Chapter 103

第一百零三章

阿特尔涅太太借给菲利普一笔钱。这笔钱足够他付清积欠房东太太的房租，这样，房东太太就会允许他把行李物品拿走。他花了五先令外加一张典当一套西服的当票，从当铺老板那里换了件礼服大衣，穿在身上倒挺合身的。其余的衣服他都赎了回来。他叫卡特·帕特森把他的箱子送到哈林顿街，星期一早晨跟阿特尔涅一道上店里去报到。阿特尔涅把他介绍给服装部的进货员之后就走了。这位进货员名叫桑普森，三十岁光景，是个动作灵活、爱大惊小怪的小矮个儿。他同菲利普握了握手，接着，为了炫耀一下他颇引以自豪的渊博的知识，他问菲利普是否会讲法语。当菲利普回答说他会时，他的脸上现出了惊讶的神色。

"还会别的语言吗？"

"我还会讲德语。"

"哎哟！我自己偶尔去逛逛巴黎。Parlez-yous francais？到过马克西姆大百货公司吗？"

菲利普被分配站在服装部的楼梯顶端。他的工作就是把人们引到各个部门去。照桑普森先生说漏嘴的情况来看，这儿的部门还不少哩。突然，桑普森发现菲利普走路有点儿瘸。

"你的腿怎么啦？"桑普森先生问道。

"我有只脚是瘸的，"菲利普回答说，"不过并不妨碍我走路或做别的什么事情。"

进货员用怀疑的目光盯着菲利普的跛足瞧了一会儿。菲利普暗自忖度，他这是对经理录用自己感到迷惑不解。菲利普肚里雪亮，那经理压根儿就没注意到他的不便之处。

"我并不承望你第一天就把什么都搞对。如有什么疑问，只要去问问那些年轻姑娘好了。"

说罢，桑普森转身走了。菲利普力图把这个那个部门的地点记在脑子里，目光热切地寻找前来问讯的顾客。钟敲一点，他上楼去吃中饭。餐厅位于这幢大楼的顶层。长长的餐厅很是宽敞，灯火通明，所有的窗户全部紧闭，以防灰尘进入，大厅里弥漫着呛鼻难闻的烹调菜肴的油腻味。一张张长餐桌覆着台布，每隔几张桌子放着个盛满水的大玻璃瓶，餐厅中央摆着盐罐子和几瓶醋。店员们吵吵嚷嚷地拥进餐厅，坐在长板凳上，在十二点半前来用饭的那批店员坐得滚热的凳子到现在还未凉下来呢。

"什么腌菜也没有，"紧挨着菲利普而坐的那个人说道。

这是个年轻人，细挑个儿，苍白的脸上嵌了个鹰钩鼻。他的脑袋很大，头颅凹凸不平，像是被人这里按一下那里敲一下似的，样子古怪，额头和颈子上均长满了红肿的粉刺。他的名字叫哈里斯。菲利普发现有几天餐桌的尽头摆着几个大汤盆，里面盛着各种各样普通的腌菜。餐厅里没有刀叉。不一会儿，一个身穿白大褂的又高又胖的男仆，手里捧着几把腌菜走进餐厅，噗地一声把腌菜扔在餐桌上，大家纷纷伸手各取所需。腌菜刚从脏水里洗捞出来，还热乎乎、油腻腻的呢。几位身穿白上衣的男仆转着圈在餐桌上分发猪肉，一片片猪肉在汤盆里不住地浮动着。这些男仆们一个个好比魔术师，一个敏捷的动作，把一盆盆肉放到餐桌上，溅得满桌都是肉汤。接着又送来了大碟白菜和马铃薯。一看到这种样子，菲利普直反胃。他注意到其他店员都一个劲儿地往菜上倒醋。餐厅里嘈杂声震耳欲聋。人们高谈阔论，哈哈大笑，大声叫唤，还夹杂着刀叉的乒乒乓乓的磕碰声和咀嚼食物的怪声音。菲利普回到服装部很高兴。他逐渐记住了每个部门的地点，当有人问路的时候，他很少求助于其他店员了。

"右边第一个拐弯处。左边第二个拐弯处，夫人。"

