I had to come here in order completely to rebuild this city in my brain — melancholy6 provinces which the old man* saw as full of the ‘black ruins’ of his life. Clang of the trams shuddering7 in their metal veins8 as they pierce the iodine-coloured meidan of Mazarita. Gold, phosphorus, magnesium9 paper. Here we so often met. There was a little coloured stall in summer with slices of water-melon and the vivid water-ices she liked to eat. She would come a few minutes late of course — fresh perhaps from some assignation in a darkened room, from which I avert10 my mind; but so fresh, so young, the open petal4 of the mouth that fell upon mine like an unslaked summer. The man she had left might still be going over and over the memory of her; she might be as if still dusted by the pollen11 of his kisses. Melissa! It mattered so little somehow, feeling the lithe12 weight of the creature as she leaned on one’s arm smiling with the selfless candour of those who had given over with secrets. It was good to stand there, awkward and a little shy, breathing quickly because we knew what we wanted of each other. The messages passing beyond conscience, directly through the flesh-lips, eyes, water-ices, the coloured stall. To stand lightly there, our little fingers linked, drinking in the deep camphor-scented afternoon, a part of city….
I have been looking through my papers tonight. Some have been converted to kitchen uses, some the child has destroyed. This form of censorship pleases me for it has the indifference13 of the natural world to the constructions of art — an indifference I am beginning to share. Alter all, what is the good of a fine metaphor14 for Melissa when she lies buried deep as any mummy in the shallow tepid15 sand of the black estuary16? But those papers I guard with care are the three volumes in which Justine kept her diary, as well as the folio which records Nessim’s madness. Nessim noticed them when I was leaving and nodded as he said: ‘Take these, yes, read them. There is much about us all in them. They should help you to support the idea of Justine without flinching17, as I have had to do.’ This was at the Summer Palace after Melissa’s deaths when he still believed Justine would return to him. I think often, and never without a certain fear, of Nessim’s love for Justine. What could be more comprehensive, more surely founded in itself? It coloured his unhappiness with a kind of ecstasy18, the joyful19 wounds which you’d think to meet in saints and not in mere20 lovers. Yet None touch of humour would have saved him from such dreadful comprehensive suffering. It is easy to criticize, I know. I know.
In the great quietness of these winter evenings there is one clock: the sea. Its dim momentum21 in the mind is the fugue upon which this writing is made. Empty cadences22 of sea-water licking its own wounds, sulking along the mouths of the delta23, boiling upon those deserted24 beaches — empty, forever empty under the gulls25: white scribble26 on the grey, munched27 by clouds. If there are ever sails here they die before the land shadows them. Wreckage28 washed up on the pediments of islands, the last crust, eroded29 by the weather, stuck in the blue maw of water … gone!
***** Apart from the wrinkled old peasant who comes from the village on her mule30 each day to clean the house, the child and I are quite alone. It is happy and active amid unfamiliar31 surroundings. I have not named it yet. Of course it will be Justine — who else? As for me I am neither happy nor unhappy; I lie suspended like a hair or a feather in the cloudy mixtures of memory. I spoke32 of the uselessness of art but added nothing truthful33 about its consolations34. The solace35 of such work as I do with brain and heart lies in this — that only there, in the silences of the painter or the writer can reality be reordered, reworked and made to show its significant side. Our common actions in reality are simply the sackcloth covering which hides the cloth-of-gold — the meaning of the pattern. For us artists there waits the joyous36 compromise through art with all that wounded or defeated us in daily life; in this way, not to evade37 destiny, as the ordinary people try to do, but to fulfil it in its true potential — the imagination. Otherwise why should we hurt one another? No, the remission I am seeking, and will be granted perhaps, is not one I shall ever see in the bright friendly eyes of Melissa or the sombre brow-dark gaze of Justine. We have all of us taken different paths now; but in this, the first great fragmentation of my maturity39, I feel the confines of my art and my living deepened immeasurably by the memory of them. In thought I achieve them anew; as if only here — this wooden table over the sea under an olive tree, only here can I enrich them as they deserve. So that the taste of this writing should have taken something from its living subjects — their breath, skin, voices — weaving them into the supple40 tissues of human memory. I want them to live again to the point where pain becomes art…. Perhaps this is a useless attempt, I cannot say. But I must try. Today the child and I finished the hearth-stone of the house together, quietly talking as we worked. I talk to her as I would to myself if I were alone; she answers in an heroic language of her own invention. We buried the rings Cohen bought for Melissa in the ground under the hearth-stone, according to the custom of this island. This will ensure good luck to the inmates41 of the house.
