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双语·美丽新世界 第十二章

所属教程:译林版·美丽新世界

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2022年04月26日

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Bernard had to shout through the locked door; the Savage would not open.

“But everybody's there, waiting for you.”

“Let them wait,” came back the muffled voice through the door.

“But you know quite well, John” (how difficult it is to sound persuasive at the top of one's voice!), “I asked them on purpose to meet you.”

“You ought to have asked me first whether I wanted to meet them.”

“But you always came before, John.”

“That's precisely why I don't want to come again.”

“Just to please me,” Bernard bellowingly wheedled. “Won't you come to please me?”

“No.”

“Do you seriously mean it?”

“Yes.”

Despairingly, “But what shall I do?” Bernard wailed.

“Go to hell!” bawled the exasperated voice from within.

“But the Arch-Community-Songster of Canterbury is there to-night.” Bernard was almost in tears.

“Ai yaa tákwa!” It was only in Zuñi that the Savage could adequately express what he felt about the Arch-Community-Songster. “Háni!” he added as an after-thought; and then (with what derisive ferocity!): “Sons éso tse-ná.” And he spat on the ground, as Popé might have done.

In the end Bernard had to slink back, diminished, to his rooms and inform the impatient assembly that the Savage would not be appearing that evening. The news was received with indignation. The men were furious at having been tricked into behaving politely to this insignificant fellow with the unsavoury reputation and the heretical opinions. The higher their position in the hierarchy, the deeper their resentment.

“To play such a joke on me,” the Arch-Songster kept repeating, “on me!”

As for the women, they indignantly felt that they had been had on false pretences—had by a wretched little man who had had alcohol poured into his bottle by mistake—by a creature with a Gamma-Minus physique. It was an outrage, and they said so, more and more loudly. The Head Mistress of Eton was particularly scathing.

Lenina alone said nothing. Pale, her blue eyes clouded with an unwonted melancholy, she sat in a corner, cut off from those who surrounded her by an emotion which they did not share. She had come to the party filled with a strange feeling of anxious exultation. “In a few minutes,” she had said to herself, as she entered the room, “I shall be seeing him, talking to him, telling him” (for she had come with her mind made up) “that I like him—more than anybody I've ever known. And then perhaps he'll say…”

What would he say? The blood had rushed to her cheeks.

“Why was he so strange the other night, after the feelies? So queer. And yet I'm absolutely sure he really does rather like me. I'm sure…”

It was at this moment that Bernard had made his announcement; the Savage wasn't coming to the party.

Lenina suddenly felt all the sensations normally experienced at the beginning of a Violent Passion Surrogate treatment—a sense of dreadful emptiness, a breathless apprehension, a nausea. Her heart seemed to stop beating.

“Perhaps it's because he doesn't like me,” she said to herself. And at once this possibility became an established certainty: John had refused to come because he didn't like her. He didn't like her….

“It really is a bit too thick,” the Head Mistress of Eton was saying to the Director of Crematoria and Phosphorus Reclamation. “When I think that I actually…”

“Yes,” came the voice of Fanny Crowne, “it's absolutely true about the alcohol. Some one I know knew some one who was working in the Embryo Store at the time. She said to my friend, and my friend said to me…”

“Too bad, too bad,” said Henry Foster, sympathizing with the Arch-Community-Songster. “It may interest you to know that our ex-Director was on the point of transferring him to Iceland.”

Pierced by every word that was spoken, the tight balloon of Bernard's happy self-confidence was leaking from a thousand wounds. Pale, distraught, abject and agitated, he moved among his guests, stammering incoherent apologies, assuring them that next time the Savage would certainly be there, begging them to sit down and take a carotene sandwich, a slice of vitamin A pâté, a glass of champagne-surrogate. They duly ate, but ignored him; drank and were either rude to his face or talked to one another about him, loudly and offensively, as though he had not been there.

“And now, my friends,” said the Arch-Community-Songster of Canterbury, in that beautiful ringing voice with which he led the proceedings at Ford's Day Celebrations, “now, my friends, I think perhaps the time has come…” He rose, put down his glass, brushed from his purple viscose waistcoat the crumbs of a considerable collation, and walked towards the door.

Bernard darted forward to intercept him.

“Must you really, Arch-Songster?…It's very early still. I'd hoped you would…”

Yes, what hadn't he hoped, when Lenina confidentially told him that the Arch-Community-Songster would accept an invitation if it were sent. “He's really rather sweet, you know.” And she had shown Bernard the little golden zipper—fastening in the form of a T which the Arch-Songster had given her as a memento of the week-end she had spent at Lambeth. To meet the Arch-Community-Songster of Canterbury and Mr. Savage. Bernard had proclaimed his triumph on every invitation card. But the Savage had chosen this evening of all evenings to lock himself up in his room, to shout “Háni!” and even (it was lucky that Bernard didn't understand Zuñi) “Sons éso tse-ná!” What should have been the crowning moment of Bernard's whole career had turned out to be the moment of his greatest humiliation.

