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双语·生活的真相:毛姆短篇小说选 贞洁

所属教程:译林版·生活的真相:毛姆短篇小说选

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2022年06月12日

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Virtue

There are few things better than a good Havana. When I was young and very poor and smoked a cigar only when somebody gave me one, I determined that if ever I had money I would smoke a cigar every day after luncheon and after dinner. This is the only resolution of my youth that I have kept. It is the only ambition I have achieved that has never been embittered by disillusion. I like a cigar that is mild, but full-flavoured, neither so small that it is finished before you have become aware of it nor so large as to be irksome, rolled so that it draws without consciousness of effort on your part, with a leaf so firm that it doesn't become messy on your lips, and in such condition that it keeps its savour to the very end. But when you have taken the last pull and put down the shapeless stump and watched the final cloud of smoke dwindle blue in the surrounding air it is impossible, if you have a sensitive nature, not to feel a certain melancholy at the thought of all the labour, the care and pains that have gone, the thought, the trouble, the complicated organization that have been required to provide you with half an hour's delight. For this men have sweltered long years under tropical suns and ships have scoured the seven seas. These reflections become more poignant still when you are eating a dozen oysters (with half a bottle of dry white wine), and they become almost unbearable when it comes to a lamb cutlet. For these are animals and there is something that inspires awe in the thought that since the surface of the earth became capable of supporting life from generation to generation for millions upon millions of years creatures have come into existence to end at last upon a plate of crushed ice or on a silver grill. It may be that a sluggish fancy cannot grasp the dreadful solemnity of eating an oyster and evolution has taught us that the bivalve has through the ages kept itself to itself in a manner that inevitably alienates sympathy. There is an aloofness in it that is offensive to the aspiring spirit of man and a self-complacency that is obnoxious to his vanity. But I do not know how anyone can look upon a lamb cutlet without thoughts too deep for tears: here man himself has taken a hand and the history of the race is bound up with the tender morsel on your plate.

And sometimes even the fate of human beings is curious to consider. It is strange to look upon this man or that, the quiet ordinary persons of every day, the bank clerk, the dustman, the middle-aged girl in the second row of the chorus, and think of the interminable history behind them and of the long, long series of hazards by which from the primeval slime the course of events has brought them at this moment to such and such a place. When such tremendous vicissitudes have been needed to get them here at all one would have thought some huge significance must be attached to them; one would have thought that what befell them must matter a little to the Life Spirit or whatever else it is that has produced them. An accident befalls them. The thread is broken. The story that began with the world is finished abruptly and it looks as though it meant nothing at all. A tale told by an idiot. And is it not odd that this event, of an importance so dramatic, may be brought about by a cause so trivial?

An incident of no moment, that might easily not have happened, has consequences that are incalculable. It looks as though blind chance ruled all things. Our smallest actions may affect profoundly the whole lives of people who have nothing to do with us. The story I have to tell would never have happened if one day I had not walked across the street. Life is really very fantastic and one has to have a peculiar sense of humour to see the fun of it.

I was strolling down Bond Street one spring morning and having nothing much to do till lunch-time thought I would look in at Sotheby's, the auction rooms, to see whether there was anything on show that interested me. There was a block in the traffic and I threaded my way through the cars. When I reached the other side I ran into a man I had known in Borneo coming out of a hatter's.

Hullo, Morton, I said. "When did you come home?"

I've been back about a week.

He was a District Officer. The Governor had given me a letter of introduction to him and I wrote and told him I meant to spend a week at the place he lived at and should like to put up at the government rest-house. He met me on the ship when I arrived and asked me to stay with him. I demurred. I did not see how I could spend a week with a total stranger, I did not want to put him to the expense of my board, and besides I thought I should have more freedom if I were on my own. He would not listen to me.

I've got plenty of room, he said, "and the rest-house is beastly. I haven't spoken to a white man for six months and I'm fed to the teeth with my own company."

But when Morton had got me and his launch had landed us at the bungalow and he had offered me a drink he did not in the least know what to do with me. He was seized on a sudden with shyness, and his conversation, which had been fluent and ready, ran dry. I did my best to make him feel at home (it was the least I could do, considering that it was his own house) and asked him if he had any new records. He turned on the gramophone and the sound of rag-time gave him confidence.

His bungalow overlooked the river and his living-room was a large veranda. It was furnished in the impersonal fashion that characterized the dwellings of government officials who were moved here and there at little notice according to the exigencies of the service. There were native hats as ornaments on the walls and the horns of animals, blow-pipes, and spears. In the book-shelf were detective novels and old magazines. There was a cottage piano with yellow keys. It was very untidy, but not uncomfortable.

Unfortunately I cannot very well remember what he looked like. He was young, twenty-eight, I learnt later, and he had a boyish and attractive smile. I spent an agreeable week with him. We went up and down the river and we climbed a mountain. We had tiffin one day with some planters who lived twenty miles away and every evening we went to the club. The only members were the manager of a kutch factory and his assistants, but they were not on speaking terms with one another and it was only on Morton's representations that they must not let him down when he had a visitor that we could get up a rubber of bridge. The atmosphere was strained. We came back to dinner, listened to the gramophone, and went to bed. Morton had little office work and one would have thought the time hung heavy on his hands, but he had energy and high spirits; it was his first post of the sort and he was happy to be independent. His only anxiety was lest he should be transferred before he had finished a road he was building. This was the joy of his heart. It was his own idea and he had wheedled the government into giving him the money to make it; he had surveyed the country himself and traced the path. He had solved unaided the technical problems that presented themselves. Every morning, before he went to his office, he drove out in a rickety old Ford to where the coolies were working and watched the progress that had been made since the day before. He thought of nothing else. He dreamt of it at night. He reckoned that it would be finished in a year and he did not want to take his leave till then. He could not have worked with more zest if he had been a painter or a sculptor creating a work of art. I think it was this eagerness that made me take a fancy to him. I liked his zeal. I liked his ingenuousness. And I was impressed by the passion for achievement that made him indifferent to the solitariness of his life, to promotion, and even to the thought of going home. I forget how long the road was, fifteen or twenty miles, I think, and I forget what purpose it was to serve. I don't believe Morton cared very much. His passion was the artist's and his triumph was the triumph of man over nature. He learnt as he went along. He had the jungle to contend against, torrential rains that destroyed the labour of weeks, accidents of topography; he had to collect his labour and hold it together; he had inadequate funds. His imagination sustained him. His labours gained a sort of epic quality and the vicissitudes of the work were a great saga that unrolled itself with an infinity of episodes.

His only complaint was that the day was too short. He had office duties, he was judge and tax collector, father and mother (at twenty-eight) of the people in his district; he had now and then to make tours that took him away from home. Unless he was on the spot nothing was done. He would have liked to be there twenty-four hours a day driving the reluctant coolies to further effort. It so happened that shortly before I arrived an incident had occurred that filled him with jubilation. He had offered a contract to a Chinese to make a certain section of the road and the Chinese had asked more than Morton could afford to pay. Notwithstanding interminable discussions they had been unable to arrive at an agreement and Morton with rage in his heart saw his work held up. He was at his wits' end. Then going down to his office one morning, he heard that there had been a row in one of the Chinese gambling houses the night before. A coolie had been badly wounded and his assailant was under arrest. This assailant was the contractor. He was brought into court, the evidence was clear, and Morton sentenced him to eighteen months' hard labour.

Now he'll have to build the blasted road for nothing, said Morton, his eyes glistening when he told me the story.

We saw the fellow at work one morning, in the prison sarong, unconcerned. He was taking his misfortune in good part.

I've told him I'll remit the rest of his sentence when the road's finished, said Morton, "and he's as pleased as Punch. Bit of a snip for me, eh, what?"

When I left Morton I asked him to let me know when he came to England and he promised to write to me as soon as he landed. On the spur of the moment one gives these invitations and one is perfectly sincere about them. But when one is taken at one's word a slight dismay seizes one. People are so different at home from what they are abroad. There they are easy, cordial, and natural. They have interesting things to tell you. They are immensely kind. You are anxious when your turn comes to do something in return for the hospitality you have received. But it is not easy. The persons who were so entertaining in their own surroundings are very dull in yours. They are constrained and shy. You introduce them to your friends and your friends find them a crashing bore. They do their best to be civil, but sigh with relief when the strangers go and the conversation can once more run easily in its accustomed channels. I think the residents in far places early in their careers understand the situation pretty well, as the result maybe of bitter and humiliating experiences, for I have found that they seldom take advantage of the invitation which on some outstation on the edge of the jungle has been so cordially extended to them and by them as cordially accepted. But Morton was different. He was a young man and single. It is generally the wives that are the difficulty; other women look at their drab clothes, in a glance take in their provincial air, and freeze them with their indifference. But a man can play bridge and tennis, and dance. Morton had charm. I had had no doubt that in a day or two he would find his feet.

Why didn't you let me know you were back? I asked him.

I thought you wouldn't want to be bothered with me, he smiled.

What nonsense!

Of course now as we stood in Bond Street on the kerb and chatted for a minute he looked strange to me. I had never seen him in anything but khaki shorts and a tennis shirt, except when we got back from the club at night and he put on a pyjama jacket and a sarong for dinner. It is as comfortable a form of evening dress as has ever been devised. He looked a bit awkward in his blue serge suit. His face against a white collar was very brown.

How about the road? I asked him.

Finished. I was afraid I'd have to postpone my leave, we struck one or two snags towards the end, but I made 'em hustle and the day before I left I drove the Ford to the end and back without stopping.

I laughed. His pleasure was charming.

What have you been doing with yourself in London?

Buying clothes.

Been having a good time?

Marvellous. A bit lonely, you know, but I don't mind that. I've been to a show every night. The Palmers, you know, I think you met them in Sarawak, were going to be in town and we were going to do the play together, but they had to go to Scotland because her mother's ill.

His words, said so breezily, cut me to the quick. His was the common experience. It was heartbreaking. For months, for long months before it was due, these people planned their leave, and when they got off the ship they were in such spirits they could hardly contain themselves. London. Shops and clubs and theatres and restaurants. London. They were going to have the time of their lives. London. It swallowed them. A strange turbulent city, not hostile but indifferent, and they were lost in it. They had no friends. They had nothing in common with the acquaintances they made. They were more lonely than in the jungle. It was a relief when at a theatre they ran across someone they had known in the East (and perhaps been bored stiff by or disliked) and they could fix up an evening together and have a good laugh and tell one another what a grand time they were having and talk of common friends and at last confide to one another a little shyly that they would not be sorry when their leave was up and they were once again in harness. They went to see their families and of course they were glad to see them, but it wasn't the same as it had been, they did feel a bit out of it, and when you came down to brass tacks the life people led in England was deadly. It was grand fun to come home, but you couldn't live there any more, and sometimes you thought of your bungalow overlooking the river and your tours of the district and what a lark it was to run over once in a blue moon to Sandakan or Kuching or Singapore.

And because I remembered what Morton had looked forward to when, the road finished and off his chest, he went on leave, I could not but feel a pang when I thought of him dining by himself in a dismal club where he knew nobody or alone in a restaurant in Soho and then going off to see a play with no one by his side with whom he could enjoy it and no one to have a drink with during the interval. And at the same time I reflected that even if I had known he was in London I could have done nothing much for him, for during the last week I had not had a moment free. That very evening I was dining with friends and going to a play, and the next day I was going abroad.

What are you doing tonight? I asked him.

I'm going to the Pavilion. It's packed jammed full, but there's a fellow over the road who's wonderful and he's got me a ticket that had been returned. You can often get one seat, you know, when you can't get two.

Why don't you come and have supper with me? I'm taking some people to the Haymarket and we're going on to Ciro's afterwards.

I'd love to.

We arranged to meet at eleven and I left him to keep an engagement.

I was afraid the friends I had asked him to meet would not amuse Morton very much, for they were distinctly middle-aged, but I could not think of anyone young that at this season of the year I should be likely to get hold of at the last moment. None of the girls I knew would thank me for asking her to supper to dance with a shy young man from Malaya. I could trust the Bishops to do their best for him, and after all it must be jollier for him to have supper in a club with a good band where he could see pretty women dancing than to go home to bed at eleven because he had nowhere else in the world to go. I had known Charlie Bishop first when I was a medical student. He was then a thin fellow with sandy hair and blunt features; he had fine eyes, dark and gleaming, but he wore spectacles. He had a round, merry, red face. He was very fond of the girls. I suppose he had a way with him, for, with no money and no looks, he managed to pick up a succession of young persons who gratified his roving desires. He was clever and bumptious, argumentative and quick-tempered. He had a caustic tongue. Looking back, I should say he was a rather disagreeable young man, but I do not think he was a bore. Now, half-way through the fifties, he was inclined to be stout and he was very bald, but his eyes behind the gold-rimmed spectacles were still bright and alert. He was dogmatic and somewhat conceited, argumentative still and caustic, but he was good-natured and amusing. After you have known a person so long his idiosyncrasies cease to trouble you. You accept them as you accept your own physical defects. He was by profession a pathologist and now and then he sent me a slim book he had just published. It was severe and extremely technical and grimly illustrated with photographs of bacteria. I did not read it. I gathered from what I sometimes heard that Charlie's views on the subjects with which he dealt were unsound. I do not believe that he was very popular with the other members of his profession, he made no secret of the fact that he looked upon them as a set of incompetent idiots; but he had his job, it brought him in six or eight hundred a year, I think, and he was completely indifferent to other people's opinion of him.

I liked Charlie Bishop because I had known him for thirty years, but I liked Margery, his wife, because she was very nice. I was extremely surprised when he told me he was going to be married. He was hard on forty at the time and so fickle in his affections that I had made up my mind he would remain single. He was very fond of women, but he was not in the least sentimental, and his aims were loose. His views on the female sex would in these idealistic days be thought crude. He knew what he wanted and he asked for it, and if he couldn't get it for love or money he shrugged his shoulders and went his way. To be brief, he did not look to women to gratify his ideal but to provide him with fornication. It was odd that though small and plain he found so many who were prepared to grant his wishes. For his spiritual needs he found satisfaction in unicellular organisms. He had always been a man who spoke to the point, and when he told me he was going to marry a young woman called Margery Hobson I did not hesitate to ask him why. He grinned.

Three reasons. First, she won't let me go to bed with her without. Second, she makes me laugh like a hyena. And third, she's alone in the world, without a single relation, and she must have someone to take care of her.

The first reason is just swank and the second is eyewash. The third is the real one and it means that she's got you by the short hairs.

His eyes gleamed softly behind his large spectacles.

I shouldn't be surprised if you weren't dead right.

She's not only got you by the short hairs but you're as pleased as Punch that she has.

Come and lunch tomorrow and have a look at her. She's easy on the eye.

Charlie was a member of a cock-and-hen club which at that time I used a good deal and we arranged to lunch there. I found Margery a very attractive young woman. She was then just under thirty. She was a lady. I noticed the fact with satisfaction, but with a certain astonishment, for it had not escaped my notice that Charlie was attracted as a rule by women whose breeding left something to be desired. She was not beautiful, but comely, with fine dark hair and fine eyes, a good colour and a look of health. She had a pleasant frankness and an air of candour that were very taking. She looked honest, simple, and dependable. I took an immediate liking to her. She was easy to talk to and though she did not say anything very brilliant she understood what other people were talking about; she was quick to see a joke and she was not shy. She gave you the impression of being competent and business-like. She had a happy placidity that suggested a good temper and an excellent digestion.

They seemed extremely pleased with one another. I had asked myself when I first saw her why Margery was marrying this irritable little man, baldish already and by no means young, but I discovered very soon that it was because she was in love with him. They chaffed one another a good deal and laughed a lot and every now and then their eyes met more significantly and they seemed to exchange a little private message. It was really rather touching.

