Part 1 Chapter 1
现在我住在波勒兹别墅，这里找不到一点儿灰尘，也没有一件东西摆得不是地方，除了我们，这里再没有别人，我们死了。
I am living at the Villa Borghese. There is not a crumb of dirt anywhere, nor a chair misplaced. We are all alone here and we are dead.
 
   昨晚鲍里斯发现他身上生了虱子，于是我只好剃光他的腋毛，可是他还是浑身发痒，住在这么漂亮的地方居然还会生虱子？不过没关系。我俩，我和鲍里斯也许永远不会彼此这样了解，若不是靠那些虱子。
Last night Boris discovered that he was lousy. I had to shave his armpits and even then the itching did not stop. How can one get lousy in a beautiful place like this? But no matter. We might never have known each other so intimately, Boris and I, had it not been for the lice.
 
　　鲍里斯刚刚总结了他的看法。他是一个天气预报专家。他说，天气会继续坏下去，会有更多的灾难、更多的死人、更多的绝望。无论哪儿都没有一点儿要发生变化的迹象。时光之癌症正在吞噬我们，我们的英雄或者已经自杀，或者正在自杀。如此说来，这个英雄不是时间，却是永恒。我们必须步调一致、前仆后继地朝着死亡的监牢奔去。没法逃脱，天气也不会变。
Boris has just given me a summary of his views. He is a weather prophet. The weather will continue bad, he says. There will be more calamities, more death, more despair. Not the slightest indication of a change anywhere. The cancer of time is eating us away. Our heroes have killed themselves, or are killing themselves. The hero, then, is not Time, but Timelessness. We must get in step, a lock step, toward the prison of death. There is no escape. The weather will not change.
 
　　这是我到巴黎后的第二个秋天。我是由于某种自己至今也没能搞清的原因被人送到这儿来的。
It is now the fall of my second year in Paris. I was sent here for a reason I have not yet been able to fathom.
 
　　我没有钱，没有人接济，没有希望。不过我是活着的人中最快活的，一年前，半年前，我还以为自己是个艺术家。现在我可再不这么想了。与文学有关的一切都已与我无涉，谢天谢地，再也没有什么书要写了。
I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive. A year ago, six months ago, I thought that I was an artist. I no longer think about it, I am. Everything that was literature has fallen from me. There are no more books to be written, thank God.
 
　　那么这一本呢？这一本不算是书，它是对人格的污蔑、诽谤、中伤。就”书”的一般意义来讲，这不是一本书。不，这是无休止的亵读。是啐在艺术脸上的一口唾沫。是向上帝、人类、命运、时间、爱情、美等一切事物的裤裆里喘上的一脚。我将为你歌唱，纵使走调我也要唱。我要在你哀号时歌唱，我要在你肮脏的尸体上跳舞……若要歌唱你必须先张开嘴，你必须有一对肺叶和一点儿乐理知识。有没有手风琴或吉他均无所谓，要紧的是有想要歌唱的愿望。那么，这儿便是一首歌，我正在歌唱。
This then? This is not a book. This is libel, slander, defamation of character. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty … what you will. I am going to sing for you, a little off key perhaps, but I will sing. I will sing while you croak, I will dance over your dirty corpse…To sing you must first open your mouth. You must have a pair of lungs, and a little knowledge of music. It is not necessary to have an accordion, or a guitar. The essential thing is to want to sing. This then is a song. I am singing.
 
　　我是唱给你的，塔尼亚。我倒是希望自己能唱得更好一些、更加悦耳一些，不过那样一来你也许永远不会愿意听我唱了。你曾听过别人唱，他们都引不起你的兴趣来，他们不是唱得太好就是还不够好。
It is to you, Tania, that I am singing. I wish that I could sing better, more melodiously, but then perhaps you would never have consented to listen to me. You have heard the others sing and they have left you cold. They sang too beautifully, or not beautifully enough.
 
　　这一天是十月二十几日，我已不再理会究竟是哪天了。你会说那是我去年十一月十四日做的一场梦吗？有几次间隔，不过都是在两场梦之间的，现在我已全然不记得这几次间隔中的事情了。我身边的世界在分崩离析，同时在这儿或那儿留下一块块的时间。世界是一个毒瘤，正在一口一口地吞噬自己……我在想，当无边的寂静笼罩了万物，笼罩各个角落时，音乐最终会胜利的。当万物又回到未被时间孕育出来之前的状态时，世界又一次呈现出那种混饨未开的局面，而现实正是为混饨而写的。你，塔尼亚，就是我的混沌。这便是我歌唱的缘由。快死掉的不仅仅是我，是整个世界，它要蜕去时间这层皮。我还活着，在你的子宫里踢腾，这是值得书写下来的现实。
It is the twenty somethingth of October. I no longer keep track of the date. Would you say - my dream of the 14th November last? There are intervals, but they are between dreams, and there is no consciousness of them left. The world around me is dissolving, leaving here and there spots of time. The world is a cancer eating itself away… I am thinking that when the great silence descends upon all and everywhere music will at last triumph. When into the womb of time everything is again withdrawn chaos will be restored and chaos is the score upon which reality is written. You, Tania, are my chaos. It is why I sing. It is not even I, it is the world dying, shedding the skin of time. I am still alive, kicking in your womb, a reality to write upon.
 
　　我在打瞌睡。爱情生理学。休眠中的鲸鱼的阴茎有六英尺长。编幅—有一根无拘无束的阴茎，有些动物的阴茎里还有一根骨头，就是说，一根骨头在……古尔孟说，”幸亏人身上的骨质结构已经没有了。”幸亏？是的，幸亏，想想人类带者一根有骨头的阴茎走来走去成何体统？袋鼠有两条阴茎，一根平时用，另一根只在节假日里用。继续打着瞌睡，一个女人写封信来问我替自己的书想好书名了没有，书名，当然想好了：《可爱的女同性恋者》。
Dozing off. The physiology of love. The whale with his six foot penis, in repose. The bat -  penis libre. Animals with a bone in the penis. Hence, a bone on … "Happily," says Gourmont, "the bony structure is lost in man." Happily? Yes, happily. Think of the human race walking around with a bone on. The kangaroo has a double penis - one for weekdays and one for holidays. Dozing. A letter from a female asking if I have found a title for my book. Title? To be sure: "Lovely Lesbians."
 
　　你的充满逸事趣闻的生活！这是博罗夫斯基的话。我每个星期三同博罗夫斯基一道吃午饭，他的太太做主人。她是一头已挤不出奶的奶牛，她正在学英语，最喜欢用的词是”淫秽”。
Your anecdotal life! A phrase of M. Borowski's. It is on Wednesdays that I have lunch with Borowski. His wife, who is a dried up cow, officiates. She is studying English now - her favorite word is "filthy." You can see immediately what a pain in the ass the Borowskis are. But wait …
 
　　你马上便会明白博罗夫斯基是多么难对付了。不过等一等……博罗夫斯基身着一套灯芯绒西装，会拉手风琴。这副行头真是妙极了，尤其是当你考虑到他是一个蛮不错的艺术家的时候。他开玩笑说他是波兰人，不过他当然不是。这位博罗夫斯基是个犹太人，他父亲是一个集邮家。其实几乎整个蒙帕纳斯都住着犹太人，或准犹太人，准犹太人则更糟糕了。其中包括卡尔和葆拉、克朗斯塔特和鲍里斯、塔尼亚和西尔维斯特、莫尔多夫和露西尔，除了菲尔莫全是。亨利?乔丹?奥斯瓦尔德居然也是犹太人。路易斯?尼科尔斯是犹太人，甚至范诺登和彻里也是犹太人。弗朗西丝?克莱克是个犹太人，或是犹太女人。泰特斯又是一个犹太人。这样看来犹太人简直多得不得了！
Borowski wears corduroy suits and plays the accordion. An invincible combination, especially when you consider that he is not a bad artist. He puts on that he is a Pole, but he is not, of course. He is a Jew, Borowski, and his father was a philatelist. In fact, almost all Montparnasse is Jewish, or half Jewish, which is worse. There's Carl and Paula, and Cronstadt and Boris, and Tania and Sylvester, and Moldorf and Lucille. All except Fillmore. Henry Jordan Oswald turned out to be a Jew also. Louis Nichols is a Jew. Even Van Norden and Chérie are Jewish. Frances Blake is a Jew, or a Jewess. Titus is a Jew. The Jews then are snowing me under. I am writing this for my friend Carl whose father is a Jew. All this is important to understand.
 
　　这些人中最可爱的犹太人是塔尼亚，为了她我也愿意成为一个犹太人。为什么不呢、我已经在像犹太人一样讲话了，而且我长得像犹太人一样丑。再说，还有谁比一个犹太人更恨犹太人呢？
Of them all the loveliest Jew is Tania, and for her sake I too would become a Jew. Why not? I already speak like a Jew. And I am as ugly as a Jew. Besides, who hates the Jews more than the Jew?
 
　　昏昏暗暗的时辰。靛青色，水平如镜，树木在闪光、在融化。铁轨在若雷色落进运河里了，两侧涂了漆的长长的履带车像公园里的滑行铁道一样卧着。这儿不是巴黎，不是康尼岛游乐场，这是欧洲和中美洲所有城市中尚未开化的大杂烩。楼下面的调车场里，铁轨黑糊糊的，犹如蜘蛛网一样，这不是由工程师定做的，不过设计上有大起大落的变化，像极地上荒凉的冰缝，照相机却照出深浅不同的黑色。
Twilight hour. Indian blue, water of glass, trees glistening and liquescent. The rails fall away into the canal at Jaurès. The long caterpillar with lacquered sides dips like a roller coaster. It is not Paris. It is not Coney Island. It is a crepuscular melange of all the cities of Europe and Central America. The railroad yards below me, the tracks black, webby, not ordered by the engineer but cataclysmic in design, like those gaunt fissures in the polar ice which the camera registers in degrees of black.
 
　　食物是我最喜爱的东西之一，可是在这座漂亮的波勒兹别墅里几乎根本看不到食物，有时这毫无疑问是很可怕的。我曾三番五次央求鲍里斯买些面包当早饭，可他总是忘记。看来他是出去吃早饭的，回来时剔着牙缝，山羊胡子上还沾着鸡蛋渣。他去饭馆里吃饭纯粹是为了体谅我，他说让我在一边看着他大吃大喝很难受。
Food is one of the things I enjoy tremendously. And in this beautiful Villa Borghese there is scarcely ever any evidence of food. It is positively appalling at times. I have asked Boris time and again to order bread for breakfast, but he always forgets. He goes out for breakfast, it seems. And when he comes back he is picking his teeth and there is a little egg hanging from his goatee. He eats in the restaurant out of consideration for me. He says it hurts to eat a big meal and have me watch him.
　　
　　我喜欢范诺登，不过我不同意他对自己的看法。譬如，我不同意他自以为是哲学家或思想家这种看法。他是一个被女人迷得神魂颠倒的人，就是这样。他永远不会成为一个作家。西尔维斯特也永远成不了作家，尽管他的大名在五百支红灯的照耀下闪闪发光。目前，周围我所尊敬的作家只有卡尔和鲍里斯。
I like Van Norden but I do not share his opinion of himself. I do not agree, for instance, that he is a philosopher, or a thinker. He is cunt struck, that's all. And he will never be a writer. Nor will Sylvester ever be a writer, though his name blaze in 50,000-candle-power red lights. The only writers about me for whom I have any respect, at present, are Carl and Boris.
 
　　他们着了魔，心灵深处燃烧着炽热的火焰。他们疯了，不能分辨音调了，他们是受难者。
They are possessed. They glow inwardly with a white flame. They are mad and tone deaf. They are sufferers.
 
　　莫尔多夫倒是没有发疯，不过他也在以自己的古怪方式受罪，莫尔多夫语无伦次，他没有血管。心脏和肾。他是一个便于携带的箱子，里面有无数个抽屉，每个抽屉上都贴着标签，上面的字是用白墨水、棕色墨水、红墨水、蓝墨水写的，还有朱红、橘黄、淡紫、储、杏黄、大蓝、乌黑、安如葡萄酒色、青鱼色、日冕色、铜绿色、奶酪色……我把打字机搬进隔壁一间屋里，这样写作时便可从镜子中看见自己。
Moldorf, on the other hand, who suffers too in his peculiar way, is not mad. Moldorf is word drunk. He has no veins or blood vessels, no heart or kidneys. He is a portable trunk filled with innumerable drawers and in the drawers are labels written out in white ink, brown ink, red ink, blue ink, vermilion, saffron, mauve, sienna, apricot, turquoise, onyx, Anjou, herring, Corona, verdigris, gorgonzola…I have moved the typewriter into the next room where I can see myself in the mirror as I write.
 
　　塔尼亚同艾琳一样，盼望收到厚厚的信。还有一位塔尼亚，这位塔尼亚像一颗饱满的种子，把花粉传播到各处，抑或我们也可以说，这有点儿像托尔斯泰和掘出胎儿的马棚一幕。塔尼亚也是一个狂热的人，她喜欢小便的声音、自由大街的咖啡馆、孚日广尝蒙帕纳斯林荫大道上买来的颜色鲜艳的领带、昏昏暗暗的浴室、波尔图葡萄酒、阿卜杜拉香烟、感人的慢节奏奏鸣曲、扩音机，聚集在一起谈论的一些趣闻轶事，她的乳房是焦黄色的，系着沉重的吊袜带，她总问别人”几点了”，喜欢吃肚里填了栗子的金黄色的松鸡，她的手指像塔夫绸般光滑，蒸汽似的昏暗光线变成了冬青，她患有脚端肥大症、癌症和檐妄症，她的面纱热呼呼的，打赌用的筹码，铺着血红色的地毯，两条大腿软绵绵的。塔尼亚这样说以便叫人人都听见，”
我爱他！”
Tania is like Irène. She expects fat letters. But there is another Tania, a Tania like a big seed who scatters pollen everywhere - or, let us say, a little bit of Tolstoy, a stable scene in which the fetus is dug up. Tania is a fever, too - les voies urinaires, Café de la Liberté, Place des Vosges, bright neckties on the Boulevard Montparnasse, dark bathrooms, Porto Sec, Abdullah cigarettes, the adagio sonata Pathétique, aural amplificators, anecdotal seances, burnt sienna breasts, heavy garters, what time is it, golden pheasants stuffed with chestnuts, taffeta fingers, vaporish twilights turning to ilex, acromegaly, cancer and delirium, warm veils, poker chips, carpets of blood and soft thighs. Tania says so that every one may hear: "I love him!"
Part 1 Chapter 2
鲍里斯喝威士忌喝得浑身发烧时塔尼亚便会说，”坐在这儿！啊，鲍里斯……俄国……我该怎么办，我都快叫它撑破了。”
And while Boris scalds himself with whisky she says: "Sit down here! O Boris … Russia … what'll I do? I'm bursting with it!"
 
　　到了夜里，我一看到鲍里斯的山羊胡子垂在枕头上便要发歇斯底里，啊，塔尼亚，你那热呼呼的阴部如今在哪儿？那副又肥又厚的吊袜带、那两条柔软而又粗壮的大腿又在哪儿？我的胯下有一根六英寸长的骨头。塔尼亚，我要弄平你那充满精液的阴部上的每一条皱纹。我要先叫你肚子疼、子宫翻个个儿，再把你送到你的西尔维斯特那儿去。你的西尔维斯特！喂，他懂得怎样生火，我却明白如何叫女人欲火中烧。塔尼亚，我把灼热的精液射进你的身体，我叫你的卵巢发热。你的西尔维斯特这会儿有点吃醋了吧，他觉得不大舒服，是吗？他感觉到我的硕大的阴茎留下的东西了。我把你那玩艺儿撑大了，我把皱纹都熨平了，跟我干过以后，你尽可同公马、公牛、公羊、公鸭子和一只瑞士圣伯尔拿僧院驯养的雪山救人犬干。你可以把癫蛤膜、编幅和蝴蝎塞进你的肛门。只要愿意，你可以奏出一串和音急速弹奏，或是在肚脐那儿拴上一只齐特拉琴。塔尼亚，我在操你，你就得这样叫我操下去。若是你不喜欢叫我当着众人的面于，我就在暗中干。
At night when I look at Boris' goatee lying on the pillow I get hysterical. O Tania, where now is that warm cunt of yours, those fat, heavy garters, those soft, bulging thighs? There is a bone in my prick six inches long. I will ream out every wrinkle in your cunt, Tania, big with seed. I will send you home to your Sylvester with an ache in your belly and your womb turned inside out. Your Sylvester! Yes, he knows how to build a fire, but I know how to inflame a cunt. I shoot hot bolts into you, Tania, I make your ovaries incandescent. Your Sylvester is a little jealous now? He feels something, does he? He feels the remnants of my big prick. I have set the shores a little wider. I have ironed out the wrinkles. After me you can take on stallions, bulls, rams, drakes, St. Bernards. You can stuff toads, bats, lizards up your rectum. You can shit arpeggios if you like, or string a zither across your navel. I am fucking you, Tania, so that you'll stay fucked. And if you are afraid of being fucked publicly I will fuck you privately. I will tear off a few hairs from your cunt and paste them on Boris' chin. I will bite into your clitoris and spit out two franc pieces…
 
　　蔚蓝色的天空上鹅毛般的云丝被吹散了，干枯的树木无限延伸，黑呼呼的树枝像一个有梦游症的人那样打着各种手势。这些阴沉的、鬼怪般的树木的枝干苍白得像雪茄烟灰。这是一种超然的、全然欧洲式的静寂，百叶窗放下了，店铺闩上了，这里或那里偶尔可见一盏红灯，表明有人在幽会。其正面粗暴甚至可怕，除了树木投下星星点点的影子，一片洁净。从奥坦格利经过使我想起另一个巴黎，那便是毛姆、高更的巴黎，乔治?摩尔的巴黎，我想起那个可怖的西班牙人，他那时正以杂技演员的步子从一种作风跳跃到另一种作风，使全世界大吃一惊。我想起施本格勒同他那些可怕的宣言，并且不由得惊异—风格，广义上的风格，是否全完蛋了？我说我脑子里尽是这些念头，不过这也不是实话。只是到了后来，当我走到塞纳河对岸、当我把辉煌的灯光甩到身后时我才允许自己胡思乱想这些事儿，眼下我什么也不想，只感觉到自己这个活生生的人被河水映出的奇迹搞得很伤心，因为这河水映出了一个已被遗忘的世界。沿河两岸，树木佝偻着身子，在这面没有光泽的镜子上投下情影，起风时这些树便发出一阵沙沙声，河水翻腾着流过时它们也会流下几滴眼泪。这条河使我默默无言，我找不到可以倾诉心曲的人，哪怕是一点点也好……
Indigo sky swept clear of fleecy clouds, gaunt trees infinitely extended, their black boughs gesticulating like a sleepwalker. Somber, spectral trees, their trunks pale as cigar ash. A silence supreme and altogether European. Shutters drawn, shops barred. A red glow here and there to mark a tryst. Brusque the facades, almost forbidding; immaculate except for the splotches of shadow cast by the trees. Passing by the Orangerie I am reminded of another Paris, the Paris of Maugham, of Gauguin, Paris of George Moore. I think of that terrible Spaniard who was then startling the world with his acrobatic leaps from style to style. I think of Spengler and of his terrible pronunciamentos, and I wonder if style, style in the grand manner, is done for. I say that my mind is occupied with these thoughts, but it is not true; it is only later, after I have crossed the Seine, after I have put behind me the carnival of lights, that I allow my mind to play with these ideas. For the moment I can think of nothing - except that I am a sentient being stabbed by the miracle of these waters that reflect a forgotten world. All along the banks the trees lean heavily over the tarnished mirror; when the wind rises and fills them with a rustling murmur they will shed a few tears and shiver as the water swirls by. I am suffocated by it. No one to whom I can communicate even a fraction of my feelings…
 
艾琳的毛病在于她只有一个手提包，却没有阴户。她总想把厚厚的信塞进包里，信上都是大量闻所未闻的事情，现在她叫劳娜，因而也有阴户了，我知道这一点是因为她给我们送来了一些下面的毛。劳娜—一头疯狂的驴子，在风中乱闻乱嗅，以此取乐。在每一座山坡上她都要扮演妓女的角色，有时还在电话亭和卫生间里。她为金 ?卡罗尔买了一张床和一只铭刻上他的姓名首字母的刮胡子时用的杯子。她躺在托特纳姆广场大道上，撩起衣裙用手指弄自己那个地方，还有蜡烛，用罗马蜡烛和门把手弄。全国找不到一个男人的那玩艺儿大到能令她满意的程度……一个也没有。男人的玩艺儿一进入她身体便会蜷起来，她需要胀大的阴茎、自动爆炸的纸火箭和滚烫的蜡油、木焦油。你若是由着她，她会割断你的命根，叫它永远留在她身体里。劳娜这样的阴户在一百万女人中才有一个！这是试验室里的阴户，没有一种石蕊试纸能显出它的颜色。这个劳娜还是一个骗子。她从未替卡罗尔买过床，她用一个威士忌酒瓶砸他的脑袋。她满嘴脏话和承诺。可怜的卡罗尔，他的阴茎只能在她体内蜷起来然后死掉，只要她吸一口气他那玩艺儿就会掉出来，像一只死泥鳅一样。
The trouble with Irène is that she has a valise instead of a cunt. She wants fat letters to shove in her valise. Immense, avec des choses inou?es. Llona now, she had a cunt. I know because she sent us some hairs from down below. Llona - a wild ass snuffing pleasure out of the wind. On every high hill she played the harlot - and sometimes in telephone booths and toilets. She bought a bed for King Carol and a shaving mug with his initials on it. She lay in Tottenham Court Road with her dress pulled up and fingered herself. She used candles, Roman candles, and door knobs. Not a prick in the land big enough for her… not one. Men went inside her and curled up. She wanted extension pricks, self exploding rockets, hot boiling oil made of wax and creosote. She would cut off your prick and keep it inside her forever, if you gave her permission. One cunt out of a million, Llona! A laboratory cunt and no litmus paper that could take her color. She was a liar, too, this Llona. She never bought a bed for her King Carol. She crowned him with a whisky bottle and her tongue was full of lice and tomorrows. Poor Carol, he could only curl up inside her and die. She drew a breath and he fell out - like a dead clam.
 
 
　　大量的、厚厚的、闻所未闻的信件。一只没有带子的手提包。一个没有插钥匙的锁孔。她有一张德国人的嘴、一对法国人的耳朵和一个俄国入的屁股，而阴户却是世界通用的。当国旗挥动时，它便一直红到喉咙处。你从于勒—费里林荫道进去，从维莱特门出来。你把你的小羊尾放进粪车里，自然是两个轮子的红色粪车。在乌尔克和马恩河的汇合处，水顺着河堤流去，在桥下静静地流淌，仿佛一面镜子。劳娜如今躺在那儿，河道里满是玻璃碎片。含羞草在哭泣，窗户上有一个潮湿的、雾状的屁。劳娜是一百万女人中的姣姣者。全是阴户和一截直肠，你可以坐在里面看中世纪史。
Enormous, fat letters, avec des choses inou?es. A valise without straps. A hole without a key. She had a German mouth, French ears, Russian ass. Cunt international. When the flag waved it was red all the way back to the throat. You entered on the Boulevard Jules Ferry and came out at the Porte de la Villette. You dropped your sweetbreads into the tumbrils - red tumbrils with two wheels, naturally. At the confluence of the Ourcq and Marne, where the water sluices through the dikes and lies like glass under the bridges. Llona is lying there now and the canal is full of glass and splinters; the mimosas weep, and there is a wet, foggy fart on the windowpanes. One cunt out of a million Llona! All cunt and a glass ass in which you can read the history of the Middle Ages.
 
　　莫尔多夫首先显得像某人的一幅漫画，甲状腺似的眼睛，米什林式的嘴唇，声音像豌豆汤。他在背心里掖了一个小梨，不论你怎么看他都是那副尊容，随身带着有个坠子的鼻烟盒，象牙柄的，还有棋子、扇子、教堂地图。他发酵的时间太长，现在已变得毫无形状了，成了失去维生素的酵母，没有橡皮底座的花瓶。
It is the caricature of a man which Moldorf first presents. Thyroid eyes. Michelin lips. Voice like pea soup. Under his vest he carries a little pear. However you look at him it is always the same panorama: netsuke snuffbox, ivory handle, chess piece, fan, temple motif. He has fermented so long now that he is amorphous. Yeast despoiled of its vitamins. Vase without a rubber plant.
 
　　他家族中的女人们在九世纪曾两次改换祖先，到了文艺复兴期间又换了一次。他在一次次战乱中、在众多的黄肚皮和白肚皮下留存下来。在以色列人出埃及前很久，一个鞑靼人便朝他的血液里哗过唾沫。
The females were sired twice in the ninth century, and again during the Renaissance. He was carried through the great dispersions under yellow bellies and white. Long before the Exodus a Tatar spat in his blood.
 
　　他的为难也就是一个侏儒的困惑。透过松球状的眼睛，他看到自己的侧面轮廓投影在一幅无法计量的幕布上，他的声音使他陶醉，因为它尖细得如间一个针头一般。他听到的一声大吼对于别人只是尖细的叫唤。
His dilemma is that of the dwarf. With his pineal eye he sees his silhouette projected on a screen of incommensurable size. His voice, synchronized to the shadow of a pinhead, intoxicates him. He hears a roar where others hear only a squeak.
 
　　他的头脑，他的头脑是一个圆形剧场，场上的演员一人扮演好几个角色。莫尔多夫，多才多艺而且不出错，一个个依次扮演着他的角色—小丑、耍把戏的、杂技演员、牧师、登徒子、江湖骗子。这个圆形剧场太小了，于是他在剧场里安放了炸药。观众都吃了迷幻药，于是他便把它炸毁了。
There is his mind. It is an amphitheater in which the actor gives a protean performance. Moldorf, multiform and unerring, goes through his roles - clown, juggler, contortionist, priest, lecher, mountebank. The amphitheater is too small. He puts dynamite to it. The audience is drugged. He scotches it.
 
　　我徒劳地企图接近莫尔多夫。这就像企图接近上帝一样，因为莫尔多夫就是上帝—他本来就是上帝。我只是记载下……我以前就对他有一些看法，现在我放弃了，而另一些看法现在正在修正中。我把他抓住了，结果发现手中不是蟑螂而是一只靖蜒。他的粗鲁冒犯了我，然而他的脆弱又叫我为之倾倒。
I am trying ineffectually to approach Moldorf. It is like trying to approach God, for Moldorf is God - he has never been anything else. I am merely putting down words…I have had opinions about him which I have discarded; I have had other opinions which I am revising. I have pinned him down only to find that it was not a dung beetle I had in my hands, but a dragonfly. He has offended me by his coarseness and then overwhelmed me with his delicacy.
 
　　他滔滔不绝直到把自个儿憋得透不过气来，随后又像约旦河一样沉默无语。
He has been voluble to the point of suffocation, then quiet as the Jordan.
 
　　每当我看着他小跑着走上前来迎接我，伸出一对小爪子，眼睛里流着泪，我便觉得自己在同……不，这句话不能这么说。
When I see him trotting forward to greet me, his little paws outstretched, his eyes perspiring, I feel that I am meeting… No, this is not the way to go about it!
 
　　“像在喷泉上跳跃的鸡蛋。”
"Comme un ?uf dansant sur un jet d'eau."
 
他只有一根手杖---根普通的手杖。他的衣袋里装了一张张纸，都是治疗悲观狂的处方。他的病现在痊愈了，替他洗脚的那个德国小姑娘因而悲痛欲绝。这正如一个无足轻重的小人物背着他的古吉拉特语字典到处走。”对人人都不可避免”，这后无疑就是指”绝对必要的”。博罗夫斯基会觉得这话不可理喻，一星期里每天他都要换一根手杖，还有一根是复活节专用的。
He has only one cane - a mediocre one. In his pocket scraps of paper containing prescriptions for Weltschmerz. He is cured now, and the little German girl who washed his feet is breaking her heart. It is like Mr. Nonentity toting his Gujarati dictionary everywhere. "Inevitable for everyone" - meaning, no doubt, indispensable. Borowski would find all this incomprehensible. Borowski has a different cane for each day in the week, and one for Easter.
 
　　我们彼此间有这么多共同点，看别人便犹如在一面裂了缝的镜子里看自己。
We have so many points in common that it is like looking at myself in a cracked mirror.
 
　　我一直在翻阅我的手稿，每一页上都是潦草涂改过的手迹。全是文学！我有点害怕。这多么像莫尔多夫，唯一不同的是，我是一个非犹太人的异教徒，而异教徒受苦受难的方式是不同的。据西尔维斯特讲，他们虽有痛苦，但却不患神经病，而一个从未患过神经病的人是不懂什么叫作痛苦的。
I have been looking over my manuscripts, pages scrawled with revisions. Pages of literature. This frightens me a little. It is so much like Moldorf. Only I am a Gentile, and Gentiles have a different way of suffering. They suffer without neuroses and, as Sylvester, says a man who has never been afflicted with a neurosis does not know the meaning of suffering.
　　 　　
　　于是我清楚地回忆起我痛苦时是多么快活，那正像带着一头小熊仔上床睡觉，有时它会用爪子抓你，那时你才真正知道害怕。平时你不会怕—你可以放掉它，或者把它的头砍掉。
I recall distinctly how I enjoyed my suffering. It was like taking a cub to bed with you. Once in a while he clawed you - and then you really were frightened. Ordinarily you had no fear - you could always turn him loose, or chop his head off.
 
　　有些人无法抵御钻进野兽笼子里、同野兽在一起厮混的欲望，他们连手枪、鞭子都不带便进去了，正是恐惧使他们变得无所畏惧……对于一个犹大人，全世界便是一个野兽横行的笼子。笼门锁上了，他在笼子里，没有手枪、鞭子，但他勇气十足，甚至嗅不到笼子角落里的兽粪味。围观者在拍手，可他听不见，他认为这场戏是在笼子里面演的，他认为这个笼子便是整个世界，门锁上了，他独自一人无助地站在那儿，发现狮子不懂他的话。没有一头狮子听说过斯宾诺莎人斯宾诺莎？它们干吗不咬他？”给我们肉吃！”它们吼道，而他却站在那儿吓呆了，脑子全乱了，他的世界观也变成一个荡到空中再也够不到的秋千。狮子举起爪子扇一下，他的世界便被打得粉碎。
There are people who cannot resist the desire to get into a cage with wild beasts and be mangled. They go in even without revolver or whip. Fear makes them fearless… For the Jew the world is a cage filled with wild beasts. The door is locked and he is there without whip or revolver. His courage is so great that he does not even smell the dung in the corner. The spectators applaud but he does not hear. The drama, he thinks, is going on inside the cage. The cage, he thinks, is the world. Standing there alone and helpless, the door locked, he finds that the lions do not understand his language. Not one lion has ever heard of Spinoza. Spinoza? Why they can't even get their teeth into him. "Give us meat!" they roar, while he stands there petrified, his ideas frozen, his Weltanschauung a trapeze out of reach. A single blow of the lion's paw and his cosmogony is smashed.
 
　　同样，狮子们也失望了。它们期待的是血，是骨头，是软骨，是筋，它们嚼了又嚼，然而词汇是无味的树胶，树胶是无法消化的。你可以朝树胶上撒糖、助消化药、百里香草汁和甘草汁，待树胶被树胶收集者裹起来后便好消化了，这些树胶收集者是沿着一个业已下沉的大陆的山脊来的，他们带来了一种代数语言，在亚利桑那沙漠中他们遇到了北方的蒙古人，这些人像茄子一样光滑。这是地球呈陀螺仪状倾斜后不久的事情，当时墨西哥湾流同日本湾流分道扬镳了。在地球的中心他们找到了石灰岩，于是他们将自己的语言绣在地壳底下。他们吃伙伴的内脏，森林围住了他们，围住了他们的骨头，脑壳和饰有花边的石灰岩，他们的语言便消失了。人们有时在这儿或那儿仍找得到一个兽群遗骸，一个被各种塑像所覆盖的头盖骨。
The lions, too, are disappointed. They expected blood, bones, gristle, sinews. They chew and chew, but the words are chide and chicle is indigestible. Chicle is a base over which you sprinkle sugar, pepsin, thyme, licorice. Chicle, when it is gathered by chicleros, is O.K. The chicleros came over on the ridge of a sunken continent. They brought with them an algebraic language. In the Arizona desert they met the Mongols of the North, glazed like eggplants. Time shortly after the earth had taken its gyroscopic lean - when the Gulf Stream was parting ways with the Japanese current. In the heart of the soil they found tufa rock. They embroidered the very bowels of the earth with their language. They ate one another's entrails and the forest closed in on them, on their bones and skulls, on their lace tufa. Their language was lost. Here and there one still finds the remnants of a menagerie, a brain plate covered with figures.
 
　　这一切与你有什么关系，莫尔多夫？你口中的话是杂乱无章的，说吧，莫尔多夫，我正等着你说呢。当咱俩握手时，谁也感觉不到透过我们汗水浇下的大量的水。每当想词儿时，你总是半张着嘴，唾液在你腮帮子里面流淌。我一跃跳过了半个亚洲，我到那儿丢捡你的手杖，尽管这是一技普普通通的手杖。在你身体一侧戳一个洞，我便可以搜集到足够塞满大英博物馆的东西。我们站上五分钟便可吞没很多个世纪。你是一个筛子，我的模糊想法便是通过它滤下去并且变成言语的，言语后面是一片混乱，每个词是一条、是一杠，只是杠还不够，永远无法做成一只筛子。
What has all this to do with you, Moldorf? The word in your mouth is anarchy. Say it, Moldorf, I am waiting for it. Nobody knows, when we shake hands, the rivers that pour through our sweat. Whilst you are framing your words, your lips half parted, the saliva gurgling in your cheeks, I have jumped halfway across Asia. Were I to take your cane, mediocre as it is, and poke a little hole in your side, I could collect enough material to fill the British Museum. We stand on five minutes and devour centuries. You are the sieve through which my anarchy strains, resolves itself into words. Behind the word is chaos. Each word a stripe, a bar, but there are not and never will be enough bars to make the mesh.
Part 1 Chapter 3
我不在家时窗帘挂上了，它们看起来像在来苏水里浸过的奥地利蒂罗尔州出产的桌布。屋里光芒四射，我迷迷糊糊地坐在床上，想着人类诞生前是什么样子。突然钟声响了，这是一种稀奇古怪、绝非人世的曲调，我仿佛被带到了中亚的大草原上。有些曲子缕缕不绝、余音绕梁，有些则一倾而出，缠绵悱恻。如今一切又都归于寂静，只有最后一个音符仍在飘荡，这只是一只微弱的高音锣，响了一声便像一个人苗一样熄灭了，它几乎无法划破这静谧的夜。
In my absence the window curtains have been hung. They have the appearance of Tyrolean tablecloths dipped in lysol. The room sparkles. I sit on the bed in a daze, thinking about man before his birth. Suddenly bells begin to toll, a weird, unearthly music, as if I had been translated to the steppes of Central Asia. Some ring out with a long, lingering roll, some erupt drunkenly, maudlinly. And now it is quiet again, except for a last note that barely grazes the silence of the night - just a faint, high gong snuffed out like a flame.
 
　　我曾跟自己订立了一个无言的契约：写过的东西不再改动一行。我对完善自己的思想或行动并无兴趣，我把陀思妥耶夫斯基的完美与屠格涅夫的完美等量齐观（还有什么比《永久的丈夫》更完美的？）。于是，在同一环境中，我们有了两类完美。然而在凡高的信中还提到一种超出这两类完美的完美，这便是个人战胜了艺术。
I have made a silent compact with myself not to change a line of what I write. I am not interested in perfecting my thoughts, nor my actions. Beside the perfection of Turgenev I put the perfection of Dostoevski. (Is there anything more perfect than The Eternal Husband?) Here, then, in one and the same medium, we have two kinds of perfection. But in Van Gogh's letters there is a perfection beyond either of these. It is the triumph of the individual over art.
　　
　　现在只有一件事使我极感兴趣，这就是记下书中遗漏的一切，就我所知，还没有人利用空气来给我们的生活指示方向，提供动机的各种元素，只有杀人狂似乎在从生活中重新汲取一定量的他们早先投入生活中的东西。这个时代呼唤暴力，可我们只得到了失效的炸药。革命不是尚在萌芽中便被扼杀就是成功得太快。激情很快便丧失殆尽，人们便转而求助于思想，这已是常规。提出来的建议没有一项能维持二十四小时以上。我们要在一代人生活的这段时间里生活一百万次，在对昆虫学、深海生物或细胞活动的研究中，我们学到更多……
There is only one thing which interests me vitally now, and that is the recording of all that which is omitted in books. Nobody, so far as I can see, is making use of those elements in the air which gives direction and motivation to our lives. Only the killers seem to be extracting from life some satisfactory measure of what they are putting into it. The age demands violence, but we are getting only abortive explosions. Revolutions are nipped in the bud, or else succeed too quickly. Passion is quickly exhausted. Men fall back on ideas, comme d'habitude. Nothing is proposed that can last more than twenty-four hours. We are living a million lives in the space of a generation. In the study of entomology, or of deep sea life, or cellular activity, we derive more …
 
电话铃声打断了我的思绪，我永远无法把这件事情想清楚。有人来租这所公寓了……
The telephone interrupts this thought which I should never have been able to complete. Someone is coming to rent the apartment….
 
　　看来我在波勒兹别墅的生活要结束了，好吧，我就收拾起这些手稿走路好了，别处也会发生一些事情。事情总是在发生，不论我走到哪里，那儿总有戏看。人就像虱子一样，他们钻到你皮肤下面，躲藏在那儿。于是你搔了又搔，直到搔出血来，可还是无法永远摆脱虱子的骚扰。在我所到之处，人们都在把自个儿的生活弄得一团糟，人人都有难言的隐痛。厄运、无聊、忧伤和自杀，这些都是从娘胎里带来的。四周的气氛中弥漫着灾难、挫折和徒劳无功。搔吧，搔吧，直到一块好皮肤也不剩。这结果令我兴奋不已，我不但不灰心丧气，反而很开心。我高声呼唤更多。更大的灾难和更惨重的失败，我要叫全世界乱成一团，我要叫每个人都把自己搔死。
It looks as though it were finished, my life at the Villa Borghese. Well, I'll take up these pages and move on. Things will happen elsewhere. Things are always happening. It seems wherever I go there is drama. People are like lice - they get under your skin and bury themselves there. You scratch and scratch until the blood comes, but you can't get permanently deloused. Everywhere I go .people are making a mess of their lives. Everyone has his private tragedy. It's in the blood now - misfortune, ennui, grief, suicide. The atmosphere is saturated with disaster, frustration, futility. Scratch and scratch - until there's no skin left. However, the effect upon me is exhilarating. Instead of being discouraged, or depressed, I enjoy it. I am crying for more and more disasters, for bigger calamities, for grander failures. I want the whole world to be out of whack, I want everyone to scratch himself to death.
 
　　连这些支离破碎的笔记我几乎都没有时间记，因为我是被人逼迫过着节奏快而又忙乱的生活的呀。来过电话后，一位先生和他太太来了，在他们谈话期间我上楼去躺下来，我躺着，盘算下一步该怎么办。当然不能回到那个妖怪的床上整夜翻来覆去用大脚趾头弹面包屑。这个令人作呕的小杂种；若是还有比当妖怪更糟糕的那便是当个守财奴。他是一个胆小如鼠、战战兢兢的小混蛋，总是在怕有朝一日破产的恐惧中过日子—或许是三月十八日，准确日子却是五月二十五日。他喝咖啡不要牛奶或糖，吃面包不涂黄油，吃肉不要汤，要不就干脆不吃肉。
So fast and furiously am I compelled to live now that there is scarcely time to record even these fragmentary notes. After the telephone call, a gentleman and his wife arrived. I went upstairs to lie down during the transaction. Lay there wondering what my next move would be. Surely not to go back to the fairy's bed and toss about all night flicking bread crumbs with my toes. That puking little bastard! If there's anything worse than being a fairy it's being a miser. A timid, quaking little bugger who lived in constant fear of going broke some day - the 18th of March perhaps, or the 25th of May precisely. Coffee without milk or sugar. Bread without butter. Meat without gravy, or no meat at all.
 
　　他不是不要这个便是不要那个，这个肮脏的小财迷。哪一天你打开抽屉瞧瞧便会发现藏在钱匣子里的钱，足足有两千多法郎，还有一些没有兑现过的支票。就算这样，我本来也不会这么在乎的，若不是我的贝雷帽里总是被他倒进咖啡渣子，地板上堆满了垃圾，更不用说那冰冷的润肤膏、油腻腻的毛巾和总是塞住的下水道了。我告诉你，这个小杂种身上总有一股臭味，除非是刚刚洒过科伦香水。他的耳朵脏、眼睛脏，屁股也脏。他是一个大关节、有哮喘病，有虱子、卑微而又病态十足的家伙。
Without this and without that! That dirty little miser! Open the bureau drawer one day and find money hidden away in a sock. Over two thousand francs - and checks that he hadn't even cashed. Even that I wouldn't have minded so much if there weren't always coffee grounds in my beret and garbage on the floor, to say nothing of the cold cream jars and the greasy towels and the sink always stopped up. I tell you, the little bastard he smelled bad - except when he doused himself with cologne. His ears were dirty, his eyes were dirty, his ass was dirty. He was double jointed, asthmatic, lousy, picayune, morbid.
 
　　哪怕他曾给我端来过一顿像样的早饭我也会原谅他的全部缺点的！这个家伙在一只脏兮兮的钱匣子里藏着两千法郎，却拒绝穿件干净衬衣，舍不得在面包上涂点儿黄油。这样一个家伙还不只是妖怪，不只是守财奴—他简直是一个白痴。
I could have forgiven him everything if only he had handed me a decent breakfast! But a man who has two thousand francs hidden away in a dirty sock and refuses to wear a clean shirt or smear a little butter over his bread, such a man is not just a fairy, nor even just a miser - he's an imbecile!
 
　　不过有关这个妖怪的都是题外话。我竖着一只耳朵倾听楼下的动静，来人是一位和他妻子一道来看房子的雷恩先生，他们正在谈论要把它租下来呢。谢天谢地，他们还只是说说而已。
But that's neither here nor there, about the fairy. I'm keeping an ear open as to what's going on downstairs. It's a Mr. Wren and his wife who have called to look at the apartment. They're talking about taking it. Only talking about it, thank God.
 
 
　　雷恩太太爱笑，这表明马上会出麻烦的。这会儿是雷恩先生在说话，他的声音沙哑，刺耳、深沉，犹如一件又重又钝的武器砍进肉，骨头和软骨里。
Mrs. Wren has a loose laugh - complications ahead. Now Mister Wren is talking. His voice is raucous, scraping, booming, a heavy blunt weapon that wedges its way through flesh and bone and cartilage.
 
　　鲍里斯叫我下来好介绍我同他们认识，他搓着双手，像个开当铺的。他们正在谈雷恩先生写的一个故事，一匹破马的故事。
Boris calls me down to be introduced. He is rubbing his hands, like a pawnbroker. They are talking about a story Mr. Wren wrote, a story about a spavined horse.
 
　　“我还以为雷恩先生是位画家呢。”
"But I thought Mr. Wren was a painter?"
 
　　“当然是，”鲍里斯眨了一下眼睛说。”不过到了冬天他便写作了，他写得不错……好极了。”
"To be sure," says Boris, with a twinkle in his eye, "but in the wintertime he writes. And he writes well … remarkably well."
 
　　我想引雷恩先生讲话，讲点什么，讲什么都行。如果有必要，也可以讲讲那匹跛马。可雷恩先生几乎一言不发，每一回他试图讲动笔写作的那段枯燥日子时，他的话便变得难懂了。他往往要花上几个月工夫才在纸上写下一个字。（冬天只有三个月。）这几个月和冬天那几个月里他在思考什么？天理良心，我真看不出这家伙是个作家，可雷恩太太说，他一坐下灵感便纷至沓来。
I try to induce Mr. Wren to talk, to say something, anything, to talk about the spavined horse, if necessary. But Mr. Wren is almost inarticulate. When he essays to speak of those dreary months with the pen he becomes unintelligible. Months and months he spends before setting a word to paper. (And there are only three months of winter!) What does he cogitate all those months and months of winter? So help me God, I can't see this guy as a writer. Yet Mrs. Wren says that when he sits down to it the stuff just pours out.
 
　　话题在变换，很难了解雷恩先生在想什么，因为他不说话。
The talk drifts. It is difficult to follow Mr. Wren's mind because he says nothing.
 
　　而雷恩太太却说，“他边想边干。”在雷恩太太口中，雷恩先生样样都很好。”他边想边干”—非常可爱，可爱极了，博罗夫斯基准会这么说。不过也实在非常痛苦，尤其是，这位思想家只不过是一匹跛马。
He thinks as he goes along - so Mrs. Wren puts it. Mrs. Wren puts everything about Mr. Wren in the loveliest light. "He thinks as he goes along" - very charming, charming indeed, as Borowski would say, but really very painful, particularly when the thinker is nothing but a spavined horse.
 
　　鲍里斯给我钱，叫我去买白酒。去买酒的路上我便已经醉了，我知道自己一回到屋里便会如何表现。沿着那条街走过来时酒劲儿便发了，我早拟好了一篇漂亮的演说词，它像雷恩太太的傻笑，就要滔滔不绝地涌出口来，照我看，她也已有几分醉意了，她一喝醉便会留神听别人说。刚从酒店里出来，我便听见汩汩的撒尿声，一切都在发狂，在四处乱溅，我要雷恩太太听着……
Boris hands me money to buy liquor. Going for the liquor I am already intoxicated. I know just how I'll begin when I get back to the house. Walking down the street it commences, the grand speech inside me that's gurgling like Mrs. Wren's loose laugh. Seems to me she had a slight edge on already. Listens beautifully when she's tight. Coming out of the wine shop I hear the urinal gurgling. Everything is loose and splashy. I want Mrs. Wren to listen…
 
鲍里斯又在搓手，雷恩太太仍在结结巴巴地飞溅着唾沫星子说话。我把一个酒瓶夹在两腿间，把开瓶塞的钻子钻进去，雷恩太太大张着嘴期待着。酒从我两腿间溅出来，阳光也从八角窗外溅进屋来，而我的血也在血管中沸腾，将要从我身体里一涌而出的上千种发疯的玩艺儿现在都混杂在一起了。我把自己想起的每一件事讲给他们听，这些事情原先都藏在我心灵深处，而雷恩太太的狂笑使我开口全说出来了。两腿间夹着酒瓶，阳光由窗外洒进来，这会儿我又重新体验到刚到巴黎时捱过的那段寒酸日子里所感受到的快活心境，当时我茫然不知所措，一贫如洗，像在宴会上徘徊的一个鬼魂那样在街上逛来逛去。每件往事又突然全部想起来了—不能使用的卫生间、那位赞成擦皮鞋的王子、辉煌影院，我在那儿躺在老板的大衣上睡过觉，那个窗子上的铁栅、叫人窒息的感觉、肥大的蟑螂，偶尔的一顿大吃大喝、即将消失在暮色苍茫中的罗斯，坎那克和那不勒斯。我常空着肚子在大街上东跑西颠，有时也去拜访素不相识的人，例如德洛姆夫人。至于怎样到德洛姆夫人家去的，我再也想不起来了，可我去了，还设法进去了，我穿着灯芯绒裤子和猎装，裤子门襟上一个扣子也没有扣便从管家和系着一条小白围裙的女佣人身边闯进屋子里去了。直至今日我仍能感觉到那个房间里金碧辉煌的气氛，德洛姆夫人身着男人气的衣服坐在一只宝座上，鱼缸里养着金鱼，还有古代的世界地图和装订精美的书籍。我仍能感觉到她沉重的手搭在我的肩膀上，她那色迷迷的态度叫我有点害怕。更舒适的是在圣拉扎尔车站往下灌浓炖肉汤，妓女们都站在门口，每张桌子上都摆着塞尔查矿泉水瓶子，一股很浓的精液在裤裆里泛滥。五点到七点间最好的消遣莫过于置身于这一大群人中，紧跟着一条大腿或一个美丽的酥胸往前走，脑子里乱哄哄的，一个个念头接瞳而至。这是那时一种稀奇古怪的满足，那时没有约会，没人请吃饭，没有计划，没有钱。那真是黄金般的日子，我连一个朋友也没有。
Boris is rubbing his hands again. Mr. Wren is still stuttering and spluttering. I have a bottle between my legs and I'm shoving the corkscrew in. Mrs. Wren has her mouth parted expectantly. The wine is splashing between my legs, the sun is splashing through the bay window, and inside my veins there is a bubble and splash of a thousand crazy things that commence to gush out of me now pell mell. I'm telling them everything that comes to mind, everything that was bottled up inside me and which Mrs. Wren's loose laugh has somehow released. With that bottle between my legs and the sun splashing through the window I experience once again the splendor of those miserable days when I first arrived in Paris, a bewildered, poverty stricken individual who haunted the streets like a ghost at a banquet. Everything comes back to me in a rush - the toilets that wouldn't work, the prince who shined my shoes, the Cinema Splendide where I slept on the patron's overcoat, the bars in the window, the feeling of suffocation, the fat cockroaches, the drinking and carousing that went on between times, Rose Cannaque and Naples dying in the sunlight. Dancing the streets on an empty belly and now and then calling on strange people - Madame Delorme, for instance. How I ever got to Madame Delorme's, I can't imagine any more. But I got there, got inside somehow, past the butler, past the maid with her little white apron, got right inside the palace with my corduroy trousers and my hunting jacket - and not a button on my fly. Even now I can taste again the golden ambiance of that room where Madame Delorme sat upon a throne in her mannish rig, the goldfish in the bowls, the maps of the ancient world, the beautifully bound books; I can feel again her heavy hand resting upon my shoulder, frightening me a little with her heavy Lesbian air. More comfortable down below in that thick stew pouring into the Gare St. Lazare, the whores in the doorways, seltzer bottles on every table; a thick tide of semen flooding the gutters. Nothing better between five and seven than to be pushed around in that throng, to follow a leg or a beautiful bust, to move along with the tide and everything whirling in your brain. A weird sort of contentment in those days. No appointments, no invitations for dinner, no program, no dough. The golden period, when I had not a single friend.
 
　　每天早上我拖着疲惫的步子去美国捷运公司，每天早上都从办事员那儿得到那个不可避免的答复。于是我像臭虫一样东跑西颠，时不时地捡几个香烟屁股，有时偷偷地捡，有时又腆着脸公开捡。有时我坐在长椅上勒紧裤腰带止住饥饿的折磨，有时穿过杜伊勒利花园，边望着那粗笨的塑像边勃起一回。或是夜间沿着塞纳河漫步，这儿逛逛，那儿逛逛，力它的美姿发狂—两岸的树木，水中破碎的倒影，桥上该死的灯泡照耀下湍急的水流，女人们睡在门廊里，睡在报纸上，睡在雨里，到处都有散发着一股霉味的大教堂门廊，到处都有乞丐、虱子和充斥着圣维德斯舞会的丑八怪女人。在小巷里，手推车像酒桶一样堆放在一起，市场上弥漫着草莓的气味，老教堂四周都种着菜。闪烁着蓝色的弧光，贫民区堆满了垃圾，很滑，脚穿缎子舞鞋的女人们痛饮了一夜后在这些污物和害虫上跌跌撞撞地走过去。
Each morning the dreary walk to the American Express, and each morning the inevitable answer from the clerk. Dashing here and there like a bedbug, gathering butts now and then, sometimes furtively, sometimes brazenly; sitting down on a bench and squeezing my guts to stop the gnawing, or walking through the Jardin des Tuileries and getting an erection looking at the dumb statues. Or wandering along the Seine at night, wandering and wandering, and going mad with the beauty of it, the trees leaning to, the broken images in the water, the rush of the current under the bloody lights of the bridges, the women sleeping in doorways, sleeping on newspapers, sleeping in the rain; everywhere the musty porches of the cathedrals and beggars and lice and old hags full of St. Vitus' dance; pushcarts stacked up like wine barrels in the side streets, the smell of berries in the market place and the old church surrounded with vegetables and blue arc lights, the gutters slippery with garbage and women in satin pumps staggering through the filth and vermin at the end of an all night souse.
 
　　还有圣绪尔比斯广场，又宁静又空旷，每天夜里临近午夜时分便有一个拎着一把散了架的雨散戴着古怪面纱的女人到那儿去。每天夜里她都撑着伞睡在一条长椅上，伞骨已掉下来，她的衣服已变成绿色的，她的手指又细又瘦，身上散发出一种霉烂的味道。到了早晨，我本人便要坐在那儿，在阳光下安安静静睡一觉，一面还要诅咒那些该死的鸽子，它们到处觅面包渣吃。圣绪尔比斯啊！那硕大的钟楼、贴在门上的花花绿绿的广告，以及楼内点燃的蜡烛。这便是阿纳托尔?法朗士如此热爱过的圣绪尔比斯。在这儿，神坛上传来嗡嗡的祈祷声，喷泉中水花四溅，鸽子在咕咕叫，面包屑一眨眼工夫便不见了，而我饥肠辘辘的肚子里却发出了单调的隆隆声。我在这儿一天又一天地坐下去，想着杰曼和她在巴士底广场附近住过的那条脏兮兮的小街，而神坛后面仍不断传来嗡嗡的祈祷声，公共汽车呼啸着从身边驶过。太阳晒化柏油，柏油又对我和杰曼产生了影响，对柏油本身和钟楼里的整个巴黎也产生了效力。
The Place St. Sulpice, so quiet and deserted, where toward midnight there came every night the woman with the busted umbrella and the crazy veil; every night she slept there on a bench under her torn umbrella, the ribs hanging down, her dress turning green, her bony fingers and the odor of decay oozing from her body; and in the morning I'd be sitting there myself, taking a quiet snooze in the sunshine, cursing the goddamned pigeons gathering up the crumbs everywhere. St. Sulpice! The fat belfries, the garish posters over the door, the candles flaming inside. The Square so beloved of Anatole France, with that drone and buzz from the altar, the splash of the fountain, the pigeons cooing, the crumbs disappearing like magic and only a dull rumbling in the hollow of the guts. Here I would sit day after day thinking of Germaine and that dirty little street near the Bastille where she lived, and that buzz buzz going on behind the altar, the buses whizzing by, the sun beating down into the asphalt and the asphalt working into me and Germaine, into the asphalt and all Paris in the big fat belfries.
Part 1 Chapter 4
仅仅一年前我和莫娜每夜都沿着波拿巴街散步，那是在我们告别博罗夫斯基之后。当时圣绪尔比斯广场对我并不意味着什么，巴黎的景物对我都不意味着什么。我说话说累了，看人脸孔看烦了，逛大教堂、广场和动物园等地方也逛腻味了。在红色的卧室里找本书看吧，藤椅坐着不舒服。我整天坐着坐腻了，红色的壁纸叫人厌倦，看着这么多人没完没了地胡扯更叫人心烦。这问卧室和箱子总是打开的，莫娜的衣服杂乱无章地四处丢着。我的套鞋和手杖都在红卧室里，还有从未动过的笔记本和冷落在一旁的手稿。巴黎！巴黎意味着塞莱特咖啡馆、大教堂、多姆大饭店、跳蚤市尝美国捷运公司。巴黎！巴黎意味着博罗夫斯基的手杖、博罗夫斯基的帽子、博罗夫斯基的树胶水彩画、博罗夫斯基的史前鱼和史前笑话。一九二八年在巴黎，我仍记忆犹新的只有一夜—启程乘船去美国前的那一夜。
And it was down the Rue Bonaparte that only a year before Mona and I used to walk every night, after we had taken leave of Borowski. St. Sulpice not meaning much to me then, nor anything in Paris. Washed out with talk. Sick of faces. Fed up with cathedrals and squares and menageries and what not. Picking up a book in the red bedroom and the cane chair uncomfortable; tired of sitting on my ass all day long, tired of red wallpaper, tired of seeing so many people jabbering away about nothing. The red bedroom and the trunk always open; her gowns lying about in a delirium of disorder. The red bedroom with my galoshes and canes, the notebooks I never touched, the manuscripts lying cold and dead Paris! Meaning the Café Select, the D?me, the Flea Market, the American Express. Paris! Meaning Borowski's canes, Borowski's hats, Borowski's gouaches, Borowski's prehistoric fish - and prehistoric jokes. In that Paris of '28 only one night stands out in my memory - the night before sailing for America.
 
　　那是一个难得的夜晚，博罗夫斯基有点儿醉了，他还有点儿讨厌我，因为我跟那儿的每一个婊子跳舞。不过我们早晨就要走了！我就是这样对我搂住的每一个女人说的—早晨就走！我就是这样对那个有双玛瑙色眼睛的金发女郎说的。到了卫生间里，我站在小便器前，下面勃起得很厉害，它显得既轻又重，像一只插上翅膀的枪弹。我就这样站在那儿时，两个女人溜进来了—美国女人。我双手握着阴茎，友好地同她们打招呼。她们朝我挤挤眼便走过去了。我正在走廊里系裤扣，便看到其中一个女人在等她朋友从厕所里出来。还在奏乐，也许莫娜会出来找我，或是博罗夫斯基拄着他的金柄手杖来，可我现在在这女人的怀抱中，她搂着我，我便不在乎谁会来，会发生什么事。
A rare night, with Borowski slightly pickled and a little disgusted with me because I'm dancing with every slut in the place. But we're leaving in the morning! That's what I tell every cunt I grab hold of - leaving in the morning! That's what I'm telling the blonde with agate-colored eyes. And while I'm telling her she takes my hand and squeezes it between her legs. In the lavatory I stand before the bowl with a tremendous erection; it seems light and heavy at the same time, like a piece of lead with wings on it. And while I'm standing there like that two cunts sail in - Americans. I greet them cordially, prick in hand. They give me a wink and pass on. In the vestibule, as I'm buttoning my fly, I notice one of them waiting for her friend to come out of the can. The music is still playing and maybe Mona'll be coming to fetch me, or Borowski with his gold knobbed cane, but I'm in her arms now and she has hold of me and I don't care who comes or what happens.
 
　　我俩慢慢蠕动着钻进一个小房间，我让她手扶着墙弯腰俯在那儿。我试着把那东西插进去，可是不成功，于是我们又坐下试了一回，可还是不成功，无论怎样试都不行。她自始至终握着我的阴茎，活像握着一件救命的宝贝一样。可是没用，我们太兴奋、太急切了。还在奏乐，于是我俩又从小屋里匆匆出来回到走廊里。在厕所里我把精液全射在她的漂亮衣服上，为此她很生气。我摇摇晃晃回到桌旁，博罗夫斯基脸上红扑扑的，莫娜则责难地望着我。博罗夫斯基说，”咱们明天都去布鲁塞尔。”
　　大家都同意了，回到旅馆后我吐得到处都是，床上、脸盆里、衣物上、套鞋和手杖上，从未动过的笔记本和冷落在一旁的手稿上也吐上了。
We wriggle into the cabinet and there I stand her up, slap up against the wall, and I try to get it into her but it won't work and so we sit down on the seat and try it that way but it won't work either. No matter how we try it it won't work. And all the while she's got hold of my prick, she's clutching it like a lifesaver, but it's no use, we're too hot, too eager. The music is still playing and so we waltz out of the cabinet into the vestibule again and as we're dancing there in the shithouse I come all over her beautiful gown and she's sore as hell about it. I stumble back to the table and there's Borowski with his ruddy face and Mona with her disapproving eye. And Borowski says "Let's all go to Brussels tomorrow," and we agree, and when we get back to the hotel I vomit all over the place, in the bed, in the washbowl, over the suits and gowns and the galoshes and canes and the notebooks I never touched and the manuscripts cold and dead.
 
　　几个月后，还是在同一座旅馆的同一个房间里，我们望着窗外院子里的景物，自行车都放在那儿。楼上，阁楼底下有间小屋子，某位叫亚历克的活泼小伙子整天在放留声机，还扯着嗓门反复唱些美妙的歌儿。我说”我们”，可我这是把事情提前叙述了。莫娜一直不在，今天我就要去圣拉扎尔车站接她呢，临近傍晚，我把脸挤进两条栅栏之间站着等，可是没见莫娜，我又看了一遍电报也没能看出什么溪跷。于是我又回到拉丁区，照样大吃了一顿。过了一会儿从多姆大饭店前游逛而过时我突然看到一张苍白，臃肿的面孔和一对急不可耐的眼睛，还有一直令我心驰神往的夭鹅绒衣裳，因为在柔软的天鹅绒下总有她温暖的乳房、大理石般洁白的大腿和冰凉而又结实的肌肉。她从面孔的海洋中起身拥抱我，充满柔情地拥抱我---千只眼睛、鼻子、手指、腿、酒瓶、窗子、钱包和茶托都在瞪着我们，而我俩拥抱在一起，忘记了周围的一切。我在她身边坐下，她便说开了—滔滔不绝他说开了，这是歇斯底里、性变态和麻风病的狂热征兆。我连一个字也没听见，因为她很美，我爱她，现在我很快活，还愿意去死。
A few months later. The same hotel, the same room. We look out on the courtyard where the bicycles are parked, and there is the little room up above, under the attic, where some smart young Alec played the phonograph all day long and repeated clever little things at the top of his voice. I say "we" but I'm getting ahead of myself, because Mona has been away a long time and it's just today that I'm meeting her at the Gare St. Lazare. Toward evening I'm standing there with my face squeezed between the bars, but there's no Mona, and I read the cable over again but it doesn't help any. I go back to the Quarter and just the same I put away a hearty meal. Strolling past the Dame a little later suddenly I see a pale, heavy face and burning eyes - and the little velvet suit that I always adore because under the soft velvet there were always her warm breasts, the marble legs, cool, firm, muscular. She rises up out of a sea of faces and embraces me, embraces me passionately - a thousand eyes, noses, fingers, legs, bottles, windows, purses, saucers all glaring at us and we in each other's arms oblivious. I sit down beside her and she talks - a flood of talk. Wild consumptive notes of hysteria, perversion, leprosy. I hear not a word because she is beautiful and I love her and now I am happy and willing to die.
 
　　我们沿着城堡街漫步，找寻尤金。我们走过那座铁路桥，我常常在这儿看着火车驶出去，这时我在想她究竟在哪儿，心里也就很不好受了。过桥时一切都是软绵绵的、迷人的，烟雾从我们两腿间袅袅上升。铁轨嘎嘎作响、信号机在我们血液中闪烁，我觉察到她的身子紧紧贴着我的—全成为我的了，于是我停下用双手抚摸那温暖的天鹅绒。我们周围的一切都在碎裂，碎裂，天鹅绒下的温暖肉体渴望着我……我俩又回到原先那间屋子，多亏尤金，我们又弄到了五十法郎。我看看院子里，那部留声机已经停了，箱子打开着，奠娜的东西像往常一样丢了一地，她穿着衣服躺在床上，我催她一次、两次、三次、四次……我以为她要发疯了……躺在床上，盖着毯子，再摸摸她的身体多么好啊！可是能摸多久呢？这一回能持续下去吗？我已有了一种预感，这不会延续多久的。
We walk down the Rue du Chateau, looking for Eugene. Walk over the railroad bridge where I used to watch the trains pulling out and feel all sick inside wondering where the hell she could be. Everything soft and enchanting as we walk over the bridge. Smoke coming up between our legs, the tracks creaking, semaphores in our blood. I feel her body close to mine - all mine now - and I stop to rub my hands over the warm velvet. Everything around us is crumbling, crumbling and the warm body under the warm velvet is aching for me…Back in the very same room and fifty francs to the good, thanks to Eugene. I look out on the court but the phonograph is silent. The trunk is open and her things are lying around everywhere just as before. She lies down on the bed with her clothes on. Once, twice, three times, four times … I'm afraid she'll go mad … in bed, under the blankets, how good to feel her body again! But for how long? Willft last this time? Already I have a presentiment that it won't.
 
　　她狂热地跟我说话，仿佛我们没有明天一样。”别说了，莫娜！看着我……别说了！”最后她睡着了，我从她身下抽出胳膊。
She talks to me so feverishly - as if there will be no tomorrow. "Be quiet, Mona! Just look at me … don't talk." Finally she drops off and I pull my arm from under her.
 
　　我闭上眼，她就躺在我身边……到早上当然还在……我是在二月里从码头启程的，那天下着一场叫人睁不开眼睛的暴风雪。我最后一次看到她时她在窗口同我挥手道别，当时街对面角落里站着一个男人，他的帽子拉下来遮住眼睛，下颚贴在西服翻领上。这个望着我的人是个胎儿，一个嘴里叼着雪茄的胎儿。莫娜在窗口向我挥手道别，脸色苍白而臃肿，披头散发，忽而又到了一个阴沉沉的卧室中，我俩有节奏地喘着气，她身上散发出一种温暖的、猫身上的气味，她的秀发叼在我嘴里。我闭着眼，我们对着嘴呼出一口口热气。我俩紧贴在一起，距美国有三千英里之遥，可我再也不想它了。同她在这儿睡在床上、让她对着我呼吸、秀发含在我嘴里—我认为这是一种奇迹。天亮以前什么事都不会发生……
My eyes dose. Her body is there beside me … it will be there till morning surely… It was in February I pulled out of the harbor in a blinding snowstorm. The last glimpse I had of her was in the window waving good bye to me. A man standing on the other side of the street, at the corner, his hat pulled down over his eyes, his jowls resting on his lapels. A fetus watching me. A fetus with a cigar in its mouth. Mona at the window waving good-bye. White heavy face, hair streaming wild. And now it is a heavy bedroom, breathing regularly through the gills, sap still oozing from between her legs, a warm feline odor and her hair in my mouth. My eyes are closed. We breathe warmly into each other's mouth. Close together, America three thousand miles away. I never want to see it again. To have her here in bed with me, breathing on me, her hair in my mouth - I count that something of a miracle. Nothing can happen now till morning…
 
我从酣睡中醒来望着她，这时一缕微弱的光线透进来，我望着她美丽的蓬乱头发，觉得有样东西顺着她的脖子爬下来。我又凑近看看她，她的头发在动。我扯开床单，看到更多的臭虫，它们在枕头上排成一大片。
I wake from a deep slumber to look at her. A pale light is trickling in. I look at her beautiful wild hair. I feel something crawling down my neck. I look at her again, closely. Her hair is alive. I pull back the sheet - more of them. They are swarming over the pillow.
 
　　拂晓，我们匆忙收拾起东西溜出旅馆，这时街上的咖啡馆还没有开门。我们步行，边走边搔痒。天亮了，天边出现了一片奶白色的晨喷，一朵朵橙红色的彩云飘过天空，恰似蜗牛出壳。巴黎啊，巴黎，一切都发生在这儿。断垣残壁、小便池中悦耳的哗哗流水声、男人们在酒吧间里舔小胡子。窗板往上推时铿锵作响，街沟里水流潺潺有声。还有用鲜红的巨大字母拼成AmerPicon之字形。咱们走哪条路：为什么？往哪儿走，干什么？
It is a little after daybreak. We pack hurriedly and sneak out of the hotel. The cafés are still closed. We walk, and as we walk we scratch ourselves. The day opens in milky whiteness, streaks of salmon - pink sky, snails leaving their shells. Paris. Paris. Everything happens here. Old, crumbling walls and the pleasant sound of water running in the urinals. Men licking their mustaches at the bar. Shutters going up with a bang and little streams purling in the gutters. Amer Picon in huge scarlet letters. Zigzag. Which way will we go and why or where or what?
 
　　莫娜饿了，而且她的衣服很单保除了晚礼服、香水、俗气的耳环、手镯和脱毛剂，她什么也没有。我们在梅园大道上一家弹子房中坐下要了热咖啡。卫生间坏了。我们得坐一阵了才能去另一家旅馆，这时我们互相拣去了对方头发里的臭虫。莫娜紧张不安，所以发起脾气来。非得洗个澡，非得干这，非得干那。非得、非得……”你还剩下多少钱？”
Mona is hungry, her dress is thin. Nothing but evening wraps, bottles of perfume, barbaric earrings, bracelets, depilatories. We sit down in a billiard parlor on the Avenue du Maine and order hot coffee. The toilet is out of order. We shall have to sit some time before we can go to another hotel. Meanwhile we pick bedbugs out of each other's hair. Nervous. Mona is losing her temper. Must have a bath. Must have this. Must have that. Must, must, must …"How much money have you left?"
钱！全忘掉了。
Money! Forgot all about that.
 
　　美国饭店。那儿有部电梯。 我们在大白天便上床睡觉了。待我们起来天色已黑，这时要做的头一件事便是凑足往美国打一份电报的钱。电报就打给那个嘴里叼着长长的、有味道的雪茄的胎儿。还要去拉斯帕伊林荫道找那个西班牙女人，做顿热饭是她的拿手好戏。天一亮便会发生什么事的。至少我们可以一起上床了。再也没有臭虫了。雨季已开始。床单干净极了……
H?tel des Etats Unis. An ascenseur. We go to bed in broad daylight. When we get up it is dark and the first thing to do is to raise enough dough to send a cable to America. A cable to the fetus with the long juicy cigar in his mouth. Meanwhile there is the Spanish woman on the Boulevard Raspail - she's always good for a warm meal. By morning something will happen. At least we're going to bed together. No more bedbugs now. The rainy season has commenced. The sheets are immaculate…
Part 2 Chapter 1
在波勒兹别墅，一种新的生活展现在我面前。才十点钟，我们却已吃完了早饭，还出去散了一会儿步。如今我们这儿来了一位埃尔莎，鲍里斯告诫我说，”这几天走路要轻一点。”
A new life opening up for me at the Villa Borghese. Only ten o'clock and we have already had breakfast and been out for a walk. We have an Elsa here with us now. "Step softly for a few days," cautions Boris.
 
　　这天一开始便景色宜人：明媚的天空。清新的微风、刚刚粉刷过的房屋。在到邮局去的路上，我和鲍里斯讨论了那本书，书名是《最后一本书》，它将以无名氏的名义写作。
The day begins gloriously: a bright sky, a fresh wind, the houses newly washed. On our way to the Post Office Boris and I discussed the book. The Last Book - which is going to be written anonymously.
 
　　新的一天在开始，这一点我们今早站在迪费雷纳的一幅闪烁着光辉的油画前时我便感觉到了。画上是十三世纪的一种早餐式聚会，没有酒，有一位姣好、肥胖的裸体人像，一色、充满活力、像手指甲一样呈粉红色，一条条波浪状的肌肉在发光。这幅画，总的说来是二流的，有些方面还是初级的。这是一个感到刺痛的人体，在朝露下湿漉漉的。这是静止的生命，不过这儿没有什么东西是静止的、死去的。画中的桌子被食物压得吱吱响，食物太重，桌子都快散架了，这是一顿十三世纪的饭 —绘画人已经清楚记住了所有在丛林中写生时画下的动物，一大群瞪羚和斑马在啃棕桐树的复叶。
A new day is beginning. I felt it this morning as we stood before one of Dufresne's glistening canvases, a sort of déjeuner intime in the thirteenth century, sans vin. A fine, fleshy nude, solid, vibrant, pink as a fingernail, with glistening billows of flesh; all the secondary characteristics, and a few of the primary. A body that sings, that has the moisture of dawn. A still life, only nothing is still, nothing dead here. The table creaks with food; it is so heavy it is sliding out of the frame. A thirteenth century repast - with all the jungles notes that he has memorized so well. A family of gazelles and zebras nipping the fronds of the palms.
　　
　　现在我们同埃尔莎在一起，今早我们还在床上时，她便在为我们演奏，”这几天走路要轻一点……”太好了！埃尔莎是女佣，我是客人，而鲍里斯是大人物。一场新戏要开演了，我这样写时不禁自己大笑起来。鲍里斯这个山猫知道会出什么事，他对各种事情的嗅觉也很敏锐。”要轻一些……”鲍里斯如坐针毡，从现在起他老婆任何时候都有可能露面。
And now we have Elsa. Site was playing for us this morning while we were in bed. Step softly for a few days… Good! Elsa is the maid and I am the guest. And Boris is the big cheese. A new drama is beginning. I'm laughing to myself as I write this. He knows what is going to happen, that lynx, Boris. He has a nose for things too. Step softly…. Boris is on pins and needles. At any moment now his wife may appear on the scene.
 
　　他老婆足足有一百八十磅重，他却是个小个儿，这样你就明白这是一种怎样的局面了。晚上在我们回家的路上他对我解释过，这局面又可悲又可笑，我禁不住不时停下来嘲笑他一番。”你为什么这样笑？”他柔声道，然后又继续以凄凉的歇斯底里的口吻叙述下去，活像一个可怜虫。突然意识到无论穿上多少件常礼服自己永远也不会成为一个男子汉，于是他想逃走，想换一个新名字。鲍里斯哀声道，”这个女人可以占有一切，只要她放过我。”可是首先得把公寓租出去，订好契约，安排好各种琐事，这会儿他的常礼服说不定会派上用场呢。她的块头儿—这才是真正叫他发愁的！假如回去时我们发现她突然站到了门口，他准会昏过去，他对他老婆就是这么诚惶诚恐的。
She weighs well over 180 pounds, that wife of his. And Boris is only a handful. There you have the situation. He tries to explain it to me on our way home at night. It is so tragic and so ridiculous at the same time that I am obliged to stop now and then and laugh in his face. "Why do you laugh so?" he says gently, and then he commences himself, with that whimpering, hysterical note in his voice, like a helpless wretch who realizes suddenly that no matter how many frock coats he puts on he will never make a man. He wants to run away, to take a new name. "She can have everything, that cow, if only she leaves me alone," he whines. But first the apartment has to be rented, and the deeds signed, and a thousand other details for which his frock coat will come in handy. But the size of her! - that's what really worries him. If we were to find her suddenly standing on the doorstep when we arrive he would faint - that's how much he respects her!
 
　　所以我们暂时只得放过埃尔莎，她在这儿只是做早饭、引导客人看房子。
And so we've got to go easy with Elsa for a while. Elsa is only there to make breakfast - and to show the apartment.
 
　　埃尔莎已使我心施摇动，就以她的德国血统和那些悲凉的歌曲。今早我刚刚喝完咖啡从楼梯上下来，低声哼着”……曾经是多么美好”。 这首歌是为吃早饭唱的，没过多久楼上那个英国青年奏起了巴赫的曲子。据埃尔莎说—“他需要一个女人。”埃尔莎也需要点儿什么，我能觉察到这一点。我对鲍里斯什么都没有讲，今早他正刷牙时埃尔莎向我介绍了很多柏林的情况。那些从屁股后面看起来十分迷人的娘儿们，待她们转过身来—哇，有梅毒！
But Elsa is already undermining me. That German blood. Those melancholy songs. Coming down the stairs this moming, with the fresh coffee in my nostrils, I was humming softly… "Es w?r' so sch?n gewesen." For breakfast, that. And in a little while the English boy upstairs with his Bach. As Elsa says - "he needs a woman." And Elsa needs something too. I can feel it. I didn't say anything to Boris about it, but while he was cleaning his teeth this morning Elsa was giving me an earful about Berlin, about the women who look so attractive from behind, and when they turn round - wow, syphilis!
　　
　　我觉得埃尔莎总在如饥似渴地望着我，犹如看着早饭桌上剩下的食物。今天下午我们在工作室里背对背写东西，她给远在意大利的情人写信。我的打字机出了毛玻鲍里斯已出发察看一个便宜的房间去了，公寓一租出去他就要搬过去。除了同埃尔莎寻欢作乐之外，我简直没有别的事好做。她想这样，可我还是为她感到有点遗憾。她给情人的信只写了一行—我俯身去搂抱她时斜着眼看到了。不过我控制不住自个儿了。那该死的德国音乐，忧郁而又伤感，打动了我。后来又是她那明亮的小眼睛，炽热而又充满悲哀。
It seems to me that Elsa looks at me rather wistfully. Something left over from the breakfast table. This afternoon we were writing, back to back, in the studio. She had begun a letter to her lover who is in Italy. The machine got jammed. Boris had gone to look at a cheap room he will take as soon as the apartment is rented. There was nothing for it but to make love to Elsa. She wanted it. And yet I felt a little sorry for her. She had only written the first line to her lover - I read it out of the corner of my eye as I bent over her. But it couldn't be helped. That damned German music, so melancholy, so sentimental. It undermined me. And then her beady little eyes, so hot and sorrowful at the same time.
 
　　事情完了以后我让她为我弹个曲子，埃尔莎是位音乐家，尽管她弹的曲子听起来像是在砸破锅，像人脑壳在一起磕磕碰碰。
After it was over I asked her to play something for me. She's a musician, Elsa, even though it sounded like broken pots and skulls clanking.
 
　　她一边弹一边还在哭泣，我并不责怪她。她说，到处都会遇到这种事情，到处都有个男人，事后她就得离开，然后便是堕胎、找个新工作，过后又是另一个男人，谁都根本不管她，只是利用她。说完这些话她便为我弹了舒曼的曲子。舒曼，这个爱哭鼻子、多愁善感的德国王八蛋！不知怎么搞的，我很为埃尔莎难过，可又认为这事与我根本无关。像她这样一个会弹琴的女人早该懂得这种事情，不要叫碰巧遇上的任何一个长着很大鸡巴的家伙把她轻易骗到手。舒曼的曲子使我神不守舍，埃尔莎仍在抽噎，而我早已想别的去了。我在想塔尼亚，想她怎样弹奏慢板。我在想许多许多早已逝去、早已遗忘的往事，想在格陵波因特度过的那个下午。当时德国人正大举进犯比利时，我们损失的钱还不多，也就不大介意德国对一个中立国的入侵。那时我们仍很天真烂漫，乐意听诗人们朗诵诗，在昏暗中坐在桌子四周大肆谈论死去的亡灵。那一回，整个下午和晚上四周都回荡着德国音乐，附近都是德国人，甚至比德国本上的德国人还多。我们是听舒曼和雨果?沃尔夫的乐曲、吃泡白菜、土豆汤团、喝库莫尔酒成长起来的。临近傍晚时分，我们围坐在一张大桌子旁，放下了窗帘，有一个傻呼呼的小妞儿在大谈耶稣基督。我们在桌下相互牵着手，坐在我旁边的女人把两根手指伸进了我的裤裆。后来我们在地板上躺下，就在钢琴后面，有人在唱一支凄凉的歌，空气令人窒息，女人口中有一股酒气。钢琴踏板在僵硬地、机械地上下移动，这是一种疯狂的、徒劳无功的运动，像花了二十六年时间堆起来的一堆大粪，不过却是准时完工的。我把她拽到我身上，音乐仍往我耳朵里灌。屋里一片漆黑，库莫尔酒洒在地毯上，把地毯弄得粘呼呼的。突然黎明仿佛就要来临，天上像是有水在冰上流动，而上升的雾气又使冰呈青色，冰河沉入一片翠绿色之中，小羚羊、大羚羊、金枪鱼和海象在天边徘徊游荡，而狮鱼一跃跃出了北极圈……
She was weeping, too, as she played. I don't blame her. Everywhere the same thing, she says. Everywhere a man, and then she has to leave, and then there's an abortion and then a new job and then another man and nobody gives a fuck about her except to use her. All this after she's played Schumann for me - Schumann, that slobbery, sentimental German bastard! Somehow I feel sorry as hell for her and yet I don't give a damn. A cunt who can play as she does ought to have better sense than be tripped up by every guy with a big putz who happens to come along. But that Schumann gets into my blood. She's still sniffling, Elsa; but my mind is far away. I'm thinking of Tania and how she claws away at her adagio. I'm thinking of lots of things that are gone and buried. Thinking of a summer afternoon in Greenpoint when the Germans were romping over Belgium and we had not yet lost enough money to be concerned over the rape of a neutral country. A time when we were still innocent enough to listen to poets and to sit around a table in the twilight rapping for departed spirits. All that afternoon and evening the atmosphere is saturated with German music; the whole neighborhood is German, more German even than Germany. We were brought up on Schumann and Hugo Wolf and sauerkraut and kümmel and potato dumplings. Toward evening we're sitting around a big table with the curtains drawn and some fool two headed wench is rapping for Jesus Christ. We're holding hands under the table and the dame next to me has two fingers in my fly. And finally we lie on the floor, behind the piano, while someone sings a dreary song. The air is stifling and her breath is boozy. The pedal is moving up and down, stiffly, automatically, a crazy, futile movement, like a tower of dung that takes twenty seven years to build but keeps perfect time. I pull her over me with the sounding board in my ears; the room is dark and the carpet is sticky with the kümmel that has been spilled about. Suddenly it seems as if the dawn were coming: it is like water purling over ice and the ice is blue with a rising mist, glaciers sunk in emerald green, chamois and antelope, golden groupers, sea cows mooching along and the amber jack leaping over the Arctic rim…
 
埃尔莎坐在我腿上，她的眼睛像两个小小的肚脐眼儿。我看看她的大嘴巴湿漉漉的，光闪闪的，便亲了起来。于是她又哼起……”这曾经是多么美好……”啊，埃尔莎，你还不知道这对我意味着什么，你的来自萨金根的小号手。德国歌咏团体，施瓦本厅、体操协会，……向左转，向右转……然后用绳子头抽在屁股上。
Elsa is sitting in my lap. Her eyes are like little belly-buttons. I look at her large mouth, so wet and glistening, and I cover it. She is humming now… "Es w?r' so sch?n gewesen…" Ah, Elsa, you don't know yet what that means to me, your Trompeter von S?ckingen. German Singing Societies, Schwaben Hall, the Turnverein … links um, rechts um … and then a whack over the ass with the end of a rope.
 
　　唉，这些德国人！他们像一部公共汽车似的把你们全载走，使你们消化不良。一夜之间一个人不可能遍访陈尸所、疗养院、动物园、十二宫、哲学之困境、认识论之洞穴、弗洛伊德和司大克的奥秘……骑在一匹孩子们玩的旋转木马上，一个人哪儿也去不了，而同德国人在一起你便可以在一夜之间从织女星来到维加面前，而离去时仍同帕西发尔一样蠢。
Ah, the Germans! They take you all over like an omnibus. They give you indigestion. In the same night one cannot visit the morgue, the infirmary, the zoo, the signs of the zodiac, the limbos of philosophy, the caves of epistemology, the arcana of Freud and Stekel… On the merry go round one doesn't get anywhere, whereas with the Germans one can go from Vega to Lope de Vega, all in one night, and come away as foolish as Parsifal.
 
　　我说了，这天一开始便景色宜人。直到这天早上我才重新感觉到巴黎这个实体的存在，已有好几个星期没有觉察到这一点了。也许这是因为我已打好了那本书的腹稿吧，我就带着这本书到处走。我像个怀孕的大肚子女人在街上穿来穿去，警察领着我过马路，女人们站起来给我让座，再也没有人粗暴地推我了。我怀孕了，我滑稽可笑地瞒珊而行，大肚子上压着全世界的重量。
As I say, the day began gloriously. It was only this morning that I became conscious again of this physical Paris of which I have been unaware for weeks. Perhaps it is because the book has begun to grow inside me. I am carrying it around with me everywhere. I walk through the streets big with child and the cops escort me across the street. Women get up to offer me their seats. Nobody pushes me rudely any more. I am pregnant. I waddle awkwardly, my big stomach pressed against the weight of the world.
 
　　就在今天早晨去邮局的路上，我们最后一次将这本书夸赞了一番。我们，我和鲍里斯，开创了一种新生宇宙文学观。《最后一本书》将成为一本新《圣经》，所有有话要讲的人都可以在这儿讲—不署名。我们要详尽地描写我们所处的时代，在我们身后，至少在一代人的时间以内不会出现另一本书。到目前为止我们一直在黑暗中发掘，单凭直觉引导我们。现在我们要找一个容器来倾倒掘出的致命液体，要一颗炸弹，一旦掷出去便会炸掉整个世界。我们要在书中尽情地写，以便给未来的作家提供情节、戏剧、诗歌、神话、各种科学。世界将在未来一千年内依靠我们的书生存，它洋洋洒洒、无所不容，其思想差点儿叫我们茫然不知所措。
It was this morning, on our way to the Post Office, that we gave the book its final imprimatur. We have evolved a new cosmogony of literature, Boris and I. It is to be a new Bible - The Last Book. All those who have anything to say will say it here - anonymously. We will exhaust the age. After us not another book - not for a generation, at least. Heretofore we had been digging in the dark, with nothing but instinct to guide us. Now we shall have a vessel in which to pour the vital fluid, a bomb which, when we throw it, will set off the world. We shall put into it enough to give the writers of tomorrow their plots, their dramas, their poems, their myths, their sciences. The world will be able to feed on it for a thousand years to come. It is colossal in its pretentiousness. The thought of it almost shatters me.
Part 2 Chapter 2
世界，我们的世界，一百多年来一直濒临死亡。过去一百多年来还没有一个人发狂发到在世界的屁眼里放颗炸弹把它炸掉的地步，这世界在腐烂，在逐渐死去。不过它还需要”决定性的一击”，需要被炸成碎片。我们没有一个人不受其影响，然而所有的大陆、大陆间的海洋和空中的小鸟都藏在我们心中，我们要在书中记下这个世界的演变，它已经死了，但仍未被埋葬。
For a hundred years or more the world, our world, has been dying. And not one man, in these last hundred years or so, has been crazy enough to put a bomb up the asshole of creation and set it off. The world is rotting away, dying piecemeal. But it needs the coup de grace, it needs to be blown to smithereens. Not one of us is intact, and yet we have in us all the continents and the seas between the continents and the birds of the air. We are going to put it down - the evolution of this world which has died but which has not been buried.
 
　　我们是在时间的表面游泳，其他所有的人都淹死了、快淹死了、终究要被淹死。这本书将是部巨著，将会出现大洋似的广阔地域供人来往、漫游、唱歌、跳舞、攀登、洗澡、翻跟斗、发牢骚、强奸、杀人。这是一座大教堂，一座真正的大教堂，在建造它的过程中每一个失去自己身分的人都可以出力，将要为死者作弥撒、祷告、忏悔、唱赞美诗、抱怨一会儿、闲扯一会儿—以一种要人命的漫不经心的态度。还要建圆花窗、滴水嘴，要雇用沙弥和抬棺材的。你可以把马牵进来在教堂走廊上狂奔，你可以把脑袋往墙上撞—它不会倒塌，你可以任意造一种语言去祈祷，也可以在教堂外蜷起身子睡觉。这座教堂至少能支撑一千年，而且不会有复制品，因为建造者和建造方法都已死掉了。我们要印制明信片、组织旅游，我们要在它周围修筑一座城，建立一个自由公社。我们不需要天才—天才都死了，我们需要强壮的劳力，需要乐意放弃灵魂、生长出肉体的精灵……
We are swimming on the face of time and all else has drowned, is drowning, or will drown. It will be enormous, the Book. There will be oceans of space in which to move about, to perambulate, to sing, to dance, to climb, to bathe, to leap somersaults, to whine, to rape, to murder. A cathedral, a veritable cathedral, in the building of which everybody will assist who has lost his identity. There will be masses for the dead, prayers, confessions, hymns, a moaning and a chattering, a sort of murderous insouciance; there will be rose windows and gargoyles and acolytes and pallbearers. You can bring your horses in and gallop through the aisles. You can butt your head against the walls - they won't give. You can pray in any language you choose, or you can curl up outside and go to sleep. It will last a thousand years, at least, this cathedral, and there will be no replica, for the builders will be dead and the formula too. We will have postcards made and organize tours. We will build a town around it and set up a free commune. We have no need for genius - genius is dead. We have need for strong hands, for spirits who are willing to give up the ghost and put on flesh…
 
这一天正在以理想的速度过去。我在塔尼亚房间的阳台上，底下起居室里正在演戏，这位戏剧家生病了。而且，从上面望下去，他的头皮显得比往常更粗糙，他的头发是稻草做的，他的思想也是一堆乱草。他老婆也是稻草人，不过还有点儿潮湿。连整座房子都是用稻草盖的。我站在阳台上等鲍里斯来，我最后一个难题—早饭—已解决了，因为我把一切都简化了。假如还有新的难题我便把它们同脏衣服一道装进背包里好了。我要扔掉所有的钱。我要钱有什么用？我是一部写作机器，拧上最后一颗螺钉机器便运转了。我与机器之间并无间隙，我就是机器……
The day is moving along at a fine tempo. I am up on the balcony at Tania's place. The drama is going on down below in the drawing room. The dramatist is sick and from above his scalp looks more scabrous than ever. His hair is made of straw. His ideas are straw. His wife too is straw, though still a little damp. The whole house is made of straw. Here I am up on the balcony, waiting for Boris to arrive. My last problem - breakfast - is gone. I have simplified everything. If there are any new problems I can carry them in my rucksack, along with my dirty wash. I am throwing away all my sous. What need have I for money? I am a writing machine. The last screw has been added. The thing flows. Between me and the machine there is no estrangement. I am the machine… .

 
　　他们还没有告诉我这出新戏讲的是什么，不过我可以感觉到。他们企图摆脱我，可我是到这儿来吃饭，只是比他们预期的早到了一会儿。我已告诉他们该坐在哪儿、干什么。我有礼貌地问他们自己是否打搅他们了。可我的真正意思是，”你们会不会打搅我？”他们也知道我的意思。没有，你们这伙快活的蟑螂，你们并没有打搅我，你们在滋养我。不错，我看到你们紧挨着坐在一块儿，不过我知道你们之间有一道鸿沟。你们间的距离同行垦间的距离差不多，而我是你们之间的空旷地带。假如我抽身走开，你们便没有可供活动的空地了。
They have not told me yet what the new drama is about, but I can sense it. They are trying to get rid of me. Yet here I am for my dinner, even a little earlier than they expected. I have informed them where to sit, what to do. I ask them politely if I shall be disturbing them, but what I really mean, and they know it well, is - will you be disturbing me? No, you blissful cockroaches, you are not disturbing me. You are nourishing me. I see you sitting there close together and I know there is a chasm between you. Your nearness is the nearness of planets. I am the void between you. If I withdraw there will be no void for you to swim in.
 
　　塔尼亚充满了敌意，这一点我可以感觉到。她生我的气，怨我光想别的，唯独没想着她。根据我的激动程度她便知道自己的价值已降为零了，她知道我今晚来的目的并不是要同她睡觉，她知道某种东西正在我心中萌发，这东西会毁掉她。她领悟得很慢。不过在领悟……西尔维斯特显得更心满意足，他今晚要在饭桌旁拥抱她。现在他在看我的手稿，准备激发我的自尊，使之与她的自尊相对抗。
Tania is in a hostile mood - I can feel it. She resents my being filled with anything but herself. She knows by the very caliber of my excitement that her value is reduced to zero. She knows that I did not come this evening to fertilize her. She knows there is something germinating inside me which will destroy her. She is slow to realize, but she is realizing it…Sylvester looks more content. He will embrace her this evening at the dinner table. Even now he is reading my manuscript, preparing to inflame my ego, to set my ego against hers.
 
 
　　今晚的聚会是古怪的，现在正在为它做准备。我听见玻璃酒杯叮当响，酒拿出来了。一杯杯酒将被喝掉，生病的西尔维斯特也会痊愈。
It will be a strange gathering this evening. The stage is being set. I hear the tinkle of the glasses. The wine is being brought out. There will be bumpers downed and Sylvester who is ill will come out of his illness.
 
　　聚会计划是昨夜才在克朗斯塔特家制定的，其宗旨是叫女人们吃点苦头，幕后的气氛应该更恐怖，有更多的暴力、灾祸、磨难、悲哀和痛苦。
It was only last night, at Cronstadt's, that we projected this setting. It was ordained that the women must suffer, that offstage there should be more terror and violence, more disasters, more suffering, more woe and misery.
 
　　使我们这样的人来到巴黎不是偶然的事件。巴黎只是一个人工的舞台，一个可使观察者看一眼戏剧冲突各阶段的旋转舞台。而这些戏都不是在巴黎开场的，它们在别处上演。巴黎只是一件产科器械，它把活着的胎儿从子宫中夹出来放进保育器。
　　巴黎是人工引产生下的婴儿的摇篮，在这个摇篮里来回摇晃时每个人又回到了他的故土，又梦见了柏林、纽约、芝加哥、维也纳、明斯克。维也纳再也不会比巴黎更维也纳化。每一件东西都被人顶礼膜拜，摇篮献出一批婴儿，另一批新生婴儿又取代他们的位置。你可在这些墙上看到说明—左拉、巴尔扎克、但盯斯特林堡以及每一位曾声名显赫的人当时都住在这儿，每个人都曾在这儿住过一阵，不过却没人在这儿死去……
It is no accident that propels people like us to Paris. Paris is simply an artificial stage, a revolving stage that permits the spectator to glimpse all phases of the conflict. Of itself Paris initiates no dramas. They are begun elsewhere. Paris is simply an obstetrical instrument that tears the living embryo from the womb and puts it in the incubator. Paris is the cradle of artificial births. Rocking here in the cradle each one slips back into his soil: one dreams back to Berlin, New York, Chicago, Vienna, Minsk. Vienna is never more Vienna than in Paris. Everything is raised to apotheosis. The cradle gives up its babes and new ones take their places. You can read here on the walls where Zola lived and Balzac and Dante and Strindberg and everybody who ever was anything. Everyone has lived here some time or other. Nobody dies here…
 
他们在楼下说话，他们的话都是富有象征意义的。他们在谈话中用了”斗争”这个词，西尔维斯特这个生病的戏剧家在说，”我正在看《宣言》。”塔尼亚问，”谁的宣言？”哈，塔尼亚，我听得很清楚，我正在楼上写到你，而你也料到了。说下去，这样我就可以记下你说的话了，因为坐到餐桌边上我就不能做笔记了……突然塔尼亚说，”这个地方没有一个很像样子的厅。” 这话又是什么意思？
They are talking downstairs. Their language is symbolic. The world "struggle" enters into it. Sylvester, the sick dramatist, is saying: "I am just reading the Manifesto." And Tania says  "Whose?" Yes, Tania, I heard you. I am up here writing about you and you divine it well. Speak more, that I may record you. For when we go to table I shall not be able to make any notes… Suddenly Tania remarks: "There is no prominent hall in this place." Now what does that mean, if anything?
 
　　他们在张贴一些画，这也是为了打动我。你瞧，他们希望说，我们在这儿很自在，在这儿过夫妻生活，我们在使这个家更具有吸引力。为了你的缘故，我们还要为这些画争论几句。塔尼亚又说道，”眼睛竟会这样迷惑一个人！”唉，塔尼亚，你要说些什么？继续下去，把这出闹剧演下去。我来这儿是为了吃你们允诺过的这餐饭的，我非常非常喜欢这出喜剧。这回是西尔维斯特先开口，他试图讲解博罗夫斯基画的一幅水粉画。”到这儿来。看见了吗？一个人在弹吉他，另一个人的腿上坐着一个女孩子。”是的，西尔维斯特，是这么回事。博罗夫斯基和他的吉他！他腿上的姑娘！只是一个人永远也拿不准坐在他腿上的是什么，也说不上那是否真是一个人在弹吉他……要不了多久莫尔多夫便会手脚并用地飞快爬进来，鲍里斯也会嘻嘻笑着走进来。吃饭时有松鸡、安如葡萄酒和又粗又短的雪前。还有克郎斯塔特，待他听到最近的新闻后便一会儿活得艰难些，一会儿活得轻松些，每五分钟情绪变化一次。过后他便又安稳下来，重新沉溺于他的梦幻之中。也许这时他会写出一首诗来，一首没有舌头的大金钟似的诗。
They are putting up pictures now. That, too, is to impress me. See, they wish to say, we are at home here, living the conjugal life. Making the home attractive. We will even argue a little about the pictures, for your benefit. And Tania remarks again: "How the eye deceives one!" Ah, Tania, what things you say! Go on, carry out this farce a little longer. I am here to get the dinner you promised me; I enjoy this comedy tremendously. And now Sylvester takes the lead. He is trying to explain one of Borowski's gouaches. "Come here, do you see? One of them is playing the guitar; the other is holding a girl in his lap." True, Sylvester. Very true. Borowski and his guitars! The girls in his lap! Only one never quite knows what it is he holds in his lap, or whether it is really a man playing the guitar…Soon Moldorf will be trotting in on all fours and Boris with that helpless little laugh of his. There will be a golden pheasant for dinner and Anjou and short fat cigars. And Cronstadt, when he gets the latest news, will live a little harder, a little brighter, for five minutes; and then he will subside again into the humus of his ideology and perhaps a poem will be born, a big golden bell of a poem without a tongue.
 
　　得休息个把钟头了。又来了一个看房子的客人。楼上那个要命的英国人在练习弹巴赫的曲子。现在有人来看房子，必须马上冲上楼去叫那位钢琴家停一会儿。
Had to knock off for an hour or so. Another customer to look at the apartment. Upstairs the bloody Englishman is practising his Bach. It is imperative now, when someone comes to look at the apartment, to run upstairs and ask the pianist to lay off for a while.
 
　　埃尔莎在给蔬菜水果商打电话，管子工在马桶上装了一个新座垫。门铃一响，鲍里斯便失去了平衡，在忙乱中他掉了眼镜，他趴在地上找，常札服在地上拖着。这有点儿像大基诺剧院演出的一出戏—那位快饿死的诗人来给屠宰商的女儿上课，电话铃每响一次诗人就要流一回口水。马拉梅的名字听上去像”牛腰肉”，维克多?雨果这个名字的发音同”小牛肝”一样。埃尔莎在为鲍里斯预订一顿精美的午饭—“一份带汤的猪排。”她说。我仿傀看到了放在大理石上的一大堆凉了的粉红色的火腿，底下垫着白色肥肉的美味火腿。我饿得要命，尽管我们几分钟之前才吃过早饭。我不得不免去午饭，多亏博罗夫斯基，我只在星期三吃午饭。埃尔莎还在打电话—她忘了订一块咸肉。”对了，一小块咸肉，别大肥。”她说……得了！放些小牛胰脏、放些牛睾丸和蛤！做菜时放些炒腊肠，我可以一顿吞下维加的一千五百出戏。
Elsa is telephoning the greengrocer. The plumber is putting a new seat on the toilet bowl. Whenever the doorbell rings Boris loses his equilibrium. In the excitement he has dropped his glasses; he is on his hands and knees, his frock coat is dragging the floor. It is a little like the Grand Guignol - the starving poet come to give the butcher's daughter lessons. Every time the phone rings the poet's mouth waters. Mallarmé sounds like a sirloin steak, Victor Hugo like foie de veau. Elsa is ordering a delicate little lunch for Boris - "a nice juicy little pork chop," she says. I see a whole flock of pink hams lying cold on the marble, wonderful hams cushioned in white fat. I have a terrific hunger though we've only had breakfast a few minutes ago - it's the lunch that I'll have to skip. It's only Wednesdays that I eat lunch, thanks to Borowski. Elsa is still telephoning - she forgot to order a piece of bacon. "Yes, a nice little piece of bacon, not too fatty," she says … Zut alors! Throw in some sweetbreads, throw in some mountain oysters and some psst clams! Throw in some fried liverwurst while you're at it; I could gobble up the fifteen hundred plays of Lope de Vega in one sitting.
Part 2 Chapter 3
来看房子的是位漂亮女人。当然，是美国人，我背对着她站在窗口看一只麻雀啄一滩刚拉的屎，很惊奇麻雀竟这么容易养活，下着一点雨，雨点很大，以前我常常以为一旦一只鸟儿的翅膀湿了它就不能飞了。我觉得奇怪，这些阔女人怎么来巴黎找到了一流的工作室。准是一点点才能和一个鼓鼓的钱包帮了她们。天若下雨她们便有机会炫耀她们的雨衣，吃的东西不算什么，有时她们忙着四处游荡，没时间吃午饭，只是在和平咖啡馆或里兹酒吧吃点三明治、一块薄脆饼。”只为名门闺秀服务”—比维?德?沙万那从前的画室门口这样写着。那天我碰巧从那儿经过，富有的美国女人肩上挎着颜料盒。一点点才能和一个鼓鼓的钱包。
It is a beautiful woman who has come to look at the apartment. An American, of course. I stand at the window with my back to her watching a sparrow pecking at a fresh turd. Amazing how easily the sparrow is provided for. It is raining a bit and the drops are very big. I used to think a bird couldn't fly if its wings got wet. Amazing how these rich dames come to Paris and find all the swell studios. A little talent and a big purse. If it rains they have a chance to display their brand new slickers. Food is nothing: sometimes they're so busy gadding about that they haven't time for lunch. Just a little sandwich, a wafer, at the Café de la Paix or the Ritz Bar. "For the daughters of gentlefolk only" - that's what it says at the old studio of Puvis de Chavannes. Happened to pass there the other day. Rich American cunts with paint boxes slung over their shoulders. A little talent and a fat purse.
 
　　麻雀着了魔似的从一块鹅卵石跳上另一块鹅卵石，如果站下仔细观察一番，你便会发现它们的确是在做很费力的事情。到处都丢着食物，我是指在水沟里。那位漂亮的美国女人在打听哪儿有卫生间。卫生间！让我带你去，你这蔑视金钱的瞪羚！你说卫生间？”这儿来，小姐。别忘了编号的是留给残废军人的。”
The sparrow is hopping frantically from one cobblestone to another. Truly herculean efforts, if you stop to examine closely. Everywhere there is food lying about - in the gutter, I mean. The beautiful American woman is inquiring about the toilet. The toilet! Let me show you, you velvet snooted gazelle! The toilet, you say? Par ici, Madame. N'oubliez pas que les places numérotées sont réservées aux mutilés de la guerre.
 
　　鲍里斯在搓手—他在讲解这笔租房交易中的最后几条事项，几条狗在院子里叫，叫声像狼一样。楼上，梅尔渥内斯太太在挪动家具。她整天无事可做，很无聊。如果发现哪儿有一点点灰尘她便把整个房子打扫一遍。桌上摆着一串绿葡萄和一瓶甜酒—十度的优质酒。”好吧，”鲍里斯道，”我可以为你做一个脸盆架。请到这儿来，对了，这是卫生间。当然，楼上还有一个。对，每月一千法郎。你说你不怎么喜欢于特里约？不，这儿才是。只是需要一个新脸盆，就是这……”
Boris is rubbing his hands - he is putting the finishing touches to the deal. The dogs are barking in the courtyard; they bark like wolves. Upstairs Mrs. Melverness is moving the furniture around. She had nothing to do all day, she's bored; if she finds a crumb of dirt anywhere she cleans the whole house. There's a bunch of green grapes on the table and a bottle of wine - vin de choix, ten degrees. "Yes," says Boris. "I could make a washstand for you, just come here, please. Yes, this is the toilet. There is one upstairs too, of course. Yes, a thousand francs a month. You don't care much for Utrillo, you say? No, this is it. It needs a new washer, that's all….
 
女人马上要走了，这一回鲍里斯压根没有介绍我。这个婊子养的！每次来一个有钱女人他就忘记介绍我。过几分钟我就可以再坐下来打字了。不知怎么搞的，今天我不大想干下去了，我的干劲一点一点消失了，她会在一个小时后回来，夺走我屁股底下坐的椅子。一个人居然不知道他半小时后坐在哪儿。在这种情况下他怎么能写作呢？如果这个有钱的王八蛋租下这个地方，我就连睡觉的地方都没有了。处在这么一种困境中便很难确定哪一种情形更糟—没地方睡好些还是没地方工作好些。一个人在哪里都能睡觉，可他一定得有个工作的地方。即使你写的不是一部杰作，写一部拙劣的小说也得有把椅子坐、有个安静的环境呀。这些有钱的女人从来没想过这个，无论何时她们想把自己柔软的屁股放低一些，总有一把摆好的现成椅子……
She's going in a minute now. Boris hasn't even introduced me this time. The son of a bitch! Whenever it's a rich cunt he forgets to introduce me. In a few minutes I'll be able to sit down again and type. Somehow I don't feel like it any more today. My spirit is dribbling away. She may come back in an hour or so and take the chair from under my ass. How the hell can a man write when he doesn't know where he's going to sit the next half-hour? If this rich bastard takes the place I won't even have a place to sleep. It's hard to know, when you're in such a jam, which is worse - not having a place to sleep or not having a place to work. One can sleep almost anywhere, but one must have a place to work. Even if it's not a masterpiece you're doing. Even a bad novel requires a chair to sit on and a bit of privacy. These rich cunts never think of a thing like that. Whenever they want to lower their soft behinds there's always a chair standing ready for them…
 
昨夜我们出去了，剩下西尔维斯特和他的上帝一起坐在炉边。西尔维斯特穿着睡衣，莫尔多夫唇间叼着雪茄。西尔维斯特在剥桔子，他把桔子皮放在沙发巾上。莫尔多夫凑近他，问他自己是否能再念一遍那部才华横溢的模仿滑稽作品《天堂之门》。我和鲍里斯打算走了，我们太快活了，同这儿的病房气氛不大谐调。塔尼亚跟我们一道走，她快活，因为她要离开这儿了。鲍里斯快活是因为莫尔多夫身上的上帝死了。我快活是因为我们还要演出另一幕戏。
Last night we left Sylvester and his God sitting together before the hearth. Sylvester in his pajamas, Moldorf with a cigar between his lips. Sylvester is peeling an orange. He puts the peel on the couch cover. Moldorf draws closer to him. He asks permission to read again that brilliant parody, The Gates of Heaven. We are getting ready to go, Boris and I. We are too gay for this sickroom atmosphere. Tania is going with us. She is gay because she is going to escape. Boris is gay because the God in Moldorf is dead. I am gay because it is another act we are going to put on.
 
　　莫尔多夫的声音很恭敬，”西尔维斯特，在你睡觉之前，我能同你呆在一起吗？”过去六天里他一直同西尔维斯特呆在一起，买药、为塔尼亚跑腿，安慰和宽慰他们、守卫大门谨防鲍里斯及其无赖等不怀好意的人闯入。他像一个发现自己的偶像在夜间被人肢解了的野人，他坐在这个偶像脚下，带着面包树上的果实和油，咕哝着语无伦次的祷告词。他说话时调子十分殷勤，他的四肢早已麻痹了。
Moldorf's voice is reverent. "Can I stay with you, Sylvester, until you go to bed?" He has been staying with him for the last six days, buying medicine, running errands for Tania, comforting, consoling, guarding the portals against malevolent intruders like Boris and his scalawags. He is like a savage who has discovered that his idol was mutilated during the night. There he sits, at the idol's feet, with breadfruit and grease and jabberwocky prayers. His voice goes out unctuously. His limbs are already paralyzed.
 
　　他对塔尼亚说话的口气仿佛塔尼亚是一位违背誓言的女牧师。”你一定要自尊自重，西尔维斯特就是你的上帝。”西尔维斯特在楼上受罪（他胸部有点儿哮喘），而这对男女牧师却在大吃大喝。莫尔多夫说，” 你这是玷污自己。”汤从他嘴上滴下来，他有本事一边吃一边蒙受痛苦。他一面挥手赶开苍蝇一类的东西，一面伸出他的肥胖的小爪子去抚摸塔尼亚的秀发。”我快要爱上你了，你像我的范妮。”
To Tania he speaks as if she were a priestess who had broken her vows. "You must make yourself worthy. Sylvester is your God." And while Sylvester is upstairs suffering (he has a little wheeze in the chest) the priest and the priestess devour the food. "You are polluting yourself," he says, the gravy dripping from his lips. He has the capacity for eating and suffering at the same time. While he fends off the dangerous ones he puts out his fat little paw and strokes Tania's hair. "I'm beginning to fall in love with you. You are like my Fanny."
 
　　在别的方面，今天也是莫尔多夫的好日子。美国来信了，莫门门功课都是优秀，默里在学骑自行车，留声机也修好了。你从他脸上的表情可以看出，信里除了报告成绩和学自行车的事还有别的。你可以坚信这一点，因为今天下午他为他的范妮买了三百二十五法郎的珠宝，还给她写了一封有二十页厚的信。侍者替他拿了一张又一张纸，替他灌墨水、端咖啡、送雪茄，他出汗时便替他扇扇子，拂去桌上的面包渣，雪茄一灭便再替他点上，为他买来邮票，尽心尽意地侍候他，围着他团团转，朝他顶礼膜拜……差点儿弄断了他的脊梁骨。雪茄烟头很粗，比克罗那?克罗那牌雪茄粗大。莫尔多夫也许在日记中提到了这一点，这是为了范妮的缘故。手镯和耳环的价钱很合算，钱花在范妮身上总比浪费在杰曼奥德特这类小婊子身上好些。他对塔尼亚就是这样说的，他给她看他的箱子，里面塞满了给范妮、莫和默里的礼物。
In other respects it has been a fine day for Moldorf. A letter arrived from America. Moe is getting A's in everything. Murray is learning to ride the bicycle. The victrola was repaired. You can see from the expression on his face that there were other things in the letter besides report cards and velocipedes. You can be sure of it because this afternoon he bought 325 francs worth of jewelry for his Fanny. In addition he wrote her a twenty-page letter. The gar?on brought him page after page, filled his fountain pen, served his coffee and cigars, fanned him a little when he perspired, brushed the crumbs from the table, lit his cigar when it went out, bought stamps for him, danced on him, pirouetted, salaamed … broke his spine damned near. The tip was fat. Bigger and fatter than a Corona Corona. Moldorf probably mentioned it in his diary. It was for Fanny's sake. The bracelet and the earrings, they were worth every son he spent. Better to spend it on Fanny than waste it on little strumpets like Germaine and Odette. Yes, he told Tania so. He showed her his trunk. It is crammed with gifts - for Fanny, and for Moe and Murray.
 
　　“我的范妮是世界上最聪明的女人，我一直在挖空心思找她的缺点，可就是找不到。
"My Fanny is the most intelligent woman in the world. I have been searching and searching to find a flaw in her - but there's not one.
 
　　“她十分完美。让我告诉你范妮能干什么，她打起桥牌来像个高明的职业牌手，她还对犹太复国主义运动感兴趣。比如说，给她一顶旧帽子，看她拿它怎么办。她在这儿折一折，在那儿加条带子，这就成了一件很美的东西了！你知道什么是最大的幸福吗？是在莫和默里睡着后坐在范妮身边听收音机。她那么安详地坐着，看着她我的全部奋斗和伤心失意都得到了报偿。她听得十分明白清楚，我一想起你们那散发着臭味的蒙帕纳斯，再想到我同范妮吃完一顿好饭后在里奇湾消磨的一个夜晚，我就可以告诉你这两个去处根本没法比。一点简单的食品、孩子、柔和的灯光，范妮坐在那儿，有点累，不过快活、满足、有钱……我们就这样一句话不说坐上好几个小时，那才叫幸福呢。
"She's perfect I'll tell you what Fanny can do. She plays bridge like a shark; she's interested in Zionism; you give her an old hat, for instance, and see what she can do with it. A little twist here, a ribbon there, and voilà que1que chose de beau! Do you know what is perfect bliss? To sit beside Fanny, when Moe and Murray have gone to bed, and listen to the radio. She sits there so peacefully. I am rewarded for all my struggles and heartaches in just watching her. She listens intelligently. When I think of your stinking Montparnasse and then of my evenings in Bay Ridge with Fanny after a big meal, I tell you there is no comparison. A simple thing like food, the children, the soft lamps, and Fanny sitting there, a little tired, but cheerful, contented, heavy with bread … we just sit there for hours without saying a word. That's bliss!
 
　　“今天她来了一封信—并不是那种枯燥的流水帐，她给我写的全是心里话，用的话连我的小默里都能看懂。她对一切都很敏感，我的范妮。她说孩子们必须继续受教育，不过这项花费叫她发愁。送小默里上学要花一千美元，莫当然能得到一笔助学金。可是小默里这个天才，默里，我们拿他怎么办？我给范妮写信叫她别发愁。送默里去上学吧，我说。那一千元呢？今年我挣的钱会比哪一年都多，我要送小默里上学，因为那孩子是个天才。”
"Today she writes me a letter - not one of those dull stock-report letters. She writes me from the heart, in language that even my little Murray could understand. She's delicate about everything, Fanny. She says that the children must continue their education but the expense worries her. It will cost a thousand bucks to send little Murray to school. Moe, of course, will get a scholarship. But little Murray, that little genius, Murray, what are we going to do about him? I wrote Fanny not to worry. Send Murray to school, I said. What's another thousand dollars? I'll make more money this year than ever before. I'll do it for little Murray - because he's a genius, that kid."
 
　　我真希望范妮开箱子时我在常”你瞧，范妮，这是我在布达佩斯从一个老犹太人那里买的……这是保加利亚人穿的—纯毛的……这东西原先是属于某一位公爵的—不，不必缠起来，放在阳光下……我们去看戏时我要你穿这个，范妮……穿它时配上我给你的那把梳子……这个，范妮，是塔尼亚替我挑的……她跟你有点儿像呢……”
I should like to be there when Fanny opens the trunk. "See, Fanny, this is what I bought in Budapest from an old Jew… This is what they wear in Bulgaria - it's pure wool… This belonged to the Duke of something or other - no, you don't wind it, you put it in the sun… This I want you to wear, Fanny, when we go to the Opera … wear it with that comb I showed you… And this, Fanny, is something Tania picked up for me … she's a little bit on your type…"
 
范妮正坐在靠背椅上，像石印油画上画的一样，莫在一边，小默里那天才在另一边。她的粗腿有点儿短，够不着地板。她的眼睛呈一种黯淡的高锰酸盐色，乳房像成熟的红色包心菜，身子往前一倾便微微颤动一下。可是，可悲的是她青春已逝，坐在那儿活像一只电己用完的蓄电池。她的脸歪了，需要增加一点儿活力，需要突如其来的刺激使它复原。莫尔多夫正像个肥蛤膜一样在她面前跳来跳去，他的肉在颤抖。他滑倒后要打个滚再重新趴在地上都很费劲，于是范妮便用她的粗脚趾轻轻踢踢他。他的眼珠更凸出了，”再踢我一脚，范妮，这样很舒服。”
And Fanny is sitting there on the settee, just as she was in the oleograph, with Moe on one side of her and little Murray, Murray the genius, on the other. Her fat legs are a little too short to reach the floor. Her eyes have a dull permanganate glow. Breasts like ripe red cabbage; they bobble a little when she leans forward. But the sad thing about her is that the juice has been cut off. She sits there like a dead storage battery; her face is out of plumb - it needs a little animation, a sudden spurt of juice to bring it back into focus. Moldorf is jumping around in front of her like a fat toad. His flesh quivers. He slips and it is difficult for him to roll over again on his belly. She prods him with her thick toes. His eyes protrude a little further. "Kick me again, Fanny, that was good."
 
　　这一回她狠狠给了他一脚—这一脚给他的大肚子上留下了一个永久的坑。他的脸紧贴着地毯，垂下来的软肉在毯子的绒毛上颤动。他快活一点儿了，四处乱蹦乱跳，从一件家具旁跃到另一件家具旁。”范妮，你真是太棒了！”这时他正坐在范妮的肩膀上，他从她耳朵上咬下一小块肉来，只是耳垂上的一点点，那儿是不会感觉到痛的，可她仍同死了一般—仍是一只没有电的蓄电池，毫无热情。他又扑在她腿上，趴在那儿像牙疼似的发抖，他现在已十分激动而且控制不住自己了，他的肚皮像一块漆皮那样发光，眼睛里出现了一对花哨的背心纽。”扒开我的眼睛，范妮，我要更清楚地看着你！”范妮把他抱至床上，往他眼睛上滴了一点热蜡。她在他肚脐四周摆上戒指，又在他屁股里塞了一支体温计。她把他安置好，他便又颤抖起来，突然他缩小了，缩得完全看不见了。她在各处找他，在她肠子里找、到处找。有个东西在使她发痒，可是她就是说不上那儿痒。
She gives him a good prod this time - it leaves a permanent dent in his paunch. His face is close to the carpet; the wattles are joggling in the nap of the rug. He livens up a bit, flips around, springs from furniture to furniture. "Fanny, you are marvelous!" He is sitting now on her shoulder. He bites a little piece from her ear, just a little tip from the lobe where it doesn't hurt. But she's still dead - all storage battery and no juice. He falls on her lap and lies there quivering like a toothache. He is all warm now and helpless. His belly glistens like a patent-leather shoe. In the sockets of his eyes a pair of fancy vest buttons. "Unbutton my eyes, Fanny, I want to see you better!" Fanny carries him to bed and drops a little hot wax over his eyes. She puts rings around his navel and a thermometer up his ass. She places him and he quivers again. Suddenly he's dwindled, shrunk completely out of sight. She searches all over for him, in her intestines, everywhere. Something is tickling her - she doesn't know where exactly.
 
