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双语·月亮与六便士 第十一章

所属教程:译林版·月亮与六便士

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2022年04月20日

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During the journey I thought over my errand with misgiving. Now that I was free from the spectacle of Mrs.Strickland's distress I could consider the matter more calmly.I was puzzled by the contradictions that I saw in her behaviour.She was very unhappy, but to excite my sympathy she was able to make a show of her unhappiness.It was evident that she had been prepared to weep, for she had provided herself with a suffciency of handkerchiefs;I admired her forethought, but in retrospect it made her tears perhaps less moving.I could not decide whether she desired the return of her husband because she loved him, or because she dreaded the tongue of scandal;and I was perturbed by the suspicion that the anguish of love contemned was alloyed in her broken heart with the pangs, sordid to my young mind, of wounded vanity.I had not yet learnt how contradictory is human nature;I did not know how much pose there is in the sincere, how much baseness in the noble, or how much goodness in the reprobate.

But there was something of an adventure in my trip, and my spirits rose as I approached Paris. I saw myself, too, from the dramatic standpoint, and I was pleased with my role of the trusted friend bringing back the errant husband to his forgiving wife.I made up my mind to see Strickland the following evening, for I felt instinctively that the hour must be chosen with delicacy.An appeal to the emotions is little likely to be effectual before luncheon.My own thoughts were then constantly occupied with love, but I never could imagine connubial bliss till after tea.

I inquired at my hotel for that in which Charles Strickland was living. It was called the H?tel des Belges.But the concierge, somewhat to my surprise, had never heard of it.I had understood from Mrs.Strickland that it was a large and sumptuous place at the back of the Rue de Rivoli.We looked it out in the directory.The only hotel of that name was in the Rue des Moines.The quarter was not fashionable;it was not even respectable.I shook my head.

“I'm sure that's not it,”I said.

The concierge shrugged his shoulders. There was no other hotel of that name in Paris.It occurred to me that Strickland had concealed his address, after all.In giving his partner the one I knew he was perhaps playing a trick on him.I do not know why I had an inkling that it would appeal to Strickland's sense of humour to bring a furious stockbroker over to Paris on a fool's errand to an ill-famed house in a mean street.Still, I thought I had better go and see.Next day about six o'clock I took a cab to the Rue des Moines, but dismissed it at the corner, since I preferred to walk to the hotel and look at it before I went in.It was a street of small shops subservient to the needs of poor people, and about the middle of it, on the left as I walked down, was the H?tel des Belges.My own hotel was modest enough, but it was magnificent in comparison with this.It was a tall, shabby building, that cannot have been painted for years, and it had so bedraggled an air that the houses on each side of it looked neat and clean.The dirty windows were all shut.It was not here that Charles Strickland lived in guilty splendour with the unknown charmer for whose sake he had abandoned honour and duty.I was vexed, for I felt that I had been made a fool of, and I nearly turned away without making an inquiry.I went in only to be able to tell Mrs.Strickland that I had done my best.

The door was at the side of a shop. It stood open, and just within was a sign:Bureau au premier.I walked up the narrow stairs, and on the landing found a sort of box, glassed in, within which were a desk and a couple of chairs.There was a bench outside, on which it might be presumed the night porter passed uneasy nights.There was no one about, but under an electric bell was written Gar?on.I rang, and presently a waiter appeared.He was a young man with furtive eyes and a sullen look.He was in shirt sleeves and carpet slippers.

I do not know why I made my inquiry as casual as possible.

“Does Mr. Strickland live here by any chance?”I asked.

“Number thirty-two. On the sixth foor.”

I was so surprised that for a moment I did not answer.

“Is he in?”

The waiter looked at a board in the bureau.

“He hasn't left his key. Go up and you'll see.”

I thought it as well to put one more question.

“Madame est là?”

“Monsieur est seul.”

The waiter looked at me suspiciously as I made my way upstairs. They were dark and airless.There was a foul and musty smell.Three flights up a woman in a dressing-gown, with touzled hair, opened a door and looked at me silently as I passed.At length I reached the sixth foor, and knocked at the door numbered thirty-two.There was a sound within, and the door was partly opened.Charles Strickland stood before me.He uttered not a word.He evidently did not know me.

I told him my name. I tried my best to assume an airy manner.

“You don't remember me. I had the pleasure of dining with you last July.”

“Come in,”he said cheerily.“I'm delighted to see you. Take a pew.”