“I'd so much hoped…” he stammeringly repeated, looking up at the great dignitary with pleading and distracted eyes.

“My young friend,” said the Arch-Community-Songster in a tone of loud and solemn severity; there was a general silence. “Let me give you a word of advice.” He wagged his finger at Bernard. “Before it's too late. A word of good advice.” (His voice became sepulchral.) “Mend your ways, my young friend, mend your ways.” He made the sign of the T over him and turned away. “Lenina, my dear,” he called in another tone. “Come with me.”

Obediently, but unsmiling and (wholly insensible of the honour done to her) without elation, Lenina walked after him, out of the room. The other guests followed at a respectful interval. The last of them slammed the door. Bernard was all alone.

Punctured, utterly deflated, he dropped into a chair and, covering his face with his hands, began to weep. A few minutes later, however, he thought better of it and took four tablets of soma.

Upstairs in his room the Savage was reading Romeo and Juliet.

Lenina and the Arch-Community-Songster stepped out on to the roof of Lambeth Palace. “Hurry up, my young friend—I mean, Lenina,” called the Arch-Songster impatiently from the lift gates. Lenina, who had lingered for a moment to look at the moon, dropped her eyes and came hurrying across the roof to rejoin him.

“A New Theory of Biology” was the title of the paper which Mustapha Mond had just finished reading. He sat for some time, meditatively frowning, then picked up his pen and wrote across the title-page: “The author's mathematical treatment of the conception of purpose is novel and highly ingenious, but heretical and, so far as the present social order is concerned, dangerous and potentially subversive. Not to be published.” He underlined the words. “The author will be kept under supervision. His transference to the Marine Biological Station of St. Helena may become necessary.” A pity, he thought, as he signed his name. It was a masterly piece of work. But once you began admitting explanations in terms of purpose—well, you didn't know what the result might be. It was the sort of idea that might easily decondition the more unsettled minds among the higher castes—make them lose their faith in happiness as the Sovereign Good and take to believing, instead, that the goal was somewhere beyond, somewhere outside the present human sphere, that the purpose of life was not the maintenance of well-being, but some intensification and refining of consciousness, some enlargement of knowledge. Which was, the Controller reflected, quite possibly true. But not, in the present circumstance, admissible. He picked up his pen again, and under the words “Not to be published” drew a second line, thicker and blacker than the first; then sighed. “What fun it would be,” he thought, “if one didn't have to think about happiness!”

With closed eyes, his face shining with rapture, John was softly declaiming to vacancy:

“Oh! she doth teach the torches to burn bright!

It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night,

Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear;

Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear…”

The golden T lay shining on Lenina's bosom. Sportively, the Arch-Community-Songster caught hold of it, sportively he pulled, pulled. “I think,” said Lenina suddenly, breaking a long silence, “I'd better take a couple of grammes of soma.”

Bernard, by this time, was fast asleep and smiling at the private paradise of his dreams. Smiling, smiling. But inexorably, every thirty seconds, the minute hand of the electric clock above his bed jumped forward with an almost imperceptible click. Click, click, click, click…And it was morning. Bernard was back among the miseries of space and time. It was in the lowest spirits that he taxied across to his work at the Conditioning Centre. The intoxication of success had evaporated; he was soberly his old self; and by contrast with the temporary balloon of these last weeks, the old self seemed unprecedentedly heavier than the surrounding atmosphere.

To this deflated Bernard the Savage showed himself unexpectedly sympathetic.

“You're more like what you were at Malpais,” he said, when Bernard had told him his plaintive story. “Do you remember when we first talked together? Outside the little house. You're like what you were then.”

“Because I'm unhappy again; that's why.”

“Well, I'd rather be unhappy than have the sort of false, lying happiness you were having here.”

“I like that,” said Bernard bitterly. “When it's you who were the cause of it all. Refusing to come to my party and so turning them all against me!” He knew that what he was saying was absurd in its injustice; he admitted inwardly, and at last even aloud, the truth of all that the Savage now said about the worthlessness of friends who could be turned upon so slight a provocation into persecuting enemies. But in spite of this knowledge and these admissions, in spite of the fact that his friend's support and sympathy were now his only comfort, Bernard continued perversely to nourish, along with his quite genuine affection, a secret grievance against the Savage, to mediate a campaign of small revenges to be wreaked upon him. Nourishing a grievance against the Arch-Community-Songster was useless; there was no possibility of being revenged on the Chief Bottler or the Assistant Predestinator. As a victim, the Savage possessed, for Bernard, this enormous superiority over the others: that he was accessible. One of the principal functions of a friend is to suffer (in a milder and symbolic form) the punishments that we should like, but are unable, to inflict upon our enemies.

