Chapter 8

第八章

菲利普本来就过惯了那种孤独无伴的独子生活，所以到了牧师家以后，也不见得比他母亲在世时更觉着寂寞冷清。他同玛丽·安交上了朋友。玛丽·安小小的个儿，圆圆的脸盘，今年三十五岁，父亲捕鱼为生。她十八岁那年就到了牧师家，这儿是她帮佣的第一户人家，她也无意离开这儿；但是她经常拿"我要嫁人啦"当法宝，吓唬吓唬胆小的男女东家。她父母住在离港口街不远的一所小屋子里。晚上有空时，她常去探望他们。她讲的那些大海故事，颇使菲利普心驰神往。小孩的想象力，给港口一带的狭街陋巷蒙上一层传奇色彩，它们在他眼里显得奇幻多姿。一天晚上，菲利普问是不是可以随玛丽·安到她家去玩玩，可他伯母生怕他沾染上什么，而他伯父则说近墨者黑，和不干不净的人交往会败坏良好的教养。凯里先生看不惯那些打鱼的，嫌他们粗野无礼，而且是上非教区教堂做礼拜的。可是对菲利普来说，呆在厨房里要比呆在餐室里更自在些，一有机会，他就抱起玩具到厨房间去玩耍。他伯母倒也不怎么在意。她不喜欢屋子里搞得乱七八糟的；她也承认，男小孩嘛，免不了要在屋里瞎捣鼓的，所以不如让他上厨房去闹腾。平时，只要菲利普稍微有点坐立不定，凯里先生就显得很不耐烦，说早该送他去上学啦。凯里太太觉得菲利普还小，没到上学的年龄，说实在的，她还真疼这个没娘的孩子呢。她很想博得孩子的好感，做法却不怎么高明，搞得孩子怪难为情的，孩子对她的种种亲热表示又推却不得，结果露出一脸的不高兴，这不能不叫她感到伤心。有时候，她听到菲利普在厨房里尖着嗓门格格大笑，可是只要自己脚一跨进厨房门，孩子立即不作声了。每每玛丽·安解释发笑的原因，菲利普的小脸蛋就涨得绯红。凯里太太听了，并不觉得有什么可乐的，只是勉强地笑笑。

"威廉，这孩子呆在玛丽·安身边，似乎反而比同我们在一块更快活，"她回进屋来，一面重新拿起针线活，一面这么对丈夫说。

"谁都看得出，这小家伙缺少教养。得好好管教管教才行。"

菲利普来后的第二个星期大，不幸闯了一场祸。午餐后，凯里先生照例去客厅小睡片刻，但是那天他心烦意乱，怎么也睡不着。上午，牧师用几盏烛台把教堂圣坛装饰了一下，不料却遭到乔赛亚·格雷夫斯的强烈反对。这几盏烛台是他从坎特伯雷买来的旧货，他觉得它们很有气派。但乔赛亚·格雷夫斯一口咬定那是些天主教兴的玩意儿。这样的一句奚落话，总能惹得牧师火冒三丈。当年爆发牛津运动时，凯里先生正在牛津念书，后来那场运动以爱德华·曼宁脱离国教而告终。就凯里先生本人来说，对罗马天主教颇抱几分同情。按他的心意，他很希望把这儿布莱克斯泰勃低教会派教区的礼拜仪式搞得隆重些，举行一番行列仪式，使满屋明烛高燃，而现在至多也只能焚上几炷香。他讨厌"新教徒"这个称呼，而称天主教徒。他常说，那些信奉罗马公教的人，无非是因为需要个标榜身分的称号才成了罗马"天主教徒"；其实，英国国教才是真正名副其实的、最能充分体现其高贵含义的"天主之教"。他想到自己的仪容总很得意：刮得光光的脸，天生一副天主教教士的模样；而他年轻时得天独厚的苦行僧仪表，更能给人一种"天主教教士"的印象。他常对人说起自己在布隆涅度假时的一段经历（那回也像往常一样，为了省钱他老婆没陪他一块去）：一天，他正坐在某教堂内，一位法国教区牧师特地走到他面前，请他上台讲经布道。凯里先生坚决主张，尚未领受牧师圣职的教士应该独身禁欲，所以，他手下的副牧师只要一结婚，就被他-一打发掉。然而在某次大选时，自由党人在他花园的篱笆上用蓝笔涂了几个赫赫大字："此路通往罗马"。凯里先生见此勃然大怒，扬言要上法院告布莱克斯泰勃自由党头目。这会儿他打定主意，乔赛亚·格雷夫斯不管怎么说，休想让他把烛台从圣坛上拿开；想到气恼处，禁不住悻悻然嘟囔了几声"俾斯麦"！

