Chapter 67

第六十七章

菲利普在布莱克斯泰勃呆了两个月之后，急着要返回伦敦。在这两个月里，诺拉频频来信，信都写得很长，而且笔力浑厚遒劲。在信中，她用酣畅和幽默的笔调描述日常琐事、房东太太的家庭纠纷、妙趣横生的笑料、她在排练时遇上的带有喜剧性的烦恼--那时她正在伦敦一家戏院里一场重要的戏里扮演配角--以及她同小说出版商们打交道时的种种奇遇。菲利普博览群书，游泳，打网球，还去驾舟游览。十月初，他回到了伦敦，定下心来读书，准备迎接第二次统考。他急盼通过考试，因为考试及格意味着繁重的课程就此告一段落，此后，他就得上医院门诊部实习，同男男女女各色人以及教科书打交道。菲利普每天都去看望诺拉。

劳森一直在普尔避暑，他画的几张港湾和海滩的写生画参加了画展。他受托画两张肖像画，并打算在光线不便于他作画之前一直呆在伦敦。此时，海沃德也在伦敦，意欲去国外过冬。但是，时间一周周地流逝过去，他却依然滞留伦敦，就是下不了动身的决心。在这两三年间，海沃德发福了--菲利普第一次在海德堡见到他距今已有五个年头了--还过早地秃了顶。他对此非常敏感，故意把头发留得老长老长的，以遮掩那不雅观的光秃秃的脑顶心。他唯一感到安慰的是，他的眉毛俊秀如前。他那双蓝眼睛却暗淡失神，眼皮萎顿地低垂着；那张嘴全无年轻人的勃勃生气，显得凋萎、苍白。海沃德仍旧含混地谈论着他将来准备做的事情，但信心不足。他意识到朋友们再也不相信自己了，因此，三两杯威士忌下了肚，他便变得哀哀戚戚，黯然神伤。

"我是个失败者，"他喃喃地说，"我经受不住人生争斗的残酷。我所能做的只是让出道儿来，让那些官小之辈去喧嚣，扰攘，角逐他们的利益吧。"

海沃德给人以这样一个印象：即失败是一件比成功更为微妙、更为高雅的事情。他暗示说他的孤僻高傲来自对一切平凡而又卑贱的事物的厌恶。他对柏拉图却推崇备至。

"我早以为你现在已不再研究柏拉图了呢，"菲利普不耐烦地说了一句。

"是吗？"海沃德扬了扬眉毛，问道。

"我看不出老是翻来复去地读同样的东西有什么意义，"菲利普说，"这只不过是一种既无聊又费劲的消遣罢了。"

"但是，难道你认为你自己有颗伟大的脑瓜，对一个思想最深邃的作家的作品只要读一遍就能理解了吗？"

"我可不想理解他，我也不是个评论家。我并不是为了他，而是为了我自己才对他发生兴趣的。"

"那你为什么也要读书呢？"

"一来是为了寻求乐趣。因为读书是一种习惯，不读书就像我不抽烟那样难过。二来是为了了解我自己。我读起书来，只是用眼睛瞄瞄而已。不过，有时我也碰上一段文字，或许只是一个词组，对我来说还有些意思，这时，它们就变成了我的一个部分。书中凡是对我有用的东西，我都把它们吸收了，因此，即使再读上几十遍，我也不能获得更多的东西。在我看来，一个人仿佛是一个包得紧紧的蓓蕾。一个人所读的书或做的事，在大多数情况下，对他毫无作用。然而，有些事情对一个人来说确实具有一种特殊意义，这些具有特殊意义的事情使得蓓蕾绽开一片花瓣，花瓣一片片接连开放，最后便开成一朵鲜花。"

菲利普对自己打的比方不甚满意，但是他不知如何表达自己感觉到的但仍不甚了了的情感。

"你想有番作为，还想出人头地呐，"海沃德耸耸肩膀说。"这是多么的庸俗。"