Bernard's other victim-friend was Helmholtz. When, discomfited, he came and asked once more for the friendship which, in his prosperity, he had not thought it worth his while to preserve, Helmholtz gave it; and gave it without a reproach, without a comment, as though he had forgotten that there had ever been a quarrel. Touched, Bernard felt himself at the same time humiliated by this magnanimity—a magnanimity the more extraordinary and therefore the more humiliating in that it owed nothing to soma and everything to Helmholtz's character. It was the Helmholtz of daily life who forgot and forgave, not the Helmholtz of a half-gramme holiday. Bernard was duly grateful (it was an enormous comfort to have his friend again) and also duly resentful (it would be pleasure to take some revenge on Helmholtz for his generosity).

At their first meeting after the estrangement, Bernard poured out the tale of his miseries and accepted consolation. It was not till some days later that he learned, to his surprise and with a twinge of shame, that he was not the only one who had been in trouble. Helmholtz had also come into conflict with Authority.

“It was over some rhymes,” he explained. “I was giving my usual course of Advanced Emotional Engineering for Third Year Students. Twelve lectures, of which the seventh is about rhymes. ‘On the Use of Rhymes in Moral Propaganda and Advertisement,’ to be precise. I always illustrate my lecture with a lot of technical examples. This time I thought I'd give them one I'd just written myself. Pure madness, of course; but I couldn't resist it.” He laughed. “I was curious to see what their reactions would be. Besides,” he added more gravely, “I wanted to do a bit of propaganda; I was trying to engineer them into feeling as I'd felt when I wrote the rhymes. Ford!” He laughed again. “What an outcry there was! The Principal had me up and threatened to hand me the immediate sack. I'm a marked man.”

“But what were your rhymes?” Bernard asked.

“They were about being alone.”

Bernard's eyebrows went up.

“I'll recite them to you, if you like.” And Helmholtz began:

“Yesterday's committee,

Sticks, but a broken drum,

Midnight in the City,

Flutes in a vacuum,

Shut lips, sleeping faces,

Every stopped machine,

The dumb and littered places

Where crowds have been—

All silences rejoice,

Weep (loudly or low),

Speak—but with the voice

Of whom, I do not know.

Absence, say, of Susan's,

Absence of Egeria's

Arms and respective bosoms,

Lips and, ah, posteriors,

Slowly form a presence;

Whose? And I ask, of what

So absurd an essence,

That something, which is not,

Nevertheless should populate

Empty night more solidly

Than that with which we copulate,

Why should it seem so squalidly?

Well, I gave them that as an example, and they reported me to the Principal.”

“I'm not surprised,” said Bernard. “It's flatly against all their sleep-teaching. Remember, they've had at least a quarter of a million warnings against solitude.”

“I know. But I thought I'd like to see what the effect would be.”

“Well, you've seen now.”

Helmholtz only laughed. “I feel,” he said, after a silence, as though I were just beginning to have something to write about. As though I were beginning to be able to use that power I feel I've got inside me—that extra, latent power. Something seems to be coming to me.” In spite of all his troubles, he seemed, Bernard thought, profoundly happy.

Helmholtz and the Savage took to one another at once. So cordially indeed that Bernard felt a sharp pang of jealousy. In all these weeks he had never come to so close an intimacy with the Savage as Helmholtz immediately achieved. Watching them, listening to their talk, he found himself sometimes resentfully wishing that he had never brought them together. He was ashamed of his jealousy and alternately made efforts of will and took soma to keep himself from feeling it. But the efforts were not very successful; and between the soma-holidays there were, of necessity, intervals. The odious sentiment kept on returning.

At his third meeting with the Savage, Helmholtz recited his rhymes on Solitude.

“What do you think of them?” he asked when he had done.

The Savage shook his head. “Listen to this,” was his answer; and unlocking the drawer in which he kept his mouse-eaten book, he opened and read:

“Let the bird of loudest lay

On the sole Arabian tree,

Herald sad and trumpet be…”

Helmholtz listened with a growing excitement. At “sole Arabian tree” he started; at “thou shrieking harbinger” he smiled with sudden pleasure; at “every fowl of tyrant wing” the blood rushed up into his cheeks; but at “defunctive music” he turned pale and trembled with an unprecedented emotion. The Savage read on:

“Property was thus appall'd,

That the self was not the same;

Single nature's double name

Neither two nor one was call'd.

Reason in itself confounded

Saw division grow together…”

“Orgy-porgy!” said Bernard, interrupting the reading with a loud, unpleasant laugh. “It's just a Solidarity Service hymn.” He was revenging himself on his two friends for liking one another more than they liked him.