I entered. It was a very small room, overcrowded with furniture of the style which the French know as Louis Philippe.There was a large wooden bedstead on which was a billowing red eiderdown, and there was a large wardrobe, a round table, a very small washstand, and two stuffed chairs covered with red rep.Everything was dirty and shabby.There was no sign of the abandoned luxury that Colonel MacAndrew had so confdently described.Strickland threw on the foor the clothes that burdened one of the chairs, and I sat down on it.

“What can I do for you?”he asked.

In that small room he seemed even bigger than I remembered him. He wore an old Norfolk jacket, and he had not shaved for several days.When last I saw him he was spruce enough, but he looked ill at ease:now, untidy and ill-kempt, he looked perfectly at home.I did not know how he would take the remark I had prepared.

“I've come to see you on behalf of your wife.”

“I was just going out to have a drink before dinner. You'd better come too.Do you like absinthe?”

“I can drink it.”

“Come on, then.”

He put on a bowler hat much in need of brushing.

“We might dine together. You owe me a dinner, you know.”

“Certainly. Are you alone?”

I flattered myself that I had got in that important question very naturally.

“Oh yes. In point of fact I've not spoken to a soul for three days.My French isn't exactly brilliant.”

I wondered as I preceded him downstairs what had happened to the little lady in the tea-shop. Had they quarrelled already, or was his infatuation passed?It seemed hardly likely if, as appeared, he had been taking steps for a year to make his desperate plunge.We walked to the Avenue de Clichy, and sat down at one of the tables on the pavement of a large café.

在路上,我又把这次的使命考虑了一番,还是有点忐忑不安。现在既然我可以从斯特里克兰太太痛不欲生的现场中解脱出来,就可以更加冷静地梳理一下这件事了。让我想不透的是她行为上的矛盾,她是很不幸,可是为了激起我的同情,她竟然能够在不幸上作秀。很显然她已经为哭哭啼啼做好了准备,因为事先她已经备好了一大堆手帕。我虽然佩服她的深谋远虑,但再回想起来,她的泪水也许就不那么打动人了。我甚至都不能断定,她希望她丈夫回家,是因为她爱他,还是因为她害怕被流言蜚语所淹没。我还怀疑她由于爱的痛苦,那份受到侮辱的爱,在她那受到打击的破碎的心中还能否保持忠贞,也许正掺杂着受伤的虚荣。想到这一点让我很烦躁,好像玷污了我年轻的心灵。那时我还没有洞察人的本性是多么的矛盾,我也不知道在真诚之中有多少是在故作姿态,在高贵中藏着多少卑劣,或者在堕落中也能发现美德。

但是,我这趟差事多少还是有些冒险的成分,当我快到巴黎时,精神反而振奋了起来。从戏剧的角度来看,我对自己所扮演的角色很开心,受朋友所托,要把一位误入歧途的丈夫带回到他宽宏大量的妻子身边。我决定第二天傍晚再去找斯特里克兰,因为我本能地觉得见他的那一时刻必须仔细选择,在我看来,在午饭前想唤起各种感情是不太可能达到效果的。那时我自己的心里就不断充满爱情的遐想,但直到下午茶的时候,才能想象到婚姻的幸福。

我在自己住的旅馆里打听查尔斯·斯特里克兰所住的地方,得知他住的旅馆名叫比利时旅馆,但是多少让我感到有些意外的是,门房说他从未听说过这家旅馆,我原来从斯特里克兰太太那儿听说的是一家很大的、奢华的旅馆,位于瑞沃利路的后面。我们一起查阅了旅馆指南大全,发现叫这个名字的旅馆只有一家,位于莫伊内斯路。旅馆所在地区比较偏僻,甚至都称不上体面。我摇了摇头。

