When I woke in the morning I went to the window and looked out. It had cleared and there were no clouds on the mountains. Outside under the window were some carts and an old diligence, the wood of the roof cracked and split by the weather. It must have been left from the days before the motor-buses. A goat hopped up on one of the carts and then to the roof of the diligence. He jerked his head at the other goats below and when I waved at him he bounded down.
Bill was still sleeping, so I dressed, put on my shoes outside in the hall, and went down-stairs. No one was stirring down-stairs, so I unbolted the door and went out. It was cool outside in the early morning and the sun had not yet dried the dew that had come when the wind died down. I hunted around in the shed behind the inn and found a sort of mattock, and went down toward the stream to try and dig some worms for bait. The stream was clear and shallow but it did not look trouty. On the grassy bank where it was damp I drove the mattock into the earth and loosened a chunk of sod. There were worms underneath. They slid out of sight as I lifted the sod and I dug carefully and got a good many. Digging at the edge of the damp ground I filled two empty tobacco-tins with worms and sifted dirt onto them. The goats watched me dig.
When I went back into the inn the woman was down in the kitchen, and I asked her to get coffee for us, and that we wanted a lunch. Bill was awake and sitting on the edge of the bed.
"I saw you out of the window," he said. "Didn't want to interrupt you. What were you doing? Burying your money?"
"You lazy bum!"
"Been working for the common good? Splendid. I want you to do that every morning."
"Come on," I said. "Get up."
"What? Get up? I never get up."
He climbed into bed and pulled the sheet up to his chin.
"Try and argue me into getting up."
I went on looking for the tackle and putting it all together in the tackle-bag.
"Aren't you interested?" Bill asked.
"I'm going down and eat."
"Eat? Why didn't you say eat? I thought you just wanted me to get up for fun. Eat? Fine. Now you're reasonable. You go out and dig some more worms and I'll be right down."
"Oh, go to hell!"
"Work for the good of all." Bill stepped into his underclothes. "Show irony and pity."
I started out of the room with the tackle-bag, the nets, and the rod-case.
"Hey! come back!"
I put my head in the door.
"Aren't you going to show a little irony and pity?"
I thumbed my nose.
"That's not irony."
As I went down-stairs I heard Bill singing, "Irony and Pity. When you're feeling. . . Oh, Give them Irony and Give them Pity. Oh, give them Irony. When they're feeling. . . Just a little irony. Just a little pity.. ." He kept on singing until he came down-stairs. The tune was: "The Bells are Ringing for Me and my Gal." I was reading a week-old Spanish paper.
"What's all this irony and pity?"
"What? Don't you know about Irony and Pity?"
"No. Who got it up?"
"Everybody. They're mad about it in New York. It's just like the Fratellinis used to be."
The girl came in with the coffee and buttered toast. Or, rather, it was bread toasted and buttered.
"Ask her if she's got any jam," Bill said. "Be ironical with her."
"Have you got any jam?"
"That's not ironical. I wish I could talk Spanish."
The coffee was good and we drank it out of big bowls. The girl brought in a glass dish of raspberry jam.
"Thank you."
"Hey! that's not the way," Bill said. "Say something ironical. Make some crack about Primo de Rivera."
"I could ask her what kind of a jam they think they've gotten into in the Riff."
"Poor," said Bill. "Very poor. You can't do it. That's all. You don't understand irony. You have no pity. Say something pitiful."
"Robert Cohn."
"Not so bad. That's better. Now why is Cohn pitiful? Be ironic."
He took a big gulp of coffee.
"Aw, hell!" I said. "It's too early in the morning."
"There you go. And you claim you want to be a writei too. You're only a newspaper man. An expatriated newspaper man. You ought to be ironical the minute you get out of bed. You ought to wake up with your mouth full of pity."
"Go on," I said. "Who did you get this stuff from?"
"Everybody. Don't you read? Don't you ever see anybody? You know what you are? You're an expatriate. Why don't you live in New York? Then you'd know these things. What do you want me to do? Come over here and tell you every year?"
"Take some more coffee," I said.
"Good. Coffee is good for you. It's the caffeine in it. Caffeine, we are here. Caffeine puts a man on her horse and a woman in his grave. You know what's the trouble with you? You're an expatriate. One of the worst type. Haven't you heard that? Nobody that ever left their own country ever wrote anything worth printing. Not even in the newspapers."
He drank the coffee.
"You're an expatriate. You've lost touch with the soil. You get precious. Fake European standards have ruined you. You drink yourself to death. You become obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You are an expatriate, see? You hang around cafés."
"It sounds like a swell life," I said. "When do I work?"
"You don't work. One group claims women support you. Another group claims you're impotent."
"No," I said. "I just had an accident."
"Never mention that," Bill said. "That's the sort of thing that can't be spoken of. That's what you ought to work up into a mystery. Like Henry's bicycle."
He had been going splendidly, but he stopped. I was afraid he thought he had hurt me with that crack about being impotent. I wanted to start him again.
"It wasn't a bicycle," I said. "He was riding horseback."
"I heard it was a tricycle."
