ONE DAY at this time Birkin was called to London. He was not very fixed in his abode. He had rooms in Nottingham, because his work lay chiefly in that town. But often he was in London, or in Oxford. He moved about a great deal, his life seemed uncertain, without any definite rhythm, any organic meaning.
On the platform of the railway station he saw Gerald Crich, reading a newspaper, and evidently waiting for the train. Birkin stood some distance off, among the people. It was against his instinct to approach anybody.
From time to time, in a manner characteristic of him, Gerald lifted his head and looked round. Even though he was reading the newspaper closely, he must keep a watchful eye on his external surroundings. There seemed to be a dual consciousness running in him. He was thinking vigorously of something he read in the newspaper, and at the same time his eye ran over the surfaces of the life round him, and he missed nothing. Birkin, who was watching him, was irritated by his duality. He noticed too, that Gerald seemed always to be at bay against everybody, in spite of his queer, genial, social manner when roused.
Now Birkin started violently at seeing this genial look flash on to Gerald's face, at seeing Gerald approaching with hand outstretched.
`Hallo, Rupert, where are you going?'
`London. So are you, I suppose.'
`Yes --'
Gerald's eyes went over Birkin's face in curiosity.
`We'll travel together if you like,' he said.
`Don't you usually go first?' asked Birkin.
`I can't stand the crowd,' replied Gerald. `But third'll be all right. There's a restaurant car, we can have some tea.'
The two men looked at the station clock, having nothing further to say.
`What were you reading in the paper?' Birkin asked.
Gerald looked at him quickly.
`Isn't it funny, what they do put in the newspapers,' he said. `Here are two leaders --' he held out his Daily Telegraph, `full of the ordinary newspaper cant --' he scanned the columns down -- `and then there's this little -- I dunno what you'd call it, essay, almost -- appearing with the leaders, and saying there must arise a man who will give new values to things, give us new truths, a new attitude to life, or else we shall be a crumbling nothingness in a few years, a country in ruin --'
`I suppose that's a bit of newspaper cant, as well,' said Birkin.
`It sounds as if the man meant it, and quite genuinely,' said Gerald.
`Give it to me,' said Birkin, holding out his hand for the paper.
The train came, and they went on board, sitting on either side a little table, by the window, in the restaurant car. Birkin glanced over his paper, then looked up at Gerald, who was waiting for him.
`I believe the man means it,' he said, `as far as he means anything.'
`And do you think it's true? Do you think we really want a new gospel?' asked Gerald.
Birkin shrugged his shoulders.
`I think the people who say they want a new religion are the last to accept anything new. They want novelty right enough. But to stare straight at this life that we've brought upon ourselves, and reject it, absolutely smash up the old idols of ourselves, that we sh'll never do. You've got very badly to want to get rid of the old, before anything new will appear -- even in the self.'
Gerald watched him closely.
`You think we ought to break up this life, just start and let fly?' he asked.
`This life. Yes I do. We've got to bust it completely, or shrivel inside it, as in a tight skin. For it won't expand any more.'
There was a queer little smile in Gerald's eyes, a look of amusement, calm and curious.
`And how do you propose to begin? I suppose you mean, reform the whole order of society?' he asked.
Birkin had a slight, tense frown between the brows. He too was impatient of the conversation.
`I don't propose at all,' he replied. `When we really want to go for something better, we shall smash the old. Until then, any sort of proposal, or making proposals, is no more than a tiresome game for self-important people.'
The little smile began to die out of Gerald's eyes, and he said, looking with a cool stare at Birkin:
`So you really think things are very bad?'
`Completely bad.'
The smile appeared again.
`In what way?'
`Every way,' said Birkin. `We are such dreary liars. Our one idea is to lie to ourselves. We have an ideal of a perfect world, clean and straight and sufficient. So we cover the earth with foulness; life is a blotch of labour, like insects scurrying in filth, so that your collier can have a pianoforte in his parlour, and you can have a butler and a motor-car in your up-to-date house, and as a nation we can sport the Ritz, or the Empire, Gaby Deslys and the Sunday newspapers. It is very dreary.'
Gerald took a little time to re-adjust himself after this tirade.