直到此时，菲利普算是了解海沃德了。他意志薄弱，虚荣心强。他竟虚荣到了这样的地步，你得时刻提防着别伤害他的感情。他将理想和无聊混为一谈，不能将两者加以区分。一天，在劳森的画室里，海沃德遇上一位新闻记者。这位记者为他的侃侃谈吐所陶醉。一周以后，一家报纸的编辑来信建议他写些评论文章。在接信后的四十八个小时里面，海沃德一直处于优柔寡断、犹疑不决的痛苦之中。长期以来，他常常谈论要谋取这样的职位，因此眼下无脸断然拒绝，但一想到要去干事，内心又充满了恐惧。最后，他还是谢绝了这一建议，这才感到松了口气。

"要不，它会干扰我的工作的，"他告诉菲利普说。

"什么工作？"菲利普没好声气地问道。

"我的精神生活呗，"海沃德答道。

接着他数说起那位日内瓦教授艾米尔的种种风流韵事。他的聪明睿智使他完全有可能取得成就，但他终究一事无成。直到这位教授寿终上寝时，他为什么会失败以及为什么要为自己开脱这两个疑问，在从他的文件堆里找出的那本记载详尽、语颇隽永的日记里立刻得到了答案。说罢，海沃德脸上泛起了一丝不可名状的笑意。

但是，海沃德居然还兴致勃勃地谈论起书籍来了。他的情趣风雅，眼光敏锐。他耽于幻想的豪兴不衰，幻想成了他引以为乐的伙伴。其实，幻想对他毫无意义，因为幻想对他从没发生过什么影响。但是他却像对待拍卖行里的瓷器一样对待幻想，怀着对瓷器的外表及其光泽的浓厚兴趣摆弄着它，在脑海里掂量着它的价格，最后把它收进箱子，从此再不加以理会。

然而，作出重大发现的却正足海沃德。一天黄昏时分，在作了一定的准备之后，他把菲利普和劳森带至一家坐落在比克大街上的酒菜馆。这家馆子享有盛誉，不只是因为店面堂皇及其悠久的历史--它使人怀念那些发人遐思蹁跹的十八世纪的荣耀事迹--且还因为这里备有全伦敦最佳的鼻烟。这里的混合甜饮料尤为著名。海沃德把他们俩领进一个狭长的大房间。这儿，光线朦胧，装饰华丽，墙上悬挂着巨幅裸体女人像：均是海登派的巨幅寓言画。但是，缭绕的烟雾、弥漫的空气和伦敦特有的气氛，使得画中人个个丰姿秀逸、栩栩如生，仿佛她们历来就是这儿的主人似的。那黝黑的镶板、厚实的光泽黯淡的烫金檐口以及红木桌于，这一切给房间以一种豪华的气派；沿墙排列的一张张皮椅，既柔软又舒适。正对房门的桌上摆着一只公羊头，里面盛有该店遐迩闻名的鼻烟。他们要了混合甜饮料，在一起开怀畅饮。这是种热气腾腾的掺有朗姆酒的甜饮料。要写出这种饮料的妙处，手中的拙笔不禁打颤。这段文字，字眼严肃，词藻平庸，根本不足以表情达意；而浮华的措辞，珠光闪烁而引人入胜的言词一向是用来描绘激动不已的想象力的。这饮料使热血沸腾，使头脑清新，使人感到心旷神怡（它使心灵里充满健康舒憩之感），使人情趣横溢，令人乐意领略旁人的机智。它像音乐那样捉摸不定，却又像数学那样精确细密。这种饮料只有其中一个特性还能同其他东西作一比较：即它有一种好心肠的温暖。但是，它的滋味、气味及其给人的感受，却不是言语所能表达的。查尔斯·拉姆用其无穷的机智来写的话，完全可能描绘出一幅当时的令人陶醉的风俗画；要是拜伦伯爵在其《唐·璜》的一节诗里来描述这一难以言表的事儿，他会写得字字珠玑，异常雄伟壮丽；奥斯卡·王尔德把伊斯法罕的珠宝倾注在拜占庭的织锦上的话，兴许对能把它塑造成一个乱人心思的美人。想到这里，眼前不觉疑真疑幻地晃动着伊拉加巴拉的宴会上觥筹交错的情景；耳畔回响起德彪西的一曲曲幽咽的谐调，调中还透出丝丝被遗忘的一代存放旧衣、皱领、长统袜和紧身衣的衣柜所发出的夹杂着霉味却芬芳的传奇气息，迎面飘来深壑幽谷中的百合花的清香和茄达干酿的芳香。我不禁头晕目眩起来。