"Well," I said. "A plane is sort of like a tricycle. The joystick works the same way."
"But you don't pedal it."
"No," I said, "I guess you don't pedal it."
"Let's lay off that," Bill said.
"All right. I was just standing up for the tricycle."
"I think he's a good writer, too," Bill said. "And you're a hell of a good guy. Anybody ever tell you were a good guy?"
"I'm not a good guy."
"Listen. You're a hell of a good guy, and I'm fonder of you than anybody on earth. I couldn't tell you that in New York. It'd mean I was a faggot. That was what the Civil War was about. Abraham Lincoln was a faggot. He was in love with General Grant. So was Jefferson Davis. Lincoln just freed the slaves on a bet. The Dred Scott case was framed by the Anti-Saloon League. Sex explains it all. The Colonel's Lady and Judy O'Grady are Lesbians under their skin."
He stopped.
"Want to hear some more?"
"Shoot," I said.
"I don't know any more. Tell you some more at lunch."
"Old Bill," I said.
"You bum!"
We packed the lunch and two bottles of wine in the rucksack, and Bill put it on. I carried the rod-case and the landing-nets slung over my back. We started up the road and then went across a meadow and found a path that crossed the fields and went toward the woods on the slope of the first hill. We walked across the fields on the sandy path. The fields were rolling and grassy and the grass was short from the sheep grazing. The cattle were up in the hills. We heard their bells in the woods.
The path crossed a stream on a foot-log. The log was surfaced off, and there was a sapling bent across for a rail. In the flat pool beside the stream tadpoles spotted the sand. We went up a steep bank and across the rolling fields. Looking back we saw Burguete, white houses and red roofs, and the white road with a truck going along it and the dust rising.
Beyond the fields we crossed another faster-flowing stream. A sandy road led down to the ford and beyond into the woods. The path crossed the stream on another foot-log below the ford, and joined the road, and we went into the woods.
It was a beech wood and the trees were very old. Their roots bulked above the ground and the branches were twisted. We walked on the road between the thick trunks of the old beeches and the sunlight came through the leaves in light patches on the grass. The trees were big, and the foliage was thick but it was not gloomy. There was no undergrowth, only the smooth grass, very green and fresh, and the big gray trees well spaced as though it were a park.
"This is country," Bill said.
The road went up a hill and we got into thick woods, and the road kept on climbing. Sometimes it dipped down but rose again steeply. All the time we heard the cattle in the woods. Finally, the road came out on the top of the hills. We were on the top of the height of land that was the highest part of the range of wooded hills we had seen from Burguete. There were wild strawberries growing on the sunny side of the ridge in a little clearing in the trees.
Ahead the road came out of the forest and went along the shoulder of the ridge of hills. The hills ahead were not wooded, and there were great fields of yellow gorse. Way off we saw the steep bluffs, dark with trees and jutting with gray stone, that marked the course of the Irati River.
"We have to follow this road along the ridge, cross these hills, go through the woods on the far hills, and come down to the Irati valley," I pointed out to Bill.
"That's a hell of a hike."
"It's too far to go and fish and come back the same day, comfortably."
"Comfortably. That's a nice word. We'll have to go like hell to get there and back and have any fishing at all."
It was a long walk and the country was very fine, but we were tired when we came down the steep road that led out of the wooded hills into the valley of the Rio de la Fabrica.
The road came out from the shadow of the woods into the hot sun. Ahead was a river-valley. Beyond the river was a steep hill. There was a field of buckwheat on the hill. We saw a white house under some trees on the hillside. It was very hot and we stopped under some trees beside a dam that crossed the river.
Bill put the pack against one of the trees and we jointed up the rods, put on the reels, tied on leaders, and got ready to fish.
"You're sure this thing has trout in it?" Bill asked.
"It's full of them."
"I'm going to fish a fly. You got any McGintys?"
"There's some in there."
"You going to fish bait?"
"Yeah. I'm going to fish the dam here."
"Well, I'll take the fly-book, then." He tied on a fly. "Where'd I better go? Up or down?"
"Down is the best. They're plenty up above, too."
Bill went down the bank.
"Take a worm can."
"No, I don't want one. If they won't take a fly I'll just flick it around."
Bill was down below watching the stream.
"Say," he called up against the noise of the dam. "How about putting the wine in that spring up the road?"
"All right," I shouted. Bill waved his hand and started down the stream. I found the two wine-bottles in the pack, and carried them up the road to where the water of a spring flowed out of an iron pipe. There was a board over the spring and I lifted it and, knocking the corks firmly into the bottles, lowered them down into the water. It was so cold my hand and wrist felt numbed. I put back the slab of wood, and hoped nobody would find the wine.
I got my rod that was leaning against the tree, took the bait-can and landing-net, and walked out onto the dam. It was built to provide a head of water for driving logs. The gate was up, and I sat on one of the squared timbers and watched the smooth apron of water before the river tumbled into the falls. In the white water at the foot of the dam it was deep. As I baited up, a trout shot up out of the white water into the falls and was carried down. Before I could finish baiting, another trout jumped at the falls, making the same lovely arc and disappearing into the water that was thundering down. I put on a good-sized sinker and dropped into the white water close to the edge of the timbers of the dam.
