No one was kinder to me at that time than Rose Waterford. She combined a masculine intelligence with a feminine perversity, and the novels she wrote were original and disconcerting.It was at her house one day that I met Charles Strickland's wife.Miss Waterford was giving a tea-party, and her small room was more than usually full.Everyone seemed to be talking, and I, sitting in silence, felt awkward;but I was too shy to break into any of the groups that seemed absorbed in their own affairs.Miss Waterford was a good hostess, and seeing my embarrassment came up to me.
“I want you to talk to Mrs. Strickland,”she said.“She's raving about your book.”
“What does she do?”I asked.
I was conscious of my ignorance, and if Mrs. Strickland was a well-known writer I thought it as well to ascertain the fact before I spoke to her.
Rose Waterford cast down her eyes demurely to give greater effect to her reply.
“She gives luncheon-parties. You've only got to roar a little, and she'll ask you.”
Rose Waterford was a cynic. She looked upon life as an opportunity for writing novels and the public as her raw material.Now and then she invited members of it to her house if they showed an appreciation of her talent and entertained with proper lavishness.She held their weakness for lions in good-humoured contempt, but played to them her part of the distinguished woman of letters with decorum.
I was led up to Mrs. Strickland, and for ten minutes we talked together.I noticed nothing about her except that she had a pleasant voice.She had a flat in Westminster, overlooking the unfinished cathedral, and because we lived in the same neighbourhood we felt friendly disposed to one another.The Army and Navy Stores are a bond of union between all who dwell between the river and St.James's Park.Mrs.Strickland asked me for my address, and a few days later I received an invitation to luncheon.
My engagements were few, and I was glad to accept. When I arrived, a little late, because in my fear of being too early I had walked three times round the cathedral, I found the party already complete.Miss Waterford was there and Mrs.Jay, Richard Twining, and George Road.We were all writers.It was a fne day, early in spring, and we were in a good humour.We talked about a hundred things.Miss Waterford, torn between the aestheticism of her early youth, when she used to go to parties in sage green, holding a daffodil, and the flippancy of her maturer years, which tended to high heels and Paris frocks, wore a new hat.It put her in high spirits.I had never heard her more malicious about our common friends.Mrs.Jay, aware that impropriety is the soul of wit, made observations in tones hardly above a whisper that might well have tinged the snowy table-cloth with a rosy hue.Richard Twining bubbled over with quaint absurdities, and George Road, conscious that he need not exhibit a brilliancy which was almost a byword, opened his mouth only to put food into it.Mrs.Strickland did not talk much, but she had a pleasant gift for keeping the conversation general;and when there was a pause she threw in just the right remark to set it going once more.She was a woman of thirty-seven, rather tall, and plump, without being fat;she was not pretty, but her face was pleasing, chiefy, perhaps, on account of her kind brown eyes.Her skin was rather sallow.Her dark hair was elaborately dressed.She was the only woman of the three whose face was free of make-up, and by contrast with the others she seemed simple and unaffected.
The dining-room was in the good taste of the period. It was very severe.There was a high dado of white wood and a green paper on which were etchings by Whistler in neat black frames.The green curtains with their peacock design, hung in straight lines, and the green carpet, in the pattern of which pale rabbits frolicked among leafy trees, suggested the infuence of William Morris.There was blue delft on the chimneypiece.At that time there must have been fve hundred dining-rooms in London decorated in exactly the same manner.It was chaste, artistic, and dull.
When we left I walked away with Miss Waterford, and the fne day and her new hat persuaded us to saunter through the Park.
“That was a very nice party,”I said.
“Did you think the food was good?I told her that if she wanted writers she must feed them well.”
“Admirable advice,”I answered.“But why does she want them?”
Miss Waterford shrugged her shoulders.
“She finds them amusing. She wants to be in the movement.I fancy she's rather simple, poor dear, and she thinks we're all wonderful.After all, it pleases her to ask us to luncheon, and it doesn't hurt us.I like her for it.”