海沃德在街上邂逅他在剑桥大学时的一位名叫马卡利斯特的同窗，通过他，才发现了这家专售这种名贵的混合酒的酒菜馆。马卡利斯待既是交易所经纪人，又是个哲学家。每个星期，他都得光顾一次这家酒菜馆。于是，隔了没多久，菲利普、劳森和海沃德每逢星期二晚上必定聚首一次。生活方式的改变使得他们经常光顾这家酒菜馆。这对喜于交谈的人们来说，倒也不无禅益。马卡利斯特其人，大骨骼，身板宽阔，相比之下，个头却显得太矮了，一张宽大的脸上肉滚滚的，说起话来总是柔声细气的。他是康德的弟干涸而总是从纯理性的观点出发看待一切事物u他就喜欢阐发自己的学说。菲利普怀着浓厚的兴趣谛听着，因为他早就认为世间再也没有别的学说比形而上学更能激起他的兴趣。不过，他对形而上学在解决人生事务方面是否有效还不那么有把握。他在布莱克斯泰勃冥思苦索而得出的那个小小的、巧妙的思想体系，看来在他迷恋米尔德丽德期间，并没有起什么影响。他不能确信理性在处理人生事务方面会有多大的禅益。在他看来，生活毕竞是生活，有其自身的规律。直到现在，他还清晰地记得先前那种左右着他一切言行的情感的威力，以及他对此束手无策，犹如他周身被绳索死死捆在地上一般。他从书中懂得了不少道理，可却只会从自己的经验出发对事物作出判断（他不知道自己跟别人是否有所不同）。他采取行动，从不权衡行动的利弊，也从不考虑其利害得失。但是，他始终感到有一股不可抗拒的力量在驱使着自己向前。他行动起来不是半心半意，而是全力以赴。那股左右着一切的力量看来与理性根本不搭界：理性的作用不过是向他指出获得他心心念念想获得的东西的途径而已。

此时，马卡利斯特提醒菲利普别忘了"绝对命令"这一著名论点。

"你一定要这样行为，使得你的每个行为的格调足以成为一切人行为的普遍规律。"

"对我来说，你的话是十足的胡说八道，"菲利普反驳道。

"你真是狗胆包天，竟敢冲撞伊曼纽尔·康德，"马卡利斯特随即顶了一句。

"为什么不可以呢？对某个人说的话唯命是从，这是愚蠢的品质。当今世上盲目崇拜的气氛简直太盛了。康德考虑事情，并不是因为这些事物确实存在，而只是因为他是康德。"

"嗯，那么，你对'绝对命令，究竟是怎么看的呢？"

（他们俩你一言我一语地争论着，就好像帝国的命运处于千钧一发之际似的。）

"它表明一个人可以凭自己的意志力选择道路。它还告诉人们理性是最最可靠的向导。为什么它的指令一定要比情感的指令强呢？两者是绝然不同的嘛。这就是我对'绝对命令，的看法。"

"看来你是你的情感的心悦诚服的奴隶。"

"如果是个奴隶的话，那是因为我无可奈何，不过决不是个心说诚服的奴隶，"菲利普笑吟吟地答道。

说话的当儿，菲利普回想起自己追求米尔德丽德时那股狂热的劲儿。当初他在那股灼烈的情火的烘烤下是怎样焦躁不安，以及后来又是怎样因之而蒙受奇耻大辱的情景，一一掠过他的脑际。