A week later they were married at a registrar's office. It was a very successful marriage. Looking back now after sixteen years I could not but chuckle sympathetically at the thought of the lark they had made of their life together. I had never known a more devoted couple. They had never had very much money. They never seemed to want any. They had no ambitions. Their life was a picnic that never came to an end. They lived in the smallest flat I ever saw, in Panton Street, a small bedroom, a small sitting-room, and a bathroom that served also as a kitchen. But they had no sense of home, they ate their meals in restaurants, and only had breakfast in the flat. It was merely a place to sleep in. It was comfortable, though a third person coming in for a whisky and soda crowded it, and Margery with the help of a charwoman kept it as neat as Charlie's untidiness permitted, but there was not a single thing in it that had a personal note. They had a tiny car and whenever Charlie had a holiday they took it across the Channel and started off, with a bag each for all their luggage, to drive wherever the fancy took them. Breakdowns never disturbed them, bad weather was part of the fun, a puncture was no end of a joke, and if they lost their way and had to sleep out in the open they thought they were having the time of their lives.

Charlie continued to be irascible and contentious, but nothing he did ever disturbed Margery's lovely placidity. She could calm him with a word. She still made him laugh. She typed his monographs on obscure bacteria and corrected the proofs of his articles in the scientific magazines. Once I asked them if they ever quarrelled.

No, she said, "we never seem to have anything to quarrel about. Charlie has the temper of an angel."

Nonsense, I said, "he's an overbearing, aggressive, and cantankerous fellow. He always has been."

She looked at him and giggled and I saw that she thought I was being funny.

Let him rave, said Charlie. "He's an ignorant fool and he uses words of whose meaning he hasn't the smallest idea."

They were sweet together. They were very happy in one another's company and were never apart if they could help it. Even after the long time they had been married Charlie used to get into the car every day at luncheon-time to come west and meet Margery at a restaurant. People used to laugh at them, not unkindly, but perhaps with a little catch in the throat, because when they were asked to go and spend a week-end in the country Margery would write to the hostess and say they would like to come if they could be given a double bed. They had slept together for so many years that neither of them could sleep alone. It was often a trifle awkward. Husbands and wives as a rule not only demanded separate rooms, but were inclined to be peevish if asked to share the same bathroom. Modern houses were not arranged for domestic couples, but among their friends it became an understood thing that if you wanted the Bishops you must give them a room with a double bed. Some people of course thought it a little indecent, and it was never convenient, but they were a pleasant pair to have to stay and it was worth while to put up with their crankiness. Charlie was always full of spirits and in his caustic way extremely amusing, and Margery was peaceful and easy. They were no trouble to entertain. Nothing pleased them more than to be left to go out together for a long ramble in the country.

When a man marries, his wife sooner or later estranges him from his old friends, but Margery on the contrary increased Charlie's intimacy with them. By making him more tolerant she made him a more agreeable companion. They gave you the impression not of a married couple, but, rather amusingly, of two middle-aged bachelors living together; and when Margery, as was the rule, found herself the only woman among half a dozen men, ribald, argumentative, and gay, she was not a bar to good-fellowship but an asset. Whenever I was in England I saw them. They generally dined at the club of which I have spoken and if I happened to be alone I joined them.

When we met that evening for a snack before going to the play I told them I had asked Morton to come to supper.

I'm afraid you'll find him rather dull, I said. "But he's a very decent sort of boy and he was awfully kind to me when I was in Borneo."

Why didn't you let me know sooner? cried Margery. "I'd have brought a girl along."

What do you want a girl for? said Charlie. "There'll be you."

I don't think it can be much fun for a young man to dance with a woman of my advanced years, said Margery.

Rot. What's your age got to do with it? He turned to me. "Have you ever danced with anyone who danced better?"

I had, but she certainly danced very well. She was light on her feet and she had a good sense of rhythm.

Never, I said heartily.

Morton was waiting for us when we reached Ciro's. He looked very sunburned in his evening clothes. Perhaps it was because I knew that they had been wrapped away in a tin box with mothballs for four years that I felt he did not look quite at home in them. He was certainly more at ease in khaki shorts. Charlie Bishop was a good talker and liked to hear himself speak. Morton was shy. I gave him a cocktail and ordered some champagne. I had a feeling that he would be glad to dance, but was not quite sure whether it would occur to him to ask Margery. I was acutely conscious that we all belonged to another generation.

I think I should tell you that Mrs. Bishop is a beautiful dancer, I said.

Is she? He flushed a little. "Will you dance with me?"

She got up and they took the floor. She was looking peculiarly nice that evening, not at all smart, and I do not think her plain black dress had cost more than six guineas, but she looked a lady. She had the advantage of having extremely good legs and at that time skirts were still being worn very short. I suppose she had a little make-up on, but in contrast with the other women there she looked very natural. Shingled hair suited her; it was not even touched with white and it had an attractive sheen. She was not a pretty woman, but her kindliness, her wholesome air, her good health gave you, if not the illusion that she was, at least the feeling that it didn't at all matter. When she came back to the table her eyes were bright and she had a heightened colour.

How does he dance? asked her husband.

Divinely.

You're very easy to dance with, said Morton.

Charlie went on with his discourse. He had a sardonic humour and he was interesting because he was himself so interested in what he said. But he spoke of things that Morton knew nothing about and though he listened with a civil show of interest I could see that he was too much excited by the gaiety of the scene, the music, and the champagne to give his attention to conversation. When the music struck up again his eyes immediately sought Margery's. Charlie caught the look and smiled.

Dance with him, Margery. Good for my figure to see you take exercise.

They set off again and for a moment Charlie watched her with fond eyes.

Margery's having the time of her life. She loves dancing and it makes me puff and blow. Not a bad youth.

My little party was quite a success and when Morton and I, having taken leave of the Bishops, walked together towards Piccadilly Circus he thanked me warmly. He had really enjoyed himself. I said good-bye to him. Next morning I went abroad.

I was sorry not to have been able to do more for Morton and I knew that when I returned he would be on his way back to Borneo. I gave him a passing thought now and then, but by the autumn when I got home he had slipped my memory. After I had been in London a week or so I happened to drop in one night at the club to which Charlie Bishop also belonged. He was sitting with three or four men I knew and I went up. I had not seen any of them since my return. One of them, a man called Bill Marsh, whose wife, Janet, was a great friend of mine, asked me to have a drink.

Where have you sprung from? asked Charlie. "Haven't seen you about lately."

I noticed at once that he was drunk. I was astonished. Charlie had always liked his liquor, but he carried it well and never exceeded. In years gone by, when we were very young, he got tight occasionally, but probably more than anything to show what a great fellow he was, and it is unfair to bring up against a man the excesses of his youth. But I remembered that Charlie had never been very nice when he was drunk: his natural aggressiveness was exaggerated then and he talked too much and too loud; he was very apt to be quarrelsome. He was very dogmatic now, laying down the law and refusing to listen to any of the objections his rash statements called forth. The others knew he was drunk and were struggling between the irritation his cantankerousness aroused in them and the good-natured tolerance which they felt his condition demanded. He was not an agreeable object. A man of that age, bald and fattish, with spectacles, is disgusting drunk. He was generally rather dapper, but he was untidy now and there was tobacco ash all over him. Charlie called the waiter and ordered another whisky. The waiter had been at the club for thirty years.

You've got one in front of you, sir.

Mind your own damned business, said Charlie Bishop. "Bring me a double whisky right away or I'll report you to the secretary for insolence."

Very good, sir, said the waiter.

Charlie emptied his glass at a gulp, but his hand was unsteady and he spilled some of the whisky over himself.

Well, Charlie, old boy, we'd better be toddling along, said Bill Marsh. He turned to me. "Charlie's staying with us for a bit."

I was more surprised still. But I felt that something was wrong and thought it safer not to say anything.

I'm ready, said Charlie. "I'll just have another drink before I go. I shall have a better night if I do."

It did not look to me as though the party would break up for some time, so I got up and announced that I meant to stroll home.

I say, said Bill, as I was about to go, "you wouldn't come and dine with us tomorrow night, would you, just me and Janet and Charlie?"

Yes, I'll come with pleasure, I said.

It was evident that something was up.

The Marshes lived in a terrace on the East side of Regent's Park. The maid who opened the door for me asked me to go in to Mr. Marsh's study. He was waiting for me there.

I thought I'd better have a word with you before you went upstairs, he said as he shook hands with me. "You know Margery's left Charlie?"

No!

He's taken it very hard. Janet thought it was so awful for him alone in that beastly little flat that we asked him to stay here for a bit. We've done everything we could for him. He's been drinking like a fish. He hasn't slept a wink for a fortnight.

But she hasn't left him for good?

I was astounded.

Yes. She's crazy about a fellow called Morton.

Morton. Who's he?

It never struck me it was my friend from Borneo.

Damn it all, you introduced him and a pretty piece of work you did. Let's go upstairs. I thought I'd better put you wise.

He opened the door and we went out. I was thoroughly confused.

But look here, I said.

Ask Janet. She knows the whole thing. It beats me. I've got no patience with Margery, and he must be a mess.

He preceded me into the drawing-room. Janet Marsh rose as I entered and came forward to greet me. Charlie was sitting at the window, reading the evening paper; he put it aside as I went up to him and shook his hand. He was quite sober and he spoke in his usual rather perky manner, but I noticed that he looked very ill. We had a glass of sherry and went down to dinner. Janet was a woman of spirit. She was tall and fair and good to look at. She kept the conversation going with alertness. When she left us to drink a glass of port it was with instructions not to stay more than ten minutes. Bill, as a rule somewhat taciturn, exerted himself now to talk. I tumbled to the game. I was hampered by my ignorance of what exactly had happened, but it was plain that the Marshes wanted to prevent Charlie from brooding, and I did my best to interest him. He seemed willing to play his part, he was always fond of holding forth, and he discussed, from the pathologist's standpoint, a murder that was just then absorbing the public. But he spoke without life. He was an empty shell, and one had the feeling that though for the sake of his host he forced himself to speak, his thoughts were elsewhere. It was a relief when a knocking on the floor above indicated to us that Janet was getting impatient. This was an occasion when a woman's presence eased the situation. We went upstairs and played family bridge. When it was time for me to go Charlie said he would walk with me as far as the Marylebone Road.

Oh, Charlie, it's so late, you'd much better go to bed, said Janet.

I shall sleep better if I have a stroll before turning in, he replied.

She gave him a worried look. You cannot forbid a middle-aged professor of pathology from going for a little walk if he wants to. She glanced brightly at her husband.

I daresay it'll do Bill no harm.

I think the remark was tactless. Women are often a little too managing. Charlie gave her a sullen look.

There's absolutely no need to drag Bill out, he said with some firmness.

I haven't the smallest intention of coming, said Bill, smiling. "I'm tired out and I'm going to hit the hay."

I fancy we left Bill Marsh and his wife to a little argument.

They've been frightfully kind to me, said Charlie, as we walked along by the railings. "I don't know what I should have done without them. I haven't slept for a fortnight."

I expressed regret but did not ask the reason, and we walked for a little in silence. I presumed that he had come with me in order to talk to me of what had happened, but I felt that he must take his own time. I was anxious to show my sympathy, but afraid of saying the wrong things; I did not want to seem eager to extract confidences from him. I did not know how to give him a lead. I was sure he did not want one. He was not a man given to beating about the bush. I imagined that he was choosing his words. We reached the corner.

You'll be able to get a taxi at the church, he said. "I'll walk on a bit further. Good night."

He nodded and slouched off. I was taken aback. There was nothing for me to do but to stroll on till I found a cab. I was having my bath next morning when a telephone call dragged me out of it, and with a towel round my wet body I took up the receiver. It was Janet.

Well, what do you think of it all? she said. "You seem to have kept Charlie up pretty late last night. I heard him come home at three."

He left me at the Marylebone Road, I answered. "He said nothing to me at all."

Didn't he?

There was something in Janet's voice that suggested that she was prepared to have a long talk with me. I suspected she had a telephone by the side of her bed.

Look here, I said quickly. "I'm having my bath."

Oh, have you got a telephone in your bathroom? she answered eagerly, and I think with envy.

No, I haven't. I was abrupt and firm. "And I'm dripping all over the carpet."

Oh! I felt disappointment in her tone and a trace of irritation. "Well, when can I see you? Can you come here at twelve?"

It was inconvenient, but I was not prepared to start an argument.

Yes, good-bye.

I rang off before she could say anything more. In heaven when the blessed use the telephone they will say what they have to say and not a word beside.

I was devoted to Janet, but I knew that there was nothing that thrilled her more than the misfortunes of her friends. She was only too anxious to help them, but she wanted to be in the thick of their difficulties. She was the friend in adversity. Other people's business was meat and drink to her. You could not enter upon a love affair without finding her somehow your confidante nor be mixed up in a divorce case without discovering that she too had a finger in the pie. Withal she was a very nice woman. I could not help then chuckling in my heart when at noon I was shown into Janet's drawing-room and observed the subdued eagerness with which she received me. She was very much upset by the catastrophe that had befallen the Bishops, but it was exciting, and she was tickled to death to have someone fresh whom she could tell all about it. Janet had just that business-like expectancy that a mother has when she is discussing with the family doctor her married daughter's first confinement. Janet was conscious that the matter was very serious, and she would not for a moment have been thought to regard it flippantly, but she was determined to get every ounce of value out of it.

I mean, no one could have been more horrified than I was when Margery told me she'd finally made up her mind to leave Charlie, she said, speaking with the fluency of a person who has said the same thing in the same words a dozen times at least. "They were the most devoted couple I'd ever known. It was a perfect marriage. They got on like a house on fire. Of course Bill and I are devoted to one another, but we have awful rows now and then. I mean, I could kill him sometimes."

I don't care a hang about your relations with Bill, I said. "Tell me about the Bishops. That's what I've come here for."

I simply felt I must see you. After all you're the only person who can explain it.

Oh, God, don't go on like that. Until Bill told me last night I didn't know a thing about it.

That was my idea. It suddenly dawned on me that perhaps you didn't know and I thought you might put your foot in it too awfully.

Supposing you began at the beginning, I said.

Well, you're the beginning. After all you started the trouble. You introduced the young man. That's why I was so crazy to see you. You know all about him. I never saw him. All I know is what Margery has told me about him.

At what time are you lunching? I asked.

Half past one.

So am I. Get on with the story.

But my remark had given Janet an idea.

Look here, will you get out of your luncheon if I get out of mine? We could have a snack here. I'm sure there's some cold meat in the house, and then we needn't hurry. I don't have to be at the hairdresser's till three.

No, no, no, I said. "I hate the notion of that. I shall leave here at twenty minutes past one at the latest."

Then I shall just have to race through it. What do you think of Gerry?

Who's Gerry?

Gerry Morton. His name's Gerald.

How should I know that?

You stayed with him. Weren't there any letters lying about?

I daresay, but I didn't happen to read them, I answered somewhat tartly.

Oh, don't be so stupid. I meant the envelopes. What's he like?

All right. Rather the Kipling type, you know. Very keen on his work. Hearty. Empire-builder and all that sort of thing.

I don't mean that, cried Janet, not without impatience. "I mean, what does he look like?"

More or less like everybody else, I think. Of course I should recognize him if I saw him again, but I can't picture him to myself very distinctly. He looks clean.

Oh, my God, said Janet. "Are you a novelist or are you not? What's the colour of his eyes?"

I don't know.

You must know. You can't spend a week with anyone without knowing if their eyes are blue or brown. Is he fair or dark?