生意清闲时，有一两位女店员过来同菲利普搭讪几句，而他觉得她们这是在打量他。到了五点，他再次被叫到楼上餐厅去用茶点。他巴不得能坐上一会儿呐。那儿有涂着厚厚一层黄油的面包，许多店员还有瓶装的果酱呢，原来这些果酱是存放在"贮藏室"里的，上面还写着他们各自的名字。

六点半商店打烊时，菲利普已累得筋疲力尽了。哈里斯--就是吃中饭时紧挨着菲利普坐的那个年轻人--主动提出带菲利普到哈林顿街，去认认他的床位。哈里斯告诉菲利普，说他的房间里还有一张空床，而其他房间都住满了，他希望菲利普能同他睡在一起。哈林顿街上的那座房子原来是个皮靴店，眼下这爿店用作宿舍。不过，屋里光线很暗，因为窗子面积的四分之三都用木板堵住了，至今木板尚未拆除，窗子顶端留下的缝隙是屋子里的唯一通风口。屋子里散发出一股霉臭味，菲利普对自己不必住在这种地方而感到万分庆幸。哈里斯把他带上二楼的起居室，里面赫然摆着一架钢琴，那琴键活像一排龋齿。桌子上有个无盖的香烟筒，里面装有多米诺骨牌。过期的《斯特兰德杂志》和《图画报》凌乱地散落在地板上。其他的房间用作卧室。菲利普即将搬来住的那个寝室在屋子的顶层。房间里一共摆了六张床，每张床旁不是放着一只大衣箱就是一只小纸箱。唯一的家具是只衣柜，有四个大抽屉和两个小抽屉。菲利普作为新来的可以用其中一个抽屉。抽屉都配有钥匙，但钥匙都是一样的，因此有没有钥匙没啥关系。哈里斯劝菲利普把他那些稍微值钱的物品锁在大衣箱里。壁炉上方挂着一面镜子。哈里斯还领着菲利普去看了看盥洗室，这个房间面积倒还不小，里面一排八只洗脸盆，住在这里的人全上这里来用水。盥洗室跟浴室相通。浴室里有两只变色发黑的澡盆，木制部分沾满了肥皂污斑，盆内一圈圈水印子表明洗澡人用的水量不同。当哈里斯和菲利普回到寝室时，他们看到一个高个子男人正在换衣服，还有一位十六岁光景的男孩一边梳理着头发，一边使劲地打着唿哨。一两分钟以后，那个高个子同谁也没说话便掉头走了出去。哈里斯朝那个男孩眨眨眼，那个男孩嘴里仍然不停地打着唿哨，也朝哈里斯眨眨眼。哈里斯对菲利普说，那个男人名字叫普赖尔，是行伍出身，眼下在丝绸部工作。此人从不与人交往，但每天夜里都去会女朋友，就像刚才那种样子，连一声"晚安"都不说。不一会儿，哈里斯自己也走了，就剩下那个男孩。在菲利普解行李的当儿，那男孩在一旁用好奇的眼光打量着菲利普。他的名字叫贝尔，在缝纫用品部里只干活不拿钱。他对菲利普的晚礼服非常感兴趣。他还把房间里其他人员的情况都告诉了菲利普，还向菲利普提出了各种各样有关他的问题。他是个生性活泼的少年，谈话的过程中，他不时地操着半哑的声音哼上几段从杂耍剧场听来的歌曲。菲利普收拾好东西之后走出户外，在大街小巷里转悠，望着那儿川流不息的人群，偶尔也站在餐馆门外眼巴巴地看着人们鱼贯而入。此时，他觉得肚子饿了，便买了个小果子面包，边走边啃。他从守门人那儿领到一把前门钥匙，这位守门人每晚十一点半关闭煤气灯。菲利普怕被关在门外，便及时赶回宿舍。他已经了解到罚款的具体事项：如果晚上十一点以后才回宿舍，那就得罚一先令，过了十一点半要罚款两个半先令。除此以外，还得报告店方。要是被连续报告三次，就要被开除工作。

菲利普回到宿舍时，除了那位大兵没回来外，其余的都在宿舍里，其中两位已经钻进被窝了。他的脚刚跨进寝室，一阵叫喊声迎面扑来。

"喔，克拉伦斯！捣蛋鬼！"

菲利普发觉，原来贝尔把他的晚礼服套在长枕头上了。贝尔对自己这一杰作颇为得意。

"克拉伦斯，你应该穿这套礼服去参加社交晚会。"

