛勤劳动的结果；在毁坏的草坪上让坑坑洼洼绊得踉踉跄跄；还像瞎子似的乱跑，完全不顾是否撞到铁栅栏。

“喂，冷静一点！”陌生人边说，边慎重地把胳膊伸过院子大门，拽住汉格伯船长的衣袖。“有人想找到并诈骗你。嗬！你身上穿的什么东西啊？还真是厚篷帆布！”那人哈哈大笑，接着道，“哎呀，你果然是怪人！”

汉格伯船长猛地从对方手中挣脱，然后边羞怯地向后退缩，边用颓丧的语气嘟哝：“暂时凑合一下。”

“他怎么回事啊？”陌生人以解释的口吻，极其亲昵、慢条斯理地对贝茜说，“我不是故意要惊吓这老家伙的。”接着，陌生人压低声音，仿佛在和相熟多年的故友说悄悄话。“我顺道拐进一家理发店，花两便士，刮了胡子。店里那些人告诉我，他有点古怪。其实，这老家伙一辈子都是怪人。”

听到对方提及自己的衣着，汉格伯船长羞怯之下，带着铁锹，躲进屋里。冷不防响起重重的关门声，令站在院子大门处的另外两人大吃一惊。紧接着，他俩相继听到闩门闩的碰撞声、锁门锁的吧嗒声和咯咯的大笑声——这装腔作势的笑声在屋里回荡不止。

“我不是故意要刺激他的。”沉默了片刻，陌生人说，“这一切究竟是什么意思啊？他并未完全发疯呀。”

“这么多年来，他一直在为离家出走的儿子感到担忧。”贝茜以抱歉的口吻，低声回答。

“唔，我就是他儿子。”

“哈里！”贝茜不由得惊呼，但随即紧紧地闭住嘴。

“知道我的名字？和这老家伙是朋友，嗯？”

“他是我们的房东。”贝茜伸手抓住铁栅栏，结结巴巴地回答。

“这两栋兔笼似的小破屋都是他的，对吧？”小汉格伯不屑地说，“能让他引以为傲的，就是这些东西。明天要来的那小子是谁，你能告诉我吗？你对此肯定有所了解。我告诉你，这老家伙遇到了诈骗——绝错不了。”

贝茜一时沉默不语。她完全不知如何回答，惊愕地愣在原地：自知必须做出解释，却不可能也惧怕那么做，因为如果把整件事的来龙去脉解释清楚，似乎难免会让对方觉得，她也是疯子。

“唉——真对不起。”贝茜嗫嚅道。

“怎么回事？”小汉格伯平静地说，“别担心，我不会不高兴。另一个小子才会不高兴，因为事情的结果将完全出乎他意料。我对这事一点也不在乎。不过，明天，等那小子露面，将有好戏上演。我不是为这老家伙着想，但对就是对，错就是错。你等着瞧吧，我会痛揍那骗子，不管他是谁！”

说话过程中，小汉格伯朝贝茜走近了一些。两人隔着铁栅栏而立，男的比女的高出不少。小汉格伯瞥了眼贝茜的双手，感觉她在颤抖，并突然想到：也许，明天算计他父亲的小把戏，眼前这女人也有份。幸亏自己及时赶到，使骗子的诡计无法得逞。想到这，他不免感到一阵得意——嘲笑骗子的诡计实在拙劣，轻而易举就让自己挫败。但有生以来，无论女人耍什么花招，他一直对她们极为宽容。再说，眼前这女人确实颤抖得厉害，连头上的围巾都已滑落。“可怜的女人！”小汉格伯心想，“别管另一个小子了。他明天不一定会来。可我自己该怎么办呢？总不能在院子门口一直晃悠到明天早上吧。”

贝茜突然喊道：“是你——他等的是你！明天要来的那个人是你！”

小汉格伯木然地嘟哝道：“啊！是我！”接着，两人似乎同时停止了呼吸。看起来，小汉格伯正在琢磨听到的话。过了一会儿，他说：“我不明白。我没给他写过信什么的。我朋友看到报纸上的寻人启事，然后告诉了我——就在今天早晨……嗯？什么？”他说话时并不气恼，但显得非常困惑。

小汉格伯低下头，把耳朵凑向贝茜，听她轻声而飞快地说了一些话。听的过程中，他不时嘟哝着回以“是的”“原来如此”。“可为什么今天不行呢？”最后，他问。

“你没懂我的意思！”贝茜不耐烦地叫道。西边，云层底下那抹明亮的白光已逐渐消失。小汉格伯再次微微低头，以便听得更清楚。这对男女——一个喃喃低语，一个侧耳倾听——完全消失在重重夜幕中。唯一隐约可见的是，两张脸亲昵地挨在一块儿，仿佛他俩正偷偷幽会，相互温存。

小汉格伯挺直肩膀。一顶宽檐帽的黑影，随随便便地搭在他头上。“很可笑，对吧？”小汉格伯对贝茜说，“明天？哈，哈！从没听说过这种事。看起来，永远都会是明天，绝不可能是今天。”

贝茜一动不动，默不作声。

“而你一直纵容他抱着这个可笑的念头。”小汉格伯说。

“我从不反驳他。”

“为什么不？”

“我为什么要反驳？”贝茜辩解，“那只会使他痛苦。他可能会丧失理智的。”

“他还有理智！”小汉格伯嘟哝道。接着，他听到贝茜短促而紧张地笑了笑。

“我不反驳，造成什么危害了吗？难道要我和这位可怜的老人吵架吗？我更愿意对他的话半信半疑。”

“是的，是的。”精明的小汉格伯略作沉思，接着说，“我估计，这老家伙说了什么花言巧语，把你哄得相信了。你心肠可真软。”

黑暗中，贝茜紧张地提起双手。“他的话可能是真的。确实是真的。那一天确实到来了。今天就是。今天就是我们一直等待的‘明天’。”

贝茜说完，深吸一口气。小汉格伯和气地说：“是啊，结果却不让人进门。我不在乎是否……你觉得，能说服他和我相认……嗯？什么……你能说服他？你说要一星期？唔，也许你是能说服他，可在这无聊透顶的地方，你觉得我能待住一星期吗？我待不住！我希望要么拼命干活，要么恣意玩乐，再要么去比整个英国还要广阔的地方闯荡。不过，我曾来过这里一回，而且待了一个多星期。当时，这老家伙在报纸上发布寻找我的启事。有个和我在一块儿的朋友想出一个主意：写封信，胡说八道地扯上一大通，骗他几英镑。不过，那个玩笑并未得逞。因为我们不得不离开了——那回，我在这里待了好几天。但这回，有个朋友正在伦敦等我，再说……”

贝茜·卡尔维的呼吸变得急促。

“要是我去敲门，会怎么样？”小汉格伯问。

“去试一下吧。”贝茜回道。

汉格伯船长所住小屋的院子大门发出嘎吱嘎吱的声响。小汉格伯的人影在院子里走了几步，接着驻足，再次从喉咙发出低沉的笑声——与老汉格伯的笑声很像，只不过更加温柔、悦耳。贝茜听了，顿感如梦初醒，心神荡漾。

“他不爱闹腾吧？我担心不得不控制住他。大伙总说，我不知道自己的力量有多大。”

“他是有史以来最温和的人。”贝茜插嘴道。

“你要是见过他挥舞粗硬的皮鞭，一路追打我到楼上，你就不会这么说了。”小汉格伯说，“整整十六年来，我一直没忘记这件事。”

小汉格伯说完，又一次发出低沉、悦耳的笑声。贝茜感到一股暖流从头顶蔓延到脚底。随着门环发出嘭嘭嘭的声响，她的心提到了嗓子眼。

“喂，爸！开门。我是哈里，真的。快开门！我提前一天回家了。”

小屋楼上的一扇窗户咔嗒咔嗒地拉了起来。

“一个咧嘴大笑、自称有最新消息的家伙。”从黑乎乎的高处传来汉格伯船长的声音，“别和他扯上任何瓜葛。这会毁了一切的。”

贝茜听到小汉格伯喊了声“喂，爸”，又听到哐当一响。接着，小屋楼上的窗户咔嗒咔嗒地拉下了；与此同时，小汉格伯再次站在贝茜面前。

“和过去一模一样。那会儿，他差点把我活活打死，以阻止我离开家；这会儿，我回来了，他又照着我的脑袋扔下该死的铁锹，不让我进门。那该死的铁锹擦伤了我的肩膀。”

贝茜不由得一阵哆嗦。

“我不在乎。”小汉格伯接着说，“只是我身上最后几先令用来买了火车票，最后两便士又用来刮了胡子——出于对老家伙的尊敬。”

“你真是哈里·汉格伯？”贝茜立刻问，“你能证明吗？”

“我能证明吗？除了我，还有谁能证明？”小汉格伯乐呵呵地说，“用什么证明？我要证明什么？在全世界各个角落，也许英国除外，你都能找到记得我是哈里·汉格伯的人——找到记得我是哈里·汉格伯的女人，可能性更大。我比世上任何活着的人更像哈里·汉格伯。我能当即向你证明，要是你让我走进你家院子的话。”

“进来吧。”贝茜说。

于是，小汉格伯进了卡尔维父女所租小屋的前院。他魁梧的人影，大摇大摆地往前走。贝茜转身背对楼下客厅的窗户，一面等待，一面盯着不断逼近的模糊人影——那人影最真实之处，莫过于其脚步声。窗户透出的灯光中，出现一顶歪戴的帽子、半边势要撞破夜幕的强壮肩膀、一条从黑暗中迈出的腿。小汉格伯突然转身并站定，然后面朝贝茜背后亮着灯光的客厅窗户，边左右摆动脑袋，边自顾自轻声发笑。

“稍微想象一下，要是把老家伙的胡子粘到我的下巴，会是什么样。喂？快说话呀。我打小就长得非常像他，和他简直是从一个模子刻出来的。”

“的确。”贝茜低声嗫嚅道。

“不过，我俩也就外表长得像罢了。他一直都是你们这种恋家的人。哎呀，我至今仍记得，每逢要离开家去南希尔兹[4]运煤的前三天，他就会整日愁眉苦脸。当时，他持有煤气厂发的长期执照。你可能以为，他是去远洋捕鲸，一走三年多。哈，哈！完全不是。就离家十天而已。‘海上飞掠者’是一艘不错的船。名字不赖，对吧？那艘船属于我妈的叔叔……”

小汉格伯突然转变话题，压低声音问：“我妈怎么没的，他对你提过吗？”

“提过。”贝茜小姐伤感地回答，“说是因为不够耐心。”

小汉格伯沉默片刻，接着粗鲁地说：“他俩生怕我变成一个坏人，结果反而逼得我离家出走。我妈喋喋不休地指责我游手好闲，而这老家伙说，宁可把我杀掉，也不允许我去当水手。哎呀，当时看起来，他可能真会那么做，所以我离家出走了。有时，我觉得自己投错了胎，不该出生在那个同是兔笼似的家。”

“那你本该出生在什么地方，才算投对胎呢？”贝茜不屑地打断小汉格伯。

“我本该在狂风大作的夜晚，出生于旷野之中、海滩之上。”小汉格伯倒豆子般飞快地回答，接着若有所思地缓缓道，“他俩以前就是怪人，真的。过了这么多年，这老家伙丝毫没变，对吧？该死的铁锹——听！谁在大吼大叫啊？‘贝茜，贝茜。’从你住的那栋房子传出来的。”

“那是在喊我。”贝茜漠不关心地说。

小汉格伯往旁边挪了挪，离开窗前明亮处。“你老公？”他问。听其口气，显然是惯于偷情的老手。“声音真洪亮；碰到雷电交加的暴风雨，甲板上正需要这样的人。”

“不，是我爸。我还没结婚呢。”

“你看起来是个好姑娘，亲爱的贝茜小姐。”小汉格伯立刻接嘴道。贝茜把脸转向了别处。

“嘿，我说，怎么回事？谁在谋杀他啊？”

“他想吃傍晚茶[5]。”贝茜侧着脑袋，面对父亲，纹丝不动地站在原地，显得十分高挑。她的双手十指交叉地紧握在一起，垂于身前。

“你最好进去一下吧？”小汉格伯说。开口前，他凝视了一会儿贝茜的后颈——一块白得耀眼的皮肤，往下是线条柔和、只见阴影的脖颈儿，再往下是若隐若现的肩膀。贝茜头上的围巾已滑落至手肘处。“不用多久，整个镇子的人都要过来了。我在这里等你一会儿。”

贝茜的围巾掉落在地。等小汉格伯俯身捡起时，贝茜已消失不见。小汉格伯把捡起的围巾往胳膊上一搭，径直走近楼下客厅的窗户，看到一个肥硕男人的庞大身躯、一盏无罩的灯、贝茜小姐的脑袋和胸部；那男人坐在扶手椅中，正张着阔嘴打哈欠，蓬乱的头发披散在大扁脸两侧。屋里的吼叫声停了，窗帘放了下来。小汉格伯不禁陷入沉思，觉得眼下的处境糟糕至极。父亲疯了，无法进门。没钱回去，正在伦敦挨饿的那个朋友，将认为他靠不住。“该死！”小汉格伯嘟哝道。他当然有本事硬闯其父的住所，但警察可能因此不问青红皂白，就把他关进监狱。真是那样，也没什么大不了，只不过他非常惧怕遭到监禁，哪怕纯粹出于误会。想到这，小汉格伯不由得感到一阵寒冷，于是在湿漉漉的草地上跺了跺脚。

“你是干什么的？水手？”一个不安的声音问。

贝茜的人影已从屋里飞掠而出。吸引她出来的，是另一个正在她家墙角等待、显得非常鲁莽的人影。

“什么都干。包括做一名称职的普通水手。这次正是通过做水手回家的。”

“那你是打哪里来到这里的呢？”贝茜接着问。

“我刚刚恣意快活了一把，”小汉格伯回答，“然后坐从伦敦出发的火车来到这里——知道了吧？呃！我讨厌被关在火车里。不过，我对房子没那么反感。”

“啊，”贝茜说，“幸好。”

“因为在房子里的话，可以随时打开该死的门，然后直接当着你的面走掉。”

“从此再也不回来？”

“至少在十六年里，”小汉格伯大笑着回答，“不会回到一栋兔笼似的小破屋，让该死的铁锹……”

“船也不是很大呀。”贝茜讥讽道。

“是的，可大海无边无际。”

贝茜垂下脑袋。她似乎突然对世间万物的声音变得十分敏感，并听到经历昨天的大风后，波浪不断拍击海堤另一侧的沙滩。伴随阵阵涛声，整个大地都在单调而庄严地颤抖，犹如一口正在敲响的洪钟。

“再说，哎呀，船只是船。你可以随时爱上某艘船，也可以随时离开那艘船；一次航海，不同于一次婚姻。”小汉格伯轻率地引述流行于水手之间的粗话。

“航海确实不同于婚姻。”贝茜喃喃道。

“我向来行不更名，坐不改姓，而且迄今为止，从未对任何女人说过哪怕一次谎话。什么谎话？哎呀，就是：请你选择接受还是离开我；要是接受我，那么……”小汉格伯说完，倚着墙壁，轻声哼起一支水手号子的其中几句。

啊，嗬，嗬，里奥！

再见了，再见了，

年轻漂亮的姑娘，

我们正准备起航，

去南里奥格兰德[6]。

“这是转动绞盘、拉起船锚时唱的水手号子。”小汉格伯解释道。此时，贝茜的牙齿打了一下颤。

“你很冷吧。”小汉格伯说，“这是你掉的东西。”贝茜感觉到对方的双手在她身上移动，仔细地为她裹好围巾。“抓住前面这两头。”小汉格伯吩咐。

“你来这里干什么呢？”贝茜问着，感觉自己又要打冷战，但竭力克制住了。

“来要五英镑钱。”小汉格伯立即回答，“我们玩乐的时间稍微久了点，结果把钱花光了。”

“你一直在喝酒？”贝茜又问。

“一连三天，喝得烂醉如泥——故意的。不要以为，我是让人灌醉的。世上没有任何人或任何东西能摆布我，除非我愿意。要是不合我心意，我决不屈服。今天早晨，我朋友看到报纸上的寻人启事，于是对我说：‘快去，哈里。你爸很疼你。他肯定会给你五英镑。’于是，我俩翻遍各自的所有衣服口袋，勉强凑了来这里的车费。真是偷鸡不成蚀把米！”

“我恐怕得说，你是个铁石心肠的人。”贝茜叹息道。

“为什么这样说？因为我离家出走？哎呀！他想让我做律师的文书——纯粹为了称他的心。他是家里的老爷；而我那个死去的妈呢，一直对他煽风点火——可能是为了我好吧。好吧，既然如此，那就再见。于是，我离家出走了。不，我告诉你：我离开家当天，浑身上下青一块，紫一块，而这正是拜他那伟大的父爱所赐。啊！他一直都有点古怪。瞧瞧那把铁锹。发疯了？未必。我爸向来就是这么个人。他想让我留在家乡，无非是希望身边有个可以供他呼来喝去的人。不过，眼下，我和朋友手头有点紧，而对他来说，五英镑算得了什么呢？毕竟，在艰难的十六年中，我向他要钱，只此一回。”

“啊，我真为你的遭遇感到难过。你从来没想过回家吗？”

“做律师的文书，最后烂在家乡——烂在一个像这样的地方？”小汉格伯不屑地嚷道，“什么！要是今天这老家伙把我安顿在一个家里，我将把那个家踹成平地；要不然，我会在三天之内活活憋死。”

“除了家里，你还希望自己死在哪里呢？”

“在某处荒野；在大海上；在某个该死的山顶。要是必须选择的话。在家里？好啊！整个世界就是我的家。不过，我估计将来自己会死在医院。那又有什么关系呢？只要来世上走过一遭，死在哪里都行。而且，我几乎干过你能想到的所有事情，除了做裁缝和当兵。我曾骑马巡视并修补牧场围栏、剪羊毛、背着行囊流浪、用鱼叉捕杀一头鲸鱼；还曾装配船帆、勘探金矿、给死牛剥皮。我舍弃的钱财，可能比这老家伙辛苦攒了一辈子的还要多。哈，哈！”

小汉格伯的话令贝茜大为震惊。她努力恢复镇定，最后勉强开口道：“该休息了。”

小汉格伯离开所倚墙壁，挺直身子，以严肃的口吻说：“我也该走了。”

但说归说，他并未迈动脚步，而是再次靠到墙上，若有所思地哼起一支古怪曲子的其中一两个小节。

贝茜感到自己忍不住要哭了。“你又开始哼你那些令人伤心的歌了。”她说。

“在墨西哥索诺拉[7]学的。”小汉格伯从容地说，“这是寻金人唱的歌。你没听过？就是流浪汉唱的歌。没有什么能使那些流浪汉在一个地方长待，哪怕女人也不行。过去，在希拉河以北极远处那片出产金子的地区边缘，你偶尔会遇见他们中的一个。我去过那里。在马萨特兰[8]的一位勘探工程师带我去的——让我帮忙照看马车。不管怎么说，身边带个水手，能为你提供许多方便。那片地区尽是沙漠，分布着一道道深不见底的裂口和一座座由岩石构成的悬崖峭壁——那些悬崖峭壁拔地而起，犹如无数高墙和教堂尖塔，只不过大上百倍。此外，各个峡谷中布满巨砾和黑色石块。整片地区，连一片草的叶子都见不着。那里的夕阳，也比我在其他任何地方见过的都要红——像血一样红，而且显得非常愤怒。真是美极了！”

“你不会还想去那里吧？”贝茜结结巴巴地问。

小汉格伯笑了笑。“不会。那片出产金子的地区不是人待的。在那里见到的景象，有时会让我不由得哆嗦。要知道，当时我们是一大帮人结伴同行。但那些寻金人总是独来独往。对于那片地区，早在任何人听说以前，他们就已经知道了。他们仿佛天生就懂勘探，而且也对寻找金子极为狂热，但似乎对金子本身不是很感兴趣。他们总能发现富含金子的地点，接着便转身离去；也许会拣上一些——足够一次玩乐——然后再次出发，寻找更多的金子。他们从不在有房屋的地方长待，他们没有妻子、没有鸡、没有家，也没有朋友。你无法和寻金人做朋友，因为他们永远都在流浪：今天在这里，明天就走了——天晓得去了哪里。他们绝不把发现金子的情况告诉任何人，也从无一个寻金人过上富裕的生活。令他们醉心的，并非金子本身，而是在遍地石头的沙漠一边流浪一边寻找金子的过程。正因为如此，他们永不停歇；也正因为如此，世上尚无任何女人能留住寻金人超过一个星期。这就是我哼的歌。整首歌讲的是，有个漂亮姑娘想方设法留住情郎——一个寻金人——好让对方带给自己许多金子。绝不可能！最后，寻金人还是走了，而那姑娘再也没见过他。”

“那姑娘后来怎么样了？”贝茜轻声问。

“歌里没说。可能哭了一阵吧。寻金人都这样：亲了某个女人，接着就走了。不过，重点在于寻找某样东西，某样……有时，我觉得自己也是一个寻金人。”

“这么说来，没有女人能留住你。”贝茜用粗重的声音开口道，但尚未说完，她的声音便突然开始打颤。

“不会超过一个星期。”小汉格伯开玩笑地说。他愉快而温柔的笑声，牵动着贝茜的心弦。“不过，我爱她们中的每一个人。我愿意为喜欢的女人付出一切。她们害我陷入各种困境，也帮我摆脱各种困境！我对她们一见钟情。此刻，我已经爱上了你，小姐——你叫贝茜，对吧？”

贝茜微微后退，用颤抖的声音笑着说：“你还没见过我长什么样呢。”

小汉格伯殷勤地倾身向前，说：“脸色有点苍白——有些男人会喜欢。不过，你身材不错，贝茜小姐。”

贝茜的心脏怦怦直跳。从来没人对她说过这么多话。

此时，小汉格伯语气一变，说：“不过，我现在肚子有点饿。今天没吃早饭。我看到你爸在吃傍晚茶，你能弄些面包给我吃吃吗？或者——”

小汉格伯正想请求贝茜让他进屋，贝茜却已离去。没关系。在哪儿都一样。眼下的处境真是糟透了！他朋友会怎么想呢？

“我不是向你乞讨，”面对贝茜端来的盘子，小汉格伯边从盘中拿起一片涂着黄油的面包，边开玩笑地说，“而是把你当朋友。我爸很有钱，你也知道。”

“因为你，他一直在挨饿。”

“因为他一时的心血来潮，我也挨过饿。”小汉格伯说着，又拿起一片面包。

“他在世上拥有的一切，都是为你而准备的。”贝茜替汉格伯船长辩解。

“是啊，假如我回来，像某个洞里该死的癞蛤蟆一般，坐在他那堆东西上面。谢谢你。那把铁锹又怎么解释呢，嗯？他表达父爱的方式总是这么古怪。”

“我能用一个星期的时间，说服他和你相认。”贝茜怯怯地说。

小汉格伯饿得只顾狼吞虎咽，并未回话。贝茜顺从地把盘子端近他手边，同时仰起头，开始轻声说话。她的语速极快，而且呼吸急促。小汉格伯听着，听着，变得十分惊奇，吃得也越来越慢，最后嘴巴完全停止了咀嚼。“这是他的诡计，对吧？”他逐渐提高嗓门，刻薄而轻蔑地说，同时不由自主地一挥胳膊，打飞贝茜端着的盘子。最后，他还恶狠狠地咒骂了一句。

贝茜以手扶墙，不断往后退缩。

“不！”小汉格伯发怒道，“他想得美！他盼我回来——好继承他那几个臭钱……谁稀罕他的房子？发疯了——他绝没有发疯！难道你不这么认为吗？他就是想让我任他摆布。过去，他要我做可悲的律师文书；现在，他又想把我关进笼子，使我变成一只该死的乖乖兔。使我变成乖乖兔！使我变成乖乖兔！”小汉格伯说完，发出一阵低沉而愤怒的笑声，令贝茜感到害怕。

“告诉你——叫什么来着——贝茜：全世界加一块儿，也才刚够我打开胳膊肘，更别提一栋小破屋里那该死的客厅了。结婚！他就想让我结婚并安定下来！而且，他很可能已为我选定一个姑娘——天哪！请问，你知道朱迪吗？”

贝茜强忍泪水，无声地抽噎，而且整个身子瑟瑟发抖，显得极为悲伤。但小汉格伯正怒不可遏，焦躁不安，所以并未注意。他咬着自己的大拇指，想着其父的独断专行，感到异常气愤。就在此时，一扇窗户咔嗒咔嗒地拉了起来。

“一个咧嘴大笑、自称有最新消息的家伙。”武断的汉格伯船长，以毫无起伏的语调，一字一顿地说。在贝茜听来，他的声音似乎使黑夜突然发疯，似乎将疯病与不幸倾撒到了地面。“现在，我终于明白这里的人为什么不对劲了，亲爱的孩子。哎呀，难怪！就是这个疯子在四处作梗。别和他扯上任何瓜葛，贝茜。贝茜，听到没有！”

小汉格伯与贝茜呆立原地，默不作声，犹如哑巴。楼上窗边的老人焦躁难安，嘟哝不休。突然，他尖厉地喊道：“贝茜——我看见你了。我要告诉哈里。”

贝茜做出似要逃跑的动作，但最后收住了，并把双手举向两边耳鬓。而身影高大、模糊的小汉格伯犹如一尊青铜像，纹丝不动。在他俩头顶，发疯的黑夜借助一名老人之口，时而呜咽，时而咒骂。

“把他赶走，亲爱的孩子。他只是个流浪汉。你想要的，是一个属于自己的家，一个幸福的家。那家伙没有家——他和哈里不同。他不可能是哈里。哈里明天就回来了。听到了吗？只要再等一天。”汉格伯船长变得更加激动，叽里咕噜地说，“你完全不用担心——哈里一定会娶你的。”

汉格伯船长的声音变得尖厉刺耳、歇斯底里。远处，波浪重重地席卷海堤外侧，发出阵阵低沉而有节奏的哗哗声，在夜空回荡不止。

“他必须娶你。我一定让他娶你。要是他不听，”汉格伯船长发下重誓，“明天，我就立遗嘱剥夺他的继承权，把一切统统留给你。我说到做到。统统留给你。让他饿死去吧。”

窗户咔嗒咔嗒地拉下了。

小汉格伯深吸一口气，接着朝贝茜走近一步。“原来你就是那姑娘。”他用低沉的声音说。贝茜没有动，仍双手夹头，半对着他。“天哪！”小汉格伯嘴角露出似笑非笑但难以觉察的表情，继续说，“我非常想留下来——”

贝茜的胳膊肘抖得厉害。

“——暂住一个星期。”小汉格伯毫不犹豫地说。

贝茜猛地用双手捂住脸。

小汉格伯走到贝茜跟前，轻轻抓住她的两只手腕。贝茜能通过耳朵感觉到对方呼出的气息。

“眼下，我陷入了困境。你必须帮我渡过难关。”小汉格伯试图把贝茜的双手从她脸上扳开，但贝茜坚决不从。于是，小汉格伯放开贝茜的手腕，微微后退。“你有钱吗？”他问，“我必须走了。”

满脸羞愧、浑身颤抖的贝茜飞快地点了点头，随即弯下脖子，开始急急忙忙地摸找连衣裙的口袋。小汉格伯把头转向别处，等待着。

“给你！”贝茜轻声说，“唉，快走！看在上帝的分儿上，快走！要是我有更多——更多——的钱，我会通通给你，好让自己忘记——好让你忘记我。”

小汉格伯伸出手，并说：“绝不可能！我从未忘记你们中的任何一个。有些不止给过我钱——不过，我现在是一个乞丐。你们女人无一例外，必定会帮我摆脱困境。”

小汉格伯大摇大摆地走近楼下客厅的窗户，然后站在从窗帘透出的暗淡灯光中，低头查看掌心的钱：一枚面值半英镑的金币。他随即将之放入衣服口袋。贝茜略微退向窗户边缘。她站在那里，低着脑袋，好像受伤了；双臂无力地垂于体侧，又好像死了。

“别以为用钱就能和我扯上瓜葛。”小汉格伯说，“别以为用钱就能让你撇清关系。”

小汉格伯轻轻一拍，固定好头上的帽子。紧接着，贝茜发觉对方用强有力的臂膀把她整个人抱了起来，导致她双脚离地，脑袋后仰。小汉格伯对着贝茜的脸一阵狂吻。在此过程中，他一言不发，并表现出令人无力抵挡的激情，仿佛急不可耐地想触及对方的灵魂。贝茜苍白的脸颊、坚硬的额头、耷拉的眼皮、没有血色的嘴唇，他一一吻了个遍。让强有力的臂膀紧紧抱住，感受着无力抵挡的狂吻，听着上涨潮水有节奏的哗哗声：对贝茜来说，仿佛保护全镇所有家庭的海堤已经溃决，一个浪头正朝她劈头盖脸打下来。浪头终于过去了；贝茜踉跄着不断后退，直至双肩碰上墙壁。她感到筋疲力尽，仿佛不幸遭遇暴风雨引发的海难，最后让海浪冲到此地。

过了一会儿，贝茜睁开眼睛。坚定而从容的脚步声逐渐远去，带走一个俘获的灵魂。她开始整理所穿连衣裙的下摆，同时呆呆地凝望前方。突然，她冲出院子大门，冲向无边无际的黑夜和空无一人的大街。

“停下！”贝茜喊道，“别走！”

她侧耳倾听，但分不清究竟是雷鸣般的浪涛声，还是另一人要命的脚步声，在无情地击打她的心。不久，所有声音变得越来越微弱，仿佛她正慢慢化作石头。可怕的寂静逐渐笼罩大地——比死亡更可怕。贝茜聚集不断衰退的力量，喊出最后一声恳求：

“哈里！”

脚步声已经消失，连逐渐减弱的回音也听不见了。什么也听不见。拍打海堤的激浪和波涛汹涌的大海，似乎也都没了声音。万籁俱寂，死气沉沉，仿佛她正独自迷失于刚才小汉格伯提起的、遍地石头的沙漠中：许多疯子在那里一边流浪，一边寻找金子，找到后却对金子不屑一顾。

在漆黑的小屋里，汉格伯船长一直密切留意着外面的动静。一扇窗户咔嗒咔嗒地拉了起来。贝茜头顶高高的夜空中，出现一个不可理喻、充斥谎言、令人绝望却又永远透着希望的声音，打破了在遍地石头的沙漠才有的死寂。“他走了吗——那个自称有最新消息的家伙？你听到他还在附近吗，亲爱的孩子？”

贝茜忍不住流下眼泪。“不！不！不！我没再听到他的动静。”她抽泣着回答。

高处的汉格伯船长咯咯地笑了起来，听着十分得意。“你把他吓跑了。真是好姑娘。现在没事了。不要着急，亲爱的孩子。只要再等一天就好。”

在另一栋小屋里，卡尔维老头皇帝似的安坐在扶手椅中，旁边桌上点着一盏球形灯。他用恶魔般的声音吼道：“贝茜！贝茜！叫你呢，贝茜！”

最后，贝茜终于听到其父的咆哮。仿佛屈服于命运一般，她开始默默而踉跄地返回那处压抑的小小地狱——他们父女租住的小屋。那处地狱既无高耸的入口，也无可怕的铭文——用来明示所有失去的希望。贝茜不明白，自己究竟犯了什么罪。

高处的汉格伯船长吵吵嚷嚷，已乐得忘乎所以。

“进去！别吵了！”泪流满面的贝茜，站在门阶处，突然呵斥汉格伯船长。

汉格伯船长毫不理会。他正为终于摆脱使自己“哪里不对劲”的那个人而欣喜若狂：大喊大叫，对永不会到来的明天满怀希望。在贝茜听来，仿佛世上所有盲目乐观的疯子都聚到了一块儿，并集体发作，以令她感到深深的恐惧。

[1] 科尔切斯特，位于英国英格兰埃塞克斯郡。（说明：本书脚注均为译者注。）

[2] 英寻，长度单位，1英寻合6英尺或1.8288米。

[3] 尼普顿，罗马神话中的海神，也就是希腊神话中的波塞冬。

[4] 南希尔兹，英国英格兰东北部港城市。

[5] 傍晚茶，傍晚五六点钟吃的茶点。

[6] 南里奥格兰德，巴西南部的一个州。

[7] 索诺拉，墨西哥西北部的一个州。

[8] 马萨特兰，墨西哥西部港市。

To-morrow

What was known of Captain Hagberd in the little seaport of Colebrook was not exactly in his favour. He did not belong to the place. He had come to settle there under circumstances not at all mysterious –he used to be very communicative about them at the time – but extremely morbid and unreasonable. He was possessed of some little money evidently, because he bought a plot of ground, and had a pair of ugly yellow brick cottages run up very cheaply. He occupied one of them himself and let the other to Josiah Carvil – blind Carvil, the retired boat-builder – a man of evil repute as a domestic tyrant.

These cottages had one wall in common, shared in a line of iron railing dividing their front gardens; a wooden fence separated their back gardens. Miss Bessie Carvil was allowed, as it were of right, to throw over it the tea-cloths, blue rags, or an apron that wanted drying.

‘It rots the wood, Bessie my girl,’ the captain would remark mildly, from his side of the fence, each time he saw her exercising that privilege.

She was a tall girl; the fence was low, and she could spread her elbows on the top. Her hands would be red with the bit of washing she had done, but her forearms were white and shapely, and she would look at her father’s landlord in silence – in an informed silence which had an air of knowledge, expectation, and desire.

‘It rots the wood,’ repeated Captain Hagberd. ‘It is the only unthrifty, careless habit I know in you. Why don’t you have a clothes-line out in your back yard?’

Miss Carvil would say nothing to this – she only shook her head negatively. The tiny back yard on her side had a few stone-bordered little beds of black earth, in which the simple flowers she found time to cultivate appeared somehow extravagantly overgrown, as if belonging to an exotic clime; and Captain Hagberd’s upright, hale person, clad in No. 1 sailcloth from head to foot, would be emerging knee-deep out of rank grass and the tall weeds on his side of the fence. He appeared, with the colour and uncouth stiffness of the extraordinary material in which he chose to clothe himself – ‘for the time being,’ would be his mumbled remark to any observation on the subject – like a man roughened out of granite, standing in a wilderness not big enough for a decent billiard-room. A heavy figure of a man of stone, with a red handsome face, a blue wandering eye, and a great white beard flowing to his waist and never trimmed as far as Colebrook knew.

Seven years before, he had seriously answered,‘Next month, I think,’ to the chaffing attempt to secure his custom made by that distinguished local wit, the Colebrook barber, who happened to be sitting insolently in the tap-room of the New Inn near the harbour, where the captain had entered to buy an ounce of tobacco. After paying for his purchase with three half-pence extracted from the corner of a handkerchief which he carried in the cuff of his sleeve, Captain Hagberd went out. As soon as the door was shut the barber laughed. ‘The old one and the young one will be strolling arm in arm to get shaved in my place presently. The tailor shall be set to work, and the barber, and the candlestick maker; high old times are coming for Colebrook; they are coming, to be sure. It used to be “next week,” now it has come to“next month,” and so on – soon it will be next spring, for all I know.’

Noticing a stranger listening to him with a vacant grin, he explained, stretching out his legs cynically, that this queer old Hagberd, a retired coastingskipper, was waiting for the return of a son of his. The boy had been driven away from home, he shouldn’t wonder; had run away to sea and had never been heard of since. Put to rest in Davy Jones’s locker this many a day, as likely as not. That old man came flying to Colebrook three years ago all in black broadcloth(had lost his wife lately then), getting out of a thirdclass smoker as if the devil had been at his heels; and the only thing that brought him down was a letter – a hoax probably. Some joker had written to him about a seafaring man with some such name who was supposed to be hanging about some girl or other, either in Colebrook or in the neighbourhood. ‘Funny, ain’t it?’ The old chap had been advertising in the London papers for Harry Hagberd, and offering rewards for any sort of likely information. And the barber would go on to describe, with sardonic gusto, how that stranger in mourning had been seen exploring the country, in carts, on foot, taking everybody into his confidence, visiting all the inns and alehouses for miles around, stopping people on the road with his questions, looking into the very ditches almost; first in the greatest excitement, then with a plodding sort of perseverance, growing slower and slower; and he could not even tell you plainly how his son looked. The sailor was supposed to be one of two that had left a timber ship, and to have been seen dangling after some girl; but the old man described a boy of fourteen or so – ‘a clever-looking, high-spirited boy.’And when people only smiled at this he would rub his forehead in a confused sort of way before he slunk off, looking offended. He found nobody, of course; not a trace of anybody – never heard of anything worth belief, at any rate; but he had not been able somehow to tear himself away from Colebrook.

‘It was the shock of this disappointment, perhaps, coming soon after the loss of his wife, that had driven him crazy on that point,’ the barber suggested, with an air of great psychological insight. After a time the old man abandoned the active search. His son had evidently gone away; but he settled himself to wait. His son had been once at least in Colebrook in preference to his native place. There must have been some reason for it, he seemed to think, some very powerful inducement, that would bring him back to Colebrook again.

‘Ha, ha, ha! Why, of course, Colebrook. Where else? That’s the only place in the United Kingdom for your long-lost sons. So he sold up his old home in Colchester, and down he comes here. Well, it’s a craze, like any other. Wouldn’t catch me going crazy over any of my youngsters clearing out. I’ve got eight of them at home.’ The barber was showing off his strength of mind in the midst of a laughter that shook the tap-room.

Strange, though, that sort of thing, he would confess, with the frankness of a superior intelligence, seemed to be catching. His establishment, for instance, was near the harbour, and whenever a sailorman came in for a hair-cut or a shave – if it was a strange face he couldn’t help thinking directly, ‘Suppose he’s the son of old Hagberd!’ He laughed at himself for it. It was a strong craze. He could remember the time when the whole town was full of it. But he had his hopes of the old chap yet. He would cure him by a course of judicious chaffing. He was watching the progress of the treatment. Next week – next month – next year! When the old skipper had put off the date of that return till next year, he would be well on his way to not saying any more about it. In other matters he was quite rational, so this, too, was bound to come. Such was the barber’s firm opinion.

Nobody had ever contradicted him; his own hair had gone grey since that time, and Captain Hagberd’s beard had turned quite white, and had acquired a majestic flow over the No. 1 canvas suit, which he had made for himself secretly with tarred twine, and had assumed suddenly, coming out in it one fine morning, whereas the evening before he had been seen going home in his mourning of broadcloth. It caused a sensation in the High Street – shopkeepers coming to their doors, people in the houses snatching up their hats to run out – a stir at which he seemed strangely surprised at first, and then scared; but his only answer to the wondering questions was that startled and evasive, ‘For the present.’

That sensation had been forgotten long ago; and Captain Hagberd himself, if not forgotten, had come to be disregarded – the penalty of dailiness – as the sun itself is disregarded unless it makes its power felt heavily. Captain Hagberd’s movements showed no infirmity: he walked stiffly in his suit of canvas, a quaint and remarkable figure; only his eyes wandered more furtively perhaps than of yore. His manner abroad had lost its excitable watchfulness; it had become puzzled and diffident, as though he had suspected that there was somewhere about him something slightly compromising, some embarrassing oddity; and yet had remained unable to discover what on earth this something wrong could be.

He was unwilling now to talk with the townsfolk. He had earned for himself the reputation of an awful skinflint, of a miser, in the matter of living. He mumbled regretfully in the shops, bought inferior scraps of meat after long hesitations; and discouraged all allusions to his costume. It was as the barber had foretold. For all one could tell, he had recovered already from the disease of hope; and only Miss Bessie Carvil knew that he said nothing about his son’s return because with him it was no longer ‘next week,’ ‘next month,’ or even ‘next year.’ It was‘to-morrow.’

In their intimacy of back yard and front garden he talked with her paternally, reasonably, and dogmatically, with a touch of arbitrariness. They met on the ground of unreserved confidence, which was authenticated by an affectionate wink now and then. Miss Carvil had come to look forward rather to these winks. At first they had discomposed her: the poor fellow was mad. Afterwards she had learned to laugh at them: there was no harm in him. Now she was aware of an unacknowledged, pleasurable, incredulous emotion, expressed by a faint blush. He winked not in the least vulgarly; his thin red face, with a well-modelled curved nose, had a sort of distinction – the more so that when he talked to her he looked with a steadier and more intelligent glance. A handsome, hale, upright, capable man, with a white beard. You did not think of his age. His son, he affirmed, had resembled him amazingly from his earliest babyhood.

Harry would be one-and-thirty next July, he declared. Proper age to get married with a nice, sensible girl that could appreciate a good home. He was a very high-spirited boy. High-spirited husbands were the easiest to manage. These mean, soft chaps, that you would think butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, were the ones to make a woman thoroughly miserable. And there was nothing like home – a fireside – a good roof: no turning out of your warm bed in all sorts of weather. ‘Eh, my dear?’

Captain Hagberd had been one of those sailors that pursue their calling within sight of land. One of the many children of a bankrupt farmer, he had been apprenticed hurriedly to a coasting-skipper, and had remained on the coast all his sea life. It must have been a hard one at first: he had never taken to it; his affection turned to the land, with its innumerable houses, with its quiet lives gathered round its firesides. Many sailors feel and profess a rational dislike for the sea, but his was a profound and emotional animosity, as if the love of the stabler element had been bred into him through many generations.

‘People did not know what they let their boys in for when they let them go to sea,’ he expounded to Bessie. ‘As soon make convicts of them at once.’ He did not believe you ever got used to it. The weariness of such a life got worse as you got older. What sort of trade was it in which more than half your time you did not put your foot inside your house? Directly you got out to sea you had no means of knowing what went on at home. One might have thought him weary of distant voyages; and the longest he had ever made had lasted a fortnight, of which the most part had been spent at anchor, sheltering from the weather. As soon as his wife had inherited a house and enough to live on (from a bachelor uncle who had made some money in the coal business) he threw up his command of an East-coast collier with a feeling as though he had escaped from the galleys. After all these years he might have counted on the fingers of his two hands all the days he had been out of sight of England. He had never known what it was to be out of soundings.‘I have never been further than eighty fathoms from the land’ was one of his boasts.

Bessie Carvil heard all these things. In front of their cottage grew an under-sized ash; and on summer afternoons she would bring out a chair on the grass-plot and sit down with her sewing. Captain Hagberd, in his canvas suit, leaned on a spade. He dug every day in his front plot. He turned it over and over several times every year, but was not going to plant anything ‘just at present.’

To Bessie Carvil he would state more explicitly:‘Not till our Harry comes home to-morrow.’ And she had heard this formula of hope so often that it only awakened the vaguest pity in her heart for that hopeful old man.

Everything was put off in that way, and everything was being prepared likewise for to-morrow. There was a boxful of packets of various flower-seeds to choose from, for the front garden. ‘He will doubtless let you have your say about that, my dear,’ Captain Hagberd intimated to her across the railing.

Miss Bessie’s head remained bowed over her work. She had heard all this so many times. But now and then she would rise, lay down her sewing, and come slowly to the fence. There was a charm in these gentle ravings. He was determined that his son should not go away again for the want of a home all ready for him. He had been filling the other cottage with all sorts of furniture. She imagined it all new, fresh with varnish, piled up as in a warehouse. There would be tables wrapped up in sacking; rolls of carpets thick and vertical like fragments of columns; the gleam of white marble tops in the dimness of the drawn blinds. Captain Hagberd always described his purchases to her carefully, as to a person having a legitimate interest in them. The overgrown yard of his cottage could be laid over with concrete . . . after to-morrow.

‘We may just as well do away with the fence. You could have your drying-line out, quite clear of your flowers.’ He winked, and she would blush faintly.