`Would you have us live without houses -- return to nature?' he asked.
`I would have nothing at all. People only do what they want to do -- and what they are capable of doing. If they were capable of anything else, there would be something else.'
Again Gerald pondered. He was not going to take offence at Birkin.
`Don't you think the collier's pianoforte, as you call it, is a symbol for something very real, a real desire for something higher, in the collier's life?'
`Higher!' cried Birkin. `Yes. Amazing heights of upright grandeur. It makes him so much higher in his neighbouring collier's eyes. He sees himself reflected in the neighbouring opinion, like in a Brocken mist, several feet taller on the strength of the pianoforte, and he is satisfied. He lives for the sake of that Brocken spectre, the reflection of himself in the human opinion. You do the same. If you are of high importance to humanity you are of high importance to yourself. That is why you work so hard at the mines. If you can produce coal to cook five thousand dinners a day, you are five thousand times more important than if you cooked only your own dinner.'
`I suppose I am,' laughed Gerald.
`Can't you see,' said Birkin, `that to help my neighbour to eat is no more than eating myself. "I eat, thou eatest, he eats, we eat, you eat, they eat" -- and what then? Why should every man decline the whole verb. First person singular is enough for me.'
`You've got to start with material things,' said Gerald. Which statement Birkin ignored.
`And we've got to live for something, we're not just cattle that can graze and have done with it,' said Gerald.
`Tell me,' said Birkin. `What do you live for?'
Gerald's face went baffled.
`What do I live for?' he repeated. `I suppose I live to work, to produce something, in so far as I am a purposive being. Apart from that, I live because I am living.'
`And what's your work? Getting so many more thousands of tons of coal out of the earth every day. And when we've got all the coal we want, and all the plush furniture, and pianofortes, and the rabbits are all stewed and eaten, and we're all warm and our bellies are filled and we're listening to the young lady performing on the pianoforte -- what then? What then, when you've made a real fair start with your material things?'
Gerald sat laughing at the words and the mocking humour of the other man. But he was cogitating too.
`We haven't got there yet,' he replied. `A good many people are still waiting for the rabbit and the fire to cook it.'
`So while you get the coal I must chase the rabbit?' said Birkin, mocking at Gerald.
`Something like that,' said Gerald.
Birkin watched him narrowly. He saw the perfect good-humoured callousness, even strange, glistening malice, in Gerald, glistening through the plausible ethics of productivity.
`Gerald,' he said, `I rather hate you.'
`I know you do,' said Gerald. `Why do you?'
Birkin mused inscrutably for some minutes.
`I should like to know if you are conscious of hating me,' he said at last. `Do you ever consciously detest me -- hate me with mystic hate? There are odd moments when I hate you starrily.'
Gerald was rather taken aback, even a little disconcerted. He did not quite know what to say.
`I may, of course, hate you sometimes,' he said. `But I'm not aware of it -- never acutely aware of it, that is.'
`So much the worse,' said Birkin.
Gerald watched him with curious eyes. He could not quite make him out.
`So much the worse, is it?' he repeated.
There was a silence between the two men for some time, as the train ran on. In Birkin's face was a little irritable tension, a sharp knitting of the brows, keen and difficult. Gerald watched him warily, carefully, rather calculatingly, for he could not decide what he was after.
Suddenly Birkin's eyes looked straight and overpowering into those of the other man.
`What do you think is the aim and object of your life, Gerald?' he asked.
Again Gerald was taken aback. He could not think what his friend was getting at. Was he poking fun, or not?
`At this moment, I couldn't say off-hand,' he replied, with faintly ironic humour.
`Do you think love is the be-all and the end-all of life?' Birkin asked, with direct, attentive seriousness.
`Of my own life?' said Gerald.
`Yes.'
There was a really puzzled pause.
`I can't say,' said Gerald. `It hasn't been, so far.'
`What has your life been, so far?'
`Oh -- finding out things for myself -- and getting experiences -- and making things go.'
Birkin knitted his brows like sharply moulded steel.
`I find,' he said, `that one needs some one really pure single activity -- I should call love a single pure activity. But I don't really love anybody -- not now.'
