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双语·坎特维尔的幽灵 W.H.先生的画像 _ 第三章

所属教程:译林版·坎特维尔的幽灵——奥斯卡·王尔德短篇小说选

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2022年06月18日

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THE PORTRAIT OF MR. W.H. _ Chapter 3

After three weeks had elapsed, I determined to make a strong appeal to Erskine to do justice to the memory of Cyril Graham, and to give to the world his marvellous interpretation of the Sonnets——the only interpretation that thoroughly explained the problem. I have not any copy of my letter, I regret to say, nor have I been able to lay my hand upon the original; but I remember that I went over the whole ground, and covered sheets of paper with passionate reiteration of the arguments and proofs that my study had suggested to me. It seemed to me that I was not merely restoring Cyril Graham to his proper place in literary history, but rescuing the honour of Shakespeare himself from the tedious memory of a commonplace intrigue. I put into the letter all my enthusiasm. I put into the letter all my faith.

No sooner, in fact, had I sent it off than a curious reaction came over me. It seemed to me that I had given away my capacity for belief in the Willie Hughes theory of the Sonnets, that something had gone out of me, as it were, and that I was perfectly indifferent to the whole subject. What was it that had happened? It is difficult to say. Perhaps, by finding perfect expression for a passion, I had exhausted the passion itself. Emotional forces, like the forces of physical life, have their positive limitations. Perhaps the mere effort to convert any one to a theory involves some form of renunciation of the power of credence. Perhaps I was simply tired of the whole thing, and, my enthusiasm having burnt out, my reason was left to its own unimpassioned judgment. However it came about, and I cannot pretend to explain it, there was no doubt that Willie Hughes suddenly became to me a mere myth, an idle dream, the boyish fancy of a young man who, like most ardent spirits, was more anxious to convince others than to be himself convinced.

As I had said some very unjust and bitter things to Erskine in my letter, I determined to go and see him at once, and to make my apologies to him for my behaviour. Accordingly, the next morning I drove down to Birdcage Walk, and found Erskine sitting in his library, with the forged picture of Willie Hughes in front of him.

“My dear Erskine!” I cried, “I have come to apologise to you.”

“To apologise to me?” he said. “What for?”

“For my letter,” I answered.

“You have nothing to regret in your letter,” he said. “On the contrary, you have done me the greatest service in your power. You have shown me that Cyril Graham's theory is perfectly sound.”

“You don't mean to say that you believe in Willie Hughes?” I exclaimed.

“Why not?” he rejoined. “You have proved the thing to me. Do you think I cannot estimate the value of evidence?”

“But there is no evidence at all,” I groaned, sinking into a chair. “When I wrote to you I was under the influence of a perfectly silly enthusiasm. I had been touched by the story of Cyril Graham's death, fascinated by his romantic theory, enthralled by the wonder and novelty of the whole idea. I see now that the theory is based on a delusion. The only evidence for the existence of Willie Hughes is that picture in front of you, and the picture is a forgery. Don't be carried away by mere sentiment in this matter. Whatever romance may have to say about the Willie Hughes theory, reason is dead against it.”

“I don't understand you,” said Erskine, looking at me in amazement. “Why, you yourself have convinced me by your letter that Willie Hughes is an absolute reality. Why have you changed your mind? Or is all that you have been saying to me merely a joke?”

“I cannot explain it to you,” I rejoined, “but I see now that there is really nothing to be said in favour of Cyril Graham's interpretation. The Sonnets are addressed to Lord Pembroke. For heaven's sake don't waste your time in a foolish attempt to discover a young Elizabethan actor who never existed, and to make a phantom puppet the centre of the great cycle of Shakespeare's sonnets.”

“I see that you don't understand the theory,” he replied.

“My dear Erskine,” I cried, “not understand it! Why, I feel as if I had invented it. Surely my letter shows you that I not merely went into the whole matter, but that I contributed proofs of every kind. The one flaw in the theory is that it presupposes the existence of the person whose existence is the subject of dispute. If we grant that there was in Shakespeare's company a young actor of the name of Willie Hughes, it is not difficult to make him the object of the sonnets. But as we know that there was no actor of this name in the company of the Globe Theatre, it is idle to pursue the investigation further.”

“But that is exactly what we don't know,” said Erskine. “It is quite true that his name does not occur in the list given in the first folio; but, as Cyril pointed out, that is rather a proof in favour of the existence of Willie Hughes than against it, if we remember his treacherous desertion of Shakespeare for a rival dramatist.”

