图书在版编目（CIP）数据

美国佬都是骗子：英汉对照 /（英）康拉德（Conrad，J.）等著；胡宝贵 译.——南京：译林出版社，2013.11

（双语译林）

ISBN 978-7-5447-3670-1

Ⅰ.① 美… Ⅱ.① 康… ② 胡… Ⅲ.① 英语-汉语-对照读物 ② 短篇小 说-小说集-英国-现代 ③ 短篇小说-小说集-爱尔兰-现代 Ⅳ.① H319.4：I

中国版本图书馆CIP数据核字（2013）第033850号

书　名 美国佬都是骗子

作　者 [英国]约瑟夫·康拉德 等

译　者 胡宝贵

责任编辑 於 梅 张媛媛

出版发行 凤凰出版传媒集团　凤凰出版传媒股份有限公司 译林出版社

集团地址 南京市湖南路1号A楼，邮编：210009

集团网址 http://www.ppm.cn

出版社地址 南京市湖南路1号A楼，邮编：210009

电子信箱 yilin@yilin.com

出版社网址 http://www.yilin.com

版　次 2013年11月第1版 2013年11月第1次印刷

书　号 ISBN 978-7-5447-3670-1

目录

前 言

The Lagoon

The Old Venerable

The Japanese Quince

All Yankees Are Liars

The Ballroom

The Doll’s House

Il Conde A Pathetic Tale

A Cup of Tea

The New Dress

Araby

The Rocking-horse Winner

魔 鬼 湖

老前辈

日本樱花

美国佬都是骗子

舞 厅

娃娃房子

伯 爵——一个哀伤的故事

一杯茶

新 衣

阿拉比

木马背上的幸运儿

后 记

前 言

《美国佬都是骗子》是一部现代短篇小说集，共收录短篇小说作品十一篇，分别出自英国和爱尔兰现代文坛上的九位著名作家之手，时间跨度大致从十九世纪下半叶到二十世纪二十年代。一书在手，即能欣赏到诸多年代、诸多成名作家的传世之作，这可说是本书的一个特色；除译文之外，左页还附上了英文原文，便于有兴趣的读者直接欣赏英语语言之美，这是本书的另一特色。

这个集子收录的作品题材广泛，异彩纷呈，通过不同侧面，反映了英国和爱尔兰的社会生活；喜欢外国文学的读者朋友，在语言文学的享受之外，还可以从中窥见短篇小说在现代英语世界的发展足迹，了解那里的作家所关注的社会现象，以及他们的创作态度和写作风格。译者相信本书里的英语短篇小说具有相当的代表性，颇值一阅。

本书在翻译、出版过程中，曾有多方亲友，包括我的妻子和女儿，帮助排解疑难；其中包括妻子所在单位中石油廊坊分院的同事、我的母校黑龙江大学黄铁聚教授和部分老同学，还有859农场我当年的荒友，甚至还有中学的老同学；由于提供帮助的人很多，难以在此一一列出姓名，本人深表遗憾；然而必须提及远在海外的周黎同学曾经不辞辛劳克服重重困难查找英语原著，为编辑工作的顺利开展创造条件。对所有这些方方面面真诚无私的帮助，本人在此致以衷心的感谢！

我是科技英语翻译，因车祸失明后转向文学翻译；能为读者奉上这样一部翻译作品集，本人感到很欣慰。由于能力和水平有限，尽管作了很大努力，译文中难免漏误，还请读者朋友不吝指正。

胡宝贵

The Lagoon

Joseph Conrad

The white man, leaning with both arms over the roof of the little house in the stern of the boat, said to the steersman:

"We will pass the night in Arsat's clearing. It is late."

The Malay only grunted, and went on looking fixedly at the river. The white man rested his chin on his crossed arms and gazed at the wake of the boat. At the end of the straight avenue of forests cut by the intense glitter of the river, the sun appeared unclouded and dazzling, poised low over the water that shone smoothly like a band of metal. The forests, sombre and dull, stood motionless and silent on each side of the broad stream. At the foot of big, towering trees, trunkless nipa palms rose from the mud of the bank, in bunches of leaves enormous and heavy, that hung unstirring over the brown swirl of eddies. In the stillness of the air every tree, every leaf, every bough, every tendril of creeper and every petal of minute blossoms seemed to have been bewitched into an immobility perfect and final. Nothing moved on the river but the eight paddles that rose flashing regularly, dipped together with a single splash, while the steersman swept right and left with a periodic and sudden flourish of his blade describing a glinting semicircle above his head. The churned-up water frothed alongside with a confused murmur. And the white man's canoe, advancing upstream in the short-lived disturbance of its own making, seemed to enter the portals of a land from which the very memory of motion had forever departed.

The white man, turning his back upon the setting sun, looked along the empty and broad expanse of the sea reach. For the last three miles of its course the wandering, hesitating river, as if enticed irresistibly by the freedom of an open horizon, flows straight into the sea, flows straight to the east—to the east that harbours both light and darkness. Astern of the boat the repeated call of some bird, a cry discordant and feeble, skipped along over the smooth water and lost itself before it could reach the other shore in the breathless silence of the world.

The steersman dug his paddle into the stream, and held hard with stiffened arms, his body thrown forward. The water gurgled aloud; and suddenly the long straight reach seemed to pivot on its centre, the forests swung in a semicircle, and the slanting beams of sunset touched the broadside of the canoe with a fiery glow, throwing the slender and distorted shadows of its crew upon the streaked glitter of the river. The white man turned to look ahead. The course of the boat had been altered at right angles to the stream, and the carved dragonhead on its prow was pointing now at a gap in the fringing bushes of the bank. It glided through, brushing the overhanging twigs, and disappeared from the river like some slim and amphibious creature leaving the water for its lair in the forests.

The narrow creek was like a ditch: tortuous, fabulously deep; filled with gloom under the thin strip of pure and shining blue of the heaven. Immense trees soared up, invisible behind the festooned draperies of creepers. Here and there, near the glistening blackness of the water, a twisted root of some tall tree showed amongst the tracery of small ferns, black and dull, writhing and motionless, like an arrested snake. The short words of the paddlers reverberated loudly between the thick and sombre walls of vegetation. Darkness oozed out from between the trees, through the tangled maze of the creepers, from behind the great fantastic and unstirring leaves; the darkness, mysterious and invincible; the darkness scented and poisonous of impenetrable forests.

The men poled in the shoaling water. The creek broadened, opening out into a wide sweep of a stagnant lagoon. The forests receded from the marshy bank, leaving a level strip of bright green, reedy grass to frame the reflected blueness of the sky. A fleecy pink cloud drifted high above, trailing the delicate colouring of its image under the floating leaves and the silvery blossoms of the lotus. A little house, perched on high piles, appeared black in the distance. Near it, two tall nibong palms, that seemed to have come out of the forests in the background leaned slightly over the ragged roof, with a suggestion of sad tenderness and care in the droop of their leafy and soaring heads.

The steersman, pointing with his paddle, said, "Arsat is there. I see his canoe fast between the piles."

The polers ran along the sides of the boat glancing over their shoulders at the end of the day's journey. They would have preferred to spend the night somewhere else than on this lagoon of weird aspect and ghostly reputation. Moreover, they disliked Arsat, first as a stranger, and also because he who repairs a ruined house, and dwells in it, proclaims that he is not afraid to live amongst the spirits that haunt the places abandoned by mankind. Such a man can disturb the course of fate by glances or words; while his familiar ghosts are not easy to propitiate by casual wayfarers upon whom they long to wreak the malice of their human master. White men care not for such things, being unbelievers and in league with the Father of Evil, who leads them unharmed through the invisible dangers of this world. To the warnings of the righteous they oppose an offensive pretence of disbelief. What is there to be done?

So they thought, throwing their weight on the end of their long poles. The big canoe glided on swiftly, noiselessly, and smoothly, towards Arsat's clearing, till, in a great rattling of poles thrown down, and the loud murmurs of "Allah be praised!" it came with a gentle knock against the crooked piles below the house.

The boatmen with uplifted faces shouted discordantly, "Arsat! O Arsat!" Nobody came. The white man began to climb the rude ladder giving access to the bamboo platform before the house. The juragan of the boat said sulkily, "We will cook in the sampan, and sleep on the water."

"Pass my blankets and the basket," said the white man curtly.

He knelt on the edge of the platform to receive the bundle. Then the boat shoved off, and the white man, standing up, confronted Arsat, who had come out through the low door of his hut. He was a man young, powerful, with broad chest and muscular arms. He had nothing on but his sarong. His head was bare. His big, soft eyes stared eagerly at the white man, but his voice and demeanour were composed as he asked, without any words of greeting:

"Have you medicine, Tuan?"

"No," said the visitor in a startled tone. "No. Why? Is there sickness in the house?"

"Enter and see," replied Arsat, in the same calm manner, and turning short round, passed again through the small doorway. The white man, dropping his bundles, followed.

In the dim light of the dwelling he made out on a couch of bamboos a woman stretched on her back under a broad sheet of red cotton cloth. She lay still, as if dead; but her big eyes, wide open, glittered in the gloom, staring upwards at the slender rafters, motionless and unseeing. She was in a high fever, and evidently unconscious. Her cheeks were sunk slightly, her lips were partly open, and on the young face there was the ominous and fixed expression—the absorbed, contemplating expression of the unconscious who are going to die. The two men stood looking down at her in silence.

"Has she been long ill?" asked the traveller.

"I have not slept for five nights," answered the Malay, in a deliberate tone. "At first she heard voices calling her from the water and struggled against me who held her. But since the sun of today rose she hears nothing—she hears not me. She sees nothing. She sees not me—me!"

He remained silent for a minute, then asked softly:

"Tuan, will she die?"

"I fear so," said the white man, sorrowfully. He had known Arsat years ago, in a far country in times of trouble and danger, when no friendship is to be despised. And since his Malay friend had come unexpectedly to dwell in the hut on the lagoon with a strange woman, he had slept many times there, in his journeys up and down the river. He liked the man who knew how to keep faith in council and how to fight without fear by the side of his white friend. He liked him—not so much perhaps as a man likes his favourite dog—but still he liked him well enough to help and ask no questions, to think sometimes vaguely and hazily in the midst of his own pursuits about the lonely man and the long-haired woman with audacious face and triumphant eyes, who lived together hidden by the forests—alone and feared.

The white man came out of the hut in time to see the enormous conflagration of sunset put out by the swift and stealthy shadows that, rising like a black and impalpable vapour above the treetops, spread over the heaven, extinguishing the crimson glow of floating clouds and the red brilliance of departing daylight. In a few moments all the stars came out above the intense blackness of the earth, and the great lagoon gleaming suddenly with reflected lights resembled an oval patch of night sky flung down into the hopeless and abysmal night of the wilderness. The white man had some supper out of the basket, then collecting a few sticks that lay about the platform, made up a small fire, not for warmth, but for the sake of the smoke, which would keep off the mosquitos. He wrapped himself in the blankets and sat with his back against the reed wall of the house, smoking thoughtfully.

Arsat came through the doorway with noiseless steps and squatted down by the fire. The white man moved his outstretched legs a little.

"She breathes," said Arsat in a low voice, anticipating the expected question. "She breathes and burns as if with a great fire. She speaks not; she hears not—and burns!"

He paused for a moment, then asked in a quiet, incurious tone:

"Tuan . . . will she die?"

The white man moved his shoulders uneasily and uttered in a hesitating manner:

"If such is her fate."

"No, Tuan," said Arsat, calmly. "If such is my fate. I hear, I see, I wait. I remember . . . Tuan, do you remember the old days? Do you remember my brother?"

"Yes," said the white man. The Malay rose suddenly and went in. The other, sitting still outside, could hear the voice in the hut. Arsat said:"Hear me! Speak!" His words were succeeded by a complete silence. "O Diamelen!" he cried suddenly. After that cry there was a deep sigh. Arsat came out and sank down again in his old place.

They sat in silence before the fire. There was no sound within the house, there was no sound near them; but far away on the lagoon they could hear the voices of the boatmen ringing fitful and distinct on the calm water. The fire in the bow of the sampan shone faintly in the distance with a hazy red glow. Then it died out. The voices ceased. The land and the water slept invisible, unstirring, and mute. It was as though there had been nothing left in the world but the glitter of stars streaming, ceaseless and vain, through the black stillness of the night.

The white man gazed straight before him into the darkness with wide-open eyes. The fear and fascination, the inspiration and the wonder of death—of death near, unavoidable, and unseen, soothed the unrest of his race and stirred the most indistinct, the most intimate of his thoughts. The ever-ready suspicion of evil, the gnawing suspicion that lurks in our hearts, flowed out into the stillness round him—into the stillness profound and dumb, and made it appear untrust-worthy and infamous, like the placid and impenetrable mask of an unjustifiable violence. In that fleeting and powerful disturbance of his being, the earth, enfolded in the starlight peace, became a shadowy country of inhuman strife, a battlefield of phantoms terrible and charming, august or ignoble, struggling ardently for the possession of our helpless hearts. An unquiet and mysterious country of inextinguishable desires and fears.

A plaintive murmur rose in the night; a murmur saddening and startling, as if the great solitudes of surrounding woods had tried to whisper into his ear the wisdom of their immense and lofty indifference. Sounds hesitating and vague floated in the air round him, shaped themselves slowly into words; and at last flowed on gently in a murmuring stream of soft and monotonous sentences. He stirred like a man waking up and changed his position slightly. Arsat, motionless and shadowy, sitting with bowed head under the stars, was speaking in a low and dreamy tone:

". . . for where can we lay down the heaviness of our trouble but in a friend's heart? A man must speak of war and of love. You, Tuan, know what war is, and you have seen me in time of danger seek death as other men seek life! A writing may be lost; a lie may be written; but what the eye has seen is truth and remains in the mind!"

"I remember," said the white man, quietly. Arsat went on with mournful composure:

"Therefore I shall speak to you of love. Speak in the night. Speak before both night and love are gone—and the eye of day looks upon my sorrow and my shame; upon my blackened face; upon my burnt-up heart."

A sigh, short and faint, marked an almost imperceptible pause, and then his words flowed on, without a stir, without a gesture.

"After the time of trouble and war was over and you went away from my country in the pursuit of your desires, which we, men of the islands, cannot understand, I and my brother became again, as we had been before, the swordbearers of the Ruler. You know we were men of family, belonging to a ruling race, and more fit than any to carry on our right shoulder the emblem of power. And in the time of prosperity Si Dendring showed us favour, as we, in time of sorrow, had showed to him the faithfulness of our courage. It was a time of peace. A time of deer hunts and cockfights; of idle talks and foolish squabbles between men whose bellies are full and weapons are rusty. But the sower watched the young rice shoots grow up without fear, and the traders came and went, departed lean and returned fat into the river of peace. They brought news, too. Brought lies and truth mixed together, so that no man knew when to rejoice and when to be sorry. We heard from them about you also. They had seen you here and had seen you there. And I was glad to hear, for I remembered the stirring times, and I always remembered you, Tuan, till the time came when my eyes could see nothing in the past, because they had looked upon the one who is dying there—in the house."

He stopped to exclaim in an intense whisper, "O Mara bahia! O Calamity!" then went on speaking a little louder:

"There's no worse enemy and no better friend than a brother, Tuan, for one brother knows another, and in perfect knowledge is strength for good or evil. I loved my brother. I went to him and told him that I could see nothing but one face, hear nothing but one voice. He told me: 'Open your heart so that she can see what is in it—and wait. Patience is wisdom. Inchi Midah may die or our Ruler may throw off his fear of a woman!' .. . I waited. . . . You remember the lady with the veiled face, Tuan, and the fear of our Ruler before her cunning and temper. And if she wanted her servant, what could I do? But I fed the hunger of my heart on short glances and stealthy words. I loitered on the path to the bathhouses in the daytime, and when the sun had fallen behind the forest I crept along the jasmine hedges of the women's courtyard. Unseeing, we spoke to one another through the scent of flowers, through the veil of leaves, through the blades of long grass that stood still before our lips; so great was our prudence, so faint was the murmur of our great longing. The time passed swiftly . . . and there were whispers amongst women—and our enemies watched—my brother was gloomy, and I began to think of killing and of a fierce death. . . . We are of a people who take what they want—like you whites. There is a time when a man should forget loyalty and respect. Might and authority are given to rulers, but to all men is given love and strength and courage. My brother said, 'You shall take her from their midst. We are two who are like one.' And I answered, 'Let it be soon, for I find no warmth in sunlight that does not shine upon her.' Our time came when the Ruler and all the great people went to the mouth of the river to fish by torchlight. There were hundreds of boats, and on the white sand, between the water and the forests, dwellings of leaves were built for the households of the Rajahs. The smoke of cooking fires was like a blue mist of the evening, and many voices rang in it joyfully. While they were making the boats ready to beat up the fish, my brother came to me and said, 'Tonight!' I looked to my weapons, and when the time came our canoe took its place in the circle of boats carrying the torches. The lights blazed on the water, but behind the boats there was darkness. When the shouting began and the excitement made them like mad we dropped out. The water swallowed our fire, and we floated back to the shore that was dark with only here and there the glimmer of embers. We could hear the talk of slave girls amongst the sheds. Then we found a place deserted and silent. We waited there. She came. She came running along the shore, rapid and leaving no trace, like a leaf driven by the wind into the sea. My brother said gloomily, 'Go and take her; carry her into our boat.' I lifted her in my arms. She panted. Her heart was beating against my breast. I said, 'I take you from those people. You came to the cry of my heart, but my arms take you into my boat against the will of the great!' 'It is right,' said my brother. 'We are men who take what we want and can hold it against many. We should have taken her in daylight.' I said, 'Let us be off'; for since she was in my boat I began to think of our Ruler's many men.'Yes. Let us be off,' said my brother. 'We are cast out and this boat is our country now—and the sea is our refuge.' He lingered with his foot on the shore, and I entreated him to hasten, for I remembered the strokes of her heart against my breast and thought that two men cannot withstand a hundred. We left, paddling downstream close to the bank; and as we passed by the creek where they were fishing, the great shouting had ceased, but the murmur of voices was loud like the humming of insects flying at noonday. The boats floated, clustered together, in the red light of torches, under a black roof of smoke; and men talked of their sport. Men that boasted, and praised, and jeered—men that would have been our friends in the morning, but on that night were already our enemies. We paddled swiftly past. We had not more friends in the country of our birth. She sat in the middle of the canoe with covered face; silent as she is now; unseeing as she is now—and I had no regret at what I was leaving because I could hear her breathing close to me—as I can hear her now."

He paused, listened with his ear turned to the doorway, then shook his head and went on:

"My brother wanted to shout the cry of challenge—one cry only—to let the people know we were freeborn robbers who trusted our arms and the great sea. And again I begged him in the name of our love to be silent. Could I not hear her breathing close to me? I knew the pursuit would come quick enough. My brother loved me. He dipped his paddle without a splash. He only said, 'There is half a man in you now—the other half is in that woman. I can wait. When you are a whole man again, you will come back with me here to shout defiance. We are sons of the same mother.' I made no answer. All my strength and all my spirit were in my hands that held the paddle—for I longed to be with her in a safe place beyond the reach of men's anger and of women's spite. My love was so great that I thought it could guide me to a country where death was unknown, if I could only escape from Inchi Midah's fury and from our Ruler's sword. We paddled with haste, breathing through our teeth. The blades bit deep into the smooth water. We passed out of the river; we flew in clear channels amongst the shallows. We skirted the black coast; we skirted the sand beaches where the sea speaks in whispers to the land; and the gleam of white sand flashed back past our boat, so swiftly she ran upon the water. We spoke not. Only once I said, 'Sleep, Diamelen, for soon you may want all your strength.' I heard the sweetness of her voice, but I never turned my head. The sun rose and still we went on. Water fell from my face like rain from a cloud. We flew in the light and heat. I never looked back, but I knew that my brother's eyes, behind me, were looking steadily ahead, for the boat went as straight as a bushman's dart when it leaves the end of the sumpitan. There was no better paddler, no better steersman than my brother. Many times, together, we had won races in that canoe. But we never had put out our strength as we did then—then, when for the last time we paddled together! There was no braver or stronger man in our country than my brother. I could not spare the strength to turn my head and look at him, but every moment I heard the hiss of his breath getting louder behind me. Still he did not speak. The sun was high. The heat clung to my back like a flame of fire. My ribs were ready to burst, but I could no longer get enough air into my chest. And then I felt I must cry out with my last breath, 'Let us rest!' . . . 'Good!' he answered; and his voice was firm. He was strong. He was brave. He knew not fear and no fatigue. . . . My brother!"

A murmur powerful and gentle, a murmur vast and faint; the murmur of trembling leaves, of stirring boughs, ran through the tangled depths of the forests, ran over the starry smoothness of the lagoon, and the water between the piles lapped the slimy timber once with a sudden splash. A breath of warm air touched the two men's faces and passed on with a mournful sound—a breath loud and short like an uneasy sigh of the dreaming earth.

Arsat went on in an even, low voice.

"We ran our canoe on the white beach of a little bay close to a long tongue of land that seemed to bar our road; a long wooded cape going far into the sea. My brother knew that place. Beyond the cape a river has its entrance, and through the jungle of that land there is a narrow path. We made a fire and cooked rice. Then we lay down to sleep on the soft sand in the shade of our canoe, while she watched. No sooner had I closed my eyes than I heard her cry of alarm. We leaped up. The sun was halfway down the sky already, and coming in sight in the opening of the bay we saw a prau manned by many paddlers. We knew it at once; it was one of our Rajah's praus. They were watching the shore, and saw us. They beat the gong, and turned the head of the prau into the bay. I felt my heart become weak within my breast. Diamelen sat on the sand and covered her face. There was no escape by sea. My brother laughed. He had the gun you had given him, Tuan, before you went away, but there was only a handful of powder. He spoke to me quickly: 'Run with her along the path. I shall keep them back, for they have no firearms, and landing in the face of a man with a gun is certain death for some. Run with her. On the other side of that wood there is a fisherman's house—and a canoe. When I have fired all the shots I will follow. I am a great runner, and before they can come up we shall be gone. I will hold out as long as I can, for she is but a woman—that can neither run nor fight, but she has your heart in her weak hands.' He dropped behind the canoe. The prau was coming. She and I ran, and as we rushed along the path I heard shots. My brother fired—once—twice—and the booming of the gong ceased. There was silence behind us. That neck of land is narrow. Before I heard my brother fire the third shot I saw the shelving shore, and I saw the water again; the mouth of a broad river. We crossed a grassy glade. We ran down to the water. I saw a low hut above the black mud, and a small canoe hauled up. I heard another shot behind me. I thought, 'That is his last charge.' We rushed down to the canoe; a man came running from the hut, but I leaped on him, and we rolled together in the mud. Then I got up, and he lay still at my feet. I don't know whether I had killed him or not. I and Diamelen pushed the canoe afloat. I heard yells behind me, and I saw my brother run across the glade. Many men were bounding after him. I took her in my arms and threw her into the boat, then leaped in myself. When I looked back I saw that my brother had fallen. He fell and was up again, but the men were closing round him. He shouted,'I am coming!' The men were close to him. I looked. Many men. Then I looked at her. Tuan, I pushed the canoe! I pushed it into deep water. She was kneeling forward looking at me, and I said, 'Take your paddle,' while I struck the water with mine. Tuan, I heard him cry. I heard him cry my name twice; and I heard voices shouting, 'Kill! Strike!' I never turned back. I heard him calling my name again with a great shriek, as when life is going out together with the voice—and I never turned my head. My own name! . . . My brother! Three times he called—but I was not afraid of life. Was she not there in that canoe? And could I not with her find a country where death is forgotten—where death is unknown!"

The white man sat up. Arsat rose and stood, an indistinct and silent figure above the dying embers of the fire. Over the lagoon a mist drifting and low had crept, erasing slowly the glittering images of the stars. And now a great expanse of white vapour covered the land: it flowed cold and gray in the darkness, eddied in noiseless whirls round the tree trunks and about the platform of the house, which seemed to float upon a restless and impalpable illusion of a sea. Only far away the tops of the trees stood outlined on the twinkle of heaven, like a sombre and forbidding shore—a coast deceptive, pitiless and black.

Arsat's voice vibrated loudly in the profound peace.

"I had her there! I had her! To get her I would have faced all mankind. But I had her—and—"

His words went out ringing into the empty distances. He paused and seemed to listen to them dying away very far—beyond help and beyond recall. Then he said quietly:

"Tuan, I loved my brother."

A breath of wind made him shiver. High above his head, high above the silent sea of mist the drooping leaves of the palms rattled together with a mournful and expiring sound. The white man stretched his legs. His chin rested on his chest, and he murmured sadly without lifting his head:

"We all love our brothers."

Arsat burst out with an intense whispering violence:

"What did I care who died? I wanted peace in my own heart."

He seemed to hear a stir in the house—listened—then stepped in noiselessly. The white man stood up. A breeze was coming in fitful puffs. The stars shone paler as if they had retreated into the frozen depths of immense space. After a chill gust of wind there were a few seconds of perfect calm and absolute silence. Then from behind the black and wavy line of the forests a column of golden light shot up into the heavens and spread over the semicircle of the eastern horizon. The sun had risen. The mist lifted, broke into drifting patches, vanished into thin flying wreaths; and the unveiled lagoon lay, polished and black, in the heavy shadows at the foot of the wall of trees. A white eagle rose over it with a slanting and ponderous flight, reached the clear sunshine and appeared dazzlingly brilliant for a moment, then, soaring higher, became a dark and motionless speck before it vanished into the blue as if it had left the earth forever. The white man, standing gazing upwards before the doorway, heard in the hut a confused and broken murmur of distracted words ending with a loud groan. Suddenly Arsat stumbled out with outstretched hands, shivered, and stood still for some time with fixed eyes. Then he said:

"She burns no more."

Before his face the sun showed its edge above the tree tops, rising steadily. The breeze freshened; a great brilliance burst upon the lagoon, sparkled on the rippling water. The forests came out of the clear shadows of the morning, became distinct, as if they had rushed nearer—to stop short in a great stir of leaves, of nodding boughs, of swaying branches. In the merciless sunshine the whisper of unconscious life grew louder, speaking in an incomprehensible voice round the dumb darkness of that human sorrow. Arsat's eyes wandered slowly, then stared at the rising sun.

"I can see nothing," he said half aloud to himself.

"There is nothing," said the white man, moving to the edge of the platform and waving his hand to his boat. A shout came faintly over the lagoon and the sampan began to glide towards the abode of the friend of ghosts.

"If you want to come with me, I will wait all the morning," said the white man, looking away upon the water.

"No, Tuan," said Arsat softly. "I shall not eat or sleep in this house, but I must first see my road. Now I can see nothing—see nothing! There is no light and no peace in the world; but there is death—death for many. We are sons of the same mother—and I left him in the midst of enemies; but I am going back now."

He drew a long breath and went on in a dreamy tone:

"In a little while I shall see clear enough to strike—to strike. But she has died, and . . . now . . . darkness."

He flung his arms wide open, let them fall along his body, then stood still with unmoved face and stony eyes, staring at the sun. The white man got down into his canoe. The polers ran smartly along the sides of the boat, looking over their shoulders at the beginning of a weary journey. High in the stern, his head muffled up in white rags, the juragan sat moody, letting his paddle trail in the water. The white man, leaning with both arms over the grass roof of the little cabin, looked at the shining ripple of the boat's wake. Before the sampan passed out of the lagoon into the creek he lifted his eyes. Arsat had not moved. He stood lonely in the searching sunshine; and he looked beyond the great light of a cloudless day into the darkness of a world of illusions.

The Old Venerable

A. E. Coppard

Down in the village the women called him "the dirty old man,"the children did not seem to notice him, and their fathers called him"the Owd Venrable," or old Dick, with a sigh as of vague envy. There was little cause for that, he living in a wood in a little old tent shanty built of boughs and string and tarpaulin, with a heap of straw to sleep on. Outside the tent was his fire, and he had dwelt there so long that the mound of wood ash had grown almost as big as his house. Seventy years old he was, an old venerable ragged crippled man using two sticks, with a cheery voice and a truculent spirit, but honest as spring water, sharing his last drop with the last man or the first—he invariably shared theirs. When he was drunk he sang, when he was not drunk he talked for evermore about nothing, to nobody, for his tent was in a wood, a little clearing in a great wood, and the wood was away, a long way, from anywhere, so that he lived, as you might say, on air and affability and primed his starved heart with hope. A man like that could hope for anything, and a mere anything—twopence—would bring him bliss, but his undeviating aspiration, an ambition as passionate as it was supine, was to possess a donkey. He had pestered many sympathetic people who had the means; often he had sent out that dove of his fancy from the ark of his need, but it had never returned, at least not with a donkey; and never an ass fell like a bolt from heaven. If it had done, it would surely have taken no hurt, such a grand wood it was, miles of it, growing up and down the hills and hills, and so thickly bosomed that if you had fallen from a balloon into the top of that wood it would have been at the last like sinking into a feather bed. And full of birds and game. And game-keepers. The keepers did not like him to be there, it was unnatural to them, but keepers come and go, the shooting was let to a syndicate, and he had been there so long that new keepers found him where the old ones had left him. They even made use of him; he swept the rides and alley-ways for the shooters, marked down the mests of pheasants, and kept observation on rabbits and weasels and the flocks of pigeons whick anybody was welcome to shoot. Sometimes he earned a few shillings by plashing hedgerows or hoeing a field of roots, but mostly he was a"kindler," he gathered firewood and peddled it on a hand-truck around the villages. That was why he dreamed of donkey and nothing but donkey; a creature whose four feet together were not so big as one of its ears, would carry double and treble the load of kindling and make him a rich man.

One day he tramped right over to the head keeper's house to deliver a message, and there Tom Hussey had shown him a litter of retriever puppies he was tending. They had a pedigree, Tom Hussey said, as long as the shafts of a cart; the mother herself was valued at fifty golden guineas, but the sire belonged to Lord Camover and bank-notes wouldn't buy that dog, nor love nor money—not even the crown of England. There they were, six puppies just weaned and scrambling about, beautiful bouncing creatures, all except one that seemed quiet and backward.

"That one?" Tom Hussey said; "I be going to kill her. She's got a sort of rupture in her navel."

"Don't do that," said old Dick, for he knew a lot about dogs as well as birds and lambs and donkeys. "Give it to I." And Tom Hussey gave him the pup then and there, and he took it home to his tent and bandaged it artfully with a yard strip of canvas, and called it Sossy because it was so pert.

Every day the old man attended to that bandage round Sossy's stomach—he knew a whole lot about dogs—and the dog throve and grew, and every night nuzzled in the straw beside him; and Dick rejoiced. They lived heartily, for Dick was a nimble hand with a wire, and rabbits were plentiful, and he was always begging for bones and suchlike for his Sossy. Everywhere in that wood he took Sossy with him and he trained her so in the arts of obedience that she knew what he wanted even if he only winked one eye. After about six months of this he took off her bandage for the last time and threw it away. There she was, cured and fit and perfect, a fine sweet flourishing thing. What a glossy coat! What a bushy tail! And her eyes—they made you dream of things!

Awhile after that Tom Hussey came into the wood to shoot some pigeons. There was always a great flock of them somewhere in the wood, and when they rose up from the trees the whirr of their thousand wings was like the roar of a great wave. Well, Tom Hussey came, and as he passed near the tent he called out the good of the morning to old Dick.

"Come here," cried Dick, and Tom Hussey went, and when he saw that dog you could have split him with a lath of wood he was so astonished. Sossy danced round him in a rare flurry, nuzzling at his pockets.

"She's hungry," he said.

"No, she ain't. Get down, you great devil! No, she ain't hungry, she's just had a saucepan full o' shackles—get down!—that saucepan there what I washes myself in."

When Tom Hussey shot a pigeon she stood to the gun and brought the bird back like an angel.

"Dick, you can swap that dog for a donkey whenever you've a mind to," Tom Hussey said.

"Ain't she got a mouth? I tell you," Dick cried joyfully.

"Like silk," was the rejoinder.

"It's a gift."

"Born," chanted Tom Hussey.

"It's a gift, I tell you."

"Born. She's worth twenty pounds. You sell that bitch and get you a donkey, quick."

"No," deliberated the veteran. "I shan't do that."

"Twenty pound she's worth, of good money."

"I shan't have 'ee, I tell you."

"You sell that bitch and get you a donkey. That's my last word to you," Tom Hussey said as he stalked away.

But that "Owd Venrable" was a far-seeing sagacious creature, a very artful old man he was, and when the time came for it he and Tom Hussey conjured up a deal between themselves. It would have been risky for Tom Hussey, but as he was changing to another estate he chanced it and he connived and Sossy was mated on the sly to one of his master's finest retrievers, as good as ever stepped into a covert, and by all accounts the equal of Lord Camover's dog that had begot Sossy. So when Tom Hussey departed, there was old Dick with his valuable dog, looking forward to the few weeks hence when Sossy would have the finest bred puppies of their kind in the land. He scarcely dared to compute their value, but it would surely be enough to relegate the idea of a donkey to the limbo of outworn and mean conceits. No, if all went well he would have a change of life altogether. He would give up the old tent; it was rotting, he was tired of it. If things came wonderful well he would buy a nag and little cart and a few cokernuts and he would travel the round of the fairs and see something of the world again. Nothing like cokernuts for a profitable trade.

This roseate dream so tinted every moment of his thoughts that he lived, as you might say, like a poet, cherishing the dog, the source and promise of these ideals, with fondness and joy. The only cloud on the horizon of bliss was the new gamekeeper, a sprag young fellow, who had taken a deep dislike to him. Old Dick soon became aware of this animosity, for the new keeper kept a strict watch upon his neighbourhood and walked about kicking over Dick's snares, impounding his wires, and complaining of his dirty habits and his poaching. And it was true, he was dirty, he had lost his pride, and he did poach, just a little, for he had a belly that hungered like any other man's, and he had a dog.

Early one morning as Dick was tending his fire the new keeper strolled up. He was a wry-mouthed slow-speaking young chap, and he lounged there with his gun under his arm and his hands in his pockets. Neither spoke for a while, but at last the keeper said:

"It burns well."

"Huh, and so would you burn well," grinned the old man, "if I cut you atop of it."

For fully two minutes the young keeper made no retort, he was a rather enraging young keeper. Then he said: "Ah, and what do you think you may be doing round here?"

The old man flung a few pinches of tea into a can of boiling water.

"You get on with your job, young feller, and I'll get on with mine."

"What is your job?"

The "Owd Venrable" eyed him angrily.

"My job? I'll tell you—it's to mind my own business. You'll learn that for yourself later on, I 'spects, when you get the milk outer your mouth—you ought to, however. Wait till yer be as old as I."

"Ah," drawled the keeper, "I don't mind waiting."

"I met chaps like you before," the old man began to thunder."Thousands on 'em. D'you know what happened to the last one?"

"Died of fleabites, I shouldn't wonder," was the placid rejoinder.

"I had him on the hop. When he warn't thinking," the old man, ruminating, grinned, "I wuz! I give him a kick o' the stomach as fetched him atween wind and water, and down he went, clean as a smelt. D'you know what I did then?"

"Picked his pocket, I shouldn't wonder."

"Yah! Never stole nothing from no man, 'cept it was my own. Clean as a smelt, I tell you."

"Well," the new keeper slowly said, shifting his gun from the left arm to the right, "I can take a hiding from any man…."

"Ah, and from any old woman, too, I should say."

"… from any man," continued the imperturbable one, "as can give it me—if you know of one." He began to pick his teeth with a matchstick."Did you get my message?" he more briskly added.

"What message?"

"I sent you a message."

"Then you sent it by a wet hen. I an't had no message."

"I know you had it, but I'll tell you again. I've got orders to clear you out of this wood, you and your dog. You can take your time, don't want to be hard on you, but out you goes, and soon, you and your dog."

"Well, we can go, my cunning feller, we can go."

"That's right, then."

"We can go—when we've a mind to. But who's a-going to look arter my job?"

"What job's that?"

"Huh, what job!" The old man disgustedly groaned. "Why, who's a-going to keep an eye on things, and they poachers, thousands on 'em, just waiting for to catch I asleep! But they can't do it."

"Naw, I shouldn't think anyone could sleep in a hole like that!"

"Yah, I could sleep, I could sleep a sack o' taters rotten! And who's a-going to clear up when the storms been shamracking about the place? I cleans up the paths, I cleans 'em for one and all, and I cleans 'em for you. Some I does it right for and some I does it wrong. If I did it right for all, I'd be out of this world, seemly."

"Who asked you to? Nobody asked you to, we can do without it, and we can do without you. So now I've told you." With that the young keeper sauntered airily away.

"Yah!" the Old Venerable called after him. "Clean as a smelt, I tell you, clean as a smelt"; and as long as his adversary remained in view he continued to remind him of that excellent conclusion.

But despite his contempt the old man was perturbed; he knew the game was up, he would have to seek a lodging elsewhere. By the grace of fortune the blow had come just when it could least concern him; all he wanted was time for Sossy to rear her pups, and then he would go; then he would go gaily, driving his horse and cart like a man of property all over that Berkshire and that Oxfordshire.

A week later Sossy was safely delivered of nine puppies. Miracles are possible—they must be—but it is not possible to anticipate a miracle: a litter of nine! They were born in the tent beside the man, and they all—Dick, Sossy, and the nine morsels—slept together, and in a few days, although Sossy, despite heroic feeding, began to grow lean, the pups were fat as slugs.

When they were seven days old the man got up one morning to go to a job of hedging. It was a bright, draughty March morn, and he noted the look of the early pink clouds. A fine day promised, though some of the clouds had a queer shape like a goose with its head turned backwards. That boded something! The blackies and thrushers sang beautiful. After Sossy had fed somewhat daintily from the same pot of "shackles"as himself, old Dick hung the sack over the tent opening and left her mothering the pups. He limped off to work. The hedge he was laying was on an upland farm that overlooked his wood. At midday when he lunched he could sit and stare over the vast stern brownness that was so soon to unbend in unbelievable trellises of leaves. Already the clearings and banks were freckled with primroses, the nut thickets hung with showers of yellow pods, and the pilewort's cresset in the hedge was a beam to wandering bees. In all that vastitude there was one tiny hole into which he had crept like a snail for years and years, but it was too small to hide him for ever and ever. So now they would go, he and Sossy. Just beside him was a pond and the barns of the farm. Two white horses were nuzzling each other in the croft, and a magpie watched them from the cone of a stack. A red ox at the pond snuffled in the water, and as it lifted its head to stare at the old man streams of water pattered back from its hairy lips. Deftly the ox licked with its tongue first one ostril, then the other, but water still dribbled from its mouth in one long glutinous stripe. A large cloud hung above the scene, brooding, white and silent as a swan. Old Dick rose and stretched himself; the wind had died. When the aftnoon had worn on he ceased work and turned home. Halfway through the woods he came to a clearing full of primroses, and on a bank, with her muzzle in a rich clump of the blooms, lay his dog, shot through the breast. The old man knelt down beside his dog, but there was nothing he could do, she had been dead a long time. He recalled hearing the shot of a gun, hours ago, not a sharp report, but sullen. Perhaps she had gone out for a scamper and had been chasing a rabbit, or perhaps she had left her litter in order to come to him. The keeper had shot her, shot a poor man's dog, shot her dead. There was nothing he could do, the doom had come crushing even time in its swiftness.

"Fizzled and mizzled I am now," he said forlornly, "and that's a fact."

He left there and, conversing angrily, pottered home to his tent. Two of the pups were already dead. The others were helpless, and he was helpless; there was nothing he could do for them, they were too young to feed by hand, and he had nothing to feed them with. He crawled out of the tent to suck a long drink from the bucket of water that stood outside, and then he knelt there gazing without vision at the smouldering fire.

"I know, yes, I know what I can do," he mumbled, picking up his long, heavy billhook. "Just a smack o' that behind his earhole and he won't take no more hindings from e'er a man or a woman meither. Tipet, I says, and he'd be done, he'd be done in a couple o' minutes, ah, quicker, quicker'n you could say smoke." He dashed the billhook to the earth and groaned. "Oh I be fair fizzled and mizzled now, I be, ah." He sat up and pulled the bucket between his legs. Picking up one of the pups he plopped it into the bucket. "There's your donkey," he gurgled, "huh, huh, huh! And there"—as he plopped the others in one by one—"goes your cob and your cart and your cokernuts. And there"—as he dashed the last one violently in.

After a while the old man rose and emptied the drowned bodies into a heap of bushes; the clash of the bucket as he flung it back only fretted the silence of the wood for a few moments.

The Japanese Quince

John Galsworthy

As Mr. Nilson, well known in the City, opened the window of his dressing room on Campden Hill, he experienced a peculiar sweetish sensation in the back of his throat, and a feeling of emptiness was under his fifth rib. Hooking the window back, he noticed a little tree in the Square Gardens had come out in blossom, and that the thermometer stood at sixty. "Perfect morning," he thought; "spring at last!"

Resuming some meditations on the price of Tintos, he took up an ivory-backed hand-glass and scrutinised his face. His firm, well-coloured cheeks, with their neat brown moustaches, and his round, well-opened, clear gray eyes, wore a reassuring appearance of good health. Putting on his black frock coat, he went downstairs.

In the dining room his morning paper was laid out on the sideboard. Mr. Nilson had scarcely taken it in his hand when he again became aware of that queer feeling. Somewhat concerned, he went to the French window and descended the scrolled iron steps into the fresh air. A cuckoo clock struck eight.

"Half an hour to breakfast," he thought; "I'll take a turn in the Gardens."

He had them to himself, and proceeded to pace the circular path with his morning paper clasped behind him. He had scarcely made two revolutions, however, when it was borne in on him that, instead of going away in the fresh air, the feeling had increased. He drew several deep breaths, having heard deep breathing recommenedd by his wife's doctor; but they augmented rather than deminished the sensation—as if some sweetish liquor in course within him, together with a faint aching just above his heart. Running over what he had eaten the night before, he could recollect no unusual dish, and it occurred to him that it might possibly be some smell affecting him. But he could detect nothing except a faint sweet lemony scent, rather agreeable than otherwise, which evidently emanated from the bushes budding in the sunshine. He was on the point of resuming his promenade, when a blackbird close by burst into song, and, looking up, Mr. Nilson saw at a distance of perhaps five yards a little tree, in the heart of whose branches the bird was perched. He stood staring curiously at this tree, recognising it for that which he had noticed from his window. It was covered with young blossoms, pink and white, and little bright green leaves both round and spiky; and on all this blossom and these leaves the sunlight glistened. Mr. Nilson smiled; the little tree was so alive and pretty! And instead of passing on, he stayed there smiling at the tree.

"Morning like this!" he thought; "and I am the only person in the Square who has the—to come out and—!" But he had no sooner conceived this thought than he saw quite near him a man with his hands behind him, who was also staring up and smiling at the little tree. Rather taken aback, Mr. Nilson ceased to smile, and looked furtively at the stranger. It was his next-door neighbour, Mr. Tandram, well known in the City, who had occupied the adjoining house for some five years. Mr. Nilson perceived at once the awkwardness of his position, for, being married, they had not yet had occasion to speak to one another. Doubtful as to his proper conduct, he decided at last to murmur: "Fine morning!" and was passing on, when Mr. Tandram answered: "Beautiful, for the time of year!" Detecting a slight nervousness in his neighbour's voice, Mr. Nilson was emboldened to regard him openly. He was of about Mr. Nilson's own height, with firm, well-coloured cheeks, neat brown moustaches, and round, well-opened, clear gray eyes; and he was wearing a black frock coat. Mr. Nilson noticed that he had his morning paper clasped behind him as he looked up at the little tree. And, visited somehow by the feeling that he had been caught out, he said abruptly:

"Er—can you give me the name of that tree?"

Mr. Tandram answered:

"I was about to ask you that," and stepped towards it. Mr. Nilson also approached the tree.

"Sure to have its name on, I should think," he said.

Mr Tandram was the first to see the liittle label, close to where the blackbird had been sitting. He read it out.

"Japanese Quince!"

"Ah!" said Mr. Nilson, "thought so. Early flowerers."

"Very," assented Mr. Tandram, and added: "quite a feelin' in the air today."

Mr. Nilson nodded.

"It was a blackbird singin'," he said.

"Blackbirds," answered Mr. Tandram. "I prefer them to thrushes myself; more body in the note." And he looked at Mr. Nilson in an almost friendly way.

"Quite," murmured Mr. Nilson. "These exotics, they don't bear fruit. Pretty blossom!" and he again glanced up at the blossom, thinking: "Nice fellow, this, I rather like him."

Mr. Tandram also gazed at the blossom. And the little tree, as if appreciating their attention, quivered and glowed. From a distance the blackbird gave a loud, clear call. Mr. Nilson dropped his eyes. It struck him suddenly that Mr. Tandram looked little foolish; and, as if he had seen himself, he said: "I must be going in. Good morning!"

A shade passed over Mr. Tandram's face, as if he, too, had suddenly noticed something about Mr. Nilson.

"Good morning," he replied, and clasping their journals to their backs they separated.

Mr. Nilson retraced his steps toward his garden window, walking slowly so as to avoid arriving at the same time as his neighbour. Having seen Mr. Tandram mount his scrolled iron steps, he ascended his own in turn. On the top step he paused.

With the slanting spring sunlight darting and quivering into it, the Japanese quince seemed more living than a tree. The blackbird had returned to it, and was chanting out his heart.

Mr. Nilson sighed; again he felt that queer sensation, that choky feeling in his throat.

The sound of a cough or sigh attracted his attention. There, in the shadow of his French window, stood Mr. Tandram, also looking forth across the Gardens at the little quince tree.

Unaccountably upset, Mr. Nilson turned abruptly into the house, and opened his morning paper.

All Yankees Are Liars

Eric Knight

You can always tell the Irish,

You can always tell the Dutch.

You can always tell a Yankee;

But you cannot tell him much.

Mr. Smith was pleased with The Spread Eagle. He was pleased with Polkingthorpe Brig. The village was off the beaten track—the truly rural sort of English village the American always wants to see.

The inn was low and rambling, with great sloping roofs. Over the door swung the sign—a darksome bird in a weather-beaten setting.

Everything justified his decision to take this bicycle trip up into the north—the mullioned windows, the roaring fire, the Yorkshire accents of the men who shuffled over the sanded stone floor of the lowceilinged room as they played darts. Mr. Smith was almost beginning to understand what they were talking about. During his excellent high tea he had sorted out the four men playing darts. One was Saw Cooper, a farmer; a small old man was referred to as Sam; a young, bright-faced lad who played darts left-handed was Gollicker Pearson; and the fourth, a huge man, was just called Ian.

Mr. Smith watched them play, listening to the endless thwock of the darts in the cork board as he finished his meal. The barmaid, plump, corn-haired, came toward him, her apron rustling stiffly.

"Would there be owt else?"

"No. It was a very good meal." Mr. Smith smiled. He wanted to make the girl talk some more. "Er—what do they do for fun in this place of an evening?"

"Foon?" she repeated. "Well, they sit here—or o' Sat'day neights lots o' fowk goa ovver to Wuxley to t' pictures." She waited. "They gate Boock D'Arcy i' T' Singing Cowboy," she added suggestively.

Mr. Smith had already become acquainted with British cinemas in small towns. Also, he was a southern Californian, and had that familiarity with movies that belongs to all Southern Californians. He had no inclination to go four miles to see a last year's Class B Western. "No. I think I'll have another ale and sit here," he said.

"If tha'll sit ovver by t' fire, Ah'll bring it to thee theer. Then Ah can clean opp here."

Mr. Smith sat on the bench by the generous fire and nursed his ale. The dart game came to an end with Saw Cooper losing and paying for the round. The men brought their mugs to the fire. Mr. Smith shifted politely. The men, in the presence of a stranger, grew quiet. Mr. Smith decided to put them at ease.

"Pretty chilly for an October evening, isn't it?" The men considered the remark, as if looking at both sides of it. Finally Saw Cooper spoke.

"Aye," he said.

The others nodded. There was silence, and the five regarded the fire. Then, suddenly, young Gollicker smiled.

"Tha shouldn't heed t' coved, being a Yankee," he said.

"Ah, but I'm not a Yankee," Mr. Smith said. They stared at him in disbelief.

"Yankees," explained Air. Smith, "come from New England."

They looked from Air. Smith to one another. The big man named Ian took a deep breath.

"Yankees," he said, "coom fro' t' United States."

"Well, yes. New England is a part of the United States," Mr. Smith said. "But it's thousands of miles away from where I live. In fact, believe it or not, I should think you're closer to the Yankees than I am. You see, the United States is a big country. In the part where the Yankees come from, it gets very cold in the winter. Where I am—in Southern California—it never snows. Why, I've never known it to snow there in all my life."

"No snow?" Gollicker breathed.

Mr. Smith smiled. For, after all, he was a Southern Californian—and they were discussing climate. "No snow." he said. "In wintertime we have a bit of a rainy season, but after February it clears, and then it doesn't even rain for nine months—not a drop."

