Chapter 26 A Chair

THERE WAS a jumble market every Monday afternoon in the old market-place in town. Ursula and Birkin strayed down there one afternoon. They had been talking of furniture, and they wanted to see if there was any fragment they would like to buy, amid the heaps of rubbish collected on the cobble-stones.

The old market-square was not very large, a mere bare patch of granite setts, usually with a few fruit-stalls under a wall. It was in a poor quarter of the town. Meagre houses stood down one side, there was a hosiery factory, a great blank with myriad oblong windows, at the end, a street of little shops with flagstone pavement down the other side, and, for a crowning monument, the public baths, of new red brick, with a clocktower. The people who moved about seemed stumpy and sordid, the air seemed to smell rather dirty, there was a sense of many mean streets ramifying off into warrens of meanness. Now and again a great chocolateand-yellow tramcar ground round a difficult bend under the hosiery factory.

Ursula was superficially thrilled when she found herself out among the common people, in the jumbled place piled with old bedding, heaps of old iron, shabby crockery in pale lots, muffled lots of unthinkable clothing. She and Birkin went unwillingly down the narrow aisle between the rusty wares. He was looking at the goods, she at the people.

She excitedly watched a young woman, who was going to have a baby, and who was turning over a mattress and making a young man, down-atheel and dejected, feel it also. So secretive and active and anxious the young woman seemed, so reluctant, slinking, the young man. He was going to marry her because she was having a child.

When they had felt the mattress, the young woman asked the old man seated on a stool among his wares, how much it was. He told her, and she turned to the young man. The latter was ashamed, and selfconscious. He turned his face away, though he left his body standing there, and muttered aside. And again the woman anxiously and actively fingered the mattress and added up in her mind and bargained with the old, unclean man. All the while, the young man stood by, shamefaced and down-at-heel, submitting.

`Look,' said Birkin, `there is a pretty chair.'

`Charming!' cried Ursula. `Oh, charming.'

It was an arm-chair of simple wood, probably birch, but of such fine delicacy of grace, standing there on the sordid stones, it almost brought tears to the eyes. It was square in shape, of the purest, slender lines, and four short lines of wood in the back, that reminded Ursula of harpstrings.

`It was once,' said Birkin, `gilded -- and it had a cane seat. Somebody has nailed this wooden seat in. Look, here is a trifle of the red that underlay the gilt. The rest is all black, except where the wood is worn pure and glossy. It is the fine unity of the lines that is so attractive. Look, how they run and meet and counteract. But of course the wooden seat is wrong -- it destroys the perfect lightness and unity in tension the cane gave. I like it though --'

`Ah yes,' said Ursula, `so do I.'

`How much is it?' Birkin asked the man.

`Ten shillings.'

`And you will send it --?'

It was bought.

`So beautiful, so pure!' Birkin said. `It almost breaks my heart.' They walked along between the heaps of rubbish. `My beloved country -- it had something to express even when it made that chair.'

`And hasn't it now?' asked Ursula. She was always angry when he took this tone.

`No, it hasn't. When I see that clear, beautiful chair, and I think of England, even Jane Austen's England -- it had living thoughts to unfold even then, and pure happiness in unfolding them. And now, we can only fish among the rubbish heaps for the remnants of their old expression. There is no production in us now, only sordid and foul mechanicalness.'

`It isn't true,' cried Ursula. `Why must you always praise the past, at the expense of the present? Really, I don't think so much of Jane Austen's England. It was materialistic enough, if you like --'

`It could afford to be materialistic,' said Birkin, `because it had the power to be something other -- which we haven't. We are materialistic because we haven't the power to be anything else -- try as we may, we can't bring off anything but materialism: mechanism, the very soul of materialism.'

Ursula was subdued into angry silence. She did not heed what he said. She was rebelling against something else.

`And I hate your past. I'm sick of it,' she cried. `I believe I even hate that old chair, though it is beautiful. It isn't my sort of beauty. I wish it had been smashed up when its day was over, not left to preach the beloved past to us. I'm sick of the beloved past.'

`Not so sick as I am of the accursed present,' he said.

`Yes, just the same. I hate the present -- but I don't want the past to take its place -- I don't want that old chair.'

He was rather angry for a moment. Then he looked at the sky shining beyond the tower of the public baths, and he seemed to get over it all. He laughed.

`All right,' he said, `then let us not have it. I'm sick of it all, too. At any rate one can't go on living on the old bones of beauty.'

`One can't,' she cried. `I don't want old things.'

`The truth is, we don't want things at all,' he replied. `The thought of a house and furniture of my own is hateful to me.'

