Chapter 86

第八十六章

转眼间，春天到了。外科门诊部的敷裹工作一结束，菲利普便上住院部当助手。这项工作要延续半年之久。每天上午，助手都得同住院医生一道去查巡病房，先是男病房，然后是女病房。他得登录病情，替病人体检，接着便同护士们在一起消磨时光。每周两个下午，值班医师带领几名助手查巡病房，研究病情，给助手们传授医疗知识。这里可不像门诊部，工作显得平淡、单调，同实际挂得不紧。尽管如此，菲利普还是学到了不少东西。他同病人们相处得很融洽，看到病人们张着笑脸欢迎他去护理他们，颇有点沾沾自喜哩。其实，他对病人的痛痒也不见得有多深的同情，不过他很喜欢他们，在人前从不摆架子。因此，他比其他几位助手要得人心。菲利普性情和顺，待人厚道，言语暖人心窝。正如每一个同医院有关系的人一样，菲利普也发觉男病人比女病人要容易相处些。女病人动辄发牢骚，脾气环透了。她们常常言词刻薄地抱怨疲于奔命的护士们，责怪护土对她们照顾不周。她们一个个都是令人头痛的、没心没肝的臭婆娘。

菲利普真够幸运的，没隔多久就交上了一位朋友。一天上午，住院医生把一位新来的男病人交给了菲利普。菲利普坐在床沿上，着手往病历卡里记载病人的病情细节。在看病历卡的当儿，菲利普发觉这位病人是位新闻记者，名字叫索普·阿特尔涅，年纪四十八，这倒是位并不常见的住院病人。该病人的黄疽病突然发作，而且来势还很猛。鉴于病状不明显，似有必要作进一步观察，就被送进病房里来了。菲利普出于职业需要，用一种悦耳动听的、富有教养的语调问了一连串问题，病人都一一作了回答。索普·阿特尔涅躺在床上，因此一下子很难断定他是高是矮。不过那小小的脑瓜和一双小手表明他个儿中等偏矮。菲利普有种观察别人的手的习惯，而眼下阿特尔涅的那双手使他看了感到十分惊奇：一双纤小的手，细长、尖削的手指顶端长着秀美的玫瑰色指甲，皮肤很细腻，要不是身患黄疽病的缘故，肤色定是白得出奇。阿特尔涅把手放在被子上面，其中一只手稍稍张着，而无名指和中指并拢着，一边在跟菲利普说着话，一边似乎还颇得意地端详着他的手指呢。菲利普忽闪着晶莹发亮的眼睛，扫视了一下对方的脸盘。尽管脸色苍黄，但仍不失为一张生动的脸。眸子蓝蓝的，鼻子显眼地凸露着，鼻尖呈钩状，虽说样子有点吓人，倒也不难看。一小撮花白胡须翘翘的。脑顶心秃得很厉害。不过他原来显然长着一头浓密的鬈发，还挺秀气的哩。眼下他还蓄着长发。

"我想你是当记者的，"菲利普开腔说。"你为哪家报纸撰稿呀？"

"不管哪家报纸，我都给他们写稿。没有一家报纸打开来看不到我的文章的。"

此时床边就有一张报纸，阿特尔涅伸手指了指报纸上的广告。只见报上用大号铅字赫然印着那家菲利普熟悉的公司的名称：莱恩-赛特笠公司位于伦敦雷根林大街。下面紧接着是司空见惯的广告：拖延就是偷盗时间。字体虽比上面的略小些，但也够突兀显眼的了。接下去是一个问题，因其问得合情合理，故显得触目惊心：为什么不今天就订货？接着又用大号字体重复了"为什么不呢？"这五个大字，字字犹如一把把榔头，在敲击着时间偷盗者的良心。下面是几行大字：以高得惊人的价格从世界各主要市场购进千万副手套。宇内几家最可靠的制造商出产的千万双长统袜大减价。广告最后又重复了"为什么不今天就订货？"这个问题，不过，这次字体写得就像竞技场中的武土用的臂铠似的。

"我是莱恩-赛特笠公司的新闻代理人。"阿特尔涅在作自我介绍的当儿，还挥了挥他那漂亮的手。

菲利普接着问些普普通通的问题，其中有些不过是些日常琐事，而有些则是精心设计的，巧妙地诱使这位病人吐出他或许不想披露的事情来。

"你到过外国吗？"菲利普问道。

"曾在西班牙呆过十一年。""

"在那儿干啥来着？"