***** At the time when I met Justine I was almost a happy man. A door had suddenly opened upon an intimacy42 with Melissa — an intimacy not the less marvellous for being unexpected and totally undeserved. Like all egoists I cannot bear to live alone; and truly the last year of bachelorhood had sickened me — my domestic inadequacy43, my hopelessness over clothes and food and money, had all reduced me to despair. I had sickened too of the cockroach-haunted rooms where I then lived, looked after by one-eyed Hamid, the Berber servant. Melissa had penetrated44 my shabby defences not by any of the qualities one might enumerate45 in a lover — charm, exceptional beauty, intelligence — no, but by the force of what I can only call her charity, in the Greek sense of the word. I used to see her, I remember, pale, rather on the slender side, dressed in a shabby sealskin coat, leading her small dog about the winter streets. Her blue-veined phthisic hands, etc. Her eyebrows46 artificially pointed47 upwards48 to enhance those fine dauntlessly candid49 eyes. I saw her daily for many months on end, but her sullen50 aniline beauty awoke no response in me. Day after day I passed her on my way to the Café Al Aktar where Balthazar waited for me in his black hat to give me ‘instruction’. I did not dream that I should ever become her lover. I knew that she had once been a model at the Atelier — an unenviable job — and was now a dancer; more, that she was the mistress of an elderly furrier, a gross and vulgar commercial of the city. I simply make these few notes to record a block of my life which has fallen into the sea. Melissa! Melissa!
***** I am thinking back to the time when for the four of us the known world hardly existed; days became simply the spaces between dreams, spaces between the shifting floors of time, of acting51, of living out the topical…. A tide of meaningless affairs nosing along the dead level of things, entering no climate, leading us nowhere, demanding of us nothing save the impossible — that we should be. Justine would say that we had been trapped in the projection52 of a will too powerful and too deliberate to be human — the gravitational field which Alexandria threw down about those it had chosen as its exemplars….
***** Six o’clock. The shuffling53 of white-robed figures from the station yards. The shops filling and emptying like lungs in the Rue38 des Soeurs. The pale lengthening54 rays of the afternoon sun smear55 the long curves of the Esplanade, and the dazzled pigeons, like rings of scattered56 paper, climb above the minarets57 to take the last rays of the waning58 light on their wings. Ringing of silver on the money-changers’ counters. The iron grille outside the bank still too hot to touch. Clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages carrying civil servants in red flowerpots towards the cafés on the sea-front. This is the hour least easy to bear, when from my balcony I catch an unexpected glimpse of her walking idly towards the town in her white sandals, still half asleep. Justine! The city unwrinkles like an old tortoise and peers about it. For a moment it relinquishes59 the torn rags of the flesh, while from some hidden alley60 by the slaughter-house, above the moans and screams of the cattle, comes the nasal chipping of a Damascus love-song; shrill61 quarter-tones, like a sinus being ground to powder. Now tired men throw back the shutters62 of their balconies and step blinking into the pale hot light — etiolated flowers of afternoons spent in anguish63, tossing upon ugly beds, bandaged by dreams. I have become one of these poor clerks of the conscience, a citizen of Alexandria. She passes below my window, smiling as if at some private satisfaction, softly fanning her cheeks with the little reed fan. It is a smile which I shall probably never see again for in company she only laughs, showing those magnificent white teeth. But this sad yet quick smile is full of a quality which one does not think she owns — the power of mischief64. You would have said that she was of a more tragic65 cast of character and lacked common humour. Only the obstinate66 memory of this smile is to make me doubt it in the days to come.