This startled her for a moment. Then she replied:

`So it is to me. But one must live somewhere.'

`Not somewhere -- anywhere,' he said. `One should just live anywhere -not have a definite place. I don't want a definite place. As soon as you get a room, and it is complete, you want to run from it. Now my rooms at the Mill are quite complete, I want them at the bottom of the sea. It is a horrible tyranny of a fixed milieu, where each piece of furniture is a commandment-stone.'

She clung to his arm as they walked away from the market.

`But what are we going to do?' she said. `We must live somehow. And I do want some beauty in my surroundings. I want a sort of natural grandeur even, splendour.'

`You'll never get it in houses and furniture -- or even clothes. Houses and furniture and clothes, they are all terms of an old base world, a detestable society of man. And if you have a Tudor house and old, beautiful furniture, it is only the past perpetuated on top of you, horrible. And if you have a perfect modern house done for you by Poiret, it is something else perpetuated on top of you. It is all horrible. It is all possessions, possessions, bullying you and turning you into a generalisation. You have to be like Rodin, Michelangelo, and leave a piece of raw rock unfinished to your figure. You must leave your surroundings sketchy, unfinished, so that you are never contained, never confined, never dominated from the outside.'

She stood in the street contemplating.

`And we are never to have a complete place of our own -- never a home?' she said.

`Pray God, in this world, no,' he answered.

`But there's only this world,' she objected.

He spread out his hands with a gesture of indifference.

`Meanwhile, then, we'll avoid having things of our own,' he said.

`But you've just bought a chair,' she said.

`I can tell the man I don't want it,' he replied.

She pondered again. Then a queer little movement twitched her face.

`No,' she said, `we don't want it. I'm sick of old things.'

`New ones as well,' he said.

They retraced their steps.

There -- in front of some furniture, stood the young couple, the woman who was going to have a baby, and the narrow-faced youth. She was fair, rather short, stout. He was of medium height, attractively built. His dark hair fell sideways over his brow, from under his cap, he stood strangely aloof, like one of the damned.

`Let us give it to them,' whispered Ursula. `Look they are getting a home together.'

`I won't aid abet them in it,' he said petulantly, instantly sympathising with the aloof, furtive youth, against the active, procreant female.

`Oh yes,' cried Ursula. `It's right for them -- there's nothing else for them.'

`Very well,' said Birkin, `you offer it to them. I'll watch.'

Ursula went rather nervously to the young couple, who were discussing an iron washstand -- or rather, the man was glancing furtively and wonderingly, like a prisoner, at the abominable article, whilst the woman was arguing.

`We bought a chair,' said Ursula, `and we don't want it. Would you have it? We should be glad if you would.'

The young couple looked round at her, not believing that she could be addressing them.

`Would you care for it?' repeated Ursula. `It's really very pretty -- but -but --' she smiled rather dazzlingly.

The young couple only stared at her, and looked significantly at each other, to know what to do. And the man curiously obliterated himself, as if he could make himself invisible, as a rat can.

`We wanted to give it to you,' explained Ursula, now overcome with confusion and dread of them. She was attracted by the young man. He was a still, mindless creature, hardly a man at all, a creature that the towns have produced, strangely pure-bred and fine in one sense, furtive, quick, subtle. His lashes were dark and long and fine over his eyes, that had no mind in them, only a dreadful kind of subject, inward consciousness, glazed and dark. His dark brows and all his lines, were finely drawn. He would be a dreadful, but wonderful lover to a woman, so marvellously contributed. His legs would be marvellously subtle and alive, under the shapeless, trousers, he had some of the fineness and stillness and silkiness of a dark-eyed, silent rat.

Ursula had apprehended him with a fine frisson of attraction. The full-built woman was staring offensively. Again Ursula forgot him.

`Won't you have the chair?' she said.

The man looked at her with a sideways look of appreciation, yet faroff, almost insolent. The woman drew herself up. There was a certain costermonger richness about her. She did not know what Ursula was after, she was on her guard, hostile. Birkin approached, smiling wickedly at seeing Ursula so nonplussed and frightened.

`What's the matter?' he said, smiling. His eyelids had dropped slightly, there was about him the same suggestive, mocking secrecy that was in the bearing of the two city creatures. The man jerked his head a little on one side, indicating Ursula, and said, with curious amiable, jeering warmth:

`What she warnt? -- eh?' An odd smile writhed his lips.

Birkin looked at him from under his slack, ironical eyelids.

`To give you a chair -- that -- with the label on it,' he said, pointing.

The man looked at the object indicated. There was a curious hostility in male, outlawed understanding between the two men.