Looking back, I think that Mrs. Strickland was the most harmless of all the lion-hunters that pursue their quarry from the rarifed heights of Hampstead to the nethermost studios of Cheyne Walk.She had led a very quiet youth in the country, and the books that came down from Mudie's Library brought with them not only their own romance, but the romance of London.She had a real passion for reading(rare in her kind, who for the most part are more interested in the author than in his book, in the painter than in his pictures),and she invented a world of the imagination in which she lived with a freedom she never acquired in the world of every day.When she came to know writers it was like adventuring upon a stage which till then she had known only from the other side of the footlights.She saw them dramatically, and really seemed herself to live a larger life because she entertained them and visited them in their fastnesses.She accepted the rules with which they played the game of life as valid for them, but never for a moment thought of regulating her own conduct in accordance with them.Their moral eccentricities, like their oddities of dress, their wild theories and paradoxes, were an entertainment which amused her, but had not the slightest infuence on her convictions.
“Is there a Mr. Strickland?”I asked.
“Oh yes;he's something in the city. I believe he's a stockbroker.He's very dull.”
“Are they good friends?”
“They adore one another. You'll meet him if you dine there.But she doesn't often have people to dinner.He's very quiet.He's not in the least interested in literature or the arts.”
“Why do nice women marry dull men?”
“Because intelligent men won't marry nice women.”
I could not think of any retort to this, so I asked if Mrs. Strickland had children.
“Yes;she has a boy and a girl. They're both at school.”
The subject was exhausted, and we began to talk of other things.
那時(shí)沒(méi)有誰(shuí)比蘿絲·沃特福德對(duì)我更好的了。她身上結(jié)合了男性的才智和女性的任性,她寫的那些小說(shuō)很獨(dú)特,而且讀后讓人心緒不寧。正是在她的家里,有一天我遇見(jiàn)了查爾斯·斯特里克蘭的妻子。那天沃特福德小姐正在舉辦茶會(huì),她那小房間比平時(shí)更為擁擠,每個(gè)人似乎都在聊天,而我則安靜地坐著,覺(jué)得有些尷尬。我性格太內(nèi)向,所以無(wú)法加入任何一堆人的談話,他們好像都在專注于談?wù)撟约旱氖虑?。沃特福德小姐是一位相?dāng)不錯(cuò)的女主人,看見(jiàn)了我的窘態(tài)就徑直朝我走來(lái)。