***** I have had many such glimpses of Justine at different times, and of course I knew her well by sight long before we met: our city does not permit anonymity67 to any with incomes of over two hundred pounds a year. I see her sitting alone by the sea, reading a newspaper and eating an apple; or in the vestibule of the Cecil Hotel, among the dusty palms, dressed in a sheath of silver drops, holding her magnificent fur at her back as a peasant holds his coat — her long forefinger68 hooked through the tag. Nessim has stopped at the door of the ballroom69 which is flooded with light and music. He has missed her. Under the palms, in a deep alcove70, sit a couple of old men playing chess. Justine has stopped to watch them. She knows nothing of the game, but the aura of stillness and concentration which brims the alcove fascinates her. She stands there between the deaf players and the world of music for a long time, as if uncertain into which to plunge71. Finally Nessim comes softly to take her arm and they stand together for a while, she watching the players, he watching her. At last she goes softly, reluctantly, circumspectly72 into the lighted world with a little sigh. Then in other circumstances, less creditable no doubt to herself, or to the rest of us: how touching73, how pliantly74 feminine this most masculine and resourceful of women could be. She could not help but remind me of that race of terrific queens which left behind them the ammoniac smell of their incestuous loves to hover75 like a cloud over the Alexandrian subconscious76. The giant man-eating cats like Arsinoe were her true siblings77. Yet behind the acts of Justine lay something else, born of a later tragic philosophy in which morals must be weighed in the balance against rogue78 personality. She was the victim of truly heroic doubts. Nevertheless I can still see a direct connection between the picture of Justine bending over the dirty sink with the foetus in it, and poor Sophia of Valentinus who died for a love as perfect as it was wrong-headed.
***** At that epoch79, Georges-Gaston Pombal, a minor80 consular81 official, shares a small flat with me in the Rue Nebi Daniel. He is a rare figure among the diplomats82 in that he appears to possess a vertebral column. For him the tiresome83 treadmill84 of protocol85 and entertainment — so like a surrealist nightmare — is full of exotic charm. He sees diplomacy86 through the eyes of a Douanier Rousseau. He indulges himself with it but never allows it to engulf87 what remains88 of his intellect. I suppose the secret of his success is his tremendous idleness, which almost approaches the supernatural. He sits at his desk in the Consulate-General covered by a perpetual confetti of pasteboard cards bearing the names of his colleagues. He is a pegamoid sloth89 of a man, a vast slow fellow given to prolonged afternoon siestas90 and Crébillon fils. His handkerchiefs smell wondrously91 of Eau de Portugal. His most favoured topic of conversation is women, and he must speak from experience for the succession of visitors to the little flat is endless, and rarely does one see the same face twice. ‘To a Frenchman the love here is interesting. They act before they reflect. When the time comes to doubt, to suffer remorse92, it is too hot, nobody has the energy. It lacks finesse93, this animalism, but it suits me. I’ve worn out my heart and head with love, and want to be left alone — above all, mon cher, from this Judeo-Coptic mania94 for dissection95, for analysing the subject. I want to return to my farmhouse96 in Normandy heart-whole.’ For long periods of the winter he is away on leave and I have the little dank flat to myself and sit up late, correcting exercise books, with only the snoring Hamid for company. In this last year I have reached a dead-end in myself. I lack the will-power to do anything with my life, to better my position by hard work, to write: even to make love. I do not know what has come over me. This is the first time I have experienced a real failure of the will to survive. Occasionally I turn over a bundle of manuscript or an old proof-copy of a novel or book of poems with disgusted inattention; with sadness, like someone studying an old passport. From time to time one of Georges’ numerous girls strays into my net by calling at the flat when he is not there, and the incident serves for a while to sharpen my taedium vitae. Georges is thoughtful and generous in these matters for, before going away (knowing how poor I am) he often pays one of the Syrians from Golfo’s tavern97 in advance, and orders her to spend an occasional night in the flat en disponibilité, as he puts it. Her duty is to cheer me up, by no means an enviable task especially as on the surface there is nothing to indicate lack of cheerfulness on my part. Small talk has become a useful form of automatism which goes on long after one has lost the need to talk; if necessary I can even make love with relief, as one does not sleep very well here: but without passion, without attention. Some of these encounters with poor exhausted98 creatures driven to extremity99 by physical want are interesting, even touching, but I have lost any interest in sorting my emotions so that they exist for me like dimensionless figures flashed on a screen. ‘There are only three things to be done with a woman’ said Clea once. ‘You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature.’ I was experiencing a failure in all these domains100 of feeling. I record this only to show the unpromising human material upon which Melissa elected to work, to blow some breath of life into my nostrils101. It could not have been easy for her to bear the double burden to her own poor circumstances and illness. To add my burdens to hers demanded real courage. Perhaps it was born of desperation, for she too had reached the dead level of things, as I myself had. We were fellow-bankrupts. For weeks her lover, the old furrier, followed me about the streets with a pistol sagging102 in the pocket of his overcoat. It was consoling to learn from one of Melissa’s friends that it was unloaded, but it was nevertheless alarming to be haunted by this old man. Mentally we must have shot each other down at every street corner of the city. I for my part could not bear to look at that heavy pock-marked face with its bestial103 saturnine104 cluster of tormented105 features smeared106 on it — could not bear to think of his gross intimacies107 with her: those sweaty little hands covered as thickly as a porcupine108 with black hair. For a long time this went on and then after some months an extraordinary feeling of intimacy seemed to grow up between us. We nodded and smiled at each other when we met. Once, encountering him at a bar, I stood for nearly an hour beside him; we were on the point of talking to each other, yet somehow neither of us had the courage to begin it. There was no common subject of conversation save Melissa. As I was leaving I caught a glimpse of him in one of the long mirrors, his head bowed as he stared into the wineglass. Something about his attitude — the clumsy air of a trained seal grappling with human emotions — struck me, and I realized for the first time that he probably loved Melissa as much as I did. I pitied his ugliness, and the blank pained incomprehension with which he faced emotions so new to him as jealousy109, the deprivation110 of a cherished mistress. Afterwards when they were turning out his pockets I saw among the litter of odds111 and ends a small empty scent-bottle of the cheap kind that Melissa used; and I took it back to the flat where it stayed on the mantelpiece for some months before it was thrown away by Hamid in the course of a spring-clean. I never told Melissa of this; but often when I was alone at night while she was dancing, perhaps of necessity sleeping with her admirers, I studied this small bottle, sadly and passionately112 reflecting on this horrible old man’s love and measuring it against my own; and tasting too, vicariously, the desperation which makes one clutch at some small discarded object which is still impregnated with the betrayer’s memory. I found Melissa, washed up like a half-drowned bird, on the dreary113 littorals114 of Alexandria, with her sex broken….
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slaked