`What's she warnt to give it us for, guvnor,' he replied, in a tone of free intimacy that insulted Ursula.

`Thought you'd like it -- it's a pretty chair. We bought it and don't want it. No need for you to have it, don't be frightened,' said Birkin, with a wry smile.

The man glanced up at him, half inimical, half recognising.

`Why don't you want it for yourselves, if you've just bought it?' asked the woman coolly. `'Taint good enough for you, now you've had a look at it. Frightened it's got something in it, eh?'

She was looking at Ursula, admiringly, but with some resentment.

`I'd never thought of that,' said Birkin. `But no, the wood's too thin everywhere.'

`You see,' said Ursula, her face luminous and pleased. `We are just going to get married, and we thought we'd buy things. Then we decided, just now, that we wouldn't have furniture, we'd go abroad.'

The full-built, slightly blowsy city girl looked at the fine face of the other woman, with appreciation. They appreciated each other. The youth stood aside, his face expressionless and timeless, the thin line of the black moustache drawn strangely suggestive over his rather wide, closed mouth. He was impassive, abstract, like some dark suggestive presence, a gutter-presence.

`It's all right to be some folks,' said the city girl, turning to her own young man. He did not look at her, but he smiled with the lower part of his face, putting his head aside in an odd gesture of assent. His eyes were unchanging, glazed with darkness.

`Cawsts something to change your mind,' he said, in an incredibly low accent.

`Only ten shillings this time,' said Birkin.

The man looked up at him with a grimace of a smile, furtive, unsure.

`Cheap at 'arf a quid, guvnor,' he said. `Not like getting divawced.'

`We're not married yet,' said Birkin.

`No, no more aren't we,' said the young woman loudly. `But we shall be, a Saturday.'

Again she looked at the young man with a determined, protective look, at once overbearing and very gentle. He grinned sicklily, turning away his head. She had got his manhood, but Lord, what did he care! He had a strange furtive pride and slinking singleness.

`Good luck to you,' said Birkin.

`Same to you,' said the young woman. Then, rather tentatively: `When's yours coming off, then?'

Birkin looked round at Ursula.

`It's for the lady to say,' he replied. `We go to the registrar the moment she's ready.'

Ursula laughed, covered with confusion and bewilderment.

`No 'urry,' said the young man, grinning suggestive.

`Oh, don't break your neck to get there,' said the young woman. `'Slike when you're dead -- you're long time married.'

The young man turned aside as if this hit him.

`The longer the better, let us hope,' said Birkin.

`That's it, guvnor,' said the young man admiringly. `Enjoy it while it larsts -- niver whip a dead donkey.'

`Only when he's shamming dead,' said the young woman, looking at her young man with caressive tenderness of authority.

`Aw, there's a difference,' he said satirically.

`What about the chair?' said Birkin.

`Yes, all right,' said the woman.

They trailed off to the dealer, the handsome but abject young fellow hanging a little aside.

`That's it,' said Birkin. `Will you take it with you, or have the address altered.'

`Oh, Fred can carry it. Make him do what he can for the dear old 'ome.'

`Mike use of'im,' said Fred, grimly humorous, as he took the chair from the dealer. His movements were graceful, yet curiously abject, slinking.

`'Ere's mother's cosy chair,' he said. `Warnts a cushion.' And he stood it down on the market stones.

`Don't you think it's pretty?' laughed Ursula.

`Oh, I do,' said the young woman.

`'Ave a sit in it, you'll wish you'd kept it,' said the young man.

Ursula promptly sat down in the middle of the market-place.

`Awfully comfortable,' she said. `But rather hard. You try it.' She invited the young man to a seat. But he turned uncouthly, awkwardly aside, glancing up at her with quick bright eyes, oddly suggestive, like a quick, live rat.

`Don't spoil him,' said the young woman. `He's not used to arm-chairs, 'e isn't.

The young man turned away, and said, with averted grin:

`Only warnts legs on 'is.'

The four parted. The young woman thanked them.

`Thank you for the chair -- it'll last till it gives way.'

`Keep it for an ornyment,' said the young man.

`Good afternoon -- Good afternoon,' said Ursula and Birkin.

`Goo'-luck to you,' said the young man, glancing and avoiding Birkin's eyes, as he turned aside his head.

The two couples went asunder, Ursula clinging to Birkin's arm. When they had gone some distance, she glanced back and saw the young man going beside the full, easy young woman. His trousers sank over his heels, he moved with a sort of slinking evasion, more crushed with odd self-consciousness now he had the slim old arm-chair to carry, his arm over the back, the four fine, square tapering legs swaying perilously near the granite setts of the pavement. And yet he was somewhere indomitable and separate, like a quick, vital rat. He had a queer, subterranean beauty, repulsive too.