In the course of their next two or three meetings he frequently repeated this little act of vengeance. It was simple and, since both Helmholtz and the Savage were dreadfully pained by the shattering and defilement of a favourite poetic crystal, extremely effective. In the end, Helmholtz threatened to kick him out of the room if he dared to interrupt again. And yet, strangely enough, the next interruption, the most disgraceful of all, came from Helmholtz himself.

The Savage was reading Romeo and Juliet aloud—reading (for all the time he was seeing himself as Romeo and Lenina as Juliet) with an intense and quivering passion. Helmholtz had listened to the scene of the lovers' first meeting with a puzzled interest. The scene in the orchard had delighted him with its poetry; but the sentiments expressed had made him smile. Getting into such a state about having a girl—it seemed rather ridiculous. But, taken detail by verbal detail, what a superb piece of emotional engineering! “That old fellow,” he said, “he makes our best propaganda technicians look absolutely silly.” The Savage smiled triumphantly and resumed his reading. All went tolerably well until, in the last scene of the third act, Capulet and Lady Capulet began to bully Juliet to marry Paris. Helmholtz had been restless throughout the entire scene; but when, pathetically mimed by the Savage, Juliet cried out:

“Is there no pity sitting in the clouds,

That sees into the bottom of my grief?

O sweet my mother, cast me not away:

Delay this marriage for a month, a week;

Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed

In that dim monument where Tybalt lies…”

when Juliet said this, Helmholtz broke out in an explosion of uncontrolla-ble guffawing.

The mother and father (grotesque obscenity) forcing the daughter to have some one she didn't want! And the idiotic girl not saying that she was having some one else whom (for the moment, at any rate) she preferred! In its smutty absurdity the situation was irresistibly comical. He had managed, with a heroic effort, to hold down the mounting pressure of his hilarity; but “sweet mother” (in the Savage's tremulous tone of anguish) and the reference to Tybalt lying dead, but evidently uncremated and wasting his phosphorus on a dim monument, were too much for him. He laughed and laughed till the tears streamed down his face—quenchlessly laughed while, pale with a sense of outrage, the Savage looked at him over the top of his book and then, as the laughter still continued, closed it indignantly, got up and, with the gesture of one who removes his pearl from before swine, locked it away in its drawer.

“And yet,” said Helmholtz when, having recovered breath enough to apologize, he had mollified the Savage into listening to his explanations, “I know quite well that one needs ridiculous, mad situations like that; one can't write really well about anything else. Why was that old fellow such a marvellous propaganda technician? Because he had so many insane, excruciating things to get excited about. You've got to be hurt and upset; otherwise you can't think of the really good, penetrating, X-rayish phrases. But fathers and mothers!” He shook his head. “You can't expect me to keep a straight face about fathers and mothers. And who's going to get excited about a boy having a girl or not having her?” (The Savage winced; but Helmholtz, who was staring pensively at the floor, saw nothing.) “No.” he concluded, with a sigh, “it won't do. We need some other kind of madness and violence. But what? What? Where can one find it?” He was silent; then, shaking his head, “I don't know,” he said at last, “I don't know.”

伯纳德不得不对着紧锁的门大喊,野蛮人就是不开门。

“可大家都在那里,等着你呢。”

“就让他们等着吧。”从门里面传来瓮声瓮气的声音。

“可是,你很清楚,约翰,”(尖着嗓子大喊还想让声音具有说服力,这太难了!)“我是特意邀请他们来见你的。”

“你应该先问问我是否想见他们。”

“可你以前一直都来的,约翰。”

“所以我今天才不想去了。”

“就算是为了我高兴吧,”伯纳德大喊着,哄着他,“难道你不想让我高兴吗?”

“不想。”

“你真是这么想的吗?”

“是的。”

绝望了。“我该怎么办呢?”伯纳德号叫起来。

“见鬼去吧!”里面的声音气急败坏地叫道。

“可是,今天晚上,坎特伯雷唱堂的首席歌唱家在这里呢。”伯纳德的眼泪都要出来了。

“哎呀呀塔克瓦!”只有用祖尼语,野蛮人才能充分表达自己对于这个首席歌唱家的看法。“哈尼!”他想了想,加了一句,然后还说(多么嘲讽,多么凶恶!):“桑斯埃索嚓那!”他往地上啐了一口,就像波培会做的那样。

最后,伯纳德泄了气,不得不灰溜溜地回到房间,通知那些等得不耐烦的人,说今天晚上野蛮人不来了。听到这个消息,人们顿时义愤填膺。那些男人们很是气愤,觉得自己被欺骗了,对这个名声不好又持有异端思想的微不足道的家伙过于礼貌。他们的地位越高,恼恨越深。

“居然跟我开这种玩笑,”首席歌唱家不停地说,“跟我!”