"Noa rain for a nine month—noan at all?" Saw Cooper asked.

"Not a drop. Day after day, the sun comes out, clear skies, never a drop of rain for nine months. Never!"

"Whet do ye graw theer, lad?" Saw asked slyly.

"Lots of things. Truck, vegetables, oranges—all kinds of things."

There was a silence again. Big Ian took a breath. "Orinjis," he said, and then took another breath, "graw i' Spain."

He looked at Mr. Smith so emphatically that Mr. Smith nodded.

"Oh, yes," he said. "They grow in Spain, too, I understand."

“Orinjis,” Ian repeated, "graw i' Spain."

That seemed to settle the question. They all looked in the fire in silence. Saw cooper sniffed.

"Whet else graws theer?"

"Well, I have a ranch there; we grow alfalfa."

"Whet's that off to be?"

"Alfalfa? We use it for hay. It's a desert plant originally, but it thrives in California. We get eight cuttings a year."

"Eight cuttings o' hay a year?"

"Eight cuttings a year."

The little man, Sam, spoke for the first time: "Mister, if it doan't rain for a nine month, how can ye get eight cuttings o' hay a year?"

"Oh, that's easy," Mr. Smith said. "We irrigate the land." He went into a short but conclusive description of irrigating.

"Heh," Saw Cooper said. "Wheer's this here watter coom fro'?"

"In the San Fernando Valley we buy it from the water company, just like you do in your homes."

"Wheer do they get it?"

"From reservoirs."

"If it doan't rain, where's t' reservoys get t' watter?"

"Oh, we pipe it down from five hundred miles north. It rains a lot up there."

"And ye sprinkle t' farming land out o' t' watter tap. How mony acres hesta?"

"It isn't like sprinkling from the tap, of course. I used that to illustrate. The pipes are large—we have fourteen-inch valves on our pipes. We flood the land—cover it right over with water."

Saw looked in the fire. "Does corn graw theer?"

"Well, generally our land is too valuable to put into corn. But it will grow corn fourteen feet high."

They made noises in their throats and shifted their feet.

"Fohteen foot," Saw breathed. "Eigh, ba gum!"

"Mister," Sam said, "once Ah were oop to see t' Firth o' Forth brig. Ah suppose they hev bigger brigs i' Yankeeland?"

Mr. Smith should have touched on the new Oakland bridge, but then, he was a Southern Californian.

"We have bridges, but they're building vehicular tunnels under the rivers now."

"Whet for?"

"Well, there’s so much motor traffic."

"How mony moatorcars goa through 'em?"

Mr. Smith lit his pipe happily. They seemed quite interested in America.

"I couldn't say. The way they turn 'em out, I should say there's hundreds of thousands."

"How fast do they turn 'em out?" Gollicker asked.

"I don't know. I think they roll out finished at the rate of one every couple of minutes."

"And they goa i' tunnels, not i' brigs?" Sam commented.

"Oh, we have some bridges."

"Big uns, Ah suppose."

"Well," Mr. Smith said modestly, thinking of the Pulaski Skyway coming into New York, "we have some that go right over entire towns. You’re practically on one bridge for miles."

Saw Cooper spat in the fire. "How mony fowk is there in all America?"

Mr. Smith didn't know, but he felt expansive. And after all, there was South America too.

"A quarter of a billion, I should say," he hazarded.

"A quarter of a billion," they repeated. Then they stared at Mr. Smith, and he became aware of their disbelief.

"Wait a moment," he said. "I think a billion is different in America from here. It's a thousand million in America and a million million here, isn't it?"

"A billion," said Ian slowly, "is a billion."

The others nodded, and then Ian stood. The others rose too.

"Oh—er—wait a minute. Won't you all have a drink with me?" Mr. Smith invited.

"Us is off to play darts for a round—us four," Ian said, meaningly.

The other three laughed.

"Ah knew them theer brigs o' thine'd hev to be big," Saw Cooper said as a parting shot as he swung over the bench. "That's so's they'd be able to goa ovver wheat what graws fohteen foot high when ye sprinkle it fro' t' watter tap."

He grinned at the others in victory.

"I didn't say wheat; I said corn," Mr. Smith protested.

"Same thing," Saw snapped.

"It isn't. Wheat grows in an ear. Corn grows on a cob; it has broad long leaves."

"Heh! That's maize," Saw said.

Big Ian stepped between Saw Cooper and Mr. Smith.

"Now, lad," he said flatly," tha said corn, and Ah heeard thee. Theeand thy orinjis, and farming out o' t' watter tap, and brigs ovver cities, and it nivver rains, and denying th' art a Yankee, and a billion is a billion and yet it ain't. Tha's tripped thysen oop a dozen times, it seems to me. Now, hesta owt to say?"

Mr. Smith looked at Big Ian, standing belligerently with legs widespread and his thumbs in the waistband of his corduroy trousers. He looked round and saw everyone in the inn waiting, silent.

Then a curious thing happened. In that minute the smell of soft-coal smoke and pig-twist tobacco and ale was gone, and instead Mr. Smith was smelling the mixed odor sun-baked land and citrus blossom and jasmine and eucalyptus trees, just as you smell it in the cool darkness coming across the San Fernando Valley. And he was homesick. Suddenly it felt unreal that he should be so far from home, sitting in an English inn with these men about him. He looked up at the faces, forbidding in their expression of disapproval. And he began to laugh.

It was all so unreal that he laughed until he cried. Every time he looked up he saw the faces, now even more comical in their bewilderment than they had been in their disapproval. They stared at him, and then Big Ian began to laugh.

"Eigh, Ah'll be jiggered!" he roared. "Drat ma buttons if Ah won't!"

It was Mr. Smith's turn to be puzzled now.

Big Ian roared, suddenly slapped Mr. Smith on the back so heartily that his chin flew up in the air and then banged back on his chest. The others looked on in amazement.

"Why, whet's oop, Ian?" Saw asked.

"Why, ye gowks!" Ian roared. "He's laughing at ye! He's been heving us on! Sitting theer for an hour, keeping his mug straight and telling us the tale! And us swallering it, thinking he was serious!"

"But," Mr. Smith said—"but you don't—"

"Nay, now no moar on it!" Ian roared. "Ye've codded us for fair, and done it champion! Lewk at owd Sam's face!"

The others regarded Ian and scratched their heads and grinned sheepishly, and finally looked at Mr. Smith in admiration.

"But—" Mr. Smith began again.

"Nay, now, ye copped us napping," Ian said, "and here's ma hand on it. Soa we'll hew noa moar—onless ye'd like to tell us whet Yankeeland's rigthly like."

Mr. Smith drew a deep breath. "Well, what would you like to hear about?"

"About cowboys," young Gollicker breathed. "Werta ivver a cowboy?"

For a moment Mr. Smith stood on a brink, and then an imp pushed him over.

"Of course I've been a cowboy—naturally," Mr. Smith said. "What would you like to hear about it?"

"Wait a minute," Gollicker said. They all adjusted themselves on the bench. "Now," he went on, "tell us about a roundup—tha knaws, 'Ah'm yeading for t' last roundup, like Bing Crosby sings."

Mr. Smith held his mental breath and plunged.

"Ah," he said. "A roundup and the life of a cowboy. Up at the crack of dawn, mates, and down to the corral. There you rope your horse—"

"A mustang?" Gollicker asked.

"A mustang," Mr. Smith agreed.

"A wild one off'n the prairies, happen?"

"Indeed a wild one from off the prairies," Mr. Smith agreed." I see you know America yourself."

Gollicker grinned modestly. "Doan't let me interrupt, measter," he apologized.

Mr. Smith drew another breath. He saw he was up against at least one expert, so he made it very good. Inwardly he thanked fate for what he had hitherto regarded as two entirely misspent weeks on a Nevada dude ranch. He gave them, in more senses than one, a moving picture of the cowboy's life.

When he was done, Gollicker sighed and Big Ian nodded.

"Now," Sam said, "how about them bloody buffalo?"

"Ah, the buffalo," Mr. Smith said. "The thundering herd! The bison! For a while there was danger—or thought to be—that the herds were dying out. But now, I am glad to say—and no doubt you are just as glad to hear—the herds are increasing, and ere long, again the crack of a rifle will bring down a bull in full gallop."

"But how about them bloody Indians?" Saw put in.

Mr. Smith considered the Indians at the station in Santa Fe. They didn't seem at all satisfactory. But he was inspired. He drew himself up.

"You will pardon me if I do not speak of that," he said. "We have not too much love for the paleface who stole our lands. I say 'we,' for my mother was Yellow Blanket, a princess of the Blackfoot tribe. Therefore, let us not speak of the white man and the red man."

He stared into the fire—majestically, he hoped.

"Now, see what tha's done?" Ian said to Saw. "Happen it'll learn thee to keep thy yapper shut once in a while . . . Tha maun excuse him, measter. Tell us about gangsters instead. Didta ivver run into any gangsters?"

"Run into them? Why, how could you help it?" Mr. Smith asked.

Swiftly and graphically he painted for them an America in which here was the town where the bullets of the gangs cracked day and night. Here was the last street, and on it the last house, and beyond that was the trackless prairie where the buffalo thundered, the cowboy rode and the Indian ever lurked.

As he finished, he looked up. Everyone in the inn was listening. Men had gathered behind him silently.

At the bar, the maid leaned on her elbows, entranced. "Ah, I talk too much," Mr. Smith said.

"Nay, goa on, lad," they said. "Goa on."

"Well, it's dry work. How about a drink?"

"Champion," said Saw.

"Owd on," Big Ian said. "Us'll play darts for a round."

"Now, Ian, if the lad wants to buy—"

"Ah said," Ian repeated, "us'll play darts—onybody that wishes to be in on t' round. And t’ loser will pay."

Mr. Smith payed anyhow, for the dart game was trickier than he had thought, and they all seemed to be experts.

He was getting very much better when the barmaid called: "Time, gentlemen, please."

Mr. Smith was sorry. It had been a good evening. They all said good night cheerfully. Big Ian shook him by the hand.

"Well, soa long, lad. We had a champion time. But Ah just want to say, tha didn't fool me when tha were kidding us at first. Tha sees, for one thing, us goal to t' pictures and so us knaws whet America's really like. And then Ah'd allus heeard tell that all Yankees were liars."

"Yes," Mr. Smith said, regarding his conscience, "I did tell some lies."

"Aye, but Ah suppose it's a way ye Yankees hev, " Ian said. "But it's all right as long as tha told us t' trewth finally."

The Ballroom

William Sansom

Strange weather! A warm morning, with all the windows open and the sunlight making a pale fool of the big log fire. Wet and warm in the garden outside, muddy and fresh: and inside the Christmas cards looked like invitations to a summer rout, the holly and mistletoe hung like the morning after some May-Day-night-before, cotton-wool snow looked particularly like cotton-wool and nothing like snow, the tinsel glittered in the sun with the tarnished tang of old seaside souvenirs. Two or three flies Hoovered a Monday buzz about the ceiling; and in the garden a red-hot robin stamped its dislike of such an unseasonable Christmas Morning.

Snow and ice are seldom to be hoped for. The least that might be expected is a touch of the magic of frost , a winter glitter and a brisk raw bite in the air, something to match the glowing coals and the good rich food. However . . . on that morning there was no hope left, and as Lesseps went to look out over the garden it was in a mood of ill-ease—he felt that he ought to be scrambling the deck-chairs out for an early airing, not thinking of sherry and turkey and the rest of whatever conviviality lay ahead. There was a steam in the air, no wind, and across the hedge at the garden's end the steam thickened to mist above the warm mysterious depths of the Chine. Beyond this lay a wilderness of trees and the ivyclad walls of Waltham.

The sun struck gold on the topmost windows of this great Victorian house that then belonged to the lady we only knew as "Miss Amery"—and it was perhaps the sudden illumination of a turreted and gabled edifice so in keeping with the idea of an old-fashioned Christmas that led Lesseps once again that morning to wonder about this Miss Amery. The sun struck the topmost windows—and even these had their white blinds drawn—but he knew that in the shadowed wilderness of dripping and overgrown trees and ivy below all the rest of the house would lie in a kind of dead shuttered dusk cut off absolutely from this wide-lit morning. Within the padlocked gates, up the bough-hung drive and under the peeling gables lay a darker world: Miss Amery was what they call a recluse. She had not left the house for fifteen years.

Many the theories. But only one thing is certain about such a secret life, and that is a final uncertainty of anyone getting to know exactly how it is lived. The houses of such solitaries have been examined after death—a litter of filth, a wilderness of papers, hoards of money have been found: and once even a house within a house, corridors and rooms lined with the empty tins of a decade, each immaculately shined. But whatever is found, people can only suppose how life was actually lived: nobody knows, the germ of the bitter or the radiant secret dies with its conceiver.

So with Miss Amery. But she still lived, and the theories with her. Some said the war. Others that she had always been queer, from a young girl. Others spoke of something that had happened in her childhood. But nobody knew. And few people ever saw her. There were tales that she had occasional guests—once a schoolgirl had been seen in the park: but that might have been any apple-happy intruder of the afternoon.

At all events she was no terrifying figure. No pig-faced woman suffering within her black veil; no wild-eyed brooder over dark religions: no tall soured chatelaine with the big hands of a stranger. None of these. The few who saw or had seen her, like the postman, talked simply of a little "frail" old lady. Pale eyes, white skin, fragile, timid; a very ordinary picture of lavender and lace.

Yet a vague picture. And on that Christmas morning, thinking of her all alone somewhere beneath her sunblinded tower—Lesseps suddenly felt a longing to visit her. Don't be a fool, he told himself, she'd hate it. You're just restless. You're just lonely yourself for your white snow and frost.

But the idea persisted. And late that afternoon he excused himself from warm port on the veranda and "went for a walk". As he passed over the Chine bridge he pretended: I'll just get into the grounds and look around. I won't disturb the old girl.

But he never really hesitated; and certainly not on that giddying thin iron bridge that overhung such a sudden rocky drop and its weird wet growth of fern far beneath.

Then the wall of Waltham faced him. Higher than a man, it leaned its old red brickness for as far as he could see to either side: it came from mist and vanished into mist, and this made it seem to go on for ever. It was old, silent, decayed—it kept the eyes from seeing what was beyond, it sat there saying as all walls say: "Keep out". The only sound was the dripping of trees. He felt uneasy. But nevertheless measured its height, the crumbling of its mossed bricks, the inward tilt it took from the roots of trees that would one day overturn its foundation. Would it take his weight? He heard the crash of brick, a sudden thunderclap dying again into the wet silence of the trees. He took his left foot in a crevice, pulled himself up and over, dropped soundlessly on to thick black leaves the other side.

Over. When he had put his foot up, he had felt as guilty and small as a child: now, the deed done and in forbidden territory, he was suddenly instead big as a child feeling itself big as a man, on its mettle. In that deserted overgrown wilderness, even in such quiet, he held his breath and listened. What a different world inside! The sun was sinking—it must have been nearly four o'clock; but those trees were already dark with moss and age, everything creaked and dripped and hung at broken levels, and as he now walked forward in the direction of the house the sky seemed to disappear altogether in a depth of long-fingering arms interlaced above. It was like entering the gloom that masses before a fog in a great town; the air peculiarly still, no fog yet, but all light gone. Yet in its way, at that time, it was preferable to the world outside—this darkness and mistery more matched the mood of Christmas.

He walked on. No twigs snapped, everything too old, rotten, wet. Beneath the trees a thick undergrowth of elder and nettles had grown; he had to snake his way through—once he stopped suddenly, holding his breath: a statue, an eyeless youth in Greek drapery, was watching him from the thicket; mossed and in half-shadow, it stood still as life. He coughed—no echo—and went on. He came up against a huge high bank of overgrown laurel. He had to walk some way to skirt it, it was like a high green wall within the walled garden: but at last he rounded it—and there suddenly was the house itself. He drew back against the laurel. The house accused him with its immense, sudden presence. But then he saw how utterly dead it was—or how deeply asleep. White blinds were drawn over all the upper windows. Creeper hung thick about the lower reaches, a gabled porch and Gothic buttresses, tall stone-framed downstairs windows. From where he stood he could see the rusted bellpull—and wondered how it could possibly work. Wondering, he found himself going towards it—and then quickly ran the last few yards across the open, weed-grown gravel.

Now he stood in the porch, among wind-blown leaves and littered paper, as if in a deserted wind-shelter on a sea-front, and looked at that bell-pull. It was dead with rust. Thick spider webs, heavy with rotted seed, hung across it. Suddenly he thought, and his stomach dropped—perhaps the old lady was dead? Perhaps no one knows? But then he remembered how groceries and food were still delivered, probably at a back door. They would soon have known in the village. Yet this was a holiday; Christmas is a busy time, the shops had been shut a day already. At the thought again of Christmas it passed absurdly through his mind that if anyone caught him there in the porch he could start singing a carol; but at the same time he decided to go round the house and see if there was a back door that might look more used. But—his mind whispered—with a pile of groceries never taken in?

He never went round.

He held his breath, wondering what so suddenly had happened. Sound? Movement? Something had happened: and everything was changed. But there was no sound, nothing had moved in the porch. What. . . ? And then he realized. The most obvious thing, so obvious that it had passed his notice. All the lights of one of the rooms facing the drive had been turned on—the great dark bank of laurel was now a high pale emerald mass, leaf upon leaf of green and gold, a high theatrical screen of leaf, and across the gravel itself the tall garden windows had thrown their giant rectangular shapes.

Yet no shadow crossed this great new light, no sound echoed its muffling from within the house. It was like an empty theatre lit by a dead man's hand.

Lesseps hardly waited.

He moved quickly out of the porch and in again to the wall, creeping like a thief, turning his coat collar up to hide his white shirt, sprung on the toes of his shoes that made no sound on such wet mould, rounding the big buttress until he could squeeze against the stone window-frame and peer carefully round, using one eye.

Every chandelier in that room was lit. The windows reached nearly to the ground and all inside, as in a huge glass-case, was light. The floor had been freshly polished and shone with light: tall mirrors on all the walls reflected it farther, and the twists and coils of their gilt frames winked and glittered: and then the mirrors reflected each other, one mirror within another within another, until the room receded for ever in corridors of mirror on every side: in each mirror shone a crystal wealth of chandelier, and, wherever it struck, either in a leaping of shadows or or a red-gilt flaming tongue, there rose and fell the effigy of a great log fire blazing to one end of the room in a richly marbled fireplace. Heavy curtains hung undrawn by the windows. Lessep's one eye came round by a large gilt tassel. It must have been the old ballroom.

But old? It was as alive as it had ever been. And in its very centre stood a tall Christmas tree bright with yellow candles. Coloured globes caught the fire-shadow, tinsel laced its sparkling snow about the dark branches, and all danced with light; the yellow candles burned steadily upwards, yet sometimes shuddered—it must have been a draught from the fire—leaning afraid all one way, and then as suddenly resuming their solid upward flame.

He stood there, held with wonder. It was a magical scene—all polish, wealth, and warmth . . . but empty, no sign of a single person.

And the minutes passed. The last of the red evening sun fell down through the black wet trees outside. Lesseps thought: How exactly like the coloured plates in a book of fairy-stories, there is no difference, the old red sun casts its strarge winter light and the trees become huge, you can still see the drip and drab of ordinary life, but it recedes, light and shadow are really in charge, you're more in an old book than anywhere else. Then he smelled life again, as the sun flashed down and the first sharp nose of a winter's chill envigoured the night. Soon he would see his breath.

He peered back into the window. Nobody had come. Nothing had moved but the candles, the fire flames and the shadows that were always moving. And this motionless moving, this empty liveliness, gave the room more death than if the house had been shut and dark and truly dead; as with a ghost ship, all sails set, all lights ablaze—empty on an empty ocean; or the shop-window stage of a room, playing the dead life of dummies, and never-used furniture, all lights on and nothing, nothing ever to happen. But behind the doors of such rooms people wait: the doors hold back unbelievable crowds waiting to burst in.

And that, then, was what actually happened, unbelievably, exactly in front of Lesseps' one peering eye. So startling him that he drew this back behind the window-frame.

Abruptly the room had poured full of children!

A dam of children had burst, it was like that moment in the empty street when a morning of children breaks out of the cinema and the street is stopped with arms and legs and voices whirling and screaming over every inch. He quickly drew back. Where? How? How did they get there. . . ? And all those children had been little girls! Ten, twenty, thirty little girls in white party-dresses flooded in through the door! And all had been dressed, he thought, surely alike? All in white, all in sashes alive in the light, blue bows bobbing in each head of curls; all dancing.

He peered round the window-frame again. With the air chilling, the window-glass was beginning to mist: safe enough, he would never be seen now.

He saw instantly what mistake he had made—this was after all no room full of girls, it was of course one child only, one child reflected in a dozen mirrors.

And now that one pretty little child, so small and alone among her dozen glittering shadows in so large-lit a hall of a room—the one little child approached on tiptoe the Christmas tree and gravely, beautifully, dropped a curtsy.

All alone she began to dance.

Lesseps watched charmed and fascinated through the pale mist beading the window. It was growing much colder with the sun down, it was dark now and he shivered out there among the dripping trees—but he only remembered feeling a sense of great gladness and warmth, that after all, in that huge lonely shuttered house, the old lady did have her secret friends. Who they might be, he hardly considered—the scene was so warm, friendly, well-lit, a picture of festive content.

Then, as he told us afterwards, a sense of uneasiness grew upon him. He could not say what it was, he tried to push it aside. He thought it was some previous association with the house. Or even his lowered spirits out there in the chill garden. But the feeling persisted, and he began to wonder: had it something to do with such a little girl all alone in so great a room? For as the minutes passed, no one came to be with her—and it began to seem that she, the little one, was the only life in that huge house. A dreaful notion came to him, which he put quickly aside—had the old lady died upstairs and was this child who had come to stay, simply, in her innocence thinking her grand-aunt asleep, dancing on with the fun?

For she never stopped dancing. To and fro, up to the great fireplace, down the polished wood to the mirrors, pirouetting, pointing a toe, weaving her arms into some pretty arabesque, greeting the image of herself in a dozen long mirrors—and always returning, for it was the most special place, to the Christmas tree.

Lesseps grew more aware—perhaps because it was the central point of her dancing—of that Christmas tree. It seemed in presence to become taller; and it held now a quiet imminence of movement, the feeling tall wardrobes have, standing so very still and forbidding, that they might at any moment move . . . He thought: Nonsense. This is only the uneasy memory of old Christmases, old toys, as garish toys can terrify: the nightmare quality of toys and trees that some children carry with them for ever. And of course, Lesseps concluded, I was such a child. Puppets, golliwogs, even the Happy Family cards, frightened me.

But he felt a sudden wish to get away, to get back behind that bank of wet laurels bathed in their high golden light.

He did the opposite.

He went straight forward and pressed his face against the window.

It was misting now beyond the brightness of the light. He thought he would never be seen. He was holding his breath to see.

But he was seen.

Almost instantly, the little girl, in the middle of a pirouette, stopped, stared into his eyes, screamed a hand up to her mouth, and fled back straight into that Christmas tree.

In a second her dress was blazing.

He had his boot off and was smashing through the glass. The draught of sudden air fanned the flame higher—but he got to her quickly and muffled her in his coat and rolled this poor little bundle on the floor. Then he picked her up and quietly held her in his arms.

She was not badly burned. But she was dead. She must have died of shock.

And then, Lesseps said, his voice was raised to cry for help, to hoarse his wretched stupid sickened heart out—but he never breathed a word . . . for only then did his eyes realize, slowly, the thin blue-veined leg in his hand, the gray-gold hair, the old enamelled face . . . and a mouth set now not in anguish but in sleeping peace,the shade of a smile of childhood dreams on her thin shrivelled lips.

The Doll’s House

Katherine Mansfield

When dear old Mrs. Hay went back to town after staying with the Burnells she sent the children a doll’s house. It was so big that the carter and Pat carried it into the courtyard, and there it stayed, propped up on two wooden boxes beside the feed-room door. No harm could come of it; it was summer. And perhaps the smell of paint would have gone off by the time it had to be take in. For, really, the smell of paint coming from that doll’s house (“Sweet of old Mrs. Hay, of course; most sweet and generous!”)—but the smell of paint was quite enough to make anyone seriously ill, in Aunt Beryl’s opinion. Even before the sacking was taken off. And when it was . . .

There stood the doll’s house, a dark, oily, spinach green, picked out with bright yellow. Its two solid little chimneys, glued on to the roof, were painted red and white, and the door, gleaming with yellow varnish, was like a little slab of toffee. Four windows, real windows, were divided into panes by a broad streak of green. There was actually a tiny porch, too, painted yellow, with big lumps of congealed paint hanging along the edge.

But perfect, perfect little house! Who could possibly mind the smell? It was part of the joy, part of the newness.

“Open it quickly, some one!”

The hook at the side was stuck fast. Pat pried it open with his penknife, and the whole house-front swung back, and—there you were, gazing at one and the same moment into the drawing-room and diningroom, the kitchen and two bedrooms. That is the way for a house to open! Why don’t all houses open like that? How much more exciting than peering through the slit of a door into a mean little hall with a hat-stand and two umbrellas! That is—isn’t it?—what you long to know about a house when you put your hand on the knocker. Perhaps it is the way God opens houses at dead of night when He is taking a quiet turn with an angel. . . .

“Oh-oh!” The Burnell children sound as though they were in despair. It was too marvellous; it was too much for them. They had never seen anything like it in their lives. All the rooms were papered. There were pictures on the walls, painted on the paper, with gold frames complete. Red carpet covered all the floors except the kitchen; red plush chairs in the drawing-room, green in the dining-room; tables, beds with real bedclothes, a cradle, a stove, a dresser with tiny plates and one big jug. But what Kezia liked more than anything, what she liked frightfully, was the lamp. It stood in the middle of the dining-room table, an exquisite little amber lamp with a white globe. It was even filled all ready for lighting, though, of course, you couldn’t light it. But there was something inside that looked like oil, and that moved when you shook it.

The father and mother dolls, who sprawled very stiff as though they had fainted in the drawing-room, and their two little children asleep upstairs, were really too big for the doll’s house. They didn’t look as though they belonged. But the lamp was perfect. It seemed to smile to Kezia, to say, “I live here.” The lamp was real.

The Burnell children could hardly walk to school fast enough the next morning. They burned to tell everybody, to describe, to—well—to boast about their doll’s house before the school bell rang.

“I’m to tell,” said Isabel, “because I’m the eldest. And you two can join in after. But I’m to tell first.”

There was nothing to answer. Isabel was bossy, but she was always right, and Lottie and Kezia knew too well the powers that went with being eldest. They brushed through the thick buttercups at the road edge and said nothing.

“And I’m to choose who’s to come and see it first. Mother said I might.”

For it had been arranged that while the doll’s house stood in the courtyard they might ask the girls at school, two at a time, to come and look. Not to stay to tea, of course, or to come traipsing through the house. But just stand quietly in the courtyard while Isabel pointed out the beauties, and Lottie and Kezia looked pleased. . . .

But hurry as they might, by the time they had reached the tarred palings of the boys’ playground the bell had begun to jangle. They only just had time to whip off their hats and fall into line before the roll was called. Never mind. Isabel tried to make up for it by looking very important and mysterious and by whispering behind her hand to the girls near her, “Got something to tell you at playtime.”

Playtime came and Isabel was surrounded. The girls of her class nearly fought to put their arms round her, to walk away with her, to beam flatteringly, to be her special friend. She held quite a court under the huge pine trees at the side of the playground. Nudging, giggling together, the little girls pressed up close. And the only two who stayed outside the ring were the two who were always outside, the little Kelveys. They knew better than to come anywhere near the Burnells.

For the fact was, the school the Burnell children went to was not at all the kind of place their parents would have chosen if there had been any choice. But there was none. It was the only school for miles. And the consequence was all the children in the neighborhood, the judge’s little girls, the doctor’s daughters, the store-keeper’s children, the milkman’s, were forced to mix together. Not to speak of there being an equal number of rude, rough little boys as well. But the line had to be drawn somewhere. It was drawn at the Kelveys. Many of the children, including the Burnells, were not allowed even to speak to them. They walked past the Kelveys with their heads in the air, and as they set the fashion in all matters of behaviour, the Kelveys were shunned by everybody. Even the teacher had a special voice for them, and a special smile for the other children when Lil Kelvey came up to her desk with a bunch of dreadfully common-looking flowers.

They were the daughters of a spry, hardworking little washerwoman, who went about from house to house by the day. This was awful enough. But where was Mr. Kelvey? Nobody knew for certain. But everybody said he was in prison. So they were the daughters of a washerwoman and a gaolbird. Very nice company for other people’s children! And they looked it. Why Mrs. Kelvey made them so conspicuous was hard to understand. The truth was they were dressed in “bits” given to her by the people for whom she worked. Lil, for instance, who was a stout, plain child, with big freckles, came to school in a dress made from a green artserge table-cloth of the Burnells’, with red plush sleeves from the Logans’curtains. Her hat, perched on top of her high forehead, was a grown-up woman’s hat, once the property of Miss Lecky, the postmistress. It was turned up at the back and trimmed with a large scarlet quill. What a little guy she looked! It was impossible not to laugh. And her little sister, our Else, wore a long white dress, rather like a nightgown, and a pair of little boy’s boots. But whatever our Else wore she would have looked strange. She was a tiny wishbone of a child, with cropped hair and enormous solemn eyes—a little white owl. Nobody had ever seen her smile; she scarcely ever spoke. She went through life holding on to Lil, with a piece of Lil’s skirt screwed up in her hand. Where Lil went our Else followed. In the playground, on the road going to and from school, there was Lil marching in front and our Else holding on behind. Only when she wanted anything, or when she was out of breath, our Else gave Lil a tug, a twitch, and Lil stopped and turned round. The Kelveys never failed to understand each other.

Now they hovered at the edge; you couldn’t stop them listening. When the little girls turned round and sneered, Lil, as usual, gave her silly, shamefaced smile, but our Else only looked.

And Isabel’s voice, so very proud, went on telling. The carpet made a great sensation, but so did the beds with real bedclothes, and the stove with an oven door.

When she finished Kezia broke in. “You’ve forgotten the lamp, Isabel.”

“Oh, yes,” said Isabel, “and there’s a teeny little lamp, all made of yellow glass, with a white globe, that stands on the dining-room table. You couldn’t tell it from a real one.”

“The lamp’s the best of all,” cried Kezia. She thought Isabel wasn’t making half enough of the little lamp. But nobody paid any attention. Isabel was choosing the two who were to come back with them that afternoon and see it. She chose Emmie Cole and Lena Logan. But when the others knew they were all to have a chance, they couldn’t be nice enough to Isabel. One by one they put their arms round Isabel’s waist and walked her off. They had something to whisper to her, a secret.“Isabel’s my friend.”

Only the little Kelveys moved away forgotten; there was nothing more for them to hear.

Days passed, and as more children saw the doll’s house, the fame of it spread. It became the one subject, the rage. The one question was, “Have you seen the Burnells’ doll’s house?” “Oh, ain’t it lovely!” “Haven’t you seen it? Oh, I say!”

Even the dinner hour was given up to talking about it. The little girls sat under the pines eating their thick mutton sandwiches and big slabs of johnny cake spread with butter. While always, as near as they could get, sat the Kelveys, our Else hoding on to Lil, listening too, while they chewed their jam sandwiches out of a newspaper soaked with large red blobs.

“Mother,” said Kezia, “can’t I ask the Kelveys just once?”

“Certainly not, Kezia.”

“But why not?”

“Run away, Kezia; you know quite well why not.”

At last everybody had seen it except them. On that day the subject rather flagged. It was the dinner hour. The children stood together under the pine trees, and suddenly, as they looked the Kelveys eating out of their paper, always by themselves, always listening, they wanted to be horrid to them. Emmie Cole started the whisper.

“Lil Kelvey’s going to be a servant when she grows up.”

“O-oh, how awful!” said Isabel Burnell, and she made eyes at Emmie.

Emmie swallowed in a very meaning way and nodded to Isabel as she’d seen her mother do on those occasions.

“It’s true—it’s true—it’s true,” she said.

Then Lena Logan’s little eyes snapped. “Shall I ask her?” she whispered.

“Bet you don’t,” said Jessie May.

“Pooh, I’m not frightened,” said Lena. Suddenly she gave a little squeal and danced in front of the other girls. “Watch! Watch me! Watch me now!” said Lena. And sliding, gliding, dragging one foot, giggling behind her hand, Lena went over to the Kelveys.

Lil looked up from her dinner. She wrapped the rest quickly away. Our Else stopped chewing. What was coming now?

“Is it true you’re going to be a servant when you grow up, Lil Kelvey?” shrilled Lena.

Dead silence. But instead of answering, Lil only gave her silly, shame-faced smile. She didn’t seemed to mind the question at all. What a sell for Lena! The girls began to titter.

Lena couldn’t stand that. She put her hands on her hips; she shot forward. “Yah, yer father’s in prison!” she hissed, spitefully.

This was such a marvellous thing to have said that the little girls rushed away in a body, deeply, deeply excited, wild with joy. Someone found a long rope, and they began skipping. And never did they skip so high, run in and out so fast, or do such daring things as on that morning.

In the afternoon Pat called for the Burnell children with the buggy and they drove home. There were visitors. Isabel and Lottie, who liked visitors, went upstairs to change their pinafores. But Kezia thieved out at the back. Nobody was about; she began to swing on the big white gates of the courtyard. Presently, looking along the road, she saw two little dots. They grew bigger, they were coming towards her. Now she could see that one was in front and one close behind. Now she could see that they were the Kelveys. Kezia stopped swinging. She slipped off the gate as if she was going to run away. Then she hesitated. The Kelveys came nearer, and beside walked their shadows, very long, stretching right across the road with their heads in the buttercups. Kezia clambered back on the gate; she had made up her mind; she swung out.

“Hullo,” she said to the passing Kelveys.

They were so astounded that they stopped. Lil gave her silly smile. Our Else stared.

“You can come and see our doll’s house if you want to,” said Kezia, and she dragged one toe on the ground. But at that Lil turned red and shook her head quickly.

“Why not?” asked Kezia.

Lil gasped, then she said, “Your ma told our ma you wasn’t to speak to us.”

“Oh, well,” said Kezia, she didn’t know what to reply. “It doesn’t matter, you can come and see our doll’s house all the same. Come on. Nobody’s looking.”

But Lil shook her heads still harder.

“Don’t want to?” asked Kezia.

Suddenly there was a twitch, a tug at Lil’s skirt. She turned round. Our Else was looking at her with big, imploring eyes; she was frowning; she wanted to go. For a moment Lil looked at our Else very doubtfully. But then our Else twitched her skirt again. She started forward. Kezia led the way. Like two little stray cats they followed across the courtyard to where the doll’s house stood.

“There it is,” said Kezia.

There was a pause. Lil breathed loudly, almost snorted; our Else was still as a stone.

“I’ll open it for you,” said Kezia kindly. She undid the hook and they looked inside.

“There’s the drawing-room and the dining-room, and that’s the—”

“Kezia!”

Oh, what a start they gave!

“Kezia!”

It was Aunt Beryl’s voice. They turned round. At the back door stood Aunt Beryl, staring as if she couldn’t believe what she saw.

“How dare you ask the little Kelveys into the courtyard?” said her cold,furious voice. “You know as well as I do you’re not allowed to talk to them. Run away, children, run away at once. And don’t come back again,” said Aunt Beryl. And she stepped into the yard and shooed them out as if they were chickens.

“Off you go immediately!” she called, cold and proud.

They did not need telling twice. Burning with shame, shrinking together, Lil huddling along like her mother, our Else dazed, somehow they crossed the big courtyard and squeezed through the white gate.

“Wicked, disobedient little girl!” said Aunt Beryl bitterly to Kezia, and she slammed the doll’s house to.

The afternoon had been awful. A letter had come from Willie Brent, a terrifying, threatening letter, saying if she did not meet him that evening in Pulman’s Bush, he’d come to the front door and ask the reason why! But now that she had frightened those little rats of Kelveys and given Kezia a good scolding, her heart felt lighter. That ghastly pressure was gone. She went back to the house humming.

When the Kelveys were well out of sight of Burnells’, they sat down to rest on a big red drain-pipe by the side of the road. Lil’s cheeks were still burning; she took off the hat with the quill and held it on her knee. Dreamily they looked over the hay paddocks, past the creek, to the group of wattles where Logan’s cows stood to be milked. What were their thoughts?

Presently our Else nudged up close to her sister. But now she had forgotten the cross lady. She put out a finger and stroked her sister’s quill; she smiled her rare smile.

“I seen the little lamp,” she said, softly.

Then both were silent once more.

Il Conde A Pathetic Tale

Joseph Conrad

"Vedi Napoli E Poi Mori."

The first time we got into conversation was in the National Museum in Naples, in the rooms on the ground floor containing the famous collection of bronzes from Herculaneum and Pompeii: that marvelous legacy of antique art whose delicate perfection has been preserved for us by the catastrophic fury of a volcano.

He addressed me first, over the celebrated Resting Hermes which we had been looking at side by side. He said the right things about that wholly admirable piece. Nothing profound. His taste was natural rather than cultivated. He had obviously seen many fine things in his life and appreciated them: but he had no jargon of a dilettante or the connoisseur. A hateful tribe. He spoke like a fairly intelligent man of the world, a perfectly unaffected gentleman.

We had known each other by sight for some few days past. Staying in the same hotel—good, but not extravagantly up-to-date—I had noticed him in the vestibule going in and out. I judged he was an old and valued client. The bow of the hotel keeper was cordial in its deference, and he acknowledged it with familiar courtesy. For the servants he was Il Conde. There was some squabble over a man's parasol—yellow silk with white lining sort of thing—the waiters had discovered abandoned outside the dining-room door. Our gold-laced doorkeeper recognized it and I heard him directing one of the lift boys to run after Il Conde with it. Perhaps he was the only Count staying in the hotel, or perhaps he had the distinction of being the Count par excellence, conferred upon him because of his tried fidelity to the house.

Having conversed at the Museo—(and by the by he had expressed his dislike of the busts and statues of Roman emperors in the gallery of marbles: their faces were too vigorous, too pronounced for him)—having conversed already in the morning I did not think I was intruding when in the evening, finding the dining room very full, I proposed to share his little table. Judging by his quiet urbanity of his consent he did not think so either. His smile was very attractive.

He dined in an evening waistcoat and a "smoking" (he called it so) with a black tie. All this of very good cut, not new—just as those things should be. He was, morning or evening, very correct in his dress. I have no doubt that his whole existence had been correct, well ordered and conventional, undisturbed by startling events. His white hair brushed upwards off a lofty forehead gave him the air of an idealist, of an imaginative man. His white mustache, heavy but carefully trimmed and arranged, was not unpleasantly tinted a golden yellow in the middle. The faint scent of some very good perfume, and of good cigars (that last an ordor quite remarkable to come upon in Italy) reached me across the table. It was in his eyes that his age showed most. They were a little weary with creased eyelids. He must have been sixty or a couple of years more. And he was communicative. I would not go so far as to call it garrulous—but distinctly communicative.

He had tried various climates, of Abbazia, of the Riviera, of other places, too, he told me, but the only one which suited him was the climate of the Gulf of Naples. The ancient Romans, who, he pointed out to me, were men expert in the art of living, knew very well what they were doing when they built their villas on these shores, in Baiae, in Vico, in Capri. They came down to this seaside in search of health, bringing with them their trains of mimes and flute players to amuse their leisure. He thought it extremely probable that the Romans of the higher classes were specially predisposed to painful rheumatic affections.

This was the only personal opinion I heard him express. It was based on no special erudition. He knew no more of the Romans than an average informed man of the world is expected to know. He argued from personal experience. He had suffered himself from a painful and dangerous rheumatic affection till he found relief in this particular spot of southern Europe.

This was three years ago, and ever since he had taken up his quarters on the shores of the gulf, either in one of the hotels on Sorrento or hiring a small villa in Capri. He had a piano, a few books: picked up transient acquaintances of a day, week, or month in the stream of travelers from all Europe. One can imagine him going out for his walks in the streets and lanes, becoming known to beggars, shopkeepers, children, country people; talking amiably over the walls to the contadini—and coming back to his rooms or his villa to sit before the piano, with his white hair brushed up on his thick orderly mustache "to make a little music for myself." And, of course, for a change there was Naples near by—life, movement, animation, opera. A little amusement, as he said, is necessary for health. Mimes and flute players, in fact. Only unlike the magnates of ancient Rome, he had no affairs of the city to call him away from these moderate delights. He had no affairs at all. Probably he had never had any grave affairs to attend to in his life. It was a kindly existence, with its joys and sorrows regulated by the course of Nature—marriages, births, deaths—ruled by the prescribed usages of good society and protected by the State.

He was a widower; but in the months of July and August he ventured to cross the Alps for six weeks on a visit to his married daughter. He told me her name. It was that of a very aristocratic family. She had a castle—in Bohemia, I think. This is as near as I ever came to ascertaining he nationality. His own name, strangely enough, he never mentioned. Perhaps he thought I had seen it on the published list. Truth to say, I never looked. At any rate, he was a good European—he spoke four languages to my certain knowledge—and a man of fortune. Not of great fortune, evidently and appropriately. I imagine that to be extremely rich would have appeared to him improper, outré—too blatant altogether. And obviously, too, the fortune was not of his making. The making of a fortune cannot be achieved without some roughness. It is a matter of temperament. His nature was too kindly for strife. In the course of conversation he mentioned his estate quite by the way, in reference to that painful and alarming rheumatic affection. One year, staying incautiously beyond the Alps as late as the middle of September, he had been laid up for three months in that lonely country house with no one but his valet and the caretaking couple to attend to him. Because, as he expressed it, he "kept no establishment there." He had only gone for a couple of days to confer with his land agent. He promised himself never to be so imprudent in the future. The first weeks of September would find him on the shores of his beloved gulf.

Sometimes in traveling one comes upon such lonely men, whose only business is to wait for the unavoidable. Deaths and marriages have made a solitude round them, and one really cannot blame their endeavors to make the waiting as easy as possible. As he remarked to me, "At my time of life freedom from physical pain is a very important matter."

It must notv be imagined that he was a wearisome hypochondriac. He was really much too well bred to be a nuisance. He had an eye for the small weaknesses of humanity. But it was a good-natured eye. He made a restful, easy, pleasant companion for the hours between dinner and bedtime. We spent three evenings together, and then I had to leave Naples in a hurry to look after a friend who had fallen seriously ill in Taormina. Having nothing to do, Il Conde came to see me off at the station. I was somewhat upset, and his idleness was always ready to take a kindly form. He was by no means an indolent man.

He went along the train peering into the carriages for a good seat for me, and then remained talking cheerily from below. He declared he would miss me that evening very much and announced his intention of going after dinner to listen to the band in the public garden, the Villa Nazionale. He would amuse himself by hearing excellent music and looking at the best society. There would be a lot of people, as usual.

I seem to see him yet—his raised face with a friendly smile under the thick mustaches, and his kind, fatigued eyes. As the train began to move, he addressed me in two languages: first in French, saying "Bon voyage"; then, in his very good, somewhat emphatic English, encouragingly, because he could see my concern: "All will—be—well—yet!"

My friend's illness having taken a decidedly favorable turn, I returned to Naples on the tenth day. I cannot say I had given much thought to Il Conde during my absence, but entering the dining room I looked for him in his habitual place. I had an idea he might have gone back to Sorrento to his piano and his books and his fishing. He was great friends with all the boatmen, and fished a good deal with lines from a boat. But I made out his white head in the crowd of heads, and even from a distance noticed something unusual in his attitude. Instead of sitting erect, gazing all round with alert urbanity, he drooped over his plate. I stood opposite him for some time before he looked up, a little wildly, if such a strong word can be used in connection with his correct appearance.

"Ah, my dear sir! Is it you?" he greeted me. "I hope all is well."

He was very nice about my friend. Indeed, he was always nice, with the niceness of people whose hearts are genuinely humane. But this time it cost him an effort. His attempts at general conversation broke down into dullness. It occurred to me he might have been indisposed. But before I could frame the inquiry he muttered:

"You find me here very sad."

"I am sorry for that," I said. "You haven't had bad news, I hope?"

It was very kind of me to take an interest. No. It was not that. No bad news, thank God. And he became very still as if holding his breath. Then, leaning forward a little, and in an odd tone of awed embarrassment, he took me into his confidence.

"The truth is that I have had a very—a very—how shall I say?— abominable adventure happen to me."

The energy of the epithet was sufficiently startling in that man of moderate feelings and toned-down vocabulary. The word unpleasant I should have thought would have fitted amply the worst experience likely to befall a man of his stamp. And an adventure, too. Incredible! But it is in human nature to believe the worst; and I confess I eyed him stealthily, wondering what he had been up to. In a moment, however, my unworthy suspicions vanished. There was a fundamental refinement of nature about the man which made me dismiss all idea of some more or less disreputable scrape.

"It is very serious, very serious," he went on, nervously. "I will tell you after dinner, if you will allow me."

I expressed my perfect acquiescence by a little bow, nothing more. I wished him to understand that I was not likely to hold him to that offer, if he thought better of it later on. We talked of indifferent things, but with a sense of difficulty quite unlike our former easy, gossipy intercourse. The hand raising a piece of bread to his lips, I noticed, trembled slightly. This symptom, in regard to my reading of the man, was no less than startling.

In the smoking room he did not hang back at all. Directly we had taken our usual seats he leaned sideways over the arm of his chair and looked straight into my eyes earnestly.

"You remember," he began, "that day you went away? I told you then I would go to the Villa Nazionale to hear some music in the evening."

I remembered. His handsome old face, so fresh for his age, unmarked by any trying experience, appeared haggard for an instant. It was like the passing of a shadow. Returning his steadfast gaze, I took a sip of my black coffee. He was systematically minute in his narrative, simply in order, I think, not to let his excitement get the better of him.

After leaving the railway station, he had an ice and read the paper in a café. Then he went back to the hotel, dressed for dinner, and dined with a good appetite. After dinner he lingered in the hall (there were chairs and tables there) smoking his cigar; talked to the little girl of the Primo Tenore of the San Carlo theatre, and exchanged a few words with that"amiable lady," the wife of the Primo Tenore. There was no performance that evening, and these people were going to the Villa also. They went out of the hotel. Very well.

At the moment of following their example—it was half-past nine already—he remembered he had a rather large sum of money in his pocketbook. He entered, therefore, the office and deposited the greater part of it with the bookkeeper of the hotel. This done, he took a carozella and drove to the seashore. He got out of the cab and entered the villa on foot from the Largo di Vittoria end.

He stared at me very hard. And I understood then how really impressionable he was. Every small fact and event of that evening stood out in his memory as if endowed with mystic significance. If he did not mention to me the color of the pony which drew the carozella, and the aspect of the man who drove, it was a mere oversight arising from his agitation, which he repressed manfully.

He had then entered the Villa Nazionale from the Largo di Vittoria end. The Villa Nazionale is a public pleasure-ground laid out in grass plots, bushes, and flowerbeds between the houses of the Riviera di Chiaja and the waters of the bay. Alleys of trees, more or less parallel, stretch its whole length—which is considerable. On the Riviera di Chiaja side the electric tramcars run close to the railings. Between the garden and the sea is the fashionable drive, a broad road bordered by a low wall, beyond which the Mediterranean splashes with gentle murmurs when the weather is fine.

As life goes on late at night in Naples, the broad drive was all astir with a brilliant swarm of carriage lamps moving in pairs, some creeping slowly, others running rapidly under the thin, motionless line of electric lamps defining the shore. And a brilliant swarm of stars hung above the land humming with voices, piled up with houses, glittering with lights—and over the silent flat shadows of the sea.

The gardens themselves are not very well lit. Our friend went forward in the warm gloom, his eyes fixed upon a distant luminous region extending nearly across the whole width of the Villa, as if the air had glowed there with its own cold, bluish, and dazzling light. This magic spot, behind the black trunks of trees and masses of inky foliage, breathed out sweet sounds mingled with bursts of brassy roar, sudden clashes of metal, and grave, vibrating thuds.

As he walked on, all these noises combined together into a piece of elaborate music whose harmonious phrases came persuasively through a great disorderly murmur of voices and shuffling of feet on the gravel of that open space. An enormous crowd immersed in the electric light, as if in a bath of some radiant and tenuous fluid shed upon their heads by luminous globes, drifted in its hundreds round the band. Hundreds more sat on chairs in more or less concentric circles, receiving unflinchingly the great waves of sonority that ebbed out into the darkness. The Count penetrated the throng, drifted with it in tranquil enjoyment, listening and looking at the faces. All people of good society: mothers with their daughters, parents and children, young men and young women all talking, smiling, nodding to each other. Very many pretty faces, and very many pretty toilettes. There was, of course, a quantity of diverse types: showy old fellows with white mustaches, fat men, thin men, officers in uniforms; but what predominated, he told me, was the South Italian type of young man, with a colorless, clear complexion, red lips, jet-black little mustache and liquid black eyes so wonderfully effective in leering or scowling.