`Have you ever really loved anybody?' asked Gerald.
`Yes and no,' replied Birkin.
`Not finally?' said Gerald.
`Finally -- finally -- no,' said Birkin.
`Nor I,' said Gerald.
`And do you want to?' said Birkin.
Gerald looked with a long, twinkling, almost sardonic look into the eyes of the other man.
`I don't know,' he said.
`I do -- I want to love,' said Birkin.
`You do?'
`Yes. I want the finality of love.'
`The finality of love,' repeated Gerald. And he waited for a moment.
`Just one woman?' he added. The evening light, flooding yellow along the fields, lit up Birkin's face with a tense, abstract steadfastness. Gerald still could not make it out.
`Yes, one woman,' said Birkin.
But to Gerald it sounded as if he were insistent rather than confident.
`I don't believe a woman, and nothing but a woman, will ever make my life,' said Gerald.
`Not the centre and core of it -- the love between you and a woman?' asked Birkin.
Gerald's eyes narrowed with a queer dangerous smile as he watched the other man.
`I never quite feel it that way,' he said.
`You don't? Then wherein does life centre, for you?'
`I don't know -- that's what I want somebody to tell me. As far as I can make out, it doesn't centre at all. It is artificially held together by the social mechanism.'
Birkin pondered as if he would crack something.
`I know,' he said, `it just doesn't centre. The old ideals are dead as nails -- nothing there. It seems to me there remains only this perfect union with a woman -- sort of ultimate marriage -- and there isn't anything else.'
`And you mean if there isn't the woman, there's nothing?' said Gerald.
`Pretty well that -- seeing there's no God.'
`Then we're hard put to it,' said Gerald. And he turned to look out of the window at the flying, golden landscape.
Birkin could not help seeing how beautiful and soldierly his face was, with a certain courage to be indifferent.
`You think its heavy odds against us?' said Birkin.
`If we've got to make our life up out of a woman, one woman, woman only, yes, I do,' said Gerald. `I don't believe I shall ever make up my life, at that rate.'
Birkin watched him almost angrily.
`You are a born unbeliever,' he said.
`I only feel what I feel,' said Gerald. And he looked again at Birkin almost sardonically, with his blue, manly, sharp-lighted eyes. Birkin's eyes were at the moment full of anger. But swiftly they became troubled, doubtful, then full of a warm, rich affectionateness and laughter.
`It troubles me very much, Gerald,' he said, wrinkling his brows.
`I can see it does,' said Gerald, uncovering his mouth in a manly, quick, soldierly laugh.
Gerald was held unconsciously by the other man. He wanted to be near him, he wanted to be within his sphere of influence. There was something very congenial to him in Birkin. But yet, beyond this, he did not take much notice. He felt that he, himself, Gerald, had harder and more durable truths than any the other man knew. He felt himself older, more knowing. It was the quick-changing warmth and venality and brilliant warm utterance he loved in his friend. It was the rich play of words and quick interchange of feelings he enjoyed. The real content of the words he never really considered: he himself knew better.
Birkin knew this. He knew that Gerald wanted to be fond of him without taking him seriously. And this made him go hard and cold. As the train ran on, he sat looking at the land, and Gerald fell away, became as nothing to him.
Birkin looked at the land, at the evening, and was thinking: `Well, if mankind is destroyed, if our race is destroyed like Sodom, and there is this beautiful evening with the luminous land and trees, I am satisfied. That which informs it all is there, and can never be lost. After all, what is mankind but just one expression of the incomprehensible. And if mankind passes away, it will only mean that this particular expression is completed and done. That which is expressed, and that which is to be expressed, cannot be diminished. There it is, in the shining evening. Let mankind pass away -- time it did. The creative utterances will not cease, they will only be there. Humanity doesn't embody the utterance of the incomprehensible any more. Humanity is a dead letter. There will be a new embodiment, in a new way. Let humanity disappear as quick as possible.'
Gerald interrupted him by asking,
`Where are you staying in London?'
Birkin looked up.
`With a man in Soho. I pay part of the rent of a flat, and stop there when I like.'
`Good idea -- have a place more or less your own,' said Gerald.