I did not feel the first trout strike. When I started to pull up I felt that I had one and brought him, fighting and bending the rod almost double, out of the boiling water at the foot of the falls, and swung him up and onto the dam. He was a good trout, and I banged his head against the timber so that he quivered out straight, and then slipped him into my bag.
While I had him on, several trout had jumped at the falls. As soon as I baited up and dropped in again I hooked another and brought him in the same way. In a little while I had six. They were all about the same size. I laid them out, side by side, all their heads pointing the same way, and looked at them. They were beautifully colored and firm and hard from the cold water. It was a hot day, so I slit them all and shucked out the insides, gills and all, and tossed them over across the river. I took the trout ashore, washed them in the cold, smoothly heavy water above the dam, and then picked some ferns and packed them all in the bag, three trout on a layer of ferns, then another layer of ferns, then three more trout, and then covered them with ferns. They looked nice in the ferns, and now the bag was bulky, and I put it in the shade of the tree.
It was very hot on the dam, so I put my worm-can in the shade with the bag, and got a book out of the pack and settled down under the tree to read until Bill should come up for lunch.
It was a little past noon and there was not much shade, but I sat against the trunk of two of the trees that grew together, and read. The book was something by A. E. W. Mason, and I was reading a wonderful story about a man who had been frozen in the Alps and then fallen into a glacier and disappeared, and his bride was going to wait twenty-four years exactly for his body to come out on the moraine, while her true love waited too, and they were still waiting when Bill came up.
"Get any?" he asked. He had his rod and his bag and his net all in one hand, and he was sweating. I hadn't heard him come up, because of the noise from the dam.
"Six. What did you get?"
Bill sat down, opened up his bag, laid a big trout on the grass. He took out three more, each one a little bigger than the last, and laid them side by side in the shade from the tree. His face was sweaty and happy.
"How are yours?"
"Smaller."
"Let's see them."
"They're packed."
"How big are they really?"
"They're all about the size of your smallest."
"You're not holding out on me?"
"I wish I were."
"Get them all on worms?"
"Yes."
"You lazy bum!"
Bill put the trout in the bag and started for the river, swinging the open bag. He was wet from the waist down and I knew he must have been wading the stream.
I walked up the road and got out the two bottles of wine. They were cold. Moisture beaded on the bottles as I walked back to the trees. I spread the lunch on a newspaper, and uncorked one of the bottles and leaned the other against a tree. Bill came up drying his hands, his bag plump with ferns.
"Let's see that bottle," he said. He pulled the cork, and tipped up the bottle and drank. "Whew! That makes my eyes ache."
"Let's try it."
The wine was icy cold and tasted faintly rusty.
"That's not such filthy wine," Bill said.
"The cold helps it," I said.
We unwrapped the little parcels of lunch.
"Chicken."
"There's hard-boiled eggs."
"Find any salt?"
"First the egg," said Bill. "Then the chicken. Even Bryan could see that."
"He's dead. I read it in the paper yesterday."
"No. Not really?"
"Yes. Bryan's dead."
Bill laid down the egg he was peeling.
"Gentlemen," he said, and unwrapped a drumstick from a piece of newspaper. "I reverse the order. For Bryan's sake. As a tribute to the Great Commoner. First the chicken; then the egg."
"Wonder what day God created the chicken?"
"Oh," said Bill, sucking the drumstick, "how should we know? We should not question. Our stay on earth is not for long. Let us rejoice and believe and give thanks."
"Eat an egg."
Bill gestured with the drumstick in one hand and the bottle of wine in the other.
"Let us rejoice in our blessings. Let us utilize the fowls of the air. Let us utilize the product of the vine. Will you utilize a little, brother?"
"After you, brother."
Bill took a long drink.
"Utilize a little, brother," he handed me the bottle. "Let us not doubt, brother. Let us not pry into the holy mysteries of the hencoop with simian fingers. Let us accept on faith and simply say--I want you to join with me in saying--What shall we say, brother?" He pointed the drumstick at me and went on. "Let me tell you. We will say, and I for one am proud to say--and I want you to say with me, on your knees, brother. Let no man be ashamed to kneel here in the great out-of-doors. Remember the woods were God's first temples. Let us kneel and say: 'Don't eat that, Lady--that's Mencken.'
"Here," I said. "Utilize a little of this."
We uncorked the other bottle.
"What's the matter?" I said. "Didn't you like Bryan?"
"I loved Bryan," said Bill. "We were like brothers."
"Where did you know him?"
"He and Mencken and I all went to Holy Cross together."
"And Frankie Fritsch."
"It's a lie. Frankie Fritsch went to Fordham."
"Well," I said, "I went to Loyola with Bishop Manning."
"It's a lie," Bill said. "I went to Loyola with Bishop Manning myself."
"You're cock-eyed," I said.
"On wine?"
"Why not?"
"It's the humidity," Bill said. "They ought to take this damn humidity away."
"Have another shot."
"Is this all we've got?"
"Only the two bottles."
"Do you know what you are?" Bill looked at the bottle affectionately.
