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双语·剧院风情 第一章

所属教程:译林版·剧院风情

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2022年05月06日

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Chapter 1

The door opened and Michael Gosselyn looked up. Julia came in.

“Hulloa! I won't keep you a minute. I was just signing some letters.”

“No hurry. I only came to see what seats had been sent to the Dennorants. What's that young man doing here?”

With the experienced actress's instinct to fit the gesture to the word, by a movement of her neat head she indicated the room through which she had just passed.

“He's the accountant. He comes from Lawrence and Hamphreys. He's been here three days.”

“He looks very young.”

“He's an articled clerk. He seems to know his job. He can't get over the way our accounts are kept. He told me he never expected a theatre to be run on such businesslike lines. He says the way some of those firms in the city keep their accounts is enough to turn your hair grey.”

Julia smiled at the complacency on her husband's handsome face.

“He's a young man of tact.”

“He finishes today. I thought we might take him back with us and give him a spot of lunch. He's quite a gentleman.”

“Is that a sufficient reason to ask him to lunch?”

Michael did not notice the faint irony of her tone.

“I won't ask him if you don't want him. I merely thought it would be such a treat for him. He admires you tremendously. He's been to see the play three times. He's crazy to be introduced to you.”

Michael touched a button and in a moment his secretary came in.

“Here are the letters, Margery. What appointments have I got for this afternoon?”

Julia with half an ear listened to the list Margery read out and, though she knew the room so well, idly looked about her. It was a very proper room for the manager of a first-class theatre. The walls had been panelled (at cost price) by a good decorator and on them hung engravings of theatrical pictures of Zoffany and de Wilde. The armchairs were large and comfortable. Michael sat in a heavily-carved Chippendale chair, a reproduction but made by a well-known firm, and his Chippendale table, with heavy ball-and-claw feet, was immensely solid. On it stood in a massive silver frame a photograph of herself and to balance it a photograph of Roger, their son. Between these was a magnificent silver inkstand that she had herself given him on one of his birthdays and behind it a rack in red morocco, heavily gilt, in which he kept his private paper in case he wanted to write a letter in his own hand. The paper bore the address, Siddons Theatre, and the envelope his crest, a boar's head with the motto underneath: Nemo me impune lacessit. A bunch of yellow tulips in a silver bowl, which he had got through winning the theatrical golf tournament three times running, showed Margery's care. Julia gave her a reflective glance. Notwithstanding her cropped peroxide hair and her heavily-painted lips she had the neutral look that marks the perfect secretary. She had been with Michael for five years. In that time she must have got to know him inside and out. Julia wondered if she could be such a fool as to be in love with him.

But Michael rose from his chair.

“Now, darling, I'm ready for you.”

Margery gave him his black Homburg hat and opened the door for Julia and Michael to go out. As they entered the office the young man Julia had noticed turned round and stood up.

“I should like to introduce you to Miss Lambert,” said Michael. Then with the air of an ambassador presenting an attaché to the sovereign of the court to which he is accredited: “This is the gentleman who is good enough to put some order into the mess we make of our accounts.”

The young man went scarlet. He smiled stiffly in answer to Julia's warm, ready smile and she felt the palm of his hand wet with sweat when she cordially grasped it. His confusion was touching. That was how people had felt when they were presented to Sarah Siddons. She thought that she had not been very gracious to Michael when he had proposed asking the boy to lunch. She looked straight into his eyes. Her own were large, of a very dark brown, and starry. It was no effort to her, it was as instinctive as brushing away a fly that was buzzing round her, to suggest now a faintly amused, friendly tenderness.

“I wonder if we could persuade you to come and eat a chop with us. Michael will drive you back after lunch.”

The young man blushed again and his Adam's apple moved in his thin neck.

“It's awfully kind of you.” He gave his clothes a troubled look. “I'm absolutely filthy.”

“You can have a wash and brush up when we get home.”

The car was waiting for them at the stage door, a long car in black and chromium, upholstered in silver leather, and with Michael's crest discreetly emblazoned on the doors. Julia got in.

“Come and sit with me. Michael is going to drive.”

They lived in Stanhope Place, and when they arrived Julia told the butler to show the young man where he could wash his hands. She went up to the drawing-room. She was painting her lips when Michael joined her.

