双语·面纱 第七十章

70

At first because she had not wept when Walter died she was ashamed. It seemed dreadfully callous. Why, the eyes of the Chinese officer, Colonel Yü, had been wet with tears. She was dazed by her husband's death. It was difficult to understand that he would not come into the bungalow again and that when he got up in the morning she would not hear him take his bath in the Suchow tub. He was alive and now he was dead. The sisters wondered at her Christian resignation and admired the courage with which she bore her loss. But Waddington was shrewd; for all his grave sympathy she had a feeling that--how should she put it?--that he had his tongue in his cheek. Of course, Walter's death had been a shock to her. She didn't want him to die. But after all she didn't love him, she had never loved him; it was decent to bear herself with becoming sorrow; it would be ugly and vulgar even to let any one see in her heart; but she had gone through too much to make pretenses to herself. It seemed to her that this at least the last few weeks had taught her, that if it is necessary sometimes to lie to others it is always despicable to lie to oneself. She was sorry that Walter had died in that tragic manner, but she was sorry with a purely human sorrow such as she might have felt if it had been an acquaintance. She would acknowledge that Walter had admirable qualities; it just happened that she did not like him; he had always bored her. She would not admit that his death was a relief to her, she could say honestly that if by a word of hers she could bring him back to life she would say it, but she could not resist the feeling that his death made her way to some extent a trifle easier. They would never have been happy together and yet to part would have been terribly difficult. She was startled at herself for feeling as she did; she supposed that people would think her heartless and cruel if they knew. Well, they shouldn't know. She wondered if all her fellows had in their hearts shameful secrets which they spent their time guarding from curious glances.

She looked very little into the future and she made no plans. The only thing she knew was that she wanted to stay in Hong Kong as short a while as might be. She looked forward to arriving there with horror. It seemed to her that she would like to wander for ever through that smiling and friendly country in her rattan chair, and, an indifferent spectator for ever of the phantasmagoria of life, pass each night under a different roof. But of course the immediate future must be faced: she would go to the hotel when she reached Hong Kong, she would arrange about getting rid of the house and selling the furniture; there would be no need to see Townsend. He would have the grace to keep out of her way. She would like, all the same, to see him once more in order to tell him what a despicable creature she thought him.

But what did Charles Townsend matter?

Like a rich melody on a harp that rang in exultant arpeggios through the complicated harmonies of a symphony, one thought beat in her heart insistently. It was this thought which gave their exotic beauty to the rice-fields, which made a little smile break on her pale lips as a smooth-faced lad swung past her on his way to the market town with exultation in his carriage and audacity in his eyes, and which gave the magic of a tumultuous life to the cities she passed through. The city of the pestilence was a prison from which she was escaped, and she had never known before how exquisite was the blueness of the sky and what a joy there was in the bamboo copses that leaned with such an adorable grace across the causeway. Freedom! That was the thought that sung in her heart so that even though the future was so dim, it was iridescent like the mist over the river where the morning sun fell upon it. Freedom! Not only freedom from a bond that irked, and a companionship which depressed her; freedom, not only from the death which had threatened, but freedom from the love that had degraded her; freedom from all spiritual ties, the freedom of a disembodied spirit; and with freedom, courage, and a valiant unconcern for whatever was to come.

第七十章

起初，因为在沃尔特临终时，她没有哭泣，这让她感到羞愧。因为这似乎显得她特别冷酷无情。为什么，那位中国军官——余上校的眼中都一直充满泪水。她丈夫的死让她失魂落魄，很难想象他不会再回到平房的家里了。每天早晨当他醒了以后，她都能听见他在苏州产的澡盆中洗澡，他是活蹦乱跳的，而现在他死了。修女们惊奇于她对基督的顺从，她们钦佩她在痛失亲人时的勇气。但是威廷顿很精明，对于他所有一本正经的同情里面，她有一种感觉——她应该怎么说呢——有点儿言不由衷。沃尔特的死对她的震动挺大，她并不想让他死。但无论如何，她不爱他，她从来没有爱过他，独自忍受悲痛能够让人同情和尊重，但如果让人看透她内心的话，那她的所作所为就是丑陋和下流的了。然而，她已经历了太多，不能自欺欺人了，对她而言，至少最近几周所发生的事好像教会了她这一点，如果有时有必要对人撒谎尚可原谅，但如果对自己也撒谎那就是卑鄙的。沃尔特是以那种悲剧的方式死去，她真的觉得很痛心，但是她这种痛心是纯粹的作为正常人的悲伤，假设这事发生在一个熟人身上，她也会痛心的。她承认沃尔特有很多让人崇拜的品质，但她就是不喜欢他，总是厌烦他，这事确确实实发生了。她不想承认他的死对她来说就是一种解脱，她能很诚实地说，如果她的一句话能够让他起死回生的话，她一定会说的。但是她不能不承认，他的死使得她的生活多少变得轻松一些了。他们在一起时并不幸福，但是分开也很困难。她对自己的这种感觉有点儿吃惊，她想如果人们知道了，会认为她铁石心肠和残忍无情。呃，所幸他们不会知道。她很想知道是不是所有的人在他们心中都有些可耻的秘密，他们会花时间小心守卫，以防别人好奇地窥视。

她没有设想未来，也没做什么计划。她唯一知道的事情就是她待在香港的时间要尽可能地短。她已经可以想象出到达香港的时候一定还惊魂未定。对她来说，她似乎更愿意永远坐在藤条轿子上在怡人的乡村风光里游荡，更愿意作为一个漠然的旁观者永远地观察生活的风云变幻，在另一处屋顶下，度过每一个夜晚。但显而易见的是，她不得不面对不久的将来，当她到达香港的时候，她会去找家旅馆，她会安排人把房子出手，卖掉家具。没有必要去见查理。他应该为了保持颜面对她避而远之，但不管怎么样，她还是想见他一面，告诉他在她的眼中，他是个多么卑鄙的家伙。

但是查理·汤森算个什么东西呢？

一个念头反复地在她的心中萦绕，就像竖琴上一个丰富的曲调，通过一首交响乐复杂的和音，以欢快的、急促的和弦形式回响。就是这个念头给了稻田异国情调的美。一个白白净净的小伙子在驾车赶集的路上，路过她身边时，会掉头看她，他的目光热辣辣的，这个念头使得她苍白的嘴唇会绽放出一些微笑。这个念头给了她所经过城市的纷乱的生活一种魔力。瘟疫肆虐的城市是一座监狱，她从那里逃了出来，她以前从来不知道湛蓝的天空是多么的美，以一种可爱的优雅姿势斜立在堤道上的竹林是多么的惬意。自由！就是这个念头在她的心中歌唱，哪怕未来是多么的黯淡。它是彩虹色的，就像河上的雾气，早晨的阳光照在上面后会变换色彩。自由！不仅是从恼人的束缚中挣脱出来的自由，而且还是一种从压抑的陪伴中解脱出来的自由。自由！不仅是从时刻威胁的死亡中摆脱出来的自由，而且是从使她沉沦的爱情中获得新生的自由，从所有精神的羁绊中获得的自由，是一种不具形体的精神上的自由。有了自由，就有了勇气，无论即将到来的是怎样的挑战，她都会勇敢地面对。