"No," I said.
"You're in the pay of the Anti-Saloon League."
"I went to Notre Dame with Wayne B. Wheeler."
"It's a lie," said Bill. "I went to Austin Business College with Wayne B. Wheeler. He was class president."
"Well," I said, "the saloon must go."
"You're right there, old classmate," Bill said. "The saloon must go, and I will take it with me."
"You're cock-eyed."
"On wine?"
"On wine."
"Well, maybe I am."
"Want to take a nap?"
"All right."
We lay with our heads in the shade and looked up into the trees.
"You asleep?"
"No," Bill said. "I was thinking."
I shut my eyes. It felt good lying on the ground.
"Say," Bill said, "what about this Brett business?"
"What about it?"
"Were you ever in love with her?"
"Sure."
"For how long?"
"Off and on for a hell of a long time."
"Oh, hell!" Bill said. "I'm sorry, fella."
"It's all right," I said. "I don't give a damn any more."
"Really?"
"Really. Only I'd a hell of a lot rather not talk about it."
"You aren't sore I asked you?"
"Why the hell should I be?"
"I'm going to sleep," Bill said. He put a newspaper over his face.
"Listen, Jake," he said, "are you really a Catholic?"
"Technically."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know."
"All right, I'll go to sleep now," he said. "Don't keep me awake by talking so much."
I went to sleep, too. When I woke up Bill was packing the rucksack. Jt was late in the afternoon and the shadow from the trees was long and went out over the dam. I was stiff from sleeping on the ground.
"What did you do? Wake up?" Bill asked. "Why didn't you spend the night?" I stretched and rubbed my eyes.
"I had a lovely dream," Bill said. "I don't remember what it was about, but it was a lovely dream."
"I don't think I dreamt."
"You ought to dream," Bill said. "All our biggest business men have been dreamers. Look at Ford. Look at President Coolidge. Look at Rockefeller. Look at Jo Davidson."
I disjointed my rod and Bill's and packed them in the rod-case. I put the reels in the tackle-bag. Bill had packed the rucksack and we put one of the trout-bags in. I carried the other.
"Well," said Bill, "have we got everything?"
