Chapter 37

第三十七章

一上来，由于工作很新鲜，菲利普并不感到乏味。卡特先生向他口授信稿，此外他还得缮写誊抄财务报表。

卡特先生希望把事务所办得更富有绅士气派；他不愿同打字文稿沾边，对速记也绝无好感。那位勤工会速记，但只有古德沃西先生利用他的这门特长。菲利普经常跟一位老资格的办事员去某家商行查帐，他渐渐摸清了客户的底细：对哪些客户须恭而敬之，而哪些客户境况不妙，头寸紧得很。人们不时交给他一长串一长串的帐目要他统计。为了应付第一次考试，他还要去听课。古德沃西先生几次三番地对他说，这门行当嘛，一开始虽觉得枯燥乏味，但他慢慢会习惯起来的。菲利普六时下班，安步当车，穿过河来到滑铁卢区。等他到了寓所，晚饭已给他准备好了。整个晚上他呆在家里看书。每逢星期六下午，他总去国家美术馆转上一圈。海沃德曾介绍他看一本游览指南，是根据罗斯金的作品编纂而成的，菲利普手里捧着这本指南，不知疲倦地从一间陈列室转到另一间陈列室：他先是仔细研读这位批评家对某幅名画的评论，然后按图索骥，审视画面，不把该画的真髓找出来决不罢休。星期天的时间，就颇难打发了。他在伦敦没一个熟人，常常只好孤零零地捱过一天。某个星期天，律师尼克逊先生曾邀他去汉普斯泰德作客，菲利普混在一伙精力旺盛的陌生人里面度过了愉快的一天。酒足饭饱之后，还到公园里溜了一圈。告辞的时候，主人泛泛地说了声请他有空时再来玩。可他深恐自己的造访会打扰主人家，因此一直在等候正式邀请。不用说，他以后再也没等到，因为尼克逊家经常高朋满座，他们哪会想到这么个孤独、寡言的年轻人呢，何况又不欠他什么人情。因此，他星期天总是很晚才起身，随后就在河滨的纤路上散散步。巴恩斯那儿的泰晤士河，河水污秽浑浊，随着海潮时涨时落。那儿既看不到船闸上游一带引人入胜的绮丽风光，也不见伦敦大桥下那种后浪推前浪的壮观奇景。下午，他在公用草地上四下闲逛。那里也是灰不溜丢的，脏得够呛，既不属于乡村，也算不上是城镇；那儿的金雀花长得又矮又小，满眼皆是文明世界扔出来的杂乱废物。（星期六晚上，他总要去看场戏，兴致勃勃地在顶层楼座的厅门旁边站上个把小时。）博物馆关门之后，去A．B．C．咖啡馆吃饭还太早，要在这段时问里回巴恩斯一次，似乎又不值得。时间真不知如何消磨才好。他或是沿证券街溜达一会，或是在伯林顿拱道上信步闲逛，感到疲倦了，就去公园小坐片刻，如果碰上雨天，就到圣马丁街的公共图书馆看看书。他瞅着路上熙来攘往的行人，羡慕他们都有亲朋好反。有时这种羡慕会演变为憎恨，因为他们足那么幸福，而自己却是这般凄苫。他从未想到，身居偌大一座闹市，竟会感到如此孤寂。有时他站在顶层楼座门边看戏，身旁看客想同他搭讪几句，菲利普出于乡巴佬对陌生人固有的猜疑，在答话中总是爱理不理的，致使对方接不住话茬，攀谈不下去。戏散场后，他只好把自己的观感憋在肚子里，匆匆穿过大桥来到滑铁卢区。等回到自己寓所--为了省几个钱，房间里连个火都舍不得生--心灰意懒到了极点。生活凄凉得可怕。他开始厌恶这所客寓，厌恶在这里度过的悲凉凄清的漫漫长夜。有时候他感到孤独难熬，连书也看不进去，于是就一小时又一小时地坐在屋里发愣，双眼死瞪着壁炉，陷于极大的悲苦之中。

此时他已在伦敦住了三个月，除了在汉普斯泰德度过了那个星期天外，他至多也只是同事务所的同事们交谈过几句。一天晚上，华生邀他去饭店吃饭，饭后又一起上杂耍剧场，但他感到怯生生的，浑身不自在。华生侃侃而谈，讲的净是些他不感兴趣的事。在他看来，华生自然是个市井之徒，但他又情不自禁地羡慕他。他感到气愤，因为华生显然并不把他的文化素养放在眼里，可是根据别人的评价再来重新估量自己，他也禁不住藐视起自己那一肚子的一向自认为并非无足轻重的学问来了。他生平第一回感到贫穷是件丢脸的事。他大伯按月寄给他十四镑，他还得靠这笔钱添置许多衣服。单单晚礼服就花了他五个畿尼。他不敢告诉华生这套晚礼服是在河滨街买的。华生说过真正像样的裁缝店，全伦敦只有一家。