Neither.

Is he tall or short?

Average, I should say.

Are you trying to irritate me?

No. He's just ordinary. There's nothing in him to attract your attention. He's neither plain nor good-looking. He looks quite decent. He looks a gentleman.

Margery says he has a charming smile and a lovely figure.

I dare say.

He's absolutely crazy about her.

What makes you think that? I asked dryly.

I've seen his letters.

Do you mean to say she's shown them to you?

Why, of course.

It is always difficult for a man to stomach the want of reticence that women betray in their private affairs. They have no shame. They will talk to one another without embarrassment of the most intimate matters. Modesty is a masculine virtue. But though a man may know this theoretically, each time he is confronted with women's lack of reserve he suffers a new shock. I wondered what Morton would think if he knew that not only were his letters read by Janet Marsh as well as by Margery, but that she had been kept posted from day to day with the progress of his infatuation. According to Janet he had fallen in love with Margery at first sight. The morning after they had met at my little supper party at Ciro's he had rung up and asked her to come and have tea with him at some place where they could dance. While I listened to Janet's story I was conscious of course that she was giving me Margery's view of the circumstances and I kept an open mind. I was interested to observe that Janet's sympathies were with Margery. It was true that when Margery left her husband it was her idea that Charlie should come to them for two or three weeks rather than stay on in miserable loneliness in the deserted flat and she had been extraordinarily kind to him. She lunched with him almost every day, because he had been accustomed to lunch every day with Margery; she took him for walks in Regent's Park and made Bill play golf with him on Sundays. She listened with wonderful patience to the story of his unhappiness and did what she could to console him. She was terribly sorry for him. But all the same she was definitely on Margery's side and when I expressed my disapproval of her she came down on me like a thousand of bricks. The affair thrilled her. She had been in it from the beginning when Margery, smiling, flattered, and a little doubtful, came and told her that she had a young man to the final scene when Margery, exasperated and distraught, announced that she could not stand the strain any more and had packed her things and moved out of the flat.

Of course, at first I couldn't believe my ears, she said. "You know how Charlie and Margery were. They simply lived in one another's pockets. One couldn't help laughing at them, they were so devoted to one another. I never thought him a very nice little man and heaven knows he wasn't very attractive physically, but one couldn't help liking him because he was so awfully nice to Margery. I rather envied her sometimes. They had no money and they lived in a hugger-mugger sort of way, but they were frightfully happy. Of course I never thought anything would come of it. Margery was rather amused. 'Naturally I don't take it very seriously,' she told me, 'but it is rather fun to have a young man at my time of life. I haven't had any flowers sent me for years. I had to tell him not to send any more because Charlie would think it so silly. He doesn't know a soul in London and he loves dancing and he says I dance like a dream. It's miserable for him going to the theatre by himself all the time and we've done two or three matinees together. It's pathetic to see how grateful he is when I say I'll go out with him.' 'I must say,' I said, 'he sounds rather a lamb.' 'He is,' she said. 'I knew you'd understand. You don't blame me, do you?' 'Of course not, darling,' I said, 'surely you know me better than that. I'd do just the same in your place.'"

Margery made no secret of her outings with Morton and her husband chaffed her good-naturedly about her beau. But he thought him a very civil, pleasant-spoken young man and was glad that Margery had someone to play with while he was busy. It never occurred to him to be jealous. The three of them dined together several times and went to a show. But presently Gerry Morton begged Margery to spend an evening with him alone; she said it was impossible, but he was persuasive, he gave her no peace; and at last she went to Janet and asked her to ring up Charlie one day and ask him to come to dinner and make a fourth at bridge. Charlie would never go anywhere without his wife, but the Marshes were old friends, and Janet made a point of it. She invented some cock-and-bull story that made it seem important that he should consent. Next day Margery and she met. The evening had been wonderful. They had dined at Maidenhead and danced there and then had driven home through the summer night.

He says he's crazy about me, Margery told her.

Did he kiss you? asked Janet.

Of course, Margery chuckled. "Don't be silly, Janet. He is awfully sweet and, you know, he has such a nice nature. Of course I don't believe half the things he says to me."

My dear, you're not going to fall in love with him.

I have, said Margery.

Darling, isn't it going to be rather awkward?

Oh, it won't last. After all he's going back to Borneo in the autumn.

Well, one can't deny that it's made you look years younger.

I know, and I feel years younger.

Soon they were meeting every day. They met in the morning and walked in the Park together or went to a picture gallery. They separated for Margery to lunch with her husband and after lunch met again and motored into the country or to some place on the river. Margery did not tell her husband. She very naturally thought he would not understand.

How was it you never met Morton? I asked Janet.

Oh, she didn't want me to. You see, we belong to the same generation, Margery and I. I can quite understand that.

I see.

Of course I did everything I could. When she went out with Gerry she was always supposed to be with me.

I am a person who likes to cross a "t" and dot an "i".

Were they having an affair? I asked.

Oh, no. Margery isn't that sort of woman at all.

How do you know?

She would have told me.

I suppose she would.

Of course I asked her. But she denied it point-blank and I'm sure she was telling me the truth. There's never been anything of that sort between them at all.

It seems rather odd to me.

Well, you see, Margery is a very good woman.

I shrugged my shoulders.

She was absolutely loyal to Charlie. She wouldn't have deceived him for anything in the world. She couldn't bear the thought of having any secret from him. As soon as she knew she was in love with Gerry she wanted to tell Charlie. Of course I begged her not to. I told her it wouldn't do any good and it would only make Charlie miserable. And after all, the boy was going away in a couple of months, it didn't seem much good to make a lot of fuss about a thing that couldn't possibly last.

But Gerry's imminent departure was the cause of the crash. The Bishops had arranged to go abroad as usual and proposed to motor through Belgium, Holland, and the North of Germany. Charlie was busy with maps and guides. He collected information from friends about hotels and roads. He looked forward to his holiday with the bubbling excitement of a schoolboy. Margery listened to him discussing it with a sinking heart. They were to be away four weeks and in September Gerry was sailing. She could not bear to lose so much of the short time that remained to them and the thought of the motor tour filled her with exasperation. As the interval grew shorter and shorter she grew more and more nervous. At last she decided that there was only one thing to do.

Charlie, I don't want to come on this trip, she interrupted him suddenly, one day when he was talking to her of some restaurant he had just heard of. "I wish you'd get someone else to go with you."

He looked at her blankly. She was startled at what she had said and her lips trembled a little.

Why, what's the matter?

Nothing's the matter. I don't feel like it. I want to be by myself for a bit.

Are you ill?

She saw the sudden fear in his eyes. His concern drove her beyond her endurance.

No. I've never been better in my life. I'm in love.

You? Whom with?

Gerry.

He looked at her in amazement. He could not believe his ears. She mistook his expression.

It's no good blaming me. I can't help it. He's going away in a few weeks. I'm not going to waste the little time he has left. He burst out laughing.

Margery, how can you make such a damned fool of yourself? You're old enough to be his mother. She flushed.

He's just as much in love with me as I am with him.

Has he told you so?

A thousand times.

He's a bloody liar, that's all.

He chuckled. His fat stomach rippled with mirth. He thought it a huge joke. I daresay Charlie did not treat his wife in the proper way. Janet seemed to think he should have been tender and compassionate. He should have understood. I saw the scene that was in her mind's eye, the stiff upper lip, the silent sorrow, and the final renunciation. Women are always sensitive to the beauty of the self-sacrifice of others. Janet would have sympathized also if he had flown into a violent passion, broken one or two pieces of furniture (which he would have had to replace), or given Margery a sock in the jaw. But to laugh at her was unpardonable. I did not point out that it is very difficult for a rather stout and not very tall professor of pathology, aged fifty-five, to act all of a sudden like a cave-man. Anyhow, the excursion to Holland was given up and the Bishops stayed in London through August. They were not very happy. They lunched and dined together every day because they had been in the habit of doing so for so many years and the rest of the time Margery spent with Gerry. The hours she passed with him made up for all she had to put up with and she had to put up with a good deal. Charlie had a ribald and sarcastic humour and he made himself very funny at her expense and at Gerry's. He persisted in refusing to take the matter seriously. He was vexed with Margery for being so silly, but apparently it never occurred to him that she might have been unfaithful to him. I commented upon this to Janet.

He never suspected it even, she said. "He knew Margery much too well."

The weeks passed and at last Gerry sailed. He went from Tilbury and Margery saw him off. When she came back she cried for forty-eight hours. Charlie watched her with increasing exasperation. His nerves were much frayed.

Look here, Margery, he said at last, "I've been very patient with you, but now you must pull yourself together. This is getting past a joke."

Why can't you leave me alone? she cried. "I've lost everything that made life lovely to me."

Don't be such a fool, he said.

I do not know what else he said. But he was unwise enough to tell her what he thought of Gerry and I gather that the picture he drew was virulent. It started the first violent scene they had ever had. She had borne Charlie's jibes when she knew that she would see Gerry in an hour or next day, but now that she had lost him for ever she could bear them no longer. She had held herself in for weeks: now she flung her self-control to the winds. Perhaps she never knew exactly what she said to Charlie. He had always been irascible and at last he hit her. They were both frightened when he had. He seized a hat and flung out of the flat. During all that miserable time they had shared the same bed, but when he came back, in the middle of the night, he found that she had made herself up a shake-down on the sofa in the sitting-room.

You can't sleep there, he said. "Don't be so silly. Come to bed."

No, I won't, let me alone.

For the rest of the night they wrangled, but she had her way and now made up her bed every night on the sofa. But in that tiny flat they could not get away from one another; they could not even get out of sight or out of hearing of one another. They had lived in such intimacy for so many years that it was an instinct for them to be together. He tried to reason with her. He thought her incredibly stupid and argued with her interminably in the effort to show her how wrong-headed she was. He could not leave her alone. He would not let her sleep, and he talked half through the night till they were both exhausted. He thought he could talk her out of love. For two or three days at a time they would not speak to one another. Then one day, coming home, he found her crying bitterly; the sight of her tears distracted him; he told her how much he loved her and sought to move her by the recollection of all the happy years they had spent together. He wanted to let bygones be bygones. He promised never to refer to Gerry again. Could they not forget the nightmare they had been through? But the thought of all that a reconciliation implied revolted her. She told him she had a racking headache and asked him to give her a sleeping draught. She pretended to be still asleep when he went out next morning, but the moment he was gone she packed up her things and left. She had a few trinkets that she had inherited and by selling them she got a little money. She took a room at a cheap boarding-house and kept her address a secret from Charlie.

It was when he found she had left him that he went all to pieces. The shock of her flight broke him. He told Janet that his loneliness was intolerable. He wrote to Margery imploring her to come back, and asked Janet to intercede for him; he was willing to promise anything; he abased himself. Margery was obdurate.

Do you think she'll ever go back? I asked Janet.

She says not.

I had to leave then, for it was nearly half past one and I was bound for the other end of London.

Two or three days later I got a telephone message from Margery asking if I could see her. She suggested coming to my rooms. I asked her to tea. I tried to be nice to her; her affairs were no business of mine, but in my heart I thought her a very silly woman and I dare say my manner was cold. She had never been handsome and the passing years had changed her little. She had still those fine dark eyes and her face was astonishingly unlined. She was very simply dressed and if she wore make-up it was so cunningly put on that I did not perceive it. She had still the charm she had always had of perfect naturalness and of a kindly humour.

I want you to do something for me if you will, she began without beating about the bush.

What is it?

Charlie is leaving the Marshes today and going back to the flat. I'm afraid his first few days there will be rather difficult; it would be awfully nice of you if you'd ask him to dinner or something.

I'll have a look at my book.

I'm told he's been drinking heavily. It's such a pity. I wish you could give him a hint.

I understand he's had some domestic worries of late, I said, perhaps acidly.

Margery flushed. She gave me a pained look. She winced as though I had struck her.

Of course you've known him ever so much longer than you've known me. It's natural that you should take his part.

My dear, to tell you the truth I've known him all these years chiefly on your account. I have never very much liked him, but I thought you were awfully nice.

She smiled at me and her smile was very sweet. She knew that I meant what I said.

Do you think I was a good wife to him?

Perfect.

He used to put people's backs up. A lot of people didn't like him, but I never found him difficult.

He was awfully fond of you.

I know. We had a wonderful time together. For sixteen years we were perfectly happy. She paused and looked down. "I had to leave him. It became quite impossible. That cat-and-dog life we were leading was too awful."

I never see why two persons should go on living together if they don't want to.

You see, it was awful for us. We'd always lived in such close intimacy. We could never get away from one another. At the end I hated the sight of him.

I don't suppose the situation was easy for either of you.

It wasn't my fault that I fell in love. You see, it was quite a different love from the one I'd felt for Charlie. There was always something maternal in that and protective. I was so much more reasonable than he was. He was unmanageable, but I could always manage him. Gerry was different. Her voice grew soft and her face was transfigured with glory. "He gave me back my youth. I was a girl to him and I could depend on his strength and be safe in his care."

He seemed to me a very nice lad, I said slowly. "I imagine he'll do well. He was very young for the job he had when I ran across him. He's only twenty-nine now, isn't he?"

She smiled softly. She knew quite well what I meant.

I never made any secret of my age to him. He says it doesn't matter.

I knew this was true. She was not the woman to have lied about her age. She had found a sort of fierce delight in telling him the truth about herself.

How old are you?

Forty-four.

What are you going to do now?

I've written to Gerry and told him I've left Charlie. As soon as I hear from him I'm going out to join him. I was staggered.

You know, it's a very primitive little colony he's living in. I'm afraid you'll find your position rather awkward.

He made me promise that if I found my life impossible after he left I'd go to him.

Are you sure you're wise to attach so much importance to the things a young man says when he's in love?

Again that really beautiful look of exaltation came into her face. "Yes, when the young man happens to be Gerry."

My heart sank. I was silent for a moment. Then I told her the story of the road Gerry Morton had built. I dramatized it, and I think I made it rather effective.

What did you tell me that for? she asked when I finished.

I thought it rather a good story.

She shook her head and smiled.

No, you wanted to show me that he was very young and enthusiastic, and so keen on his work that he hadn't much time to waste on other interests. I wouldn't interfere with his work. You don't know him as I do. He's incredibly romantic. He looks upon himself as a pioneer. I've caught from him something of his excitement at the idea of taking part in the opening up of a new country. It is rather splendid, isn't it? It makes life here seem very humdrum and commonplace. But of course it's very lonely there. Even the companionship of a middle-aged woman may be worth having.

Are you proposing to marry him? I asked.

I leave myself in his hands. I want to do nothing that he does not wish.

She spoke with so much simplicity, there was something so touching in her self-surrender, that when she left me I no longer felt angry with her. Of course I thought her very foolish, but if the folly of men made one angry one would pass one's life in a state of chronic ire. I thought all would come right. She said Gerry was romantic. He was, but the romantics in this workaday world only get away with their nonsense because they have at bottom a shrewd sense of reality: the mugs are the people who take their vapourings at their face value. The English are romantic; that is why other nations think them hypocritical; they are not: they set out in all sincerity for the Kingdom of God, but the journey is arduous and they have reason to pick up any gilt-edged investment that offers itself by the way. The British soul, like Wellington's armies, marches on its belly. I supposed that Gerry would go through a bad quarter of an hour when he received Margery's letter. My sympathies were not deeply engaged in the matter and I was only curious to see how he would extricate himself from the pass he was in. I thought Margery would suffer a bitter disappointment; well, that would do her no great harm, and then she would go back to her husband and I had no doubt the pair of them, chastened, would live in peace, quiet, and happiness for the rest of their lives.