"The worms."
"Your worms. Put them in there."
He had the pack on his back and I put the worm-cans in one of the outside flap pockets.
"You got everything now?"
I looked around on the grass at the foot of the elm-trees.
"Yes."
We started up the road into the woods. It was a long walk home to Burguete, and it was dark when we came down across the fields to the road, and along the road between the houses of the town, their windows lighted, to the inn.
We stayed five days at Burguete and had good fishing. The nights were cold and the days were hot, and there was always a breeze even in the heat of the day. It was hot enough so that it felt good to wade in a cold stream, and the sun dried you when you came out and sat on the bank. We found a stream with a pool deep enough to swim in. In the evenings we played three-handed bridge with an Englishman named Harris, who had walked over from Saint Jean Pied de Port and was stopping at the inn for the fishing. He was very pleasant and went with us twice to the Irati River. There was no word from Robert Cohn nor from Brett and Mike.
早晨我一醒过来就走到窗前往外探望。天已经放晴，山间没有云雾。外面窗下停着几辆二轮马车和一辆篷顶的木板因受风雨侵蚀而已破裂的旧驿车。在使用公共汽车之前，它该就被遗弃在这里了。一只山羊跳到一辆二轮马车上，然后跳上驿车的篷顶。它向下面其它山羊伸伸脑袋，我向它一挥手，它就蹦了下来。
比尔还在睡觉，所以我穿好了衣服，在室外走廊上穿上鞋子，就走下楼去。楼下毫无动静，因此我拉开门闩，走了出去，一清早外面很凉。风停了以后下的露水还没有被太阳晒干。我在旅店后面的小棚里走了一圈，找到一把鹤嘴锄，走到溪边想挖点虫饵。溪水很清、很浅，但是不象有鳟鱼。在湿润多草的溪边，我用锄头朝地里刨去，弄松了一块草皮。下面有蚯蚓。我把草皮拎起，它们就游走了，我仔细地挖，挖到了好多。我在这湿地边挖着，装满了两个空烟草罐，在蚯蚓上面撒上点细土。那几头山羊看着我挖。
我回到旅店，女掌柜在楼下厨房里，我吩咐她给我们送咖啡，还给我们准备好中饭。比尔已经醒了，正坐在床沿上。
“我从窗子里看见你了，”他说。“不想打搅你。你在干什么？把钱埋起来吗？”
“你这条懒虫！”
“为我们共同的利益卖力？太好了。我希望你天天早晨都这样做。”
“快点，”我说。“起来吧。”
“什么？起来？我再也不起来了。”
他爬进被窝，把被子一直拉到下巴边。
“你试试看，能不能说服我起来。”
我顾自找出鱼具，把它们通通装进鱼具袋里。
“你不感兴趣？”比尔问。
“我要下楼吃早点了。”
“吃早点？方才你为什么不说？我以为你叫我起床是闹着玩的。吃早点？太好了。现在你才讲道理了。你出去再挖点蚯蚓，我这就下楼。”
“呸，你见鬼去吧！”
“为大家的福利干去吧。”比尔穿上他的衬衣内裤。“流露点俏皮和怜悯来吧。”
我带上鱼具袋、鱼网和钓竿袋走出房间。
“嗨！回来！”
我把头探进门里。
“你不流露一点儿俏皮和怜悯？”
我用拇指顶在鼻子尖上，冲着他做个轻蔑的手势。
“这不好算俏皮。”
我下楼的时候，听见比尔在唱，“俏皮和怜悯。当你感到……来，给他们说点俏皮的话儿，给他们说点怜悯的话儿。来，给他们说点俏皮的活儿，当他们感到……就这么来一点儿俏皮话。就这么来一点儿怜悯话……”他从楼上一直唱到楼下。用的是《我和我的姑娘行婚礼的钟敲响了》那支歌的曲调。我这时在看一份一星期前的西班牙报纸。
“这一套俏皮和怜悯的话儿是什么意思？”
“什么？你难道不知道什么是《俏皮和怜悯》？”“不知道。这是谁想出来的？”