"谢天谢地，现在我终于从那里挣脱出来了！"他心里叹道。

尽管他嘴上这么说，但他还是拿不准这些话是否是他的肺腑之言。当他处于情欲的影响下，他感到自己浑身充满了奇特的活力，脑子异乎寻常地活跃。他生气勃勃、精神抖擞，体内洋溢着一股激情，心里荡漾着一种急不可耐的热情。这一切无不使眼下的生活显得有点枯燥乏味。他平生所遭受的一切不幸，都从那种意义上的充满激情、极为兴奋的生活中得到了补偿。

但是，菲利普刚才那番语焉不详的议论却把马卡利斯特的注意力转向讨论意志的自由的问题上来了。马卡利斯特凭借其博闻强记的特长，提出了一个又一个论点。他还颇喜欢玩弄雄辩术。他把菲利普逼得自相矛盾起来。他动不动就把菲利普逼人窘境，使得菲利普只能作出不利于自己的让步，以摆脱尴尬的局面。马卡利斯特用缜密的逻辑驳得他体无完肤，又以权威的力量打得他一败涂地。

最后，菲利普终于开口说道：

"嗯，关于别人的事儿，我没什么可说的。我只能说我自己。在我的头脑里，对意志的自由的幻想非常强烈，我怎么也摆脱不了。不过，我还是认为这不过是一种幻想而已。可这种幻想恰恰又是我的行为的最强烈的动因之一。在采取行动之前，我总认为我可以自由选择，而我就是在这种思想支配下做事的。但当事情做过以后，我才发现那样做是永远无法避免的。"

"你从中引出什么结论呢？"海沃德插进来问。

"嘿，这不明摆着，懊悔是徒劳的。牛奶既倾，哭也无用，因为世间一切力量都一心一意要把牛奶掀翻嘛！"
 

Philip looked forward to his return to London with impatience. During the two months he spent at Blackstable Norah wrote to him frequently, long letters in a bold, large hand, in which with cheerful humour she described the little events of the daily round, the domestic troubles of her landlady, rich food for laughter, the comic vexations of her rehearsals—she was walking on in an important spectacle at one of the London theatres—and her odd adventures with the publishers of novelettes. Philip read a great deal, bathed, played tennis, and sailed. At the beginning of October he settled down in London to work for the Second Conjoint examination. He was eager to pass it, since that ended the drudgery of the curriculum; after it was done with the student became an out-patients’ clerk, and was brought in contact with men and women as well as with text-books. Philip saw Norah every day.

Lawson had been spending the summer at Poole, and had a number of sketches to show of the harbour and of the beach. He had a couple of commissions for portraits and proposed to stay in London till the bad light drove him away. Hayward, in London too, intended to spend the winter abroad, but remained week after week from sheer inability to make up his mind to go. Hayward had run to fat during the last two or three years—it was five years since Philip first met him in Heidelberg—and he was prematurely bald. He was very sensitive about it and wore his hair long to conceal the unsightly patch on the crown of his head. His only consolation was that his brow was now very noble. His blue eyes had lost their colour; they had a listless droop; and his mouth, losing the fulness of youth, was weak and pale. He still talked vaguely of the things he was going to do in the future, but with less conviction; and he was conscious that his friends no longer believed in him: when he had drank two or three glasses of whiskey he was inclined to be elegiac.

‘I’m a failure,’ he murmured, ‘I’m unfit for the brutality of the struggle of life. All I can do is to stand aside and let the vulgar throng hustle by in their pursuit of the good things.’

He gave you the impression that to fail was a more delicate, a more exquisite thing, than to succeed. He insinuated that his aloofness was due to distaste for all that was common and low. He talked beautifully of Plato.

‘I should have thought you’d got through with Plato by now,’ said Philip impatiently.

‘Would you?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows.

He was not inclined to pursue the subject. He had discovered of late the effective dignity of silence.