"我想你不会跳舞吧，"有一天，华生这么说着，朝菲利普的跛足扫了一眼。

"不会，"菲利普说。

"可惜有人要我约几个会跳舞的人去参加个舞会。要不然，我满可以介绍你认识几个讨人喜欢的小妞。"

有一两次，菲利普实在不想回巴恩斯，就留在市里，一直逛荡到深夜。这时，他发现有一幢宅邸，里面正在举行社交聚会。他混在一群衣衫褴褴的人里面，站在仆役的背后，看着宾客们纷至沓来，谛听着从窗口飘来的音乐。有时一对男女，不顾夜凉气寒，到阳台上来站一会儿，呼吸几口新鲜空气，在菲利普想来，他俩一定是堕入情网的情侣。他赶紧转过身子，怀着沉重的心情，一瘸一拐地继续踽踽前行。那个男子交上了桃花运，可他自己永远也不会有这么一天。他觉得天底下没有哪个女子会真心不嫌恶他的残疾。

这使他想起威尔金森小姐。即使想到她，心里也不觉着快慰。他们分手时曾讲定：她在知道他的确切地址之前，就把信投寄至切尔林克罗斯邮局。菲利普去邮局取信时，一下子拿到了三封。她用的是紫墨水、蓝信笺，而且是用法语写的。菲利普暗自纳闷，她干吗不能像个有见地的女人那样用英语写呢？尽管她情话绵绵，却丝毫打动不了他的心，因为信的措词使他想起了法国小说。她责怪菲利普为什么不给她写信，他回信推托说自己工作忙。一上来他还真不知道信该用什么抬头，他说什么也不愿用"最亲爱的"或者"心肝宝贝"之类的称呼，也不高兴称她埃米莉，所以最后就用了"亲爱的"这样的抬头。它孤零零吊在那儿，看上去不但别扭，而且有点傻乎乎的，但他还是这么用了。这是他有生以来所写的第一封情书，他自己也知道信写得平淡乏味。他觉得，应该用上各种热得发烫的言词来倾吐自己的感情，说他无时不在思念她呀，如何渴望吻她美丽的双手啊，如何一想到她那红艳欲滴的嘴唇心弦就止不住颤动啊，等等。但是，出于某种难以言传的羞怯心理，他并没这样写，而只是向她谈了一下自己的新寓所和他上班的地方。下一班回邮带来了她的回信，满纸都是愤激而辛酸的责备之词：他怎么能这般冷酷无情！他难道不知道她在痴痴地等待他的回信？她把一个女人所能给予的全奉献给了他，而她得到的竟是这样的酬报！是不是他已经对她厌倦了？他好几天没有回信，于是威尔金森小姐的信就像雪片似的向他袭来，大兴问罪之师。她无法忍受他的寡情薄义；她望眼欲穿地盼望鸿雁传书，却终未见有他的片言只语。夜复一夜，她都是噙着泪珠入梦的。她现在是斯人独憔悴，大家都在私下议论纷纷。他要是不爱她，干吗不干脆直说呢？接着她又说，一旦失去了他，她自己也没法活了，就只有了结残生这样一条出路。她责备他冷酷自私，忘恩负义。所有这些都是用法语写的。菲利普心里明白，她这么做是存心向他炫耀，不管怎么说，她的来信搞得他忧心如焚。他并不想惹她伤心。过了不久，她写信来说她再也忍受不了这种身居异地的相思之苦，要设法到伦敦来过圣诞节。菲利普赶紧回信说，他巴不得她能来呢，可惜他已同朋友有约在先，要到乡间去过圣诞节，总不能临时变卦自食其言吧？她回信说，她并不想死皮赖脸地来缠住他，明摆着是他不希望见到自己嘛，这不能不使她深感痛心，她从没想到他会如此薄情地报答她的一片痴心。她的信写得缠绵排恻，菲利普觉得信笺上泪痕依稀可见。他一时冲动，写了封回信，说他十二万分抱歉，恳求她到伦敦来，直到收到她的回信才算松了口气，因为她信上说，眼下实在抽不出身来。这之后，他一收到她的来信，心就发凉，迟迟不敢拆开。他知道信中的内容无非是愤怒的责备，外加悲戚的哀求。看到这些信，不免让自己感到是个无情无义的负心汉，可是他不明白自己有什么该引咎自责的。他迟迟不愿提笔复信，一天一天往后拖，接着她就又寄来一封信，说她病倒了，感到寂寞而悲苦。