至于那些女人,她们也非常愤慨,觉得自己上当了,让这个可怜的小人物得手了,瓶子里错误地掺入了酒精的这个家伙,这个身材跟伽马-差不多的家伙。这真是奇耻大辱,她们说,声音越来越大,伊顿的女校长尤其刻薄。

只有列宁娜一言不发。她坐在角落里,脸色苍白,蓝色的眼睛里笼罩着不常见的忧郁神情,因为和周围的人情绪迥然不同,她同他们隔离开了。她来到这个聚会时,还怀着一种奇怪的情绪,既焦急又兴奋。“再过几分钟,”她进入房间时心里想,“我就能看到他了,和他讲话,告诉他——”(她是下定了决心来的)“我喜欢他,比对我认识的任何人都喜欢。然后,他可能会说……”

他会说什么呢?血液涌上了她的脸颊。

“那天晚上,看完感官电影之后,他怎么那么奇怪呢?那么奇怪。可是,我很肯定,他非常喜欢我。我肯定……”

就在这时,伯纳德宣布了那条消息。野蛮人不来参加这个聚会了。

列宁娜突然感到了经受“强烈情感替代疗法”时的那种通常体验,那是一种可怕的空虚感,一阵让人喘不上来气的担忧,一阵恶心。她的心脏似乎停止了跳动。

“也许是因为他不喜欢我。”她心里想。这种可能性立刻转变成既定事实:约翰拒绝来,是因为他不喜欢她。他不喜欢她……

“这真是有点太蠢了,”伊顿的女校长对火葬与磷回收中心主任说,“我还想着真能……”

“是的,”范妮·克朗的声音传来,“关于酒精的说法绝对是真的。我的一个朋友认识一个当时在胚胎库工作的人。她对我的朋友说的,我的朋友又告诉了我……”

“太糟糕了,太糟糕了。”亨利·福斯特说,非常同情那个首席歌唱家,“你可能对这个感兴趣,我们的前主任差一点就要把他调到冰岛去了。”

大家说的每一句话都深深地刺伤了伯纳德,他那本来开心的、密封的自信心气球开始变得伤痕累累,逐渐漏气。他脸色苍白,神情凄切,忧心如焚,焦虑不安。他在客人中间穿梭不迭,磕磕巴巴地说着含混不清的道歉话,并向他们保证下一次野蛮人肯定会来,乞求他们坐下,吃块胡萝卜素三明治,吃一片维他命A小面饼,或者喝一杯代香槟。于是,他们吃了,喝了,可是依然对他视若无睹,要么当着他的面就出言不逊,要么在他背后议论纷纷,声音很大,很不客气,就好像他不在场一样。

“现在,我的朋友们,”坎特伯雷唱堂的首席歌唱家说,声音悦耳洪亮,一如他在福帝日庆祝中领唱时那样,“现在,我的朋友们,我想已经是时候了……”他站了起来,放下杯子,从紫红色的黏胶马甲上掸掉点心碎屑,向门口走去。

伯纳德冲向前,想拦住他。

“您一定要走吗,首席歌唱家先生?……还很早呢。我本来希望您会……”

是啊,当列宁娜悄悄告诉他,如果首席歌唱家受到邀请,他将很乐意前来时,他曾抱有多少希望啊。“他真的非常可爱,你知道的。”列宁娜还给伯纳德看了看一个小小的T字形状的金色拉链头,那是首席歌唱家送给她的,为了纪念他们在兰贝斯一起度过的周末。“来觐见坎特伯雷唱堂的首席歌唱家和野蛮人先生。”伯纳德在每一张邀请函上都得意地印上了这一大成果。可是,野蛮人偏偏选了今天晚上把自己锁在房间里,大喊“哈尼!”甚至(幸好伯纳德不懂祖尼语)“桑斯埃索嚓那!”。现在本来应该是伯纳德生涯中的一大辉煌时刻,没想到却成了他生命中耻辱最深的时刻。

“我本来非常希望……”他磕磕巴巴地说了一遍又一遍,抬头望着那个大人物,眼神里满是央求,一副心烦意乱的样子。

“我的年轻朋友,”首席歌唱家的声音洪亮而严厉,周围一片寂静,“我给你一点建议吧,”他对着伯纳德摇了摇手指头,“在一切都还来得及的时候,给你一点建议。”(他的声音变得很阴沉。)“改过自新吧,年轻的朋友,改过自新。”他在伯纳德头上划了个T字,转过身去。“列宁娜,亲爱的,”他用另一种语气说,“跟我来。”

列宁娜顺从地跟在他身后,走出房间,可脸上没有一丝笑意,也不带丝毫得意之色(对这个莫大的荣誉完全无动于衷)。其他客人恭恭敬敬地稍作等候,也跟着出去了。走在最后的人砰的一声把门关上了。只剩下伯纳德一个人。

