I.
I
Some people might have made a book out of it; but the story I am going to tell is one which took all
my strength to live and over which I spent all my virtue. So I shall set down my recollections quite
simply, and if in places they are ragged I shall have recourse to no invention, and neither patch nor
connect them; any effort I might make to dress them up would take away the last pleasure I hope to
get in telling them.
I lost my father before I was twelve years old. As there was nothing to keep my mother at Le
Havre, where my father had had a practice as a doctor, she decided to go to Paris where she thought I
should be better able to finish my education. She took a small apartment near the Luxembourg and
Miss Ashburton came to live with us. Miss Flora Ashburton, who had no relations of her own, had
begun by being my mother’s governess; she afterwards became her companion and later on her
friend. I spent my childhood in the society of these two women whom I remember as equally gentle
and equally sad, and always dressed in mourning. One day - it was a good long time, I think, after
my father’s death - my mother changed the black ribbon in her morning cap for a mauve one.
‘Oh, mamma!’ I cried. ‘That colour doesn’t suit you at all.’ The next morning the black ribbon
was back again.
My health was delicate. My mother and Miss Ashburton had only one thought - to keep me from
ailing. If I have not become an idler as a result of their solicitude it must really be that my love of
work is ingrained. At the very beginning of the fine weather they both used to persuade themselves
that it was time for me to leave town, that I was growing pale. About the middle of June we would
start for Fongueusemare, in the neighbourhood of Le Havre, where we used to spend the summer
every year at my Uncle Bucolin’s.
Standing in a garden which is neither very large nor very fine, and which has nothing special to
distinguish it from a number of other Normandy gardens, the Bucolins’ house, a white two-storied
building, resembles a great many country houses of the century before last. A score of large windows
look east on to the front of the garden; as many more on to the back; there are none at the sides. The
windows have small panes; some of them, which have been recently replaced, seem too light in
colour among the old ones, which look green and dull beside them. Certain others have flaws in the
glass which our parents used to call ‘bubbles’; a tree seen through them becomes distorted; when the
postman passes he suddenly develops a hump.
The garden is rectangular and is enclosed by a wall. The part which lies in front of the house
consists of a fairly large, shady lawn with a gravel path all round it. On this side the wall is lower and
allows a view of the farmyard and buildings which lie round the garden; the farm is bordered,
according to the custom of the country, by an avenue of beeches.
Behind the house on the west side the garden spreads more spaciously. A walk, gay with flowers,
runs along the south espalier wall and is protected from the sea winds by a thick screen of Portugal
laurel and a few trees. Another walk running along the north wall disappears under a mass of
branches. My cousins used to call it the ‘dark walk’ and would not venture along it after twilight.
These two paths led to the kitchen-garden, which continues the flower-garden on a lower level, and
which you reach by a small flight of steps. Then, at the bottom of the kitchen-garden, a little gate with
a secret fastening leads, on the other side of the wall, to a coppice in which the beech avenue
terminates right and left. As one stands on the door-step of the west front one can look over the top of
this clump of trees to the plateau beyond with its admirable clothing of crops. On the horizon, at no
great distance, can be seen the church of a little village and, when the air is still, the smoke rising
from half a dozen houses.
Every fine summer evening after dinner we used to go down to the ‘lower garden’. We went out
by the little secret gate and walked as far as a bench in the avenue from which there was a view over
the country; there, near the thatched roof of a deserted marl-pit, my uncle, my mother, and Miss
Ashburton would sit down; before us the little valley filled with mist, and over the distant woods we
watched the sky turn golden. Afterwards we would linger for a while at the lower end of the garden
where it had already grown dark. When we came in we found my aunt in the drawing-room. She
hardly ever went out with us. For us children the evening ended here; but very often we were still
reading in our rooms when we heard our elders go up to bed.
Almost every hour of the day which we did not spend in the garden we spent in the ‘school-
room’, my uncle’s study, in which some school desks had been placed for us. My cousin Robert and I
worked side by side - behind us were Juliette and Alissa. Alissa was two years older than I, and
Juliette one year younger; Robert was the youngest of us four.
I am not writing here an account of my early recollections, but only of those which refer to my
story. It really begins, I may say, in the year of my father’s death. Perhaps my sensibility - over-
stimulated as it has been by our bereavement and if not by my own grief at any rate by the sight of
my mother’s - predisposed me at this time to new emotions. I had matured precociously, so that
when we went to Fongueusemare that year, Juliette and Robert seemed to me all the younger by
comparison, but when I saw Alissa I understood on a sudden that we two had ceased to be children.
Yes, it was certainly the year of my father’s death; my recollection is confirmed by a conversation
which, I remember, took place between my mother and Miss Ashburton immediately after our
arrival. I had come unexpectedly into the room where my mother and her friend were talking
together; the subject of their talk was my aunt. My mother was indignant that she had not gone into
mourning or had gone out again so soon. (To tell the truth it was as impossible for me to imagine
Aunt Bucolin dressed in black as my mother in colours.) The day of our arrival Lucile Bucolin, as far
as I can remember, was wearing a muslin gown. Miss Ashburton, conciliatory as ever, was trying to
calm my mother.
‘After all,’ she argued timidly, ‘white is mourning too.’
‘And do you call that red shawl she has round her shoulders mourning too? Flora, I am ashamed
of you,’ cried my mother.
It was only during the holidays that I saw my aunt and no doubt the warm summer weather was
the reason of her wearing the transparent, low-necked bodices in which I always remember her; but
still more than the brilliant colour of the scarves which she used to throw over her bare shoulders, it
was my aunt’s low necks that shocked my mother.
Lucile Bucolin was very beautiful. I still have by me a little portrait of her, in which I can see her
as she then was, looking so young that she might have been taken for the elder sister of her daughters,
sitting sideways in an attitude which was habitual to her, her head leaning on her left hand, her little
finger curved rather affectedly towards her lip. A large-meshed net confines the masses of her curly
hair, which fall half-uncoiled upon her neck. In the opening of her bodice a locket of Italian mosaic
hangs from a loosely tied black velvet neck ribbon. Her black velvet sash, with its wide floating bow,
her broad-brimmed soft straw hat which is dangling from the back of her chair - everything adds to
the childishness of her appearance. Her right hand hangs by her side, holding a shut book.
Lucile Bucolin came from a West Indian family: she had either never known her parents or lost
them very early. My mother told me later that when she was left an orphan, or possibly even
deserted, she was taken in by Pasteur Vautier and his wife, who at that time had no children of their
own. They left Martinique soon after, taking her with them to Le Havre, where the Bucolins were
settled. The Vautiers and the Bucolins used to see a good deal of each other. My uncle was at that
time employed in a bank abroad, and it was only three years later, when he came home to stay with
his people, that he saw little Lucile. He fell in love with her and at once asked her to marry him, to
the great grief of his parents and of my mother. Lucile was then sixteen years old. In the meantime
Madame Vautier had had two children; she was beginning to be anxious as to the influence their
adopted sister - whose character was developing more and more oddly every month - might have
over them; the household, moreover, was in straitened circumstances. My mother told me all this in
order to explain why the Vautiers accepted her brother’s proposal so gladly. What I suppose for my
own part is, that Miss Lucile was becoming terribly embarrassing. I am well enough acquainted with
Le Havre society to imagine the kind of reception that a girl of such fascinations would meet with.
Pasteur Vautier, whom I knew later on, was a gentle creature, at once circumspect and ingenuous,
incapable of coping with intrigue and quite defenceless against evil - the worthy man must have been
at the end of his tether. I can say nothing of Madame Vautier; she died in giving birth to a fourth
child who was about my own age and who afterwards became my friend.
Lucile Bucolin took very little share in our life; she did not come downstairs from her room till
after the mid-day meal was over, and then immediately stretched herself on the sofa or in a hammock
and remained there till evening, when she would rise, no less languid than before. She used
sometimes to raise a handkerchief to her forehead as if wiping away some imaginary moisture,
though her skin was a perfection of smooth purity; this handkerchief of hers filled me with wonder
because of its fineness and its scent, which seemed more like the perfume of a fruit than of a flower;
sometimes she would draw from her waist a minute mirror with a sliding silver lid, which hung with
various other objects from her watch-chain; she would look at herself, wet her finger at her lips and
then moisten the corner of her eyes. She used often to hold a book, but it was almost always shut; a
tortoise-shell bookmarker was stuck between its pages. If you came near her she did not turn from the
contemplation of her dreams to look at you. Often from her careless or tired hand, from the back of
the sofa or from a fold of her dress, her handkerchief would drop to the ground, or her book, or a
flower, maybe, or the bookmarker. One day when I picked up her book - this is a childish memory I
am telling you - I blushed to see it was a book of poetry.
In the evening after dinner Lucile Bucolin did not join our family party at the table, but sat down
to the piano, where she took a kind of placid pleasure in playing one or other of Chopin’s slow
mazurkas; sometimes she would break off in the middle of a bar and pause, suspended motionless on
a chord.
I used to experience a peculiar discomfort when I was with my aunt: it was a feeling of
uneasiness, of disturbance, mingled with a kind of admiration and a kind of terror. Perhaps some
obscure instinct set me against her; and then I felt that she despised Flora Ashburton and my mother,
and that Miss Ashburton was afraid of her, and that my mother disliked her.
Lucile Bucolin, I wish I no longer bore you malice; I wish I could forget for a moment how much
harm you did... at any rate, I will try to speak of you without anger.
One day of that summer - or perhaps of the following, for as the place where the scene was laid
never changed, my memories sometimes overlap and become confused - one day I went into the
drawing-room to fetch a book; she was there. I was on the point of going away again when she called
me back - she, who as a rule never seemed to see me.
‘Why do you run away so fast, Jérôme? Are you afraid of me?‘
With a beating heart I drew near, forced myself to smile, put out my hand. She took my hand with
one of hers and with the other stroked my cheek. ‘How badly your mother dresses you, you poor little
thing!’ she said.
At that time I used to wear a sort of sailor suit with a large collar, which my aunt began pulling
about.
‘Sailor collars are worn much more open,’ said she, undoing a button of my shirt. ‘There, see if
that doesn’t look better!’ and taking out her little mirror, she drew my face down to hers, passed her
bare arm around my neck, put her hand into my shirt, asked me laughingly if I was ticklish - went on
- further... I started so violently that my shirt tore across and with a flaming face I fled, as she called
after me:
‘Oh, the little stupid!’
I rushed away to the other end of the kitchen-garden, and there I dipped my handkerchief into a
little tank, put it to my forehead - washed, scrubbed - my cheeks, my neck, every part of me the
woman had touched.
There were certain days on which Lucile Bucolin had one of her ‘attacks’. They would come on
suddenly and the whole house was turned upside down. Miss Ashburton made haste to get the
children out of the way and distract their attention; but it was impossible to stifle or to prevent their
hearing the dreadful screams which came from the bedroom or the drawing-room. My uncle lost his
head; we heard him rushing along the passages, fetching towels and eau de Cologne and ether; in the
evening at table, where my aunt was not yet able to appear, he looked anxious and aged.
When the attack was more or less over, Lucile Bucolin used to send for her children - that is for
Robert and Juliette - never for Alissa. On those melancholy days Alissa would shut herself up in her
room where her father sometimes joined her, for he used often to talk to Alissa.
My aunt’s attacks made a great impression upon the servants. One evening when the attack had
been particularly acute and I was being kept in my mother’s room, where what was going on in the
drawing-room was less noticeable, we heard the cook running along the passages calling out: ‘Sir, sir,
come quick! My poor lady is dying.’
My uncle had gone up to Alissa’s room; my mother went out to meet him on his way down. A
quarter of an hour later I heard them talking below the windows of the room where I had remained,
and my mother’s voice reached me.
‘Do you know what I think, my dear? The whole thing is play-acting.’ And she repeated the word
several times over, emphasizing every syllable, ‘play-acting’.
This was towards the end of the holidays and two years after our bereavement. I was not to see
my aunt much oftener. The unhappy event which shattered our family life was preceded by a little
incident which occurred a short time before the final catastrophe and turned the uncertain and
complex feeling I had hitherto experienced for Lucile Bucolin into pure hatred. But before relating
this I must first speak of my cousin.
That Alissa Bucolin was pretty, I was incapable yet of perceiving; I was drawn and held to her by
a charm other than mere beauty. No doubt she was very like her mother; but the expression of her
eyes was so different that it was not till later that I became aware of this likeness. I cannot describe
faces; the features escape me and even the colour of the eyes; I can only recall the expression of her
smile - a smile that was already almost sad - and the line of her eyebrows, which were so
extraordinarily far from her eyes, raised above the eye in a great circle. I have never seen any like
them anywhere... stay, though! there is a Florentine statuette of the time of Dante; and I like to fancy
that Beatrice as a child had eyebrows wide-arched like her. They gave her look, her whole being, an
expression of inquiry which was at once anxious and confident - yes, of passionate inquiry. She was
all question and expectation. You shall hear how this questioning took possession of me, became my
life.
And yet Juliette might have been considered more beautiful; the brilliancy of joy and health was
upon her; but this beauty of hers beside her sister’s grace seemed something external, something
which lay open to the whole world at the first glance. As for Robert, there was nothing particular to
distinguish him. He was merely a boy of about my own age; I used to play with him and Juliette; with
Alissa I used to talk. She mixed very little in our games; as far back as I can remember, I see her
serious, gently smiling, reflective. What did we talk about? What can two children talk about? I will
try to tell you in a moment, but let me first finish what I have to say about my aunt, so as to have done
with her.
Two years after my father’s death, my mother and I spent the Easter holidays at Le Havre. We did
not stay with the Bucolins, who had comparatively little room in their town house, but with an elder
sister of my mother’s, whose house was larger. Aunt Plantier, whom I rarely had the opportunity of
seeing, had long since been left a widow; I hardly knew her children, who were much older than I
was and very unlike me.
The Plantiers’ house was not actually in the town, but half way up the small hill called the ‘Côte’,
which overlooks it. The Bucolins lived in the business quarter; a steep short cut led in a few minutes
from one house to the other. I used to run up and down it several times a day.
On that particular day I had had lunch at my uncle’s. After the meal was over he went out, and I
accompanied him as far as his office and then returned home to the Plantiers’ to fetch my mother.
There I heard that she had gone out with my aunt and would not be back till dinner time. I
immediately went down again to the town where I was very rarely free to go by myself, and found
my way to the port, which was dreary that day with a sea-fog; I loitered on the quays for an hour or
so, and then suddenly I was seized with the desire to go back and take Alissa by surprise, though
indeed I had only just left her. I ran back through the town and rang at the Bucolins’ door. I was just
darting upstairs when the maid who had let me in stopped me.
‘Don’t go up, Master Jérôme. Don’t go up! Mistress is having an attack.’
But I brushed past her. It was not my aunt I had come to see... Alissa’s room was on the third
floor. On the first there was the drawing-room and the dining-room; on the second, my aunt’s room,
from which voices were coming. The door past which I had to go was open and a flood of light came
from the room and fell on the landing: afraid of being seen, I hesitated a moment and drew back into
the dark; this is what I beheld to my unspeakable amazement: my aunt was lying on a sofa in the
middle of the room; the curtains were drawn, and it was illuminated by the cheerful light of two
candelabra full of candles; Robert and Juliette were at her feet and behind her was a strange young
man in a lieutenant’s uniform. The presence of the two children seems to me today monstrous; at that
time in my innocence I thought it reassuring rather than otherwise. They were laughing and looking
at the stranger, who was saying in a piping voice:
‘Bucolin! Bucolin! If I had a pet lamb I should certainly call it Bucolin.’
My aunt herself burst out laughing. I saw her hold out a cigarette for the young man to light,
smoke a few whiffs of it and then let it fall to the floor. He rushed forward to pick it up, made as if he
had caught his feet in a scarf, tripped and fell on his knees before my aunt. Thanks to this ridiculous
performance, I was able to slip by without being noticed.
I found myself outside Alissa’s door. For a moment I waited. Bursts of laughter and voices came
up from the floor below; perhaps they drowned the sound of my knock, for I heard no answer. I
pushed the door and it opened silently. The room was so dark that I did not at once distinguish Alissa:
she was on her knees by the bedside; through the window behind her came the last glimmer of
expiring daylight. She turned as I came near, but without getting up, and murmured: ‘Oh, Jérôme,
why have you come back?’
I bent down to kiss her face; her face was bathed in tears... My whole life was decided by that
moment: even to this day I cannot recall it without a pang of anguish. Doubtless I understood very
imperfectly the cause of Alissa’s wretchedness, but I felt intensely that that wretchedness was far too
strong for her little quivering soul, for her fragile body, shaken with sobs.
I remained standing beside her, while she remained on her knees. I could express nothing of the
unfamiliar transport of my breast, but I pressed her head against my heart, and I pressed my lips to
her forehead, while my whole soul came flooding through them. Drunken with love, with pity, with
an indistinguishable mixture of enthusiasm, of self-sacrifice, of virtue, I appealed to God with all my
strength - I offered myself up to Him, unable to conceive that existence could have any other object
than to shelter this child from fear, from evil, from life. I knelt down at last, my whole being full of
prayer. I gathered her to me; vaguely I heard her say:
‘Jérôme! They didn’t see you, did they? Oh! go away quickly. They mustn’t see you.’
Then, lower still:
‘Jérôme, don’t tell anyone. Poor papa doesn’t know about it...’
I told my mother nothing therefore; but the interminable whisperings that went on between her
and Aunt Plantier, the mysterious, preoccupied, distressed looks of the two women, the ‘Run along,
my dear!’ with which they would get rid of me whenever I came within earshot of their
confabulations, all went to show that they were not wholly unsuspicious of the Bucolin family secret.
We had no sooner returned to Paris than a telegram recalled my mother to Le Havre. My aunt had
run away.
‘With anyone?’ I asked Miss Ashburton, with whom my mother had left me.
‘My dear, you must ask your mother. I can’t tell you anything,’ said our dear old friend, whom
this event had filled with consternation.
Two days later she and I set out to rejoin my mother. It was a Saturday. I should see my cousins
the next day at church, and that was the one idea that filled my mind; for in my childish thoughts I
attached great importance to this sanctification of our meeting. After all, I cared very little for my
aunt and made it a point of honour not to question my mother.
There were not many people that morning in the little chapel. Pasteur Vautier, no doubt
intentionally, had chosen as his text Christ’s words: ‘Strive to enter in at the strait gate.’
Alissa was sitting a few seats in front of me. I saw her face in profile; I gazed at her so intently
and with such self-oblivion that it seemed as though it were through her that I heard the words I
listened to with such passionate eagerness. My uncle was sitting beside my mother, crying.
The pastor first read the whole text: ‘Enter ye in at the strait gate: for wide is the gate and broad
is the way that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in thereat. Because strait is the
gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.’
Then, under the different headings of his subject he spoke first of the broad way... With a mind
rapt and as in a dream, I saw my aunt’s room: I saw her lying on the sofa, laughing; I saw the brilliant
officer, laughing too... and the very idea of laughter and of joy became an offence and an outrage,
became, as it were, the hateful exaggeration of sin!
‘And many there be which go in thereat,’ went on the pastor; then he painted, and I saw, a gaily
dressed, laughing multitude, advancing in joyous troops, whom I felt I could not and would not join,
because every step I took with them would lead me farther and farther from Alissa. Then the pastor
took up again the first words of his text, and I saw that strait gate through which we must strive to
enter. I fancied it, in the dream in which I was plunged, as a sort of press into which I passed with
effort and with an extremity of pain, that yet had in it as well, a foretaste of heavenly felicity. And
again this gate became the door of Alissa’s room; in order to enter in at it, I squeezed myself - I
emptied myself of all that I contained of selfishness... ‘Because strait is the gate which leadeth unto
life,’ went on Pasteur Vautier; and beyond all maceration, beyond all sorrow, I imagined - I had the
presentiment of another joy, pure, seraphic, mystic, for which my soul was already athirst. I imagined
this joy like the song of a violin, at once strident and tender, like the pointed fierceness of a flame, in
which Alissa’s heart and mine were consumed. We advanced together, clothed in those white robes
of which the Apocalypse speaks, holding each other by the hand, looking forward to the same goal...
What if these childish dreams should call up a smile? I repeat them as they came, without alteration.
Their apparent confusion lies only in the use of words and imperfect images, to convey a feeling that
was perfectly definite.
‘And few there be that find it,’ ended the pastor. He explained how to find the strait gate... ‘Few
there be -’ I would be one of those...
At the end of the sermon I had reached such a pitch of moral tension that, without attempting to
see my cousin, as soon as the service was over, I fled - out of pride, already desiring to put my
resolutions (for I had made resolutions) to the test, and thinking that I should so best deserve her.
第一章
第一章
我在这里讲的故事，换作别人可以写成一本书。然而，我在这“故事”里不遗余力地活
过，倾尽了所有德行，所以仅仅将回忆记录下来。往事断断续续，支离破碎，但我不打算靠
虚构事实连通补缀，这种修饰铺陈，会浇灭讲述的热忱，最后一丝意趣也化为乌有。
父亲过世那年我还不到十二岁。母亲不愿留在父亲生前行医的勒阿弗尔，决定移居巴
黎，以便我能更好地完成学业，她在卢森堡公园附近租下一套小公寓。弗洛拉•阿斯布尔顿小
姐搬来与我们同住，她的家人早已不在，早些年她当过母亲的家庭教师，之后她们一直相互
陪伴，很快成为挚友。这两位女性一样沉静，一样忧郁。生活在她们身边，记忆所及，只有
穿着丧服的模样。一天早上，想来距离父亲去世已经很久，母亲把一根藕荷饰带系在帽檐
上，替换之前黑色的那根。
“啊，妈妈！”我大喊道，“你戴这个颜色太难看了！”
第二天，她又换上了黑色饰带。
我身体孱弱。母亲和阿斯布尔顿小姐为此操碎了心，百般呵护，生怕我累着。幸好我热
爱学习，才不至于变成懒汉。一到日暖风和的季节，她们便觉得我脸色苍白，没有血色，于
是串通一气，劝我离开城市。所以六月中旬，我们会一起前往勒阿弗尔附近的芬格斯玛尔农
庄，舅舅布科兰住在那里，每年夏天都接待我们。
布科兰家的白色三层小楼，与大多数乡村农舍并无二致。它坐落于一个不怎么大，也不
太漂亮的花园里，相比起诺曼底地区的其他花园，并无特色。房子朝东，正对花园，前后各
开二十多扇大窗，左右两侧只有墙壁。前后的窗户上镶着小块方格玻璃，有几块是新换的，
在灰绿色旧玻璃的衬托下，显得格外明亮。有些玻璃还有瑕疵，就是长辈们所说的“气孔”，
透过这些玻璃向外看，树木是变形的，经过的邮差看上去也像突然驼背了一样。
花园呈长方形，四周砌着围墙。布科兰家的小楼前面，有一块相当大的草坪，绿荫如
盖，一圈砾石铺就的小径围绕四周。正对小楼那侧的花园围墙矮了一截，露出环绕四周的农
场院子。一条山毛榉林荫道界定了农庄范围，这是当地常见的分界方式。
小楼朝西的背面更加自在惬意。南墙边的果树架前，有一条开满鲜花的小径，浓密的葡
萄牙桂樱和几株小树为它遮挡海风；沿北墙也有一条小径——隐没在苍翠茂林之中，我的表
姐妹管它叫“黑暗小道”，黄昏之后，没人敢去冒险。顺着两条小径走下几个台阶，紧挨着花
园，能看到低处的菜圃。菜圃尽头的围墙上开有一扇小暗门，墙外是一片矮树林，左右两边
的山毛榉大道在这里交会。站在西面的台阶上，目光越过矮树林，看到一片高地，可以欣赏
庄稼丰收的景致。地平线不远处，能看到小村庄里的一座教堂，清幽的傍晚，几缕炊烟从村
舍屋顶袅袅升起。
宜人的夏日黄昏，我们饭后便去“花园低处”游玩。从小暗门出去，来到林荫道，舅舅、
母亲和阿斯布尔顿小姐在一条长椅上坐下，那里靠近废弃泥灰岩矿场的茅草屋顶，能够俯瞰
田野景色。眼前的小山谷薄雾缭绕，夕阳的余晖把远处树林的上空染成金黄。不久，暮色渐
浓，我们仍在花园深处舍不得离开。舅妈几乎从不和我们一起出去，每次我们从花园回来，
她都在客厅里……对我们这群孩子来说，夜晚的活动到此结束。不过，回到卧室后往往还会
看会儿书，再过会儿就能听到长辈们上楼的声音。
除了花园，一天里剩下的时光我们都在“学习室”里度过。那原本是舅舅的书房，里面摆
了几张小学生课桌。我和表弟罗贝尔并排学习，后面坐着朱莉叶特和阿莉莎。阿莉莎比我大
两岁，朱莉叶特比我小一岁。我们四人之中，罗贝尔年纪最小。
我在这里想写的，并非最初的往事，只是一些与我要说的故事有关的记忆。可以说，故
事正是从父亲去世那年开始的。也许是丧事或哀伤所致，至少是受母亲的伤恸感染——敏感
的神经受到刺激，使我过早成熟了。那一年，我们再次来到芬格斯玛尔农庄，看到朱莉叶特
和罗贝尔时，我觉得他们越发显得稚气，而看到阿莉莎时，才猛然意识到，我们两个都不再
是孩子了。
没错，正是父亲去世那年。我们刚到农庄，母亲和阿斯布尔顿小姐的一番谈话证实了这
一点。我无意闯入房间，听到她们在议论舅妈。母亲很生气，埋怨舅妈没有戴孝或者过早脱
下丧服（老实说，露希尔•布科兰舅妈穿丧服，和我母亲穿亮色衣裙一样，于我而言难以想
象）。记得是我们到达山庄那天，舅妈穿了一袭轻薄的裙装。
阿斯布尔顿小姐一向与人为善，她极力劝解母亲，小心翼翼地说道：“不管怎么说，白色
也算丧服吧。”
“她肩上的红色披肩呢，这也叫‘丧服’吗？弗洛拉，你别气我了！”母亲大嚷道。
只有在假期时我才会看到舅妈。酷暑的缘故，她总穿着单薄的衬衣，领口开得很低。比
起搭在光溜溜肩上的红披肩，母亲更反感这种袒胸露肩的装扮。
露希尔•布科兰很漂亮。我留有一张她的小像，可以窥见她当年的美貌。画像里的她看起
来特别年轻，像是女儿们的姐姐：她习惯性地侧身坐着，左手托着微倾的脑袋，纤纤小指贴
在唇边俏皮地弯曲着；一副粗眼发网兜住半泻在颈背的浓密卷发；衬衫的领口处，露出宽松
的黑丝绒颈圈，上面挂着纹有意大利镶嵌画的椭圆颈饰；黑丝绒腰带上绾了个飘逸的大花
结；一顶宽边软草帽用帽绳系在她的椅背上，为她平添几分稚气；她垂下的右手里，还拿着
一本合拢的书。
露希尔•布科兰是克里奥尔人。她从没见过父母，又或者很早失去了双亲。母亲后来告诉
我，她是个孤儿，抑或弃儿，沃蒂埃牧师夫妇那时还没有孩子，就收养了她。后来他们离开
马提尼克岛，一起来到勒阿弗尔，布科兰一家也住在这里，两家人交往密切。舅舅当时在国
外的一家银行工作，三年后回到家乡，第一次见到小露希尔便爱上了她，立刻向她求婚。为
此，他的父母和我母亲都很难过。那年露希尔十六岁，其实收养她之后，沃蒂埃太太又生下
两个孩子，养女的性格越来越古怪，她担心会带坏自己的孩子，再加上他们家庭收入微
薄……这些都是母亲告诉我的，她想让我明白这就是沃蒂埃一家愉快地答应这桩婚事的原
因。此外我推测，年轻的露希尔也让沃蒂埃夫妇非常忧虑。我十分了解勒阿弗尔的民风，不
难想象当地人会用什么态度来面对这个撩人绮思的姑娘。后来我结识了沃蒂埃牧师，他为人
随和，既谨慎又天真，不擅长阴谋诡计，面对邪恶更是束手无策。这个老好人当时一定是山
穷水尽了。至于沃蒂埃太太，我就全然不知了，她在生第四胎时难产去世。但她生下的这个
孩子与我年龄相仿，后来成了我的朋友。
露希尔•布科兰极少参与我们的生活，午饭过后，她才会从卧室下来，很快又躺在沙发或
吊床上，一直到傍晚时分才会无精打采地站起来。她有时在额头上搭一块手帕，似乎是拭汗
用的，然而额头上一点汗渍也没有。手帕做工精细，散发的味道不似花香，倒像果子的香
气，让我惊叹不已。露希尔腰间的表链上挂着很多小物件，她经常从中挑出一面银质滑盖的
小镜子，瞧着镜中的自己，用手指在嘴唇上沾点唾液，润湿眼角。她还时常拿着一本书，但
书页几乎是合上的，里面夹着一枚玳瑁书签，就算有人靠近，她也不会从冥想中转移目光。
从她疲倦或不经意的手里，从沙发的扶手或裙摆的褶皱里，常常会掉落一方手帕、一本书、
几朵花或一张书签。有一次——我说的是儿时的记忆——我拾起书，发现是本诗集，不禁脸
红了。
晚饭过后，露希尔•布科兰从不和家人围坐在桌边，而是坐在钢琴前，似乎是好意地为大
家弹奏肖邦的慢板《玛祖卡舞曲》。有时她的手会停在某个和弦上，音乐戛然而止。
面对舅妈时，我特别不自在，总是乱了分寸，既爱慕又恐惧。也许是这种模糊的本能提
醒我去防备她。我能感觉到她对母亲和弗洛拉•阿斯布尔顿的蔑视，阿斯布尔顿小姐害怕她，
母亲则不喜欢她。
露希尔•布科兰，我不愿再责备您，暂且忘掉您给我带来的诸多伤害……至少，试着心平
气和地谈论您。
就在这个夏日的某天，或是第二年夏天，因为环境大体相同，我的记忆重叠，有时难免
混淆。那天，我进客厅找书，舅妈在里面，我赶紧退出来。她没有像平时一样对我视而不
见，而是叫住了我。
“为什么走这么快，杰罗姆，你怕我吗？”
我向她走去，心怦怦直跳，努力冲她笑，还伸出了手。她握住我的手，另一只手抚摸我
的脸颊。
“你母亲给你穿得真不像样，可怜的孩子……”
她开始揉扯我身上的大翻领水手服。
“水手服的领口要再敞开一些。”她边说边扯掉我衣服上的一个纽扣。
“瞧，这样是不是漂亮多了。”她拿出小镜子，还把我的脸贴向她的脸，赤裸的手臂圈住
我的脖子，手从我半敞的衬衣领口伸了进去。她笑着问我怕不怕痒，手还在继续往下探……
我猛地挣脱开来，还扯坏了上衣，顿时满面通红。她却嚷道：“呸！你个大蠢货！”
我逃走了，一直跑到花园深处才停下，然后把手帕放到菜圃的小水池里浸湿，敷在额头
上，接着又擦洗了脸颊和脖子——所有被这个女人触碰过的地方我都清洗了一遍。
露希尔•布科兰有时会“发病”。这病来得毫无预兆，闹得全家都不安宁。阿斯布尔顿小姐
赶紧带着孩子们离开，让他们干点别的事。然而，从卧室或客厅传来的可怕叫声根本压不
住，孩子们还是能听到。舅舅慌作一团，我们听到他在走廊里来回奔跑的声音，他一会儿找
毛巾，一会儿拿花露水，一会儿又要取乙醚。吃晚饭时，舅妈仍然没有露面，舅舅愁容满
面，看上去苍老了许多。
等“病”差不多过去了，露希尔•布科兰会把孩子们叫到身旁，至少会叫罗贝尔和朱莉叶
特，但从没叫过阿莉莎。每逢这种忧郁的日子，阿莉莎便把自己关在房里，舅舅有时会进去
看她，父女俩时常谈心。
舅妈的“病”把仆人们也吓坏了。一天晚上，她发作得极其严重，当时我和母亲一起待在
房里，几乎听不见客厅的动静，只听到厨娘在走廊里边跑边叫喊：“先生快下来看看呀！可怜
的太太就要死了！”
舅舅当时还在阿莉莎房间，我母亲出去找他。一刻钟后，他们从我房间敞开的窗前经
过，并未留意我还在房里。母亲的声音传入我耳中，“亲爱的，还用我告诉你吗？她都是在做
戏！”她一字一顿，重复了好几遍，“做——戏”！
这件事发生在假期快结束的时候，我父亲过世已经两年。后来有很长一段时间我都没见
过舅妈。有件可悲的事将这个家搅得天翻地覆，这件事之前还发生了一个小插曲——我对露
希尔•布科兰复杂而模糊的感情，因为这件事转变成纯粹的仇恨。在讲述之前，先说说我的表
姐吧。
阿莉莎•布科兰长得很美，但我当时并未察觉。我被她吸引，并不单纯因为她的美貌，她
有一种魅力，让人想去靠近。当然，她的外貌遗传自她的母亲，但她们的眼神却完全不同，
也因为这一点，直到很久以后，我才意识到她们两个长得很像。我无法描绘出阿莉莎的脸，
连她的五官轮廓，甚至眼睛颜色都记不清了。只记得她微笑时总带着忧郁的神色，两道眉毛
挑得极高，它们在眼睛上方形成两道圆弧。这样的眉形，我从未见过……不，我见过，在一
尊文艺复兴时期的小雕像上见过，雕像来自佛罗伦萨。我自然而然地猜想，童年时期的贝阿
特丽齐 [1] 也有这样弧度很大的弯眉。这样的眉毛使阿莉莎的目光甚至整个人都带有探问的神
色，这种神色饱含忧虑又充满信赖，是一种热情的探问。她身上的一切都化为疑问和等
待……我将告诉你们，这种探问如何征服我，又如何左右我的生活。
从外表来看，朱莉叶特也许更漂亮，她身上焕发着健康快乐的神采。但与姐姐的风韵相
比，她的美显得过于表面，让人一览无余，没有回味的余地。至于我的表弟罗贝尔，他并没
有任何独特的地方，只是与我年龄相仿的少年。我同朱莉叶特和罗贝尔一起玩耍，但同阿莉
莎一起时只会聊天。阿莉莎极少参与我们的游戏，无论我如何追忆，记忆中的她都是一脸正
经，她也会浅浅地笑，或是露出若有所思的神色。我和她聊些什么呢？两个孩子能有什么话
题可说？很快我会告诉你们。在此之前，我还是先把舅妈的事情讲完，免得以后再提起她。
那时父亲去世已有两年，我和母亲去勒阿弗尔过复活节。由于布科兰家在城里的房子不
大，我们没有住在他们家，而是住进母亲一个姐姐的家里，她家更为宽敞。普朗提埃姨妈孀
居多年，我很少见到她，对她的子女也不太熟悉，他们比我年长，性格与我大相径庭。勒阿
弗尔人所说的“普朗提埃公馆”其实并不在市区，而是坐落于半山腰上。我们把这个山丘称
为“斜坡”，在这里可以俯瞰全城。布科兰家则更靠近商业区，有一条坡道可以迅速从他们家
通往姨妈家，我每天都要上坡下坡跑个好几回。
那一天，我在舅舅家吃午饭。饭后不久舅舅就出门了，我陪他一直走到办公室，然后上
山去姨妈家找母亲。到了那里我才听说，母亲和姨妈都出门了，晚饭时才会回来。我难得有
机会闲逛，于是立即下山来到港口。这里海雾缭绕，天灰蒙蒙的。我在码头徘徊了一两个小
时，心里突然萌生出一个念头——出其不意地出现在刚刚分开的阿莉莎面前……我跑步穿过
市区，来到布科兰家按响门铃，门一打开就要往楼上冲。开门的女仆拦住了我。
“别上去，杰罗姆少爷！不要上去，太太又发病了。”
我没理会她的话：“我又不是来看舅妈的。”
阿莉莎的房间在四楼，二楼是客厅和餐厅，三楼是舅妈的房间，里面传来说话声。我必
须从门前走过，但房门敞开着，从房里投射出的光线将楼道分割成明暗两个部分。我怕被人
发现，犹豫片刻，便在暗处躲了起来。房里的景象让我目瞪口呆：窗帘紧闭，两盏枝形大烛
灯的蜡烛投射出欢愉的光，舅妈躺在房间中间的长椅上，罗贝尔和朱莉叶特站在她脚边，一
个穿着中尉制服的青年站在她身后。今天想来，这两个孩子在场实在太诡异。但对于当时年
少无知的我来说，有他们在场，反而安心不少。
两个孩子愉快地看着这个陌生人，只听他用尖锐刺耳的声音反复说道：“布科兰！布科
兰！……我要是有只羊，一定给它起名叫布科兰。”
舅妈大笑起来。我看见她递给青年一支烟，青年帮她点着了，舅妈接过来吸几口，然后
烟掉在地上。青年俯身冲过去捡，还假装被一条披巾绊倒，跪倒在舅妈面前。这场面着实可
笑，却正好给我一个悄悄溜走的机会。
我来到阿莉莎门前，等了片刻，听见楼下传来阵阵说笑声。我敲了门，但没人回应，许
是楼下的说笑声掩盖了我的敲门声。我推了推门——门无声地打开。房内昏暗，一时间我没
看清阿莉莎在哪里。接着，我又发现她跪在床头，背对着窗。最后一缕夕阳的余晖落在窗户
上。我走近时，她转过头来，但没有站起身，喃喃地说道：“啊！杰罗姆……你怎么回来
了？”
她的脸上满是泪水，我俯下身吻了她……
这一刹那决定了我的一生。如今回想起来，依然忐忑不安。当时的我，自然不能完全理
解阿莉莎痛苦的缘由，但已经深切地感受到：这颗颤动的幼小心灵，这副抽噎的单薄身躯，
根本无法承受如此巨大的痛苦。
阿莉莎跪坐着。我站在她身边，一时无法表达这种全然陌生的激情，只能把她的头紧紧
搂在怀里，嘴唇贴上她的额头，想以此将我的心传达给她。狂热的爱怜充斥着我的心，热
情、牺牲和美德——这些模糊的念头交织在一起。我竭力祈求上帝，让我奉献自己。今生今
世，只求庇护这个女孩免受恐惧之苦、邪恶侵袭和生活的伤害。
最后，我跪下来祷告，将阿莉莎护在我怀里，隐隐约约地听她说道：“杰罗姆！他们还没
发现你吧？啊！你快走吧，别让他们看见你。”
接着，她的声音压得更低：“杰罗姆，不要告诉别人……可怜的爸爸还什么都不知
道……”
因此，我对母亲只字未提。但是普朗提埃姨妈总是和我母亲窃窃私语，一说起来就没完
没了。她们看起来神神秘秘的，既慌乱又苦恼。两人在密谈时，我一靠近就会被支开：“孩
子，到一边玩去！”这一切都告诉我，她们对布科兰家的秘密并非一无所知。
我们回到巴黎不久，母亲就接到一封让她返回勒阿弗尔的电报，说是舅妈离家出走了。
“是和谁一起私奔了吗？”我问留在巴黎照看我的阿斯布尔顿小姐。
“孩子，这事儿以后问你母亲吧，我没法回答你。”这位亲爱的老友这样说道。对于这件
事，她也深感诧异。
两天以后，我和阿斯布尔顿小姐动身前往勒阿弗尔同母亲会合。那是一个星期六。我脑
海里只有一个念头，第二天就能在教堂再见到我的表姐和表妹了。对还是孩童的我来说，能
在神圣的地方与她们重逢实在是一件大事。说到底，我一点也不担心舅妈，出于名誉的考
虑，我也没有问母亲。
那天早晨，小礼拜堂里人不多。在布道时，沃蒂埃牧师显然有意引用了基督的这句
话：“你们要努力进窄门。”
我的座位在阿莉莎后面，与她隔着几个位子，只看到她的侧脸。我目不转睛地望着她，
甚至到了忘我的境地。那些狂热的话语，仿佛并非我自己听到的，而是由她传递给我的。舅
舅坐在我母亲身旁哭泣。
牧师先将一整节念一遍：“你们要努力进窄门，因为宽门和阔路引向沉沦，进去的人很
多；然而窄门和狭道却通向永生，只有少数人能找到。”接着，他分段阐明主题，首先谈到阔
路……我恍恍惚惚，仿佛处于梦中，又看到舅妈的卧室，她躺在那里笑，那个俊俏的军官也
在笑着……嬉笑和欢乐的情绪化为伤害和侮辱，变成罪恶而可憎的炫耀……
“进去的人很多。” 沃蒂埃牧师接着说，然后做阐述。我看到一大群盛装打扮的人，他们
嬉笑打闹着向前走去，排成长长的队列。我不能也无法跻身其间，若与他们同行，每一步都
会让我与阿莉莎渐行渐远。
牧师重新回到这一节的开头，于是我看到那扇应该努力进入的窄门。我深陷幻梦之中，
在梦里，那门仿佛成了一台轧机，我竭尽全力才能进入。虽然进入的过程异常痛苦，但这苦
痛中也带有天福将近的滋味。继而，这扇门又化为阿莉莎的房门，为了进去，我极力缩小身
形，将一切私心杂念都排出体外……
沃蒂埃牧师继续说道：“窄门和狭道却通向永生。”在我的想象中，一切苦行和悲痛的尽
头，还有另一种欢乐，我的灵魂对它渴求已久，它更纯粹，更神秘，也更纯洁高尚，犹如一
首尖锐又柔情的小提琴曲；犹如一团冲天的烈焰，将我和阿莉莎的心燃烧殆尽。我们两人身
穿《启示录》中所描绘的白衣 [2] ，手牵着手朝着同一个目标前行……
童年的这些幻想让人忍俊不禁，但有什么关系呢？我把它们原封不动地叙述出来。只是
措辞不当和影像描绘得不完整，造成有些地方含混不清，未能确切表达情感。
“只有少数人能找到。” 沃蒂埃牧师最后说道，并解释找到窄门的途径。
“只有少数人”——但愿我是其中之一。
布道快结束时，我的精神极度紧张，礼拜甫毕我便逃走了。不去找表姐，是出于自负，
想考验自己的决心——决心我已经下了。我想唯有立刻离去，才更能配得上她。
[1]贝阿特丽齐（Béatrix）：但丁在《神曲》中歌颂的佛罗伦萨少女。
[2]见《启示录》：灵魂没有污点的人才能穿上圣洁的白衣。
II.
II
This austere teaching found my soul ready prepared and naturally predisposed to duty. My father’s
and mother’s example, added to the puritanical discipline to which they had submitted the earliest
impulses of my heart, inclined me still more towards what I used to hear called ‘virtue’. Self-control
was as natural to me as self-indulgence to others, and this severity to which I was subjected, far from
being irksome to me, was soothing. It was not so much happiness which I sought in the future, as the
infinite effort to attain it, and in my mind I already confounded happiness with virtue. No doubt, like
all boys of fourteen, I was still unformed and pliable, but my love for Alissa soon urged me further
and more deliberately along the road on which I had started. A sudden inward illumination made me
acquainted with myself. I saw myself as a brooding, half-fledged, wistful creature, somewhat careless
of others, somewhat unenterprising, and with no ambitions save for such victories as are to be gained
over self. I was fond of my books and cared only for the games which need reflection or effort. I did
not much frequent the society of my schoolfellows, and when I did take part in their amusements, it
was only out of affection or good nature. I made friends, however, with Abel Vautier who, the
following year, joined me in Paris and was in my form at school. He was an agreeable, indolent boy,
for whom I had more liking than esteem, but at any rate he was someone with whom I could talk
about Fongueusemare and Le Havre, where my thoughts were continually flying.
As for my cousin Robert Bucolin, who had been sent to the same school, he was two forms below
us and I saw him only on Sundays. If he had not been the brother of my cousins, whom, however, he
was very unlike, I should have taken no pleasure in his society.
I was at that time entirely engrossed by my love, and it was in its light alone that these two
friendships had any importance for me. Alissa was the Pearl of Great Price of which the Gospel
spoke, and I was like him who went and sold all that he had to buy it. Child as I still was, am I wrong
in talking of love, and in giving this name to the feeling I had for my cousin? Nothing that I
experienced later seems to me worthier of that name - and moreover, when I became old enough to
suffer from the more definite qualms of the flesh, my feeling did not greatly change in character; I
never sought more directly to possess her whom, as a child, I had sought only to deserve. Work,
efforts, pious acts, I offered them all up, mystically, to Alissa, and, indeed, invented a refinement of
virtue by which I often left her in ignorance of what I had done only for her sake. In this way I
became intoxicated, as it were, with the fumes of modesty, and accustomed myself, alas! regardless
of my own comfort, to feel no satisfaction in anything that did not cost me an effort.
Was I alone to feel the spur of emulation? I do not think that Alissa was touched by it, or that she
did anything for my sake or for me, though all my efforts were only for her. Everything in her
unaffected and artless soul was of the most natural beauty. Her virtue seemed like relaxation, so much
there was in it of ease and grace. The gravity of her look was made charming by her childlike smile; I
recall that gently and tenderly inquiring look, as she raised her eyes, and can understand how my
uncle, in his distress, sought support and counsel and comfort from his elder daughter. In the summer
that followed I often saw him talking to her. His grief had greatly aged him; he spoke little at meals,
or sometimes displayed a kind of forced gaiety which was more painful than his silence. He remained
smoking in his study until the hour of the evening when Alissa would go to fetch him. He had to be
persuaded to go out; she led him off to the garden like a child. Together they would go down the
flower-walk towards the place at the head of the steps leading down to the kitchen-garden, where we
had put out a few chairs.
One evening, I was lingering out of doors reading, and as I lay on the grass in the shade of one of
the big copper beeches, separated from the flower-walk only by the laurel hedge, which prevented me
from being seen but not from hearing, Alissa’s and my uncle’s voices reached me. They had no doubt
been talking of Robert; then I heard my name uttered by Alissa, and I was just beginning to make out
their words, when my uncle exclaimed:
‘He! Oh, he will always be fond of work.’
An involuntary listener, my first impulse was to go away, or at any rate make some movement to
show them that I was there; but what was I to do? Cough? Call out ‘I am here; I can hear you’? It was
much more awkwardness and shyness than curiosity to hear more which kept me quiet. And besides,
they were only passing by and I heard what they said only very indistinctly. But they came on slowly;
Alissa no doubt, as was her habit, with a light basket on her arm, was cutting off the heads of faded
flowers and picking up from under the espaliers the unripe fruit, which the frequent sea-mists used so
often to bring down. I heard her clear voice:
‘Papa, was Uncle Palissier a remarkable man?’
My uncle’s voice was low and indistinct: I could not make out his answer. Alissa insisted: ‘Very
remarkable, do you think?’
Again an inaudible answer and again Alissa’s voice:
‘Jérôme is clever, isn’t he?’
How could I help straining to hear? But no! I could make out nothing. She went on:
‘Do you think he will become a remarkable man?’