This madness that had entered her life through the kind impulses of her heart had reasonable details. What if some day his son returned? But she could not even be quite sure that he ever had a son; and if he existed anywhere, he had been too long away. When Captain Hagberd got excited in his talk she would steady him by a pretence of belief, laughing a little to salve her conscience.

Only once she had tried pityingly to throw some doubt on that hope doomed to disappointment, but the effect of her attempt had scared her very much. All at once over that man’s face there came an expression of horror and incredulity, as though he had seen a crack open out in the firmament.

‘You – you – you don’t think he’s drowned!’

For a moment he seemed to her ready to go out of his mind, for in his ordinary state she thought him more sane than people gave him credit for. On that occasion the violence of the emotion was followed by a most paternal and complacent recovery.

‘Don’t alarm yourself, my dear,’ he said a little cunningly. ‘The sea can’t keep him. He does not belong to it. None of us Hagberds ever did belong to it. Look at me; I didn’t get drowned. Moreover, he isn’t a sailor at all; and if he is not a sailor, he’s bound to come back. There’s nothing to prevent him coming back . . .’

His eyes began to wander.

‘To-morrow.’

She never tried again, for fear the man should go out of his mind on the spot. He depended on her. She seemed the only sensible person in the town; and he would congratulate himself frankly before her face on having secured such a level-headed wife for his son. The rest of the town, he confided to her once, in a fit of temper, was certainly queer. The way they looked at you – the way they talked to you! He had never got on with any one in the place. Didn’t like the people. He would not have left his own country if it had not been clear that his son had taken a fancy to Colebrook.

She humoured him in silence, listening patiently by the fence; crocheting with downcast eyes. Blushes came with difficulty on her dead-white complexion, under the negligently twisted opulence of mahoganycoloured hair. Her father was frankly carroty.

She had a full figure; a tired, unrefreshed face. When Captain Hagberd vaunted the necessity and propriety of a home and the delights of one’s own fireside, she smiled a little, with her lips only. Her home delights had been confined to the nursing of her father during the ten best years of her life.

A bestial roaring coming out of an upstairs window would interrupt their talk. She would begin at once to roll up her crochet-work or fold her sewing, without the slightest sign of haste. Meanwhile the howls and roars of her name would go on, making the fishermen strolling upon the sea-wall on the other side of the road turn their heads towards the cottages. She would go in slowly at the front door, and a moment afterwards there would fall a profound silence. Presently she would reappear, leading by the hand a man, gross and unwieldy like a hippopotamus, with a bad-tempered, surly face.

He was a widowed boat-builder, whom blindness had overtaken years before in the full flush of business. He behaved to his daughter as if she had been responsible for its incurable character. He had been heard to bellow at the top of his voice, as if to defy Heaven, that he did not care: he had made enough money to have ham and eggs for his breakfast every morning. He thanked God for it, in a fiendish tone as though he were cursing.

Captain Hagberd had been so unfavourably impressed by his tenant that once he told Miss Bessie,‘He is a very extravagant fellow, my dear.’

She was knitting that day, finishing a pair of socks for her father, who expected her to keep up the supply dutifully. She hated knitting, and, as she was just at the heel part, she had to keep her eyes on her needles.

‘Of course it isn’t as if he had a son to provide for,’Captain Hagberd went on a little vacantly. ‘Girls, of course, don’t require so much – h’m – h’m. They don’t run away from home, my dear.’

‘No,’ said Miss Bessie, quietly.

Captain Hagberd, amongst the mounds of turnedup earth, chuckled. With his maritime rig, his weather-beaten face, his beard of Father Neptune, he resembled a deposed sea-god who had exchanged the trident for the spade.

‘And he must look upon you as already provided for, in a manner. That’s the best of it with the girls. The husbands . . .’ He winked. Miss Bessie, absorbed in her knitting, coloured faintly.

‘Bessie! my hat!’ old Carvil bellowed out suddenly. He had been sitting under the tree mute and motionless, like an idol of some remarkably monstrous superstition. He never opened his mouth but to howl for her, at her, sometimes about her; and then he did not moderate the terms of his abuse. Her system was never to answer him at all; and he kept up his shouting till he got attended to – till she shook him by the arm, or thrust the mouthpiece of his pipe between his teeth. He was one of the few blind people who smoke. When he felt the hat being put on his head he stopped his noise at once. Then he rose, and they passed together through the gate.

He weighed heavily on her arm. During their slow, toilful walks she appeared to be dragging with her for a penance the burden of that infirm bulk. Usually they crossed the road at once (the cottages stood in the fields near the harbour, two hundred yards away from the end of the street), and for a long, long time they would remain in view, ascending imperceptibly the flight of wooden steps that led to the top of the sea-wall. It ran on from east to west, shutting out the Channel like a neglected railway embankment, on which no train had ever rolled within memory of man. Groups of sturdy fishermen would emerge upon the sky, walk along for a bit, and sink without haste. Their brown nets, like the cobwebs of gigantic spiders, lay on the shabby grass of the slope; and, looking up from the end of the street, the people of the town would recognise the two Carvils by the creeping slowness of their gait. Captain Hagberd, pottering aimlessly about his cottages, would raise his head to see how they got on in their promenade.

He advertised still in the Sunday papers for Harry Hagberd. These sheets were read in foreign parts to the end of the world, he informed Bessie. At the same time he seemed to think that his son was in England –so near to Colebrook that he would of course turn up ‘to-morrow.’ Bessie, without committing herself to that opinion in so many words, argued that in that case the expense of advertising was unnecessary; Captain Hagberd had better spend that weekly half-crown on himself. She declared she did not know what he lived on. Her argumentation would puzzle him and cast him down for a time. ‘They all do it,’ he pointed out. There was a whole column devoted to appeals after missing relatives. He would bring the newspaper to show her. He and his wife had advertised for years; only she was an impatient woman. The news from Colebrook had arrived the very day after her funeral; if she had not been so impatient she might have been here now, with no more than one day more to wait.‘You are not an impatient woman, my dear.’

‘I’ve no patience with you sometimes,’ she would say.

If he still advertised for his son he did not offer rewards for information any more; for, with the muddled lucidity of a mental derangement, he had reasoned himself into a conviction as clear as daylight that he had already attained all that could be expected in that way. What more could he want? Colebrook was the place, and there was no need to ask for more. Miss Carvil praised him for his good sense, and he was soothed by the part she took in his hope, which had become his delusion; in that idea which blinded his mind to truth and probability, just as the other old man in the other cottage had been made blind, by another disease, to the light and beauty of the world.

But anything he could interpret as a doubt – any coldness of assent, or even a simple inattention to the development of his projects of a home with his returned son and his son’s wife – would irritate him into flings and jerks and wicked side-glances. He would dash his spade into the ground and walk to and fro before it. Miss Bessie called it his tantrums. She shook her finger at him. Then, when she came out again, after he had parted with her in anger, he would watch out of the corner of his eyes for the least sign of encouragement to approach the iron railings and resume his fatherly and patronising relations.

For all their intimacy, which had lasted some years now, they had never talked without a fence or a railing between them. He described to her all the splendours accumulated for the setting-up of their housekeeping, but had never invited her to an inspection. No human eye was to behold them till Harry had his first look. In fact, nobody had ever been inside his cottage; he did his own housework, and he guarded his son’s privilege so jealously that the small objects of domestic use he bought sometimes in the town were smuggled rapidly across the front garden under his canvas coat. Then, coming out, he would remark apologetically, ‘It was only a small kettle, my dear.’

And, if not too tired with her drudgery, or worried beyond endurance by her father, she would laugh at him with a blush, and say: ‘That’s all right, Captain Hagberd; I am not impatient.’

‘Well, my dear, you haven’t long to wait now,’ he would answer with a sudden bashfulness, and looking uneasily, as though he had suspected that there was something wrong somewhere.

Every Monday she paid him his rent over the railings. He clutched the shillings greedily. He grudged every penny he had to spend on his maintenance, and when he left her to make his purchases his bearing changed as soon as he got into the street. Away from the sanction of her pity, he felt himself exposed without defence. He brushed the walls with his shoulder. He mistrusted the queerness of the people; yet, by then, even the town children had left off calling after him, and the tradesmen served him without a word. The slightest allusion to his clothing had the power to puzzle and frighten especially, as if it were something utterly unwarranted and incomprehensible.

In the autumn, the driving rain drummed on his sail-cloth suit saturated almost to the stiffness of sheet-iron, with its surface flowing with water. When the weather was too bad, he retreated under the tiny porch, and, standing close against the door, looked at his spade left planted in the middle of the yard. The ground was so much dug up all over, that as the season advanced it turned to a quagmire. When it froze hard, he was disconsolate. What would Harry say? And as he could not have so much of Bessie’s company at that time of the year, the roars of old Carvil, that came muffled through the closed windows, calling her indoors, exasperated him greatly.

‘Why don’t that extravagant fellow get you a servant?’ he asked impatiently one mild afternoon. She had thrown something over her head to run out for a while.

‘I don’t know,’ said the pale Bessie, wearily, staring away with her heavy-lidded, grey, and unexpectant glance. There were always smudgy shadows under her eyes, and she did not seem able to see any change or any end to her life.

‘You wait till you get married, my dear,’ said her only friend, drawing closer to the fence. ‘Harry will get you one.’

His hopeful craze seemed to mock her own want of hope with so bitter an aptness that in her nervous irritation she could have screamed at him outright. But she only said in self-mockery, and speaking to him as though he had been sane, ‘Why, Captain Hagberd, your son may not even want to look at me.’

He flung his head back and laughed his throaty affected cackle of anger.

‘What! That boy? Not want to look at the only sensible girl for miles around? What do you think I am here for, my dear – my dear – my dear? . . . What? You wait. You just wait. You’ll see to-morrow. I’ll soon –’

‘Bessie! Bessie! Bessie!’ howled old Carvil inside.‘Bessie! – my pipe!’ That fat blind man had given himself up to a very lust of laziness. He would not lift his hand to reach for the things she took care to leave at his very elbow. He would not move a limb; he would not rise from his chair; he would not put one foot before another, in that parlour (where he knew his way as well as if he had his sight), without calling her to his side and hanging all his atrocious weight on her shoulder. He would not eat one single mouthful of food without her close attendance. He had made himself helpless beyond his affliction, to enslave her better. She stood still for a moment, setting her teeth in the dusk, then turned and walked slowly indoors.

Captain Hagberd went back to his spade. The shouting in Carvil’s cottage stopped, and after a while the window of the parlour downstairs was lit up. A man coming from the end of the street with a firm leisurely step passed on, but seemed to have caught sight of Captain Hagberd, because he turned back a pace or two. A cold white light lingered in the western sky. The man leaned over the gate in an interested manner.

‘You must be Captain Hagberd,’ he said, with easy assurance.

The old man spun round, pulling out his spade, startled by the strange voice.

‘Yes, I am,’ he answered nervously.

The other, smiling straight at him, uttered very slowly: ‘You’ve been advertising for your son, I believe?’

‘My son Harry,’ mumbled Captain Hagberd, off his guard for once. ‘He’s coming home to-morrow.’

‘The devil he is!’ The stranger marvelled greatly, and then went on, with only a slight change of tone:‘You’ve grown a beard like Father Christmas himself.’

Captain Hagberd drew a little nearer, and leaned forward over his spade. ‘Go your way,’ he said, resentfully and timidly at the same time, because he was always afraid of being laughed at. Every mental state, even madness, has its equilibrium based upon selfesteem. Its disturbance causes unhappiness; and Captain Hagberd lived amongst a scheme of settled notions which it pained him to feel disturbed by people’s grins. Yes, people’s grins were awful. They hinted at something wrong: but what? He could not tell; and that stranger was obviously grinning – had come on purpose to grin. It was bad enough on the streets, but he had never before been outraged like this.

The stranger, unaware how near he was of having his head laid open with a spade, said seriously: ‘I am not trespassing where I stand, am I? I fancy there’s something wrong about your news. Suppose you let me come in.’

‘You come in!’ murmured old Hagberd, with inexpressible horror.

‘I could give you some real information about your son – the very latest tip, if you care to hear.’

‘No,’ shouted Hagberd. He began to pace wildly to and fro, he shouldered his spade, he gesticulated with his other arm. ‘Here’s a fellow – a grinning fellow, who says there’s something wrong. I’ve got more information than you’re aware of. I’ve all the information I want. I’ve had it for years – for years – for years – enough to last me till to-morrow. Let you come in, indeed! What would Harry say?’

Bessie Carvil’s figure appeared in black silhouette on the parlour window; then, with the sound of an opening door, flitted out before the other cottage, all black, but with something white over her head. These two voices beginning to talk suddenly outside (she had heard them indoors) had given her such an emotion that she could not utter a sound.

Captain Hagberd seemed to be trying to find his way out of a cage. His feet squelched in the puddles left by his industry. He stumbled in the holes of the ruined grass-plot. He ran blindly against the fence.

‘Here, steady a bit!’ said the man at the gate, gravely stretching his arm over and catching him by the sleeve. ‘Somebody’s been trying to get at you. Hallo! what’s this rig you’ve got on? Storm canvas, by George!’ He had a big laugh. ‘Well, you are a character!’

Captain Hagberd jerked himself free, and began to back away shrinkingly. ‘For the present,’ he muttered, in a crestfallen tone.

‘What’s the matter with him?’ The stranger addressed Bessie with the utmost familiarity, in a deliberate, explanatory tone. ‘I didn’t want to startle the old man.’ He lowered his voice as though he had known her for years. ‘I dropped into a barber’s on my way, to get a twopenny shave, and they told me there he was something of a character. The old man has been a character all his life.’

Captain Hagberd, daunted by the allusion to his clothing, had retreated inside, taking his spade with him; and the two at the gate, startled by the unexpected slamming of the door, heard the bolts being shot, the snapping of the lock, and the echo of an affected gurgling laugh within.

‘I didn’t want to upset him,’ the man said, after a short silence. ‘What’s the meaning of all this? He isn’t quite crazy.’

‘He has been worrying a long time about his lost son,’ said Bessie, in a low apologetic tone.

‘Well, I am his son.’

‘Harry!’ she cried – and was profoundly silent.

‘Know my name? Friends with the old man, eh?’

‘He’s our landlord,’ Bessie faltered out, catching hold of the iron railing.

‘Owns both them rabbit-hutches, does he?’ commented young Hagberd, scornfully. ‘Just the thing he would be proud of. Can you tell me who’s that chap coming to-morrow? You must know something of it. I tell you, it’s a swindle on the old man – nothing else.’

She did not answer, helpless before an insurmountable difficulty, appalled before the necessity, the impossibility and the dread of an explanation in which she and madness seemed involved together.

‘Oh – I am so sorry,’ she murmured.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said, with serenity. ‘You needn’t be afraid of upsetting me. It’s the other fellow that’ll be upset when he least expects it. I don’t care a hang; but there will be some fun when he shows his mug to-morrow. I don’t care that for the old man’s pieces, but right is right. You shall see me put a head on that coon – whoever he is!’

He had come nearer, and towered above her on the other side of the railings. He glanced at her hands. He fancied she was trembling, and it occurred to him that she had her part perhaps in that little game that was to be sprung on his old man to-morrow. He had come just in time to spoil their sport. He was entertained by the idea – scornful of the baffled plot. But all his life he had been full of indulgence for all sorts of women’s tricks. She really was trembling very much; her wrap had slipped off her head. ‘Poor devil!’ he thought. ‘Never mind about that chap. I daresay he’ll change his mind before to-morrow. But what about me? I can’t loaf about the gate till the morning.’

She burst out: ‘It is you – you yourself that he’s waiting for. It is you who come to-morrow.’

He murmured ‘Oh! It’s me!’ blankly, and they seemed to become breathless together. Apparently he was pondering over what he had heard; then, without irritation, but evidently perplexed, he said:‘I don’t understand. I hadn’t written or anything. It’s my chum who saw the paper and told me – this very morning . . . Eh? what?’

He bent his ear; she whispered rapidly, and he listened for a while, muttering the words ‘yes’ and ‘I see’ at times. Then, ‘But why won’t to-day do?’ he queried at last.

‘You didn’t understand me!’ she exclaimed, impatiently. The clear streak of light under the clouds died out in the west. Again he stooped slightly to hear better; and the deep night buried everything of the whispering woman and the attentive man, except the familiar contiguity of their faces, with its air of secrecy and caress.

He squared his shoulders; the broad-brimmed shadow of a hat sat cavalierly on his head. ‘Awkward this, eh?’ he appealed to her. ‘To-morrow? Well, well! Never heard tell of anything like this. It’s all to-morrow, then, without any sort of to-day, as far as I can see.’

She remained still and mute.

‘And you have been encouraging this funny notion,’he said.

‘I never contradicted him.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘What for should I?’ she defended herself. ‘It would only have made him miserable. He would have gone out of his mind.’

‘His mind!’ he muttered, and heard a short nervous laugh from her.

‘Where was the harm? Was I to quarrel with the poor old man? It was easier to half believe it myself.’

‘Aye, aye,’ he meditated, intelligently. ‘I suppose the old chap got around you somehow with his soft talk. You are good-hearted.’

Her hands moved up in the dark nervously. ‘And it might have been true. It was true. It has come. Here it is. This is the to-morrow we have been waiting for.’

She drew a breath, and he said, good-humouredly:‘Aye, with the door shut. I wouldn’t care if . . . And you think he could be brought round to recognise me . . . Eh? What? . . . You could do it? In a week you say? H’m, I daresay you could – but do you think I could hold out a week in this dead-alive place? Not me! I want either hard work, or an all-fired racket, or more space than there is in the whole of England. I have been in this place, though, once before, and for more than a week. The old man was advertising for me then, and a chum I had with me had a notion of getting a couple of quid out of him by writing a lot of silly nonsense in a letter. That lark did not come off, though. We had to clear out – and none too soon. But this time I’ve a chum waiting for me in London, and besides . . .’

Bessie Carvil was breathing quickly.

‘What if I tried a knock at the door?’ he suggested.

‘Try,’ she said.

Captain Hagberd’s gate squeaked, and the shadow of the son moved on, then stopped with another deep laugh in the throat, like the father’s, only soft and gentle, thrilling to the woman’s heart, awakening to her ears.

‘He isn’t frisky – is he? I would be afraid to lay hold of him. The chaps are always telling me I don’t know my own strength.’

‘He’s the most harmless creature that ever lived,’she interrupted.

‘You wouldn’t say so if you had seen him chasing me upstairs with a hard leather strap,’ he said. ‘I haven’t forgotten it in sixteen years.’

She got warm from head to foot under another soft, subdued laugh. At the rat-tat-tat of the knocker her heart flew into her mouth.

‘Hey, dad! Let me in. I am Harry, I am. Straight! Come back home a day too soon.’

One of the windows upstairs ran up.

‘A grinning information fellow,’ said the voice of old Hagberd, up in the darkness. ‘Don’t you have anything to do with him. It will spoil everything.’

She heard Harry Hagberd say, ‘Hallo, dad,’ then a clanging clatter. The window rumbled down, and he stood before her again.

‘It’s just like old times. Nearly walloped the life out of me to stop me going away, and now I come back he throws a confounded shovel at my head to keep me out. It grazed my shoulder.’

She shuddered.

‘I wouldn’t care,’ he began, ‘only I spent my last shillings on the railway fare and my last twopence on a shave – out of respect for the old man.’

‘Are you really Harry Hagberd?’ she asked swiftly.‘Can you prove it?’

‘Can I prove it? Can any one else prove it?’ he said jovially. ‘Prove with what? What do I want to prove? There isn’t a single corner in the world, barring England, perhaps, where you could not find some man, or more likely a woman, that would remember me for Harry Hagberd. I am more like Harry Hagberd than any man alive; and I can prove it to you in a minute, if you will let me step inside your gate.’

‘Come in,’ she said.

He entered then the front garden of the Carvils. His tall shadow strode with a swagger; she turned her back on the window and waited, watching the shape, of which the footfalls seemed the most material part. The light fell on a tilted hat; a powerful shoulder that seemed to cleave the darkness; on a leg stepping out. He swung about and stood still, facing the illuminated parlour window at her back, turning his head from side to side, laughing softly to himself.

‘Just fancy, for a minute, the old man’s beard stuck on to my chin. Hey? Now say. I was the very spit of him from a boy.’

‘It’s true,’ she murmured to herself.

‘And that’s about as far as it goes. He was always one of your domestic characters. Why, I remember how he used to go about looking very sick for three days before he had to leave home on one of his trips to South Shields for coal. He had a standing charter from the gas-works. You would think he was off on a whaling cruise – three years and a tail. Ha, ha! Not a bit of it. Ten days on the outside. The Skimmer of the Seas was a smart craft. Fine name, wasn’t it? Mother’s uncle owned her . . .’

He interrupted himself, and in a lowered voice,‘Did he ever tell you what mother died of?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Miss Bessie, bitterly: ‘from impatience.’

He made no sound for a while; then brusquely:‘They were so afraid I would turn out badly that they fairly drove me away. Mother nagged at me for being idle, and the old man said he would cut my soul out of my body rather than let me go to sea. Well, it looked as if he would do it too – so I went. It looks to me sometimes as if I had been born to them by a mistake – in that other hutch of a house.’

‘Where ought you to have been born by rights?’Bessie Carvil interrupted him, defiantly.

‘In the open, upon a beach, on a windy night,’ he said, quick as lightning. Then he mused slowly. ‘They were characters, both of them, by George; and the old man keeps it up well – don’t he? A damned shovel on the – Hark! who’s that making that row? “Bessie, Bessie.” It’s in your house.’

‘It’s for me,’ she said with indifference.

He stepped aside, out of the streak of light. ‘Your husband?’ he inquired, with the tone of a man accustomed to unlawful trysts. ‘Fine voice for a ship’s deck in a thundering squall.’

‘No; my father. I am not married.’

‘You seem a fine girl, Miss Bessie, dear,’ he said at once. She turned her face away.

‘Oh, I say, what’s up? Who’s murdering him?’

‘He wants his tea.’ She faced him, still and tall, with averted head, with her hands hanging clasped before her.

‘Hadn’t you better go in?’ he suggested, after watching for a while the nape of her neck, a patch of dazzling white skin and soft shadow above the sombre line of her shoulders. Her wrap had slipped down to her elbows. ‘You’ll have all the town coming out presently. I’ll wait here a bit.’

Her wrap fell to the ground, and he stooped to pick it up; she had vanished. He threw it over his arm, and approaching the window squarely he saw a monstrous form of a fat man in an arm-chair, an unshaded lamp, the yawning of an enormous mouth in a big flat face encircled by a ragged halo of hair, Miss Bessie’s head and bust. The shouting stopped; the blind ran down. He lost himself in thinking how awkward it was. Father mad; no getting into the house. No money to get back; a hungry chum in London who would begin to think he had been given the go-by. ‘Damn!’ he muttered. He could break the door in, certainly; but they would perhaps bundle him into chokey for that without asking questions –no great matter, only he was confoundedly afraid of being locked up, even in mistake. He turned cold at the thought. He stamped his feet on the sodden grass.

‘What are you? A sailor?’ said an agitated voice.

She had flitted out, a shadow herself, attracted by the reckless shadow waiting under the wall of her home.

‘Anything. Enough of a sailor to be worth my salt before the mast. Came home that way this time.’

‘Where do you come from?’ she asked.

‘Right away from a jolly good spree,’ he said, ‘by the London train – see? Ough! I hate being shut up in a train. I don’t mind a house so much.’

‘Ah,’ she said, ‘that’s lucky.’

‘Because in a house you can at any time open the blamed door and walk away straight before you.’

‘And never come back?’

‘Not for sixteen years at least,’ he laughed. ‘To a rabbit-hutch, and get a confounded old shovel . . .’

‘A ship is not so very big,’ she taunted.

‘No, but the sea is great.’

She dropped her head, and as if her ears had been opened to the voices of the world, she heard, beyond the rampart of sea-wall, the swell of yesterday’s gale breaking on the beach with monotonous and solemn vibrations, as if all the earth had been a tolling bell.

‘And then, why, a ship’s a ship. You love her and leave her; and a voyage isn’t a marriage.’ He quoted the sailor’s saying lightly.

‘It is not a marriage,’ she whispered.

‘I never took a false name, and I’ve never yet told a lie to a woman. What lie? Why, the lie –. Take me or leave me, I say: and if you take me, then it is . . .’He hummed a snatch very low, leaning against the wall.

Oh, ho, ho Rio!

And fare thee well,

My bonnie young girl,

We’re bound to Rio Grande.

‘Capstan song,’ he explained. Her teeth chattered.

‘You are cold,’ he said. ‘Here’s that affair of yours I picked up.’ She felt his hands about her, wrapping her closely. ‘Hold the ends together in front,’ he commanded.

‘What did you come here for?’ she asked, repressing a shudder.

‘Five quid,’ he answered, promptly. ‘We let our spree go on a little too long and got hard up.’

‘You’ve been drinking?’ she said.

‘Blind three days; on purpose. I am not given that way – don’t you think. There’s nothing and nobody that can get over me unless I like. I can be as steady as a rock. My chum sees the paper this morning, and says he to me: “Go on, Harry: loving parent. That’s five quid sure.” So we scraped all our pockets for the fare. Devil of a lark!’

‘You have a hard heart, I am afraid,’ she sighed.

‘What for? For running away? Why! he wanted to make a lawyer’s clerk of me – just to please himself. Master in his own house; and my poor mother egged him on – for my good, I suppose. Well, then – so long; and I went. No, I tell you: the day I cleared out, I was all black and blue from his great fondness for me. Ah! he was always a bit of a character. Look at that shovel now. Off his chump? Not much. That’s just exactly like my dad. He wants me here just to have somebody to order about. However, we two were hard up; and what’s five quid to him – once in sixteen hard years?’

‘Oh, but I am sorry for you. Did you never want to come back home?’

‘Be a lawyer’s clerk and rot here – in some such place as this?’ he cried in contempt. ‘What! if the old man set me up in a home to-day, I would kick it down about my ears – or else die there before the third day was out.’

‘And where else is it that you hope to die?’

‘In the bush somewhere; in the sea; on a blamed mountaintop for choice. At home? Yes! the world’s my home; but I expect I’ll die in a hospital some day. What of that? Any place is good enough, as long as I’ve lived; and I’ve been everything you can think of almost but a tailor or a soldier. I’ve been a boundary rider; I’ve sheared sheep; and humped my swag; and harpooned a whale. I’ve rigged ships, and prospected for gold, and skinned dead bullocks – and turned my back on more money than the old man would have scraped in his whole life. Ha, ha!’

He overwhelmed her. She pulled herself together and managed to utter, ‘Time to rest now.’

He straightened himself up, away from the wall, and in a severe voice said, ‘Time to go.’

But he did not move. He leaned back again, and hummed thoughtfully a bar or two of an outlandish tune.

She felt as if she were about to cry. ‘That’s another of your cruel songs,’ she said.

‘Learned it in Mexico – in Sonora.’ He talked easily. ‘It is the song of the Gambusinos. You don’t know? The song of restless men. Nothing could hold them in one place – not even a woman. You used to meet one of them now and again, in the old days, on the edge of the gold country, away north there beyond the Rio Gila. I’ve seen it. A prospecting engineer in Mazatlan took me along with him to help look after the waggons. A sailor’s a handy chap to have about you anyhow. It’s all a desert: cracks in the earth that you can’t see the bottom of; and mountains – sheer rocks standing up high like walls and church spires, only a hundred times bigger. The valleys are full of boulders and black stones. There’s not a blade of grass to see; and the sun sets more red over that country than I have seen it anywhere – blood-red and angry. It is fine.’

‘You do not want to go back there again?’ she stammered out.

He laughed a little. ‘No. That’s the blamed gold country. It gave me the shivers sometimes to look at it – and we were a big lot of men together, mind; but these Gambusinos wandered alone. They knew that country before anybody had ever heard of it. They had a sort of gift for prospecting, and the fever of it was on them too; and they did not seem to want the gold very much. They would find some rich spot, and then turn their backs on it; pick up perhaps a little –enough for a spree – and then be off again, looking for more. They never stopped long where there were houses; they had no wife, no chick, no home, never a chum. You couldn’t be friends with a Gambusino; they were too restless – here to-day, and gone, God knows where, to-morrow. They told no one of their finds, and there has never been a Gambusino well off. It was not for the gold they cared; it was the wandering about looking for it in the stony country that got into them and wouldn’t let them rest; so that no woman yet born could hold a Gambusino for more than a week. That’s what the song says. It’s all about a pretty girl that tried hard to keep hold of a Gambusino lover, so that he should bring her lots of gold. No fear! Off he went, and she never saw him again.’

‘What became of her?’ she breathed out.

‘The song don’t tell. Cried a bit, I daresay. They were the fellows: kiss and go. But it’s the looking for a thing – a something . . . Sometimes I think I am a sort of Gambusino myself.’

‘No woman can hold you, then,’ she began in a brazen voice, which quavered suddenly before the end.

‘No longer than a week,’ he joked, playing upon her very heartstrings with the gay, tender note of his laugh, ‘and yet I am fond of them all. Anything for a woman of the right sort. The scrapes they got me into, and the scrapes they got me out of! I love them at first sight. I’ve fallen in love with you already, Miss – Bessie’s your name – eh?’

She backed away a little, and with a trembling laugh: ‘You haven’t seen my face yet.’

He bent forward gallantly. ‘A little pale: it suits some. But you are a fine figure of a girl, Miss Bessie.’

She was all in a flutter. Nobody had ever said so much to her before.

His tone changed. ‘I am getting middling hungry, though. Had no breakfast to-day. Couldn’t you scare up some bread from that tea for me, or –’

She was gone already. He had been on the point of asking her to let him come inside. No matter. Anywhere would do. Devil of a fix! What would his chum think?

‘I didn’t ask you as a beggar,’ he said, jestingly, taking a piece of bread-and-butter from the plate she held before him. ‘I asked as a friend. My dad is rich, you know.’

‘He starves himself for your sake.’

‘And I have starved for his whim,’ he said, taking up another piece.

‘All he has in the world is for you,’ she pleaded.

‘Yes, if I come here to sit on it like a dam’ toad in a hole. Thank you; and what about the shovel, eh? He always had a queer way of showing his love.’

‘I could bring him round in a week,’ she suggested timidly.

He was too hungry to answer her; and, holding the plate submissively to his hand, she began to whisper up to him in a quick, panting voice. He listened, amazed, eating slower and slower, till at last his jaws stopped altogether. ‘That’s his game, is it?’ he said, in a rising tone of scathing contempt. An ungovernable movement of his arm sent the plate flying out of her fingers. He shot out a violent curse.

She shrank from him, putting her hand against the wall.

‘No!’ he raged. ‘He expects! Expects me – for his rotten money! . . . Who wants his home? Mad – not he! Don’t you think? He wants his own way. He wanted to turn me into a miserable lawyer’s clerk, and now he wants to make of me a blamed tame rabbit in a cage. Of me! Of me!’ His subdued angry laugh frightened her now.

‘The whole world ain’t a bit too big for me to spread my elbows in, I can tell you – what’s your name – Bessie – let alone a dam’ parlour in a hutch. Marry! He wants me to marry and settle! And as likely as not he has looked out the girl too – dash my soul! And do you know the Judy, may I ask?’

She shook all over with noiseless dry sobs; but he was fuming and fretting too much to notice her distress. He bit his thumb with rage at the mere idea. A window rattled up.

‘A grinning information fellow,’ pronounced old Hagberd dogmatically, in measured tones. And the sound of his voice seemed to Bessie to make the night itself mad – to pour insanity and disaster on the earth.‘Now I know what’s wrong with the people here, my dear. Why, of course! With this mad chap going about. Don’t you have anything to do with him, Bessie. Bessie, I say!’

They stood as if dumb. The old man fidgeted and mumbled to himself at the window. Suddenly he cried, piercingly: ‘Bessie – I see you. I’ll tell Harry.’

She made a movement as if to run away, but stopped and raised her hands to her temples. Young Hagberd, shadowy and big, stirred no more than a man of bronze. Over their heads the crazy night whimpered and scolded in an old man’s voice.

‘Send him away, my dear. He’s only a vagabond. What you want is a good home of your own. That chap has no home – he’s not like Harry. He can’t be Harry. Harry is coming to-morrow. Do you hear? One day more,’ he babbled more excitedly. ‘Never you fear – Harry shall marry you.’

His voice rose very shrill and mad against the regular deep soughing of the swell coiling heavily about the outer face of the sea-wall.

‘He will have to. I shall make him, or if not’ – he swore a great oath – ‘I’ll cut him off with a shilling to-morrow, and leave everything to you. I shall. To you. Let him starve.’

The window rattled down.

Harry drew a deep breath, and took one step towards Bessie. ‘So it’s you – the girl,’ he said, in a lowered voice. She had not moved, and she remained half turned away from him, pressing her head in the palms of her hands. ‘My world!’ he continued, with an invisible half-smile on his lips. ‘I have a great mind to stop . . .’

Her elbows were trembling violently.

‘For a week,’ he finished without a pause.

She clapped her hands to her face.

He came up quite close, and took hold of her wrists gently. She felt his breath on her ear.

‘It’s a scrape I am in – this, and it is you that must see me through.’ He was trying to uncover her face. She resisted. He let her go then, and stepping back a little, ‘Have you got any money?’ he asked. ‘I must be off now.’

She nodded quickly her shamefaced head, and he waited, looking away from her, while, trembling all over and bowing her neck, she tried to find the pocket of her dress.

‘Here it is!’ she whispered. ‘Oh, go away! Go away for God’s sake! If I had more – more – I would give it all to forget – to make you forget.’

He extended his hand. ‘No fear! I haven’t forgotten a single one of you in the world. Some gave me more than money – but I am a beggar now – and you women always had to get me out of my scrapes.’

He swaggered up to the parlour window, and in the dim light filtering through the blind, looked at the coin lying in his palm. It was a half-sovereign. He slipped it into his pocket. She stood a little on one side, with her head drooping, as if wounded; with her arms hanging passive by her side, as if dead.

‘You can’t buy me in,’ he said, ‘and you can’t buy yourself out.’

He set his hat firmly with a little tap, and next moment she felt herself lifted up in the powerful embrace of his arms. Her feet lost the ground; her head hung back; he showered kisses on her face with a silent and overmastering ardour, as if in haste to get at her very soul. He kissed her pale cheeks, her hard forehead, her heavy eyelids, her faded lips; and the measured blows and sighs of the rising tide accompanied the enfolding power of his arms, the overwhelming might of his caresses. It was as if the sea, breaking down the wall protecting all the homes of the town, had sent a wave over her head. It passed on; she staggered backwards, with her shoulders against the wall, exhausted, as if she had been stranded there after a storm and a shipwreck.

She opened her eyes after a while; and, listening to the firm, leisurely footsteps going away with their conquest, began to gather her skirts, staring all the time before her. Suddenly she darted through the open gate into the dark and deserted street.

‘Stop!’ she shouted. ‘Don’t go!’

And listening with an attentive poise of the head, she could not tell whether it was the beat of the swell or his fateful tread that seemed to fall cruelly upon her heart. Presently every sound grew fainter, as though she were slowly turning into stone. A fear of this awful silence came to her – worse than the fear of death. She called upon her ebbing strength for the final appeal:

‘Harry!’

Not even the dying echo of a footstep. Nothing. The thundering of the surf, the voice of the restless sea itself, seemed stopped. There was not a sound –no whisper of life, as though she were alone and lost in that stony country of which she had heard, where madmen go looking for gold and spurn the find.

Captain Hagberd, inside his dark house, had kept on the alert. A window ran up; and in the silence of the stony country a voice spoke above her head, high up in the black air – the voice of madness, lies and despair – the voice of inextinguishable hope. ‘Is he gone yet – that information fellow? Do you hear him about, my dear?’

She burst into tears. ‘No! no! no! I don’t hear him any more,’ she sobbed.

He began to chuckle up there triumphantly. ‘You frightened him away. Good girl. Now we shall be all right. Don’t you be impatient, my dear. One day more.’

In the other house old Carvil, wallowing regally in his arm-chair, with a globe-lamp burning by his side on the table, yelled for her, in a fiendish voice: ‘Bessie! Bessie! You, Bessie!’

She heard him at last, and, as if overcome by fate, began to totter silently back towards her stuffy little inferno of a cottage. It had no lofty portal, no terrific inscription of forfeited hopes – she did not understand wherein she had sinned.

Captain Hagberd had gradually worked himself into a state of noisy happiness up there.

‘Go in! Keep quiet!’ she turned upon him tearfully, from the doorstep below.

He rebelled against her authority in his great joy at having got rid at last of that ‘something wrong.’ It was as if all the hopeful madness of the world had broken out to bring terror upon her heart, with the voice of that old man shouting of his trust in an everlasting to-morrow.

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夜晚在我周围变暗

企鹅经典：小黑书 第二辑

[英] 艾米莉·勃朗特/著

齐彦婧/译

目录

封面

书名页

版权页

品牌页

中文内容

信仰与沮丧

群星

哲人

追忆

一场死亡

歌

期望

囚徒（节选）

希望

白日梦

致想象

她闪耀得多么明亮

同情

为我辩护

自问

死亡

致——

荣誉的殉道者

诗行

我的抚慰者

年老的禁欲者

22.森林啊，你不必对我蹙额

最美的花朵属于风铃草

夜风

夜晚在我周围变暗

尘世是否已不再给你灵感

我的灵魂并不怯懦

室内一片沉静宁谧

屡遭责难，却不断重返

何必要问何时何处

版本说明

英文内容

1. Faith and Despondency

2. Stars

3. The Philosopher

4. Remembrance

5. A Death- Scene

6. Song

7. Anticipation

8. The Prisoner (A Fragment)

9. Hope

10. A Day Dream

11. To Imagination

12. How Clear She Shines

13. Sympathy

14. Plead for Me

15. Self- Interrogation

16. Death

17. Stanzas to —

18. Honour’s Martyr

19. Stanzas

20. My Comforter

21. The Old Stoic

22.

23.

24. The Night- Wind

25.

26.

27.

28.

29.

30.

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夜晚在我周围变暗

企鹅经典：小黑书 第二辑

[英] 艾米莉·勃朗特/著

齐彦婧/译

企鹅图书 | PENGUIN BOOKS

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Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at:
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This translation published by arrangement with Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.
Magic Tree House® is a registered trademark of Mary Pope Osborne, used under license.

Simplified Chinese edition copyright © 2018 by Penguin Random House North Asia
in association with Xiron Publishing Company Ltd. and Zhejiang Education Publishing House
All rights reserved.

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未经允许，不得擅用。

企鹅兰登电子书 | Penguin Random House eBooks

电子书监制：邵明鉴

数字发行：邵明鉴

选题策划：赵轩 | 白姗

正文目录

信仰与沮丧

群星

哲人

追忆

一场死亡

歌

期望

囚徒（节选）

希望

白日梦

致想象

她闪耀得多么明亮

同情

为我辩护

自问

死亡

致——

荣誉的殉道者

诗行

我的抚慰者

年老的禁欲者

22.森林啊，你不必对我蹙额

最美的花朵属于风铃草

夜风

夜晚在我周围变暗

尘世是否已不再给你灵感

我的灵魂并不怯懦

室内一片沉静宁谧

屡遭责难，却不断重返

何必要问何时何处

版本说明

1. Faith and Despondency

2. Stars

3. The Philosopher

4. Remembrance

5. A Death- Scene

6. Song

7. Anticipation

8. The Prisoner (A Fragment)

9. Hope

10. A Day Dream

11. To Imagination

12. How Clear She Shines

13. Sympathy

14. Plead for Me

15. Self- Interrogation

16. Death

17. Stanzas to —

18. Honour’s Martyr

19. Stanzas

20. My Comforter

21. The Old Stoic

22.

23.

24. The Night- Wind

25.

26.

27.

28.

29.

30.