“I've told him to come up as soon as he's ready.”

“By the way, what's his name?”

“I haven't a notion.”

“Darling, we must know. I'll ask him to write in our book.”

“Damn it, he's not important enough for that.” Michael asked only very distinguished people to write in their book. “We shall never see him again.”

At that moment the young man appeared. In the car Julia had done all she could to put him at his ease, but he was still very shy. The cocktails were waiting and Michael poured them out. Julia took a cigarette and the young man struck a match for her, but his hand was trembling so much that she thought he would never be able to hold the light near enough to her cigarette, so she took his hand and held it.

“Poor lamb,” she thought, “I suppose this is the most wonderful moment in his whole life. What fun it'll be for him when he tells his people. I expect he'll be a blasted little hero in his office.”

Julia talked very differently to herself and to other people: when she talked to herself her language was racy. She inhaled the first whiff of her cigarette with delight. It was really rather wonderful, when you came to think of it, that just to have lunch with her and talk to her for three quarters of an hour, perhaps, could make a man quite important in his own scrubby little circle.

The young man forced himself to make a remark.

“What a stunning room this is.”

She gave him the quick, delightful smile, with a slight lift of her fine eyebrows, which he must often have seen her give on the stage.

“I'm so glad you like it.” Her voice was rather low and ever so slightly hoarse. You would have thought his observation had taken a weight off her mind. “We think in the family that Michael has such perfect taste.”

Michael gave the room a complacent glance.

“I've had a good deal of experience. I always design the sets myself for our plays. Of course, I have a man to do the rough work for me, but the ideas are mine.”

They had moved into that house two years before, and he knew, and Julia knew, that they had put it into the hands of an expensive decorator when they were going on tour, and he had agreed to have it completely ready for them, at cost price in return for the work they promised him in the theatre, by the time they came back. But it was unnecessary to impart such tedious details to a young man whose name even they did not know. The house was furnished in extremely good taste, with a judicious mixture of the antique and the modern, and Michael was right when he said that it was quite obviously a gentleman's house. Julia, however, had insisted that she must have her bedroom as she liked, and having had exactly the bedroom that pleased her in the old house in Regent's Park which they had occupied since the end of the war she brought it over bodily. The bed and the dressing-table were upholstered in pink silk, the chaise-longue and the armchair in Nattier blue; over the bed there were fat little gilt cherubs who dangled a lamp with a pink shade, and fat little gilt cherubs swarmed all round the mirror on the dressing-table. On satinwood tables were signed photographs, richly framed, of actors and actresses and members of the royal family. The decorator had raised his supercilious eyebrows, but it was the only room in the house in which Julia felt completely at home. She wrote her letters at a satinwood desk, seated on a gilt Hamlet stool.

Lunch was announced and they went downstairs.

“I hope you'll have enough to eat,” said Julia. “Michael and I have very small appetites.”

In point of fact there was grilled sole, grilled cutlets and spinach, and stewed fruit. It was a meal designed to satisfy legitimate hunger, but not to produce fat. The cook, warned by Margery that there was a guest to lunch, had hurriedly made some fried potatoes. They looked crisp and smelt appetizing. Only the young man took them. Julia gave them a wistful look before she shook her head in refusal. Michael stared at them gravely for a moment as though he could not quite tell what they were, and then with a little start, breaking out of a brown study, said No thank you. They sat at a refectory table, Julia and Michael at either end in very grand Italian chairs, and the young man in the middle on a chair that was not at all comfortable, but perfectly in character. Julia noticed that he seemed to be looking at the sideboard and, with her engaging smile, leaned forward.

“What is it?”

He blushed scarlet.

“I was wondering if I might have a piece of bread.”

“Of course.”

She gave the butler a significant glance; he was at that moment helping Michael to a glass of dry white wine, and he left the room.

“Michael and I never eat bread. It was stupid of Jevons not to realize that you might want some.”

“Of course bread is only a habit,” said Michael. “It's wonderful how soon you can break yourself of it if you set your mind to it.”

“The poor lamb's as thin as a rail, Michael.”

“I don't not eat bread because I'm afraid of getting fat. I don't eat it because I see no point in it. After all, with the exercise I take I can eat anything I like.”