‘I don’t see the use of reading the same thing over and over again,’ said Philip. ‘That’s only a laborious form of idleness.’

‘But are you under the impression that you have so great a mind that you can understand the most profound writer at a first reading?’

‘I don’t want to understand him, I’m not a critic. I’m not interested in him for his sake but for mine.’

‘Why d’you read then?’

‘Partly for pleasure, because it’s a habit and I’m just as uncomfortable if I don’t read as if I don’t smoke, and partly to know myself. When I read a book I seem to read it with my eyes only, but now and then I come across a passage, perhaps only a phrase, which has a meaning for ME, and it becomes part of me; I’ve got out of the book all that’s any use to me, and I can’t get anything more if I read it a dozen times. You see, it seems to me, one’s like a closed bud, and most of what one reads and does has no effect at all; but there are certain things that have a peculiar significance for one, and they open a petal; and the petals open one by one; and at last the flower is there.’

Philip was not satisfied with his metaphor, but he did not know how else to explain a thing which he felt and yet was not clear about.

‘You want to do things, you want to become things,’ said Hayward, with a shrug of the shoulders. ‘It’s so vulgar.’

Philip knew Hayward very well by now. He was weak and vain, so vain that you had to be on the watch constantly not to hurt his feelings; he mingled idleness and idealism so that he could not separate them. At Lawson’s studio one day he met a journalist, who was charmed by his conversation, and a week later the editor of a paper wrote to suggest that he should do some criticism for him. For forty-eight hours Hayward lived in an agony of indecision. He had talked of getting occupation of this sort so long that he had not the face to refuse outright, but the thought of doing anything filled him with panic. At last he declined the offer and breathed freely.

‘It would have interfered with my work,’ he told Philip.

‘What work?’ asked Philip brutally.

‘My inner life,’ he answered.

Then he went on to say beautiful things about Amiel, the professor of Geneva, whose brilliancy promised achievement which was never fulfilled; till at his death the reason of his failure and the excuse were at once manifest in the minute, wonderful journal which was found among his papers. Hayward smiled enigmatically.

But Hayward could still talk delightfully about books; his taste was exquisite and his discrimination elegant; and he had a constant interest in ideas, which made him an entertaining companion. They meant nothing to him really, since they never had any effect on him; but he treated them as he might have pieces of china in an auction-room, handling them with pleasure in their shape and their glaze, pricing them in his mind; and then, putting them back into their case, thought of them no more.

And it was Hayward who made a momentous discovery. One evening, after due preparation, he took Philip and Lawson to a tavern situated in Beak Street, remarkable not only in itself and for its history—it had memories of eighteenth-century glories which excited the romantic imagination—but for its snuff, which was the best in London, and above all for its punch. Hayward led them into a large, long room, dingily magnificent, with huge pictures on the walls of nude women: they were vast allegories of the school of Haydon; but smoke, gas, and the London atmosphere had given them a richness which made them look like old masters. The dark panelling, the massive, tarnished gold of the cornice, the mahogany tables, gave the room an air of sumptuous comfort, and the leather-covered seats along the wall were soft and easy. There was a ram’s head on a table opposite the door, and this contained the celebrated snuff. They ordered punch. They drank it. It was hot rum punch. The pen falters when it attempts to treat of the excellence thereof; the sober vocabulary, the sparse epithet of this narrative, are inadequate to the task; and pompous terms, jewelled, exotic phrases rise to the excited fancy. It warmed the blood and cleared the head; it filled the soul with well-being; it disposed the mind at once to utter wit and to appreciate the wit of others; it had the vagueness of music and the precision of mathematics. Only one of its qualities was comparable to anything else: it had the warmth of a good heart; but its taste, its smell, its feel, were not to be described in words. Charles Lamb, with his infinite tact, attempting to, might have drawn charming pictures of the life of his day; Lord Byron in a stanza of Don Juan, aiming at the impossible, might have achieved the sublime; Oscar Wilde, heaping jewels of Ispahan upon brocades of Byzantium, might have created a troubling beauty. Considering it, the mind reeled under visions of the feasts of Elagabalus; and the subtle harmonies of Debussy mingled with the musty, fragrant romance of chests in which have been kept old clothes, ruffs, hose, doublets, of a forgotten generation, and the wan odour of lilies of the valley and the savour of Cheddar cheese.