We argued the matter over for hours, but nothing that I could say could make Erskine surrender his faith in Cyril Graham's interpretation. He told me that he intended to devote his life to proving the theory, and that he was determined to do justice to Cyril Graham's memory. I entreated him, laughed at him, begged of him, but it was of no use. Finally we parted, not exactly in anger, but certainly with a shadow between us. He thought me shallow, I thought him foolish. When I called on him again his servant told me that he had gone to Germany.

Two years afterwards, as I was going into my club, the hall-porter handed me a letter with a foreign postmark. It was from Erskine, and written at the H?tel d'Angleterre, Cannes. When I had read it I was filled with horror, though I did not quite believe that he would be so mad as to carry his resolve into execution. The gist of the letter was that he had tried in every way to verify the Willie Hughes theory, and had failed, and that as Cyril Graham had given his life for this theory, he himself had determined to give his own life also to the same cause. The concluding words of the letter were these: “I still believe in Willie Hughes; and by the time you receive this, I shall have died by my own hand for Willie Hughes's sake: for his sake, and for the sake of Cyril Graham, whom I drove to his death by my shallow scepticism and ignorant lack of faith. The truth was once revealed to you, and you rejected it. It comes to you now stained with the blood of two lives——do not turn away from it.”

It was a horrible moment. I felt sick with misery, and yet I could not believe it. To die for one's theological beliefs is the worst use a man can make of his life, but to die for a literary theory! It seemed impossible.

I looked at the date. The letter was a week old. Some unfortunate chance had prevented my going to the club for several days, or I might have got it in time to save him. Perhaps it was not too late. I drove off to my rooms, packed up my things, and started by the night-mail from Charing Cross. The journey was intolerable. I thought I would never arrive.

As soon as I did I drove to the H?tel l'Angleterre. They told me that Erskine had been buried two days before in the English cemetery. There was something horribly grotesque about the whole tragedy. I said all kinds of wild things, and the people in the hall looked curiously at me.

Suddenly Lady Erskine, in deep mourning, passed across the vestibule. When she saw me she came up to me, murmured something about her poor son, and burst into tears. I led her into her sitting-room. An elderly gentleman was there waiting for her. It was the English doctor.

We talked a great deal about Erskine, but I said nothing about his motive for committing suicide. It was evident that he had not told his mother anything about the reason that had driven him to so fatal, so mad an act. Finally Lady Erskine rose and said, “George left you something as a memento. It was a thing he prized very much. I will get it for you.”

As soon as she had left the room I turned to the doctor and said, “What a dreadful shock it must have been to Lady Erskine! I wonder that she bears it as well as she does.”

“Oh, she knew for months past that it was coming,” he answered.

“Knew it for months past!” I cried. “But why didn't she stop him? Why didn't she have him watched? He must have been mad.”

The doctor stared at me. “I don't know what you mean,” he said.

“Well,” I cried, “if a mother knows that her son is going to commit suicide——”

“Suicide!” he answered. “Poor Erskine did not commit suicide. He died of consumption. He came here to die. The moment I saw him I knew that there was no hope. One lung was almost gone, and the other was very much affected. Three days before he died he asked me was there any hope. I told him frankly that there was none, and that he had only a few days to live. He wrote some letters, and was quite resigned, retaining his senses to the last.”

At that moment Lady Erskine entered the room with the fatal picture of Willie Hughes in her hand. “When George was dying he begged me to give you this,” she said. As I took it from her, her tears fell on my hand.

The picture hangs now in my library, where it is very much admired by my artistic friends. They have decided that it is not a Clouet, but an Oudry. I have never cared to tell them its true history. But sometimes, when I look at it, I think that there is really a great deal to be said for the Willie Hughes theory of Shakespeare's sonnets.