Withdrawing from the throng, the Count shared a little table in front of the café with a young man of just such a type. Our friend had some lemonade. The young man was sitting moodily before an empty glass. He looked up once, and then looked down again. He also tilted his hat forward. Like this—

The Count made the gesture of a man pulling his hat down over his brow, and went on:

"I think to myself: he is sad; something is wrong with him; young men have their troubles. I take no notice of him, of course. I pay for my lemonade, and go away."

Strolling about in the neighborhood of the band, the Count thinks he saw twice that young man wandering alone in the crowd. Once their eyes met. It must have been the same young man, but there were so many there of that type that he could not be certain. Moreover, he was not very much concerned except in so far that he had been struck by the marked, peevish discontent of that face.

Presently, tired of the feeling of confinement one experiences in a crowd, the Count edged away from the band. An alley, very somber by contrast, presented itself invitingly with its promise of solitude and coolness. He entered it, walking slowly on till the sound of the orchestra became distinctly deadened. Then he walked back and turned about once more. He did this several times before he noticed that there was somebody occupying one of the benches.

The spot being midway between two lampposts, the light was faint.

The man lolled back in the corner of the seat, his legs stretched out, his arms folded and his head drooping on his breast. He never stirred, as though he had fallen asleep there, but when the Count passed by next time he had changed his attitude. He sat leaning forward. His elbows were propped on his knees, and his hands were rolling a cigarette. He never looked up from that occupation.

The Count continued his stroll away from the band. He returned slowly, he said. I can imagine him enjoying to the full, but with his usual tranquillity, the balminess of this southern night and the sounds of music softened delightfully by the distance.

Presently, he approached for the third time the man on the garden seat, still leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. It was a dejected pose. In the semi-obscurity of the alley his high shirt collar and his cuffs made small patches of vivid whiteness. The Count said that he had noticed him getting up brusquely as if to walk away, but almost before he was aware of it the man stood before him asking in a low, gentle tone whether the signore would have the kindness to oblige him with a light.

The Count answered this request by a polite "certainly," and dropped his hands with the intention of exploring both pockets of his trousers for the matches.

"I dropped my hands," he said, "but I never put them in my pockets. I felt a pressure there—"

He put the tip of his finger on a spot close under his breastbone, the very spot of the human body where a Japanese gentleman begins the operations of the hara-kiri, which is a form of suicide following upon dishonor, upon an intolerable outrage to the delicacy of one's feelings.

"I glance down," the Count continued in an awestruck voice, "and what do I see? A knife! A long knife—"

"You don't mean to say," I exclaimed, amazed, "that you have been held up like this in the Villa at half-past ten o'clock, within a stone's throw of a thousand people!"

He nodded several times, staring at me with all his might.

"The clarionet," he declared solemnly, "was finishing his solo, and I assured you I could hear every note. Then the band crashed fortissimo, and that creature rolled its eyes and gnashed its teeth hissing at me with the greatest ferocity, 'Be silent! No noise or—'"

I could not get over my astonishment.

"What sort of knife was it?" I asked stupidly.

"A long blade. A stiletto—perhaps a kitchen knife. A long narrow blade. It gleamed. And his eyes gleamed. His white teeth, too. I could see them. He was very ferocious. I thought to myself: 'If I hit him he will kill me.' How could I fight with him? He had the knife and I had nothing. I am nearly seventy, you know, and that was a young man. I seemed even to recognize him. The moody young man at the café. The young man I met in the crowd. But I could not tell. There are so many like him in this country."

This distress of that moment was reflected in his face. I should think that physically he must have been paralyzed by surprise. His thoughts, however, remained extremely active. They ranged over every alarming possibility. The idea of setting up a vigorous shouting for help accurred to him, too. But he did nothing of the kind, and the reason why he refrained bave me a good opinion of his mental self-possession. He saw in a flash that nothing prevented the other from shouting, too.

"That young man might in an instant have thrown away his knife and pretended I was the aggressor. Why not? He might have said I attacked him. Why not? It was one incredible story against another! He might have said anything—bring some dishonoring charge against me—what do I know? By his dress he was no common robber. He seemed to belong to the better classes. What could I say? He was an Italian—I am a foreigner. Of course, I have my passport, and there is our consul—but to be arrested, dragged at night to the police office like a criminal!"

He shuddered. It was in his character to shrink from scandal, much more than from mere death. And certainly for many people this would have always remained—considering certain peculiarities of Neapolitan manners—a deucedly queer story. The Count was no fool. His belief in respectable placidity of life having received this rude shock, he thought that now anything might happen. But also a notion came into his head that this young man was perhaps merely an infuriated lunatic.

This was for me the first hint of his attitude toward this adventure. In his exaggerated delicacy of sentiment he felt that nobody's self-esteem need be affected by what a madman may choose to do to one. It became apparent, however, that the Count was to be denied that consolation. He enlarged upon the abominably savage way in which that young man rolled his glistening eyes and gnashed his white teeth. The band was going now through a slow movement of solemn braying by all the trombones, with deliberately repeated bangs of the big drum.

"Nothing," answered the Count. "I let my hands hang down very still. I told him quietly I did not intend making a noise. He snarled like a dog, then said in an ordinary voice:

"'Vostro portofolio.'"

"So I naturally," continued the Count—and from this point acted the whole thing in pantomime. Holding me with his eyes, he went through all the motions of reaching into his inside breast pocket, taking out a pocketbook, and handing it over. But that young man, still bearing steadily on the knife, refused to touch it.

He directed the Count to take the money out himself, received it into his left hand, motioned the pocketbook to be returned to the pocket, all this being done to the sweet trilling of flutes and clarionets sustained by the emotional drone of the hautboys. And the "young man," as the Count called him, said: "This seems very little."

"It was, indeed, only 340 or 360 lire," the Count pursued. "I had left my money in the hotel, as you know. I told him this was all I had on me. He shook his heads impatiently and said:

"'Vostro orologio.'"

The Count gave me the dumb show of pulling out his watch, detaching it. But, as it happened, the valuable gold half-chronometer he possessed had been left at a watchmaker's for cleaning. He wore that evening (on a leather guard) the Waterbury fifty-franc thing he used to take with him on his fishing expeditions. Perceiving the nature of this booty, the well-dressed robber made a contemptuous clicking sound with his tongue like this, "Tse-Ah!" and waved it away hastily. Then, as the Count was returning the disdained object to his pocket, he demanded with a threateningly increased pressure of the knife on the epigastrium, by way of reminder:

"'Vostri anelli.'"

"One of the rings," went on the Count, "was given me many years ago by my wife; the other is the signet ring of my father. I said, 'No. That you shall not have.'"

Here the Count reproduced the gesture corresponding to that declaration by clapping one hand upon the other, and pressing both thus against his chest. It was touching in its resignation. "That you shall not have," he repeated firmly, and closed his eyes, fully expecting—I don't know whether I am right in recording that such an unpleasant word had passed his lips—fully expecting to feel himself being—I really hesitate to say—being disembowelled by the push of the long, sharp blade resting murderously against the pit of his stomach—the very seat, in all human beings, of anguishing sensations.

Great waves of harmony went on flowing from the band.

Suddenly the Count felt the nightmarish pressure removed from the sensitive spot. He opened his eyes. He was alone. He had heard nothing. It is probable that "the young man" had departed, with light steps, some time before, but the sense of the horrid pressure had lingered even after the knife had gone. A feeling of weakness came over him. He had just time to stagger to the garden seat. He felt as though he had held his breath for a long time. He sat all in a heap, panting with the shock of the reaction.

The band was executing, with immense bravura, the complicated finale. It ended with a tremendous crash. He heard it unreal and remote, as if his ears had been stopped, and then the hard clapping of a thousand, more or less, pairs of hands , like a sudden hail-shower passing away. The profound silence which succeeded recalled him to himself.

A tramcar resembling a long glass box, wherein people sat with their heads strongly lighted, ran along swiftly within sixty yards of the spot where he had been robbed. Then another rustled by, and yet another going the other way. The audience about the band had broken up, and were entering the alley in small conversing groups. The Count sat up straight and tried to think calmly of what had happened to him. The vileness of it took his breath away again. As far as I can make it out he was disgusted with himself. I do not mean to say with his behavior. Indeed, if his pantomimic rendering of it for my information was to be trusted, it was simply perfect. No, it was not that. He was not ashamed. He was shocked at being the selected victim, not of robbery so much as of contempt. His tranquillity had been wantonly desecrated. His lifelong, kindly nicety of outlook had been defaced.

Nevertheless, at that stage, before the iron had time to sink deep, he was able to argue himself into comparative equanimity. As his agitation calmed down somewhat, he became aware that he was frightfully hungry. Yes, humgry. The sheer emotion had made him simply ravenous. He left the seat and, after walking for some time, found himself outside the gardens and before an arrested tramcar, without knowing very well how he came there. He got in as if in a dream, by a sort of instinct. Fortunately he found in his trouser pocket a copper to satisfy the conductor. Then the car stopped, and as everybody was getting out he got out, too. He recognized the Piazza San Ferdinando, but apparently it did not occur to him to take a cab and drive to the hotel. He remained in distress on the Piazza like a lost dog, thinking vaguely of the best way of getting something to eat at once.

Suddenly he remembered his twenty-franc piece. He explained to me that he had that piece of French gold for something like three years. He used to carry it about with him as a sort of reserve in case of accident. Anybody is liable to have his pocket picked—a quite different thing from a brazen and insulting robbery.

The monumental arch of the Galleria Umberto faced him at the top of a noble flight of stairs. He climbed these without loss of time, and directed his steps toward the Café Umberto. All the tables outside were occupied by lot of people who were drinking. But as he wanted somthing to eat, he went inside into the café, which is divided into aisles by square pillars set all round with long looking glasses. The Count sat down on a red plush bench against one of these pillars, waiting for his risotto. And his mind reverted to his abominable adventure.

He thought of the moody, well-dressed young man with whom he had exchanged glances in the crowd around the bandstand, and who, he felt confident, was the robber. Would he recognize him again? Doubtless. But he did not want ever to see him again. The best thing was to forget this humiliating episode.

The Count looked round anxiously for the coming of his risotto, and, behold! to the left against the wall—there sat the young man. He was alone at a table, with a bottle of some sort of wine or syrup and a carafe of iced water before him. The smooth olive cheeks, the red lips, the little jet-black mustache turned up gallantly, the fine black eyes a little heavy and shaded by long eyelashes, that peculiar expression of cruel discontent to be seen only in the busts of some Roman emperors—it was he, no doubt at all. But that was a type. The Count looked away hastily. The young officer over there reading a paper was like that, too. Same type. Two young men farther away playing draughts also resembled—

The Count lowered his head with the fear in his heart of being everlastingly haunted by the vision of that young man. He began to eat his risotto. Presently he heard the young man on his left call the waiter in a bad-tempered tone.

At the call, not only his own waiter, but two other idle waiters belonging to a quite different row of tables, rushed toward him with obsequious alacrity, which is not the general characteristic of the waiters in the Café Umberto. The young man muttered something and one of the waiters walking rapidly to the nearest door called out into the Galleria:"Pasquale! O! Pasquale!"

Everybody knows Pasquale, the shabby old fellow who, shuffling between the tables, offers for sale cigars, cigarettes, picture postcards, and matches to the clients of the café. He is in many respects an engaging scoundrel. The Count saw the gray-haired, unshaven ruffian enter the café, the glass case hanging from his neck by a leather strap, and, at a word from the waiter, make his shuffling way with a sudden spurt to the young man's table. The young man was in need of a cigar with which Pasquale served him fawningly. The old peddler was going out, when the Count, on a sudden impulse, beckoned to him.

Pasquale approached, the smile of deferential recognition combining oddly with the cynical searching expression of his eyes. Leaning his case on the table, he lifted the glass lid without a word. The Count took a box of cigarettes and, urged by a fearful curiosity, asked as casually as he could:

"Tell me, Pasquale, who is that young signor sitting over there?"

The other bent over his box confidentially.

"That, Signor Conde," he said, beginning to rearrange his wares busily and without looking up, "that is a young Cavaliere of a very good family from Bari. He studies in the University here, and is the chief, capo, of an association of young men—of very nice young men."

He paused, and then, with mingled discretion and pride of knowledge, murmured the explanatory word "Camorra" and shut down the lid. "A very powerful Camorra," he breathed out. "The professors themselves respect it greatly . . . una lira e cinquanti centesimi, Signor Conde."

Our friend paid with the gold piece. While Pasquale was making up the change, he observed that the young man, of whom he had heard so much in a few words, was watching the transaction covertly. After the old vagabond had withdrawn with a bow, the Count settled with the waiter and sat still. A numbness, he told me, had come over him.

The young man paid, too, got up, and crossed over, apparently for the purpose of looking at himself in the mirror set in the pillar nearest to the Count's seat. He was dressed all in black with a dark green bow tie. The Count looked round, and was startled by meeting a vicious glance out of the corners of the other's eyes. The young Cavaliere from Bari(according to Pasquale; but Pasquale is, of course, an accomplished liar) went on arranging his tie, settling his hat before the glass, and meantime he spoke just loud enough to be heard by the Count. He spoke through his teeth with the most insulting venom of contempt and gazing straight into the mirror.

"Ah! So you had some gold on you—you old liar—you old birba—you furfante! But you are not done with me yet."

The fiendishness of his expression vanished like lightning, and he lounged out of the café with a moody, impassive face.

The poor Count, after telling me this last episode, fell back trembling in his chair. His forehead broke into perspiration. There was a wanton insolence in the spirit of this outrage which appalled even me. What it was to the Count's delicacy I won't attempt to guess. I am sure that if he had been not too refined to do such a blatantly vulgar thing as dying from apoplexy in a café, he would have had a fatal stroke there and then. All irony apart, my difficulty was to keep him from seeing the full extent of my commiseration. He shrank from every excessive sentiment, and my commiseration was practically unbounded. It did not surprise me to hear that he had been in bed a week. He had got up to make his arrangements for leaving Southern Italy for good and all..

And the man was convinced that he could not live through a whole year in any other climate!

No argument of mine had any effect. It was not timidity, though he did say to me once: "You do not know what a Camorra is, my dear sir. I am a marked man." He was not afraid of what could be done to him. His delicate conception of his dignity was defiled by a degrading experience. He couldn't stand that. No Japanese gentleman, outraged in his exaggerated sense of honor, could have gone about his preparations for hara-kiri with greater resolution. To go home really amounted to suicide for the poor Count.

There is a saying of Neapolitan patriotism, intended for the information of foreigners, I presume: "See Naples and then die"—Vedi Napoli e poi mori. It is a saying of excessive vanity, and everything excessive was abhorrent to the nice moderation of the poor Count. Yet, as I was seeing him off at the railway station, I thought he was behaving with singular fidelity to its conceited spirit. Vedi Napoli! . . . He had seen it! He had seen it with startling thoroughness—and now he was going to his grave. He was going to it by the train de luxe of the International Sleeping Car Company, "via" Trieste and Vienna. As the four long, somber coaches pulled out of the station I raised my hat with the solemn feeling of paying the last tribute of respect to a funeral cortège. Il Conde's profile, behind the lighted pane of glass—Vedi Napoli e poi mori!

A Cup of Tea

Katherine Mansfield

Rosemary Fell was not exactly beautiful. No, you couldn't have called her beautiful. Pretty? Well, if you took her to pieces . . . But why be so cruel as to take anyone to pieces? She was young, brilliant, extremely modern, exquisitely well dressed, amazingly well read in the newest of the new books, and her parties were the most delicious mixture of the really important people and . . . artists—quaint creatures, discoveries of hers, some of them too terrifying for words, but others quite presentable and amusing.

Rosemary had been married two years. She had a duck of a boy. No, not Peter—Michael. And her husband absolutely adored her. They were rich, really rich, not just comfortably well off, which is odious and stuffy and sounds like one's grandparents. But if Rosemary wanted to shop she would go to Paris as you and I would go to Bond Street. If she wanted to buy flowers, the car pulled up at that perfect shop in Regent Street, and Rosemary inside the shop just gazed in her dazzled, rather exotic way, and said: "I want those and those and those. Give me four bunches of those. And that jar of roses. Yes, I'll have all the roses in the jar. No, no lilac. I hate lilac. It's got no shape." The attendant bowed and put the lilac out of sight, as though this was only too true; lilac was dreadfully shapeless. "Give me those stumpy little tulips. Those red and white ones." And she was followed to the car by a thin shopgirl staggering under an immense white paper armful that looked like a baby in long clothes. . . .

One winter afternoon she had been buying something in a little antique shop in Curzon Street. It was a shop she liked. For one thing, one usually had it to oneself. And then the man who kept it was ridiculously fond of serving her. He beamed whenever she came in. He clasped his hands; he was so gratified he could scarcely speak. Flattery, of course. All the same, there was something . . .

"You see, madam," he would explain in his low respectful tones,"I love my things. I would rather not part with them than sell them to someone who does not appreciate them, who has not that fine feeling which is so rare. . . ." And, breathing deeply, he unrolled a tiny square of blue velvet and pressed it on the glass counter with his pale fingertips.

Today it was a little box. He had been keeping it for her. He had shown it to nobody as yet. An exquisite little enamel box with a glaze so fine it looked as though it had been baked in cream. On the lid a minute creature stood under a flowery tree, and a more minute creature still had her arms around his neck. Her hat, really no bigger than a geranium petal, hung from a branch; it had green ribbons. And there was a pink cloud like a watchful cherub floating above their heads. Rosemary took her hands out of her long gloves. She always took off her gloves to examine such things. Yes, she liked it very much. She loved it; it was a great duck. She must have it. And, turning the creamy box, opening and shutting it, she couldn't help noticing how charming her hands were against the blue velvet. The shopman, in some dim cavern of his mind, may have dared to think so too. For he took a pencil, leaned over the counter, and his pale bloodless fingers crept timidly towards those rosy, flashing ones, as he murmured gently: "If I may venture to point out to madam, the flowers on the little lady's bodice."

"Charming!" Rosemary admired the flowers. But what was the price? For a moment the shopman did not seem to hear. Then a murmur reached her. "Twenty-eight guineas, madam."

"Twenty-eight guineas." Rosemary gave no sign. She laid the little box down; she buttoned her gloves again. Twenty-eight guineas. Even if one is rich . . . She looked vague. She stared at a plump tea-kettle like a plump hen above the shopman's head, and her voice was dreamy as she answered: "Well, keep it for me—will you? I'll . . ."

But the shopman had already bowed as though keeping it for her was all any human being could ask. He would be willing, of course, to keep it for her forever.

The discreet door shut with a click. She was outside on the step, gazing at the winter afternoon. Rain was falling, and with the rain it seemed the dark came too, spinning down like ashes. There was a cold bitter taste in the air, and the new-lighted lamps looked sad. Sad were the lights in the houses opposite. Dimly they burned as if regretting something. And people hurried by, hidden under their hateful umbrellas. Rosemary felt a strange pang. She pressed her muff to her breast; she wished she had the little box, too, to cling to. Of course, the car was there. She'd only to cross the pavement. But still she waited. There are moments, horrible moments in life, when one emerges from shelter and looks out, and it's awful. One oughtn't give way to them. One ought to go home and have an extraspecial tea. But at the very instant of thinking that, a young girl, thin, dark, shadowy—where had she come from?—was standing at Rosemary's elbow and a voice like a sigh, almost like a sob, breathed:"Madam, may I speak to you a moment?"

"Speak to me?" Rosemary turned. She saw a little battered creature with enormous eyes, someone quite young, no older than herself, who clutched at her coat collar with reddened hands and shivered as though she had just come out of the water.

"M-madam," stammered the voice, "would you let me have the price of a cup of tea?"

"A cup of tea?" There was something simple, sincere in that voice; it wasn't in the least the voice of a beggar. "Then have you no money at all?" asked Rosemary.

"None, madam," came the answer.

"How extraordinary!" Rosemary peered through the dusk, and the girl gazed back at her. How more than extraordinary! And suddenly it seemed to Rosemary such an adventure. It was like something out of a novel by Dostoevsky, this meeting in the dusk. Supposing she took the girl home? Supposing she did do one of those things she was always reading about or seeing on the stage, what would happen? It would be thrilling. And she heard herself saying afterwards to the amazement of her friends: "I simply took her home with me," as she stepped forward and said to that dim person beside her: "Come home to tea with me."

The girl drew back startled. She even stopped shivering for a moment. Rosemary put out a hand and touched her arm. "I mean it," she said, smiling. And she felt how simple and kind her smile was. "Why won't you? Do. Come home with me now in my car and have tea."

"You—you don't mean it, madam," said the girl, and there was pain in her voice.

"But I do," cried Rosemary. "I want you to. To please me. Come along."

The girl put her fingers to her lips and her eyes devoured Rosemary."You're—you're not taking me to the police station?" she stammered.

"The police station!" Rosemary laughed out. "Why should I be so cruel? No, I only want to make you warm and to hear—anything you care to tell me."

Hungry people are easily led. The footman held the door of the car open, and a moment later they were skimming through the dusk.

"There!" said Rosemary. She had a feeling of triumph as she slipped her hand through the velvet strap. She could have said, "Now I've got you," as she gazed at the little captive she had netted. But of couse she meant it kindly. Oh, more than kindly. She was going to prove to this girl that—wonderful things did happen in life, that—fairy godmothers were real, that—rich people had hearts, and that women were sisters. She turned impulsively, saying: "Don't be frightened. After all, why shouldn't you come back with me? We're both women. If I'm the more fortunate, you ought to expect . . . "

But happily at that moment, for she didn't know how the sentence was going to end, the car stopped. The bell was rung, the door opened, and with a charming, protecting, almost embracing movement, Rosemary drew the other into the hall. Warmth, softness, light, a sweet scent, all those things so familiar to her she never even thought about them, she watched that other receive. It was fascinating. She was like the little rich girl in her nursery with all the cupboards to open, all the boxes to unpack.

"Come, come upstairs," said Rosemary, longing to begin to be generous. "Come up to my room." And, besides, she wanted to spare this poor little thing from being stared at by the servants; she decided as they mounted the stairs she would not even ring for Jeanne, but take off her things by herself. The great thing was to be natural!

And "There!" cried Rosemary again, as they reached her beautiful big bedroom with the curtains drawn, the fire leaping on her wonderful lacquer furniture, her gold cushions and the primrose and blue rugs.

The girl stood just inside the door; she seemed dazed. But Rosemary didn't mind that.

"Come and sit down," she cried, dragging her big chair up to the fire,"in this comfy chair. Come and get warm. You look so dreadfully cold."

"I daren't, madam," said the girl, and she edged backwards.

"Oh, please"—Rosemary ran forward—"you mustn't be frightened, you mustn't, really. Sit down, and when I've taken off my things we shall go into the next room and have tea and be cozy. Why are you afraid?" And gently she half pushed the thin figure into its deep cradle.

But there was no answer. The girl stayed just as she had been put, with her hands by her sides and her mouth slightly open. To be quite sincere, she looked rather stupid. But Rosemary wouldn't acknowledge it. She leaned over her, saying: "Won't you take off your hat? Your pretty hair is all wet. And one is so much more comfortable without a hat, isn't one?"

There was a whisper that sounded like "Very good, madam," and the crushed hat was taken off.

"Let me help you off with your coat, too," said Rosemary.

The girl stood up. But she held on to the chair with one hand and let Rosemary pull. It was quite an effort. The other scarcely helped her at all. She seemed to stagger like a child, and the thought came and went through Rosemary's mind that if people wanted helping they must respond a little, just a little, otherwise it became very difficult indeed. And what was she to do with the coat now? She left it on the floor, and the hat too. She was just going to take a cigarette off the mantelpiece when the girl said quickly, but so lightly and strangely: "I'm very sorry, madam, but I'm going to faint. I shall go off, madam, if I don't have something."

"Good heavens, how thoughtless I am!" Rosemary rushed to the bell.

"Tea! Tea at once! And some brandy immediately!"

The maid was gone again, but the girl almost cried out. "No, I don't want no brandy. I never drink brandy. It's a cup of tea I want, madam." And she burst into tears.

It was a terrible and fascinating moment. Rosemary knelt beside her chair.

"Don't cry, poor little thing," she said. "Don't cry." And she gave the other her lace handkerchief. She really was touched beyond words. She put her arm round those thin, birdlike shoulders.

Now at last the other forgot to be shy, forgot everything except that they were both women, and gasped out: "I can't go on no longer like this. I can't bear it. I shall do away with myself. I can't bear no more."

"You shan't have to. I'll look after you. Don't cry any more. Don't you see what a good thing it was that you met me? We'll have tea and you'll tell me everything. And I shall arrange something. I promise. Do stop crying. It's so exhausting. Please!"

The other did stop just in time for Rosemary to get up before the tea came. She had the table placed between them. She plied the poor little creature with everything, all the sandwiches, all the bread and butter, and every time her cup was empty she filled it with tea, cream and sugar. People always said sugar was so nourishing. As for herself she didn't eat; she smoked and looked away tactfully so that the other should not be shy.

And really the effect of that slight meal was marvelous. When the tea table was carried away a new being, a light, frail creature with tangled hair, dark lips, deep, lighted eyes, lay back in the big chair in a kind of sweet languor, looking at the blaze. Rosemary lit a fresh cigarette; it was time to begin.

"And when did you have your last meal?" she asked softly.

But at that moment the door handle turned.

"Rosemary, may I come in?" It was Philip.

"Of course."

He came in. "Oh, I'm so sorry," he said, and stopped and stared.

"It's quite all right," said Rosemary smiling. "This is my friend, Miss—"

"Smith, madam," said the languid figure, who was strangely still and unafraid.

"Smith," said Rosemary. " We are going to have a little talk."

"Oh, yes," said Philip. "Quite," and his eye caught sight of the coat and hat on the floor. He came over to the fire and turned his back to it."It's a beastly afternoon," he said curiously, still looking at that listless figure, looking at its hands and boots, and then at Rosemary again.

"Yes, isn't it?" said Rosemary enthusiastically. "Vile."

Philip smiled his charming smile. "As a matter of fact," said he, "I wanted you to come into the library for a moment. Would you? Will Miss Smith excuse us?"

The big eyes were raised to him, but Rosemary answered for her."Of course she will." And they went out of the room together.

"I say," said Philip, when they were alone. "Explain. Who is she? What does it all mean?"

Rosemary, laughing, leaned against the door and said: "I picked her up in Curzon Street. Really. She's a real pickup. She asked me for the price of a cup of tea, and I brought her home with me."

"But what on earth are you going to do with her?" cried Philip.

"Be nice to her," said Rosemary quickly. "Be frightfully nice to her. Look after her. I don't know how. We haven't talked yet. But show her—treat her—make her feel—"

"My darling girl," said Philip, "you're quite mad, you know. It simply can't be done."

"I knew you’d say that," retorted Rosemary. "Why nnot? I want to. Isn't that a reason? And besides, one's always reading about these things. I decided—"

"But," said Philip slowly, and he cut the end of a cigar, "she's so astonishingly pretty."

"Pretty?" Rosemary was so surprised that she blushed. "Do you think so? I—I hadn't thought about it."

"Good Lord!" Philip struck a match. "She's absolutely lovely. Look again, my child. I was bowled over when I came into your room just now. However . . . I think you're making a ghastly mistake. Sorry, darling, if I'm crude and all that. But let me know if Miss Smith is going to dine with us in time for me to look up The Milliner's Gazette."

"You absurd creature!" said Rosemary, and she went out of the library, but not back to her bedroom. She went to her writing room and sat down at her desk. Pretty! Absolutely lovely! Bowled over! Her heart beat like a heavy bell. Pretty! Lovely! She drew her cheque book towards her. But no, cheques would be no use, of course. She opened a drawer and took out five pound notes, looked at them, put two back, and holding the three squeezed in her hand, she went back to her bedroom.

Half an hour later Philip was still in the library, when Rosemary came in.

"I only wanted to tell you," said she, and she leaned against the door again and looked at him with her dazzled exotic gaze, "Miss Smith won't dine with us tonight."

Philip put down the paper. "Oh, what's happened? Previous engagement?"

Rosemary came over and sat down on his knee. "She insisted on going," said she, "so I gave the poor little thing a present of money. I couldn't keep her against her will, could I?" she added softly.

Rosemary had just done her hair, darkened her eyes a little, and put on her pearls. She put up her hands and touched Philip's cheeks.

"Do you like me?" said she, and her tone, sweet, husky, troubled him.

"I like you awfully," he said, and he held her tighter. "Kiss me."

There was a pause.

Then Rosemary said dreamily, "I saw a fascinating little box today. It costs twenty-eight guineas. May I have it?"

Philip jumped her on his knee. "You may, little wasteful one," said he.

But that was not really what Rosemary wanted to say.

"Philip," she whispered, and she pressed his head against her bosom, "am I pretty?"

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The New Dress

Virginia Woolf

Mabel had her first serious suspicion that something was wrong as she took her cloak off and Mrs. Barnet, while handing her the mirror and touching the brushes and thus drawing her attention, perhaps rather markedly, to all the appliances for tidying and improving hair, complexion, clothes, which existed on the dressing table, confirmed the suspicion—that it was not right, not quite right, which growing stronger as she went upstairs and springing at her with conviction as she greeted Clarissa Dalloway, she went straight to the far end of the room, to a shaded corner where a looking glass hung and looked. No! It was not right. And at once the misery which she always tried to hide, the profound dissatisfaction—the sense she had had, ever since she was a child, of being inferior to other people—set upon her, relentlessly, remorselessly, with an intensity which she could not beat off, as she would when she woke at night at home, by reading Borrow or Scott; for oh these men, oh these women, all were thinking—"What’s Mabel wearing? What a fright she looks! What a hideous new dress!"—their eyelids flickering as they came up, and then their lids shutting rather tight. It was her own appalling inadequacy; her cowardice; her mean, water-sprinkled blood that depressed her. And at once the whole of the room where, for ever so many hours, she had planned with the little dressmaker how it was to go, seemed sordid, repulsive; and her own drawing room so shabby, and herself, going out, puffed up with vanity as she touched the letters on the hall table and said, "How dull!" to show off—all this now seemed unutterably silly, paltry, and provincial. All this had been absolutely destroyed, shown up, exploded, the moment she came into Mrs. Dalloway’s drawing room.

What she had thought that evening when, sitting over the teacups, Mrs. Dalloway’s invitation came, was that, of course, she could not be fashionable. It was absurd to pretend it even—fashion meant cut, meant style, meant thirty guineas at least—but why not be original? Why not be herself, anyhow? And, getting up, she had taken that old fashion book of her mother's, a Paris fashion book of the time of the Empire, and had thought how much prettier, more dignified, and more womanly they were then, and so set herself—oh, it was foolish—trying to be like them, pluming herself in fact, upon being modest and old-fashioned and very charming, giving herself up, no doubt about it, to an orgy of self-love, which deserved to be chastised, and so rigged herself out like this.

But she dared not look in the glass. She could not face the whole horror—the pale yellow, idiotically old-fashioned silk dress with its long skirt and its high sleeves and its waist and all the things that looked so charming in the fashion book, but not on her, not among all these ordinary people. She felt like a dressmaker's dummy standing there, for young people to stick pins into.

"But, my dear, it's perfectly charming!" Rose Shaw said, looking her up and down with that little satirical pucker of the lips which she expected—Rose herself being dressed in the height of the fashion, precisely like everybody else, always.

We are all like flies trying to crawl over the edge of the saucer, Mabel thought, and repeated the phrase as if she were crossing herself, as if she were trying to find some spell to annul this pain, to make this agony endurable. Tags of Shakespeare, lines from books she had read ages ago, suddenly came to her when she was in agony, and she repeated them over and over again. "Flies trying to crawl," she repeated. If she could say that over often enough and make herself see the flies, she would become numb, chill, frozen, dumb. Now she could see flies crawling slowly out of a saucer of milk with their wings stuck together; and she strained and strained (standing in front of the looking glass, listening to Rose Shaw) to make herself see Rose Shaw and all the other people there as flies, trying to hoist themselves out of something, or into something, meager, insignificant, toiling flies. But she could not see them like that, not other people. She saw herself like that—she was a fly, but the others were dragonflies, butterflies, beautiful insects, dancing, fluttering, skimming, while she alone dragged herself up out of the saucer. (Envy and spite, the most detestable of the vices, were her chief faults. )

"I feel like some dowdy, decrepit, horribly dingy old fly," she said, making Robert Haydon stop just to hear her say that, just to reassure herself by furbishing up a poor weak-kneed phrase and so showing how detached she was, how witty, that she did not feel in the least out of anything. And, of course, Robert Haydon answered something quite polite, quite insincere, which she saw through instantly, and said to herself, directly he went (again from some book), "Lies, lies, lies!" For a party makes things either much more real, or much less real, she thought; she saw in a flash to the bottom of Robert Haydon’s heart; she saw through everything. She saw the truth. This was true, this drawing room, this self, and the other false. Miss Milan’s little workroom was really terribly hot, stuffy, sordid. It smelled of clothes and cabbage cooking; and yet, when Miss Milan put the glass in her hand, and she looked at herself with the dress on, finished, an extraordinary bliss shot through her heart. Suffused with light, she sprang into existence. Rid of cares and wrinkles, what she had dreamed of herself was there—a beautiful woman. Just for a second (she had not dared look longer, Miss Milan wanted to know about the length of the skirt), there looked at her, framed in the scrolloping mahogany, a gray-white, mysteriously smiling, charming girl, the core of herself, the soul of herself; and it was not vanity only, not only self-love that made her think it good, tender, and true. Miss Milan said that the skirt could not well be longer; if anything the skirt, said Miss Milan, puckering her forehead, considering with all her wits about her, must be shorter; and she felt, suddenly, honestly, full of love for Miss Milan, much, much fonder of Miss Milan than of anyone in the whole world, and could have cried for pity that she should be crawling on the floor with her mouth full of pins, and her face red and her eyes bulging—that one human being should be doing this for another, and she saw them all as human beings merely, and herself going off to her party, and Miss Milan pulling the cover over the canary’s cage, or letting him pick a hempseed from between her lips, and the thought of it, of this side of human nature and its patience and its endurance and its being content with such miserable, scanty, sordid little pleasures filled her eyes with tears.

And now the whole thing had vanished. The dress, the room, the love, the pity, the scrolloping looking glass, and the canary’s cage—all had vanished, and here she was in a corner of Mrs. Dalloway’s drawing room, suffering tortures, woken wide awake to reality.

But it was all so paltry, weak-blooded, and petty-minded to care so much at her age with two children, to be still so utterly dependent on people’s opinions and not have principles or convictions, not to be able to say as other people did, "There’s Shakespeare! There’s death! We’re all weevils in a captain’s biscuit"—or whatever it was that people did say.

She faced herself straight in the glass; she pecked at her left shoulder; she issued out into the room, as if spears were thrown at her yellow dress from all sides. But instead of looking fierce or tragic, as Rose Shaw would have done—Rose would have looked like Boadicea—she looked foolish and self-conscious, and simpered like a schoolgirl and slouched across the room, positively slinking, as if she were a beaten mongrel, and looked at a picture, an engraving. As if one went to a party to look at a picture! Everybody knew why she did it—it was from shame, from humiliation.

"Now the fly’s in the saucer," she said to herself, "right in the middle, can’t get out, and the milk," she thought, rigidly staring at the picture, "is sticking its wings together."

"It’s so old-fashioned," she said to Charles Burt, making him stop(which by itself he hated) on his way to talk to someone else.

She meant, or she tried to make herself think that she meant, that it was the picture and not her dress that was old-fashioned. And one word of praise, one word of affection from Charles would have made all the difference to her at the moment. If he had only said, "Mabel, you’re looking charming tonight!" it would have changed her life. But then she ought to have been truthful and direct. Charles said nothing of the kind, of course. He was malice itself. He always saw through one, especially if one were feeling particularly mean, paltry, or feeble-minded.

"Mabel’s got a new dress!" he said, and the poor fly was absolutely shoved into the middle of the saucer. Really, he would like her to drown, she believed. He had no heart, no fundamental kindness, only a veneer of friendliness. Miss Milan was much more real, much kinder. If only one could feel that and stick to it always. "Why," she asked herself—replying to Charles much too pertly, letting him see that she was out of temper, or "ruffled" as he called it ("Rather ruffled?" he said and went on to laugh at her with some woman over there)—"Why," she asked herself,"can’t I feel one thing always, feel quite sure that Miss Milan is right, and Charles wrong and stick to it, feel sure about the canary and pity and love and not be whipped all round in a second by coming into a room full of people?" It was her odious, weak, vacillating character again, always giving at the critical moment and not being seriously interested in conchology, etymology, botany, archeology, cutting up potatoes and watching them fructify like Mary Dennis, like Violet Searle.

Then Mrs. Holman, seeing her standing there, bore down upon her. Of course a thing like a dress was beneath Mrs. Holman’s notice, with her family always tumbling downstairs or having the scarlet fever. Could Mabel tell her if Elmthorpe was ever let for August and September? Oh, it was a conversation that bored her unutterably!—it made her furious to be treated like a house agent or a messenger boy, to be made use of. Not to have value, that was it, she thought, trying to grasp something hard, something real, while she tried to answer sensibly about the bathroom, and the south aspect and the hot water to the top of the house; and all the time she could see little bits of her yellow dress in the round looking glass which made them all the size of bootbuttons or tadpoles; and it was amazing to think how much humiliation and agony and self-loathing and effort and passionate ups and downs of feeling were contained in a thing the size of a threepenny bit. And what was still odder, this thing, this Mabel Waring, was separate, quite disconnected; and though Mrs. Holman (the black button) was leaning forward and telling her how her eldest boy had strained his heart running, she could see her, too, quite detached in the looking glass, and it was impossible that the black dot, leaning forward, gesticulating, should make the yellow dot, sitting solitary, self-centered, feel what the black dot was feeling, yet they pretended.

"So impossible to keep boys quiet"—that was the kind of thing one said.

And Mrs. Holman, who could never get enough sympathy and snatched what little there was greedily, as if it were her right (but she deserved much more for there was her little girl who had come down this morning with a swollen knee-joint), took this miserable offering and looked at it suspiciously, grudgingly, as if it were a half-penny when it ought to have been a pound and put it away in her purse, must put up with it, mean and miserly though it was, times being hard, so very hard; and on she went, creaking, injured Mrs. Holman, about the girl with the swollen joints. Ah, it was tragic, this greed, this clamor of human beings, like a row of cormorants, barking and flapping their wings for sympathy—it was tragic, could one have felt it and not merely pretended to feel it!

But in her yellow dress tonight she could not wring out one drop more; she wanted it all, all for herself. She knew (she kept on looking into the glass, dipping into that dreadfully showing up blue pool) that she was condemned, despised, left like this in a backwater, because of her being like this a feeble, vacillating creature; and seemed to her that the yellow dress was a penance which she had deserved, and if she had been dressed like Rose Shaw, in lovely, clinging green with a ruffle of swansdown, she would have deserved that; and she thought that there was no escape for her—none whatever. But it was not her fault altogether, after all. It was being one of a family of ten; never having money enough, always skimping and paring; and her mother carrying great cans, and the linoleum worn on the stair edges, and one sordid little domestic tragedy after another—nothing catastrophic, the sheep farm failing, but not utterly; her eldest brother marrying beneath him but not very much—there was no romance, nothing extreme about them all. They petered out respectably in seaside resorts; every watering place had one of her aunts even now asleep in some lodging with the front windows not quite facing the sea. That was so like them—they had to squint at things always. And she had done the same—she was just like her aunts. For all her dreams of living in India, married to some hero like Sir Henry Lawrence, some empire builder (still the sight of a native in a turban filled her with romance), she had failed utterly. She had married to Hubert, with his safe, permanent underling’s job in the Law Courts, and they managed tolerably in a smallish house without proper maids and hash when she was alone or just bread and butter, but now and then—Mrs. Holman was off, thinking her the most dried up, unsympathetic twig she had ever met, absurdly dressed, too, and would tell everyone about Mabel’s fantastic appearance—now and then, thought Mabel Waring, left alone on the blue sofa, punching the cushion in order to look occupied and she would not join Charles Burt and Rose Shaw, chattering like magpies and perhaps laughing at her by the fireplace—now and then, there did come to her delicious moments, reading the other night in bed, for instance, or down by the sea on the sand in the sun at Easter—let her recall it—a great tuft of pale sand grass standing all twisted like a shock of spears against the sky, which was blue like a smooth china egg, so firm, so hard, and then the melody of the waves—"Hush, hush," they said, and the children’s shouts paddling—yes, it was a divine moment, and there she lay, she felt, in the hand of the Goddess who was the world; rather a hardhearted, but very beautiful Goddess, a little lamb laid on the altar (one did think these silly things, and it didn’t matter so long as one never said them). And also with Hubert sometimes she had quite unexpectedly—carving the mutton for Sunday lunch, for no reason, opening a letter, coming into a room—divine moments, when she said to herself (for she would never say this to anybody else), "This is it. This has happened. This is it !" And the other way about it was equally surprising—that is, when everything was arranged—music, weather, holidays, every reason for happiness was there—then nothing happened at all. One wasn’t happy. It was flat, just flat, that was all.

Her wretched self again, no doubt! She had always been a fretful, weak, unsatisfactory mother, a wobbly wife, lolling about in a kind of twilight existence with nothing very clear or very bold, or more one thing than another, like all her brothers and sisters, except perhaps Herbert—they were all the same poor, water-veined creatures who did nothing. Then in the midst of this creeping, crawling life, suddenly she was on the crest of a wave. That wretched fly—where had she read the story that kept coming into her mind about the fly and the saucer?—struggled out. Yes, she had those moments. But now that she was forty, they might come more and more seldom. By degrees she would cease to struggle any more. But that was deplorable! That was not to be endured! That made her feel ashamed of herself!

She would go to the London Library tomorrow. She would find some wonderful, helpful, astonishing book, quite by chance, a book by a clergyman, by an American no one had ever heard of; or she would walk down the Strand and drop, accidentally, into a hall where a miner was telling about the life in the pit, and suddenly she would become a new person. She would be absolutely transformed. She would wear a uniform; she would be called Sister Somebody; she would never give a thought to clothes again. And for ever after she would be perfectly clear about Charles Burt and Miss Milan and this room and that room; and it would be always, day after day, as if she were lying in the sun or carving the mutton. It would be it!

So she got up from the blue sofa, and the yellow button in the looking glass got up too, and she waved her hand to Charles and Rose to show them she did not depend on them one scrap, and the yellow button moved out of the looking glass, and all the spears were gathered into her breast as she walked towards Mrs. Dalloway and said, "Good night."

"But it’s too early to go," said Mrs. Dalloway, who was always so charming.

"I’m afraid I must," said Mabel Waring. "But," she added in her weak, wobbly voice which only sounded ridiculous when she tried to strengthen it, "I have enjoyed myself enormously."

"I have enjoyed myself," she said to Mr. Dalloway, whom she met on the stairs.

"Lies, lies, lies!" she said to herself, going downstairs, and "Right in the saucer!" she said to herself as she thanked Mrs. Barnet for helping her and wrapped herself round and round and round in the Chinese cloak she had worn these twenty years.

Araby

James Joyce

North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour when the Christian Brothers' School set the boys free. An uninhabited house of two stories stood at the blind end, detached from its neighbors in a square ground. The other houses of the street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brown imperturbable faces.

The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back drawing room. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered with old useless papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered books, the pages of which were curled and damp: The Abbot, by Walter Scott, The Devout Communicant and The Memoirs of Vidocq. I liked the last best because its leaves were yellow. The wild garden behind the house contained a central apple tree and a few straggling bushes under one of which I found the late tenant's rusty bicycle pump. He had been a very charitable priest; in his will he had left all his money to institutions and the furniture of his house to his sister.

When the short days of winter came dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown somber. The space of sky above us was the color of everchanging violet and toward it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odors arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness. When we returned to the street, light from the kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan's sister came out on the doorstep to call her brother in to his tea we watched her from our shadow peer up and down the street. We waited to see whether she would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left our shadow and walked to Mangan's steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure defined by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother always teased her before he obeyed and I stood by the railings looking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her body and the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to side.

Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlor watching her door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I could not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near the point at which our ways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning after morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.

Her image accompanied me even in the place the most hostile to romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of laborers, the shrill litanies of shopboys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs' cheeks, the nasal chanting of streetsingers, who sang a come-all-you about O'Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

One evening I went into the back drawing room in which the priest had died. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the house. Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playing in the sodden beds. Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below me. I was thankful that I could see so little. All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together until they trembled, murmuring: "O love! O love! " many times.

At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me I was so confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked me was I going to Araby. I forgot whether I answered yes or no. It would be a splendid bazaar, she said she would love to go.

"And why can’t you?" I asked.

While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her wrist. She could not go, she said, because there would be a retreat that week in her convent. Her brother and two other boys were fighting for their caps and I was alone at the railings. She held one of the spikes, bowing her head towards me. The light from the lamp opposite our door caught the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and, falling, lit up the hand upon the railing. It fell over one side of her dress and caught the white border of a petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease.

"It's well for you," she said.

"If I go," I said, "I will bring you something."

What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts after that evening! I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days. I chafed against the work of school. At night in my bedroom and by day in the classroom her image came between me and the page I strove to read. The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over me. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt was surprised and hoped it was not some Freemason affair. I answered few questions in class. I watched my master's face pass from amiability to sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child's play, ugly monotonous child's play.

On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to the bazaar in the evening. He was fussing at the hallstand, looking for the hat brush, and answered me curtly:

"Yes, boy, I know."

As he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlor and lie at the window. I left the house in bad humor and walked slowly toward the school. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart misgave me.

When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. Still it was early. I sat staring at the clock for some time and, when its ticking began to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the staircase and gained the upper part of the house. The high cold empty gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the front window I saw my companions playing below in the street. Their cries reached me weakened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I looked over at the dark house where she lived. I may have stood there for an hour, seeing nothing but the brown-clad figure cast by my imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the curved neck, at the hand upon the railings and at the border below the dress.

When I came downstairs again I found Mrs. Mercer sitting at the fire. She was an old garrulous woman, a pawnbroker's widow, who collected used stamps for some pious purpose. I had to endure the gossip of the tea table. The meal was prolonged beyond an hour and still my uncle did not come. Mrs. Mercer stood up to go: she was sorry she couldn’t wait any longer, but it was after eight o'clock and she did not like to be out late, as the night air was bad for her. When she had gone I began to walk up and down the room, clenching my fists. My aunt said:

"I'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord."

At nine o'clock I heard my uncle's latchkey in the halldoor. I heard him talking to himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had received the weight of his overcoat. I could interpret these signs. When he was midway through his dinner I asked him to give me the money to go to the bazaar. He had forgotten.

"The people are in bed and after their first sleep now," he said.

I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically:

"Can't you give him the money and let him go? You've kept him late enough as it is."

My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he believed in the old saying: "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." He asked me where I was going and, when I had told him a second time he asked me did I know The Arab's Farewell to His Steed. When I left the kitchen he was about to recite the opening lines of the piece to my aunt.

I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham Street toward the station. The sight of the streets thronged with buyers and glaring with gas recalled to me the purpose of my journey. I took my seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train. After an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station slowly. It crept onward among ruinous houses and over the twinkling river. At Westland Row Station a crowd of people pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters moved them back, saying that it was a special train for the bazaar. I remained alone in the bare carriage. In a few minutes the train drew up beside an improvised wooden platform. I passed out on to the road and saw by the lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front of me was a large building which displayed the magical name.

I could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the bazaar would be closed, I passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing a shilling to a weary-looking man. I found myself in a big hall girdled at half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were closed and the greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognized a silence like that which pervades a church after a service. I walked into the center of the bazaar timidly. A few people were gathered about the stalls which were still open. Before a curtain, over which the words Café Chantant were written in colored lamps, two men were counting money on a salver. I listened to the fall of the coins.

Remembering with difficulty why I had come I went over to one of the stalls and examined porcelain vases and flowered tea sets. At the door of the stall a young lady was talking and laughing with two young gentlemen. I remarked their English accents and listened vaguely to their conversation.

"O, I never said such a thing!"

"O, but you did!"

"O, but I didn't!"

"Didn't she say that?"

"Yes. I heard her."

"O, there's a . . . fib!"

Observing me the young lady came over and asked me did I wish to buy anything. The tone of her voice was not encouraging; she seemed to have spoken to me out of a sense of duty. I looked humbly at the great jars that stood like eastern guards at either side of the dark entrance to the stall and murmured:

"No, thank you."

The young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went back to the two young men. They began to talk of the same subject. Once or twice the young lady glanced at me over her shoulder.