　　蛤蟆在爬墙，痒，痒。”范妮，把我眼睛里的蜡弄出来！我要看见你！”可是范妮在哈哈大笑，笑得全身抖动不止。她身体里的东西在使她发痒、发痒，如果找不到这个东西她就会笑死。”范妮，箱子里装满了漂亮的东西。范妮，听见我说的了吗？”范妮在哈哈大笑，像一条肥胖的蛆一样笑。她笑得肚皮都鼓起来了，大腿也在发青。”啊，老天！鲍里斯！有个东西在使我发痒。……我忍不住！”
The bed is full of toads and fancy vest buttons. "Fanny, where are you?" Something is tickling her - she can't say where. The buttons are dropping off the bed. The toads are climbing the walls. A tickling and a tickling. "Fanny, take the wax out of my eyes! I want to look at you!" But Fanny is laughing, squirming with laughter. There is something inside her, tickling and tickling. She'll die laughing if she doesn't find it. "Fanny, the trunk is full of beautiful things. Fanny, do you hear me?" Fanny is laughing, laughing like a fat worm. Her belly is swollen with laughter. Her legs are getting blue. "O God, Morris, there is something tickling me… I can't help it!"
Part 3 Chapter 1
星期日！快到中午时我离开了波勒兹别墅，当时鲍里斯正准备坐下来吃饭，我离开是出于自觉，因为鲍里斯看到我空着肚子坐在工作室里的确会过意不去。我不知道他为什么不请我同他一道吃午饭，他说请不起，可那不过是借口。反正我是出于自觉，假如他当着我的面独自享用会不好受，那么，同我分享他也许会更加难受。我无权去探究他的隐秘。
Sunday! Left the Villa Borghese a little before noon, just as Boris was getting ready to sit down to lunch. I left out of a sense of delicacy, because it really pains Boris to see me sitting there in the studio with an empty belly. Why he doesn't invite me to lunch with him I don't know. He says he can't afford it, but that's no excuse. Anyway, I'm delicate about it. If it pains him to eat alone in my presence it would probably pain him more to share his meal with me. It's not my place to pry into his secret affairs.
 
　　来到克朗斯塔特家，他们也正在吃饭，一只野米炖小鸡。我假装已吃过了，可我简直想劈手把鸡从那娃娃手中夺过来。我想我这还不是故作羞怯，这是一种反常心理。他们两次问我愿不愿同他们一起吃。不！不！我连饭后的那杯咖啡也不愿喝。我很自觉、很自觉！出门时我恋恋不舍地瞥了一眼那娃娃盘子里的鸡骨头—上面还有肉呢。
Dropped in at the Cronstadts' and they were eating too. A young chicken with wild rice. Pretended that I had eaten already, but I could have torn the chicken from the baby's hands. This is not just false modesty - it's a kind of perversion, I'm thinking. Twice they asked me if I wouldn't join them. No! No! Wouldn't even accept a cup of coffee after the meal. I'm delicat, I am! On the way out I cast a lingering glance at the bones lying on the baby's plate - there was still meat on them.
 
　　我漫无目的地四处闲逛。到现在为止天气不错，比西街上挤满了慢腾腾走路的行人，酒吧大门敞开，路边摆着自行车。所有的肉市、菜市上都很热闹，人人胳膊上挎着裹在报纸里的蔬菜。这是一个美妙的天主教星期日—至少早晨是这样。
Prowling around aimlessly. A beautiful day - so far. The Rue de Buci is alive, crawling. The bars wide open and the curbs lined with bicycles. All the meat and vegetable markets are in full swing. Arms loaded with truck bandaged in newspapers. A fine Catholic Sunday - in the morning, at least.
 
　　正午时分，我饿着肚子站在所有这些弥漫着食物香味的小巷交汇处，对面是路易斯安娜旅馆。那是一座阴森的旧旅馆，在从前的美好日子里比西街的坏小子们都知道这儿。旅馆和食物，而我像一个坐卧不宁的麻风病人一样走来走去。星期天早上街上有股狂热劲儿，别处没有这种情形，除了纽约的曼哈顿东区或查塔姆广常艾尚德街在沸腾，这些街东扭西拐，每个拐弯处都聚着闹哄哄的一群人。一长列一长列拎着菜的人胃口大开、饥肠辘辘，他们四处窜来窜去，什么都没有，只有食物、食物、食物。简直叫人发狂。
High noon and here I am standing on an empty belly at the confluence of all these crooked lanes that reek with the odor of food. Opposite me is the H?tel de Louisiane. A grim old hostelry known to the bad boys of the Rue de Bud in the good old days. Hotels and food, and I'm walking about like a leper with crabs gnawing at my entrails. On Sunday mornings there's a fever in the streets. Nothing like it anywhere, except perhaps on the East Side, or down around Chatham Square. The Rue de l'Echaudé is seething. The streets twist and turn, at every angle a fresh hive of activity. Long queues of people with vegetables under their arms, turning in here and there with crisp, sparkling appetites. Nothing but food, food, food. Makes one delirious.
 
　　我经过弗斯滕伯格广场，它又是另一番面貌。那天晚上我打这儿经过时广场上空无一人，凄凄凉凉，森森然吓人。广场中央有四棵尚未开花的海榄雄树，这是一种有智能的树，从铺路石中汲取养分，像艾略特的诗。老天爷在上，如果玛丽?洛朗森愿把她的同性恋女伴带到光天化日之下，这儿便是她们亲热的好地方。这儿全是搞同性恋的女人。不育，杂种，冷冰冰的像鲍里斯的心。
Pass the Square de Furstenberg. Looks different now, at high noon. The other night when I passed by it was deserted, bleak, spectral. In the middle of the square four black trees that have not yet begun to blossom. Intellectual trees, nourished by the paving stones. Like T. S. Eliot's verse. Here, by God, if Marie Laurencin ever brought her Lesbians out into the open, would be the place for them to commune. Très lesbienne ici. Sterile, hybrid, dry as Boris' heart.
 
　　圣日尔曼教堂旁边的小花园里有几只拆下来的奇形怪状的雕像，这几个怪物凶相毕露地随时准备扑上来。坐在长椅上的是另外一些怪物—老人、白痴、跛子和癫痫病人，他们在那儿安安静静地打盹，等着开饭铃响。在马路对面的泽可艺术馆里，一个蠢货画了一幅宇宙的画儿—画在平面上。一个画家的宇宙！尽是一些零零碎碎的玩艺儿、一些小古董。在画的左下角竟然画了一只锚和一只吃饭钟。敬礼！敬礼！啊，宇宙！
In the little garden adjoining the Eglise St. Germain are a few dismounted gargoyles. Monsters that jut forward with a terrifying plunge. On the benches other monsters - old people, idiots, cripples, epileptics. Snoozing there quietly, waiting for the dinner bell to ring. At the Galerie Zak across the way some imbecile has made a picture of the cosmos - on the flat. A painter's cosmos! Full of odds and ends, bric a-brac. In the lower left-hand corner, however, there's an anchor - and a dinner bell. Salute! Salute! O Cosmos!
 
　　到了下午三点左右我仍在游荡，肚子饿得咕咕叫。又下开了雨，圣母院在雨中朦胧如一座坟墓。滴水嘴从建筑物正面顶上远远伸出，它们悬在那儿，像一个偏执狂人心中的固执见解。一个长着黄色连鬓胡子的老人走近我，他手里拿着贾沃斯基的一本胡说八道的书。他朝我走过来时头向后昂着，雨水打在他的脸上，金沙色的胡子变成了稀泥。书店橱窗里挂着拉乌尔?迪菲的几幅画，画上尽是大腿间插着玫瑰树枝的女仆，还有论及琼?米若哲学的专论。听仔细了，哲学！
Still prowling around. Mid afternoon. Guts rattling. Beginning to rain now. Notre-Dame rises tomblike from the water. The gargoyles lean far out over the lace fa?ade. They hang there like an idée fixe in the mind of a monomaniac. An old man with yellow whiskers approaches me. Has some Jaworski nonsense in his hand. Comes up to me with his head thrown back and the rain splashing in his face turns the golden sands to mud. Bookstore with some of Raoul Dufy's drawings in the window. Drawings of charwomen with rosebushes between their legs. A treatise on the philosophy of Joan Miró. The philosophy, mind you!
 
　　同一个橱窗里还有：《一个切成碎片的人》！第一章：他家人眼中的此人。第二章：他情妇眼中的同一个人。第三章：--还没有第三章。得明天再来看第三、第四章，因为橱窗装饰人每天翻一页书。《一个切成碎片的人》……你简直无法想象我是多么气恼，自己竟没有想出一个类似的书名！这个写”他情妇眼中的同一个人……眼中的同一个……同一个……”这家伙在哪儿？这家伙在哪儿？他是谁？我想紧紧拥抱他，我非常非常希望自己有本事想出这样的书名，而不是《疯狂的公鸡》和我发明的其他蠢话。晦，去他妈的，即使我有那样的本事，我也同样会祝贺他的。

In the same window: A Man Cut in Slices! Chapter one: the man in the eyes of his family. Chapter two: the same in the eyes of his mistress. Chapter three: - No chapter three. Have to come back tomorrow for chapters three and four. Every day the window trimmer turns a fresh page. A man cut in slices… You can't imagine how furious I am not to have thought of a title like that! Where is this bloke who writes "the same in the eyes of his mistress … the same in the eyes of… the same …?" Where is this guy? Who is he? I want to hug him. I wish to Christ I had had brains enough to think of a title like that - instead of Crazy Cock and the other fool things I invented. Well, fuck a duck! I congratulate him just the same.
 
　　我希望他的漂亮书名使他走运。这儿是给你的另一片肉—给你下一本书的。抽空给我打个电话，我就住在波勒兹别墅。我们全死了，正在死去或快要死了。我们需要好书名，我们需要肉—一片又一片的肉—牛腰肉，上等牛排、腰子、牛睾丸和牛胰脏。有朝一日，当我站在纽约第四十二大街和百老汇的某一角落里时，我会回忆起这个书名，我会写下脑子里想起的一切—鱼子酱、雨点、车轴润滑油、细面条、腊肠—一片又一片腊肠。把每件往事都记下来之后，我突然回家把孩子切成了碎片。我不会告诉任何人为什么要这样做。亲爱的先生，如果你把它切成碎片，你便可以免费享用。
I wish him luck with his fine title. Here's another slice for you - for your next book! Ring me up some day. I'm living at the Villa Borghese. We're all dead, or dying, or about to die. We need good titles. We need meat - slices and slices of meat - juicy tenderloins, porterhouse steaks, kidneys, mountain oysters, sweetbreads. Some day, when I'm standing at the corner of 42nd Street and Broadway, I'm going to remember this title and I'm going to put down everything that goes on in my noodle - caviar, rain drops, axle grease, vermicelli, liverwurst - slices and slices of it. And I'll tell no one why, after I had put everything down, I suddenly went home and chopped the baby to pieces. Un acte gratuit pour vous, cher monsieur si bien coupé en tranches!
 
　　一个人怎么能空着肚子四处乱逛一整天，而且还不时勃起一回？这是”灵魂剖析家”们能轻而易举解释清楚的秘密之一。 在一个星期日下午，百叶窗都放下来，无产阶级以一种麻木、呆滞的方式占领了街道。有几条大路纵向延伸出去，只会使人联想到一只下疳的大公鸡。而恰恰是这些大路有力地吸引着人们，例如圣德尼街或圣殿郊区。正如从前纽约市的联邦广场或是纽约曼哈顿的鲍里街前段，人们被引诱到简易博物馆来看橱窗内陈列的蜡制的、被梅毒和其他性病侵蚀的人体各个器官。巴黎像一个各处都患了病的巨大有机体向外延伸，这些美丽的大道相比之下不那么令人厌恶只是因为它们体内的脓已挤出去了。
How a man can wander about all day on an empty belly, and even get an erection once in a while, is one of those mysteries which are too easily explained by the "anatomists of the soul." On a Sunday afternoon, when the shutters are down and the proletariat possesses the street in a kind of dumb torpor, there are certain thoroughfares which remind one of nothing less than a big chancrous cock laid open longitudinally. And it is just these highways, the Rue St. Denis, for instance, or the Faubourg du Temple - which attract one irresistibly, much as in the old days, around Union Square or the upper reaches of the Bowery, one was drawn to the dime museums where in the show windows there were displayed wax reproductions of various organs of the body eaten away by syphilis and other venereal diseases. The city sprouts out like a huge organism diseased in every part, the beautiful thoroughfares only a little less repulsive because they have been drained of their pus.
 
　　在靠近竞技广场不远的北城区，我停了几分钟欣赏这片地方的脏乱景色。同人们在低低的、同巴黎的旧交通要道平行的走道里看到的许多广场一样，这个广场是长方形的。广场中央有一些又破又旧的建筑，衰败不堪，一座倒在另一座顶上，形成了像一团肠子一样的一堆东西。地面不平，铺地的石板上尽是脏东西，很滑，真像一堆混杂着炉渣和垃圾的人屎尿。太阳很快要落下去了，天空中的色彩也消失了，紫色变成干血色，青贝色变成褐色，黯淡的灰色变成鸽粪色。到处都有一个歪七扭八的怪物站在窗子上，像猫头鹰一样挤眼睛，脸色苍白、骨瘦如柴的孩子们发出刺耳的尖叫声，患佝偻病的小顽童头上往往有医生用钳子夹过的印痕。墙里渗出一股恶臭味，那是发霉的床垫味。欧洲，中世纪的、怪诞的、恐怖的欧洲—B-mol调的交响曲。街正对面的竞技影院给它的尊贵的顾客们提供了这个大都市的各种景观。
At the City Nortier, somewhere near the Place du Combat, I pause a few minutes to drink in the full squalor of the scene. It is a rectangular court like many another which one glimpses through the low passageways that flank the old arteries of Paris. In the middle of the court is a clump of decrepit buildings which have so rotted away that they have collapsed on one another and formed a sort of intestinal embrace. The ground is uneven, the flagging slippery with slime. A sort of human dump heap which has been filled in with cinders and dry garbage. The sun is setting fast. The colors die. They shift from purple to dried blood, from nacre to bister, from cool dead grays to pigeon shit. Here and there a lopsided monster stands in the window blinking like an owl. There is the shrill squawk of children with pale faces and bony limbs, rickety little urchins marked with the forceps. A fetid odor seeps from the walls, the odor of a mildewed mattress. Europe - medieval, grotesque, monstrous: a symphony in B mol. Directly across the street the Ciné Combat offers its distinguished clientele Metropolis.
 
　　走开时我又重新忆起那天看过的一本书。”这座城是一个屠宰场，尸体同屠夫混杂在一起，又被盗贼剥得精光，一层层躺在街上。狼从郊区悄悄溜进来吃他们，黑死病和其他瘟疫也来跟它们为伍，英国人也大踏步赶来。与此同时，死亡之舞在所有墓地的坟堆间旋转……”这书讲的是”愚蠢的查理”时代的巴黎轶事！一本可爱的书！看过后使人精神振奋、胃口大开，我至今仍为它着迷，我对文艺复兴时期的倡导人和先驱者知道的不多，不过对漂亮的面包师平博荷耐福夫人和让?卡波特大师这两人至今记忆犹新，一有空便想起他们。我也忘不了罗丹这个《流浪的犹太人》中的邪恶天才。他无法无天地胡作非为，”直到有一天被有八分之一黑人血统的塞西莉激怒并且智龋”坐在圣殿广场，冥想让? 卡博什手下屠宰老弱马匹的人的所做所为，我久久悲哀地想着”愚蠢的查理”的悲惨命运。他是一个智力不健全的人，在他的圣保罗旅馆大厅里转来转去，穿的是最脏最臭的破衣服，溃疡和害虫侵蚀着他的健康。别人丢给他一根骨头，他便像一条癫皮狗一样去啃。我在狮子街寻找从前兽栏的石头，他过去曾在这儿喂宠物，这是除了同他”出身低贱的伙伴”奥代特?德?尚帕狄丰打牌以外的唯一消遣。这可怜的傻子。
Coming away my mind reverts to a book that I was reading only the other day. "The town was a shambles; corpses, mangled by butchers and stripped by plunderers, lay thick in the streets; wolves sneaked from the suburbs to eat them; the black death and other plagues crept in to keep them company, and the English came marching on; the while the danse macabre whirled about the tombs in all the cemeteries…" Paris during the days of Charles the Silly! A lovely book! Refreshing, appetizing. I'm still enchanted by it. About the patrons and prodromes of the Renaissance I know little, but Madam Pimpernel, la belle boulangère, and Ma?tre Jehan Crapotte, l'orfèvre, these occupy my spare thoughts still. Not forgetting Rodin, the evil genius of The Wandering Jew, who practised his nefarious ways "until the day when he was enflamed and outwitted by the octoroon Cecily." Sitting in the Square du Temple, musing over the doings of the horse knackers led by Jean Caboche, I have thought long and ruefully over the sad fate of Charles the Silly. A half wit, who prowled about the halls of his H?tel St. Paul, garbed in the filthiest rags, eaten away by ulcers and vermin, gnawing a bone, when they flung him one, like a mangy dog. At the Rue des Lions I looked for the stones of the old menagerie where he once fed his pets. His only diversion, poor dolt, aside from those card games with his "low born companion," Odette de Champdivers.
Part 3 Chapter 2
我头一回遇见杰曼也是在一个星期日的下午，同今天差不多。那天我正沿着博马舍林荫道散步，身上装着我妻子从美国赶忙寄来的一百多法郎，很阔气。天气已有点春天的意思了，一个有毒有害的春天似乎就要从街上的下水道出入孔溢出。我每天夜里都回到这儿来，因为这儿有几条患麻风病的街道吸引着我，它们要待白天的光亮渐渐消失、妓女们各就各位后才暴露出其邪恶的光辉。尤其令我印象深刻的是巴斯德一瓦格纳街，它就位于藏在林荫大道后面、像一条熟睡的蜥蜴似的阿梅洛特街角上。在这个瓶子颈里总聚集着一串秃鹰，她们哇哇叫着扇动肮脏的翅膀，她们伸出锋利的爪子把你抓进一个门里。她们全是一伙快活而又贪婪的魔鬼，完事之后连系裤子的时间都不给你。她们领你来到背街的一个小房间里，通常是没有窗子的房间，然后她们撩起裙子坐在床边上，很快查看你一番，朝你那玩艺上吐口唾沫便替你把它塞进去了。你还在洗身子时，另一个婊子便扯着她的猎物站在门口等着呢，她冷淡地望着你最后草草洗几下了事。
It was a Sunday afternoon, much like this, when I first met Germaine. I was strolling along the Boulevard Beaumarchais, rich by a hundred francs or so which my wife had frantically cabled from America. There was a touch of spring in the sir, a poisonous, malefic spring that seemed to burst from the manholes. Night after night I had been coming back to this quarter, attracted by certain leprous streets which only revealed their sinister splendor when the light of day had oozed away and the whores commenced to take up their posts. The Rue du Pasteur Wagner is one I recall in particular, corner of the Rue Amelot which hides behind the boulevard like a slumbering lizard. Here, at the neck of the bottle, so to speak, there was always a cluster of vultures who croaked and flapped their dirty wings, who reached out with sharp talons and plucked you into a doorway. Jolly, rapacious devils who didn't even give you time to button your pants when it was over. Led you into a little room off the street, a room without a window usually, and, sitting on the edge of the bed with skirts tucked up gave you a quick inspection, spat on your cock, and placed it for you. While you washed yourself another one stood at the door and, holding her victim by the hand, watched nonchalantly as you gave the finishing touches to your toilet.
 
可杰曼却与众不同，这从她的外貌上可看不出来，没有什么特征可以把她跟另外那伙每天下午和傍晚在大象咖啡厅碰头的妓女区别开。我刚才说过，这是春季的一天，我妻子积攒起来汇给我的那几个法郎在口袋里叮当乱响。我有一种模模糊糊的预感：到达巴士底广场之前我准会被一只秃鹰拖了去。沿着林荫大道漫步时，我早就注意到杰曼在朝我这边蹭，一副到处游荡看热闹的婊子派头。她的鞋跟塌下来，她戴着便宜的手饰，脸色发青，涂上胭脂反倒更显出妓女特有的青白色皮肤，同她谈妥条件并不难，我们坐在那家也叫作”大象”的小香烟店里很快便谈好了。几分钟后我们便在阿梅洛街上花五法郎租了一个房间。窗帘放下，床罩也掀到一边去了，她并不急于尽快了事，这位杰曼。她坐在坐浴盆上擦肥皂，一面愉快地跟我东拉西扯，说她喜欢我穿的灯笼短裤。她认为它”棒极了”！从前是的，不过我已经穿破了屁股坐的地方，幸亏靠外衣遮住屁股。她仍跟我愉快地说着话，起来擦干了身子，突兀地扔下毛巾朝我随随便便走过来。她开始热切地抚弄自己的下体，用两只手摸它、爱抚它、拍它。当时她滔滔不绝说话的劲头儿和把下体插到我鼻子底下这个动作至今仍使我难以忘怀。她谈到它时那种口气仿佛叫你觉得那玩艺凡是她花了大价钱买来的，身体以外的某件东西，这件东西的价值随着时间的推移在增加，现在她在这个世界上最宝贵的东西便莫过于它了。她的话赋予它一种奇妙的芬芳气味，它已不再只是她的下体，还是一件宝贝、一件魔物、一件极有魔力的宝贝、一件上帝赋予的礼物，而且并不因为她每天都用它换几个钱而丧失一点点魔力。
Germaine was different. There was nothing to tell me so from her appearance. Nothing to distinguish her from the other trollops who met each afternoon and evening at the Café de l'Eléphant. As I say, it was a spring day and the few francs my wife had scraped up to cable me were jingling in my pocket. I had a sort of vague premonition that I would not reach the Bastille without being taken in tow by one of these buzzards. Sauntering along the boulevard I had noticed her verging toward me with that curious trot-about air of a whore and the run down heels and cheap jewelry and the pasty look of their kind which the rouge only accentuates. It was not difficult to come to terms with her. We sat in the back of the little tabac called L'Eléphant and talked it over quickly. In a few minutes we were in a five franc room on the Rue Amelot, the curtains drawn and the covers thrown back. She didn't rush things, Germaine. She sat on the bidet soaping herself and talked to me pleasantly about this and that; she liked the knickerbockers I was wearing. Très chic! she thought. They were once, but I had worn the seat out of them; fortunately the jacket covered my ass. As she stood up to dry herself, still talking to me pleasantly, suddenly she dropped the towel and, advancing toward me leisurely, she commenced rubbing her pussy affectionately, stroking it with her two hands, caressing it, patting it, patting it. There was something about her eloquence at that moment and the way she thrust that rosebush under my nose which remains unforgettable; she spoke of it as if it were some extraneous object which she had acquired at great cost, an object whose value had increased with time and which now she prized above everything in the world. Her words imbued it with a peculiar fragrance; it was no longer just her private organ, but a treasure, a magic, potent treasure, a God given thing - and none the less so because she traded it day in and day out for a few pieces of silver.
 
　　她倒在床上，大叉着双腿，用两只手捂着它又抚弄了一阵，同时还一直用粗哑的声音咕哝着，说它好、漂亮，是一件宝贝、一件小宝贝。不过她那个小玩艺儿也的确不错！那个星期日下午空气中弥漫着春天的有毒气味，一切都很圆满。走出旅馆时我在外面刺眼的光线下重新细细打量了她一番，清清楚楚地看清了她是怎样的一个婊子—金牙、帽子上插的天竺葵、踩塌下去的鞋跟，等等，等等。更有甚者，她从我这儿骗到了一顿饭吃、抽了我的烟、坐了我的出租车，可是这一切一点也没有使我气恼。老实讲，是我鼓励她这样干的。我十分喜欢她，于是吃完饭后我俩回到旅馆又睡了一次，这一回是”为了爱情”。她的大而多毛的玩艺儿又一次发挥了它的活力和魔力，对于我它也开始具有独立的生命了。这儿是杰曼，那儿是她毛茸茸的玩艺，我既爱杰曼同它一分为二，也爱她俩合二为一。
As she flung herself on the bed, with legs spread wide apart, she cupped it with her hands and stroked it some more, murmuring all the while in that hoarse, cracked voice of hers that it was good, beautiful, a treasure, a little treasure. And it was good, that little pussy of hers! That Sunday afternoon, with its poisonous breath of spring in the air, everything clicked again. As we stepped out of the hotel I looked her over again in the harsh light of day and I saw clearly what a whore she was - the gold teeth, the geranium in her hat, the run-down heels, etc., etc. Even the fact that she had wormed a dinner out of me and cigarettes and taxi hadn't the least disturbing effect upon me. I encouraged it, in fact. I liked her so well that after dinner we went back to the hotel again and took another shot at it. "For love," this time. And again that big, bushy thing of hers worked its bloom and magic. It began to have an independent existence - for me too. There was Germaine and there was that rose bush of hers. I liked them separately and I liked them together.
 
　　我刚才说过，杰曼是与众不同的。后来她发现了我的实际境况，便宽宏大度地待我—花很多钱请我喝酒、让我赊帐、帮我典当东西、把我介绍给她的朋友以及提供其它诸如此类的帮助。她还为没能借给我钱道歉，这我完全能理解，因为后来她把她的鸨母指给我看了。我每天夜里沿着博马舍林荫道来到那家小香烟店，妓女们都聚集在这儿。我等着她回来把她的宝贵时间匀给我几分钟。
As I say, she was different, Germaine. Later, when she discovered my true circumstances, she treated me nobly - blew me to drinks, gave me credit, pawned my things, introduced me to her friends, and so on. She even apologized for not lending me money, which I understood quite well after her maquereau had been pointed out to me. Night after night I walked down the Boulevard Beaumarchais to the little tabac where they all congregated and I waited for her to stroll in and give me a few minutes of her precious time.
 
　　后来当我提笔写克劳德时，我心里想的不是克劳德而是杰曼……”同她厮混过的全体男人和你，现在只有你了。船驶过去，桅杆和船身都过去了，人生的全部见鬼的激流从你身上流过，从她身上流过，从紧跟着你的所有家伙身上流过。鲜花、小鸟和阳光都涌进来，它们的芬芳香气将呛死你、毁灭你。”这是为杰曼写的。克劳德则是另一码事，尽管我也十分崇拜她，有一阵子我还自以为爱她呢。克劳德有灵魂，有良心，行为也高尚，最后这一点在一个婊子身上倒不是什么优点。克劳德总叫人认为她有几分悲哀，她显然是无意中给人留下这种印象的—你不过只是命运选派来毁灭她的那股水流中的一部分。我说了，她是无意的，因为她是全世界最不可能有意识地在别人心目中造成这样一种印象的女人。她腼腆、敏感，所以不会那么做。克劳德在本质上完全是一位具有中等教养与智力的很不错的法国姑娘。生活捉弄了她，她身上有种气质，这种气质不够强健，无法应付日常生活的刺激。路易?菲利普的那一番可怕的话正是说她的，”当某一夜来临时一切都完了，许多血盆大口朝我们逼来，我们再也无力直立。我们的肌肉从身上耷拉下来，仿佛已被每张嘴嚼烂了。”从另一方面看，杰曼是个天生的婊子，她对自己扮演的角色十二万分满意，实际上还很喜欢这活儿呢。没有什么是会使她感到不快的，除了有时肚子饿、鞋①路易。菲利普（1874一1909），法国作家。--译者子破这类不足挂齿的区区小事之外，无聊！这便是她的最大不快了。毫无疑问，她也曾有过嫖客过多的日子，但也是仅此而已。大部分时间里她喜欢这种生活，或者表现出喜欢的样子。这当然还是有区别的—跟谁出去，同谁回来，不过要紧的是男人。一个男人，这就是她梦寐以求的。一个两腿问有件东西的男人，那个东西要能使她欢悦，使她狂喜得身子乱扭一气，同时还要体验到两人已合为一体，体验到人生的乐趣，只有在那儿她才能体验到人生，即在她用双手捂住的部位。
When some time later I came to write about Claude, it was not Claude that I was thinking of but Germaine… "All the men she's been with and now you, just you, and barges going by, masts and hulls, the whole damned current of life flowing through you, through her, through all the guys behind you and after you, the flowers and the birds and the sun streaming in and the fragrance of it choking you, annihilating you." That was for Germaine! Claude was not the same, though I admired her tremendously - I even thought for a while that I loved her. Claude had a soul and a conscience; she had refinement, too, which is bad - in a whore. Claude always imparted a feeling of sadness; she left the impression, unwittingly, of course, that you were just one more added to the stream which fate had ordained to destroy her. Unwittingly, I say, because Claude was the last person in the world who would consciously create such an image in one's mind. She was too delicate, too sensitive for that. At bottom, Claude was just a good French girl of average breed and intelligence whom life had tricked somehow; something in her there was which was not tough enough to withstand the shock of daily experience. For her were meant those terrible words of Louis Philippe, "and a night comes when all is over, when so many jaws have closed upon us that we no longer have the strength to stand, and our meat hangs upon our bodies, as though it had been masticated by every mouth." Germaine, on the other hand, was a whore from the cradle; she was thoroughly satisfied with her role, enjoyed it in fact, except when her stomach pinched or her shoes gave out, little surface things of no account, nothing that ate into her soul, nothing that created torment. Ennui! That was the worst she ever felt. Days there were, no doubt, when she had a bellyful, as we say - but no more than that! Most of the time she enjoyed it - or gave the illusion of enjoying it. It made a difference, of course, whom she went with - or came with. But the principal thing was a man. A man! That was what she craved. A man with something between his legs that could tickle her, that could make her writhe in ecstasy, make her grab that bushy twat of hers with both hands and rub it joyfully, boastfully, proudly, with a sense of connection, a sense of life. That was the only place where she experienced any life - down there where she clutched herself with both hands.
 
　　杰曼是一个彻头彻尾的婊子，连她的好心肠也是婊子式的。她的婊子心肠并不真好，而是一颗懒散、麻木不仁、软弱的心。这颗心只能被感动一会儿，它本身毫无见解，是一颗又大又软弱。只能被人打动一会儿的婊子心。无论杰曼为她自个儿闯荡出的世界是多么卑微、多么狭小，她在其中却如鱼得水，而这本身便是一件叫人精神振奋的事情。我俩已经混熟之后，她的伙伴们便揶揄我，说我爱上杰曼了（这是一种她们几乎无法理解的情形）。我就说，”说得对！说得对！我爱上她了，而且还要爱到底！”当然啦，这是谎话，我不能设想去爱杰曼犹如不能设想爱上一只蜘蛛一样。即使我不变心，也不是对杰曼不变心，而是对她两条大腿间那个毛茸茸的东西不变心，不论何时看到另一个女人，我会马上想起杰曼，想起她留在我脑海里的那片火红的、似乎将永生的小丛林。坐在那间小香烟店的露天座位上看着她干她的营生使我很开心，我观察她用对付过我的同样手段对付别人，她做同样的鬼脸、玩同样的把戏。”她在干她的活儿！”—这就是我的想法，我是以赞许的态度看待她的交易的。后来同克劳德厮混在一起后，我看到她夜复一夜地坐在她的习惯位置上，圆圆的丰满的小屁股搁在沙发厚绒布垫上。这时我对她的反感油然而生，我认为一个婊子无权像贵妇一样坐在那儿，扭扭捏捏地等人来找她，与此同时还一直不紧不慢地嚼着巧克力。而杰曼却是个工作很卖力的妓女，她才不等着你上门找她呢，她出来一把抓住你。我还清楚地记得她袜子上的洞和破烂的鞋子，也记得她怎样站在酒吧里，带着盲目的大胆挑战态度将一杯烈酒灌下肚，然后又大踏步走出门去。一个卖力的妓女！也许嗅她口中的那股酒气并非是什么美差，她口中的气味由淡咖啡、白兰地和开胃酒混合而成。她还不时猛灌茴香酒和别的，这些都是她用来暖身、提神和壮胆的，可是它的热力透过了她的身体，一直热到两腿之间那块女人身上该发热的地方。热力随即在此形成固定循环，使一个男人重新建立信心。她叉开腿躺着呻吟时的样子倒不错，即使是为随便哪个男人呻吟，也是感情的恰当流露。干那件事的时候她并不心不在焉地盯着天花板瞧，或是数墙纸上有几只臭虫，她把全部心思都用在那件事上，她专讲男人趴在女人身上时爱听的事儿。而克劳德—唉，克劳德干那件事总有一点扭扭捏捏，同你上床钻进被窝之后也是这样。她的这股扭捏劲儿叫人生气。谁要一个扭扭捏捏的婊子呢？克劳德蹲坐浴盆时居然会要你扭过头去。
Germaine was a whore all the way through, even down to her good heart, her whore's heart which is not really a good heart but a lazy one, an indifferent, flaccid heart that can be touched for a moment, a heart without reference to any fixed point within, a big flaccid whore's heart that can detach itself for a moment from its true center. However vile and circumscribed was that world which she had created for herself, nevertheless she functioned in it superbly. And that in itself is a tonic thing. When, after we had become well acquainted, her companions would twit me, saying that I was in love with Germaine (a situation almost inconceivable to them), I would say: "Sure! Sure, I'm in love with her! And what's more, I'm going to be faithful to her!" A lie, of course, because I could no more think of loving Germaine than I could think of loving a spider; and if I was faithful, it was not to Germaine but to that bushy thing she carried between her legs. Whenever I looked at another woman I thought immediately of Germaine, of that flaming bush which she had left in my mind and which seemed imperishable. It gave me pleasure to sit on the terrasse of the little tabac and observe her as she plied her trade, observe her as she resorted to the same grimaces, the same tricks, with others as she had with me. "She's doing her job!" - that's how I felt about it, and it was with approbation that I regarded her transactions. Later, when I had taken up with Claude, and I saw her night after night sitting in her accustomed place, her round little buttocks chubbily ensconced in the plush settee, I felt a sort of inexpressible rebellion toward her; a whore, it seemed to me, had no right to be sitting there like a lady, waiting timidly for someone to approach and all the while abstemiously sipping her chocolat. Germaine was a hustler. She didn't wait for you to come to her - she went out and grabbed you. I remember so well the holes in her stockings, and the torn ragged shoes; I remember too how she stood at the bar and with blind, courageous defiance threw a strong drink down her stomach and marched out again. A hustler! Perhaps it wasn't so pleasant to smell that boozy breath of hers, that breath compounded of weak coffee, cognac, apéritifs, Pernods and all the other stuff she guzzled between times, what to warm herself and what to summon up strength and courage, but the fire of it penetrated her, it glowed down there between her legs where women ought to glow, and there was established that circuit which makes one feel the earth under his legs again. When she lay there with her legs apart and moaning, even if she did moan that way for any and everybody, it was good, it was a proper show of feeling. She didn't stare up at the ceiling with a vacant look or count the bedbugs on the wallpaper; she kept her mind on her business, she talked about the things a man wants to hear when he's climbing over a woman. Whereas Claude - well, with Claude there was always a certain delicacy, even when she got under the sheets with you. And her delicacy offended. Who wants a delicate whore! Claude would even ask you to turn your face away when she squatted over the bidet.
　　全错了！男人欲火中烧时想看一些东西，想看一切，甚至想看女人怎样撒尿。明白一个女人有脑子是桩很好的事情，不过一个冷冰冰的尸体般的婊子口中的文绘绘的语言是最不适宜在床上说的。杰曼的思路对— 她无知、淫荡，她全心全意地投身于她的工作。她是一个地地道道的婊子，这正是她的优点。
All wrong! A man, when he's burning up with passion, wants to see things; he wants to see everything, even how they make water. And while it's all very nice to know that a woman has a mind, literature coming from the cold corpse of a whore is the last thing to be served in bed. Germaine had the right idea: she was ignorant and lusty, she put her heart and soul into her work. She was a whore all the way through - and that was her virtue!
Part 4
复活节来临了，像只冻兔子，不过床上还是挺暖和。今天又是一个晴天，曙光下香树里舍大街一带上空的云彩像一座挤满黑眼睛美女的露天闺房。树影婆娑，一片青翠，看起来湿润光洁，好像露水未退，从卢浮宫到明星广场真像一段钢琴曲。我有五天不曾碰打字机了，没有看一眼书，脑子里什么也不想—除了想去美国捷运公司，今早九点我就到了那儿，那会儿正开门呢。一点钟又去了一次，仍没有消息。到了四点半，我走出旅馆，拿定主意在它关门之前再去看一次。刚刚拐过这条街我便同瓦尔特?帕克擦肩而过，他没有认出我，我也同他无话可说，因此我并没有叫住他。过后我在杜伊勒利花园歇脚，他的身影又浮现在我眼前。他的腰有一点儿弯，人有些忧郁，脸上挂着安详而又含蓄的笑容。我抬头望望光线柔和的明媚天空，它蒙着一层极淡的色彩，今天并没有一块块乌云出现，倒像一件古老瓷器露出的微笑。这时，我纳闷，纳闷这个翻译了四大卷《艺术史》的人用他衰弱无力的目光审视这个欢乐世界时会作何感想。
Easter came in like a frozen hare - but it was fairly warm in bed. Today it is lovely again and along the Champs-Elysées at twilight it is like an outdoor seraglio choked with dark-eyed houris. The trees are in full foliage and of a verdure so pure, so rich, that it seems as though they were still wet and glistening with dew. From the Palais du Louvre to the Etoile it is like a piece of music for the pianoforte. For five days I have not touched the typewriter nor looked at a book; nor have I had a single idea in my head except to go to the American Express. At nine this morning I was there, just as the doors were being opened, and again at one o'clock. No news. At four thirty I dash out of the hotel, resolved to make a last-minute stab at it. Just as I turn the corner I brush against Walter Pach. Since he doesn't recognize me, and since I have nothing to say to him, I make no attempt to arrest him. Later, when I am stretching my legs in the Tuileries his figure reverts to mind. He was a little stooped, pensive, with a sort of serene yet reserved smile on his face. I wonder, as I look up at this softly enameled sky, so faintly tinted, which does not bulge today with heavy rain clouds but smiles like a piece of old china, I wonder what goes on in the mind of this man who translated the four thick volumes of the History of Art when he takes in this blissful cosmos with his drooping eye.
 
　　沿着香榭里舍大街走着，我脑子里的主意像汗水一样冒出来。我真该有钱雇得起一个秘书，这样我散步时便可向她口授，我最精彩的灵感总是当我不坐在打字机前时出现。
Along the Champs Elysées, ideas pouring from me like sweat. I ought to be rich enough to have a secretary to whom I could dictate as I walk, because my best thoughts always come when I am away from the machine.
 
　　沿着香榭里舍大街走着，我不断想着自己真正极佳的健康状态。老实说，我说的”健康”是指乐观，不可救药的乐观！我的一只脚仍滞留在十九世纪，跟多数美国人一样，我也有点儿迟钝。卡尔却觉得这种乐观情绪令人厌恶，他说，”我只要说起要吃饭，你便马上容光焕发了！”这是实话，只要想到一顿饭—另一顿饭，我就会活跃起来。一顿饭！那意味着吃下去可以踏踏实实继续干几个钟头，或许还能使我勃起一回呢。我并不否认我健康，结结实实、牲口般的健康。在我与未来之间形成障碍的唯一的东西就是一餐饭，另一餐饭。
Walking along the Champs Elysées I keep thinking of my really superb health. When I say "health" I mean optimism, to be truthful. Incurably optimistic! Still have one foot in the nineteenth century. I'm a bit retarded, like most Americans. Carl finds it disgusting, this optimism. "I have only to talk about a meal," he says, "and you're radiant!" It's a fact. The mere thought of a meal - another meal - rejuvenates me. A meal! That means something to go on - a few solid hours of work, an erection possibly. I don't deny it. I have health, good solid, animal health. The only thing that stands between me and a future is a meal, another meal.
 
　　至于卡尔，他那些天不大对劲，沮丧、神经紧张。他说他病了，我相信他的话，不过并不为此不安。
As for Carl, he's not himself these days. He's upset, his nerves are jangled. He says he's ill, and I believe him, but I don't feel badly about it.
 
　　我无法令自己不安。老实说，他这副样子使我哈哈大笑，结果当然得罪了他。每一件事情都使他难受—我的笑声、我的饥饿，我的固执、我的漫不经心，一切的一切。今天他想自杀，因为他无法再忍受欧洲这个令人讨厌的鬼地方，明天他又说要去亚利桑那，”那儿的人们敢于直直地望着你的眼睛。”
I can't. In fact, it makes me laugh. And that offends him, of course. Everything wounds him - my laughter, my hunger, my persistence, my insouciance, everything. One day he wants to blow his brains out because he can't stand this lousy hole of a Europe any more; the next day he talks of going to Arizona "where they look you square in the eye."
 
　　“那就快去！”我说。”干这个、干那个都行，你这个狗东西。只是别哈出闷闷不乐的气遮住我健康的眼睛！”
"Do it!" I say. "Do one thing or the other, you bastard, but don't try to cloud my healthy eye with your melancholy breath!"
　　
　　可事情就是这样！在欧洲人们习惯于无所事事。你整天不抬屁股坐在那里埋怨埋怨这个埋怨埋怨那个。你受到了感染，你腐败了。
But that's just it! In Europe one gets used to doing nothing. You sit on your ass and whine all day. You get contaminated. You rot.
 
　　卡尔在骨子里是个势利小人，一个有贵族派头的讨厌鬼，他完全生活在一个精神分裂症的世界中。”我恨巴黎！”他抱怨道。“这些蠢货整天只是打牌……瞧瞧他们！还有写作！把词儿堆砌过来，可是却说不出一句很简单的话，比如”你这个讨厌的家伙，滚出去”。没有一个人能听懂马洛的法语，连妓女也听不懂。而且，他喝醉酒后说的英语也真够难懂的。他像一个已养成习惯的老结巴那样飞溅着唾沫星子胡说八道，语无伦次。”你付钱！”这是他唯一能说清楚的一句话。
 Fundamentally Carl is a snob, an aristocratic little prick who lives in a dementia praecox kingdom all his own. "I hate Paris!" he whines. "All these stupid people playing cards all day … look at them! And the writing! What's the use of putting words together? "get the hell out of here, you old prick!" - that is beyond him. Nobody understands Marlowe's French, not even the whores. For that matter, it's difficult enough to understand his English when he's under the weather. He blabbers and spits like a confirmed stutterer … no sequence to his phrases. "You pay!" that's one thing he manages to get out clearly.
　 　
　　即使马洛喝昏了头，一种微妙的自我保护本能必要时总会提醒他。如果他脑子里对酒钱如何付还有一丝一毫的疑惑，他准会装一番糊涂，通常的伎俩是假装看不见东西了。现在卡尔已经了解他的全套把戏了，因此马洛突然用双手猛拍太阳穴装醉时，卡尔朝他屁股上踢了一脚道，”得了，你这蠢货！你不用跟我玩这一手。”
Even if he is fried to the hat some fine preservative instinct always warns Marlowe when it is time to act. If there is any doubt in his mind as to how the drinks are going to be paid he will be sure to put on a stunt. The usual one is to pretend that he is going blind. Carl knows all his tricks by now, and so when Marlowe suddenly claps his hands to his temples and begins to act it out Carl gives him a boot in the ass and says: "Come out of it, you sap! You don't have to do that with me!"
 
　　我不清楚这是不是一种巧妙的报复，不过不管怎么说马洛好好地回敬了卡尔一下。他诡秘地凑近我们，用沙哑的嘎嘎声向我们讲述了在一家家酒馆里轮番喝酒时听来的小道消息。卡尔惊愕地抬起头，吓得脸色苍白。马洛又讲了一遍，做了一些改动，卡尔每听一遍便更颓丧一些。”这不可能！”最后他憋出这一句。号洛用嘶哑的声音说，”是的，是这样的，你要丢掉工作了……这是我亲耳听说的。”卡尔绝望地看着我，小声耳语道，”这个狗东西该不会是在骗我吧？”接着他又大声道，”现在我该怎么办？我再也找不到工作了，这份工作我找了一年才弄到。”
Whether it is a cunning piece of revenge or not, I don't know, but at any rate Marlowe is paying Carl back in good coin. Leaning over us confidentially he relates in a hoarse, croaking voice a piece of gossip which he picked up in the course of his peregrinations from bar to bar. Carl looks up in amazement. He's pale under the gills. Marlowe repeats the story with variations. Each time Carl wilts a little more. "But that's impossible!" he finally blurts out. "No it ain't!" croaks Marlowe. "You're gonna lose your job … I got it straight." Carl looks at me in despair. "Is he shitting me, that bastard?" he murmurs in my ear. And then aloud - "What am I going to do now? I'll never find another job. It took me a year to land this one."
 
　　显然，这话正是马洛一直等着听的，他最终还是找到了一个境况不如他的人。”人有旦夕祸福啊！”他哑着嗓子道，瘦脑袋上闪耀着冷冷的电火花。
This, apparently, is all that Marlowe has been waiting to hear. At last he has found someone worse off than himself. "They be hard times!" he croaks, and his bony skull glows with a cold, electric fire.
 
　　从多姆饭店出来后，马洛边打嗝边告诉我们他必须回旧金山去。卡尔一筹莫展的境况像是真的打动了他，他提议在他不在这儿期间由我和卡尔接管那份书评。”我信得过你，卡尔。”他说。说完酒劲儿突然发作了，这一回是真的，他差一点栽进沟里去。我们把他拽到埃德加-基内林荫道上的一个酒吧里坐下，这一回他真的头疼得什么都看不见了，像一头不会说话的畜生挨了狠狠的一锤子，他尖声呻吟，身子晃来晃去。我们往他喉咙里灌了几杯费内特-布纳卡，把他放倒在大椅子上，又用围巾捂上他的眼睛。他躺着呻吟了一会儿，不久我们便听到了他的鼾声。
Leaving the D?me Marlowe explains between hiccups that he's got to return to San Francisco. He seems genuinely touched now by Carl's helplessness. He proposes that Carl and I take over the review during his absence. "I can trust you, Carl," he says. And then suddenly he gets an attack, a real one this time. He almost collapses in the gutter. We haul him to a bistro at the Boulevard Edgar Quinet and sit him down. This time he's really got It - a blinding headache that makes him squeal and grunt and rock himself to and fro like a dumb brute that's been struck by a sledge hammer. We spill a couple of Fernet Brancas down his throat, lay him out on the bench and cover his eyes with his muffler. He lies there groaning. In a little while we hear him snoring.
 
　　卡尔问，”咱们拿他的建议怎么办？接受吗？他说回来后给我一千法郎，我知道他不会给。可是怎么办呢？”他瞧瞧摊手摊脚躺在长椅上的马洛，取下盖在他眼睛上的围巾，随后又盖上。突然他咧着嘴恶作剧地笑了，他打手势叫我凑过去，”听着，乔，咱们应承下来。咱们把这份见鬼的书评接过来，狠狠地坑他一回。”
"What about his proposition?" says Carl. "Should we take it up? He says he'll give me a thousand francs when he comes back. I know he won't, but what about it?" He looks at Marlowe sprawled out on the bench, lifts the muffer from his eyes, and puts it back again. Suddenly a mischievous grin lights up his face. "Listen, Joe," he says, beckoning me to move closer, "we'll take him up on it. We'll take his lousy review over and we'll fuck him good and proper."
 
　　“你这是什么意思？”
"What do you mean by that?"
 
　　“哼，咱们把所有的投稿人都抛开，把咱们自己的货色弄上去—就是这样！”
"Why we'll throw out all the other contributors and we'll fill it with our own shit - that's what!"
 
　　“好啊，什么样的货色呢？”
"Yeah, but what kind of shit?"
 
　　“随便……他是不会有什么办法的。咱们要狠狠地坑他一回，好好出一期，过后这份杂志就完蛋了。你有兴趣吗，乔？”
"Any kind … he won't be able to do anything about it. We'll fuck him good and proper. One good number and after that the magazine'll be finished. Are you game, Joe?"
 
　　我们乐不可支地咧嘴笑着把马洛扶起来，把他拽到卡尔的房间里。一开灯，我们便看到床上有女人在等卡尔，”我把她全忘了。”卡尔说。我们把那女人打发走，把马洛扔到床上。过了约摸才一分钟便有人敲门，是范诺登，他惊慌不安。他的那副假牙丢了—他认为是在黑人舞厅丢的。我们四个凑合着上床睡了。马洛身上散发出一股熏鱼似的气味。
Grinning and chuckling we lift Marlowe to his feet and haul him to Carl's room. When we turn on the lights there's a woman in the bed waiting for Carl. "I forgot all about her," says Carl. We turn the cunt loose and shove Marlowe into bed. In a minute or so there's a knock at the door. It's Van Norden. He's all aflutter. Lost a plate of false teeth - at the Bal Nègre, he thinks. Anyway, we get to bed, the four of us. Marlowe stinks like a smoked fish.
 
　　早上马洛和范诺登出去寻找那副假牙。马洛又哭又闹，他还以为那是他的假牙呢。
In the morning Marlowe and Van Norden leave to search for the false teeth. Marlowe is blubbering. He imagines they are his teeth.
Part 5 Chapter 1
这是我在那个戏剧家那儿吃的最后一顿饭，他们刚刚租了架新钢琴，一架卧式钢琴。我遇到西尔维斯特，他刚从花店里出来，抱着一株橡皮树。他问我肯不肯替他抱着，因为他还要去买雪茄。我早已一家家吃遍了” 蹭饭”，都是事先精心筹划好的。那些丈夫和妻子们一个个都对我反感起来。抱着橡皮树走着，我想起几个月前的那个晚上，当时我头一回想到了这个主意。
It is my last dinner at the dramatist's home. They have just rented a new piano, a concert grand. I meet Sylvester coming out of the florist's with a rubber plant in his arms. He asks me if I would carry it for him while he goes for the cigars. One by one I've fucked myself out of all these free meals which I had planned so carefully. One by one the husbands turn against me, or the wives. As I walk along with the rubber plant in my arms I think of that night a few months back when the idea first occurred to me.
 
我坐在法兰西学院附近的一把长椅上，玩弄我的结婚戒指。这只戒指我一度想要当给多姆饭店的一个伙计。他只出六个法郎，对此我很恼火，可还是顾肚子要紧。同莫娜分别以后戒指一直戴在我的小指上，它已完全成为我身体的一部分，我从未想过要把它卖掉。这是一只镶桔花的白金戒指，以前值一个半美元，或许更多。我们一起生活了三年都没有买结婚戒指，后来有一天我去码头上接莫娜，凑巧路过少女巷的一个珠宝店，橱窗里摆满了结婚戒指。我赶到码头上却不见莫娜，等到最后一名乘客从跳板上下来仍没有莫娜。最后我要求看旅客名单，上面没有她的名字。于是我把戒指戴在自己的小指上，一直戴到现在。有一回我把它忘在一家公共浴室里，不过还是找回来了，只是掉了一个桔花瓣。话说回来，我低头坐在长椅上正玩弄戒指，突然有人拍了拍我的背。结果，长话短说，我弄到了一顿饭吃，还有几法郎。这时我心里才豁然一亮—只要一个人有勇气去要，谁也不会拒绝请他吃一顿饭。于是我马上来到一家咖啡馆写了十来封信，”您能否允许我每周陪您共进一次晚餐？请您顺告星期几最合适。”
I was sitting on a bench near the Coupole, fingering the wedding ring which I had tried to pawn off on a gar?on at the D?me. He had offered me six francs for it and I was in a rage about it. But the belly was getting the upper hand. Ever since I left Mona I had worn the ring on my pinkie. It was so much a part of me that it had never occurred to me to sell it. It was one of those orange-blossom affairs in white gold. Worth a dollar and a half once, maybe more. For three years we went along without a wedding ring and then one day when I was going to the pier to meet Mona I happened to pass a jewelry window on Maiden Lane and the whole window was stuffed with wedding rings. When I got to the pier Mona was not to be seen. I waited for the last passenger to descend the gangplank, but no Mona. Finally I asked to be shown the passenger list. Her name was not on it. I slipped the wedding ring on my pinkie and there it stayed. Once I left it in a public bath, but then I got it back again. One of the orange blossoms had fallen off. Anyway, I was sitting there on the bench with my head down, twiddling the ring, when suddenly someone clapped me on the back. To make it brief, I got a meal and a few francs besides. And then it occurred to me, like a flash, that no one would refuse a man a meal if only he had the courage to demand it. I went immediately to a café and wrote a dozen letters. "Would you let me have dinner with you once a week? Tell me what day is most convenient for you."
 
这个办法灵极了，他们不仅给我吃饱，而且吃的是宴席，我每夜都喝得醉醺醺地回去。这些一周款待我一回的好心肠的人们对我简直是关怀备至，而我怎么打发两顿饭之间的日子他们并不关心。有时几个考虑周到的人也会给我几支香烟或一点零花钱。明白了一周只会见到我一次之后，他们显然都松了一口气，听到我说—“这也不再需要了”，他们简直如释重负了。他们从不问为什么我不去了，只是祝贺了我一番拉倒。通常的原因是我找到了一位更好客的主人，可以冒险辞去几个不好对付的主人的招待了，他们自己当然从未想到其中的奥妙。后来我便有一个稳定的、靠得住的日程安排，这是一个订死的日程。我预先便知道每逢星期二吃这样饭，每逢星期五吃那样饭，我知道克朗斯塔特会请我喝香摈、吃自家做的苹果馅饼，卡尔则会邀我出去吃，每一次换一家饭馆，叫名贵葡萄酒，吃完饭还请我去看戏或是去梅德尔多马戏团。我的主人们爱互相探听别人的消息，他们问我最喜欢哪个饭馆、哪个厨子做的菜好，等等。我觉得我最喜欢克朗斯塔恃的后腿肉，也许这是因为他每次都把饭菜涂到墙上的缘故。明白我欠他这么一大笔人情使我的良心不安，因为我并不打算报答他，他也并不指望我会报答他。不，使我大惑不解的是那些余数，他算帐一直要算清最后一个生叮若要把帐全部付清，我必须得找开一个苏才行。克朗斯塔特的老婆是个高明的厨子，根本不理会他加起来的尾数，她把它从复写的帐上替我抹去了。这是事实。可是如果我去时不带上新的复写纸，她便很沮丧。为此我第二天只得带着那个小姑娘上卢森堡，跟她一起玩上两三个小时。这是一项叫我发疯的任务，因为她只会讲匈牙利语和法语。我的主人们总的来说都是一群怪人……
It worked like a charm. I was not only fed … I was feasted. Every night I went home drunk. They couldn't do enough for me, these generous once-a-week souls. What happened to me between times was none of their affair. Now and then the thoughtful ones presented me with cigarettes, or a little pin money. They were all obviously relieved when they realized that they would see me only once a week. And they were still more relieved when I said - "it won't be necessary any more." They never asked why. They congratulated me, and that was all. Often the reason was I had found a better host; I could afford to scratch off the ones who were a pain in the ass. But that thought never occurred to them. Finally I had a steady, solid program - a fixed schedule. On Tuesdays I knew it would be this kind of a meal and on Fridays that kind. Cronstadt, I knew, would have champagne for me and homemade apple pie. And Carl would invite me out, take me to a different restaurant each time, order rare wines, invite me to the theater afterward or take me to the Cirque Médrano. They were curious about one another, my hosts. Would ask me which place I liked best, who was the best cook, etc. I think I liked Cronstadt's joint best of all, perhaps because he chalked the meal up on the wall each time. Not that it eased my conscience to see what I owed him, because I had no intention of paying him back nor had he any illusions about being requited. No, it was the odd numbers which intrigued me. He used to figure it out to the last centime. If I was to pay in full I would have had to break a sou. His wife was a marvelous cook and she didn't give a fuck about those centimes Cronstadt added up. She took it out of me in carbon copies. A fact! If I hadn't any fresh carbons for her when I showed up, she was crestfallen. And for that I would have to take the little girl to the Luxembourg next day, play with her for two or three hours, a task which drove me wild because she spoke nothing but Hungarian and French. They were a queer lot on the whole, my hosts…
 
　　在塔尼亚家里，我从阳台上望着下面那桌酒席。莫尔多夫也在，坐在他的偶像身边。他把脚伸到炉边烤，水汪汪的眼睛里流露出一副古怪的感恩戴德表情。塔尼亚在放一支慢节奏的曲子，曲子说得很明白—别再提爱的话了！我又来到喷泉处，看乌龟们撒出绿色的奶状尿来。西尔维斯特刚从百老汇回来，心里充满了万般柔情。我整夜躺在林荫路边，与此同时整个地球被洒上热呼呼的乌龟尿，而性欲勃发、阴茎竖起的公马蹄不沾地疯了似的狂奔。我整夜都嗅到那间小黑房子里的紫丁香味，她正在那儿取下插在头上的花儿，那还是她去迎接西尔维斯特时我给她买的。她说西尔维斯特回来时心里充满了柔情蜜意，这时丁香花还在她头上插着、在她嘴里插着、塞在她腋下。那问屋里充满了爱、乌龟尿、温暖的紫丁香和狂奔的马，到早上窗子上尽是脏牙痕和污垢，通向林荫路的小门也锁上了。人们去工作，百叶窗像盔甲一样格格响。在喷泉对面的书店里有乍得湖的故事和沉默而艳丽的绿黄色的蜥蜴。
At Tania's I look down on the spread from the balcony. Moldorf is there, sitting beside his idol. He is warming his feet at the hearth, a monstrous look of gratitude in his watery eyes. Tania is running over the adagio. The adagio says very distinctly: no more words of love! I am at the fountain again, watching the turtles pissing green milk. Sylvester has just come back from Broadway with a heart full of love. All night I was lying on a bench outside the mall while the globe was sprayed with warm turtle piss and the horses stiffened with priapic fury galloped like mad without ever touching the ground. All night long I smell the lilacs in the little dark room where she is taking down her hair, the lilacs that I bought for for her as she went to meet Sylvester. He came back with a heart full of love, she said, and the lilacs are in her hair, her mouth, they are choking her armpits. The room is swimming with love and turtle piss and warm lilacs and the horses are galloping like mad. In the morning dirty teeth and scum on the windowpanes; the little gate that leads to the mall is locked. People are going to work and the shutters are rattling like coats of mail. In the bookstore opposite the fountain is the story of Lake Chad, the silent lizards, the gorgeous gamboge tints.
 
　　我写给她的所有的信都是酒醉后写的，结尾十分突兀，都是用木炭涂的疯话。我在一条条长椅上一点点慢慢写就，周围到处是爆竹、小垫子、百果冰淇淋。他们现在准一起在看这些信呢，西尔维斯特某一天会恭维我几句。他会弹弹烟灰说，”老实讲，你写得很好。看来你是一位超现实主义者，对吗？”他的声音干巴巴的、尖而细，牙齿上沾满了头皮屑一样的东西。他把”solar plexus”读成”Solo”、把”gaga”读作”g”我站在阳台上，身边摆着橡皮树，楼上回荡着那支慢板。琴键是黑的、白的，然后又一个黑的、又一个白的，然后又是一个白的、一个黑的。你想知道能否为我弹一曲什么。好的，就用你粗大的拇指弹点儿什么。就弹那首慢板吧，那是你唯一会弹的鬼曲子。弹吧，弹完就剁掉你的粗拇指好了。
All the letters I wrote her, drunken ones with a blunt stub, crazy ones with bits of charcoal, little pieces from bench to bench, firecrackers, doilies, tutti frutti; they will be going over them now, together, and he will compliment me one day. He will say, as he flicks his cigar ash: "Really, you write quite well. Let's see, you're a surrealist, aren't you?" Dry, brittle voice, teeth full of dandruff, solo for solar plexus, g for gaga.Upon the balcony with the rubber plant and the adagio going on down below. The keys are black and white, then black, then white, then white and black. And you want to know if you can play something for me. Yes, play something with those big thumbs of yours. Play the adagio since that's the only goddamned thing you know. Play it, and then cut off your big thumbs.
 
　　慢板！我不明白她为什么要没完没了地弹它，她觉得原先的钢琴还不够好，于是又租了一架卧式钢琴，却只是为了弹慢板！看着她粗笨的手指按在琴键上和身边那株傻里傻气的橡皮树，我觉得自己变成了北欧神话中的狂人，他曾脱下衣服赤身坐在冬天的树权上，往冰冷的海水里掷核桃。这个乐章中有一种叫人恼怒的东西，一种莫名的悲哀，仿佛它已被书写于熔岩中，仿佛它呈铅和牛奶的混合色。西尔维斯特的脑袋偏向一侧，像个拍卖商。他说，”弹弹另一个乐章，那段你今天练习过的。”
That adagio! I don't know why she insists on playing it all the time. The old piano wasn't good enough for her; she had to rent a concert grand - for the adagio! When I see her big thumbs pressing the keyboard and that silly rubber plant beside me I feel like that madman of the North who threw his clothes away and, sitting naked in the wintry boughs, threw nuts down into the herring frozen sea. There is something exasperating about this movement, something abortively melancholy about it, as if it had been written in lava, as if it had the color of lead and milk mixed. And Sylvester, with his head cocked to one side like an auctioneer, Sylvester says: "Play that other one you were practising today."
 
　　有一件抽烟服、一很好雪前和一个会弹钢琴的老婆真是太好了，使人那么轻松，那么自在。你在两个节目之间出去抽支烟，呼吸一下新鲜空气。是的，她的手指非常柔软，不是一般的柔软。
It's beautiful to have a smoking jacket, a good cigar and a wife who plays the piano. So relaxing. So lenitive. Between the acts you go out for a smoke and a breath of fresh air. Yes, her fingers are very supple, extraordinary supple.
 
　　她也做蜡染活儿。想吸一根保加利亚香烟试试吗？喂，鸡胸，我喜欢的另一乐章叫什么？叫谐谑曲！太棒了，谐虐谑！这是沃尔德马?冯?施温辛祖格伯爵在说话，他生着一双冷静的头皮屑色的眼睛，口臭，穿着俗气的袜子。请帮忙往豌豆汤里加点儿面包块。我们星期五晚上常喝豌豆汤。来点儿红酒好吗？红酒是吃肉时喝的。他的声音干巴巴的，倒也利索。来支雪茄？是的，我喜欢我的工作，不过不大重视它。我的下一个剧本将要探讨宇宙的多元观念，用旋转灯具和镁光。奥尼尔已经死了。
She does batik work too. Would you like to try a Bulgarian cigarette? I say, pigeon breast, what's that other movement I like so well? The scherzo! Ah, yes, the scherzo! Excellent. the scherzo! Count Waldemar von Schwisseneinzug speaking. Cool, dandruff eyes. Halitosis. Gaudy socks. And croutons in the pea soup, if you please. We always have pea soup Friday nights. Won't you try a little red wine? The red wine goes with the meat, you know. A dry, crisp voice. Have a cigar, won't you? Yes, I like my work, but I don't attach any importance to it. My next play will involve a pluralistic conception of the universe. Revolving drums with calcium lights. O'Neill is dead.
Part 5 Chapter 2
亲爱的，我看你应当更频繁地把脚从钢琴踏板上抬起来。对了，这一段很好听……非常好听。你说呢？是的，剧中人物把麦克风藏在裤子里来回走动。剧情发生在亚洲，因为这种气氛更有益。来一点安如葡萄酒怎么样？这是我们特意为你买的呢……
I think, dear, you should lift your foot from the pedal more frequently. Yes, that part is very nice … very nice, don't you think? Yes, the characters go around with microphones in their trousers. The locale is in Asia, because the atmospheric conditions are more conducive. Would you like to try a little Anjou? We bought it especially for you…
 
吃饭过程中他一直这样蝶蝶不休地胡扯，他这番话使人切实感到他已掏出自己割过包皮的鸡巴在朝我们身上撒尿。塔尼亚听得厌烦死了，自从满怀柔情蜜意回来后他一直不停地自言自语。塔尼亚告诉我，他边脱裤子边唠叨，一泡热呼呼的尿便源源不断地撒出来，像有人刺穿了他的膀胱。一想到塔尼亚同这个破了膀胱的家伙一起爬上床我就来气。想想看，一个又穷又憔悴的狗杂种，被子里塞着几部下作的百老汇剧本，居然朝我心爱的女人身上撒尿，居然叫红酒、要旋转灯具、要在豌豆汤里放油炸面包块。他脸皮真厚！再想想看，他居然躺在我替他弄好的炉火边，什么都不干，只是撒尿！老天，你这家伙，你该跪在地下好好谢我才是。难道你没有看见你屋里有了一个女人？难道你看不出她已厌烦了？你竟然还沙哑着嗓子告诉我—“好了，我告诉你……有两种方法看待……”去你妈的两种看待事物的方法！去你妈的多元世界和你的亚洲人的音响效果！别把你的红酒或安如葡萄酒递给我……把她让给我……她是属于我的。你去坐在喷泉边上好了，让我来嗅紫丁香！弄出你眼睛里的头皮屑……把那个见鬼的慢板裹在一条法兰绒裤子里！还有别的小乐章……你那衰弱的膀胱造出来的所有小乐章。你那么自信、那么有心计地朝我微笑。我把你奉承得忘乎所以了，知道吗？就在我听你说蠢话的问时她正在抚摸我—只是你没有看见罢了。你以为我乐意受磨难，你说那是我该扮演的角色。好吧。问问她，她会告诉你我是怎样受磨难的。”你是个癌病人、狂人。”那天她在电话上这么说。她现在得到这个癌病人和狂人了，不用多久你也会在身上找到疥癣的。她的血管快炸了，我告诉你，你的话一点意思也没有。无论你唠唠叨叨地说多少也堵不住漏洞。雷恩先生是怎么说的？”言语即意味着孤独。”昨晚我在桌布上给你留了几个字，可你却用胳膊盖住了。
All through the meal this patter continues. It feels exactly as if he had taken out that circumcised dick of his and was peeing on us. Tania is bursting with the strain. Ever since he came back with a heart full of love this monologue has been going on. He talks while he's undressing, she tells me - a steady stream of warm piss, as though his bladder had been punctured. When I think of Tania crawling into bed with this busted bladder I get enraged. To think that a poor, withered bastard with those cheap Broadway plays up his sleeve should be pissing on the woman I love. Calling for red wine and revolving drums and croutons in his pea soup. The cheek of him! To think that he can lie beside that furnace I stoked for him and do nothing but make water! My God, man, you ought to get down on your knees and thank me. Don't you see that you have a woman in your house now? Can't you see she's bursting? You telling me with those strangulated adenoids of yours - "well now, I'll tell you … there's two ways of looking at that…" Fuck your two ways of looking at things! Fuck your pluralistic universe and your Asiatic acoustics! Don't hand me your red wine or your Anjou … hand her over … she belongs to me! You go sit by the fountain, and let me smell the lilacs! Pick the dandruff out of your eyes … and take that damned adagio and wrap it in a pair of flannel pants! And the other little movement too … all the little movements that you make with your weak bladder. You smile at me so confidently, so calculatingly. I'm flattering the ass off you, can't you tell? While I listen to your crap she's got her hand on me - but you don't see that. You think I like to suffer - that's my role, you say. O.K. Ask her about it! She'll tell you how I suffer. "You're cancer and delirium," she said over the phone the other day. She's got it now, the cancer and delirium, and soon you'll have to pick the scabs. Her veins are bursting, I tell you, and your talk is all sawdust. No matter how much you piss away you'll never plug up the holes. What did Mr. Wren say? Words are loneliness. I left a couple of words for you on the tablecloth last night - you covered them with your elbows.
 
　　他把她用栅栏围起来，好像她是一位圣人身上一块又脏又臭的骨头。若是他有胆量说一声”占有她”，也许会发生一个奇迹。只要说声”占有她”，我发誓一切都会圆满解决的，何况我或许不想要她呢。不知他曾想到这一层了没有？或许我会暂时占有她一会儿，过后再把她还给他，她会变得更好。可是把她用栅栏围起来总不是办法，你无法把一个人围住，没有人再这样干了……你这可怜的、干瘪的杂种，你以为我配不上她，以为我会玷污她、亵读她，可你不懂一个被人玷污过的女人是多么妙不可言，不懂接受别人的精液之后一个女人会更光彩照人！
He's put a fence around her as if she were a dirty, stinking bone of a saint. If he only had the courage to say "Take her!" perhaps a miracle would occur. Just that. Take her! and I swear everything would come out all right. Besides, maybe I wouldn't take her - did that ever occur to him, I wonder? Or I might take her for a while and hand her back, improved. But putting up a fence around her, that won't work. You can't put a fence around a human being. It ain't done any more… You think, you poor, withered bastard, that I'm no good for her, that I might pollute her, desecrate her. You don't know how palatable is a polluted woman, how a change of semen can make a woman bloom!
 
　　你以为有一颗充满柔情蜜意的心就足够了。也许对某一个女人是这样的，可你连心都没有了……你什么都不是，只是一个大空尿脖。你在磨利牙齿，扯着嗓门大叫大嚷，你像条看家狗一样跟在她屁股后面跑，到处撒尿，她不把你当作一条看家狗……却把你看成一位诗人。她说，你曾一度是位诗人。现在你又是什么？勇气，西尔维斯特，勇气！把那个麦克风从裤裆里拿出来，放下后腿，别再四处撒尿。我说，拿出勇气来，她已经从你身边逃开了。告诉你，她早已被砧污了，所以你还是把栅栏拆了为好。彬彬有礼地问我咖啡的味儿是否比石灰酸好点儿也没有用，我不会给吓跑的。把老鼠药放进咖啡里好了，再来点玻璃粉。尿一泡热气腾腾的尿，再扔几颗豆蔻进去……You think a heart full of love is enough, and perhaps it is, for the right woman, but you haven't got a heart any more … you are nothing but a big, empty bladder. You are sharpening your teeth and cultivating your growl. You run at her heels like a watchdog and you piddle everywhere. She didn't take you for a watchdog … she took you for a poet. You were a poet once, she said. And now what are you? Courage, Sylvester, courage! Take the microphone out of your pants. Put your hind leg down and stop making water everywhere. Courage I say, because she's ditched you already. She's contaminated, I tell you, and you might as well take down the fence. No use asking me politely if the coffee doesn't taste like carbolic acid: that won't scare me away. Put rat poison in the coffee, and a little ground glass. Make some boiling hot urine and drop a few nutmegs in it…
 
几个星期以来我一直过着一种群体生活，我不得不同其他人一道过日子，主要是几个疯疯癫癫的俄国人、一个醉醺醺的荷兰人和一个叫奥尔加的大块头保加利亚女人。俄国人则主要是指尤金和阿纳托里。
It is a communal life I have been living for the last few weeks. I have had to share myself with others, principally with some crazy Russians, a drunken Dutchman, and a big Bulgarian woman named Olga. Of the Russians there are chiefly Eugene and Anatole.
 
　　奥尔加几天前才刚刚出院，她在医院里割掉了身上的几根管子，掉了一点儿赘肉，不过看上去并不像是受了多大的罪，体重仍同一部有驼峰似曲线的火车头差不多。她大汗淋漓，口中奇臭，仍旧戴着刨花状的切尔克斯假发。她的下巴上生着两个大疣子，疣子上长出一撮毛来，于是她便干脆留起了小胡子。
It was just a few days ago that Olga got out of the hospital where she had her tubes burned out and lost a little excess weight. However she doesn't look as if she had gone through much suffering. She weighs almost as much as a camel-backed locomotive; she drips with perspiration, has halitosis, and still wears her Circassian wig that looks like excelsior. She has two big warts on her chin from which there sprouts a clump of little hairs; she is growing a mustache.
 
　　奥尔加从医院回家后的第二天便又重操做鞋旧业，早晨六点便在长凳上干开了，每天做好两双鞋。尤金总抱怨说奥尔加是个负担，实际上却是奥尔加用她每天做的两双鞋养活尤金和他老婆，奥尔加若是不干活便没有吃的。于是人人都争先恐后及时把奥尔加拖上床，都争着给她足够的食物来维持下去……
The day after Olga was released from the hospital she commenced making shoes again. At six in the morning she is at her bench; she knocks out two pairs of shoes a day. Eugene complains that Olga is a burden, but the truth is that Olga is supporting Eugene and his wife with her two pairs of shoes a day. If Olga doesn't work there is no food. So everyone endeavors to pull Olga to bed on time, to give her enough food to keep her going, etc.
 
每顿饭都是以喝汤开始的，不论是葱头汤、西红柿汤、菜汤还是别的，这类汤都是一个味道。那味道总像是洗碟子的抹布扔在里面煮过一样—有点儿酸味、霉味，上面漂着渣子。每顿饭后我便看到尤金把它藏在柜子里，它就在那儿继续霉变下去，直到下顿饭再端出来。奶油也藏在柜子里，放了三天以后那味道就像一具尸首上的大脚趾。
Every meal starts off with soup. Whether it be onion soup, tomato soup, vegetable soup, or what not, the soup always tastes the same. Mostly it tastes as if a dish rag had been stewed in it - slightly sour, mildewed, scummy. I see Eugene hiding it away in the commode after the meal. It stays there, rotting away, until the next meal. The butter, too, is hidden away in the commode; after three days it tastes like the big toe of a cadaver.
 
　　煎放坏了的奶油时散发出的气味并不是很开胃的，更何况做饭的房间里根本没有任何通风设备。我一打开门就觉得恶心，可是尤金一听到我来了便总要打开百叶窗，扯开像鱼网一样结在一起遮阳光的床单。可怜的尤金！他四下里望望屋里几件粗笨的家具、肮脏的床单和还盛着脏水的洗脸盆，然后说，”我是一个奴隶！”他每天都这么说，还不只说一遍，要说十来遍，说完便从墙上摘下吉他唱起歌来。
The smell of rancid butter frying is not particularly appetizing, especially when the cooking is done in a room in which there is not the slightest form of ventilation. No sooner than I open the door I feel ill. But Eugene, as soon as he hears me coming, usually opens the shutters and pulls back the bedsheet which is strung up like a fishnet to keep out the sunlight. Poor Eugene! He looks about the room at the few sticks of furniture, at the dirty bedsheets and the wash basin with the dirty water still in it, and he says: "I am a slave!" Every day he says it, not once, but a dozen times. And then he takes his guitar from the wall and sings.
 
　　坏掉的奶油……这也使我产生了许多联想。一想起这变质的奶油我就感觉到自己正站在一个小小的老式院子里，这是一个气味很难闻、很凄凉的院子。稀奇古怪的人物透过百叶窗上的裂缝偷偷地窥视我……其中有围着披中的老妇人、小矮人、生着一张老鼠脸拉皮条的弯腰询背的犹太人、轻桃的小妞和留胡子的傻瓜。他们瞒珊走进院子来汲水、洗刷污水桶。一天尤金问我肯不肯替他倒污水，我就提着桶到那个角落里去了。地上有一个孔，孔周围乱扔着一些脏纸。那一小口井也被排泄物弄得很脏，在英语里排泄物即是屎尿。我将桶一斜，一摊摊又脏又臭、叫人意料不到的东西便噗噗溅出来。待我回去，汤已盛好了，吃饭时我始终想着我的牙刷—牙刷旧了，毛常嵌入牙缝中。
But about the smell of rancid butter… There are good associations too. When I think of this rancid butter I see myself standing in a little, old world courtyard, a very smelly. very dreary courtyard. Through the cracks in the shutters strange figures peer out at me … old women with shawls, dwarfs, rat faced pimps, bent Jews, midinettes, bearded idiots. They totter out into the courtyard to draw water or to rinse the slop pails. One day Eugene asked me if I would empty the pail for him. I took it to the corner of the yard. There was a hole in the ground and some dirty paper lying around the hole. The little well was slimy with excrement, which in English is shit. I tipped the pail and there was a foul, gurgling splash followed by another and unexpected splash. When I returned the soup was dished out. All through the meal I thought of my toothbrush - it is getting old and the bristles get caught in my teeth.
 
　　坐下吃饭时我总是拣靠窗的座位，我怕坐在桌子另一端，那儿离床太近。那张床叫人心里发怵，一扭过头去我便可以看到灰色床单上的血污，可我尽量不看那边而去看窗外院子里的人刷洗污水桶。
When I sit down to eat I always sit near the window. I am afraid to sit on the other side of the table - it is too close to the bed and the bed is crawling. I can see bloodstains on the gray sheets if I look that way, but I try not to look that way. I look out on the courtyard where they are rinsing the slop pails.
 
　　每逢吃饭总要有音乐助兴。大家都取过奶酪后尤金便跳起来摘下挂在床上方的吉他。曲子总是那一支，他说他能弹十五六支曲子，可是我听到的从来没有超过三支。他最喜欢弹的是”迷人的爱情诗”，这支曲子充满苦恼和悲哀的情调。
The meal is never complete without music. As soon as the cheese is passed around Eugene jumps up and reaches for the guitar which hangs over the bed. It is always the same song. He says he has fifteen or sixteen songs in his repertoire, but I have never heard more than three. His favorite is Charmant poème d'amour. It is full of angoisse and tristesse.
 
　　下午我们到电影院去，那儿凉快、黑暗。尤金坐在乐池里的钢琴前，我坐在前排的一只长椅上。影院里空无一人，尤金仍唱得十分卖力，似乎欧洲所有的帝王都在听他演唱。花园门打开了，湿树叶的气味飘进来，潇潇雨声同尤金悲凉凄苦的歌声交织在一起。午夜过后，来看热闹的人身上发出的汗臭和难闻的口臭弥漫了大厅，我便回去找一只长椅睡觉了。影院出口处的灯光在烟气中摇曳，在石棉幕布下方一角上投下一缕微光。
In the afternoon we go to the cinema which is cool and dark. Eugene sits at the piano in the big pit and I sit on a bench up front. The house is empty, but Eugene sings as if he had for audience all the crowned heads of Europe. The garden door is open and the odor of wet leaves sops in and the rain blends with Eugene's angoisse and tristesse. At midnight, after the spectators have saturated the hall with perspiration and foul breaths, I return to sleep on a bench. The exit light, swimming in a halo of tobacco smoke, sheds a faint light on the lower corner of the asbestos curtain; I close my eyes every night on an artificial eye…
 
　　我每夜在这只人工眼的逼视下闭上自己的眼睛……戴着一只假眼站在院子里，仅有半个世界是清晰可见的。石头是湿的，上面生着青苔，石头缝里有黑色的蛤螟。通往地下室的入口处由一扇大门挡着，阶梯很滑，上面尽是蝙蝠屎，很脏。门膨胀了，眼看就要倒下来，门的合页也快脱落了，然而门上却赫然用彩笔写着几个堂皇的字：”切记随手关门。”为什么要关门？我搞不明白。我又瞧瞧这几个字，它们不见了，在原来的地方嵌着一块彩色玻璃。我取下假眼，朝上面啐口唾沫，用手帕擦拭了一番。一个女人正坐在一个高台子上，这个台子比一张巨大的雕木写字台还高。女人脖子上还盘绕着一条蛇。整个房间里摆满了书，稀奇古怪的鱼在彩球状鱼缸里邀游，墙上挂着几幅地图和图表—大瘟疫前的巴黎地图、古代世界地图、克诺索斯和迎太基地图、迪太基被攻占前后的地图。我在房间一角看到一只铁架床、床上放着一具尸体。那女人无精打彩地站起来从床上搬下尸体，心不在焉地把它从窗口扔出去。她回到大雕木写字台旁，从鱼缸里抓出一条金鱼吞下肚去。接着房间慢慢旋转起来，几块大陆—滑进大海里，只有那女人尚在，不过她的躯体也成为一大块土地。我把头探出窗外，埃菲尔铁塔正在注外喷香槟酒，它完全由数字建成，遮盖在黑色花边之下。阴沟汩汩地急速流淌。到处都是屋顶，铺得很整齐、很叫人讨厌的屋顶，除此之外一无所有。
Standing in the courtyard with a glass eye; only half the world is intelligible. The stones are wet and mossy and in the crevices are black toads. A big door bars the entrance to the cellar; the steps are slippery and soiled with bat dung. The door bulges and sags, the hinges are falling off, but there is an enameled sign on it, in perfect condition, which says: "Be sure to close the door." Why close the door? I can't make it out. I look again at the sign but it is removed; in its place there is a pane of colored glass. I take out my artificial eye, spit on it and polish it with my handkerchief. A woman is sitting on a dais above an immense careen desk; she has a snake around her neck. The entire room is lined with books and strange fish swimming in colored globes; there are maps and charts on the wall, maps of Paris before the plague, maps of the antique world, of Knossos and Carthage, of Carthage before and after the salting. In the corner of the room I see an iron bedstead and on it a corpse is lying; the woman gets up wearily, removes the corpse from the bed and absent mindedly throws it out the window. She returns to the huge carven desk, takes a goldfish from the bowl and swallows it. Slowly the room begins to revolve and one by one the continents slide into the sea; only the woman is left, but her body is a mass of geography. I lean out the window and the Eiffel Tower is fizzing champagne; it is built entirely of numbers and shrouded in black lace. The sewers are gurgling furiously. There are nothing but roofs everywhere, laid out with execrable geometric cunning.
Part 5 Chapter 3
我被人从这个世界上驱赶出来，像枪膛里的子弹一样呼啸而出。浓雾业已散去，地球上布满了冰冻的油污。我可以感觉到这个城市在跳动，如同从一具还有热气的尸体上取下的心脏一样颤动。我住的旅馆的窗子在溃烂，散发出化学药品燃烧时的浓郁辛辣的臭气。瞧瞧塞纳河，我看到了河里的烂泥和颓败景象，街灯射出半死不活的亮光，男男女女差一点便窒息而死，河上的桥躲在房屋的阴影里—那都是爱情的屠宰常一个男人肚子上挂着一只手风琴靠墙站着，他的双手在手腕处被砍断了，然而手风琴像一袋子蛇似的在两截断肢间扭来扭去。宇宙已经缩小，它只有一个街区长，没有星星，没有树木，没有河流。生活在这儿的人全是死人，他们替别人造梦中坐的椅子。这条街的中心有一个轮子，轮子中央装着一部绞架，早已死去的入狂热地试图登上绞架，可是轮子在飞速旋转……
I have been ejected from the world like a cartridge. A deep fog has settled down, the earth is smeared with frozen grease. I can feel the city palpitating, as if it were a heart just removed from a warm body. The windows of my hotel are festering and there is a thick, acrid stench as of chemicals burning. Looking into the Seine I see mud and desolation, street lamps drowning, men and women choking to death, the bridges covered with houses, slaughterhouses of love. A man is standing against a wall with an accordion strapped to his belly; his hands are cut off at the wrists, but the accordion writhes between his stumps like a sack of snakes. The universe has dwindled; it is only a block long and there are no stars, no trees, no rivers. The people who live here are dead; they make chairs which other people sit on in their dreams. In the middle of the street is a wheel and in the hub of the wheel a gallows is fixed. People already dead are trying frantically to mount the gallows, but the wheel is turning too fast…
 
需要有某种东西帮助我恢复常态，昨天晚上我发现了它：帕皮尼。我不在乎他是沙文主义者，是小小的虔诚教徒，还是近视眼的书呆子。作为一个失败者他是绝妙的……
Something was needed to put me right with myself. Last night I discovered it: Papini. It doesn't matter to me whether he's a chauvinist, a little Christer, or a nearsighted pedant. As a failure he's marvelous…
 
听听他读过的书吧—只有十八岁！不仅读过荷马、但盯歌德、柏拉图、埃庇克泰德，不仅读过拉伯雷、塞万提斯、斯威夫特民不仅读过瓦尔特?惠特曼、埃德加?艾伦?坡、波德莱尔、维荣、卡尔杜齐、曼佐尼、洛卡?德?维加，也不仅读过尼采、叔本华、康德、黑格尔、达尔文、斯宾塞、赫胥黎—他不仅读过这些人的著述，还读过夹在这些大人物之间的所有小人物的作品。这是他在第十八页写到的。然而，到第二百三十二页他便松口了，吐露了真情。他承认，”我什么都不懂，只知道那些书名。我编过参考书目，我写过评论文章，我也曾低毁、中伤过……我可以演说五分钟或五天，然后我就无话可讲了，干瘪了。”
The books he read - at eighteen! Not only Homer, Dante, Goethe, not only Aristotle, Plato, Epictetus, not only Rabelais, Cervantes, Swift, not only Walt Whitman, Edgar Allan Poe, Baudelaire, Villon, Carducci, Manzoni, Lope de Vega, not only Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, Kant, Hegel, Darwin, Spencer, Huxley - not only these but all the small fry in between. This on page 18. Alors, on page 232 he breaks down and confesses. I know nothing, he admits. I know the titles, I have compiled bibliographies, I have written critical essays, I have maligned and defamed… I can talk for five minutes or for five days, but then I give out, I am squeezed dry.
 
　　接着他又写道，“每个人都想看看我，每个人都想同我谈话。 人们不断打扰我，也互相打扰，打听我正在做什么。我怎么样？ 全好了吗？还在乡间散步吗？在工作？书写完了？不久就开始写另一本？ ”
Follows this: "Everybody wants to see me. Everybody insists on talking to me. People pester me and they pester others with inquiries about what I am doing. How am I? Am I quite well again? Do I still go for my walks in the country? Am I working? Have I finished my book? Will I begin another soon?
 
“一个瘦猴似的德国人想叫我翻译他的书，一个凶狠的俄国姑娘要我写一本自传，一位美国太太想知道有关我的最新情况，还有一位美国绅士要派他的马车来接我去吃饭，你知道，也就是无拘无束地谈谈心。又有一位我十年前的老同学、老室友要我把我写的都念给他听，写得有多快就念多快。有一位相识的画家朋友希望我摆好姿势让他画，按小时付钱。又有一位记者想要我现在的住址。又有一个相识，是一位神秘主义者，想了解我灵魂的状况。另一位更实际些，他想了解我的存款状况。我的俱乐部主席问我肯不肯为孩子们做一次讲演。一位笃信宗教的女士希望我一有空就到她家去喝茶，她想听听我对耶稣基督的看法，还有—我认为那种新式绘画法怎样？……”
"A skinny monkey of a German wants me to translate his works. A wild eyed Russian girl wants me to write an account of my life for her. An American lady wants the very latest news about me. An American gentleman will send his carriage to take me to dinner - just an intimate, confidential talk, you know. An old schoolmate and chum of mine, of ten years ago, wants me to read him all that I write as fast as I write it. A painter friend I know expects me to pose for him by the hour. A newspaperman wants my present address. An acquaintance, a mystic, inquires about the state of my soul; another, more practical, about the state of my pocketbook. The president of my club wonders if I will make a speech for the boys! A lady, spiritually inclined, hopes I will come to her house for tea as often as possible. She wants to have my opinion of Jesus Christ, and - what do I think of that new medium? …
 
“老天爷？我变成什么了？你们这些人有什么权利把我的生活搅得一团糟？偷走我的时间，窥探我的心灵，汲取我的思想，叫我给你们做伴、做知己、做问讯处？你们把我当成什么人了？难道我是一个靠逗人开心领取薪俸的人，每天晚上都得在你们的蠢鼻子底下演一出聪明机智的闹剧？难道我是你们花钱买来雇来的奴仆，要在你们这些无所事事的懒汉面前爬行，将我所做所知的一切献给你们？难道我是妓院里的婊子，一听到头一个来嫖妓的、穿着考究的男人来了便纷纷赶忙撩起裙子，脱下衬衣？
"Great God! what have I turned into? What right have you people to clutter up my life, steal my time, probe my soul, suckle my thoughts, have me for your companion, confidant, and information bureau? What do you take me for? Am I an entertainer on salary, required every morning to play an intellectual farce under your stupid noses? Am I a slave, bought and paid for, to crawl on my belly in front of you idlers and lay at your feet all that I do and all that I know? Am I a wench in a brothel who is called upon to lift her skirts or take off her chemise at the bidding of the first snan in a tailored suit who comes along?
　　
　　“我是一个矢志要做一番英雄业绩、使这个世界在自己眼里变得更加易于接受的男子汉。假如在软弱的、松懈的、不得已的一刹那间我发脾气了---些在言语表达中冷却下来的狂怒情感---个捆在幻想之中、充满激情的梦—好吧，听不听得进去都由你们……只是别打扰我！
"I am a man who would live an heroic life and make the world more endurable in his own sight. If, in some moment of weakness, of relaxation, of need, I blow off steam - a bit of red hot rage cooled off in words - a passionate dream, wrapped and tied in imagery - well, take it or leave it … but don't bother me!
 
　　“我是一个自由的人，我需要自由。我需要独自一个人呆着，我需要独自仔细想想我的耻辱、我的失意，我需要阳光和街上的铺路石—不过不要人陪伴，不要同人交谈，只是独自一人呆着，由自己心中的乐曲陪伴，你们要我的什么？每当我有话要说，我便把它印出来。每当我要给予什么，我便把它拿出来。
"I am a free man - and I need my freedom. I need to be alone. I need to ponder my shame and my despair in seclusion; I need the sunshine and the paving stones of the streets without companions, without conversation, face to face with myself, with only the music of my heart for company. What do you want of me? When I have something to say, I put it in print. When I have something to give, I give it.
 
　　你们无休止的好奇心令我恶心！你们的奉承话使我感到耻辱！你们的茶快把我毒死了！我谁的也不欠，我只对上帝负责—只要他存在！”
Your prying curiosity turns my stomach! Your compliments humiliate me! Your tea poisons me! I owe nothing to any one. I would be responsible to God alone - if He existed!"
 
　　据我看帕皮尼谈到独处的需要时忽略了一个细微之处。假如你穷困潦倒，独自一个人呆着并非难事。对了，一位艺术家需要的正是孤独。
It seems to me that Papini misses something by a hair's breadth when he talks of the need to be alone. It is not difficult to be alone if you are poor and a failure. An artist is always alone - if he is an artist. No, what the artist needs is loneliness.
 
　　我称自己为艺术家，但愿自己是一位艺术家吧。这天下午美美地睡了一会儿，这一觉在我的脊椎之间垫进了天鹅绒，产生了足够我想三天的想法。我精力十分充沛，却无处可以消耗。我决定去散步，走到街上却又改变了主意，要去看电影。可是我看不成电影—还差几个苏。那么还是去散步，走到每一家影院前我都要停下看看海报，再看看价目表。进这些下流场所真是够便宜的，可我还差几个苏。若不是天色已晚，我倒可以回去卖掉一个空酒瓶。
The artist, I call myself. So be it. A beautiful nap this afternoon that put velvet between my vertebrae. Generated enough ideas to last me three days. Chock full of energy and nothing to do about it. Decide to go for a walk. In the street I change my mind. Decide to go to the movies. Can't go to the movies - short a few sous. A walk then. At every movie house I stop and look at the bill boards, then at the price list. Cheap enough, these opium joints, but I'm short just a few sous. If it weren't so late I might go back and cash an empty bottle.
 
　　待来到阿梅利街，我早已忘掉了电影的事，这条街是我最喜欢的街道之一，也是市政当局有幸忘记铺垫的一条街。大块大块的鹅卵石从街道这一侧堆到另一侧，延伸了一个街区，呈细长的一条。标致旅馆就在这条街上，还有一座小教堂，活像是专为共和国总统和他一家人建造的。偶尔见到一座朴素的小教堂倒也不错，巴黎到处都是金碧辉煌的大教堂。
By the time I get to the Rue Amélie I've forgotten all about the movies. The Rue Amélie is one of my favorite streets. It is one of those streets which by good fortune the municipality has forgotten to pave. Huge cobblestones spreading convexly from one side of the street to the other. Only one block long and narrow. The H?tel Pretty is on this street. There is a little church, too, on the Rue Amélie. It looks as though it were made especially for the President of the Republic and his private family. It's good occasionally to see a modest little church. Paris is full of pompous cathedrals.
 
　　亚历山大三世大桥。大桥附近有一大块被风吹净的空地，干枯的树木机械地仁立在铁门内，残废军人院的阴暗气氛由屋里逸出，弥漫到广场四周黑暗的街道上。这是充满诗意的陈尸所，他们现在将这位伟大的武士、欧洲最后一位伟人送到想送的地方去了。他在花岗岩床上熟睡，不必再担心他在坟墓中翻身，门都已闩好，棺材盖已关严。睡吧，拿破仑！他们需要的并非你的思想，而只是你的尸体呀！
Pont Alexandre III. A great windswept space approaching the bridge. Gaunt, bare trees mathematically fixed in their iron grates; the gloom of the Invalides welling out of the dome and overflowing the dark streets adjacent to the Square. The morgue of poetry. They have him where they want him now, the great warrior, the last big man of Europe. He sleeps soundly in his granite bed. No fear of him turning over in his grave. The doors are well bolted, the lid is on tight. Sleep, Napoleon! It was not your ideas they wanted, it was only your corpse!
 
　　塞纳河仍在泛滥，浑浊的河面被灯光分割成一条条的。我不明白看到这条黑色的湍急水流时会激起何种情感，不过一种欣喜若狂的心情总是使我不能自持，坚定了我永远不离开这片土地的眷恋之情。我还记得那天早上经过这儿到美国捷运公司去的路上发生的事，那天我早就估计到不会有我的邮件，没有支票，也没有电报，什么都没有。一辆从拉斐特艺术馆来的马车辘辘驶过大桥，雨已停了，太阳透过肥皂沫般的云朵，在发出光泽的屋顶瓦片上投下一道寒冷的红光。我回忆起那个车夫如何探出身来眺望帕西路那边的河面。这是多么纯真、质朴、赞许的一瞥！他仿佛在对自己说，”啊，春天快来了！”谁都知道，每当春天来到巴黎，最卑微的活着的生灵也一定会觉得他正居住在天堂里。还不止这个—他是以一种亲切的目光细看这番景致的，这是他的巴黎。一个人不一定非得有钱，也不一定非得是一个市民，他同样会对巴黎产生这种感情。巴黎充斥着穷人— 照我看，他们尽是一伙有史以来最傲慢、最肮脏的乞丐，然而他们摆出一副悠然自得的架势，正是这种派头把巴黎人同其他所有大城市的市民区分开了。
The river is still swollen, muddy, streaked with lights. I don't know what it is rushes up in me at the sight of this dark, swift moving current, but a great exultation lifts me up, affirms the deep wish that is in me never to leave this land. I remember passing this way the other morning on my way to the American Express, knowing in advance that there would be no mail for me, no check, no cable, nothing, nothing. A wagon from the Galeries Lafayette was rumbling over the bridge. The rain had stopped and the sun breaking through the soapy clouds touched the glistening rubble of roofs with a cold fire. I recall now how the driver leaned out and looked up the river toward Passy way. Such a healthy, simple, approving glance, as if he were saying to himself: "Ah, spring is coming!" And God knows, when spring comes to Paris the humblest mortal alive must feel that he dwells in paradise. But it was not only this - it was the intimacy with which his eye rested upon the scene. It was his Paris. A man does not need to be rich, nor even a citizen, to feel this way about Paris. Paris is filled with poor people - the proudest and filthiest lot of beggars that ever walked the earth, it seems to me. And yet they give the illusion of being at home. It is that which distinguishes the Parisian from all other metropolitan souls.
 
　　想到纽约，我的感情便全然不同了。在纽约即使一个有钱人也会觉得自己无足轻重，纽约是冷酷、灿烂、邪恶的。建筑物高耸入云，人们的活动都带一点狂乱的意味，动作的频率越快，精神也越颓丧。这是一场持续的骚动，不过它本来也可以在试管内酝酿成的。谁也不知道这究竟是怎么一回事，谁也无法引导人们发泄精力的方向。它壮观、怪诞，令人困惑不解，是一股巨大的反作用力，不过却是完全杂乱无章的。
When I think of New York I have a very different feeling. New York makes even a rich man feel his unimportance. New York is cold, glittering, malign. The buildings dominate. There is a sort of atomic frenzy to the activity going on; the more furious the pace, the more diminished the spirit. A constant ferment, but it might just as well be going on in a test tube. Nobody knows what it's all about. Nobody directs the energy. Stupendous. Bizarre. Baffling. A tremendous reactive urge, but absolutely uncoordinated.
 
　　一想到我生于斯长于斯的城市，一想到惠特曼歌颂过的曼哈顿，我心中便产生一种盲目的狂怒心情。纽约！那些白色的监狱、挤满蛆的人行道、排队等候发救济食品的人们、修筑得像宫殿一般的下流去处，那儿有的是犹太人、麻风病人、杀人犯，而最多的是游手好闲的人。到处是千篇一律的面孔、街道、大腿、房屋、摩天大楼、饮食、海报、工作、罪行、爱情……整个城市建筑在一个空空如也的坑上，没有意义，完全没有意义。还有第四十二大街，人们称它为世界之巅。那么世界之渊又在哪里？你可以伸出双手走路，抬头仰望这些美丽的白色监狱时都快要把脖子扭断了。他们像发了疯的鹅一样往前走，探照灯将星星点点的狂喜洒在他们空虚的脸上。
When I think of this city where I was born and raised, this Manhattan that Whitman sang of, a blind, white rage licks my guts. New York! The white prisons, the sidewalks swarming with maggots, the breadlines, the opium joints that are built like palaces, the kikes that are there, the lepers, the thugs, and above all, the ennui, the monotony of faces, streets, legs, houses, skyscrapers, meals, posters, jobs, crimes, loves… A whole city erected over a hollow pit of nothingness. Meaningless. Absolutely meaningless. And Forty second Street! The top of the world, they call it. Where's the bottom then? You can walk along with your hands out and they'll put cinders in your cap. Rich or poor, they walk along with head thrown back and they almost break their necks looking up at their beautiful white prisons. They walk along like blind geese and the searchlights spray their empty faces with flecks of ecstasy.
Part 6 Chapter 1
爱默生说，”生活也包括人一整天内的所思所想。”如果是这样，那么我的生活就只是一截大肠，我不仅整天想着吃的，晚上做梦也梦到吃的。
"Life," said Emerson, "consists in what a man is thinking all day." If that be so, then my life is nothing but a big intestine. I not only think about food all day, but I dream about it at night.
 
　　可是我并不希望回美国去，去受双份罪，去做单调无味的事情。不，我情愿在欧洲做一个穷人。大家都知道，我真够穷的，只剩下做人所必需的东西了。上个星期我还以为生活问题就要解决了，以为我就要能自己养活自己了。我凑巧碰到了另一个俄国人，他名叫谢尔盖，住在叙雷讷，那儿住着一小群流亡者和潦倒的艺术家。俄国革命前谢尔盖是沙皇禁卫军中的一名上尉，他穿着袜子量身高足有六英尺三，喝起伏特加像牛饮水一样。他父亲是战舰”波将金号”上的海军将领之类的要人。
But I don't ask to go back to America, to be put in double harness again, to work the treadmill. No, I prefer to be a poor man of Europe. God knows, I am poor enough; it only remains to be a man. Last week I thought the problem of living was about to be solved, thought I was on the way to becoming self supporting. It happened that I ran across another Russian - Serge is his name. He lives in Suresnes where there is a little colony of émigrés and run down artists. Before the revolution Serge was a captain in the Imperial Guard; he stands six foot three in his stockinged feet and drinks vodka like a fish. His father was an admiral, or something like that, on the battleship "Potemkin."
 
　　我同谢尔盖相遇的情形有些古怪。那天快到中午了我还在”疯狂的牧羊女”歌舞场一带嗅来嗅去想找点儿东西吃，也就是在那条一头装着铁门的窄小胡同后面。我正在舞台入口处闲荡，希冀同某个女演员不期而遇，这时一部敞开的卡车在人行道上停住了。那个司机正是谢尔盖，看到我两手插在兜里站着，他便问我愿不愿意帮他卸下车上的铁桶。听说我是美国人而且生活无着，他差一点高兴得哭起来，看来他一直在到处寻找一个英语教师。我帮他把装杀虫剂的桶子滚进去，我尽情看着在舞台两侧到处奔跑的女演员。这件事在我心中留下怪诞的印象—空旷的房子、女演员像填装着锯未的洋娃娃似的在舞台两厢横冲直撞、一桶桶杀菌剂、战舰”波将金号”—而最难忘的是谢尔盖的温文尔雅。他是一个大块头，十分温柔，是一个十分地道的男子汉，却又生了一副女人的柔肠。
I met Serge under rather peculiar circumstances. Sniffing about for food I found myself toward noon the other day in the neighbourhood of the Folies Bergère - the back entrance, that is to say, in the narrow little lane with an iron gate at one end. I was dawdling about the stage entrance, hoping vaguely for a casual brush with one of the butterflies, when an open truck pulls up to the sidewalk. Seeing me standing there with my hands in my pockets the driver, who was Serge, asks me if I would give him a hand unloading the iron barrels. When he learns that I am an American and that I'm broke he almost weeps with joy. He has been looking high and low for an English teacher, it seems. I help him roll the barrels of insecticide inside and I look my fill at the butterflies fluttering about the wings. The incident takes on strange proportions to me - the empty house, the sawdust dolls bouncing in the wings, the barrels of germicide, the battleship "Potemkin" - above all, Serge's gentleness. He is big and tender, a man every inch of him, but with a woman's heart.
 
　　在附近的咖啡馆里—“艺术家咖啡馆”—他马上提议为我安排住宿，说他要在走廊地板上铺一张床垫。作为上课的酬劳，他说叫我每天免费吃一顿饭，一顿丰盛的俄国饭，如果由于什么原因没有吃上这顿饭他就给我五法郎。我觉得这主意很妙—妙极了。唯一的一个问题是，我每天如何从叙雷油赶到美国捷运公司去。
In the café nearby - Café des Artistes - he proposes immediately to put me up; says he will put a mattress on the floor in the hallway. For the lessons he says he will give me a meal every day, a big Russian meal, or if for any reason the meal is lacking then five francs. It sounds wonderful to me - wonderful. The only question is, how will I get from Suresnes to the American Express every day?
 
　　谢尔盖坚持马上就开始，他给我车费，叫我晚上到叙雷讷来。我带着背包在吃晚饭前赶到了，目的是给谢尔盖上一课。已经有些客人到场了，看来他们一贯是一起吃的，大伙儿凑钱。
Serge insists that we begin at once - he gives me the carfare to get out to Suresnes in the evening. I arrive a little before dinner, with my knapsack, in order to give Serge a lesson. There are some guests on hand already - seems as though they always eat in a crowd, everybody chipping in.
 
　　饭桌旁一共是我们八个，还有三条狗。狗先吃，它们吃的是燕麦片，然后我们才开始。我们也吃燕麦片—作为一种提胃口的佐餐食品。谢尔盖眨眨眼说，”在我们国家这是喂狗的。
　　在这里却是给绅士的，这样行吗？”吃完了燕麦片便上蘑菇汤和蔬菜，过后是咸肉蛋卷、水果、红葡萄酒、伏特加、咖啡和香烟。俄国饭还不错，每个人说话时嘴里都塞得满满的。饭快吃完时谢尔盖的老婆—一个很懒的亚美尼亚婆娘---屁股坐在沙发上啃起夹心糖来，她把肥胖的手指伸进盒子里去摸一块，啃下一点点看里面是否有果汁，然后就把它扔到地板上喂狗。
There are eight of us at the table - and three dogs. The dogs eat first. They eat oatmeal. Then we commence. We eat oatmeal too - as an hors d'?uvre. "Chez nous," says Serge, with a twinkle in his eye, "C'est pour les chiens, les Quaker Oats. Ici pour le gentleman. ?a va." After the oatmeal, mushroom soup and vegetables; after that bacon omelet, fruit, red wine, vodka, coffee, cigarettes. Not bad, the Russian meal. Everyone talks with his mouth full. Toward the end of the mea Serge's wife, who is a lazy slut of an Armenian, flops on the couch and begins to nibble bonbons. She fishes around in the box with her fat fingers, nibbles a tiny piece to see if there is any juice inside, and then throws it on the floor for the dogs.
 
　　饭一吃完客人们便匆匆忙忙走了，他们仓皇逃走，仿佛怕瘟疫降临。最后只剩下谢尔盖、我和狗—他妻子已经在长沙发上睡着了。他满不在乎地走来走去，替狗收集残汤剩饭。他用英语说，”狗喜欢吃这些东西，喂狗好得很。那条小狗它有虫子……它还大校”他弯腰仔细察看在狗两只爪子之间的地毯上爬着的一些白虫子，他试图用英语解释这些虫子，但是他的词汇不够用。最后他查了查词典，欣喜地抬头望着我道，”哈，是绦虫！”我的反应显然不那么明显，谢尔盖有些迷惑不解，于是便跪在地上，双手撑着地更仔细地察看它们，还捉起一条放在桌上的水果旁。”畸，它不太大，”他用英语嘟哝道。”下一课你教我各种虫子，行吗？你是个好老师，我跟你学了不少……””大”、” 教”、”好”都发错了音。
The meal over, the guests rush away. They rush away precipitously, as if they feared a plague. Serge and I are left with the dogs - his wife has fallen asleep on the couch. Serge moves about unconcernedly, scraping the garbage for the dogs. "Dogs like very much," he says. "Very good for dogs. Little dog he has worms … he is too young yet." He bends down to examine some white worms lying on the carpet between the dog's paws. Tries to explain about the worms in English, but his vocabulary is lacking. Finally he consults the dictionary. "Ah," he says, looking at me exultantly, "tapeworms!" My response is evidently not very intelligent. Serge is confused. He gets down on his hands and knees to examine them better. He picks one up and lays it on the table beside the fruit. "Huh, him not very beeg," he grunts. "Next lesson you learn me worms, no? You are gude teacher. I make progress with you…"
 
　　躺在走廊里的床垫上，杀菌剂的气味叫我喘不过气来，这种刺鼻的辣味儿似乎钻进了我身上的每一个毛孔。刚才吃过的东西又在口中散发出气味—廉价燕麦片、蘑菇、咸肉和煎苹果。我又看到躺在水果旁的那条小小的绦虫和谢尔盖向我解释狗出了什么毛病时摆在桌布上的各式各样的虫子。我看到”疯狂的牧羊女”歌舞场的空乐他，每一条裂缝里都藏着蟑螂、虱子和臭虫。我看到人们疯了似的搔自己身上，搔呀搔，直到搔出血来。我看到这些虫子像一支红色蚂蚁大军一样在布景上到处爬，吞下它们看见的一切。我看到合唱队的姑娘抛开薄纱外衣，光着身子跑过走道。我还看到正厅里的观众也脱掉衣服互相搔痒，活像一群猴子。
Lying on the mattress in the hallway the odor of the germicide stifles me. A pungent, acrid odor that seems to invade every pore of my body. The food begins to repeat on me - the Quaker Oats, the mushrooms, the bacon, the fried apples. I see the little tapeworm lying beside the fruit and all the varieties of worms that Serge drew on the tablecloth to explain what was the matter with the dog. I see the empty pit of the Folies Bergère and in every crevice there are cockroaches and lice and bedbugs; I see people scratching themselves frantically, scratching and scratching until the blood comes. I see the worms crawling over the scenery like an army of red ants, devouring everything in sight. I see the chorus girls throwing away their gauze tunics and running through the aisles naked; I see the spectators in the pit throwing off their clothes also and scratching each other like monkeys.
 
　　我试图叫自己平静下来。不管怎么说，这毕竟是我找到的一个家，每天有一顿现成饭吃，而且谢尔盖无疑是个热心人。可是我无法入睡，这简直如同在陈尸所里睡觉一样。床垫已被散发出香气的液体浸透，已成了虱子，臭虫、蟑螂和绦虫的陈尸所。我忍受不了。我不愿忍受！毕竟我还是一个人，不是一个虱子。
I try to quiet myself. After all, this is a home I've found, and there's a meal waiting for me every day. And Serge is a brick, there's no doubt about that. But I can't sleep. It's like going to sleep in a morgue. The mattress is saturated with embalming fluid. It's a morgue for lice, bedbugs, cockroaches, tapeworms. I can't stand it. I won't stand it! After all I'm a man, not a louse.
 
　　到了早晨我等着谢尔盖装车，我叫他把我带到巴黎去，却不忍心告诉他我就要走了。我把背包留下了，还有他给我的几件东西。我们到佩里埃广场时我跳下来了，在这儿溜掉并没有什么特殊原因。我是自由的—这才是最要紧的……
In the morning I wait for Serge to load the truck. I ask him to take me in to Paris. I haven't the heart to tell him I'm leaving. I leave the knapsack behind, with the few things that were left me. When we get to the Place Péreire I jump out. No particular reason for getting off here. No particular reason for anything. I'm free - that's the main thing…
 
我像小鸟一样轻松地由一条街飞奔到另一条街，仿佛刚从牢房里放出来。我用全新的目光看世界，万物都引起我极大的兴趣，甚至包括鸡毛蒜皮的小事。我在布尔索尼尔街站下看一家体育用品商店的橱窗，里面有一些照片展示”史前及史后”人类的标本。全是法国佬，有些人光着身于，只戴一副夹鼻眼镜，留一缕胡子。真不明白这些姑娘怎么爱上了双杠和哑铃。一个法国佬应该有个微微腆起的大肚子，像查露斯男爵那样。他也该蓄胡须，戴夹鼻眼镜，不过不该光着身子让人拍照。他该穿双闪闪发光的漆皮靴，短便衣口袋上应该别一条白手帕，露出来四分之三英寸。如果有条件，他还应该在上衣翻领上系一条红缓带，穿过纽眼，上床睡觉时还要换睡衣。
Light as a bird I flit about from one quarter to another. It's as though I had been released from prison. I look at the world with new eyes. Everything interests me profoundly. Even trifles. On the Rue du Faubourg Poissonnière I stop before the window of a physical culture establishment. There are photographs showing specimens of manhood "before and after." All frogs. Some of them are nude, except for a pince-nez or a beard. Can't understand how these birds fall for parallel bars and dumb bells. A frog should have just a wee bit of a paunch, like the Baron de Charlus. He should wear a beard and a pince nez, but he should never be photographed in the nude. He should wear twinkling patent leather boots and in the breast pocket of his sack coat there should be a white handkerchief protruding about three quarters of an inch above the vent. If possible, he should have a red ribbon in his lapel, through the buttonhole. He should wear pajamas on going to bed.
 
　　傍晚我走近克利希广场时从那个装着一条假腿的小婊子面前经过，她日复一日地站在戈蒙宫对面。看起来她还不到十八岁，可我想她已有固定的客人了。午夜过后她用黑假腿一动不动地站在那儿，身后是一条小胡同，里面像一座地狱一样灯火通明。如今我心情轻松地从她身边经过，不知怎么搞的她使我联想起一只拴在桩上的鹅，一只肝上患了病的鹅，这样世人才得以享用它的鹅肝馅饼。带着那条木腿去睡觉一定很古怪，人们会联想到各种各样的事儿—木刺啦等等。行啦，各人对自己的口味就行！
Approaching the Place Clichy toward evening I pass the little whore with the wooden stump who stands opposite the Gaumont Palace day in and day out. She doesn't look a day over eighteen. Has her regular customers, I suppose. After midnight she stands there in her black rig rooted to the spot. Back of her is the little alleyway that blazes like an inferno. Passing her now with a light heart she reminds me somehow of a goose tied to a stake, a goose with a diseased liver, so that the world may have paté de foie gras. Must be strange taking that wooden stump to bed with you. One imagines all sorts of things - splinters, etc. However, every man to his taste!
Part 6 Chapter 2
沿着圣母街往前走，我碰到佩克奥弗，另一个在报社工作的穷鬼。他抱怨说每夜只能睡三四个钟头觉，因为早上八点就得起来到一家牙医诊所去干活。他干这个活并不是为了钱，他解释道，这只是为了替自己买一副假牙。他说，”困得直打瞌睡时看清样可不容易，可我老婆还以为这差事像吃饭一样容易呢。她说，我若丢了工作她们咋办？”可是佩克奥弗对这个工作根本不感兴趣，这个工作甚至不允许他花钱。他只好存起香烟蒂，把它再填进烟斗里抽。他的外套是用别针别在一起的。他有口臭，手上总出汗，可是一夜只睡三个钟头。他说，”不该这样对待一个人，还有我的那位老板，若是我丢了一个分号他便会把我骂得尿裤子。”说起他老婆，他又补充道，”我的那个女人，我告诉你，她一点儿都不知道感激我。”
Going down the Rue des Dames I bump into Peckover, another poor devil who works on the paper. He complains of getting only three or four hours' sleep a night - has to get up at eight in the morning to work at a dentist's office. It isn't for the money he's doing it, so he explains - it's for to buy himself a set of false teeth. "It's hard to read proof when you're dropping with sleep," he says. "The wife, she thinks I've got a cinch of it. What would we do if you lost your job? she says." But Peckover doesn't give a damn about the job; it doesn't even allow him spending money. He has to save his cigarette butts and use them for pipe tobacco. His coat is held together with pins. He has halitosis and his hands sweat. And only three hours' sleep a night. "It's no way to treat a man," he says. "And that boss of mine, he bawls the piss out of me if I miss a semicolon." Speaking of his wife he adds: "That woman of mine, she's got no fucking gratitude, I tell you!"
 
　　分手时我设法从他那儿骗了一个半法郎，我想再榨出五十生丁，可是办不到。不过我弄到手的已足够喝一杯咖啡，吃一块月牙形蛋卷了，圣拉扎尔车站那儿有一家供应降价食品的酒吧。
In parting I manage to worm a franc fifty out of him. I try to squeeze another fifty centimes out of him but it's impossible. Anyway I've got enough for a coffee and croissants. Near the Gare St. Lazare there's a bar with reduced prices.
 
　　碰巧，我在盥洗室里找到一张音乐会票，于是便像一只轻松愉快的鸟一样奔戈韦音乐厅去了。引座员脸色难看极了，因为我竟没有给他一点小费。每次从我身边经过时他都要征询似的看看我，希望我会突然想起这件事来。
As luck would have it I find a ticket in the lavabo for a concert. Light as a feather now I go there to the Salle Gaveau. The usher looks ravaged because I overlook giving him his little tip. Every time he passes me he looks at me inquiringly, as if perhaps I will suddenly remember.
 
　　我已很久没有同穿着考究的人物坐在一起了，心里不免有几分忐忑不安，直到现在还闻得到那股甲醛味。或许谢尔盖也往这儿送货，不过谢天谢地，这儿没有人搔痒。有一股淡淡的香水味儿……非常淡。音乐会尚未开始众人脸上便显出百无聊赖的神情，这音乐会真是一种礼貌的自我折磨。指挥短短的指挥棒敲响后大家紧张地全神贯注了一阵，随即便是寂静无声—一种单调沉闷的、被管弦乐队奏出的沉着、不间断的轻微乐声反衬出的寂静。我的头脑出乎意料地清醒，好像脑壳里镶了一千面镜子。我的神经绷得紧紧的，十分激动，音符像玻璃球在一百万股水流上跳跃。以前我从不曾饿着肚子去听音乐会，没有任何声响能逃过我的耳朵，甚至最细小的别针落地的声音也听得见。好像我没有穿衣服，身上的每一个毛孔都是一只窗子，所有的窗子都敞开着，光亮穿透了我的内赃。我可以感觉到这光线就蜡缩在我肋骨的穹窿下，我的肋骨垂在一个空空如也的肚子上，响声使它颤抖，我不知道这种情形持续了多久，我早已失去时间和地点的概念。仿佛过了很久很久以后出现了一阵半自觉的状态，与之相抵的是一种平静感。我感到身体内有一个大湖泊，一个发出彩虹色光辉的湖泊，冷峻得像果冻。这个湖泊上突然形成一个个巨大螺旋，一群群腿细长、羽毛漂亮的候鸟出现了，它们一群群地从清凉的静止湖面上腾空飞起，从我的锁骨下飞过，消逝在一片白茫茫的空间里。然后，缓慢地、异常缓慢地，这些窗子关上了，我的器官也回到原来位置上，犹如一位戴白帽子的老妇在我身体内漫游。突然，剧院里的灯全亮了，我发现白色包厢里的那个男人原来竟是一个头上顶着一个花盆的女人，起初我还以为这是一位土耳其军官呢。
It's so long since I've sat in the company of well dressed people that I feel a bit panic-stricken. I can still smell the formaldehyde. Perhaps Serge makes deliveries here too. But nobody is scratching himself, thank God. A faint odor of perfume … very faint. Even before the music begins there is that bored look on people's faces. A polite form of self-imposed torture, the concert. For a moment, when the conductor raps with his little wand, there is a tense spasm of concentration followed almost immediately by a general slump, a quiet vegetable sort of repose induced by the steady, uninterrupted drizzle from the orchestra. My mind is curiously alert; it's as though my skull had a thousand mirrors inside it. My nerves are taut, vibrant! the notes are like glass balls dancing on a million jets of water. I've never been to a concert before on such an empty belly. Nothing escapes me, not even the tiniest pin falling. It's as though I had no clothes on and every pore of my body was a window and all the windows open and the light flooding my gizzards. I can feel the light curving under the vault of my ribs and my ribs hang there over a hollow nave trembling with reverberations. How long this lasts I have no idea; I have lost all sense of time and place. After what seems like an eternity there follows an interval of semiconsciousness balanced by such a calm that I feel a great lake inside me, a lake of iridescent sheen, cool as jelly; and over this lake, rising in great swooping spirals, there emerge flocks of birds of passage with long slim legs and brilliant plumage. Flock after flock surge up from the cool, still surface of the lake and, passing under my clavicles, lose themselves in the white sea of space. And then slowly, very slowly, as if an old woman in a white cap were going the rounds of my body, slowly the windows are closed and my organs drop back into place. Suddenly the lights flare up and the man in the white box whom I had taken for a Turkish officer turns out to be a woman with a flowerpot on her head.