信仰与沮丧

“冬风萧瑟而狂烈，

亲爱的孩子，到我身边来歇；

抛开你的书本和无人陪伴的游戏；

趁夜色渐起，

让我们说着话，打发夜的愁绪。

　　“伊尔妮，在我们栖身的四壁周遭，

十一月的狂风正无声地呼啸；

没有一丝微风能闯进这里，

将我爱女的发丝掀动些许，

我望着炉火，心中欢喜，

她的目光也同样光彩熠熠；

我感到她那柔嫩的脸庞，

欢愉而静默地贴在我的胸膛。

　　“然而，纵使一切如此宁谧，

我心中仍泛起苦涩和忧虑；

绯红的火光欢快地飞舞，

我的思绪却徘徊在冰封的幽谷；

我梦见沼泽，和迷蒙的山岗，

日暮在此没入黑暗与森凉；

因为，在那些凄寒的山间，

我曾钟爱的人们正孤独长眠。

我肝肠寸断，心痛难抑，

惘然的追悔令我身心俱疲，

因为我再也无缘与他们相聚！”

　　“父亲啊，当我年幼，

当你远在海的那头，

这些思虑曾完全将我左右！

我时常枯坐良久，

熬过凄风苦雨的长夜悠悠，

也曾从枕上抬头，却只窥见

暗月徒然挣扎在天间；

还曾惶然聆听声声巨响，

那是惊涛拍岸，浪碎石上；

我满心惊惧，彻夜警觉，

侧耳倾听，不敢安歇。

人生在世，有如此多的恐惧，

可我的父亲啊，逝者却不必这样忧虑。

　　“噢！我们不必为他们忧伤，

坟茔凄凉，却实非他们的眠床；

他们的身躯虽已归入尘土，

快乐的灵魂在上帝身侧享福！

你话虽如此，却嗟叹不止，

怅惋你的挚友终有一死。

啊！亲爱的父亲，可否将原因揭示？

因为，如果一切的确如你所述，

如此伤怀岂不毫无用处；

恰似为一粒渺小的种子叹息，

只因它原本结在树上无人注意，

如今却坠入肥沃的土地，

破壳新生，焕发灿烂的生机——

深深扎根，拔地而起，

葱郁的枝条招摇在天际。

　　“而我，每当念及逝者已矣

却不会恐惧，也不会哭泣，——

我深知彼岸有一片神圣的天地，

　　那港口正为我与至亲开启；

我凝望时间之河浩瀚无际，

　　心中渴望早日抵达那圣地，

我们诞生在那里，我和你

死后也会在此与至亲相遇；

让痛苦与腐坏远离，

再度与上帝合而为一。”

　　“甜美可靠的孩子，你所言极是！

　　你比你的父亲更加睿智；

尘世的风暴怒号不止，

　　却只会增强你渴望的意志——

和你热切的期盼，去穿越风暴与波涛，

　　去经受狂风呼号、海浪咆哮，

最终抵达那永恒的家园，

　　那岿然不渝的彼岸！”

群星

啊！为何，当夺目的太阳

　　让人间重沐欢乐，

你们却纷纷离去，

　　在天上徒留荒漠？

整个夜晚，你们灿烂的双眼

　　向下望进我的眼眶，

我满怀感激地慨叹，

　　祝福那神圣的目光。

我平静地饮下你们的光芒

　　如同饮下生命的活力；

变幻的梦境让我欣喜若狂，

　　犹如海燕在洋面嬉戏。

思绪连连，星斗满天

　　遍布茫茫的无垠之境；

甜蜜的感召，亦近亦远，

　　那悸动证明你我心心相印！

晨曦你为何要前来打破

　　这崇高而纯粹的魔力；

为何要投下你冷酷的光波，

　　以烈焰炙烤那面庞的宁谧。

血红的太阳升起，他如箭的光芒

　　猛烈地冲击我的眉梢；

自然之灵蠢动而欢畅，

　　而我的灵魂却陷入了哀伤的低潮！

我垂下眼帘，但这层薄纱，

　　怎能挡住他炽烈的光芒，

迷蒙的山谷沐浴金色的光华，

　　太阳在山顶闪闪发亮。

我躺回枕上，

　　想唤回夜晚，

想再看你们庄严的光芒，

　　拨动我和我的心弦！

但无济于事——枕头在发亮，

　　屋顶与地板也都闪耀光辉；

树上的鸟鸣清脆嘹亮，

　　清风微微掀动门扉；

帘帷翻飞，苏醒的蚊蝇

　　在我房中振翅低吟，

宛如囚徒，直到我起身，

　　放它们自由飞行。

噢，星辰、梦境，和温柔的夜晚；

　　噢，归来吧，群星与暗夜！

来为我遮蔽这不速的光线，

　　他毫不温暖，唯有灼热；

他将苦难者的鲜血榨干；

　　饮下的不是甘露，而是泪水；

就让我在他刺目的统治下酣眠，

　　醒来时只与你们相随！

哲人

“停止思索吧，哲人！

　　你沉湎幻梦已经太久

闭塞地囿于这暗室阴沉，

　　不顾夏日的艳阳当头！

环视宇宙的灵魂啊，你的这番思悟

又将以怎样的悲歌结束？”

　　“‘噢，因为有朝一日，

　　我将睡去，湮没无闻，

　　毫不在意

　　雨水浸透或冰雪覆身！

　　天堂的承诺，这些狂烈的火焰

　　无法完全或一半兑现；

　　地狱的威胁，和那永恒的烈焰，

　　无法压抑这不灭的意愿！’”

“我曾这样说过，也依然这样坚称；

　　面对死亡也决不改口——

我小小的躯壳中有三位神明，

　　日日夜夜交战不休；

他们在天堂无法共容

　　却在我的心中相聚；

他们将始终寓于我的心胸

　　直到我遗忘自己的本体！

噢，但愿终有一天，我心间

　　不再有他们彼此纠缠！

噢，但愿终有一日，我能安眠，

　　内心不再苦闷忧烦！”

“一小时前，我看见

　　一个幽灵就站在你这里，

三条河流淌过他脚边，

　　深度相同，流速相一——

一条金黄——一条红得像血一样；

　　另一条如宝石般莹蓝；

但在它们汇合的地方，

　　河流却坠入漆黑的海面。

幽灵将闪烁的目光，

　　投向脚下暗夜般的海洋

突然间，那美好的深处迸发光芒

　　把四下照得通明透亮——

它白亮胜似日光

　　美丽远在它分开的源头之上！”

“即使只为那幽灵、先知，

我也已穷尽一生去观察与找寻；

　　我在天堂、地狱、人间与空中寻觅他的影子——

无止境地探寻，却始终不得要领！

只要能看到他灿烂的双眼

　　点亮那蒙蔽我的阴云，

我就不会这样懦弱地呻唤

　　说要停止思索，放弃生命；

也不会视遗忘为福分，

　　或急切地向死亡伸出手臂，

祈求用这鲜活的呼吸和敏锐的灵魂

　　换取毫无知觉的长眠安息——

噢，就让我死去——好让那力量和意愿

　　停止残酷的交战；

就让失败的正义，与胜利的邪念

　　消弭在长眠之间！”

追忆

你冰冷地躺在地下——身上白雪堆积，

远远地、远远地离去，冷却在阴郁的墓地！

我唯一的爱人啊，难道说，我已忘记去爱你，

时间横扫一切的浪潮，我是否终究无法抵御？

如今，难道我独自一人时，思绪

已不再飞越崇山，徘徊在北部的海岸，

或收拢双翼，在石楠与蕨叶间小憩

看它们覆盖你高贵的心，直到永远？

你冰冷地躺在地下——而在棕褐的山间，

已有十五个寒冬化为春天：

但那不肯遗忘的灵魂依然痴心不变，

纵然已在变迁与挣扎中熬煎多年！

年少时甜蜜的爱人啊，当世俗的潮汐将我卷去，

请原谅，如果我把你忘记；

困扰我的是别的渴望和别的希冀，

那希望只会蒙蔽，却无法让我辜负于你！

再没有新的光芒照亮我的天际，

再没有第二个清晨为我放亮；

我毕生的幸福都由你宝贵的生命赐予，

我毕生的幸福都已与你一同埋葬。

然而，当时光带走往日金色的美梦，

就连绝望都丧失了摧毁的能力；

我才明白生命该如何去珍重，

去巩固与丰富，即使没有欢愉。

于是我告别枉然的激情，止住了泪滴——

抽离我年轻的灵魂，不再渴慕于你；

我抵御那灼人的渴望，好让灵魂不至随你而去，

钻入那早已被我视为己有的墓地。

即便如此，我仍不敢任心灵受苦，

不敢在记忆醉人的疼痛中沉溺；

一旦深陷那美丽的痛楚，

我又如何再将世间的一切舍弃？

一场死亡

“啊，白昼！他不能死在

你明媚的日光之中！

啊，太阳，你如此平静地消逝在

这光辉灿烂的天空；

“他不能离你而去，

当清新的西风缭绕，

当你的光芒带着欢愉

洒在他青春的眉梢！

“爱德华，醒来吧，醒醒——

黄昏金色的光晕

温暖明亮地投在阿登湖心——

带你走出你的梦境！

“我的挚友！我双膝跪地

在你身边

祈祷你在远渡永恒的重洋之际，

再留一小时给人间：

“我听见波涛喧嚷——

看见白浪滔天；

却还没窥见什么彼岸

能宽慰我疲惫的双眼。

“不要轻信他们的怂恿，

说远方有伊甸园般的岛屿；

回头吧，远离那狂暴的浪涌，

回到你的诞生之地。

“是疼痛，而不是死，

在你胸中挣扎——

不，振作吧，爱德华，再醒来一次；

我不愿让你倒下！”

他用长长的一瞥，将我严厉地责备：

怪我不堪忍受那份伤悲——

他眼中无声的痛苦令我心碎，

我为那些无用的祈祷而惭愧。

此刻，忽然间

翻涌的杂念骤然停止；

再没有一丝悲哀来扰乱

我的灵魂，在这可怕的一日。

美好的日光趋于苍白；

暮色中的微风也渐渐安静：

夏日的露珠轻滴下来，

湿了溪谷、草地，和沉默的树林。

随即他的目光开始黯淡，

在长眠的重压下尽显疲惫；

他的眼珠开始莫名地晦暗，

混浊昏黄，尽管噙满泪水。

但它们没有流泪，没有变换，

不再转动，也不再垂下眼帘；

它们依然彷徨，却停止了流转——

不再顾盼，却尚未安眠！

于是我明白他在死去——

我俯身，捧起他无力的头颅；

没有呼吸，也没有叹息，

于是我明白他已亡故。

歌

红雀掠过嶙峋的幽谷，

　　野云雀翱翔在高渺的天空，

蜜蜂在石楠丛中飞舞，

　　我的淑女就藏在花叶之中：

野鹿在她胸口吃草；

　　野鸟在她身边育雏；

它们都受过她微笑的爱抚，

　　如今却留她一人孤独！

我相信，当阴暗的坟墓

　　刚刚把她的形骸殓入；

它们也曾以为自己内心深处

　　不会再有光明的幸福。

它们也曾以为在未来的岁月

　　悲伤的潮水将长流不息；

但如今它们可还有痛苦的感觉，

　　它们的眼泪又在哪里？

好吧，就让它们去争夺荣誉的鼻息，

　　去追逐欢愉的影迹——

殊不知她居住在这死亡之地

　　也早已改变，毫不在意。

纵使它们的双眼凝视与哭泣，

　　直到耗干悲伤的源泉，

她也不会打破沉睡的静谧，

　　报以哪怕一声叹惋！

吹吧，西风，拂过那孤冢，

　　仲夏的清溪流水叮咚——

此外再无须别的响动

　　来抚慰我那淑女的梦。

期望

对于你，人间依旧是多么美好，

——多么充满幸福！

真正的邪恶是那么地少，

也罕有不幸虚妄的幻影！

春日还能给你那么多的荣光，

夏日还能令你那么快地遗忘

十二月阴郁的日子！

你为何紧抓不放，

青春的珍宝，那欢愉的韶光，

　　当青春已逝，而你已盛年将至？

当你的同辈，

与你财富、年纪相当的同类，

泪眼看他们的晨晖，

　　化作浑噩而沮丧的白昼；

倒不如死时少不更事，

尚未在流浪中迷失心智，

不幸的奴隶，被强烈的激情钳制，

　　沦为虚弱而绝望的鱼肉！

“因为，他们享受时我却在希望，

而满足会将希望摧残；

我如孩童般深信不疑地盼望，

等待至福——和珍贵的安眠。

不久，一个善思的灵魂教导了我，

我们必将渴望，直至生命陨落；

　世间的每一种欢愉

　最终都将逝去，终将遭到厌弃！

“这我早已预见——也不会去追赶

　　那些倏然飞逝的背弃；

但是，我双脚稳固、面色淡然，

那诱人的角逐，我决不参与，

我凝望冲刷沙滩的波浪，

　　融入亘古不变的海洋——

我在此抛下欲望的船锚，

让它深深扎进未知的永恒；

但愿我的心永不疲劳，

始终期待将来的前程！

“如今，在我眼里

是希望的魔力

如青春般，美化了自然界的万般神秘，

　　无论可怖还是美丽——

希望抚慰我的哀愁；

宽解我，当我为他人心忧，

她让我坚强，让我能去承受

　　我命中注定的际遇。

“快乐的抚慰者啊！难道我会胆寒，

难道我会畏惧坟墓的黑暗？

难道我不会含笑倾听死亡的狂澜——

　　只要有你支持，我的向导？

当下的命运愈是偏倚，

我胸中愈是胀满快意，

我会凭借你赋予的力量，坚强地去希冀

　　命运的回报！”

囚徒（节选）

我在地牢中悠闲地漫步，

毫不在意在此受苦的人物；

“严厉的狱卒，拉开沉重的铁条吧！开门！”

他不敢不从——铰链转动，发出刺耳的尖声。

“我们的客人身处黑暗。”我低声说道，望向那地牢，

格栅窗外的天空失却了蓝色，变得又灰又小；

（此时正值美好的春日放声大笑，尽显苏醒的骄傲）

“是啊，黑暗至极！”说话的是我阴沉的向导。

请上帝宽恕我那时年少无知，口不择言；

我开始讥诮，当潮湿的石板上响起冰冷的铁链：

“关押在三重墙内，难道你竟如此可怖，

必须被我们捆绑于此，再用脚镣束缚？”

囚徒抬起头来，她的面容是那么柔和温婉

如同大理石雕刻的圣人，或熟睡婴孩的脸；

她的神情是如此温柔和缓、甜美清丽，

没有一丝悲伤的阴影，或痛苦的痕迹！

囚徒抬手按住前额；

“我挨了打，”她说，“我在忍受折磨；

但你们坚实的门闩和铁条毫无用处，

它们纵是钢铁铸就，也无法将我久久困住。”

冷酷的狱卒嘶声大笑：“难道我该听你胡言乱语；

痴心妄想的可怜人，依你所见，你的请求我会同意？

况且，你以为你的呻吟会融化我主人的心？

哈！那你还不如等太阳熔化花岗岩的坚硬。

“我的主人说话轻声细气，外表温文和善，

但他背后那个灵魂，却比燧石更坚；

我虽看似凶悍粗野，但要论凶暴乖戾，

却远远无法与我体内的鬼魂相比。”

她唇上浮现一抹轻笑，近乎鄙夷，

“我的朋友，”她柔声说，“你何曾听我哀恸哭泣；

除非与至亲重逢，或重返我往日的生活，

我才会流泪控诉——但朋友，不到那时我的眼泪绝不掉落！

“不过还请你转告我那位暴君，我不是注定

长年在忧郁、苍凉与绝望中承受厄运；

每个夜晚，希望的信使都会来到我心头，

许我短暂的生命，与永恒的自由。

“他乘着暮色中涌动的清气，带来西风阵阵，

还有天边最明亮的黄昏与最灿烂的星辰。

风儿戚戚低语，星辰放射温柔的光芒，

眼前的景象瞬息万变，令我深陷渴望。

“我渴望的不是壮年所知的景象，

那时，当我细数未来的悲伤，惊惧让欢愉变得疯狂。

那时，纵使我灵魂的天空布满温暖的光芒，

我也不知它们来自何方，是雷暴还是太阳。

“不过，首先，一切归于宁静——安详悄然降临；

绝望的挣扎不再，骇人的焦躁骤停。

无声的音符抚慰我的心，奏响沉默的乐章，

那种和谐，我今生今世都难以想象。

“随后那无形之物出现；揭示它那看不见的真相；

我摆脱了外在的感官，只用内在的精神感知猜想：

它的羽翼近乎自由——找到了它的家园与海港，

它丈量那海峡，俯冲而下，去挑战最后的边疆。

“噢，但受阻是多么可怕——痛苦是多么巨大——

当耳朵开始倾听，眼睛开始观察；

当脉搏开始跳动，大脑重启思考，

灵魂就触到肉体，肉体就触到镣铐。

“但我依然宁愿忍受剧痛，不肯免去煎熬，

疼痛越是剧烈，幸福就越早降临；

无论它身披地狱的烈焰，抑或天堂的璀璨，

若这幻象是死亡的使者，它就神圣非凡！”

她不再说话，我们默然转身离去——

我们的力量再不能令这囚徒恐惧：

她的脸颊和闪光的双眼，似在向我们宣示，

人类擅自的判决，已被天国废止。

希望

希望只是个羞怯的朋友；

　　她坐在我那牢笼外头，

看我的命运向何处走，

　　像事不关己的人旁观袖手。

她恐惧起来尤其残酷；

　　阴郁的一天我透过铁条

向外望去，见她就在近处，

　　可她倒好，竟别过脸去不把我瞧！

像个冒牌的狱卒，装作把我看得紧紧，

　　还在争吵，就开始示意和平；

我在哭泣，她却唱个不停；

　　我若倾听，她又会骤然安静。

她是如此虚伪，如此无情；

　　当我最后的欢愉散落在地，

可怜的碎片零零星星，

　　连悲伤见了都唉声叹气；

可希望呢，原本她只需轻声关切

　　便能安抚我狂烈的剧痛，

但她却振翅高飞，直上天阙，

　　离我而去，再无影踪！

白日梦

我独自躺在夏日午后

　　洒满阳光的山坡上；

这正是五月大喜的时候，

　　她要嫁给她年轻的爱人，六月新郎。

这位新娘中的女王似乎恋恋不舍

　　不愿离开她母亲的胸膛，

而她父亲却把微笑的喜悦

　　送给自己膝下最美的姑娘。

繁茂的树枝婆娑摆动，

　　欢快的鸟儿高声歌唱；

但在所有的宾客当中，

　　唯有我一人面带惆怅！

人人都想避开我

　　郁郁寡欢的样子；

灰色的岩石凝望着我，

　　问我：“你来所为何事？”

我竟答不上来：

　　其实，我并不知道

自己为何带着满眼悲哀

　　来看这一派明媚闪耀。

于是，我躺在石楠坡上，

　　感知我的心灵；

与它一道带着忧伤

　　沉入异想的梦境。

我们想：“等冬天再度降临，

　　这些绚烂美景又到何处去寻？

只会消失殆尽，如虚妄的幻影，

　　化作空洞的笑柄！

“那些鸟儿，别看现在唱得起劲，

　　等穿越了干冷的沙漠，

它们将如暮春那可怜的幽灵，

　　忍饥挨饿，成群飞过。

“我们有什么理由欣喜？

　　如果树叶凋零的痕迹

早在它尚未转绿，

　　就已如此清晰！”

事实是否真是这样，

　　我从来无法确定；

但伴着一阵愤怒的悲怆，

　　我在沼泽上舒展身心。

千千万万簇明灭的火苗

　　仿佛在空气中燃烧；

千千万万把七弦琴银光闪耀

　　远远近近奏响仙乐飘飘。

我感到自己的呼吸仿佛

　　充溢着神圣的火花，

我感到天光夺目

　　织成了我石楠的床榻！

当广袤的大地应和着

　　它们神异的曲调，

那些闪光的精灵也对我

　　唱起，或似在吟唱歌谣。

“噢，凡人！凡人！让他们消亡；

　　让时间与眼泪去摧残，

我们好在天上

　　处处撒播笑语欢颜！

“让哀伤去扰乱那受苦之人的心绪，

　　让黑夜将他的前路遮盖；

让它们催他早日安息，

　　祝他长眠永不醒来。

“这世界于你如同坟冢，

　　抑或一片荒芜的沙漠；

于我们，它却是姹紫嫣红，

　　一日更比一日灼烁！

“我们若是掀起头巾，

　　飞快地给你一个眼神，

你就会替生者高兴，

　　因为他们向死而生。”

音乐戛然而止；午间的梦境，

　　如夜晚的神游，倏然消逝；

但幻想她不时仍会断定：

　　自己美好的畅想皆属真实。

致想象

当我厌倦了终日忧伤，

　　当我尝尽了世间的苦难，

当我迷失方向心中绝望，

　　是你亲切的声音将我呼唤：

噢，我真挚的朋友！我并不孤单，

每当听到你这样细语轻言！

外部的世界已毫无希望；

　　内心的世界我加倍珍惜；

你的世界从不会滋长

　　诡计、仇恨、顾虑和冰冷的怀疑；

在这里，我、自由与你，

拥有统治全境的绝对权力。

即使被危险、愧疚与黑暗环绕，

　　又有什么关系？

只要我们胸怀

　　一片澄明的天宇，

那里有千万道光芒撒播温暖，

无数颗太阳驱散冬的严寒。

理智确会抱怨不停

　　怪真实的自然太过灰暗，

还会告诉那颗受苦的心灵，

　　它珍藏的梦是多么无用，注定枉然；

真理也会粗暴地践踏

那刚刚绽放的幻想之花。

但你始终守在一旁，

　　召回萦绕我心的幻景，

为萎靡的春日注入新的荣光，

　　从死亡中召唤更加鲜活的生命，

再用美妙的轻声细语，

描述那光明如你的真实天地。

你至福的幻景我并不相信，

　　但置身傍晚宁静的时光，

我依然怀着永远感恩的心，

　　欢迎你，仁慈的力量；

你抚慰人类的烦恼忧伤，

当希望枯竭，你就是更好的希望！

她闪耀得多么明亮

她闪耀得多么明亮！

　　我躺在她守护的光辉之下；

当天堂与人间对我轻唱：

　　“明天你要醒来，今夜尽情梦吧。”

好了，来吧，幻想，我美好的爱人！

　　请在我悸动的两鬓上轻吻；

请在我寂寞的卧榻上俯身：

　　赐我安眠，赐我福分。

世界渐渐远去；黑暗的世界，再见！

　　严酷的世界啊，请你回避，直到白天；

纵然这颗心有你无法驯服的骁悍，

　　但它仍需抵抗，若你执意拖延！

你的爱我不愿、不愿分享；

　　你的仇恨只令我笑容绽放；

你的悲伤教人心痛——你的冤屈让人神伤，

　　可是，噢，我决不会轻信你说的谎！

我举头凝望繁星点点

　　闪烁在那永无风浪的海洋，

我唯愿造物所知的一切苦难

　　都包含在你身上！

这就是我今夜的梦境；

　　梦中的天堂绚烂光明

沐浴永恒的福祉，历经无尽的光景

　　在光的轨道上运转不停；

我想象天外另有一重世界，

　　疲惫的双眼无法企及，

在那里智慧从不对爱情不屑，

　　恶名无法将美德遮蔽；

在那里，遍体鳞伤的弱者不必强带笑意，

　　当他被“命运”抽打得痛苦扭曲，

也不必强忍着包容她的恨意，

　　只将叛逆深埋心底。

在那里欢愉不会铸成大错，

　　理智不会徒然地劝说；

背叛绝无力量，真理绝不虚弱，

　　痛苦不是喜悦的必然结果；

在那里平静绝非了无生气的悲叹，

　　希望，不会是灵魂的幻影；

生命不是一场劳役，空虚而短暂；

　　死亡不是主宰一切的暴君！

同情

你不该绝望心碎：

　　当夜空中缀满繁星；

当黄昏悄然降下露水，

　　当阳光为清晨镀金。

你不该绝望挣扎：

　　尽管眼泪可能汇成河流，

难道那些最美好的年华

　　不是永在你心头？

它们哭泣，你也哭泣，想必应是这个道理；

　　你一感慨，风儿也随你叹息，

冬日将哀愁抖落在雪地，

　　秋日的落叶在冰雪之下堆积。

但它们终将复生，而你的命运

　　也与它们紧紧相依。

所以，继续前行吧，即使并不欢愉，

　　也永远不要心碎不已！

为我辩护

噢，你明亮的眼睛必须立即回应，

当理性用轻蔑的神情，

嘲笑我的不幸！

噢，你如簧的巧舌必须为我辩护，

说明我为何选择与你共度！

严厉的理性前来审判，

她特意穿上一身晦暗：

你，我的辩护人，会否哑口无言？

不，炫目的天使，请你申辩，

我为何将世界疏远。

为何我竟执意想要

与世间众人分道扬镳，

独自走上无人问津的小道，

权力与财富统统不要——

也没有荣誉的桂冠或快乐的花束环绕。

这些于我确曾美好非凡；

它们或许也曾听我许下誓言，

看我将供品呈上它们的祭坛；

但轻率的赠礼常被无视，

我的供品自然受到鄙视。

于是我衷心起誓，

不再寄望它们祭坛的圣石；

改用整个心灵去崇敬

你，无所不在的幻影；

我的奴隶，我的挚友，我的国君，

你是奴隶，因为你依然听我号令；

必须服从我多变的心情，

作用好坏都由我来决定：

你是挚友，因为无论黑夜天明

你总带给我无间的欢欣，——

我亲爱的痛楚，你撕裂灼烧

让我无法感知世俗的烦恼，

再从我的眼泪中榨取祝祷；

你是国君，纵然克己慎行

却将反叛教给了你的子民。

难道我不该去崇尚，

坚定的信仰，和不竭的希望，

只因我能凭自己的灵魂如愿以偿？

开口吧，幻象之神，为我辩护，

诉说我为何选择与你共度！

自问

“黄昏倏然逝去，

　　已近就寝的时候；

逝去的一天给了你怎样的思绪，

　　在你心中留下了何种感受？”

“这逝去的一天？它让我感到

　　仿佛余事未了；

仿佛竭尽心力，却收获甚少，——

　　总之徒留忧伤烦恼！

“时间站在死亡的门前，

　　声色俱厉地将我数落；

良知也始终气势不减，

　　向我抛来黑暗的指责。

“尽管我说过良知会撒谎，

　　时间应当去声讨命运；

但可悲的悔恨仍使我两眼迷茫，

　　迫使我听从它们号令！”

“那么你是否乐意歇息？

　　是否乐意离开这片海洋，

再把你所有的苦闷失意，

　　抛入宁静的永恒之乡？

“没人会为你的离去心痛——

　　也没人会哭着道声‘再见’，

这里曾让你的心千疮百孔，

　　你又怎会流连不前？”

“唉！无数强韧的锁链

　　将我们绑在各自的土壤；

爱的魂魄久久不散，

　　又迟迟不肯消亡！

“长眠固然甜美，若桂冠与盛名

　　能为战士加冕；

但若蒙受污名，那勇敢的心，

　　则宁愿不懈奋战。”

“唉，你已抗争多年，

　　战斗贯穿了整个生命，

你已征服了恐惧，击溃了谎言；

　　还有什么事业未竟？”

“这倒不假，这只手曾勠力图强，

　　敢为他人之不敢；

我曾建立功勋，慷慨解囊，

　　却对忍耐毫无经验！”

“看那坟墓，你未来的长眠之地，

　　你一生之中最后的劲敌；

若把长眠看得如此悲凄，

　　你将会多么悲伤难抑。

“漫长的征战终将告负，

　　你静静地承受失败，

但你尚有午夜酣眠的幸福，

　　你仍会在灿烂的清晨醒来！”

死亡

死亡！它发起了攻击，

正当我对眼前的幸福深信不疑——

紧接着它又是一击，打得时光的枯枝

与鲜活的永恒之根分离！

绿叶曾在时光的枝条上闪亮，

鲜嫩多汁，缀满银色的露珠；

每个深夜，鸟儿在叶底乘凉；

每个白昼，蜜蜂在花间飞舞。

悲伤掠过，摘去金色的花朵；

愧疚剥夺了绿叶的骄傲；

但母树胸中依然流淌着，

生命那生生不息的浪潮。

我并不痛惜失去的欢乐，

也不悲叹巢穴空落，歌谣无人吟唱——

希望就在一旁，笑着鼓舞悲伤的我，

轻声说：“严冬不会久长！”

看啊！春天带着十倍的祝福，

在枝头遍缀美丽的花朵；

风雨和暖流前来爱抚，

为来年五月许下繁花硕果！

它高高耸立——灾难插翅也难波及；

它的光芒让罪恶不敢靠近；

伟大的爱和它强健的活力

能阻挡一切摧折——除了你造成的不幸！

残酷的死亡啊！让嫩叶低垂凋零；

傍晚的微风或许仍能将它们复活——

不！清晨的太阳耻笑我疼痛的心——

对我，时间将永远不再绽放花朵！

快把它折下，让别的枝条茁壮生长

覆盖那枯枝曾经的印痕；

这样，它朽烂的躯壳至少还能滋养

那令它诞生的——永恒。

致——

哎，你的姓名或许被人憎恨、被人轻慢，

还有人会把它忘记；

但我悲伤的心将永远悼念

你被粉碎的希望，和被玷污的声誉！

这是我一小时前的思绪，

我甚至为那可怜的不幸之人哭泣；

但某个词止住了我泉涌的泪滴，

在我眼中注入了寒冷的笑意。

然后，我说：“祝福那善意的尘土，

还肯掩埋你无人缅怀的头颅！

你曾如此虚弱，如此虚荣，

屈服于谎言、骄傲与心痛，——

我的心与你的毫不相似；

你的灵魂无法影响我的意志。”

但是这些思绪也已消亡；

因为它们愚蠢、邪恶，而且虚妄：

我岂能鄙视那胆怯的鹿，

只因它被吓得慌不择路？

我岂能嘲笑豺狼濒死的哀号，

只因他外表丑陋枯槁？

或是幸灾乐祸地聆听野兔悲泣，

只因它没有赴死的勇气？

不！愿怜悯的心怀着温柔的情谊

去将他记忆；

就说：“泥土，请轻轻覆盖那副胸膛

赐那亡灵安息吧，仁慈的天堂！”

荣誉的殉道者

这个冬夜满月当空；

　　星辰寥落却明亮；

光芒映在每扇窗中；

　　辉映叶露凝成的霜。

甜美的月光透进你的窗格，

　　正如白昼把你的房间照亮；

伴着美梦，你在此安然度过，

　　安详平静的夜晚时光！

而我，虽已竭力抑制

　　疼痛仍在胸中作乱，

我独自徘徊在寂静的斗室，

　　全然无法安享睡眠。

那座旧钟在阴暗的大厅

　　嘀嗒回响，一刻不停；

它每一次规律的奏鸣

　　都留下更加悠长的余音。

噢，那眼尖的孤星是多么迟缓，

　　当它追逐天边清冷的灰白！

啊，看哪！还有那么长的时间

　　明媚的清晨才会到来！

我站在你的卧房门外；

　　爱人，你是否仍在酣眠？

我手按自己寒冷的胸怀，

　　心脏几乎停止了震颤。

萧瑟的东风呜咽叹息，

　　淹没了塔楼上的钟声，

那悲伤的讯息悄然消逝，

　　像我最后的告别湮灭无闻！

明天，蔑视会将我的名字玷污，

　　仇恨会对我百般凌辱，

它们会斥我为可耻的懦夫——

　　做伪证的叛徒。

佞徒损友会窃窃嗤笑；

　　真挚友人会祝我夭亡；

为了我，你会痛苦地哭号，

　　仿佛从不曾如此心伤。

届时，别的罪人黑暗的劣迹

　　将光芒四射，宛如美德；

与我的罪名两相对比，

　　世人会将他们的恶行宽赦。

因为，谁会原谅那可憎的罪恶，

　　那怯懦的背信弃义？

反叛，也可以捍卫自由，

　　在它选择的时机。

复仇能玷污正义之剑，

　　屠戮也可以正当；

但叛徒、叛徒，——那个字眼

　　却能吓退一切真挚的胸膛！

噢，我会把心脏献给死亡，

　　只要我的荣誉无损；

然而，我不会牺牲内心的信仰

　　去保全荣誉的表象！

即便为了你宝贵的爱情，

　　亲爱的，我也断然不敢欺瞒；

这背信需由来日验明，

　　到那时且只在那时，你再信不晚！

前方的道路我看得清楚；

　　但我毅然上路不惧艰险，

我不会去问严苛的世俗

　　布下了何等深重的磨难。

敌人追赶，同伴无情，

　　再没有人将我信任：

就让我在他人眼中背信，

　　在自己心底忠贞。

诗行

我不会哭泣，若你要离去，

　　这里本就谈不上什么美好；

黑暗的世界将加重我的悲戚，

　　当你的心在那里忍受煎熬。

我不会哭泣，因为绚烂的夏日

　　终有一天会归于颓丧；

因为无论如何，再幸福的故事——

　　最终都会以坟墓收场！

我已厌倦那痛苦的滋味，

　　它只让寒冬更加难捱；

也不愿再看那灵魂枯萎，

　　长年陷于死一般绝望的悲哀。

所以，当你死去，

　　若我碰巧落下一颗泪滴，

那只是我的灵魂在叹息，

　　想与你同去，长眠不起。

我的抚慰者

你的话多么漂亮，

　　却没带来什么新奇的感想；

只唤起一个潜藏的思想，

让重云遮蔽的太阳

　　再度拨开云雾，透出光芒。

那光芒深藏在我心底，

　　向来不为人知；

但它的光辉从未熄灭——任阴影翻涌稠密，

它的柔光却不可压抑，

　　洒满这阴沉的斗室。

终日在幽暗的道路上独行

　　难道我就不曾难受？

在我周围，可怜之人发出谄媚的声音，

抑或为绝望的生活咆哮呻吟，

　　人人都有着疯狂的舌头；——

不幸将他们连在一起，

　　他们凄楚的笑容有如嗟叹；

他们的疯狂日渐令我歇斯底里，

在我眼前扭曲了幸福，

　　把它变作哀痛与苦难！

于是我站这里，既沐浴天堂的日照，

　　又身临地狱的烈火；

我的心灵饮下那混合的曲调，

六翼天使的歌声掺杂着魔鬼的哀号；

此刻只有我的灵魂自己知道

　　它究竟承载了什么！

如同风暴搅动，

　　在海面上掀乱了和风一阵；

那暖风吹拂，悄然消融

冬日草地上的冰雪封冻；

哦不：还有什么能像你这般情浓，

　　我贴心的抚慰之人？

请你再多说几句，

　　平复我愤懑的心情；

等狂野的心变得温驯善意，

你不必再找寻别的痕迹，

只需让我用脸上的泪滴

　　来表明我感激的心！

年老的禁欲者

我对财富毫不崇敬；

　　我对爱情鄙薄耻笑；

追名逐利不过一场梦境，

　　黎明到来便云散烟消。

若要祈祷，那么世间仅剩

　　一句祷词尚能让我开口，

那便是：“让我清净，

　　给我自由！”

是的，当我飞逝的年华已近黄昏，

　　这便是我唯一所求；

愿我拥有无拘无束的灵魂，

　　无论生死，勇敢承受。

22.森林啊，你不必对我蹙额

森林啊，你不必对我蹙额，

诡异的树木，你们不必这样刻薄；

在阴郁的天空下摇着头如此难过，

嘲笑着我。

最美的花朵属于风铃草

最美的花朵属于风铃草，

它在夏日的微风中招摇；

那盛开的花团最能慰疗

我心灵的忧焦。

紫色的石楠有种魔力，

那忧郁太过强烈悲情。

紫罗兰的气息芬芳馥郁，

但香气却不能振奋人心。

树枝空荡，阳光清冷，

太阳是多么、多么难得一见——

天空失却了它金色的四境，

大地遗落了它青翠的衣衫。

浮冰在溪上顺流漂荡，

投下沉沉的阴影；

远处的山丘和谷地好像，

披挂着寒雾轻轻——

风铃草不再令我着迷，

石楠失去了它的绚丽，

此刻，在山下的谷地，

紫罗兰也不再芳香甜蜜。

我虽然为石楠伤感，

但好在与它相隔遥远。

我知道眼泪将是多么难掩，

若我看见它今日的笑靥。

木上的瘿是如此害羞，

藏在覆满青苔的石缝里头；

它有沁人的香气和露湿的眼眸，

但那不是我呜咽的理由。

我牵挂的是那纤细却庄严的茎，

是那花朵泛着银光的靛青。

那花蕾藏在翠绿的叶鞘中心，

闪烁着蓝宝石一般的晶莹。

是这些在我心间注入，

那镇静而舒缓的咒语，

它若能让我泪流如注，

也就能抚慰我的心绪。

我为它们哭泣，沉闷的冬日，

将我们长久地分离。

我在渴望中流泪——尤其是

当我不觉走上草木枯萎的河堤。

若是寒冷，

阴沉的天空便会降下光芒，

把一抹转瞬即逝的光明，

投向那堵潮湿黑暗的墙。

我多么向往，多么渴望，

那繁花似锦的时节到来，

让我远离那消逝的光亮，

为家乡的田野致哀——

夜风

夏日醇美的午夜

一轮清朗的明月

照进我们客厅敞开的窗

照在露湿的玫瑰树上

我静静地坐着冥想——

轻风掀动我的发梢

向我诉说天堂是多么辉煌

沉睡的大地是多么美好

这些我早已知晓

无须它来呢喃

但它仍窃窃私语

“那森林是多么黑暗！——

“浓密的枝叶听了我的低吟

婆娑起舞，胜似梦境，

它们那数不清的声音

仿佛无不充满灵性”

我说：“消停些吧，歌手，

你恳切的声音纵然动听

但别以为它美妙的节奏

有力量触动我的心灵——

“去跟芬芳的花朵嬉戏，

去抚弄小树柔嫩的枝叶——

但别来拨动我人类的情绪，

就让它自由地宣泄”

那位流浪者却不肯离去，

它的亲吻反而更加温暖——

“噢，来吧，”它的叹息如此甜蜜

“我会征服你，即使你不情愿——

“难道你我不是童年的玩伴？

难道我不曾爱你久长？

长如你对黑夜的爱恋，

那阒寂总鼓动我歌唱。

“等你停止了心跳，

长眠在教堂的墓地，

我将有无尽的时间去哀悼，

你也将拥有无尽的孤寂——”

夜晚在我周围变暗

夜晚在我周围变暗，

寒风狂烈地嘶吼。

一个专横的诅咒却将我羁绊，

不能，我不能走。

参天大树弯下腰来，

沉重的积雪压在赤裸的枝头。

风暴正迅速地到来，

而我，还不能走。

我头上是层云翻涌，

我脚下的荒地没有尽头。

但任何苦闷都无法将我撼动，

我不能，也决不会走。

——————

我会到来，当你心伤，

独自躺在幽暗的房间。

当白天狂浪的欢笑业已消亡，

愉快的微笑也被流放，

不敌傍晚忧郁的清寒。

我会到来，当内心（真实）的情感，

占据公正的绝对支配，

当我悄然将你感染，

而悲伤加剧、快乐凝滞不前，

我会载着你的灵魂远走高飞。

听，就是现在，你已来到

一生中最庄严的时刻。

你难道不觉得灵魂之中，

有异样的情感翻涌。

那是强大力量的先导，

我的使者。

——————

我本想敲击天堂的琴键，

那旋律恍如你与幸福的再现。

我本想唤起那醉人的歌章，

但歌词却在舌尖无声地消亡。

于是我明白那圣洁的旋律，

再也无法诉说欢愉，

再然后，我感受到……

尘世是否已不再给你灵感

尘世是否已不再给你灵感，

你这孤独的梦想者？

既然激情已无法将你感染，

自然可否不再俯首帖耳？

你的心灵总在

幽暗的未知地带游走；

快让它停止无谓的徘徊——

回来与我厮守——

我知道我山中的清风

仍能让你陶醉安心——

我知道你爱我的艳阳当空

尽管你恣意任性——

当黄昏渗入白昼，

占据了夏日的天空，

我看见你的灵魂，

扭曲在偶像崇拜之中。

我时刻注视着你——

我知道我有力的支配——

和强大的魔力，

能驱散你的伤悲——

世间凡人心中少有

如此强烈的渴望，

但也无人会去奢求，

胜过你那人间的天堂——

就让我用风儿将你轻抚——

就让我成为你的挚友——

既然你身旁无人祝福，

就请回来与我厮守——

我的灵魂并不怯懦

我的灵魂并不怯懦，

我也绝不颤抖，纵使身处风暴肆虐的地狱。

我看见天堂的光辉洒落，

信仰也同样闪烁，帮我战胜恐惧。

噢，我心中的上帝，

无所不能、无处不在的神明，

生命在我体内憩息，

因为我的力量，源自你不朽的生命。

那千百种信条皆为虚妄，

纵使曾打动人心，也必属无谓；

如此无用，像枯萎的芥草一样，

抑或虚浮的泡沫之于无边的海水。

它们妄图动摇的人，

如此笃信你的无限，

如此坚决地锚定，

你岿然的不朽之岩。

你的灵魂博爱广大，

为永恒的岁月注入活力。

它自上而下地弥漫、孵化，

它改变、维系、消融、创造和抚育。

就算地球与月球都已不再，

纵使恒星与宇宙消亡，

你仍会独自存在，

包罗世间万象。

那里没有“死亡”的立足之地，

没有一粒原子会在他的淫威下荒废，

因为你就是生命与呼吸，

永远没有什么能将你摧毁。

室内一片沉静宁谧

室内一片沉静宁谧，

室外——却是疾风骤雨。

但有什么在我心间低语，

穿过雨声，（穿过）风的叹息，

　　——永远不再。

永远不再？为何永远不再？

记忆的力量与你同样真实。

屡遭责难，却不断重返

屡遭责难，却不断重返

　　我与生俱来最初的情感，

放弃追求财富与知识的纷繁，

　　转而投身不切实际的梦幻。

今天，我不会去探索那黑暗的领域；

　　它无常的宽广只会徒增凄凉；

幻象升起，一批连着一批，

　　虚幻的世界近得难以想象。

我将前行，但不会遵循昔日英雄的小路，

　　也不会选择道德高地上的路线，

更不会与面目不清的人为伍，

　　在久已逝去的暗影中流连。

我将追随我的本心：

　　不需要任何别的向导：

那里蕨草丛生的山谷中有觅食的灰色羊群；

　　那里的山间有狂风猛烈地呼啸。

孤寂的山峦蕴含怎样的启示？

　　它比我想象中更加荣耀、更加悲情：

那足以唤醒一个人内心情感的世界，

　　堪为天堂与地狱的中心。

何必要问何时何处

何必要问何时何处，

我们的人性就寓居于此。

对权力的崇拜由来自古，

谄媚地吹捧着罪恶的胜出。

对绝望的可怜人落井下石，

打击正义，赞赏罪恶。

若是后者强大，前者羸弱。

让人流血，教人哭泣，

贪恋悲愁，自作自受。

还用愚蠢的祷告藐视上帝，

为不义者祈求慈悲庇佑。

此时正值金秋，

谷穗渐渐金黄成熟。

日复一日，在每个正午，

八月的太阳如六月那样炽热夺目。

但我们空茫的双眼，

只看见大地荡漾，天空炽燃。

无人手握收割者的镰刀，

田里成熟的谷捆也尚未捆牢。

我们的谷物数月前就已收割，

掺着血块脱粒去壳。

正当谷穗如牛奶般甜美，

马蹄与战靴将它们残暴地踩碎。

我加倍地诅咒，在异乡的草地

战斗，却不为家园抑或上帝。

版本说明

本书收录的诗歌全部选自珍妮特·吉扎里（Janet Gezari）编纂的《艾米莉·勃朗特诗歌全集》（The Complete Poems），企鹅出版社1992年第一版。其中《屡遭责难，却不断重返》一诗如今被普遍认为是夏洛蒂·勃朗特所作，但实属上乘，理当收录。

1. Faith and Despondency

‘The winter wind is loud and wild,

Come close to me, my darling child;

Forsake thy books, and mateless play;

And, while the night is gathering grey,

We’ll talk its pensive hours away; –

　‘Iernë, round our sheltered hall

November’s gusts unheeded call;

Not one faint breath can enter here

Enough to wave my daughter’s hair,

And I am glad to watch the blaze

Glance from her eyes, with mimic rays;

To feel her cheek so softly pressed,

In happy quiet on my breast.

　‘But, yet, even this tranquillity

Brings bitter, restless thoughts to me;

And, in the red fire’s cheerful glow,

I think of deep glens, blocked with snow;

I dream of moor, and misty hill,

Where evening closes dark and chill;

For, lone, among the mountains cold,

Lie those that I have loved of old.

And my heart aches, in hopeless pain

Exhausted with repinings vain,

That I shall greet them ne’er again!’

　‘Father, in early infancy,

When you were far beyond the sea,

Such thoughts were tyrants over me!

I often sat, for hours together,

Through the long nights of angry weather,

Raised on my pillow, to descry

The dim moon struggling in the sky;

Or, with strained ear, to catch the shock,

Of rock with wave, and wave with rock;

So would I fearful vigil keep,

And, all for listening, never sleep.

But this world’s life has much to dread,

Not so, my Father, with the dead.

　‘Oh! not for them, should we despair,

The grave is drear, but they are not there;

Their dust is mingled with the sod,

Their happy souls are gone to God!

You told me this, and yet you sigh,

And murmur that your friends must die.

Ah! my dear father, tell me why?

For, if your former words were true,

How useless would such sorrow be;

As wise, to mourn the seed which grew

Unnoticed on its parent tree,

Because it fell in fertile earth,

And sprang up to a glorious birth –

Struck deep its root, and lifted high

Its green boughs, in the breezy sky.

‘But, I’ll not fear, I will not weep

For those whose bodies rest in sleep, –

I know there is a blessed shore,

Opening its ports for me, and mine;

And, gazing Time’s wide waters o’er,

I weary for that land divine,

Where we were born, where you and I

Shall meet our Dearest, when we die;

From suffering and corruption free,

Restored into the Deity.’

‘Well hast thou spoken, sweet, trustful child!

And wiser than thy sire;

And worldly tempests, raging wild,

Shall strengthen thy desire –

Thy fervent hope, through storm and foam,

Through wind and ocean’s roar,

To reach, at last, the eternal home,

The steadfast, changeless, shore!’

2. Stars

Ah! why, because the dazzling sun

　　Restored our Earth to joy,

Have you departed, every one,

　　And left a desert sky?

All through the night, your glorious eyes

　　Were gazing down in mine,

And with a full heart’s thankful sighs,

　　I blessed that watch divine.

I was at peace, and drank your beams

　　As they were life to me;

And revelled in my changeful dreams,

　　Like petrel on the sea.

Thought followed thought, star followed star,

　　Through boundless regions, on;

While one sweet influence, near and far,

　　Thrilled through, and proved us one!

Why did the morning dawn to break

　　So great, so pure, a spell;

And scorch with fire, the tranquil cheek,

　　Where your cool radiance fell?