He still had at fifty-two a very good figure. As a young man, with a great mass of curling chestnut hair, with a wonderful skin and large deep-blue eyes, a straight nose and small ears, he had been the best-looking actor on the English stage. The only thing that slightly spoiled him was the thinness of his mouth. He was just six foot tall and he had a gallant bearing. It was his obvious beauty that had engaged him to go on the stage rather than to become a soldier like his father. Now his chestnut hair was very grey, and he wore it much shorter; his face had broadened and was a good deal lined; his skin no longer had the soft bloom of a peach and his colour was high. But with his splendid eyes and his fine figure he was still a very handsome man. Since his five years at the war he had adopted a military bearing, so that if you had not known who he was (which was scarcely possible, for in one way and another his photograph was always appearing in the illustrated papers) you might have taken him for an officer of high rank. He boasted that his weight had not changed since he was twenty, and for years, wet or fine, he had got up every morning at eight to put on shorts and a sweater and have a run round Regent's Park.

“The secretary told me you were rehearsing this morning, Miss Lambert,” the young man remarked. “Does that mean you're putting on a new play?”

“Not a bit of it,” answered Michael. “We're playing to capacity.”

“Michael thought we were getting a bit ragged, so he called a rehearsal.”

“I'm very glad I did. I found little bits of business had crept in that I hadn't given them and a good many liberties were being taken with the text. I'm a great stickler for saying the author's exact words, though, God knows, the words authors write nowadays aren't much.”

“If you'd like to come and see our play,” Julia said graciously, “I'm sure Michael will be delighted to give you some seats.”

“I'd love to come again,” the young man answered eagerly. “I've seen it three times already.”

“You haven't?” cried Julia, with surprise, though she remembered perfectly that Michael had already told her so. “Of course it's not a bad little play, it's served our purpose very well, but I can't imagine anyone wanting to see it three times.”

“It's not so much the play I went to see, it was your performance.”

“I dragged that out of him all right,” thought Julia, and then aloud: “When we read the play Michael was rather doubtful about it. He didn't think my part was very good. You know, it's not really a star part. But I thought I could make something out of it. Of course we had to cut the other woman a lot in rehearsals.”

“I don't say we rewrote the play,” said Michael, “but I can tell you it was a very different play we produced from the one the author submitted to us.”

“You're simply wonderful in it,” the young man said.

(“He has a certain charm.”) “I'm glad you liked me,” she answered.

“If you're very nice to Julia I daresay she'll give you a photograph of herself when you go.”

“Would you?”

He blushed again and his blue eyes shone. (“He's really rather sweet.”) He was not particularly good-looking, but he had a frank, open face and his shyness was attractive. He had curly light-brown hair, but it was plastered down and Julia thought how much better he would look if, instead of trying to smooth out the wave with brilliantine, he made the most of it. He had a fresh colour, a good skin and small well-shaped teeth. She noticed with approval that his clothes fitted and that he wore them well. He looked nice and clean.

“I suppose you've never had anything to do with the theatre from the inside before?” she said.

“Never. That's why I was so crazy to get this job. You can't think how it thrills me.”

Michael and Julia smiled on him kindly. His admiration made them feel a little larger than life-size.

“I never allow outsiders to come to rehearsals, but as you're our accountant you almost belong to the theatre, and I wouldn't mind making an exception in your favour if it would amuse you to come.”

“That would be terribly kind of you. I've never been to a rehearsal in my life. Are you going to act in the next play?”

“Oh, I don't think so. I'm not very keen about acting any more. I find it almost impossible to find a part to suit me. You see, at my time of life I can't very well play young lovers, and authors don't seem to write the parts they used to write when I was a young fellow. What the French call a raisonneur. You know the sort of thing I mean, a duke, or a cabinet minister, or an eminent K.C. who says clever, witty things and turns people round his little finger. I don't know what's happened to authors. They don't seem able to write good lines any more. Bricks without straw; that's what we actors are expected to make nowadays. And are they grateful to us? The authors, I mean. You'd be surprised if I told you the terms some of them have the nerve to ask.”

“The fact remains, we can't do without them,” smiled Julia. “If the play's wrong no acting in the world will save it.”

“That's because the public isn't really interested in the theatre. In the great days of the English stage people didn't go to see the plays, they went to see the players. It didn't matter what Kemble and Mrs. Siddons acted. The public went to see them. And even now, though I don't deny that if the play's wrong you're dished, I do contend that if the play's right, it's the actors the public go to see, not the play.”