The event was different. It happened that it was quite impossible for me to make any sort of engagement with Charlie Bishop for some days, but I wrote to him and asked him to dine with me one evening in the following week. I proposed, though with misgiving, that we should go to a play; I knew he was drinking like a fish, and when tight he was noisy. I hoped he would not make a nuisance of himself in the theatre. We arranged to meet at our club and dine at seven because the piece we were going to began at a quarter past eight. I arrived. I waited. He did not come. I rang up his flat, but could get no reply, so concluded that he was on his way. I hate missing the beginning of a play and I waited impatiently in the hall so that when he came we could go straight upstairs. To save time I had ordered dinner. The clock pointed to half past seven, then a quarter to eight; I did not see why I should wait for him any longer, so walked up to the dining-room and ate my dinner alone. He did not appear. I put a call through from the dining-room to the Marshes and presently was told by a waiter that Bill Marsh was at the end of the wire.

I say, do you know anything about Charlie Bishop? I said. "We were dining together and going to a play and he hasn't turned up."

He died this afternoon.

What?

My exclamation was so startled that two or three people within earshot looked up. The dining-room was full and the waiters were hurrying to and fro. The telephone was on the cashier's desk and a wine waiter came up with a bottle of hock and two long-stemmed glasses on a tray and gave the cashier a chit. The portly steward showing two men to a table jostled me.

Where are you speaking from? asked Bill.

I suppose he heard the clatter that surrounded me. When I told him he asked me if I could come round as soon as I had finished my dinner. Janet wanted to speak to me.

I'll come at once, I said.

I found Janet and Bill sitting in the drawing-room. He was reading the paper and she was playing patience. She came forward swiftly when the maid showed me in. She walked with a sort of spring, crouching a little, on silent feet, like a panther stalking his prey. I saw at once that she was in her element. She gave me her hand and turned her face away to hide her eyes brimming with tears. Her voice was low and tragic.

I brought Margery here and put her to bed. The doctor has given her a sedative. She's all in. Isn't it awful? She gave a sound that was something between a gasp and a sob. "I don't know why these things always happen to me."

The Bishops had never kept a servant but a charwoman went in every morning, cleaned the flat, and washed up the breakfast things. She had her own key. That morning she had gone in as usual and done the sitting-room. Since his wife had left him Charlie's hours had been irregular and she was not surprised to find him asleep. But the time passed and she knew he had his work to go to. She went to the bedroom door and knocked. There was no answer. She thought she heard him groaning. She opened the door softly. He was lying in bed, on his back, and was breathing stertorously. He did not wake. She called him. Something about him frightened her. She went to the flat on the same landing. It was occupied by a journalist. He was still in bed when she rang, and opened the door to her in pyjamas.

Beg pardon, sir, she said, "but would you just come and 'ave a look at my gentleman. I don't think he's well."

The journalist walked across the landing and into Charlie's flat. There was an empty bottle of veronal by the bed.

I think you'd better fetch a policeman, he said.

A policeman came and rang through to the police station for an ambulance. They took Charlie to Charing Cross Hospital. He never recovered consciousness. Margery was with him at the end.

Of course there'll have to be an inquest, said Janet. "But it's quite obvious what happened. He'd been sleeping awfully badly for the last three or four weeks and I suppose he'd been taking veronal. He must have taken an overdose by accident."

Is that what Margery thinks? I asked.

She's too upset to think anything, but I told her I was positive he hadn't committed suicide. I mean, he wasn't that sort of a man. Am I right, Bill?

Yes, dear, he answered.

Did he leave any letter?

No, nothing. Oddly enough Margery got a letter from him this morning, well, hardly a letter, just a line. 'I'm so lonely without you, darling.' That's all. But of course that means nothing and she's promised to say nothing about it at the inquest. I mean, what is the use of putting ideas in people's heads? Everyone knows that you never can tell with veronal, I wouldn't take it myself for anything in the world, and it was quite obviously an accident. Am I right, Bill?

Yes, dear, he answered.

I saw that Janet was quite determined to believe that Charlie Bishop had not committed suicide, but how far in her heart she believed what she wanted to believe I was not sufficiently expert in female psychology to know. And of course it might be that she was right. It is unreasonable to suppose that a middle-aged scientist should kill himself because his middle-aged wife leaves him and it is extremely plausible that, exasperated by sleeplessness, and in all probability far from sober, he took a larger dose of the sleeping-draught than he realized. Anyhow that was the view the coroner took of the matter. It was indicated to him that of late Charles Bishop had given way to habits of intemperance which had caused his wife to leave him, and it was quite obvious that nothing was further from his thoughts than to put an end to himself. The coroner expressed his sympathy with the widow and commented very strongly on the dangers of sleeping-draughts.

I hate funerals, but Janet begged me to go to Charlie's. Several of his colleagues at the hospital had intimated their desire to come, but at Margery's wish they were dissuaded; and Janet and Bill, Margery and I were the only persons who attended it. We were to fetch the hearse from the mortuary and they offered to call for me on their way. I was on the look-out for the car and when I saw it drive up went downstairs, but Bill got out and met me just inside the door.

Half a minute, he said. "I've got something to say to you. Janet wants you to come back afterwards and have tea. She says it's no good Margery moping and after tea we'll play a few rubbers of bridge. Can you come?"

Like this? I asked.

I had a tail coat on and a black tie and my evening dress trousers.

Oh, that's all right. It'll take Margery's mind off.

Very well.

But we did not play bridge after all. Janet, with her fair hair, was very smart in her deep mourning and she played the part of the sympathetic friend with amazing skill. She cried a little, wiping her eyes delicately so as not to disturb the black on her eyelashes, and when Margery sobbed broken-heartedly put her arm tenderly through hers. She was a very present help in trouble. We returned to the house. There was a telegram for Margery. She took it and went upstairs. I presumed it was a message of condolence from one of Charlie's friends who had just heard of his death. Bill went to change and Janet and I went up to the drawing-room and got the bridge table out. She took off her hat and put it on the piano.

It's no good being hypocritical. she said. "Of course Margery has been frightfully upset, but she must pull herself together now. A rubber of bridge will help her to get back to her normal state. Naturally I'm dreadfully sorry about poor Charlie, but as far as he was concerned I don't believe he'd ever have got over Margery's leaving him and one can't deny that it has made things much easier for her. She wired to Gerry this morning."

What about?

To tell him about poor Charlie.

At that moment the maid came to the room.

Will you go up to Mrs. Bishop, please, ma'am? She wants to see you.

Yes, of course.

She went out of the room quickly and I was left alone. Bill joined me presently and we had a drink. At last Janet came back. She handed a telegram to me. It read as follows:

For God's sake await letter. Gerry

What do you think it means? she asked me. "What it says," I replied.

Idiot! Of course I've told Margery that it doesn't mean anything, but she's rather worried. It must have crossed her cable telling him that Charles was dead. I don't think she feels very much like bridge after all. I mean, it would be rather bad form to play on the very day her husband has been buried.

Quite, I said.

Of course he may wire in answer to the cable. He's sure to do that, isn't he? The only thing we can do now is to sit tight and wait for his letter.

I saw no object in continuing the conversation. I left. In a couple of days Janet rang me up to tell me that Margery had received a telegram of condolence from Morton. She repeated it to me:

Dreadfully distressed to hear sad news. Deeply sympathize with your great grief.Love. Gerry

What do you think of it? she asked me.

I think it's very proper.

Of course he couldn't say he was as pleased as Punch, could he?

Not with any delicacy.

And he did put in love.

I imagined how those women had examined the two telegrams from every point of view and scrutinized every word to press from it every possible shade of meaning. I almost heard their interminable conversations.

I don't know what'll happen to Margery if he lets her down now, Janet went on. "Of course it remains to be seen if he's a gentleman."

Rot, I said and rang off quickly.

In the course of the following days I dined with the Marshes a couple of times. Margery looked tired. I guessed that she awaited the letter that was on the way with sickening anxiety. Grief and fear had worn her to a shadow, she seemed very fragile now and she had acquired a spiritual look that I had never seen in her before. She was very gentle, very grateful for every kindness shown her, and in her smile, unsure and a little timid, was an infinite pathos. Her helplessness was very appealing. But Morton was several thousand miles away. Then one morning Janet rang me up.

The letter has come. Margery says I can show it to you. Will you come round?

Her tense voice told me everything. When I arrived Janet gave it to me. I read it. It was a very careful letter and I guessed that Morton had written it a good many times. It was very kind and he had evidently taken great pains to avoid saying anything that could possibly wound Margery; but what transpired was his terror. It was obvious that he was shaking in his shoes. He had felt apparently that the best way to cope with the situation was to be mildly facetious and he made very good fun of the white people in the colony. What would they say if Margery suddenly turned up? He would be given the order of the boot pretty damn quick. People thought the East was free and easy; it wasn't, it was more suburban than Clapham. He loved Margery far too much to bear the thoughts of those horrible women out there turning up their noses at her. And besides he had been sent to a station ten days from anywhere; she couldn't live in his bungalow exactly and of course there wasn't a hotel, and his work took him out into the jungle for days at a time. It was no place for a woman anyhow. He told her how much she meant to him, but she mustn't bother about him and he couldn't help thinking it would be better if she went back to her husband. He would never forgive himself if he thought he had come between her and Charlie. Yes, I am quite sure it had been a difficult letter to write.

Of course he didn't know then that Charlie was dead. I've told Margery that changes everything.

Does she agree with you?

I think she's being rather unreasonable. What do you make of the letter?

Well, it's quite plain that he doesn't want her.

He wanted her badly enough two months ago.

It's astonishing what a change of air and a change of scene will do for you. It must seem to him already like a year since he left London. He's back among his old friends and his old interests. My dear, it's no good Margery kidding herself; the life there has taken him back and there's no place for her.

I've advised her to ignore the letter and go straight out to him.

I hope she's too sensible to expose herself to a very terrible rebuff.

But then what's to happen to her? Oh, it's too cruel. She's the best woman in the world. She has real goodness.

It's funny if you come to think of it, it's her goodness that has caused all the trouble. Why on earth didn't she have an affair with Morton? Charlie would have known nothing about it and wouldn't have been a penny the worse. She and Morton could have had a grand time and when he went away they could have parted with the consciousness that a pleasant episode had come to a graceful end. It would have been a jolly recollection, and she could have gone back to Charlie satisfied and rested and continued to make him the excellent wife she had always been.

Janet pursed her lips. She gave me a look of disdain.

There is such a thing as virtue, you know.

Virtue be damned. A virtue that only causes havoc and unhappiness is worth nothing. You can call it virtue if you like. I call it cowardice.

The thought of being unfaithful to Charlie while she was living with him revolted her. There are women like that, you know.

Good gracious, she could have remained faithful to him in spirit while she was being unfaithful to him in the flesh. That is a feat of legerdemain that women find it easy to accomplish.

What an odious cynic you are.

If it's cynical to look truth in the face and exercise common sense in the affairs of life, then certainly I'm a cynic and odious if you like. Let's face it, Margery's a middle-aged woman, Charlie was fifty-five and they'd been married for sixteen years. It was natural enough that she should lose her head over a young man who made a fuss of her. But don't call it love. It was physiology. She was a fool to take anything he said seriously. It wasn't himself speaking, it was his starved sex, he'd suffered from sexual starvation, at least as far as white women are concerned, for four years; it's monstrous that she should seek to ruin his life by holding him to the wild promises he made then. It was an accident that Margery took his fancy; he wanted her, and because he couldn't get her wanted her more. I dare say he thought it love; believe me, it was only letch. If they'd gone to bed together Charlie would be alive today. It's her damned virtue that caused the whole trouble.

How stupid you are. Don't you see that she couldn't help herself? She just doesn't happen to be a loose woman.

I prefer a loose woman to a selfish one and a wanton to a fool.

Oh, shut up. I didn't ask you to come here in order to make yourself absolutely beastly.

What did you ask me to come here for?

Gerry is your friend. You introduced him to Margery. If she's in the soup it's on his account. But you are the cause of the whole trouble. It's your duty to write to him and tell him he must do the right thing by her.

I'm damned if I will, I said.

Then you'd better go.

I started to do so.

Well, at all events it's a mercy that Charlie's life was insured, said Janet.

Then I turned on her.

And you have the nerve to call me a cynic

I will not repeat the opprobious word I flung at her as I slammed the door behind me. But Janet is all the same a very nice woman. I often think it would be great fun to be married to her.

贞洁

张晓峰 译

几乎没有任何东西能与一支高档雪茄的滋味相媲美。我年轻的时候很穷,只有偶尔别人送我一支我才能过过烟瘾。我当时下定决心要是有了钱,我一定要在每天午饭和晚饭后都美美地吸上一支雪茄。说起来,这还是我年轻时所做的决定中唯一坚持下来的一个,也是唯一一个我实现了并从未因幻灭而怨恨的抱负。我喜欢那种香味浓郁但又不太冲的雪茄,长度不能太短,太短的话,在你品出滋味前,烟就吸没了;也不能太长,太长的话又会让你感到厌烦。雪茄烟卷的松紧也要正好。过紧的话吸起来费力,过松的话,吸到最后,嘴边就会变得肮脏不堪。只有这样一支雪茄,吸完之后,你才会有一种意犹未尽的感觉。但是当你吸完最后一口,扔掉残剩的烟蒂,望着眼前渐渐消逝于周围空气中的最后一缕烟雾时,如果你是一个感性之人,一想到这支雪茄所经历的那些劳动、养护,还有苦心,以及为了提供给你这半小时的欢愉所必需的复杂工序随着雪茄的燃尽都化为乌有,你不难产生一种伤感之情。对常年在热带阳光的灼烤下汗流浃背,乘船走遍了七大洋的这类人而言,吃着一打牡蛎(就着半瓶干白葡萄酒),这种伤感就更加强烈了。如果将牡蛎换成羊排,这种感伤之情就会强烈得让人难以承受。因为羊是一种动物。你不禁要想了,自打地球表面有了生物,又经过了亿万年的变迁,动物们经过无数代繁衍的结果就是它们最终被码放到盛满碎冰的盘子上,或置于银质烤肉架上。也许嘴里嚼着一只牡蛎难以让你产生这种极端严肃的联想。我们通过生物进化的知识知道,这种双壳类生物千百万年来几乎没有变化,因而难以获得人类的同情。这种生物以一种超然的态度生活在地球上,简直就是对我们人类进取精神的一种冒犯;这种生物志得意满地躺在那里,让我们自负的人类顿生厌恶之情。但如果眼前是一盘羊排,恐怕所有人都会被激发出无限的遐思:毕竟在羊这种动物的进化历史中,处处可见我们人类的影子,我们在餐桌上温柔的一小口与这种动物密不可分。

有时想想,即使我们人类的命运也同样令人难以捉摸。看看身边那些不起眼的普通人,不论他们是银行职员、清洁工还是站在合唱团第二排人到中年的老姑娘,都会让人产生一种好奇之感。我们不禁想到,人类是怎样从原生浆液开始,经过冗长的历史变迁与生命的演化,经过一长串灾变事件,成了现在他们各自的样子?当这样巨大的兴衰变迁造就了此时的他们,你不禁要想,这些人的身上一定寄托着某种巨大的意义,你也一定会想,无论这些人的生活中遇到了什么难事,与生命精神或其他造就了他们生命的事物相比,都是小事一桩。思路突然中断了。正想着世界的起源,突然又想起了别的事情,似乎这两者之间没有任何联系。这简直就是个白痴在讲故事!如果不是这件事情有些稀奇古怪,情节又颇具戏剧性,谁还能在这里听我啰里啰唆讲这些琐碎之事呢?