Blood- red, he rose, and, arrow- straight,

　　His fierce beams struck my brow;

The soul of nature, sprang, elate,

　　But mine sank sad and low!

My lids closed down, yet through their veil,

　　I saw him, blazing, still,

And steep in gold the misty dale,

　　And flash upon the hill.

I turned me to the pillow, then,

　　To call back night, and see

Your worlds of solemn light, again,

　　Throb with my heart, and me!

It would not do – the pillow glowed,

　　And glowed both roof and floor;

And birds sang loudly in the wood,

　　And fresh winds shook the door;

The curtains waved, the wakened flies

　　Were murmuring round my room,

Imprisoned there, till I should rise,

　　And give them leave to roam.

Oh, stars, and dreams, and gentle night;

　　Oh, night and stars return!

And hide me from the hostile light,

　　That does not warm, but burn;

That drains the blood of suffering men;

　　Drinks tears, instead of dew;

Let me sleep through his blinding reign,

　　And only wake with you!

3. The Philosopher

‘Enough of thought, philosopher!

Too long hast thou been dreaming

Unenlightened, in this chamber drear,

While summer’s sun is beaming!

Space- sweeping soul, what sad refrain

Concludes thy musings once again?

　　‘ “Oh, for the time when I shall sleep

　　Without identity,

　　And never care how rain may steep,

　　Or snow may cover me!

　　No promised heaven, these wild desires,

　　Could all, or half fulfil;

　　No threatened hell, with quenchless fires,

　　Subdue this quenchless will!” ’

‘So said I, and still say the same;

　　Still, to my death, will say –

Three gods, within this little frame,

　　Are warring night and day;

Heaven could not hold them all, and yet

　　They all are held in me;

And must be mine till I forget

　　My present entity!

Oh, for the time, when in my breast

　　Their struggles will be o’er!

Oh, for the day, when I shall rest,

　　And never suffer more!’

‘I saw a spirit, standing, man,

　　Where thou doth stand – an hour ago,

And round his feet three rivers ran,

　　Of equal depth, and equal flow –

A golden stream – and one like blood;

　　And one like sapphire seemed to be;

But, where they joined their triple flood

　　It tumbled in an inky sea.

The spirit sent his dazzling gaze

　　Down through that ocean’s gloomy night

Then, kindling all, with sudden blaze,

　　The glad deep sparkled wide and bright –

White as the sun, far, far more fair

　　Than its divided sources were!’

‘And even for that spirit, seer,

　　I’ve watched and sought my life- time long;

Sought him in heaven, hell, earth, and air –

　　An endless search, and always wrong!

Had I but seen his glorious eye

　　Once light the clouds that wilder me,

I ne’er had raised this coward cry

　　To cease to think, and cease to be;

I ne’er had called oblivion blest,

　　Nor, stretching eager hands to death,

Implored to change for senseless rest

　　This sentient soul, this living breath –

Oh, let me die – that power and will

　　Their cruel strife may close;

And conquered good, and conquering ill

　　Be lost in one repose!’

4. Remembrance

Cold in the earth – and the deep snow piled above thee,

Far, far, removed, cold in the dreary grave!

Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,

Severed at last by Time’s all- severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover

Over the mountains, on that northern shore,

Resting their wings where heath and fern- leaves cover

Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth – and fifteen wild Decembers,

From those brown hills, have melted into spring:

Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers

After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,

While the world’s tide is bearing me along;

Other desires and other hopes beset me,

Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lightened up my heaven,

No second morn has ever shone for me;

All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given,

All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee.

But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,

And even Despair was powerless to destroy;

Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,

Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion –

Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;

Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten

Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,

Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain;

Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,

How could I seek the empty world again?

5. A Death- Scene

‘O Day! he cannot die

When thou so fair art shining!

O Sun, in such a glorious sky,

So tranquilly declining;

‘He cannot leave thee now,

While fresh west winds are blowing,

And all around his youthful brow

Thy cheerful light is glowing!

‘Edward, awake, awake –

The golden evening gleams

Warm and bright on Arden’s lake –

Arouse thee from thy dreams!

‘Beside thee, on my knee,

My dearest friend! I pray

That thou, to cross the eternal sea,

Wouldst yet one hour delay:

‘I hear its billows roar –

I see them foaming high;

But no glimpse of a further shore

Has blest my straining eye.

‘Believe not what they urge

Of Eden isles beyond;

Turn back, from that tempestuous surge,

To thy own native land.

‘It is not death, but pain

That struggles in thy breast –

Nay, rally, Edward, rouse again;

I cannot let thee rest!’

One long look, that sore reproved me

For the woe I could not bear –

One mute look of suffering moved me

To repent my useless prayer:

And, with sudden check, the heaving

Of distraction passed away;

Not a sign of further grieving

Stirred my soul that awful day.

Paled, at length, the sweet sun setting;

Sunk to peace the twilight breeze:

Summer dews fell softly, wetting

Glen, and glade, and silent trees.

Then his eyes began to weary,

Weighed beneath a mortal sleep;

And their orbs grew strangely dreary,

Clouded, even as they would weep.

But they wept not, but they changed not,

Never moved, and never closed;

Troubled still, and still they ranged not –

Wandered not, nor yet reposed!

So I knew that he was dying –

Stooped, and raised his languid head;

Felt no breath, and heard no sighing,

So I knew that he was dead.

6. Song

The linnet in the rocky dells,

　　The moor- lark in the air,

The bee among the heather bells,

　　That hide my lady fair:

The wild deer browse above her breast;

　　The wild birds raise their brood;

And they, her smiles of love caressed,

　　Have left her solitude!

I ween, that when the grave’s dark wall

　　Did first her form retain;

They thought their hearts could ne’er recall

　　The light of joy again.

They thought the tide of grief would flow

　　Unchecked through future years;

But where is all their anguish now,

　　And where are all their tears?

Well, let them fight for honour’s breath,

　　Or pleasure’s shade pursue –

The dweller in the land of death

　　Is changed and careless too.

And, if their eyes should watch and weep

　　Till sorrow’s source were dry,

She would not, in her tranquil sleep,

　　Return a single sigh!

Blow, west- wind, by the lonely mound,

　　And murmur, summer- streams –

There is no need of other sound

　　To soothe my lady’s dreams.

7. Anticipation

How beautiful the earth is still,

To thee – how full of happiness!

How little fraught with real ill,

Or unreal phantoms of distress!

How spring can bring thee glory, yet,

And summer win thee to forget

December’s sullen time!

Why dost thou hold the treasure fast,

Of youth’s delight, when youth is past,

　　And thou art near thy prime?

When those who were thy own compeers,

Equals in fortune and in years,

Have seen their morning melt in tears,

　　To clouded, smileless day;

Blest, had they died untried and young,

Before their hearts went wandering wrong,

Poor slaves, subdued by passions strong,

　　A weak and helpless prey!

‘Because, I hoped while they enjoyed,

And, by fulfilment, hope destroyed;

As children hope, with trustful breast,

I waited bliss – and cherished rest.

A thoughtful spirit taught me, soon,

That we must long till life be done;

That every phase of earthly joy

Must always fade, and always cloy:

‘This I foresaw – and would not chase

　　The fleeting treacheries;

But, with firm foot and tranquil face,

Held backward from that tempting race,

Gazed o’er the sands the waves efface,

　　To the enduring seas –

There cast my anchor of desire

Deep in unknown eternity;

Nor ever let my spirit tire,

With looking for what is to be!

‘It is hope’s spell that glorifies,

Like youth, to my maturer eyes,

All Nature’s million mysteries,

　　The fearful and the fair –

Hope soothes me in the griefs I know;

She lulls my pain for others’ woe,

And makes me strong to undergo

　　What I am born to bear.

‘Glad comforter! will I not brave,

Unawed, the darkness of the grave?

Nay, smile to hear Death’s billows rave –

　　Sustained, my guide, by thee?

The more unjust seems present fate,

The more my spirit swells elate,

Strong, in thy strength, to anticipate

　　Rewarding destiny!’

8. The Prisoner (A Fragment)

In the dungeon- crypts, idly did I stray,

Reckless of the lives wasting there away;

‘Draw the ponderous bars! open, Warder stern!’

He dared not say me nay – the hinges harshly turn.

‘Our guests are darkly lodged,’ I whisper’d, gazing through

The vault, whose grated eye showed heaven more grey than blue;

(This was when glad spring laughed in awaking pride;)

‘Aye, darkly lodged enough!’ returned my sullen guide.

Then, God forgive my youth; forgive my careless tongue;

I scoffed, as chill chains on the damp flag- stones rung:

‘Confined in triple walls, art thou so much to fear,

That we must bind thee down and clench thy fetters here?’

The captive raised her face, it was as soft and mild

As sculptured marble saint, or slumbering unwean’d child;

It was so soft and mild, it was so sweet and fair,

Pain could not trace a line, nor grief a shadow there!

The captive raised her hand and pressed it to her brow;

‘I have been struck,’ she said, ‘and I am suffering now;

Yet these are little worth, your bolts and irons strong,

And, were they forged in steel, they could not hold me long.’

Hoarse laughed the jailer grim: ‘Shall I be won to hear;

Dost think, fond, dreaming wretch, that I shall grant thy prayer?

Or, better still, wilt melt my master’s heart with groans?

Ah! sooner might the sun thaw down these granite stones.

‘My master’s voice is low, his aspect bland and kind,

But hard as hardest flint, the soul that lurks behind;

And I am rough and rude, yet not more rough to see

Than is the hidden ghost that has its home in me.’

About her lips there played a smile of almost scorn,

‘My friend,’ she gently said, ‘you have not heard me mourn;

When you my kindred’s lives, my lost life, can restore,

Then may I weep and sue, – but never, friend, before!

‘Still, let my tyrants know, I am not doomed to wear

Year after year in gloom, and desolate despair;

A messenger of Hope, comes every night to me,

And offers for short life, eternal liberty.

‘He comes with western winds, with evening’s wandering airs,

With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars.

Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire,

And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire.

‘Desire for nothing known in my maturer years,

When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears.

When, if my spirit’s sky was full of flashes warm,

I knew not whence they came, from sun, or thunder storm.

‘But, first, a hush of peace – a soundless calm descends;

The struggle of distress, and fierce impatience ends.

Mute music soothes my breast, unuttered harmony,

That I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me.

‘Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals;

My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels:

Its wings are almost free – its home, its harbour found,

Measuring the gulf, it stoops, and dares the final bound.

‘Oh, dreadful is the check – intense the agony –

When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see;

When the pulse begins to throb, the brain to think again,

The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.

‘Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less,

The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless;

And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine,

If it but herald death, the vision is divine!’

She ceased to speak, and we, unanswering, turned to go –

We had no further power to work the captive woe:

Her cheek, her gleaming eye, declared that man had given

A sentence, unapproved, and overruled by Heaven.

9. Hope

Hope was but a timid friend;

　　She sat without the grated den,

Watching how my fate would tend,

　　Even as selfish- hearted men.

She was cruel in her fear;

　　Through the bars, one dreary day,

I looked out to see her there,

　　And she turned her face away!

Like a false guard, false watch keeping,

　　Still in strife, she whispered peace;

She would sing while I was weeping;

　　If I listened, she would cease.

False she was, and unrelenting;

　　When my last joys strewed the ground,

Even Sorrow saw, repenting,

　　Those sad relics scattered round;

Hope, whose whisper would have given

　　Balm to all my frenzied pain,

Stretched her wings, and soared to heaven,

　　Went, and ne’er returned again!

10. A Day Dream

On a sunny brae, alone I lay

　　One summer afternoon;

It was the marriage- time of May

　　With her young lover, June.

From her mother’s heart, seemed loath to part

　　That queen of bridal charms,

But her father smiled on the fairest child

　　He ever held in his arms.

The trees did wave their plumy crests,

　　The glad birds carolled clear;

And I, of all the wedding guests,

　　Was only sullen there!

There was not one, but wished to shun

　　My aspect void of cheer;

The very grey rocks, looking on,

　　Asked, ‘What do you here?’

And I could utter no reply;

　　In sooth, I did not know

Why I had brought a clouded eye

　　To greet the general glow.

So, resting on a heathy bank,

　　I took my heart to me;

And we together sadly sank

　　Into a reverie.

We thought, ‘When winter comes again,

　　Where will these bright things be?

All vanished, like a vision vain,

　　An unreal mockery!

‘The birds that now so blithely sing,

　　Through deserts, frozen dry,

Poor spectres of the perished spring,

　　In famished troops, will fly.

‘And why should we be glad at all?

　　The leaf is hardly green,

Before a token of its fall

　　Is on the surface seen!’

Now, whether it were really so,

　　I never could be sure;

But as in fit of peevish woe,

　　I stretched me on the moor,

A thousand thousand gleaming fires

　　Seemed kindling in the air;

A thousand thousand silvery lyres

　　Resounded far and near:

Methought, the very breath I breathed

　　Was full of sparks divine,

And all my heather- couch was wreathed

　　By that celestial shine!

And, while the wide earth echoing rung

　　To their strange minstrelsy,

The little glittering spirits sung,

　　Or seemed to sing, to me.

‘O mortal! mortal! let them die;

　　Let time and tears destroy,

That we may overflow the sky

　　With universal joy!

‘Let grief distract the sufferer’s breast,

　　And night obscure his way;

They hasten him to endless rest,

　　And everlasting day.

‘To thee the world is like a tomb,

　　A desert’s naked shore;

To us, in unimagined bloom,

　　It brightens more and more!

‘And could we lift the veil, and give

　　One brief glimpse to thine eye,

Thou wouldst rejoice for those that live,

　　Because they live to die.’

The music ceased; the noonday dream,

　　Like dream of night, withdrew;

But Fancy, still, will sometimes deem

　　Her fond creation true.

11. To Imagination

When weary with the long day’s care,

　　And earthly change from pain to pain,

And lost and ready to despair,

　　Thy kind voice calls me back again:

Oh, my true friend! I am not lone,

While thou canst speak with such a tone!

So hopeless is the world without;

　　The world within I doubly prize;

Thy world, where guile, and hate, and doubt,

　　And cold suspicion never rise;

Where thou, and I, and Liberty,

Have undisputed sovereignty.

What matters it, that, all around,

　　Danger, and guilt, and darkness lie,

If but within our bosom’s bound

　　We hold a bright, untroubled sky,

Warm with ten thousand mingled rays

Of suns that know no winter days?

Reason, indeed, may oft complain

　　For Nature’s sad reality,

And tell the suffering heart how vain

　　Its cherished dreams must always be;

And Truth may rudely trample down

The flowers of Fancy, newly- blown:

But, thou art ever there, to bring

　　The hovering vision back, and breathe

New glories o’er the blighted spring,

　　And call a lovelier Life from Death,

And whisper, with a voice divine,

Of real worlds, as bright as thine.

I trust not to thy phantom bliss,

　　Yet, still, in evening’s quiet hour,

With never- failing thankfulness,

　　I welcome thee, Benignant Power;

Sure solacer of human cares,

And sweeter hope, when hope despairs!

12. How Clear She Shines

How clear she shines! How quietly

　　I lie beneath her guardian light;

While heaven and earth are whispering me,

　　‘Tomorrow, wake, but, dream tonight.’

Yes, Fancy, come, my Fairy love!

　　These throbbing temples softly kiss;

And bend my lonely couch above

　　And bring me rest, and bring me bliss.

The world is going; dark world, adieu!

　　Grim world, conceal thee till the day;

The heart, thou canst not all subdue,

　　Must still resist, if thou delay!

Thy love I will not, will not share;

　　Thy hatred only wakes a smile;

Thy griefs may wound – thy wrongs may tear,

　　But, oh, thy lies shall ne’er beguile!

While gazing on the stars that glow

　　Above me, in that stormless sea,

I long to hope that all the woe

　　Creation knows, is held in thee!

And this shall be my dream tonight;

　　I’ll think the heaven of glorious spheres

Is rolling on its course of light

　　In endless bliss, through endless years;

I’ll think, there’s not one world above,

　　Far as these straining eyes can see,

Where wisdom ever laughed at Love,

　　Or Virtue crouched to Infamy;

Where, writhing ’neath the strokes of Fate,

　　The mangled wretch was forced to smile;

To match his patience ’gainst her hate,

　　His heart rebellious all the while.

Where Pleasure still will lead to wrong,

　　And helpless Reason warn in vain;

And Truth is weak, and Treachery strong;

　　And Joy the surest path to Pain;

And Peace, the lethargy of Grief;

　　And Hope, a phantom of the soul;

And Life, a labour, void and brief;

　　And Death, the despot of the whole!

13. Sympathy

There should be no despair for you

　　While nightly stars are burning;

While evening pours its silent dew

　　And sunshine gilds the morning.

There should be no despair – though tears

　　May flow down like a river:

Are not the best beloved of years

　　Around your heart for ever?

They weep, you weep, it must be so;

　　Winds sigh as you are sighing,

And Winter sheds his grief in snow

　　Where Autumn’s leaves are lying:

Yet, these revive, and from their fate

　　Your fate cannot be parted:

Then, journey on, if not elate,

　　Still, never broken- hearted!

14. Plead for Me

Oh, thy bright eyes must answer now,

When Reason, with a scornful brow,

Is mocking at my overthrow!

Oh, thy sweet tongue must plead for me

And tell, why I have chosen thee!

Stern Reason is to judgment come,

Arrayed in all her forms of gloom:

Wilt thou, my advocate, be dumb?

No, radiant angel, speak and say,

Why I did cast the world away.

Why I have persevered to shun

The common paths that others run,

And on a strange road journeyed on,

Heedless, alike, of wealth and power –

Of glory’s wreath and pleasure’s flower.

These, once, indeed, seemed Beings Divine;

And they, perchance, heard vows of mine,

And saw my offerings on their shrine;

But, careless gifts are seldom prized,

And mine were worthily despised.

So, with a ready heart I swore

To seek their altar- stone no more;

And gave my spirit to adore

Thee, ever- present, phantom thing;

My slave, my comrade, and my king,

A slave, because I rule thee still;

Incline thee to my changeful will,

And make thy influence good or ill:

A comrade, for by day and night

Thou art my intimate delight, –

My darling pain that wounds and sears

And wrings a blessing out from tears

By deadening me to earthly cares;

And yet, a king, though Prudence well

Have taught thy subject to rebel.

And am I wrong to worship, where

Faith cannot doubt, nor hope despair,

Since my own soul can grant my prayer?

Speak, God of visions, plead for me,

And tell why I have chosen thee!

15. Self- Interrogation

‘The evening passes fast away,

　　’Tis almost time to rest;

What thoughts has left the vanished day,

　　What feelings, in thy breast?’

‘The vanished day? It leaves a sense

　　Of labour hardly done;

Of little, gained with vast expense, –

　　A sense of grief alone!

‘Time stands before the door of Death,

　　Upbraiding bitterly;

And Conscience, with exhaustless breath,

　　Pours black reproach on me:

‘And though I’ve said that Conscience lies,

　　And Time should Fate condemn;

Still, sad Repentance clouds my eyes,

　　And makes me yield to them!’

‘Then art thou glad to seek repose?

　　Art glad to leave the sea,

And anchor all thy weary woes

　　In calm Eternity?

‘Nothing regrets to see thee go –

　　Not one voice sobs “farewell”,

And where thy heart has suffered so,

　　Canst thou desire to dwell?’

‘Alas! The countless links are strong

　　That bind us to our clay;

The loving spirit lingers long,

　　And would not pass away!

‘And rest is sweet, when laurelled fame

　　Will crown the soldier’s crest;

But, a brave heart, with a tarnished name,

　　Would rather fight than rest.’

‘Well, thou hast fought for many a year,

　　Hast fought thy whole life through,

Hast humbled Falsehood, trampled Fear;

　　What is there left to do?’

‘’Tis true, this arm has hotly striven,

　　Has dared what few would dare;

Much have I done, and freely given,

　　But little learnt to bear!’

‘Look on the grave, where thou must sleep,

　　Thy last, and strongest foe;

It is endurance not to weep,

　　If that repose seem woe.

‘The long war closing in defeat,

　　Defeat serenely borne,

Thy midnight rest may still be sweet,

　　And break in glorious morn!’

16. Death

Death! that struck when I was most confiding

In my certain faith of joy to be –

Strike again, Time’s withered branch dividing

From the fresh root of Eternity!

Leaves, upon Time’s branch, were growing brightly,

Full of sap, and full of silver dew;

Birds beneath its shelter gathered nightly;

Daily round its flowers the wild bees flew.

Sorrow passed, and plucked the golden blossom;

Guilt stripped off the foliage in its pride;

But, within its parent’s kindly bosom,

Flowed for ever Life’s restoring tide.

Little mourned I for the parted gladness,

For the vacant nest and silent song –

Hope was there, and laughed me out of sadness;

Whispering, ‘Winter will not linger long!’

And, behold! with tenfold increase blessing,

Spring adorned the beauty- burdened spray;

Wind and rain and fervent heat, caressing,

Lavished glory on that second May!

High it rose – no winged grief could sweep it;

Sin was scared to distance with its shine;

Love, and its own life, had power to keep it

From all wrong – from every blight but thine!

Cruel Death! The young leaves droop and languish;

Evening’s gentle air may still restore –

No! the morning sunshine mocks my anguish –

Time, for me, must never blossom more!

Strike it down, that other boughs may flourish

Where that perished sapling used to be;

Thus, at least, its mouldering corpse will nourish

That from which it sprung – Eternity.

17. Stanzas to —

Well, some may hate, and some may scorn,

And some may quite forget thy name;

But my sad heart must ever mourn

Thy ruined hopes, thy blighted fame!

’Twas thus I thought, an hour ago,

Even weeping o’er that wretch’s woe;

One word turned back my gushing tears,

And lit my altered eye with sneers.

Then ‘Bless the friendly dust,’ I said,

‘That hides thy unlamented head!

Vain as thou wert, and weak as vain,

The slave of Falsehood, Pride, and Pain, –

My heart has nought akin to thine;

Thy soul is powerless over mine.’

But these were thoughts that vanished too;

Unwise, unholy, and untrue:

Do I despise the timid deer,

Because his limbs are fleet with fear?

Or, would I mock the wolf’s death- howl,

Because his form is gaunt and foul?

Or, hear with joy the leveret’s cry,

Because it cannot bravely die?

No! Then above his memory

Let Pity’s heart as tender be;

Say, ‘Earth, lie lightly on that breast

And, kind Heaven, grant that spirit rest!’

18. Honour’s Martyr

The moon is full this winter night;

　　The stars are clear, though few;

And every window glistens bright,

　　With leaves of frozen dew.

The sweet moon through your lattice gleams

　　And lights your room like day;

And there you pass, in happy dreams,

　　The peaceful hours away!

While I, with effort hardly quelling

　　The anguish in my breast,

Wander about the silent dwelling,

　　And cannot think of rest.

The old clock in the gloomy hall

　　Ticks on, from hour to hour;

And every time its measured call

　　Seems lingering slow and slower:

And oh, how slow that keen- eyed star

　　Has tracked the chilly grey!

What, watching yet! how very far

　　The morning lies away!

Without your chamber door I stand;

　　Love, are you slumbering still?

My cold heart, underneath my hand,

　　Has almost ceased to thrill.

Bleak, bleak the east wind sobs and sighs,

　　And drowns the turret bell,

Whose sad note, undistinguished, dies

　　Unheard, like my farewell!

Tomorrow, Scorn will blight my name,

　　And Hate will trample me,

Will load me with a coward’s shame –

　　A traitor’s perjury.

False friends will launch their covert sneers;

　　True friends will wish me dead;

And I shall cause the bitterest tears

　　That you have ever shed.

The dark deeds of my outlawed race

　　Will then like virtues shine;

And men will pardon their disgrace,

　　Beside the guilt of mine.

For, who forgives the accursed crime

　　Of dastard treachery?

Rebellion, in its chosen time,

　　May Freedom’s champion be;

Revenge may stain a righteous sword,

　　It may be just to slay;

But, traitor, traitor, – from that word

　　All true breasts shrink away!

Oh, I would give my heart to death,

　　To keep my honour fair;

Yet, I’ll not give my inward faith

　　My honour’s name to spare!

Not even to keep your priceless love,

　　Dare I, Beloved, deceive;

This treason should the future prove,

　　Then, only then, believe!

I know the path I ought to go;

　　I follow fearlessly,

Inquiring not what deeper woe

　　Stern duty stores for me.

So foes pursue, and cold allies

　　Mistrust me, every one:

Let me be false in others’ eyes,

　　If faithful in my own.

19. Stanzas

I’ll not weep that thou art going to leave me,

　　There’s nothing lovely here;

And doubly will the dark world grieve me,

　　While thy heart suffers there.

I’ll not weep, because the summer’s glory

　　Must always end in gloom;

And, follow out the happiest story –

　　It closes with a tomb!

And I am weary of the anguish

　　Increasing winters bear;

Weary to watch the spirit languish

　　Through years of dead despair.

So, if a tear, when thou art dying,

　　Should haply fall from me,

It is but that my soul is sighing,

　　To go and rest with thee.

20. My Comforter

Well hast thou spoken, and yet, not taught

　　A feeling strange or new;

Thou hast but roused a latent thought,

A cloud- closed beam of sunshine, brought

　　To gleam in open view.

Deep down, concealed within my soul,

　　That light lies hid from men;

Yet, glows unquenched – though shadows roll,

Its gentle ray cannot control,

　　About the sullen den.

Was I not vexed, in these gloomy ways

　　To walk alone so long?

Around me, wretches uttering praise,

Or howling o’er their hopeless days,

　　And each with Frenzy’s tongue; –

A brotherhood of misery,

　　Their smiles as sad as sighs;

Whose madness daily maddened me,

Distorting into agony

　　The bliss before my eyes!

So stood I, in Heaven’s glorious sun,

　　And in the glare of Hell;

My spirit drank a mingled tone,

Of seraph’s song, and demon’s moan;

What my soul bore, my soul alone

　　Within itself may tell!

Like a soft air, above a sea,

　　Tossed by the tempest’s stir;

A thaw- wind, melting quietly

The snow- drift, on some wintry lea;

No: what sweet thing resembles thee,

　　My thoughtful Comforter?

And yet a little longer speak,

　　Calm this resentful mood;

And while the savage heart grows meek,

For other token do not seek,

But let the tear upon my cheek

　　Evince my gratitude!

21. The Old Stoic

Riches I hold in light esteem;

　　And Love I laugh to scorn;

And lust of fame was but a dream

　　That vanished with the morn:

And if I pray, the only prayer

　　That moves my lips for me

Is, ‘Leave the heart that now I bear,

　　And give me liberty!’

Yes, as my swift days near their goal,

　　’Tis all that I implore;

In life and death, a chainless soul,

　　With courage to endure.

22.

Woods you need not frown on me

Spectral trees that so dolefully

Shake your heads in the dreary sky

You need not mock so bitterly

23.

The blue bell is the sweetest flower

That waves in summer air

Its blossoms have the mightiest power

To soothe my spirit’s care

There is a spell in purple heath

Too wildly, sadly drear

The violet has a fragrant breath

But fragrance will not cheer

The trees are bare, the sun is cold

And seldom, seldom seen –

The heavens have lost their zone of gold

The earth its robe of green

And ice upon the glancing stream

Has cast its sombre shade

And distant hills and valleys seem

In frozen mist arrayed –

The blue bell cannot charm me now

The heath has lost its bloom

The violets in the glen below

They yield no sweet perfume

But though I mourn the heather- bell

’Tis better far, away

I know how fast my tears would swell

To see it smile today

And that wood flower that hides so shy

Beneath the mossy stone

Its balmy scent and dewy eye

’Tis not for them I moan

It is the slight and stately stem

The blossom’s silvery blue

The buds hid like a sapphire gem

In sheaths of emerald hue

’Tis these that breathe upon my heart

A calm and softening spell

That if it makes the tear- drop start

Has power to soothe as well

For these I weep, so long divided

Through winter’s dreary day

In longing weep – but most when guided

On withered banks to stray

If chilly then the light should fall

Adown the dreary sky

And gild the dank and darkened wall

With transient brilliancy

How do I yearn, how do I pine

For the time of flowers to come

And turn me from that fading shine

To mourn the fields of home –

24. The Night- Wind

In summer’s mellow midnight

A cloudless moon shone through

Our open parlour window

And rosetrees wet with dew

I sat in silent musing –

The soft wind waved my hair

It told me Heaven was glorious

And sleeping Earth was fair –

I needed not its breathing

To bring such thoughts to me

But still it whispered lowly

‘How dark the woods will be! –

‘The thick leaves in my murmur

Are rustling like a dream,

And all their myriad voices

Instinct with spirit seem’

I said, ‘Go gentle singer,

Thy wooing voice is kind

But do not think its music

Has power to reach my mind –

‘Play with the scented flower,

The young tree’s supple bough –

And leave my human feelings

In their own course to flow’

The Wanderer would not leave me

Its kiss grew warmer still –

‘O come,’ it sighed so sweetly

‘I’ll win thee ’gainst thy will –

‘Have we not been from childhood friends?

Have I not loved thee long?

As long as thou hast loved the night

Whose silence wakes my song?

‘And when thy heart is laid at rest

Beneath the church- yard stone

I shall have time enough to mourn

And thou to be alone’ –

25.

The night is darkening round me

The wild winds coldly blow

But a tyrant spell has bound me

And I cannot cannot go

The giant trees are bending

Their bare boughs weighed with snow

And the storm is fast descending

And yet I cannot go

Clouds beyond clouds above me

Wastes beyond wastes below

But nothing drear can move me

I will not cannot go

_ _ _ _ _ _

I’ll come when thou art saddest

Laid alone in the darkened room

When the mad day’s mirth has vanished

And the smile of joy is banished

From evening’s chilly gloom

I’ll come when the heart’s [real] feeling

Has entire unbiased sway

And my influence o’er thee stealing

Grief deepening joy congealing

Shall bear thy soul away

Listen ’tis just the hour

The awful time for thee

Dost thou not feel upon thy soul

A flood of strange sensations roll

Forerunners of a sterner power

Heralds of me

_ _ _ _ _ _

I would have touched the heavenly key

That spoke alike of bliss and thee

I would have woke the entrancing song

But its words died upon my tongue

And then I knew that hallowed strain

Could never speak of joy again

And then I felt

26.

Shall Earth no more inspire thee,

Thou lonely dreamer now?

Since passion may not fire thee

Shall Nature cease to bow?

Thy mind is ever moving

In regions dark to thee;

Recall its useless roving –

Come back and dwell with me –

I know my mountain breezes

Enchant and soothe thee still –

I know my sunshine pleases

Despite thy wayward will –

When day with evening blending

Sinks from the summer sky,

I’ve seen thy spirit bending

In fond idolatry –

I’ve watched thee every hour –

I know my mighty sway –

I know my magic power

To drive thy griefs away –

Few hearts to mortals given

On earth so wildly pine

Yet none would ask a Heaven

More like this Earth than thine –

Then let my winds caress thee –

Thy comrade let me be –

Since nought beside can bless thee

Return and dwell with me –

27.

No coward soul is mine

No trembler in the world’s storm- troubled sphere

I see Heaven’s glories shine

And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear

O God within my breast

Almighty ever- present Deity

Life, that in me hast rest

As I Undying Life, have power in thee

Vain are the thousand creeds

That move men’s hearts, unutterably vain,

Worthless as withered weeds

Or idlest froth amid the boundless main

To waken doubt in one

Holding so fast by thy infinity

So surely anchored on

The steadfast rock of Immortality

With wide- embracing love

Thy spirit animates eternal years

Pervades and broods above,

Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears

Though Earth and moon were gone

And suns and universes ceased to be

And thou wert left alone

Every Existence would exist in thee

There is not room for Death

Nor atom that his might could render void

Since thou art Being and Breath

And what thou art may never be destroyed

28.

All hushed and still within the house

Without – all wind and driving rain

But something whispers to my mind

Through rain and [through the] wailing wind

　　　　– Never again

Never again? Why not again?

Memory has power as real as thine

29.

Often rebuked, yet always back returning

　　To those first feelings that were born with me,

And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning

　　For idle dreams of things which cannot be:

Today, I will seek not the shadowy region;

　　Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear;

And visions rising, legion after legion,

　　Bring the unreal world too strangely near.

I’ll walk, but not in old heroic traces,

　　And not in paths of high morality,

And not among the half- distinguished faces,

　　The clouded forms of long- past history.

I’ll walk where my own nature would be leading:

　　It vexes me to choose another guide:

Where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding;

　　Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side.

What have those lonely mountains worth revealing?

　　More glory and more grief than I can tell:

The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling

　　Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell.

30.

Why ask to know what date what clime

There dwelt our own humanity

Power- worshippers from earliest time

Foot- kissers of triumphant crime

Crushers of helpless misery

Crushing down Justice honouring Wrong

If that be feeble this be strong

Shedders of blood shedders of tears

Self- cursers avid of distress

Yet Mocking heaven with senseless prayers

For mercy on the merciless

It was the autumn of the year

When grain grows yellow in the ear

Day after day from noon to noon,

That August’s sun blazed bright as June

But we with unregarding eyes

Saw panting earth and glowing skies

No hand the reaper’s sickle held

Nor bound the ripe sheaves in the field

Our corn was garnered months before,

Threshed out and kneaded- up with gore

Ground when the ears were milky sweet

With furious toil of hoofs and feet

I doubly cursed on foreign sod

Fought neither for my home nor God

让我们遇见在。。

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一种可怕的美诞生了

企鹅经典：小黑书 第二辑

[爱尔兰] W.B. 叶芝/著

余西/译

目录

封面

书名页

版权页

品牌页

中文内容

在柳园

库丘林与大海的战斗

当你老了

漫游者安格斯之歌

他想要天国的衣裳

听人劝慰的愚蠢

亚当的诅咒

没有第二个特洛伊

对困难之事的迷恋

随时间而来的智慧

在戈尔韦赛马会

一九一三年九月

致一位朋友，其工作已没有意义

帕丁

陷落的王权

冰冷的天穹

占星家们

外衣

库尔的野天鹅

爱尔兰飞行员预见他的死亡

一只野兔的锁骨

对她的赞美

一九一六年复活节

十六个死者

第二次降临

驶向拜占庭

内战时期的沉思（节选）

丽达与天鹅

在学童中间

最后的独白 一个女人的青春和老年（节选）

青金石雕

然后呢？

布尔本山下（节选）

受抚慰的库丘林

马戏团动物的逃亡

政治

英文内容

Down by the Salley Gardens

Cuchulain’s Fight with the Sea

When You are Old

The Song of Wandering Aengus

He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

The Folly of Being Comforted

Adam’s Curse

No Second Troy

The Fascination of What’s Difficult

The Coming of Wisdom with Time

At Galway Races

September 1913

To a Friend whose Work has come to Nothing

Paudeen

Fallen Majesty

The Cold Heaven

The Magi

A Coat

The Wild Swans at Coole

An Irish Airman Foresees his Death

The Collar- Bone of a Hare

Her Praise

Easter 1916

Sixteen Dead Men

The Second Coming

Sailing to Byzantium

from

Leda and the Swan

Among School Children

from

Lapis Lazuli

What Then?

from

Cuchulain Comforted

The Circus Animals’ Desertion

Politics

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一种可怕的美诞生了

企鹅经典：小黑书 第二辑

[爱尔兰] W.B. 叶芝/著

余西/译

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Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at:
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This translation published by arrangement with Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.
Magic Tree House® is a registered trademark of Mary Pope Osborne, used under license.

Simplified Chinese edition copyright © 2018 by Penguin Random House North Asia
in association with Xiron Publishing Company Ltd. and Zhejiang Education Publishing House
All rights reserved.

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电子书监制：邵明鉴

数字发行：邵明鉴

选题策划：赵轩 | 白姗

正文目录

在柳园

库丘林与大海的战斗

当你老了

漫游者安格斯之歌

他想要天国的衣裳

听人劝慰的愚蠢

亚当的诅咒

没有第二个特洛伊

对困难之事的迷恋

随时间而来的智慧

在戈尔韦赛马会

一九一三年九月

致一位朋友，其工作已没有意义

帕丁

陷落的王权

冰冷的天穹

占星家们

外衣

库尔的野天鹅

爱尔兰飞行员预见他的死亡

一只野兔的锁骨

对她的赞美

一九一六年复活节

十六个死者

第二次降临

驶向拜占庭

内战时期的沉思（节选）

丽达与天鹅

在学童中间

最后的独白 一个女人的青春和老年（节选）

青金石雕

然后呢？

布尔本山下（节选）

受抚慰的库丘林

马戏团动物的逃亡

政治

Down by the Salley Gardens

Cuchulain’s Fight with the Sea

When You are Old

The Song of Wandering Aengus

He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

The Folly of Being Comforted

Adam’s Curse

No Second Troy

The Fascination of What’s Difficult

The Coming of Wisdom with Time

At Galway Races

September 1913

To a Friend whose Work has come to Nothing

Paudeen

Fallen Majesty

The Cold Heaven

The Magi

A Coat

The Wild Swans at Coole

An Irish Airman Foresees his Death

The Collar- Bone of a Hare

Her Praise

Easter 1916

Sixteen Dead Men

The Second Coming

Sailing to Byzantium

from

Leda and the Swan

Among School Children

from

Lapis Lazuli

What Then?

from

Cuchulain Comforted

The Circus Animals’ Desertion

Politics

在柳园[1]旁

在柳园旁，我与我的爱人相遇；

她雪白的小脚，走过柳园。

她要我爱得放松，像绿叶长在树上；

但我，年轻又无知，没能认同。

在河边草地，我和我的爱人站着；

她雪白的手，放在我微倾的肩上。

她要我爱得放松，像青草长在堤岸上；

但我年轻又无知，而现在满是泪水。

[1] 柳园（Salley Gardens），位于爱尔兰斯莱果郡一条小河边。“salley”源自爱尔兰语“saileach”，有“柳树”的意思。此处是年轻恋人约会的地方。（说明：本书脚注均为译者注。）

库丘林[1]与大海的战斗

有人从落日中缓缓而来，

走到暗影里染着衣物的爱玛前，

说：“我是那猪倌，你曾让我

看守树林和潮水间的路，

但现在我再也不需看守了。”

爱玛将织布扔在地上，

举起涂满染料的双臂，

张开嘴，突然大喊一声。

猪倌凝视她的脸说：

“没有一个活人，没有一个在死者间，

赢得他的战车带来的黄金。”

“但如果你的主人得胜回家，

为什么你会畏缩，浑身颤抖？”

随后他晃了晃身子，跌坐在

堆着织布的地上，哭喊着说：

“和他一起的是嗓音甜美像鸟儿的人。”

“你竟敢当着我的面。”于是

她挥着染色的手揍他，踉跄地

走到她儿子放牛的地方，

用愤怒的声音哭叫：“不能

虚度时日啊，一个普通的放牧人。”

“母亲，这句话我已等了很久，

但现在是因为什么？”

　　　　　　　“有个男人得死；

你有普天下最强健的臂膀。”

“无论是在日光还是星辰下，

我的父亲都站立在他的战车间。”

“但你必须成长为更高大的男人。”

“但在星光和太阳下的某个地方，

我父亲站立着。”

　　　　　　　“战争已让他衰老、疲惫，

在脚下，马背上，或在战车里。”

“我只是在问通往我的旅程的路在哪儿，

因为让你受苦的会让你明智。”

“红枝[2]的一大群人驻扎

在树林边和大海奔马般的潮水间，

去那儿吧，在林边点燃营火；

但你的名字和血统只能告诉

那个用剑锋逼迫你的人，然后等着直到他们

找到被同样的誓言约束的宴客之人。”

库丘林就在那些宴客的人里，

他年轻的爱人跪着偎依在旁，

凝视他眼中悲哀的惊奇，

仿佛那是古老天空上的春色,

思虑着他荣耀的时日；

周围的琴弦诉说着对他的赞美，

库丘林，众王里的红枝之王，

用手指抚弄着黄铜琴弦。

最后库丘林说：“有人点燃了

夜间的篝火，在树荫间。

我时常听见他来回唱歌，

我时常听见他甜美的弦音。

去看看他是谁。”

　　　　　　　有人去了又回来。

“他让我告诉所有人，他只在剑尖

说出他的名字，等到我们找到

被这同样的誓言约束的宴客之人。”

库丘林喊道：“我是那些主人里

唯一从童年起就受如此约束的人。”

在树荫间短暂战斗后，

他对年轻人说：“是因为没有少女

爱你，没有雪白的手臂缠绕你，

或是你渴求那昏暗的长眠之地，

才让你来，敢于当面与我决斗吗？”

“人的命运在上帝的隐匿之所。”

“你长得有点像我曾爱过的

一个女人。”

　　　　　　　战斗再次加剧，

但此刻战争的怒火在库丘林心中觉醒，

借着这怒火，新剑锋的防卫被老的攻破了，

并刺穿了他。

　　　　　　　“在你断气前说吧。”

“库丘林一世，强势的库丘林的儿子。”

“我再也不能，将你从痛苦中解脱了。”

当白日载着它的重负走向黄昏，

库丘林静止着，头垂向双膝；

康纳尔王[3]派那嗓音甜美的少女过来，

而她，为了让他振作，爱抚他的灰发；

她的手臂没用，她柔软雪白的胸脯没用。

康纳尔王，所有人中最敏锐的人，

让他的德鲁伊[4]十个人一排将他围住，

这样说：“库丘林将在那儿沉思

三日多，在那可怕的寂静里，

然后起身，在狂乱中将我们残杀殆尽。

将魔法的幻觉吟诵进他的耳中，

这样他会与大海奔马般的潮水战斗。”

德鲁伊开始施行他们的秘术，

吟诵了三日的圣歌。

　　　　　　　库丘林动了，

凝视大海的奔马，听见

战车和对他名字的呼喊；

与无懈可击的潮水战斗。

[1] 库丘林（Cuchulain），古爱尔兰传说中的英雄。

[2] 红枝（The Red Branch），阿尔斯特国王的侍卫队，库丘林是其重要成员之一。

[3] 康纳尔王（Conchubar）,古爱尔兰传说中阿尔斯特国王。

[4] 德鲁伊（Druid），原意为熟悉橡树的人，是凯尔特人的高级祭司、法师、预言者。

当你老了

当你老了，头发灰白，满是睡意，

在炉火旁打盹，请取下这本书，

慢慢读着，怀想你的双眼

曾有过的神情柔和，以及阴影深沉；

多少人爱你绚烂优雅的时刻，

爱你的美丽，带着假意或真心，

但有一人爱你朝圣者的灵魂，

爱你容颜变换的忧伤。

垂下头，在闪光的炉栅旁，

怀着一丝悲伤，轻声诉说

爱如何消逝，如何步入头顶的群山

将他的脸庞掩藏在星辰之间。

漫游者安格斯之歌

我外出走到榛树林，

因有一团火在脑中。

我砍下榛树枝削成杆，

用线钩来一枚浆果；

当白蛾扇动翅膀，

当白蛾似的星辰闪耀而出，

我将浆果扔进溪水，

钓了条银色的小鳟鱼。

我把鱼放在地上，

又去把火吹着了，

但有某物在地上飒飒作响，

有人在以我的名字呼唤我；

它变成透着微光的女孩，

头上戴着苹果花环，

她以我的名字呼唤我，然后

跑开，消失在渐亮的空气里。

我老了，尽管漫游过

峡谷与山丘，

但我会找到她的踪迹，

亲吻她的唇，握住她的手；

沿着斑斓的草地漫步，

去采摘，直到时间终结，

那月亮的银苹果，

那太阳的金苹果。

他想要天国的衣裳

如果我有天国的绣衣，

织着金色和银色的光，

这蓝色、灰色和黑色的衣服

属于夜、白昼和黄昏，

我会将这衣裳铺展在你脚下。

但我，贫穷，只拥有我的梦；

我把我的梦铺展在你脚下；

要轻柔地踩，因为你踩在我的梦上。

听人劝慰的愚蠢

昨日有位良善的人说：

“你挚爱的人发间已有了银丝，

小小的阴影已爬上她的双眼，

时间只能让人更容易明智，

尽管现在似乎不可能，因此

你所需要的，就是耐心。”