"在托莱多的英国水利公司当秘书。"。

此时，菲利普想起克拉顿也曾在托莱多呆过几个月。听了这位记者的答话，菲利普怀着更浓的兴趣注视着他。但是，他又感到自己如此情感毕露很不合适，因为作为医院的一名职员，他有必要同住院病人保持一定距离。于是，他给阿特尔涅检查完毕后，便走向别的病床。

索普·阿特尔涅的病情并不严重，虽说肤色还是很黄，但他很快就感觉好多了。他之所以还卧床不起，是因为医生认为某些反应趋于正常之前，他还得接受观察。一天，菲利普走进病房时，发现阿特尔涅手里拿着支铅笔，正在看书。菲利普走到他的床前时，他突然啪地合上书本。

"我可以看看你读的书吗？"菲利普问道，他这个人一瞧见书不翻阅一下是不会罢休的。

菲利普拿起那本书，发觉是册西班牙诗集，都是圣胡安·德拉克鲁斯写的。在他翻开诗集的当儿，一张纸片从书里掉了出来。菲利普拾起一看，原来纸上写着一首诗呢。

"你总不能说你这是借定诗来消闲吧？对一位住院病人来说，做这种事是最不合适的。"

"我这是试着搞些诗歌翻译。你懂西班牙语吗？"

"不懂。"

"嗯，有关圣胡安·德拉克鲁斯的事儿，你都知道啰，对不？"

"我真的一无所知。"

"他是西班牙的神秘人物之一，也是西班牙出类拔萃的诗人之一。我认为把他的诗译成英语倒挺有意思的。"

"我拜读一下你的译搞好吗？"

"译稿还很粗糙。"阿特尔涅嘴上这么说，可他的手还是把译稿递到了菲利普的面前，其动作之快，正表明他巴不得菲利普一读呢。

译稿是用铅笔写的，字体清秀，但很古怪，像是一堆黑体活字，难以辨认。

"你把字写成这样，是不是要花很多时间呀？你的字漂亮极了。"

"我不明白为什么不应该把字写得漂亮些呢？"

菲利普读着阿特尔涅泽的第一首诗：

夜深了，

月色正朦胧；

心田欲火熊熊，

喔，幸福的心情难以形容！

趁一家人睡意正浓，

我悄然向前步履匆匆……

菲利普闪烁着好奇的目光打量着索普·阿待尔涅。他说不清自己在他面前是有点儿羞怯呢，还是被他深深吸引住了。蓦地，他觉悟到自己的态度一直有些儿傲慢。当想到阿特尔涅可能觉得他可笑时，菲利普不觉脸上一阵发臊。

"你的名字起得真特别，"菲利普终于开腔说话了，不过总得找些话聊聊呀。

"阿特尔涅这个姓在约克郡可是个极为古老的名门望族的姓氏。我一家之长出去巡视他的家产，一度要骑上整整一大的马，可后来家道中落，一蹶不振。钱都在放浪的女人身上和赛马赌博上头挥霍光了。"

阿特尔涅眼睛近视，在说话的时候，两眼古怪地眯缝着，使劲地瞅着别人。他拿起了那部诗集。

"你应该学会西班牙语，"阿特尔涅对菲利普说。"西班牙语是一种高雅的语言，虽没有意大利语那么流畅，因为意大利语是那些男高音歌手和街上手转风琴师们使用的语言，但是气势宏伟。它不像花园里的小溪发出的潺潺流水声，而是像大江涨潮时汹涌澎湃的波涛声。"

他那不无夸张的话语把菲利普给逗笑了，不过菲利普还是颇能领略他人讲话的妙处的。阿特尔涅说话时眉飞色舞，热情洋溢，滔滔不绝地给菲利普讲述着阅读《堂吉诃德》原著的无比的快乐，还侃侃谈论着令人着迷的考德隆的文体清晰，富有节奏、激情和传奇色彩的剧作。此时此刻，菲利普在一旁饶有兴味地聆听着。

"哦，我得干事去了，"突然，菲利普说了一句。

"喔，请原谅，我忘了。我将叫我妻子给我送张托莱多的照片来，到时一定拿给你瞧瞧。有机会就过来跟我聊聊。你不知道，跟你在一起聊天我有多高兴啊。"