 
　　一阵骚动，所有想咳嗽的人都尽情咳开了，传来脚在地板上蹭踏发出的声响、竖起椅子的声响、人们漫无目标地四处游逛发出的没完没了的嘈杂声，还有人们展开节目单时发出蹊卒声—他们装模作样地看看便又丢下了，把它乱塞在座位底下。最小的变故亦值得谢天谢地，因为它会分散人们的注意力，使他们不再们心自问自己在想什么。若是知道自己什么都不曾想，他们准会发疯。在刺眼的灯光照射下他们呆呆地互相望着，而且他们逼视对方的目光里有一种奇怪的紧张感。一听到指挥又开始了，他们便回到原先的自我强迫状态中—他们不由自主地搔痒，或是猛地记起了一个摆着围巾或帽子的橱窗。他们仍十分清楚地记得那个橱窗里的所有细节，可是回忆不起这个橱窗到底在哪儿了，这使他们大伤脑筋，清醒而又不安。于是他们打起双倍的精神去听音乐，因为他们十分清醒，无论乐曲多么美妙也不能忘怀那个橱窗和挂在那儿的围巾或是帽子。
There is a buzz now and all those who want to cough, cough to their heart's content. There is the noise of feet shuffling and seats slamming, the steady, frittering noise of people moving about aimlessly, of people fluttering their programs and pretending to read and then dropping their programs and scuffling under their seats, thankful for even the slightest accident which will prevent them from asking themselves what they were thinking about because if they knew they were thinking about nothing they would go mad. In the harsh glare of the lights they look at each other vacuously and there is a strange tenseness with which they stare at one another. And the moment the conductor raps again they fall back into a cataleptic state - they scratch themselves unconsciously or they remember suddenly a show window in which there was displayed a scarf or a hat; they remember every detail of that window with amazing clarity, but where it was exactly, that they can't recall; and that bothers them, keeps them wide awake, restless, and they listen now with redoubled attention because they are wide awake and no matter how wonderful the music is they will not lose consciousness of that show window and that scarf that was hanging there, or the hat.
 
　　这种聚精会神的气氛感染了会场本身，连乐队似乎也受到激励，变得格外精力充沛。第二个节目像最好的压轴戏似的结束了—它结束得这么快，音乐嘎然而止，灯打开时有些人像胡萝卜一样戳在座位上，下巴抽搐着。假如你对着他们的耳朵大喊”勃拉姆斯、贝多芬、门捷列夫、黑塞哥维那”，他们会不假思索地回答--4，967，289。
And this fierce attentiveness communicates itself; even the orchestra seems galvanized into an extraordinary alertness. The second number goes off like a top - so fast indeed that when suddenly the music ceases and the lights go up some are stuck in their seats like carrots, their jaws working convulsively, and if you suddenly shouted in their ear Brahms, Beethoven, Mendeleev, Herzegovina, they would answer without thinking - 4, 967, 289.
 
　　到演奏德彪西的曲子时场内的气氛已完全被毒化了，我在纳闷，作为一个女人性交时究竟有何感觉—是不是对欢悦更敏感一些，等等。我在想象一件东西穿透两腿间那个地方的情形，不过只有一点隐隐约约的痛感。我企图集中注意力，但是音乐太难把握了，我只能想着一只花瓶慢慢翻转过去，音符散入空中去的情形。最后我只注意到开灯关灯了，我便问自己灯是如何开关的。我旁边的人在呼呼大睡，他像一个掮客，大肚子，蜡黄的小胡子。我就喜欢他这样，我尤其喜欢他的大肚子和所有吃出这样一个大肚子的食物。为什么他不该呼呼大睡？
By the time we get to the Debussy number the atmosphere is completely poisoned. I find myself wondering what it feels like, during intercourse, to be a woman - whether the pleasure is keener, etc. Try to imagine something penetrating my groin, but have only a vague sensation of pain. I try to focus, but the music is too slippery. I can think of nothing but a vase slowly turning and the figures dropping off into space. Finally there is only light turning, and how does light turn, I ask myself. The man next to me is sleeping soundly. He looks like a broker, with his big paunch and his waxed mustache. I like him thus. I like especially that big paunch and all that went into the making of it. Why shouldn't he sleep soundly?
 
　　若是想听，他无论何时都可以搞到买一张票子的钱。我注意到那些衣着较好的人睡得更踏实一些，这些有钱人问心无愧。若是一个穷汉打瞌睡，哪怕只是几秒钟，他也会觉得很丢脸，他会以为自己对那位作曲家犯下了罪。
If he wants to listen he can always rustle up the price of a ticket. I notice that the better dressed they are the more soundly they sleep. They have an easy conscience, the rich. If a poor man dozes off, even for a few seconds, he feels mortified; he imagines that he has committed a crime against the composer.
 
演奏那只西班牙曲子时整个音乐厅都轰动了，大家都笔直地坐了起来，他们是被鼓声惊醒的。我以为鼓一旦敲响便会一直响下去，我期望看到人们从包厢里跳下来，或是把帽子扔掉。
In the Spanish number the house was electrified. Everybody sat on the edge of his seat - the drums woke them up. I thought when the drums started it would keep up forever. I expected to see people fall out of the boxes or throw their hats away.
 
　　这支曲子里蕴含一种英雄气概，拉威尔，他本会迫使我们拼命、发疯的，只要他想这么做，不过这不是拉威尔的曲子。突然一切都静寂下来，仿佛拉威尔在开玩笑时记起他穿了一件剪破的衣服。他抑制住了自己，依我的愚见，这酿成了大错。艺术即意味着有始有终，假如你以鼓点声开始就得用爆炸声或梯恩梯炸药告终。拉威尔为了形式牺牲了一些东西，为的是人们睡觉前必须消化掉的一棵菜。
There was something heroic about it and he could have driven us stark mad, Ravel, if he had wanted to. But that's not Ravel. Suddenly it all died down. It was as if he remembered, in the midst of his antics, that he had on a cutaway suit. He arrested himself. A great mistake, in my humble opinion. Art consists in going the full length. If you start with the drums you have to end with dynamite, or TNT. Ravel sacrificed something for form, for a vegetable that people must digest before going to bed.
 
　　我的思绪心猿意马，约束不住，既然鼓声已停，音乐便也离我远去。无论何处，人们生来就是指挥别人的。出口的灯光下坐着一位郁郁寡欢的维特民他双时撑着身子，目光呆滞。门口站着一个西班牙人，裹着一件大斗篷，手里拿着一顶阔边帽，他的架势像是正在摆好姿势叫罗丹塑”巴尔扎克”似的，他的脖子以上部分很像水牛比尔。我对面的顶层楼座前排坐着一个女人，她的两条腿叉得很开，她的脖子向后拗去，错位了，看上去像是得了破伤风。还有那个戴红帽子的女人，她正趴在栏杆上打吨儿—若是来一回脑出血就太妙了！设想她流出一桶血，全倒在楼下那些浆洗得硬硬的衬衫上，设想一下这些微不足道的小人物衬衫上沾着血走出音乐厅回家去！
My thoughts are spreading. The music is slipping away from me, now that the drums have ceased. People everywhere are composed to order. Under the exit light is a Werther sunk in despair; he is leaning on his two elbows, his eyes are glazed. Near the door, huddled in a big cape, stands a Spaniard with a sombrero in his hand. He looks as if he were posing for the "Balzac" of Rodin. From the neck up he suggests Buffalo Bill. In the gallery opposite me, in the front row, sits a woman with her legs spread wide apart; she looks as though she had lockjaw, with her neck thrown back and dislocated. The woman with the red hat who is dozing over the rail - marvelous if she were to have a hemorrhage! if suddenly she spilled a bucketful on those stiff shirts below. Imagine these bloody no accounts going home from the concert with blood on their dickies!
 
　　睡觉是基调。再也没有人在听了，无法再思考、再倾听了，也无法去梦想，即使音乐本身也成了一场梦。一个戴白手套的女人把一只天鹅放在膝上。传说勒达怀孕后生了一对双胞胎。
Sleep is the keynote. No one is listening any more. Impossible to think and listen. Impossible to dream even when the music itself is nothing but a dream. A woman with white gloves holds a swan in her lap. The legend is that when Leda was fecundated she gave birth to twins.
 
　　人人都在生某种东西—只除了上面那排座位上那个搞同性恋的女人。她昂着头，大张着嘴，注意力十分集中，这曲交响乐像镭一样放射出一阵阵火花，使她激动不已。朱庇特在穿透她的耳朵。还有加利福尼亚的片言只字、生着大鳍的鲸鱼、桑给巴尔、西班牙式城堡。瓜达尔基维河沿岸有上千座清真寺在闪闪发光。冰山深处的时光尽是淡紫色的。莫尼大街上立着两根拴马的白柱子，滴水嘴……宣传贾沃斯基谬论的男人……河，边的灯光……
Everybody is giving birth to something - everybody but the Lesbian in the upper tier. Her head is uptilted, her throat wide open; she is all alert and tingling with the shower of sparks that burst from the radium symphony. Jupiter is piercing her ears. Little phrases from California, whales with big fins, Zanzibar, the Alcazar. When along the Guadalquivir there were a thousand mosques ashimmer. Deep in the icebergs and the days all lilac. The Money Street with two white hitching posts. The gargoyles … the man with the Jaworski nonsense … the river lights … the…
Part 7 Chapter 1
我在美国时有几位印度朋友，有的好，有的坏，有的不好也不坏。环境常将我置于一个有幸能为他们效劳的位置上，我替他们找工作，给他们提供住宿，若有必要还给他们饭吃。我得承认，他们都非常感恩戴德，实际上他们这样总光顾我倒使我的日子很难过。他们中有两个是圣人—若是我知道圣人是怎样的。尤其是卡普特，人们有天早晨发现他的喉咙被人割了一个大口子。那是在格林威治村的一所小房子里，人们有一天早上发现他一丝不挂地瘫在床上，被人割开了一个大口子。时至今日还没有搞清楚他究竟是被人谋杀的还是自杀的，不过这也无关紧要……
In America I had a number of Hindu friends, some good, some bad, some indifferent. Circumstances had placed me in a position where fortunately I could be of aid to them; I secured jobs for them, I harbored them, and I fed them when necessary. They were very grateful, I must say; so much so, in fact that they made my life miserable with their attentions. Two of them were saints, if I know what a saint is; particularly Gupte who was found one morning with his throat cut from ear to ear. In a little boarding house in Greenwich Village he was found one morning stretched out stark naked on the bed, his flute beside him, and his throat gashed, as I say, from ear to ear. It was never discovered whether he had been murdered or whether he had committed suicide. But that's neither here nor there…
 
我回想起我在纳南塔蒂的住所的一连串往事，我在想这一切是多么奇怪—我竟把纳南塔蒂全忘了，直到那天我躺在塞尔街上一家寒伦的旅馆里才又重新记起他来。我睡在铁床上，想到自己成了一个毫无用处、毫无价值的人，一个无足轻重的人，这时暮地眼前闪现出这几个字：无足轻重的人。我们在纽约就是这样叫他的—无足轻重的人，”无足轻重先生”。
I'm thinking back to the chain of circumstances which has brought me finally to Nanantatee's place. Thinking how strange it is that I should have forgotten all about Nanantatee until the other day when lying in a shabby hotel room on the Rue Cels. I'm lying there on the iron bed thinking what a zero I have become, what a cipher, what a nullity, when bango! out pops the word: NONENTITY! That's what we called him in New York - Nonentity. Mister Nonentity.
 
　　我睡在那套豪华房间的地板上，纳南塔蒂在纽约期间便住在这儿。他在扮演一个乐善好施者的角色，给了我两条盖上浑身发痒的毯子，原先是盖在马身上的。我就蜡缩在里面，躺在落满尘土的地板上。一天里的每一小时都有零活可干—假如我蠢到呆在屋里不出门的田地。早晨他粗暴地唤醒我，叫我替他预备午饭吃的蔬菜：葱头、大蒜、豆子等等。他的朋友凯皮告诫我不要吃这些东西，说它们不好。好坏又有什么关系？吃的！这才是最要紧的。为了一点点吃的我十分乐意用一把破扫帚清扫他的地毯，替他洗衣服，一俟他吃完饭就拣起掉在地上的残渣吃下去。自从我来了他已变得绝对讲究干净—现在一切都得掸灰，椅子一定得按规定的样子摆好，钟一定得按时敲响，卫生间也一定得好好冲洗…… 真没有见过比他更古怪的印度人，而且他还小气得要命！待摆脱他的控制以后我要好好嘲笑他一顿。可我现在是囚犯，是一个没有社会地位的贱民，一个不可接触的人……若是我到晚上还没有赶回来盖上马盖的毯子睡觉，我一回来他便会说，”嗬，原来你还没有死？我还以为你已经死掉了呢。”
I'm lying on the floor now in that gorgeous suite of rooms he boasted of when he was in New York. Nanantatee is playing the good Samaritan; he has given me a pair of itchy blankets, horse blankets they are, in which I curl up on the dusty floor. There are little jobs to do every hour of the day - that is, if I am foolish enough to remain indoors. In the morning he wakes me rudely in order to have me prepare the vegetables for his lunch: onions, garlic, beans, etc. His friend, Kepi, warns me not to eat the food - he says it's bad. Bad or good what difference? Food! That's all that matters. For a little food I am quite willing to sweep his carpets with a broken broom, to wash his clothes and to scrape the crumbs off the floor as soon as he has finished eating. He's become absolutely immaculate since my arrival: everything has to be dusted now, the chairs must be arranged a certain way, the clock must ring, the toilet must flush properly… A crazy Hindu if ever there was one! And parsimonious as a string bean. I'll have a great laugh over it when I get out of his clutches, but just now I'm a prisoner, a man without caste, an untouchable…If I fail to come back at night and roll up in the horse blankets he says to me on arriving: "Oh, so you didn't die then? I thought you had died."
 
　　他明知我一文不名，可还是每天都告诉我他刚刚在附近找到了廉价出租的房间。我说，”可你知道，我还租不起一个房间呢。”
　　这时他便像中国佬那样眨眨眼毫不在意他说，”哦，对了，我忘了你没有钱。我总是忘事儿，安德里……不过等电报来了……等莫娜小姐给你寄来钱，那时你就跟我去找个房间，好吗？”话音未落他便又力劝我愿住多久就住多久—“六个月……七个月……你在这儿对我帮助很大。”
And though he knows I'm absolutely penniless he tells me every day about some cheap room he has just discovered in the neighborhood. "But I can't take a room yet, you know that," I say.
And then, blinking his eyes like a Chink, he answers smoothly: "Oh, yes, I forgot that you had no money. I am always forgetting, Endree… But when the cable comes… when Miss Mona sends you the money, then you will come with me to look for a room, eh?" And in the next breath he urges me to stay as long as I wish - "six months … seven months, Endree … you are very good for me here."
 
　　纳南塔蒂是一个我在美国时从未为之效劳过的印度人，他自称是一个有钱的商人，一个珠宝商，在巴黎拉斐特大街有一套豪华房子，在孟买有一座别墅，在大吉岭又有一所带游廊的房子。我一眼便看出他是一个笨蛋，不过笨蛋有时却具有聚起一大笔财富的天赋。我当时不知道他曾在纽约给旅馆老板留下两只大珠子抵帐，我觉得好笑的是，这个小个儿一度曾在纽约那家旅馆大厅里摇来晃去，他拄着乌木手杖，将侍者挥来斥去、为客人订午饭、使唤茶房去买戏票，按天租用出租车……这时他衣袋里却一文钱都没有。他只有脖子上挂的那一串大珍珠，把这些珠子一个个卖了换钱用。我还觉得好笑的是他常傻气十足地拍拍我的背，感谢我对那伙印度人还不错—“他们都是很聪明的人，非常聪明！”他还告诉我某位好心的神会报答我的善举。现在回想起来，我才明白为什么这些聪明的印度人—有一回当我建议他们向纳南塔蒂借五美元时，他们都吃吃地笑。
Nanantatee is one of the Hindus I never did anything for in America. He represented himself to me as a wealthy merchant, a pearl merchant, with a luxurious suite of rooms on the Rue Lafayette, Paris, a villa in Bombay, a bungalow in Darjeeling. I could see from first glance that he was a half-wit, but then half wits sometimes have the genius to amass a fortune. I didn't know that he paid his hotel bill in New York by leaving a couple of fat pearls in the proprietor's hands. It seems amusing to me now that this little duck once swaggered about the lobby of that hotel in New York with an ebony cane, bossing the bellhops around, ordering luncheons for his guests, calling up the porter for theater tickets, renting a taxi by the day, etc., etc., all without a sou in his pocket. Just a string of fat pearls around his neck which he cashed one by one as time wore on. And the fatuous way he used to pat me on the back, thank me for being so good to the Hindu boys - "they are all very intelligent boys, Endree … very intelligent!" Telling me that the good lord so-and-so would repay me for my kindness. That explains now why they used to giggle so, these intelligent Hindu boys, when I suggested that they touch Nanantatee for a five spot.
 
　　我现在纳闷的是，这位好心的某某神将如何报答我的善举。我不过只是这个又肥又矮的家伙的奴仆，得时刻听从他的吩咐，他这儿需要我—这是他当面告诉我的。一走到便盆旁他便嚷道，”安德里，请给我拿一壶水来，我要擦一把。”这位纳南塔蒂从不愿用手纸，想必这是同他的宗教信仰相抵触的吧。他不用手纸，却要一壶水和一块破布。他还挺娇嫩，这个又肥又矮的家伙。有时我正在喝一杯他扔进一片玫瑰花瓣的淡茶，他来了，冲着我的脸放一个响屁。他从来不会说”对不起”！他的古吉拉特语词典上想必没有这句话。
Curious now how the good lord so and so is requiting me for my benevolence. I'm nothing but a slave to this fat little duck. I'm at his beck and call continually. He needs me here - he tells me so to my face. When he goes to the crap can he shouts: "Endree, bring me a pitcher of water, please. I must wipe myself." He wouldn't think of using toilet paper, Nanantatee. Must be against his religion. No, he calls for a pitcher of water and a rag. He's delicate, the fat little duck. Sometimes when I'm drinking a cup of pale tea in which he has dropped a rose leaf he comes alongside of me and lets a loud fart, right in my face. He never says "Excuse me!" The word must be missing from his Gujarati dictionary.
 
　　我来到纳南塔蒂的公寓这天他正在作沐浴仪式，也就是说，他正站在一只脏水钵上努力把一只弯曲的胳膊伸到颈后，钵边摆着一只铜高脚杯，那是他用来换水的。他要我在沐浴仪式期间别出声，于是我便按他的吩咐一声不响地坐着，看他歌唱、祈祷，不时朝水钵吐水，这就是他在纽约时谈到的那套豪华房间了！拉斐特大街！我觉得这就是纽约的一条主要街道，我只想到住在这条街上的百万富翁和珠宝商人。当你在大洋另一边时，拉斐特大街听起来满不错。同样，当你在大洋这一边时纽约的第五大道也不赖。人们简直想象不出这些漂亮街道上的垃圾是多么吓人，可是不管怎么说我终于来到这儿，坐在拉斐特大街上的这套豪华公寓里了，而这个疯疯癫癫、胳膊弯曲的家伙正在举行清洗自己的仪式。我坐的那把椅子是破的，床也散了架，墙纸破烂不堪，床下一只打开的箱子里塞满了脏衣服。从我坐的地方一眼便可看到下面那个穷酸的院子，拉斐特大街的贵族就是坐在那儿抽陶土制的烟斗的。纳南塔蒂唱赞美诗时我不禁想象他在大吉岭的那所带游廊的房子是什么样子的，因为他一换衣服和祷告起来便没完没了。
The day I arrived at Nanantatee's apartment he was in the act of performing his ablutions, that is to say, he was standing over a dirty bowl trying to work his crooked arm around toward the back of his neck. Beside the bowl was a brass goblet which he used to change the water. He requested me to be silent during the ceremony. I sat there silently, as I was bidden, and watched him as he sang and prayed and spat now and then into the wash bowl. So this is the wonderful suite of rooms he talked about in New York. The Rue Lafayette! It sounded like an important street to me back there in New York. I thought only millionaires and pearl merchants inhabited the street. It sounds wonderful, the Rue Lafayette, when you're on the other side of the water. So does Fifth Avenue, when you're over here. One can't imagine what dumps there are on these swell streets. Anyway, here I am at last, sitting in the gorgeous suite of rooms on the Rue Lafayette. And this crazy duck with his crooked arm is going through the ritual of washing himself. The chair on which I'm sitting is broken, the bedstead is falling apart, the wallpaper is in tatters, there is an open valise under the bed crammed with dirty wash. From where I sit I can glance at the miserable courtyard down below where the aristocracy of the Rue Lafayette sit and smoke their clay pipes. I wonder now, as he chants the doxology, what that bungalow in Darjeeling looks like. It's interminable, his chanting and praying.
 
　　纳南培蒂对我解释说，他必须按照这种规定的方式沐浴，这是他所信仰的宗教要求的。不过到星期日他便在一只锡澡盆里洗澡，他说神灵看到会眨眼睛的。穿好衣服后他便走到碗橱前，跪在摆在第三层上的一个小神像前，一遍遍背诵那些别人听不懂的祷告词。他说，如果你每天都这样祷告便什么事都不会出。
He explains to me that he is obliged to wash in a certain prescribed way - his religion demands it. But on Sundays he takes a bath in the tin tub - the Great I AM will wink at that, he says. When he's dressed he goes to the cupboard, kneels before a little idol on the third shelf, and repeats the mumbo jumbo. If you pray like that every day, he says, nothing will happen to you.
 
　　那位不知名的好心神灵绝不会忘记一个听话的仆人。接着他让我看那条扭曲的胳膊，是在一次出租车事故中撞的，那天他无疑忽略了这套完整的又唱又跳的仪式。他的胳膊活像一只破损的指南针，早已不再是一条胳膊，却成了加上一条胫骨的指关节了。自从这条胳膊修好后他的胳肢窝里就长出一对肿胀的腺体—又肥又小的腺体，同狗的睾丸一模一样。在为自己的痛苦而哀叹的同时他突然又想起医生曾推荐过一个较为宽松的食谱，于是马上恳求我坐下来拟一份有大量鱼肉的菜单。”还有，牡蛎怎么样，安德里？可以用它做小菜。”可是这一切不过只是叫我发馋而已，他根本就不打算替自己买牡蜗、肉、鱼，至少我在这儿期间他不会买。眼下我们得靠吃小扁豆和米饭摄取营养，还有存在顶楼上的各种于货，连上星期买的奶油他也不肯浪费。他炼奶油时散发出的气味叫人受不了，从前他一炼奶油我就得先逃出去，现在倒可以坚持下来了。若是我受不了，把吃到肚里的东西都吐出来，他才高兴哩，那样他可以把我吐出的东西和干面包、发霉的奶酪以及用不新鲜的牛奶加发臭的奶油做的小油饼干一起储存在碗柜里。
The good lord what's his name never forgets an obedient servant. And then he shows me the crooked arm which he got in a taxi accident on a day doubtless when he had neglected to rehearse the complete song and dance. His arm looks like a broken compass; it's not an arm any more, but a knucklebone with a shank attached. Since the arm has been repaired he has developed a pair of swollen glands in the armpit - fat little glands, exactly like a dog's testicles. While bemoaning his plight he remembers suddenly that the doctor had recommended a more liberal diet. He begs me at once to sit down and make up a menu with plenty of fish and meat. "And what about oysters, Endree - for le petit frère?" But all this is only to make an impression on me. He hasn't the slightest intention of buying himself oysters, or meat, or fish. Not as long as I am there, at least. For the time being we are going to nourish ourselves on lentils and rice and all the dry foods he has stored away in the attic. And the butter he bought last week, that won't go to waste either. When he commences to cure the butter the smell is unbearable. I used to run out at first, when he started frying the butter, but now I stick it out. He'd be only too delighted if he could make me vomit up my meal - that would be something else to put away in the cupboard along with the dry bread and the moldy cheese and the little grease cakes that he makes himself out of the stale milk and the rancid butter.
 
　　看来过去五年来他屁事都没干过，一分钱的买卖也没做成，他的生意全完蛋了。他同我谈起印度洋里的珍珠—可以指望凭它过一辈子的大珍珠。他说阿拉伯人把这门生意给毁了，同时每天都向那个某某神祷告，这使他仍抱有一线希望。他跟这位神交情不错，明白如何哄骗他，如何从他那儿骗几个钱用。这全然是一种商业交往，作为每天橱柜前那番恭维话的交换，他得到一份豆子和大蒜，更不用说腋窝里那对肿胀的睾丸了。他坚信最终一切都会变得圆满，那些珠子有朝一日仍会卖出去，也许再过五年，也许再过二十年—等布玛鲁姆神乐意的时候。
For the last five years, so it seems, he hasn't done a stroke of work, hasn't turned over a penny. Business has gone to smash. He talks to me about pearls in the Indian ocean - big fat ones on which you can live for a lifetime. The Arabs are ruining the business, he says. But meanwhile he prays to the lord so and so every day, and that sustains him. He's on a marvelous footing with the deity: knows just how to cajole him, how to wheedle a few sous out of him. It's a pure commercial relationship. In exchange for the flummery before the cabinet every day he gets his ration of beans and garlic, to say nothing of the swollen testicles under his arm. He is confident that everything will turn out well in the end. The pearls will sell again some day, maybe five years hence, maybe twenty - when the Lord Boomaroom wishes it.
 
　　“等买卖又兴隆了，你替我写信就会得到百分之十的利润。不过你先得写封信看看我们是不是能从印度赊帐，等答复得六个月，也许七个月……印度的船开得太慢。”这家伙一点儿时间概念都没有，有时我问他睡得好不好，他便说，”哦，好，安德里，睡得好极了……有时候我三天睡了九十二个钟头。”
"And when the business goes, Endree, you will get ten per cent - for writing the letters. But first Endree, you must write the letter to find out if we can get credit from India. It will take about six months for an answer, maybe seven months … the boats are not fast in India." He has no conception of time at all, the little duck. When I ask him if he has slept well he will say: "Ah, yes, Endree, I sleep very well … I sleep sometimes ninety two hours in three days."
 
　　早上他通常很虚弱，什么事也于不了。他的胳膊！那可怜的、歪七扭八的、丁字形的胳膊！有时看到他把它扭着伸到颈后我便纳闷他怎样把它再放回原处。若不是他腆着一个大肚子，他便会令我忆起梅德尔多马戏团里的一个专作柔体表演的杂技演员，只需要再摔断一条腿就行。每当他见我扫地毯，见到我扬起一大团灰尘，他就像一个小矮人一样咯咯叫开了。”好！干得好极了。现在我要捡起那些难扫的东西了。”这话是说我漏掉了一点灰尘，这是他礼貌地挖苦人的方式。
Mornings he is usually too weak to do any work. His arm! That poor broken crutch of an arm! I wonder sometimes when I see him twisting it around the back of his neck how he will ever get it into place again. If it weren't for that little paunch he carries he'd remind me of one of those contortionists at the Cirque Medrano. All he needs is to break a leg. When he sees me sweeping the carpet, when he sees what a cloud of dust I raise, he begins to cluck like a pygmy. "Good! Very good, Endree. And now I will pick up the knots." That means that there are a few crumbs of dust which I have overlooked; it is a polite way he has of being sarcastic.
Part 7 Chapter 2
下午总有几个从珍珠市上来的老朋友到家里拜访他，全是温文尔雅、满口甜言蜜语的狗东西，全有一对母鹿般含情脉脉的眼睛。他们围坐在桌旁喝花茶，嘴里发出很响的嘶嘶声。这时纳南塔蒂像一个自负的小官吏一样上窜下跳，或是指着地板上的一点点灰尘用油滑的腔调对我说—“请你把它敛起来好吗，安德里？”客人们一到他便故作殷勤地走到橱柜那儿取出干面包片，那还是他一星期前烤的，吃起来有一股强烈的腐烂木头味。哪怕一点儿面包屑也不能扔掉，如果面包变得太酸了，他便拿下楼去给那个看门人，据他自己说这人对他一直很好。也是据他自己说的，这个看门人得到陈面包很高兴，要用它做面包布叮。
 
Afternoons there are always a few cronies from the pearl market dropping in to pay him a visit. They're all very suave, butter tongued bastards with soft, doelike eyes; they sit around the table drinking the perfumed tea with a loud hissing noise while Nanantatee jumps up and down like a jack in-the box or points to a crumb on the floor and says in his smooth slippery voice - "Will you please to pick that up, Endree." When the guests arrive he goes unctuously to the cupboard and gets out the dry crusts of bread which he toasted maybe a week ago and which taste strongly now of the moldy wood. Not a crumb is thrown away. If the bread gets too sour he takes it downstairs to the concierge who, so he says, has been very kind to him. According to him, the concierge is delighted to get the stale bread - she makes bread pudding with it.
 
　　有一天我的朋友阿纳托里来看我，纳南塔蒂很高兴，一定、要挽留阿纳托里喝茶，一定要他尝尝干巴巴的小油饼和陈面包。他说，”你一定天天来教我俄语。很好的语言，俄语……我想学会说俄语。那话是怎么说的—波什特？请你替我把它写下来，安德里……我一定要用打字机把它打出来，叫他看看我的技术。”他在收到撞坏他胳膊的人付的赔偿费后买了这部打字机，医生推荐说这是一种很好的锻炼。不过没过多久他就对打字机腻味了，因为这是一部英国造的打字机。
One day my friend Anatole came to see me. Nanantatee was delighted. Insisted that Anatole stay for tea. Insisted that he try little grease cakes and the stale bread. "You must come every day," he says, "and teach me Russian. Fine language, Russian … I want to speak it. How do you say that again, Endree - borsht? You will write that down for me, please, Endree…" And I must write it on the typewriter, no less, so that he can observe my technique. He bought the typewriter, after he had collected on the bad arm, because the doctor recommended it as a good exercise. But he got tired of the typewriter shortly - it was an English typewriter.
 
　　他听说阿纳托里会弹曼陀铃，便说，”太好了！你一定天天来，教我玩这种乐器。等生意好一点儿了我也要买一只曼陀铃，这对我的胳膊是有好处的。”第二天他从看门人那儿借了一部留声机，”请你教我跳舞，安德里。我的肚子太大了。”我倒希望他有朝一日买一块上等牛排，这样我就可以对他说，”请你替我咬一口，无足轻重先生。我的牙不大好！”
When he learned that Anatole played the mandolin he said: "Very good! You must come every day and teach me the music. I will buy a mandolin as soon as business is better. It is good for my arm." The next day he borrows a phonograph from the concierge. "You will please teach me to dance, Endree. My stomach is too big." I am hoping that he will buy a porterhouse steak some day so that I can say to him: "You will please bite it for me, Mister Nonentity. My teeth are not strong!"
 
　　我刚才说过，自从我来后纳南塔蒂就变得格外挑剔了。他说，”昨天你犯了三个错误，安德里。第一，你忘了关上卫生间的门，里面嗡嗡响了一夜；第二，你让厨房窗子开着，结果今早窗子打破了；第三，你还忘了把奶瓶放出去！睡觉前一定想着把奶瓶放出去，到了早上一定记着把面包端进来。”
As I said a moment ago, ever since my arrival he has become extraordinarily meticulous. "Yesterday," he says, "you made three mistakes, Endree. First, you forgot to close the toilet door and so all night it makes boom boom; second, you left the kitchen window open and so the window is cracked this morning. And you forgot to put out the milk bottle! Always you will put out the milk bottle please, before you go to bed, and in the morning you will please bring in the bread."
 
　　他的朋友凯皮每天来看看有没有来自印度的客人，他等纳南塔蒂出了门便匆忙奔向食品橱，吞下藏在一只玻璃罐里的一条条面包。他坚持说面包已经不新鲜了，不过仍像老鼠一样很快吞下去。凯皮是个小偷、寄生在人身上的虱子，他把自己牢牢地附着在哪怕是最穷的同胞的皮肤上。根据凯皮的观点，这些同胞全是大富豪。为了一支马尼拉雪前和买一杯酒的钱他愿意舔随便哪个印度人的屁股。记住，印度人的屁股，英国人的可不行。他有巴黎每一家妓院的地址，还有价目表，甚至从十法郎一回的下等妓院中他也能得到一笔小小的佣金，他还知道到你想去的地方的最近路线，他先问你愿不愿坐出租车去，如果你不愿，他就提议坐公共汽车，如果觉得车费太贵就坐电车或地铁去。他或许会主动提出步行送你去，节省一两个法郎，因为他很清楚途中一定会路过一家烟铺，你只好给他买一支雪茄。
Every day his friend Kepi drops in to see if any visitors have arrived from India. He waits for Nanantatee to go out and then he scurries to the cupboard and devours the sticks of bread that are hidden away in a glass jar. The food is no good, he insists, but he puts it away like a rat. Kepi is a scrounger, a sort of human tick who fastens himself to the hide of even the poorest compatriot. From Kepi's standpoint they are all nabobs. For a Manila cheroot and the price of a drink he will suck any Hindu's ass. A Hindu's, mind you, but not an Englishman's. He has the address of every whorehouse in Paris, and the rates. Even from the ten franc joints he gets his little commission. And he knows the shortest way to any place you want to go. He will ask you first if you want to go by taxi; if you say no, he will suggest the bus, and if that is too high then the streetcar or the metro. Or he will offer to walk you there and save a franc or two, knowing very well that it will be necessary to pass a tabac on the way and that you will please be so good as to buy me a little cheroot.
 
　　从某种意义上讲，凯皮是个有意思的人，除了每夜同女人睡一觉之外，他根本没有别的野心。他挣的钱少得可怜，却把每一文都掷在舞厅里面了。他在孟买有一个妻子和八个孩子，不过这并不妨碍他向又蠢又没有心眼、上了他的当的女仆求婚。他在孔多塞街有一问小房子，每月付六十法郎房租。墙壁是他自己裱糊的，为此他很自豪。他的钢笔里灌的是紫罗兰色的墨水，因为这种颜色持久些。他自个儿擦皮鞋，熨裤子，洗衣服。为了一支雪茄，你芳称其为”方头雪茄”也行，他乐意领着你走遍整个巴黎。你若站下看一件衬衣或是一颗衬衫领扣，他便马上来精神了。”别在这儿买，”他会说，”他们要价太高。我带你去一个便宜些的铺子。”你还来不及想，他便把你匆匆拉到另一个橱窗前，还是同样的领带、衬衣和衬衫领扣。也许还是原先那间铺子，只是你看不出。凯皮一听到你打算买点儿什么便活跃起来，他问你许多问题，把你拽到许多铺子里去，最后你会不可避免地口渴，只好请他喝一杯。接着你会惊奇地发现又置身于一家烟店里了—也许仍是原先那家—凯皮又油腔滑调地低声说，”请你行行好给我买支雪茄吧！”不论你打算做什么，哪怕只是走到前面拐弯处，凯皮都要帮你省劲儿，他要指给你最近的路，东西最便宜的铺子、菜给得最多的饭馆，因为不管你打算干什么都非经过一家烟店不可。爆发一场革命也好，工厂停工也好，实行检疫隔离也好，晚上舞曲一奏响凯皮一定得赶到”红房子”，”奥林匹亚”或”昂热?鲁日”舞厅去。
Kepi is interesting, in a way, because he has absolutely no ambition except to get a fuck every night. Every penny he makes, and they are damned few, he squanders in the dance halls. He has a wife and eight children in Bombay, but that does not prevent him from proposing marriage to any little femme de chambre who is stupid and credulous enough to be taken in by him. He has a little room on the Rue Condorcet for which he pays sixty francs a month. He papered it all himself. Very proud of it, too. He uses violet-colored ink in his fountain pen because it lasts longer. He shines his own shoes, presses his own pants, does his own laundry. For a little cigar, a cheroot, if you please, he will escort you all over Paris. If you stop to look at a shirt or a collar button his eyes flash. "Don't buy it here," he will say. "They ask too much. I will show you a cheaper place." And before you have time to think about it he will whisk you away and deposit you before another show window where there are the same ties and shirts and collar buttons - maybe it's the very same store! but you don't know the difference. When Kepi hears that you want to buy something his soul becomes animated. He will ask you so many questions and drag you to so many places that you are bound to get thirsty and ask him to have a drink, whereupon you will discover to your amazement that you are again standing in a tabac - maybe the same tabac! - and Kepi is saying again in that small unctuous voice: "Will you please be so good as to buy me a little cheroot?" No matter what you propose doing, even if it's only to walk around the corner, Kepi will economize for you. Kepi will show you the shortest way, the cheapest place, the biggest dish, because whatever you have to do you must pass a tabac, and whether there is a revolution or a lockout or a quarantine Kepi must be at the Moulin Rouge or the Olympia or the Ange Rouge when the music strikes up.
 
　　那天他带来一本书让我看，书中讲的是一位神职人员和一家印度报纸的编辑之间一场广为人知的官司。似乎是编辑公开指责神职人员生活堕落，还进一步指控这位神职人员有性玻凯皮说准是梅毒，纳南塔蒂却断言是淋病，在纳南塔蒂口中，一切都得稍微添油加醋一番。究竟是什么病谁也无从得知，纳南塔蒂开心地说，”安德里，请你说说书上讲些什么。我没法看，我的胳膊痛。”接着，为了给我鼓劲儿他又说，”这是本讲睡女人的好书，凯皮是为你拿来的。他什么都不想，专想姑娘，他睡过那么多姑娘—正像克里什纳一样。我们不大相信这件过一会儿他带我上顶楼去，这儿塞满了从印度运来的锡罐和破烂，裹在粗麻布和厚纸里。他说，”我把姑娘们带到这儿来。…接着又郁郁不乐地补充道，”我跟女人睡觉不太拿手，安德里。
The other day he brought a book for me to read. It was about a famous suit between a holy man and the editor of an Indian paper. The editor, it seems had openly accused the holy man of leading a scandalous life; he went further, and accused the holy man of being diseased. Kepi says it must have been the great French pox, but Nanantatee avers that it was the Japanese clap. For Nanantatee everything has to be a little exaggerated. At any rate, says Nanantatee cheerily: "You will please tell me what it says, Endree. I can't read the book - it hurts my arm." Then, by way of encouraging me - "it is a fine book about the fucking, Endree. Kepi has brought it for you. He thinks about nothing but the girls. So many girls he fucks - just like Krishna. We don't believe in that business, Endree…"
 
　　现在我已不再跟她们睡了，只是搂着她们说说那些话，现在我只愿说那些话了。”没有必要再听他说下去了，我知道他又要讲起他的胳膊了，我看到他躺着，撞断的胳膊在床的一侧荡来荡去。叫我吃惊的是他又添了一句，”我睡女人没有多大本事，我从来就不是一个好嫖客。我兄弟才叫棒呢！每天三次，天天如此。凯皮也不错—同克里什纳一样。”
A little later he takes me upstairs to the attic which is loaded down with tin cans and crap from India wrapped in burlap and firecracker paper. "Here is where I bring the girls," he says. And then rather wistfully: "I am not a very good fucker, Endree. I don't screw the girls any more. I hold them in my arms and I say the words. I like only to say the words now." It isn't necessary to listen any further: I know that he is going to tell me about his arm. I can see him lying there with that broken hinge dangling from the side of the bed. But to my surprise he adds: "I am no good for the fucking, Endree. I never was a very good fucker. My brother, he is good! Three times a day, every day! And Kepi, he is good - just like Krishna."
 
　　现在他的思想都集中在这件”嫖的事情”上。到了楼下那间小房子里，他跪在敞开的食品橱前向我讲述一度有钱、他太太和孩子们都在这儿时的情景。每逢假日他便带太太到万国宫租一个房间过夜，每间房子的式样都迎然不同，他太太很喜欢那儿。”那是一个嫖的好地方，安德里，我知道所有的房间我们正呆在里面的小房间的墙上贴满了照片，家族中每一分支都有照片，严然是印度国的缩影。这个家系图上的大部分成员看起来犹如枯萎的树叶，女人们都显得弱不禁风，目光里有一种战战兢兢、担惊受怕的神情，而男人却显得机警、聪明，一副受过教育的黑猩猩的派头。他们全在这儿了，大约有九十人，照片上还有白色的阉公牛、牛粪饼，他们枯瘦的腿、老式眼镜，偶尔人们还在照片背景上看到一片干燥的土地、一截就要倒坍的墙、一座胳膊弯曲的神像，那是一种人形的蜈蚣。这幅人物群像有一种十分怪诞、非常不谐调的气氛，看到它的人不可避免地会想起从喜马拉雅山脉一直延伸到锡兰山巅的一大串寺庙。这是一大批建筑物，美得叫人惊叹不已，同时却又显得很可怕，是丑恶的恐怖。这是肥沃的土地引起的联想，已耗尽印度国土的无数阴谋使这片土地也变得动荡不安。瞧瞧这些寺庙前熙熙攘攘的纷乱人群，一个人便会受这些黑皮肤的英俊民族的极大感染，这些民族在过去三千年或更长的时间里通过性交将自己的家谱神秘地同别的民族融合在一起。这些赢弱的男女的目光炯炯有神，从照片里射出来，他们像那些英武有力的塑像投下的消瘦影子，这些石塑的、壁画上画的人物遍布整个印度，以便让在这儿相互融合的各个种族的英雄神话传说永远长存，留在同胞们心中。我看到的只是这石雕的广阔梦境的一个片断，这些就要倒塌的呆板的大厦上装饰着宝石，凝聚着人类的精液。这令人眼花综乱的种种奇思遐想叫我全然沉溺于其中，也使不同人种的五亿人民表现出他们最微妙的渴求。
His mind is fixed now on the "fucking business." Downstairs, in the little room where he kneels before the open cabinet, he explains to me how it was when he was rich and his wife and the children were here. On holidays he would take his wife to the House of All Nations and hire a room for the night. Every room was appointed in a different style. His wife liked it there very much. "A wonderful place for the fucking, Endree. I know all the rooms…"The walls of the little room in which we are sitting are crammed with photographs. Every branch of the family is represented, it is like a cross section of the Indian empire. For the most part the members of this genealogical tree look like withered leaves: the women are frail and they have a startled, frightened look in their eyes: the men have a keen, intelligent look, like educated chimpanzees. They are all there, about ninety of them, with their white bullocks, their dung cakes, their skinny legs, their old fashioned spectacles; in the background, now and then, one catches a glimpse of the parched soil, of a crumbling pediment, of an idol with crooked arms, a sort of human centipede. There is something so fantastic, so incongruous about this gallery that one is reminded inevitably of the great spawn of temples which stretch from the Himalayas to the tip of Ceylon, a vast jumble of architecture, staggering in beauty and at the same time monstrous, hideously monstrous because the fecundity which seethes and ferments in the myriad ramifications of design seems to have exhausted the very soil of India itself. Looking at the seething hive of figures which swarm the fa?ades of the temples one is overwhelmed by the potency of those dark, handsome peoples who mingled their mysterious streams in a sexual embrace that has lasted thirty centuries or more. These frail men and women with piercing eyes who stare out of the photographs seem like the emaciated shadows of those virile, massive figures who incarnated themselves in stone and fresco from one end of India to the other in order that the heroic myths of the races who here intermingled should remain forever entwined in the hearts of their countrymen. When I look at only a fragment of these spacious dreams of stone, these toppling, sluggish edifices studded with gems, coagulated with human sperm, I am overwhelmed by the dazzling splendor of those imaginative flights which enabled half a billion people of diverse origins to thus incarnate the most fugitive expressions of their longing.
Part 7 Chapter 3
纳南塔蒂现在嘈叨起他那个生孩子时死去的妹妹来，种种难以说明的、乱七八糟的怪念头一起涌上了我的心头。她也在墙上的照片上，一个十二三岁；又瘦又羞怯的小姑娘，拉着一个糊涂老头的胳膊。十岁时她就嫁给了这个老色鬼，这老家伙已经埋葬掉五个老婆了。她生了七个孩子，自己死去时却只剩下一个孩子还活着。把她嫁给这老丑八怪是为了保住家里的珍珠，据纳南塔蒂说，她快死去时对医生低声说，”我已对跟男人睡觉厌倦了……我不愿再睡下去受罪了，大夫。”纳南塔蒂对我讲述这段往事时神情严肃地用那只枯萎的手搔搔头。他说，”安德里，跟人睡觉是一桩很糟糕的事情。我要教给你一个词，它可以叫你永远吉祥如意。你一定要天天念，一遍遍地念，一定要念上一百遍。这是天下最好的一个词，安德里……现在念……OOMAHARUMOOMA！”
It is a strange, inexplicable medley of feelings which assails me now as Nanantatee prattles on about the sister who died in childbirth. There she is on the wall, a frail, timid thing of twelve or thirteen clinging to the arm of a dotard. At ten years of age she was given in wedlock to this old roué who had already buried five wives. She had seven children, only one of whom survived her. She was given to the aged gorilla in order to keep the pearls in the family. As she was passing away, so Nanantatee puts it, she whispered to the doctor: "I am tired of this fucking… I don't want to fuck any more, doctor." As he relates this to me he scratches his head solemnly with his withered arm. "The fucking business is bad, Endree," he says. "But I will give you a word that will always make you lucky; you must say it every day, over and over, a million times you must say it. It is the best word there is, Endree … say it now …OOMAHARUMOOMA!"
 
　　“OOMARABOO……”
"OOMARABOO…"
 
　　“不对，安德里……是这样的……OOMAHARU-MOOMA!””…OMAMABOOABA……””不对，……是这样的……”
……
"No, Endree … like this … OOMAHARUMOOMA!"
"OOMAMABOOMBA…"
"No, Endree … like this…."
…
 
然而，花了一个月纳南塔蒂才偷偷赶到了前头，他每星期要记住比一个词更多的东西还是有困难的—光线不好、书的印刷很拙劣、封面破烂不堪、书页撕破了、笨拙的翻书手指、跳狐步舞的跳蚤、埋伏在床上的虱于、他舌头上的泡沫、时常带的几分醉意、嗓子眼哽住了、酒壶里的酒、发痒的手掌、呼味呼味呼吸时的痛苦、疲惫得坠入雾中的脑瓜、良心的抽搐，盛怒，肛门里喷出的气体、胃中的火、发痒的屁股、顶楼上的老鼠以及耳朵里的喧嚣声和尘土。
But what with the murky light, the botchy print, the tattered cover, the jigjagged page, the fumbling fingers, the fox trotting fleas, the lie a bed lice, the scum on his tongue, the drop in his eye, the lump in his throat, the drink in his pottle, the itch in his palm, the wail of his wind, the grief from his breath, the fog of his brainfag, the tic of his conscience, the height of his rage, the gush of his fundament, the fire in his gorge, the tickle of his tail, the rats in his garret, the hullabaloo and the dust in his ears, since it took him a month to steal a march, he was hard set to memorize more than a word a week.
 
　　若不是命运之神的干预，估计我永远也摆脱不了纳南塔蒂的摆布。碰巧，一天夜里凯皮问我愿不愿带他的一个顾客去附近一家妓院。这个年轻人刚从印度来，手头比较拈据。他是圣雄甘地手下的人，”食盐纠纷”期间向海边历史性进军的队伍中的一员。他曾发誓不近酒色，不过我得说他是甘地的一位非常好色的信徒，而且显然很久没有碰过女人了。我能做的只是把他领到拉费里埃大街为止，他活像一条伸出舌头的狗，而且简直就是一个自负、虚荣的小鬼！他穿一身灯芯绒西装，戴顶贝雷帽，拿根手杖，打条丝质宽领带。他还买了两支钢笔、一部小照相机和一些花哨的内衣，花的钱是孟买的商人们捐赠的—他们要送他去英国传播甘地的教义。
I suppose I would never have gotten out of Nanantatee's clutches if fate hadn't intervened. One night, as luck would have it, Kepi asked me if I wouldn't take one of his clients to a whorehouse nearby. The young man had just come from India and he had not very much money to spend. He was one of Gandhi's men, one of that little band who made the historic march to the sea during the salt trouble. A very gay disciple of Gandhi's I must say, despite the vows of abstinence he had taken. Evidently he hadn't looked at a woman for ages. It was all I could do to get him as far as the Rue Laferrière; he was like a dog with his tongue hanging out. And a pompous, vain little devil to boot! He had decked himself out in a corduroy suit, a beret, a cane, a Windsor tie; he had bought himself two fountain pens, a kodak, and some fancy underwear. The money he was spending was a gift from the merchants of Bombay; they were sending him to England to spread the gospel of Gandhi.
 
　　一进汉密尔顿小姐的妓院他就无法自待了，他看到身边围着的一群赤裸裸的女人，便惊恐万状地望着我。我说，”挑一个，你可以随便挑。”他慌得茫然不知所措，竟不敢看她们一眼。他的脸胀得通红，小声道，”你替我挑好了。”于是我不慌不忙地审视她们一番，挑出一个身段很丰满的年轻小妞，看来她的身体不错。我们在接待室中坐下等饮料送来，鸨儿问我为什么不也找个姑娘。那个年轻的印度人便附和道，”对了，你也挑一个。 我不想独自跟她呆在一起。”于是鸨儿又把姑娘们全领进来，我替自个儿也挑了一个，一个个头挺高、挺瘦、生了一对悲戚戚眼睛的姑娘。过后众人都走了，只把我们四个留在接待室里。过了一会儿，那位青年甘地俯过身来耳语了几句。我说，”行啊，你若是喜欢她，就带她去吧。”于是我很为难、相当不好意思地对两个姑娘解释说我和印度人想调换女伴。我马上看出我们这是失礼，可我的年轻朋友此刻已经激动了、发情了，什么也顾不得了，只有快上楼去干完那件事拉倒。
Once inside Miss Hamilton's joint he began to lose his sang-froid. When suddenly he found himself surrounded by a bevy of naked women he looked at me in consternation. "Pick one out," I said. "You can have your choice." He had become so rattled that he could scarcely look at them. "You do it for me," he murmured, blushing violently. I looked them over coolly and picked out a plump young wench who seemed full of feathers. We sat down in the reception room and waited for the drinks. The madam wanted to know why I didn't take a girl also. "Yes, you take one too," said the young Hindu. "I don't want to be alone with her." So the girls were brought in again and I chose one for myself, a rather tall, thin one with melancholy eyes. We were left alone, the four of us, in the reception room. After a few moments my young Gandhi leans over and whispers something in my ear. "Sure, if you like her better, take her," I said, and so, rather awkwardly and considerably embarrassed, I explained to the girls that we would like to switch. I saw at once that we had made a faux pas, but by now my young friend had become gay and lecherous and nothing would do but to get upstairs quickly and have it over with.
 
　　我进了两间紧挨着的屋子，中间有一个门相通。我估计我的伙伴打算在满足了迫切的、急不可耐的欲望后还要再跟我把姑娘换回去。姑娘们刚刚离开屋子去作准备我便听到他在敲门，他问，”请问卫生问在哪儿？”我没有想到事情的严重性，便劝他在坐浴盆里方便。姑娘们手里拿着毛巾回来了，我听到印度人在隔壁房间里格格傻笑。
We took adjoining rooms with a connecting door between. I think my companion had in mind to make another switch once he had satisfied his sharp, gnawing hunger. At any rate, no sooner had the girls left the room to prepare themselves than I hear him knocking on the door. "Where is the toilet, please?" he asks. Not thinking that it was anything serious I urge him to do in the bidet. The girls return with towels in their hands. I hear him giggling in the next room.
 
　　正穿裤子，我猛然听到隔壁传来一阵骚动，那位姑娘在高声叫骂，骂他是猪猡，是一头肮脏的猪。我弄不明白他究竟干了什么，居然叫姑娘发这么大的脾气。我一只脚伸在裤腿里全神贯注地倾听，他试图用英语向她解释，嗓门越提越高，最后尖声叫起来。
As I'm putting on my pants suddenly I hear a commotion in the next room. The girl is bawling him out, calling him a pig, a dirty little pig. I can't imagine what he has done to warrant such an outburst. I'm standing there with one foot in my trousers listening attentively. He's trying to explain to her in English, raising his voice louder and louder until it becomes a shriek.
 
　　我又听到一扇门呼地摔上了，接着鸨儿猛冲进我的房间，脸红得像甜菜，两只胳膊疯狂地乱比划。她尖叫道，”你应该害臊，竟把这样的人带到我这儿来！他是野人……他是猪……他是……”这时我的伙伴站在她身后，恰好在门口，脸上一副极其狼狈的表情。我问他，”你都干了些什么？”
I hear a door slam and in another moment the madam bursts into my room, her face as red as a beet, her arms gesticulating wildly. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," she screams, "bringing a man like that to my place! He's a barbarian … he's a pig … he's a…!" My companion is standing behind her, in the doorway, a look of utmost discomfiture on his face. "What did you do?" I ask.
 
　　“他干了些什么？”鸨儿嚷道。”我带你去看……随我来！”她抓住我的胳膊把我拽到隔壁屋里。”看呀！看呀！”她高声叫着指给我看坐浴盆。
"What did he do?" yells the madam. "I'll show you… Come here!" And grabbing me by the arm she drags me into the next room. "There! There!" she screams, pointing to the bidet.
 
　　“走，咱们走。”印度小伙子说。
"Come on, let's get out," says the Hindu boy.
 
　　“等一下，你不能就这样轻轻松松一走了事。”
"Wait a minute, you can't get out as easily as all that."
 
　　鸨儿站在坐浴盆旁，气得唾沫星子乱飞，两个姑娘也站在那儿，手里捏着毛巾。我们五人都站着看那只坐浴盆，只见盆里水中漂着两截极粗的大便。鸨儿俯下身去在盆上盖了一块毛巾，”可怕！真可怕！”她哭喊道，”我从未见过这种事情！一头猪！一头肮脏的猪！”印度人以责备的目光望着我道，”你早该告诉我的！我不知道它冲不下去。我问你该去哪儿，是你告诉我用这个的。”他都快哭了。
The madam is standing by the bidet, fuming and spitting. The girls are standing there too, with towels in their hands. The five of us are standing there looking at the bidet. There are two enormous turds floating in the water. The madam bends down and puts a towel over it. "Frightful! Frightful!" she wails. "Never have I seen anything like this! A pig! A dirty little pig!" The Hindu boy looks at me reproachfully. "You should have told me!" he says. "I didn't know it wouldn't go down. I asked you where to go and you told me to use that." He is almost in tears.
 
后来鸨儿把我拉到一边，现在她已经理智一点儿了。不论怎样，这只是一场误会。兴许两位先生愿意下楼去再喝一杯—为了两个姑娘，她俩都吓坏了，她们没有经历过这类事情。假如两位好先生愿意酬劳那个女仆一下……那个，那滩东西，那滩脏东西女仆收拾起来可不是什么愉快的事儿。她耸耸肩头，挤挤眼睛。这是一桩可悲的事情，不过也是一次意外事故。先生们在这儿稍等一下，女仆马上就端酒来。先生们来点儿香槟怎样？好吗？
Finally the madam takes me to one side. She has become a little more reasonable now. After all, it was a mistake. Perhaps the gentlemen would like to come downstairs and order another drink - for the girls. It was a great shock to the girls. They are not used to such things. And if the good gentlemen will be so land as to remember the femme de chambre… It is not so pretty for the femme de chambre - that mess, that ugly mess. She shrugs her shoulders and winks her eye. A lamentable incident. But an accident. If the gentlemen will wait here a few moments the maid wiill bring the drinks. Would the gentlemen like to have some champagne? Yes?
 
　　“我想离开这儿。”印度人有气无力地说。
"I'd like to get out of here," says the Hindu boy weakly.
 
　　“别太难过，”鸨儿说，”事情已经过去了。有时会出错的，下一回你就会问卫生间在哪儿了。”她继续谈到卫生间—似乎是每层楼有一间，还有一间浴室。她说，”我有很多英国客人，都是绅士。这位先生是印度人？印度人是很可爱的民族，那么聪明，那么漂亮。”
"Don't feel so badly about it," says the madam. "It is all over now. Mistakes will happen sometimes. Next time you will ask for the toilet." She goes on about the toilet - one on every floor, it seems. And a bathroom too. "I have lots of English clients," she says. "They are all gentlemen. The gentleman is a Hindu? Charming people, the Hindus. So intelligent. So handsome."
 
　　待我们走到街上，这位可爱的青年绅士差一点哭出声来。他很懊悔买了一套灯芯绒衣服、一根手杖和两支钢笔，他讲起发过的八个誓—不饮酒之类的八戒。向丹地海岸跋涉途中他们连一碟冰淇淋都不准吃。他还给我讲了纺车的故事—圣雄甘地手下的一小批不合作主义者如何效法他们的宗师的献身精神。他自豪他讲述了自己怎样在甘地身边步行，同甘地谈话，于是我产生了一种幻觉，仿佛自己正同那稣的十二门徒之一呆在一起。
When we get into the street the charming young gentleman is almost weeping. He is sorry now that he bought a corduroy suit and the cane and the fountain pens. He talks about the eight vows that he took, the control of the palate, etc. On the march to Dandi even a plate of ice cream it was forbidden to take. He tells me about the spinning wheel - how the little band of Satyagrahists imitated the devotion of their master. He relates with pride how he walked beside the master and conversed with him. I have the illusion of being in the presence of one of the twelve disciples.
 
　　以后几天我们经常见面，他要安排同新闻记者会面，还要给在巴黎的印度人演讲。看到这些没有脊梁骨的恶魔互相使唤倒也有趣，同样有趣的是看到他们一涉及到具体事务便束手无策，这些小气而又卑鄙的对手们互相猜忌、滥施阴谋。无论哪儿有十个印度人呆在一起就准会出现一个包含各种团体和宗派的小印度，充满种族、语言、宗教和政治上的对立。在甘地的感召下他们尚能暂时奇迹般地抱成一团，一旦甘地去世便会出现分裂，重新患上内部纷争和混乱这个印度人的痼疾。
During the next few days we see a good deal of each other, there are interviews to be arranged with the newspaper men and lectures to be given to the Hindus of Paris. It is amazing to see how these spineless devils order one another about; amazing also to see how ineffectual they are in all that concerns practical affairs. And the jealousy and the intrigues, the petty, sordid rivalries. Wherever there are ten Hindus together there is India with her sects and schisms, her racial, lingual, religious, political antagonisms. In the person of Gandhi they are experiencing for a brief moment the miracle of unity, but when he goes there will be a crash, an utter relapse into that strife and chaos so characteristic of the Indian people.
 
　　这位印度青年自然是乐观的，他到过美国并且受到美国人廉价理想主义的不良影响，他被蛊惑了，被无处不在的浴缸、卖小摆设的五分一角商店、熙熙攘攘的人群、高效率、机械化、高工资、免费图书馆等蛊惑了。他的理想是把印度美国化，他根本不赞同甘地的倒退狂热，他说，”前进”，像”基督教青年会”会员那样前进。听他讲述美国观感后我看出指望甘地实现那个必将彻底击败命运安排的奇迹是十分荒谬的。印度的敌手不是英国，而是美国。印度的敌手是时代精神，是时钟上一只不能拨回的指针。没有什么能帮助消除这种毒死整个世界的病毒，美国即意味着毁灭的厄运，她会把全世界拉入无底深渊。
The young Hindu, of course, is optimistic. He has been to America and he has been contaminated by the cheap idealism of the Americans, contaminated by the ubiquitous bathtub, the five-and-ten-cent store bric a brac, the bustle, the efficiency, the machinery, the high wages, the free libraries, etc., etc. His ideal would be to Americanize India. He is not at all pleased with Gandhi's retrogressive mania. Forward, he says, just like a YMCA man. As I listen to his tales of America I see how absurd it is to expect of Gandhi that miracle which will deroute the trend of destiny. India's enemy is not England, but America. India's enemy is the time spirit, the hand which cannot be turned back. Nothing will avail to offset this virus which is poisoning the whole world. America is the very incarnation of doom. She will drag the whole world down to the bottomless pit.
 
　　这个印度人认为美国人是一个非常容易上当受骗的民族，他讲起那些曾资助过他的、容易轻信的人—教友派教徒、唯一神教派教徒、通神学者、新思想者、安息日会的会员，等等。这个机灵的年轻人懂得如何见风使舵，他会在适当的时机叫泪水涌出眼眶。他懂得如何募集捐款、如何哀求牧师的太太、如何向母亲和女儿同时调情。乍一看，你会以为他是一位圣人，而他也的确是现代的新潮圣人，一位受过玷污的圣人，他能一口气讲一大串关于爱情、友爱、浴缸、卫生设备和效率之类的事。
He thinks the Americans are a very gullible people. He tells me about the credulous souls who succored him there - the Quakers, the Unitarians, the Theosophists, the New Thoughters, the Seventh day Adventists, etc. He knew where to sail his boat, this bright young man. He knew how to make the tears come to his eyes at the right moment; he knew how to take up a collection, how to appeal to the minister's wife, how to make love to the mother and daughter at the same time. To look at him you would think him a saint. And he is a saint, in the modern fashion; a contaminated saint who talks in one breath of love, brotherhood, bathtubs, sanitation, efficiency, etc.
 
　　他在巴黎逗留的最后一夜都奉献给”嫖的事情”了。白天他的日程全排满了—出席会议、拟电文、会晤、让报纸记者拍照、情意缠绵的道别、向组织里的中坚分子提出忠告，等等，等等。到吃晚饭时他决定把烦恼暂且抛在一边，他叫了香槟酒下饭，他朝侍者噼噼啪啪捻手指，总之他的举止正符合他的身份—一个粗莽的小乡巴佬。好玩的地方已去得够多的了，他便提议由我带他去一个原始一点儿的场所，他情愿去一个非常便宜的地方，一次叫上两三个姑娘。于是我带他沿着夏佩尔林荫大道走，一路上不停地告诫他小心钱包。在奥贝尔维勒附近我们闯进一家下等妓院，身边立即围上一群姑娘。没过几分钟他就在同一个光屁股姑娘跳舞了，这是一个大块头金发女郎，肥得下巴上尽是皱榴。有十几次我看到镶满整个房间的镜子里映出她的屁股，印度人黑瘦的手指执拗地搂着她。桌上摆满了啤酒杯，钢琴在喘息。没有主顾的姑娘都静静地坐在皮椅子上，像一窝黑猩猩一样默默地搔痒。这儿似乎有一种被压抑的混乱气氛，一种被压制下去的暴力行为，仿佛期待中的爆炸需要某种十分细微的细节安排，某种细微而又全然无准备、完全不可预见的东西。这种迷迷糊糊的幻想状态既允许一个人置身于一个事件之中又叫他保持冷漠，在这种状态中那尚未可知的小小细节开始模糊而又执著地凝聚，形成怪异的晶体，像窗子上结的霜，那些霜样的晶体显得这么怪诞，这么彻底无拘无束，这么奇形怪状，然而它们的命运却要由最最严酷的自然法则操纵，而我心中产生的感情亦是一样。它也要服从一些不可抗拒的规律。
The last night of his sojourn in Paris is given up to "the fucking business." He has had a full program all day - conferences, cablegrams, interviews, photographs for the newspapers, affectionate farewells, advice to the faithful, etc., etc. At dinner time he decides to lay aside his troubles. He orders champagne with the meal, he snaps his fingers at the gar?on and behaves in general like the boorish little peasant that he is. And since he has had a bellyful of all the good places he suggests now that I show him something more primitive. He would like to go to a very cheap place, order two or three girls at once. I steer him along the Boulevard de la Chapelle warning him all the while to be careful of his pocketbook Around Aubervilliers we duck into a cheap dive and immediately we've got a flock of them on our hands. In a few minutes he's dancing with a naked wench, a huge blonde with creases in her jowls. I can see her ass reflected a dozen times in the mirrors that line the room - and those dark, bony fingers of his clutching her tenaciously. The table is full of beer glasses, the mechanical piano is wheezing and gasping. The girls who are unoccupied are sitting placidly on the leather benches, scratching themselves peacefully just like a family of chimpanzees. There is a sort of subdued pandemonium in the air, a note of repressed violence, as if the awaited explosion required the advent of some utterly minute detail, something microscopic but thoroughly unpremeditated, completely unexpected. In that sort of half reverie which permits one to participate in an event and yet remain quite aloof, the little detail which was lacking began obscurely but insistently to coagulate, to assume a freakish, crystalline form, like the frost which gathers on the windowpane. And like those frost patterns which seem so bizarre, so utterly free and fantastic in design, but which are nevertheless determined by the most rigid laws, so this sensation which commenced to take form inside me seemed also to be giving obedience to ineluctable laws.
 
　　我的整个生命要服从环境的支配，这是它以前不曾经历过的。可以称作是我身体躯壳的东西好像在缩孝在压缩，平常干瘪的肌体也在蜷缩，其表皮只能感觉到神经末梢的调节。
My whole being was responding to the dictates of an ambience which it had never before experienced; that which I could call myself seemed to be contracting, condensing, shrinking from the stale, customary boundaries of the flesh whose perimeter knew only the modulations of the nerve ends.
Part 7 Chapter 4
我的实质越真实，越实在，近在咫尺，看得见摸得着的、把我挤出来的现实也就变得越微妙、越不可捉摸，我越来越固定不变，而我眼前的景物却以同样的程度越来越膨胀。紧张状态达到了无以复加的程度，再加上一丁点儿外力，哪怕是极小的一点也会粉碎一切。在极短的一刹那间，我体验到了那种超然的明晰，据说只有癫痫病人才具有这种洞察力。我完全丧失了时间和空间幻觉，与此同时世界沿着一条没有轴的子午线在上演它的戏。在这转瞬即逝的永恒中我觉得一切都有道理，都是完全顺理成章的，我还体验到将这一团乱七八糟的东西都抛在后面的内心中的激烈思想斗争。我感到罪恶在这里蠢蠢欲动，要在明天大吵大闹地出现。我感到了如在柞臼中被捣碎的苦痛，感到了掩面痛哭的悲痛。在时间的子午线上毫无正义可言，只有创造了真实和戏剧幻党的行动诗篇。无论何时何地，人们一旦同无限的宇宙相遇，那种使释迎牟尼和耶稣显得像神的大慈大悲精神就荡然无存。可怖的事情井非人类从这堆粪中创造出了玫瑰花，而是他们出于这样或那样的原因居然想要玫瑰花。人类出于这样或那样的原因在寻找奇迹，为了达到目的他们不惜从血泊中涉过。他们用各种主义使自己败坏，他们乐意叫自己缩为一个影子—只要一生中有一秒钟可以闭上眼睛回避令人厌恶的现实。丢脸、耻辱、穷困、战争、犯罪、无聊—一切都被忍受着，因为他们坚信一夜之间会发生某种事情，会出现一个使生活变得可以忍受的奇迹。与此同时，人体内有一只仪表在走，没有人能伸手进去关上它。有人在吃生命之面包，饮生命之酒，与此同时有位肮脏、肥蟑螂一样的牧师躲在地下室里大吃大喝，这时地面上的街灯下有一个鬼影似的主人咂咂嘴唇，血像水一样淡。在没完没了的折磨和苦难中没有奇迹出现，甚至连慰藉人的一垦半点都没有。只有思想，苍白无力，必须靠屠杀养肥自己的思想，像胆汁一样产生的思想，像猪的肚子被划开会露出来的内脏。
And the more substantial, the more solid the core of me became, the more delicate and extravagant appeared the close, palpable reality out of which I was being squeezed. In the measure that I became more and more metallic, in the same measure the scene before my eyes became inflated. The state of tension was so finely drawn now that the introduction of a single foreign particle, even a microscopic particle, as I say, would have shattered everything. For the fraction of a second perhaps I experienced that utter clarity which the epileptic, it is said, is given to know. In that moment I lost completely the illusion of time and space: the world unfurled its drama simultaneously along a meridian which had no axis. In this sort of hair trigger eternity I felt that everything was justified, supremely justified; I felt the wars inside me that had left behind this pulp and wrack; I felt the crimes that were seething here to emerge tomorrow in blatant screamers; I felt the misery that was grinding itself out with pestle and mortar, the long dull misery that dribbles away in dirty handkerchiefs. On the meridian of time there is no injustice: there is only the poetry of motion creating the illusion of truth and drama. If at any moment anywhere one comes face to face with the absolute, that great sympathy which makes men like Gautama and Jesus seem divine freezes away; the monstrous thing is not that men have created roses out of this dung heap, but that, for some reason or other, they should want roses. For some reason or other man looks for the miracle, and to accomplish it he will wade through blood. He will debauch himself with ideas, he will reduce himself to a shadow if for only one second of his life he can close his eyes to the hideousness of reality. Everything is endured - disgrace, humiliation, poverty, war, crime, ennui - in the belief that overnight something will occur, a miracle, which will render life tolerable. And all the while a meter is running inside and there is no hand that can reach in there and shut it off. All the while someone is eating the bread of life and drinking the wine, some dirty fat cockroach of a priest who hides away in the cellar guzzling it, while up above in the light of the street a phantom host touches the lips and the blood is pale as water. And out of the endless torment and misery no miracle comes forth, no microscopic vestige of relief. Only ideas, pale, attenuated ideas which have to be fattened by slaughter; ideas which come forth like bile, like the guts of a pig when the carcass is ripped open.
 
　　于是我想到，假如这个人类永远朝思暮想的奇迹原来什么也不是，只是甘地的这位忠实弟子在坐浴盆里拉的两截粗粗的大便，那将是怎样的一个奇迹埃假如在宴会桌已摆好，吃饭的铃声已响起了最后一刹那，在事先并没有告知大家的情况下一只大银盘突然端上来，连瞎于也可以看到上面不偏不倚、不歪不斜地摆着两截粗粗的大便—我认为这才是最叫人惊叹不已的奇迹，比人们盼望的任何奇迹更刺激。大家都不会预料到，所以说这是叫人惊叹不已的。它又是比最最荒诞的奇思异想更叫人惊叹不己的，因为虽然人人都可能猜到这种可能性，却没有一个人猜中，而且今后也不见得会有人猜中。
And so I think what a miracle it would be if this miracle which man attends eternally should turn out to be nothing more than these two enormous turds which the faithful disciple dropped in the bidet. What if at the last moment, when the banquet table is set and the cymbals clash, there should appear suddenly, and wholly without warning, a silver platter on which even the blind could see that there is nothing more, and nothing less, than two enormous lumps of shit. That, I believe would be more miraculous than anything which man has looked forward to. It would be miraculous because it would be undreamed of. It would be more miraculous than even the wildest dream because anybody could imagine the possibility but nobody ever has, and probably nobody ever again will.
 
　　不知怎么搞的，意识到没有一件事情是有指望的倒对我产生了有益的影响。多少个星期、多少个月、多少年来，实际上是一辈子，我一直在盼望发生什么事情—会改变我的生活的外来事件。现在，猛然受到样样皆没有指望的事情的启发，我觉得如释重负，觉得肩上一个沉重负担已卸下。黎明时我同这个年轻的印度人分手，事先向他讨了够租一间房的几个法郎。朝蒙帕纳斯走去时我打定主意让自己随波逐流，对命运不做一点儿抵抗，不管它是凶是吉。迄今为止，在我身上发生的一切尚不足以毁灭我，除了我的梦幻，它现在也还不曾毁掉什么。我未受损害，这个世界也未受损害。明天也许会爆发一场革命，出现一场瘟疫，发生一场地震，明天也许不会剩下一个可以向他寻求同情，帮助和信任的人。我认为这场大灾难已经显露出迹象，我再也不会像此时此刻这样真的一人独处。我打定主意什么也不再坚持，什么也不再指望，从今以后我要像牲口一样生活，像一只猛兽，一个流浪汉、一个强盗。即使宣战，我又命中注定要上前线，我也会抓起刺刀去戮，一直戮到刀柄。如果那天的命令是强奸女人，那么我就会不遗余力地去强奸。就在此刻，就在新的一天到来的这宁静黎明之际，这个世界不是充满着罪恶和悲伤吗，可曾有哪一人类天性中的成分被历史无休止的进程所改变，根本地、重大地改变？实情是，人类被他称之为自己天性中较好的那一部分叛卖了，在精神的极限上，人类再次发现自己像野人一样赤裸着身子。可以说，当人类找到上帝时他们自己被剔光了肉，成为一个骨架。为了重新长上肉，他必须再活一遭。”上帝”这个词一定得变成肉，这是灵魂的渴求。不论我的眼睛看到了多么碎的面包屑，我都要猛扑上去把它吞下去。若是活着便是至高无上的，我就活着，哪怕为此一定要成为一个吃人生番也罢。直到现在我一直在设法保住我这宝贵的臭皮囊，保住包着骨头的那几块肉。这种生活该完结了，我已忍到极限，我的背已贴到墙上，无法再后退。就历史的演变来说我已死去，倘若还有什么希望我只好再赶回来。我找到了上帝，但上帝也无济于事。我只是在精神上死了，肉体上仍活着，而在道德上我又是自由的。我已告别世界是一个动物园，黎明正在一个新世界里降临，一个弱肉强食的世界，精瘦的灵魂挥舞锋利的爪子在其中漫游。如果我是一头鬣狗，我准是一只瘦弱，饥饿的鬣狗，我这就出发去喂肥自己。
Somehow the realization that nothing was to be hoped for had a salutary effect upon me. For weeks and months, for years, in fact, all my life I had been looking forward to something happening, some intrinsic event that would alter my life, and now suddenly, inspired by the absolute hopelessness of everything, I felt relieved, felt as though a great burden had been lifted from my shoulders. At dawn I parted company with the young Hindu, after touching him for a few francs, enough for a room. Walking toward Montparnasse I decided to let myself drift with the tide, to make not the least resistance to fate, no matter in what form it presented itself. Nothing that had happened to me thus far had been sufficient to destroy me; nothing had been destroyed except my illusions. I myself was intact. The world was intact. Tomorrow there might be a revolution, a plague, an earthquake; tomorrow there might not be left a single soul to whom one could turn for sympathy, for aid, for faith. It seemed to me that the great calamity had already manifested itself, that I could be no more truly alone than at this very moment. I made up my mind that I would hold on to nothing, that I would expect nothing, that henceforth I would live as an animal, a beast of prey, a rover, a plunderer. Even if war were declared, and it were my lot to go, I would grab the bayonet and plunge it, plunge it up to the hilt. And if rape were the order of the day then rape I would, and with a vengeance. At this very moment, in the quiet dawn of a new day, was not the earth giddy with crime and distress? Had one single element of man's nature been altered, vitally, fundamentally altered, by the incessant march of history? By what he calls the better part of his nature, man has been betrayed, that is all. At the extreme limits of his spiritual being man finds himself again naked as a savage. When he finds God, as it were, he has been picked clean: he is a skeleton. One must burrow into life again in order to put on flesh. The word must become flesh; the soul thirsts. On whatever crumb my eye fastens, I will pounce and devour. If to live is the paramount thing, then I will live, even if I must become a cannibal. Heretofore I have been trying to save my precious hide, trying to preserve the few pieces of meat that hid my bones. I am done with that. I have reached the limits of endurance. My back is to the wall; I can retreat no further. As far as history goes I am dead. If there is something beyond I shall have to bounce back. I have found God, but he is insufficient. I am only spiritually dead. Physically I am alive. Morally I am free. The world which I have departed is a menagerie. The dawn is breaking on a new world, a jungle world in which the lean spirits roam with sharp claws. If I am a hyena I am a lean and hungry one: I go forth to fatten myself.
Part 8 Chapter 1
我在一点半钟去找范诺登，这是先前约好的。他曾预先告诉过我，如果不开门就是说他在同某人睡觉，也许是他那个格鲁吉亚女人。
At one thirty I called on Van Norden, as per agreement. He had warned me that if he didn't answer it would mean that he was sleeping with someone, probably his Georgia cunt.
 
　　他还是露面了，刚刚大吃大喝了一顿，不过像往常一样显得疲惫不堪。他一起床就诅咒自己、诅咒工作、诅咒人生，他一起床便百无聊赖、心烦意乱，想到自己昨夜没能死去便懊恼不已。
Anyway, there he was, tucked away comfortably, but with an air of weariness as usual. He wakes up cursing himself, or cursing the job, or cursing life. He wakes up utterly bored and discomfited, chagrined to think that he did not die overnight.
 
　　我在窗旁坐下尽力劝慰他一番，这是一件很乏味的事情，必须哄得他真的起床。早晨 -凌晨一点到下午五点都是他所说的“早晨” -他常利用早晨的时间沉涸于幻想之中，多半是重温往昔的旧梦，回忆他的“娘儿们”。他努力去追忆她们是如何离开他的，在一些关键时刻同他说了什么，他是在哪儿跟她们睡觉的等诸如此类的琐事。他躺在床上咧着嘴笑，诅咒谩骂，同时以那种奇怪的、令人生厌的方式用手指比划，似乎要表明他对此类事情已深恶痛绝，不屑用语言表达。床头挂着一只灌洗器，这是他用来应付“紧急情况”的，是为“处女们”预备的，他总像一头警犬一样追逐她们。跟某一位这些神话中的姑娘睡过后他仍称她为处女，而且几乎从不提她的姓名。“我的处女，”他总这么说，如同他说“我的格鲁吉亚女人”一样。进卫生间前他说，“如果我的格鲁吉亚女人来了，叫她等着，说这是我说的。听着，你若愿意要就要她好了，我已经烦她了。”
I sit down by the window and give him what encouragement I can. It is tedious work. One has to actually coax him out of bed. Mornings - he means by mornings anywhere between one and five p.m. - mornings, as I say, he gives himself up to reveries. Mostly it is about the past he dreams. About his "cunts." He endeavors to recall how they felt, what they said to him at certain critical moments, where he laid them, and so on. As he lies there, grinning and cursing, he manipulates his fingers in that curious, bored way of his, as though to convey the impression that his disgust is too great for words. Over the bedstead hangs a douche bag which he keeps for emergencies - for the virgins whom he tracks down like a sleuth. Even after he has slept with one of these mythical creatures he will still refer to her as a virgin, and almost never by name. "My virgin," he will say, just as he says "my Georgia cunt." When he goes to the toilet he says: "If my Georgia cunt calls tell her to wait. Say I said so. And listen, you can have her if you like. I'm tired of her."
 
　　他斜眼看看天气如何，深深叹了口气。若是下雨他便说，“他妈的这鬼天气，叫人难受。”若是阳光明媚他又说，“他妈的这鬼太阳，叫人睁不开眼。”正要刮胡子，他猛然想起没有干净毛巾了。“这个他妈的鬼旅馆，他们太吝啬，连每天给一块干净毛巾都舍不得！”不论他干什么，到哪儿去，事情总是不对头，不是来到了一个鬼国家便是找了一个鬼工作，或者就是某个鬼女人把他弄得不舒服。
He takes a squint at the weather and heaves a deep sigh. If it's rainy he says: "God damn this fucking climate, it makes one morbid." And if the sun is shining brightly he says: "God damn that fucking sun, it makes you blind!" As he starts to shave he suddenly remembers that there is no clean towel. "God damn this fucking hotel, they're too stingy to give you a clean towel every day!" No matter what he does or where he goes things are out of joint. Either it's the fucking country or the fucking job, or else it's some fucking cunt who's put him on the blink.
 
　　他嗽嗽喉咙说，“我的牙齿全坏了，这都是因为他们这儿给人吃的鬼面包。”他大张开嘴，扯开下唇叫我看，“看见了吗？昨天拔了六颗牙，要不了多久就得重装一副假牙，这就是为生计奔波的结果。我到处游荡的时候全部牙齿都好好的，眼睛也很明亮。现在再看看我！我还能玩娘儿们真是不简单。老天，我想找个有钱的娘儿们—像卡尔那个小滑头找的一样。他给你看过那个女人给他写的信了吗？你知道她是谁？他不肯告诉我她的名字，这个狗东西……他怕我把她从他身边夺走。”他又嗽嗽喉咙，盯着空牙洞看了许久。他忧伤他说，“你比我走运，至少还有朋友，而我，除了那个用他的有钱女人逗我发疯的小滑头以外，我身边一个人也没有。”
"My teeth are all rotten," he says, gargling his throat. "It's the fucking bread they give you to eat here." He opens his mouth wide and pulls his lower lip down. "See that? Pulled out six teeth yesterday. Soon I'll have to get another plate. That's what you get working for a living. When I was on the bum I had all my teeth, my eyes were bright and clear. Look at me now! It's a wonder I can make a cunt any more. Jesus, what I'd like is to find some rich cunt - like that cute little prick, Carl. Did he ever show you the letters she sends him? Who is she, do you know? He wouldn't tell me her name, the bastard… he's afraid I might take her away from him." He gargles his throat again and then takes a long look at the cavities. "You're lucky," he says ruefully. "You've got friends, at least. I haven't anybody, except that cute little prick who drives me bats about his rich cunt."
 
　　他说，“听着，你认识一个叫诺尔玛的女人吗？她整天在大教堂附近闲荡，我看是个搞同性恋的。我昨天把她带到这儿来，在她屁股上搔痒了……我甚至把她的裤头褪下来了……后来我厌烦了。老天，我再也不愿那样勉强什么人了，那不值得。她们要么干，要么别干—浪费工夫跟她们搏斗是愚蠢的。在你正跟一个小婊子拼命搏斗时，也许外面露天咖啡座上有十来个娘儿们恨不得马上跟你睡呢。这是真的，她们全为了跟人睡觉到这儿来，她们认为在这儿干没有罪……可怜的傻瓜！有些从美国西部来的教师是货真价实的处女……我说的全是真的！她们整天坐着想这件事，你根本不用怎么挑逗她们，她们正巴不得呢。那天我弄了上个结了婚的女人，她说她已有六个月没有跟人睡过了。你能想象到吗？老天，她十分上劲儿！我还以为她要把鸡巴从我身上吸下来呢，她还一直哼哼卿卿的。‘你怎么样？’她不住地这样问，像疯了一样。你知道这个婊子想干什么？ 她想搬到这儿来往。你想想！她问我爱不爱她，可我连她的名字都不知道，我从不间她们的名字……也不想知道。这些结过婚的女人！老天，你若见到我带到这儿来的所有结过婚的女人，你就再也不会想入非非了。这些结过婚的女人比处女更糟，她们根本不等你动手—她们自个儿替你把那玩艺儿掏出来，过后她们还要谈论爱情，真叫人恶心。告诉你，我真的恨起娘儿们来了！”
"Listen," he says, "do you happen to know a cunt by the name of Norma? She hangs around the D?me all day. I think she's queer. I had her up here yesterday, tickling her ass. She wouldn't let me do a thing. I had her on the bed… I even had her drawers off… and then I got disgusted. Jesus, I can't bother struggling that way any more. It isn't worth it. Either they do or they don't - it's foolish to waste time wrestling with them. While you're struggling with a little bitch like that there may be a dozen cunts on the terrasse just dying to be laid. It's a fact. They all come over here to get laid. They think it's sinful here… the poor boobs! Some of these schoolteachers from out West, they're honestly virgins… I mean it! They sit around on their can all day thinking about it. You don't have to work over them very much. They're dying for it. I had a married woman the other day who told me she hadn't had a lay for six months. Can you imagine that? Jesus, she was hot! I thought she'd tear the cock off me. And groaning all the time. "Do you? Do you?" She kept saying that all the time, like she was nuts. And do you know what that bitch wanted to do? She wanted to move in here. Imagine that! Asking me if I loved her. I didn't even know her name. I never know their names… I don't want to. The married ones! Christ, if you saw all the married cunts I bring up here you'd never have any more illusions. They're worse than the virgins, the married ones. They don't wait for you to start things - they fish it out for you themselves. And then they talk about love afterwards. It's disgusting. I tell you, I'm actually beginning to hate cunt!"
 
　　他又瞧了一眼窗外，在下檬檬细雨，五天来一直这样下着。
He looks out the window again. It's drizzling. It's been drizzling this way for the last five days.
 
　　“乔，你去多姆大饭店吗？”我叫他乔是因为他叫我乔，卡尔同我们在一起时也是乔。每个人都是乔，因为这样简便些，还可以愉快地提醒你别把自己看得太重了。言檎遣幌肴ザ嗄反蠓沟?-他在那儿欠的钱大多了。他想去“库波勒”，想先在那儿溜达一会儿。
"Are we going to the D?me, Joe?" I call him Joe be cause he calls me Joe. When Carl is with us he is Joe too. Everybody is Joe because it's easier that way. It's also a pleasant reminder not to take yourself too seriously. Anyway, Joe doesn't want to go the D?me - he owes too much money there. He wants to go to the Coupole. Wants to take a little walk first around the block.
 
　　“正下雨呢，乔。”
"But it's raining, Joe."
 
　　“我知道，去他妈的！我得运动运动，我得把肚子里的脏东西冲洗出去。”听他这么说，我产生了一种印象—全世界都包孕在他肚子里，在那里面腐烂。
"I know, but what the hell! I've got to have my consititutional. I've got to wash the dirt out of my belly." When he says this I have the impression that the whole world is wrapped up there inside his belly, and that it's rotting there.
 
　　穿衣戴帽时他又陷入一种半昏睡状态，他站着，一只胳膊穿过外衣袖子里，帽子斜扣在头上。他开始大声说梦话 -里维那拉避寒地，太阳，如何在偷懒中虚掷了一辈子光阴。他说，“我对生活的全部要求不外乎凡本书、几场梦和几个女人。”他沉思着喃喃自语，同时带着最最温柔、最最阴险的微笑望着我。
As he's putting on his things he falls back again into a semi comatose state. He stands there with one arm in his coat sleeve and his hat on assways and he begins to dream aloud - about the Riviera, about the sun, about lazing one's life away. "All I ask of life," he says, "is a bunch of books, a bunch of dreams, and a bunch of cunt." As he mumbles this meditatively he looks at me with the softest, the most insidious smile.
 
　　“喜欢我的笑容吗？”他问，接着又厌恶地说，“老天，我若能找到一个可以这样朝着她笑的阔女人该有多么好！”
"Do you like that smile?" he says. And then disgustedly - "Jesus, if I could only find some rich cunt to smile at that way!"
 
　　他显出极其疲倦的样子说，“现在，只有一个阔女人才能救我。一个人总是追逐新的女人便会厌倦的，这会变得机械起来。 　　你瞧，问题在于我无法恋爱。我是十足的利己主义者，女人只是帮我做梦的，仅此而已。这是一种罪孽，同酗酒、抽大烟一样。我每天都得换新的女人，否则就不自在。我想得太多了，有时也觉得自己很好笑 -我那么快就把它拔出来，这其实又是多么没意义。我干那件事完全是机械的，有时我根本不在想女人，可是突然注意到一个女人在看着我，好，得了，这一套又重新开始了。还来不及想自己在干什么我就把她带到屋里来了，连对这些女人们说了什么我都不记得了。我把她们带到屋里，在她们屁股上拍一巴掌，还不知道这究竟是怎么回事就完事了。真像一场梦……你明白我的意思吗？”
"Only a rich cunt can save me now," he says with an air of utmost weariness. "One gets tired of chasing after new cunts all the time. It gets mechanical. The trouble is, you see, I can't fall in love. I'm too much of an egoist. Women only help me to dream, that's all. It's a vice, like drink or opium. I've got to have a new one every day; if I don't I get morbid. I think too much. Sometimes I'm amazed at myself, how quick I pull it off - and how little it really means. I do it automatically like. Sometimes I'm not thinking about a woman at all, but suddenly I notice a woman looking at me and then, bango! it starts all over again. Before I know what I'm doing I've got her up to the room. I don't even remember what I say to them. I bring them up to the room, give them a pat on the ass, and before I know what it's all about it's over. It's like a dream… Do you know what I mean?"
 
　　他不大喜欢法国姑娘，忍受不了她们，他说， “她们不是想赚钱就是想叫你娶她们，她们骨子里全是婊子。我情愿对付一个处女，她们还给你一点点幻想，开始还挣扎几下。”其实全一样，我们瞥了一眼那个露天咖啡座，所看到的妓女中没有一个是范诺登不曾睡过的。他站在酒吧门口把她们一一指给我看，他细致地描述她们，谈到她们的优缺点。“她们全都不够性感。” 他说，接着便用双手比划，心里又想起漂亮、有趣、急不可耐地要干那件事儿的处女。
He hasn't much use for the French girls. Can't stand them. "Either they want money or they want you to marry them. At bottom they're all whores. I'd rather wrestle with a virgin," he says. "They give you a little illusion. They put up a fight at least." Just the same, as we glance over the terrasse there is hardly a whore in sight whom he hasn't fucked at some time or other. Standing at the bar he points them out to me, one by one, goes over them anatomically, describes their good points and their bad. "They're all frigid," he says. And then begins to mold his hands, thinking of the nice, juicy virgins who are just dying for it.
 
　　这番逻想刚刚进行了一半，他猛然打住不说了。他兴奋地一把抓住我的胳膊，指给我看一个鲸鱼般大块头的女人，她正要坐到一把椅于上去。他咕噜道，“这是我的丹麦娘儿们。看见她的屁股了？丹麦式的。这娘儿们是多么喜欢干那件事儿呀！她简直是乞求我的。到这儿来……现在看看她，从这边看！看看那个屁股，好吗？硕大无比。告诉你，她趴到我身上时我双手去搂还搂不过来，她的屁股把全世界都遮住了。她让我觉得自己像一只爬进她身体里的小爬虫，我不明白为什么会迷上她—我猜是因为她的屁股。它是那么不谐调，上面又有那么多皱褶！你无法忘掉这样一个屁股，这是实实在在的……实实在在的事实。其他女人或许会叫你厌烦，或许会给你一瞬间的幻觉，可是这个娘儿们—她的屁股！天啊，你不会忘记她的……就好像上床睡觉时身上压了一座纪念碑。”
In the midst of his reveries he suddenly arrests himself, and grabbing my arm excitedly, he points to a whale of a woman who is just lowering herself into a seat. "There's my Danish cunt," he grunts. "See that ass? Danish. How that woman loves it! She just begs me for it. Come over here… look at her now, from the side. Look at that ass, will you? It's enormous. I tell you, when she climbs over me I can hardly get my arms around it. It blots out the whole world. She makes me feel like a little bug crawling inside her. I don't know why I fall for her - I suppose it's that ass. It's so incongruous like. And the creases in it! You can't forget an ass like that. It's a fact… a solid fact. The others, they may bore you, or they may give you a moment's illusion, but this one - with her ass! - zowie, you can't obliterate her… it's like going to bed with a monument on top of you."
Part 8 Chapter 2
　　这个丹麦娘儿们似乎叫他兴奋起来了，那股懒散劲儿一扫而光，眼珠都快要从脑袋里凸出来了。当然，一件事情使他联想起另一件。他想从这家鬼旅馆里搬出去，因为这儿的吵闹声叫他心烦。他还想写一本书，这样脑子里就有事情可想了。然而那件见鬼的工作在碍事儿。“这件鬼工作叫你浑身没劲儿！我不想写蒙帕纳斯……我想写我的生活。我的思想，我想把肚子里的脏东西弄出来……听着，把那边那个娘儿们弄来！很久以前我跟她睡过，她曾在中央菜市场附近祝是个很有意思的婊子，她躺在床边上，拉起裙子。那样试过吗？还不坏。她也并不催我，只是躺着玩她的帽子，我却从容不迫地在她身上使劲儿。等我达到高潮，她好像不耐烦了- ‘完事了吗？’好像这根本无所谓似的。当然啦，是无所谓，这一点我他妈的清楚极了……
只是她那种冷血动物的样子……我还真有点儿喜欢……那样子很迷人，知道吗？起身去擦自己身上时她唱起来了，走出旅馆时还在唱，连‘再见’都不说一声。她挥舞着帽子、哼着歌儿走掉了。这是能整治你的婊子！睡起来倒还不错，我想我喜爱她还要胜过我的处女呢。可跟一个对此根本无动于衷的女人睡觉是一件邪恶的事情，直叫你的血发热……”沉思了一会儿他问， “若是她有点儿感情，你能想象出她会是怎样的？”
The Danish cunt seems to have electrified him. He's lost all his sluggishness now. His eyes are popping out of his head. And of course one thing reminds him of another. He wants to get out of the fucking hotel because the noise bothers him. He wants to write a book too so as to have something to occupy his mind. But then the goddamned job stands in the way. "It takes it out of you, that fucking job! I don't want to write about Montparnasse… I want to write my.life, my thoughts. I want to get the dirt out of my belly… Listen, get that one over there! I had her a long time ago. She used to be down near Les Halles. A funny bitch. She lay on the edge of the bed and pulled her dress up. Ever try it that way? Not bad. She didn't hurry me either. She just lay back and played with her hat while I slugged away at her. And when I come she says sort of bored like - 'Are you through?' Like it didn't make any difference at all. Of course, it doesn't make any difference, I know that goddamn well… but the cold blooded way she had… I sort of liked it… it was fascinating, you know? When she goes to wipe herself she begins to sing. Going out of the hotel she was still singing. Didn't even say Au revoir! Walks off swinging her hat and humming to herself like. That's a whore for you! A good lay though. I think I liked her better than my virgin. There's something depraved about screwing a woman who doesn't give a fuck about it. It heats your blood…" And then, after a moment's meditation - "Can you imagine what she'd be like if she had any feelings?"
 
　　他又说，“听着，我要你明天下午跟我一道去俱乐部……那儿有一场舞会。”
"Listen," he says, "I want you to come to the Club with me tomorrow afternoon… there's a dance on."
 
　　“明天不行，乔。我答应要帮卡尔帮到底……”
"I can't tomorrow, Joe. I promised to help Carl out…"
 
“听我说，别管那个讨厌的家伙！我要你帮我一把，是这么回事，” -他又用双手比划开了- “我搞到了一个女人……她应允在我不上班的晚上来跟我过夜。可我还没有完全掌握住她，她有一个母亲，你知道……算是一个画家之类的货色。每一回见面她都要唠叨个没完，我想实情是当妈的吃醋了。若是我先跟这个妈睡一觉她就不会介意了，你明白这类事情……总之，我想你也许会乐意要这个妈的……她还不错……若是没有看见她女儿我自己也会考虑要她的，女儿年轻漂亮，一副水灵样儿—你明白我的意思了？她身上有一股纯洁的气息……”
"Listen, forget that prick! I want you to do me a favor. It's like this" - he commences to mold his hands again. "I've got a cunt lined up… she promised to stay with me on my night off. But I'm not positive about her yet. She's got a mother, you see… some shit of a painter, she chews my ear off every time I see her. I think the truth is, the mother's jealous. I don't think she'd mind so much if I gave her a lay first. You know how it is… Anyway, I thought maybe you wouldn't mind taking the mother… she's not so bad… if I hadn't seen the daughter I might have considered her myself. The daughter's nice and young, fresh like, you know what I mean? There's a clean smell to her…"
 
“你听着，乔，你最好还是找别人去……”
"Listen, Joe, you'd better find somebody else…"
 
“唉，别这样！我知道你对此怎么想，我只是请你帮我一个小忙。我不知道怎样才能甩掉那个老女人，我想先喝醉酒再躲开她- 可我认为那年轻的不会高兴的。她俩都是缠缠绵绵的女人，从明尼苏达州还是什么地方来的。好了，明天过来叫醒我，行吗？否则我会睡过头的，另外，我要你帮我找一间房子，你知道没有人帮我。给我在离这儿不远的一条僻静的街上找一个房间，我只有呆在这儿了……这儿，让我赊帐。你得答应帮我做这件事，我会时常给你买顿饭吃的。无论如何你得来，跟那些蠢娘儿们说话急得我要发疯，我要跟你谈谈哈夫洛夫洛克?霭理士。老天，我已把那本书找出来三个星期了，结果一次也没看过。人在这儿就跟烂掉差不多。你信不信？我从来还没有去过卢浮宫，也没有到过法兰西喜剧院。这些地方值得去吗？
"Aw, don't take it like that! I know how you feel about it. It's only a little favor I'm asking you to do for me. I don't know how to get rid of the old hen. I thought first I'd get drunk and ditch her - but I don't think the young one'd like that. They're sentimental like. They come from Minnesota or somewhere. Anyway, come around tomorrow and wake me up, will you? Otherwise I'll oversleep. And besides, I want you to help me find a room. You know I'm helpless. Find me a room in a quiet street, somewhere near here. I've got to stay around here… I've got credit here. Listen, promise me you'll do that for me. I'll buy you a meal now and then. Come around anyway, because I go nuts talking to these foolish cunts. I want to talk to you about Havelock Ellis. Jesus, I've had the book out for three weeks now and I haven't looked at it. You sort of rot here. Would you believe it, I've never been to the Louvre - nor the Comédie Fran?aise. Is it worth going to those joints?
 
 
　　不过我看这也能多多少少叫人别胡思乱想。你整天干什么来着？不觉得无聊？为了跟女人睡觉要干什么？听我说……到这儿来。
Still, it sort of takes your mind off things, I suppose. What do you do with yourself all day?
　　
Don't you get bored? What do you do for a lay? Listen… come here!
 
　　先别走掉……我很孤独呢。你知道吗？这种状况再持续一年我就会发疯的，我一定得离开这个鬼国家，我在这儿无事可做。我明白现在在美国叫人不痛快，反正都一样……可在这儿人会疯掉的……那些下贱的蠢货整天坐着吹嘘他们的作品，所有这些人都一文臭钱不值。他们都是潦倒失意的人，这才是他们来这儿的原因。听着，乔，你想过家吗？你是一个有意思的家伙…… 你好像还喜欢这儿。你在这儿发现什么了？但愿你能告诉我，我真心希望能不再想自己的事情。我心里乱极了……好像那儿有一个结……我知道我快要把你烦死了，可我一定得找个人谈谈。
Don't run away yet… I'm lonely. Do you know something - if this keeps up another year I'll go nuts. I've got to get out of this fucking country. There's nothing for me here. I know it's lousy now, in America, but just the same… You go queer over here… all these cheap shits sitting on their ass all day bragging about their work and none of them is worth a stinking damn. They're all failures - that's why they come over here. Listen, Joe, don't you ever get homesick? You're a funny guy… you seem to like it over here. What do you see in it?… I wish you'd tell me. I wish to Christ I could stop thinking about myself. I'm all twisted up inside… it's like a knot in there… Listen, I know I'm boring the shit out of you, but I've got to talk to someone.
 
我不能同楼上那些家伙谈……你知道那些狗东西是什么货色……都是写署名文章的人。卡尔，那个小滑头，他自私透顶了。
I can't talk to those guys upstairs… you know what those bastards are like… they all take a byline. And Carl, the little prick, he's so goddamned selfish. I'm an egotist, but I'm not selfish. There's a difference.
 
　　我是一个利己主义者，可我不自私，这是有区别的。我想我是一个神经病患者，我无法不想着自己，这并不是我认为自己重要……只是我无法去想别的事情，就是这样。如果能爱上一个女人或许会好一些，可是我找不到一个对我感兴趣的女人。我心里乱糟糟的。你看出来了，是吗？你说说我该怎么办？如果你处于我的位置怎么办？听着，我不想再强留你了，可你明早得叫醒我—一点半—怎么样？你若替我擦皮鞋，我还会多给你一点儿。还有，若有一件干净的替换衬衣，也把它带来，行吗？见鬼，那件活儿都快把我累趴下了，却连一件干净衬衣都挣不来，他们对待我们像对待一群黑鬼一样。唉，算了，见鬼！
I'm a neurotic, I guess. I can't stop thinking about myself. It isn't that I think myself so important… I simply can't think about anything else, that's all. If I could fall in love with a woman that might help some. But I can't find a woman who interests me. I'm in a mess, you can see that can't you? What do you advise me to do? What would you do in my place? Listen, I don't want to hold you back any longer, but wake me up tomorrow - at one thirty - will you? I'll give you something extra if you'll shine my shoes. And listen, if you've got an extra shirt, a clean one, bring it along, will you? Shit, I'm grinding my balls off on that job, and it doesn't even give me a clean shirt. They've got us over here like a bunch of niggers.
 
　　我要去散步……把肚子里的脏东西冲出来。别忘了，明天！”
Ah, well, shit! I'm going to take a walk… wash the dirt out of my belly. Don't forget, tomorrow!"
 
　　同这个叫伊雷娜的阔女人的通信一直持续了六个多月。最近我天天都向卡尔汇报，好叫这场恋爱开始，因为在伊雷娜那方面这件事可以无限期地发展下去。最近几天来双方都写了雪片似的大批信件，我们寄出的最后一封信几乎有四十页厚，是用三种语言写的。这最后一封信是一个大杂烩；其中有旧小说的结尾，有报纸星期日增刊上摘抄下来的片言只字，有重新组织过的给劳娜和塔尼亚的旧信，还有从拉伯雷和彼脱罗尼亚作品中胡乱音译过来的片断，总之我们都把自己累坏了。最后伊雷娜决定要同这个通信人谈谈了，她终于写了一封信通知卡尔在她的旅馆里碰头。卡尔吓得屁滚尿流，给一个陌生女人写信是一码事，去拜访她、同她做爱却完全是另一码事。到赴约前最后一分钟他仍吓得发抖，我不由得想自己恐怕不得不代他去了。我们在伊雷娜住的旅馆前下了出租车，卡尔抖得很厉害，我只好先扶着他沿这条街走了一会儿。他已经喝下了两杯茴香酒，一点儿作用也没有。一看到旅馆他便快垮了，这是一个富丽堂皇的地方，有一个又大又空、英国女人可以呆呆地在里面坐好几个钟头的大厅。为了提防卡尔溜掉，服务员打电话通报他的到来时我一直站在他身边。伊雷娜在家，正在等他。他跨进电梯时又绝望地瞥了我最后一眼，当你用绳索勒住狗的脖子时它作出的正是这种无言哀求。穿过旋转门出来，我想到了范诺登……
For six months or more it's been going on, this correspondence with the rich cunt, Irene. Recently I've been reporting to Carl every day in order to bring the affair to a head, because as far as Irene is concerned this thing could go on indefinitely. In the last few days there's been a perfect avalanche of letters exchanged; the last letter we dispatched was almost forty pages long, and written in three languages. It was a potpourri, the last letter tag ends of old novels, slices from the Sunday supplement, reconstructed versions of old letters to Llona and Tania, garbled transliterations of Rabelais and Petronius - in short, we exhausted ourselves. Finally Irene decides to come out of her shell. Finally a letter arrives giving a rendezvous at her hotel. Carl is pissing in his pants. It's one thing to write letters to a woman you don't know; it's another thing entirely to call on her and make love to her. At the last moment he's quaking so that I almost fear I'll have to substitute for him. When we get out of the taxi in front of her hotel he's trembling so much that I have to walk him around the block first. He's already had two Pernods, but they haven't made the slightest impression on him. The sight of the hotel itself is enough to crush him: it's a pretentious place with one of those huge empty lobbies in which Englishwomen sit for hours with a blank look. In order to make sure that he wouldn't run away I stood by while the porter telephoned to announce him. Irene was there, and she was waiting for him. As he got into the lift he threw me a last despairing glance, one of those mute appeals which a dog makes when you put a noose around its neck. Going through the revolving door I thought of Van Norden…
 
我回旅馆去等电话，卡尔只有一小时时间，他答应在去上班前先告诉我结果如何。我又翻检了一遍我们写给她的那些信的复写件，我试图想象这究竟是怎么回事，可就是想不出。她的信写得比我们好得多，显然信是真诚的。现在他们搂在一起了，不知道卡尔还尿不尿裤子。
I go back to the hotel and wait for a telephone call. He's only got an hour's time and he's promised to let me know the results before going to work. I look over the carbons of the letters we sent her. I try to imagine the situation as it actually is, but it's beyond me. Her letters are much better than ours - they're sincere, that's plain. By now they've sized each other up. I wonder if he's still pissing in his pants.
 
　　电话铃响了，他的声音有些古怪，有点儿尖，既像是被吓坏了，又像是很开心。他让我代他去办公室，“给那个狗杂种怎么说都行！告诉他我快死了……”
The telephone rings. His voice sounds queer, squeaky, as though he were frightened and jubilant at the same time. He asks me to substitute for him at the office. "Tell the bastard anything! Tell him I'm dying…"
 
“喂，卡尔……能告诉我……”
"Listen, Carl… can you tell me…?"
 
“你好！你是亨利?米勒吗？”是个女人的声音，是伊雷娜，她在问我好呢。她的声音在电话上非常悦耳……悦耳。一刹那间我变得茫然不知所措，不知道该对她说什么。我想说，“喂，伊雷娜，我认为你很美…… 我认为你美极了。”我想跟她说一件真实的事情，不管听起来这有多么傻，因为我现在听到她的声音后知道一切都已经变了。可是不等我镇定下来卡尔又接过了听筒，扯着古怪的尖细嗓子说，“她喜欢你，乔。我把你的事全告诉她了……”
 
 
"Hello! Are you Henry Miller?" It's a woman's voice. It's Irene. She's saying hello to me. Her voice sounds beautiful over the phone… beautiful. For a moment I'm in a perfect panic. I don't know what to say to her. I'd like to say: "Listen, Irene, I think you are beautiful… I think you're wonderful." I'd like to say one true thing to her, no matter how silly it would sound, because now that I hear her voice everything is changed. But before I can gather my wits Carl is on the phone again and he's saying in that queer squeaky voice: "She likes you, Joe. I told her all about you…"
 
在办公室里我只得替范诺登读要校对的稿子。到了休息时间他把我拉到一边，脸色阴沉沉的，很难看。
At the office I have to hold copy for Van Norden. When it comes time for the break he pulls me aside. He looks glum and ravaged.
 
　　“这么说这个小滑头快死了是吗？喂，这里面有什么名堂？”
"So he's dying, is he, the little prick? Listen, what's the lowdown on this?"
 
　　“我想他是去看那个有钱的女人了。”我平静地说。
"I think he went to see his rich cunt," I answer calmly.
 
　　“什么！你是说他去找她了？”他显得很激动，“喂，她住在哪里？叫什么名字？”我假装一无所知，他又说，“我说，你是个不错的人。你为什么不早点几告诉我这件风流韵事？”
"What! You mean he called on her?" He seems beside himself. "Listen, where does she live? What's her name?" I pretend ignorance. "Listen," he says, "you're a decent guy. Why the hell don't you let me in on this racket?"
 
　　为了安慰他，我最后答应一从卡尔那儿打听到细节就全部告诉他，我自己在见到卡尔之前也急不可耐呢。
In order to appease him I promise finally that I'll tell him everything as soon as I get the details from Carl. I can hardly wait myself until I see Carl.
Part 8 Chapter 3
第二天中午时分我去敲他的房门，他已起床了，在抹肥皂刮胡子，从他脸上看不出什么来，甚至看不出他会不会对我说实话。阳光从敞开的窗子里倾泻进来，小鸟在吱吱叫，却不知怎么搞的，屋子比往常更加显得光秃秃的、更穷酸。地板上溅满了肥皂泡沫，架子上挂着那两条从来不曾换过的脏毛巾。不知怎么搞了，卡尔也一点儿变化都没有，真叫我大惑不解。今天早上整个世界都该发生变化，不论变好变坏总得变，剧烈地变。可是卡尔却站在那儿往脸上抹肥皂，全然不动声色。
Around noon next day I knock at his door. He's up already and lathering his beard. Can't tell a thing from the expression on his face. Can't even tell whether he's going to tell me the truth. The sun is streaming in through the open window, the birds are chirping, and yet somehow, why it is I don't know, the room seems more barren and poverty-stricken than ever. The floor is slathered with lather, and on the rack there are the two dirty towels which are never changed. And somehow Carl isn't changed either, and that puzzles me more than anything. This morning the whole world ought to be changed, for bad or good, but changed, radically changed. And yet Carl is standing there lathering his face and not a single detail is altered.
 
　　“坐下……坐在床上，”他说。“你会听到一切的……不过先等等……等一会儿。”他又开始抹肥皂，接着磨起剃刀来。他还提到水……又没有热水了。
"Sit down… sit down there on the bed," he says. "You're going to hear everything… but wait first… wait a little." He commences to lather his face again, and then to hone his razor. He even remarks about the water… no hot water again.
 
　　“喂，卡尔，我现在很焦急。你如果想折磨我可以过一会儿再折磨，现在告诉我，只告诉我一件事……结果是好是坏？”
"Listen, Carl, I'm on tenterhooks. You can torture me afterward, if you like, but tell me now, tell me one thing… was it good or bad?"
 
　　他从镜子前扭过身来，手里拿着刷子，朝我古怪地笑笑。
He turns away from the mirror with brush in hand and gives me a strange smile.
 
　　“等等！我要把一切都告诉你……”
"Wait! I'm going to tell you everything…"
 
　　“这就是说你失败了。”
"That means it was a failure."
 
　　他终于说话了，字斟句酌地，“不，既没有失败，也没有成功……对了，你在办公室替我安排好了吗？是怎样对他们讲的？”
"No," he says, drawing out his words. "It wasn't a failure, and it wasn't a success either… By the way, did you fix it up for me at the office? What did you tell them?"
 
　　我看出试图从他口中套出话来是不可能的，待他收拾好了会告诉我的，在此之前却不会。我又躺下，一言不发，他则继续刮脸。
I see it's no use trying to pull it out of him. When he gets good and ready he'll tell me. Not before. I lie back on the bed, silent as a clam. He goes on shaving.
 
　　突然他没头没脑他说开了—起初有点儿杂乱无章，后来越来越清楚，雄辩、有力。把事情都说出来得费一番周折，不过他似乎打算要把一切都讲清楚，仿佛正在把压在良心上的一个重负卸下。他甚至又令我想起上电梯前他曾那样瞥了我一眼，他反反复复提起这一点，像是要表明一切都包含在这最后一秒钟里，像是要表明如果他有力量改变局面，他就绝不会跨出电梯。
Suddenly, apropos of nothing at all, he begins to talk - disconnectedly at first, and then more and more clearly, emphatically, resolutely. It's a struggle to get it out, but he seems determined to relate everything; he acts as if he were getting something off his conscience. He even reminds me of the look he gave me as he was going up the elevator shaft. He dwells on that lingeringly, as though to imply that everything were contained in that last moment, as though, if he had the power to alter things, he would never have put foot outside the elevator.
 
　　卡尔上门时伊雷娜穿着晨衣，梳妆台上摆着一桶香槟，屋里很暗，她的声音很好听。他给我讲了屋里的全部细节，香槟酒、侍者是怎样把它打开的、酒发出的声响、她走上前来迎接他时那件晨衣又如何沙沙作响—他告诉我一切，唯独不谈我想知道的。
She was in her dressing sack when he called. There was a bucket of champagne on the dresser. The room was rather dark and her voice was lovely. He gives me all the details about the room, the champagne, how the gar?on opened it, the noise it made, the way her dressing sack rustled when she came forward to greet him - he tells me everything but what I want to hear.
 
　　他去找她时大约是八点，到了八点半，一想到工作他便局促不安。“我给你打电话时大约是九点是不是？”
It was about eight when he called on her. At eight thirty he was nervous, thinking about the job. "It was about nine when I called you, wasn't it?" he says.
 
　　“是，差不多。”
"Yes, about that."
 
　　“我当时很紧张，你瞧……”
"I was nervous, see…"
 
　　“我明白。往下讲……”
"I know that. Go on…"
 
　　我不知该不该信他的话，尤其是在我们编造了那些信之后。我甚至不知道是否听清了他的话，因为他讲的内容完全是荒诞不经的。不过，若是知道他就是这类人，他的话倒也像是真的。接着我又想起他在电话上的声音—又恐惧又开心的古怪调子。现在他为什么不更开心一些呢？他自始至终都在笑，活像一只红润的、吸饱了血的小臭虫。他又问一遍，“我给你打电话时是九点钟，是不是？”我厌烦地点点头，“是的，是九点。”现在他肯定当时是九点钟了，因为他回忆起曾掏出表来看了看。再次看表已是十点钟，到了十点钟她正躺在长沙发上，两手握着自己的乳房。他就这样一点儿一点儿他讲给我听。到了十一点他们便拿定了主意，他们要逃走，逃到婆罗州去。去他妈的那个丈夫吧！她从来没有爱过他，若不是他年纪大了、缺乏激情，她根本就不会写第一封信。“后来她又对我说，‘不过，亲爱的，你怎么知道以后你不会厌烦我呢？’”
I don't know whether to believe him or not, especially after those letters we concocted. I don't even know whether I've heard him accurately, because what he's telling me sounds utterly fantastic. And yet it sounds true too, knowing the sort of guy he is. And then I remember his voice over the telephone, that strange mixture of fright and jubilation. But why isn't he more jubilant now? He keeps smiling all the time, smiling like a rosy little bedbug that has had its fill. "It was nine o'clock," he says once again, "when I called you up, wasn't it?" I nod my head wearily. Yes, it was nine o'clock. He is certain now that it was nine o'clock because he remembers having taken out his watch. Anyway, when he looked at his watch again it was ten o'clock. At ten o'clock she was lying on the divan with her boobies in her hands. That's the way he gives it to me - in driblets. At eleven o'clock it was all settled; they were going to run away, to Borneo. Fuck the husband! She never loved him anyway. She would never have written the first letter if the husband wasn't old and passionless. "And then she says to me: 'But listen, dear, how do you know you won't get tired of me?' "
 
听到这儿我大笑起来，我觉得这话很荒谬，忍不住要笑。
At this I burst out laughing. This sounds preposterous to me, I can't help it.
 
　　“你怎么说？” 　“你指望我说什么？我说，哪一个男人会厌烦你呢？”
"What did you expect me to say? I said: 'How could anyone ever grow tired of you?' "
 
接着他向我描绘后来发生的事情—他怎样俯身亲吻她的乳房，怎样在热烈吻过它们以后又把它们塞进胸衣里去，总之就是塞进那玩艺儿里去不管她们叫它什么。过后，又喝了一回香槟。
And then he describes to me what happened after that, how he bent down and kissed her breasts, and how, after he had kissed them fervidly, he stuffed them back into her corsage, or whatever it is they call these things. And after that another coupe of champagne.
 
　　到了午夜前后，侍者送来了啤酒和三明治—鱼子酱三明治。据他讲，在此期间他一直急着要撒尿。他曾勃起了一回，不过又软下去了。他一直感到膀脱就要胀破了，可他是个狡猾的小滑头，认为眼下的场面需要谨慎从事。
Around midnight the gar?on arrives with beer and sandwiches - caviar sandwiches. And all the while, so he says, he has been dying to take a leak. He had one hard on, but it faded out. All the while his bladder is fit to burst, but he imagines, the cute little prick that he is, that the situation calls for delicacy.
 
　　到了一点半她提议租一辆车去逛波伊思公园，卡尔心中却只想着一件事—如何撒泡尿。“我爱你……我崇拜你，”他说。 “你说到哪儿我都跟你去 -伊斯坦布尔、新加坡、檀香山，只是现在我一定得走了……太迟了。”
At one thirty she's for hiring a carriage and driving through the Bois. He has only one thought in his headhow to take a leak? "I love you… I adore you," he says. "I'll go anywhere you say - Istanbul, Singapore, Honolulu. Only I must go now… It's getting late."
　　
　　卡尔就在这间肮脏的小房间里向我讲述这一切，太阳照进来，小乌在疯了似的吱吱叫。可我仍旧不知道她是不是漂亮，他也仍不知道她是否漂亮。这个白痴，他连自己都不了解。他宁愿认为她不漂亮，那屋里太暗，还喝了香槟，他的神经又疲惫不堪。
He tells me all this in his dirty little room, with the sun pouring in and the birds chirping away like mad. I don't yet know whether she was beautiful or not. He doesn't know himself, the imbecile. He rather thinks she wasn't. The room was dark and then there was the champagne and his nerves all frazzled.
 
　　“可你应该了解一些她的情况- 假如这些不全是你他妈的编造出来的。”
"But you ought to know something about her - if this isn't all a goddamned lie!"
 