　　　　　　　我的心喊道：“不，

我没有得到一丝安慰，一粒也没有，

时间只会使她再次美丽，

因她那伟大的高贵，

那身上跳动的火，在她移动时

只会燃烧得更为明净。哦，她不会那样，

当整个狂野的夏日都在她的眼中。”

哦，心！哦，心！只要她一回头，

你就明白听人劝慰的愚蠢。

亚当的诅咒

有一年夏末，我们一起坐着，

有一个美丽文雅的女人，你的密友

还有你和我，在谈论诗歌。

我说：“一行诗也许要花几小时；

但它如果不似灵感迸发的神思，

我们是否打磨都没有用。

擦洗厨房地面，或像老乞丐

去采石，无论在何种天气；

要清晰地发出甜美的声音，

远要比这些困难，然而

我们却被一帮人嘈杂地称为懒人，

那些银行家、校长和教士

殉道者所说的俗世。”

　　　　　　　随后

那美丽文雅的女人，为她

很多人因发现她的声音甜美

低沉而悲叹不已，

回答说：“生为女人要知道——

尽管他们在学校里不说——

变得美丽必须劳作。”

我说：“无疑，自亚当堕落以来，

所有美好的事物都要付出辛劳。

恋人们曾以为爱情应该

大量混杂着高度的殷勤，

他们叹息，带着学者的神色

引用美丽古书里的先例；

而现在看来正是一件闲散的事。”

说到爱，我们都变得沉静；

我们看着白日将尽时的余烬，

在天空颤动着的蓝绿色中，

月亮残损，像被时间之水

冲洗的贝壳，随着星辰

反复起落，在年岁间破碎。

我有个想法，只说给你听：

你是美丽的，而我致力于

以古老高贵的方式爱你；

那看起来很幸福，但我们

已深感倦怠，如那空洞的月亮。

没有第二个特洛伊

我为何要责备她让我的时日

充满痛苦，或者说她最近

教无知的人以最大的暴行，

或让小人物攻击伟人，

只要他们勇气与欲望相当？

有什么能使她平静，既然心智

因其高贵练就得如火一般纯粹，

她的美似绷紧的弓，既然她有种

与时代并非协调的品质，诸如

高贵、孤独和坚定？

哦，她得做什么，让她成为这样？

还有第二个特洛伊为她焚毁吗？

对困难之事的迷恋

对困难之事的迷恋，

已榨干我血管里的汁液，收取

我内心自发的愉悦，和天然的

满足。我们的马驹苦恼，

它似乎没有神圣的血统，

不能在奥林匹斯山的云朵间跳跃，

必须在鞭子下战栗、挣扎、流汗、摇晃，

仿佛在拖拽铺路的石子。我诅咒

那些得以五十种方式排演的剧目，

在白日与每个无赖和笨蛋争斗，

剧场事务，人事安排。

我发誓黎明再次来临之前，

我将找到马厩，拔出门闩。

随时间而来的智慧

尽管枝叶繁多，根却只有一个；

穿过我青春所有说谎的日子，

我在日光下摇晃我的花与叶；

现在我可以凋零，进入真理。

在戈尔韦赛马会

那里就是赛马场，

欢乐使众人心意一致，

骑手在奔驰的马背上，

人群紧随其后：

我们，也曾有很好的宾客，

作品的聆听者和激励者；

是啊，将骑手当成同伴，

在商人和店员用怯弱的气息

呼吸这个世界之前。

唱吧：为某地的新月,

我们将认识到睡眠不是死亡，

听见整个大地变换了音调，

它的肌肉狂野，再次

大声呼喊，像这赛马场一样，

而我们找到了激励的人，

在这骑马的人群中间。

一九一三年九月

一旦苏醒，你们所需做的

仅仅是在油腻的钱箱里摸索，

将半便士加到一便士，

颤抖着，祈祷再祈祷，直到

你们已榨干骨头里的髓液；

因为人生来就是为了祈祷和储蓄：

浪漫的爱尔兰已死去、消失，

和奥利里[1]一起躺在坟墓里。

但他们是不同的种类，

他们的名字终止了你们幼稚的游戏，

他们像风，走遍世界，

但鲜有时间祈祷，

因刽子手的绳索已为他们转动，

上帝保佑，他们能攒什么钱？

浪漫的爱尔兰已死去、消失，

和奥利里一起躺在坟墓里。

为此，野天鹅展开

灰色的翅膀，在每次的潮汐之上？

所有的血为此而流？

爱德华·菲茨杰拉德为此而死？

还有罗伯特·艾米特和沃尔夫·托尼？

以及所有那些勇士的狂热？

浪漫的爱尔兰已死去、消失，

和奥利里一起躺在坟墓里。

但我们也可以将时间再次倒转，

将他们称为流亡者，当他们

受尽了孤独和伤痛，

你会呼喊“某个女人的黄发

让所有母亲的儿子发狂”：

他们对付出看得那么轻，

但就让他们这样吧，他们死去、消失，

和奥利里一起躺在坟墓里。

[1] 奥利里（O’Leary）,即约翰·奥利里，爱尔兰民族主义者，在英格兰囚禁五年，流亡十五年后，1885年返回都柏林。

致一位朋友，其工作已没有意义

如今所有真相显现，

面对任何无耻的喉舌，

保持沉默，接受失败吧，

因你生就高贵，怎能

与那样的人相比？

即使谎言被证实，

他也不会感到羞愧，

更不在意邻人的眼光。

生来就要做比胜利

更困难的事，转身离去，

像大笑的琴弦

被疯狂的手指弹奏

在一堆石头之中。

保持沉默，狂喜吧，

因在所有已知的事中，

那是最困难的。

帕丁[1]

在他的商店里，愤慨于笨拙的智慧，

我们老帕丁模糊的恶意，我盲目地

在石堆和荆棘丛中蹒跚而行，在晨光之下；

直到一只麻鹬呼叫，另一只麻鹬

在明亮的风中回应；我突然因此想到，

在寂寞的高处，所有一切都在上帝的眼中，

那里，我们声音中的混乱被遗忘，没有一个

单独的灵魂还缺乏甜美的水晶般的叫声。

[1] 帕丁（Paudeen），爱尔兰常见的名字Patrick的昵称，可泛指一般的市民大众。

陷落的王权

尽管她过去一露面，人群就会聚集，

连老人的双眼也变蒙眬，但只有这只手，

像某位最后的臣子，在吉卜赛营地

念叨着陷落的王权，记录消逝的一切。

这容貌，这被笑声炼制甜美的心，

这些，这些都留存着，但我记录消逝的一切。

人们还会聚集，但不会知道他们走过的街上

曾有一样事物走过，像朵燃烧的云。

冰冷的天穹

突然我看见令乌鸦愉悦的寒冷的天穹，

像是焚烧的冰，但不过是更多的冰，

因此，想象和心被牵引得

如此狂野，以至于种种随意的想法

消失了，只剩记忆，而那应当消失，

随青春的热血，以及很久以前受挫的爱；

我丧失所有的情感和理智去承担责备，

直到我呼喊，颤抖，来回摇晃，

被光线击穿得千疮百孔。啊！当鬼魂开始复活，

临终之床的混乱结束，它是否

被赤裸地派到街上，像书里说的，

遭受天空不公正的袭击，以示惩戒？

占星家们[1]

现在正如我心中时时所见，

苍白的不满的人，穿着他们僵硬、印花的衣服，

在天空的深蓝里显现又消失。

他们古老的面容像被雨水击打的石头，

他们的银头盔在空中来回徘徊，

各各他[2]的骚乱并不让他们满意，

他们的双眼仍在凝望，希望再次找到

在兽性的土地上，那不可控的神秘。

[1] 占星家们（Magi），在诗中应该指的是东方三博士。

[2] 各各他（Calvary），耶稣被钉死在十字架上的地方。

外衣

我把我的歌制成外衣，

从头到脚，

缀满了来自古老

神话中的刺绣；

但蠢人拿走了它，

在世人眼前穿着，

仿佛是他们造的。

歌，就让他们拿去吧，

因为裸身走路，

需要更多的雄心。

库尔的野天鹅

树林有了秋日的美丽，

林地的小径干爽，

十月的黄昏下，水面

倒映着静止的天空；

在石子间漫溢的水上

是五十九只天鹅。

自我最初给它们点数，

已是第十九个秋天；

我看见，在我数完前，

它们突然飞起

散开，在大而碎的圆圈里盘旋，

用它们喧闹的翅膀。

我曾望着这些闪耀的造物，

而现在只让我心痛。

全都改变了，自我

踩着更轻盈的步态，

在这黄昏的堤岸，听见它们的翅膀

在头顶拍出钟鸣般的声响。

一对对情侣，仍不知疲倦，

它们在冰冷而友好的

溪水间游动，或攀飞进空中；

它们的心灵未曾老去；

激情或征服，无论它们漫游何方

仍然照料着它们。

而现在它们在平静的水面漂流，

神秘而美丽；

它们将在怎样的灯芯草丛中筑巢，

在怎样的湖边或池边

取悦人们的眼睛，当有一天

我醒来，发现它们已飞逝？

爱尔兰飞行员预见他的死亡

我知道我将遇见我的命运

在这上方的云朵之间；

我所对抗的，我并不憎恨，

我所守卫的，我并不爱；

我的故乡是基尔塔坦岔口，

我的乡亲是基尔塔坦的穷人，

任何结局都不会让他们失去什么，

或者，让他们比以往更幸福。

不是法律也不是职责令我战斗，

不是公众人物，也不是欢呼的民众，

而是孤独的愉悦的冲动

驱使我进入这云间的骚乱；

我权衡一切，思考所有，

未来的年岁似乎是浪费生命，

而身后的年岁也是浪费生命，

就在这生与死的平衡里。

一只野兔的锁骨

我将扬帆在水面上，

那儿众多的国王和众多

国王的女儿已去，

来到秀丽的树林和草地，

吹着笛，跳起舞，

明白最好的事情，

便是在跳舞时更换爱人，

仅用一吻换一吻。

我将在水边找到

一只野兔的锁骨，

它被海水研磨，变得透薄，

然后用锥子刺穿，凝视着

人们在教堂结婚的、那古老而悲惨的世界，

在平静的水面上方，嘲笑

所有在教堂结婚的人，

透过野兔白而薄的骨头。

对她的赞美

我愿在听到的那些赞美里，她排首位。

我在屋里四处走动，上下来回

像一个人出版了一本新书，

或一个年轻的姑娘穿上了新衣，

尽管我竭力转变话题

让对她的赞美成为最高的主题，

一个女人仍在讲述她读过的新书，

一个男人仍在半梦中困惑着，

仿佛别的名字跑进了他的脑海。

我愿在听到的那些赞美里，她排首位。

我将不再谈论书或漫长的战争，

只是在干枯的荆棘旁走着，

直到发现有个乞丐在避风，

她的名字出现在主导的谈话里。

即使衣衫褴褛，他仍会知道她的名字

并且愉快地记得，在旧时

尽管她受年轻人赞美，老年人责难，

但在穷人间，无论老少都对她称赞不已。

一九一六年复活节[1]

白日结束时，我遇见他们

带着鲜活的面容，

从灰暗的十八世纪房子

那些柜台或办公桌走来。

我路过时，点点头

或者说些客套的闲话，

或者逗留一会儿，说些

客套的闲话，

尽管这之前，我已想到用

讽刺的故事或挖苦的言语

去取悦我的同伴，

在俱乐部的炉火旁，

确信他们和我一样

不过是生活在小丑之地：

一切都变了，完全变了：

一种可怕的美诞生了。

那个女人将白天消耗

在无知的良好意愿里，

她的夜晚用于争论，

直到声音变得尖锐。

还有什么声音比她的更甜美，

当，她年轻美丽

骑马猎兔？

这个男人办了所学校，

骑着我们的飞马[2]；

那是他的助手和朋友

正加入他的部队；

他可能最终赢得声名，

他的天性多么敏感，

他的思想多么大胆甜美。

另一个人，我曾认为

是个酒鬼，虚荣自负的蠢人。

他对我某个心爱的人

做过最痛心的错事，

但我将他列入歌中；

他，也放弃了他的角色，

在那偶然的喜剧中。

轮到他时，他也变了，

完全变了：

一种可怕的美诞生了。

众多的心怀着一个目的

历经夏日和冬季，似乎

中了魔法，变成石头

去扰乱活跃的溪流。

从路上而来的马匹，

骑手，在翻滚的云朵间

排列的鸟群，

它们每一分钟都在改变；

一只马蹄滑落到水边，

一匹马在水中泼溅；

一只长腿母松鸡俯冲而下

对着公松鸡呼叫。

它们每一分钟都在生活：

石头居于这一切的中心。

太漫长的牺牲

能将一颗心造就成石头，

哦，何时才能到头？

只有上天才能回答，我们

只能低声念着一个个名字，

像母亲叫唤他的孩子，

当睡意最终降临

在跑得狂野的四肢之上，

除了夜晚还能是什么？

不，不，这不是夜晚而是死；

这死终究是不必要的吗？

因为英格兰也许会信守承诺

为它做过和说过的一切。

我们知道他们的梦想，知道

他们梦想过然后死了，这就足够；

假如爱的过量

使他们迷惑至死又能怎样？

我在诗中写下——

麦克唐纳和麦克布莱德，

康诺利和皮尔斯，

现在，以及以后，

在任何身着绿装的地方，

一切都变了，完全变了：

一种可怕的美诞生了。

1916年9月25日

[1] 1916年4月24日，复活节的第二天，爱尔兰共和兄弟会在都柏林起义，宣告爱尔兰共和国成立。不久被英格兰镇压，包括诗中提及的麦克唐纳、麦克布莱德、康诺利、皮尔斯等十五位领导人遇害。

[2] 飞马（winged horse）,指的是希腊神话中的飞马珀伽索斯，相传珀伽索斯在赫利孔山上踏过时踩出了泉水，诗人饮之可获灵感，因此它也被视为文艺缪斯的标志。

十六个死者

哦，我们只是谈了很多，

在这十六人被射杀之前，

但谁又能谈论取舍，

什么该存在什么不该，

当那些死者还在徘徊，

搅动着沸腾的锅？

你说我们应保持国土平静，

直到德国人的征服；

但谁还在那儿争论，

既然皮尔斯已聋了瞎了？

而他们的逻辑能压倒

麦克唐纳精瘦的拇指？

你怎能梦想他们会听，

他们的一只耳朵只对

他们找到的新同伴敞开，

爱德华勋爵和沃尔夫·托尼，

或者那些骨与骨的交谈

会干预我们的取舍？

第二次降临

旋转旋转，在扩大的旋涡中，

猎鹰不再听从驯鹰者；

万物四散，中心无法维持；

唯有混乱弥散世间，

暗红的潮流奔涌，每一处

天真的典礼都被淹没；

最好的人缺乏信念，最坏的人

充满极度的狂热。

当然某种启示即将到来；

当然第二次降临即将到来。

第二次降临！这几个词刚说出口，

来自“世界之灵”[1]的巨大图像

便扰乱了我的视线：沙漠中的某处，

一个狮身人头的形体，

凝视如太阳般空洞无情，

正缓慢地拖着腿，而在它四周

沙漠上愤怒的鸟群投下圈圈阴影。

黑暗再次落下；但我现在知道

坚实沉睡着的二十世纪

在摇晃的发源地旁被扰成了噩梦，

何种粗野的巨兽，它的时刻最终来临，

笨拙地朝着伯利恒去投生？

[1] 世界之灵（spiritus mundi），源自拉丁语spīritusmundī，是储存一切知识和经验的仓库，即所谓的大记忆。

驶向拜占庭

Ⅰ

那不是老年人的国度。年轻人

在彼此的怀抱中。鸟在树上

这垂死的世代，唱着它们的歌。

鲑鱼的瀑布，鲭鱼群集的海，

鱼，兽，或家禽，整个夏日都在赞颂

这孕育、出生、死去的一切。

所有人沉溺于感官的音乐，忽略了

不朽的理性的纪念碑。

Ⅱ

老人只是微不足道的事物，

一件拐杖上的破衣烂裳，除非

灵魂拍手歌唱，更响亮地歌唱

那尘世衣裳的每一处破烂，

没有一处音乐学校不研读

它自身辉煌的陈迹；

因此我扬帆远航，来到

这神圣的城市拜占庭。

Ⅲ

哦，圣人们站在上帝的圣火中

像在墙上的金镶嵌画里，

从圣火中出来吧，在回旋中转动，

做我灵魂的歌唱导师。

耗尽我的心吧；它因欲望成疾，

被绑在垂死的动物身上，

它不知道它所是；请将我纳入

那永恒的技艺里。

Ⅳ

一旦脱离自然，我将永不

采用任何自然事物的形体，

而是要希腊金匠用锻金

和镀金制造的那种形态，

以让昏睡的君主清醒；

或者停留在金枝上，为

拜占庭的先生和女士们歌唱

过去、现在以及未来的事物。

1927年

内战时期的沉思（节选）

Ⅵ 我窗边的欧椋鸟巢

蜂群筑巢，在松动的墙壁

缝隙里，在那儿

母鸟带来了蛴螬和蝇虫。

我的墙松了，蜜蜂，

来欧椋鸟的空房筑巢吧。

我们关在里面，钥匙转动

在我们的确定之外；某处

有人被杀，或有房子被焚，

但没有清晰的事实去确认：

来欧椋鸟的空房筑巢吧。

石头或木头做的街垒；

内战时期的十四天；

昨夜他们沿路运送

一个浑身是血的年轻士兵：

来欧椋鸟的空房筑巢吧。

我们用幻想喂养心灵，

心因这食粮变得残忍；

相比我们的爱，我们的敌意里

有更多的实质；哦，蜜蜂，

来欧椋鸟的空房筑巢吧。

丽达与天鹅

猛然一击，巨大的双翼仍拍打着

在晃动的女孩上方，她的双腿

被黑色的蹼爱抚，她的颈背叼在他的喙里，

他用他的胸包裹住她无助的胸脯。

那些惊吓未定的手指如何

将多羽的荣耀推离她松开的双腿？

那躺在白色激流中的身体

怎能不感到他身下奇异的心跳？

腰部的一次战栗引发

城墙的坍塌、屋顶和塔楼的焚毁，

以及阿伽门农的死。

　　　　　　　被如此捕捉，

被空中野蛮的血如此控制，

她是否从他的力量中吸取了他的知识，

在那冷漠的喙放开她之前？

1923年

在学童中间

Ⅰ

我走过长长的教室询问；

戴白头巾的和善老修女作答；

孩子们要学习算术和唱歌，

学习阅读和历史，

学习剪裁缝补，以最现代的方式

规整所有事物——孩子们的双眼

带着瞬间的惊奇，凝视着

一个六十岁微笑的公众人物。

Ⅱ

我梦见一个丽达似的身体，俯身

在沉没的火堆上，她讲一个故事，

有关刺耳的谴责或微小的事件

将稚气的一天变成悲剧——

说完，出于年轻人的同感，

我们两种天性混合为一个球体，

或者，改一下柏拉图的比喻，

成为同一个壳里的蛋黄和蛋清。

Ⅲ

想起那一阵悲伤或愤怒，

我看着这个或那个小孩，

想知道她在那个年纪是否也这样站过——

因为即使是天鹅的女儿也能分享

每一个涉水者所传承的事物——

是否有那种颜色的脸颊或头发，

因此我的心变得狂野：

她站在我面前，像个鲜活的孩子。

Ⅳ

她现在的形象飘进我的心中——

是十五世纪的匠人将它塑造

成脸颊凹陷的模样，像啜饮了风

吞食了大量的阴影？

尽管我从不是丽达的种类，

但也曾有美丽的羽毛——那足够了，

最好是以微笑面对所有微笑，显示出

这是一个知足的老稻草人。

Ⅴ

什么样年轻的母亲，膝上的身形

已被生殖之蜜背叛，

不得不睡觉、尖叫，挣扎着逃离，

如回忆或药物所决定的那样，

如果看见那身形，头上带着六十个

或更多的严冬，她会认为她的儿子

是一种补偿吗，对生他的剧痛，

或是对他前程的不确定性？

Ⅵ

柏拉图认为自然不过是泡沫，

在万物幽灵般的范式上游戏；

更为结实的亚里士多德执鞭

抽打万王之王的下体；

举世闻名的金大腿毕达哥拉斯

用手指拨弄琴弓或琴弦，

演凑一曲星辰之歌，被无心的缪斯听见；

老手杖上的旧衣裳吓坏了一只鸟。

Ⅶ

修女和母亲们都崇拜偶像，

但那些烛光所照亮的并不是

赋予母亲的空想以生命的东西，

不过是维护了大理石和青铜像——哦，诸神

那激情、虔诚或喜爱所知道的，

那所有天国的荣耀所象征的——

哦，人类事业自我生长的嘲弄者。

Ⅷ

劳作是开花或舞蹈，在那儿

身体不会因取悦灵魂而挫伤，

美不会诞生于自身的绝望，

老眼昏花的智慧不会出自午夜的油灯。

哦，栗子树，根系粗壮的绽放者，

你是叶子、花朵还是树干？

哦，随音乐摇摆的身体，哦，明亮的眼神，

我们如何能分辨舞蹈和舞者？

最后的独白 一个女人的青春和老年（节选）

在所有睡过的人里

哪个鲜活的少年最能取悦我？

我回答说我给了我的灵魂

而爱得痛苦。

但给予很多快乐的却是

那我以肉体相爱的少年。

从他的双臂间挣脱，我大笑，

想到他如此激情，

他以为我给了灵魂，

但那不过是肉体相触而已，

我在他怀里大笑，想着

野兽间也能给予这么多。

我给了其他女人能给的，

当她们脱掉了衣裳。

但当肉体脱落，灵魂

从赤裸走向赤裸，

会发现，他在里面找到了

无人知晓的东西。

他在他的权限内支配，

给出他的，也拿走他的；

尽管爱很痛苦，

如此紧紧地贴着身，

但没有一只白日的鸟

敢压制那快乐。

青金石雕

（致哈里·克里夫顿）

我听到那些歇斯底里的女人说，

她们已厌倦了总是很快乐的

诗人的调色板和琴弓，

因为每个人都知道或应该知道

如果没有激烈的事情发生，

飞机和飞艇将会出现，

像比利王[1]投掷炸弹，

直到将城镇夷为平地。

所有人都在表演他们的悲剧，

这是高傲的哈姆雷特，这是李尔王，

那是奥菲利亚，那是科迪莉亚；

但他们到了最后一幕，

巨大的帷幕将会落下，

如果配得上剧中的重要角色，

他们不会中断台词而哭泣。

他们知道哈姆雷特和李尔王是快乐的；

快乐改变了所有那恐惧的。

所有人都有目标，寻找和失落；

终止；天国的光照进头脑：

悲剧行进到高潮。

尽管哈姆雷特在漫步，李尔王在愤怒，

所有的幕布立即垂落，

在一万个舞台上，

它不能增长一英寸或一盎司。

他们来了，步行，坐船，

或骑着骆驼、马、驴、骡，

古老的文明惨遭屠戮。

接着，他们和他们的智慧陷于毁灭。

不再有卡利马科斯[2]的手工艺品了，

他雕刻大理石像是在铸造青铜，

塑造看起来飘动的衣物，

仿佛有海风吹过角落，挺立着；

他那长长的灯罩，形状像是

细长棕榈树的枝干，但也只立了一天；

万物崩溃，而又重建，

而那些重建的人是快乐的。

两个中国人，第三个在他们身后，

被刻在青金石雕上，

他们头上，飞过一只长腿的鸟，

象征着长寿；

第三个人，无疑是仆人，

背着一件乐器。

石头上每一处褪色的斑点，

每一处偶然的裂缝或凹痕，

看起来像是一条河或一次雪崩，

或是仍在落雪的高耸的斜坡，

而确切无疑地，李子树或樱桃枝

美化了半途上的小屋。

那些中国人向上爬着，而我

乐于想象他们坐在那儿；

凝望着山和天空，

以及所有悲剧的场景。

其中一个要求听首悲伤的曲子；

娴熟的手指便开始弹奏。

他们的眼睛，四周布满皱纹，他们的眼睛，

他们古老的、闪烁的眼睛，是快乐的。

[1] 比利王（King Billy），即威廉三世，小名比利。

[2] 卡利马科斯（Callimachus）,古希腊建筑家、雕塑家。

然后呢？

在校时，他挑选的同伴们认为

他必将成为一个名人；

他也这么想，生活异常规律，

他的第三个十年，布满艰辛；

“然后呢？”柏拉图的幽灵唱，“然后呢？”

他写的所有事情都被传阅，

过了多年，他有了

足够的钱，供他所需，

朋友们倒都是真朋友；

“然后呢？”柏拉图的幽灵唱，“然后呢？”

所有他快乐的梦想都变成现实——

一栋小小的老房子，妻子，女儿，儿子，

地上长着李子树和卷心菜，

诗人和智者被吸引在他四周；

“然后呢？”柏拉图的幽灵唱，“然后呢？”

“工作完成了，”年老时他想，

“依照我孩童时的计划；

让蠢人去叫嚣吧，我未背离分毫，

事情进展得很完满。”

但那幽灵唱得更响了：“然后呢？”

布尔本山下（节选）

Ⅵ

在光秃秃的布尔本山顶下，

叶芝躺在德拉姆克利夫墓地里。

很多年前，他的祖先

曾是附近一座教堂的牧师，

路旁还有古老的十字架。

不用大理石，不用惯用的措辞；

在附近采石场的石灰岩上

按他的要求刻下这些话：

投下冷眼，

看着生和死，

骑手，路过！

1938年9月4日

受抚慰的库丘林

这人身负六处致命伤，这人

残暴、著名，在死者间阔步而行；

双眼自枝叶间凝望，而后离去。

然后某些交头接耳的尸衣

来了又去。他靠在一棵树上

仿佛在沉思伤口和血。

一件看起来很有权威的尸衣

在那些看似鸟儿的事物中走来，

扔下一捆麻布。两三个尸衣

爬上来，因为那人静止不动；

因此那个带来麻布的人说：

“你的生活会更美好，如果你

遵守我们古老的规则，制一件尸衣。

主要是因为我们所知道的仅仅是

那些武器的咯咯响声让我们害怕。

我们穿针引线，我们所做的

必须是我们所有人一起做。”他们做好后，

这人捡起最近的麻布，开始缝制。

“现在我们得吟唱，竭尽所能唱得最好，

但首先我们得向你告知我们的角色：

被亲友杀死，或被赶出家门

在恐惧中死去的，有罪的懦夫。”

他们唱着，但不是用人类的音调或语言，

尽管所做的一切都如之前那般普通；

他们却改变了他们的歌喉，有了鸟群的歌喉。

1939年1月13日

马戏团动物的逃亡

Ⅰ

我寻找一个主题，徒劳地寻找，

有六个星期左右，我每天都在找。

可能到最后，我会一无所有，

但我必须满足我的心，尽管

历经冬日和夏季，直至老年开始，

我的马戏团动物都在表演，

那些踩高跷的男孩、油亮的战车，

狮子，以及女士和先生们知道的那些。

Ⅱ

除了列举古老的主题，我能做什么？

首先是海骑士奥辛牵着我的鼻子

穿过三座迷人的岛，寓言般的梦境，

徒劳的快乐，徒劳的战斗，徒劳的休眠，

诸多怨恨之心的主题，或者看起来是，

用来装饰古老的歌或宫廷表演；

但我让他驰骋又有什么可忧虑的，

我，渴求他仙女般新娘的胸脯？

然后一个相反的事实填入戏剧中，

我给它起名为《凯瑟琳女伯爵》，

她，极度的怜悯，让她放弃了灵魂，

但主宰一切的上天干预，拯救了它。

我以为我亲爱的必将毁灭她的灵魂，

让执着和憎恨奴役它，

而这催生了一个梦，并且很快

这个梦本身就拥有了我所有的思想和爱。

当蠢货和盲人偷走了面包，

库丘林则与不受支配的海战斗；

这就是心的神秘之处，而当所有都已说尽，

是梦本身迷住了我：

角色被一份事业所隔绝

去独占现在，去支配记忆。

演员和多彩的舞台占据了我所有的爱，

而不是那些它们所象征的事物。

Ⅲ

那些主宰一切的形象因其完整

在纯洁的心智中成长，但又从何开始？

一堆垃圾，或者街道上的残渣，

旧水壶，旧瓶子，和一个破烂的罐子，

老铁，老骨头，老旧的破衣服，那守着

钱柜的疯狂的荡妇。既然我的梯子已被撤去，

我必须躺下，在所有梯子起始的地方，

在我的心，那污秽的破烂商铺里。

政治

在我们的时代，人的命运

在政治范畴内呈现其意义。

——托马斯·曼

女孩站着那儿，我怎能

将心思集中

在罗马或俄罗斯

或西班牙的政治上？

但这儿有位阅遍世事的人，

他知道他谈论的是什么，

那儿有个政治家，

既博学又多思，

也许他们说的是真的

有关战争和战争预警，

但是啊，如果我再次年轻，

会将她拥入怀中。

Down by the Salley Gardens

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;

She passed the salley gardens with little snow- white feet.

She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;

But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand,

And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow- white hand.

She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;

But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

Cuchulain’s Fight with the Sea

A man came slowly from the setting sun,

To Emer, raddling raiment in her dun,

And said, ‘I am that swineherd whom you bid

Go watch the road between the wood and tide,

But now I have no need to watch it more.’

Then Emer cast the web upon the floor,

And raising arms all raddled with the dye,

Parted her lips with a loud sudden cry.

That swineherd stared upon her face and said,

‘No man alive, no man among the dead,

Has won the gold his cars of battle bring.’

‘But if your master comes home triumphing

Why must you blench and shake from foot to crown?’

Thereon he shook the more and cast him down

Upon the web- heaped floor, and cried his word:

‘With him is one sweet- throated like a bird.’

‘You dare me to my face,’ and thereupon

She smote with raddled fist, and where her son

Herded the cattle came with stumbling feet,

And cried with angry voice, ‘It is not meet

To idle life away, a common herd.’

‘I have long waited, mother, for that word:

But wherefore now?’

　　　　　　　‘There is a man to die;

You have the heaviest arm under the sky.’

‘Whether under its daylight or its stars

My father stands amid his battle- cars.’

‘But you have grown to be the taller man.’

‘Yet somewhere under starlight or the sun

My father stands.’

　　　　　　　‘Aged, worn out with wars

On foot, on horseback or in battle- cars.’

‘I only ask what way my journey lies,

For He who made you bitter made you wise.’

‘The Red Branch camp in a great company

Between wood’s rim and the horses of the sea.

Go there, and light a camp- fire at wood’s rim;

But tell your name and lineage to him

Whose blade compels, and wait till they have found

Some feasting man that the same oath has bound.’

Among those feasting men Cuchulain dwelt,

And his young sweetheart close beside him knelt,

Stared on the mournful wonder of his eyes,

Even as Spring upon the ancient skies,

And pondered on the glory of his days;

And all around the harp- string told his praise,

And Conchubar, the Red Branch king of kings,

With his own fingers touched the brazen strings.

At last Cuchulain spake, ‘Some man has made

His evening fire amid the leafy shade.

I have often heard him singing to and fro,

I have often heard the sweet sound of his bow.

Seek out what man he is.’

　　　　　　　One went and came.

‘He bade me let all know he gives his name

At the sword- point, and waits till we have found

Some feasting man that the same oath has bound.’

Cuchulain cried, ‘I am the only man

Of all this host so bound from childhood on.’

After short fighting in the leafy shade,

He spake to the young man, ‘Is there no maid

Who loves you, no white arms to wrap you round,

Or do you long for the dim sleepy ground,

That you have come and dared me to my face?’

‘The dooms of men are in God’s hidden place.’

‘Your head a while seemed like a woman’s head

That I loved once.’

　　　　　　　Again the fighting sped,

But now the war- rage in Cuchulain woke,

And through that new blade’s guard the old blade broke,

And pierced him.

　　　　　　　‘Speak before your breath is done.’

‘Cuchulain I, mighty Cuchulain’s son.’

‘I put you from your pain, I can no more.’

While day its burden on to evening bore,

With head bowed on his knees Cuchulain stayed;

Then Conchubar sent that sweet- throated maid,

And she, to win him, his grey hair caressed;

In vain her arms, in vain her soft white breast.

Then Conchubar, the subtlest of all men,

Ranking his Druids round him ten by ten,

Spake thus: ‘Cuchulain will dwell there and brood

For three days more in dreadful quietude,

And then arise, and raving slay us all.

Chaunt in his ear delusions magical,

That he may fight the horses of the sea.’

The Druids took them to their mystery,

And chaunted for three days.

　　　　　　　Cuchulain stirred,

Stared on the horses of the sea, and heard

The cars of battle and his own name cried;

And fought with the invulnerable tide.

When You are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

The Song of Wandering Aengus

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth- like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire aflame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And some one called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half- light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

The Folly of Being Comforted

One that is ever kind said yesterday:

‘Your well- belovèd’s hair has threads of grey,

And little shadows come about her eyes;

Time can but make it easier to be wise

Though now it seems impossible, and so

All that you need is patience.’

　　　　　　　Heart cries, ‘No,

I have not a crumb of comfort, not a grain.

Time can but make her beauty over again:

Because of that great nobleness of hers

The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs,

Burns but more clearly. O she had not these ways

When all the wild summer was in her gaze.’

O heart! O heart! if she’d but turn her head,

You’d know the folly of being comforted.

Adam’s Curse

We sat together at one summer’s end,

That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,

And you and I, and talked of poetry.

I said, ‘A line will take us hours maybe;

Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,

Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

Better go down upon your marrow- bones

And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones

Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;

For to articulate sweet sounds together

Is to work harder than all these, and yet

Be thought an idler by the noisy set

Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen

The martyrs call the world.’

　　　　　　　And thereupon

That beautiful mild woman for whose sake

There’s many a one shall find out all heartache

On finding that her voice is sweet and low

Replied, ‘To be born woman is to know –

Although they do not talk of it at school –

That we must labour to be beautiful.’

I said, ‘It’s certain there is no fine thing

Since Adam’s fall but needs much labouring.

There have been lovers who thought love should be

So much compounded of high courtesy

That they would sigh and quote with learned looks

Precedents out of beautiful old books;

Yet now it seems an idle trade enough.’

We sat grown quiet at the name of love;

We saw the last embers of daylight die,

And in the trembling blue- green of the sky

A moon, worn as if it had been a shell

Washed by time’s waters as they rose and fell

About the stars and broke in days and years.

I had a thought for no one’s but your ears:

That you were beautiful, and that I strove

To love you in the old high way of love;

That it had all seemed happy, and yet we’d grown

As weary- hearted as that hollow moon.

No Second Troy

Why should I blame her that she filled my days

With misery, or that she would of late

Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,

Or hurled the little streets upon the great,

Had they but courage equal to desire?

What could have made her peaceful with a mind

That nobleness made simple as a fire,

With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind

That is not natural in an age like this,

Being high and solitary and most stern?

Why, what could she have done, being what she is?

Was there another Troy for her to burn?

The Fascination of What’s Difficult

The fascination of what’s difficult

Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent

Spontaneous joy and natural content

Out of my heart. There’s something ails our colt

That must, as if it had not holy blood

Nor on Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud,

Shiver under the lash, strain, sweat and jolt

As though it dragged road metal. My curse on plays

That have to be set up in fifty ways,

On the day’s war with every knave and dolt,

Theatre business, management of men.

I swear before the dawn comes round again

I’ll find the stable and pull out the bolt.

The Coming of Wisdom with Time

Though leaves are many, the root is one;

Through all the lying days of my youth

I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;

Now I may wither into the truth.

At Galway Races

There where the course is,

Delight makes all of the one mind,

The riders upon the galloping horses,

The crowd that closes in behind:

We, too, had good attendance once,

Hearers and hearteners of the work;

Aye, horsemen for companions,

Before the merchant and the clerk

Breathed on the world with timid breath.

Sing on: somewhere at some new moon,

We’ll learn that sleeping is not death,

Hearing the whole earth change its tune,

Its flesh being wild, and it again

Crying aloud as the racecourse is,

And we find hearteners among men

That ride upon horses.

September 1913

What need you, being come to sense,

But fumble in a greasy till

And add the halfpence to the pence

And prayer to shivering prayer, until

You have dried the marrow from the bone;

For men were born to pray and save:

Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,

It’s with O’Leary in the grave.

Yet they were of a different kind,

The names that stilled your childish play,

They have gone about the world like wind,

But little time had they to pray

For whom the hangman’s rope was spun,

And what, God help us, could they save?

Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,

It’s with O’Leary in the grave.

Was it for this the wild geese spread

The grey wing upon every tide;

For this that all that blood was shed,

For this Edward Fitzgerald died,

And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,

All that delirium of the brave?

Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,

It’s with O’Leary in the grave.

Yet could we turn the years again,

And call those exiles as they were

In all their loneliness and pain,

You’d cry, ‘Some woman’s yellow hair

Has maddened every mother’s son’:

They weighed so lightly what they gave.

But let them be, they’re dead and gone,

They’re with O’Leary in the grave.

To a Friend whose Work has come to Nothing

Now all the truth is out,

Be secret and take defeat

From any brazen throat,

For how can you compete,

Being honour bred, with one

Who, were it proved he lies,

Were neither shamed in his own

Nor in his neighbours’ eyes?

Bred to a harder thing

Than Triumph, turn away

And like a laughing string

Whereon mad fingers play

Amid a place of stone,

Be secret and exult,

Because of all things known

That is most difficult.

Paudeen

Indignant at the fumbling wits, the obscure spite

Of our old Paudeen in his shop, I stumbled blind

Among the stones and thorn- trees, under morning light;

Until a curlew cried and in the luminous wind

A curlew answered; and suddenly thereupon I thought

That on the lonely height where all are in God’s eye,

There cannot be, confusion of our sound forgot,

A single soul that lacks a sweet crystalline cry.

Fallen Majesty

Although crowds gathered once if she but showed her face,

And even old men’s eyes grew dim, this hand alone,

Like some last courtier at a gypsy camping- place

Babbling of fallen majesty, records what’s gone.

The lineaments, a heart that laughter has made sweet,

These, these remain, but I record what’s gone. A crowd

Will gather, and not know it walks the very street

Whereon a thing once walked that seemed a burning cloud.

The Cold Heaven

Suddenly I saw the cold and rook- delighting heaven

That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice,

And thereupon imagination and heart were driven

So wild that every casual thought of that and this

Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out of season

With the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago;

And I took all the blame out of all sense and reason,

Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro,

Riddled with light. Ah! when the ghost begins to quicken,

Confusion of the death- bed over, is it sent

Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken

By the injustice of the skies for punishment?

The Magi

Now as at all times I can see in the mind’s eye,

In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones

Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky

With all their ancient faces like rain- beaten stones,

And all their helms of silver hovering side by side,

And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more,

Being by Calvary’s turbulence unsatisfied,

The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

A Coat

I made my song a coat

Covered with embroideries

Out of old mythologies

From heel to throat;

But the fools caught it,

Wore it in the world’s eyes

As though they’d wrought it.

Song, let them take it,

For there’s more enterprise

In walking naked.

The Wild Swans at Coole

The trees are in their autumn beauty,

The woodland paths are dry,

Under the October twilight the water

Mirrors a still sky;

Upon the brimming water among the stones

Are nine- and- fifty swans.

The nineteenth autumn has come upon me

Since I first made my count;

I saw, before I had well finished,

All suddenly mount

And scatter wheeling in great broken rings

Upon their clamorous wings.

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,

And now my heart is sore.

All’s changed since I, hearing at twilight,

The first time on this shore,

The bell- beat of their wings above my head,

Trod with a lighter tread.

Unwearied still, lover by lover,

They paddle in the cold

Companionable streams or climb the air;

Their hearts have not grown old;

Passion or conquest, wander where they will,

Attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water,

Mysterious, beautiful;

Among what rushes will they build,

By what lake’s edge or pool

Delight men’s eyes when I awake some day

To find they have flown away?

An Irish Airman Foresees his Death

I know that I shall meet my fate

Somewhere among the clouds above;

Those that I fight I do not hate,

Those that I guard I do not love;

My country is Kiltartan Cross,

My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,

No likely end could bring them loss

Or leave them happier than before.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,

Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,

A lonely impulse of delight

Drove to this tumult in the clouds;

I balanced all, brought all to mind,

The years to come seemed waste of breath,

A waste of breath the years behind

In balance with this life, this death.

The Collar- Bone of a Hare

Would I could cast a sail on the water

Where many a king has gone

And many a king’s daughter,

And alight at the comely trees and the lawn,

The playing upon pipes and the dancing,

And learn that the best thing is

To change my loves while dancing

And pay but a kiss for a kiss.

I would find by the edge of that water

The collar- bone of a hare

Worn thin by the lapping of water,

And pierce it through with a gimlet, and stare

At the old bitter world where they marry in churches,

And laugh over the untroubled water

At all who marry in churches,

Through the white thin bone of a hare.

Her Praise

She is foremost of those that I would hear praised.

I have gone about the house, gone up and down

As a man does who has published a new book,

Or a young girl dressed out in her new gown,

And though I have turned the talk by hook or crook

Until her praise should be the uppermost theme,

A woman spoke of some new tale she had read,

A man confusedly in a half dream

As though some other name ran in his head.

She is foremost of those that I would hear praised.

I will talk no more of books or the long war

But walk by the dry thorn until I have found

Some beggar sheltering from the wind, and there

Manage the talk until her name come round.

If there be rags enough he will know her name

And be well pleased remembering it, for in the old days,

Though she had young men’s praise and old men’s blame,

Among the poor both old and young gave her praise.

Easter 1916

I have met them at close of day

Coming with vivid faces

From counter or desk among grey

Eighteenth- century houses.

I have passed with a nod of the head

Or polite meaningless words,

Or have lingered awhile and said

Polite meaningless words,

And thought before I had done

Of a mocking tale or a gibe

To please a companion

Around the fire at the club,

Being certain that they and I

But lived where motley is worn:

All changed, changed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born.

That woman’s days were spent

In ignorant good- will,

Her nights in argument

Until her voice grew shrill.

What voice more sweet than hers

When, young and beautiful,

She rode to harriers?

This man had kept a school

And rode our wingèd horse;

This other his helper and friend

Was coming into his force;

He might have won fame in the end,

So sensitive his nature seemed,

So daring and sweet his thought.

This other man I had dreamed

A drunken, vainglorious lout.

He had done most bitter wrong

To some who are near my heart,

Yet I number him in the song;

He, too, has resigned his part

In the casual comedy;

He, too, has been changed in his turn,

Transformed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone

Through summer and winter seem

Enchanted to a stone

To trouble the living stream.

The horse that comes from the road,

The rider, the birds that range

From cloud to tumbling cloud,

Minute by minute they change;

A shadow of cloud on the stream

Changes minute by minute;

A horse- hoof slides on the brim,

And a horse plashes within it;

The long- legged moor- hens dive,

And hens to moor- cocks call;

Minute by minute they live:

The stone’s in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice

Can make a stone of the heart.

