At five o'clock I was in the Hotel Crillon waiting for Brett. She was not there, so I sat down and wrote some letters. They were not very good letters but I hoped their being on Crillon stationery would help them. Brett did not turn up, so about quarter to six I went down to the bar and had a Jack Rose with George the barman. Brett had not been in the bar either, and so I looked for her up-stairs on my way out, and took a taxi to the Café Select. Crossing the Seine I saw a string of barges being towed empty down the current, riding high, the bargemen at the sweeps as they came toward the bridge. The river looked nice. It was always pleasant crossing bridges in Paris.
The taxi rounded the statue of the inventor of the semaphore engaged in doing same, and turned up the Boulevard Raspail, and I sat back to let that part of the ride pass. The Boulevard Raspail always made dull riding. It was like a certain stretch on the P.L.M. between Fontainebleau and Montereau that always made me feel bored and dead and dull until it was over. I suppose it is some association of ideas that makes those dead places in a journey. There are other streets in Paris as ugly as the Boulevard Raspail. It is a street I do not mind walking down at all. But I cannot stand to ride along it. Perhaps I had read something about it once. That was the way Robert Cohn was about all of Paris. I wondered where Cohn got that incapacity to enjoy Paris. Possibly from Mencken. Mencken hates Paris, I believe. So many young men get their likes and dislikes from Mencken.
The taxi stopped in front of the Rotonde. No matter what café in Montparnasse you ask a taxi-driver to bring you to from the right bank of the river, they always take you to the Rotonde. Ten years from now it will probably be the Dome. It was near enough, anyway. I walked past the sad tables of the Rotonde to the Select. There were a few people inside at the bar, and outside, alone, sat Harvey Stone. He had a pile of saucers in front of him, and he needed a shave.
"Sit down," said Harvey, "I've been looking for you."
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing. Just looking for you."
"Been out to the races?"
"No. Not since Sunday."
"What do you hear from the States?"
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing."
"What's the matter?"
"I don't know. I'm through with them. I'm absolutely through with them."
He leaned forward and looked me in the eye.
"Do you want to know something, Jake?"
"Yes."
"I haven't had anything to eat for five days."
I figured rapidly back in my mind. It was three days ago that Harvey had won two hundred francs from me shaking poker dice in the New York Bar.
"What's the matter?"
"No money. Money hasn't come," he paused. "I tell you it's strange, Jake. When I'm like this I just want to be alone. I want to stay in my own room. I'm like a cat."
I felt in my pocket.
"Would a hundred help you any, Harvey?"
"Yes."
"Come on. Let's go and eat."
"There's no hurry. Have a drink."
"Better eat."
"No. When I get like this I don't care whether I eat or not."
We had a drink. Harvey added my saucer to his own pile.
"Do you know Mencken, Harvey?"
"Yes. Why?"
"What's he like?"
"He's all right. He says some pretty funny things. Last time I had dinner with him we talked about Hoffenheimer. 'The trouble is,' he said, 'he's a garter snapper.' That's not bad."
"That's not bad."
"He's through now," Harvey went on. "He's written about all the things he knows, and now he's on all the things he doesn't know."
"I guess he's all right," I said. "I just can't read him."
"Oh, nobody reads him now," Harvey said, "except the people that used to read the Alexander Hamilton Institute."
"Well," I said. "That was a good thing, too."
"Sure," said Harvey. So we sat and thought deeply for a while.
"Have another port?"
"All right," said Harvey.
"There comes Cohn," I said. Robert Cohn was crossing the street.
"That moron," said Harvey. Cohn came up to our table.
"Hello, you bums," he said.
"Hello, Robert," Harvey said. "I was just telling Jake here that you're a moron."
"What do you mean?"
"Tell us right off. Don't think. What would you rather do if you could do anything you wanted?"
Cohn started to consider.
"Don't think. Bring it right out."
"I don't know," Cohn said. "What's it all about, anyway?"
"I mean what would you rather do. What comes into your head first. No matter how silly it is."
"I don't know," Cohn said. "I think I'd rather play football again with what I know about handling myself, now."
"I misjudged you," Harvey said. "You're not a moron. You're only a case of arrested development."