Here my uncle raised his voice:
‘First, my dear, I should like to understand what you mean by “remarkable”. One can be very
remarkable without its showing - at any rate in the eyes of men - very remarkable in the eyes of
God.’
‘Yes, that is what I mean,’ said Alissa.
‘And then, one can’t tell yet. He’s too young. Yes, certainly, he’s very promising, but that’s not
enough for success.’
‘What more must there be?’
‘Oh, my child! I can hardly tell. There must be confidence, support, love -’
‘What do you mean by support?’ interrupted Alissa.
‘The affection and esteem that have been lacking to me,’ answered my uncle, sadly; and then their
voices finally died away.
When I said my prayers that evening, I felt remorse for my unintentional eavesdropping and
resolved to confess it to my cousin. Perhaps this time there was a mixture of curiosity in my
resolution.
At my first words the next day, she said:
‘But, Jérôme, it’s very wrong to listen like that. You ought to have told us you were there or else
to have gone away.’
‘Really, I didn’t listen - I just overheard you without meaning to. And you were only passing by.’
‘We were walking slowly.’
‘Yes, but I hardly heard anything. I stopped hearing almost at once. What did uncle answer when
you asked him what was necessary for success?’
‘Jérôme,’ she said, laughing, ‘you heard perfectly well. You are just making me repeat it for your
amusement.’
‘I really heard only the beginning - when he spoke of confidence and love.’
‘He said, afterwards, that a great many other things were necessary.’
‘And you, what did you answer?’
She suddenly became very serious.
‘When he spoke of support in life, I answered that you had your mother.’
‘Oh, Alissa, you know I shan’t always have her - And then, it’s not the same thing -’
She bent her head:
‘That’s what he said too.’
I took her hand, trembling.
‘Whatever I hope to become later is for you.’
‘But Jérôme, I may leave you too.’
My soul went into my words:
‘I shall never leave you.’
She raised her shoulders slightly:
‘Aren’t you strong enough to walk alone? We must each of us find God by ourselves.’
‘But you must show me the way.’
‘Why do you want any other guide but Christ? Do you think we are ever nearer to each other than
when each of us forgets the other, as we pray to God?’
‘Yes,’ I interrupted, ‘that He may unite us. That is what I ask Him morning and evening.’
‘Don’t you understand what communion in God means?’
‘With my whole heart I understand. It means being rapturously united in the worship of the same
thing. I think it is just because I want to be united to you, that I worship what I know you worship
too.’
‘Then your worship is not pure.’
‘Don’t ask too much of me. I shouldn’t care for Heaven if you were not there too.’
She put her fingers on her lips and answered with some solemnity:
‘“Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness.”’
As I put down our words I feel that they will seem very unchildlike to those who do not realize
the deliberate seriousness with which some children talk to each other. What am I to do? Try to
excuse them? No! no more than I will colour them to make them look more natural.
We had procured the Gospels in the Vulgate and knew long passages of them by heart. Alissa had
learnt Latin with me, under the plea of helping her brother, but really, I think, in order to follow me in
my reading. And indeed, I could hardly bring myself to take pleasure in any study in which I knew
she would not keep me company. If this was sometimes a hindrance to me, it was not, as might be
supposed, because it hampered the growth of my mind; on the contrary, it was she who seemed to be
everywhere and easily ahead of me. But the course my mind pursued was always shaped with
reference to her, and what preoccupied us at that time, what we called ‘thought’, was often merely the
pretext for some more subtle communion, merely the disguise of feeling, merely the covering of love.
My mother may at first, perhaps, have been anxious about a feeling whose depth she had not as
yet gauged. But now that she felt her strength ebbing, she loved to gather us together in the same
maternal embrace. The heart disease from which she had long been suffering began to be more and
more troublesome. In the course of a particularly severe attack she sent for me:
‘My poor boy,’ she said, ‘I’m getting very old. Some day I shall leave you suddenly.’
She stopped; her breathing was very difficult. Then I broke out, irresistibly, with what it seemed
to me she was expecting me to say:
‘Mamma... you know I want to marry Alissa.’ And my sentence was no doubt the continuation of
her secret thoughts, for she went on at once:
‘Yes, that is what I want to speak to you about, my Jérôme.’
‘Mamma,’ said I, sobbing, ‘you do think she loves me, don’t you?’
‘Yes, my child.’ And several times she repeated tenderly: ‘Yes, my child.’ She spoke with
difficulty. She added: ‘You must leave it to the Lord.’ Then as I was stooping over her, she put her
hand on my head and said:
‘May God keep you, my children! May God keep you both!’ Then she fell into a doze, from
which I did not try to rouse her.
This conversation was never resumed. The next morning my mother felt better. I went back to
school and silence closed again over this semi-confidence. In any case, what more could I have
learnt? That Alissa loved me I could not for a moment doubt. And, even if I could, doubt would for
ever have vanished from my heart at the time of the melancholy event which occurred soon after.
My mother passed away very quietly one evening when Miss Ashburton and I were with her. The
final attack which carried her off had not at first seemed worse than the preceding ones; it was only
towards the end that it became alarming and we had no time to send for any of our relations. It was
with our old friend that I watched the first night beside my dear mother’s body. I loved my mother
deeply, and wondered that in spite of my tears I should feel so little sadness. If I wept it was out of
pity for Miss Ashburton, whose friend - so many years younger than herself - had thus been taken by
God before her. But the secret thought that this bereavement would hasten an understanding with my
cousin greatly predominated over my grief.
My uncle arrived the next morning. He handed me a letter from his daughter, who did not come
till the day after with Aunt Plantier.
‘...Jérôme, my friend, my brother’ [she wrote], ‘...how grieved I am not to have been able to speak those few
words to her before her death, which would have given her that great happiness she desired. May she forgive me
now! And may God alone guide us both henceforward! Good-bye, my poor friend.
‘I am, more tenderly than ever,
‘YOUR ALISSA.’
What could be the meaning of this letter? What were those words that she was grieved not to have
uttered - what could they be but those with which she would have plighted our future? I was still so
young, however, that I dared not ask her for her hand at once. And besides, what need had I of her
promise? Were we not already as good as engaged? Our love was no secret from our relations; my
uncle was no more opposed to it than my mother had been; on the contrary, he treated me already as
a son.
I spent the Easter holidays, which began a few days later, at Le Havre, sleeping at Aunt Plantier’s
and taking nearly all my meals at Uncle Bucolin’s.
My aunt Félicie Plantier was the best of women, but neither my cousins nor I were on very
intimate terms with her. She was in a continual state of breathless bustle; her gestures were ungentle
and her voice unmusical; she harried us with caresses and at odd moments of the day, when the need
for effusion seized her, she would suddenly overwhelm us with the floods of her affection. Uncle
Bucolin was very fond of her, but merely from the tone of his voice when he spoke to her, it was easy
to understand how greatly he had preferred my mother.
‘My poor boy,’ she began one evening, ‘I don’t know what you are meaning to do this summer,
but I will wait to hear your plans before settling my own: if I can be useful to you -’
‘I have not thought much about it yet,’ I answered. ‘Perhaps I shall travel.’
She went on:
‘You know that both here and at Fongueusemare you will always be welcome. You will be doing
your uncle and Juliette a pleasure by going to them...’
‘Alissa, you mean.’
‘Of course. I beg your pardon... Would you believe it? I thought it was Juliette you were in love
with! Until a month ago - when your uncle told me - you know I’m very fond of you all, but I don’t
know you very well; I’ve seen so little of you... And then I’m not very observant; I have no time to
mind other people’s business. I always saw you playing with Juliette - I thought to myself, she’s so
pretty, so gay -’
‘Yes, I like playing with her still, but it’s Alissa I love.’
‘All right, all right! It’s your affair. As for me, I hardly know her at all, so to speak. She talks less
than her sister. I suppose as you’ve chosen her you must have good reasons for it.’
‘But, Aunt, I didn’t choose to love her, and I’ve never thought what reasons I had for -’
‘Don’t be cross, Jérôme. I didn’t mean anything. Now, you’ve made me forget what I wanted to
say. Oh, yes! I suppose, of course, it’ll all end with your marrying; but it wouldn’t be quite proper for
you to become engaged just yet because of your mourning - and then you’re still very young. I
thought, now that your mother isn’t there, your staying at Fongueusemare mightn’t be considered
quite the thing.’
‘But, Aunt, that’s just why I spoke of travelling.’
‘Oh, well, my dear, I thought that my presence there might make things easier and I’ve arranged
to keep part of the summer free.’
‘If I asked Miss Ashburton she would certainly come with pleasure.’
‘Yes, I know she’s coming already. But that’s not enough! I will come too. Oh! I don’t pretend I
shall take your poor mother’s place,’ she added, suddenly bursting into sobs, ‘but I can look after the
housekeeping - and - well - you and your uncle and Alissa needn’t feel uncomfortable.’
Aunt Félicie was mistaken as to the efficacy of her presence. To tell the truth we were only
uncomfortable because of her. In accordance with her announcement, she settled herself at
Fongueusemare at the beginning of July, and Miss Ashburton and I joined her there soon after.
Under the pretence of helping Alissa to look after it, she filled the house, which had always been
so peaceful, with a continual hubbub. The zeal with which she set about being agreeable to us and
‘making things easier’, as she called it, was so overdone that Alissa and I were nearly always
constrained and practically speechless when she was by. She must have thought us very cold... And
even if we had not been silent, would she have been able to understand the nature of our love?
Juliette’s character, on the other hand, fitted in well enough with this exuberance; and perhaps my
affection for my aunt was tinged with a certain resentment at seeing her show such a marked
preference for the younger of her nieces.
One morning, after the arrival of the post, she sent for me:
‘My poor Jérôme,’ she said, ‘I’m absolutely heartbroken; my daughter is ill and wants me; I shall
be obliged to leave you...’
Puffed up with idle scruples, I went to find my uncle, not knowing whether I should dare to stay
on at Fongueusemare after my aunt’s departure. But at my first words:
‘What,’ he cried, ‘will my poor sister think of next to complicate what is so very natural? Why
should you leave us, Jérôme? Aren’t you already almost my child?’
My aunt had barely stayed a fortnight at Fongueusemare. As soon as she was gone the house was
able to sink back again into peace. There dwelt in it once more a serenity that was very like
happiness. My mourning had not cast a shadow on our love, but had made it weightier. And in the
monotonous course of the life which then began, as if in some place of high resonance, each slightest
stirring of our hearts was audible.
Some days after my aunt’s departure I remember we were discussing her one evening at table:
‘What a commotion!’ said we. ‘Is it possible that the stir of life should leave her soul so little
respite? Fair image of love, what becomes of your reflection here?’ ...For we remembered Goethe’s
saying about Madame de Stein: ‘It would be beautiful to see the world reflected in that soul.’ And we
then and there established a kind of hierarchy, putting the contemplative faculties in the highest
place. My uncle, who up to then had been silent, reproved us, smiling sadly:
‘My children,’ said he, ‘God will recognize His image even though broken. Let us beware of
judging men from a single moment of their lives. Everything which you dislike in my poor sister is
the result of circumstances, with which I am too well acquainted to be able to criticize her as severely
as you do. There is not a single pleasing quality of youth which may not deteriorate in old age. What
you call “commotion” in Félicie, was at first nothing but charming high spirits, spontaneity,
impulsiveness, and grace. We were not very different, I assure you, from what you are today. I was
rather like you, Jérôme - more so, perhaps, than I imagine. Félicie greatly resembled Juliette as she
now is - yes, even physically - and I catch a likeness to her by starts, he added, turning to his
daughter, ‘in certain sounds of your voice: she had your smile - and that trick, which she soon lost, of
sitting sometimes, like you, without doing anything, her elbows in front of her and her forehead
pressed against the locked fingers of her hands.’
Miss Ashburton turned towards me and said almost in a whisper:
‘It is your mother that Alissa is like.’
The summer that year was splendid. The whole world seemed steeped in azure. Our fervour
triumphed over evil - over death; the shades gave way before us. Every morning I was awakened by
my joy; I rose at dawn and sprang to meet the coming day... When I dream of that time, it comes
back to me all fresh with dew. Juliette, an earlier riser than her sister, whose habit it was to sit up very
late at nights, used to come out into the garden with me. She was the messenger between her sister
and me; I talked to her interminably of our love, and she never seemed tired of listening. I told her
what I dared not tell Alissa, with whom excess of love made me constrained and shy. Alissa seemed
to lend herself to this child’s play and to be delighted that I should talk so happily to her sister,
ignoring or feigning to ignore that in reality we talked only of her.
Oh, lovely shifts of love, of love’s very excess, by what hidden ways you led us, from laughter to
tears, from the most artless joy to the exactions of virtue!
The summer sped by so pure, so smooth, that of its swift-slipping days scarce anything remains in
my memory. Its only events were talks and readings.
‘I have had a melancholy dream,’ said Alissa to me on one of the last mornings of the holidays. ‘I
was alive and you were dead. No, I didn’t see you die. It was merely - that you were dead. It was
horrible; it was so impossible, that I managed to get it granted for you to be simply absent. We were
parted and I felt that there was a way of getting to you; I tried to find out how, and I made such an
effort to succeed that it woke me up.
‘This morning I think I was under the impression of my dream; it seemed as if it were still going
on. I felt as if I were still parted from you - going to be parted from you for a long, long time -’ and
she added very low: ‘all my life - and that all our lives we should have to make a great effort...’
‘Why?’
‘Each of us a great effort to come together again.’
I did not take these words seriously, or perhaps I was afraid to take them seriously. With a beating
heart, and in a sudden fit of courage, I said to her, as though protesting:
‘Well, as for me, this morning I dreamt that I was going to marry you - so surely, that nothing,
nothing would be able to part us, except death.’
‘Do you think that death is able to part?’ asked she.
‘I mean -‘
‘I think that death, on the contrary, is able to bring together - yes, bring together what has been
parted in life.’
The whole of this conversation sank into us so deeply that I can still hear the very intonation of
the words we used. And yet I did not realize all their gravity until later.
The summer sped by. Already nearly all the fields lay bare, with their wider spaces more emptied
of hope. The evening before - no, two evenings before my departure, I went out with Juliette and we
wandered down to the shrubbery at the end of the lower garden.
‘What were you repeating yesterday to Alissa?’ she asked.
‘When do you mean?’
‘When you stayed behind us on the quarry bench.’
‘Oh! Some verses of Baudelaire’s, I think.’
‘What were they? Won’t you say them to me?’
‘“Bientôt nous plongerons dans les froides ténèbres”’ I began rather ungraciously; but no
“sooner had I started than she interrupted me and took up the lines in a changed and trembling voice:
‘“Adieu! vive clarté de nos étés trop courts!”’
‘What! you know them?’ I cried, extremely astonished. ‘I thought you didn’t care for poetry...’
‘Why? Because you never repeat me any?’ said she, laughing, though in rather a forced way.
‘Sometimes you seem to think I’m perfectly idiotic.’
‘It’s quite possible to be very intelligent and not care for poetry. I’ve never heard you repeat any
or ask me to repeat you any.’
‘Because that’s Alissa’s business.’ She was silent for a few minutes and then asked abruptly:
‘You’re going away the day after tomorrow?’
‘Yes, I must.’
‘What are you going to do this winter?’
‘It’s my first year at the École Normale.’
‘When do you think of marrying Alissa?’
‘Not before I’ve done my military service. And indeed, not before I have a better idea of what I
mean to do afterwards.’
‘Don’t you know yet?’
‘I don’t want to know yet. Too many things appeal to me. I want to put off for as long as I can
having to choose and settle down to only one thing.’
‘Is it reluctance to settle down that makes you put off getting engaged too?’
I shrugged my shoulders without answering. She insisted:
‘Then, what are you waiting for? Why don’t you get engaged at once?’
‘Why should we get engaged? Isn’t it enough to know that we do and shall belong to each other,
without proclaiming it to the world? Since I choose to devote my whole life to her, do you think it
would be nobler to bind my love by promises? Not I! Vows seem to me to be an insult to love. I
should only want to be engaged if I distrusted her.’
‘It isn’t Alissa that I distrust -’
We were walking slowly. We had reached that part of the garden where, in former days, I had
unintentionally overheard the conversation between Alissa and her father. It suddenly occurred to me
that perhaps Alissa, whom I had seen go out into the garden, was sitting at the head of the steps, and
that she would be able to overhear us in the same manner; the possibility of making her listen to
words which I dared not say to her openly, tempted me; I was amused by the artifice and raising my
voice:
‘Oh!’ I exclaimed with the somewhat stilted vehemence of youth, and too much engrossed by my
own words to hear in Juliette’s all that she left unsaid: ‘Oh, if only we could lean over the soul we
love and see as in a mirror the image we cast there! - read in another as in ourselves, better than in
ourselves! What tranquillity there would be in our tenderness - what purity in our love!’
I had the conceit to take Juliette’s emotion for an effect of my very indifferent flight of eloquence.
She suddenly hid her face on my shoulder:
‘Jérôme! Jérôme! I wish I could be sure you would make her happy! If she were to suffer through
you as well, I think I should detest you!’
‘Why, Juliette,’ I cried, embracing her and raising her head, ‘I should detest myself. If you only
knew! Why, it’s only that I may begin life better with her, that I don’t want to settle on my career yet!
Why, it is upon her that I hang my whole future. Why, I want none of the things that I might be
without her -’
‘And what does she say when you speak to her so?’
‘I never speak to her so! Never; and that’s another reason why we’re not engaged yet; there is
never any question of marriage between us, nor of what we shall do hereafter. Oh, Juliette! life with
her seems to me so lovely that I dare not - do you understand - I dare not speak to her about it.’
‘You want happiness to come on her as a surprise.’
‘No! that’s not it. But I’m frightened - of frightening her. Do you see? I’m afraid that the
immense happiness, which I foresee, may frighten her. One day I asked her whether she wanted to
travel. She said that she wanted nothing, that it was enough for her to know that foreign countries
existed, and that they were beautiful, and that other people were able to go to them -’
‘And you, Jérôme, do you want to travel?’
‘Yes, everywhere! All life seems to me like a long journey - with her, through books and people
and countries. Have you ever thought of the meaning of the words “weighing anchor”?’
‘Yes, I often think of them,’ she murmured. But barely listening to her, and letting her words drop
to earth, like poor, hurt birds, I went on:
‘To start one night; to wake up in the dazzling brilliancy of morning; to feel oneself together and
alone on the uncertain waves -’
‘To arrive in a port, which one has seen on the map as a child; where everything is strange - I
imagine you on the gangway, leaving the boat with Alissa leaning on your arm.’
‘We should hurry off to the post,’ added I, laughing, ‘to get the letter which Juliette would have
written to us -’
‘From Fongueusemare, where she would have stayed behind, and which you would remember as
- oh, so tiny, and so sad, and so far away -’
Were those her words exactly? I cannot be sure for, I repeat, I was so full of my love that, beside
it, I was scarcely aware of any expression but its own.
We were drawing near the steps, and were just going to turn back, when Alissa suddenly
appeared from out of the shade. She was so pale that Juliette uttered an exclamation.
‘Yes, I don’t feel very well,’ Alissa stammered hastily. ‘The air is rather chilly. I think I had
better go in.’ And leaving us there and then, she went hurriedly back towards the house.
‘She overheard what we were saying,’ cried Juliette, as soon as she was a little way off.
‘But we didn’t say anything which could have vexed her. On the contrary -’
‘Oh! Let me alone,’ she said, and darted off in pursuit of her sister.
That night I could not sleep. Alissa had come down to dinner, but had retired immediately
afterwards, complaining of a headache. What had she heard of our conversation? I anxiously went
over in my mind everything we had said. Then I thought that perhaps I had been wrong to walk so
close to Juliette and to let my arm slip round her; but it was the habit of childhood, and many a time
Alissa had seen us walking so. Ah! blind wretch that I was, groping after my own errors, not to have
thought for a moment that Juliette’s words, to which I had paid too little attention, and which I
remembered so ill, might perhaps have been better understood by Alissa. No matter! Led astray by
my anxiety, terrified at the idea that Alissa might distrust me, and imagining no other peril, I
resolved, in spite of what I had said to Juliette, and influenced, perhaps, by what she had said to me -
I resolved to overcome my scruples and apprehensions and to betrothe myself the following day.
It was the eve of my departure. Her sadness, I thought, might be ascribed to that. She seemed to
avoid me. The day passed without my being able to see her alone. The fear of being obliged to leave
before speaking to her sent me to her room a little before dinner. She was putting on a coral necklace,
and, her arms raised to fasten it, she was bending forward, with her back turned to the door, looking
at herself over her shoulder, in a mirror between two lighted candles. It was in the mirror that she first
caught sight of me, and she continued to look at me in it for some moments without turning round.
‘Why,’ said she, ‘wasn’t the door shut?’
‘I knocked, but you didn’t answer. Alissa, you know I’m going tomorrow?’
She answered nothing, but laid down the necklace, which she could not succeed in fastening. The
word ‘engagement’ seemed to me too bare, too brutal; I used I know not what periphrasis in its stead.
As soon as Alissa understood what I meant, I thought I saw her sway and lean against the
mantelpiece for support - but I myself was trembling so much that in my fearfulness I avoided
looking at her.
I was near her, and without raising my eyes, I took her hand; she did not free herself, but bending
down her face a little and raising my hand a little, she put her lips on it and murmured, as she half
leant against me:
‘No, Jérôme, no; don’t, please, let us be engaged.’
My heart was beating so fast, that I think she felt it, and she repeated, more tenderly:
‘No, not yet -’
And as I asked her:
‘Why?’
‘It’s I that ought to ask you why,’ she said. ‘Why change?’ I did not dare speak to her of
yesterday’s conversation, but no doubt she felt I was thinking of it, and as if in answer to my thought,
said, as she looked at me earnestly:
‘You are wrong, dear. I do not need so much happiness. Are we not happy enough as we are?’
She tried in vain to smile.
‘No, since I have to leave you.’
‘Listen, Jérôme, I can’t speak to you this evening - don’t let’s spoil our last minutes. No, no, I’m
as fond of you as ever; don’t be afraid. I’ll write to you; I’ll explain. I promise I’ll write to you -
tomorrow - as soon as you have gone. Leave me now! See, I am crying. You must go.’
She pushed me away, tore me gently from her - and that was our good-bye; for that evening I
was not able to speak to her again, and the next morning, when it was time for me to leave, she shut
herself up in her room. I saw her at her window, waving good-bye to me as she watched my carriage
drive off.
第二章
第二章
这番严苛的训导，与我的灵魂产生共鸣。我有一种与生俱来的责任感，又有父母作为表
率，他们以清教徒的戒律约束我最初萌动的激情。这一切最终引导我崇尚人们所说的“德
行”。在我看来，克己自律同别人恣意放纵一样，是天经地义的。我并不厌恶遵循严格的戒
律，反而以此为荣。我对未来的追求，与其说是幸福，不如说是获得幸福所付出的无限努
力。在追求的过程中，幸福与德行已经不分彼此。当然，我还只是个十四岁的孩子，尚未定
型，未来的发展还有很多可能性。不久以后，对阿莉莎的爱慕，让我毅然决然地走向这个方
向。这场内心的顿悟，让我认清自己：我性格内向，不太开朗，虽然期待被人关怀，却对他
人漠不关心；我没什么进取心，除了想在克己方面获得胜利之外，没有其余的梦想；我喜欢
学习，至于玩耍，却只喜欢需要动脑筋或付出努力的游戏；我很少和年龄相仿的同学交往，
偶尔同他们玩耍也只是为了维持友谊或是出于礼貌。然而，我同阿贝尔•沃蒂埃却成了朋友。
第二年他转学到巴黎，进了我们班，成为我的同学。他是个可爱的小伙子，有点懒散。我对
他的喜爱多于钦佩。同他在一起，至少可以聊聊勒阿弗尔和芬格斯玛尔，这两个地方正是我
魂牵梦萦之地。
我的表弟罗贝尔•布科兰也在我们高中读书，是寄宿生，比我们低两个年级，只有在星期
天我才会和他见面。他与我的表姐妹完全不同，如果不是她们的弟弟，我根本没兴趣见他。
爱占满我的心。只因爱情之光的照耀，与罗贝尔和阿贝尔的友谊才有些意义。阿莉莎如
同福音书中所描绘的无价珍珠，而我就是那个为了得到它，不惜变卖一切家当的人。因为还
是孩子，我就不能谈论爱情吗？我把对表姐的这种感情称为爱情，难道错了吗？可在我的余
生中，没有其他感情能够以“爱”命名了。而且随着年龄增长，尽管我的肉体有了躁动的欲
念，但对阿莉莎的感情却始终没有发生质的变化。我在幼年时只想配得上她，后来也不苛求
更直接地占有她。无论是努力学习还是与人为善，我做的一切冥冥之中都是为了她，我甚至
还发明一种更高尚的美德：常常瞒着她，把为她所做的一切当成是不经意的行为。我陶醉在
自得其乐的谦逊中。唉！还很少考虑自己是否开心，最后养成习惯——若不费劲就无法使我
感到满足。
这种好胜心莫非只激励了我？阿莉莎对此似乎无动于衷，她没有因为我或为了我而做任
何事，可我付出的一切努力却只为了她。她有一颗纤尘不染的心，身上的一切都保持着最自
然的美。她的德行如此优雅充盈，让她看起来自在从容。在她稚气笑容的衬托下，严肃的眼
神也显得可爱迷人起来。我看见她又抬起那双疑惑的眼眸，似水一般温柔，难怪舅舅在六神
无主时，总会去他长女那里寻求支持、忠告和宽慰。第二年夏天，我经常看到他们父女俩在
谈心。舅舅伤心极了，看上去老了许多。他很少在用餐时开口，有时又毫无预兆地强颜欢
笑，这比沉默更让人痛心。他总在书房里抽烟，一直待到傍晚时分阿莉莎来找他——再三恳
求下才肯出门。阿莉莎像带孩子一样把他领到花园里，两人沿着花径走下去，来到菜圃台阶
前面的圆形路口，那里摆有椅子。
某天傍晚，我躺在一棵绛红色的大山毛榉树下，在草坪的树荫下看书，忘记了时间。我
与那条花径之间只隔着一片月桂篱笆，它虽然阻挡视线，却无法阻隔声音。舅舅和阿莉莎的
说话声就这样传入我耳中，显然他们刚谈过罗贝尔。我还从阿莉莎口中听到我的名字，当我
能够完全听清对话的时候，舅舅正好高声说道：“啊！没错，他特别喜欢学习。”
我无意中成了窃听者，很想溜走，至少该发出一点动静，让他们意识到我的存在。但该
做什么呢？咳嗽？还是大喊一声：“我在这里，听见你们说话了！”……我到底没有出声，但
不是因为好奇心驱使想多听会儿，而是出于尴尬和羞涩。更何况他们只是路过这里，我听到
的不过是只言片语……但他们走得很慢。
阿莉莎必定像往常一样，臂弯里挎一只轻巧的篮子，她边走边摘下衰败的花朵，捡拾果
树下被海雾催落的青果。我听见她清亮的声音：“爸爸，帕利西埃姑父是个出色的人吗？”
舅舅的声音低沉喑哑，听不清他回答了什么。阿莉莎追问道：“非常出色，对吗？”
舅舅的回答依旧含混不清。阿莉莎又问道：“杰罗姆挺聪明的，对不对？”
我怎么没有竖起耳朵听呢？……可是没用，什么也听不清。阿莉莎接着说道：“你认为他
能成为一个出色的人吗？”
这回，舅舅在回答时嗓门提高许多：“可是孩子，我先要弄明白你所说的‘出色’是什么意
思，有的人很出色，却不露声色，至少世人看不出来……但在上帝眼里却非常出色。”
“我也是这么想的。”阿莉莎说。
“再说……谁说得准呢？他还那么小……当然，他很有前途，但光凭这一点还不足以获得
成功……”
“那还需要什么？”
“孩子，我该怎么跟你说呢？还需要信任、支持和爱情……”
“你所说的支持是指什么？”阿莉莎打断他。
“感情和尊重，也就是我这辈子缺少的东西。”舅舅怆然地回答。接着，他们的说话声便
彻底消失了。
冒昧的窃听让我感到内疚，所以在晚祷的时候，我下定决心要向表姐认错。也许是好奇
心使然，这回我想多了解一点情况。
次日，我刚开口，阿莉莎便说道：“杰罗姆，这样听别人说话很不好。你应该提醒我们，
要不就直接走开。”
“我向你保证我不是存心偷听的……就算听到也不是有意的。再说，你们只是从那里经过
罢了。”
“我们走得很慢。”
“没错。但我没有听清，况且很快就听不见你们说的话了……告诉我，你问舅舅如何才能
成功，他是怎么回答你的？”
“杰罗姆，”她笑着说道，“你听得清清楚楚，是想逗我才让我再说一遍吧。”
“我保证只听见开头……听到他说需要信任和爱情。”
“后来他说还需要很多其他的东西。”
“你呢，你是怎么回答的？”
阿莉莎的神情突然变得异常严肃：“他谈到生活中的支持时，我回答你有你母亲的支
持。”
“啊！阿莉莎，你明白的，她不可能永远守着我……这也不是一回事儿……”
她低下头：“他也是这么回答我的。”
我颤抖着拉起她的手：“无论将来我成为什么人，全都是为了你。”
“可是杰罗姆，我也可能离开你。”
我不由自主地说出心里话：“但我永远不会离开你。”
她微微耸耸肩：“你难道不能坚强点，独自前进吗？我们每个人都应独自到上帝那里
去。”
“但你是为我指路的人。”
“有基督在，你为什么还要另寻向导呢？只有当我们祈求上帝忘却彼此时，才有可能更进
一步接近，你难道不这样认为吗？”
“对，让我们相聚，”我打断她，“这是我每天早晚都要向上帝祈求的。”
“你难道不明白在上帝那里交融的含义吗？”
“我完全明白。这指的是我们在共同崇拜的对象那里激动热烈地重逢。正是为了与你重
逢，我才去崇拜你所崇拜的对象。”
“你崇拜的动机不纯。”
“不要对我太苛求，如果你不在天国，这个天国我不去也罢。”
她伸出一根手指贴在唇边，神情颇为庄严地说：“先去寻找天国和天理吧。”
在记录这些对话的时候，我就清楚地知道，有些人会觉得它们不太像孩子说的话，但有
些孩子就喜欢使用严肃的话语。我该怎么办呢？设法辩解吗？不会的。我也不想为了显得自
然而粉饰言辞。
我们弄到了拉丁语版的福音书，大段背诵其中的章节。阿莉莎以辅导弟弟作为借口，经
常和我一起学习拉丁文。但我猜测，她是想继续听我朗读罢了。我自知她不会陪我一起学
习，所以不敢轻易对某个学科产生兴趣。有时这点的确对我有所妨碍，但并不像人们想象的
那样会阻碍我思想的飞腾。正好相反，我觉得她无比自由地走在我前面，我是跟随她来选择
思想道路的。当时，萦绕在我们心头、被称为“思想”的东西，往往只是某种“交融”的借口，
这种“交融”比规避情感和掩饰爱意还要深奥。
起初，母亲因无法衡量这种感情有多深而感到担心。后来她渐感体力衰竭，喜欢用母爱
将我们一同拥在怀里。
长期以来，母亲都患有心脏病，后来发作得越发频繁。有一回，她发作得尤为厉害，把
我叫到跟前。“我可怜的孩子，你瞧，我已经老得不行了，”她对我这么说道，“终有一天会突
然离开你。”
她住了声，艰难地喘息着。我再也忍不住，大声喊叫起来，这似乎也是她期待已久的
话：“妈妈……你知道的，我想娶阿莉莎！”
我的话无疑戳中她最隐秘的心事，她立即接口道：“是啊，杰罗姆，我正想跟你说这件事
呢。”
“妈妈！”我哽咽着说，“你认为她爱我，对吗？”
“是啊，我的孩子。”她温柔地重复了好几遍，“是啊，我的孩子。”她又吃力地补充
道：“主自有安排。”
我靠她更近一些，她把手放在我头上，又说道：“孩子们，愿上帝保佑你们！愿上帝保佑
你们二人！”说罢，她又昏睡过去，我没有试图将她唤醒。
第二天，母亲的病情好转，这段谈话也就无疾而终了。我又去上学，知心话说到一半便
没了下文。再说，我又能多了解些什么呢？阿莉莎爱我，对此我从未怀疑。即便真有过疑
虑，随着不久后一件悲痛事情的发生，这份疑虑也就永远消散了。
一天傍晚，母亲平静地离开人世，临终前只有我和阿斯布尔顿小姐陪伴左右。最后一次
发病夺去了母亲的生命，但起初看来并不比之前几次严重，然而却突然恶化，亲戚们都来不
及赶来。第一晚，只有我和母亲的这位老友为她守灵。我深爱着母亲，可让我惊奇的是，我
落泪并非因为悲痛，而是因为阿斯布尔顿小姐。我同情她眼睁睁看着比自己年轻许多的朋友
先去见了上帝。事实上，我揣度表姐就要来奔丧了，这种想法完全取代了我的忧愁。
第二天，舅舅来了，还给我带来一封阿莉莎的信，说她和普朗提埃姨妈会晚一天到。信
中这样写道：
……我的朋友、弟弟杰罗姆。在她临终前，我没能说出她期待已久的话，实在太遗憾了，那本来
能给她带去莫大的安慰。如今，但求她能宽恕我！从此以后，只有上帝能指引我们俩了……你的、比
以往任何时候都要温柔的阿莉莎。
这封信意味着什么？她遗憾未能说出的话又是什么呢？莫非是与我许下终身吗？可那时
我还太年轻，不敢立刻向她求婚。况且，我还需要她的承诺吗？我们不是早就同未婚夫妻一
样了吗？我们相爱这件事在亲友中不再是秘密。舅舅和我母亲一样，并未阻挠，不仅如此，
他早就把我当作儿子看待了。
几天之后便是复活节假期，我去了勒阿弗尔，住在普朗提埃姨妈家里，其间几乎每一顿
饭都是在布科兰舅舅家吃的。
费莉西•普朗提埃姨妈是世上最和气的女人，但我和表姐妹们都跟她不太亲近。她总是忙
得上气不接下气，动作一点儿也不温柔，声音也丝毫不动听，爱抚我们的时候也是笨手笨脚
的。无论在什么时候，只要心中填满对我们的喜爱，她都要抒发一番。布科兰舅舅非常喜欢
她，但是，从他对姨妈说话的语气中，我们不难察觉出他更喜欢我母亲。
“可怜的孩子，”一天傍晚她对我说，“不知道今年夏天你打算做什么？我想先了解你的计
划，再决定我自己要做什么。如果我能帮你什么的话……”
“我还没有考虑过，”我回答道，“也许会去旅行。”
她又说道：“要知道，我这里和芬格斯玛尔一样，随时欢迎你，你舅舅和朱莉叶特都很高
兴你去那边……”
“您是想说阿莉莎吧。”
“没错！很抱歉……说了你可能不信，我原先以为你喜欢的是朱莉叶特，直到你舅舅告诉
了我……还不到一个月呢……你懂的，我非常爱你们，但与你们见面的机会太少，所以不太
了解……再说，我也不擅长察言观色，没时间停下来观察那些与我不相干的事。我看到你和
朱莉叶特总玩在一起……我觉得吧……她人长得漂亮，看起来又高高兴兴的。”
“是的，我现在也愿意和朱莉叶特一起玩儿，但是我喜欢的人是阿莉莎……”
“很好！很好！由你做主……你也知道，因为她比妹妹话少，我呢，可以说完全不了解
她。你选择她，自然有充分的理由。”
“可是姨妈，我从来没有经过选择而喜欢她，从没想过有什么理由……”
“别生气，杰罗姆，我和你说这些没有恶意……我刚要说什么来着，被你给搅忘了……
啊，想起来了！我想你们最后肯定是要结婚的，但因为你在服丧，按理来说不能订婚……而
且，你还年轻，母亲又不在了，独自去芬格斯玛尔，恐怕要惹人闲话……”
“是呀，姨妈，正因为这样，我才说要去旅行。”
“没错呀。孩子，我想过了，如果我也一起去那儿，肯定会方便不少。我已经安排好了，
今年夏天空出来一部分时间。”
“只要我开口，阿斯布尔顿小姐肯定愿意来。”
“我当然相信她一定会来，但这还不够，我也要去……啊！我并不奢望取代你可怜的母
亲，”她突然抽泣起来，补充道，“但我可以料理家务……反正不会让你、你舅舅，还有阿莉
莎感到拘束的。”
费莉西姨妈估错了自己的影响力。说实在的，大家都因为她的存在而感到不自在。
如她所言，七月份她住进芬格斯玛尔。没过多久，我与阿斯布尔顿小姐也住了过去。姨
妈以帮助阿莉莎料理家务为借口，让这个原本清静的家喧闹不断。她为了讨我们欢心非常热
情，用她的话来说，就是“方便行事”。可是她热心过了头，以致我和阿莉莎在她面前非常拘
谨，几乎默不吭声。她一定觉得我们之间很冷淡……可即便我和阿莉莎开口说话，她就能理
解我们之间爱情的性质吗？相反，朱莉叶特的性格对这种奔放的热情就适应多了。我见姨妈
特别偏爱小侄女，不免有所怨恨，也许就是这个原因影响了我对姨妈的感情。
某天早上，姨妈收到一封信后，便把我叫到跟前：“可怜的杰罗姆，万分抱歉。我女儿生
病了，要我回去。我不得不离开你们了……”
我心中怀着多余的顾虑，不知道姨妈走后自己该不该留在芬格斯玛尔，于是跑去问舅
舅。可是我刚一开口，就被舅舅打断了：“我可怜的姐姐又想出什么新花样了，多自然的事情
被她搞那么复杂！杰罗姆，你为什么要离开我们呢？”他嚷道：“你差不多就是我的孩子了
吧？”
姨妈在芬格斯玛尔就待了半个月，她一走，这里就恢复了清静。这座房子又笼罩在平和
安谧之中，像极了幸福该有的模样。丧母之痛并未让我和阿莉莎的爱情黯然失色，却仿佛给
它增添了几分严肃色彩。一种单调乏味的生活开始了，我们恍若置身于音效超好的环境中，
连心脏最微茫的跳动都听得到。
姨妈走后几天，有一天晚上，我们在用餐时谈到她。我记得我们是这样说的：“多闹腾
呀！生活还有起起伏伏呢，怎么她的心就不能消停会儿呢？爱情美丽的外壳，在她心上映射
成了什么样子……”这么说，是因为我们想起歌德的一句话——他在谈论施泰因夫人时写
道：“看见这颗心灵上映射出的世界，一定很美妙。”我们当下确立一套我也不大懂的等级，
并将“喜好冥思默想”的品质划为最高等。
一直沉默不语的舅舅，苦笑着责备我们。
“孩子们，”他说道，“即使形象破碎，上帝依然能认出来。我们不能凭借生活中的一个小
片段来评价别人。我可怜的姐姐身上不讨喜的部分，全都事出有因，我再清楚不过，因此无
法像你们这样尖刻地批评她。年轻时讨人喜欢的特质，老了以后哪有不变质的。你们说费莉
西‘闹腾’，可在当初，这还是一种可爱的激情，是一时忘乎所以、随兴所至罢了……我可以肯
定地说，我们当年和你们现在的模样，没什么区别。杰罗姆，我当初就和你现在挺像的，也
许比我想象的还要相似。费莉西就特别像现在的朱莉叶特……是的，长得也像。”他转身对着
女儿，继续道：“你说话时的某种声调，会让我突然想起她，她也会像你这样微笑。有时候动
作都和你很像：她也会无所事事地坐着，两肘放在身前，交叉的手指撑在额头上。当然，现
在这种动作早就消失了。”
阿斯布尔顿小姐朝我转过身来，声音低不可闻：“阿莉莎像你母亲。”
这年夏天，阳光明媚灿烂，万物都沐浴在碧蓝之中。我们的虔诚打败了病痛和死亡，阴
影在我们身前退去。每天早晨一到拂晓时分，我就满心欢喜地起床，跑出去迎接新一天的到
来……每当午夜梦回，这段浸透朝露的时光，总浮现在我眼前。朱莉叶特起得比熬夜的姐姐
早，会和我一起下楼去花园，她还成了我和阿莉莎的信使。我没完没了地向她倾诉和阿莉莎
的爱情，她好像总也听不厌。我跟她说了很多不敢当面跟阿莉莎说的话。面对阿莉莎时，因
为爱慕过深，我总是战战兢兢，放不开来。阿莉莎似乎也赞同这样的消遣，很开心我和朱莉
叶特聊得这么投机。总之，我们谈论的话题都是她，但她没有在意，或者假装不在意。
啊，狂热的爱情！你精妙伪装起来，到底通过哪条秘径，竟将我们从欢笑引向哭泣，从
天真的欢乐引向对美德的渴望！
夏天的流逝，如此纯净温润。那些悄悄溜走的时光，我现在几乎没有任何印象，唯一记
得的只有读书和谈心……
“我做了个伤心的梦。”假期接近尾声，一天早上阿莉莎这么对我说。
“梦见我活着，你却死了。不，我没有看见你死去，只知道‘你死了’这回事儿。太可怕
了，根本不可能，所以我觉得你只是不在我身边罢了。虽然我们分开了，我觉得还是有办法
重逢的。为了再见到你，我绞尽脑汁，在拼尽全力的时候一下醒过来了。
“今天早上，我仍受到这个梦的影响，仿佛在继续做梦。我还是觉得跟你分开了，而且会
跟你分开很久很久……”她压低声音继续道，“我会和你分开一辈子，必须倾尽一生，付出极
大的努力……”
“为什么？”
“为了重聚，每个人都要付出极大的努力。”
我并没有把她的话当真，也许是害怕当真吧。我的心怦怦直跳，似乎是为了抗议，我鼓
起勇气说道：“好吧，我今天早上也做了一个梦，梦见我要娶你的心是那么强烈，除了死亡，
什么都无法让我们分开。”
“你认为死亡就能将人分开吗？”她又说道。
“我是想说……”
“我认为死亡反而能让人靠近……没错，能让生前分开的人拉近距离。”
这些话深深扎进我们心里，当时说话的语调至今犹然在耳。但要到后来我才真正明白这
番话有多严肃。
夏天过去了，大部分田地都光秃秃的，视野非常开阔。我离开的前一晚，不，是离开前
两天的傍晚时分，我和朱莉叶特来到花园低处的小树林。
“你昨天给阿莉莎背诵的是什么？”她问我。
“什么时候的事儿？”
“在泥灰岩矿场的长椅上，我们走了以后，你们还留在那里……”
“啊……应该是波德莱尔的几首诗吧。”
“哪几首？你不愿意告诉我吗？”
“不久，我们将沉入森冷的黑暗……”我不大情愿地背诵起来。但她立即打断我，用颤抖
而异样的声音说道：“别了，太短促的夏日骄阳！”
“怎么！你也知道？”我十分惊讶，大声说道，“我还以为你不喜欢诗呢……”
“怎么会呢？就因为你不背给我听吗？”她笑着说，但有些窘迫，“有时候，我觉得你把我
当成十足的傻瓜。”
“聪明的人不见得喜欢诗歌。我从没听你念过诗，你也没有要求我给你背诵过。”
“因为都被阿莉莎一人独占了……”她沉默片刻，又突然说道，“你后天就要走了吗？”
“是得走了。”
“你今年冬天打算做什么？”
“在巴黎高师读一年级。”
“你打算什么时候和阿莉莎结婚？”
“等服完兵役吧，甚至还要等到我对将来要做的事有点头绪之后。”
“所以你对将来要做的事还没有头绪吗？”
“我还不想知道，因为感兴趣的事实在太多，一旦做出选择，就只能做一件事了，所以尽
量推迟选择的时间。”
“你不订婚，也是怕不能再有所选择吗？”
我耸耸肩，未予回应。
她坚持说道：“你们还在等什么呢？为什么不马上订婚呢？”
“我们为什么要订婚呢？知道拥有彼此，而且永远不变，难道还不够吗？何必昭告天下
呢？我若愿意为她奉献一生，你真觉得需要用诺言来维系这份爱情，才更美好吗？不，誓言
对我而说是对爱情的侮辱……只有在不信任她的时候，我才渴望和她缔结婚约。”
“但我不信任的对象并不是她……”
我们慢慢走着，来到花园一角。之前正是在这里，我无意间听到阿莉莎和她父亲的谈
话。我脑海中突然闪现一个念头，我刚看到阿莉莎到花园来了，她可能就坐在圆形路口，同
样能听见我们的谈话，何不让她听听我不敢当面跟她说的话呢？
这一招让我很兴奋，这种可能立刻蛊惑了我，于是我提高嗓门道：“啊！”我大声地说，
怀着一种与年龄稍稍不符的浮夸激情。由于太专注于自己要说的话，我对朱莉叶特未尽的话
语并未在意……
“啊！如果我们能靠近心爱之人的灵魂，从她身上看自己，就如同看镜像一样，会看到怎
样一副形象呢？从别人身上看自己，就好像自我审视一样，甚至比自己看还要清楚，这柔情
多么让人心安呀！这样的爱情多纯洁呀！”
我洋洋自得，以为这番不太高明的抒情起了作用，才让朱莉叶特慌乱起来。她突然把脑
袋埋在我肩头。
“杰罗姆！杰罗姆！你要向我保证会让她幸福！如果她也因你而感到痛苦，我会恨你
的。”
“唉，朱莉叶特，”我抱了抱她，捧起她的脸，大声说道，“那样我也会憎恨自己，但愿你
懂我！……我迟迟没有决定自己的事业，只是为了更好地同她一起生活。我的未来悬而未
决，都取决于她了。如果没有她，无论将来成为什么人，我都不愿意……”
“你和她说这些的时候，她怎么说呢？”
“我从没和她说过！从来没有。这也是为什么我们还没订婚的原因，我们从没谈起过婚
姻，也没有提过将来要做的事。唉，朱莉叶特，对我来说，和她在一起的日子实在太美，所
以我不敢……你懂吗？我不敢和她说这些。”
“你是想给她来个幸福的惊喜吗？”
“不，并不是这样。我是害怕……怕吓着她，你明白吗？……怕我隐约预见的巨大幸福，
会吓着她。有一天我问她是否想去旅行，她对我说什么也不想，只要知道有这些美丽的地方
存在，知道有人能前往，就已足够。”
“你呢，杰罗姆，你渴望旅行吗？”
“哪里都想去！对我来说，人生就像漫长的旅行，可以和她一起徜徉在书籍中，行走在人
群中，在各地游历……你思考过‘起锚’这个词的意思吗？”
“我经常思考这个词……”她低声咕哝。可我几乎没听见，她的话如同受伤的可怜小鸟一
样坠落在地。
我继续说道：“夜晚起航，在拂晓时分醒来，已是漫天霞光。在这变幻莫测的波涛之上，
只有我们两个人……”
“接着，你们来到一座港口，虽然小时候在地图上见过，一切却那么陌生。在我的想象
中：你在舷梯上，和阿莉莎手挽着手走下船去。”
“我们赶紧来到邮局，”我笑着补充道，“取出朱莉叶特写给我们的信。”
“信是从芬格斯玛尔寄出来的，她一直留在那里。在你们看来，芬格斯玛尔是那么渺小、
悲伤又遥远的地方……”
她确实是这么讲的吗？我也无法确定。原因我也跟你们说了，爱占满我的心，除了爱的
表达，我几乎听不见别的声音。
我们来到圆形路口附近。正要往回走的时候，阿莉莎突然从暗处走了出来，她面色异常
苍白，让朱莉叶特惊叫起来。
“我不太舒服，”阿莉莎结结巴巴地赶紧说道，“天气凉了，我还是回去的好。”她立刻离
开我们，一刻不停地回家去了。
“她听到我们刚才说的话了！”等阿莉莎稍稍走远，朱莉叶特便大声说道。
“可我们并没说什么让她难受的话吧？恰恰相反……”
“别管我。”朱莉叶特说着，便奔去追赶姐姐了。
这天晚上，我未能入睡。阿莉莎在晚饭时露了一面，喊着头疼，很快回房去了。从我们
的对话中，她到底听到了什么呢？我忐忑不安，回想之前说过的话。继而我又想到，也许散
步时不该和朱莉叶特靠那么近，不该肆无忌惮地把她搂在臂弯里，这是孩提时代养成的习
惯。阿莉莎已经不止一次看到我们这么散步了。
啊，我这个可悲的瞎子！总纠结于找寻自己的过错，丝毫没有考虑过朱莉叶特说的话。
由于我当时根本没仔细听，自然记不太清，也许阿莉莎听得更清楚。无论什么原因吧！我惴
惴不安，不知该如何是好，一想到阿莉莎可能在怀疑我，就惊慌失措。我顾不上之前对朱莉
叶特说的话，也许正是她的话影响了我，让我下定决心克服顾虑和担忧，明天就向阿莉莎求
婚，也想象不出这会产生什么别的危害。
这是我离开的前一天。阿莉莎很忧郁，我想还是因为这件事吧，看得出来她在躲我。一
整个白天，我都没机会和她单独说上话。我害怕什么都没说就得走了，于是在晚饭前直接去
了她房间。她背对着房门，透过她的肩膀上方，我看到两支明烛中间有面镜子。她抬着手
臂，低头往脖子上扣一条珊瑚项链。她先在镜子里发现了我，注视半晌，却没有回头。
“噢！我的房门没有关吗？”她说。
“我敲门了，但你没有回应。阿莉莎，你知道我明天就要走了吗？”
她没有回答，只是把没能扣上的项链放在壁炉上。“订婚”这个词在我看来太露骨、太唐
突，我就采用了一些迂回婉转的说法来代替。
当阿莉莎明白我的意图后，似乎踉跄了一下，靠在壁炉上……我自己也惊慌失措，根本
不敢看她。我站在她身边，拉住她的手，却不敢抬起眼睛。
她没有挣脱，而是稍稍低下头，略微抬高我的手吻了一下，半倚着我，低语道：“不，杰
罗姆，我们别订婚，求你了。”
我的心怦怦狂跳，她一定也感觉到了，用更温柔的声音说道：“不，现在还不要……”
“为什么？”我追问她。
“我才要问你为什么，为什么改主意了？”
我不敢跟她说起昨天的谈话，但她肯定知道我正在想这件事。她直直地盯着我，仿佛解
答我心思一般，回答道：“朋友，你误会了。我不需要那么多幸福，我们现在这样不也很开心
吗？”
她努力想笑，却笑不出来。
“不开心，因为我就要离开你了。”
“听着，杰罗姆。今晚我不能再和你说什么了……我们最后相聚的时光，别扫兴了……
不，不是的。我还像往常一样爱你。放心吧，我会给你写信解释的。我保证给你写信，明天
就写……你一离开就写。现在你走吧！瞧，我都哭了……让我静一静吧。”
她轻推着我，把我推离了身旁。这就是我们的告别。当天晚上，我再没能和她说上话，
次日我离开时，她把自己关在房里。我看见她站在窗口跟我挥手告别，目送我乘坐的车渐渐
远去。
III.