　　他说，“等一下，等一下……让我想想！不，她并不漂亮，现在我敢肯定这一点了。她前额上有一缕白头发……我想起来了。这还不算很糟—你瞧，我还差点忘了。她的胳膊 胳膊很细……细而且干瘦。”卡尔开始走来走去，可忽然又站住了。
 
　　“若是她年轻十岁我或许不会考虑那一缕白发……甚至也不注意她的细胳膊。可是你瞧，她太老了。这样的女人每过一年都会老一大截，明年她就不是老了一岁，而是老了十岁，再过一年就老了二十岁。我却会显得越来越年轻，至少在五年之内。”
 
"Wait a minute," he says. "Wait… let me think! No, she wasn't beautiful. I'm sure of that now. She had a streak of gray hair over her forehead… I remember that. But that wouldn't be so bad - I had almost forgotten it you see. No, it was her arms - they were thin… they were thin and brittle." He begins to pace back and forth. - Suddenly he stops dead. "If she were only ten years younger!" he exclaims. "If she were ten years younger I might overlook the streak of gray hair… and even the brittle arms. Buc she's too old. You see, with a cunt like that every year counts now. She won't be just one year older next year - she'll be ten years older. Another year hence and she'll be twenty years older. And I'll be getting younger looking all the time - at least for another five years…"
 
 “可这事儿是怎么拉倒的？”我打断他又问。
"But how did it end?" I interrupt.
 
　　“这事儿根本没 -没完，我答应星期二五点左右去见她。你知道，这很糟！她脸上的皱纹在白天会显得更难看。我估计她是想叫我星期二跟她睡，大白天睡 -没人会跟这样一个女人在大白天睡，尤其是在那样一家旅馆里。我宁愿在不上班的晚上干……可是星期二晚上要上班。还不止这些，我当时还答应要给她写封信的。现在怎么给她写信呢？我没有什么好说的……屁，只要她年轻十岁。你认为我该跟她去吗？去婆罗州或别的什么她想带我去的地方？我不会射击，我怕枪和所有那类玩艺儿。再说，她会要求我没日没夜地跟她睡觉……除了打猎就是睡觉，别的什么也不做……我办不到！”
"That's just it… it didn't end. I promised to see her Tuesday around five o'clock. That's bad, you know! There were lines in her face which will look much worse in daylight. I suppose she wants me to fuck her Tuesday. Fucking in the daytime - you don't do it with a cunt like that. Especially in a hotel like that. I'd rather do it on my night off… but Tuesday's not my night off. And that's not all. I promised her a letter in the meantime. How am I going to write her a letter now? I haven't anything to say… Shit! If only she were ten years younger. Do you think I should go with her… to Borneo or wherever it is she wants to take me? What would I do with a rich cunt like that on my hands? I don't know how to shoot. I am afraid of guns and all that sort of thing. Besides, she'll be wanting me to fuck her night and day… nothing but hunting and fucking all the time… I can't do it!"
 
　　“也许事情还不像你想的那么糟，她会给你买领带之类的东西……”“也许你愿跟我们一道去，嗯？我把你的情况都告诉她了。你有没有说我很穷？有没有说我需要东西？”
"Maybe it won't be so bad as you think. She'll buy you ties and all sorts of things…"
"Maybe you'll come along with us, eh? I told her all about you…""Did you tell her I was poor? Did you tell her I needed things?"
 
　　“我什么都说了。见鬼，只要她年轻几岁一切都好了。她说她快四十了，这就是说五十或六十了。这跟同你妈睡觉差不多……不能这样干……这不行。”
"I told her everything. Shit, everything would be fine, if she were just a few years younger. She said she was turning forty. That means fifty or sixty. It's like fucking your own mother… you can't do it… it's impossible."
 
　　“可她准还有一些迷人之处……你说你亲吻了她的乳房。”
"But she must have had some attractiveness… you were kissing her breasts, you said."
 
　　“吻她的乳房 -这有什么？再说光线暗，我告诉你了。”
"Kissing her breasts - what's that? Besides it was dark, I'm telling you."
 
　　卡尔正穿裤子，一只纽扣掉了。“你瞧，这见鬼的西装全烂了。我已经穿了七年了……不过没有掏钱。以前是套不错的衣服，现在却发臭了。那个女人还要给我买西装哩，这是我最想要的。可我不喜欢叫一个女人替我付钱，这种事我一辈子也没有干过，这是你的主意。我情愿一个人过日子。屁，这是一个不错的房间吧？有什么毛病？比她的房间瞧着要好得多，是吗？
Putting on his pants a button falls off. "Look at that will you. It's falling apart, the goddamned suit. I've worn it for seven years now… I never paid for it either. It was a good suit once, but it stinks now. And that cunt would buy me suits too, all I wanted most likely. But that's what I don't like, having a woman shell out for me. I never did that in my life. That's your idea. I'd rather live alone. Shit, this is a good room isn't it? What's wrong with it? It's a damned sight better than her room, isn't it?
 
　　我不喜欢她住的豪华旅馆，我反对建那样的旅馆，我对她说了。
I don't like her fine hotel. I'm against hotels like that. I told her so.
 
　　她说她不在乎住哪儿……说只要我要她来，她就来跟我住在一起。你想象得出她带着大箱子、帽盒子和所有那些她随身带来带去的废物搬到这儿来的情景吗？她的东西太多了—太多衣服、瓶子和其他东西。她的房间像一个诊所，她的手指头上划破了一点儿便不得了啦，她要找人来按摩，头发要烫过，不能吃这个，不能吃那个。我说，乔，只要年轻一点点她就很理想。
She said she didn't care where she lived… said she'd come and live with me if I wanted her to. Can you picture her moving in here with her big trunks and her hatboxes and all that crap she drags around with her? She has too many things - too many dresses and bottles and all that. It's like a clinic, her room. If she gets a little scratch on her finger it's serious. And then she has to be massaged and her hair has to be waved and she musn't eat this and she musn't eat that. Listen, Joe, she'd be all right if she were just a little younger. You can forgive a young cunt anything.
Part 8 Chapter 4
一个年轻女人的任何毛病都是可以谅解的，一个年轻女人也不需要有脑子，她没有脑子倒更好。可是一个老娘儿们即使聪明，即使是普天下最最可爱的女人，也没有多大价值。一个小娘儿们是一项投资，而一个老娘儿们却是注定要蚀本的。老娘儿们唯一能做的事就是为你买东西，可那也不会叫她们胳膊上长出肉来，让她们大腿间流出水来。伊雷娜不错，说实话，我认为你会喜欢她的。这事儿到你那儿就不一样了，你不一定非跟她睡不可，你尽可以喜欢她。也许你不会喜欢她那些衣服、瓶子之类的玩艺儿，可你会宽容她的。她不会使你厌烦，这一点我可以告诉你。我要说她还是挺有意思的，不过她干瘪了，她的乳房还行- 可她的胳膊！我告诉她某一天我要把你带去，我谈了你的许多情况……我不知道该对她说什么。也许你会喜欢上她的，尤其是当她穿上衣服时。我不知道……”
 
A young cunt doesn't have to have any brains. They're better without brains. But an old cunt, even if she's brilliant, even if she's the most charming woman in the world, nothing makes any difference. A young cunt is an investment; an old cunt is a dead loss. All they can do for you is buy you things. But that doesn't put meat on their arms or juice between the legs. She isn't bad, Irene. In fact, I think you'd like her. With you its different. You don't have to fuck her. You can afford to like her. Maybe you wouldn't like all those dresses and the bottles and what not, but you could be tolerant. She wouldn't bore you, that I can tell you. She's even interesting, I might say. But she's withered. Her breasts are all right yet - but her arms! I told her I'd bring you around some day. I talked a lot about you… I didn't know what to say to her. Maybe you'd like her, especially when she's dressed. I don't know…"
 
“喂，你说她有钱？我会喜欢她的！我不在乎她多大岁数了，只要不是个丑八怪……”
"Listen, she's rich, you say? I'll like her! I don't care how old she is, so long as she's not a hag…"
 
“她不是丑八怪！你在说些什么呀？告诉你，她很有魅力，谈吐文雅，长得也好看……只是胳膊……”
 
"She's not a hag! What are you talking about? She's charming, I tell you. She talks well. She looks well too… only her arms…"
 
“好吧。如果是这样，我去跟她睡 -若是你不愿意的话。把这个告诉她，不过讲得缓和些，跟这样一个女人打交道一定得慢慢来。你把我带去，听任事态自己发展。狠狠地夸奖我，装出吃醋的样子……哼，也许咱俩会一道跟她睡的……我们到处走，一起吃饭……我们开车、打猎、穿好衣服。如果她想去婆罗州让她带上我们，我也不会开枪，不过这没关系，反正她也不在乎，她只是希望被人睡，仅此而已。你一直在谈论她的胳膊，可你不必一直盯着她的胳膊看。对吗？瞧瞧这床罩！瞧瞧这镜子！这能叫生活吗？你愿意再充高雅充下去、一辈子像只虱子一样过日子吗？你连旅馆住宿费都掏不起……还是有工作的人呢。生活不该是这样，哪怕她七十岁了我也不在乎，那也比这样强……”
"All right, if that's how it is, I'll fuck her - if you don't want to. Tell her that. Be subtle about it, though. With a woman like that you've got to do things slowly. You bring me around and let things work out for themselves. Praise the shit out of me. Act jealous like… Shit, maybe we'll fuck her together… and we'll go places and we'll eat together… and we'll drive and hunt and wear nice things. If she wants to go to Borneo let her take us along. I don't know how to shoot either, but that doesn't matter. She doesn't care about that either. She just wants to be fucked that's all. You're talking about her arms all the time. You don't have to look at her arms all the time, do you? Look at this bedspread! Look at the mirror! Do you call this living? Do you want to go on being delicate and live like a louse all your life? You can't even pay your hotel bill… and you've got a job too. This is no way to live. I don't care if she's seventy years old - it's better than this…"
 
“我说，乔，你替我去跟她睡……这样一切问题都解决了。也许我偶尔也跟她睡上一回……晚上不上班的时候。我已有四天没有拉过屎了，身上好像粘着一种东西，像葡萄一样……”
"Listen, Joe, you fuck her for me… then everything'll be fine. Maybe I'll fuck her once in a while too… on my night off. It's four days now since I've had a good shit. There's something sticking to me, like grapes…"
 
“那就是你生痔疮了。”
"You've got the piles, that's what."
 
　　“我的头发也在脱落……还得去看看牙医。我觉得自己正在散架。我对她说了你是怎样一个好人……你会给我帮忙的，对吗？你不那么扭捏，是吗？我们若去婆罗州我就不会再生痔疮了。也许我会生别的箔…更糟的箔…也许是发热……或是霍乱。哼，这样生一场大病死掉也比在一张报纸上浪费生命、屁眼上长疮、裤子上的扣子全脱落更好一些。我盼望发财，哪怕只是一星期也好，然后带着一种要命的病住进一家医院，病房里摆满鲜花，护士们跑来跑去，还有人打电报来。你若有钱他们便会好好照顾你，用棉球给你擦身，替你梳头。哼，这些我全懂。也许我运气好没死掉，也许我会破一辈子……也许我会瘫痪，只好坐在轮椅里，可是这样一来我也会得到照料……即使我再没有钱了。你若是个病人—真正的病人—他们就不会让你饿死，你会有一张干净的床睡……他们每天给你换毛巾。
"My hair's falling out too… and I ought to see the dentist. I feel as though I were falling apart. I told her what a good guy you are… You'll do things for me, eh? You're not too delicate, eh? If we go to Borneo I won't have hemorrhoids any more. Maybe I'll develop something else… something worse… fever perhaps… or cholera. Shit, it's better to die of a good disease like that than to piss your life away on a newspaper with grapes up your ass and buttons falling off your pants. I'd like to be rich, even if it were only for a week, and then go to a hospital with a good disease, a fatal one, and have flowers in the room and nurses dancing around and telegrams coming. They take good care of you if you're rich. They wash you with cotton batting and they comb your hair for you. Shit, I know all that. Maybe I'd be lucky and not die at all. Maybe I'd be crippled all my life… maybe I'd be paralyzed and have to sit in a wheelchair. Bu then I'd be taken care of just the same… even if I had no more money. If you're an invalid - a real one - they don't let you starve. And you get a clean bed to lie in… and they change the towels every day.
 
　　像现在这样谁也不管你，尤其是你还有一份工作，他们认为一个人只要有份工作就该是幸福的。你情愿怎样—一辈子当个跛子，或是有一份工作……或是娶一个阔娘儿们？你情愿娶一个阔女人，我看出来了。你只想着吃的。可是想一想，你娶了她，结果那玩艺儿再也挺不起来了—有时会出现这种情况的—那你怎么办？你只好听任她摆布，只好像一只小卷毛狗那样从她手上吃食。你喜欢那样，是吗？也许你不想这些事情？我什么都想，我想要选购的西装和想去的地方，可我还想着另一件事，这是一件重要的事情。如果你再也不能勃起了，那些花里胡哨的领带和漂亮的西装又有什么用呢？你甚至不能背叛她，她会一直跟着你。不，最好的办法是先娶她再马上生一场病，只是梅毒还不行，比如说，霍乱，或是黄热玻这样，若是真的出现奇迹，你保住了一条命，你便会终生成为一个跛子，你也就不必再为要跟她睡觉而烦恼不安了，也不必再为房租发愁了。
This way nobody gives a fuck about you, especially if you have a job. They think a man should be happy if he's got a job. What would you rather do - be a cripple all your life, or have a job… or marry a rich cunt? You'd rather marry a rich cunt, I can see that. You only think about food. But supposing you married her and then you couldn't get a hard on any more - that happens sometimes - what would you do then? You'd be at her mercy. You'd have to eat out of her hand, like a little poodle dog. You'd like that, would you? Or maybe you don't think of those things? I think of everything. I think of the suits I'd pick out and the places I'd like to go to, but I also think of the other thing. That's the important thing. What good are the fancy ties and the fine suits if you can't get a hard on any more? You couldn't even betray her - because she'd be on your heels all the time. No, the best thing would be to marry her and then get a disease right away. Only not syphilis. Cholera, let's say, or yellow fever. So that if a miracle did happen and your life was spared you'd be a cripple for the rest of your days. Then you wouldn't have to worry about fucking her any more, and you wouldn't have to worry about the rent either.
 
　　她或许会给你买一只带橡胶车胎的好轮椅，上面还有各种操纵，杆之类的玩艺儿。你也许还能用手—我是指还能用手写作，要不就雇一个人来写。对了—这是一个作家的最佳选择。一个人能指望他的手脚干什么呢？他不需要用手用脚来写作，他需要安全……安宁……庇护。遗憾的是，所有坐在轮椅里转来转去的英雄都不是作家。假如你能保证上战场去只会叫人炸掉你的双腿……假如你能敲定这一点，我就会说，明天就叫我们打仗吧。我对勋章根本不感兴趣 -让他们留着好了，我想要的只是一部好轮椅和一天三顿饭，然后我就给这些滑头们写本书看。”
She'd probably buy you a fine wheelchair with rubber tires and all sorts of levers and what not. You might even be able to use your hands - I mean enough to be able to write. Or you could have a secretary, for that matter. That's it - that's the best solution for a writer. What does a guy want with his arms and legs? He doesn't need arms and legs to write with. He needs security… peace… protection. All those heroes who parade in wheelchairs - it's too bad they're not writers. If you could only be sure, when you go to war, that you'd have only your legs blown off… if you could be sure of that I'd say let's have a war tomorrow. I wouldn't give a fuck about the medals - they could keep the medals. All I'd want is a good wheelchair and three meals a day. Then I'd give them something to read, those pricks."
 
　　第二天一点半钟我去找了范诺登，这天他不上班，确切地说，今夜他休假。他给卡尔留下话说要我今天来帮他搬家。
The following day, at one thirty, I call on Van Norden. It's his day off, or rather his night off. He has left word with Carl that I am to help him move today.
 
　　我发现他情绪异常低落，他告诉我他一夜未曾合眼。他在想事儿，有一件事情困惑着他。没多久我就搞清了，他一直在迫不及待地等我来，向我打听卡尔的秘密。
I find him in a state of unusual depression. He hasn't slept a wink all night, he tells me. There's something on his mind, something that's eating him up. It isn't long before I discover what it is; he's been waiting impatiently for me to arrive in order to spill it.
 
　　“那个家伙，”他开口了，指的是卡尔。“那个家伙简直是个艺术家，他详细描述了每一个细节。他对我讲得那么细，我便知道这全是他胡编的……可我就是摆脱不了这个萦绕在心头的故事。你知道我心里在怎样折腾。”
"That guy," he begins, meaning Carl, "that guy's an artist. He described every detail minutely. He told it to me with such accuracy that I know it's all a goddamned lie… but I can't dismiss it from my mind. You know how my mind works!"
 
　　他话题一转，问我卡尔是否将经过原原本本都告诉我了。他丝毫没有怀疑到卡尔对我是一个说法，对他是另一个说法。他似乎认为编造这个故事是专门要折磨他的。他并不理会这全是捏造的，却说这是卡尔留在他脑子里的“意像”，这意像使他烦恼。即使整个故事是假的，这些意像也是真的。再说这件事情中的确有一个阔娘儿们，卡尔也的确去拜访过她，这是无可辩驳的事实，至于到底真的发生了什么事情倒是次要的。他想当然地认为卡尔干脆利落地对付了这个女人，使他几乎要发疯的却是他想卡尔描述的情节或许是真的。
He interrupts himself to inquire if Carl has told me the whole story. There isn't the least suspicion in his mind that Carl may have told me one thing and him another. He seems to think that the story was invented expressly to torture him. He doesn't seem to mind so much that it's a fabrication. It's the "images" as he says, which Carl left in his mind, that get him. The images are real, even if the whole story is false. And besides, the fact that there actually is a rich cunt on the scene and that Carl actually paid her a visit, that's undeniable. What actually happened is secondary; he takes it for granted that Carl put the boots to her. But what drives him desperate is the thought that what Carl has described to him might have been possible.
 
　　他说，“这个家伙告诉我他跟那个女人睡了六七次。他就是这么一个爱吹牛的家伙。我知道这里面有不少假话，所以也不大在乎，可他又告诉我那女人雇了一辆车带他去了波伊思公园，他拿那女人的丈夫的皮大衣当毯子用，这就太过分了。我估计他给你讲了司机恭恭敬敬等他们的事……对了，他有没有告诉你发动机一直在突突响？老天，他编得真像啊，只有他才想得出这样一个细节……这是使一件事情显得在心理上真实的小细节之一……听过之后你就永远忘不了。他的谎编得那么圆，那么自然……我真奇怪，他是事先想好的还是临时灵机一动现编出来的？他是一个高明的小骗子，你简直无法从他身边走开……就像他正在给你写信，像一夜间就粗制滥造出一只花盆来。我弄不明白一个人怎么能写出这样的信来……我不明白他写信时的心理状态……这也是一种手淫……你说呢？”
"It's just like that guy," he says, "to tell me he put it to her six or seven times. I know that's a lot of shit and I don't mind that so much, but when he tells me that she hired a carriage and drove him out to the Bois and that they used the husband's fur coat for a blanket, that's too much. I suppose he told you about the chauffeur waiting respectfully… and listen, did he tell you how the engine purred all the time? Jesus, he built that up wonderfully. It's just like him to think of a detail like that… it's one of those little details which makes a thing psychologically real… you can't get it out of your head afterward. And he tells it to me so smoothly, so naturally… I wonder, did he think it up in advance or did it just pop out of his head like that, spontaneously? He's such a cute little liar you can't walk away from him… it's like he's writing you a letter, one of those flowerpots that he makes overnight. I don't understand how a guy can write such letters… I don't get the mentality behind it… it's a form of masturbation… what do you think?"
 
　　不等我开口发表意见，或是嘲笑他，范诺登又继续独白开了。
But before I have an opportunity to venture an opinion, or even to laugh in his face, Van Norden goes on with his monologue.
 
　　“你瞧，我估计他把一切都告诉你了……有没有告诉你他怎样站在洒满月光的阳台上亲吻她？这话重复一遍显得很无聊，可这家伙一描述起来……我简直可以看见这个小滑头抱着那个女人站在那里，他已经在给她写另一封信了，是从另一个法国作家那儿偷来的有关屋顶之类废话的马屁。这家伙的话没有一句不是学别人的，我早就发现了。你得找到一点线索，比如，看看他最近在读谁的作品……这不容易，因为他总是鬼鬼崇崇的。”
"Listen, I suppose he told you everything… did he tell you how he stood on the balcony in the moonlight and kissed her? That sound banal when you repeat it, but the way that guy describes it… I can just see the little prick standing there with the woman in his arms and already he's writing another letter to her, another flowerpot about the roof tops and all that crap he steals from his French authors. That guy never says a thing that's original, I found that out. You have to get a clue like… find out whom he's been reading lately… and it's hard to do that because he's so damned secretive.
 
　　我说，若是我不知道你跟他一同去过那儿，我根本就不相信有这么一个女人，他这样的家伙完全可以自己给自己写信。不过他挺走运……他那么小巧玲瑰，那么娇嫩，仪表又是那么浪漫，不断有女人上他的当……她们有点儿崇拜他……我猜她们是可怜他。有些女人喜欢叫人奉承……这会使她们觉得自己身价不凡……可是据卡尔说这是一个聪明女人。你应该知道这一点……你看过她的信嘛。你认为这样一个女人会看上他哪一点？我明白她上了那些信的当了……可是你认为她看到他后又会怎么想？
Listen, if I didn't know that you went there with him, I wouldn't believe that the woman existed. A guy like that could write letters to himself. And yet he's lucky… he's so damned tiny, so frail, so romantic looking, that women fall for him now and then… they sort of adopt him… they feel sorry for him, I guess. And some cunts like to receive flowerpots… it makes them feel important… But this woman's an intelligent woman, so he says. You ought to know… you've seen her letters. What do you suppose a woman like that saw in him? I can understand her falling for the letters… but how do you suppose she felt when she saw him?
 
　　“不过，我告诉你，这些都算不了什么。我要讲讲他是怎么对我说的，你知道他多么擅长添油加醋……嗯，在阳台上的那一幕之后—他是把这个当作吊胃口的小菜告诉我的—在此之后，据他讲，他俩进屋去，他解开了她的睡衣。你笑什么？他骗我了？”
"But listen, all that's beside the point. What I'm getting at is the way he tells it to me. You know how he embroiders things… well, after that scene on the balcony - he gives me that like an hors d'?uvre, you know - after that, so he says, they went inside and he unbuttoned her pajamas. What are you smiling for? Was he shitting me about that?"
"No, no! You're giving it to me exactly as he told me. Go ahead…"
 
　　“没有，没有！你说的同他讲的一模一样。说下去……”“接着- ”说到这儿范诺登自己也笑起来，“ 接着，听仔细了，他告诉我她如何抬起腿坐在椅子上……一丝不挂……他坐在地板上抬头望着她，对她说她是多么漂亮……他对你说过她长得像马蒂斯的一个人物吗？等一等……我要回忆一下他确切说了些什么。他说了一句关于‘欧德里斯克’的俏皮话……‘欧德里斯克’到底是什么东西？他是用法语说的，所以不容易记住这鬼东西……不过这话倒很好听，正像他说的那种话，也许她还以为这话是他发明的……我估计她准以为他是个诗人一类的人物呢。不过，这都没有什么……我容许他发挥想象力，是后来发生的那件事情使我听了要发疯。我一夜翻来覆去睡不着，脑子里不断闪出他描绘的那些情况，简直摆脱不掉。
"After that" - here Van Norden has to smile himself, - "after that, mind you, he tells me how she sat in the chair with her legs up… not a stitch on… and he's sitting on the floor looking up at her, telling her how beautiful she looks… did he tell you that she looked like a Matisse?… Wait a minute… I'd like to remember exactly what he said. He had some cute little phrase there about an odalisque… what the hell's an odalisque anyway? He said it in French, that's why it's hard to remember the fucking thing… but it sounded good. It sounded just like the sort of thing he might say. And she probably thought it was original with him… I suppose she thinks he's a poet or something. But listen, all this is nothing… I make allowances for his imagination. It's what happened after that that drives me crazy. All night long I've been tossing about, playing with these images he left in my mind. I can't get it out of my head. It sounds so real to me that if it didn't happen I could strangle the bastard. A guy has no right to invent things like that. Or else he's diseased…
 
　　我觉得那是如此真实，若是没有这回事我就要勒死这个狗杂种。一个人没有权利编造这种事情，除非他是神经有毛箔…“我要讲到的是那一瞬间，他说他跪在地上用他那两根细瘦的手指扒开她的下体。你还记得这个？他说她坐着，双腿搭在椅子扶手上晃来晃去，忽然他来了灵感，这时他已经睡了她几回了……也发表完了关于马蒂斯的小演讲。他跪在地上—你听清了—用两个手指……听着，只有指尖……噗哧—噗哧！
"What I'm getting at is that moment when, he says, he got down on his knees and with those two skinny fingers of his he spread her cunt open. You remember that? He says she was sitting there with her legs dangling over the arms of the chair and suddenly, he says, he got an inspiration. This was after he had given her a couple of lays already… after he had made that little spiel about Matisse. He gets down on his knees - get this! - and with his two fingers… just the tips of them, mind you… he opens the little petals… squish squish… just like that. A sticky little sound… almost inaudible. Squish squish!
Part 8 Chapter 5
老天，我一夜都听到这种声音！后来他又说好像我还没有听够 -这时，老天爷作证，她把双腿架在他脖子上，把他夹住了。这真是要我的命！想想看！想想她这样一个漂亮、多愁善感的女人竟会把腿架在他脖子上！这简直叫人无法忍受。这么荒诞，听起来又像是真的。如果他只告诉我香槟酒的事、坐车在波伊思公园里游荡，甚至还有阳台上那一幕，我可能不会信他，可是这件事大难以置信，反而不像是在说谎了。我也不相信他在什么地方读到过这种事情，除非这件事有几分是真的，我也弄不明白他怎么会冒出这个念头来。你知道，在这样一个小滑头那里，什么事情都不稀奇，也许他根本不曾睡过她，可她会允许他玩玩她的……跟这些阔女人在一起你永远也弄不明白她们指望你干什么……”
Jesus, I've been hearing it all night long! And then he says - as if that weren't enough for me - then he tells me he buried his head in her muff. And when he did that, so help me Christ, if she didn't swing her legs around his neck and lock him there. That finished me! Imagine it! Imagine a fine, sensitive woman like that swinging her legs around his neck! There's something poisonous about it. It's so fantastic that it sounds convincing. If he had only told me about the champagne and the ride in the Bois and even that scene on the balcony I could have dismissed it. But this thing is so incredible that it doesn't sound like a lie any more. I can't believe that he ever read anything like that anywhere, and I can't see what could have put the idea into his head unless there was some truth in it. With a little prick like that, you know, anything can happen. He may not have fucked her at all, but she may have let him diddle her… you never know with these rich cunts what they might expect you to do…"
 
当他终于从床上爬起来、开始刮胡子时下午已经快过去了，我最终才成功地把他的思路吸引到其他事情上，主要是吸引到搬家上。侍女进来看他收拾好没有—原先叫他中午就得腾出房子—这时他正在穿裤子。他既不请求原谅也不转过身去，这使我略有几分惊奇。看着他满不在乎地站着系裤扣，一边还吩咐她做这做那，我不禁吃吃笑了。“别管她，”说着，他极其轻蔑地瞪了她一眼。“她不过是一头肥母猪。你想拧就在她屁股上拧一把，她不会说什么的。”接着范诺登又用英语对她说，“过来，你这婊子，把手放在这上面！”听到这话我再也忍不住了，哈哈大笑起来。这一阵歇斯底里的大笑也感染了那个侍女，尽管她不明白我在笑什么。侍女开始把钉在墙上的一排绘画和照片取下来，这些画儿和照片上大多是范诺登本人，“你，”他用大拇指戳戳，“到这儿来！这儿有件可以纪念我的东西。” -说着他从墙上撕下一张照片 “等我走了你就用它擦屁股好了。”说完他又转向我，“她是一个傻婊子，就算我用法语说她也不会显得聪明些。”侍女大张着嘴站在那儿，显然是认为范诺登疯了。“喂！”他朝她大喝一声，好像她耳朵不好似的。“喂，你！对了，说你呢！像这样……”他边说边拿起照片，他自己的照片，用它擦了擦屁股。“像这样！懂了吗？看来你得给她画张图才行。”说着他嗝起下唇，表示极度厌恶。
When he finally pulls himself out of bed and starts to shave the afternoon is already well advanced. I've finally succeeded in switching his mind to other things, to the moving principally. The maid comes in to see if he's ready - he's supposed to have vacated the room by noon. He's just in the act of slipping into his trousers. I'm a little surprised that he doesn't excuse himself, or turn away. Seeing him standing there nonchalantly buttoning his fly as he gives her orders I begin to titter. "Don't mind her," he says, throwing her a look of supreme contempt, " she's just a big sow. Give her a pinch in the ass, if you like. She won't say anything." And then addressing her, in English, he says, "Come here, you bitch, put your hand on this!" At this I can't restrain myself any longer. I burst out laughing, a fit of hysterical laughter which infects the maid also, though she doesn't know what it's all about. The maid commences to take down the pictures and the photographs, mostly of himself, which line the walls. "You," he says, jerking his thumb, "come here! Here's something to remember me by" - ripping a photograph off the wall - "when I go you can wipe your ass with it. See," he says, turning to me, "she's a dumb bitch. She wouldn't look any more intelligent if I said it in French." The maid stands there with her mouth open; she is evidently convinced that he is cracked. "Hey!" he yells at her as if she were hard of hearing. "Hey, you! Yes, you! Like this…!" and he takes the photograph, his own photograph, and wipes his ass with it. "Comme ?a! Savvy? You've got to draw pictures for her," he says, thrusting his lower lip forward in absolute disgust.
 
　　他无可奈何地监视着她把东西扔进几只大箱子里。“这儿，把这些也放进去，”说着他递给她一只牙刷和装灌洗器的袋子。
He watches her helplessly as she throws his things into the big valises. "Here, put these in too," he says, handing her a toothbrush and the douche bag.
 
　　他的东西有一半仍摊在地板上，箱子都已塞满，没有地方可装绘画、书和半空的瓶子了。他说，“坐一会儿，咱们有的是时间，咱们得好好想一想。你若是不来我永远也搬不出去，你看我一点儿办法也没有。别忘了提醒我带走灯泡……那都是我的，还有废纸篓也是属于我的。这些王八蛋，他们要你像猪一样生活。”
Half of his belongings are lying on the floor. The valises are crammed full and there is nowhere to put the paintings and the books and the bottles that are half empty. "Sit down a minute," he says. "We've got plenty of time. We've got to think this thing out. If you hadn't come around I'd never have gotten out of here. You see how helpless I am. Don't let me forget to take the bulbs out… they belong to me. That wastebasket belongs to me too. They expect you to live like pigs, these bastards."
 
　　这时侍女下楼拿麻绳去了……“你等着瞧…… 她会间我要麻绳钱的，哪怕只有三个苏呢。在这儿，他们给你裤子缀一个扣子也得要钱。这伙讨厌的、肮脏的小偷！”他从壁炉台上取了一瓶苹果烧酒，并且点头示意我抓起另一瓶。“把它带到新地方去没有用，现在把它喝光拉倒。不过别给她喝！这王八蛋，我连一张手纸也不留给她。我真想在走之前把这个地方弄个一塌糊涂。对了……想撤尿就撒在地板上，我还想在五斗橱抽屉里大便呢。”
The maid has gone downstairs to get some twine… "Wait till you see… she'll charge me for the twine even if it's only three sous. They wouldn't sew a button on your pants here without charging for it. The lousy, dirty scroungers!" He takes a bottle of Calvados from the mantelpiece and nods to me to grab the other. "No use carrying these to the new place. Let's finish them off now. But don't give her a drink! That bastard, I wouldn't leave her a piece of toilet paper. I'd like to ruin the joint before I go. Listen… piss on the floor, if you like. I wish I could take a crap in the bureau drawer."
　　他对自己、对一切都十分厌恶，因而不知该做什么才能发泄发泄怨气。于是他提着酒瓶走到床前，掀起床罩把烧酒洒在床垫上。这还嫌不过痛，他又用脚拼命在床垫上踩，可遗憾的是鞋底井没有泥。他又取下床单擦鞋，嘴里愤愤不平地喃喃道，“这样他们就有点儿事情干了。”最后，他含了一口酒，脑袋向后昂着漱喉咙，待漱得心满意足了才一口全啐在镜子上。“瞧着，你们这些下贱的王八蛋！等我走了好好擦去吧！”他在屋里踱来踱去，嘴里一边还咕噜着什么。看到自己的烂袜子扔在地上他便拣起来撕个粉碎，画儿也惹他大动肝火，他拾起一张一脚把它湍透了—这是他认识的一个女同性恋者给他画的肖像。“那个婊子！你知道她居然有胆量要我干什么？她要我把玩过的娘儿们介绍给她。我写文章吹捧她，她从来没有给过我一个苏，还以为我真心崇拜她的画呢。若不是我答应安排她同那个明尼苏达州来的女人见面，她才不会白给我画这张像呢。她简直快为那女人发狂了……像条发情的狗一样到处跟着我们……我们没法甩掉这婊子！她差点儿没把我缠死。我烦得要死，几乎不敢再领女人到这儿来，唯恐她会破门冲进来揍我一顿。我总是像贼一样悄悄溜上来，一进来就赶快锁上门……她和那个格鲁吉亚娘儿们—她俩逼得我要发疯，一个总是在发情，另一个总是肚子饿。我最恨睡一个饿着肚子的女人，那就像把一块吃的塞进她肚子里然后又掏出来……天啊，这使我想起一件事情……我把那蓝色药膏放在哪儿了？那很要紧，你生过那样的疮吗？比吃一剂药还难受。也不知道是从哪儿染上的，上星期这儿来了那么多女人，我大概早把她们忘了。这很有意思，因为她们身上都散发出纯洁的气息。你明白这是怎么回事……”
He feels so utterly disgusted with himself and everything else that he doesn't know what to do by way of venting his feelings. He walks over to the bed with the bottle in his hand and pulling back the covers he sprinkles Calvados over the mattress. Not content with that he digs his heel into the mattress. Unfortunately there's no mud on his heels. Finally he takes the sheet and cleans his shoes with it. "That'll give them something to do," he mutters vengefully. Then, taking a good swig, he throws his head back and gargles his throat, and after he's gargled it good and proper he spits it out on the mirror. "There, you cheap bastards! Wipe that off when I go!" He walks back and forth mumbling to himself. Seeing his torn socks lying on the floor he picks them up and tears them to bits. The paintings enrage him too. He picks one up - a portrait of himself done by some Lesbian he knew and he puts his foot through it. "That bitch! You know what she had the nerve to ask me? She asked me to turn over my cunts to her after I was through with them. She never gave me a sou for writing her up. She thought I honestly admired her work. I wouldn't have gotten that painting out of her if I hadn't promised to fix her up with that cunt from Minnesota. She was nuts about her… used to follow us around like a dog in heat… we couldn't get rid of the bitch! She bothered the life out of me. I got so that I was almost afraid to bring a cunt up here for fear that she'd bust in on me. I used to creep up here like a burglar and the lock the door behind me as soon as I got inside… She and that Georgia cunt - they drive me nuts. The one is always in heat and the other is always hungry. I hate fucking a woman who's hungry. It's like you push a feed inside her and then you push it out again… Jesus, that reminds me of something… where did I put that blue ointment? That's important. Did you ever have those things? It's worse than having a dose. And I don't know where I got them from either. I've had so many women up here in the last week or so I've lost track of them. Funny too, because they all smelled so fresh. But you know how it is…"
 
侍女把范诺登的东西都堆在人行道上，旅馆老板酸溜溜地在一旁看着。等东西全装上出租车，车里就只坐得下一个人了。车刚一开范诺登便掏出一张报纸把他的锅碗瓢盆包扎起来，新住处严禁做饭。待我们到了目的地他的行李已经又全部打开了，若是我们到达时那老板娘没把头探出门来还不会那么叫人难堪。她嚷道，“我的天哪！这到底是怎么回事？这是什么意思？”
The maid has piled his things up on the sidewalk. The patron looks on with a surly air. When everything has been loaded into the taxi there is only room for one of us inside. As soon as we commence to roll Van Norden gets out a newspaper and starts bundling up his pots and pans; in the new place all cooking is strictly forbidden. By the time we reach our destination all his luggage has come undone; it wouldn't be quite so embarasssing if the madam had not stuck her head out of the doorway just as we rolled up. "My God!" she exclaims, "what in the devil is all this? What does it mean?"
　　范诺登被她吓住了，他不知该说什么才好，只是用法语道，“是我……是我，太太！”说完他又转向我恶狠狠地咕哝道，“这个笨蛋！看见她的脸色了？她要给我找麻烦呢。”
Van Norden is so intimidated that he can think of nothing more to say than "C'est moi… c'est moi, madame!" And turning to me he mumbles savagely: "That cluck! Did you notice her face? She's going to make it hard for me."
 
　　这家旅馆位于一条阴暗的小道后面，呈一个长方形，同一所现代罪犯教养所十分相似。衣橱又大又没有一点光泽，尽管瓷砖墙上映出的影子很堂皇。窗子上都挂着鸟笼子，到处钉着小小的珐琅牌子，用陈腐的语言请求客人们不要做这个、不要忘记那个。这家旅馆几乎一尘不染，只是穷得一贫如洗，破破烂烂，一副衰败景象。铺椅垫的椅于用铁丝捆在一起，令人不快地联想到电椅。范诺登的房间在五楼，上楼时他告诉我莫泊桑一度也曾在这儿住过，同时又说大厅里有一种古怪的气味。
The hotel lies back of a dingy passage and forms a rectangle very much on the order of a modern penitentiary. The bureau is large and gloomy, despite the brilliant reflections from the tile walls. There are bird cages hanging in the windows and little enamel signs everywhere begging the guests in an obsolete language not to do this and not to forget that. It is almost immaculately clean but absolutely poverty stricken, threadbare, woebegone. The upholstered chairs are held together with wired things; they remind one unpleasantly of the electric chair. The room he is going to occupy is on the fifth floor. As we climb the stairs Van Norden informs me that Maupassant once lived here. And in the same breath remarks that there is a peculiar odor in the hall.
 
　　五楼上有几扇窗子没有玻璃，我们站下看了一会儿那几位正穿过院子的房客。快到吃饭时间了，人们正三三两两地回屋里去，他们都显得无精打彩、萎靡不振- 靠诚实劳动换饭吃的人总是这样的。窗子大多都大敞着，昏暗的房间仿佛是许多正打哈欠的大嘴。屋子里注的房客也在打哈欠，或是在替自己搔痒。他们坐卧不宁地动来动去显然毫无目的，说他们是一群疯子也并不过分。
On the fifth floor a few windowpanes are missing; we stand a moment gazing at the tenants across the court. It is getting toward dinner time and people are straggling back to their rooms with that weary, dejected air which comes from earning a living honestly. Most of the windows are wide open: the dingy rooms have the appearance of so many yawning mouths. The occupants of the rooms are yawning too, or else scratching themselves. They move about listlessly and apparently without much purpose; they might just as well be lunatics.
 
　　我们顺着走廊朝五十七号房间走去，这时前面突然有一扇门开了，一个头发蓬乱、目光像疯子一样的老妖婆偷偷从门里窥视我们。她吓了我们一大跳，我们傻站在那儿，惊呆了。足足有一分钟，我们三个人站在那儿，一步也挪不动，甚至无法打一个有意义的手势。我看见老妖婆背后摆着一张厨桌，桌上躺着一个浑身赤裸裸的婴儿，这是一个比一只拔光毛的鸡大不了多少的小把戏，最后那老家伙拎起身边一只污水桶朝前跨了一步，我们闪到一边让她过去，门在她身后关上时里面的婴儿发出一声令人心碎的尖叫。这是五十六号房间，五十六与五十七之间是卫生间，老妖婆到那几倒脏水去了。
As we turn down the corridor toward room 57, a door suddenly opens in front of us and an old hag with matted hair and the eyes of a maniac peers out. She startles us so that we stand transfixed. For a full minute the three of us stand there powerless to move or even to make an intelligent gesture. Back of the old hag I can see a kitchen table and on it lies a baby all undressed, a puny little brat no bigger than a plucked chicken. Finally the old one picks up a slop pail by her side and makes a move forward. We stand aside to let her pass and as the door closes behind her the baby lets out a piercing scream. It is room 56, and between 56 and 57 is the toilet where the old hag is emptying her slops.
 
　　我们一踏上楼梯范诺登便不吱声了，不过他的目光仍很动人。打开五十七号的房门后，在极短的一刹那间我觉得自己就要发疯了。一面大镜子上盖着绿纱、歪斜着呈四十五度角挂在门对面，镜子底下放着一部婴儿车，车上堆满了书。范诺登见到这些根本没有笑，他冷淡地走过去抓起一本书翻看了一遍，那副样子很像一个刚走进公共图书馆的人不假思索地走到离他最近的一个书架前去。若是这时我不曾无意问瞧见墙角里摆着一副自行车把，这也不会显得那么荒唐可笑。
Ever since we have mounted the stairs Van Norden has kept silence. But his looks are eloquent. When he opens the door of 57 I have for a fleeting moment the sensation of going mad. A huge mirror covered with green gauze and tipped at an angle of 45 degrees hangs directly opposite the entrance over a baby carriage which is filled with books. Van Norden doesn't even crack a smile; instead he walks nonchalantly over to the baby carriage and picking up a book begins to skim it through, much as a man would enter the public library and go unthinkingly to the rack nearest to hand. And perhaps this would not seem so ludicrous to me if I had not espied at the same time a pair of handle bars resting in the corner.
Part 8 Chapter 6
这副车把摆在那儿显得非常宁静、十分心满意足，似乎它已在那儿打了多年瞌睡。这又突然使我觉得我俩仿佛也已在这间屋里仁立了很长的、无法计算的一段时间，就像现在这样。这是我们在梦中想起的一种姿势，这是一场我们永远难以摆脱的梦，又是一场微微打个手势、稍稍眨眨眼便会粉碎的梦。然而更叫人惊奇的是，我脑子里忽然掠过一场真实的梦境、一场昨天夜里才做过的梦，我在梦中看到范诺登正像现在这样呆在一个角落里研究那副车把。不过不同的是，角落里没有自行车把，却有一个蜷起两条腿趴着的女人。我看到他站在那儿低头望着那女人，眼睛里流露出焦急热切的神色，当他极想得到一件东西时总是这副样子。
They look so absolutely peaceful and contented, as if they had been dozing there for years, that suddenly it seems to me as if we had been standing in this room, in exactly this position, for an incalculably long time, that it was a pose we had struck in a dream from which we never emerged, a dream which the least gesture, the wink of an eye even, will shatter. But more remarkable still is the remembrance that suddenly floats up of an actual dream which occurred only the other night, a dream in which I saw Van Norden in just such a corner as is occupied now by the handle bars, only instead of the handle bars there was a woman crouching with her legs drawn up. I see him standing over the woman with that alert, eager look in his eye which comes when he wants something badly.
 
　　这件事是在哪一条街上发生的已变得模糊不清了，只有两堵墙之间的夹角还在，还有那女人发抖的身子。我看见他用他那种迅捷的牲口方式朝她猛扑过去，全然不顾周围发生了什么事，只是打定主意要随心所欲地去干。他的目光像是在说 “事情完了以后你尽可以宰了我，只是现在先让我把它弄进去……我必须把它弄进去！”于是他俯在那女人身上，他俩的脑袋都撞在墙上，他勃起得那么厉害，简直根本无法进入她身体里去。突然，他直起身子，整整衣服，脸上一副十分厌烦的样子。做出这种表情是他的拿手好戏，猛然发现他的那玩艺儿扔在马路上，他便准备一走了之。那玩艺儿跟锯子锯下来的一根扫帚柄差不多粗细，他漠然地把它捡起来夹在胳膊底下。他走开时我看到两只很大的球体在那根扫帚柄一端荡来荡去，像郁金香的球茎，我听到他自己对自己咕哝：“花盆……花盆。”
The street in which this is going on is blurred - only the angle made by the two walls is clear, and the cowering figure of the woman. I can see him going at her in that quick, animal way of his, reckless of what's going on about him, determined only to have his way. And a look in his eyes as though to say - "you can kill me afterwards, but just let me get it in… I've got to get it in!" And there he is, bent over her, their heads knocking against the wall, he has such a tremendous erection that it's simply impossible to get it in her. Suddenly, with that disgusted air which he knows so well how to summon, he picks himself up and adjusts his clothes. He is about to walk away when suddenly he notices that his penis is lying on the sidewalk. It is about the size of a sawed off broomstick. He picks it up nonchalantly and slings it under his arm. As he walks off I notice two huge bulbs, like tulip bulbs, dangling from the end of the broomstick, and I can hear him muttering to himself "flowerpots… flowerpots."
 
　　佣人气喘吁吁、大汗淋漓地跑来了，范诺登不解地望着他。这时老板娘也昂首阔步地进来了，她径直走到范诺登面前，从他手中夺过书，把它塞进婴儿车里，然后，她一言不发推起婴儿车来到走廊上。
The gar?on arrives panting and sweating. Van Norden looks at him uncomprehendingly. The madam now marches in and, walking straight up to Van Norden, she takes the book out of his hand, thrusts it in the baby carriage, and, without saying a word, wheels the baby carriage into the hallway.
 
　　范诺登忧伤地笑着说，“这儿是一座疯人院。”他的微笑若隐若现、难以描述，有一瞬间那种做梦的感觉又回来了。我隐约觉得我们正站在一条长长的走廊的尽头，那儿挂着一面凸凹不平的镜子。范诺登沿着走廊摇摇晃晃走过来，一副潦倒失意的样子，活像一只黯淡的灯笼。他踉踉跄跄、跌跌撞撞地不时闯进一个门里去，门开处或有一只手把他一把拽进屋去，或有一只蹄子把他蹬出来。越向前走他便越发沮丧。他身上流露出的这种优郁像骑自行车的人夜里在又湿又滑的道路上行驶时用牙咬着的提灯。他在这些阴暗的房间里进进出出，待他一坐下椅子便散架了；待他打开箱子，里面却只有一只牙刷。每间房子里都有一面镜子，他便全神贯注地站在镜子前发牢骚。由于没完没了地发牢骚，由于不停地发牢骚、咕哝。喃喃自语和诅咒谩骂，他的上下颚脱节了，下垂得很厉害。他一蹭下巴上的胡子，下颚上便掉下几块肉来，于是他十分生自己的气，一气之下用脚踏在自个儿的下颚上，用高鞋跟把它碾个稀烂。
"This is a bughouse," says Van Norden, smiling distressedly. It is such a faint, indescribable smile that for a moment the dream feeling comes back and it seems to me that we are standing at the end of along corridor at the end of which is a corrugated mirror. And down this corridor, swinging his distress like a dingy lantern, Van Norden staggers, staggers in and out as here and there a door opens and a hand yanks him, or a hoof pushes him out. And the further off he wanders the more lugubrious is his distress; he wears it like a lantern which the cyclists hold between their teeth on a night when the pavement is wet and slippery. In and out of the dingy rooms he wanders, and when he sits down the chair collapses, when he opens his valise there is only a toothbrush inside. In every room there is a mirror before which he stands attentively and chews his rage, and from the constant chewing, from the grumbling and mumbling and the muttering and cursing his jaws have gotten unhinged and they sag badly and, when he rubs his beard, pieces of his jaw crumble away and he's so disgusted with himself that he stamps on his own jaw, grinds it to bits with his big heels.
 
　　这时仆人把行李送进来，事情已变得越发古怪了，尤其是当范诺登把健身器械绑在床脚上练起桑多式体操来之后。他朝那仆人笑着说，“我喜欢这个地方。”他脱去外衣和背心，仆人不解地盯着他看。他一手提起箱子，另一手里拎着装灌洗器的袋子。此时我站在前厅里，手里捧着笼罩在一层绿色薄雾中的镜子，没有一件东西是有实用价值的，前厅也没多大用处，像一条通到牲口棚去的走廊。每当我走进法兰西喜剧院或皇家剧院，同样的感觉便会涌上心头。这些地方到处是小摆设，地板上的活动门、胳膊、胸脯和打蜡地板、烛台和身穿盔甲的人、没有眼睛的塑像及躺在玻璃匣子里的求爱信。什么事情在进行着，但没有多大意义，就好像因为箱子里放不下，而把剩下的半瓶卡尔瓦多斯酒喝掉一样。
Meanwhile the luggage is being hauled in. And things begin to look crazier even than before - particularly when he attaches his exerciser to the bedstead and begins his Sandow exercises. "I like this place," he says, smiling at the gar?on. He takes his coat and vest off. The gar?on is watching him with a puzzled air; he has a valise in one hand and the douche bag in the other. I'm standing apart in the antechamber holding the mirror with the green gauze. Not a single object seems to possess a practical use. The antechamber itself seems useless, a sort of vestibule to a barn. It is exactly the same sort of sensation which I get when I enter the Comédie Fran?aise or the Palais-Royal Theatre; it is a world of bric a brac, of trap doors, of arms and busts and waxed floors, of candelabras and men in armor, of statues without eyes and love letters lying in glass cases. Something is going on, but it makes no sense; it's like finishing the half empty bottle of Calvados because there's no room in the valise.
 
　　我刚才说过，上楼时范诺登曾说起莫泊桑也在这儿住过，这一巧合似乎给他留下了印象。他一厢情愿地认为莫泊桑当年住的正是这问屋子，在这儿写出了那些令人毛骨惊然、也使他声名大振的故事。范诺登说，“他们像猪秽一样生活，这些可怜虫。”
Climbing up the stairs, as I said a moment ago, he had mentioned the fact that Maupassant used to live here. The coincidence seems to have made an impression upon him. He would like to believe that it was in this very room that Maupassant gave birth to some of those gruesome tales on which his reputation rests. " They lived like pigs, those poor bastards," he says.
 
　　我们坐在一个圆桌旁的两把舒服的扶手椅里，这两把椅子已经年代久了，都用皮条和支架加固着。身边就是床，挨得这么近，我们简直可以把脚搁上去。衣柜就在我们身后的一个角落里，很方便，一伸手便够得到。范诺登已把他的脏衣服全倒在桌上，我们把脚伸进他的脏袜子和衬衣堆里，坐在那里心满意足地抽烟。
We are sitting at the round table in a pair of comfortable old armchairs that have been trussed up with thongs and braces; the bed is right beside us, so close indeed that we can put our feet on it. The armoire stands in a corner behind us, also conveniently within reach. Van Norden has emptied his dirty wash on the table; we sit there with our feet buried in his dirty socks and shirts and smoke contentedly.
 
　　这个臭气熏天的地方对他产生了魔力，他对这儿很满意。我起身去开灯时他提议出去吃饭前玩一会儿纸牌，于是我们在窗前坐下玩了几把双人皮纳克，脏衣服堆在地板上，练桑多式体操的器械挂在吊灯上。范诺登已把烟斗收起来了，又在下唇内放了一小块鼻烟。他不时朝窗外啐一口，大口大口的棕色口水落在底下人行道上发出响亮的噗噗声，现在他挺满意。
The sordidness of the place seems to have worked a spell on him: he is content here. When I get up to switch on the light he suggests that we play a game of cards before going out to eat. And so we sit there by the window, with the dirty wash strewn over the floor and the Sandow exerciser hanging from the chandelier, and we play a few rounds of two handed pinochle. Van Norden has put away his pipe and packed a wad of snuff on the underside of his lower lip. Now and then he spits out of the window, big healthy gobs of brown juice which resound with a smack on the pavement below. He seems content now.
 
　　他说，“在美国，你无论如也不会住到这种下流地方来，即使是在四处流浪时我睡觉的房间也比这个好。不过在这儿这是正常的—正如你看过的书里讲到的。如果我还回去我要把这儿的生活忘得一干二净，像忘掉一场恶梦一样。或许我会重新去体验过去那种生活……只要我回去。有时我躺在床上恍馏忆起了过去，一切都是那么真切，我得摇摇头才能意识到自己在哪儿。身边有女人时尤其是这样，最使我着迷的就是女人了。
"In America," he says, "you wouldn't dream of living in a joint like this. Even when I was on the bum I slept in better rooms than this. But here it seems natural - it's like the books you read. If I ever go back there I'll forget all about this life, just like you forget a bad dream. I'll probably take up the old life again just where I left off… if I ever get back. Sometimes I lie in bed dreaming about the past and it's so vivid to me that I have to shake myself in order to realize where I am. Especially when I have a woman beside me; a woman can set me off better than anything.
 
　　我要她们只有一个目的—忘掉我自己。有时我完全沉溺在幻想之中，竟想不起那女人的名字以及我是在哪儿找到她的。好调笑，是吗？早晨醒来时旁边有个健壮的暖烘烘的身子陪伴你是件好事，这会叫你心里自在。你会变得高尚些……直到她们开口扯起爱情之类的软绵绵的蠢话。为什么所有女人都要大谈特谈爱情，你能告诉我吗？显然她们是觉得你和她好好睡一觉还不够……她们还要你的灵魂……”
That's all I want of them - to forget myself. Sometimes I get so lost in my reveries that I can't remember the name of the cunt or where I picked her up. That's funny, eh? It's good to have a fresh warm body beside you when you wake up in the morning. It gives you a clean feeling. You get spiritual like… until they start pulling that mushy crap about love et cetera. Why do all these cunts talk about love so much, can you tell me that? A good lay isn't enough for them apparently… they want your soul too…"
 
范诺登自言自语时嘴边常挂着“灵魂”这个词儿，起初我一听到这个词便觉得好笑。一听到这个词从他嘴里说出来我便会发歇斯底里，不知怎么搞的我总觉得这个词儿像一枚假硬币，尤其是当他说这个字眼时总要吐一大口棕色口水，并且在嘴角上流下一道涎水。我从不顾忌当面笑他，所以范诺登每回一吐出这个小词儿一定会停下让我开怀大笑一番，接着他又若无其事地自个儿说起来，越来越频繁地提到这个字眼，每一回调子都比上回更动听一些。女人想要的是他的灵魂，他这样对我说。
Now this word soul, which pops up frequently in Van Norden's soliloquies, used to have a droll effect upon me at first. Whenever I heard the word soul from his lips I would get hysterical; somehow it seemed like a false coin, more particularly because it was usually accompanied by a gob of brown juice which left a trickle down the corner of his mouth. And as I never hesitated to laugh in his face it happened invariably that when this little word bobbed up Van Norden would pause just long enough for me to burst into a cackle and then, as if nothing had happened, he would resume his monologue, repeating the word more and more frequently and each time with a more caressing emphasis. It was the soul of him that women were trying to possess - that he made clear to me.
 
他已经一遍遍重复了好多次，可是每一次仍要从头提起，就像一个偏执狂老是要谈在他心头索绕的事情。从某种意义上来看，范诺登是个疯子，这一点我已确信无疑。他怕独自一人呆着，他的恐惧是根深蒂固、无法摆脱的，趴在一个女人身上、同她结合在一起时他也仍旧逃不出自己为自己筑成的炼狱。他对我说，“我什么都试过了，甚至还数过数，考虑过哲学难题，可全没有用。我好像成了两个人，其中一个始终在盯着我。我生自己的气，气得要命，恨不得去自杀……可以说每一回达到性欲高峰时都是这样。约摸有那么一秒钟我完全忘记了自己，这时我甚至已不存在了……什么也没有了……那女人也不见了。这同领受圣餐差不多。真的，我真这么想。完事以后有几秒钟我觉得精神振奋……也许这种精神状态会无限期地持续下去 -若不是身边有个女人，还有装灌洗器的袋子，水在哗哗流……这些微小的细节使得你心里清楚得要命，使你觉得十分孤独，而就在这完全解脱的一瞬间内你还得听那些谈论爱情的废话……有时这简直要叫我发疯……我不时发疯。发疯也不会叫她们走开，实际上她们喜欢我这样。你越不去注意她们，她们越缠着你不放。女人身上有一种反常的气质……她们在内心深处都是受虐狂。”
He has explained it over and over again, but he comes back to it afresh each time like a paranoiac to his obsession. In a sense Van Norden is mad, of that I'm convinced. His one fear is to be left alone, and this fear is so deep and so persistent that even when he is on top of a woman, even when he has welded himself to her, he cannot escape the prison which he has created for himself. "I try all sorts of things," he explains tome. "I even count sometimes, or I begin to think of a problem in philosophy, but it doesn't work. It's like I'm two people, and one of them is watching me all the time. I get so goddamned mad at myself that I could kill myself… and in a way, that's what I do every time I have an orgasm. For one second like I obliterate myself. There's not even one me then… there's nothing… not even the cunt. It's like receiving communion. Honest, I mean that. For a few seconds afterwards I have a fine spiritual glow… and maybe it would continue that way indefinitely - how can you tell? - if it weren't for the fact that there's a woman beside you and then the douche bag and the water running… all those little details that make you desperately selfconscious, desperately lonely. And for that one moment of freedom you have to listen to all that love crap… it drives me nuts sometimes… I want to kick them out immediately… I do now and then. But that doesn't keep them away. They like it, in fact. The less you notice them the more they chase after you. There's something perverse about women… they're all masochists at heart."
 
　　我追问道，“那么，你想要从女人那儿得到什么？”
"But what is it you want of a woman, then?" I demand.
 
　　他开始摆弄自己的双手，下唇也放松了，一副十分垂头丧气的样子。最后他才结结巴巴地吭出几句没头没尾的话，言词中却流露出辩解也无益的意思。他不假思索他说，“我想叫自己能被女人迷住，我想叫她帮我摆脱自我的束缚。要这样做，她必须比我强才行，她得有脑子而不仅仅是有阴户，她必须得叫我相信我需要她、没有她我就活不下去。给我找一个这样的女人，好吗？如果你能办到我就把工作让给你，那时我就不在乎会发生什么事情了。我再也不需要工作、朋友、书籍或别的什么了。只要她能叫我相信世界上有比自己更重要的东西就行。天呀，我恨我自己！我更恨这些王八蛋女人—因为她们没有一个比我强。”
He begins to mold his hands; his lower lip droops. He looks completely frustrated. When eventually he succeeds in stammering out a few broken phrases it's with the conviction that behind his words lies an overwhelming futility. "I want to be able to surrender myself to a woman," he blurts out. "I want her to take me out of myself. But to do that, she's got to be better than I am; she's got to have a mind, not just a cunt. She's got to make me believe that I need her, that I can't live without her. Find me a cunt like that, will you? If you could do that I'd give you my job. I wouldn't care then what happened to me: I wouldn't need a job or friends or books or anything. If she could only make me believe that there was something more important on earth then myself. Jesus, I hate myself! But I hate these bastardly cunts even more - because they're none of them any good.
 
　　他接着说，“你以为我喜欢自己，这说明你根本不了解我。 我知道自己很了不起……如果没有一些过人之处我也就不会遇到这些难题了。使我烦躁不安的是无法表达自己的想法，人们认为我是一个追逐女色的人。这些人就这么肤浅，这些自命不凡的学者整天坐在咖啡馆露天座上反复进行心理反刍……还不坏，嗯—心理反刍？替我把它写下来，下星期我要把这话用在我的专栏里……对了，你读过司太克的书吗？他写得好吗？叫我看那像一本病历。我衷心希望自己能鼓足勇气去拜访一位精神分析学家……找个好人，我的意思是，我不想见到留山羊胡子、穿常礼服的奸滑小人，比如你的朋友鲍里斯。你怎么能容忍这些家伙呢？他们不叫你厌烦吗？我注意到你跟谁都讲话，你根本不在乎。也许你做得对，我也希望自己别他妈的这么挑剔。
"You think I like myself," he continues. "That shows how little you know about me. I know I'm a great guy… I wouldn't have these problems if there weren't something to me. But what eats me up is that I can't express myself. People think I'm a cunt chaser. That's how shallow they are, these high brows who sit on the terrasse all day chewing the psychologic cud… That's not so bad, eh - psychologic cud? Write it down for me. I'll use it in my column next week… By the way, did you ever read Stekel? Is he any good? It looks like nothing but case histories to me. I wish to Christ I could get up enough nerve to visit an analyst… a good one, I mean. I don't want to see these little shysters with goatees and frock coats, like your friend Boris. How do you manage to tolerate those guys? Don't they bore you stiff? You talk to anybody, I notice. You don't give a goddamn. Maybe you're right. I wish I weren't so damned critical.
 
　　可是那伙在大教堂附近荡来荡去的脏兮兮的小犹太佬真叫人讨厌，他们说起话来同教科书一个味儿。如果我能天天跟你谈一阵也许心里会轻松一些，你很善于倾听别人讲话。我知道你根本不在乎我怎么样，不过你有耐心，也没有什么理论去探讨，我猜你准是事后把这些都记在你那本笔记上了。听着，我不在乎你说我什么，可是别把我写成一个追逐女色的人—那样就太简单了。有朝一日我要写一本关于我自己。关于我的思想的书，我指的不仅仅是一份内省分析……我是说我要把自己放在手术台上，把所有内脏都摆出来让人看……每一件东西。以前有人这样做过吗？你在笑什么？我讲得太天真了？”
But these dirty little Jews who hang around the D?me, Jesus, they give me the creeps. They sound just like textbooks. If I could talk to you every day maybe I could get things off my chest. You're a good listener. I know you don't give a damn about me, but you're patient. And you don't have any theories to exploit. I suppose you put it all down afterward in that notebook of yours. Listen, I don't mind what you say about me, but don't make me out to be a cunt chaser - it's too simple. Some day I'll write a book about myself, about my thoughts. I don't mean just a piece of introspective analysis… I mean that I'll lay myself down on the operating table and I'll expose my whole guts… every goddamned thing. Has anybody ever done that before? - What the hell are you smiling at? Does it sound na?f?"
Part 8 Chapter 7
我笑是因为每回一谈到这本他有朝一日要写的书，事情就显得有点儿滑稽了。只要他一说“我的书”，整个世界立即便缩小到范诺登和他的公司伸手可及的范围之内。这本书一定要绝对用自己的观点写成，一定要绝对十全十美，这便是他不可能着手开始写的原因之一。一旦有了一个想法他便提出疑问，他记得陀思妥耶夫斯基写过这个，或者哈姆森写过，或是别的什么人写过。 “我并不是说我要写得比他们好，不过我想与他们有所不同。”他解释道。于是他不去写自己的书，却一个个作家挨着往下读，以便确实弄清他不会踩到这些作家的私人领地上。书读得越多他便越瞧不起别人，这些作家没有一个能令他满意，没有一个达到他为自己规定的那种十全十美的境地。他常常会全然忘记自己连一章也没有写完，却严然以屈尊的态度谈论这些作家，仿佛署着他大名的书已摆满了一书架，而且这些书都是广为人知的，因而再提到书名也显得多余了。他从来没有公开撒谎，不过那些被他硬拉住听他宣讲他的独到哲学和批评观、听他发牢骚的人显然都想当然地以为在夸夸其谈的言辞后面立着一大堆大部头著作。尤其是那些年轻的。傻呼呼的处女，他是以给她们念自己的诗的借口把这些女孩子哄骗到房间里来的，另一个更妙的借口便是要征求她们的意见。他一点也不感到难为情或是不好意思便把草草写着几行诗的一张脏兮兮的纸条拿给她们看按照他的说法，这是一首新诗的枝干部分—然后他便摆出十分严肃的架势要她们诚实地发表意见。通常她们什么评论性意见也说不出来，因为这几行诗毫无意义，她们看后完全摸不着头脑。于是范诺登便抓住这个机会向她们讲解他的艺术观，不用说，这套观点全是他为了应景胡编乱造出来的。
I'm smiling because whenever we touch on the subject of this book which he is going to write some day things assume an incongruous aspect. He has only to say "my book" and immediately the world shrinks to the private dimensions of Van Norden and Co. The book must be absolutely original, absolutely perfect. That is why, among other things, it is impossible for him to get started on it. As soon as he gets an idea he begins to question it. He remembers that Dostoevski used it, or Hamsun, or somebody else. "I'm not saying that I want to be better than them, but I want to be different," he explains. And so, instead of tackling his book, he reads one author after another in order to make absolutely certain that he is not going to tread on their private property. And the more he reads the more disdainful he becomes. None of them are satisfying; none of them arrive at that degree of perfection which he has imposed on himself. And forgetting completely that he has not written as much as a chapter he talks about them condescendingly, quite as though there existed a shelf of books bearing his name, books which everyone is familiar with and the titles of which it is therefore superfluous to mention. Though he has never overtly lied about this fact, nevertheless it is obvious that the people whom he buttonholes in order to air his private philosophy, his criticism, and his grievances, take it for granted that behind his loose remarks there stands a solid body of work. Especially the young and foolish virgins whom he lures to his room on the pretext of reading to them his poems, or on the still better pretext of asking their advice. Without the least feeling of guilt or selfconsciousness he will hand them a piece of soiled paper on which he has scribbled a few lines - the basis of a new poem, as he puts it - and with absolute seriousness demand of them an honest expression of opinion. As they usually have nothing to give by way of comment, wholly bewildered as they are by the utter senselessness of the lines, Van Norden seizes the occasion to expound to them his view of art, a view, needless to say, which is spontaneously created to suit the event.
 
　　扮演这样一个角色后来成了他的拿手好戏，从埃兹拉?庞德的诗到上床间的过渡变得又简单又自然，像从乐曲的一个调转为另一个调。事实上，如果过渡实现不了便会造成不和谐，当范诺登对付他称之为“容易上钩的女人”的傻娘儿们时一出错便会造成这种不和谐。自然，尽管生来便是这样一个人，他一提起那些致命的判断错误仍不免犹犹豫豫。不过一旦开始谈起一个这类错误他便十分坦诚，其实一讲起自己做的蠢事他还能反常地从中得到几分乐趣呢。比如说，有一个女人，他追求这个女人已经差不多有十年了—先是在美国，后来又在巴黎。这是同他保持真诚友好关系的唯一一个异性，他们不仅都喜欢对方，还相互理解。起初我觉得他若真能把这个女人弄到手，问题也就解决了。促成他们成功结合的一切因素都有了—只是缺少最基本的。贝西为人处事几乎同范诺登一样乖张。对于把自己献给某个男人，贝西丝毫不感兴趣，正如她对于餐后甜点心不感兴趣一样。她通常会自己挑出选中的男人，然后自己向他提议上床睡觉。她长得不丑，可是谁也不能说她长得好看。她的身材很好，这是最主要的- 据说她很欣赏自己的身材。
So expert has he become in this role that the transition from Ezra Pound's cantos to the bed is made as simply and naturally as a modulation from one key to another; in fact, if it were not made there would be a discord, which is what happens now and then when he makes a mistake as regards those nitwits whom he refers to as "push overs." Naturally, constituted as he is, it is with reluctance that he refers to these fatal errors of judgment. But when he does bring himself to confess to an error of this kind it is with absolute frankness; in fact, he seems to derive a perverse pleasure in dwelling upon his inaptitude. There is one woman, for example, whom he has been trying to make for almost ten years now - first in America, and finally here in Paris. It is the only person of the opposite sex with whom he has a cordial, friendly relationship. They seem not only to like each other, but to understand each other. At first it seemed to me that if he could really make this creature his problem might be solved. All the elements for a successful union were there - except the fundamental one. Bessie was almost as unusual in her way as himself. She had as little concern about giving herself to a man as she has about the dessert which follows the meal. Usually she singled out the object of her choice and made the proposition herself. She was not bad looking, nor could one say that she was good-looking either. She had a fine body, that was the chief thing - and she liked it, as they say.
 
　　他们两个人十分亲密，有时为了满足贝西的好奇心（同时也是徒劳地希冀显显本事，从而激发贝西的情欲），范诺登同别的女人约会前便设法把她藏在自己的衣橱里。完事后贝西从藏身之处钻出来，他们便会满不在乎地谈论此事。就是说，他们几乎对一切都漠不关心，除了“技术”。“技术”是贝西最喜欢用的词之一，至少在我有幸聆听到的那几次讨论中是这样的。范诺登会问，“我的技术有什么毛病？”贝西说，“你太粗鲁。如果你还希望勾引我就得温柔一些。”
They were so chummy, these two, that sometimes, in order to gratify her curiosity (and also in the vain hope of inspiring her by his prowess), Van Norden would arrange to hide her in his closet during one of his seances. After it was over Bessie would emerge from her hiding place and they would discuss the matter casually, that is to say, with an almost total indifference to everything except "technique." Technique was one of her favorite terms, at least in those discussions which I was privileged to enjoy. "What's wrong with my technique?" he would say. And Bessie would answer: "You're too crude. If you ever expect to make me you've got to become more subtle."
 
　　如同我说的，他们彼此间十分理解。我在一点半钟去找范诺登时常看到贝西坐在床边，被子掀到一边，范诺登在请求她抚摸自己的下体……他说，“只要轻轻摸几下，这样我就有勇气爬起来了。”要不他就催促贝西吮吸它，她不干，这时他俩便笑得上气不接下气。“我永远也没法把这个婊子弄到手，”他说。 “她一点儿也不尊重我，我向她倾诉心曲，得到的就是这个。”他会突然又冒出一句，“你跟我昨天介绍给你的那个金发女郎玩得怎样？”这话当然是对贝西说的，贝西嘲笑他，说他没有眼光。
There was such a perfect understanding between them, as I say, that often when I called for Van Norden at one-thirty, I would find Bessie sitting on the bed, the covers thrown back and Van Norden inviting her to stroke his penis… "just a few silken strokes," he would say, "so as I'll have the courage to get up." Or else he would urge her to blow on it, or failing that, he would grab hold of himself and shake it like a dinner bell, the two of them laughing fit to die. "I'll never make this bitch," he would say. "She has no respect for me. That's what I get for taking her into my confidence." And then abruptly he might add: "What do you make of that blonde I showed you yesterday?" Talking to Bessie, of course. And Bessie would jeer at him, telling him he had no taste.
 
　　他说，“得了，别给我来口是心非的那一套了。”然后他又开了一个玩笑，这个玩笑恐怕已开过一千次了，因为他俩总是以此取乐- “喂，贝西，咱们麻利地睡一次怎么样？只睡一次……不行？”待这个玩笑像往常一样收场了，范诺登又以同样的口吻补充一句，“喂，他怎么样？你干吗不跟他睡一次？”
"Aw, don't give me that line," he would say. And then playfully, perhaps for the thousandth time, because by now it had become a standing joke between them - "Listen, Bessie, what about a quick lay? Just one little lay… no." And when this had passed off in the usual manner he would add, in the same tone: "Well, what about him? Why don't you give him a lay?"
 
　　贝西的中心思想是说她不能、不愿意把自己当作一个性伙伴。她谈论激情，好像这是一个新名词一样。对于很多事情她都充满了激情，甚至像性交这种小事她也全力以赴。
The whole point about Bessie was that she couldn't, or just wouldn't, regard herself as a lay. She talked about passion, as if it were a brand new word. She was passionate about things, even a little thing like a lay. She had to put her soul into it.
 
　　“有时候我也会动情的。”范诺登说。
"I get passionate too sometimes," Van Norden would say.
 
　　“哼，你呀，”贝西说，“你不过只是一个疲惫的色鬼罢了。你不懂激情的含义，你一勃起便以为自己动情了。”
"Oh, you," says Bessie. "You're just a worn out satyr. You don't know the meaning of passion. When you get an erection you think you're passionate."
　　
　　“好，也许那不是动情……可是不勃起也就无法动情，是不是这样？”
"All right, maybe it's not passion… but you can't get passionate without having an erection, that's true isn't it?"
 
　　我和范诺登步行去餐馆时脑子里始终想着关于贝西的事，以及被他拽进房间没日没夜鬼混的那些女人。我已经完全适应了他的自言自语，根本不用打断自己的思绪，一听到他说完了我就可以不假思索地发表一些正中他下怀的评论意见。这像二部合唱，而最像大多数二部合唱之处在于，一个人全神贯注地听只是为了听到要他自己启齿唱的信号。今晚他不上班，我又答应了陪他，他的提问已经使我生厌了。我明白不等今晚过去我就会精疲力竭的，如果运气好我就在他上厕所时乘机溜之大吉 -也就是说，如果我能以某种借口从他那儿先骗到几法郎。
All this about Bessie, and the other women whom he drags to his rooms day in and out, occupies my thoughts as we walk to the restaurant. I have adjusted myself so well to his monologues that without interrupting my own reveries I make whatever comment is required automatically, the moment I hear his voice die out. It is a duet, and like most duets moreover in that one listens attentively only for the signal which announces the advent of one's own voice. As it is his night off, and as I have promised to keep him company, I have already dulled myself to his queries. I know that before the evening is over I shall be thoroughly exhausted; if I am lucky, that is, if I can worm a few francs out of him on some pretext or other, I will duck him the moment he goes to the toilet.
 
　　可是他知道我惯于中途溜走，因而他不愿受奚落，紧紧握住他的钱包以防发生这类事情。如果我向他要钱去买烟，他便非跟我一道去不可，他自个儿绝不独自呆着，一秒钟也不。甚至当他成功地搂住一个女人时他也十分害怕独自同这个女人一块儿呆着，只要可能他就要我坐在房间里看他干那件事，如同刮脸时叫我在一旁等着一样。
But he knows my propensity for slipping away, and, instead of being insulted, he simply provides against the possibility by guarding his sous. If I ask him for money to buy cigarettes he insists on going with me to purchase them. He will not be left alone, not for a second. Even when he has succeeded in grabbing off a woman, even then he is terrified to be left alone with her. If it were possible he would have me sit in the room while he puts on the performance. It would be like asking me to wait while he took a shave.
 
　　晚上不上班时范诺登至少要设法在衣袋里放上五十法郎，可是这仍挡不住他一遇到可能有钱的主儿便开口要钱。他说，“喂，我二十法郎……我等钱用。”与此同时，他有本领作出一副惊慌失措的样子。若是对方断然拒绝了，他便出言不逊了。
 
　　“得了，你至少得给我买杯酒喝。”喝到酒后他又和气他说，“那么给我五法郎好了……给我两法郎……”我们走遍一家家酒吧去寻找一点刺激，每一回总能添几个法郎的收入。
On his night off Van Norden generally manages to have at least fifty francs in his pocket, a circumstance which does not prevent him from making a touch whenever he encounters a prospect. "Hello," he says, "give me twenty francs… I need it." He has a way of looking panic stricken at the same time. And if he meets with a rebuff he becomes insulting. "Well, you can buy a drink at least." And when he gets his drink he says more graciously - "Listen give me five francs then… give me two francs…" We go from bar to bar looking for a little excitement and always accumulating a few more francs.
 
　　在“库波勒”那儿我们偶然遇到了报社里的一个醉汉，是一个在楼上干活的家伙。他告诉我们办公楼里刚刚发生了一场事故，有一个校对员从电梯上摔下来，看来活不成了。
At the Coupole we stumble into a drunk from the newspaper. One of the upstairs guys. There's just been an accident at the office, he informs us. One of the proofreaders fell down the elevator shaft. Not expected to live.
 
　　起初范诺登吃了一惊，深深地吃了一惊，后来听说那人是佩克奥弗，那个英国人，他便显得轻松些了。他说，“可怜的家伙，他死了还比活着好，他也是那天刚装的假牙……”
At first Van Norden is shocked, deeply shocked. But when he learns that it was Peckover, the Englishman, he looks relieved. "The poor bastard," he says, "he's better off dead than alive. He just got his false teeth the other day too…"
 
一提到假牙，楼上那个人就哭开了，他一把鼻涕一把泪他讲述了这次事故中的一个小插曲。他为此很难过，这个小插曲比这场灾难本身更使他难过。佩克奥弗摔到电梯底后恢复了知觉，这时来救他的人还没有来。他的腿摔断了，肋骨摔碎了，可他还是挣扎着站起来四处摸他的假牙，在救护车上他仍在昏迷中大声呼唤丢掉的假牙。这个小插曲既可悲又可笑，楼上那人讲述时简直不知道该哭还是该笑。这是需要加倍小心的一刻，同这样一个醉鬼打交道，弄不好他便会用酒瓶子砸你的脑袋。他并不特别同佩克奥弗好，实际上他几乎根本不曾进过校对部报社里楼上楼下的工作人员之间竖着一堵无形的墙。现在听到死了人他也想表示一下同伴情谊。若能哭得出他便要哭，以表明他也是正常人。而乔和我都很熟悉佩克奥弗，也明白他根本不值什么，因而我们对这一番喝醉后的多愁善感很不以为然，哪怕只是几滴眼泪也罢。我们想明白告诉他，可是跟这样一个家伙打交道你可诚实不起，你只得买一口花圈去参加丧礼，装出一副很伤心的样子。你还得祝贺他写了一篇如此缠绵悱侧的讣告，好几个月内他都要把这篇讣告带在身边，把自己吹个不停，吹他是如何处理当时的局面的。这些我和乔都预料到了，尽管我们一句话也不用说，于是我们站着，以凶狠、沉默的心情听他说，一有机会逃走我们便逃走了，让他在酒吧里喝着茴香酒自己对自己哭诉去了。
The allusion to the false teeth moves the man upstairs to tears. He relates in a slobbery way a little incident connected with the accident. He is upset about it, more upset about this little incident than about the catastrophe itself. It seems that Peckover, when he hit the bottom of the shaft, regained consciousness before anyone could reach him. Despite the fact that his legs were broken and his ribs busted, he had managed to rise to all fours and grope about for his false teeth. In the ambulance he was crying out in his delirium for the teeth he had lost. The incident was pathetic and ludicrous at the same time. The guy from upstairs hardly knew whether to laugh or to weep as he related it. It was a delicate moment because with a drunk like that, one false move and he'd crash a bottle over your skull. He had never been particularly friendly with Peckover - as a matter of fact, he had scarcely ever set foot in the proofreading department: there was an invisible wall like between the guys upstairs and the guys down below. But now, since he had felt the touch of death, he wanted to display his comradeship. He wanted to weep, if possible, to show that he was a regular guy. And Joe and I, who knew Peckover well and who knew also that he wasn't worth a good goddamn, even a few tears, we felt annoyed with this drunken sentimentality. We wanted to tell him so too, but with a guy like that you can't afford to be honest; you have to buy a wreath and go to the funeral and pretend that you're miserable. And you have to congratulate him too for the delicate obituary he's written. He'll be carrying his delicate little obituary around with him for months, praising the shit out of himself for the way he handled the situation. We felt all that, Joe and I. without saying a word to each other. We just stood there and listened with a murderous, silent contempt. And as soon as we could break away we did so; we left him there at the bar blubbering to himself over his Pernod.
Part 8 Chapter 8
一走到他看不见的地方，我们便狂笑起来。假牙！不论我们说这个可怜家伙什么，而且还说到他的一些优点，但最终总是回到假牙上来。世上有些人就是十分古怪，甚至死亡也会使他们变得可笑。死得越可怕他们就越显得滑稽可笑。想把他们的死亡看得严肃一点儿也没有用—你想要在他们的死中找出什么可悲因素，你就得撒谎，就得伪善。由于无须摆出假惺惺的姿态，所以我们可以纵情为这件事放声大笑。我们笑了整整一夜，其间还发泄了对楼上那帮家伙的蔑视和厌恶。这帮蠢货无疑是在劝自己相信佩克奥弗是个好人，他的死是一场灾难。我们又忆起了各种趣闻轶事—他漏掉了分号，为此他们大喊大叫，吓得他尿裤子。他们用该死的小小分号和分数弄得他坐卧不宁，他常常把它们搞错。有一回他来上班时口中有股酒气，他们甚至还要解雇他，他们瞧不起他，因为他总是可怜巴巴的，有湿疹，有头皮。在他们看来，他只是一个小人物。现在他死了，他们全都起劲地凑钱给他买了一只巨大的花圈，还要把他的名字用大号字登在报上的讣告栏中。凡是会使他们自己略受一点非难的事他们都干，只要能做到，他们情愿把他描绘成一个大人物，不幸的是，他们替佩克奥弗编不出什么来。他是一个零，甚至死亡也无法在他的名字上添上什么。
Once out of his sight we began to laugh hysterically. The false teeth! No matter what we said about the poor devil, and we said some good things about him too, we always came back to the false teeth. There are people in this world who cut such a grotesque figure that even death renders them ridiculous. And the more horrible the death the more ridiculous they seem. It's no use trying to invest the end with a little dignity - you have to be a liar and a hypocrite to discover anything tragic in their going. And since we didn't have to put on a false front we could laugh about the incident to our heart's content. We laughed all night about it, and in between times we vented our scorn and disgust for the guys upstairs, the fatheads who were trying to persuade themselves, no doubt, that Peckover was a fine fellow and that his death was a catastrophe. All sorts of funny recollections came to our minds - the semicolons that he overlooked and for which they bawled the piss out of him. They made his life miserable with their fucking little semicolons and the fractions which he always got wrong. They were even going to fire him once because he came to work with a boozy breath. They despised him because he always looked so miserable and because he had eczema and dandruff. He was just a nobody, as far as they were concerned, but, now that he was dead, they would all chip in lustily and buy him a huge wreath and they'd put his name in big type in the obituary column. Anything to throw a little reflection on themselves; they'd make him out to be a big shit if they could. But unfortunately, with Peckover, there was little they could invent about him. He was a zero, and even the fact that he was dead wouldn't add a cipher to his name.
 
　　乔说，“这件事只有一个好处，你可以接替他的工作了。如果你走运，说不定也会从电梯里掉下去摔断脖子。我们会给你买一个很不错的花圈的，我向你保证。”
"There's only one good aspect to it," says Joe. "You may get his job. And if you have any luck, maybe you'll fall down the elevator shaft and break your neck too. We'll buy you a nice wreath, I promise you that."
 
　　天快亮时我们坐在多姆饭店的露天咖啡座上，早已把可怜的佩克奥弗忘得干干净净。我们在“黑人”舞厅里乐了一下，乔的思想又回到那个永恒不变的消遣上来了—女人。到了这个时辰他的一夜休息时间已快结束，他的烦躁不安也达到了狂热程度。他想到今夜早些时候放过去的女人和那些一叫就来、关系稳定的情侣，可惜他对她们已感到厌烦了。这也不可避免地使他想起他的格鲁吉亚女人- 最近她一直在追逐他，乞求他收容她，至少直到她找到工作。他说，“我不在乎偶尔请她吃一顿，可我不能长期养着她……她会把别的女人都赶走的。”这个女人最使他不快的是身上一点肉也没有。他说，“就像抱着一具骷髅上床一样。那天夜里我出于同情收留了她。你知道这个发疯的婊子替自己干了什么？她把那个地方全刮光了……上面一点儿毛也没剩下，叫人反感，是吗？也挺好玩的，像是疯了。它不再像女人的下体了，倒像一只死蛤或是别的什么。”他向我描述好奇心激发起来后他如何下床去找手电筒。“我叫她叉开两条腿，把手电照在上面。当时你若看到我就好了……真是好玩极了。它叫我激动起来，竟把她全忘了。我一辈子从来没有这样认真地看过一个女人的下体，你会以为我从前从来没有看过。我越看越觉得没劲，它只是告诉你那儿没有什么，尤其是剃过以后，是毛使它变得神秘起来了。这就是为什么一座雕像打动不了你的原因，只有一次我在一座雕像上看到过一个真正的女人下体—那是罗丹的作品。以后你也该看看……她的腿叉得很开……我记得这个雕像没有脑袋，你可以说只有一个下体。老天，看起来可怕极了，问题在于她们全都是一模一样。她们穿着衣服时你看到她们会产生各种想法，你会给予她们一种个性，而她们当然是没有个性的，不过只是两条大腿之间有一道缝而已。你会生它的气，甚至不愿再看它一眼。这是一场幻觉，你为虚无缥缈的东西发脾气……为一道长毛的缝或一道没有毛的缝发脾气，这是完全没有意义的，所以它吸引我去看，我仔细看它，准看了十分钟或是更长时间。你这样以超然的态度看着它，脑子里便会产生一些古怪的念头。性本来是十分神秘的，接着你发现这也没有什么 -只是一个空洞而已。如果你发现里面有一支口琴不会觉得好玩吗？或是一本日历？可是里面什么也没有……什么也没有。它令人厌恶。它差一点儿叫我发疯…… 喂，你知道我后来干了什么？我同她很快睡了一次便转过身去背对着她，对了，我拿起一本书看。你可以从书中学到点儿什么，即使是一本坏书……可是一个女人，那纯粹是浪费时间。
Toward dawn we're sitting on the terrasse of the D?me. We've forgotten about poor Peckover long ago. We've had a little excitement at the Bal Nègre and Joe's mind has slipped back to the eternal preoccupation: cunt. It's at this hour, when his night off is almost concluded, that his restlessness mounts to a fever pitch. He thinks of the women he passed up earlier in the evening and of the steady ones he might have had for the asking, if it weren't that he was fed up with them. He is reminded inevitably of his Georgia cunt - she's been hounding him lately, begging him to take her in, at least until she can find herself a job. "I don't mind giving her a feed once in a while," he says, "but I couldn't take her on as a steady thing… she'd ruin it for my other cunts." What gripes him most about her is that she doesn't put on any flesh. "It's like taking a skeleton to bed with you," he says. "The other night I took her on - out of pity - and what do you think the crazy bitch had done to herself? She. had shaved it clean… not a speck of hair on it. Did you ever have a woman who shaved her twat? It's repulsive, ain't it? And it's funny, too. Sort of mad like. It doesn't look like a twat any more: it's like a dead clam or something." He describes to me how, his curiosity aroused, he got out of bed and searched for his flashlight. "I made her hold it open and I trained the flashlight on it. You should have seen me… it was comical. I got so worked up about it that I forgot all about her. I never in my life looked at a cunt so seriously. You'd imagine I'd never seen one before. And the more I looked at it the less interesting it became. It only goes to show you there's nothing to it after all, especially when it's shaved. It's the hair that makes it mysterious. That's why a statue leaves you cold. Only once I saw a real cunt on a statue - that was by Rodin. You ought to see it some time… she has her legs spread wide apart… I don't think there was any head on it. Just a cunt you might say. Jesus, it looked ghastly. The thing is this - they all look alike. When you look at them with their clothes on you imagine all sorts of things: you give them an individuality like, which they haven't got, of course. There's just a crack there between the legs and you get all steamed up about it - you don't even look at it half the time. You know it's there and all you think about is getting your ramrod inside; it's as though your penis did the thinking for you. It's an illusion! You get all burned up about nothing… about a crack with hair on it, or without hair. It's so absolutely meaningless that it fascinated me to look at it. I must have studied it for ten minutes or more. When you look at it that way, sort of detached like, you get funny notions in your head. All that mystery about sex and then you discover that it's nothing - just a blank. Wouldn't it be funny if you found a harmonica inside… or a calendar? But there's nothing there… nothing at all. It's disgusting. It almost drove me mad… Listen, do you know what I did afterwards? I gave her a quick lay and then I turned my back on her. Yeah, I picked up a book and I read. You can get something out of a book, even a bad book… but a cunt, it's just sheer loss of time…"
 
范诺登正要结束这篇高谈阔论，正巧有一个妓女在向我们抛媚眼。他连一刻都没有踌躇便突然对我说，“你愿意跟她亲热一下吗，花不了多少钱……叫她接待咱俩。”不等我答话，他便摇摇晃晃地站起来朝她走过去。过了几分钟他回来了。“全说妥了。”他说，“喝光你的啤酒。她饿了，这时候又没有什么事情好做……要十五个法郎，咱俩她都接。到我的房间里去……这样便宜些。”
It just so happened that as he was concluding his speech a whore gave us the eye. Without the slightest transition he says to me abruptly: "Would you like to give her a tumble? It won't cost much… she'll take the two of us on." And without waiting for a reply he staggers to his feet and goes over to her. In a few minutes he comes back. "It's all fixed," he says. "Finish your beer. She's hungry. There's nothing doing any more at this hour… she'll take the both of us for fifteen francs. We'll go to my room… it'll be cheaper."
 
　　去旅馆的路上这个姑娘冻得浑身发抖，我们只好停下来给她买了杯咖啡。她倒是个挺温柔的小姑娘，看上去也挺漂亮。显然她早就认识范诺登，也明白不能指望从范诺登那儿得到什么，除了这十五法郎。“你一文钱也没有。”他压低嗓门喃喃道。我衣袋里的确连一个生丁也没有，所以我不大明白他这样说目的何在。后来他嚷开了，这时我才明白。“看在基督的份上，记住，我们没有钱。待会儿咱们上了楼你可别心软，她会向你再额外讨一点儿的—我了解这婊子！本来花十个法郎也能把她弄到手的，若是我想这样做的话。把她们惯坏了那可是没有什么好处……”“这个人很坏。”姑娘用法语对我说，她懵懵懂懂地猜出了范诺登用英语讲的话的大意。
On the way to the hotel the girl is shivering so that we have to stop and buy her a coffee. She's a rather gentle sort of creature and not at all bad to look at. She evidently knows Van Norden, knows there's nothing to expect from him but the fifteen francs. "You haven't got any dough," he says, mumbling to me under his breath. As I haven't a centime in my pocket I don't quite see the point of this, until he bursts out: "For Christ's sake, remember that we're broke. Don't get tenderhearted when we get upstairs. She's going to ask you for a little extra - I know this cunt! I could get her for ten francs, if I wanted to. There's no use spoiling them…""Il est méchant, celui là," she says to me, gathering the drift of his remarks in her dull way.
 
　　“不，他不坏，他很可爱。”
"Non, il n'est pas méchant, il est très gentil."
 
　　她摇摇头大笑道，“我很了解他这种人。”接着她开始讲述她的一段倒霉的经历，住院费、拖欠的房租，还有寄放在乡下的婴儿。不过她的表演并不很过火，她也明白我们对此充耳不闻，不过她心里很不好受，像是搁着一块石头，所以也就顾不上想别的事儿了。她并不是要设法求得我们的怜悯，只是要把压在心里的重负从一个地方移到另一个地方而已。我相当喜欢她，但愿老天保佑她没有性箔…
She shakes her head laughingly. "Je le connais bien, ce type." And then she commences a hard luck story, about the hospital and the back rent and the baby in the country. But she doesn't overdo it. She knows that our ears are stopped; but the misery is there inside her, like a stone, and there's no room for any other thoughts. She isn't trying to make an appeal to our sympathies - she's just shifting this big weight inside her from one place to another. I rather like her. I hope to Christ she hasn't got a disease…
到了屋里，她机械地替自己作准备工作。蹲在洗下身的盆上时她还问，“一点儿面包都没有吗？”范诺登听到这话就乐了，“来，喝一口。”说着他便把一只酒瓶推过去，可她抱怨道，她什么都不想喝。肚子早饿瘪了。
 
In the room she goes about her preparations mechanically. "There isn't a crust of bread about by any chance?" she inquires, as she squats over the bidet. Van Norden laughs at this. "Here, take a drink," he says, shoving a bottle at her. She doesn't want anything to drink; her stomach's already on the bum, she complains.
 
 “这是她惯用的伎俩，”范诺登道。“别叫她打动你，又是老一套。但愿她说点儿别的，搞到一个饥肠辘辘的婊子，你又怎么能唤得起激情来？”
"That's just a line with her," says Van Norden. "Don't let her work on your sympathies. Just the same, I wish she'd talk about something else. How the hell can you get up any passion when you've got a starving cunt on your hands?"
 
　　对极了！我俩都没有一点激情。至于这个姑娘，希冀她表现出一丝一毫的激情犹如指望她拿出一条宝石项链一样不切实际。不过这儿是那十五法郎，总得想个法子把它花了才是。正像打仗一样，战况一吃紧人人都只想着和平，想着快点儿渡过难关，可是谁也没有勇气放下武器说，“我受够了……不干了。”
Precisely! We haven't any passion either of us. And as for her, one might as well expect her to produce a diamond necklace as to show a spark of passion. But there's the fifteen francs and something has to be done about it. It's like a state of war: the moment the condition is precipitated nobody thinks about anything but peace, about getting it over with. And yet nobody has the courage to lay down his arms, to say, "I'm fed up with it… I'm through."
 
　　不行，还有十五法郎，谁也不再在乎这点儿钱，到头来谁也得不到它。可是，这十五法郎正像各种事情的原始动力一般，一个人总是屈从于他周围的环境，而不是听他自个儿高谈阔论或是干脆抛弃这个原始动力。这个人不断地杀人、杀人，越是感到懦弱就越要表现出英勇无畏的气概，直到某一天战争结束了，所有的大炮一下子寂静下来，担架兵抬起缺胳膊少腿、血流如注的勇士们，把勋章挂在他们胸前。这时候他便可用余生去思索那十五法郎了。他失去了双眼，也许是双臂，也许是两条腿，然而他也得到了慰藉，从此可以在冥冥苦想那早已被人忘却的十五法郎中安度余生了。
No, there's fifteen francs somewhere, which nobody gives a damn about any more and which nobody is going to get in the end anyhow, but the fifteen francs is like the primal cause of things and rather than listen to one's own voice, rather than walk out on the primal cause, one surrenders to the situation, one goes on butchering and butchering and the more cowardly one feels the more heroically does he behave, until a day when the bottom drops out and suddenly all the guns are silenced and the stretcher bearers pick up the maimed and bleeding heroes and pin medals on their chest. Then one has the rest of his life to think about the fifteen francs. One hasn't any eyes or arms or legs, but he has the consolation of dreaming for the rest of his days about the fifteen francs which everybody has forgotten.
 
　　这件事真是同打仗一模一样，我简直摆脱不了这种想法。姑娘想给我注入一点激情，这种纠缠人的方式不禁使我想到，假如我犯傻钻进这样一个圈套里，被人拖上前线，我准是一个糟糕透顶的士兵。就我自己而论，我明白我会放弃一切，包括荣誉，只要能从这个烂摊子上逃脱出来。我无心干这种事，这就是我的全部想法。可这女人早已拿定主意要赚这十五法郎，即使我不愿为此拼命她也要逼我去拼。不过，若是一个男人没有去拼命的勇气，谁也无法给他这个胆量。我们当中有些人这么懦弱，谁也无法叫他们成为勇士，哪怕把他们吓死了也无济于事。也许是我们懂得大多了，有些人并不是生活在此时此刻，他们或生活在刚刚逝去的过去，或生活在尚未到来的不久的将来。
It's exactly like a state of war - I can't get it out of my head. The way she works over me, to blow a spark of passion into me, makes me think what a damned poor soldier I'd be if I was ever silly enough to be trapped like this and dragged to the front. I know for my part that I'd surrender everything, honor included, in order to get out of the mess. I haven't any stomach for it, and that's all there is to it. But she's got her mind set on the fifteen francs and if I don't want to fight about it she's going to make me fight. But you can't put fight into a man's guts if he hasn't any fight in him. There are some of us so cowardly that you can't ever make heroes of us, not even if you frighten us to death. We know too much, maybe. There are some of us who don't live in the moment, who live a little ahead, or a little behind.
 
　　我的脑子里始终想着要订立一个和约拉倒，我忘不了都是这十五法郎惹出来的麻烦。十五法郎！十五法郎对我意味着什么？何况这十五法郎还不是我的。
My mind is on the peace treaty all the time. I can't forget that it was the fifteen francs which started all the trouble. Fifteen francs! What does fifteen francs mean to me, particularly since it's not my fifteen francs?
 
　　看来范诺登对待此事的态度倒是正常得多。他不在乎十五法郎这笔小钱，是此刻的情景本身激发了他的兴致。在这类事情上需要显示勇气，因为这关系到他的男子汉气概。不论我们成功与否，十五法郎算是扔掉了。或许除男子汉气概外还有别的什么也是不可缺少的，这就是意志吧。这一回我们又像战壕里的士兵了，他压根儿不明白自己为什么还活着，如果他现在躲过去，以后反正还会挨一枪的，然而他并不躲避，仍像往常一样作战。纵使在灵魂深处，他像一只蟑螂一样胆小，而且自个儿也承认胆小，他仍会杀人，不断地杀人。只要给他一枝枪、一把刀，或者干脆叫他赤手空拳好了，他宁愿杀掉一百万人也不愿住手问问自己为什么要这样干。
Van Norden seems to have a more normal attitude about it. He doesn't care a rap about the fifteen francs either now; it's the situation itself which intrigues him. It seems to call for a show of mettle - his manhood is involved. The fifteen francs are lost, whether we succeed or not. There's something more involved - not just manhood perhaps, but will. It's like a man in the trenches again: he doesn't know any more why he should go on living, because if he escapes now he'll only be caught later, but he goes on just the same, and even though he has the soul of a cockroach and has admitted as much to himself, give him a gun or a knife or even just his bare nails, and he'll go on slaughtering and slaughtering, he'd slaughter a million men rather than stop and ask himself why.
 
　　我望着范诺登对付这姑娘，只觉得自己是在看一部齿轮已脱开的机器，把这些齿轮丢下别管，它们就会永远这样摆着，摩擦、滑脱，永远不会发生变化，直到有一只手关上电动机。他俩毫无半点激情地像一对山羊一样交媾，什么也不为，就为了那十五法郎在一块儿磨来蹭去，这副情景弄得我很倒胃口，最后只剩下一点儿那种动物般的好奇心了。那姑娘躺在床边上，范诺登俯在她身上，两脚牢牢地踩在地板上，真像一条色狼。我呢，就坐在他身后的一把椅子上，以一种冷静的科学态度矜持地看着他们扭来扭去，即使这情景一直延续下去我也不在乎。这正如看着一部疯狂的机器把报纸不断地抛出来，几百万张，几十亿张，几十兆张，上面的标题全是扯淡。尽管机器也疯了，看它反倒比看人和人搞的这种把戏更来劲儿，更叫人着迷。我对范诺登和这姑娘的兴趣等于零。若能就这样坐着看此刻正在进行的、世界上的每一场这种表演，我的兴趣恐怕会比零还低。我无法区别这事儿同下雨或火山爆发究竟有何不同。只要仍缺乏激情，这场表演便没有人味儿。看着那部机器也比看他们强，他们正像一部齿轮脱开的机器，需要有一只手碰碰它，把它弄好。它需要一个修理工。
As I watch Van Norden tackle her, it seems to me that I'm looking at a machine whose cogs have slipped. Left to themselves, they could go on this way forever, grinding and slipping, without ever anything happening. Until a hand shuts the motor off. The sight of them coupled like a pair of goats without the least spark of passion, grinding and grinding away for no reason except the fifteen francs, washes away every bit of feeling I have except the inhuman one of satisfying my curiosity. The girl is lying on the edge of the bed and Van Norden is bent over her like a satyr with his two feet solidly planted on the floor. I am sitting on a chair behind him, watching their movements with a cool, scientific detachment; it doesn't matter to me if it should last forever. It's like watching one of those crazy machines which throw the newspaper out, millions and billions and trillions of them with their meaningless headlines. The machine seems more sensible, crazy as it is, and more fascinating to watch, than the human beings and the events which produced it. My interest in Van Norden and the girl is nil; if I could sit like this and watch every single performance going on at this minute all over the world my interest would be even less than nil. I wouldn't be able to differentiate between this phenomenon and the rain falling or a volcano erupting. As long as that spark of passion is missing there is no human significance in the performance. The machine is better to watch. And these two are like a machine which has slipped its cogs. It needs the touch of a human hand to set it right. It needs a mechanic.
Part 8 Chapter 9
我在范诺登身后跪下，更加留神地检验这部机器。姑娘把脑袋偏向一侧，绝望地瞧了我一眼说，“没有用，不行了。”听到这话，范诺登又鼓足劲儿干起来，活像一头老公羊。他就是这么一个固执的怪物，宁肯折断了犄角也不肯停祝现在我又在他屁股上搔痒，更使他恼羞成怒。
I get down on my knees behind Van Norden and I examine the machine more attentively. The girl throws her head on one side and gives me a despairing look. "It's no use," she says. "It's impossible." Upon which Van Norden sets to work with renewed energy, just like an old billy goat. He's such an obstinate cuss that he'll break his horns rather than give up. And he's getting sore now because I'm tickling him in the rump.
 
　　“看在上帝份上，乔，住手吧！你会弄死这个可怜的姑娘的。”
"For God's sake, Joe, give it up! You'll kill the poor girl."
 
　　“别打搅我，”他咕噜道。“刚才我差点儿……就插进去了。”
"Leave me alone," he grunts. "I almost got it in that time."
 
　　他这会儿的姿势和说话时那种武断的态度又一次突然叫我回忆起了从前做过的那场梦，只是这一回他走路时大大咧咧夹在腋下的那根扫帚把永远不见了。如今发生的事情是那场梦的继续- 还是同一个范诺登，不过没有了那个原始动力。他像打完仗归来的英雄，一个可怜的残废人，在梦幻中的现实里生活。无论在哪儿他往下一坐椅子便散了；无论他走进哪一扇门那个房间都是空的；无论他吃什么嘴里都留下一股不好的味道。
The posture and the determined way in which he blurts this out suddenly bring to my mind, for the second time, the remembrance of my dream. Only now it seems as though that broomstick, which he had so nonchalantly slung under his arm, as he walked away, is lost forever. It is like the sequel to the dream - the same Van Norden, but minus the primal cause. He's like a hero come back from the war, a poor maimed bastard living out the reality of his dreams. Wherever he sits himself the chair collapses; whatever door he enters the room is empty: whatever he puts in his mouth leaves a bad taste.
 
　　每一件事情都跟以前一样，环境未变，梦与现实并没有多大区别。只是，在睡觉和醒来这段时间之内他的躯体被人盗走了。他像一部抛出报纸的印刷机，每天抛出上百万、上亿张报纸，头一版上尽是灾难，尽是暴乱、凶杀、爆炸和撞车事故，但是他却全然无动于衷。如果没有人关上开关他绝不会明白死是怎么回事，假如自己的身体被人盗走了你就不会死了。你可以哄骗一个女人，可以像一头公山羊一样没命地干下去，永远干下去。你也可以投身于战壕中，让炮火炸个粉身碎骨，但是如果没有一只人手的参与什么也造不出这激情的火花。总得有人把手伸进机器里去，把机器把手扳下来 -若要叫齿轮重新啮合的话。这个人要在不指望得到酬劳的前提下去这样做，他不能总惦记着那十五法郎。这个人的胸脯不能厚，一枚勋章就会叫他变成驼背。这个人还得给快饿死的女人吃一顿，而不必害怕吃的东西又被吐出来。否则这场戏便会无休止地演下去，没有一条走出迷津的道路……
Everything is just the same as it was before; the elements are unchanged, the dream is no different than the reality. Only, between the time he went to sleep and the time he woke up, his body was stolen. He's like a machine throwing out newspapers, millions and billions of them every day, and the front page is loaded with catastrophes, with riots, murders, explosions, collisions, but he doesn't feel anything. If somebody doesn't turn the switch off he'll never know what it means to die; you can't die if your own proper body has been stolen. You can get over a cunt and work away like a billy goat until eternity; you can go to the trenches and be blown to bits; nothing will create that spark of passion if there isn't the intervention of a human hand. Somebody has to put his hand into the machine and let it be wrenched off if the cogs are to mesh again. Somebody has to do this without hope of reward, without concern over the fifteen francs; somebody whose chest is so thin that a medal would make him hunchbacked. And somebody has to throw a feed into a starving cunt without fear of pushing it out again. Otherwise this show'll go on forever. There's no way out of the mess…
 
舔老板的屁股舔了整整一个星期后我设法弄到了佩克奥弗的工作，在这儿就得这样干。这可怜虫果然死了，是掉在电梯下过了几个小时后死的。正如我所预见的，他们替他举行了隆重的丧礼，庄严的弥撒，巨大的花圈，一切应有尽有，应有尽有。仪式结束后楼上的家伙们在一家酒吧里尽情吃喝了一顿，遗憾的是佩克奥弗无法再吃一点儿了—能同楼上的人坐在一起。又不断听到别人提起他的名字，他一定会感激不尽的。
After sucking the boss's ass for a whole week - it's the thing to do here - I managed to land Peckover's job. He died all right, the poor devil, a few hours after he hit the bottom of the shaft. And just as I predicted, they gave him a fine funeral, with solemn mass, huge wreaths, and everything. Tout compris. And after the ceremonies they regaled themselves, the upstairs guys, at a bistro. It was too bad Peckover couldn't have had just a little snack - he would have appreciated it so much to sit with the men upstairs and hear his own name mentioned so frequently.
 
　　一开始就应该说明没有什么好抱怨的。这就像置身于一个疯人院里，得到允许可以从此手淫一辈子。全世界都摆在我的鼻子底下，要我做的只是安排好发生灾祸的时间。楼上那帮圆滑的家伙事事都要插手，没有一件欢乐的、悲痛的事能逃过他们的注意。他们活在生活的严酷事实之中，也就是人们称之为“现实”的东西之中。这是沼泽地里的现实，他们就是除了呱叭叫之外无事可做的青蛙，他们叫得越厉害，生活就越显得真实。
I must say, right at the start, that I haven't a thing to complain about. It's like being in a lunatic asylum, with permission to masturbate for the rest of your life. The world is brought right under my nose and all that is requested of me is to punctuate the calamities. There is nothing in which these slick guys upstairs do not put their fingers: no joy, no misery passes unnoticed. They live among the hard facts of life, reality, as it is called. It is the reality of a swamp and they are the frogs who have nothing better to do than to croak. The more they croak the more real life becomes.
 
　　律师、牧师、医生、政客、新闻记者—这些人是把手放在世界的脉搏上的江湖郎中。持续的灾难气氛，太棒了，晴雨计仿佛永远不动，旗子仿佛永远只升起了一半。人们现在可以明白天堂的理想如何独占了人类的意识，如果在所有精神支柱都被从下面击倒后仍越来越为人们所接受。除了这片沼泽外一定还有一个世界，那儿的一切都弄得一团糟，很难设想这个人类朝思暮想的天堂是怎样的。无疑这是一个青蛙的天堂，瘴气、泡沫、睡莲和不流动的水，坐在一片没有人烦扰的睡莲叶子上呱呱叫上一整天—我设想天堂大概就是这样的。
Lawyer, priest, doctor, politician, newspaperman - these are the quacks who have their fingers on the pulse of the world. A constant atmosphere of calamity. It's marvelous. It's as if the barometer never changed, as if the flag were always at half mast. One can see now how the idea of heaven takes hold of men's consciousness, how it gains ground even when all the props have been knocked from under it. There must be another world beside this swamp in which everything is dumped pell mell. It's hard to imagine what it can be like, this heaven that men dream about. A frog's heaven, no doubt. Miasma, scum, pond lilies, stagnant water. Sit on a lily pad unmolested and croak all day. Something like that, I imagine.
 
　　我校对的这些大灾难对我产生了一种神奇的治疗效果。想一想一种完全免疫的身体状态！一种令人陶醉的人生！一种处在毒菌中间而又绝对安全的生活！任何东西都奈何我不得，地震、爆炸、动乱、饥馑、撞车、战争和革命都触动不了我。我注射的预防针可以预防每一种疾病每一种灾难、每一种悲哀和不幸，这是坚毅的一生的顶点，坐在我的小小壁龛里，全世界每天散发出的各种毒药从我手中流过，却连我的一个指甲盖也玷污不了。我是绝对免疫的，我甚至比一个实验室工作人员的境况还好些，因为这儿没有不好的气味，只有铅燃烧的味儿。
They have a wonderful therapeutic effect upon me, these catastrophes which I proofread. Imagine a state of perfect immunity, a charmed existence, a life of absolute security in the midst of poison bacilli. Nothing touches me, neither earthquakes nor explosions nor riots nor famine nor collisions nor wars nor revolutions. I am inoculated against every disease, every calamity, every sorrow and misery. It's the culmination of a life of fortitude. Seated at my little niche all the poisons which the world gives off each day pass through my hands. Not even a fingernail gets stained. I am absolutely immune. I am even better off than a laboratory attendant, because there are no bad odors here, just the smell of lead burning.
 
　　地球可以爆炸掉，我仍要呆在这儿添上一个逗点或分号。我甚至可以多十一会儿，因为遇到这样一个大事变非得在最后多干一点儿。当世界爆炸了，最后一份报纸也送去付印了，校对们将轻轻收拾起所有逗点、分号、连字符、星号、方括虎圆括虎句点、感叹号等，把它们装进编辑椅子上方的一个小匣子里。一切安排就序。
The world can blow up - I'll be here just the same to put in a comma or a semicolon. I may even touch a little overtime, for with an event like that there's bound to be a final extra. When the world blows up and the final edition has gone to press the proofreaders will quietly gather up all commas, semicolons, hyphens, asterisks, brackets, parentheses, periods, exclamation marks, etc. and put them in a little box over the editorial chair. Comme ?a tout est réglé…
 
　　我的伙伴们似乎没有一个理解我为什么会如此踌躇满志，他们一天到晚发牢骚，他们有野心，想显示自己了不起，要发泄怒气。一个好校对却没有野心、不骄傲、不发脾气。好的校对有点像上帝，他也在世界上，可又不属于它。他只在星期日露面，星期日便是他的休息日，到了星期日他从宝座上走下来叫忠于他的人看看他的屁股。他每星期聆听一次世上每个人的悲哀和不幸，这就足够让自己在其余几天内咀嚼了。这几天里他仍呆在冬天被冰封住的沼泽里，成为一个完善的人，一个完全纯洁的人，只有一个种过牛痘的疤痕将他与广袤的无限空间区分开。
None of my companions seem to understand why I appear so contented. They grumble all the time, they have ambitions, they want to show their pride and spleen. A good proofreader has no ambitions, no pride, no spleen. A good proofreader is a little like God Almighty, he's in the world but not of it. He's for Sundays only. Sunday is his night off. On Sundays he steps down from his pedestal and shows his ass to the faithful. Once a week he listens in on all the private grief and misery of the world; it's enough to last him for the rest of the week. The rest of the week he remains in the frozen winter marshes, an absolute, an impeccable absolute, with only a vaccination mark to distinguish him from the immense void.
 
　　对于一个校对，最大的灾难莫过于丢掉工作的威胁。休息时我们聚在一起，叫我们从头凉到脚的问题便是：如果失掉工作你怎么办？围场里的人的职责是清扫马粪，他最大的恐惧莫过于世界上可能会没有了马。告诉他把一生花在铲热马粪上是令人恶心的则是在干蠢事，如果一个人的生计要指望马粪，如果马粪涉及到他的幸福，他是会爱上马粪的。
The greatest calamity for a proofreader is the threat of losing his job. When we get together in the break the question that sends a shiver down our spines is: what'll you do if you lose your job? For the man in the paddock, whose duty is is to sweep up manure, the supreme terror is the possibility of a world without horses. To tell him that it is disgusting to spend one's life shoveling up hot turds is a piece of imbecility. A man can get to love shit if his livelihood depends on it, if his happiness is involved.
Part 8 Chapter 10
　　如果我仍是一个有自尊心、有荣誉感。有抱负的汉子，那么这种生活无疑是跌到了堕落的底层。可是我欢迎这种生活，犹如一个重病人迎接死亡的到来。这是一种消极的现实，同死亡一样，这是一个没有死亡的痛苦、没有死亡的恐怖的天堂。在这个地下世界里唯一一件要紧的事是正确拼词和添标点符号，报上有何种灾祸都无关紧要，要紧的只是词儿拼写的是否正确。
This life which, if I were still a man with pride, honor, ambition and so forth, would seem like the bottom rung of degradation, I welcome now, as an invalid welcomes death. It's a negative reality, just like death - a sort of heaven without the pain and terror of dying. In this chthonian world the only thing of importance is orthography and punctuation. It doesn't matter what the nature of the calamity is, only whether it is spelled right.
 
　　每一件新闻都同等重要，不论是晚礼服的最新款式还是一只新战舰、一场瘟疫、一次大爆炸、一项天文学新发现、河堤决口、列车颠覆、炒卖股票、毫无希望的赛马赌注、处决、拦路抢劫、暗杀等诸如此类的事情。什么也逃脱不过校对者的眼睛，可是什么也穿不透他的防弹背心。希尔夫人（从前的埃斯特乌小姐）给印度人阿格哈?米尔写信，说她对他的工作甚为满意。
Everything is on one level, whether it be the latest fashion for evening gowns, a new battleship, a plague, a high explosive, an astronomic discovery, a bank run, a railroad wreck, a bull market, a hundred to one shot, an execution, a stick up, an assassination, or what. Nothing escapes the proofreader's eye, but nothing penetrates his bulletproof vest. To the Hindoo Agha Mir, Madam Scheer (formerly Miss Esteve) writes saying she is quite satisfied with his work.
 
　　“我于六月六日结婚，谢谢你。我们很幸福，我希望在你的神力庇护下我们会永远很幸福的。我电汇给你……钱……这是奖赏你的……”这个印度人是算命的，他能准确而又神秘地察觉你在想什么。他会劝导你，帮你摆脱所有烦恼和各种不遂意的事情，“请往巴黎麦克马洪大道二十号打电话或写信。”
"I was married June 6th and I thank you. We are very happy and I hope that thanks to your power it will be so forever. I am sending you by telegraph money order the sum of… to reward you…" The Hindoo Agha Mir foretells your future and reads all your thoughts in a precise and inexplicable way. He will advise you, will help you rid tourself of all your worries and troubles of all kinds, etc. Call or write 20 Avenue MacMahon, Paris.
 
　　他猜你在想什么真是猜得棒极了！按我的理解这是说他没有一回猜错，从最琐碎的到最无耻的念头。这个印度人的时间一定很宽裕。或者是，他只集中精力去猜那些给他汇钱的人的思想。在同一版上我还看到一条标题宣布“宇宙扩展太快，甚有可能爆炸”，标题底下的照片上是一个头痛欲裂的脑袋瓜，再下来是一篇关于珍珠的谈话，署名是特克拉。他告诉大家，牡蛎可生产两种珍珠，“野生的”或东方珠和“养”珠。同一天在特里尔城大教堂里，德国人在展览基督的外衣，这是四十二年里首次把它从樟脑丸中取出，不过没有提到裤子和背心。还是同一天在奥地利萨尔茨堡，两只老鼠出生在一个人的胃里，信不信由你。一个有名的女电影演员两条腿搭在一起的照片登了出来：她正在英国海德公园里休息。下面是一个著名的画家说，“我承认柯立芝太太有魅力，有个性，即使她丈夫不是总统她也能成为十二位最有名望的美国人之一。”从采访维也纳的亨姆霍尔先生的一篇访问记中我读到……亨姆霍尔先生说，“在结束之前我想说，无可挑剔的剪裁和试穿仍是不够的，好裁缝的手艺只有穿着合适才算。一套衣服必须贴身，可是穿衣人行走或坐下时还要保持线条。”无论何时煤矿—一个英国煤矿里发生爆炸，请注意，国王和王后准会立即拍来电报表示哀悼。他们还经常去看重要的赛马，据这篇报道说，尽管那天的比赛是在德比举行的他们也去了。我相信这番记述，“下起了大雨，使国王和王后吃了一惊。”更令人心碎的还是这样的消息： “据称，在意大利那些迫害活动不是针对教会的，然而它们被用来反对教会的某些最敏感的机构。据称，它们并不反对教皇，只反对教皇的心脏和眼睛。”
He reads all your thoughts in a marvelous way! I take it that means without exception, from the most trivial thoughts to the most shameless. He must have a lot of time on his hands, this Agha Mir. Or does he only concentrate on the thoughts of those who send money by telegraph money order? In the same edition I notice a headline announcing that "the universe is expanding so fast it may burst" and underneath it is the photograph of a splitting headache. And then there is a spiel about the pearl, signed Tecla. The oyster produces both, he informs all and sundry. Both the "wild" or Oriental pearl, and the "cultured" pearl. On the same day, at the Cathedral of Trier, the Germans are exhibiting the Coat of Christ; it's the first time it's been taken out of the moth balls in forty two years. Nothing said about the pants and vest. In Salzburg, also the same day, two mice were born in a man's stomach, believe it or not. A famous movie actress is shown with her legs crossed: she is taking a rest in Hyde Park, and underneath a well-known painter remarks "I'll admit that Mrs. Coolidge has such charm and personality that she would have been one of the 12 famous Americans, even had her husband not been President." From an interview with Mr. Humhal, of Vienna, I glean the following… "Before I stop," said Mr. Humhal, "I'd like to say that faultless cut and fit does not suffice; the proof of good tailoring is seen in the wearing. A suit must bend to the body, yet keep its line when the wearer is walking or sitting." And whenever there is an explosion in a coal mine - a British coal mine - notice please that the King and Queen always send their condolences promptly, by telegraph. And they always attend the important races, though the other day, according to the copy, it was at the Derby, I believe, "heavy rains began to fall, much to the surprise of the King and Queen." More heart-rending, however, is an item like this: "It is claimed in Italy that the persecutions are not against the Church, but nevertheless they are conducted against the most exquisite parts of the Church. It is claimed that they are not against the Pope, but they are against the very heart and eyes of the Pope."
 