伯纳德的自尊心的气球被戳破了,完全泄了气,他一下子跌坐在椅子上,用手蒙住脸,开始哭泣。可是,过了一会儿,他又停住了,掏出了四片唆麻。

在楼上的房间里,野蛮人正在读《罗密欧与朱丽叶》。

列宁娜和首席歌唱家步出飞机,走上兰贝斯宫的楼顶。“快点,我的年轻朋友,我是说,列宁娜。”首席歌唱家在电梯门口不耐烦地叫着她。列宁娜逗留了一会儿,想看一眼月亮。她垂下眼帘,匆匆走过楼顶,来到他身边。

“生物学之新理论”,这是穆斯塔法·蒙德刚刚读完的一篇论文的题目。他坐在那里,皱着眉头沉思了片刻,之后,他拿起了笔,在扉页上写道:“作者以数学理论处理目标概念,非常新颖,非常有创意,但却是旁门左道,从现今社会秩序的角度来看,非常危险,具有潜在的颠覆性。不予发表。”他在这句话下面划了一道线,“对作者进行密切监视。有必要将他调往圣赫勒拿岛的海洋生物站。”有点可惜,他签名时想。这是一篇非常高明的文章。可是,一旦在目标问题上允许其他解释,唉,简直不能预测会出现什么结果。这种想法可能很容易就破坏了那些较为不稳定的高种姓人群头脑中的条件设置,让他们不再相信幸福等同于最高的善这一信念,而是开始相信,目标存在于幸福之外,超出目前人类的领域,生命的目标不在于维持安乐状态,而是增强和完善意识、拓展知识。这很可能是对的,控制官思考着。但是,在目前的情况下,是不允许的。他又拿起笔,在“不予发表”下面又画了一条线,比第一道更粗更黑,然后,他叹了口气,心里想:“如果不必总是想着幸福,那该多有趣啊!”

约翰的眼睛闭着,脸上闪着狂喜的光,他正对着虚空柔情蜜意地念着:

“啊!火炬远不及她的明亮;

她皎然悬在暮天的颊上,

像黑奴耳边璀璨的珠环;

她是天上明珠降落人间……”(1)

金色的T字挂在列宁娜的胸前,亮闪闪的,首席歌唱家闹着玩般地把它抓在手里,又闹着玩般地拉着,拽着。“我想,”列宁娜突然说,打破了长时间的沉默,“我最好吃一两克唆麻。”

此时,伯纳德早已酣然入睡,在梦境中的私人天堂里,他微笑着,微笑着,微笑着。但不可改变的是,每过三十秒,床上方的电子钟的分针就咔嗒一声,往前跳一步,声音轻微得几乎听不见,咔嗒,咔嗒,咔嗒,咔嗒……于是,早晨到来了。伯纳德又返回到此时此地的痛苦中。他怀着最低沉的情绪,乘坐出租飞机来到训练中心上班。成功带来的陶醉感已经烟消云散,他清醒了,变回了那个过去的自我。同过去几周那个短暂的气球相比,这个过去的自我在周围的氛围中显得前所未有地沉重。

对这个泄了气的伯纳德,野蛮人颇为同情,这倒是出乎他的预料。

“你更像在玛尔帕斯的时候了。”当伯纳德对他讲了聚会上的伤心事,野蛮人说,“你还记得我们俩第一次谈话的时候吗?在小房子的外面。你就和那个时候一样。”

“因为我又不开心了,这就是原因。”

“嗯,我倒是宁愿不开心,也不要你以前那种虚假的开心。”

“我喜欢那个。”伯纳德恨恨地说,“你是造成这一切的原因。拒绝来我的聚会,让他们都反对我了!”他知道他现在这么说话不公平,也很荒唐。他内心也承认,最后甚至也大声承认了,野蛮人说的话是有道理的,那些有一丁点理由就反目成仇的朋友根本一文不值。不过,尽管伯纳德明白这些,尽管他这个朋友的支持和同情是他目前唯一的安慰,尽管他对野蛮人的态度中还有真心的喜爱,但他私下里仍然怀有怨恨之情,并思考着如何对他实施一些小小的报复。对首席歌唱家抱有怨恨是毫无用处的,也根本没有报复装瓶室主任或命运预定室主任助理的可能性。对伯纳德来说,作为报复对象,野蛮人拥有其他人没有的巨大优势:他近在咫尺。朋友的一个主要功能就是吃点苦头(以温和的、象征性的方式),吃点我们愿意但却没有能力让我们的敌人吃的苦头。