“人人都在唱。整个纽约都着迷了。就象过去迷于弗拉蒂利尼杂技团一样。”
待女端着咖啡和涂黄油的土司进来。或者不如说是普通的面包片烤过后涂上了黄油。
“问问她有没有果酱，”比尔说。“对她说得俏皮点。”
“你们有果酱吗？”
“这哪好算俏皮啊。我会说西班牙语就好了。”
咖啡很好，我们是用大碗喝的。侍女端进来一玻璃碟覆盆子果酱。
“谢谢你。”
“嗨！不是这么说的，”比尔说。“说些俏皮话。说些有关普里莫.德.里维拉的挖苦话。”
“我可以问她，他们在里弗山脉陷入了什么样的果酱。”
“不够味儿，”比尔说。“太不够味儿了。你不会说俏皮话。就是不会。你不懂得什么叫俏皮。你没有怜悯之心。说点怜悯的话吧。”
“罗伯特.科恩。”
“不坏。好一些了。那么科恩为什么可怜呢？说得俏皮点。”
他喝了一大口咖啡。
“真见鬼！”我说。“这么一大早就耍嘴皮子。”
“你看你。你还自以为想当一名作家呢。你只不过是一名记者。一名流亡国外的新闻记者。你必须一起床就能耍嘴皮子。你必须一睁开眼睛就有满口怜悯的词儿。”
“说下去，”我说。“你跟谁学来这一套胡言乱语的啊？”
“从所有的人那里学来的。难道你不看书读报？难道你不跟人打交道？你知道你是哪号人？你是一名流亡者。你为什么不住在纽约？不然你就明白这些事情了。你要我干什么来着？每年赶到法国来向你汇报？”
“再喝点咖啡吧，”我说。
“好啊。咖啡对人有好处。这是里面的咖啡碱起的作用。全仗咖啡碱，我们到了这里。咖啡碱把一个男人送上她的马鞍，又把一个女人送进他的坟墓。你知道你的问题在哪儿？你是一名流亡者。最最不幸的典型中的一份子。你没有听说过？一个人只要离开了自己的祖国，就写不出任何值得出版的作品。哪怕是报上的一篇新闻报道。”
他喝着咖啡。
“你是一名流亡者。你已经和土地失去了联系。你变得矫揉造作。冒牌的欧洲道德观念把你毁了。你嗜酒如命。你头脑里摆脱不了性的问题。你不务实事，整天消磨在高谈阔论之中。你是一名流亡者，明白吗？你在各家咖啡馆来回转游。”
“照你这么说，这种生活倒满舒服嘛，”我说。“那么我在什么时候工作？”“你不工作。有帮人坚持说是有些娘们在养活你。另外有帮人说你是个不中用的男人。”
“不对，”我说。“我遭到过一次意外事故罢了。”
“再也别提它了，”比尔说。“这种事情是不好说出去的。你应该故弄玄虚，把这事搞成一个谜。象亨利的那辆自行车。”
他讲得滔滔不绝，但是说到这里却顿住了。他可能以为，刚才说我是个不中用的男人这句挖苦话，刺伤了我。我要引他再讲下去。
“不是自行车，”我说。“他当时骑着马。”
“我听说是辆三轮摩托车。”
“就算是吧，”我说。“飞机是一种类似三轮摩托车的玩意。操纵杆和驾驶盘使用的原理一个样。”
“但是不用脚踩。”
“是的，”我说。“我想是用不着踩。”
“不谈这件事了，”比尔说。
“好吧。我不过为三轮摩托车辩护罢了。”
“我认为亨利也是位出色的作家，”比尔说。“你呢，是个大好人。有人当面说过你是好人吗？”
“我不是好人。”“听着。你是个大好人，我喜欢你，胜过世界上任何一个人。在纽约我不能跟你说这句话。别人会以为我是个同性恋者。美国的南北战争就是因此而引起的。亚伯拉罕.林肯是个同性恋者。他爱上了格兰特将军。杰斐逊.戴维斯也是这样。林肯仅仅是为了一次打赌才解放黑奴的。德莱德.斯科特一案是反酒店同盟搞的圈套。上校大太和裘蒂.奥格雷迪在骨子里是一对同性恋者。”
他顿住了。
“还想听下去吗？”
“讲吧，”我说。
“再多我也不知道了。吃中饭的时候再给你讲。”
“你这家伙啊，”我说。
“你这二流子！”
我们把中午吃的冷餐和两瓶酒塞进帆布背包，比尔背上了。我在背上挎着钓竿袋和抄网。我们走上大路，穿过一片草地，找到一条小路，它穿过田野直通第一座山坡上的小树林。我们踩着这条沙路穿过田野。田野地势起伏，长着青草，不过青草都被羊群啃秃了。牛群在山中放牧。我们听见树林里传来它们脖颈上的铃挡声。小路通过一条独木桥跨过小溪。这根圆木的上面是刨平的，一棵小树的树干被弄弯了插在两岸，当作栏杆。小溪边有个浅水塘，塘底沙地衬托出点点小蝌蚪。我们走上陡峭的溪岸，穿过起伏的田野。我们回头，看见布尔戈特的白粉墙和红屋顶，白色的公路上行驶着一辆卡车，尘土飞扬。
穿过了田野，我们跨过另一条水流更为湍急的小溪。有条沙路一头往下通向溪边的渡口，另一头通向一座树林。我们走的小路在渡口的下游通过另一条独木桥跨过小溪，与沙路会合，于是我们走进了树林。
这是一片山毛榉林，树木都非常古老。地面盘根错节，树身枝干缠绕。我们走在这些老山毛榉粗大树干之间的大路上，阳光穿过枝叶，斑斑驳驳地射在草地上。树大叶茂，但林中并不阴暗。没有灌木，只有青翠欲滴的、平坦的草地，灰色的参天大树之间的间距井井有条，宛如一座公园。
“这才算得上是乡野风光，”比尔说。
大路爬上一座山，我们进入密林，路还是一个劲儿往上爬。有时地势下落，接着又陡然升起。我们一直听到树林里牛群的铃裆声。大路终于在山顶穿出树林。我们到了当地的最高点，就是我们从布尔戈特望到过的树木繁茂的群山的顶峰。山脊阳坡树木之间一小片空旷地里长着野草莓。