I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to make my interest in her wares seem the more real. Then I turned away slowly and walked down the middle of the bazaar. I allowed the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in my pocket. I heard a voice call from one end of the gallery that the light was out. The upper part of the hall was now completely dark.

Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.

The Rocking-horse Winner

D. H. Lawrence

There was a woman who was beautiful, who started with all the advantages, yet she had no luck. She married for love, and the love turned to dust. She had bonny children, yet she felt they had been thrust upon her, and she could not love them. They looked at her coldly, as if they were finding fault with her. And hurriedly she felt she must cover up some fault in herself. Yet what it was that she must cover up she never knew. Nevertheless, when her children were present, she always felt the centre of her heart go hard. This troubled her, and in her manner she was all the more gentle and anxious for her children, as if she loved them very much. Only she herself knew that at the centre of her heart was a hard little place that could not feel love, no, not for anybody. Everybody else said of her: "She is such a good mother. She adores her children." Only she herself, and her children themselves, knew it was not so. They read it in each other's eyes.

There were a boy and two little girls. They lived in a pleasant house, with a garden, and they had discreet servants, and felt themselves superior to anyone in the neighbourhood.

Although they lived in style, they felt always an anxiety in the house. There was never enough money. The mother had a small income, and the father had a small income, but not nearly enough for the social position which they had to keep up. The father went into town to some office. But though he had good prospects, these prospects never materialised. There was always the grinding sense of the shortage of money, though the style was always kept up.

At last the mother said: "I will see if I can't make something." But she did not know where to begin. She racked her brains, and tried this thing and the other, but could not find anything successful. The failure made deep lines come into her face. Her children were growing up, they would have to go to school. There must be more money, there must be more money. The father, who was always very handsome and expensive in his tastes, seemed as if he never would be able to do anything worth doing. And the mother, who had a great belief in herself, did not succeed any better, and her tastes were just as expensive.

And so the house came to be haunted by the unspoken phrase: There must be more money! There must be more money! The children could hear it all the time though nobody said it aloud. They heard it at Christmas, when the expensive and splendid toys filled the nursery. Behind the shining modern rocking horse, behind the smart doll's house, a voice would start whispering: "There must be more money! There must be more money!" And the children would stop playing, to listen for a moment. They would look into each other's eyes, to see if they had all heard. And each one saw in the eyes of the other two that they too had heard. "There must be more money! There must be more money!"

It came whispering from the springs of the still-swaying rocking horse, and even the horse, bending his wooden, champing head, heard it. The big doll, sitting so pink and smirking in her new pram, could hear it quite plainly, and seemed to be smirking all the more self-consciously because of it. The foolish puppy, too, that took the place of the teddy bear, he was looking so extraordinarily foolish for no other reason but that he heard the secret whisper all over the house: "There must be more money!"

Yet nobody ever said it aloud. The whisper was everywhere, and therefore no one spoke it. Just as no one ever says: "We are breathing!" in spite of the fact that breath is coming and going all the time.

"Mother," said the boy Paul one day, "why don't we keep a car of our own? Why do we always use uncle's, or else a taxi?"

"Because we're the poor members of the family," said the mother.

"But why are we, mother?"

"Well—I suppose," she said slowly and bitterly, "it's because your father has no luck."

The boy was silent for some time.

"Is luck money, mother?" he asked rather timidly.

"No, Paul. Not quite. It's what causes you to have money."

"Oh!" said Paul vaguely. "I thought when Uncle Oscar said filthy lucker, it meant money."

"Filthy lucre does mean money," said the mother. "But it's lucre, not luck."

"Oh!" said the boy. "Then what is luck, mother?"

"It's what causes you to have money. If you're lucky you have money. That's why it's better to be born lucky than rich. If you're rich, you may lose your money. But if you're lucky, you will always get more money."

"Oh! Will you? And is father not lucky?"

"Very unlucky, I should say," she said bitterly.

The boy watched her with unsure eyes.

"Why?" he asked.

"I don't know. Nobody ever knows why one person is lucky and another unlucky."

"Don't they? Nobody at all? Does nobody know?"

"Perhaps God. But He never tells."

"He ought to, then. And aren't you lucky either, mother?"

"I can't be, if I married an unlucky husband."

"But by yourself, aren't you?"

"I used to think I was, before I married. Now I think I am very unlucky indeed."

"Why?"

"Well—never mind! Perhaps I'm not really," she said.

The child looked at her, to see if she meant it. But he saw, by the lines of her mouth, that she was only trying to hide something from him.

"Well, anyhow," he said stoutly, "I'm a lucky person."

"Why?" said his mother, with a sudden laugh.

He stared at her. He didn't even know why he had said it.

"God told me," he asserted, brazening it out.

"I hope He did, dear!" she said, again with a laugh, but rather bitter.

"He did, mother!"

"Excellent!" said the mother, using one of her husband's exclamations.

The boy saw she did not believe him; or, rather, that she paid no attention to his assertion. This angered him somewhat, and made him want to compel her attention.

He went off by himself, vaguely, in a childish way, seeking for the clue to "luck". Absorbed, taking no heed of other people, he went about with a sort of stealth, seeking inwardly for luck. He wanted luck, he wanted it, he wanted it. When the two girls were playing dolls in the nursery, he would sit on his big rocking horse, charging madly into space, with a frenzy that made the little girls peer at him uneasily. Wildly the horse careered, the waving dark hair of the boy tossed, his eyes had a strange glare in them. The little girls dared not speak to him.

When he had ridden to the end of his mad little journey, he climbed down and stood in front of his rocking horse, staring fixedly into its lowered face. Its red mouth was slightly open, its big eye was wide and glassy-bright.

"Now!" he would silently command the snorting steed. "Now take me to where there is luck! Now take me!"

And he would slash the horse on the neck with the little whip he had asked Uncle Oscar for. He knew the horse could take him to where there was luck, if only he forced it. So he would mount again, and start on his furious ride, hoping at last to get there. He knew he could get there.

"You'll break your horse, Paul!" said the nurse.

"He's always riding like that! I wish he'd leave off!" said his elder sister Joan.

But he only glared down on them in silence. Nurse gave him up. She could make nothing of him. Anyhow he was growing beyond her.

One day his mother and his Uncle Oscar came in when he was on one of his furious rides. He did not speak to them.

"Hallo, you young jockey! Riding a winner?" said his uncle.

"Aren't you growing too big for a rocking horse? You're not a very little boy any longer, you know," said his mother.

But Paul only gave a blue glare from his big, rather close-set eyes. He would speak to nobody when he was in full tilt. His mother watched him with an anxious expression on her face.

At last he suddenly stopped forcing his horse into the mechanical gallop, and slid down.

"Well, I got there!" he announced fiercely, his blue eyes still flaring, and his sturdy long legs straddling apart.

"Where did you get to?" asked his mother.

"Where I wanted to go," he flared back at her.

"That's right, son!" said Uncle Oscar. "Don't you stop till you get there. What's the horse's name?"

"He doesn't have a name," said the boy.

"Get's on without all right?" asked the uncle.

"Well, he has different names. He was called Sansovino last week."

"Sansovino, eh? Won the Ascot. How did you know this name?"

"He always talks about horse races with Bassett," said Joan.

The uncle was delighted to find that his small nephew was posted with all the racing news. Bassett, the young gardener, who had been wounded in the left foot in the war and had got his present job through Oscar Cresswell, whose batman he had been, was a perfect blade of the"turf". He lived in the racing events, and the small boy lived with him.

Oscar Cresswell got it all from Bassett.

"Master Paul comes and asks me, so I can't do more than tell him, sir," said Bassett, his face terribly serious, as if he were speaking of religious matters.

"And does he ever put anything on a horse he fancies?"

"Well—I don't want to give him away—he's a young sport, a fine sport, sir. Would you mind asking him himself? He sort of takes a pleasure in it, and perhaps he'd feel I was giving him away sir, if you don't mind.”

Bassett was serious as a church.

The uncle went back to his nephew and took him off for a ride in the car.

"Say, Paul, old man, do you ever put anything on a horse?" the uncle asked.

The boy watched the handsome man closely.

"Why, do you think I oughtn't to?" he parried.

"Not a bit of it! I thought perhaps you might give me a tip for the Lincoln."

The car sped on into the country, going down to Uncle Oscar's place in Hampshire.

"Honour bright?" said the nephew.

"Honour bright, son!" said the uncle.

"Well, then, Daffodil."

"Daffodil! I doubt it, sonny. What about Mirza?"

"I only know the winner," said the boy. "That's Daffodil."

"Daffodil, eh?"

There was a pause. Daffodil was an obscure horse comparatively.

"Uncle!"

"Yes, son?"

"You won't let it go any further, will you? I promised Bassett."

"Bassett be damned, old man! What's he got to do with it?"

"We're partners. We've been partners from the first. Uncle, he lent me my first five shillings, which I lost. I promised him, honour bright, it was only between me and him; only you gave me that ten-shilling note I started winning with, so I thought you were lucky. You won't let it go any further, will you?"

The boy gazed at his uncle from those big, hot, blue eyes, set rather close together. The uncle stirred and laughed uneasily.

"Right you are, son! I'll keep your tip private. Daffodil, eh? How much are you putting on him?"

"All except twenty pounds," said the boy. "I keep that in reserve."

The uncle thought it a good joke.

"You keep twenty pounds in reserve, do you, you young romancer? What are you betting, then?"

"I'm betting three hundred," said the boy gravely. "But it's between you and me, Uncle Oscar! Honour bright?"

The uncle burst into a roar of laughter.

"It's between you and me all right, you young Nat Gould," he said, laughing. "But where's your three hundred?"

"Bassett keeps it for me. We're partner's."

"You are, are you! And what is Bassett putting on Daffodil?"

"He won't go quite as high as I do, I expect. Perhaps he'll go a hundred and fifty."

"What, pennies?" laughed the uncle.

"Pounds," said the child, with a surprised look at his uncle. "Bassett keeps a bigger reserve than I do."

Between wonder and amusement Uncle Oscar was silent. He pursued the matter no further, but he determined to take his nephew with him to the Lincoln races.

"Now, son," he said, "I'm putting twenty on Mirza, and I'll put five on for you on any horse you fancy. What's your pick?"

"Daffodil, uncle."

"No, not the fiver on Daffodil!"

"I should if it was my own fiver," said the child. "Good! Good! Right you are! A fiver for me and a fiver for you on Daffodil."

The child had never been to a race meeting before, and his eyes were blue fire. He pursed his mouth tight, and watched. A Frenchman just in front had put his money on Lancelot. Wild with excitement, he flayed his arms up and down, yelling "Lancelot! Lancelot!" in his French accent.

Daffodil came in first, Lancelot second, Mirza third. The child, flushed and with eyes blazing, was curiously serene. His uncle brought him four five-pound notes, four to one.

"What am I to do with these?" he cried, waving them before the boy's eyes.

"I suppose we'll talk to Bassett," said the boy. "I expect I have fifteen hundred now; and twenty in reserve; and this twenty."

His uncle studied him for some moments.

"Look here, son!" he said. "You're not serious about Bassett and that fifteen hundred, are you?"

"Yes, I am. But it's between you and me, uncle. Honour bright!"

"Honour bright all right, son! But I must talk to Bassett."

"If you'd like to be a partner, uncle, with Bassett and me, we could all be partners. Only, you'd have to promise, honour bright, uncle, not to let it go beyond us three. Bassett and I are lucky, and you must be lucky, because it was your ten shillings I started winning with . . ."

Uncle Oscar took both Bassett and Paul into Richmond Park for an afternoon, and there they talked.

"It's like this, you see, sir," Bassett said. "Master Paul would get me talking about racing events, spinning yarns, you know, sir. And he was always keen on knowing if I'd made or if I'd lost. It's about a year since, now, that I put five shilling on Blush of Dawn for him—and we lost. Then the luck turned, with that ten shillings he had from you, that we put on Singhalese. And since that time, it's been pretty steady, all things considering. What do you say, Master Paul?"

"We're all right when we're sure," said Paul. "It's when we're not quite sure that we go down."

"Oh, but we're careful then," said Bassett.

"But when are you sure?" smiled Uncle Oscar.

"It's Master Paul, sir," said Bassett in a secret, religious voice. "It's as if he had it from heaven. Like Daffodil, now, for the Lincoln. That was as sure as eggs."

"Did you put anything on Daffodil?" asked Oscar Cresswell.

"Yes, sir, I made my bit."

"And my nephew?"

Bassett was obstinately silent, looking at Paul.

"I made twelve hundred, didn't I, Bassett? I told uncle I was putting three hundred on Daffodil."

"That's right," said Bassett, nodding.

"But where's the money?" asked the uncle.

"I keep it safe locked up, sir. Master Paul he can have it any minute he likes to ask for it."

"What, fifteen hundred pounds?"

"And twenty! And forty, that is, with the twenty he made on the course."

"It's amazing!" said the uncle.

"If Master Paul offers you to be partners, sir, I would, if I were you; if you'll excuse me," said Bassett.

Oscar Cresswell thought about it.

"I'll see the money," he said.

They drove home again, and sure enough, Bassett came round to the garden house with fifteen hundred pounds in notes. The twenty pounds reserve was left with Joe Glee, in the Turf Commission deposit.

"You see, it's all right, uncle, when I'm sure! Then we go strong, for all we're worth, don't we, Bassett?"

"We do that, Master Paul."

"And when are you sure?" said the uncle, laughing.

"Oh, well, sometimes I'm absolutely sure, like about Daffodil," said the boy; "and sometimes I have an idea; and sometimes I haven't even an idea, have I, Bassett? Then we're careful, because we mostly go down."

"You do, do you! And when you're sure, like about Daffodil, what makes you sure, sonny?"

"Oh, well, I don't know," said the boy uneasily. "I'm sure, you know, uncle; that's all."

"It's as if he had it from heaven, sir," Bassett reiterated.

"I should say so!" said the uncle.

But he became a partner. And when the Leger was coming on, Paul was "sure" about Lively Spark, which was a quite inconsiderable horse. The boy insisted on putting a thousand on the horse, Bassett went for five hundred, and Oscar Cresswell two hundred. Lively Spark came in first, and the betting had been ten to one against him. Paul had made ten thousand.

"You see," he said, "I was absolutely sure of him."

Even Oscar Cresswell had cleared two thousand.

"Look here, son," he said, "this sort of thing makes me nervous."

"It needn't, uncle! Perhaps I shan't be sure again for a long time."

"But what are you going to do with your money?" asked the uncle.

"Of course," said the boy, "I started it for mother. She said she had no luck, because father is unlucky, so I thought if I was lucky, it might stop whispering."

"What might stop whispering?"

"Our house. I hate our house for whispering."

"What does it whisper?"

"Why—why"—the boy fidgeted—"why, I don't know. But it's always short of money, you know, uncle."

"I know it, son, I know it."

"You know people send mother writs, don't you, uncle?"

"I'm afraid I do," said the uncle.

"And then the house whispers, like people laughing at you behind your back. It's awful, that is! I thought if I was lucky . . ."

"You might stop it," added the uncle.

The boy watched him with big blue eyes, that had an uncanny cold fire in them, and he said never a word.

"Well, then!" said the uncle. "What are we doing?"

"I shouldn't like mother to know I was lucky," said the boy.

"Why not, son?"

"She'd stop me."

"I don't think she would."

"Oh!" —and the boy writhed in an odd way—"I don't want her to know, uncle."

"All right, son! We'll manage it without her knowing."

They managed it very easily. Paul, at the other's suggestion, handed over five thousand pounds to his uncle, who deposited it with the family lawyer, who was then to inform Paul's mother that a relative had put five thousand pounds into his hands, which sum was to be paid out a thousand pounds at a time, on the mother's birthday, for the next five years.

"So she'll have a birthday present of a thousand pounds for five successive years," said Uncle Oscar. "I hope it won't make it all the harder for her later."

Paul's mother had her birthday in November. The house had been"whispering" worse than ever lately, and, even in spite of his luck, Paul could not bear up against it. He was very anxious to see the effect of the birthday letter, telling his mother about the thousand pounds.

When there were no visitors, Paul now took his meals with his parents, as he was beyond the nursery control. His mother went into town nearly every day. She had discovered that she had an odd knack of sketching furs and dress materials, so she worked secretly in the studio of a friend who was the chief "artist" for the leading drapers. She drew the figures of ladies in furs and ladies in silk and sequins for the newspaper advertisements. This young woman artist earned several thousand pounds a year, but Paul's mother only made several hundreds, and she was again dissatisfied. She so wanted to be first in something, and she did not succeed, even in making sketches for drapery advertisements.

She was down to breakfast on the morning of her birthday. Paul watched her face as she read her letters. He knew the lawyer's letter. As his mother read it, her face hardened and became more expressionless. Then a cold, determined look came on her mouth. She hid the letter under the pile of others, and said not a word about it.

"Didn't you have anything nice in the post for your birthday, mother?" said Paul.

"Quite moderately nice," she said, her voice cold and hard and absent.

She went away to town without saying more.

But in the afternoon Uncle Oscar appeared. He said Paul's mother had had a long interview with the lawyer, asking if the whole five thousand could not be advanced at once, as she was in debt.

"What do you think, uncle?" said the boy.

"I leave it to you, son."

"Oh, let her have it, then! We can get some more with the other," said the boy.

"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, laddie!" said Uncle Oscar.

"But I'm sure to know for the Grand National; or the Lincolnshire; or else the Derby. I'm sure to know for one of them," said Paul.

So Uncle Oscar signed the agreement, and Paul's mother touched the whole five thousand. Then something very curious happened. The voices in the house suddenly went mad, like a chorus of frogs on a spring evening. There were certain new furnishings, and Paul had a tutor. He was really going to Eton, his father's school, in the following autumn. There were flowers in the winter, and a blossoming of the luxury Paul's mother had been used to. And yet the voices in the house, behind the sprays of mimosa and almond blossom, and from under the piles of iridescent cushions, simply trilled and screamed in a sort of ecstasy:"There must be more money! Oh-h-h; there must be more money. Oh, now, now-w! Now-w-w—there must be more money! —more than ever! More than ever!"

It frightened Paul terribly. He studied away at his Latin and Greek with his tutors. But his intense hours were spent with Bassett. The Grand National had gone by: he had not "known", and had lost a hundred pounds. Summer was at hand. He was in agony for the Lincoln. But even for the Lincoln he didn't "know," and he lost fifty pounds. He became wild-eyed and strange, as if something were going to explode in him.

"Let it alone, son! Don't you bother about it!" urged Uncle Oscar. But it was as if the boy couldn't really hear what his uncle was saying.

"I've got to know for the Derby! I've got to know for the Derby!" the child reiterated, his big blue eyes blazing with a sort of madness.

His mother noticed how overwrought he was.

"You'd better go to the seaside. Wouldn't you like to go now to the seaside, instead of waiting? I think you'd better," she said, looking down at him anxiously, her heart curiously heavy because of him.

But the child lifted his uncanny blue eyes.

"I couldn't possibly go before the Derby, mother!" he said. "I couldn't possibly!"

"Why not?" she said, her voice becoming heavy when she was opposed. "Why not? You can still go from the seaside to see the Derby with your Uncle Oscar, if that that's what you wish. No need for you to wait here. Besides, I think you care too much about these races. It's a bad sign. My family has been a gambling family, and you won't know till you grow up how much damage it has done. But it has done damage. I shall have to send Bassett away, and ask Uncle Oscar not to talk racing to you, unless you promise to be reasonable about it; go away to the seaside and forget it. You're all nerves!"

"I'll do what you like, mother, so long as you don't send me away till after the Derby," the boy said.

"Send you away from where? Just from this house?"

"Yes," he said, gazing at her.

"Why, you curious child, what makes you care about this house so much, suddenly? I never knew you loved it."

He gazed at her without speaking. He had a secret within a secret, something he had not divulged, even to Bassett or to his Uncle Oscar.

But his mother, after standing undecided and a little bit sullen for some moments, said:

"Very well, then! Don't go to the seaside till after the Derby, if you don't wish it. But promise me you won't let your nerves go to pieces. Promise you won't think so much about horse racing and events, as you call them!"

"Oh no," said the boy casually. "I won't think much about them, mother. You needn't worry. I wouldn't worry, mother, if I were you."

"If you were me and I were you," said his mother, "I wonder what we should do!"

"But you know you needn't worry, mother, don't you?" the boy repeated.

"I should be awfully glad to know it," she said wearily.

"Oh, well, you can, you know. I mean, you ought to know you needn't worry," he insisted.

"Ought I? Then I'll see about it," she said.

Paul's secret of secrets was his wooden horse, that which had no name. Since he was emancipated from a nurse and a nursery governess, he had had his rocking horse removed to his own bedroom at the top of the house.

"Surely you're too big for a rocking horse!" his mother had remonstrated.

"Well, you see, mother, till I can have a real horse, I like to have some sort of animal about," had been his quaint answer.

"Do you feel he keeps you company?" she laughed.

"Oh yes! He's very good, he always keeps me company, when I'm there," said Paul.

So the horse, rather shabby, stood in an arrested prance in the boy's bedroom.

The Derby was drawing near, and the boy grew more and more tense. He hardly heard what was spoken to him, he was very frail, and his eyes were really uncanny. His mother had sudden strange seizures of uneasiness about him. Sometimes, for half-an-hour, she would feel a sudden anxiety about him that was almost anguish. She wanted to rush to him at once, and know he was safe.

Two nights before the Derby, she was at a big party in town, when one of her rushes of anxiety about her boy, her first born, gripped her heart till she could hardly speak. She fought with the feeling, might and main, for she believed in common sense. But it was too strong. She had to leave the dance and go downstairs to telephone to the country. The children's nursery governess was terribly surprised and startled at being rung up in the night.

"Are the children all right, Miss Wilmot?"

"Oh yes, they are quite all right."

"Master Paul? Is he all right?"

"He went to bed as right as a trivet. Shall I run up and look at him?"

"No," said Paul's mother reluctantly. "No! Don't trouble. It's all right. Don't sit up. We shall be home fairly soon." She did not want her son's privacy intruded upon.

"Very good," said the governess.

It was about one o'clock when Paul's mother and father drove up to their house. All was still. Paul's mother went to her room and slipped off her white fur cloak. She had told her maid not to wait up for her. She heard her husband downstairs, mixing a whisky-and-soda.

And then, because of the strange anxiety at her heart, she stole upstairs to her son's room. Noiselessly she went along the upper corridor. Was there a faint noise? What was it?

She stood, with arrested muscles, outside his door, listening. There was a strange, heavy, and yet not loud noise. Her heart stood still. It was a soundless noise, yet rushing and powerful. Something huge, in violent, hushed motion. What was it? What in God's name was it? She ought to know. She felt that she knew the noise. She knew what it was.

Yet she could not place it. She couldn't say what it was. And on and on it went, like a madness.

Softly, frozen with anxiety and fear, she turned the door handle.

The room was dark. Yet in the space near the window, she heard and saw something plunging to and fro. She gazed in fear and amazement.

Then suddenly she switched on the light, and saw her son, in his green pajamas, madly surging on the rocking horse. The blaze of light suddenly lit him up, as he urged the wooden horse, and lit her up, as she stood, blonde, in her dress of pale green and crystal, in the doorway.

"Paul!" she cried. "Whatever are you doing?"

"It's Malabar!" he screamed in a powerful, strange voice. "It's Malabar!"

His eyes blazed at her for one strange and senseless second, as he ceased urging his wooden horse. Then he fell with a crash to the ground, and she, all her tormented motherhood flooding upon her, rushed to gather him up.

But he was unconscious, and unconscious he remained, with some brain fever. He talked and tossed, and his mother sat stonily by his side.

"Malabar! It's Malabar! Bassett, Bassett, I know! It's Malabar!"

So the child cried, trying to get up and urge the rocking horse that gave him his inspiration.

"What does he mean by Malabar?" asked the heart-frozen mother.

"I don't know," said the father stonily.

"What does he mean by Malabar?" she asked her brother Oscar.

"It's one of the horses running for the Derby," was the answer.

And, in spite of himself, Oscar Cresswell spoke to Bassett, and himself put a thousand on Malabar: at fourteen to one.

The third day of the illness was critical: they were waiting for a change. The boy, with his rather long, curly hair, was tossing ceaselessly on the pillow. He neither slept nor regained consciousness, and his eyes were like blue stones. His mother sat, feeling her heart had gone, turned actually into a stone.

In the evening, Oscar Cresswell did not come, but Bassett sent a message, saying could he come up for one moment, just one moment? Paul's mother was very angry at the intrusion, but on second thought she agreed. The boy was the same. Perhaps Bassett might bring him to consciousness.

The gardener, a shortish fellow with a little brown moustache, and sharp little brown eyes, tiptoed into the room, touched his imaginary cap to Paul's mother, and stole to the bedside, staring with glittering, smallish eyes at the tossing, dying child.

"Master Paul!" he whispered. "Master Paul! Malabar came in first all right, a clean win. I did as you told me. You've made over seventy thousand pounds, you have; you've got over eighty thousand. Malabar came in all right, Master Paul."

"Malabar! Malabar! Did I say Malabar, mother? Did I say Malabar? Do you think I'm lucky, mother? I knew Malabar, didn't I? Over eighty thousand pounds! I call that lucky, don't you, mother? Over eighty thousand pounds! I knew, didn't I know I knew? Malabar came in all right. If I ride my horse till I'm sure, then I tell you, Bassett, you can go as high as you like. Did you go for all you were worth, Bassett?"

"I went a thousand on it, Master Paul."

"I never told you, mother, that if I can ride my horse, and get there then I'm absolutely sure—oh, absolutely! Mother, did I ever tell you? I am lucky!"

"No, you never did," said his mother.

But the boy died in the night.

And even as he lay dead, his mother heard her brother's voice saying to her: "My God, Hester, you're eighty-odd thousand to the good, and a poor devil of a son to the bad. But, poor devil, poor devil, he's best gone out of a life where he rides his rocking horse to find a winner."

魔 鬼 湖

约瑟夫·康拉德

白人双臂斜撑在船尾小舱的顶盖上对马来人舵手说：“天色晚了，我们到阿萨特的林中空地去过夜。”

马来人一直紧盯着河面，只哼了一声。白人把下巴顶在交叉的手臂上望着船的尾波出神。河面上泛起的强光在森林中劈开一条通道，遥指天际；通道尽头水面的不高处，稳稳地挂着熔金般的夕阳，没有一丝云彩遮挡，光焰灼目，把平静的河面照得雪亮，宛如一条光闪闪的银链。宽阔的河流两岸伫立着阴沉、昏暗的森林，一动不动，寂静无声。在高大的大树脚下，无躯干的聂帕榈从岸边泥地上长起身形，一簇簇巨大沉重的叶片，悄悄然地悬在褐色的旋涡之上。在静止的空气中，每一棵树，每一个枝桠，每一片树叶，乃至藤蔓上的每一根嫩须和小花上的每一片花瓣，都像被魔法定格在完美和终极。河面上没有活动的东西，只有八只船桨一闪一闪地跃出水面，再齐刷刷地插进水里，还有舵手也在舞动桨片，不时地在头上划出一道闪光的弧线。两侧的河水被搅动得泛出气泡，困惑地嘟囔着。白人的这只轻舟，正乘着自己营造的转瞬即逝的骚动逆流而上，仿佛要驶入一个国度的大门，那里动感的最初记忆早已永久地逝去。

白人转身背向西坠的夕阳，举目眺望开阔空旷的入海口。这条迂回曲折的河流，最后的三英里因地势开阔而自由通畅，仿佛被怂恿而不可遏制，径直地流进大海，径直地流向东方——流向光明与黑暗交替栖身的地方。船的后方，一只不知名的鸟儿在一声声地啼鸣，叫声像单调刺耳的哭号在平静的水面上掠过，未及传到对岸便消失在无声无息的世界里。

舵手猛地把桨片插入水流，绷紧双臂奋力拉住，身体被扯向前倾。河水被搅拨得响声大作。又长又直的入海河道突然好像在围绕自己的中心转动，森林也摇晃出一道半圆。夕阳斜射的光束照到船的侧舷，火一般灼烤，把船工们细长扭曲的身影投射在波光粼粼的河面上。白人转向前看。船的航向已变，与河道成为直角，雕成龙头的船首此刻正指向岸边蔓生的灌木丛中的一道缝隙。船擦着上方细嫩的枝条钻了进去，从河面上消失了，如同一只细长的两栖动物，离开河流到森林中去寻找藏身之处。

溪流狭窄得像一条沟渠：弯弯曲曲的河道充满了昏暗，在细长的一条晶莹的碧空之下，显得幽深莫测。高大的乔木拔地而起，却悄悄躲在藤蔓植物浓密枝叶的后边。黝黑发亮的水边，这里或那里，不时地露出高大树木的扭曲的根，乌黑呆板，像捕获的巨蛇扭结困顿于矮小的蕨类植物编织的网格中间。船工们短促的话语，在浓密阴暗的植被墙内高声回响。黑暗，神秘无形而又不可遏止的黑暗，从树木之间，从奇形怪状、纹丝不动的叶片后面，透过密密麻麻的藤蔓植物的迷宫，悄悄地飘散开来，使密不通风的大森林嗅着似有瘴气在弥漫。

人们在浅水中撑篙行船。溪流渐行渐宽，终于向外扩展成一汪开阔的静水湖面。森林从岸边退去，留出的一带湿地上丛生着芦苇和杂草，为湖中碧空的倒影镶上鲜亮的绿边。空中彩云飘飘，倩影入湖，与水面睡莲的绿叶银花交相辉映。远处影绰绰现出一间小房，坐落在几根木桩之上。房屋附近有两棵聂帕榈，看来是从后边不远的林中移植来的；繁茂而蓬松的树冠微微倾斜着垂向破烂的屋顶，显露出温柔的关切和缕缕的忧愁。

舵手用桨指点着说：“阿萨特在这儿呢。我看见他的独木舟了，牢牢地拴在木桩上。”

船工们在船舷上一边跑动着撑篙，一边回头张望那一天航程的终点。他们希望在别的什么地方过夜，而不愿意待在这荒僻、鬼祟的湖上；此外他们也不喜欢阿萨特这个人，首先因为他这人挺怪，还因为他整修了这间荒废了的房子住了进去，并声称他不惧怕生活在鬼魂们中间，在被人类遗弃了的那些地方。这样的人说句话或看一眼，都会把人的命运搞糟。而且他所熟悉的那些鬼魂，对他们这些远道而来的生人是很难有好感的，它们肯定希望把对人类主人的怨恨发泄到他们头上。白人不在乎这类事情，他们不信这些，他们和天父在一起，他能引导他们避开这个世界上那些看不见的危险，使他们免受伤害。对于那些善意的劝告他们总是一副不屑一顾的神情，令人不快。那又有什么办法呢？

他们这样想着，同时把身体的重量狠狠地压在长篙的顶端。那条大船平稳快捷地行进，悄无声息地滑向阿萨特的领地，随着竹篙纷纷抛下的声响和“真主保佑”的大声祷告，它轻轻地撞在支撑房子的弯曲的木桩上。

船工们仰起脸直着脖子朝上喊：“阿萨特，喂，阿萨特！”没人应声。房子前面是个用竹子搭成的平台，一架简陋的梯子通到上边。这时白人已开始往上爬。船工头目赌着气说：“我们在船上做饭，在水上过夜。”

“把我的毯子和篮子递上来。”白人简洁地说。

他跪在平台边上接过东西。于是船向后退去，白人站起身来，迎面正碰见刚从棚屋的小门里出来的阿萨特。这是个强壮的年轻人，生得肩宽背厚，臂膀粗壮。他没穿衣服，只围了一条纱笼[1] ，头上什么也没戴，一双温柔的大眼直盯着白人，充满着希望和企盼，没有一句寒暄，直接发问，但声音和举止都很镇定：

“您有药吗，先生？”“没有哇，”来访者说，语气十分惊讶，“怎么，房子里有病人吗？”“进来看吧。”阿萨特说，神情依然那么平静。说完灵巧地转身穿过低矮的门道进去了。白人把手里的东西放下，也跟了进去。

在昏暗的居室光线中，他发现一个女人躺在竹床上，盖着一条宽宽的红棉布单。她静静地躺着，像死了一样，一双眼睛却瞪得很大，在昏暗中闪光，朝上直直地盯着房顶上的椽子，其实什么也没看见。她在发高烧，神智显然已经不清；两颊微陷，双唇半张，年轻的脸上一副不祥的、凝固的表情，行将死亡的人那种若有所思而又毫无知觉的表情。两个男人站在那里默默地注视着她。

“她病了很久了吗？”行路人问。

“我已经五天没睡觉了，”马来人小心翼翼地回答，“最初她听见湖水里有声音叫她，我把她抱住，她还极力要挣脱。今天太阳升起来以后，她就听不见什么了——连我的声音也听不见了。她也看不见了——连我也看不见了。”

他沉默了一会儿，然后轻声地问：

“先生，她会死吗？”

“怕的就是这个。”白人伤心地说。他几年前就认识了阿萨特，在一个很远的地方，正当危难时期，友情抵万金的时候。自从他的马来朋友出人意料地同一个陌生女子住进湖上这棚屋以来，他在河上往来的旅途中曾多次在这里过夜。他喜欢这个人懂得如何克守信义，喜欢他无所畏惧地同白人朋友并肩战斗。他喜欢他——也许尚不及一个人喜欢自己的爱犬——但那喜欢还是足以让他出手相助而不必相问，足以让他不时地在百忙中含糊朦胧地想起这个孤独的男人和这个长发的女人，还有她那豁达的表情和自豪的眼光，他们在森林的掩蔽下生活在一起——忍受着寂寞和恐惧。

白人从房子里出来正看到落日燃起的满天大火被无形的阴影迅速地扑灭，阴影像不可遏制的冲天的黑气从树梢上升起，布满整个天际，转瞬之间璀璨的云霞及火红的余辉都不见了踪迹。过了一阵，大地那浓重的黑暗之上现出了满天的星斗，巨大的湖面突然映出闪烁的星光，宛如一块椭圆的夜空坠落在茫茫无边的夜色里。白人从篮子里取出些食物吃了，又把平台上散落的柴草聚拢起来，燃起一小堆火，不是为取暖，而是借它的烟气驱赶蚊虫。白人用毯子把自己包裹起来，背靠在棚屋的苇墙上沉思着抽烟。

阿萨特悄悄地走出门道，在火堆旁蹲下。白人把伸直的腿动了动。

“她在喘气，”阿萨特小声说，进入了意料中的话题。“她在喘，烧得像裹着一团火。她不说话，也听不见，就是发烧。”

他停了一会，接着又以不温不火的平和语调发问：

“先生，……她会死吗？”

白人吃力地挪动了一下臂膀，迟疑地嗫嚅道：

“也许她命该如此吧。”

“不，先生，”阿萨特镇定地说，“也许是我命该如此。我听得见，看得着，我等待着。我记得……先生，您还记得过去的日子吗？您还记得我的哥哥吗？”

“记得。”白人说。马来人忽然起身走进屋里，另一位还在外边坐着，能听到里边的动静。阿萨特说：“听我说！你说话呀！”他的话语之后是一阵沉静。“啊，黛阿米兰！”他大吼一声，吼声过后是一声深深的叹息。阿萨特走出来，瘫坐在原来的地方。

他们静静地守着火堆。屋里悄无声息，他们的近前也很安静，但能清楚地听到在远处的湖上船工们的声音不时地飘荡在平静的水面上。船头上火光依稀，远远望去像一团朦胧的红晕；不久火光熄灭了，人声平息了，大地和湖水也悄然睡去，寂静无哗。世界仿佛已经荡然无存，只有满天的星光无休无止但又徒劳地闪烁着穿透夜空那茫茫的黑暗和沉寂。

白人睁大眼睛直盯着前面的黑暗。死亡，尚未见到但已迫近而不可避免的死亡，使他感到疑惧、刺激和惊讶，从而平缓了他种族特征上的不安稳的东西，同时拨动了他内心最朦胧、最隐密的思绪。罪恶的、无时不在的猜疑，藏于人心又煎熬人心的猜疑，溜出来进入了周围的沉静——进入了深邃无言的沉静，使它显得卑劣甚至声名狼藉，好像平和的、无法戳穿的面具掩盖着蛮不讲理的狂暴。在他心田上出现的急剧和强大的骚动中，笼罩在星光平和中的大地变成了野蛮拼斗的昏天黑地，变成了魔幻们的战场，不论丑、俊、正、邪，各种幻影都在狂热地拼争，都在抢占人们那无助的心田。一方动荡不安、神秘莫测的天地，充满愿望和敬畏，压不住，抚不平。

夜间响起了哀伤的喃喃低语；辛酸、骇人的低语，仿佛周围孤独的大森林在对着他的耳朵倾诉它们博大和崇高的恬淡之中生出的智慧。踌躇、模糊的声响在他周围的空中飘动，慢慢地把自己组成词语；而后轻柔、单调的语句终于像涓涓细流一样流淌起来。他像刚醒来的人那样抽动了一下又稍稍变了变姿势。阿萨特垂头坐在繁星之下，一动不动，神色黯然，正在如梦如痴地轻声诉说：

“……除了朋友的心，哪里还能承受人的烦恼之重呢？男子汉讲的就是打仗和爱情。打仗怎么样，先生您知道，而且您见过我在危急关头是迎着死亡上，不像别人挑着生路走。写下来的可能会丢掉，也未必是真；但凡亲眼所见那才是真，而且刻骨铭心。”

“我记得。”白人平静地说。阿萨特接着讲，语气哀伤、镇定：

“所以我只对您说爱情。就在夜里说。在长夜和爱情都离去之前说——白天的眼睛会看到我的悲哀和羞愧，看到我抹了黑的脸，看到我被灼伤的心。”

轻微短促的一声叹息，几乎察觉不到的一个停顿，随后他的话语就流淌开了，没有中断，没有手势。

“那个动乱和战争的年代结束之后，您离开了我们的国家去追求自己的理想，我们伊斯兰人不能理解的理想。我和家兄像从前一样，又当上了统治者的持剑人。您知道，我们是隶属于一个统治家族的族人，这种权力的象征由我们扛在右肩上，比任何旁人都更合适。在得势的时候，西·丹靖向我们施以恩宠，因为在他蒙难之时我们曾向他效以忠勇。那是个太平年月。一个斗鸡猎鹿的年月，一个肚皮撑圆、刀枪生锈，男人们闲聊扯淡的年月。不过庄稼人都能无忧无虑地看着秧苗往上长；商人们得以在太平无事的河上进出来往，出去的时候骨瘦如柴，回来的时候胖得滚圆。他们还带回外边的消息。那些消息真的假的都有，混杂一气，所以谁也不知道何时该哭何时该笑。我们听他们说起过您，说在这里或那里看见了您。听他们说起您我很开心，因为我记得那些动乱的岁月，我一直在想着您，先生。直到有一天我的眼睛再也顾不上那些过去的东西了，它们盯上了一个人，就是此时躺在屋里要死的那一位。”

他停下来，激动地低声呼唤：“啊，灾难！啊，灾难！”然后稍稍放大些声音继续说：

“没有比兄弟更坏的敌人和更好的朋友，先生，因为兄弟间相互了解，而相知甚厚就是力量——行善作恶都一样。我爱家兄。我去告诉他除了一张脸我什么也看不见，除了一人的声音我什么也听不见。他对我说：‘敞开你的心扉，让她看到里面是什么——还要等待。耐心就是智慧。英琦·米达哈可能死掉或者咱们的主人可能抛开对女人的惧怕。’……我等待着……您一定记得脸上戴着黑纱的那位夫人，先生，还有我们的主人如何惧怕她的狡诈和暴虐。如果她要她做侍女，我能怎样呢？我只能靠眉来眼去和悄悄话平息爱的饥渴。白日里我在通往浴室的小路上闲逛；太阳落到树林那边之后，我就沿着茉莉篱障爬到女人的院子里，在掩映下，透过阵阵花香，透过叶片的遮挡看着眼前静静站立的小草而不见对方的脸庞，我们的双唇隔着它们长长的叶片互诉衷情。我们是那样的小心谨慎，我们互致渴盼是那样的轻声细语。时间像飞一样逝去……女人们中间出现了风言风语，我们的仇敌在窥测——家兄郁闷了，而我则想到了杀人，想到了壮烈的死。……我们是欲取则必得的人——跟你们白人一样。男人把忠勇和敬服忘记的时候总是有的。威严和权势赋予了统治者，但爱情、力量和勇气是赋予所有男人的。家兄说：‘你要把她从他们当中弄出来。咱们两个如同一人。’我回答：‘那就快点吧，我觉得没有照到她的阳光都不温暖了。’我们的机会来了——主人和所有的大人物都到河流的入海口进行火把垂钓。有好几百条船，在水面到树林之间的白沙滩上还用树叶盖起了临时住处，供酋长及其家属使用。炊烟缥缈像晚间蓝色的雾霭，其间传出多个欢快的声音。就在他们收拾船只准备去捕鱼的时候，家兄来对我说‘今夜行动！’我看了一眼自己的武器。我们的独木舟出现在围成大圆圈的众多的船只当中，各船的船头上都插着火把，水面被照得通亮，但船只的后面则是一片黑暗。当喊声四起，群情激奋，人们狂热得快要发疯的时候，我们的船退了出来，火把很快在海水中淹灭，然后我们悄悄地漂回到岸边，那里一片漆黑，偶尔有火堆的余烬发出微光。我们听到了草丛中女奴们的说话声。于是我们找了个僻静的地方在那里等待。她来了，是沿着岸边跑过来的。她跑得很快而且没有声息，像一片树叶随风飘进了大海。家兄悄声对我说：‘过去迎住她，把她抱到咱们的船上来。’我用双臂把她抱起。她气喘吁吁。她的心脏在撞击我的胸膛。我说：‘我带你离开那些人。你奔着我心灵的呼唤而来，但我的手臂把你抱上我的船却违背了众人的意志！’‘没错，’家兄说，‘我们是欲取则必得的人，而且敢做敢当。咱们本该在大白天带走她。’我说：‘咱们走吧。’因为从她上了我的船我就开始想到我们的主人有很多人。‘好吧，咱们起航，’家兄说，‘咱们被迫出走，以后海天是国，这小船就是家了。’他踌躇着，双脚舍不得离岸，于是我求他快点，因为这时我记起了她的心脏在我胸膛上的撞击，也想到了两个人是敌不过上百人的。我们出发了，紧贴着岸边顺流往下划；我们经过他们捕鱼的小湾时，狂呼乱叫已经平息，但嘈杂的人声依然很大，像白天中午昆虫嗡嗡地乱飞。那些船漂浮着，拥挤在火把的红光里，上方笼罩了一团黑烟，而人们则在聊自己的这次活动。这些自吹自擂、互相吹捧、互相取笑的人们——这些清晨本还是朋友的人们，在那个夜晚已成为我们的敌人。我们飞快地划了过去。在生养我们的这片土地上我们已经不再有朋友。她坐在独木舟的中部，面部遮盖着；像她此刻那么沉静；像她此刻那样目不能视——我对自己抛下的东西并无遗憾，因为我能在离我很近的地方听到她的呼吸——像此刻一样。”

他停下来，朝着门道侧耳细听，然后摇摇头继续说下去：

“家兄想要挑战般地呐喊一声——只喊一声——为了让人明白我们是生性自由的强盗，靠的是自己的臂膀和大海。于是我再一次求他——以我们的爱情的名义——保持沉默。我能让自己的近旁听不见她的呼吸声吗？我知道很快会有追兵赶上来的。家兄疼爱我，他划动船桨不溅一点水声。他只是说，‘现在你身上只有一半男人了——另一半在那女人身上。我能等。到你又是整个男人的时候，你会随我回到这里喊出我们的蔑视。咱们是一母所生的儿子。’我没有作答。我的全部力量和全部精神都集中在握桨的双手上——我渴望和她到一个安全的去处，让所有男人的愤怒和所有女人的嫉恨都不能及。我的爱情太伟大了，我认为它能引导我到达一个不知死亡的所在，只要我们能逃过英琦·米达哈的狂怒，躲过我们主人的刀剑。我们咬紧牙关飞快地划桨。桨片深深地插入平静的水面。我们冲出了河口，在浅滩上的清清的河道间飞驶。我们沿着黑沉沉的海岸前进，紧贴着岸边的沙滩，大海在那里不停地对陆地低语。小船在水面上跑得那么快，白沙闪出的微光很快被它甩到后边。没人说话。只有我说过一次，‘睡觉吧，黛阿米兰，也许很快你就要全力以赴呢。’我听到了她声音的甜美，但我一直没有回头。太阳升起来了，我们还在行船。我的脸上汗流如注。我们在光和热中前进。我从未回头看，但我知道我身后家兄的眼睛始终牢牢地盯着前方，因为船行进得如同丛林土著人射出吹管[2] 的飞镖那样直。再没有比家兄更好的船工、更好的舵手了。我们曾多次一起在那条独木舟上赢得划船比赛。但我们从来没有像那次那样卖力——那次，也就是我与家兄最后一次联手划船！我们那里没有比家兄更勇猛、更强壮的男子汉。我腾不出工夫回头看他一眼，但我时刻都能听到他在我身后的动静。他呼哧呼哧的喘气声越来越大，但他仍不发话。太阳升高了，火辣辣地照在我的脊背上。我的两肋就要着火，可吸到胸腔里的空气已经不够用了。后来我感到必须用自己的最后一口气喊一声‘咱们歇歇吧！’‘好吧！’他答应了，声音很果断。他健壮，他勇敢，他无所畏惧而又不知疲倦。……家兄啊！”

一声轻唤，有力又温柔，一声轻唤，深远而迷茫；树叶颤动和枝桠摇摆的响声从密林深处穿过，在映出星光的平湖上飘荡，湖水在木桩间拍打它们光滑的表面，每次都激起水花突现。一阵热风触到两个男人的面颊，带着哀声吹过——呼呼有声的一股疾风，像一声难过的叹息出自睡梦中的大地。

阿萨特继续说，声音更加低沉。

“我们在一个小海湾把独木舟推上白沙滩。那里临近一片长长的舌形的陆地，那样子好像故意要截断我们的去路。实际上那是一片林木茂盛的海岬，向海里延伸了很远。家兄熟悉那个地方。海岬的另一面是一条河的入海口，密林丛中有一条狭窄的小路可以穿越过去。我们生火做饭，饭后就躺在松软的沙地上睡觉。独木舟为我们遮住阳光，她则负责瞭望。我刚合上眼工夫不大就听见她惊呼着报警。我们翻身跃起，太阳已经偏西，在海湾的出口方向我们望见了一条快船[3] ，有许多桨手划着飞驶而来；我们立刻就认出那是我们主人的一条快船。他们正向岸上瞭望并且发现了我们。他们敲起锣，掉转船头驶进海湾。我感到心脏在胸腔里一阵狂跳。黛阿米兰坐在沙滩上以手掩面。海上已经无路可逃。家兄笑了。他有一杆枪，就是您临走前送给他的，先生。不过火药很少，只有一小包。他很快地对我说：‘带上她沿着这条小路跑。我要把他们挡回去。他们没有火器；在持枪人前面登陆肯定要死人的。带着她跑吧；树林的那一边有一座打鱼人的房子——还有一条独木舟。我把弹药打完了就跟上来。我的长跑是没人能比的。他们追上来之前我们就能去远了；我能顶多久就顶多久，她毕竟是个女人，跑不快也不能打；可她那细嫩的小手捧着你的心呢！’说完他就跳到了独木舟后边。大船正飞快地赶来。她和我跑开了。我们在小路上狂奔时我听到了枪声。家兄开火了—— 一枪——两枪——跟着锣声停止了。我们的身后出现了一片沉寂。海岬不宽，没等我听见家兄开第三枪我便看到了那河岸的斜坡。又看到了水，那是一条河的宽阔的入海口。我们越过一片杂草丛生的林间空地，向下边的河水跑去。我看到泥地上有一间矮小的草房，还有一条小小的独木舟拴在那里。我听见后边又响了一枪。‘这是最后一枪了。’我想。我们朝独木舟奔去。一个男人从屋里跑出来。我立刻扑到他身上，于是我们滚倒在泥地上扭打起来。最后我站了起来，他在我的脚下倒着。我不清楚他是死是活。我和黛阿米兰把独木舟推下水去。我听到了后边有叫喊的声音，而且看见了家兄正奔跑着穿过林间空地。许多人在他后面紧追不舍。我双臂用力抱起黛阿米兰把她抛到船上，然后自己也跳了上去。我回头望时，正看见他摔倒在地。他摔倒了，但又翻身跃起；可后边的追兵却围拢着逼近了。他叫喊着‘我来了！’追兵离他更近了。我看着他们，他们人很多。于是我又转身看她。先生，我撑船了！我把它撑进了深水。她朝前跪着看我，我说：‘抄桨。’同时把自己的桨深深地插进水里。先生，我听见了他的叫喊。我两次听见他呼唤我的名字。我还听见一片杂乱的喊声，‘宰了他！干掉他！’我始终没回头。我又一次听见家兄呼唤我的名字，声音是那样的尖厉，想必生命连同呼唤一起离开了那血肉之躯——而我一直没有回头。我自己的名字！……哥哥呀！他呼唤了三次——可我顾惜的不是人命。她不是在那独木舟上吗？我同她定能找到个忘却了死亡——不知死亡的地方！”