O when may it suffice?

That is Heaven’s part, our part

To murmur name upon name,

As a mother names her child

When sleep at last has come

On limbs that had run wild.

What is it but nightfall?

No, no, not night but death;

Was it needless death after all?

For England may keep faith

For all that is done and said.

We know their dream; enough

To know they dreamed and are dead;

And what if excess of love

Bewildered them till they died?

I write it out in a verse –

MacDonagh and MacBride

And Connolly and Pearse

Now and in time to be,

Wherever green is worn,

Are changed, changed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born.

September 25, 1916

Sixteen Dead Men

O but we talked at large before

The sixteen men were shot,

But who can talk of give and take,

What should be and what not

While those dead men are loitering there

To stir the boiling pot?

You say that we should still the land

Till Germany’s overcome;

But who is there to argue that

Now Pearse is deaf and dumb?

And is their logic to outweigh

MacDonagh’s bony thumb?

How could you dream they’d listen

That have an ear alone

For those new comrades they have found,

Lord Edward and Wolfe Tone,

Or meddle with our give and take

That converse bone to bone?

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood- dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again; but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Sailing to Byzantium

I

That is no country for old men. The young

In one another’s arms, birds in the trees

– Those dying generations – at their song,

The salmon- falls, the mackerel- crowded seas,

Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long

Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.

Caught in that sensual music all neglect

Monuments of unageing intellect.

II

An aged man is but a paltry thing,

A tattered coat upon a stick, unless

Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing

For every tatter in its mortal dress,

Nor is there singing school but studying

Monuments of its own magnificence;

And therefore I have sailed the seas and come

To the holy city of Byzantium.

III

O sages standing in God’s holy fire

As in the gold mosaic of a wall,

Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,

And be the singing- masters of my soul.

Consume my heart away; sick with desire

And fastened to a dying animal

It knows not what it is; and gather me

Into the artifice of eternity.

IV

Once out of nature I shall never take

My bodily form from any natural thing,

But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make

Of hammered gold and gold enamelling

To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;

Or set upon a golden bough to sing

To lords and ladies of Byzantium

Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

1927

Meditations in Time of Civil War

from Meditations in Time of Civil War

VI

The STare’S NeST by my WINdoW

The bees build in the crevices

Of loosening masonry, and there

The mother birds bring grubs and flies.

My wall is loosening; honey- bees,

Come build in the empty house of the stare.

We are closed in, and the key is turned

On our uncertainty; somewhere

A man is killed, or a house burned,

Yet no clear fact to be discerned:

Come build in the empty house of the stare.

A barricade of stone or of wood;

Some fourteen days of civil war;

Last night they trundled down the road

That dead young soldier in his blood:

Come build in the empty house of the stare.

We had fed the heart on fantasies,

The heart’s grown brutal from the fare;

More substance in our enmities

Than in our love; O honey- bees,

Come build in the empty house of the stare.

Leda and the Swan

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still

Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed

By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,

He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push

The feathered glory from her loosening thighs,

And how can body, laid in that white rush,

But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there

The broken wall, the burning roof and tower

And Agamemnon dead.

　　　　　　　Being so caught up,

So mastered by the brute blood of the air,

Did she put on his knowledge with his power

Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

1923

Among School Children

I

I walk through the long schoolroom questioning;

A kind old nun in a white hood replies;

The children learn to cipher and to sing,

To study reading books and histories,

To cut and sew, be neat in everything

In the best modern way – the children’s eyes

In momentary wonder stare upon

A sixty- year- old smiling public man.

II

I dream of a Ledaean body, bent

Above a sinking fire, a tale that she

Told of a harsh reproof, or trivial event

That changed some childish day to tragedy –

Told, and it seemed that our two natures blent

Into a sphere from youthful sympathy,

Or else, to alter Plato’s parable,

Into the yolk and white of the one shell.

III

And thinking of that fit of grief or rage

I look upon one child or t’other there

And wonder if she stood so at that age –

For even daughters of the swan can share

Something of every paddler’s heritage –

And had that colour upon cheek or hair,

And thereupon my heart is driven wild:

She stands before me as a living child.

IV

Her present image floats into the mind –

Did Quattrocento finger fashion it

Hollow of cheek as though it drank the wind

And took a mess of shadows for its meat?

And I though never of Ledaean kind

Had pretty plumage once – enough of that,

Better to smile on all that smile, and show

There is a comfortable kind of old scarecrow.

V

What youthful mother, a shape upon her lap

Honey of generation had betrayed,

And that must sleep, shriek, struggle to escape

As recollection or the drug decide,

Would think her son, did she but see that shape

With sixty or more winters on its head,

A compensation for the pang of his birth,

Or the uncertainty of his setting forth?

VI

Plato thought nature but a spume that plays

Upon a ghostly paradigm of things;

Solider Aristotle played the taws

Upon the bottom of a king of kings;

World- famous golden- thighed Pythagoras

Fingered upon a fiddle- stick or strings

What a star sang and careless Muses heard:

Old clothes upon old sticks to scare a bird.

VII

Both nuns and mothers worship images,

But those the candles light are not as those

That animate a mother’s reveries,

But keep a marble or a bronze repose.

And yet they too break hearts – O Presences

That passion, piety or affection knows,

And that all heavenly glory symbolise –

O self- born mockers of man’s enterprise;

VIII

Labour is blossoming or dancing where

The body is not bruised to pleasure soul,

Nor beauty born out of its own despair,

Nor blear- eyed wisdom out of midnight oil.

O chestnut- tree, great rooted blossomer,

Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?

O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,

How can we know the dancer from the dance?

A Woman Young and Old

from A Woman Young and Old

IX

a LaST CoNfeSSIoN

What lively lad most pleasured me

Of all that with me lay?

I answer that I gave my soul

And loved in misery,

But had great pleasure with a lad

That I loved bodily.

Flinging from his arms I laughed

To think his passion such

He fancied that I gave a soul

Did but our bodies touch,

And laughed upon his breast to think

Beast gave beast as much.

I gave what other women gave

That stepped out of their clothes,

But when this soul, its body off,

Naked to naked goes,

He it has found shall find therein

What none other knows,

And give his own and take his own

And rule in his own right;

And though it loved in misery

Close and cling so tight,

There’s not a bird of day that dare

Extinguish that delight.

Lapis Lazuli

(for harry CLIfToN)

I have heard that hysterical women say

They are sick of the palette and fiddle- bow,

Of poets that are always gay,

For everybody knows or else should know

That if nothing drastic is done

Aeroplane and Zeppelin will come out,

Pitch like King Billy bomb- balls in

Until the town lie beaten flat.

All perform their tragic play,

There struts Hamlet, there is Lear,

That’s Ophelia, that Cordelia;

Yet they, should the last scene be there,

The great stage curtain about to drop,

If worthy their prominent part in the play,

Do not break up their lines to weep.

They know that Hamlet and Lear are gay;

Gaiety transfiguring all that dread.

All men have aimed at, found and lost;

Black out; Heaven blazing into the head:

Tragedy wrought to its uttermost.

Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages,

And all the drop- scenes drop at once

Upon a hundred thousand stages,

It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.

On their own feet they came, or on shipboard,

Camel- back, horse- back, ass- back, mule- back,

Old civilisations put to the sword.

Then they and their wisdom went to rack:

No handiwork of Callimachus,

Who handled marble as if it were bronze,

Made draperies that seemed to rise

When sea- wind swept the corner, stands;

His long lamp- chimney shaped like the stem

Of a slender palm, stood but a day;

All things fall and are built again,

And those that build them again are gay.

Two Chinamen, behind them a third,

Are carved in lapis lazuli,

Over them flies a long- legged bird,

A symbol of longevity;

The third, doubtless a serving- man,

Carries a musical instrument.

Every discoloration of the stone,

Every accidental crack or dent,

Seems a water- course or an avalanche,

Or lofty slope where it still snows

Though doubtless plum or cherry- branch

Sweetens the little half- way house

Those Chinamen climb towards, and I

Delight to imagine them seated there;

There on the mountain and the sky,

On all the tragic scene they stare.

One asks for mournful melodies;

Accomplished fingers begin to play.

Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes,

Their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay.

What Then?

His chosen comrades thought at school

He must grow a famous man;

He thought the same and lived by rule,

All his twenties crammed with toil;

‘What then?’ sang Plato’s ghost, ‘what then?’

Everything he wrote was read,

After certain years he won

Sufficient money for his need,

Friends that have been friends indeed;

‘What then?’ sang Plato’s ghost, ‘what then?’

All his happier dreams came true –

A small old house, wife, daughter, son,

Grounds where plum and cabbage grew,

Poets and Wits about him drew;

‘What then?’ sang Plato’s ghost, ‘what then?’

‘The work is done,’ grown old he thought,

‘According to my boyish plan;

Let the fools rage, I swerved in nought,

Something to perfection brought’;

But louder sang that ghost, ‘What then?’

Under Ben Bulben

from Under Ben Bulben

VI

Under bare Ben Bulben’s head

In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid.

An ancestor was rector there

Long years ago, a church stands near,

By the road an ancient cross.

No marble, no conventional phrase;

On limestone quarried near the spot

By his command these words are cut:

Cast a cold eye

On life, on death.

Horseman, pass by!

September 4, 1938

Cuchulain Comforted

A man that had six mortal wounds, a man

Violent and famous, strode among the dead;

Eyes stared out of the branches and were gone.

Then certain Shrouds that muttered head to head

Came and were gone. He leant upon a tree

As though to meditate on wounds and blood.

A Shroud that seemed to have authority

Among those bird- like things came and let fall

A bundle of linen. Shrouds by two and three

Came creeping up because the man was still;

And thereupon that linen- carrier said:

‘Your life can grow much sweeter if you will

‘Obey our ancient rule and make a shroud.

Mainly because of what we only know

The rattle of those arms makes us afraid.

‘We thread the needles’ eyes and all we do

All must together do.’ That done, the man

Took up the nearest and began to sew.

‘Now must we sing and sing the best we can

But first you must be told our character:

Convicted cowards all by kindred slain

‘Or driven from home and left to die in fear.’

They sang, but had nor human tunes nor words,

Though all was done in common as before;

They had changed their throats and had the throats of birds.

January 13, 1939

The Circus Animals’ Desertion

I

I sought a theme and sought for it in vain,

I sought it daily for six weeks or so.

Maybe at last being but a broken man

I must be satisfied with my heart, although

Winter and summer till old age began

My circus animals were all on show,

Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,

Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.

II

What can I but enumerate old themes?

First that sea- rider Oisin led by the nose

Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,

Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,

Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,

That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;

But what cared I that set him on to ride,

I, starved for the bosom of his faery bride?

And then a counter- truth filled out its play,

The Countess Cathleen was the name I gave it,

She, pity- crazed, had given her soul away

But masterful Heaven had intervened to save it.

I thought my dear must her own soul destroy

So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,

And this brought forth a dream and soon enough

This dream itself had all my thought and love.

And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread

Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;

Heart mysteries there, and yet when all is said

It was the dream itself enchanted me:

Character isolated by a deed

To engross the present and dominate memory.

Players and painted stage took all my love

And not those things that they were emblems of.

III

Those masterful images because complete

Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?

A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,

Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,

Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut

Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder’s gone

I must lie down where all the ladders start

In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.

Politics

‘In our time the destiny of man presents its meaning in political terms.’ – T homaS MaNN

How can I, that girl standing there,

My attention fix

On Roman or on Russian

Or on Spanish politics?

Yet here’s a travelled man that knows

What he talks about,

And there’s a politician

That has both read and thought,

And maybe what they say is true

Of war and war’s alarms,

But O that I were young again

And held her in my arms.

让我们遇见在。。

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被视为艺术的谋杀案

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致《布莱克伍德》杂志编辑书

先生：

我们都听说过“道德腐化促进会”“地狱之火俱乐部”诸如此类的团体。我想，是在布莱顿，有人成立了一个“镇压美德协会”。而这个协会本身已遭镇压。但遗憾的是，伦敦还有一个这样的组织，其邪恶程度更甚。究其脾性，该团体取名为“谋杀促进会”或许更合适。不过，他们采用了雅致的Ευφημισμὸς（希腊语：婉词），称自己为“谋杀艺术鉴赏家协会”。他们声称，渴望了解杀人的奥秘，业余爱好各种方式的流血艺术，简而言之，就是谋杀发烧友。他们聚在一起，像评判一幅画、一尊雕像或者其他类型的艺术品那样，评价欧洲警察年鉴提供的每一桩新鲜命案。但他们是秉着何种精神展开这些活动的，我毋庸赘述，因为您将读到该协会去年面向全员宣读的“月度讲座系列”中的一个，也能从中更好地领悟这种精神。尽管他们保持警惕尽量避开公众耳目，会刊却意外落入我手。讲座内容的发表将给他们以警告，而我本意正是如此。尽管我更希望通过您引导公共舆论，从而悄然将他们镇压，而不是曝光他们的名字，然后向弓街[1]提出上诉；不过，如果公开他们的讲座没有取得应有的效果，我最终必将诉诸法律。因为这种事竟然发生在一个基督教国度里，这是不可原谅的。就算发生在异教徒国家，公众对于谋杀的宽容在某位基督教作家看来，仍是对社会公德最强烈的声讨。这位作家就是拉克唐修[2]。他的话极适用于当前的情况，用他的话说：“世上有什么能比杀人更恐怖、更有冒犯性？正因此，我们的生命才受到最严厉的法律保护，也正因此，人类掀起可怕的战争。然而，人们通过风俗习惯找到了杀人的办法，不用诉诸战争，也不触犯法律。这是娱乐，却也是犯罪，理应受到惩罚。如果处在谋杀现场，我们就成了共犯，观看罪行，我们就和行凶者同罪；那么在角斗士的谋杀中，观众的手和胜利者的一样血腥；想看血流的人洗不清身上的血渍；未亲手杀人，却为谋杀者鼓掌、求奖励的人也脱不了干系[3]。”“人的生命，”他说，“受最严厉的法律保护。然而为了谋杀，风俗习惯设计出一套逃避法律责任的办法。不过现在，欢娱（voluptas[4]）和不被约束的罪行一样，要付出同样的代价。”让业余爱好者协会的先生们想想这段话吧，他们要特别注意最后一句，关系如此重大，我必须要用英语表述一下：“现在，如果仅因身处谋杀现场，某人就成了共犯，如果只是目睹了谋杀，我们就要与行凶者同罪，那么同样，在露天竞技场的谋杀中，看台上观众的手和给对方致命一击的角斗士的手一样血腥，支持谋杀者洗清罪证，为谋杀者鼓掌、求奖励的人也只能是共犯。”虽然我还没有听说伦敦谋杀爱好者男士俱乐部受到“præmia postulavit”（要求奖励谋杀者）的指控，但是他们的活动无疑是有这种倾向的。不过，这个俱乐部的名称以及我寄给您的那个讲座的字里行间均充满“interfectori favil”（为谋杀者鼓掌）的意味。——我是……

X.Y.Z.

（编者按：感谢这位朋友的来信，也感谢他摘引的拉克唐修的话，很好地呼应了他对这个事情的看法。但是坦白地说我们的观点是不同的。我们不能假设主讲人是认真的。他的态度不会比伊拉斯谟写《愚人颂》或者迪恩·斯威夫特提议吃小孩更认真。不过，我们双方都认为应该把这个讲座公布于世。）

[1] 弓街：伦敦的一条街道。弓街治安法庭曾数年主管伦敦的治安事务，相当于伦敦历史上首个警察局。（说明：书中脚注除特别标明的之外，均为译者注。）

[2] 拉克唐修（250—325），早期基督教作家，是第一位基督教徒罗马皇帝康斯坦丁一世的宗教政策顾问。著有《神圣原理》，书中他对异教徒宗教和哲学进行批判，又对基督教的合理性和真实性进行论述。

[3] 原文为拉丁语。

[4] 拉丁语，意为欢乐、欢娱。

讲座内容

先生们，我很荣幸，委员会将如此艰难的任务指派给我，让我朗读威廉姆斯系列“关于谋杀是一门艺术”的讲座。要是在三四个世纪之前，这个任务或许相当好办。那时人们对谋杀知之甚少，也鲜有佳作可当典范。但在当代，职业人士已创作出不少杰作，因而显然，公众必然也期待谋杀的评论方法有相应的提升。实践与理论必须Pari Passu（同步发展）。人们开始意识到，一例精巧的谋杀，在两个蠢人简单的杀与被杀、一把匕首、一只钱包和一条黑灯瞎火的巷子之外，更多的是前期的构思。先生们啊，如今，若要谋杀，构思、选址、光影、诗歌、情绪都是必要元素。威廉姆斯先生已提高了我们所有人心中的谋杀理想，因而让我的任务尤其难上加难。正如埃斯库罗斯或弥尔顿之于诗歌，米开朗基罗之于绘画，威廉姆斯先生已把他的谋杀艺术提升到了极高的境界。如华兹华斯先生所言，某种程度上，他“创造了一种人们可用于品鉴他的作品的审美力”。勾勒这一艺术之历史、批判性地审视其原则，是留给鉴赏家们的职责。他们是另一种“法官”，跟最高巡回法庭[1]的就颇为不同了。

在我开始之前，容我对某些自命清高的人说两句，他们说起本俱乐部就好像我们多少是有点不道德的。不道德！愿主保佑我的灵魂。先生们，那些人想表达什么啊？我是拥护道德准则的，永远拥护，拥护一切美德。我坚决认为，永远坚定地认为，（不管结果如何）谋杀是不当的行径，极为不当。但我并不认为，所有谋杀者都得有非常错误的思考方式，或者很不正确的行为准则。某位伟大的德国伦理学家[2]说过，把杀害对象的藏身之地告诉谋杀者，协助和支持他是每个善人应尽的本分。我非但不会这么做，相反，我愿意捐出一先令六便士将其逮捕，这比名气最大的道德学家们所捐的数额也要多出十八便士。但那又能怎样呢？世上的一切皆有两个把柄。例如谋杀，它可能要受到道德把柄的控制（就像在所有的布道中，以及老贝利那里[3]）。这一点，我承认，是谋杀站不住脚的一面。但另外一面，它也可能成为一种审美对象，就像德国人说的，跟好品味有关。

为了证明这个观点，我将郑重地请出三位著名的权威人士，即S.T.科勒律治、亚里士多德和外科医生霍希普先生[4]。先说科勒律治。多年前的一个夜晚，我和他正在伯尔尼街喝茶（顺便提一句，此街虽然不长，却出奇地人才济济）。在场的除我之外还有其他人。在饮茶配吐司满足口腹之欲的同时，我们都在听科勒律治文雅地谈一篇关于普罗提诺的论文。突然传来一声：“失火了！失火了！”所有人，不管老师还是学生，柏拉图或是οίπερί τον Πλάτωνα（希腊语：他周围的人），全都立刻冲出门外，盼着旁观大火。火情发生在牛津街上的一家钢琴制作商家。当时来看，火势很可能发展成一场可观的大火，所以很遗憾在危急关头到来之前我有事必须离开科勒律治先生的聚会。数天后，我又遇到了那位柏拉图式的聚会主人。我向他提起那场大火，求他告知那场可能的好戏是如何被终止的。“哦，先生，”他说，“那场戏后来太糟了，我们全都骂了起来。”那么有谁认为科勒律治先生（尽管他太胖了，不是一个拥有主动美德的人，但他绝对是名副其实的基督徒），可以说是好人的S.T.C.，是纵火犯吗？或者他会希望可怕的事发生在那个可怜的男人和他的钢琴身上吗（毫无疑问，很多钢琴都增加了额外的琴键[5]）？相反，我知道他的为人，尽管他是被火灾考验过美德的人中最胖的一个，但我敢用生命打赌，必要时，他会操作消防车参与灭火。但情况到底是怎样的呢？根本就不需要美德。消防车一到，道德就全盘把责任交给了保险公司。事情就是这样，所以他就有权饱眼福。他为此离开了茶桌，难道让他一无所获吗？

我认为，在上述前提下，最高尚的人有权奢侈一回，去享受那场火灾，去发出不满的嘘声，就像对待任何先吊起了人们的胃口，后又让人扫兴的表演一样。接下来，让我们看看另一位伟大的权威人士，那位斯塔吉亚人（亚里士多德）是怎么说的。他（我想应该是在《形而上学》第五卷中）描述了κλεπτήν τέλειον，即，完美的盗贼形象。至于霍希普先生，在一篇关于消化不良的论文中用赞美的口吻谈到他看到的一种溃疡，称其为“一块美丽的溃疡”，也没见其良心不安。那么有人会说，亚里士多德不经大脑就会觉得盗贼品性完美，或者霍希普先生可能迷恋一块溃疡吗？众所周知，亚里士多德本人是个品德非常高尚的人，甚至写了八开纸一卷本的《尼各马可伦理学》也不满足，他后来又写了另外一套伦理学著作，名为Magna Moralia，即《大伦理学》。那么只要是撰写伦理学的人，不管是大伦理学还是小伦理学，都不可能赞美偷盗本身。至于霍希普先生，众所周知，他向所有的溃疡开战。他没有被溃疡的魅力蛊惑，相反他正努力将它们从米德尔塞克斯郡消除干净。不过，其实不管本身多么令人讨厌，跟同类相比的话，一个盗贼或者一块溃疡都可能有无数种优点。二者确实都不完美，但是它们本质上的不完美，这种不完美所蕴含的伟大恰恰构成了它们的完美。Spartam nactus es， henc exorna（“斯巴达现在归你了，尽你所有让其生辉”）。像奥托吕科斯[6]和巴灵顿先生[7]这样的贼，和性状明晰、稳步发展的可怕的崩蚀性溃疡，说他们与从长出蓓蕾直至开出“鲜艳完美的花”都堪称无懈可击的花魁洋蔷薇一样，是同类中的完美典范，也并不过分。或可比作美人中，最雍容华贵的妙龄少女。因此，不光是墨水台有可以想象的完美典范（正如柯勒律治先生在他那封与布莱克伍德先生著名的信里说明的），尽管也没多少想象的空间，因为墨水台本身就值得赞美，是对社会有用之物。甚至可以想象，不完美本身也可能有自己的典范和完美的状态。

先生们，我真是抱歉，一下子说这么多哲理。现在让我结合实践说明。当谋杀将要发生（不久后的将来时时态），且我们听到了传闻的时候，我们务必以道德的态度视之。但是假定谋杀已完成，你可以说：Τετέλεσαι（谋杀完成了），或者（用美狄亚式的坚定的三音步）说：ε’ίργασαι（结束了）。假定受害者断了气不再痛苦挣扎，恶棍随即逃走，无人知其行踪。假定，最后我们尽力了，在那人逃跑的时候伸腿绊倒了他，可是也于事无补啊：“abiit， evasit”（他离开了，逃走了）……那为什么我说，再多的美德又有什么用呢？我们给道德的已足够多，现在该轮到品味和艺术了。毫无疑问，人被害死是件令人难过的事，非常难过，但我们也无力回天。那么就让这件坏事物尽其用吧。既然拼尽全力也不可能再在道德方面有所作为，就让我们以审美的态度视之，看看能不能加以利用。理智的人一般都是这样想的。那么会怎样呢？我们擦干眼泪，也许会心满意足地发现， 一桩在道德上骇人、站不住脚的买卖，若用审美的标准衡量，却会是一场值得赞美的表演。这样一来全世界都高兴了。老谚语还是有道理的，世上没有对人人都不利的事。谋杀爱好者本来因为太在意美德显得暴躁阴郁，现在开始变废为宝，变得欢腾起来。美德的权势日渐衰微，今后谋杀艺术爱好者和鉴赏家们可以满足自己的日常所需。先生们，基于这个原则，我计划引导你们学习从该隐到特尔泰[8]以来的谋杀案。就让我们心悦诚服地携手共同漫步于这条伟大的艺术长廊。我会尽力将你们的目光引向有批判价值的作品。

第一例谋杀你们都很熟悉。该隐，这位谋杀的发明人，这门艺术的先祖，必定是位一流的天才。该隐家族都是天才。土八·该隐[9]发明了管子，或这类东西，我想。但，不管艺术家多具原创性或多么才华横溢，在那个时代所有艺术都才萌芽，所以要评价那时的作品必须谨记这一时代背景。即使是土八的作品，今天放在设菲尔德[10]看，也可能不尽如人意。所以如果说该隐（我是指老该隐）的艺术水平不过尔尔，也并非贬低。然而弥尔顿应该另有想法。从他叙述的方式看，这个作品似乎应该是他心爱的谋杀案，因为在他的诗中明显能感受到他对谋杀场景进行润色想取得生动效果时的焦虑。

为此他内心狂怒，趁谈话之际，

将石块投向对方的腹部，给以致命一击：

他倾倒在地，面色苍白像死了一样，

随着鲜血不断喷涌，呻吟出最后一丝气息。

《失乐园·十一卷》

对于此段描写，擅长鉴赏效果的画家理查德森在《失乐园笔记》中如是评论道：“人们都以为该隐是用一块大石把他弟弟砸死的（按照普遍说法）。弥尔顿算认可这种说法，不过他又增加了一个巨大的伤口。”此处的添加很明智。因为杀人武器简单粗暴，除非用一种温暖的血色提亮和丰富，否则场面就会像野蛮派那样显得过于直白，就仿佛是独眼巨人行的凶，他没有技巧，事先也未经构思，只用了一根羊骨。不过，我对这个提升总体上还是满意的，因为这暗示了弥尔顿是个谋杀爱好者。至于莎士比亚，他没能写得更好。《亨利六世》中格洛斯特公爵的谋害，以及邓肯和班科[11]等的死，都足以证明这一点。

一旦这门艺术奠定了基础，眼见它久久停滞不前，实在是可惜。确切地说，我将不得不跳过接下来所有的谋杀案，不管是宗教的还是世俗的，因为它们毫无价值，一直要到基督诞生很久之后。即使在伯里克利[12]的时代，希腊也没能产生任何有丁点价值的谋杀。罗马的谋杀案例几乎没有任何后来艺术的原创性，罗马模式辜负了自己。事实上，拉丁语在表述谋杀思想时意味单薄，词不达意。“这个人被谋杀了。”用拉丁语说是何感觉？Interfectus est， interemptus est（他被杀了，他被消灭了），这仅仅表达出了杀人的行为。因此，中世纪基督教的拉丁语用法只好引入了一个新词，它有单薄的经典词语从未传达出的丰满。Murdratus est[13]，哥特时代更高级的方言这样讲。在这个时期，犹太学派鲜活地保留了尚未被这门艺术了解的知识，而后逐渐传入西方世界。的确，犹太学派素来让人敬佩，甚至在黑暗时期。林肯郡的休一案就说明了这点，这个案子光荣地得到了乔叟的认可，借修道院院长之口，他把案件嵌进了犹太学派的另一场表演中[14]。

不过，现在让我们暂时回到古典时期。我不由得想到喀提林[15]、克洛狄乌斯[16]以及该小团体的其他人，他们本可以成为一流的艺术家。令人无比遗憾的是，西塞罗以其迂腐不化剥夺了他的祖国在这个领域里唯一出彩的机会。作为谋杀的对象，没人比他自己更能解释遗憾的原因。主啊！如果西塞罗听到塞西格斯[17]躲在他的床下，得怕得喊成什么样啊。要是能听到他的喊声，那一定很有趣。想到他宁愿选择爬着躲进柜子里的vtile（权宜之计），甚至是cloaca（阴沟里），也不敢hones tum（保留颜面）地直面无畏的艺术家，先生们，我就感到很满足。

现在时间来到了黑暗时代（我们都是讲求精准的人，所以准确地说黑暗时代是指最卓越的10世纪及前后紧邻的年代），这一时期，就像对教堂建筑、彩色玻璃等艺术一样，自然也是对谋杀艺术发展有利的时期。所以，临近黑暗时代尾声的时候，我们这门艺术相应地崛起了一位伟大的人物，我指的是“山中老人”[18]。他就宛若一盏明亮的灯，是的。不用我说，你们都知道，“刺客”这个词正是起源于他。他是如此热爱这门艺术，甚至某次，他中意的一个刺客企图杀他的时候，施展的才华让他如此欣喜，艺术家虽然刺杀失败了，但他当场封刺客做了公爵，赐给他可养三口人的生活津贴，死后爵位可由在世的妻儿继承。刺杀是谋杀这门艺术的一个分支，需要单独注意。我会专门针对刺杀做个讲座，其中，我的分析将会只围绕它的怪异之处：为什么这门艺术的这一分支会出现间歇性的蓬勃发展。刺杀案的发生从不像下雨那样均匀散落，都是如洪水一般倾泻而来。我们当代就有一些不错的范例可以吹嘘一番。而两个世纪前发生的一系列刺杀案则非常出色。显然，我专门提到的就是那五个杰作——奥兰治亲王威廉一世[19]刺杀案，法国亨利四世[20]刺杀案，白金汉公爵[21]刺杀案（大英博物馆的埃利斯先生已发表的信中有精彩的案件描述），古斯塔夫·阿道夫二世[22]刺杀案，以及华伦斯坦[23]刺杀案。马上就会有很多作家质疑说瑞典国王不是遇刺身亡的，其中就包括哈德[24]。他是死于谋杀。我认为他的案例是独一无二的杰作，因为他是中午在战场上被谋害，这一点极具原创性，据我所知是其他艺术作品都没有的。是的，所有的这些刺杀案可供高级鉴赏家们研究，是颇有价值的。它们全都是范本，可以说：

Nocturnâ versatâ manu, versate diurne;

翻起书来，日夜兼程。

nocturnâ.（夜晚）尤甚。

这些王公政客遭刺杀，没什么好惊奇的。他们只有死了才会发生重大变化。因为他们身份显赫，所以对恰好迷恋事件效果的艺术家来说，正中下怀。但从17世纪早期就流行的另一种刺杀类型着实让我感到惊讶。我是指哲学家的遇刺案。因为，先生们，实际上在过去两个世纪中，所有杰出的哲学家们要么被谋害，要么至少几近遇害。因此，如果某人自称是哲学家，但却从未被打过谋杀的主意，放心，那他肯定胸无点墨。尤其是洛克[25]的哲学理论。我认为，否定它的不争事实（如果还需要的话）是，尽管他带着喉咙行走于世七十二年，却从未有人屈尊去切断它。鉴于这些哲学家的谋杀案不太为人所知，而从细节看，它们都很好，构思也不错，那么我就在此附带来讨论一下这方面的案例，主要是为了展现我自己的学识。

17世纪第一位伟大的哲学家（如果不算伽利略的话）是笛卡尔[26]。如果要说曾经有那么一个人差点儿，但没被谋害——就差一丁点——那个人一定是他。巴耶[27]在他的《笛卡尔传》卷一第102页到103页里报告过此事。事情是这样的。1621年，笛卡尔约莫二十六岁的时候，他像往常一样四处旅行（他就像一只不安分的土狼）。他来到易北河[28]，在格吕克施塔特或者汉堡乘船前往东弗吕斯兰。至于他有何贵干不得而知。也许只有他自己知道，因为一到埃姆登他就决定即刻驶往西弗吕斯兰。无法忍受行程的耽搁，他租了一条三桅帆船，由几个水手负责驾驶。船刚驶进海域，他就获得一个喜人的发现，那就是他把自己关进了一窝杀人犯中。贝耶先生写道，他很快就发现水手都是“恶棍”。先生们，不是我们这样的发烧友，是专业的。那时，他们的最大野心就是切断他的喉咙。因为故事实在太精彩无法删减，所以我就一字不差引述笛卡尔的法语传记：“笛卡尔先生只带了一个仆人，他们正用法语交谈。水手们以为他是外国商贩，不是骑士，断定他身上肯定带钱了。因而，他们做了一个毫不利于笛卡尔钱包的决定。海上的盗贼和森林里的是有区别的，后者因为没有风险，会放过过路人的性命。但是像笛卡尔这样的情况，海盗无法冒着被捕的风险把乘客放生到岸上去。笛卡尔先生的水手们绝不准备冒那样的风险。他们思忖着，这位来自远方的异客在本国又没熟人，万一他没出现，quand il viendroit à manquer（他应该是恰好失踪），也不会有人劳神来东问西问。”想想看，先生们，这些弗吕斯兰恶狗讨论一位哲学家的时候就像在讨论一桶朗姆酒。“他们说，他的性情非常温和且很有耐心，并且，他彬彬有礼，待他们也很客气，想必是初出茅庐的年轻人，所以他们断定解决他的性命应该是轻而易举的。他们毫不顾忌，就在他的面前讨论所有事宜，没想到除了和仆人交谈使用的语言之外，他还懂别的语言。他们的打算是：杀了他，抛尸大海，然后分赃。”

抱歉，我没忍住笑，先生们。不过一想到这个案例，我总是要笑。它看上去这么滑稽，主要是两点。一是令人不快的恐惧，或叫恐慌（伊顿公学的人都这么说）。听到歹人用这样常规的剧本勾勒他的死法、葬礼、财产继承和财产管理，笛卡尔肯定很害怕。但另一点让我觉得更滑稽。如果这些弗吕斯兰的败类够果敢的话，也许我们就不会有笛卡尔主义了。我们怎么可能没有笛卡尔主义，想想因它出版的那些卷帙浩繁的书吧，还是请尊敬的短裤制造商[29]发表看法。

好了，继续讲故事。尽管面对巨大的恐慌，笛卡尔还是表现出了斗志，这让“反笛卡尔（主义）”的恶棍对他心生敬畏。“发现事情不是玩笑，”贝耶先生写道，“笛卡尔顷刻间跳将起来，正颜厉色。这些懦夫万万没想到，他开口说话，用的是他们的语言，威胁要就地刺穿他们所有人，如果他们胆敢对他有丁点不敬的话。”当然了，先生们，像云雀一样穿在笛卡尔之剑上，有这等荣幸太便宜这些一文不值的恶棍了。因此，我很高兴笛卡尔先生没有打劫绞刑架擅自处死威胁者。尤其是，如果杀了船员，他就无法驾船回港。那样一来，他就得永生在南海航行，也许会被水手们误认为是驶向家乡的鬼船船长[30]。“笛卡尔先生展示的精神对这帮恶棍来说有魔法一般的效果。”他的传记作者写道，“突然的惊慌让他们茫然不知所措，忘记了自己的优势，而后他们如他所愿，平静地载着他抵达目的地。”

也许，先生们，你们幻想笛卡尔会像凯撒那样对可怜的船夫说：Caesarem vehis et fortunas ejus（尔载的是凯撒和他的财物），但他只需说：你们这些恶狗，不能杀我，因为你们载的是笛卡尔和他的哲学。这样也许就能有把握地阻止他们采取极端行动。某位德国皇帝也具备这种意识，一次有人让他远离连续炮击的路径以防不测，他回道：嘘！闭嘴。你听过有哪个炮弹炸死个皇帝的？皇帝我说不好，但是稍小的事就足以摧毁一位哲学家。接下来的这位欧洲伟大的哲学家就肯定是被谋杀的。这位就是斯宾诺莎。

我很清楚一般大家都说他死在床上，也许吧，不过就算死在床上，也是被谋杀的。这一点我要用一本题为《斯宾诺莎传》的书证明。此书于1731年在布鲁塞尔出版，作者是让·克罗鲁斯先生。传记里有些附加信息是来自斯宾诺莎一位朋友写的他生平的手稿，并未出版。斯宾诺莎死于1677年2月21日，刚过四十四岁，这本身就很可疑。让先生坦言，在他的传记手稿里，有个说法证明了这个结论：“他的死也并非完全正常。”生活在荷兰这样一个阴湿乏味的国家，一个水手的国度，想来他也本应沉迷格罗格酒[31]的，特别是当时刚发掘出来的潘趣酒[32]。是的，他本可能是这样，但实际上并非如此。让先生称他：“是一个饮食上非常有节制的人。”尽管坊间流传，斯宾诺莎饮曼陀罗草汁[33]，吸鸦片[34]，但是这两样东西都没出现在药剂师的账单上。所以，既然他活得这么清醒节制，怎么可能四十四岁就自然死亡了？听听传记作家是怎么说的：“ 2月21号的周日早晨，还没到做礼拜的时间，斯宾诺莎下楼和房东夫妇交谈。”所以，这个时候，可能是周日早上10点，你看斯宾诺莎还是活着的，而且身体相当好。但是似乎“他已从阿姆斯特丹叫了某位医生过来”，传记作者写道，“要不是L.M.这两个字母，我也没注意到他”。经这位L.M.指导，住在此处的人去买来一只老公鸡，然后立刻炖了，这样斯宾诺莎中午就能喝上一点鸡汤。事实上，他确实喝了，胃口不错，还吃了点老公鸡的肉。这发生在房东夫妇从教堂回来之后。

“下午，L.M.单独和斯宾诺莎待在一起，屋里其他人都回教堂去了。他们一出教堂，就得知斯宾诺莎约在下午3点去世，很是吃惊。去世时，L.M.在场。当天夜晚，L.M.就连夜乘船返回阿姆斯特丹了，对死者一点也不在乎。毫无疑问，他早想好了要免去那些道德义务，因为他把斯宾诺莎的一达克通[35]和少量的银币，连同一把银柄匕首全部据为己有，然后带着赃物潜逃了。”到这儿，先生们，你们就明白，谋杀及其方式都是很清晰的。是L.M.为了钱财杀害了斯宾诺莎。可怜的斯宾诺莎，瘦弱多病。因为现场没有血迹，所以L.M.肯定是将他推倒在床，然后用枕头闷死的。可怜他已经被该死的老公鸡汤噎得半死了。但，L.M.是谁？肯定不可能是林德利·穆雷。1825年我还在约克见过他。而且，我不相信他会干出这种事，至少不会对一位语法家同仁下手。因为大家都知道，斯宾诺莎写了一本非常好的希伯来语语法书。

可为什么或者是根据什么原则，霍布斯没被谋杀？我从来也没想明白。这是17世纪职业人士的重大失误。因为除了瘦得皮包骨头，无论从哪方面看，他都是个优质的谋杀对象。因为我能证明他有钱，而且（非常好笑的是）他无权做出任何反抗。因为，根据他的理论，专制政权产生至高无上的权力，因此当一支具备充足战斗力的军队似乎要杀你的时候，你要是拒绝被杀，就是对政权最大的反叛，罪大恶极。但是，先生们，尽管他没被谋杀，我很高兴地向你们保证（据他自己的描述），他有三次差点被害了。第一次是在1640年的春天。他自称，当时他有一小本手稿在流传，代表君主对抗国会。顺便说一句，他不可能印制这本手稿。但是他说“要是陛下（5月份）还不解散国会的话”，“他的性命就会有危险。”然而，解散国会是没用的。因为同年11月，长期国会成立，霍布斯又一次害怕被谋害，于是逃去了法国。这看上去就像约翰·丹尼斯的疯狂想法。他认为除非法国将他交于西班牙让其实施报复，不然路易十四不可能和安妮女王和解。而实际上，他就是带着这种想法逃离了海岸。在法国，十年来，霍布斯努力地照看好自己的脖子，效果相当不错。但最后的阶段，为了向克伦威尔示好，他发表了《利维坦》。现在，这个老懦夫开始第三次极度“惊慌”。他幻想着骑士们的剑不断地出现在他的喉咙上，脑海里浮现它们是怎么伺候海牙和马德里的国会大使的。那时，他用蹩脚的拉丁语说：

Tum venit in mentem mihi Dorislaus et Ascham;

Tanquam proscripto terror ubique aderat.