“I don't think anyone can deny that,” said Julia.

“All an actress like Julia wants is a vehicle. Give her that and she'll do the rest.”

Julia gave the young man a delightful but slightly deprecating smile.

“You mustn't take my husband too seriously. I'm afraid we must admit that he's partial where I'm concerned.”

“Unless this young man is a much bigger fool than I think him he must know that there's nothing in the way of acting that you can't do.”

“Oh, that's only an idea that people have got because I take care never to do anything but what I can do.”

Presently Michael looked at his watch.

“I think when you've finished your coffee, young man, we ought to be going.”

The boy gulped down what was left in his cup and Julia rose from the table.

“You won't forget my photograph?”

“I think there are some in Michael's den. Come along and we'll choose one.”

She took him into a fair-sized room behind the dining-room. Though it was supposed to be Michael's private sitting-room—“a fellow wants a room where he can get away by himself and smoke his pipe”—it was chiefly used as a cloak-room when they had guests. There was a noble mahogany desk on which were signed photographs of George V and Queen Mary. Over the chimney-piece was an old copy of Lawrence's portrait of Kemble as Hamlet. On a small table was a pile of typescript plays. The room was surrounded by bookshelves under which were cupboards, and from one of these Julia took a bundle of her latest photographs. She handed one to the young man.

“This one is not so bad.”

“It's lovely.”

“Then it can't be as like me as I thought.”

“But it is. It's exactly like you.”

She gave him another sort of smile, just a trifle roguish; she lowered her eyelids for a second and then raising them gazed at him for a little with that soft expression that people described as her velvet look. She had no object in doing this. She did it, if not mechanically, from an instinctive desire to please. The boy was so young, so shy, he looked as if he had such a nice nature, and she would never see him again, she wanted him to have his money's worth; she wanted him to look back on this as one of the great moments of his life. She glanced at the photograph again. She liked to think she looked like that. The photographer had so posed her, with her help, as to show her at her best. Her nose was slightly thick, but he had managed by his lighting to make it look very delicate, not a wrinkle marred the smoothness of her skin, and there was a melting look in her fine eyes.

“All right. You shall have this one. You know I'm not a beautiful woman, I'm not even a very pretty one; Coquelin always used to say I had the beauté du diable. You understand French, don't you?”

“Enough for that.”

“I'll sign it for you.”

She sat at the desk and with her bold, flowing hand wrote: Yours sincerely, Julia Lambert.

第一章

门打开了,迈克尔·格斯林抬起头来。朱莉娅走了进来。

“嘿!我不会耽搁太久的。我正在签署一些信件。”

“不着急。我就是来看看给丹诺伦特一家送了什么位置的票。那个年轻人在这里做什么?”

出于一位老到的女演员用动作配合自己对白的本能,她将梳得整齐的头一偏,示意她刚刚经过的屋子。

“他就是那个会计,从劳伦斯—汉弗雷会计师事务所来的。他来这儿三天了。”

“他看起来很年轻。”

“他是一个见习会计师。他看起来很懂行。但他对我们一直以来的记账系统感到惊奇。他跟我说,他从来没有想到一个剧院能经营得如此有条理。他说伦敦城里有些公司的记账方式能让人愁到头发都白了。”

看着丈夫帅气的脸上流露出扬扬自得的神情,朱莉娅笑了。

“他是个会说话的年轻人。”

“他今天就结束工作了。我想我们可以让他同我们一起回去,请他吃个简单的午餐。他很绅士。”

“那就足以邀请他吃午餐了吗?”

迈克尔没有注意到她语气里那一丝嘲讽的意味。

“如果你不愿意的话,我就不问他了。我只是觉得这会令他欣喜万分。他极其崇拜你。这回的戏他都已经看过三遍了。他做梦都想被人介绍和你认识。”

迈克尔按了一个按钮,不一会儿,他的秘书进来了。

“给你这些信,玛格丽。我今天下午有什么安排?”