　　我得走遍全世界才找得到这样一个舒服、适意的职位，这几乎难以置信。在美国，人们往你屁股底下塞爆竹来给你打气，当时我怎么能预料到自己这种气质的人的最理想职位竟是去寻找拼写错误？在那边你一心只想着有朝一日要当美国总统，可能每个人都是做总统的材料。这儿却不同了，这儿每个人都只能是一个零蛋，如果你成了名人也是出于侥幸，是一个奇迹。在这儿你能离开你出生的村庄的可能性只有千分之一，你的腿被枪打断或眼珠被打出来的机会却是一千比一。除非发生奇迹你才会成为将军或海军少将。
I had to travel precisely all around the world to find just such a comfortable, agreeable niche as this. It seems incredible almost. How could I have foreseen, in America, with all those firecrackers they put up your ass to give you pep and courage, that the ideal position for a man of my temperament was to look for orthographic mistakes? Over there you think of nothing but becoming President of the United States some day. Potentially every man is Presidential timber. Here it's different. Here every man is potentially a zero. If you become something or somebody it is an accident, a miracle. The chances are a thousand to one that you will never leave your native village. The chances are a thousand to one that you'll have your legs shot off or your eyes blown out. Unless the miracle happens and you find yourself a general or a rear admiral.
 
　　可正是因为机缘对你不利，正因为没有多大希望，这儿的生活才可爱。过一天算一天。没有昨天，也没有明天，晴雨表永远不变，旗子始终半升半降。你在胳膊上系一块黑纱，在纽扣孔里别一段丝带。如果你有幸买得起，还可以替自己买一副特轻人造假肢，最好是铝的，它不妨碍你喝开胃酒、上动物园去看动物或是同时刻准备扑向一块新鲜的臭肉、沿着林荫道飞来飞去的兀鹰嘻戏。时光在流逝。如果你不是本地人而且一应证件都全，你尽可以接触传染源而不必担心感染。如果有可能，弄一份校对员的工作更好。这样，一切都妥了。就是说，假如你凌晨三点往家走时碰巧被骑自行车的警察拦住，你可以朝他们嘛僻啪啪地捻手指。早上市场上最忙乱时你可以买比利时鸡蛋，五十生丁一只。校对员通常不睡到中午不起床，甚至更晚。
But it's just because the chances are all against you, just because there is so little hope, that life is sweet over here. Day by day. No yesterdays and no tomorrows. The barometer never changes, the flag is always at half mast. You wear a piece of black crepe on your arm, you have a little ribbon in your buttonhole, and, if you are lucky enough to afford it, you buy yourself a pair of artificial lightweight limbs, aluminium preferably. Which does not prevent you from enjoying an apéritif or looking at the animals in the zoo or flirting with the vultures who sail up and down the boulevards always on the alert for fresh carrion. Time passes. If you're a stranger and your papers are in order you can expose yourself to infection without fear of being contaminated. It is better, if possible, to have a proofreader's job. Comme ?a, tout s'arrange. That means, that if you happen to be strolling home at three in the morning and you are intercepted by the bicycle cops, you can snap your fingers at them. In the morning, when the market is in swing, you can buy Belgian eggs, at fifty centimes apiece. A proofreader doesn't get up usually until noon, or a little after.
 
　　挑一家紧挨着电影院的旅馆就好了，因为你若容易睡过头，日场电影的开映铃声会唤醒你。如果找不到一家紧挨电影院的旅馆，挑一家靠近墓地的也行，结果也是一样的。要紧的是，永远别泄气。永远别泄气。
It's well to choose a hotel near a cinema, because if you have a tendency to oversleep the bells will wake you up in time for the matinee. Of if you can't find a hotel near a cinema, choose one near a cemetery, it comes to the same thing. Above all, never despair. Il ne faut jamais désespérer.
 
　　这也是我每天晚上试图向卡尔和范诺登耳朵里灌输的，这是一个没有希望的世界，不过用不着泄气。我仿佛皈依了一种新的宗教，仿佛每天夜里都向圣母玛丽亚做一次一年一度、连续九夭的祈祷。我想象不出如果自己当了报纸的编辑或美国总统又能得到什么好处，我处在一条死胡同里，这儿既自在又舒服。手里拿着一份报，我听着身边的乐声、嗡嗡的人说话声、排字机的叮当声，像是有一千只银手锅在通过衣物绞干机。不时有一只老鼠从我们脚下跑过，一只蟑螂从我们面前的墙上爬下来，细嫩的腿灵巧地小心移动着。白天的事件从你鼻子底下滑过，轻轻地、不引人注目，你不时地会遇到一个署名使你想到一只人手、一种自我主义以及这人的虚荣心。它们安详地滑过去，像送葬队列走进公墓大门时那样。用作抄写的桌子底下铺了厚厚的一层纸，一踩上去有点像踏在有一层软毛的地毯上。范诺登桌下到处洒着褐色的汤汁。十一点左右卖花生的小贩来了，他是一个智力有缺陷的美国人，他对自己的命运也挺满意。
Which is what I try to din into Carl and Van Norden every night. A world without hope, but no despair. It's as though I had been converted to a new religion, as though I were making an annual novena every night to Our Lady of Solace. I can't imagine what there would be to gain if I were made editor of the paper, or even President of the United States. I'm up a blind alley, and it's cosy and comfortable. With a piece of copy in my hand I listen to the music around me, the hum and drone of voices, the tinkle of the linotype machines, as if there were a thousand silver bracelets passing through a wringer; now and then a rat scurries past our feet or a cockroach descends the wall in front of us, moving nimbly and gingerly on his delicate legs. The events of the day are slid under your nose, quietly, unostentatiously, with, now and then, a by line to mark the presence of a human hand, an ego, a touch of vanity. The procession passes serenely, like a cortege entering the cemetery gates. The paper under the copy desk is so thick that it almost feels like a carpet with a soft nap. Under Van Norden's desk it is stained with brown juice. Around eleven o'clock the peanut vendor arrives, a half wit of an Armenian who is also content with his lot in life.
 
　　我不时收到莫娜的电报说她将坐下一条船来，上面总是说，“信随后就要。”这种情况延续了九个月，可我从来没有从乘船来的旅客名单上看到她的名字，仆人也从未用银盘子托着一封信拿给我，我也就再不指望发生这种事情了。如果她真的来了，她可以在楼下找我，就在厕所后面。也许她会立即告诉我这里不卫生，一个美国女人对欧洲的第一观感便是不卫生。如果没有现代化抽水马桶她们就无法想象这儿是一个天堂；如果发现一只臭虫她们就要马上给商会写信。我怎么启齿向她解释我在这儿很满意？她一定会说我已经堕落了，她这一套我很清楚，她想找一间带花园的工作室，当然还得有浴盆。她要穷得浪漫，我了解她。不过这一回我都替她预备好了。
Now and then I get a cablegram from Mona saying that she's arriving on the next boat. "Letter following," it always says. It's been going on like this for nine months, but I never see her name in the list of boat arrivals, nor does the gar?on ever bring me a letter on a silver platter. I haven't any more expectations in that direction either. If she ever does arrive she can look for me downstairs, just behind the lavatory. She'll probably tell me right away that it's unsanitary. That's the first thing that strikes an American woman about Europe - that it's unsanitary. Impossible for them to conceive of a paradise without modern plumbing. If they find a bedbug they want to write a letter immediately to the chamber of commerce. How am I ever going to explain to her that I'm contented here? She'll say I've become a degenerate. I know her line from beginning to end. She'll want to look for a studio with a garden attached - and a bathtub to be sure. She wants to be poor in a romantic way. I know her. But I'm prepared for her this time.
 
　　有些天太阳出来了，我走下那条被人来回踏了许多遍的小径，一边如饥似渴地思念着她。尽管这种严酷的生活也令人满意，我仍不时会渴望过另一种方式的生活，会臆想如果身边有个年轻活泼的女人将会发生什么变化。麻烦的是我几乎已不记得她的模样了，也记不得搂着她时是什么感觉。过去的一切似乎都己沉入大海，我还有记忆力，不过眼前的形象已失去生气，它们好像死去了、散乱了，像插在泥沼上久经岁月侵蚀过。
There are days, nevertheless, when the sun is out and I get off the beaten path and think about her hungrily. Now and then, despite my grim satisfaction, I get to thinking about another way of life, get to wondering if it would make a difference having a young, restless creature by my side. The trouble is I can hardly remember what she looks like nor even how it feels to have my arms around her. Everything that belongs to the past seems to have fallen into the sea; I have memories, but the images have lost their vividness, they seem dead and desultory, like timebitten mummies stuck in a quagmire.
Part 9 Chapter 1
　　一天，从晴空中落下一封鲍里斯的来信，我已有好多个月没有见过他了。这是封奇怪的信，我并不想假装完全看明白了。
Out of a clear sky there comes one day a letter from Boris whom I have not seen for months and months. It is a strange document and I don't pretend to understand it all clearly.
 
　　“我们之间发生的事情，至少在我看来，是你触动了我，触动了我的生活。就是说，我仍活着，而我又快要死了。这样多愁善感了一阵我又经历了另一次洗礼，我又活了一回。我活着，这一回不凭借回忆往事，像我跟别人谈起的那样，不过我活着。”
"What happened between us - at any rate, as far as I go - is that you touched me, touched my life, that is, at the one point where I am still alive: my death. By the emotional flow I went through another immersion. I lived again, alive. No longer by reminiscence, as I do with others, but alive."
 
 
　　信就是这样开头的，没有问候的话，没有日期，没有地址，写在从空白笔记本上撕下来的格纸上，字写得很轻，字体华丽、潦草。“这就是为什么你同我非常亲近，不论你喜不喜欢我，在内心深处我倒认为你是恨我的。通过你我知道自己是怎么死的：我又看到了自己在死去，我快死了。除了死掉拉倒，还有点儿别的。这也许是我怕见到你的原因—也许你在我身上玩了鬼把戏，然后死了。如今事情发生得很快。”
That's how it began. Not a word of greeting, no date, no address. Written in a thin, pompous scrawl on ruled paper torn out of a blank book. "That is why, whether you like me or not - deep down I rather think you hate me - you are very close to me. By you I know how I died: I see myself dying again: I am dying. That is something. More than to be dead simply. That may be the reason why I am so afraid to see you: you may have played the trick on me, and died. Things happen so fast nowadays."
 
　　我站在石头旁边一行行读过去，这一番关于生死和事情发生得很快的空谈听起来像疯话。据我所看见的，什么也没有发生，除了报纸头版上登载的那些寻常灾祸。过去六个月来鲍里斯一直过着与世隔绝的生活，躲在一间房租便宜的小屋里，或许同克朗斯塔特通过心灵感应术保持着联系。他讲到退却的防线和撤出的战区，以及诸如此类的事情，好像他正在一条战壕里向司令部写报告。也许他坐下写这封信时穿着常礼服，也许他搓了几回手，以前有顾客上门来租他的公寓时他常常那样。他又写道，“我想叫你自杀的原因是……”看到这儿我不禁大笑起来，以前在波勒兹别墅他常把一只手插进常礼服的后襟里踱来踱去，要不就是在克朗斯塔特那儿—不拘哪儿，只要有摆下一只桌子的地方就行—同时滔滔不绝地把这番生与死的废话说个够。必须承认我从来没有听懂过一个词，不过这场面倒也热闹。作为一个非犹太人，我自然对一个人脑袋里闪过的各种念头感兴趣。有时他会直挺挺地躺在沙发上，那是被脑子里涌现的潮水般的念头弄得疲乏了。他的脚刚好碰到书架上，那儿放着柏拉图和斯宾诺莎的书，他不能理解为什么这些书对我没有用。我要承认他把这些书渲染得很有意思，但是我根本不知道它们是讲什么的，有时我也会偷偷翻翻其中一卷，看看那些异想天开的思想是不是真是这些人自己的，因为鲍里斯总说这些观点是他们的，不过他的话与他们的思想联系不大，基本上不沾边，鲍里斯有他自己的独特说法，就是说，当我同他单独在一起时，不过一听克朗斯塔特讲话我就觉得是鲍里斯剽窃了他的高见。他俩谈论的是一种高等数学，不含一点血肉的东西，鬼魂般荒诞，抽象得可怕。待他们谈到死的事儿时才变得具体一些了。不管怎样，切肉刀和砍肉斧也得有一个柄。我非常喜欢参加那些讨论，生平第一次觉得死亡很吸引人，我是指所有带有不流血痛苦的、抽象的死亡。他们不时会因为我还活着恭维我，但是他们的恭维方式令我很窘迫，他们叫我觉得自己是一个生活在十九世纪并出现返祖现象的遗老、一条浪漫的破布、一个有情感的直立猿人。鲍里斯尤其从挖苦我中得到乐趣，他要我活着以便自己能随心所欲地死去。他看我、揶榆我的样子…
I'm reading it over, line by line, standing by the stones. It sounds nutty to me, all this palaver about life and death and things happening so fast. Nothing is happening that I can see, except the usual calamities on the front page. He's been living all by himself for the last six months, tucked away in a cheap little room - probably holding telepathic communication with Cronstadt. He talks about the line falling back, the sector evacuated, and so on and so forth, as though he were dug into a trench and writing a report to headquarters. He probably had his frock coat on when he sat down to pen this missive, and he probably rubbed his hands a few times as he used to do when a customer was calling to rent the apartment. "The reason I wanted you to commit suicide…" he begins again. At that I burst out laughing. He used to walk up and down with one hand stuck in the tail flap of his frock coat at the Villa Borghese, or at Cronstadt's - wherever there was deck space, as it were - and reel off this nonsense about living and dying to his heart's content. I never understood a word of it, I must confess, but it was a good show and, being a Gentile, I was naturally interested in what went on in that menagerie of a brainpan. Sometimes he would lie on his couch full length, exhausted by the surge of ideas that swept through his noodle. His feet just grazed the bookrack where he kept his Plato and Spinoza - he couldn't understand why I had no use for them. I must say he made them sound interesting, though what it was all about I hadn't the least idea. Sometimes I would glance at a volume furtively, to check up on these wild ideas which he imputed to them - but the connection was frail, tenuous. He had a language all his own, Boris, that is, when I had him alone; but when I listened to Cronstadt it seemed to me that Boris had plagiarized his wonderful ideas. They talked a sort of higher mathematics, these two. Nothing of flesh and blood ever crept in; it was weird, ghostly, ghoulishly abstract. When they got on to the dying business it sounded a little more concrete: after all, a cleaver or a meat ax has to have a handle. I enjoyed those sessions immensely. It was the first time in my life that death had even seemed fascinating to me - all these abstract deaths which involved a bloodless sort of agony. Now and then they would compliment me on being alive, but in such a way that I felt embarrassed. They made me feel that I was alive in the nineteenth century, a sort of atavistic remnant, a romantic shred, a soulful Pithecanthropus erectus. Boris especially seemed to get a great kick out of touching me; he wanted me to be alive so that he could die to his heart's content. You would think that all those millions in the street were nothing but dead cows the way he looked at me and touched me. But the letter… I'm forgetting the letter…
 
“我之所以要你自杀的原因是当时我同你非常亲近，或许是再也不会有的那么亲近。我怕，我非常怕哪一天你会回来找我、死在我手上，那样一来一想到你，我就会陷入孤立无援的境地，这是不能忍受的，为此我永远也不会原谅你。”
"The reason why I wanted you to commit suicide that evening at the Cronstadts', when Moldorf became God, was that I was very close to you then. Perhaps closer than I shall ever be. And I was afraid, terribly afraid, that some day you'd go back on me, die on my hands. And I would be left high and dry with my idea of you simply, and nothing to sustain it. I should never forgive you for that."
 
　　或许你能想象出他会说这种话！我自己却不清楚他怎么看待我，至少我本人显然纯粹只是一个观念，一个不吃食物生存下来的观念。鲍里斯向来不大重视吃饭问题，他企图用观念养活我，每一件事情都是观念，然而，当他打主意要把公寓租出去时却不忘在卫生间里放一只新脸盆。总之，他不想叫我死在他手上。他写道，“你必须做我的生命，直到最后。这是你可以接受我对你的看法的唯一办法。如你所见，因为你同某件生命中不可缺少的东西一道捆在我身上了，我想我永远也摆脱不了你，也不希望这样做。我死了，但我想要你活得一天比一天更兴旺。正是因为这一点，我向别人谈起你时总有点羞愧，这样熟悉地谈论自己总是不容易的。”
Perhaps you can visualize him saying a thing like that! Myself it's not clear what his idea of me was, or at any rate, it's clear that I was just pure idea, an idea that kept itself alive without food. He never attached much importance, Boris, to the food problem. He tried to nourish me with ideas. Everything was idea. Just the same, when he had his heart set on renting the apartment, he wouldn't forget to put a new washer in the toilet. Anyway, he didn't want me to die on his hands. "You must be life for me to the very end," so he writes. "That is the only way in which to sustain my idea of you. Because you have gotten, as you see, tied up with something so vital to me, I do not think I shall ever shake you off. Nor do I wish to. I want you to live more vitally every day, as I am dead. That is why, when I speak of you to others, I am just a bit ashamed. It's hard to talk of one's self so intimately."
 
　　也许你会以为他迫不急待地要见我，希望了解我正在做什么。错了，他在信中连一行也不曾提及具体的或个人的事情，除了这一番有关生死的话，除了这一小段战壕中写就的话，这一小股向每个人宣告战争仍在继续的毒气。有时我自问为什么被我吸引的人都是精神错乱的人、神经衰弱的人、神经病患者、精神病患者—尤其是犹太人。一个健康的非犹太人身上准有某种叫犹太人激动的东西，就像他看到发酸的黑面包一样。比如说莫尔多夫，据鲍里斯和克朗斯塔特说，他自封为上帝了，这条小毒蛇毫无疑问在恨我，可他又离不开我。他定期跑来叫我侮辱一顿，对于他这像吃补药一样。起初我对他确实十分宽宏大度，不管怎样他在付钱叫我听他说。尽管我从未显出很同情的样子，我却明白涉及到一顿饭和一点儿零花钱时要免开尊口。
You would imagine perhaps that he was anxious to see me, or that he would like to know what I was doing - but no, not a line about the concrete or the personal, except in this living dying language, nothing but this little message from the trenches, this whiff of poison gas to apprise all and sundry that the war was still on. I sometimes ask myself how it happens that I attract nothing but crackbrained individuals, neurasthenics, neurotics, psychopaths - and Jews especially. There must be something in a healthy Gentile that excites the Jewish mind, like when he sees sour black bread. There was Moldorf, for example, who had made himself God, according to Boris and Cronstadt. He positively hated me, the little viper - yet he couldn't stay away from me. He came round regularly for his little dose of insults - it was like a tonic to him. In the beginning, it's true, I was lenient with him; after all, he was paying me to listen to him. And though I never displayed much sympathy I knew how to be silent when it involved a meal and a little pin money.
 
　　过了不久，我发现他竟是这样一个受虐狂，于是便时时当面嘲弄他。这就像用鞭子抽他，使悲哀和忧伤伴着新迸发的活力一起涌泻了。也许我们之间一切都会和谐的，若不是他觉得保护塔尼亚是他的职责。塔尼亚是犹太人，这引出一个道德问题。他要我忠于克劳德，我必须承认对于这个女人我还是一往情深的。他有时还给我钱，叫我去跟她睡觉，直到他领悟到我只是一个不可救药的色鬼为止。
After a while, however, seeing what a masochist he was, I permitted myself to laugh in his face now and then; that was like a whip for him, it made the grief and agony gush forth with renewed vigor. And perhaps everything would have gone smoothly between us if he had not felt it his duty to protect Tania. But Tania being a Jewess, that brought up a moral question. He wanted me to stick to Mlle. Claude for whom, I must admit, I had a genuine affection. He even gave me money occasionally to sleep with her. Until he realized that I was a hopeless lecher.
 
　　我提到塔尼亚是因为她刚从俄国回来，几天以前才回来。西尔维斯特仍留在后面去钻营一份工作，他已完全放弃了文学，又投身于那个新的乌托邦了。塔尼亚要我同她一起回去，最好回到克里米亚，去开始新的生活。那天我们在卡尔的房间里大喝了一气酒，商量这件事的可能性。我想知道到了那儿我做什么谋生，比方说，能不能干校对员。塔尼亚说我不必担心干什么，只要我真心愿意去他们会替我找到一份工作的。我想显出热心的样子，结果却显得悲戚戚的。在俄国，人们可不想看到哭丧的脸，他们要你快活、热情、轻松、乐观，听起来那儿同美国一样。可我天生就缺乏这份热情，当然我没有对她说，可我暗自希望他们扔下我，让我回到自己的小职位上去，呆在那儿，直到战争爆发。这一套关于俄国的骗局略略使我有些不安，塔尼亚为此却很动感情，因而我们几个喝光了十几瓶便宜的红葡萄酒。卡尔像蟑螂一样蹦来蹦去，他身上的犹太血统足以使他因为俄国这样一个念头而欣喜若狂。除了叫我们结婚之外没有别的办法—立即结婚。他说，“结婚吧！你们不会损失什么！”然后他假装要去办一件小事，好叫我俩来个速战速决。塔尼亚也想干，可是俄国的事已牢牢地移植在她脑子里了，她便在对我唠叨中浪费完了这段时间，她的话使我有点恼火和不安。可我们必须考虑吃饭、去办公室了，于是我们在埃德加一基内林荫道上挤进一部出租车飞速驶走了，这儿距公墓很近。这时正是坐在敞篷汽车上穿过巴黎的好时辰，葡萄酒在肚子里翻来滚去更叫人觉得格外痛快。卡尔坐在我们对面的折叠座位上，脸红得像一棵甜菜。这个可怜的狗东西倒挺快活，想到他将在欧洲另一边过一种美妙的新生活了，同时他也有点儿怅然，这我看得出来。他并不真想离开巴黎，正如我也不想离开一样。巴黎对他并不好，同样，它对我、对任何人都不好，可是当你在这儿饱经磨难之后仍是巴黎使你留连忘返，你可以说它掌握住你了。它像一个害相思病的婊子，宁愿死也要拽着你。我看得出，他就是这样看待巴黎的。过塞纳河时他咧着嘴傻笑，四下里望望建筑物和塑像，仿佛是在梦中看到它们。对于我这也像一场梦，我把手伸进塔尼亚的胸口，拼命捏她的奶头，我留意到桥下的流水和驳船，还有圣母院，正像明信片上画的。我醉醺醺地自忖一个女人就是这样被奸污的，不过我仍很滑头，知道拿俄国、天堂或天下任何东西换我脑子里这些乱糟糟的念头我都不会换的。这是一个晴朗的下午，我独自在胡思乱想，很快我们就要把很多吃的塞进肚子，还有额外叫的一切好吃的、一些会淹没去俄国这件事情的上好浓甜酒。有了塔尼亚这样一个充满朝气的女人，他们一旦想到什么才不会管你怎样呢。放手让他们干，他们会在出租车上就扯下你的裤子。不过穿过街上来往的车辆还是很妙的，我们脸上涂着胭脂，肚子里的酒像阴沟一样发出汩汩的响声，尤其在我们猛地拐入拉菲特街之后。这条街的宽度恰好能容纳街尾那所小殿堂，上面是耶稣圣心，一座有外国情调、乱七八糟的建筑，这也是穿越你的醉酒状态、丢下你无助地在过去的日子里游泳的清晰明白的法国观念，这就是叫你在完全清醒而又不刺激神经的飘忽不定的梦幻中游泳。
I mention Tania now because she's just got back from Russia - just a few days ago. Sylvester remained behind to worm his way into a job. He's given up literature entirely. He's dedicated himself to the new Utopia. Tania wants me to go back there with her, to the Crimea preferably, and start a new life. We had a fine drinking bout up in Carl's room the other day discussing the possibilities. I wanted to know what I could do for a living back there - if I could be a proofreader, for example. She said I didn't need to worry about what I would do - they would find a job for me as long as I was earnest and sincere. I tried to look earnest, but I only succeeded in looking pathetic. They don't want to see sad faces in Russia; they want you to be cheerful, enthusiastic, lighthearted, optimistic. It sounded very much like America to me. I wasn't born with this kind of enthusiasm. I didn't let on to her, of course, but secretly I was praying to be left alone, to go back to my little niche, and to stay there until the war breaks. All this hocus pocus about Russia disturbed me a little. She got so excited about it, Tania, that we finished almost a half dozen bottles of vin ordinaire. Carl was jumping about like a cockroach. He has just enough Jew in him to lose his head over an idea like Russia. Nothing would do but to marry us off - immediately. "Hitch up!" he says, "you have nothing to lose!" And then he pretends to run a little errand so that we can pull off a fast one. And while she wanted it all right, Tania, still that Russia business had gotten so solidly planted in her skull that she pissed the interval away chewing my ear off, which made me somewhat grumpy and ill at ease. Anyway, we had to think about eating and getting to the office, so we piled into a taxi on the Boulevard Edgar Quinet, just a stone's throw away from the cemetery, and off we whizzed. It was just a nice hour to spin through Paris in an open cab, and the wine rolling around in our tanks made it seem even more lovely than usual. Carl was sitting opposite us, on the strapontin, his face as red as a beet. He was happy, the poor bastard, thinking what a glorious new life he would lead on the other side of Europe. And at the same time he felt a bit wistful, too - I could see that. He didn't really want to leave Paris, any more than I did. Paris hadn't been good to him, any more than it had to me, or to anybody, for that matter, but when you've suffered and endured things here it's then that Paris takes hold of you, grabs you by the balls, you might say, like some lovesick bitch who'd rather die than let you get out of her hands. That's how it looked to him, I could see that. Rolling over the Seine he had a big foolish grin on his face and he looked around at the buildings and the statues as though he were seeing them in'a dream. To me it was like a dream too: I had my hand in Tania's bosom and I was squeezing her titties with all my might and I noticed the water under the bridges and the barges and Notre Dame down below, just like the post cards show it, and I was thinking drunkenly to myself that's how one gets fucked, but I was sly about it too and I knew I wouldn't ever trade all this whirling about my head for Russia or heaven or anything on earth. It was a fine afternoon, I was thinking to myself, and soon we'd be pushing a feed down our bellies and what could we order as a special treat, some good heavy wine that would drown out all this Russia business. With a woman like Tania, full of sap and everything, they don't give a damn what happens to you once they get an idea in their heads. Let them go far enough and they'll pull the pants off you, right in the taxi. It was grand though, milling through the traffic, our faces all smudged with rouge and the wine gurgling like a sewer inside us, especially when we swung into the Rue Laffitte which is just wide enough to frame the little temple at the end of the street and above it the Sacré C?ur, a kind of exotic jumble of architecture, a lucid French idea that gouges right through your drunkenness and leaves you swimming helplessly in the past, in a fluid dream that makes you wide awake and yet doesn't jar your nerves.
Part 9 Chapter 2
塔尼亚回来了、我有了稳定的工作、关于俄国的醉话、夜晚步行回家、盛夏的巴黎—生活似乎又昂起头来了，也许这就是为什么鲍里斯寄来的那类信令我觉得十分荒诞的原因。我几乎每天都在五点左右同塔尼亚会面，跟她一起喝一杯波尔图葡萄酒，她把这种酒叫作波尔图葡萄酒。我让她带我去以前从未到过的地方，去香榭丽舍大街附近的时髦酒吧，那儿的爵士乐声和姑娘低声吟唱声仿佛渗透进桃花心木的家具里去了。即使是去上厕所，这软绵绵的伤感旋律也在身边索绕，它通过排气扇飘进厕所，使生活变成虚幻，变成彩虹色的泡沫。不知是因为西尔维斯特不在还是出于别的原因，塔尼亚现在觉得自由了，她的一举一动简直像天使一样。有一天她说，“我走之前你对我很不像样。你干吗要那样做？我从来没有做过伤害你的事，对吗？”我们在柔和的灯光照射下，在渗透那个地方的软绵绵餐室音乐声中变得易动感情了。快要到去上班的时间了，我们还没有吃饭，支票簿存根摊在我们面前—六法郎、四个半法郎、七法郎、两个半法郎—我机械地数着，同时在想自己会不会更乐意去当一个酒吧招待员。常常是这样—塔尼亚跟我说话，当她滔滔不绝地谈到俄国、未来、爱情这一类废话时，我会想到最不相干的事情上去，想到擦皮鞋、当厕所服务员。我尤其想到这个，因为她拉我去的那些下流场所很舒适，我从来不曾悟到我去的那些下流场所很舒适，我从来不曾悟到我会非常理智，也许会老、会驼背……不，我始终在想，未来不管怎样合情合理仍会处在这种环境中，同样的乐曲会灌进我脑子，酒杯碰在一起，每一个形状姣好的屁股后面会放出一道一码宽的香气，足以驱散生活中发出的臭气，甚至楼下厕所里的臭气。
With Tania back on the scene, a steady job, the drunken talk about Russia, the walks home at night, and Paris in full summer, life seems to lift its head a little higher. That's why perhaps, a letter such as Boris sent me seems absolutely cockeyed. Most every day I meet Tania around five o'clock, to have a Porto with her, as she calls it. I let her take me to places I've never seen before, the swell bars around the Champs-Elysées where the sound of jazz and baby voices crooning seems to soak right through the mahogany woodwork. Even when you go to the lavabo these pulpy, sappy strains pursue you, come floating into the cabinet through the ventilators and make life all soap and iridescent bubbles. And whether it's because Sylvester is away and she feels free now, or whatever it is, Tania certainly tries to behave like an angel. "You treated me lousy just before I went away," she says to me one day. "Why did you want to act that way? I never did anything to hurt you, did I?" We were getting sentimental, what with the soft lights and that creamy, mahogany music seeping through the place. It was getting near time to go to work and we hadn't eaten yet. The stubs were lying there in front of us - six francs, four fifty, seven francs, two fifty - I was counting them up mechanically and wondering too at the same time if I would like it better being a bartender. Often like that, when she was talking to me, gushing about Russia, the future, love, and all that crap, I'd get to thinking about the most irrelevant things, about shining shoes or being a lavatory attendant, particularly I suppose because it was so cosy in these joints that she dragged me to and it never occurred to me that I'd be stone sober and perhaps old and bent… no, I imagined always that the future, however modest, would be in just this sort of ambiance, with the same tunes playing through my head and the glasses clinking and behind every shapely ass a trail of perfume a yard wide that would take the stink out of life, even downstairs in the lavabo.
 
　　奇怪的是这个想法从未阻止我同塔尼亚踊跳到这些时髦酒吧里去。离开她当然是容易的，我常常领她来到办公室附近一所教堂的门廊上。我们站在黑暗中最后拥抱一回，她对我低声道，“老天，现在我该干什么？”她希望我扔掉工作，这样就可以白天黑夜都同她做爱。她甚至不再去理会俄国了，只要我们在一起就行。可是我一离开她头脑就清醒了。从旋转门里进去后我听到的是另一种音乐，不那么缠绵，不过也很好听。香气也成了另外一种，不止一码宽，却无处不在，像是汗味和机器散发出的薄荷味。进门时我通常都喝得大醉，一进来便好像突然来到了海拔低的地方。我一般是一进来便直奔厕所，它使我振作起来。厕所里凉快些，要不就是流水声造成了这种错觉，厕所始终是一种冷灌洗疗法，而且是真正的。进去之前你必须经过一排正在脱衣服的法国人。哼！这些魔鬼身上发出了臭味，为此他们还拿高薪呢。他们站在那儿，脱掉了衣服，有的穿着长内衣、有些留着胡子，大多数人皮肤苍白，像血管中有铅的瘦老鼠。在厕所里你可以仔细看看他们无所事事时都想些什么，墙上涂满了图画和文字，都是诙谐可笑的猥亵玩艺儿，很容易看懂，总的来说挺好玩、引人喜爱。要在某些地方涂写准还需要一只梯子，我想，即使是从心理学角度来看这样做也是值得的。
The strange thing is it never spoiled me trotting around to the swell bars with her like that. It was hard to leave her, certainly. I used to lead her around to the porch of a church near the office and standing there in the dark we'd take a last embrace, she whispering to me "Jesus, what am I going to do now?" She wanted me to quit the job so as I could make love night and day; she didn't even care about Russia any more, just so long as we were together. But the moment I left her my head cleared. It was another kind of music, not so croony but good just the same, which greeted my ears when I pushed through the swinging door. And another kind of perfume, not just a yard wide, but omnipresent, a sort of sweat and patchouli that seemed to come from the machines. Coming in with a skinful, as I usually did, it was like dropping suddenly to a low altitude. Generally I made a beeline for the toilet - that braced me up rather. It was a little cooler there, or else the sound of water running made it seem so. It was always a cold douche, the toilet. It was real. Before you got inside you had to pass a line of Frenchmen peeling off their clothes. Ugh! but they stank, those devils! And they were well paid for it, too. But there they were, stripped down, some in long underwear, some with beards, most of them pale, skinny rats with lead in their veins. Inside the toilet you could take an inventory of their idle thoughts. The walls were crowded with sketches and epithets, all of them jocosely obscene, easy to understand, and on the whole rather jolly and sympathetic. It must have required a ladder to reach certain spots, but I suppose it was worth while doing it even looking at it from just the psychological viewpoint.
 
　　有时我站在那儿撒尿，不禁想这些乱涂乱抹的东西会给那些时髦女人留下怎样的印象，我在香榭里舍大街看见她们进漂亮的厕所。如果她们能看到在这儿人们怎样看待一个屁股，不知道还会不会把屁股撅得那么高。在她们周围，无疑一切都是薄纱和天鹅绒的，要不就是她们从你身边赛卒走过时身上发出的好闻气味使你这样想。她们中有些人起初并不是高贵淑女，有些人摇头摆尾地走路只是在替她们的行当做广告。当她们独自呆着时，在自己的闺房里大声谈话时，也许口中也会说出一些奇怪的事情，因为她们所处的世界同每一个地方一样，发生的事情多半是屎尿垃圾，同任何一个垃圾桶一样脏，只是她们有幸能盖上桶盖。
Sometimes, as I stood there taking a leak, I wondered what an impression it would make on those swell dames whom I observed passing in and out of the beautiful lavatories on the Champs Elysées. I wondered if they would carry their tails so high if they could see what was thought of an ass here. In their world, no doubt, everything was gauze and velvet - or they made you think so with the fine scents they gave out, swishing past you. Some of them hadn't always been such fine ladies either; some of them swished up and down like that just to advertise their trade. And maybe, when they were left alone with themselves, when they talked out loud in the privacy of their boudoirs, maybe some strange things fell out of their mouths too; because in that world, just as in every world, the greater part of what happens is just muck and filth, sordid as any garbage can, only they are lucky enough to be able to put covers over the can.
 
　　我说过，同塔尼亚一起度过的下午对我从未有过不好的影响，有时我喝酒喝得太多，只得把手指伸进喉咙里—因为看清样时不清醒是不行的。看出哪儿漏了一个逗点比复述尼采的哲学更需要精神集中。有时喝醉了你也可以很精明，可是在校对部精明是不合时宜的。日期、分数、分号—这些才是要紧的，而头脑发烧时这些东西是最难盯住的。我不时出些荒谬的错，若不是早就学会了如何舔老板的屁股，我准早就被解雇了。
As I say, that afternoon life with Tania never had any bad effect upon me. Once in a while I'd get too much of a skinful and I'd have to stick my finger down my throat - because it's hard to read proof when you're not all there. It requires more concentration to detect a missing comma than to epitomize Nietzsche's philosophy. You can be brilliant sometimes, when you're drunk, but brilliance is out of place in the proofreading department. Dates, fractions, semicolons - these are the things that count. And these are the things that are most difficult to track down when your mind is all ablaze. Now and then I made some bad blunders, and if it weren't that I had learned how to kiss the boss's ass, I would have been fired, that's certain.
 
　　有一天我还接到楼上那个大人物的一封信，这个家伙高高在上，我甚至从来没有见过他。信上有几句挖苦我具有超凡智力的话，言辞间他明白无误地暗示我最好本分些、尽职尽责，否则会受到应有惩处的。老实说，这把我吓得屁滚尿流，从此说话时再也不敢用多音节的词了，实际上我一夜几乎都不开口。我扮演了一个高级白痴的角色，这正是他们所要求的。为了奉承老板，我不时走到他面前礼貌地问他这个或那个词是什么意思。他喜欢我这一手，这家伙是个活字典、活时间表，不论他在工间休息时灌了多少啤酒，在某个日期或某个词的词义上你永远也难不倒他。而且他的工间休息时间全由他自个儿掌握，因为他要巡视自己主管的这个部门，他天生就是做这个工作的。唯一叫我懊悔的是我懂的太多，尽管我很小心谨慎还是不免暴露出来。
I even got a letter one day from the big mogul upstairs, a guy I never even met, so high up he was, and between a few sarcastic phrases about my more than ordinary intelligence, he hinted pretty plainly that I'd better learn my place and toe the mark or there'd be what's what to pay. Frankly, that scared the shit out of me. After that I never used a polysyllabic word in conversation; in fact, I hardly ever opened my trap all night. I played the high grade moron, which is what they wanted of us. Now and then, to sort of flatter the boss, I'd go up to him and ask politely what such and such a word might mean. He liked that. He was a sort of dictionary and timetable, that guy. No matter how much beer he guzzled during the break - and he made his own private breaks too, seeing as how he was running the show - you could never trip him up on a date or a definition. He was born to the job. My only regret was that I knew too much. It leaked out now and then, despite all the precautions I took.
 
　　假如我来上班时胳膊底下夹着一本书，我们这位老板准会看见，若是本好书他便会怨恨我。不过我从来没有有意做什么事情使他不快，我大喜欢这份工作了，绝不会把绞索往自己脖子上套。
If I happened to come to work with a book under my arm this boss of ours would notice it, and if it were a good book it made him venomous. But I never did anything intentionally to displease him; I liked the job too well to put a noose around my neck.
 
　　同一个与自己毫无共同之处的人交谈是一件困难的事情，即使只用单音节的词也会露馅。这个老板心里明白我对他讲的事情根本不感兴趣。然而不知道为什么，他非常喜欢驱走我的迷梦，并给我灌输各种日期和历史事件。我想，这就是他报复我的方法吧。
Just the same it's hard to talk to a man when you have nothing in common with him; you betray yourself, even if you use only monosyllabic words. He knew goddamn well, the boss, that I didn't take the least bit of interest in his yarns; and yet, explain it how you will, it gave him pleasure to wean me away from my dreams and fill me full of dates and historical events. It was his way of taking revenge, I suppose.
 
　　结果我患了轻度神经官能症，一吸进新鲜空气便信口胡说。清早我们回蒙帕纳斯时，不论谈到的是什么话题，我都要尽快用消防水龙头往上面浇水，打断这个话题，以便让自己从变态的梦幻中解脱出来。我最喜欢谈谁也不懂的事情，我已经患了一种轻微的精神错乱，我想这种病叫作“模仿言语症”。一夜间校对的文稿标签都在我的舌尖上跳舞，达尔马提亚—我曾拿到为这个美丽的珠宝胜地做的广告。对了，达尔马提亚，你坐上火车，早上毛孔便出汗，葡萄绷破了皮。我能从这条壮观的林荫大道一直滔滔不绝地谈论达尔马提亚，一路谈到马萨林红衣主教的宫殿，只要我愿意还可以说下去。我连它在地图上的位置都搞不清楚，也从来不想搞清。可是在凌晨三点你身体疲乏不堪、衣服被汗水和广藿香浸透，手镯叮当响着从绞衣机里通过，这时伙伴们要我说的那些喝醉了啤酒后胡扯的事情都毫无意义—那些地理、服装，演讲、建筑之类的琐事。达尔马提亚是要在夜里某个时辰谈论的，那时交通警的锣已不响了，卢浮宫的庭院显得又美妙又荒谬可笑，使你想无缘无故地哭一场，这正是因为周围又美丽又静谧，那么空旷，与报纸头版和楼上掷骰子的人全然不一样。有达尔马提亚像一把冰冷的刀锋搁在颤动不已的神经上，我才得以体会途中那些最美妙的感觉。
The result was that I developed a bit of a neurosis. As soon as I hit the air I became extravagant. It wouldn't matter what the subject of conversation happened to be, as we started back to Montparnasse in the early morning, I'd soon turn the fire hose on it, squelch it, in order to trot out my perverted dreams. I liked best talking about those things which none of us knew anything about. I had cultivated a mild sort of insanity, echolalia, I think it's called. All the tag ends of a night's proofing danced on the tip of my tongue. Dalmatia - I had held copy on an ad for that beautiful jeweled resort. All right, Dalmatia. You take a train and in the morning your pores are perspiring and the grapes are bursting their skins. I could reel it off about Dalmatia from the grand boulevard to Cardinal Mazarin's palace, further, if I chose to. I don't even know where it is on the map, and I don't want to know ever, but at three in the morning with all that lead in your veins and your clothes saturated with sweat and patchouli and the clink of bracelets passing through the wringer and those beer yarns that I was braced for, little things like geography, costume, speech, architecture don't mean a goddamn thing. Dalmatia belongs to a certain hour of the night when those high gongs are snuffed out and the court of the Louvre seems so wonderfully ridiculous that you feel like weeping for no reason at all, just because it's so beautifully silent, so empty, so totally unlike the front page and the guys upstairs rolling the dice. With that little piece of Dalmatia resting on my throbbing nerves like a cold knife blade I could experience the most wonderful sensations of voyage.
 
　　好笑的是我可以走遍全球，可是总想不到要去美国，对于我它比一块消失的大陆更浩渺、更遥远，我对消失的大陆尚存有某种神秘的向往，对美国却毫无感情。有时我也确曾思念莫娜，不是把她当作特定时间空间中的一个人去思念，而是抽象地、超然地思念，仿佛她已变成一大团云彩状的东西冉冉升到空中，这团东西遮住了过去。我不能使自己长时间地思念她，不然我就会从桥上跳下去的。真怪，我已对这种没有她在身边的生活习以为常了，但是只要想她一会儿便足以完全破坏我的满足，把我又推向悲惨的过去那个令人痛苦的阴沟里。
And the funny thing is again that I could travel all around the globe but America would never enter my mind; it was even further lost than a lost continent, because with the lost continents I felt some mysterious attachment, whereas with America I felt nothing at all. Now and then, it's true, I did think of Mona, not as of a person in a definite aura of time and space, but separately, detached, as though she had blown up into a great cloudlike form that blotted out the past. I couldn't allow myself to think about her very long; if I had I would have jumped off the bridge. It's strange. I had become so reconciled to this life without her, and yet if I thought about her only for a minute it was enough to pierce the bone and marrow of my contentment and shove me back again into the agonizing gutter of my wretched past.
 
　　七年来我不分昼夜四处游荡，心里始终只想着一件事，那就是她。若是有一位基督徒像我忠于莫娜那样忠于上帝，今天我们每个人都早已成为耶稣基督了。我昼夜思念着她，甚至哄骗她时也是如此。有时，正在做其他事情，觉得自己完全忘却了这件事情时—也许正在拐过一个街角—我眼前会突然出现一个小广场几棵树和一只长椅，在这僻静的地方我们站着争吵，在这儿我们用刻薄的语言、争风吃醋的话题吵得对方发疯。我们总是拣一个僻静的地方，比方说吊刑广场清真寺外昏暗悲哀的街道，或是布尔特伊大道那个敞开的墓穴一带，那儿一到晚上十点钟便死一般寂静，使人联想到谋杀、自杀或任何可以创造人类戏剧遗迹的东西。当我意识到她走了，也许永远不回来了，一个巨大的空洞便打开了，我觉得自己在下跌、下跌，跌进幽深的空间中去。这比流泪还糟，比懊悔、创伤或悲哀更深刻，这是魔鬼撒旦被抛入的无底深渊，无法再爬上来，没有光线，没有人说话的声音，没有人手的触碰。
For seven years I went about, day and night, with only one thing on my mind - her. Were there a Christian so faithful to his God as I was to her we would all be Jesus Christs today. Day and night I thought of her, even when I was deceiving her. And now sometimes, in the very midst of things, sometimes when I feel that I am absolutely free of it all, suddenly, in rounding a corner perhaps, there will bob up a little square, a few trees and a bench, a deserted spot where we stood and had it out, where we drove each other crazy with bitter, jealous scenes. Always some deserted spot, like the Place de 1'Estrapade, for example, or those dingy, mournful streets off the Mosque or along that open tomb of an Avenue de Breteuil which at ten o'clock in the evening is so silent, so dead, that it makes one think of murder or suicide, anything that might create a vestige of human drama. When I realize that she is gone, perhaps gone forever, a great void opens up and I feel that I am falling, falling, falling into deep, black space. And this is worse than tears, deeper than regret or pain or sorrow; it is the abyss into which Satan was plunged. There is no climbing back, no ray of light, no sound of human voice or human touch of hand.
 
　　夜晚穿过街道时我曾几千次想她回到我身边的一天会不会到来，我将渴望的目光全投向建筑物和雕像，我那么渴求、那么绝望地望着它们，到此时我的思想准已同这些建筑物和雕像融为一体了，它们一定浸透了我的痛苦。我也忍不住忆起我们肩并肩穿过这些现在浸透着我的梦想和渴望的悲哀、幽暗的街道时她什么也没有注意到，什么也没有感觉到，对于她这些街道同其他街道是一样的，只是略微脏一点儿，仅此而已。她不会记得在某一个角落我曾驻足捡起她的发夹，或是我俯身替她系鞋带时标明了她落脚的地方，它将会永远留在那儿，甚至在大教堂被毁坏、整个拉丁文明都永远被消灭后它仍将留在那儿。
How many thousand times, in walking through the streets at night, have I wondered if the day would ever come again when she would be at my side: all those yearning looks I bestowed on the buildings and statues, I had looked at them so hungrily, so desperately, that by now my thoughts must have become a part of the very buildings and statues, they must be saturated with my anguish. I could not help but reflect also that when we had walked side by side through these mournful, dingy streets now so saturated with my dream and longing, she had observed nothing, felt nothing: they were like any other streets to her, a little more sordid perhaps, and that is all. She wouldn't remember that at a certain corner I had stopped to pick up her hairpin, or that, when I bent down to tie her laces, I remarked the spot on which her foot had rested and that it would remain there forever, even after the cathedrals had been demolished and the whole Latin civilization wiped out forever and ever.
Part 9 Chapter 3
一天夜里沿着勒蒙街散步时一阵不寻常的痛苦和忧伤攫住了我，一些事情栩栩如生地展示在我面前。我不知道这是否是因为我常常闷闷不乐地、绝望地在这条街上行走，还是因为我想起了一天夜里我们站在吕西安一埃广场时她说过的一句话。
Walking down the Rue Lhomond one night in a fit of unusual anguish and desolation, certain things were revealed to me with poignant clarity. Whether it was that I had so often walked this street in bitterness and despair or whether it was the remembrance of a phrase which she had dropped one night as we stood at the Place Lucien Herr I do not know.
 
　　她说，“你为什么不带我去看看你写过的那个巴黎？”想起这话时我明白了，我忽然悟到根本不可能指给她看那个我已经了解的巴黎，那个区域未确定的巴黎，那个只是由于我的孤独和对她的渴求才存在的巴黎。这样一个巨大的巴黎！再探究它一遍会花去一个人的一生。只有我拥有打开它的钥匙，这个巴黎不适合游览，即使是抱着最好的意愿来旅游，只能在这个巴黎生活，每天必须体验它的一千种不同的折磨。这个巴黎像一个恶性肿瘤在你体内长大，越长越大，直到吞噬掉你。
"Why don't you show me that Paris," she said, "that you have written about?" One thing I know, that at the recollection of these words I suddenly realized the impossibility of ever revealing to her that Paris which I had gotten to know, the Paris whose arrondissements are undefined, a Paris that has never existed except by virtue of my loneliness, my hunger for her. Such a huge Paris! It would take a lifetime to explore it again. This Paris, to which I alone had the key, hardly lends itself to a tour, even with the best of intentions; it is a Paris that has to be lived, that has to be experienced each day in a thousand different forms of torture, a Paris that grows inside you like a cancer, and grows and grows until you are eaten away by it.
 
　　跌跌撞撞地走过沐佛塔尔街，这些往事在脑子里转来转去，我又回想起以往的另一件怪事。那是一本导游手册，莫娜要我替她翻书页，因为封面太沉重，可我当时发现根本无法翻开。一点原因也没有，只是因为那时我一门心思都去想沙拉文，现在我正是在他的神圣管区内漫游—仍是一点儿原因也没有—我忆起有一天受到日复一日经过的那块招牌启发后我冲动地闯进奥尔菲拉公寓要求看看斯特林堡曾住过的房间。截至那时为止我还没有遇到很大不幸，尽管我已失去了所有的东西，也已尝过空着肚子在街上徘徊、提心吊胆地提防警察的滋味。那时我在巴黎还没有交上一个朋友，这种状况与其说令人沮丧倒不如说是使人茫然，不论我在这个世界上流浪到何处，最容易找到的莫过于一个朋友。不过实际上迄今为止我还没有遭遇什么太大的不幸，一个人的生活中可以没有朋友，正如他没有爱情甚至没有钱也可以生活下去，尽管人们认为钱是必不可少的。我发现，一个人可以只凭悲哀和痛苦在巴黎生活！这是一种苦涩的滋养品，或许对于某些人这是最好的滋养品。不管怎样，我还没有落到穷途末路的地步，我只是在同灾祸调情而已。我有充裕的时间，有闲情逸致去窥探别人的生活，去同已死去的传奇故事闹着玩。不论一件事物有多么肮脏，一旦塞进一本书里便显得令人惬意地遥远和陌生了。离开这个地方时我意识到自己唇边浮现出一丝讥讽的笑容，好像在对自己说，“别着急，奥尔菲拉公寓！”
Stumbling down the Rue Mouffetard, with these reflections stirring in my brain, I recalled another strange item out of the past, out of that guidebook whose leaves she had asked me to turn but which, because the covers were so heavy, I then found impossible to pry open. For no reason at all - because at the moment my thoughts were occupied with Salavin in whose sacred precincts I was now meandering - for no reason at all, I say, there came to mind the recollection of a day when, inspired by the plaque which I passed day in and day out, I impulsively entered the Pension Orfila and asked to see the room Strindberg had occupied. Up to that time nothing very terrible had befallen me, though I had already lost all my worldly possessions and had known what it was to walk the streets in hunger and in fear of the police. Up to then I had not found a single friend in Paris, a circumstance which was not so much depressing as bewildering, for wherever I have roamed in this world the easiest thing for me to discover has been a friend. But in reality, nothing very terrible had happened to me yet. One can live without friends, as one can live without love, or even without money, that supposed sine qua non. One can live in Paris - I discovered that! - on just grief and anguish. A bitter nourishment - perhaps the best there is for certain people. At any rate, I had not yet come to the end of my rope. I was only flirting with disaster. I had time and sentiment enough to spare to peep into other people's lives, to dally with the dead stuff of romance which, however morbid it may be, when it is wrapped between the covers of a book, seems deliciously remote and anonymous. As I was leaving the place I was conscious of an ironic smile hovering over my lips, as though I were saying to myself "Not yet, the Pension Orfila!"
 
　　从那时起我当然明白在巴黎的每个疯子早晚都会发现一件事：并不存在为受磨难者预备的现成地狱。
Since then, of course, I have learned what every madman in Paris discovers sooner or later; that there are no ready-made infernos for the tormented.
 
　　现在我好像有点儿明白她为什么那么喜欢看斯特林堡的作品了，我看到她读完“有味道”的一段后抬起头来，眼睛里充满笑出来的泪水，她说，“你同他一样疯……你该受罚！”当她找到了一个合适的受虐狂后，这位施虐狂是多么高兴啊！她还没咬自己，看看牙齿是否锋利。我刚刚认识她的那些日子里她浑身都是斯特林堡的味道，使我们聚到一起的是使斯特林堡沉迷于其中的纷乱飘忽的念头、两性之间永恒的争斗和使斯堪的纳维亚的蠢极了的白痴喜欢的那种蜘蛛般的残忍。我们在死亡的舞会上相聚，我很快被吸进漩涡里，待再浮出水面我已辨认不出这个世界了。当我发现自己解脱时音乐已停止，盛宴已结束，我被剥得光光的……
It seems to me I understand a little better now why she took such huge delight in reading Strindberg. I can see her looking up from her book after reading a delicious passage, and, with tears of laughter in her eyes, saying to me: "You're just as mad as he was… you want to be punished!" What a delight that must be to the sadist when she discovers her own proper masochist! When she bites herself, as it were, to test the sharpness of her teeth. In those days, when I first knew her, she was saturated with Strindberg. That wild carnival of maggots which he reveled in, that eternal duel of the sexes, that spiderish ferocity which had endeared him to the sodden oafs of the northland, it was that which had brought us together. We came together in a dance of death and so quickly was I sucked down into the vortex that when I came to the surface again I could not recognize the world. When I found myself loose the music had ceased; the carnival was over and I had been picked clean…
 
那天下午离开奥尔菲拉公寓后我去了图书馆，在恒河中沐寓沉思默想了一阵黄道十二宫，然后我便开始琢磨斯特林堡无情地描写的那个地狱的含义。这样细想着，我渐渐明白了神秘的远游—这位诗人飞越地球表面，然后又英勇地降到地球的核心，仿佛命中注定要在一出已失传的剧中再扮演角色。这是在鲸鱼肚子里做一阵黑暗、可怕的居留；是试图解放自己的血腥挣扎；是要从过去的羁绊中脱身；是投射在异国海岸上的明亮、血迹斑斑的太阳。他和其他人（但盯拉伯雷、凡高等）为什么都来到巴黎对于我已不再是神秘的了。我明白了为什么正是这个巴黎吸引了那些受折磨、产生幻党的爱情狂人，我明白了为什么在这儿、在这个轮子的正中，一个人能够接受最离奇、最不切实际的理论，却又一点儿也不觉得它们古怪。一个人正是在这儿重读青年时代读过的书，每个谜都有了新的意义，每一根白头发都是一个谜。一个走在街上的人早就知道自己傻了、疯了，因为很明显这些冷漠、麻木的脸正是他的看守的面孔。在这儿所有的分界线都消失了，世界展现出它是一座疯狂的屠宰常单调的生活延伸到无限，出口紧紧关上了，逻辑在四处横行，血淋淋的刀在闪光。空气寒冷而污浊，语言则是《启示录》式的。到处都找不到一个标明出口的牌子，除了死亡之外没有什么好谈的。一条死胡同的末尾有一座绞刑架。
After leaving the Pension Orfila that afternoon I went to the library and there, after bathing in the Ganges and pondering over the signs of the zodiac, I began to reflect on the meaning of that inferno which Strindberg had so mercilessly depicted. And, as I ruminated, it began to grow clear to me, the mystery of his pilgrimage, the flight which the poet makes over the face of the earth and then, as if he had been ordained to re enact a lost drama, the heroic descent to the very bowels of the earth, the dark and fearsome sojourn in the belly of the whale, the bloody struggle to liberate himself, to emerge clean of the past, a bright, gory sun god cast up on an alien shore. It was no mystery to me any longer why he and others (Dante, Rabelais, Van Gogh, etc., etc.) had made their pilgrimage to Paris. I understood then why it is that Paris attracts the tortured, the hallucinated, the great maniacs of love. I understood why it is that here, at the very hub of the wheel, one can embrace the most fantastic, the most impossible theories, without finding them in the least strange; it is here that one reads again the books of his youth and the enigmas take on new meanings, one for every white hair. One walks the streets knowing that he is mad, possessed, because it is only too obvious that these cold, indifferent faces are the visages of one's keepers. Here all boundaries fade away and the world reveals itself for the mad slaughterhouse that it is. The treadmill stretches away to infinitude, the hatches are closed down tight, logic runs rampant, with bloody cleaver flashing. The air is chill and stagnant, the language apocalyptic. Not an exit sign anywhere; no issue save death. A blind alley at the end of which is a scaffold.
 
　　巴黎，一座永恒的城市！它比罗马更久远，比尼尼微更壮观，它是世界的肚脐，人像一只漂到大洋中死一般寂静的软木塞，独自漂浮在这儿，在海洋的渣滓和船只残骸之中，无精打彩、毫无希望，连路过的哥伦布也不去注意他，文明的摇篮也就是扔全世界的腐肉的污水坑，就是尸体存放所，发臭的子宫把骨肉的血污包裹放在里面。
An eternal city, Paris! More eternal than Rome, more splendorous than Nineveh. The very navel of the world to which, like a blind and faltering idiot, one crawls back on hands and knees. And like a cork that has drifted to the dead center of the ocean, one floats here in the scum and wrack of the seas, listless, hopeless, heedless even of a passing Columbus. The cradles of civilization are the putrid sinks of the world, the charnel house to which the stinking wombs confide their bloody packages of flesh and bone.
 
　　大街是我的庇护所，谁也无法明白大街的魔力，直到他被迫在街上避难，直到他变成一根稻草被每一阵西风吹来吹去。冬季某一天走过一条街时看到一条被出卖的狗，这个人便会感动地落泪。街对面竖立着一个破烂的棚屋，像一座公墓一样令人快活，它自称是“免于坟墓宾馆”。这使人哈哈大笑，笑得要死，一直笑到他看到到处都有旅馆，为兔子、狗、虱子、皇帝、内阁部长、当铺老板和屠宰马的人建的旅馆，而且两家中就有一家是“未来旅馆”，这更叫人发歇斯底里。这么多未来旅馆！没有一家旅馆的名称中用了过去分词、用了虚拟式、用了连接词。
The streets were my refuge. And no man can understand the glamor of the streets until he is obliged to take refuge in them, until he has become a straw that is tossed here and there by every zephyr that blows. One passes along a street on a wintry day and, seeing a dog for sale, one is moved to tears. While across the way, cheerful as a cemetery, stands a miserable hut that calls itself "H?tel du Tombeau des Lapins." That makes one laugh, laugh fit to die. Until one notices that there are hotels everywhere, for rabbits, dogs, lice, emperors, cabinet ministers, pawnbrokers, horse knackers, and so on. And almost every other one is an "H?tel de l'Avenir." Which makes one more hysterical still. So many hotels of the future! No hotels in the past participle, no subjunctive modes, no conjunctivitis.
 
　　一切都是古老的、可怖的，叫人笑得毛骨惊然，像牙龈脓肿，充满了未来气息。这未来的淫荡湿疹使我沉醉了，我摇摇晃晃来到紫罗兰广场，花都是淡紫色和蓝灰色的，门框很低，只有侏儒和小妖精能挤进来。左拉的迟钝头盖骨上方的烟囱正在冒出纯焦炭，与此同时桑威奇斯教堂的圣母玛丽亚竖着包心菜样的耳朵倾听油箱咕咕的冒泡声，那是那些漂亮的臃肿蛤蟆蹲在路边发出的声响。
Everything is hoary, grisly, bristling with merriment, swollen with the future, like a gumboil. Drunk with this lecherous eczema of the future, I stagger over to the Place Violet, the colors all mauve and slate, the doorways so low that only dwarfs and goblins could hobble in; over the dull cranium of Zola the chimneys are belching pure coke, while the Madonna of Sandwiches listens with cabbage ears to the bubbling of the gas tanks, those beautiful bloated toads which squat by the roadside.
 
　　我为什么会突然想起了温泉关？因为那天有个女人用屠宰场里《启示录》式的语言同她的小狗说话，而那条小母狗也懂得这个油腻腻的邋遢接生婆在说什么。这使我多么沮丧啊！甚至比看到在布尔街出售的呜咽的杂种狗更叫人难过，使我产生惋惜之情的并不是狗，而是巨大的铁栅栏—生锈的铁矛，它们仿佛把我和属于人的生活隔开了。在沃格端屠宰场（伊波阿格屠宰场）附近那条令人愉快的小胡同里，那儿叫作贝口海哨街，我看到有些地方有血迹。正如斯特林堡在疯狂中在奥尔菲拉公寓的铺地石中辨认出了凶兆，我漫无目的地走过这条溅满血污的泥泞小巷时记忆中破碎的往事纷纷散落，从我眼前零零散散地飘过，以最可怕的恶兆训诫我。我看到自己的血洒出来，洒在泥泞的道路上，就我所知准是从路的顶端洒起的。人像一个肮脏的小木乃伊投入这个世界，道路被血污弄得很滑，谁也不知道为什么会这样。每个人都在走他自己的路，纵使地球上果实多得成堆，也没有时间去采摘。人群摇摇晃晃地向出口的标志奔去，如此惊慌，如此拼命，体弱无助的人被踩在泥里，讼也听不见他们的呼号。
Why do I suddenly recollect the Passage des Thermopyles? Because that day a woman addressed her puppy in the apocalyptic language of the slaughterhouse, and the little bitch, she understood what this greasy slut of a midwife was saying. How that depressed me! More even than the sight of those whimpering curs that were being sold on the Rue Brandon, because it was not the dogs which filled me so with pity, but the huge iron railing, those rusty spikes which seemed to stand between me and my rightful life. In the pleasant little lane near the Abattoir de Vaugirard (Abattoir Hippophagique), which is called the Rue des Périchaux, I had noticed here and there signs of blood. Just as Strindberg in his madness had recognized omens and portents in the very flagging of the Pension Orfila, so, as I wandered aimlessly through this muddy lane bespattered with blood, fragments of the past detached themselves and floated listlessly before my eyes, taunting me with the direst forebodings. I saw my own blood being spilled, the muddy road stained with it, as far back as I could remember, from the very beginning doubtless. One is ejected into the world like a dirty little mummy; the roads are slippery with blood and no one knows why it should be so. Each one is traveling his own way and, though the earth be rotting with good things, there is no time to pluck the fruits; the procession scrambles toward the exit sign, and such a panic is there, such a sweat to escape, that the weak and the helpless are trampled into the mud and their cries are unheard.
 
　　我的人类世界已经死去，我在世界上是完全孤独的，大街是我的朋友，大街以悲哀、痛苦的语言向我倾诉，其中包含着人类的不幸、渴求，懊悔、失败和徒劳的努力。一天夜里，接到消息说莫娜生病了，快饿死了，我从布罗卡街的立交桥下走过，突然想起正是在这儿，在这条凹陷的街道的污秽和沉闷气氛中，莫娜靠在我身上用颤抖的声音恳求我答应永不离开她，无论发生什么事情，或许她是被对未来的预感吓坏了。才过了几天我便站在圣拉扎尔车站的站台上看着列车启动，这趟车将要把她载走，她把身子探出窗外，我在纽约同她道别时她也是这样。她脸上仍挂着悲伤的、难以捉摸的微笑，最后那一瞥如此意味深长，可那不过是一副面具、一副被茫然的笑容扭曲的面具。仅仅几天以前她还难舍难分地靠在我身上，后来发生了什么事，到底发生了什么我到现在仍不清楚，于是她自己决定上了火车并且带着忧伤、神秘的微笑望着我，这微笑使我困惑不解，这是不公平、不自然的笑，我一点儿也不明白。现在站在立交桥阴影里的是我，我伸手去拉她，我绝望地依在她身上，唇边挂着同样难以捉摸的笑，这是我罩在自己的悲伤之上的面具我可以站在这儿茫然地笑，不论我的祷告多么充满激情，不论我多么焦急地盼望，我们之间隔着大洋—她将在那儿饿死，我却在这儿走过一条条街，热泪涔涔。
My world of human beings had perished; I was utterly alone in the world and for friends I had the streets, and the streets spoke to me in that sad, bitter language compounded of human misery, yearning, regret, failure, wasted effort. Passing under the viaduct along the Rue Broca, one night after I had been informed that Mona was ill and starving, I suddenly recalled that it was here in the squalor and gloom of this sunken street, terrorized perhaps by a premonition of the future, that Mona clung to me and with a quivering voice begged me to promise that I would never leave her, never, no matter what happened. And, only a few days later, I stood on the platform of the Gare St. Lazare and I watched the train pull out, the train that was bearing her away: she was leaning out of the window, just as she had leaned out of the window when I left her in New York, and there was that same, sad, inscrutable smile on her face, that last minute look which is intended to convey so much, but which is only a mask that is twisted by a vacant smile. Only a few days before, she had clung to me desperately and then something happened, something which is not even clear to me now, and of her own volition she boarded the train and she was looking at me again with that sad, enigmatic smile which baffles me, which is unjust, unnatural, which I distrust with all my soul. And now it is I, standing in the shadow of the viaduct, who reach out for her who cling to her desperately and there is that same inexplicable smile on my lips, the mask that I have clamped down over my grief. I can stand here and smile vacantly, and no matter how fervid my prayers, no matter how desperate my longing, there is an ocean between us; there she will stay and starve, and here I shall walk from one street to the next, the hot tears scalding my face.
 
　　嵌在街上的就是这一类的残酷，它透过墙缝盯着我们，恐吓我们，尤其是当我们突然对无名的恐惧做出反应时，当我们的心灵中突然侵入叫人发怵的惊慌时。正是它使街灯柱像鬼魂似地扭来扭去，使它们向我们招手，引诱我们走上前去听任它们死死抓住正是它使有些房子显得像一些秘密罪行的守护人，关闭的窗子又像看东西看得太多的眼睛眶。正是这种东西、这种嵌进街道的人为地貌使我突然看到头顶上方铭刻着“僵死的撒旦”时撒腿便跑。将要进入寺院时我看看到那儿写着“星期一、二接待肺结核病人，星期三、五接待梅毒病人”，这使我毛骨悚然。每一个地铁车站上都有咧嘴笑的骷髅用“谨防梅毒！”欢迎你。凡有墙壁的地方都贴着海报，上面画着有毒的蟹预报癌症的到来。不论你走到哪里，不论你碰到什么，都有癌症和梅毒。它写在天空上，它冒火花、跳跃，像一个凶兆。它已经咬食了我们的灵魂，我们只不过是月亮一样的无生命物质。
It is that sort of cruelty which is embedded in the streets; it is that which stares out from the walls and terrifies us when suddenly we respond to a nameless fear, when suddenly our souls are invaded by a sickening panic. It is that which gives the lamposts their ghoulish twists, which makes them beckon to us and lure us to their strangling grip; it is that which makes certain houses appear like the guardians of secret crimes and their blind windows like the empty sockets of eyes that have seen too much. It is that sort of thing, written into the human physiognomy of the streets which makes me flee when overhead I suddenly see inscribed "Impasse Satan." That which makes me shudder when at the very entrance to the Mosque I observe that it is written: "Mondays and Thursdays tuberculosis; Wednesdays and Fridays syphilis." In every Metro station there are grinning skulls that greet you with "Défendez vous contre la syphilis!" Wherever there are walls, there are posters with bright venomous crabs heralding the approach of cancer. No matter where you go, no matter what you touch, there is cancer and syphilis. It is written in the sky; it flames and dances, like an evil portent. It has eaten into our souls and we are nothing but a dead thing like the moon.
Part 10 Chapter 1
我想是在七月四日这天他们又把我屁股底下的椅子抽走了，事先并没有告知我。大洋彼岸的某个大人物决定要省钱，裁减校对员和可怜的打字员，使他能付来回旅费和住里兹饭店富丽堂皇的房间的房租。我付清累积欠排字工的小笔债务，又给马路对面的小酒馆送了一份礼以便继续赊帐，这样一来最后一次工资就所剩无几了。我只得通知旅馆老板我要搬走，我没有告诉他原因，因为那会使他担心他那微不足道的两百法郎。
I think it was the Fourth of July when they took the chair from under my ass again. Not a word of warning. One of the big muck a mucks from the other side of the water had decided to make economies; cutting down on proofreaders and helpless little dactylos enabled him to pay the expenses of his trips back and forth and the palatial quarters he occupied at the Ritz. After paying what little debts I had accumulated among the linotype operators and a goodwill token at the bistro across the way, in order to preserve my credit, there was scarcely anything left out of my final pay. I had to notify the patron of the hotel that I would be leaving; I didn't tell him why because he'd have worried about his measly two hundred francs.
 
　　如果丢掉了工作你怎么办？”这话始终在我耳边回荡，现在好了！完蛋了！除了再上街去没有什么事可做，步行、四处转悠、坐在长椅上消磨时间。现在蒙帕纳斯的人当然都认识我了，我还可以装一阵，假装我仍在报社工作，这样讨一顿早饭或晚饭吃也容易些。正值夏季，旅游者在大量涌来，我已想好了骗他们钱的法子。“你要干什么……”嗯，我要告诉你的是，我不愿意饿死。如果我什么都不干，一门心思只想着吃的，自己便会免于崩溃。一两周之内我还可以照常去保罗先生的餐馆，每天晚上饱餐一顿，他不会知道我是否还在工作。要紧的是吃饭，其余的托付给上帝好了。
"What'll you do if you lose your job?" That was the phrase that rang in my ears continually. ?a y est maintenant! Ausgespielt! Nothing to do but to get down into the street again, walk, hang around, sit on benches, kill time. By now, of course, my face was familiar in Montparnasse; for a while I could pretend that I was still working on the paper. That would make it a little easier to bum a breakfast or a dinner. It was summertime and the tourists were pouring in. I had schemes up my sleeve for mulcting them. "What'll you do…?" Well, I wouldn't starve, that's one thing. If I should do nothing else but concentrate on food that would prevent me from falling to pieces. For a week or two I could still go to Monsieur Paul's and have a square meal every evening; he wouldn't know whether I was working or not. The main thing is to eat. Trust to Providence for the rest!
 
　　我自然会竖起耳朵打探有什么办法能混一点儿饭吃，我结交了一批新人—以前百般设法躲开的讨厌的人，我厌恶的酒鬼、有几个钱的艺术家、古根海姆基金得主等。你若一天十二个时蹲在露天咖啡座上，交朋友便不是什么难事。你渐渐认得了蒙帕纳斯的每一个酒鬼，他们像虱子一样凑在你身边，哪怕你除了自己的耳朵外再也没有什么东西可给他们。
Naturally, I kept my ears open for anything that sounded like a little dough. And I cultivated a whole new set of acquaintances - bores whom I had sedulously avoided heretofore, drunks whom I loathed, artists who had a little money, Guggenheim prize men, etc. It's not hard to make friends when you squat on a terrasse twelve hours a day. You get to know every sot in Montparnasse. They cling to you like lice, even if you have nothing to offer them but your ears.
 
　　现在我失去了工作，卡尔和范诺登又有话说了，“你妻子现在来了怎么办？”唉，那又怎样？要喂的不是一张嘴，而是两张嘴了，我在逆境中将有人陪伴了。假如她的美貌未衰，也许我会过得比一个人时好些 —这个世界绝不会允许一个美貌女人饿死。我不能指望塔尼亚为我故什么，她在给西尔维斯特寄钱。起初我还幻想她也许会让我跟她一起住，可她怕连累自己，再说她必须对她的老板好一些。
Now that I had lost my job Carl and Van Norden had a new phrase for me: "What if your wife should arrive now?" Well, what of it? Two mouths to feed, instead of one. I'd have a companion in misery. And, if she hadn't lost her good looks, I'd probably do better in double harness than alone: the world never permits a good looking woman to starve. Tania I couldn't depend on to do much for me; she was sending money to Sylvester. I had thought at first that she might let me share her room, but she was afraid of compromising herself; besides, she had to be nice to her boss.
 
　　当你穷困潦倒时首先要求助的便是犹太人，我手头几乎一下子就有了三个，全是充满同情心的好人。一个是退休的皮货商人，他极渴望自己的名字出现在报纸上，因此他提议我写一组文章，用他的名字投到纽约一家犹太人的日报上。我还得在多姆饭店和库波勒饭店附近一带搜寻有名气的犹太人，我找到的第一个是一位著名的数学家，一个英文词也不会说。我得根据他留在纸餐巾上的图表写出激波理论，同时还得描述爱因斯坦的观点，这一切只得到二十五法郎。在报上看到我的文章后，连我自己也读不懂，不过这些文章都很像回事儿，这也就行了，尤其是添上那个皮货商的笔名后。
The first people to turn to when you're down and out are the Jews. I had three of them on my hands almost at once. Sympathetic souls. One of them was a retired fur merchant who had an itch to see his name in the papers; he proposed that I write a series of articles under his name for a Jewish daily in New York. I had to scout around the D?me and the Coupole searching for prominent Jews. The first man I picked on was a celebrated mathematician; he couldn't speak a word of English. I had to write about the theory of shock from the diagrams he left on the paper napkins; I had to describe the movements of the astral bodies and demolish the Einsteinian conception at the same time. All for twenty five francs. When I saw my articles in the newspaper I couldn't read them; but they looked impressive, just the same, especially with the pseudonym of the fur merchant attached.
 
　　在这段时间里我写了很多用笔名发表的文章。埃德加一基内林荫大道上那家新的大妓院开张时我捞了一点儿，那是给我写宣传小册子的酬劳，也就是一瓶香摈和在一间埃及式房间里免费嫖一次。如果我带来一个顾客还能得到佣金，正像以前凯皮干的一样。有一夜我把范诺登带来了，他要通过自己在楼上享乐的方式让我挣几个钱。可是老鸨听说他是记者后怎么也不收他的钱，又让他免费喝了一瓶香摈，免费嫖了一回，我却从中什么也没得到。事实上，我还得替他写这篇报道，因为他想不出如何传开这件事而又只字不提这是怎样一个地方。这样的事情一件接一件，我被人捉弄得够劲儿。
I did a lot of pseudonymous writing during this period. When the big new whorehouse opened up on the Boulevard Edgar Quinet, I got a little rake off, for writing the pamphlets. That is to say, a bottle of champagne and a free fuck in one of the Egyptian rooms. If I succeeded in bringing a client I was to get my commission, just like Kepi got his in the old days. One night I brought Van Norden; he was going to let me earn a little money by enjoying himself upstairs. But when the madame learned that he was a newspaperman she wouldn't hear of taking money from him; it was a bottle of champagne again and a free fuck. I got nothing out of it. As a matter of fact, I had to write the story for him because he couldn't think how to get round the subject without mentioning the kind of place it was. One thing after another like that. I was getting fucked good and proper.
 
　　最糟的差事是我应承为一个聋哑心理学家写一篇论文，是讲如何照顾跛孩子的。我的脑子里塞满了各种有关疾并夹板、工作台和新鲜空气的理论。这篇论文断断续续写了六个星期，更倒霉的是，我还得校对这鬼东西。这是用法语写的，一种我平生不曾见过听过的法语。不过它每天给我带来一顿丰盛的早饭，一顿美式早餐，有桔汁、燕麦片粥、奶油、咖啡，有时还变花样，有火腿鸡蛋。我在巴黎期间只有这一段能吃到像样的早餐！这多亏了纽约曼哈顿东区罗克威海滩上的跛孩子以及毗邻小湾、小叉里令人伤心的景象。
The worst job of all was a thesis I undertook to write for a deaf and dumb psychologist. A treatise on the care of crippled children. My head was full of diseases and braces and workbenches and fresh air theories; it took about six weeks off and on, and then, to rub it in, I had to proofread the goddamned thing. It was in French, such a French as I've never in my life seen or heard. But it brought me in a good breakfast every day, an American breakfast, with orange juice, oatmeal, cream, coffee, now and then ham and eggs for a change. It was the only period of my Paris days that I ever indulged in a decent breakfast, thanks to the crippled children of Rockaway Beach, the East Side, and all the coves and inlets bordering on these sore points.
　　
　　有一天我碰巧遇到一个摄影师，他在为慕尼黑某个性欲倒错的人拍一套巴黎下流场所的照片。他问我愿不愿脱下裤子摆好姿式让他照，还有其他一些动作。我想到那些瘦得皮包骨的小矮个儿，他们看上去像旅馆侍者和送信的。人们有时会在书店橱窗里摆的色情明信片上看到这些人物，他们是今天鲁纳街和巴黎其他臭名昭著的地方的神秘幽灵。我不大喜欢在这些社会精英面前展示自己身体的这个主意，可是这个摄影师向我保证这些照片将会严格地由私人收藏，而且最终要拿到慕尼黑去，我便应允了。当你远离家乡时你会允许自己稍稍放荡一场，尤其是出于一个值得的、替自己挣口饭吃的动机。回想起来我毕竟不是一个过于拘谨的人，甚至在纽约时也不是这样。在那儿有时夜里我那么狼狈，不得不出去在邻里间乞讨。
Then one day I fell in with a photographer; he was making a collection of the slimy joints of Paris for some degenerate in Munich. He wanted to know if I would pose for him with my pants down, and in other ways. I thought of those skinny little runts, who look like bell hops and messenger boys, that one sees on pornographic post cards in little bookshop windows occasionally, the mysterious phantoms who inhabit the Rue de la Lune and other malodorous quarters of the city. I didn't like very much the idea of advertising my physiog in the company of these élite. But, since I was assured that the photographs were for a strictly private collection, and since it was destined for Munich, I gave my consent. When you're not in your home town you can permit yourself little liberties, particularly for such a worthy motive as earning your daily bread. After all, I hadn't been so squeamish, come to think of it, even in New York. There were nights when I was so damned desperate, back there, that I had to go out right in my own neighbourhood and panhandle.
 
　　我们不去旅游者熟悉的参观游览场所，而是到一些小地方去，那儿的气氛更合适一些。我们可以下午去那儿，先玩一会儿纸牌再干活。这位摄影师是个好游伴，他十分熟悉这个城市，尤其是这儿的墙。他常跟我谈起歌德、霍亨斯陶芬王朝时代及黑死病流行期间对犹太人的屠杀。这都是有趣的话题，而且总与他正在做的事情有某些含混的联系。他对电影剧本也颇有研究，有一些惊人的见解，不过谁也没有胆量去实施他的意见，看到一匹像沙龙门那样被劈开的马会激发他大谈但丁或达?芬奇或雷姆卜兰特，他会从维莱特的屠宰场跳上一辆出租车带我赶到特卡德奥博物馆，为的是指给我看使他着迷的一块头骨或一具木乃伊。我们仔细游览了第五、第十三、第十九和第二十区，我们最喜欢的休息地点都是阴郁的小地方，比如国家广场白杨树广尝护墙广场保罗一魏尔伦广场许多地方是我本来就熟悉的，可是听了他的独到见解后我对所有这些地方有了全然不同的看法。比如说，如果今天我碰巧沿着霍尔城堡街散步，吸进了医院床上发出的恶臭味—这股臭味在第十三区弥漫—那么我的鼻孔一定会快活地张大，因为这股气味同放置很久的死尸和甲醛气味混合后便会产生另一种气味，这是我们在想象中穿过黑死病酿成的欧洲尸骨陈列所的旅途中会闻到的种种气味。
We didn't go to the show places familiar to the tourists, but to the little joints where the atmosphere was more congenial, where we could play a game of cards in the afternoon before getting down to work. He was a good companion, the photographer. He knew the city inside out, the walls particularly; he talked to me about Goethe often, and the days of the Hohenstaufen, and the massacre of the Jews during the reign of the Black Death. Interesting subjects, and always related in some obscure way to the things he was doing. He had ideas for scenarios too, astounding ideas, but nobody had the courage to execute them. The sight of a horse, split open like a saloon door, would inspire him to talk of Dante or Leonardo da Vinci or Rembrandt; from the slaughterhouse at Villette he would jump into a cab and rush me to the Trocadero Museum, in order to point out a skull or a mummy that had fascinated him. We explored the 5th, the 13th, the 19th and the 20th arrondissements thoroughly. Our favorite resting places were lugubrious little spots such as the Place Nationale, Place des Peupliers, Place de la Contrescarpe, Place Paul-Verlaine. Many of these places were already familiar to me, but all of them I now saw in a different light owing to the rare flavor of his conversation. If today I should happen to stroll down the Rue du Chateau-des-Rentiers, for example, inhaling the fetid stench of the hospital beds with which the 13th arrondissement reeks, my nostrils would undoubtedly expand with pleasure, because, compounded with that odor of stale piss and formaldehyde, there would be the odors of our imaginative voyages through the charnel house of Europe which the Black Death had created.
 
　　通过这个摄影师我认识了一个唯灵论者，他叫克鲁格，是一位雕刻家兼画家。出于某种原因克鲁格很喜欢我，当他发现我乐意倾听他的“深奥”见解后我简直无法从他身边逃开。对于这个世界上的某些人，“深奥”这个词似乎具有一种灵丹妙药的功效，正像《魔山》中裴波尔克伦先生对“安居”的反应。克鲁格是一个出了毛病的圣人、一个色情受虐狂、一个肛门类型的人，他遵循的法则是拘泥细节、正直和诚心实意，在休息日里他会毫无愧色地打掉一个人的牙齿，叫它落到此人的肚子里去。他似乎认为我已成熟了，可以进入下一个阶段了。据他说是一个“更高阶段”。我已作好准备进入他指定的任何阶段，只要不少吃的不少喝的就行。他唠唠叨叨地对我谈“线魂”、“成因体”、“切除”、奥义书、普洛提诺、讫里什那穆提、“灵魂的业力受职仪式”、“涅磐的知觉”，全是从东方吹来的胡话，像瘟疫后散出的气息。有时他恍恍惚惚说起自己上一辈子的模样，至少是他想象中的模样，或者讲述他做过的梦。照我看这些梦十分平淡无奇，甚至不值得一位弗洛伊德主义者去费神，可是他自己却认为这都是深藏不露、奥秘难测的奇观，因而我一定要帮他解析这些梦。他把自己整个翻过来，像翻一件己磨光的外套一样。
Through him I got to know a spiritual minded individual named Kruger, who was a sculptor and painter. Kruger took a shine to me for some reason or other; it was impossible to get away from him once he discovered that I was willing to listen to his "esoteric" ideas. There are people in this world for whom the word "esoteric" seems to act as a divine ichor. Like "settled" for Herr Peeperkorn of the Magic Mountain. Kruger was one of those saints who have gone wrong, a masochist, an anal type whose law is scrupulousness, rectitude and conscientiousness, who on an off day would knock a man's teeth down his throat without a qualm. He seemed to think I was ripe to move on to another plane, "a higher plane," as he put it. I was ready to move on to any plane he designated, provided that one didn't eat less or drink less. He chewed my head off about the "threadsoul", the "causal body," "ablation," the Upanishads, Plotinus, Krishnamurti, "the Karmic vestiture of the soul," "the nirvanic consciousness," all that flapdoodle which blows out of the East like a breath from the plague. Sometimes he would go into a trance and talk about his previous incarnations, how he imagined them to be, at least. Or he would relate his dreams which, so far as I could see, were thoroughly insipid, prosaic, hardly worth even the attention of a Freudian, but, for him, there were vast esoteric marvels hidden in their depths which I had to aid him to decipher. He had turned himself inside out, like a coat whose nap is worn off.
Part 10 Chapter 2
我一点一点地取得了他的信任，我钻到他心里去了。我已把他掌握得牢牢的，他会在大街上追上我，看是否能借给我几个钱花。他想叫我活下去，以便活着完成向更高阶段的过渡。我就像树上一只正在成熟的梨，我不时出现退步，吐露我需要更多的尘世的滋养—去看一次狮身人面像或是去圣阿波罗街，我知道每当肉体的要求变得太强烈、每当他变得软弱时便要去那儿。
Little by little, as I gained his confidence, I wormed my way into his heart. I had him at such a point that he would come running after me, in the street, to inquire if he could lend me a few francs. He wanted to hold me together in order to survive the transition to a higher plane. I acted like a pear that is ripening on the tree. Now and then I had relapses and I would confess my need for more earthly nourishment - a visit to the Sphinx or the Rue St. Apolline where I knew he repaired in weak moments when the demands of the flesh had become too vehement.
 
　　作为画家他一钱不值，作为雕刻家他更不值钱，可他是个好管家，这也就不错了，而且他还是一个十分节俭的管家，什么都不浪费，甚至连包肉的纸也不扔。每逢星期五晚上他便为同行艺术家们打开自己的画室，有很多饮料，很好的三明治，如果偶尔剩一点什么我第二天便来把它消灭掉。
As a painter he was nil; as a sculptor less than nil. He was a good housekeeper, that I'll say for him. And an economical one to boot. Nothing went to waste, not even the paper that the meat was wrapped in. Friday nights he threw open his studio to his fellow artists; there was always plenty to drink and good sandwiches, and if by chance there was anything left over I would come round the next day to polish it off.
 
　　在布里埃舞厅后面还有一家我常去的画室，那是马克?斯威夫特的画室。假如这位刻薄的爱尔兰人不是天才当然也是一个怪才，他有一个犹太女人，是给他当模特儿的，他俩在一起已住了多年。现在他厌烦她了。正在找借口甩掉她，不过因为吃光了她当初带来的嫁妆，他现在正苦于找不到既不赔钱又能摆脱她的方法。最简单的办法莫过于同她闹翻，迫使她宁愿饿死也不再忍受他的残酷行为。
Back of the Bal Bullier was another studio I got into the habit of frequenting - the studio of Mark Swift. If he was not a genius he was certainly an eccentric, this caustic Irishman. He had for a model a Jewess whom he had been living with for years; he was now tired of her and was searching for a pretext to get rid of her. But as he had eaten up the dowry which she had originally brought with her, he was puzzled as to how to disembarrass himself of her without making restitution. The simplest thing was to so antagonize her that she would choose starvation rather than support his cruelties.
 
　　他的这位情妇是个相当不错的女人，人们至多不过会说她已没有身材了，她养活他的能力也完蛋了。她自己也是画家，那些声称了解情况的人中流传这样一种说法，说她比他更有才能。不论他待她多么苛刻她仍是公正的，她不允许别人说他不是一个大画家。她说，正是因为确有天才他才是这样一个不可救药的人。别人从未在墙上看到她的油画，只看到他的，她的作品都掖在厨房里了。有一次我也在场，有一个人坚持要看看她的作品，其结果很令人不快。斯威夫特用他的一只大脚指着她的一幅油画说，“你看这一幅，站在门口的这个男人正要出去撤尿，他会找不到回来的路，因为他的头在……再看看那边那幅裸体画……画阴部之前她干得不错，我不明白她当时在想什么，可她把那儿画得那么大，画笔一脱手掉进去就再也捞不出来了。”
She was rather a fine person, his mistress; the worst that one could say against her was that she had lost her shape, and her ability to support him any longer. She was a painter herself and, among those who professed to know, it was said that she had far more talent than he. But no matter how miserable he made life for her she was just; she would never allow anyone to say that he was not a great painter. It was because he really has genius, she said, that he was such a rotten individual. One never saw her canvases on the wall - only his. Her things were stuck away in the kitchen. Once it happened, in my presence, that someone insisted on seeing her work. The result was painful. "You see this figure," said Swift, pointing to one of her canvases with his big foot. "The man standing in the doorway there is just about to go out for a leak. He won't be able to find his way back because his head is on wrong… Now take that nude over there… It was all right until she started to paint the cunt. I don't know what she was thinking about, but she made it so big that her brush slipped and she couldn't get it out again."
 
　　为了给我们讲解裸体画该是怎样的，他拖出一幅巨大的油画，这是他才画完的。画的是她，这是在犯罪心理激发下的绝妙报复，是一个疯子的作品—恶毒、琐屑、邪恶、机智。你会产生一种感觉，即他是透过锁眼窥视她的，是在她没有防备时画下她的—比方说她呆呆地掏鼻孔或搔屁股时。在画上，她坐在马鬃填的沙发上，呆在一间没有通风设备的房子里，一间没有窗子的巨大屋子，这儿活像松果腺的前叶，她身后是一道通向阳台的曲曲折折的楼梯，楼梯上铺着令人不愉快的绿色地毯，这种绿色只能出自一个快要毁灭的世界。最突出的东西是她的屁股，它一边大一边小，上面尽是疤痕，她像是微微从沙发上抬起了屁股，仿佛要放出一个响屁。她的面部却被斯威夫特理想化了，显得甜美而又纯洁，纯得像咳嗽药水。她的胸部被画得很大、被阴沟里的臭气充得胀大起来。她像一个放大了的胎儿，生着一副安琪儿的迟钝、甜蜜容貌，正在月经污血的海洋里游泳。
By way of showing us what a nude ought to be like he hauls out a huge canvas which he had recently completed. It was a picture of her, a splendid piece of vengeance inspired by a guilty conscience. The work of a madman - vicious, petty, malign, brilliant. You had the feeling that he had spied on her through the keyhole, that he had caught her in an off moment, when she was picking her nose absent mindedly, or scratching her ass. She sat there on the horsehair sofa, in a room without ventilation, an enormous room without a window; it might as well have been the anterior lobe of the pineal gland. Back of her ran the zigzag stairs leading to the balcony; they were covered with a bilious green carpet, such a green as could only emanate from a universe that had been pooped out. The most prominent thing was her buttocks, which were lopsided and full of scabs; she seemed to have slightly raised her ass from the sofa, as if to let a loud fart. Her face he had idealized: it looked sweet and virginal, pure as a cough drop. But her bosom was distended, swollen with sewer gas; she seemed to be swimming in a menstrual sea, an enlarged fetus with the dull, syrupy look of an angel.
 
　　然而人们还是情不自禁地喜欢他，他是一位不知疲倦的人，一个脑子里除了绘画什么都不想的人，而且还狡猾得像一只山猫。正是他启发我想到去发展与菲尔莫的友谊，菲尔莫是一个在外交界供职的年轻人，他也加入了围着克鲁格和斯威夫特转的那一小批人。斯威夫特说，“让他帮帮你，他钱多得不知道该怎么花。”
Nevertheless one couldn't help but like him. He was an indefatigable worker, a man who hadn't a single thought in his head but paint. And cunning as a lynx withal. It was he who put it into my head to cultivate the friendship of Fillmore, a young man in the diplomatic service who had found his way into the little group that surrounded Kruger and Swift. "Let him help you," he said. "He doesn't know what to do with his money."
 
　　当一个人把自己的钱全花在自己身上时，当一个人用自己的钱过得十分舒适自在时，人们便总会说，“他钱多得不知道该怎么花。”至于我，我看不出除此之外还有什么更好的可以花钱的地方。对于这些人，人们不能说他们大方或吝啬，他们毕竟把钱投入流通了—这才是要紧的。菲尔莫明白他在巴黎呆不了多久，他打定主意要在这段时间里玩个痛快。由于一个人有朋友陪着玩得更有趣些，他自然会来找我这样一个有充裕时间的人充当他所需要的伙伴。人们说他是一个令人生厌的人，我想他的确也是，不过需要食物时比厌烦更糟糕的事情你也可以忍受。不管怎么说，他还是在其他方面使我的夜生活变得有意思多了，尽管他蝶蝶不休地说话，通常是谈他自己或他一味崇拜的作家—尽是阿纳托尔? 法朗士和约瑟夫?康拉德之流。他喜欢跳舞，喜欢喝好酒，喜欢女人，于是别人就能原谅他还喜欢拜伦和维克多?雨果了，他刚出大学门才几年，有的是时间去改掉这些爱好。我喜欢的是他的冒险精神。
When one spends what he has on himself, when one has a thoroughly good time with his own money, people are apt to say "he doesn't know what to do with his money." For my part, I don't see any better use to which one can put money. About such individuals one can't say that they're generous or stingy. They put money into circulation - that's the principal thing. Fillmore knew that his days in France were limited; he was determined to enjoy them. And as one always enjoys himself better in the company of a friend it was only natural that he should turn to one like myself, who had plenty of time on his hands, for that companionship which he needed. People said he was a bore, and so he was, I suppose, but when you're in need of food you can put up with worse things than being bored. After all, despite the fact that he talked incessantly, and usually about himself or the authors whom he admired slavishly - such birds as Anatole France and Joseph Conrad - he nevertheless made my nights interesting in other ways. He liked to dance, he liked good wines, and he liked women. That he liked Byron also, and Victor Hugo, one could forgive; he was only a few years out of college and he had plenty of time ahead of him to be cured of such tastes. What he had that I liked was a sense of adventure.
 
　　由于我同克鲁格呆在一起的那一短时期内发生了一件古怪的事情，我和菲尔莫更熟了，也可以说更亲密了。这件事情是柯林斯刚到后不久发生的，柯林斯是菲尔莫从美国来时在路上认识的一个海员。我们三人去吃饭前常在圆形露天咖啡座定期会面，总是喝茴香酒，这种酒使柯林斯心情舒畅，也为后来灌下去的甜酒、啤酒、白兰地等垫了底。在柯林斯呆在巴黎的这段时间里我过的是贵族的日子，只吃鸡，喝名贵葡萄酒，吃以前听也不曾听说过的甜点心。过上一个月这种养尊处优的生活我就只好去巴登一巴登、维希或艾克斯菜班了。此时我在克鲁格的画室里过夜，我正在成为一个讨人厌的家伙，因为我从未在凌晨三点钟以前回来过，不到中午很难把我赶下床来，克鲁格从未公开责备过我，不过他的态度很清楚地表明我正在变成一个讨厌鬼。
We got even better acquainted, more intimate, I might say, due to a peculiar incident that occurred during my brief sojourn with Kruger. It happened just after the arrival of Collins, a sailor whom Fillmore had got to know on the way over from America. The three of us used to meet regularly on the terrasse of the Rotonde before going to dinner. It was always Pernod, a drink which put Collins in good humor and provided a base, as it were, for the wine and beer and fines, etc., which had to be guzzled afterward. All during Collins's stay in Paris I lived like a duke; nothing but fowl and good vintages and desserts that I hadn't even heard of before. A month of this regimen and I should have been obliged to go to Baden Baden or Vichy or Aix les Bains. Meanwhile Kruger was putting me up at his studio. I was getting to be a nuisance because I never showed up before three a.m. and it was difficult to rout me out of bed before noon. Overtly Kruger never uttered a word of reproach but his manner indicated plainly enough that I was becoming a bum.
 
　　有一天我病了，好饭菜在我身上生效了。我不知道自己生的是什么病，总之不能下床，我一点儿力气也没有，也丧失了勇气。克鲁格不得不看护我，为我煮汤喝，为我干别的，这对于他是一段很难的日子，尤其是他马上就要在画室里举行一次重要画展了，这是为一些有钱的鉴定家举办的私人画展，他指望从这些人那儿得到赞助，我睡的帆布床就摆在画室里，再没有其他房间可以安置我了。
One day I was taken ill. The rich diet was taking effect upon me. I don't know what ailed me, but I couldn't get out of bed. I had lost all my stamina, and with it whatever courage I possessed. Kruger had. to look after me, had to make broths for me, and so on. It was a trying period for him, more particularly because he was just on the verge of giving an important exhibition at his studio, a private showing to some wealthy connoisseurs from whom he was expecting aid. The cot on which I lay was in the studio; there was no other room to put me in.
 
　　要举行画展那天早上克鲁格一醒来便十分不快，若是我还能站起来，我知道他准会照我下巴上揍一拳，然后把我踢出去。可我直挺挺地躺着，衰弱得像一只猫。他想哄我起床，想等参观画展的人一来便把我锁进厨房里。我也意识到自己这是在给他捣蛋，有一个垂死的人躺在眼前，人们不可能有兴致看绘画和雕塑。克鲁格打心眼儿里认为我快死了，我自己也这么想。这就是他提议叫救护车拉我去美国医院时我提不起一点儿劲来的原因，尽管我也有一种负罪感。我只想舒舒服服地就死在画室里，我并不想被人赶起来找一个好点儿的地方去死。我不在乎自己死在哪里，真的，只要不叫我起来就行。
The morning of the day he was to give his exhibition, Kruger awoke thoroughly disgruntled. If I had been able to stand on my feet I know he would have given me a clout in the jaw and kicked me out. But I was prostrate, and weak as a cat. He tried to coax me out of bed, with the idea of locking me up in the kitchen upon the arrival of his visitors. I realized that I was making a mess of it for him. People can't look at pictures and statues with enthusiasm when a man is dying before their eyes. Kruger honestly thought I was dying. So did I. That's why, despite my feelings of guilt, I couldn't muster any enthusiasm when he proposed calling for the ambulance and having me shipped to the American Hospital. I wanted to die there, comfortably, right in the studio; I didn't want to be urged to get up and find a better place to die in. I didn't care where I died, really, so long as it wasn't necessary to get up.
 
　　听我这样说，克鲁格吓坏了。假如参观的人到了，画室里摆着一具死尸比睡着一个病人更倒霉，那会彻底毁掉他的前程，不论这种前程是多么黯淡。他当然不会这样对我讲，不过我从他焦虑不安的神情中看出这是使他烦恼的原因。这使我变得固执起来，我拒绝让他往医院打电话，我不让他打电话叫医生，我什么都不让他做。
When he heard me talk this way Kruger became alarmed. Worse than having a sick man in his studio should the visitors arrive, was to have a dead man. That would completely ruin his prospects, slim as they were. He didn't put it that way to me, of course, but I could see from his agitation that that was what worried him. And that made me stubborn. I refused to let him call the hospital. I refused to let him call a doctor. I refused everything.
 
　　最后他被我惹火了，不顾我的抗议便开始给我穿衣服。我身体太弱，无法抗拒，只能有气无力地低声咕哝—“你这个狗东西，你！”屋外很暖和，可我还是像条狗一样不住地发抖。他给我完全穿好衣服后便又在我身上盖了件大衣，然后溜出去打电话。“我不去！我不去！”我不停地这样说，可他只是砰地关上门走了。几分钟后他又回来了，一句话也没对我说便忙着收拾画室，这是最后的准备工作。过了一会儿有人敲了敲门，是菲尔莫，他告诉我柯林斯正在楼下等着呢。
He got so angry with me finally that, despite my protestations, he began to dress me. I was too weak to resist. All I could do was to murmur weakly - "you bastard you!" Though it was warm outdoors I was shivering like a dog. After he had completely dressed me he flung an overcoat over me and slipped outside to telephone. "I won't go! I won't go!" I kept saying but he simply slammed the door on me. He came back in a few minutes and, without addressing a word to me, busied himself about the studio. Last minute preparations. In a little while there was a knock on the door. It was Fillmore. Collins was waiting downstairs, he informed me.
 
菲尔莫和克鲁格两人把手放在我身下将我扶起来，拖着我朝电梯走的路上克鲁格态度柔和些了。他说，“这是为了你好。再说，这样对我不公平。你知道这些年来我是怎样挣扎过来的，你也该替我想想。”他真的快掉眼泪了。
The two of them, Fillmore and Kruger, slipped their arms under me and hoisted me to my feet. As they dragged me to the elevator Kruger softened up. "It's for your own good," he said. "And besides, it wouldn't be fair to me. You know what a struggle I've had all these years. You ought to think about me too." He was actually on the point of tears.
 
　　尽管我觉得很不幸、很苦恼，他这番话还是差点儿使我笑起来。他比我年纪大得多，是一个糟糕的画家、一个糟糕透顶的艺术家，尽管如此他也该交一回好运—至少一辈子该有一次机会。
Wretched and miserable as I felt, his words almost made me smile. He was considerably older than I, and even though he was a rotten painter, a rotten artist all the way through, he deserved a break - at least once in a lifetime.
 
　　“我并不是跟你过不去，我明白你的意思。”我喃喃道。
"I don't hold it against you," I muttered. "I understand how it is."
 
　　他答道，“你知道我一直是喜欢你的。等你好些了可以再回到这儿来……住多久都由你。”
"You know I always liked you," he responded. "When you get better you can come back here again… you can stay as long as you like."
 
　　“当然，我明白……我一时还死不了。”我勉强说了一句。
"Sure, I know… I'm not going to croak yet," I managed to get out.
Part 10 Chapter 3
不知为什么，一看到柯林斯在楼下我的精神就好多了。如果有谁显得充满生气、健康、快活、豁达，这个人便是他。他把我抱起来放在汽车座位上，好像我是个洋娃娃，而且动作很轻柔，被克鲁格粗暴地搬了一回后我很欣赏这一点。
Somehow, when I saw Collins down below my spirits revived. If ever any one seemed to be thoroughly alive, healthy, joyous, magnanimous, it was he. He picked me up as if I were a doll and laid me out on the seat of the cab - gently too, which I appreciated after the way Kruger had manhandled me.
 
　　我们驱车来到旅馆—柯林斯下榻的旅馆—柯林斯同旅馆主人谈了几句。我听得见柯林斯对这位主人说，没有什么疾箔…只是有一点儿累了……几天就会好的。我看到他把一张皱巴巴的钞票塞在那人手里，然后迅速、灵巧地转身回到我身边说，“来，振作起来！别让他以为你快死了。”说着，他把我用力拉起来，用一只胳膊撑住我的身体，带我朝电梯走去。
When we drove up to the hotel - the hotel that Collins was stopping at - there was a bit of a discussion with the proprietor, during which I lay stretched out on the sofa in the bureau. I could hear Collins saying to the patron that it was nothing… just a little breakdown… be all right in a few days. I saw him put a crisp bill in the man's hands and then, turning swiftly and lithely, he came back to where I was and said: "Come on, buck up! Don't let him think you're croaking." And with that, he yanked me to my feet and, bracing me with one arm, escorted me to the elevator.
 
　　“别让他以为你快死了！”显然死在别人手上是不得体的，一个人应该死在自己家里，也可以说是悄悄死去。他的话很鼓舞人，我开始把这看作一个拙劣的笑话了。上了楼，关上房门后他们脱掉我的衣服，给我盖上被子。柯林斯热切他说，“你现在不能死，他妈的！那样你会叫我难堪的……再说，你到底有什么病？过不了好日子？拿出点儿勇气来！过一两天你就能吃上等腰肉牛排了。你以为你生病了！别急，等你生了一回梅毒再说！那才叫你胆战心惊呢……”他又幽默地谈起他沿着长江的旅行，路上头发掉了，牙齿也烂了。处于这样的衰弱状态中，他讲述的这段往事对我产生了一种奇异的安慰效果，使我完全忘记了病痛。这家伙胆子真大，也许为了我的缘故他有几分添油加醋，可我当时听他讲故事时并不想挑刺。我全神贯注地听，我仿佛看到了长江肮脏混浊的河口、汉口的灯光、众多的黄面孔、穿过三峡飞流直下的舢板和被龙口中吐出的带股硫磺味的火舌映红的湍流。多么奇异的经历！中国苦力们如何每天围在小船周围，打捞被船上人扔下水的垃圾废物；汤姆?斯莱特里如何在弥留之际从病榻上撑起身子再看一眼汉口的灯光；那个英俊的欧亚混血儿如何躺在一间屋子里往自己血管中注射毒药。还有千篇一律的蓝褂子和黄面孔，他们中有千千万万的人被饥馑弄得惟悴不堪，忍受疾病折磨，他们靠吃老鼠、狗和树根为生，他们啃光了地上长的草，吞下了自己的孩子。很难设想这个人身上曾一度布满了伤疤，曾因是麻风病人被关起来，然而他说话时的声音平静、和蔼，好像经历过的磨难已荡涤了他的灵魂。
Don't let him think you're croaking! Obviously it was bad taste to die on people's hands. One should die in the bosom of his family, in private, as it were. His words were encouraging. I began to see it all as a bad joke. Upstairs, with the door closed, they undressed me and put me between the sheets. "You can't die now, goddamn it!" said Collins warmly. "You'll put me in a hole… Besides, what the hell's the matter with you? Can't stand good living? Keep your chin up! You'll be eating a porterhouse steak in a day or two. You think you're ill! Wait, by Jesus until you get a dose of syphilis! That's something to make you worry…" And he began to relate, in a humorous way, his trip down the Yangtze Kiang, with hair falling out and teeth rotting away. In the feeble state that I was in, the yarn that he spun had an extraordinary soothing effect upon me. It took me completely out of myself. He had guts, this guy. Perhaps he put it on a bit thick, for my benefit, but I wasn't listening to him critically at the moment. I was all ears and eyes. I saw the dirty yellow mouth of the river, the lights going up at Hankow, the sea of yellow faces, the sampans shooting down through the gorges and the rapids flaming with the sulfurous breath of the dragon. What a story! The coolies swarming around the boat each day, dredging for the garbage that was flung overboard, Tom Slattery rising up on his deathbed to take a last look at the lights of Hankow, the beautiful Eurasian who lay in a dark room and filled his veins with poison, the monotony of blue jackets and yellow faces, millions and millions of them hollowed out by famine, ravaged by disease, subsisting on rats and dogs and roots, chewing the grass off the earth, devouring their own children. It was hard to imagine that this man's body had once been a mass of sores, that he had been shunned like a leper; his voice was so quiet and gentle, it was as though his spirit had been cleansed by all the suffering he had endured.
 
　　他伸手去端酒，这时他的面容变得越来越柔和，他的话真的宽慰了我。这会儿中国自始至终像命运之神那样悬在我们头顶上，一个正在烂掉的中国，它正像一头硕大的恐龙一样化为尘土，然而直到最后一刻仍保留着它的魅力、新奇、神秘，它的残酷古老的传说。
As he reached for his drink his face grew more and more soft and his words actually seemed to caress me. And all the while China hanging over us like Fate itself. A China rotting away, crumbling to dust like a huge dinosaur, yet preserving to the very end the glamor, the enchantment, the mystery, the cruelty of her hoary legends.
 
　　我再也无法继续听他讲下去，我的思绪回到头一回买了一包爆竹的那个国庆日，还有点燃爆竹用的长长的引火棍，这种引人物很容易断，一吹便呈现出一点明亮的红光，它的气味会留在手指上好几天，会使你联想到一些古怪念头。国庆那天街上乱扔着颜色鲜艳的红纸张，上面盖着黑色和金色的印记，四处是细小的爆竹，里面裹的东西是最最稀奇古怪的。这些爆竹一包包多极了，全用人脑浆色的又细又扁的肠线穿成一串串的。
I could no longer follow his story; my mind had slipped back to a Fourth of July when I bought my first package of firecrackers and with it the long pieces of punk which break so easily, the punk that you blow on to get a good red glow, the punk whose smell stick to your fingers for days and makes you dream of strange things. The Fourth of July the streets are littered with bright red paper stamped with black and gold figures and everywhere there are tiny firecrackers which have the most curious intestines; packages and packages of them, all strung together by their thin, flat, little gutstrings, the color of human brains.
 
　　整天空气中都弥漫着火药和引火棍味，艳红色包装纸上的金粉始终沾在手上。一个人永远也不会想到中国，可它一直沾在你的指尖上，叫你的鼻子直发痒。很久以后，当你几乎全然忘记了爆竹的气味之后，某一天你会被金箔呛醒，破碎的引人棍又送来刺鼻的气味，艳红的包装纸使你对根本不了解的一个民族、一个国土产生了眷恋之情。尽管你并不了解它，它在你的血液中流动，神秘地流动。像时间或空间这类时隐时现却又永恒的概念，越年老你便越仰慕它，试图用脑子去理解它，可是却不成功，这是由于中国的每一件事物中都孕含智慧和神秘，你无法用双手抓住它，也无法理解它，只得由它去，由它沾在你手指上，由它渐渐渗进你的血管中。
All day long there is the smell of powder and punk and the gold dust from the bright red wrappers sticks to your fingers. One never thinks of China, but it is there all the time on the tips of your fingers and it makes your nose itchy; and long afterwards, when you have forgotten almost what a firecracker smells like, you wake up one day with gold leaf choking you and the broken pieces of punk waft back their pungent odor and the bright red wrappers give you a nostalgia for a people and a soil you have never known, but which is in your blood, mysteriously there in your blood, like the sense of time or space, a fugitive, constant value to which you turn more and more as you get old, which you try to seize with your mind, but ineffectually, because in everything Chinese there is wisdom and mystery and you can never grasp it with two hands or with your mind but you must let it rub off, let it stick to your fingers, let it slowly infiltrate your veins.
 
　　几星期后我收到已回到勒阿弗尔的柯林斯写来的言辞恳切的邀请信，于是一天早上我同菲尔莫上了火车，打算同柯林斯共度周末，这是到巴黎后第一次离开它。我们精神振奋，一路喝着安如葡萄酒来到海边。柯林斯给了我们一个酒吧的地址，我们就在那儿见面。那是一个叫作“吉米餐馆”的地方，据说在勒阿弗尔人人都知道它。
A few weeks later, upon receipt of a pressing invitation from Collins who had returned to Le Havre, Fillmore and I boarded the train one morning, prepared to spend the weekend with him. It was the first time I had been outside of Paris since my arrival here. We were in fine fettle, drinking Anjou all the way to the coast. Collins had given us the address of a bar where we were to meet; it was a place called Jimmie's Bar, which everyone in Le Havre was supposed to know.
 
　　我们在火车站搭上一辆四轮马车快速赶往约会地点，在车上我们边走边喝光了剩下的半瓶安如葡萄酒。勒阿弗尔是一个欢快、充满阳光的城市，空气十分清新，那种强烈的咸味差点儿使我思念起纽约的家乡。桅杆和船身处处可见，还有鲜艳的船旗、宽阔的广场和只有在外省才见得到的屋顶很高的咖啡馆。我立即产生了很好的印象，这个城市在张开双臂迎接我们。
We got into an open barouche at the station and started on a brisk trot for the rendezvous; there was still a half bottle of Anjou left which we polished off as we rode along. Le Havre looked gay, sunny; the air was bracing, with that strong salty tang which almost made me homesick for New York. There were masts and hulls cropping up everywhere, bright bits of bunting, big open squares and high ceilinged cafés such as one only sees in the provinces. A fine impression immediately; the city was welcoming us with open arms.
　　
　　不等走到酒吧我们便看到柯林斯急匆匆地沿着街道走过来，肯定是要去车站，而且同往常一样迟到了一会儿。菲尔莫马上提议喝点茴香酒，我们都在互相拍背、笑、喷唾沫星子，阳光和带咸味的海边空气已经使我们陶醉了。起初柯林斯拿不定主意喝不喝茴香酒，他告诉我们他得了淋病，不太厉害—很可能是“太累了”。他从口袋里掏出一个瓶子给我们看，这玩艺儿叫作 “花柳灵”，若是我没有记错的活。这是海员们用来治淋病的药。
Before we ever reached the bar we saw Collins coming down the street on a trot, heading for the station, no doubt, and a little late as usual. Fillmore immediately suggested a Pernod; we were all slapping each other on the back, laughing and spitting, drunk already from the sunshine and the salt sea air. Collins seemed undecided about the Pernod at first. He had a little dose of clap, he informed us. Nothing very serious - "a strain" most likely. He showed us a bottle he had in his pocket - "Vénétienne" it was called, if I remember rightly. The sailors' remedy for clap.
 
　　去“吉米餐馆”之前我们在一家馆子里先垫补了一点，这儿铺面很大，椽子粗大，被烟熏得很黑，餐桌上摆满了吃的。我们滥饮柯林斯推荐的甜酒，以后又坐在一个露天咖啡座上喝咖啡和烈性酒。柯林斯在谈论查露斯男爵，他说此人甚中他的意。他在勒阿弗尔呆了差不多一年，滥花从前走私时积蓄下的钱财。他的爱好很简单—吃、喝、女人和书，还得有一个私人浴室，他坚持这一点。
We stopped off at a restaurant to have a little snack before repairing to Jimmie's place. It was a huge tavern with big, smoky rafters and tables creaking with food. We drank copiously of the wines that Collins recommended. Then we sat down on a terrasse and had coffee and liqueurs. Collins was talking about the Baron de Charlus, a man after his own heart, he said. For almost a year now he had been staying at Le Havre, going through the money that he had accumulated during his bootlegging days. His tastes were simple - food, drink, women and books. And a private bath! That he insisted on.
 
　　仍在谈论查露斯男爵，我们已到了“吉米餐馆”。这时已临近傍晚，店里的人渐渐多起来。吉米在店里，脸红得像棵甜菜，他太太站在他身边，是一个眼睛明亮、胸脯丰满的漂亮法国女人。我们受到了殷勤的招待，面前又摆上了茴香酒，留声机在高声尖叫，人们用英语、法语、荷兰语、挪威语和西班牙语叽哩咕嗜地闲扯。吉米和他妻子都非常快活，活跃，他们真诚地互相拍打、亲吻，还举起酒杯碰碰，置身于这样一个欢快的大笑大喊的环境中你只想脱下衣服跳一场战舞。酒店里的女人都像苍蝇一样围拢来，如果我们是柯林斯的朋友也就是说我们有钱，我们穿着旧衣服来也不要紧，英国人都是这身装束。我口袋里一个苏也没有，当然这也不成问题，因为我是贵客。不过有两个极漂亮的婊子挽着我的胳膊，听候我吩咐，我还是觉得有些难堪。于是我打算硬着头皮挺下去，谁也说不上哪些饮料由酒店提供、哪些要付钱。我得摆出一副绅士派头，哪怕口袋里一个苏也没有呢。
We were still talking about the Baron de Charlus when we arrived at Jimmie's Bar. It was late in the afternoon and the place was just beginning to fill up. Jimmie was there, his face red as a beet, and beside him was his spouse, a fine buxom Frenchwoman with glittering eyes. We were given a marvelous reception all around. There were Pernods in front of us again, the gramophone was shrieking, people were jabbering away in English and French and Dutch and Norwegian and Spanish, and Jimmie and his wife, both of them looking very brisk and dapper, were slapping and kissing each other heartily and raising their glasses and clinking them - altogether such a bubble and blabber of merriment that you felt like pulling off your clothes and doing a war dance. The women at the bar had gathered around like flies. If we were friends of Collins that meant we were rich. It didn't matter that we had come in our old clothes; all Anglais dressed like that. I hadn't a sou in my pocket, which didn't matter, of course, since I was the guest of honour. Nevertheless I felt somewhat embarrassed with two stunning looking whores hanging on my arms waiting for me to order something. I decided to take the bull by the horns. You couldn't tell any more which drinks were on the house and which were to be paid for. I had to be a gentleman, even if I didn't have a sou in my pocket.
 
　　伊薇特，就是吉米的妻子，对我们格外大方，非常友好。她在为我们准备一个小宴会，还得再等一会儿。她不让我们喝得太醉，因为她要我们好好吃饭。留声机疯了似的响着，菲尔莫早已同一个美丽的黑白混血儿跳起舞来，她穿着一件紧身天鹅绒衣服，优雅的身姿一览无余。柯林斯溜到我身边小声讲了讲我身边那个姑娘的情况，“老板娘会请她吃饭的，只要你想要她。” 她从前是妓女，在这个城市的郊区有一所漂亮的房子，现在她成了一位船长的情妇。他走了，所以没有什么好怕的。“如果她喜欢上你，就会邀你和她同居。”他又补充道。
Yvette - that was Jimmie's wife - was extraordinarily gracious and friendly with us. She was preparing a little spread in our honor. It would take a little while yet. We were not to get too drunk - she wanted us to enjoy the meal. The gramophone was going like wild and Fillmore had begun to dance with a beautiful mulatto who had on a tight velvet dress that revealed all her charms. Collins slipped over to my side and whispered a few words about the girl at my side. "The madame will invite her to dinner," he said, "if you'd like to have her." She was an ex whore who owned a beautiful home on the outskirts of the city. The mistress of a sea captain now. He was away and there was nothing to fear. "If she likes you she'll invite you to stay with her," he added.

 
　　这番话已足够了，我马上转向这位马色尔，着着实实把她吹捧了一通。我俩假装跳舞，站在酒吧的一个角落里，互相狠命地揉弄。吉米朝我拼命挤挤眼，赞许地点点头。这个马色尔是个淫荡的婊子，同时也很令人愉快。我发现她很快就把其他姑娘打发走了，以后我们坐下来亲密地谈了许久。遗憾的是宣布吃饭了，打断了我们的谈话。
That was enough for me. I turned at once to Marcelle and began to flatter the ass off her. We stood at the corner of the bar, pretending to dance, and mauled each other ferociously. Jimmie gave me a big horse wink and nodded his head approvingly. She was a lascivious bitch, this Marcelle, and pleasant at the same time. She soon got rid of the other girl, I noticed, and then we settled down for a long and intimate conversation which was interrupted unfortunately by the announcement that dinner was ready.
 
　　餐桌边坐了大约二十个人，我和马色尔被安排在一侧，对面就是吉米和他妻子。宴会以噼噼拍拍地打开香摈酒瓶塞开始，接着便是醉意十足的致词，在此期间马色尔和我在桌子底下互相挑逗。轮到我起身讲几句话了，我只得捏着面前的餐巾，真是使人痛苦又叫人兴奋。我只能简单讲两句拉倒，因为马色尔一直在我的裆里搔痒。
There were about twenty of us at the table, and Marcelle and I were placed at one end opposite Jimmie and his wife. It began with the popping of champagne corks and was quickly followed by drunken speeches, during the course of which Marcelle and I played with each other under the table. When it came my turn to stand up and deliver a few words I had to hold the napkin in front of me. It was painful and exhilarating at the same time. I had to cut my speech very short because Marcelle was tickling me in the crotch all the while.
 
　　这顿饭一直吃到临近午夜，我一直盼着同马色尔在那幢悬崖上的漂亮房子里过夜，可是还办不到。柯林斯计划带我们到各处转转，我也不便拒绝。他说，“别担心，你走以前会跟她厮混个够。叫她在这儿等你，直到我们回来。”
The dinner lasted until almost midnight. I was looking forward to spending the night with Marcelle in that beautiful home up on the cliff. But it was not to be. Collins had planned to show us about and I couldn't very well refuse. "Don't worry about her," he said. "You'll have a bellyful of it before you leave. Tell her to wait here for you until we get back."
 
