雙語·面紗 第七十章

70

At first because she had not wept when Walter died she was ashamed. It seemed dreadfully callous. Why, the eyes of the Chinese officer, Colonel Yü, had been wet with tears. She was dazed by her husband's death. It was difficult to understand that he would not come into the bungalow again and that when he got up in the morning she would not hear him take his bath in the Suchow tub. He was alive and now he was dead. The sisters wondered at her Christian resignation and admired the courage with which she bore her loss. But Waddington was shrewd; for all his grave sympathy she had a feeling that--how should she put it?--that he had his tongue in his cheek. Of course, Walter's death had been a shock to her. She didn't want him to die. But after all she didn't love him, she had never loved him; it was decent to bear herself with becoming sorrow; it would be ugly and vulgar even to let any one see in her heart; but she had gone through too much to make pretenses to herself. It seemed to her that this at least the last few weeks had taught her, that if it is necessary sometimes to lie to others it is always despicable to lie to oneself. She was sorry that Walter had died in that tragic manner, but she was sorry with a purely human sorrow such as she might have felt if it had been an acquaintance. She would acknowledge that Walter had admirable qualities; it just happened that she did not like him; he had always bored her. She would not admit that his death was a relief to her, she could say honestly that if by a word of hers she could bring him back to life she would say it, but she could not resist the feeling that his death made her way to some extent a trifle easier. They would never have been happy together and yet to part would have been terribly difficult. She was startled at herself for feeling as she did; she supposed that people would think her heartless and cruel if they knew. Well, they shouldn't know. She wondered if all her fellows had in their hearts shameful secrets which they spent their time guarding from curious glances.

She looked very little into the future and she made no plans. The only thing she knew was that she wanted to stay in Hong Kong as short a while as might be. She looked forward to arriving there with horror. It seemed to her that she would like to wander for ever through that smiling and friendly country in her rattan chair, and, an indifferent spectator for ever of the phantasmagoria of life, pass each night under a different roof. But of course the immediate future must be faced: she would go to the hotel when she reached Hong Kong, she would arrange about getting rid of the house and selling the furniture; there would be no need to see Townsend. He would have the grace to keep out of her way. She would like, all the same, to see him once more in order to tell him what a despicable creature she thought him.

But what did Charles Townsend matter?

Like a rich melody on a harp that rang in exultant arpeggios through the complicated harmonies of a symphony, one thought beat in her heart insistently. It was this thought which gave their exotic beauty to the rice-fields, which made a little smile break on her pale lips as a smooth-faced lad swung past her on his way to the market town with exultation in his carriage and audacity in his eyes, and which gave the magic of a tumultuous life to the cities she passed through. The city of the pestilence was a prison from which she was escaped, and she had never known before how exquisite was the blueness of the sky and what a joy there was in the bamboo copses that leaned with such an adorable grace across the causeway. Freedom! That was the thought that sung in her heart so that even though the future was so dim, it was iridescent like the mist over the river where the morning sun fell upon it. Freedom! Not only freedom from a bond that irked, and a companionship which depressed her; freedom, not only from the death which had threatened, but freedom from the love that had degraded her; freedom from all spiritual ties, the freedom of a disembodied spirit; and with freedom, courage, and a valiant unconcern for whatever was to come.