在以后的几大里，菲利普一有机会就跑去看望阿特尔涅，因此两人的友情与日俱增。索普·阿特尔涅可谓伶牙俐齿的，谈吐虽不怎么高明，但个时地闪烁着激发人想象力的火花，倒蛮鼓舞人心的。菲利普在这个虚假的世界上生活了这么多年之后，发觉自己的脑海里涌现出许许多多前所未有的崭新画面。阿特尔涅态度落落大方，无论是人情世故还是书本知识，都比菲利普懂得多。他比菲利普年长多岁。他谈话侃侃，颇有一种长者风度。可眼下，他人在医院，是个慈善领受者，凡事都得遵循严格的规章制度。他对这两种身分所处的不同的地位，却能应付自如，而且还不无幽默感。一次，菲利普问他为何要住进医院。

"哦，尽可能地享用社会所能提供的福利，这就是我的生活准则。我得好好利用我所赖以生存的这个时代。病了，就进医院歇着。我可不讲虚假的面子。我还把孩子都送进寄宿学校读书呢。"

"真的呀？"菲利普问了一声。

"他们还受到了起码的教育，比起我在温切斯特受到的教育，不知要强多少倍呢。你想想看，除了这一着，我还能有别的什么办法使他们得到教育呢？我一共有九个孩子哪。我出院回家后，你一定得上我家去见见他们。好吗？"

"非常愿意，"菲利普连声答道。

 

In the spring Philip, having finished his dressing in the out-patients’ department, became an in-patients’ clerk. This appointment lasted six months. The clerk spent every morning in the wards, first in the men’s, then in the women’s, with the house-physician; he wrote up cases, made tests, and passed the time of day with the nurses. On two afternoons a week the physician in charge went round with a little knot of students, examined the cases, and dispensed information. The work had not the excitement, the constant change, the intimate contact with reality, of the work in the out-patients’ department; but Philip picked up a good deal of knowledge. He got on very well with the patients, and he was a little flattered at the pleasure they showed in his attendance on them. He was not conscious of any deep sympathy in their sufferings, but he liked them; and because he put on no airs he was more popular with them than others of the clerks. He was pleasant, encouraging, and friendly. Like everyone connected with hospitals he found that male patients were more easy to get on with than female. The women were often querulous and ill-tempered. They complained bitterly of the hard-worked nurses, who did not show them the attention they thought their right; and they were troublesome, ungrateful, and rude.

Presently Philip was fortunate enough to make a friend. One morning the house-physician gave him a new case, a man; and, seating himself at the bedside, Philip proceeded to write down particulars on the ‘letter.’ He noticed on looking at this that the patient was described as a journalist: his name was Thorpe Athelny, an unusual one for a hospital patient, and his age was forty-eight. He was suffering from a sharp attack of jaundice, and had been taken into the ward on account of obscure symptoms which it seemed necessary to watch. He answered the various questions which it was Philip’s duty to ask him in a pleasant, educated voice. Since he was lying in bed it was difficult to tell if he was short or tall, but his small head and small hands suggested that he was a man of less than average height. Philip had the habit of looking at people’s hands, and Athelny’s astonished him: they were very small, with long, tapering fingers and beautiful, rosy finger-nails; they were very smooth and except for the jaundice would have been of a surprising whiteness. The patient kept them outside the bed-clothes, one of them slightly spread out, the second and third fingers together, and, while he spoke to Philip, seemed to contemplate them with satisfaction. With a twinkle in his eyes Philip glanced at the man’s face. Notwithstanding the yellowness it was distinguished; he had blue eyes, a nose of an imposing boldness, hooked, aggressive but not clumsy, and a small beard, pointed and gray: he was rather bald, but his hair had evidently been quite fine, curling prettily, and he still wore it long.

‘I see you’re a journalist,’ said Philip. ‘What papers d’you write for?’

‘I write for all the papers. You cannot open a paper without seeing some of my writing.’ There was one by the side of the bed and reaching for it he pointed out an advertisement. In large letters was the name of a firm well-known to Philip, Lynn and Sedley, Regent Street, London; and below, in type smaller but still of some magnitude, was the dogmatic statement: Procrastination is the Thief of Time. Then a question, startling because of its reasonableness: Why not order today? There was a repetition, in large letters, like the hammering of conscience on a murderer’s heart: Why not? Then, boldly: Thousands of pairs of gloves from the leading markets of the world at astounding prices. Thousands of pairs of stockings from the most reliable manufacturers of the universe at sensational reductions. Finally the question recurred, but flung now like a challenging gauntlet in the lists: Why not order today?

‘I’m the press representative of Lynn and Sedley.’ He gave a little wave of his beautiful hand. ‘To what base uses...’