就在这时，牧师冷不防听到哗啦一响。他掀掉盖在脸上的手帕，从沙发上一跃而起，直奔餐室。菲利普坐在桌旁，周围是一大堆砖头。他刚才搭了座巍峨的城堡，哪知底部出了点毛病，结果整个建筑物哗啦一下子塌倒了，成为一堆废墟。

"你拿那些砖头干吗，菲利普？要知道星期天是不准做游戏的。"

菲利普瞪着一双受惊的眼睛，愣愣地望着牧师，同时他的小脸习惯性地涨得通红。

"我过去在家里总是做游戏的，"他回答说。

"我敢肯定，你那位好妈妈决不会允许你于这种坏事的。"

菲利普没想到这样做竟不正当；不过要是果真如此，他可不愿让人以为他母亲同意他这么干的。他耷拉着脑袋，默然不语。

"你难道不知道星期天做游戏是很不很不正当的吗？你不想想星期天干吗叫休息日来着？你晚上要去教堂，可你下午触犯了天主的戒律，晚上怎么有脸面对天主呢？"

凯里先生叫菲利普立即把砖头搬走，并且站在边上监督他。

"你这个孩子真淘气，"他反复嚼咕着。"想想你那位天国里的可怜妈妈，你现在使她多伤心。"

菲利普忍不住想哭，但是出于本能，他不愿让人看到自己掉眼泪，于是他紧咬牙关，硬是不让自己哭出来。凯里先生在安乐椅上坐定，顺手拿过一本书，翻了起来。菲利普站在窗口。牧师公馆很僻静，同那条通往坎特伯雷的公路隔着相当一段距离。从餐室窗口，可以望见一长条呈半圆形的草坪，再过去，则是一片绿茵茵的、连绵天际的田野。羊群在田野里吃草。天色凄迷而阴郁，菲利普满腔悲苦。

这时，玛丽·安进屋来上茶点，路易莎伯母也下楼来了。

"午觉睡得好吗，威廉？"她问。

"好什么！"他回答说。"菲利普这么吵吵闹闹，简直叫人没法合眼。"

凯里先生说的不尽合乎事实，因为他睡不着实在是自己有心事。菲利普绷着小脸听着，心里暗暗嘀咕：找不过偶尔并出了点声音，在这之前之后，大伯他干吗不能睡呢，真没道理。凯里太太问起是怎么回事，牧师原原本本地说了。

"他竞然连一声'对不起'也没说，"凯里先生最后加了这么一句。

"噢，菲利普，我知道你一定觉得对不起你大伯的，是吗？"凯里太太赶紧说，生怕孩子会给他伯父留下不必要的环印象。

菲利普没吱声，只顾埋头哨嚼手里的牛油面包片。菲利普自己也搞不懂哪儿来的一股蛮劲，硬是不肯道歉认错。他觉得耳朵里隐隐作痛，真有点想哭，可就是不肯吐出一言半语。

"你也不用虎着脸，已经够糟的啦，"凯里先生说。

大家门头吃完茶点。凯里太太不时打眼角里偷偷朝菲利普望上一眼；但是凯里先生却故意对他不理不睬。菲利普看到伯父上楼准备更衣上教堂了，就跑到门厅拿起自己的帽子和外套，可是当牧师下楼看见菲利普时，却冲着他说：

"我希望你今晚别上教堂了，菲利普。我想你现在的这种精神状态，是不宜走进天主圣堂的。"

菲利普一言不发，感到自己蒙受了奇耻大辱，双颊红得像火烧。他默不作声地站在那儿，望着伯父戴上宽边帽，披上宽肥的大氅。凯里太太照例将丈夫送至门口，然后转过身来对菲利普说：

"没关系，菲利普、下一个星期天你一定会很乖的，是吗？这样你伯父晚上又会带你去教堂了。"

她拿掉菲利普的帽子和外套，领他走进餐室。

"让我们一块儿来念祈祷文好吗，菲利普？我们还要弹风琴唱圣歌呢。你喜欢吗？"

菲利普神态坚决地一摇头，凯里太太不觉吃了一惊。如果这孩子不愿意同她一起做晚祷，那她就不知道该怎么对待他了。

"那么你在伯父回来之前想干什么呢？"凯里太太束手无策地问。

菲利普总算开腔了。

"我希望谁也别来管我，"他说。

"菲利普，你怎么能说出这样没良心的话来？你不知道你伯父和我完全是为你好吗？难道你一点儿也不爱我吗？"

"我恨你。巴不得你死掉才好呢！"