“我想讓你和斯特里克蘭太太說(shuō)會(huì)兒話,”她說(shuō),“她對(duì)你的書可是推崇備至?!?/p>
“她是干什么的?”我問(wèn)道。
我意識(shí)到自己的孤陋寡聞,如果斯特里克蘭太太是位很有名氣的作家,我想在我和她說(shuō)話之前也要把情況摸清楚。
蘿絲·沃特福德為了加強(qiáng)她回答的效果,故意把眼簾一垂,裝出一本正經(jīng)的樣子。
“她經(jīng)常舉辦午餐聚會(huì),你只要?jiǎng)e那么靦腆,她會(huì)邀請(qǐng)你的。”
蘿絲·沃特福德是個(gè)玩世不恭的女子,她把生活看成是寫小說(shuō)的機(jī)會(huì),把大家作為她小說(shuō)的素材。如果大家顯示出欣賞她的才能,她就會(huì)時(shí)不時(shí)地邀請(qǐng)他們到她的府上,適度破費(fèi)地款待他們一番。她對(duì)大眾對(duì)名人們崇拜的弱點(diǎn)既感到快樂(lè),又有點(diǎn)鄙夷,但不管怎樣,在他們面前她扮演著端莊得體的知名女作家的角色。
我被領(lǐng)到斯特里克蘭太太面前,我們?cè)谝黄鹆牧擞惺昼姷臅r(shí)間。除了她的聲音很悅耳外,我沒(méi)發(fā)現(xiàn)她有什么特別之處。她在威斯敏斯特有一棟房子,能夠看到尚未竣工的大教堂,因?yàn)槲覀冏≡谕粋€(gè)街區(qū),所以便覺(jué)得親近了一層。對(duì)于所有那些住在泰晤士河和圣詹姆斯公園之間的居民來(lái)說(shuō),陸海軍商店就是連接他們的紐帶。斯特里克蘭太太要了我的地址,幾天之后我便收到了她午餐會(huì)的邀請(qǐng)。
我的約會(huì)很少,所以便欣然接受了邀請(qǐng)。我到得有點(diǎn)晚了,因?yàn)槲液ε碌降锰?,所以繞著大教堂走了三圈,進(jìn)屋時(shí)我發(fā)現(xiàn)聚會(huì)的人已經(jīng)到齊了。沃特福德小姐已經(jīng)在那兒了,還有杰伊太太、理查德·特維寧、喬治·羅德也已落座,我們都是作家。那是早春晴朗的一天,大家的興致很高,我們談?wù)摿撕芏嗟氖虑?。?lái)之前,沃特福德小姐甚是糾結(jié),是照她青春年少時(shí)的唯美主義打扮呢,她過(guò)去參加各種聚會(huì)常常要身著淡綠,手持一朵水仙;還是照她成熟女性儀態(tài)萬(wàn)方,穿著高跟鞋和巴黎款的女裝,戴著一頂新帽子打扮呢。結(jié)果她的打扮介于兩者之間,這反而讓她有了更高的興致,我還從未聽(tīng)過(guò)她用如此俏皮刻薄的語(yǔ)言談?wù)撐覀児餐呐笥选=芤撂宄Z(yǔ)不驚人死不休是機(jī)智的靈魂,她用比耳語(yǔ)高不了多少的聲音發(fā)表高見(jiàn),羞得雪白的桌布也會(huì)染上玫瑰色的紅暈。理查德·特維寧滔滔不絕地發(fā)表著奇談怪論,而喬治·羅德意識(shí)到不必再展示他口吐蓮花的才華了,所以只管張開大嘴,不斷地往里填上食物。斯特里克蘭太太說(shuō)得不多,但是她有一種可愛(ài)的本事,讓談話圍繞共同的話題,一旦談話出現(xiàn)冷場(chǎng),她就會(huì)插入適當(dāng)?shù)脑捳Z(yǔ)使談話再次進(jìn)行下去。她這一年三十七歲,身材較高,體態(tài)豐滿,卻不顯得肥胖;她說(shuō)不上漂亮,但是她的面容招人喜愛(ài),也許這要?dú)w功于她善良、褐色的雙眸。她的膚色不太好,一頭烏發(fā)梳理得很精巧。她是三個(gè)女人中唯一一個(gè)沒(méi)有化妝的,與其他人形成鮮明對(duì)照的是,她似乎更為淳樸和自然。
餐廳的布置很符合那個(gè)時(shí)代的品位,非常樸素,高高的木制白色護(hù)墻板,綠色的墻紙上掛著惠斯勒的蝕刻畫,用四四方方的黑色框架鑲嵌著。綠色的窗簾上有著孔雀圖案的設(shè)計(jì),筆直地懸掛著,地毯也是綠色的,圖案是白色的小兔在枝繁葉茂的樹林里追逐嬉戲——顯然是受到威廉·莫里斯的影響。壁爐架上擺著白釉藍(lán)彩陶器。彼時(shí),在倫敦一定會(huì)有五百家餐廳都是如此一模一樣的格調(diào),這種風(fēng)格雅致,富有藝術(shù)氣息,但是也有一些沉悶。
當(dāng)我們離開時(shí),我和沃特福德小姐一路同行,天氣很不錯(cuò),再加上她戴著新帽子提高了興致,我們決定漫步穿過(guò)圣詹姆斯公園。
“剛才的聚會(huì)真不錯(cuò)?!蔽艺f(shuō)。
“你覺(jué)得飯菜可口吧?我告訴過(guò)她,如果她想讓作家們登門,就一定得讓他們吃好?!?/p>
“讓人佩服的建議,”我答道,“可是為什么她想跟作家們來(lái)往呢?”