"You're awfully funny, Harvey," Cohn said. "Some day somebody will push your face in."
Harvey Stone laughed. "You think so. They won't, though. Because it wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm not a fighter."
"It would make a difference to you if anybody did it."
"No, it wouldn't. That's where you make your big mistake. Because you're not intelligent."
"Cut it out about me."
"Sure," said Harvey. "It doesn't make any difference to me. You don't mean anything to me."
"Come on, Harvey," I said. "Have another porto."
"No," he said. "I'm going up the street and eat. See you later, Jake."
He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic.
"He always gets me sore," Cohn said. "I can't stand him."
"I like him," I said. "I'm fond of him. You don't want to get sore at him."
"I know it," Cohn said. "He just gets on my nerves."
"Write this afternoon?"
"No. I couldn't get it going. It's harder to do than my first book. I'm having a hard time handling it."
The sort of healthy conceit that he had when he returned from America early in the spring was gone. Then he had been sure of his work, only with these personal longings for adventure. Now the sureness was gone. Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn clearly. The reason is that until he fell in love with Brett, I never heard him make one remark that would, in any way, detach him from other people. He was nice to watch on the tennis-court, he had a good body, and he kept it in shape; he handled his cards well at bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality about him. If he were in a crowd nothing he said stood out. He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school, and may be called that still, but he was not professionally youthful. I do not believe he thought about his clothes much. Externally he had been formed at Prii1ceton. Internally he had been moulded by the two women who had trained him. He had a nice, boyish sort of cheerfulness that had never been trained out of him, and I probably have not brought it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it.
Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Café Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street.
"Come on up to the Lilas," I said.
"I have a date."
"What time?"
"Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen."
"There she is."
Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street.
"Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you."
"Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled.
"Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly. "I've had the darndest time. This one"--shaking her head at Cohn--"didn't come home for lunch."
"I wasn't supposed to."
"Oh, I know. But you didn't say anything about it to the cook. Then I had a date myself, and Paula wasn't at her office. I went to the Ritz and waited for her, and she never came, and of course I didn't have enough money to lunch at the Ritz--"
"What did you do?"
"Oh, went out, of course." She spoke in a sort of imitation joyful manner. "I always keep my appointments. No one keeps theirs, nowadays. I ought to know better. How are you, Jake, anyway?"
"Fine."
"That was a fine girl you had at the dance, and then went off with that Brett one."
"Don't you like her?" Cohn asked.
"I think she's perfectly charming. Don't you?"
Cohn said nothing.
"Look, Jake. I want to talk with you. Would you come over with me to the Dome? You'll stay here, won't you, Robert? Come on, Jake."
We crossed the Boulevard Montparnasse and sat down at a table. A boy came up with the _Paris Times_, and I bought one and opened it.
"What's the matter, Frances?"
"Oh, nothing," she said, "except that he wants to leave me."
"How do you mean?"
"Oh, he told every one that we were going to be married, and I told my mother and every one, and now he doesn't want to do it."
"What's the matter?"
"He's decided he hasn't lived enough. I knew it would happen when he went to New York."
She looked up, very bright-eyed and trying to talk inconsequentially.
"I wouldn't marry him if he doesn't want to. Of course I wouldn't. I wouldn't marry him now for anything. But it does seem to me to be a little late now, after we've waited three years, and I've just gotten my divorce."
I said nothing.
"We were going to celebrate so, and instead we've just had scenes. It's so childish. We have dreadful scenes, and he cries and begs me to be reasonable, but he says he just can't do it."
"It's rotten luck."
"I should say it is rotten luck. I've wasted two years and a half on him now. And I don't know now if any man will ever want to marry me. Two years ago I could have married anybody I wanted, down at Cannes. All the old ones that wanted to marry somebody chic and settle down were crazy about me. Now I don't think I could get anybody."
"Sure, you could marry anybody."
"No, I don't believe it. And I'm fond of him, too. And I'd like to have children. I always thought we'd have children."
She looked at me very brightly. "I never liked children much, but I don't want to think I'll never have them. I always thought I'd have them and then like them."
"He's got children."