一件本来也许不会发生的小事却产生了重大的后果,这真是谁也无法料到。看起来所有的事情都全靠运气。我们一个最细微的活动也许就能对他人的一生产生重大的影响,而这些人却和我们毫不相干。如果不是某天我走到了街对面,我在这里要讲的故事根本就不会发生。生活有时真的很不可思议,只有具备特别的幽默感的人才能品味出其中的乐趣。

一个春日的上午,我正在邦德大街上无所事事地闲逛。到中午的时候,我突然想起应该到索斯比拍卖行去看看,看是否有自己感兴趣的东西在拍卖。现在街上正堵车,我穿过拥堵的车辆,走到街道另一侧时,碰到了一个我在婆罗洲时认识的男人。他刚刚从一家衣帽店走出来。

“你好啊,莫顿,”我向他打招呼道,“什么时候回的国啊?”

“我回国大约有一星期了吧。”

他是一个地方官员。英属北婆罗洲总督给我写了一封介绍信去见他。我在信中告诉他,我打算在他那里待上一个星期,应该是住在政府开办的招待所。当我乘船到达那里的时候,他到船上接我,让我同他住。我不同意他的安排,我无法同一个完全陌生的人在一起待一个星期,我也不想让他为我破费。此外,我想自己一个人住招待所会更自由一些。但他不听我的解释。

“我家有很多空房间,”他说道,“而且招待所的条件很糟糕。我已经整整六个月没有跟一个白种人说话了,我周围那帮人让我烦透了。”

当我跟莫顿乘坐汽艇上岸,回到他住的平房后,他请我喝了一杯。面对我这个客人,他有些手足无措。他突然感到有些窘迫,说话的语气也不自然了。我尽力让他感觉像在家一样(但这是他自己的家,原本不该由我来这样做)。我问他有没有新唱片,他打开留声机,拉格泰姆的曲调响了起来,他这才恢复了自信。

他的平房可以俯瞰蜿蜒而过的河流,他的客厅设在一个大阳台上。客厅内的家具陈设非常呆板,与房主经常变换工作地点的政府官员的身份相衬。墙上挂着一些装饰品,包括当地人戴的各种帽子,还有各种动物的角、吹管和长矛;书架上则搁着侦探小说和旧杂志。客厅内还有一架立式小钢琴,琴键已经有些发黄了。客厅内虽说非常凌乱,但待着还算舒服。

不幸的是,我记不太清他当时是什么模样了。他很年轻,我后来了解到他当时只有二十八岁。他笑起来像个大男孩,很是迷人。我同他在一起待了一个星期,感觉很愉快。我俩沿着河来回溜达,一起去爬山。一天,我俩还同几个种植园主一起吃了午饭,这些种植园主居住在离这里二十英里远的地方。每天晚上我们都去俱乐部玩。这家俱乐部仅有的会员是当地一家鞣酸加工厂的经理和他的助手。但他们之间关系密切,很少与外人往来。只是在莫顿提出抗议,说他带了客人来,他们不能让他没面子的情况下,他们才同意与我俩打一局桥牌,但气氛并不友好。我俩从俱乐部回到住处吃晚饭,听听音乐,之后就上床睡觉了。莫顿很少待在办公室办公。你会以为他的生活一定很沉闷,但他却一天到晚精力充沛、情绪高昂。他是第一次出任这类职务,很高兴自己能够独立完成一项工作。他唯一感到焦虑的是在他督建的这条公路完工前,自己就会被调到其他地方去。他是发自内心地喜爱这项工作。是他提议修建这条公路,然后哄着当局拿出钱来让他督建这条公路的。他亲自勘察、测绘,独自解决了施工中出现的技术难题。每天早上去办公室之前,他都要开着那辆快要散架的旧福特车到施工现场转转,查看前一天的施工进度。他心无旁骛,甚至连晚上做梦都梦到这条路。他预计这条公路能在一年内完工,在完工之前他不想被调离。即便是画家或雕刻家创作一件艺术作品时也没有他现在这么高的热情。我想,正是他的这股热情让我喜欢上了他。我喜欢他对工作的热情,喜欢他的诚恳朴实。他为了完成这项工作已经达到了忘我的地步,孤独的生活,是否能得到提拔,甚至连回国的事,对他而言都无关紧要了。我忘了这段公路有多长,大概有十五到二十英里吧;我也忘了修这条公路的目的是什么,我想莫顿也不大关心修这条公路的目的。他对这项工作的热情就像艺术家的热情一样,他是抱着征服大自然的目的去完成这项工作的,而在这个过程中他学到了知识。他要与热带雨林抗争,倾盆暴雨会将几个星期的施工顷刻冲毁,道路测量时也会出现种种问题。他要负责招募和组织施工队,而且还要面对资金短缺的难题。他靠想象力支撑着自己。他的工作就如同一部宏大的史诗,工作中的酸甜苦辣如同一部有着无数情节的英雄传奇故事。

他唯一抱怨的事情是白日太短。白天他有公务。他是法官,也是收税员;在他满二十八岁后还成了所属教区的教父和教母,他要不时离开家到各处去走访。除非他盯在施工现场,否则工程根本不会有进展。他恨不得一天二十四个小时都待在工地上督促那些一心磨洋工的劳工更加卖力地工作。碰巧我到那里的前不久就发生了一件使他非常高兴的事。他曾提出将这条道路的一段分包给一个中国人,但这个包工头要价太高,超过了莫顿的预算。经过漫长的讨价还价之后,他们还是无法达成协议。眼看着道路施工的进度无法完成,莫顿心中火冒三丈,但却无计可施。然而一天早上来到办公室后,他听说昨天晚上在一家中国人开办的赌场中发生了一起斗殴事件。一名中国苦力在斗殴中受了重伤,肇事者已经被逮捕,而这名肇事者正是那个包工头。包工头被起诉了,证据确凿,莫顿判了他服劳役八个月。

“现在他还得去修这条该死的路,而且一分钱也拿不到了。”莫顿告诉我这个故事的时候,两眼闪闪发光。

一天上午,我们看见了这个正在干活的家伙。他身着犯人们穿的纱笼,冷漠地干着活儿。他泰然地接受了自己这种倒霉的命运。

“我告诉过他,如果道路能早日完成,我就免除他剩余的刑期,”莫顿说道,“他非常高傲,竟然拒绝了。其实这对我来说不是小事一桩吗,是不是?”

当我与莫顿告别时,我让他回国后一定要和我联系。他向我保证一回国就立马给我写信。一个人可能会在一时冲动之下发出这类邀请,而另一人可能完全是非常真诚地对待这件事。但是当后者真把这件事当真了,则前者多少会感到有些惊愕。人们经常在回国后与他们在海外时完全判若两人。在海外时他们表现得平易近人、热忱不做作。他们会有很多有趣的事告诉你,他们会对你非常友好。你会非常急于做点儿什么,以此来表示自己对所受的热情款待的感激之情。但真要回报起来却很难。有些人很善于当东家,他们会让客人有种宾至如归的感觉。但他们却可能是些让人乏味的客人。他们会紧张,很腼腆。当你把他们介绍给自己的朋友时,你的朋友们会认为他们乏味至极。你的朋友们会尽量表现得礼貌一些。但这些陌生人一走,朋友们就会宽慰地舒一口气,谈话也会再次恢复到往常那种轻松的氛围。我想,那些早早就参加了工作,生活在边远地区的人对此会感受更深一些,因为他们从中得到的是苦涩和羞辱感。因为我发现,那些居住在深林边缘,在远离总部的分支机构工作的人很少接受别人的邀请。尽管这些邀请非常诚挚,他们自己当初也是非常真心地接受了邀请,但他们还是不会践约。但莫顿不同,他是一个年轻的单身汉。通常这些人的妻子更难参与社交活动。其他女人只要扫一眼她们身上穿的土气服装,看看她们的神态,就能知道她们是外省人,然后用冷漠的态度将她们晾在一边。但一个男人还可以玩玩桥牌、打打网球、跳跳舞。莫顿的气质很迷人,只要有一两天时间,他就能适应这种环境,对此我毫不怀疑。

“你回国了怎么不告诉我呢?”我问他道。

“我想,你可能并不想被我打扰。”他笑着说。

“真是胡说八道。”

我们就这样站在邦德大街的路边说了一会儿话,当然在我看来他变化很大。我在他那里的时候,他从来都只穿卡其色的短裤和一件网球衫,只有在晚上我俩从俱乐部回到住处后,他才会换上一件睡衣上装,和一条纱笼来吃晚饭。这身装束可以说是迄今为止人类所发明的服装中,穿着最舒适的晚间服装了。现在他身穿一身蓝哔叽西装,显得有些拘束。在雪白衬衣领子的衬托下,他的面孔更显黝黑了。

“那条路修得怎么样了?”我问道。

“修完了。我一直担心工程不能按时完工,耽误我回国的行程。快完工的时候遇到了一两个障碍,但我督促他们往前抢进度。我在回国的前一天开着那辆福特车在这条路上从头跑到尾,一路都没有停车。”

我大笑起来。他高兴的样子很迷人。

“你回伦敦后都在忙些什么?”

“买衣服。”

“玩得开心吗?”

“很开心。就是有点儿孤单,这你知道。但我并不在意。我每晚都去看一场演出。帕尔默一家就要回伦敦了。我想你在沙捞越[1]时见过他们。我们打算一起玩玩。但他俩要先回苏格兰,因为帕尔默夫人的母亲病了。”

他的话虽然是轻描淡写,但却刺到了我的痛处。他们这类人都有这样共同的经历。这种经历让人想想就心碎。离回国还有好几个月的时间,他们就开始制订回国的计划;当他们离船踏上伦敦的土地时,他们会兴奋得难以自制。伦敦!这里到处都是商店、俱乐部、剧院和餐厅。伦敦!他们将在这里生活下去了。伦敦!他们将淹没于其中。伦敦对他们而言是一个陌生而混乱的城市,没有敌意,但充满了冷漠,而他们迷失在了这里。他们在这里没有朋友,他们与在这里结交的熟人没有任何共同之处。他们在这里比在丛林中更感孤独。如果在剧院碰上了一个他们在东方认识的熟人,他们会感到十分欣慰(或许对方却对此深感厌烦,极为反感)。他们也许会约好在某个晚上见面,在欢声笑语中回味他们在一起时的快乐时光,谈论共同的朋友,最后还会相互透露一点儿自己当年的小秘密。当然过后也不会为此而后悔。当他们要分手的时候,他们还会约定下次见面的时间。他们会相互拜访对方的家庭,当然也很高兴见到彼此的家人。但今非昔比,环境已经不同了,他们会感到自己有点儿像是个局外人。你最终意识到伦敦人的生活就是这样死气沉沉。回国的确令人兴趣盎然,但现在你真的无法再忍受这里的生活了。有时你会想念自己俯瞰河流的平房,想念自己当初在那里旅游的生活。那些在蓝色的月光下造访山打根[2]、古晋[3]或新加坡的日子是多么快乐呀。

我想起当初莫顿对我倾吐的期望。当时他说,一旦公路完工,了却了心事,他就要请假回国。而现在他回到了伦敦,但他却是一个人凄凉地坐在一家没有任何熟人的俱乐部里吃晚饭,或者孤单单地在苏活区的一家餐厅,吃完饭就去看电影。看电影也是自己一个人,甚至没有人在放映间隙里陪他喝上一杯。想到这里,我的心中泛起一阵剧痛。与此同时,我也想到,即使我知道他回到了伦敦,我也帮不上什么忙。上个星期我忙得不可开交。就在我要出国的头天晚上,我还陪朋友吃了饭,看了一场电影。

“今晚你怎么安排的?”我问他道。

“我打算上布莱顿酒店去吃饭。那里经常是人满为患,难得订到一个座位。但路对过有一个很有本事的家伙,他给我预订了一个座位。当然那是别人推掉的。你知道,即使难于弄到两个退座,弄到一张退座还是不难。”

“你为什么不过来和我一起吃晚饭呢?今晚我要跟几个朋友一起在干草市场饭店吃饭。饭后我们要去席罗兹俱乐部玩。”

“那好啊。”

我们约定十一点见面。然后我与他分手去赴一个约会。

我有些担心今晚我让莫顿见的那些朋友不太能让他尽兴,因为他们全都是清一色的中年人。但我实在想不出在一年中的这个季节还有哪个年轻人能被我抓来应应急,也想不出有哪个我熟识的姑娘乐于答应我,去陪一个腼腆的从马来亚来的年轻人吃饭和跳舞。不过我相信毕肖普夫妇能够尽他们所能来帮他。不管怎么说,能有几个人在一家俱乐部里陪他吃晚饭,还能在那里看美女们跳舞,应该能讨他开心,这比他自己一个人在半夜十一点就回家上床睡觉强多了。因为他在这里也没有其他地方可去了。当我还是一个医学院的学生时,我就认识了查理·毕肖普。他那时长得又瘦又小,一头浅褐色头发,相貌平平。他虽然有一双又黑又亮的漂亮眼睛,却戴了一副眼镜。他红红的圆脸盘总是一副快乐模样。他非常喜爱美女。我想他应该自有办法和莫顿相处,因为即便没钱没长相,他却总能设法召集一帮年轻人,随他一起到各地去旅游。他人很聪明,但颇为自负,而且好争论,性子急,说话很刻薄。回过头来想想,我敢说当时的他是一个不那么好处的年轻人,但我并不觉得他很讨厌。现在他已经五十五岁了,身材见胖,光头一个,但金边眼镜下的一双眼睛依然机敏有神。说话还是那么武断,甚至有些自以为是;依旧好争论,一嘴的刻薄;但他脾气很好,而且言语幽默。当这样一个人成了你的老朋友后,他的这些习性就不会再惹恼你了。你会容忍他的这些毛病,就如同容忍自己的身体缺陷一样。他是一个病理学家。他时不时会送我一本他刚刚出版的、薄薄的书。书的内容非常专业,配有大量的细菌照片做插图。这些书我都没有读过。从我时不时听来的消息来看,查理的学术观点是错误的。我想他不怎么受他同行们的待见。他毫不掩饰自己对同行们的看法,认为他们都是一些不称职的傻瓜。但他一直做着病理学家这份工作,这让他一年有六百至八百英镑的收入。我想,他并不在乎别人对他的看法。

我喜欢查理·毕肖普这个人,因为我已经与他相识三十年了;我也喜欢他妻子马热丽,因为她人非常好。当他告诉我他打算结婚的时候,我感到非常惊讶。当时他四十出头,且用情不专。因此我当时断定,他恐怕要打一辈子光棍了。他非常喜欢女人,但绝不感情用事,他也并不特别在意要哪一类型的女人。他对女性的评价在理想主义盛行的当今会被认为是粗俗的。他知道自己需要什么,也会去争取。无论是出于爱还是出于金钱,如果无法得到他想要的,他就会耸耸肩膀,一走了之。简言之,他并不需要女人来满足自己精神上的理想,只要提供给他肉体上的欢愉即可。奇怪的是,尽管他又瘦又小,相貌平平,却能找到如此多心甘情愿让他遂意的女人。至于精神上的需求,他能够从单细胞生物中得到满足。他是一个说话切中要害的人。当他告诉我要与一个叫马热丽·霍布森的年轻女人结婚时,我当即问他为什么。他咧嘴一笑。

“有三方面原因,”他说,“首先,我不跟她结婚,她就不跟我上床;其次,她能让我笑得像土狗一样;第三,她在这个世界无依无靠,没有一个亲人,必须有人来照顾她。”