`How strange they are!' said Ursula.

`Children of men,' he said. `They remind me of Jesus: "The meek shall inherit the earth."'

`But they aren't the meek,' said Ursula.

`Yes, I don't know why, but they are,' he replied.

They waited for the tramcar. Ursula sat on top and looked out on the town. The dusk was just dimming the hollows of crowded houses.

`And are they going to inherit the earth?' she said.

`Yes -- they.'

`Then what are we going to do?' she asked. `We're not like them -- are we? We're not the meek?'

`No. We've got to live in the chinks they leave us.'

`How horrible!' cried Ursula. `I don't want to live in chinks.'

`Don't worry,' he said. `They are the children of men, they like marketplaces and street-corners best. That leaves plenty of chinks.'

`All the world,' she said.

`Ah no -- but some room.'

The tramcar mounted slowly up the hill, where the ugly winter-grey masses of houses looked like a vision of hell that is cold and angular. They sat and looked. Away in the distance was an angry redness of sunset. It was all cold, somehow small, crowded, and like the end of the world.

`I don't mind it even then,' said Ursula, looking at the repulsiveness of it all. `It doesn't concern me.'

`No more it does,' he replied, holding her hand. `One needn't see. One goes one's way. In my world it is sunny and spacious --'

`It is, my love, isn't it?' she cried, hugging near to him on the top of the tramcar, so that the other passengers stared at them.

`And we will wander about on the face of the earth,' he said, `and we'll look at the world beyond just this bit.'

There was a long silence. Her face was radiant like gold, as she sat thinking.

`I don't want to inherit the earth,' she said. `I don't want to inherit anything.'

He closed his hand over hers.

`Neither do I. I want to be disinherited.'

She clasped his fingers closely.

`We won't care about anything,' she said.

He sat still, and laughed.

`And we'll be married, and have done with them,' she added.

Again he laughed.

`It's one way of getting rid of everything,' she said, `to get married.'

`And one way of accepting the whole world,' he added.

`A whole other world, yes,' she said happily.

`Perhaps there's Gerald -- and Gudrun --' he said.

`If there is there is, you see,' she said. `It's no good our worrying. We can't really alter them, can we?'

`No,' he said. `One has no right to try -- not with the best intentions in the world.'

`Do you try to force them?' she asked.

`Perhaps,' he said. `Why should I want him to be free, if it isn't his business?'

She paused for a time.

`We can't make him happy, anyhow,' she said. `He'd have to be it of himself.'

`I know,' he said. `But we want other people with us, don't we?'

`Why should we?' she asked.

`I don't know,' he said uneasily. `One has a hankering after a sort of further fellowship.'

`But why?' she insisted. `Why should you hanker after other people? Why should you need them?'

This hit him right on the quick. His brows knitted.

`Does it end with just our two selves?' he asked, tense.

`Yes -- what more do you want? If anybody likes to come along, let them. But why must you run after them?'

His face was tense and unsatisfied.

`You see,' he said, `I always imagine our being really happy with some few other people -- a little freedom with people.'

She pondered for a moment.

`Yes, one does want that. But it must happen. You can't do anything for it with your will. You always seem to think you can force the flowers to come out. People must love us because they love us -- you can't make them.'

`I know,' he said. `But must one take no steps at all? Must one just go as if one were alone in the world -- the only creature in the world?'

`You've got me,' she said. `Why should you need others? Why must you force people to agree with you? Why can't you be single by yourself, as you are always saying? You try to bully Gerald -- as you tried to bully Hermione. You must learn to be alone. And it's so horrid of you. You've got me. And yet you want to force other people to love you as well. You do try to bully them to love you. And even then, you don't want their love.'

His face was full of real perplexity.

`Don't I?' he said. `It's the problem I can't solve. I know I want a perfect and complete relationship with you: and we've nearly got it -- we really have. But beyond that. Do I want a real, ultimate relationship with Gerald? Do I want a final, almost extra-human relationship with him -- a relationship in the ultimate of me and him -- or don't I?'

She looked at him for a long time, with strange bright eyes, but she did not answer.