"Oh, yes. He's got children, and he's got money, and he's got a rich mother, and he's written a book, and nobody will publish my stuff, nobody at all. It isn't bad, either. And I haven't got any money at all. I could have had alimony, but I got the divorce the quickest way."
She looked at me again very brightly.
"It isn't right. It's my own fault and it's not, too. I ought to have known better. And when I tell him he just cries and says he can't marry. Why can't he marry? I'd be a good wife. I'm easy to get along with. I leave him alone. It doesn't do any good."
"It's a rotten shame."
"Yes, it is a rotten shame. But there's no use talking about it, is there? Come on, let's go back to the café."
"And of course there isn't anything I can do."
"No. Just don't let him know I talked to you. I know what he wants." Now for the first time she dropped her bright, terribly cheerful manner. "He wants to go back to New York alone, and be there when his book comes out so when a lot of little chickens like it. That's what he wants."
"Maybe they won't like it. I don't think he's that way. Really."
"You don't know him like I do, Jake. That's what he wants to do. I know it. I know it. That's why he doesn't want to marry. He wants to have a big triumph this fall all by himself."
"Want to go back to the café?"
"Yes. Come on."
We got up from the table--they had never brought us a drink-- and started across the street toward the Select, where Cohn sat smiling at us from behind the marble-topped table.
"Well, what are you smiling at?" Frances asked him. "Feel pretty happy?"
"I was smiling at you and Jake with your secrets."
"Oh, what I've told Jake isn't any secret. Everybody will know it soon enough. I only wanted to give Jake a decent version."
"What was it? About your going to England?"
"Yes, about my going to England. Oh, Jake! I forgot to tell you. I'm going to England."
"Isn't that fine!"
"Yes, that's the way it's done in the very best families. Robert's sending me. He's going to give me two hundred pounds and then I'm going to visit friends. Won't it be lovely? The friends don't know about it, yet."
She turned to Cohn and smiled at him. He was not smiling now.
"You were only going to give me a hundred pounds, weren't you, Robert? But I made him give me two hundred. He's really very generous. Aren't you, Robert?"
I do not know how people could say such terrible things to Robert Cohn. There are people to whom you could not say insulting things. They give you a feeling that the world would be destroyed, would actually be destroyed before your eyes, if you said certain things. But here was Cohn taking it all. Here it was, all going on right before me, and I did not even feel an impulse to try and stop it. And this was friendly joking to what went on later.
"How can you say such things, Frances?" Cohn interrupted.
"Listen to him. I'm going to England. I'm going to visit friends. Ever visit friends that didn't want you? Oh, they'll have to take me, all right. 'How do you do, my dear? Such a long time since we've seen you. And how is your dear mother?' Yes, how is my dear mother? She put all her money into French war bonds. Yes, she did. Probably the only person in the world that did. 'And what about Robert?' or else very careful talking around Robert. 'You must be most careful not to mention him, my dear. Poor Frances has had a most unfortunate experience.' Won't it be fun, Robert? Don't you think it will be fun, Jake?"
She turned to me with that terribly bright smile. It was very satisfactory to her to have an audience for this.
"And where are you going to be, Robert? It's my own fault, all right. Perfectly my own fault. When I made you get rid of your little secretary on the magazine I ought to have known you'd get rid of me the same way. Jake doesn't know about that. Should I tell him?"
"Shut up, Frances, for God's sake."
"Yes, I'll tell him. Robert had a little secretary on the magazine. Just the sweetest little thing in the world, and he thought she was wonderful, and then I came along and he thought I was pretty wonderful, too. So I made him get rid of her, and he had brought her to Provincetown from Carmel when he moved the magazine, and he didn't even pay her fare back to the coast. All to please me. He thought I was pretty fine, then. Didn't you, Robert?
"You mustn't misunderstand, Jake, it was absolutely platonic with the secretary. Not even platonic. Nothing at all, really. It was just that she was so nice. And he did that just to please me. Well, I suppose that we that live by the sword shall perish by the sword. Isn't that literary, though? You want to remember that for your next book, Robert.