"上帝啊，当初真不该同她发生这层瓜葛啊！"他说。

他佩服华生，因为他处理起这类事情来毫不费劲。华生和巡回剧团的一个姑娘勾搭上了，他绘声绘色地描述这段风流事，听得菲利普惊羡不已。可是过了不多久，喜新厌旧的华生变了心。一天，他向菲利普介绍了同那姑娘一刀两断的经过。

"我看，在这种事儿上优柔寡断没半点好处。我开门见山地对她说，我已经同你玩腻啦，"他说。

"她没大吵大闹？"菲利普问。

"你也知道，这当然免不了的罗。但我对她说，别跟我来这一套，没什么用处的。"

"她可哭了？"

"开始哭鼻子啦！可我最头疼那些哭哭啼啼的娘们，所以我当即对她说，还是知趣点儿，趁早溜吧。"

随着年岁的增长，菲利普的幽默感也益见敏锐。

"她就这么夹着尾巴溜了？"他笑着问。

"嗯。她除此之外还有什么别的妙着呢，嗯？"

圣诞节一天天临近了。整个十一月，凯里太太一直在害病，医生建议她和牧师最好在圣诞节前后去康威尔住上几个星期，让她好生调养调养。这一来，菲利普可没了去处，只好在自己寓所内消度圣诞节。由于受到海沃德的影响，菲利普也接受了这种说法：圣诞节期间的那一套喜庆活动，既庸俗又放肆。所以他打定主意别去理会这个节日。可是真的到了这一大，家家户户喜气洋洋的节日气氛，却使他无端伤感，愁肠百结。节日里，房东太太和丈夫要同已出嫁的女儿团聚，菲利普为了不给他们添麻烦，宣布他要到外面去吃饭。将近中午，他才去伦敦，独自在凯蒂餐馆吃了一片火鸡和一客圣诞节布丁。饭后他闲得发慌，便到西敏寺去做午祷。整个街道空荡荡的，即使有三两个行人，看上去也都是带着副若有所思的神态，急匆匆地赶去某个地方，没一个人在逛荡转悠，差不多全是结伴而行。在菲利普看来，他们似乎全是有福之人，唯独他形单影只，从没像现在这样感到孤苦伶仃。他原打算无论如何要在街头把这一天消磨掉，然后到某个饭馆去吃顿晚饭。可是面对这些兴高采烈的人群--他们在说笑，在寻欢作乐--他再也呆不下去，所以他还是折回滑铁卢，在路过西敏桥路时买了一些火腿和几块碎肉馅饼，回到巴恩斯来。他在冷清清的小房间里胡乱吞了些食物充饥，晚上就借书解闷，万股愁思压得他几乎没法忍受。

节后回事务所上班时，华生津津有味地谈着自己是如何欢度这个短暂节日的，菲利普听了越发不是滋味。他们家来了几位挺活泼可爱的姑娘，晚饭后，他们把起居室腾出来，开了个舞会。

"我一直玩到三点钟才上床，嘿，真不知道是怎么爬上床的。天哪，我喝得个酩酊大醉。"

最后，菲利普鼓足勇气，不顾一切地问：

"在伦敦，人们是怎么结交朋友的？"

华生惊讶地望着他，暗觉好笑的神色之中又夹着几分鄙夷。

"哦，叫我怎么说呢。就这么认识了呗。你如果经常去跳舞，就会立刻结识许多人，只要你应付得过来，结识多少都行。"

菲利普对华生绝无好感，可他甘愿牺牲自己的一切，只求能换得华生的地位。昔日在学校里经受过的那种感觉，又在心田悄然复萌。他让自己钻进别人的皮囊，想象自己若是华生，会过着什么样的生活。

 

At first the novelty of the work kept Philip interested. Mr. Carter dictated letters to him, and he had to make fair copies of statements of accounts.