大路穿出树林顺着山脊往前伸展。前面的山峦上不见树木，长着一大片一大片的黄色的金雀花。我们往远处看去，是树木苍翠、灰岩耸立的绝壁，表明下面是伊拉蒂河的河道。
“我们必须顺着山脊上的这条路，跨山越岭，穿过远山上的树林，下到伊拉蒂河谷，”我对比尔指点着说。
“这次旅行真是一次艰苦的跋涉。”
“路太远了，要在一天之内走着去，钓完鱼再走着回来，可不是舒服的事儿。”
“舒服。多好听的字眼儿。我们连去带回，还要钓鱼，简直连喘气的功夫都不会有了。”
这是一段很长的路程，山乡景色优美，但是等我们从山林出来，顺着下通法布里卡河谷的陡路时，已经疲惫不堪了。
大路从树荫下伸出，到了炎热的太阳光下。前面就是河谷。河对岸耸起一座陡峭的山。山上有一块荞麦地。我们看见山坡上有几棵树下有一座白色的房屋。天气很热，我们在拦河坝旁的树下停住脚步。
比尔把背包靠在一根树干上，我们接上一节节钓竿，装上卷轴，绑上引线，准备钓鱼。
“你说这条河里肯定有鳟鱼？”比尔问。
“多得很哩。”
“我要用假蝇钩钓。你有没有麦金蒂蝇钩？”
“盒子里有几个。”
“你用蚯蚓钓？”
“对。我就在水坝这儿钓。”
“那我就把蝇钩盒拿走了。”他系上一只蝇钩。“我到哪儿去好？上边还是下边？”
“下边最好。不过上边的鱼也很多。”
比尔顺着河边向下边走去。
“带一罐蚯蚓去。”
“不用了，我不需要。如果不咬钩，我就多下几个地方。”
比尔在下边注视着流水。
“喂，”他喊道，声音压倒了大坝哗哗的流水声。“把酒放在大路上边的泉水里怎么样？”“好啊，”我大声说。比尔挥挥手，开始向河的下边走去。我在背包里找出那两瓶酒，拿着从大路朝上走，走到一个地方，那里有一股泉水从一根铁管里流出来。泉水上面搁着一块木板，我掀起木板，敲紧酒瓶的软木塞，把酒瓶放进下面的水里。泉水冰凉刺骨，我的手和手腕都麻木了。我把木板放口原处，希望不会有人发现这两瓶酒。
我拿起靠在树干上的钓竿，带着蚯蚓罐和抄网走到水坝上。修筑水坝是为了造成水流的落差，好用来运送原木。水闸关着，我坐在一根刨成方形的木材上，注视着坝内尚未形成瀑布的那潭平静的河水。坝脚下，白沫四溅的河水非常深。当我挂鱼饵的时候，一条鳟鱼从白沫四溅的河水里一跃而起，窜进瀑布里，随即被冲了下去。我还没有来得及挂好鱼饵，又有一条鳟鱼向瀑布窜去，在空中画出一条同样美丽的弧线，消失在轰隆隆地奔泻而下的水流中。我装上一个大铅坠子，把钓丝投入紧靠水坝木闸边泛着白沫的河水中。
我不知道第一条鳟鱼是怎么上钩的。当我正要动手收钓丝的时候，才感到已经钓住一条了，我把鱼从瀑布脚下翻腾的水里拉出来，它挣扎着，几乎把钓竿折成两半，我把它呼的提起来放在水坝上。这是一条很好的鳟鱼，我把它的头往木头上撞，它抖动几下就僵直了，然后我把它放进猎物袋。
当我钓到这条的时候，好几条鳟鱼冲着瀑布跳去。我装上鱼饵，把钓丝又抛到水里，马上又钓到一条，我用同样的方法把它拉上来。一会儿我就钓到了六条。它们都差不多一样大小。我把它们摊在地上，头朝一个方向并排放着，我仔细端详着。它们的颜色很漂亮，由于河水冷，它们的身子很硬实。天很热，因此我把鱼肚子一一剖开，掏出内脏，撕掉鱼鳃，把这些东西扔到河对岸。我把鱼拿到河边，在水坝内侧平静而停滞的冷水里洗净，然后采集一些羊齿植物，将鱼全放进猎物袋：铺一层羊齿植物，放上三条鳟鱼，然后又铺上一层羊齿植物，再放上三条鳟鱼，最后盖上一层羊齿植物。裹在羊齿植物里的鳟鱼看来很美，这样，袋子鼓起来了，我把它放在树荫下。
坝上非常热，所以我把装蚯蚓的铁罐同猎物袋一起放在背阴的地方，从背包里拿出一本书，安坐在树下看起来，等比尔上来吃中饭。
这时中午刚过，树荫的面积不大，但是我背靠着两棵长在一起的树，坐着看书。这是艾.爱。伍.梅森写的一本东西，我在看的是一篇奇妙的故事，讲到有个男人在阿尔卑斯山中冻僵了，掉进一条冰川里，就此失踪了，他的新娘为了看到他的尸体在冰川堆石里显露出来，打算等上整整二十四年，在此期间，那个真心爱她的情人也等待着。当比尔回来的时候，他们还在等待着哩。
“钓着了吗？”他问。他一只手接着钓竿、猎物袋和鱼网，浑身是汗。由于坝上哗哗的流水声，我没有听见他走近的脚步声。
“六条。你钓到了什么？”
比尔坐下来，打开猎物袋，拿出一条大鳟鱼放在草地上。他又拿出三条，一条比一条大一点儿，他把鱼并排放在树萌下。他满脸是汗，但是很得意。
“你的多大？”
“比你的小。”
“拿出来看看。”“说真的，它们有多大？”
“大概都象你最小的那么大。”
“你不是瞒着我吧？”
“如果瞒着你倒好了。”
“都是拿蚯蚓钓的？”
“是的。”
“你这个懒鬼！”
比尔把鳟鱼放进猎物袋，晃着这敞开着口的袋子向河边走去。他的裤子一直湿到腰部，我明白他一定在水里膛过。
我走到大路那边，把两瓶酒从泉水里拿出来。酒瓶冰凉。等我回头走到树下，瓶子外面结满了水珠。我在一张报纸上摊开当午饭的吃食，打开一瓶酒，把另一瓶倚在树根上。比尔一边走过来，一边擦干两只手，他的猎物袋里塞满了羊齿植物。
“我们来尝尝这瓶酒吧，”他说。他拔掉瓶塞，把瓶底朝上举起就喝了起来。“乖乖！好杀眼睛。”
“我来尝尝。”
酒冰凉冰凉的，微微带点锈味。