W.H.先生的画像 _ 第三章

三个星期后,我决心向厄斯金强烈呼吁:要公正地纪念西里尔·格雷厄姆,并向世人公布他对《莎士比亚十四行诗集》的精彩解读——唯一一个对这个问题进行了全面说明的解读。我给厄斯金写了一封信。我遗憾地说,我没有我那封信的任何副本,也没有能拿到原件。但是,我还记得我当时把整个问题回顾了一遍,在满满几页纸上充满热情地重述了我研究得来的那些论点和证据。在我看来,我不仅仅是要把西里尔·格雷厄姆恢复到他在文学史上应有的地位,而且是要挽救莎士比亚本人的荣誉,以免人们以为那些十四行诗只是单调乏味地回忆一段司空见惯的私情。我把所有的热情都投入了这封信。我把所有的信念都投入了这封信。

其实,我刚把这封信寄走,一种奇异的感应就向我袭来。在我看来,我已经放弃了我对《莎士比亚十四行诗集》威利·休斯理论的所有信念,好像什么东西已经离我而去,所以我对整个主题都完全无动于衷。到底发生了什么事呢?这很难说。也许通过寻找完美地宣泄激情的方式,我已经用尽了激情本身。情感的力量,就像物质生活的力量一样,有其确定的局限性。也许原因在于,仅仅通过努力使任何一个人转而相信一种理论,就意味着劝说者要在某种程度上放弃相信的能力。也许我完全厌倦了整个事情,而且我的热情已经燃尽了,我的理性只能依赖其自身的冷静判断。无论发生怎样的变化,我都无法妄加解释,威利·休斯对我来说突然变成了一个纯粹的神话、一场无聊的梦想,变成了一个年轻人幼稚的幻想,这个年轻人像大多数热情的人一样,更渴望说服别人,而不是说服自己。

因为我在信里说了一些对厄斯金很不公平的刻薄话,所以我马上决定去看看他,为自己的行为向他道歉。于是,第二天早上,我坐车去了鸟笼道,发现厄斯金坐在他的书房里,威利·休斯的伪造肖像立在他面前。

“我亲爱的厄斯金!”我叫道,“我是来向你道歉的。”

“向我道歉?”他问,“为什么道歉?”

“为我的信道歉。”我答道。

“你在信里没有什么可道歉的,”他说,“恰恰相反,你在力所能及的范围内帮了我一个最大的忙。你已经向我表明,西里尔·格雷厄姆的理论是完全合理的。”

“你不是说你相信威利·休斯吧?”我大声问道。

“为什么不相信呢?”他答道,“你已经向我证明了那件事。你以为我判断不了证据的价值吗?”

“可是,根本没有任何证据。”我一屁股坐在椅子上抱怨道,“我给你写信的时候,是受到了愚蠢透顶的热情的影响。我已经被西里尔·格雷厄姆去世的故事打动了,被他的浪漫理论陶醉了,被整个理念的新奇迷住了。我现在明白,那个理论是基于一种错觉。威利·休斯存在的唯一证据就是你面前的那幅肖像,而且肖像是伪造的。在这件事上不要被纯粹的感情冲昏了头脑。无论浪漫情怀对有关威利·休斯的理论有多么新奇的感受,理性都是坚决反对的。”

“我不明白你的意思。”厄斯金惊讶地看着我说,“哎呀,是你自己通过那封信已经使我确信威利·休斯是绝对真实的。你为什么改变了主意?要么说,你之前对我说的所有一切,只是一个玩笑?”

“我无法给你解释,”我回应说,“但我现在明白西里尔·格雷厄姆所做出的解读实在没有什么可赞同的。《莎士比亚十四行诗集》是写给彭布罗克勋爵的。看在上帝的分上,不要浪费时间犯傻去试图发现伊丽莎白一世时期一个从不存在的年轻演员,让一个幽灵木偶成为《莎士比亚十四行诗集》伟大诗篇的中心。”

“我看你不明白那个理论。”他答道。

“我亲爱的厄斯金,”我喊道,“不明白!啊,我感觉它好像是我无中生有的。当然,我的信向你表明,我不仅研究了整件事,而且提供了各种证据。这种理论的一个缺陷是,它预先假定那个人的存在,而这个人的存在正是争议的话题。如果我们承认莎士比亚的剧团有一个名叫威利·休斯的年轻演员,就不难使他成为那些十四行诗的对象。可是,因为我们知道环球剧院里没有这个名字的演员,所以进一步调查是无聊的。”

“不过,这正是我们不知道的,”厄斯金说,“千真万确,他的名字没有出现在第一对开本的演员名单上。然而,正如西里尔指出的那样,如果我们还记得他为了一个剧坛对手而背弃过莎士比亚的话,这就会相当有利地证明威利·休斯的存在,而不是否定。”