"一不小心，就会赢得莱恩公司里最漂亮的女人的青睐。"

菲利普已经听说过社交晚会的事儿了，因为伙计们一个个都牢骚满腹，埋怨公司把他们的工钱扣下了一部分不发。每月扣去两先令，用作医药费和借阅图书馆那些破烂不堪的小说的图书费。但每月另外还得扣除四先令，说是付洗衣费，这样一来，菲利普发觉他每周六先令的工钱，其中四分之一永远发不到他的手上。

好几个人在啃着面包夹肥香肠。店员们晚饭就吃这种三明治。这种三明治是从隔几个门面的一家小店里买来的，两便士一份。此刻，那个大兵摇摇晃晃地走了进来，不声不响地、动作敏捷地扒去衣服，外地一声倒在床上。到了十一点十分时，煤气灯的火头"噗"地跳了一下，五分钟以后灯便熄灭了。此时，那位大兵已经呼呼人睡了，而其他几个人身着睡衣裤，哄挤在大窗户跟前，对着下面走过的女人投扔吃剩的三明治，嘴里还嚷着不三不四的脏话。对面的一幢六层楼房是犹太人裁缝工场，每晚十一点放工。一个个房间灯火辉煌，窗户上没装百叶窗。工场主的女儿--这家有父亲、母亲、两个小男孩和一位年方二十的妙龄少女，共五口人---出来把楼里各处的灯关掉。偶尔，她也任凭其中一个裁缝在自己身上轻薄一番。与菲利普同住一个寝室的店员们饶有兴味地瞅着尾随那位姑娘的两个男人，并就这两个男人谁能得逞打赌。将近子夜时分，哈林顿·阿姆斯剧院终场时，他们也一个个上床睡觉去了。贝尔的床铺紧靠门口，他从一张张床上跳过去，最后回到了自己的床上，嘴里还是叽里咕噜地说个不停。最后，四周万籁俱寂，耳边不时传来那个大兵的均匀的轻微鼾声。此时，菲利普也上床就寝了。

翌晨七时，菲利普被一阵响亮的铃声惊醒了。到了七点三刻，他们都穿好了衣服，套上袜子，匆匆下楼取靴子。他们边跑边扣靴子，赶往牛津街店里去吃早饭。店里八点开饭。迟到一分钟，就没有吃；进入店后，就不准外出买早饭吃。有时候，他们知道不能按时到店，便在宿舍附近的小店里买上三两个面包揣在怀里。不过，这样太花钱了，因此，多数人空着肚子去上班，一直干到吃午饭。菲利普吃了点牛油面包，喝了杯茶，一到八点半，又开始了他一天的工作。

"右边第一个拐弯处。左边第二个拐弯处，夫人。"

接着，他便机械地回答各种各样的问题。这工作单调乏味，也很累人。几天之后，他的两条腿疼痛难熬，站都站不住，那厚厚的柔软的地毯更加烧脚，使之疼痛钻心，到了夜里，脱袜子都很疼。对此，店员们都是怨声载道。招待员伙伴们告诉他，说两脚不住地出臭汗，把袜子和靴子都烂光了。跟他住在一个寝室里的那些人也同遭此罪，为了减轻疼痛，他们睡觉时把脚伸在被窝外面。起先，菲利普简直一步都难挪动，接连好几个晚上，他只得呆在哈林顿宿舍的起居室里，把脚浸在冷水里。在这种场合，他唯一的伙伴就是贝尔那孩子，因为他常常留在宿舍里整理他搜集来的各种邮票。他一边用小纸条捆扎邮票，一边嘴里老是一个劲地吹着口哨。

 

Mrs. Athelny lent Philip money to pay his landlady enough of her bill to let him take his things away. For five shillings and the pawn-ticket on a suit he was able to get from a pawnbroker a frock coat which fitted him fairly well. He redeemed the rest of his clothes. He sent his box to Harrington Street by Carter Patterson and on Monday morning went with Athelny to the shop. Athelny introduced him to the buyer of the costumes and left him. The buyer was a pleasant, fussy little man of thirty, named Sampson; he shook hands with Philip, and, in order to show his own accomplishment of which he was very proud, asked him if he spoke French. He was surprised when Philip told him he did.

‘Any other language?’

‘I speak German.’