"You know Robert is going to get material for a new book. Aren't you, Robert? That's why he's leaving me. He's decided I don't film well. You see, he was so busy all the time that we were living together, writing on this book, that he doesn't remember anything about us. So now he's going out and get some new material. Well, I hope he gets something frightfully interesting.
"Listen, Robert, dear. Let me tell you something. You won't mind, will you? Don't have scenes with your young ladies. Try not to. Because you can't have scenes without crying, and then you pity yourself so much you can't remember what the other person's said. You'll never be able to remember any conversations that way. Just try and be calm. I know it's awfully hard. But remember, it's for literature. We all ought to make sacrifices for literature. Look at me. I'm going to England without a protest. All for literature. We must all help young writers. Don't you think so, Jake? But you're not a young writer. Are you, Robert? You're thirty-four. Still, I suppose that is young for a great writer. Look at Hardy. Look at Anatole France. He just died a little while ago. Robert doesn't think he's any good, though. Some of his French friends told him. He doesn't read French very well himself. He wasn't a good writer like you are, was he, Robert? Do you think he ever had to go and look for material? What do you suppose he said to his mistresses when he wouldn't marry them? I wonder if he cried, too? Oh, I've just thought of something." She put her gloved hand up to her lips. "I know the real reason why Robert won't marry me, Jake. It's just come to me. They've sent it to me in a vision in the Café Select. Isn't it mystic? Some day they'll put a tablet up. Like at Lourdes. Do you want to hear, Robert? I'll tell you. It's so simple. I wonder why I never thought