白人坐起来。阿萨特起身站立着，正在熄灭的火堆余烬上方，一个模糊不清、默默无声的身影。低低的一层漂浮的薄雾在湖面上爬行，慢慢地抹去了星光的倒影。陆地上笼罩着巨大的一团白气，在黑暗中流动着呈现出冷冷的灰色，无声地翻卷着，包裹住大树的躯干，围绕在房子平台的四周，使之如同漂浮在起伏不定、深浅莫测的幻化的大海上。只是挺立的树梢在远处勾勒出发光的天际，像一处阴森可怖的海岸——黑洞洞的，善于欺骗，疏于情感。

阿萨特的声音在空旷的静寂中响亮地震荡开去。

“我有她在了！我有她了！为了得到她我直面了所有的人。除了拥有她——我还——”

他的话声传向空旷的远方。他停下来，好像要听听它们在很远的地方——无法补救、不可挽回——消散殆尽。然后他平静地说：

“先生，我爱我哥哥。”

一阵风掠过，使他不寒而栗。高高地在他头上，在静静的雾海之上，棕榈树垂下的叶片碰撞在一起发出哀伤和悲怆之声。白人把腿伸直。他的下巴抵在胸前，头也不抬地伤心地嗫嚅：

“我们都爱自己的哥哥。”

阿萨特突然爆发出一声强烈、低沉的嘶吼——

“死去的我在乎什么？我要的是自己内心的平静。”

他好像听到房子里有点动静——仔细再听——然后蹑手蹑脚地走了进去。白人站立起来。断断续续地吹来阵阵微风。闪烁的星光暗淡多了，它们仿佛退入了浩渺宇宙那冻结了的深处。突发的一阵凉风之后，出现了数秒钟绝对完美的安宁与沉静。接着一道金光从黑色林海那涌动的浪线后边直射苍穹，又铺散成半圆布满东方的天际。太阳出来了。薄雾升高，分散成几团飘荡着，又化为稀薄的气环飞散得无影无踪；揭去面纱的平湖静卧在树墙脚下浓重的阴影里，黝黑发亮。一只白雕斜着掠过湖面向高空奋飞，与清亮的太阳光束碰撞的瞬间中显得光灿夺目，而后便越飞越高，变成一个失去了动感的小黑点，终于溶进了碧蓝中，仿佛永远地离开了这个宇宙。此刻白人正站在门道前面举目向空中远眺；房内断续地传出含糊不清的低语声，最后是一声高声的呻吟。忽然阿萨特向前摊开两手踉跄着走出来，直瞪着双眼浑身颤抖，默默无语地站了一会。然后他说：

“她不再发烧了！”

太阳从他前方的树梢上刚刚露头，正在缓缓升起。微风清爽起来：大片的光辉倾泻到湖上，在水面的涟漪间闪耀。森林从清晨分明的阴影里出来，变得清晰可辨，仿佛它们冲到了近前——急忙停住才叶摆枝摇，桠杈晃动。在无情的阳光之下，不解人意的生物们越来越聒噪，不可理解的音声围绕在人类的悲痛所营造的无声的黑暗周围。阿萨特的目光慢慢地巡视，然后盯住了正在升高的太阳。

“我什么都看不见了。”他声音半大地对自己说。

“什么都没有。”白人说，同时来到平台边上朝着自己的船招手。湖面上隐约传来一声呼啸，于是舢板朝着这位鬼的朋友的住处滑来。

“如果你跟我走，我就等你一上午。”白人这样说，同时望着一旁的水面。

“不，先生，”阿萨特轻松地说，“我不会在这房子里吃饭、睡觉了，但我首先必须看到自己的路。现在我什么都看不见——看不见任何东西！世界上没有光明和安宁，但是有死亡——许多人的死亡。我们是一母所生的儿子——而我把他撇在了敌人当中；不过现在我要回去了。”

他深深地吸了一口气，然后用梦幻般的声调继续说：

“再过一小会我就能看清，就能划火柴——去点火。因为她已经死了，还有……现在……黑暗。”

他把双臂展开，再任由它们在体侧垂下，然后静静地站在那里，神色茫然，目光呆滞，死盯着太阳。白人下到他的独木舟上。船工们沿着船舷轻捷地跑动，不时地回头张望枯燥旅程的那个起点。船工头目的头上扎着白布，郁闷地高坐在船尾，任由桨片在水中拖着。白人双臂斜撑在小舱的草顶上，眼睛望着尾波涟漪上的闪光。舢板驶出湖口进入溪流之前，他抬起了目光。阿萨特一直没有动。他孤零零地站在昭示万物的太阳光下。他看透了青天白日的灿烂光辉而进入了幻化世界中的黑暗。

【注释】

[1]马来人男女均可穿用的宽松长筒裙。

[2]一种发射飞镖或毒矢的吹箭筒，流行于婆罗洲的土著人和临近的伊斯兰人当中。

[3]这里指马来人使用的一种快船，船头、船尾都是尖形，均可朝前快速行驶。

老前辈

A.E.科珀德

在下边的村子里，女人们叫他“脏老头”，孩子们好像不太注意他，而他们的父辈则称他“老前辈”或老狄克，再加上一声叹息，好像暗含妒忌。那其实一点理由也没有，他住的是树林里一间矮小、破旧的棚屋，是用树枝、铁丝和雨布搭成的，里面一堆干草睡觉用。棚子的外边是他的炉灶，他在那里住了那么久，灶灰已经堆得几乎跟他的屋子一样大了。他七十岁了，受尊敬的年纪，是位衣衫褴褛、手拄双杖的跛脚老人，说话语声欢快，行事有股狠劲儿，可诚实得如同泉水，自己的最后一滴都要同末一个或头一个人分享——他也总是分享他们的。喝醉酒的时候他总要唱，不醉的时候他就说，不停地说，说的什么没人懂，也没人听，因为他的棚子是在树林里，大树林中的一小块空地上，而那大树林离哪也不近，都有很远的路，以至于，正如你可能要说的，他是靠空气和乐天的个性活着，并且用希望来填充那饥苦的心。到了这种地步的人可以乞盼任何东西，而随便一点什么——比如两个便士——就能带给他莫大的幸福，不过他长期以来的抱负，一个有时强烈有时又无所谓的心愿，是拥有一头驴。他打扰过许多爱而能助的人，他时常从他需要的方舟放飞他幻想的训鸽，不过它们都去而不归，至少没把驴带回来，而驴又不会像打闪一样从天上掉下来。可真要是往下掉呀，它还肯定摔不坏；那么大的树林，方圆好几英里，铺坡盖岭，起伏连绵，而且密密匝匝，如果谁从气球上掉下来落到树林顶上，那滋味肯定像埋进羽绒床一样。到处都是鸟和猎物。还有猎场看守人。看守人不喜欢他在那里，在他们看来那就不自然了，不过看守人换了一拨又一拨，狩猎业成立了联合组织辛迪加，可他却一直在那里待了那么久，走了的看守人把他留在哪儿，新来的看守人还会在哪儿发现他。他们甚至还利用他，让他为猎手们清扫道路，标示雉巢的位置，监视野兔、黄鼬和鸽群的行踪，谁来打这些东西都受欢迎。有时靠着修剪树篱和锄草这样的活计，他能挣上几先令，不过他最主要的营生还是“樵夫”，他收集柴薪，用手推车推到村子里叫卖，这就是他做梦都梦到驴的原因，没有别的就是驴。这种四只脚加在一起还不及一只耳朵大的畜生，能驮动自重两三倍的薪柴，并且还能让他成为富人。

一天，他一直跋涉到总看守人的住处去送一张便条，那里的汤姆·赫西给他看了一窝衔物犬的幼子，是他正在照看的。汤姆·赫西说它们是有系谱的，有马车辕子那么长；那母狗能值五十个金几尼[1] ，可那公狗更值钱，是加莫瓦老爷的，钞票都买不到那条狗，没有爱就没有钱嘛——英国的王冠也是一样。那不是它们吗，六只狗崽儿，刚刚断了奶，爬来爬去的，又好看又结实的小家伙，都挺好的，但有一只有点打蔫儿。

“那一只吗?”汤姆·赫西说。“我就要去把它弄死呢，它的肚脐有点裂开了。”

“别弄死呀。”老狄克说，因为他对狗懂得可多呢，还有鸟啦羊啦驴啦。“把它给我吧。”汤姆·赫西当即就把那狗崽给了他，于是他就把它带回了棚屋。他用一条帆布把她巧妙地包扎好并且管她叫“苏西”，因为她冒冒失失的。

每天老人都要检看苏西肚子上的绷带——狗的习性他都懂——于是那狗便欢蹦乱跳地长起来，每到夜晚她就拱进草堆偎傍在他身边，狄克非常开心。他们过得挺好，因为狄克在下套上是个精明的高手，而兔子又多得是；此外他还时常讨要些剩骨头之类的东西给他的苏西。他让苏西跟着自己在林子里到处走；他训练苏西出色地服从指令，只要他把一只眼睛眨一眨，她就能明白他想要什么。这样过了大约六个月之后，他最后一次取下并扔掉了她的绷带。现在她康复了，长大了，健美了，成了个精灵可爱、神采飞扬的小东西。多么油光发亮的毛色！多么绵软蓬松的尾巴！还有她的眼睛——它们能叫你夜有所梦！

那以后不久，汤姆·赫西进林子来打鸽子。树林里不定在哪儿总有大群的鸽子，它们从树枝上飞起来的时候，数千双翅膀一起煽动的声响如同澎湃的涛声一样动人心魄。这不，汤姆·赫西来了，他走过棚屋时向老狄克招呼早上好。

“过来呀。”狄克朝他喊。汤姆·赫西拐过去了。看见那条狗的时候，他像木鸡一样惊呆了。苏西以少有的惊慌围着他张牙舞爪，用鼻子拱着嗅他的口袋。

“她饿了。”他说。

“不，她可不饿。下来，瞧你这闹腾！真的，她不饿。她刚吃完满满一锅炖手铐子[2] ——下来——就是那边我洗脸用的那口锅。”

汤姆·赫西打鸽子的时候，她一点儿不怕枪响，还像个天使似的把打下的鸟衔回来。“狄克，什么时候你心眼活了就能用这条狗换一头驴。”汤姆·赫西说。

“喏，她没长着嘴吗?”狄克得意非常地说。

“像绸子似的。”对方回答。

“那是本事。”

“天生的。”汤姆·赫西跟着说。

“告诉你说，那是本事。”

“天生的。她值二十英磅。你趁早把这母狗卖了，给自己弄头驴。”

“不，”老行家思忖着说，“我不干。”

“她能卖二十镑，好一笔钱啊。”

“告诉你说，我不卖。”

“把狗卖了，给自己弄头驴，我就是这句话。”汤姆·赫西说着昂首阔步地走了。

不过老前辈可是个目光深远、不同凡响的人物。这个满腹机关的老人，到了该出手的时候，他拉着汤姆·赫西做了一桩“诡秘”的交易。那对汤姆·赫西来说是有些风险的，不过当时他正在转往其他行业，便偶尔为之。于是在他的默许之下，苏西同他东家的一条最好的衔物犬偷偷地配了种。事情很顺利，就像到狗栏里转了一遭。那条狗可不一般，据说与加莫瓦老爷的那条曾为苏西父亲的狗不相上下。所以到了汤姆·赫西离去的时候，老狄克带着他的狗宝贝正在期盼着，再过几周，苏西就要把精心繁育的她们那个种系的狗崽生到地上了。他简直不敢去核算他们的价值；不过那肯定足以让买驴的想法贬为旁门左道。如果一切都来得好，他要让自己的生活彻底变个样。他要把旧棚屋扔掉——它正在朽烂，让他烦透了。如果非常顺利，他就能买一匹小马，还要拴一挂车，然后再弄些椰子拉着到集市间去兜售，顺便再到外边见见世面。要说做买卖，什么也不如倒椰子赚钱。

这些泛着玫瑰色彩的梦想无时无刻不萦绕于他的头脑之中，他生活得好像诗人一样浪漫，怀着极大的幸福和愉悦对那母狗倍加呵护——那是他所有理想的源头和依托。幸福地平线上唯一的阴霾是猎场那个新来的看守人——一个挺敦实的年轻人——对他怀着深深的厌恶。狄克很快便察觉了那种敌意，因为新看守人总是向他的邻居投以严厉的目光，而且转悠着要打翻狄克布下的陷阱并扬言要没收他的丝套，还抱怨他不卫生的习惯和他的偷猎。这倒是真的，他确实不干净，他已经顾不上脸面了；而且他的偷猎也确有其事，但只一点点，因为他有同别人一样会饿的胃，还有那条狗。

一天大清早，狄克正在烧火，新看守人溜达上来了。这是个嘴巴歪斜、慢声慢语的年轻人，懒洋洋地站在那里，枪夹在腋窝下，手插在裤袋里。两人都不说话，闷了一阵，后来是看守人先开了口：

“火着得挺好嘛。”

“哈哈，你也能着那么好，”老人咧嘴笑笑，“要是我不留神把你也扔到那上头。”

足有两分钟对方没接上话头，他是个容易被激怒的年轻看守人。然后他说：“啊，那么你认为自己在这里能干些什么呢？”

老人往开水罐里捏了少许茶叶。

“你干你的差使，小伙子，那我就干我的嘛。”

“你的差使是什么呀?”

“老前辈”生气地瞪了他一眼。

“我的差使？告诉你说——那就是往自家的灶火里填柴禾。这一点往后你自己会明白的。在你嘴里还往外漾奶的时候，我就清楚了——不过你会明白的。等你到了我这把年纪吧。”

“噢，”看守人慢吞吞地说，“我倒不在乎等。”

“你这样的年轻人，”老人开始大声嚷嚷，“以前我见过许多许多。你知道前一个出了什么事吗?”

“让跳蚤咬死了，这不希奇。”年轻人平静地说。

“我给他来了个冷不防。他不想事的时候，”老人忆起往事咧嘴笑了，“我想！我把他引到险要之处，在他肚子上踹了一脚，他就下去了。来去光光。那么你知道我干什么了吗？”

“掏他的口袋呗，这我不奇怪。”

“啊！从来不拿别人一丁点东西，除非那原本就是我自己的，来去光光，告诉你说。”

“噢，”新看守人慢悠悠地说，同时把枪从左边换到右边，“任何人的隐秘我都敢往外捅……”

“哈，包括任何老女人的吧，要叫我说？”

“……任何人的，”对方不受干扰，继续说，“也能把它瞒住——如果你听说了什么。”他开始用火柴杆儿剔牙。“接到通知了吗？”他越发随便地加上一句。

“什么通知？”

“我发给你的通知。”

“那你把它发到爪哇国去了，我没接到。”

“你接到了，这我清楚。不过我可以再告诉你一遍。我接到了命令，要把你清理出这片林子，你，还有你的狗。你不用着急，不想跟你来硬的；不过你必须搬走，就在最近，你和你的狗。”

“好的，我们可以走。你这狡猾的家伙！我们可以走。”

“那就对了。”

“我们可以走——到了想走的时候。不过我的工作谁来接管呢？”

“你的什么工作？“

“哈哈！什么工作？”老人愤愤地说，“怎么，林子里那些猎物是谁在看着？偷猎的人多得很，正等着钻我睡觉的空子呢。可他们钻不着。”

“哈，这么狭小阴暗的窝棚，我看谁也睡不着。”

“咳，我就能睡呀，有个破麻袋我就能睡。还有，那些地方被暴风雨糟蹋了，是谁去收拾的？那些道路是我去打扫的，全都是我打扫的。我那是为你们做的呀。有些事我做得对，有些事也许做得不对。如果我能把一切事情都做对，我想我可能就会超脱到这个世界之外去了。”

“谁叫你去干的？没有人叫你去干。那些事情不干，我们照样；没有你在这里，我们也照样。好啦，我已经告诉过你了。”说完，年轻的看守人扭头扬长而去。

“喂——”老前辈在他身后呼喊，“来去光光，告诉你说，来去光光”；并且不停地用这不同凡响的断语告诫他的对手，直到那身影在他的视野中完全消失。

不过，蔑视归蔑视，老人还是被触动了；他明白无可挽回，他只能到别处去另寻栖身之所。幸亏命运的恩惠，这次打击的降临恰逢于他并无大碍之际，他所需要的只是时间，好让苏西把她的宝宝生下来，然后他就要走了；那时他要驾着自己的马和车，像个阔佬一样，把那个伯克郡和那个牛津郡全都游遍。

一个星期之后苏西平安顺利地产下了九只狗崽。奇迹可遇——也该遇——但不能预料；一窝九崽实属意外，可她们就活生生地出现在棚屋里这位老人的身边。他们——狄克，苏西和九个小崽儿——都睡在一起；苏西像个英雄一样被供养着，然而几天之后，竟然瘦了下来，可那九只狗崽个个都像气吹的一样滚圆。

它们满了七天之后，老人一大早就起身去干修剪树篱的活儿。那是三月里一个有风的、明媚的早晨，他留意了一下粉红的朝霞所呈现的云象，晴天是肯定的，尽管有几片云的形状怪怪的，像只大鹅把头扭向后方。那是逢事的预兆。黑鸟和画眉正唱得美不自胜。当苏西像他那样在同一个盛着“手铐”的锅里吃了些什么之后，狄克把棚屋上的麻袋撩开，让苏西留下来哺育她的幼崽，他自己则跛着脚上路去工作。他休整的树篱在高地上的农场里，在那儿正可以俯瞰他的那片林子。中午吃饭的时候他坐下来饶有兴致地观赏春光里的山色。广袤的山野上那肃杀的枯黄很快就要随着残叶的飘落而褪尽。林间空地和岸边已被早发的婴草染出片片绿斑，坚果灌木上依然垂挂着串串褐色的果荚，树篱间白苣菜的闪光招来成群的蜜蜂嗡嗡飞。在整个那一片浩瀚的山林里有一方狭小的空间，年复一年他像蜗牛一样在那里钻进爬出，然而即便如此狭小，如今也不容他据为久栖之地了。所以说他们要走了——他和苏西。

他的附近是农场的谷仓和一汪水塘。农舍附近的田地里两匹白马正在互相啃痒痒，一只喜鹊站在草跺顶上看着它们。水塘边一头红牛正在吸水喝，它抬头向老人张望的时候，许多水从毛茸茸的唇边流下；那牛用舌头灵巧地先舔一个鼻孔，再舔另一个，但还是没拦住水在下巴上挂了长长的、黏黏的一缕。这番景致的上方漂浮着很大的一个云团，白白的，静静的，像一只硕大的天鹅在沉思。老狄克站起来舒展一下身体，风停了。下午过后他收工回家。在穿过树林的途中，他来到一片长满婴草的空地；一簇茂盛的草丛上扔着苏西的口套，而他的爱犬苏西就躺在不远的斜坡上，被击穿了胸膛。老人在她身旁跪下来查看，已经回天无术，她死去多时了。老人记起曾听到过一声枪响，声音不很清脆，有点发闷。也许她是出来撒欢儿，正在追逐野兔；也许她扔下一窝幼崽就是为了出来找他。于是看守人朝她开枪，朝穷苦老人的爱犬开枪，把她杀死了。厄运来得太猛，猝不及防，令他手足无措。

“现在我败得一塌糊涂，”他凄惨地说，“可这是事实。”

他离开那里，愤愤地絮叨着，一路失魂落魄地回到他的棚屋。两只狗崽已经死了。其余的也没救了，他也救不了；对这些小东西，他真的束手无策，她们太小了，用手喂不活，更何况他也没东西喂她们。他爬到棚子外边扒着立在那里的水桶狠狠地喝了一气凉水，然后跪坐在那里，两眼无神地望着闷着的炉火发呆。

“知道了，是的，我知道自己能干什么了，”他嗫嚅着，同时抄起他那柄长长的沉甸甸的钩刀[3] 。“只要在他耳根上拍上这么一下子，甭管男人还是女人的隐私他就都不往外捅了。小事一桩，要我说，他肯定能被干掉，两分钟就能干掉他；啊，要快点，不快点你就会落空。”他把钩刀抛在地上，跟着一声长叹。“哦，我现在要堂堂正正地败个一塌糊涂，啊，就会的。”他坐起来拉过水桶夹在两腿中间。他抓起一只小狗扔进水桶。“这是你的驴，”他咬牙切齿地说，“哈哈哈！还有”——一边说一边把其余的一个一个地扔进桶里——“你的马，你的车，你的椰子，都见鬼去吧！”——最后一只被癫狂地砸进桶里。

过了一会儿，老人起身把溺死的狗崽倒进一簇灌木丛；他抛下的水桶撞在地上“哐啷”一声，但无碍于那山林旋即又寂静如斯。

【注释】

[1]英国货币单位，面值二十一先令，现已不流通。

[2]这里比喻实实在在的高质量的食物；作者用这样的手法刻画老狄克说话幽默风趣的特点，此处直译出来，意在贴近原著的风格。

[3]修剪树枝的工具，可砍可削，前端有钩。

日本樱花

约翰·高尔斯华绥

伦敦金融区的知名人士尼尔森先生在开姆普登山的家中打开了更衣室的窗子，这时他在喉咙深处感受到一种怪怪的、甜丝丝的滋味，同时第五肋骨下面还有一种空落落的感觉。挂好窗钩，他留意到广场花园里有一棵小树绽开了花朵，温度计指在华氏六十度。“多好的早晨，”他想，“春天，终于来了！”

把红酒的价格重新考虑了一番之后，他拿起象牙衬底的手镜审视自己的面容。他的脸庞端正，面颊红润，褐色的髭须甚为齐整，纯灰色的眼睛又大又圆，矍铄的目光昭示着健康甚佳，尽可宽心。穿上他的黑色方领角长外衣，他来到楼下。

餐厅里他的晨报正摊开在边柜上。尼尔森先生少有地把它拿在手中，这时他又出现了那种奇怪的感觉。心怀疑虑，他穿过法式落地窗，走下铁制旋梯，来到新鲜空气中。布谷鸟时钟正交八点。

“早饭还有半小时，”他想，“到花园里去走走。”

他这样对自己说着，便把晨报背在身后开始在环行小路上散步。他少有地在那里转了两圈，这时他体会到那种感觉，在新鲜空气中非但没有去除反而更强烈了。他做了几次深呼吸，深呼吸是他妻子的医生建议的；可是这样也只是加强而并非减弱了那种感受——好像一种酒，甜丝丝地渗入他的体内，心脏上方还伴有轻微的隐痛。回忆前一天晚上吃过的东西，他想不出有什么稀罕的饭菜；于是他想到可能是某种气味影响了自己。可是他嗅到的没有别的，只有一种淡淡的、甜丝丝的柠檬香味——挺宜人，而绝非讨厌——那显然是阳光下正在发芽的灌木丛散发出来的。他刚要迈步再去放松一下，附近的一只黑鸟突然放声啼鸣，引得尼尔森先生注目张望；在大约五码之外，他看到了一棵小树，那只黑鸟就落在它的枝叶中间。他好奇地打量着，并且认出了那就是他从窗口里留意过的那棵小树，它开着满树的鲜花，白色的粉色的；还有嫩绿的新叶，圆圆的，尖尖的；所有的鲜花和嫩叶上都闪耀着明媚的阳光。尼尔森先生笑了，小树那么鲜活，那么亮丽！尼尔森先生没有继续往前走，而是站在那里对着小树微笑。

“晨光如此美妙！”他想，“而且我在这里是广场上唯一的有……到外边来并且……！”还没把这些想出个头绪，他却看到一个人背着手站在离他不远的地方，也在微笑着打量那棵小树。尼尔森先生微微一惊，忙敛起笑容暗自观察这位不速之客。原来是他的近邻唐德拉姆先生，城里的知名人物，住在紧邻他的房子里已经五年多了。尼尔森先生顿时觉出自己的处境有些尴尬，因为，结婚以来他们之间一直还没说过话。他对正面的接触存有顾虑，因而决定随便咕哝一声“多好的早晨”同时迈步继续往前走；这时唐德拉姆先生应了一声：“太美了，在这个时令！”尼尔森先生听出邻居的语声中透着稍许的紧张，于是鼓起了同他正面交谈的勇气。对方的身高同尼尔森先生不相上下，相貌敦厚，气色甚好，纯灰色的眼睛又圆又大，棕色的胡须修得很齐整，身着一件黑色的方领角长外衣。尼尔森先生注意到他抬头看那小树的时候，晨报是背在身后的。尼尔森先生有了一种被抓住了过失的感觉，他忽然出其不意地说：

“哦——您能告诉我这是什么树吗？”

唐德拉姆先生答道：

“我正要向您请教这个呢。”同时向小树走过去。尼尔森先生也来到小树近前。

“依我看，树上肯定有它的名字。”他说。

唐德拉姆先生先看到了那个小牌牌，离那黑鸟刚才落的地方很近。他把它读了出来：

“日本樱花！”

“啊！”尼尔森先生说，“想着就是它，开早花儿的。”

“没错，”唐德拉姆先生表示赞同，然后又加上一句，“今天空中满有情趣呢。”

尼尔森先生点点头：

“那是黑鸟在唱。”他说。

“与画眉相比，”唐德拉姆先生答道，“我觉得还是黑鸟更可爱一些，它的音调更富于形象感。”同时以近乎友好的眼光看着尼尔森先生。

“就是，”尼尔森先生嗫嚅着说。“这些外来品种，它们不结果实。然而繁花似锦。”他又抬头扫了那些鲜花一眼，心里在想，“满好的嘛，这家伙，我挺喜欢他。”

唐德拉姆先生也在直直地望着那些花儿，小树仿佛要答谢他们的观赏，竟然簌簌地抖动起来，越发地灿烂夺目了。远处传来黑鸟清脆嘹亮的啼鸣。尼尔森先生收回目光。他忽然感到唐德拉姆先生显着有点傻气，而且好像他已经看出了自己，于是他说：“我该进去了。早安！”

一片阴影掠过唐德拉姆先生的面颊，仿佛同样，他也曾突然察觉到尼尔森先生的某些什么。

“早安。”他回答，然后他们各自把报纸背在身后分开了。

尼尔森先生回身走向自家花园的窗户。为了避免与邻居同时到达，他走得很慢。看着唐德拉姆先生登上了他家的铁制旋梯，他才登上自家的。在旋梯的最高一层他停住了。

那日本樱花沐浴在春天斜射的阳光里，鲜活得仿佛已不仅是一棵树。黑鸟又飞回到它那里，正在鸣唱自己的心声。

尼尔森先生叹息了一声；他又在喉咙里尝到了那种奇怪的滋味，一种哽噎的感觉。

一声咳嗽或叹息吸引了他的注意。唐德拉姆先生站在法式落地窗的暗影里，也在回望花园那边的樱花树。

尼尔森先生内心无比烦乱，他猛然转身进入房内，随即打开了晨报。

美国佬都是骗子

埃里克·奈特

爱尔兰人你总认不错，

荷兰人你总认不错，

美国佬你也认不错，

不过你讲不出他许多。

史密斯先生见到“逍遥鹰”这个客栈名字觉得挺有趣。他很高兴来到波尔津索布里格。那村庄远离交通干线——是美国人总想见到的那种地道的英国乡村。

小客栈低矮、零乱，屋顶又高又陡。招牌就挂在门的上方——饱经风霜的衬底上一只发黑的鸟。

眼前的一切都在表明他选定这次深入北上的自行车旅游确实很有见地——只有竖窗棂的纵格式窗子、熊熊燃烧的炉火、约克郡口音的汉子们。他们在顶棚低矮的房间里玩投镖游戏，不时地把脚跺踏在沙石地面上。史密斯先生差不多刚开始能听懂他们的谈话。在享用他那份精美的晚茶的同时他已经把那四个汉子区分清了。一个叫索·库珀的农民；一位老汉被唤作山姆；一个帅气的小伙子，用左手投镖的，叫高力克·皮尔逊；第四个是位体格魁梧的壮汉，叫做伊恩。

史密斯先生看着他们玩，听着飞镖不断地钉在软木板上，不觉中把东西吃光了。体态丰满、发型像玉米须蕊的吧女朝他走来，身上的围裙沙沙作响。

“再添些啥不？”

“不用了，吃得很好了。”史密斯先生微笑着说。他想听这姑娘多说几句：“哦，这个地方到了晚上有什么好玩的吗？”

“好玩的。”她重复说。“噢，他们就在这里坐着——再不，到了礼拜六下晚，街里好多人都到瓦克斯里去看电影。”说到这里她顿了一下。“《唱歌的牛仔》里的那个巴克达西，可叫他们着迷啦。”她又加上一句，带着鼓动的口吻。

史密斯先生对英国小镇上的电影院已经有所了解。而且他是南加州人，对那里的人们所喜爱的影片他全都了如指掌。他不想跑四英里路去看一部去年的二流西部片。“算了吧。我看我还是再来一杯淡啤，就在这里坐着吧。”

“您坐到炉火旁边去好吗，俺把酒也给您送那里去，好让俺把这里收拾干净。”

史密斯先生坐在板凳上，傍着烧得很旺的炉火品味他的淡啤酒。投镖游戏玩到最后是索·库珀输了，于是由他为那一轮付了账。这些人端着各自的杯子朝炉火这边走来。史密斯先生礼貌地挪让出地方。这些人见有陌生人在座，便敛住喧笑安静下来。史密斯先生觉得该叫他们轻松起来。

“这十月的夜晚可够凉的啦，是吗？”那些人思忖着这个说法，似乎在掂量这话里是不是还有话。最后索·库珀应了声。

“哎。”他说。

其他人点了点头。五个人端详着炉火陷入一片静默。后来年轻的高力克忽然笑了。

“您不该怕冷啊，身为扬基佬。”他说。

“哦，可我不是扬基佬。”史密斯先生说。

他们向他投去怀疑的目光。

“扬基佬，”史密斯先生解释说，“是新英格兰那边的。”

他们的目光从史密斯先生身上转为互相观望。叫做伊恩的壮汉深深地吸了一口气。

“扬基佬，”他说，“是美国人。”

“啊，是的，新英格兰是美国的一部分嘛，”史密斯先生说，”不过从那里到我住的地方有几千英里远呢。实际上，信不信由你，你们这里到扬基那儿比我还要近呢，依我看。你们知道，美国是个很大的国家。扬基佬生活的地区到了冬天确实很冷。可我们那个地方——叫做南加州——从来不下雪。真的，我有生以来从未听说那里下过雪。”

“不下雪？”高力克小声嘀咕。

史密斯先生笑了。因为，说到底，他是南加州人——而且他们正在聊天气。“不下雪，”他说，“冬天的时候我们那里有一段雨季，可是二月过后天就晴了，而且以后的九个月都不下雨——一点雨也不下。”

“九个月不下雨——一点儿也不下？”索·库珀问。

“一点儿也不下。日复一日总是烈日当头，晴空万里；连续九个月滴水不降，滴水不降。”

“小伙子，你们那里种些啥呀？”索狡黠地问。

“那可多了。供应市场的蔬菜，作物，柑橘。各种各样的东西都有。”

又出现了沉默。大个儿伊恩深吸了一口气。“柑橘，”他说。然后又吸了一口气，“长在西班牙。”

他那么着意地看着史密斯先生，弄得他频频点头表示同意。

“啊，是的，”他说。“在西班牙也长。这我知道。”

“柑橘，”伊恩重复说，“长在西班牙。”

这样问题似乎解决了。他们都静静地望着炉火。索·库珀抽动鼻子发出声响。

“那里还长啥？”

“啊，我在那里有一块牧场，我们种紫苜蓿。”

“子、午、虚是啥玩艺儿？”

“紫苜蓿吗？我们把它当作牧草；它原本是沙漠植物，到了加州之后生长特别茂盛，我们一年收割八次。”

“一年割八次牧草？”

“一年割八次。”

小个子山姆首次发话了：“先生，要是九个月都不下雨，你们一年咋能割八次牧草呢？”

“哦，这个好办，”史密斯先生说，“我们灌溉土地。”于是他对灌溉作了一番简明扼要的描述。

“嗨嗨，”索·库珀说，“那水从哪儿来呀？”

“圣费尔南多峡谷那边有供水公司，我们从那里买水。就像你们家里用水一样。”

“他们的水从哪儿来呀？”

“从水库来呀。”

“要是不下雨，水库里咋有水呢？”

“他们用管道从北边五百英里以外的地方引水。他们那里的雨水多得是。”

“然后你们就用水龙头往农田里洒水浇地。那里的地块有多大呀？”

“那跟用水龙头洒水当然不一样。我是用它作比喻。管道大得很——我们管道上的阀门就是十四英寸的。我们是用水冲灌土地——水要把土地整个漫过去。”

索望着炉火。“你们那里种谷吗？”

“唉，一般来讲，我们的土地要种苞谷就太可惜了。不过我们那里也长苞谷，能长十四英尺高。”

他们的喉咙发出怪怪的声响，脚下也躁动起来。

“十四英尺高？”索小声嘟囔，”好大的泡泡糖啊！”

“先生，”山姆说，“有一回俺去佛斯河口看见了那里的大桥。俺寻思在扬基佬那地方，他们也许有更大的桥？”

史密斯先生有可能到过新澳克兰大桥，不过那时他是“南”加州人。

“桥我们有，不过现在他们是在江河底下修建过江隧道。”

“那为啥？”

“唉，机动车辆太多了。”

“有多少车要从它们底下穿过去呀？”

史密斯先生愉快地把烟斗点燃。看来这些人对美国还挺感兴趣。

“这我说不准。根据隧道里过车的情况来看，要我说有成千上万吧。”

“隧道里过车有多快呢？”高力克问。

“不知道。我想隧道里车辆的通过率大约是两分钟就要过一辆车。”

“那么它们光穿隧道不走桥？”山姆这样盯问。

“噢，桥我们是有的。”

“一定都特别大，俺寻思。”

“是的，”史密斯先生谦虚地说，同时他想到了进入纽约的普拉斯基悬臂桥，“我们有些桥梁正好从整座城镇之上越过。实际上那就是走在数英里长的桥上。”

索·库珀朝炉火里吐了口吐沫。“整个美国有多少人口？”

史密斯先生不知道准确数字，但他觉得要诌得多一些。再说还有南美洲呢！

“要我说，有四分之一比邻。”他在咬着牙说大话。

“四分之一比邻。”他们异口同声地重复这个数字，跟着又不约而同地把目光投向史密斯先生；于是他意识到他们并不相信。

“等一等，”他说，“我想美国的比邻跟这里的不一样。在美国一个比邻是十亿，而在这里一个比邻则是一万亿，对吗？”

“比邻，”伊恩慢吞吞地说，“就是比邻。”

其他人点头表示赞成。然后伊恩起身离座，其他人也都站起来。

“噢——哎，等一等。你们跟我一起喝点儿吧？”他在挽留。

“俺们去玩一轮投镖。俺们四个。”伊恩的话意味多多。

另外三个人笑了。

“俺知道你们那里的桥为啥要造那么高，”索·库珀刚跨过板凳就开口说，“你们用水龙头浇出来的小麦能长十四英尺高，那么桥当然就要造得高一些，不然咋能越过去呢？”他得意地朝着众人咧嘴大笑。

“我可没说麦子。我说的是苞谷。”史密斯先生争辩说。

“都一样！”索一声断喝。

“不一样。麦子绣穗，苞谷结棒子；再说叶子也长得多，宽得多。”

“哈，那叫玉米，不是啥谷。”索说。

大伊恩踱到索·库珀和史密斯先生之间。

“哎，小伙子，”他平和地说，“你说的是啥谷，这我听见了。这是一件事，还有那个柑橘的问题，还说啥用水龙头浇地，啥城市上头架桥梁，啥从来不下雨，还有不承认自己是扬基佬，另外，比邻就是比邻嘛，可偏说不一样。依我看，你在这些事情上已经出尽了洋相。咋的，还有啥要说吗？”

史密斯先生两腿直挺挺地岔开，毫不示弱地站在那里，双手拇指抠进条绒裤子的腰带。他抬眼看看大个儿伊恩，又环顾一下四周，见到客栈里的每一个人都在沉默着，等待着。

接下来出现了一种奇异的现象。就在那一刻，充盈在客栈里的烟草味、煤烟味和淡啤酒味都消失了；代之而来的是史密斯先生正在闻到的一些混杂的气味，有大地在阳光下蒸烤出来的气味，有柑橘花的清香，有茉莉的花香和桉树的气味，正如在凉爽的黄昏跨越圣费尔南多峡谷所闻到的那样。这勾起了他对家乡的思念。忽然他觉得周围的一切都成为了虚幻——他没有远离家乡，他不是置身于英国的乡村客栈，身边也没有那些人围着。于是他抬眼望望，却分明看见一张张严峻的面孔流露出不肯苟同于他的神情。这时他开始大笑不止。

这一切都太滑稽了，以至他笑得简直不可自制。每次扬头他都看见那些人的脸；此刻，那满脸的困惑不解与刚才的不肯苟同相比，显得更为滑稽可笑。他们直愣愣地望着他，稍后，大个儿伊恩突然也大笑起来。

“哈哈，俺可闹明白了！”他叫喊着说，“要不就算俺发神经。”

这一次轮到史密斯先生困惑不解了。

大个儿伊恩叫喊着，突然在史密斯先生的背上着着实实地拍了一巴掌，把他的下巴振得像是飞上了天，又砰的一声落回到胸腔上。其他人见了都大吃一惊。

“咋的啦？伊恩，出啥事啦？”索这样问。

“咋的啦？”伊恩嚷道，“你们这些傻狍子！他在笑咱们！他一直在糊弄咱们！坐在那儿有一个钟点了，酒杯端得稳稳当当，跟咱们一通胡扯。咱们还以为他是认真的呢，都在那里傻听。”

“可是，”史密斯先生说，“你们不——”

“算了，别再提它了。”伊恩爽朗地说，“你确实把俺们唬住了，而且唬得挺漂亮。瞧老山姆那傻样。”

其他人都赞同伊恩的话，山姆搔着自己的头无奈地咧嘴笑了，随后又向史密斯先生投去认可的目光。

“不过——”史密斯先生又要说话。

“好啦，刚才你唬了俺们，那是俺们没防备，”伊恩说，“其实这手活儿这儿的人玩得更好。那么俺们就不再……除非你愿意实实在在地跟俺们聊聊美国到底是啥样。”

史密斯先生深深地透过一口气。“那么你们想听点什么呀？”

“有关牛仔的，” 年轻的高力克小声说，”您当过牛仔吗？”

霎时间，史密斯先生如临绝谷。然而只是短短的一瞬，来了个小魔鬼把他推过去了。

“我当然当过牛仔喽——这很平常，”史密斯先生说，“有关牛仔想听些什么呀？”

“请稍等。”高力克说。他们都在板凳上重新坐好，高力克才又说：“给俺们讲讲围牧吧——您知道的，像平·克劳斯比唱的：‘我正走向最后的围牧。’”

史密斯先生把局促的呼吸调整好，进入了角色。

“好的，”他说，“讲讲围牧和牛仔生活。那真是天一破晓就起身，朋友们，直到收栏才下马。等你拴好了马……”

“是野马吧？”高力克问。

“是野马。”史密斯先生表示认可。

“北美草原深处的野马，是吗？”

“没错，就是北美草原深处的野马。”史密斯先生再一次认可，“看来你自己挺了解美国。”

高力克谦虚地咧嘴笑了。“不该这样打断您，先生。”他表示歉意。

史密斯先生又倒吸了一口气。他看出了自己面对的已经至少有一位是专家。所以他非常投入，讲得棒极了。可心里却在感激命运曾安排他在内华达的度假牧场度过的两周时间。在此之前他曾一直认为那是虚度的时光。他有声有色地向他们展示了牛仔生活的动人画面。

他讲完的时候，高力克慨叹不已，大个儿伊恩也不住地点头。

“哎，”山姆说，“那些该死的野牛怎么样了？”

“啊，野牛，”史密斯先生说，“凶猛的棕牛！种群过处如沉雷滚滚。它们的种群曾一度——或据认为——有过行将灭绝的危险。不过如今，说起来我挺高兴，你们听了肯定也同样高兴——野牛种群的数量正在增加，那么不要很久，就又会出现狂奔中的公牛随着来复枪声而掀翻倒地的场面。”

“可那些讨厌的印第安人怎么样了？”索插进来一句。

史密斯先生想起了圣菲车站上的印第安人。他们看上去似乎并不十分令人满意。然而他受到了鼓舞。他凛凛然地站立起来。

“如果我不用这样的字眼讲话，你们肯定能谅解，”他说，“对那些劫掠我们家园的苍白的面孔，我们没有太多的爱。我这里说‘我们’，是因为我的母亲叶罗·布兰吉特就是布莱克弗特部落的公主。所以，有关白人和棕色人种的问题，咱们还是免谈吧。”

说完他凝望着炉火。正义凛然地，像自己希望的那样。

“哎，瞧那话说的！”伊恩冲着索说，“正好，长点见识吧，有些时候就不能随便咧……谅解他吧，先生。那就再聊聊劫匪吧。你碰到过劫匪吗？”

“碰到他们？好家伙，那可不得了。”史密斯先生说。

他简洁而又形象地为他们勾勒出一幅幅美国的画面，这里是日夜不宁的城镇，被劫匪的枪弹声所惊扰；那边是最后的一条街道和最后一处房屋；此外就是广袤无垠的大草原，野牛雷鸣般嘶吼，牛仔们纵马驰骋，还有那些被埋没的印第安人。

讲完的时候他抬眼看了一下。客栈里的每一个人都在仔细倾听。吧台那边吧女把臂肘撑在台面上听得入了神。

“啊，我说的太多了。”史密斯先生说。

“不多不多，接着讲，小伙子。”大家说，“接着讲。”

“哦，喉咙要冒烟喽。喝点什么吧。”

“喝香槟。”索热情响应。

“等一等，”大个儿伊恩说，“咱们先玩一轮投镖吧。”

“是这样，伊恩，人家小伙子想要请——”

“俺是说，”伊恩重复道，“咱们玩投镖，谁想玩就算一个。最后谁输了谁做东。”

结果还是由史密斯先生付了账，因为投镖这玩艺儿不像他想象得那么容易，而且那些人个个都玩得很在行。

就在他刚玩得满不错了的时候，吧女在那边喊上了：“到点啦，先生们。请回吧。”

史密斯先生很遗憾。一个美好的夜晚逝去了。大家都热烈地互致晚安。大个儿伊恩握住了他的手。

“喂，再见啦，小伙子。咱们共度了美好的时光。可俺还是要说，一开始你糊弄俺们的时候，并没有骗过俺。你知道，俺们看过电影，所以俺们知道美国到底是啥样。此外俺也常听人说扬基佬都是骗子。”

“是的，”史密斯先生真心实意地说，“我确实说了一些假话。”

“就是嘛。不过俺估计那只是你们扬基佬的一种表达方式。”伊恩说，“其实那没什么，只要最后你把实情告诉俺们。”

舞 厅

威廉·桑塞姆

天气真怪！一清早所有的窗子都敞开，还是热烘烘的；明媚的阳光让烧着原木的炉火显得没精打采。外边的花园里，空气清新湿润，温暖中掺杂着泥土的芬芳；房子里面，圣诞贺卡看上去更像是夏令营的请柬；冬青灌木的绿色枝叶使人萌生一种昨天还是“五一”节的错觉；棉絮做成的雪团根本不像白雪，就是一团团的棉花；太阳把彩色拉环上的金银箔照得烁烁闪光，也让那些陈旧的海滨纪念品又散发出浓浓的海腥味。顶棚上两三只苍蝇飞来飞去，嗡嗡嗡，像胡佛牌吸尘器例行的周一演练。花园里一只火红的知更鸟用烦躁不安的叫声表示它厌恶这反季节的圣诞早晨。

甭指望见到冰和雪了。不过至少可以盼望着来点儿魔幻般的薄雾吧，而且该叫人痛快地吸上一口冰冷的空气，来个“透心凉”，尝尝冬天的滋味，也好跟那熊熊的炉火有个反差呀，不然那些丰盛的食品都会没味道的。可是……那天早上什么希望都没有了，而且当莱塞普斯向花园那边张望的时候，那气氛真是糟透了——他觉得自己该拖着帆布折椅趁早到外边去透透气，对摆在一边的火鸡和雪利酒及其他美味佳肴，他连想都没去想。空气中的水气很大，没有一丝风。在花园尽头的树篱之外，水气浓聚成雾霭飘荡在那道深深的、温暖而又神秘的堑壕之上。堑壕的那边是一片荒凉的树林，再就是沃尔色姆庄园那爬满藤蔓的围墙了。

这座高大的维多利亚式建筑的最高一层楼窗被太阳洒上了一片金光，当时它的主人是一位女士，我们只知道她叫“埃默里小姐”——这座建有围墙和角楼的大厦被突然照亮，或许它依然保有地道的老式圣诞节的传统氛围，正由于此，莱塞普斯才在那天上午又一次对那位埃默里小姐产生了好奇。阳光照射到最高的楼窗——虽然它们都垂挂着白色的帷幔——不过他知道那房子所有没照到阳光的部分，在滴着露水的树木和风长的藤蔓之下，此刻定然是一片昏暗沉闷的暮色，迥然不同于外边这明媚的晨光。在铁锁紧拴的大门里面，在枝桠交错掩映的车道尽头，在墙皮斑驳的高楼之内，存在着一个更为幽暗的世界，被称为隐居者的埃默里小姐就匿身其间，已经十五年未走出那座房子了。

传闻可多了。不过有关这种隐密的生活只有一点是肯定的，那就是任何人要想搞清它的真相，最后只能不了了之。这样的独居者死后，他们的住宅曾被清理过，发现的多是污秽的杂物和大量的旧报纸，间或也有秘藏的钱财，有一处曾发现了一种宅中之宅：房间和过道都加上了一层空罐头盒摞成的衬里，十几年的罐头盒，个个都还亮晶晶的。然而，无论发现了什么，人们对那些生活的实际情形只能加以揣测；没人知道那些秘密，它们的原委，或悲或喜，都随着它们的酿造者一起逝去了。

埃默里小姐就是这样。不过她还活着，连同她的那些传闻。有人说是由于战争。另有人说她从年轻姑娘时起，一向就如此古怪。也有人说起她童年时代发生过的事情。可是没人知道。而且很少有人见过她。传说她偶尔也有客人——有一次在园子里曾见到过一个女学生；不过那也许是午后时分意在枝头苹果的入侵者！

不管怎么说，她不是令人生畏的人。她不是口歪眼斜，不得不黑纱蒙面的丑女人。不是瞪大眼睛在虚无缥缈的宗教中苦思冥想的人。不是法国古城堡里那种为着一个陌生人的大手而心情不爽的高个子女主人。这些都不是。很少的见到或见过她的人，比如邮差，干脆地说她是个有点“虚弱”的老太太。目光平和，皮肤白皙，纤弱中略带羞怯——很普通的一张淡紫色花边照片。

只是张模糊的照片。于是，在那个圣诞早晨，一想到她终日孤零零地待在不见阳光的高楼下面——莱塞普斯忽然萌生了一种渴望——想去看看她。别去干傻事，他告诫自己。她会烦的。你就是不能安生。你还是老实地待在那儿盼望你的白雪和薄雾吧。

可是那个念头挺顽固。到了午后他终于准许自己离开了温暖的阳台“散散步”。然而当他就要跨过堑壕上的桥时，他又给自己找到了借口：我只到庭院里去走一走，我不去打扰那个老姑娘。

其实他根本没有真的犹豫过。那么到了这铁桥上，当然也不，尽管那桥很单薄，而且是吊挂在岩石陡坡上，下边很深的地方长着茂盛的蕨类植物，从上面望下去头晕目眩的。

然后面对他的就是沃尔色姆庄园的围墙了。它有一人多高，陈旧的砖红色向两侧延伸直至目力之不及：它从雾霭中来，又没于雾霭之中，好似无尽无休。它苍老、衰朽、寂静——阻隔了窥测的目光；它在那里稳坐，同所有高墙一样宣称：“君子莫入！”只有树木上的露水滴落，声声入耳。他自觉不快，然而已在打量那墙的高度，打量那苔痕累累已然风化了的墙砖，打量被隆起的树根拱得已然向内倾斜的墙体——不定哪天会被掀翻。它经得住自己的体重吗？他仿佛听见了砖墙的坍塌声像轰雷一样在潮湿寂静的树林中滚过。他抬起左脚蹬住一道砖缝，手扒墙头攀了上去，然后无声地落在另一侧那厚厚的发黑的枯叶上。