‘Oh! I go over to Paris myself occasionally. Parlez-vous francais? Ever been to Maxim’s?’

Philip was stationed at the top of the stairs in the ‘costumes.’ His work consisted in directing people to the various departments. There seemed a great many of them as Mr. Sampson tripped them off his tongue. Suddenly he noticed that Philip limped.

‘What’s the matter with your leg?’ he asked.

‘I’ve got a club-foot,’ said Philip. ‘But it doesn’t prevent my walking or anything like that.’

The buyer looked at it for a moment doubtfully, and Philip surmised that he was wondering why the manager had engaged him. Philip knew that he had not noticed there was anything the matter with him.

‘I don’t expect you to get them all correct the first day. If you’re in any doubt all you’ve got to do is to ask one of the young ladies.’

Mr. Sampson turned away; and Philip, trying to remember where this or the other department was, watched anxiously for the customer in search of information. At one o’clock he went up to dinner. The dining-room, on the top floor of the vast building, was large, long, and well lit; but all the windows were shut to keep out the dust, and there was a horrid smell of cooking. There were long tables covered with cloths, with big glass bottles of water at intervals, and down the centre salt cellars and bottles of vinegar. The assistants crowded in noisily, and sat down on forms still warm from those who had dined at twelve-thirty.

‘No pickles,’ remarked the man next to Philip.

He was a tall thin young man, with a hooked nose and a pasty face; he had a long head, unevenly shaped as though the skull had been pushed in here and there oddly, and on his forehead and neck were large acne spots red and inflamed. His name was Harris. Philip discovered that on some days there were large soup-plates down the table full of mixed pickles. They were very popular. There were no knives and forks, but in a minute a large fat boy in a white coat came in with a couple of handfuls of them and threw them loudly on the middle of the table. Each man took what he wanted; they were warm and greasy from recent washing in dirty water. Plates of meat swimming in gravy were handed round by boys in white jackets, and as they flung each plate down with the quick gesture of a prestidigitator the gravy slopped over on to the table-cloth. Then they brought large dishes of cabbages and potatoes; the sight of them turned Philip’s stomach; he noticed that everyone poured quantities of vinegar over them. The noise was awful. They talked and laughed and shouted, and there was the clatter of knives and forks, and strange sounds of eating. Philip was glad to get back into the department. He was beginning to remember where each one was, and had less often to ask one of the assistants, when somebody wanted to know the way.

‘First to the right. Second on the left, madam.’

One or two of the girls spoke to him, just a word when things were slack, and he felt they were taking his measure. At five he was sent up again to the dining-room for tea. He was glad to sit down. There were large slices of bread heavily spread with butter; and many had pots of jam, which were kept in the ‘store’ and had their names written on.

Philip was exhausted when work stopped at half past six. Harris, the man he had sat next to at dinner, offered to take him over to Harrington Street to show him where he was to sleep. He told Philip there was a spare bed in his room, and, as the other rooms were full, he expected Philip would be put there. The house in Harrington Street had been a bootmaker’s; and the shop was used as a bed-room; but it was very dark, since the window had been boarded three parts up, and as this did not open the only ventilation came from a small skylight at the far end. There was a musty smell, and Philip was thankful that he would not have to sleep there. Harris took him up to the sitting-room, which was on the first floor; it had an old piano in it with a keyboard that looked like a row of decayed teeth; and on the table in a cigar-box without a lid was a set of dominoes; old numbers of The Strand Magazine and of The Graphic were lying about. The other rooms were used as bed-rooms. That in which Philip was to sleep was at the top of the house. There were six beds in it, and a trunk or a box stood by the side of each. The only furniture was a chest of drawers: it had four large drawers and two small ones, and Philip as the new-comer had one of these; there were keys to them, but as they were all alike they were not of much use, and Harris advised him to keep his valuables in his trunk. There was a looking-glass on the chimney-piece. Harris showed Philip the lavatory, which was a fairly large room with eight basins in a row, and here all the inmates did their washing. It led into another room in which were two baths, discoloured, the woodwork stained with soap; and in them were dark rings at various intervals which indicated the water marks of different baths.