我们就这件事争论了几个小时,但无论我说什么,都不能使厄斯金放弃他对西里尔·格雷厄姆理论的信念。他告诉我说,他打算奉献自己的一生来证明这个理论,并下定决心以还其公正的方式来纪念西里尔·格雷厄姆。我恳求他,嘲笑他,央求他,但都无济于事。最后,我们就此分手,并不完全是满腔怒火,但我们之间肯定留下了一道阴影。他认为我浅薄,我觉得他愚蠢。当我再次拜访他的时候,仆人告诉我他已经去了德国。

两年后,我正要走进俱乐部,门房递给我一封盖有外国邮戳的信。这是厄斯金寄来的,是在戛纳的英格兰酒店写的。看过信后,尽管我不太相信他会如此疯狂地下定决心付诸行动,但我心里还是充满了恐惧。那封信的要点是,他想尽了各种办法去证实威利·休斯理论,都一一失败了,而且,由于西里尔·格雷厄姆为这个理论献出了自己的生命,因此他本人已经决定也为同样的事业献出自己的生命。信的结尾是这样写的:“我仍然相信威利·休斯。当你收到这封信的时候,我应该早已为威利·休斯亲手结束了自己的生命:既为了他,也为了西里尔·格雷厄姆。是我通过浅薄的怀疑主义和无知的信仰缺失逼死了西里尔·格雷厄姆。事实真相一度透露给你,而你却一口否定了。这件事沾有两条生命的鲜血,现在来到了你身边——不要避开。”

这是一个可怕的时刻。我因痛苦而感到恶心,但我却无法相信这一点。为某个人的神学信仰而死,是一个人对自己的生命最糟糕的利用,况且是为一个文学理论而死!这似乎说不过去。

我看了看日期。这封信是一个星期前写的。不巧的是,我好几天都没有来俱乐部,否则的话,也许我就能及时地收到信去救他。也许还不太晚。我坐车赶回自己的房间,收拾好东西,然后从查令十字车站乘夜班邮车启程。旅途难以忍受。我想自己再也到不了了。

一到站,我就驱车赶到了英格兰酒店。他们告诉我说,两天前厄斯金已经被埋葬在了英国人的墓地。整个悲剧有一种可怕而又怪诞的气氛。我说了各种各样的疯话,大厅里的人都好奇地看着我。

突然,厄斯金夫人满面哀伤,穿过前庭。看到我后,她向我走来,低声说了几句关于她可怜的儿子的话,就放声大哭。我把她领进起居室。一位上了年纪的先生在那里等着她。他是个英国医生。

我们谈了很多有关厄斯金的情况,但我对他自杀的动机只字未提。显而易见,他没有告诉他的母亲,是什么原因逼迫他做出如此致命、如此疯狂的行为。最后,厄斯金夫人起身说道:“乔治给你留下了一件东西作为纪念。这是他非常珍视的一件东西。我去给你拿来。”

她一离开房间,我就转身对医生说道:“这对厄斯金夫人一定是一个非常可怕的打击!我对她居然这么能忍受感到惊讶。”

“噢,她几个月前就知道会是这样。”他答道。

“几个月前就知道!”我嚷道,“可她为什么不阻止他呢?她为什么不让人看着他呢?他一定是疯了。”

医生盯着我。“我不明白你是什么意思。”他说。

“噢,”我喊道,“如果母亲知道她的儿子要自杀——”

“自杀!”他回答说,“可怜的厄斯金没有自杀。他死于肺病。他来这里就是等死的。看到他的那一刻,我就知道没有希望了。一只肺几乎没有了,另一只肺也受到了非常严重的感染。去世前三天,他问我还有没有什么希望。我对他坦言没有什么希望了,他只有几天活头了。他写了几封信,完全听天由命,直到最后都能保持清醒。”

正在此刻,厄斯金夫人手里拿着威利·休斯那幅致命的画像,走进了房间。“临终前,乔治求我把这个给你。”她说。当我从她的手里接过画像的时候,她的眼泪扑簌簌地落在了我的手上。

那幅画像目前挂在我的书房里,我那些从事艺术的朋友都赞不绝口。他们已经确定那不是克卢埃的手笔,而是乌德里的。我从来都不喜欢把它真正的来历告诉他们。但有时,我看着它的时候,觉得关于《莎士比亚十四行诗集》的威利·休斯理论真的有好多话可说。

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