`Yes. But I don't care for it much. I'm tired of the people I am bound to find there.'
`What kind of people?'
`Art -- music -- London Bohemia -- the most pettifogging calculating Bohemia that ever reckoned its pennies. But there are a few decent people, decent in some respects. They are really very thorough rejecters of the world -- perhaps they live only in the gesture of rejection and negation -- but negatively something, at any rate.'
`What are they? -- painters, musicians?'
`Painters, musicians, writers -- hangers-on, models, advanced young people, anybody who is openly at outs with the conventions, and belongs to nowhere particularly. They are often young fellows down from the University, and girls who are living their own lives, as they say.'
`All loose?' said Gerald.
Birkin could see his curiosity roused.
`In one way. Most bound, in another. For all their shockingness, all on one note.'
He looked at Gerald, and saw how his blue eyes were lit up with a little flame of curious desire. He saw too how good-looking he was. Gerald was attractive, his blood seemed fluid and electric. His blue eyes burned with a keen, yet cold light, there was a certain beauty, a beautiful passivity in all his body, his moulding.
`We might see something of each other -- I am in London for two or three days,' said Gerald.
`Yes,' said Birkin, `I don't want to go to the theatre, or the music hall -- you'd better come round to the flat, and see what you can make of Halliday and his crowd.'
`Thanks -- I should like to,' laughed Gerald. `What are you doing tonight?'
`I promised to meet Halliday at the Pompadour. It's a bad place, but there is nowhere else.'
`Where is it?' asked Gerald.
`Piccadilly Circus.'
`Oh yes -- well, shall I come round there?'
`By all means, it might amuse you.'
The evening was falling. They had passed Bedford. Birkin watched the country, and was filled with a sort of hopelessness. He always felt this, on approaching London.
His dislike of mankind, of the mass of mankind, amounted almost to an illness.
`"Where the quiet coloured end of evening smiles Miles and miles --"' he was murmuring to himself, like a man condemned to death. Gerald, who was very subtly alert, wary in all his senses, leaned forward and asked smilingly:
`What were you saying?' Birkin glanced at him, laughed, and repeated:
`"Where the quiet coloured end of evening smiles, Miles and miles,
Over pastures where the something something sheep Half asleep --"'
Gerald also looked now at the country. And Birkin, who, for some reason was now tired and dispirited, said to him:
`I always feel doomed when the train is running into London. I feel such a despair, so hopeless, as if it were the end of the world.'
`Really!' said Gerald. `And does the end of the world frighten you?'
Birkin lifted his shoulders in a slow shrug.
`I don't know,' he said. `It does while it hangs imminent and doesn't fall. But people give me a bad feeling -- very bad.'
There was a roused glad smile in Gerald's eyes.
`Do they?' he said. And he watched the other man critically.
In a few minutes the train was running through the disgrace of outspread London. Everybody in the carriage was on the alert, waiting to escape. At last they were under the huge arch of the station, in the tremendous shadow of the town. Birkin shut himself together -- he was in now.
The two men went together in a taxi-cab.
`Don't you feel like one of the damned?' asked Birkin, as they sat in a little, swiftly-running enclosure, and watched the hideous great street.
`No,' laughed Gerald.
`It is real death,' said Birkin.
一天,伯金奉诏去伦敦。他并不怎么常在家。他在诺丁汉有住所,因为他的工作主要是在诺丁汉开展。但他常去伦敦或牛津。他的流动性很大,他的生活似乎不稳定,没有任何固定的节奏,没有任何有机意义。
在火车站月台上,他看到杰拉德·克里奇正在读报纸,很明显他是在等火车。伯金站在远处的人群中,他的本性决定了他不会率先接近别人。
杰拉德时不时地抬起头四下张望,这是他的习惯。尽管他在认真地看报,但他必须监视四周。似乎他头脑中流动着两股意识。他一边思考着从报上看到的东西,冥思苦想着,一边盯着周围的生活,什么也逃不出他的眼睛。伯金远远地看着他,对他这种双重功能很生气。伯金还注意到,尽管杰拉德的社交举止异常温和,他似乎总在防着别人。
杰拉德看到了他,脸上露出悦色,走过来向他伸出手,这让伯金为之一振。
“你好,卢伯特,去哪儿呀?”