“第一个理由你只是在炫耀,第二个理由是空话,第三个才是真正的原因。看来你已经任由她摆布了。”

他的双眼在他那副大眼镜下温和地闪烁着。

“你这家伙,什么事都能一眼看穿。”

“你现在不仅对她百依百顺,而且还为此扬扬得意。”

“明天过来吃午饭,认识认识她。她长得挺好看的。”

查理是一家不限男女的俱乐部的会员。那时我也经常出入这家俱乐部。我们约定明天在那里吃饭。我发现马热丽是一个非常吸引人的年轻女人,那时她快满三十了,很有修养。这让我很满意,同时也有几分吃惊。因为查理通常只对那些不太有教养的女人感兴趣,这一点逃不过我的眼睛。她的长相虽说不上多好,但挺标致,有一头漂亮的黑发和一双漂亮的眼睛。肤色白皙,看起来很健康。她说话非常率直,让人听起来很舒服。她看起来是一个诚实、单纯、可信任的人。我立马就喜欢上了她。她很容易交谈,对于别人所说的,虽然她并没有什么独到见解,但她马上就能领悟其中的可笑之处,而且她还是一个爽朗之人。她留给人们的印象是能干和务实。她的快活平和说明她有一个好脾气,而且悟性很高。

他们俩似乎对彼此非常满意。我第一次见到她时,曾自问:为什么马热丽要嫁给这样一个脾气暴躁的小个子男人?他不仅已经开始谢顶,而且也不年轻了。但我很快就发现了答案,她爱这个男人。他俩经常互相揶揄,然后哈哈大笑;他俩的目光不时相对,眼神意味深长,似乎在传递只有他俩才能理解的信息。这真是令人感动呢。

一个星期后,他俩就在一家结婚登记处办理了结婚手续。这桩婚姻非常美满。十六年后的现在回味起来,想到嬉闹使他俩结合在一起,我还禁不住要同情地窃笑一番。我从未见过如此恩爱有加的一对夫妇,虽然经济上始终不很宽裕,但却其乐融融。他们没有什么远大的抱负,生活对他们而言就像一次永远不会结束的野餐。他俩住在潘通大街的一处公寓内,是我所见过的最小的公寓,包括一间小卧室、一间小客厅和一间厨卫并用的房间。但他俩没有家的观念。他们通常去饭馆吃饭,只有早点才在公寓吃。这里只是他俩睡觉的地方。他们的小家布置得很舒适,只是来个客人喝杯掺苏打水的威士忌时,房间就会显得有点儿拥挤了。马热丽雇了一个按日付薪的清洁女工,将房间打扫得非常整洁。只是查理邋遢惯了,对此感到有些不大适应。室内的所有设施几乎都是两人共用的。他俩还有一辆微型轿车,只要查理休假,他俩就会钻进汽车穿过海峡,开始旅行。每人一个大袋子就能把所有的行李都打包好,想上哪儿就上哪儿。如果路上车坏了他俩也从不烦恼,遇到了坏天气也当作一件开心的事,就是轮胎爆了,他们也只当是又出了一桩笑话,如果迷了路,不得不在野外过夜,他俩就会把这视为最快活的一天。

查理仍然是好争论,脾气暴躁,但马热丽总能保持着平和的态度。她一句话就能使他冷静下来,再说几句就能使他笑起来。她为他关于鲜为人知的细菌的专著打字,从科学杂志中寻找资料。有一次我问他们吵过架没有。

“没有,”她回答道,“我俩似乎从来没有什么要吵的。查理的脾气好极了。”

“胡说,”我反驳道,“他是个蛮横、好斗、脾气暴躁的家伙,他一直都是这样。”

她看看自己的丈夫,咯咯地笑了。我明白她认为我是在开玩笑。

“让他胡言乱语,”查理说道,“他是个无知透顶的笨蛋,他甚至都不知道自己在胡说些什么。”

他俩在一起的时候非常甜蜜,非常享受对方的陪伴。他俩尽可能地待在一起。即使在结婚很久之后,查理依旧每天中午开车到城西,与马热丽在一家餐厅一起用餐。如果有人请他俩到乡间去度个周末,马热丽就会写信给女主人,询问是否能为他俩准备一张双人床。如果行的话,他俩就会欣然接受邀请。人们常常为此有点儿阴阳怪气地善意取笑他俩。他俩在一起睡了这么多年,但还是不能分床睡。一般人可能都会对此感到有点儿尴尬。通常来说,丈夫与妻子不仅会在各自的卧室睡觉,如果要让他们共用一个卫生间,他们恐怕都会不高兴。现在一般人家的卧室都是单人间,但如果你要邀请毕肖普夫妇到你家做客暂住的话,一定要准备一个有双人床的客房。这在他俩的朋友圈子中已经人所共知。当然有些人认为他俩这样做不大合适,但满足他俩的这个要求并不麻烦。而且他们夫妇俩都讨人喜欢,满足他们的这个怪癖还是值得的。查理总是精神头十足,刻薄的说话方式很是风趣,马热丽娴静而随和,能请到他俩来做客,是一件让人感到快活的事情。而对他俩而言,没有什么能比两人在乡间漫步更惬意的了,他俩常常会走很远。

一个男人结婚后,他的妻子迟早会使他疏远他的老朋友,但马热丽反而使查理与朋友们的关系更近了。她不仅使他变得更能容忍别人,也使他成为一个更合群的人。让人忍俊不禁的是,他俩不像是一对已婚的夫妇,倒像是一对在一起生活的中年光棍。一般情况下都是六七个男人在争论和打趣,开着下流玩笑,而只有马热丽一个女人陪着他们。她在场不仅不会使他们感到拘束,反而使他们更开心。只要我回到英国,我肯定会去看望他俩。他们一般都在我前面提到的俱乐部吃饭。如果我有空的话,我就会与他俩一起用餐。

那天傍晚我与他们夫妇俩一起用过点心,之后我们又一起玩了一会儿。我告诉他俩,我已经邀请莫顿过来吃晚饭。

“他这个人可能有点儿乏味,”我解释道,“但他是一个很不错的小伙子。我在婆罗洲的时候,他待我非常好。”

“你为什么不早点儿告诉我?”马热丽嚷道,“这样我就会带个姑娘来的。”

“找个姑娘来干吗?”查理说,“这里不有你嘛。”

“我想,让一个小伙子跟我这么大岁数的女人跳舞,他不会很开心。”马热丽说。

“胡说八道!你的岁数跟跳舞有什么关系!”查理转过身来对我说道,“跟你跳过舞的女人中,有比她跳得更好的吗?”

答案当然是肯定的了,但她跳舞跳得确实很好,舞步非常轻盈,而且节奏感把握得非常好。

“从来没有。”我语气诚恳地说道。

我们三人到达席罗兹俱乐部的时候,莫顿已经在那里等着我们了。他穿着晚礼服,显得肤色更黑了。也许是我知道这些西装已经在一口铁皮箱中,伴着樟脑丸躺了四年的缘故,我总觉得他穿着西装有些不自然。他肯定还是身着卡其布的短衣短裤更感轻松自在一些。查理·毕肖普是个健谈的人,喜欢一个人说个不停,而莫顿却有几分腼腆。我给他要了一杯鸡尾酒,还要了点儿香槟。我感觉他会很乐意跳舞,但不知他是否想到可以请马热丽跳。我深深地感觉到了我们之间的代沟。

“我想我应该告诉你,毕肖普夫人可是一位出色的舞者。”

“是吗?”他有点儿脸红,“能否请您跳支舞?”

她站了起来,两人开始跳舞。那天晚上她的衣着看起来不仅是时髦,简直可以用绝美一词来形容了。我估计她那身很普通的黑色服装价值顶多不过六个金币,但穿在她身上,却使她显得像个贵妇人。她的腿形非常好看,而当时流行穿非常短的裙子,因此她得以受益其中。我想她可能化了点儿淡妆,但与其他女人相比,她看起来非常自然。她很适合短发,头发乌黑锃亮,没有一根白发夹杂其中。她的长相称不上漂亮,但她待人的亲切态度,她精神饱满的神态,她健康的身体都给你一种感觉,即便你没觉得她是一个漂亮的女人,至少也会认为她漂不漂亮都无关紧要。她跳完舞回到座位上后,双眼闪闪发光,脸色绯红。

“他跳得怎么样?”她丈夫问道。

“好极了。”

“您的舞也跳得很好,与您搭配非常轻松。”莫顿说道。

查理继续他滔滔不绝的演讲。他说起话来幽默讽刺,他之所以让人感到有趣,就是因为连他都对自己说的话兴趣盎然。但莫顿对他所说的话一无所知,尽管他出于礼貌摆出一副感兴趣的样子,但我可以看得出,欢快的气氛让他非常激动,他更关注音乐和香槟,而不是谈话。当舞曲声再次响起来的时候,他立即探寻地瞅瞅马热丽。查理捕捉到了他的目光,微笑起来。

“再跟他跳一曲,马热丽。看你跳舞对我的身体也有好处。”

他俩又去跳舞了。查理用爱恋的眼神瞅了她一眼。

“马热丽今天很开心。她非常喜欢跳舞,可我跟她跳舞就喘不上气来。这个小伙子不错。”

我的小派对很成功。当我和莫顿同毕肖普夫妇告别后,我俩一同步行前往皮卡迪利广场。在路上他非常真切地对我表示了感谢,他说他过得真的很愉快。我同他道了别。第二天早上,我就出国了。

我很遗憾自己没法为莫顿做多点儿事。我知道等我回到英国的时候,他可能正在返回婆罗洲的路上。我不时会想起他。但等到秋天我回到英国后,我已经完全忘记他了。大约在我回到伦敦一个星期后的一天晚上,我偶然到查理·毕肖普也是会员的那家俱乐部去玩,看到查理正与三四个我认识的男人坐在一起,我便走上前去。我这次回来后还没见过他们。其中一个人叫比尔·马什,他的妻子珍妮特是我的老朋友。他邀请我一起喝一杯。

“你上哪儿去了?”查理问道,“最近一直没有看到你。”

我立刻注意到查理喝醉了,我非常吃惊。查理喜欢喝酒,但他很有分寸,从来都不会喝过头。我俩都很年轻的时候,他偶尔也喝醉过,或许这件事比任何事都能说明他是一个多么伟大的人,况且把一个人年轻时偶尔喝过量的事翻出来是不公平的。但在我的记忆中,查理只要喝醉了就会丑态百出,他会更具攻击性,会变成一个声如洪钟的话痨,很容易跟人吵起来。他现在就是这样,说话武断,拒绝听取任何关于他鲁莽言辞的反对意见。其他人知道他喝醉了,一方面对他无理搅三分的劲儿感到生气,一方面又觉得既然他喝醉了,就不要与他计较了。他是一个很难相处的家伙。他这么大岁数了,有点儿发福,还秃了顶,戴着一副眼镜,却醉得一塌糊涂。他通常都是一副衣冠楚楚的模样,但现在却如此衣衫不整,全身沾满了烟灰。查理叫了服务生,又点了一杯威士忌。这个服务生已经在这家俱乐部工作了三十年。

“您桌上还有一杯呢,先生。”

“让你干啥你就干啥,”查理·毕肖普说道,“马上给我拿两杯威士忌来,否则我就要投诉你怠慢客人。”

“好吧,先生。”服务生说道。

查理端起桌上那杯威士忌,一饮而尽。但他的手有些颤抖,因此洒了一些酒在身上。

“好了,查理,老伙计,咱们该走了。”比尔·马什说道,然后他转身对我说,“查理今天来这里的时间不长。”

现在我感到更惊讶了,但我觉得有些地方不对劲儿,想着最好还是什么都不说。

“我这就走,”查理说,“但我走之前要再喝一杯。这样我今晚就能睡个好觉了。”

在我看来这个聚会没有马上散伙的意思,因此我站了起来,说我想走着回家了。

“我说,”看我要走,比尔说道,“明天晚上你过来跟我们一起吃饭,好不好?就我、珍妮特和查理三个人。”

“好的,我很高兴过来。”我答应道。

显然出了什么岔子。

马什夫妇住在摄政公园东侧的一排住房内,为我开门的女佣让我到马什先生的书房去,他正在那里等我。

“我想我最好还是在你上楼前跟你唠几句,”他一面与我握手一面说道,“你知道马热丽把查理给甩了吗?”

“当然不知道!”

“他对这始终不能释怀。珍妮特认为让他自己一个人郁郁寡欢地待在那套小公寓里太残酷了,因此我俩邀请了他到我们这里住一段时间。我们尽可能地为他料理好一切。他现在酗酒成狂,他已经失眠两个星期了。”

“她不会永远离开他吧?”

我感到非常震惊。

“她是要这样。为了一个叫莫顿的家伙,她简直疯了。”

“莫顿?哪个莫顿?”

我压根儿没想到他会是我在婆罗洲认识的那个朋友。

“该死的,就是你介绍的他,看你做的好事。现在咱俩上楼去,我想最好还是让你先明白一下自己的处境。”

他推开门,我俩走出了书房。我彻底糊涂了。

“可是,听我说。”我说。

“去问珍妮特,她了解整件事情。这件事真让我莫名其妙。我现在真受不了马热丽,查理这下肯定垮了。”

他引着我走进客厅。我进屋后,珍妮特·马什站起身,走上前来欢迎我。查理正坐在窗边看晚报,看我正朝他走去,他就把报纸放到一边,同我握握手。他十分清醒,说话依然是那种快活的语气,但我注意到他看起来状态很差。我们喝了一杯雪利酒,然后走下楼去吃饭。珍妮特是个精力十足的女人,她个子高挑,容貌姣好,她机警地使谈话持续进行下去。当我们几个男人要去喝杯葡萄酒的时候,她命令我们不许超过十分钟。比尔平时是一个沉默寡言的人,现在却在千方百计找话说。我恍然大悟。我刚才光顾着想到底出了什么事,却没有意会到他们夫妇的苦心。显然,马什夫妇是不想让查理陷入沉思,因此,我也尽力说些有趣的事。查理似乎也愿意尽量配合我们,他总是喜欢滔滔不绝地说个没完。现在,他正站在一个病理学家的角度,探讨最近公众热议的一起谋杀案,但他的话听起来干巴巴的。看来他现在干什么都没有心思了。你会感觉到他为了回应主人的好意正强迫自己说话,但他的心思却在别的地方。头顶上的地板令人欣慰地跺响了,这是珍妮特不耐烦的信号。这种场合最需要一个女人来缓解气氛了。我们走上楼去,一起打了会儿桥牌。时间很晚了,当我要与他们告别的时候,查理说他要送我到马里波恩路。

“查理,现在太晚了,你最好还是上床睡觉吧。”珍妮特说道。

“我睡觉前散散步,能睡得实一些。”他回答道。

她有些担心地瞅瞅他。但一个年岁已到中年的病理学教授要想出去走走,你是拦不住的。她眼睛一亮,瞥了一眼她丈夫。

“我想让比尔去散散步也无妨。”

我想这句话不大明智,女人们通常有点儿太爱管事。查理不高兴地瞅了她一眼。

“完全没必要把比尔也拖出去。”他口气坚决地说道。

“我一点儿也不想出去。”比尔笑着说道,“我累坏了,我要上床睡觉了。”

我想,我俩出去后,比尔·马什跟他妻子一定会拌几句嘴。

“他们俩对我真是太好了。”当我俩沿着栅栏向前走去的时候,查理对我说,“如果没有他们,我真不知道自己会干出什么蠢事来。我有两个星期没有合眼了。”

我对此表示遗憾,但并没有询问原因。我俩就这样静静地走了一段路。我猜他和我一起出来是想要告诉我这件事的来龙去脉,但我感觉他并不急于讲述。我渴望表达我的同情,但又担心说错话,我不想让自己看上去就像要从他那里获取信心一样。我不知道该怎样引导他说这件事,我相信他也不需要别人去引导,他不是一个说话爱绕圈子的人。我想他是在考虑怎么说才好。我们走到了街道的拐角处。

“你可以在前面的教堂打到出租车,”他说,“我要再溜达一会儿。晚安。”

他点点头,然后没精打采地走了。我大吃一惊,却又无可奈何,只能继续向前走,直到打到一辆出租车。第二天早上我正在洗澡,电话铃声响了起来。我在身上裹了一条毛巾,浑身湿漉漉地跑出来接了电话。电话是珍妮特打来的。

“好吧,你对这一切怎么看?”她问道,“看样子昨晚你跟查理一起待了很长时间啊。我听说他回家的时候已经凌晨三点了。”

“他在马里波恩大街就跟我分手了,”我回答道,“他什么也没跟我说。”

“是吗?”