朱莉娅心不在焉地听着玛格丽口中的预约时间表,漫不经心地看着四周,虽然她对这房间非常熟悉。这是一间与一流剧场的经理非常相配的房间。房间的墙壁由优秀的房屋设计师镶了护墙板(按成本价),墙上挂着佐芬尼和德维尔德的版画,内容是一些舞台场景。扶手椅宽大又舒适。迈克尔坐在一把雕刻繁复的齐彭代尔椅里,虽然是一件复制品,但由一家有名的公司制作。他的齐彭代尔桌的爪球腿大而结实,坚固无比。桌子上摆着一个结实的银色相框,里面是她自己的照片,旁边对称的是他们的儿子罗杰的照片。在这中间有一个华丽的银色墨水台,那是某次迈克尔生日时她送给他的礼物,后面摆放的是一个红色摩洛哥风格的架子,镀了大量的金,架子上放着他的私人信纸,供他想亲笔写信的时候用。信纸上印着西登斯剧场的地址,信封印着他的饰章,一个野猪头,以及下面这句话:犯我者必受惩罚(1)。一束黄色郁金香插在银色碗里——那是他连续三次赢得戏剧高尔夫巡回赛后获得的——显示出玛格丽的小心呵护。朱莉娅看了她一眼。尽管她剪短的头发漂白过,口红又涂得过于厚重,却有一副被认为是完美秘书应该有的中性外表。她跟随迈克尔已经五年了。这么久的时间里,她对迈克尔从里到外肯定相当了解。朱莉娅在想她是否会蠢到爱上迈克尔。

迈克尔突然从他坐的椅子上站了起来。

“好了,亲爱的,我们现在可以走了。”

玛格丽递给迈克尔他的黑色卷边软呢帽,并为朱莉娅和迈克尔打开房门,让他们先出去。当他们走进办公室时,朱莉娅注意过的那个年轻人转身站了起来。

“我想把你介绍给兰伯特小姐。”迈克尔说道。接着,他显示出一副大使向他觐见的宫廷君主介绍随员的气派,说道:“这就是那位非常优秀的绅士,多亏了他,我们乱作一团的账目终于有了些头绪。”

年轻人脸变得通红。他僵硬地笑着回应朱莉娅温暖、现成的微笑,她友善地握了一下他的手,发现他的掌心已都是汗水。他这副困窘的样子令人同情。那是当人们见到萨拉·西登斯时才会有的感受。她想起,当迈克尔提议请这男孩吃顿午餐的时候她对迈克尔有点刻薄。她直视着他的双眼。她自己的眼睛很大,深棕色,炯炯有神。做出这副神情对她来说一点都不费劲,做出稍稍觉得有趣、友好亲切的表情就好像挥去在她身边飞来飞去的苍蝇一样已是她的本能。

“我在想,我们是否能邀请您来我家,和我们一同吃顿便餐。午饭后迈克尔会开车送您回来。”

年轻人再次脸红,他的喉结在他细细的脖子里滚动。

“您对我太好了。”他焦虑地看了一眼他的衣服,“我浑身脏透了。”

“我们到家后您可以梳洗整理一下。”

汽车在剧院后门等待着他们,这是一辆黑色镀铬的长款车,车座由银色皮革包着,车门上不起眼地印着迈克尔的饰章。朱莉娅坐了进去。

“过来跟我一起坐。迈克尔要开车。”

他们住在史坦霍普广场,当他们到达后,朱莉娅让管家带着年轻人去盥洗的地方。她上楼回到会客室。当迈克尔过来找她的时候,朱莉娅正在描唇。

“我已经告诉他,让他一准备好就上楼来。”

“顺便问一句,他叫什么名字?”

“我不知道。”

“亲爱的,我们必须得知道他的名字。我会让他在我们的本子上题词。”

“可恶,他还没重要到那个地步。”迈克尔通常只会请非常重要的有名望的人在本子上题词,“我们再也不会见到他了。”

就在这时,年轻人出现了。在汽车里,朱莉娅努力让他放松下来,但他依旧非常腼腆。鸡尾酒已经备好,迈克尔为大家斟好酒。朱莉娅抽出一根香烟,年轻人划了根火柴为她点着火,但他手抖得非常厉害,以至于朱莉娅认为他根本无法将火凑上她的香烟,所以她握着他的手点着了烟。

“可怜的年轻人,”她心里想,“我想这可能是他人生中最辉煌的时刻。当他将这一经历告诉他的朋友时,他肯定会特别开心。我估计他会成为办公室里那个遭人嫉妒诅咒的小英雄。”

朱莉娅同自己说话和同别人说话的样子非常不同:当她跟自己说话时,她的语言生动有趣。她将第一口烟吸入肺叶,兴致不错。当你仔细想想,能同她共进午餐,并聊上四十五分钟,真是件美事,说不定还能让一个人在他狭小的圈子里变得十分重要。

年轻人强迫自己说了句话。

“这屋子太壮观了!”