III
I had hardly seen Abel Vautier that year; he had enlisted without waiting to be called up, whilst I, in
the meantime, had been reading for my degree. I was two years younger than Abel, and had put off
my military service until after leaving the École Normale, where we were both of us to go for our first
term that year.
We met again with pleasure. After leaving the army, he had spent more than a month travelling. I
was afraid of finding him changed; but he had merely acquired more confidence without losing any
of his charm. We spent the afternoon before the opening day of the term in the Luxembourg gardens;
unable to restrain myself from confiding in him, I spoke to him at length about my love for Alissa,
which, for that matter, he knew of already. During the last year he had acquired some experience of
women, and, in consequence, put on rather a conceited and patronizing manner, which, however, did
not offend me. He laughed at me for not having finally managed to clinch the matter, as he expressed
it, giving forth as an axiom, that a woman should never be given time to go back on herself. I let him
talk, but thought to myself that his excellent arguments were not applicable either to her or to me,
and simply showed that he did not understand us.
The day after our arrival I received the following letter:
‘My dear Jérôme,
‘I have been thinking a great deal about your suggestion.’ [My suggestion! What a way of speaking of our
engagement!] ‘I am afraid I am too old for you. Perhaps you don’t think so now, because you have had no
opportunity yet of seeing anything of other women. But I keep thinking of what I should suffer later on, if after I
had given myself to you, I were to find out that you were no longer able to care for me. You will be very indignant,
no doubt, as you read this; I think I hear you protesting; it’s not that I doubt your love - I simply ask you to wait a
little longer until you are rather better acquainted with life.
‘Please understand that I am speaking only of you - as for myself, I feel sure that I shall never cease to love
you.
‘Alissa.’
Cease to love each other! Could there be any question of such a thing? I was more astonished
than grieved, but so greatly disturbed that I hurried off to show the letter to Abel.
‘Well, what do you mean to do?’ said he, after he had read the letter, shaking his head and
screwing up his lips as he did so. I made a despairing gesture. ‘At any rate, I hope you aren’t going to
answer her! If you begin arguing with a woman you’re lost. Listen to me: if we were to sleep at Le
Havre on Saturday night, we might spend Sunday morning at Fongueusemare, and be back here in
time for the lecture on Monday morning. I haven’t seen your people since my military service. That’s
excuse enough; and a very creditable one. If Alissa sees that it’s only an excuse, so much the better.
I’ll look after Juliette whilst you talk to her sister. Try not to play the fool. To tell you the truth,
there’s something I can’t understand in your tale; you can’t have told me everything. Never mind!
I’ll soon get to the bottom of it. Mind you don’t let them know we’re coming: you must take your
cousin by surprise and not give her time to arm herself.’
My heart was beating fast as I pushed open the garden gate. Juliette came running to meet us at
once. Alissa, who was busy in the linen room, made no haste to come down. We were talking to my
uncle and Miss Ashburton when at last she entered the drawing-room. If our sudden arrival had upset
her, at any rate she managed to show no signs of it. I thought of what Abel had said, and that it was
precisely with the intention of arming herself against me, that she had been so long before making
her appearance. Juliette’s extreme animation made her reserve seem colder still. I felt that she
disapproved of my return; at any rate she tried to show disapprobation in her manner, and I dared not
imagine that behind this disapprobation there might be hidden another and a livelier feeling. Seated
at some distance apart from us, in a corner near the window, she seemed absorbed in a piece of
embroidery, the stitches of which she was counting below her breath. Abel talked - fortunately! for,
as for me, I felt incapable of saying a word, and if it had not been for the tales he told of his year’s
service and his travels, this meeting would have had a dismal beginning. My uncle himself seemed
unusually thoughtful.
Immediately after lunch, Juliette took me aside and drew me into the garden:
‘What do you think?’ said she, when we were alone, ‘I’ve had an offer of marriage! Aunt Félicie
wrote to papa yesterday to tell him she had had a proposal for me from a Nîmes vine-grower; a
person who is very satisfactory in every way, she says; he met me out at some parties last spring and
fell in love with me.’
‘And did this individual make any impression on you?’ I questioned with an instinctive feeling of
hostility towards the suitor.
‘Yes, I think I remember him. A kind of cheery Don Quixote - not cultivated - very ugly - very
vulgar - rather ridiculous; Aunt Félicie couldn’t keep her countenance before him.’
‘Has he any - chance?’ I asked, mockingly.
‘Oh, Jérôme! How can you? A man who’s in business!... If you’d seen him you wouldn’t ask.’
‘And has my uncle answered?’
‘He answered what I did - that I was too young to marry. Unfortunately,’ she added, laughing,
‘Aunt foresaw that objection: in a postscript she says that Monsieur Édouard Teissières - that’s his
name - is willing to wait, that he has simply declared himself so soon in order to be put “on the
ranks”. It’s absurd, but what am I to do? All the same, I can’t tell him he’s too ugly.’
‘No, but you can say that you don’t want to marry a vine-grower.’
She shrugged her shoulders:
‘That’s a kind of reason Aunt’s mind is incapable of taking in. But let’s talk of something else.
Has Alissa written to you?’
She spoke with extreme volubility and seemed in great agitation. I handed her Alissa’s letter,
which she read, blushing deeply. I seemed to discern a note of anger in her voice as she asked me:
‘Then what are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ I answered. ‘Now that I am here, I feel as if it would have been easier to write,
and I blame myself for coming. Can you understand what she means?’
‘I understand she wants to leave you free.’
‘Free! What do I care for freedom? And can you understand why she writes to me so?’
She answered ‘No!’ so shortly that, without at all divining the truth, I at least felt persuaded from
that moment that Juliette probably knew something about it. Then, abruptly turning back as we came
to a bend in the path: ‘Let me be now,’ she said. ‘You haven’t come here to talk to me. We have
been together a great deal too long.’
She fled off to the house, and a moment later I heard her at the piano.
When I went back to the drawing-room she was talking to Abel, who had joined her there; she
went on playing as she talked, though carelessly, and as if she were vaguely improvising. I left them.
I went into the garden and wandered about some time, looking for Alissa.
She was at the bottom of the orchard, picking the first chrysanthemums at the foot of a low wall.
The smell of the flowers mingled with that of the dead leaves in the beech copse and the air was
saturated with autumn. The sun did no more now than just warm the espaliers, but the sky was
orientally pure. Her face was framed, hidden nearly, in the depths of a big Dutch peasant’s cap,
which Abel had brought back from his travels and which she had at once put on. She did not turn as I
drew near, but I saw, by the slight tremor which she could not repress, that she had recognized my
step; and I began at once to fortify myself against her reproaches and the severity which I felt her
look was going to impose upon me. But when, as I came closer and, as if afraid, began to slacken my
pace, she, although still she did not turn but kept her head lowered as a sulky child might do,
stretched out to me from behind her back her hand full of flowers, and seemed to beckon me on. And
as, on the contrary, at sight of this gesture I came to a standstill in a spirit of playfulness, she turned
round at last and took a few steps towards me, raising her face; and I saw that it was all full of
smiles. The brightness of her look made everything seem on a sudden simple again and easy, so that
without an effort and with an unaltered voice, I began:
‘It was your letter that brought me back.’
‘I thought so,’ said she, and then softening the sharpness of her rebuke by the inflexion of her
voice; ‘and that is what vexed me. Why didn’t you like what I said? It was very simple, though.’
(And indeed, sadness and difficulty seemed now nothing but imagination, seemed now to exist only
in my mind.) ‘We were happy so; I told you we were; why be astonished at my refusing when you
ask me to change?’
And indeed I felt happy with her, so perfectly happy, that the one desire of my mind was that it
should differ in nothing from hers, and already I wished for nothing beyond her smile, and to walk
with her thus, hand in hand, along a sun-warmed, flower-bordered path.
‘If you prefer it,’ said I gravely, renouncing at one stroke every other hope, and giving myself up
to the perfect happiness of the present, ‘...If you prefer it, we will not be engaged. When I got your
letter, I did in fact realize that I was happy and that my happiness was going to cease. Oh! give me
back the happiness that I had; I can’t do without it. I love you well enough to wait for you all my life,
but that you should cease to love me or that you should doubt my love, that thought, Alissa, is
unbearable to me.’
‘Alas! Jérôme, I cannot doubt it.’
And her voice, as she said this, was at once calm and sad; but the smile which illuminated her
remained so serenely beautiful that I was ashamed of my fears and protestations; it seemed to me
then, that from them alone came that touch of sadness which I felt lurking in her voice. Without any
transition, I began speaking of my plans and of the new life from which I was expecting to derive so
much benefit. The École Normale was not at that time what it has since become; its somewhat
rigorous discipline, irksome only to young men of an indolent or refractory disposition, was helpful
to those whose minds were bent on study. I was glad that this almost monastic way of life should
preserve me from the world, which at best attracted me but little; the knowledge that Alissa feared it
for me would have been enough to make it appear hateful.
Miss Ashburton had kept on the apartment she had shared with my mother in Paris. As Abel and
I knew hardly anyone in Paris, we should spend some hours of every Sunday with her; every Sunday
I should write to Alissa and keep her informed of every detail of my life.
We were now sitting on the edge of an open garden frame through which were sprawling huge
stalks of cucumber plants, the last fruits of which had been gathered. Alissa listened to me,
questioned me. I had never before felt her tenderness more solicitous, her affection more pressing.
Fear, care, the slightest stir of emotion even, evaporated in her smile, melted away in this delightful
intimacy, like the mist in the perfect blueness of the sky.
Then when Juliette and Abel came out to join us, we spent the rest of the day on a bench in the
beech copse, reading aloud Swinburne’s Triumph of Time, each of us taking a verse by turns.
Evening drew in.
When the time came for us to be going, Alissa kissed me good-bye, and then half playfully, but
still with that elder sister air, which was perhaps called for by my thoughtlessness, and which she
was fond of assuming, ‘Come,’ said she, ‘promise me you won’t be so romantic for the future.’
‘Well, are you engaged?’ asked Abel, as soon as we were again alone together.
‘My dear fellow, there’s no question of that now,’ I answered, adding at once in a tone that cut
short any further questioning, ‘and a very good thing too. I have never been happier in my life than I
am tonight.’
‘Nor I either!’ he cried; then, abruptly flinging his arms around me: ‘I’ve got something
wonderful to tell you, something extraordinary! Jérôme, I’m madly in love with Juliette! I suspected
as much as long ago as last year; but I’ve seen life since then, and I didn’t want to tell you anything
about it until I’d met your cousins again. Now it’s all up with me! It’s for life.
J’aime, que dis-je aimer - j’idolâtre Juliette!
I’ve thought for a long time past that I had a kind of brother-in-law’s affection for you.’
Then, laughing and joking, he embraced me again and again, flinging himself about like a child,
on the cushions of the railway carriage that was taking us to Paris. I was absolutely astounded by his
announcement; and the slight strain of literary affectation which I felt in it jarred on me not a little;
but how was it possible to hold out against such vehemence and such rapture?
‘Well, what? Have you proposed to her?’ I managed to ask between two bursts of excitement.
‘No, no, certainly not!’ cried he; ‘I don’t want to skip the most charming part of the story.
Le meilleur moment des amours
N’est pas quand on a dit: je t’aime...
Come now, you aren’t going to reproach me with that, are you? You - such a past master of
slowness yourself!’
‘Well, at any rate,’ I said, slightly irritated, ‘do you think that she...?’
‘Didn’t you notice her embarrassment when she saw me again? And the whole time of our visit,
her agitation, and her blushes and her volubility! No! you noticed nothing, of course! Because you’re
completely taken up with Alissa. And how she questioned me! How she drank in my words! Her
intelligence has tremendously developed since last year. I don’t know where you got it that she
doesn’t like reading; you always imagine that Alissa’s the only person who can do anything! My
dear boy, it’s astonishing what she knows. Can you guess what we were amusing ourselves by doing
before dinner? Repeating one of Dante’s Canzoni! We each of us said a line, and when I went wrong
she corrected me. You know, the one that begins:
Amor che nella mente mi ragiona.
You didn’t tell me that she had learnt Italian.’
‘I didn’t know it myself,’ said I, rather astonished.
‘What? When we began the Canzone, she told me it was you who had shown it to her.’
‘She must have heard me read it to her sister one day when she was sitting with us, doing her
needlework, as she often does; but I’m blessed if she ever let on that she understood.’
‘Really! You and Alissa are amazing with your egoism. You are so much absorbed in your own
love, that you can’t spare a glance for the admirable flowering of an intelligence and a soul like hers!
I don’t want to flatter myself, but all the same it was high time that I appeared on the scene. No, no!
I’m not angry with you, as you see,’ said he, embracing me again. ‘Only promise me - not a word of
any of this to Alissa. I want to conduct my affairs by myself. Juliette is caught, that’s certain, and fast
enough for me to venture to leave her till next holidays. I think I shan’t even write to her between
this and then. But we will spend the Christmas vacations at Le Havre, and then -‘
‘And then?’
‘Well, Alissa will suddenly learn of our engagement. I mean to push it through smartly. And do
you know what will happen? Why! I shall get you Alissa’s consent by force of our example. You
can’t pull it off for yourself, but we shall persuade her that we can’t get married before you...’
So he went on, drowning me in an inexhaustible flow of words, which did not stop even on the
train’s arrival in Paris, even on our getting back to the Normale, for though we walked all the way
from the station to the school, he insisted, in spite of the lateness of the hour, on accompanying me to
my room, where we went on talking till morning.
Abel’s enthusiasm made short work of the present and the future. He already saw and described
our double wedding; imagined and painted everybody’s surprise and joy; became enamoured of the
beauty of our story, of our friendship, of the part he was to play in my love affair. Far from being
proof against so flattering a warmth, I felt myself pervaded by it, and gently succumbed to the
allurement of his fanciful suggestions. Thanks to our love, courage and ambition swelled in us; we
were hardly to have left the École Normale when our double marriage (the ceremony to be
performed by Pasteur Vautier) would take place and we should all four start on our wedding journey;
then we were each to embark on some monumental work, with our wives as collaborators. Abel, for
whom the schoolmaster’s profession had no attractions, and who thought he was born to be a writer,
would rapidly earn the fortune of which he stood in need, by a few successful plays. As for me, more
attracted by learning itself than by the thought of any gain that might accrue from it, my plan was to
devote myself to the study of religious philosophy, of which I purposed writing the history - but
what avails it now to recall so many hopes?
The next day we plunged into our work.
第三章
第三章
这一年，我和阿贝尔•沃蒂埃几乎没见过面。他不等征兵就提前入伍去服兵役了，而我则
重读了修辞学，准备拿个证书。今年，我们俩都进了巴黎高师，我比他小两岁，可以在毕业
之后再服兵役。
我们因这次重逢而喜悦。他离开部队后，又去旅行了一个多月，我真担心他变了。但他
昔日的魅力并未减少，只是显得更加自信。开学前一天下午，我们在卢森堡公园度过。我藏
不住心事，与他谈了很久，况且，他对我的恋情早已知情。这一年中，他交往了好几个女
人，难免自以为是，有些优越感，但我并不生气。他取笑我不够坚决，用他的话来说：对付
女人的原则是——绝不能让她恢复镇定。由他说吧，但我心中认为这番高论既不适用于我，
也不适用于阿莉莎，这番话只证明他对我们并不了解。
我们到校的第二天，我收到这样一封信：
亲爱的杰罗姆：
对于你的提议我考虑了很久（我也建议称此为“订婚”），我比你年长太多，这一点让我担忧。你
还没有机会见到其他女人，可能还没意识到这一点。可我却想到了，将来委身于你后，你若不再喜欢
我，我会多痛苦啊。毫无疑问，你读到这封信会很气愤，我仿佛听见了你的申辩。不过，我还是请你
再等等，等你增长一点阅历再说。
要明白，我说这番话只为了你。至于我，相信永远不会停止爱你。
阿莉莎
我们停止相爱！怎么可能有这种事！我感到伤心，但更多的是震惊。心乱如麻之下，我
跑去找阿贝尔，把信拿给他看。
“好吧，你打算怎么办呢？”他看完信，抿着嘴摇头。我举起双臂，既悲伤又没主意。
“我希望你至少别回信，一旦开始和女人争吵，就输定了……听着，我们周六去勒阿弗尔
过夜，周日一早就能到芬格斯玛尔，周一还能赶回来上第一堂课。自从服兵役以后，我再没
见过你的亲戚——用这个借口足够了，也很体面。如果阿莉莎觉得这只是借口，那再好不过
了！你和她说话的时候，我来搞定朱莉叶特。你尽量别孩子气……说实话，在你们的故事里
还有很多我也解释不清的东西，你肯定没全告诉我……没关系！我会弄明白的……千万别泄
露我们要去的事。一定要让你表姐大吃一惊，让她来不及防备。”
我推开花园栅栏时，心跳得厉害极了。朱莉叶特立刻跑来迎接我们，阿莉莎正在收拾衣
物，没急着下楼。我们在客厅里，同舅舅和阿斯布尔顿小姐聊天，最后阿莉莎也走了进来。
或许我们的突袭真让她乱了方寸，可她起码没表露出来。我想起阿贝尔和我说过的话，觉得
阿莉莎迟迟不肯露面，就是为了准备好对付我。朱莉叶特充满热情和活力，相形之下，阿莉
莎的矜持则显得更加冷漠。我能感觉到，她并不赞成我去而复返，至少试图表现出反对。在
这种反对之下，我不敢展现潜藏的强烈情绪。阿莉莎坐在靠窗的角落里，与我们隔得很远。
她似乎专心于手头的刺绣活，双唇翕动着，在默念针脚。阿贝尔讲着话，幸好有他在！因为
我实在没勇气开口。他讲述自己一年服兵役的情况和旅行的见闻，要是没有他，开头几分钟
会十分乏味。我舅舅显得格外担忧。
午饭一结束，朱莉叶特就把我叫到身旁，拉我去花园。
“你想得到吗？有人向我求婚了！”我们刚独处，她就大声说道，“费莉西姑妈昨天给我爸
爸来信，说有个尼姆的葡萄园主想结亲。据姑妈说，对方人很不错，自从在今年春天的社交
场合见过我几次后，就对我念念不忘。”
“你有留意到这位男士吗？”我问道，语气中对这位求婚者不由自主地抱有敌意。
“有，我知道是谁。他是个堂吉诃德式的人物，性格随和，没文化，长得很丑，非常平
庸，而且滑稽可笑，连姑妈见到他都憋不住笑。”
“那么，他有……希望吗？”我用调侃的口吻说道。
“喂，杰罗姆！开什么玩笑！他是个经商的！……你要是见过他，就不会这样问了。”
“那么……舅舅是怎么答复人家的呢？”
“和我的答复一样：说我还太小，谈结婚还早……可惜呀，”她笑着说道，“姑妈早料到我
们会反对，在信末的附言里写道：爱德华•泰西埃尔先生（这是他的名字）同意等我，他这么
早来求婚只是为了早点‘排队’……这太荒唐了。但我还能怎么办呢？又不能让人转告，说他太
丑了！”
“是不能，只能说你不想嫁给葡萄园主。”
她耸了耸肩：“在姑妈心里，这种理由是行不通的……算了吧。话说阿莉莎给你写信
了？”
她滔滔不绝地说着，看起来十分不安。我把阿莉莎的信递给她看，看信时她满脸通红，
质问我道：“那你打算怎么办呢？”
我从她的声音里听出了愠怒。
“不知道。但我后悔来了这里，在这儿还不如写信容易些。你明白她想说什么吗？”
“我的理解是她想给你自由。”
“可我看重这个吗？自由？你知道她为什么写这封信给我吗？”
“不知道。”她答了一声，语气十分生硬。虽然我不知道真相，但这一刻至少让我明白朱
莉叶特对此有所隐瞒。
我们走到小径的拐角处，她突然转过身。
“现在，让我自己待会儿。你来这里又不是为了和我聊天，我们待在一起的时间太长
了。”
她逃走了，向屋里跑去。没过多久，我就听到她弹钢琴的声音。
我回到客厅时，她和刚找过来的阿贝尔聊着天，手上的弹奏却没停下，只是看起来无精
打采，仿佛是即兴演奏。我离开了，在花园里徘徊了好一阵，寻找阿莉莎的身影。
阿莉莎在果园深处的墙角下，正采摘今年初放的菊花。花香与山毛榉枯叶的味道融为一
体。空气中漫溢着浓浓的秋意，阳光下的果树架被晒得暖烘烘的，东方的天空却格外明净。
她戴着一顶泽兰产的大女帽，脸几乎全掩在帽子里。这是阿贝尔在旅途中买来送给她的，刚
拿到手她就戴了上去。我走过去，起初她并没转过身来，但身体禁不住微微战栗起来，这表
明她听出了我的脚步声。我已经做好坚持住的准备，鼓起勇气面对她的责备，承受住她即将
投向我的严厉目光。然而，当我快到她跟前时，却仿佛胆怯一般，放慢了步伐。她一开始没
有回头，耷拉着脑袋，像个赌气的孩子，只把放满鲜花的手朝后面伸出来，似乎在邀我靠
近。见到这个姿势，似乎是为了玩闹，我反而站住了。她终于转过身来，朝我走了几步，抬
起头，满面笑颜映在我眼里。她的目光照亮所有，转瞬间，我觉得一切都那么自在简单，于
是用毫不费劲的声音说道：“你的信把我招了回来。”
她说，“我早料到了”，然后转了个声调，以求削弱过度的斥责之意，“正是这一点让我生
气，你为什么看不懂我说的话呢？很容易理解的吧……”果然，忧郁和困境不过是我的假象，
只存在于脑海中。“我和你说得很清楚，我们一直以来都很幸福，你却还建议我改变，我拒绝
了，这有什么可惊讶的呢？”
在她身边我的确是幸福的，那么幸福，以至于期望我们的想法可以完全契合。只要她微
笑，只要我们也能像今天这样，手牵着手在这条温暖的花径上走着，我便别无所求。
“如果你希望这样，”我认真地说道，完全沉浸于眼前的幸福之中，其他的期盼全被抛诸
脑后，“如果你希望这样，咱们就不订婚了。我收到你的信时，就明白自己一直是幸福的，但
又快要失去这份幸福。把往日的幸福还给我吧！我不能没有它。我那么爱你，可以等你一辈
子。可是阿莉莎，一想到你不再爱我，或者怀疑我的爱，我就受不了。”
“唉！杰罗姆，我不怀疑你爱我。”
她的声音平静又忧伤，但笑容又照亮了她，显得无比和煦静美，让我不禁为自己的恐惧
和抗争感到羞愧。我甚至觉得，在她话语深处听出的忧郁回响，正是我的担忧和抗议引发
的。我直接谈起自己的计划、学业，以及让我受益匪浅的全新生活方式：那时的巴黎高师不
似近来的样子，纪律相当严明，它鼓励大家勤奋学习，只有怠惰不前的学生，才会有压力；
这种近乎修道院式的生活让我远离外界，这一点让我高兴，因为社交圈对我并没有吸引力，
只要是阿莉莎害怕的东西，我很快也会憎恶；在巴黎，阿斯布尔顿小姐还留在往日和母亲同
住的公寓里，每到星期天，我和阿贝尔总会花几个小时去看望她，我还会在这一天给阿莉莎
写信，好让她完全知悉我的生活。
我和阿莉莎坐在敞开的窗框上，巨大的藤蔓恣意地攀爬上来，最后几条黄瓜已经摘完。
阿莉莎听我说着，也会问我一些问题。我从未见她如此专注柔情，也从未见过她表现出如此
深切的爱恋。恐惧、担忧，甚至是最轻微的不安都消融在她的微笑中，融化在这令人愉悦的
亲近中，犹如薄雾消散在清澈湛蓝的天空中一样。
我们坐在山毛榉树林的长椅上，阿贝尔和朱莉叶特寻了过来。这一天余下的光阴，我们
重读了斯温伯恩的诗歌《时间的胜利》，每个人轮流读上一节，直到夜幕降临。
“好了。”我们动身离去前，阿莉莎拥抱了我。也许是我冒失的行动所致，又或许她就想
要这样，阿莉莎摆出一副大姐姐的神气，半开着玩笑说道：“现在答应我，以后别胡思乱
想……”
等到只有我们两人的时候，阿贝尔立刻问我道：“怎么样？你们订婚了吗？”
“亲爱的，这已经不重要了，”紧接着，我用毋庸置疑的语调说道，“这样更好，我从未像
今晚这么幸福过。”
“我也是！”他高声说道，突然扑过来抱住我的脖子，“我要告诉你一件新奇又美好的事！
杰罗姆，我疯狂地爱上了朱莉叶特！去年我已经有所察觉，但之后经历了很多。在重新见到
你的表姐妹之前，我本来没打算告诉你。但现在，这是实打实的了，我的一生已经定好。
“我喜欢，岂止是喜欢，我疯狂爱上了朱莉叶特。
“我早就觉得，咱俩就跟连襟一般相亲相爱……”
接着，他又笑又闹，环抱着我的胳膊。在回巴黎的火车车厢里，他像个孩子似的在坐垫
上滚来滚去。这番表白让我目瞪口呆，我认为里面有文学渲染的成分，这也让我有些尴尬。
但面对这样的激情与欢乐，我又如何保持镇静呢？
“所以呢？你表白了？”在他抒发情感的间隙，我终于插上嘴问道。
“没有！没有呢，”他大喊道，“我不想太快越过故事里最迷人的章节。
“爱情最美好的时刻，并不是在说‘我爱你’ [1] ……
“嘿！你不会因此怪我吧，只怪你太拖泥带水。”
“可是，”我有些不高兴，“你觉得她呢，她的态度是……”
“这次再见面，你没注意到她有多慌乱吗？我们做客期间，她总是激动又害羞，而且话特
别多……当然，你什么也不会注意到的，你的整颗心都扑在阿莉莎身上……她还问了我很多
问题，如饥似渴地吸收我说的话。这一年来，她在智力方面突飞猛进。我不知道你是从哪里
得知她不爱读书，你总觉得阅读是阿莉莎的专利……但亲爱的，她的见识之广令人震惊。你
知道晚饭前我们在玩什么吗？我们回忆了但丁的一首坎佐尼，每人背一句，我背错她还替我
纠正。这一句你肯定知道：‘爱在我脑中徘徊，令我思绪万千。’ [2]
“你从没告诉我她学过意大利语呀。”
“我自己都不知道。”我相当吃惊地说道。
“什么？但开始背诗的时候，她跟我说是你教会她这首坎佐尼的。”
“一定是哪天我读给她姐姐听的时候，被她听去了。她常常在我们身边缝衣服或做刺绣
活。我们能看出她听得懂才奇怪。”
“没错！你和阿莉莎自私到令人咋舌，你们完全沉浸在自己的爱情里。朱莉叶特在智慧和
心灵上的成长令人赞叹，你们却视若无睹。我不是恭维自己，但我的确来得正是时候……
不，不！我不是怨你，你懂的。”说着，他又抱住我，“只是，你要答应我，这件事一个字也
别跟阿莉莎提。我想自己处理。朱莉叶特一定是爱我的，我足够放心，甚至敢把她搁一搁，
等下次假期再说，也不打算从这儿给她写信。不过，到了新年放假，我们就可以去勒阿弗
尔，然后就……”
“然后就？”
“好吧，阿莉莎会突然得知我和朱莉叶特订婚的消息，我打算干净利落地办成这事儿。你
猜接下来会发生什么？阿莉莎的允诺你久拿不下，我会以我们为榜样给她压力，为你争取
到！说服她相信，我们总不能赶在你们之前结婚吧……”
他滔滔不绝地说着，这些话像滚滚而来的浪潮一样吞没我，甚至火车抵达巴黎，我们回
到高师，他依然没有说完。尽管从火车站步行至学校时已是深夜，但阿贝尔仍陪我到房间，
在那里一直聊到天明。
兴奋的阿贝尔把现在和未来都安排好了，他已经展望到两对新人的婚礼，甚至通过想
象，描绘出每个人脸上的惊讶和欣喜。他对我们美好的故事、友谊，以及自己在我和阿莉莎
的爱情中充当的角色满怀憧憬。对于这种理想主义的热忱，我实在难以抵制，被他空想出来
的建议所吸引，甚至摇摆不定，逐渐相信了。在爱情的作用下，我的抱负和勇气也逐渐膨
胀，打算毕业后，就让沃蒂埃牧师为我们两对新人主持婚礼。我们四人一同去旅行，一同干
一番大事，妻子们也心甘情愿成为我们的搭档。阿贝尔对教书没什么兴趣，他觉得自己是为
写作而生的，写几个成功的剧本，就能很快挣到他缺少的那笔钱；而我，对于研究本身比借
此获益更感兴趣，打算潜心研究，写一本关于宗教哲学的历史书……然而，怀有这么多期
待，如今回忆起来却毫无用处。
第二天，我们又投入学习之中。
[1]这句话引用自普吕多姆的诗歌 《爱情最美好的时刻》。
[2]原文是意大利文：Amor che nella mente mi ragiona。
IV.
IV 
The time till the Christmas holidays was so short that my faith, quickened as it had been by my last
conversation with Alissa, never for a moment wavered. As I had resolved, I wrote to her at length
every Sunday; during the rest of the week I kept apart from my fellow-students, and frequented
hardly anyone but Abel: I lived with the thought of Alissa, and covered my favourite books with
notes meant for her eye, subordinating the interest I sought in them myself to the interest which they
might have for her. Her letters caused me some uneasiness; and though she answered mine pretty
regularly, her keenness to keep up with me seemed, I thought, to come more from anxiety to
encourage my work than from her own spontaneous inclination; and it even seemed to me that, while
on my part reflections, discussions, criticisms were only means towards expressing my thoughts, she,
on the contrary, took advantage of all these things to conceal hers. Sometimes I wondered whether
she were not actually taking pleasure in this as a kind of game. No matter! I was firmly resolved to
complain of nothing, and I let no trace of anxiety transpire in my letters.
Towards the end of December, then, Abel and I left for Le Havre.
I was to stay with Aunt Plantier. She was not in when I arrived, but I had hardly time to settle into
my room when a servant came to tell me that she was waiting for me in the drawing-room.
She had no sooner finished inquiring after my health, my surroundings, my studies, than, without
more ado, she gave way to her affectionate curiosity:
‘You haven’t told me yet, my dear, whether you were pleased with your stay at Fongueusemare?
Were you able to advance matters at all?’
I had to put up with my aunt’s good-natured tactlessness, however painful it might be to hear her
speak so summarily of feelings for which the purest and gentlest words would still have seemed too
brutal; yet her tone was so simple and so cordial that it would have been senseless to take offence.
Nevertheless, I could not help objecting a little.
‘Didn’t you say last spring that you thought an engagement would be premature?’
‘Yes, I know; one always says that to begin with,’ she started off again, seizing one of my hands,
which she pressed with emotion between both of hers. ‘Besides, on account of your studies and your
military service, you won’t be able to marry for several years, I know. Moreover, personally I don’t
approve of long engagements. They’re trying for young girls, though sometimes it’s very touching to
see... for that matter it’s not necessary to make the engagement public... only then one can give
people to understand - oh! very discreetly - that there’s no further need to be on the look-out; and
besides, it authorizes your correspondence, your intimacy; and moreover, if anyone else came
forward - and it might very well happen,’ she insinuated with a knowing smile, ‘one is able just to
hint that... no, it’s not worth while. You know there’s been an offer for Juliette! She has attracted a
great deal of attention this winter. She’s still rather young, which is what she answered; but the young
man suggested waiting; he’s not exactly a young man, either... in short, he’s a very good match, a
very reliable person. Well! you’ll see him tomorrow; he’s going to be at my Christmas tree. You’ll
tell me what you think of him.’
‘I’m afraid, Aunt Félicie, that it’s labour lost on his part, and that Juliette has someone else in her
mind,’ said I, making a great effort not to mention Abel straight off.
‘Hum?’ said Aunt Félicie, inquiringly, and putting her head on one side with an incredulous look.
‘You surprise me! Why should she not have told me anything about it?’
I bit my lips to prevent myself from saying anything more.
‘Oh, well! we shall soon see. Juliette hasn’t been very well lately,’ she went on. ‘...but we aren’t
speaking of her for the moment. Ah! Alissa is very charming too. Come now, did you or did you not
make your declaration?’
Although rebelling with my whole heart against the word ‘declaration’, which seemed to me so
inappropriate and crude, I was incapable of replying by a falsehood to this direct question; I answered
‘Yes,’ in some confusion, and felt my face flame as I did so.
‘And what did she say?’
I bent my head: I should have liked not to answer. In still greater confusion and as though in spite
of myself, I said, ‘She refused to be engaged.’
‘Well, the child was quite right,’ said my aunt. ‘You have plenty of time before you, Heaven
knows...’
‘Oh! Aunt! that’s enough now,’ I said, trying in vain to stop her.
‘Besides, I’m not surprised; I always thought your cousin more sensible than you...’
I do not know what came over me at this point; my nerves were no doubt exasperated by this
cross-examination, for it seemed to me that on a sudden my heart burst; like a child, I buried my face
in my kind aunt’s lap and cried out, sobbing:
‘No, Aunt, no! You don’t understand. She didn’t ask me to wait -’
‘What! Did she refuse you?’ said she, in a tone of the kindest commiseration, raising my head
with her hand.
‘No - no - not exactly.’ I shook my head sadly.
‘Are you afraid she doesn’t love you any longer?’
‘Oh, no! I’m not afraid of that.’
‘My poor boy, if you want me to understand, you must explain a little more clearly.’
I was ashamed and vexed to have given way to my emotion; my aunt was doubtless incapable of
understanding the reasons of my uncertainty; but if some special motive lay behind Alissa’s refusal,
Aunt Félicie, by questioning her gently, might perhaps help me to discover it. She soon reached the
same conclusion for herself.
‘Listen,’ she went on, ‘Alissa is coming tomorrow morning to help me decorate the Christmas
tree; I shall soon see what is at the bottom of it all; I will let you know at lunch time, and I’m sure
you’ll see there’s nothing to be alarmed about.’
I went to dine at the Bucolins’. Juliette, who had, it is true, been unwell for the last few days,
seemed to me changed; her eyes had a farouche, an almost hard expression, which made her more
different than ever from her sister. I was not able to speak to either of them alone that evening;
neither did I wish to, and as my uncle seemed tired I left soon after dinner.
At the Christmas tree which Aunt Plantier gave every year, there was always a large gathering of
children, relations, and friends. It was set up in an inner hall, which contained the staircase and out of
which opened the entrance hall, the drawing-room, and the glass doors of a kind of winter-garden,
where a buffet had been spread. The decoration of the tree was not finished, and on the morning of
the party, which was the day after my arrival, Alissa, as my aunt had told me she would, came round
pretty early in order to help her hang the branches of the tree with ornaments, lights, fruits, sweets,
and toys. I should have very much enjoyed sharing this task with her myself, but I had to let Aunt
Félicie speak to her. I went out, therefore, without seeing her, and spent the whole morning in trying
to while away the anxious hours.
I first went to the Bucolins’, as I wanted to see Juliette. But I heard that Abel had been before me,
and as I was afraid of interrupting a crucial conversation, I left at once: then I wandered about the
quays and streets till lunch time.
‘Great silly!’ cried my aunt, when I saw her. ‘It’s really inexcusable to make yourself so unhappy
for nothing! There’s not a single word of sense in anything you said to me yesterday. Oh! I didn’t
beat about the bush. I sent Miss Ashburton away as she was tiring herself out helping us, and as soon
as I was alone with Alissa I asked her straight out why she hadn’t accepted you last summer. Do you
suppose she minded? She wasn’t embarrassed for a single moment, and answered quite calmly that
she didn’t want to marry before her sister. If you had asked her frankly, she would have said the same
thing to you; a fine thing to make such a fuss about, isn’t it? You see, my dear, there’s nothing like
frankness. Poor Alissa! She spoke to me about her father, too, whom she can’t leave. Oh! we had a
long talk. Dear child! She’s very sensible; she told me she wasn’t perfectly sure yet that she was the
right person for you; that she was afraid she was too old, and thought that somebody of Juliette’s
age...’
My aunt went on, but I no longer listened; there was only one thing which mattered - Alissa
refused to marry before her sister. But was not Abel there? After all, in his egregious conceit he was
right; he was going to pull off, as he said, both our marriages at one blow.
I hid from my aunt, as best I could, the agitation into which this revelation, simple as it was, had
plunged me, and showed her nothing but a delight which she thought very natural, and with which
she was all the more gratified as it seemed that it was through her that I had obtained it; but directly
after luncheon I left her with some excuse or other, and hurried off to find Abel.
‘Ah! what did I tell you?’ said he, embracing me, as soon as I had confided my good news to him.
‘My dear fellow, I can tell you already that the conversation I had with Juliette this morning almost
settled it, though we talked of hardly anything but you. But she seemed tired - nervous - I was afraid
of agitating her by going too far, of over-exciting her if I stayed too long. But after what you tell me,
I hesitate no longer! I snatch up my hat, dear boy, my stick, and I’m off. Come with me as far as the
Bucolins’ to hang on to my coat-tails, for fear I should fly away on the road; I feel lighter than
Euphorion! When Juliette knows that it’s only because of her that her sister has refused you - when I
make my offer on the spot - Ah! my boy, I can see my father this evening beside the Christmas tree,
praising the Lord and weeping with joy, as he extends his hands over the two couples kneeling at his
feet; Miss Ashburton will flutter off in a sigh; Aunt Plantier will dissolve into her bodice, and the
fiery tree will sing the glory of God and clap its hands, like the mountains in the Scriptures.’
It was towards evening that the Christmas tree was to be lighted, and that the party of children,
relations, and friends was to assemble. Not knowing what to do with myself, sick with anxiety and
impatience, after I had left Abel I started on a long walk over the cliffs, so as to get over the time of
waiting as best I could - lost my way, and altogether managed so cleverly, that when I got back to
Aunt Plantier’s the party was already in full swing.
As soon as I got into the hall, I caught sight of Alissa; she seemed to be waiting for me, and came
towards me at once. She was wearing round her neck, in the opening of her bodice, a little, old,
amethyst cross, which I had given her in memory of my mother, but which I had never seen her wear
before. Her features were drawn, and the look of suffering on her face smote my heart.
‘Why are you so late?’ she said rapidly and breathlessly. ‘I wanted to speak to you.’
‘I lost my way on the cliffs... But you’re ill... Oh, Alissa! what is the matter?’
She stood before me a moment, as though she were struck dumb, her lips trembling. So sickening
a dread took hold of me that I dared not question her. She put her hand on my neck, as though to pull
my face towards her; I saw she wanted to speak, but at that moment some guests came in;
disheartened, she let her hand drop...
‘It is too late,’ she murmured. Then, seeing my eyes fill with tears, she added in reply to my
inquiring look - as though such a derisory explanation could suffice to tranquillize me! -
‘No... don’t be alarmed; I’ve only a headache, the children make such a noise... I had to take
refuge here... it’s time to go back to them now.’
She left me abruptly. Some people coming in separated me from her. I thought I should be able to
rejoin her in the drawing-room. I caught sight of her at the other end of the room, surrounded by a
troop of children whose games she was organizing; between her and me there were a number of
people whom I knew, and whom I should not have been able to venture past without running the risk
of being stopped. I felt incapable of civilities, of conversation; perhaps if I edged along the wall... I
tried.
Just as I was going to pass in front of the large glass doors which led into the garden, I felt my
arm seized. Juliette was there, half hidden in the embrasure, behind the folds of the curtain.
‘Let’s go into the conservatory,’ she said, hastily. ‘I want to speak to you. Go on by yourself; I’ll
join you there directly.’ Then, half opening the door for a moment, she slipped into the garden.
What had happened? I wished I could see Abel. What had he said? What had he done? Returning
to the hall, I made my way to the conservatory, where Juliette was waiting for me.
Her face was flaming, her frowning brows gave her look an expression of hardness and pain; her
eyes shone as if she were feverish; even her voice was harsh and tense. A sort of fury inspired her;
notwithstanding my anxiety I was astonished - embarrassed almost - by her beauty. We were alone.
‘Has Alissa spoken to you?’ she asked at once.
‘Barely two words; I came in very late.’
‘You know she wants me to marry before she does?’
‘Yes.’
She looked at me fixedly...
‘And do you know whom she wants me to marry?’
I did not answer.
‘You!’ she went on with a cry.
‘Why! it’s madness!’
‘Yes! isn’t it!’ There was both despair and triumph in her voice. She straightened herself, or
rather flung herself backwards.
‘Now I know what there remains for me to do,’ she added indistinctly, as she opened the door of
the garden which she slammed violently behind her.
My brain and heart were in a whirl. I felt the blood throbbing in my temples. One sole idea
survived in the confusion of my spirits - to find Abel; he, perhaps, would be able to explain the
singular behaviour of the two sisters. But I dared not go back to the drawing-room where I thought
everyone would see my agitation. I went out. The icy air of the garden calmed me; I stayed in it some
time. Evening was falling, and the sea-mist hid the town; there were no leaves on the trees; earth and
sky seemed one immense desolation. The sound of voices singing rose upon the air; no doubt it was
the choir of children gathered round the Christmas tree. I went in by the entrance hall. The doors of
the drawing-room and inner hall were open; in the drawing-room, which was now deserted, I caught
sight of my aunt, where she was sitting, partly concealed by the piano, talking to Juliette. In the inner
hall the guests were thronging round the lighted tree. The children had finished their hymn; there was
a silence, and Pasteur Vautier, standing up in front of the tree, began a sort of sermon. He never
missed an opportunity of what he called ‘sowing the good seed’. I felt the lights and heat
uncomfortably oppressive, and was going out. Abel was standing beside the door; he had, no doubt,
been there some time. He was looking at me in a hostile manner, and when our eyes met he shrugged
his shoulders. I went towards him.
‘Fool!’ he said in a whisper; and then, abruptly, ‘oh, let’s go out; I’m fed up with preaching.’
And as soon as we were outside, ‘You fool!’ he said again, as I looked at him anxiously, without
speaking. ‘Why, it’s you she loves, you fool! Couldn’t you have told me?’
I was aghast. I tried not to understand.
‘No, of course not! You couldn’t even see it for yourself!’ He had seized me by the arm and was
shaking me furiously. His voice between his clenched teeth hissed and trembled.
‘Abel, I implore you,’ I said after a moment’s silence, and in a voice which trembled too, while
he strode along at random, dragging me with him. ‘Instead of being so angry, try to tell me what has
happened. I know nothing.’
He stopped suddenly and scrutinized my face by the dim light of a street lamp; then, drawing me
quickly to him, he put his head upon my shoulder and murmured with a sob:
‘Forgive me! I’m an idiot too, and I didn’t understand any better than you, my poor brother!’