about it. Why, you see, Robert's always wanted to have a mistress, and if he doesn't marry me, why, then he's had one. She was his mistress for over two years. See how it is? And if he marries me, like he's always promised he would, that would be the end of all the romance. Don't you think that's bright of me to figure that out? It's true, too. Look at him and see if it's not. Where are you going, Jake?"
"I've got to go in and see Harvey Stone a minute."
Cohn looked up as I went in. His face was white. Why did he sit there? Why did he keep on taking it like that?
As I stood against the bar looking out I could see them through the window. Frances was talking on to him, smiling brightly, looking into his face each time she asked: "Isn't it so, Robert?" Or maybe she did not ask that now. Perhaps she said something else. I told the barman I did not want anything to drink and went out through the side door. As I went out the door I looked back through the two thicknesses of glass and saw them sitting there. She was still talking to him. I went down a side street to the Boulevard Raspail. A taxi came along and I got in and gave the driver the address of my flat.
五点钟，我在克里荣旅馆等候勃莱特。她不在，因此我坐下来写了几封信。信写得不怎么样，但我指望克里荣旅馆的信笺信封能对此有所弥补。勃莱特还是没有露面，因此在六点差一刻光景我下楼到酒吧间和酒保乔治一块喝了杯鸡尾酒。勃莱特没有到酒吧间来过，所以出门之前我上楼找了一遍，然后搭出租汽车上雅士咖啡馆。跨过塞纳河时，我看见一列空驳船神气十足地被拖曳着顺流而下，当船只驶近桥洞的时候，船夫们站立在船头摇桨。塞纳河风光宜人。在巴黎过桥总是叫人心旷神怡。
汽车绕过一座打着旗语姿势的旗语发明者的雕像，拐上拉斯帕埃大街。我靠后坐在车座上，等车子驶完这段路程。行驶在拉斯帕埃大街上总是叫人感到沉闷。这条街很象巴黎-里昂公路上枫丹白露和蒙特罗之间的那一段， 这段路自始至终老是使我感到厌烦、空虚、沉闷。我想旅途中这种使人感到空虚的地带是由某些联想所造成的。巴黎还有些街道和拉斯帕埃大街同样丑陋。我可以在这条街上步行而毫不介意。 但是坐在车子里却令人无法忍受。也许我曾读过描述这条街的书。罗伯特.科恩对巴黎的一切印象都是这样得来的。我不知道科恩看了什么书才会如此不欣赏巴黎。大概是受了门肯的影响。门肯厌恶巴黎。有多少年轻人的好恶受到门肯的影响啊。车子在洛东达咖啡馆门前停下来。你在塞纳河右岸要司机开往蒙帕纳斯无论哪个咖啡馆，他们总是把你送到“洛东达”。十年以后，“多姆”大概会取而代之。反正“雅士”离此很近。我从“洛东达”那些叫人沮丧的餐桌旁走过，步行到“雅士”。有几个人在里面酒吧间内，哈维.斯通独自在外面坐着。他面前放着一大堆小碟子，他需要刮刮脸了。
“坐下吧，”哈维说，“我正在找你。”