“伦敦。我猜你也去伦敦吧?”
“是的——”
杰拉德好奇地扫视一下伯金的脸。
“如果你愿意,咱们一起旅行吧。”他说。
“你不是常常要坐头等车厢吗?”伯金问。
“那是因为我无法挤在人群中,”杰拉德说,“不过三等也行。车上有一节餐车,我们可以到那儿去喝茶。”
再没什么可说的了,两个人只好都把目光投向车站上的挂钟。
“报纸上说什么?”伯金问。
杰拉德迅速扫了伯金一眼,说:
“瞧报上登的多么有趣儿吧,有两位领袖人物——”他扬扬手中的《每日电讯报》说,“全是报纸上日常的行话——”他往下看着那个专栏说:“瞧这个标题,我不知道你怎么给它起名字,几乎算杂文吧,和这两个领袖人物一齐登了出来,说非得有一个人崛起,他会给予事物以新的价值,告诉我们新的真理,让我们对生活有新的态度,否则不出几年,我们就会消亡,国家就会毁灭——”
“我觉得那也有点报纸腔。”伯金说。
“听起来这人说得挺诚恳的。”杰拉德说。
“给我看看,”伯金说着伸手要报纸。
火车来了,他们两人上了餐车,找了一个靠窗口的桌子,相对坐下来。伯金浏览了一下报纸,然后抬头看看杰拉德,杰拉德正等他说话。
“我相信这人说的是这意思。”他说。
“你认为他的话可靠吗?你认为我们真需要一部新的福音书吗?”杰拉德问。
伯金耸了耸肩膀,说:
“我认为那些标榜新宗教的人最难接受新事物。他们需要的是新奇。可是话又说回来了,谛视我们的生活,我们或自做自受、或自暴自弃,可要让我们绝对地打碎自身的旧偶像我们是不会干的。你在新的没有出现之前无论如何先要摆脱旧的,甚至旧的自我。”
杰拉德凝视着伯金。
“你认为我们应该毁掉这种生活,立即开始飞腾吗?”他问。
“这种生活。对,我要这样。我们必须彻底摧毁它,或者令它从内部枯萎,就象让一张紧绷绷的皮萎缩一样。它已经无法膨胀了。”
杰拉德的目光中透着一丝奇怪的笑意,他很开心,人显得平静而古怪。
“那你打算怎么开始?我想你的意思是改良整个社会制度?”他说。
伯金微微皱起了眉头。他对这种谈话也感到不耐烦了。
“我压根儿没什么打算,”他回答,“当我们真地要奔向更好的东西时,我们就要打碎旧的。不打碎旧的,任何建议对于妄自尊大的人来说都不过是令人作呕的把戏。”
杰拉德眼中的微笑开始消失了,他冷冷地看着伯金说:
“你真把事情看得那么糟吗?”
“一团糟。”
杰拉德眼中又浮上了笑意。
“在哪方面?”
“各个方面,”伯金说,“我们是一些意气消沉的骗子。我们的观念之一就是自欺欺人。我们理想中的世界是完美的,廉洁、正直、充实。于是我们不惜把地球搞得很肮脏;生活成了一种劳动污染,就象昆虫在污泥浊水中穿行一样。这样,你的矿工家的客厅里才能有钢琴,你现代化的住宅里才会有男仆和摩托车,作为一个国家,我们才会有里兹饭店或帝国饭店,才会有《加比·戴斯里斯》或《星期日》这样的大报社。
这让人多么丧气。”
这通激烈的言词让杰拉德好久才明白过来。
“你认为我们生活没有房屋行吗?要重返自然吗?”他问。
“我什么都不想要,只想让人们想做什么就做什么——能做什么就做什么。如果他们能有一番别的什么作为,世界就是另一种样子了。”
杰拉德思忖着。他并不想得罪伯金。
“难道你不认为矿工家的钢琴象征着某种非常真实的东西吗?它象征着矿工高层次的生活?”