过来了。刚才抬脚上墙的时候他曾感到自己像个恶作剧的小顽童；此刻，木已成舟，他立足于禁地之上了，忽然又觉得自己大了，就像孩子信心十足地觉得自己长大成人了一样。在那片被遗弃的荒草野地，尽管是那样的安静，他还是屏住呼吸侧耳细听。里面是多么不同的世界呀！太阳正在西坠——不过就是四点钟左右；可那些树木由于年深苔厚，已是黝黑一片了，各种植物悬在不同的层面上，都在簌簌作响，滴水扑扑，此刻在他向着房子的行进当中，天空似乎完全隐没在上方那巨手般的，密扎扎地交织的枝桠里。那像是进入了大的村落中下雾之前所积聚的幽暗中，空气异常平静，雾还没下，日光已尽去。不过此时此刻这一切对当时外边的世界倒挺适合的——那幽暗和神秘正该是圣诞节的气氛。

他继续走着。没有一根新发的嫩枝，一切都那么苍老、衰朽和潮湿。大树底下生长着茂密的接骨草和荨麻之类的底层植物，他只能像蛇一样在其间蜿蜒穿行。突然他停下脚步、屏住呼吸——一座雕像，一个希腊装束、没有眼睛的青年，布满青苔，静静地站在阴暗的树丛里正望着他，真像个活人。他咳嗽一声——没有反应——继续走吧。他遇到了一株巨大的月桂树，枝繁叶茂挡住去路。他不得不绕着它寻路而行，那就像是花园围墙内的一堵绿色的高墙，不过最终他还是绕过了它——于是那房子本身突然显现了。他一缩头，身体贴靠在月桂树墙上。出乎意料地突然面对那么庞大的一座建筑，着实让他感到了震撼。不过很快他就看出它是那样死一般的沉寂——或那么深沉地睡着了。所有上层的窗子都挂着白窗帘。下面楼层的墙面上密密麻麻地爬满了匍匐植物；底层的楼窗高大宽敞并镶有石框；门廊煞是气派是，建有哥特式门柱；从他站立的地方可以看清门铃的拉手已经锈迹斑斑——这样的东西还好用吗？他思忖着，不知不觉地朝它走去——最后几码他快步越过一片开阔的杂草丛生的砾石地面。

门廊里积满了风卷来的枯叶和废纸；此刻他就站在它们上面，如同跻身于海滨路旁的避风棚里。他在打量那个门铃拉手。它锈死了。厚厚的蛛网蒙在上面，还粘着干枯了的草籽。他忽然想到——同时心上一沉——也许老妇人已经死了？也许还没人知道？然后他又想起食物和用品怎么还送进去，也许是从后门。那么老人真若出了事，村子里的人们会很快知道的。不过现在是休假呀，人们都忙着过圣诞节呢，店铺一整天都没开门了。又想到了圣诞节，他脑子里忽又冒出一个可笑的念头——如果有人现在到这门廊里来抓他，他就可以开口高唱盛赞歌了。这样东一头西一头地想着，他还是决定绕着房子找找看，是不是有个后门像常用的，也许——他心里悄悄嘀咕——门口正堆着一堆没人往里拿的吃用之物呢！

他却没能那样做。

他屏住呼吸，奇怪这么突然能出什么事。声音？动作？肯定出事了，一切都被改变了。可这门廊里没有任何东西能动能响啊。什么呢？紧接着，他明白了。真是再明白不过了，太明显了，反而错过了注意。朝向车道的一个房间所有的灯光一下全都亮起来——月桂树那巨大黝黑的身影一瞬间变成了一道高大的暗绿色帷幕，绿色、金黄色的叶片密密匝匝，层层叠叠从空中垂挂下来；而那些落地窗则让自己高大的长方形身影扑躺在那片砾石地面上。

然而在刚刚出现的强光里却不见一个人影晃动，对它的笼罩也没有一点儿回应的响声从房子里传出。它像一个空荡荡的剧场被死人的手点亮。

莱塞普斯不能再等了。

他迅速地冲出门廊，又回到里面靠在墙上，像小偷一样蹑手蹑脚，撩起外衣的领子遮挡雪白的衬衫领口；为了避免在湿滑的地面上弄出声响，他踮起脚跟往前挪，一点点转过粗大的门柱，终于靠住了窗口的石框，然后用一只眼睛向窗内窥视。

房间里的每一盏吊灯都点亮了。窗子几乎一直落到地板；整个房间如同一个巨大的玻璃盒子，到处都亮堂堂的。地板是新抛光的，洁净明亮；所有的墙面都镶嵌了巨大的镜子，把室内的灯光折射得眼花缭乱；镀金的雕花镜框的盘绕之处更是光彩夺目；再看那些镜子，它们互相映照，不断反射，在两边各形成一道镜中长廊，室内的空间就在其中无限地扩展开去。每一面镜子中都有晶莹华贵的吊灯在闪耀，而且无论它照到哪里，摇动的影子或通红的火舌，都有一团窜动的烈焰与之争辉——房间一端镶有名贵大理石的壁炉里，架起的原木正熊熊燃烧。厚重的窗帘扎成一束垂在窗边。硕大的镀金流苏使莱塞普斯的那只眼睛瞠得老大。这分明是一个地道的老式舞厅。

不过老吗？它像从前一样充满活力。舞厅正中高高地立着一棵圣诞树，点缀其间的烛火发出晕黄的光。装饰的彩球上映出火的影子，彩条闪烁着把雪花抖落在墨绿色的枝叶上，一切都在伴着流光起舞。黄色的烛火静静地向上燃着，不时地抖动一下——迫于壁炉的抽力，不情愿地偏向一边，又突然挣脱，依然执着向上。

他站在那里充满了好奇。那是梦幻的世界——那么华贵，那么富有，那么温暖……只是空荡荡的，不见一个人影。

几分钟过去了。透过外边那阴暗潮湿的树林，通红的落日余晖正在隐没。莱塞普斯想：多像童话故事里的彩色插图呀，古老的红日洒下冬天的异样的光辉，林中的树木变得巨大无比，从中你还能看到普通生活的单调乏味，但那还是次要的，光明与黑暗的较量才是真正的主题，你更多地待在旧书里，而不是任何别的地方。后来，随着夕阳的坠落，他又嗅到了现实生活的气息——冬天的寒气冲入并刺激了他的鼻腔，也开始弥漫这漫漫的长夜。很快他看到了自己呼出的热气。

他扭回头又向窗内看去。没有人来；没有活动，除了烛火，炉火和影子一直在动。这种不能冠之以“活”的动，这种空冥的生气，反而让这房间透出沉沉的死气，它还不如一直黑着灯关在那儿真的死了呢。这很像一条魔船——所有的帆都扬着，所有的灯都亮着，然而船也空空，海也茫茫；又像商店橱窗里搭成的房间，支撑着服装的躯壳跟从来不用的家具一起上演死的生活，灯亮着，可没戏，永远没戏。然而这种房间的门后有人在等待：房门把等着往里冲的不可信赖的人群挡住了。

接下来的那一幕，尽管难以置信，却是莱塞普斯向里窥测的那只眼睛看到的活生生的事实。他着实吃了一惊，急忙缩到窗框后面。

舞厅里突然之间“灌”满了孩子！

孩子的洪流爆发了，如同欢蹦乱跳的孩子们在清晨冲出电影院那个时刻，奔到空荡荡的街上，顿时堵塞了街道，到处是挥舞的手臂和蹦跳的腿脚，加上喧嚣的声浪，旋转着，呼啸着盖过每一寸地面。他很快缩回身。哪儿来的？怎么来的？他们怎么进来的？而且所有的孩子都是女孩，十几，二十，三十个身着白色晚礼服的小姑娘像潮水一样涌进舞厅。他纳闷，怎么所有人的穿着打扮都一样呢？所有人都穿白的，都扎腰带，在灯光下非常耀眼，每个人都是一头卷发，蓝色的蝴蝶结上下颠摆，她们都在翩翩起舞。

他又把窗框上下打量了一番。随着外边气温的下降，窗子的玻璃上开始蒙上水气。这下好了，不用担心被发现了。

他定睛一看，立即发现自己刚才犯了一个多么大的错误——那房间根本没有充满许多孩子，那其实只是一个女孩，一个被数十面镜子反复折映的女孩。

这个漂亮的小姑娘在偌大的光照如昼的厅堂里，在自己众多的鲜亮的影像中显得那么瘦小而孤单。此刻这个鲜活的小女孩脚尖点地来到圣诞树前，优雅地行了个漂亮的屈膝礼。

她开始跳舞，那么孤零零地。

透过淡淡地蒙着水气的玻璃窗莱塞普斯看得如醉如痴。日落之后，夜晚变得冷多了。天完全黑了，他置身于滴水声声的林中不禁周身发抖——然而留在他记忆中的只是极大的安慰和愉悦，无论如何，在这座巨大的孤寂而又封闭的建筑里，那位老太太总还是有朋友的，秘密的朋友。他们能是谁呢？他难以推测——场面如此热情友好，灯火通明之中一派应有尽有的节日氛围。

接着——他事后对我们说——一种不安的感觉袭上他的心头。他理不清那是什么，就努力把它抛到一边。他以为那是那座房子最初带给他的某种感受，抑或是立身于寒夜中的花园使自己精神上产生的自卑感。可是那感觉很顽固，逼着他去猜想：这小姑娘怎么总是一个人待在这偌大的舞厅里呢？好几分钟过去了，一直没有人来与她相伴——这开始让人觉出她，这个小家伙，很可能是这座大宅院里的唯一的活人。一个可怕的念头出现在他脑海里——旋即又被他甩开——是不是那位老太太已经在楼上死去了，而这个早就来住的小孩子出于无知，竟简单地以为她的姑祖母是睡着了，并且为了好玩而在这里跳起舞来？

她的舞蹈一直没有停顿：跳过来，舞过去，一会儿到高大的壁炉前，一会儿又从光滑的地板上滑到镜子前，忽而以脚点地快速旋转，忽而举手抬腿来个优雅的“阿拉贝斯克”[1] ，还不时地朝自己在数十面长镜子中的影像顽皮地招招手——但总要不断地回到圣诞树前，因为当晚那里意义非常。

莱塞普斯对那圣诞树——也许因为那是她舞蹈的中心——有了更多的认识。它在形体上似乎更高了，而且现在带有一种静中寓动的态势，就像高大的衣柜给人的感受，立在那里那么沉静，那么严峻，好像随时都要动起来……他想：胡扯。那只是过去的圣诞节和玩具的不愉快的记忆，如同色彩粗俗的玩具能叫人害怕一样：品质低劣的玩具和圣诞树对某些孩子可能会遗害终生。莱塞普斯认定：当然，我自己就是这样的孩子。木偶、丑陋狰狞的黑脸玩偶，甚至“幸福家庭”的贺卡都曾惊吓过我。

可是他突然感到想要离开，回到那堵沐浴在金光中的月桂树墙后面去。

他的行动却恰恰相反。

他径直走到窗前，把脸贴在窗上。

此时灯光以外的所有空间都被雾霭弥漫了，他以为再不用担心被看见了。他沉着气往里看。

可他就是被看见了。

小姑娘从快速旋转中停下来那一瞬间，正好与他的目光相对，于是尖叫一声，又急忙掩口，然后转身便跑，却一头撞在圣诞树上。

顷刻间她的裙子燃着了。

几乎在同时他脱下靴子击碎玻璃冲进厅内。火焰被灌进来的空气煽动，蹿得更高——他不顾一切地冲到她近前，迅速脱下外衣把她裹起来，又把这可怜的“人卷”在地板上滚动几下，把火扑灭，然后把她抱起来托在手臂上。

她烧得不重，但她死了。她该是死于惊吓。

接下来，莱塞普斯说，他想大声呼救，即使喊破喉咙他觉得也减除不了自己内心的痛苦与悔恨——可是他却没有喊出一个字——因为就在这时他的眼睛慢慢看清了，托在他肘弯里的瘦小的腿上竟然有青筋隆起，满头的金发实际上已经花白，而脂粉遮盖下的原本是一张苍老的脸——那嘴的形态此刻看不出任何苦痛，枯皱的薄薄的双唇，似在微笑，想必是回到了童年的梦乡。

【注释】

[1]芭蕾舞的一个动作，单腿站立，身体前屈，相应的手臂水平前伸，另外的手臂和腿向后伸展。

娃娃房子

凯瑟琳·曼斯菲尔德

年迈而亲切的海夫人与伯内尔一家人小聚之后，在她要回城里的时候，送给孩子们一个娃娃房子。它有那么大，得要马车夫和帕特抬着才弄进院子里。它被放在饲料间门边的两只木箱上，高高地矗立在那儿。现在是夏天，对它一点伤害也没有，而那股油漆味，到了非要把它搬进去的时候，也许早就散尽了。是的，娃娃房子确实散发着一股油漆味（“当然那是年迈的海夫人的香味！最慷慨的，最香的！”）——可是贝丽尔阿姨说那油漆味足够把任何人都熏出毛病来。而且这还是在拆去包装之前。那么拆去包装之后……

娃娃房子立在那儿，油光光的，颜色是深菠菜绿，配着鲜亮的明黄。它的两根结实的小烟囱是粘到房顶上的，被漆成红白两色。还有那个门，黄色的，涂了清漆，光闪闪的，活像一小块太妃糖。四扇窗子都是真的，上边的玻璃被绿色的宽条分隔成小方块。居然还有一道小巧的走廊，漆成黄色。边沿上还挂着一滴滴凝固了的油漆。

多么多么完美的小房子呀！谁还能在乎那点油漆味呢？要的就是这份高兴劲，这种新鲜感。

“快点把它打开，动手啊！”

侧面的挂钩卡得很紧，帕特用小刀才把它撬开，于是整个房子的前脸都转到后面去了，这样里面的客厅、餐厅，还有厨房和两间卧室，你一眼就全都看到了。这才是房子打开的方式！为什么所有的房子不都这样打开呢？这可比透过门缝往摆着帽架和两把雨伞的简陋的小方厅里看要痛快多了！当你把手放到门环上要了解一套房子的时候，这些正是你渴望知道的一切，难道不是吗？也许上帝在沉静的夜晚带着安琪儿悄悄地出去散步的时候，就是这样打开房子的……

“哇，哇！”伯内尔家的孩子们叫喊的声音听起来好像他们都惊诧得不能自已了。它太珍奇了，对他们来说，礼物太过丰厚了。他们有生以来还从未见过这么考究的陈设。所有的房间都贴了壁纸。墙上挂着画，是画在纸上的真画，并且全都镶有金色的画框。厨房以外的所有地面都铺着红地毯；客厅里摆放着红色的豪华座椅，餐厅里的则是绿色的；桌子和床上的布单都是真的，此外还有摇篮、炉子和餐具柜，那里面摆着精巧的小盘子，还有一只大陶罐。然而，凯吉亚最喜欢的，最让她动心的，却是那盏灯，那盏精巧的、琥珀色的小灯，立在餐桌的中央，灯罩是白色的，像个小圆球。它甚至加好了油，可以点亮，当然你不会去点的，不过里面确实有一些像油似的东西，你一摇晃它就动。

娃娃爸爸和娃娃妈妈直挺挺地躺在客厅里，好像他们晕倒在了那里。他们的两个孩子正在楼上睡觉。看上去他们对这娃娃房子来说，是太大了点，好像他们不该是住在这里的。不过那灯确是完美的。它好像在对凯吉亚笑着说：“我就住在这儿。”那灯是真的。

第二天早晨，伯内尔家的孩子们几乎来不及赶去上学，他们急切地告知每个人，向他们讲述——或者炫耀——他们的娃娃房子，直到打响上课铃。

“我先说，”伊莎贝尔说，“因为我最大。你们俩可以随后插进来。但是得由我开头。”

没有人答话。伊莎贝尔老爱指手画脚，而且她总是对的。洛蒂和凯吉亚对这“最大的”所享有的特权一向领教颇深。她们蹭过路边的金凤花丛，谁都没有做声。

“还有，得由我挑选谁先来看娃娃房子，母亲说过由我来挑。”

因为这些已经安排好了，娃娃房子立在院子里的时候，她们可以叫学校里的姑娘们来看新鲜。每次来两个，但当然不要待到吃茶的时候，也不许在家里随便乱窜，只能在院子里安静地站着，届时由伊莎贝尔向他们指明那美的所在，而同时洛蒂和凯吉亚要面带愉悦……

尽管一路匆忙，当他们赶到男孩运动场外涂着焦油的篱笆墙时，已经响起了刺耳的铃声。她们刚刚扯下帽子，扑进队列，点名就开始了。没关系，伊莎贝尔在竭力掩饰那一时的窘迫——她摆出一副事关重大和神秘的脸色，又用手捂住嘴巴对身边的女孩说：“有点事，游戏的时候告诉你。”

游戏时间到了。伊莎贝尔被围了起来，她班上的女孩子差点打起来，为的是能把手搭到她身上，跟她一起走，朝她讨好地笑笑，做她不寻常的朋友。她在游戏场边上高大的松树底下拉起了一个不小的圈子，小姑娘们推推搡搡，嘻嘻哈哈，簇拥在一起。仅有的两个待在圈子外面的孩子是凯尔维家的两位小姑娘，她们一向是在圈子外面的。她们明白，到任何地方也不能挨近伯内尔家的人。

如果存在选择余地的话，伯内尔家的孩子是不会到这所学校来上学的，因为实际上这里并不是她们的父母要给她们选择的那种地方。遗憾的是，没有选择的可能。在方圆数英里的范围里，这里是唯一的一所学校。结果街区里所有的孩子，包括法官的小姑娘、医生的女儿、店铺老板的孩子，以及送奶人的等等，全都混杂在一起，更不用说还有同等数量的鲁莽而又顽皮的毛头小子。尽管如此，界限总还要有的。于是这界限就划到了凯尔维家的孩子头上。有许多孩子，包括伯内尔家的，甚至被告知不许同她们讲话。她们走过凯尔维家的孩子时，头是朝天扬着的。而随着她们把这种方式贯彻到一切言行当中，凯尔维家的孩子就被所有的人避开了，甚至当利尔·凯尔维抱着一束鲜花，花是太平常了一点，朝讲台走来的时候，连老师对她们所用的都是一种特别的语气，而对别的孩子则是另外一种特殊的微笑。

她们的母亲是个洗衣妇，她个子不高，干活实在而又麻利，每天都走门串户地揽活干，这就够糟糕的了，那么凯尔维先生在哪呢？没有人确切知道。不过人们都说他在蹲监狱。所以说她们是洗衣妇和囚徒的女儿——别人家孩子的绝妙的陪衬！而看上去她们还真是这样。凯尔维太太怎么把她们搞得那么引人注目呢，简直叫人难以理解。其实她们穿戴得都是她干活的人家送给她的破烂。比如说吧，利尔是个挺壮实的孩子，长着不小的雀斑，不太漂亮。她上学来穿的衣服是用伯内尔家的绿色艺术桌布改制成的，而两只衣袖却是红色的，那用的是洛根家的窗帘。顶在她高耸的额头上的帽子，是成年女人的用品，它过去的主人是现任邮政局长莱基小姐。它的后沿是朝上卷起来的，还饰有一根红色的大羽毛。这身穿戴看上去是多么古怪呀，怎么能叫人不发笑呢！还有她的小妹妹，我们的埃尔斯，穿着一件很长的白上衣，活像一件睡衣，和一双男孩子的小皮靴。实在讲我们的埃尔斯不管穿什么，看上去都不会很顺眼的。她是个分扯愿骨[1] 时总得小头的孩子，头发剪得很短，眼睛很大，看什么都直愣愣的——一只白色的小猫头鹰。没有人见她笑过，她几乎连话都不说。她走到哪里都拽着利尔，把她的裙边拧紧了攥在手里。利尔走到哪，我们的埃尔斯就跟到哪。在游戏场上，在上下学的路上，总是利尔在前面走，我们的埃尔斯拉扯着跟在后面，只有当她想要点什么或累得喘不过气的时候，我们的埃尔斯才会用力扯一下利尔，于是利尔就会停下来并转过身。凯尔维家的孩子在相互理解上从来是不会出岔的。

此刻她们正在外围徘徊着；你总不能把她们的耳朵堵上吧。当小姑娘们转过身，发出讥讽的时候，利尔像往常一样，脸上露出羞涩的傻笑。而我们的埃尔斯只会瞪着眼看。

伊莎贝尔还在接着讲，声音是那样的自豪。“那地毯营造的氛围太不一般了，还有那些铺着真床单的床也是一样。而那个炉子还是带有烤炉口的呢。”

她讲完的时候，凯吉亚插了进来：“伊莎贝尔，你把那盏灯给忘掉了。”

“哦，是的，”伊莎贝尔说，“还有一盏精巧的小灯，全都是用黄色的玻璃做成的。只有灯罩是白色的圆球。它立在餐桌的中央，和真的一模一样。”

“那盏灯比什么都棒。”凯吉亚喊了一声，她觉得伊莎贝尔连那灯的一半都没讲出来。可是谁都没有注意她。伊莎贝尔挑选了两个人，当天下午同她们一起回去看那房子。她挑选了艾米·科尔和莱娜·洛根，而其他人知道了她们都会有机会的时候，她们对伊莎贝尔好得简直都没够了。她们一个挨一个地把手臂搂在伊莎贝尔的腰间，拥着她走开，她们有悄悄话，有个秘密，要对伊莎贝尔说。“伊莎贝尔是我的朋友。”

只有凯尔维家的小姑娘被遗忘在一边，悄悄地离去；那里再也没有什么可听的了。

几天过去了，越来越多的孩子看过了娃娃房子，于是它的名声就传开了。它成了一个话题，风靡一时。挂在嘴边的一句话是：“你看过伯内尔家的娃娃房子了吗？”“哦，真太棒了！”“你还没看过呢？啊，我说呢！”

甚至吃饭的时候都在议论它。小姑娘们坐在松树底下吃自己带来的厚厚的羊肉三明治和抹着黄油的大片的麦面饼，与此同时，凯尔维家的孩子像往常一样，坐在她们能凑到的最近的地方；我们的埃尔斯拉住了利尔，也在听，不过，她们嘴里咀嚼的是果酱三明治，包裹它们的报纸被浸红了好几处。

“母亲，”凯吉亚说，“我能叫凯尔维家的孩子来一次吗？”

“当然不行，凯吉亚。”

“为什么不行？”

“走开，凯吉亚。你清楚为什么不行。”

最后除了她们之外所有的人都看过了。那一天，这个话题不再新鲜了。到了正餐时间，孩子们一起在松树下站着；她们看着凯尔维家的孩子独自吃纸包里的东西，同时总是在侧耳细听，又总是那么悠然自得，忽然间她们想对她们搞点恶作剧。艾米·科尔开始小声嘀咕。

“利尔·凯尔维长大以后要去当用人。”

“啊？多么可怕啊。”伊莎贝尔·伯内尔说，同时朝艾米·科尔挤眉弄眼。

艾米·科尔很有意味地吞下一口东西，又朝伊莎贝尔点点头，很像她见过的自己的母亲在那些场合的做派。

“是真的——是真的——是真的。”她说。

接着，莱娜·洛根的小眼睛闪动起来。“我去问问她？”她小声嘀咕。

“我打赌你不敢。”杰西·梅说。

“呸，我才不怕呢！”莱娜说。忽然，她尖叫一声，在其他女孩面前舞动起来。“看哪，看我的！现在看我的！”她叫喊着。她拖拉着一只脚，用手捂着嘴咯咯地笑，朝着凯尔维家的孩子滑过去了。

利尔停住吃饭，抬眼望望。她很快地把没吃完的东西包好。我们的小埃尔斯也停止了咀嚼。出什么事了？

“利尔·凯尔维，你长大了要去当用人，是真的吗？”莱娜尖声地问。

死一般地寂静。利尔没有回答，只是报之以她那傻乎乎的满脸羞涩的微笑。她好像根本不在乎这个问题。这对莱娜来说是多么丢面子啊。小姑娘们在窃笑了。

莱娜可受不了这个。她两手按着屁股往前一蹿。“耶——你父亲在蹲监狱！”一声恶狠狠的挖苦。

说起来这是一件那么奇特的事情，小姑娘们都感到非常刺激，兴奋得发狂，她们一哄而散。有人找来一根长绳子，于是她们开始跳绳，她们从来没有跳得那么高，那么灵活地跑进跑出，或者像那天上午那样做那么大胆的事情。

下午，帕特驾着轻便马车来接她们，她们坐上车回家了。家里来了客人。伊莎贝尔和洛蒂到楼上换衣服去了，她们喜欢有客人。而凯吉亚却悄悄地溜到了后院。这里没有人，她开始在院子的白色大门上摆荡着玩。此刻她沿着马路望去，看到了两个小黑点，它们越来越大，是朝着她过来的。然后她可以辨出一个在前面，一个紧跟其后。现在她看清了，是凯尔维家的孩子，凯吉亚停止了玩耍，她从门上溜下来，好像要跑开去。可是她又犹豫了，凯尔维家的孩子更近了，还有她们的影子走在身边，拉得很长，一直伸过马路，头都搭到了金凤花丛上，凯吉亚又爬回到门上，她已经打定了主意，她向外荡去。

“喂。”她朝着走在路上的凯尔维家的孩子打招呼。

她们吓了一大跳，立刻停住了脚步。利尔露出她那傻乎乎的微笑，我们的埃尔斯瞪着大眼睛看。

“你们可以来看我们的娃娃房子，要是你们想看的话。”凯吉亚说，同时把一个大脚趾在地上划着。可是这样一来，利尔的脸却红了，头也很快地摇起来。

“为什么不呢？”凯吉亚问。

利尔喘着气说：“你们的妈妈告诉我们的妈妈，不许我们和你们说话。”

“哦，这个嘛。”凯吉亚说。她不知道该如何对答。“没关系的。你们来看娃娃房子还是可以的。来吧。现在没人看。”

可是利尔把头摇得更厉害了。

“你们不想看吗？”凯吉亚问。

突然，利尔的裙子被扯了一下。她扭回头。我们的埃尔斯正用充满了期望的大眼睛看着她。她蹙着眉头，她想去。一时间，利尔非常困惑地看着我们的埃尔斯，可是埃尔斯又在她的裙子上扯了一下，于是她朝前迈步了。凯吉亚引着路。她们像两只迷路的小猫跟在后面，穿过院子，来到娃娃房子矗立的地方。

“就在这儿。”凯吉亚说。

一切都停顿了。利尔的呼吸在加重，几乎要喷鼻息；我们的埃尔斯还是像根木桩。

“我把它给你们打开。”凯吉亚和善地说，她打开了房子的挂钩。于是，她们看到了里面。

“这里是客厅和餐厅，那就是——”

“凯吉亚！”

啊，这一惊可非同一般！

“凯吉亚！”

是贝丽尔阿姨的声音。她们转回身。贝丽尔阿姨站在后门口打量着，好像不相信见到的一切。

“你怎么敢叫凯尔维家的孩子到院子里来？”她以气恼的声音冷冷责问。“你知道，我也很清楚，你们是不允许跟她们讲话的。快走，孩子们，马上就走！别再回来了！”贝丽尔阿姨说。她进到院子里像轰鸡一样把她们赶出院子。

“你们立刻走开！”贝丽尔阿姨冷冷地高傲地喊叫着。

不用再说第二遍。她们羞愧不已，搂缩在一起，利尔像母亲那样藏头缩颈，我们的埃尔斯全然蒙了头。她们总算挨过了那宽敞的院子，从白大门挤出去了。

“不听话的淘丫头！”贝丽尔阿姨气恼地朝凯吉亚说，还当着她的面“砰”地一声，把娃娃房子关闭了。

对贝丽尔来说那天下午真是糟透了。威利·布兰德来了一封信，一封可怕的恐吓信。信上说，如果当天晚上她不去帕尔曼的灌木林与之相会，他就要到正门来问个究竟。现在，她赶跑了凯尔维家的小家伙，还把凯吉亚训斥了一番，她心里觉得轻松多了，那种讨厌的压迫感没有了。她轻松地哼着小曲回去了。

凯尔维家的孩子跑出了伯内尔家的视野之外老远，才在路边的一根红色的大排水管上坐下来休息。利尔的脸还在发烧。她把饰有大羽毛的帽子摘下来放在膝盖上。她们茫然地让目光越过草垛，掠过小湾，停留在那一片篱笆墙上，洛根家的奶牛正站在那里等着挤奶。她们想到了些什么呢？

此刻，我们的埃尔斯凑近了她的姐姐。不过，她现在已经忘掉了那个气冲冲的女人，她伸出手指拨弄姐姐帽子上的大羽毛；露出了少有的微笑。

“我看见了那盏小灯。”轻轻地，她说。

随后两人又都沉默不语。

【注释】

[1]飞禽的一段胸骨，一端分岔。西方人习惯二人各执一头，用力分扯，得大头的有好运.

伯 爵——一个哀伤的故事

约瑟夫·康拉德

“Vedi Napoli E Poi Mori.”[1]

我们初次交谈是在那不勒斯国立博物馆一楼的展厅里，周围陈列着自赫库兰尼姆和庞贝[2] 出土的闻名遐迩的青铜制品——火山的一次灾难性的爆发为我们保存的伟大的古代艺术遗产。

在《沉静的西尔姆斯》旁边，他主动跟我搭话，那时我们正在并排地观赏那座著名的古希腊神像。他对那件艺术珍品的见解倒也中肯，虽谈不上高深独到。他的鉴赏能力质朴自然而非博学卓识。显然他在生活中见过不少精美的东西并且喜欢它们，但他缺少圈内人士惯用的那些行话术语。遗憾的一族！从谈吐上看，他智力超群而且阅历不凡，是一位不会矫揉造作的绅士。

我们在过去的几天中彼此见过面。住在同一家饭店——条件满好，但不过分奢华——我曾留意过他在大堂里进出。我断定他是一位尊贵的老主顾。饭店老板对他鞠躬行礼，毕恭毕敬。而他也周到熟练地以礼相还。在店员们看来，他就是伯爵。曾经有过争论，为了一把男用洋伞——黄绸面，白衬里——侍者们发现被遗忘在餐厅门外的。后来是身披金色饰带的饭店门卫认出了它，我听见他吩咐一个提行李的男孩：“快给伯爵送去。”也许他是住在饭店里的唯一的伯爵；也许由于他的人品在饭店里得到了公认从而赋予了他“伯爵”这个不寻常的尊称。

经过了博物馆里的交谈——（交谈当中他曾捎带着表示了他不喜欢大理石画廊里的那些罗马帝王的雕像。他们的面相太强悍，太外露了，在他看来。）——有了上午的交谈，晚上发现餐厅里很拥挤的时候，我丝毫未觉唐突地提出与他合用他那张小餐桌。他平静文雅地表示赞成，可见他同样未觉不便。他的微笑很有魅力。

晚餐时分，他穿着马甲，外罩“烟套”（这是他的叫法，其实就是休闲服，也有叫吸烟服的），配有黑色领结。所有这些都剪裁得非常之好，不是很新——随身合体，恰到好处。他的穿着无论早晚都十分得体。我毫不怀疑他全部的生活起居都很正常，井井有条，而且已形成习惯，不为突发事件所乱，他的满头白发向后梳起，露出高高的额头，使他颇具理想主义者的风度，又像个极富想象力的人。一部银须密而不乱，修剪梳理得甚是精细，中间部分还不失典雅地染成金黄色。淡淡的清香越过桌面缓缓飘来，那是名贵的香水和上好的雪茄（那烟的余香在意大利当属罕见）。他的眼睛最能代表他的年龄。那是一双略带疲倦、爬上了鱼尾纹的眼睛——他有六十岁挂零了。他爱说话。我不想夸张地把那说成是絮叨——但爱说话确是明显的。

他告诉我他尝试过各种各样的气候，阿巴及亚的、里维埃拉的[3] ，还有其他地方的，但唯有这那不勒斯湾的气候才适合于他。他向我指出，古罗马人深谙养生之道。他们在海湾沿岸的巴邑、维科和卡普里[4] 建造别墅，他们非常清楚自己在做什么。他们到这海滨来是为了寻找健康，同时带来了大批哑剧和长笛表演艺人，那是为了娱乐他们的闲暇生活，他认为上层社会的罗马人极有可能患有痛苦不堪的风湿症。

这是唯一一次我听他表述个人的意见，并没有依据什么专门的学问。他对罗马人的了解不比社会上一般知识程度的人该知道的更多。他是根据个人的体验在发议论。他本人曾长期受到痛苦乃至危险的风湿症的困扰，直到发现了南欧的这个胜地才得以解脱。

那是在三年以前，而且从那时起他就把自己的住所搬到了这个海湾的沿岸，要么在索伦托[5] 的某个旅店里，要么在卡普里租一个小别墅。他有一架钢琴和一些书籍，再有就是在来自全欧洲的旅游人流中结识的为时一天、一周或一个月的萍水之交了。人们可以想见他到外边去，在大街小巷里散步，为乞丐、店主、孩子们和乡下人所熟悉，隔着墙头跟小庄园主聊得火热——而回到自己的房间或别墅，就是坐在钢琴前面，梳理满头的白发，修剪浓密的胡须，“给自己弄点音乐”。当然为了消遣，附近还有那不勒斯——社交、健身、娱乐和戏剧。稍许的娱乐是健康所必需的，其实那就是过去的哑剧和长笛。与古罗马的权贵们相比，唯一的不同是他没有任何城里的公务把他从适度的娱乐中召唤出去。他一点事情都没有。他这一生中可能从未有过任何要务需要他去处理。那是一种平和的生存方式，喜怒哀乐听凭自然进程的调节——婚姻，生育，死亡遵从良好的社会习俗，并由国家来保护。

他是鳏夫，但每年的七八月间他都要冒险到阿尔卑斯山的那边去六个星期，在已经出嫁的女儿家中做客。他对我说起过女儿家的姓氏，那属于一个非常显贵的家族。我想，她有一座城堡——在波希米亚，这离我弄清他的国籍已经不远了。而他自己的姓名，奇怪得很，他从未对我提及。也许他以为我已在公开的名录中见过。实在讲，我从未查过。总而言之，他是个挺好的欧洲人——据我确认他会讲四国语言——而且是个颇有财富的人，显然不是巨额财富，恰当地说。我想如果极其富有，他可能会表现得不那么规矩了，可能会自命不凡——总之可能要轻慢张狂的。而且很明显，那些财富也并非他亲手所创。聚敛财富没有点强暴可不行。这是性格的问题。他的性情实在太和善了，不适合与人相搏。在交谈过程中他曾很随便地提及他的财产，那是为了说明他那痛苦而危险的风湿症。有一年他不慎在阿尔卑斯山的那边滞留到九月的中旬，于是被撂倒在乡下的那寂寞的房子里长达三个月，身边只有一个烫洗衣服的用人和看房子的夫妇照顾他，再无他人。因为如他所述，他“在那里没有保留任何机构”。他只是到那里去几天跟他的地产代理人打打交道，事后他向自己许诺以后再也不会那么大意了。九月之初在他喜爱的海湾沿岸必定会寻到他的身影。

在旅行当中有时就会遇到这么孤独的人，他们唯一的营生就是等待大限的到来，死亡和婚姻把寂寞留给了他们，所以人们真的不能抱怨他们努力使等待尽可能的轻松。正如他对我谈道的：“摆脱肉体上的痛苦是我有生之年的一桩大事。”

不应该把他想象为难缠的抑郁症患者。他的素养实在太好了，决不至招人厌恶。他善于发现人性中的瑕疵。但那是一种良善的眼光。他为人沉稳而又轻松愉快，在晚饭到寝前这个时段有这样一个伙伴真是好极了。我们在一起度过了三个傍晚。后来我的一个朋友得了重病我必须尽快离开那不勒斯，赶到陶尔米纳[6] 去照顾他。伯爵闲着没事到车站来为我送行。我的心绪有些烦乱，而他的平和心态则随时都显得怡然自得。他可不是个懒散的人。

他沿着列车往车厢里张望，为我寻了个好座位，然后一直在下边热情地话别。他表示晚上他会非常想念我，还说出了他的打算——晚饭后到公园，即那及奥那尔乐园去欣赏乐队演奏。在极好的人群中倾听美妙的乐曲，他会使自己快乐的。那里会像往常一样有许多许多人。

我好像还在看着他——高扬的脸上盖着浓密的胡须，但掩不住热情友好的微笑。疲惫的双眼依然目光和善。列车启动的时候，他用两种语言向我致意，先是用法语说“一路顺风”，接着是漂亮的、稍稍加强的英语，语气中带着鼓励，因为他能看出我的关切：“一切都会安——好——如——常！”

朋友的病情根本好转之后我于第十天回到了那不勒斯。我不敢说我不在的日子里曾对伯爵思念多多，但一进餐厅，我就急切地朝他常坐的位置望去。我以为他可能回苏连托了，那里有他的钢琴和藏书，还有他喜爱的钓鱼活动。他和那里所有的船夫都是好朋友，而且从船上垂钓总是收获颇丰。然而很快我便在攒动的人头中认出了他那一头白发，而且隔着很远的距离还注意到他的神态有些异样。他不是端正地坐在那里，而是把头垂到盘子上方，神色紧张地环顾左右。我在他对面站了一会，他才抬头看，有些担惊受怕的样子，与他正常的举止大相径庭。

“啊，我亲爱的朋友，是您吗？”他向我致意，“我希望一切安好。”

他热情地问候我朋友的病情。的确，他一向都很热情，出于善良人的真心实意。然而，这一次他可费了劲。他试图交谈，但却显得迟钝，我忽然想到他可能是身体不适。可是还没等我的问讯出口，他又轻声说：

“您会发现我现在很难过。”

“对此我很忧虑，”我说，“您没有得到什么不好的消息吧，我希望？”

他对我的关切深表谢意，又说，不，谢谢上帝，不是那样，没有不好的消息。这么说着他已变得很平静，好像连气都不出了。然后，他往前凑了凑，用一种怪怪的、极难为情的语气向我吐露了他的心里话。

“实际上有一件非常——一件非常——我该怎么说呢——可恶的险情发生在我身上。”

“可恶”这个字眼出自他那样一个品端言慎的人之口，其分量就足以令人震惊了。我原以为他那种身份的人可能有过的最糟糕的经历，用“令人不快”这样的词来描述就足够了。而且还有什么“险情”。真难以置信！不过，人的本性是偏信最坏的，所以我得承认我确实偷着瞟了他一眼，惊疑他到底出了什么事。然而很快我那毫无价值的猜疑就消失殆尽了。这个人身上有一种基本人性的纯真，让我打消了他的生活轨迹可能多少有点不光彩的念头。

“那非常严重。非常严重。”他接着说，有点神经质，“晚饭后我就告诉您，如果您允许的话。”

我略略躬身表示自己完全赞同，并无异议。我希望他能明白即使他又认为以后再讲更好我也不会要求他恪守刚才的许诺。我们谈了些无关紧要的事情，感觉很困难，远不像我们以前的交流那样轻松自然。我注意到他举着面包往嘴边送的那只手在轻微地抖动，这个症候，依我对他的了解，绝对令人震惊。

在吸烟室里，他丝毫未显犹豫之色，我们径直坐到往常的位置，他斜靠在扶手椅上，认真的目光直贯我的双瞳。

“您记得吗，”他开始了，“您离开的那天，我曾告诉您我晚上要到那及奥那尔乐园去听听音乐。”

这我记得。他虽上了年纪，但面相依然鲜活帅气，不显任何磨砺的痕迹，但此时浮现出了片刻的枯槁。那像一片阴影掠过。我呷了一口黑咖啡来回应他凝视我的灼灼目光。他有条不紊地细细道来，我认为就是为了不让激动的情绪扰乱自己。

离开车站之后，他在一家咖啡馆吃了份冰点，又看了一阵报纸。然后他回到饭店，换上晚装去吃饭。晚餐时他的胃口甚好。饭后他在大堂里消磨了一会（那里设有桌椅），抽他的雪茄烟，还跟一个小女孩逗着说话。女孩的父亲是圣卡罗歌剧团的主角男高音。当然同男高音的妻子，那位“和蔼的女士”也搭讪了几句。那天晚上他们没有演出，也要到乐园那边去。他们走出了饭店。真是好极了。

正当他要随着他们走出去的那一刻——当时已经九点半了——他忽然想起有相当大的一笔钱带在随身的钱包里。于是他走进了饭店的财务室，把大部分钱存在了出纳员那里。做完这件事他雇了一辆马车来到海滨。他下了马车从维多利亚湖那一端步行进入乐园。

他非常专注地看着我。于是我明白了他那时的印象是何等的真切。那天晚上的每一件细小的事情都浮现在他的脑海，如有神助一般。诸如拉车马的毛色和赶车人的装束之类的事情，即使他不对我说起也只是由于激动而出现的疏忽而已，可他却尽力杜绝这一类疏忽。

于是他就从维多利亚湖这一端进入了那及奥那尔乐园。这是一个坐落在草坪、灌木丛和花圃中间的公共娱乐场，位于齐亚扎河边的房屋到海湾的水面之间。树木间大体平行的小路延展了它的总长度——那是相当可观的。在齐亚扎河这一侧，有有轨电车贴近护栏驶过。花园到海之间是一条繁忙的大道。宽阔的路面一侧以矮墙为界，墙外就是浩渺的地中海，天气晴和的时候，浪柔波轻，涛声不辍。

当生活在那不勒斯延续到深夜，宽阔的大道上车水马龙，一片喧嚣，四轮马车的对对车灯往来游荡，或快或慢，汇成一条闪光的长链。其上另有一条电灯光的长线，一动不动，勾勒出海岸的轮廓。再往上更有星光灿烂，笼罩着陆地和大海。一边房屋鳞次栉比，灯火通明，声浪滚滚，另一边悄无声息，漆黑一片，深远莫测。

花园本身的照明并不很好。我们的朋友在温暖的黑暗中前行。眼睛盯住远方的一片发光之处，仿佛空气本身在那里放射出耀眼的、黛蓝色的冷光，几乎笼罩了整个乐园的宽度。那个神秘的地点，从黑乎乎的树干后边，从墨绿色的枝叶后边，吐出甜甜的声响，混杂着铜管的轰鸣，钢鼓的骤响还有低音鼓那沉闷的震撼。

随着他不断地前行，所有那些杂乱的声响逐渐交织成一段欢快的乐曲，甜美的和声顽强地穿透嘈杂的人声和杂沓的脚步声，荡漾开去。一大群人沉浸在电灯光里，如同沐浴在小光球喷洒到他们头上的闪光透明的液体中，那些光球飘荡在乐队四周，多达数百只。几百人围坐在椅子上形成大致同心的圆圈，毫不畏缩地听凭巨大的声浪滚过他们身边，在人群外的黑暗中衰减殆尽。伯爵进入人群跟大家一起在平和的愉悦中荡漾，一边听一边看，看人的面孔。一切友好交往的人们，携着女儿的母亲，领着孩子的夫妇，年轻的男人和女人，都在交谈和微笑，相互点头致意。许多许多的漂亮面孔，许多许多的美妙化妆。当然这里有大量的各色人等：胖的，瘦的，有白了胡子还风情万种的老家伙，也有身着戎装的威武军官；不过占主导地位的是那些意大利南方式的年轻人，都是白皙的面颊、朱红的双唇、黝黑发亮的小胡须，水汪汪的黑眼睛左顾右盼异常灵活。

退出人群之后，伯爵来到咖啡馆前面，正好与这样的一个青年坐在同一张桌旁。我们的朋友喝了些柠檬水，年轻人无精打采地坐在一只空玻璃杯前，他抬头看了一眼，然后又低下头还把帽子往前压得很低。就像这样——

伯爵做了个把帽子拉到前额上的动作，然后继续说：

“我自己心里想：他在伤心，他有什么事情搞糟了。年轻人自有他们的麻烦。我当然没有理会他。付了柠檬水钱我便走开了。”

伯爵认为，在乐队附近散步的时候他曾两次见到那个男青年独自在人群中游荡。有一次他们的目光碰到了一起。那应该是同一个年轻人。但他又不能肯定，因为那里有许多这种类型的年轻人。更何况他并没有特别地留意，因为那张脸上带有的明显的、易怒的不安情绪在当时还没有刺激到他。

人们在人群中会体验到压抑的感觉，现在伯爵就是这样，并且感到了厌倦，于是他慢慢地淡出了乐队周围的人群。一条小路——相比之下显得非常昏暗，颇具诱惑地昭示着它的幽静和清爽。他踱进小路，慢慢走着，直到管弦乐队的声响明显地减弱。然后他走回来再折返进去。这样往返数次之后，他注意到了路边的一条长椅上出现了一个人。

那里正处于两棵灯柱之间，因而光线很弱。

那人堆坐在长椅的一端，两腿向外伸直，双臂交叉，头垂在胸前。他一动不动，好像在那里睡过去了。可是等伯爵再次路过的时候他又改变了姿势。他屈身而坐，双肘撑在膝盖上，手里正在摆弄一支香烟。他从坐到那里，一直没抬过头。

伯爵说他还是踱着慢步离乐队而去然后又悠悠地返回来。我想，他是在尽情地，也是以惯常的平和心境，在享受南方之夜的安宁，以及那被距离所软化而显得优美宜人的乐声。

此刻他第三次临近了公园座椅上的人。他还是屈身坐着，双肘拄膝，那是个垂头丧气的姿势。他衬衫的高高的领口和袖口在昏暗幽深的小路上泛起几片小小的鲜明的洁白。伯爵说，他注意到他猛然起身好像要走开的样子，然而在他未及反应的时候那人已经站到了他面前，同时语气温和地低声询问先生能否劳驾借个火给他。

伯爵礼貌地回答这个请求：“当然可以。”同时垂下手臂打算到裤袋去摸火柴。

“我的手下来，”他说，“但根本没有伸进裤袋里，我感到这里有了一种压力——”

他把指尖放在紧贴胸骨下的一点，正是日本武士开始剖腹的位置，那是以自杀的方式来抗拒耻辱，抗拒对其美好情感所施的不可容忍的暴虐行径。

“我向下一瞥，”伯爵声音惊恐地继续说，“我看见了什么呢？一把刀！长长的一把刀——”

“您说什么？”我大吃一惊，冲口喊道，“您就这样被劫了，晚上十点半，在乐园里，离上千的人不到一石之地！？”

他不错眼神地盯着我，频频点头。

“那边单簧管的独奏，”他表情严肃地说，“正当一曲终了。我敢肯定那边的每一个音符我都能听清。接着乐队突然放声齐奏；于是那个畜生转动着眼珠，呲着牙，极其凶狠地威胁我：‘别动！不要出声，不然——’”

我克制不住自己的惊异。

“那是一把什么刀？”我笨头笨脑地问。

“是长刀，是短剑——也许是厨房里用的刀，刃口又窄又长，闪着寒光，他的眼睛闪着凶光，还有他的白牙也闪光。我看得很清楚。他非常凶狠。我心里想：‘如果我跟他动手，他会杀死我。’我怎么能拼得过他呢？他有刀，而我是赤手空拳。我已年近七旬，这您知道，而他是个年轻小伙子。我甚至好像认出了他。咖啡馆前边的那个无精打采的青年，在人群中我碰见过他。但我也说不准。像他这样的年轻人这个国家里太多了。”

那瞬间的危难又反映到了他的脸上，我可以想见当时他的肢体由于惊骇可能已经麻木了，然而他的思维仍然极其活跃。各种报警的可能都在他的脑际盘旋。他也想到了以大声喊叫来求救，但他没有做出任何此类的举动。而他克制自己的原因则使我对他内在的精神气质有了很好的认识。他刹那间便看清了凭什么也阻止不了对方也呼救。

“这个年轻人会在一瞬间把刀扔掉，并装出我是侵犯者的样子。怎么不会呢？他会说是我攻击了他。为什么不呢？那是一对一，说不清的事。他可能什么事情都说得出来——对我提出某种不光彩的指控——我又知道什么呢？从穿着上看，他决非一般的劫盗者，他好像属于较好的阶层。我能说什么呢？他是意大利人——我是外国人。当然，我有护照，我们还有领事馆——可是要在夜间被抓起来，像个罪犯一样被带到警察局去！”

他发抖了。畏惧丑闻远胜过畏惧单纯的死亡，这符合他的性格。当然对许多人来说，这一点可能总会存在的——考虑到那不勒斯当地习俗中的某些特殊的东西——稀奇古怪的故事。伯爵不是个傻子，他高雅清净的生活信念遭到了如此野蛮的冲击，他自然会想到当时任何事情都可能发生。不过他的头脑中还出现了另一个念头：这个年轻人也许只是一个被惹急了的疯子。

对我来说，这是他对这场灾祸所持态度的最初的提示。他从夸张了的美好情感中感受到任何人的自尊不应受到疯人对其所施行为的影响，然而显然这种慰藉伯爵是指望不上了。他详细地讲述了年轻人眼露凶光、咬牙切齿的令人憎恶的野蛮相。这时乐队正在演奏一个缓慢的乐章。所有的长号庄严地轰鸣，如群驴嘶吼，伴着咚咚的大鼓，蓄意地擂个不停。