His tears seemed to calm him a little; he raised his head, started walking again, and went on:
‘What happened? What’s the use of going over it again? I had talked to Juliette in the morning, as
I told you. She was extraordinarily beautiful and animated; I thought it was because of me, but it was
simply because we were talking of you.’
‘Didn’t you realize it at the time?’
‘No, not exactly; but now the smallest detail becomes clear.’
‘Are you sure you are not making a mistake?’
‘ A mistake! My dear fellow, you must be blind not to see that she’s in love with you.’
‘Then Alissa...’
‘Then Alissa is sacrificing herself. She had found out her sister’s secret, and wanted to give you
up to her. Really, old boy, it’s not very difficult to understand! I wanted to speak to Juliette again; at
my first words, or rather, as soon as she began to understand me, she got up from the sofa where she
was sitting and repeated several times over, “I was sure of it,” in the tone of voice of a person who
was anything but sure.’
‘Oh! don’t joke about it.’
‘Why not? I consider it a highly comic affair. She rushed into her sister’s room; I overheard their
voices raised excitedly in a way that alarmed me. I hoped to see Juliette again, but after a moment it
was Alissa who came out. She had her hat on, seemed embarrassed at seeing me, said “How do you
do?” to me quickly as she went out - and that’s all.’
‘Didn’t you see Juliette again?’
Abel hesitated for a little.
‘Yes. After Alissa had gone, I pushed open the door of the room. Juliette was there motionless,
standing in front of the chimney-piece, her elbows on the marble, her chin in her hands; she was
staring at herself in the glass. When she heard me she didn’t turn round, but stamped her foot, crying,
“Oh, leave me alone!” so harshly that I went away again without asking for more. That’s all.’
‘And now?’
‘Oh! talking to you has done me good... And now? Well! you had better try and cure Juliette of
her love, for, either I don’t know Alissa, or else she won’t have you before you do.’
We walked on for some time silently.
‘Let’s go back,’ said he at last. ‘The guests must have gone by now. I’m afraid my father will be
waiting for me.’
We went in. The drawing- room was, in fact, empty; and in the hall round the tree, whose
branches had been stripped and whose lights had been nearly all extinguished, there remained only
my aunt and two of her children, Uncle Bucolin, Miss Ashburton, the pastor, my cousins, and a rather
ridiculous-looking individual, whom I had noticed talking for a long time to my aunt, but whom I
only at that moment recognized as the suitor Juliette had spoken to me about. Taller, stronger, more
highly coloured than any of us, almost bald, of a different class, a different world, a different race, he
seemed to realize that he was a stranger among us; he wore an immense moustache and a grizzled
imperial, which he was nervously twisting and tugging.
The entrance hall, the doors of which had been left open, was not lighted; we had come in
noiselessly, and no one noticed our presence. A frightful foreboding shot through me.
‘Stop!’ said Abel, seizing me by the arm.
Then we saw the stranger draw near Juliette, and take the hand which she abandoned to him
without resistance, without giving him a glance. Night shut down upon my heart.
‘Oh, Abel! What is happening?’ I whispered, as if I did not understand yet, or hoped I did not
understand aright.
‘By Jove! the young one is going one better,’ he said in a hissing voice. ‘She doesn’t want to be
outdone by her sister. The angels are applauding in Heaven, and no mistake!’
My uncle went up to embrace Juliette, whom Miss Ashburton and my aunt were pressing round.
Pasteur Vautier drew near. I took a step forward. Alissa caught sight of me, ran up to me in a quiver
of emotion.
‘Oh, Jérôme! It mustn’t be. She doesn’t love him! Why, she told me so only this very morning!
Try to prevent it, Jérôme! Oh! what will become of her?’
She hung upon my shoulder with desperate entreaty. I would have given my life to lessen her
anguish.
Suddenly there came a cry from near the tree, a confused stir. We rushed up. Juliette had fallen
unconscious into my aunt’s arms. They were all crowding round, hanging over her, so that I could
hardly see her; her face, which had turned frightfully pale, looked as though it were being dragged
backwards by the weight of her loosened hair. It seemed, from the convulsive movements of her
body, that this was no ordinary faint.
‘No, no!’ said my aunt aloud, in order to reassure Uncle Bucolin, who was getting agitated, and
whom Pasteur Vautier was already consoling, with his forefinger pointed heavenwards. ‘No, it’s
nothing. The effect of emotion. Just a nervous attack. Monsieur Teissières, please help me, you’re so
strong. We will carry her up to my room, on to my bed, on to my bed.’ Then she stooped towards the
elder of her sons, whispered something in his ear, and I saw him go off at once, no doubt to fetch a
doctor.
My aunt and the stranger were supporting Juliette’s shoulders, as she lay, half reclining, in their
arms. Alissa raised her sister’s feet and embraced them tenderly. Abel held up her head, which would
have fallen backwards, and I saw him bend down and cover with kisses her floating hair, as he
gathered it together.
Outside the door of the room I stopped. Juliette was laid on the bed; Alissa said a few words to
M. Teissières and to Abel, which I could not hear; she accompanied them to the door and begged us
to leave her sister to rest; she wished to remain alone with her, with no one else but Aunt Plantier.
Abel caught hold of my arm and dragged me out of doors, into the night, and there we walked on and
on for a long time, without purpose, without courage, without reflection.
第四章
第四章
时光飞逝，很快到了新年假期。我和阿莉莎最后的那次谈话一直激励着我，让我的信念
未有丝毫消退。按照之前决定的那样，我每周日都给她写信，内容十分详尽。其余的时光，
我也从不与同学交往，除了阿贝尔，几乎不见其他人。我活在对阿莉莎的想念里：看喜欢的
书时，如果觉得对阿莉莎有用，会在书上做标记；也会根据她的兴趣，来决定自己该对什么
感兴趣。她经常回信，频率和我差不多，却仍使我感到不安。看得出来，她热情地附和我，
是因为担心我的学业而给出的鼓励，而不是受精神的驱动。我觉得评价、争辩和批判，都只
是表达思想的方式，可她却与我恰恰相反，借助于这一切来掩饰自己的内心。有时候，我甚
至怀疑，她是不是把这些当作一场游戏……不管了！我下定决心不再抱怨，所以在我的信里
并没有流露出丝毫担忧。
临近十二月末时，我和阿贝尔动身前往勒阿弗尔。
我借宿在普朗提埃姨妈家，抵达时，她并不在家中。我刚把房间安顿好，一个佣人就来
通知我说，姨妈在客厅等我。
她稍稍问了我的健康、居住和学习情况，随后就在深切好奇心的驱使下，直言不讳起
来：“孩子，你还没告诉我呢？你对在芬格斯玛尔的那段日子还满意吗？你的个人问题有什么
进展吗？”
我必须忍受姨妈那稚拙的敦厚。即便是用最单纯柔情的话语来描述这份情感，我仍觉得
粗鲁，更何况是如此简单的概括呢？这让我难以忍受。可她的语气又那么单纯而真挚，若是
生气，未免显得太愚蠢。不过，我最初仍有些抗拒。
“春天的时候，您不是还跟我说，订婚太早了点吗？”
“没错，是呀！起初我们都会这么说。”她抓起我的一只手，怅触地按在自己的手上，又
说道，“况且，你还要读书，要服兵役，几年之内恐怕结不了婚，这一点我很清楚。此外，就
我个人而言，也反对漫长的婚约。毕竟对年轻的女孩来说，这太烦人了……当然有时候也很
感人……再说，订婚没必要搞那么正式……私下里知道就好，大家心知肚明，也就没必要给
姑娘们另找婆家了。这样的话，你们要通信，要保持联系，都不碍事。最后，若有人前来求
婚——这是很可能发生的。”她露出恰如其分的微笑，暗示道：“那就可以委婉地回答说‘不，
不用了’。之前刚有人来向朱莉叶特求婚，你知道吗？今年冬天，她太引人注目了，但还是小
了些，这也是她回绝人家的说辞。不过，那个年轻人提出要等她——确切地说，他也不算年
轻人……总之是个不错的对象，为人老实。明天他要来看我的圣诞树，你就能看到他了，到
时候跟我说说你对他的印象。”
“姨妈，只怕他是白费心思，朱莉叶特另有意中人。”我努力克制自己，才没把阿贝尔的
名字立刻泄露出去。
“嗯？”姨妈怀疑地撇了撇嘴，脑袋歪向一边，询问道，“你这话可吓到我了，为什么她什
么都没跟我讲呢？”
我咬住嘴唇，免得透露信息。
“唉！我们到时候就知道了……这阵子朱莉叶特身体不太舒服……再说，我们现在谈的也
不是她的事……阿莉莎也很可爱啊……话说，你向她表白了吗？”
“表白”这个词太不合适了，异常粗俗，我心里非常反感。但是问题迎面而来，我又不擅
长撒谎，只好含糊地答道：“表白了。”我的脸颊发红，像着了火似的。
“那她怎么说？”
我低下头，并不想回答，含糊着勉强说道：“她拒绝和我订婚。”
“这个好孩子！她做得对！”她大声说道，“你们来日方长，当然啦……”
“噢！姨妈，别谈这个了。”我试图阻止她说下去，却是徒劳。
“而且，她会这么做我并不诧异。我一直觉得她比你懂事多了，你表姐……”
我不知道是怎么了，这种盘问无疑让我精神紧张，心似乎一瞬间化为碎片。我把脑袋伏
在好心的姨妈膝上，像个孩子一样痛哭起来。
“姨妈，不，您不明白，”我高声说着，“她并没有要我等她……”
“那是怎样？她拒绝你了？”她异常轻柔地说道，语调中满含怜悯，用手扶起我的脑袋。
“不，也不是……不完全是。”
“你是担心她不爱你了？”
“啊！不，我担心的并不是这个。”
“可怜的孩子，你若想要我明白，应该解释得更清楚一些。”
我既羞愧又懊恼，刚刚不该放任自己的软弱，姨妈自然不可能了解我含糊其词的原因。
不过阿莉莎拒绝我的背后，如果真藏有什么具体动机，姨妈慢条斯理地询问，说不定真能查
个水落石出，她也自告奋勇地提了出来。
“听着，”她又说道，“阿莉莎明天早上会来和我一起布置圣诞树，很快我就会弄明白这是
怎么回事，吃午饭的时候就可以告诉你。我保证，你明天就会明白没什么值得惊慌的。”
晚饭时，我去了布科兰家。朱莉叶特确实病了很久，看起来不大一样。她的眼神略带孤
僻，近乎冷酷，与姐姐有了更显著的差异。这天晚上，我没有同她们任何一个单独交谈，也
并不想谈。况且，舅舅看起来有些疲态，饭后不久我就回去了。
普朗提埃姨妈准备的圣诞树，每年都会招来很多孩子和亲友。它被放在楼梯间的玄关
处，这里紧连着前厅、客厅和一个带玻璃门的冬季花园，里面摆放着冷餐台。圣诞树还没有
装饰好。正如姨妈所说，宴会当天早上，也就是我抵达的次日，阿莉莎很早就来帮忙了。她
往树上挂上饰物、灯串、水果、糖果和玩具，我很乐意与她一起做这些，但必须让姨妈跟她
聊聊，所以还没看到她，我便离开了，整个早上都在试图抚平心中的不安。
起初，我去了布科兰家，期望再见到朱莉叶特，但听说阿贝尔先我一步来找她，我担心
打扰他们决定性的谈话，很快就离开了。接着，我在码头和街道之间游荡，直到午餐时分才
回去。
“大傻瓜！”我一回来，姨妈就大声说道，“怎么能这样糟蹋生活呀！你今天早上跟我说
的，没有一个字在理的……我也没拐弯抹角，先把费力帮忙的阿斯布尔顿小姐支开。只剩下
我和阿莉莎时，我开门见山地问她今年夏天怎么不订婚，你可能以为她会尴尬，但是她丝毫
不为难，平心静气地回答我说，她不想比妹妹先结婚。如果你也这么直接问，她也会像回答
我一样答复你的。有什么好纠结的呢？你看，孩子，什么也比不上实话实说……可怜的阿莉
莎，她还跟我说离不开父亲……噢！我们聊了很久，这孩子太懂事了。她还跟我说，怀疑你
们是不是适合，她觉得对你来说自己年龄太大，希望你找个像朱莉叶特那个年纪的……”
姨妈还在说着，但我已听不进去。对我来说，唯一重要的只有阿莉莎拒绝比妹妹先结婚
这件事。这不还有阿贝尔吗！这个自命不凡的人，但他是对的，就像他说的一样，他将一石
二鸟，同时解决两桩婚事。
如此简单的新发现，让我沉浸在激动的情绪之中，但在姨妈面前，我尽量掩饰自己的心
情，好让她觉得，我的欢乐是人之常情。更让她高兴的是，这场欢乐似乎归功于她。刚吃过
午饭，我也不记得找了什么借口就离开了，赶着去找阿贝尔。
“是吧！我怎么跟你说来着！”阿贝尔刚听到这件喜事，就抱着我，高声说道，“亲爱的，
我也可以告诉你，今天早上我和朱莉叶特的谈话几乎是决定性的，尽管我们差不多只谈了
你。她看起来疲惫又不安……我担心说太多会让她心神不宁，也担心耽搁太久她会过于激
动。但有了你刚跟我说的情况，这事就板上钉钉了！亲爱的，我这就过去拿手杖和帽子，你
陪我一起到布科兰家门口，免得我半路上轻飘飘飞起来，我感觉自己比欧佛里翁 [1] 还要轻
盈……朱莉叶特一旦得知是因为她，姐姐才拒绝了你，我就会马上向她求婚……啊！朋友
呀！我已经预见到今晚的圣诞树前，我父亲一面赞美天主一面喜极而泣，他的手满怀祝福地
伸向两对跪拜的未婚夫妇头上；阿斯布尔顿小姐将在叹息中消失不见；普朗提埃姨妈也将无
影无踪，空留一件上衣；灯火辉煌的圣诞树将像《圣经》中的诸山一样，拍着手欢唱主的荣
耀。”
只有日落时分才能打开圣诞树的灯火，孩子和亲友们将会绕着圣诞树，欢聚一堂。和阿
贝尔分开之后，我无所事事，不安又焦虑，为了消磨等待的时间，远走至圣阿雷斯悬崖，还
迷了路。因此，当我回到普朗提埃姨妈家时，宴会已经开始一段时间。
我刚走进玄关，就看到了阿莉莎，她像是在等我，立刻迎上来。她浅色上衣领口处的脖
子里，挂着一条老式紫晶小十字架，这是我母亲的遗物，我送给她做纪念的，但之前从未见
她戴过。她面容疲惫，一副忧伤的神情，让我感到难受。
“你怎么来这么晚？”她的声音压抑而急促，“我本想跟你谈谈。”
“我在悬崖那边迷路了，你看上去不大舒服呀……阿莉莎，你是怎么了？”
她站在我面前，嘴唇震颤不定，半晌说不出话来。一种强烈的不安笼罩着我，让我什么
也问不出口。她把手放在我的脖子上，似乎想要拉近距离，我觉得她是想跟我谈心，但在这
时进来几个客人，她又泄气般地垂下了手……
“来不及了。”她喃喃地说，见我双眼含泪，为了安抚我，便回应了我探询的目光，但却
是如此可笑的解释，“不，别担心。我只是头疼，这些孩子太闹腾，我只能躲到这里来……现
在该回去找他们了。”
有人进来将我们隔开，她便匆匆离去了。我想去客厅找她，却瞧见她在房间的另一头，
正在一群孩子中间带他们做游戏。我和她之间有好几个熟人，从他们身边经过毫无疑问会被
叫住，而我根本无心寒暄交际，也许可以沿着墙边走过去……
试试看吧。
经过花园的大玻璃门时，我感觉手臂被人抓住了。原来是朱莉叶特，她半掩在门洞里，
帘子遮挡了她。
“去冬季花园吧，”她急促地说道，“我必须跟你谈谈，你自己过去，我马上会去找
你。”她把门稍微拉开一下，便溜进了花园。
出什么事儿了？我很想见见阿贝尔。他到底说了什么？做了什么呢？……我朝玄关走
去，来到暖房，朱莉叶特正在等我。
她满脸通红，双眉紧蹙，连目光都透着痛苦和忧愁。眼睛却闪闪发光，像是发烧了似
的，说话的声音显得生涩而僵硬。尽管我心事重重，但她的美丽依然让我惊讶，也让我窘
迫。这里只有我们两个人，一种近乎迷狂的情绪发酵起来。
“阿莉莎跟你谈过了吗？”她立刻问我。
“没说上几句，我回来太晚了。”
“你知道她想要我先结婚吗？”
“知道。”
她定睛望向我。
“那你知道她希望我嫁给谁吗？”
我一言不发。
“嫁给你！”她喊了出来。
“这是什么蠢话！”
“很蠢吧！”她的声音既绝望又满足，直了直身子，确切地说，是整个身体向后仰了仰。
“现在我知道往后该怎么办了。”她含糊其词地补充一句，打开花园的门，离开后又狠狠
甩上了门。
我心神不宁，一切都摇晃起来，血液击打着太阳穴，慌乱中只有一个想法——去找阿贝
尔。也许他可以向我解释这两姐妹的奇怪言谈。但我不敢回客厅，怕每个人都察觉到我的不
安。我离开了，在花园待了一会儿，冷冰的空气让我镇定下来。夜幕降临，城市笼罩在海雾
中，木叶凋零，天地一片荒凉……乐声响起，一定是孩子们围绕圣诞树在合唱。
我回去时从玄关经过，发现客厅和前厅的门都敞开着；客厅里空空荡荡，姨妈半掩在钢
琴后面，正和朱莉叶特说着话；客人们全挤在前厅的圣诞树周围，孩子们已经唱完圣歌；一
片肃静之下，沃蒂埃牧师站在圣诞树前，开始布道，用他的话来说，就是不放过任何一次“播
撒良种”的机会。
灯光与热气让我难受，我又想出去，却恰好见到靠门站着的阿贝尔。他肯定在那里好一
会儿了，正充满敌意地瞧着我，当我们目光相遇时，他耸了耸肩，我向他走去。
“傻瓜！”他低声咕哝，接着又突然道，“唉！喂！我们出去吧。这些好话我都听腻了！”
我们一走到室外，他又说道：“傻瓜！”我沉默不语，只是焦虑地望着他，他继续道：“她
爱的是你，笨蛋！你怎么不告诉我呢？”
我惊呆了，难以置信。
“不可能，是不是？你自己根本没发现吧！”
他抓住我的手臂，狠狠地摇晃，气得咬牙切齿，声音中带着颤抖的嘶嘶声。
“阿贝尔，求你了！”片刻的沉默之后，我颤动着双唇，说道，“别生气了，告诉我到底发
生了什么？我一头雾水。”他拖着我大步向前，漫无目的地走着。
在一盏路灯下，他突然停住脚步，凝视着我。随后，又猛地把我拉向他，脑袋放在我的
肩头，哽咽着咕哝道：“对不起！我和你一样，也是个蠢货。没看出来，可怜的兄弟呀！”
眼泪让他平静了些。他抬起头，向前走去，又说道：“之前发生了什么，现在再提有什么
意义呢？今天早上我和朱莉叶特聊天，她看起来特别漂亮，又生机勃勃的。我本以为是我引
起的，其实只因为谈论了你。”
“可你当时并没有意识到？”
“不，并不确定。但现在，连最微小的迹象都一清二楚了……”
“你确定没搞错吗？”
“搞错？亲爱的，只有瞎子才看不出来她爱你。”
“那阿莉莎……”
“阿莉莎牺牲了自己。她无意间发现了妹妹的秘密，就想给她让位。瞧，老弟！这并不难
理解，但……当时，我还想和朱莉叶特再谈谈。我刚开口，或者说她一明白我的意图，就从
我们坐着的沙发上站了起来，一连说了好几遍‘早料到了’，但听她的语气，却像是根本没料到
的样子……”
“啊！别开玩笑了！”
“为什么？可我觉得这事很可笑……朱莉叶特冲向姐姐的房间，我恰好听到激烈的吵闹
声，这让我慌了神。我希望再见见朱莉叶特，没想到过了会儿，出来的却是阿莉莎。她戴着
帽子，见到我很尴尬，匆匆打了声招呼就走开了……就是这些。”
“你没有再见到朱莉叶特？”
阿贝尔有些犹豫：“见到了，阿莉莎离开之后，我推开房门。朱莉叶特木然地待在壁炉
前，双肘撑着大理石炉板，双手托着下巴，目不转睛地盯着镜子。她听见了我的动静，但没
有转过身来，只是跺着脚大喊道：‘喂！让我静一静吧！’她的声音那么冷酷，我甚至没敢问一
句就离开了。这就是全部。”
“那现在呢？”
“噢！和你聊一聊让我好受不少……现在吗？你要努力治好朱莉叶特的情伤。因为，在这
之前阿莉莎是不会回到你身边的，否则就算我不了解她。”
我们静静地走了许久。
“回去吧！”他终于说道，“现在客人都走了，父亲怕是在等我了。”
我们回到客厅，里面早已空无一人；圣诞树光秃秃的，树上的灯差不多都熄灭了；前厅
里的只剩下姨妈、她的两个孩子、布科兰舅舅、阿斯布尔顿小姐、牧师、我的表姐妹，还有
个挺滑稽的人，我曾看见他和姨妈长谈，但直到这一刻才意识到，他就是朱莉叶特和我说过
的求婚者。他比其他人都高大威猛，脸色也更红润，但头顶几乎寸草不生。他属于另一个等
级，另一个阶层，另一个种族。身处我们之间，他似乎格格不入，紧张地捋捏着自己大片髭
胡下一撮花白的帝须。玄关的门都敞开着，光线昏暗，我和阿贝尔悄悄走进去，谁也没有发
现我们。有一种可怕的预感笼住了我。
“站住！”阿贝尔抓着我的手臂说道。
我们眼见着这个“陌生人”向朱莉叶特走去——拉起她的手。朱莉叶特虽然没有扭头看
他，手却任由他握住了。我的心沉入黑夜。
“阿贝尔，发生了什么？”我喃喃道，好像还没弄明白，或许希望自己理解错了。
“那是当然呀！小姑娘要自抬身价了。” 他拖着长长的音，尖声说道，“她不甘心居于姐姐
之下。天使们肯定在上头鼓掌庆贺呢！”
舅舅过去拥住朱莉叶特，阿斯布尔顿小姐和姨妈也围了过去，沃蒂埃牧师凑上前去……
我向前跨了一步，阿莉莎发现了我，跑过来，身体微微发抖。
“杰罗姆，这事不能这么办，她不喜欢他呀！今天早上她才跟我说呢。杰罗姆，想办法阻
止她呀！啊！将来她该怎么办呀……”
她倚在我肩膀上哀求，心如死灰一般。如果可以减轻她的恐慌，我愿意付出生命的代
价。
圣诞树边传来一声惊叫，大伙儿手足无措……我们跑过去，发现朱莉叶特倒在姨妈怀
里，已经不省人事。大家赶紧向她围过去，我几乎看不到她，只看到她散乱的头发向后拉扯
着惨白的脸，她的身体还在抽搐，显然不是一般的昏厥。
“不会的！不会的！”姨妈高喊道，试图安抚惊惶失措的舅舅，但沃蒂埃牧师早已过去安
慰他了——食指伸向天空。姨妈说道：“不！会没事的！她情绪太激动，只是歇斯底里罢了。
泰西埃尔先生，你力气大，帮帮我呀！我们把她搬到房里去，放我床上……放我床上……”接
着，她凑在大儿子耳边，说了句悄悄话，只见他马上走了出去，肯定去找医生了。
姨妈和那个求婚者把朱莉叶特托在肩膀上，她半倒在他们怀里；阿莉莎微微抬起妹妹的
脚，轻柔地搂住；阿贝尔托着朱莉叶特向后垂落的脑袋，只见他一面奔跑着拢起她的头发，
一面俯身亲吻她散落的发丝。
我在房间门口停下脚步，他们把朱莉叶特平放在床上，阿莉莎对泰西埃尔先生和阿贝尔
说了什么，但我没听见。她把他们送到门口，请求我们离开，让她妹妹能好好休息，她只想
和普朗提埃姨妈留下来照顾她。
阿贝尔抓着我的手臂，把我拖出门去。我们头脑空白，心灰意冷，在黑夜中漫无目的地
走了许久。
[1]欧佛里翁（Euphorion）：希腊神话中阿喀琉斯之子，长有双翼。
V.
V 
I seemed to have no other reason for living than my love, and to that I clung, expecting nothing, and
with my mind made up to expect nothing, but what should come to me from Alissa.
The next morning, as I was getting ready to go and see her, my aunt handed me the following
letter which she had just received:
‘...Juliette’s extreme restlessness did not yield to the doctor’s prescriptions till towards morning. I beg Jérôme
not to come and see us for some days. Juliette might recognize his footsteps or his voice, and she is in need of the
greatest quiet.
‘I am afraid Juliette’s condition will keep me here. If I do not manage to see Jérôme before he leaves, please tell
him, dear Aunt, that I will write to him...’
The Bucolins’ door was shut only against me. My aunt, or anyone else that chose, was free to
knock at it; and, indeed, my aunt was going there that very morning. I might make a noise! What a
feeble excuse! No matter.
‘Very well,’ said I, ‘I won’t go.’
It cost me a great deal not to see Alissa again at once, and yet I was afraid of seeing her, I was
afraid she might hold me responsible for her sister’s condition, and it was easier to bear not seeing
her again than seeing her vexed.
At any rate, I determined I would see Abel.
At his door, the maid gave me a note:
‘I am leaving you this word or two so that you mayn’t be anxious. The idea of staying at Le Havre, so near
Juliette, was intolerable. I embarked for Southampton last night, almost directly after I left you. I shall spend the
rest of the holidays with S— in London. We shall meet again at the School.’
All human help failed me at one and the same time. I did not prolong a stay which could only
prove painful to me, and went back to Paris before the beginning of the term. It was to God that I
turned my looks, to Him ‘from whom cometh down all true consolation and every good gift.’ It was
to Him that I offered my trouble. I thought that Alissa, too, was taking refuge in Him, and the thought
that she was praying encouraged and exalted my prayers.
There went by a long period of meditation and study with no other events but Alissa’s letter to me
and mine to her. I have kept all her letters; by their help I can, from this time onwards, check my
recollections when they become confused.
I had news of Le Havre from my aunt, and at first only from her; I learnt through her what anxiety
Juliette’s unhappy condition had caused for the first few days. Twelve days after I had left I at last
received this letter from Alissa:
‘Forgive me, my dear Jérôme, for not having written to you sooner. Our poor Juliette’s state has allowed me
very little time. Since you went away, I have hardly left her. I begged Aunt to give you news of us, and I suppose
she has done so. So you know that Juliette had been better for the last three days. I already thank God, but I dare not
feel happy yet.’
Robert also, of whom I have so far told you very little, was able to give me news of his sisters,
when he returned to Paris a few days after me. For their sake, I spent more time with him than my
disposition would have naturally inclined me to; whenever the School of Agriculture, where he was
studying, left him free, I took him in charge and was at great pains to amuse him.
It was through him that I learnt - what I had not dared ask either Alissa or my aunt - that Édouard
Teissières had come to inquire for Juliette very assiduously, but when Robert had left Le Havre she
had not yet seen him. I learnt also that Juliette had kept up an obstinate silence towards her sister,
which nothing had been able to break down.
Then I learnt from my aunt a little later that Juliette insisted on her engagement being made
public, in spite of what I instinctively felt was Alissa’s hope that it would be broken off at once.
Advice, injunctions, entreaties, spent themselves in vain against this determination of Juliette’s,
which seemed fixed like a bar across her brow and like a bandage over her eyes - which seemed to
immure her in silence.
Time passed. I received from Alissa - to whom, indeed, I knew not what to write - nothing but
the most elusive notes. The thick fogs of winter wrapped me round; my study lamp and all the
fervour of my love and faith served but ill, alas! to keep the darkness and the cold from my heart.
Time passed. Then, one morning of sudden spring, came a letter from Alissa to my aunt, who was
absent from Le Havre, a letter which my aunt sent on to me and from which I copy out the part that
throws light on my story.
‘Admire my docility. As you advised, I have seen M. Teissières and talked to him at length. I confess that his
behaviour has been perfect, and I have almost, I admit, come to the point of believing that the marriage may not
turn out so badly as I feared at first. Certainly Juliette does not love him; but he seems to me every week to be less
unworthy of her love. He speaks of the situation with great clear-sightedness and makes no mistake as to my sister’s
character; but he has great faith in the efficacy of his own love, and flatters himself that there is nothing his
constancy will not be able to overcome. That is to say, he is very much in love.
‘Yes! I am extremely touched to see Jérôme take so much trouble over my brother. I imagine that he does so
only out of a sense of duty, for Robert’s character is very different from his - perhaps, too, in order to please me -
but doubtless he has already come to understand that the more arduous the duty one assumes, the more it educates
and uplifts the soul. You will think these very lofty reflections, but do not laugh at your foolish niece too much, for
it is these thoughts which give me support and which help me to try and look upon Juliette’s marriage as a good
thing.
‘Dear aunt, your affectionate solicitude is very precious to me. But do not think I am unhappy, I might almost
say the contrary is the case, for the trial through which Juliette has just gone has had its effect on me too. Those
words of Scripture which I used to repeat without very well understanding them, have suddenly become dear to me:
“Cursed be the man that trusteth in man.” Long before coming across them in my Bible, I had read them on a little
Christmas card which Jérôme sent me when he was not quite twelve years old and when I was just fourteen. Beside
the bunch of flowers which was painted on it, and which we then thought lovely, there were these lines, from a
paraphrase of Corneille’s:
‘Quel charme vainqueur du monde
Vers Dieu m’élève aujourd’hui?
Malheureux l’homme qui fonde
Sur les hom
mes son appui!
‘I confess I infinitely prefer the simple text out of Jeremiah. No doubt, Jérôme chose the card at the time
without paying much attention to the lines. But if I am to judge from his letters, his frame of mind at present is not
unlike mine, and every day I thank God that He should have brought us both nearer to Him with one and the same
stroke.
‘I have not forgotten our conversation, and I am not writing to him as much as I used to do, so as not to disturb
him in his work. You will no doubt think that I make up for it by talking about him all the more; lest I should go on
too long, I will end my letter at once. Don’t scold me too much this time.’
What reflections this letter aroused in me! I cursed my aunt’s meddling interference (what was
the conversation to which Alissa alluded, and which was the cause of her silence?) and the clumsy
good nature which made her send the letter on to me. It was already hard enough for me to bear
Alissa’s silence, and oh! would it not have been better a thousand times to have left me in ignorance
that she was writing to another person what she no longer cared to say to me? Everything in the letter
irritated me; to hear her speak to my aunt so easily of our little private affairs, as well as the
naturalness of her tone, her composure, her seriousness, her pleasantry.
‘No, no, my dear fellow! Nothing in the letter irritates you, except the fact that it isn’t addressed
to you,’ said Abel, who was my daily companion; for Abel was the only person to whom I could
speak, and in my loneliness I was constantly drawn to him afresh by weakness, by a wistful longing
for sympathy, by diffidence, and, when I was at fault, by my belief in his advice, in spite of the
difference of our natures - or rather, because of it.
‘Let us study this paper,’ said he, spreading the letter out on his writing table.
Three nights had already passed over my vexation; for four days I had managed to keep it to
myself! I led up almost naturally to a point when Abel said to me:
‘We’ll consign the Juliette-Teissières affair to the fire of love - eh? We know what that flame is
worth. Upon my word, Teissières seems just the kind of moth to singe his wings in it.’
‘That will do!’ said I, for his banter was very distasteful to me. ‘Let’s go on to the rest.’
‘The rest,’ he said. ‘The rest is all for you. You haven’t much to complain of. Not a line, not a
word, that isn’t filled with the thought of you. You may say the whole letter is addressed to you;
when Aunt Félicie sent it on to you, she merely sent it to its rightful owner; Alissa writes to the good
lady as a make-shift, in default of you. What can Corneille’s lines (which, by the way, are by Racine)
matter to your aunt? I tell you it’s to you she is talking; she’s saying it all to you. You’re nothing but
a simpleton if a fortnight hence your cousin isn’t writing to you just as lengthily, as easily, as
agreeably...’
‘She doesn’t seem to be taking the right road!’
‘It only depends upon you for her to take it! Do you want my advice? Don’t say a word for ever
so long, of love or marriage; don’t you see that since her sister’s misfortune, it’s that she’s set
against? Harp on the fraternal string and talk to her untiringly of Robert - since you have the patience
to look after the young ass. Just go on amusing her intelligence; all the rest will follow. Ah! if it were
only I who had to write to her!’
‘You aren’t worthy to love her.’
Nevertheless, I followed Abel’s advice; and, indeed, Alissa’s letters soon began to get more
animated; but I could not hope for any real joy on her part, or that she would let herself go without
reserve, until Juliette’s situation, if not her happiness, was assured.
The news which Alissa gave me of her sister improved, however. Her marriage was to take place
in July; Alissa wrote to me that she supposed that at this date Abel and I would be engaged in our
studies. I understood that she judged it better for us not to appear at the ceremony, so we alleged
some examination or other, and contented ourselves with sending our good wishes.
About a fortnight after the marriage this is what Alissa wrote to me:
‘My dear Jérôme,
‘Imagine my astonishment yesterday when, on opening at random the charming Racine you gave me, I found
the four lines which are on your little old Christmas card that I had kept in my Bible for the last ten years:
‘Quel charme vainqueur du monde
Vers Dieu m’élève aujourd’hui?
Malheureux l’homme qui fonde
Sur les hommes son appui!
‘I had thought they came from a paraphrase of Corneille’s, and I admit I didn’t think much of them. But as I
went on reading the fourth Cantique Spirituel, I came across some verses which are so beautiful, that I cannot resist
copying them. No doubt you know them already, if I am to judge from the indiscreet initials which you have put in
the margin of the book.’ [It is true that I had taken the habit of sprinkling my books and Alissa’s with the first letter
of her name, opposite all the passages which I liked and which I wanted her to know.] ‘Never mind! I write them
out for my own pleasure. I was a little vexed at first to see that you had pointed out what I thought was a discovery
of my own, but this naughty feeling soon gave way to my pleasure in thinking that you like them as much as I do.
As I copy I feel as if I were reading them over with you.
‘De la sagesse immortelle
La voix tonne et nous instruit:
Enfants des hommes, dit-elle,
De vos soins quel est le fruit?
Par quelle erreur, âmes vaines,
Du plus pur sang de vos veines
Achetez-vous si souvent,
Non un pain qui vous repaisse,
Mais une ombre qui vous laisse
Plus affamés que devant?
‘Le pain que je vous propose
Sert aux anges d’aliment ;
Dieu lui-même le compose
De la fleur de son froment.
C’est ce pain si délectable
Que ne sert point à sa table
Le monde que vous suivez.
Je l’offre à qui veut me suivre :
Approchez. Voulez-vous vivre?
Prenez, mangez et vivez.
★
‘L’âme heureusement captive
Sous ton joug trouve la paix,
Et s’abreuve d’une eau vive
Qui ne s’épuise jamais.
Chacun peut boire en cette onde ,
Elle invite tout le monde;
Mais nous courons follement
Chercher des sources bourbeuses ,
Ou des citernes trompeuses
D’où l’eau fuit à tout moment.
‘How beautiful! Jérôme, how beautiful! Do you really think it as beautiful as I do? A little note in my edition
says that Mme de Maintenon, when she heard Mlle d’Aumale sing this hymn, seemed struck with admiration,
“dropped a few tears”, and made her repeat a part of the piece over again. I know it by heart now, and never weary
of saying it to myself. My only regret is that I haven’t heard you read it.
‘The news from our travellers continues to be very good. You know already how much Juliette enjoyed
Bayonne and Biarritz in spite of the fearful heat. Since then they have visited Fontarrabia, stayed at Burgos and
crossed the Pyrenees twice. Now she writes me an enthusiastic letter from Montserrat. They think of spending ten
days longer at Barcelona before they return to Nîmes, where Édouard wants to be back before September, so as to
be able to look after the vintage.
‘Father and I have been settled at Fongueusemare for a week now, and we expect Miss Ashburton and Robert
in four days’ time. You know the poor boy has failed in his examination; not that it was difficult, but the examiner
asked him such peculiar questions that it confused him; I cannot believe, after what you told me about his keenness
for work, that he hadn’t prepared properly, but this examiner, it appears, takes a pleasure in putting people out.
‘As for your successes, my dear, I can hardly say that I congratulate you. I have so much confidence in you,
Jérôme! Whenever I think of you, my heart fills with hope. Will you be able to begin the work you speak about at
once?
‘Nothing is changed here in the garden; but the house seems very empty! You will have understood - won’t
you? - why I asked you not to come this year. I feel it is better so; I tell myself so every day, for it is hard to stay so
long without seeing you. Sometimes I look for you involuntarily; I stop in the middle of what I am reading, I turn
my head quickly... it seems as though you were there!
‘I continue my letter. It is night, everybody is asleep; I am sitting up late writing to you, before the open
window. The garden is full of scents; the air is warm. Do you remember when we were children, whenever we saw
or heard anything very beautiful, we used to say to ourselves, “Thanks, Lord, for having created it.” Tonight I said
to myself with my whole soul, “Thanks, Lord, for having made the night so beautiful!” And suddenly I wanted you
there - I felt you there, close to me - with such violence that perhaps you felt it.
‘Yes, you were right in your letter when you said, “In generous hearts admiration is lost in gratitude.” How
many other things I should like to write to you! I think of the radiant land Juliette speaks of. I think of other lands,
vaster, more radiant still, more desert-like. A strange conviction dwells in me that one day - but I cannot tell how -
you and I will see together some great mysterious land - but ah! I cannot tell which...’
No doubt you can easily imagine with what transports of joy I read this letter, with what sobs of
love! Other letters followed. Alissa, it is true, thanked me for not coming to Fongueusemare; it is true
she begged me not to try and see her again this year, but she regretted my absence, she wanted me;
from page to page there sounded the same appeal. Where did I find strength to resist it? In Abel’s
advice, no doubt, and in the fear of suddenly ruining my joy, and in an instinctive stiffening of my
will against the inclinations of my heart.
From the letters which followed I copy all that bears upon my tale:
‘Dear Jérôme,
‘My heart melts with joy as I read you. I was just going to answer your letter from Orvieto, when the one from
Perugia and the one from Assisi arrived together. My mind has turned traveller; it is only my body that makes
believe to stay behind here; in truth I am with you on the white roads of Umbria. I set out with you in the morning
and watch the dawn with a fresh-created eye... Did you really call me on the terrace of Cortona? I heard you. We
were terribly thirsty on the hills above Assisi, but how good I thought the Franciscan’s glass of water! Oh, my
friend! It is through you that I look at all things. How much I like what you write about St Francis! Yes, what we
should seek for is indeed - is it not? - an exaltation and not an emancipation of the mind. The latter goes only with
an abominable pride. Our ambition should lie not in revolt but in service.
‘The news from Nîmes is so good, that it seems to me I have God’s permission to give way to joy. The only
shadow this summer is my poor father’s condition. In spite of all my care he still keeps sad, or rather he relapses
into sadness the moment I leave him to himself, and it becomes less and less easy to get him out of it. All the joys of
nature that are about us speak a language which has become foreign to him; he no longer even makes any effort to
understand it. Miss Ashburton is well. I read your letters aloud to them both; each one gives us enough to talk about
for three days, and then comes a fresh one.
‘Robert left us the day before yesterday. He is going to spend the rest of his holidays with his friend R—,
whose father is at the head of a model farm. Certainly the life we lead here is not very amusing for him. I could only
encourage him in his idea when he spoke of leaving.
‘...I have so much to say to you. I thirst for a talk, such an endless talk! Sometimes I can find no words, no
distinct ideas - this evening I am writing as in a dream - and all I realize is an almost oppressive sense of infinite
riches to bestow and to receive.
‘How did we manage to be silent during so many long months? No doubt we were hibernating. Oh! may that
frightful winter of our silence be for ever past! Now that I have found you again, life, thought, our souls -
everything seems beautiful, adorable, inexhaustibly fertile.
‘12th September.
‘I have got your letter from Pisa. The weather is splendid here, too. Never before have I thought Normandy so
beautiful. The day before yesterday I took an enormously long walk, going across country at random. When I came
in I was not so much tired as excited, almost intoxicated with sun and joy. How beautiful the haystacks were in the
burning sun! There was no need to imagine myself in Italy for me to think everything I saw wonderful.
‘Yes, dear friend, it is as you say, an exhortation to joy which I hear and understand in Nature’s “mingled
hymn”. I hear it in every bird’s song; I breathe it in the scent of every flower, and I have reached the point of
conceiving adoration as the only form of prayer, repeating over and over again with St Francis: “My God! My God!
e non altro” - and nothing else - my heart filled with inexpressible love.
‘Don’t be afraid, though, of my becoming an ignoramus. I have been reading a great deal lately; with the help
of a few rainy days I have, as it were, folded my adoration up into my books. Finished Malebranche and began at
once on Leibnitz’ Letters to Clarke. Then, as a rest, read Shelley’s Cenci - without pleasure; read The Sensitive
Plant too. I shall make you very indignant, but I would give nearly all Shelley and all Byron for Keats’ four odes,
which we read together last summer; just as I would give all Hugo for a few of Baudelaire’s sonnets. The words
“great poet” have no meaning - what is important is to be a pure poet. Oh, my brother! thank you for having taught
me to understand and love these things.
‘No, don’t cut short your journey for the sake of a few days’ meeting. Seriously, it is better that we should not
see each other again just yet. Believe me, if you were with me I could not think of you more. I should be sorry to
give you pain, but I have come to the point of no longer wanting your presence - now. Shall I confess? If I knew
you were coming this evening I should fly away.
‘Oh! don’t ask me to explain this feeling, please, I only know that I think of you unceasingly (which ought to be
enough for your happiness) and that I am happy so.’
★
A short time after this last letter, and immediately after my return from Italy, I was called up for
my military service and sent to Nancy. I did not know a living soul there, but I was glad to be alone,
for it was thus more clearly apparent to my lover’s pride and to Alissa herself, that her letters were
my only refuge, and that the thought of her was, as Ronsard would have said, ‘my only entelechy’.
To tell the truth I bore the pretty severe discipline to which we were subjected very cheerily. I
stiffened myself to endurance, and in my letters to Alissa complained only of absence. We even
found in this long separation a trial worthy of our valour. ‘You who never complain,’ wrote Alissa:
‘you whom I cannot imagine faltering.’ What would I not have endured to prove the truth of her
words?
Almost a year had gone by since our last meeting. She seemed not to consider this, but to count
her time of waiting only from now onwards. I reproached her with it.
‘Was I not with you in Italy?’ she replied. ‘Ungrateful! I never left you for a single day. You must understand
that now, for a time, I can’t follow you any longer, and it is that, only that, which I call separation. I try hard, it is
true, to imagine you as a soldier. I can’t succeed. At best I see you in the evening in your little room in the Rue
Gambetta, writing or reading - but no, not even that! In reality it is only at Fongueusemare or Le Havre that I can
see you, in a year from now.
‘A year! I don’t count the days that have already gone by, my hope fastens its gaze on that point in the future,
which is slowly, slowly, drawing nearer. Do you remember the low wall that shelters the chrysanthemums, at the
end of the garden, and how sometimes we used to venture along the top of it? Juliette and you walked on it as
boldly as though you were Mussulmans going straight to Paradise; as for me, I was seized with giddiness after the
first step or two, and you used to call to me from below, “Don’t look at your feet! Eyes front! Don’t stop! Look at
the goal!” And then, at last - and it was more of a help than your words - you would climb on to the wall at the
other end and wait for me. Then I no longer trembled; I no longer felt giddy; I no longer saw anything but you; I ran
until I reached your open arms.
‘Without faith in you, Jérôme, what would become of me? I have need to feel you strong; need to lean on you.
Don’t weaken.’
Out of a sort of spirit of defiance, which made us deliberately prolong our time of waiting - out of
fear, too, of an unsatisfactory meeting - we agreed that I should spend my few days’ leave at
Christmas with Miss Ashburton, in Paris.
I have already told you that I do not give all her letters. Here is one I received about the middle of
February:
‘Great excitement the day before yesterday in passing along the Rue de Paris to see Abel’s book, very
ostentatiously displayed in M—’s shop window. You had indeed announced its appearance, but I could not believe
in its reality. I wasn’t able to resist going in; but the title seemed to me so ridiculous that I hesitated to name it to the
shopman; I was, in fact, on the point of going out again with any other book, no matter what. Fortunately a little pile
of Wantonness was set out for customers near the counter, and I took a copy and put down my money, without
having had to speak.
‘I am grateful to Abel for not having sent me his book! I have not been able to look through it without shame;
shame, not so much because of the book itself - in which, after all, I see more folly than indecency - but shame to
think that Abel, Abel Vautier, your friend, should have written it. I searched in vain, from page to page, for the
“great talent” which the Temps reviewer has discovered in it. In our little society of Le Havre, where Abel is often
mentioned, people say that the book is very successful. I hear his incurable futility of mind called “lightness” and
“grace”; of course, I keep prudently silent, and have told no one but you that I have read it. Poor Pasteur Vautier,
who at first looked deeply grieved - and very rightly - is now beginning to wonder whether, instead, he hasn’t
cause to feel proud; and all his acquaintance are doing their best to persuade him so. Yesterday, at Aunt Plantier’s,
when Mme V— said to him abruptly: “You must be very happy, Pasteur, over your son’s wonderful success!” he
answered rather abashed, “Oh! I haven’t got as far as that yet!” “But you will! But you will!” said Aunt, innocently
no doubt, but in such an encouraging voice that everyone began to laugh, even he.
‘What will it be when The New Abelard is brought out? I hear it is going to be acted at some theatre or other on
the Boulevards, and that the papers are beginning to talk of it already! Poor Abel! Is that really the success he
wants? Will he be satisfied with that?
‘Yesterday in the Interior Consolation I read these words: “All human glory, indeed all temporal honour, all
worldly grandeur, compared with Thy eternal glory, is vanity and foolishness.” And I thought, “Oh, God! I thank
Thee that Thou hast chosen Jérôme for Thy celestial glory, compared with which the other is vanity and
foolishness.”‘
The weeks and months went by in monotonous occupations; but as there was nothing on which I
could fasten my thoughts but memories or hopes, I hardly noticed how slow the time was, how long
the hours.
My uncle and Alissa were to go in June to the neighbourhood of Nîmes on a visit to Juliette, who
was expecting her baby about that time. Less favourable news of her health made them hasten their
departure.
‘Your last letter, addressed to Le Havre’ [wrote Alissa], ‘arrived after we had left. I cannot explain by what
accident it reached me here only a week later. During all that week I went about with a soul that was only half a
soul, a shivering, pitiful, beggarly soul. Oh, my brother! I am only truly myself - more than myself - when I am
with you.