Philip went on asking the regulation questions, some a mere matter of routine, others artfully devised to lead the patient to discover things which he might be expected to desire to conceal.

‘Have you ever lived abroad?’ asked Philip.

‘I was in Spain for eleven years.’

‘What were you doing there?’

‘I was secretary of the English water company at Toledo.’

Philip remembered that Clutton had spent some months in Toledo, and the journalist’s answer made him look at him with more interest; but he felt it would be improper to show this: it was necessary to preserve the distance between the hospital patient and the staff. When he had finished his examination he went on to other beds.

Thorpe Athelny’s illness was not grave, and, though remaining very yellow, he soon felt much better: he stayed in bed only because the physician thought he should be kept under observation till certain reactions became normal. One day, on entering the ward, Philip noticed that Athelny, pencil in hand, was reading a book. He put it down when Philip came to his bed.

‘May I see what you’re reading?’ asked Philip, who could never pass a book without looking at it.

Philip took it up and saw that it was a volume of Spanish verse, the poems of San Juan de la Cruz, and as he opened it a sheet of paper fell out. Philip picked it up and noticed that verse was written upon it.

‘You’re not going to tell me you’ve been occupying your leisure in writing poetry? That’s a most improper proceeding in a hospital patient.’

‘I was trying to do some translations. D’you know Spanish?’

‘No.’

‘Well, you know all about San Juan de la Cruz, don’t you?’

‘I don’t indeed.’

‘He was one of the Spanish mystics. He’s one of the best poets they’ve ever had. I thought it would be worth while translating him into English.’

‘May I look at your translation?’

‘It’s very rough,’ said Athelny, but he gave it to Philip with an alacrity which suggested that he was eager for him to read it.

It was written in pencil, in a fine but very peculiar handwriting, which was hard to read: it was just like black letter.

‘Doesn’t it take you an awful time to write like that? It’s wonderful.’

‘I don’t know why handwriting shouldn’t be beautiful.’ Philip read the first verse:

In an obscure night With anxious love inflamed O happy lot! Forth unobserved I went, My house being now at rest... 

Philip looked curiously at Thorpe Athelny. He did not know whether he felt a little shy with him or was attracted by him. He was conscious that his manner had been slightly patronising, and he flushed as it struck him that Athelny might have thought him ridiculous.

‘What an unusual name you’ve got,’ he remarked, for something to say.

‘It’s a very old Yorkshire name. Once it took the head of my family a day’s hard riding to make the circuit of his estates, but the mighty are fallen. Fast women and slow horses.’

He was short-sighted and when he spoke looked at you with a peculiar intensity. He took up his volume of poetry.

‘You should read Spanish,’ he said. ‘It is a noble tongue. It has not the mellifluousness of Italian, Italian is the language of tenors and organ-grinders, but it has grandeur: it does not ripple like a brook in a garden, but it surges tumultuous like a mighty river in flood.’

His grandiloquence amused Philip, but he was sensitive to rhetoric; and he listened with pleasure while Athelny, with picturesque expressions and the fire of a real enthusiasm, described to him the rich delight of reading Don Quixote in the original and the music, romantic, limpid, passionate, of the enchanting Calderon.

‘I must get on with my work,’ said Philip presently.

‘Oh, forgive me, I forgot. I will tell my wife to bring me a photograph of Toledo, and I will show it you. Come and talk to me when you have the chance. You don’t know what a pleasure it gives me.’

During the next few days, in moments snatched whenever there was opportunity, Philip’s acquaintance with the journalist increased. Thorpe Athelny was a good talker. He did not say brilliant things, but he talked inspiringly, with an eager vividness which fired the imagination; Philip, living so much in a world of make-believe, found his fancy teeming with new pictures. Athelny had very good manners. He knew much more than Philip, both of the world and of books; he was a much older man; and the readiness of his conversation gave him a certain superiority; but he was in the hospital a recipient of charity, subject to strict rules; and he held himself between the two positions with ease and humour. Once Philip asked him why he had come to the hospital.

‘Oh, my principle is to profit by all the benefits that society provides. I take advantage of the age I live in. When I’m ill I get myself patched up in a hospital and I have no false shame, and I send my children to be educated at the board-school.’

‘Do you really?’ said Philip.

‘And a capital education they get too, much better than I got at Winchester. How else do you think I could educate them at all? I’ve got nine. You must come and see them all when I get home again. Will you?’

‘I’d like to very much,’ said Philip.