“高层次!”伯金叫道,“是的,高层次。令人吃惊的高级奢侈品。有了这个,他就可在周围的矿工眼里变得高人一等了。他是通过自己反射在邻人中的影子才认识自己,如同布罗肯峰上的幽灵①一样。他有钢琴支撑着自己,高人一头,因此得到了满足。你也是这样。一旦你对人类变得举足轻重了,你对你自己也变得举足轻重。为此你在矿上工作很卖力。如果你一天生产的煤可以做五千份饭菜,你的身价就比你做自己的一份饭菜提高了五千倍。”
①布罗肯峰上的幽灵:布罗肯峰是德国萨克森地区哈兹山脉的最高峰,上面可以产生幻景,观众的身影被放大并反射到对面山顶的雾幕上。
“我想是这样的。”杰拉德笑道。
“你不明白吗,”伯金说,“帮助我的邻居吃喝倒不如我自己吃喝。‘我吃,你吃,他吃,我们吃,你们吃,他们吃’,还有什么?人们为什么要将吃这个动词变格呢?第一人称单数对我来说就够了。”
“你应该把物质的东西摆在第一位,”杰拉德说,但伯金对他的话没有在意。
“我必须为什么活着,我们不是牛,吃草就可以满足。”杰拉德说。
“告诉我,”伯金说,“你为什么活着?”
杰拉德露出一脸的困惑表情。
“我为什么活着?”他重复道,“我想我活着是为了工作,为了生产些什么,因为我是个有目的的人。除此之外,我活着是因为我是个活人。”
“那什么是你的工作呢?你的工作就是每天从地下挖出几千吨煤来。等我们有了足够的煤,有了豪华的家具和钢琴,吃饱了炖兔肉,解决了温饱问题后又听年轻女人弹钢琴,然后怎么样?当你在物质上有了真正良好的开端后,你还准备做什么?”
杰拉德对伯金的话和讽刺性的幽默持嘲笑态度。不过他也在思索。
“我们还没到那一步呢,”他回答,“还有很多人仍然没有兔肉吃,没有东西烧火来炖兔肉。”
“你的意思是说,你挖煤时,我就该去捉兔子?”伯金嘲笑着说。
“有那么点意思。”杰拉德说。
伯金眯起眼来看着杰拉德。他看得出,杰拉德虽然脾气好,但人很阴冷,他甚至从他那夸夸其谈的道德论中看出了某种奇怪、恶毒的东西在闪动。
“杰拉德,”他说,“我真恨你。”
“我知道,”杰拉德说,“为什么呢?”
伯金不可思议地思忖了一会儿说:
“我倒想知道,你是否也恨我。你是否有意与我作对——
莫名其妙地恨我?有时我恨透你了。”
杰拉德吃了一惊,甚至有点不知所措。他简直瞠目结舌了。
“我或许有时恨过你,”他说,“但我没意识到——从来没什么敏感的意识,就这么回事。”
“那更不好。”伯金说。
杰拉德奇怪地看着他,他弄不明白。
“那不是更坏吗?”他重复道。
火车在继续前行,两个人都沉默了。伯金的脸上挂着一副恼怒的紧张表情,眉头皱得紧紧的。杰拉德小心翼翼地看着他,猜度着,弄不清伯金要说什么。
突然伯金直直地、有力地看着杰拉德的眼睛,问:
“你认为什么是你生活的目标和目的呢?”
杰拉德又一次感到惊诧,他弄不明白这位朋友的意思。他是否在开玩笑?
“我一时可说不清。”他有点讽刺地说。
“你认为活着就是生活的全部吗?”伯金直接了当、极其严肃地问。
“你说的是我自己的生活吗?”杰拉德问。
“是的。”
杰拉德果然真地困惑了。
“我说不清,”杰拉德说,“现在我的生活还没定型。”
“那么,至今你的生活是什么样的呢?”