Mr. Carter preferred to conduct the office on gentlemanly lines; he would have nothing to do with typewriting and looked upon shorthand with disfavour: the office-boy knew shorthand, but it was only Mr. Goodworthy who made use of his accomplishment. Now and then Philip with one of the more experienced clerks went out to audit the accounts of some firm: he came to know which of the clients must be treated with respect and which were in low water. Now and then long lists of figures were given him to add up. He attended lectures for his first examination. Mr. Goodworthy repeated to him that the work was dull at first, but he would grow used to it. Philip left the office at six and walked across the river to Waterloo. His supper was waiting for him when he reached his lodgings and he spent the evening reading. On Saturday afternoons he went to the National Gallery. Hayward had recommended to him a guide which had been compiled out of Ruskin’s works, and with this in hand he went industriously through room after room: he read carefully what the critic had said about a picture and then in a determined fashion set himself to see the same things in it. His Sundays were difficult to get through. He knew no one in London and spent them by himself. Mr. Nixon, the solicitor, asked him to spend a Sunday at Hampstead, and Philip passed a happy day with a set of exuberant strangers; he ate and drank a great deal, took a walk on the heath, and came away with a general invitation to come again whenever he liked; but he was morbidly afraid of being in the way, so waited for a formal invitation. Naturally enough it never came, for with numbers of friends of their own the Nixons did not think of the lonely, silent boy whose claim upon their hospitality was so small. So on Sundays he got up late and took a walk along the tow-path. At Barnes the river is muddy, dingy, and tidal; it has neither the graceful charm of the Thames above the locks nor the romance of the crowded stream below London Bridge. In the afternoon he walked about the common; and that is gray and dingy too; it is neither country nor town; the gorse is stunted; and all about is the litter of civilisation. He went to a play every Saturday night and stood cheerfully for an hour or more at the gallery-door. It was not worth while to go back to Barnes for the interval between the closing of the Museum and his meal in an A. B. C. shop, and the time hung heavily on his hands. He strolled up Bond Street or through the Burlington Arcade, and when he was tired went and sat down in the Park or in wet weather in the public library in St. Martin’s Lane. He looked at the people walking about and envied them because they had friends; sometimes his envy turned to hatred because they were happy and he was miserable. He had never imagined that it was possible to be so lonely in a great city. Sometimes when he was standing at the gallery-door the man next to him would attempt a conversation; but Philip had the country boy’s suspicion of strangers and answered in such a way as to prevent any further acquaintance. After the play was over, obliged to keep to himself all he thought about it, he hurried across the bridge to Waterloo. When he got back to his rooms, in which for economy no fire had been lit, his heart sank. It was horribly cheerless. He began to loathe his lodgings and the long solitary evenings he spent in them. Sometimes he felt so lonely that he could not read, and then he sat looking into the fire hour after hour in bitter wretchedness.

He had spent three months in London now, and except for that one Sunday at Hampstead had never talked to anyone but his fellow-clerks. One evening Watson asked him to dinner at a restaurant and they went to a music-hall together; but he felt shy and uncomfortable. Watson talked all the time of things he did not care about, and while he looked upon Watson as a Philistine he could not help admiring him. He was angry because Watson obviously set no store on his culture, and with his way of taking himself at the estimate at which he saw others held him he began to despise the acquirements which till then had seemed to him not unimportant. He felt for the first time the humiliation of poverty. His uncle sent him fourteen pounds a month and he had had to buy a good many clothes. His evening suit cost him five guineas. He had not dared tell Watson that it was bought in the Strand. Watson said there was only one tailor in London.

‘I suppose you don’t dance,’ said Watson, one day, with a glance at Philip’s club-foot.

‘No,’ said Philip.

‘Pity. I’ve been asked to bring some dancing men to a ball. I could have introduced you to some jolly girls.’

Once or twice, hating the thought of going back to Barnes, Philip had remained in town, and late in the evening wandered through the West End till he found some house at which there was a party. He stood among the little group of shabby people, behind the footmen, watching the guests arrive, and he listened to the music that floated through the window. Sometimes, notwithstanding the cold, a couple came on to the balcony and stood for a moment to get some fresh air; and Philip, imagining that they were in love with one another, turned away and limped along the street with a heavy hurt. He would never be able to stand in that man’s place. He felt that no woman could ever really look upon him without distaste for his deformity.