“没什么，”伯爵回答，“我的手臂下垂，一动不动。我语气平静地告诉他我并没有打算出声。他像狗一样咆哮几声，然后用正常的声音说：

“‘Vostro portofolio.[7] ’”

“所以我自然地，”伯爵继续说——并且从这里开始用手势把整个事情演示出来。他用眼神把我抓住，同时完全以动作表现，把手伸进内衣口袋掏出钱包并递出去。而那年轻人仍然牢牢地握住刀柄，并不去接那东西。

他指点伯爵自己把钱取出来，然后用左手接过钱，又用动作示意，让伯爵把钱包放回口袋，所有这些动作正值长笛和单簧管合奏一段甜美的颤音，并衬托着高音双簧管的动情的长鸣。“年轻人”——伯爵这样叫他——这时说：“这好像太少了。”

“是的，的确非常少，只有三百四十或三百六十里拉。”伯爵继续说，“我把钱留在饭店里了，这您知道。我告诉他那是我身上所有的钱。他烦躁地摇摇头，又说：

“‘Vostro orologio.[8] ’”

伯爵无声地向我演示捋下手表把它交出去的动作，不过说来也巧，他所拥有的一块珍贵的金壳半自动手表正放在表匠那里清洗。那天晚上他带的是一块（配有皮革护托的）沃特伯里，五十法郎一块的东西，他钓鱼的时候经常戴着。穿着讲究的劫匪察觉到这件劫货物的品质，嘴里轻蔑地“啧啧”连声，同时不屑地将其拨至一旁。跟着，当伯爵把那件遭到蔑视的物件放回口袋的时候，劫匪加大了刀子的压力，以此相逼提出了进一步的要求：

“‘Vostri anelli.[9] ’”

“有一只戒指，”伯爵继续说，“是我妻子多年以前送给我的，另一只上刻有我父亲的名字，于是我说：‘不。这你不能要！’”

说到这里，伯爵重现了与那声明相对应的手势，一只手扣住另一只手，再把两件珍物紧贴在胸前，那超然若无的气度令人动容。“这你不能要。”他坚定地重复一遍，并且闭上了眼睛，全然地期待着——我不知道该不该记录他唇间流出的那么令人难受的字眼——全然地期待着感受自己如何被——我实在难以启齿——被剖腹挖心，那长长的利刃正杀气腾腾地顶在他的心窝——人所共有的感受极度痛苦的要害位置。

巨大和谐的声浪不断地从乐队那边滚滚而来。

忽然伯爵感到那可怕的压力从敏感点上消失了。他睁开眼睛。只剩下他一个人了。可他没听见一点响动。大概是那“年轻人”已在片刻之前轻手轻脚地离去了。而那恐怖的压力感甚至在刀子移开之后还延续了一阵。一种虚弱的感觉朝他袭来，他只剩下蹒跚地挪到花园座椅上的力气了。他感觉如同一口气憋了好长时间。他缩成一团，由于需要抵抗的冲击消失了反而气喘吁吁。

乐队正以磅礴的气势演奏高难度的结束曲，最后以它雷霆万钧般的震撼而告结束。可是在他听来那好像很遥远，很不真实，仿佛他的耳朵被堵住了。接下来上千双手同时猛烈地拍击，像一阵夹带着冰雹的暴风雨滚过。再接下来是一片深沉的宁静，而恰恰是这宁静使他唤回了自我。

距他遭劫的地点不过六十码远一辆有轨电车急驶而过，车上的人们如同坐在一只又长又大的玻璃盒子里，在强光下他们的头脸都看得很清楚。接着又“刷”地驶过一辆，又有一辆驶往相反方向。乐队周围的观众已经散开，正三五成群地交谈着步入小路。伯爵挣扎起来，坐直身体，他尝试着冷静地思索自己出了什么事情。那行径的卑劣再一次迫得他透不过气来。就我所能理解的而言，他是在厌恶自己。我的意思不是说他在厌恶自己的表现。如果他对我所做的哑剧表演是真实可信的，应该说他当时的表现已经尽乎完美了，无可厚非。不，不是为了这个。他并不羞愧。让他感到震撼的是自己竟被选中当了受害人，痛苦的主要不是遭劫，而是被蔑视。他平静的生活被粗暴地践踏了。他一生所崇尚的至善至美的信念被摧毁了。

不过在那个阶段，事情并没到不可收拾的程度，他能够说服自己趋于相对的平静。随着他的焦虑稍许冷静下来，他察觉到自己非常饥饿。是的，是饥饿。激烈的情感冲突把他弄得已是饥肠辘辘，他起身离开座椅，走了一会。他发现自己到了花园外边，正站在一辆被阻塞的电车前面，可是他却弄不清自己是怎么来到那里的。他像梦游一样，凭着某种本能上了车，幸亏他从裤袋里翻出了一个铜币才把售票员打发了。后来车停了。大家都下车。他也跟着下来了。他认出了那里是圣·费尔迪南多广场。可是他没有想到雇辆马车坐着回饭店去。他还在痛苦中，像一只被遗失的狗流落在广场上。迷迷糊糊地要想个好办法，马上弄点东西吃。

突然他想起了身上还有二十法郎。他向我解释，他带着这枚法国金币已经快三年了，从不离身，作为意外情况下的应急储备。任何人都可能遭到扒窃——与令人蒙辱的抢劫大不相同的事情。

在他面前一座气势宏伟的台基之上矗立着翁贝托画廊的巨型拱门。他争分夺秒地拾级而上，径直走向翁贝托咖啡馆。外边所有的桌子都占满了。许多人正在那里喝咖啡或饮料。由于需要进餐，他来到了咖啡馆里面。那里用周围镶有长镜子的方形支柱隔成通道。伯爵坐在红色豪华椅上等候他点的蘑菇肉汁米饭，背后正靠着这样的一根柱子。他又记起了那可恶的险境。

他想起了露天乐台周围的人群中曾与之交换过目光的那个心事重重的年轻人。他确信抢劫他的歹徒就是这个人。他能再认出他吗？那没问题。不过他再也不想见到他了。那蒙辱的一幕，最好把它彻底忘掉吧。

伯爵焦急地等待着自己的饭菜到来，不住地四下张望。且慢！左边靠墙的地方——那里坐的正是那个年轻人。他一个人独坐一桌，面前放着一只瓶子——葡萄酒或是果汁。还有一杯冰水。光洁白皙的面颊，红嘴唇，油亮的小黑胡须俏皮地朝上卷着，好看的黑眼睛上压着长长的睫毛，略显沉重和黯淡，那特有的凶狠、贪婪的表情只有在某些罗马皇帝的半身雕像上才能见到。就是他，没错。不过那是一种风度。伯爵急忙朝别处看。那边正在看报的青年军官也像那样。同样的派头。更远点的两个下跳棋的年轻人也很相似——

伯爵低下了头，由于这个年轻人的出现他的心又提吊起来，充满了恐怖。他开始吃他的那份蘑菇肉汁米饭。这时他听见左边的年轻人用没好气的腔调呼唤侍者。

听到呼唤，不仅他桌上的侍者，连邻桌上的两个闲着的侍者都抢步来到他面前。那种曲意讨好的神态决非翁贝托的咖啡馆的侍者们平素的风度。年轻人咕哝了几声，其中的一个侍者快步走到最近的门口，朝廊下呼喊：“帕斯夸莱！喂！帕斯夸莱！”

人人都知道帕斯夸莱，那个衣衫褴褛的老家伙，蹒跚地穿行于餐桌之间，向咖啡馆的顾客们兜售雪茄、香烟、火柴和明信片。他在许多方面是个少不了的角色。伯爵看见那个头发灰白、不修边幅的棍徒走进咖啡馆，玻璃盒子用皮带吊在脖子上，听到侍者的一声吩咐，蹒跚的步履突然变得敏捷，一下子弹射到年轻人的桌前。年轻人需要一支雪茄。于是帕斯夸莱恭敬地为他奉上。叫卖老人正往外走的时候，伯爵突然灵机一动，招手示意他过来。

帕斯夸莱来到近前，顺从接受的微笑中奇怪地搀杂着讥讽的犀利目光。他把玻璃盒子搭在餐桌边上，打开玻璃盖，没说一句话。伯爵拿了一盒香烟，同时出于好奇，尽量以漫不经心的语气问：

“跟我说说，帕斯夸莱，坐在那边的那位年轻的绅士，他是谁啊？”

对方诡秘地弯腰俯在他的盒子上。

“那位，伯爵阁下，”他开始忙活着重新摆放他的货品同时头也不抬地说，“那是个青年贵族，出身于巴里[10] 那边的一个非常好的家族。他在这里的大学读书，而且是一个年轻人——非常可爱的年轻人——社团的头头，领袖。”

他停顿了一下，然后以谨慎而又卖弄的语气补充了一句解释性的话：“卡磨拉[11] ，”同时盖上盒盖，“非常强大的卡磨拉。”他呼出一口气，然后低声说：“连教授们都特别尊重它——您的烟钱，伯爵阁下。”

我们的朋友用那枚金币付钱。帕斯夸莱为他找钱的时候，他观察到那个年轻人——通过寥寥数语他已了解了他许多——正在偷看他们的交易。老流浪汉鞠躬退去之后，伯爵跟侍者结了饭钱。然后静静地坐着，他告诉我他那时周身已经麻木了。

年轻人也付了钱，起身朝这边走来。看样子是要到离伯爵的座位最近的柱子前面照镜子。他穿着一身皂青，配有暗绿色的蝴蝶领结。伯爵扭头看时，被对方眼角射出的恶毒目光吓了一跳。来自巴里省的年轻贵族——这是帕斯夸莱所说，不过帕斯夸莱当然很会骗人——一直在镜子前面整领结和戴帽子，同时开口说话，音量刚好让伯爵能听到。他的话是从牙缝里挤出来的，肆意侮辱，用心恶毒，而且一直紧盯着面前的镜子。

“啊！这么说你身上有金币，你个老骗子——你个老无赖——老流氓！告诉你咱们俩的事不算完！”

那极其丑恶的表情像闪电一样从他脸上消失了，当他懒洋洋地踱出咖啡馆的时候已经换上了一副冷漠、喜怒无常的面孔。

可怜的伯爵说完这最后的一幕，竟周身颤抖着瘫软在座椅上，额头上沁出了一层冷汗。这个暴行，其态度之蛮横无理，甚至我听了，都感到震惊。它对伯爵的良善意味着什么我无意揣度。但我肯定他即使没有因为斯文太过而出现在咖啡馆里中风致死那样迂腐的傻事，他可能也已遭受了致命的打击。所有的闲话都撇开，我的难处在于不要让他看出我的同情已经无以复加。他要回避一切过度的情感抚慰，而我的同情实际上却是无处不在，不能不发。听说他病倒在床上整整一周，我一点也没惊讶。他爬起来就去安排自己从意大利南方永远地离去。

要知道这个人十分清楚自己不能全年都生活在任何其他气候当中。

无论我怎样劝说都无济于事。那并不是胆怯，尽管他也曾对我说，“您不了解卡磨拉是怎么回事，亲爱的朋友。我是挂了号的人。”他并不惧怕对他可能采取的举动。他的清高的品格在一次屈辱的经历中被玷污了。这使他痛苦难当。任何一个日本武士，当其膨胀的荣誉感遭到践踏后着手准备自杀的决心也不会比这更大。回家对于可怜的伯爵就等于自杀。

有一种对那不勒斯进行赞美的说法，姑且假定那是为外国人准备的宣传：“那不勒斯睹，死亦足。”Vedi Napoli e poi mori.这是一种过于自夸的说法。而在以适度为妙境的可怜的伯爵看来，一切过分的东西都令人厌恶。然而当我到火车站为他送行的时候，我认为他却正在对这种自负的精神表现出非常折服。Vedi Napoli（那不勒斯睹）……那不勒斯他已经见到了。他见得惊人地透彻——而且他正走向自己的坟墓。他搭乘国际卧铺车公司的列车经由的里雅斯特和维也纳到那里去。当四节长长的昏暗的车厢被拖出车站的时候，我举帽在手，严肃地感受到自己在向送葬的队列致以最后的敬意。车窗玻璃透出的灯光中现出了伯爵的身影——Vedi Napoli e poi mori！（那不勒斯睹，死亦足！）

【注释】

[1]这是一句赞美那不勒斯的意大利语，意思是一个人见过这座美丽的城市后就死而无憾了。

[2]那不勒斯附近的两座古代城市，公元79年被维苏威火山爆发所毁。

[3]阿巴及亚是南斯拉夫的一个村庄，以气候温和而闻名。里维埃拉是法国南部海滨地区的疗养胜地。

[4]均为罗马海滨胜地。

[5]那不勒斯湾内的港口城市。

[6]意大利西西里岛东海岸的城镇。

[7]意大利文：你的钱夹。

[8]意大利语：你的手表。

[9]意大利语：你的戒指。

[10]意大利普利亚大区的一个省。

[11]秘密组织。

一杯茶

凯瑟琳·曼斯菲尔德

准确地说罗斯玛丽·费尔并不美。是的，你不会说她美。好看？嗯，这么说吧，如果把她分成几瓣儿……可是干吗那么残忍，把人分成瓣儿呢？她年轻，鲜亮，穿着极为入时，气派甚是摩登，新书里的最新的东西她通晓得令人吃惊；她的交往圈子是混杂起来的一群真正重要的、顶合胃口的人物和……艺术家——她发现的所谓“怪才”，其中有几个令人太难启齿，不过其他的到还满拿得出，挺招人喜欢的。

罗斯玛丽结婚两年了。她有个相好的小伙子。不，不是彼得——是迈克尔。她的丈夫对她也是绝对的爱慕有加。他们很富有，真正的富有，不仅仅是悠闲自在，叫人觉得古板和厌倦的那种，听起来像谁的爷爷奶奶。所以罗斯玛丽如果要买东西，她会去巴黎，就像你我去邦德大街[1] 一样。如果她要买花儿，车就停在摄政大街上最好的那家花店。罗斯玛丽在店里用她那火辣辣的外国派头十足的目光一扫，开口便说：“我要这些，这些，和这些。那些给我拿四束，还有那瓶子里的玫瑰。对，瓶子里的玫瑰都要了。不，不要紫丁香，我讨厌紫丁香，根本弄不出型来。”于是店员恭顺地将紫丁香移出她的视野，好像她的话是真的，紫丁香确实糟透了，没型。“把那些短粗的郁金香给我来点儿，要红的和白的。”她走向汽车的时候，一个纤细的花店姑娘步履蹒跚地跟在她的身后，怀里抱着的大白纸包看上去像是长布单裹着个大娃娃……

一个冬日的下午，她在库尔增大街的一个不大的古玩店里买东西。这是她喜欢的一家店铺。人买东西一般都有自己爱去的地方，无所谓原因。而拥有这家店铺的那个男人乐于为她服务也到了可笑的地步。她什么时候进店，他都会满脸堆笑。他双手紧握，激动地几乎说不出话来。谄媚？那是自然的。不过，有些东西……

“您知道，夫人，”他要解释一番，语调低沉恭敬，“我心疼我的这些玩意儿。我宁可不让它们出手也不卖给那些不会欣赏它们的人，那些人没有那种美好的情感，那情感是十分罕见的……”说完，他深吸一口气，然后抖开一小块蓝色的天鹅绒，再用苍白的指尖把它铺展在玻璃柜台上。

今天的玩意儿是一只小盒子。这是他为她留的，还从未让人见过。一只精巧的珐琅小盒，釉面光润，细若凝脂。盒盖上一个精致的小人站在一株鲜花盛开的树下，另一个更为精细的小人还把她的手臂搂在他的脖颈上。她的帽子挂在一根树枝上，真的不如一片天竺葵的花瓣大，居然饰有绿色的缎带，他们头顶的上方飘着一朵粉红色的云彩，像个天使护卫着他们。罗斯玛丽把手从长手套里抽出来，她在鉴赏这些玩意的时候总要脱去手套的。是的，她非常喜欢它。她爱它，这是件稀罕物。她应该买下它。她开开合合地把玩着这只精巧的小盒子，同时还禁不住觉察到自己的那双手在蓝天鹅绒的映衬下竟是那么的妩媚，动人。店主人内心深处的某个昏暗的角落或许已经生出同样的念头，因为他虽然拿着铅笔，斜靠着柜台，可他那毫无血色的、苍白的手指，却胆怯地朝着那红润鲜亮的指头凑将过去。同时，嘴里还柔声低语：“或许，我该冒昧地指明一点，夫人，那位女士那小小的紧身围腰上有花。”

“太迷人了！”罗斯玛丽对那些花赞叹不已。不过，价钱怎样？有那么一会，店主人好像没听见。稍后才让她听到一声低语：“28个几尼，夫人。”

“28个几尼。”罗斯玛丽不露声色。她把小盒子放下。她重新扣好手套上的按扣。28个几尼。即使人家有钱……她的表情扑朔迷离，她端详着店主人头上方的一把厚墩墩的茶壶觉得它像一只肥硕的母鸡，而答话时的声音却梦幻般地迷人：“那么，给我留着吧，行吗？我要……”

可是店主人已经把躬鞠了下去，好像为她保留东西是任何一个人都求之不得的事情一样。他当然乐意永远为她留着它。

那扇朴素的店门“咔”的一声关上了。她在外面的台阶上望着冬日的下午出神。细雨像灰粉一样旋转着筛落下来。而昏暗似乎也随之而降。空气中带有一股清冷的苦味。刚亮的街灯看上去凄凄惨惨。对面房子里的光也是惨惨凄凄。它们惨淡地亮着，好像在追悔什么。人们躲在讨厌的雨伞下面，匆匆走过。罗斯玛丽感到一种莫名的痛楚，她用手筒捂着胸口，她真希望买下了那只小盒子，此刻也抱在怀间，当然车就停在那儿，她只需跨过便道。可是她依然等待着。生活中有些瞬间，可怕的瞬间；当人从隐蔽处露出头向外张望的时候，那就很可怕。人不该给它们让路，人该回家去享用一顿别有风味的茶点。就在她想到这里的一刹那，一个年轻姑娘，瘦小，萎顿，倦怠的人——她是从哪来的？——正站在罗斯玛丽的肘侧，同时一个像叹息又更像啜泣的声音低语道：“夫人，可以跟您说句话吗？”

“跟我说话？”罗斯玛丽转过身。她看到了一个形容憔悴可眼睛很大的人，年轻得很，不会比她大，用通红的手攥住衣服领口，浑身在发抖，像刚从水里出来的一样。

“夫，夫人，”颤抖的声音说，“您能帮我一杯茶钱吗？”

“一杯茶钱？”声音里透出些单纯诚恳的东西，一点儿不像乞丐的声音，“那么你一点儿钱都没有了？”罗斯玛丽问。

“是的，夫人。”对方回答。

“真意外！”罗斯玛丽透过暮色盯着看，那姑娘也向她回眸凝视。比意外还意外。突然这对罗斯玛丽来说好像历险似的那么诱人。薄暮中的这次相遇很像陀思妥耶夫斯基写的小说中的事情。假如她带着这姑娘回家，假如她真干一回那样的事情，像自己经常读到的或在舞台上看到的那样，结果会怎样呢？一定够刺激。她边向前迈步边对身旁那个神色黯然的人说：“跟我回家去喝茶，”同时她好像听到事后自己对那些瞠目结舌的朋友们说：“我就这么把她带回了家。”

那姑娘惊得只往后退，一时间连哆嗦都不打了。罗斯玛丽伸出一只手扶住她的手臂。“我就是这个意思。”她微笑着说，同时她觉察到自己的微笑是那么单纯、善良。“为什么不呢？去吧。跟我坐车回家喝茶去。”

“您，您不是这个意思，夫人。”姑娘说，声音里掺着痛楚。

“怎么不是？”罗斯玛丽叫喊起来，“我要你去。去了我高兴。快来吧。”

姑娘把手指放到唇边，眼睛像要把罗斯玛丽看化了。“您不，不送我去，去警察局吗？”她结结巴巴地问。

“警察局！”罗斯玛丽笑出声来，“我干吗那么无情啊？不会的。我只想叫你暖和暖和还想听你随便说点什么。”

饥饿的人容易诱惑。男仆把车门打开，转眼之间她们便消逝在暮色之中。

“好啦！”罗斯玛丽说。她把手伸进天鹅绒袋子，同时产生了一种胜利感。她望着自己网住的这个小猎物，真想说一句：“我可得到你了！”不过，她表现得当然很和善了。啊，岂止是和善，她将向这个姑娘证实——生活中确有奇迹发生，证实仁慈的圣母是真实的。证实有钱人并非没有良心，还有要证实女人都是姐妹。她凭着冲动转过身说道：“别害怕！说穿了，你怎么就不该跟我回去？咱们俩都是女人。就算我更幸运点，你可以期盼……”

幸好就在此时——她正不知这句话如何收尾呢——汽车停下了。铃声响过之后，门打开了。罗斯玛丽以迷人的、保护性的、近乎拥抱的姿态把另一位拥进了前厅。扑面的暖风，柔和的光照，轻松的气氛，甜丝丝的香味，她都太熟悉了，她甚至根本没想到这些。她注目的是另外的那个收获。它令人陶醉。她像个阔小妞在自己的娱乐室里要把所有的柜子都敞开，把所有的箱子盒子都打开。

“来吧，到楼上去，”罗斯玛丽说，听得出她是要表现得大度一些。“到上边我的房间去。”此外，她还想叫这个可怜的小东西从用人们的众目睽睽之下解脱出来。她们上楼梯的时候，她还打定主意，不按铃叫基尼，而是要自己脱去穿戴的东西。最要紧的是要自然。

“好了！”随着罗斯玛丽再一次这样的叫喊，她们来到了她那宽敞漂亮的卧室，窗帘高高地垂挂着，新颖的家具油光锃亮，映出跳跃的火光，金色的坐垫、靠垫，淡黄和蓝色的地毯都熠熠生辉。

姑娘站在刚进门的地方，她好像懵了头。可是罗斯玛丽没觉出来。

“过来坐下，”她召唤着，随手把她的大椅子拉向壁炉，“这把椅子舒服。过来暖和一会儿。你看上去可真冻坏了。”

“我不敢，夫人。”姑娘嘴里说着，还只往后缩。

“哎，请吧”——罗斯玛丽跑上前去——“你不用怕，真的不用怕。坐下，等我把穿戴的东西脱下去，咱们就到隔壁房间去喝茶，再轻松一下。你为什么要怕呢？”她轻轻地连推带拉地把那个瘦小的身体送进了深深的安乐椅。

然而没有一点回应。姑娘怎样被搁下的，还怎样待在那，手臂在腰侧垂着，嘴巴微张。她挺实在的，看上去有点傻气。不过罗斯玛丽可不这么认为。她俯身朝她说：“你还不把帽子摘了，挺好看的头发都湿了，人不戴帽子才舒服呢，是不是？”

一声嗫嚅听着好像“好的，夫人”，跟着皱巴巴的帽子摘掉了。

“我帮你把外衣也脱了吧。”罗斯玛丽说。

姑娘站起身来，可是她还用一只手抓住椅子，让罗斯玛丽来拉。真够费劲的。另一位简直没办法帮助她。她像个孩子似的，摇来摆去，罗斯玛丽心里有个念头来回翻腾；需要帮助的人，她们自己该有点反应啊，一点点就可以，不然的话实在是太困难了。那么这衣服怎么办呢？就放在地板上吧，还有那帽子。她刚要到壁炉台那去拿一只香烟，姑娘赶紧开口说话了，声音很小，怯生生的：“对不起，夫人。我要晕倒了。如果不吃些东西，夫人，我会垮掉的。”

“天哪，我真没记性！”罗斯玛丽冲向按铃。

“茶，快上茶！再来点白兰地，要快！”

女仆又出去了。可那姑娘却差点哭出来。“不，我不要白兰地。我从来不喝酒。我要的只是一杯茶，夫人。”说到这里，她已是泪流满面。

那是一个动人心魄而又令人陶醉的时刻。罗斯玛丽跪在她的椅子旁边。

“不要哭，可怜的小东西，”她说，“不要哭。”她还把自己的花边手绢递给对方，她冲动得真是无以言表。她用手臂搂住了那鸟儿一样的瘦小的双肩。

到了这时候，另一位终于忘记了害羞，忘记了一切，只记得她们两个都是女人，她气喘吁吁地说：“再这样下去我可不行了，我受不了了，我会把自己弄死了。我再也受不了了。”

“你不会死的，我在看着你呢。别再喊了！你没觉出遇到我是多么好的事情吗？咱们要喝茶，你还要告诉我各种各样的事情。我还要准备些东西。我许诺。快别喊了，那多累呀。好吗？”

对方正好在茶到来之前停下了，这样罗斯玛丽得以及时起身。她让把茶桌放在她俩中间。她把各种食物都布给那可怜的小人物，所有的三明治、所有的面包和奶油，每次杯子空了，她就添上茶、乳和糖。人家都说糖是很能养人的。她自己呢？她什么都没吃，她只抽烟。同时她还很体谅地把眼睛朝别处看，免得另一位难为情。

这顿便餐的效果真奇特。当茶桌撤去的时候，躺靠在大椅子里的已是一个新的生命，一个轻松柔弱的娇女，头发散乱，双唇暗红，目光明亮而深沉，显出一种甜丝丝的倦怠，望着火光出神。罗斯玛丽新燃起一只香烟，是开始的时候了。

“你什么时候吃的上一顿饭？”她柔声地问。

可是这时门的把手转动了。

“罗斯玛丽，我可以进来吗？”是菲利普。

“当然。”

他进来了。“哦，对不起。”他说，同时停下来打量。

“没关系，”罗斯玛丽笑着说，“这位小姐是我的朋友——”

“史密斯，夫人。”神情疲惫的那一位说，由于陌生她显得很沉静，但不怯懦。

“史密斯小姐，”罗斯玛丽说，“我们想随便聊聊。”

“哦，好的，”菲利普说。“哎，我说，”他的眼睛瞥见了地板上的衣服和帽子。他走向壁炉，然后转身背朝向她。“下午这天气够讨厌的，”他好奇地说，眼睛还在打量那个疲倦的人，看她的手又看她的靴子，然后目光落在罗斯玛丽身上。

“可不是吗？”罗斯玛丽热情地说，“烦人！”

菲利普露出他迷人的微笑。“实际上，”他说，“我是想叫你到书房来一下，好吗？史密斯小姐会谅解吗？”

大眼睛抬起眼帘，把视线投向他。可是罗斯玛丽代她回答了：“她当然会的。”于是他们一起走出房间。

“我说，”到了只有他们俩的时候，菲利普劈头便说，“解释一下，她是谁？这一切都意味着什么？”

罗斯玛丽笑了。她靠在门上说：“她是我从库尔增大街捡回来的。真的，她真是捡来的。她跟我要一杯茶钱，我就带着她回家来了。”

“可是你到底要跟她干什么？”菲利普喊道。

“跟她好呗，”罗斯玛丽很快地说，“像朋友那么好，呵护她。我也不知道具体怎样。我们还没谈呢。不过是对她表示——把她当作——使她感到——”

“我的宝贝姑娘，”菲利普说，“你简直是疯了，知道吗？那根本就不行！”

“我就知道你会说这个，”罗斯玛丽不甘示弱，“怎么不行？我愿意，这不是理由吗？再说了，这样的事人家读到的多了。我决定——”

“不过，”菲利普把一只雪茄烟的头掐下来，然后慢悠悠地说，“她的确美得惊人。”

“美？”罗斯玛丽吃惊不小，脸都红了，“你这样看吗？我——我没想到这一点。”

“天啊！”菲利普划了一根火柴，“她绝对招人爱。再看看吧，孩子。刚才我去你房间的时候简直惊呆了。不过……我认为你在犯可怕的错误。对不起，宝贝儿，也许我这一切太直白了。不过我得知道史密斯小姐同我们一起吃晚饭是否要占用我浏览《女帽商报》的时间。”

“你个捣蛋鬼！”罗斯玛丽说着走出书房，但她没有回自己的卧室，而是来到了写字间，在写字台前坐下来。美！招人爱！惊呆了！她心里像有一口大钟在轰鸣。美！招人爱！她把支票簿拉过来，用得着支票吗？当然不。她打开一只抽屉，从里面取出五张一镑的钞票，拿在手上，看了看，又放回去两张，把另外三张攥在手心里，走回自己的卧室。

半小时以后，菲利普还待在书房，罗斯玛丽走了进来。

“我只想告诉你，”她说，她把身体靠在门上，火辣辣的，诱人的目光盯着他，“史密斯小姐今天不在这里吃饭了。”

菲利普放下报纸。“哦，出什么事了？另有约会吗？”

罗斯玛丽走过来，坐到他的膝上。“她非要走，”她说，“我只好给她一点钱做礼物，这可怜的小东西。我总不能拧着劲强留她吧，对不对？”她柔声地补充说。

罗斯玛丽刚做完头发，涂了一点眼影，还戴上了她的珠链。她抬起手，抚摸菲利普的脸颊。

“喜欢我吗？”她说，声音甜甜的，嗲嗲的，撩拨着他。

“爱得发狂，”他说，并把她紧紧抱住，“吻吻我。”

出现了片刻的停顿。

然后，罗斯玛丽梦幻般地说，“我今天见到了一个小盒子，很迷人，要28个几尼，可以买吗？”

菲利普把她在膝上颠着。“可以，费钱的小东西。”他说。

然而那并不是罗斯玛丽真正要说的话。

“菲利普，”她柔声细语地说，同时把他的头搂在胸前，“我美吗？”

【注释】

[1]伦敦的一条街道，以时髦商店而闻名。

新 衣

弗吉尼亚·伍尔夫

梅布尔最初明确地怀疑事态有些不对是她脱去斗篷的时候，而巴内特太太的举动则坚定了她的疑惑——把镜子递到她手里的时候碰了一下毛刷，那或许太明显了，于是把她的注意力导引到梳妆台上，那儿摆满了修整发型、肤色或服饰的用品用具——不正常，相当不正常，这种感受在上楼的时候变得更为强烈，同克拉丽莎·戴劳维寒暄的时候再一次袭上心头，她径直走向房间的远端，昏暗的角落里挂着一面镜子，她要看个明白。不！那不对。霎时间她一向极力掩盖的那种悲哀，那种极大的失落——始于孩提时代的、比别人低下的感觉——猛然袭遍全身，此般的折磨，夜晚在家醒来时也曾有过，但读读博罗[1] 或司各特[2] ，总还挨得过。然而此刻，它是那么残酷无情，那么肆无忌惮，强烈得让她无法摆脱；因为那些男人，那些女人他们都在想——“梅布尔穿的什么呀？看上去真吓人。那新衣太难看了！”——他们的眼睑抬起时不住地抖动，然后再紧紧闭住。令她沮丧不安的是她那可怕的空虚，那怯懦，那掺了水的血液。于是整个那个房间——她曾花了那么多时间在里面同小裁缝一起筹划新衣——立刻变得破烂不堪甚至令人厌恶了，还有她自己的客厅也那么简陋寒酸，而她本人也是那么虚荣，外出社交，总要装腔作势，摸着大厅桌子上的信件说一声“真没趣”故意卖弄——所有这一切现在都难以言表地显得那么傻气，那么浅薄，那么没见识。所有这一切在她进入戴劳维夫人的客厅的那一瞬间都彻底被摧毁了，被戳穿了，被粉碎了。

那天晚上正在品茶，她接到了戴劳维夫人的请柬，那时她想到的当然是如何赶时髦。恐怕即使去了也是贻笑大方——时髦意味着款式，意味着风度，意味着至少三十个几尼——不过为什么不来个新花样呢？说到底，为什么不做一把自己呢？于是她起身取来母亲的那本旧时装书，一本帝国时代的巴黎时装书，而且想，那时候她们多么漂亮，多么尊贵，而又多么女性啊；于是决心自己——哦，那样很蠢——努力模仿她们，实际上是完善自己，要出落得谦和、古朴而又非常可爱，要让自己，毫无疑问，沉浸在自我陶醉的狂欢里，要足够“严惩不怠”的，于是就把自己打扮成了这个样子。

可是她不敢照镜子。她不能面对所有那些惶恐——那件款式古朴敦厚的淡黄色丝绸外衣，它那长长的裙子、高高的袖口，还有它那腰身，以及所有那些在时装书上都非常可爱但在她身上或普通人中间并不一定尽然的东西。她觉得自己像裁缝店的人体模型，立在那里被年轻人指指点点。

“可是，亲爱的，它真是至善至美人见人爱呀！”罗斯·肖小姐一边说一边上下打量她，还略带讽刺地撅起嘴巴，那是她预料中的，罗斯自己穿戴得正在时髦的风头上，跟着别人亦步亦趋，一贯如此。

我们都像挣扎着爬过碟子边缘的苍蝇，她想着，叨念出这些词句，她好像在身上画十字，又好像在竭力找到某种咒语来减轻那痛苦，使那剧痛变得能够忍受。她处于极度痛苦时，几十年前读过的书中有几行莎士比亚的诗句突然闪现于眼前，于是一遍又一遍地反复叨念。“挣扎着爬的苍蝇，”她重复着，如果她能不厌其烦地这样叨念，直到自己能够见到那些苍蝇，她就会变得麻木，冷漠，僵直，无语。现在她看到了翅膀粘在一起的苍蝇正在慢慢爬出奶碟；于是她一再地集中精力（站在镜子前听着罗斯·肖说），想让自己把罗斯·肖和在场的所有其他人都视为苍蝇，正驱使着自己在某个物体上爬进爬出——羸弱，艰辛，徒劳的苍蝇。但她没能把他们，把别人看成苍蝇，却把自己看成了那样——她是苍蝇，其他人都是蜻蜓、蝴蝶那样美丽的昆虫，有的翩翩起舞，有的上下翻飞，有的一闪而过，只有她，孤零零地在把自己往碟子外面拖。（恶习中最令人厌恶的妒忌和怨恨是她的致命弱点。）

“我感觉像一只邋遢、肮脏、衰朽的老苍蝇，”她这样说，同时把罗伯特·海顿拦住，使他刚好听到自己的这些话，而这样翻新一句软弱可怜的话，就是要让自己放心，她对任何事物都无丝毫的厌恶和排斥，同时表明她是多么超脱，多么睿智。罗伯特回答了些什么，当然很客气，但言不由衷，这一点她立刻就看出来了，所以他刚走开，她就对自己说（又出自某一本书），“谎言，谎言，谎言！”因为她想，晚会把事情弄得要么更真，要么更不；她刹那间就看透了罗伯特·海顿的心底，她把一切都看透了。她看到了真实。这是真实的，这客厅，这自我，其他的则是虚假。米伦小姐的那小小工作间着实太闷，太热，太破旧了，闻着都是衣服和煮卷心菜的气味；然而，当米伦小姐把镜子放在她手上，当她从中看到自己穿着刚完工的那件新衣时，一种超乎寻常的巨大幸福浸满了她的心田。她神采奕奕，跃然于镜中。一个美丽的女人，摆脱了操劳，抚平了皱纹——那是她梦境中的自我。雕花的红木框里，白皙可爱的姑娘，带着耐人寻味的微笑正在看她，只有一秒钟——她没敢多看，米伦小姐在等着确定裙子的长度——她的精华，她的灵魂，尽在其中了；而且促使她认为那影像姣好、柔嫩、真实的并非只是虚荣，并非只是自我陶醉。米伦小姐说裙子再长就不好了，无论如何那裙子，为了说服她，米伦小姐蹙起眉头，绞尽脑汁地措辞，还是再短些才好；而她却感到，突然地，实实在在地，对米伦小姐充满了爱，感到对米伦小姐的喜爱远远胜过对世界上所有其他的人，而且她几乎要哭了，为着她在地板上爬来爬去，嘴里满含着别针，脸颊红红的，眼睛肿肿的——人类中的一个竟然为另一个这样做，而她仅仅是把她们都视为人类，然后她自己就要扬长而去赴她的晚会，可米伦小姐不过就是扯去金丝雀笼上的盖布，或让那鸟儿从她唇间把大麻籽衔走；于是她的这种思考，关乎人性的这一侧面，那样的忍耐，那样的承受，以及对如此微不足道的可怜可悲的小小欢乐的满足，使得她的双眼盈满了泪水。

然而现在整个事情都逝去了，那衣服，那工作间，那挚爱和怜惜，那雕花镜框和金丝雀笼，所有那一切都逝去了；这里，在戴劳维夫人客厅的一角，她清楚明白地面对着现实，正在经受磨难。

不过，到了她这把年纪，已然有了两个孩子，还这样顾虑重重，还这样听凭于人而全无自己的主见和原则，还不能像别人那样畅所欲言，“来吧，莎士比亚！来吧，死亡！我们都是船长饼干里的象鼻虫”——或随便人们说的什么——这些只能解释为谨小慎微，或心胸狭窄，或秉性懦弱。

她直直地面对着镜中的自己。飞快地在左肩上吻了一下之后，她转身朝向了房间，好像许多标枪从四面八方投射到她黄色的新衣上。不过她没像罗斯·肖可能的那样表现出恼怒与悲伤——罗斯·肖看上去会像包迪西亚[3] 那样——而是代之以傻乎乎的、我行我素的模样，像女学生似的傻笑着懒洋洋地走过房间，实际上是悄悄地溜过，好像一条挨了打的杂种狗，然后对着一幅画，一幅木刻，端详起来。似乎出席晚会就是为了欣赏那幅画！大家都明白她为什么那样做——那是出于害羞和耻辱。

“现在苍蝇到了碟子里，”她对自己说，“就在正中间，出不去了，而且牛奶，”她直愣愣地盯着那幅画心里想，“正在把它的翅膀黏在一起。”

“那么古朴。”她对查尔斯·波特说，让他在去找别人交谈的途中停顿下来（此举本身使他厌烦）。

她指的是，或她极力让自己认为她指的是那幅画，而不是她的衣服，风格古朴。此时此刻，一句赞美的话，一点爱抚之意出自查尔斯之口，就会使她完全不同。只要他说一句，“梅布尔，今晚你看着真可爱！”或许就能改变她的生活。不过那时她也该表现出真诚和直率。查尔斯当然没说一句那样的话。他坏透了。他总要把人看穿，尤其当人家感到特别难堪、无奈和心虚的时候。

“梅布尔弄了件新衣服！”他说，于是把她不折不扣地推到了碟子中央。真的，他就想让她淹死，对此她深信不疑。他没有人心，没有起码的善良，只有一张友善的外皮。米伦小姐要真诚得多，善良得多。如果人们能觉察到这些并总能坚持去做就好了。“怎么？”她问自己——同时也在十分生硬地回应查尔斯，让他明白她生气了，或“被惹恼了”，如他所称的那样（“被惹恼了”，他继续同那边的某个女人这样取笑她）——“怎么，”她问自己，“我难道不能始终如一地理解同一事物吗，不能明辨米伦小姐的正确和查尔斯的谬误并对此坚信不移吗，不能真实地感受金丝雀和同情和挚爱，而当进入坐满人的房间的那一瞬，周身不遭鞭笞吗？”又是她那可恶的优柔寡断的软弱性格，在关键时刻总要退却，而且对生态学、辞源学、植物学、考古学并不真正感兴趣，但望着切完的马铃薯却感到像玛丽·丹尼斯，像维奥莱特·西尔那样卓有成就。

后来霍尔曼太太看见她站在那里就向她鞠躬致意。当然衣服这样的东西不至于让霍尔曼太太去关注，碍着她的家人总得磕磕碰碰地上下楼和发猩红热。梅布尔能告诉她愚园在八九月份是否出租吗？哦，那谈话把她烦得真是无以言表——令她恼火的是把她当作供人驱使的房产经纪人和小听差来对待。不会有什么价值，就那么回事，她心里想，可表面上却在机敏的回答浴室、阴阳面和顶楼通热水之类的问题，极力想抓到点硬东西，真东西；她从圆镜子里一直没看清自己的黄衣服，那镜子把她们照得像靴扣或蝌蚪一般大小；在那三便士硬币大小的东西里要容纳多少羞辱、痛苦、自卑、努力以及情感的起伏跌荡啊，真是不可思议。更为奇特的是，梅布尔·韦林这家伙还那么个色，那么不合群，尽管霍尔曼太太（黑靴扣）在探着身子向她倾诉自己最大的男孩如何在跑步时弄伤了心脏，同时她也从镜中看出了黄点是那样的超脱；看来探着身子打手势的黑点想叫端然稳坐、以中心自居的黄点体会到自己此时的感受是断无可能了，然而她们都在表演着。

“叫男孩保持安静真是太难了。”——这是人们随便搭讪的客套话。

可霍尔曼太太领受同情是从来没够的，而且无论多么之少总要贪婪地赢得，好像那是她的权利（不过她真该得到更多，因为有那天早晨她的小女孩摔倒磕肿了膝关节这码事），于是她接受了这份可怜的馈赠却又以困惑、惋惜的眼光看着它，好像那本该是一英镑，却变成了半个便士，但还是把它在钱包里收好，忍着点吧，虽然那很寒酸并且吝啬，正值岁月艰难，真是太难了；于是她——受了伤害的咿哩哇啦的霍尔曼太太——继续诉说她那磕肿了膝关节的女孩。啊，真是悲哀，这贪婪的、叫苦不迭的人们，像一群水老鸦，扑扇着翅膀呱呱叫着乞怜——那是悲哀，人能感受到，不要只是假装去感受！

可是今天晚上她那黄衣服下面一滴也不能往外挤，她要把所有的都留下，留给自己。她明白（她不断地往镜子里看，在那群显眼的高贵人中巡视），她受到如此的轻慢，被这样冷清地撇在一边，就因为她的为人是这般的懦弱而又缺少主见；同样在她看来那黄衣服似乎是一种缘分，是她命中的应得之物，她若穿戴得像罗斯·肖那样，那种可爱的、紧身的、镶着天鹅绒滚边的绿色衣服，那她才应受如此的慢待；于是她认为自己没有退却的余地——绝对没有。但无论如何，那完全不是她的错。那要归咎于是十口之家的成员；钱财总不够花，用度总要节省，开支总要削减；大量采购罐头食品的母亲，楼梯上磨破边的亚麻地毡，一起接一起的家庭风波——虽是有惊无险，却也令人难堪，牧羊场经营不善，尽管没有全面崩溃，大哥的妻室门户较低，虽然相差不多——反正算不上良缘佳配，值得称道的事情他们都没几件。他们的身影逐渐从海滨胜地消失；在各处矿泉疗养地至今他们还有姑母住在某个公寓里，四肢麻木地守在不太面对大海的窗前。那与他们倒挺相似——他们看东西总得侧目而视。她的作为与姑母们极为相似——如出一辙。她曾梦想着生活在印度，嫁给亨利·劳伦斯爵士那样的某个英雄，某个帝国的缔造者（甚至当地人戴着亚洲男人头巾的样子都曾令她奇想连篇），对所有这些梦想来说，她彻底失败了。她嫁给了休伯特，还有那份稳定长远的法院僚属的工作，他们尚好地安顿在一套不很大的房子里，没有专职的用人，她一个人的时候没有精致的食物，或只有面包和奶油；不过，不时地——霍尔曼太太走开了，认定她是她所见过的最无趣、最无同情心的小人，穿戴也那么可笑，她要把梅布尔的那副样子告诉每一个人——不时地，她在想，孤零零地留在蓝沙发上，用力地拍打那些坐垫，好显得有事干，因为她不会去加入查尔斯·波特和罗斯·肖，他们正像燕雀一样唧唧喳喳地在壁炉那边聊得火热，也许正在讥笑她吧——不时地，确曾有过甜蜜的时刻降临于她，几天前的夜晚在床上看书，比如说，或者，复活节的时候，傍着大海在洒满阳光的沙滩上漫步——让她回味一下——很大一簇青青的沙地绿草，倔强挺拔，像一片枪林直指苍穹，蓝莹莹的天空宛如一枚硕大的瓷卵，那么光洁，那么坚硬，还有浪涛在吟唱，“哗，哗”是它的话语，夹杂着孩子们戏水的尖叫声——是的，那是极好的时光，于是她躺在那里，在世界本体这位女神——铁石心肠然而却美丽无比——的掌心里，她觉出了祭坛上羔羊的感受（人确实想这些傻事，但只要守口如瓶，就无大碍）。此外同休伯特在一起有时也曾意外地有过极好的瞬间——为周日的午餐切羊肉，没来由的，拆开一封信，走进某个房间，于是她会对自己说（这样的话她从不对任何人讲）：“就是它。终于出现了。就是它！”然而与此有关的另一种形式也同样令人吃惊——当一切都安排就绪——音乐，假日，天气，铸成快乐的所有因素都齐备了——结果什么都没发生。谁都没快活。那个枯燥，那个乏味，简直没法说。

毫无疑问，又是她那糟透了的自我。她一向都是烦躁、懦弱而又不知满足的母亲和不会安生的妻子，懒散地游荡在朦朦胧胧的生活当中，对任何事情都不很肯定，或不很果断，或者，再赘述一句，像她所有的兄弟姐妹一样——或许赫伯特除外——他们都是同样可怜的血液中掺了水的人，都一事无成。后来，在这缓缓蠕动的生活中，突然她跃上了波峰浪尖。那可怜的苍蝇——这个有关苍蝇和碟子的说法她是从哪儿看到的？——可闯出来了。是的，她有过那样的时刻。可如今她已年交四十，它们的光临会越来越少，她会逐渐平息，不再拼搏了。但那是令人悲哀的，不堪忍受的，让她感到自羞自愧！

明天她要去伦敦图书馆。她要找一种奇异而有益但又令人心惊的书，作者最好碰巧是个牧师，一个没人知道的美国人；要不，她就沿着斯特兰德[4] 走下去，最好意外地落入一个大厅，有个矿工正在那里讲述矿井里的生活，而她会突然变成一个新人。她要彻底改变。她要穿上一套制服，要被称作某某“护士长”；她再也不要为衣服操心。而且从此以后，诸如查尔斯·波特、米伦小姐、这个房间、那个房间这些事情，她都会一清二楚，应对自如；以后要总像她躺在阳光下或切羊肉那样美好，日复一日，直至永远。一定会的！

于是她从蓝沙发上起来，镜中的黄纽扣也同样起来，她挥手向查尔斯和罗斯表明她对他们没有丝毫的依赖，然后黄纽扣从镜中移出，于是所有的矛枪都集中刺向她的前胸，而她则款款地走向戴劳维夫人说了声“晚安”。

“可现在就走太早了。”戴劳维夫人说，她总是那么可爱。

“我想是该走了。”梅布尔·韦林说。“不过，”她补充说，声音虚弱发飘，她极力想加强些，听着反倒可笑了，“我是非常开心的。”

“我已经开心了。”她对在楼梯上碰到的戴劳维先生说。

“谎言，谎言，谎言！”下楼的时候她这样自言自语，“就在碟子里！”这一句是向巴内特太太的帮助表示感谢的时候，在心里悄悄说的，同时把那件一直穿了二十年的中式斗篷裹了又裹，裹了又裹，裹了又裹。

【注释】

[1]博罗：乔治·亨利·博罗（George Henry Borrow，1803——1881）英格兰作家。

[2]司各特：沃尔特·司各特爵士（Sir Walter Scott，1771——1832）苏格兰小说家，诗人。

[3]古不列颠爱西尼人王后，公元62年被罗马人击败后服毒自杀。

[4]并非伦敦的地名。根据下文的内容，可理解为“莫测之路”。

阿拉比

詹姆斯·乔伊斯

理奇蒙德北街是一条盲巷，基督兄弟学校不把孩子们放出来的时候，街上总是静悄悄的。街道尽头，一幢没有住人的两层楼房避开邻居们，独自矗立在一片方方正正的场地上。街里其他的房子意识到自己里面的生活尚属体面，一个个板着褐色的面孔互相观望。

我家房子的前住户是一个牧师，就死在后边的起居室里。由于关闭了许久，所有的房间都弥漫着发霉的气味。厨房后边的杂物间里堆满了没用的旧报纸，在那堆废纸当中我居然发现了几本纸皮书，书页已经卷边，泛潮：有沃尔特·司各特的《修道院长》，还有《虔诚的教友》和《维多克回忆录》[1] 。我最喜欢的是后边的那一本，因为它的书页发黄了。房子后边荒废的花园中间长着一棵苹果树，还有几丛瑟瑟的灌木，在其中一丛之下我发现了前住户的自行车打气筒，已经锈迹斑斑。他是个慈善的牧师，在遗嘱中他把自己所有的钱财都捐献给了慈善机构，只把房子里的家具留给了自己的妹妹。