“什么事？”
“没事儿。只不过找你来着。”
“去看赛马啦？”
“没有。星期天以来再没去过。”
“美国有信来吗？”
“没有。毫无音信。”
“怎么啦？”
“不知道。我和他们断了联系。我干脆同他们绝交了。”
他俯身向前，直视我的眼睛。
“你愿意听我讲点什么吗，杰克？”
“愿意。”
“我已经有五天没吃东西了。”
我脑子里马上闪过哈维三天前在“纽约”酒吧间玩扑克骰子戏赢了我两百法郎的事。“怎么回事？”
“没钱。钱没汇来。”他稍停了一会又说，“说来真怪，杰克。我一没钱就喜欢独自一个人待着。我喜欢待在自己的房间里。我象一只猫。”
我摸摸自己的口袋。
“一百法郎能派点用场吗，哈维？”
“够了。”
“走吧。我们吃点东西去。”
“不忙。喝一杯再说。”
“最好先吃点。”
“不用了。到了这个地步，我吃不吃都一样。”
我们喝了一杯酒。哈维把我的碟子摞在他那一堆上。
“你认识不认识门肯，哈维？”
“认识。怎么样？”
“他是个什么样的人？”
“他人不错。他常讲一些非常有趣的话。最近我和他一起吃饭，说起了霍芬海默。‘糟就糟在，’门肯说，‘他是一个伪君子。’说得不错。”
“说得不错。”
“门肯的才智已经枯竭了，”哈维接着说。“凡是他所熟悉的事，几乎全部写完了，现在他着手写的都是他不熟悉的。”
“我看他这个人不错，”我说。“不过，我就是读不下去他写的东西。”
“唉，现在没人看他的书了，”哈维说，“除非是那些在亚历山大.汉密尔顿学院念过书的人。”“哦，”我说。“那倒也是件好事。”
“当然，”哈维说。我们就这样坐着沉思了一会儿。“再来杯葡萄酒？”
“好吧，”哈维说。
“科恩来了，”我说。罗伯特.科恩正在过马路。
“这个白痴，”哈维说。科恩走到我们桌子前。
“嗨，你们这帮二流子，”他说。
“嗨，罗伯特，”哈维说。“方才我正和杰克说你是个白痴。”
“你这是什么意思？”
“马上说出来。不许思考。如果你能要做什么就做什么，你最愿意做什么？”科恩思考起来。
“你别想。马上说出口来。”
“我不明白，”科恩说。“到底是怎么回事？”
“我的意思是你最愿意做什么。你的脑子里首先想到的是什么。不管这种想法有多么愚蠢。”“我不知道，”科恩说。“我大概最愿意拿我后来学到的技巧再回头去玩橄榄球。”“我误解你了，”哈维说。“你不是白痴。你只不过是一个发育过程受到抑制的病例。”
“你这人说话太放肆，哈维，”科恩说。“总有一天人家会把你的脸揍扁的。”
哈维.斯通嘿嘿一笑。“就是你这样想。人家才不会呐。因为我对此是无所谓的。我不是拳击手。”
“要是真有人揍你，你就会觉得有所谓了。”
“不，不会的。这就是你铸成大错的症结所在。因为你的智力有问题。”“别扯到我身上来。”
“真的，”哈维说。“你说什么我都不在乎。你在我的眼里啥也不是。”
“行了，哈维，”我说。“再来一杯吧。”
“不喝了，”他说。“我要到大街那头去吃点啥。再见，杰克。”
他出门沿街走去。我看他那矮小的身材拖着沉重、缓慢而自信的脚步，穿过一辆辆出租汽车，跨过马路。
“他老是惹我生气，”科恩说。“我没法容忍他。”
“我喜欢他，”我说。“我很喜爱他。你用不着跟他生气。”
“我知道，”科恩说。“不过他刺痛了我的神经。”
“今天下午你写作了？”
“没有。我写不下去。比我写第一部难多了。这问题真叫我难办。”
他早春时节从美国回来时的那股意气风发的自负劲儿消失了。那时候他对自己的写作踌躇满志，不过胸中怀着找寻奇遇的渴望。现在他可心灰意懒了。不知怎的，我感到始终没把他好好地表达出来。实情是这样的：在他爱上勃莱特之前，我从没听到他说过与众不同而使他显得突出的话。他在网球场上英姿勃勃，体格健美，保养得很好；他擅长打桥牌，具有某种大学生的风趣。在大庭广众之中他的谈吐从不突出。他穿着我们在学校时叫作马球衫的东西（可能现在还叫这个），但是他不象职业运动员那样显得那么年轻。我认为他并不十分讲究衣装。他的外表在普林斯顿大学定了型。他的内心思想是在那两个女人的熏导之下形成的。他身上有股始终磨灭不掉的可爱而孩子气的高兴劲儿，这种气质我大概没有好好表达出未。他在网球场上好胜心切。打个比方吧，他大概同伦格林一样地好胜。话得说回来，他输了球倒并不气恼。从他爱上勃莱特以来，他在网球场上就一败涂地了。以前根本无法跟他较量的人都把他击败了。但是他却处之泰然。我们当时就这样坐在雅士咖啡馆的露台上，哈维.斯通刚穿过马路。
“我们到‘丁香园’去吧，”我说。
“我有个约会。”