（那时多里斯劳斯和阿斯克姆出现在我的脑海里，

就像被判死刑的人眼里到处都是恐惧。）

因此他逃回英格兰老家去了。当然了，写《利维坦》的人确实应该被棒打一顿，而把五音步结尾写得这么拙劣的应该被打两顿或三顿——“terror ubique aderat”[36]。可是从未有人想过对他用点棒刑之外的惩罚。而且，事实上，整个故事都是他的自我吹嘘。因为在写给一位渊博之人（数学家瓦里斯）的一封极具诽谤意味的信中，他给了另外一种颇为不同的说法，他说，他逃回家“是因为他无法将自己的安危托付给法国教会”，言下之意，他可能因为信仰的问题被谋害。这可真是个大笑话[37]——汤姆会因宗教问题被判刑。

不管是不是自我吹嘘，可以确定的是，霍布斯至死都在担心有人会谋害他。这点，我接下来要讲的故事可以证明。这个故事不是出自某个未出版的手稿，而是（如科勒律治所言）出自和手稿一样好的一本完全被遗忘的书，即《探究霍布斯先生的信仰，一场他与神学学生的讨论》（出版于霍布斯去世十年前）。书是匿名出版的，但是是丁尼生写的，就是那位三十年后，接替迪罗生成为坎特伯雷大主教的丁尼生。书以一则逸事开头：“某位牧师（无疑是丁尼生本人）似乎每年都会花一个月的时间去岛上四处走走。”一次远足（1670年），他来到德贝郡的匹克区，部分原因是读了霍布斯的描述。到了那一带，就不能不去邻近的巴克斯顿看看。就在他刚抵巴克斯顿之时，幸运如他，正好有一群绅士在客栈门口下马，其中一位身形瘦长，正是霍布斯本人。他可能刚从查茨沃斯骑马过来。对于一位寻觅美景的游客来说，偶遇如此伟大的名人，他能做的至少是上前叨扰。他的计划受到了命运眷顾，霍布斯先生的两个同伴突然收到差遣任务被叫走了，所以在巴克斯顿的剩余时光里，利维坦完全属于他，晚上他有幸和他一起痛饮。霍布斯一开始似乎表现得很僵硬，因为他对神学家总是有所畏惧。但这个顾虑逐渐消失，他变得友善风趣起来，之后他们决定一同入浴。丁尼生怎么敢和利维坦[38]在同一片水域里嬉戏？我无法解释。然而就是这样。尽管霍布斯已寿比南山，但他们在水中四处嬉戏，宛若两尾海豚。而且“在游泳停下来和再扎入水中之间的间歇里（也就是潜入水中），他们讨论了很多‘古人沐浴’以及‘溪水之源’的问题”。就这样，一小时过去后，他们出浴了。擦干身体更衣后，他们坐下，满怀期待地等着这种地方会提供的晚餐，计划像《哲人之宴》里写的那样恢复精气神，宁愿多想，不多饮。然而，他们纯真的愿望被一阵骚动打破了。屋里有几个粗人发生了短暂的口角。尽管离那几个人尚有一段距离，但霍布斯似乎特别关注此事。那么，先生们，他为什么关注呢？不错，你会想，从对和平与和谐抱有仁慈而无私的爱看来，那确实是值得一位老人和哲学家关注的。但是，听着：“不一会儿他就不安起来，但他说了一两遍赛克斯图斯·罗修斯晚饭后是怎么在帕拉西那的浴池附近被谋杀的，声音很低很小心，像是在自言自语。”霍布斯怕成这样，刚好可以用西塞罗的话概括。西塞罗对伊壁鸠鲁这位无神论者这样评价：所有人中就属他最害怕自己批判的事物——死亡和上帝。仅仅因为是晚饭时间，在浴池附近，霍布斯就一定会走上赛克斯图斯·罗修斯的老路。这是什么逻辑？除非他老想着被谋杀。这时的利维坦，不再害怕英国骑士的短剑或者法国教会，而是在酒馆里，被德贝郡几个老实巴交的庄稼汉的争吵“吓得失了分寸”。不过，他自己形容枯槁，老得看起来有几百岁了，可能也会把人家吓得魂飞魄散吧。

马勒伯朗士是被谋杀的。他的故事将给你们带去欢乐。杀他的人很有名，就是伯克利主教。故事大家都熟悉，不过至今还没得到正确理解。伯克利年轻的时候，去巴黎拜访皮埃尔·马勒伯朗士。到了他修道院的房间发现他正在做饭。厨师向来是genus irritabile（脾气暴躁的物种），作家更是如此，而马勒伯朗士身兼这两种角色。他们争吵起来。老神父本来就激动，现在更激动了。厨师的火气加上哲学家的愤怒让他大动肝火：他卧床不起，然后就死了。这是大家熟知的版本，“所以说整个丹麦都被谎言欺辱了”。实际上，出于对伯克利的保护，实情被隐瞒了，因为（正如教皇所言）伯克利是天下最有德之人。否则广为人知的就是这个版本了：伯克利被法国老头的暴躁激怒了，摆开架势，接着就是一场搏斗。马勒伯朗士第一轮便被打倒在地，彻底消除了自负，他也许已经投降了。但是伯克利此时血脉偾张，他坚持要求法国老头收回偶因论学说[39]。老头太过虚荣拒绝收回。他可笑的固执，加上爱尔兰青年的冲动，最终葬送了自己的性命。

莱布尼茨各方面都在马勒伯朗士之上，所以你可能更有理由指望他被谋杀，但，事实并非如此。我认为，他被这种忽视激怒了，安全度日令他感到耻辱。不然我无法解释他晚年的行为。他下决心，要变得非常贪婪，决定在自己家里囤一大笔金子。他死在了维也纳。他对自己喉咙的安危感到无比焦虑，至今描述他这一焦虑的信件还在。尽管无比焦虑，可他的野心——那种至少也得有人试图加害他的野心——如此之大，导致他不愿放弃危险。来自伯明翰，爱卖弄学问的已故英国教师——帕尔博士[40]，在同样的情形下，采取了更自私的路线。他囤了数目相当可观的金银餐具，一度存放在他牧师住宅的卧室里。但是他对谋杀的担忧日渐增长，他清楚自己无法忍受这种忧虑（对此，他的确从未有过一丝夸大），就把所有的金银餐具都转移到哈顿的铁匠那里。毫无疑问，他想的是，杀死一个铁匠对于Salus reipublicae（共和政体的安全）打击要比杀老师轻。但我听说这种说法存在很大的争议。似乎现在普遍认为，一个优质马掌的价格值2.25个斯佩尔布道[41]。

莱布尼茨纵然不是被杀身亡，但可以说他的死，部分源自对谋杀的恐惧，部分是因为没被谋杀恼怒所致。可康德在这方面又没啥野心，却差点死在谋杀者的手里，比上文提到的除笛卡尔之外的任何人都更惊险。真是造化弄人！这个案例，我想，在一本这位伟人的匿名传记中有所记载。为了健康，康德逼自己每天沿着一条大道一气走上六英里。一个因私意欲谋杀的人得知了此事。他在距哥尼斯堡三英里处，等待像邮车一样准时出现的“猎物”。要不是意外发生，康德必死。不巧，杀手看到路上有个正在玩耍的小孩。出于“道德”的考虑，比起老先验主义者，他更想杀小孩，所以小孩被杀了，康德得以逃脱。这是德国人对此事的描述。但依我看，杀手是个谋杀发烧友，他觉得杀一个形容枯槁面若死灰的老形而上学家，对谋杀的审美事业贡献不大，而且也没有展示的空间，因为康德死了也不会比活着更像干尸。

先生们，至此，我追踪了哲学与我们这门艺术的关系。不觉我已信步走进了我们这个时代。我不用费劲解释它跟之前年代之间的区别，因为实际上这个时代的艺术作品并无鲜明的特征。17世纪、18世纪，以及有很多作品我们还没赏析的19世纪，共同构成了谋杀的黄金时代。毫无疑问，17世纪最好的谋杀作品是埃德蒙贝里·戈弗雷爵士被害案，我完全赞同。同时，我们必须要看到，本世纪的谋杀作品数量不多，至少本国艺术家的作品不多。也许是因为我们缺少开明有识的赞助人。Sint Mæcenates， non deerunt， Flacce， Marones（愿我们有很多梅塞纳斯[42]，那么就不会缺少贺拉斯[43]、维吉尔[44]这样的诗人）。参看葛兰特的《对死亡率表的观察》（第四版，牛津，1665），我发现17世纪某二十年间死于伦敦的229250人中，只有86个是死于谋杀，即，每年约为4.3个人。先生们，要成立一个学会，这点数字是少了。当然，数量不多的时候，我们就可以期待质量一流。也许这个世纪的谋杀案质量是一流，但我仍然认为17世纪最好的艺术家是无法与18世纪最好的艺术家相提并论的。比如，不管埃德蒙贝里·戈弗雷爵士的案子多令人赞叹（没有人能比我更清楚它好在哪里），我仍然认为它不能与布里斯托的拉斯康贝夫人谋杀案媲美，不管是构思的原创性，还是风格的大胆和涵盖的广度。这位好夫人的谋杀案发生在乔治三世早期。总的来说乔治三世的统治对艺术发展非常有利。她住在学院绿地，家中只有一个女仆。主仆二人除了从我正在记录的这位伟大艺术家的手艺所收获的，再没有什么是值得让历史注意的。某个晴朗的早晨，整个布里斯托城一片生机盎然。可疑的情况发生了，邻居们闯入拉斯康贝夫人的房屋，发现她被杀害在床，女仆被杀死在楼梯上。这可是中午，而且不到两小时前，还有人看到主仆二人还活着。我如果没记错的话，这事发生在1764年，而今六十多年的时光已消逝，可作案的艺术家仍不知姓甚名谁。后世对于嫌疑犯的猜测落在了两个冒牌货身上：一个面包师和一个扫烟囱的。但他们错了。经验不足的艺术家不可能有这么大胆的构思，把谋杀时间设在中午，地点还选在了一座大城市的中心地段。先生们，这件作品肯定不是由默默无闻的面包师或者无名的扫烟囱的完成的，这点确信无疑。我知道是谁（这时现场的人们纷纷交头接耳低声讨论，最终大家爆发出一阵掌声，演讲人脸红了，然后一本正经继续讲）。天哪，先生们，不要误会，不是我做的。我还没自负到以为自己可以取得这样的成就。你们是大大高估了我贫瘠的才华。拉斯康贝夫人的谋杀远超出我有限的能力。不过，我是从一位著名的外科医生那里了解到艺术家的身份的，他参与解剖了他的尸体。这位医生拥有一座私人医学博物馆，在其中一角有一具人体模型，是一个身材比例非常好的男性。

“那具骨骼，”外科医生说，“是著名的兰开夏郡公路大盗的。他有段时间成功向邻居隐瞒了自己的职业，把羊毛长筒袜套在马腿上，因为往马厩去的巷子里铺的是石板路面，这样就能消掉马走在上面必然会发出的嗒嗒声。他因抢劫被处决的时候，我正在克鲁克山手下学习。盗贼的身材出奇地好，所以刻不容缓，必须要立刻拿到他的尸体，没有多余的金钱和精力浪费在耽搁上。在代理郡长的默许下，刽子手在法定的时间内将他砍倒在地，然后立刻装进四匹马拉的轻便马车，所以当他到达克鲁克山的解剖室的时候，还没死透。当时有个叫某某先生的年轻学生，有幸给了他最后一击，完成了法律的判决。”这段不同寻常的逸事对我震动很大。它似乎暗示了，解剖室里所有的男士们都是我们这种谋杀发烧友。一天，我跟一位兰开夏郡的女士复述此事，她当即告诉我，她就住在那个大盗家附近，她清楚地记得两件事，这两件事让邻居们认定他就是杀死拉斯康贝夫人的凶手。一是，在谋杀发生前后，他整整消失了两周。二是，谋杀发生之后，很快盗贼家附近到处是五先令硬币。大家都知道拉斯康贝夫人囤了两千枚那种硬币。但无论艺术家是谁，这个谋杀案都是展示其天赋的不朽丰碑。这例谋杀案所展现的想象力，让人们一直感到敬畏和震撼，所以直到那时（我听说的时候是1810年），仍没人敢租拉斯康贝夫人的房子。

不过，在我赞颂拉斯康贝案的同时，也不要让别人误会，说我忽略了分布于这一世纪不同时期的其他杰作。但像布兰德小姐的创作，或是唐奈伦上尉谋杀西奥菲勒斯·鲍顿这样的作品，我确实永远也不会认同的。我鄙视这些下毒的人。他们就不能继续沿用割喉这种古老诚实的办法吗？不要从意大利引进这么糟糕的新方法。我认为，跟正统的做法比，所有的毒杀案都显得拙劣，效果堪比雕塑旁边的蜡像或者摆在精致的沃尔帕托雕刻品旁边的平版印刷品。不过，尽管这些作品不值得玩味，但还是有很多风格纯正的优秀作品的，凡公正的鉴赏家都会承认，所以有这样的风格也不必觉得丢人。注意，我说的是，公正。因为人们必须要充分考虑这些案子的难处，没有哪位艺术家能确定可以顺利完成预先精心的构思。中间会出各种状况。人们不会乖乖地任由自己被切断喉咙的。他们会逃，会踢，会咬。当肖像画家时不时总要抱怨模特太没生气的时候，对我们这行的艺术家而言，总的来说，难的地方恰恰在于模特太有生气。而且，不管艺术家本人多不顺心，谋杀过程中往往让模特兴奋的做法，对这个世界来说绝对是它的一个优点。我们不该忽视这个优点，因为它会促进潜能的发展。杰里米·泰勒就满是赞赏地注意到，人在恐惧的作用下会跳得特别远。最近艾姆金德兄弟的作品中就有一个引人注目的例子。男仆情急之下跳过的高度，他这辈子到死也再不可能跳过去了。而且，顶尖的重拳手，他们天分的发展有时就是受到这种常伴我们艺术家的恐慌的刺激。实际上对于所有运动项目的顶尖选手来说皆是如此。否则，他们的才华就会被埋没，锋芒被遮蔽，不为人知，亦不自知。我想起一个有趣的例证，是我在德国听说的一个案例。

某天，我骑马走在慕尼黑一带，追上了我们协会一个著名发烧友，名字我就不说了。这位先生告诉我，他已厌倦了这种索然无味的发烧友娱乐方式（按照他的说法）。所以他就离开英格兰前往欧洲大陆，想稍试身手。为此他选择了德国，他以为在整个欧洲此地的警察最笨重呆滞。他的从业处女秀创作于曼海姆。因为知道我是同道中人，他也未加掩饰，就把首次历险和盘托出。他说：“我对面住着一个面包师。他为人相当吝啬，所以基本上独自生活。不知是因为他那张沾着面粉的大脸，还是其他原因，我也不清楚，但我就是‘迷’他，决定拿他的咽喉开张，而他总是敞着脖子，这点非常刺激我的欲望。我观察到，他每晚八点整准时关上所有的窗户。一天夜晚，我见他在关窗户，迅速随他进屋，锁上门，然后非常温文尔雅地对他说话，让他熟悉我此行的目的，同时也建议他不要做任何反抗，不然双方都不会愉快。说着，我掏出了工具，准备开始动手。我刚开口表明来意的时候，面包师像僵硬症发作一动不动。这时，他回过神来，狂躁不安。‘我不要被杀死！’他大声尖叫道，‘我为什么要失去宝贵的生命？’‘为什么？’我说，‘如果不为别的，就是为这个，你在面包里加了明矾。但不管有没有明矾（因为我决定先发制人不给他反驳的机会），你要知道，我是谋杀艺术的鉴赏家，我渴望在细节上提升自己，你粗大的咽喉让我迷恋，我决定一定要享受一番。’‘是吗？’他说，‘但我看你先享受下别的服务吧。’说着，他摆出了拳击的姿势。他居然有搏击的想法，这让我觉得很荒唐。不错，伦敦有个面包师在拳坛赫赫有名，人称筋斗大师，可人家年轻体健。而这人本身就像一大床丑陋的羽毛床垫，五十岁了，身体完全不行。但，尽管如此，跟我这种拳击高手打的时候，他拼死防守，有很多次我都害怕他会反败为胜，然后我这个谋杀发烧友，反可能会被一个无赖的面包师杀了。情况十分危急！心思细腻的人会感受我当时的焦虑。有多严峻呢？这么说吧，前十三回合，面包师是占上风的。第十四回合，我右眼挨了一拳，合上了。我认为，最终是这一拳救了我，因为它大大激怒了我，所以这一回合以及随后的三个回合，我都把面包师打倒在地。”

“第十八回合。面包师打上来，虚弱地哼唧了一声，明显疲惫不堪。前四回合被打趴下对他没有好处。不过，当我向他面若死灰的大脸发送拳头的时候，他还是展现了某些阻击的技巧。我出拳的时候，脚打滑，摔倒了。

“第十九回合。我仔细打量面包师，心想自己居然被这么一大块不成形的面团扰乱这么久，真是可耻。于是我出击猛烈了起来，给了他重重的几拳。出现逆转，双方均被击倒，面包师次数更多，对发烧友比分为10：3。

“第二十回合。面包师跳了起来，惊人地敏捷。考虑到他浑身汗湿，腿部运用得的确一流，打得也精彩。但是他的光芒已不再，打比赛不过是惊恐使然。现在他明显不可能坚持多久了。本回合中，我们尝试了移动闪躲技巧，我大大占了上风，不断地击中他的鼻子。我这么打的原因是，他的鼻子长满了疖子，我想我这么随便地动他的鼻子，他应该会很恼火，结果正如所料。

“接下来三个回合，筋斗大师踉跄得就像冰上行走的奶牛。眼见胜负已分，第二十四回合时，我在他耳边小声嘀咕几句，他随即倒下。我说的不过是我对他这条命还能值多少年金的个人看法罢了。这个小小的亲密私语大大影响了他。他脸上的汗凝住了，接下来的两个回合，任我处置。而当我宣布第二十七回合时间已到的时候，他直挺挺地躺在地上像根木头。”

发烧友说完后，我对他说：“可以推断你应该完成了你的目标。”“你说的没错，”他和善地说，“我完成了，而且很满足。你要知道，对我来说，这种方式是一石二鸟。”也就是说他既拳打了面包师，又杀了他。可是，不管怎样，我是不明白的。因为，在我看来，正相反，他似乎是一鸟二石，先不得不用拳头去除他的自负，然后再用工具杀他。但也无所谓他的逻辑了。他的故事的寓意是好的，因为其证明了，只要对被谋杀的情景进行合理的想象，就可以激发出惊人的潜能。在谋杀的刺激下，曼海姆一个肥胖笨拙、身体半僵硬的面包师都能和技艺高超的英国拳击手大战二十六个回合。是谋杀者的出现和他和蔼可亲的态度，让面包师的天赋得到如此高的提升。

真的，先生们，大多数人谈到谋杀都是苛责的态度，所以听说了这样的事，也许，不再那么苛责就变成了大家的某种义务。听人们说，你会以为被人杀害是最不利、最不便的事，而对于没被害的人来说，这些都不存在。但审慎的人不这么看。“当然，”杰里米·泰勒说，“倒在粗暴的刀剑和斧头之下，比经受发烧的折磨来得痛快（他也许还加了造船工的木锤和铁撬棍）。”“比痛性尿淋漓的折磨好太多。”说得非常对。主教大人讲起话来像智者一般，也像个谋杀发烧友，他的确是。另一位伟大的哲人马可·奥勒留在这个问题上的见解也同样高于世俗的偏见。他声称，“理智最高贵的功能”之一“就是知道是否到了离开世界的时候”。没有哪种知识比此更珍贵，当然这种人必定是非常博爱的物种，会无偿指导别人去了解这方面的知识，而自己却冒着不小的风险。不过，我抛出这些说法，是留给未来的道德家思考的。同时，我要发表我个人的看法，即很少有人杀人是基于博爱或者爱国的道义的，我要重申此前说过至少一次的话，即，多数杀人凶手都是不对的。

威廉姆斯的谋杀作品的高度和完整度都是史无前例的。我不允许自己随口聊几句他的作品就完事。要想详细讲解它们的优点，不花上一整个讲座，或者甚至一系列讲座，是不够的。但是他的案子有一处奇怪的地方，我要讲一下，因为那一点似乎暗示了，他的天才光芒太耀眼，让司法人员一时也难辨方向。你们一定都记得他创作第一个伟大作品（玛尔一家谋杀案）时使用的工具，是一把造船工的木锤和一把匕首。这把木锤属于一个瑞典老人，叫约翰·皮特森，木锤上有他名字的首字母。威廉姆斯把工具落在了玛尔家的屋里，后来落到了地方法官手中。注意，先生们，实际上首字母的细节一经公布，威廉姆斯就立刻被捕，而且，如果早公布的话，本来是可以阻止他完成第二件伟大作品（威廉姆森一家谋杀案）的，正好是十二天之后。然而地方法官把首字母的事向公众隐瞒了整整十二天，直至第二件作品完成。作品完成，他们公布名字，显然是因为觉得威廉姆斯的成就足以不朽，也已经证明他的荣誉也绝非偶然所得。

至于特尔泰先生的案件，我不知道要说什么。很显然我这个现任协会主席是非常尊重前任主席的。我承认他的讲座是很完美。但是，坦率地说，我认为作为艺术家，他最重要的表演真的被高估了。我承认一开始我自己也被大家的狂热带跑了。谋杀案公布的那个早晨，伦敦聚集了自威廉姆斯时代以来我认识的所有发烧友，有史以来最齐的一次。长期卧床的老鉴赏家们，动不动就脾气暴躁，嘲讽加抱怨说：“没事干。”现在他们都蹒跚下床来到我们俱乐部。这样的狂欢，大家这么良好地表达满足之情，我是很少目睹的。随处可见人们握着手，向彼此表示祝贺，相约晚上一聚。除了得意扬扬的疑问，听不见其他的话：“那么！这件如意吗？”“这件对了吗？”“你总算满意了吧？”但是，在这之中，我记得，当听到愤世嫉俗的老发烧友L.S.，laudator temporis acti（这位逝去时光的歌颂者），拖着他那条木腿进来的时候，大家都安静了下来。他像往常一样满脸怒色，一边走，一边嘴里不停地嘟哝，断断续续说了一路。“整个作品没有一个原创的点子，全都是剽窃，卑劣地抄袭我说的点子！而且，他的风格和阿尔布莱希特·丢勒[45]的一样硬气，和菲斯利[46]的一样粗糙。”很多人以为他纯属嫉妒，就是普通的刻薄。但是我要说的是，当第一丝狂热退却，我发现大部分明智的评论家都认为特尔泰的风格中含有虚假的成分。实际上，因为他是我们俱乐部的成员，所以我们的评判自然会友好地偏袒他。再加上伦敦佬都熟悉他这个人，所以一时之间他受到了整个伦敦的欢迎，但是这种欢迎是他的虚假无法长久维系的，因为opinionum commenta delet dies， naturae judicia confirmat（时间会抹去人的意见，却会让真理的判定更清晰）。不过，特尔泰有一个未完成的计划，是要用一副哑铃[47]杀人。我非常钦佩他这个想法，但却只是一个他未竟的草稿。不过在我看来，再怎么样也比他的主要作品好。我记得一些发烧友对这样的草稿竟未能完成深表遗憾。这一点我是无法赞同的，因为对于原创艺术家来说，作品片段和开头大胆的构思往往都蕴含一种精妙，这种精妙通常会在处理细节时消失。

艾姆金德兄弟的作品在我看来远高于特尔泰被大肆吹嘘的表演，的确令人赞叹不已。实际上，它仿照了威廉姆斯不朽的杰作，就像《埃涅阿斯纪》仿照了《伊利亚特》。

不过，现在我要讲讲谋杀的原则，并非要规范你们的实际操作，而是要规范你们的赏析判断。老年妇女和看报纸的乌合之众，只要够血腥，对什么都满意。但这无法满足感知力敏锐的心灵。下面，让我们来讲一讲，一、哪类人适合成为谋杀对象；二、地点的选择；三、时间的选择，以及其他的小条件。

关于人的选择，我想很明显他应当是个好人。因为如果他不是好人，很可能他自己被杀的时候也正在盘算杀别人。而且，这种棋逢对手的争斗尽管足够有趣，最是激动人心，但真的不是评论家会允许自己称之为谋杀的东西。我可以举某些被杀死在漆黑巷子里的人的例子（我不说名字）。乍一看似乎没什么问题，但再细看案情，公众就注意到了，当时被害方自己是打算，轻则抢劫，重则杀掉凶手，前提是他自己够强壮。只要这种情况发生，或者人们这样想了，那这门艺术就得跟一切真诚的效果作别。因为谋杀这门艺术的最终目的与悲剧完全一致，用亚里士多德的话说，即，“通过唤起悲悯和畏惧来净化人心”。而现在，畏惧可能是有，但如果只是两恶相争死了一个，如何能有悲悯可言？

同样，选择的谋杀对象显然不应该是公众人物。比如，明智的艺术家都不会选择谋杀亚伯拉罕·纽伦。因为实际上，虽然大家都读过很多关于亚伯拉罕·纽伦的事，见过他的人却很少，以至于人们形成了一个固定的看法：他是一个抽象的概念。记得某次，我正好说到和亚伯拉罕·纽伦一起在一家咖啡馆吃饭，所有人都轻蔑地看着我，就好像我自称和祭司王约翰一起打过台球，或者和教皇决斗过。顺便提一句，教皇是非常不合适的谋杀人选，因为他作为基督教世界之父几乎无处不在，而且就像布谷鸟一样，人们如此频繁地听说，却从未真正见过，所以我怀疑大多数人也当他是个抽象的概念。如果某个公众人物经常举办宴会，宴会上“满是时下的美味佳肴”，情况就会大为不同。大家都确信他不是一个抽象的概念，因此谋杀他也就没什么不合适，只不过他的谋杀就要被归类成刺杀。这方面，我尚未做讨论。

还有，所选的谋杀对象应当身体健康，因为谋杀病人是极其野蛮的行径。一般病人也不撑不了多久。因此，就不要选二十五岁以上的伦敦佬了，因为过了二十五岁，伦敦佬肯定都有胃病。如果非要去街道狭窄人口密集的伦敦寻找猎物，他应该一次起码杀掉两个人。万一选中的是个裁缝，他心里当然清楚，根据早就算好的等式，他得杀掉十八个裁缝[48]才算尽了本分。现在，考虑到病人需要慰藉，你们将在谋杀中看到一门艺术通常会取得的效果：感化人心。先生们，总的来说，世人是非常残忍的。他们想看到的谋杀不过是血浆喷涌的场面。只要花哨地展示这种场面对他们来说就足够了。但是有见识的鉴赏家可不行，他们的品味要高雅得多。和所有的人文教育一样，我们这门艺术，经过全面细致的研修后，也能增加同情心，使人更具人情味。千真万确，正如古语所说：

Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes,

Emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros.

真正的人文教育使人举止高雅，

让人不再野蛮无情。

有位良友，因为博爱和一贯的善举而被熟知，他建议，选择的作案对象也应是那种家中有很多小孩完全靠他生活的人，以此来强化悲剧的效果。这的确是一个明智的提醒。但我不想过于强调这个条件。一丝不苟的好品味肯定会这样要求，不过，只要选中的人道德和健康方面无可厚非，我不想再去苛求这个条件，这样可能会缩小艺术家的选择范围。

谋杀对象就讲到这里。关于谋杀时间、地点和工具，我有很多要讲，但是今天暂时没有机会了。好的艺术直觉通常会指导从业者选择夜晚和隐蔽的地方，但也不乏背离这条原则却卓有成效的案例。在作案时间上，拉斯康贝夫人案是个漂亮的例外，我已经说过了。在作案时间和地点这两个方面，爱丁堡年报（1805年）上就有一个不错的例外，爱丁堡的孩童人人都知道此案，但不知何故，它在英格兰的谋杀迷中却被遗漏，没能获得应有的名声。我说的是一个银行搬运工的谋杀案，被害的时候，搬运工正在搬一袋钱，就在光天化日之下，一出高街的拐弯处，而此街是欧洲最有名的街道之一。凶手是谁到现在也不知道。

Sed fugit interea, fugit irreparabile tempus,

Singula dum capti circumvectamur amore.

但此时，时光飞逝，去而不返，

而我们，迷恋细节，徘徊不前。

那么，先生们，最后，让我再次严肃声明，我绝不是什么职业人士。除了1801年在一只公猫身上行凶之外，我此生再未有过任何杀戮。杀猫的结果和我的打算相去甚远。我本来只是想杀死他。“什么？我毕生只能做一名听众吗？”我说，“我永远不能把话讲出来吗？”在一个漆黑的夜晚，凌晨1点，我下楼找公猫，我满心歹意，肯定一脸谋杀者凶狠的模样。可当我找到他时，他正在偷袭食品储存室，里面有面包和其他东西。这就让事情发生了新的变化。在一个物资匮乏的时期，连基督徒们都只能吃马铃薯面包、米粉面包之类的东西，一只公猫居然这样浪费优质的小麦面包，这是十足的叛国。处死他立刻变成了一种应尽的爱国义务。当我高高举起并挥动闪闪发光的刀时，我幻想自己像布鲁图斯[49]一样站起来，在一群爱国者中间格外耀眼。当我刺向他时，我

大声呼叫图利[50]的名字，

向他的国父致以敬意！

从此，我就会有些杂念，像杀一头老母羊，或者杀一只不能再生蛋的老母鸡。这些“小鹿”们都被锁进我胸中的秘密里。至于这门艺术更高阶的知识范畴，坦白地说是完全不适合我的。我的野心没长那么大。没有，先生们，用贺拉斯的话说——

fungos vice cotis, ex cutumReddere ere quæferrum valet, exsorsipsasecandi.

我就充当磨石的角色，它磨快铁器，自己却不能用于切割。

[1] 最高巡回法庭，位于伦敦的高等法院的法官前往英国主要县镇审理重犯，如杀人犯、抢劫犯、强奸犯等。

[2] 指康德。他在无条件诚实论的道路上走得太远，甚至要求，倘若一个人看到无辜的受害者逃脱了凶手的追杀，凶手要是问他，即使明知凶手要杀人，他也有义务说实话，说出逃跑者的去向。生怕一旦争论激烈就想不起这个原则，在受到法国某著名作家抨击后，他又重申了这一原则，并给出自己的理由。——原文注

[3] 位于伦敦的中央刑事法庭。

[4] 英国外科医生约翰·霍希普。

[5] 第一架五个半八音阶钢琴出现在18世纪晚期，到了19世纪早期钢琴有了六个半八音阶键盘。

[6] 奥托吕科斯是莎士比亚的《冬天的故事》里的贼。

[7] 乔治·巴灵顿（1755—1804）是爱尔兰臭名昭著的扒手。

[8] 约翰·特尔泰（1794—1824）因怀疑赌伴威廉姆·维尔骗走了他300英镑，把他引到乡下杀死。

[9] 土八·该隐是该隐的后代。土八，Tubal，是tube（管子）的形容词。在 《创世记》中土八·该隐发明了铜器和铁器。

[10] 设菲尔德位于英国的约克郡，19世纪时是世界高规格钢铁产品的制造中心。

[11] 邓肯和班科出自《麦克白》。

[12] 伯里克利（约公元前495—前429），雅典黄金时期（希波战争至伯罗奔尼撒战争之间）具有重要影响的领导人。

[13] 拉丁语，意为被谋杀。

[14] 在《坎特伯雷故事》中，修道院院长讲了一个犹太人杀害基督教小孩的故事，其中提到了1255年真实发生在英国林肯郡八岁小孩休身上的事。

[15] 喀提林（约公元前108—前62），罗马的阴谋叛变者，公元前63年蓄意刺杀执政官西塞罗和其他对他有敌意的元老。

[16] 克洛狄乌斯·普尔喀（约公元前93—前52），罗马共和国末年制造事端的政客，是西塞罗的护卫之一，但是参与了喀提林策动的刺杀西塞罗行动。

[17] 塞西格斯（公元前93—前63），上文提到的罗马阴谋叛变小团体成员之一，曾企图谋杀西塞罗等显赫人物未遂，被捕后被处以绞刑。

[18] “山中老人”指拉希德丁·锡南，12世纪后半叶活跃于叙利亚地区的一位伊斯兰教阿萨辛派首领。其活跃的年代正处于十字军东征期间，欧洲人称其为“山中老人”，策划刺杀了多个政要。

[19] 奥兰治亲王威廉一世（1533—1584），荷兰“国父”，曾任荷兰共和国第一任执政，1584年遭西班牙间谍刺杀身亡。

[20] 亨利四世（1553—1610），“贤明王亨利”，1610年在巴黎被刺身亡。

[21] 白金汉公爵（1592—1628），英国第一世白金汉公爵，1628年被刺身亡。

[22] 古斯塔夫·阿道夫二世（1594—1632），瑞典瓦萨王朝国王，即位后与神圣罗马帝国相争，不幸于吕岑会战中阵亡。

[23] 阿尔布雷赫特·冯·华伦斯坦（1583—1634），波西米亚（现属捷克）杰出的军事家，1634年吕岑会战后，在海布被他的军官暗杀。

[24] 沃尔特·哈德，18世纪英国作家，著有《瑞典国王，大帝，古斯塔夫·阿道夫生平史》。

[25] 约翰·洛克（1632—1704），英国哲学家，在知识论上，与乔治·布克莱和大卫·休谟共同成为英国经验主义的代表人物。

[26] 笛卡尔（1596—1650），法国哲学家、物理学家、数学家，黑格尔称其为近代“哲学之父”，二元论的代表。

[27] 安德里安·巴耶（1649—1706），笛卡尔的传记作家。

[28] 中欧主要的航运水道之一，全长1165公里，三分之一流经捷克，三分之二流经德国。

[29] 卖不出去的书都被拿去做短裤里衬。

[30] 欧洲海上的传说，鬼船是一艘幽灵船，注定永远在大海上航行，它的出现预示着灾难即将发生。

[31] 掺水烈酒。

[32] “1675年6月1日。喝了三碗潘趣酒（一种很奇怪的酒），没全喝掉。”亨利·狄昂志神父在他最近出版的日记中写道。这段文字的注释中提到福莱尔1672年出版的《东印度群岛之行》，他提到“那个叫潘趣（印度语是五的意思）的让人堕落的酒，由五种配料组成”。因此，医生们都管它叫 “五度音程”。如果只有四种配料，就叫“四福音合参”。毫无疑问，正是它的福音名将自己推荐给了狄昂志神父。——原文注

[33] 《斯宾诺莎传》一书中所提及的内容。

[34] 《斯宾诺莎传》一书中所提及的内容。

[35] 达克通：曾在欧洲的意大利等国流通的银币。

[36] 意为：“到处都是恐惧”，从音步看，在音节que和a的影响下，这个挽联的最后半句显得笨拙。

[37] 《利维坦》被广泛批评为愤世嫉俗和反对宗教。

[38] 一种巨大的水怪。

[39] 马勒伯朗士在笛卡尔的基础上更好地发展完善了偶因论：人类不可能了解内部和外部世界，除非将人类和上帝联系在一起。不管是物体位置的改变还是个人思想的改变，都不是直接由物体或者个人引起的，而是上帝。所谓的原因，不过是上帝制造效果的场合。

[40] 英国伯明翰18世纪工业革命后成为世界制造业中心。塞缪尔·帕尔（1747—1825）1783年成为英国沃里克郡哈顿地区的牧师。哈顿位于沃里克和伯明翰之间。

[41] 帕尔于1800年4月15日做了斯佩尔布道，之后又发表了布道，作者对他的布道评价很低。

[42] 盖乌斯·梅塞纳斯（公元前70—前8），罗马帝国皇帝奥古斯都的谋臣，同时还是艺术保护人，诗人维吉尔和贺拉斯都曾经得到过他的帮助。他的名字因此变成了艺术赞助人的代名词。

[43] 贺拉斯·弗拉库斯（公元前65—前8），罗马帝国奥古斯都时代的著名诗人，罗马文学“黄金时代”的代表人物。

[44] 维吉利乌斯·马罗（公元前70—前19），英语中称维吉尔，罗马帝国奥古斯都时代的著名诗人，著有《埃涅阿斯纪》。

[45] 阿尔布莱希特·丢勒（1471—1528），德国中世纪末、文艺复兴时期著名的油画家、版画家、雕塑家。

[46] 约翰·亨利希·菲斯利（1741—1825），德国—瑞士裔英国画家。

[47] 特尔泰是一名出色的业余拳击手，所以想用哑铃杀人是自然的事。

[48] 谚语，九个裁缝才算一个男人。

[49] 马尔库斯·尤里乌斯·布鲁图斯（公元前85—前42），罗马共和国晚期的一名元老院议员，组织并参与了对凯撒的刺杀。

[50] 马库斯·图利乌斯·西塞罗。

To The ediTor of Blackwood’s Magazine

Sir,

We have all heard of a Society for the Promotion of Vice, of the Hell- Fire Club, ＆c. At Brighton I think it was that a Society was formed for the Suppression of Virtue. That Society was itself suppressed – but I am sorry to say that another exists in London, of a character still more atrocious. In tendency, it may be denominated a Society for the Encouragement of Murder; but, according to their own delicate ευφηµισµὸς[euphemism], it is styled – The Society of Connoisseurs in Murder. They profess to be curious in homicide; amateurs and dilettanti in the various modes of bloodshed; and, in short, Murder- Fanciers. Every fresh atrocity of that class, which the police annals of Europe bring up, they meet and criticise as they would a picture, statue, or other work of art. But I need not trouble myself with any attempt to describe the spirit of their proceedings, as you will collect that much better from one of the Monthly Lectures read before the Society last year. This has fallen into my hands accidentally, in spite of all the vigilance exercised to keep their transactions from the public eye. The publication of it will alarm them; and my purpose is that it should. For I would much rather put them down quietly, by an appeal to public opinion through you, than by such an exposure of names as would follow an appeal to Bow- street; which last appeal, however, if this should fail, I must positively resort to. For it is scandalous that such things should go on in a Christian land. Even in a heathen land, the public toleration of murder was felt by a Christian writer to be the most crying reproach of the public morals. This writer was Lactantius; and with his words, as singularly applicable to the present occasion, I shall conclude: – ‘Quid tam horribile,’ says he, ‘tam tetrum, quam hominis trucidatio? Ideo severissimis legibus vita nostra munitur; ideo bella execrabilia sunt. Invenit tamen consuetudo quatenus homicidium sine bello ac sine legibus faciat: et hoc sibi voluptas quod scelus vindicavit. Quod si interesse homicidio sceleris conscientia est, – et eidem facinori spectator obstrictus est cui et admissor; ergo et in his gladiatorum caedibus non minus cruore profunditur qui spectat, quam ille qui facit: nec potest esse immunis à sanguine qui voluit effundi; aut videri non interfecisse, qui interfectori et favit et proemium postulavit.’ ‘Human life,’ says he,‘is guarded by laws of the uttermost rigour, yet custom has devised a mode of evading them in behalf of murder; and the demands of taste (voluptas) are now become the same as those of abandoned guilt.’ Let the Society of Gentlemen Amateurs consider this; and let me call their especial attention to the last sentence, which is so weighty, that I shall attempt to convey it in English: – ‘Now, if merely to be present at a murder fastens on a man the character of an accomplice, – if barely to be a spectator involves us in one common guilt with the perpetrator; it follows of necessity, that, in these murders of the amphitheatre, the hand which inflicts the fatal blow is not more deeply imbrued in blood than his who sits and looks on; neither can he be clear of blood who has countenanced its shedding; nor that man seem other than a participator in murder who gives his applause to the murderer, and calls for prizes in his behalf.’ The ‘proemia postulavit’ [‘call for prizes’] I have not yet heard charged upon the Gentlemen Amateurs of London, though undoubtedly their proceedings tend to that; but the ‘interfectori favit’[‘applause to the murderer’] is implied in the very title of this association, and expressed in every line of the lecture which I send you. – I am, ＆c.

X.Y.Z.

(Note of the Editor. – We thank our correspondent for his communication, and also for the quotation from Lactantius, which is very pertinent to his view of the case; our own, we confess, is different. We cannot suppose the lecturer to be in earnest, any more than Erasmus in his Praise of Folly, or Dean Swift in his proposal for eating children. However, either on his view or on ours, it is equally fit that the lecture should be made public.)

Lecture

Gentlemen, – I have had the honour to be appointed by your committee to the trying task of reading the Williams’ Lecture on Murder, considered as one of the Fine Arts – a task which might be easy enough three or four centuries ago, when the art was little understood, and few great models had been exhibited; but in this age, when masterpieces of excellence have been executed by professional men, it must be evident, that in the style of criticism applied to them, the public will look for something of a corresponding improvement. Practice and theory must advance pari passu [‘with an equal step’]. People begin to see that something more goes to the composition of a fine murder than two blockheads to kill and be killed – a knife – a purse – and a dark lane. Design, gentlemen, grouping, light and shade, poetry, sentiment, are now deemed indispensable to attempts of this nature. Mr Williams has exalted the ideal of murder to all of us; and to me, therefore, in particular, has deepened the arduousness of my task. Like Aeschylus or Milton in poetry, like Michael Angelo in painting, he has carried his art to a point of colossal sublimity; and, as Mr Wordsworth observes, has in a manner ‘created the taste by which he is to be enjoyed.’ To sketch the history of the art, and to examine its principles critically, now remains as a duty for the connoisseur, and for judges of quite another stamp from his Majesty’s Judges of Assize.

Before I begin, let me say a word or two to certain prigs, who affect to speak of our society as if it were in some degree immoral in its tendency. Immoral! –God bless my soul, gentlemen, what is it that people mean? I am for morality, and always shall be, and for virtue and all that; and I do affirm, and always shall,(let what will come of it,) that murder is an improper line of conduct – highly improper; and I do not stick to assert, that any man who deals in murder, must have very incorrect ways of thinking, and truly inaccurate principles; and so far from aiding and abetting him by pointing out his victim’s hiding- place, as a great moralist[1] of Germany declared it to be every good man’s duty to do, I would subscribe one shilling and sixpence to have him apprehended, which is more by eighteen- pence than the most eminent moralists have subscribed for that purpose. But what then? Everything in this world has two handles. Murder, for instance, may be laid hold of by its moral handle, (as it generally is in the pulpit, and at the Old Bailey;) and that, I confess, is its weak side; or it may also be treated aesthetically, as the Germans call it, that is, in relation to good taste.

To illustrate this, I will urge the authority of three eminent persons, viz. S. T. Coleridge, Aristotle, and Mr Howship the surgeon. To begin with S.T.C. – One night, many years ago, I was drinking tea with him in Berners’ Street, (which, by the way, for a short street, has been uncommonly fruitful in men of genius.) Others were there besides myself; and amidst some carnal considerations of tea and toast, we were all imbibing a dissertation on Plotinus from the attic lips of S.T.C. Suddenly a cry arose of ‘Fire – fire! ’ –upon which all of us, master and disciples, Plato andοιʿ περɩ́ τον Πλα′τωνα [‘those around Plato’], rushed out, eager, for the spectacle. The fire was in Oxford Street, at a piano- forte maker’s; and, as it promised to be a conflagration of merit, I was sorry that my engagements forced me away from Mr Coleridge’s party before matters were come to a crisis. Some days after, meeting with my Platonic host, I reminded him of the case, and begged to know how that very promising exhibition had terminated. ‘Oh, sir,’ said he, ‘it turned out so ill, that we damned it unanimously.’Now, does any man suppose that Mr Coleridge, –who, for all he is too fat to be a person of active virtue, is undoubtedly a worthy Christian, – that this good S.T.C., I say, was an incendiary, or capable of wishing any ill to the poor man and his piano- fortes(many of them, doubtless, with the additional keys)? On the contrary, I know him to be that sort of man that I durst stake my life upon it he would have worked an engine in a case of necessity, although rather of the fattest for such fiery trials of his virtue. But how stood the case? Virtue was in no request. On the arrival of the fire- engines, morality had devolved wholly on the insurance office. This being the case, he had a right to gratify his taste. He had left his tea. Was he to have nothing in return?

I contend that the most virtuous man, under the premises stated, was entitled to make a luxury of the fire, and to hiss it, as he would any other performance that raised expectations in the public mind, which afterwards it disappointed. Again, to cite another great authority, what says the Stagyrite? He (in the Fifth Book, I think it is, of his Metaphysics,) describes what he calls κλεπτὴν τε′λειον, i.e. a perfect thief; and, as to Mr Howship, in a work of his on Indigestion, he makes no scruple to talk with admiration of a certain ulcer which he had seen, and which he styles ‘a beautiful ulcer.’ Now will any man pretend, that, abstractedly considered, a thief could appear to Aristotle a perfect character, or that Mr Howship could be enamoured of an ulcer? Aristotle, it is well known, was himself so very moral a character, that, not content with writing his Nichomachean Ethics, in one volume octavo, he also wrote another system, called Magna Moralia, or Big Ethics. Now, it is impossible that a man who composes any ethics at all, big or little, should admire a thief per se, and, as to Mr Howship, it is well known that he makes war upon all ulcers; and, without suffering himself to be seduced by their charms, endeavours to banish them from the county of Middlesex. But the truth is, that, however objectionable per se, yet, relatively to others of their class, both a thief and an ulcer may have infinite degrees of merit. They are both imperfections, it is true; but to be imperfect being their essence, the very greatness of their imperfection becomes their perfection. Spartam nactus es, hanc exorna [‘Sparta is yours: adorn it!’]. A thief like Autolycus or Mr Barrington, and a grim phagedaenic ulcer, superbly defined, and running regularly through all its natural stages, may no less justly be regarded as ideals after their kind, than the most faultless moss- rose amongst flowers, in its progress from bud to ‘bright consummate flower;’or, amongst human flowers, the most magnificent young female, apparelled in the pomp of womanhood. And thus not only the ideal of an inkstand may be imagined, (as Mr Coleridge demonstrated in his celebrated correspondence with Mr Blackwood,) in which, by the way, there is not so much, because an inkstand is a laudable sort of thing, and a valuable member of society; but even imperfection itself may have its ideal or perfect state.

Really, gentlemen, I beg pardon for so much philosophy at one time, and now, let me apply it. When a murder is in the paulo- post- futurum tense, and a rumour of it comes to our ears, by all means let us treat it morally. But suppose it over and done, and that you can say of it, Tετελεσαι [‘it is completed’] or(in that adamantine molossus of Medea) ε’íργασαι [‘it is done’]; Suppose the poor murdered man to be out of his pain, and the rascal that did it off like a shot, nobody knows whither; suppose, lastly, that we have done our best, by putting out our legs to trip up the fellow in his flight, but all to no purpose – ‘abiit, evasit’ [‘he has left, escaped’], ＆c. – why, then, I say, what’s the use of any more virtue? Enough has been given to morality; now comes the turn of Taste and the Fine Arts. A sad thing it was, no doubt, very sad; but we can’t mend it. Therefore let us make the best of a bad matter; and, as it is impossible to hammer anything out of it for moral purposes, let us treat it aesthetically, and see if it will turn to account in that way. Such is the logic of a sensible man, and what follows? We dry up our tears, and have the satisfaction perhaps to discover, that a transaction, which, morally considered, was shocking, and without a leg to stand upon, when tried by principles of Taste, turns out to be a very meritorious performance. Thus all the world is pleased; the old proverb is justified, that it is an ill wind which blows nobody good; the amateur, from looking bilious and sulky, by too close an attention to virtue, begins to pick up his crumbs, and general hilarity prevails. Virtue has had her day; and henceforward, Vertu and Connoisseurship have leave to provide for themselves. Upon this principle, gentlemen, I propose to guide your studies, from Cain to Mr Thurtell. Through this great gallery of murder, therefore, together let us wander hand in hand, in delighted admiration, while I endeavour to point your attention to the objects of profitable criticism.