冬天到来的时候白昼变短，不等我们吃好正餐，黄昏就降临了。我们相聚在街上的时候，房舍已经陷入一片昏暗。我们头顶上的天空泛起不断变换的紫光，巷子里的街灯朝天扬起虚弱的灯头。冷风嗖嗖，可我们玩得浑身发热。我们叫喊的声音在寂静的街巷里回荡。这样玩耍的行径会带着我们走过房子后边黑暗、泥泞的小路——路边农舍小屋会传出粗野一族对我们的呵斥声——去到滴水声声的菜园的后门，那里一片昏黑，飘荡着灰坑里泛起的臭味，再到同样弥漫着臭味的马厩，那里可能有车夫在刷洗马匹或整理套具。我们回到街上的时候，厨房窗口的亮光已在街区里弥漫；如果碰巧看到我的叔父从街角拐进来，我们就躲进黑影里，直到看见他确实走进了家门。或者碰到曼根的姐姐出来站在门阶上呼唤她的弟弟回去吃晚茶，我们也会藏在黑影里看她街里街外地张望。我们要看她是留下来还是要转回去，如果她留下来，我们就从黑影里钻出来，顺从地走向曼根家的石阶，她正等在那里，半开的门里射出的光亮映衬出她的身形。她的弟弟总要跟她嬉闹一番才肯服从，而我则傍着栏杆看她。她的衣裙随身摆动，她的发辫柔软地甩来甩去。

每天清早我都要卧在前厅的地板上注视她的家门。窗帘只留下不到一英寸的缝隙，所以我不会被看见。她出现在门阶上我的心就跳起来，我冲进大厅抓起书紧随其后。我的眼睛总盯着她褐色的身影，而且每当我们来到岔路口附近，我总要加快步伐超过她。这种情形日复一日地出现，除了碰巧的几句话，我再没跟她说起过什么。然而她的名字却像法院的传票一样调动着我周身傻乎乎的血液。

即使在与爱情最相抵触的场合她的影像也陪着我。星期六晚上婶母到市场购物的时候，我总要去帮助提一些东西。我们走过喧闹的街市，被摇摇晃晃的醉汉推搡着，被讨价还价的女人拥挤着，置身于一片嘈杂的人声中：劳工们没来由的怒骂声，看守猪头肉桶的店童们尖脆的应答声，街头歌手单调的歌声——奥多诺万·罗萨的民谣[2] 和讽刺当地弊端的顺口溜。这些噪声交汇在一起，使我产生一种奇特的人生感受：我想象我擎着自己的圣餐杯安然地穿过一群冤家对头。她的名字在祷告和礼赞的瞬间奇怪地跃上我的双唇，我自己也不理解。我的眼睛里常常充满泪水（我说不清为什么），而且我心脏里的洪流有时似乎要奔涌而出，充满自己的胸腔。未来的事我一点也不考虑。我不知道我会不会同她说话，或者如果同她说话，我会怎样告诉她我那混混沌沌的挚爱。但是我的身体如同一架竖琴，她的话语和姿态就像手指在琴弦上跳动。

一天晚上我来到后边的起居室，就是那位牧师死去的房间。那是个漆黑的雨夜，整座房子都没有声响。通过窗上一块打碎的玻璃可以听到雨水扑向大地，密密麻麻的雨针刺入吸足了水的地床。不远处的灯光或窗口透出的光在我下边闪亮。我庆幸自己只能看到那么一点点。我感到我的所有感官似乎都在期待自己被遮盖起来，而我自己好像马上要离它们而去。我把掌心紧紧地按在一起，直到它们颤抖起来。嘴里反复地喃喃自语：“哦，爱情！哦，爱情！”

终于她对我说话了。她说第一句话的时候我慌乱得不知如何作答。她问我要不要去阿拉比[3] 。我忘记了答的是去还是不去。那一定是个了不起的地方——她说她自己要能去就好了。

“为什么你不能去？”我问。

说话的时候她让一只银镯在手腕上摇啊摇的。她说她不能去，因为她们修道院女子学校在那一周有一次静修。她的弟弟正为帽子和另外两个男孩打斗在一起。我一个人同她待在栏杆旁。她握住栏杆的尖头，把头垂向我。我们对面的灯光显现出她颈项上白皙的曲线，照亮了静伏在上边的秀发，然后下落，照在她握住栏杆的手上。再往下，灯光落在她一侧的裙子上，照出衬裙的一条白边，在她悠然伫立的时候刚好能看到。

“你去挺合适。”她说。

“如果我去，”我说，“我要带点东西给你。”

那个夜晚之后我在清醒乃至昏睡中的思虑都消耗在那么多数不清的傻事上！我恨不能把那漫长的等待的时日都抹掉！我烦透了学校里的功课。无论白天还是夜晚，在教室还是卧室，她的影子总出现在我和自己挣扎着要读的书页之间。“阿拉比”这个词的音节呼唤着穿透我的灵魂所安享的宁静，并向我施放出东方的魔力。我提出星期六晚间到市场去的请求。我的婶母感到惊讶，她希望不是弗里梅森的什么事情。在课堂上我答不出问题，我看到了先生的表情从亲切到严厉的过渡，他说他希望那不是我懈怠的开端。我拢不住自己的意马心猿。我没有一点耐心对待人生的正事，它横在我与自己的愿望之间，在我看来不过是儿戏，单调可怕的儿戏而已。

星期六早晨我提醒叔父晚上我要到市场去。他正在衣架前面忙着找帽刷，回答得很简短：

“好吧，孩子。我知道了。”

由于他在大厅里，我不能进到前厅趴在窗上往外看。我怏怏地离开家，慢慢地朝学校走。空气依旧阴冷潮湿，毫无同情之意。我的心已经在怀疑自己。

我回家吃饭的时候叔叔还没回家。时间还早！我望着钟表坐了一会。当它的滴哒声开始叫我心烦的时候，我便离开了房间。我蹬着楼梯来到楼的上层。高处寒冷潮湿的空房使我得以解脱，我哼着歌，一个房间一个房间地窜。从前面的窗口能看到伙伴们在下边的街巷里玩耍。他们叫喊的声音传到我这里已经弱得听不清了。我把前额贴在冰冷的玻璃上朝着黑暗中她住的那幢房子张望。我大概在那里站了一个钟头，什么也没看见，只有我的想象浇铸的那尊镀铜的人像，被灯光小心翼翼地抚摸那颈项的曲线，那握住栏杆的纤手，还有那裙子底下的衬边。

我再回到楼下的时候，发现莫瑟太太正坐在炉火旁边。她是当铺老板的遗孀，一个饶舌的老妇人。她为着某种虔诚的目的在收集旧邮票。我只好忍受茶桌旁的那些闲言碎语。茶点已经推迟了一个多小时，可叔叔却依然未归。莫瑟太太起身要走：她很遗憾，不能再等了，不过当时已经八点多了，而她是不喜欢很晚外出的，因为夜晚的冷风对她很不好。她走了之后我便攥紧拳头在房间里来回踱步。婶婶说：

“为了基督的这个夜晚，恐怕你要把你的市场撇到一边了。”

九点钟我听到了叔叔的碰簧锁钥匙在厅门上捅出的声音。我听到他自言自语的声音，还听到衣架被挂上他的大衣时摇晃的声音。我对这些声响的判断准确无误。他的晚饭吃到一半的时候，我向他索要去市场的钱。他已经忘记了。

“这个时候人家都在床上睡醒头一觉了。”他说。

我没有笑。婶婶憋足了劲对他说：

“你还不把钱给他让他快走，叫他等到这个时候，实在太晚了！”

叔叔说他很抱歉，给忘记了。他说他相信那句老话：“只干活不玩耍，天使也变傻。”他询问我要到哪里去。我又告诉了他一遍之后，他又问我是不是知道《阿拉伯告别他的战马》[4] 。我离开厨房的时候，他正要开口向我的婶婶背诵那首诗的开头几行。

我手里紧紧地攥着一个弗罗林[5] 沿着白金汉大街冲向车站。街上顾客拥挤、汽灯耀眼的景象唤回了我前往的决心。我在一列火车的三等车厢坐上了座位。一阵难耐的耽搁之后，列车缓缓地驶出了车站。它向前爬行，穿过破破烂烂的房舍，越过荧荧闪光的河流。在韦斯特兰罗站，一群人拥到车门前要上车，可是列车员把他们推开，说这是开往市场的专列。我依旧一个人待在空荡荡的车厢里。几分钟后列车停靠在一段用木头搭起的临时站台旁。我走下站台来到路上，看见一块被照亮的钟面指明：十点差十分。我面前是一座巨大的建筑，昭示着那个富有魔力的名字。

我根本找不到六便士的入口；又担心市场就要关闭，于是便快步通过一个十字转门进到里面，同时把一先令递给一个满脸倦容的看门人。我发现自己走进了一个大厅，在它一半的高度上建有一圈围廊。几乎所有的店铺都关门了，大部分厅堂都处于黑暗中。我感受到一种肃静，就像礼拜之后的教堂里弥漫的那样。我怯生生地踱进市场的中央。几个尚未关门的店铺门前还围着一些人。在一道帷幔前面——上方用彩灯装饰出“咖啡歌厅”的字样——两个男人正在清点托盘里的币钞。我听见了硬币碰撞的声音。

好容易我才想起自己来这里要干什么，于是我走向一家店铺去选看瓷花瓶和彩釉茶壶。店铺门口一个年轻女子正在同两位年轻的先生一起说笑。我注意到他们的英格兰口音，就懵懵懂懂地听他们聊。

“不，我根本没说过这样的话！”

“噢，可是你说过！”

“噢，我可没说。”

“她说过没有？”

“是的，我听她说过。”

“噢，你这是……瞎编！”

年轻女子觉察到我，便过来问我是不是要买东西。她的声调不带鼓动性；好像她只是出于职业感在同我说话。我谦恭地望着两只硕大的瓷瓮，像东方卫士一样立在店铺内黑洞洞的入口两侧，嘴里喃喃地嗫嚅：

“不，谢谢你。”

年轻女子把一只花瓶挪动了一下就回到两个青年那边去了。他们又开始聊那同一个话题。那女子曾扭头朝我瞥视过一两次。

我在她的店前徘徊着，想使我对其货品的兴趣表现得更真切，尽管我知道那样逗留根本无济于事。然后我慢慢转而离开，从市场中央走出来。我让口袋里的两个便士落下碰在六便士上。我听到围廊的一端一个声音叫喊熄灯了。这时整个大厅的上半部分全都黑下来。

仰头向黑暗中凝望，我看出自己是被空虚所驱使并嘲弄的生灵，眼中燃烧起极度的痛苦和愤怒。

【注释】

[1]依次分别为历史爱情故事，宗教手册和一个法国探险家的回忆录。

[2]爱尔兰的一个英雄。

[3]具有东方格调的市场。

[4]流行于十九世纪的一首抒情诗。

[5]面值两先令的硬币。

木马背上的幸运儿

D.H.劳伦斯

有个女人，她很漂亮，一开始，她占尽了所有的优势，可是她没有好运，她为了爱情而结婚，可爱情化成了尘埃。她有体格健壮的孩子，可是她觉得他们是被拽到她身上的，所以对他们爱不起来，他们冷冷地看她，好像他们在找她身上的毛病，于是匆忙之中她觉得自己应该把身上的某些毛病掩盖起来，可是她根本不知道她应该掩盖的是什么。不过，当她的孩子们在跟前的时候，她总觉得她的内心深处不好过。这使她苦恼，于是在举止上她对待孩子们更加文雅和关切，好像她非常爱他们，只有她自己知道她的内心深处是一小块严酷的地方，感觉不到爱。不，不是对任何人，每一个旁人谈起她都说：“她是那么好的一位母亲，她非常爱她的孩子。”只有她自己还有她的孩子们自己知道并非如此。他们互相从对方的眼里读出这一点。

孩子是一个男孩，两个小姑娘。他们住着一所称心如意的带花园的房子，有小心周到的用人。他们觉得自己比邻居中的任何人都优越。

虽然他们生活得很排场，可是总觉得家里有一种忧虑。钱总不够用。做母亲的有点不大的进项，做父亲的也有点不大的进项。可是对他们要维持的社会地位来说，连将将够都不到。父亲在城里的某个办公室做事。虽然他有很好的前程，可是这前程总也实现不了，总有那种因缺钱而揪心的感觉，尽管排场也总在摆。

终于做母亲的说话了：“我到要看看我怎么不能干成点事！”可她连从哪下手都不知道。她绞尽脑汁，事情试了一个又一个，可是没找到一件能干成的，失败赶着深深的皱纹来到她的脸上，她的孩子们在长大，他们该要上学了。一定要有更多的钱，一定要有更多的钱。父亲呢，一向是很精神的，在嗜好上很会花钱，看上去好像根本不能指望他干成任何值得干的事。母亲的自信心是很强的，不过并没有取得多大成就，她的嗜好也是同样的昂贵。

这样，一句没讲出来的话就在家里扩散开了——一定要有更多的钱，一定要有更多的钱。孩子们随时都能听到它，尽管并没人大声这样说。过圣诞节，当昂贵而又闪亮的玩具摆满游戏室的时候，他们听到了它。在亮闪闪的现代摇摆木马后边，在漂亮的娃娃房子后边有个声音会嘀咕起来：“一定要有更多的钱，一定要有更多的钱。”孩子们会停下玩耍，听一会。他们会互相往对方的眼睛里看，来确认他们是否都听到了。每个人都从另外两个人的眼里看出他们也听到了：“一定要有更多的钱，一定要有更多的钱。”

这嘀咕从还在摇晃的木马的弹簧上传出来，连这匹引颈长嘶的木马都听到了。那个大娃娃脸蛋红扑扑的，笑咪咪地坐在她那崭新的四轮车里，她能很清楚地听到，并且好像为此而笑得更有滋味了。那只傻乎乎的小狗顶替了乏味的小熊，它也一样，看上去傻得那么不寻常，没有别的原因，肯定是它听到了家里无处不在的那句秘密的嘀咕，“一定要有更多的钱！”

然而从未有人大声说出过它。这种嘀咕到处都有，因而没人讲它。正如从来没有人说“我们在呼吸”一样，尽管呼吸无时不刻都在进行。

“母亲，”一天男孩保罗说，“为什么我们不弄一辆自己的汽车呢？为什么我们老用舅舅的，或者老坐出租呢？”

“因为我们是家族成员里的穷人。”母亲说。

“可我们为什么穷呢，母亲？”

“这个嘛——我觉得，”她说得缓慢而苦楚，“那是因为你父亲没运气。”

男孩沉默了一段时间。

“运气是钱吗？母亲，”他小心翼翼地问。

“不，保罗，不全是，它是让你有钱的东西。”

“哦！”保罗似懂非懂地说，“奥斯卡舅舅说过‘财运亨通’，我以为他的意思是钱呢。”

“财运亨通是有了钱的意思，”母亲说。“但他说的是因为运气好而有了钱。但还不能说运气就是钱。”

“哦！”男孩说，“那么运气是什么呀？”

“它是让你有钱的东西。如果你有运气，你就能有钱。这就是为什么天生好运要比有钱更好的原因。如果你有钱，你也许会把钱丢掉。但是如果你有运气，你就总会得到更多的钱。”

“哦，是吗？那父亲不幸运吗？”

“应该说非常不幸。”她痛苦地说。

男孩用不太肯定的眼光望着她。

“为什么呢？”他问。

“我不知道。从来没人知道为什么一个人幸运而另一个人不幸运。”

“是吗？没人知道？肯定是没人知道吗？”

“也许上帝知道。可是他从来不说。”

“他要说出来多好！您也不幸运吗，母亲？”

“我能吗？如果我嫁的是一个不幸的丈夫。”

“那么，就说您自己，您不幸运吗？”

“我曾经以为自己是幸运的，在结婚以前。现在我认为自己确实很不幸。”

“为什么？”

“哦——不用担心！也许我不是真的不幸。”她说。

孩子瞧瞧她，看她是不是那个意思。但是从她嘴上的线条他看出她只是企图隐瞒什么。

“啊——无论怎样，”他肯定地说，“我是个幸运的人。”

“为什么？”他的母亲突然笑着说。

他打量着她。他连自己为什么这样说都不知道。

“上帝告诉我的。”他随口诌了一句为自己强辩。

“我希望他说了，宝贝儿！”她说，又笑了起来，不过有点凄楚。

“他真说了！母亲！”

“太棒了！”母亲说，用的是她丈夫的一声尖叫。

男孩看出她不相信自己，或是对他的强辩不太注意，这有点叫他憋气，而且促使他想要争取她的注意。

他自己干起来，模模糊糊地以孩子的方式寻找线索，去发现“运气”。他不理会别人的存在，用一种秘密的方法全神贯注地向内去寻找运气。他想要运气，他需要运气。他需要它。当两个女孩在游戏室里玩娃娃的时候，他就骑到大木马上发疯似的冲进宇宙，那股冲动的劲头惹得小姑娘们很不安地盯着他。木马奔驰着，男孩的黑发被颠抛得一起一伏，他的眼睛闪烁着奇异的光，小姑娘们都不敢和他说话。

这种近乎发疯的旅程骑到头的时候，他就从大木马上爬下来站在它的面前，盯着它下垂的长脸看。它鲜红的嘴巴微微张开，大眼睛像玻璃一样明亮。

“喂！”他要默默地向这个打着响鼻的畜牲下命令，“现在驮我到有运气的地方去，快驮我去！”

他挥动跟奥斯卡舅舅要来的小鞭子在马脖子上抽打，他明白，只有逼着它，这马才能驮他去有运气的地方。所以他要再骑上去，开始发狂一样地奔驰，希望最终到达那里。他确信他能到达那里。

“保罗，你会把木马弄散的！”保姆说。

“他总是那样骑。我希望他停下来。”他的大妹妹琼说。

可他只是无声地朝下瞪着她们，保姆撇开了他。她拿他没办法。总之，他越来越不服她管了。

一天，当他正在一次狂奔当中，他的母亲和舅舅奥斯卡进来了。他不跟他们讲话。

“你好，你这个小骑士！骑赢了吧？”舅舅说。

“你骑木马不是太大点了吗？你已经不再是小男孩了，知道吗？”母亲说。

保罗只是从离得很近的大眼睛里发出一道冷光，他在全速行进当中是不跟任何人讲话的。他母亲面带忧虑地望着他。

终于他突然停下来，让他的马进入机械式的急驰，然后溜下马背。

“啊，我到那儿了！”他狂热地宣布。他的蓝眼睛还在闪光，结实的长腿直挺挺地叉开。

“你到了哪里？”母亲问。

“我想去的地方。”他兴奋地对她说。

“那就对了，孩子！”奥斯卡舅舅说，“没到那你就别停下来，这马叫什么名字？”

“它没有名字。”男孩说。

“没有名字能行吗？”舅舅说。

“啊，它有不同的名字。上周它叫圣索维诺。”

“圣索维诺，啊？它赢了英国皇家赛马会，你怎么知道它的名字？”

“他总跟巴塞特一起聊跑马比赛。”琼在一旁说。

舅舅发现他的这个小外甥竟然了解所有的赛马新闻，感到很高兴。巴塞特是家里的小花匠，左脚在战争中受过伤，他眼下的工作还是通过奥斯卡·克莱丝威尔安排的，巴塞特在军队时是他的勤务兵，现在他可是泡马道的好手，他生活在赛马中，那个小男孩就和他泡在一起。

奥斯卡·克雷斯韦尔从巴塞特那里获知了一切。

“保罗少爷来问我，所以我就告诉他了，除此之外我没有别的选择，长官。”巴塞特说，他的脸色异常严肃，好像他是在谈论宗教事物。

“那么他在想象的马身上押过什么吗？”

“这个呀——我可不想出卖他——长官，他人小，可是诚实，友善。您不妨去问问他自己。他有几分像是从中取乐，而且您别介意，他也许会觉得我出卖了他。”

巴塞特像教徒那么严肃。

舅舅回去找他的外甥，并且还开上车，带他去兜风。

“怎么样，保罗，小家伙。你在赛马上押过什么吗？”舅舅问。

男孩注视着这个很帅的男子汉。

“怎么，您认为我不应该吗？”他在避实就虚。

“没那个意思，我想你也许能给我一点有用的提示，有关林肯马会的。”

汽车一路飞驰，进入旷野，驶向奥斯卡舅舅在汉普夏的家。

“以名誉担保？”外甥说。

“以名誉担保，孩子！”舅舅说。

“好吧，那么就押戴夫帝尔。”

“戴夫帝尔？我信不过它，孩子。米尔扎怎么样？”

“我只知道谁赢，”男孩说，“那就是戴夫帝尔。”

“戴夫帝尔，啊？”

暂时静了下来，比较来说，戴夫帝尔是一匹不太著名的马。

“舅舅！”

“什么事，孩子？”

“您千万别再告诉别人，行吗？我答应过巴塞特的。”

“该死的巴塞特，这个小家伙！他和这事有什么关系？”

“我们是合作伙伴。从一开始我们就合作。舅舅，最初的五先令还是他借给我的，可是叫我给输了。我答应过他，以名誉担保，这件事只是我跟他两人之间的事。我只是凭着您给我的那张十先令钞票才开始赢钱，所以我认为您是幸运的。您可别再告诉别人了，行吗？”

男孩那双离得很近的大蓝眼睛闪着热切的光芒紧盯着舅舅。舅舅被打动了，他笑了，有点不自然。

“你是对的，孩子！对你的忠告，我要守口如瓶。戴夫帝尔，是吧？你在他身上押了多少钱？”

“除了二十英镑都押上了，”男孩说，“我把那二十当作储备金。”

舅舅认为这是个挺好听的笑话。

“你把二十镑收起来当储备金，是吗？你个小滑头！那么你赌的是多少？”

“我赌了三百。”男孩郑重地说，“不过，这话只是在咱俩之间说，奥斯卡舅舅，拿名誉担保吗？”

舅舅禁不住放声大笑。

“你我之间的事，行啊，你个小纳特·古尔德[1] ！”他笑着说，“可是你那三百镑在哪呢？”

“巴塞特替我收着呢，我们是合伙的。”

“哦，是的。那么巴塞特在戴夫帝尔上押多少呢？”

“我估计他不会像我押得那么高。也许他会押到一百五十吧。”

“一百五十？什么，便士吗？”舅舅笑了。

“英镑！”孩子说，同时惊讶地望着舅舅，“他留的储备比我多。”

奥斯卡舅舅感到既吃惊又好玩，他沉默下来。有关这件事他不再更多地追问，但是他决定带着外甥一起到林肯赛马场去。

“好了，孩子，”他说，“现在我把二十押到米尔扎上，再押五镑给你所想出的任何一匹马。你挑什么？”

“戴夫帝尔，舅舅。”

“不，不能把五镑押到戴夫帝尔上！”

“那五镑要是我自己的，我就押。”孩子说。

“好！好！说的对！我五镑，你五镑，都押戴夫帝尔。”

这孩子以前从未到过赛马场，他的眼睛里燃起了蓝色的火焰，他不说话，只是看。前边的一个法国人把钱押在朗瑟洛上，他情绪激昂，上下舞动着手臂，嘴里不住地操着法国味的英语狂喊：“朗瑟洛！朗瑟洛！”

戴夫帝尔第一个冲入场内，第二是朗瑟洛，第三是米尔扎。男孩脸颊绯红，目光炯炯，人倒显得出奇的平静，他的舅舅给他带回四张五英镑的钞票，赔率是四比一。

“我拿这些钱去做什么呢？”他喊道，同时把钞票在男孩眼前挥舞着。

“我想咱们该去找巴塞特谈谈了，”男孩说，“我计算着我现在有一千五了，还有二十镑储备金和这二十镑。”

舅舅对着他思忖了好一会。

“问题是这样，孩子，”他说，“关于巴塞特和那一千五，你是认真的吗？不是吧？”

“是的，是认真的。不过，这是你我之间的事，名誉担保！”

“名誉担保，没问题，孩子！但是我要和巴塞特谈谈。”

“如果你愿意跟我和巴塞特合伙，舅舅，我们就都是合作伙伴，只是你必须答应，以名誉担保，舅舅，不让我们三个以外的任何人知情。巴塞特和我是幸运的，您也该是幸运的，因为我就是凭着您的十先令才开始赢钱的……”

舅舅把巴塞特和保罗一起带到里奇曼德公园玩了一下午，他们在那聊了起来。

“您看，长官，事情是这样的，”巴塞特说，“保罗少爷让我给他讲赛马项目的事，就是讲故事呗，这您知道，长官，而他总是特别想知道我是赢了还是输了。大约有一年了，从现在算起，我在多恩的‘黎明曙光’上为他押过五先令——结果输掉了，后来运气就转过来了，他从您那儿得到了十先令。我们把它押到‘僧伽罗人’上。从那一次开始，一直非常稳定，总能称心如意。你说什么，保罗少爷？”

“有把握的时候咱们就行，”保罗说，“问题是咱们不太有把握的时候就要吃亏了。”

“哦，可是咱们会加小心的呀。”巴塞特说。

“不过，你们什么时候有把握呢？”奥斯卡舅舅笑着问。

“那要看保罗少爷，”巴塞特说，声音里带着神秘和宗教的味道，“好像他是从天上知道的。像这次林肯马赛上的戴夫帝尔，那是毫无疑问的。”

“你在戴夫帝尔上押过什么吗？”奥斯卡·克雷斯韦尔问。

“是的，长官，我自己赚了一点。”

“我的外甥呢？”

巴塞特看着保罗固执地保持沉默。

“我赢了一千二，是不是，巴塞特，我告诉了舅舅，我在戴夫帝尔上押了三百。”

“那是真的。”巴塞特点头说。

“可是钱在哪呢？”舅舅问。

“我给锁起来了，收得很稳妥，长官，保罗少爷想要的话，随时都可以拿。”

“多少？一千五百镑？”

“还有二十！不，还有四十，算上他在赛场上刚赢的那二十。”

“不可思议！”舅舅说。

“如果保罗少爷给您入伙的机会，长官，我要是您我就干，您要是叫我说实话。”巴塞特说。

奥斯卡·克雷斯韦尔思忖再三。

“我要见到那些钱。”他说。

他们又驱车回家。千真万确，巴塞特拐弯抹角地来到花房，取来十五张一百镑的钞票，而那二十镑储备金则是以存款方式保存的。

“您看，舅舅，我有把握的时候就一切顺利！后来我们就拼命攒钱，是不是，巴塞特？”

“就是这样。保罗少爷。”

“那么，你什么时候有把握呢？”舅舅笑着说。

“哦，是这样，有时候我特别有把握，像对戴夫帝尔那样，”男孩说，“有时候我有一点感觉，可有时候我连感觉都没有，是不是，巴塞特？那时我们就要加小心了，因为通常是会吃亏的。”

“哦，是这样。那么当你有把握的时候，像对戴夫帝尔那样，是什么叫你有把握呢，孩子？”

“啊，这个，我不知道，”男孩不安地说，“就是我有了把握，知道吧，舅舅？就是这样。”

“好像他是从天上知道的，长官。”巴塞特重复地说。

“我看也是！”舅舅说。

然而他成了合作伙伴。接着在莱杰赛马会开场时，保罗对‘明亮火花’有了“把握”，这是一匹人们不太关注的马。男孩执意在这马上押了一千镑，巴塞特押了五百，而奥斯卡·克雷斯韦尔也押了二百。明亮火花名列第一，对它的赔率是十比一。保罗赢了一万。

“你看，”他说，“我对它绝对有把握。”

连奥斯卡·克雷斯韦尔也净赚了两千。

“看哪，孩子，”他说，“这种事把我搞得还挺紧张的。”

“那没必要，舅舅，也许我很长时间不会再有把握呢。”

“那么，你打算用这些钱干点什么呢？”舅舅问。

“当然了，”男孩说，“我着手这件事是为了母亲，她说她没有运气，因为父亲不幸运，所以我想如果我幸运的话，它也许就不嘀咕了。”

“什么也许就不嘀咕了？”

“我们的家。我讨厌我们的家，总在嘀咕。”

“它嘀咕什么呀？”

“哎呀——呀，”——男孩烦躁起来——“哎呀，我不知道。反正它总是缺钱，您知道，舅舅。”

“这我知道，孩子，我知道。”

“有人给母亲送来令状[2] ，您知道吗，舅舅？”

“好像我是知道的。”舅舅说。

“后来家里就嘀咕起来，总像有人在背后笑你，那真可怕，就是那样。我想如果我幸运……”

“我想，你就能制止它。”舅舅接过来说。

男孩那蓝色的大眼睛望着他，里面有一团冷冷的，神秘的火，他没说一句话。

“那么好吧！”舅舅说，“咱们做什么呀？”

“我可不愿意让母亲知道我是幸运的。”男孩说。

“为什么不呢，孩子？”

“她会阻止我。”

“我想她不会的。”

“哦——”男孩奇怪地扭动着身体，“我不想叫母亲知道！”

“好吧，孩子！咱们安排好，不叫她知道。”

他们安排得非常巧妙。保罗依照别人的建议，把五千镑交给他舅舅，舅舅再同家里的律师一起把这笔钱存到银行里。然后，律师在告知母亲说有个亲戚把五千镑交到了他手上，这笔钱要在母亲每次过生日的时候支付一千镑，五年后全部付清。

“这样她就可以连续五年得到每次一千英镑的生日礼物，”奥斯卡舅舅说。“我希望这不会使她以后更困难。”

保罗的母亲在十一月过生日，家里比以往任何时候嘀咕得都更厉害，对此，保罗甚至顾不得什么运气不运气，而不能不感到失望了。他非常想知道告知他母亲能进账一千镑的生日贺信有了什么效应。

现在，当家中无客的时候保罗就同父母一起进餐，因为他已经可以离开保姆的呵护了。母亲几乎每天都进城，她早就发现自己有一种奇异的技巧——勾画毛皮和服装面料的草图。所以她就秘密地在一个朋友的工作室里工作。这个朋友是主流衣商的首席美术指导。她画身着裘皮服装和绸缎服装及饰物的女士人物像，在报纸上做广告。这个年轻的女画家每年要挣到几千镑，而保罗的母亲只能挣几百。她再一次感到不平衡。她那么想在什么事情上都占先，然而不能成功，甚至在为衣商广告画草图这类事情上，也不能如愿。

生日那天早晨，她下楼吃早饭，保罗注视着她看信时脸上的表情，他认识律师的信。他的母亲读这封信的时候，生板着的面孔变得更加没有表情了。然后她的嘴边现出主意已定的冷峻的神情，她把信压在另外一叠信下面，对它只字未提。

“母亲，邮件里有什么好东西祝贺您的生日吗？”保罗问。

“还算叫人舒心吧。”她说，声音冷冰冰的，心不在焉。

她没多说什么，就出发进城去了。

可是下午，奥斯卡舅舅出现了，他说，保罗的母亲同律师会商了很长时间，她问那五千镑能不能一次全部交付。因为她正在负债。

“您是怎么想的，舅舅？”男孩说。

“我想看你怎么办，孩子。”

“哦，那么就由着她吧。咱们还能用别的钱赚更多的。”男孩说。

“手里的一只鸟顶得上林子中的一对，孩子！”奥斯卡舅舅说。

“不过我肯定能赢全国赛马比赛，或者林肯，或者德比赛马会。这几个赛马会我肯定能赢一个。”保罗说。

于是奥斯卡舅舅在协议上签了字，保罗的母亲拿到了全部的那五千英镑，跟着一些非常奇怪的事发生了。家里的那种声音突然发了疯，像青蛙在春日夜晚的大合唱。家里添了一些新家具。保罗有了家庭教师。到了秋天他就真的要去伊顿——他父亲上过的小学去读书了。冬天家里有了鲜花，盛开的鲜花，那是保罗的母亲曾经享受过的奢华。可是家里的那个声音从含羞草的枝叶和盛开的杏花后面，从一摞摞彩虹色的坐垫下面飘散出来，简直是在拉着长声，狂热地尖叫，“该多有点钱！哦——哈——哈，该多有点钱，哦，是的，是的——会的！是的——会的！会的——该多有点钱！——比以前更多！比以前更多！”

这使保罗感到很害怕，他躲到家庭教师那学拉丁文和希腊文，不过令他紧张的时刻是同巴塞特一起度过的。全国赛马比赛临近了，可他却不能知晓，结果输掉了一百镑。夏天到了，他为了林肯马赛处于极度痛苦之中。但即使对林肯马赛他依然不能知晓。于是又输去五十镑。他怪眼圆睁，别人都不认识了。好像什么东西在他身体里要爆炸一样。

“把它扔到一边去吧，孩子，别再为它烦恼了！”奥斯卡舅舅劝慰他。但是男孩好像听不进去舅舅在说什么。

“德比马会我可得弄明白，德比马会我可得弄明白！”孩子不断地重复这句话，他的大蓝眼睛射出的光芒里显然含有一种疯狂在内。

母亲注意到了他的过度兴奋。

“你最好到海边去。不要等了，现在就去海边吧。你不喜欢吗？我认为你还是去的好。”她说，同时俯身忧虑地看着他。但是孩子抬起了那双怪异的蓝眼睛。她的心情奇怪地为他而变得沉重。

“在德比马会之前我可能去不了，母亲！”他说，“我可能去不了！”

“为什么不？”由于遭到反驳她说话的语气加重了，“你还可以同奥斯卡舅舅直接从海边去德比看马赛，如果那是你所期待的。你没有必要在这里等嘛。另外我认为你对这些赛马的事关心得太多了，这是个不好的苗头。我们家都成了赌博家庭了，你不长大是不会懂得它造成了多么大的损失，然而它确实已经造成了损失。除非你答应对赛马保持一种合乎情理的态度，否则我将不得不把巴塞特打发走，并且不许奥斯卡舅舅同你谈起赛马。忘掉它，到海边去！你已经神经质了。”

“母亲，只要您在德比马赛结束之前不把我赶走，我就照您喜欢的做。”男孩说。

“赶走？从哪赶走，从这个家里吗？”

“是的。”孩子说，直视着母亲。

“为什么？你这个鬼小子！什么东西叫你突然对这房子上心了？我从来不知道你喜欢过它。”

他凝视着她，没有说话。他有一个密中之秘，从来没有向任何人泄露过，包括巴塞特，甚至舅舅奥斯卡。

他的母亲站在那，没有拿定主意，有点闷闷不乐，但是过了一会，她说：

“那么，很好，德比马会之前不去海边了，如果你不愿意的话，但是你必须答应我，你的神经不能崩溃。你必须保证不把那么多心思用到跑马赛，用你的话说，或项目上。”

“哦，不会的。”男孩随便地说，“我不想那么多那些事，母亲。您不必担心，母亲我要是您，我就不担心。”

“如果你是我而我是你的话，”他的母亲说，“我倒想知道我们该做什么。”

“可是您知道您不必担心，母亲，是不是？”男孩重复说。

“我要是知道就得高兴坏了。”她疲倦地说。

“哦，这个您当然能了，我的意思是说您当然知道您不必担心的。”他固执己见。

“是这样吗？那我倒要好好想想了。”她说。

保罗的密中之秘是他的木马，就是那匹没有名字的木马。自他脱离了保姆和幼儿家庭教师以来，他的木马就搬到了家里顶楼上他自己的房间里。

“说真的，你玩安乐木马确实太大了点！”他的母亲规劝过他。

“可是，您看，母亲，我还不能有一匹真正的马，那就弄个木头的呗。”他的回答蛮有趣。

“你是不是觉得它跟你做伴？”她笑着说。

“哦，是的。它非常好，我在那的时候它总是跟我做伴。”保罗说。

这样那只破旧的木马就立在了男孩的卧室中，总是那副在腾越中被勒紧的神态。

德比马会临近了。男孩变得越来越紧张，他几乎听不见别人同他讲的话，他很虚弱，而且眼睛里真正充满了怪异，他的母亲会突然奇怪地为他感到不安，有时她会连续半小时为他忧虑，使她处于极度痛苦的状态中。她想立刻就冲到他面前，确认他安然无恙。

德比马会的前两夜，她正在城里出席一个大型聚会，她对她的儿子，她的头生儿子忧虑的毛病又犯了，心脏被紧紧压迫，她难受得几乎说不出话来。她尽全力要克制这种情感，因为她相信应该没事。可是它太强烈了，她只好离开舞会到楼下去往乡下家里打电话。夜深人静的时候被电话叫起，着实让孩子们的家庭教师大吃一惊，不知发生了什么可怕的事情。

“威尔莫特小姐，孩子们都好吗？”

“哦，是的，他们都挺好的。”

“保罗少爷呢？他好吗？”

“上床睡觉的时候他一切正常。我现在要不要跑上去看看他？”

“不用，”保罗的母亲不太情愿地说，“不用了，别麻烦了。那么，好吧，别坐着了，我们过一会就回去了。”她不想让别人介入儿子的私事。

“那么好吧。”家庭教师说。

保罗的母亲和父亲驾车回家的时候已经是夜里一点左右。一切都静悄悄的。保罗的母亲回到自己的房间，闪身脱去白色的裘皮大氅，她告诉过用人不用等她。她听到丈夫在楼下调制威士忌和苏打的声音。

然后她便溜上楼去，到她儿子的房间，因为她心中还存着那奇怪的忧虑。她悄无声息地走在楼上的过道里。模模糊糊地有点声响，是什么呢？

她站在他的房门外，肌肉都绷紧了，侧耳细听。有一种奇怪的、沉重而又不太高的噪声。她的心跳都止住了。那是一种悄然的噪声，急促而有力。一个极大的物件正在猛烈却又敛声地运动。它是什么？以上帝的名义，它是什么？她应该知道。她觉得她熟悉这种噪音。她知道它是什么。

然而她不能确认。她说不出那究竟是什么。然而它却响啊响个不停，像个疯魔。

忧虑和疑惧几乎使她僵硬，她还是轻柔地拧动了门的手柄。

房间是黑暗的。在靠近窗户的地方，她听到而且看到了什么东西在一来一去地晃动。她惊恐不安地凝视。

然后她突然打亮了灯。雪亮的白炽灯使母子二人骤然显现在对方面前。一个正疯狂地颠簸在摇动的木马上，还在扬鞭催马，身上只穿着绿色的内衣，一个伫立在门道当中，一身素绿长裙，衬托着金发白肤，笼罩在水晶饰物的珠光宝气中。

“保罗，”她大喊，“你在干什么？”

“是马拉巴尔！”他尖叫着，声音有力而奇特，“是马拉巴尔！”

他不再催动木马，同时他那陌生茫然的目光在她身上驻留了片刻，然后便浑身瘫软，摔落到地板上。而她则被极度痛楚的全部母性所激励，猛扑过去，迅速地将他抱起。

但是他已经人事不醒，而且一直表现为这种状态，同时伴有一点头热。他时语时动，癔癔症症，母亲一直呆坐在他的床边。

“马拉巴尔！是马拉巴尔！巴塞特，巴塞特，我知道！是马拉巴尔！”

男孩这样叫喊着，试图起身去催动那只赋予了他灵感的木马。

“他说的马拉巴尔是什么意思？”心冷如冰的母亲问。

“我不知道。”父亲木然地说。

“他说的马拉巴尔是什么意思？”她对自己的兄长奥斯卡发问。

“那是一匹在德比马会上赛跑的马。”回答是这样的。

奥斯卡·克雷思韦尔顾不上自己，先去对巴塞特说了，然后自己才以十四比一的赔率在马拉巴尔身上下了一千镑的赌注。

病发的第三天是要紧的时候，他们期待着转机。男孩不停地在枕头上折腾，一头卷发显得长长的，他既没有睡着，也没有恢复知觉。而他的眼睛变成了蓝色的石头。母亲坐在那里，感觉自己的心已经离去。而人实际上已然成了石头了。

晚上，奥斯卡·克雷思韦尔没有来，倒是巴塞特带进话来，说他能不能上来一会，只一小会。保罗的母亲对这样的介入非常反感，可她又一想，便同意了。孩子就是那样了。也许巴塞特能使他清醒过来呢。

花匠是个矮个子的小伙子，留着褐色的小胡子，一双锐利的小眼睛也是褐色的。他垫着脚尖走进房间，先朝保罗的母亲用手碰了碰假想中的帽檐，算作行礼，然后悄悄来到床边，用闪亮的小眼睛打量那不安的垂死的孩子。

“保罗少爷！”他轻轻地说，“保罗少爷！马拉巴尔真的跑了第一，赢得很干脆啊！我是按照你说的去做的。你赢了七万多镑，你赢了，你一共有八万多镑了。马拉巴尔当真赢了，保罗少爷。”

“马拉巴尔！马拉巴尔！我说没说过马拉巴尔，母亲？我说没说马拉巴尔？您认为我幸运吗，母亲？我早就知道是马拉巴尔，对不对？八万多镑！我说这就是幸运，您说呢，母亲？八万多镑，我知道了，是不是，我早就知道我知道了？马拉巴尔真的跑赢了。如果我骑马能骑到有把握的时候，我就告诉你，巴塞特，那么你就可以爱押多高就押多高。巴塞特，你是不是把自己所有的都押上了？”

“我押了一千镑，保罗少爷。”

“母亲，我从来没告诉过您，如果我骑上马而且到了那里，那么我就有绝对的把握——哦，绝对的！母亲，我告诉过您吗？我确是幸运的！”

“没有，从来没有。”母亲说。

可是男孩在当夜死去了。

然而，尽管他死了躺在那里，母亲还是听到了兄长对她说话的声音：“我的上帝，赫丝特，你赚了八万多，却陪上了可怜到家的儿子。可怜啊，可怜，他在木马背上耗尽了人生，为的竟是寻找运气！”

【注释】

[1]跑马赛的一个权威。

[2]法庭命令声明某些帐单如不偿负，将采取法律行动的文书。

后 记

《美国佬都是骗子》就要由译林社出版了！这一天期盼了许久，尽管它的到来如同秋叶飘落大地那么自然，还是让人百感交集，于是想到该有篇后记，倾吐心声。

这样一个集子，在外国文学的海洋里，渺小得如同一滴水；然而因为凝聚着“干点事”的心愿，它之于我，还真的不是无足轻重。所以当我收到出版合同，喜悦和快慰当然不言而喻；然而更多地拥堵于怀的，还得说是它的来之不易和浸透其中的感恩情愫。

我是当年的北大荒知青，曾在黑土地耕耘磨练，是859农场二龙屯的父老乡亲和知青战友把我送进大学。黑龙江大学那些博学、敬业的老师，顶着政治风浪含辛茹苦，把我们领进英语大门。那时候上学不收学费，国家还按月发给生活补贴。那是国民经济濒临崩溃的年月，我们能得到一方书桌，全国人民都要把裤带勒得更紧。三年学业，拿现在的眼光来看，我们学到的知识的确很有限，然而在当年，在我们心目中，那是极其珍贵的，个人的辛苦努力且不必说，“我们是国家和人民培养的专业人员”这一点不敢轻忘。

失明那一年，自己刚三十岁挂零，工伤致残，不愁温饱，然而就此吃粮造粪，虚度残生，在我看来比失明本身更可怕；也许是羞于沉沦，也许是不甘寂寞，“干点事”是最初一段时间头脑中盘旋最多的念头。有人劝我改学按摩，可我实在舍不得装在肚里的那点英语，不管说什么，愚忠也好，僵化也罢，用英语做点事情，在下意识中已经是理所当然。

近些年，朋友们常说我是不幸中的大幸，因为我有个为我遮风挡雨的妻子，这倒是千真万确，没有这个前提，什么都无从谈起；这里我还要说，自己在38岁上，又成为大洋彼岸海德里盲人学校的学生，这无疑也是我人生中的一件幸事。在海德里盲校八年的函授学习中，尽管远隔重洋，老师们教会了我阅读和书写英语盲文，进而又帮助我啃下了《英国现代文学教程》，不仅如此，海德里盲校老师的敬业尽责，仁慈博爱，更都是无形的教材，感人至深，发人向善。

学会摸读英语盲文之后，原来枯坐中的生活发生了改变，摸读的能力让我进入了英语文学的天地；我觉得自己读到的英语小说作品深邃高雅，精美绝伦，萌生了把它们介绍给国内读者的愿望，于是不顾山高路远，欣然奋蹄——总算能用英语干点事了！

通过盲文翻译外国文学作品，在当时的中国可能没几个人在做，那是一段难忘的经历，它激活了我几十年的积淀，中、英盲文的读写能力，英语的理解，中文的表达，每天都在综合着发挥作用，每天我都在迎接挑战；告别了枯燥和寂寞，经常被自豪所鼓舞——我又能工作了！那时我四十多岁，也算年富力强吧，这十几篇小说，犹如十几座山峰，我靠着双手依次攀援，仗着年轻时在黑土地上修炼出的“法宝”，绝不言败，终于把那些山峰踩在了脚下！

悄悄长大的女儿大学毕业了，给家里的电脑装上了“永德读屏软件”。在妻女的指导下，我学会了操纵电脑，又花了几个月的时间，把那些译文转换为电子版，借助高科技，我又对译文进行了修改和润色，可比盲文方便多了；感谢读屏软件的开发者王永德，说起来，他还是我在海德里盲校的同学呢！前两年发现有一篇短篇小说，于是尝试着在电脑上通过听读英语进行翻译，七千多个单词的小说，二十几天就译完了，而且直接存入电脑文档，比通过盲文翻译竟节省了十来倍的时间！

必须说明一点，我的攀援不是孤侠独旅，家里安上了电话，盲文字典里找不到的词语，随时都可以请人帮忙，妻子办公室里的年轻人，真没少帮我查字典。为了几句意大利语，我曾把电话打到外语学院的西语教研室。当然见证和陪伴那全过程的，还得说是我的老伴任晓萍。找人查字典，她肯定是首选对象，在我心目中，那是她的“分内之事”——她不在办公室了，才轮到别人。她还是我经常开展讨论的对象，大至小说的主题、作者的意图，小至一句话乃至一个词的语气或用意，都是我们讨论的内容。理解和表达这两大环节，我更多地为寻找恰当的表达方式所困扰，自觉不自觉地与妻子讨论一阵，头脑中往往能闪出火花。盲文译稿转输成电子版之后，难以避免的同音字词混杂在十几万字的译稿中，要一个个查对出来加以改正，这繁杂的工作自然也是老伴的“份内之事”；在此过程中，若感觉哪个地方读着别扭或词不达意，她会要我重新考虑，往往把我逼得浑身燥热……事实上，没有老伴的参与和付出，“这点事”我自己还真干不了；平心而论，这个集子是我和老伴共同合作的又一个结晶！

翻译工作告一段落，跟着就惦记付印出版。联系几个出版社，都没什么回应，有个出版界的老同学告以实情：这类纯文学的名家名作，如今市场疲软，谁如果编辑了这样的书，真要是赔了钱，会被扣奖金的！那么自己花点钱买个书号，找个书屋出版吧，人家倒是挺热情，告诉我不用一个月就能印出来，届时去车拉书，不包销售！我都五十好几了，黑着两眼，还得改行学卖书！我自忖已经过了转行的年龄，没有去尝试；结果书稿在电脑文件夹里一睡就是六年多。

好在从伟大的先哲那里学会了“顺逆随缘”，书稿睡就睡吧，还没到它出世的时候呢！我有了电脑，多少也接触了点网络文化，近两年加入了网上的859e家园，回家的感觉深深地吸引了我，在那里结识、找到了一批兵团时期的新老朋友，我们叫“荒友”，其中就包括校友、荒友加网友的钟亚琴。去年初冬她电话通知我到北展观看“北大荒知青之歌”文艺演出，在北展门口，她引我见到了另一位神交已久的荒友于怀，话没说上三五句，他随口问我网上的文章有没有出书的打算，表示可以帮助联系出版社，语气和态度诚恳得不容置疑，虽然事前完全没有想到那一幕。于是《美国佬都是骗子》被叫醒了。译林社的刘总编辑决定把出这个集子“当成一件公益的事情来做”；人以群分，了解它真实价值的人，终于凑到了一起；顺缘到了，“嘛钱不钱的！”

译书不容易，我乐此不疲；出书不容易，朋友们热心成全；在这个特定的时刻，我真切地感受到了什么是感恩。爱因斯坦曾说：“我每天上百次地提醒自己：我的精神生活和物质生活都依靠着别人（包括死者和生者）的劳动，我必须尽力以同样的分量来报偿我所领受了的和至今还在领受的东西。”一部小小的译文集，它凝聚了方方面面几十年的付出和努力，它是人们对赖以生存的社会真诚感恩的结果，我的精神因它的产生而受到洗礼。对阅读了本书的亲爱的读者，最后我这样敞开自己的心扉。

胡宝贵

2011年12月12日 于廊坊

Table of Contents

前 言

The Lagoon

The Old Venerable

The Japanese Quince

All Yankees Are Liars

The Ballroom

The Doll’s House

Il Conde A Pathetic Tale

A Cup of Tea

The New Dress

Araby

The Rocking-horse Winner

魔 鬼 湖

老前辈

日本樱花

美国佬都是骗子

舞 厅

娃娃房子

伯 爵——一个哀伤的故事

一杯茶

新 衣

阿拉比

木马背上的幸运儿

后 记