“几点？”
“弗朗西丝七点一刻到这里。”
“她来了。”
弗朗西丝.克莱恩正从大街对面朝我们走来。她的个子很高，走起路来大摇大摆的。她含笑挥手。我们看着她穿过马路。
“你好，”她说，“看见你在这里真高兴，杰克。我正有话要跟你讲。”
“你好，弗朗西丝，”科恩说。他面带笑容。
“哟，你好，罗伯特。你在这儿？”她接着匆忙地说。“今天算我倒霉，这一位”——她把头朝科恩那边摆了摆说——”连吃饭也不回家了。”
“我没讲好要回去啊。”
“这我知道。但是你并没有跟厨娘打招呼。后来我自己跟波拉有个约会，可她不在写字间，我就到里茨饭店去等她，她结果没有去，当然啦，我身上带的钱不够在那里吃顿饭……”“那你怎么办呢？”“我当然就出来了，”她装作挺开心的样子说。“我向来不失约。可是今天谁也不守信用了。我也该学乖点了。不过，你怎么样，杰克？”
“很好。”
“你带来参加舞会的那个姑娘满不错，后来你却跟那个叫勃莱特的走了。”
“你不喜欢她？”科恩问。
“她长得再迷人不过的了。你说呢？”
科恩没吱声。
“听着，杰克。我有话和你说。你陪我到‘多姆’去好吗？你就在这儿待着，行不行，罗伯特？走吧，杰克。”
我们跨过蒙帕纳斯大街， 在多姆咖啡馆前一张桌子边坐下。 走过来一位拿着《巴黎时报》的报童，我买了一份，翻开报纸。
“什么事，弗朗西丝？”
“哦，没什么，”她说，“就是他打算抛弃我。”
“你这是什么意思？”
“唉，他逢人就嚷嚷我们要结婚，我也告诉了我母亲和诸亲好友，可他现在又不想干了。”
“怎么回事？”
“他认为，他还没有享受够人生的乐趣。他当时一去纽约，我就料到迟早会变卦。”
她抬起那双万分明亮的眼睛看我，前言不对后语地说下去。
“如果他不愿意，我是不愿嫁给他的。我当然不愿。现在我说什么也不愿和他结婚了。不过对我来说确实太晚了点。我们已经等了三年，而且我刚刚办完离婚手续。”
我一声不吭。
“我们正要准备庆祝一番，可是结果我们却大吵大闹。真如同儿戏。我们吵得不可开交，他哭哭啼啼地要求我放明白些，但是他说，他就是不能结婚。”“真倒霉。”“真是倒霉透了。我为他耽误了两年半的青春。我不知道现在还能有谁会愿意娶我。两年前在戛纳，我想嫁给谁，就能嫁给谁。所有想娶个时髦女子好好过日子的老光棍都狂热地围着我转。现在我可别想能找到了。”
“说真的，现在你还是能看中谁，就嫁给谁的。”
“这话我不信。再说，我还爱着科恩。我想要生几个孩子。我总想着我们会有孩子的。”
她用明亮的眼睛看着我。“我从来不怎么特别喜欢孩子，但是我不愿意去想我会一辈子没有孩子。我始终认为，我会有孩子，我会爱他们的。”
“科恩已经有孩子了。”
“哦，是的。他有孩子，他有钱，他有个有钱的妈妈，他还写了本书，但是我的东西谁也不给出版，根本没人要。虽然我写得也不赖。而且我一个子儿也没有。我本来可以得到一笔赡养费，但是我用最高速度把离婚办妥了。”
她又用明亮的目光看着我。
“真不公道。是我自己不好，但也不见得。我早该学乖点。我一提这件事，他只是哭，说他不能结婚。他为什么不能结婚？我会做个好妻子。我是很容易相处的。我不会打搅他。但是一切都无济于事。”
“真丢人。”“是啊，真丢人。可是扯这些有什么用，是不是？走吧，我们回咖啡馆去，”
“当然啦，我一点儿忙也帮不上。”
“是啊。别让他知道我跟你说了这番话就行。我知道他想干什么。”这时候她才第一次收起她那开朗的、欢乐得异乎寻常的神情。“他想单独回纽约，出书的时候在那里待着好博得一大帮小姐儿的欢心。这就是他所向往的。”
“她们不见得会喜欢那本书。我想他不是那样的人。真的。”
“你不如我了解他，杰克。那正是他所追求的。我明白。我明白。这就是他不和我结婚的原因。今年秋天他要独享荣华。”
“想回咖啡馆去？”
“好。走吧。”
我们在桌边站起来（侍者一杯酒也没有给我们拿来），穿过马路朝“雅士”走去。科恩坐在大理石面的桌子后面对我们微笑。
“哼，你乐什么？”弗朗西丝问他。“心满意足啦？”
“我笑你和杰克原来还有不少秘密哩。”
“哦，我对他讲的不是什么秘密。大家很快都会知道的，只不过向杰克作正确的说明罢了。”
“什么事情？是你到英国去的事儿？”
“是的，就是我到英国去的事儿。噢，杰克！我忘了告诉你。我要去英国。”
“那敢情好罗！”
“对，名门望族都是这样解决问题的。罗伯特打发我去英国。他打算给我两百镑，好叫我去探望朋友。不是挺美吗？我的朋友们还一点都不知道呢。”
她扭过头去对科恩笑笑。这时他不笑了。