第七十章

起初，因?yàn)樵谖譅柼嘏R終時(shí)，她沒有哭泣，這讓她感到羞愧。因?yàn)檫@似乎顯得她特別冷酷無情。為什么，那位中國軍官——余上校的眼中都一直充滿淚水。她丈夫的死讓她失魂落魄，很難想象他不會(huì)再回到平房的家里了。每天早晨當(dāng)他醒了以后，她都能聽見他在蘇州產(chǎn)的澡盆中洗澡，他是活蹦亂跳的，而現(xiàn)在他死了。修女們驚奇于她對基督的順從，她們欽佩她在痛失親人時(shí)的勇氣。但是威廷頓很精明，對于他所有一本正經(jīng)的同情里面，她有一種感覺——她應(yīng)該怎么說呢——有點(diǎn)兒言不由衷。沃爾特的死對她的震動(dòng)挺大，她并不想讓他死。但無論如何，她不愛他，她從來沒有愛過他，獨(dú)自忍受悲痛能夠讓人同情和尊重，但如果讓人看透她內(nèi)心的話，那她的所作所為就是丑陋和下流的了。然而，她已經(jīng)歷了太多，不能自欺欺人了，對她而言，至少最近幾周所發(fā)生的事好像教會(huì)了她這一點(diǎn)，如果有時(shí)有必要對人撒謊尚可原諒，但如果對自己也撒謊那就是卑鄙的。沃爾特是以那種悲劇的方式死去，她真的覺得很痛心，但是她這種痛心是純粹的作為正常人的悲傷，假設(shè)這事發(fā)生在一個(gè)熟人身上，她也會(huì)痛心的。她承認(rèn)沃爾特有很多讓人崇拜的品質(zhì)，但她就是不喜歡他，總是厭煩他，這事確確實(shí)實(shí)發(fā)生了。她不想承認(rèn)他的死對她來說就是一種解脫，她能很誠實(shí)地說，如果她的一句話能夠讓他起死回生的話，她一定會(huì)說的。但是她不能不承認(rèn)，他的死使得她的生活多少變得輕松一些了。他們在一起時(shí)并不幸福，但是分開也很困難。她對自己的這種感覺有點(diǎn)兒吃驚，她想如果人們知道了，會(huì)認(rèn)為她鐵石心腸和殘忍無情。呃，所幸他們不會(huì)知道。她很想知道是不是所有的人在他們心中都有些可恥的秘密，他們會(huì)花時(shí)間小心守衛(wèi)，以防別人好奇地窺視。

她沒有設(shè)想未來，也沒做什么計(jì)劃。她唯一知道的事情就是她待在香港的時(shí)間要盡可能地短。她已經(jīng)可以想象出到達(dá)香港的時(shí)候一定還驚魂未定。對她來說，她似乎更愿意永遠(yuǎn)坐在藤條轎子上在怡人的鄉(xiāng)村風(fēng)光里游蕩，更愿意作為一個(gè)漠然的旁觀者永遠(yuǎn)地觀察生活的風(fēng)云變幻，在另一處屋頂下，度過每一個(gè)夜晚。但顯而易見的是，她不得不面對不久的將來，當(dāng)她到達(dá)香港的時(shí)候，她會(huì)去找家旅館，她會(huì)安排人把房子出手，賣掉家具。沒有必要去見查理。他應(yīng)該為了保持顏面對她避而遠(yuǎn)之，但不管怎么樣，她還是想見他一面，告訴他在她的眼中，他是個(gè)多么卑鄙的家伙。

但是查理·湯森算個(gè)什么東西呢？

一個(gè)念頭反復(fù)地在她的心中縈繞，就像豎琴上一個(gè)豐富的曲調(diào)，通過一首交響樂復(fù)雜的和音，以歡快的、急促的和弦形式回響。就是這個(gè)念頭給了稻田異國情調(diào)的美。一個(gè)白白凈凈的小伙子在駕車趕集的路上，路過她身邊時(shí)，會(huì)掉頭看她，他的目光熱辣辣的，這個(gè)念頭使得她蒼白的嘴唇會(huì)綻放出一些微笑。這個(gè)念頭給了她所經(jīng)過城市的紛亂的生活一種魔力。瘟疫肆虐的城市是一座監(jiān)獄，她從那里逃了出來，她以前從來不知道湛藍(lán)的天空是多么的美，以一種可愛的優(yōu)雅姿勢斜立在堤道上的竹林是多么的愜意。自由！就是這個(gè)念頭在她的心中歌唱，哪怕未來是多么的黯淡。它是彩虹色的，就像河上的霧氣，早晨的陽光照在上面后會(huì)變換色彩。自由！不僅是從惱人的束縛中掙脫出來的自由，而且還是一種從壓抑的陪伴中解脫出來的自由。自由！不僅是從時(shí)刻威脅的死亡中擺脫出來的自由，而且是從使她沉淪的愛情中獲得新生的自由，從所有精神的羈絆中獲得的自由，是一種不具形體的精神上的自由。有了自由，就有了勇氣，無論即將到來的是怎樣的挑戰(zhàn)，她都會(huì)勇敢地面對。