伯纳德的另一个报复对象兼朋友是赫尔姆霍茨。当他窘迫不安地来到后者的身边,寻求他在发达时认为不再值得保持的友谊时,赫尔姆霍茨给了他友谊,毫无抱怨、不加评论地给了他友谊,好像他已经忘记二人之间曾有争吵。伯纳德既感动,又觉得这种慷慨大度是对自己的羞辱。这种慷慨大度根本不是唆麻的功劳,而完全是赫尔姆霍茨的性格使然,因此就益发显得不同寻常,益发令他感到羞辱。是日常生活中的赫尔姆霍茨,而不是吃了半克唆麻在度假中的赫尔姆霍茨,忘却了,原谅了。伯纳德因此心怀感激(再次拥有这个朋友真是一大安慰),却也因此心怀怨恨(如果能够报复一下赫尔姆霍茨的大度该有多么痛快)。

在他们关系疏远之后的第一次会面中,伯纳德对他倾诉了自己的悲惨遭遇,也得到了安慰。几天之后,他才得知,遇到麻烦的人不只是他自己,这令他既吃惊又有点羞愧。赫尔姆霍茨也和当局之间产生了矛盾。

“是因为一些顺口溜,”他解释道,“我正在给三年级的学生上我的高级情感工程课。一共有十二次课,第七课是关于顺口溜的,具体来说,就是‘关于道德宣传和广告中顺口溜的使用’。我总是用很多例子来讲解我的课。那一次,我想给他们讲讲我刚写的一首。纯粹是疯了,这是当然的,可是我就是没有抑制住这个想法。”他笑了笑,“我很好奇,想看看他们的反应如何。另外,”他更加严肃地补充,“我想做点宣传,我想让他们感受到我写诗时的那些情感。福帝!”他又笑了,“引起了多么强烈的抗议!校长把我叫过去,威胁要立即开除我。我已经是众人瞩目的人了。”

“你的顺口溜是什么样的?”伯纳德问。

“是关于孤独的。”

伯纳德的眉毛扬了起来。

“我给你背诵一下,如果你想听的话。”于是,赫尔姆霍茨背开了:

“昨日的委员会,

支离破碎,如残破的鼓,

子夜时的城市,

真空中的笛声,

合紧的嘴唇,安睡的脸,

每台停止的机器,

杂物乱扔的寂静场地,

人群曾经来来去去——

所有的静寂都在欢呼,

或者哭泣(高声或者低语),

说出来吧,以那种

我所不知的嗓音。

苏珊的缺席,

或者,爱杰莉亚,

她的手臂和各自的胸脯,

各自的嘴唇和臀,

逐渐形成了人体;

谁的?我问,

其中本质多么荒唐,

那种东西,又不似什么东西,

却会在空虚的深夜

迅速繁殖,比我们的交媾

还要真实,

为什么它看似如此污秽?

“嗯,我就拿这个作为例子,然后,学生们报告给校长了。”

“我一点也不吃惊,”伯纳德说,“这和他们睡眠教育的内容是完全背道而驰的。记住,他们已经接受过至少二十五万次针对孤独的警告了。”

“我知道,可是,我当时想看看效果究竟会怎么样。”

“嗯,你现在看到了。”

赫尔姆霍茨只是笑了笑。“我感到,”沉默了一会儿后,他说,“好像我刚刚找到了可以写作的东西,好像我刚刚有能力利用我身体内部的那种力量,那种额外的、潜在的力量。好像我身上有什么事情发生了。”伯纳德想,尽管他遭遇了麻烦,但他看起来却非常快乐。

赫尔姆霍茨和野蛮人一见如故。他们两个的关系是那么融洽,伯纳德甚至都感觉到一阵强烈的嫉妒。在过去的那些星期里,他从来没有和野蛮人达到那么亲密的程度,赫尔姆霍茨却立刻做到了。看着他们两个,听着他们的谈话,他发现自己有时候在怨恨,希望当初没有把他们两个人介绍给对方。他为自己的嫉妒感到羞愧,有时会努力靠自己的意志力战胜嫉妒,间或也吃点唆麻来逃避这种嫉妒。可是意志力不太成功;而在唆麻假期之间总是会有间隔的,所以这种可怕的情绪还是会不断出现。

赫尔姆霍茨第三次和野蛮人会面时,朗诵了那首关于孤独的顺口溜。

“你觉得怎么样?”朗诵完之后,他问。

野蛮人摇摇头。“你听听这个。”他回答。他打开收藏那本老鼠啃过的书的抽屉,翻开书,开始读:

“让最激越的鸟儿栖息,

在阿拉伯孤独的树上,

请它做先驱和号角……”(2)

赫尔姆霍茨听得越来越激动。听到“阿拉伯孤独的树”时,他吓了一跳;听到“你这嘶叫的使者”时,他突然开心地微笑了;听到“一切霸道的翅膀”时,血液涌上了他的双颊;但是,听到“死亡之歌”时,他的脸变得煞白,因为某种前所未有的情感而颤抖。野蛮人继续朗读着:

“物性变得离奇,

己身已非原身。

同质而有异名,

既非叫一,也非称二。

理智已变得迷惑,

眼见是分,却又合一……”