“我敢说不是这家。”我说。

门房耸了耸肩膀。在巴黎叫这个名字的旅馆只此一家。我突然想到,斯特里克兰本来是要隐匿他的地址的。在给他的合伙人我所知道的这个地址时,他也许就想捉弄一下他。我不知道为什么冒出了一个念头,斯特里克兰的恶作剧正符合他的幽默感,让一个怒火冲天的证券经纪人奔到巴黎,在一个下流街区名声很坏的房子里出尽洋相。尽管如此,我想最好还是亲自去看看。第二天大约六点钟,我叫了辆马车驶向莫伊内斯路。在街角我就下了车,因为我想步行到那家旅馆,先观察一下再进去。这条街道,两旁布满为穷人开设的小商店,大约在街道的中间位置,我沿街走下来的左手边就是比利时旅馆。我自己住的旅馆虽然已经挺普通的,但如果和这间旅馆相比,可以称得上是金碧辉煌了。它是一座高高的、破败的建筑,已经很多年没有粉刷过了,脏兮兮的模样反而衬托着两边其他房屋看上去整齐和干净。肮脏的窗户都紧闭着。不会是这儿的,查尔斯·斯特里克兰应该和勾引他的不知名的女子住在充满罪恶感的豪华旅馆中,为了那个女人他抛弃了荣誉和责任。我很恼火,因为觉得我也被捉弄了。我几乎打算不再打听一下就转身离去,但我还是进去了,只是为了能够回头告诉斯特里克兰太太我已经尽力了。

旅馆的门在一家小商店的一侧,门开着,一进门就看见一块牌子:前台在二楼[23]。我沿着狭窄的楼梯走上去,在楼梯平台看到一个用玻璃围起来的小隔间,里面放了一张桌子和几把椅子,外面放了一条长凳,也许晚上守门人就在上面度过了许许多多难熬的夜晚。四下没人,但是在一个电铃的下面写着侍者[24]的字样,我按了铃,马上来了一位侍者。他是一个年轻人,贼眉鼠眼,一脸晦气,身着短袖上衣,脚穿毡子拖鞋。

我不知道为什么我要让询问听上去尽可能的轻松。

“碰巧有位叫斯特里克兰的先生住在这儿吗?”我问道。

“三十二号房间,在六层。”

我很吃惊,半天没说出话来。

“他在吗?”

侍者看了看前台[25]挂钥匙的木板。

“他房间的钥匙没在那儿,你自己上去看看吧。”

我想还是多问一下好。

“夫人在吗?[26]”

“就先生一个人住这儿。[27]”

当我上楼梯时,侍者满脸狐疑地看着我。楼梯黑黢黢的,空气又不流通。一股污浊的霉味扑面而来。走到三层时,一个女人穿着睡衣,头发乱蓬蓬的,打开门一声不吭地看我走了过去。终于我爬到了六楼,敲了敲门牌号是三十二号的房门。里面有动静,随后房门打开了一半,查尔斯·斯特里克兰站到了我面前。他没说话,显然没认出我来。

我告诉了他我的姓名,尽量摆出一副大大咧咧的样子。

“你不记得我了,我七月份曾荣幸地跟你共进过晚餐。”

“进来吧,”他轻快地说,“见到你很高兴,坐吧。”

我进了屋,才发现房间很小,在法国被称为路易·菲利浦款式的家具把房间挤得满满的。有一张大木床,床上是鼓鼓囊囊的鸭绒被,还有一个大立柜,一张圆桌,一个很小的洗脸架,两把软座椅子,包着红色棱纹平布[28]。每件东西都是脏兮兮和破破烂烂的。麦克安德鲁上校煞有介事地描述的那种穷奢极欲,没有丝毫的痕迹。斯特里克兰把占据了一张椅子的衣服扔到了地上,我坐到了椅子上。

“我能为你效劳吗?”他问道。

在这间狭小的房子里,他似乎比我记忆中的斯特里克兰还要高大。他穿了件旧的诺福克夹克,好几天没修边幅了。我上次见他时,他的衣着起码还够整洁,但看上去挺拘谨;现在,穿得邋里邋遢,看上去却特别休闲随意。我不知道他听了我早已打好腹稿的话会作何反应。

“我受你妻子之托前来看你。”

“我正打算在晚饭之前出去喝一杯呢,你最好也跟我一起来,你喜欢喝苦艾酒吗?”

“我能喝一点儿。”

“那就走吧。”

他戴上了一顶圆顶礼帽,这帽子也急需刷洗了。

“我们可以吃晚饭,你知道,你还欠我一顿晚饭呢。”

“当然了,你是一个人吗?”

我暗自得意,我把这个最重要的问题自自然然地提出来了。

“哦,没错,事实上,我已经有三天都没跟人说过话了。我的法语也不是特别灵光。”

我在他的前面走下楼梯,暗自思忖那位茶社里的年轻姑娘出了什么状况,他们吵架了吗?或者他的热乎劲已经过去了?就目前的情景来看,他处心积虑地准备了一年,然后不顾一切地一猛子扎到巴黎来,似乎不太可能呀。我们步行到克里舍林荫大道,然后在一家大咖啡馆外的人行道上拣了张桌子坐下来。

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