朱莉娅给了他一个短暂、开心的微笑,她精致的眉毛稍稍向上一挑,这表情他一定非常熟悉,常常在朱莉娅表演的时候看到。

“我很开心你喜欢它。”她的声音低沉甚至有点沙哑。你或许真的会认为他的评论让她如释重负,“在我们家里,我们都认为迈克尔的品位非常高。”

迈克尔满意地瞥了一眼屋子。

“我有不少经验。我总是为我们的戏剧设计布景。当然,有人会为我做这些粗活,但想法都是我的。”

他们两年前搬进了这屋子,迈克尔和朱莉娅心知肚明,当他们外出巡演的时候,他们把这屋子交给了一个收费昂贵的设计师,并且这设计师许诺,在他们巡演回来的时候,把屋子完全装修好,而且只收取成本费用,以此来换取他们承诺给他的那些剧院里的活儿。但没有必要把这些冗杂的细节告诉一个他们连名字都不知道的年轻人。这房子装修品位极佳,既古典,又不失现代感,迈克尔说一眼就能看出这是一座绅士居住的房子,一点都没错。然而,朱莉娅坚持自己的卧室要按照自己喜欢的样子来,在他们摄政公园的老房子里她有一间喜欢的卧室,战争结束后他们就住在那里,她把那间卧室照搬了过来。床和梳妆台用粉色丝绸包了起来,躺椅和扶手椅是淡青色;床的上方是几个镀金的胖天使,一起悬吊着一盏淡粉色灯罩的灯,在梳妆台的镜子周围也簇拥着镀金的小胖天使。在椴木桌上摆着的是男演员们、女演员们以及皇室成员的签名照,相框华丽繁复。设计师对这屋子挑起了眉毛,不屑一顾,但只有在这间屋子里,朱莉娅才觉得完全放松。她坐在一个镀金的哈姆雷特风格的凳子上,俯在一张椴木桌子上写信。

午饭准备好了,他们走下楼。

“我希望你能吃得饱,”朱莉娅说,“迈克尔和我的胃口都非常小。”

事实上,午饭有烤鳎目鱼、烤牛排、菠菜和炖水果。这是一顿为了满足饥肠辘辘的人而不会产生脂肪设计的饭菜。厨子在玛格丽跟他说了中午会有客人来吃午餐后,匆匆煎了些土豆。土豆看起来清脆可口,闻着很有食欲。只有这个年轻人碰了它们。朱莉娅留恋地看了一眼土豆,然后摇了摇头以示拒绝。迈克尔神情严肃地盯着它们看了一会儿,就好像不认识这道菜似的,然后慢慢地,打破了沉思,说了声“谢谢,不需要了”。他们坐在一张长长的餐桌旁,朱莉娅和迈克尔分别坐在桌子两端硕大的意大利椅子里,年轻人坐在桌子的中间,他的椅子可没有那么舒服,但非常有形。朱莉娅注意到他似乎在看餐柜,她带着迷人的微笑,向前倾了倾身子。

“怎么了?”

年轻人脸变得通红。

“我在想,我能不能吃片面包?”

“当然!”

她意味深长地看了管家一眼;此刻,管家正在为迈克尔倒一杯干白葡萄酒,然后他离开了房间。

“迈克尔和我从来不吃面包。杰文斯犯傻,没有意识到你可能会想吃一些。”

“当然,面包只是一种习惯,”迈克尔说道,“如果你决计不吃它,不久你就会发现你不需要它了。”

“这可怜的小伙瘦得像杆一样,迈克尔。”

“我不吃面包,因为我怕变胖。我不吃它还因为我觉得没意义。毕竟,就我的运动强度而言,我可以吃任何我想吃的东西。”