“哦,发现事物,取得经验,干成一些事。”
伯金皱起眉头,脸皱得象一块棱角分明的钢模。
“我发现,”他说,“一个人需要某种真正、单纯的个人行动——爱就是如此。可我并不真爱哪个人——至少现在没有。”
“难道你就没有真正爱过什么人?”杰拉德问。
“有,也没有。”伯金说。
“还没最后定下来?”杰拉德说。
“最后,最后?没有。”伯金说。
“我也一样。”杰拉德说。
“那么你想这样吗?”伯金问。
杰拉德目光闪烁,嘲弄的目光久久地与伯金的目光对视着,说:
“我不知道。”
“可我知道,我要去爱。”伯金说。
“真的?”
“是的。我需要决定性的爱。”
“决定性的爱。”杰拉德重复道。
“只一个女人吗?”杰拉德补充问。晚上的灯光在田野上洒下一路桔黄色,照着伯金紧张、茫然、坚定的面庞。杰拉德仍然摸不透伯金。
“是的,一个女人。”伯金说。
可杰拉德却以为伯金这不是自信,不过是固执罢了。
“我不相信,一个女人,只一个女人就能构成我的生活内容。”杰拉德说。
“难道连你和一个女人之间的爱也不行吗?这可是构成生活的核心问题。”伯金说。
杰拉德眯起眼睛看着伯金,有点怪模怪样、阴险地笑道:
“我从来没那种感觉。”
“没有吗?那么你生活的中心点是什么?”
“我不知道,我正想有个人告诉我呢。就我目前来说,我的生活还根本没有中心点,只是被社会的结构人为地撮合着不破裂就行了。”
伯金思索着,觉得自己似乎要打碎点什么。
“我知道,”他说,“它恰恰没有中心点。旧的意识象指甲一样死了——丝毫不留。对我来说,似乎只有与一个女人完美的结合是永恒的,这是一种崇高的婚姻,除此之外别的什么都没价值。”
“你是否说,如果没有这个女人就没有一切了呢?”杰拉德问。
“太对了,连上帝都没有。”
“那我们就没出路了。”杰拉德说。他扭过脸去看着车窗外,金色的田野飞驰而过。
伯金不得不承认杰拉德的脸既漂亮又英俊,但他强作漠然不去看。
“你认为这对我们没什么好处吗?”伯金问。
“是的,如果我们非要从一个女人那里讨生活,仅仅从一个女人那里,这对我们没什么好处。”杰拉德说,“我不相信我会那样生活。”
伯金几乎愤愤地看着杰拉德说:
“你天生来就什么都不信。”
“我只相信我所感受到的,”杰拉德说。说着他又用那双闪着蓝光、颇有男子气的眼睛嘲弄地看了看伯金。伯金的眼睛此时燃着怒火,但不一会儿,这目光又变得烦恼、疑虑,然后漾起了温和、热情的笑意。
“这太让我苦恼了,杰拉德。”伯金皱皱眉头说。
“我看得出,”杰拉德说着嘴角上闪过男子气十足的漂亮的微笑。
杰拉德身不由己地被伯金吸引着。他想接近他,想受到他的影响。在伯金身上有什么地方跟他很相似。但是,除此之外他没注意到太多别的。他感到他杰拉德怀有别人不知道的、更经得起考验的真理,他感到自己比伯金年长识广。但他喜爱朋友伯金身上那一触即发的热情、生命力和闪光、热烈的言辞。他欣赏伯金的口才和迅速表达交流感情的能力,但伯金所谈的真正含义他并没有真正思索过,他知道他弄不懂,思索也没用。
对这一点,伯金心里明白。他知道杰拉德喜欢自己但并不看重自己。这让他对杰拉德很冷酷。火车在前进,伯金看着外面的田野,杰拉德被忘却了,对他来说杰拉德不存在了。
伯金看着田野和夜空,思忖着:“如果人类遭到了毁灭,如果我们这个种族象索德姆城①一样遭到毁灭,但夜晚仍然这么美丽,田野和森林依然这么美好,我也会感到满足的,因为那通风报信者还在,永远不会失去。总之,人类不过是那未知世界的一种表现形式。如果人类消失了,这只能说明这种特殊的表现形式完成了,完结了。得到表现的和将被表现的是不会消逝了,它就在这明丽的夜晚中。让人类消失吧,由时间来决定。创造的声音是不会终止的,它们只会存在于时间之中。人类并不能体现那未知世界的意义。人类是一个僵死的字母。会有一种新的体现方式,以一种新的形式。让人类尽快消失吧。”
杰拉德打断他的话问:
“你在伦敦住哪儿?”