‘Juliette is better again. We are daily expecting her confinement, without undue anxiety. She knows that I am
writing to you this morning. The day after our arrival at Aigues-Vives, she said to me: “And Jérôme? What has
become of him? Does he write to you still?” And as I couldn’t but tell her the truth: “When you write to him,” she
said, “tell him that...” she hesitated a moment, and then, smiling very sweetly, went on: “that I am cured.” I was
rather afraid that in her letters, which are always so gay, she might be acting a part and taking herself in by it. The
things she makes her happiness out of nowadays are so different from the things she had dreamt of, the things on
which it seemed her happiness ought to have depended! ...Ah! this, that we call happiness, how intimate a part of
the soul it is, and of what little importance are the outside elements which seem to go to its making! I spare you all
the reflections I make during my walks along the garrigue, when what astonishes me most is that I don’t feel
happier; Juliette’s happiness ought to fill me with joy... why does my heart give way to an incomprehensible
melancholy against which I am unable to fight? The very beauty of the country, which I feel, which at any rate I
recognize, adds still further to this inexplicable sadness. When you wrote to me from Italy, I was able to see
everything through you; now I feel as if I were depriving you of whatever I look at without you. And then at
Fongueusemare or at Le Havre I had made myself a kind of rough-weather virtue, for use on rainy days; here, this
virtue seems out of place; and I feel uneasily that there is no occasion for it. The laughter of the people and of the
country jars upon me; perhaps what I call being sad is simply not being so noisy as they. No doubt there was some
pride in my joy formerly, for at present, in the midst of this alien gaiety, what I feel is not unlike humiliation.
‘I have scarcely been able to pray since I have been here: I have the childish feeling that God is no longer in the
same place. Good-bye; I must stop now. I am ashamed of this blasphemy, and of my weakness, and of my sadness,
and of confessing them, and of writing you all this which I should tear up tomorrow if it were not posted tonight...’
The next letter spoke only of the birth of her niece, whose godmother she was to be, of Juliette’s
joy and of my uncle’s, but of her own feelings there was no further question.
Then there were letters dated from Fongueusemare again, where Juliette came to stay with her in
July.
‘Édouard and Juliette left us this morning. It is my little niece whom I regret most; when I see her again in six
months’ time I shall no longer recognize every one of her movements; she had scarcely one which I hadn’t seen her
invent. Growth is always so mysterious and surprising; it is through failure of attention that we are not oftener
astonished at it. How many hours I have spent, bending over the little cradle, where so many hopes lie centred. By
what selfishness, by what conceit, by what lack of desire for improvement is it that development ceases so soon, and
that every creature becomes definitive, when still so far from God? Oh! if we could, if we would but approach
nearer to Him... think, what emulation!
‘Juliette seems very happy. I was grieved at first to find that she had given up her piano and her reading, but
Édouard Teissières doesn’t like music and hasn’t much taste for books; no doubt Juliette is acting wisely in not
seeking her pleasure where he cannot follow her. On the other hand, she takes an interest in her husband’s
occupations and he tells her all about his business. It has developed greatly this year; it pleases him to say that it is
because of his marriage, which has brought him an important clientèle at Le Havre. Robert accompanied him the
last time he went on a business journey. Édouard is very kind to him, declares he understands his character and
doesn’t despair of seeing him take seriously to this kind of work.
‘Father is much better; the sight of his daughter’s happiness has made him young again; he is interesting
himself again in the farm and the garden, and has just asked me to go on with our reading aloud, which we had
begun with Miss Ashburton and which was interrupted by the Teissières’ visit. I am reading them Baron Hübner’s
travels, and enjoy them very much myself. I shall have more time for my own reading too; but I want some advice
from you; this morning I took up several books, one after the other, without feeling a taste for any of them!’
Alissa’s letters, henceforward, became more troubled, more pressing.
‘The fear of troubling you prevents me from telling you how much I want you,’ [she wrote towards the end of
the summer]. ‘Every day that has to be got through before I see you again weighs on me, oppresses me. Another
two months. It seems longer than all the rest of the time which has already gone by without you! Everything I take
up to while away the hours, seems nothing but an absurd stop-gap, and I cannot set myself to anything. My books
are without virtue and without charm; my walks have no attraction; Nature has lost her glamour; the garden is
emptied of colour, of scent.
‘I envy you your fatigue-parties and your compulsory drills which are constantly dragging you out of yourself,
tiring you, hurrying along your days, and, at night, flinging you, wearied out, to your sleep. The stirring description
you gave me of the manoeuvres haunts me. For the last few nights I have been sleeping badly, and several times I
have been awakened with a start by the bugles sounding reveille... I actually heard them. I can so well imagine the
intoxication of which you speak, the morning rapture, the lightheadedness almost... How beautiful the plateau of
Malzéville must have been in the icy radiance of dawn!
I'm a little worse for some time; oh! nothing serious. I think I simply find the waiting very difficult.
And six weeks later:
‘This is my last letter, my friend. However uncertain the date of your return may be, it cannot be delayed much
longer. I shall not be able to write to you any more. I should have preferred our meeting to have been at
Fongueusemare, but the weather has broken; it is very cold, and father talks of nothing but going back to town. Now
that Juliette and Robert are no longer with us we could easily take you in, but it is better that you should go to Aunt
Félicie, who will be glad, too, to have you.
‘As the day of our meeting comes near, I look forward to it with growing anxiety, almost with apprehension. I
seem now to dread your coming that I so longed for; I try not to think of it; I imagine your ring at the bell, your step
on the stairs, and my heart stops beating or hurts me... And whatever you do, don’t expect me to be able to speak to
you. I feel my past comes to an end here; I see nothing beyond; my life stops...’
Four days later, however - a week, that is, before I was liberated from my military service - I
received one more letter, a very short one:
‘My friend, I entirely approve of your not wanting to prolong beyond measure your stay at Le Havre and the
time of our first meeting. What should we have to say to each other that we have not already written? So if the
business connected with your examination calls you to Paris as early as the 28th, don’t hesitate, don’t even regret
that you are not able to give us more than two days. Shall we not have all our lives?’
第五章
第五章
在我的生命里，除了爱情找不到别的意义，于是紧紧抓着它。除了期待我的爱人到来之
外，我什么也不等待，也不愿等待。
次日，我正准备去看看，姨妈却叫住了我，递给我这封刚收到的信。
……医生给朱莉叶特开了药剂，她激动的情绪才缓和下来。我希望杰罗姆这几天都不要来这里。
朱莉叶特能听出他的声音和脚步声，现在她需要绝对静养……
朱莉叶特这种情况，我怕是分身乏术了。假如在杰罗姆离开前，我还是不能见见他，亲
爱的姑妈，烦请您转告他，我会给他写信的……
这道禁令只针对我，其他任何人都可以去布科兰家登门造访。姨妈也来去自如，今天早
上还打算去一趟。我还能搞出什么动静呢？多么糟糕的借口都无所谓！
“好吧，我不去了。”
一方面，不能立刻见到阿莉莎让我很难受；但另一方面，我也害怕再见到她，怕她把妹
妹的病归咎于我。对我来说，与其见到她生气，还不如不见她来得容易些。
无论如何，我还想再见见阿贝尔。在他家门口，有个女仆交给我一张字条。
我给你留言是为了避免你担心。我无法忍受留在勒阿弗尔，离朱莉叶特那么近，所以昨晚和你分
手后，我就立刻乘船去南安普顿了，打算去伦敦S君那里度过剩下的假期，我们回学校见吧。
世间所有的援助一道消失了。这里留给我的只有痛苦，所以我没待多久，在开学之前就
回到了巴黎。我把目光转向上帝，转向施与所有恩泽、真实慰藉和理想馈赠的上帝，把痛苦
呈献在他面前。一想到阿莉莎在寻求上帝的庇护，想到她也在祷告，我的祈祷也便受到鼓舞
和激励。
时光在沉思和学习中飞逝而去。这一长段时间里，除了我和阿莉莎往来通信外，没有任
何事发生。我留着所有信件，此后惝恍迷离之时，就是靠这些重拾记忆的。
起初是姨妈告知我勒阿弗尔的消息的，也只有姨妈而已。她说，最初几天朱莉叶特病情
堪忧，让人操碎了心。在离开十二天之后，我终于收到阿莉莎的字条。
亲爱的杰罗姆，原谅我没有早日给你写信。可怜的朱莉叶特病成这样，我实在抽不出时间。自从
你走后，我在她身边几乎寸步不离。但我让姨妈给你捎信了，她应该也跟你说过，这三天来朱莉叶特
的病情有所好转。感谢上帝，但还不敢高兴得太早。
到现在为止，我还没怎么跟你们提过罗贝尔，他在我走后没几天也回到巴黎，还给我带
来他姐姐们的消息。我照顾他，也是因为她们，而不是性格上自然的偏好使然。他就读的农
业学校每回放假，我就负责照看他，尽可能让他散散心。
从他那里，我打听到一件不敢向阿莉莎和姨妈问起的事：爱德华•泰西埃尔常来询问朱莉
叶特的消息，但在罗贝尔离开勒阿弗尔之前，朱莉叶特并未再见这位男士。我还了解到，自
我走后，朱莉叶特在姐姐面前始终缄默不语，让人束手无策。
没过多久，我从姨妈那里得知朱莉叶特订婚的消息，听说她还要求尽早公布婚讯。但我
猜阿莉莎是反对这场婚事的，她好说歹说，试图破坏和阻止这个决定。朱莉叶特却眉头紧
锁，对此视而不见，选择沉默以对。
时间一天天过去，阿莉莎的信里却只有令人沮丧的消息，我不知道该回些什么才好，冬
日的浓雾包围着我，唉！所有赤诚的爱意、信仰和不舍昼夜的学习，都无法驱散我心中的黑
夜和冰冷。时间如白驹过隙。
后来，在一个春日的早晨，我毫无预兆地从姨妈那里得到一封信，是阿莉莎写给她的，
姨妈跟我说自己当时并不在勒阿弗尔。为了说明事情的来龙去脉，我引用了信中的内容：
……钦佩我的屈服吧！在你的鼓励下，我见了泰西埃尔先生，和他聊了很久。我承认他表现得很
好，让我几乎可以相信和承认，这桩婚事可能并不像最初担心的那样糟糕。当然，朱莉叶特不爱他，
但随着日子一周一周过去，我越来越觉得他是值得被爱的。他能清醒地洞察自己的处境，也没有误解
我妹妹的品性。但他深信自己爱情的效力，觉得持之以恒就能战胜一切。这意味着他爱得很深。
事实上，杰罗姆照顾我弟弟，令我深受感动。我想他这么做只是出于责任，或是讨我欢心，毕竟
罗贝尔的性格与他几乎完全不同。他肯定已经意识到，承担的责任越艰巨，灵魂越能得到训练和升
华。这种想法多高尚呀！别笑话你的大侄女，因为正是这样的想法支撑着我，让我努力把朱莉叶特的
婚事想成一件好事。
亲爱的姑妈，你热心的关怀让我心里很暖。不过，你也不要只觉得我不幸，可以说，恰恰相反，
朱莉叶特刚经受的考验在我身上也产生了影响。“信任别人必招来不幸。”《圣经》上的这几句话我曾
反复念诵，并没有彻底理解，现在却恍然大悟。这段话最初并不是在《圣经》里找到的，而是在杰罗
姆给我寄来的圣诞卡片上看到的，那年他还不到十二岁，我才刚满十四岁。卡片上画有一束花，我们
都觉得非常好看，上面还有高乃依的一首诗：
是何等战胜尘世的魔力，
引我来见上帝？
依赖他人之人，
必将遭遇不幸！
不过，我承认自己更喜欢耶利米简练的诗句。杰罗姆选择卡片的时候，肯定没大注意卡
片上的这句诗。但从他后来的信中可以断定，他如今的爱好倒是和我颇为相似。我每日都感
谢上帝，将我们二人一起拉向了他。
我记得我们的那次谈话，此后我不再像过去那样给他写长信了，以免打扰他学习。你一
定觉得我谈论他是为了获得补偿，我怕再说下去就没完没了了，就此搁笔吧。这一次，别太
埋怨我。
这封信真让我百感交集！我责备多管闲事又守不住秘密的姨妈。该有多没心没肺，才会
把信拿给我看呀！阿莉莎在信中暗示的那次谈话又是怎么回事？竟招来她的沉默？我千方百
计无视她不跟我说话这件事，她竟然还写信告诉别人！这封信里的一切都让我恼火！我们之
间的小秘密，她就那样轻易地说给姨妈听，语气还那么自然，那么平静，那么认真，那么愉
快……
阿贝尔对我说：“不，可怜的朋友！你生气，只因为这封信不是寄给你的。”阿贝尔成了
我每天的伙伴，也是我唯一能谈心的对象。当我陷入孤独，被软弱侵袭的时候；当我发牢骚
求同情，甚至自我怀疑的时候，总是不断向他倾诉。尽管我们性格迥异，或者正是因为我们
的不同吧，每当我处于困境中时，总是很信任他给的建议。
“研究一下这封信吧。”他说着，把信摊在书桌上。
这封信在我身边已经留了四天三夜，我在气愤中度过了这些日子。终于，我还是去寻求
朋友的意见，这几乎是必然发生的。
“朱莉叶特和泰西埃尔这一对，我们就交给爱情之火了，对吗？我们也知道这爱火值多少
钱。当然，在我看来泰西埃尔也不过是扑火的飞蛾……”
“别说这个了，”我说，他的玩笑让我不舒服，“说说其他的吧。”
“其他的？”他说，“其他的话都是说给你听的。你就抱怨吧！字里行间都装满了对你的思
念。这封信完全就是写给你的，费莉西姨妈把这封信交给你，倒算是物归原主。因为不能寄
给你，阿莉莎才寄给这位善良的女士，这是不得已而求其次。你姨妈哪懂什么高乃依的诗！
顺便提一句，这是拉辛的诗。我告诉你，她这是在和你谈心呀，这一切都是说给你听的。半
个月之内，要是你表姐没给你写封一样轻松愉快的长信，就说明你不过是个笨蛋。”
“她不大可能这样做的！”
“她怎么做全看你了！想听听我的建议吗？从现在起，对你们的爱情和婚姻，你要绝口不
提！难道你还看不出来吗？自从她妹妹出事以来，她抱怨的正是你们的爱情和婚姻。你应该
打亲情牌，既然你有耐心照顾罗贝尔这个傻子，就应该锲而不舍地跟阿莉莎说说他。只要让
她精神一直愉悦，其余的事自然水到渠成。唉！若是我给她写信的话呀……”
“你还没资格爱她。”
但我还是听从了阿贝尔的建议。不久，阿莉莎的信果然又恢复了生气。但我并不指望她
由衷地感到快乐，也不觉得她能毫不迟疑地放下心来，除非朱莉叶特的处境，或者说她的幸
福能得以保障。
阿莉莎告诉我，她妹妹的病情大有起色，婚礼将在七月举行。她还来信表示，那一天我
和阿贝尔很可能因为学业缠身而去不了……我明白她是觉得我们不出席婚礼更好一些。因
此，我们以考试为托词，仅仅送去了祝福。
婚礼过后大概半个月，阿莉莎给我写了封信。
亲爱的杰罗姆：
昨天晚上，我惊讶极了！偶然翻开你送我的书——那部精彩的拉辛《圣咏集》，在里面恰好看到
你以前给我的圣诞小卡片上印的四句诗，这卡片在我的《圣经》里夹了差不多十年。
是何等战胜尘世的魔力，
引我来见上帝？
依赖他人之人，
必将遭遇不幸！
我原以为这是高乃依诗歌中的片段，当时也并未发觉其中的妙处。我接着读《圣咏集》第四卷时
却对此入了迷，其间的几段诗太美了，我忍不住摘抄下来送给你。毫无疑问，你已经读过了，因为在
书的页边上冒冒失失地写了姓名的首字母。 （我的确有这个习惯，若是看到喜欢的段落，总会
在我们两人的书上，标注上阿莉莎名字的首字母，以引起她的注意。） 没关系！我也乐意
抄写。起初我确实有些生气，本以为是自己的新发现，你却早就献给我了。但一想到你也喜欢这些诗
句，坏情绪就烟消云散了。在誊抄的时候，我仿佛在和你一起重读。
雷鸣般的声音响起，
它用永恒的智慧告诉我们：
人类，我的孩子啊！
光靠自身会有什么成就呢？
虚妄的灵魂，
你从血管里出卖最纯洁的鲜血，
多大的谬误啊！
这换取的并非果腹的圣饼，
而是食髓知味的幻影。
我提及的圣饼，
是天使的食粮。
它出自上帝之手，
汲取小麦的精粹。
它令人满口生香，
尘世的餐桌怎能得见？
我将它赐予我的信徒。
你们想活着吗？
来吧！
拿着它，吃下去便能生存。
……
被俘虏的灵魂啊，
你那么愉悦，
在桎梏中寻到了平和，
永不干涸的长生之泉将浸润周身。
这甘泉欢迎所有人，
每个人都可以饮用。
但我们却疯狂奔向泥泞之所，
那里的水池虚幻无实，
每时每刻都在漏水。
杰罗姆，这太美了，实在太美了！你是否真和我一样觉得它很美呢？在我的书上还有一条小注
释，说曼特侬夫人[1]听德•欧玛尔小姐咏唱这首赞歌时，落了几滴眼泪，并让她再唱了一段。我不知
疲倦地来回诵读，对此刻骨铭心。现在唯一让我伤感的是，没听到过你在这里诵读。
我们那对旅行中的夫妇，继续传来佳音。朱莉叶特在巴约纳和比亚里茨有多开心，你早就知道
啦，尽管那里酷热难耐。后来，他们又游览了封塔拉比亚，在布尔戈斯做了逗留，还两次翻越比利牛
斯山脉……朱莉叶特在蒙塞拉给我写了封热情洋溢的信。他们在返回尼姆之前，打算在巴塞罗那再待
个十天。九月份爱德华就得回去安排葡萄收成的事了。
我和父亲回到芬格斯玛尔已有一周，明天阿斯布尔顿小姐也会过来，罗贝尔则要四天后才回来。
这可怜的孩子没通过考试，倒不是因为试题太难，而是主考官的题目太刁钻，他一时发了慌。你来信
说罗贝尔很用功，所以我不觉得他是准备不足，看来还是主考官喜欢刁难学生的缘故。
至于你的品学兼优，亲爱的朋友，我说不出什么祝贺的话，总觉得是理所当然。杰罗姆，我对你
深信不疑！一想到你，我心中就充满希望。你现在要着手开始上次跟我说过的工作了吗？……
……这里的花园依然如故，房子却显得空落落的。今年我为何求你别来，你应该懂的，对吗？我
觉得这样更好些，但必须每天这么跟自己说一遍。因为要那么久不见你，实在是难挨……有时候，我
看着书会突然停下来，猛然转过头，不由自主去找你……总觉得你在身边！
我继续写信。夜已深，所有人都睡了，我却还在敞开的窗前给你写信。窗外天气宜人，花园里香
气四溢。你还记得吗？我们小时候，一旦看到或听到美好的事物，就会感谢造物主。今晚，我的整颗
心也沉浸在对上帝的感恩中，感谢他创造出这么美的夜！蓦然间，我期盼你也在这里，感觉到你就在
我身旁，这种感觉如此强烈，也许你也有所察觉。
你在信中说得没错。“在高尚的灵魂中，钦慕同感激融为一体。”我还有那么多事想要写给你！我
想起朱莉叶特跟我说过的那个绚丽国度，想起其他一些辽阔、荒凉，又光辉灿烂的国度，心中升腾起
某种陌生的信念：终有一天，我们将以我不知道的方式，在未知的神秘大国中相见……
你们很容易想象，这封信给我带来多大的欣喜！因爱之故，我含着泪读完了它。阿莉莎
的信一封接一封地来。诚然，她感激我没去芬格斯玛尔，恳求我今年别去见她，但又因我不
在而感到遗憾，渴望我能在她身边，每一页纸都回响着对我的召唤。我哪来的力量抗拒这份
召唤呢？无疑是听从了阿贝尔的忠告，加上担心欢乐稍纵即逝，不懂灵活变通，才抵抗着内
心的躁动。
阿莉莎后来的信中，凡是有利于阐明这个故事的内容，我全部摘录在下面了。
亲爱的杰罗姆：
非常开心能读到你的信。我正要答复你从奥尔维耶托寄来的信，正好又收到你从佩罗贾和阿西西
寄来的信。我的思想也四处遨游起来，只有身体被留了下来。我随你一起行走在翁布里亚的白色大道
上；我们拂晓出发，用崭新的目光看着晨曦……你的确在科尔多纳的露台上呼唤过我吧？我听到了你
的声音……在阿西西城北面的山上，我们口渴难耐！方济各会修士[2]递来的那杯水竟如此可口！朋友
啊！我能透过你看到世间万物。你写给我的那段圣方济各的话，我太喜欢了！没错！我们应该寻求的
不是思想的解放，而是颂扬。思想的解放只能带来可憎的傲慢！我们的志向不该是反抗，而应是侍
奉……
尼姆传来的消息极好，上帝似乎允准了我享受快乐。今年夏天唯一的阴影，是我父亲的状况，尽
管我悉心照料，他依旧愁容满面，或者说我一让他独处，他就悲伤起来。于我们而言，大自然的欢乐
萦绕四周，对他来说却是陌生的，他甚至不愿意聆听大自然的声音。阿斯布尔顿小姐倒还算健康。我
给他们念了你的信，每一封信我们都能聊上三天，然后下一封就来了……
……罗贝尔前天离开了我们。他准备去朋友R君家度过余下的假期，R君的父亲管理着一家新型
农场。在这边生活，罗贝尔确实快乐不起来，所以当他提出要走的时候，我只能支持他的计划……
……我有那么多话想跟你讲！真希望能无止境地跟你说下去！有时候我又一个字都想不出来，思
路也不清晰。今晚给你写信，就彷徨似梦，只有一种沉重的感觉，仿佛有无穷的财富要赠予和获取。
在那么漫长的几个月中，我们是如何保持沉默的呢？我们肯定是在冬眠。啊！这个可怕又沉默的
冬天，但愿它永远结束了！自从我重新找回你，对我来说，生活、思想、我们的灵魂都是美妙、可爱
而充实的，永不枯涸。
9月12日
我收到了你从比萨寄来的信。我们这里也是阳光灿烂，诺曼底从未显得如此美丽过。前天，我独
自散步，漫无目的地走了一大圈，穿越大片田野。回到家时，不但不觉得累，反而兴奋不已，整个人
沉醉在阳光和欢乐里。烈日下的草垛多美啊！我不需要假装在意大利，就感到一切那么迷人。
没错，我的朋友。正如你所说，我从大自然“模糊的赞歌”中听到和懂得的，正是对欢乐的激励：
我在鸟儿的每声鸣唱中听到了它，我在每朵花儿的芳香里嗅到了它。终于，我认定“热爱”是唯一的祈
祷形式。我同圣方各济一起说道：“上帝啊！上帝啊！‘而非他者’[3]，你的心中充满难以言喻的爱。”
但你不用担心我会变成盲目无知的人！最近这段时间，因为下雨的缘故，我读了很多书，把“热
爱”收进书里……刚看完马勒伯朗士，我就立刻拿起莱布尼茨的《致克拉克的信》。接着，为了调节
放松，我又看了雪莱的《钦契》，感觉没意思，而后又看了他的《含羞草》……这么说也许会让你生
气，我觉得把所有雪莱、拜伦的作品加起来，都比不上去年夏天我们一起读的四首济慈的颂歌；同
样，雨果的所有作品加在一起，也比不上波德莱尔的几首十四行诗。“伟大”这个字眼对于诗人来说，
没有任何意义，诗人重要的是“纯粹”……朋友啊！谢谢你让我认识、理解和热爱这一切。
……不，别为了相聚几日而缩短你的旅程。说正经的，现在我们最好还是别见面。相信我，你若
在我身边，我就不能进一步思念你了。我不想让你难过，但我现在已不再希望你过来。坦白说，如果
知道你今晚要来……我会躲起来的。
唉！别让我解释这种……心情，求你！我只知道无法停止思念你（这一点足以让你感到幸福
了），而我也很幸福……
收到这封信后不久，我刚从意大利回来，就应召去南锡服兵役了。我在这里举目无亲，
独自一人倒也自得其乐，因为无论是对阿莉莎还是对我这个骄傲的情人来说，情况都更加清
楚：她的来信是我唯一的避风港，而对她的思念，用龙沙的话来说，是我“唯一的隐德来
希” [4] 。
说实话，我很容易经受住严酷的训练，顶住一切困难，在写给阿莉莎的信中，也只抱怨
她不在我身边。我们甚至觉得，这样漫长的分离，才是勇气的高尚证明。“你从不抱怨，”阿
莉莎在信中这样写道，“我无法想象你软弱的样子……”为了证明这话，我还有什么不能忍受
的呢？
从我们最后一次见面到现在，已过了将近一年。她似乎从没想过这一点，现在才开始等
我回来，为此我责怪了她。
她却回信说：
忘恩负义！我不是和你一起去了意大利吗？一天都没有离开过你。但现在你要明白，在一段时间
内，我无法再追随你了，只有这段时间才能被称为“分离”。我的确努力设想你穿军装的模样，但想不
出来。最多想到夜晚的时候，你在甘必大大街狭小的卧室里，写信或读信……事实上，我甚至能想
到，一年之后在芬格斯玛尔或勒阿弗尔见到你的样子，不是吗？
还有一年！已经走过的日子就不算在内了。我希望将来的这一天，慢一点，再慢一点到来。你还
记得花园尽头的那堵矮墙吧，我们在墙角栽种了菊花，也曾冒险爬上去过。你和朱莉叶特大胆地在墙
头走着，就像直奔天堂的穆斯林，而我刚走没两步就头晕目眩，你在下面朝我喊道：“别盯着你的
脚！要看前方！朝着目标一直向前走！”最后，你爬上墙，在另一头等着我，这比你说的话管用多
了。我不再战栗，也不觉得眩晕，只注视着你，朝着你敞开的怀抱奔去。
杰罗姆，若不信赖你，我将成为怎样的人呢？我需要你坚强，需要依靠你。你可不要软弱。
出于挑战的心理，我们故意延长等待的时间。这也是出于恐惧的心理——我们害怕不圆
满的重逢，所以商定好了，临近新年的那几天假期，我会去巴黎度过，待在阿斯布尔顿小姐
身边。
我和你们说过，我并没有把阿莉莎的信全部抄写下来，下面的内容是我二月中旬收到的
信。
前天，我经过巴黎街时异常激动，在M店的橱窗里赫然看到了阿贝尔的书。你虽然跟我提过，我
却不大相信。我情不自禁地走了进去，但又觉得书名很可笑，不知怎么开口跟店员说，一度想随便抓
起一本，离开了事。幸好柜台边有一摞《如胶似漆》放在那里，唾手可得。我不用开口，只要拿走一
本，扔下一百苏就行了。
真感谢阿贝尔没给我寄书！我每翻一页都觉得丢脸！虽然书里蠢话比下流话多，但我并不是因为
书本身而感到丢脸，而是因为阿贝尔而感到羞耻。因为这是阿贝尔•沃蒂埃——你的朋友所写的。我在
书中一页页找寻《时代》杂志评论家所发现的“伟大天才”的痕迹，却是徒劳。在勒阿弗尔的小圈子
里，人们也经常谈起阿贝尔，我听说这本书取得了巨大成功，人们把这种无可救药的轻佻称为“轻
盈”和“雅致”。当然，我谨慎地保留意见，只是和你谈谈读后感。可怜的沃蒂埃牧师，起初也觉得失
望，后来，由于身边的人对此赞不绝口，让他开始怀疑是否该引以为豪。昨天，在普朗提埃姑妈家，
V女士突然对他说：“牧师先生，您儿子取得了这样可喜的成就，您应当高兴才是啊！”他有些尴尬地
回答道：“上帝啊，我还没有这种感觉……”姑妈连连说道：“您会有的！会有的！”她一点没有开玩笑
的意思，这种鼓励的语气却把所有人，甚至牧师都逗笑了。
我还听说，阿贝尔正准备为某个通俗剧院创作剧本《新阿坝亚尔》，报纸上早已议论纷纷，但是
搬上舞台后会成什么样子呢？可怜的阿贝尔，这真的是他渴望的成功吗？他会为此感到满足吗？
昨天，我读了《永远的安慰》[5]，里面写道：“凡是真正渴望真实荣耀的人，必会放弃世俗的荣
耀；但凡无法鄙视现世荣耀的人，显然并不会真正爱上天主的荣耀。”由此我想：“感谢上帝，选择杰
罗姆来接受这份天主的荣耀，与之相比，另一种荣耀根本不值一提。”
时间在单调的事务中流逝，一个个星期、一个个月就这么溜走了。我的思想只陷在回忆
或者希望之中，倒不觉得时光漫漫、岁月冗长。
六月，朱莉叶特的孩子差不多要出生了，舅舅和阿莉莎本该那时去尼姆市郊找她。但因
为那边传来不太好的消息，他们就提前动身了。阿莉莎也给我捎来了信。
你最近一封寄到勒阿弗尔的信，是我们离开之后才寄达的。不知道怎么回事，这封信八天之后才
转到我手里。整整一周，我都魂不守舍、心乱如麻又疑神疑鬼，整个人都病恹恹的。兄弟呀！和你在
一起的时候，我才是真正的我，才能超越自己。
朱莉叶特的身体又好转了，指不定哪天就会分娩，我们并不太担心。她知道我今早给你写了信。
我们到达埃格维弗的第二天，她就问过我：“杰罗姆呢，他怎么样……还一直给你写信吗？”我无法对
她撒谎，于是她说道：“下次你给他写信的时候，告诉他……”她略微迟疑，又无比温柔地笑着说
道：“我已经恢复了。”她之前的来信都显得那么愉快，我其实有些担心她在假装幸福，为了骗我，也
骗她自己。她今日的幸福，同她过去梦想的幸福及幸福所依之人大相径庭……
唉！幸福与灵魂休戚相关，构成幸福的外部因素则无关紧要！我独自在加里哥灌木丛散步时的诸
多思考，就不多说了。散步时最让我吃惊的是，朱莉叶特的幸福本应让我满心欢喜，但让人难以理解
的是我心里并未感到开心，为什么反而涌起一阵摆脱不掉的忧郁呢？连当地的美景，都进一步加深了
这份难以名状的忧愁……
你在意大利给我写信时，通过你，我看到世间万物；如今少了你，我看到的世间万物，都觉着是
从你那里窃取来的。在芬格斯玛尔和勒阿弗尔，我习惯了雨天，培养出了耐受力；但在这里，这种能
力毫无用处，因为它不再有用武之地，我总感到不安。当地的景致和人们的笑声令我不快，我所说
的“忧郁”，也许仅仅只是不像他们那般喧闹罢了。我过去的欢乐中肯定包含某些骄傲的成分，如今置
身于这陌生的欢快氛围中时，才会感觉到一种近乎屈辱的情绪。
来到这里之后，我就不大祈祷了，而且有一种幼稚的感觉——觉得上帝不在原来的地方了。再
见，就此搁笔吧。我为这句亵渎神明的话而羞愧，也为自己的软弱和忧郁而羞赧。我竟然承认并写下
了这一切，如果这封信今晚不发出去，明天会被我撕掉的……
阿莉莎的下一封信只谈了刚出生的外甥女，说会当她的教母；也谈到了朱莉叶特和舅舅
有多么高兴；她自己的心情，却只字未提。
继而，又是从芬格斯玛尔寄来的信，说七月份时，朱莉叶特曾来看她。
今天早上，朱莉叶特和爱德华离开了我们。我最舍不得的还是我那小教女，她到现在为止的动
作，无一不是在我的眼皮底下做出来的。而半年之后我再见到她，恐怕就认不出她的万般姿态了。成
长这件事，总是那么神秘莫测又出人意料。只因为我们不大留意，才没有时常感到惊讶。我俯身，充
满希望地望着小摇篮，时间流逝过去。是何等的自私、自满和不思进取，才让人类的这种发展戛然而
止啊，离上帝还那么遥远，就定型了吗？唉！如果我们能够，并且想要再靠上帝近一些，这将是何等
美好的竞赛啊！
朱莉叶特看起来很幸福。起初，我见她放弃钢琴和阅读，还觉得伤心，但爱德华•泰西埃尔不喜欢
音乐，对阅读也不大感兴趣。既然是不能相互分享的乐趣，朱莉叶特放弃，也算明智之举。反之，她
对丈夫的事业倒有了兴趣，爱德华也向她传授了所有生意经。今年，他的生意大有发展，他开玩笑
说，是这门亲事促使他在勒阿弗尔赢得了大量客户。他最近一次洽谈生意时，让罗贝尔也跟着去了，
并对他关怀备至，还声称了解他的个性，他相信罗贝尔对这类事情会产生实实在在的兴趣。
父亲看到女儿获得幸福，恢复了活力，身体也好转多了。他又开始关心农场和花园，有时还会让
我继续高声朗读德•于布内男爵的游记。这本书我也非常喜欢，阿斯布尔顿小姐也在的时候，我给他们
念过，但因为泰西埃尔一家的到访而搁置了。现在，我有更多的时间来读书，还等着你指点一二。今
早，我翻了好几本书，对哪一本都提不起兴致来！
从这时起，阿莉莎的信显得越发不安和迫切。时至夏末，她给我寄来一封信。
我怕你担心，所以没告诉你我有多盼望见到你。与你重逢前的每一天都压得我喘不过气来。还有
两个月！在我看来，却比离开你的所有日子加起来都要漫长！我试图做些其他的事来消磨等待的时
光，这些事在我看来却成了微不足道的临时消遣，我无法逼迫自己做任何事。在我眼里，书籍失却了
价值和魅力，散步也没了吸引力，整片大自然都丧失了魔力，花园黯然失色，也没了芳香。我羡慕你
的兵役，羡慕那些由不得你选择的强制训练，它让你身心俱疲，无暇沉浸于内心世界。白天匆匆而
过，到了夜晚，疲惫不堪的你立刻沉入梦乡。你描绘的操练那么动人，让我难以忘怀。最近几天晚
上，我睡得不大好，好几次听到起床号角便倏然醒来，实实在在地听见了。你所说的那种微醺状态，
那种清晨的喜悦，以及蒙眬惺忪的感觉，在我想象中是那么真切。在令人目眩的清冷黎明，马尔泽维
尔高原该有多美啊！
我近来身体欠佳。唉！也没什么要紧的，大概只因为我等你等得太苦了些。
六周后，我又收到她的来信。
朋友，这是我最后一封信了。你的归期虽然尚未确定，大概也不会太远，所以我不能再给你写信
了。我本期盼能在芬格斯玛尔与你重逢，但现在的季节糟糕起来，天很冷，父亲常把回城挂在嘴边。
朱莉叶特和罗贝尔目前都不在身边，你可以安心住下来。不过，你最好还是住在费莉西姑妈家，她也
会很高兴接待你的。
我们重逢的日子越来越近，我却等得越发焦急起来，简直是担惊受怕。我曾那么期盼你归来，如
今却仿佛惧怕起来。我努力不去想这件事，但脑海里还是会浮现你按门铃的样子、走上楼梯的样子，
我的心停止了跳动，很难受……千万别期待我会对你讲什么话……我感到过去终结于此，也看不见任
何未来，生命停在了这一刻……
四天之后，也就是退伍前一周，我又收到一封短信。
朋友，我完全同意你的想法——不要在勒阿弗尔逗留太久，也不要将我们初次重逢的时间拉得过
长。我们要说的话，不是都写在信中了吗？如果从28号起，你就要回巴黎注册，就别犹犹豫豫的，甚
至别因为只见两天而感到可惜，我们不还有整整一生的时间吗？
[1]曼特侬夫人（Madame de Maintenon）：法国十七世纪名媛，曾与路易十四秘密结婚。
[2]方济各会修士（Franciscain）：圣方济各是耶稣会的创始人之一，意大利的阿西西是
圣方济各的安葬之地。方济各会是一个跟随圣方济各教导及灵修方式的修会。方济各会修士
会将所有财物捐给穷人，靠布施行乞过生活，他们着灰色会服，故又称灰衣修士。
[3]原文是意大利语：E non altro。
[4]唯一的隐德来希：唯一的圆满。“隐德来希”为古希腊亚里士多德的话，意为“圆满”。
[5]《永远的安慰》（Internelle Consolacion ）：中世纪法国的宗教书籍。
VI.
VI 
It was at Aunt Plantier’s that our first meeting took place. I suddenly felt that my military service had
made me heavy and clumsy... Later on I thought she must have found me altered. But why should
this first deceptive impression have had any importance for us two? As for me, I was so much afraid
of not recognizing the Alissa I knew, that at first I hardly dared look at her. No! what was really
embarrassing was the absurd position of being engaged which they all forced upon us, and
everybody’s anxiety to leave us alone and hurry away when we were there!
‘Oh, Aunt! you are not the least in the way; we have nothing private to say to each other,’ cried
Alissa at last, impatient at the tactless manner in which the excellent women tried to efface herself.
‘Yes, yes! my dears. I quite understand. When young people haven’t seen each other for a long
time, they always have lots of little things to tell each other.’
‘Please, Aunt! You really will annoy us if you go away!’ and this was said in a tone which was
almost angry, and in which I hardly recognized Alissa’s voice.
‘Aunt! I assure you that if you go away, we shan’t utter a single other word!’ added I, laughing,
but myself filled with a certain apprehension at the idea of our being left alone. And then, with sham
cheerfulness, we all three set to work to make conversation, trying to hide our embarrassment
beneath the forced liveliness of our commonplace talk. We were to meet again the next day, as my
uncle had invited me to lunch, so that we parted that evening without regret, glad to put an end to this
absurd scene.
I arrived long before luncheon-time, but I found Alissa talking to a girl-friend, whom she had not
the strength of mind to send away, and who was not discreet enough to go. When at last she left us, I
pretended to be surprised that Alissa had not kept her to lunch. We were both of us in a state of
nervous tension and tired by a sleepless night. My uncle appeared. Alissa felt that I thought him aged.
He had grown rather deaf, and heard my voice with difficulty; the necessity I was under of shouting
so as to make myself understood made my talk dull and stupid.
After lunch Aunt Plantier, as had been arranged, came to take us out in her carriage; she drove us
to Orcher, with the idea of letting Alissa and me do the pleasantest part of the journey on foot.
The weather was hot for the time of the year. The part of the hill up which we had to walk was
exposed to the sun and unattractive; the leafless trees gave us no shelter. In our anxiety to rejoin the
carriage in which our aunt was to wait for us, we hastened our pace uncomfortably. My head was
aching so badly that I could not extract a single idea from it; to keep myself in countenance, or
because I thought that the gesture might serve instead of words, I had taken Alissa’s hand, which she
let me keep. Our emotion, the rapidity of our walk, and the awkwardness of our silence, sent the
blood to our faces; I felt my temples throbbing; Alissa’s colour was unpleasantly heightened; and
soon the discomfort of feeling the contact of our damp hands made us unclasp them and let them drop
sadly to our sides.
We had made too much haste, and arrived at the cross-roads long before the carriage, which had
taken another road and driven very slowly, because of my aunt’s desire to leave us plenty of time for
talking. We sat down on the bank at the side of the road; a cold wind, which suddenly got up, chilled
us to the bone, for we were bathed in perspiration; then we walked on to meet the carriage. But the
worst was again the pressing solicitude of our poor aunt, who was convinced that we had had a long
and satisfactory talk and was longing to question us about our engagement. Alissa, unable to bear it,
and with her eyes full of tears, alleged a violent headache, and we drove home in silence.
The next day I woke up with aching limbs and a bad chill, so unwell that I put off going to the
Bucolins’ till the afternoon. By ill luck, Alissa was not alone. Madeleine Plantier, one of Aunt
Félicie’s granddaughters, was there. I knew Alissa liked talking to her. She was staying with her
grandmother for a few days, and when I came in, she exclaimed:
‘If you are going back to the Côte when you leave here, we might as well go together.’
I agreed mechanically; so that I was unable to see Alissa alone. But the presence of this charming
girl was, no doubt, a help to us; I no longer felt the intolerable embarrassment of the day before; the
conversation between the three of us was soon going smoothly, and was less futile than I had at first
feared. Alissa smiled strangely when I said good-bye to her; I had the impression that she had not
understood till that moment that I was going away the next morning. But the prospect of my speedy
return took away any touch of tragedy from my good-bye.
After dinner, however, prompted by a vague uneasiness, I went down to the town, where I
wandered about for nearly an hour before I made up my mind to ring at the Bucolins’ door. It was my
uncle who received me. Alissa, who was not feeling very well, had already gone to her room and, no
doubt, straight to bed. I talked to my uncle for a few moments, and then left.
It would be vain for me to blame the perverseness of these incidents, unfortunate though they
were. For even if everything had favoured us, we should still have invented our embarrassment
ourselves. But nothing could have made me more wretched than that Alissa, too, should feel this.
This is the letter I received as soon as I got to Paris:
‘My friend, what a melancholy meeting! You seemed to lay the blame on other people, but - without being able
to convince yourself. And now I think - I know - it will be so always. Oh! I beg of you, don’t let us see each other
again!
‘Why this awkwardness, this feeling of being in a false position, this paralysis, this dumbness, when we have
everything in the world to say to each other? The first day of your return this very silence made me happy, because I
believed it would vanish, and that you would tell me the most wonderful things; it was impossible that you should
leave me without.
‘But when our lugubrious expedition to Orcher came to an end without a word, when, above all, our hands
unclasped and fell apart so hopelessly, I thought my heart would have fainted within me for grief and pain. And
what distressed me most was not so much that your hand let go mine, but my feeling that if yours had not, mine
would have done so, for my hand too no longer felt happy in yours.
‘The next day - yesterday - I expected you, madly, all the morning. I was too restless to stop indoors, and I left
a line for you to tell you where to find me on the jetty. I stayed a long time looking at the stormy sea, but I was too
miserable looking at it without you; I imagined suddenly that you were waiting for me in my room, and went in. I
knew I shouldn’t be free in the afternoon; Madeleine had told me the day before that she meant to come, and as I
expected to see you in the morning I did not put her off. But, perhaps, it was to her presence we owed the only
pleasant moments of our meeting. For a few minutes I had the strange illusion that this comfortable conversation
was going to last a long, long time. And when you came up to the sofa where I was sitting beside her, and bent
down and said “good-bye”, I could not answer; it seemed as though it were the end of everything; it suddenly
dawned upon me that you were going.
‘You had no sooner left with Madeleine, than it struck me as impossible, unbearable. Will you believe it? I
went out! I wanted to speak to you again, to tell you all the things I had not told you; I was already hurrying to the
Plantiers’... It was late; I didn’t have time, didn’t dare... I came in again, desperate, to write to you - that I didn’t
want to write to you any more - a good-bye letter because I felt too much that our correspondence was nothing but
a vast mirage, that we were each writing, alas! only to ourselves and that - Jérôme! Jérôme! Ah! how far apart we
were all the time!
‘I tore that letter up, it is true; but now I am writing it over again, almost the same. Oh! I do not love you less,
my dear! On the contrary, I never before felt so clearly, by my very disturbance, by my embarrassment as soon as
you came near me, how deeply I loved you; but hopelessly too, for I must perforce confess it to myself - when you
were away, I loved you more. I had already begun to suspect so, alas! This longed-for meeting has finally shown me
the truth, and you, too, my friend, must needs be convinced of it. Good-bye, my much-loved brother; may God keep
and guide you! To Him alone can we draw near with impunity.’
And as if this letter were not sufficiently painful, the next day she had added the following
postscript:
‘I do not wish to let this letter go without asking you to show a little more discretion in regard to what concerns
us both. Many a time you have wounded me by talking to Juliette or Abel about things which should have remained
private between you and me, and this is, indeed, what made me think - long before you suspected it - that your love
was above all intellectual, the beautiful tenacity of a tender faithful mind.’
The fear lest I should show this letter to Abel had doubtless inspired the last lines. What
suspicious instinct had put her on her guard? Had she formerly detected in my words some reflection
of my friend’s advice?
In truth, I felt myself far enough away from him! The paths we followed were henceforth
divergent; and there was little need of these recommendations to teach me to bear the anxious burden
of my grief alone.
The next three days were wholly occupied by my pleading; I wished to reply to Alissa; I was
afraid of incurably inflaming the wound by too deliberate a discussion, by too vehement
protestations, by the slightest clumsy word; twenty times over I began the letter in which my love
struggled for its life. I cannot to this day re-read, without weeping, the tear-stained paper, which is
the copy of the one I at last decided to send:
‘Alissa! Have pity on me, on us both!... Your letter hurts me. How much I wish I could smile at your fears! Yes,
I felt everything you write; but I was afraid to own it to myself. What frightful reality you give to what is merely
imaginary, and how you thicken it between us!
‘If you feel that you love me less... Ah! let me dismiss this cruel supposition, which your whole letter
contradicts! But then, of what importance are your fleeting apprehensions? Alissa! As soon as I begin to argue, my
words freeze; I can only hear the weeping of my heart. I love you too much to be skilful, and the more I love you
the less I know what to say to you. “Intellectual love”... what am I to answer to that? When it is with my whole soul
that I love you, how can I distinguish between my intellect and my heart? But since our correspondence is the cause
of your unkind imputation, since we have been so grievously hurt by our fall into reality from the heights to which
that correspondence had raised us, since, if you were to write to me now you would think that you were writing only
to yourself since, too, I have not strength to bear another letter like your last - please, for a time, let us stop all
communication.’
In the rest of my letter I protested and appealed against her judgement, imploring her to grant us
the opportunity of another interview. The last had had everything against it; the scene, the
personages, the time of year - and even our correspondence, whose impassioned tone had prepared
us for it with so little prudence. This time it should be preceded only by silence. I wished it to take
place in the spring, at Fongueusemare, where my uncle would let me stay during the Easter holidays,
for as long or as short a time as she herself should think fit.
My determination was firmly taken, and as soon as my letter had gone I was able to bury myself
in my work.
★
I was to see Alissa once more before the end of the year. Miss Ashburton, whose health had been
declining for some months past, died four days before Christmas. On my return from my military
service I had gone back to stay with her. I left her very little and was present at her last moments. A
card from Alissa showed me that our vow of silence lay nearer her heart than my bereavement; she
would come up, she said, for the day, just to go to the funeral, which my uncle would not be able to
attend.
She and I were almost the only mourners to be present at the burial service and afterwards to
follow the coffin. We walked side by side and exchanged barely a few sentences; but in church where
she took her seat beside me, I several times felt her eyes resting tenderly upon me.
‘It is agreed,’ said she, as she left me, ‘nothing before Easter.’
‘No, but at Easter...’
‘I will expect you.’
We were at the gate of the cemetery. I suggested taking her to the station; but she called a cab and
without a word of farewell, left me.