凯里太太倒抽一门冷气。这孩子竟然说出这么粗暴无礼的话来，怎不叫她瞠目吃惊。凯里太太一时说不出话来。她在丈夫的安乐椅上坐下，想到自己真心疼爱这个孤苦伶仃的跛足孩子，想到自己多么热切地希望能得到这孩子的爱，她想着想着，不禁热泪盈眶，接着一颗颗泪珠顺着双颊慢慢往下淌。凯里太太自己不能生儿育女；她认为自己膝下无于，无疑是上帝的旨意。尽管这样，她有时见到别人家的小孩，仍觉得受不了，心里感到悲苦怅然。菲利普望着伯母这般神情不由得惊呆了。只见她掏出一方手帕，放声痛哭起来。菲利普恍然醒悟过来，自己方才的话伤了伯母的心，惹得她哭了。他感到很内疚，悄悄地走到她跟前，在她脸上亲了一下。菲利普主动来吻她，还是破天荒第一遭。这位面容枯黄、憔悴的可怜老太--一她穿着黑缎子服显得那么瘦小，头上梳的螺旋状发卷又是那么滑稽可笑--把将孩子抱到膝头上，紧紧搂住，一面仍伤心地低声饮泣。然而，她流下的眼泪，一半却是出于欣喜，她感到自己和孩子问的那层隔阂已不复存在。她现在对这孩子萌生出一股忄卷忄卷之忱，因为这孩子使她领略了痛苦的滋味。
 

Chapter 8

Philip had led always the solitary life of an only child, and his loneliness at the vicarage was no greater than it had been when his mother lived. He made friends with Mary Ann. She was a chubby little person of thirty-five, the daughter of a fisherman, and had come to the vicarage at eighteen; it was her first place and she had no intention of leaving it; but she held a possible marriage as a rod over the timid heads of her master and mistress. Her father and mother lived in a little house off Harbour Street, and she went to see them on her evenings out. Her stories of the sea touched Philip’s imagination, and the narrow alleys round the harbour grew rich with the romance which his young fancy lent them. One evening he asked whether he might go home with her; but his aunt was afraid that he might catch something, and his uncle said that evil communications corrupted good manners. He disliked the fisher folk, who were rough, uncouth, and went to chapel. But Philip was more comfortable in the kitchen than in the dining-room, and, whenever he could, he took his toys and played there. His aunt was not sorry. She did not like disorder, and though she recognised that boys must be expected to be untidy she preferred that he should make a mess in the kitchen. If he fidgeted his uncle was apt to grow restless and say it was high time he went to school. Mrs. Carey thought Philip very young for this, and her heart went out to the motherless child; but her attempts to gain his affection were awkward, and the boy, feeling shy, received her demonstrations with so much sullenness that she was mortified. Sometimes she heard his shrill voice raised in laughter in the kitchen, but when she went in, he grew suddenly silent, and he flushed darkly when Mary Ann explained the joke. Mrs. Carey could not see anything amusing in what she heard, and she smiled with constraint.

‘He seems happier with Mary Ann than with us, William,’ she said, when she returned to her sewing.

‘One can see he’s been very badly brought up. He wants licking into shape.’

On the second Sunday after Philip arrived an unlucky incident occurred. Mr. Carey had retired as usual after dinner for a little snooze in the drawing-room, but he was in an irritable mood and could not sleep. Josiah Graves that morning had objected strongly to some candlesticks with which the Vicar had adorned the altar. He had bought them second-hand in Tercanbury, and he thought they looked very well. But Josiah Graves said they were popish. This was a taunt that always aroused the Vicar. He had been at Oxford during the movement which ended in the secession from the Established Church of Edward Manning, and he felt a certain sympathy for the Church of Rome. He would willingly have made the service more ornate than had been usual in the low-church parish of Blackstable, and in his secret soul he yearned for processions and lighted candles. He drew the line at incense. He hated the word protestant. He called himself a Catholic. He was accustomed to say that Papists required an epithet, they were Roman Catholic; but the Church of England was Catholic in the best, the fullest, and the noblest sense of the term. He was pleased to think that his shaven face gave him the look of a priest, and in his youth he had possessed an ascetic air which added to the impression. He often related that on one of his holidays in Boulogne, one of those holidays upon which his wife for economy’s sake did not accompany him, when he was sitting in a church, the cure had come up to him and invited him to preach a sermon. He dismissed his curates when they married, having decided views on the celibacy of the unbeneficed clergy. But when at an election the Liberals had written on his garden fence in large blue letters: This way to Rome, he had been very angry, and threatened to prosecute the leaders of the Liberal party in Blackstable. He made up his mind now that nothing Josiah Graves said would induce him to remove the candlesticks from the altar, and he muttered Bismarck to himself once or twice irritably.