伯金抬起头答道:
“住在索赫区②一个人家中。我租了一间房,什么时候都可以去住。”
①《创世纪》中记载的上帝毁灭的城市。
②伦敦一闹市区,餐馆很多。
“这主意不错,好歹算你自己的地方。”杰拉德说。
“是的。不过我并不那么注重这个,我对那些不得不去打交道的人感到厌倦了。”
“哪些人?”
“艺术家——音乐家——伦敦那帮放荡不羁的文人们,那帮小里小气,精打细算、斤斤计较的艺术家们。不过也有那么几个人挺体面,在某些方面算得上体面人。这些人是彻底的厌世者,或许他们活着的目的就是与这个世界作对,否定一切,他们的态度可算够消极的。”
“他们都是干什么的?画家,音乐家?”
“画家、音乐家、作家——一批食客,还有模特儿,好样的,他们与传统公开决裂,但又没有特定的归属。他们大多都是些大学生,也有独立谋生的女人。”
“都很放荡吗?”
伯金看得出杰拉德的好奇心上来了。
“可以这么说,但大多数还是严肃的。别看挺骇人听闻,其实都一回事。”
他看看杰拉德,发现他的蓝眼睛中闪烁着一小团好奇的欲望之火。他还发现,他长得太漂亮了。杰拉德很迷人,他似乎血运很旺盛,令人动心。他那蓝色的目光尖锐而冷漠,他身上有一种特定的美,那是一种忍从的美。
“我们是否可以看看他们各自的千秋?我要在伦敦逗留二、三天呢。”杰拉德说。
“行,”伯金说,“我可不想去剧院或音乐厅,你最好来看看海里戴和他的那帮人吧。”
“谢谢,我会去的,”杰拉德笑道,“今晚你做什么?”
“我约海里戴去庞巴多,那地方不怎么样,可又没有别的地方可聚。”
“在哪儿?”杰拉德问。
“在皮卡迪利广场。”
“哦,那儿呀,呣,我可以去吗?”
“当然,你会很开心的。”
夜幕降临了,火车已过了贝德福德。伯金望着窗外的原野,心中感到十分失望。每到临近伦敦时,他都会产生这种感觉。他对人类的厌恶,对云云众生的厌恶,几乎变成了一块心病。
“‘宁静绚丽的黄昏
在幽远幽远的地方微笑——’”①
他象一个被判了死刑的人一样自言自语着。杰拉德细微的感觉被触醒了,他倾着身子笑问:
“你说什么呢?”伯金瞟了他一眼,笑着又重复道:
“‘宁静绚丽的黄昏
在幽远幽远的地方微笑,
田野上羊儿
在打盹——②’”
①、② 勃朗宁夫人诗《废墟上的爱》。
杰拉德现在也看着田野。伯金不知为什么现在感到疲劳和沮丧,对杰拉德说:
“每当火车驶近伦敦时,我就感到厄运将临。我感到那么绝望:那么失望,似乎这是世界的末日。”
“真的!”杰拉德说,“世界的末日让你感到恐惧吗?”
伯金微微耸了一下肩。
“我不知道。”他说,“当世界即将塌陷而又没有塌陷时才让人感到恐惧。可是人们给我的感觉太坏了,太坏了。”
杰拉德的眼睛中闪过兴奋的微笑。
“是吗?”他审视地看着伯金说。
几分钟后,火车穿行在丑恶的大伦敦市区里了。车厢中的人们都振作起精神准备下车了。最终火车驶进了巨大拱顶笼罩下的火车站,来到伦敦城巨大的阴影中。伯金下了车,到了。
两个人一齐进了一辆出租汽车。
“你是否感到象要进地狱了?”伯金问道。他们坐在这小小的迅速疾行着的空间里,看着外面丑陋的大街。
“不,”杰拉德笑道。
“这是真正的死亡。”伯金说。
欢迎访问英文小说网http://novel.tingroom.com |