珍妮特的语气中透露出她想要跟我长唠一阵,我猜她用的是床边的电话。

“听着,”我赶紧说,“我正洗澡呢。”

“噢,你在洗澡间安了一部电话?”她热情地问道,我甚至觉得她还有点儿羡慕。

“没有。”我斩钉截铁地说,言语有点儿鲁莽,“我把地毯都弄湿了。”

“哦!”我感到她的语气中有些失望,还有一点儿不高兴,“好吧,什么时候我可以见你?你能在十二点的时候来一趟吗?”

这个时间不太方便,但我不打算跟她争辩了。

“可以,再见。”

我不容她再说什么就把电话挂断了。天堂里的人们打电话时肯定也是一句废话也没有。

我很喜欢珍妮特,但我知道没什么事比她的朋友遭遇不幸更能让她兴奋的了。她只是太急于帮助他们,但她总想深入参与到他们的不幸之中。她是那种患难之交,她愿意卷入别人遇上的麻烦事,乐此不疲。如果你卷入了一场风流韵事,你会发现不知怎的她就成了你的红颜知己,或者如果你在闹离婚,你也会发现她多半会插一手。加之她的确是一个很不错的女人。第二天中午,当我被领进珍妮特的客厅时,她急不可耐地接待我的样子,让我不禁心中暗笑。她为毕肖普所遭遇的不幸大感悲痛,但这件事很刺激,能有一个让她把整件事的来龙去脉都一一相告的人,她简直高兴得要死。珍妮特期待这场谈话,就像一个母亲期待与家庭医生讨论她已婚女儿的第一次分娩一样。珍妮特知道这件事很严重,她也从未轻看这件事,她打定主意要从这件事中挖掘出所有的快乐。

“我想,当马热丽告诉我,她已经打定主意要与查理分手时,没有谁比我更感震惊了。”她非常流利地说道。一个人只有一字不落地把这句话至少说上十来遍,才能达到这种流利程度。“他俩是我所认识的人中关系最密切的一对了。他们一见如故,缔结了一桩美满的婚姻。当然,比尔和我的关系很不错,但我俩也要不时地大吵一顿。我想,我有时真想杀了他。”

“我对你与比尔的关系一点儿兴趣都没有,”我说道,“跟我说说毕肖普夫妇的关系吧。我过来就是想听这个的。”

“我只是感觉得要见见你,毕竟你是唯一能把这件事解释清楚的人。”

“噢,上帝,千万别这么说。如果不是前天晚上比尔告诉我,我对这件事一无所知。”

“是我让他先告诉你的。我突然想到你也许还不知道这件事,我担心你冒冒失失地说错话。”

“你就从头说起吧。”我说道。

“好吧,就从你开始吧。不管怎么说,你是这场麻烦的始作俑者,你向他俩介绍了那个年轻人,这也是我为什么急着见你的原因。你非常了解这个人,而我从来没有见过他,我对他的了解全来自于马热丽告诉我的那些话。”

“你几点吃午饭?”我问道。

“一点半。”

“我也是。接着讲这个故事吧。”

但我的话使珍妮特有了一个主意。

“听我说,如果我退掉我的午餐的话,你会退掉你的吗?我们可以在这里吃点儿便餐。我这里还有一些冷盘肉,这样我们就不用着急了。我三点钟去做头发,这样我们就有的是时间了。”

“别,别,别。”我连忙拒绝,“我不同意这个主意。我至多只能待到一点二十分。”

“那我就只能简单说了。你认为格里这个人怎么样?”

“谁是格里?”

“格里·莫顿。他的名字叫杰拉尔德。”

“这我哪知道?”

“你跟他在一起待过。他的住处没有什么信件吗?”

“可能有,但我不可能碰巧去读这些信。”我有些尖锐地回答道。

“别说这样的蠢话了,我指的是信封。他是一个什么样的人?”

“好吧。他有点儿像吉卜林,你知道这个类型的人是什么样。他工作非常卖力,为人真诚,是为大英帝国扩张疆土立下汗马功劳的人。”

“我说的不是这个意思。”珍妮特有点儿不耐烦地大声喊道,“我是说,他长得怎么样?”

“我想,他长得很普通。当然,如果我再次见到他,我应该还能认出他来,但我无法非常清晰地把他描绘出来。他看起来很干净。”

“噢,上帝,”珍妮特喊道,“你还是不是一个小说家了?他的眼睛是什么颜色的?”

“我不知道。”

“你肯定知道。你跟任何一个人在一起待上一个星期,都不可能不知道他的眼睛是蓝色还是棕色,他的皮肤是黑还是白?”

“既不太黑,也不太白。”

“他的个子是高还是矮?”

“我想应该算中等个儿吧。”

“你是故意想惹我发火吗?”

“绝对不是。他就是很普通,他身上没有任何地方能引起你的注意。他长得既不丑,也算不上英俊。他看起来很正派,像是个绅士。”

“马热丽说他长得很可爱,笑起来很迷人。”

“可能是这样。”

“他疯狂地爱上了她。”

“你是怎么得出这个结论的?”我冷淡地问道。

“我看过他写的信了。”

“你是说她把他写的信都给你看了?”

“这有什么奇怪吗?当然是了。”

对于一个男人来讲,他们很难忍受女人们将他们的隐私泄露给他人。这些女人真是不知廉耻,她们可以在一起谈论男女间最私密的事情而丝毫不感到尴尬。庄重是男性特有的美德,尽管一个男人知道这一点,但每逢女人们做出缺乏矜持之事的时候,他还是感到极为震惊。不仅是他的信件被马热丽和珍妮特·马什读了,而且连他迷恋于她的状况马丽热也逐日随时告知了珍妮特,我真想知道莫顿要是知道了这个情况,他会怎么想。根据珍妮特的描述,他对马热丽是一见钟情。他俩在席罗兹俱乐部我的那个小型晚餐聚会上相识后的第二天早上,他就给她打电话,邀请她过来,找一个能跳舞的地方跟他一起喝茶。我一边听着珍妮特的故事,一边想,她的叙述显然是根据马热丽的描述而来。我决定不带偏见地听下去。让我感兴趣的是,珍妮特同情的一方居然是马热丽。当马热丽抛弃了她的丈夫后,让查理过来跟他们一起住两三个星期是她的主意,她说免得他孤零零地待在那个小公寓内黯然伤神。珍妮特对查理照顾得也确实非常到位,几乎每天都陪他吃午饭,因为他已经习惯了每天都与马热丽一起吃午饭。她每天都陪他到摄政公园散步,让比尔在周日陪他打高尔夫球。她非常耐心地听他讲自己不幸的故事,尽可能地给他抚慰。她为他感到非常难过,但她照样明确地站在马热丽一边。当我表示不赞成她这样的做法时,她狠狠地训了我一顿。这件事让她非常兴奋。从一开始马热丽面有得色又犹疑不决地到她这里,微笑着告诉她,自己有了一个相好的年轻人,到最后马热丽怒气冲冲又心神不宁地来到她这里,宣布自己再也无法忍受这种压力,已经带着自己的行李离开了公寓,她都参与其中。

“当然,起初我也无法相信自己的耳朵。”她解释道,“你非常了解查理与马热丽,他俩简直就是形影不离,关系亲密到连别人都禁不住要笑话他们了。他这样一个矮小的男人,我从来都不认为有什么吸引力,但我无法不喜欢他,因为他对马热丽太好了。我有时甚至有些嫉妒她。他们没有钱,住的地方也是一片混乱,但他们非常快活。当然,我从没想过他俩的关系会出现问题。马热丽也只是把这当作一件有趣的事而已。‘我自然没有非常认真地对待这件事。’她对我说,‘但到了我这个年龄还能和一个年轻人在一起真的很有趣。已经有好多年没人给我送鲜花了。我告诉他不要再送了,因为查理会认为这样太愚蠢了。他在伦敦没有任何亲人和朋友,而且他喜欢跳舞。他说跟我跳舞就像在做一场梦。他总是自己一个人去电影院,真是太凄惨了。我俩一起看了两次日场电影。每次我答应与他一起出去时,他那副感激的样子真是太可怜了。’‘我得说,’我说,‘他听起来像只小羊羔。’‘没错,’她说,‘我知道你能理解我。你不会责怪我的,对吧?’‘当然不会,亲爱的。’我这样回答她,‘你对我还不了解吗?我要是处在你这样的情况下,也会这样做的。’”

马热丽并没有向她丈夫隐瞒她与莫顿出去游玩的事,而查理也只是打趣她对他的小男友温厚有加,但他认为莫顿是一个非常彬彬有礼、讲话讨人喜欢的小伙子,并且很高兴在自己忙碌的时候,能有个人陪着马热丽一起玩。他从未吃过莫顿的醋。他们三人还一起吃过几次饭,一起看了一场演出。但不久后,格里·莫顿恳求马热丽跟他独处一晚上。马热丽说这不可能,但他不断恳求,让她不得安宁。最后,有一天她找到珍妮特,让她帮忙给查理打电话,叫他晚上过来吃饭,并告诉他要打桥牌,独缺他一人。查理从不在晚上撇开妻子,一个人外出。但马什夫妇是他的老朋友了,而珍妮特又特别重视这件事。珍妮特编造了一些荒诞无稽的借口,让这个聚会看起来很重要,使查理无法缺席。第二天马热丽与她见了面,告诉她昨晚妙极了。他俩一起在梅登黑德饭店吃的饭,还跳了舞,然后在夏日的深夜开车回家。

“他说他疯狂地迷上了我。”马热丽这样告诉她。

“他吻你了吗?”珍妮特问道。

“当然吻了。”马热丽咯咯地笑道,“别说傻话了,珍妮特。他非常可爱,性格非常好。当然,我并不全信他对我说的话。”

“亲爱的,你不会爱上他了吧?”

“我已经爱上他了。”马热丽回答说。

“亲爱的,这不是要有点儿难办了吗?”

“这场恋情不会很长的,他秋天就要返回婆罗洲。”

“噢,你现在看上去确实年轻了好几岁。”

“这我知道,我也感觉自己年轻了好几岁。”

没过多久他俩就每天见面了。他俩在上午见面,然后一起到公园去散步,或者一起去美术馆。中午时分他俩就会分开,因为马热丽要陪她丈夫一起吃午饭。午餐后他俩又会一起开车去郊外兜风,或者开到河边的一处地方。这些事马热丽没有告诉她丈夫,她很自然地认为他无法理解。

“你怎么就从来没有见过莫顿呢?”我问珍妮特。

“哦,是她不让我见。你看,我跟马热丽属于同一代人,我完全能理解她的这个做法。”

“我明白了。”

“当然,我是尽可能帮她的忙。只要她跟格里出去时,她总是借口上我这儿来。”

我是一个非常注重细节的人。

“他们俩就没有做出轨的事吗?”我问道。

“哦,没有。马热丽不是那种人。”

“你怎么知道的?”

“如果真有这种事,她会告诉我的。”

“我猜她应该干了这样的事。”

“我当然问过她,但她断然否认了。我相信她对我说的是实话。他俩之间从来没有发生这类事。”

“对我来说这似乎有点儿难以理解。”

“好吧,你要知道,马热丽是一个很好的女人。”

我耸了耸肩膀。

“她对查理绝对忠诚,无论如何她都不会欺骗他,她不能忍受自己有任何瞒着查理的念头。当她意识到自己爱上了格里时,她马上就想把这件事告诉查理。我当然恳求她别这样做,我告诉她,这样做没有任何好处,只会让查理伤心。不管怎么说,这个小伙子两个月后就要走了,把一件不会持续很长时间的事闹得满城风雨不会有什么好处。”

但格里返程的日子越来越近,这促使了这个事件的爆发。毕肖普夫妇早已计划像往常一样出国去旅行,他们这次打算驾车穿越比利时、荷兰和德国北部。查理忙着寻找各地的地图和旅游手册,他从朋友们那里收集有关旅馆和道路的信息。他盼着自己的这个假期,像一个中学生一样兴奋不已。马热丽沮丧地听着他议论这次旅行。他俩要离开四个星期,而格里九月份就要乘船走了。她与格里在一起的时间本来就不长了,现在又要浪费掉这么长一段时间,这让她难以忍受。她一想起这趟驾车旅行就满腔怒火,随着假期一天天逼近,她的情绪也越来越不安。最终,她决定只能跟他摊牌了。

“查理,我不想进行这次旅行了。”一天,他正在跟她谈论刚听人说起的一家餐厅时,她突然打断了他的话,“我希望你找别人跟你一起去。”

他目瞪口呆地望着她。她也对自己刚才脱口而出的话感到吃惊,她的嘴唇微微颤抖起来。

“为什么?出什么事了吗?”

“没什么事,我就是不想去了,我想自己一个人待一段时间。”

“你生病了吗?”

她从他的眼神中看到了突然降临的恐惧,他的关心使她更加难以忍受。

“没有,我的人生中从未这么好过。我爱上了一个人。”

“你?你爱上谁了?”

“格里。”

他极为震惊地看着她,无法相信自己的耳朵。而她误解了他的表情。

“责怪我也没有用,我不由自主地就爱上了他。他几个星期后就要走了,我不想把这点儿宝贵的时间浪费掉。”他突然大笑起来。

“马热丽,你怎么这么傻呀?你的岁数差不多可以做他的母亲了。”她的脸红了。

“他也同样爱我。”

“他是这样告诉你的吗?”