 

城里的旧货义卖摊每周一下午在老市场里营业。一天下午厄秀拉和伯金到那儿去了。他在鹅卵石上成堆的旧货中找着，看看能否买到点家具什么的。

老市场所在的广场并不大，不过是一片铺着花岗岩石的空旷地带，平时只在墙根下有几个水果摊。这儿是城里的贫困区。路边有一排简陋的房物，那儿有一家针织厂，一面墙上开着许多椭圆的窗户；街的另一边开着一溜小商店，便道上铺着扁石；显赫的大房子是公共澡堂，是用新红砖砌成的，顶上还有一座钟塔。在这儿转来转去的人们看上去都那么短粗肮脏，空气也污浊，让人觉得是一条条下流不堪的街道。一辆棕黄色的有轨电车不时在针织厂的拐角处艰难地打转。

厄秀拉感到十分兴奋，她竟置身于这些普通人中间，在这些烂七八糟的东西中徜徉着：怪模怪样的床上用品，一堆堆旧铁器、难看的陶器，还有些蒙着盖着的莫名其妙的衣物。她和伯金不大情愿地在这些破烂儿中穿行。他在看旧货，她则在看人。

她看到一位孕妇时，很是激动。那孕妇正摆弄着一张席子，还要那位跟在她身后灰心丧气的小伙子也来摸摸席子。那年轻女人看上去那么神秘，充满活力，还有些焦急，而那小伙子则显得勉勉强强，鬼鬼祟祟的。他要娶她，因为她怀孕了。

他们摸了摸席子后，那年轻女人问坐在杂货堆中的老人席子卖多少钱。老人告诉她多少钱后，她又回头去问小伙子。那小伙子很害羞，挺不好意思的。他扭过脸，嘟哝了一句什么。那女人急迫地摸摸席子盘算了盘算，然后同那脏稀稀的老人讨起价来。这段时间里，那小伙子一直站在一边，露出一副腼腆相，恭敬地听着。

“看，”伯金说，“那儿有一把不错的椅子。”

“漂亮！”厄秀拉叫着：“好漂亮！”

这是一把扶手椅，纯木的，可能是白桦木，可做工极其精巧、典雅，看到它立在肮脏的石子路上，几乎让人心疼得落泪。椅座是方形的，线条纯朴而纤细，靠背上的四根短木柱让厄秀拉想起竖琴的琴弦。

“这椅子，”伯金说，“曾经镀过金，椅背是藤做的。后来有人钉上了这个木椅背。看，这就是镀金下面的一点红颜色。其余的部分都是黑的，除了黑漆掉了的地方。这些木柱样式很和谐，很迷人。看，它们的走向，它们衔接得多好。当然，木椅背这样安上去不对，它破坏了原先藤椅背的轻巧和整体的浑然。不过，我还是喜欢它。”

“对，”厄秀拉说，“我也喜欢。”

“多少钱？”伯金问卖主。

“十先令。”

“包送——”

他们买下了椅子。

“太漂亮，太纯朴了！”伯金说，“让我太高兴了。”他们边说边从破烂儿中穿过。“我们国家太可爱了，连这把椅子都曾表达点什么。”

“现在它就不表达什么吗？”厄秀拉问。每当伯金用这种口气说话，她就生气。

“不，什么也不表达。当我看到那把明亮、漂亮的椅子时，我就会想起英格兰，甚至是简·奥斯汀时期的英格兰——这椅子甚至表达了活生生的思想，欢快地表达着。可如今，我们只能在成堆的破烂儿中寻觅旧的情绪。我们没有一点创造性，我们身上只有肮脏、卑下的机械性。”

“不对！”厄秀拉叫道，“你为什么总要贬低现在抬高过去？真的，我并不怎么怀念简·奥斯汀时期的英格兰，太物质化了——”

“它能够物质化，”伯金说，“它有足够的力量改变社会。我们也物质化，那是因为我们无力改变社会，不管我们怎样尝试，我们一事无成，只能达到物质主义，它的核心就是机械。”

厄秀拉忍耐着，一言不发。她没听他都说些什么。她在反抗。

“我讨厌你的过去，它让人恶心，”她叫道，“我甚至仇恨那把旧椅子，别看它挺漂亮。它不是我喜欢的那种美。我希望，它那个时代一过就砸烂它，别让它老对我们宣扬那可爱的过去，让我讨厌。”

“我对可咒的现在更讨厌。”他说。

“一样。我也讨厌现在，可我不希望让过去代替现在，我不要那把旧椅子。”

他一时间气坏了。他看看阳光下澡堂上的钟楼，似乎忘掉了一切，又笑了。

“好吧，”他说，“不要就不要吧。我也讨厌它了。不管怎么说，人不能靠欣赏过去的美过日子。”

“是不能，”她叫道，“我不要旧东西。”

“说实在的吧，”他说，“我们什么也不要要。一想到我自己的房子和家具，我就厌烦。”

这话让她吃了一惊，然后她说：

“我也这样。可一个人总得有个地方住。”