迈克尔五十二岁了,身材仍然很棒。他年轻的时候,有一头栗色的鬈发,他皮肤白皙,蓝眼睛大而深邃,鼻梁笔直,再加上那对小小的耳朵,他曾是英国舞台上最好看的男演员。唯一美中不足的地方就是他的嘴唇有点单薄。迈克尔只有六英尺高,举止勇猛。正是他那显而易见的美貌让他走向了舞台而不是像他父亲那样成为军人。现在,他那栗色的头发都已灰白,而且剪得很短;他的脸变得松弛,还有不少皱纹;脸蛋也不再像桃花般娇嫩,肤色变得潮红。但以他那美丽的眼睛和尚好的身材来讲,他仍旧是个美男子。自从他在军队里待了五年之后,他便有了军人风度,以至于如果你不知道他是谁(虽然这极其不可能,因为他的照片总是以各种形式出现在画报上),你可能会认为他是一个高级军官。他吹嘘自二十岁起他的体重就再没变过,并且这么多年来,不论刮风下雨,他每天早晨都会在八点的时候换上短裤和运动上衣,绕着摄政公园跑一圈。

“那个秘书告诉我,今早您在排练,兰伯特小姐,”年轻人说道,“是说您要有新剧上演了吗?”

“并不是,”迈克尔回答道,“我们的剧目已经太多了。”

“迈克尔觉得我们演得有点粗糙,所以他安排了一场排练。”

“我非常高兴我安排了这场排练。我发现他们有一些我没有授意的表演小细节悄悄地混了进来,并且台词也被随意修改。我坚持剧作家的原话应该一字不动地被照念,虽然,上帝知道,如今的剧作家写不了多少话。”

“如果你想来看我们的剧,”朱莉娅优雅地说道,“我肯定迈克尔会很乐意给你几张票。”

“我很想再去观看,”年轻人急忙回答,“我已经看过三遍了。”

“都三遍了?”朱莉娅满是惊讶地叫道,尽管她清楚地记得迈克尔已经将此事告诉她了,“当然,这剧还不算差,还算令人满意,但我无法想象有谁会看三遍。”

“我去看并不是为了那剧本身,而是去看您的表演。”

“我总算逼你说出这句话了。”朱莉娅想着,然后她大声说道:“当我们读到剧本的时候,迈克尔对这出剧表示很怀疑。他觉得我的角色不够好。你知道,并不是什么明星角色。但我觉得我能把这角色演出点什么来。当然,我们不得不在彩排的时候砍掉很多另外一个女人的戏。”

“我并不是说我们重写了剧本,”迈克尔说道,“但我跟你讲,现在这出剧跟作者交给我们的有很大不同。”

“您在剧中简直太棒了。”年轻人说道。

(“他有某种魅力。”)“你喜欢我,这让我很开心。”她回答道。

“如果你这么仰慕朱莉娅,我敢说,你走的时候她会给你一张她的照片。”

“会吗?”

他的脸又红了,蓝色的眼睛闪闪发光。(“他真的很可爱。”)他算不上好看,但有一张真诚、坦率的脸,而且他的羞怯很迷人。他有一头淡棕色的鬈发,但被他用发油抹得平平的。朱莉娅想,如果他能利用自己的鬈发梳个漂亮的发型,而不是试图把波浪都弄直,他肯定会好看许多。他气色不错,皮肤也很好,长了一口精致的牙齿。她发现,他的衣服很合身,穿得很得体,这让她对他赞赏有加。他看上去干净漂亮。

“我估计你从未跟剧院内部打过交道吧?”朱莉娅说道。

“从来没有,因此我特别渴望拿到这份工作。您无法想象当我得知我可以来做这份工作的时候,我有多激动。”

迈克尔和朱莉娅朝着他亲切地微笑。他的仰慕让他们觉得自己高高在上,扬扬得意。

“我从来不允许外人来观看排练,但作为我们的会计,你也算得上剧院的人了,而且我不介意为你开此先例,如果你愿意来的话。”

“您对我真的太好了。我这辈子还从未见过一场排练。您会出演下一部戏吗?”