“他这样说了无数遍。”

“他是一个该死的骗子,就是这么回事。”

他咯咯地笑个不停,他的胖肚子乐得直抖,他认为这是一个天大的笑话。我猜查理没有以恰当的方式对待他的妻子。珍妮特似乎认为查理应该表现出体贴和同情的态度,他应该理解这件事。我看到了她内心所想的场景:查理嘴唇紧绷,默默地伤心,最后宣布两人断绝关系。女人对他人表现出来的自我牺牲之美总是非常敏感。如果他勃然大怒,打碎一两件家什(当然,他还会买一件新的补上),或者朝马热丽的下巴重重地打上一拳,珍妮特也会对他表示同情。但嘲笑她却是不可原谅的错误。我没有指出,对于一个矮胖的、年龄已达五十五岁的病理学教授而言,要让他像一个洞穴人一样对突然的变故做出反应,这也太难了一点儿。不管怎么说,他俩预定去荷兰的旅行取消了,毕肖普夫妇在伦敦度过了八月份。他俩都不怎么开心。他俩的中饭和晚饭依然在一起吃,因为这么多年来他们早已习惯如此。而其余的时间马热丽都与格里一起度过。她与他在一起的时间极大地弥补了她所忍受的痛苦。查理喜欢开粗俗的玩笑,对她和格里百般挖苦、千般嘲弄,以此为乐事。他坚持拒绝严肃地对待这件事情。他很生马热丽的气,因为她如此愚蠢,但显然他从未想过她会不忠于自己。对此,我与珍妮特有不同的看法。

“他甚至从未怀疑这一点。”她说,“他太了解马热丽了。”

几个星期过去了,格里终于搭船离开了。他是从蒂尔伯里[4]上的船,马热丽为他送了行。她回来后哭了两天两夜。查理看着她,愈来愈生气,他的脾气变得非常暴躁。

“听我说,马热丽,”最后他说道,“我对你一直很有耐心,但现在你必须重新振作起来。这件事已经超过开玩笑的限度了。”

“你就不能让我自己待一会儿吗?”她喊道,“我什么都没有了,生活对我而言已经没有什么意义了。”

“别再犯傻了。”他说。

我不知道他还说了些别的什么话,但他将自己对格里的评价说给她听真是太不明智了。我推测他一定是用极其恶毒的语言描述了格里。他俩大吵了一架。以前他俩从未这样激烈地争吵过。她过去之所以能够忍受查理的冷嘲热讽,是因为她知道,再过一个小时或一天,她就又能见到格里了。而现在她永远也见不到格里了,她再也无法忍受这样的语言刺激了。她已经忍耐了几个星期,现在,她把自我控制抛到九霄云外去了,也许她根本就不知道自己都对查理喊了些什么。他本来就是一个脾气暴躁的人,最后他动手打了她一巴掌。这一巴掌将两人都吓了一跳。他抓起帽子,转身冲出了公寓。婚后尽管生活艰辛,但他们始终共享着一张床。但当他后半夜返回家中后,他发现她在客厅的沙发上为自己搭了一个地铺。

“你不能睡在这儿,”他说道,“别犯傻了,到床上睡去。”

“不,我不会去的。别管我。”

这一晚他俩接着争吵。但她已经打定主意,以后每晚都在沙发上睡。但公寓这么小,他俩谁也逃离不了对方,甚至对方的一举一动自己都能看见,对方说的话也都会灌进自己的耳朵里。他俩在一起亲密无间地生活了这么多年,出于本能他俩也要待在一起。他试图跟她讲清道理。他认为她傻得令人不可思议,不断跟她争吵,想要让她知道自己是多么执迷不悟。他不让她自己一个人待着,也不让她睡觉。他一讲就讲到后半夜,直到两人都筋疲力尽为止。他认为他能通过讲道理让她摆脱这场爱情。有一次,他俩两三天时间彼此都没有说话。一天,他回家后发现她正在痛哭。看到她在流泪,他乱了方寸。他告诉她,自己多么爱她。他回忆起两人这么多年来所度过的幸福时光,试图用这个办法来感动她。他想让这件事就这样过去。他许诺再也不提起格里了。他俩真的能忘记经历的这场噩梦吗?但这种隐含和解的想法使她感到恶心了。她对他说,自己头痛欲裂,让他给她拿瓶安眠药水来。第二天早上他出门的时候,她还假装在睡着。但他一离开家门,她就将自己的东西打包好,离开了公寓。她有几件继承来的廉价首饰,变卖掉这些首饰后,她手上有了一小笔钱。她在一家廉价寄宿公寓内租了一间屋,没有告诉查理自己的住址。

查理发现马热丽离开自己后就垮了,她的逃离所带来的打击彻底击溃了他。他告诉珍妮特,自己无法忍受这种孤独。他给马热丽写信,乞求她回来;他请珍妮特为他求情,他愿意做出任何保证,他卑躬屈膝,但马热丽执拗地不愿回去。

“你认为她终有一天会回去吗?”我问珍妮特。

“她说绝不回去。”

现在已经是近一点半了,我必须走了。我驾车向伦敦城另一端驶去。

两三天后,我收到了一通马热丽的电话留言,她问我能否见她一面,提议到我的住处来。我招待她喝了茶。我尽量对她表现得友好一些,虽说她的风流韵事与我无关,但我发自内心地认为她是一个愚蠢的女人。我猜自己的态度挺冷漠的。她的长相从来也称不上漂亮,流逝的岁月也改变不了这一点。她的一双黑眼睛还是那样好看,让人感到吃惊的是,她脸上一点儿皱纹都没有。她的穿着很普通,要是化了妆的话,那就太在行了,反正我没有看出来。她仍然透着那么一种魅力,让你觉得她是一个非常自然的人,一个和蔼中带着幽默的人。

“如果你愿意的话,我想请你为我做件事。”她开门见山,一点儿也不拐弯抹角。

“什么事?”

“查理今天就要离开马什夫妇的家,回到自己的公寓了,我担心他头几天会很难过,如果你能请他吃晚饭或陪他活动活动,那就太好了。”

“我得看看我的书。”

“据说他现在喝酒喝得很凶。他是在作践自己。我希望你能提醒提醒他。”

“据我所知,他最近是在为家里的事烦恼。”我说话的语气可能有几分讥讽的味道。

马热丽的脸红了,她痛苦地看了我一眼。她的脸部扭曲着,就好像我刚才给了她一拳似的。

“当然,你认识他的时间要远远超过认识我的时间,所以你自然会站在他的一边。”

“天哪,告诉你实话吧。这些年来我之所以熟悉了他,主要还是你的缘故呢。我从来都不太喜欢他,但我认为你的为人非常好。”

她对我笑了,她的笑容很甜。她知道我这个人说一不二。

“你认为对他而言我算是个好妻子吗?”

“绝对。”

“他经常惹得别人不高兴,很多人都不喜欢他,但我从来都没觉得他难处。”

“他非常喜欢你。”

“这我知道。我俩在一起的时候很美好。十六年来我俩都过得很幸福。”她停顿了一下,目光渐渐下移,“我不得不离开他,我俩不可能再在一起了,这种鸡犬不宁的生活太可怕了。”

“我从来都不明白为什么不想一起生活的两个人还要继续一起生活下去。”

“你瞧,这对我俩来说太可怕了。我俩的关系一直都非常亲密,从来都是难舍难弃。结果,现在我却不愿多看他一眼。”

“我想,目前你俩的处境都不容易。”

“我爱上了他人,这并非我的过错。你瞧,这与我对查理的爱完全不同。我对格里的爱包含着母爱,意在对他进行保护。我比查理要理性得多。他这个人很难相处,但我跟他相处得一直都很好。但格里不同。”她的声音变得温柔起来,她的面容也出现了光彩,因而显得有些漂亮了,“他让我重返青春了。对他来说我是个女孩,跟他在一起我有一种可以依靠的感觉,感到很安全。”

“我也认为他是一个不错的小伙子。”我语速很慢地说道,“我想他以后会过得很好的。我遇见他的时候,他的年纪于他所从事的工作而言着实太年轻了。他现在也才刚二十九岁,是不是?”

她温柔地笑了。她知道我说的是什么意思。

“我从未对他隐瞒过自己的年龄,他说这没有关系。”

我知道她说的是实情,她不是那种刻意隐瞒自己年龄的女人。她在告诉格里自己年龄的时候,曾感到这是一件极为快乐的事情。

“你今年多大了?”

“四十四岁。”

“现在你打算怎么办呢?”

“我已经给格里写了信,告诉他我已经离开了查理。只要我一收到他的回信,我就打算去跟他一起生活。”

“你要知道,他住在一个非常原始的小部落。我恐怕你会发现自己处于一个极为尴尬的位置。”

“他向我保证,如果在他离开之后我无法找到自己的生活,就去找他。”

“你将一个年轻人在爱的冲动下所说的话当真,做出了如此重大的决定,你确信这样明智吗?”

极度兴奋的表情又出现在她脸上,让她看起来真的很漂亮了。“是的,当这个年轻人碰巧是格里的时候。”

我的心情很沉重,我沉默了一会儿,然后向她讲了格里·莫顿督建那条公路的故事。我讲的有点儿夸张,我想这样效果会更好一些。

“你给我讲这个故事想说明什么呢?”我讲完后她这样问我。

“我只是想,这是一个不错的故事。”

她摇摇头,笑了。

“不,你是想通过这个故事来告诉我,他非常年轻,非常有热情。他是个工作狂,因此,他不会在其他兴趣上浪费太多时间。我不会影响他的工作。你对他的了解不如我,他非常浪漫,他将自己看成了一个开拓者,他对于自己亲自参与了一个新国家的开发而激动不已,连我都被他感染了。这难道不是一桩宏伟的事业吗?与之相比,我们在这里的生活真的很无聊和平庸。当然,那里的生活非常孤独,甚至连有一个中年妇女陪伴都变得很不错。”

“你打算嫁给他吗?”我问道。

“我完全听他的,我不想做任何他不愿意做的事。”

她说的话非常简洁,但她委曲求全的态度深深地打动了我。她走后,我感到自己已经不怨恨她了。当然,我依然认为她很愚蠢。但如果愚蠢的男人将一个女人惹怒了,那么这个女人将终其一生都处于长期愤怒的状态。我想一切都会过去的。她说格里非常浪漫,他确实如此,但在这个平凡的世界里,浪漫只是他们胡说八道的托词,因为他们实际上拥有一种敏锐的现实感,而最易受骗的则是那些只注重浪漫的表面意义而一意孤行的人。英国人很浪漫,所以其他国家的人都认为英国人虚伪。但英国人绝非都是些伪君子,他们是真心实意地想建立一个理想的天国。但这个过程是艰难的,英国人有理由在这个过程中学会任何能找到的稳当投资。英国人的心灵就像威灵顿将军旗下的大军一样,需要充足的物资保障。我想格里收到马热丽的信后会度过糟糕的十五分钟。我并非多么同情他,我只是想看他如何摆脱他所面临的这个困境。我想马热丽会经历一次痛不欲生的失望,好吧,这并不会对她造成太大的伤害,然后她就会回到她丈夫的身边。我相信经过这场磨难之后,他们俩会在一片和平、安宁和幸福之中度过余生。

这件事却不同寻常。碰巧最近几天我没可能与查理·毕肖普进行任何形式的约会,但我有写信给他,邀请他于下周的某个晚上跟我一起吃晚饭。虽然有些犹疑,但我还是提议饭后一起去看场戏剧。我知道他是个大酒鬼,如果喝高了,就会唠唠叨叨个没完。我希望他不会在剧院里被人讨厌。我们约定在我们所属的俱乐部碰头,七点左右开始吃饭。之所以定在这个时间,是因为我俩想去看的那场戏将在八点一刻开始演。我到了那里,坐下来等着他。但他没有来。我打电话到他公寓,也没人接,所以我估计他可能正在路上。我很烦错过戏剧的开头。我焦急地站在俱乐部的大厅等着,这样只要他一到,我俩就可以直接上楼了。为了节省时间,我已经点好了菜。时钟指向了七点半,然后是七点四十五。我认为没有必要再等下去了,因此就上楼进了餐厅,自己一个人吃了晚饭。他还是没有出现。我要了一个从餐厅接到马什夫妇家的电话,很快一个服务员过来告诉我,是比尔·马什接的电话。

“我说,你知道查理·毕肖普在哪里吗?”我说道,“我俩约好一起吃晚饭,然后去看戏,但他没来。”

“他今天下午死了。”

“什么?”

我大吃一惊,说话的语气引得周围两三个人都抬头看我。今天餐厅爆满,服务员都在不停地忙碌。电话放在收银员的柜台上。一名负责送酒水的服务员托着一个盘子走过来,盘子上放着一瓶霍克酒[5]和两个高脚玻璃杯,他递给收银员一张记账单。一个大块头服务员正引着两个男人前往一张餐桌,他挤了我一下。

“你在哪里打电话呢?”比尔问道。

我猜他听到了我周围盆盘刀叉撞击发出的声音。我告诉他后,他要我一吃完饭就马上到他那里去,说珍妮特有话要对我说。

“我马上过去。”我答应道。

我到达时比尔跟珍妮特正坐在客厅里,比尔在看报,珍妮特在玩单人纸牌游戏。当女佣把我领入后,她马上走了过来。她迈着跳跃的步伐,稍有点儿下蹲,但脚下不出动静,就像一头美洲狮在逼近猎物。我立即就看出来,她现在是如鱼得水,非常适应这种情况。她握住我的手,把脸扭到了一边,以免让我看到她溢满了眼泪的双眼。她说话的声音低沉,充满了悲痛之情。

“我把马热丽带回了我家,让她上床睡了。医生给她开了一剂安眠药,她全都服了进去。这件事太可怕了,是不是?”她说话的声音介于喘息和抽泣之间,“真不知为什么我的身边总出现这类事情。”

毕肖普夫妇一直没有雇做家务的用人,只是找了一个钟点工,每天早上过来打扫房间,清洗早饭后用过的刀叉碗碟等。钟点工有房门的钥匙。这天早上,她一如既往地打开房门,清扫客厅。自从他的妻子离开了他,查理的作息时间就变得非常混乱,因而看到他还在睡觉,她也没有感到意外。但上班的时间到了,她知道他需要去上班,还有工作等着他完成。她在卧室的门上敲了敲,但没有回答声。她认为自己听到他在呻吟,便急忙推开房门。他面朝上地躺在床上,打着呼噜。他还在睡着。她叫他,他身上的某些症状让她感到害怕。她来到对门的公寓,那里住着一名记者,她按门铃的时候他还在床上,穿着睡衣给她开了门。

“打搅您了,先生,”她说道,“您能不能过来一下,看看我的东家怎么了。我想他不大对劲。”

这个记者穿过过道,来到查理的公寓内。一个安眠药的空瓶子正放在床边。

“我想你最好还是找个警察来。”他说。

一个警察来了,他立即用电话向警局要了辆救护车。他们把毕肖普送到了查令十字街医院,但他再也没有恢复意识。他咽气的时候,马热丽陪在他的身边。

“警方当然要进行一番调查了,”珍妮特说道,“但这件事情很明显。最近三四个星期他严重失眠,我猜他一直在服用安眠药。他一定是意外地服用过量了。”

“马热丽也是这么认为的吗?”

“她的情绪非常不稳,脑子乱成了一锅粥,但我告诉她,我确信他不是自杀身亡的。我的意思是说,他不是这样想不开的人。我说得对吗,比尔?”

“没错,亲爱的。”

“他留下遗书没有?”

“没有,一个字都没有。奇怪的是,马热丽今天早上收到了他寄给她的一封信。哦,那几乎称不上一封信,就是一个字条。字条上只有一行字,‘亲爱的,没有你我太孤单了。’就这样。这张字条当然说明不了什么,她向我保证不对警察提这张字条的事。我的意思是说,让别人联想起其他事情来有什么好处?人人都知道,只要是扯上了安眠药,事情就说不清道不明了。不管出了什么事,我今后都不会服用安眠药了。这件事明显是个意外事故。我说得对吗,比尔?”

“没错,亲爱的。”他答道。

我看得出来,珍妮特坚信查理·毕肖普不是自杀而亡,但她内心里有几分相信她想去相信的事呢?我不是一个够格的女性心理学家,对此我分析不出来。当然,也许她是对的。一个中年科学家由于中年发妻离开了自己而自杀,这种假设太荒谬了。极有可能的情况是,由于饱受失眠的折磨,在极不理智的情况下,他服用了比他所想的剂量要大的安眠药。不管怎么说,验尸官的结论就是这样。他被告知,最近查理·毕肖普酗酒成瘾,导致了他妻子的离家出走。很明显,他求死心切。验尸官对死者的遗孀表达了同情,并反复强调了滥用安眠药的危险。

我不喜欢参加葬礼

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