　　对此她有几分不快，后来我们告诉她我们在这儿要呆几天，她这才高兴起来。一出门菲尔莫便极其严肃地拉住我们的胳膊说他有点儿事要说，他面色苍白，忧心忡忡。
She was a bit peeved at this, Marcelle, but when we informed her that we had several days ahead of us she brightened up. When we got outdoors Fillmore very solemnly took us by the arm and said he had a little confession to make. He looked pale and worried.
 
　　“说呀，怎么了？”柯林斯快活地说，“有话快说。”
"Well, what is it?" said Collins cheerfully. "Spit it out!"
 
　　菲尔莫一时还说不出来，他哼哼卿卿了许久才迸出一句，“嗯，刚才去上厕所时我发现……”
Fillmore couldn't spit it out like that, all at once. He hemmed and hawed and finally he blurted out "Well, when I went to the closet just a minute ago I noticed something…"
 
“这就是说你已经染上淋病了！”柯林斯得意洋洋地说，一边炫耀式地掏出那瓶“花柳灵”。他又刻毒地补充一句，“别去看医生，那些贪心的王八蛋会把你的血放光的。也别停止喝酒，那一套全是胡扯。每天喝两次这个……喝之前先把它摇匀。最糟的是发愁，你懂吗？来吧，等我们回去我给你一个注水器、一些高锰酸盐好了。”
"Then you've got it!" said Collins triumphantly, and with that he flourished the bottle of "Vénétienne." "Don't go to a doctor," he added venomously. "They'll bleed you to death, the greedy bastards. And don't stop drinking either. That's all hooey. Take this twice a day… shake it well before using. And nothing's worse than worry, do you understand? Come on now. I'll give you a syringe and some permanganate when we get back."
Part 10 Chapter 4
于是我们便踏入了夜色，朝海滨走去，那儿传来音乐声、喊叫声、酒后的赌咒声。一路上柯林斯一直在轻声谈论这谈论那，谈他曾爱上的一个男孩，谈那孩子的父母知晓后他如何费尽周折才摆脱困境。然后他又从这个话题绕回查露斯伯爵，接着又讲到逆河而上、后来失踪的库尔茨，这是他最喜欢的话题。我欣赏柯林斯这样不断借助文学背景的手法，这好像一位百万富翁从不走下他的罗尔斯一罗伊斯轿车。对于他，现实与理想之间并没有中间地带。我们进了伏尔泰堤上那家妓院，柯林斯一屁股坐在沙发上打铃要姑娘、要饮料，这时他仍在喋喋不休地谈他和库尔茨趟河弄水的经历呢。后来姑娘们上床睡在他身边，用一个个吻封住他的嘴，他这才不说这些离题的话了。这时他似乎猛地悟到自己在哪儿，于是转向开这所妓院的那位老妈妈，向她滔滔不绝地介绍他这两位专程从巴黎来看这个地方的朋友。屋里有六七个姑娘，全都光着屁股，而且我得说都蛮漂亮。她们像小鸟一样蹦来蹦去，这时我们三个仍在设法同那位老妈妈攀谈。最后老妈妈借故告辞了，叫我们随便些。我完全被她吸引住了，她那么和善可亲，那么温柔而又充满母性，而且举止又是那么文雅。若是她稍稍年轻一点儿，我便会向她求爱的，此刻你当然不会想到我们正在“罪窟”里，人们都这样称呼一所妓院。
And so we started out into the night, down towards the waterfront where there was the sound of music and shouts and drunken oaths, Collins talking quietly all the while about this and that, about a boy he had fallen in love with, and the devil's time he had to get out of the scrape when the parents got wise to it. From that he switched back to the Baron de Charlus and then to Kurtz who had gone up the river and got lost. His favorite theme. I liked the way Collins moved against this background of literature continuously; it was like a millionaire who never stepped out of his Rolls Royce. There was no intermediate realm for him between reality and ideas. When we entered the whorehouse on the Quai Voltaire, after he had flung himself on the divan and rung for girls and for drinks, he was still paddling up the river with Kurtz, and only when the girls had flopped on the bed beside him and stuffed his mouth with kisses did he cease his divagations. Then, as if he had suddenly realized where he was, he turned to the old mother who ran the place and gave her an eloquent spiel about his two friends who had come down from Paris expressly to see the joint. There were about half a dozen girls in the room, all naked and all beautiful to look at, I must say. They hopped about like birds while the three of us tried to maintain a conversation with the grandmother. Finally the latter excused herself and told us to make ourselves at home. I was altogether taken in by her, so sweet and amiable she was, so thoroughly gentle and maternal. And what manners! If she had been a little younger I would have made overtures to her. Certainly you would not have thought that we were in a "den of vice," as it is called.
 
　　总之，我们在那儿呆了大约个把钟头，只有我的状况还好，能享受这儿的优惠，柯林斯和菲尔莫则留在楼下同姑娘们聊天。
Anyway we stayed there an hour or so, and as I was the only one in condition to enjoy the privileges of the house, Collins and Fillmore remained downstairs chattering with the girls.
 
　　等我回来，我看到他俩躺在床上，姑娘们在床边围成一个半圆，用最最甜美的嗓音合唱“皮卡迪的玫瑰”，离开这所房子时我们在情感上都有几分沮丧，尤其是菲尔莫。柯林斯很快带我们来到一个粗野的地方，这儿挤满了请假上岸的海员。我们坐在这儿欣赏了片刻同性恋大聚会，这时正处于高潮。出来时我们必须经过红灯区，这儿脖子里围着披中的老妈妈就更多了，她们坐在门口台阶上边扇扇子边笑容可掬地朝过路人点头致意。全是一些好看的好心人，像是正在守护一个托儿所。三三两两的水手摇摇晃晃地走过来，吵吵闹闹地闯进这些俗丽的地方，到处是性行为，它淹没了一切，像一小股潮水席卷了支撑这个城市的支柱。我们沿着这个水潭的边缘游荡，这儿一切都乱成一团，纠缠在一起，你会有这样一种印象：所有的大船、拖网渔船、游艇、帆船和驳船都被一场凶猛的风暴刮上了岸。
When I returned I found the two of them stretched out on the bed; the girls had formed a semicircle about the bed and were singing with the most angelic voices the chorus of Roses in Picardy. We were sentimentally depressed when we left the house - Fillmore particularly. Collins swiftly steered us to a rough joint which was packed with drunken sailors on shore leave and there we sat awhile enjoying the homosexual rout that was in full swing. When we sallied out we had to pass through the red light district where there were more grandmothers with shawls about their necks sitting on the doorsteps fanning themselves and nodding pleasantly to the passers by. All such good-looking, kindly souls, as if they were keeping guard over a nursery. Little groups of sailors came swinging along and pushed their way noisily inside the gaudy joints. Sex everywhere: it was slopping over, a neap tide that swept the props from under the city. We piddled along at the edge of the basin where everything was jumbled and tangled; you had the impression that all these ships, these trawlers and yachts and schooners and barges, had been blown ashore by a violent storm.
 
　　在四十八小时内发生了这么多事情，好像我们已经在勒阿弗尔呆了一个月或更久。我们打算星期一一早就走，因为菲尔莫必须回去工作。我们整个星期天都在喝酒、狂欢，也顾不得什么淋病不淋病了。那天下午柯林斯向我们吐露他正考虑回到他在爱达荷的农场去，他有八年没有回家了，想在再去东方航行前回去看一眼家乡的群山。此刻我们正坐在一家妓院里等一个姑娘到来，柯林斯应允悄悄给她一点儿可卡因。他告诉我们勒阿弗尔已叫他生厌了，这儿围着他转的婊子太多，再说吉米的妻子又爱上了他。她醋劲大发，使他日子很不好过，几乎每天晚上都要大闹一通。自从我们到了以后她表现还不错，可是柯林斯告诉我们这长不了。她特别妒嫉一个俄国姑娘，这个姑娘喝醉酒后有时到酒吧里来，是个捣蛋鬼。除了这些女人，他还如醉如痴地爱着头一天对我们讲过的那个男孩。他说，“一个男孩子能叫你心碎，他是他妈的那么美！那么狠心！”听到这话我们笑了，这真是太反常了，可是柯林斯却是十分认真的。
In the space of forty eight hours so many things had happened that it seemed as if we had been in Le Havre a month or more. We were planning to leave early Monday morning, as Fillmore had to be back on the job. We spent Sunday drinking and carousing, clap or no clap. That afternoon Collins confided to us that he was thinking of returning to his ranch in Idaho; he hadn't been home for eight years and he wanted to have a look at the mountains again before making another voyage East. We were sitting in a whorehouse at the time, waiting for a girl to appear; he had promised to slip her some cocaine. He was fed up with Le Havre, he told us. Too many vultures hanging around his neck. Besides, Jimmie's wife had fallen in love with him and she was making things hot for him with her jealous fits. There was a scene almost every night. She had been on her good behaviour since we arrived, but it wouldn't last, he promised us. She was particularly jealous of a Russian girl who came to the bar now and then when she got tight. A troublemaker. On top of it all he was desperately in love with this boy whom he had told us about the first day. "A boy can break your heart," he said. "He's so damned beautiful! And so cruel!" We had to laugh at this. It sounded preposterous. But Collins was in earnest.
 
　　到了星期日午夜前后我和菲尔莫去睡了，人们给了我们一间在酒吧顶上的房间，这儿闷热极了，一点儿气也不透。透过打开的窗子我们能听到他们在楼下喊叫，留声机不停地在唱。突然暴风雨来临了—一场常见的大暴雨。在雷鸣声和打在窗玻璃上的风雨声中，楼下酒吧里爆发的另一场风暴也传进了我们耳朵。这声音近得吓人，十分不祥，女人们扯着嗓子拼命尖叫、酒瓶砸得粉碎、桌子被掀翻，还不时传来人的身体砰然摔倒在地板上发出的熟悉的、令人作呕的响声。
Around midnight Sunday Fillmore and I retired; we had been given a room upstairs over the bar. It was sultry as the devil, not a breath of air stirring. Through the open windows we could hear them shouting downstairs and the gramophone going continually. All of a sudden a storm broke - a regular cloudburst. And between the thunderclaps and the squalls that lashed the windowpanes there came to our ears the sound of another storm raging downstairs at the bar. It sounded frightfully close and sinister; the women were shrieking at the tops of their lungs, bottles were crashing, tables were upset and there was that familiar, nauseating thud that the human body makes when it crashes to the floor.
 
　　大约到了六点柯林斯把头探进门来，他脸上敷满药膏，一只胳膊用吊带吊着，还咧着大嘴笑呢。
About six o'clock Collins stuck his head in the door. His face was all plastered and one arm was stuck in a sling. He had a big grin on his face.
 
　　他说，“正如我所说的，昨天夜里她撒野了。我想你们听到吵闹了吧？”
"Just as I told you," he said. "She broke loose last night. Suppose you heard the racket?"
 
　　我们很快穿好衣服下楼同吉米道别，这个酒店全被毁了，没有一只酒瓶还立着未倒，没有一把椅子没有砸烂，镜子橱窗也被砸成碎片。吉米正在给自己调一份鸡尾酒。
We got dressed quickly and went downstairs to say goodbye to Jimmie. The place was completely demolished, not a bottle left standing, not a chair that wasn't broken. The mirror and the show window were smashed to bits. Jimmie was making himself an eggnog.

 
　　在去火车站的路上我们把事情串起来了。我们摇摇摆摆去睡觉后不久那个俄国姑娘进来了，伊蔽特立即侮辱了她，甚至连借口也不找一个。于是她俩开始互相揪头发，正揪得起劲，一个瑞典大汉走进来给俄国姑娘下巴上来了记清脆的耳光，目的是叫她清醒一下。这一下犹如火上浇油，柯林斯质问这个大块头究竟有什么权利卷入一场私人纠纷。作为答复，他的下巴上被那人捣了一下。这一下很有力，使他飞到酒店另一头去了。
On the way to the station we pieced the story together. The Russian girl had dropped in after we toddled off to bed and Yvette had insulted her promptly, without even waiting for an excuse. They had commenced to pull each other's hair and in the midst of it a big Swede had stepped in and given the Russian girl a sound slap in the jaw - to bring her to her senses. That started the fireworks. Collins wanted to know what right this big stiff had to interfere in a private quarrel. He got a poke in the jaw for an answer, a good one that sent him flying to the other end of the bar.
 
　　“活该！”伊蔽特嚷道，一面利用这个好机会抄起一个酒瓶朝俄国姑娘头上抡去。正在这时候下起了大雷雨，一刹那间爆发了一场十足的大混战，女人们都发了歇斯底里，迫不急待地抓住这个机会报私仇。没有什么比得上酒馆里的一场漂亮械斗……当一个人躺在桌子底下时在他背上插把刀子或是用酒瓶子狠揍他是最容易不过的。可怜的瑞典人这才发现自己惹出了大乱子，在场的每个人都恨他，特别是和他在同一条船上的水手。他们都希望看到他被人干掉，于是他们锁上门，把桌子推到一边，在酒柜前空出一小块地方让他俩斗出个输赢来。他们果然决出了胜负！打完这一架后他们不得不把这可怜的恶鬼送到医院去。柯林斯还算相当幸运—只是扭伤了手腕，几根手指脱了节，鼻子流了血，眼睛也青了。用他自己的话说，只是被搔了几下而已。可是如果再遇见这个瑞典人他一定要宰了他，他告诉我们这件事还没有完。
"Serves you right!" screamed Yvette, taking advantage of the occasion to swing a bottle at the Russian girl's head. And at that moment the thunderstorm broke loose. For a while there was a regular pandemonium, the women all hysterical and hungry to seize the opportunity to pay off private grudges. Nothing like a nice barroom brawl… so easy to stick a knife in a man's back or club him with a bottle when he's lying under a table. The poor Swede found himself in a hornet's nest; everyone in the place hated him, particularly his shipmates. They wanted to see him done in. And so they locked the door and pushing the tables aside they made a little space in front of the bar where the two of them could have it out. And they had it out! They had to carry the poor devil to the hospital when it was over. Collins had come off rather lucky - nothing more than a sprained wrist and a couple of fingers out of joint, a bloody nose and a black eye. Just a few scratches, as he put it. But if he ever signed up with that Swede he was going to murder him. It wasn't finished yet. He promised us that.
 
　　这场打斗也没有完，此后伊蔽特只得另找一家酒吧畅饮一番。她受到了侮辱，她打算了结这些事，于是她雇了一辆出租车，吩咐司机把车开到俯瞰大海的悬崖边上。她要自杀，她就是打算这么干，可是这时她醉得太厉害，一爬出车子便哭起来。　别人还来不及制止，她便开始脱起衣服来。司机把她半裸着载回家里，吉米看到她这副样子不禁勃然大怒，扬起磨剃须刀的皮带把她抽得屁滚尿流。她还喜欢挨揍，这个婊子。她跪在地上用双手搂住他的腿恳求道，“再来几下！”吉米却已打够了。
And that wasn't the end of the fracas either. After that Yvette had to go out and get liquored up at another bar. She had been insulted and she was going to put an end to things. And so she hires a taxi and orders the driver to ride out to the edge of the cliff overlooking the water. She was going to kill hersclf, that's what she was going to do. But then she was so drunk that when she tumbled out of the cab she began to weep and before any one could stop her she had begun to peel her clothes off. The driver brought her home that way, half-naked, and when Jimmie saw the condition she was in he was so furious with her that he took his razor strop and he belted the piss out of her, and she liked it, the bitch that she was. "Do it some more!" she begged, down on her knees as she was and clutching him around the legs with her two arms. But Jimmie had enough of it.
　
　　“你是一头者脏猪！”说着他一脚蹬在她肚子上，把她踢得没气了，也把她无聊的有关性的念头踢掉了一点儿。
"You're a dirty old sow!" he said and with his foot he gave her a shove in the guts that took the wind out of her - and a bit of her sexy nonsense too.
 
　　我们早该走了，在清晨的光线下看这个城市又是另一番景象。站在那儿等火车驶出站时我们谈论的最后一个话题是爱达荷州，我们三个都是美国人，来自不同的地方，但我们却有共同之处，而且可以说有很多，我们变得多愁善感了，美国人在分手时常会这样。对于奶牛、羊、那个人能成其为人的广阔天地以及所有这些空谈，我们萌发了非常愚蠢的遐想，如果驶过来的是一条船而不是一列火车，我们准会跳上去告别这一切。可是柯林斯再也不会见到美国了，这是我后来听说的，然而菲尔莫……唉，菲尔莫也得受到惩罚，其方式是当时我们谁也没有料到的。最好还是让美国就这样，总在不可触及的地方，这有点儿像在身体虚弱时看一张绘有图画的明信片。那样你会想象它一直在等待你，没有变化，没有遭到破坏，一大片爱国者的广阔土地，那儿有牛、有羊，有情欲难禁的男人看见什么都奸，奸男人，奸女人，也奸牲口。美国并不存在，美国只是你给予一个抽象观念的名称……
It was high time we were leaving. The city looked different in the early morning light. The last thing we talked about, as we stood there waiting for the train to pull out, was Idaho. The three of us were Americans. We came from different places, each of us, but we had something in common - a whole lot, I might say. We were getting sentimental, as Americans do when it comes time to part. We were getting quite foolish about the cows and sheep and the big open spaces where men are men and all that crap. If a boat had swung along instead of the train we'd have hopped aboard and said good bye to it all. But Collins was never to see America again, as I learned later, and Fillmore… well, Fillmore has to take his punishment too, in a way that none of us could have suspected then. It's best to keep America just like that, always in the background, a sort of picture post card which you look at in a weak moment. Like that, you imagine it's always there waiting for you, unchanged, unspoiled, a big patriotic open space with cows and sheep and tenderhearted men ready to bugger everything in sight, man, woman or beast. It doesn't exist, America. It's a name you give to an abstract idea…
Part 11 Chapter 1
巴黎像个婊子，在远处看她非常迷人，叫你迫不及待地想把她搂到怀里。可是过了五分钟后你便觉得空虚，你厌恶自己，觉得自己受骗了。
Paris is like a whore. From a distance she seems ravishing, you can't wait until you have her in your arms. And five minutes later you feel empty, disgusted with yourself. You feel tricked.
 
　　我衣袋里装着钱回到巴黎，好几百法郎，是临上火车时柯林斯塞在我衣袋里的。这笔钱足够租一个房间，至少还可以吃一个星期好饭。我已有好几年没有一次拿到过这么多钱了，我兴高采烈，也许一种新生活就要在我面前展开了。我又想把钱存起来，于是找了城堡街上一家面包店顶上的一个便宜旅馆，离旺夫街不远，尤金有一回曾给我指过这个地方。走几步便是连接蒙帕纳斯铁道的桥，这块地方我很熟。
I returned to Paris with money in my pocket - a few hundred francs, which Collins had shoved in my pocket just as I was boarding the train. It was enough to pay for a room and at least a week's good rations. It was more than I had had in my hands at one time for several years. I felt elated, as though perhaps a new life was opening before me. I wanted to conserve it too, so I looked up a cheap hotel over a bakery on the Rue du Chateau, just off the Rue de Vanves, a place that Eugene had pointed out to me once. A few yards away was the bridge that spans the Montparnasse tracks. A familiar quarter.
 
　　我本可以租一间一个月房租才一百法郎的屋子，这种房子当然是什么设备也没有的，甚至连窗子也没有。也许本来我仍会租下来的—只是为了有个牢靠的地方睡一会儿—若不是进这个房间前不得不先穿过一个瞎子的房间。想到每天夜里要从他床前经过我极不痛快，因而决定到别处找找看。我来到塞尔街，就在公墓后面，我看到一幢东倒西歪的破房子，围着院子有一圈阳台，阳台上还吊着鸟笼子，下面一层都吊满了。也许这是振奋人心的景象，可我却觉得它像医院里的集体病房，旅馆老板也显得不很像一个智力健全的人。我决意等到晚上好好四下看看再说，然后再到一条僻静小巷里挑一家有点儿吸引力的小酒店。
I could have had a room for a hundred francs a month, a room without any conveniences to be sure - without even a window - and perhaps I would have taken it, just to be sure of a place to flop for a while, had it not been for the fact that in order to reach this room I would have been obliged to first pass through the room of a blind man. The thought of passing his bed every night had a most depressing effect on me. I decided to look elsewhere. I went over to the Rue Cels, just behind the cemetery, and I looked at a sort of rat trap there with balconies running around the courtyard. There were birdcages suspended from the balcony too, all along the lower tier. A cheerful sight perhaps, but to me it seemed like the public ward in a hospital. The proprietor didn't seem to have all his wits either. I decided to wait for the night, to have a good look around, and then choose some attractive little joint in a quiet side street.
 
　　吃饭时花了十五法郎，这是我给自己规定的饭钱的大约一倍。这使我很不安，甚至不许自己坐下来再喝杯咖啡了。尽管这时已下开了毛毛雨。我情愿走一走，然后在一个不太晚的时辰静静地上床。这样节衣缩食地花钱本来已经使我很不愉快了。这种事我一辈子没干过，我天生就干不了这种事。
At dinnertime I spent fifteen francs for a meal, just about twice the amount I had planned to allot myself. That made me so wretched that I wouldn't allow myself to sit down for a coffee, even despite the fact that it had began to drizzle. No, I would walk about a bit and then go quietly to bed, at a reasonable hour. I was already miserable, trying to husband my resources this way. I had never in my life done it; it wasn't in my nature.
 
　　后来小雨变成了倾盆大雨，对此我很高兴，这提供了一个我正需要的可以躲到某个地方伸伸腿的借口。这会儿去睡觉仍太早，我加快脚步折回拉斯帕伊林荫大道去。突然一个女人过来拦住我，就在暴雨中。她问我几点钟了。我告诉她我没有表，这时她喊叫起来，“啊，好先生，你讲英语吗？”我点点头，她便滔滔不绝地说开了，“我的好人，或许你能发发善心带我去一家咖啡馆。雨下得这么大，我没有钱找个地方坐坐。请你原谅我，亲爱的先生，可你的面容那么慈祥……我马上就知道你是英国人了。”说着她朝我笑了，这是古怪的、半疯半傻的笑。
Finally it began to come down in bucketsful. I was glad. That would give me the excuse I needed to duck somewhere and stretch my legs out. It was still too early to go to bed. I began to quicken my pace, heading back toward the Boulevard Raspail. Suddenly a woman comes up to me and stops me, right in the pouring rain. She wants to know what time it is. I told her I didn't have a watch. And then she bursts out, just like this: "Oh, my good sir, do you speak English by chance?" I nod my head. It's coming down in torrents now. "Perhaps, my dear good man, you would be so kind as to take me to a café. It is raining so and I haven't the money to sit down anywhere. You will excuse me, my dear sir, but you have such a kind face… I knew you were English right away." And with this she smiles at me, a strange, half-demented smile. "Perhaps you could give me a little advice, dear sir. I am all alone in the world… my God, it is terrible to have no money…"
 
　　“或许你能给我出点儿主意，亲爱的先生。我孤苦伶仃的，一个人……我的上帝，没有钱真是太可怕了……”这一串“亲爱的先生”、“好心的先生”和“我的好人”差一点儿叫我发歇斯底里。我怜悯她可又非笑不可，我真的笑了，我当着她的面哈哈大笑。于是她也大笑起来，这是一种怪诞的尖声大笑，笑声走了调，是一种叫人万万料想不到的狂笑。我抓住她的胳膊，我们一起朝最近的一家咖啡馆奔去，进了那家小店后她仍不住地格格笑。她说，“亲爱的好先生，也许你认为我没有说实话。我是一个好姑娘……是好人家女儿。只是”—说到这儿她又病态地、时断时续地笑了一阵—“只是我太不幸，连一个可以坐坐的地方也找不到。”这时我又大笑起来，我忍不住要笑—她用的词儿、古怪的口音、她头上那顶奇怪的帽子、那种半疯半傻的微笑……
This "dear sir" and "kind sir" and "my good man," etc., had me on the verge of hysteria. I felt sorry for her and yet I had to laugh. I did laugh. I laughed right in her face. And then she laughed too, a weird, high pitched laugh, off key, an altogether unexpected piece of cachinnation. I caught her by the arm and we made a bolt for it to the nearest café. She was still giggling when we entered the bistro. "My dear good sir," she began again, "perhaps you think I am not telling you the truth. I am a good girl… I come of a good family. Only" - and here she gave me that wan, broken smile again - "only I am so misfortunate as not to have a place to sit down." At this I began to laugh again. I couldn't help it - the phrases she used, the strange accent, the crazy hat she had on, that demented smile…"
 
我打断了她，“喂，你是哪国人？”
Listen," I interrupted, "what nationality are you?"
 
　　“英国人，”她说。“是这样，我出生在波兰，不过父亲是爱尔兰人。”
"I'm English," she replied. "That is, I was born in Poland, but my father is Irish."
 
　　“这样你就成了英国人？”
"So that makes you English?"
 
　　“是埃”说着她又傻笑开了，很忸怩，作出一副害羞的样子。
"Yes," she said, and she began to giggle again, sheepishly, and with a pretense of being coy.
 
　　“我想你知道一家可以带我去的小旅馆？”我这样说并不是有意要同她一道去，只是为了替她免去那一套她们惯用的开场白。
"I suppose you know a nice little hotel where you could take me?" I said this, not because I had any intention of going with her, but just to spare her the usual preliminaries.
 
　　“啊，我的好先生，”她说，好像我犯了一个最最令人痛心的错误。“我知道你说的不是心里话！我不是那种姑娘。你在跟我开玩笑，我看得出来。你这么好……你的面容这么慈祥。我不敢对一个法国人讲对你讲过的话，他们一定会立刻叫我难堪的……”
"Oh, my dear sir," she said, as though I had made the most grievous error, "I'm sure you don't mean that! I'm not that kind of a girl. You were joking with me, I can see that. You're so good… you have such a kind face. I would not dare to speak to a Frenchman as I did to you. They insult you right away…"
 
她用这种口气又讲了一阵，我想甩掉她一走了之，可她不愿一个人呆着。她怕，因为她的证件不符合要求。我能不能行行好送她回旅馆？或许我能“借”给她十五或二十法郎叫旅馆老板闭嘴？我送她回到她说她住的旅馆，给她手里塞了一张五十法郎的票子。她不是非常精明就是非常天真，有时这很难判断，总之她叫我等她跑回酒馆去换钱。我告诉她不必了，她便冲动地抓起我的手举到唇边吻了吻，我受宠若惊，马上乐意把自己所有的一切都给了她。这个疯狂的动作感动了我，我自忖有时当个阔佬还是不错的。可以感受到这种很新鲜的刺激。不过我并没有昏了头。五十法郎！一个下雨的夜里浪费五十法郎未免太过分。我走开时她挥舞那顶稀奇古怪、她根本不会戴的小软帽向我告别，好像我们是老朋友了。我感到自己很蠢、很轻率。想起她说的话，“我亲爱的好先生……你的面容这么慈祥……你真好。”等等，我又觉得自己是个圣人。
She went on in this vein for some time. I wanted to break away from her. But she didn't want to be left alone. She was afraid - her papers were not in order. Wouldn't I be good enough to walk her to her hotel? Perhaps I could "lend" her fifteen or twenty francs, to quiet the patron? I walked her to the hotel where she said she was stopping and I put a fifty franc bill in her hand. Either she was very clever, or very innocent - it's hard to tell sometimes - but, at any rate, she wanted me to wait until she ran to the bistro for change. I told her not to bother. And with that she seized my hand impulsively and raised it to her lips. I was flabbergasted. I felt like giving her every damned thing I had. That touched me, that crazy little gesture. I thought to myself, it's good to be rich once in a while, just to get a new thrill like that. Just the same, I didn't lose my head. Fifty francs! That was quite enough to squander on a rainy night. As I walked off she waved to me with that crazy little bonnet which she didn't know how to wear. It was as though we were old playmates. I felt foolish and giddy. "My dear kind sir… you have such a gentle face… you are so good, etc." I felt like a saint.
 
　　心里洋洋得意时很难马上上床睡觉，你觉得自己应该报答这没有料到的好心夸赞之辞。经过“丛林”饭店时我瞧了一眼一楼的舞场，光背、戴着快把她们勒死的一串串珍珠的女人—看起来会把她们勒死—正在朝我扭动她们美丽的屁股。我径直到柜台前要了一杯香摈酒，音乐一停便有一位漂亮的金发女郎坐到我身边，她长得像挪威人。这地方其实并不像从门外看起来那么挤、那么欢快，只有六七对男女，刚才他们准是一起跳舞来着。我又要了一杯香槟酒，以免丧失勇气。
When you feel all puffed up inside it isn't so easy to go to bed right away. You feel as though you ought to atone for such unexpected bursts of goodness. Passing the "Jungle" I caught a glimpse of the dance floor; women with bare backs and ropes of pearls choking them - or so it looked - were wiggling their beautiful bottoms at me. Walked right up to the bar and ordered a coupe of champagne. When the music stopped, a beautiful blonde - she looked like a Norwegian - took a seat right beside me. The place wasn't as crowded or as gay as it had appeared from outside. There were only a half dozen couples in the place - they must have all been dancing at once. I ordered another coupe of champagne in order not to let my courage dribble away.
 
　　站起来同这位金发女郎跳舞时舞场上没有别人，若在平时我一定会有些不自然，如今香槟起了作用，还有她贴在我身上的姿势、昏暗的光线及那几百法郎给我的踏踏实实的安全感，不过……我们又跳了一场，像是在举行个人表演，然后我们便交谈起来。她一开始便哭，引出了这场谈话。我认为很可能她是喝得太多了，于是便装出不介意的样子，同时看看周围还有没有别的女人，可是店里已经全空了。
When I got up to dance with the blonde there was no one on the floor but us. Any other time I would have been selfconscious, but the champagne and the way she clung to me, the dimmed lights and the solid feeling of security which the few hundred francs gave me, well… We had another dance together, a sort of private exhibition, and then we fell into conversation. She had begun to weep - that was how it started. I thought possibly she had had too much to drink, so I pretended not to be concerned. And meanwhile I was looking around to see if there was any other timber available. But the place was thoroughly deserted.
 
　　中了圈套后要逃，而且要马上逃，否则你就完蛋了。我所以没有逃，是因为不知道为什么想到我为买帽子的支票付了两次款。因为某件琐事，人常常卷入麻烦中去。
The thing to do when you're trapped is to breeze - at once. If you don't, you're lost. What retained me, oddly enough, was the thought of paying for a hat check a second time. One always lets himself in for it because of a trifle.
　　我很快便弄清了，她哭泣的原因是刚刚埋葬了自己的孩子。她也不是挪威人，是法国人，而且还是一个助产士。我得承认她是一个俊俏的助产士，即使是在这脸上热泪涔涔之时，我征询她的意见：喝点儿酒会不会好受一些，她便立即叫了一杯威士忌，一眨眼工夫便喝完了。我柔声问，“还要吗？”她说要，她觉得十分难过，非常沮丧，因而还想要一包“骆驼”牌香烟。又说，“不，等等，我想还是要一包‘帕尔麦尔’牌子的好。”我想，要什么随你的便，只是看在基督份上别再哭了，你一哭我就心里直发怵。我又把她拉起来跳舞，一站起来她就好像换了一个人，或许悲伤会叫一个人变得更淫荡，我说不上。我低声咕哝说要离开这儿，她急切地问，“去哪儿？好，随便。找个能说话的安静地方。”
The reason she was weeping, I discovered soon enough, was because she had just buried her child. She wasn't Norwegian either, but French, and a midwife to boot. A chic midwife, I must say, even with the tears running down her face. I asked her if a little drink would help to console her, whereupon she very promptly ordered a whisky and tossed it off in the wink of an eye. "Would you like another?" I suggested gently. She thought she would, she felt so rotten, so terribly dejected. She thought she would like a package of Camels too. "No, wait a minute," she said, "I think I'd rather have les Pall Mall." Have what you like, I thought, but stop weeping, for Christ's sake, it gives me the willies. I jerked her to her feet for another dance. On her feet she seemed to be another person. Maybe grief makes one more lecherous, I don't know. I murmured something about breaking away. "Where to?" she said eagerly. "Oh, anywhere. Some quiet place where we can talk."
 
　　我钻进厕所又数了一遍钱，我把一百法郎的钞票藏在裤子上的表袋里，把一张五十法郎的票子和零钱放在裤子口袋里。我回到酒吧里，决定要言归正传了。
I went to the toilet and counted the money over again. I hid the hundred franc notes in my fob pocket and kept a fifty franc note and the loose change in my trousers pocket. I went back to the bar determined to talk turkey.
Part 11 Chapter 2
她自己谈起了这个话题，这样我就比较容易启齿了。她遇到困难了，还不仅仅是失去了孩子，她母亲病在家里，病得很厉害，要付给医生诊费、要买药，还要买这个、买那个。当然，她的话我一句也不信。我反正得替自己找个旅馆，我便提议她跟我一道走，一起过夜，我暗想回到我那里能节省些。可她不干，坚持要回家，说她自己租了公寓，何况还得照顾她妈妈。仔细一盘算，我认定睡在她那儿会更便宜一些，便应允了，提议马上就走。走之前我认为最好先叫她知道一下我的财政状况，这样到分手时便不会有什么埋怨。我告诉她我口袋里有多少钱，我看她听完后快要昏过去了，她说，“你竟然是这种人！”她像是受了极大侮辱，我估计她会大闹一抄…然而我毫不畏惧，根本不为所动，我平静地说，“好吧，那么我走开就是，也许是我误会了。”
She made it easier for me because she herself introduced the subject. She was in difficulties. It was not only that she had just lost her child, but her mother was home, ill, very ill, and there was the doctor to pay and medicine to be bought, and so on and so forth. I didn't believe a word of it, of course. And since I had to find a hotel for myself, I suggested that she come along with me and stay the night. A little economy there, I thought to myself. But she wouldn't do that. She insisted on going home, said she had an apartment to herself - and besides she had to look after her mother. On reflection I decided that it would be still cheaper sleeping at her place, so I said yes and let's go immediately. Before going, however, I decided it was best to let her know just how I stood, so that there wouldn't be any squawking at the last minute. I thought she was going to faint when I told her how much I had in my pocket. "The likes of it!" she said. Highly insulted she was. I thought there would be a scene… Undaunted, however, I stood my ground. "Very well, then, I'll leave you," I said quietly. "Perhaps I've made a mistake."
 
　　“我看你是误会了！”她嚷道，同时仍拽着我的袖子不放手。
 
　　“亲爱的，听着……公道点！”听到这话我又恢复了信心，我明白这只不过是要我答应再给她一点儿，以后一切就都妥了。我疲惫地说，“好吧，我会对得起你的。走着瞧好了。”
"I should say you have!" she exclaimed, but clutching me by the sleeve at the same time. "Ecoute, cheri… sois raisonnable!" When I heard that all my confidence was restored. I knew that it would be merely a question of promising her a little extra and everything would be O.K. "All right," I said wearily, "I'll be nice to you, you'll see."
 
       “那么，你刚才是在撒谎喽？”她问。
"You were lying to me, then?" she said.
 
　　“是的，我是在撒谎……”我笑了。
"Yes," I smiled, "I was just lying…"
 
　　不等我戴上帽子她便叫了一辆出租车，我听见她给司机的地址是克利希林荫道。我自忖，到那儿去的车费比租个房间还多呢。唉，算了，有时间……咱们走着瞧。我不知道车子是怎么开动的，不过她很快就对我大谈起亨利?博尔多来。我还不曾遇见一个不知道亨利?博尔多的妓女！不过这一个是真正有才华的，现在她的语言也文雅了，她那么温柔，那么聪明，使我不断地考虑该给她多少钱才合适。我仿佛听到她在说—“没有时间了。”总之听起来是这话，处于我目前的境况，这话值一百法郎。我诧异这是她自己的话还是从亨利?博尔多那儿拣来的。这也无关紧要。是蒙马特尔街了，我自言自语道，“你好，老妈妈，我和你女儿会照顾你的—没有时间了！”我记得，她还要给我看她的助产士执照。
Before I had even put my hat on she had hailed a cab. I heard her give the Boulevard de Clichy for an address. That was more than the price of room, I thought to myself. Oh well, there was time yet… we'd see. I don't know how it started any more but soon she was raving to me about Henry Bordeaux. I have yet to meet a whore who doesn't know of Henry Bordeaux! But this one was genuinely inspired; her language was beautiful now, so tender, so discerning, that I was debating how much to give her. It seemed to me that I had heard her say - "quand il n'y aura plus de temps." It sounded like that, anyway. In the state I was in, a phrase like that was worth a hundred francs. I wondered if it was her own or if she had pulled it from Henry Bordeaux. Little matter. It was just the right phrase with which to roll up to the foot of Montmartre. "Good evening, mother," I was saying to myself, "daughter and I will look after you - quand il n'y aura plus de temps!" She was going to show me her diploma, too, I remembered that.
 
　　进屋一关上门她就显得十分惊慌，她乱忙一气，两只手拧来拧去，摆出萨拉?伯恩哈特的姿势。她的衣服脱了一半，她不时停下来催我快点儿脱，催我干这干那。最后她脱光了，手里拎着一件小背心走来走去，找她的晨衣。我搂住她狠狠拥抱了一下。待我放开她，她脸上流露出很痛苦的表情。“我的上帝！我的上帝！我一定要下楼去看看妈妈！”她嚷道，“想洗就洗个澡，亲爱的。在那边。我几分钟就回来。”在门口我又拥抱了她，我穿着内衣，勃起得很厉害。不知怎么搞的，她所有这些痛苦和激动、所有的悲伤和做作只是激发了我的欲望。也许她只是下楼去安慰她的老鸨，我有一种感觉，一件不寻常的事情正在发生，这将是我在晨报上读到的那类戏剧性轶事。我很快巡视了一下这个地方，这儿有两个房间和一个浴室，装修得还可以，挺卖弄风骚。墙上挂着她的执照，是“一级”的，这类执照总是一级的。梳妆台上还有一张女孩的照片，是一个生着一头秀发的小女孩。我放水洗澡，后来又改变了主意，如果要出什么事，我会在浴盆里被人发现……我可不喜欢这个主意。时间一分钟一分钟过去，我在屋里来回踱着，心里越来越不安。
She was all aflutter, once the door had closed behind us. Distracted. Wringing her hands and striking Sarah Bernhardt poses, half undressed too, and pausing between times to urge me to hurry, to get undressed, to do this and do that. Finally, when she had stripped down and was poking about with a chemise in her hand, searching for her kimono, I caught hold of her and gave her a good squeeze. She had a look of anguish on her face when I released her. "My God! My God! I must go downstairs and have a look at mother!" she exclaimed. "You can take a bath if you like, chéri. There! I'll be back in a few minutes." At the door I embraced her again. I was in my underclothes and I had a tremendous erection. Somehow all this anguish and excitement, all the grief and histrionics, only whetted my appetite. Perhaps she was just going downstairs to quiet her maquereau. I had a feeling that something unusual was happening, some sort of drama which I would read about in the morning paper. I gave the place a quick inspection. There were two rooms and a bath, not badly furnished. Rather coquettish. There was her diploma on the wall - "first class," as they all read. And there was the photograph of a child, a little girl with beautiful locks, on the dresser. I put the water on for a bath, and then I changed my mind. If something were to happen and I were found in the tub… I didn't like the idea. I paced back and forth, getting more and more uneasy as the minutes rolled by.
 
　　她回来时比出去时更加颓丧，不住地呜咽道， “她快死了……她快死了！”有一刹那我差点儿要拔腿走了。当一个女人的妈妈要死在楼下了，也许正在你底下，你他妈的怎么能爬到这个女人身上去呢？我伸出双臂搂住她，一半是同情，一半是决计要获得此行的收获。我们这样站着，她低声咕哝说她需要我应允给她的钱，好像真的遇到了难处，这钱是给“妈妈”的。见鬼，眼下我根本没有心思为几个法郎讨价还价。我走到放衣服的椅子那儿，从表袋里取出一张一百法郎的票子，仍始终小心地背对着她。并且，作为进一步预防措施，还把裤子放在我知道自己将要睡的这一侧。这一百法郎仍不十分令她满意。不过她嫌少时不很坚决，由此我看出这已足够了。接着她以惊人的力量猛地脱下晨衣跳上床来，我刚刚用双臂搂住她，把她拉过来，她便去够开关，关上了灯。她充满激情地拥抱我，她呻吟，所有的法国女人跟你睡觉时都是这样呻吟的。她的调情手段弄得我激动得不得了，关灯的把戏我还是头一回遇见……好像真的洞房花烛夜一样。可我仍不免疑虑重重，一俟能方便行事就伸出双手摸摸我的裤子是不是还在椅子上。
When she returned she was even more upset than before. "She's going to die… she's going to die!" she kept wailing. For a moment I was almost on the point of leaving. How the hell can you climb over a woman when her mother's dying downstairs, perhaps right beneath you? I put my arms around her, half in sympathy and half determined to get what I had come for. As we stood thus she murmured, as if in real distress, her need for the money I had promised her. It was for "maman." Shit, I didn't have the heart to haggle about a few francs at the moment. I walked over to the chair where my clothes were lying and I wiggled a hundred franc note out of my fob pocket, carefully keeping my back turned to her just the same. And, as a further precaution, I placed my pants on the side of the bed where I knew I was going to flop. The hundred francs wasn't altogether satisfactory to her, but I could see from the feeble way that she protested that it was quite enough. Then, with an energy that astonished me, she flung off her kimono and jumped into bed. As soon as I had put my arms around her and pulled her to me she reached for the switch and out went the lights. She embraced me passionately, and she groaned as all French cunts do when they get you in bed. She was getting me frightfully roused with her carrying on; that business of turning out the lights was a new one to me… it seemed like the real thing. But I was suspicious too, and as soon as I could manage conveniently I put my hands out to feel if my trousers were still there on the chair.
 
　　我想我就要在这儿过夜了，床睡着很舒服，比一般旅馆的床还软些，床单也是干净的，我早就注意到了这一点。只要她别扭来扭去就好了！这劲头会叫你认为她有一个月没跟男人睡过了。我想尽量拖长时间跟她睡个够，我这一百法郎要个个花得值得，可她仍在喃喃自语，说男女睡觉时说的种种疯话，在黑暗中这些话更容易很快叫你不能自持。我不想全力以赴，可是不可能，她在不停地呻吟、喘粗气，还咕哝道，“快，亲爱的！ 快，亲爱的！啊，这好极了！啊，啊！快，快，亲爱的！”我试图数数以镇定下来，但她的喊叫像火警警报响起来一样紧急。
I thought we were settled for the night. The bed felt very comfortable, softer than the average hotel bed - and the the sheets were clean, I had noticed that. If only she wouldn't squirm so! You would think she hadn't slept with a man for a month. I wanted to stretch it out. I wanted full value for my hundred francs. But she was mumbling all sorts of things in that crazy bed language which goes to your blood even more rapidly when it's in the dark. I was putting up a stiff fight, but it was impossible with her groaning and gasping going on, and her muttering: "Vite chéri! Vite chéri! Oh, c'est bon! Oh, oh! Vite, vite, chéri!" I tried to count but it was like a fire alarm going off.
 
“快，亲爱的！”这一回她喘着粗气抽搐了一阵，哗，我听到星星叮当乱响，我那一百法郎不见了，还有早已忘掉的那五十。灯又全亮了，她仍像跳上床时那样麻利地跳下床，一边还像头老母猪一样哼哼、尖叫。我又躺下来抽起一根香烟，同时后悔地凝视着我的裤子，它皱成了一团。不到一分钟她又回来了，一面往身上裹晨衣一面用叫人心神不宁的激动口吻告诉我别拘束、随便些。她又说，“我下楼去看看妈妈。别客气，亲爱的，我马上就回来。”
"Vite, chéri!" and this time she gave such a gasping shudder that bango! I heard the stars chiming and there was my hundred francs gone and the fifty that I had forgotten all about and the lights were on again and with the same alacrity that she had bounced into bed she was bouncing out again and grunting and squealing like an old sow. I lay back and puffed a cigarette, gazing ruefully at my pants the while; they were terribly wrinkled. In a moment she was back again, wrapping the kimono around her, and telling me in that agitated way which was getting on my nerves that I should make myself at home. "I'm going downstairs to see mother," she said. "Mais faites comme chez vous, chéri. Je reviens tout de suite."
 
　　过了一刻钟，我觉得非常急躁不安，我走进里屋看完了放在桌上的一封信，信上没有什么内容，是一封情书。在浴室里我查看了架上所有的瓶子，一个女人使自己身上香气袭人的各种玩艺儿她都应有尽有。我仍希望她会回来，给我另外五十法郎的货，可是时间一分一秒过去了，仍不见她的踪影。我心慌了，也许楼下真有人快死了。我糊里糊涂地穿起衣服来，我想这是出于一种保护自己的本能吧。系腰带时我突然想起她是如何把那张一百法郎的票子装进钱包的，情急中她把钱包塞进衣柜上层了，我还记得她的动作—踞起脚尖要够到那层。不到一分钟我就打开衣柜摸到那只钱包，它还在老地方。我急忙把它打开，看见我那一百法郎稳妥地藏在绸子夹层之间。我把钱包放回老地方，穿上外衣和鞋子溜到楼梯平台上仔细侧耳听了一阵。什么都听不到，天知道她到哪儿去了。我马上又回到衣柜前摸出她的钱包，装上那一百法郎和所有零钱。我无声地关上门，轻手轻脚地下楼，一到了街上我便使出吃奶的力气尽量快走。到布尔东咖啡店那儿我停下吃点儿东西，妓女们在这儿放肆地用东西投掷一个吃饭时睡着了的胖子。这个胖子睡得很死，还在打鼾，不过他的颚仍在机械地上下活动。这个地方闹哄哄的，有人在喊“开车啦”！接着便是一阵有节奏的僻僻啪啪乱扔刀叉声。胖子睁了睁眼，傻呼呼地眨眨眼，脑袋又向前倒在胸脯上了。我仔细把那一百法郎的钞票放回表袋里，数了数零钱。身边的嘈杂声越来越大，我无法确切忆起是否在她的执照上看到 “一级”的字样。至于她妈，我根本不关心，我希望现在她已经死掉了。如果这姑娘说的都是实话那才怪呢，她太好了，好得叫人不敢相信。“快点，亲爱的……快点！快点！”还有那个说“我的好先生，你的面容真慈祥”的傻子，不知她是不是真的在我们停下的那个地方的旅馆里租了一个房间。
After a quarter of an hour had passed I began to feel thoroughly restless. I went inside and I read through a letter that was lying on the table. It was nothing of any account - a love letter. In the bathroom I examined all the bottles on the shelf; she had everything a woman requires to make herself smell beautiful. I was still hoping that she would come back and give me another fifty francs' worth. But time dragged on and there was no sign of her. I began to grow alarmed. Perhaps there was someone dying downstairs. Absent - mindedly, out of a sense of self preservation, I suppose, I began to put my things on. As I was buckling my belt it came to me like a flash how she had stuffed the hundred franc note into her purse. In the excitement of the moment she had thrust the purse in the wardrobe, on the upper shelf. I remembered the gesture she made - standing on her tiptoes and reaching for the shelf. It didn't take me a minute to open the wardrobe and feel around for the purse. It was still there. I opened it hurriedly and saw my hundred franc note lying snugly between the silk coverlets. I put the purse back just as it was, slipped into my coat and shoes, and then I went to the landing and listened intently. I couldn't hear a sound. Where she had gone to, Christ only knows. In a jiffy I was back at the wardrobe and fumbling with her purse. I pocketed the hundred francs and all the loose change besides. Then, closing the door silently, I tiptoed down the stairs and when once I had hit the street I walked just as fast as my legs would carry me. At the Café Boudon I stopped for a bite. The whores there having a gay time pelting a fat man who had fallen asleep over his meal. He was sound asleep; snoring, in fact, and yet his jaws were working away mechanically. The place was in an uproar. There were shouts of "All aboard!" and then a concerted banging of knives and forks. He opened his eyes for a moment, blinked stupidly, and then his head rolled forward again on his chest. I put the hundred franc bill carefully away in my fob pocket and counted the change. The din around me was increasing and I had difficulty to recall exactly whether I had seen "first-class" on her diploma or not. It bothered me. About her mother I didn't give a damn. I hoped she had croaked by now. It would be strange if what she had said were true. Too good to believe. Vite chéri… vite, vite! And the other half wit with her "my good sir" and "you have such a kind face"! I wondered if she had really taken a room in that hotel we stopped by.
Part 12 Chapter 1
夏天快过去时，菲尔莫邀我去同他一起住，他在迪普莱克，斯广场附近有一套俯瞰骑兵兵营的工作室公寓套间。自从上回到勒阿弗尔小游一趟回来后我们经常见面，若不是菲尔莫我真不知道自己今天会在哪里，很可能早就死掉了。他说，“都是那个小婊子杰基，要不我早就邀你来了。我无法甩掉她。”
It was along the close of summer when Fillmore invited me to come and live with him. He had a studio apartment overlooking the cavalry barracks just off the Place Dupleix. We had seen a lot of each other since the little trip to Le Havre. If it hadn't been for Fillmore I didn't know where I should be today - dead, most likely. "I would have asked you long before," he said, "if it hadn't been for that little bitch Jackie. I didn't know how to get her off my hands."
 
　　我只有笑笑。菲尔莫总是这样，他有勾引无家可归的婊子们的天才，最后杰基总算自动走了。
 I had to smile. It was always like that with Fillmore. He had a genius for attracting homeless bitches. Anyway, Jackie had finally cleared out of her own accord.
 
　　多雨的季节来临了，这是使你沮丧、心情不愉快、漫长而又沉闷地长膘、下雾、阴雨连绵的季节。冬天的巴黎真是一个可恶的地方！这种天气侵蚀进你的灵魂，使你变得像拉布拉多海岸那样光秃秃的。我不无焦虑地注意到唯一的取暖设备是工作间里的小炉子，不过这儿还算舒服，从工作间窗子里还能看到极美的景致。
The rainy season was coming on, the long, dreary stretch of grease and fog and squirts of rain that make you damp and miserable. An execrable place in the winter, Paris! A climate that eats into your soul, that leaves you bare as the Labrador coast. I noticed with some anxiety that the only means of heating the place was the little stove in the studio. However, it was still comfortable. And the view from the studio window was superb.
 
　　早上菲尔莫粗暴地摇醒我，在我的枕头上留下一张十法郎的票子。等他一出门我便又躺下睡个回笼觉，有时一直躺到中午才起来。没有什么急着要做的事，除了这本有待写完的书，而且这也不大叫我伤脑筋，因为我早就知道反正谁也不会接受它的。但是菲尔莫却被它深深打动了，每天晚上他胳膊底下夹着一瓶酒回到家之后的第一件事就是走到桌前看我写了多少页。
In the morning Fillmore would shake me roughly and leave a ten franc note on the pillow. As soon a he had gone I would settle back for a final snooze. Sometimes I would lie abed till noon. There was nothing pressing, except to finish the book, and that didn't worry me much because I was already convinced that nobody would accept it anyway. Nevertheless, Fillmore was much impressed by it. When he arrived in the evening with a bottle under his arm the first thing he did was to go to the table and see how many pages I had knocked off.
 
　　起初我还挺欣赏他的热情，后来再没什么好写的，看到他乱翻，看我又写了些什么，我便非常不安，他还以为我能像水龙头流水一样流出东西来呢。没有东西拿给他看时，我的感觉正与受他庇护的婊子一模一样。我记得他常常谈起杰基，“只要她随时给我脱光就行了。”如果我是女人我倒是很乐意为他脱光衣服，那样总比提供他等着看的稿子容易些。
At first I enjoyed this show of enthusiasm but later, when I was running dry, it made me devilishly uneasy to see him poking around, searching for the pages that were supposed to trickle out of me like water from a tap. When there was nothing to show I felt exactly like some bitch whom he had harbored. He used to say about Jackie, I remembered - "it would have been all right if only she had slipped me a piece of ass once in a while." If I had been a woman I would have been only too glad to slip him a piece of ass: it would have been much easier than to feed him the pages which he expected.
 
　　不过他努力要叫我过得舒服，食物和酒总有的是，他还不时执意要我陪他去跳舞。他很喜欢去奥德萨街一个黑鬼们聚会的场所，那儿有一个好看的黑白混血儿，她偶尔跟我们一起回家来。使他不快的是找不到一个爱喝酒的法国姑娘，她们都太清醒，无法使他满意。他喜欢带一个女人回工作室来，同她痛饮一番再干正经事。他还喜欢叫女人以为他是艺术家，由于他租的房子是一位画家的，要造成这样一种气氛也不难，我们在大柜里找到的油画很快便挂得到处皆是，一幅尚未完成的画引人注目地装在画架上。遗憾的是，这些画全是超现实主义风格的，它们给人造成的印象通常都不大好。讲到欣赏绘画，一个妓女、一个看门人和一个内阁部长的艺术趣味没有多大差异。后来马克?斯威夫特开始定期拜访我们，旨在替我画像，这件事使菲尔莫颇为高兴。菲尔莫极崇拜斯威夫特，说他是天才，他亲手绘的画没有一件不带点儿残忍的味道，可是至少他笔下的人或物还能使你认出画的究竟是什么。
Nevertheless, he tried to make me feel at ease. There was always plenty of food and wine, and now and then he would insist that I accompany him to a dancing. He was fond of going to a nigger joint on the Rue d'Odessa where there was a good looking mulatto who used to come home with us occasionally. The one thing that bothered him was that he couldn't find a French girl who liked to drink. They were all too sober to satisfy him - He liked to bring a woman back to the studio and guzzle it with her before getting down to business. He also liked to have her think that he was an artist. As the man from whom he had rented the place was a painter, it was not difficult to create an impression; the canvases which we had found in the armoire were soon stuck about the place and one of the unfinished ones conspicuously mounted on the easel. Unfortunately they were all of a surrealistic quality and the impression they created was usually unfavorable. Between a whore, a concierge and a cabinet minister there is not much difference in taste where pictures are concerned. It was a matter of great relief to Fillmore when Mark Swift began to visit us regularly with the intention of doing my portrait. Fillmore had a great admiration for Swift. He was a genius, he said. And though there was something ferocious about everything he tackled nevertheless when he painted a man or an object you could recognize it for what it was.
 
　　应斯威夫特的要求我留起了胡子，他说我脑袋的形状需要留胡子。我必须坐在窗前，背后就是埃菲尔铁塔，因为他想把埃菲尔铁塔也画进去，他还要把打字机也画上。在此期间克鲁格也养成了来串门的习惯，他坚持认为斯威夫特根本不懂得绘画。看到画上的物体失去了比例他极为恼怒，他毫无保留地信奉自然法则。斯威夫特却根本不理会自然，他只要画出脑子里想的东西。不管怎样，现在斯威夫特使我的画像装在画架上。尽管样样都不成比例，甚至一位内阁部长也看得出那是一颗人脑袋、是一个留着胡子的人。看门人却真的对这幅画产生了很大兴趣，她认为画得惊人地像我本人，也赞赏在背景中画出埃菲尔铁塔的主意。这种宁静的生活持续了一个多月，我对邻近区域很感兴趣，尤其是在夜间其彻底的污秽和悲哀被我觉察以后。
At Swift's request I had begun to grow a beard. The shape of my skull, he said, required a beard. I had to sit by the window with the Eiffel Tower in back of me because he wanted the Eiffel Tower in the picture too. He also wanted the typewriter in the picture. Kruger got the habit of dropping in too about this time; he maintained that Swift knew nothing about painting. It exasperated him to see things out of proportion. He believed in Nature's laws, implicitly. Swift didn't give a fuck about Nature; he wanted to paint what was inside his head. Anyway, there was Swift's portrait of me stuck on the easel now, and though everything was out of proportion, even a cabinet minister could see that it was a human head, a man with a beard. The concierge, indeed, began to take a great interest in the picture; she thought the likeness was striking. And she liked the idea of showing the Eiffel Tower in the background.
 
　　朦胧中那么迷人、那么安静的小广场在黑暗降临后竟会显出最阴沉、最险恶的特性。那边是围住兵营一侧的又长又高的墙，常有一对恋人靠着墙偷偷拥抱—常常是在雨中。看到一对恋人靠着一座监狱的大墙、在昏暗的街灯下拥抱真叫人觉得压抑，仿佛他们已被人逼到绝境了。兵营院墙里的情况同样叫人丧气，下雨天我常站在窗前看底下的活动，那简直就像另一个星球上发生的事情。我无法理解，他们居然根据作息时间表做每一件事，可是这个时间表准是由一个疯子制定的。他们在泥泞中挣扎，军号吹响了，战马在冲锋陷阵—这一切都在四堵大墙之内进行，这是模拟的战斗，参加者是一大群玩具士兵，他们对学习如何杀人、擦靴子。我看这儿就是一座疯人院，连马匹也有几分傻气。有时他们把大炮拖出来喀嚓喀嚓在街上游行，人们驻足呆呆地望着他们，称赞他们的漂亮军衣。我却总觉得他们像一支正在撤退的军队，他们身上有股寒酸气，衣着邋遢，垂头丧气，他们的军衣穿在身上太肥大，他们作为单个人时具有的惊人的敏捷灵活气息也一扫而光。
Things rolled along this way peacefully for about a month or more. The neighborhood appealed to me, particularly at night when the full squalor and lugubriousness of it made itself felt. The little Place, so charming and tranquil at twilight, could assume the most dismal, sinister character when darkness came on. There was that long, high wall covering one side of the barracks against which there was always a couple embracing each other furtively - often in the rain. A depressing sight to see two lovers squeezed against a prison wall under a gloomy street light: as if they had been driven right to the last bounds. What went on inside the enclosure was also depressing. On a rainy day I used to stand by the window and look down on the activity below, quite as if it were something going on on another planet. It seemed incomprehensible to me. Everything done according to schedule, but a schedule that must have been deviscd by a lunatic. There they were, floundering around in the mud, the bugles blowing, the horses charging - all within four walls. A sham battle. A lot of tin soldiers who hadn't the least interest in learning how to kill or how to polish their boots or currycomb the horses. Utterly ridiculous the whole thing, but part of the scheme of things. When they had nothing to do they looked even more ridiculous; they scratched themselves, they walked about with their hands in their pockets, they looked up at the sky. And when an officer came along they clicked their heels and saluted. A madhouse, it seemed to me. Even the horses looked silly. And then sometimes the artillery was dragged out and they went clattering down the street on parade and people stood and gaped and admired the fine uniforms. To me they always looked like an army corps in retreat; something shabby, bedraggled, crestfallen about them, their uniforms too big for their bodies, all the alertness, which as individuals they possess to such a remarkable degree, gone now.
 
　　太阳出来后情况就全然不同了，他们眼神里有一线希望，走路精神多了，还表现出一点儿热情。接着景物的色彩都变得鲜艳了，他们又摆出法国人特有的小题大做、无事生非的派头。他们在街角的小酒馆里愉快地边喝酒边聊天，军官们也显得更有人味，也许应该说更有法国味。太阳一出来巴黎的任何地方都很漂亮，若是哪一家小酒馆放下遮太阳的篷布，在人行道上摆上几张桌子，在酒杯里倒上颜色鲜亮的饮料，那么人们的人情味就很浓了。太阳普照时，他们就是人，天下最好的人！他们那么聪明，那么懒洋洋的，无忧无虑！把这样一个民族赶进军营里去，叫他们一遍遍操练，封他们当列兵、中士、上校及诸如此类的事真是罪孽。
When the sun came out, however, things looked different. There was a ray of hope in their eyes, they walked more elastically, they showed a little enthusiasm. Then the color of things peeped out graciously and there was that fuss and bustle so characteristic of the French; at the bistro on the corner they chattered gaily over their drinks and the officers seemed more human, more French, I might say. When the sun comes out, any spot in Paris can look beautiful; and if there is a bistro with an awning rolled down, a few tables on the sidewalk and colored drinks in the glasses, then people look altogether human. And they are human - the finest people in the world when the sun shines! So intelligent, so indolent, so carefree! It's a crime to herd such a people into barracks, to put them through exercises, to grade them into privates and sergeants and colonels and what not.
 
　　如同我所说的，日子过得很顺心。卡尔不时带一件活儿来叫我干，通常是他自己不愿写的游记。每篇只得五十法郎，不过这类文章好写，我只要查查以前的报纸，把旧文章改头换面抛出就行了。人们只是上厕所或在候诊室里消磨时间时才看这类玩艺，关键在于要把文章中的形容词重新换过，其余不过是些日期和统计数字而已。如果这是一篇重要文章，这个部门的头头便会署上他的大名。他是一个傻瓜，哪一种语言也说不好，可是会挑别人的毛病假如他看到哪一段自以为写得不错的文字便说，“我就是要你这样写嘛！写得漂亮，我准许你把它写进你的书里去。”有时这些漂亮的段落是我们从百科全书或旧导游手册上抄来的，卡尔真把其中一些搬进他的书里了，因为这些段落有点儿超现实主义的味道。
As I say, things were rolling along smoothly. Now and then Carl came along with a job for me, travel articles which he hated to do himself. They only paid fifty francs a piece, but they were easy to do because I had only to consult the back issues and revamp the old articles. People only read these things when they were sitting on a toilet or killing time in a waiting room. The principal thing was to keep the adjectives well furbished - the rest was a matter of dates and statistics. If it was an important article the head of the department signed it himself; he was a half wit who couldn't speak any language well, but who knew how to find fault. If he found a paragraph that seemed to him well written he would say - "Now that's the way I want you to write! That's beautiful. You have my permission to use it in your book." These beautiful paragraphs we sometimes lifted from the encyclopaedia or an old guide book. Some of them Carl did put into his book - they had a surrealistic character.
 
　　有一天晚上，我散步回来一推开门便有个女人从卧室里跳出来。她立即嚷道，“你就是那个作家吧！”她打量一下我的胡子以加深印象，她说，“多么可怕的胡子！我看你们这些人呆在这儿准是疯了。”菲尔莫手里拿着一条毯子跟在她身后。“她是一位公主。”他说，一面还咂咂嘴唇，好像刚刚尝了尝某种珍贵的鱼子酱似的。他俩都穿着出门的衣服，我弄不明白他们拿着睡觉的被褥干什么，后来我马上想到，准是菲尔莫把她强拉进卧室看他的洗衣袋去了。每一回有新的女人上门他都要来这一手，尤其是法国女人。洗衣袋上缀着“凭票取衣”，不知为什么菲尔莫养成了向每一位来访的女客讲解这句话的痹好。可是这位女人不是法国人，这一点他当即对我说明了。她是俄国人，而且还是一位公主。
Then one evening, after I had been out for a walk, I open the door and a woman springs out of the bedroom. "So you're the writer!" she exclaims at once, and she looks at my beard as if to corroborate her impression. "What a horrid beard!" she says. "I think you people must be crazy around here." Fillmore is trailing after her with a blanket in his hand. "She's a princess," he says, smacking his lips as if he had just tasted some rare caviar. The two of them were dressed for the street; I couldn't understand what they were doing with the bedclothes. And then it occurred to me immediately that Fillmore must have dragged her into the bedroom to show her his laundry bag. He always did that with a new woman, especially if she was a Fran?aise. "No tickee, no shirtee!" that's what was stitched on the laundry bag, and somehow Fillmore had an obsession for explaining this motto to every female who arrived. But this dame was not a Fran?aise - he made that clear to me at once. She was Russian - and a princess, no less.

 
　　他激动地高声谈论，像一个刚刚发现一件新玩具的孩子。
He was bubbling over with excitement, like a child that has just found a new toy.
 
　　“她会讲五种语言！”他说，显然为这样一种才能所倾倒。
"She speaks five languages!" he said, obviously overwhelmed by such an accomplishment.
 
　　“不，四种！”她马上纠正道。
"Non, four!" she corrected promptly.
 
　　“好，就算四种吧……总之这是一个非常聪明的姑娘，你该听听她讲话。”
"Well, four then… Anyway, she's a damned intelligent girl. You ought to hear her speak."
 
　　公主有些不安，她不断搔自己的大腿、揉鼻子。她突兀地问我，“他为什么想现在铺床？他以为那样就能得到我吗？他是个大孩子，他的举动太丢人。我带他去一家俄国餐馆，他跳起舞来像个黑鬼。”她扭扭屁股演示菲尔莫是怎样跳的，又说，“他说得太多，嗓门太大。他说的全是废话。”她在屋里急速转来转去，察看画和书，她始终高昂着头，偶尔也搔搔自己身上。
The princess was nervous - she kept scratching her thigh and rubbing her nose. "Why does he want to make his bed now?" she asked me abruptly. "Does he think he will get me that way? He's a big child. He behaves disgracefully. I took him to a Russian restaurant and he danced like a nigger." She wiggled her bottom to illustrate. "And he talks too much. Too loud. He talks nonsense." She swished about the room, examining the paintings and the books, keeping her chin well up all the time but scratching herself intermittently.
 
　　她不时像军舰一样转过身去，把舷侧朝向我们。菲尔莫跟着她到处走，一手提着酒瓶，一手端着酒杯。她嚷道，“别这样跟着我！除了这个你就没有别的可喝了？你不能弄一瓶香摈来？我一定要喝点儿香摈。我的神经！我的神经！”
Now and then she wheeled around like a battleship and delivered a broadside. Fillmore kept following her about with a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. "Stop following me like that!" she exclaimed. "And haven't you anything to drink but this? Can't you get a bottle of champagne? I must have some champagne. My nerves! My nerves!"
 
　　菲尔莫瞅空子在我耳边低声说了两句。“是个演员……电影明星……有个家伙抛弃了她，她总忘不了……我一定要把她灌醉……”“那么我就走开。”我正说着，公主大叫大嚷着打断了我们。
Fillmore tries to whisper a few words in my ear. "An actress… a movie star… some guy jilted her and she can't get over it… I'm going to get her cockeyed…""I'll clear out then," I was saying, when the princess interrupted us with a shout.
 
　　“你们为什么要咬耳朵？”她跺着脚喊道。“难道你不知道这样是不礼貌的吗？你，我记得你是要带我出去的，不是吗？今晚我一定要喝醉，我早就对你说过了。”
"Why do you whisper like that?" she cried, stamping her foot. "Don't you know that's not polite? And you, I thought you were going to take me out? I must get drunk tonight, I have told you that already."
 
　　菲尔莫说，“是的，是的，咱们马上就走。我只是想再喝一杯。”
"Yes, yes," said Fillmore, "we're going in a minute. I just want another drink."
 
　　她吼道，“你是一头猪，不过你也是一个好孩子。只是你说话声音太大，不懂礼貌。”她又转向我，“我能指望他规矩一点儿吗？今晚我一定要喝醉，我可不想叫他给我丢人。以后我还会来这儿的，我想跟你谈谈，你显得更聪明一些。”
"You're a pig!" she yelled. "But you're a nice boy too. Only you're loud. You have no manners." She turned to me. "Can I trust him to behave himself? I must get drunk tonight but I don't want him to disgrace me. Maybe I will come back here afterward. I would like to talk to you. You seem more intelligent."
 
　　临出门时公主友好地跟我握握手，她答应哪天晚上再来吃饭—“等我清醒的时候。”她说。
As they were leaving the princess shook my hand cordially and promised to come for dinner some evening - "when I will be sober," she said.
 
 “好极了！”我答道。“再带上一位公主，至少带一位伯爵夫人一同来，我们每个星期六都换床单。”
"Fine!" I said. "Bring another princess along - or a countess, at least. We change the sheets every Saturday."
Part 12 Chapter 2
大约到了凌晨三点菲尔莫蹒跚进来了……就他一个人。他喝得烂醉，敲得乱响，像一个瞎子，他在用裂开的拐杖探路。嗒、嗒、嗒，一路响着走过疲倦的小巷……“我这就去睡了，明天再跟你细说。”经过我身边时他说。他闯进里屋，扯下床罩，我听见他在叹息—“这样一个女人！这样一个女人！”不到一秒钟他又出来了，戴着帽子，手里提着裂了缝的手杖。“我早就知道会出这种事的。她疯了！”
About three in the morning Fillmore staggers in… alone. Lit up like an ocean liner, and making a noise like a blind man with his cracked cane. Tap, tap, tap, down the weary lane… "Going straight to bed," he says, as he marches past me. "Tell you all about it tomorrow." He goes inside to his room and throws back the covers. I hear him groaning - "what a woman! what a woman!" In a second he's out again, with his hat on and the cracked cane in his hand. "I knew something like that was going to happen. She's crazy!"
 
　　他在厨房里翻腾了一阵，带着一瓶安如葡萄酒回到工作室里来，我只好坐起来和他干一杯。
He rummages around in the kitchen a while and then cames back to the studio with a bottle of Anjou. I have to sit up and down a glass with him.
 
　　据我把故事连接起来的情况看，这整个事情源于香榭里舍大街的“邦德波威”，有一回他在回家的路上在那儿下车喝了一杯。和平时一样，这时露天咖啡座上坐满了老家伙，这一位正坐在小径上，面前摊着一棵小碟子。菲尔莫凑巧走过来同她视更多了。
As far as I can piece the story together the whole thing started at the Rond Point des Champs Elysées where he had dropped off for a drink on his way home. As usual at that hour the terrasse was crowded with buzzards. This one was sitting right on the aisle with a pile of saucers in front of her; she was getting drunk quietly all by herself when Fillmore happened along and caught her eye. "I'm drunk," she giggled, "won't you sit down?" And then, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to do, she began right off the bat with the yarn about her movie director, how he had given her the go by and how she had thrown herself in the Seine and so forth and so on. She couldn't remember any more which bridge it was, only that there was a crowd around when they fished her out of the water. Besides, she didn't see what difference it made which bridge she threw herself from - why did he ask such questions? She was laughing hysterically about it, and then suddenly she had a desire to be off - she wanted to dance. Seeing him hesitate she opens her bag impulsively and pulls out a hundred franc note. The next moment, however, she decided that a hundred francs wouldn't go very far. "Haven't you any money at all?" she said. No, he hadn't very much in his pocket, but he had a checkbook at home. So they made a dash for the checkbook and then, of course, I had to happen in just as he was explaining to her the "No tickee, no shirtee" business.
 
　　一场舞刚跳了一半她突然走出舞场，眼泪涌出来。菲尔莫说，“怎么回事？这一回我又怎么了？”他出于本能马上把手放在背后，好像屁股仍在扭动似的。她说，“没什么，你什么也没干。好了，你是个好孩子。”说完，她又把他拉到舞场上开始狂跳起来，菲尔莫小声问，“可你究竟怎么了？”她又答道，“没什么。我看到了一个人，就这个。”然后她又猛然发脾气了 —“你干吗要把我灌醉？你不知道喝醉酒后我会发疯？”
In the middle of a dance she suddenly walks off the floor, with tears in her eyes. "What's the matter?" he said, "what did I do this time?" And instinctively he put his hand to his backside, as though perhaps it might still be wiggling. "It's nothing," she said. "You didn't do anything. Come, you're a nice boy," and with that she drags him on to the floor again and begins to. dance with abandon. "But what's the matter with you?" he murmured. "It's nothing," she repeated. "I saw somebody, that's all." And then, with a sudden spurt of anger - "why do you get me drunk? Don't you know it makes me crazy?"
 
　　她问，“你有支票吗？我们一定得离开这儿。”她把侍者叫过来，同他用俄语耳语了两句。“是真的支票吧？”侍者走开后她问。接着，她又冲动地吩咐，“在楼下衣帽问里等我，我得给人打个电话。”
"Have you got a check?" she says. "We must get out of here." She called the waiter over and whispered to him in Russian. "Is it a good check?" she asked, when the waiter had disappeared. And then, impulsively: "Wait for me downstairs in the cloakroom. I must telephone somebody."
 
　　侍者送来我的零钱后菲尔莫悠闲自在地信步下楼来到衣帽问等她，他来回走动，轻声哼曲子、吹口哨、咂嘴预想着将要品尝的鱼子酱的滋味。五分钟过去了，十分钟过去了，他仍在轻声吹口哨。二十分钟过去了，公主仍未露面，菲尔莫这才起了疑心。衣帽间的侍者说她早走了，他冲出门，门口站着一个穿制服的黑鬼，咧着嘴大笑。黑鬼是否知道她跑到哪里去了？黑鬼笑了，黑鬼说，“我听见说库波勒饭店，没听见别的，先生！”
After the waiter had brought the change Fillmore sauntered leisurely downstairs to the cloakroom to wait for her. He strode up and down, humming and whistling softly, and smacking his lips in anticipation of the caviar to come. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. Still whistling softly. When twenty minutes had gone by and still no princess he at last grew suspicious. The cloakroom attendant said that she had left long ago. He dashed outside. There was a nigger in livery standing there with a big grin on his face. Did the nigger know where she had breezed to? Nigger grins. Nigger says: "Ah heerd Coupole, dassall sir!"
 
　　在库波勒饭店一楼，他看到公主坐在一杯鸡尾酒前，脸上一副想入非非、恍恍馏熄的表情。看到他，她微笑了。
At the Coupole, downstairs, he finds her sitting in front of a cocktail with a dreamy, trancelike expression on her face. She smiles when she sees him.
 
　　他说，“这样跑掉象话吗？你可以告诉我，说你根本不喜欢我……”
"Was that a decent thing to do," he says, "to run away like that? You might have told me that you didn't like me…"
 
听到这话她发火了，表演了一番，没完没了他说了许多之后呜呜大哭起来，鼻涕眼泪流了不少。她哭诉道，“我疯了，你也疯了。你想叫我跟你睡觉，可我不想跟你睡。”后来她又开始破口大骂她的情人，就是在舞场上看到的那个电影导演。这就是她不得不逃离那个地方的原因，这就是她每天晚上吸毒、喝醉酒的原因，这也是她纵身跳进塞纳河的原因。她这样唠唠叨叨地说自己有多么疯痴，突然又有了一个主意，“咱们到布里克托普的店里去！”她在那儿认得一个人……他以前曾答应帮她找个工作，肯定他会帮助她的。
She flared up at this, got theatrical about it. And after a lot of gushing she commenced to whine and slobber. "I'm crazy," she blubbered. "And you're crazy too. You want me to sleep with you, and I don't want to sleep with you." And then she began to rave about her lover, the movie director whom she had seen on the dance floor. That's why she had to run away from the place. That's why she took drugs and got drunk every night. That's why she threw herself in the Seine. She babbled on this way about how crazy she was and then suddenly she had an idea. "Let's go to Bricktop's!" There was a man there whom she knew… he had promised her a job once. She was certain he would help her.
 
　　“那要花多少钱？”菲尔莫谨慎地问。
"What's it going to cost?" asked Fillmore cautiously.
 
　　要花很多钱，她马上告诉他了。“不过听着，假如你带我去布里克托普那儿，我就答应跟你一起回家。”她挺老实，又补充说这也许会花掉他五六百法郎的。“可是我值这么多钱！你不明白我是怎样的一个女人。全巴黎再也找不到另外一个我这样的女人……”
It would cost a lot, she let him know that immediately. "But listen, if you take me to Bricktop's, I promise to go home with you." She was honest enough to add that it might cost him five or six hundred francs. "But I'm worth it! You don't know what a woman I am. There isn't another woman like me in all Paris… "
 
“那只是你一厢情愿的想法！”菲尔莫的美国佬脾气完全表现出来。“我可不这么看，我看不出你值什么。你不过是一个可怜的、古怪的婊子。老实说，我宁愿给某一个穷酸的法国姑娘五十法郎，至少她们还给人一点儿报偿。”
"That's what you think!" His Yankee blood was coming to the fore. "But I don't see it. I don't see that you're worth anything. You're just a poor crazy son of a bitch. Frankly, I'd rather give fifty francs to some poor French girl; at least they give you something in return."
 
　　他一提起法国姑娘她便暴跳如雷。“别对我说起这些女人！我恨她们！她们愚蠢……她们丑……她们全是为了钱。我告诉你，别说了！”
She hit the ceiling when he mentioned the French girls. "Don't talk to me about those women! I hate them! They're stupid… they're ugly… they're mercenary. Stop it, I tell you!"
　　
　　不到一分钟她的气又消了，她又想出一个新花招。她喃喃道，“亲爱的，你还不知道我脱光了是什么样呢。我美极了！”说着她用双手托着两只乳房。
In a moment she had subsided again. She was on a new tack. "Darling," she murmured, "you don't know what I look like when I'm undressed. I'm beautiful!" And she held her breasts with her two hands.
 
　　然而菲尔莫不为所动，他冷冷他说，“你这个婊子！我并不在乎在你身上花几百法郎，不过你太古怪。你甚至连脸都没有洗，你嘴里有股臭味，我才不管你是不是公主呢……我并不要你的神气活现的俄国花样，你该上街去推销。你并不比哪一个法国小姑娘强，你甚至还不如她们，我不会再在你身上花一个苏了。你该到美国去，那儿才是你这种吸血鬼呆的地方……”
But Fillmore remained unimpressed. "You're a bitch!" he said coldly. "I wouldn't mind spending a few hundred francs on you, but you're crazy. You haven't even washed your face. Your breath stinks. I don't give a damn whether you're a princess or not… I don't want any of your high assed Russian variety. You ought to get out in the street and hustle for it. You're no better than any little French girl. You're not as good. I wouldn't piss away another sou on you. You ought to go to America - that's the place for a bloodsucking leech like you…"
 
他这番活好像一点儿也没有使她生气，她说，“我想你有点儿怕我。”
She didn't seem to be at all put out by this speech. "I think you're just a little afraid of me," she said.
 
 
　　“怕你？你？”
"Afraid of you? Of you?"
 
　　她说，“你还是个小孩子呢，你没有一点儿礼貌。等你更了解我以后就不会这样说了……你干吗不学着对我好一点儿？如果你今晚不想跟我一同去，悉听尊便。明天五点到七点间我在‘圆顶’等你，我喜欢你。”
　"You're just a little boy," she said. "You have no manners. When you know me better you will talk differently… Why don't you try to be nice? If you don't want to go with me tonight, very well. I will be at the Rond Point tomorrow between five and seven. I like you."
 
　“可我明天不打算去‘圆顶’，哪一天晚上也不去！我不想再见到你了……永远不想。咱俩一刀两断了，我要到街上找一个漂亮的法国小姑娘，滚你的蛋吧！”
"I don't intend to be at the Rond Point tomorrow, or any other night! I don't want to see you again… ever. I'm through with you. I'm going out and find myself a nice little French girl. You can go to hell!"
 
　　她瞧瞧他，疲乏地微笑了，“你现在这样说。等着瞧！等你跟我睡过以后再说，你还不知道我的身体有多么美呢。你以为法国姑娘懂得怎样做爱……等着瞧吧！我要叫你为我发狂。我喜欢你，只是你太野蛮。你还是个孩子。话太多……”
She looked at him and smiled wearily. "That's what you say now. But wait! Wait until you've slept with me. You don't know yet what a beautiful body I have. You think the French girls know how to make love… wait! I will make you crazy about me. I like you. Only you're uncivilized. You're just a boy. You talk too much…"
 
“你疯了，”菲尔莫说。“天下女人都死光了我也不会爱上你，回家去洗洗脸吧。”说完他不付酒钱就走了。
"You're crazy," said Fillmore. "I wouldn't fall for you if you were the last woman on earth. Go home and wash your face." He walked off without paying for the drinks.
 
　　不过没几天公主便就范了，她真的是一位公主，对此我们确信无疑，只是有淋玻总之，这儿的生活一点也不枯燥，菲尔莫患有支气管炎，正如我所说的，公主有淋病，而我有痔疮。
In a few days, however, the princess was installed. She's a genuine princess, of that we're pretty certain. But she has the clap. Anyway, life is far from dull here. Fillmore has bronchitis, the princess, as I was saying, has the clap, and I have the piles.
 
　　我在马路对面的俄国杂货店里退掉了六个空酒瓶子，我一滴也不曾喝下肚。没有肉，没有酒，没有肥野味，也没有女人，只有水果和石蜡油、碘酒和肾上腺素油膏。这个鬼地方没有一把椅子是坐着舒服的。现在，瞧着公主我自觉身份大增，像一个巴沙一样。这个词的发音使我联想到她的名字，玛莎。这个名字并不很贵族化，令我又联想起《活尸》。
Just exchanged six empty bottles at the Russian épicerie across the way. Not a drop went down my gullet. No meat, no wine, no rich game, no women. Only fruit and paraffin oil, arnica drops and adrenalin ointment. And not a chair in the joint that's comfortable enough. Right now, looking at the princess, I'm propped up like a pasha. Pasha! That reminds me of her name: Macha. Doesn't sound so damned aristocratic to me. Reminds me of The Living Corpse.
 
　　起初我以为三人同居会令人尴尬，可是一点儿也不。看到她搬进来，我以为自己又要倒霉了，以为得另找个地方住了，可是菲尔莫很快就叫我明白他只是暂时收留她，到她能自立时为止，我不明白“自立”这样一个词用在这样一个女人身上是指什么，照我看她一辈子都是头朝下倒立的。她说是革命迫使她离开俄国的，我敢肯定，若没有这场革命她也会被赶出国的。她自以为自己是一个了不起的演员，不论她说什么我们也不反驳她，那么做完全是浪费时间。菲尔莫觉得她很好笑。早上去上班前菲尔莫在她枕头上扔下十法郎，在我的枕头上也扔下十法郎。到了晚上我们三个一起去楼下的俄国餐馆吃饭。附近住着很多俄国人，玛莎已经找到了一家可赊点儿帐的饭馆。一天十法郎对于一位公主自然是微不足道的，她不时想吃鱼子酱、喝香槟，还需要满满一柜新衣服以便重新在电影界找一份工作。现在她无事可做，只是消磨时间而已，她开始发胖了。
At first I thought it was going to be embarrassing, a ménage à trois, but not at all. I thought when I saw her move in that it was all up with me again, that I should have to find another place, but Fillmore soon gave me to understand that he was only putting her up until she got on her feet. With a woman like her I don't know what an expression like that means; as far as I can see she's been standing on her head all her life. She says the revolution drove her out of Russia, but I'm sure if it hadn't been the revolution it would have been something else. She's under the impression that she's a great actress, we never contradict her in anything she says because it's time wasted. Fillmore finds her amusing. When he leaves for the office in the morning he drops ten francs on her pillow and ten francs on mine; at night the three of us go to the Russian restaurant down below. The neighborhood is full of Russians and Macha has already found a place where she can run up a little credit. Naturally ten francs a day isn't anything for a princess; she wants caviar now and then and champagne, and she needs a complete new wardrobe in order to get a job in the movies again. She has nothing to do now except to kill time. She's putting on fat.
 
　　今天早晨我吓了一跳。洗完脸后我错拿了她的毛巾，看来我们无法教她学会把毛巾挂在她自己的钩子上。为此我狠狠训斥了她一顿，她却平静地答道，“亲爱的，如果一个人这样就会瞎掉，那么多少年前我早就瞎掉了。”
This morning I had quite a fright. After I had washed my face I grabbed her towel by mistake. We can't seem to train her to put her towel on the right hook. And when I bawled her out for it she answered smoothly: "My dear, if one can become blind from that I would have been blind years ago."
 
　　还有马桶，我们都得用，我试图以父亲般的口吻向她解释马桶上的坐垫圈会传染玻她却说，“哼，得了！如果你们这么怕，我就找一家咖啡馆去上厕所。”我向她解释，那样做并没有必要，只要采取一般的预防措施就行了。她说，“喷，喷，我不往下坐就是了……我站着。”
And then there's the toilet, which we all have to use. I try speaking to her in a fatherly way about the toilet seat. "Oh zut!" she says. "If you are so afraid I'll go to a café." But it's not necessary to do that, I explain. Just use ordinary precautions. "Tut tut!" she says, "I won't sit down then… I'll stand up."
 
　　有了她一切都变得十分荒谬，她先是不肯就范，因为来了月经。这一拖就是八天，我们开始以为她是在装蒜，可是她并没有装。有一天，正在收拾房间，我发现床下有些药棉，上面还沾着血。她把所有的东西都扔在床底下：桔子皮、卫生巾、瓶塞、空瓶子、剪刀、用过的避孕套、书、枕头……她只在要睡觉时才整理床，她花去大部分时间躺在床上看俄文报纸。她对我说，“亲爱的，若不是要去买报，我根本就不起床。”这话说得对极了！她什么也不看，只看俄文报纸，身边连一点手纸都没有，没有可擦屁股的东西，除了俄文报纸。
Everything is cockeyed with her around. First she wouldn't come across because she had the monthlies. For eight days that lasted. We were beginning to think she was faking it. But no, she wasn't faking. One day, when I was trying to put the place in order, I found some cotton batting under the bed and it was stained with blood. With her everything goes under the bed: orange peel, wadding, corks, empty bottles, scissors, used condoms, books, pillows… She makes the bed only when it's time to retire. Most of the time she lies abed reading her Russian papers. "My dear," she says to me, "if it weren't for my papers I wouldn't get out of bed at all." That's it precisely! Nothing but Russian newspapers. Not a scratch of toilet paper around - nothing but Russian newspapers with which to wipe your ass.
 
　　说来她的怪癖也真怪，待她的月经完了，休息好了，腰里也长了一圈膘，她仍不肯就范。她假装只喜欢女人，要她接受一个男人就得先恰到好处地刺激刺激她。她要我们带她去一家妓院，他们在那儿表演人与狗交媾的把戏。她说勒达同天鹅交更好。天鹅一拍翅膀就使她兴奋异常。
Anyway, speaking of her idiosyncrasies, after the menstrual flow was over, after she had rested properly and put a nice layer of fat around her belt, still she wouldn't come across. Pretended that she only liked women. To take on a man she had to first be properly stimulated. Wanted us to take her to a bawdy house where they put on the dog and man act. Or better still, she said, would be Leda and the swan: the flapping of the wings excited her terribly.
 
　　一天晚上，为了查明她究竟更喜欢什么，我们陪她来到一个她提出要去的窑子。不等我们找到机会向鸨母提及这个话题，一个坐在邻桌旁喝醉了的英国人同我们攀谈起来。他已经上了两次楼，还想再试一回。他口袋里大约只有二十法郎，而且不懂法语，他问我们肯不肯代劳，跟他看上的那个姑娘讲价钱。这个姑娘正巧是个黑鬼，是来自马提尼克岛的一个力大无比的婊子，漂亮得犹如一只豹子，而且性情也很可爱。为了说服她收下英国人剩下的那几个钱，菲尔莫只得答应等她跟英国人一睡完自己就接着跟她睡。公主在一旁看着，听清了每一句话，然后便勃然大怒，她觉得受了侮辱。菲尔莫说，“得了，是你要找点儿刺激的—你看着我干好了！”可她并不想看他干，她只想看一只公鸭子干。于是菲尔莫说，“老天在上，我哪一天也比得上一只公鸭子……也许还强些哩。”就这样斗了一阵嘴，最后为了抚慰玛莎我们只得叫过来一个姑娘，由她俩去互相逗弄……菲尔莫同黑鬼回来了，玛莎眼中直冒火。从菲尔莫望着黑女人的样子我就可看出她一定身手不凡，于是自己也感到欲火中烧。
One night, to test her out, we accompanied her to a place that she suggested. But before we had a chance to broach the subject to the madam, a drunken Englishman, who was sitting at the next table, fell into a conversation with us. He had already been upstairs twice but he wanted another try at it. He had only about twenty francs in his pocket, and not knowing any French, he asked us if we would help him to bargain with the girl he had his eye on. Happened she was a Negress, a powerful wench from Martinique, and beautiful as a panther. Had a lovely disposition too. In order to persuade her to accept the Englishman's remaining sous, Fillmore had to promise to go with her himself soon as she got through with the Englishman. The princess looked on, heard everything that was said, and then got on her high horse. She was insulted. "Well," said Fillmore, "you wanted some excitement - you can watch me do it!" She didn't want to watch him - she wanted to watch a drake. "Well, by Jesus," he said, "I'm as good as a drake any day… maybe a little better." Like that, one word led to another, and finally the only way we could appease her was to call one of the girls over and let them tickle each other… When Fillmore came back with the Negress her eyes were smoldering. I could see from the way Fillmore looked at her that she must have given an unusual performance and I began to feel lecherous myself.
Part 12 Chapter 3
菲尔莫一定觉察到了我的心思，也明白整夜坐着看别人于是多么难捱，他突然从衣袋里掏出一张一百法郎的票子，把它摔在我面前。他说，“瞧，你大概比我们其他人更需要嫖一回。拿着这钱，自己去挑一个吧。” 不知为什么，他摔钱的动作比他为我做过的任何事情都更加叫我觉得他可亲，而他为我做的已经很多了。盛情难却，我收下这笔钱，马上打手势叫那黑姑娘做好再睡一次的准备。这好像使公主怒不可遏，她质问我这儿是不是除了这个黑女人以外就再没有一个我们看得上的姑娘。我直截了当地告诉她“没有”，实情也的确如此— 这个黑女人是这座窑子的皇后。只要瞧她一眼你就会起兴，她的两只眼睛像是在精液里泡过一样，所有这些想同她睡的要求弄得她飘飘然，至少据我看她已经不会直直地走路了。跟在她身后爬上弯弯曲曲的窄楼梯时我无法抑制要把手伸进她两腿间去的诱惑，我们就这样一直上了楼。她回头朝我嫣然一笑，每当我的手把她弄得太痒了她便微微扭扭屁股。
Fillmore must have sensed how I felt, and what an ordeal it was to sit and look on all night, for suddenly he pulled a hundred franc note out of his pocket and slapping it in front of me, he said: "Look here, you probably need a lay more than any of us. Take that and pick someone out for yourself." Somehow that gesture endeared him more to me than anything he had ever done for me, and he had done considerable. I accepted the money in the spirit it was given and promptly signaled to the Negress to get ready for another lay. That enraged the princess more than anything, it appeared. She wanted to know if there wasn't anyone in the place good enough for us except this Negress. I told her bluntly NO. And it was so - the Negress was the queen of the harem. You had only to look at her to get an erection. Her eyes seemed to be swimming in sperm. She was drunk with all the demands made upon her. She couldn't walk straight any more - at least it seemed that way to me. Going up the narrow winding stairs behind her I couldn't resist the temptation to slide my hand up her crotch; we continued up the stairs that way, she looking back at me with a cheerful smile and wiggling her ass a bit when it tickled her too much.
 
　　到处都是欢快聚会的人，人人都很快活，玛莎情绪也不错。于是第二天晚上她喝光了走量的香槟，吃完了鱼子酱，又给我们讲述了一段自己的身世之后，菲尔莫便去制服她了。看来这一回他最终要如愿以偿了，她不再挣扎，叉开两条腿躺着，听任他不停地玩弄。后来他刚刚爬到她身上，她才漫不经心地告诉他自己有淋病于是菲尔莫像根圆木头似的从公主身上滚下来，我听见他在厨房里寻找那块只有特殊情况下才用的黑肥皂。
It was a good session all around. Everyone was happy. Macha seemed to be in a good mood too. And so the next evening, after she had had her ration of champagne and caviar, after she had given us another chapter out of the history of her life, Fillmore went to work on her. It seemed as though he was going to get his reward at last. She had ceased to put up a fight any more. She lay back with her legs apart and she let him fool around and fool around and then, just as he was climbing over her, just as he was going to slip it in, she informs him nonchalantly that she has a dose of clap. He rolled off her like a log. I heard him fumbling around in the kitchen for the black soap he used on special occasions,
 
　　过了几秒钟他双手捏着一块毛巾站在我床前说—“你能想到吗？这个婊子养的公主有淋病！”看来他吓坏了，这时公主却在用力啃苹果，读俄文报纸，她认为这是一个很有意思的玩笑。她躺在床上，通过敞开的门对我们说，“还有比这更糟糕的事呢。”
and in a few moments he was standing by my bed with a towel in his hands and saying - "can you beat that? that son of a bitch of a princess has the clap!" He seemed pretty well scared about it. The princess meanwhile was munching an apple and calling for her Russian newspapers. It was quite a joke to her. "There are worse things than that," she said, lying there in her bed and talking to us through the open door.
 
　　菲尔莫最终也把此事看作一个玩笑，他又打开一瓶安如葡萄酒，替自己倒了一杯，一饮而荆这时才凌晨一点，于是他又坐下跟我聊了一会儿。他告诉我，这样一件区区小事挡不住他。他当然要小心些……他在勒阿弗尔染上的老病还没有全好。他已记不得这病是怎么染上的了。有时一喝醉酒他就忘了洗洗身子。
Finally Fillmore began to see it as a joke too and opening another bottle of Anjou he poured out a drink for himself and quaffed it down. It was only about one in the morning and so he sat there talking to me for a while. He wasn't going to be put off by a thing like that, he told me. Of course, he had to be careful… there was the old dose which had come on in Le Havre. He couldn't remember any more how that happened. Sometimes when he got drunk he forgot to wash himself.
 
　　这并不很可怕，可是谁也说不上今后病情会如何发展。他并不想叫别人按摩他的摄护腺，不，他不喜欢那样。他头一回得花柳病还是在大学里，不知道是哪个姑娘传给他的，还是他传给姑娘的。校园里有那么多风流韵事，简直不知道该信谁才好。几乎所有的女生都怀过孕，大家都太无知了……甚至连教授们也很无知。有一个教授叫人把他阉了。这是听人说的……
It wasn't anything very terrible, but you never knew what might develop later. He didn't want any one massaging his prostate gland. No, that he didn't relish. The first dose he ever got was at college. Didn't know whether the girl had given it to him or he to the girl; there was so much funny work going on about the campus you didn't know whom to believe. Nearly all the coeds had been knocked up some time or other. Too damned ignorant… even the profs were ignorant. One of the profs had himself castrated, so the rumor went…
 
第二天夜里他拿定主意要冒这个风险—戴着避孕套去冒险。其实这没有多大风险，除非套子破了。他替自己买了一些长长的鱼鳞状的套子。各种各样的都有，要我相信这是最可靠的。可是这也帮不了他，她的那个地方太紧。菲尔莫说，“老天，我并没有一点儿不正常的。你明白这是怎么回事吗？有个家伙轻轻松松地弄进去叫她染上了病，这个人的玩艺儿一定小得不正常。”
Anyway, the next night he decided to risk it - with a condom. Not much risk in that, unless it breaks. He had bought himself some of the long fish skin variety - they were the most reliable, he assured me. But then, that didn't work either. She was too tight. "Jesus, there's nothing abnormal about me," he said. "How do you make that out? Somebody got inside her all right to give her that dose. He must have been abnormally small."
 
　　一次次尝试都失败了，他只得完全放弃。现在他们像兄妹俩似的躺在一起，做着乱伦的美梦。玛莎的活蕴含着哲理，“在俄国常有这种事，一个男人同一个女人睡在一起，可是根本不碰她。他们可以这样几星期地睡下去，根本不去想那件事，直到有一回他碰了她……哗！哗！以后就，哗！”
So, one thing after another failing, he just gave it up altogether. They lie there now like brother and sister, with incestuous dreams. Says Macha, in her philosophic way: "In Russia it often happens that a man sleeps with a woman without touching her. They can go on that way for weeks and weeks and never think anything about it. Until paff! once he touches her… paff! paff! After that it's paff, paff, paff!"
 
　　现在菲尔莫竭尽全力要叫玛莎恢复健康，他认为一旦治好了她的淋病那个地方就会松开的，真是一个古怪的想法。于是他给她买了一只灌洗袋、大量高锰酸盐、一只旋转注水器和其他一些小玩艺，这全是一个匈牙利医生向他推荐的，此人是住在达里格尔广场的一个替人打胎的江湖郎中。菲尔莫的老板有一回曾使一个十六岁的姑娘怀了孕，她便介绍他认识了这个匈牙利人，后来老板又生了美妙的下疳，仍是匈牙利人治的。在巴黎，一个人正是通过泌尿生殖系统的交往才结识朋友的。总之，在我们的严格监督下，玛莎在留意自己的健康。那天夜里我们为难了一阵，玛莎把一支药栓塞进她身体里之后找不到药栓上的线了。她嚷道，“我的上帝！线到哪儿去了？我的上帝！ 我找不到那根线了。”
All efforts are concentrated now on getting Macha into shape. Fillmore thinks if he cures her of the clap she may loosen up. A strange idea. So he's bought her a douche bag, a stock of permanganate, a whirling syringe and other little things which were recommended to him by a Hungarian doctor, a little quack of an abortionist over near the Place d'Aligre. It seems his boss had knocked up a sixteen year old girl once and she had introduced him to the Hungarian; and then after that the boss had a beautiful chancre and it was the Hungarian again. That's how one gets acquainted in Paris - genito-urinary friendships. Anyway, under our strict supervision, Macha is taking care of herself. The other night, though, we were in a quandary for a while. She stuck the suppository inside her and then she couldn't find the string attached to it. "My God!" she was yelling, "where is that string? My God! I can't find the string!"
 
　　
　　菲尔莫说，“你在床底下找过吗？”
"Did you look under the bed?" said Fillmore.
 
　　后来她终于平静下来，但是只平静了几分钟。下一件事是：“我的上帝！我又流血了！我的月经刚完，这会儿又滴出血来了，这准是喝了你们买的便宜香摈的缘故。我的上帝，你们是想叫我流血流死了拉倒吧？”她披着一件晨衣，两腿之间夹着一条毛巾走出来，竭力要显得像平时一样有气派。她说，“我一生都是这样，有神经衰弱。我白天到处跑，到晚上就喝醉了。刚来巴黎时我还是一个纯洁的姑娘，我只读维荣和波德莱尔的诗。当时我在银行里有三十万瑞士法郎，我拼命享受，因为在俄国时他们总是把我管束得很严。当时我比现还要漂亮，所以所有的男人都拜倒在我脚下。”讲到这儿，她停下来把堆在腰间的松松垮垮的衣服拉拉好。“你们千万别以为他叫我扮演一个角色时我就很乐意，是他这么说。我来到这儿……这病是他们给我喝的毒药引起的……就是法国人疯了似的猛喝的那种可怕的开胃酒……当时我遇到了那位电影导演，他是天底下最好的人，他恳求我每天夜里跟他睡觉。我还是一个很傻的黄毛丫头呢，于是一天夜里我允许他强奸了我。我希望成为一个大明星，却不知道他身上尽是毒汁。这样他把淋病传给我了……现在我要他重新得上这种病我投塞纳河自杀全怨他……你们为什么笑，你们不信我自杀过？我可以拿报纸给你们看……所有的报上都有我的照片。哪一天我要给你们看俄文报纸……他们写我写得妙极了……不过，亲爱的，你明白我首先一定得有套新衣服。穿着这身脏兮兮的破衣服是无法引诱这个男人的，再说，我还欠裁缝一万二千法郎呢……”
Finally she quieted down. But only for a few minutes. The next thing was: "My God! I'm bleeding again. I just had my period and now there are gouttes again. It must be that cheap champagne you buy. My God, do you want me to bleed to death?" She comes out with a kimono on and a towel stuck between her legs, trying to look dignified as usual. "My whole life is just like that," she says. "I'm a neurasthenic. The whole day running around and at night I'm drunk again. When I came to Paris I was still an innocent girl. I read only Villon and Baudelaire. But as I had then 300,000 Swiss francs in the bank I was crazy to enjoy myself, because in Russia they were always strict with me. And as I was even more beautiful then than I am now, I had all the men falling at my feet." Here she hitched up the slack which had accumulated around her belt. "You mustn't think I had a stomach like that when I came here… that's from all the poison I was given to drink… those horrible apéritifs which the French are so crazy to drink… So then I met my movie director and he wanted that I should play a part for him. He said I was the most gorgeous creature in the world and he was begging me to sleep with him every night. I was a foolish young virgin and so I permitted him to rape me one night. I wanted to be a great actress and I didn't know he was full of poison. So he gave me the clap… and now I want that he should have it back again. It's his fault that I committed suicide in the Seine… Why are you laughing? Don't you believe that I committed suicide? I can show you the newspapers… there is my picture in all the papers. I will show you the Russian papers some day… they wrote about me wonderfully… But darling, you know that first I must have a new dress. I can't vamp this man with these dirty rags I am in. Besides, I still owe my dressmaker 12,000 francs…"
 
打这儿起就是一个关于继承权的长故事了，她正在设法得到这个继承权。她有一个年轻的律师，是个法国人，听她的口气是一个相当胆小的人，他在努力争回她的财产。他不时给她一百法郎或差不多这个数目的钱，记在帐上。她说，“他正像所有法国人一样小气，而我是那么漂亮，他的眼睛总是死盯着我。 他不断恳求我跟他睡，我总听他这么说听腻了、听烦了，于是有一天夜里我答应了，只是为了叫他别再罗索，这样我偶尔还能弄到一百法郎。”她歇斯底里地狂笑了一阵，又说，“亲爱的，他的事太好笑，真难以用言语描绘。有一天他打电话说，‘我一定要马上见到你……事情很重要。’见面后他给我看了从医生那儿拿来的一张纸—是淋病！亲爱的，我当着他的面哈哈大笑。
From here on it's a long story about the inheritance which she is trying to collect. She has a young lawyer, a Frenchman, who is rather timid, it seems, and he is trying to win back her fortune. From time to time he used to give her a hundred francs or so on account. "He's stingy, like all the French people," she says. "And I was so beautiful, too, that he couldn't keep his eyes off me. He kept begging me always to fuck him. I got so sick and tired of listening to him that one night I said yes, just to keep him quiet, and so as I wouldn't lose my hundred francs now and then." She paused a moment to laugh hysterically. "My dear," she continued, "it was too funny for words what happened to him. He calls me up on the phone one day and he says: 'I must see you right away… it's very important.' And when I see him he shows me a paper from the doctor - and it's gonorrhea! My dear, I laughed in his face.
 
　　我怎么能知道自己的淋病还没有治好？‘你想跟我睡，结果是我睡了你！’听了这话他不吱声了。生活中的事情往往是这样……你什么也不疑心，冷不丁就，哗！他是一个大傻瓜，接着又重新爱上了我，他只是求我检点些，别整夜在蒙帕纳斯喝酒、跟人睡觉。他说我使他如醉如痴，他想娶我，后来他家里人听说了我的事，就劝他去了印度支那……”从这儿玛莎又平静地把话题转到她同一个搞同性恋的女人的风流韵事上。“亲爱的，那天晚上她结识我的经过有意思极了。
How should I know that I still had the clap? 'You wanted to fuck me and so I fucked you!' That made him quiet. That's how it goes in life… you don't suspect anything, and then all of a sudden paff, paff, paff! He was such a fool that he fell in love with me all over again. Only he begged me to behave myself and not run around Montparnasse all night drinking and fucking. He said I was driving him crazy. He wanted to marry me and then his family heard about me and they persuaded him to go to Indo China…" From this Macha calmly switches to an affair she had with a Lesbian. "It was very funny, my dear, how she picked me up one night.
 
　　当时我正在‘吉祥’，像往常一样喝醉了酒。她把我从一个地方领到另一个地方，整夜都在桌子底下同我做爱，后来我再也受不了啦。于是她带我去她的公寓，她给我二百法郎。还叫我跟她一起住，可我不愿让她每天晚上折腾我……那会使人太衰弱。
　　再说，我可以告诉你们现在我对同性恋并不像以前那样感兴趣了。我宁愿跟一个男人睡觉，哪怕那样会疼呢。等我情欲极其高涨时我一点儿也控制不住自己……要来三、四、五次……就那样！哗！哗！哗！过后我就会流血，这对健康非常不好，因为我很容易贫血，现在你们明白我为什么每隔一段时间就得让一个搞同性恋的女人与我兴奋一次了……”
I was at the "Fétiche" and I was drunk as usual. She took me from one place to the other and she made love to me under the table all night until I couldn't stand it any more. Then she cook me to her apartment and for two hundred francs I let her suck me off. She wanted me to live with her but I didn't want to have her suck me off every night… it makes you too weak. Besides, I can tell you that I don't care so much for Lesbians as I used to. I would rather sleep with a man even though it hurts me. When I get terribly excited I can't hold myself back any more… three, four, five times… just like that! Paff, paff, paff! And then I bleed and that is very unhealthy for me because I am inclined to be anemic. So you see why once in a while I must let myself be sucked by a Lesbian…"
Part 13 Chapter 1
冷天来临时公主不见了，工作室里只有一个小火炉，使人越来越不舒服。卧室冷得像个冰窖，厨房也好不了多少，只有火炉周围的一刊、块地方是真正暖和的。于是玛莎又找了一个被阉割过的雕刻家，她离开前还对我们讲了这个人的情况。几天后她又想回到我们这儿来，可是菲尔莫坚决不同意。她抱怨说雕刻家不停地吻她，弄得她一夜睡不成觉，而且没有热水，无法使用灌洗器。最后她还是认为不回来也一样，她说，“这样我身边再也没烛台了。总有那个烛台……叫我受不了。你们要是老老实实地不招惹我，我当时是不会离开的……”
When the cold weather set in the princess disappeared. It was getting uncomfortable with just a little coal stove in the studio; the bedroom was like an icebox and the kitchen was hardly any better. There was just a little space around the stove where it was actually warm. So Macha had found herself a sculptor who was castrated. She told us about him before she left. After a few days she tried coming back to us, but Fillmore wouldn't hear of it. She complained that the sculptor kept her awake all night kissing her. And then there was no hot water for her douches. But finally she decided that it was just as well she didn't come back. "I won't have that candlestick next to me any more," she said. "Always that candlestick… it made me nervous. If you had only been a fairy I would have stayed with you…"
 
玛莎走后，我们晚上的消遣方式变得全然不同了。我们经常坐在火炉旁，喝着加了热水的烈酒谈论在美国时的生活。我们谈论它的口吻就好像永远不再指望回到那儿去了。菲尔莫有一张纽约市地图，他把它钉在墙上，于是我们常常花去整个晚上探讨巴黎和纽约这两个城市共有的优点。我们在讨论中是不可避免地要谈到惠特曼这个人，这个美国在其短促的历史上造就的一个孤零零的人物。在惠特曼的诗中，整幅美国景象有了生命力—她的过去和未来、她的诞生和死亡，美国有价值的一切惠特曼都已说到，没有更多的话可说了。未来是属于机器、属于机器人的。惠特曼，他是灵与肉的诗人，是第一个，也是最后一个诗人。今天他的诗几乎已无法解读了，这是一座刻满粗糙的神秘符号的纪念碑，我们没有解读它的钥匙。欧洲语言没有一种可与他创造的不朽精神相提并论，欧洲已到处皆是艺术品，她的土地中尽是死人骨头，她的博物馆被掠来的珍宝塞得满满当当，不过欧洲从未得到的是一种自由、健康的精神，也就是你可以称其为“人”的精神。歌德离这方面最近，但是相比之下歌德不过是一件填进东西的衬衣。歌德是一位有名望的公民，一个学究、一个令人生厌的家伙、一个多才多艺的人物，只是他身上打着德国的双鹰商标。歌德的安详，那种宁静、气派十足的态度不过是一个德国资产阶级神灵在昏昏迷迷地沉睡。歌德是事情的结尾，惠特曼却是开端。
With Macha gone our evenings took on a different character. Often we sat by the fire drinking hot toddies and discussing the life back there in the States. We talked about it as if we never expected to go back there again. Fillmore had a map of New York City which he had tacked on the wall; we used to spend whole evenings discussing the relative virtues of Paris and New York. And inevitably there always crept into our discussions the figure of Whitman, that one lone figure which America has produced in the course of her brief life. In Whitman the whole American scene comes to life, her past and her future, her birth and her death. Whatever there is of value in America Whitman has expressed, and there is nothing more to be said. The future belongs to the machine, to the robots. He was the Poet of the Body and the Soul, Whitman. The first and the last poet. He is almost undecipherable today, a monument covered with rude hieroglyphs for which there is no key. It seems strange almost to mention his name over here. There is no equivalent in the languages of Europe for the spirit which he immortalized. Europe is saturated with art and her soil is full of dead bones and her museums are bursting with plundered treasures, but what Europe has never had is a free, healthy spirit, what you might call a MAN. Goethe was the nearest approach, but Goethe was a stuffed shirt, by comparison. Goethe was a respectable citizen, a pedant, a bore, a universal spirit, but stamped with the German trade mark, with the double eagle. The serenity of Goethe, the calm, Olympian attitude, is nothing more than the drowsy stupor of a German burgeois deity. Goethe is an end of something, Whitman is a beginning.
 
　　讨论过一阵这类事情后我有时便起身穿好衣服出去散步，我穿起毛衣和菲尔莫的风衣，又在上面套上一件披肩。这种阴湿寒冷的气候很难抵挡，只有精神坚强才行。人们都说美国是一个极冷和极热气候并存的国家，而且温度计上显示出的严寒温度在这儿是闻所未闻的，不过巴黎的寒冬也是美国所没有的，这是心理上体验到的寒冷，心里冷，身上也冷。这儿从不结冰，也就无所谓解冻了。人们学会了如何抵御遒劲、清新的寒冷气候，正如他们用高墙、门闩和百叶窗，用不断咆哮、说话刻雹蓬头垢面的看门人来防止别人侵入他们的隐私一样。他们加强自己抵抗寒冷的能力，保暖是关键。保暖和安全，这样他们便可以在安逸中烂掉。在一个阴湿的冬夜里根本毋须查阅地图以确定巴黎的纬度，它是一个北方城市，是建在填满人脑壳和人骨的沼泽地上的前哨。沿着林荫道有冰凉的人造电气热源，这就是用紫外线打出的“皆大欢喜”，在它的照射下光顾一连串杜邦咖啡店的顾客显得像生了坏疽的尸首。“皆大欢喜！”这是滋养孤苦伶仃的乞丐的金玉良言，他们在蒙蒙细雨般的紫色光线照射下整夜在街上走来走去。凡有光线的地方总有一点点热气，看着大腹便便、无衣食之忧的王八蛋们喝下一杯杯烈酒和热气腾腾的黑咖啡，一个叫花子也会暖和起来，凡是有光线的地方人行道上总会有人，他们互相推挤，透过脏内衣，通过恶臭的、诅咒谩骂时哈出的气释放出一点儿热量，像牲口一样。或许熙熙攘攘的景观会延续八到十个街区，过后街道又沉入黑夜之中，阴沉、污秽、黑暗的夜，像汤碗里凝结的动物油。参差不齐的住宅延伸了好多个街区，每扇窗都紧闭着，铺面都闩着、锁着。这是连绵多少英里的石筑监牢，里面没有一丝热气，狗和猫全同金丝雀一道呆在屋里，蟑螂和臭虫都被妥当地监禁起来了。“皆大欢喜”。如果你一文不名，为什么不拿几份旧报纸在大教堂的台阶上给自己铺一张床？那儿的门都闩好了，而且不会有管理人员来打搅你。睡在地铁门外更好，那儿有人给你做伴。在一个下雨的夜里看看他们吧，他们全像床垫一样僵硬地躺着—男人、女人、虱子，全抱成一团，用报纸遮挡别人吐唾沫和没有腿的害虫。到桥下或市场上的棚子底下看看他们吧，同像珠宝一样装在袋子里的干净新鲜蔬菜相比，他们是多么卑贱呀！就连油腻腻的钩子上挂着的死马、死牛和死羊看起来也更诱人些，至少明天我们还要吃这些东西，甚至它们的肠肚也有用途。可那些睡在雨里、浑身发臭的叫花子又有什么用呢？他们能替我们做什么？他们叫我们流五分钟血，如此而已。
After a discussion of this sort I would sometimes put on my things and go for a walk, bundled up in a sweater, a spring overcoat of Fillmore's and a cape over that. A foul, damp cold against which there is no protection except a strong spirit. They say America is a country of extremes, and it is true that the thermometer registers degrees of cold which are practically unheard of here; but the cold of a Paris winter is a cold unknown to America, it is psychological, an inner as well as an outer cold. If it never freezes here it never thaws either. Just as the people protect themselves against the invasion of their privacy, by their high walls, their bolts and shutters, their growling, evil tongued, slatternly concierges, so they have learned to protect themselves against the cold and heat of a bracing, vigorous climate. They have fortified themselves: protection is the keyword. Protection and security. In order that they may rot in comfort. On a damp winter's night it is not necessary to look at the map to discover the latitude of Paris. It is a northern city, an outpost erected over a swamp filled in with skulls and bones. Along the boulevards there is a cold electrical imitation of heat. Tout Va Bien in ultraviolet rays that make the clients of the Dupont chain cafés look like gangrened cadavers. Tout Va Bien! That's the motto that nourishes the forlorn beggars who walk up and down all night under the drizzle of the violet rays. Wherever there are lights there is a little heat. One gets warm from watching the fat, secure bastards down their grogs, their steaming black coffees. Where the lights are there are people on the sidewalks, jostling one another, giving off a little animal heat through their dirty underwear and their foul, cursing breaths. Maybe for a stretch of eight or ten blocks there is a semblance of gaiety, and then it tumbles back into night, dismal, foul, black night like frozen fat in a soup tureen. Blocks and blocks of jagged tenements, every window closed tight, every shopfront barred and bolted. Miles and miles of stone prisons without the faintest glow of warmth; the dogs and the cats are all inside with the canary buds. The cockroaches and the bedbugs too are safely incarcerated. Tout Va Bien. If you haven't a sou why just take a few old newspapers and make yourself a bed on the steps of a cathedral. The doors are well bolted and there will be no draughts to disturb you. Better still is to sleep outside the Metro doors; there you will have company. Look at them on a rainy night, lying there stiff as mattresses - men, women, lice, all huddled together and protected by the newspapers against spittle and the vermin that walks without legs. Look at them under the bridges or under the market sheds. How vile they look in comparison with the clean, bright vegetables stacked up like jewels. Even the dead horses and the cows and sheep hanging from the greasy hooks look more inviting. At least we will eat these tomorrow and even the intestines will serve a purpose. But these filthy beggars lying in the rain, what purpose do they serve? What good can they do us? They make us bleed for five minutes, that's all.
 
　　唉，得了，这些是基督教诞生两千年后的夜间我在雨中散步时产生的感想。至少现在那些鸟儿都有人养活了，还有猫和狗。每一回从看门人窗下经过并且被她恶狠狠地盯住瞧了个够之后，我就会产生一种疯狂的欲念，想掐死世上所有的鸟类。在每一颗冷酷的心灵深处仍有一两滴爱—刚好够喂小鸟的。
Oh, well, these are night thoughts produced by walking in the rain after two thousand years of Christianity. At least now the birds are well provided for, and the cats and dogs. Every time I pass the concierge's window and catch the full icy impact of her glance I have an insane desire to throttle all the birds in creation. At the bottom of every frozen heart there is a drop or two of love - just enough to feed the birds.
 
　　仍叫我难以忘怀的是观念与生存之间竟有这么大的区别，其中存在永久性的脱节，尽管我们试图用一块鲜艳的篷布把两者蒙在一起。而这也办不到，观念必须同行动结合在一起，如果观念中没有性，没有生命力，那么也就没有行动。观念无法在头脑的真空中单独存在，观念是同生存相联系的：肝观念，肾观念，组织间隙间的观念，等等。如果仅仅是为了一个观念，哥白尼本会砸烂整个现存宇宙的，哥伦布也会葬身马尾藻海。这个观念的美学孕出一个又一个你摆在窗台上的花盆。可是如果既不下雨又不出太阳，把花盆摆出窗外又有什么用呢？
Still I can't get it out of my mind what a discrepancy there is between ideas and living. A permanent dislocation, though we try to cover the two with a bright awning. And it won't go. Ideas have to be wedded to action; if there is no sex, no vitality in them, there is no action. Ideas cannot exist alone in the vacuum of the mind. Ideas are related to living: liver ideas, kidney ideas, interstitial ideas, etc. If it were only for the sake of an idea Copernicus would have smashed the existent macrocosm and Columbus would have foundered in the Sargasso Sea. The aesthetics of the idea breeds flowerpots and flowerpots you put on the window sill. But if there be no rain or sun of what use putting flowerpots outside the window?
 
　　菲尔莫关于黄金的主意多极了，他把它叫作关于黄金的“神话”。我喜欢“神话”，也喜欢有关黄金的事，可我并不为此着迷，也看不出我们为什么要造花盆，即使是金子的花盆。他告诉我法国人正在把他们的金子贮藏在防水箱子里，存放在地下，他说有一部小火车头在这些地下洞穴和走道中到处跑。我极欣赏这个主意，金子置身于深深的、无人破坏的寂静中，在摄氏十六又四分之一度的环境中静静地沉睡。他说一个军的部队花四十六天零三十六小时仍数不清埋在法国银行下面的全部金子，还有储备的金假牙，手镯、结婚戒指，等等。还储存了够吃八十天的食物，金子堆上还有一个抗御高爆炸药造成的震动的人工湖。他说黄金趋向于渐渐消失，这是一个神话，并不是又有人侵吞公款。太妙了！我在设想当我们放弃了观念上、衣饰上和道德上的金本位制后，这个世界将会变成什么样子。想想看，爱情上的金本位制！
Fillmore is full of ideas about gold. The "mythos" of gold, he calls it. I like "mythos" and I like the idea of gold, but I am not obsessed by the subject and I don't see why we should make flowerpots, even of gold. He tells me that the French are hoarding their gold away in watertight compartments deep below the surface of the earth; he tells me that there is a little locomotive which runs around in these subterranean vaults and corridors. I like the idea enormously. A profound, uninterrupted silence in which the gold softly snoozes at a temperature of 17? degrees Centigrade. He says an army working 46 days and 37 hours would not be sufficient to count all the gold that is sunk beneath the Bank of France, and that there is a reserve supply of false teeth, bracelets, wedding rings, etc. Enough food also to last for eighty days and a lake on top of the gold pile to resist the shock of high explosives. Gold, he says, tends to become more and more invisible, a myth, and no more defalcations. Excellent! I am wondering what will happen to the world when we go off the gold standard in ideas, dress, morals, etc. The gold standard of love!
 