When Harris and Philip went back to their bed-room they found a tall man changing his clothes and a boy of sixteen whistling as loud as he could while he brushed his hair. In a minute or two without saying a word to anybody the tall man went out. Harris winked at the boy, and the boy, whistling still, winked back. Harris told Philip that the man was called Prior; he had been in the army and now served in the silks; he kept pretty much to himself, and he went off every night, just like that, without so much as a good-evening, to see his girl. Harris went out too, and only the boy remained to watch Philip curiously while he unpacked his things. His name was Bell and he was serving his time for nothing in the haberdashery. He was much interested in Philip’s evening clothes. He told him about the other men in the room and asked him every sort of question about himself. He was a cheerful youth, and in the intervals of conversation sang in a half-broken voice snatches of music-hall songs. When Philip had finished he went out to walk about the streets and look at the crowd; occasionally he stopped outside the doors of restaurants and watched the people going in; he felt hungry, so he bought a bath bun and ate it while he strolled along. He had been given a latch-key by the prefect, the man who turned out the gas at a quarter past eleven, but afraid of being locked out he returned in good time; he had learned already the system of fines: you had to pay a shilling if you came in after eleven, and half a crown after a quarter past, and you were reported besides: if it happened three times you were dismissed.

All but the soldier were in when Philip arrived and two were already in bed. Philip was greeted with cries.

‘Oh, Clarence! Naughty boy!’

He discovered that Bell had dressed up the bolster in his evening clothes. The boy was delighted with his joke.

‘You must wear them at the social evening, Clarence.’

‘He’ll catch the belle of Lynn’s, if he’s not careful.’

Philip had already heard of the social evenings, for the money stopped from the wages to pay for them was one of the grievances of the staff. It was only two shillings a month, and it covered medical attendance and the use of a library of worn novels; but as four shillings a month besides was stopped for washing, Philip discovered that a quarter of his six shillings a week would never be paid to him.

Most of the men were eating thick slices of fat bacon between a roll of bread cut in two. These sandwiches, the assistants’ usual supper, were supplied by a small shop a few doors off at twopence each. The soldier rolled in; silently, rapidly, took off his clothes and threw himself into bed. At ten minutes past eleven the gas gave a big jump and five minutes later went out. The soldier went to sleep, but the others crowded round the big window in their pyjamas and night-shirts and, throwing remains of their sandwiches at the women who passed in the street below, shouted to them facetious remarks. The house opposite, six storeys high, was a workshop for Jewish tailors who left off work at eleven; the rooms were brightly lit and there were no blinds to the windows. The sweater’s daughter—the family consisted of father, mother, two small boys, and a girl of twenty—went round the house to put out the lights when work was over, and sometimes she allowed herself to be made love to by one of the tailors. The shop assistants in Philip’s room got a lot of amusement out of watching the manoeuvres of one man or another to stay behind, and they made small bets on which would succeed. At midnight the people were turned out of the Harrington Arms at the end of the street, and soon after they all went to bed: Bell, who slept nearest the door, made his way across the room by jumping from bed to bed, and even when he got to his own would not stop talking. At last everything was silent but for the steady snoring of the soldier, and Philip went to sleep.

He was awaked at seven by the loud ringing of a bell, and by a quarter to eight they were all dressed and hurrying downstairs in their stockinged feet to pick out their boots. They laced them as they ran along to the shop in Oxford Street for breakfast. If they were a minute later than eight they got none, nor, once in, were they allowed out to get themselves anything to eat. Sometimes, if they knew they could not get into the building in time, they stopped at the little shop near their quarters and bought a couple of buns; but this cost money, and most went without food till dinner. Philip ate some bread and butter, drank a cup of tea, and at half past eight began his day’s work again.

‘First to the right. Second on the left, madam.’

Soon he began to answer the questions quite mechanically. The work was monotonous and very tiring. After a few days his feet hurt him so that he could hardly stand: the thick soft carpets made them burn, and at night his socks were painful to remove. It was a common complaint, and his fellow ‘floormen’ told him that socks and boots just rotted away from the continual sweating. All the men in his room suffered in the same fashion, and they relieved the pain by sleeping with their feet outside the bed-clothes. At first Philip could not walk at all and was obliged to spend a good many of his evenings in the sitting-room at Harrington Street with his feet in a pail of cold water. His companion on these occasions was Bell, the lad in the haberdashery, who stayed in often to arrange the stamps he collected. As he fastened them with little pieces of stamp-paper he whistled monotonously.