Hayward discovered the tavern at which this priceless beverage was to be obtained by meeting in the street a man called Macalister who had been at Cambridge with him. He was a stockbroker and a philosopher. He was accustomed to go to the tavern once a week; and soon Philip, Lawson, and Hayward got into the habit of meeting there every Tuesday evening: change of manners made it now little frequented, which was an advantage to persons who took pleasure in conversation. Macalister was a big-boned fellow, much too short for his width, with a large, fleshy face and a soft voice. He was a student of Kant and judged everything from the standpoint of pure reason. He was fond of expounding his doctrines. Philip listened with excited interest. He had long come to the conclusion that nothing amused him more than metaphysics, but he was not so sure of their efficacy in the affairs of life. The neat little system which he had formed as the result of his meditations at Blackstable had not been of conspicuous use during his infatuation for Mildred. He could not be positive that reason was much help in the conduct of life. It seemed to him that life lived itself. He remembered very vividly the violence of the emotion which had possessed him and his inability, as if he were tied down to the ground with ropes, to react against it. He read many wise things in books, but he could only judge from his own experience (he did not know whether he was different from other people); he did not calculate the pros and cons of an action, the benefits which must befall him if he did it, the harm which might result from the omission; but his whole being was urged on irresistibly. He did not act with a part of himself but altogether. The power that possessed him seemed to have nothing to do with reason: all that reason did was to point out the methods of obtaining what his whole soul was striving for.

Macalister reminded him of the Categorical Imperative.

‘Act so that every action of yours should be capable of becoming a universal rule of action for all men.’

‘That seems to me perfect nonsense,’ said Philip.

‘You’re a bold man to say that of anything stated by Immanuel Kant,’ retorted Macalister.

‘Why? Reverence for what somebody said is a stultifying quality: there’s a damned sight too much reverence in the world. Kant thought things not because they were true, but because he was Kant.’

‘Well, what is your objection to the Categorical Imperative?’ (They talked as though the fate of empires were in the balance.)

‘It suggests that one can choose one’s course by an effort of will. And it suggests that reason is the surest guide. Why should its dictates be any better than those of passion? They’re different. That’s all.’

‘You seem to be a contented slave of your passions.’

‘A slave because I can’t help myself, but not a contented one,’ laughed Philip.

While he spoke he thought of that hot madness which had driven him in pursuit of Mildred. He remembered how he had chafed against it and how he had felt the degradation of it.

‘Thank God, I’m free from all that now,’ he thought.

And yet even as he said it he was not quite sure whether he spoke sincerely. When he was under the influence of passion he had felt a singular vigour, and his mind had worked with unwonted force. He was more alive, there was an excitement in sheer being, an eager vehemence of soul, which made life now a trifle dull. For all the misery he had endured there was a compensation in that sense of rushing, overwhelming existence.

But Philip’s unlucky words engaged him in a discussion on the freedom of the will, and Macalister, with his well-stored memory, brought out argument after argument. He had a mind that delighted in dialectics, and he forced Philip to contradict himself; he pushed him into corners from which he could only escape by damaging concessions; he tripped him up with logic and battered him with authorities.

At last Philip said:

‘Well, I can’t say anything about other people. I can only speak for myself. The illusion of free will is so strong in my mind that I can’t get away from it, but I believe it is only an illusion. But it is an illusion which is one of the strongest motives of my actions. Before I do anything I feel that I have choice, and that influences what I do; but afterwards, when the thing is done, I believe that it was inevitable from all eternity.’

‘What do you deduce from that?’ asked Hayward.

‘Why, merely the futility of regret. It’s no good crying over spilt milk, because all the forces of the universe were bent on spilling it.’