That reminded him of Miss Wilkinson. He thought of her without satisfaction. Before parting they had made an arrangement that she should write to Charing Cross Post Office till he was able to send her an address, and when he went there he found three letters from her. She wrote on blue paper with violet ink, and she wrote in French. Philip wondered why she could not write in English like a sensible woman, and her passionate expressions, because they reminded him of a French novel, left him cold. She upbraided him for not having written, and when he answered he excused himself by saying that he had been busy. He did not quite know how to start the letter. He could not bring himself to use dearest or darling, and he hated to address her as Emily, so finally he began with the word dear. It looked odd, standing by itself, and rather silly, but he made it do. It was the first love letter he had ever written, and he was conscious of its tameness; he felt that he should say all sorts of vehement things, how he thought of her every minute of the day and how he longed to kiss her beautiful hands and how he trembled at the thought of her red lips, but some inexplicable modesty prevented him; and instead he told her of his new rooms and his office. The answer came by return of post, angry, heart-broken, reproachful: how could he be so cold? Did he not know that she hung on his letters? She had given him all that a woman could give, and this was her reward. Was he tired of her already? Then, because he did not reply for several days, Miss Wilkinson bombarded him with letters. She could not bear his unkindness, she waited for the post, and it never brought her his letter, she cried herself to sleep night after night, she was looking so ill that everyone remarked on it: if he did not love her why did he not say so? She added that she could not live without him, and the only thing was for her to commit suicide. She told him he was cold and selfish and ungrateful. It was all in French, and Philip knew that she wrote in that language to show off, but he was worried all the same. He did not want to make her unhappy. In a little while she wrote that she could not bear the separation any longer, she would arrange to come over to London for Christmas. Philip wrote back that he would like nothing better, only he had already an engagement to spend Christmas with friends in the country, and he did not see how he could break it. She answered that she did not wish to force herself on him, it was quite evident that he did not wish to see her; she was deeply hurt, and she never thought he would repay with such cruelty all her kindness. Her letter was touching, and Philip thought he saw marks of her tears on the paper; he wrote an impulsive reply saying that he was dreadfully sorry and imploring her to come; but it was with relief that he received her answer in which she said that she found it would be impossible for her to get away. Presently when her letters came his heart sank: he delayed opening them, for he knew what they would contain, angry reproaches and pathetic appeals; they would make him feel a perfect beast, and yet he did not see with what he had to blame himself. He put off his answer from day to day, and then another letter would come, saying she was ill and lonely and miserable.

‘I wish to God I’d never had anything to do with her,’ he said.

He admired Watson because he arranged these things so easily. The young man had been engaged in an intrigue with a girl who played in touring companies, and his account of the affair filled Philip with envious amazement. But after a time Watson’s young affections changed, and one day he described the rupture to Philip.

‘I thought it was no good making any bones about it so I just told her I’d had enough of her,’ he said.

‘Didn’t she make an awful scene?’ asked Philip.

‘The usual thing, you know, but I told her it was no good trying on that sort of thing with me.’

‘Did she cry?’

‘She began to, but I can’t stand women when they cry, so I said she’d better hook it.’

Philip’s sense of humour was growing keener with advancing years.

‘And did she hook it?’ he asked smiling.

‘Well, there wasn’t anything else for her to do, was there?’

Meanwhile the Christmas holidays approached. Mrs. Carey had been ill all through November, and the doctor suggested that she and the Vicar should go to Cornwall for a couple of weeks round Christmas so that she should get back her strength. The result was that Philip had nowhere to go, and he spent Christmas Day in his lodgings. Under Hayward’s influence he had persuaded himself that the festivities that attend this season were vulgar and barbaric, and he made up his mind that he would take no notice of the day; but when it came, the jollity of all around affected him strangely. His landlady and her husband were spending the day with a married daughter, and to save trouble Philip announced that he would take his meals out. He went up to London towards mid-day and ate a slice of turkey and some Christmas pudding by himself at Gatti’s, and since he had nothing to do afterwards went to Westminster Abbey for the afternoon service. The streets were almost empty, and the people who went along had a preoccupied look; they did not saunter but walked with some definite goal in view, and hardly anyone was alone. To Philip they all seemed happy. He felt himself more solitary than he had ever done in his life. His intention had been to kill the day somehow in the streets and then dine at a restaurant, but he could not face again the sight of cheerful people, talking, laughing, and making merry; so he went back to Waterloo, and on his way through the Westminster Bridge Road bought some ham and a couple of mince pies and went back to Barnes. He ate his food in his lonely little room and spent the evening with a book. His depression was almost intolerable.

When he was back at the office it made him very sore to listen to Watson’s account of the short holiday. They had had some jolly girls staying with them, and after dinner they had cleared out the drawing-room and had a dance.

‘I didn’t get to bed till three and I don’t know how I got there then. By George, I was squiffy.’

At last Philip asked desperately:

‘How does one get to know people in London?’

Watson looked at him with surprise and with a slightly contemptuous amusement.

‘Oh, I don’t know, one just knows them. If you go to dances you soon get to know as many people as you can do with.’

Philip hated Watson, and yet he would have given anything to change places with him. The old feeling that he had had at school came back to him, and he tried to throw himself into the other’s skin, imagining what life would be if he were Watson.