“狂欢吧!”伯纳德说,用他刺耳的大笑打断了野蛮人的阅读,“这只不过是一首团结仪式上的赞美诗嘛。”他在报复他的两个朋友,因为他们彼此的喜欢程度已经超过他们对他自己的喜欢。

在接下来的两三次会面中,他经常重复这种小小的报复行为。这很简单,因为赫尔姆霍茨和野蛮人都会因为最喜爱的水晶般的诗歌被打断和亵渎而感到痛苦万分,这报复也很奏效。最后,赫尔姆霍茨威胁说,如果他再敢打搅他们的话,就把他从房间里踢出去。可是,奇怪的是,下一次的打断,也是最不光彩的一次,却是来自赫尔姆霍茨本人。

野蛮人正在大声朗读《罗密欧与朱丽叶》,带着强烈而颤抖的激情朗读着(在此过程中,他一直把自己看成罗密欧,把列宁娜看成朱丽叶)。赫尔姆霍茨聆听着这对情侣第一次会面的那场戏,既感兴趣,又迷惑不解。果园一场戏中的诗意令他非常开心,可是戏中表达的情感却令他发笑。因为想要一个女孩而让自己陷入如此境地,这简直太荒唐了。不过,仅从文字的细节来看,真是无与伦比的情感工程文章啊!“那个老家伙,”他说,“他让我们最好的宣传技术员相形见绌啊。”野蛮人得意地笑笑,继续他的朗读。一切都还比较顺利,直到第三幕的最后一场,凯普莱特和凯普莱特夫人开始强迫朱丽叶嫁给帕里斯。在这一整场戏中,赫尔姆霍茨都坐立不安,可是,当野蛮人可怜巴巴地模仿着朱丽叶喊出:

“天知道我心里是多么难过,

难道它竟会不给我一点慈悲吗?

啊,我亲爱的妈妈!不要丢弃我!

把这门亲事延期一个月或是一个星期也好;

或者要是您不答应我,那么请您把我的新床

安放在提伯尔特长眠的幽暗坟茔里吧!”(3)

当朱丽叶说完这些之后,赫尔姆霍茨难以自抑地爆发出一阵哈哈怪笑。

妈妈和爸爸(可怕的污言秽语)逼迫女儿要她不想要的人!那个白痴女孩居然不说明自己正在和一个更喜欢的人(至少在当时)在一起!这种情景是那么荒唐、那么淫秽,让人不得不觉得滑稽之极。他一直在努力,试图抑制住内心不断涌上来的笑意,可是,“亲爱的妈妈”(野蛮人那因痛苦而颤抖的语调),以及提伯尔特的长眠,很明显他并没有被火化,而是在昏暗的坟墓里把磷白白浪费掉,这些都令他难以控制住自己。他哈哈大笑,直笑得眼泪顺着脸颊流下来,笑得几乎不能停歇,而野蛮人呢,他的脸因为愤慨而变得苍白,他从书上抬起头来,看看他,然后,看到他依然在哈哈大笑,愤愤地把书合上,站起来,带着一副对牛弹琴的神气,把书锁在了抽屉里。

“不过,”赫尔姆霍茨终于喘了口气来道歉,他安抚着野蛮人听他解释,“我非常清楚,人们需要这样荒唐而疯狂的场景,因为写任何别的东西都写不太好。那个老家伙为什么是个那么高明的宣传技术员呢?因为他有很多疯癫的、令人痛苦的东西,可以叫人激动万分啊。你得受到伤害,烦恼不安,否则你不会想出那些真正美妙的、像X光般能把人刺穿的句子。可是爸爸和妈妈!”他摇摇头,“你不可能指望我在听到这些称呼时还能一本正经地绷着个脸。还有,谁又会因为一个男孩和一个女孩在不在一起而激动万分呢?”(野蛮人一阵畏缩,不过,赫尔姆霍茨正在若有所思地盯着地板,并没有看见。)“不,”他叹了口气,总结道,“这样是不行的。我们需要其他类型的疯狂和暴力。可是,什么样的呢?什么样的呢?从哪里找得到呢?”他沉默了,然后再次摇了摇头,“我不知道,”他最后说,“我不知道。”

————————————————————

(1) 引自《罗密欧与朱丽叶》,罗密欧第一次见到朱丽叶时的印象。

(2) 这一段与下一段引自莎士比亚的诗歌《凤凰与斑鸠》,诗歌讲述一只斑鸠与一只凤凰的爱情,两只鸟最后合二为一而死去。

(3) 引自《罗密欧与朱丽叶》,朱丽叶与罗密欧秘密成婚了,可是罗密欧杀死了她的堂兄提伯尔特。她的父母现在逼迫她与帕里斯成婚,她不知该如何是好,由此说出以上决绝的话。

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