“不是某个地方，是任何地方。”他说。“一个人应该在任何地方都可以住，而不是固定在一个地方。我不需要某个固定的地方。一旦你有了一间屋，你就完了，你巴不得离开那儿。我在磨房那儿的房子就挺完美，可我希望它们沉到海底中去。那固定的环境着实可怕，着实霸道，每一件家具都向你发布着命令。”

她依傍着他离开了市场。

“可我们怎么办呢？”她说，“我们总得生活呀。我的确需要我的环境美一些。我甚至需要某种自然奇观。”

“你在房屋、家具甚至衣物中永远得不到这些。房屋、家具和衣物，都是旧社会的产物，令人生厌。如果你有一座都铎王朝式①的房子和漂亮的旧家具，你这不过是让过去永远地存在于你之上。如果你有一座波依莱特②设计的现代房屋，这是另一种永恒压迫着你。这一切都很可怕。这些都是占有，占有，威慑你，让你变得一般化。你应该象罗丹和米开朗基罗那样，一块石头雕不完就完工。你应该让你的环境粗糙、不完美，那样你就不会被它所包容，永不受限制，身处局外，不受它的统治。”

①都铎王朝（１４８５—１４０３）。

②波依莱特（１８７９—１９４３），法国著名时尚设计家，在１９０９—１９１４年间名声显赫。

她站在街上思索着。

“那就是说咱们永远也不会有一个自己的完美住处——

永远没个家？”她说。

“上帝知道，在这个世界上不会有。”他说。

“可只有这一个世界呀。”她反驳说。

他毫不在乎地摊开手。

“同时，我们还要避免有自己的东西。”他说。

“可我们刚买了一把椅子。”她说。

“我可以对那人说我不想要了。”他说。

她思忖着，脸奇怪地一抽动。

“对，我们不要了。我讨厌旧东西。”

“也讨厌新的。”他说。

说完他们又往回走。

又来到家具跟前。那对年轻人依然站在那儿：女的怀孕了，那男人长着长条腿。女人又矮又胖，但挺好看。男人中等个儿，身材很好。他的黑发从帽子下露出来，盖住了眉毛。

他显得很清高，象受了审判的人一样。

“咱们把椅子给他们吧。”厄秀拉喃喃地说，“瞧，他们正要建个家呢。”

“我不支援他们，也不唆使他们买。”他使性子说。他挺同情那个畏畏葸葸的男人，讨厌那个泼辣、生殖力旺盛的女人。

“给他们吧，”厄秀拉叫道，“这椅子对他们很合适——这儿没别的了。”

“那好吧，”伯金说，“你去说，我看着。”

厄秀拉赶紧朝那对年轻人走过去，他们正商量买一个铁盆架子，那男人象个囚犯偷偷摸摸地出神地看着，那女人在讨价还价。

“我们买了一把椅子，”厄秀拉说，“可我们不要了。你们要吗？你们要的话，我将会很高兴。”

那对年轻人回头看着她，不相信她是在跟他们说话。

“你们看看好吗？”厄秀拉说，“确实很好，可是，可是——”她笑了。

那两个人只是看着她，又对视一下，不知怎么办好。那男人奇怪地躲到一边去了，似乎他能够象老鼠一样藏起来。

“我们想把它送给你们，”厄秀拉解释说。她现在有些迷惑不解，也有点怕他们。那小伙子引起了她的注意。他象安祥，而盲目的动物，简直不是个人，他是这种城市的特产，显得单纯、漂亮，又有点鬼鬼祟祟，机灵鬼儿似的。他的眼睫毛又黑又长、倒是还漂亮，但目光茫然，忽闪忽闪地亮着。让人害怕，他的黑眉毛和其它线条勾勒得很好看。对一个女人来说，他会是一个可怕但又十分奇妙的恋人。那合适的裤子肯定包着两条生机勃勃的腿，他象一只黑眼睛的老鼠那样健康、沉静、光滑。

厄秀拉怕他但又迷上了他，浑身不禁震颤起来。那粗壮的女人不怀好意地看着她。于是厄秀拉不再注意他了。

“您要这把椅子吗？”她问。

那男人斜视着她，几乎是无礼地观赏她。那女人紧张起来，样子足象个小贩儿。她不知道厄秀拉要干什么，对她有所戒备。伯金走过来，看到厄秀拉这副窘相和害怕的样子他恶作剧似地笑了。