Suddenly he heard an unexpected noise. He pulled the handkerchief off his face, got up from the sofa on which he was lying, and went into the dining-room. Philip was seated on the table with all his bricks around him. He had built a monstrous castle, and some defect in the foundation had just brought the structure down in noisy ruin.

‘What are you doing with those bricks, Philip? You know you’re not allowed to play games on Sunday.’

Philip stared at him for a moment with frightened eyes, and, as his habit was, flushed deeply.

‘I always used to play at home,’ he answered.

‘I’m sure your dear mamma never allowed you to do such a wicked thing as that.’

Philip did not know it was wicked; but if it was, he did not wish it to be supposed that his mother had consented to it. He hung his head and did not answer.

‘Don’t you know it’s very, very wicked to play on Sunday? What d’you suppose it’s called the day of rest for? You’re going to church tonight, and how can you face your Maker when you’ve been breaking one of His laws in the afternoon?’

Mr. Carey told him to put the bricks away at once, and stood over him while Philip did so.

‘You’re a very naughty boy,’ he repeated. ‘Think of the grief you’re causing your poor mother in heaven.’

Philip felt inclined to cry, but he had an instinctive disinclination to letting other people see his tears, and he clenched his teeth to prevent the sobs from escaping. Mr. Carey sat down in his arm-chair and began to turn over the pages of a book. Philip stood at the window. The vicarage was set back from the highroad to Tercanbury, and from the dining-room one saw a semicircular strip of lawn and then as far as the horizon green fields. Sheep were grazing in them. The sky was forlorn and gray. Philip felt infinitely unhappy.

Presently Mary Ann came in to lay the tea, and Aunt Louisa descended the stairs.

‘Have you had a nice little nap, William?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he answered. ‘Philip made so much noise that I couldn’t sleep a wink.’

This was not quite accurate, for he had been kept awake by his own thoughts; and Philip, listening sullenly, reflected that he had only made a noise once, and there was no reason why his uncle should not have slept before or after. When Mrs. Carey asked for an explanation the Vicar narrated the facts.

‘He hasn’t even said he was sorry,’ he finished.

‘Oh, Philip, I’m sure you’re sorry,’ said Mrs. Carey, anxious that the child should not seem wickeder to his uncle than need be.

Philip did not reply. He went on munching his bread and butter. He did not know what power it was in him that prevented him from making any expression of regret. He felt his ears tingling, he was a little inclined to cry, but no word would issue from his lips.

‘You needn’t make it worse by sulking,’ said Mr. Carey.

Tea was finished in silence. Mrs. Carey looked at Philip surreptitiously now and then, but the Vicar elaborately ignored him. When Philip saw his uncle go upstairs to get ready for church he went into the hall and got his hat and coat, but when the Vicar came downstairs and saw him, he said:

‘I don’t wish you to go to church tonight, Philip. I don’t think you’re in a proper frame of mind to enter the House of God.’

Philip did not say a word. He felt it was a deep humiliation that was placed upon him, and his cheeks reddened. He stood silently watching his uncle put on his broad hat and his voluminous cloak. Mrs. Carey as usual went to the door to see him off. Then she turned to Philip.

‘Never mind, Philip, you won’t be a naughty boy next Sunday, will you, and then your uncle will take you to church with him in the evening.’

She took off his hat and coat, and led him into the dining-room.

‘Shall you and I read the service together, Philip, and we’ll sing the hymns at the harmonium. Would you like that?’

Philip shook his head decidedly. Mrs. Carey was taken aback. If he would not read the evening service with her she did not know what to do with him.

‘Then what would you like to do until your uncle comes back?’ she asked helplessly.

Philip broke his silence at last.

‘I want to be left alone,’ he said.

‘Philip, how can you say anything so unkind? Don’t you know that your uncle and I only want your good? Don’t you love me at all?’

‘I hate you. I wish you was dead.’

Mrs. Carey gasped. He said the words so savagely that it gave her quite a start. She had nothing to say. She sat down in her husband’s chair; and as she thought of her desire to love the friendless, crippled boy and her eager wish that he should love her—she was a barren woman and, even though it was clearly God’s will that she should be childless, she could scarcely bear to look at little children sometimes, her heart ached so—the tears rose to her eyes and one by one, slowly, rolled down her cheeks. Philip watched her in amazement. She took out her handkerchief, and now she cried without restraint. Suddenly Philip realised that she was crying because of what he had said, and he was sorry. He went up to her silently and kissed her. It was the first kiss he had ever given her without being asked. And the poor lady, so small in her black satin, shrivelled up and sallow, with her funny corkscrew curls, took the little boy on her lap and put her arms around him and wept as though her heart would break. But her tears were partly tears of happiness, for she felt that the strangeness between them was gone. She loved him now with a new love because he had made her suffer.