“这酒不那么难喝，”比尔说。
“这是冰凉的关系，”我说。
我们解开那几小包吃食。
“鸡。”
“还有煮鸡蛋。”
“有盐吗？”
“先来个鸡蛋，”比尔说。“然后吃鸡。这个道理连布赖恩都明白。”
“他去世了。我在昨天的报上看到的。”
“不。不会是真的吧？”
“真的。布赖恩去世了。”
比尔放下手里正在剥的鸡蛋。
“先生们，”他说，从一小片报纸中拿出一只鸡腿。“我来颠倒一下。为了布赖恩。为了向这位伟大的平民表示敬意。先吃鸡，然后吃鸡蛋。”
“不知道鸡是上帝哪一天创造的？”
“嘿，”比尔嘬着鸡腿说，“我们怎么知道？我们不应该问。我们活在世上转眼就是一辈子。我们还是快快活活的吧，相信上帝，感谢上帝。”
“来个鸡蛋。”比尔一手拿鸡腿，一手拿酒瓶，打着手势。“让我们为上帝的赐福而欢欣吧。让我们享用空中的飞禽。让我们享用葡萄园的产品。你要享用一点儿吗，兄弟？”“你先请，兄弟。”比尔喝了一大口。“亨用一点儿吧，兄弟，”他把酒瓶递给我说。“我们不要怀疑，兄弟。我们不要用猿猴的爪子伸到母鸡窝里去刺探神圣的奥秘。我们还是依靠信仰，接受现状，只要说——我要你跟我一起说——可我们说什么呀，兄弟？”他用鸡腿指着我，继续说。“让我告诉你。我们要说，而且就我个人来说，要自豪地说——我要你跪下和我一起说，兄弟。在这辽阔的山野之间，谁也不必羞于下跪。记住，丛林是上帝最早的圣殿。让我们跪下宣布：‘不要吃那只母鸡，——它是门肯。’”
“请吧，”我说。“享用一点儿这个吧。”我们打开另一瓶酒。
“怎么啦？”我说。“你难道不喜欢布赖恩？”
“我很喜爱布赖恩，”比尔说。“我们亲如兄弟。”
“你在哪里认识他的？”
“他，门肯和我都在圣十架大学一起念过书。”
“还有弗兰基.弗里奇。”
“这是谎言。弗兰基.弗里奇是在福特汉大学念的。”
“啊，”我说，“我是同曼宁主教在罗耀拉大学念的。”
“撒谎，”比尔说。“同曼宁主教在罗耀拉念书的是我。”
“你醉了，”我说。
“喝醉了？”
“怎么不是呢？”
“这是湿度高的关系，”比尔说。“应该去掉这该死的高湿度。”
“再来喝一口。”“我们拿来的就这一些？”“就这两瓶，”“你知道你是什么人？”比尔深情地望着酒瓶。“不知道，”我说。“你是反酒店同盟雇用的人员。”“我和韦恩.比.惠勒在圣母大学一起学习过。”“撒谎，”比尔说。“我和韦恩.比.惠勒在奥斯汀商学院同学。他当时是班长。”“得了，”我说，“酒店必须取缔。”“你说得对，老同学，”比尔说。“酒店必须取缔，我要带了它一起走，”“你醉了。 ” “喝醉了？”“喝醉了。”“噢，大概是吧。”“想打个盹儿？”“好吧， ” 我们把头枕在树荫里躺着，望着头顶上的枝叶深处。“你睡着啦？”“没有，”比尔说。“我在想事儿。”我闭上眼睛。躺在地上感到很舒适。“喂，”比尔说，“勃莱特的事儿怎么样啦？”“什么事儿？”“你曾经爱过她吧？”
“是啊。”
“多长时间？”
“断断续续地拖了好长时间。”
“唉，真要命！”比尔说。“对不起，朋友。”
“没什么，”我说。“我再也不在乎了。”
“真的？”
“真的。不过我很不愿意谈起这件事。”
“我问了你，你不生气？”
“我干吗要生气？”
“我要睡觉了，”比尔说。他拿一张报纸蒙在脸上。
“听着，杰克，”他说，“你真是天主教徒吗？”
“按规定来说，是的。”
“那是什么意思？”
“不知道。”
“得了，现在我要睡觉了，”他说。“别唠唠叨叨得使我睡不成觉。”
我也入睡了。我醒过来的时候，比尔正在收拾帆布背包。天色已经临近黄昏，树影拖得很长，一直伸到水坝上。在地上睡了一觉，我感到浑身僵直。
“你怎么啦？醒过来了？”比尔问。“夜里你怎么不好好儿睡呢？”我伸了下懒腰，揉揉眼睛。
“我做了个可爱的梦，”比尔说。“我不记得梦里的情形了，但是个可爱的梦。”
“我好象没有做梦。”“你应该做梦，”比尔说。“我们所有的大实业家都是梦想家。你看福特。你看柯立芝总统。你看洛克菲勒。你看乔.戴维森。”
我拆开我和比尔的钓竿，把它们收在钩竿袋里。我把卷轴放进鱼具袋。比尔已经收拾好背包，我们塞进一个放鳟鱼的袋子。我拎着另一个。
“好，”比尔说，“东西部拿了？？
“蚯蚓。”
“你的蚯蚓。放在背包里吧。”
他已经把背包挎在背上，我就把两个蚯蚓罐塞进背包外面一个带盖的袋里。
“这下你的东西都齐了吧？”
我对榆树脚下的草地扫了一眼。
“是的。”
我们动身顺着大路走进树林。回布尔戈特得走好长一段路。等我们穿过田野走上公路，再顺着镇上两侧房屋鳞次栉比的大街，到达旅店的时候，已经万家灯火，天色大黑了。
我们在布尔戈特待了五天，钓鱼钓得很痛快。夜晚冷，白天热，但即使在白天最热的时候也有微风。天这么热，在很凉的河里膛水非常舒服。当你上岸坐着的工夫，太阳就把你的衣衫晒干了。我们发现一条小溪有个可以游泳的深潭。晚上我们同一位姓哈里斯的英国人打三人桥牌，他是从圣让皮德波徒步走来的，歇在这家旅店，要去钓鱼。他很逗人喜欢，同我们一起到伊拉蒂河去了两次。罗伯特.科恩一点音信也没有，勃莱特和迈克也是这样。
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