“怎么了？”他笑问。他的眼皮垂着，那样子象在启发什么，又象在嘲弄人。那男人甩甩头指着厄秀拉用一种奇特和蔼的声调说：

“她要干什么？——啊？”说着他嘴角上露出一丝怪笑。

伯金无精打采地看着他，眼神中不无讽刺。

“送你一把椅子，上面还贴着标签呢。”他指指椅子说。

那男的看看椅子。两个男人之间充满了敌意，难以相互理解。

“她为什么要把椅子给我们？”这随随便便的口气让厄秀拉感到屈辱。

“我以为你会喜欢它，这是一把很漂亮的椅子。我们买下了它，又不想要了。你没有必要非要它不可，别害怕。”伯金疲惫地笑道。

那人瞟了他一眼，虽然并不友好，但还是认可了。

“既然你们买了它，为什么又不要了？”女人冷冷地问，“你们用正好，你最好看一看，别认为这里面有什么玩意儿。”

她很敬重地看着厄秀拉，但目光中不无反感。

“我倒没那么想，”伯金说，“不过，这木头太薄了一点儿。”

“告你说吧，”厄秀拉满脸喜庆地说，“我们马上要结婚，该添置点东西。可我们现在又决定不要家具了，因为我们要出国。”

那粗壮、头发蓬乱的女人羡慕地看着厄秀拉。她们相互欣赏着。那小伙子站在一旁，脸上毫无表情，宽大的嘴巴紧闭着，那一敝小胡子很有性感。他冷淡、茫然，象一个冥冥中的幽灵，一个流浪者样的幽灵。

“这东西还不错，”那女子看看她男人说。男人没说话，只是笑笑，把头偏向一边表示同意。他的目光毫无改变，仍旧黑黑的。

“改变你的主意可不容易。”他声音极低地说。

“只卖十个先令。”伯金说。

那男人看看他，做个鬼脸，畏畏葸葸的，没有把握地说：

“半英镑，是便宜。不是在闹离婚吧？”

“我们还没结婚。”伯金说。

“我们也没有呢，”那年轻女子大声说。“星期六才结呢。”

说话间她又看看那男的，露出保护的神情，既傲慢，又温柔。那男人憨憨地笑了，扭过脸去。她拥有了这个男人，可他又那么满不在乎。他暗自感到骄傲，感到了不起。

“祝你们好运气。”伯金说。

“也祝你们好运气，”那女人说。然后她又试探着问：“你们什么时候结？”

伯金看看厄秀拉说：

“这要由女士来定。只要她准备好了，我们就去登记。”

听到这话厄秀拉迷惑不解地笑了。

“不着急。”那小伙子意味深长地笑道。

“到那儿去就跟要你的命一样，”那女人说。“就跟要死似的，可你都结婚这么久了。”

男人转过身去，似乎这话说中了他。

“越久越好啊。”伯金说。

“是这么回事，”男人羡慕地说，“好好享受，别用鞭子抽一头死驴。”

“可这驴子是在装死，就得抽它。”女人温柔又霸道地看着她的男人。

“哦，这不是一回事。”他调侃道。

“这椅子怎么样？”伯金问。

“嗯，挺好的。”女人说。

说完他们走到卖主跟前，这小伙子挺帅，但有点可怜见的，一直躲在一边。

“就这样，”伯金说，“你们是带走呢还是把标签上的地址改改让他们送去？”

“哦，弗莱德可以搬。为了我们可爱的家，他会这样做的。”

“好好使用我，”弗莱德笑着从卖主手中接过椅子。他的动作很雅观，可有点畏葸。

“这给妈妈坐很舒服，”他说，“就是缺少一个椅垫儿。”

“你不觉得它很漂亮吗？”厄秀拉问。

“当然漂亮。”女人说。

“如果你在里面坐一坐，你就会希望留下它。”小伙子说。

厄秀拉立时坐在椅子中。

“实在舒服，”她说，“可是太硬了点儿，你来试试。”她让小伙子坐进去。可小伙子却露出尴尬相，转过身，明亮的目光奇怪地打量着她，象一只活泼的老鼠。

“别惯坏了他，”女人说，“他坐不惯扶手椅。”

“只想把腿翘起来。”

四个人要分手了。女人向他们表示感谢。

“谢谢你们，这椅子我们会一直用下去。”

“当装饰品。”小伙子说。

“再见——再见了。”厄秀拉和伯金说。

“祝你交好运。”小伙子避开伯金的目光把脸转过去说。

两对儿人分手了。厄秀拉挽着伯金走了一段路又回过头去看那一对儿，只见小伙子正伴着那圆滚滚、很洒脱的女人走着，他的裤角嘟噜着，由于扛着椅子，他走起路来显得很不自然，椅子的四只细腿几乎挨上了花岗石便道。可他象机敏活泼的小老鼠，毫不气馁。他身上有一种潜在的美，当然这样子有点让人生厌。