第六章
第六章
我们第一次见面是在姨妈家。服完兵役后，我感到自己变得笨拙而迟钝……事后，我才
想到她一定觉得我变了。但于我们而言，这种初见的错觉有何紧要？从我的角度来说，因为
生怕不能完全认出她来，起初还不大敢抬头看她……不，让我们不知所措的，不如说是被强
迫扮演未婚夫妻的荒唐角色，以及每个人都避开我俩，好让我们单独相处的殷勤态度。
“姑妈，但你完全没妨碍我们呀，我们并没有任何秘密要说。”阿莉莎忍不住大声说道，
姨妈躲避的意图太明显。
“有的！有的，孩子们！我太了解你们了，如果长时间没见面，总有一箩筐的事儿要
说……”
“求你了，姑妈，你要是走开，我们会生气的。”阿莉莎的语调近乎恼火，让我很难认出
她的声音。
“姨妈，我向你保证，你若是走了，我们就一个字都不说了！”我笑着补充道，一想到我
们要独处，我心里也充满惶恐。我们三人接着聊天，伪装成开心的模样，却说着无聊的事，
装作激动兴奋，以掩饰内心的慌乱。我们第二天还要见面，因为舅舅邀请我去吃午饭，所以
第一天晚上，我们轻而易举地分别了，也很高兴这出闹剧终于收了场。
离午饭时间还有好一会儿，我就已经来到舅舅家。但阿莉莎正好在同一位女性朋友聊
天，没法打发她走；对方也不太识趣，赖着不走。最后她总算让我们单独相处，我还假意吃
惊，因为阿莉莎没留她吃午饭。我们俩都焦躁不安，因一夜未眠而筋疲力尽。舅舅过来了，
我觉得他越发老迈，阿莉莎一定察觉到了。他的耳朵变得不太灵光，也听不清我说什么。为
了让他听清，我必须大声嚷嚷，这让我的话变得很蠢。
午饭过后，按照原先说好的，普朗提埃姨妈开车来接我和阿莉莎去奥尔谢，好让我们在
回来的时候能单独走走，那段路的风景最宜人。
这个季节天气炎热，我们散步的这段海岸暴晒在阳光下，毫无魅力可言。树枝光秃秃
的，没有任何遮阴的地方。姨妈的车停在前面，我们担心她等久了，急着赶路，十分别扭地
加快脚步。我头疼得厉害，什么话题都想不出来，为了显得自然一些，或是为了代替言语，
我在散步时牵起阿莉莎的手，她也任凭我牵着。心情激动，加上走路走得气喘吁吁，在尴尬
的沉默下，血气涌上了我们的脸颊：我听到太阳穴跳得厉害，而阿莉莎的脸色也红得不自
然。才过了一会儿，我们就觉得潮乎乎的手握在一起太难受，于是松开了——两只手凄凉地
垂落下去。
我们走得太急，比姨妈的车还早到路口许久。姨妈走了另一条路，为了给我们留足聊天
的时间，开得很慢。我们坐在路堤上，浑身是汗，忽然一阵凉风吹来，我们打了个寒战，赶
紧又站起来，去迎姨妈的车子……最糟糕的还是可怜的姨妈，她操心过了头，确信我们一定
说了很多话，想询问订婚的事。阿莉莎再也忍不住了——眼中满含泪水，推说是头痛欲裂。
回程的一路就在沉默中结束了。
第二天，我醒来时腰酸背疼，还感冒了，浑身难受，所以直到下午才决定去布科兰家。
不巧，阿莉莎家有客人，是费莉西姨妈的某个孙女——玛德莱娜•普朗提埃，我知道阿莉莎喜
欢经常和她聊天。玛德莱娜这几天都住在祖母家里，所以一见我进门，就嚷道：“如果你从这
里出发去‘斜坡’的话，我们可以一起走。”
我机械地点了点头，这样一来，我就无法和阿莉莎单独聊了。但有这个可爱的孩子在，
无疑也帮了我们大忙，我不再像昨天那样尴尬。我们三人谈得很自在，比我起初担心的有意
思得多。我向阿莉莎道别时，她古怪地微笑着，好像此前并没意识到我次日就要离开。想到
此次别后，我们很快会再见，告别时也就没有出现悲伤的场面。
但是晚饭过后，我隐约感到不安，便又下了山。在城里晃了将近一个小时，才下定决心
再按一次布科兰家的门铃。应门的是舅舅，阿莉莎身体不适，早就回房去了，肯定已入睡。
我和舅舅稍微聊了聊，便离开了。
这些意外太令人不快了，但责怪又有什么用呢？就算事事称心，我们也会生出尴尬来。
阿莉莎也察觉到了这一点，没有什么比这更令我痛心了。我刚回到巴黎，就收到了她的信。
我的朋友，这次重逢太可悲了！你似乎在怪罪别人，这一点恐怕你自己都无法信服吧。现在，我
想这状况永远不会改变了。唉！求求你，我们别再见面了！
我们明明有那么多话要说，为什么还会这么尴尬，这么做作，这么无力，这么沉默呢？你回来的
第一天，面对这种沉默，我还觉得挺开心。因为我总觉得它会烟消云散，在离开之前你总会对我说些
美妙的事。
但是，奥尔谢的散步在凄凉中落幕了，尤其是我们的手，各自松开，又无望地垂落下来。这让我
悲痛欲绝。最令我伤心的不是你松开了握着我的手，而是我感觉到自己的手在你手中并不舒服，即便
你不松开，我也会松开。
次日，也就是昨天，我发疯似的等了你一早上，太烦躁了，根本无法待在家中，所以给你留了张
字条，让你来堤岸找我。我久久望着波涛汹涌的海浪，但你不在我身边，让我异常痛苦。于是我回家
了，猛然想到说不定你就在房里等我。我知道那天下午没空，因为本打算早上见你，所以前一天玛德
莱娜说下午会造访时，我也就同意了。不过，也许正因为有她在场，我们才获得了这次重逢中唯一美
好的时光。有些瞬间，我还产生一种奇特的幻觉——这次谈话会持续很久很久……当你凑近我和她坐
着的沙发，俯身向我告别时，我什么也答不上来，觉得一切都结束了，这时才恍然大悟，你是要走
了。
你和玛德莱娜刚出门，我就觉得这是不可能的，难以忍受。你知道吗？我又出了门！想再和你谈
谈，把没有说出口的话全说出来。我跑到普朗提埃姑妈家，这时天色已晚，我不敢，也没有时间说什
么了……于是绝望地回到家，动笔给你写信……想写一封诀别信，告诉你，我再也不给你写信了……
因为我深深感到，我们所有的通信不过是一场海市蜃楼。唉！我们两人的信都是写给自己看的……
噢！杰罗姆！杰罗姆！我们还是永远分开吧！
我确实把这封信撕掉了，但现在又重写一封，几乎和上一封完全一样。朋友啊！我对你的爱丝毫
未减，非但如此，你一靠近，我就慌乱局促，从未像现在这么强烈地感受到：我爱你那么深，却那么
绝望。我必须承认，你也看到了：离你越远，我就越爱你。唉，这一点我也曾预料到！这次期盼已久
的重逢让我彻底了解了，所以我的朋友，你也一样，相信这一点非常重要。别了，我挚爱的兄弟，愿
上帝保佑和指引你，只有在他面前重聚，我们才不必受罚。
仿佛这封信还不够让我痛苦似的，她在第二天又给我寄来一段附言。
在给你写完这封信后，我必须跟你提个要求：在关于我们两人的事上，你还是多谨慎些。你曾不
止一次将我们的事告诉了朱莉叶特和阿贝尔，这伤害了我。正因为如此，在你自察之前很久，我就已
觉得：你的爱理性居多，是一种美好的执拗——坚持着理智的温柔和忠诚。
毫无疑问，她是担心我给阿贝尔看这封信，才加上最后几句话。她是察觉到什么才起了
疑心呢？进而发出这样的提醒？是恰好从我最近的话语中察觉到些许朋友建议的影子吗？
其实，我早觉得和阿贝尔相距甚远，我们走上了两条完全不同的路。我学会了独自承受
痛心彻骨的悲伤和重负，这种嘱咐于我而言完全是多余的。
随后三天，我心中填满不平。我想给阿莉莎回信，又怕讨论太较真，申辩太激烈，还怕
用词的不妥帖，从而加深创伤，难以愈合。为了爱情，我奋力抗争，反反复复地提笔写信。
如今重读这封被泪水浸透的信时，我依然泪流满面。这就是最终寄出的那封信的副本。
阿莉莎！可怜可怜我，也可怜可怜我们吧！你的信让我难过。对于你的恐惧，我真希望能一笑了
之！没错，你写的我都感受到了，只是害怕承认。你把本是臆想的东西变作可怕的现实，竟还加固了
它，横亘在我们之间！
如果你没那么爱我……啊！这种残酷的设定我根本没想过，同你整封信的意思也背道而驰！阿莉
莎呀，你这一时的惊惧有何紧要？一讲道理，我便词穷，只听见心在呻吟。我太爱你，所以显得笨
拙，我越爱你，越不懂怎么跟你沟通。所谓的“理性之爱”——你想让我怎么回答呢？我用整个灵魂在
爱你，你叫我如何区分心与理智？既然我们的通信被你指责，让你那么难受；既然这些信抬高我们，
又那么无情地将我们抛到现实中去，害我们差点丧命；既然你现在认为，你的信只是写给自己看的；
既然我没有勇气再看一封和之前一样残忍的信，那求你了，我们暂时不要通信了。
在这封信接下来的部分中，我否定了她的“判决”，并提出“抗诉”，恳求她把希望放在下
一次会面。我们上一次会面，事事不顺：环境、季节、身边的人，就连那些热情的信件，都
没为我们准备周到。所以，下一次会面之前，我们要保持沉默。我期待它发生在春天的芬格
斯玛尔，在那里，过去的时光会为我辩护，舅舅也很乐意在复活节假期时接待我。至于多住
还是少住几日，我会根据阿莉莎的意思来办。
既然主意已定，信一发出，我便专心投入学习了。
不过，年底之前我就再次见到了阿莉莎。只因近几个月来，阿斯布尔顿小姐的身体每况
愈下，在圣诞节前四天去世了。我退役以后，又和她住在一起，几乎寸步不离她身边，陪她
走过最后的时光。阿莉莎给我寄来明信片，这证明她遵守了我们保持沉默的誓言，甚至把它
看得比我的哀恸更重。她坐火车来，只为了参加葬礼——因为舅舅来不了，下一班火车她就
要赶回去。
葬礼上几乎只有我和她。我们陪送灵柩，并肩走着，几乎没有说话。但在教堂里，她坐
在我身边，有好几次我感觉到她温柔地注视着我。
“说好了，”临别时，她对我说道，“复活节前什么都别谈。”
“好的，可复活节……”
“我等你。”
我们来到墓园门口。我提议送她去车站，她却招手叫了一辆车，连句道别的话都没讲就
离开了。
VII.
VII 
‘Alissa is waiting for you in the garden,’ said my uncle, after having embraced me paternally, when
one day at the end of April I arrived at Fongueusemare. If at first I was disappointed at not finding her
ready to welcome me, the next moment I was grateful that she had spared us both the first
commonplace greetings.
She was at the bottom of the garden. I made my way to the place at the head of the steps, where,
at this time of year, the shrubs that set it closely round were all in flower - lilacs, rowan trees,
laburnums, and weigelias: in order not to catch sight of her from too far, or so that she should not see
me coming, I took the other side of the garden, along the shady path, where the air was cool beneath
the branches. I advanced slowly; the sky was like my joy - warm, bright, delicately pure. No doubt
she was expecting me by the other path. I was close to her, behind her, before she heard me; I
stopped... and as if time could have stopped with me, ‘This is the moment,’ thought I, ‘the most
delicious moment, perhaps, of all, even though it should precede happiness itself - which happiness
itself will not equal.’
I meant to fall on my knees before her; I took a step which she heard. She got up suddenly, letting
the embroidery at which she was working roll to the ground; she stretched out her arms towards me,
put her hands on my shoulders. For a few moments we stayed so, with her arms outstretched, her face
smiling and bent towards me, looking at me tenderly without speaking. She was dressed all in white.
On her grave face - almost too grave - I recognized her childhood’s smile.
‘Listen, Alissa,’ I cried suddenly. ‘I have twelve days before me. I will not stay one more than
you please. Let us settle on a sign, which shall mean: “Tomorrow you must leave Fongueusemare.”
The next day I will go, without recrimination, without complaint. Do you agree?’
As I had not prepared what I was going to say, I spoke more easily. She reflected a moment; then:
‘The evening that I come down to dinner without wearing the amethyst cross you like... will you
understand?’
‘That is to be my last evening.’
‘But will you be able to go without a tear or a sigh?’
‘Without a good-bye. I will leave you on that last evening exactly as I shall have done the
evening before, so simply that you will wonder whether I have understood. But when you look for
me the next morning, I shall just not be there.’
‘I shall not look for you the next morning.’
She held out her hand; as I raised it to my lips, I added:
‘But from now till the fatal evening, not an allusion to make me feel that it is coming.’
‘And you, not an allusion to the parting that will follow.’
The embarrassment, which the solemnity of this meeting was in danger of creating between us,
had now to be dispelled.
‘I should so much like,’ I went on, ‘that these few days with you should seem like other days... I
mean that we should not feel, either of us, that they are exceptional. And then... if we were not to try
too hard to talk just at first...’
She began to laugh. I added:
‘Isn’t there anything we could do together?’
Ever since we could remember we had taken great pleasure in gardening. An inexperienced
gardener had lately replaced the old one, and there was a great deal to be done in the garden, which
had been neglected for the last two months. Some of the rose trees had been badly pruned; some,
luxuriant growers, were encumbered with dead wood; some of the ramblers had come down for want
of the necessary props; others were being exhausted by suckers. Most of them had been grafted by us;
we recognized our nurslings; the attention of which they were in need took up a large part of our
time, and allowed us during the first three days to talk a great deal without saying anything of weight,
and, when we said nothing, it enabled us not to feel our silence burdensome.
In this way we once more grew accustomed to one another. It was on this familiarity that I
counted, rather than on any actual explanation. The very recollection of our separation was already
beginning to disappear from between us, and the fearfulness which I used to feel in her, the tension of
spirit which she used to fear in me, were already beginning to grow less. Alissa seemed younger than
during my melancholy visit of the autumn, and I had never thought her prettier, I had not yet kissed
her. Every evening I saw sparkling on her bodice the little amethyst cross, which she wore hanging
from a gold chain round her neck. Hope sprang up again, confidently, in my breast. Hope, do I say?
No! it was already certainty, and I thought I felt it too in Alissa; for I was so little doubtful of myself
that I could no longer have any doubts of her. Little by little our talk grew bolder.
‘Alissa,’ I said to her one morning, when all the air breathed laughter and delight and our hearts
were opening like the flowers, ‘now that Juliette is happy, won’t you let us too...’
I spoke slowly, with my eyes fixed upon her; on a sudden she turned pale, so extraordinarily, that
I could not finish my sentence.
‘Dear!’ she began, without turning her eyes towards me, ‘I feel happier with you than I thought it
was possible to feel... but, believe me, we were not born for happiness.’
‘What can the soul prefer to happiness?’ I cried, impetuously. She whispered:
‘Holiness...’ so low that I divined rather than heard the word.
My whole happiness spread its wings and flew away out of my heart and up to Heaven.
‘I cannot reach it without you,’ I said, and with my head on her knees, weeping like a child - but
for love, not for grief - I repeated again and again: ‘Not without you; not without you!’
Then that day, too, passed by like the others. But in the evening Alissa came down without the
little amethyst ornament. Faithful to my promise, the next morning at daybreak I left.
On the following day I received the strange letter which I give below, with these lines of
Shakespeare’s as motto:
‘That strain again! it had a dying fall:
O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour! Enough; no more:
‘Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
‘Yes! In spite of myself, I looked for you the whole morning, my brother. I could not believe that you had gone.
I felt resentful against you for having kept to our engagement. I thought it must be a jest. I expected you to step out
from behind every bush. But no! you have really gone. Thank you.
‘I spent the rest of the day haunted by the constant presence of thoughts, which I should like to communicate to
you, and by the peculiar and very definite fear that if I did not, I should have the feeling later on of having failed in
my duty towards you, of having deserved your reproaches...
‘In the first moments of your stay at Fongueusemare it was astonishment that I felt - soon after it was
uneasiness - at the strange contentment that filled my whole being in your presence; “a contentment so great,” you
said, “that I desire nothing beyond!” Alas! that is just what makes me uneasy...
‘I am afraid, my friend, lest you should misunderstand me. Above all, I am afraid lest you should take for
subtlety (Oh, how mistaken a subtlety!) what is merely the expression of the most violent feeling of my soul.
‘“If it did not suffice, it would not be happiness,” you said, do you remember? And I did not know what to
answer. No, Jérôme, it does not suffice us. Jérôme, it must not suffice us. I cannot take this delicious contentment
for the true one. Did we not realize last autumn what misery it covered over!...
‘The true one! Ah! God forbid! We were born for a happiness other than that...
‘Just as it was our correspondence which spoilt our meeting last autumn, so now the memory of your presence
yesterday disenchants my letter of today. What has happened to the delight I used to take in writing to you? By
writing to each other, by being with each other, we have exhausted all that is pure in the joy to which our love dares
aspire. And now, in spite of myself, I exclaim, like Orsino in Twelfth Night: “Enough; no more: ‘tis not so sweet
now as it was before.”
‘Good-bye, my friend. Hic incipit amor Dei. Ah! will you ever know how much I love you?... Until the end I
will be your
‘Alissa’
Against the snare of virtue I was defenceless. All heroism attracted and dazzled me, for I could
not separate it from love. Alissa’s letter inspired me with a rash and intoxicating enthusiasm. God
knows that I strove after more virtue only for her sake. Any path, provided it climbed upwards,
would lead me to her. Ah! The ground could not too soon narrow enough to hold only her and me!
Alas! I did not suspect the subtlety of her feint, and little imagined that it would be by a height where
there was room for only one, that she might escape me once more.
I replied lengthily. I remember the only passage of my letter that was at all clear-sighted.
‘I often think,’ I said, ‘that my love is the best part of me: that all my virtues are suspended to it;
that it raises me above myself, and that without it I should fall back to the mediocre level of a very
ordinary disposition. It is the hope of reaching you that will always make me think the steepest path
the best.’
What did I add which could have induced her to answer as follows:
‘But, my friend, holiness is not a choice; it is an obligation’ [the word was underlined three times in her letter].
‘If you are what I take you to be, you will not be able to evade it either.’
That was all. I understood, or rather I had a foreboding, that our correspondence would stop there,
and that neither the most cunning counsels nor the most steadfast determination would be of any
avail.
I wrote again, however, lengthily, tenderly. After my third letter I received this note:
‘My friend,
‘Do not imagine that I have made any resolution not to write to you; I merely no longer take any pleasure in
writing. And yet your letters still interest me, but I reproach myself more and more for engrossing so much of your
thoughts.
‘The summer is not far off. I propose that we give up our correspondence for a time, and that you come and
spend the last fortnight of September with me at Fongueusemare. Do you accept? If you do, I have no need of a
reply. I shall take your silence for consent, and hope, therefore, that you will not answer.’
I did not answer. No doubt this silence was only the last trial to which she was subjecting me.
When, after a few months’ work and a few weeks’ travel, I returned to Fongueusemare, it was with
the most tranquil assurance.
How should I, by a simple recital, make clear at once what I myself understood at first so ill?
What can I paint here save the occasion of the wretchedness which from that moment overwhelmed
me wholly? For if I have no forgiveness in my heart today for my failure to recognize that love that
was still throbbing, hidden under a semblance so artificial, it was at first only this semblance that I
was able to see; and so, no longer finding my friend, I accused her... No! Even then, Alissa, I did not
accuse you, but wept despairingly that I could recognize you no longer. Now that I can gauge the
strength of your love by the cunning of its silence and by its cruel workings, must I love you all the
more, the more agonizingly you bereft me?
Disdain? Coldness? No; nothing that could be overcome; nothing against which I could even
struggle: and sometimes I hesitated, doubting whether I had not invented my misery, so subtle
seemed its cause, and so skilful was Alissa’s pretence of not understanding it. What should I have
complained of? Her welcome was more smiling than ever; never had she shown herself more cordial,
more attentive; the first day I was almost taken in by it. What did it matter, after all, that she did her
hair in a new way, which flattened it and dragged it back from her face, so that her features were
harshened and their true expression altered - that an unbecoming dress, dull in colour and ugly in
texture, turned the delicate rhythm of her body to clumsiness?... There was nothing here, I thought
blindly, that might not be remedied the very next day, either of her own accord or at my request. I
was more unpleasantly affected by the cordiality, by the attentions, which were so foreign to our
habits, and in which I was afraid I saw more deliberation than spontaneity, and, though I scarcely
dare say so, more politeness than love.
That evening, when I went into the drawing-room, I was astonished not to find the piano in its
usual place; Alissa answered my exclamation of disappointment in her most tranquil voice:
‘It has gone to be done up, dear.’
‘But I repeatedly told you, my child,’ said my uncle, in a tone of reproach that was almost severe,
‘that as it had done well enough up till now, you might have waited until Jérôme had gone before
sending it away; your haste has deprived us of a great pleasure.’
‘But, father,’ said she, turning aside to blush, ‘I assure you it had got so jingly latterly that Jérôme
himself wouldn’t have been able to get anything out of it.’
‘When you played it, it didn’t seem so bad,’ said my uncle.
She stayed a few moments in the shadow, stooping down, as if she were engaged in taking the
measurements of a chair cover, then she left the room abruptly, and did not return till later, when she
brought in the tray with the cup of tisane which my uncle was in the habit of taking every evening.
The next day she changed neither the way of doing her hair nor her dress; seated beside her father
on a bench in front of the house, she went on with the mending on which she had already been
engaged the evening before. On the bench or the table beside her was a great basket full of stockings
and socks into which she dipped. A few days later it was towels and sheets. This work absorbed her,
it seemed, to such a pitch that every gleam of expression vanished from her lips and her eyes.
‘Alissa!’ I exclaimed the first evening, almost terrified by this obliteration of all poetry from her
face, which I could hardly recognize, and at which I had been gazing for some moments without her
seeming to feel my look.
‘What is it?’ said she, raising her head.
‘I wanted to see if you would hear me. Your thoughts seemed so far away from me.’
‘No; they are here; but this darning requires a great deal of attention.’
‘Would you like me to read to you while you are sewing?’
‘I am afraid I shouldn’t be able to listen very well.’
‘Why do you choose such absorbing work to do?’
‘Someone must do it.’
‘There are so many poor women who would be glad to do it for the sake of earning a trifle. It
can’t be from economy that you undertake such a tedious task?’
She at once assured me that she liked no other kind of sewing so much, that it was the only kind
she had done for a long time past, and that she was doubtless out of practice for doing anything else.
She smiled as she spoke. Never had her voice been sweeter than now, when she was so grieving me.
‘I am saying nothing but what is natural,’ her face seemed to declare, ‘why should it make you sad?’
And my whole heart’s protest no longer even rose to my lips - it choked me.
A day or two later, as we had been picking roses, she invited me to carry them for her to her
room, into which I had not as yet been this year. What flattering hopes arose in me at once! For I had
not got beyond blaming myself for my sadness; one word from her would have healed my heart.
I never went into this room without emotion; I cannot tell what it was that made up the kind of
melodious peace which breathed in it, and in which I recognized Alissa. The blue shadow of the
curtains at the windows and round the bed, the furniture of shining mahogany, the order, the
spotlessness, the silence, all spoke to my heart of her purity and pensive grace.
I was astonished that morning to see that two large photographs of some Masaccios, which I had
brought back from Italy, were no longer on the wall beside her bed; I was on the point of asking her
what had become of them when my glance fell on the bookshelf close by, where she used to keep her
bedside books. This little collection had been gradually formed, partly by the books I had given her,
partly by others which we had read together. I had just noticed that all these books had been
removed, and that they had been replaced exclusively by a number of insignificant little works of
vulgar piety, for which I hoped she had nothing but contempt. Raising my eyes suddenly, I saw that
Alissa was laughing - yes, laughing - as she watched me.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said she at once: ‘your face made me laugh; it fell so abruptly when you saw
my bookcase.’
I felt very little inclined for pleasantry.
‘No, really, Alissa, is that what you read now?’
‘Yes, certainly. What is it surprises you?’
‘I should have thought that a mind accustomed to substantial food would have been disgusted by
such sickly stuff.’
‘I don’t understand you,’ said she. ‘These are humble souls who talk to me simply, and express
themselves as best they can. I take pleasure in their society. I know beforehand that they will not fall
into any snare of fine language, and that I, as I read, shall not be tempted by any profane admiration.’
‘Do you read nothing but that, then, now?’
‘Almost. Yes, for the last few months. But I haven’t much time for reading now. And I confess
that quite lately, when I tried to re-read one of the great authors whom you taught me to admire, I felt
like the man in the Scriptures, who strives to add a cubit to his height.’
‘Who is this “great author” who has given you such an odd opinion of yourself?’
‘He didn’t give it me, but it was while reading him that I got it... It was Pascal. Perhaps I lighted
on some passage that was not so good...’
I made an impatient movement. She spoke in a clear monotonous voice, as if she were reciting a
lesson, not lifting her eyes from her flowers, which she went on arranging and rearranging
interminably. She stopped for an instant at my movement and then continued in the same tone:
‘Such surprising grandiloquence and such effort! - and to prove so little! I wonder sometimes
whether his pathetic intonation is not the result of doubt rather than of faith. The voice of perfect faith
speaks with fewer tears, with fewer tremors.’
‘It is just those very tremors, those very tears which make the beauty of his voice,’ I endeavoured
to retort, although dispiritedly; for in her words I could recognize nothing of what I loved in Alissa. I
write them down as I remember them, and without any after addition of either art or logic.
‘If he had not first emptied this life of its joy,’ she went on, ‘it would weigh heavier in the balance
than...’
‘Than what?’ I asked, for I was amazed at her strange sayings.
‘Than the uncertain felicity he holds out.’
‘Don’t you believe in it, then?’ I exclaimed.
‘No matter!’ she answered: ‘I wish it to remain uncertain, so that every suspicion of a bargain
may be removed. The soul that loves God steeps itself in virtue out of natural nobility, and not for the
hope of reward.’
‘And that is the reason of the secret scepticism in which nobility such as Pascal’s finds a refuge?’
‘Not scepticism - Jansenism,’ said she smiling. ‘What have I to do with such things? These poor
souls, here,’ she added, turning towards her books, ‘would be at a loss to say whether they are
Jansenist or quietist or what not. They bow down before God like the grass which is bent by the
wind, without guile or anxiety or beauty. They consider themselves of little account, and know that
their only value lies in their effacement before God.’
‘Alissa!’ I cried, ‘why do you tear off your wings?’ Her voice remained so calm and natural that
my exclamation seemed to me all the more absurdly emphatic.
She smiled again, and shook her head. ‘All that I brought away from my last visit to Pascal...’
‘Was what?’ I asked, for she stopped.
‘This saying of Christ’s: “Whosoever shall seek to save his life shall lose it.” And as for that,’ she
went on, smiling still more and looking me steadily in the face, ‘I really hardly understood him any
longer. When one has lived any time in the society of such lowly ones as these, it is extraordinary
how quickly the sublimity of the great leaves one breathless and exhausted.’
Would my discomposure allow me no answer?
‘If I were obliged to read all these sermons and tracts with you now...’
‘But,’ she interrupted, ‘I should be very sorry to see you read them! I agree with you; I think you
were meant for much better things than that.’
She spoke quite simply and without seeming to suspect that my heart might be rent by these
words which implied the separation of our lives. My head was burning; I should have liked to go on
speaking; I should have liked to cry; perhaps my tears would have vanquished her; but I remained
without saying a word, my elbows on the mantelpiece, my head buried in my hands. She went on
calmly arranging her flowers, seeing nothing - or pretending to see nothing of my suffering...
At this moment the first bell rang.
‘I shall never be ready for lunch,’ said she. ‘You must go away now.’ And as if it had been
nothing but play: ‘We will go on with this conversation another time.’
We never went on with the conversation. Alissa continually eluded me; not that she ever appeared
to be avoiding me; but every casual occupation became a duty of far more urgent importance. I had to
wait my turn; I only came after the constantly recurring cares of the household, after she had attended
to the alterations that were being carried out in the barn, after her visits to the farmers, and after her
visits to the poor, with whom she busied herself more and more. I had the time that was left over, and
very little it was; I never saw her but she was in a hurry - though it was still, perhaps, in the midst of
these trivial occupations, and when I gave up pursuing her, that I least felt how much I had been
dispossessed. The slightest talk showed it me more clearly. When Alissa granted me a few minutes, it
was, indeed, for the most laborious conversation to which she lent herself as one does to playing with
a child. She passed beside me swiftly, absent-minded and smiling; and I felt she had become more
distant than if I had never known her. It even seemed to me sometimes that there was a kind of
challenge in her smile, or at any rate a kind of irony, and that she took amusement in thus eluding my
wishes... And at that it was myself that I turned to upbraid, not wishing to give way to reproaches,
and, indeed, hardly knowing what might be expected from her, nor with what I could reproach her.
Thus the days from which I had promised myself so much felicity passed by. I contemplated their
flight with stupor, but without desiring to increase their number or delay their passage, so greatly
each one aggravated my grief Two days before my departure, however, Alissa came with me to the
bench beside the deserted marl-pit; it was a bright autumn evening: as far as the cloudless horizon,
every blue-tinted detail of the landscape stood out distinct and clear, and in the past the dimmest of
its memories. I could not withhold my lamentations as I showed her my present unhappiness - as I
showed her the happiness I had lost.
‘But what is it I can do, my friend?’ she said at once. ‘You are in love with a phantom.’
‘No, not with a phantom, Alissa.’
‘With a creature of your imagination.’
‘Alas! I am not inventing. She was once my friend. I call upon her. Alissa! Alissa! it was you I
loved. What have you done with yourself? What have you made yourself become?’
She remained a few moments without answering, slowly pulling a flower to pieces and keeping
her head down. Then, at last:
‘Jérôme, why don’t you simply admit that you love me less?’
‘Because it’s not true! Because it’s not true!’ I exclaimed indignantly: ‘because I never loved you
more.’
‘You love me - and yet you regret me!’ she said, trying to smile, and slightly shrugging her
shoulders.
‘I cannot put my love into the past.’
The ground was giving way beneath me; and I caught at anything.
‘It must pass with the rest.’
‘A love like mine will pass only with me.’
‘It will gradually grow less. The Alissa whom you think you still love, already exists only in your
memory; a day will come when you will only remember that you loved her.’
‘You speak as if her place might be taken in my heart, or as if my heart were going to stop loving.
Do you no longer remember that you once loved me yourself that you take such pleasure in torturing
me?’
I saw her pale lips tremble; in an almost inaudible voice she whispered:
‘No, no; Alissa has not changed in that.’
‘Why, then nothing has changed,’ I said, seizing her arm...
She went on firmly:
‘One word would explain everything; why don’t you dare say it?’
‘What word?’
‘I have grown older.’
‘Hush!’
I protested immediately that I myself had grown as much older as she, that the difference of age
between us remained the same... but she had regained control of herself; the one and only moment
had gone by, and by beginning to argue I let slip my advantage; the ground gave way beneath me.
Two days later I left Fongueusemare, discontented with her and with myself, full of a vague
hatred against what I still called ‘virtue’, and of resentment against the habitual occupation of my
heart. It seemed as though during this last meeting, and through the very exaggeration of my love, I
had come to the end of all my fervour; each one of Alissa’s phrases, against which I had at first
rebelled, remained alive and triumphant within me, after my protestations had died away. Yes, no
doubt, she was right! It was nothing but a phantom that I cared for; the Alissa that I had loved, that I
still loved, was no more... Yes, no doubt we had grown old! This frightful obliteration of all poetry
which had chilled my very heart, was nothing, after all, but a return to the natural course of things; if
by slow degrees I had exalted her, if out of her I had made myself an idol, and adorned it with all that
I was enamoured of, what now remained to me as the result of my labours but my fatigue? As soon as
she was left to herself, Alissa had relapsed to her own level - a mediocre level, on which I found
myself too, but on which I no longer desired her. Ah! how absurd and fantastic seemed this
exhausting effort of virtue in order to reach her there, on the heights where she had been placed by
my own sole endeavour. A little less pride and our love would have been easy... but what sense was
there in persisting in a love without object? This was to be obstinate, not to be faithful. Faithful to
what? To a delusion. Was it not wiser to admit to myself that I had been mistaken?
In the meantime I had been offered a place in the School of Athens; I agreed to take it up at once,
with no feeling of either ambition or pleasure, but welcoming the idea of departure as though it had
been an escape.
第七章
第七章
四月底，我来到芬格斯玛尔。
“阿莉莎在花园等你。”舅舅像父亲一样拥抱我，这样说道。起初，见阿莉莎没来迎接，
我的确有所失望，但很快又心生感激，因为她免去了我们重逢时俗套的寒暄。
她在花园尽头。我朝着圆形路口走去，四周花团锦簇，开满丁香、花楸、金雀花、锦带
花……为了避免大老远就看到她，或者说为了不让她看见我走来，我走了花园另一边的“黑暗
小道”。浓荫下空气清洁，我慢慢踱步：天那么暖，那么亮，那么精致纯净，仿若我的欢愉。
她必定盼着我从另一条路过去，我悄无声息地来到她身边，走到她身后，停下脚步，时间也
随我一道停下来……我心想，就是这一刻，也许这是最美好的时刻——它先于幸福而来，甚
至胜于幸福本身。
我走了一步，想跪在她身前。她却听到了，猛地站起来，手中的刺绣也落在地上。她伸
出双臂，把手搭在我肩上。我们就这样待了片刻。她一直伸着手臂，倾着头微笑，温柔地看
我，一言不发。她穿了一身白衣，在那张过于严肃的脸庞上，我又看到孩子般的笑容……
“听着，阿莉莎，”我突然高声说道，“我有十二天的假期，你若不高兴，我一天也不会多
待。我们约定个暗号吧，看到它，表明我第二天就必须离开芬格斯玛尔。而且次日说走就
走，不非难，也不抱怨，你同意吗？”
这番话我事先并无准备，却说得极其自然。她想了想，回答道：“我下楼吃晚饭时，脖子
上若没有戴你喜爱的紫晶十字架……你就明白了吧？”
“那会是我在这里的最后一晚。”
“你真能就那么走吗？”她继续道，“不流泪，不叹息……”
“也不告别，我会像前一天那样与你分别，看起来漫不经心。你起初还会纳闷——他真的
明白吗？但第二天早上，当你想找我时就会发现，我已经不在了。”
“第二天，我也不会去找你。”
我接过她伸出的手，放在唇边吻了吻，继续说道：“从现在起，直至那最后一夜，不要给
我任何能产生预感的暗示。”
“你也一样，不要给我任何即将离开的暗示。”
这场一本正经的会面很可能引起我们之间的尴尬，现在是时候打破它了。于是我说
道：“我非常希望在你身边的这几天，能像过去一样……我是说，我们都别把这些日子想得太
特殊，也先别急于找话题聊……”
她笑了起来。我补充道：“难道我们就没有可以一起干的事吗？”
我们一直对园艺感兴趣。不久之前，一个没经验的新园丁取代了老园丁。花园荒废了两
个月，能打理的地方有不少：玫瑰没有修剪，有些长得密密麻麻，枯枝缠绕；另有一些攀着
墙壁，但缺乏支撑，塌落下来；还有些疯长的树枝，吸走了其他枝叶的营养。大部分花木都
是我们从前嫁接的，我们认得出来，但照料起来很费时间。所以头三天，我们虽然说得挺
多，但都无关紧要，而且不说话的时候，也不觉得冷场。
我们就这样又习惯了彼此。我对于这种习惯的倚重，高于任何解释说明。就连之前分离
的事，都被我们淡忘了。同样，我本来常常能感到她的恐惧——那种对我内心畏怯的深深不
安，如今也减弱了。阿莉莎看起来更年轻，比我上次秋日之行时强多了，她从未显得如此美
丽过，但我还没吻过她。每天晚上，看见她上衣的小金链子上，还吊着那闪亮亮的紫晶小十
字架，我就充满信心，重燃起希望。我说了“希望”吗？其实我已经深信不疑，脑海中觉得，
阿莉莎也和我一样。因为我不再怀疑自己，对她也不再疑心重重。我们的谈话逐渐大胆起
来。
一天早上，天气可爱迷人，我们的心情也如同盛放的鲜花。我说道：“阿莉莎，现在朱莉
叶特已经得到幸福，我们也别落下，我们也……”
我看着她，缓缓道来。她的脸色突然一片煞白，所以我没能说完。
“我的朋友！”她说道，但没有转过头来看我，“和你在一起，我很幸福，比我认为的还要
幸福……但相信我，我们并不是为了幸福而生的。”
“除了幸福，灵魂还能追求什么呢？”我冲动地嚷道。
她却低声细语：“神圣……”声音那么小。与其说是我听到的，倒不如说是猜到的。
所有的幸福都张开翅膀，离开我，冲向云霄。
“没有你，我达不到。”我说道，脑袋抵着她的膝头，哭得像个孩子，但并不是因为伤
心，而是因为爱情。我继续道：“不能没有你，不能没有你！”
这天像往常一样过去了。但到了晚上，阿莉莎没戴那条紫晶小首饰。为了信守承诺，次
日，天刚拂晓，我便离开了。
第三天，我收到下面这封古怪的信，信件开头引用了莎士比亚的几句诗作为题词。
又奏起这个调子来了！它有一种渐渐消沉下去的节奏。
啊！它经过我的耳畔，
就像微风吹拂一丛紫罗兰，
一面把花香偷走，一面又把花香分送。
够了！别再奏下去了！
它现在已经不像原来那样甜蜜。[1]
没错，我的兄弟，我还是情不自禁地找了你一早上，无法相信你已走了，还恨你信守承诺。我总
想，这是闹着玩儿的，所以走过每片灌木丛时，总盼着你会从后面出现。但是没有，你真的走了。谢
谢。
在当天剩下的时间里，我的脑海中萦绕着几个坚定的想法，我想告诉你。我有种奇怪而清晰的恐
惧，总觉得若不告诉你，不久以后，会对你产生亏欠，你的指责也变得理所当然。
你来到芬格斯玛尔的头几个小时，我感到惊奇，之后很快又不安起来，因为在你身边，我整个身
心有一种奇异的满足。你跟我说过：“那么满足，所以别无所求！”唉！连这句话都让我不安……
朋友啊，我担心你误解我，尤其担心你把我灵魂中最强烈的情感表达，当作是为了钻牛角尖而说
理。啊！那就大错特错了。
“如果幸福不能让人满足，就不是幸福。”你这么跟我说过，还记得吗？我当时不知如何应答。但
不是的，杰罗姆。我们无法满足，也不该满足。这种满足充满乐趣，但我们不该当真。今年秋天时，
我们不是早就明白这满足中隐藏了多少不幸吗？
千真万确！上帝保佑它并不存在！因为我们是为了另一种幸福而生的……
早前的书信破坏了我们秋天的重逢，同样，昨日与你见面的回忆，也破坏了我今天写信的意趣。
从前给你写信时的陶醉，如今都去哪儿了？这些书信和会面，耗尽了我们在爱情中所追求的纯粹欢
乐。现在，我忍不住像《第十二夜》中的奥西诺那样大喊：“够了！别再奏下去了！它现在已经不像
原来那样甜蜜。”
再见，我的朋友。现在起去爱上帝吧。[2]唉！你可知道我有多爱你吗？……我永远都是你的阿莉
莎。
我对于美德的圈套无能为力。所有英雄主义都吸引着我，令我着迷。因为我把美德和爱
情混为一谈，所以阿莉莎的信让我陷入最轻率的热忱之中。上帝明鉴，我努力追求更高的美
德，只是为了她。只要攀登，任何小径都能带我上去同她会合。啊！地面再怎么快速收缩都
嫌不够，愿到最后这片土地只能装下我们两个！唉！对她精妙的伪装，我并未起疑心，也没
能想到，她借助“山顶”再一次逃离了我。
我给她回了封长信，只记得有这样一段还算有远见的话，我对她说：
我常常觉得，爱情是我拥有过最美妙的东西，我的所有美德都依附于它。它让我腾空超越自己，
但若没有你，我会再次跌至平庸之地，回到极寻常的秉性中去。因为抱着与你重逢的期待，在我眼里
最险峻的小道也总是最好的。
我到底还写了些什么？促使她给我回了以下内容：
我的朋友，可“神圣”并非一种选择，而是无法逃避的“责任”。如果我没有看错你，你也无法逃避
这份“责任”。
在她的信中，“责任”下方画了三道线，以示强调。
一切都结束了。我明白，更确切地说是我预感到了，我们的通信就此结束。无论多狡猾
的建议，多执着的意念，都无济于事。
但我仍给她写柔情万种的长信。在寄出第三封信后，我收到了这张字条。
亲爱的朋友：
别以为我下定决心不给你写信了，我只是没了兴致。你的信还是能带给我愉悦，但我自责起来，
真不该在你心中占据这么大的位置。
夏天不远了。这段时间我们就不要写信了。九月的下半月，你可以来芬格斯玛尔，在我身边度
过。你同意吗？如果同意，就不必回信了。我会把你的沉默视作默许，希望你别回信了。
我没有回信。毫无疑问，“沉默”是她对我最后的考验。经历了几个月的学习和数周的旅
行后，我怀着无比平静和镇定的心情，回到芬格斯玛尔。
当初我就没弄明白的事，如何能三言两语陈述出来，让人立刻理解呢？从那时起，我整
个人就陷入悲痛之中，除了缘由，现在的我还能描摹出什么来呢？若我无法透过最虚伪的外
表，感受到爱情的颤动，直到今日也不会原谅自己。但最初，我只看到这个外表，还因为女
友与从前大不相同，而责怪她……不，阿莉莎！其实当时我并不怪你，只是因为再也认不出
你来而绝望地悲鸣。如今，我从你沉默的诡计和残忍的谋略中，明白了你的爱有多么强烈。
所以，你伤我越深，我不是越该爱你吗？
鄙视？冷漠？不，这里没有任何可以克服的东西，甚至没有可以让我为之斗争的东西。
有时，我也犹疑——我的不幸会不会是凭空臆造？因为它的起因难以捉摸，也因为阿莉莎精
于装聋作哑。我能抱怨什么呢？那次阿莉莎迎接我时，比以往任何时候都笑意盈盈，更殷
勤，也更关切。第一天，我几乎上了她的当……尽管她换了一种新发型：头发平平地向后梳
起，面部线条很突出，仿佛是为了扭曲表情似的；尽管她穿了一件颜色暗沉的胸衣：摸起来
质地很差，不太得体，也破坏了她身体的曼妙风韵……但这些有什么关系呢？只要她愿意都
可以纠正。我还曾盲目地想，第二天起她就会主动纠正，或者在我的请求之下做出改变。我
更担心的是那种关切和殷勤，这在我们之间并不常见。我担心她这么做是出自决心而非激
情，冒昧说一句：是出自礼貌而非爱情。
晚上我走进客厅时，惊讶地发现钢琴不在原来的位置。失望之下，我惊呼起来。
“我的朋友，钢琴送去修理了。”阿莉莎异常平静地说道。
“孩子，我跟你说了多少次，”舅舅用一种近乎严厉的语气责怪道，“既然你用到现在都没
事，等杰罗姆走后再送修也不迟呀，何必这么着急，剥夺了我们的一大乐趣……”
“可是爸爸，”阿莉莎脸颊发红，别开脸去，“我敢肯定，它最近的声音变得特别粗沉，就
算杰罗姆也弹不出什么调子来。”
“你弹的时候，”舅舅接口道，“听着没那么糟呀。”
有片刻光景，阿莉莎俯身待在阴影中，似乎在专心测定沙发套的尺寸。然后她突然离开
房间，过了好一会儿才回来，手里端着的托盘上，放着舅舅每晚服用的药茶。
第二天她依然如故，上衣和发型都没变。她和父亲坐在屋前的长椅上，她又赶起昨晚的
针线活，确切地说是缝补活：她从一个大篮子里，掏出很多破旧的短袜和长袜，摊放在旁边
的长椅或桌子上。几天之后，她又开始缝补毛巾和床单之类的东西……这项工作彻底耗尽她
的心力，让她的双唇失去一切表达之力，眼睛也失去神采。
“阿莉莎！”头天晚上我就惊讶地嚷起来。这张面孔失去了诗意，我几乎认不出来，盯着
她看了好一会儿，但她似乎并未察觉我的目光。
“怎么了？”她抬起头问道。
“我想看看你能不能听见我说话。你的心思好像离我特别远。”
“不，我就在这里。只是这些缝补活太花心思了。”
“你做针线活的时候，需要我给你读些什么吗？”
“恐怕我没法注意听。”
“你为什么要挑这么费神的事来做呢？”
“总得有人来做。”
“有那么多可怜的女人，得靠这个挣钱。你也非来干这吃力不讨好的活计，总不至于是为
了省钱吧？”
她立刻肯定地说自己最喜欢这个活。好长时间以来，她都没有干过其他的活了，无疑都
生疏了……她边说边笑，声音那么温柔，我却从未这样沮丧过。
“我说的都是再自然不过的事，你怎么哭丧着脸呢？”她的表情分明这样说着。我的心拼
命抗争，嘴里却一个字也吐不出来。这种感觉快要让我窒息。
第三天，阿莉莎让我把我们摘完的玫瑰送去她卧室，今年我还未曾踏入过那里，心中立
刻升腾起多大的希望啊！她只消用一个字，就能治愈我因伤感而自责的心。
每当走进她的卧室时，我总是很激动。房间布置给人一种雅致的平和感，那是阿莉莎特
有的味道。床边和窗帘上投下几道蓝色的暗影；桃花心木的家具明光锃亮。一切都干干净
净、整整齐齐，在这份安静恬淡中，我感受到她的纯洁和饱含沉思的优雅。
我从意大利带回来的两幅马萨乔作品的大照片，本来挂在房间床边的墙上，但今天早
上，我惊讶地发现，它们不翼而飞了。我正想问问是怎么回事，视线却恰好落到她床头放书
的搁架上——这小书库是慢慢积累起来的，这里的书一半是我送的，另一半是我们一起读过
的。我才发现这些书全被拿走了，取而代之放上的是我本以为她会嗤之以鼻的东西：一些毫
无价值、庸俗不堪的宗教宣传小册子。我猛地抬起双眼，正好看到她在笑。没错，她一边观
察着我，一边在笑。
“不好意思，”她随即说道，“是你的表情引我发笑。看到我的藏书，你的表情变化实在太
生硬了……”
我却一点也没有开玩笑的心情：“不，说真的，阿莉莎，你现在就读这些书吗？”
“没错，有什么好奇怪的吗？”
“我原认为习惯了营养丰富的食粮，聪明人就绝不会品尝这种索然无味的东西了。”
“我不懂你的意思，”她说，“这些书里的思想很朴实，表达也很清晰，我就喜欢和它们沟
通，和它们谈心很简单。我早就知道——我和它们谁都不会让步。它们绝不会中了优美语言
的圈套，我在读它们时，也不会产生任何世俗的钦佩。”
“所以你现在只读这些吗？”
“差不多吧。这几个月来都是如此。况且，我也没多少读书的时间。实话跟你说，最近我
曾想重读某个伟大作家的作品，就是你之前跟我说过值得敬佩的作家中的一位。我觉得他就
像《圣经》里描述的那种人，费尽心力把自己拔高了五十厘米。”
“是哪一位‘伟大作家’，竟让你产生如此奇怪的想法？”
“并不是他给了我这种想法，是读他的作品让我产生了这种想法……是帕斯卡尔。也许是
我看的那段不太好……”
她说话的声音清脆而单调，仿佛在背诵课文。手里不停摆弄着鲜花，视线也未曾从花上
移开过。
我做了个不耐烦的姿势，为此她停顿片刻，继而用同样的声调说道：“书里用词之浮夸令
人咋舌，费尽心机只为证明微不足道的东西。有时我想，他那抑扬顿挫的声调可能并非出自
信仰，而是出自怀疑。完美的信仰不会引来那么多眼泪，声音也不会带有丝毫颤抖。”
“正是颤抖和眼泪，才展现了这声音的奇美。”我试图反驳，却苍白无力。因为从这番话
中，我完全看不到阿莉莎身上曾有的特质——也是我钟爱的特质。
我凭着回忆如实记录这些话，之后也未加任何修饰和逻辑上的整理。
“如果他不先把快乐从目前的生活中清除出去，”她继续道，“那在天平上，目前的生活就
会重于……”
“重于什么？”我说，她这种古怪的言论令人瞠目结舌。
“重于他所说的不确定的极乐。”
“所以你也不信这不确定的极乐吧？”我嚷道。
“这不重要！”她接着说道，“我倒想这极乐是虚虚实实，那就能摒除所有交易买卖的可能
了。热爱上帝的灵魂投身于德行之中，是人性高尚使然，而非出于对回报的期许。”
“帕斯卡尔的高尚正在于这种秘而不宣的怀疑主义。”
“不是怀疑主义，而是冉森派教义，”她笑着说，“我当初为何要和这些打交道呢？”她又
把目光转向书，“这些可悲的人……他们自己也说不清是属于冉森派还是寂静派，或者其他什
么教派。他们屈服于上帝，就像被风压倒的小草，无能为力，内心无波无澜，也毫无美感可
言。他们知道自己的存在感微乎其微，也明白只有在上帝面前消失，兴许才有些许价值。”
“阿莉莎！”我大喊道，“为什么要这样悲观。”
她的声音那么平静而自然，与之相比，我的呼喊显得更加可笑而浮夸。
她摇着头又笑了起来：“最近这次重读帕斯卡尔，吸引我的只有……”
“只有什么？”我提问是因为她顿住了。
“只有基督的这句话：想拯救生命的人，必会失去生命。至于其他内容，”她直直地瞧着
我，笑得更灿烂，“其实我几乎没看懂。和一群小人物相处久了，很奇怪，面对崇高的伟人，
我竟那么快喘不过气来。”
我心乱如麻，莫非已找不出任何话来回答她了吗？
“如果今天，让我同你一起读这些训诫和默祷……”
“可是，”她打断我，“若看见你读这些，我也会痛心的！事实上，我觉得你看的书应该比
这强百倍。”
她说得轻松平常，似乎根本没想过这些话会将我们二人隔绝开来，进而撕碎我的心。我
头脑发热，本想再说些什么，然后大哭一场，说不定眼泪会让她缴械投降。但我手肘靠在壁
炉上，额头撑在手心里，依旧无言以对。她却继续静静地摆弄鲜花，全然无视我的痛苦，或
者假装没看见……
这时，午餐的第一次铃声响了起来。
“午饭前我不可能弄好的，”她说，“你快去吧。”就像刚才发生的一切不过是消遣，她继
续道：“我们以后接着聊。”
这次谈话并没有下文。阿莉莎一直在避开我，然而表面上并不像故意躲我。但无论遇到
什么事，都成了她必须即刻处理的紧迫事务。我得排队，等她料理完层见叠出的家务，监督
完必要的谷仓工事，探望完佃农，慰问完她日益关心的穷人，才会轮到我。留给我的时间少
得可怜，她总是忙忙碌碌。但也许正是由于这些日常琐事，让我停止了追逐，我才没感到自
己失去那么多东西。微小的谈话，能引起我更多的注意。阿莉莎给我一小会儿时间，也不过
展开一场无比矫揉造作的对话罢了，在她看来这就像孩子在做游戏。她心不在焉地匆匆走过
我身旁，脸上带着笑意，这让我觉得她那么遥不可及，仿佛素昧平生。有时，我甚至觉得她
的笑容中包含某种挑衅的意味，至少也有讥讽之意，她以逃避我的期待为乐……很快我把责
任归咎于自己，因为不想怪罪他人。我不知道对她还能抱有什么期待，也不知道能怪她什
么。
本来以为会无比幸福的日子，就这样一天天溜走。我惊讶地看着它流逝，既不想加快它
的消逝，也无意拖延时间，因为无论哪样都会加深我的痛苦。然而，离我动身还有两天时，
阿莉莎陪我在废弃泥灰岩矿场的长椅上坐了会儿。那是个秋日的黄昏，天气晴朗，云消雾
散，万物染上了清澈的蓝，连最缥缈不定的往事都清晰可见。于是，我忍不住抱怨：“过去太
幸福，如今却都失去了，我才会感到如此不幸。”
“朋友，我能怎么办呢？”她立刻说道，“你爱上了一个影子。”
“不，阿莉莎，绝不是影子。”
“你爱上的是一个臆想出来的形象。”
“唉！我没有凭空捏造。她是存在的，我要把她唤回来。阿莉莎！阿莉莎呀！你便是我一
直爱着的那个人，你到底在对自己做什么？到底想把自己变成什么样子？”
她一言不发地低着头，缓缓摘去一朵花的花瓣。终于，她说道：“杰罗姆，为什么不直接
承认你没那么爱我了呢？”
“因为不是这样的！不是这样的！”我声嘶力竭地喊着，“因为我从未这样爱你。”
“你爱我……又为我感到惋惜。”说着，她微微耸肩，努力挤出笑容。
“我不能让爱情就这么走了。”
我脚下的土地消失无踪，我拼命去抓住一切……
“它和其他事物一样，必然会消失的。”
“除非我不在了，这份感情才会消失。”
“它会慢慢淡下来的。你声称还爱的这个阿莉莎，已不是你回忆里的她了。终有一天，你
只会记得曾经爱过这个人罢了。”
“你这么说，好像认为有其他东西能取代她在我心中的位置似的，好像觉得我必定会不再
爱她。你以折磨我为乐，难道忘了自己也曾爱过我吗？”
我看到她苍白的嘴唇颤抖起来，喃喃自语着，声音含糊不清。
“不，不会的。在这一点上阿莉莎是不会改变的。”
“那么，一切都是可以不变的。”我抓着她的手臂说道。
这一回，她坚定地说道：“有句话就可以解释一切。你为什么不敢说出来？”
“哪句话？”
“我老了。”
“不要说了……”
我随即辩驳说：我同她一样老了，我们的年龄差距没有改变。但这会儿她已恢复镇定，
我错过了千载难逢的机会。光顾着争辩，让我手足无措，失去了所有优势。
两天后，我怀着对自己和阿莉莎的失望，离开了芬格斯玛尔。我对自己所说的“美德”抱
有隐约的怨恨，也埋怨萦绕心头的伧俗之事。这最后一次会面，好像过分夸大了我的爱情，
也耗尽了我的热情。阿莉莎的每句话，起初总让我愤愤不平，但在抗议频频失利之后，又得
意扬扬地在我心上活跃起来。唉！她必定是对的。我钟爱的不过是个影子。我爱过的那个阿
莉莎已不复存在……唉！我们肯定是老了！诗意就这样消失在眼前，让我恐惧和寒心，但这
终究是回归自然罢了，没什么大不了的。我将阿莉莎一点点抬高，把她塑造成偶像，用所有
喜欢的东西装点着她。而如今，除却疲乏之外，这番经营还剩下什么呢？一放任自流，阿莉
莎就会降回平庸的层次；而我也一样，若处于那个层次，就不会再爱她。为了与她在同一个
高度相见，我单凭自身努力抬高了她。这番令人疲惫的美德努力到底有多么荒唐和虚幻啊！
如果我们当初都少一些自大，这份爱情本来很简单……然而，从今往后，坚守一份没有对象
的爱情，到底有何意义呢？这是顽固，而不是忠诚。忠于什么？一个误会吗？承认自己弄错
了，难道不是最明智之举吗？
这时，我获得了雅典学院的推荐。我并不想去，也没有兴趣，但还是同意立刻前往。一
想到可以离开这里，我就像越狱一样高兴。
[1]这里原文是英文。节选自莎士比亚《第十二夜》中的《假如音乐是爱情的食粮》。
[2]原文是拉丁文：Hic incipit amor Dei。
VIII.