“哦,我想不会吧。我对表演不再那么热衷了。我发现几乎不可能找到一个适合我的角色。你看,在我这个年纪我无法出演年轻的恋人,而且剧作家也不再像我年轻那会儿那样描述这些角色了。就是法国人所谓的说教者。你知道我所指的那类人吧,公爵,或是内阁大臣,或是地位显赫的皇室顾问,他们说些聪明话,动动小手指就能让人围着他转。我不知道现在的剧作家都怎么了。他们似乎写不出好的台词。无米之炊,这就是我们演员如今所面临的困境。他们感激我吗?我是说那些剧作家。如果我告诉你他们中一些人竟然有胆量提出那样的条件,你一定会大吃一惊。”

“事实上,没有他们我们也不行,”朱莉娅笑道,“如果剧本不行,世界上没有什么表演能够拯救一出戏。”

“那是因为公众对剧院没什么真正的兴趣。在英国剧院的黄金年代,人们并不是去看戏剧,他们去看的是演员。他们不会管肯布尔(2)或者西登斯夫人演的是什么。大家都是奔着他们的人去的。即使到现在,虽然我不否认如果剧本不好那演员也就完蛋了,但我认为,如果剧本不错,人们是去看演员的,而不是戏剧本身。”

“我认为没人能否认这点。”朱莉娅说道。

“像朱莉娅这样的女演员所需要的就是一个媒介。把这媒介给她,剩下的她都会完成。”

朱莉娅给了年轻人一个愉悦的却有点不以为然的微笑。

“你千万不能太把我丈夫的话当真。恐怕我们必须承认在关系到我的事情上他无法做到公平公正。”

“除非这位年轻人是个大傻瓜,否则他一定也会觉得在表演方面你无所不能。”

“哦,那只是人们的错觉,因为我只会去做我自己能够胜任的事情。”

迈克尔当即看了看他的手表。

“年轻人,你喝完咖啡后,我们得出发了。”

这男孩大口咽下他杯子里剩余的咖啡,此刻朱莉娅从桌子旁站了起来。

“你不会忘记答应给我照片吧?”

“我想迈克尔的小房间里应该有一些。我们一起去挑一张。”

她带着他去了餐厅后面的一间很大的房间。虽然这应该是迈克尔的私人起居室——“每个男人都想要一间他能随心所欲、抽烟的房间”——它却主要被用作客人们的衣帽间。那里有一张高贵的红木桌子,上面摆着乔治五世和玛丽王后的签名照片。壁炉架上摆着一张老旧的由劳伦斯为饰演哈姆雷特的肯布尔画的肖像复制品。在一张小桌子上堆着一摞剧本打字稿。这房间四面都是书架,下面是橱柜,从其中一间里,朱莉娅拿出一摞她最新的照片,递了一张给年轻人。

“这张还不错。”

“很漂亮。”

“是吗?那我想可能不太像我。”

“但就是你。跟你一模一样。”

她向他展示了另外一种微笑,有点小淘气的样子;她垂下了眼睑,然后又抬了起来,带着她那种被人们形容为天鹅绒般的眼神,她用这种眼神温柔地盯着他看了一会儿。她这么做没有任何目的。如果不是条件反射,就是出于要讨好别人的本能。这男孩如此年轻,又如此腼腆,他看上去心地善良,但她再也不会见到他了。她希望他的那些钱花得很值;她希望他将这一刻作为人生的重要时刻来回忆。她又瞥了一眼照片。她希望自己就是照片里的样子。摄影师在她的帮助下让她摆出了最佳姿势,以展现她最美的那面。她的鼻子有点宽但摄影师通过灯光让它看上去小巧精致,平滑的皮肤上没有一丝皱纹,她漂亮的眼睛含情脉脉。

“好吧,你就拿这张吧。你知道我并不美丽,甚至算不上漂亮。科克兰(3)以前总是说我有魔鬼之美(4)。你懂法语的,对吧?”

“还能够理解这句。”

“我来给你签名。”

她坐在桌子旁,用她粗放流畅的字体写道:你真诚的朱莉娅·兰伯特。

————————————————————

(1) 原文为拉丁文,Nemo me impune lacessit。

(2) 约翰·菲利普·肯布尔(John Philip Kemble,1757—1823),著名的莎剧演员、剧院经理,对舞台艺术和剧场管理做出过许多改革。西登斯夫人是他的姐姐。

(3) 科克兰(Beno?t-Constant Coquelin,1841—1909),法国著名戏剧演员兼戏剧评论家。

(4) 原文为法语,beauté du diable。

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