“他们多么怪啊！”厄秀拉说。

“他们是人的后代，”他说，“他们令我想起了基督的话‘温顺者将继承世界。’”

“可他们并不是这样的人。”厄秀拉说。

他们等电车到了就上去了。厄秀拉坐在上层，望着窗外的城市。黄昏的暮色开始弥漫，笼罩着参差的房屋。

“他们会继承这个世界吗？”她问。

“是的，是他们。”

“那我们怎么办？”她问，“我们跟他们不同，对吗？我们不是软弱的人。”

“不是。我们得在他们的夹缝中生存。”

“太可怕了！”厄秀拉叫道，“我不想在夹缝中生存。”

“别急，”他说，“他们是人的后代，他们最喜欢市场和街角。这样就给我们留下了足够的空间。”

“是整个世界。”她说。

“噢，不，只是一些空间。”

电车爬上了山，这里一片片的房屋灰蒙蒙的，看上去就象地狱中的幻景，冷冰冰、有棱有角。他们坐在车中看着这一切。远方的夕阳象一团红红的怒火。一切都是那么冰冷，渺小，拥挤，象世界末日的图景。

“我才不在乎景致如何呢，”厄秀拉说。她看着这令人不快的景象道：“这跟我没关系。”

“是无所谓，”他拉着她的手说，“你尽可以不去看就是了。

走你的路好了。我自己的世界里正是阳光明媚，无比宽广——”

“对，我的爱人，就是！”她叫着搂紧了他，害得其他乘客直瞪他们二人。

“我们将在地球上恣意游荡，”他说，“我们会看到比这远得多的世界。”

他们沉默了好久。她沉思着的时候，脸象金子一样在闪光。

“我不想继承这个世界，”她说，“我不想继承任何东西。”

他握紧了她的手。

“我也不想，我倒想被剥夺继承权。”

她攥紧了他的手指头。

“咱们什么都不在乎。”她说。

他稳稳地坐着笑了。

“咱们结婚，跟这一切都断绝关系。”她补充说。

他又笑了。

“这是摆脱一切的一种办法，”她说，“那就是结婚。”

“这也是接受整个世界的一种办法。”他补充说。

“另一个世界。”她快活地说。

“或许那儿有杰拉德和戈珍——”他说。

“有就有呗，”她说，“咱们烦恼是没好处的。我们无法改变他们，能吗？”

“不能，”他说，“没有这种权力，即便有最好的动机也不应该这样。”

“那你想强迫他们吗？”她问。

“也许会，”他说，“如果自由不是他的事，我为什么要让他自由？”

她不言语了。

“可我们无法让他幸福，”她说，“他得自己幸福起来才行。”

“我知道，”他说，“可我们希望别人同我们在一起，不是吗？”

“为什么？”她问。

“我不知道，”他不安地说，“一个人总要寻求一种进一步的友情。”

“可是为什么？”她追问。“你干吗要追求别人？你为什么需要他们？”

这话击中了他的要害。他不禁皱起了眉头。

“难道我们两个人就是目的吗？”他紧张地问。

“是的，你还需要别的什么？如果有什么人愿意与我们同行，让他们来好了。可你为什么要追求他们？”

他脸色很紧张，露出不满的表情来。

“你瞧，”他说，“我总在想我们同其它少数几个人在一起会真正幸福的——与他人在一起共享一点自由。”

她思忖着。

“是的，一个人的确需要这个。可它得自然而然发生才行。你不能把自己的意志强加于它。你似乎总想你可以强迫花儿开放。有人爱我们是因为他们爱我们——你不能强使人家爱我们。”

“我知道的，”他说。“可我们就不能采取点步骤了？难道一个人非要孤独地在世上行走——世上唯一的动物？”

“你既然有了我，”她说，“你为什么还需要别人？你为什么要强迫别人同意你的观点？你为什么不能象你说的那样独善其身？你试图欺压杰拉德和赫麦妮。你得学会孤独才行。你这样太可怕了。你现在有了我，可你还要迫使别人也爱你。你的确是迫使人家爱你的。可即便是这样，你需要的仍不是他们的爱。”

他显出一脸的困惑相。

“我是这样的人吗？”他说，“这个问题我无法解决。我知道我需要与你结成完美、完善的关系。我们几乎建立了这样的关系——我们的确建立了这样的关系。可是除此之外，我是否需要与杰拉德有真正完美的关系？是否这是一种最终的、几乎超人的关系——对他对我均是如此？”

她的眼睛闪着奇特的光，看了他好久，但她终于没有回答。