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| v.满足( slake的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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inflaming
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| v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的现在分词 ) | |
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petal
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| n.花瓣 | |
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petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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magnesium
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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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pollen
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| n.[植]花粉 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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estuary
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| n.河口，江口 | |
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flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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delta
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| n.（流的）角洲 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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gulls
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scribble
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| v.潦草地书写，乱写，滥写；n.潦草的写法，潦草写成的东西，杂文 | |
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munched
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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eroded
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| adj. 被侵蚀的，有蚀痕的 动词erode的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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consolations
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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enumerate
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| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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smear
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| v.涂抹；诽谤，玷污；n.污点；诽谤，污蔑 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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minarets
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| n.（清真寺旁由报告祈祷时刻的人使用的）光塔( minaret的名词复数 ) | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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relinquishes
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的第三人称单数 )； 放弃 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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63
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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64
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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65
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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67
anonymity
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| n.the condition of being anonymous | |
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68
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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69
ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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70
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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71
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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72
circumspectly
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| adv.慎重地，留心地 | |
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73
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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pliantly
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hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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76
subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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77
siblings
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| n.兄弟，姐妹( sibling的名词复数 ) | |
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78
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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79
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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81
consular
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| a.领事的 | |
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82
diplomats
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| n.外交官( diplomat的名词复数 )；有手腕的人，善于交际的人 | |
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83
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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84
treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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85
protocol
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| n.议定书，草约，会谈记录，外交礼节 | |
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diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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engulf
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| vt.吞没，吞食 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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sloth
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| n.[动]树懒；懒惰，懒散 | |
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90
siestas
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| n.（气候炎热国家的）午睡，午休( siesta的名词复数 ) | |
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wondrously
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| adv.惊奇地，非常，极其 | |
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92
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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93
finesse
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| n.精密技巧，灵巧，手腕 | |
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94
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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95
dissection
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| n.分析；解剖 | |
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96
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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100
domains
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| n.范围( domain的名词复数 )；领域；版图；地产 | |
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101
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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102
sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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103
bestial
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| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
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104
saturnine
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| adj.忧郁的，沉默寡言的，阴沉的，感染铅毒的 | |
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105
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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106
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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107
intimacies
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| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
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108
porcupine
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| n.豪猪， 箭猪 | |
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109
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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110
deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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111
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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112
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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113
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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114
littorals
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| n.沿（海）岸地区( littoral的名词复数 ) | |
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