　　迄今为止，我的符合自己心愿的想法一直是要摆脱文学的金本位制。简单他讲，我是想展现情感的再生，描写一个人处于最艰深的思考时的行动，就是说，在他处于谵狂状态中的行为。我要刻画一个苏格拉底之前的人物，一个半是色鬼半是巨人的生灵。简而言之，我要在肚脐的基础上建立一个世界，而不是在钉在十字架上的一个抽象观念上。你在一些地方会遇到遭人冷落的塑像、设有陷讲的绿洲、被塞万提斯忽视的风车、流到山上去的河流、从上到下身上长着五六个乳房的女人。（斯特林堡在给高更的信中说，“我看到的树是哪一个植物学家都不会再看到的，我看的动物是居维叶从未想到过的，我看到的人是只有你才能够创造的。”）当雷姆卜兰特如愿以后，他带着金条、干肉饼和折叠床下到地洞里，“黄金”是住在地下的神的黑话，这个词里包含着梦幻和神话。我们正在回到炼金术的年代，回到造出我们膨胀的象证的虚假的亚历山大式的智慧上去。真正的智慧却已被学问的小气鬼藏在地窖深处，他们用磁铁在空中划圆圈的这一天就要到来。为了找到一块矿石你得带上两件仪器走到一万英尺的高处，纬度高的地方最好，你得在那儿同地球内部及死人的幽灵建立起精神感应式的联系。再也没有克朗代克，再也没有富金矿了，你将不得不学着唱两句、跳两下，读一读十二宫图，研究研究你的内脏。所有掖在地球口袋里的金子都得叫人提到，所有的象征主义都得重新从人的肠子里扯出来，不过首先要改善工具，首先要发明更好的飞机，要分辨声音来自何方，这样便不至于听到屁股下有爆炸声便傻呼呼地乱跑。其次有必要适应平流层中的寒冷层次，成为空中的一条冷血鱼。没有崇敬，没有神灵，没有渴求，没有懊悔，没有歇斯底里。总之，正如菲力浦?达茨所说—“别灰心！”
Up to the present, my idea in collaborating with myself has been to get off the gold standard of literature. My idea briefly has been to present a resurrection of the emotions, to depict the conduct of a human being in the stratosphere of ideas, that is, in the grip of delirium. To paint a pre-Socratic being, a creature part goat, part Titan. In short, to erect a world on the basis of the omphalos, not on an abstract idea nailed to a cross. Here and there you may have come across neglected statues, oases untapped, windmills overlooked by Cervantes, rivers that run uphill, women with five and six breasts ranged longitudinally along the torso. (Writing to Gauguin, Strindberg said: "J'ai vu des arbres que ne retrouverait aucun botaniste, des animaux que Cuvier n'a jamais soup?onnés et des hommes que vous seul avez pu créer.") When Rembrandt hit par he went below with the gold ingots and the pemmican and the portable beds. Gold is a night word belonging to the chthonian mind: it has dream in it and mythos. We are reverting to alchemy, to that fake Alexandrian wisdom which produced our inflated symbols. Real wisdom is being stored away in the subcellars by the misers of learning. The day is coming when they will be circling around in the middle air with magnetizers; to find a piece of ore you will have to go up ten thousand feet with a pair of instruments - in a cold latitude preferably - and establish telepathic communication with the bowels of the earth and the shades of the dead. No more Klondikes. No more bonanzas. You will have to learn to sing and caper a bit, to read the zodiac and study your entrails. All the gold that is being tucked away in the pockets of the earth will have to be re mined; all this symbolism will have to be dragged out again from the bowels of man. But first the instruments must be perfected. First it is necessary to invent better airplanes, to distinguish where the noise comes from and not go daffy just because you hear an explosion under your ass. And secondly it will be necessary to get adapted to the cold layers of the stratosphere, to become a cold blooded fish of the air. No reverence. No piety. No longing. No regr ets. No hysteria. Above all, as Philippe Datz says - "NO DISCOURAGEMENT!"
 
　　这些都是在三一广场喝下一杯味美思和黑茶蕉子酒后激发的快活念头。正值一个星期六下午，手中拿着一本“失败”的书，一切便在神圣的痰液里游泳了。酒在我嘴里留下一股发苦的草药味，我们伟大西方文明的庇荫处现在像圣人的脚趾甲一样地腐烂。女人们正从我身边走过，成千上万的女人，她们全在我面前扭屁股。大钟声在震荡，公共汽车驶上了人行道，互相撞在一起。侍者在用一块肮脏的破布擦桌子，老板兴高采烈地给现金出纳机搔痒。我脸上一副空虚的表情，烂醉如泥，视线模糊，我死死盯着擦过我身边的屁股。在对面的钟楼上，那个驼背在用一支金槌敲钟，鸽子闻声惊叫起来。我打开书。那本尼采称之为“迄今为止最好的德国书”。--书中写道：“人会变得更聪明、更敏感，但是不会更好、更幸福，行动更坚决，至少在某些时期是如此。我预见上帝看到人类不再欢悦的时刻会到来，那时他会打碎一切以便重新创造。我坚信一切都是为达到这一目的而设计的，而且这焕然一新的新纪元在遥远的未来降临的准确时间已确定。不过在此之前有一段漫长的时间，我们人类仍能在这片亲爱的古老土地上过几千几万年欢乐的生活。”
These are sunny thoughts inspired by a vermouth cassis at the Place de la Trinité. A Saturday afternoon and a "misfire" book in my hands. Everything swimming in a divine mucopus. The drink leaves a bitter herbish taste in my mouth, the lees of our Great Western civilization, rotting now like the toenails of the saints. Women are passing by - regiments of them - all swinging their asses in front of me; the chimes are ringing and the buses are climbing the sidewalk and bussing one another. The gar?on wipes the table with a dirty rag while the patronne tickles the cash register with fiendish glee. A look of vacuity on my face, blotto, vague in acuity, biting the asses that brush by me. In the belfry opposite the hunchback strikes with a golden mallet and the pigeons scream alarum. I open the book - the book which Nietzsche called "the best German book there is" - and it says:
 
"MEN WILL BECOME MORE CLEVER AND MORE ACUTE; BUT NOT BETTER, HAPPIER, AND STRONGER IN ACTION - OR, AT LEAST, ONLY AT EPOCHS. I FORESEE THE TIME WHEN GOD WILL HAVE NO MORE JOY IN THEM, BUT WILL BREAK UP EVERYTHING FOR A RENEWED CREATION. I AM CERTAIN THAT EVERYTHING IS PLANNED TO THIS END, AND THAT THE TIME AND HOUR IN THE DISTANT FUTURE FOR THE OCCURRENCE OF THIS RENOVATING EPOCH ARE ALREADY FIXED. BUT A LONG TIME WILL ELAPSE FIRST, AND WE MAY STILL FOR THOUSANDS AND THOUSANDS OF YEARS AMUSE OURSELVES ON THIS DEAR OLD SURFACE."
 
　　妙极了！起码在一百年前就有人有眼光看出整个世界快完蛋了！我们的西方世界！每当我看到男男女女在监狱大墙后面无精打采地移动—他们头上有遮盖，只是与世隔绝短短的几小时—我便大吃一惊，这些衰弱的人身上居然仍具有表现出情趣的潜力。灰色的大墙后面仍有人性的火花，只是永远也不会燃成大火了。我问自己，这些是男人和女人还是影子？被看不见的细绳吊着晃来晃去的木偶的影子？他们显然是能自由活动的，不过却无处可去。他们仅仅在一个区域内是自由的，在那儿可以随心所欲地游荡，不过他们尚未学会如何飞翔。至今还没有一个人在梦里飞起来过，也没有一个人生下来便很轻、很欢快，能飞离地球。鼓动有力的翅膀的雄鹰有时尚会重重地跌到地面上，它们呼呼振动翅膀的声音使我们头晕眼花。呆在地球上吧，你们这些未来的鹰！天空已有人邀游过，那儿是空的。
Excellent! At least a hundred years ago there was a man who had vision enough to see that the world was pooped out. Our Western world! - When I see the figures of men and women moving listlessly behind their prison walls, sheltered, secluded for a few brief hours, I am appalled by the potentialities for drama that are still contained in these feeble bodies. Behind the gray walls there are human sparks, and yet never a conflagration. Are these men and women, I ask myself, or are these shadows, shadows of puppets dangled by invisible strings? They move in freedom apparently, but they have nowhere to go. In one realm only are they free and there they may roam at will - but they have not yet learned how to take wing. So far there have been no dreams that have taken wing. Not one man has been born light enough, gay enough, to leave the earth! The eagles who flapped their mighty pinions for a while came crashing heavily to earth. They made us dizzy with the flap and whir of their wings. Stay on the earth, you eagles of the future!
 
　　地底下也是空的，填满了枯骨和幻影。呆在地球上，再漂浮几十万年吧！
The heavens have been explored and they are empty. And what lies under the earth is empty too, filled with bones and shadows. Stay on the earth and swim another few hundred thousand years!
Part 13 Chapter 2
现在是凌晨三点钟，我们这儿有几个婊子，她们正在光地板上翻跟头。菲尔莫光着身子走来走去，手里端着一只高脚杯，他的肚皮绷得像鼓一样，硬得像一根管子。从下午三点开始不停地往下灌的茵香酒、香摈酒、科尼亚克白兰地和安如葡萄酒在他嘴巴里像阴沟一样汩汩响，姑娘们把耳朵贴在他肚子上倾听，像听音乐匣似的。用一根纽扣钩拨开他的嘴，往里面再倒一杯酒，当这阴沟发出潺潺响声时我听见蝙蝠飞出钟楼，这场梦也变得奇妙了。
And now it is three o'clock in the morning and we have a couple of trollops here who are doing somersaults on the bare floor. Fillmore is walking around naked with a goblet in his hand, and that paunch of his is drumtight, hard as a fistula. All the Pernod and champagne and cognac and Anjou which he guzzled from three in the afternoon on, is gurgling in his trap like a sewer. The girls are putting their ears to his belly as if it were a music box. Open his mouth with a buttonhook and drop a slug in the slot. When the sewer gurgles I hear the bats flying out of the belfry and the dream slides into artifice.
 
　　姑娘们脱光了，我们检查一遍地板，以免木刺戳进她们屁股里去。她们仍全穿着高跟鞋。她们的屁股！她们的屁股磨光了、擦破了、用沙纸打光了，光滑、结实、鲜艳得像一只台球或一个麻风病人的脑袋。墙上挂着莫娜的像，她面朝东北方，与她的视线平行的是用绿墨水写的克拉科夫，她左边是多尔多涅河，这个词是用红铅笔圈起来的。突然我看到眼前一个鲜艳、光亮的台球上出现了一道黑洞洞毛茸茸的缝，这时支撑我的两条腿像一把剪刀一样。瞧一眼这个黑洞洞的、未缝台的伤口我的脑袋上便裂开一道深深的缝。所有以前费力地或心不在焉地分门别类、贴标签、引证、归档、密封并且打上印戳的印象和记忆乱纷纷一涌而出，就像一群蚂蚁从人行道上的一个蚁穴中涌出。这时地球停转了，时间停滞了，我的梦之间的相互联系也断了、消逝了，在精神分裂症大发作中我的肚肠流出来，这一次大扫除后我就与上帝面对面站在一起了。我又看到了毕加索笔下仰卧着的伟大母亲，她们的乳房上爬满了蜘蛛，她们的传奇深藏在迷宫里，而莫莉?布卢姆永远躺在一块脏垫子上了。厕所门上涂着红粉笔画的阴茎，圣母用悦耳的声音发出哀号。我听到一阵放荡的大笑，这儿是满满一屋子患了牙关紧闭症的人，那个发黑的身体像磷一样在发光。放荡、完全控制不住的狂笑，还有冲着我来的格格狂笑，那是从青苔般的髭间发出的笑声，这笑声使那个台球鲜艳、光滑的表面起了皱褶。这是血管里含有杜松子酒的伟大妓女、人类的母亲。婊子们的母亲啊！蜘蛛在你对数的坟墓里滚动我们，这是一只贪得无厌的恶魔，它的笑声叫我心碎。我低头看看这个深陷下去的坑，这是一个不留痕迹的迷失的世界。我又听到钟鸣，斯塔尼斯拉斯宫那儿有两个修女，她们衣衫下散发出陈腐的奶油味，还有因为下雨始终未付印的宣言、为了发展整形外科而打的战争、威尔士王子飞遍全世界装修无名英雄的陵墓。每一只飞出钟楼的骗幅都是一项失败的事业，每一次狂欢都是注定要死的人从单人战壕里通过无线电台发出的呻吟。从那个黑洞洞的未缝合的伤口、从那个令人嫌恶的臭水沟、从那个挤满黑压压人群的城市的摇篮（思想的乐曲就在这儿被淹没在动物油中）、从被扼杀的乌托邦中，生下一个小丑，一个半美半丑、半明亮半混沌的怪物，这个小丑向厂向旁边看时是撒旦，向上看时是一个涂了黄油的天使、一个长翅膀的蜗牛。
The girls have undressed and we are examining the floor to make sure that they won't get any splinters in their ass. They are still wearing their high heeled shoes. But the ass! The ass is worn down, scraped, sandpapered, smooth, hard, bright as a billiard ball or the skull of a leper. On the wall is Mona's picture: she is facing northeast on a line with Cracow written in green ink. To the left of her is the Dordogne, encircled with a red pencil. Suddenly I see a dark, hairy crack in front of me set in a bright, polished billiard ball; the legs are holding me like a pair of scissors. A glance at that dark, unstitched wound and a deep fissure in my brain opens up: all the images and memories that had been laboriously or absent mindedly assorted, labeled, documented, filed, sealed and stamped break forth pell mell like ants pouring out of a crack in the sidewalk; the world ceases to revolve, time stops, the very nexus of my dreams is broken and dissolved and my guts spill out in a grand schizophrenic rush, an evacuation that leaves me face to face with the Absolute. I see again the great sprawling mothers of Picasso, their breasts covered with spiders, their legend hidden deep in the labyrinth. And Molly Bloom lying on a dirty mattress for eternity. On the toilet door red chalk cocks and the madonna uttering the diapason of woe. I hear a wild, hysterical laugh, a room full of lockjaw, and the body that was black glows like phosphorus. Wild, wild, utterly uncontrollable laughter, and that crack laughing at me too, laughing through the mossy whiskers, a laugh that creases the bright, polished surface of the billiard ball. Great whore and mother of man with gin in her veins. Mother of all harlots, spider rolling us in your logarithmic grave, insatiable one, fiend whose laughter rives me! I look down into that sunken crater, world lost and without traces, and I hear the bells chiming, two nuns at the Palace Stanislas and the smell of rancid butter under their dresses, manifesto never printed because it was raining, war fought to further the cause of plastic surgery, the Prince of Wales flying around the world decorating the graves of unknown heroes. Every bat flying out of the belfry a lost cause, every whoopla a groan over the radio from the private trenches of the damned. Out of that dark, unstitched wound, that sink of abominations, that cradle of black thronged cities where the music of ideas is drowned in cold fat, out of strangled Utopias is born a clown, a being divided between beauty and ugliness, between light and chaos, a clown who when he looks down and sidelong is Satan himself and when he looks upward sees a buttered angel, a snail with wings.
 
　　低头看那条缝里，我看到一个方程式符号，一个处于平衡状态的世界，一个化为零蛋、一点痕迹不留的世界，这不是范诺登用手电筒照的那个零蛋，也不是那个过早地醒悟过来的人身上的空洞，这更像一个阿拉伯数码里的零，从这个符号中能跃出无数数学的世界和一个杠杆支点，这个杠杆平衡星星、不清晰的梦、比空气还轻的机器、轻量级的四肢及生产这些东西的炸药。我要在那条缝里一直穿上去，穿过眼睛，让这双可爱的、古怪的、炼金术炼成的眼睛拼命转动。只有在它们转动时我才会又听见陀思妥耶夫斯基的话，听见这些话滚过一页页纸张，这些话观察极为细致入微，内省极为大胆，所有悲哀的言外之意都轻轻地幽默地提到了，现在这些话就像风琴曲子一直奏到人的心脏破裂为止。过后什么也没有了，只剩下令人目眩、的人的强烈光线，它将群星多产的种子带走，这是艺术史，它植根于大屠杀中。
When I look down into that crack I see an equation sign, the world at balance, a world reduced to zero and no trace of remainder. Not the zero on which Van Norden turned his flashlight, not the empty crack of the prematurely disillusioned man, but an Arabian zero rather, the sign from which spring endless mathematical worlds, the fulcrum which balances the stars and the light dreams and the machines lighter than air and the lightweight limbs and the explosives that produced them. Into that crack I would like to penetrate up to the eyes, make them waggle ferociously, dear, crazy, metallurgical eyes. When the eyes waggle then will I hear again Dostoevski's words, hear them rolling on page after page, with minutest observation, with maddest introspection, with all the undertones of misery now lightly, humorously touched, now swelling like an organ note until the heart bursts and there is nothing left but a blinding, scorching light, the radiant light that carries off the fecundating seeds of the stars. The story of art whose roots lie in massacre.
 
　　每当我低头看一个婊子被人操过多次的阴户时便感觉到了脚下的整个世界，这是一个分崩离析的世界、一个精疲力竭的世界。它光滑得就像麻风病人的脑袋一样。假如哪个人敢把他对这个世界的看法都谈出来，他就连一平方英尺的立足之地也得不到。一个人一露面这个世界便重压在他身上，把他的腰压断。总有过多的腐朽柱子立着，过多令人痛苦的人性有待人去繁衍。上层建筑是一个谎言，其基础则是巨大的、令人不寒而栗的恐怖。如果说在过去千百年间真的出现了一个眼睛中流露出绝望、饥饿神色的人，一个为创造一种新生物把世界翻个底朝天的人，那么他带给世界的爱便会化为忿怒，他自己则会变成一场灾难。如果我们不时读到探究真理的书、刺伤人使人冷酷无情的书、令人叫苦落泪诅咒谩骂的书，我们就知道这些文字是那个被压趴下的人写的，他唯一的抵抗就是诉诸文字了，而他的文字总是比世界上撒谎压人的重量更有力，比胆小鬼们发明的要压垮人格之奇迹的刑台和刑车更有力。如果哪个人敢于直抒胸臆、秉笔直书他的真实经历，真正的真实，那么我想世界将毁灭、将被吹成碎片，没有神、变故和意志能重新弥合起这些失去的碎片、原子和不可摧毁的要素以再造一个世界。
When I look down into this fucked out cunt of a whore I feel the whole world beneath me, a world tottering and crumbling, a world used up and polished like a leper's skull. If there were a man who dared to say all that he thought of this world there would not be left him a square foot of ground to stand on. When a man appears the world bears down on him and breaks his back. There are always too many rotten pillars left standing, too much festering humanity for man to bloom. The superstructure is a lie and the foundation is a huge quaking fear. If at intervals of centuries there does appear a man with a desperate, hungry look in his eye, a man who would turn the world upside down in order to create a new race, the love that he brings to the world is turned to bile and he becomes a scourge. If now and then we encounter pages that explode, pages that wound and sear, that wring groans and tears and curses, know that they come from a man with his back up, a man whose only defenses left are his words and his words are always stronger than the lying, crushing weight of the world, stronger than all the racks and wheels which the cowardly invent to crush out the miracle of personality. If any man ever dared to translate all that is in his heart, to put down what is really his experience, what is truly his truth, I think then the world would go to smash, that it would be blown to smithereens and no god, no accident, no will could ever again assemble the pieces, the atoms, the indestructible elements that have gone to make up the world.
 
　　自从最后一个贪吃的人、最后一个懂得“喜悦”的含义的人出现以来的四百年间，人类在艺术、思想和行为上都在持续不断地衰败。这个世界完蛋了，连一个干脆利落的屁也不曾留下。哪一个绝望的、饥肠辘辘的人会对现存政府、法律、道德、准则、理想、思想、图腾和禁忌表现出丝毫敬重？如果谁知道念出那个在今天被称之为“缝”或“洞”的谜一般的东西意味着什么，如果谁对被贴上“淫秽”标签的现象怀有最低限度的神秘感，那么这个世界便会分裂成几块。正是对淫秽的惧怕，即事情干巴巴的、被人操过的那一面，使得这个疯狂的文明社会显得像个火山口，创造性精神和人类母亲大腿间正是这种张开大嘴打哈欠似的空幻感。一个饥饿、绝望的精灵出现并使一只土拨鼠锐声尖叫是因为他懂得在哪儿敷下性的炽热导线，是因为他懂得在无动于衷的坚硬表现下藏着丑恶的创伤，其伤口永远不会愈合。于是他把这段炽热的导线夹在两腿间，他使用难以令人接受的卑下手段。戴上橡皮手套也没有用，所有能冷静、机智地加以处理的都是表皮上的东西，而一个志在创造的人总是要钻到底下、钻到开放的伤口上、钻到正在化脓的对淫秽的惧怕上。他把发电机拴在最脆弱的部分，叫人操过的火山口是淫秽的，比一切更加淫秽的是隋性，比最难听的赌咒发誓更亵读的则是麻痹。如果只剩下一个裂口的创伤，它一定得向外喷射，尽管喷出来的只是蛤螈蝙蝠和侏儒。
In the four hundred years since the last devouring soul appeared, the last man to know the meaning of ecstasy, there has been a constant and steady decline of man in art, in thought, in action. The world is pooped out: there isn't a dry fart left. Who that has a desperate, hungry eye can have the slightest regard for these existent governments, laws, codes, principles, ideals, ideas, totems, and taboos? If anyone knew what it meant to read the riddle of that thing which today is called a "crack" or a "hole," if any one had the least feeling of mystery about the phenomena which are labeled "obscene," this world would crack asunder. It is the obscene horror, the dry, fucked out aspect of things which makes this crazy civilization look like a crater. It is this great yawning gulf of nothingness which the creative spirits and mothers of the race carry between their legs. When a hungry, desperate spirit appears and makes the guinea pigs squeal it is because he knows where to put the live wire of sex, because he knows that beneath the hard carapace of indifference there is concealed the ugly gash, the wound that never heals. And he puts the live wire right between the legs; he hits below the belt, scorches the very gizzards. It is no use putting on rubber gloves; all that can be coolly and intellectually handled belongs to the carapace and a man who is intent on creation always dives beneath, to the open wound, to the festering obscene horror. He hitches his dynamo to the tenderest parts; if only blood and pus gush forth, it is something. The dry, fucked-out crater is obscene. More obscene than anything is inertia. More blasphemous than the bloodiest oath is paralysis. If there is only a gaping wound left then it must gush forth though it produce nothing but toads and bats and homunculi.
 
　　每一样东西都装在另一样东西里面，有的是完全的，有的是不完全的。地球不是健康和舒适的干旱高原，而是一位仰卧的硕大女性，她天鹅绒般的躯体随着海浪而涨大，起伏，她在大汗淋漓、极度痛苦的王冠重压下蠕动。赤身裸体性交后，她在星星紫光笼罩下的云彩中滚动。她的全身在狂热的激情支配下放出光芒，从慷慨的乳房到隐约可见的大腿。她在四季和岁月间邀游，一场盛大的狂欢以突发的狂怒攫住她的躯体，抖去了天空中的蜘蛛网，于是她以暴躁的兴奋心情降落在自己的旋转轨道上。有时她像一只母鹿。这只母鹿跌进了陷阶，它心怦怦跳着躺在那儿等待钦声敲响、猎狗狂吠。爱与恨、失望、怜悯、怒气、厌恶—这些在行星间的乱交中又算得了什么？当夜晚提供了耀眼的太阳般的欣喜时，战争、疾并残酷和恐怖又算得了什么？若不是记起回到野蛮时代和星团，我们睡觉时嚼的糠又是什么？
Everything is packed into a second which is either consummated or not consummated. The earth is not an arid plateau of health and comfort, but a great sprawling female with velvet torso that swells and heaves with ocean billows; she squirms beneath a diadem of sweat and anguish. Naked and sexed she rolls among the clouds in the violet light of the stars. All of her, from her generous breasts to her gleaming thighs, blazes with furious ardor. She moves amongst the seasons and the years with a grand whoopla that seizes the torso with paroxysmal fury, that shakes the cobwebs out of the sky; she subsides on her pivotal orbits with volcanic tremors. She is like a doe at times, a doe that has fallen into a snare and lies waiting with beating heart for the cymbals to crash and the dogs to bark. Love and hate, despair, pity, rage, disgust - what are these amidst the fornications of the planets? What is war, disease, cruelty, terror, when night presents the ecstasy of myriad blazing suns? What is this chaff we chew in our sleep if it is not the remembrance of fang whorl and star cluster.
 
　　莫娜每逢性欲亢奋时常常对我说，“你是一个伟大的人。”藏在我灵魂深处的这话常会跳出来照亮我下面的阴影，尽管她把我扔在这儿听任我死掉，尽管她在我脚下留下了一个空空的大坑。我是一个普通的人，嘶嘶响的灯光使我头晕。我是一个零蛋，我看到周围的一切都沦为嘲弄人的东西。由硫磺燃着的男女从我身边走过，穿着黑色号衣的搬运工打开了地狱的双颚，声名在拄着拐杖走路，它被摩天大楼骗了，被生着锋利牙齿的机器的大口嚼烂。我穿过高大的建筑物朝清凉的河边走去，我看见光束像火箭一样从骷髅的肋间直刺天空。如果我像莫娜所说的真是一个伟大的人，我阿谀奉承人的愚蠢行为又该作何解释？
She used to say to me, Mona, in her fits of exaltation, "you're a great human being," and though she left me here to perish, though she put beneath my feet a great howling pit of emptiness, the words that lie at the bottom of my soul leap forth and they light the shadows below me. I am one who was lost in the crowd, whom the fizzing lights made dizzy, a zero who saw everything about him reduced to mockery. Passed me men and women ignited with sulfur, porters in calcium livery opening the jaws of hell, fame walking on crutches, dwindled by the skyscrapers, chewed to a frazzle by the spiked mouth of the machines. I walked between the tall buildings toward the cool of the river and I saw the lights shoot up between the ribs of the skeletons like rockets. If I was truly a great human being, as she said, then what was the meaning of this slavering idiocy about me?
 
　　我是一个有灵有肉的人，我的心并没有钢梁拱卫，我有过欣喜的时刻，我伴着燃烧的火星歌唱。我歌唱赤道、她生着红毛的大腿和从视线中消失的岛屿。不过谁也没有听见我唱，朝太平洋彼岸发射的一炮落进太空里了，因为地球是圆的，鸽子们朝下飞行。我看到她隔着桌子望着我，眼光中一派悲怆。在她身体里扩散的悲伤将鼻子碰在她脊骨上，碰扁了，搅拌成怜悯的骨髓已变成液体。她轻巧得犹如浮在死海海面上的一具死尸，她的手指痛得流血，血变成了口水。随着潮湿的黎明来临，钟声敲响了，这钟声沿着我的神经纤维无休无止地回荡，这撞击声伴随着铁一般的恶意在我心里当当响。奇怪的是钟声竞会这样响，更怪的是钟破裂了，于是这个女人转向黑夜。她的蛆一般的言辞咬透了床垫。我在赤道下移动，听见了张着绿色大口的鬣狗可怕的哈哈大笑声，看见了生着光滑尾巴的豺、羚羊和有斑点的豹子，它们全被留在伊甸园里了。这时她的悲哀扩展了，像一艘无畏战舰的舰首，她沉下去的重量使我的耳朵被水淹没了。稀泥被洗掉，蓝宝石滑出来，通过快乐的神经细胞淘洗出来，它的光谱被拼接在一起，船舷泡在水里。我听见炮架像狮爪落地时一样无声无息地转动，看到它们在呕吐、在流口水。天幕垂下来，所有的星星都变成了黑的。黑色的海洋在流血，沉思默想的星星孕育着一大块一大块刚刚肿胀起来的肉，同时鸟儿在头顶上盘旋，幻党的天空中落下臼杵，还有正义包扎起来的眼睛。所有在这儿讲到的东西都用想象中的脚沿着死去的球体平行移动，所有用空眼眶看到的东西都像开花的草一样绽开。在虚无缥缈之中出现了无限的符号，不断上升的螺旋下裂开的口子在缓慢下沉。陆地和海洋和谐地连为一体，这是用血肉写就的诗篇，它比钢丝和花岗岩还坚硬。经过无尽的长夜，地球向一个未知的创造物飞速旋转而去……
I was a man with body and soul, I had a heart that was not protected by a steel vault. I had moments of ecstasy and I sang with burning sparks. I sang of the Equator, her red feathered legs and the islands dropping out of sight. But nobody heard. A gun fired across the Pacific falls into space because the earth is round and pigeons fly upside down. I saw her looking at me across the table with eyes turned to grief; sorrow spreading inward flattened its nose against her spine; the marrow churned to pity had turned liquid. She was light as a corpse that floats in the Dead Sea. Her fingers bled with anguish and the blood turned to drool. With the wet dawn came the tolling of bells and along the fibers of my nerves the bells played ceaselessly and their tongues pounded in my heart and clanged with iron malice. Strange that the bells should toll so, but stranger still the body bursting, this woman turned to night and her maggot words gnawing through the mattress. I moved along under the Equator, heard the hideous laughter of the green jawed hyena, saw the jackal with silken tail and the dick dick and the spotted leopard, all left behind in the Garden of Eden. And then her sorrow widened, like the bow of a dreadnought and the weight of her sinking flooded my ears. Slime wash and sapphires slipping, sluicing through the gay neurons, and the spectrum spliced and the gunwales dipping. Soft as lion pad I heard the gun carriages turn, saw them vomit and drool: the firmament sagged and all the stars turned black. Black ocean bleeding and the brooding stars breeding chunks of fresh swollen flesh while overhead the birds wheeled and out of the hallucinated sky fell the balance with mortar and pestle and the bandaged eyes of justice. All that is here related moves with imaginary feet along the parallels of dead orbs; all that is seen with the empty sockets bursts like flowering grass. Out of nothingness arises the sign of infinity; beneath the ever rising spirals slowly sinks the gaping hole. The land and the water make numbers joined, a poem written with flesh and stronger than steel or granite. Through endless night the earth whirls toward a creation unknown…
 
今天我在熟睡中醒来，嘴边挂着快活的诅咒，我不断地自己咕哝谁也听不懂的话，像在念一篇连祷文—“做你想做的事……做你想做的事！”干什么都行，但是要叫它带来欢乐；干什么都行，但是要叫它带来欣喜。当我向自己提到下面这些东西时脑袋里塞得满满的—搞同性恋的人、叫人恐惧的人、叫人发疯的人、狼和羊、蜘蛛、蟹、梅毒张开了翅膀、子宫的门总闩着、总敞着，像坟墓一样作好了接待准备。淫欲、犯罪的神圣—我崇拜的人就过着这种生活，那也是我崇拜的人的失败，是他们留下的话，是他们未说完的话。那是他们拖在身后的善与恶、他们造成的悲哀不和、仇恨和争斗，而超出这一切的是狂喜！
Today I awoke from a sound sleep with curses of joy on my lips, with gibberish on my tongue, repeating to myself like a litany - "Fay ce que vouldras!… fay ce que vouldras!"; Do anything, but let it produce joy. Do anything, but let it yield ecstasy. So much crowds into my head when I say this to myself: images, gay ones, terrible ones, maddening ones, the wolf and the goat, the spider, the crab, syphilis with her wings outstretched and the door of the womb always on the latch, always open, ready like the tomb. Lust, crime, holiness: the lives of my adored ones, the failures of my adored ones, the words they left behind them, the words they left unfinished; the good they dragged after them and the evil, the sorrow, the discord, the rancor, the strife they created. But above all, the ecstasy!
Part 13 Chapter 3
我以前的偶像的一些所做所为使我流泪，那是捣乱、混乱、暴力，最主要的还是他们引起的仇恨。一想到他们残缺不全的肢体、他们选择的荒诞风格，他们所从事的工作的浮夸和乏味、他们耽溺于其中的杂乱无章状态以及他们在自己身边设置的种种障碍—我便觉得异常高兴。他们陷在自己拉的屎中不能自拔，他们都是喜欢不厌其烦地絮絮叨叨的人。这是千真万确的，我差一点儿就会说，“指给我一个说起话来没完的人，我就会说这是一个伟大的人！”被称作他们的“详尽探讨”的东西正对我的胃口—这是争斗的征兆，这是缠绕着各种纤维的争斗，是不和谐精神的气氛和环境。你指给我看一个能说会道的人，我不说他不够伟大，可我会说他吸引不了我……我向往那些会叫人生厌的特性。我想到艺术家毫不含糊地给自己规定的任务是推翻现存价值观念、是把周围的一片混乱按自己的方式整理得井井有条，散布争斗和不和以得到情感上的解脱并使死者复活，于是这时我兴高采烈地跑到那些伟大而又不完美的人那儿去，他们的困惑滋润了我。他们结结巴巴的话在我听来犹如仙乐。我在漂亮地膨胀起来，在被打断之后接着往下写的书页上看到被抹去的小段插入的闲话、肮脏的脚注，也可说是胆小鬼、骗子、贼、蛮子和诽谤者留下来的。我从他们美妙的喉咙的肿胀肌肉上看出把轮子翻转过来时，从掉队的地方加快脚步赶上来时，他们一定费了惊人的力量。在日常烦恼和骚扰后面，在软弱和懒惰的人的下贱、矫饰过的恶意后面，我看见那儿立着人生中令人心灰意懒的象征，我看到那个制定秩序、散布争斗和不和的人，他深受意志力的影响，这样一个人势必一次次为自己的行为受苦受难，直至被绞死拉倒。我从他的高雅手势后看到一个荒谬的幽灵在徘徊—他不仅崇高，而且还荒谬。
Things, certain things about my old idols bring the tears to my eyes: the interruptions, the disorder, the violence, above all, the hatred they aroused. When I think of their deformities, of the monstrous styles they chose, of the flatulence and tediousness of their works, of all the chaos and confusion they wallowed in, of the obstacles they heaped up about them, I feel an exaltation. They were all mired in their own dung. All men who over elaborated. So true is it that I am almost tempted to say: "Show me a man who over elaborates and I will show you a great man!" What is called their "over-elaboration" is my meat: it is the sign of struggle, it is struggle itself with all the fibers clinging to it, the very aura and ambience of the discordant spirit. And when you show me a man who expresses himself perfectly I will not say that he is not great, but I will say that I am unattracted… I miss the cloying qualities. When I reflect that the task which the artist implicitly sets himself is to overthrow existing values, to make of the chaos about him an order which is his own, to sow strife and ferment so that by the emotional release those who are dead may be restored to life, then it is that I run with joy to the great and imperfect ones, their confusion nourishes me, their stuttering is like divine music to my ears. I see in the beautifully bloated pages that follow the interruptions the erasure of petty intrusions, of the dirty footprints, as it were, of cowards, liars, thieves, vandals, calumniators. I see in the swollen muscles of their lyric throats the staggering effort that must be made to turn the wheel over, to pick up the pace where one has left off. I see that behind the daily annoyances and intrusions, behind the cheap, glittering malice of the feeble and inert, there stands the symbol of life's frustrating power, and that he who could create order, he who would sow strife and discord, because he is imbued with will, such a man must go again and again to the stake and the gibbet. I see that behind the nobility of his gestures there lurks the specter of the ridiculousness of it all - that he is not only sublime, but absurd.
 
　　我曾一度认为做到有人情味是一个人可望达到的最高目标，可我现在明白这意味着要毁掉自己。如今我骄傲地说自己没有人味，我不属于其他任何人和政府，任何信条和原则都同我没有任何关系。我与人性这部吱吱作响的机器毫无关联，我是属于地球的。我睡在枕头上这样说，这时自己可以感觉到太阳穴处冒出了两只角。我可以看到我的疯狂的祖先围着床在跳舞，他们宽慰我、给我打气、用毒蛇般的舌头抽打我、用藏在暗处的脑袋朝我嘻笑。我不是人！我带着疯狂的、幻觉般的狞笑这样说，哪怕天上落下鳄鱼我也要一直这样说下去。我的话后面是那些咧着嘴嘻笑、藏在暗处的脑袋，有些死掉的人的脑袋长时间地笑，有些像患了牙关紧闭症一样笑，有些又扮出鬼脸来狞笑，这是一直在进行中的事情的预演和结果。我自己狞笑的脑壳是看得最清楚的，我看到自己的骷髅在风中跳舞，毒蛇从腐烂的舌头里爬出来，描写欣喜的膨胀的书页被粪弄脏了。
Once I thought that to be human was the highest aim a man could have, but I see now that it was meant to destroy me. Today I am proud to say that I am inhuman, that I belong not to men and governments, that I have nothing to do with creeds and principles. I have nothing to do with the creaking machinery of humanity - I belong to the earth! I say that lying on my pillow and I can feel the horns sprouting from my temples. I can see about me all those cracked forebears of mine dancing around the bed, consoling me, egging me on, lashing me with their serpent tongues, grinning and leering at me with their skulking skulls. I am inhuman! I say it with a mad, hallucinated grin, and I will keep on saying it though it rain crocodiles. Behind my words are all those grinning, leering, skulking skulls, some dead and grinning a long time, some grinning as if they had lockjaw, some grinning with the grimace of a grin, the foretaste and aftermath of what is always going on. Clearer than all I see my own grinning skull, see the skeleton dancing in the wind, serpents issuing from the rotted tongue and the bloated pages of ecstasy slimed with excrement.
 
　　我把我的脏东西、我的屎尿、我的疯狂，我的欣喜都投进通过肉体地下铁道流动的大循环中去，所有这些自然的、不受欢迎的、醉后吐出的东西将通过这些人的脑子无休止地向前流动，一直流到一个装着人类历史、永远不会枯竭的罐子里。同人类并驾齐驱的还有另一类生物，他们就是那些没有人性的人，是艺术家这类人，他们受已知的冲动驱使掌管了无生命的人类，他们用狂热和激情鼓动人类，以此把这团生面变成面包，把面包变成酒，再把酒变成歌曲。他们从废弃的肥料和死气沉沉的废料中造出一首散发着臭气的歌。我看到这一类人在洗劫世界，他们把一切翻个底朝天，他们的脚总踩在血泊中，他们的手总是空的，总是在抓抓不到、握不上的神。为了使撕咬他们的要害的妖魔平静下来，他们毁掉了能够得到的一切，他们用力揪自己的头发以领悟、了解这个永远难以理解的难题，他们像发疯的熊那样大吼大叫、乱撕、乱顶，他们做这些事情时我都看到了，我看到这是对的，没有其他道路可走，一个属于这一族类的人必须站在高处，口中胡说八道，把自己的肠肚剖出来。这是正当的、正义的，因为他必须这样做！任何达不到这一吓人场面、任何不那么令人战栗、不那么可怕、不那么疯狂、不那么令人兴奋、不那么具有污染性的东西都不是艺术，都是伪造的，是人性的，是属于生命和无生命的。
And I join my slime, my excrement, my madness; my ecstasy to the great circuit which flows through the subterranean vaults of the flesh. All this unbidden, unwanted, drunken vomit will flow on endlessly through the minds of those to come in the inexhaustible vessel that contains the history of the race. Side by side with the human race there runs another race of beings, the inhuman ones, the race of artists who, goaded by unknown impulses, take the lifeless mass of humanity and by the fever and ferment with which they imbue it turn this soggy dough into bread and the bread into wine and the wine into song. Out of the dead compost and the inert slag they breed a song that contaminates. I see this other race of individuals ransacking the universe, turning everything upside down, their feet always moving in blood and tears, their hands always empty, always clutching and grasping for the beyond, for the god out of reach: slaying everything within reach in order to quiet the monster that gnaws at their vitals. I see that when they tear their hair with the effort to comprehend, to seize this forever unattainable, I see that when they bellow like crazed beasts and rip and gore, I see that this is right, that there is no other path to pursue. A man who belongs to this race must stand up on the high place with gibberish in his mouth and rip out his entrails. It is right and just, because he must! And anything that falls short of this frightening spectacle, anything less shuddering, less terrifying, less mad, less intoxicated, less contaminating, is not art. The rest is counterfeit. The rest is human. The rest belongs to life and lifelessness.
 
　　比方说，每当我想到斯太甫罗根，我便会联想到某一个妖魔站在高处向我们扔自己撕裂的肠子。在《魔鬼》中发生了地震，这不仅是降临在富于想象力的人头上的大灾难，而是一大半人类被埋葬于其中、永远被消灭的大地震。斯太甫罗根就是陀思妥耶夫斯基，陀思妥耶夫斯基是所有这些矛盾的总和，它们不是使一个人麻痹就是领他爬上高处。没有一个地方太低，他进不去；也没有一个地方太高，他不敢爬上去。遗憾的是我们再也没有机会见到一个被置于神秘的中心的人，他的光芒为我们照亮黑暗的深邃和广大。
When I think of Stavrogin for example, I think of some divine monster standing on a high place and flinging to us his torn bowels. In The Possessed the earth quakes: it is not the catastrophe that befalls the imaginative individual, but a cataclysm in which a large portion of humanity is buried, wiped out forever. Stavrogin was Dostoevski and Dostoevski was the sum of all those contradictions which either paralyze a man or lead him to the heights. There was no world too low for him to enter, no place too high for him to fear to ascend. He went the whole gamut, from the abyss to the stars. It is a pity that we shall never again have the opportunity to see a man placed at the very core of mystery and, by his flashes, illuminating, for us the depth and immensity of the darkness.
 
　　今天我感觉到了自己的血统，我没有必要去求助占星术或查阅家谱表。我对星星上或我的血液里写着什么一无所知，只知道我是由人类的某些神话中的创始人繁衍的。那个把神圣的瓶子举到唇边的人、那个跪在集市上的罪犯、那个发现所有的尸体都会发臭的纯洁的人、那个跳舞时手中发出闪电的疯子、那个撩起长袍朝大地上撒尿的修道士、那个翻遍所有图书馆要找到《圣经》的宗教狂—所有这些人合成了我，所有这些人造成了我的仟侮、我的欣喜。假如我没有人味儿，那是由于我所生活的世界已经超出人性的界线了，那是由于做个有人味儿的人像是在做一件可怜的、令人遗憾的、凄凉悲苦的事情，它受到种种理智限制，受到种种道德规范的制约，由种种老生常谈和这个那个主义固定范围。我将葡萄汁一饮而尽，我从中得到了智慧，不过我的智慧并非来自葡萄，我沉醉也根本不是因为酒……我想绕过那些高大荒芜的山脉，一个人会在那儿渴死、冻死。这就是“超瞬时”历史，就是不存在人、兽、草木的绝对时空，在那儿一个人寂寞得发疯，语言则只是词语而已，那儿的一切都是自由自在的，与时代不谐调的。我想要一个男人、女人、树木都不讲话的世界（因为如今的世界上话讲得太多了）！
Today I am aware of my lineage. I have no need to consult my horoscope or my genealogical chart. What is written in the stars, or in my blood, I know nothing of. I know that I spring from the mythological founders of the race. The man who raises the holy bottle to his lips, the criminal who kneels in the marketplace, the innocent one who discovers that all corpses stink, the madman who dances with lightning in his hands, the friar who lifts his skirts to pee over the world, the fanatic who ransacks libraries in order to find the Word - all these are fused in me, all these make my confusion, my ecstasy. If I am inhuman it is because my world has slopped over its human bounds, because to be human seems like a poor, sorry, miserable affair, limited by the senses, restricted by moralities and codes, defined by platitudes and isms. I am pouring the juice of the grape down my gullet and I find wisdom in it, but my wisdom is not born of the grape, my intoxication owes nothing to wine…
 
　　我想要一个河流能把人载到各地去的世界，不是成为古老传说的河流，而是能叫人同别的男女，同建筑、宗教、植物、动物接触的河流。是上面有船只的河流。人们在这样的河里溺死，并非淹没在神话、传说、书籍和以往的尘土中，而是淹没在时间、空间的历史中。我要能造出莎士比亚和但丁这样的大海的河流，要不会在以往的空泛中干涸的河流、大海。对了，让我们有更多的海吧，新的、挡住过去的大海，创造新的地质构造、新的地形景观、陌生而且令人恐惧的大陆的大海，在摧毁的同时也保护我们的大海，我们可以在上面航行，去探求新发现、新视野的大海。让我们得到更多的大海、更多的动乱、战争和大毁灭吧。让我们得到一个男男女女大腿间都装有发电机的世界，一个充满自然的愤怒、激情、行动、戏剧、梦幻、疯狂的世界，一个孕生欣喜而不是干放屁的世界。我坚信今天比以往任何时候都更应寻求写一本书，哪怕它只有一大页呢。我们必须寻找碎片、碎屑、脚趾甲，任何含有矿物质、任何得以使肉体和灵魂复活的东西。
I want to make a detour of those lofty arid mountain ranges where one dies of thirst and cold, that "extratemporal" history, that absolute of time and space where there exists neither man, beast, nor vegetation, where one goes crazy with loneliness, with language that is mere words, where everything is unhooked, ungeared, out of joint with the times. I want a world of men and women, of trees that do not talk (because there is too much talk in the world as it is!, of rivers that carry you to places, not rivers that are legends, but rivers that put you in touch with other men and women, with architecture, religion, plants, animals - rivers that have boats on them and in which men drown, drown not in myth and legend and books and dust of the past, but in time and space and history. I want rivers that make oceans such as Shakespeare and Dante, rivers which do not dry up in the void of the past. Oceans, yes! Let us have more oceans, new oceans that blot out the past, oceans that create new geological formations, new topographical vistas and strange, terrifying continents, oceans that destroy and preserve at the same time, oceans that we can sail on, take off to new discoveries, new horizons. Let us have more oceans, more upheavals, more wars, more holocausts. Let us have a world of men and women with dynamos between their legs, a world of natural fury, of passion, action, drama, dreams, madness, a world that produces ecstasy and not dry farts. I believe that today more than ever a book should be sought after even if it has only one great page in it: we must search for fragments, splinters, toenails, anything that has ore in it, anything that is capable of resuscitating the body and soul.
 
　　也许我们命中注定要遭厄运，也许我们当中没有一个人有希望活下去。如果是这样，那就让我们发出最后一声听了叫人胆寒、叫人毛骨惊然的吼叫吧，这是挑战的呼叫，是战斗的怒号！悲伤，去它的！挽歌和哀乐，去它们的！传记、历史、图书馆和博物馆，去它们的！让死人去吃掉死人。让我们活着的人在火山口边上跳舞吧，这是临死前的一场舞，不过它仍是一场舞。
It may be that we are doomed, that there is no hope for us, any of us, but if that is so then let us set up a last agonizing, bloodcurdling howl, a screech of defiance, a war whoop! Away with lamentation! Away with elegies and dirges! Away with biographies and histories, and libraries and museums! Let the dead eat the dead. Let us living ones dance about the rim of the crater, a last expiring dance. But a dance!
 
　　我们时代的伟大诗人弥尔顿说，“我爱流动的一切。”今天早晨我高兴地拼命大叫着醒来时正想着他，我正在想他的河流、树木和他的摸索的整个黑暗世界。是啊，我对自己说，我也爱流动的一切：河流、阴沟、熔岩、精液、血、胆汁、词和句子。
"I love everything that flows," said the great blind Milton of our times. I was thinking of him this morning when I awoke with a great bloody shout of joy: I was thinking of his rivers and trees and all that world of night which he is exploring. Yes, I said to myself, I too love everything that flows: rivers, sewers, lava, semen, blood, bile, words, sentences.
 
　　我爱从羊膜中溅出的羊水；我爱生着引起痛苦的的结石、肾砂和诸如此类东西的肾脏；我爱撒出的热呼呼的尿和久治不愈的淋病；我爱歇斯底里的疯话、像拉痢疾一样一泻而出的句子和灵魂全部病态的映像；我爱亚马逊河和奥里诺科河这样的大河，那儿摩拉瓦基乃之流的狂人在一只无顶的小船上漂过了梦和古老的传说，淹死在瞎眼的河口中；我爱流动的一切，甚至爱女人来月经时流出的血，它冲走了生育能力不强的精子；我爱会流动的手稿，不论它们是用象形文字写的、深奥的、反常的、多形体的或是单边音的；我爱流动的一切，一切其中有时间的和适当的东西，它们把我们带回永远不会结束的开始中，即先知们激烈、令人狂喜的猥亵，宗教狂的智慧，牧师和他的橡皮连祷文，妓女的下流话，从排水道里漂走的唾液，乳房里的奶汁和子宫里流出的带苦味的蜜水，以及一切流质的、溶化的、放荡的和有溶解力的，所有在流动中得到静化的脓和脏物，那些失去其出身意识的东西和那些将大循环驱向死亡和瓦解的东西。这个伟大的乱伦愿望与时间一起向前流动，将来世的伟大概念同此地此刻融汇起来，这是一个空幻、自杀的愿望，它被言词阻挡，被思想麻痹。
I love the amniotic fluid when it spills out of the bag. I love the kidney with its painful gallstones, its gravel and what not; I love the urine that pours out scalding and the clap that runs endlessly; I love the words of hysterics and the sentences that flow on like dysentery and mirror all the sick images of the soul; I love the great rivers like the Amazon and the Orinoco, where crazy men like Moravagine float on through dream and legend in an open boat and drown in the blind mouths of the river. I love everything that flows, even the menstrual flow that carries away the seed unfecund. I love scripts that flow, be they hieratic, esoteric, perverse, polymorph, or unilateral. I love everything that flows, everything that has time in it and becoming, that brings us back to the beginning where there is never end: the violence of the prophets, the obscenity that is ecstasy, the wisdom of the fanatic, the priest with his rubber litany, the foul words of the whore, the spittle that floats away in the gutter, the milk of the breast and the bitter honey that pours from the womb, all that is fluid, melting, dissolute and dissolvent, all the pus and dirt that in flowing is purified, that loses its sense of origin, that makes the great circuit toward death and dissolution. The great incestuous wish is to flow on, one with time, to merge the great image of the beyond with the here and now. A fatuous, suicidal wish that is constipated by words and paralyzed by thought.
Part 14 Chapter 1
我们从奥德萨街同电话公司的几个黑女人一起回到家里时已快到圣诞节的黎明了。火熄了，我们都太累了，于是便穿着衣服上了床。我的那个姑娘整个晚上都像一头豹子一样蹦蹦跳跳，我爬到她身上时她已睡熟了。我在她身上费了一阵劲儿，犹如在一个被淹死或闷死的人身上使劲儿一样。后来我放弃了努力，自己也睡熟了。
It was close to dawn on Christmas Day when we came home from the Rue d'Odessa with a couple of Negresses from the telephone company. The fire was out and we were all so tired that we climbed into bed with our clothes on. The one I had, who had been like a bounding leopard all evening, fell sound asleep as I was climbing over her. For a while I worked over her as one works over a person who has been drowned or asphyxiated. Then I gave it up and fell sound asleep myself:
 
　　节日期间我们天天喝香摈，早上、中午和晚上，有最便宜的，也有最好的。过了年我就要到第戎去了，人家在那儿给了我一个微不足道的差使：当被交换的英语教师。这是促进法美和睦相处的一项安排。旨在增进这两个姐妹国家的互相了解和友善。对于这一前程菲尔莫比我更感到鼓舞，他这样想是有充足理由的，而对于我这不过只是从一个受苦受难的地方转到另一个受苦受难的地方去而已。我面前没有希望，这份工作甚至连薪水也没有。他们指望得到这份工作的人自认有福气，能够享受传播法美和睦这一福音的特权，这是为一个阔佬的儿子预备的工作。
All during the holidays we had champagne morning, noon and night - the cheapest and the best champagne. With the turn of the year I was to leave for Dijon where I had been offered a trivial post as exchange professor of English, one of those Franco-American amity arrangements which is supposed to promote understanding and good will between sister republics. Fillmore was more elated than I by the prospect - he had good reason to be. For me it was just a transfer from one purgatory to another. There was no future ahead of me; there wasn't even a salary attached to the job. One was supposed to consider himself fortunate to enjoy the privilege of spreading the gospel of Franco-American amity. It was a job for a rich man's son.
 
　　启程前一天晚上我们玩得很开心。天快亮时下起了雪。我们走过一个个街区，最后再看一眼巴黎。穿过晕多敏克街时我义。正在发生什么事情，正在上演一出哑剧，它没有使我完全惊呆，却也叫我惶惶不知所措。在全世界，凡有这些灯光黯淡的坟墓的地方你都会看到这一令人难以置信的场面，同样的恼人的温度、同样的朦朦胧胧的光线、同样的嗡嗡声。在特定的时辰内，整个基督教世界里穿黑衣的人都俯在祭坛前。牧师就站在那上面，手里拿着一本小书，另一只手里拿着一只吃饭铃或喷雾器。他对众人喃喃布道，他的话即使能叫人听懂也不再有一点儿意义。很可能他是在乞求上帝保佑他们吧，也保佑国家，保佑统治者，保佑枪炮、战舰、军火和手榴弹。祭坛上围在牧师身边的是一群小男孩，穿着打扮像上帝的安琪儿，他们唱男高音和女高音。全是纯洁的小羊羔，全穿着裙子，看不出性别，像牧师本人一样是扁平足和近视眼。真是绝妙的不辨雌雄的猫叫春、是符合J一mol节拍的松紧内裤里的性行为。
The night before I left we had a good time. About dawn it began to snow: we walked about from one quarter to another taking a last look at Paris. Passing through the Rue St. Dominique we suddenly fell upon a little square and there was the Eglise Ste. Clotilde. People were going to mass. Fillmore, whose head was still a little cloudy, was bent on going to mass too. "For the fun of it!" as he put it. I felt somewhat uneasy about it; in the first place I had never attended a mass, and in the second place I looked seedy and felt seedy. Fillmore, too, looked rather battered, even more disreputable than myself; his big slouch hat was on assways and his overcoat was still full of sawdust from the last joint we had been in. However, we marched in. The worst they could do would be to throw us out.
 
　　我在昏暗的光线下尽量仔细地观察这儿的情况，既令人眼花镣乱，又叫人目瞪口呆。我自忖，整个文明世界、整个世界都是这样，真是太棒了。不论下雨还是天晴，下冰雹、雨夹雪、雪、打雷、闪电、战争、饥馑、瘟疫，都不受丝毫影响。总是同样的恼人温度，同样的胡言乱语，同样的在脚腕上系带子的鞋和上帝的小安滇儿唱男高音和女高音。靠近出口处有一只开了一个孔的小箱子，是为了继续天国的工作的，于是上帝的恩典便会像雨点一样落在帝王头上，落在国家里，落在军舰、高效炸药、坦克和飞机上，于是工人会增强臂力，有力气屠宰马、牛和羊，有力气在铁大梁上钻孔，有力气在别人的裤子上缀扣子，有力气出售胡萝卜、缝纫机和汽车，有力气消灭虫子、打扫马棚、倒垃圾箱、洗刷厕所，有力气写新闻标题、在地下铁道里剪票。力气……力气，原来这喃喃自语和戏弄人的把戏只是为了给人一点力气。
I was taking it in as best I could in the dim light. Fascinating and stupefying at the same time. All over the civilized world, I thought to myself. All over the world. Marvelous. Rain or shine, hail, sleet, snow, thunder, lightning, war, famine, pestilence - makes not the slightest difference. Always the same mean temperature, the same mumbo jumbo, the same high laced shoes and the little angels of the Lord singing soprano and alto. Near the exit a little slot box - to carry on the heavenly work. So that God's blessing may rain down upon king and country and battleships and high explosives and tanks and airplanes, so that the worker may have more strength in his arms, strength to slaughter horses and cows and sheep, strength to punch holes in iron girders, strength to sew buttons on other people's pants, strength to sell carrots and sewing machines and automobiles, strength to exterminate insects and clean stables and unload garbage cans and scrub lavatories, strength to write headlines and chop tickets in the subway. Strength… strength. All that lip chewing and hornswoggling just to furnish a little strength!
 
　　　一刹那间全部这些流涎水、翁动嘴唇的把戏几乎都有了意我们从一个地方挪到另一个地方，以通宵狂欢后的那种清醒意识审视这个场面。我们这样穿来穿去一定很惹人注意，因为我们的外衣领子竖着，从不画十字，除了低声说几句麻木不仁的话以外嘴巴一动也不曾动。若是菲尔莫不那么固执地要在仪式正进行了一半的时候从祭坛边走过，或许谁也不会注意到这一切。他在找出口，我估计他想到了出口那儿就好好看一看这最最神圣的场面，这就是说要近距离仔细看一看。我们一直平安无事，正在朝很可能是出去的通道那一道光线处走去，这时幽暗中猛地闪出一位牧师拦住了路。他想问问我们要去哪儿，正在于什么，我们相当有礼貌地回答说我们正在找出口。我们说的是英语的“出口”，因为当时太惊恐，我们一时想不起法语“出口”是怎么说的了。牧师一句话不说便紧紧抓住我们的胳膊，推开一道边门把我们狠狠推出去了，我们摇摇晃晃地跌进了刺眼的阳光中。这件事发生得那么突然、猝不及防，待我们到了人行道上仍没有完全反应过来。我们眯上眼睛走出去几步，然后又出于本能转过身来。牧师仍站在台阶上，苍白得像一个鬼魂，像魔鬼那样狠狠地瞪着我们，准是连肺都气炸了。后来又回想起这件事时我也不怪他，不过当时瞧见他穿着长袍、头上扣着一顶小瓜皮帽的滑稽相，我禁不住哈哈大笑。我看看菲尔莫，于是他也大笑开了。我们站在那儿当着这个可怜虫的面足足笑了一分钟，我猜他起初有一点儿茫然不知所措，不过他突然冲下台阶，一边还冲着我们晃拳头，像是认真了。待他冲出围墙便狂奔过来，这会儿某种保护自乙的本能提醒我快溜走。我拽住菲尔莫的袖子跑开了，他还像个傻瓜似的说，“别，别！我不跑！”“快跑！”我嚷道。“咱们还是快点儿离开这儿为妙，这家伙已经完全疯了。”于是我们逃了，拼命竭尽全力逃走了。
We were moving about from one spot to another, surveying the scene with that clearheadedness which comes after an all night session. We must have made ourselves pretty conspicuous shuffling about that way with our coat collars turned up and never once crossing ourselves and never once moving our lips except to whisper some callous remark. Perhaps everything would have passed off without notice if Fillmore hadn't insisted on walking past the altar in the midst of the ceremony. He was looking for the exit, and he thought while he was at it, I suppose, that he would take a good squint at the holy of holies, get a close up on it, as it were. We had gotten safely by and were marching toward a crack of light which must have been the way out when a priest suddenly stepped out of the gloom and blocked our path. Wanted to know where we were going and what we were doing. We told him politely enough that we were looking for the exit. We said "exit" because at the moment we were so flabbergasted that we couldn't think of the French for exit. Without a word of response he took us firmly by the arm and, opening the door, a side door it was, he gave us a push and out we tumbled into the blinding light of day. It happened so suddenly and unexpectedly that when we hit the sidewalk we were in a daze. We walked a few paces, blinking our eyes, and then instinctively we both turned round; the priest was still standing on the steps, pale as a ghost and scowling like the devil himself. He must have been sore as hell. Later, thinking back on it, I couldn't blame him for it. But at that moment, seeing him with his long skirts and the little skull cap on his cranium, he looked so ridiculous that I burst out laughing. I looked at Fillmore and he began to laugh too. For a full minute we stood there laughing right in the poor bugger's face. He was so bewildered, I guess, that for a moment he didn't know what to do; suddenly, however, he started down the steps on the run, shaking his fist at us as if he were in earnest. When he swung out of the enclosure he was on the gallop. By this time some preservative instinct warned me to get a move on. I grabbed Fillmore by the coat sleeve and started to run. He was saying, like an idiot: "No, no! I won't run!" "Come on!" I yelled, "we'd better get out of here. That guy's mad clean through." And off we ran, beating it as fast as our legs would carry us.
 
　　去第戎的路上我们仍在为这件事情大笑，不过我的思绪又回到了另一件可笑的往事上。那件事同今天发生的事有点儿相似，是我在佛罗里达短暂停留时发生的。那是在出名的繁华时期，我同成千上万人一样冷不防遇到了麻烦，我试图解脱，结果却同一位朋友一道更深地陷入了困境。杰克逊维尔尤其处于被围困状态中，我们就在那儿被困了大约六个星期。天下所有的流浪汉和许多以前从未作过流浪汉的家伙似乎都游荡到杰克逊维尔来了，到处都住满了人—基督教青年会、救世军，消防队和警察局、旅馆和公寓。到处都挂着客满的牌子，绝对客满。杰克逊维尔的居民的心肠已经变得很硬，我觉得他们像是穿着甲胄在来回走。这一回又是食物这个老问题，食物和一个睡觉的地方。食物正从南方用火车运来。桔子、柚子以及各种水份很多的食品。我们常从货车棚旁走过，看看有没有烂水果，可甚至连这也很难得。
On the way to Dijon, still laughing about the affair, my thoughts reverted to a ludicrous incident, of a somewhat similar nature, which occurred during my brief sojourn in Florida. It was during the celebrated boom when, like thousands of others, I was caught with my pants down. Trying to extricate myself I got caught, along with a friend of mine, in the very neck of the bottle. Jacksonville, where we were marooned for about six weeks, was practically in a state of siege. Every bum on earth, and a lot of guys who had never been bums before, seemed to have drifted into Jacksonville. The YMCA, the Salvation Army, the firehouses and police stations, the hotels, the lodging houses, everything was full up. Complet absolutely, and signs everywhere to that effect. The residents of Jacksonville had become so hardened that it seemed to me as if they were walking around in coats of mail. It was the old business of food again. Food and a place to flop. Food was coming up from below in trainloads - oranges and grapefruit and all sorts of juicy edibles. We used to pass by the freight sheds looking for rotten fruit - but even that was scarce.
Part 14 Chapter 2
在绝望中，有一天夜里我拉上我的朋友乔来到一家犹太教会堂里，当时里面正在做礼拜。这是一家新派会众聚会场所。那位拉比给我留下的印象相当不错。音乐也很打动人，是犹太人那种发自内心的悲哀曲调。礼拜刚一结束我便大摇大摆地走到拉比的书房里要求见他，他接待我时还算过得去，待我说明了来意他便吓坏了。我只是求他给我和我的朋友乔施舍几个钱，可是看着他瞧着我的那副样子你还以为我已开口要把会堂租下来当保龄球场呢。最后他突然直截了当地间我是不是犹太人，我说不是，他便发火了。那么，请问，你为什么要来向一个犹太教牧师求援呢？我天真地告诉他我一贯信任犹太人，我是很谦卑他说这话的，仿佛自己不是犹太人是一个古怪的缺陷似的。这也是实话，但他根本不为所动。不，先生。他简直吓坏了。为了赶我走，他给救世军的人写了一张便条，说，“这才是你该去的地方呢。”说完他便无礼地转身照看他的会众去了。
One night, in desperation, I dragged my friend Joe to a synagogue, during the service. It was a Reformed congregation, and the rabbi impressed me rather favorably. The music got me too - that piercing lamentation of the Jews. As soon as the service was over I marched to the rabbi's study and requested an interview with him. He received me decently enough - until I made clear my mission. Then he grew absolutely frightened. I had only asked him for a handout on behalf of my friend Joe and myself. You would have thought, from the way he looked at me, that I had asked to rent the synagogue as a bowling alley. To cap it all, he suddenly asked me pointblank if I was a Jew or not. When I answered no, he seemed perfectly outraged. Why, pray, had I come to a Jewish pastor for aid? I told him naively that I had always had more faith in the Jews than in the Gentiles. I said it modestly, as if it were one of my peculiar defects. It was the truth too. But he wasn't a bit flattered. No, siree. He was horrified. To get rid of me he wrote out a note to the Salvation Army people. "That's the place for you to address yourself," he said, and brusquely turned away to tend his flock.
 
　　救世军当然也拿不出什么给我们。假如我们每人有两毛五分也可以祖一个铺在地上的床垫，可是我们两人加起来连五分钱也没有。我们来到公园里，在一条长椅上躺下。天正在下雨，我们便用报纸遮盖在身上。估计过了还不到半小时，一个警察过来一句话不说就狠狠扇了我们一掌，我们马上爬起来站在地上，还跳了几下舞，尽管当时没有一点儿心思跳舞。屁股上挨了那白痴王八蛋掴了一掌后，我真是又气愤又可怜，又沮丧又下贱，简直恨不得把市政厅炸掉。
The Salvation Army, of course, had nothing to offer us. If we had had a quarter apiece we might have rented a mattress on the floor. But we hadn't a nickel between us. We went to the park and stretched ourselves out on a bench. It was raining and so we covered ourselves with newspapers. Weren't there more than a half hour, I imagine, when a cop came along and, without a word of warning, gave us such a sound fanning that we were up and on our feet in a jiffy, and dancing a bit too, though we weren't in any mood for dancing. I felt so goddamned sore and miserable, so dejected, so lousy, after being whacked over the ass by that half witted bastard, that I could have blown up the City Hall.
 
　　第二天早上，为了报复这伙好客的王八蛋，我们一早便精神焕发地站在一个天主教教士的门口了。这一回我让乔说话，他是爱尔兰人，还带点儿爱尔兰土腔。他的眼睛也非常蓝，温情脉脉的，只要乐意他还能叫它们湿润起来。一个穿黑袍的修女打开门，可她并不请我们进去，却要我们在走廊里等她去禀报那位好心的长老。过了几分钟那位好心的长老来了，像一部火车头一样喘着粗气。我们这么早打搅他的嗜好是为了得到什么？一点儿吃的和一个睡觉的地方，我们天真地答道。好心的长老立即问，那你们是从哪儿来的？从纽约。从纽约吗？那么你们还是尽快回纽约去吧，我的孩子们。这个大块头、大胖萝卜脸的狗东西再也没有说什么便当着我们的面把门关上了。
The next morning, in order to get even with these hospitable sons of bitches, we presented ourselves bright and early at the door of a Catholic priest. This time I let Joe do the talking. He was Irish and he had a bit of a brogue. He had very soft, blue eyes, too, and he could make them water a bit when he wanted to. A sister in black opened the door for us; she didn't ask us inside, however. We were to wait in the vestibule until she went and called for the good father. In a few minutes he came, the good father, puffing like a locomotive. And what was it we wanted disturbing his likes at that hour of the morning? Something to eat and a place to flop, we answered innocently. And where did we hail from, the good father wanted to know at once. From New York. From New York, eh? Then ye'd better be gettin' back there as fast as ye kin, me lads, and without another word the big, bloated turnip faced bastard shoved the door in our face.
 
　　大约过了一个小时，我俩像两只歪歪倒倒的双桅帆船一样无助地四处乱逛，又碰巧从教士家路过。老天爷在上，这个大块头、淫荡的萝卜脸正在从胡同里往外倒他的轿车呢！从我们身边疾驶而过时他朝我们眼睛里喷出一团烟，似乎是说，“这是赏给你们的！”那轿车很漂亮，后面装着好几只备用轮胎，好心的长老坐在方向盘后面，嘴里叼着一根粗雪茄。这根雪茄这么粗，味道这么足，准是一根克罗那?克罗那牌的。他坐姿很优雅，你很难模仿得来。我看不见他是否穿了长袍，只看到嘴边淌下的肉汤和那根散发出香味的五十美分大雪茄。
About an hour later, drifting around helplessly like a couple of drunken schooners, we happened to pass by the rectory again. So help me God if the big, lecherous looking turnip wasn't backing out of the alley in a limousine! As he swung past us he blew a cloud of smoke into our eyes. As though to say - "That for you!" A beautiful limousine it was, with a couple of spare tires in the back, and the good father sitting at the wheel with a big cigar in his mouth. Must have been a Corona Corona, so fat and luscious it was. Sitting pretty he was, and no two ways about it: I couldn't see whether he had skirts on or not. I could only see the gravy trickling from his lips - and the big cigar with that fifty cent aroma.
 
　　去第戎的路上我不由得追忆起这段往事。我想到在那些痛苦、耻辱的时刻我本该说、本该做而又没有说、没有做的一切，那时为了向别人讨一口面包就要叫自己变得不如一条虫子。尽管我非常镇定自若，这些老一套的侮辱和伤害仍使我感到痛苦。
All the way to Dijon I got to reminiscing about the past. I thought of all the things I might have said and done, which I hadn't said or done, in the bitter, humiliating moments when just to ask for a crust of bread is to make yourself less than a worm. Stone sober as I was, I was still smarting from those old insults and injuries.
 
　　我仍能感觉到那个警察在公园里朝我屁股上掴的那一巴掌，尽管那只是一桩小事，你或许会说那是一堂短短的舞蹈课。我走遍了整个美国，也曾进入加拿大和墨西哥。到处都一样，你若想要面包就得去干活，去受人摆布。整个地球是一片灰蒙蒙的沙漠，是钢和水泥铺成的地毯。生产吧！更多的傻瓜和螺钉、更多的带刺铁丝网、更多的狗食、更多的割草机、更多的滚珠轴承、更多的高效炸药，更多的坦克、更多的毒气、更多的肥皂、更多的牙膏、更多的报纸、更多的教育、更多的教堂、更多的图书馆、更多的博物馆。前进！时间不等人，胎儿正在穿过子宫颈，却连一点润滑通道的羊水也没有。这是干燥、快把胎儿勒死的出生，没有一声哭号、一声喊叫。向来到人世间的孩子致敬！从直肠里腾腾放出二十一响致敬的礼炮。瓦尔特?惠特曼说，“我戴帽子全看自己高兴不高兴，不论是在室内还是在室外。”以前有过你可以挑选一顶合适的帽子戴的时代，不过时代在变，现在为了挑选一顶合适的帽子你得一直走到电椅上去，他们会给你一顶瓜皮帽戴。有点紧，怎么啦？不过没关系！挺合适。
I could still feel that whack over the ass which the cop gave me in the park - though that was a mere bagatelle, a little dancing lesson, you might say. All over the States I wandered, and into Canada and Mexico. The same story everywhere. If you want bread you've got to get in harness, get in lock step. Over all the earth a gray desert, a carpet of steel and cement. Production! More nuts and bolts, more barbed wire, more dog biscuits, more lawn mowers, more ball bearings, more high explosives, more tanks, more poison gas, more soap, more toothpaste, more newspapers, more education, more churches, more libraries, more museums. Forward! Time presses. The embryo is pushing through the neck of the womb, and there's not even a gob of spit to ease the passage. A dry, strangulating birth. Not a wail, not a chirp. Salut au monde! Salute of twenty one guns bombinating from the rectum. "I wear my hat as I please, indoors or out," said Walt. That was a time when you could still get a hat to fit your head. But time passes. To get a hat that fits now you have to walk to the electric chair. They give you a skull cap. A tight fit, what? But no matter! It fits.
 
　　你必须呆在法国这样一个陌生的国度里，在将生与死分为两部分的子午线上行走，这样才会明白前面等待你的将是何种难以预测的景观。带电的肉体！民主的灵魂！血的浪潮！上帝的神圣母亲啊，这一番蠢活是什么意思？地球烤焦了，破裂了，男男女女像一窝兀鹰围着一具发臭的尸体一样汇集在一起，交配，然后飞往各处。我门就是从云里像沉重的石头一样落下的兀鹰，就是它们的爪和嘴，它的巨大的消化器官有一个专嗅臭肉的鼻子。前进！不怜悯、不同情、不爱也不谅解地前进！别请求宽恕，也别宽恕别人！更多的战舰、毒气、高效炸药！更多的淋菌！更多的链球菌！更多的轰炸机！越来越多，直到所有见鬼的工厂被炸成碎片，地球也一起毁掉。
You have to be in a strange country like France, walking the meridian that separates the hemispheres of life and death, to know what incalculable vistas yawn ahead. The body electric! The democratic soul! Flood tide! Holy Mother of God, what does this crap mean? The earth is parched and cracked. Men and women come together like broods of vultures over a stinking carcass, to mate and fly apart again. Vultures who drop from the clouds like heavy stones. Talons and beak, that's what we are! A huge intestinal apparatus with a nose for dead meat. Forward! Forward without pity, without compassion, without love, without forgiveness. Ask no quarter and give none! More battleships, more poison gas, more high explosives! More gonococci! More streptococci! More bombing machines! More and more of it - until the whole fucking works is blown to smithereens, and the earth with it!
 
　　一下火车我就马上明白自己犯了一个大错误。那所公主中学离车站不远，我在薄薄的暮色中走过大道朝目的地摸去。正下着小雪，树上结的霜晶莹闪亮，我经过看上去像阴沉的候诊室的几家空荡荡的大咖啡馆。寂静、空旷的幽暗，这就是它们给我留下的印象。这是一个毫无希望的小镇，那儿出产的芥未多得车载斗量，大桶，小桶，罐子和精致的大口瓶里都盛着芥末。
Stepping off the train I knew immediately that I had made a fatal mistake. The Lycée was a little distance from the station; I walked down the main street in the early dusk of winter, feeling my way toward my destination. A light snow was falling, the trees sparkled with frost. Passed a couple of huge, empty cafés that looked like dismal waiting rooms. Silent, empty gloom - that's how it impressed me. A hopeless, jerkwater town where mustard is turned out in carload lots, in vats and tuns and barrels and pots and cute looking little jars.
 
　　一看到那所学校我心里就凉了半截，到了大门口我仍拿不定主意，便站下考虑是不是还进去。可是我没有买回程车票的钱，再多想这个也没有多大用处。有一阵子我想给菲尔莫打电报，可是无论如何也想不出一个借口，于是只得闭上眼睛走进去。
The first glance at the Lycée sent a shudder through me. I felt so undecided that at the entrance I stopped to debate whether I would go in or not. But as I hadn't the price of a return ticket there wasn't much use debating the question. I thought for a moment of sending a wire to Fillmore, but then I was stumped to know what excuse to make. The only thing to do was to walk in with my eyes shut.
 
　　正巧勒普罗维西厄先生不在，他们说这天他休息。一个小驼背过来主动提出带我去勒桑塞尔先生的办公室，那是第二号人物。我紧跟在他身后，他蹒跚走路的怪样子使我觉得很好笑。他是一个小怪物，在欧洲任何一座不那么像回事的教堂门口栖息的怪物。
It happened that M. le Proviseur was out - his day off, so they said. A little hunchback came forward and offered to escort me to the office of M. le Censeur, second in charge. I walked a little behind him, fascinated by the grotesque way in which he hobbled along. He was a little monster, such as can be seen on the porch of any half-assed cathedral in Europe.
　　
　　勒桑塞尔先生的办公室又大又空，我坐在一把椅子上等着，驼背又冲出去找他。我在这儿觉得相当自在，这个地方的气氛使我清晰地想起了美国的一些慈善机构，我从前常常在那些地方一坐就是几个钟头，等某个满口甜言蜜语的王八蛋来细细盘问我。
The office of M. le Censeur was large and bare. I sat down in a stiff chair to wait while the hunchback darted off to search for him. I almost felt at home. The atmosphere of the place reminded me vividly of certain charity bureaus back in the States where I used to sit by the hour waiting for some mealy mouthed bastard to come and cross examine me.
 
　　门猛地打开了，勒桑塞尔先生踏着碎步趾高气扬地进来了。我勉强忍住才没有笑出声来。他穿着一件常礼服，跟鲍里斯从前穿的那件一样，他的前额上垂下一络头发，斯麦尔佳科夫也许留的就是这种卷发。他严肃、好发脾气、目光锐利。他不说一句鼓励的话，马上拿来写着学生姓名、课时和课程的单子一次给我交代清楚，他告诉我给我拨了多少煤和木柴，接着又马上告诉我没有课的时间由我自行支配，想干什么就干什么好了。最后这一件是我听见他讲的头一桩好事，这话听了叫人那么舒服自在，我马上为法国祈祷了一次—为它的陆海军、它的教育制度、它的小酒馆及所有混账机构。
Suddenly the door opened and, with a mincing step, M. le Censeur came prancing in. It was all I could do to suppress a titter. He had on just such a frock coat as Boris used to wear, and over his forehead there hung a bang, a sort of spitcurl such as Smerdyakov might have worn. Grave and brittle, with a lynxlike eye, he wasted no words of cheer on me. At once he brought forth the sheets on which were written the names of the students, the hours, the classes, etc., all in a meticulous hand. He told me how much coal and wood I was allowed and after that he promptly informed me that I was at liberty to do as I pleased in my spare time. This last was the first good thing I had heard him say. It sounded so reassuring that I quickly said a prayer for France - for the army and for the navy, the educational system, the bistros, the whole goddamned works.
　　
　　这一套手续办完了，他拉拉一只小铃，听到铃声驼背便来引我去莱克诺姆先生的办公室。这里的气氛有些不同，更像一个货站，到处搁着提货单和橡皮图章，脸色灰白的办事员用断铅笔在大本的笨重帐本上飞快地书写，待他们把我这一份煤和木柴分出来后我便和驼背一起推着一辆手推车朝宿舍走去。我将在顶层分到一间房，同学监监们住在同一侧。这情景有几分好笑，不知道下一步会发生什么。或许有一只痰盂，这儿有一种很强烈的作战前准备的气氛，只缺少一只背包和一杆枪—还有一只黄铜酒怀。
This folderol completed, he rang a little bell, whereupon the hunchback promptly appeared to escort me to the office of M. l'Econome. Here the atmosphere was somwhat different. More like a freight station, with bills of lading and rubber stamps everywhere, and pasty-faced clerks scribbling away with broken pens in huge, cumbersome ledgers. My dole of coal and wood portioned out, off we marched, the hunchback and I, with a wheelbarrow, toward the dormitory. I was to have a room on the top floor, in the same wing as the pions. The situation was taking on a humorous aspect. I didn't know what the hell to expect next. Perhaps a spittoon. The whole thing smacked very much of preparation for a campaign; the only things missing were a knapsack and rifle - and a brass slug.
 
　　分给我的房间相当大，屋里有一只小火炉，炉上装着弯曲的烟筒，恰好在铁床上方拐弯。还有一只装煤的大箱子。木柴就堆在门口。窗外是一排完全用石头砌起来的凄凉的小房子，里面住着杂货商、烤面包的、鞋匠、屠夫—全是一伙白痴似的粗人。我的视线又越过他们的房顶，光秃秃的山岭中有一列火车在卡嗒卡嗒响，车头发出的尖锐汽笛声既伤感又像是在发歇斯底里。
The room assigned me was rather large, with a small stove to which was attached a crooked pipe that made an elbow just over the iron cot. A big chest for the coal and wood stood near the door. The windows gave out on a row of forlorn little houses all made of stone in which lived the grocer, the baker, the shoemaker, the butcher, etc. - all imbecilic-looking clodhoppers. I glanced over the rooftops toward the bare hills where a train was clattering. The whistle of the locomotive screamed mournfully and hysterically.
Part 14 Chapter 3
待驼背替我生好了火，我便向他打听吃的。还不到吃饭时间，于是我穿着大衣倒在床上，把被子盖在身上。我身边便是那张用了不知多久，摇摇晃晃的床头柜，尿盆就藏在这里面。我把闹钟摆在床头柜上，望着时间一分钟一分钟嘀答嘀答过去。一道蓝光从外面街上透进屋里来，我倾听着卡车隆隆驶过，一边茫然地瞪着烟筒，瞪着用一截截铁丝捆住的烟筒拐弯处。我一辈子从未住过一间屋里摆着一个煤箱子的房子，也一辈子没有生过火、教过孩子，而且就此来说我还从未干过没有报酬的工作。我在感觉到自由自在的同时也觉得受到了束缚，很像一个人在选举前的心情，所有的骗子都得到了提名，这时却有人恳求你投那个合适人选的票。我觉得自己像一个受雇者、一个“万金油”、一个猎手、一个流浪汉，一个划船的囚犯、一个寒酸的小学教师、一条蛆和一只虱子。我是自由的，可我的四肢却带着镣铐。我是带着一张免费餐券的民主的灵魂，可是没有机车那么大的力量，没有声音。我又觉得自己像一只钉在木板上的海蜇，但我最明显的感觉是饿。钟上的指针走得很慢，还得消磨十分钟火警警报才会响。屋里的阴影更深了，静得吓人，这种紧张的寂静令我的神经难以忍受。窗子上积了小团小团的雪，远处有一台机车发出刺耳的响声，过后又是死一般的寂静，炉子燃旺了，可是并没有散发出多少热量。我有点儿担心自己会一觉睡过去，误了饭，那就意味着得空着肚子躺一夜，睡不着。于是，我惊慌了。
After the hunchback had made the fire for me I inquired about the grub. It was not quite time for dinner. I flopped on the bed, with my overcoat on, and pulled the covers over me. Beside me was the eternal rickety night table in which the piss pot is hidden away. I stood the alarm on the table and watched the minutes ticking off. Into the well of the room a bluish light filtered in from the street. I listened to the trucks rattling by as I gazed vacantly at the stove pipe, at the elbow where it was held together with bits of wire. The coal chest intrigued me. Never in my life had I occupied a room with a coal chest. And never in my life had I built a fire or taught children. Nor, for that matter, never in my life had I worked without pay. I felt free and chained at the same time - like one feels just before election, when all the crooks have been nominated and you are beseeched to vote for the right man. I felt like a hired man, like a jack of all trades, like a hunter, like a rover, like a galley slave, like a pedagogue, like a worm and a louse. I was free, but my limbs were shackled. A democratic soul with a free meal ticket, but no power of locomotion, no voice. I felt like a jellyfish nailed to a plank. Above all, I felt hungry. The hands were moving slowly. Still ten more minutes to kill before the fire alarm would go off. The shadows in the room deepened. It grew frightfully silent, a tense stillness that tautened my nerves. Little dabs of snow clung to the windowpanes. Far away a locomotive gave out a shrill scream. Then a dead silence again. The stove had commenced to glow, but there was no heat coming from it. I began to fear that I might doze off and miss the dinner. That would mean lying awake on an empty belly all night. I got panic stricken.
 
　　离开饭锣敲响还有一会儿，我跳下床锁上门冲到楼下的院子里。在那儿我迷失了方向，一间又一间四边形的房间、一座又一座楼梯，我在这些建筑物里进进出出，疯了似的找寻餐厅。我走过一长队不知正往哪儿去的孩子身边，他们像一群用锁链锁住的囚徒缓缓向前移动，队列前面有一个监工。最后我瞧见一个戴礼帽、精力旺盛的人朝我走来，我拦住他打听去餐厅的路。正巧我拦住了该拦的人，此人正是勒普罗维西厄，他对于同我巧遇感到高兴，马上便问我是否已安置妥当了，还有没有他可以替我效劳的事情。我告诉他一切都妥了。后来又冒昧添了一句，说只是有点儿冷。他宽慰我说这种天气是很反常的，不时有雾，还有一点儿雪，那时天气就要坏一阵了，以及其他诸如此类的话。说这些话时他始终挽着我的胳膊，领我朝餐厅走。
Just a moment before the gong went off I jumped out of bed and, locking the door behind me, I bolted downstairs to the courtyard. There I got lost. One quadrangle after another, one staircase after another. I wandered in and out of the buildings searching frantically for the refectory. Passed a long line of youngsters marching in a column to God knows where; they moved along like a chain gang, with a slave driver at the head of the column. Finally I saw an energetic looking individual, with a derby, heading toward me. I stopped him to ask the way to the refectory. Happened I stopped the right man. It was M. le Proviseur, and he seemed delighted to have stumbled on me. Wanted to know right away if I were comfortably settled, if there was anything more he could do for me. I told him everything was O.K. Only it was a bit chilly, I ventured to add. He assured me that it was rather unusual, this weather. Now and then the fogs came on and a bit of snow, and then it became unpleasant for a while, and so on and so forth. All the while he had me by the arm, guiding me toward the refectory.
 
　　看来他倒是一个满不错的人，一个正常的家伙，我自忖道。我甚至还幻想以后我也许F会同他关系密切起来，也许在某一个寒冷的夜晚他会请我去他的房间，替我弄一杯热酒。在走到餐厅门口的这几秒钟内我幻想到各种各样的友好场面，我的思想以每分钟一英里的速度飞驰。就在餐厅门口，他突然同我握握手，抬抬帽子同我道别。我茫然不知所措，便也碰了碰帽子。很快我就发现这是一件寻常的事，不定什么时候你碰到一位教员，甚至从莱克诺姆先生身边走过时也是一样，你都要碰碰帽子，也许你一天会与同一个人相遇十来次，那也一样，你一定得向他致意，哪怕你的帽子破了也罢，这才是礼貌的举止。
He seemed like a very decent chap. A regular guy, I thought to myself. I even went so far as to imagine that I might get chummy with him later on, that he'd invite me to his room on a bitter cold night and make a hot grog for me. I imagined all sorts of friendly things in the few moments it required to reach the door of the refectory. Here, my mind racing on at a mile a minute. he suddenly shook hands with me and, doffing his hat, bade me good night. I was so bewildered that I tipped my hat also. It was the regular thing to do, I soon found out. Whenever you pass a prof, or even M. l'Econome, you doff the hat. Might pass the same guy a dozen times a day. Makes no difference. You've got to give the salute, even though your hat is worn out. It's the polite thing to do.
 
　　我总算找到了餐厅。它很像纽约曼哈顿东区的一家平民诊所，砖墙，无罩的灯和大理石桌面的桌子，当然少不了一只带拐弯烟筒的大火炉。饭还没有端上来，一个跛子跑进跑出，拿盘子、刀叉和酒瓶。几个年轻人坐在一个角落里热烈地谈论着什么，我走过去作了自我介绍，他们极其友好地接待了我。老实说，几乎是友好得过分了，我弄不太懂这是怎么回事。一会儿屋里就挤满了人，于是他们很快把我介绍给每个人。接着他们在我身边围成一个圈子，斟满酒杯，唱起歌来……
Anyway, I had found the refectory. Like an East Side clinic it was, with tiled walls, bare light, and marble-topped tables. And of course a big stove with an elbow pipe. The dinner wasn't served yet. A cripple was running in and out with dishes and knives and forks and bottles of wine. In a corner several young men conversing animatedly. I went up to them and introduced myself. They gave me a most cordial reception. Almost too cordial, in fact. I couldn't quite make it out. In a jiffy the room began to fill up; I was presented from one to the other quickly. Then they formed a circle about me and, filling the glasses, they began to sing…
 
　　“一个晚上我起了一个念头：
　　我呼唤着宙斯去鸡奸一个绞死的人。
　　风在绞架上吹起，
　　看，那个死人在晃动。
　　我只得跳起来去好这个死尸，
　　呼唤着宙斯的大名，人们从不满足。
　　在过于狭小的肛门里亲吻，
　　呼唤着宙斯的大名，看着它在那儿乱蹭。
　　在过于宽大的肛门里亲吻，
　　人们一无所知或是发泄怒气，
　　那样的情景令人十分厌恶。
　　呼唤着宙斯的大名，人们从不满足。”
L'autre soir l'idée m'est venue
Cré nom de Zeus d'enculer un pendu;
Le vent se lève sur la potence,
Voilà mon pendu qui se balance,
J'ai d? l'enculer en sautant,
Cré nom de Zeus, on est jamais content.
 
Baiser dans un con trop petit,
Cré nom de Zeus, on s'écorche le vit;
Baiser dans un con trop large,
On ne sait pas où l'on décharge;
Se branler étant bien emmerdant,
Cré nom de Zeus, on est jamais content.
 
　　歌声刚落，卡西莫多宣布开饭了。
With this, Quasimodo announced the dinner.
 
　　这些学监是一群快乐的人。那位克罗打起嗝来像头猪，一坐下来吃饭总要先放一个大屁。他们告诉我，他能一连放十三个屁，这个记录没有人能打破。还有勒普兰斯先生，他是一个运动员，喜欢在傍晚进城时穿一件无尾夜常礼服。他相貌英俊，真像个姑娘，而且从来不碰酒，也不读任何会伤脑筋的东西。他旁边坐着琅蒂?保罗，保罗来自米迪，他整天什么都不想，只想女人。他每天都要说，“从星期四起我就不再谈女人了。”他和勒普兰斯先生好得难舍难分。再下来是巴斯罗，一个十足的小无赖。他在学习医学，他到处借贷，没完没了地谈论龙沙、维荣和拉伯雷。坐在我对面的是莫莱斯，老夫子们的鼓动者、组织者，他执意要称一称肉，看看是否差几克分量。他在学校附设医院里占了一间小房子。他的死敌是莱克诺姆先生，这并不能给他带来很大声望，因为大家都恨那个人。莫莱斯有个伙伴，叫勒佩尼普，他是一个郁郁寡欢的家伙，容貌像一只鹰。他非常节俭，却当了一个放债人，他像阿尔布雷克特?杜瑞的一件雕刻作品，是所有阴郁、乖戾、难对付、爱抱怨、不幸、不走运和内省的魔鬼的混合，这些魔鬼组成了德国中世纪武士的神灵。他无疑是个犹太人。总之我到这儿不久他就死于一场汽车事故了，这个事件使我再也不用还借他的二十三法郎了。除了坐在我旁边的勒诺，其他人早已从我的记忆中消失。他们属于那些毫无个性的一群，他们构成了工程师、建筑师、牙医、药剂师、教师等人的世界。没有什么可以将他们同他们过一会儿就拿来取笑的人区分开，他们完全一钱不值，是构成名誉而又可悲的市民核心的毫无价值的人物。他们垂着头吃东西，而且总是第一批大叫大嚷要添饭的人。他们睡得很死，从不抱怨，既不快活也不沮丧，他们是被但丁发配到地狱门厅去的平庸的一群，是上流社会的人物。
They were a cheerful group, les surveillants. There was Kroa who belched like a pig and always let off a loud fart when he sat down to table. He could fart thirteen times in succession, they informed me. He held the record. Then there was Monsieur le Prince, an athlete who was fond of wearing a tuxedo in the evening when he went to town; he had a beautiful complexion, just like a girl, and never touched the wine nor read anything that might tax his brain. Next to him sat Petit Paul, from the Midi, who thought of nothing but cunt all the time; he used to say every day - "à partir de jeudi je ne parlerai plus de femmes." He and Monsieur le Prince were inseparable. Then there was Passeleau, a veritable young scallywag who was studying medicine and who borrowed right and left; he talked incessantly of Ronsard, Villon and Rabelais. Opposite me sat Mollesse, agitator and organizer of the pions, who insisted on weighing the meat to see if it wasn't short a few grams. He occupied a little room in the infirmary. His supreme enemy was Monsieur l'Econome, which was nothing particularly to his credit since everybody hated this individual. For companion Mollesse had one called Le Pénible, a dour-looking chap with a hawklike profile who practised the strictest economy and acted as moneylender. He was like an engraving by Albrecht Dürer - a composite of all the dour, sour, morose, bitter, unfortunate, unlucky and introspective devils who compose the pantheon of Germany's medieval knights. A Jew, no doubt. At any rate, he was killed in an automobile accident shortly after my arrival, a circumstance which left me twenty three francs to the good. With the exception of Renaud who sat beside me, the others have faded out of my memory; they belonged to that category of colorless individuals who make up the world of engineers, architects, dentists, pharmacists, teachers, etc. There was nothing to distinguish them from the clods whom they would later wipe their boots on. They were zeros in every sense of the word, ciphers who form the nucleus of a respectable and lamentable citizenry. They ate with their heads down and were always the first to clamor for a second helping. They slept soundly and never complained; they were neither gay nor miserable. The indifferent ones whom Dante consigned to the vestibule of Hell. The upper crusters.
 
　　按照惯例，一吃完晚饭就马上到城里去，除了留在宿舍里执勤的人。城市中有几家咖啡馆，都是又大又凄凉的大厅，第戎昏昏欲睡的商人们聚集在这儿玩牌、听音乐。咖啡馆里挺暖和，这是我能替它们说的最好的好话，座位也过得去。总有几个妓女转来转去，为了一杯啤酒、一杯咖啡她们会坐下来同你聊天。可是音乐糟透了，竞是这种音乐。在一个冬天的夜里，呆在第戎这样一个肮脏的地方，再也没有比一支法国管弦乐队的演奏更叫人疲乏、头痛的了。尤其是，这是一支悲枪的女子管弦乐队，它奏出的一切都像在尖叫、在放屁，其节奏很枯燥，像代数一样，又具有牙膏那种合乎卫生的稠度。这种呜咽怪叫一小时竟要收那么多钱，而且迟到的人活该倒霉！它演奏的调子是那么悲哀，似乎老欧几里得用后腿站着吞下了氢氰酸。思想的王国已由理智完全开拓，没有给音乐创作留下一点点地盘，只除了手风琴的空板条，风呼啸着从中穿过，将太空撕成了碎片。不过在这个边远的城镇里谈论音乐就像在死牢里做梦喝香槟一样荒唐，音乐是我最不在意的东西。我甚至连女人也不想了，因为一切都是那么令人沮丧、寒冷、荒芜、阴暗。头一天晚上回家时我注意到一家咖啡馆的门上刻着高康大的话。咖啡馆内部却像一个停尸所。不管怎样，还是往前走吧！
It was the custom after dinner to go immediately to town, unless one was on duty in the dormitories. In the center of town were the cafés - huge, dreary halls where the somnolent merchants of Dijon gathered to play cards and listen to the music. It was warm in the cafés, that is the best I can say of them. The seats were fairly comfortable, too. And there were always a few whores about who, for a glass of beer or a cup of coffee, would sit and chew the fat with you. The music, on the other hand, was atrocious. Such music! On a winter's night, in a dirty hole like Dijon, nothing can be more harassing, more nerv-racking, than the sound of a French orchestra. Particularly one of those lugubrious female orchestras with everything coming in squeaks and farts, with a dry, algebraic rhythm and the hygienic consistency of toothpaste. A wheezing and scraping performed at so many francs the hour - and the devil take the hindmost! The melancholy of it! As if old Euclid had stood up on his hind legs and swallowed prussic acid. The whole realm of Idea so thoroughly exploited by the reason that there is nothing left of which to make music except the empty slats of the accordion, through which the wind whistles and tears the ether to tatters. However, to speak of music in connection with this putpost is like dreaming of champagne when you are in the death cell. Music was the least of my worries. I didn't even think of cunt, so dismal, so chill, so barren, so gray was it all. On the way home the first night I noticed on the door of a café an inscription from the Gargantua. Inside the café it was like a morgue. However, forward!
 
　　我有的是时间，却没有一文钱花。我一天只上两三个小时的会话课，以后就没有事了。教这些可怜虫英语又有什么用呢？　　
I had plenty of time on my hands and not a sou to spend. Two or three hours of conversational lessons a day, and that was all. And what use was it, teaching these poor bastards English?
 
我真替他们难过，整个上午苦苦地念《约翰?吉尔平的旅行》，到了下午又上我这儿来练习一种死去的语言。我想起自己浪费了多少时间读维吉尔的作品或是吃力地念《赫尔曼和多罗特哑》这类谁也看不懂的废话。真是疯了！学问是只空面包篮！
I felt sorry as hell for them. All morning plugging away on John Gilpin's Ride, and in the afternoon coming to me to practise a dead language. I thought of the good time I had wasted reading Virgil or wading through such incomprehensible nonsense as Hermann and Dorothea. The insanity of it! Learning, the empty breadbasket!
 
　　我又想起卡尔，他能把《浮士德》倒背如流，他每写一本书都要在里面拼命恭维不朽的、千古流芳的歌德。尽管如此，卡尔却缺乏常识，找不到一个阔女人，无法弄一身换洗内衣。这种以排队领救济食品和住防空洞告终的、对过去的眷恋中有一种讨人厌的感伤，这种精神上的喧哗是令人讨厌的，它竟许可一个白痴往德国大炮、无畏战舰和高效炸药上洒圣水。每一个满腹经纶的人都是人类的敌人。
I thought of Carl who can recite Faust backwards, who never writes a book without praising the shit out of his immortal, incorruptible Goethe. And yet he hadn't sense enough to take on a rich cunt and get himself a change of underwear. There's something obscene in this love of the past which ends in breadlines and dugouts. Something obscene about this spiritual racket which permits an idiot to sprinkle holy water over Big Berthas and dreadnoughts and high explosives. Every man with a bellyful of the classics is an enemy to the human race.
 
　　我来到了这儿，本是来传播法美友好福音的。我是一具僵尸的使者，他四处掠夺，酿成难以描述的痛苦和不幸，现在却梦想要建立世界和平了。呸！我真不明白，他们指望我讲什么？
Here was I, supposedly to spread the gospel of Franco-American amity - the emissary of a corpse who, after he had plundered right and left, after he had caused untold suffering and misery, dreamed of establishing universal peace. Pfui!
 
　　讲《草叶集》、讲关税壁垒、讲美国的《独立宣言》、讲最近一次流氓团伙之间的火并？讲什么？我想知道要我讲什么。唉，告诉你们，我从未提起这些。我开门见山，讲了一堂爱情生理学。
What did they expect me to talk about, I wonder? About Leaves of Grass, about the tariff walls, about the Declaration of Independence, about the latest gang war? What? Just what, I'd like to know. Well, I'll tell you - I never mentioned these things. I started right off the bat with a lesson in the psysiology of love.
 
　　我讲的是：大象怎样做爱。这一招灵极了，第一天过后便再也没有空板凳了，头一堂英语课后他们都站在门口等我到来。我们相处得很好，他们提各种问题，像是屁也没学会一样。我让他们不停地问，我教他们提出更难以启齿的问题。“什么都尽可以问。”—这就是我的座右铭。在这儿我像一个来自无拘无束的精灵的国度里的全权大使，来这儿旨在创造狂热和激动的气氛。一位著名天文学家说，“在某些方面，物质世界像一个讲过的故事一样悄然逝去，像幻觉一样化为乌有。”看来这话表达了在学问的空面包篮后面大家的普遍看法，我自己却不信这话，我不信这伙王八蛋企图硬往我们肚子里塞的一切鬼话。
How the elephants make love - that was it! It caught like wildfire. After the first day there were no more empty benches. After that first lesson in English they were standing at the door waiting for me. We got along swell together. They asked all sorts of questions, as though they had never learned a damned thing. I let them fire away. I taught them to ask still more ticklish questions. Ask anything! - that was my motto. I'm here as a plenipotentiary from the realm of free spirits. I'm here to create a fever and a ferment. "In some ways," says an eminent astronomer, "the material universe appears to be passing away like a tale that is told, dissolving into nothingness like a vision." That seems to be the general feeling underlying the empty breadbasket of learning. Myself, I don't believe it. I don't believe a fucking thing these bastards try to shove down our throats.
Part 14 Chapter 4
如果没有书可看，不上课时我就上楼到学监的宿舍里找他们闲聊。他们对周围发生的一切无知得可笑，尤其对于艺术界的事情，他们差不多同学生一样无知。我好像闯进了一所没有标明出口的、私人开办的小疯人院一样，有时我在拱廊下窥探，看着孩子们大步走过去，脏兮兮的缸子里插着大块大块的面包。
Between sessions, if I had no book to read, I would go upstairs to the dormitory and chat with the pions. They were delightfully ignorant of all that was going on - especially in the world of art. Almost as ignorant as the students themselves. It was as if I had gotten into a private little madhouse with no exit signs. Sometimes I snooped around under the arcades, watching the kids marching along with huge hunks of bread stuck in their dirty mugs.
 
　　我自己总是觉得饥饿难忍，因为我根本不可能赶上早饭。早饭总在早晨一个荒唐的时辰开，而那会儿睡在床上真是舒服极了。早餐是大碗大碗的发蓝的咖啡和一块块白面包，没有奶油可抹。午饭是菜豆或扁豆，撒进去一点点肉屑使它看起来开胃些。这种食物只适合给做苦工的囚犯吃、给砸石头的囚犯吃。酒也很糟糕，不是搀了水就是变了味。这些食物有热量，不过烹调不得法。据众人说，莱克诺姆先生应对此负责。这话我也不信，人家花钱雇他，目的是要他不叫我们饿死就行。他并不问我们是否有痔疮或疗疮，并不关心我们是嘴细还是嘴粗。为什么要关心？他只是受雇去用这么多克的菜肴生产这么多千瓦的能量，一切都是以马力来计算的。这全在脸色青白的办事员早晨、中午和晚上抄抄写写的厚帐本上仔细计算过，借、贷这两部分用一道红线从中间隔开。
I was always hungry myself, since it was impossible for me to go to breakfast which was handed out at some ungodly hour of the morning, just when the bed was getting toasty. Huge bowls of blue coffee with chunks of white bread and no butter to go with it. For lunch, beans or lentils with bits of meat thrown in to make it look appetizing. Food fit for a chain gang, for rock breakers. Even the wine was lousy. Things were either diluted or bloated. There were calories, but no cuisine. M. l'Econome was responsible for it all. So they said. I don't believe that, either. He was paid to keep our heads just above the water line. He didn't ask if we were suffering from piles or carbuncles; he didn't inquire if we had delicate palates or the intestines of wolves. Why should he? He was hired at so many grams the plate to produce so many kilowatts of energy. Everything in terms of horse power. It was all carefully reckoned in the fat ledgers which the pasty faced clerks scribbled in morning, noon and night. Debit and credit, with a red line down the middle of the page.
 
　　空着肚子在四合院里徘徊时我常常不由自主地觉得自己有一点儿痴狂，我有一点儿像“愚蠢的查理”那个可怜虫，只是没有奥代特?德?尚帕狄丰来跟我玩牌。有一半的日子里我得向学生讨烟抽，有时正上着课我就跟他们一起啃开了一点干儿面包。炉子总灭，所以我很快便用完了配给的木柴。要哄得管宿舍的办事员拿出一点儿木柴来是很不容易的事情，最后我对此恼火极了，便上街去捡柴，像一个阿拉伯人似的。我很惊奇，在第戎的街道上几乎捡不到能生火的柴。不过这些小小的征集木柴的远证将我带到了陌生的地域，我渐渐熟悉了据信是以一位名叫菲利贝尔?帕尔隆的已故音乐家命名的一条小街，那儿有好几家妓院。这块地方总是会叫人更快活一些，有做饭的味道、有晾出来的衣物。我偶尔也看到在妓院里闲荡的可怜的傻瓜，他们比在城镇中心见到的穷鬼还好一些，每次穿过一家百货店时我都会碰到这些穷鬼。为了取暖我常常这样穿来穿去，我估计他们也是为了达到同一目的这样做的。他们在寻找一个愿为他们买一杯咖啡的人，由于寒冷和孤独他们显得有一点儿痴呆，而当蓝色的夜幕降临时整个城市都显得有几分痴呆。你可以任选一个星期四在主要马路上散步，一直走下去也永远不会碰到一个胸襟宽大的人。六七万人—也许更多—穿着羊毛内衣，无处可去，无事可做。他们生产出一车车芥末。女子管弦乐队笨拙地奏出《快乐的寡妇》。大旅馆里提供银质服务。一座公爵的宫殿正在一块块、一点点地朽掉。树木在霜冻下发出尖厉的响声。木头鞋子不停地格登格登响。那所大学在纪念歌德的忌日，或者是诞辰日，我记不清到底是哪一个了（通常人们是纪念忌日的），总之这是一件蠢事，人人都在打哈欠、伸胳膊。
Roaming around the quadrangle with an empty belly most of the time I got to feel slightly mad. Like Charles the Silly, poor devil - only I had no Odette Champdivers with whom to play stinkfinger. Half the time I had to grub cigarettes from the students, and during the lessons sometimes I munched a bit of dry bread with them. As the fire was always going out on me I soon used up my allotment of wood. It was the devil's own time coaxing a little wood out of the ledger clerks. Finally I got so riled up about it that I would go out in the street and hunt for firewood, like an Arab. Astonishing how little firewood you could pick up in the streets of Dijon. However, these little foraging expeditions brought me into strange precincts. Got to know the little street named after a M. Philibert Papillon - a dead musician, I believe - where there was a cluster of whorehouses. It was always more cheerful hereabouts; there was the smell of cooking, and wash hanging out to dry. Once in a while I caught a glimpse of the poor half wits who lounged about inside. They were better off than the poor devils in the center of town whom I used to bump into whenever I walked through a department store. I did that frequently in order to get warm. They were doing it for the same reason, I suppose. Looking for someone to buy them a coffee. They looked a little crazy, with the cold and the loneliness. The whole town looked a bit crazy when the blue of evening settled over it. You could walk up and down the main drive any Thursday in the week till doomsday and never meet an expansive soul. Sixty or seventy thousand people - perhaps more - wrapped in woolen underwear and nowhere to go and nothing to do. Turning out mustard by the carload. Female orchestras grinding out The Merry Widow. Silver service in the big hotels. The ducal palace rotting away, stone by stone, limb by limb. The trees screeching with frost. A ceaseless clatter of wooden shoes. The University celebrating the death of Goethe, or the birth, I don't remember which. (Usually it's the deaths that are celebrated.) Idiotic affair, anyway. Everybody yawning and stretching.
 
　　从马路上一路走进四合院，我总会产生一种深切的徒劳无功的感觉。院外是一片凄凉和空虚，院里也是一片凄凉和空虚。这座城镇笼罩在一种卑下的贫乏和啃书本的浓雾中，学的全是以往的渣滓。教室分布在里院四周，很像在北方森林中见到的小屋，学究们就在这儿尽情大发宏论。黑板上写着毫无用处的胡言乱语，法兰西共和国的未来公民得花毕生时间才能忘掉这些胡话。有时在马路边的大接待室里接待家长们，那儿摆着古代英雄的半身塑像，诸如莫里哀、拉辛、柯奈、伏尔泰之流。无论何时又一个不朽的人被摆进蜡像馆后，内阁部长们总要用湿润的嘴唇提到所有这些稻草人（没有维荣的，拉伯雷的和兰波的胸像）。总之，家长们和这些衬衣里塞了东西的蜡像在这庄严肃穆的会议上碰到一起了。国家雇了这些蜡像来矫正年轻人的思想，总是这样矫正，总是用这种美化庭院的方法使思想变得更有吸引力。小孩子们偶尔也上这儿来，人们很快便会把这些小向日葵从托儿所里移植出去装饰城市的草坪。有些只是橡皮植物，只消用一件破衬衣就可以很便当地掸去上面的尘土，一到晚上他们便急急忙忙没命地逃进宿舍里去了。宿舍！这儿亮着红灯，铃像消防队的警报一样呼啸，这儿的楼梯踏板由于人们常一窝蜂涌向教室被踩出了空洞。
Coming through the high driveway into the quadrangle a sense of abysmal futility always came over me. Outside bleak and empty; inside, bleak and empty. A scummy sterility hanging over the town, a fog of book-learning. Slag and cinders of the past. Around the interior courts were ranged the classrooms, little shacks such as you might see in the North woods, where the pedagogues gave free rein to their voices. On the blackboard the futile abracadabra which the future citizens of the republic would have to spend their lives forgetting. Once in a while the parents were received in the big reception room just off the driveway, where there were busts of the heroes of antiquity, such as Molière, Racine, Corneille, Voltaire, etc., all the scarecrows whom the cabinet ministers mention with moist lips whenever an immortal is added to the waxworks. (No bust of Villon, no bust of Rabelais, no bust of Rimbaud.) Anyway, they met here in solemn conclave, the parents and the stuffed shirts whom the State hires to bend the minds of the young. Always this bending process, this landscape gardening to make the mind more attractive. And the youngsters came too, occasionally - the little sunflowers who would soon be transplanted from the nursery in order to decorate the municipal grassplots. Some of them were just rubber plants easily dusted with a torn chemise. All of them jerking away for dear life in the dormitories as soon as night came on. The dormitories! where the red lights glowed, where the bell rang like a fire alarm, where the treads were hollowed out in the scramble to reach the education cells.
 
　　还有那些教师，起初几天我甚至同他们中的几个人握了手，当然在拱廊下擦身而过时也总少不了碰碰帽子相互致意。可是根本谈不到倾心交谈，也谈不到走到街角那儿一起喝上一杯。那简直是不可想象的，他们有许多人显得像是吓破了胆。总之我是属于另一阶层的，他们甚至不愿同我这种人分享一只虱子。只要一看到他们我就气不打一处来，所以一看到他们过来我就暗暗诅咒。我常常靠着一恨柱子站在那儿，嘴角上叼着一根烟，帽子扣在眼睛上，待他们走到听得见的地方我便狠狠啐一口唾沫，再抬起帽子来。我甚至懒得张口同他们打招呼，我只是从牙缝里迸出一句，“去你妈的，杰克！”说完就拉倒。
Then there were the profs! During the first few days I got so far as to shake hands with a few of them, and of course there was always the salute with the hat when we passed under the arcades. But as for a heart to heart talk, as for walking to the corner and having a drink together, nothing doing. It was simply unimaginable. Most of them looked as though they had had the shit scared out of them. Anyway, I belonged to another hierarchy. They wouldn't even share a louse with the likes of me. They made me so damned irritated, just to look at them, that I used to curse them under my breath when I saw them coming. I used to stand there, leaning against a pillar, with a cigarette in the corner of my mouth and my hat down over my eyes, and when they got within hailing distance I would let squirt a good gob and up with the hat. I didn't even bother to open my trap and bid them the time of the day. Under my breath I simply said: "Fuck you, Jack!" and let it go at that.
 
　　在这儿呆了一星期后我就觉得已在这儿呆了一辈子，这就像一场可怕的恶梦，简直摆脱不了它。想着它我常常会昏睡过去。几天前我才到了这儿，当时夜幕刚降下，人们在朦胧的灯光下像老鼠一样匆匆赶回家去，树木带着宝石尖般的恶意闪闪发光，我不止一千次地想起了这一切。从火车站到这所学校一路上犹如穿越但泽走廊的一次散步，到处毛茸茸的、有裂缝，令人神经紧张。这是死人尸骨铺砌的胡同，下面埋着衣衫褴楼、歪七扭八、互相搂抱在一起的死人，还有沙丁鱼骨制成的脊骨。学校本身像是矗立在一层薄雪之上，它像一座倒置的山，其山顶直插地球中心，上帝或魔鬼在那儿总穿着一件紧身衣干活，为那个始终不过是梦中遗精的天堂磨面粉。如果太阳出来过我也不记得了，我什么也不记得了，只记得从那边结了冰的沼泽上吹过来寒冷、油腻的雾，铁道就是在那儿消失在阴郁的群山中去。距火车站不远有一条人工运河，也许它是一条天然河也不得而知，它躲在黄色的天幕下，突起的两岸边斜搭着一些小棚屋。我突然悟到周围还有一座兵营，因为我不时遇到一些来自交趾支那的黄皮肤小个子，这伙扭来扭去、脸色焦黄的小矮个儿身着袋子似的肥大军衣四处乱瞅，活像放在刨花中的干骨架。
After a week it seemed as if I had been here all my life. It was like a bloody, fucking nightmare that you can't throw off. Used to fall into a coma thinking about it. Just a few days ago I had arrived. Nightfall. People scurrying home like rats under the foggy lights. The trees glittering with diamond pointed malice. I thought it all out, a thousand times or more. From the station to the Lycée it was like a promenade through the Danzig Corridor, all deckle edged, crannied, nerve ridden. A lane of dead bones, of crooked, cringing figures buried in shrouds. Spines made of sardine bones. The Lycée itself seemed to rise up out of a lake of thin snow, an inverted mountain that pointed down toward the center of the earth where God or the Devil works always in a straitjacket grinding grist for that paradise which is always a wet dream. If the sun ever shone I don't remember it. I remember nothing but the cold greasy fogs that blew in from the frozen marshes over yonder where the railroad tracks burrowed into the lurid hills. Down near the station was a canal, or perhaps it was a river, hidden away under a yellow sky, with little shacks pasted slap up against the rising edge of the banks. There was a barracks too somewhere, it struck me, because every now and then I met little yellow men from Cochin China - squirmy, opium faced runts peeping out of their baggy uniforms like dyed skeletons packed in excelsior.
 
　　这地方见鬼的中世纪遗风极难对付、极顽强，它低声呻吟着来回摇晃，从屋檐下跳出来向你扑来，像被割断脖子的罪犯那样从滴水嘴上垂下来。我不断扭过头去看身后，一直像一只挨脏叉子扎的螃蟹那样走路。所有这些肥胖的小怪物，所有粘在圣米歇尔教堂正面墙上石板状的雕像都跟在我身后走过弯弯曲曲的小胡同、拐过街角。圣米歇尔教堂的正面到了夜间便像一本集邮簿一样打开了，使你面对着印好的纸张上的吓人景物。灯熄了，这些景物也从眼前消失，像文字一样静寂无声，这时教堂正面的墙显得非常庄严雄伟。古老、粗糙的正面墙上的每一道缝里都回荡着夜风的沉重呼啸声，冰冷、僵硬、呈花边状的碎石上洒了一层朦朦胧胧的、苦艾酒般的雾和霜的涎水。
The whole goddamned medievalism of the place was infernally ticklish and restive, rocking back and forth with low moans, jumping out at you from the eaves, hanging like broken necked criminals from the gargoyles. I kept looking back all the time, kept walking like a crab that you prong with a dirty fork. All those fat little monsters, those slablike effigies pasted on the fa?ade of the Eglise St. Michel, they were following me down the crooked lanes and around corners. The whole fa?ade of St. Michel seemed to open up like an album at night, leaving you face to face with the horrors of the printed page. When the lights went out and the characters faded away flat, dead as words, then it was quite magnificent, the fa?ade; in every crevice of the old gnarled front there was the hollow chant of the nightwind and over the lacy rubble of cold stiff vestments there was a cloudy absinthe like drool of fog and frost.
 
　　教堂耸立的这个地方的一切似乎都前后倒了个儿，教堂本身在几世纪以来雪的侵蚀下也一定偏离了它的地基。它坐落在埃德加—基内广场，像一头死去的骡子那样迎着风蹲着。风穿过莫奈街呼啸而来，像胡乱飘扬的白发。它绕着白色拴马桩回旋，这些桩子挡住了公共汽车和二十匹骡子拉的马车的通道。有时清晨从这个出口摇摇摆摆出来后我会同勒诺先生不期而遇，他像一个贪吃的修道士一样把自己裹在修道士的长袍里，用十六世纪的语言同我攀谈。于是我同勒诺先生并排走，这时月亮像被刺破的气球从油腻腻的天空中跃出，我亦立刻堕入了超然的王国中。勒诺先生讲话干脆利落，像杏子一样淡而无味，带着很重的勃兰登保人的口音。他常常一见到我就滔滔不绝地谈起歌德或费希特，深沉、凝重的声音在广场上顶风的角落里发出隆隆的回声，像去年的雷鸣。尤卡坦人、桑给巴尔人、火地岛人，把我从这张海绿色的猪皮下救出来吧！美国北部堆积在我周围，冰河时代的狭湾、顶端呈蓝色的脊骨、疯狂的灯光，还有淫荡的基督教圣歌像雪崩一样从意大利的埃特纳火山延伸到爱琴海。一切都像泡沫一样冻得硬硬的。思想被禁锢，四周结上了霜。从卖弄小聪明的凄凉的包裹里传出被虱子吞食的圣人发出的快窒息的嗓音。这时我在场，裹在羊毛里，包在襁褓里，带着镣铐，被人割断了脚筋，不过我没有参与此事，我一直白到骨头里，不过有一种冷的碱性成分，有桔黄色指尖的手指。无恶意，对了，不过不爱做学问，没有天主教徒的柔肠。无恶意而又无情，像在我之前驶出易北河的人一样。我眺望大海、天空，眺望不可理喻而又相距不远不近的一切。
Here, where the church stood, everything seemed turned hind side front. The church itself must have been twisted off its base by centuries of progress in the rain and snow. It lay in the Place Edgar Quinet, squat against the wind, like a dead mule. Through the Rue de la Monnaie the wind rushed like white hair streaming wild: it whirled around the white hitching posts which obstructed the free passage of omnibuses and twenty mule teams. Swinging through this exit in the early morning hours I sometimes stumbled upon Monsieur Renaud who, wrapped in his cowl like a gluttonous monk, made overtures to me in the language of the sixteenth century. Falling in step with Monsieur Renaud, the moon busting through the greasy sky like a punctured balloon, I fell immediately into the realm of the transcendental. M. Renaud had a precise speech, dry as apricots, with a heavy Brandenburger base. Used to come at me full tilt from Goethe or Fichte, with deep base notes that rumbled in the windy corners of the Place like claps of last year's thunder. Men of Yucatan, men of Zanzibar, men of Tierra del Fuego, save me from this glaucous hog rind! The North piles up about me, the glacial fjords, the blue-tipped spines, the crazy lights, the obscene Christian chant that spread like an avalanche from Etna to the Aegean. Everything frozen tight as scum, the mind locked and rimed with frost, and through the melancholy bales of chitter wit the choking gargle of louse eaten saints. White I am and wrapped in wool, swaddled, fettered, hamstrung, but in this I have no part. White to the bone, but with a cold alkali base, with saffron-tipped fingers. White, aye, but no brother of learning, no Catholic heart. White and ruthless, as the men before me who sailed out of the Elbe. I look to the sea, to the sky, to what is unintelligible and distantly near.
 