The first murder is familiar to you all. As the inventor of murder, and the father of the art, Cain must have been a man of first- rate genius. All the Cains were men of genius. Tubal Cain invented tubes, I think, or some such thing. But, whatever were the originality and genius of the artist, every art was then in its infancy; and the works must be criticised with a recollection of that fact. Even Tubal’s work would probably be little approved at this day in Sheffield; and therefore of Cain (Cain senior, I mean,) it is no disparagement to say, that his performance was but so so. Milton, however, is supposed to have thought differently. By his way of relating the case, it should seem to have been rather a pet murder with him, for he retouches it with an apparent anxiety for its picturesque effect: –

Whereat he inly raged; and, as they talk’d,

Smote him into the midriff with a stone

That beat out life: he fell; and, deadly pale,

Groan’d out his soul with gushing blood effus’d.

Par. Lost, B. XI.

Upon this, Richardson the painter, who had an eye for effect, remarks as follows, in his Notes on Paradise Lost, p. 497: – ‘It has been thought,’ says he, ‘that Cain beat (as the common saying is,) the breath out of his brother’s body with a great stone; Milton gives in to this, with the addition, however, of a large wound.’ In this place it was a judicious addition; for the rudeness of the weapon, unless raised and enriched by a warm, sanguinary colouring, has too much of the naked air of the savage school; as if the deed were perpetrated by a Polypheme without science, premeditation, or anything but a mutton bone. However, I am chiefly pleased with the improvement, as it implies that Milton was an amateur. As to Shakspeare, there never was a better; as his description of the murdered Duke of Gloucester, in Henry VI., of Duncan’s, Banquo’s, ＆c. sufficiently proves.

The foundation of the art having been once laid, it is pitiable to see how it slumbered without improvement for ages. In fact, I shall now be obliged to leap over all murders, sacred and profane, as utterly unworthy of notice, until long after the Christian era. Greece, even in the age of Pericles, produced no murder of the slightest merit; and Rome had too little originality of genius in any of the arts to succeed, where her model failed her. In fact, the Latin language sinks under the very idea of murder. ‘The man was murdered;’ – how will this sound in Latin? Interfectus est, interemptus est [he was killed, he was destroyed] –which simply expresses a homicide; and hence the Christian Latinity of the middle ages was obliged to introduce a new word, such as the feebleness of classic conceptions never ascended to. Murdratus est, says the sublimer dialect of Gothic ages. Meantime, the Jewish school of murder kept alive whatever was yet known in the art, and gradually transferred it to the Western World. Indeed the Jewish school was always respectable, even in the dark ages, as the case of Hugh of Lincoln shows, which was honoured with the approbation of Chaucer, on occasion of another performance from the same school, which he puts into the mouth of the Lady Abbess.

Recurring, however, for one moment to classical antiquity, I cannot but think that Catiline, Clodius, and some of that coterie, would have made first- rate artists; and it is on all accounts to be regretted, that the priggism of Cicero robbed his country of the only chance she had for distinction in this line. As the sub-ject of a murder, no person could have answered better than himself. Lord! how he would have howled with panic, if he had heard Cethegus under his bed. It would have been truly diverting to have listened to him; and satisfied I am, gentlemen, that he would have preferred the utile [expediency] of creeping into a closet, or even into a cloaca [sewer], to the honestum[honourable thing] of facing the bold artist.

To come now to the dark ages – (by which we, that speak with precision, mean, par excellence, the tenth century, and the times immediately before and after) – these ages ought naturally to be favourable to the art of murder, as they were to church- architecture, to stained- glass, ＆c.; and, accordingly, about the latter end of this period, there arose a great character in our art, I mean the Old Man of the Mountains. He was a shining light, indeed, and I need not tell you, that the very word ‘assassin’ is deduced from him. So keen an amateur was he, that on one occasion, when his own life was attempted by a favourite assassin, he was so much pleased with the talent shown, that notwithstanding the failure of the artist, he created him a Duke upon the spot, with remainder to the female line, and settled a pension on him for three lives. Assassination is a branch of the art which demands a separate notice; and I shall devote an entire lecture to it. Meantime, I shall only observe how odd it is, that this branch of the art has flourished by fits. It never rains, but it pours. Our own age can boast of some fine specimens; and, about two centuries ago, there was a most brilliant constellation of murders in this class. I need hardly say, that I allude especially to those five splendid works, – the assassinations of William I. of Orange, of Henry IV. of France, of the Duke of Buckingham, (which you will find excellently described in the letters published by Mr Ellis, of the British Museum,) of Gustavus Adolphus, and of Wallenstein. The King of Sweden’s assassination, by the by, is doubted by many writers, Harte amongst others; but they are wrong. He was murdered; and I consider his murder unique in its excellence; for he was murdered at noon- day, and on the field of battle, – a feature of original conception, which occurs in no other work of art that I remember. Indeed, all of these assassinations may be studied with profit by the advanced connoisseur. They are all of them exemplaria, of which one may say, –

Nocturnâ versatâ manu, versate diurne;

[‘Let these be your models by day and by night’]

Especially nocturnâ.

In these assassinations of princes and statesmen, there is nothing to excite our wonder: important changes often depend on their deaths; and, from the eminence on which they stand, they are peculiarly exposed to the aim of every artist who happens to be possessed by the craving for scenical effect. But there is another class of assassinations, which has prevailed from an early period of the seventeenth century, that really does surprise me; I mean the assassination of philosophers. For, gentlemen, it is a fact, that every philosopher of eminence for the two last centuries has either been murdered, or, at the least, been very near it; insomuch, that if a man calls himself a philosopher, and never had his life attempted, rest assured there is nothing in him; and against Locke’s philosophy in particular, I think it an unanswerable objection,(if we needed any) that, although he carried his throat about with him in this world for seventy- two years, no man ever condescended to cut it. As these cases of philosophers are not much known, and are generally good and well composed in their circumstances, I shall here read an excursus on that subject, chiefly by way of showing my own learning.

The first great philosopher of the seventeenth century (if we except Galileo,) was Des Cartes; and if ever one could say of a man that he was all but murdered – murdered within an inch, one must say it of him. The case was this, as reported by Baillet in his Vie De M. Des Cartes, tom. I. pp. 102– 3. In the year 1621, when Des Cartes might be about twenty- six years old, he was touring about as usual, (for he was as restless as a hyaena,) and, coming to the Elbe, either at Gluckstadt or at Hamburg, he took shipping for East Friezland: what he could want in East Friezland no man has ever discovered; and perhaps he took this into consideration himself; for, on reaching Embden, he resolved to sail instantly for West Friezland; and being very impatient of delay, he hired a bark, with a few mariners to navigate it. No sooner had he got out to sea than he made a pleasing discovery, viz. that he had shut himself up in a den of murderers. His crew, says M. Baillet, he soon found out to be ‘des scélérats,’ – not amateurs, gentlemen, as we are, but professional men – the height of whose ambition at that moment was to cut his throat. But the story is too pleasing to be abridged – I shall give it, therefore, accurately, from the French of his biographer: ‘M. Des Cartes had no company but that of his servant, with whom he was conversing in French. The sailors, who took him for a foreign merchant, rather than a cavalier, concluded that he must have money about him. Accordingly they came to a resolution by no means advantageous to his purse. There is this difference, however, between sea- robbers and the robbers in forests, that the latter may, without hazard, spare the lives of their victims; whereas the other cannot put a passenger on shore in such a case without running the risk of being apprehended. The crew of M. Des Cartes arranged their measures with a view to evade any danger of that sort. They observed that he was a stranger from a distance, without acquaintance in the country, and that nobody would take any trouble to inquire about him, in case he should never come to hand, (quand il viendroit à man-quer.)’ Think, gentlemen, of these Friezland dogs discussing a philosopher as if he were a puncheon of rum. ‘His temper, they remarked, was very mild and patient; and, judging from the gentleness of his deportment, and the courtesy with which he treated themselves, that he could be nothing more than some green young man, they concluded that they should have all the easier task in disposing of his life. They made no scruple to discuss the whole matter in his presence, as not supposing that he understood any other language than that in which he conversed with his servant; and the amount of their deliberation was – to murder him, then to throw him into the sea, and to divide his spoils.’

Excuse my laughing, gentlemen, but the fact is, I always do laugh when I think of this case – two things about it seem so droll. One is, the horrid panic or‘funk,’ (as the men of Eton call it,) in which Des Cartes must have found himself upon hearing this regular drama sketched for his own death – funeral –succession and administration to his effects. But another thing, which seems to me still more funny about this affair is, that if these Friezland hounds had been ‘game,’ we should have no Cartesian philosophy; and how we could have done without that, considering the worlds of books it has produced, I leave to any respectable trunk- maker to declare.

However, to go on; spite of his enormous funk, Des Cartes showed fight, and by that means awed these Anti- Cartesian rascals. ‘Finding,’ says M. Baillet, ‘that the matter was no joke, M. Des Cartes leaped upon his feet in a trice, assumed a stern countenance that these cravens had never looked for, and addressing them in their own language, threatened to run them through on the spot if they dared to offer him any insult.’ Certainly, gentlemen, this would have been an honour far above the merits of such inconsiderable rascals – to be spitted like larks upon a Cartesian sword; and therefore I am glad M. Des Cartes did not rob the gallows by executing his threat, especially as he could not possibly have brought his vessel to port, after he had murdered his crew; so that he must have continued to cruise for ever in the Zuyder Zee, and would probably have been mistaken by sailors for the Flying Dutchman, homeward- bound.‘The spirit which M. Des Cartes manifested,’ says his biographer, ‘had the effect of magic on these wretches. The suddenness of their consternation struck their minds with a confusion which blinded them to their advantage, and they conveyed him to his destination as peaceably as he could desire.’

Possibly, gentlemen, you may fancy that, on the model of Caesar’s address to his poor ferryman, – ‘Cae-sarem vehis et fortunas ejus,’ [‘You carry Caesar and his fortunes’] – M. Des Cartes needed only to have said, – ‘Dogs, you cannot cut my throat, for you carry Des Cartes and his philosophy,’ and might safely have defied them to do their worst. A German emperor had the same notion, when, being cautioned to keep out of the way of a cannonading, he replied, ‘Tut! man. Did you ever hear of a cannon- ball that killed an emperor?’ As to an emperor I cannot say, but a less thing has sufficed to smash a philosopher; and the next great philosopher of Europe undoubtedly was murdered. This was Spinosa.

I know very well the common opinion about him is, that he died in his bed. Perhaps he did, but he was murdered for all that; and this I shall prove by a book published at Brussels, in the year 1731, entitled, La Via de Spinosa; par M. Jean Colerus, with many additions, from a MS. life, by one of his friends. Spinosa died on the 21st February 1677, being then little more than forty- four years old. This of itself looks suspicious; and M. Jean admits, that a certain expression in the MS. life of him would warrant the conclusion,‘que sa mort n’a pas été tout- à- fait naturelle.’ Living in a damp country, and a sailor’s country, like Holland, he may be thought to have indulged a good deal in grog, especially in punch,[2] which was then newly discovered. Undoubtedly he might have done so; but the fact is that he did not. M. Jean calls him‘extrêmement sobre en son boire et en son manger.’And though some wild stories were afloat about his using the juice of mandragora (p. 140,) and opium,(p. 144,) yet neither of these articles appeared in his druggist’s bill. Living, therefore, with such sobriety, how was it possible that he should die a natural death at forty- four? Hear his biographer’s account: – ‘Sunday morning the 21st of February, before it was church- time, Spinosa came down stairs and conversed with the master and mistress of the house.’ At this time, therefore, perhaps ten o’clock on Sunday morning, you see that Spinosa was alive, and pretty well. But it seems ‘he had summoned from Amsterdam a certain physician, whom,’ says the biographer,‘I shall not otherwise point out to notice than by these two letters, L. M. This L. M. had directed the people of the house to purchase an ancient cock, and to have him boiled forthwith, in order that Spinosa might take some broth about noon, which in fact he did, and ate some of the old cock with a good appetite, after the landlord and his wife had returned from church.’

‘In the afternoon, L. M. staid alone with Spinosa, the people of the house having returned to church; on coming out from which they learnt, with much surprise, that Spinosa had died about three o’clock, in the presence of L. M., who took his departure for Amsterdam the same evening, by the night- boat, without paying the least attention to the deceased. No doubt he was the readier to dispense with these duties, as he had possessed himself of a ducatoon and a small quantity of silver, together with a silver- hafted knife, and had absconded with his pillage.’ Here you see, gentlemen, the murder is plain, and the manner of it. It was L. M. who murdered Spinosa for his money. Poor S. was an invalid, meagre, and weak: as no blood was observed, L. M., no doubt, threw him down and smothered him with pillows, –the poor man being already half suffocated by his infernal dinner. – But who was L. M.? It surely never could be Lindley Murray; for I saw him at York in 1825; and besides, I do not think he would do such a thing; at least, not to a brother grammarian: for you know, gentlemen, that Spinosa wrote a very respectable Hebrew grammar.

Hobbes, but why, or on what principle, I never could understand, was not murdered. This was a capital oversight of the professional men in the seventeenth century; because in every light he was a fine subject for murder, except, indeed, that he was lean and skinny; for I can prove that he had money, and (what is very funny,) he had no right to make the least resistance; for, according to himself, irresistible power creates the very highest species of right, so that it is rebellion of the blackest die to refuse to be murdered, when a competent force appears to murder you. However, gentlemen, though he was not murdered, I am happy to assure you that (by his own account,) he was three times very near being murdered. – The first time was in the spring of 1640, when he pretends to have circulated a little MS. on the king’s behalf, against the Parliament; he never could produce this MS., by the by; but he says that, ‘had not his Majesty dissolved the Parliament,’ (in May,)‘it had brought him into danger of his life.’ Dissolving the Parliament, however, was of no use; for, in November of the same year, the Long Parliament assembled, and Hobbes, a second time, fearing he should be murdered, ran away to France. This looks like the madness of John Dennis, who thought that Louis XIV. would never make peace with Queen Anne, unless he were given up to his vengeance; and actually ran away from the sea- coast in that belief. In France, Hobbes managed to take care of his throat pretty well for ten years; but at the end of that time, by way of paying court to Cromwell, he published his Leviathan. The old coward now began to ‘funk’horribly for the third time; he fancied the swords of the cavaliers were constantly at his throat, recollecting how they had served the Parliament ambassadors at the Hague and Madrid. ‘Tum,’ says he, in his dog- Latin life of himself,

Tum venit in mentem mihi Dorislaus et Ascham;

Tanquam proscripto terror ubique aderat.

[‘Then I began thinking about Dorislaus and Ascham

Terror was all around, as for someone condemned to death’]

And accordingly he ran home to England. Now, certainly, it is very true that a man deserved a cudgelling for writing Leviathan; and two or three cudgellings for writing a pentameter ending so villainously as – ‘terror ubique aderat!’ But no man ever thought him worthy of any thing beyond cudgelling. And, in fact, the whole story is a bounce of his own. For, in a most abusive letter which he wrote ‘to a learned person,’ (meaning Wallis the mathematician,) he gives quite another account of the matter, and says(p. 8.), he ran home ‘because he would not trust his safety with the French clergy;’ insinuating that he was likely to be murdered for his religion, which would have been a high joke indeed – Tom’s being brought to the stake for religion.

Bounce or not bounce, however, certain it is, that Hobbes, to the end of his life, feared that somebody would murder him. This is proved by the story I am going to tell you: it is not from a manuscript, but, (as Mr Coleridge says), it is as good as manuscript; for it comes from a book now entirely forgotten, viz. – ‘The Creed of Mr Hobbes Examined; in a Conference between him and a Student in Divinity,’(published about ten years before Hobbes’s death.) The book is anonymous, but it was written by Tennison, the same who, about thirty years after, succeeded Tillotson as Archbishop of Canterbury. The introductory anecdote is as follows: – ‘A certain divine, it seems, (no doubt Tennison himself,) took an annual tour of one month to different parts of the island. In one of these excursions (1670) he visited the Peak in Derbyshire, partly in consequence of Hobbes’s description of it. Being in that neighbourhood, he could not but pay a visit to Buxton; and at the very moment of his arrival, he was fortunate enough to find a party of gentlemen dismounting at the inn door, amongst whom was a long thin fellow, who turned out to be no less a person than Mr Hobbes, who probably had ridden over from Chattsworth. Meeting so great a lion, – a tourist, in search of the picturesque, could do no less than present himself in the character of bore. And luckily for this scheme, two of Mr Hobbes’s companions were suddenly summoned away by express; so that, for the rest of his stay at Buxton, he had Leviathan entirely to himself, and had the honour of bowsing with him in the evening. Hobbes, it seems, at first showed a good deal of stiffness, for he was shy of divines; but this wore off, and he became very sociable and funny, and they agreed to go into the bath together.’ How Tennison could venture to gambol in the same water with Leviathan, I cannot explain; but so it was: they frolicked about like two dolphins, though Hobbes must have been as old as the hills; and ‘in those intervals wherein they abstained from swimming and plunging themselves,’ (i.e. diving) ‘they discoursed of many things relating to the Baths of the Ancients, and the Origine of Springs. When they had in this manner passed away an hour, they stepped out of the bath; and, having dried and cloathed themselves, they sate down in expectation of such a supper as the place afforded; designing to refresh themselves like the Deipnos-ophilae, and rather to reason than to drink profoundly. But in this innocent intention they were interrupted by the disturbance arising from a little quarrel, in which some of the ruder people in the house were for a short time engaged. At this Mr Hobbes seemed much concerned, though he was at some distance from the persons.’ – And why was he concerned, gentlemen? No doubt you fancy, from some benign and disinterested love of peace and harmony, worthy of an old man and a philosopher. But listen – ‘For a while he was not composed, but related it once or twice as to himself, with a low and careful tone, how Sextus Roscius was murthered after supper by the Balneae Palatinae. Of such general extent is that remark of Cicero, in relation to Epicurus the Atheist, of whom he observed that he of all men dreaded most those things which he contemned – Death and the Gods.’ – Merely because it was supper- time, and in the neighbourhood of a bath, Mr Hobbes must have the fate of Sextus Roscius. What logic was there in this, unless to a man who was always dreaming of murder? – Here was Leviathan, no longer afraid of the daggers of English cavaliers or French clergy, but‘frightened from his propriety’ by a row in an ale- house between some honest clod- hoppers of Derbyshire, whom his own gaunt scare- crow of a person that belonged to quite another century, would have frightened out of their wits.

Malebranche, it will give you pleasure to hear, was murdered. The man who murdered him is well known: it was Bishop Berkeley. The story is familiar, though hitherto not put in a proper light. Berkeley, when a young man, went to Paris and called on Père Malebranche. He found him in his cell cooking. Cooks have ever been a genus irritabile; authors still more so: Malebranche was both: a dispute arose; the old Father, warm already, became warmer; culinary and metaphysical irritations united to derange his liver: he took to his bed, and died. Such is the common version of the story: ‘So the whole ear of Denmark is abused.’ – The fact is, that the matter was hushed up, out of consideration for Berkeley, who (as Pope remarked) had ‘every virtue under heaven:’ else it was well known that Berkeley, feeling himself nettled by the waspishness of the old Frenchman, squared at him; a turn- up was the consequence: Malebranche was floored in the first round; the conceit was wholly taken out of him; and he would perhaps have given in; but Berkeley’s blood was now up, and he insisted on the old Frenchman’s retracting his doctrine of Occasional Causes. The vanity of the man was too great for this; and he fell a sacrifice to the impetuosity of Irish youth, combined with his own absurd obstinacy.

Leibnitz, being every way superior to Malebranche, one might, a fortiori, have counted on his being murdered; which, however, was not the case. I believe he was nettled at this neglect, and felt himself insulted by the security in which he passed his days. In no other way can I explain his conduct at the latter end of his life, when he chose to grow very avaricious, and to hoard up large sums of gold, which he kept in his own house. This was at Vienna, where he died; and letters are still in existence, describing the immeasurable anxiety which he entertained for his throat. Still his ambition, for being attempted at least, was so great, that he would not forego the danger. A late English pedagogue, of Birmingham manufacture, viz. Dr Parr, took a more selfish course, under the same circumstances. He had amassed a considerable quantity of gold and silver plate, which was for some time deposited in his bed- room at his parsonage house, Hatton. But growing every day more afraid of being murdered, which he knew that he could not stand, (and to which, indeed, he never had the slightest pretension,) he transferred the whole to the Hatton blacksmith; conceiving, no doubt, that the murder of a blacksmith would fall more lightly on the salus reipublicae [the safety of the republic], than that of a pedagogue. But I have heard this greatly disputed; and it seems now generally agreed, that one good horse- shoe is worth about 2¼ Spital sermons.

As Leibnitz, though not murdered, may be said to have died, partly of the fear that he should be murdered, and partly of vexation that he was not, – Kant, on the other hand – who had no ambition in that way – had a narrower escape from a murderer than any man we read of, except Des Cartes. So absurdly does Fortune throw about her favours! The case is told, I think, in an anonymous life of this very great man. For health’s sake, Kant imposed upon himself, at one time, a walk of six miles every day along a highroad. This fact becoming known to a man who had his private reasons for committing murder, at the third milestone from Königsberg, he waited for his‘intended,’ who came up to time as duly as a mailcoach. But for an accident, Kant was a dead man. However, on considerations of ‘morality,’ it happened that the murderer preferred a little child, whom he saw playing in the road, to the old transcendentalist: this child he murdered; and thus it happened that Kant escaped. Such is the German account of the matter; but my opinion is – that the murderer was an amateur, who felt how little would be gained to the cause of good taste by murdering an old, arid, and adust metaphysician; there was no room for display, as the man could not possibly look more like a mummy when dead, than he had done alive.

Thus, gentlemen, I have traced the connexion between philosophy and our art, until insensibly I find that I have wandered into our own era. This I shall not take any pains to characterise apart from that which preceded it, for, in fact, they have no distinct character. The 17th and 18th centuries, together with so much of the 19th as we have yet seen, jointly compose the Augustan age of murder. The finest work of the 17th century is, unquestionably, the murder of Sir Edmondbury Godfrey, which has my entire approbation. At the same time, it must be observed, that the quantity of murder was not great in this century, at least amongst our own artists; which, perhaps, is attributable to the want of enlightened patronage. Sint Maecenates, non deerunt, Flacce, Marones [‘Let there be a patron like Maecenus, Flaccus, and your lands will give you a poet like Virgil.’] Consulting Grant’s‘Observations on the Bills of Mortality,’ (4th edition, Oxford, 1665,) I find, that out of 229,250, who died in London during one period of twenty years in the 17th century, not more than eighty- six were murdered; that is, about 4 three- tenths per annum. A small number this, gentlemen, to found an academy upon; and certainly, where the quantity is so small, we have a right to expect that the quality should be first- rate. Perhaps it was; yet, still I am of opinion that the best artist in this century was not equal to the best in that which followed. For instance, however praiseworthy the case of Sir Edmondbury Godfrey may be (and nobody can be more sensible of its merits than I am,) still I cannot consent to place it on a level with that Mrs Ruscombe of Bristol, either as to originality of design, or boldness and breadth of style. This good lady’s murder took place early in the reign of George III. – a reign which was notoriously favourable to the arts generally. She lived in College Green, with a single maid- servant, neither of them having any pretension to the notice of history but what they derived from the great artist whose workmanship I am recording. One fine morning, when all Bristol was alive and in motion, some suspicion arising, the neighbours forced an entrance into the house, and found Mrs Ruscombe murdered in her bed- room, and the servant murdered on the stairs: this was at noon; and, not more than two hours before, both mistress and servant had been seen alive. To the best of my remembrance, this was in 1764; upwards of sixty years, therefore, have now elapsed, and yet the artist is still undiscovered. The suspicions of posterity have settled upon two pretenders – a baker and a chimney- sweeper. But posterity is wrong; no unpractised artist could have conceived so bold an idea as that of a noon- day murder in the heart of a great city. It was no obscure baker, gentlemen, or anonymous chimney- sweeper, be assured, that executed this work. I know who it was. (Here there was a general buzz, which at length broke out into open applause; upon which the lecturer blushed, and went on with much earnest-ness.) For Heaven’s sake, gentlemen, do not mistake me; it was not I that did it. I have not the vanity to think myself equal to any such achievement; be assured that you greatly overrate my poor talents; Mrs Ruscombe’s affair was far beyond my slender abilities. But I came to know who the artist was, from a celebrated surgeon, who assisted at his dissection. This gentleman had a private museum in the way of his profession, one corner of which was occupied by a cast from a man of remarkably fine proportions.

‘That,’ said the surgeon, ‘is a cast from the celebrated Lancashire highwayman, who concealed his profession for some time from his neighbours, by drawing woollen stockings over his horse’s legs, and in that way muffling the clatter which he must else have made in riding up a flagged alley that led to his stable. At the time of his execution for highway robbery, I was studying under Cruickshank: and the man’s figure was so uncommonly fine, that no money or exertion was spared to get into possession of him with the least possible delay. By the connivance of the under- sheriff he was cut down within the legal time, and instantly put into a chaise and four; so that, when he reached Cruickshank’s, he was positively not dead. Mr —, a young student at that time, had the honour of giving him the coup de grace – and finishing the sentence of the law.’ This remarkable anecdote, which seemed to imply that all the gentlemen in the dissecting- room were amateurs of our class, struck me a good deal; and I was repeating it one day to a Lancashire lady, who thereupon informed me, that she had herself lived in the neighbourhood of that highwayman, and well remembered two circumstances, which combined in the opinion of all his neighbours, to fix upon him the credit of Mrs Ruscombe’s affair. One was, the fact of his absence for a whole fortnight at the period of that murder: the other, that, within a very little time after, the neighbourhood of this highwayman was deluged with dollars: now Mrs Ruscombe was known to have hoarded about two thousand of that coin. Be the artist, however, who he might, the affair remains a durable monument of his genius; for such was the impression of awe, and the sense of power left behind, by the strength of conception manifested in this murder, that no tenant (as I was told in 1810) had been found up to that time for Mrs Ruscombe’s house.

But, whilst I thus eulogize the Ruscombian case, let me not be supposed to overlook the many other specimens of extraordinary merit spread over the face of this century. Such cases, indeed, as that of Miss Bland, or of Captain Donnellan, and Sir Theophilus Boughton, shall never have any countenance from me. Fie on these dealers in poison, say I: can they not keep to the old honest way of cutting throats, without introducing such abominable innovations from Italy? I consider all these poisoning cases, compared with the legitimate style, as no better than wax- work by the side of sculpture, or a lithographic print by the side of a fine Volpato. But, dismissing these, there remain many excellent works of art in a pure style, such as nobody need be ashamed to own, as every candid connoisseur will admit. Candid, observe, I say; for great allowances must be made in these cases; no artist can ever be sure of carrying through his own fine preconception. Awkward disturbances will arise; people will not submit to have their throats cut quietly; they will run, they will kick, they will bite; and, whilst the portrait painter often has to complain of too much torpor in his subject, the artist, in our line, is generally embarrassed by too much animation. At the same time, however disagreeable to the artist, this tendency in murder to excite and irritate the subject, is certainly one of its advantages to the world in general, which we ought not to overlook, since it favours the developement of latent talent. Jeremy Taylor notices with admiration, the extraordinary leaps which people will take under the influence of fear. There was a striking instance of this in the recent case of the M‘Keands; the boy cleared a height, such as he will never clear again to his dying day. Talents also of the most brilliant description for thumping, and indeed for all the gymnastic exercises, have sometimes been developed by the panic which accompanies our artists; talents else buried and hid under a bushel to the possessors, as much as to their friends. I remember an interesting illustration of this fact, in a case which I learned in Germany.

Riding one day in the neighbourhood of Munich, I overtook a distinguished amateur of our society, whose name I shall conceal. This gentleman informed me that, finding himself wearied with the frigid pleasures (so he called them) of mere amateurship, he had quitted England for the continent – meaning to practise a little professionally. For this purpose he resorted to Germany, conceiving the police in that part of Europe to be more heavy and drowsy than elsewhere. His debut as a practitioner took place at Mannheim; and, knowing me to be a brother amateur, he freely communicated the whole of his maiden adventure. ‘Opposite to my lodging,’ said he, ‘lived a baker: he was somewhat of a miser, and lived quite alone. Whether it were his great expanse of chalky face, or what else, I know not – but the fact was, I“fancied” him, and resolved to commence business upon his throat, which by the way he always carried bare – a fashion which is very irritating to my desires. Precisely at eight o’clock in the evening, I observed that he regularly shut up his windows. One night I watched him when thus engaged – bolted in after him – locked the door – and, addressing him with great suavity, acquainted him with the nature of my errand; at the same time advising him to make no resistance, which would be mutually unpleasant. So saying, I drew out my tools; and was proceeding to operate. But at this spectacle, the baker, who seemed to have been struck by catalepsy at my first announce, awoke into tremendous agitation. “I will not be murdered!” he shrieked aloud; “what for will I lose my precious throat?” – “What for?” said I; “if for no other reason, for this – that you put alum into your bread. But no matter, alum or no alum, (for I was resolved to forestall any argument on that point) know that I am a virtuoso in the art of murder – am desirous of improving myself in its details – and am enamoured of your vast surface of throat, to which I am determined to be a customer.” “Is it so?” said he, “but I’ll find you custom in another line;” and so saying, he threw himself into a boxing attitude. The very idea of his boxing struck me as ludicrous. It is true, a London baker had distinguished himself in the ring, and became known to fame under the title of the Master of the Rolls; but he was young and unspoiled: whereas this man was a monstrous feather- bed in person, fifty years old, and totally out of condition. Spite of all this, however, and contending against me, who am a master in the art, he made so desperate a defence, that many times I feared he might turn the tables upon me; and that I, an amateur, might be murdered by a rascally baker. What a situation! Minds of sensibility will sympathize with my anxiety. How severe it was, you may understand by this, that for the first 13 rounds the baker had the advantage. Round the 14th, I received a blow on the right eye, which closed it up; in the end, I believe, this was my salvation: for the anger it roused in me was so great that, in this and every one of the three following rounds, I floored the baker.

‘Round 18th. The baker came up piping, and manifestly the worse for wear. His geometrical exploits in the four last rounds had done him no good. However, he showed some skill in stopping a message which I was sending to his cadaverous mug; in delivering which, my foot slipped, and I went down.

‘Round 19th. Surveying the baker, I became ashamed of having been so much bothered by a shapeless mass of dough; and I went in fiercely, and administered some severe punishment. A rally took place – both went down – Baker undermost – ten to three on Amateur.

‘Round 20th. – The baker jumped up with surprising agility; indeed, he managed his pins capitally, and fought wonderfully, considering that he was drenched in perspiration; but the shine was now taken out of him, and his game was the mere effect of panic. It was now clear that he could not last much longer. In the course of this round we tried the weaving system, in which I had greatly the advantage, and hit him repeatedly on the conk. My reason for this was, that his conk was covered with carbuncles; and I thought I should vex him by taking such liberties with his conk, which in fact I did.

‘The three next rounds, the master of the rolls staggered about like a cow on the ice. Seeing how matters stood, in round 24th I whispered something into his ear, which sent him down like a shot. It was nothing more than my private opinion of the value of his throat at an annuity office. This little confidential whisper affected him greatly; the very perspiration was frozen on his face, and for the next two rounds I had it all my own way. And when I called time for the twenty- seventh round, he lay like a log on the floor.’

After which, said I to the amateur, ‘It may be presumed that you accomplished your purpose.’ – ‘You are right,’ said he mildly, ‘I did; and a great satisfaction, you know, it was to my mind, for by this means I killed two birds with one stone;’ meaning that he had both thumped the baker and murdered him. Now, for the life of me, I could not see that; for, on the contrary, to my mind it appeared that he had taken two stones to kill one bird, having been obliged to take the conceit out of him first with his fists, and then with his tools. But no matter for his logic. The moral of his story was good, for it showed what an astonishing stimulus to latent talent is contained in any reasonable prospect of being murdered. A pursy, unwieldy, half cataleptic baker of Mannheim had absolutely fought six- and- twenty rounds with an accomplished English boxer merely upon this inspiration; so greatly was natural genius exalted and sublimed by the genial presence of his murderer.

Really, gentlemen, when one hears of such things as these, it becomes a duty, perhaps, a little to soften that extreme asperity with which most men speak of murder. To hear people talk, you would suppose that all the disadvantages and inconveniences were on the side of being murdered, and that there were none at all in not being murdered. But considerate men think otherwise. ‘Certainly,’ says Jer. Taylor, ‘it is a less temporal evil to fall by the rudeness of a sword than the violence of a fever: and the axe’ (to which he might have added the ship- carpenter’s mallet and the crow- bar) ‘a much less affliction than a strangury.’Very true; the Bishop talks like a wise man and an amateur, as he is; and another great philosopher, Marcus Aurelius, was equally above the vulgar prejudices on this subject. He declares it to be one of ‘the noblest functions of reason to know whether it is time to walk out of the world or not.’ (Book III. Collers’Translation.) No sort of knowledge being rarer than this, surely that man must be a most philanthropic character, who undertakes to instruct people in this branch of knowledge gratis, and at no little hazard to himself. All this, however, I throw out only in the way of speculation to future moralists; declaring in the meantime my own private conviction, that very few men commit murder upon philanthropic or patriotic principles, and repeating what I have already said once at least – that, as to the majority of murderers, they are very incorrect characters.

With respect to Williams’s murders, the sublimest and most entire in their excellence that ever were committed, I shall not allow myself to speak incidentally. Nothing less than an entire lecture, or even an entire course of lectures, would suffice to expound their merits. But one curious fact, connected with his case, I shall mention, because it seems to imply that the blaze of his genius absolutely dazzled the eye of criminal justice. You all remember, I doubt not, that the instruments with which he executed his first great work (the murder of the Marrs), were a ship- carpenter’s mallet and a knife. Now the mallet belonged to an old Swede, one John Petersen, and bore his initials. This instrument Williams left behind him, in Marr’s house, and it fell into the hands of the Magistrates. Now, gentlemen, it is a fact that the publication of this circumstance of the initials led immediately to the apprehension of Williams, and, if made earlier, would have prevented his second great work, (the murder of the Williamsons,) which took place precisely twelve days after. But the Magistrates kept back this fact from the public for the entire twelve days, and until that second work was accomplished. That finished, they published it, apparently feeling that Williams had now done enough for his fame, and that his glory was at length placed beyond the reach of accident.

As to Mr Thurtell’s case, I know not what to say. Naturally, I have every disposition to think highly of my predecessor in the chair of this society; and I acknowledge that his lectures were unexceptionable. But, speaking ingenuously, I do really think that his principal performance, as an artist, has been much overrated. I admit that at first I was myself carried away by the general enthusiasm. On the morning when the murder was made known in London, there was the fullest meeting of amateurs that I have ever known since the days of Williams; old bed- ridden connoisseurs, who had got into a peevish way of sneering and complaining ‘that there was nothing doing,’ now hobbled down to our club- room: such hilarity, such benign expression of general satisfaction, I have rarely witnessed. On every side you saw people shaking hands, congratulating each other, and forming dinner- parties for the evening; and nothing was to be heard but triumphant challenges of – ‘Well! will this do?’ ‘Is this the right thing?’ ‘Are you satisfied at last?’ But, in the midst of this, I remember we all grew silent on hearing the old cynical amateur, L. S——, that laudator temporis acti [a praiser of time past], stumping along with his wooden leg; he entered the room with his usual scowl, and, as he advanced, he continued to growl and stutter the whole way – ‘Not an original idea in the whole piece – mere plagiarism, – base plagiarism from hints that I threw out! Besides, his style is as hard as Albert Durer, and as coarse as Fuseli.’ Many thought that this was mere jealousy, and general waspishness; but I confess that, when the first glow of enthusiasm had subsided, I have found most judicious critics to agree that there was something falsetto in the style of Thurtell. The fact is, he was a member of our society, which naturally gave a friendly bias to our judgments; and his person was universally familiar to the cockneys, which gave him, with the whole London public, a temporary popularity, that his pretensions are not capable of supporting; for opinionum commenta delet dies, naturae judicia confirmat [‘Time erases the fictions of opinion, but it confirms the judgements of nature’]. –There was, however, an unfinished design of Thurtell’s for the murder of a man with a pair of dumb- bells, which I admired greatly; it was a mere outline, that he never completed; but to my mind it seemed every way superior to his chief work. I remember that there was great regret expressed by some amateurs that this sketch should have been left in an unfinished state: but there I cannot agree with them; for the fragments and first bold outlines of original artists have often a felicity about them which is apt to vanish in the management of the details.

The case of the M‘Keands I consider far beyond the vaunted performance of Thurtell, – indeed above all praise; and bearing that relation, in fact, to the immortal works of Williams, which the Aeneid bears to the Iliad.

But it is now time that I should say a few words about the principles of murder, not with a view to regulate your practice, but your judgment: as to old women, and the mob of newspaper readers, they are pleased with anything, provided it is bloody enough. But the mind of sensibility requires something more. First, then, let us speak of the kind of person who is adapted to the purpose of the murderer; secondly, of the place where; thirdly, of the time when, and other little circumstances.

As to the person, I suppose it is evident that he ought to be a good man; because, if he were not, he might himself, by possibility, be contemplating murder at the very time; and such ‘ diamond- cut- diamond’tussles, though pleasant enough where nothing better is stirring, are really not what a critic can allow himself to call murders. I could mention some people (I name no names) who have been murdered by other people in a dark lane; and so far all seemed correct enough; but, on looking farther into the matter, the public have become aware that the murdered party was himself, at the moment, planning to rob his murderer, at the least, and possibly to murder him, if he had been strong enough. Whenever that is the case, or may be thought to be the case, farewell to all the genuine effects of the art. For the final purpose of murder, considered as a fine art, is precisely the same as that of Tragedy, in Aristotle’s account of it, viz. ‘to cleanse the heart by means of pity and terror.’ Now, terror there may be, but how can there be any pity for one tiger destroyed by another tiger?

It is also evident that the person selected ought not to be a public character. For instance, no judicious artist would have attempted to murder Abraham Newland. For the case was this: everybody read so much about Abraham Newland, and so few people ever saw him, that there was a fixed belief that he was an abstract idea. And I remember that once, when I happened to mention that I had dined at a coffee- house in company with Abraham Newland, everybody looked scornfully at me, as though I had pretended to have played at billiards with Prester John, or to have had an affair of honour with the Pope. And, by the way, the Pope would be a very improper person to murder: for he has such a virtual ubiquity as the Father of Christendom, and, like the cuckoo, is so often heard but never seen, that I suspect most people regard him also as an abstract idea. Where, indeed, a public character is in the habit of giving dinners, ‘with every delicacy of the season,’the case is very different: every person is satisfied that he is no abstract idea; and, therefore, there can be no impropriety in murdering him; only that his murder will fall into the class of assassinations, which I have not yet treated.

Thirdly, The subject chosen ought to be in good health: for it is absolutely barbarous to murder a sick person, who is usually quite unable to bear it. On this principle, no Cockney ought to be chosen who is above twenty- five, for after that age he is sure to be dyspeptic. Or at least, if a man will hunt in that warren, he ought to murder a couple at one time; if the Cockneys chosen should be tailors, he will of course think it his duty, on the old established equation, to murder eighteen – And, here, in this attention to the comfort of sick people, you will observe the usual effect of a fine art to soften and refine the feelings. The world in general, gentlemen, are very bloody- minded; and all they want in a murder is a copious effusion of blood; gaudy display in this point is enough for them. But the enlightened connoisseur is more refined in his taste; and from our art, as from all the other liberal arts when thoroughly cultivated, the result is – to improve and to humanize the heart; so true is it, that –

– Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes,

Emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros.

[‘A careful study of the liberal arts refines

manners and prevents them from being savage’]

A philosophic friend, well- known for his philanthropy and general benignity, suggests that the subject chosen ought also to have a family of young children wholly dependent on his exertions, by way of deepening the pathos. And, undoubtedly, this is a judicious caution. Yet I would not insist too keenly on this condition. Severe good taste unquestionably demands it; but still, where the man was otherwise unobjectionable in point of morals and health, I would not look with too curious a jealousy to a restriction which might have the effect of narrowing the artist’s sphere.

So much for the person. As to the time, the place, and the tools, I have many things to say, which at present I have no room for. The good sense of the practitioner has usually directed him to night and privacy. Yet there have not been wanting cases where this rule was departed from with excellent effect. In respect to time, Mrs Ruscombe’s case is a beautiful exception, which I have already noticed; and in respect both to time and place, there is a fine exception in the Annals of Edinburgh, (year 1805), familiar to every child in Edinburgh, but which has unaccountably been defrauded of its due portion of fame amongst English amateurs. The case I mean is that of a porter to one of the Banks, who was murdered whilst carrying a bag of money, in broad daylight, on turning out of the High Street, one of the most public streets in Europe, and the murderer is to this hour undiscovered.

Sed fugit interea, fugit irreparabile tempus,

Singula dum capti circumvectamur amore.

[‘But meanwhile time is flying, flying beyond recall, while we linger, captivated by our love of detail’]

And now, gentlemen, in conclusion, let me again solemnly disclaim all pretensions on my own part to the character of a professional man. I never attempted any murder in my life, except in the year 1801, upon the body of a tom- cat; and that turned out differently from my intention. My purpose, I own, was downright murder. ‘Semper ego auditor tantum?’ said I,‘nunquamne reponam?’ [‘Am I always to be a listener? And never get a word in?’] And I went down stairs in search of Tom at one o’clock on a dark night, with the ‘animus,’ and no doubt with the fiendish looks, of a murderer. But when I found him, he was in the act of plundering the pantry of bread and other things. Now this gave a new turn to the affair; for the time being one of general scarcity, when even Christians were reduced to the use of potato- bread, rice- bread, and all sorts of things, it was downright treason in a tom- cat to be wasting good wheaten- bread in the way he was doing. It instantly became a patriotic duty to put him to death; and as I raised aloft and shook the glittering steel, I fancied myself rising like Brutus, effulgent from a crowd of patriots, and, as I stabbed him, I

called aloud on Tully’s name,

And bade the father of his country hail!

Since then, what wandering thoughts I may have had of attempting the life of an ancient ewe, of a superannuated hen, and such ‘small deer,’ are locked up in the secrets of my own breast; but for the higher departments of the art, I confess myself to be utterly unfit. My ambition does not rise so high. No, gentlemen, in the words of Horace,

　　　　　　　———fungar vice cotis, acutum

Reddere quae ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi.

[‘I’ll play the part of a whetstone, which sharpens iron, but is itself unable to cut.’]

[1] Kant – who carried his demands of unconditional veracity to so extravagant a length as to affirm, that, if a man were to see an innocent person escape from a murderer, it would be his duty, on being questioned by the murderer, to tell the truth, and to point out the retreat of the innocent person, under any certainty of causing murder. Lest this doctrine should be supposed to have escaped him in any heat of dispute, on being taxed with it by a celebrated French writer, he solemnly reaffirmed it, with his reasons.

[2] ‘June 1, 1675. – Drinke part of 3 boules of punch, (a liquor very strainge to me,)’ says the Rev. Mr Henry Teonge, in his Diary lately published. In a note on this passage, a reference is made to Fryer’s Travels to the East Indies, 1672, who speaks of ‘that enervating liquor called Paunch, (which is Indostan for five,) from five ingredients.’ Made thus, it seems the medical men called it Diapente; if with four only, Diatessaron. No doubt, it was its Evangelical name that recommended it to the Rev. Mr Teonge.

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