沃特福德小姐聳了聳肩。
“她覺(jué)得作家有意思,她想趕潮流,我想她很單純。可憐的人兒,她認(rèn)為我們都很了不起,反正請(qǐng)我們?nèi)コ晕绮蜁?huì)讓她很開心,對(duì)我們也沒(méi)有壞處,就沖這一點(diǎn),我就喜歡她?!?/p>
現(xiàn)在回想起來(lái),無(wú)論是遠(yuǎn)離塵囂居于漢普斯特德廟堂之高的雅士,還是處于切恩街寒酸畫室的文人,那些追逐名人的人想方設(shè)法要把他們揭個(gè)底兒朝天,而我認(rèn)為斯特里克蘭太太是這群人中最不會(huì)傷害到人的那一類。她還是少女時(shí)是在安靜的鄉(xiāng)下度過(guò)的,從穆迪圖書館借來(lái)的書不僅給她帶來(lái)了不少浪漫故事,而且?guī)?lái)了關(guān)于倫敦的浪漫遐想。她對(duì)閱讀有著真正的激情(在她這一類人中是很少見(jiàn)的,大部分人對(duì)作者本人的興趣濃于對(duì)作品的興趣,對(duì)畫家的好奇甚于對(duì)其畫作的品鑒),她為自己創(chuàng)設(shè)了一個(gè)想象中的世界,在那里她生活得自由自在,那種自由是她在日常的現(xiàn)實(shí)世界中絕對(duì)無(wú)法獲得的。當(dāng)她開始了解了作家們之后,就好像她親自登上了舞臺(tái)去歷險(xiǎn),而不是在舞臺(tái)腳燈的另一頭遙望舞臺(tái)上的演出。她看見(jiàn)這些作家粉墨登場(chǎng),真正感到了自己生活的圈子擴(kuò)大了很多,因?yàn)樗粌H親自款待了他們,而且在他們封閉的幽居中拜訪他們。她接受了這些人游戲人生的種種規(guī)則,并認(rèn)為這些規(guī)則對(duì)于作家們來(lái)說(shuō)是天經(jīng)地義的,但她自己片刻也沒(méi)有想到要按照他們的規(guī)則去調(diào)整自己的行為。他們的倫理標(biāo)準(zhǔn)稀奇古怪,就像他們身著的奇裝異服,他們的理論和悖論狂野不羈,如同某種娛樂(lè)讓她覺(jué)得趣味盎然,但是對(duì)她的信念沒(méi)有一絲一毫的影響。
“有沒(méi)有一位斯特里克蘭先生呢?”我問(wèn)道。
“哦,當(dāng)然有,他在城里做事,我想他是個(gè)證券經(jīng)紀(jì)人,他這人非常古板無(wú)趣。”
“他倆感情好嗎?”
“他們彼此相敬如賓,如果你在他們家吃晚餐你就會(huì)遇見(jiàn)他,但斯特里克蘭太太不常請(qǐng)人吃晚餐。他很安靜,對(duì)文學(xué)或者藝術(shù)沒(méi)有一丁點(diǎn)兒興趣?!?/p>
“為什么討人喜歡的女人總是嫁給乏味的男人啊?”
“因?yàn)橛蓄^腦的男人是不會(huì)娶討人喜歡的女人的?!?/p>
我對(duì)這話想不出怎么回答好,所以我又問(wèn)斯特里克蘭太太是否有孩子。
“對(duì),她有一個(gè)兒子和一個(gè)女兒,他倆都在上學(xué)?!?/p>
這個(gè)話題已經(jīng)沒(méi)什么可說(shuō)的了,我們又開始談起了別的事情。
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