“你起先只想给我一百镑，罗伯特，对不？但是我硬是要他给我两百。他确实非常慷慨。是不是，罗伯特？”
我不明白怎么能当着科恩的面说得这么吓人。往往有这样的人，听不得刻薄话。你一说这种话，他们就会暴跳如雷，好象当场天就会塌下来。但是科恩却乖乖地听着。真的，我亲眼看见的，而且我一点没想去阻拦。可这些话和后来讲的那些话比起来只不过是善意的玩笑而已。“你怎么说出这种话来，弗朗西丝？”科恩打断她的话说。
“你听，他还问呢。我到英国去。我去看望朋友。你曾经到不欢迎你的朋友家去做过客吗？哦，他们会勉强接待我的，这没问题。‘你好，亲爱的。好长时间没见到你了。你的母亲好吗？’是啊，我亲爱的母亲现在怎么样啦？她把她的钱全部买了法国战争公债。是的，正是这样。象她那种做法恐怕全世界也是独一无二的。‘罗伯特怎么样？’或者小心翼翼地绕着弯儿打听罗伯特。‘你千万别毛毛愣愣地提他的名儿，亲爱的。可怜的弗朗西丝这段经历真够惨的。’不是怪有味儿的吗，罗伯特？你想是不是会很有味儿的，杰克？”她朝我一笑，还是那种开朗得异乎寻常的笑。有人听她诉说，她非常满意。
“那你打算上哪儿去，罗伯特？这都是我自己不好。完全该怪我自己。我叫你甩掉杂志社那个小秘书的时候，我该料到你会用同样的手段来甩掉我的。杰克不知道这件事。我该不该告诉他？”
“别说了，弗朗西丝，看在上帝面上。”
“不，我要说。罗伯特在杂志社曾经有个小秘书。真是个世上少见的漂亮的妞儿，他当时认为她很了不起。后来我去了，他认为我也很了不起。所以我就叫他把她打发走。当初杂志社迁移的时候，他把她从卡默尔带到了普罗文斯敦，可这时他连回西海岸的旅费也不给她。这一切都是为了讨好我。他当时认为我很美。是不是，罗伯特？“你千万别误解，杰克，和女秘书的关系纯属精神恋爱。甚至谈不上精神恋爱。实在什么关系也谈不上。只不过她的模样长得真好。他那样做只是为了让我高兴。依我看，操刀为生者必死在刀下。这不是文学语言吗？你写第二本书的时候，别忘了把这个写进去，罗伯特。
“你知道罗伯特要为一部新作搜集素材。没错吧，罗伯特？这就是他要离开我的原因。他断定我上不了镜头。你知道，在我们共同生活的日子里，他总是忙着写他的书，把我们俩的事儿丢在脑后。现在他要去找新的素材了。行，我希望他找到一些一鸣惊人的材料。
“听着，罗伯特，亲爱的。我要向你进一言。你不会介意吧？不要和那些年轻的女人吵嘴。尽量别这样。因为你一吵就要哭，这样你只顾自我哀怜，就记不住对方说些啥了。你那样子是永远记不住人家讲的活的。尽量保持冷静。我知道这很难。但是你要记住，这是为了文学。为了文学我们都应该做出牺牲。你看我。我要毫无怨言地到英国去。全是为了文学啊。我们大家必须帮助青年作家。你说是不是，杰克？但是你不好算青年作家了。对吗，罗伯特？你三十四岁了。话说回来，我看要当一个大文豪，你这个岁数算是年轻的。你瞧瞧哈代。再瞧瞧不久前去世的阿纳托尔.法朗士。罗伯特认为他没有任何可取之处。有几个法国朋友这么对他说的。他阅读法文书籍不大自如。他写得还不如你哩，是不是，罗伯特？你以为他也得找素材去？他不愿同他的情妇结婚的时候，你猜他对她们说什么来着？不知道他是不是也哭哭啼啼？噢，我想起了一件事。”她举起戴手套的手捂在嘴上说，“我知道罗伯特不愿和我结婚的真正理由了，杰克。才想起来。有次在雅士咖啡馆，恍惚之间我看到了启示。你说希奇不希奇？有一天人家会挂上一块铜牌的。就象卢尔德城。你想听吗，罗伯特？我告诉你。很简单。我奇怪我怎么从来没有想到过。哦，你知道， 罗伯特一直想有个情妇， 如果他不跟我结婚，哼，那么他就有我这个情妇。‘她当了他两年多的情妇。’你明白了吗？如果他一旦和我结了婚，正如他经常答应的那样，那么他的整个浪漫史也就告终了。我悟出了这番道理，你看是不是很聪明？事实也是如此。你看他的脸色，就会知道是不是真的。你要去哪儿，杰克？”
“我得进去找一下哈维.斯通。”我走进酒吧间的时候，科恩抬头看着。他脸色煞白。他为什么还坐在那里不走？为什么继续那样受她的数落？
我靠着酒吧柜站着，透过窗户可以看见他们。弗朗西丝仍然在和他说话，她开朗地微笑着，每次问他“是这样的吧，罗伯特”时，两眼总紧盯着他的脸。也许这时候她不这么问了。也许她在讲别的什么事情。我对酒保说我不想喝酒，就从侧门走出去。我走出门，回头隔着两层厚玻璃窗朝里看，只见他们还在那里坐着。她还在不停地和他说话，我顺着小巷走到拉斯帕埃大街。过来一辆出租汽车，我上了车，告诉司机我的住址。