VIII 
And yet I saw Alissa once more. It was three years later, towards the end of summer. Ten months
before, I had heard from her the news of my uncle’s death. A fairly long letter, which I had at once
written her from Palestine, where I was travelling at the time, had remained unanswered.
Happening to be at Le Havre, on I forget what errand, a natural instinct set me on the road to
Fongueusemare. I knew Alissa was there, but I was afraid she might not be alone. I had not
announced my arrival; shrinking from the idea of presenting myself like an ordinary visitor, I went on
my way undecided; should I go in? or should I go away without having seen her, without having tried
to see her? Yes, without doubt, I would just walk up the avenue, sit on the bench where sometimes,
perhaps, she still went to sit... and I was already beginning to wonder what token I could leave behind
me, which after I had gone, would tell of my coming... Thus reflecting, I walked slowly on; and now
that I had resolved not to see her, the sharpness of the sorrow which wrung my heart began to give
way to a melancholy that was almost sweet. I had already reached the avenue, and, for fear of being
taken unawares, I was walking on the footpath which ran along the bottom of the bank skirting the
farmyard. I knew a place on the bank from which one could look over into the garden; I climbed up;
a gardener whom I did not recognize was raking one of the paths and soon disappeared from sight.
There was a new gate to the courtyard. A dog barked as I went by. Further on, where the avenue
came to an end, I turned to the right, came again upon the garden wall, and was making my way to
the portion of the beech wood, parallel to the avenue I had left, when, as I was passing by the little
door that led into the kitchen garden, the idea of going in suddenly seized me.
The door was shut. The inside bolt, however, offered only a slight resistance and I was on the
point of forcing it open with my shoulder... At that moment I heard the sound of steps; I drew back
round the corner of the wall.
I could not see who it was that came out of the garden; but I heard, I felt it was Alissa. She took
three steps forward and called in a weak voice:
‘Is that you, Jérôme?’
My heart, which was beating violently, stopped, and as no word would come from my choking
throat, she repeated louder:
‘Jérôme! Is that you?’
At hearing her call me in this way, the emotion which seized on me was so great that it forced me
to my knees. As I still did not answer, Alissa took a few steps forward, turned the corner of the wall,
and I suddenly felt her against me - against me, who was kneeling there hiding my face with my arm,
as if in dread of seeing her too soon. She remained a few moments stooping over me, while I covered
her frail hands with kisses.
‘Why were you hiding?’ she said, as simply as if those three years of absence had lasted only a
few days.
‘How did you guess it was I?’
‘I was expecting you.’
‘Expecting me?’ said I, so astonished that I could only repeat her words, wondering... And as I
was still on my knees:
‘Let us go to the bench,’ she went on. ‘Yes, I knew I was to see you again once more. For the last
three days I have come here every evening and called you, as I did tonight... Why didn’t you
answer?’
‘If you had not come upon me by surprise, I should have gone away without seeing you,’ I said,
steeling myself against the emotion which had at first overmastered me. ‘I happened to be at Le
Havre, and merely meant to walk along the avenue and round the outside of the garden and to rest a
few moments on this bench, where I thought you might still come to sit sometimes, and then...’
‘Look what I have brought here to read for the last three evenings,’ she interrupted, and held out
to me a packet of letters; I recognized those I had written her from Italy. At that moment I raised my
eyes to look at her. She was extraordinarily changed; her thinness, her paleness smote my heart
horribly. Leaning heavily upon my arm, she clung to me as though she were frightened or cold. She
was still in deep mourning, and no doubt the black lace which she had put round her head, and which
framed her face, added to her paleness. She was smiling, but her failing limbs seemed hardly to bear
her up. I was anxious to know whether she was alone at Fongueusemare. No, Robert was living with
her: Juliette, Édouard, and their children had been spending August with them. We had reached the
bench; we sat down and the conversation for a few minutes longer dragged along in the usual
commonplace inquiries.
She asked after my work. I replied with a bad grace. I should have liked her to feel that my work
no longer interested me. I should have liked to disappoint her as she had disappointed me. I do not
know whether I succeeded, but if so, she did not show it. As for me, full of both resentment and love,
I did my best to speak as curtly as possible, and was angry with myself for the emotion which at
times made my voice tremble.
The setting sun, which had been hidden for a few moments by a cloud, reappeared on the edge of
the horizon almost opposite us, flooding the empty fields with a shimmering glory and heaping the
narrow valley that opened at our feet with a sudden profusion of wealth; then it disappeared. I sat
there dazzled and speechless; I felt that I was wrapped round and steeped in a kind of golden ecstasy,
in which my resentment vanished and nothing survived in me but love. Alissa, who had been leaning,
drooping against me, sat up; she took out of her bodice a tiny packet wrapped up in tissue paper,
made as though she meant to give it me, stopped, seemed to hesitate, and, as I looked at her in
surprise:
‘Listen, Jérôme,’ said she, ‘this is my amethyst cross that I have here; for the last three evenings I
have brought it here because for a long time past I have been wanting to give it you.’
‘What am I to do with it?’ I asked her, rather brusquely.
‘Keep it in memory of me for your daughter.’
‘What daughter?’ I cried, looking at Alissa without understanding her.
‘Please, listen to me quite calmly; no, don’t look at me so; don’t look at me; it’s already difficult
enough for me to speak to you; but I must, I simply must say this. Listen, Jérôme: one day you will
marry - no, don’t answer; don’t interrupt, I implore you. I only want you to remember that I loved
you very much, and... a long time ago... three years ago I thought that a daughter of yours might one
day wear this little cross you liked, in memory of me. Oh! without knowing whose it was... and
perhaps, too, you might give her... my name...’
She stopped, her voice choking: I exclaimed, almost with hostility:
‘Why not give it her yourself?’
She tried to speak again. Her lips trembled like those of a sobbing child, but she did not cry; the
extraordinary light that shone in her eyes flooded her face with an unearthly, an angelic beauty.
‘Alissa! whom should I marry? You know I can love no one but you...’ and suddenly clasping her
wildly, almost brutally in my arms, I crushed my kisses on her lips. An instant I held her unresisting,
as she half lay back against me; I saw her look grow dim; then her eyes closed, and in a voice so true
and melodious that never to my mind will it be equalled:
‘Have pity on us, my friend!’ she said. ‘Oh! don’t spoil our love.’
Perhaps she said too: ‘Don’t be cowardly!’ or perhaps it was I who said it to myself; I cannot tell
now; but suddenly flinging myself on my knees before her, and folding my arms piously round her:
‘If you loved me so, why have you always repulsed me? Think! I waited first for Juliette to be
married; I understood your waiting for her to be happy, too; she is happy; you yourself have told me
so. I thought for a long time that you didn’t want to leave your father; but now we are both alone.’
‘Oh! don’t let us regret the past,’ she murmured. ‘I have turned the page now.’
‘There is still time, Alissa.’
‘No, my friend, there is not time. There was no longer time from the moment when our love made
us foresee for one another something better than love. Thanks to you, my friend, my dream climbed
so high that any earthly satisfaction would have been a declension. I have often thought of what our
life with each other would have been; as soon as it had been less than perfect, I could not have
borne... our love.’
‘Did you ever think what our life would be without each other?’
‘No! Never.’
‘Now you see! For the last three years, without you, I have been drifting miserably about...’
The evening was drawing in.
‘I am cold,’ said she, getting up and wrapping her shawl too closely round her for me to be able
to take her arm again. ‘You remember the Scripture text which troubled us so, and which we were
afraid we didn’t understand properly: “These all received not the promise, God having provided some
better thing for us”...’
‘Do you still believe those words?’
‘Indeed I must.’
We walked on for a few moments beside each other, without saying anything more. She went on;
‘Can you imagine it, Jérôme? - “Some better thing!”’ And suddenly the tears started from her
eyes, as she repeated once more: ‘“Some better thing!”’
We had again reached the small garden door through which she had come out a little before. She
turned towards me;
‘Good-bye!’ said she. ‘No, don’t come any further. Good-bye, my beloved friend. Now... the
better thing... is going to begin.’
One moment she looked at me, at once holding me fast and keeping me at arm’s length, her hands
on my shoulders, her eyes filled with an unspeakable love.
As soon as the door was shut, as soon as I heard the bolt drawn behind her, I fell against the door,
a prey to the extremest despair, and stayed for a long time weeping and sobbing in the night.
But to have kept her, to have forced the door, to have entered by any means whatever into the
house, which yet would not have been shut against me - no, even today, when I look back to the past
and live it over again - no, it was not possible to me, and whoever does not understand me here, has
understood nothing of me up till now.
Intolerable anxiety made me write to Juliette a few days later. I told her of my visit to
Fongueusemare, and how much Alissa’s paleness and thinness had alarmed me; I implored her to see
what could be done, and to give me news which I could no longer expect to get from Alissa herself.
Less than a month later, I received the following letter:
‘My dear Jérôme,
‘This is to give you very sad news; our poor Alissa is no more. Alas! the fears you expressed in your letter were
only too well founded. For the last few months, without being ill exactly, she seemed to be wasting away; she
yielded, however, to my entreaties and consented to see Dr A—, who wrote to me that there was nothing serious the
matter with her. But three days after the visit you paid her, she suddenly left Fongueusemare. It was from a letter of
Robert’s that I learnt she was gone; she writes to me so seldom that if it had not been for him I should have known
nothing of her flight, for I should have been a long time before taking alarm at her silence. I blamed Robert severely
for having let her go in this way, and for not having gone with her to Paris. Will you believe that from that moment
we were ignorant of her address? You can imagine my sickening anxiety; impossible to see her, impossible even to
write to her. Robert, it is true, went to Paris a few days later, but he was unable to discover anything. He is so slack
that we could not trust to his taking the proper steps. We had to tell the police; it was not possible to remain in such
cruel uncertainty. Édouard then went himself, and at last managed to discover the little nursing home where Alissa
had taken refuge. Alas! too late. I received a letter from the head of the home announcing her death, and, at the
same time, a telegram from Édouard, who was not in time to see her again. On the last day she had written our
address on an envelope, so that we might be told, and in another envelope she had put the copy of a letter she had
sent our lawyer at Le Havre containing her last instructions. I think there is a passage in this letter which concerns
you: I will let you know soon. Édouard and Robert were able to be present at the funeral which took place the day
before yesterday. They were not the only persons to follow the bier. Some of the patients of the nursing home
wished to be present at the ceremony and to accompany the body to the cemetery. As for me, I am expecting my
fifth baby any day now, and unfortunately I was unable to move.
‘My dear Jérôme, I know the deep sorrow this loss will cause you, and I write to you with a breaking heart. I
have been obliged to stop in bed for the last two days, and I write with difficulty, but I could not let anyone else, not
even Édouard or Robert, speak to you of her whom we two, doubtless, were the only persons in the world to know.
Now that I am an almost old mother of a family, and that the burning past is covered over with a heap of ashes, I
may hope to see you again. If business or pleasure ever takes you to Nîmes, come on to Aigues-Vives. Édouard
would be glad to know you, and you and I would be able to talk together of Alissa. Good-bye, my dear Jérôme.
‘Affectionately and sadly yours...’
A few days later, I learnt that Alissa had left Fongueusemare to her brother, but had asked that all
things that were in her room and a few pieces of furniture which she mentioned, should be sent to
Juliette. I was shortly to receive some papers which she had put in a sealed packet addressed to me. I
learnt, also, that she had asked that the little amethyst cross which I had refused at my last visit
should be put round her neck, and I heard from Édouard that this had been done.
The sealed packet which the lawyer sent me contained Alissa’s journal. I here transcribe a
considerable number of its pages. I transcribe them without commentary. You will imagine well
enough the reflections I made as I read, and the commotion of my heart, of which I could but give a
too imperfect idea.
第八章
第八章
但我还是再次见到了阿莉莎……这是三年后的事，彼时正值夏末。十个月之前，她来信
告知我舅舅去世的消息。那时我正在巴勒斯坦旅行，立即给她回了一封相当长的信，但依旧
石沉大海……
那时，我恰好在勒阿弗尔，忘了是以何种借口，我在本能的驱使下来到芬格斯玛尔。我
知道在那里能看到阿莉莎，但又担心她不是一个人。我没有事先知会，也讨厌同普通客人一
样登门造访。我犹犹豫豫地向前走着，要进去吗？还是不要见直接离开更好一些？不设法见
一面吗？……我只在林荫道上散散步，在长椅上坐一会儿，说不定她还刚坐过。这样当然最
好，这样就够了。我已经在考虑该留下什么标记，好让她知道我来过，然后就离开……我一
边慢慢踱步，一边思考着，最后还是决定不去见她。压在我心上的苦涩愁闷化为淡淡的忧
愁。我来到林荫道，怕撞见她，所以走在一侧道路边缘，沿着农场四周的路堤走。我知道路
堤上有一处可以俯瞰花园，就去了那里：一个我不认识的园丁正在花园小径上拔草，很快又
离开我的视线；庭院里新装了一排栅栏；狗听出了我的声音，狂吠起来。在远处的道路尽
头，我转向右边，来到花园墙外，想走去山毛榉林——它正好和我刚才偏离的林荫道平行。
我经过菜圃的小暗门，突然冒出走进花园的念头。门关着，但里面的锁并不牢固，只要
肩膀轻轻一撞就能打开……正在这时，我听到一阵脚步声，忙躲进墙边的凹陷处。
我看不到是谁走出了花园，但听得到，也感觉得到是阿莉莎。她向前走了三步，轻声说
道：“是你吗？杰罗姆……”
我那颗狂跳不止的心，一瞬间僵住了，喉咙里却发不出任何声音。她提高音量，重复问
道：“杰罗姆！是你吗？”
听到她的呼唤，我激动万分，不自觉跪倒在地。因为我一直默不作声，阿莉莎又向前走
了几步，绕过墙。似乎是因为害怕猝然见面，我用胳膊遮住脸。刹那间，我感到她靠了过
来。有好一会儿，她俯身靠在我身边，而我则吻遍了她那双纤弱的手。
“你为什么躲起来？”她问得那么随便，好像这久别的三年不过是指缝间的事。
“你怎么知道是我？”
“我一直在等你。”
“你在等我？”我惊讶万分，只能用她的话来反问。
她看到我还跪着，又说道：“去长椅那儿吧……没错，我知道还得再见你一面。三天来，
我每天黄昏都会来这里，像今天一样呼唤你……那你呢？你怎么不应声呢？”
“如果你没撞见我，我就直接离开了。”我极力控制初见时让我浑身乏力的那种激情，说
道，“我只是路过勒阿弗尔，去林荫道上散了散步，在花园周围转了转，去你可能刚坐过的长
椅上休息了会儿，然后就……”
“瞧，这三天我在这里就读了这些。”她打断我，递给我一盒子信。我认出是我在意大利
给她写的那些。这一刻，我才抬眼看向她。她已经大不相同，消瘦而苍白，让我异常难受。
她紧紧压靠在我的臂弯里，似乎在害怕，又或是觉得冷。她还在戴重孝，所以只戴了黑色蕾
丝作为发饰。蕾丝包裹着她的脸，让她看上去更苍白。她笑了，看上去却那么衰弱。
我很关心这段时间在芬格斯玛尔，她是否孤独一人。但不是的，罗贝尔和她在一起；八
月时，朱莉叶特、爱德华，以及他们的三个孩子都来过这里……我们来到长椅处，坐下聊
天。无聊冗长的信息交换持续了一段时间。她还打听了我的工作。我不情不愿地回答，想让
她以为我对工作意兴阑珊。我就是想辜负她的期待，就同她过去让我失望一样。我不知道是
否达成了目的，因为她看上去依然不动声色。我心中则是满腔的爱恨交织在一起，试图用最
冷淡的方式和她交谈。但有时候，我的声音被激动的情绪所出卖，忍不住颤抖，令我懊恼不
已。
日头落了下去，它在云霭中逗留片刻，又在地平线露出脸来，几乎正对着我们。它让空
旷的田野沉浸在颤动的光华中，让我们脚下的狭小山谷浸浴在万丈金光里。然后，它又消失
不见了。我再次中计，目眩神迷，无语凝噎。在这恍惚的金光下，我的怨恨烟消云散，只能
听到爱情的声音。本来斜斜靠着我的阿莉莎，此时也直起身子。她从上衣里掏出一个小盒，
小盒外面用精美的纸张包裹着。她神色凝重地递给我，又犹犹豫豫地停住。我惊讶地看着
她。
“听好了，杰罗姆。这里面是我的紫晶十字架。这三天来我一直随身携带，因为早就想给
你了。”
“你给我这个有什么用？”我问得相当直接。
“给你女儿戴吧，算作你对我的纪念。”
“什么女儿？”我一头雾水，看着她高声嚷道。
“你静一静，求你，好好听我说……不，别这样看着我，不要看着我。我本来就难以启
齿，但只有这一点非说不可。听着，杰罗姆，终有一天，你会结婚吧？……不，不要回答
我，也别打断我，求你了！我只想要你记得我曾那么爱你。这个想法在我心里盘旋已久，有
三年了：就是这条你钟爱的小十字架，我是想，将来有一天你女儿能戴上它，作为对我的纪
念。噢！但她不知道纪念的是谁……或许你可以告诉她……我的名字……”
她的声音局促而哽咽，再也说不下去了。我像见了仇敌似的，嘶吼道:“你为什么不自己给
她呢？”
她还想再说些什么，嘴唇抖个不停，如同抽泣的孩童，但毕竟没有哭出来。她的目光中
充满奇异的光辉，让整张脸洋溢着非凡的气质，如同天使一般美好。
“阿莉莎！我还会娶谁呢？你明知道我只会爱你一个……”我疯狂地、毫无预兆地搂住
她，近乎粗鲁地将她狠狠按在怀里，辗转啃咬她的唇瓣。有一瞬间，她似乎放弃了抵抗，半
倒在我怀里。我见她目光黯淡下来，闭上眼睛，用一种无与伦比的声音开了口。这声音既精
准又悦耳。
“可怜可怜我们吧，我的朋友啊！别让这份爱万劫不复。”
她或许还说了：不要软弱！又或许是我自己说的，这已无从知晓。我遽然跪倒在她身
前，虔诚地拥住她。
“如果你也爱着我，为何总拒我于千里之外？你瞧，起初我还等着朱莉叶特结婚，因为我
明白你也想等她获得幸福。现在她幸福了，还是你告诉我的。长时间以来，我一直以为你是
想待在父亲身边。但如今，也只剩下我们俩了。”
“唉！别悔恨当初，”她低声细语道，“现在，我已经翻过这一页。”
“我们还有时间，阿莉莎。”
“不，我的朋友。来不及了。还记得那天吧——因为爱着彼此，我们期待对方能获得高于
爱情的东西。从那一天起，就已来不及。是你，我的朋友……你让我的梦缥缈高举，所有尘
世的幸福都会让它破灭。我也经常思考我们在一起生活的模样……可一旦这爱有了裂痕，我
是万万无法忍受的……”
“那你可曾想过，我们若失去彼此，生活又是什么样的呢？”
“不！从没想过。”
“现在你就看到了。没有你的三年，我痛苦地漂泊着……”
夜幕落了下来。
“我冷。”说着她站了起来，把自己紧紧裹在披肩里，使我无法挽起她的胳膊。她继续说
道：“你记得《圣经》里的这句话吗？——‘他们没有得到曾应许的东西，因为上帝给他们保
留了更美好的……’我们总担心理解得不够透彻，一直心神不宁。”
“你依然相信这些话吗？”
“不得不信。”我们并肩走了几步，谁也没有说话。过了一会儿，她才说道：“杰罗姆，你
想象一下吧，最美好的东西！”刹那间，她的眼泪夺眶而出，但还是重复说道：“那最美好的
东西！”
我们再次来到菜圃的小门，之前我就是在这里见她出来的。她转向我，说道：“再见了！
不，别再走近了。再见，我的爱人。现在，最美好的东西……就要开始了。”
她盯着我看了会儿，眼中充满难以言喻的爱意。她的手臂搭在我肩上，既想挽留又想远
离……
门重新关上。她在里面插上门闩，我立即靠着门跌落下去。极度绝望之下，我在黑夜中
长久地哭泣起来。
但是去挽留她，撞开门，或者不顾一切地闯入这座不会把我拒之门外的屋子……不，即
便像今天这样回首过去，重来一遍，我还是觉得不可能做到。那些现在理解不了我的人，可
以说始终不曾理解过我。
没过几天，不安难耐之下，我给朱莉叶特写了封信。我跟她说了芬格斯玛尔的这次造
访，也提到阿莉莎的苍白消瘦令我多么不安。我求她多加留意，若有消息就给我捎来，因为
阿莉莎是不可能给我写信了。
此后不到一个月，我就收到了下面的回信。
亲爱的杰罗姆：
我要告诉你一个极其悲痛的消息：可怜的阿莉莎已经不在人世了……唉！你上封信中的忧虑一点
没错。这几个月来，她日渐衰弱，却没什么确切病症。在我的恳求下，她去勒阿弗尔的A医生那里看
了病，但医生给我来信说她没有什么大碍。不过，在你造访后的第三天，她突然离开了芬格斯玛尔。
这件事还是罗贝尔写信告诉我的。阿莉莎几乎不给我写信。如果没有罗贝尔，我根本不会知道她离家
出走，就算她杳无音信我也不会觉得惊慌。我严厉指责罗贝尔不该让她独自离开，他应该同她一起去
巴黎。你相信吗？从那时起，她就下落不明了。
你可以想象我的焦虑——既看不到她，也无处给她写信。之后，罗贝尔也在巴黎待了几天，但并
没发现她的踪迹。罗贝尔一向漫不经心，我们怀疑他是否真的用心。这种生死未卜的状况太令人痛苦
了，我们不得不报警。爱德华也去找了，最后发现一家小疗养院，阿莉莎正栖身于此。唉！太迟了！
我收到疗养院院长寄来的一封信，信中透露她去世的消息。与此同时，爱德华也给我发来电报，说甚
至没赶上见她最后一面。
我们能收到通知，是因为临终那天，她在信封上写了我们的地址。她还写了另一封遗嘱，寄给勒
阿弗尔的公证员。这封信中有一段似乎与你有关，下回我会告诉你。爱德华和罗贝尔参加了她前天的
葬礼。除了他们之外，跟随灵柩的还有疗养院的几位病友，他们一同参加了葬礼，并护送遗体至墓
地。可惜我不能赶过去，因为我的第五个孩子这两天就要出生。
亲爱的杰罗姆，我明白你听到这个噩耗会多么沉痛，给你写信时我也是心如刀绞。这两日，我卧
病在床，写这封信也很费劲。但还是不想让他人代笔，就算爱德华和罗贝尔也不能同你谈她——阿莉
莎无疑是我们两人才会懂的。如今的我也不过是个老主妇，层层积灰湮没了滚烫的过去，我期待再见
见你。事务或是消遣都好，你若要在尼姆待几日，就顺道来埃格维弗吧。爱德华会很高兴认识你的。
我们俩可以谈谈阿莉莎。别了，亲爱的杰罗姆，我怀着沉痛之情拥抱你。
几日后，我听说阿莉莎把芬格斯玛尔留给了她兄弟，但要求把卧室里所有的物件和一些
指定的家具寄给朱莉叶特。不久后，我将会收到一封写有我名字的密封信函，里面放了一叠
文稿。我还听说阿莉莎要求给她戴上紫晶小十字架——就是上回造访时我拒绝的那条。爱德
华告诉我，她如愿以偿了。
公证员给我寄来了那封密封信函，里面装了阿莉莎的日记。我在这里抄录几篇，但并不
予置评。你们完全可以想象我读到这些的反应，以及内心的震动，这份心情不可名状。
ALISSA’S JOURNAL
ALISSA’S JOURNAL
Aigues-Vives
Left Le Havre the day before yesterday; yesterday arrived at Nîmes; my first journey! With no
housekeeping to do and no cooking to look after, and consequently with a slight feeling of idleness,
today, the 23rd May, 188-, my twenty-fifth birthday, I begin this journal - without much pleasure, a
little for the sake of company; for, perhaps for the first time in my life, I feel lonely - in a different, a
foreign land almost, one with which I have not yet made acquaintance. It has, no doubt, the same
things to say to me as Normandy - the same that I listen to untiringly at Fongueusemare - for God is
nowhere different from Himself - but this southern land speaks a language I have not yet heard, and
to which I listen wondering.
24th May
Juliette is dozing on a sofa near me - in the open gallery which is the chief charm of the house,
built as it is after the Italian fashion. The gallery opens on to the gravelled courtyard which is a
continuation of the garden. Without leaving her sofa, Juliette can see the lawn sloping down to the
piece of water, where a tribe of parti-coloured ducks disport themselves, and two swans sail. A
stream which, they say, never runs dry in the heat of any summer, feeds it and then flows through the
garden, which merges into a grove of ever-increasing wildness, more and more shut in by the bed of
a dried torrent on the one side and the vineyards on the other, and finally strangled altogether between
them.
Édouard Teissières yesterday showed my father the garden, the farm, the cellars, and the
vineyards, while I stayed behind with Juliette - so that this morning, while it was still very early, I
was able to make my first voyage of discovery in the park, by myself. A great many plants and
strange trees, whose names, however, I should have liked to know. I pick a twig of each of them so as
to be told what they are, at lunch. In some of them I recognize the evergreen oaks which Jérôme
admired in the gardens of the Villa Borghèse or Doria-Pamfili - so distantly related to our northern
tree, of such a different character! Almost at the further end of the park there is a narrow, mysterious
glade which they shelter, bending over a carpet of grass so soft to the feet that it seems an invitation
to the choir of nymphs. I wonder - I am almost scared that my feeling for nature, which at
Fongueusemare is so profoundly Christian, should here become, in spite of myself, half pagan. And
yet the kind of awe which oppressed me more and more was religious too. I whispered the words:
‘hic nemus’. The air was crystalline; there was a strange silence. I was thinking of Orpheus, of
Armida, when all at once there rose a solitary bird’s song, so near me, so pathetic, so pure, that it
seemed suddenly as though all nature had been awaiting it. My heart beat violently; I stayed for a
moment leaning against a tree, and then came in before anyone was up.
 26th May
Still no letter from Jérôme. If he had written to me at Le Havre, his letter would have been
forwarded... I can confide my anxiety to no one but this book; for the last three days I have not been
distracted from it for an instant, either by our excursion yesterday to Les Baux, or by reading, or by
prayer. Today I can write of nothing else; the curious melancholy from which I have been suffering
ever since I arrived at Aigues-Vives has, perhaps, no other cause - and yet I feel it at such a depth
within me that it seems to me now as if it had been there for a long time past, and as if the joy on
which I prided myself did no more than cover it over.
27th May
Why should I lie to myself? It is by an effort of mind that I rejoice in Juliette’s happiness. That
happiness which I longed for so much, to the extent of offering my own in sacrifice to it, is painful to
me, now that I see that she has obtained it without trouble, and that it is so different from what she
and I imagined. How complicated it all is! Yes... I see well enough that a horrible revival of egoism
in me is offended at her having found her happiness elsewhere than in my sacrifice - at her not
having needed my sacrifice in order to be happy.
And now I ask myself, as I feel what uneasiness Jérôme’s silence causes me: Was that sacrifice
really consummated in my heart? I am, as it were, humiliated, to feel that God no longer exacts it.
Can it be that I was not equal to it?
28th May
How dangerous this analysis of my sadness is! I am already growing attached to this book. Is my
personal vanity, which I thought I had mastered, reasserting its rights here? No; may my soul never
use this journal as a flattering mirror before which to attire itself! It is not out of idleness that I write,
as I thought at first, but out of sadness. Sadness is a state of sin, which had ceased to be mine, which I
hate, from whose complications I wish to free my soul. This book must help me to find my happiness
in myself once more.
Sadness is a complication. I never used to analyse my happiness.
At Fongueusemare I was alone, too, still more alone - why did I not feel it? And when Jérôme
wrote to me from Italy, I was willing that he should see without me, that he should live without me; I
followed him in thought, and out of his joy I made my own. And now, in spite of myself, I want him;
without him every new thing I see is irksome to me.
10th June
Long interruption of this journal which I had scarcely begun; birth of little Lise; long hours of
watching beside Juliette; I take no pleasure in writing anything here that I can write to Jérôme. I
should like to keep myself from the intolerable fault which is common to so many women - that of
writing too much. Let me consider this notebook as a means of perfection.
There followed several pages of notes made in the course of her reading, extracts, etc. Then, dated from
Fongueusemare once more:
16th July
Juliette is happy; she says so, seems so; I have no right, no reason to doubt it. Whence comes this
feeling of dissatisfaction, of discomfort, which I have now when I am with her? Perhaps from feeling
that such happiness is so practical, so easily obtained, so perfectly ‘to measure’ that it seems to cramp
the soul and stifle it...
And I ask myself now whether it is really happiness that I desire, so much as the progress towards
happiness. Oh, Lord! preserve me from a happiness to which I might too easily attain! Teach me to
put off my happiness, to place it as far away from me as Thou art.
Several pages here had been tom out; they referred, no doubt, to our painful meeting at Le Havre. The journal
did not begin again till the following year; the pages were not dated, but had certainly been written at the time of my
stay at Fongueusemare.
Sometimes as I listen to him talking I seem to be watching myself think. He explains me and
discovers me to myself. Should I exist without him? I am only when I am with him...
Sometimes I hesitate as to whether what I feel for him is really what people call love - the picture
that is generally drawn of love is so different from that which I should like to draw. I should like
nothing to be said about it, and to love him without knowing that I love him. I should like, above all,
to love him without his knowing it.
I no longer get any joy out of that part of life that has to be lived without him. My virtue is all
only to please him - and yet, when I am with him, I feel my virtue weakening.
I used to like learning the piano, because it seemed to me that I was able to make some progress
in it every day. That too, perhaps, is the secret of the pleasure I take in reading a book in a foreign
language; not, indeed, that I prefer any other language whatever to our own, or that the writers I
admire in it appear to me in any way inferior to those of other countries - but the slight difficulty that
lies in the pursuit of their meaning and feeling, the unconscious pride of overcoming this difficulty,
and of overcoming it more and more successfully, adds to my intellectual pleasure a certain spiritual
contentment, which it seems to me I cannot do without.
However blessed it might be, I cannot desire a state without progress. I imagine heavenly joy, not
as a confounding of the spirit with God, but as an infinite, a perpetual drawing near to Him... and if I
were not afraid of playing upon words I should say that I did not care for any joy that was not
progressive.
This morning we were sitting on the bench in the avenue; we were not talking, and did not feel
any need to talk... Suddenly he asked me if I believed in a future life.
‘Oh! Jérôme!’ I cried at once, ‘it is more than hope I have; it is certainty.’
And it seemed to me, on a sudden, that my whole faith had, as it were, been poured into that
exclamation.
‘I should like to know,’ he added. He stopped a few moments; then: ‘Would you act differently
without your faith?’
‘How can I tell?’ I answered; and I added: ‘And you, my dear, you yourself, and in spite of
yourself, can no longer act otherwise than as if you were inspired by the liveliest faith. And I should
not love you if you were different.’
No, Jérôme, no, it is not after a future recompense that our virtue is striving; it is not for
recompense that our love is seeking. A generous soul is hurt by the idea of being rewarded for its
efforts; nor does it consider virtue an adornment: no, virtue is the form of its beauty.
Papa is not so well again; nothing serious, I hope, but he has been obliged to go back to his milk
diet for the last three days.
Yesterday evening, Jérôme had just gone up to his room; Papa, who was sitting up with me for a
little, left me alone for a few minutes. I was sitting on the sofa, or rather - a thing I hardly ever do - I
was lying down, I don’t know why. The lamp-shade was shading my eyes and the upper part of my
body from the light; I was mechanically looking at my feet, which showed a little below my dress in
the light thrown upon them by the lamp. When Papa came back, he stood for a few moments at the
door, staring at me, oddly, half smiling, half sad. I got up with a vague feeling of shyness; then he
called me:
‘Come and sit beside me,’ said he; and, though it was already late, he began speaking to me about
my mother, which he had never done since their separation. He told me how he had married her, how
much he had loved her, and how much she had at first been to him.
‘Papa,’ I said to him at last, ‘do, please, say why you are telling me this this evening - what
makes you tell me this just this particular evening?’
‘Because, just now, when I came into the drawing-room and saw you lying on the sofa, I thought
for a moment it was your mother.’
The reason I asked this so insistently was because that very evening Jérôme was reading over my
shoulder, standing leaning over me. I could not see him, but I felt his breath and, as it were, the
warmth and pulsation of his body. I pretended to go on reading, but my mind had stopped working; I
could not even distinguish the lines; a perturbation so strange took possession of me that I was
obliged to get up from my chair quickly, whilst I still could; I managed to leave the room for a few
minutes, luckily without his noticing anything. But a little later, when I was alone in the drawing-
room and lay down on the sofa, where Papa thought I looked like my mother, at that very moment I
was thinking of her.
I slept very badly last night; I was disturbed, oppressed, miserable, haunted by the recollection of
the past, which came over me like a wave of remorse.
Lord, teach me the horror of all that has any appearance of evil.
Poor Jérôme! If he only knew that sometimes he would have but a single sign to make, and that
sometimes I wait for him to make it....
When I was a child, even then it was because of him that I wanted to be beautiful. It seems to me
now that I have never striven after perfection, except for him. And that this perfection can only be
attained without him, is of all Thy teachings, my God! the one that is most disconcerting to my soul.
How happy must that soul be for whom virtue is one with love! Sometimes I doubt whether there
is any other virtue than love... to love as much as possible and continually more and more... But at
other times, alas! virtue appears to me to be nothing but resistance to love. What! shall I dare to call
that virtue which is the most natural inclination of my heart? Oh, tempting sophism! Specious
allurement! Cunning mirage of happiness!
This morning I read in La Bruyère:
‘In the course of this life one sometimes meets with pleasures so dear, promises so tender, which
are yet forbidden us, that it is natural to desire at least that they might be permitted; charms so great
can be surpassed only when virtue teaches us to renounce them.’
Why did I invent here that there was anything forbidden? Can it be that I am secretly attracted by
a charm more powerful and a sweetness greater still than that of love? Oh! that it were possible to
carry our own souls forward together, by force of love, beyond love!
Alas! I understand now only too well; between God and him there is no other obstacle but myself.
If perhaps, as he says, his love for me at first inclined him to God, now that very love hinders him; he
lingers with me, prefers me, and I am become the idol that keeps him back from making further
progress in virtue. One of us two must needs attain to it; and as I despair of overcoming the love in
my coward heart, grant me, my God, vouchsafe me strength to teach him to love me no longer, so
that at the cost of my merits I may bring Thee his, which are so infinitely preferable... and if today my
soul sobs with grief at losing him, do I not lose him to find him again hereafter in Thee?
Tell me, oh, my God! what soul ever deserved Thee more? Was he not born for something better
than to love me? And should I love him so much if he were to stop short at myself? How much all
that might become heroic dwindles in the midst of happiness!
Sunday
‘God having provided some better thing for us.’
Monday 3rd May
To think that happiness is here, close by, offering itself, and that one only has to put out one’s
hand to grasp it...
This morning, as I was talking to him, I consummated the sacrifice.
Monday evening
He leaves tomorrow...
Dear Jérôme, I still love you with infinite tenderness; but never more shall I be able to tell you so.
The constraint which I lay upon my eyes, upon my lips, upon my soul, is so hard that to leave you is
a relief and a bitter satisfaction.
I strive to act according to reason, but at the moment of action the reasons which make me act
escape me, or appear foolish; I no longer believe in them.
The reasons which make me fly from him? I no longer believe in them... And yet I fly from him,
sadly and without understanding why I fly.
Lord! that we might advance towards Thee, Jérôme and I together, each beside the other, each
helping the other; that we might walk along the way of life like two pilgrims, of whom one says at
times to the other: ‘Lean on me, brother, if you are weary,’ and to whom the other replies: ‘It is
enough to feel you near me...’ But no! The way Thou teachest, Lord, is a narrow way - so narrow
that two cannot walk in it abreast.
4th July
More than six weeks have gone by without my opening this book. Last month, as I was re-reading
some of its pages, I became aware of a foolish, wicked anxiety to write well... which I owe to him...
As though in this book, which I began only so as to help myself to do without him, I was
continuing to write to him.
I have tom up all the pages which seemed to me to be well written. (I know what I mean by this.)
I ought to have tom up all those in which there was any question of him. I ought to have tom them all
up, I could not.
And already, because I tore up those few pages, I had a little feeling of pride... a pride which I
should laugh at if my heart were not so sick.
It really seemed as though I had done something meritorious, and as though what I had destroyed
had been of some importance!
6th July
I have been obliged to banish from my bookshelves...
I fly from him in one book only to find him in another. I hear his voice reading me even those
pages which I discover without him. I care only for what interests him, and my mind has taken the
form of his to such an extent, that I can distinguish one from the other no better than I did at the time
when I took pleasure in feeling they were one.
Sometimes I force myself to write badly in order to escape from the rhythm of his phrases; but
even to struggle against him is still to be concerned with him. I have made a resolution to read
nothing but the Bible (perhaps the Imitation), and to write nothing more in this book, except every
evening the chief text of my reading.
There followed a kind of diary, in which the date of each day, starting with July 1st, was accompanied by a text.
I transcribe only those which are accompanied by some commentary.
20th July
‘Sell all that thou hast and give it to the poor.’
I understand that I ought to give to the poor this heart of mine which belongs only to Jérôme. And
by so doing should I not teach him at the same time to do likewise?... Lord, grant me this courage.
24th July
I have stopped reading the Interior Consolation. The old-fashioned language greatly charmed me,
but it was distracting, and the almost pagan joy it gives me is far removed from the edification which
I set myself to get from it.