　　风吹动脚下的积雪，雪花随风飘动，使人发痒、刺痛，它们发出含混的啸声，被风卷到空中又纷纷扬扬地落下，裂成碎屑洒下来。没有太阳，没有咆哮的海浪，没有拍打堤岸的滔天巨浪。寒冷的北风带着有刺的矛尖吹来，冷冰冰地、刻毒地、贪婪地，具有破坏性，使人疲软无力。街道用弯曲的肘部支撑着身子走远了，它们逃离纷乱的景物，躲开严厉的注视。它们沿着不断变幻的格子瞒珊而去，从前面绕到教堂后面，砍倒塑像，推平纪念碑，拔出树木，封住小草，从土地中吸去其芳香气味。树叶变得同水泥一样干枯，露水也无法再使它们滋润起来，月亮再也不会把它的银光洒上无精打彩的叶片。四季循环即将陷于停顿。树枯萎了。马车发出明晰的竖琴似的砰砰响声在云母般的车辙中滚动。阴惨惨的、没有骨头的第戎在顶上有积雪的山峦间的空地上沉睡。夜里没有人活着或走动，只除了朝南去、朝青玉色的地域移去的不安分的精灵，然而我没有睡，仍在游荡。我是一个游荡的鬼魂，一个被这个冷冷的屠宰场吓坏了的白人。我是谁？我在这儿做什么？我堕入了刻毒的人性的冷墙中，我是一个白色的人影，在挣扎、在沉入冰凉的湖水中去，上面压着一大堆脑壳。于是我在高纬度的冷地方住下来，白垩的阶梯染成了深蓝色。黑暗走道里的土地熟悉我的脚步，感觉到上面踩着一只脚，一只翅膀在扑动，一阵喘息，一阵颤抖。我听见学识受到嘲弄，人影在向上攀，编幅口中流出的涎水从空中滴下，落在纸板糊的翅膀上发出叮当声。我听到火车相撞、链子哗啦乱响、车头轧轧响着喷气、吸气，流水。一切都带着陈旧的气味透过清雾向我袭来，还带着黄色的宿醉、诅咒和磨难。在第戎下面，在极北地域下很深的冥冥核心中站着埃阿斯，他的双肩被缚在磨盘上，橄榄叶吱吱作响，沼泽地里的绿水因为有了哇哇叫的青蛙而充满生机。
The snow under foot scurries before the wind, blows, tickles, stings, lisps away, whirls aloft, showers, splinters, sprays down. No sun, no roar of surf, no breaker's surge. The cold north wind pointed with barbed shafts, icy, malevolent, greedy, blighting, paralyzing. The streets turn away on their crooked elbows; they break from the hurried sight, the stern glance. They hobble away down the drifting lattice work, wheeling the church hind side front, mowing down the statues, flattening the monuments, uprooting the trees, stiffening the grass, sucking the fragrance out of the earth. Leaves dull as cement: leaves no dew can bring to glisten again. No moon will ever silver their listless plight. The seasons are come to a stagnant stop, the trees blench and wither, the wagons roll in the mica ruts with slithering harplike thuds. In the hollow of the white tipped hills, lurid and boneless Dijon slumbers. No man alive and walking through the night except the restless spirits moving southward toward the sapphire grids. Yet I am up and about, a walking ghost, a white man terrorized by the cold sanity of this slaughterhouse geometry. Who am I? What am I doing here? I fall between the cold walls of human malevolence, a white figure fluttering, sinking down through the cold lake, a mountain of skulls above me. I settle down to the cold latitudes, the chalk steps washed with indigo. The earth in its dark corridors knows my step, feels a foot abroad, a wing stirring, a gasp and a shudder. I hear the learning chaffed and chuzzled, the figures mounting upward, bat slime dripping aloft and clanging with pasteboard golden wings; I hear the trains collide, the chains rattle, the locomotive chugging, snorting, sniffing, steaming and pissing. All things come to me through the clear fog with the odor of repetition, with yellow hangovers and Gadzooks and whettikins. In the dead center, far below Dijon, far below the hyperborean regions, stands God Ajax, his shoulders strapped to the mill wheel, the olives crunching, the green marsh water alive with croaking frogs.
Part 14 Chapter 5
雾和雪、高纬度地区、渊博学识、发蓝的咖啡、没有抹奶油的面包、扁豆汤、罐头猪肉煮豆子、放了很久的奶酪、没有烹熟的食物和糟糕的酒已使这整座感化院里的人陷入便秘的窘境中。正当每个人都憋了一肚子屎时厕所的下水管道又冻住了，大便像蚂蚁丘一样堆积起来，人们只得从那个小台子上下来，把屎拉在地板上。于是它在地上冻住了，等待融化。到了星期四驼背推着他的小推车来了，用扫帚和一只盘子样的东西掀起这一摊摊又冷又硬的大便，然后拖着一条枯萎的腿用车子推走。走廊里扔满了手纸，像捕蝇纸一样粘在脚下。一俟天气转暖这气味便更浓，在四十英里外的温彻斯特都闻得到。早上拿着牙刷站在这一堆发酵成熟的大粪前，这股冲天臭气会使你的脑袋发晕。我们都穿着红色法兰绒衬衣站在旁边，等着轮到自己对着下水孔漱口。这很像威尔弟一出伟大歌剧中的一段抒情调—有滑车和罗网的砧琴合奏。夜里迫不急待要上厕所时，我便冲进勒桑塞尔先生的专用卫生间，它就在汽车道边上。我们的马桶上常常沾满了血，他的马桶也没有冲洗，不过至少可以坐下来出恭。我把自己的一摊大便留给他，作为一种尊敬的表示。
The fog and snow, the cold latitude, the heavy learning, the blue coffee, the unbuttered bread, the soup and lentils, the heavy pork packer beans, the stale cheese, the soggy chow, the lousy wine have put the whole penitentiary into a state of constipation. And just when everyone has become shit tight the toilet pipes freeze. The shit piles up like ant hills; one has to move down from the little pedestals and leave it on the floor. It lies there stiff and frozen, waiting for the thaw. On Thursdays the hunchback comes with his little wheelbarrow, shovels the cold, stiff turds with a broom and pan, and trundles off dragging his withered leg. The corridors are littered with toilet paper; it sticks to your feet like flypaper. When the weather moderates the odor gets ripe; you can smell it in Winchester forty miles away. Standing over that ripe dung in the morning, with a toothbrush, the stench is so powerful that it makes your head spin. We stand around in red flannel shirts, waiting to spit down the hole; it is like an aria from one of Verdi's great operas - an anvil chorus with pulleys and syringes. In the night, when I am taken short, I rush down to the private toilet of M. le Censeur, just off the driveway. My stool is always full of blood. His toilet doesn't flush either but at least there is the pleasure of sitting down. I leave my little bundle for him as a token of esteem.
 
每天晚上饭快吃完时守夜人便进来同大家一起干杯，他是整个学校唯一一个我能引为同类的人。他是一个微不足道的人，提着一盏灯和一串钥匙。他整夜巡逻，像一部机器那样机械。大约到了把很陈的奶酪传递给大家的时候，他就会闯进来讨一杯酒喝。他站着伸出手来，头发很坚硬，像一头大猎犬，面颊红润，胡须上沾着晶莹的雪。他咕哝了一句什么，那位卡西莫多便递给他酒瓶。他双脚牢牢地戳在地上，一扬脖子酒便下去了，只是缓缓地一大口便喝完了。我觉得他像是在把红酒灌下肚去，他的这个动作使我感动得不得了，他几乎是在喝下人类同情心的渣滓，仿佛世界上的爱与怜悯能这样一口喝干了事，仿佛日复一日这是唯一能挤压在一起的东西。他们已把他弄得连只兔子都不如了，在他们的筹划中他还抵不上胯青鱼用的盐水呢。他不过只是一堆行尸走肉，他自己也明白这一点。喝完酒后他环顾四周、朝我们微笑时这个世界好像四分五裂了，这是甩过一道深渊的微笑。整个发臭的文明世界像一块沼泽地一样处于这个深渊底部，这种犹犹豫豫的微笑像一座海市蜃楼一样在上面飘忽不定地摇曳。
Toward the end of the meal each evening the veilleur de nuit drops in for his bit of cheer. This is the only human being in the whole institution with whom I feel a kinship. He is a nobody. He carries a lantern and a bunch of keys. He makes the rounds through the night, stiff as an automaton. About the time the stale cheese is being passed around, in he pops for his glass of wine. He stands there, with paw outstretched, his hair stiff and wiry, like a mastiff's, his cheeks ruddy, his mustache gleaming with snow. He mumbles a word or two and Quasimodo brings him the bottle. Then, with feet solidly planted, he throws back his head and down it goes, slowly in one long draught. To me it's like he's pouring rubies down his gullet. Something about this gesture which seizes me by the hair. It's almost as if he were drinking down the dregs of human sympathy, as if all the love and compassion in the world could be tossed off like that, in one gulp - as if that were all that could be squeezed together day after day. A little less than a rabbit they have made him. In the scheme of things he's not worth the brine to pickle a herring. He's just a piece of live manure. And he knows it. When he looks around after his drink and smiles at us, the world seems to be falling to pieces. It's a smile thrown across an abyss. The whole stinking civilized world lies like a quagmire at the bottom of the pit, and over it, like a mirage, hovers this wavering smile.
 
　　晚上散步回来时迎接我的仍是这种微笑。记得有一天晚上我站在门口等老头儿巡逻回来，当时我有一种健康愉快的感觉，我愿意一直等下去。我等了大概半个小时他才打开门，在此期间我安详、从容地观察四周，仔细看每一件景物。我看到学校前那棵树枝像绳子一样拧在一起的死树和街对面的房屋，这些房屋在夜晚改变了颜色，现在轮廓更清楚了。我听到一列火车隆隆驶过西伯利亚荒原，看到于特里约画的围栏、天空、深深的车辙，突然不知从哪儿冒出两个情人来，他们走几码就要站下拥抱一番。待我的眼睛再也看不到他们了，我便倾听他们的脚步声，我听到他们突兀地站下，接着便是缓慢、曲折的漫步。我能感觉到他们靠在一根围栏上时两人身体在下堕，能听到他们拥抱前肌肉绷紧时鞋子发出的吱吱响声。他们在镇上漫游，穿过弯弯曲曲的街道朝水平如镜的运河走去，那儿的水黑得像煤块一样。这事有点儿蹊跷，在整个第戎找不出另外两个像他们这样的人。
It was the same smile which greeted me at night when I returned from my rambles. I remember one such night when, standing at the door waiting for the old fellow to finish his rounds, I had such a sense of well being that I could have waited thus forever. I had to wait perhaps half an hour before he opened the door. I looked about me calmly and leisurely, drank everything in, the dead tree in front of the school with its twisted rope branches, the houses across the street which had changed color during the night, which curved now more noticeably, the sound of a train rolling through the Siberian wastes, the railings painted by Utrillo, the sky, the deep wagon ruts. Suddenly, out of nowhere, two lovers appeared; every few yards they stopped and embraced, and when I could no longer follow them with my eyes I followed the sound of their steps, heard the abrupt stop, and then the slow, meandering gait. I could feel the sag and slump of their bodies when they leaned against a rail, heard their shoes creak as the muscles tightened for the embrace. Through the town they wandered, through the crooked streets, toward the glassy canal where the water lay black as coal. There was something phenomenal about it. In all Dijon not two like them.
 
　　与此同时老头儿仍在巡逻，我听得到他的钥匙叮当乱响、他的靴子发出的咯吱声和执著机械的走路声。最后我听见他沿着车道走过来开大门，这座有顶的大门很古怪，门前没有壕沟。我听见他在锁上摸索，他的手僵硬了，他的脑袋发木了。门推开时，我看到他头顶上罩着小教堂上方的一个辉煌的星座。每一扇门都已锁上，每一个房间都已闩上，书本都合上了。夜幕低垂，像匕首尖一样锐利，像疯子一样烂醉如泥。这就是虚无的无限了。在小教堂上空悬着的这个星座，像一位主教的法冠。在冬天的几个月里它每月都低垂在小教堂上空，又低又明亮，犹如几把匕首尖，这是彻底的虚无发出的强光。老头跟我来到车道拐弯处，门无声地关上了，同他道晚安时我又看到了那种绝望、无助的笑容，像从一个失去了的世界边缘上掠过的一颗闪光的流星。我仿佛又看到他站在饭厅里，一扬脖子红酒便灌进了肚子。整个地中海似乎都装进他肚于里了，桔子树林、柏树、有翼的雕像、木结构的庙宇、湛蓝的大海、僵直的面具、神秘莫测的数字、神话中的鸟、蔚蓝的天空、小鹰、阳光明媚的小海湾、盲诗人及留胡子的英雄。这一切业已逝去，沉入北方涌来的雪崩之下。它们已被掩埋，永远死去，只遗下一个记忆、一个无羁的希望。
Meanwhile the old fellow was making the rounds; I could hear the jingle of his keys, the crunching of his boots, the steady, automatic tread. Finally I heard him coming through the driveway to open the big door, a monstrous, arched portal without a moat in front of it. I heard him fumbling at the lock, his hands stiff, his mind numbed. As the door swung open I saw over his head a brilliant constellation crowning the chapel. Every door was locked, every cell bolted. The books were closed. The night hung close, dagger-pointed, drunk as a maniac. There it was, the infinitude of emptiness. Over the chapel, like a bishop's miter, hung the constellation, every night, during the winter months, it hung there low over the chapel. Low and bright, a handful of dagger points, a dazzle of pure emptiness. The old fellow followed me to the turn of the drive. The door closed silently. As I bade him good night I caught that desperate, hopeless smile again, like a meteoric flash over the rim of a lost world. And again I saw him standing in the refectory, his head thrown back and the rubies pouring down his gullet. The whole Mediterranean seemed to be buried inside him - the orange groves, the cypress trees, the winged statues, the wooden temples, the blue sea, the stiff masks, the mystic numbers, the mythological birds, the sapphire skies, the eaglets, the sunny coves, the blind bards, the bearded heroes. Gone all that. Sunk beneath the avalanche from the North. Buried, dead forever. A memory. A wild hope.
 
　　我在车道上徘徊了一会儿，体验这夜幕、这阴暗的屏障和难以名状的、紧紧攫任人的空幻感，然后我沿着围墙边的碎石路快步走开，穿过拱门和柱子、铁楼梯，走过一个又一个四合院。一切都锁得严严实实的，锁起来好过冬。我找到了通向宿舍去的拱廊。从肮脏不堪、结了霜的窗子里透出的惨淡光线倾泻在楼梯上，各处的油漆都已脱落，石头被掏空，楼梯扶手嘎嘎直响。楼梯顶上那盏微弱的红灯发出的光穿透了铺路石上散出的潮气形成的苍白、模糊的蒸汽团。我大汗淋漓、惊慌失措地爬上最后一段楼梯，即塔楼。我在一片漆黑中摸索着走过空寂无人的走廊，每个房间都是空的、锁上的，都正在朽掉。我伸手在墙上摸匙孔，握住门把手时总会慌乱一阵。总有一只手抓着我的衣领，预备把我猛拽回去。一进屋我就锁上门，我每天晚上都在创造奇迹，这个奇迹便是不等被人扼死、不等被人用斧头砍倒就进屋。我听见老鼠在走廊里跑过，在我头顶上的粗椽子之间大咬大嚼。灯光像正在燃烧的硫磺一样耀眼，屋里充满从未通过风的房子里的那种又亲切又难闻的恶臭味。装煤的箱子像我离开时一样仍摆在角落里，炉火熄了，这极度的寂静倒叫我觉得像是听到了尼亚加拉大瀑布的水声似的。
For just a moment I linger at the carriageway. The shroud, the pall, the unspeakable, clutching emptiness of it all. Then I walk quickly along the gravel path near the wall, past the arches and columns, the iron staircases, from one quadrangle to the other. Everything is locked tight. Locked for the winter. I find the arcade leading to the dormitory. A sickish light spills down over the stairs from the grimy, frosted windows. Everywhere the paint is peeling off. The stones are hollowed out, the banister creaks; a damp sweat oozes from the flagging and forms a pale, fuzzy aura pierced by the feeble red light at the head of the stairs. I mount the last flight, the turret, in a sweat and terror. In pitch darkness I grope my way through the deserted corridor, every room empty, locked, molding away. My hand slides along the wall seeking the keyhole. A panic comes over me as I grasp the doorknob. Always a hand at my collar ready to yank me back. Once inside the room I bolt the door. It's a miracle which I perform each night, the miracle of getting inside without being strangled, without being struck down by an ax. I can hear the rats scurrying through the corridor, gnawing away over my head between the thick rafters. The light glares like burning sulfur and there is the sweet, sickish stench of a room which is never ventilated. In the corner stands the coal box, just as I left it. The fire is out. A silence so intense that it sounds like Niagara Falls in my ears.
 
　　于是我独自呆着，带着极度空虚的渴求和恐惧，整间房子都听凭我的思绪驰骋。除了我和我所想的、所畏惧的一无所有。我尽可以去想最最异想天开的事情，尽可以跳舞、啐唾沫、做怪相、诅咒谩骂、掩面大哭—谁也不会知道，谁也听不见。一想到这种彻底的独处生活就足以使我发疯，就好像一个人利落地生下来，一切牵挂都割断了，分割开，赤裸裸的、独自一人呆着，同时也尝到了幸福和痛苦。你有的是时间，每一秒钟都像一座大山一样压在你身上，你在时间中被溺死。沙漠、大海、湖泊、大洋。时间像一把砍肉斧头在一下下砍击中逝去。虚无、大千世界、我和非我。Oomaharumooma。每一件事物都得有一个名称，每一件事情都得通过学习、考验和体验才能掌握。亲爱的，别客气。
Alone, with a tremendous empty longing and dread. The whole room for my thoughts. Nothing but myself and what I think, what I fear. Could think the most fantastic thoughts, could dance, spit, grimace, curse, wail - nobody would ever know, nobody would ever hear. The thought of such absolute privacy is enough to drive me mad. It's like a clean birth. Everything cut away. Separate, naked, alone. Bliss and agony simultaneously. Time on your hands. Each second weighing on you like a mountain. You drown in it. Deserts, seas, lakes, oceans. Time beating away like a meat ax. Nothingness. The world. The me and the not me. Oomaharumooma. Everything has to have a name. Everything has to be learned, tested, experienced. Faites comme chez vous, chéri.
 
　　寂静是乘着火山状的降落伞降临的。在那边贫脊的群山中，机车正拖着商品朝广阔的冶金地区隆隆驶去。它们在钢铁路基上滚动，地上洒着矿渣、炉渣和紫色矿石。车里装着海带、鱼尾板、钢材、枕木、盘钢、厚金属板、叠合材料、热轧钢箍、软木条和迫击炮车，以及佐泽斯矿石。轮子是U-80毫米的，或者更大。机车经过盎格鲁-诺曼式建筑的堂皇标本，经过了步行者和男同性恋者、露天冶炼炉、使用贝塞麦法的磨坊、发电机和变压器、生铁块和钢锭。众人都自由自在地在五星状的胡同里过来过去，行人和男同性恋者、金鱼和玻璃丝样的棕桐树，驴子在抽泣。在巴西广场有一只淡紫色的眼睛。
The silence descends in volcanic chutes. Yonder, in the barren hills, rolling onward toward the great metallurgical regions, the locomotives are pulling their merchant products. Over steel and iron beds they roll, the ground sown with slag and cinders and purple ore. In the baggage cars, kelps, fishplate, rolled iron, sleepers, wire rods, plates and sheets, laminated articles, hot rolled hoops, splints and mortar carriages, and Zorès ore. The wheels U 80 millimetres or over. Pass splendid specimens of Anglo Norman architecture, pass pedestrians and pederasts, open hearth furnaces, basic Bessemer mills, dynamos and transformers, pig iron castings and steel ingots. The public at large, pedestrians and pederasts, goldfish and spun glass palm trees, donkeys sobbing, all circulating freely through quincuncial alleys. At the Place du Brésil a lavender eye.
 
　　我很快回想了一遍我所认识的女人，这就像一条我用自己的痛苦锻造的铁链，一个套着另一个。这是畏惧分居、畏惧总也长不大。子宫之门总是拴着的。恐惧和希望。血液里蕴藏着天堂的吸引力。来世，总是来世。这完全起源于肚脐，他们在这儿割断了脐带，在你屁股上掴一掌，然后全妥了！你来到这个世界上，随波逐流，是一只没有舵的船。你先看看群星，再瞧瞧自个儿的肚脐。你身上到处长出眼睛来，腋下、两嘴唇间、头发根上、脚心。远的变近，近的变远。里外处于永恒的变化之中，成为蜕下的皮。你就这样一年年四处漂泊下去，直到发现自己来到了一个死滞的中心，你将在这儿慢慢腐烂，慢慢变成粉末后又重新散落到各处，只有你的名字留下来。
Going back in a flash over the women I've known. It's like a chain which I've forged out of my own misery. Each one bound to the other. A fear of living separate, of staying born. The door of the womb always on the latch. Dread and longing. Deep in the blood the pull of paradise. The beyond. Always the beyond. It must have all started with the navel. They cut the umbilical cord, give you a slap on the ass, and presto! you're out in the world, adrift, a ship without a rudder. You look at the stars and then you look at your navel. You grow eyes everywhere - in the armpits, between the lips, in the roots of your hair, on the soles of your feet. What is distant becomes near, what is near becomes distant. Inner-outer, a constant flux, a shedding of skins, a turning inside out. You drift around like that for years and years, until you find yourself in the dead center, and there you slowly rot, slowly crumble to pieces, get dispersed again. Only your name remains.
Part 15 Chapter 1
待我设法逃离这座感化院已是春天了，那还是因为命运的巧妙安排。有一天卡尔打电报通知我“楼上”腾出了一个空位置。他说如果我打算接受这个工作他就寄路费来。我马上拍了回电，钱一寄到我就直奔火车站，跟勒普罗维西厄或其他人什么都没有说。正如人们所说，我是不辞而别了。
It was spring before I managed to escape from the penitentiary, and then only by a stroke of fortune. A telegram from Carl informed me one day that there was a vacancy "upstairs"; he said he would send me the fare back if I decided to accept. I telegraphed back at once and as soon as the dough arrived I beat it to the station. Not a word to M. le Proviseur or anyone. French leave, as they say.
 
　　我一下车便立刻来到一号乙的那家旅馆，卡尔就住在这儿。他一丝不挂来开门，这天他是晚上休息，同往常一样床上有个女人。他说，“别管她，她睡着了。假如你想睡女人就睡她好了，她还不坏。”他拉开被子让我看看她的容貌，可是我还不想马上睡女人。我太激动了，像一个刚刚从狱中逃出的犯人。我只是想看、想听。从车站一路走来，像是做了一场大梦，我觉得自己已离开了很多年。
I went immediately to the hotel at 1 bis, where Carl was staying. He came to the door stark naked. It was his night off and there was a cunt in the bed as usual. "Don't mind her," he says, "she's asleep. If you need a lay you can take her on. She's not bad." He pulls the covers back to show me what she looks like. However, I wasn't thinking about a lay right away. I was too excited. I was like a man who has just escaped from jail. I just wanted to see and hear things. Coming from the station it was like a long dream. I felt as though I had been away for years.
 
　　直到坐下来好好打量了一番这间屋子后，我才悟到自己又回到了巴黎。这是卡尔的房间，一点儿不错，像一个松鼠笼和厕所的结合。桌上几乎找不到一块能放他的袖珍打字机的地方，而且总是这副样子，无论他是否和一个女人同居。一本词典总是打开压在一卷涂了金边的《浮士德》上面，总摆着一只装烟草的袋子、一顶贝雷帽、一瓶红酒、信件、手槁、旧报纸、水彩、茶壶、脏袜子、牙签、克鲁什深嗅盐、避孕套，等等。洗身盆里扔着桔子皮和吃剩的火腿三明治残渣。
It was not until I had sat down and taken a good look at the room that I realized I was back again in Paris. It was Carl's room and no mistake about it. Like a squirrel cage and shithouse combined. There was hardly room on the table for the portable machine he used. It was always like that, whether he had a cunt with him or not. Always a dictionary lying open on a gilt edged volume of Faust, always a tobacco pouch, a beret, a bottle of vin rouge, letters, manuscripts, old newspapers, water colors, teapot, dirty socks, toothpicks, Kruschen Salts, condoms, etc. In the bidet were orange peels and the remnants of a ham sandwich.
 
　　卡尔说，“食品橱里有吃的，自己拿吧！刚才我正要给自己打一针呢。”
"There's some food in the closet" he said. "Help yourself! I was just going to give myself an injection."
 
　　我找到了他说的那个三明治和三明治旁他啃过的一块奶酪。他坐在床边给自己注射弱蛋白银，与此同时，我吃光了三明治和奶酪，还有一点甜酒。
I found the sandwich he was talking about and a piece of cheese that he had nibbled at beside it. While he sat on the edge of the bed, dosing himself with his argyrol, I put away the sandwich and cheese with the aid of a little wine.
 
　　他用一条脏裤头擦擦自己的阴茎说，“我喜欢你写来的那封谈歌德的信。”
"I liked that letter you sent me about Goethe," he said, wiping his prick with a dirty pair of drawers.
 
　　“我马上就给你看我的答复，我要把它写进我的书里。你的问题在于你不是德国人，要理解歌德你必须是德国人。得了，我现在不打算给你解释了，我已经把它全写进书里……顺便说说，我现在又新弄到一个女人—不是这一个—这一个是个傻瓜。我是几天前才把她弄到手的，我说不上她还会不会来。你不在时她一直跟我一起住，那天她爹妈来把她领走了。他们说她才十五岁。你能想到吗？他们还把我吓得屁滚尿流……”我大笑起来，卡尔正是一个把自己置于这种狼狈境地的人。
"I'll show you the answer to it in a minute - I'm putting it in my book. The trouble with you is that you're not a German. You have to be German to understand Goethe. Shit, I'm not going to explain it to you now. I've put it all in the book… By the way, I've got a new cunt now - not this one - this one's a half wit. At least, I had her until a few days ago. I'm not sure whether she'll come back or not. She was living with me all the time you were away. The other day her parents came and took her away. They said she was only fifteen. Can you beat that? They scared the shit out of me too…" I began to laugh. It was like Carl to get himself into a mess like that.
 
　　他说，“你笑什么，也许我会为这个坐牢的。还好，我没有叫她怀上孕。不过这也很奇怪，因为她从来不采取妥当的措施照顾自己。你知道是什么救了我？照我看，是《浮士德》。就是！她老子正巧看见它放在桌上，他问我懂不懂德文。事情这样一件件连下去，不等我省悟过来他已经瞧开我的书了。幸好我凑巧把莎士比亚的剧本也摊开了，这使他大力吃惊，说我显然是一个非常严肃的人。”
"What are you laughing for?" he said. "I may go to prison for it. Luckily, I didn't knock her up. And that's funny, too, because she never took care of herself properly. But do you know what saved me? So I think, at least. It was Faust. Yeah! Her old man happened to see it lying on the table. He asked me if I understood German. One thing led to another and before I knew it he was looking through my books. Fortunately I happened to have the Shakespeare open too. That impressed him like hell. He said I was evidently a very serious guy."
 
　　“那个姑娘呢？她怎么说？”
"What about the girl - what did she have to say?"
 
　　“她吓得要死。你瞧，她来时戴着一块小手表，可慌乱中我们找不到这块表了。她老妈一定要叫我找到它，否则就叫警察。 这你就明白当时的情形了。我把整个房间翻了个底朝天，可还是找不到那块见鬼的手表。那当妈的气疯了。尽管她对我很不客气，我还是喜欢她，她比她女儿长得还漂亮呢。瞧，我要给你看看我刚刚开头写给她的信，我爱上她了……”
"She was frightened to death. You see, she had a little watch with her when she came; in the excitement we couldn't find the watch, and her mother insisted that the watch be found or she'd call the police. You see how things are here. I turned the whole place upside down - but I couldn't find the goddamned watch. The mother was furious. I liked her too, in spite of everything. She was even better looking than the daughter. Here - I'll show you a letter I started to write her. I'm in love with her…"
 
“爱上当妈的了？”
"With the mother?"
 
　　“对了。为什么不行？假如我先看到的是她妈，我绝不会再瞧女儿一眼。我怎么知道她才只有十五岁？你睡一个女人之前总不会先问她多大了，对吗？”
"Sure. Why not? If I had seen the mother first I'd never have looked at the daughter. How did I know she was only fifteen? You don't ask a cunt how old she is before you lay her, do you?"
 
　　“乔，这件事情有点儿古怪。你不想哄我吧？”
"Joe, there's something funny about this. You're not shitting me, are you?"
 
“哄你？瞧，瞧瞧这个！”说着他给我看了那个姑娘画的水彩画，画的是娇小可爱的物件—一把刀子和一条面包、桌子和茶壶，每一样东西部越画越高。卡尔又说，“她爱上我了。她像个孩子，我得告诉她什么时候刷牙、教她怎样戴帽子。瞧这儿，瞧瞧这些棒棒糖。我每天总要给她买几根棒棒糖，她喜欢棒棒糖。”
"Am I shitting you? Here - look at this!" And he shows me the water colors the girl had made - cute little things - a knife and a loaf of bread, the table and teapot, everything running uphill. "She was in love with me," he said. "She was just like a child. I had to tell her when to brush her teeth and how to put her, hat on. Here - look at the lollypops! I used to buy her a few lollypops every day - she liked them."
 
　　“那么她爹妈来带她走时她怎么样，大吵大闹了吗？”
"Well, what did she do when her parents came to take her away? Didn't she put up a row?"
 
　　“哭了几声就完了。她能干什么？不到法定自立年龄……我不得不保证不再见她，也不写信。我现在等着瞧的就是—她会不会躲着不露面。她来这儿那会儿还是处女。关键在于，她不跟男人睡能熬多久？在这儿时她怎么也睡不够，差点儿把我累趴下了。”
"She cried a little, that's all. What could she do? She's under age… I had to promise never to see her again, never to write her either. That's what I'm waiting to see now - whether she'll stay away or not. She was a virgin when she came here. The thing is, how long will she be able to go without a lay? She couldn't get enough of it when she was here. She almost wore me out."
 
　　这时床上那个姑娘醒了，正揉眼睛呢。照我看她也挺小的，长得不丑，不过蠢得要命，想马上知道我们在谈什么。
By this time the one in bed had come to and was rubbing her eyes. She looked pretty young to me, too. Not bad looking but dumb as hell. Wanted to know right away what we were talking about.
 
　　卡尔说，“她就住在这个旅馆里，二楼，你想到她的房间去吗？我替你安排。”
"She lives here in the hotel," said Carl. "On the third floor. Do you want to go to her room? I'll fix it up for you."
 
　　不就是她从前常挨揍，你是了解这些法国娘儿们的，她们一恋爱就会失去理智。”
 
　　很明显，我不在这儿期间已经发生了一些事情。听说了菲尔莫的不幸我很难过，他从前对我好得要命。同范诺登分手后，我跳上一辆公共汽车径直来到医院。
　　我估计他们还没有认定菲尔莫是否完全神经错乱了，因为我在楼上一个单人病房里找到了他，他仍享有正常病人的一切自由。我去时他刚刚洗完澡，一看到我他便失声痛哭起来。他立刻说，“全完了，他们说我疯了，也许还得了梅毒。他们说我有夸大妄想。”他倒在床上轻声啜泣，哭了一阵又抬起头来微笑了—真像一只刚刚睡醒的小鸟儿。他说，“他们为什么不把我安排在普通病房里，或疯人院里？我可付不起这笔钱，我只剩下最后五百美元了。”
　　我说，“这正是他们留你住在这儿的原因，等你的钱花光了他们会很快叫你搬走的。你不用操心。”
　　我的话一定说动了他，我话音未落他就把他的表、表链、钱夹、兄弟会证章等东西全交给我。他说，“把这些收好。这伙王八蛋想抢光我的所有东西。”突然他又大笑起来，这种古怪、郁郁寡欢的笑声会使你坚信这个笑的人愚不可及，不论他是不是真的蠢，他说，“我知道你会认为我疯了，可我想弥补我做的事情，我想结婚。你瞧，我并不知道自己有性病，我把病传染给她，又叫她怀了孕。我对医生说了，我不在乎自己会怎样，可是我要他准许我先结婚。他说是要我等好一点了再说，可我知道永远不会好了。我这就完蛋了。”
　　听他这么说我忍不住也笑了，我不明白他这是怎么了。总之我只得答应去看看那个姑娘，向她解释解释这些事情。他要我支持她、安慰她，还说了他可以信赖我之类的话。为了宽他我自己也说不上想不想去，看到卡尔又同她调起情来，我才决定去。我先问她是不是大累。这是一个没有用处的问题，一个婊子永远不会累得分不开她的两条腿，尽管有些人会在你趴在她们身上折腾时睡着。总之我们商定到她的房间去，这样这一夜我就不用给旅馆老板付钱了。
I didn't know whether I wanted to or not, but when I saw Carl mushing it up with her again I decided I did want to. I asked her first if she was too tired. Useless question. A whore is never too tired to open her legs. Some of them can fall asleep while you diddle them. Anyway, it was decided we would go down to her room. Like that I wouldn't have to pay the patron for the night.
 
　　到了早上我租了一个俯瞰底下小庭院的房间，背着夹板广告牌做广告的人总到这个小院子里来吃午饭。中午我叫卡尔一同去吃早饭，我不在期间他和范诺登新近养成了一种习惯—每天去库波勒饭店吃早饭。我问，“为什么非去库波勒？”卡尔答道，“为什么非去库波勒？因为库波勒全天都上麦片粥，麦片粥是叫你吃了拉屎的。”我说，“明白了。”
In the morning I rented a room overlooking the little park down below where the sandwich-board men always came to eat their lunch. At noon I called for Carl to have breakfast with him. He and Van Norden had developed a new habit in my absence - they went to the Coupole for breakfast every day. "Why the Coupole?" I asked. "Why the Coupole?" says Carl. "Because the Coupole serves porridge at all hours and porridge makes you shit." - "I see," said I.
 
　　于是生活又像以前一样，我们三人步行上下班，常发生小口角、小争斗。范诺登仍为了他的女人、为了把肚子里的脏东西冲洗出来而发牢骚，只是现在发现了一种新消遣，他发现手淫不那么令人烦恼。他把这个新闻告诉我后，我着实诧异了一阵，我认为像他这样一个家伙不可能在自慰中得到乐趣。他又向我描绘他是如何弄的，这就更使我十分诧异不已了。用他的话说，他“发明”了一种新技艺。他说，“你拿一个苹果，挖掉果心，然后在里面抹一些冷奶油，这样它就不会化得太快了。哪一天试试看！一开始会叫你神魂颠倒的。不管怎样，这个办法很便宜，也不用费多少时间。”
So it's just like it used to be again. The three of us walking back and forth to work. Petty dissensions, petty rivalries. Van Norden still bellyaching about his cunts and about washing the dirt out of his belly. Only now he's found a new diversion. He's found that it's less annoying to masturbate. I was amazed when he broke the news to me. I didn't think it possible for a guy like that to find any pleasure in jerking himself off. I was still more amazed when he explained to me how he goes about it. He had "invented" a new stunt, so he put it. "You take an apple," he says, "and you bore out the core. Then you rub some cold cream on the inside so as it doesn't melt too fast. Try it some time! It'll drive you crazy at first. Anyway, it's cheap and you don't have to waste much time.
 
　　他换了一个话题，又说，“对了，你的那位朋友菲尔莫住进了医院。我想他是疯了，反正这是他的姑娘告诉我的。你不在时他找了一个法国姑娘，他俩一度打架打得很厉害。女的是一个大块头、很壮实的婊子，是那种粗蛮的女人。我倒不在乎跟她睡一回，只是怕她会把我的眼珠子抠出来。菲尔莫经常脸上、手上带着抓破的伤痕走来走去，有时她也显得被人揍肿了，要的心，我答应了他提出的一切。我并不觉得他确实疯了。只是有点儿灰心丧气。是典型的盎格鲁-撒克逊人的心理危机，是道德准则的突然萌发。我对这个姑娘抱有很强烈的好奇心，想知道整个事情的内幕。

"By the way," he says, switching the subject, "that friend of yours, Fillmore, he's in the hospital. I think he's nuts. Anyway, that's what his girl told me. He took on a French girl, you know, while you were away. They used to fight like hell. She's a big, healthy bitch - wild like. I wouldn't mind giving her a tumble, but I'm afraid she'd claw the eyes out of me. He was always going around with his face and hands scratched up. She looks bunged up too once in a while - or she used to. You know how these French cunts are - when they love they lose their minds."
Evidently things had happened while I was away. I was sorry to hear about Fillmore. He had been damned good to me. When I left Van Norden I jumped a bus and went straight to the hospital.
They hadn't decided yet whether he was completely off his base or not, I suppose, for I found him upstairs in a private room, enjoying all the liberties of the regular patients. He had just come from the bath when I arrived. When he caught sight of me he burst into tears. "It's all over," he says immediately. "They say I'm crazy - and I may have syphilis too. They say I have delusions of grandeur." He fell over onto the bed and wept quietly. After he had wept a while he lifted his head up and smiled - just like a bird coming out of a snooze. "Why do they put me in such an expensive room?" he said. "Why don't they put me in the ward - or in the bughouse? I can't afford to pay for this. I'm down to my last five hundred dollars."
"That's why they're keeping you here," I said. "They'll transfer you quickly enough when your money runs out. Don't worry."
My words must have impressed him, for I had no sooner finished than he handed me his watch and chain, his wallet, his fraternity pin, etc. "Hold on to them," he said. "These bastards'll rob me of everything I've got." And then suddenly he began to laugh, one of those weird, mirthless laughs which makes you believe a guy's goofy whether he is or not. "I know you'll think I'm crazy," he said, "but I want to atone for what I did. I want to get married. You see, I didn't know I had the clap. I gave her the clap and then I knocked her up. I told the doctor I don't care what happens to me, but I want him to let me get married first. He keeps telling me to wait until I get better but I know I'm never going to get better. This is the end."
I couldn't help laughing myself, hearing him talk that way. I couldn't understand what had come over him. Anyway, I had to promise him to see the girl and explain things to her. He wanted me to stick by her, comfort her. Said he could trust me, etc. I said yes to everything in order to soothe him. He didn't seem exactly nuts to me - just caved in like. Typical Anglo Saxon crisis. An eruption of morals. I was rather curious to see the girl, to get the lowdown on the whole thing.
Part 15 Chapter 2
第二天我找到了她，她住在拉丁区。一弄明白我是谁她便变得非常友好，她自称叫吉乃特，块头很大、消瘦、健康，有一颗门牙崩落了一半，是那种农家女的外貌。她精力充沛，眼神中流露出狂躁的意味。她做的头一件事便是哭，然后，想起我是她的“乔乔”的老朋友—她就是这样叫他的—她便跑下楼去拿来几瓶白葡萄酒。她要我留下同她一道吃饭，她执意要这样。喝了酒后她一阵高兴，一阵伤感。根本什么也不用问，她自己就像一部自动上发条的机器一样说开了。最使她担忧的是—待他们放他出院后，他能重新去工作吗？她说她父母很有钱，不过生她的气，不赞成她放纵无忌的行为。他们尤其不喜欢菲尔莫，他没有礼貌，又是一个美国人。她恳求我宽她的心，说他仍能回去工作的，我便毫不犹豫地照办了。然后她又恳求我讲讲她能否信他的话，即他要娶她。现在肚子里有个孩子，又得了性病，她已不可能再嫁给一个法国人了。这是显而易见的，是不是？当然，我宽慰她道。这一切我都清楚极了，只是有一点，菲尔莫怎么居然会爱上了她。不过一次只能做一件事情，我的职责是安慰她，于是我就给她讲了一大通胡说八道的话，说一切都会好的，而且我还要作他们孩子的教父呢，等等。这时我才猛地想起这件事很古怪—她竟还要这个孩子，尤其是他可能一生下来就是瞎子。我尽量委婉地告诉她这话，她却说，“这并没有什么关系，我要一个跟他生的孩子。”
The next day I looked her up. She was living in the Latin Quarter. As soon as she realized who I was she became exceedingly cordial. Ginette she called herself. Rather big, raw-boned, healthy, peasant type with a front tooth half eaten away. Full of vitality and a kind of crazy fire in her eyes. The first thing she did was to weep. Then, seeing that I was an old friend of her Jo Jo - that was how she called him - she ran downstairs and brought back a couple of bottles of white wine. I was to stay and have dinner with her - she insisted on it. As she drank she became by turns gay and maudlin. I didn't have to ask her any questions - she went on like a self-winding machine. The thing that worried her principally was - would he get his job back when he was released from the hospital? She said her parents were well off, but they were displeased with her. They didn't approve of her wild ways. They didn't approve of him particularly - he had no manners, and he was an American. She begged me to assure her that he would get his job back, which I did without hesitation. And then she begged me to know if she could believe what he said - that he was going to marry her. Because now, with a child under her belt, and a dose of clap besides, she was in no position to strike a match - with a Frenchman anyway. That was clear, wasn't it? Of course, I assured her. It was all clear as hell to me - except how in Christ's name Fillmore had ever fallen for her. However, one thing at a time. It was my duty now to comfort her, and so I just filled her up with a lot of baloney, told her everything would turn out all right and that I would stand godfather to the child, etc. Then suddenly it struck me as strange that she should have the child at all - especially as it was likely to be born blind. I told her that as tactfully as I could. "It doesn't make any difference," she said, "I want a child by him."
 
　　“哪怕他是瞎子？”我又问。
"Even if it's blind?" I asked.
 
　　“我的天呀，别说这些了！”她呻吟道，“别说这些了！”
"Mon Dieu, ne dites pas ?a!" she groaned. "Ne dites pas ?a!"
 
　　我仍然认为讲明这一点是我的职责，她便像一头海象一样猛哭开了，又倒了一些酒。过了才几分钟她又纵情大笑，她笑是因为想起了他俩上床后常常打架。她说，“他喜欢我跟他打架，他是个野人。”
Just the same, I felt it was my duty to say it. She got hysterical and began to weep like a walrus, poured out more wine. In a few moments she was laughing boisterously. She was laughing to think how they used to fight when they got in bed. "He liked me to fight with him," she said. "He was a brute."
 
　　我们坐下来正吃饭，吉乃特的一个朋友进来了。她是一个小婊子，住在大厅顶端。吉乃特马上打发我下楼再去取些酒，待我回来，她俩已经把该谈的都谈到了。她的朋友—这位伊韦特—在警察局工作。据我推测，她是一个向警方提供情况的线民，至少她试图叫我相信是这样的。显然她不过是一个小婊子，只是对警方和他们的工作很着迷罢了。吃饭时她俩一直竭力劝我陪她们去参加一场风笛舞会，她们想快活一下—“乔乔”住进了医院，吉乃特很寂寞。我告诉她们我得去上班，不过晚上不当班时我会来带她们出去玩的。同时也讲明了，我没有钱可花在她们身上。吉乃特一听这个大为惊愕，不过假意说那一点儿关系也没有。只是为了显示她是一个多么讲交情的人，她竟执意要雇一部车子送我去上班，她这样做是因为我是“乔乔”的朋友，那么也就是她的朋友啦。我暗想，“还有呢，一旦你的‘乔乔’出了什么问题，你就会飞快地跑来找我。那时候你就会明白我是一个怎样的朋友了！”我对她殷勤备至，我们在办公室前下车后，我还听任她们劝我一起又喝了最后一杯茴香酒。伊韦特问我，她能否在我下班后来找我，她说有很多事情要同我私下谈，但是我设法在不伤害她感情的前提下拒绝了，遗憾的是我不够警惕，还是把住址告诉她了。
As we sat down to eat, a friend of hers walked in - a little tart who lived at the end of the hall. Ginette immediately sent me down to get some more wine. When I came back they had evidently had a good talk. Her friend, Yvette, worked in the police department. A sort of stool pigeon, as far as I could gather. At least that was what she was trying to make me believe. It was fairly obvious that she was just a little whore. But she had an obsession about the police and their doings. Throughout the meal they were urging me to accompany them to a bat musette. They wanted to have a gay time - it was so lonely for Ginette with Jo Jo in the hospital. I told them I had to work, but that on my night off I'd come back and take them out. I made it clear too that I had no dough to spend on them. Ginette, who was really thunderstruck to hear this, pretended that that didn't matter in the least. In fact, just to show what a good sport she was, she insisted on driving me to work in a cab. She was doing it because I was a friend of Jo Jo's. And therefore I was a friend of hers. "And also," thought I to myself, "if anything goes wrong with your Jo Jo you'll come to me on the double quick. Then you'll see what a friend I can be!" I was as nice as pie to her. In fact when we got out of the cab in front of the office, I permitted them to persuade me into having a final Pernod together. Yvette wanted to know if she couldn't call for me after work. She had a lot of things to tell me in confidence, she said. But I managed to refuse without hurting her feelings. Unfortunately I did unbend sufficiently to give her my address.
 
　　虽说遗憾，可实际上后来想起来我倒很高兴自己这样做了，因为紧接着第二天就出事了。第二天，我还没有起床她俩就来了。“乔乔”被人移出了医院，他们把他囚禁在乡下一所邪庄园”里了，离巴黎只有几英里。他们叫它“庄园”，这是“疯人院”的一种礼貌说法。她俩叫我马上穿好衣服跟她们走，她们惊恐不安。
Unfortunately, I say. As a matter of fact, I'm rather glad of it when I think back on it. Because the very next day things began to happen. The very next day, before I had even gotten out of bed, the two of them called on me. Jo Jo had been removed from the hospital - they had incarcerated him in a little chateau in the country, just a few miles out of Paris. The chateau, they called it. A polite way of saying "the bughouse." They wanted me to get dressed immediately and go with them. They were in a panic.

 
　　也许我本可以独自一人去的，可我只是拿不定主意是否要跟这两个女人一起去。我叫她们在楼下等我穿好衣服就来，心想这样可以利用这段时间找一个不去的借口。可是她们不肯离开房间，她们坐着看我洗脸穿衣，就像天天都是如此似的。正穿了一半，卡尔闯进来了。我把情况用英语简单告诉了他，然后我们编造出一个借口，说我有要紧的工作要做。为了蒙混过关，我们端进来一些甜酒，并给她们看一本有淫秽图画的书解闷。伊韦特早已完全放弃了去庄园的想法，她同卡尔处得非常好，到了动身的时候，卡尔便决定陪她们一起去。他认为看看菲尔莫同一大群疯子一起走来走去很好玩，他还想看看疯人院里是什么样子的，于是他们走了，带着几分醉意，情绪非常高昂。
Perhaps I might have gone alone - but I just couldn't make up my mind to go with these two. I asked them to wait for me downstairs while I got dressed, thinking that it would give me time to invent some excuse for not going. But they wouldn't leave the room. They sat there and watched me wash and dress, just as if it were an everyday affair. In the midst of it, Carl popped in. I gave him the situation briefly in English, and then we hatched up an excuse that I had some important work to do. However, to smooth things over, we got some wine in and we began to amuse them by showing them a book of dirty drawings. Yvette had already lost all desire to go to the chateau. She and Carl were getting along famously. When it came time to go Carl decided to accompany them to the chateau. He thought it would be funny to see Fillmore walking around with a lot of nuts. He wanted to see what it was like in the nuthouse. So off they went, somewhat pickled, and in the best of humor.
 
　　菲尔莫住在庄园里时我自始至终没有去看过他。这没有必要，因为吉乃特定期去看他，也就把情况全转告我了。据她说，医生们认为有希望在几个月内使他恢复理智，他们认为他是酒精中毒，除此之外没有什么。当然，他有性病，不过那并不难治。就他们所知，他并没有染上梅毒，这还算不错。于是他们先从使用洗胃器着手，把他体内彻底清洗了一遍。有一阵子他身体太弱，无法起床。他的心情也很沮丧，他说并不想治愈，他想死。他执拗地不断重复这番废话，后来他们都惊慌起来。我想，假如他自杀了，对他们医院的名声可并不好。总之他们开始给他采用精神治疗，还利用治疗间歇期间拔他的牙齿，越拔越多，直到他口中一颗牙也没有了。他们原指望此后他会感觉好些，可是奇怪的是他竟不觉得好，反倒比以往更加消沉，还开始掉头发。最后他变成了一个偏执狂，指责他们做了种种坏事，质问他们有什么权利把他扣留起来、他究竟做了什么竟被关起来，等等。经过一段可怕的消沉之后他会突然变得精力充沛，威胁说他们如果还不放了他，他就要炸掉这个地方。对吉乃特来说，更糟的是他已完全摆脱了要娶她的念头。他直截了当地对她说，他不想娶她，假如她疯了，去生下一个孩子来，那么她自己就应该能养活他。
All the time that Fillmore was at the chateau I never once went to see him. It wasn't necessary, because Ginette visited him regularly and gave me all the news. They had hopes of bringing him around in a few months, so she said. They thought it was alcoholic poisoning - nothing more. Of course, he had a dose - but that wasn't difficult to remedy. So far as they could see, he didn't have syphilis. That was something. So, to begin with, they used the stomach pump on him. They cleaned his system out thoroughly. He was so weak for a while that he couldn't get out of bed. He was depressed, too. He said he didn't want to be cured - he wanted to die. And he kept repeating this nonsense so insistently that finally they grew alarmed. I suppose it wouldn't have been a very good recommendation if he had committed suicide. Anyway, they began to give him mental treatment. And in between times they pulled out his teeth, more and more of them, until he didn't have a tooth left in his head. He was supposed to feel fine after that, yet strangely he didn't. He became more despondent than ever. And then his hair began to fall out. Finally he developed a paranoid streak - began to accuse them of all sorts of things, demanded to know by what right he was being detained, what he had done to warrant being locked up, etc. After a terrible fit of despondency he would suddenly become energetic and threaten to blow up the place if they didn't release him. And to make it worse, as far as Ginette was concerned, he had gotten all over his notion of marrying her. He told her straight up and down that he had no intention of marrying her, and that if she was crazy enough to go and have a child then she could support it herself.
 
　　医生们解释说，这一切都是好迹象，他们说他快好了。当然，吉乃特却认为他比以往更疯癫了，不过她在为他祈祷，希望他快出院，这样她就能带他到乡下去走走，那儿闲适、宁静，会使他恢复理智。与此同时，吉乃特的父母来到巴黎看女儿，他们还到庄园来看望了未来的女婿。他们以自己的狡黠方式大概也算计出女儿嫁一个疯丈夫也总比没有丈夫好，当爹的认为他能替菲尔莫在农场里找点儿活干，他说菲尔莫毕竟还不算坏。等他从吉乃特那儿听说菲尔莫的父母有钱，便更加宽容、更加通情达理了。
The doctors interpreted all this as a good sign. They said he was coming round. Ginette, of course, thought he was crazier than ever, but she was praying for him to be released so that she could take him to the country where it would be quiet and peaceful and where he would come to his right senses. Meanwhile her parents had come to Paris on a visit and had even gone so far as to visit the future son in law at the chateau. In their canny way they had probably figured it out that it would be better for their daughter to have a crazy husband than no husband at all. The father thought he could find something for Fillmore to do on the farm. He said that Fillmore wasn't such a bad chap at all. When he learned from Ginette that Fillmore's parents had money he became even more indulgent, more understanding.
 
　　事情发展得十分顺利。吉乃特同她父母一起回到外省住了一阵，伊韦特则定期到旅馆来看望卡尔。她以为卡尔是这家报纸的编辑，后来一点点地吐露了很多秘密。有一天她玩痛快了，喝醉了，便告诉我们吉乃特从来不过只是一个婊子，一个吸血鬼，还说吉乃特从未怀过孕，而且现在也未曾怀孕。对于其他指责我和卡尔不大怀疑，不过对于吉乃特没有怀孕这一说我们不大有把握。
The thing was working itself out nicely all around. Ginette returned to the provinces for a while with her parents. Yvette was coming regularly to the hotel to see Carl. She thought he was the editor of the paper. And little by little she became more confidential. When she got good and tight one day, she informed us that Ginette had never been anything but a whore, that Ginette was a bloodsucker, that Ginette never had been pregnant and was not pregnant now. About the other accusations we hadn't much doubt, Carl and I, but about not being pregnant, that we weren't so sure of.
 
　　卡尔问，“那么她的肚子怎么会那么大？”
"How did she get such a big stomach, then?" asked Carl.
 
　　伊韦特笑了，“也许用自行车打气筒打气来着。”她又补充道，“真的没有怀孕，大肚子是喝酒喝出来的。吉乃特喝起酒来简直是牛饮，等她从乡下回来你们会看到她会更肥。她父亲是酒鬼，她也是酒鬼。也许她会得上淋病，不过并没有怀孕。”
Yvette laughed. "Maybe she uses a bicycle pump," she said. "No, seriously," she added, "the stomach comes from drink. She drinks like a fish, Ginette. When she comes back from the country, you will see, she will be blown up still more. Her father is a drunkard. Ginette is a drunkard. Maybe she had the clap, yes - but she is not pregnant."
 
　　“可是她为什么想嫁给菲尔莫？是不是真爱上他了？”
"But why does she want to marry him? Is she really in love with him?"
 
　　“爱！呸！吉乃特毫无心肝，她只想找个人照看她。没有一个法国人会娶她，她在警察局里挂了号。她想嫁给他是因为他太蠢，没有去查查她的底细。她的父母不想再要她了，她给他们丢尽了人。不过若是她能嫁给一个有钱的美国人，一切都妥了……你们以为也许她有点儿爱他，嗯？你们不了解她，他们在旅馆里同居的时候，她就乘他去上班之际带别的男人到她房间里去。他吝啬，她穿的那件皮衣—她告诉他是她父母送给她的，对吗？天真的傻瓜！哼，我曾看到她带一个男人到旅馆里来，当时菲尔莫还正在旅馆里。她带这个男人去了下面一层，这是我亲眼看到的。那是怎样一个男人啊！一个老流浪汉，已不可能勃起了！”
"Love? Pfooh! She has no heart, Ginette. She wants someone to look after her. No Frenchman would ever marry her - she has a police record. No, she wants him because he's too stupid to find out about her. Her parents don't want her any more - she's a disgrace to them. But if she can get married to a rich American, then everything will be all right… You think maybe she loves him a little, eh? You don't know her. When they were living together at the hotel, she had men coming to her room while he was at work. She said he didn't give her enough spending money. He was stingy. That fur she wore - she told him her parents had given it to her, didn't she? Innocent fool! Why, I've seen her bring a man back to the hotel right while he was there. She brought the man to the floor below. I saw it with my own eyes. And what a man! An old derelict. He couldn't get an erection!"
 
　　如果菲尔莫从庄园里放出来后回到巴黎，或许我会给他通通有关吉乃特的消息。在他仍处于医生的观察下时，我认为用伊韦特的诽谤毒化他的脑筋、使他不愉快是不妥的。结果，他从庄园直接去了吉乃特父母的家。在那里，尽管他不太愿意，还是受骗公布了他的订婚。当地的报纸都登载了结婚预告，还为女方家的朋友们举行了招待会。菲尔莫利用这个机会采取各种办法逃避，他很清楚自己在干什么，却装出仍有点痴呆的样子。比如说，他会借来岳父的汽车，独自一个在乡间到处乱闯。若是看到一个他喜欢的镇子便住下尽情玩乐一番，直到吉乃特来找他。有时他也同岳父一起出去，也许是钓鱼，然后就一连好几天听不到他们的行踪。他变得任性而又难以讨好，真叫人恼火。我猜他是算计着也许仍能从中尽量捞一把。
If Fillmore, when he was released from the chateau, had returned to Paris, perhaps I might have tipped him off about his Ginette. While he was still under observation I didn't think it well to upset him by poisoning his mind with Yvette's slanders. As things turned out, he went directly from the chateau to the home of Ginette's parents. There, despite himself, he was inveigled into making public his engagement. The banns were published in the local papers and a reception was given to the friends of the family. Fillmore took advantage of the situation to indulge in all sorts of escapades. Though he knew quite well what he was doing he pretended to be still a little daffy. He would borrow his father in law's car, for example, and tear about the countryside all by himself; if he saw a town that he liked he would plank himself down and have a good time until Ginette came searching for him. Sometimes the father in law and he would go off together - on a fishing trip, presumably - and nothing would be heard of them for days. He became exasperatingly capricious and exacting. I suppose he figured he might as well get what he could out of it.
　　
　　他同吉乃特回到巴黎时又有了一衣柜簇新的衣服和一袋钱，他显得又开心又健康，皮肤也晒黑了。我觉得他显得十分健壮，可是我们一离开吉乃特他便开口了。他的工作丢了，钱也花光了，他们大约在一个月内结婚，在这段时间内由女方父母给他们钱花。菲尔莫说，“一旦他们牢牢控制住我，我就只能成为他们的奴隶了。她爹打算为我开一家文具店，吉乃特应付顾客，干收钱这类事，我坐在店后面写东西或干别的。你能想象得出我坐在一家文具店后面度过余生的情景吗？吉乃特认为这个主意妙极了，她喜欢经手钱，我倒宁愿回到庄园里去也不想听从这种安排。”
When he returned to Paris with Ginette he had a complete new wardrobe and a pocketful of dough. He looked cheerful and healthy, and had a fine coat of tan. He looked sound as a berry to me. But as soon as we had gotten away from Ginette he opened up. His job was gone and his money had all run out. In a month or so they were to be married. Meanwhile the parents were supplying the dough. "Once they've got me properly in their clutches," he said, "I'll be nothing but a slave to them. The father thinks he's going to open up a stationery store for me. Ginette will handle the customers, take in the money, etc., while I sit in the back of the store and write - or something. Can you picture me sitting in the back of a stationery store for the rest of my life? Ginette thinks it's an excellent idea. She likes to handle money. I'd rather go back to the chateau than submit to such a scheme."
 
　　当然，他眼下不得不假装对一切都十分满意。我试着劝他回美国去，可他不听，说不能被一群无知的乡巴佬从法国赶走。他有一个想法，想溜走一段时间，然后再在巴黎某个偏僻的地方住下来，在那儿他不大可能会遇见她。但是我们很快就认为那不可能，在法国无法像在美国那样藏起来。
For the time being, of course, he was pretending that everything was hunky dory. I tried to persuade him to go back to America but he wouldn't hear of that. He said he wasn't going to be driven out of France by a lot of ignorant peasants. He had an idea that he would slip out of sight for a while and then take up quarters in some outlying section of the city where he'd not be likely to stumble upon her. But we soon decided that that was impossible: you can't hide away in France as you can in America.
 
　　我提议说，“你可以到比利时去呆一段时间。”
"You could go to Belgium for a while," I suggested.
 
　　他马上反驳说，“我干什么挣钱呢？在那些鬼国家里是找不到工作的。”
"But what'll I do for money?" he said promptly. "You can't get a job in these goddamned countries."
 
　　我又问，“那么你干吗不先跟她结婚，然后再离婚？”
"Why don't you marry her and get a divorce, then?" I asked.
 
　　“她马上就要养孩子了。谁来照料孩子呢，嗯？”
"And meanwhile she'll be dropping a kid. Who's going to take care of the kid, eh?"
 
　　我说，“你怎么知道她要生孩子了？”我觉得道出这个秘密的时机现在已成熟。
"How do you know she's going to have a kid?" I said, determined now that the moment had come to spill the beans.
 
　　“我怎么会知道？”他似乎并不很明白我在暗示什么。
"How do I know?" he said. He didn't quite seem to know what I was insinuating.
 
　　我把伊韦特说的向他透露了一点儿，他略有几分惊慌地听我说，最后打断了我的话。他说，“再说也无益，我知道她要生孩子了。没错，我摸到他在她肚子里踢腾呢。伊韦特是个卑鄙的小娼妇，你瞧，我并不想告诉你这个，不过直到去住院之前我仍给伊韦特钱。后来出了那件事，我便无法再为她做什么了。我觉得自己已经为她俩做得够多的了……我要先照顾自己。这使伊韦特很恼火，她告诉吉乃特说她要跟我算帐……不，我希望她说的是真的，那样我就能比较容易地从这件事情中脱身了。现在我已中了圈套，我许诺要娶她，也就只好走完这个过程了。此后我也不知道会怎样，他们现在已经牢牢掌握住我了。”
I gave him an inkling of what Yvette had said. He listened to me in complete bewilderment. Finally he interrupted me. "It's no use going on with that," he said. "I know she's going to have a kid, all right. I've felt it kicking around inside. Yvette's a dirty little slut. You see, I didn't want to tell you, but up until the time I went to the hospital I was shelling out for Yvette too. Then when the crash came I couldn't do any more for her. I figured out that I had done enough for the both of them… I made up my mind to look after myself first. That made Yvette sore. She told Ginette that she was going to get even with me… No, I wish it were true, what she said. Then I could get out of this thing more easily. Now I'm in a trap. I've promised to marry her and I'll have to go through with it. After that I don't know what'll happen to me. They've got me by the balls now."
Part 15 Chapter 3
由于菲尔莫在我住的旅馆里租了一个房间，我不得不经常见到他们，不管是不是想见。我几乎每天晚上同他们一道吃饭，当然饭前少不了喝几杯茵香酒。吃饭时他们不断大声吵，这很令人尴尬，因为有时我得站在这一方，有时又得站在另一方。比如说，在一个星期日下午，一起吃完午饭后我们来到埃德加一基内林荫道街角上的一家咖啡馆里。这一回异常顺利，我们三人并排坐在里面一张小桌子边，背对着一面镜子。吉乃特准是动了感情还是怎么的，因为她突然变得十分多情，当着众人的面爱抚、亲吻起菲尔莫来，像所有法国人一样做得很自然。他们刚刚长久地拥抱完，菲尔莫说了她父母一句什么，她认为这是侮辱，马上气红了脸。我们想叫她平静下来，便说她误解了那句话，然后菲尔莫又低声用英语对我说了句什么—似乎是说要我奉承她几句。这足以使她彻底大动肝火，她说我们在取笑她。我又说了一句不太好听的，更使她气得不得了。菲尔莫便想说句话，他说，“你的性子太急。”说完他想拍拍她的脸蛋，她却以为菲尔莫举起手来是要扇她耳光，便用她那只乡巴佬的大手朝他下颚上响亮地抽了一记。菲尔莫一时惊呆了，他没有料到会挨这么狠的一巴掌，这一下很痛。我看到他的脸变得惨白，接着他从长椅上站起来“叭”地狠狠扇了她一巴掌，差点儿把她从椅子上揍下来。 “给你一下！这一下叫你放规矩些！”他用不连贯的法语说。一阵死一样的沉默，然后她像暴风雨一样爆发了，抓起眼前的白兰地酒杯狠命朝他掷来。杯子砸在身后的镜子上，碎了。这时菲尔莫已经抓住了她的胳膊，但她又用另一只手抓起咖啡杯摔在地上。她像一个疯子一样乱扭乱动，我们用尽力气抓住她。这时店老板当然跑来了，叫我们快滚。“流浪汉！”他这样叫我们，吉乃特尖叫道，“对了，流浪汉，就是流浪汉！脏外国佬！恶棍！土匪！居然打一个怀孕的女人！”周围的人都在怒视着我们，一个可怜的法国女人和两个美国流氓、匪徒。当时我想不打一架恐怕是逃不出那地方了，这时菲尔莫沉默着，一句话也不说。吉乃特冲出门，留下我们去挨人骂。临出门时她转过身来举起拳头嚷道，“我会找你算帐的，你这个野人！等着瞧吧！没有哪一个外国人敢这样对待一个体面的法国女人！哼，不行！这样就是不行！”
Since he had taken a room in the same hotel with me I was obliged to see them frequently, whether I wanted to or not. Almost every evening I had dinner with them, preceded, of course, by a few Pernods. All through the meal they quarreled noisily. It was embarrassing because I had sometimes to take one side and sometimes the other. One Sunday afternoon, for example, after we had had lunch together, we repaired to a café on the corner of the Boulevard Edgar Quinet. Things had gone unusually well this time. We were sitting inside at a little table, one alongside the other, our backs to a mirror. Ginette must have been passionate or something for she had suddenly gotten into a sentimental mood and was fondling him and kissing him in front of everybody, as the French do so naturally. They had just come out of a long embrace when Fillmore said something about her parents which she interpreted as an insult. Immediately her cheeks flushed with anger. We tried to mollify her by telling her that she had misunderstood the remark and then, under his breath, Fillmore said something to me in English - something about giving her a little soft soap. That was enough to set her completely off the handle. She said we were making fun of her. I said something sharp to her which angered her still more and then Fillmore tried to put in a word. "You're too quick-tempered," he said, and he tried to pat her on the cheek. But she, thinking that he had raised his hand to slap her face, she gave him a sound crack in the jaw with that big peasant hand of hers. For a moment he was stunned. He hadn't expected a wallop like that, and it stung. I saw his face go white and the next moment he raised himself from the bench and with the palm of his hand he gave her such a crack that she almost fell off her seat. "There! that'll teach you how to behave!" he said - in his broken French. For a moment there was a dead silence. Then, like a storm breaking, she picked up the cognac glass in front of her and hurled it at him with all her might. It smashed against the mirror behind us. Fillmore had already grabbed her by the arm, but with her free hand she grabbed the coffee glass and smashed it on the floor. She was squirming around like a maniac. It was all we could do to hold her. Meanwhile, of course, the patron had come running in and ordered us to beat it. "Loafers!" he called us. "Yes, loafers; that's it!" screamed Ginette. "Dirty foreigners! Thugs! Gangsters! Striking a pregnant woman!" We were getting black looks all around. A poor Frenchwoman with two American toughs. Gangsters. I was wondering how the hell we'd ever get out of the place without a fight. Fillmore, by this time, was as silent as a clam. Ginette was bolting it through the door, leaving us to face the music. As she sailed out she turned back with fist upraised and shouted; "I'll pay you back for this, you brute! You'll see! No foreigner can treat a decent Frenchwoman like that! Ah, no! Not like that!"
 
　　这时我们已经给老板付了酒钱和打破的杯子钱，听到吉乃恃这番话他便觉得自己有义务向吉乃特这样一个法国母亲的杰出代表表现一下他的勇敢无畏，于是他毫不费力地朝我们脚下啐了一口，把我们推出门去。“吃屎去吧，你们这些肮脏的流浪汉！”他这样说或是说了一句别的什么诙谐话。
Hearing this the patron, who had now been paid for his drinks and his broken glasses, felt it incumbent to show his gallantry toward a splendid representative of French motherhood such as Ginette, and so, without more ado, he spat at our feet and shoved us out of the door. "Shit on you, you dirty loafers!" he said, or some such pleasantry.
 
　　到了街上，而且并没有人向我们投掷东西，我这才悟到这件事有趣的一面。我自己暗想，说不定把这整个事件恰如其分地扬到法庭上倒是一个很妙的主意呢。整个事件！把伊韦特的小故事当作小菜端出去！法国人毕竟是有幽默感的，兴许法官听了菲尔莫的陈述后还会解除他们的婚约呢。
Once in the street and nobody throwing things after us, I began to see the funny side of it. It would be an excellent idea, I thought to myself, if the whole thing were properly sired in court. The whole thing! With Yvette's little stories as a side dish. After all, the French have a sense of humor. Perhaps the judge, when he heard Fillmore's side of the story, would absolve him from marriage.
 
　　这时吉乃特正站在街对面向我们挥舞拳头，还使足了劲大骂。行人站下听她骂，分成两派，一遇到街上吵架他们总会这样。菲尔莫不知道怎么办才好：撇下她走掉还是过去哄她。他站在街中央，两只胳膊伸出来，企图插嘴。吉乃特还在喊，“土匪！野人！你们看，下流胚！”还有一些别的恭维话。后来菲尔莫朝她走去，大概她以为他要再好好揍她一下，便飞快地沿着街溜了。菲尔莫回到我站的地方说，“走，咱们悄悄跟着她。”我们出发了。身后跟着一小群人。她走一段路便回头朝我们晃晃拳头，我们也不想追上她，只是不紧不慢地跟着她走过那条街，看她打算干什么。后来她放慢了脚步，我们便穿过马路来到街道另一侧。现在她不喊叫了，我们仍跟着她，距离越来越近。现在我们身后只剩十来个人了，其他人都已失去了兴趣。待我们快走到街角时她突然站住了，等我们走近。菲尔莫说，“让我来说，我知道怎样对付她。”
Meanwhile Ginette was standing across the street brandishing her fist and yelling at the top of her lungs. People were stopping to listen in, to take sides, as they do in street brawls. Fillmore didn't know what to do - whether to walk away from her, or to go over to her and try to pacify her. He was standing in the middle of the street with his arms outstretched, trying to get a word in edgewise. And Ginette still yelling: "Gangster! Brute! Tu verras, salaud!" and other complimentary things. Finally Fillmore made a move toward her and she, probably thinking that he was going to give her another good cuff, took it on a trot down the street. Fillmore came back to where I was standing and said: "Come on, let's follow her quietly." We started off with a thin crowd of stragglers behind us. Every once in a while she turned back toward us and brandished her fist. We made no attempt to catch up with her, just followed her leisurely down the street to see what she would do. Finally she slowed up her pace and we crossed over to the other side of the street. She was quiet now. We kept walking behind her, getting closer and closer. There were only about a dozen people behind us now - the others had lost interest. When we got near the corner she suddenly stopped and waited for us to approach. "Let me do the talking," said Fillmore, "I know how to handle her."
 
　　我们一走过去她便泪如泉涌了。至于我自己，我不知道她这是要搞什么名堂，所以后来我有点儿吃惊—菲尔莫走上前去用委屈的声调说，“那样做象话吗？你为什么要那样呢？”一听这话她便张开双臂搂住他的脖子，像小孩子一样大哭起来，称他是她的小这个、小那个，然后她转向我恳切他说，“你看见他怎样打我了。这样对待一个女人合适吗？”我正要脱口说很合适，菲尔莫抓住她的胳膊领她走了。他说，“别再说了，你若再闹我就在大街上揍你。”
The tears were streaming down her face as we came up to her. Myself, I didn't know what to expect of her. I was somewhat surprised therefore when Fillmore walked up to her and said in an aggrieved voice: "Was that a nice thing to do? Why did you act that way?" Whereupon she threw her arms around his neck and began to weep like a child, calling him her little this and her little that. Then she turned to me imploringly. "You saw how he struck me," she said. "Is that the way to behave toward a woman?" I was on the point of saying yes when Fillmore took her by the arm and started leading her off.. "No more of that," he said. "If you start again I'll crack you right here in the street."
 
　　我原以为又要重新吵起来了。她眼中仍有怒火。不过她也有点儿怕了，很快怒气就平息下去了，但是在咖啡馆里坐下时她轻声冷酷地说，他别以为她这么快就会忘掉这件事，过一阵他还会听到的……也许是今天晚上。
I thought it was going to start up all over again. She had fire in her eyes. But evidently she was a bit cowed, too, for it subsided quickly. However, as she sat down at the café she said quietly and grimly that he needn't think it was going to be forgotten so quickly; he'd hear more about it later on… perhaps tonight.
 
　　果然她没有食言，第二天早上我碰到菲尔莫，他的脸和双手全被抓破了。看来她一直等到他去睡了才一言不发走到衣柜那儿，把他的衣服全掏出来扔在地上，一件件全撕成了一条条的。以前这类事情也发生过几次，事后她又把它们补好了，所以菲尔莫没有表示什么。这种态度更使她怒不可遏，她要用指甲抓破他的肉，这一点她尽力去做了。由于怀孕了，她在某种程度上占了上风。
And sure enough she kept her word. When I met him the next day his face and hands were all scratched up. Seems she had waited until he got to bed and then, without a word, she had gone to the wardrobe and, dumping all his things out on the floor, she took them one by one and tore them to ribbons. As this had happened a number of times before, and as she had always sewn them up afterward, he hadn't protested very much. And that made her angrier than ever. What she wanted was to get her nails into him, and she did, to the best of her ability. Being pregnant she had a certain advantage over him.
 
　　可怜的菲尔莫！这可不是什么好笑的事，吉乃特把他吓坏了。假如他威胁说要逃走，她便针锋相对地威胁要杀了他，而且她全是当真说的。她说，“如果你去美国我就跟去！你逃不出我的手心，一个法国姑娘总是知道如何报仇的。”接着她马上又哄他“放明白点儿”、“明智些”，等等。一旦他们有了那间文具店，生活就会变得非常美好。他连手都不用抬，她会把全部活儿都包下来。他可以呆在铺子后面写作，干他想干的事情。
Poor Fillmore! It was no laughing matter. She had him terrorized. If he threatened to run away she retorted by a threat to kill him. And she said it as if she meant it. "If you go to America," she said, "I'll follow you! You won't get away from me. A French girl always knows how to get vengeance." And the next moment she would be coaxing him to be "reasonable," to be "sage", etc. Life would be so nice once they had the stationery store. He wouldn't have to do a stroke of work. She would do everything. He could stay in back of the store and write - or whatever he wanted to do.
 
　　这件事就这样反反复复折腾了大约几个星期，像玩跷跷板似的忽起忽落。我尽可能躲着他们，我对这件事早已厌恶了，对他俩都很反感。后来在一个晴朗的夏日，我正从里昂信贷公司门前走过，从台阶上下来的不是别人，正是菲尔莫。我热情地跟他打招呼，因为我躲着他躲了这么久，多少总有点儿内疚。我以比一般的好奇更关切的口吻问他事情怎么样了，他很含糊他说了两句，话音里有一种绝望情绪。
It went on like this, back and forth, a seesaw, for a few weeks or so. I was avoiding them as much as possible, sick of the affair and disgusted with the both of them. Then one fine summer's day, just as I was passing the Credit Lyonnais, who comes marching down the steps but Fillmore. I greeted him warmly, feeling rather guilty because I had dodged him for so long. I asked him, with more than ordinary curiosity, how things were going. He answered me rather vaguely and with a note of despair in his voice.
 
　　他以一种古怪、不连贯、可怜巴巴的调子说，“她只允许我去一趟银行。我只有大约半小时，不能久了，她记着我出来的时间呢。”说完他捏住我的胳膊，似乎是要带我赶快离开那儿。
"I've just gotten permission to go to the bank," he said, in a peculiar, broken, abject sort of way. "I've got about half an hour, no more. She keeps tabs on me." And he grasped my arm as if to hurry me away from the spot.
 
　　我们沿着里沃利街往前走，这是很美的一天，暖和、晴朗、阳光明媚—是一年里巴黎最漂亮的几天之一。一阵和煦的微风吹来，刚好能吹走你鼻孔里滞留的气味。菲尔莫没有戴帽子，从外表看他很健康，像一位低着头走路的普通美国游客，口袋里的钱叮当乱响。
We were walking down toward the Rue de Rivoli. It was a beautiful day, warm, clear, sunny - one of those days when Paris is at its best. A mild pleasant breeze blowing, just enough to take that stagnant odor out of your nostrils. Fillmore was without a hat. Outwardly he looked the picture of health - like the average American tourist who slouches along with money jingling in his pockets.
 
　　他平静地说，“我也不知道该怎么办。你得帮我一把，我没有法子，我掌握不了自己。只要能离开她一段时间，或许我会好起来的。可是她不让我走开，只许我上一趟银行，我得取些钱。我跟你走一段，然后就得赶回去，她会做好午饭等我的。”
"I don't know what to do any more," he said quietly. "You've got to do something for me. I'm helpless. I can't get a grip on myself: If I could only get away from her for a little while perhaps I'd come round all right. But she won't let me out of her sight. I just got permission to run to the bank - I had to draw some money. I'll walk around with you a bit then I must hurry back - she'll have lunch waiting for me."
 
　　我静静地听他讲，心里暗想他的确很需要有人把他从这个深渊中拉出来。他已经完全陷进去了，他的勇气完全丧失殆尽了。他真像一个孩子，像一个天天挨揍仍不知道如何做才好的孩子，只会畏缩和发抖。我们在里沃利街的柱廊下拐弯时，他开始长篇大论地破口大骂法国。法国人叫他受够了。他说，“我以前常称赞法国和法国人，不过那都是文学作品中的事。现在我才算是了解他们了……我了解他们究竟如何了。他们残酷、贪财。起初法国显得妙极了，因为你有一种自由自在的感觉。过一段它就会叫你生厌，其实它骨子里全死了，没有感情，没有同情心，没有友谊。他们自私到了极点，是世界上最最自私的民族！他们什么也不想，只想钱、钱、钱，而且他妈的那么文雅、那么中产阶级化！正是这一点使我气得发疯，一看见她补我的衬衣我就恨不得用棍子揍她。总是补、补，节俭、节俭。 ‘要节俭！’我听见她整天只说这一句话。到处都能听见人们说，‘理智些，亲爱的！理智些！’可我不想理智，也不想符合逻辑。
I listened to him quietly, thinking to myself that he certainly did need someone to pull him out of the hole he was in. He had completely caved in, there wasn't a speck of courage left in him. He was just like a child - like a child who is beaten every day and doesn't know any more how to behave, except to cower and cringe. As we turned under the colonnade of the Rue de Rivoli he burst into a long diatribe against France. He was fed up with the French. "I used to rave about them," he said, "but that was all literature. I know them now… I know what they're really like. They're cruel and mercenary. At first it seems wonderful, because you have a feeling of being free. After a while it palls on you. Underneath it's all dead; there's no feeling, no sympathy, no friendship. They're selfish to the core. The most selfish people on earth! They think of nothing but money, money, money. And so goddamned respectable, so bourgeois! That's what drives me nuts. When I see her mending my shirts I could club her. Always mending, mending. Saving, saving. Faut faire des économies! That's all I hear her say all day long. You hear it everywhere. Sois raisonnable, mon chéri! Sois raisonnable! I don't want to be reasonable and logical.
　　
　　我恨这个！我想摆脱束缚，我想享受人生。我想干点儿事情，不愿成天到晚坐在一家咖啡馆里闲扯。老天，我们有错，可我们还有热情，犯错误也比什么事都不干强些。我宁愿在美国做一个无业游民也不愿再舒舒服服坐在这里了，也许这是因为我是美国佬的缘故吧。我出生在新英格兰，我想我是属于那儿的。一夜之间你变不成欧洲人，你的血液里有种使你与众不同的东西。
I hate it! I want to bust loose, I want to enjoy myself. I want to do something. I don't want to sit in a café and talk all day long. Jesus, we've got our faults - but we've got enthusiasm. It's better to make mistakes than not do anything. I'd rather be a bum in America than to be sitting pretty here. Maybe it's because I'm a Yankee. I was born in New England and I belong there, I guess. You can't become a European overnight. There's something in your blood that makes you different. It's the climate - and everything. We see things with different eyes.
 
　　那是气候，还有一切，我们看问题的眼光不同，不论多么羡慕法国人，我们也无法变成他们。我们是美国人，而且只好一辈子作美国人了。当然，我恨国内那伙拘谨的家伙，我打心里恨他们。不过，我自个儿也是他们中的一个。我不是这儿的人，我讨厌这儿。”
We can't make ourselves over, however much we admire the French. Wer're Americans and we've got to remain Americans. Sure, I hate those puritanical buggers back home - I hate 'em with all my guts. But I'm one of them myself. I don't belong here. I'm sick of it."
 
　　衷全倒出来，搬掉压在胸口的重负对他是有好处的。我又想起一桩好笑的事：还是这个人，若是倒回去一年，准会像一只大猩猩那样拍着胸脯大喊，“多么美妙的一天！多么美的国家！多么好的人民！”若有哪一个正巧同行的美国人哪怕说一个对法国不恭敬的词儿，菲尔莫准会揍扁他的鼻子。一年前他会为法国去死。我从来没有见过哪个人像他这样深深迷恋一个国家，在一个外国的天空下过得如此幸福。这是不正常的，他说起“法国”时，这个词意味着甜酒、女人、衣袋里的钱、挣得容易花得快的钱，意味着作个坏小子、去度假。后来，等尽情玩够了，等帐篷顶被风刮走，清清楚楚地看到了天空，他才明白这不仅是一个马戏团，也是一个竞技场，像各处一样，而且还是一个极冷酷的竞技场呢。过去一听他侈谈光荣的法国和自由之类的蠢话，我便常想一个法国工人听了会作何感想，他能否明白菲尔莫这些话。怪不得他们认为我们全疯了，在他们看来我们是疯了，我们只不过是一群孩子、一帮老傻瓜。我们所谓的人生只是一篇廉价物品商店里听来的传奇故事。其中的热情又是什么呢？是使每个普通欧洲人感到恶心的、不值钱的乐观。这是错觉。不，用错觉这个词描绘它还太好了，错觉的意思是说还有点儿什么。不，不是错觉，是幻想，纯粹是幻想，就是这样。
All along the arcade he went on like this. I wasn't saying a word. I let him spill it all out - it was good for him to get it off his chest. Just the same, I was thinking how strange it was that this same guy, had it been a year ago, would have been beating his chest like a gorilla and saying: "What a marvelous day! What a country! What a people!" And if an American had happened along and said one word against France Fillmore would have flattened his nose. He would have died for France - a year ago. I never saw a man who was so infatuated with a country, who was so happy under a foreign sky. It wasn't natural. When he said France it meant wine, women, money in the pocket, easy come, easy go. It meant being a bad boy, being on holiday. And then, when he had had his fling, when the tent top blew off and he had a good look at the sky, he saw that it wasn't just a circus, but an arena, just like everywhere. And a damned grim one. I often used to think, when I heard him rave about glorious France, about liberty and all that crap, what it would have sounded like to a French workman, could he have understood Fillmore's words. No wonder they think we're all crazy. We are crazy to them. We're just a pack of children. Senile idiots. What we call life is a five-and-ten-cent store romance. That enthusiasm underneath - what is it? That cheap optimism which turns the stomach of any ordinary European? It's illusion. No, illusion's too good a word for it. Illusion means something. No, it's not that - it's delusion. It's sheer delusion, that's what.
Part 15 Chapter 4
我们就像一群眼睛被蒙住的野马，我们狂奔、乱跑，呼的跃下了悬崖。前进！前进！向着助长暴力和迷惑的一切前进，不拘上哪儿。这时马的嘴角一直在冒白沫，口中喊着：“哈利路亚！哈利路亚！”为什么？上帝知道。这是由于血液，由于气候，由于许多因素，这也是终结。我们正在把整个世界拉倒，叫它压在我们头上，我们不知道为什么要这样干，这是命中注定的。其余的全是胡扯……
We're like a herd of wild horses with blinders over our eyes. On the rampage. Stampede. Over the precipice. Bango! Anything that nourishes violence and confusion. On! On! No matter where. And foaming at the lips all the while. Shouting Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Why? God knows. It's in the blood. It's the climate. It's a lot of things. It's the end, too. We're pulling the whole world down about our ears. We don't know why. It's our destiny. The rest is plain shit…
 
　　到了王宫那儿，我提议停下喝一杯。菲尔莫犹豫了一下，我看出他在耽心吉乃特、耽心午饭、耽心会挨一顿臭骂。
At the Palais Royal I suggested that we stop and have a drink. He hesitated a moment. I saw that he was worrying about her, about the lunch, about the bawling out he'd get.
 
　　我说，“看在基督的份上，暂时忘掉她吧。我要叫点儿喝的，而巨要叫你喝。别担心，我要把你从这个鬼圈套里弄出来。”我叫了两杯烈性威士忌。
"For Christ's sake," I said, "forget about her for a while. I'm going to order something to drink and I want you to drink it. Don't worry, I'm going to get you out of this fucking mess." I ordered two stiff whiskies.
 
　　看到威士忌端上来，他又像个孩子似的朝我笑了。
When he saw the whiskies coming he smiled at me just like a child again.
 
　　我说，“把它干了！咱们再喝一杯，酒会对你有好处的。我不管医生怎么说，现在总没有关系了。来，把它干了。”
"Down it!" I said, "and let's have another. This is going to do you good. I don't care what the doctor says - this time it'll be all right. Come on, down with it!"
 
　　他干脆地把它喝完了，侍者走开去拿酒时他用泪汪汪的眼睛看着我，似乎我是他在这个世界上的最后一个朋友，他的嘴唇也在微微抽搐。他有话想对我说，可是又不知道如何启齿。我轻松地瞧着他，就像没有看到他乞求的目光一样。然后，我把茶托推到一边，用时撑着俯在桌上恳切地说，“我说，菲尔莫，你倒底想干什么？告诉我吧！”
He put it down all right and while the gar?on disappeared to fetch another round he looked at me with brimming eyes, as though I were the last friend in the world. His lips were twitching a bit, too. There was something he wanted to say to me and he didn't quite know how to begin. I looked at him easily, as though ignoring the appeal and, shoving the saucers aside, I leaned over on my elbow and I said to him earnestly: "Look here, Fillmore, what is it you'd really like to do? Tell me!"
 
　　听到这话泪水从他眼眶里涌出，他脱口便说， “我想回家跟家人呆在一起，我想听见人们说英语。”热泪从他脸上流下来，他并不去擦，只是叫一切都涌泻出来。老天，我暗想，这样发泄一下倒也不错。一辈子至少作一回彻头彻尾的懦夫倒也不错，可以这样痛痛快快地发泄一下。太棒了！太棒了！看见他垂头丧气对我大有益处，于是我觉得自己可以解决任何难题，我觉得勇气倍增、果断坚毅，脑子里立即有了一千条妙计。
With that the tears gushed up and he blurted out: "I'd like to be home with my people. I'd like to hear English spoken." The tears were streaming down his face. He made no effort to brush them away. He just let everything gush forth. Jesus, I thought to myself, that's fine to have a release like that. Fine to be a complete coward at least once in your life. To let go that way. Great! Great! It did me so much good to see him break down that way that I felt as though I could solve any problem. I felt courageous and resolute. I had a thousand ideas in my head at once.
 
　　我又凑近些说，“听着，如果你真的心口如一，为什么不干……为什么不走呢？假如我处在你的处置上，你知道我会怎么办？我今天就走。是的。老天在上，我说的是真的……我会马上走掉，甚至不跟她道别。实际上，这是你唯一的一条出路，她是永远不会放你走的。这一点你明白。”
"Listen," I said, bending still closer to him, "if you mean what you said why don't you do it… why don't you go? Do you know what I would do, if I were in your shoes? I'd go today. Yes, by Jesus, I mean it… I'd go right away, without even saying good bye to her. As a matter of fact that's the only way you can go - she'd never let you say good bye. You know that."
 
　　侍者端来了威士忌，我看到菲尔莫迫不急待地伸手接过酒杯送到唇边，我看到他眼睛里流露出一丝希望的光芒—遥远、狂暴、孤注一掷的光芒，也许他看到自己正在游过大西洋。在我看来这件事很容易，像滚动一根圆木那样简单。我脑子里很快便想出了这件事的计划，我知道每一步会怎样，我的脑子清楚极了。
The gar?on came with the whiskies. I saw him reach forward with a desperate eagerness and raise the glass to his lips. I saw a glint of hope in his eyes - far off, wild, desperate. He probably saw himself swimming across the Atlantic. To me it looked easy, simple as rolling off a log. The whole thing was working itself out rapidly in my mind. I knew just what each step would be. Clear as a bell, I was.
 
　　我问他，“银行里的钱是准的？是她爹的还是你的？”
 
"Whose money is that in the bank?" I asked. "Is it her father's or is it yours?"
　　他嚷道，“是我的，是我妈寄给我的。我才不要她的一分臭钱呢。”
"It's mine!" he exclaimed. "My mother sent it to me. I don't want any of her goddamned money."
 
　　我说，“妙极了！好，现在咱们搭出租车回到那儿，把钱全取光。然后咱们就去英国领事馆弄一份签证，今天下午你就坐火车去伦敦，再从伦敦乘最早一班船回美国。我建议你这样走是因为那样一来你就不必再担心她追你了，她绝不会疑心你是经伦敦走的。若要去找你，她自然会先去勒阿弗尔或瑟堡……还有一件事，你不要回去取东西。你得把一切都留在这儿，让她留着吧。她的法国人脑瓜永远也不会料到你不带包或行李就溜之大吉了，这是令人难以置信的。一个法国人绝不会想到能这样做……除非他跟你一样疯癫。”
"That's swell!" I said. "Listen, suppose we hop a cab and go back there. Draw out every cent. Then we'll go to the British Consulate and get a visa. You're going to hop the train this afternoon for London. From London you'll take the first boat to America. I'm saying that because then you won't be worried about her trailing you. She'll never suspect that you went via London. If she goes searching for you she'll naturally go to Le Havre first, or Cherbourg… And here's another thing - you're not going back to get your things. You're going to leave everything here. Let her keep them. With that French mind of hers she'll never dream that you scooted off without bag or baggage. It's incredible. A Frenchman would never dream of doing a thing like that… unless he was as cracked as you are."
 
　　菲尔莫嚷道，“你说的对！我就从来没有想到这个。再说，以后你还可以把东西寄给我—如果她肯给你的话，不过现在这无关紧要，可是，天啊！我连顶帽子都没有！”
"You're right!" he exclaimed. "I never thought of that. Besides, you might send them to me later on - if she'll surrender them! But that doesn't matter now. Jesus, though, I haven't even got a hat!"
 
　　“你要帽子干什么？等到了伦敦，你可以买需要的一切。现在要紧的是要快，我们得了解清楚火车几点开。”
"What do you need a hat for? When you get to London you can buy everything you need. All you need now is to hurry. We've got to find out when the train leaves."
 
　　他掏出钱包说，“喂，我把一切都交给你去办。拿着，拿着这个，该办什么就办吧。我太弱了……我头晕。”
"Listen," he said, reaching for his wallet, "I'm going to leave everything to you. Here, take this and do whatever's necessary. I'm too weak… I'm dizzy."
 
　　我接过钱包，把他刚从银行取出的钞票全倒出来。一辆出租车正停在路边，我们便坐上去。大约四点钟有一趟火车驶离北方车站，我在计算时间—银行、英国领事馆、美国捷运公司、火车站。行！差不多还来得及。
I took the wallet and emptied it of the bills he had just drawn from the bank. A cab was standing at the curb. We hopped in. There was a train leaving the Gare du Nord at four o'clock, or thereabouts. I was figuring it our the bank, the Consulate, the American Express, the station. Fine! Just about make it.
 
　　我说，“振奋起来！保持冷静！哼，再过几个小时你就渡过英吉利海峡了。今天晚上你就会在伦敦逛了，听英语听个够。明天你就到了大海上，那时候你就是自由的人了，不必再担心会发生什么事情。等你到达纽约，这一切不过只是一场恶梦而已。”
"Now buck up!" I said, "and keep your shirt on! Shit! in a few hours you'll be crossing the Channel. Tonight you'll be walking around in London and you'll get a good bellyful of English. Tomorrow you'll be on the open sea - and then, by Jesus, you're a free man and you needn't give a fuck what happens. By the time you get to New York this'll be nothing more than a bad dream."
 
　　这番话使他大为激动，双脚来回蹬了几下，像是想在汽车里就撒腿跑起来。在银行里，他的手抖得厉害，几乎签不了名。签名这件事我无法代劳，可我想若是有必要，我可以把他按在马桶上，替他擦屁股。我决意把他送上船弄走，哪怕得把他折起来塞进一只箱子也罢。
This got him so excited that his feet were moving convulsively, as if he were trying to run inside the cab. At the bank his hand was trembling so that he could hardly sign his name. That was one thing I couldn't do for him - sign his name. But I think, had it been necessary, I could have sat him on the toilet and wiped his ass. I was determined to ship him off, even if I had to fold him up and put him in a valise.
 
　　赶到英国领事馆已是吃午饭的时间，那儿关门了。这意味着得等到两点钟，除了去吃饭，我想不出还有什么更好的消磨时间的方式。菲尔莫当然不饿，他主张吃一块三明治了事。我说，“去它的！你得请我吃一顿好饭，这是你在这儿吃的最后一顿丰盛的饭了，也许过很久才能再吃到呢。”我领他来到一家舒适的小餐馆，叫了一大桌菜。我叫了菜单上最好的甜酒，不管价钱多少，味道好坏。他的钱全在我的口袋里，我觉得钱很多。以前我当然从来没有一次装过这么多钱，破开一张一千法郎的大钞真是一种享受，我先把它举到亮处观察它漂亮的透明花纹。好漂亮的钱！这是法国人大规模制造的为数不多的东西之一，而且造得很精美，仿佛他们对这种象征物也怀着深深的爱。
It was lunch hour when we got to the British Consulate, and the place was closed. That meant waiting until two o'clock. I couldn't think of anything better to do, by way of killing time, than to eat. Fillmore, of course, wasn't hungry. He was for eating a sandwich. "Fuck that!" I said. "You're going to blow me to a good lunch. It's the last square meal you're going to have over here - maybe for a long while." I steered him to a cosy little restaurant and ordered a good spread. I ordered the best wine on the menu, regardless of price or taste. I had all his money in my pocket - oodles of it, it seemed to me. Certainly never before had I had so much in my fist at one time. It was a treat to break a thousand franc note. I held it up to the light first to look at the beautiful watermark. Beautiful money! One of the few things the French make on a grand scale. Artistically done, too, as if they cherished a deep affection even for the symbol.
 
　　吃完饭后我们来到一家咖啡馆，我要咖啡时一起叫了查尔特勒酒。为什么不？我又破开了一张钞票，这一回是一张五百法郎的票子，是一张干干净净的新票子，又硬又脆，摆弄这样的钱真是一件令人愉快的事。侍者找给我一大堆肮脏的旧票子，是用一条条胶纸粘在一起的。我得到一大堆五法郎、十法郎的票子和一口袋零钱，像中间有孔的中国钱，我简直不知道该把钱装在哪一只衣袋里，我的裤袋里鼓鼓地塞满了硬币和钞票。在公共场所里掏出那么多钱来也略略使我有些不快，我怕我们会被人看作是两个贼。
The meal over, we went to a café. I ordered Chartreuse with the coffee. Why not? And I broke another bill - a five-hundred franc note this time. It was a clean, new, crisp bill. A pleasure to handle such money. The waiter handed me back a lot of dirty old bills that had been patched up with strips of gummed paper; I had a stack of five and ten franc notes and a bagful of chicken feed. Chinese money, with holes in it. I didn't know in which pocket to stuff the money any more. My trousers were bursting with coins and bills. It made me slightly uncomfortable also, hauling all that dough out in public. I was afraid we might be taken for a couple of crooks.
 
　　等我们来到美国捷运公司时已经没有多少时间了，刚才英国人以他们一贯的笨手笨脚的混蛋方式叫我们等得心急如焚。而这儿人人脚下都像装了轮子似的在滑行，他们动作太快，结果每一道手续得过两遍。等所有的票据上都签了字、用一个小夹子整整齐齐夹好了，这才发现菲尔莫签名签的不是地方。没有别的法子，只好一切从头开始。我站着看他坐在那里一笔一笔地写，同时还盯着那只钟。把钱交出去真叫人不好受，谢天谢地，不用全交—可也交了一大笔。我口袋里大概装了两千五百法郎，我说的是大概，我已不再一法郎一法郎地数了，一百二百法郎左右的钱对我来说不算什么。至于菲尔莫，他昏昏沉沉办完了全部手续。他不知道自己有多少钱，只知道他得为吉乃特留一点儿。他也说不上留多少，去火车站的路上我们要算一算。
When we got to the American Express there wasn't a devil of a lot of time left. The British, in their usual fumbling farting way, had kept us on pins and needles. Here everybody was sliding around on castors. They were so speedy that everything had to be done twice. After all the checks were signed and clipped in a neat little holder, it was discovered that he had signed in the wrong place. Nothing to do but start all over again. I stood over him, with one eye on the clock, and watched every stroke of the pen. It hurt to hand over the dough. Not all of it, thank God - but a good part of it. I had roughly about 2,500 francs in my pocket. Roughly, I say. I wasn't counting by francs any more. A hundred, or two hundred, more or less - it didn't mean a goddamned thing to me. As for him, he was going through the whole transaction in a daze. He didn't know how much money he had. All he knew was that he had to keep something aside for Ginette. He wasn't certain yet how much - we were going to figure that out on the way to the station.
 
　　慌乱中我们竞忘了把所有的钱都兑换掉，现在已经上了出租车，再说也不能再耽搁时间了。现在要做的是看看究竟还有多少钱，我们很快掏空了衣袋，把钱分成几份。有些钱扔在地上，有些放在座位上，令人茫然不知所措。有法国钱、美国钱和英国钱，还有那些零钱。为了简单些，我极想拣起那些硬币扔到窗外去。最后我们把它全部清点了一遍，他拿着英国和美国钱，我拿着法国货币。
In the excitement we had forgotten to change all the money. We were already in the cab, however, and there wasn't any time to be lost. The thing was to find out how we stood. We emptied our pockets quickly and began to whack it up. Some of it was lying on the floor, some of it was on the seat. It was bewildering. There was French, American and English money. And all that chicken feed besides. I felt like picking up the coins and chucking them out of the window - just to simplify matters. Finally we sifted it all out; he held on to the English and American money, and I held on to the French money.
 
　　我们必须快点决定拿吉乃特怎么办—给她多少钱、对她怎么说，等等。他企图编好一个故事叫我讲给她听，说他不想伤她的心以及诸如此类的话，我只有打断他。
We had to decide quickly now what to do about Ginette - how much to give her, what to tell her, etc. He was trying to fix up a yarn for me to hand her - didn't want her to break her heart and so forth. I had to cut him short.
 
　　“别管怎么对她说，全交给我好了。问题是，你要给她多少钱？为什么还要给她钱？”
"Never mind what to tell her," I said. "Leave that to me. How much are you going to give her, that's the thing? Why give her anything?"
 
　　这话像在他屁股底下放了一颗炸弹，他又哭开了。哭得这么凶！比刚才哭得还厉害，我以为他就要倒在我手上了。于是我不假思索他说，“好吧，把法国钱都给她好了。那可以叫她维持一阵子。”
That was like setting a bomb under his ass. He burst into tears. Such tears! It was worse than before. I thought he was going to collapse on my hands. Without stopping to think, I said: "All right, let's give her all this French money. That ought to last her for a while."
 
　　他无力地问，“有多少？”
"How much is it?" he asked feebly.
 
　　“不知道—大约两千法郎上下，反正比她应得的要多。”
"I don't know - about 2,000 francs or so. More than she deserves anyway."
 
　　他乞求道，“老天！别这样说！不管怎么说，我这样一走就把她坑苦了，她家里人现在再也不会收留她了。不，给她吧，全部都给她……我不在乎多少。”
"Christ! Don't say that!" he begged. "After all, it's a rotten break I'm giving her. Her folks'll never take her back now. No, give it to her. Give her the whole damned business… I don't care what it is."
 
　　他扯出一条手帕来擦眼泪，他说，“我忍不住，这叫我太难受了。”什么也没说。突然他直挺挺地躺倒了，我以为他昏过去了还是怎么的。他却说，“老天，我想我该回去，我该回去听她破口大骂。她若有个好歹，我永远也不会原谅自己。”
He pulled a handkerchief out to wipe the tears away. "I can't help it," he said. "It's too much for me." I said nothing. Suddenly he sprawled himself out full length - I thought he was taking a fit or something - and he said: "Jesus, I think I ought to go back. I ought to go back and face the music. If anything should happen to her I'd never forgive myself."
 
　　这使我大吃一惊，“老天爷！你可不能这样做！现在不行，太迟了。你得去搭火车，我自己去对付她，我一离开你就去找她。唉，你这个可怜的傻瓜，一旦她猜到你曾经想甩下她逃走，她就会宰了你的。你想到这一层了吗？你再也回不去了，这事儿已经定了。”
That was a rude jolt for me. "Christ!" I shouted, "you can't do that! Not now. It's too late. You're going to take the train and I'm going to tend to her myself. I'll go see her just as soon as I leave you. Why, you poor boob, if she ever thought you had tried to run away from her she'd murder you, don't you realize that? You can't go back any more. It's settled."
 
　　再说，能有什么“好歹”呢？我自问。自杀？那样更好。
Anyway, what could go wrong? I asked myself. Kill herself? Tant mieux.
Part 15 Chapter 5
乘车来到火车站、我们还有十二分钟。我还不敢就同菲尔莫告别。我觉得，尽管迷糊了，到了最后一分钟他仍有可能跳下车跑回吉乃特身边去。任何事情都会叫他改变主意，哪怕是一恨稻草呢。于是我拽着他过了街来到一家酒馆里，我说，“现在你再喝一杯茵香酒—最后一杯，我来付钱……付你的钱。”
When we rolled up to the station we had still about twelve minutes to kill. I didn't dare to say good bye to him yet. At the last minute, rattled as he was, I could see him jumping off the train and scooting back to her. Anything might swerve him. A straw. So I dragged him across the street to a bar and I said: "Now you're going to have a Pernod - your last Pernod and I'm going to pay for it… with your dough."
 
　　听了这话他不安地瞧了我一眼，他喝了一大口茴香酒，然后像一条受伤的狗一样扭过头来。他说，“我也知道不该把那些钱都托付给你，可是……可是……唉，算了，你看着办吧。我不想让她自杀，就是这。”
Something about this remark made him look at me uneasily. He took a big gulp of the Pernod and then, turning to me like an injured dog, he said: "I know I oughtn't to trust you with all that money, but… but… Oh, well, do what you think best. I don't want her to kill herself, that's all."
 
　　“自杀，她不是那种人！若相信这话，你就一定是自己想的太多了。至于钱。尽管我不愿意给她，我还是答应你直接去邮局电汇给她。我不会多装一分钟的。”正说着我瞅见一个旋转货架上摆着几张明信片，我抓了一张—是绘有埃菲尔铁塔的—叫他在上面写几个字。“告诉她你现在已经在航行中了。告诉她你爱她，一到美国就会打发人来接她……去邮局时我用气压传送把它发出，今晚我就去看她。你放心，一切都会好的。”
"Kill herself?" I said. "Not her! You must think a hell of a lot of yourself if you can believe a thing like that. As for the money, though I hate to give it to her, I promise you I'll go straight to the post office and telegraph it to her. I wouldn't trust myself with it a minute longer than is necessary." As I said this I spied a bunch of post cards in a revolving rack. I grabbed one off - a picture of the Eiffel Tower it was - and made him write a few words. "Tell her you're sailing now. Tell her you love her and that you'll send for her as soon as you arrive… I'll send it by pneumatique when I go to the post office. And tonight I'll see her. Everything'll be Jake, you'll see."
 
　　一边说我们一边又过街来到火车站，还有两分钟就要开车了，我现在觉得保险了，在大门口我拍拍他的背，指指火车。我没有同他握手，他的口水会流我一身的。我只是说，“快点！车马上要开了！”说完我转身拔腿就走，甚至没有回头看一眼他是否上了车。我不敢看。
With that we walked across the street to the station. Only two minutes to go. I felt it was safe now. At the gate I gave him a slap on the back and pointed to the train. I didn't shake hands with him - he would have slobbered all over me. I just said: "Hurry! She's going in a minute." And with that I turned on my heel and marched off. I didn't even look round to see if he was boarding the train. I was afraid to.
 
　　把他匆匆送走这一阵，我从来没有想到这一下我也就摆脱他了。我向他许诺了很多事情，可那只是为了叫他别再嚷嚷。说起去见吉乃特，我同他一样缺乏勇气，自己就先吓坏了。一切发生得这么迅捷，简直不可能完全把握住这局面的关键。我在甜蜜的昏沉中步行离开车站，手里捏着那张明信片。我靠在一根灯柱上读了上面的话，这封信写得有点荒谬。我又读了一遍，以便弄确实自己没有在做梦，然后就把它撕了，扔进了阴沟。
I hadn't thought, all the while I was bundling him off, what I'd do once I was free of him. I had promised a lot of things - but that was only to keep him quiet. As for facing Ginette, I had about as little courage for it as he had. I was getting panicky myself: Everything had happened so quickly that it was impossible to grasp the nature of the situation in full. I walked away from the station in a kind of delicious stupor - with the post card in my hand. I stood against a lamppost and read it over. It sounded preposterous. I read it again, to make sure that I wasn't dreaming, and then I tore it up and threw it in the gutter.
 
　　我忐忑不安地四下里望望，半心半意地预备看到吉乃特举着战斧朝我追来。没有人跟着我，我便懒洋洋地朝拉斐特广场走去。正如我早先说过的，这天很美。天上悬着一朵朵淡淡的松软白云，随风飘荡，帆布遮日篷也在啪啪扑动。巴黎在我眼里从来还没有像这天这么美，我几乎有点儿后悔把那个可怜的家伙送走了。在拉斐特广场，我面朝教堂坐下凝视着钟塔，它不是一座了不起的建筑，不过它蓝色的钟面总叫我为之着迷。今天它比以往更蓝，我简直无法把目光从上面移开。
I looked around uneasily, half expecting to see Ginette coming after me with a tomahawk. Nobody was following me. I started walking leisurely toward the Place Lafayette. It was a beautiful day, as I had observed earlier. Light, puffy clouds above, sailing with the wind. The awnings flapping. Paris had never looked so good to me; I almost felt sorry that I had shipped the poor bugger off. At the Place Lafayette I sat down facing the church and stared at the clock tower; it's not such a wonderful piece of architecture, but that blue in the dial face always fascinated me. It was bluer than ever today. I couldn't take my eyes off it.
 
　　除非菲尔莫发疯发得厉害，给吉乃特写信说明一切，她永远也不会知道发生了什么事情。即使她知道他留给她两千五百法郎，她也无法证明这一点，我始终可以说这是菲尔莫臆想出来的。一个不戴帽子就走掉的疯家伙也会编造出两千五百法郎和别的东西来。我在纳闷，到底有多少钱？我的衣袋都被钱的重量拉得坠下来了，我把它全掏出来细细数了一遍，一共是两干八百七十五法郎零三十五生丁，比我预计的还多。七十五法郎零三十五生丁必须花掉，我要一个整数，要整整两千八百法郎。正在这时我看到一部出租车开到了路边，一个女人双手抱着一只白狮子狗从车上下来，那狗在朝她的绸裙子上撒尿。带着一条狗去兜风这个主意使我大为恼怒，我暗暗对自己说，我一点儿不比她的狗差。我朝司机打个手势，叫他拉我穿过波伊思公园。他想知道确切的地址，我说，“随便哪儿。穿过波伊思，围着它兜一圈。不用快，我不急着上哪儿去。”我靠在后座上，让路边的房屋嗖嗖掠过，还有参差不齐的屋顶、烟囱顶、涂上颜色的墙、小便池、叫人头晕眼花的十字路口。路过“圆顶”时我想去撒泡尿，由于说不上下面会出现什么情况，我叫司机等着。我这还是平生头一回撒尿时叫出租车等着。这样会浪费多少钱？不太多。有了兜里那些钱，我能花得起钱叫两辆出租车等我。我仔细看看四周，可是没有看见什么值得一看的东西。我要的是新鲜的、没有人动过的、来自阿拉斯加或维尔京群岛的、干净、新鲜、带股天然芳香的皮肤。不用说，走来走去的女人中没有这样的。我并不非常失望，也不大在乎是否找得到。要紧的是永远别太着急，到时一切自然都会有的。
　　Unless he were crazy enough to write her a letter, explaining everything, Ginette need never know what had happened. And even if she did learn that he had left her 2,500 francs or so she couldn't prove it. I could always say that he imagined it. A guy who was crazy enough to walk off without even a hat was crazy enough to invent the 2,500 francs, or whatever it was. How much was it, anyhow?, I wondered. My pockets were sagging with the weight of it. I hauled it all out and counted it carefully. There was exactly 2,875 francs and 35 centimes. More than I had thought. The 75 francs and 35 centimes had to be gotten rid of. I wanted an even sum - a clean 2,800 francs. Just then I saw a cab pulling up to the curb. A woman stepped out with a white poodle dog in her hands; the dog was peeing over her silk dress. The idea of taking a dog for a ride got me sore. I'm as good as her dog, I said to myself, and with that I gave the driver a sign and told him to drive me through the Bois. He wanted to know where exactly. "Anywhere," I said. "Go through the Bois, go all around it - and take your time, I'm in no hurry." I sank back and let the houses whizz by, the jagged roofs, the chimney pots, the colored walls, the urinals, the dizzy carrefours. Passing the Rond Point I thought I'd go downstairs and take a leak. No telling what might happen down there. I told the driver to wait. It was the first time in my life I had let a cab wait while I took a leak. How much ran you wast a that way? Not very much. With what I had in my pocket I could afford to have two taxis waiting for me. I took a good look around but I didn't see anything worth while. What I wanted was something fresh and unused - something from Alaska or the Virgin Islands. A clean fresh pelt with a natural fragrance to it. Needless to say, there wasn't anything like that walking about. I wasn't terribly disappointed. I didn't give a fuck whether I found anything or not. The thing is, never to be too anxious. Everything comes in due time.
 
我们驶过凯旋门，几个游览者在无名英雄纪念墓附近游荡。穿过波伊思时我看着所有坐在高级轿车里出风头的阔娘儿们，她们呼啸而过，仿佛有一个目的地似的。毫无疑问，这样是要显得有身价，叫世人看看她们的罗尔斯一罗伊斯和希斯帕诺?苏扎斯高级轿车跑得多么平稳，而我心里却比任何一辆罗尔斯-罗伊斯更加平稳舒服，像天鹅绒一样平滑。天鹅绒的皮层，天鹅绒的脊柱，还有天鹅绒的轮轴润滑油。啊！真是一件美妙的事情—口袋里装着钱，像喝醉酒的水手一样半个小时就把它挥霍光。你会觉得这个世界都是你的，而最妙的是，你不知道拿它怎么办才好。你可以坐在车里让里程表疯了一样猛转，可以让风吹过头发，可以停下喝一杯，可以大方地付小费，还可以摆臭架子，好像天天都如此生活。不过你却无法酝酿一场革命，你也无法把肚子里的脏东西都冲洗出来。
We drove on past the Arc de Triomphe. A few sightseers were loitering around the remains of the Unknown Soldier. Going through the Bois I looked at all the rich cunts promenading in their limousines. They were whizzing by as if they had some destination. Do that, no doubt, to look important - to show the world how smooth run their Rolls Royces and their Hispano Suizas. Inside me things were running smoother than any Rolls Royce ever ran. It was just like velvet inside. Velvet cortex and velvet vertebrae. And velvet axle grease, what! It's a wonderful thing, for half an hour, to have money in your pocket and piss it away like a drunken sailor. You feel as though the world is yours. And the best part of it is, you don't know what to do with it. You can sit back and let the meter run wild, you can let the wind blow through your hair, you can stop and have a drink, you can give a big tip, and you can swagger off as though it were an everyday occurrence. But you can't create a revolution. You can't wash all the dirt out of your belly.
 
　　来到欧特伊门时我叫司机朝塞纳河开，我在德塞夫勒桥那儿下车沿河步行朝欧特伊高架桥走去。河流在这儿仅有一条小溪那么宽，树木都生长到河堤上了。河水是绿的，水面非常平静，尤其是在靠近彼岸处。不时有一只大平底船突突驶过，穿紧身游泳衣的人们站在草地上晒太阳。每一件物体都显得很近，都在颤动，都在同强烈的光线一起振动。
When we got to the Porte d'Auteuil I made him head for the Seine. At the Pont de Sèvres I got out and started walking along the river, toward the Auteuil Viaduct. It's about the size of a creek along here and the trees come right down to the river's bank. The water was green and glassy, especially near the other side. Now and then a scow chugged by. Bathers in tights were standing in the grass sunning themselves. Everything was close and palpitant, and vibrant with the strong light.
 
　　经过一个设有座席、供应啤酒的花园时，我看到一群骑自行车的人围坐在一张桌子边。我在附近找了一个座位，叫了半升啤酒。听着他们喋喋不休的闲扯，我一刹那间又想到了吉乃特，仿佛看见她在屋里来回顿脚、扯自己的头发、像野兽一样又哭又嚎。我看见菲尔莫的帽子放在帽架上，心想不知我穿上他的衣服合适不合适，我尤其喜欢他那件插肩袖大衣。哈，现在他准上路了，再过一会儿船就会在他脚下晃动。英语！他想听到人们说英语。多么古怪的念头！
Passing a beer garden I saw a group of cyclists sitting at a table. I took a seat nearby and ordered a demi. Hearing them jabber away I thought for a moment of Ginette. I saw her stamping up and down the room, tearing her hair, and sobbing and bleating, in that beastlike way of hers. I saw his hat on the rack. I wondered if his clothes would fit me. He had a raglan that I particularly liked. Well, by now he was on his way. In a little while the boat would be rocking under him. English! He wanted to hear English spoken. What an idea!
 
　　我突然又想到，若是想走，我自己也可以回美国。这是扩头一次碰到这样一个天赐良机，我问自己，“你想走吗？”没有回答，我的思绪又转到其他事情上去了，转向大海和大洋彼岸，离开它时我回头最后看了它一眼，看见摩天大楼在一片雪花中渐渐消失。现在我又看见这些摩天大楼赫然耸立在眼前，同我离开时一样，阴森森的。我看到光线从它们的肋骨间透出，看到从哈莱姆到炮台公园的整个纽约展现在眼前，看到被蚂蚁般的人群堵塞的街道，看到高架铁道上的车呼啸而过，看到人流涌到剧院。我隐约想到，不知我妻子现在怎样了。
Suddenly it occurred to me that if I wanted I could go to America myself. It was the first time the opportunity had ever presented itself. I asked myself - "do you want to go?" There was no answer. My thoughts drifted out, toward the sea, toward the other side where, taking a last look back, I had seen the skyscrapers fading out in a flurry of snowflakes. I saw them looming up again, in that same ghostly way as when I left. Saw the lights creeping through their ribs. I saw the whole city spread out, from Harlem to the Battery, the streets choked with ants, the elevated rushing by, the theaters emptying. I wondered in a vague way what had ever happened to my wife.
 
　　平静地想过这一切后，我变得非常安详了。塞纳河在这儿静静地绕过群山，它喜爱这片浸透往事的土地，因而不论一个人的思绪漫游到何处，他永远不会把这条河同人类的活动分开。
After everything had quietly sifted through my head a great peace came over me. Here, where the river gently winds through the girdle of hills, lies a soil so saturated with the past that however far back the mind roams one can never detach it from its human background.
 
　　天啊，黄金般的祥和气氛在我眼前闪现，只有一个患神经病的人才想掉头走开。塞纳河这样静悄悄地流淌，人们几乎注意不到它的存在。它一直躺在那儿，宁静而又谦和，像人身上流动的一条大动脉。在笼罩在身上的美妙祥和气氛中，我似乎已经爬上了一座高山的山顶，在一段短暂的时间内我可以放眼四周，领略这番风景蕴涵的意义。
Christ, before my eyes there shimmered such a golden peace that only a neurotic could dream of turning his head away. So quietly flows the Seine that one hardly notices its presence. It is always there, quiet and unobtrusive, like a great artery running through the human body. In the wonderful peace that fell over me itseemed as if I had climbed to the top of a high mountain; for a little while I would be able to look around me, to take in the meaning of the landscape.
 
　　人类是一些古怪的动植物。从远处看他们显得微不足道，走到近处他们又显得丑恶、刻毒。他们最需要的是周围有足够的空间—比时间更多的空间。
Human beings make a strange fauna and flora. From a distance they appear negligible; close up they are apt to appear ugly and malicious. More than anything they need to be surrounded with sufficient space - space even more than time.
 
　　太阳正在落下。我觉得这条河正从我身上流过—它的过去、它年代久远的土壤和多变的气候。群山轻柔地束缚着它，因而它的流向早已确定。
The sun is setting. I feel this river flowing through meits past, its ancient soil, the changing climate. The hills gently girdle it about: its course is fixed.