I have taken up the Imitation again and not even in the Latin text, which I was vain of
understanding. I am glad that the translation in which I read it should not even be signed. It is true it
is Protestant, but ‘adapted to the use of all Christian communities,’ says the title.
‘Oh, if thou wert sensible how much peace thou wouldest procure for thyself and joy for others,
by rightly ordering thyself, methinks thou wouldest be more solicitous for thy spiritual progress!’
10th August
If I were to cry to Thee, my God, with the impulsive faith of a child and with the heavenly
tongues of angels...
All this comes to me, I know, not from Jérôme, but from Thee.
Why, then, between Thee and me, dost Thou everywhere set his image?
14th August
Only two months more in which to complete my work... Oh, Lord, grant me Thy help!
20th August
I feel - I feel by my unhappiness that the sacrifice is not consummated in my heart. My God,
grant that henceforth I owe to none but Thee the joy that he alone used to give me.
28th August
How mediocre and miserable is the virtue to which I attain! Do I then exact too much from
myself?... To suffer no more.
What cowardice makes me continually implore God for His strength? My prayers now are
nothing but complainings.
29th August
‘Consider the lilies of the field...’
This simple saying plunged me this morning into a sadness from which nothing could distract me.
I went out into the country and these words, which I kept continually repeating to myself, filled my
heart and eyes with tears. I contemplated the vast and empty plain where the labourer was toiling,
bent over his plough... ‘The lilies of the field...’ But, Lord, where are they...?
16th September, 10 o’clock at night
I have seen him again. He is here under this roof. I see the light from his window shining on the
grass. He is still up as I write these lines, and perhaps he is thinking of me. He has not changed. He
says so and I feel it. Shall I be able to show myself to him such as I have resolved to be, so that his
love may disown me?
24th September
Oh, torturing conversation in which I succeeded in feigning indifference - coldness, when my
heart was fainting within me! Up till now I had contented myself with avoiding him. This morning I
was able to believe that God would give me strength to be victorious and that to slink for ever out of
the combat was to prove myself a coward. Did I triumph? Does Jérôme love me a little less? Alas! I
both hope and fear it together. I have never loved him more.
And if it is Thy will, Lord, that to save him from me I must compass my own perdition, so be it.
‘Enter into my heart and into my soul in order to bear in them my sufferings and to continue to
ensure in me what remains to Thee to suffer of Thy Passion.’
We spoke of Pascal... What did I say? What shameful foolish words? I suffered even as I uttered
them, but tonight I repent them as a blasphemy. I turned again to the heavy volume of the Pensées,
which opened of itself at this passage in the letters to Mademoiselle de Roannez:
‘We do not feel our bonds as long as we follow willingly him who leads; but as soon as we begin
to resist and to draw away, then indeed we suffer.’
These words affected me so personally that I did not have strength to go on reading, but opening
the book in another place I came across an admirable passage which I did not know and which I have
just copied out.
The first volume of the Journal came to an end here. No doubt the next had been destroyed, for in the papers
which Alissa left behind the Journal did not begin again till three years later - still at Fongueusemare - in
September - a short time, that is to say, before our last meeting.
The last volume begins with the sentences which follow.
17th September
My God, Thou knowest I have need of him to love Thee.
20th September
My God, give him to me so that I may give Thee my heart.
My God, let me see him only once more.
My God, I engage to give Thee my heart. Grant me what my love beseeches. I will give what
remains to me of life to Thee alone.
My God, forgive me this despicable prayer, but I cannot keep his name from my lips nor forget
the anguish of my heart. My God, I cry to Thee. Do not forsake me in my distress.
21st September
‘Whatever ye shall ask the Father in my name...’
Lord, in Thy name, I dare not.
But though I no longer formulate my prayer, wilt Thou be the less aware of the delirious longing
of my heart?
27th September
Ever since the morning a great calm. Spent nearly the whole night in meditation, in prayer.
Suddenly I was conscious of a kind of luminous peace like the imagination I had as a child of the
Holy Ghost: it seemed to wrap me round, to descend into me. I went to bed at once fearing that my
joy was due only to nervous exaltation. I went to sleep fairly quickly without this felicity leaving me.
It is still here this morning in all its completeness. I have the certainty now that he will come.
30th September
Jérôme, my friend! you whom I still call brother, but whom I love infinitely more than a brother...
How many times I have cried your name in the beech copse! Every evening towards dusk I go out by
the little gate of the kitchen-garden and walk down the avenue where it is already dark. If you were
suddenly to answer me, if you were to appear there from behind the stony bank round which I so
eagerly seek you, or if I were to see you in the distance, seated on the bench waiting for me, my heart
would not leap... no! I am astonished at not seeing you.
1st October
Nothing yet. The sun has set in a sky of incomparable purity. I am waiting. I know that soon I
shall be sitting with him on this very bench. I hear his voice already. I like it so much when he says
my name. He will be here! I shall put my hand in his hand. I shall let my head lean on his shoulder. I
shall breathe beside him. Yesterday I brought out some of his letters with me to re-read, but I did not
look at them - I was too much taken up with the thought of him. I took with me, too, the amethyst
cross he used to like and which I used to wear one summer every evening as long as I did not want
him to go. I should like to give him this cross. For a long time past I have had a dream - that he was
married and I godmother to his first daughter, a little Alissa, to whom I gave this ornament... Why
have I never dared tell him?
2nd October
My soul today is as light and joyful as a bird would be that had made its nest in the sky. For today
he will come. I feel it! I know it! I should like to proclaim it aloud to the world. I feel I must write it
here. I cannot hide my joy any longer. Even Robert, who is usually so inattentive and indifferent to
what concerns me, noticed it. His questions embarrassed me and I did not know what to answer. How
shall I be able to wait till this evening?...
Some kind of strange transparent bandage over my eyes seems to show me his image everywhere
- his image magnified, and all love’s rays are concentrated on a single burning spot in my heart.
Oh! how this waiting tires me!
Lord, unclose for me one moment the wide gateways of gladness.
3rd October
All is over. Alas! he has slipped out of my arms like a shadow. He was here! He was here! I feel
him still. I call him. My hands, my lips seek him in vain in the night...
I can neither pray nor sleep. I went out again into the dark garden. I was afraid - in my room -
everywhere in the house - I was afraid. My anguish brought me once more to the door behind which
I had left him. I opened it with a mad hope that he might have come back. I called. I groped in the
darkness. I have come in again to write to him, I cannot accept my grief.
What has happened? What did I say to him? What did I do? Why do I always want to exaggerate
my virtue to him? What can be the worth of a virtue which my whole heart denies? I was secretly
false to the words which God set upon my lips. In spite of all that my heart was bursting with, I could
bring nothing out. Jérôme! Jérôme, my unhappy friend in whose presence my heart bleeds and in
whose absence I perish, believe nothing of all I said to you just now, but the words spoken by my
love.
Tore up my letter, then wrote again... Here is the dawn, grey, wet with tears, as sad as my
thoughts. I hear the first sounds of the farm and everything that was sleeping re-awakens to life...
‘Arise, now. The hour is at hand...’
My letter shall not go.
5th October
Oh, jealous God, who hast despoiled me, take Thou possession of my heart. All warmth
henceforth has forsaken it; nothing will touch it more. Help me to triumph over the melancholy
remnant of myself. This house, this garden encourage my love intolerably. I must fly to some place
where I shall see none but Thee.
Thou wilt help me to bestow upon Thy poor what fortune I possessed; let me leave
Fongueusemare, which I cannot dispose of easily, to Robert. I have made my will, it is true, but I am
ignorant of the necessary formalities and yesterday I could not talk to the lawyer properly, as I was
afraid he might suspect the decision I had taken and warn Juliette and Robert. I will finish this
business in Paris.
10th October
Arrived here so tired that I was obliged to stay in bed the first two days. The doctor, who was sent
for against my will, speaks of an operation which he considers necessary. What is the use of
objecting? But I easily made him believe that I was frightened at the idea of an operation and
preferred waiting till I had ‘regained my strength a little’.
I have managed to conceal my name and address. I have deposited enough money with the
management of the house for them to make no difficulty about taking me in and keeping me for as
long as God shall continue to think it necessary.
I like this room. The walls need no other decoration than their perfect cleanliness. I was quite
astonished to feel almost joyful. The reason is that I expect nothing more from life - that I must be
content now with God, and His love is sweet only if it fills to completion whatever space there is
within us...
The only book I have brought with me is the Bible: but today there sounded in me louder than
any words I find there, this wild and passionate sob of Pascal’s: ‘Whatever is not God cannot satisfy
my longing.’
Oh! too human joy, that my imprudent heart desired!... Was it to wring this cry from me, Lord,
that Thou hast thus bereft me?
12th October
Thy Kingdom come! May it come in me; so that Thou alone mayest reign over me and reign over
the whole of me. I will no longer grudge Thee my heart.
Though I am as tired as if I were very old, my soul keeps a strange childishness. I am still the
little girl, who could not go to sleep before everything in her room was tidy and the clothes she had
taken off neatly folded beside her bed... That is how I should like to get ready to die.
13th October
Re-read my journal before destroying it. ‘It is unworthy of noble natures to spread round them the
disturbance they feel.’ It is, I think, Clotilde de Vaux who says this so finely.
Just as I was going to throw this journal into the fire, I felt a kind of warning which held me back.
It seemed to me that it no longer belonged to me, that I had no right to deprive Jérôme of it, that I had
never written it except for him. My anxieties, my doubts seem to me now so foolish that I can no
longer attach any importance to them, or believe that they will disturb Jérôme. My God, grant that he
may at times catch in these lines the unskilled accent of a heart, passionately desirous of urging him
to those heights of virtue which I myself despaired of reaching.
‘My God, lead me to the rock that is higher than I.’
15th October
‘Joy, joy, joy, tears of joy...’ [Pascal]
Above human joy and beyond all suffering, yes, I foresee that radiant joy. The ‘rock that is higher
than I’ bears, I know, the name of happiness... I understand that my whole life has been vain, except
in so far as it culminates in happiness... Ah! Lord, but Thy promise to the pure and renouncing soul
was this: ‘Blessed from henceforth’ said Thy holy word, ‘Blessed are they which die in the Lord from
henceforth.’ Must I wait until I die? This is the point where my faith wavers. Lord! I cry unto Thee
with all my strength. I am in the night! I am waiting for the dawn. I cry unto Thee with a crying that
wastes me to death. Come and slake the thirst of my heart. It is now, at once, that I thirst for
happiness... Or ought I to persuade myself that I have it? And as the pipe of the impatient bird before
daybreak calls rather than heralds the light, ought I to sing, without waiting for the night to dwindle?
16th October
Jérôme, I wish I could teach you perfect joy.
This morning I was shattered by a fit of sickness. And afterwards I felt so weak that for a moment
I hoped I was going to die. But no; first a great calm fell upon my whole being; then a pang of
anguish pierced me, a shudder of my flesh and soul; it was like the sudden and disenchanting
illumination of my life. It seemed to me that I saw for the first time the walls of my room in their
atrocious bareness. I was seized with fear. Even now I am writing to reassure myself, to calm myself.
O Lord! may I reach the end without blasphemy!
I was able to get up again. I went down on my knees like a child...
I should like to die now, quickly, before again realizing that I am alone.
I saw Juliette again last year. More than ten years had gone by since her last letter, in which she
told me of Alissa’s death. A journey to Provence gave me an opportunity of stopping at Nîmes. The
Teissières occupy an important house in the Avenue de Feuchères, in a noisy and central part of the
town. Although I had written to announce my arrival, it was with considerable emotion that I crossed
the threshold.
A maidservant showed me into the drawing-room, where Juliette joined me in a few minutes. I
thought I saw Aunt Plantier - the same gait, the same stoutness, the same breathless hospitality. She
immediately began plying me with questions (without waiting for my answers) as to my career, my
manner of living in Paris, my occupations, my acquaintances; what was my business in the South?
‘Why shouldn’t I go on to Aigues-Vives, where Édouard would be so happy to see me?... Then she
gave me news of all the family, talked of her husband, her children, her brother, of the last vintage, of
the autumn prices... I learnt that Robert had sold Fongueusemare in order to live at Aigues-Vives:
that he was now Édouard’s partner, which left her husband free to travel, and in particular to look
after the commercial side of the business, whilst Robert stayed on the land, improving and increasing
the plantations.
In the meantime I was uneasily looking round for anything that might recall the past. I
recognized, indeed, amongst the otherwise new furniture of the drawing-room, certain pieces that
came from Fongueusemare; but of the past which was quivering within me, Juliette now seemed to
be oblivious, or else to be endeavouring to distract our thoughts from it.
Two boys of twelve and thirteen were playing on the stairs; she called them in to introduce them
to me. Lise, the eldest of her children, had gone with her father to Aigues-Vives. Another boy of ten
was expected in from his walk; it was he whose advent Juliette had told me of in the same letter in
which she had announced our bereavement. There had been some trouble over this last confinement;
Juliette had suffered from its effects for a long time; then last year, as an afterthought, she had given
birth to a little girl, whom, to hear her talk, she preferred to all her other children.
‘My room, where she sleeps, is next door,’ said she; ‘come and see her.’ And as I was following
her: ‘Jérôme, I didn’t dare write to you... would you consent to be the baby’s godfather?’
‘Yes, with pleasure, if you would like me to,’ said I, slightly surprised, as I bent over the cradle.
‘What is my god-daughter’s name?’
‘Alissa...’ replied Juliette, in a whisper. ‘She is a little like her, don’t you think so?’
I pressed Juliette’s hand, without answering. Little Alissa, whom her mother lifted, opened her
eyes; I took her in my arms.
‘What a good father you would make!’ said Juliette, trying to laugh. ‘What are you waiting for to
marry?’
‘To have forgotten a great many things,’ I replied, and watched her blush.
‘Which you are hoping to forget soon?’
‘Which I do not hope ever to forget.’
‘Come in here,’ said she, abruptly, leading the way into a smaller room, which was already dark,
and of which one door led into her bedroom, and another into the drawing-room. ‘This is where I
take refuge when I have a moment to myself; it is the quietest room in the house; I feel that I am
almost sheltered from life in here.’
The window of this small drawing-room did not open, like those of the other rooms, on to the
noises of the town, but on to a sort of courtyard planted with trees.
‘Let us sit down,’ said she, dropping into an armchair. ‘If I understood you rightly it is to Alissa’s
memory that you mean to remain faithful.’
I stayed a moment without answering.
‘Rather, perhaps, to her idea of me. No, don’t give me any credit for it. I think I couldn’t do
otherwise. If I married another woman, I could only pretend to love her.’
‘Ah!’ said she, as though indifferently, then turning her face away from me, she bent it towards
the ground, as if she were looking for something she had lost. ‘Then you think that one can keep a
hopeless love in one’s heart for so long as that?’
‘Yes, Juliette.’
‘And that life can breathe upon it every day, without extinguishing it?’
The evening came slowly up like a grey tide, reaching and flooding each object which seemed to
come to life again in the gloom and repeat in a whisper the story of its past. Once more I saw Alissa’s
room, all the furniture of which Juliette had collected together here. And then she turned her face
towards me again, but it was too dark for me to distinguish her features, so that I did not know
whether her eyes were shut or not. I thought her very beautiful. And we both now remained without
speaking.
‘Come!’ said she at last: ‘we must wake up.’
I saw her rise, take a step forward, drop again, as though she had no strength, into the nearest
chair; she put her hands up to her face and I thought I saw that she was crying.
A servant came in, bringing the lamp.
阿莉莎的日记
阿莉莎的日记
埃格维弗
前天，从勒阿弗尔动身，昨天到了尼姆。这是我的第一次旅行！不用操心家务和做饭，随之而来
的是轻微的怠惰。188×年5月23日，今天是我二十五岁的生日，我开始写日记——说不上能带来多大
乐趣，不过聊以解闷罢了。这或许也是我人生第一次感到孤独：这片异乡的土地，于我而言几乎全然
陌生，它要跟我讲述的东西，必定跟诺曼底告诉我的一样，同我在芬格斯玛尔百听不厌的东西也一
样，因为上帝无论在哪里都是一样的。但这片南国的叙述语言我还未领会，所以听起来不免惊奇。
5月24日
朱莉叶特在我身旁的躺椅上睡着了。露天长廊给这座意式住宅带来魅力，从这里能直接看到连接
花园的院子——院子里铺着沙。朱莉叶特不用离开躺椅，就能顺着起伏的草坪看到远处的水塘：那里
有一大群花花绿绿的鸭子在嬉戏，还有两只游弋的天鹅。听人说，这里的水来自一条溪流，是夏季也
不枯竭的活水。涓涓细流穿过花园里越发荒凉的小树林，流经干涸的灌木丛和葡萄园，变得越来越
窄，很快就彻底窒塞了。
……昨天，我陪着朱莉叶特时，爱德华•泰西埃尔带我父亲参观了花园、农场、储藏室和葡萄园。
因此，今日一早，我独自一人在公园里游逛探险。这里有很多我不认识的植被和树木，我很想知道它
们的名字，所以从每棵植物上折下一根细枝，准备午餐时打听它们的名字。我认出了青橡树，这是杰
罗姆在意大利的博尔盖塞别墅或者多利亚潘菲利别墅欣赏过的树。它是我们北部橡树的远亲，外表上
却截然不同。这种树偏安于公园尽头，它覆满了一片狭小而神秘的空地，树下的草坪踩上去松松软
软，引来仙女的歌唱。我感到震惊，几乎可以说愤怒。因为在芬格斯玛尔，我对大自然的感受总带有
强烈的基督教色彩，而在这里，这种感受却无意识地染上了神话色彩。但压迫着我的恐惧，仍是基督
教式的。我嘀咕着“这是树林”[1]——这里的空气清新透彻，有一种奇异的安宁，让我想到俄尔普斯和
阿尔米达。就在这时，我突然听到一阵鸟鸣声——这无与伦比的声音响起来，如此切近，如此悲怆，
如此纯粹，仿佛整个大自然就在等待这声鸣叫。我的心狂跳不止，靠着树站了好一会儿。然后，在所
有人起床前回去了。
5月26日
一直没有杰罗姆的消息。就算他把信寄去勒阿弗尔，也该转过来了……我的不安，只能倾诉给这
本笔记。三天来，无论是昨天的博镇之行，还是祷告，没有一刻能令我愉快的。今天，我没心思写别
的了。自从来到埃格维弗，我总被一种古怪的伤感包围着，也许并没有别的缘故。这种忧愁如此深
沉，让我觉得它深植于我心中已久，只是从前被我引以为傲的“快乐”掩盖住罢了。
5月27日
为何要欺骗自己呢？我是通过理性推导，才对朱莉叶特的幸福感到欣慰的。我曾如此期盼她获得
幸福，为了她的幸福，我甚至愿意牺牲自己的幸福。可如今见她轻而易举地获得了，见这份幸福同我
们当初的想象如此不同，我竟感到难受。实在太复杂了！是的……我清醒认识到一种可怕的自私心理
回到了我身上。让我生气的是：除了牺牲我的幸福外，她还能在别处找到获得幸福之路。也就是说，
不用我做出牺牲，她也能幸福。
现在，杰罗姆没有音信竟让我如此不安，我不得不扪心自问：当初，我内心的真实想法真的是自
我牺牲吗？现在，上帝不再需要我做出牺牲，我反而觉得受辱，莫非当初我就不能做出牺牲吗？
5月28日
这样分析自己的忧愁，该多危险啊！我对这本笔记产生了依赖，本以为早已克服装模作样，又要
在这里重新染上恶习吗？不，这本日记不是一面纵容迎合我灵魂的镜子；也不是起初我以为的那样
——闲来无事随便写写，而是因为忧愁写下的日记。忧愁是一种“罪恶的心态”，我早就没了这种心
态，也憎恶它，想消除它以“简化”我的灵魂。这本笔记能助我重拾幸福。
忧愁会引来并发症。过去，我从不分析我的幸福。
在芬格斯玛尔时，我也是一个人，甚至比现在还要孤独……为什么当初就没感到忧愁呢？杰罗姆
在意大利给我写信时，我能忍受他独自去看世界，也能忍受他没有我独自生活，因为我的思想跟随
他，他的快乐便是我的快乐。而现在我却忍不住去呼唤他，若没有他，无论看到什么新鲜事物都令我
厌烦……
6月10日
日记写了没几天就中断许久，因为小莉丝出生了，我晚上都长时间守着朱莉叶特。能写给杰罗姆
的那些东西，我也没心思写在这里。我想避免很多女人烦人的通病：写得太多。而是把这本笔记当作
自我完善的工具。
接下来好几页都是她的读书笔记和摘抄段落。接着，是写于芬格斯玛尔的内容。
7月16日
朱莉叶特幸福了。她是这么说的，看上去也的确如此。我没有权利，也没有理由怀疑这一点……
可是，在她身边时，我总有种不满意、不舒服的感觉，这又是从何而来呢？也许是觉得这种幸福太实
际，也来得太容易，过于完美的量身定制，把她的灵魂包得紧紧实实，让她喘不过气来……
现在，我思忖自己想要的究竟是这种幸福，还是说我想要的是追逐幸福的过程？主啊！别让我拥
有很快就能实现的幸福！教会我延迟幸福吧，一直延迟至来到您面前。
接下去好几页都被撕掉了。她必定写了勒阿弗尔的那次糟糕的重逢。日记到第二年才重
新开始。她没标注日期，但肯定写于我住在芬格斯玛尔的那段时间。
有时听他说话，就仿佛面对着自己的思想。他向我解释着，也让我认识我自己。没有他，我还能
存在吗？只有和他一起，我才能存在……
有时我也迟疑，我对他的感情是不是人们所谓的爱情？因为通常的爱情画卷同我描绘出的画卷并
不相同。我希望不用任何言语说明，希望不自知地爱着他，尤其希望我爱他——他却并不知情。
若没有他，无论怎么活都是苟延残喘，我不会有丝毫快乐。我所有的德行都是为了取悦他，然而
靠近他时，又觉得德行不堪一击。
我喜欢弹钢琴练习曲，是因为觉得每天都能有所进步。这或许也是我喜欢读外文书的原因所在。
我当然不是因为喜欢外文多过本国语言，也并非觉得我欣赏的本国作家比不上外国作家。而是因为在
理解外文的意义和情感时，会有轻微的难度。一旦攻克了它，一旦理解得越来越好，也许会产生一种
无意识的自豪感。在精神愉悦的同时，增添某种道不明的心灵满足。我似乎少不得这种满足。
如果没有进步空间，无论多幸福，也不是我想要的状态。我想象的天堂之乐，并非附丽于上帝的
混沌状态，而是无限接近再接近的状态，永无止境……如果我不怕玩弄字眼的话，可以说一切没有上
升性的欢乐，我都不屑一顾。
今天早上，我们两人又坐在林荫道的长椅上。我们什么也没说，也不觉得需要任何语言……他突
然问我是否相信来世。
“杰罗姆，”我立刻喊道，“于我而言，这不仅是愿望，更是坚信……”
突然之间，我的所有信仰似乎都被这一声呼喊掏空了。
“我想知道！”他顿了一会儿，继续补充道，“如果没有信仰，你采取的行动会不会有所不同？”
“我怎么会知道？”我这么回答他，并补充道，“你也一样，我的朋友。在最强烈信仰的驱动下，
无论如何你的行动都不会变成其他样子。你若不再是这样，我也不会爱你。”
不，杰罗姆，不是的。我们的美德，为的并不是来世的回报，我们的爱情追求的也不是报偿。苦
尽甘来的想法是对高尚灵魂的伤害。德行不是灵魂的装点，它就是灵魂之美的形式。
爸爸身体又不大好了。我希望没有大碍，但这三天来都靠牛奶维持着。
昨天傍晚，杰罗姆回卧室去了，爸爸接着和我叙谈很久，后来他也出门独处了片刻。我坐在沙发
上，确切地说，是用一种从未有过的姿势躺在沙发上，我自己都莫名其妙。灯罩遮住光，我的眼睛和
上半身笼在阴影里。我木然地盯着裙摆下露出的一点点脚尖——它正好照到一点灯光。爸爸回来时，
在门口站了会儿，用一种奇怪的眼神打量我，眼里既有欣慰又有悲伤。隐约觉着不安，我站了起来。
他招呼我过去。
“坐我身边来。”他说。虽然天色已晚，他却开始说起我母亲——在他们分开后，他从未说起过
她。他谈起他们是如何结婚的，谈起他有多么爱她，谈起最初她在他心中的分量。
“爸爸，”我终于对他说道，“求你告诉我，为什么今晚要跟我说这些，为什么恰恰是今晚……”
“因为刚才我回到客厅，看到你躺在沙发上，有一瞬间我以为又看到了你母亲。”
我着重强调这一点，是因为恰好也是在这天傍晚……杰罗姆靠沙发站着，在我肩膀上方看书，俯
身对着我。我看不见他，却能感觉到他的气息、温度和身体的轻颤。我假装继续看书，但再也看不进
去，一行行文字在眼前模糊分散开来，一种古怪的窘迫侵袭着我。趁还能做到，我赶紧从椅子上站起
来，出门待了一阵，幸好他没有发觉。可不久后，我独自待在客厅里，躺在沙发上，爸爸说这一刻我
很像母亲，但那一刻，我心中所想也恰好是我母亲。
那晚我翻来覆去睡不着，内心充满不安、气闷和可耻的情绪。往事向我涌来，悔恨攫住了我。主
啊，教会我憎恶那些丑陋的表象吧。
可怜的杰罗姆！要知道有时他只稍做一个手势，也能恰好迎合我的期待。
我小时候，也是为了他，才想要漂亮起来。现在想来，我“追求完美”的举动，也全是为了他，但
这份“完美”只有在他不在时，才能获得。上帝啊！在您的教导中，还数这一条最让我煎熬。
德行若能与爱情结合，该有多幸福啊！有时我怀疑，除了喜爱、竭尽全力的爱、越来越深的爱之
外，是否还有其他德行；也有时候，我觉得德行不过是对爱的抵抗。什么！我竟敢把内心最质朴的爱
慕称作德行！多迷人的诡辩啊！多理直气壮的劝诱啊！这是幸福埋下的蜃景！
今天早上，我读到拉布吕耶尔的这段文字：
“有时在生活中，无比珍贵的欢乐和柔情似水的承诺都会遭遇抵制，想要破除抵制也是人之常
情。这种欢乐和承诺的魅力，唯有美德才能超越，唯有美德才能让人甘心放弃。”
我为何要构想出这种“抵制”呢？是否还有什么比爱情更美妙的魅力吸引着我呢？啊！若借助于爱
情，能指引我们两人的灵魂超越爱情之上，该有多好！
唉！我现在还不是完全理解“在上帝和他之间，我是唯一的障碍”这句话。也许如他所说：最初，
他对我的爱的确让他靠近了上帝。现在，这份爱却阻碍了他前进。他恋慕我，为我驻足停留。我成了
他的偶像，也阻碍他在美德之路上的前行。我们之中必须有一个人到达目的地。既然我内心懦弱，对
于反抗已不抱希望，上帝啊，就请答应赐予我力量——好让他别再爱我了。我会把他美好而无穷的功
德带给您，用以偿还我的罪孽。今日，我的灵魂因为失去他而饮泣，也不过是为了此去经年，能在您
身旁与他重逢罢了……
上帝啊！告诉我，还有谁的灵魂比他更配得上您？除了爱我之外，他的人生难道不该有更好的追
求吗？如果他像我一样停下脚步，我还会这么爱他吗？若是局限于幸福之中，一切本该英勇壮烈的东
西，会变得多狭隘啊！
……
星期日
“上帝给他们保留了更美好的东西。”
5月3日 星期一
幸福近在咫尺，只要他想……便触手可及……
早上和他聊天，我做出了牺牲。
星期一晚上
他明天就要走了……
亲爱的杰罗姆，我怀着无限柔情，永远爱你，但我的这份感情永远不会向你道出了。我紧紧压迫
我的眼睛、嘴唇和灵魂，你的离去释放了我，让我产生一种苦涩的满足。
我努力按理智行动，但展开行动之时，促使我行动的理由全都消失无踪，或者让我觉得荒唐起
来。我再也不相信理智了……
那些让我逃避他的理由呢？我也不再相信……但我还是悲伤地逃避着他，尽管不明白为什么要
逃。
主啊！我们朝你走去。杰罗姆和我肩并着肩，相依为命，像两个沿着生命长河前进的朝圣者。有
时，一个人对另一个说道：“如果你累了，就靠着我吧，兄弟。”另一个答道：“只要清楚你在我身边
就够了……”然而，并不是这样！主啊，你指引我们走的路，是一条窄路——窄到容不下两人并行。
7月4日
我已经六个星期没打开这本日记。上个月，我重读几页，突然发觉一种荒谬有罪的心思：为了
他……要好好写。
我动笔写这日记是为了摆脱他，现在它仿佛成了我们通信的延续。
我把所有看起来写得不好的内容都撕毁了。（我知道自己这么做的用意）理应撕碎所有关于他的
内容，应该全部撕碎……但我做不到。
撕掉那么几页，已经让我有些得意……如果我的心病得没那么厉害，必会为这份得意的心情而感
到可笑。
我确实觉得自己干了件大事，撕掉的都是重要的东西。
7月6日
必须清理藏书了……
我在一本本书中逃避他，却仍能见到他。就连我独自发现的篇章，依然能听见他为我诵读的声
音。只有他感兴趣的书，我才会去欣赏。我的思想就是照着他的思想塑造而成的，我不知道如何将两
者割绝开来。就像从前，我会因为两者交融而欢喜一样。
有时候，为了从他的行文节奏中跳脱出来，我会试图写得差些。但与他对抗本身，也说明我还想
着他。最后我决定，在一段时间里除了《圣经》之外（《效法基督》或许也可以除外），不读别的；
在每天的日记里，除了记录阅读中印象深刻的句子外，也不写别的。
接下去的日记便是对她“今日食粮”的记录，还标记了日期。从7月1日开始，她每天都记
录一句话。除了她作评论的那些之外，我在这里就不抄录其他了。
7月20日
“变卖你所有的家当，献给穷人吧。”——我是这样理解的：我应当把交给杰罗姆的心，也分给穷
人。这也是教导他去做和我一样的事。主啊，给我这份勇气吧。
7月24日
我不读《永远的安慰》了。这古语让我深深着迷，却也令我分心。我从中体会到近乎异教徒般的
欢乐，然而其间并没有看到任何我想追寻的启示。
我重读了《效法基督》。拉丁文的版本太难理解，所以我没看这个版本。我喜欢读的译本甚至没
有署名，当然这是新教出的，书名上还写着“适用于所有基督教团体”。
“啊！你若知道在朝美德行进时，自己会获得多大的平静，又能给他人带来多大的欢乐，我确信
你会更用心投入的。”
8月10日
上帝啊，我朝您呼喊时，怀着孩童般的激动信仰，是用圣灵般的非凡声音……
我知道，这所有的一切，并非来自杰罗姆，而是来自您。可为何，您要在我们之间，填满杰罗姆
的形象呢？
8月14日
为了完成这个活儿，我花了两个多月……主啊，帮帮我吧！
8月20日
我清醒地感受到了牺牲，在忧愁里感受到它。我感到内心深处，牺牲并未完成。上帝啊，点醒我
吧——那种唯有他能带给我的快乐，其实是您赋予的。
8月28日
我拥有的是多么平庸、悲哀的德行！我对自己过于苛求了吗？别再痛苦了。
我的意志该有多薄弱，才一直乞求上帝赐予力量啊！如今，我的祷告里都是愁云惨雾。
8月29日
“看看田野里的百合吧……”
这话如此简单，却让我整个早上陷入忧愁中，无论如何也排解不开。我来到田野，心里和眼里都
盈满泪水，情不自禁地反反复复说着这句话。我凝神望着辽阔的平原空地——农民弯着腰，忙忙碌碌
地犁地……“田野里的百合……”主啊，它们在哪里呢？
9月16日 晚上十点
我再次见到他了。他就在这里，在这房子里。我望见他房间的光透过窗户映在草坪上。我写下这
些文字时，他还迟迟未睡，也许正在想我。他说他没变，我也这么觉得。为了打消他爱我的念头，我
能按照自己决定的那样，向他展现我的模样吗？
……
9月24日
多么残酷的对话啊！即便我心潮澎湃，也要装作冷酷无情、无动于衷。在此之前，我只是安于逃
避他，但今天早上，我觉得上帝给了我抵御他的力量。况且，无尽地逃避交锋是软弱的表现。我获胜
了吗？杰罗姆对我减少了爱意吗？唉！我期盼的事，也是我恐惧的事……我从未这么深地爱过他。
主啊，如果从我手里拯救出他，必须牺牲我，那便动手吧！
“主啊，请进入我的心中和灵魂中来，替我背负些痛苦，就在我身上继续经受余下的劫难吧。”
我们说起帕斯卡尔……我能跟他说什么呢？多么可耻愚蠢的言论！我说的时候便觉得百般折磨，
今晚更是懊悔不已，如同亵渎圣灵一般。我再次拿起厚重的《思想录》，翻开时恰好停在致罗阿奈兹
小姐的信这一段。
“若自愿追随拖拽我们的人，便感觉不到绳索。若我们开始反抗，越走越远，便会觉得痛苦万
分。”
这些话直截了当地戳中了我，让我无力再读下去，只能把书翻到另一处。在此处，我发现一段从
未看到过的美妙段落，于是将它抄录了下来。
第一本日记到这里结束，第二本肯定被她销毁了。因为阿莉莎留下的那些文字，再记录
时已是三年后的九月，那是在芬格斯玛尔的日记。也就是说，这些日记写于我们最后一次见
面前不久。
最后这本日记的开头是这样写的。
9月17日
上帝啊，您清楚地了解，必须有他在，我才能爱您。
9月20日
上帝啊，把他给我吧，我会把心献给您。
上帝啊，只要让我再见到他就够了。
上帝啊，我发誓把心献给您。请将我的爱情所求赐给我，我会将余生都献给您。
上帝啊，原谅我这卑微的祈祷吧，但我无法不提起他的名字，也无法忘记心中的伤痛。
上帝啊，我呼喊着你：我还在绝望中徘徊，不要袖手旁观。
9月21日
“你们向天父所求的一切，都是以我的名义……”
主啊！我不敢以您的名义……
如果我不去祷告，难道您就不那么清楚我心中的妄想了吗？
9月27日
从今早起，我便心如止水。昨夜，我整晚都在沉思和祷告，刹那间，感到一种清澈的寂静包围着
我，落在我身上，它与我童年时对圣灵的想象全然一致。我担心这份喜悦不过是神经亢奋之故，于是
立刻躺下睡觉，很快进入梦乡。这份幸福并未离我而去，今天早上依然存在，丝毫没有减弱。现在我
确信，他要来了。
9月30日
杰罗姆！我的朋友，我还会称你为兄弟。但我对你如此情深，远不只是对兄弟的爱。在山毛榉林
中，我无数次呼唤你的名字！我每日黄昏出门，直到夜幕降临才归去。我穿过菜圃的小门，来到昏暗
的林荫道……期待着你出现在布满石子的路堤后面，突然回应我，而后又慌乱地回避我的目光；又或
者，远远地，我见你坐在长椅上等我。我的心不会为此惊跳，相反，若没见到你，我反而觉得震惊。
10月1日
还是没有他的影子。太阳沉入无比纯净的天际。我等待着。我知道很快会和他一起坐在这张长椅
上……已经听到他的说话声。我爱极了听他呼唤我的名字……他会来这里的！我将把手放在他的手
中，额头靠在他的肩上，紧挨着他呼吸。昨天，我拿了几封他写的旧信，想带过来重读。但没有读
成，因为思念之情过于汹涌。我还带上了他喜欢的紫晶小十字架，某一年夏天，因为不愿他离开，他
在的时候我每晚都戴着它。
我想把这枚十字架交还给他。长久以来，我都做着同一个梦：他结婚了，我是他长女小阿莉莎的
教母，我把这枚首饰交给了她……为何我不敢向他道出呢？
10月2日
今天，我的灵魂轻盈而愉悦，仿若在天空筑巢的小鸟。今天，他肯定会来。我感觉到了，知道他
会来，要在此记下一笔，真想大声告诉所有人啊。我不想再掩饰我的喜悦，即使是对我漠不关心的罗
贝尔——这个一向心不在焉的人，也注意到我的喜悦。他的提问令我心绪不宁，我不知该如何作答。
怎样才能挨到今晚呢？
这蒙住双眼的布条该有多透明啊，竟让我觉得他的形象处处那么高大，所有爱的光芒聚焦在我心
头上的一点——灼烧着我。
啊！等待让我疲惫不堪！
主啊！只要一瞬就够，将幸福之门向我微微敞开吧。
10月3日
一切都烟消云散了。他像影子一样在我臂弯中消散。明明刚才还在！就在那里！我还能感觉到
他，呼唤着他。我的手、我的唇在黑夜中搜寻着他，却是徒劳。
我辗转反侧，难以成眠，连祷告都做不到，待在卧室里，待在房子的任何一处，都觉得恐惧。我
来到昏暗的花园，悲痛把我引到和他分别时的小门后面。我打开门时，心里怀着一种愚蠢的期待：说
不定他会回来！我呼唤他，在黑暗中摸索，然后回来给他写信。我无法承受这份哀痛。
究竟发生了什么？我对他说了什么？又做了什么？为何在他面前，我总是夸大德行？我内心深处
全盘否定的德行，能有什么价值呢？那些话，我说是上帝告诉我的，其实是在暗中说谎……充斥在我
心中的话，一个字也没有道出。杰罗姆！杰罗姆，我痛苦的朋友！你在我身边时，让我的心支离破
碎；但远离你时，我又不能成活。之前跟你说的话，你只去倾听表达爱意的那部分就够了。
我撕掉信，又重写……转眼已是拂晓时分，天空如此阴郁灰暗，被泪水浸透了，如同我的心潮一
般。我听到农场开始劳作的声响，沉睡的万物重现生机……
“现在起来吧，时辰已到……”
我不会寄走这封信。
10月5日
善妒的上帝啊，您已经掠夺了我的一切，就把这颗心也带走吧。从今往后，它不会再燃烧，也不
会对任何东西产生兴趣。助我打败这残缺不全的自己吧。这所房子，这个花园，全都煽惑着我的爱
情，令我难以忍受。我想逃去只能见到您的地方。
助我一臂之力吧，帮我把财产分配给可怜人。但我无法轻易卖掉芬格斯玛尔，还是把它留给罗贝
尔吧。我已经写好一份遗嘱，但大部分必要的手续我都不了解，昨天同公证员也未能谈开，因为怕他
猜到我的决心，然后去通知朱莉叶特和罗贝尔……到了巴黎，我会补全手续。
10月10日
抵达此处时，我已筋疲力尽，头两天一直卧床不起。他们不顾我的反对叫来医生，他表示我必须
接受手术。有什么可反抗的呢？我轻而易举就让他相信：我很害怕这个手术，希望再养养身体，等恢
复些体力之后再做。
我隐姓埋名，也没有交代住址，但给疗养院的管理处交了一笔足够的钱，不费吹灰之力就让他们
接收了我。只要上帝觉得必要，我可以一直在这里生活下去。
我喜欢这个房间。这里窗明几净，墙上无需任何装点。我感到一种近乎愉悦的情绪，这令我讶异
——因为我对生活已不抱期待的缘故吧；因为现在，只有上帝能取悦于我，若上帝没有填满心灵，他
的爱不会显得如此美妙。
除却《圣经》，我没有带任何书。但今天在读《圣经》时，我心里回荡起帕斯卡尔激动的抽泣
声，他的这句狂言比《圣经》更为高超。
“不属于上帝的一切，无一能满足我的期待。”
噢！我这颗冒失的心想要的欢乐，竟如此世俗！
主啊！您让我绝望，就是为了听到这一声惊呼吗？
10月12日
多希望您的统治能降临！来支配我吧！成为我唯一的主宰，完完整整地统治我，我再不想对您动
摇不定了。
我太累，仿佛垂垂老矣。但灵魂却保持着古怪的稚气，我还是过去那个小女孩——房间必须井井
有条，脱下的衣服必须叠好放在床头，这样才能入睡……
我死的时候，也想这样。
10月13日
销毁之前，我重读了日记。“伟大的心以散布自己纷乱的心情为耻。”我想，这句美妙的话出自法
国王后克洛蒂尔德沃之口。
正当我要将它投入火海之际，仿佛有一个声音在提醒我，将我制止了——这本日记似乎已不再属
于我，从始至终都是为杰罗姆而写，我没有权利从他手中将之夺走。今天看来，我当时的种种不安与
迟疑是那么可笑，于我而言微不足道，相信杰罗姆也不会为此心烦意乱。上帝啊，希望他在这本日记
中，偶尔能发现我内心笨拙的音调。在这里，我发狂似的渴望着，愿把他推向我难以企及的美德之
巅。
“上帝啊，引领我去到抵达不了的悬岩吧。”
10月15日
“欢乐，欢乐，欢乐，欢乐的眼泪……”
是的，我猜测这绚烂的欢乐，处于俗世的喜悦之上，是远离一切痛苦的彼岸。我抵达的悬岩，它
的名字叫“幸福”……我明白，若不追求幸福，这一生不过是虚度。但是主啊！您答应将它许给纯洁无
私的灵魂。“现在要幸福了，”您曾经说过，“死在主怀中之人，现在就要幸福了。”至死方能等到它
吗？我的信仰在这一刻摇摆不定。主啊！我用尽全力向您呼喊，心中一片凄迷，只等曙光将我照亮。
我会这样呼喊您，直至死去。快来解救我的心吧。我如此渴望的幸福……或许应该说服自己已经得
到？仿若拂晓前焦急鸣叫的鸟儿，它在呼唤晨光，而不是宣告黎明。我是否也该如此——在晨光初现
之前就开始歌唱。
10月16日
杰罗姆，我想告诉你什么是完美的欢乐。
今早，我胃里翻江倒海，难受地吐了。紧接着，我感到无比虚弱，某个瞬间甚至相信自己就要死
了。可是没有。起初，我觉得整个身体处于极其静谧的状态。然后恐慌吞噬了我，灵魂和肉身都战栗
起来，人生仿佛豁然开朗，眼前一片清澄。我似乎第一次注意到——房间的墙上空空如也。我害怕
了。写日记也是为了平复心情。主啊，别让我说亵渎神明的话，就这样让我抵达终点吧。
我还能起床，像个孩子一样跪倒在地。
我想在这一刻死去，快一些吧——在我又感到孤独之前。
去年，我再次见到朱莉叶特。这次会面距离她给我寄的最后一封信——有关阿莉莎死讯
的那封信，已经十年。我恰好在普罗旺斯旅行，顺道去尼姆停留。泰西埃尔一家住在市中心
繁忙的菲舍尔大街，家里的小楼很漂亮。尽管我早已去信通知要来，但进门的那一刻还是相
当激动。
女仆把我带进客厅，我等了片刻，朱莉叶特便进来了。我仿佛见到了普朗提埃姨妈：同
样的步态，同样的阔肩，同样让人喘不过气来的热情。她立刻没完没了地向我提问，从职业
生涯问到巴黎生活、日常消遣、人际交往，却也不等着我回答。她问我来南方做什么，问我
为什么不去埃格维弗，爱德华一定会很高兴见到我……接着，她跟我报告了所有近况：她的
丈夫、孩子们、弟弟、上一次的收成，以及生意上的不景气……我得知罗贝尔为了定居埃格
维弗，已经把芬格斯玛尔卖了。他现在是爱德华的合伙人，留在种植园里，负责改良产品和
扩大葡萄产量。这样一来，爱德华就能抽出空来四处跑业务，他主要负责销售事宜。
然而，我的目光还是焦急地搜寻着，想在这里找到些许过往的踪迹。在客厅的翻新家具
中，我很快认出几件芬格斯玛尔的家具。往事投入我心湖中，激起阵阵涟漪，但朱莉叶特似
乎并未发觉，或许是故意不去提起。
两个十二三岁的男孩在楼梯上玩耍，朱莉叶特把他们叫到跟前，向我介绍。长女莉丝和
父亲一起住在埃格维弗；另一个十岁的儿子在散步，很快会回来——他就是朱莉叶特通知我
那个沉痛消息时，提到的即将出生的孩子。那次分娩苦不堪言，朱莉叶特花了很久才恢复过
来。去年，她才转念又生了个小女儿，听她的语气，似乎最喜欢这个孩子。
“她就睡在旁边，我的卧室里，”她说，“来瞧瞧吧。”我跟着她走过去。
“杰罗姆，我不大敢写信问你……你愿意做这个孩子的教父吗？”
“当然愿意，如果你希望的话。”我有些惊讶地说道，俯下身对着摇篮，“我的小教女叫什
么名字？”
“阿莉莎……”朱莉叶特低声答道，“她长得有点像她，你不觉得吗？”
我紧紧握住朱莉叶特的手，什么话也答不出。小阿莉莎被妈妈稍稍抱起些，她睁开眼
睛，我把她接到怀里。
“如果成家，你该是多好的父亲呀！”她勉强笑了一声，“你怎么还不结婚，等什么呢？”
“等着忘掉一些往事。”我见她脸红起来。
“你希望早些忘掉吗？”
“我希望永远不忘。”
“跟我来。”她蓦然说道，把我领进一间更小的房间。屋子里黑灯瞎火的，有一扇门对着
她的房间，另一扇门对着客厅。
“有空我就会来这里避一避，这是整个家里最安静的房间。在这里，我觉得可以些许逃避
生活的侵扰。”
这小房间的窗户紧闭着，同其他的房间不太一样。它外面是郁郁葱葱的院子，而不是熙
熙攘攘的街道。
“我们坐一坐吧，”说着，她窝进躺椅中，“如果我还算懂你，你是想忠于对阿莉莎的回忆
吧。”
我顿了顿，没有作答，然后说道：“不如说是为了忠于她以为的我吧……不，别把这归功
于我。我想我无路可逃，若是娶了另外一个女人，我也只能假装爱她。”
“唉！”她看似冷淡地别开脸去，低头看着地，似乎在寻找某样丢失的东西。
“所以，你觉得这种无望的爱情可以在我们心中留存那么长时间吗？”
“是的，朱莉叶特。”
“尽管在生活的摧残下，每日栉风沐雨，这爱火依然不灭吗？”
夜幕恍若阴郁的潮汐一般涌来。它席卷过来，吞噬暗影中的每个物件。朱莉叶特把家具
齐集于此，阿莉莎的房间重现在我眼前。它们仿佛复活一般，低诉着各自的往事。而今，朱
莉叶特重新将脸转向我，面部线条模糊不清，以致根本无法辨认她的眼睛是睁还是合，我却
觉得美极了。我们两人看着彼此，默然不语。
“好了！”她终于说道，“该醒醒了……”
我见她站起来，向前跨一步，似乎精疲力竭，又跌落在旁边的椅子上。她双手捂着脸，
像是哭了……
此时，女仆掌着灯，走了进来。
[1]原文是拉丁文：Hic nemus。